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Message: <blockquote data-quote="馬冠宇" data-source="post: 43391" data-attributes="member: 162">[ATTACH=full]7148[/ATTACH]July 28, 2032. I’m Magonia, slumped in my office at the dockside restaurant HQ on Queens Wharf, the harbor’s damp bite sharpening my scowl as I deal with General Novak’s latest move. He sent four of his men—battered, bleeding soldiers—demanding we treat them before they’ll leave. My lazy ass would rather kick them out, but Novak’s tank still looms in my head, so I’m playing along. I’ve ordered a medbay built near the new fortifications south of the Wellington Museum, a growing wall of concrete, steel, and scavenged timber that’ll soon encircle our enclave. The crew, now 78, is hauling materials and hammering fast, my cruel glare keeping them in line. The medbay’ll be basic—wood walls, tin roof, scavenged bandages, and a few meds—but it’ll keep Novak’s men from dying in my space.The infected are hitting us hard, their invasions cunning and relentless, but we haven’t lost a soul. Our 16 guardsmen, armed with handguns, hold the four towers (two on the research lab, two on the museum) and patrol the settlement (dockside, Shed 5, Cuckoo, One Red Dog, museum), with spare handguns in the armory for new towers we’re planning. The vanguard, my 12 front-line fighters who’ve led since we claimed this wharf, roam in our sedan, wielding shotguns and assault rifles, though ammo’s scarce since Novak’s shakedown last year stripped our food, fuel, and shells. The five raised garden beds on the wharf—potatoes, greens, onions—can’t fully feed 78, and the Cuckoo and One Red Dog kitchens are down to watery porridge and dwindling cans. New traders arrived, a cautious convoy swapping ammo and tools for crops and gear, but I’m not counting on them surviving like Voss didn’t.The fortifications and medbay are our lifeline, but the infected’s sharp moans at night feel like a trap closing. The museum’s antenna’s silent, no signals since Voss’s crew was torn apart. Kara and Tane keep our 78 tense and ready, and I’m cruel enough to let fear drive their work—hope’s a death wish. I’m rooted in my HQ, assault rifle by my chair, sedan keys in my pocket, scheming to use the traders and medbay to rebuild our strength. Infection Free Zone Wellington’s a fortress with our vanguard’s 12 guns and those precious wharf crops, but Novak’s shadow and the infected’s growing smarts keep us on edge. My lazy ass’ll hold us together, but only if the crew keeps grinding through the blood and sweat.</blockquote>

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