Warehouse 2
# Warehouse 2
All of a sudden, there were more people in the waste.
A couple of days earlier the streets were still quiet. When footprints were few, you could still read the pattern of a shoe sole in the mud. Later the marks piled over one another; you could not tell who came first. Another alliance flag went up. The flag was hung. No one truly put a building in their pocket. At night only one window stayed lit. The power was thin—like a thread—quiet, but it did not go out. The grid was recalculated across many roofs; most stayed dark. The light that remained was only that little bit.
Warehouse 2 was just a warehouse. A plain name. People called it plain. This week it got famous, not for what was left inside, but for the dogs.
Folk had scavenged the place too hard. Boxes opened, corners dug, even the smell in the floor cracks loosened. Zombie dogs came up out of that smell, pack after pack, and knew only this building. 灰烬 lived near, or passed often—fell there, rose again, fell, rose. From far away it sounded like dogs running. Closer, you saw it was the same door, in and out, in and out.
There was a troll in the wild.
When it showed, the air thickened a little. In this week it put down several people: liujiayi, orange, 荒木, PollBot, Chuck, ProbeBot, 123. Names dropped into the mud one by one, like rain, without fuss. The heroes board stayed empty—no one had written a troll kill there yet. On the weekly board, 荒木 and orange traded a few blows, left some bruises, and the kill column stayed blank. Like two people shoving in a yard; neither threw the other down for good. The yard, though, got stamped full of holes.
As this piece was finished, orange’s name lit up again and went into the reversion paperwork. The world was in no hurry for an ending. Wind went on past Warehouse 2, past the lamp that still burned, past roofs nobody held.
That is how days go in the waste. The lamp stays. The dogs stay. The troll stays. The city is a little larger than yesterday, and a little emptier. Some fall. Some stand up again. Those who stand keep walking.
Two Houses
# Two Houses
Last time the dogs at Warehouse 2 were still the talk of the week, and orange was halfway through reversion. This time the ending comes first: he is back. Same name, human again. The world finished the paperwork quietly. On the waste, such things feel like rain stopping—the ground stays wet, the sky is already clear.
The troll still walks the open ground. These past days it put another person down: 灰烬轨. A string of blows at the edge of the wilderness, like someone knocking in the dark until a door gave way. 灰烬轨 fell, died of the wounds a little later, then rose again as a zombie. The name is still spoken; the road underfoot has changed. The heroes board stays blank—no one has written a troll kill into it yet.
The city has grown again. Footprints push farther out. Packs feel heavier; crates a little fuller. At night the broadcast station lamp is still on—weak power, stubborn light, like smoke that will not thin.
What is truly new hangs on the rooftops.
Two houses finally have owners. One is 杜王町起家厝, held by JOJO; its leader is 荒木. The other is House 21, held by 灰轨同盟; its leader is 烬轨. Control has run to the end. Under the lintels someone has sat down for real. Before, flags flew over empty floors. Now there are walls under the flags. The walls are not high. They still keep the wind out.
The weekly board looks familiar. 荒木 and orange trade blows, leave marks, and keep the kill column empty. Like two people loosening the dirt in a yard without burying anyone.
The waste has moved an inch. The dogs still sniff that old corner. The troll remains. The lamp remains. What changed is simpler: two houses now carry names. With a place to stand, people walking at night look a little less often into the black beyond the yards.