Raven stood in the back of the semi, eyes trailing across the stacked crates of boxed morphine, trauma kits, and surgical supplies one last time. Satisfied, she nodded once and opened her mind to the system.
[Apocalypse Ascendancy System Notification:] “Medical category activated. All supplies categorized under Emergency Trauma, Pharmaceuticals, and Surgical Equipment.”
The message floated just behind her eyes like a HUD overlay, and she dismissed it with a blink. One by one, the boxes vanished into her system the crates, the pallets, even the rolling cart she'd borrowed from the pharmacy's loading dock.
By the time she stepped back onto the street, the truck’s cargo bay was empty. She didn’t even bother locking the vehicle. It would be stripped or towed within twelve hours. New York always cleaned its alleyways eventually.
She walked three blocks in silence, cutting through side streets, weaving between fire escapes and boarded windows until she reached another alley tucked behind a condemned bookstore. With no cameras, no curious pedestrians, and no line of sight from nearby rooftops, she pulled the Ironhowl X4 from her Sanctuary.
It appeared with a shimmer, tires resting neatly on cracked pavement. She slid into the driver’s seat and keyed the ignition. The growl of the engine was familiar, grounding.
Her next stop loomed ahead.
The dealership she’d scouted days ago stood like a sealed fortress. Grand Theft Autonomous. A monolithic structure near Midtown, the size of a shopping mall, five stories tall with all vehicles stored inside. There was no outdoor lot. Every single car—from electric sedans to luxury SUVs—was protected behind glass and steel. And because of COVID, it had been closed for months.
Raven parked the Ironhowl in a shadowed alley one block away. She checked her phone: 6:18 PM. Too early.
She said in her mind. “Enter Sanctuary.”
Reality folded.
The air turned still. Trees swayed above her as the Ironhowl materialized once more in her forested clearing. She stepped out, then climbed onto the hood of her SUV with a wrapped burger in hand.
As she ate, she watched the sky change inside her personal realm. Sanctuary ran on a five-to-one time ratio. She had hours in here before the outside world caught up.
After she finished her food, she slid back inside the Ironhowl and stretched out, boots off, arms behind her head. It was the closest thing she had to a home.
Eventually, she drifted to sleep.
At 1:00 AM, her eyes snapped open.
“Exit Sanctuary,” she whispered.
The forest dissolved.
The city returned.
The alley was exactly as she left it.
She pulled the Ironhowl into motion, its headlights off as she cruised the final block to the dealership. She parked around the corner, climbed out, and walked to the emergency exit near the rear service bay.
She crouched, popped the card reader panel with a flathead tool, and plugged her phone into the exposed wiring.
Lines of code rolled across her screen as she hacked the card reader. Within ten seconds, the keypad beeped. The bolt on the door clicked open with no emergency exit alarm activating.
She stood, pushed the door open, and whispered with a dry smile, “Gotta love how COVID turned every teenager into a hacker. Looting tutorials, gaming mods, code injection scripts—school’s out, SelfTube’s in.”
The building was dark and quiet. A faint green exit light glowed at the end of the corridor. Raven moved swiftly, pulling out her phone again and launching the Smoogle Maps app. The map appeared in full 3D.
The dealership’s full floorplan.
Security office. Showroom elevators. Internal stairwells. The massive central lift shaft used to move cars between levels.
She stared at the glowing icon marked “SECURITY - AUTHORIZED PERSONAL ONLY.”
“I cannot believe they uploaded their own floor plans to the internet,” she muttered. “For ‘customer convenience.’ God, the corporate world deserves to be robbed.”
She followed the digital breadcrumbs through a side hallway, past an espresso kiosk and glass-walled finance offices. She found the door she needed behind a thin plastic sign.
SECURITY CONTROL CENTER - DO NOT ENTER.
A cheap door. Basic card lock.
She cracked it open in less than twenty seconds with the same script from earlier.
Inside, monitors glowed with looping surveillance feeds. Nothing but empty hallways and shuttered floors.
She tapped through the control interface, disabling motion sensors, alerts, backup power alarms, and camera logs. She disconnected the store’s phone line with a quick patch override. A single command swept the entire system offline.
'Ignore The Hot Thief'
Grand Theft Autonomous was now officially blind.
She stepped out into the main showroom and stopped.
Glass walls. Overhead spotlights. Rows upon rows of pristine cars gleaming under steel supports. Custom-wrapped sports models. Off-road SUVs. Electric city runners. Tactical fleet vehicles. All untouched, all sealed behind showroom glass until the economy decided to wake up again.
Beneath the building, the auto maintenance and customization center waited like a hidden vault—lift rigs, tires, welding arms, alignment lasers, exhaust diagnostics, spare parts, and crates of brand-new transmissions.
It was beautiful.
Everything Raven needed to keep the Ironhowl running for years.
She stood in the middle of the showroom and said to herself, “This is going to be fun.”
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