The Last of Us: Survival

Chapter 163: A Trade of Interests

"Wh... what do you mean?"

Eller's mood had been sinking, but Bryan's words jolted something to life in him. Confusion and fledgling hope warred on his face as he looked up, stammering.

Bryan's smile widened at the boy's expression. "What's your name?"

"...Eller." No hesitation.

"Eller." Bryan crouched down to eye level. "You know this black market pretty well, don't you?"

Eller nodded without thinking. "I've been living here for two years. I know every corner of this place—including the hidden back routes."

"Good. Then I'm giving you one chance to save your mother."

Clearly pleased with the answer, Bryan continued. "I need you to keep tabs on certain people for me inside the market. They might not show up often, but whenever they do—however you manage it—I need to know where they went, what they did, and what they said."

He raised a single finger. "Just once. One piece of useful intel, and I'll send a doctor for your mother. If the information is especially valuable, I'll treat her and throw in extra food."

"And as long as you keep the intel flowing, I'll keep rewarding you based on how important it is."

Eller didn't light up the way Bryan expected. Instead, the boy lowered his head and fell silent.

He was young, but he was no fool. Two years of survival in this lawless market had taught him that much. If this man was asking for intelligence, it had to be dangerous work. Getting close enough to see or overhear important things meant real risk—and if he got caught, the consequences were obvious.

Worse, once he delivered the information, there was nothing stopping the man from simply refusing to pay. What could a kid do about it?

His thoughts churned. Finally, Eller clenched his small fists and met Bryan's gaze head-on. "Why should I trust you?"

Bryan laughed. "Kid, I don't force anyone to work for me. Whether you do this or not is entirely your choice. Whether you believe me is yours to decide. Think of it as... a gamble."

Eller hadn't expected that answer. He stood there stunned for a long moment, then lowered his head again. "Can... can I think about it?"

"Sure. Take your time."

Bryan hadn't planned any of this. It was a flash of inspiration, nothing more.

Ever since Lucy's intelligence gathering had hit a wall, the problem had been gnawing at him. It wasn't that he absolutely needed to know what the Fireflies were up to—but advance warning of their moves would give him a head start on preparations.

He knew the Fireflies frequented the black market. But he couldn't stake the place out himself—an outsider lingering too long would draw attention. And hiring one of the local street thugs was risky in a different way. He wasn't worried about them revealing him, exactly, but if fear or greed drove them to sell the information to the Fireflies instead, it would put them on alert. All those carefully drawn portraits on his surveillance board would become worthless.

That was why the moment he'd laid eyes on Eller, the gears had started turning. The boy had family in the market. A sick mother who needed treatment. Intimate knowledge of every inch of the place. And a child's natural camouflage—adults wouldn't pay him any mind.

The demands on the kid's nerves would be enormous, and the danger was real. But Bryan wouldn't force him. This was a straightforward exchange of interests, nothing more.

He ruffled the boy's hair, stood up, and tore a page from his notebook. He drew a quick symbol on it, folded it, and pressed it into Eller's hand.

"There's a stall in the southeast corner of the market that sells metal parts. If you decide to do it, give this to the owner—he'll know what to do. If you decide not to, just toss it after I leave. But make up your mind quick. If I don't hear anything within three days, I'll take that as a no."

With that, he gathered his bags and walked away.

Eller stared at the folded paper in his hand, then at Bryan's retreating back. Silently, he slipped it into his pocket and ducked into the neighboring shanty.

...

Walking through the refugee quarter with armfuls of supplies, Bryan drew hungry, covetous stares from every direction. A lone man carrying that much was a tempting target, and a few of the bolder ones were already sizing him up.

Bryan caught the look in their eyes and let a cold smile cross his face. He drew his knife and opened up a few of the first fools who stepped forward—nothing fatal, just enough to bleed and make a point. The crowd got the message.

Once he was sure no one else would follow, he sheathed the blade and kept walking.

...

Leaving the black market and entering District D, Bryan found himself back on proper streets. For reasons he couldn't quite name, a strange sense of displacement washed over him—like stepping between two different worlds.

He reached a row of six or seven battered warehouses two blocks over and sighed at the sight of them before heading inside.

Knock, knock, knock.

Outside a small room—maybe a hundred and fifty square feet—attached to one of the warehouses, Bryan rapped on the door.

"Tracy, you in there? Came to see you."

"Who is it?" A woman's voice answered from inside. The door opened to reveal a woman of about twenty-six or twenty-seven in a simple soldier's uniform, her expression drowsy, her figure noticeably plump.

"Aahh—"

Tracy yawned enormously and stretched, rubbing her eyes. When she focused on who was standing there, her face broke into a delighted grin. She punched his shoulder.

"You little punk! Six months without a visit, and every time I come looking, you're out on some mission. Mr. Big Shot over here."

Her words were casual enough, but an undercurrent of something sour ran through them.

Bryan understood why. Five years ago, after the incident that killed so many soldiers and civilians, Tracy had been made the scapegoat. As squad leader, she'd been publicly reprimanded by the district's brass, stripped of her rank, and demoted to a rank-and-file patrol soldier.

Much like Norman's story, Tracy's straightforward sense of justice and blunt personality had made her a target for constant marginalization within her new unit. At least she'd had enough sense not to report the corruption she witnessed—she'd simply kept her mouth shut instead of doing anything rash.

Eventually, unable to stomach it any longer, she'd requested a transfer to the parts storage warehouse in District D. Her squad leader, only too happy to be rid of her, had gladly processed the paperwork.

"Parts storage warehouse" was a generous description. The place held surplus structural components deemed too potentially useful to throw away but too worthless to actually use. Nothing ever left the inventory.

The posting was a dead end—no authority, no respect. Any soldier could look down their nose at her. But it was quiet. She wouldn't go hungry, she got her monthly supply cards, and nobody bothered her. A retirement gig in all but name.

Since Bryan had started his career as a supply retrieval soldier and worked his way up to squad leader, he'd made a point of dropping by regularly with food and supplies. Tracy's quality of life, by QZ standards, was downright cushy.

The predictable result of low activity and high calorie intake had caught up with her. She'd put on considerable weight—one of the rare people in this post-apocalyptic world who'd actually managed to get fat. Whether she'd noticed and was pretending otherwise was anyone's guess.

But idleness had a price. As a soldier by training, Tracy had grown restless. She watched other squads heading out on missions with open envy—though given her current situation, there was no chance of reassignment.

So whenever she saw Bryan constantly deploying, the sourness crept into her voice. Deep down, she was itching to be useful again.

...

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