From their new, slightly-less-terrifying vantage point near the security office, Leo and Maya watched the giants work. It was a scene of brutal, methodical industry that was both horrifying and mesmerizing. The blood-soaked one, Primus, was the foreman of this macabre construction crew. He worked with a silent, relentless fury, his movements economical and powerful.
With his bare, ceramite fists, he tore wrecked shelving units from their bolts on the floor, the metal screeching in protest. Secundus, his identical, yet clean, counterpart, would then heave the mangled structures over to the shattered main entrance. Together, they jammed the twisted metal into the openings, creating a dense, interlocking barrier of steel and razor-sharp edges. They moved with a synchronized grace that defied their colossal size, operating less like two individuals and more like two arms of a single, massive machine.
Their other task was sanitation. Primus would scoop up handfuls of dismembered corpses—limbs, torsos, heads—with a shocking lack of ceremony, piling them onto a large, makeshift sled he'd fashioned from a store sign. Once laden, Secundus would drag the grisly payload outside into the parking lot. He'd return a few minutes later, the faint smell of smoke and burning flesh clinging to his armor, ready to haul the next load. They communicated in curt, clipped phrases in a harsh, guttural language Caelan's System identified as a dialect of Low Gothic, their words seeming to confirm angles and load-bearing capacities. There was no emotion, no disgust, just the cold calculus of the task at hand.
The children, driven by the gnawing ache in their stomachs and the permission of their strange new lord, ventured tentatively into the aisles. They found the snack aisle, a wonderland of brightly colored packages, all covered in a thin layer of grime. Leo ripped open a bag of cheese puffs; they were hopelessly stale, tasting like salty cardboard, but they were food. Maya found a box of chocolate-covered cookies. The chocolate had a faint, waxy bloom on it, and the cookie within was soft instead of crisp, but she ate it greedily. They washed it all down with cans of soda that had long since lost their fizz, the flat, sugary syrup coating their tongues. It was the most disgusting, wonderful feast they'd ever had.
They sat on the cold floor, nibbling their bland treasures and sipping their flat drinks, watching the titans work. The fear was still there, a low hum beneath the surface, but it was being overlaid by a strange sense of security. Nothing, it seemed, could possibly get past these grey giants. And Primus, even caked in dried gore, was the one who had brought Maya her bear.
Meanwhile, back in his 'throne room', Caelan's own stomach was starting to protest. He was hungry and thirsty, but the thought of venturing out into the store, with its lingering stench and stray body parts still littering the corners, was deeply unappealing. What if he slipped on a spleen? He shuddered. No, he would wait until it was pristine. But hunger was a persuasive argument.
He slumped in his chair, lamenting his situation. A king, dying of thirst in his castle. The unfairness of it all! He had super-soldiers! Couldn't they... squeeze nutrients from the air for him? It was then that a thought, brilliant and obvious, struck him. He had the Requisition store. The entire armory of mankind. Surely, they had food.
System, can I buy food?
[Of course, Administrator.] The blue text was cool and crisp. [You have access to all standard-issue logistical supplies of the Imperium of Man. It is gratifying to see you finally applying basic problem-solving skills to your own biological needs. I was beginning to suspect you intended to photosynthesize.]
Watch your tone, Caelan grumbled, his face heating up with embarrassment. He ignored the jab and navigated to the sustenance sub-menu. He bypassed the options for Grox-steaks and amasec, settling on the most practical, if unappetizing, choice.
[Requisition: Astra Militarum Standard Rations Pack (1 Week Supply - Nutrient Paste & Purified Water). Cost: 1 Requisition Point.]
One point for a week's worth of food and water. The exchange rate was certainly better than for his useless jewelry. A small, drab box materialized on the desk in front of him with a soft pop. He opened it to find seven grey tubes labeled 'Nutrient Paste - Day 1' through '7', and seven metallic pouches of water.
He unscrewed the cap on Day 1 and squeezed a small amount of the beige glop onto his finger. It smelled faintly of boiled vitamins and cardboard. Tentatively, he tasted it. It was... food. It had the texture of thick toothpaste and a flavor that was aggressively, determinedly neutral, as if its primary design goal was to offend no one and please no one. It was the culinary equivalent of the color grey. "Ugh, well, whatever," he muttered, squeezing a portion into his mouth. It was better than starving.
Now fed and watered, his immediate physical needs met, a new, more insidious threat emerged: boredom. Primus and Secundus were handling the heavy lifting. Tertius was out 'grinding mobs' for him. The children were quiet. He sat in his command chair, surrounded by screens of dead static.
He idly tapped at the keyboard, cycling through menus on the security computer. It was mostly junk: payroll files from a decade ago, inventory lists, ancient emails. But then, under a folder labeled 'Employee Morale', he saw it. A familiar icon. A stylized wizard casting a spell. 'Magi-Clash: Chronicles of the Elder Glyphs'.
A card game.
Caelan's eyes lit up. He had wasted hundreds of hours on cheap, free-to-play digital card games just like this one back home. He clicked it. The screen flickered, and a low-quality fanfare of trumpets announced the game's launch. It was a simple affair—goblins, knights, fireballs, the usual fantasy fare. He started the tutorial, the mechanics rushing back to him like a long-lost friend.
The System, which had been silently monitoring him, filled his vision with a single, massive punctuation mark.
[...?!]
Caelan ignored it. He was focused. The goblin shaman had 3 health left. If he played his 'Stalwart Griffin' card, its 'Charge' ability would let it attack this turn, winning him the match. He dragged the card onto the virtual battlefield with a triumphant click. Victory!
The creator of legions, the lord of demigods, the supreme commander of this burgeoning bastion of humanity, was utterly absorbed in a forgotten digital card game. He sat in his throne room, sipping reclaimed water and nibbling on nutrient paste, oblivious to the world outside, completely content. The System's subsequent attempts at communication went unnoticed, drowned out by the thrill of unlocking a rare 'Dwarven Battle-Mage' card. The fate of the world could wait. He had a ladder to climb.