“You know, it still bothers me. New Samurai don’t last the day half the time.”

  “Statistically speaking, you are correct. Over sixty-eight percent of newly activated Samurai perish within their first twenty-four hours.”

  ~ Overheard conversation between two unknown Samurai

  The shelter door clicked shut behind me, the sound louder than it should’ve been. For the first time since morning, I wasn’t wrapped in smoke, blood, or someone else’s orders. Just me. Me, and the under-armor that clung like a second skin, the weight of a fresh set of clothes, and the snug promise of the thigh holster against my leg.

  It wasn’t the power armor I’d seen on other Samurai, but it was mine. A layer between me and the murderous rose bushes.

  The city spread out before me, sun glinting off of the buildings. The nightmare of the shelter clashed with the vibrancy of the day before me.

  I adjusted the holster once, too much like fidgeting, and forced my steps steady. It was time to figure out what I wanted.

  There were xenos out there still. People hurting. If I was going to call myself Samurai, even for a breath, I had to move toward the cracks where the city bled.

  “Wing, where can I help the most?”

  Depends. Do you want to save people or do some gardening?

  “Gardening?” Amusement laced my words.

  Fighting the Anthesis. Killing xenos. Trimming the murderous plants.Take your pick.

  “Let’s go with the plants. I feel like that’ll get me the most points.”

  Very well. I’ll highlight some key areas that have a better chance of having Anthesis.

  The view on my augs shifted to a map overlaid with highlighted sections. Turning towards the closest one, I set off. To help alleviate the tension that was building, I started to think about what I wanted. Knowing that Samurai could help however they wanted, it opened up a lot more avenues that I anticipated.

  Just as I started to lose myself in thought, a handful of M-3 scouts thought they could interrupt. I was more surprised by the fact that I wasn’t as scared as before. I guess nearly dying will do that.

  The open street was a breath of fresh air compared to the horrors of the shelter. It also made them sitting ducks, and a few quick bursts dropped them before they even realized they were already dead.

  “Rude,” I muttered, stepping around the mess. My thoughts picked up where I left off, on the future, which was somehow more unsettling than the plants.

  This continued for some time and helped restore my confidence. As I started to actually allow myself to dream and Wing so kindly offered me about a million different catalogs to help fulfill those, I kept getting interrupted by the damn plants. Pushing deeper into the city, I occasionally caught glimpses of Clara working as well. It wasn’t hard to track her progress as she seemed to be followed by an impressive series of explosions.

  Rounding a corner in the banking district, I spotted another group of angry shrubs. One slashed at me, claws flashing. “Cute manicure,” I muttered as I kicked it into the wall. Another thought it could sneak up from behind. Rookie mistake. A bullet found its throat before I even turned.

  It should’ve felt good, but as the bodies piled, I couldn’t shake the thought that I was slipping into autopilot. That was enough to cause me to pause. I forced myself to actually evaluate what was going on.

  When I spent a few years in the Cascadian military, I had gone to the range a handful of times and was decent with a handgun. All of the fighting today had taken those skills and sharpened them considerably. My point total seemed to agree with me. I was sitting on a comfortable 645 points.

  Admittedly, I had only been spending points on additional ammo, but maybe it was time to splurge and buy an upgrade or two. Making my way to a bench, I took a seat.

  The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  “Wing, do you have a catalog of food? I’m starting to get hungry and don’t want to make decisions on an empty stomach.”

  I do, but you don’t actually need a catalog. For one point I can get you a filling meal or a juice box. Two points gets you both!

  With a laugh I ordered both. An old school clasping lunch box clacked onto my bench, a juice box on top. Opening the nostalgic box, steam poured out as I was treated to the sight of chicken enchiladas, rice, and beans. It smelled divine. The growling of my stomach agreed.

  I shoved a forkful in and nearly swore. Who knew food could actually taste like this? Chicken so tender it fell apart, beans that didn’t taste like sad cafeteria paste, rice that carried the sauce like it was born for it. Every bite hit with smoky heat, sharp cheese, and the kind of comfort you couldn’t fake. Forget best meal of the week, this was the best thing I’d ever eaten. Maybe the universe wasn’t all teeth and claws after all.

  Fuck me, if this was the food, what did the drink taste like?

  I jabbed the straw into the box like it owed me money and took a long pull. Horchata, actual, real horchata, not the sad chalk-water some shops dared to call it. Sweet, creamy, cinnamon strutting across the top like it was the star of the show. By the Goddess, this wasn’t just good; this was “ruin every other drink forever” good. If the Anthesis showed up right now, I might actually pause to finish the box first.

  “Anything this good should be criminal,” I moaned.

  Judging by the spikes in dopamine, oxytocin, and serotonin, it seems that this food might be better than sex for you.

  “Honestly, the food almost makes all of this,” I said, gesturing at the day all around us, “worth it.”

  Oh? Are you possibly considering that the life of a Vanguard might offer some unique perks? We do have killer food.

  Chewing another bite of mind blowing food, I thought about it.

  “Maybe? Like, I love what I do already. Baking is who I am and I don’t want to lose that part of myself. But I also don’t want to be the ‘Samurai Baker’ to the point where even though I’m baking, people only come to visit to see me.”

  A fair point. However, there are some ways to separate your lives. From changing your appearance to clones to help, we can figure something out.

  That sounded promising. As I looked down to get another forkful of food, I found the lunch box empty. After a momentary pang of sadness, I scanned the area for a trash can.

  With lunch over, it was time to keep moving.

  As I walked, Wing and I talked about the future. There was only the occasional interruption from a few wandering Anthesis, and by now I didn’t even break stride when I put them down. My pistol barked, neat and efficient, and then it was back to talking about catalogs and upgrades like I hadn’t just put holes in something’s head.

  Wing, of course, was thrilled. Priority recommendations: cybernetics, armor upgrade, cyberwarfare. Your choice if you want the defensive or offensive catalogs. Oh, and there’s a line item for a high-grade oven that makes bread worthy of a holy offering.

  “Imagine me bankrupt,” I muttered, though my mouth was already watering. Exotic ingredients? Alien spices? I wanted them more than I cared to admit.

  But every time Wing got rolling, my eyes kept straying to the empty holster on my thigh and the pistol in my hand. Guns worked, sure, but there was this itch in me I couldn’t shake, like the weapon wasn’t mine. I wanted something closer. Quieter. More… honest.

  I blew out a breath. “Wing, what if I, hear me out, went back to knives?”

  There was a silence so dry it almost crumbled. …Ah. The sharp implements you previously considered “stabby stress disasters.”

  “Yeah, those.” My voice was lighter than I felt. “I don’t know, Wing. Every time I pull this trigger, I feel like I’m just holding someone else’s weapon. But a knife… that feels like mine. Like baking. It’s hands-on. Direct.”

  Knives, Wing repeated flatly, because baking and close-quarters violence are, apparently, adjacent skillsets.

  I smiled despite myself. “You'd have to have seen my VODs if you researched me. You know what I can do with a chef’s knife. Don’t pretend you weren’t impressed.”

  Before Wing could come up with something scathing, a low hum drifted on the air. Diesel generators, overlapping voices, the rhythmic sound of boots marching in step. I slowed, pulse picking up. The street widened into a makeshift barricade of vehicles and prefab walls, painted with a crest I didn’t recognize. Beyond it, camo tents and armored figures moved with practiced ease.

  A forward operating base.

  “Looks like we found our next stop,” I murmured. My pistol suddenly felt heavy in my hand. Beyond those barricades were supplies, allies, and maybe a chance at surviving the day. My heart skipped a beat at the thought.

  Wing’s tone softened, just barely. Then perhaps fortune favors the foolish. Shall we see if they’ll trust a baker to assist?

  I squared my shoulders and started forward. “Yeah. Let’s.”

  Discord for that!