The afternoon sunlight stretched long across the gray-green spore clouds. Though midday was usually when the Slime Mold was least active, that rule reversed itself at the turn of winter to spring.

Even with the restraint of sunlight, the warmer temperature awakened life in the creatures that had been stiff with cold. Gray vapor curled steadily from their mouths and noses.

Perhaps because no prey had appeared yet, they made no further movement. They simply stood silently amid the scarred ruins of the streets as they faced the direction where living breath was strongest with blank stares.

It was like they were waiting for something.

New Alliance soldiers were watching them, too. Light and heavy machine guns braced on window sills.

The best time had not come.

They were also waiting, waiting for the Mutant Slime Mold to crowd into the open streets, so that they could call down artillery to shred them apart and then mow down the remnants with machine-gun fire...

The New Alliance’s Defense Sector 06 sat at the middle of the 20-part defensive line. It bore less pressure than sectors 10 and 11, and was busier than sectors 1 and 20 that stood at the flank. For the time being, everything was calm.

At Outpost 01, furthest out front, on the roof of a reinforced office tower, Spring Water Commander held a pair of binoculars as he stared at the spore cloud without blinking.

There, a pickup truck reinforced with welded steel bars and shovel blades rolled out through an open gate, escorted by four players, heading straight for the pack of Crunchers wandering near the line.

Aside from the driver, a LV20 veteran, the other four were newbies new to Wasteland Online.

They carried bolt-action rifles, crowbars or short knives strapped to their backs, looking even more impoverished than marauders, faces glowing with eager excitement.

“Holy crap! So this is the wasteland?”

“Those are zombies, right? They’re shorter than I imagined... and why aren’t they wearing clothes?”

“Idiot! It’s been 200 years, think they still got clothes?”

“They’re not zombies! Those things are called Crunchers. They are mushroom turned into monsters!”

“Mushrooms?! Like Warhammer orks?!”

“I would say the difference is kind of huge...”

Seeing their rising excitement, the veteran sitting in the cab honked sharply. “Quit sightseeing. Keep your sights up. I’m not joking, you’re on the front line. This isn’t for fun.”

Their task was simple. They were to clear out the wandering Crunchers clogging the streets.

Weak though they were, those things wasted valuable ammunition if allowed to soak up defensive fire. Regular clean-ups like that were routine for every sector before a Tide hit.

“Um... B-big bro,” a girl wearing a football helmet asked nervously, clutching her rifle tight, “If we die in the game, what happens in real life?”

Hearing someone call him big bro for the first time, the veteran grinned awkwardly and joked, “What happens when you wake up from a nap?”

She blinked. “What... happens?”

“You wake up.”

“Pfft.”

Of course, it wasn’t that simple. He still remembered his first death. He was locked out of the game for three days and he felt his skin crawling like it had ants under it. He lay awake in bed all night staring at the ceiling.

After a few times... He got used to it.

Crossing between two worlds was disorienting at first, but most people adapted to that rhythm eventually.

While they chatted, the nearby Crunchers had already been drawn over by the blaring horn.

The veteran coughed and cut the talk short.

Seeing the monsters approach, the four rookies instantly tensed.

A strength type player lifted his Ripper rifle and fired at the closest one.

Bang!

The flash flared bright, stones and dust leaping from a concrete chunk ahead.

The rifle’s brutal recoil slammed into his shoulder, making him stagger back.

He had missed, but staring at the smoke curling from the barrel, the player grinned ear to ear like a kid with a real toy for the first time.

That feel!

It’s too realistic! It’s way better than any gel-ball gun!

Watching him, the veteran chuckled.

They couldn’t hit a slow-moving target at 30 meters.

But he didn’t mock them, just corrected patiently, “Don’t panic. You’re strength type, you can hold the barrel steady. Stand with your legs apart, knees bent, center of gravity low. Don’t stand stiff like a post, you’ll never outrun a Creeper that way, Hey! I didn’t say run! Where the hell are you going?”

“I-I’m kiting it!” the other agility type player stammered, retreating while cocking his rifle.

The veteran slapped his forehead. “They’re just Crunchers! What’re you kiting for? Stick the bayonet in and hit ’em! Stab the neck, use the buttstock on their skulls! It’s way faster than shooting!”

He kept barking instructions as the Crunchers swarmed toward the pickup, drawn by the continuous honking.

Being LV20, he hardly feared a handful of them. Dropping the handbrake, he stomped the accelerator. The saw-toothed shovel blade on the truck’s front flipped several Crunchers into the air.

The rookies, encouraged, pulled their crowbars and knives, shouting as they rushed in to smash and stab the ones surrounding the vehicle.

Black mess splattered everywhere. Soon, more than a dozen Crunchers lay twitching on the ground.

The skirmish lasted half an hour.

Breathing hard and splattered with gore, the newbies showed no fatigue, only growing exhilaration.

At first, the realistic models of the monsters had frightened them. But now? Not so scary after all.

“Big bro, these Crunchers aren’t that tough,” said the strength type newbie, wiping blood from his face and grinning beside the truck. “Got any stronger ones? Something spicier?”

Lighting a cigarette, the veteran laughed. “Stronger ones? Oh, definitely. I’ll take you to hunt Deathclaws later.”

Their eyes lit up. “For real?!”

“Dead serious, but only after you survive the Tide.”

Death was something every player had to face sooner or later. Might as well get it over with early.

According to countless forum posts, most players’ real growth began after their first death. With that, they would get a deeper grasp of the game and sharper instincts in battle.

When the cleanup ended, they began clearing the field. Under the veteran’s direction, the four rookies lugged Cruncher corpses onto the truck bed, panting heavily.

Slime Mold biomass could be processed into nutrient paste and fertilizer, or broken down to extract organic materials for clone production.

A truckload like theirs would fetch several dozen silver coins and a few runs would buy them an automatic rifle.

Spring Water Commander watched from the rooftop start to finish.

Beside him, Kakarot shouldered his rifle and grinned. “Not a bad batch of rookies.”

“Agreed,” Spring Water Commander replied, smiling. “They remind me of us back then.”

Kakarot laughed.

The girl who’d asked about dying had actually fought far calmer than she looked, and the strength type player, after missing his first shot, soon learned the recoil pattern of the Ripper rifle and earned his first kill with a stock smash.

The Storm Corps didn’t accept players below LV10, but its veterans often ran a mentorship program, teaching newbies the rhythm of Wasteland Online’s current version through simple frontline missions.

They were fresh green sprouts for the time being, but someday, they would grow tall.

And when they did, the Storm Corps would be their first choice to enlist.

That was why Spring Water Commander regularly assigned experienced members to bring rookies on low-risk operations for a taste of the real battlefield.

But just then, the gray-green cloud ahead of the line began to stir abnormally.

Spring Water Commander frowned, lifting his binoculars again. “The spore-activity index is rising... The fog’s moving toward us.”

Checking his air monitor, Kakarot’s expression hardened.

Without hesitation, Spring Water Commander gave the order. “Sound the alarm. Prepare for combat.”

“Yes, sir!”

...

The gray-green fog rolled down the street like a flood from the heavens.

The veteran in the pickup felt the wrongness instantly, then his radio crackled with a teammate’s shout, “Multiple hostiles approaching your position! Fall back immediately!”

“Shit!” He cursed, stuck his head out the window, and yelled to the rookies still hauling corpses.

“Drop it! Get in!”

They froze for a heartbeat, then seeing he wasn’t joking, ditched the bodies and jumped into the truck bed.

The veteran yanked the wheel, spinning the vehicle around, and glanced at the central console display.

Spore-density index: 477!

Hell, 70 points in just seconds!

He slammed the accelerator, racing for the open gate behind them.

The next second, dozens of round, fleshy orbs arced through the air and slammed into the street 30 meters ahead, trailing gray-green smoke.

Sszzh!

The crimson globes burst on impact, erupting into a dense, clinging fog, a solid wall of mist.

He stared wide-eyed at what was happening.

What the hell kind of mutant was that?!

Suicide Bombers?

No... not quite.

Those exploded too, but mainly with kinetic and thermal damage, never so much spore output!

He grabbed a gas mask with his left hand, pulling it over his face, and shouted into the communication channel, “Gas masks on! Now!”

It proved the right call, but he had underestimated the potency.

The spheres didn’t release only spores. They also unleashed countless droplets of digestive fluid less than one micron large. Rich in organic acids and dissolving enzymes, the droplets mixed with the spores to form a dense aerosol.

The moment the pickup plowed into the cloud, every patch of exposed skin began to sting like needles, then rapidly rot away.