The third delivery was the riskiest. Not because of the terrain—it was open scrubland, long since stripped bare by survivors—but because the timing was wrong.
Too quiet. Too still.
James rode shotgun in the lead vehicle, a dusty truck retrofitted with layered panels designed to mask heat signatures. The crate in the back held a mix of medical supplies, modified weapons, and a hidden transmitter—key to linking the new allies into his growing resistance web.
Mason drove. Erika manned the rear scout bike. A rotating drone buzzed overhead, feeding real-time thermal readings into James's system overlay.
The Modular Camouflage Protocol was online.
[Camouflage Active: Vehicle Blend Mode - 63% Effectiveness]
It wasn't perfect. But it was good enough—for now.
James tapped the dashboard twice, sending a coded pulse through the convoy.
"Eyes open. No chatter unless it's urgent."
A green light blinked in response from each following truck.
---
Halfway through the run, Erika's voice cracked through the comm.
"Two contacts. North ridge. No engine noise. Drones, maybe. Small."
James leaned forward, adjusting the sensor grid on his wrist. Two red blips shimmered on the edge of the map.
UNO scouts.
"Hold course," he said. "No deviations. Let them watch."
Mason's knuckles whitened on the wheel. "You're sure?"
James nodded. "We look like scared opportunists trying to comply. Let's sell it."
The blips shifted. One held position. The other arced wide, tracking their flank.
James activated the signal repeater in the cargo bay. It sent out a low-powered ping, mimicking a desperate registry signal—half-authentic, incomplete, like a frightened group trying to follow Voss's demands without full coordination.
It was bait.
The scout drone veered in closer. James's system flashed.
[Signal Interference Detected. Attempting Scan Spoof.]
He held his breath.
The system shimmered.
[Spoof Successful. UNO Recon Confirms: Civilian Convoy - Category Low Threat.]
James exhaled.
"Keep rolling. No celebration yet."
---
They reached the rendezvous by dusk—a shattered grain silo turned bunker. Three men waited in mismatched armor, one dragging a bandaged leg, the others twitchy with malnutrition and distrust.
James stepped out alone.
"No weapons drawn," he called. "We brought medicine. You're either with us, or you're alone."
One of the men—older, scarred face—limped forward.
"We heard what you did for the Ridge dogs. They said you sent real food. Real bullets."
James nodded. "You'll get more. Quietly. But not for free."
The man narrowed his eyes. "What's the cost?"
"Silence," James said. "And this—"
He pulled a small box from his coat. Opened it. Inside, a camo mesh square flickered with shifting digital patterns.
"A piece of the future. Use it right, and no drone will see you again."
---
They returned under darkness, headlights off, convoy shielded beneath the camouflage netting. The Modular Protocol had its limits—short duration, high power draw—but it had proven its worth.
Back at camp, James stood with Ray and Vivian, watching the test footage of their return.
"Drones passed within thirty meters," Vivian said. "Didn't see a thing."
Ray grinned. "That's what I call magic."
"No," James said. "That's planning."
He turned back to the system screen.
[Side Task Complete: Modular Camouflage Protocol Acquired (Tier I). Upgrades Available.]
His fingers hovered over the upgrade option but didn't press it.
Not yet.
The war wasn't here. But it was looking.
And James had more pieces to place before the board caught fire.
---
The storm didn't come with thunder or lightning.
It came with silence.
Three days after the final supply run, no new broadcasts came from the UNO. No threats. No confirmations. Just quiet skies and the slow creep of unease across James's camp.
It was too quiet.
He stood outside the command tent, watching the wind stir ash over the training fields. Most of the group was keeping busy—routine patrols, maintenance drills, food prep. But beneath the surface, something had shifted.
People were waiting for the other shoe to drop.
"Still no movement?" he asked.
Vivian approached, holding a field report. "Nothing concrete. But Ray picked up an encrypted ping yesterday. Weak. Directional. Just past the southern ridge."
James took the page, scanning it. Short-range, directional relay—too clean for the locals, too quiet for UNO standard op. It had to be someone watching.
"Could be a scout net," he muttered.
"Or a warning," Vivian said. "Maybe they're onto someone we armed."
James frowned.
"Pull the logs on our last delivery. Who's closest to the ridge?"
"Group Delta-Seven," she replied. "The ones holed up in the old turbine yard."
James's jaw tightened.
"They were twitchy. Desperate. We gave them a field crate and a camo unit."
Vivian nodded grimly. "If they cracked it open wrong, tried to modify the tech…"
"They might've pinged something," James finished. "Or worse—they're talking."
---
Later that evening, he gathered Erika, Mason, and a fourth: Leah, a former smuggler who had defected from a UNO-aligned faction months ago. She knew the backroads, the relay tricks, and most importantly—how to read panic.
"You think Delta-Seven flipped?" Mason asked as he loaded his gear.
"I think they're scared," James replied. "And scared people make stupid calls."
Erika strapped a suppressed rifle across her back. "We taking them out?"
"No," James said. "We talk first. If they cracked the camo box and accidentally triggered a scan echo, we need to know what it sent and where. If they betrayed us…"
He didn't finish.
Everyone understood the silence.
---
The turbine yard was dark, but not abandoned.
As they approached, James saw the signs: fresh tire tracks, newer burn patterns from recent cookfires. But no guards. No sentries.
Too quiet again.
"Fan out. Eyes sharp," he ordered.
They moved in—low, slow. Leah found the first body behind a crumpled generator casing. Young. Gunshot. Old wound, poorly bandaged. Starved out or bled out. Hard to tell.
Inside the main warehouse, they found the rest.
Ten people. Huddled. Gaunt. Eyes wild. A few rifles pointed up but shook like leaves.
James stepped in, hands raised.
"I'm not here to fight. Just to talk."
A man stepped forward—tall, worn, skin like leather under old welding goggles. Leader, maybe. Or the last one left who could stand.
"You the one who gave us the ghost mesh?" the man asked.
James nodded. "We trusted you with it."
The man laughed bitterly. "We used it. Once. Covered the yard. Watched a drone fly right overhead. Didn't even blink."
"So what went wrong?"
The man reached into his coat—slowly—and pulled out a shattered transmitter.
"We took it apart. Thought we could copy it. Sell it. It buzzed once before it died. Next day, we saw a flash on the ridge. Didn't wait around to find out what it meant."
James felt his pulse tighten. "You activated a trace beacon."
"Didn't mean to. We just—needed more. We were hungry."
James stared him down. "And if the UNO traced that signal, they might be watching us now."
The man didn't answer.
Didn't need to.
---
Back at camp, James paced inside the command tent. Ray and Vivian sat nearby, reviewing field notes and defensive layouts.
"We have to assume the UNO knows someone's using camo tech," Vivian said. "Even if they don't know who yet."
Ray scratched his chin. "Or they're testing us. Waiting to see who moves first."
"They won't wait long," James said. "Especially not if they think someone's gaining influence outside their grid."
He opened the system again. Another flicker, another window. A quiet ping echoed through his vision.
[System Alert: Strategic Exposure Detected – Probability of Detection Increased by 14%]
[Optional Task: Reestablish Hidden Distribution Route]
[Reward: Camouflage Protocol Tier II Upgrade]
James didn't hesitate.
"Ray," he said. "I need a new route south. Underground. Quiet. I don't want a single drone seeing what we carry from now on."
"And the turbine yard?" Ray asked.
"We cut them off," James replied. "No more supplies. No more comms. If they live, they live. But I'm not risking our people for a group that almost got us burned."
Vivian said nothing for a moment. Then nodded.
"They made their choice."
James looked out past the tent flap, toward the horizon. The wind was picking up again.
Not a storm.
A warning.
And the next time the UNO came calling, it wouldn't be with words.
---