I could almost hear the background music from StarCraft II, that soft Terran guitar riff that played between battles. My eyelids grew heavy. "Yeah… this is fine," I mumbled, pulling my hoodie tighter. "Auto-pilot, don't crash into anything, okay?"

  I must be getting tired, need some shut-eye, but there's no place in sight. Except this dungheap of a trainyard and the Free SCV goddess of poverty decided to gift it to me for some odd sense of cathartic reason that seems to think it offends me, nah. SCVs are great. This is fine...Yeah.

  "Understood. Activating Rest Mode." The SCV replied,

  "Rest Mode? sure...rest...*yawn* I sure need one right about now." I asked, half-conscious.

  "Playing ambient mining sounds for operator relaxation." The SCV said while playing ambient music. Sure enough, the soft clink-clink of mining tools and the faint hum of engines filled the cockpit's speakers. The absurdity of it almost made me laugh.

  But the sleeping quality was questionable. Sleep here? In the SCV?

  ...

  ...

  ...

  Sure, why not?

  The rhythmic motion of the SCV was oddly soothing. Each mechanical sway felt deliberate and steady, like being rocked in a slow-moving tank. The interior was surprisingly insulated, too warm, with the gentle vibration of the servos beneath me. The only thing I had an issue with is sleeping while sitting on the cockpit in an upright position; while the recliner could move back like a car seat, it wasn't bad for someone like me who's used to it.

  "Guess I've slept in worse," I muttered. LAN parties on hotel floors, airport benches during layovers… yeah, this wasn't so bad.

  The hum of the machine became a lullaby. I half-watched the HUD as the SCV trundled along, its mechanical arm reaching out now and then to scoop up scrap metal or old gas canisters, neatly stacking them in the rear storage compartment. The system kept count in real-time while I was sleeping, and it worked on autopilot on the Docks and trainyard.

  Eventually, my eyelids get heavier..

  The last thing I saw before sleep took me was the flicker of the SCV's arm reaching out toward a rusted ship hull, neatly cutting through it like butter, the HUD calmly adding more numbers to the count. The way it kept tally almost made me nostalgic. That it came into my dreams, too.

  Little SCV is doing little things.

  .....

  I woke up...still in the SCV, swaying and humming with that Aetheric Hum of something familiar yet not at the same time with the whirling servos of the tiny mech was surprisingly docile. I woke up with a stiff neck and a stiff leg. Legs dont work. probably feels like jelly. Jetlag. slip into my pockets for a half-eaten bread and whatever was left of the chocolate milk I saved up from yesterday. Yep...a sorry ass breakfast for a sorry ass man living in his mech.

  Resources Acquired:

  Metal: 1870 units

  Butane: 4 canisters

  The way it kept tally almost made me nostalgic. I could almost hear the background music from StarCraft II, that soft Terran guitar riff that played between battles. It's my Imagination, of course, note to self. Make some kickass rock music in this world. No..scratch that. It came out randomly? Ugh..morning blues. What a way to wake up.

  "Ten out of ten," I mumbled as I drifted off. "Best mech. Would nap again, but I think I prefer a proper bed next time."

  Available Construction Options:

  Barracks (Cost: 1500 Metal, 4 Butane)

  Factory (Cost: 2000 Metal, 8 Butane)

  Supply Depot (Cost: 500 Metal, 1 Butane)

  I stared at the options, coffee-deprived and morally unprepared for this kind of existential decision.

  "Okay," I said to myself, thinking out loud like an esports commentator dissecting a bad build order. "Option A: Barracks. Cheap, basic, and gives me infantry. Except… there's no infantry. Just me. Unless I plan to recruit the local pigeons and train them to stimpack themselves with bread crumbs."

  I paused, frowning. "...Actually, no, that sounds dumb even for me."

  "Option B: Factory. It's more expensive, but I could maybe produce… drones? Hellions? A small mechanical unit might actually be useful here but I dont have enough resources for that"

  I leaned back, drumming my fingers on the armrest. "But if I build the Factory now, that's all my metal gone. No room for expansion. No Supply Depots, no backup. One mistake and I'm just a broke Terran in a mech suit yelling at pigeons again."

  The SCV's voice chirped from the console.

  "Of course you'd say that," I sighed. "You're literally programmed by Blizzard to love Supply Depots."

  I looked out at the misty harbour. Sunlight glinted weakly off the half-sunken hulls in the morning. What time is it? I dont have a watch. The SCV timer is out of sync without a Command Centre. Half of the control UI panels here dont work with no data. Obviously, you usually have a Command post or Command Centre built first.

  This left me with a conundrum. I have the means to build it, just not the resources needed. Thankfully, it's not complicated. But with just one SCV? That's a long ass game to play.

  There was a strange peace to the place except for the smell. If I could somehow clear out this whole dockyard, there'd be enough scrap to build a small base. Maybe even multiple structures. But time… time was the real enemy.

  I needed shelter, power, and a plan before shit hits the fan.

  "Alright," I muttered. "Let's think like a terran again."

  I tapped the interface, pulling up the resource projections.

  Estimated Metal Yield Remaining in Vicinity: 18,000 Units

  Estimated Time to Extract: 19 Days

  Local Security Risk: Moderate – Gang Activity Detected

  I groaned. "Right, the gangs. Forgot this isn't just a casual ladder match. It's Worm. Great."

  The SCV beeped again, as if sensing my hesitation. I sighed, looking between the options again, I wonder why the option to build a Command Centre isn't here.

  Barracks is the safe bet, the classic opener, the bread and butter of Terran strategy. Or I could go with the Factory, the tech route, higher risk, higher reward. I also need money. Money as a mercenary? hell no...but maybe I'm doing it all in the wrong way.

  "Hey, estimated time for a supply depot is roughly six hours, right? "

  Bleep "affirmative"

  I grinned faintly. "Yeah. Build a Supply Depot. Right here. We'll start the Terran way slow, steady, and with way too many spreadsheets. I would rather just build a CC, but that ain't available."

  The SCV whirred to life, lifting its welding arm as blue holographic grids spread over the ground. Sparks flared, metal clanged, and for the first time in history, Brockton Bay witnessed the rise of an honest-to-goodness Terran structure.

  I leaned back, watching it build, still half-dazed by how surreal this all was.

  "Barracks or Factory can wait," I murmured. "Right now, I just want a place to put my chocolate milk if I ever need a place to store it."

  By the time the SCV finished building, the sun had burned off most of the morning fog. Had to skip breakfast on account that it's too far to walk to the nearest convenience store, and ...I think I'm still not sure about Brockton Bay, so it's easy to get lost.

  After six hours. In the middle of the afternoon, probably-

  The new structure gleamed in the weak light, a squat, metallic bunker half-buried in the dirt, humming softly like a generator. I climbed down from the cockpit to inspect it, expecting, at best, a glorified tin shed. But if the lore is right, it's supposed to be a tiny little hovel home for the marines. Good enough to hang out with, too.

  Instead, the thing opened up like one of those old school 90s garage doors.

  Panels hissed and unfolded with mechanical precision, revealing an interior workshop brimming with neatly arranged tools, sealed crates, and I swear I almost laughed at the thing, a small, fully automated defensive turret perched on top like a high-tech gargoyle.

  It dont look so tough, but that turret up there shoots Gauss ammunition.

  "…You have got to be kidding me," I muttered, walking inside.

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

  The Supply Depot's interior was surprisingly organised. Every crate had a logo stamped on it: "Terran Supply Division" Each drawer or locker had labels like Standard Issue Gauss Ammunition, Engineering Kit, and Ration Pack (Do Not Microwave). And the Gauss rifle as well, except there's only one. Ohh, free weapon? dont mind if I use it. Is that even real? Eh. I'll have a look at it later. I'm more interested in the workbench here.

  I picked up a wrench. It was solid and heavy. Hey, isn't this made from Neosteel?

  Everything here is real. How did it prefab everything? beats me. The information is in my head, but it seems like science fiction since it happened yesterday.

  "This shouldn't even exist," I whispered. "I mean… I know Supply Depots in-game store units, but… not like this." This is a glorified toolshed with all the tools needed to build and craft an everyday end-of-the-world scenario scene. Bunkers? This is the real-life equivalent of a bunker. It has almost everything I needed for survival.

  The SCV beeped behind me. Sure enough, the automated gun above the depot rotated lazily, scanning the horizon. I half-expected it to start blaring the Terran victory theme.

  Then something caught my eye on one of the screens mounted near the back wall, a glowing prompt labelled:

  Weapon Fabricator: ONLINE

  Ammo Printer: ONLINE

  Defensive Turret: ACTIVE

  The SCV beside me whirred curiously, tilting its welding arm. I crouched to look closer at the screen. SCV Construction Cost:

  Metal: 500 units

  Butane: 1 canister

  Time: 1 hour

  "Wait," I muttered, frowning. "Why would a Supply Depot be able to build an SCV? That's supposed to be the Command Centre's job."

  "Patch note modification detected. System running in isolated survival mode. One Supply Depot for One Unit of SCV"

  I sighed and leaned against a crate, rubbing my temples. "Great. I'm a retired pro-gamer running a black-market Terran colony in Brockton Bay. This means I can't abuse it permanently.

  If I want to build better stuff, I still need to build a command centre, but I think this has to do with Mengsk. The StarCraft 2 co-op commander that provides a free SCV with every supply depot built is available in his tech tree, pertaining to the Royal Guards, which supplies a different way.

  Thank god for Zeus and Sun Wukong's gift.

  No, wait, that might actually be it. Better not be it.

  I tapped the screen and selected [Construct New SCV].

  "Acknowledged. Beginning unit fabrication."

  The room filled with the familiar hum of Terran machinery. Sparks danced. Panels slid open, and a construction arm descended from the ceiling, assembling components like an invisible factory worker. When the new SCV finished printing itself out, emerging from a haze of smoke and warm metal like a mechanical newborn. I quickly learned the fine print of my situation.

  Each Supply Depot could only host one SCV. No Command Centre meant no resource network, no production queue, no orbital commands. In Terran terms, I was basically a homeless engineer with a very fancy garage.

  The glowing text on the console confirmed it, as if to mock me:

  NOTICE: "Current construction protocol limited to Supply Depot capacity. Command Centre required for multi-unit queueing and advanced tech access. Have a nice day!"

  Still, I had to admit, the new SCV looked good. Sleek, polished, and slightly bigger than the first one. Its voice was a little more upbeat, too, like someone had toggled the "Corporate Enthusiasm" setting to high. "Unit SCV-02 online and operational! Awaiting work order!" Mengks SCV unit have a weird sense of humour, huh.

  "Alright," I said, stretching my arms. "You're gonna help me get this operation rolling. Start with the easy stuff first, I guess, and collect any scrap you can find near the docks. And…" I paused, glancing toward the glimmering waves beyond the ship graveyard, "…see if you can find any canisters or gas tanks in the water." Mengsk's unit can dive underwater, too. Hurray to the Royal Guard scvs! Glory to the emperor! Ah, well, he's dead. whatever.

  "Understood, sir! Scavenging and deep recovery operation initiated!" It bleeped.

  The new SCV's boosters flared, lifting it slightly off the ground before it trundled off like a metal crab on a mission. The original SCV gave a few polite beeps before following suit, the two of them syncing movements in eerie mechanical harmony.

  I leaned against the Depot's entry frame, watching them go. The older one was slower, more deliberate — like a seasoned worker who knew the job. The new one was… well, enthusiastic. A little too enthusiastic.

  When it reached the waterline, SCV-02 hesitated for a moment, then engaged some kind of improvised sealing protocol. A shimmer of light coated its hull before it plunged straight into the ocean with a mechanical splash.

  I blinked. "…Okay, that was cooler than I expected."

  I glanced at the HUD display inside the Depot, which now tracked both units in real-time. Little blue icons drifted across a crude 3D map, collecting icons labelled "Metal Fragment", "Fuel Drum", and, amusingly enough, "Rusty Toaster (0.01 Resource Value)."

  Still, as I watched them work, the weight of the situation crept back in, and I got bored. So I decided to check into the supply depot to see what it had. Pretty sure there was a Gauss rifle nearby, too yep. gotta nab that. I wish I had a carry bag somewhere. Dont wanna leave a damn future tech rifle like that lying anywhere.

  "Alright," I said finally, pulling up the interface. "Let's get systematic about this. Once we've got enough metal, we start working toward a Command Centre. No point rushing for Barracks or Factory until we've got proper logistics."

  "Acknowledged," replied the first SCV over comms. "Efficiency increased by 72.2% with additional unit assistance."

  "Affirmative!" chirped the second SCV from under the waves. "Found several compressed gas tanks. Smells like propane and regret!"

  Uhh..."…Did it just make a joke?" Why how? I dont get it.

  "Learning humour subroutine… complete."

  I sighed, staring out at the docks. "Fantastic. I've created a sarcastic underwater robot. I'm gonna check out the supply depot. Y'all have fun now"

  Roger!" said the first.

  "Roger that!" chirped the second

  I stepped back inside the Supply Depot once both SCVs were out scavenging. With the daylight streaming in through the reinforced viewport and the hum of power running through the walls, I finally had a moment to really look at the place.

  The design was unmistakably Terran, industrial, utilitarian, and overbuilt in that way that said, but surprisingly? Real Terrans aren't like that. Loud, Rowdy, Confederate cowboys acting like it's the wild, wild west. That's the Terran everyone knows. A bunch of redneck space yahoos. The lovable wankers consist of the downtrodden and the lawless, Marines? Convicts conscripted into servitude. Gotta love the craziness.

  "We expect this to survive an orbital bombardment and maybe a bar fight." I heard Reiner once said in one of those dialogues in the game. That stuck with me throughout my adult life, always expecting a bar fight...Thailand? Barfights. Vietnam? Sure..same rules apply. Singapore? Orchard Street bars are notorious for Geylang boys doing nonsensical shit when they drunk AF. Yeah..Reiner was dead right. Always expect an orbital strike when going into a bar.

  The hell...what sort of fiction-esque bullshit is this? I assure you it's all the truth.

  The walls were lined with alloy panels, each marked with serial codes and caution stripes. The floor was metal plating, textured to prevent slipping, with grates along the sides where warm air hissed through. The whole structure was a low, one-story layout, but it felt surprisingly roomy inside.

  A reinforced counter split the space neatly, one side clearly meant for operations and storage, the other like a crude lounge or waiting area. I ran a hand over the counter. Smooth, cold, and definitely not IKEA. "Well, I'll be damned," I murmured. "This really is just like the old Terran depots in one of those Tarsonis maps."

  I'd seen the in-game concept art years ago, Marines sitting around inside these structures during downtime, cans of synth-beer in hand, the walls plastered with pin-up posters of Dominion propaganda. On hotter planets, the depots' supercharged ventilation made them prime hangout spots between firefights.

  And now I was standing in one. In Brockton Bay.

  I poked around behind the counter, checking what the Depot had spawned in with. There were racks stacked with sealed crates of rations, field gear, utility tools, and what looked suspiciously like vacuum-sealed jerky. There was even a built-in water recycler in the corner and a low hum from the ventilation array running along the ceiling.

  "Supercharged ventilation system… check," I said, smirking to myself as a cool breeze drifted through the room. "Guess the Goddess gave me the deluxe edition."

  A terminal near the back wall flickered to life as I approached it. The interface labelled it Base Management node, which sounded more impressive than it was, basically a glorified inventory screen. Yeah, well, Terran always love their doohicky and minor tech stuff.

  Power: Stable

  Structural Integrity: 100%

  Ventilation: Optimal

  Inventory:

  Food Rations (Terran Standard) - 14 packs Filtered Water - 200L Basic Tools - 1 setSpare Parts - 2 crates Ammo Crates and a locked Emergency Bedroll - 1

  I stared at the last line, then opened the nearby locker and out came a bedroll. Neat.

  A perfectly folded bedroll sat inside. "…Okay, I'm calling it," I muttered. "This is officially my base! for now." It wasn't much, but it had four walls, air conditioning, food, and didn't smell like a decaying fish market and piss from the outside, which, given the rest of the dock graveyard, was a small miracle.

  Near the entrance, finally, the thing that caught my eye in the first place, a long, matte-black shape mounted neatly on a weapons rack. For a second, I thought my brain refused to process it. Then I stepped closer and felt my stomach drop in disbelief. It really was a Gauss rifle. This thing is real. That confirms it.

  It was unmistakable, just like the game. the angular frame, the reinforced barrel coils, the compact magnetic accelerator housing that looked like it could turn concrete into confetti.

  A C-14 Gauss rifle. Standard-issue for Dominion Marines.

  I ran my hand along the weapon, feeling the faint vibration of the internal coils still holding a static charge. It was real. Every bolt, every piece of neosteel plating, the subtle weight distribution was exactly as I remembered it from the StarCraft lore entries I'd read as a teenager.

  C-14 Impaler Rifle

  Property of Terran Dominion Armed Forces

  Calibre: 8mm armour-piercing sabots

  Effective Range: 800 meters

  Rate of Fire: 8 rounds/sec

  Warning: Do not use near children, wildlife, or nuclear silos.

  I couldn't help but chuckle. "Yeah, that last part checks out."I doubt I'll ever build nuclear silo's. There was only one rifle and a single half-empty ammo magazine, but honestly? That was more than enough. And if I wanted more, I could just order more ammo from the supply depot to fabricate it.

  I picked it up carefully, the metal humming softly in my grip. The targeting reticle auto-synced with my field of view for a moment, a flicker of red crosshairs hovering wherever I looked.

  "Okay," I muttered, a grin creeping in. "Now we're talking."

  Still, I wasn't stupid. A single rifle wasn't going to make me invincible. I needed protection, something light, durable, and at least semi-bulletproof.

  Fortunately, the Depot had thought of that too.

  Behind the counter, I'd noticed a small armoury bay. It was compact but fully stocked, an automated vice, a welding arm, even a material printer calibrated for neosteel composite. The machine's screen flickered to life as I approached, displaying a simple prompt.

  I selected Armour Fabrication, and a holographic schematic popped up. It was a modular, minimalist frame designed for mechanics or engineers. Something between a light chest armour and a utility suit. The kind of thing that could take a hit, but wouldn't turn me into a walking fridge.

  "Perfect," I murmured. "We'll call it… casualwear. Not exactly Ghost or Spectre standard, but this will do nicely."

  The machine beeped obligingly as it began to assemble the first pieces. Sheets of neosteel slid into place under the robotic arm, sparks flying as the workshop came alive. While it worked, I leaned back against the counter and took another look around. I know how to work the machine, what to do, where to cut it, and where to burn it. All the knowledge I needed to build it and even make it better.

  It wasn't much, but it was more than I'd ever expected when I woke up here.

  "This'll do," I said softly, setting the rifle against the wall beside me. "This'll do just fine," and checking out the hastily pieced armour for Terran civilian wear.

  I imagined the marines back in StarCraft huddled in depots like this one, swapping stories, cleaning weapons, drinking synth-beer, laughing about close calls on some burning planet. I guess compared to that world, at least here we dont have the Protoss Invasion and the Zergs.

  The world outside was chaos. But in here?

  In here, I was Terran Command.

  Still, I was the only person here. Just a tad bit lonely.

  I had shelter, food, a working SCV, and a gun that could probably punch a hole through a car engine. But… now what? Sitting in a Terran bunker playing a base-building simulator wasn't exactly sustainable. I needed information. make some friends maybe? Maybe even an identity. I definitely do want one, maybe to buy a house or register a business. Having a civilian ID is important.

  I rubbed my chin, thinking back to what little I remembered about Worm.

  "Undersiders," I murmured to myself. "Small gang. Clever. Morally flexible. Basically, the startup version of crime. Do they even exist yet? I think so?"

  Have those guys even formed a gang yet? Are they even here? Tattletale would figure me out in a second. "Yeah, no," I said, shaking my head. "Joining a teen supervillain gang is officially below my retirement goals, scratch that."

  Then there was the Protectorate. The official heroes. Do I want to listen to a bunch of people breathing down my neck? no.

  Still, maybe I could make contact later, much, much later, after figuring out how to explain a working Terran factory in the middle of their city without getting black-bagged by PRT or worse..that snake dude, whatever his name is..Coil? Calvert something. Protectorate ENE got holes between holes between more holes.

  I do not pity their director one bit.

  That left Option C: Go independent.

  Forge my own path. Starcraft was only ever a single commander battlefield. The StarCraft way, the Terran way, as we expand slowly, secure resources, stay alive, and nuke everyone with your Yamato and Thor to the endgame.

  Huh..that's just your average Tinker then.

  I sighed, stretching as the day's exhaustion started to creep in. "Alright, one problem at a time. First step? dinner."

  I swapped out of the neosteel armour and pulled on my hoodie and jeans, then hesitated. The armour wasn't exactly bulky; the workshop had made it surprisingly lightweight, so I slipped the torso plating underneath my clothes just in case. The SCV had even polished the finish to a dull grey that didn't stand out.

  There are even two health stimpacks made for the medics. I took it anyway.

  No one needed to know I was walking around with a miniature power assist rig under my hoodie or nano medigel steroids.

  The Gauss rifle, though? That stayed behind. I wasn't about to explain that one to a curious bus driver. I locked up the Depot, setting the turret to passive scan mode, and stepped out into the cool afternoon air. Time to get some grub, I'm famished. Haven't eaten since...well, Morning? Did I only have one bread and chocolate milk? Shit.

  The city lights flickered in the distance beckoning me to explore.

  Welcome to Brockton Bay son!

  Gangs live here, oh and nazis and racist. and druggies. Yo, we got all kinds of fuck up shit. you dig?

  No I do not dig.

  Might as well check out the city. The bus stop was a few blocks away, the road cracked and uneven, littered with old posters and the faint smell of salt and oil. It does make me wonder how the mayor even maintains these parts of the town.

  Then again, I'm right here in AZN badboys territory. The cops dont even enter here, at least the Nazi's are amicable to the white cops. Asians? It's basically Asian or gtfo. There aren't any Asian cops, and if there are? They get ostracised or worse, get a bullet to the head. Probably. What do asians like? Doctors, lawyers and businessmen. Anything else is failure.

  stereotyping much? Yeah, I am. Dont mean it ain't the truth. My parents were like that...heck, even I was that when it comes to my own kids...All of that seems like a lifetime ago. When the bus finally rumbled, paint faded, windows fogged, I dropped a few dollars from the Goddess's "starter pack" funds into the fare box and took a seat near the back. a dollar for a ride? cheap.

  The ride was quiet, filled with tired dockworkers and a handful of kids scrolling through cheap phones. Nobody looked twice at me, which was perfect, speaking of cheap phone...I need one of those, too. Sigh.

  So many things, so little cash.

  Outside, Brockton Bay drifted past half-forgotten storefronts, shuttered warehouses, and the occasional glimmer of life where restaurants and bars still clung to business. The city looked weary, like it had been through one too many bad news. So this is Brockton Bay.

  Welcome to BB I guess you terran scum.

  Dear god, I'm rambling, aren't I? Must be the hunger talking. When the bus reached the Boardwalk, I stepped off and was immediately hit by the mix of sea breeze and fried food. Boardwalk Mall. Oh dear lord, that smells heavenly...whatever nacho bullshit with cheese on top.

  What could ever destroy my lu-

  "Aaahhh!!! help!! Someone is attacking the mall!" Screaming came from the mall. Now that I think about it, wasn't there an attack in the mall? Was it Uber and Leet? No wait...that was much later. Before that, a gang called the Chorus had attacked a mall in Brockton Bay.

  Amy had triggered back then, and she'd healed Victoria Dallon when she got hurt. Was this it? Was it during that time? It was in the middle of July? Does it have to happen right, Brocton Bay? I seriously just got here yesterday.

  "Sigh...really? What about my lunch?"