Chapter 15: First F-Rank Mission Completed
At the entrance, Captain Sullivan was stopped by the same guard with the machine gun.
This machine gun could probably wipe out a team of Ossarians attacking this base.
Sullivan raised his badge from a distance, making sure the guard could see it clearly, then began walking slowly toward the door. The guard kept his weapon ready until the confirmation check was complete. Only then were we allowed inside.
The tanker, however, did not enter through the same passage as us.
That made sense. A vehicle that large would need a separate route. Still, what surprised me was how well the entrance had been hidden. A wide patch of soil and grass suddenly split open, revealing a concealed ramp beneath the ground. From the outside, it had looked like nothing more than part of the terrain.
“Captain,” I said quickly, “Harper is still in the tanker. She needs to be transferred immediately.”
“Don’t worry,” Sullivan replied. “Follow me.”
We followed him through the bunker until we reached an intersection wide enough for the tanker to pass through. We waited there only a short while before the vehicle arrived.
Sullivan signaled for the driver to stop.
Once the tanker halted, he gestured toward Aaron and me.
“You two. Get the stretcher.”
Aaron and I climbed up carefully and moved Harper out as gently as we could. Her body looked fragile beneath the blanket, and every small shift made me afraid we would worsen her condition. We lowered her onto the stretcher and carried her down to the ground.
While we did that, Sullivan was already speaking into his radio, calling ahead for medical support.
Then he turned back to us.
“Follow me..”
We followed Captain Sullivan for nearly five minutes, moving through another section of the bunker until we reached a door marked: Emergency Route Section A-4
Sullivan opened it, stepped inside, and pressed a red button mounted on the wall.
“I signaled the emergency medical team to come to Section A-4,” he said. “The red button tells them it’s urgent. They’ll be here shortly.”
True to his word, it did not take long.
Two pairs of nurses came running down the corridor, pushing a medical trolley between them. The moment they saw the stretcher and Harper lying on it, their expressions sharpened with focus.
“Put her on the trolley,” one of them ordered.
Aaron and I moved quickly, lifting Harper as carefully as we could from the stretcher and placing her onto the medical cart.
The nurse checked her condition, then looked at us.
“Do not follow us.”
Maybe it was because of our cadet uniforms. Maybe she thought we would panic, ask questions, or get in the way. Either way, hearing those words felt wrong. After everything that had happened, leaving Harper there felt like abandoning her all over again.
But we had no choice.
The medical staff rushed her down the corridor and disappeared through another set of doors.
I stood there for a moment, staring after them.
“How can we visit her later?” I asked. “Or at least know her status?”
Captain Sullivan looked at me.
“Every person in Beacon has a personal profile. Records, status, activity, assignments, injuries, everything is logged. If you want updates on Cadet Robinson, ask the Administration Unit.”
“I was your captain for this mission only. Now that the mission is over, my responsibility for you ends here.”
These words were cruel but we nodded.
“Now follow me,” Captain Sullivan said.
From there, he led us toward the Administration Unit.
“At the end of every mission, you report to administration,” he explained as we walked. “More specifically, the Mission Unit. You give them the mission status, a general summary, and any major events that happened in the field.”
He glanced back at us.
“Within the next few days, each of you will also be required to write a full report. Once those reports are compiled, I review them, sign it off if everything is consistent, and send them back to be archived.”
Aaron frowned. “And after that?”
“Only then will you be eligible to take another mission,” Sullivan replied. “In the meantime, the Investigation Department checks the details and makes sure nothing in the reports contradicts what actually happened.”
That made sense. Sullivan continued.
“If everything checks out, you receive the mission reward. An F-rank mission usually pays around 50 ~ 150 Lumens.”
“Lumens?” I asked.
“The base currency,” he said. “To keep things simple, one Lumen is counted the same as one dollar.”
I nodded slowly.
Sullivan’s eyes moved forward again.
“But this mission will most likely not remain F-rank. With multiple Ossarian encounters, casualties, and a critical injury, it will be upgraded.”
“To what?” Alexander asked.
“High E-rank supply mission I think, nothing confirmed yet” Sullivan said. “That should put the reward somewhere between 150 ~ 400 Lumens. Either way you will learn more about it later. Let’s go to the Mission Administration Unit”
We went to the Mission Administration Unit.
The place was busier than I expected. In fact, this was the first time I had seen so many humans gathered in one place since arriving in this world. Soldiers, cadets, officers, workers, and clerks moved through the area.
The mission area was divided into different queues. One line was for registering new missions, while another was for reporting completed ones. The reporting queue was shorter, thankfully. The registration side was far more crowded, especially around the F-rank counter. It made sense. F-rank missions were supposed to be the safest, so most cadets and lower-ranked teams probably started there.
The higher the rank, the shorter the line became.
We followed Captain Sullivan to the mission reporting secretary.
Behind the counter sat a young man in a gray uniform, his eyes tired but sharp. He looked up the moment he saw Sullivan approaching.
“Mission report?” the secretary asked.
“Completed,” Sullivan replied. “Water supply mission. Originally registered as F-rank.”
The secretary picked up a pen. “Team?”
“Team A. Assigned cadets: Aaron Smith, Alexander Schmidt, Ivan Petrovich, Harper Robinson, and Hannah Lewis.”
The secretary paused when he heard the names, then looked at the bloodstains on our uniforms.
“Casualties?”
Sullivan’s voice remained steady.
“One confirmed dead. Cadet Hannah Lewis. One critically injured. Cadet Harper Robinson. Currently transferred to medical ward..”
The secretary’s expression tightened, but he wrote everything down without comment.
“Enemy contact?”
“Multiple Ossarian encounters,” Sullivan said. “Two ambushes before reaching the riverbank. Additional male Ossarian eliminated on return route.”
The secretary stopped writing for a second.
“For an F-rank mission?”
“Yes.”
He looked up at Sullivan. “Then this will require review.”
“I know.”
The secretary stamped the first paper, then pulled out another form.
“Temporary classification will be changed to E-rank pending investigation. Final reward and mission record will be decided after all reports are submitted and verified.”
Sullivan nodded.
“Cadets will submit their reports within the required period.”
The secretary glanced at us.
“You’ll each receive a report form to fill out,” he said. “Submit it within three days. Until then, the mission reward is on hold, and none of you will be cleared for another mission.”
“Follow me,” Captain Sullivan said.
We followed him deeper into the Administration Unit, this time toward a section labeled: Civil Registry Unit
From what I understood, this place handled everything related to the people living inside Beacon: registration, identification records, personal profiles, assignments, status updates, and official membership.
Captain Sullivan stopped near the counter and turned toward us.
“Every cadet who completes one field mission becomes an official member of Beacon,” he explained. “You’ve completed yours, so from this point on, you’re no longer temporary recruits.”
He continued, “Once you become an official member, you will be part of Beacon’s system. That means you gain access to member benefits, proper mission eligibility, personal records, and equipment rights. It also means you are expected to contribute.”
Alexander frowned slightly. “Meaning missions?”
“From time to time, yes,” Sullivan replied. “No one eats here for free. Everyone contributes one way or another. Some work inside the bunker. Others take missions outside. Since you are cadets, missions will become part of your duty.”
A clerk behind the counter handed each of us a small manual.
The cover was plain, marked only with Beacon’s symbol and the words: Member Guidelines and Duties
“There’s a lot to remember,” Sullivan said. “Rules, mission ranks, reporting procedures, ration policies, emergency protocols, reward systems, weapon regulations, and conduct inside the bunker. Read it as soon as possible.”
Sullivan then added, “You are also allowed to keep your rifles.”
That caught my attention.
“Inside the bunker?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said. “Emergencies happen. Breaches, internal threats, sudden mobilization. Your weapon stays with you, but misuse it and you lose more than the rifle.”
The clerk then called us forward one by one.
When it was my turn, he handed me a small metal badge.
I stared at it for a moment.
It was rectangular, made of dark brushed metal, with my name engraved across the center: Ivan Petrovich
Below it was my rank: Cadet – Beacon Member
On the left side, Beacon’s symbol was carved into the surface: a vertical white line cutting through a blue field, the same design as the flag at the checkpoint. Beneath the symbol was a small identification number, along with a narrow strip of embedded material that looked like it could be scanned.
After that, we went to one of the cafeterias inside the base.
Compared to the field, the place felt almost unreal. People were sitting at tables, eating, talking, and moving around as if the world outside was not trying to kill them. The smell of cooked food filled the air.
Captain Sullivan walked ahead of us and spoke quietly to one of the cafeteria workers. I could not hear what he said, but the worker nodded and glanced briefly in our direction before moving toward the kitchen.
A moment later, Sullivan returned to us.
“Your mission report forms will arrive tomorrow,” he said. “Make sure you fill them out properly. No exaggerations, no hiding details. Write what happened.”
We nodded.
“With that said,” he continued, “your first mission is officially over.”
For a moment, none of us said anything.
It felt strange hearing those words.
Sullivan glanced toward the counter. “Lunch is on me. Eat, rest, and do whatever you need to do after this.”
Aaron raised an eyebrow. “You’re paying?”
Sullivan looked at him flatly. “Don’t make me regret it.”
Aaron immediately shut his mouth.
“Cadets are required to take at least one F-rank mission every month,” Sullivan continued. “That is the minimum. After your reports are submitted and cleared, you are free to take additional missions if you want. Read the manual to understand how the system here works.”
He looked at each of us, his expression unreadable.
“You survived your first mission. That does not make you veterans. It only means you lived long enough to learn from it.”
His gaze lingered on us for a second longer.
“Rest while you can. You’ll need it.”
With that, Captain Sullivan gave us a short nod and turned to leave.
Before he walked away completely, he stopped and looked back.
“And for what it’s worth,” he said, his voice a little lower, “you did better than most first-timers.”
Then he left, disappearing into the flow of people moving through the cafeteria.