Weapon System in Zombie Apocalypse-Chapter 186: The Assurance

Two days after the battle in Cubao

The SMX Center had never seen a crowd like this.

Not before the outbreak. Not during the first evacuations. Not even during the announcement of the MOA Complex as a permanent survivor zone.

Hundreds of people—maybe over a thousand—had gathered in the main hall of the SMX Convention Center. Despite everything that had happened to the world outside, the hall looked untouched. The polished floors still gleamed under the overhead lights. The glass panels above remained intact, letting in soft daylight through their clear panes. The steel beams overhead were unbent, clean, and steady—like a fragment of the old world frozen in time. It was one of the last places that felt... whole. And that alone gave people reason to breathe a little easier.

Civilians stood shoulder to shoulder with Overwatch soldiers in crisp field uniforms—many of them dressed in clean, brand-new clothes pulled from the untouched stockrooms of the mall. There were fresh jackets, properly fitted jeans, even running shoes that hadn't seen dust until now. Engineers still bore streaks of grease on their sleeves, medics had dark circles under their eyes, and kitchen staff wore aprons smelling of garlic and soot—but everyone stood tall. Not because they were ordered to. But because word had spread.

The Commander was going to speak.

The lights flickered twice, casting long shadows over the packed crowd, before finally stabilizing. At the front, a makeshift stage had been assembled using scrapwood and reinforced steel panels. It wasn't elegant, but it held.

Then, a murmur passed through the crowd.

"He's here," someone whispered.

Thomas Estaris stepped onto the platform.

He wasn't dressed in armor. He wore his black Overwatch jacket—worn at the shoulders and scuffed at the sleeves—with the collar popped slightly from the wind outside. His boots were dusty. His face was tired. But his presence was solid. Grounded.

He didn't need a speechwriter.

He didn't need a podium.

He just stood at the center, arms relaxed at his sides, and waited until the room fell quiet.

And then—he began.

"I won't waste your time with small talk."

The words carried clearly through the hall, firm and steady. The SMX's original sound system still worked flawlessly. Crisp audio filled the space from hidden ceiling speakers, as if the world beyond the walls hadn't fallen apart at all.

"You've all heard the rumors. You've seen the skies light up over the north. Some of you felt the tremors. Some of you didn't sleep that night because the walls shook."

He let that hang. A few people nodded, quietly.

"What we fought in Cubao wasn't just another beast. It wasn't a swarm. It wasn't a new strain."

His tone was steady. Controlled. But behind his eyes, everyone could see it—the weight of what he had seen.

"It was a monster the size of a building. With armor that absorbed rockets. With a plasma beam that could melt through high-rise concrete in seconds."

He took a step forward.

"And we killed it."

No cheers.

Just shock. And disbelief. You could feel the air change.

"We brought it down with every ounce of firepower we had. Paladin shells. Warthogs. Ghostriders. Apaches. Drones. Everything. We scorched the ground it stood on. We buried it in flame. And it died."

Still no applause. Just people trying to understand what that meant.

"We didn't do it because we're heroes," Thomas continued. "We didn't do it because we wanted revenge. We did it because if we hadn't—it would've found this place next."

He looked toward the far side of the hall, where evacuees sat cross-legged on the floor beside volunteers handing out water.

"I'm not going to stand here and tell you that it's the last monster we'll ever face. We all know the truth. This world… is different now. There are things out there we haven't even seen yet."

He took a breath. Not to compose himself—but to deliver what came next.

"But I will make one promise. One that matters."

He raised his voice—not shouting, but firm.

"As long as I'm alive… as long as Overwatch stands… this place—this complex—this fragile patch of humanity—will remain safe."

Murmurs swept the crowd.

"I'm not a president. I didn't run for office. I don't sit on a throne."

He gestured to the crowd. To the soldiers lining the edge. To the people watching from the upper balconies.

"I started this because survival matters. That's it. Not politics. Not rebuilding malls or banks or elections. Just… keeping people alive."

A woman in the crowd wiped her eyes. A child clung to her side, silent.

"This complex… it wasn't built with concrete and steel. It was built by grit. By those who fought in the dark so others could sleep. By the ones who died giving others a chance to live."

He paused again, scanning the faces before him.

"We are not waiting for the end anymore."

A soft shift swept across the crowd.

"We are building something here. We're creating rules. Protection. We're teaching our kids how to grow food again. How to read. We're giving people jobs. Purpose."

A young technician near the front—barely more than a teenager—lowered his head, shoulders shaking. fɾeeweɓnѳveɭ.com

"I know we're tired. I know we've lost too many. But if that monster in Cubao proved anything—it's that we can fight back. That we can kill the nightmares."

Thomas's voice grew sharper now.

"Because we are not prey. We are not leftovers of the old world."

He took a step forward, speaking from his chest now.

"We are the living. And we are still here."

There it was.

A beat of silence—sharp, clear.

Then, it started slowly. Someone clapped. Then another. Then it spread. The hall filled with the sound of tired hands—calloused, burned, scraped—clapping not because they were told to, but because they needed to.

Not because they were celebrating a man.

But because they were holding onto the last thing that made them human.

Hope.

Thomas stood still. He didn't bask in it. He didn't raise his arms. He just looked out, nodding once, letting the people have that moment.

Then, quietly, he stepped down from the stage.

No ceremony.

No music.

Just the sound of people clapping long after he had left.

Because they believed him.

And that was enough.