Weapon System in Zombie Apocalypse

September 6, 2025 — MOA Complex, Conrad Tower.

Rebecca stirred awake first.

It wasn't the baby's cry that woke her—it was the absence of it. Amara had been unusually quiet since midnight, a rare event that set off every maternal alarm in her head. She sat up gently and looked into the bassinet beside their bed.

Amara was fine. Still breathing, her little chest rising and falling rhythmically, cheeks puffed from deep sleep.

Rebecca exhaled and ran a hand through her hair. Just nerves.

She slid out of bed without waking Thomas and padded over to the kitchenette. The morning light hadn't broken through yet—just a faint, pre-dawn hue pressing through the blinds. She heated a kettle and waited, arms folded, her thoughts slow and still. The silence was welcome, almost too welcome.

The kettle clicked off. She poured herself a mug of herbal tea, something the nurses had recommended for postpartum recovery. She sat in the corner armchair and watched the bassinet from across the room.

Moments later, Thomas stirred.

He sat up slowly, blinking blearily toward her. "You okay?"

Rebecca nodded. "Couldn't sleep. She hasn't made a sound all night."

Thomas got out of bed and walked over to check. He knelt beside the bassinet, watching Amara's peaceful face. "She's fine. Probably just charging up to scream through breakfast."

Rebecca chuckled. "Maybe. Want tea?"

"Got anything stronger?"

She smiled and shook her head. "We're out of coffee beans."

"We should've traded for more."

"We traded for baby powder instead."

Thomas sighed and sat down beside her. "Fair trade."

Same Day — MOA Complex, Garden Sector F

They strolled through the newly built garden walkway later that morning, Amara tucked into a baby sling against Rebecca's chest. The community had spent the last few weeks rebuilding this area—previously just a weed-covered open field into an organized vegetable plot, lined with hanging trellises and herbal rows.

Rebecca had taken to visiting it almost daily.

It calmed her.

A few children trailed behind her, watching curiously as she snipped sprigs of mint and basil, dropping them into a woven basket.

"Miss Rebecca," one girl asked, "is that for medicine?"

"Sometimes," Rebecca replied. "But today it's for stew."

"What's stew?"

"You'll find out at dinner."

Thomas, walking behind with a pack of fertilizer and an old rake slung over his shoulder, glanced at the kids. "You keep asking her questions like that, she'll make you help with the washing."

They laughed and ran off, but not far.

Rebecca turned to him. "You're really getting the hang of this dad energy."

Thomas smirked. "I'm just waiting for one of them to throw a rock so I can confiscate it like a sergeant major."

Afternoon — MOA Complex, Dining Hall

Overwatch's communal kitchen buzzed during lunch. Cookfires hissed. Metal trays clinked. People lined up with ration cards in hand, waiting for rice, eggs, and the occasional meat stew. Rebecca sat near the windows with Amara swaddled beside her, sleeping soundly through the noise.

Thomas joined her with two steaming bowls of tinola.

"Smells amazing," she said.

"Don't get excited—it's mostly malunggay and half a chicken wing."

She grinned anyway and dug in. They ate side by side, mostly in silence, occasionally greeting passing soldiers or engineers.

"This is nice," Rebecca said.

"What, the soup?"

"No. Us. Here. Eating a meal in peace."

Thomas nodded. "Feels rare."

"Feels like it shouldn't be."

Evening — MOA Complex, Medical Wing

They returned to the clinic for Amara's two-week checkup. Dr. Ramos welcomed them with a rare, genuine smile.

"She's healthy," the doctor confirmed after a thorough scan. "Gaining weight. No irregularities in blood oxygenation or sleep patterns."

"Still serious though," the nurse added. "Like she's judging everyone."

Rebecca laughed. "That's Thomas's face."

"It's tactical resting face," he deadpanned.

The appointment ended with a few vaccine boosters and a free bottle of vitamins donated by the Singapore safe zone.

As they left, Thomas turned to Rebecca. "She's going to be smarter than both of us, isn't she?"

"Oh, definitely."

Later — MOA Complex, Commander's Quarters

That night, Thomas laid on the couch, Amara curled up on his chest. Her breath came in tiny puffs, her hand clutching the fabric of his shirt.

Rebecca stepped out of the shower, towel draped over her shoulders. She paused in the doorway, watching them.

"You're gonna spoil her."

"She deserves it."

Rebecca sat beside him, brushing damp hair from her face. "I think I'm finally okay."

Thomas turned his head. "You were never not okay."

She smiled softly. "I mean it. For the first time, I don't feel like I'm just surviving."

He reached over and held her hand. "We're building something now. That's different."

She nodded, leaning her head against his shoulder. "Promise me we won't let the world ruin her."

"We won't."

Late Night — Rooftop Deck

The moon hung bright over the Metro skyline. The sprawl of Manila was still a scarred shadow of its former self, but small patches of light now glimmered—signs of enclaves relinking, homes restoring power, lives resuming.

Thomas and Rebecca stood side by side, Amara asleep in a baby wrap.

"You know," Thomas said quietly, "when this all started, I didn't think I'd live to see another sunrise."

Rebecca looked at him. "And now?"

"Now I think I'll live long enough to tell her bedtime stories."

They stood in silence for a moment.

Below them, the lights of MOA blinked on one by one.

And above them, the stars—clear and real—offered no warnings.

Only quiet.

Only grace.

Thomas adjusted the baby wrap, cradling Amara closer as the wind picked up, soft and warm. Rebecca leaned her head against his shoulder, her fingers gently laced with his.

Somewhere in the distance, a guitar strummed faintly—probably one of the civilian boys on night watch. The tune was slow, imperfect, but full of life.

Rebecca smiled at the sound. "She's going to grow up knowing music."

"And gardens. And peace," Thomas added.

They watched the horizon together.

The future could wait for now.