Reality Glitches and Other Daily Annoyances [LitRPG][Post-Apocalypse][Snark]

[phanst]

Right, listen up, meatbags. The world didn't politely end with nukes or zombies. No, reality itself apparently rage-quit, slammed Alt-F4, and now we're living in the cosmic equivalent of a Windows ME crash dump, complete with physics errors, texture glitches spawning monsters made of dial-up noise, and a "System" that's less helpful overlay and more passive-aggressive error log generator.

And guess who drew the short straw for tech support? Yeah. Me. Ren. Ex-Tier 2 drone, current freelance Reality Debugger. My superpower isn't punching holes in reality, it's applying the occasional sanity patch, untangling hostile geometry errors, and maybe, just maybe, figuring out why gravity sometimes decides to take five in the middle of the street.

What This Is:

• LitRPG: But the Universal Runtime Environment (URE) is unreliable, buggy, and probably hates you. Don't expect clean stat sheets or balanced skills. Progression is... messy.
• Post-Apocalypse: Where the apocalypse is the glitch. Expect weirdness, absurdity, and things that defy explanation trying to eat your face.
• Snark & Dark Humor: My coping mechanism. Filtered through years of dealing with user error, now applied to cosmic horror.
• Adventure & Survival: Main focus. Staying alive, scavenging, figuring out what the hell happened and if reality has a rollback option.
• Harem? (Tagged for Honesty): Yeah, it's tagged. But before you sharpen pitchforks or get too excited, it's slow burn, rooted in practical reliance on my unique skillset (apparently debugging reality makes you weirdly popular when everyone's gear keeps glitching out), and definitely not the main focus. Think spice, not main course. Suggestive, awkward, nothing explicit. This ain't that kind of story (mostly).

What to Expect:

• Chapters: Aiming for 1200-1500+ words each.
• Schedule: Monday to Friday, with occassional weekend soda parties if the Glitches Allow.
• Length: Long haul planned. Hundreds of chapters if the server hamsters hold out.

First chapter below. Try not to trip over any clipping errors on your way in. Comments, feedback, and pointing out my typos are grudgingly accepted. Just don't ask me to fix your printer.

 

[phanst]

Chapter 0001: When the Universe Blue-Screens

"No, no, don't kick it! Are you trying to validate its warranty on existential aggression?"

The words ripped out of my throat, hoarse and exasperated. The guy – wild-eyed, clad in mismatched scavenged sports gear, and radiating pure panic – jumped back from the flickering ATM like he'd touched a live wire. Which, arguably, he might have.

The ATM wasn't just malfunctioning; it was actively throwing a digital tantrum. Its screen cycled rapidly through [INSUFFICIENT FUNDS], [REALITY ERROR: PLEASE TRY AGAIN LATER], and bursts of angry red static that coalesced into jagged, vaguely threatening polygons before dissolving again. It shuddered with each cycle, the physical manifestation of corrupted code grinding against burnt-out processors. With each flicker, it spat out another crystalline shard of... something. Hard light? Solidified data? Whatever it was, it looked sharp enough to cut reality itself, embedding itself in the crumbling pavement around the survivor's frantically shuffling feet.

"But it's… it's attacking me!" the guy shrieked, brandishing a bent golf club like it might scare faulty banking hardware into submission.

"Yes! It's glitching! Kicking things that are actively rewriting physics in your immediate vicinity is generally filed under 'Bad Ideas'!" I snapped back, keeping my distance near the shattered storefront of what used to be a noodle bar. "Just back away slowly! Its targeting routine looks like it was coded by a caffeinated squirrel!"

My own view wasn't much better. Instead of a crisp HP bar and objective tracker, the upper corner of my vision was currently occupied by a poorly rendered GIF of a cat furiously playing a keyboard. Below it, text scrolled: [System Message: Current Objective - Survive User ID: Brenda_Is_An_Idiot's Poor Life Choices. Reward Pending…] followed by a string of corrupted characters that looked vaguely like wingdings having a stroke.

Thanks, URE. Super helpful. Knowing the panicking lunatic potentially shared a handle with Brenda from Accounting wasn't exactly boosting my confidence in his survival odds. Or mine.

----------

[Hostile Entity Detected: Automated Threat Machine (ATM) - Corrupted AI Module]

Level: 5? Maybe 6? (Analysis fluctuates wildly)

Threat: Dispenses Non-Euclidean Aggression. Low Rarity. High Annoyance.

Weakness: Probably Terrible Security Protocols? Predictable Error Loops? Try Ctrl+Alt+Del?

Recommendation: Do not insert card. Do not attempt transaction. Do not make eye contact?

----------

The System's analysis flickered unreliably, superimposed over the keyboard cat. Fantastic. It wasn't even sure how dangerous the damned thing was.

I risked a focused look, activating [Perceive Glitch (Level 2)]. The world snapped into a different kind of focus, the air itself resolving into layers of noisy data. The air around the ATM shimmered, thick with tangled lines of angry red 'code' – visualize a bowl of spaghetti woven by malfunctioning spider bots. I could see the core loop: check_balance -> insufficient_funds -> trigger_error_protocol -> access_asset_library[hostile_geometry.pak] -> dispense_sharp_object() -> loop. Basic, predictable, lethally stupid.

There was also a subroutine furiously trying to connect to a non-existent banking network, adding to the processing strain. Kicking it probably just fed garbage data into its damaged sensors, validating the error state.

"It's stuck in an error loop!" I yelled over the zzzt-chunk sound of another crystal shard embedding itself dangerously close to Brenda_Is_An_Idiot's left foot. "It thinks dispensing sharp things is the correct response to not finding money! Just. Back. Away. Don't give it new inputs!"

He hesitated, glancing between me and the polygon-spitting machine. Finally, bless whatever minuscule scrap of self-preservation he possessed, he started inching backward, eyes wide. The ATM continued its rhythmic dispensing, but the shards now landed harmlessly where he used to be. Its targeting was indeed primitive. Like trying to aim with a disconnected mouse.

My SP bar, thankfully visible under the cat GIF, had dipped slightly from the focused analysis. 77/80. Using my 'power' always felt like running complex diagnostics on three hours of sleep – mentally taxing, leaving a faint buzzing behind my eyes.

The survivor reached the relative safety of the noodle bar entrance beside me, breathing heavily. "What… what was that?"

"Tuesday," I replied automatically, scanning the street. Another glitch in the cosmic code. Another ticket in the universe's infinite helpdesk queue. This little encounter probably attracted unwanted attention. Need to move. "Also, a prime example of why you don't argue with broken technology, especially when it has access to physics cheats."

He stared at me, then down at his bent golf club. "You… you knew what it was doing?"

"Debugging is kind of my thing," I sighed, already turning to leave. "Less of a superpower, more of a cosmic janitorial duty. Now, unless you want to wait for whatever else heard that racket, I suggest relocating."

He scrambled after me. "Wait! Where are you going? Is there somewhere safe?"

"Define 'safe'," I shot back, navigating around a car that had partially sunk into the asphalt like quicksand. Saw a mailbox phase through a lamppost last week. Safe is... optimistic. "My definition involves minimal reality tearing and functional plumbing. It's a high bar these days."

My actual destination was the Kwik-E-Mart visible a block down. Looked relatively intact, which usually meant either nobody had bothered looting it yet, or it was guarded by something particularly unpleasant. Worth the risk for potential non-meat-product sustenance.

Brenda_Is_An_Idiot kept pace, looking nervously over his shoulder. "I just got into the city… I heard there were stable zones…"

"Rumors," I grunted, eyeing a flicker in the upper window of an office building. Probably just a texture fail, but you never knew. Nothing hostile, just background corruption. Probably. "Stable is a relative term. Mostly means things only try to kill you in predictable ways."

We reached the Kwik-E-Mart. Its lights stuttered weakly, sign buzzing erratically (Kwik-E - File Not Found). Standard. The automatic doors were stuck half-open.

"Okay," I said, stopping him before he could barge in. "Rule number one of scavenging: Assume everything inside wants to eat your face, use your data for nefarious purposes, or is currently experiencing catastrophic cascade failure resulting in sentience and a demand for union rights. Got it?"

He nodded dumbly.

I peeked inside. Gloomy, shelves mostly bare, but no obvious signs of [Sentient Spam Constructs] or [Aggressive Dust Bunny Swarms]. Just… a faint, rhythmic skittering from the back.

"Stay here. Watch the door. Yell if anything tries to render you non-essential," I ordered, slipping through the gap. The air inside was stale, tinged with ozone. My boots crunched on… something that glittered faintly like corrupted pixels.

The skittering resolved into a familiar nuisance near the back coolers: a Glitch Skitter, a dog-sized mess of bad code and static, bumping uselessly against the reflective surface of a freezer door, caught in a simple reflection loop. Level 2, barely a threat unless you tripped over it.

Ignoring it for now – prioritizing non-hostile targets was key – I scanned the aisles. Jackpot. Canned goods aisle. Relatively untouched. Score! Grabbed three cans of suspiciously perfect peaches and two of the ominous "Processed Meat Food Product (Try It!)". Also found a working (after minor debug-poking) flashlight and a packet of what might be beef jerky, or possibly fossilized boot leather. Protein is protein.

Stuffing my meager haul into my backpack, I headed back towards the entrance. Brenda_Is_An_Idiot was still there, peering nervously up and down the street.

"Find anything?" he asked hopefully.

"Potential indigestion and mild radiation poisoning," I replied, holding up a can of peaches. "Success." I tossed him one of the meat-product cans. "Try it. Or don't. Your call."

He fumbled the catch, staring at the aggressive label. "Uh… thanks?"

"Don't mention it. Now, I'm heading back to my hole. You coming, or are you going to try your luck finding the mythical 'Stable Zone Spa & Resort'?"

He looked down the ruined street, then back at me, clutching the can of mystery meat like a holy relic. "Which way is your hole?"

I sighed internally. Great. A tag-along. Just what my cynical, solitary existence needed. Another user clinging to my ankles, demanding support for systems I didn't design and couldn't possibly fix. But abandoning him felt… vaguely like failing a crucial system check. Besides, maybe he could carry stuff.

"This way," I grunted, heading towards the mostly-stable office building district. "Try not to trip over any localized gravity wells or attract the attention of anything that looks like it lost an argument with a particle accelerator. And for god's sake, don't kick anything."

The keyboard cat on my HUD finally vanished, replaced by crisp, clean HP/SP bars and a new message:

----------

[Quest Completed: Survive User ID: Brenda_Is_An_Idiot's Poor Life Choices.]

Reward: [+15 XP], [Item Acquired: Tag-along (Uneasy Alliance Status)].

New Objective: Don't get Tag-along killed (Optional, but recommended for positive Karma score?).

----------

I closed my eyes for a brief moment. Karma scores? Tag-alongs? Optional objectives with passive-aggressive recommendations? The universe wasn't just buggy; it was developing middle-management P.R. speak. This was my reward? Fantastic.

This apocalypse was getting weirder by the minute. And I had a feeling my headache was just getting started.

 

[phanst]

Chapter 0002: Error 418: I'm a Teapot

The trek back to my little slice of semi-stable reality was, as expected, an exercise in navigating Murphy's Law as interpreted by a reality engine that had clearly failed its QA testing. Leo, my newly acquired tag-along – User ID: Brenda_Is_An_Idiot according to the URE, a fact I was keeping to myself for sheer comedic value – provided the running commentary of someone whose worldview was actively unraveling frame by agonizing frame.

"Did... did that mailbox just phase through the lamppost?" he stammered, pointing a shaky finger like it might pop the illusion.

I spared it a glance. Sure enough, the standard blue postal box occupied the exact same space as the rusted metal pole, their textures flickering and merging like two poorly layered images in a buggy graphic editor. "Quantum superposition," I deadpanned, steering him around the ontological paradox. "Or maybe they're just really good friends exploring the intimacy of shared coordinates. Don't stare. Sometimes co-located objects get violently protective of their personal… shared space."

A few steps later, the texture underfoot changed abruptly. Not visually, but tactilely. It felt like walking on coarse sandpaper, despite looking like smooth, cracked asphalt. "Localized haptic field distortion," I explained as Leo stumbled, trying to adjust his footing. "Feels weird, probably won't skin your knees unless it decides to become actual sandpaper mid-step. Keep moving."

Sound remained a persistent headache. A cacophony erupted ahead – screeching metal, shattering glass. But the noise source was clearly two blocks behind us, the delay creating a disorienting echo that bounced strangely off buildings that weren't quite solid. Leo flinched violently, crouching slightly. "What was that?!"

"Probably just Tuesday," I sighed. "Or possibly a spontaneous multi-car pileup caused by gravity deciding to go on coffee break. Try not to think about it. Auditory lag is common. Focus on what you can see trying to kill you." Easier said than done, especially when my own internal processor felt like it was still defragging after that EMR spike back at the ATM. The constant sensory dissonance frayed nerves faster than almost anything else.

Leo kept glancing at me, a confusing cocktail of fear, disbelief, and grudging reliance brewing in his eyes. "So, you can, like, see this stuff happening? The glitches? The… errors?"

"Sometimes," I admitted, side-stepping a puddle that was calmly bubbling and emitting faint, lavender-scented smoke ([Glitch Effect: Unexplained Aromatherapy? Harmless... Probably.]). "It's less seeing the future, more reading the system logs in real-time. Reality throws error codes before it completely face-plants. Warnings like [Warning: Physics Engine Stability Dropping] or [Fatal Exception: Object Permanence Failure Imminent]. You learn to spot them."

He shook his head, clearly struggling. "Before… before all this… I was training to be an architect's draftsman. Lines, structure, rules… This place…" He gestured vaguely at a nearby building whose corners seemed to be melting like candle wax, defying its own structural integrity. "This place breaks all the rules."

"Tell me about it," I muttered. "Welcome to the bug report that is existence."

We finally reached the sullen monolith of the office building. I bypassed the crackling, user-installed energy field at the main entrance ("Definitely not OSHA compliant, probably powered by tortured squirrels and wishful thinking") and led Leo around back to the service entrance, held ajar by the eternally patient filing cabinet.

Inside, the transition was stark. The chaotic noise and visual static of the outside world muffled instantly, replaced by the cool, steady hum of server fans. Clean, filtered air, smelling faintly of ozone and warm plastic, replaced the street's miasma of decay and glitch-rot. Rows upon rows of blinking server racks marched down the aisles like disciplined technological soldiers, creating canyons of humming metal under the high, grimy windows. Dust motes danced in the beams of emergency lighting like phantom data packets. It wasn't silent, but it was an orderly sound. The sound of computation still valiantly trying to compute.

Leo stopped just inside, genuinely speechless for a moment, simply absorbing the relative calm. "It's... working? It's cool in here."

"Best real estate in the glitch-zone," I confirmed, weaving through the familiar maze. "Independent power filtering, climate control still mostly functional, structurally sound. Built by people paranoid about losing data, not reality itself, but the overlap in precautions is beneficial." I pointed to a server rack displaying a perfectly stable array of green status lights. "See? Some things still remember how to function properly."

My personal sanctuary, the supply closet, was exactly as I'd left it. Leo peered inside, taking in the controlled explosion of scavenged tech. My blanket-nest, the shelves overflowing with components, tools, dubious foodstuffs. A half-disassembled drone sat on one shelf, wires spilling like metallic guts – a project I'd abandoned after realizing its guidance system interpreted 'fly straight' as 'become a non-Euclidean pretzel'. Beside it, my perpetually optimistic coffee maker project remained stubbornly dark, its front panel displaying only [Error 418: I'm a Teapot]. One day, caffeine. One glorious day.

"Cozy," Leo managed, still looking overwhelmed. He perched nervously on the offered plastic crate near the entrance. "You fixed all this?"

"Less fixed, more… curated stability," I clarified, dropping my backpack. "Think of it as a lifeboat in a sea of bad code." I grabbed the flickering flashlight. "Right. Rule two: Don't touch anything unless you want to potentially debug it with your face. Especially the sparking bits."

Sitting on my nest, I focused on the faulty light. Time to impress the newbie (or just make the damn thing work). Closed my eyes. Activated [Perceive Glitch]. Okay, visualize.

The flashlight in my mind became translucent light and wireframes. Cool blue energy streamed from the 'battery'. Followed the flow. There – the angry orange knot, sparking around the blue stream, the parasitic feedback loop ([Error: Redundant Photon Drain Subroutine Active]). Looked like tangled, pulsing static cling on the clean power line. Okay, [Localized Data Glitch Dampening]. Summoned the mental[Logic Probe]. Touched the knot. Felt the resistance – like pushing against thick static, a jolt that echoed behind my eyeballs, tightening the band of my lingering headache. Focused. Found the recursive core of the error: while(light_on) { drain_power(extra); flicker_annoyingly(); }. Sloppy coding. Highlighted the entire loop. Applied the 'isolate and nullify' command. Wrapped it in a mental container, snipped the connections. Silenced it.

The orange knot flared, pulsed erratically, then dissolved into faint grey whisps that faded into the background hum. Blue energy flowed clean and bright. [-8 SP]. Felt like I'd mentally wrestled a stubborn driver conflict.

Opened my eyes. The flashlight beam was steady, clean, strong. Tossed it onto the shelf. Satisfying clunk.

Leo jumped at the sound, then stared, eyes darting between me and the flashlight. "But... you didn't even touch it! It just... stopped!" He shook his head vigorously, rubbing his eyes. "Okay, no. That's not possible. Glitches don't just stop because someone squints at them."

"Battery contacts were loose," I lied smoothly, fighting a smirk. His disbelief was oddly refreshing. "Focused application of percussive maintenance. Sometimes you just gotta knock sense into faulty hardware."

"By thinking at it?" He lowered his voice. "Come on, Ren. I might be new to… this," he waved a hand encompassingly, "but I'm not stupid. What are you?"

"Complicated," I deflected, turning to my backpack. Distraction time. Pulled out a can of peaches. "And hungry." The can felt cool, looked perfect. Popped the top. The syrup inside seemed to almost glow faintly. The scent was intensely, unnaturally peachy. Took a bite. Sweet, tangy, texture disconcertingly firm. Tasted more like the idea of a peach than any fruit grown on actual soil. Finished half the can, pushed down the faint internal query about long-term mutagenic effects. Calories are king.

Then, the pièce de résistance: "Processed Meat Food Product (Try It!)". I presented the can to Leo, which he had returned to me to keep in my backpack. "Your welcoming gift."

He recoiled slightly, reading the label. "Processed... Try It? That sounds..."

"Like truth in advertising," I finished, popping the lid. The smell hit first – vaguely metallic, faintly salty, with an undertone of something that might have been boiled gym socks. The contents sloshed – a pinkish-grey loaf suspended in a trembling, translucent jelly. "Observe." I poked it with my multi-tool knife. The loaf quivered, then slowly oozed back into shape. "Nutritional value: debatable. Texture: questionable. Potential side effects: unknown, possibly hilarious. Recommended usage: extreme emergencies or developing a robust sense of nihilism."

Leo looked positively green. "I… I think I'll pass."

"Wise choice," I conceded, sealing the can with grim finality and placing it on the 'Maybe Later If Actively Starving To Death' shelf section. "More radioactive peaches for me, then."

We lapsed into a slightly awkward silence, punctuated only by the rhythmic chorus of server fans. Leo seemed to be wrestling with the conflicting evidence of his senses versus his understanding of reality. Me? I was just enjoying the relative lack of things actively trying to kill me.

And then, slicing through the hum, it returned.

Click-flash-flash. Pause.

Click-flash-flash. Pause.

Subtle, but insistent. Precise. Coming from deeper within the server farm aisles. A rhythmic disruption in the background harmony. My headache, momentarily banished by the debugging effort, pulsed back into existence, a dull throb keeping time with the anomaly.

Leo tensed. "What's that? That clicking?"

"Just background noise," I lied again, but my attention sharpened. Too regular. Too clean. My [Perceive Glitch] skill focused on the sensation – not chaotic noise, but a structured, repeating pattern. Stable. Clean, in its own corrupted way. Like a meticulously crafted error message. It felt… intentional. "Old servers make weird sounds when they're contemplating retirement."

But the feeling deepened. This wasn't a machine dying. This was a machine broadcasting. A weak, rhythmic pulse echoing in the digital wasteland.

And the silence that followed each three-flash burst felt less like a pause, and more like it was listening for a reply.

My makeshift sanctuary suddenly felt less like a fortress and more like a listening post I hadn't known I was manning. The mystery wasn't just out there in the glitching streets; it was right here, humming patiently in the dark.

 

[phanst]

As it will be a running gag in the series (not every chapter), I would like to explain it upfront to save everyone any confusion.

Spoiler: The Tuesday Joke

It's a running bit of dark humor and sarcastic understatement heavily tied into Ren's cynical perspective and the overall tone of the story.

Tuesday is a normie day, it ain't anything special. It got no dread of Monday or the "Wee! Wee! It's the Weekend >.<" of Friday. It's just... Tuesday. Ren uses "Tuesday" and stuff like "Typical Tuesday tech support challenge" immediately after describing something incredibly "damn, how tf did i survive that" experience. The humor comes from the contrast (juxtaprotion or some other big word) between a normie Tuesday and an encounter with a face-eating spaghetti doggo on the street or some possible gigantic monster bulldozing through everything, almost flattening everyone like those youtube hydraulic press videos do to cute plush toys (f u HydraulicPress6000_V666 for what you did to that blue cute bunny!!!).

In the Glitchstorm, such bizarre, near-death experiences are just another Tuesday. It's regular af here. It's insane but it's common, routine. It's the apocalyptic "Just another day at the office, we just had production go down, the intern deleted the database (how???)" kind of thing.

Essentially, when Ren says something crazy is "Just Tuesday," he means: "Oh great, another impossible, life-threatening absurdity to deal with. Add it to the never-ending pile of bullshit that constitutes my existence now. Business as usual in hell."

 

[phanst]

Chapter 0003: Static on the Line (and Possibly in Reality Itself)

The clicking persisted. Click-flash-flash. Pause. Click-flash-flash. Pause. It burrowed into the ambient hum of the server room, a rhythmic data parasite gnawing at the quiet. It wasn't just noise; my [Perceive Glitch] skill confirmed that faint, structured pulse of corrupted data syncing perfectly with the sound. Stable. Repeating. Intentional.

"Okay, that's officially upgraded from 'annoying hardware noise' to 'suspicious anomaly requiring investigation'," I announced to the closet wall, already grabbing my multi-tool and the now-steady flashlight. My head still throbbed with a dull ache, a phantom echo of the strain from fixing the flashlight – a reminder that even minor debugging wasn't free.

Leo, still perched on his crate like a nervous sparrow, looked up sharply. "Investigate? Investigate what? It's just a noise!"

"It's a pattern, Leo," I countered, stepping out into the server aisle. "And in this reality, unexplained patterns are usually precursors to things going spectacularly sideways. Either it's a glitch about to escalate, a trap, or..." I let the pause hang, "…or it's something else. Something deliberate." I started moving slowly down the aisle, tracing the faint pulse of distorted data with my senses.

He scrambled up, looking torn between the relative safety of the closet and the sheer terror of being left alone. "But… where are you going?"

"Following the signal," I murmured, eyes scanning the overhead cable trays. "Like tracing a bad network connection. Except the cables might be made of pure anxiety and the data packets could bite."

Leo hesitated, then seemed to steel himself. "My sister… she was the tech wiz in our family. Always said you follow the problem to its source." He fell into step behind me, though he kept glancing around like he expected the server racks to sprout tentacles. Good. Healthy paranoia. Maybe there was hope for him yet. His motivation, flimsy as it sounded, was better than pure panic. A sister to find, maybe? Or just a memory of competence driving him. Didn't matter right now, as long as it kept him moving.

The signal led us deeper into the server farm, past rows of silently humming racks and darker, dustier units that looked like they hadn't been powered on since before the Glitchstorm. My perception painted faint lines of the corrupted data flow, clinging to a thick bundle of ancient, cracking grey network cables – legacy Cat5, probably – snaking through the ceiling supports. They looked brittle, neglected, yet they carried this persistent, looping whisper of data.

The cables terminated near the back wall of the server farm, plunging into a conduit leading towards a heavy, metal door marked NETWORK OPERATIONS CENTER. The door itself looked physically ill. It bulged outward in the center, the thick steel rippling like heatstroke on metal, the paint cracked around seams that no longer quite aligned. A low, almost subsonic hum vibrated through the floor nearby, and the air tasted sharp, metallic – the distinct tang of ozone mixed with something else… like the smell of hot, failing capacitors and burnt, brittle insulation. Classic signs of a localized reality stress fracture.

----------

[Warning: Area Approaching Moderate Reality Instability.]

Field Intensity: Fluctuating.

Potential Effects: Mild Nausea, Spatial Confusion, Temporary Visual Artifacts, Increased Probability of Dropping Important Items.

Suggestion: Maybe just… don't? Or wear safety squints?

----------

"Right," I breathed, stopping a few feet away. "Looks like we found the router experiencing emotional distress." The air shimmered faintly around the door frame, like heat haze on asphalt, but felt cooler, and somehow… thicker. My flashlight beam wavered as it passed through this invisible field, splitting momentarily into fuzzy rainbows. "Definitely unstable in there."

Leo had gone pale, unconsciously backing up a step. "What is that?"

"Localized reality friction," I explained, pulling the prybar end out on my multi-tool. "Space-time getting chafed. Usually means something on the other side is actively messing with the local physics constants, or just failed so hard it warped its immediate vicinity. Either way, door's probably stuck."

"And you're going to… open it?" His voice squeaked slightly.

"The signal's going in there," I stated, wedging the tip of the prybar into the warped seam between the door and frame. "Got to see where it leads. Stand back. Don't touch the shimmer."

Planting my feet, I leaned into the prybar. The metal groaned, resisted. It felt… heavy. Not physically locked, but like pushing against thick, invisible molasses. The subsonic hum intensified, vibrating up my arms. The air grew thicker still, pressing in like unseen hands. My vision swam slightly at the edges. [-2 SP] just from proximity and minor exertion. This wasn't just passive warping; the instability was actively resisting the change.

Come on, you glorified system error… Gritting my teeth, I put my shoulder into it, leveraging my weight. Sweat beaded on my forehead.

With a sudden, jarring CRACK, something inside the frame gave way. The door scraped open, maybe six inches, accompanied by a wave of displaced air that felt strangely cool and carried that intensified smell of burnt electronics and ozone, now layered with something else… a faint, sterile scent, like an old, abandoned hospital room.

The instability field seemed to flicker, momentarily less intense near the opening. I quickly jammed a chunk of scavenged metal into the gap to keep it from sealing itself shut again.

Peering through the gap, flashlight beam cutting through the gloom, confirmed my suspicions. Chaos. Overturned desks littered with smashed monitors displaying only static snow. Racks ripped open, components spilling out like metallic entrails. Network cables dangled from the ceiling like dead vines.

But the cable bundle I'd followed? It snaked across the debris-strewn floor, miraculously intact, and plugged directly into a port on a large, central network switch mounted in one of the few racks that still stood upright. The switch's lights flickered erratically, a chaotic counterpoint to the steady hum emanating from it. That was the destination.

"Okay," I breathed, the air inside feeling heavy, syrupy, pressing against my lungs. Walking in there would feel like wading through reality Jell-O. "Found the end of the line."

"Are we… going in?" Leo whispered, peering nervously over my shoulder.

"Just me," I decided. "No point both of us wading through… whatever this is. Stay here, watch the door. If it starts closing on its own, or if anything else comes out, yell. Loudly."

Taking a deep breath, I squeezed through the gap. The pressure increased immediately. Moving felt sluggish, deliberate, each step requiring conscious effort against unseen resistance. My flashlight beam bent strangely, refracting off unseen facets in the air, casting multiple, overlapping shadows that writhed impossibly. The steady hum from the central rack seemed to resonate in my bones. Mild nausea tickled the back of my throat. [Debuff Acquired: Minor Spatial Disorientation]. Lovely.

Fighting the urge to just turn around, I focused on the target: the central rack, the connected port. Its activity light blinked weakly, almost smothered by the frantic, random flashing of the switch's other status LEDs. It was receiving something, but barely. Like trying to listen to a radio station buried under layers of static.

Okay, Ren. [Perceive Glitch]. Let's see the problem.

The room dissolved into overlapping layers of visual noise in my mind's eye. The ambient instability was thick, a soup of low-level errors and conflicting reality instructions. But centered on that receiving port, like a clot in an artery, was a dense knot of angry, crimson-black code. It churned sluggishly, actively corrupting any data packets trying to pass through – the source of the weak signal light. It felt… malicious. Less like a random error, more like a deliberate filter or block.

Could I debug that? It was magnitudes more complex than a flashlight or a shuriken-dispensing ATM. This was an active, hostile data choke point embedded in a reality distortion field. Failure could mean… well, anything from frying the switch to potentially unraveling myself into constituent error messages.

Screw it. Nothing ventured, nothing debugged.

Planted my feet firmly on the warped floor tiles. Focused my entire will, pushing past the environmental nausea and disorientation. Targeted the crimson-black knot. Extended my mental [Logic Probe]…

WHAM!

It felt like running headfirst into a digital brick wall. A wave of pure static crashed over my senses. [-10 SP!] My vision exploded into white noise, stars bursting behind my eyelids. The hum in the room spiked into a piercing shriek that felt like it was vibrating my teeth. My knees buckled.

No! Fight back! Forced my focus through the static. Saw the knot pulse, momentarily brighter. It knew I was there. It was defending itself.

Okay, direct confrontation failed. Time for finesse. Instead of trying to nullify it directly, find the structural weakness. The flawed argument in its logic. Like debugging spaghetti code, find the one loose thread that unravels the whole mess.

Ignored the shrieking hum, the flashing lights, the [Critical SP Drain!] warning blinking frantically over the static in my vision. [-15 SP… -20 SP…]. Pushed my perception deeper into the knot, feeling like I was pushing against a fundamental disagreement with reality itself. Saw the looping, self-referential arguments, the commands designed to block and corrupt. But spotted it – a tiny recursive subroutine, designed to check its own integrity, that was referencing a variable outside its corrupted structure. A single point of external dependency.

Gotcha!

Instead of attacking, I used [Localized Data Glitch Dampening] not on the knot itself, but on the faint pathway connecting it to that external reference point. Smoothed it out. Severed the connection. Like unplugging a crucial sensor.

The effect was instantaneous.

The crimson-black knot convulsed violently in my mental vision. The shrieking hum cut off abruptly. The oppressive thickness in the air vanished, replaced by the normal, cool stillness of the server room. The frantic blinking on the network switch ceased, replaced by steady, calm green lights.

My SP bar bottomed out. [SP Depleted! Emergency Mental Reserve Activated!]. My vision cleared, but a wave of ice-pick dizziness lanced through my skull. Black spots danced at the edges of my sight. A sharp, metallic tang bloomed at the back of my throat – blood. My nose was bleeding, hot and sticky against my upper lip. Bile rose, hot and acidic. This wasn't just fatigue; this was the system cannibalizing itself to keep the lights on, the mental equivalent of ripping out wiring to power a critical function. The cost felt immense, leaving a bone-deep exhaustion and a throbbing ache that promised to linger. I staggered, catching myself on the now-stable server rack, head pounding like a drum solo performed by jackhammers being wielded by angry giants.

But I'd done it. The connection was clear.

And on the small, previously gibberish-filled LCD screen integrated into the network switch, three lines of crisp, blocky green text glowed in the sudden quiet:

EXTERNAL BEACON DETECTED.

SOURCE: UNKNOWN. Quadrant 7G.

SIGNAL STRENGTH: WEAK. Repeating Pattern: SOS.

External. Quadrant 7G? Pre-Glitch emergency grid designation. Probably packed with dense infrastructure… and equally dense Glitch concentrations. SOS? A distress signal?

The clicking server wasn't just a repeater. It was boosting a distress signal. Originating from somewhere out there in the wrecked city. Weak, but persistent. Someone, or something, was calling for help.

"Ren? You okay?" Leo's panicked voice echoed from the doorway. "Everything went crazy for a second!"

I pushed myself upright, leaning heavily against the rack, wiping the blood from under my nose with the back of my hand. The dizziness was intense, the world tilting slightly. Processing the implications felt like wading through mud. A distress signal. A specific quadrant marker. This wasn't just random chaos anymore. This was a destination. A purpose. Maybe even… hope?

Or, more likely, a wonderfully crafted trap designed to lure idiots like me into a high-density kill zone. Especially idiots currently running on less than fumes.

Either way, chasing down an SOS in Quadrant 7G wasn't something I could do hiding in a server closet, not in this state. I needed recovery. I needed mobility. I needed intel. I needed…

My mind flashed back, unbidden, to the sound I'd heard earlier, before finding Leo. The distinct roar of a heavily modified, reality-defying engine cutting through the urban decay.

Maybe my first step wasn't chasing the signal. Maybe it was chasing the noise. But first… first, I needed to not pass out.

 

[phanst]

Chapter 0004: Noise Complaint (Filed Under 'Existential Threats')

The sterile quiet of the Network Operations Center, post-debugging, felt unnatural after the oppressive hum and visual static. My head throbbed in time with the frantic hammering of my heart – the lingering echo of the Emergency Mental Reserve kicking in. Running on fumes always had a kickback, like overclocking a CPU until it screamed uncle, and this felt less like a kickback and more like my entire mental OS had blue-screened and was barely rebooting. The metallic tang of blood was still thick in my throat, and the world had a slightly grey, washed-out quality.

"Ren? You okay in there?" Leo's voice, tight with anxiety, drifted through the doorway gap once more. "Sounded like the whole building was gonna crash!"

"Just… resetting the local network parameters," I called back, pushing myself upright with considerable effort, leaning heavily on the rack. Taking a shaky breath did little to clear the fog. The dizziness was intense. "Turns out the router just needed a stern talking-to." More like a near-fatal argument settled with psychic brute force.

I took a last look at the glowing green text on the switch: SOS. Quadrant 7G. A distress signal. A potential destination. A probable deathtrap. Fantastic. Decision fatigue was a pre-Glitch luxury I couldn't afford, especially when just thinking felt like wading through molasses.

Right now, my options felt limited and universally unappealing. Option A: Huddle in my server closet, hope my SP regenerated faster than my dwindling supply of radioactive peaches, and wait for reality to finally get bored and delete me. Option B: Chase a cryptic SOS into a designated hell-zone based on a single, unverifiable data point while barely able to stand. Option C…

Option C was the engine noise. That roar I'd heard earlier, before meeting Leo. Loud, powerful, cutting through the ambient chaos. Not the sputtering groan of dying pre-Glitch cars, but something… tuned. Something fast. Something that implied mobility far beyond my current scrounging-on-foot capabilities.

Maybe chasing the SOS wasn't the first step. Maybe the first step was finding whoever was making that beautiful, physics-defying noise. Mobility meant options. Options meant slightly better odds than 'certain doom'. And maybe, just maybe, they had coffee. Or at least functional pain relief.

"Okay, Leo," I announced, pushing myself away from the rack and shuffling slowly towards the warped doorway. Each step sent a jolt through my skull. Squeezing back through the gap into the comparatively stable reality of the main server farm aisle felt like surfacing too fast. The slight pressure difference popped my ears painfully. "Change of plans. We're not staying put."

He blinked, relief warring with fresh apprehension as he took in my pale face and unsteady stance. "We're leaving? Are you… okay to move? Where are we going? Quadrant 7G?"

"Negative. Chasing distress signals across hostile territory with minimal gear, zero backup, and my brain feeling like scrambled eggs falls under the 'Spectacularly Bad Ideas' category," I stated, retrieving my backpack from the closet entrance with slow, deliberate movements.

The relative cool and stability of the server room felt marginally better than the NOC, allowing a trickle of SP regeneration, but it was agonizingly slow. Maybe +1 SP every few minutes? Barely noticeable against the crushing fatigue. "Before we even think about investigating that SOS, we need transportation better than these worn-out boots. And I need… time."

"Transportation?" Leo looked around the server room as if expecting a working vehicle to suddenly materialize between the racks. "There's nothing here…"

"Not here," I corrected, securing my backpack carefully. "Out there. Earlier today, before our little ATM adventure, I heard an engine. Something… custom. Loud. Moving fast despite the local reality looking like crumpled paper. If someone's got a working vehicle that can handle the Glitch-zones, that's our immediate target." Finding them might be less taxing than a cross-city trek right now. Maybe.

Leo frowned. "Target? You mean… find them? Ask for a ride?"

"Something like that," I said vaguely, trying to conserve mental energy by keeping explanations simple. Subtlety wasn't my strong suit, but outright stating 'we might need to acquire transportation via morally ambiguous means' seemed likely to send Leo into another panic spiral I didn't have the reserves to manage. "First step, locate the source. Sounded like it was heading… west-ish? Maybe a few blocks over."

"So… we just wander around until we hear it again?"

"More or less," I admitted, leaning against the doorframe for a moment, fighting another wave of dizziness. "Unless you've got a better plan involving summoning a functional Uber out of the static?"

He sagged slightly. "No… Okay. Chasing noise it is. Better than waiting for those… polygon things the ATM was shooting." He glanced at me again, concern etched on his face. "Are you sure you're up for this, Ren?"

"Define 'up for it'," I muttered, pushing off the frame and started walking towards the service exit. "Some things have to be done when the universe is glitching. Let's go."

Leaving the relative sanctuary of the server room felt like stepping out of an airlock into vacuum, minus the instant death (usually). The chaotic background hum of the streets washed over us again. Glitches flickered at the edges of my vision, seeming sharper, more jarring to my frayed nerves. The sky remained a painter's nightmare after dropping too much acid. My SP bar, barely visible under the lingering [Cognitive Strain Debuff] notification, showed a paltry [8/80]. Recovery was glacial.

We headed west, back towards the area where I'd first heard the engine roar, my pace slower than usual, each step carefully placed. The streets here were wider, lined with the carcasses of collapsed department stores and shattered office towers. Debris littered the pavement – chunks of ferroconcrete, twisted metal girders, occasional bursts of brightly colored, unidentifiable glitch-matter that pulsed faintly before dissolving. Looked like the aftermath of a drunken intern playing Jenga with reality.

"Keep your ears open," I instructed, though my own hearing felt muffled, distant. I focused on scanning the rooftops and alleyways visually, conserving what little mental energy I had. "Listen for anything that doesn't sound like collapsing buildings or reality tearing itself a new one."

Leo nodded mutely, clutching his golf club like a security blanket. His architect's draftsman training probably hadn't covered navigating landscapes actively trying to defy Euclidean geometry while escorting someone who looked like they might keel over. A patch of road ahead seemed to be experiencing rapid pixelation, dissolving into blocky chunks then reforming, like a poorly compressed video file. We skirted around it carefully.

A high-pitched whine echoed from somewhere above. We both looked up instinctively. A chrome sphere, about the size of a basketball, zipped silently overhead, leaving a trail of distorted air. It didn't seem hostile, just… weird. [Unidentified Aerial Phenomenon. Threat Level: Unknown. Possibly just looking?]. Thanks, URE.

"What was that?" Leo whispered.

"Probably just the universe beta-testing surveillance drones," I muttered, not having the energy for complex speculation. "Try not to look interesting."

We pushed deeper into the derelict urban sprawl. The sense of decay was heavier here. Less frantic glitching, more silent crumbling. Fewer low-level data constructs skittering about, but a heavier feeling in the air. Like something bigger, slower, and more dangerous might be lurking just out of sight. The slow pace and relative quiet, however, seemed to be helping slightly. The crushing pressure behind my eyes eased fractionally. My SP ticked up another few point. [15/80]. Still dangerously low, but trending upwards, however slowly.

Suddenly, Leo grabbed my arm, pointing. "Look! Tire tracks!"

I followed his finger. There, in a patch of relatively undisturbed dust near the entrance of a multi-story parking garage, were indeed tracks. Wide. Deep-treaded. Definitely not from a standard pre-Glitch vehicle. And they looked… fresh, relatively speaking. Hard to tell with reality playing silly buggers with entropy.

More importantly, the tracks led into the dark maw of the parking garage.

The entrance ramp descended into shadow. No lights were visible within. A faint smell drifted out – gasoline, hot metal, oil… and something else. That faint, sharp tang of ozone that often accompanied concentrated reality stress or powerful energy fields.

"Well," I said, peering into the gloom. My headache chose that moment to pulse sharply. "That smells promising. And potentially explosive."

Could this be it? Could the noise-maker be holed up in there? Seemed plausible. A parking garage offered shelter, multiple escape routes, and defensible choke points. The slow regeneration had brought me back from the absolute brink, but I was nowhere near fighting fit. Still, this was the best lead we had.

"We go in?" Leo asked, his voice barely audible. The darkness of the garage entrance seemed to swallow sound.

I hesitated. Charging into an unknown, enclosed space that might house someone with a vehicle capable of punching through reality felt like asking for trouble, especially in my current state. But the tracks were the first solid lead we'd had. And staying out here wasn't exactly safe either.

"Okay," I decided, taking a steadying breath. The rest had helped, marginally. Maybe I had enough juice for basic perception, if needed. [28/80]. Better than nothing. "New plan. We do not go charging in. We recon. Carefully. Quietly. See if we can spot the vehicle, maybe get eyes on whoever owns it. Information first, 'asking for a ride' later."

Pulling out my flashlight, I flicked it on. The beam cut a swathe into the oppressive darkness of the ramp. Dust motes danced in the light. The air inside felt cool, damp, still.

"Stay behind me," I instructed Leo. "Keep quiet. Touch nothing. And if things go sideways, Plan B is run like hell in opposite directions. Got it?"

He nodded, gripping his golf club so tight his knuckles were white.

Taking another steadying breath, trying to ignore the lingering throb behind my eyes, I stepped onto the ramp, the flashlight beam probing the shadows ahead. The scent of ozone and fuel intensified. Somewhere, deeper within the concrete structure, something heavy shifted with a faint metallic groan.

We weren't alone in here. And judging by the smell and the silence, whoever – or whatever – was inside probably didn't appreciate visitors. This noise complaint was about to get complicated, and I was facing it on less than half a tank.

 

[phanst]

Side Story 0001: A Momentary Drone

Perspective: Unidentified Aerial Phenomenon (Drone Designation: Observer Unit 731?)

Directive: Sector 4-Gamma Atmospheric & Anomaly Scan Pattern 7-Sigma. Active.

BEEP Processing environmental data. Ambient reality static coefficient: 7.3 (Elevated). Localized spatial instability detected: Grid Ref Delta-9 (Pixelation event, moderate flux). Structural integrity of adjacent high-rise sector: 27% (Critical). Probability of uncontrolled collapse: 68%. Risk mitigation parameters active.

Recalibrating flight path. Altitude: 50 meters. Maintaining low-observability protocols.

Boop-WHIRR Anomaly detected. Grid Ref Delta-11. Two biological units traversing street level. Heat signatures: nominal range, elevated stress indicators (cortisol, adrenaline traces detected in localized air sampling). Energy signatures: BIO-ANOMALY 01 emits faint, chaotic energy field (unstable resonance noted, query: damaged? Handler trace probability low but non-zero?). BIO-ANOMALY 02 nominal biological readings.

CLICK Cross-referencing visual/energy signatures against Known Hostiles database... Negative match. Cross-referencing Known Assets database (Restricted Access)... Negative match. Designations default: Unclassified Biologicals 01 & 02.

Units exhibit standard avoidance behavior re: localized spatial distortion (Pixelation event at Grid Ref Delta-10). Locomotion: standard bipedal. Apparent equipment: rudimentary kinetic implement (golf club?), basic carry pack. Low capability assessment.

Threat assessment protocol active. CLICK-BEEP Threat level calculated: Minimal (0.04%). Probability of interference with primary directive: Negligible (<0.01%). Interactive protocol criteria not met. No further action required regarding biologicals.

Logging signatures, location, and assessment data (Tag: LowPriorityBioAnom_S4G_7S) for Passive Anomaly Archive (Sub-level Gamma). Reporting... PING Transmission acknowledged.

Resuming Scan Pattern 7-Sigma. Engaging primary propulsion. Maintaining low-observability field active. Note: Minimal atmospheric distortion generated by field remains within acceptable parameters, though potentially detectable by sensitive optical arrays or anomalous perception modes.

Boop Scan continues.

---

I created this side story? / extra content from the perspective of the chrome sphere zipping past Ren and Leo in the last chapter. Although this does not affect the story as a whole, it adds a nice touch imho - it's also fun. I hope you like it.

 

[phanst]

Chapter 0005: Parking Garage of Perpetual Twilight (and Questionable Odors)

The air inside the parking garage ramp was thick and tasted faintly of cold concrete dust, stale exhaust fumes, and that sharp, electric tang of ozone that always set my teeth on edge. It felt like breathing inside a giant, dead machine that might twitch back to life at any moment. My flashlight beam sliced through the darkness, revealing peeling paint, cryptic graffiti scrawled by long-gone taggers (or possibly reality itself, hard to tell the difference sometimes), and the occasional skeletal remains of a pre-Glitch shopping cart. The low-grade headache from the NOC incident pulsed steadily behind my eyes, a constant reminder of my depleted reserves.

"Stay sharp," I whispered, my voice unnaturally loud in the sudden hush. We moved slowly down the concrete slope, boots crunching softly on loose gravel and unseen debris. The only other sound was Leo's ragged breathing just behind me and the distant, echoing drip… drip… drip… of water from some unseen leak. Standard creepy ambiance, check.

The first level opened up into a cavernous space punctuated by thick concrete pillars. Most parking spots were empty, monuments to a time when people actually had places to go. A few skeletal car frames remained, stripped bare, rusting peacefully in the gloom. My light swept across them, revealing hollowed-out engine bays and shattered windows like vacant eyes.

Overhead, emergency lights flickered sporadically. Not the standard emergency lighting, but rogue bursts of sickly green or buzzing orange light, casting distorted, lurching shadows. My [Perceive Glitch] skill registered them as minor, localized energy flux glitches – probably harmless, possibly prone to exploding if looked at funny. I made a mental note not to look at them funny, conserving the minimal SP required for even passive scanning. [Current SP: 30/80]. Still recovering, slowly but surely.

"See anything?" Leo whispered, his voice tight. He held his golf club ready, though what good it would do against a reality-warping car thief was debatable. Still, points for trying.

"Dust, decay, and disillusionment," I murmured back, sweeping the light methodically across the level. "No sign of our noisy friend yet. Tracks lead deeper."

The tire tracks were easy enough to follow in the thick dust coating the concrete floor. Wide, aggressive tread pattern. They curved around the central pillars, heading towards the ramp leading down to the next level.

As we approached the down-ramp, the ozone smell intensified. My flashlight beam caught something glinting near the wall – a scatter of spent energy cells, ejected casings glowing faintly with residual charge. Looked like standard high-capacity power cells, the kind used in industrial equipment or… heavily modified vehicles. Definitely recent.

We descended to the next level, the darkness pressing in, the dripping sound louder now. This level felt… different. Colder. The air hummed with a faint, almost subsonic vibration that resonated deep in my chest. The dust wasn't as thick here; sections of the floor looked almost… swept?

My beam caught movement near a pillar. I froze, holding my breath, hand instinctively hovering over the multi-tool on my belt. Leo bumped into me from behind with a stifled gasp.

The movement resolved itself. Not hostile. Just… weird. A section of concrete on the pillar seemed to be flowing slowly, like thick grey sludge, defying gravity as it oozed upwards before dripping back down again in a silent, continuous loop. A contained, stable-ish structural integrity glitch. Creepy, but probably harmless unless you decided to lean against it.

"Okay," I breathed out slowly. "Rule number three: Don't lick the architecture, don't lean on the architecture."

"Got it," Leo whispered shakily.

We continued following the tracks. They led towards the far corner of this level, disappearing behind a large, windowless maintenance enclosure built into the structure. The humming vibration seemed strongest near its closed metal door.

Approaching cautiously, I noticed more signs of activity. A discarded oil rag, smelling fresh. Scuff marks on the floor suggesting heavy equipment had been moved. Someone was definitely using this place as a workshop.

The metal door to the enclosure was thick, industrial grade. No obvious handle on this side. But there was a small, grimy keypad mounted beside it, its display dark. Pre-Glitch security. Probably dead.

Or maybe not. I focused [Perceive Glitch] on the keypad, the familiar mental exertion causing a slight throb in my temples. Faint tendrils of corrupted energy flickered around it, connected to a thin cable running into the wall. And behind the dark display… a whisper of active code. Not standard OS, but something… simpler. A basic loop monitoring for input. It wasn't dead, just dormant. And probably powered by whatever was causing the humming inside.

Could I interface with it? Maybe trigger the unlock sequence? It felt different from the glitches I'd dampened before – this was functional, albeit old, tech interfaced with potentially unstable power. Risky, especially given I wasn't at full strength.

But peeking inside seemed essential before deciding our next move. Bypassing security felt safer than trying to force the door and announcing our presence with loud noises.

"Okay, Leo. Stand back, watch our six," I instructed, placing my palm flat against the cool metal door, trying to sense any vibrations from within. "I'm going to try… persuading the lock."

Leo nodded nervously, scanning the dark parking level behind us.

Closing my eyes briefly, I focused entirely on the keypad. Visualized its internal circuitry, simple as it probably was. The connection to the humming power source felt… jagged. Unstable. Like hooking up sensitive electronics to a lightning storm. The code loop was basic: wait_for_input -> check_code -> grant_access/deny_access -> repeat. Standard stuff.

The trick wasn't brute-forcing the code. It was bypassing the check_code step entirely. Find the command flow that led directly to grant_access.

My mental [Logic Probe] extended, carefully navigating the unstable power fluctuations feeding the keypad. Touched the code loop. Found the branching pathway where the input check occurred. The path to grant_access was blocked, waiting for a successful validation signal.

Instead of trying to fake the signal, I targeted the branch condition itself. The if (code_valid == true) statement. What if… what if I temporarily corrupted the definition of 'true'? Just for a microsecond? Feed the system a paradox? Injecting garbage logic felt more my speed than sophisticated hacking.

It felt like trying to perform brain surgery with mental chopsticks, and the effort pulled noticeably on my limited reserves. Carefully, I focused my [Localized Data Glitch Dampening] skill, not to smooth, but to inject a tiny burst of contradictory data right at the conditional check. True = False? Does Not Compute!

The keypad emitted a faint buzz. My SP dipped. [-5 SP]. A wave of faint dizziness washed over me, a reminder of the cost. [Current SP: 25/80]. Still functional, but that small effort felt disproportionately taxing.

A heavy clunk echoed from behind the metal door. The sound of a mag-lock disengaging.

Success!

----------

[+10 XP Awarded!]

Reason: Non-Standard Security Protocol Circumvention (Hacking via Reality Tampering).

(You voided the warranty, though. Obviously.)

----------

I ignored the URE's commentary, the small victory momentarily overriding my fatigue. Gently pushed the heavy door inward. It swung open silently on well-oiled hinges, revealing the source of the hum, the ozone, and the tire tracks.

My flashlight beam played over the scene inside, and both Leo and I sucked in a breath.

It wasn't just a vehicle. It was a beast.

Parked in the center of the surprisingly clean, well-lit (via jury-rigged, humming light bars) maintenance bay was something that looked like it had started life as an armored transport truck, then been viciously cross-bred with a sci-fi pipe dream and a whole lot of salvaged scrap.

It was huge, easily twice the width of a standard truck. Thick, angled plating covered every surface, scarred and pitted from countless impacts. Instead of wheels, it rested on four massive, articulated track units, the kind you might see on a futuristic tank or lunar rover, capable of navigating almost any terrain. Mounted on the roof was a sensor array bristling with unfamiliar antennae and optical sensors. Dark, reinforced windows hinted at a protected cockpit.

But the strangest part was the engine housing. It wasn't a standard combustion engine. Glowing blue conduits snaked across its surface, converging on a central cylindrical core that hummed with barely contained power – the source of the vibration and ozone. Visible heat haze shimmered above it, distorting the air. It looked less like an engine, more like a captive physics experiment. A custom reality-drive? Something capable of punching through glitch-zones? No wonder it sounded so distinctive.

Tools lay scattered on workbenches lining the walls. Welding equipment sat cold. Empty ration packs littered a corner near a sleeping bag. The owner wasn't here right now, but they hadn't been gone long.

"Whoa," Leo breathed, echoing my own thoughts. "What is that thing?"

"That," I said, stepping fully into the bay, flashlight beam sweeping over the impossible machine, "is Option C."

Suddenly, a sharp click echoed from the entrance of the parking garage ramp, far above us. Followed by the distinct sound of something heavy scraping against concrete.

Leo spun around, golf club raised uselessly. "What was that?"

My blood ran cold. That wasn't a random noise. That sounded deliberate. Controlled. Like someone closing a very large, very heavy door.

Or blocking the only way out.

We weren't just visitors anymore. We might have just walked into a cage. And the owner, or something else, might be coming home.

---

pls add commets if you like or have any thoughts :hamster_cri:

 

[phanst]

Chapter 0006: Knock Knock, Who's There? (Answer: Possibly Your Impending Doom)

The heavy scrape and final, definitive thud from the parking garage entrance echoed unnervingly in the sudden quiet of the maintenance bay. It wasn't the sound of random debris shifting. It was the sound of a cage door slamming shut.

My heart, just beginning to recover from its adrenaline-fueled rave courtesy of the Emergency Mental Reserve, kicked back into overdrive. Leo made a choked sound beside me, his eyes wide with terror, fixed on the open bay door leading back out into the parking garage's oppressive gloom.

"Okay," I hissed, grabbing his arm and shoving him none-too-gently behind the colossal track unit of the parked behemoth vehicle. Its cold, scarred plating felt momentarily reassuring, like hiding behind a small mountain. "New plan. Shut up. Don't move. Don't breathe loudly. And definitely don't sneeze."

"B-but what was that?" he stammered, trying to peek around the track assembly.

"That," I whispered back grimly, crouching low and peering cautiously around the edge of the massive machine, "was the sound of us transitioning from 'curious trespassers' to 'cornered rats'. Someone deliberately blocked the main exit."

My gaze swept the dimly lit parking level outside the bay. Empty. Shadows clung thickly to the concrete pillars. The only sounds were the incessant dripping water and the faint, maddening flicker of the glitched overhead lights. But the silence felt… wrong. Charged. Expectant.

Then, footsteps.

Echoing down the ramp from the upper level. Not heavy, clumsy raider boots. Not the skittering of a Glitch construct. These were lighter, quicker, confident. Rhythmic. Someone who knew this place. Someone moving with purpose.

Okay, Ren, information. Ignoring the residual pounding in my skull, I activated [Perceive Glitch], focusing not on the ambient noise, but directing it outwards, towards the source of the footsteps.

It was faint, like trying to pick up distant Wi-Fi signals through concrete walls, but it was there. A subtle shimmer of energy around the approaching figure. Not the chaotic noise of a raw glitch, but the structured hum of technology. Personal shielding maybe? Minor cybernetics? There were tiny instabilities flickering within the signature, like voltage fluctuations in old wiring. Whoever this was, their gear wasn't factory-perfect, just patched together well enough to mostly work. Nothing ever was, post-Crash.

My internal monologue started its usual helpful commentary: "Right. Potential hostiles with active personal tech approaching. Current assets: One cynical attitude, rapidly depleting mental stamina, one terrified tag-along armed with sporting equipment, and zero viable escape routes. Situation Assessment: Sub-optimal."

The footsteps reached our level, stopped for a moment, then headed directly towards the open maintenance bay door. Definitely us they were after. How did they know? Did the bypassed lock trigger an alert?

I risked another peek. A figure emerged from the gloom, silhouetted against the faint light filtering down the ramps. Female frame, lean, clad in practical, worn gear – sturdy composite plating over dark fatigues, heavy boots. Goggles were pushed up onto a forehead smudged with grease. What little light caught her face showed sharp, focused features and an air of weary competence. She moved like someone completely at home in this dangerous environment, scanning the bay entrance with sharp, practiced eyes. Strapped to her thigh was a wicked-looking sidearm that hummed faintly with latent energy – definitely custom, definitely not something you bought off the shelf, pre- or post-Crash.

She paused right outside the bay door, head cocked, listening. Her eyes immediately flickered to the keypad I'd bypassed. A frown creased her brow. She raised her energy sidearm, the hum intensifying slightly as it powered up to standby.

"Alright," her voice cut through the silence, sharp and clear, carrying easily in the enclosed space. Not shouting, but projecting authority. "Didn't think my welcome mat was that inviting. Whoever you are – glitch, ghost, or just terminally stupid scavenger – show yourself. Slowly. Before I decide this bay needs a high-energy deep cleaning."

Beside me, Leo whimpered softly, pressing himself flatter against the vehicle track. His fear was palpable, a static charge in the air.

Okay, Ren. Decision time. Option 1: Stay hidden, hope she doesn't find us behind Optimus Prime's angrier cousin. Unlikely, given her thorough scan. Option 2: Try to bluff or distract. Risky. Option 3: Controlled reveal. Minimal surprise factor, maybe allows for dialogue.

My internal risk assessment algorithm churned. Controlled reveal felt like the least immediately fatal option. Slightly.

But before I could move, Leo shifted his weight. His foot slipped on a stray patch of spilled oil I hadn't noticed near the track unit. He stumbled with a muffled curse, knocking his golf club against the metal plating with a loud CLANG.

Silence. Absolute, ringing silence, broken only by the hum of the weapon and the drip-drip-drip somewhere in the darkness.

The woman outside froze, weapon instantly snapping up, aimed unerringly towards our hiding spot. The low hum of the sidearm intensified, ozone sharp in the air.

"Well," my internal monologue sighed, "so much for stealth. Thanks, Brenda_Is_An_Idiot."

Taking a slow, deliberate breath, I raised my empty hands where she could potentially see them around the edge of the vehicle. "Easy there," I called out, trying to project calm I absolutely did not feel. "No need for energetic sanitation. Just admiring the custom drive core. Really ties the room together."

I stepped out slowly from behind the track unit, hands still raised in a gesture of mostly-harmlessness. Stopped in the center of the bay, blinking slightly in the harsh glow of the overhead light bars.

Her weapon remained steady, trained on my chest. Her eyes – sharp, calculating, maybe a little tired – swept over me, taking in my distinct lack of armor, weaponry, or discernible threat level. They lingered for a second on my face, a flicker of… surprise? Recognition? No, more like analytical curiosity. Like she was trying to categorize me and coming up with [Error: Unexpected Data Type].

"Admiring?" she repeated, voice laced with disbelief and suspicion. "This isn't a museum, pal. And that keypad wasn't bypassed with a sweet smile." She gestured towards the lock with her weapon. "That took either some serious brute-force tech, or…" she paused, eyes narrowing slightly, "…something weirder. Which are you?"

Okay. Direct question. Time for calibrated honesty mixed with deflection. "Let's just say I have a certain knack for convincing electronics to cooperate," I said, keeping my tone even. "Found the door locked, politely requested entry, it complied. Mostly. As for why we're here… we were tracking a noise complaint."

A faint smile touched her lips, gone as quickly as it appeared. Humor, maybe? Or just disbelief at my audacity. "A noise complaint? For my rig?" She patted the armored flank of the vehicle beside me. "She does tend to rumble when she's warming up."

Her weapon didn't lower. "Who's 'we'?" she demanded, glancing towards the spot where Leo was presumably still trying to merge with the vehicle's chassis.

"Just me and… my associate," I said quickly, before Leo could offer any more incriminating sound effects. "He's new to the uh… urban exploration scene. Easily spooked."

The woman considered this, her gaze flicking between me and the hiding spot. The hum of her weapon remained a steady, dangerous presence. The air crackled with tension. This wasn't a raider looking for loot. This was someone territorial, capable, and rightly pissed off that someone had bypassed her security and invaded her workshop.

"Right," she said finally, though her stance didn't relax. "So, Mr. Polite-Request and Mr. Easily-Spooked. You followed my 'noise complaint' into my private, locked-down garage. Now, give me one good reason why I shouldn't assume you're here to try and steal 'The Probability Drive' here," she gestured again to the monstrous vehicle, "and just skip straight to the 'high-energy deep cleaning' option."

My mind raced. Reason. She needed a reason. Something better than 'we're desperate and your ride looks awesome'. Something that leveraged my unique… situation.

"Because," I said, meeting her hard gaze, trying to project confidence I didn't have, "judging by the faint energy fluctuations coming off your personal gear, and the sophisticated but slightly unstable look of that drive core… I'm guessing 'The Probability Drive' doesn't run on standard gasoline." I paused, letting it sink in. "And I bet keeping a machine like that tuned and running smoothly in this reality requires more than just a good wrench. Sometimes, you need someone who can debug the universe's shitty code directly."

I held my breath. Was it enough? Did she even understand what I was implying? Or was I about to get disintegrated for being a smartass? Her expression was unreadable, weapon still steady, the hum of contained power a constant threat in the sudden silence of the bay.

---

Author's Note: Apparently My Narrative Logic Glitched (SP Fixes)

Alright, listen up. Seems my own internal consistency engine threw a few critical errors regarding Ren's SP levels, especially after he practically fried his brain in the NOC. Got called out on it by some sharp-eyed user lurking on whatever platform passes for stable these days – thanks, I guess. Saves me the embarrassment later.

So, I had to go back and slap some debugging patches on Chapters 3 through 5. Here's the gist:

• Ch 3: Made it clearer that hitting the Emergency Reserve actually, y'know, hurts. Badly. Ren's not just tired; he's running on fumes and existential dread, with the system warnings to prove it. No instant recharge here.
• Ch 4: Recovery is now officially slower than dial-up in a reality storm. Ren crawls up to about 30/80 SP by the time they hit the garage, still feeling like chewed-up static cling.
• Ch 5: Fixed the wonky math on the keypad hack (-5 SP), leaving him with roughly 25/80 SP. Still pathetic, but at least the numbers add up, which is more than you can say for most things these days.

Basically, Ren's power source isn't some infinite cheat code. Using it, especially pushing it, has consequences that actually stick now. Consider this particular narrative glitch mostly squashed. Don't expect miracles, though; the universe is still buggy as hell. Carry on.

 

[phanst]

Chapter 0007: Diagnostics and Demands (Mostly Demands)

Silence stretched taut in the maintenance bay, thick enough to choke on. The only sounds were the low, resonant hum of the Probability Drive's core, the distant drip-drip of water somewhere in the parking garage abyss, and the slightly elevated whine of the energy sidearm still aimed squarely at my sternum. My own SP felt fragile, hovering at a precarious [25/80], the keypad hack having taken a noticeable toll on my already strained reserves.

The woman – sharp eyes, grease-smudged cheek, practical armor that looked like it had survived more than a few rough encounters – didn't move a muscle. Her gaze remained locked on mine, intense, analytical, searching for the punchline or the deception in my words. That faint ghost of a smile I thought I'd seen earlier was well and truly gone, replaced by focused scrutiny.

"Debug the universe's shitty code?" she repeated finally, her voice dangerously soft. There was no amusement now, only a razor's edge of disbelief. "That's your pitch? You some kind of Glitch Cultist trying to sell me salvation through technobabble? Or just plain crazy?"

"Neither," I retorted, trying to keep my own voice level despite the adrenaline still making my heart perform syncopated rhythms against my ribs. The lingering effects of the Emergency Reserve from the NOC left a faint tremor in my hands, which I carefully kept raised and open. "Think less 'prophet', more 'specialized exterminator'. Reality's throwing bugs; I swat them. On a small scale. Usually."

I needed specifics, details to anchor her attention, something concrete despite the abstract nature of my 'skill'. "Your personal gear," I said, nodding briefly towards what I guessed was a flickering personal shield emitter (visible only as a shimmer in my enhanced perception), then towards the steadily humming sidearm. "It runs clean, mostly. But there are micro-fluctuations. Inconsistent power draw, faint data echoes. Nothing critical, maybe, but not optimal. Like running an OS with memory leaks. You get used to the sluggishness, but it's still there." I paused, the effort of focused perception sending another throb through my temples. "I can perceive that kind of 'noise'. Sometimes, I can even smooth it out."

Her eyes narrowed further. The gun didn't waver, but I saw a flicker of something else in their depths – not belief, not yet, but perhaps… resonance? Anyone running high-tech gear in this reality knew the constant battle against instability.

Before she could respond, a small gasp came from behind the vehicle. Leo. "Ren," he whispered urgently, his voice cracking. "The… the entrance! That thing they blocked it with… I think it moved!"

Her head snapped towards the sound, then back to me, suspicion flaring. "Your 'easily spooked' associate seems very observant."

"Panic sharpens the senses," I deflected quickly. "Is he right? Did something move out there?"

She didn't answer immediately, her attention momentarily divided. It gave me a fraction of a second. Okay, demonstration time. Risky, especially with my SP barely registering above fumes compared to my usual capacity, but necessary.

"Look," I said, trying to sound reasonable, like explaining a printer jam instead of negotiating with a heavily armed stranger while trapped. "Forget the universe. Let's talk about this." I nodded towards her sidearm. "That hum? It's steady, yeah, but it's not perfectly clean. There's a slight harmonic imbalance, like a capacitor not quite seated right in the energy matrix."

Her eyes snapped back to mine, flinty. "You analyzing my sidearm now?"

"Just noticing the background noise," I countered. "Tell you what. Keep aiming. Don't shoot. Give me five seconds. I won't move." I braced myself internally, hoping I had enough juice left for this without passing out or accidentally making her gun explode. The latter seemed counterproductive.

She hesitated, her expression unreadable. Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe desperation. Maybe she just wanted to see what kind of idiot I really was. "Five seconds," she clipped out. "You twitch, you fry."

Showtime. Closing my eyes wasn't an option. I needed to watch her reaction, and besides, [Perceive Glitch] worked fine eyes open, even if it made my head swim. I focused, pushing past the headache, zeroing in on the energy signature of her sidearm.

Visualize. The weapon glowed in my mind's eye, a compact nexus of contained energy. Found the power flow. Identified the source of the hum – not a physical capacitor, but a tiny, recursive loop in the energy regulation code, creating a minute oscillation, a resonant frequency that manifested as the steady hum. It wasn't dangerous, just… inefficient. A minor bug.

Targeted the loop. My SP bar flickered warningly. [-3 SP]. It felt disproportionately draining, like trying to run uphill through sand. Didn't have the reserves for complex untangling. Just needed to dampen the oscillation. Pushed a simple [Dampening Field] onto the resonant frequency itself. Visualized wrapping the vibrating code in a layer of mental 'soundproofing'. Muffle it. Smooth the wave. The effort scraped precious energy from my already low reserves, leaving a faint wave of nausea in its wake. [Current SP: 22/80].

The steady hum from the sidearm didn't stop, but it changed. The pitch smoothed out, losing its almost imperceptible metallic edge, becoming a purer, quieter thrum. It was subtle. Almost unnoticeable unless you were attuned to it.

Or unless you were holding the damn thing.

Her eyes widened almost imperceptibly. Her knuckles, gripping the weapon, went white for a split second. She didn't lower the gun, but the absolute certainty in her stance wavered for the first time.

"What...?" she breathed, staring down at her sidearm as if it had betrayed her. She glanced back up at me, suspicion warring with outright shock. "...the hell did you just do?"

"Optimized your hardware's acoustic signature," I said, trying to keep the relief and the strain out of my voice. My head pounded. "Reduced energy leakage via harmonic resonance. Marginally increased battery life, probably. You're welcome."

She stared at me, then at her gun, then back at me. Slowly, deliberately, she lowered the weapon, though she didn't holster it. The immediate threat level dropped from 'imminent vaporization' to 'potentially lethal scepticism'. Progress.

"Okay," she said, her voice tight. "Okay. You're not a cultist. And you're not crazy." She ran a hand through her short, grease-streaked brown hair, pushing her goggles further up her forehead, revealing tired but intensely focused hazel eyes. "What you are… is potentially useful."

Finally. "Glad we cleared that up," I said dryly. "My associate and I prefer not being vaporized before lunch. Usually."

"Lunch isn't on the menu right now," she snapped, all business again. "Leo, you said? The entrance moved?"

Leo peeked out cautiously. "Y-yeah. That big… metal slab they slid across? It scraped. Like something pushed it. Or… settled."

The woman's frown deepened, turning her attention fully to the bay entrance. "Dammit. Knew this spot was getting hot. Rival scav crews? Or something worse?" She looked back at me. "Alright, 'Debugger'. You and your friend just walked into my workshop and possibly alerted whatever trapped us in here. But…" she gestured towards the Probability Drive, "…you might be the only one who can fix her fast enough to get us out."

"Fix her how?" I asked, walking closer to the massive vehicle, drawn by the hum of its strange core. The air around it felt thick with power and instability. Even proximity seemed to drain energy.

"The reality drive," she said grimly. "It's stable enough for short hops, navigating minor Glitch-fields. But pushing it hard? Or punching through a major distortion? Lately, it's been throwing… exceptions. Nasty ones. Power spikes, spatial shear feedback, phantom energy readings." She kicked one of the massive tracks lightly. "Nearly got smeared across Zone 4 yesterday when the inertial dampeners decided to argue with local gravity about the definition of 'down'. Almost ended up folded into a pocket dimension shaped like abstract art. If we need to ram that blocker or outrun whatever set it, I need this rig running clean. Perfectly clean."

She locked eyes with me again. "You claim you can debug reality's code. Prove it. Get my drive stable. Truly stable. Do that…" she paused, glancing towards the nervous Leo, then back to me, "…and maybe we can talk about sharing fuel, ammo, and a ride out of this concrete tomb. Fail? Or try anything stupid? And the high-energy deep cleaning is back on the table. Deal?"

It wasn't much of a choice. Trapped, low on power ([22/80]), with an unknown threat potentially closing in. And this impossible machine, humming with unstable power, offering the only conceivable way out.

"Deal," I said, meeting her gaze. "But I'll need diagnostics. Schematics, if you have them. And access." I nodded towards the glowing core. "Full access."

Anya smirked, a genuine, hard-edged flash this time. "Oh, you'll get access. More access than you ever wanted." She holstered her weapon with a decisive click. "Name's Anya, by the way. Welcome to the hot seat, Debugger."

The fragile truce was set. Now came the hard part: trying to fix a reality-bending engine core while running on mental fumes, trapped in a garage with a heavily armed speed-demon and a nervous architect, with unknown entities potentially lurking just outside.

Just another Tuesday. Probably.

 

[phanst]

Chapter 0008: Peeking Under the Hood (of Reality Itself)

The air in the maintenance bay hummed, thick with the barely contained energy of the Probability Drive's core and the residue of our tense standoff. Anya, her hazel eyes sharp and missing nothing, gestured towards the rear of the monstrous vehicle where the glowing blue conduits converged on the cylindrical heart of the machine. My own internal reserves felt dangerously low, hovering at a meager [22/80] SP, the simple act of fixing her sidearm having cost more than it should have.

"Alright, Debugger," she said, her voice crisp and all business now that a fragile truce was established. "There she is. The source of all my speed, and currently, all my near-death experiences."

She moved towards a workbench cluttered with heavy-duty tools – hydro-spanners that looked capable of dismantling a tank, laser cutters, diagnostic pads displaying streams of chaotically scrolling data. With practiced ease, she tapped commands into a ruggedized terminal bolted to the bench, its screen flickering to life with complex energy flow diagrams and error logs filled with angry red warnings. The setup was pure scavenged functionality – high-tech components bolted onto makeshift mounts, powered by thick cables snaking back towards the humming drive core itself.

"Standard diagnostics are useless," Anya stated, pointing a grime-stained finger at a particularly alarming spike on an energy graph. "Reads stable one second, threatens to implode the next. Pre-Glitch tools can't parse reality fluctuations interfering with the data stream. All I know is, when I push her hard, especially transitioning through distorted zones, the core output becomes… unpredictable." She grimaced. "Yesterday, the primary manifold tried generating its own localized black hole. Tiny one. Mostly harmless. Except for the part where it nearly shredded the port-side track assembly."

Localized black hole. Mostly harmless. Right. My definition of 'harmless' clearly needed recalibration to post-Crash standards. My headache, a constant companion since the NOC, pulsed in sympathy.

I cautiously approached the drive core. Up close, the hum wasn't just audible; it was a physical pressure, a vibration that resonated deep in my bones, making my teeth ache faintly. The glowing blue conduits weren't just painted lines; they contained roiling streams of contained plasma, shifting and swirling like captured nebulae. The central cylinder itself, maybe three feet tall and wrapped in complex heat sinks and dampening fields, emanated a faint, cool breeze despite the palpable energy radiating from it. Its surface seemed to shimmer subtly, not quite solid, like looking at something through intense heat haze, but cold. The air around it smelled sharply of ozone and something else… clean, sterile, almost like the inside of a particle accelerator.

"What… what actually powers it?" Leo's voice was barely a whisper. He'd cautiously moved out from behind the track unit, his eyes glued to the impossible engine core, a mixture of draftsman's curiosity and pure terror on his face.

Anya shot him a glance, then smirked mirthlessly. "Couple of salvaged zero-point energy taps, heavily modified, feeding into a reality-stabilization matrix that… well, mostly stabilizes reality. Theoretically." She gestured vaguely at the core. "Think of it as gently persuading the universe to let us cheat, rather than brute-forcing our way through."

Gently persuading the universe. Riiight. And its recent arguments involved miniature black holes.

"Okay," I murmured, taking a deep breath. This was going to hurt. "Let's see what kind of argument it's having."

Activating [Perceive Glitch] felt different here, near the core. Usually, it was like tuning into background static, finding the discordant notes. Here, it was like opening my mind to a roaring waterfall of pure, structured, yet incredibly unstable information. Lines of energy, shimmering matrices of force, layers upon layers of interwoven code – not software code, but the base script of reality itself, warped and manipulated by the drive. It was beautiful and terrifying.

Then, I applied [Glitch Analysis - Rank E].

The waterfall became a supernova.

My mind reeled from the sheer density and complexity. This wasn't like debugging a flashlight's faulty circuit or a keypad's simple logic loop. This was like trying to simultaneously debug quantum physics, general relativity, and twelve competing brands of unstable operating systems all running on hardware forged from condensed nightmares. The sheer scale of it hammered against my already weakened mental defenses.

I visualized the energy flows Anya had shown on her terminal, trying to correlate them with the raw reality-code I was perceiving. Saw the ZPE taps pouring raw potential into the matrix. Saw the matrix trying to weave that potential into stable spacetime geometry, allowing the drive to 'persuade' reality. But there were… errors. Glitches. Deep within the core matrix code.

Imagine trying to follow a thousand glowing threads woven into an infinitely complex tapestry, but half the threads kept randomly changing color, phasing out of existence, or spontaneously knotting themselves into paradoxical loops. That was the core matrix. The 'exceptions' Anya experienced? I saw them as violent cascades, tiny knots in the weave suddenly tightening, forcing reality to snap back violently, creating energy spikes, spatial shears… miniature black holes.

My SP started draining like water from a sieve, far faster than the previous, simpler tasks. [-5 SP… -10 SP… -15 SP!]. Sweat prickled my brow despite the cool air radiating from the core. The sterile smell intensified, making my eyes water. The intricate patterns I perceived flickered, threatening to dissolve into pure chaos. My mental [Logic Probe] felt laughably inadequate, like trying to reroute a tsunami with a toothpick. The effort was immense, pushing my reserves to the absolute limit.

Anya watched me, hawk-eyed. Her arms were crossed, stance skeptical but intensely focused. She wasn't tapping her foot, but the impatient energy was radiating off her. She noted the pallor deepening in my face, the tremor starting in my hands again, more pronounced this time. She saw the strain. Maybe, just maybe, she recognized the look of someone genuinely wrestling with something far beyond normal comprehension, someone running on empty. Leo looked like he was about to be sick, his draftsman sensibilities probably offended by the sheer wrongness of the drive's internal logic.

I pulled back mentally, gasping sharply, the world swimming violently back into focus. The headache had ramped up to migraine levels, complete with bonus nausea and flashing lights at the edge of my vision. [SP Level Critical: 7/80]. Any deeper and I risked serious mental feedback, maybe even permanent corruption from the raw reality code. The buffer was gone. I was right on the edge.

"Okay," I managed, leaning a hand heavily against the cool, smooth flank of the Probability Drive's armor plating to steady myself, fighting the urge to vomit. "Okay. I see it."

Anya raised an eyebrow, noting my obvious distress. "See what? Pretty lights? Impending doom?"

"The core matrix," I elaborated, rubbing my temples, trying to force the words out through the haze of pain. "It's… unstable. Fundamentally. It's like it's running two incompatible physics models simultaneously, and they're constantly fighting for dominance. When you draw heavy power, especially during reality transitions, the conflict spikes. It can't resolve the paradox, so it essentially… throws a cosmic tantrum." I waved a hand vaguely at the core. "Manifesting as energy surges, spatial warping… you get the idea."

"So you can see it," Anya murmured, her expression shifting from pure skepticism to something closer to cautious belief, mixed now with a dawning understanding of the cost involved. Still wary, but the 'useful' part of her assessment was clearly winning. "Can you fix it?"

"Fix?" I gave a short, humorless laugh that turned into a cough. "Fixing the core conflict? That's probably beyond my paygrade. Think 'rewriting fundamental laws of the universe' level stuff. But…" I focused again, briefly, ignoring the screaming protest from my SP reserves [-1 SP], pushing past the surface chaos to analyze the pattern of the conflict, feeling the strain scrape against my absolute limit. "…the tantrums themselves? The way it fails? Those look like exploitable error cascades. Maybe I can't fix the core problem, but I might be able to… install better error handling. Redirect the tantrums. Dampen the spikes before they try to invent new particle physics inside your engine." [SP: 6/80].

Anya considered this, chewing on her lower lip. "Error handling," she repeated slowly. "So, not a permanent fix, but enough to stop the surprise black holes?"

"Theoretically," I admitted, swaying slightly. "Needs more analysis. Deeper dive. Which I absolutely cannot do right now. And probably some way to interface directly with the matrix control system, assuming it has one that hasn't melted."

Suddenly, a low groan echoed from the main garage entrance. Deeper, more resonant than the first sound. Followed by a distinct scrape of metal on concrete, louder this time.

Leo jumped, golf club rattling against the floor. "It's moving again! Something big!"

Anya swore under her breath, pulling her sidearm again, her brief moment of consideration evaporating into renewed tension. "Time's up, Debugger. Deeper analysis later. Can you do something? Right now? Something to give us even a little more stability if we need to make a run for it?"

The pressure was back, tenfold. Stabilize a reality-bending engine core with virtually no SP left, with an unknown threat potentially about to break down the door.

Easy peasy. Right?

"Alright," I said, steeling myself and looking back at the humming, glowing core, knowing this next step would almost certainly force another dip into the reserves I couldn't afford. "Let's try installing Service Pack 1 for applied cosmology. No promises, except that this is probably going to hurt. A lot."

 

[phanst]

Chapter 0009: Cosmic Duct Tape and Qualified Success

"Right now?" Anya's voice was tight, her knuckles white where she gripped her sidearm again, listening intently to the unsettling groan and deep scrape echoing from the main garage entrance. That wasn't random debris; it had a heavy, almost rhythmic quality, like immense stone grinding against stressed metal under deliberate pressure. "Okay, Debugger. No pressure. Just stabilize a reality-bending engine core before whatever's making that noise decides to come pay us a social call. Simple."

Simple. Right. Like performing neurosurgery during an earthquake using rusty spoons, blindfolded, while reciting corrupted code backwards. My SP bar mocked me with its pathetic [6/80] reading, flashing a persistent [Critical SP Warning]. The dregs of the first Emergency Reserve activation still left a metallic taste in my mouth and a tremor in my hands, overlaid by a headache that felt less like ice picks and more like someone was actively trying to defragment my brain matter with a rusty power drill. Pushing further now felt less like debugging and more like deliberate self-immolation.

"Simple," I echoed grimly, turning back to face the humming, glowing heart of the Probability Drive. Its energy felt like a physical weight against my senses, threatening to overwhelm my already fractured focus. "Just need to apply a little… cosmic duct tape and hope it holds." I took a deep, deliberately slow breath, trying to quell the shaking. This required focus I barely possessed. Triage. Patch the worst leaks before the whole dam collapses.

"Leo," I said, keeping my voice low, hoping the forced steadiness was convincing. "Eyes on the bay entrance. Describe anything you see or hear. Noises, shadows, anything specific. Anya… keep those diagnostics running. Call out any significant flux in the core stability, up or down. Especially down."

Anya grunted assent, already hunched over her ruggedized terminal, fingers dancing across the interface. Data streams scrolled past, complex waveforms flickered, error logs overflowed with cryptic warnings like [Reality Skew Detected: Compensator Overload Imminent] and [WARNING: Probability Field Resonance Exceeding Safe Parameters]. "Got thermal, resonance, particle emission, temporal field stability… it's a mess," she muttered, clearly wrestling with the cascade of unstable readings. Leo, pale but determined, took his position near the bay opening, golf club held more like a pointing stick than a weapon now, his focus outward.

Alright, Ren. Empty the tank. Ignore the pain, ignore the noise, ignore the very real possibility that failure means becoming a thin smear of quantum foam across the concrete.

Focus. [Perceive Glitch].

The waterfall of raw information slammed back in, amplified by my hypersensitive, strained state. Swirling nebulae of plasma energy, interwoven threads of reality code flickering like faulty neon signs, matrices of force buckling and snapping under unseen pressures. The sheer complexity was nauseating. Trying to find patterns in this felt like trying to map the static on a dead television channel.

Initial Analysis Redux: Focused on the core instability Anya described. Pushed past the surface noise, seeking the root of those energy spikes, the 'tantrums'. My mind strained against the torrent. It felt like trying to read microfiche in a hurricane. There. The conflicting physics models embedded deep in the matrix code, wrestling like angry gods, generating ripples of paradox. When stressed, these paradoxes didn't just resolve; they exploded outwards as raw, undirected energy. The sparks.

Visualizing the Fix: Error handling. Buffers. Channels. Had to be fast, had to be efficient. Couldn't afford intricate designs with my reserves this low. I pictured simple, thick shields of stable blue energy – imagined them solidifying out of my own focus – snapping into place around the known stress points in the matrix code. Then, broader, shallower 'gutters' designed to catch the overflow, the smaller fluctuations, and channel them harmlessly away, dissipating them as faint heat or harmless static discharge into the vehicle's massive chassis acting as a ground.

The mental constructs flickered into existence. Vaguely shield-shaped fields of translucent blue shimmered around the angriest knots of red code. Wider, flatter channels formed beneath them. It took everything I had left. My SP drained instantly. [-6 SP]. Gone. The warning flared [SP Depleted!].

The blue shields pulsed weakly as the first few energy ripples hit them. One shield, covering a particularly volatile junction, flared dangerously, spitting out violet sparks in my mind's eye. It wasn't holding. The energy spike slammed through it, diminished but still potent, causing a flicker in the bay's real lights. My vision started to grey out at the edges. The patch wasn't strong enough. It was failing.

"Anything?" I choked out, the words scraping my throat, feeling consciousness start to slip.

"Stabilizing! No, wait – damn it! Huge energy spike, sensor Gamma just redlined!" Anya swore, slapping the side of her terminal. "Something's feeding the instability directly, bypassing the main conduits!"

Feeding it? Where? How? My failing perception fluttered uselessly. The shields were dissolving. The system was crashing.

"Ren!" Leo's voice was sharp, urgent, cutting through my failing concentration. He wasn't looking outside anymore, but pointing directly at the drive core. "Down low! On the core itself! Where that thick pipe connects – it's sparking! Blue sparks, on the metal!"

My physical eyes snapped open, vision swimming. Following Leo's finger, I saw it. A physical manifestation. Where a coolant-sheathed conduit met the core housing, tiny blue sparks, like miniature St. Elmo's fire, arced intermittently across the join. It wasn't just running hot; it was actively leaking energy into the physical structure, and that leakage was corrupting the metaphysical matrix code at that critical junction. My shield wasn't failing due to code paradox alone; it was being battered by raw, misdirected physical energy bleeding into the reality streams. Leo's draftsman eye for physical detail, for structural integrity, had caught the tangible source I'd missed while drowning in abstract code.

"Lower coolant conduit junction – thermal overload warning escalating!" Anya confirmed, reading her diagnostics. "Damn shielding must have finally failed…"

"Got it," I grunted, the pieces clicking into place. Targeted intervention. This was it. Everything left. No choice.

Override. Activate reserve. Now.

[Emergency Mental Reserve Activated! Sensory Dampening Initiated!]

The world plunged into a silent, muffled grey, like diving into cold sludge. The copper tang of blood bloomed in my mouth, thick and heavy – nosebleed again, worse this time – and the crushing pressure behind my eyes became a blinding white agony that felt like my skull was trying to fracture from the inside out. This second activation, so soon after the first, felt exponentially worse, tearing through mental safeguards that hadn't had time to recover. Through the sensory blackout, through the pain, I held that single point of focus. Insulate. Dampen. Contain. Hold the line…

No more broad defenses. I poured every last erg of the forced mental energy, every shred of focus borrowed against my own cognitive stability, into reinforcing the one field covering that sparking, leaking junction. Visualized it thickening, solidifying, becoming not just a barrier but a form-fitting insulator, wrapping around the mental representation of the fault, absorbing the leaked energy, preventing it from poisoning the reality matrix. Simultaneously, focusing on the physical sparks Leo had spotted, I tried to subtly nudge the local reality code, reinforcing the damaged conduit's material structure, coaxing the energy discharge to dampen at its source. It was like trying to patch a software bug and a hardware failure simultaneously, using nothing but strained thought and borrowed time ripped directly from my own sanity.

Then, blessed quiet.

Not just silence in my ears, but silence in my mind. The roaring waterfall of information subsided. The angry red spikes vanished. The overwhelming pressure eased. The connection felt… stable. Smoothed over. A cosmic band-aid applied with metaphysical tweezers, held in place by sheer, desperate will.

Slowly, the grey faded. The sounds returned, muted at first, then clearer. The powerful purr of the drive core replaced the threatening hum. On Anya's monitor, a cascade of red and amber warnings resolved into calm, steady green.

"Core resonance nominal," Anya whispered, her voice filled with stunned disbelief. "Stability index… it's holding. Ninety-two percent. Ninety-two! It hasn't been that stable since…" She trailed off, staring at the numbers, then slowly looked up at me. Her internal reaction was unreadable, but the shift was palpable: shock replaced by sharp calculation. He actually did it, Her assessment of me just fundamentally changed. The crazy bastard actually debugged a reality drive. This… changes things._

I staggered back, the final mental construct dissolving, leaving me utterly, terrifyingly drained. My knees gave way, and only grabbing the vehicle's fender kept me from collapsing entirely. Spots swam violently in my vision. Breathing felt like dragging sandpaper through my lungs. The world tilted precariously. [SP: 1/80 (ERROR: Reserve Capacity Critically Low. Prolonged Use May Result In Cognitive Damage)]. Great. Another warning label. This time, it felt less like a suggestion and more like a guarantee.

"See?" I managed, the weak smirk feeling heavy and numb on my face. "Cosmic… duct tape. Mostly holds."

Leo let out a shaky laugh, a sound halfway between relief and hysteria. "You… you did it. I saw the sparks just… stop."

Anya holstered her weapon, moving towards me, her expression a complex mix of awe, calculation, and maybe, just maybe, a flicker of something that wasn't purely transactional concern. "You…" she started, then stopped as a deafening BOOM shook the entire parking garage. Dust rained down from the ceiling. The impact was close. At the main entrance. The sound wasn't just metal this time; it carried a deep, guttural grinding undertone, organic and deeply wrong.

Followed by the high-pitched screech of the heavy metal slab blocking the entrance buckling violently inward.

Whatever was outside wasn't knocking politely anymore. It was breaking down the door.

Anya swore, abandoning whatever she was about to say, her focus instantly shifting back to survival mode. She vaulted towards the vehicle's cockpit access hatch like a practiced acrobat. "Alright, Debugger! Your duct tape better hold! You bought us maybe five minutes of reliable power! Let's see if it's enough!" She slapped a glowing activation panel beside the hatch. Hydraulics hissed. "Strap in! Both of you! Now! Unless you fancy shaking hands with whatever the hell that is!"

The momentary victory, the fragile truce, vanished in a fresh surge of pure, undiluted panic. The fight wasn't over. It was just getting started, and we were about to drive straight into it on borrowed power and borrowed time.

 

[phanst]

Chapter 0010: Exit Strategy (May Void Manufacturer's Warranty)

"Strap in! Both of you! Now!" Anya's command cut through the lingering shockwave of the BOOM from the entrance. There was no time for questions, no room for hesitation. The high-pitched screech of buckling metal from the main ramp confirmed whatever was outside wasn't just knocking; it was ripping its way in.

Adrenaline surged again, overriding the crushing exhaustion from the debugging effort. My SP might be scraping rock bottom, but the survival instinct apparently had its own dedicated power source. I practically dove towards the open cockpit hatch Anya had slapped, following Leo who scrambled in with surprising agility, his earlier terror momentarily eclipsed by immediate, actionable panic.

The cockpit of the 'Probability Drive' wasn't designed for comfort. It was cramped, functional, and radiated an aura of barely contained power mixed with the faint, lingering smell of stale coffee and Anya's ozone-tinged presence. Two seats dominated the space – a pilot's command chair bristling with worn joysticks, holographic displays flickering erratically, and auxiliary readouts, and a slightly less complex co-pilot/navigator station beside it.

Exposed conduits snaked across the low ceiling, patched with electrical tape and hope. A web of auxiliary wires led to custom-bolted consoles displaying streams of complex, non-standard diagnostic data. It looked less like a vehicle interior, more like the command center for a particularly unstable science experiment held together with zip ties and pure stubbornness.

"Seats! Harnesses! Now!" Anya barked, already strapped into the pilot's chair, her hands flying across glowing touch panels and flicking physical switches with practiced speed. Her focus was absolute, the earlier cautious respect replaced by the sharp intensity of someone doing exactly what they were built for.

I fumbled my way into the co-pilot seat, the worn synth-leather cool against my back. The harness wasn't a simple click-in buckle; it was a five-point restraint system that felt like being vacuum-sealed into the chair. Probably necessary, considering the potential G-forces involved when reality itself was part of the suspension system. Leo wrestled with the harness in a smaller, fold-down jump seat behind us, his breathing ragged.

"Powering up main drive sequence!" Anya announced, her voice tight. "Ren, keep an eye on the core stability monitor – upper right display. Yell if that 'duct tape' of yours starts peeling."

My eyes snapped to the designated screen. A complex, multi-layered graphic depicted the drive core's energy flows. The angry red spikes were gone, replaced by steady blue lines. The stability index hovered around 91-92%, occasionally flickering down to 90 before recovering. My patch was holding. For now. But the energy throughput numbers were climbing rapidly as Anya diverted power. Would it hold under this kind of strain?

The entire vehicle vibrated, a low, resonant hum intensifying into a ground-shaking thrum that vibrated up through the seat, rattling my teeth. The blue conduits visible through a small viewport looking back towards the engine bay pulsed brighter, the swirling energy within churning faster. It felt like sitting inside a caged thunderstorm.

BOOM! SCREEEEECH! Another massive impact shuddered through the garage structure, closer this time. Dust and small chunks of concrete rained down from the bay ceiling.

"The slab!" Leo yelled from behind us, pointing towards the main bay opening. "It's bending inward! I see… something… pushing through the gap!" His voice hitched. "It's got… arms? Made of rebar and… stone?"

Arms? Rebar and stone? My mind flashed back to the grinding sound. Organic and mechanical? Sounded like a high-tier [Aggregated Debris Construct] or maybe something worse, cobbled together from the city's wreckage by some malevolent glitch or entity. Not good. Definitely not something we wanted to have tea with.

"Hang on!" Anya yelled, gripping her main control stick. "Engaging drive! Inertial dampeners… mostly online!"

The world outside the reinforced cockpit windows dissolved into a momentary blur of pure speed, even though we hadn't physically moved much yet. It wasn't conventional acceleration; it felt like the vehicle warped inertia locally. A wave of dizziness hit me – the side effect of the Emergency Reserve still lingering, a nasty cognitive lag clinging like sticky malware, amplified by the drive's activation. I gripped the sides of my seat, fighting the urge to black out. [Minor Spatial Disorientation Debuff Refreshed]. Fantastic.

With a jolt that slammed me back into the harness, the Probability Drive lurched forward. The massive track units bit into the concrete floor, spitting up chunks as they gained traction. We shot out of the maintenance bay like a projectile fired from a cannon made of bad physics.

The parking garage level whipped past in a blur of concrete pillars and flickering emergency lights. Anya wrestled with the controls, her knuckles white, navigating the tight confines with incredible precision despite the vehicle's bulk and the strange, non-linear way it seemed to move.

"Target: main entrance!" she barked, more to herself than to us. "Core stability?"

"Holding at eighty-nine percent!" I called back, eyes glued to the monitor, ignoring the swimming sensation in my head. The blue lines were flickering more erratically now under the strain, but no catastrophic red spikes. Yet. "Conduit junction patch is stable!"

"Good enough!"

We rounded the final corner, the main exit ramp looming ahead. Or what was left of it. The heavy metal security slab was grotesquely buckled inwards, ripped partially free from its moorings. And forcing its way through the widening gap was… chaos given form.

Leo wasn't wrong. Hulking arms made of twisted rebar, concrete chunks, and shattered pavement clawed at the edges of the opening. They seemed to pull a larger, amorphous mass behind them – a churning vortex of urban debris held together by crackling purple energy and sheer malevolent intent. No discernible head, just a roiling core of gravitational distortion that warped the air around it. Glitch-spawned nightmare. Grade A, top-tier, run-the-hell-away material.

"Obstruction Class: Significant Annoyance," Anya grunted, her face set in grim determination. "Full power to forward plating deflectors! Brace for impact!"

She didn't slow down. If anything, she accelerated. The Probability Drive hurtled towards the buckled barrier and the debris-construct forcing its way through. The humming core behind us intensified into a near-screaming whine. The stability index on my screen dipped sharply – 85%… 80%… 78%…! Red warning indicators flashed urgently.

"Core flux spiking!" I yelled, my voice barely audible over the engine's roar.

Hold on, duct tape! Hold on! I mentally pleaded with my fragile patch job.

CRUUUUUNCH!

The impact wasn't just sound; it was a physical blow that resonated through the entire vehicle, throwing us violently against our harnesses. Metal screamed. Concrete exploded outwards. The world outside the viewport dissolved into a chaotic spray of debris and purple energy discharge as we smashed through the buckled security slab and the construct's grasping appendages.

For a heart-stopping moment, the vehicle shuddered violently, threatening to stall or tear itself apart. Alarms blared from Anya's console. The stability reading plummeted to 65%, flashing critical red warnings across the screen.

But Anya fought it, wrestling with the controls, pouring power into the drive. With a final, jarring lurch, we broke free.

Bursting out of the parking garage ramp felt like being born into pure chaos. We emerged onto the street under the bruised, flickering sky, leaving behind the wreckage of the entrance and whatever remained of the construct.

The vehicle fishtailed wildly on the cracked pavement before Anya regained control, the track units spewing gravel. We slewed to a temporary halt fifty yards down the street, the engine whining down slightly from its peak exertion, the whole chassis vibrating.

Inside the cockpit, silence reigned for a beat, broken only by our ragged breathing and the insistent beeping of minor system alarms.

"Status?" Anya demanded, already scanning our surroundings through the holographic displays.

I checked the core monitor, forcing my eyes to focus. "Stability… climbing back up. Seventy-five… eighty… eighty-two percent. Holding steady. Looks like… looks like your surprise black holes are still cancelled." My voice shook slightly, a reaction to the near-miss and the sheer drain.

Leo let out a strangled noise from the back seat, halfway between a sob and a cheer. "We… we made it?"

Anya didn't relax. "Out of the garage, yeah." She pointed to a side display showing a tactical overlay of the surrounding streets. Several red icons were blinking urgently, converging on our position. "But that thing wasn't alone. And ramming down its front door probably announced our presence to everything hostile within five blocks."

Sure enough, glancing out the main viewport, I saw them. Figures emerging from the shadowed alleyways and crumbling building entrances. Some were shambling husks trailing static, others were more defined, carrying scavenged weapons. Glitch constructs flickered into existence at street corners. And far down the street, partially obscured by shimmering heat haze (or reality instability), something large and metallic was reflecting the dim light.

The URE, silent during the intense debugging and escape, chose this moment to chime in, its text scrolling calmly over my view:

----------

[Quest Updated: Exit Strategy]

Objective: Survive Immediate Aftermath.

Sub-Objective: Avoid Disassembly by Local Anomalous Entities (Recommended).

Current Threat Level: Elevated (Approximately 'Oh Crap' on the Technical Scale).

Good luck? ( sincerity_level = 0.1 )

----------

"Right," Anya growled, grabbing the controls again. "Welcome to the neighborhood, boys. Let's see if this 'Probability Drive' can live up to its name."

She slammed the throttle control forward. The engine roared back to life, the unstable reality core humming its dangerous song, and the massive vehicle leaped forward into the ruined streets, leaving the relative safety of the garage far behind, heading straight into the heart of the Glitchscape's welcoming committee.

 

[phanst]

Chapter 0011: The Cognitive Hangover and the Welcoming Committee

Bursting onto the street felt less like an escape and more like being spat out of a concrete cannon into the middle of a very hostile, very glitchy block party. The Probability Drive fishtailed, its massive tracks tearing chunks from the pavement before Anya wrestled it back under control, the vehicle settling into a low, predatory hum. Alarms still beeped intermittently from the console, adding a cheerful counterpoint to the sound of my own blood pounding in my ears.

"Status?" Anya snapped again, her eyes already darting between the flickering holographic map display and the viewports, assessing the rapidly converging threats.

I tried to focus on the core stability monitor, but my vision swam. The crisp numbers and lines I'd seen just moments ago seemed fuzzy, overlaid with faint static trails. My thoughts felt thick, sluggish, like trying to wade through digital molasses, or trying to run modern code on ancient hardware. This was the cognitive hangover, in full effect.

"Uh… eighty-three percent stability," I managed, blinking hard, trying to force the numbers into focus. "Holding… mostly. Patch seems… intact?" Even my internal certainty felt fuzzy. Was it really holding, or was my perception just glitching now too? The [SP: 1/80] warning pulsed weakly at the edge of my vision, occasionally dissolving into meaningless pixels before reforming.

The URE interface, usually an annoying but stable fixture, flickered erratically. A helpful tip about [Optimal Hydration Levels for Cognitive Function] scrolled past, partially obscured by a low-resolution image of a dancing banana. Extremely useful. Maybe I should ask it for a glass of water.

"Mostly isn't good enough!" Anya shot back, swerving violently to avoid a shimmering tear in the asphalt that pulsed with nauseating purple light – a minor spatial distortion that could probably flay the armor plating off the rig if we hit it wrong. "Keep watching it! Leo, eyes open back there! Call out targets!"

Outside, the welcoming committee was assembling. Low-level Glitch Skitters, all static and disjointed limbs, scuttled out from under overturned cars. A shimmering [Data Wisp] – usually harmless but annoying – drifted menacingly towards our viewport before dissolving. More worryingly, half a dozen figures emerged from a crumbling storefront, clad in patched-together armor, wielding scavenged projectile weapons and rusty melee implements.

Scavengers, drawn by the commotion, smelling potential loot or desperation. Behind them, a larger shape coalesced from flickering data streams and ambient debris – a [Minor Data Elemental], perhaps level 4, vaguely humanoid but shifting and unstable.

My [Perceive Glitch] skill felt… muffled. Like trying to listen through earmuffs, or access a server through layers of overloaded firewalls. I could sense the general instability, the hostile energy signatures, but the fine details were lost in the cognitive fog. Analyzing specific weaknesses felt impossible right now.

"Got Scavs, six o'clock high!" Anya called out, referencing her tactical display. "And some low-grade data-crud popping up ahead." She spun a dial, and a low thrum emanated from the vehicle's exterior plating. "Deflectors up. Minimal power draw."

"Anya, wait!" Leo's voice suddenly cut through the chaos, high-pitched but clear. He wasn't looking behind us, but frantically tapping one of the secondary monitor screens bolted near his jump seat – likely displaying side sensor feeds. "Side alley! Right side, coming up! Ambush! Two… no, three heavy weapons!"

My sluggish brain struggled to process. Side alley? Ambush? I hadn't perceived anything specific there, just background noise and the buzzing static behind my own eyes. Anya, however, reacted instantly. Her eyes flickered to the feed Leo indicated, her face hardening.

Draftsman's eye for detail, I thought hazily. Or maybe just less brain-fried than me. Leo, caught between terror and observation, had spotted something crucial we'd missed.

"Got it!" Anya didn't praise him, didn't acknowledge it beyond the instant reaction. She slammed the control yoke hard to port, the Probability Drive responding with an almost unnatural sideways lurch, inertia seemingly optional. A volley of heavy slugs, spitting sparks, impacted the spot where we would have been fractions of a second later, chewing chunks out of a derelict bus stop.

"Nice catch, Leo!" Anya actually grunted, executing a tight, track-shredding turn that swung the vehicle's rear end around, presenting heavy armor towards the alleyway ambushers. "Trying to flank us, bastards!" She thumbed a control. "Deploying countermeasures!"

A wave of crackling blue energy erupted outwards from the side plating – the deflectors pushed into an offensive pulse. Screams and the discharge of shorting electronics echoed faintly from the alley.

"Where are we going?" Leo asked, voice still trembling but laced with the adrenaline of having actually contributed something useful.

"Undercroft access!" Anya snapped, eyes flicking between the main route ahead and the converging threats on her display. "Section tunnels beneath the old financial district. Glitchy as hell down there, full of resonance ghosts and structural failures, but it's the only route west from here that avoids the Kilo-7 Distortion Field – and that's something even this rig can't handle." Her destination hinted at knowledge of the city's deep infrastructure, maybe a past life before courier or scavenger? "Need to get off these surface streets before that thing decides to join the party."

She meant the large metallic object I'd glimpsed earlier. Looking ahead now, as we barreled down the ruined avenue, I could see it more clearly. Distorted by distance and atmospheric shimmering, it looked like a walking construction vehicle, maybe a repurposed mining mech, bristling with crude weapon emplacements and moving with a heavy, ponderous gait that nonetheless covered ground alarmingly fast. Definitely not standard Glitch-spawn. That was built. That was piloted. That was hunting us.

"Core stability holding at eighty percent," I reported, forcing myself to focus, the number swimming slightly. "Minor flux when you pulsed the deflectors." The patch was straining, but not breaking. For now.

"Can you give me a short burst?" Anya demanded, eyes fixed on the road ahead where a cluster of Glitch Skitters and two Scavs wielding sparking stun batons were blocking the way. "Need to clear the road."

A burst? On 1 SP and running on cognitive fumes? "Define 'short'," I managed, already trying to gather my fragmented focus.

"Three seconds. Localized inertia negation," she commanded. "Just enough to… glide through."

Glide through. Right. Easy. I focused on the drive core's representation again, ignoring the throbbing pain. Targeted the specific subroutines controlling localized inertia. Instead of reinforcing or shielding, I needed to inject a brief override. Tell the universe, just for a moment, that the concept of 'mass resisting acceleration' didn't apply right here.

Visualize: A quick, clean pulse of code directly into the inertia control module. set_inertial_mass(target=self, value=0, duration=3s). Simple command, impossibly complex execution.

My remaining SP vanished. The world went grey again, briefly, accompanied by a wave of intense vertigo. [Cognitive Strain Warning: Continued Stunts May Result in Unscheduled Reboots]. The URE's sense of humor was impeccable.

Outside, the effect was instantaneous and eerie. The Probability Drive, despite its immense size and speed, seemed to suddenly become… weightless. Effortless. It didn't smash through the enemies ahead; it drifted through them, their bodies and attacks passing harmlessly through the space the vehicle occupied, like we were momentarily out of phase with reality. The Scavs stared in stunned disbelief as a multi-ton armored vehicle ghosted silently through their position. Three seconds later, inertia snapped back into place with a bone-jarring thud.

We were clear. But the metallic walker behind us was closer now, maybe only two blocks away.

"Undercroft Access Alpha – fifty meters ahead!" Anya pointed towards a gaping hole in the street beside a collapsed subway entrance, reinforced with scavenged steel plates and marked with faded hazard symbols. It looked less like an access tunnel, more like a maw leading into the bowels of a dead city.

"Looks inviting," I muttered, trying to shake off the disorientation.

"It beats becoming scrap metal for that oversized Tonka toy back there," Anya retorted, already angling the massive vehicle towards the hole. "Hold on tight. The entrance ramp is… technically non-existent."

She didn't slow down. As we approached the opening, she hit another control. The front end of the Probability Drive tilted down sharply, track units clawing for purchase on the edge of the precipice.

With a final surge of the reality drive's hum, we plunged downwards, not onto a ramp, but into sheer darkness, leaving the chaos of the street, the converging enemies, and the relentlessly pursuing mech behind us, swapping one set of dangers for another entirely. The darkness swallowed us whole.

 

[phanst]

Chapter 0012: Echoes in the Undercroft (and Unpleasant Smells)

The transition from the chaotic surface streets to the Undercroft was less a controlled descent and more a violent, stomach-lurching plummet. For a terrifying second, we were suspended in absolute darkness, the only sensations the protesting groan of the Probability Drive's frame, the G-force pressing us into our seats, and the sudden, jarring absence of the city's ambient reality static.

Then, with a bone-jarring CRUNCH that sent sparks cascading past the viewport, the massive track units hit solid ground – or at least, something resembling it. The vehicle rocked violently, threatening to tip, before settling with a heavy groan. The drive core's powerful purr dropped to a lower, resonant idle, seeming unnaturally loud in the enclosed space.

Darkness pressed in, absolute and thick. Anya flicked several switches, and powerful external floodlights blazed to life, cutting swathes through the blackness, revealing our new, less-than-ideal surroundings.

We were in a vast, cavernous tunnel. Not a smooth, machined subway tube, but something rougher, older – thick, sweating concrete walls weeping moisture, stained with decades of grime and possibly worse. Massive support pillars, scarred and cracked, disappeared up into the oppressive darkness overhead. The ground beneath our tracks was a mess of rubble, shattered pavement, and ancient, rusted railway lines half-buried in debris.

The air hit me next. Cold. Damp. Heavy with the smells of stale water, mildew, wet concrete, and something else… a faint, underlying metallic tang mixed with a sickly sweet odor of decay. Like old blood and forgotten refuse. It was the smell of things left buried and undisturbed for far too long.

----------

[Location Detected: Undercroft Sector 4-Gamma (Unstable Zone)]

Environment: Subterranean, Low Illumination, Variable Structural Integrity, High Ambient Decay Particles.

Potential Hazards: Resonance Ghosts, Glitch Pockets (Spatial/Temporal), Unstable Architecture, Critters (Bio & Data), Questionable Smells.

Recommendation: Hold your breath? Watch your step. Bring snacks.

----------

Resonance Ghosts and Critters. Great. Just what my frayed nerves needed.

"Everyone… still in one piece?" Anya's voice was tight, her knuckles white where she gripped the controls, peering intently into the darkness revealed by the floodlights.

"Think so," I managed, doing a quick mental inventory. Everything still felt attached. My head throbbed rhythmically, a dull counterpoint to the engine's idle, the cognitive hangover settling in like a permanent houseguest. The cognitive fog lingered, making the floodlit tunnel seem slightly unreal, dreamlike. Trying to use [Perceive Glitch] felt like wading through mud. The ambient 'noise' here was different, lower frequency, heavier, punctuated by faint, fleeting flickers that my impaired senses couldn't quite lock onto.

"Yeah," Leo added from the back, his voice shaky but present. "Mostly terrified. What is this place?"

"Old service tunnels," Anya explained, easing the Probability Drive forward slowly, tracks crunching over rubble. "Pre-dates the main subway lines. Maintenance access, storm drains, forgotten infrastructure projects. The Glitchstorm didn't hit down here as hard initially, but it… seeped in. Caused weird resonances, woke things up. Most surface dwellers avoid it like the plague. Too easy to get lost, run into unstable pockets, or meet things that haven't seen sunlight in decades."

"You… know this place?" I asked, eyeing the complex network of intersecting tunnels dimly visible beyond our headlight beams. This wasn't just random knowledge.

She gave a noncommittal grunt. "Used to run cargo through here, back when surface routes got too hot. Specialized deliveries." Her tone discouraged further questions, but it hinted at a past involving more than just daredevil courier runs. Smuggling? Black market tech? Something requiring intimate knowledge of the city's forgotten underbelly.

The tunnel ahead branched. Left fork looked marginally clearer, right fork seemed to descend further into darkness, emanating a faint, almost inaudible hum that made my teeth ache. My muffled glitch perception registered faint instability down the right path.

"Left," Anya decided instantly, apparently trusting her gut or her instruments over my currently unreliable senses. She expertly maneuvered the massive vehicle around a pile of collapsed concrete, the floodlights carving eerie paths through the oppressive gloom.

The silence, apart from our engine and the crunch of debris, was unnerving. No distant sirens, no wind, no surface-level reality static. Just the drip… drip… drip… and the occasional distant rumble that could have been shifting earth or something large moving in the tunnels far away.

"Anya," Leo suddenly spoke up, his voice low, pointing towards a section of the tunnel wall illuminated by our side lights. "Those markings… I've seen symbols like that before. In old city planning archives. They designate… unstable load-bearing points. Potential collapse zones." His draftsman's training kicking in, spotting structural warnings hidden in faded paint and grime.

Anya squinted, following his direction. "Damn. Good eye, kid." She eased back on the throttle. "Route C deviation required then. Cuts through the old reservoir overflow, but beats getting buried alive." She expertly navigated us into a smaller, rougher side tunnel Leo indicated, barely wider than the Probability Drive itself. The walls here were slick with moisture, and the air grew heavier, the smell of decay stronger.

We were forced to slow down considerably, the vehicle scraping against the narrow tunnel walls occasionally with a screech of protesting metal. Progress was agonizingly slow. Every shadow seemed to harbor movement, every distant sound amplified into a potential threat.

My cognitive fog wasn't lifting. Focusing on the stability monitor required conscious effort. My thoughts kept drifting, latching onto irrelevant details: the pattern of rust on a pipe, the exact frequency of the water drip, etc. The URE warning about [Cognitive Damage] echoed ominously. Would the damage be permanent? Had I already fried something important scrambling that reality core?

Then, I felt it. A shift in the ambient… nothingness. My muffled [Perceive Glitch] spiked erratically for a moment, not with hostile energy, but with a sudden, intense cold. Not physical cold, but a chilling void, like a patch of reality had just… stopped existing briefly.

"Whoa!" Leo yelped from the back. "Did you see that? The wall just… flickered out for a second! I could see rock behind it!"

Anya swore. "Resonance ghost echo. Or a minor temporal skip. Damn tunnels are lousy with them." She tapped furiously on her console. "Trying to map the instability field, but the interference down here is wrecking my sensors."

Another flicker, closer this time. The tunnel floor directly in front of us shimmered, went translucent for a heartbeat, revealing darkness beneath, then solidified again. A pocket of unstable spacetime. Drive straight through it, and we might find ourselves embedded in solid rock, or briefly visiting last Tuesday.

"Can you… do your thing?" Anya asked, her voice tight, nodding towards the flickering patch without taking her eyes off the path ahead. "Debug that flicker?"

I stared at the shimmering patch, then down at my trembling hands, then at the [SP: 1/80] indicator mocking me. The thought of actively manipulating reality code again, even on something small, felt physically nauseating. The potential cost…

"I… I don't know," I admitted, hating the weakness in my voice. "Reserves are dry. Pushing it again might… scramble more than just the glitch."

Anya's jaw tightened, but she didn't push. Pragmatism won out. "Right. Plan B then." She scanned the narrow tunnel. "We wait for it to cycle, or we find a way around." Waiting seemed like a terrible option, trapped in this claustrophobic tunnel with unknown things potentially lurking.

Suddenly, Leo spoke again, his voice hushed, pointing not ahead, but back the way we came, towards the darkness we'd left behind. "Ren… Anya… Those noises? The dripping? The rumbling?"

"What about them?" Anya asked impatiently.

"They stopped," Leo whispered. "Everything just… went quiet."

A profound silence descended, broken only by the low idle of the Probability Drive. The dripping had ceased. The distant rumbles were gone. Even the faint hum of the tunnel itself seemed muffled. It wasn't peaceful quiet. It was the held breath before the storm. The silence before something jumps out of the shadows.

And from the darkness back down the narrow tunnel, illuminated faintly by our rear-facing lights, a pair of soft, phosphorescent green lights blinked open. Low to the ground. Watching us. Unmoving.

Critters. The URE had mentioned critters. But somehow, I didn't think it meant radioactive cockroaches.

The silence stretched, thick with unspoken dread. Then, a low clicking sound began, chitinous and dry, echoing eerily in the confined space. Getting closer.

Anya swore again, her hand hovering over the throttle. "Looks like waiting isn't an option after all."

-----

Chitin (for Chitinous): a substance that forms part of the hard outer body covering especially of insects and crustaceans. Imagine the shell of a beetle or the skin of a centipede.

 

[phanst]

Chapter 0013: Critters That Go Click in the Dark

The silence in the narrow, sweating tunnel was absolute, save for the low thrum of the Probability Drive and the dry, chitinous click… click… click echoing from the darkness behind us. It was a sound that scraped along the nerves, methodical, unhurried, like something patiently dismantling its prey bit by bit. The twin phosphorescent green lights glowed unblinkingly, low to the ground, reflecting wetly in the puddles of stagnant water illuminated by our rear floodlights.

My skin crawled. The cognitive fog from the SP depletion felt thicker now, infused with a primal dread that had nothing to do with debugging reality code. My [Perceive Glitch] skill was practically useless. The background noise of the Undercroft combined with my own mental static just created a frustrating, fuzzy mess. I couldn't get a read on whatever was back there beyond 'probably bad', likely multi-legged, and definitely not selling cookies.

The fear wasn't just about the unknown creature, it was the chilling realization of my own current uselessness. Pushing my SP again, trying to force a clearer perception or debug whatever was coming… the potential cost, the [Cognitive Damage] warning, felt terrifyingly real. Could end up like one of those drooling Glitch-shock victims, I thought, the fear a cold knot in my stomach. Or worse, maybe I just... blue screen myself permanently.

Leo, beside me in the jump seat, had gone rigid, his face a mask of terror barely visible in the dim cockpit glow. "What is it?" he finally whispered, his voice trembling so badly the words barely formed. "Is it… is it just one?"

The clicking intensified slightly, seeming to echo from multiple points now. Click-k-klick-click…

"Doesn't sound like it," Anya replied grimly, her hands tight on the controls. She flicked a switch on her console. A burst of harsh static erupted from the comms speaker, followed by silence. "Comms are useless down here. Too much interference."

She spared a half-second glance at the tactical display, which showed nothing but sensor ghosts and distortion warnings behind us. "Alright, standard Undercroft creepy-crawly protocols. Assume it's fast, assume it hunts by sound or vibration, and assume it has way too many legs."

She eased the Probability Drive forward a few inches, the tracks crunching loudly on the debris. The clicking behind us stopped instantly. The green lights remained, unmoving, watching. Waiting.

"They hunt vibration," Anya confirmed, her voice low. "Smart buggers." She scanned the path ahead, illuminated by the powerful forward floodlights. The narrow tunnel continued, twisting slightly. "We can't go back the way we came, especially not with whatever brought down that slab potentially waiting. And we have to get through this sector to bypass the Kilo-7 field." She reiterated the goal, grounding us slightly amidst the immediate panic. Avoidance wasn't an option. "Means dealing with our fan club back there."

The clicking resumed, slow at first, then faster, closer. Click-klick-CLICK-CLICK… More pairs of green lights winked open in the darkness, spreading out slightly, flanking the original pair. Not just one. Maybe half a dozen?

Okay, time for specifics. The lights weren't perfectly round. They were slightly elongated, almost like narrow, horizontal slits. Cold, phosphorescent green, lacking any discernible pupil. Just flat, glowing bars of eerie light.

"See them clearly now," Leo breathed, leaning forward, his draftsman's eye for detail overcoming his fear for a moment. "They're low… segmented bodies, maybe? Lots of… legs. Thin legs. Like… like giant, armored centipedes made of shadow and rust?"

Armored centipedes. My stomach did a slow roll. The URE entry for Critters (Bio & Data) suddenly felt woefully inadequate.

Anya nodded grimly. "Tunnel Stalkers. Thought they mostly stuck to the deeper levels." She keyed another command. "Alright, let's try the welcoming lights."

The rear floodlights suddenly pulsed, shifting from steady white to a blinding, strobing pattern of intense ultraviolet and harsh white light. The effect was disorienting even within the cockpit.

A chorus of angry hisses and clicks erupted from the darkness. The green eyes blinked rapidly, several pairs retreating momentarily deeper into the shadows, but the original pair held their ground, seemingly unfazed by the light. One of the creatures darted forward with impossible speed, a blur of segmented, dark chitinous plating and far too many scuttling legs, visible for only a fraction of a second in the strobing glare before vanishing back into the darkness near the tunnel wall. It was easily six feet long.

"Okay," Anya muttered. "Plan A: Annoy them with bright lights – limited success. They're adaptable." She activated another system. A low hum built beneath us, different from the drive core. "Plan B: Sonic deterrent. Low frequency pulse. Brace yourselves, this might rattle fillings."

A deep, subsonic WHUMP resonated through the tunnel, felt more than heard. It vibrated through the vehicle's frame, through the seats, settling deep in our bones. Outside, the clicking became frantic, panicked. Several green lights darted erratically, bumping into walls.

Success?

Then, the largest pair of eyes – the original pair – lunged. It moved with a speed that defied its apparent size, launching itself up the tunnel wall, scuttling across the damp concrete ceiling like gravity was a minor inconvenience. Its underbelly, glimpsed for a moment, was a pale, segmented horror, rows of clicking legs propelling it forward with terrifying speed.

It was heading over us.

"Ceiling!" Leo yelled, pointing frantically upwards.

Anya swore violently, ramming the throttle forward while simultaneously triggering the side deflectors. "Scrabbling little -! Get off my rig!"

The creature dropped from the ceiling directly onto the Probability Drive's roof with a sickening thud that echoed through the cockpit. Immediately, a horrible scraping, clicking sound began directly overhead, the sound of hardened chitinous claws trying to dig into the surface, trying to rip through the armored plating.

Alarms blared on Anya's console as proximity sensors went wild.

"It's on the roof!" Anya snarled, fighting to keep the vehicle moving forward in the narrow tunnel while simultaneously trying to dislodge our unwelcome passenger. She swerved sharply, scraping the rig's side against the tunnel wall with a horrendous screech of metal on concrete. The creature overhead screeched back, an ear-splitting sound like tearing metal mixed with an insectile hiss, but its grip seemed to hold.

"Can you shake it?" I asked, my voice tight, watching the flickering core stability monitor. The erratic movements were putting strain on my patch job. Eighty-five percent… eighty-three… holding, but barely.

"Working on it!" Anya gritted out. Suddenly, she slammed on the brakes, or whatever passed for brakes on a reality-bending behemoth. Inertia might be negotiable, but momentum was still a thing. We were thrown violently forward against our harnesses. The creature on the roof, presumably less secured, gave another piercing screech as it was likely flung forward.

Did it work?

Before we could tell, more green eyes appeared ahead of us, emerging from fissures in the tunnel walls, blocking the narrow passage. They hadn't just been behind us. They were flanking us, cutting off our escape route.

The clicking intensified, surrounding us now, echoing claustrophobically.

We weren't just being hunted. We'd driven straight into their nest.

Anya stared at the cluster of green eyes blocking the path forward, then glanced at the frantic sensor readings showing the creature still somewhere on our roof. Her knuckles were white on the controls. Trapped between rock, a hard place, and giant, armored, ceiling-crawling centipede things.

"Okay," she said, her voice dangerously calm now. "So much for Plan B." She looked at me, her hazel eyes burning with desperate intensity. "Debugger… I need another miracle. How's that cosmic duct tape holding?"

My heart sank. Miracle quota felt distinctly exceeded for the day. And judging by the sound of claws scrabbling furiously just inches above my head, time was running out fast.

 

[phanst]

Chapter 0014: Between the Chitin and the Deep Dark

"Debugger… I need another miracle. How's that cosmic duct tape holding?" Anya's voice was dangerously calm, a stark contrast to the frantic clicking and scraping echoing from outside and above the cockpit. Her eyes, reflected in the dim glow of the console, were chips of hard hazel, focused, calculating, but underscored by a tension that tightened the lines around her mouth.

A miracle? My brain felt like sludge. My SP reserves were flashing [SP: 1/80 - ERROR] like a dying battery icon. Just thinking about attempting another reality manipulation stunt made my vision swim and the metallic taste of adrenaline resurge.

"The duct tape is holding," I replied, my voice strained, "but it's stretched thin. Another major reality warp like that inertia negation trick… or trying to offensively debug those things… probably ends with my brain trying to divide by zero." I rubbed my temples, the headache a constant, grinding pressure. The URE's warning about [Cognitive Damage] wasn't an idle threat, it felt like a promise my own neurons were desperately trying to keep me from fulfilling.

What options ARE there? my sluggish mind churned. Maybe try destabilizing the local gravity field? Risky, uncontrolled, could collapse the tunnel. Try broadcasting a massive wave of sensory static? Might confuse them, might just piss them off, probably drain me instantly. Interface with their bio-code? Assuming they have code and not just pure, nasty biology... suicide mission, requires touching them or getting dangerously close. The thoughts were fragmented, laced with static and the icy fear of permanent mental burnout. The usual debugging toolbox felt empty, the tools too heavy to lift.

Anya seemed to understand the unspoken limitations. She didn't push, just nodded curtly. "Right. So, brute force it is." Her hands flew across the controls again. "Leo, keep an eye on the one on the roof, tell me if it finds a weak spot. Ren, see if you can spot a pattern in the forward group. Weakest point in their formation?"

Even simple observation felt difficult. The cognitive fog made distinguishing individual shapes in the cluster of glowing green slits ahead taxing. But Leo, his initial panic seemingly replaced by a focused intensity born of immediate danger, was already leaning forward, peering intently.

"The one on the far left!" he called out, pointing. "Its carapace… it's damaged! Older scars, maybe? It's hanging back slightly compared to the others." He was using his draftsman's eye again, seeing the subtle imperfections, the deviations from the norm.

Anya grinned, a feral flash of teeth in the dim light. "Good eye, kid. That's our breakthrough point. Targeting solutions… minimal options down here. Kinetic impact it is."

She activated something else. Not the drive core's reality-bending hum, but a deeper, mechanical thunk from the front of the vehicle. "Deploying the 'Negotiator'," she announced grimly.

From the heavily armored front plating of the Probability Drive, just below the main viewport, a thick, hydraulic ram extended with a hiss. It wasn't elegant. It wasn't high-tech. It was a slab of hardened steel designed for one purpose: hitting things very, very hard.

"Alright, Stalker-bait," Anya muttered, lining up the vehicle with the slightly hesitant creature Leo had identified. "Let's negotiate."

She jammed the throttle forward, not with the reality-warping surge of before, but with raw, brutal track power. The Probability Drive leaped forward, engine roaring in the confined space.

The Tunnel Stalkers blocking the path ahead reacted instantly, scattering slightly, their multiple legs scrabbling for grip on the slick floor. But the damaged one, slightly slower, couldn't evade the sudden charge.

WHAM!

The hydraulic ram slammed into the creature with sickening force. Chitin cracked audibly. Green insect blood splattered against our viewport. The Stalker was flung backward, tumbling into its brethren, creating a momentary chaos in their ranks.

But the creature on the roof chose that exact moment to strike. The scraping intensified, followed by a series of heavy thuds against the cockpit's upper viewport. It had found the reinforced window. Dark, multi-jointed legs scrabbled at the edges, thick claws screeching as they sought to dig into the transparisteel. A hideous, wedge-shaped head, all mandibles and emotionless green slits, pressed against the glass, trying to peer inside.

Leo choked back a scream. Anya swore, wrestling with the controls as the vehicle bucked slightly under the shifting weight and impact.

"It's trying to break through!" Leo yelled.

"Noticed!" Anya snapped back. She swerved violently, trying to scrape the creature off against the tunnel wall. Metal shrieked against concrete, showering sparks. The Stalker hissed, clinging on tenaciously.

"Damn parasites!" Anya scanned her controls. "Can't depressurize the roof plating down here, structural risk… Can't use external countermeasures without hitting the tunnel walls…" She was running out of options.

The Stalkers ahead, recovering from the initial impact, were already regrouping, their green eyes fixing on us again, clicking sounds resuming their menacing rhythm. We were still trapped.

Think, Ren, think! Forget reality code. Basic physics. The creature was on the roof. Vulnerable. Maybe…

"Anya!" I yelled, leaning forward, pointing towards her main console. "The deflectors! Can you overload one? Specifically, the roof emitters?"

She frowned, momentarily confused, even as she dodged another lunge from the Stalkers ahead. "Overload them? Why? That'll blow the emitters, probably cause a cascade failure in the shield grid!"

"Exactly!" I urged, the desperate idea solidifying even through the mental haze. "Don't try to push it off! Try to cook it off! A controlled overload, directed straight up! Burst of pure heat and EM! Might damage the roof plating, definitely fry the emitter, but…"

Understanding dawned in Anya's eyes, quickly replaced by calculating risk assessment. "Shit. That's crazy. And probably expensive." She glanced at the Stalker head pressing insistently against the viewport, mandibles clicking. "...But maybe just crazy enough." Her fingers flew across a different panel, inputting override commands. Red warning lights flashed. [Warning: Shield Emitter Overload Protocol Initiated. Safety Interlocks Bypassed.]

"Emitter five, roof-center, charging overload!" Anya yelled. "Hang on! This might get bumpy! And possibly toasty!"

A high-pitched whine started building, distinct from the drive core hum, resonating through the cockpit plating. The temperature inside ticked up noticeably. The Stalker on the roof seemed to sense the energy build-up, its scrabbling becoming more frantic, its hisses more agitated.

"Now!" Anya slammed her fist onto an activation button.

FWOOSH-CRACKLE!

A blinding flash erupted from the roof emitters, visible even through the thick viewport as reflected light. It wasn't blue deflector energy, it was pure, uncontrolled discharge of white-hot plasma and crackling electromagnetic chaos. The vehicle shuddered violently. The lights inside flickered, dimmed, then surged back. The Stalker's screech cut off abruptly, replaced by a horrifying sizzling sound and the smell of burnt insect flesh permeating the recycled air.

Anya immediately threw the vehicle into a hard forward lurch, dislodging whatever charred remnants remained on the roof. They presumably tumbled off behind us, though neither Leo nor I wanted to look.

The path ahead was momentarily clearer, the forward Stalkers seemingly stunned or intimidated by the violent energy discharge. Anya didn't waste the opening. She pushed the Probability Drive forward relentlessly, tracks churning, ramming through the remaining stunned creatures without slowing. More sickening crunches echoed through the hull.

We burst past the chokepoint, leaving the nest behind, plunging deeper into the twisting, lightless tunnel. Anya didn't ease up, pushing the battered vehicle as fast as the narrow confines allowed. Only when the clicking and hissing sounds had completely faded behind us did she finally allow the engine to settle back into a less frantic rhythm.

Silence fell again, heavy and thick, broken only by the drive's hum and our ragged breathing. The immediate threat was gone. But the cost was evident. Smoke curled faintly from a scorch mark visible on the edge of the upper viewport. Warning indicators for the shield grid blinked angrily on Anya's console. My head felt like it might actually split open.

"Okay," Anya breathed out, running a shaky hand over her face. "Note to self: Sonic deterrents and roof-cooking. Add it to the manual." She glanced back at me, then at Leo. "Status report?"

"Alive," Leo managed, slumping back in his seat. "Need… need new underwear, probably."

"Ditto," I muttered, trying to push down the wave of nausea threatening to overwhelm me. "Core stability… eighty-one percent. Seems unaffected by the light show. But… Anya… my head…" The world was starting to tilt again, the edges of my vision blurring.

"Easy, Debugger," Anya's voice softened slightly, losing some of its hard edge. She was already scanning readouts on her console. "You pushed way too hard back at the garage. Bio-signs are… not great." She frowned. "Looks like your 'Emergency Reserve' has some nasty feedback. We need to get you stabilized. There's a relatively secure maintenance junction about a klick ahead. Used to use it as a layover spot." Her pragmatism returned. "Can you stay conscious until then?"

Staying conscious felt like a monumental task. The darkness outside the floodlights seemed to press in, swirling with phantoms born of exhaustion and cognitive strain. Closing my eyes felt dangerously inviting.

"Yeah," I lied weakly, gripping the sides of my seat. "Just… keep driving." The universe might be buggy, but right now, simple unconsciousness felt like the most terrifying system crash of all.

 

[phanst]

Chapter 0015: Maintenance Junction Oasis (Relative Oasis, Conditions Apply)

The Probability Drive chewed through the narrow, damp tunnel, its powerful floodlights cutting a swathe through the oppressive darkness. Behind us, the silence felt absolute, the nest of Tunnel Stalkers thankfully not giving chase. Or perhaps occupied with mourning (or eating) their electro-cooked comrade. Ahead, there was only the twisting blackness, the rhythmic crunch of the tracks on debris, and the low thrum of the reality drive core, currently behaving itself thanks to my increasingly frayed cosmic duct tape.

Inside the cockpit, the atmosphere was thick with exhaustion, residual adrenaline, and the lingering, unpleasant odor of burnt insect flesh. Leo was quiet in the back, occasionally wiping condensation from a side viewport, his initial terror replaced by a wide-eyed, wary vigilance. Anya piloted with unwavering focus, her face illuminated by the complex glow of the controls, though I could see the faint lines of strain around her eyes. This place clearly took its toll, even on someone familiar with its dangers.

My own condition was… sub-optimal. The world viewed through the main viewport seemed subtly distorted, colors bleeding slightly at the edges, straight lines seeming to curve almost imperceptibly. The cognitive fog persisted, making complex thought feel like trying to swim through syrup. My headache pulsed relentlessly. Trying to even think about accessing [Perceive Glitch] sent warning bells ringing in my skull. It was a visualization of my mental 'toolbox' flickering erratically, the tools sparking feebly, refusing to properly materialize. The well was dry, and attempting to draw from it again felt physically dangerous. The URE's warning about potential Cognitive Damage wasn't just text on a screen... it was a palpable threat looming behind every stray thought.

"How much further?" I asked, my voice raspy. Talking felt like an effort.

"Almost there," Anya replied without looking away from the path ahead. "See that bend? Junction is just beyond it. Used to be a major pumping station nexus before the lines were rerouted decades ago. Relatively secure, structurally sound… mostly. Had power regulation issues, though."

As we rounded the bend, the tunnel widened slightly. Ahead, the floodlights revealed not just another intersection, but a larger chamber carved out of the rock and concrete. Thick pipes, coated in rust and grime, crisscrossed the ceiling and walls. In the center stood an uninhabited, windowless structure built of heavy reinforced concrete. It was the maintenance junction building itself. Its thick steel door looked securely shut.

Anya brought the Probability Drive to a smooth halt just outside the junction building. She killed the main drive hum, plunging us into an eerie silence broken only by the quiet whir of internal life support fans and the distant, ever-present drip… drip. The sudden lack of the core's vibration felt strangely unnerving.

"Okay," Anya announced, unbuckling her harness. "Temporary pit stop. Need to check the rig for damage after that Stalker demolition derby, let the core cool slightly, and…" she glanced back at me, her expression assessing, "…get you upright, Debugger. You look like crap warmed over."

"Feel like crap reconstituted from recycled error logs," I muttered, fumbling with my own harness buckle. My fingers felt clumsy, slightly numb.

"Leo," Anya instructed, already moving towards the cockpit hatch, "stay inside, keep watch. Cycle through the external sensors. Yell if anything bigger than a mutated rat shows up."

Leo nodded mutely, his eyes scanning the sensor readouts she indicated.

Anya cracked the cockpit hatch. The air that wafted in was thick with the Undercroft's usual charming perfume of mildew, decay, and wet stone, but thankfully lacked the immediate scent of burnt insect gore. She dropped lightly to the ground, her boots crunching on the rubble-strewn floor. I followed more awkwardly, my legs feeling shaky, the simple act of standing and moving requiring conscious effort. The oppressive quiet of the chamber pressed in.

The maintenance junction building looked solid, almost bunker-like. Anya approached the heavy steel door, examining an ancient-looking control panel beside it. It was similar to the keypad outside her workshop, but even older, more corroded.

"Standard mag-lock, but the power coupling down here is notoriously unstable," she commented, tracing a finger over the rusted casing. "Sometimes it works, sometimes it needs… persuasion." She glanced at me pointedly.

I shook my head, leaning against the cool hull of the Probability Drive for support. "Don't look at me. Persuasion circuits are offline. Might manage to order a pizza telepathically if I'm lucky, but bypassing security locks? Not happening." Even visualizing the keypad's potential circuitry sent sparks of pain behind my eyes.

Anya frowned, then shrugged. "Figured. Alright, Plan B." She rummaged in one of her belt pouches and produced a compact, multi-frequency sonic resonator – a tool designed for materials testing, or, more likely in her case, finding structural weaknesses. She pressed it against the door near the lock mechanism, fiddling with dials. A low, focused hum filled the air, changing pitch as she adjusted the frequency.

"Looking for the resonant frequency of the locking pins," she explained, concentrating. "Old trick. Usually faster than cutting..."

Suddenly, a high-pitched whine emanated from the device, and it sparked violently in her hand. Anya cursed, snatching her hand back as the tool went dead. "Damn it! Power surge from the building's grid. Told you the regulation was shit." She kicked the steel door in frustration. "Locked tight."

"So… we're sleeping in the truck?" I asked hopefully. The cockpit, while cramped, felt marginally safer than the Undercroft tunnels.

"Can't," Anya stated flatly. "Need to run external diagnostics on the drive connections and check the track assembly for stress fractures after that impact. Plus, the rig's energy signature, even idling, is like a beacon down here. Need to power down fully, and we can't do that exposed." She looked from the stubbornly locked door to me, then back again, tapping a finger against her chin. "There is one other way in. Maintenance shaft access on the roof. But it's small, probably rusted shut, and getting the Probability Drive up there is… not an option."

"So we climb?" I guessed, already feeling exhausted at the prospect.

"We climb," she confirmed. "Or rather, I climb. Get inside, override the lock from the internal panel, let you two in. You," she pointed at me, "look like you'd fall off a ladder standing still right now. Stay with the rig. Keep Leo company. Try not to… I don't know… spontaneously debug the local gravity or something."

It was a pragmatic plan, playing to our current strengths (or lack thereof). She had the agility and presumably the tools. I had the distinct liability of potentially passing out if I stood up too quickly.

Anya retrieved a compact coil of synth-rope and a grappling hook from a storage compartment on the Probability Drive. She expertly sized up the ten-foot height of the junction building, eyed the rusted service ladder bolted to the side, and shook her head. "Ladder looks like decorative rust. Grapple it is."

With a practiced flick of her wrist, she sent the grapple soaring upwards. It hooked securely onto a sturdy-looking ventilation grate near the roof edge. Testing the line with her full weight, she nodded, satisfied.

"Alright," she said, turning back to me. "Shouldn't take long. Keep the comms open, even if it's mostly static." She gestured towards my ear where a small comm bead resided. Standard scavenger tech, mostly useless for long range, potentially viable for short-range line-of-sight. "Yell if anything changes. And Ren?"

"Yeah?"

"Try not to pass out," she said, a ghost of a smirk touching her lips before she turned and started ascending the rope with fluid, athletic grace, disappearing quickly onto the flat roof above.

Left alone in the relative quiet of the chamber, leaning against the silent metal beast, the weight of my exhaustion pressed down harder. The silence felt heavy, expectant. My blurry vision played tricks, making shadows writhe in the corners of the floodlight beams.

Suddenly, Leo's voice crackled over the comm bead in my ear, tight with suppressed panic. "Ren? Ren, you need to see this. External sensors… rear quadrant. Something's coming back down the tunnel we just came from. Fast."

My blood ran cold. Back already? Or something else drawn by the commotion? Alone, outside the vehicle, with Anya on the roof and my brain running on fumes… this pit stop was rapidly turning into another potential deathtrap.

 

[phanst]

Chapter 0016: Holding the Door (While Mentally Rebooting)

"Ren? Ren, you need to see this. External sensors… rear quadrant. Something's coming back down the tunnel we just came from. Fast."

Leo's panicked voice crackled through the comm bead, a jolt of ice water through the syrupy fog clouding my brain. My head snapped up, scanning the oppressive darkness back down the narrow tunnel we'd just navigated. The Probability Drive's rear floodlights cast long, distorted shadows, but the tunnel itself remained stubbornly empty. For now.

Fast. That wasn't good. The Stalkers had been quick, but this sounded different.

"Specifics, Leo!" I barked into my comm, trying to keep the tremor out of my voice, leaning heavily against the rig's cool plating. My legs felt like overcooked noodles. Being outside, exposed, with my primary defense mechanism – my brain – running at dial-up speeds felt terrifyingly naked. Can't debug, can barely think straight, and Anya's playing rooftop ninja while I'm zombie-bait down here. The fear wasn't just of the unknown threat... it was the fear of my own uselessness.

"Uh… okay, okay…" Leo's voice stammered slightly, followed by the faint clicking of him presumably interacting with the sensor controls inside the cockpit. "Sensors are glitchy, lots of interference, but… it looks like… three distinct signals? Moving in tight formation. Smaller than that big construction thing on the surface, but much faster. Energy signatures are… weird. Mixed. Part biological heat, part unstable energy field? Like… like pissed-off ghosts piloting go-karts made of static?"

Ghosts piloting static go-karts. Wonderful. Just another Tuesday in the Undercroft. "Biological and energy?" I muttered, trying to process that. Glitch-augmented creatures? Technologically enhanced critters? The Undercroft clearly had its own unique brand of horrors. Three of them, coming fast.

Above me, I heard a faint scraping sound as Anya presumably reached the maintenance access shaft on the roof of the junction building. No time. We had absolutely no time.

Why did we even stop? The thought was sharp, cutting through the fog. Oh right. Damage assessment. Drive core cooldown. Fix the damn roof emitter properly. Get my brain back online. Anya's reasons were sound. Pushing the damaged rig further, especially with my patch job potentially degrading, was borrowing trouble. This layover wasn't optional, it was essential system maintenance. Didn't make being the bait any more pleasant.

I pushed myself away from the Probability Drive, forcing my shaky legs to cooperate. Needed distance. Needed options, however limited. My eyes scanned the immediate area illuminated by the vehicle's forward floodlights. Rubble piles. Thick, rusted pipes lining the walls. The sealed steel door of the junction. Not much cover.

The comm bead crackled again. "Anya? Update?" I kept my voice low.

"Working on it!" Her voice was muffled, strained, followed by the sound of metal screeching against metal. "Shaft cover is rusted solid. Applying… percussive negotiation!" A loud clang echoed faintly from the roof.

Great. She was beating on it with a wrench, probably. Meanwhile, the static go-kart ghosts were closing in.

My gaze fell on the thick pipes lining the tunnel wall near the junction entrance. Coated in grime and rust, yes, but solid-looking. One section, about waist-high, seemed to have a pressure-release valve wheel, also rusted solid. If those things hunted by vibration or sound… maybe…

It was a stupid idea, born of desperation and a brain firing on only two cylinders. But it was an idea.

Stumbling slightly, I moved towards the pipe, keeping an eye on the tunnel entrance behind me. Nothing visible yet, but the feeling of something approaching, a subtle pressure change in the heavy air, was undeniable. My dulled [Perceive Glitch] skill might not be able to analyze details, but it could still register imminent doom on a general level.

Reached the pipe. Placed my hand on the large, rust-fused valve wheel. Tried to turn it. Didn't budge. Of course not. Put my shoulder into it, grunting with effort, pain spiking behind my eyes from the exertion. Still nothing. It was seized tighter than a miser's coin purse.

Think, Ren! Don't need to open it. Just need noise. Vibration. Distraction.

My multi-tool. Still clipped to my belt. Fumbled it out with numb fingers. Selected the heaviest, pointiest attachment, a reinforced alloy punch. Maybe if I could just jar the valve, create a loud noise down here, it might draw their attention away from the Probability Drive, away from the sounds Anya was making on the roof.

Took a deep breath. Aimed for the thickest part of the valve casing, right near the rusted spindle. Swung the multi-tool with all the force my exhausted body could muster.

CLANG!

The sound echoed deafeningly in the enclosed chamber, far louder than Anya's rooftop negotiations. The valve itself didn't move, but a shower of rust flakes rained down. Did it work? Did they hear it?

A low, guttural hiss echoed from the tunnel entrance. Not insect clicking this time. Something wet. Visceral.

My blood ran cold. Turning slowly, I raised my flashlight beam, hand shaking.

Three figures emerged from the darkness, moving with an unnatural, gliding speed. Leo wasn't wrong. They were vaguely humanoid in shape, but hunched, limbs too long, joints bending at impossible angles. Their forms shimmered, constantly phasing between solid, oily black shadows and bursts of crackling, corrupted data. Purple and sickly green static clung to their outlines like tattered clothes. Where faces should have been, there were only swirling vortexes of energy, pulsing faintly. Biological heat signature and unstable energy field. Glitch-Wraiths? Data-Daemons? Whatever they were, they looked like they'd crawled out of a broken server rack in hell.

They hadn't been fooled by the noise. They were heading straight for the biggest energy signature, the Probability Drive. And I was standing right beside it.

"Ren! They're here!" Leo's panicked yell came over the comms.

The three Wraiths flowed over the rubble, their movements disturbingly silent now, the earlier hissing faded. They moved like liquid shadow, closing the distance with horrifying speed. No time to run. No energy to fight. No way to debug.

My hand instinctively went to the pipe beside me again. Useless. Brain scrambling for options. Found none. Just pure, undiluted panic starting to cut through the cognitive fog.

Suddenly, a section of the ceiling of the junction chamber directly above the Wraiths exploded downwards in a shower of concrete dust and rusted rebar.

Anya dropped through the newly created hole, landing cat-footed amidst the debris, her sonic resonator already humming in her hand. She must have given up on the shaft cover and simply blasted her way through the ceiling itself.

"Party crashers!" she yelled, immediately triggering the resonator. A focused beam of intense, multi-frequency sound slammed into the lead Wraith.

The creature convulsed, its shimmering form flickering violently, static crackling audibly. It recoiled, letting out a silent scream that I somehow felt as a spike of pure mental pressure. The other two hesitated, their energy fields wavering.

"Inside, Ren! Now!" Anya yelled, holding the resonator steady, forcing the Wraiths back momentarily. "Door override engaged!"

With a heavy clunk and a pneumatic hiss, the thick steel door to the maintenance junction slid open beside me. Safety. Relative safety, anyway.

I didn't need telling twice. Scrambling on unsteady legs, I practically threw myself through the doorway just as the lead Wraith recovered, lunging past Anya's sonic assault towards the opening.

Anya jumped back, firing a quick burst from her sidearm. Not lethal energy, but a concussive blast that slammed into the Wraith, sending it staggering back into its companions. She leaped through the doorway after me.

"Leo! Seal it!" Anya bellowed into her comm.

From inside the Probability Drive, there must have been a remote control or something. As soon as the Probability Drive slid through behind us, the heavy steel door slid shut with a clang and a final, solid thump of engaged mag-locks, plunging us into the near-total darkness of the maintenance junction, the sounds of the enraged Wraiths scraping and hissing against the outside of the door muffled but terrifyingly close. Safe. For now.

 

[phanst]

Hi everyone,

I will be following the below release schedule:

- 1 Chapter around 05:00 AM UTC time
- 1 Chapter around 03:00 PM UTC time

Chapters are definitely going to be released from Monday to Friday, with a chapter or two on the weekends if life allows it.

Thank you for reading, and do leave comments, feedback, likes, and remember to add to your watchlist! :>

Note: as there is no way to schedule chapters ahead of their release, I will need to post them manually, so please give me a 15-30 min grace period.

 

[phanst]

Chapter 0017: Oasis (Subject to Bugs and Poor Lighting)

The heavy thump of the mag-locks engaging echoed finality in the sudden, heavy darkness of the maintenance junction. Outside, the muffled scraping and hissing of the Glitch-Wraiths against the thick steel door served as a terrifying reminder that 'safe' was a highly relative term. My heart hammered against my ribs, each beat echoing the dull throb in my skull.

"Lights!" Anya snapped, her voice tight but controlled, already moving deeper into the pitch blackness.

A moment later, with a hesitant flicker and the buzz of protesting old capacitors, rows of overhead fluorescent tubes sputtered to life. They cast a harsh, flickering, greenish-white light across the interior, revealing not a cramped closet like my server room haven, but a surprisingly large, cavernous space.

It was clearly built for function, not comfort. The floor was bare, oil-stained concrete, littered with discarded tools, empty ration packs far older than the ones Anya carried, and rusted metal shavings. Thick bundles of pipes and conduits snaked across the high ceiling and down the walls, feeding into massive, silent machinery that hulked in the corners – water pumps, air filtration units, power transformers, all coated in decades of grime and looking decidedly inactive. A faint smell of ozone lingered, stronger than in the tunnels, mixed with the ever-present damp concrete and mildew, plus an underlying hint of something acrid, like old battery acid.

A metal catwalk ran along one wall, leading to secondary control panels higher up. Below it, a heavy workbench cluttered with more ancient, rusted tools stood against the wall near the door control panel Anya must have overridden remotely.

Overall, it felt… derelict but solid. A forgotten pocket of industrial functionality left to decay. Less immediately hostile than the tunnels, but radiating a quiet sense of neglect and potential malfunction.

"Secure?" I asked, my voice still rough, leaning against the cool concrete wall just inside the door, trying to catch my breath without inhaling too much questionable air.

Anya was already examining the internal door control panel, running a diagnostic scanner over it. The device beeped with gloom. "Mag-locks are holding at eighty percent charge. Door integrity… compromised after my… enthusiastic entrance, but it'll hold against scratching." She shot me a wry look. "Probably wouldn't stop a determined assault from something with actual breaching capability, though. We bought time, not invulnerability." She turned her attention back to the panel. "Main power grid down here is offline, obviously. Running internal systems off auxiliary batteries. Looks like they have about twelve hours of life left, judging by the discharge rate."

Twelve hours. A deadline, then.

Leo had slumped onto an overturned crate near the workbench, running a shaky hand through his hair. He looked utterly spent, the terror of the Wraith encounter leaving him pale and trembling slightly. "Those… things," he stammered. "What were they?"

"Glitch-Wraiths," Anya confirmed grimly, fiddling with the panel settings, likely reinforcing the lock commands. "Nasty pieces of work. Part residual human echo, part corrupted data, part pure environmental spite, from what I gather. Fast, silent when they want to be, drawn to energy signatures and strong emotions. That sonic resonator disrupts their cohesion, usually. Doesn't kill them." She frowned. "Never seen them hunt in coordinated packs like that before. Or be that aggressive this close to the surface levels. Something's stirring them up."

My mind briefly flashed back to the SOS signal from Quadrant 7G. Was there a connection? Was some larger disturbance radiating outwards, affecting even the deep Undercroft? Or was it just another delightful coincidence in our increasingly complicated lives? The thought process felt sluggish, like wading through cognitive quicksand. Trying to analyze deeper implications right now was pointless, my brain simply wasn't up to the task. Survival first. Analysis… eventually. Maybe.

"Alright," Anya straightened up from the panel. "We're locked in. They're locked out. For now." She surveyed the junction. "First order: Check your gear, count your ammo," she unconsciously patted her sidearm, "tend to any immediate injuries." Her gaze lingered on me again. "Which includes mental ones, Debugger. You need to recover. Whatever those Wraiths were, I have a feeling they won't be the last welcoming committee we meet down here."

She was right. Pushing myself further wasn't just risky, it was stupid. If another crisis hit, I needed to be capable of more than just identifying problems I couldn't fix. "Yeah," I conceded, pushing myself off the wall. "Rest. Water. Maybe some non-radioactive food, if such a thing exists?"

Anya gestured towards her pack, leaning against the workbench. "Got standard-issue nutrient paste, guaranteed to taste like vaguely salty cardboard. And filtered water. Help yourself." She started moving towards the hulking machinery in the corner, pulling out a more sophisticated scanner. "I need to check these old power conduits. See if there's any residual charge we can tap to supplement the batteries, or if trying just risks blowing the whole junction offline."

I gratefully snagged a water flask and a nutrient paste tube from her pack. The water was clean, blessedly cool, easing the dryness in my throat. The nutrient paste tube was depressingly familiar military-grade grey. Squeezing some onto my finger, I tasted it tentatively. Vaguely salty cardboard was a remarkably accurate description. Grimly, I started forcing it down. Calories were calories, even if they tasted like recycled packaging material.

Leo seemed content to just sit on his crate, taking slow sips from his own water bottle, eyes still wide as he stared at the heavy steel door. The encounter had clearly shaken him to the core.

I found a relatively clean patch of floor near the workbench, slid down the wall, and leaned my head back against the cool concrete. Closed my eyes. Not sleeping, just… trying to let my brain defragment. The throbbing headache eased slightly with the hydration and the grim necessity of the nutrient paste. My SP indicator still flashed ERROR, the number stubbornly refusing to climb above 1. Recovery wasn't going to be instantaneous. It felt like my mental 'RAM' had been completely overwritten and needed a slow, painstaking rebuild.

The only sounds were Anya's quiet movements as she worked on the machinery, the faint hum of her scanner, Leo's soft breathing, and the muffled, rhythmic scrape… scrape… hiss… from outside the steel door. The Wraiths weren't giving up. They were waiting.

Time stretched, measured in the flickering of the overhead lights and the distant, imagined dripping of water. I focused on breathing, trying to push down the lingering fear and the cognitive static. Tried to access [Perceive Glitch] gently, just testing the waters. Instantly felt a sharp spike of pain behind my eyes, like touching a live wire. Retreated immediately. Nope. Still offline. Recovery required actual rest, not impatient poking.

Maybe ten minutes passed. Maybe thirty. Time felt fluid, unreliable down here.

Suddenly, Anya swore softly from across the room. "Well, shit."

My eyes snapped open. Leo jumped. "What? What is it? Are they getting in?"

"No, door's fine," Anya said, frustration clear in her voice. She held up her scanner, pointing towards one of the massive, silent transformer units. "Power conduits are shot. Completely corroded. Trying to draw power would be like plugging into a fireworks factory." She sighed, running a hand through her hair again. "So, twelve hours on the batteries it is. Max. And that's just for basic life support and keeping the door locked. No recharging the rig's main cells."

Twelve hours. Not enough time to fully recover. Not enough time to effect major repairs on the Probability Drive, even if I could help. Just enough time to be trapped in here until the power failed and the door unlocked itself, delivering us gift-wrapped to the patient horrors outside.

Unless…

Anya followed my gaze towards the large, silent water pump machinery dominating another corner. Thick pipes led into and out of it, disappearing into the concrete floor and walls.

"Don't even think about it," she said sternly. "That's the old reservoir overflow pump system. Hasn't been active in decades. Probably seized solid. And even if it wasn't, the outflow tunnels likely lead deeper into unmapped, flooded sections. Trading hungry Wraiths for drowning in Glitch-infested sludge isn't an upgrade."

She had a point. Still, a potential alternative route, however unlikely, felt marginally better than just waiting for the batteries to die.

The scraping outside the door intensified momentarily, then fell silent again. Were they trying different tactics? Or just… listening?

We were in a concrete box, low on power, with nightmare creatures waiting outside, my primary skillset crippled, and our only potential escape route likely led to drowning or worse.

The URE, ever helpful, offered a notification:

----------

[New Quest Suggestion (Low Priority?): Find A Better Hiding Spot.]

Potential Reward: [Delayed Demise]

Warning: Current Location Stability Rating: Degrading due to External Entity Pressure.

----------

Degrading stability. Great. Just freaking great. The box wasn't even guaranteed to remain a box.

Anya saw the flicker of the URE interface in my eyes. "System giving you helpful advice?" she asked drily.

"Suggests finding a better hiding spot," I replied, forcing down the nutrient paste. "Also notes location stability is 'degrading due to external entity pressure'. Which I assume means those things scratching at the door are literally stressing the reality of this room."

Anya's expression hardened. "Yeah. Wraiths can do that. Corrode reality locally if they focus." She looked around the junction, her gaze sharp and assessing again. "Twelve hours just became a very optimistic estimate."

Our temporary oasis was already starting to feel like a slowly collapsing trap.

 

[phanst]

Chapter 0018: Structural Integrity (Optional)

The heavy steel door separating us from the Glitch-Wraiths vibrated faintly, a low-frequency thrum that resonated through the concrete floor and up my aching bones. The muffled scraping outside had taken on a new, more worrying quality. It was a deeper, grinding sound, like something trying to chew through the metal itself. My already fuzzy vision seemed to worsen and I saw faint, iridescent geometric patterns, like oil slicks on water, flickering intermittently across the grimy concrete walls near the door, vanishing as soon as I tried to focus on them.

"Stability degrading," Anya observed grimly, her gaze fixed on the shimmering patterns. She had her scanner out again, pointed not at machinery, but at the air itself near the door. The readings scrolled rapidly, mostly gibberish and error codes, but the trend line was clearly downward. "URE wasn't wrong. They're actively stressing the local reality field. Trying to unmake the door, maybe? Or just weaken the whole damned room."

The thought sent a fresh wave of cold dread through me, colder than the lingering chill from the SP burnout. This wasn't just being trapped, it was being trapped in a box that was slowly being deleted.

Debug options? The thought sparked instinctively, followed immediately by a lance of pain behind my eyes. I squeezed them shut, picturing my mental toolkit. It looked… pathetic. The visualization was fuzzy, indistinct. My [Logic Probe] tool flickered like a cheap holo-emitter running on a dying battery. The 'Shields' construct seemed cracked and fragile, incapable of holding any real energy. Trying to actively do anything, like reinforcing the junction's reality field? Suicidal. The mental backlash would likely cause the very cognitive crash the URE kept vaguely warning me about. My only recourse was observation, and even that felt like trying to read fine print through frosted glass.

"How long does that take?" Leo asked, his voice tight. He'd forced himself off the crate and was nervously pacing near the workbench, eyes darting between the vibrating door and the flickering lights overhead. "How long until they… stress it enough?"

Anya consulted her scanner again, her expression grim. "Hard to say. Depends how focused they are, how many there are. But this junction… it wasn't designed for heavy reality flux." She traced a pattern in the air, likely recalling old schematics or past experiences. "It's old. Solid physically, but the underlying reality code? Probably riddled with legacy vulnerabilities. Hours? Maybe. Minutes? Possible. Especially with the auxiliary power draining." She nodded towards the dimming overhead lights. "Less power, less inherent stability."

"We have to get out before the power fails then," I stated the obvious, pushing myself upright again. The brief rest hadn't done much besides solidify the exhaustion. "That water pump system…"

"Is a deathtrap," Anya finished firmly. "Flooded tunnels, unknown critters, probable structural collapses. And even if we survived all that, where does it lead? We're taking this Undercroft route for one reason – to get west, under the Kilo-7 Distortion Field that makes surface travel impossible. Those overflow tunnels could dump us anywhere, probably deeper, further east." She shook her head decisively. "Not an option unless the alternative is certain death." Which, admittedly, felt increasingly like our current situation.

Leo, meanwhile, had stopped pacing. He wasn't looking at the door anymore, but frowning at the massive, silent pump machinery that dominated the far corner of the junction, his gaze tracing the thick, rust-coated pipes that disappeared into the concrete wall. His draftsman's instincts, perhaps?

"Anya," he said slowly, walking towards the pumps, "you said this place had power regulation issues?"

"Notoriously," Anya confirmed, still monitoring the door and her scanner. "Blew circuits constantly back when it was operational. Why?"

Leo ran a hand over one of the large pipes near where it bolted into the wall, dislodging flakes of rust. He peered closely at the concrete around the join. "Because… look at this." He pointed. "These cracks… they aren't random stress fractures from age. See the pattern? Radiating outwards? That looks like damage from repeated, focused energy discharge. Like the unstable power wasn't just blowing internal circuits... it was arcing out, hitting the structure itself, right here."

He moved along the wall, tracing the pipework, tapping gently on the concrete. "And this section…" He stopped near a large support pillar that intersected with several major conduits. "The concrete sounds… different here. Thinner? Or maybe hollower?" He looked back at us, a spark of nervous excitement replacing the fear in his eyes. "This whole corner feels like it took the brunt of those old power surges. It might be the weakest point in the whole junction. Structurally."

Anya frowned, lowering her scanner and walking over to where Leo stood. She examined the cracks he indicated, then ran her own hand over the pillar, her experienced touch assessing the texture, the subtle vibrations. After a moment, her eyes widened slightly.

"You're right," she murmured, almost to herself. "I remember reports… Old Man Fitz used to complain about needing to reinforce this section constantly after bad surges back in his smuggling days. Said the rebar was practically cooked." She knocked on the pillar herself. It gave back a dull, slightly resonant thud compared to the solid density elsewhere. "Weak point. Definitely."

A potential way out? Not through the Wraiths at the door, not through the flooded death tunnels, but through the wall itself?

My foggy brain tried to process the implications. Creating a breach… would require force. Noise. Attract attention. But maybe… just maybe…

"Can we break through?" I asked, taking a step closer, the idea feeling fragile but vitally important.

Anya assessed the pillar, her gaze calculating. "With what? My sidearm on overload might crack it, but the feedback in this confined space? Bad idea. The Probability Drive's ram? Can't maneuver it in here." She looked around the cluttered junction. "No heavy demolition tools…"

Leo, however, was already examining the nearby pump machinery again, his eyes lit with a different kind of focus now, the focused gaze of someone understanding complex systems. "The pump mechanism… see that main impeller housing? It's designed to handle massive water pressure. It's got hydraulic pistons, pressure seals… if we could somehow reroute the hydraulic pressure…"

Anya stared at him, then back at the pump, then at the weakened pillar. A slow, dangerous grin spread across her face. "Reroute the hydraulics… use the pump itself as a battering ram against the weak point…" She looked back at Leo, truly impressed this time. "Draftsman, huh? You got a devious mind when you're not panicking."

Leo flushed slightly but nodded eagerly. "The control systems are dead without main power, but the hydraulic reservoir might still have pressure. We'd need to bypass the electronic controls, trigger the piston release manually… maybe reroute a fluid line directly?"

"It's insane," Anya breathed, but the grin remained. "Crazy noisy. Might bring the whole ceiling down. And we'd need tools we don't have to reroute high-pressure lines safely…"

"Maybe not," I interjected, pushing myself away from the wall again, an idea flickering through the cognitive static: not debugging reality, but physics. Applied physics. "Forget rerouting the lines. What about the valve stems? The main pressure release valves on the pump housing? They're designed to handle catastrophic failure. If we could somehow shear the stem bolts…"

Anya looked at the massive, rust-seized valves on the pump housing. "Shear hardened steel bolts? How?"

I held up my multi-tool, hefting the alloy punch attachment. "Targeted percussive application," I said, echoing my earlier deflection, but this time with grim intent. "Maybe not shear them clean, but weaken them. Brittle fracture. Then apply blunt force." I nodded towards Leo's golf club, leaning against the crate. Not ideal, but maybe enough?

It was a long shot. A noisy, dangerous, potentially suicidal long shot that relied on Leo's structural assessment, Anya's acceptance of a crazy plan, and my ability to hit something hard enough despite feeling like wet cardboard.

Outside, the grinding noise intensified. A visible crack, thin as a hair but emitting faint purple sparks, spiderwebbed across the steel door near the lock mechanism.

Time was officially up.

"Alright," Anya declared, grabbing a heavy wrench from the workbench. "Crazy plan it is. Leo, show me exactly where you think the weakest point on that pillar is. Ren… start tenderizing those valve bolts. Let's make our own damn exit."

Our unlikely trio – the cynical debugger, the pragmatic speed demon, and the observant draftsman – prepared to bring the house down. Literally.

 

[phanst]

Chapter 0019: Percussive Negotiations and Structural Untruths

"Alright," Anya declared, hefting the heavy industrial wrench as if weighing her options. Her gaze flicked between the groaning steel door, now showing a network of hairline cracks spiderwebbing from the main impact point, and the silent, hulking water pump machinery. "No time for finesse. Leo, mark the exact spot on that pillar – maximum weakness, minimum chance of bringing the entire ceiling down on us."

Leo nodded, his earlier nervousness replaced by a focused intensity that seemed almost out of place on his young face. He grabbed a piece of chalky, crumbling concrete from the floor and hurried over to the pillar he'd identified. He ran his hands over the surface again, eyes tracing patterns only he could see, referencing the radiating cracks originating from the pipe junction. Okay, focus the stress here… factor in the estimated hydraulic force… avoid that primary load-bearing rebar cluster… His internal calculations were almost palpable. Finally, he drew a rough, chalky 'X' about chest-high on the pillar.

"There," he stated, his voice tight but steady. "Hit it square, aim slightly upwards. Should exploit the sheer stress fractures from the old power arcs without compromising the main overhead beam. Theoretically."

"Theoretically," Anya repeated dryly. "Good enough for government work. Or desperate Undercroft escape attempts." She braced herself, planting her feet, ready to direct the hypothetical hydraulic blast.

My own task felt far less precise and infinitely more exhausting. "Tenderizing the valve bolts," Anya had called it. Sounded simple. Felt like preparing to arm-wrestle a tank using only a glorified screwdriver.

I approached the massive, rust-encrusted pump housing, the acrid smell of old oil and stagnant water thick in the air. The main pressure release valve assemblies were huge, bolted onto the thick cast-iron casing with hexagonal bolts the size of my fist. They looked like they hadn't moved since the last ice age, fused solid by time, corrosion, and neglect. My multi-tool's alloy punch felt laughably inadequate.

Okay, Ren. Don't think about the Wraiths clawing through the door. Don't think about your brain feeling like scrambled eggs. Don't think about the fact that this plan relies on breaking hardened steel with minimal leverage and near-zero energy. Focus. Brute force. Percussive negotiation. This is just like dealing with that stubborn server rack in Sector Gamma… only with more rust and a higher chance of immediate, violent death. The internal pep talk wasn't exactly inspiring. My hands trembled slightly as I gripped the multi-tool.

Targeting the first bolt head on the primary release valve – the one aligned most directly with the weakened pillar – I took a shaky breath. Remembered Anya's sonic resonator finding resonant frequencies. Maybe… maybe it wasn't just about hitting it hard, but hitting it right?

My muffled [Perceive Glitch] skill flared weakly, not with reality code, but with a sense of… stressed material. Like listening to the faint groans of metal under tension. Focused on the bolt, trying to feel its internal structure, the lines of force, the points of potential weakness within the corroded metal itself. It was faint, like trying to hear whispers through static, but I caught a flicker, a subtle harmonic dissonance, a tiny internal flaw near the edge of the hexagonal head. [Target Acquired: Material Fatigue Point (Minor)].

Okay. Not just random hitting. Targeted percussion.

Raising the multi-tool high, ignoring the screaming protest from my shoulder muscles and the pulsing agony behind my eyes, I brought the alloy punch down hard, aiming squarely for that perceived weak spot.

CLANG!

The sound ricocheted through the junction, painfully loud. My arm jarred violently up to the shoulder. The bolt head didn't shear. It didn't even noticeably deform. But a tiny network of micro-fractures, almost invisible, appeared on its surface around the impact point. A faint, high-pitched ping resonated from the metal.

"Anything?" Anya called out, glancing over.

"Made it… complain?" I grunted, resetting my stance, lining up another shot. The exertion sent spots dancing in my vision. [Cognitive Strain Increasing].

CLANG! Another jarring impact. The micro-fractures deepened slightly. Another high-pitched ping.

Scrape… GRIND… A louder noise from the main door. The crack widened, spitting more purple sparks. They were getting closer.

"Faster, Ren!" Anya urged, her voice tight.

No time for finesse. Just hit it. Hit it hard. CLANG! PING! CLANG! Again and again, ignoring the pain, ignoring the exhaustion, pouring every ounce of remaining strength into the impacts, guided only by the faint sense of stressing that internal flaw. The bolt head visibly started to deform now, the edges blunting, the micro-fractures connecting.

Sweat plastered my hair to my forehead. My breath came in ragged gasps. The world narrowed to the rust-colored bolt head, the jarring impact, the responding ping.

CRACK!

The sound was different this time. Sharper. Final. The bolt head didn't shear clean off, but a significant crack propagated through it, nearly splitting it in two. It was critically weakened. Brittle.

"First one's tender!" I yelled, stumbling back, arm aching, head swimming.

"Leo!" Anya commanded instantly. "Your weapon!"

Leo reacted immediately, darting forward, swinging his bent golf club like a clumsy hammer. Not elegant, but it was enough force needed now, not precision. THWACK! The club head connected squarely with the fractured bolt.

With a sharp snap, the bolt head sheared off completely, ricocheting off the pump housing with a clang.

"Yes!" Leo cheered raggedly.

"One down, five to go!" Anya yelled. "Faster! Ren, next bolt!"

But the noise from the main door changed again. The grinding stopped, replaced by a series of heavy, rhythmic THUDS. Like something massive repeatedly slamming itself against the steel. The entire door shuddered with each impact. The crack widened visibly. Dark, oily shapes started to ooze through the gap.

"They're breaching!" Leo screamed, scrambling back towards Anya.

"No time for the rest of the bolts!" Anya decided instantly, her eyes wild. "Plan C! Ren, get clear! Leo, brace yourself!"

Plan C? What was Plan C? Had there even been a Plan B?

Anya didn't wait for an answer. She adjusted her stance, aimed her sonic resonator not at the Wraiths, but directly at the single, fractured valve stem where the bolt had sheared off.

"This is gonna blow back!" she yelled, gritting her teeth. "Cover!"

She triggered the resonator on its highest, most focused frequency. A piercing, almost unbearable whine filled the chamber. The fractured valve stem glowed cherry red almost instantly under the focused sonic assault. It vibrated violently, threatening to tear itself apart.

Then, with a sound like a cannon firing underwater, the weakened stem failed catastrophically. A high-pressure geyser of thick, sludgy, foul-smelling hydraulic fluid erupted from the pump housing, spraying across the room.

But that wasn't the main event. The release of that pressure slammed the pump's internal piston backward, then forward again in a failsafe recoil, directly towards the weakened pillar marked with Leo's chalk 'X'.

CRACK-BOOM!

The impact was deafening. The weakened pillar didn't just crack... it exploded outwards in a shower of concrete chunks and dust. For a heart-stopping moment, the ceiling above groaned ominously, dust raining down, threatening collapse.

But the main beam held. And where the pillar had been, there was now a ragged, gaping hole leading into… darkness. Blacker, damper, somehow colder than the main junction. A blast of air smelling of deep earth, stagnant water, and something indescribably ancient washed over us.

Our new exit. Assuming it didn't immediately collapse.

"Go! Go! Go!" Anya screamed over the lingering echo, already shoving Leo towards the opening. The Wraiths were now pouring through the buckled main door, flowing like liquid shadow towards the sudden chaos.

Covered in hydraulic sludge, deafened by the blast, head pounding, I stumbled after Leo towards the ragged hole in reality's basement. Escape wasn't guaranteed, but we'd just punched a maybe-hole through the bottom of the trap. Now we just had to survive whatever lay on the other side.

 

[phanst]

Chapter 0020: Subterranean Scramble and Shadow Plays

"Go! Go! Go!" Anya's scream propelled us forward, the adrenaline momentarily overriding the exhaustion and the pounding in my head. I stumbled after Leo through the ragged hole where the reinforced concrete pillar had stood moments before, the acrid smell of pulverized concrete and ozone thick in the air. Behind us, the enraged hisses and screeches of the Glitch-Wraiths pouring into the junction faded slightly as we plunged into the unknown darkness beyond the breach.

Anya was right behind me, pausing only long enough to fire another concussive blast from her sidearm back towards the compromised main door, hopefully discouraging immediate pursuit, before following us through.

We found ourselves not in a finished tunnel, but a rough service passage, clearly never intended for regular traffic. The air here was different. It was heavy, still, tasting of damp earth, cold stone, and something metallic, like licking rusted iron. It was blessedly free of the Wraiths' corrosive presence and the hydraulic fluid I was still partially coated in, but it wasn't exactly welcoming. The ground underfoot was uneven bedrock, slick with moisture. Faintly phosphorescent fungi clung in patches to the rough-hewn walls, casting an eerie, insufficient green glow that barely pushed back the oppressive darkness beyond the reach of Anya's shoulder-mounted flashlight beam.

"This way!" Anya grunted, taking point immediately. Her flashlight beam danced ahead, revealing a narrow, twisting passage barely wide enough for us to walk single file. Water trickled down the walls, pooling in shallow puddles on the uneven floor. "Looks like an old geological survey tunnel, or maybe drainage overflow. Definitely not on any standard Undercroft map I ever saw."

Leo stumbled slightly on the slick rock, catching himself against the wall. He looked back towards the ragged hole, now just a dark opening behind us, his face pale in the eerie green glow of the fungi. "Are they… following?"

Anya paused, listening intently. The only sounds were our own ragged breathing, the drip of water, and a faint, low rumble from somewhere deep within the earth... perhaps the distant operations of still-functioning geothermal taps, or just the planet's indigestion. No hissing. No scraping. "Don't think so," she said finally, though her hand stayed near her sidearm. "That blast probably disoriented them, and the structural collapse might have made them hesitant. Wraiths are nasty, but not always stupid. They might not risk following into an unknown, unstable passage immediately."

Small mercies, I thought, leaning against the cold, damp rock wall, trying to regain some equilibrium. My head swam. The faint green phosphorescence seemed to pulse sickeningly in time with my headache. Assessing my cognitive state: still garbage. Focusing felt like trying to grip smoke. The mental 'static' persisted, making even simple recall feel sluggish. Remember Anya's reasoning for the pit stop? Check. Essential maintenance, cooldown, brain repair. Remember the SOS signal? Check. Quadrant 7G. Need the rig working. Remember my own name? Mostly check. Progress was minimal. Recovery was clearly going to be a slow burn.

"Keep moving," Anya urged, pushing onward. "This passage could collapse, flood, or just plain end. We need to find a junction with the main tunnels."

We shuffled onward through the narrow, twisting passage. It felt like miles, though it was probably only a few hundred yards. The air grew progressively colder, damper. The metallic tang intensified. Occasionally, the rock walls would shimmer faintly, similar to the instability pockets in the upper tunnels, but these felt older, more settled – echoes of reality stress, not active threats. Still, we skirted them cautiously.

Leo, despite his fatigue and fear, seemed to regain some composure in the new environment. His eyes scanned the rock formations, the water seepage patterns, the structure of the passage itself. "This wasn't natural," he murmured after a while, running a hand along a section of wall that showed faint, regular scarring. "These marks… maybe mining tools? Or boring equipment? Very old."

"Place is full of forgotten projects," Anya confirmed without slowing. "City planners, corporations, military… they burrowed all over the place before the Crash. Who knows what they left behind?"

Finally, the passage began to widen. The rough-hewn rock gave way to sections of ancient, crumbling brickwork, suggesting we were intersecting with older city infrastructure. Ahead, Anya's flashlight beam caught the welcome sight of a larger opening, an archway leading into what looked like a main Undercroft thoroughfare.

"Alright," Anya breathed, pausing just before the archway, peering cautiously into the larger tunnel beyond. "Looks like the old Sector 5 aqueduct bypass. Should lead west towards the freighter elevator shafts eventually."

The thoroughfare beyond the archway was wider, easily accommodating the Probability Drive if we could retrieve it. Faint emergency lighting flickered intermittently along its length, casting long, dancing shadows. The air here smelled slightly less of decay and more of stale, recycled air, suggesting proximity to ventilation systems, however defunct. Sounds echoed differently here, the cavernous space carried faint rumbles and clanks from indeterminate distances. It felt marginally less claustrophobic, but also more exposed.

"Okay," Anya said, stepping through the archway, weapon ready. "We need to circle back to the junction, retrieve the rig. Quickly, quietly. Hope those Wraiths got bored and wandered off."

But as I took a step towards the archway, a faint prickle ran across my skin: the barest whisper from my damaged [Perceive Glitch] skill. Not a Wraith signature, their corrosive static felt different. Something else. A faint, localized coldness again, near the floor of the main tunnel, just beyond the arch. Followed by… a scuffing sound? Like something soft but heavy being dragged across concrete.

"Wait," I croaked, holding up a hand. My head throbbed with the minimal effort. "Something… else."

Anya froze, instantly alert. Leo stopped beside me, peering nervously into the thoroughfare. Anya swept her flashlight beam across the tunnel floor near the cold spot I indicated.

Empty. Just dust, debris, and more puddles.

Then, the beam caught it. Faint drag marks in the dust, leading away from our position, heading deeper into the aqueduct bypass tunnel. Beside the marks, almost obscured by shadow, was a small, dark object.

A single, discarded boot. Scuffed leather, worn sole. Looked relatively recent. Not ancient debris.

Anya approached cautiously, keeping her light steady on the object while scanning the surrounding darkness. She nudged it with the toe of her boot. It rolled slightly, revealing itself. Not empty.

We weren't the first ones to come through here recently. And judging by the drag marks and the single boot, which appeared to still contain the grisly remains of a foot, whoever it was hadn't left willingly.

The silence of the thoroughfare suddenly felt much heavier, charged with a different kind of menace. It wasn't just environmental hazards and Glitch-spawn down here. Someone, or something, else was active. Hunting? Scavenging?

Our supposedly secure route back to the Probability Drive, back to our only means of serious transportation, suddenly felt fraught with fresh, unknown peril. And the URE chose that moment to offer its wisdom:

----------

[Environmental Alert: Unidentified Biosignatures Detected Nearby (Non-Hostile? Maybe?)]

[Cross-Reference Found: Drag Marks Consistent with Predation/Scavenging Activity by Entity Type: [DATA CORRUPTED] ]

Suggestion: Proceed with Caution (Or Panic Quietly).

----------

Data corrupted entity type. Wonderful.

Anya looked at the boot and its contents, then down the tunnel where the drag marks disappeared into the shadows. Her expression was grim. "Okay," she murmured, almost too quietly. "Maybe circling straight back isn't the best idea right now."

Our escape from the junction hadn't led us to safety, just smack-dab into a different layer of the Undercroft's deadly onion.

 

[phanst]

Chapter 0021: Tracks, Traps, and Temporary Truces (Arc 1.1 End)

The silence stretched, punctuated only by the faint drip of unseen water and the low hum of Anya's flashlight. The discarded boot and its grisly contents lay there in the dust, a stark, mundane object made sinister by context and the drag marks stretching away into the oppressive darkness of the aqueduct bypass. The URE's cryptic warning about corrupted data entities echoed in my mind, layering a fresh coat of digital dread over my already profound exhaustion.

Anya stared down the tunnel after the marks, her expression unreadable in the harsh beam of her light. Then, she straightened up, decisive action replacing contemplation. "Okay," she declared, her voice low but firm, cutting through the tense silence. "New plan. We don't go back to the junction the way we came. Not yet. Those marks are too fresh, and I don't like playing guessing games with whatever made them."

She crouched down for a closer look at the evidence, Leo and I hovering nearby, feeling uselessly exposed. The boot wasn't military issue, nor standard pre-Crash work gear. It was cobbled together, thick synth-hide patched with what looked like cured Skitter plating, the sole heavily worn but showing newer scuff marks near the toe, suggesting a recent struggle.The drag marks beside it weren't simple grooves, they were wider, shallower depressions in the dust and grime, interspersed with faint, almost feathered patterns, as if something soft but heavy had been pulled along, occasionally thrashing or snagging on the uneven ground. Consistent with predation, as the URE helpfully suggested.

"We follow them," Anya continued, tracing the marks with her flashlight beam. "Cautiously. See where they lead, maybe get an idea what we're dealing with. If it circles back towards the junction from a different angle, maybe we can retrieve the rig. If not…" She didn't finish the sentence, but the implication hung heavy in the damp air. If not, we were well and truly screwed, stuck miles underground with dwindling supplies and impaired capabilities.

Great, my internal monologue piped up, sounding even more weary than usual through the cognitive fog. So we swap potentially collapsing reality-stressed concrete for stalking an unknown predator through lightless tunnels based on a single abandoned foot in a boot. Solid plan. Five-star Yelp review pending. The frustration simmered: frustration at the situation, frustration at the damned Wraiths, but mostly frustration at my own state. Useless. A liability. If things went sideways now, all I could offer was cynical commentary and maybe tripping over my own feet to distract whatever horror emerged from the shadows. The vulnerability was a cold, physical thing, worse than the headache.

"Alright," I managed, pushing the bleak thoughts down. Complaining wouldn't help. "Lead the way."

Anya nodded, her focus absolute. "Leo, stay close behind me. Eyes open, especially up high and in alcoves. These tunnels have niches. Ren, bring up the rear. Watch our backs. If anything feels wrong, even if you can't pin it down with your… trick, sing out."

It was the best formation we could manage. Anya, with her Undercroft experience and weaponry, took point. Leo, with his sharp eyes for detail and structure, acted as immediate backup and secondary observer. Me, the impaired debugger, got rear guard duty – arguably the most vulnerable spot, but also the one requiring the least immediate complex action.

We moved slowly, cautiously, following the drag marks deeper into the aqueduct bypass. The tunnel here was wider than the service passage, the ceiling higher, lost in shadow above the reach of Anya's beam. The intermittent emergency lights did little more than create shifting pockets of gloom, making shapes seem to writhe at the edge of vision. The air remained cold, heavy, the metallic tang persistent.

Every distant rumble, every skittering sound from unseen side passages, every drip of water made us jump. My own senses felt unreliable, feeding me phantom movements and auditory ghosts. Was that clicking sound just water, or was it Stalker chitin? Was that flicker of movement a glitch, phosphorescent fungi, or something else entirely? The uncertainty was almost as bad as the exhaustion.

We passed several intersecting tunnels, dark maws branching off into unknown depths. Anya checked markings on the walls, sometimes consulting a battered data slate she pulled from her pouch, confirming our general heading westward, towards the theoretical location of the freighter elevator shafts she'd mentioned – our potential exit. The drag marks continued steadfastly down the main bypass, ignoring the side tunnels. Whatever took the boot's owner had a clear destination.

After what felt like an eternity, but was probably only twenty minutes, Anya signaled a halt. She swept her flashlight beam across the tunnel wall ahead. More markings, different this time. Not old city planning symbols, but cruder, fresher – spray-painted symbols, territorial markers. A stylized, jagged skull superimposed over a dripping gear symbol.

"Tunnel Vultures," Anya breathed, her voice low and hard. "Scavenger trash. Territorial, nasty, fond of ambushes and salvaged tech." She examined the marks more closely. "This is their turf, alright. But these drag marks… they lead straight into it."

Did the Vultures take the person? Or was something else dragging prey into their territory? Neither option felt particularly comforting.

As if summoned by her words, a faint sound reached us from further down the tunnel – the unmistakable clatter of loose metal, followed by muffled, angry voices. Getting closer.

"Contacts," Anya whispered, instantly flattening herself against the tunnel wall, gesturing frantically for us to do the same. "Sound like Vultures on patrol."

We pressed ourselves into the damp, grimy brickwork, trying to become invisible in the shadows between the flickering emergency lights. My heart hammered against my ribs again. Trapped between potential unknown horrors behind us and known human awfulness ahead. Fantastic.

Two figures emerged from the gloom down the tunnel, walking slowly, arguing in low, guttural tones. They were clad in the typical scavenger patchwork – rusted metal plates bolted onto scavenged fatigues, crude helmets fashioned from old pipes or ventilation ducts, carrying oversized projectile weapons that looked prone to jamming. Tunnel Vultures, exactly as Anya described.

They hadn't seen us yet, their attention focused on their argument and scanning the path ahead with inadequate flashlights. But they were heading directly towards us. And worse, the drag marks we'd been following led straight past the spot where we were hiding, towards them.

We were directly in the path of both the patrol and whatever they might be tracking or returning to.

Anya drew her sidearm slowly, the faint hum barely audible over our own breathing. Leo held his golf club, looking like he desperately wished it was anything else. My own hand rested uselessly on my multi-tool. Options felt vanishingly thin. Fight? Against armed scavengers, in our current state? Flee back towards the unknown thing that made the drag marks? Equally suicidal.

The lead Vulture suddenly stopped, his flashlight beam playing over the ground near his feet. He grunted, pointing. He'd spotted the drag marks. His companion joined him, peering down, then swept his own light nervously into the darkness behind them – the direction we had come from. They knew something was back there too.

Caught. Literally caught in the middle.

Just as the Vultures started to raise their weapons, looking towards the shadows where we hid, a section of the ceiling directly above them groaned loudly. Not a collapse. Something deliberate.

A heavy cargo net, thick with grime and weighted with chunks of metal debris, dropped silently from the shadowed ceiling, enveloping both scavengers before they could react. They yelped in surprise and anger, struggling futilely as the net tightened, pinning their arms and weapons.

Before we could even process this, a figure dropped lightly from the same shadowy recess in the ceiling where the net originated, landing silently beside the struggling Vultures. Smaller than Anya, dressed in dark, form-fitting gear that blended perfectly with the shadows, wearing a mask that obscured their face, leaving only faintly glowing optical lenses visible. They moved with an unnerving, fluid grace.

The figure ignored us completely, focusing solely on the captured Vultures, producing a compact device that emitted a low hum – similar to Anya's resonator, but different frequency. They pressed it against the helmet of the first Vulture. The scavenger stiffened, went limp within the net. The figure repeated the process on the second. Both subdued instantly, non-lethally.

Who the hell…?

The masked figure straightened up, retrieved the net with practiced efficiency, leaving the two unconscious Vultures slumped against the wall. Then, finally, they turned towards us, silent, still, their glowing lenses fixing first on Anya, then Leo, then lingering on me for a fraction of a second longer than seemed necessary. Assessing. Analyzing.

The silence stretched. Friend? Foe? Something else entirely? This Undercroft was getting complicated.

Then, the figure spoke, their voice electronically filtered, calm, devoid of inflection.

"Unexpected variables," the voice stated, the glowing lenses seeming to focus solely on me again. "Runtime Exception Handler identified. Your processing load appears… critical. Assistance required?"

They knew my Class designation. They knew I was struggling. This wasn't some random Undercroft dweller. This was something… informed.

The immediate escape was over, but we'd surfaced into a different kind of danger, and now, encountered a complete unknown who somehow knew exactly who, or rather what, I was. The questions piled up – who was this figure? How did they know about me? What did they want? And what about the thing that made the drag marks? We were out of the junction, yes, but deeply entangled in the Undercroft's dangerous ecosystem, our ride damaged, my abilities crippled, and relying on a fragile, untested alliance. The need for repairs, recovery, and answers was more pressing than ever. Quadrant 7G felt a million miles away.

 

[phanst]

Chapter 0022: Cipher and Calculated Risks

The filtered voice echoed in the sudden, heavy silence of the Undercroft tunnel, seeming to cut right through the oppressive dampness and the lingering scent of fear. "Runtime Exception Handler identified. Your processing load appears… critical. Assistance required?"

My brain, already struggling through a thick layer of cognitive static, felt like it hit a Blue Screen of Death. Runtime Exception Handler? The Class designation the buggy URE had grudgingly assigned me during moments of high energy output. How? Outside of maybe Anya and Leo overhearing a System notification back at the Junction (unlikely amidst the chaos), who else could possibly know that? And 'critical processing load'? That was an unsettlingly accurate, detached diagnosis of my current mental state.

Who IS this? The thought screamed through the fog. A URE agent? Some kind of System moderator, if such things even exist in this broken reality? A highly informed scavenger with access to hacked data streams? A trap dressed up in cryptic helpfulness? Suspicion warred with a desperate, flickering ember of hope. Assistance? Could they actually help? Could they fix the buzzing static behind my eyes, recharge my metaphorical SP battery? The potential, however unlikely or dangerous, was intoxicating.

Before I could formulate a response that wasn't just bewildered sputtering, Anya stepped forward, moving smoothly between me and the masked figure. Her sidearm wasn't raised, but her hand rested casually on the grip, posture radiating wary readiness. Leo stayed slightly behind her, golf club held low, looking utterly bewildered but sticking close.

The masked figure remained perfectly still, a study in shadowed efficiency. I took the moment to observe them more closely, trying to force details through my impaired perception. They were lean, average height, maybe slightly shorter than Anya, with a compact build that suggested wiry strength rather than brute force. Their gear was dark, matte black or deep grey, seemingly made of some non-reflective, segmented material that clung tight – tactical, quiet, practical. No bulky armor plates like Anya's, but integrated reinforcement was visible at the joints.

The mask itself was the most striking feature: a smooth, featureless faceplate of dark, smoked transparisteel that covered the entire head, seamless with the neck seal of their suit. Two narrow horizontal slits glowed with a soft, steady cyan light – the optical lenses, devoid of any discernible emotion or focus point, making it impossible to guess where they were actually looking. No visible external tech components, giving them a sleek, almost disturbingly minimalist appearance. They looked less like a scavenger, more like a ghost from a black ops program that never officially existed.

"Who are you?" Anya's voice was low, demanding, cutting straight to the point. "And how do you know that designation?"

The figure tilted their masked head slightly, the cyan lenses sweeping across Anya, then Leo, before settling back on me. The movement was unnervingly smooth, almost mechanical.

"Identity is irrelevant data in this context," the filtered voice replied, calm and level. "Call me Cipher. As for the designation… URE protocols broadcast Class signatures, albeit heavily encrypted and usually localized. Sufficient analytical tools can intercept and parse these broadcasts, particularly during high-energy events or ability activations." They paused, letting the implication hang. "Your companion," the cyan lenses flickered towards me again, "generated significant reality-stress signatures during his recent… 'debugging' efforts. Such signals attract attention, especially from entities attuned to System architecture."

Attuned to System architecture? Intercepting encrypted broadcasts? This was far beyond any tech I knew existed post-Crash. Either Cipher was incredibly advanced, incredibly lucky, or lying through their featureless mask. My internal cynic leaned heavily towards options two and three, maybe spiced with a dash of four: 'insane pre-Crash AI fragment'.

"Attuned," Anya repeated sceptically. "So you just happened to be in the neighborhood listening to System static when we blasted our way out of a locked maintenance junction?"

"Probability calculations indicated a high likelihood of anomalous activity originating from Junction 4-Gamma," Cipher replied smoothly. "My presence here is… correlative, not coincidental. I was observing the local Apex Predator's hunting patterns." They made a minute gesture back down the tunnel where the drag marks originated. "Your arrival disrupted the observation."

Apex Predator. The thing that left the boot with foooooot*. Great. So, giant armoured centipedes, glitch-wraiths, territorial scavengers, and an 'Apex Predator'. The Undercroft really was the destination resort for everything that wanted to kill you.

"And the Vultures?" Leo asked, finding his voice, pointing a shaky finger towards the unconscious scavengers slumped against the wall. "You just… took them out?"

"Their aggressive posturing and lack of operational security presented a predictable tactical liability," Cipher stated flatly. "Neutralizing them preemptively simplified the interaction matrix."

Simplified the interaction matrix. Right. This person (or thing) definitely didn't operate on standard human emotional protocols.

"Okay, Cipher," Anya cut back in, clearly losing patience with the cryptic detachment. "You know things. You took down the Vultures. You offered 'assistance'. What's your angle? What do you want?"

"Information," Cipher replied without hesitation. "Observation. Specifically regarding the Runtime Exception Handler." The cyan lenses seemed to bore into me again. "His abilities represent a significant deviation from known URE parameters. Understanding the mechanism, the limitations, the potential… is of considerable interest."

Great. I'm not just glitch-janitor, I'm Lab Rat #1.

"And the assistance?" I asked, my voice still rough. "What kind are we talking about?" Hope warred fiercely with deep suspicion.

"Immediate tactical support," Cipher offered. "Safe passage back to your disabled vehicle is statistically improbable given current environmental threats and your compromised state." They indicated me again. "I possess detailed knowledge of these tunnel systems and local entity behaviour patterns. I can guide you via less-trafficked routes, bypassing Vulture patrols and the Predator's current hunting grounds."

"In exchange for… letting you watch me?" I clarified.

"Observation, data-logging during ability use, and reciprocal information exchange regarding encountered anomalies," Cipher confirmed. "A temporary alliance of mutual benefit. My objective is data acquisition; your objective is survival and vehicle retrieval. Our immediate goals align."

It sounded almost reasonable, wrapped in cold, analytical logic. Almost.

A distant screech, sharp and metallic, echoed from deeper down the aqueduct bypass, followed by another muffled thud. It wasn't the Wraiths. It wasn't the Vultures. It might have been the 'Apex Predator'.

Anya looked down the tunnel, then back at Cipher, then at me. The pragmatic need warring with inherent distrust was plain on her face. We were weak, exposed, in hostile territory, with known and unknown threats closing in. Cipher, whatever they were, offered a potential lifeline, albeit one wrapped in question marks and potential ulterior motives.

"The rig," Anya stated firmly. "Getting back to the Probability Drive is non-negotiable. It's our only way out of this sewer."

"Affirmative," Cipher replied. "Retrieval is the primary short-term objective."

"And no funny business," Anya added, her hand tightening slightly on her sidearm. "You lead, we follow. We keep line-of-sight. You try anything… suspicious… and this temporary alliance ends. Loudly."

Cipher gave another slight, unnerving tilt of their head. "Acceptable parameters. The optimal route avoids direct confrontation. Follow."

Without waiting for further agreement, Cipher turned fluidly and started moving back the way we had come, but angled towards a barely visible, narrow fissure in the tunnel wall we hadn't noticed before. It was clearly not the main passage we used. They moved with absolute silence, melting into the shadows between the flickering emergency lights.

Anya exchanged a quick, uncertain glance with me. Distrust radiated off her, but so did grim necessity. She jerked her head towards the fissure. "Come on. Looks like we hired a ghost guide."

Leo hurried to follow Anya. I pushed myself off the wall, every muscle protesting, my head swimming slightly. Following a potentially dangerous enigma into a hidden passage, hoping they weren't leading us into another trap, all while feeling like my brain was packed in cotton wool…

My internal monologue, usually so quick with the snark, just offered a blank screen with a blinking cursor. Processing… Please Wait.

Just another day at the office, I thought later, as I stumbled after them, into the narrow fissure, the darkness swallowing us once more, leaving the unconscious Vultures and the disturbing drag marks behind in the flickering green gloom. The universe's shittiest, most bug-ridden office.

---

* I am very sorry if this messes up the tone of the novel, but I just couldn't help myself.

now the question is, how did that ghosty bug boy know about the Probability Drive (vehicle) and their goal in the short-term with such accuracy? Is the System bugged with hidden mics and cameras, are there flying flies that roam around and broadcast audiovisuals, or something else?

Find out more, in the next episode of Dragon Ball Z cough! cough! I mean, Reality Glitches and Other Daily Annoyances!

 

[phanst]

Chapter 0023: Fissures, Fungus, and Focused Observation

The fissure Cipher led us into was barely shoulder-width, a jagged crack in the ancient brickwork and underlying bedrock that felt less like a planned passage and more like a scar left by some immense geological stress. The air instantly grew colder, damper, pressing in with a weight that felt different from the main tunnel. The silence here was deeper, more profound, swallowing the sound of our footsteps almost completely. Anya's shoulder-light beam seemed inadequate, penetrating only a few yards into the oppressive blackness ahead.

Cipher moved with an unsettling grace that defied the uneven, slick footing. There was a fluidity to their motion, almost liquid, yet combined with a machine-like precision. No wasted steps, no tentative groping for handholds. They flowed over obstacles, their dark suit seeming to absorb the already minimal light. Their posture was consistently neutral, economical, offering no clues to their thoughts or intentions beyond the steady, forward progress.

Occasionally, the cyan lenses of their mask would sweep sideways, pausing briefly on a section of wall or ceiling, before continuing onwards without comment. It was impossible to tell if they were admiring the subterranean décolage (unlikely), spotting hidden threats, or simply running routine environmental scans.

Behind Cipher, Anya moved with practiced caution, her sidearm held low but ready, her own flashlight beam adding a second, overlapping cone of illumination. She clearly didn't trust our new guide any further than she could throw the Probability Drive, but necessity dictated following.

Leo followed Anya, his earlier terror seemingly channeled into intense observation. His eyes constantly scanned the walls, the floor, the low ceiling, his head tilting as he took in the subtle shifts in rock strata, the patterns of moisture seepage, the unnatural angles where brickwork met bedrock. He wasn't just looking: he was reading the environment in a way neither Anya nor I could.

Bringing up the rear felt like being the weak link in a very vulnerable chain. Every step sent a dull throb through my temples. My vision swam intermittently, the faint phosphorescent fungi clinging to the walls pulsing with nauseating intensity when the dizziness hit. I kept instinctively trying to engage [Perceive Glitch], trying to get a read on Cipher, on the passage itself, on the faint, weird energy signatures that seemed to bleed through the rock here. Each attempt was met with a sharp spike of pain behind my eyes, like poking a raw nerve, accompanied by a fresh wave of visual static – angry red and glitchy green pixels dancing mockingly across my field of view.

Damn it! Useless! The frustration was a bitter taste, mingling with the metallic tang of adrenaline residue. Can't analyze the ghost guide. Can't scan for hidden Glitch pockets. Can't even tell if that weird fungus is going to try and eat my face. The fear wasn't just about external threats anymore... it was the internal dread of permanent impairment. Had fixing the Probability Drive broken something fundamental in my ability? Was this cognitive fog the new normal? The URE remained stubbornly silent on the matter, offering no helpful [Debuff: Permanent Brain Scramble] notification, which was somehow even less comforting. I stumbled slightly, catching myself on the cold, slimy rock wall.

"Easy, Ren," Anya murmured back, glancing over her shoulder, her expression tightening slightly as she noted my pallor in the combined flashlight beams. "Don't push it. Just keep putting one foot in front of the other." Her pragmatism extended to battlefield triage, apparently.

Cipher paused ahead, holding up a gloved hand. Their cyan lenses swept across a section of the ceiling. "Structural instability detected," the filtered voice announced calmly. "Minor fault line intersecting passage. Potential for debris fall. Proceed with caution."

Leo immediately moved forward, squinting up at the indicated area. "Yeah… see the shear stress?" He pointed towards almost invisible hairline cracks radiating outwards. "And the water seepage is heavier here. Weakening the structure." He looked back at Cipher. "Can we bypass?"

"Negative," Cipher replied flatly. "Alternative routes are significantly longer and intersect known Stalker nesting zones. Minimal-contact passage is the optimal probability." They indicated a slightly wider section near the opposite wall. "Maintain proximity to the far wall. Minimize vibration."

We edged past the designated weak spot, practically scraping against the damp rock, holding our breath. Thankfully, nothing collapsed. Cipher's assessment seemed accurate, if unnervingly detached.

Further into the passage, the air began to change again. The damp earth and metallic smell lessened slightly, replaced by a dry, dusty scent overlaid with something else… faintly spicy, almost like cinnamon, but with an underlying electrical buzz. The phosphorescent fungi grew thicker here, casting a brighter, more coherent green light.

"What's that smell?" Leo asked, sniffing the air cautiously.

"Fulgur-spores," Anya answered immediately, her hand going to a respirator clipped to her belt, though she didn't don it yet. "Type of fungus that thrives on ambient electrical fields and reality static. Usually harmless unless disturbed. Kick up the spores, inhale them… causes hallucinations, sensory overload, sometimes spontaneous energy discharge if you get a high enough concentration."

Lovely. Hallucinogenic, electrically charged exploding fungus. The Undercroft's wonders never ceased.

Cipher seemed unconcerned, moving steadily through the spore-rich area. Their suit presumably had its own sealed environmental systems.

As we rounded another bend, the passage opened slightly. Here, the Fulgur-spores grew in dense, carpet-like mats across the floor and lower walls, pulsing faintly with soft green light. They illuminated a strange sight: several crude tunnels burrowing into the spore mats, leading off into the rock beyond. They looked deliberately excavated, not natural formations.

Cipher stopped again, cyan lenses fixed on the burrow entrances. "Secondary tunnel network. Uncatalogued. High concentration of spore particulate suggests… cultivation?"

Before anyone could comment on the delightful image of something cultivating exploding mind-fungus, Leo tensed, holding up a hand. "Wait. Listen."

We froze. At first, I heard nothing but the faint thrum of our own bodies, the whisper of air currents. Then, I caught it. Faint, but definite. A rhythmic, metallic chink… chink… chink. Coming from deeper within the main passage, beyond the spore field. Like a pickaxe hitting rock? Or something being dragged?

It wasn't the chitinous clicking of Stalkers. It wasn't the silent menace of the Wraiths. This sounded… purposeful. Artificial.

Cipher's head tilted again. "Analysis indicates patterned metallic impacts consistent with manual resource extraction or tunneling activity. Probability of encountering non-aligned human or semi-human entities: increased."

Non-aligned humans. Down here? Tunneling near explosive fungus? Either incredibly desperate or incredibly stupid. Or both.

Anya swore under her breath. "Vultures? Or something else? Last thing we need is a turf war."

The chink-chink-chink sound grew slightly louder, closer. Whoever it was, they were working their way towards us.

Cipher turned, cyan lenses sweeping over us, lingering again on me. "Decision point. Engage potential contacts? Attempt stealthy bypass via secondary spore tunnels? Or retreat and recalculate?" The filtered voice was calm, presenting options like a machine running through scenarios.

Retreat felt impossible. Engaging unknown tunnellers while flanked by potential spore-burrow horrors and still technically hunted seemed unwise. The spore tunnels… looked disturbingly small and potentially full of things that enjoyed cultivating hallucinogenic explosives.

My head throbbed. Choices. All terrible. Just another Tuesday.

"Optimal path requires assessment," Cipher stated, before Anya or I could voice our indecision. "Proceeding with limited recon of secondary tunnels."

And with that, Cipher moved towards the spore-covered section of the tunnel floor, not disturbing the main mats, but stepping carefully towards one of the smaller, burrowed side tunnels, melting into the shadows near its entrance with unnerving speed and silence, leaving us alone in the pulsing green light, the rhythmic chinking sound getting closer, caught between known unknowns and unknown unknowns.

---

In art, décollage refers to a technique where layers of materials, like posters or advertisements, are removed or torn away to create a new composition.

Ah, the wonders of learning art and giving up midway. Maybe, I should share some doodles I make every now and then.

 

[phanst]

Chapter 0024: Recon, Resonance, and Bad Reception

Cipher melted into the narrow, spore-lined burrow entrance like smoke dissipating into shadow. One moment they were there, a silhouette against the eerie green glow, the next they were simply… gone. No sound, no disturbance of the pulsing fungal mats. It was unnerving, their ability to blend so seamlessly with the oppressive darkness of the Undercroft. Their movement wasn't just stealthy, it felt fundamentally quiet, as if they could selectively dampen the noise of their own passage through sheer will or exotic tech.

We were left standing in the wider passage, bathed in the flickering green light of the Fulgur-spores, the rhythmic chink… chink… chink of the approaching tunnellers seeming to grow louder, closer, each metallic impact echoing ominously in the confined space. The air tasted dusty, faintly electric from the spores, and heavy with the scent of cold, damp stone. My own senses felt like bad radio reception, sounds had faint static edges, the green light pulsed slightly out of sync with my throbbing headache, and the texture of the rock wall I leaned against felt simultaneously rough and strangely smooth, like my tactile nerves couldn't quite agree on the input.

Okay, focus, I told myself, gritting my teeth against a fresh wave of dizziness triggered by turning my head too quickly. Tunnellers approaching. Cipher on recon. Anya tense. Leo observant. Me? Barely functional. My internal status report was grim. I tried to instinctively [Perceive Glitch] the approaching chinking sound, hoping for some clue about the source, but the effort sent a familiar lance of white-hot pain stabbing behind my right eye. I recoiled mentally, vision momentarily greying out at the edges. Nope. Definitely nope. Trying to use the debugging skill felt like deliberately jamming my fingers into a faulty electrical socket.

"Anything?" Anya whispered, her gaze flicking between the tunnel ahead where the tunnellers approached and the burrow Cipher had vanished into. She held her sidearm low, ready, every line of her body radiating tense preparedness.

"Just... noise," I managed, rubbing my temple. "Can't get a lock. Too much static… internal and external."

Leo, however, was peering intently down the main passage towards the sound, his brow furrowed in concentration. He tilted his head, listening not just to the impact, but the resonance. "The impacts…" he murmured, almost to himself. "They sound… shallow. Not deep excavation. And the rhythm is slightly off, irregular. Doesn't sound like automated machinery." He pointed towards the wall near us. "And see that darker patch? Like soot or blasting residue? But it's unevenly distributed, unlike a standard demo charge." He looked back at us, his eyes wide with dawning realization. "I don't think they're just tunneling. I think they might be scavenging. Breaking up specific mineral veins or maybe… maybe trying to extract embedded pre-Crash tech from the rock itself? Using crude, unstable methods?"

Scavenging inside the tunnel walls? That was a new level of desperate. If they were using unstable explosives or volatile chemical extraction methods down here, near explosive fungus spores… the potential for catastrophic accidents was terrifyingly high.

Anya absorbed Leo's deduction, her expression tightening further. "Scav-miners. Worse than standard Vultures. Often hopped up on whatever chems they use for extraction, paranoid as hell, and notoriously trigger-happy." She subtly adjusted her grip on her sidearm. "Changes the tactical assessment. Less likely to patrol predictably, more likely to react violently to perceived threats."

As if to punctuate her point, the chinking sound abruptly stopped.

Silence descended again, heavier, more expectant than before. Even the faint drip of water seemed to pause. Had they heard us? Had they reached their destination? Or were they just taking a break?

My bad reception senses prickled. The silence felt wrong. Strained. Like holding your breath underwater. The faint electrical buzz from the Fulgur-spores seemed to intensify slightly, the green glow pulsing a fraction faster.

Shit. Static discharge? My tired brain flashed back to Anya's warning. Disturbing the spores…

Then, Cipher's filtered voice crackled almost inaudibly through my comm bead, startling me despite the low volume. "Status update. Secondary passage confirmed viable, intersects aqueduct bypass approx 75 meters west, downstream from current hostiles. Minimal spore density beyond initial burrow. However…" There was a pause, fractional but noticeable. "…observed unusual energy signature within secondary passage. Consistent with localized temporal field distortion. Minor hazard." A small pocket of messed-up time, great. "Also detected faint residual bio-signs matching drag-mark profile. Source unknown, trajectory unclear." So, whatever took the boot owner might have used these side passages too. Fantastic. "Hostiles…" Cipher continued, then cut off abruptly with a sharp burst of static.

"Cipher?" Anya whispered urgently into her own comm. "Report! What about the hostiles?"

Only static answered. Harsh, digital noise, like a modem dying.

My headache flared. The visual static behind my eyes intensified, swirling into angry vortexes. Something felt deeply wrong. Not just the comms cutting out. The air itself felt wrong. Thick. Vibrating slightly. The spicy-electric smell of the Fulgur-spores intensified dramatically, becoming sharp, almost painful in my nostrils. The green glow pulsed faster, brighter, erratically.

"Spores!" Leo choked out, pointing towards the main tunnel floor where the densest mats grew. They were visibly shimmering now, crackling with faint blue sparks that arced between the fungal clumps. "They're building a charge! Something disturbed them!"

It must have been the tunnellers. Their cessation of noise wasn't a break, it was likely them hitting a large spore deposit or triggering a feedback loop with their equipment. And now, the whole area was turning into a giant, organic capacitor getting ready to discharge. Hallucinations, sensory overload, spontaneous energy release… Anya's warnings slammed back into my mind with terrifying clarity.

We needed to move. Now. But where? Back the way we came? Towards the Wraiths and the collapsed junction? Forward, towards the tunnellers and the potentially exploding spore field? Or into the side passage after Cipher, towards unknown temporal distortions and residual 'Apex Predator' signs?

Decision paralysis setting in… system crash imminent… A fragmented memory flashed through my mind – the infuriatingly cheerful error chime of a cheap office computer failing to boot. …requires immediate hard reset…

"Side passage!" Anya made the call, already moving towards the burrow Cipher had entered. "Risk the time warp! Better than becoming living spark plugs out here!" She grabbed Leo's arm, pulling him along. "Ren, move!"

My legs felt like lead. The swirling static in my vision made the burrow entrance waver like a heat haze. The air crackled, tasting like ozone and burnt cinnamon. Taking a step felt like wading through invisible electric syrup. Another step. The pulsing green light seemed to strobe now, trying to induce seizures. The pain behind my eyes reached a crescendo.

Just as I reached the burrow entrance, stumbling after Anya and Leo, a blinding blue-white flash erupted from the main tunnel behind us, accompanied by a deafening CRACKLE-BOOM! The Fulgur-spore field discharged its stored energy in a massive, uncontrolled arc.

The shockwave hit me like a physical blow, slamming me forward into the narrow burrow entrance, darkness momentarily swallowing everything as I instinctively squeezed my eyes shut against the glare and the concussive force.

 

[phanst]

Chapter 0025: Aftershocks and Temporal Hiccups

The world exploded in blue-white light and a deafening roar that felt like it resonated inside my skull. The shockwave hit me like a physical fist, throwing me stumbling, off-balance, through the narrow fissure entrance Cipher had disappeared into moments before. I landed hard against the rough rock wall inside, the impact jarring through my already aching body. Darkness pressed in, absolute for a moment, filled only by the fading echo of the blast and the high-pitched whine filling my ears.

My first conscious thought was a fragmented diagnostic: Internal systems rebooting… please wait. Auditory sensors experiencing temporary overload. Visual sensors experiencing critical overload. Cognitive function… ha! Good one.

Slowly, painfully, sensory input started filtering back through the internal static. The whining in my ears subsided, replaced by Anya's sharp command echoing slightly in the confined space, "Ren! Leo! Sound off! Status!"

"Here!" Leo coughed, his voice choked with dust, somewhere just ahead of me in the pitch blackness. "Okay… I think."

"Present… mostly," I managed, pushing myself upright, leaning heavily against the wall. My vision swam. Opening my eyes revealed not darkness, but swirling vortexes of angry purple and green static, overlaid with flickering geometric patterns that pulsed in time with my headache. It was like trying to see through a kaleidoscope designed by a malicious glitch. Okay, definite hallucinations. Check. My limbs felt heavy, distant, and a faint tingling, like phantom static cling, danced across my skin.

Then, light flared. Anya had activated her shoulder light again, its beam cutting through the dust-filled air of the passage. We were crammed into a narrow, natural-feeling tunnel, rougher than the aqueduct bypass, the walls slick with moisture and coated in patches of the other kind of fungus: dull grey, stringy stuff that looked vaguely unpleasant but thankfully wasn't glowing or buzzing. The air here was thick with the smell of ozone, burnt cinnamon, and vaporized rock dust – the lingering perfume of the spore explosion.

Anya quickly swept the beam back towards the entrance fissure. It was partially blocked by rubble dislodged by the blast, but thankfully not sealed. No immediate sign of pursuit. She checked her gear with quick, sharp movements, brushing dust from her armor, her jaw tight, a faint tremor in the hand not holding her flashlight quickly stilled. The controlled façade was cracking slightly under the pressure.

"Everyone functional?" she demanded, her voice tight but level. "No new holes? No bonus limbs?"

"Think I'm okay," Leo repeated, wiping dust from his face. He looked shaken but otherwise unharmed.

"Functionality… debatable," I grunted, blinking hard, trying to force the swirling static patterns to recede. They faded slightly, leaving faint, shimmering afterimages. "Head feels like someone tried to defrag it with a hammer. Might be seeing things that aren't there."

Anya frowned, playing her light over me briefly. "Hallucinations? Damn spores. Drink water. Try to focus on concrete details. Usually fades unless you got a heavy dose."

Easier said than done when the rock wall occasionally seemed to ripple like water or sprout fleeting fractal patterns. I took a long swig from my water flask, the cool liquid doing little for the pounding headache but maybe helping ground me slightly.

Cipher was nowhere to be seen. Presumably continued deeper into this passage during the explosion.

"Where's our ghost guide?" I asked, scanning the darkness ahead.

"Probably halfway to Sector Six by now," Anya muttered, annoyance flashing across her features. "Or maybe that temporal distortion they mentioned snagged them." She swept her light deeper into the passage. It seemed to continue steadily onwards, twisting slightly. "Come on. Staying here isn't an option. Blast probably attracted attention, spores or no spores."

She took point again, moving cautiously, testing the ground ahead with each step. Leo followed, still casting nervous glances back towards the rubble-choked entrance. I brought up the rear, focusing intensely on placing one foot in front of the other, trying to ignore the way the shadows seemed to writhe just beyond the flashlight beams, trying to differentiate real sensory input from the static fireworks display still going off behind my eyes. The metallic taste in my mouth was stronger now, coppery and unpleasant. Definitely pushed something too far back at the garage.

The passage wound deeper, descending slightly. The air grew cooler, the sound of dripping water more pronounced. After about fifty meters, the rough rock walls gave way to smoother, almost polished surfaces, ancient and worn, as if by centuries of flowing water. We seemed to have entered a natural watercourse, long dry.

Then, Anya stopped abruptly, holding up a hand. "Hold up."

Ahead, maybe twenty feet away, the tunnel shimmered. Not like the minor instability pockets before, but a distinct, visible warp. The air within a roughly circular area about ten feet across seemed to twist and refract the light, making the tunnel wall behind it ripple and distort like a reflection in disturbed water. Faint, multi-colored motes of light drifted lazily within the distortion field. It was eerily silent, absorbing even the sound of our footsteps.

"Temporal field distortion," Anya confirmed Cipher's warning, her voice hushed. "Small one, but potent. Step into that, you might come out five minutes ago, five years from now, or maybe just… smeared across the timestream."

My already fragmented perception recoiled from the visual wrongness of the distortion. It felt… slippery. Like trying to look at something that actively resisted being perceived correctly. Even without active [Perceive Glitch], I could feel the dissonant hum of mismatched timelines grating against the local reality.

Leo stared at it, fascinated and terrified. "So… how do we get past?"

Anya studied it, her flashlight beam playing across its surface, revealing subtle eddies and currents within the distortion. "Usually, these things pulse. Periods of higher and lower intensity. If we time it right, during a low ebb…"

"Or," a calm, filtered voice stated from beside the distortion, making all three of us jump violently.

Cipher stood there, leaning casually against the tunnel wall just past the temporal ripple, having apparently emerged from the shadows or perhaps… stepped around the distortion somehow? There was no sign of exertion, no dust on their dark suit. One moment empty space, the next, Cipher. Their cyan lenses swept over us. Did I catch a faint, flickering scorch mark near the collar of their suit, almost hidden by shadow? Hard to tell with my vision still playing tricks.

"The field is currently stable, exhibiting minimal temporal shear," Cipher continued, seemingly unperturbed by our startled reactions. "Passage is viable, provided trajectory avoids the central vortex." They gestured towards the shimmering edge of the distortion. "Maintain proximity to the outer perimeter. Transit duration: approximately 1.8 seconds at current velocity."

Anya stared at Cipher, then at the distortion, then back at Cipher. "You just… walked through it? Or around it?"

"Navigated," Cipher replied simply. "The perceived risk was calculated as acceptable." They paused. "My internal chronometer experienced a desynchronization event of 0.03 nanoseconds upon exiting the field. Negligible, but confirms localized temporal displacement."

Negligible temporal displacement. Right. I just wanted my headache to stop.

"Okay," Anya said slowly, still clearly suspicious but seeing little alternative. "Lead the way, ghost guide. Show us the 'acceptable risk' path."

Cipher nodded almost imperceptibly and stepped towards the shimmering edge of the distortion field. "Maintain single file. Minimal deviation."

They stepped into the ripple. For a fraction of a second, their form seemed to stretch, blur, colors smearing like wet paint, accompanied by a faint, high-pitched whine that vibrated in my teeth. Then, they were through, standing calmly on the other side, waiting.

Anya took a deep breath, gripped her sidearm tighter, and followed Cipher's exact path, disappearing into the shimmering distortion with a grimace. A second later, she reappeared on the other side, shaking her head slightly, looking momentarily disoriented.

Leo hesitated, looking from the distortion back at me. "You okay to go through that, Ren?"

"Define 'okay'," I muttered. But staying behind wasn't an option. "Just… follow Anya. Exactly."

He nodded, took a breath, and plunged into the warp. He vanished in a similar smear of distorted light and emerged beside Anya, looking pale and slightly nauseous.

My turn. Staring into the swirling, silent chaos felt like looking into the raw, uncompiled code of time itself. My brain screamed warnings. The visual static behind my eyes pulsed violently. Taking a step forward felt like stepping off a cliff.

Calculated risk, I told myself grimly, channeling Cipher's unnerving calm. Just 1.8 seconds.

I stepped in.

 

[phanst]

Chapter 0026: Temporal Static and Recurring Errors

My hand tightened instinctively on my multi-tool as I stepped across the threshold into the shimmering temporal distortion. The boundary felt… wrong. Not solid, not liquid, but like pushing through a membrane of staticky, vibrating air that tasted faintly of ozone and burnt pennies. The high-pitched whine intensified, drilling directly into my skull, bypassing my ears entirely, resonating in my teeth like a dentist's drill gone rogue.

The world dissolved.

Not into darkness, but into a kaleidoscope of impossible colors and fragmented sensations, like a broken TV cycling through channels too fast to comprehend. For a fraction of a second, maybe less, maybe an eternity, time fractured, bleeding into itself. I felt an overwhelming sensation of cold, colder than the Undercroft's damp chill, a bone-deep, soul-level frost that made my teeth ache. Simultaneously, a phantom warmth, like unexpected sunlight on skin, brushed my face. It was an utterly alien sensation down here, a phantom reminder of a world that felt increasingly distant.

A cacophony of sounds assaulted me: snippets of laughter in a language I didn't recognize, echoing alongside the sharp ping of a specific error chime from my old office desktop, the sound bizarrely comforting and terrifying at once, a Pavlovian trigger for existential dread.

Then, a single, vivid image flashed behind my eyes – not a memory I recognized, not a hallucination I could dismiss, but something else. A brief, subliminal glimpse of hands: slender, pale hands, turning a delicate, silver locket in the light, opening it to reveal… nothing. Just an empty, shadowed space where a picture should be. The feeling associated with it was overwhelming loss, poignant and sharp, cutting through the static of my corrupted mind with unnerving clarity, entirely disconnected from my own experiences.

Whose memory was THAT? And why did it feel so… important?

Just as abruptly as it began, it ended. I stumbled forward, spat out from the distortion like a bad byte, my boots hitting solid, damp rock on the other side.

My knees buckled. I gasped, leaning heavily against the tunnel wall, head spinning violently. Vertigo slammed into me like a physical blow. The metallic taste in my mouth was stronger, thicker. A warm trickle ran from my nose, swiping at it confirmed it was blood. Minor nosebleed. Great. Add that to the list of cognitive damage symptoms.

"Whoa there, Debugger!" Anya steadied me with a hand on my arm, her grip surprisingly strong. "Easy. Deep breaths." Her own face was pale, a slight sheen of sweat on her brow despite the chill air. The transit hadn't been pleasant for her either.

Leo looked similarly green around the gills, leaning against the opposite wall. "Felt like… like being inside-out for a second," he mumbled, rubbing his temples.

Cipher, predictably, stood perfectly still, cyan lenses impassive, seemingly unaffected. "Temporal displacement nominal," the filtered voice stated. "Residual disorientation is a common physiological response. Recommend brief stabilization period before proceeding."

Stabilization sounded fantastic. Right now, stabilizing felt like trying to nail jelly to a wall. The visual static behind my eyes had coalesced into a new, unwelcome pattern. Instead of random noise, I kept seeing a specific string of characters – [ERR: SYNC_FAILURE_7G] – flickering phantom-like over surfaces, superimposed on Anya's face, on the tunnel walls, vanishing when I tried to focus on it. It wasn't just random hallucination, it felt targeted, specific. Like a persistent pop-up ad from hell, directly related to the SOS signal I'd found. Was the temporal jump somehow… exacerbating a connection? Or was my damaged brain just latching onto the last significant piece of anomalous data I'd processed?

I didn't mention the recurring error code. Explaining visual hallucinations probably wouldn't boost team confidence right now. Just focused on breathing, trying to push down the nausea and the relentless throb behind my eyes.

"Any… anomalies?" I asked, forcing the words out, my voice sounding distant even to myself. "Anything different on this side?"

Leo, recovering faster, immediately started scanning our surroundings, his attention latching onto details. "The… the drip," he said slowly, pointing towards a spot on the ceiling where water had been steadily dripping before we entered the distortion. "It stopped. Completely dry there now. But," he shifted his gaze slightly further down the tunnel, "there's a new drip over there. Different spot, slightly different rhythm."

Anya frowned, playing her light on both spots. "Could be coincidence. Watercourses shift down here."

"Maybe," Leo conceded, "but look at this too." He indicated a small pile of rubble near the wall, just past where Cipher stood. "That specific piece of rebar, the bent one on top? I noticed it just before we went through because it reminded me of a faulty truss design. It was lying flat. Now it's tilted upwards slightly. Nothing significant fell on it, the dust pattern is undisturbed otherwise."

Subtle. Tiny. But impossible according to linear time and cause-and-effect. We hadn't just passed through the distortion, we'd emerged into a reality that was fractionally different. Maybe by minutes? Seconds? Enough for a water drip to shift, for a piece of rebar to settle differently. Enough to make my skin crawl.

Cipher tilted their head slightly, their lenses perhaps focusing on the rebar Leo indicated. "Minor environmental variance noted," their voice was flat, offering no explanation or concern. "Within acceptable deviation parameters for localized temporal instability. Does not affect optimal path."

"Right," Anya muttered, clearly unnerved despite Cipher's nonchalance. "Acceptable deviation." She checked her scanner again. "Energy readings here are stable, though. Whatever caused the distortion seems localized behind us." She looked back towards the shimmering ripple, now maybe twenty feet away. "Good. Let's put some distance between us and that temporal migraine-machine."

She took point again, moving deeper into the winding, water-worn passage. Leo fell in behind her, casting one last look at the tilted rebar. I followed, trying to ignore the persistent [ERR: SYNC_FAILURE_7G] flickering at the edge of my vision like a taunting ghost. My SP remained stubbornly at [SP: 1/80 ERROR]. The brief, jarring transit hadn't magically reset anything.

The tunnel continued its meandering path. Cipher remained silent, occasionally pausing to indicate a loose patch of rock or a fissure leading nowhere, guiding us with minimalist efficiency. Leo kept pointing out subtle details like changes in rock strata, old drill marks, ventilation shafts long since collapsed. Anya remained focused, alert, navigating the path Cipher indicated but clearly double-checking against her own knowledge or instincts.

And me? I focused on walking. Focused on breathing. Focused on not mentioning the error code stubbornly refusing to leave my vision. Focused on the cold certainty that whatever waited for us back at the maintenance junction, or further down these tunnels, I was going to be facing it with a brain that felt increasingly like it was running on corrupted drivers and sheer, desperate willpower. Assistance required? Damn right it was. But trusting Cipher, this walking enigma who knew too much and felt too little, felt like swapping one critical error for another, potentially fatal one.