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

[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.

 

[Stimpak Medic]

I came into this expecting average system stuff with very little depth, grating childish humor, and safe edgy writing, but this was a surprisingly pleasant reading experience. Thank you for that little "Read Reality Glitches and Other Daily Annoyances" underneath your name, otherwise I would not have had the pleasure of reading your story.

In short, it's definitely a diamond in the sea of mud that are system fics.

 

[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]

I came into this expecting average system stuff with very little depth, grating childish humor, and safe edgy writing, but this was a surprisingly pleasant reading experience. Thank you for that little "Read Reality Glitches and Other Daily Annoyances" underneath your name, otherwise I would not have had the pleasure of reading your story.

In short, it's definitely a diamond in the sea of mud that are system fics.

Click to shrink...

THANK YOU A LOT FOR THE KIND WORDS!!! I am so glad you found it to be a pleasant read, and I will try my best to keep the experience as much. Again, thank you a lot and I am so glad having it in my title led you to it :>

 

[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]

Hey all, sorry for disappearing. I had limited access to internet and electricity recently. Will be publishing all the chapters in a bit after proof-reading once more. Thank you for your understanding

 

[SimSimma]

Hey all, sorry for disappearing. I had limited access to internet and electricity recently. Will be publishing all the chapters in a bit after proof-reading once more. Thank you for your understanding

Click to shrink...

Glad you're okay! That's what matters
I'll be here for the next update no matter when it is, so take your time

 

[phanst]

Glad you're okay! That's what matters
I'll be here for the next update no matter when it is, so take your time

Click to shrink...

Thank you a lot for your kind words!!! And yes, I am alright and well.

 

[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.

 

[phanst]

Chapter 0027: Echoes, Anomalies, and Unwanted Attention

The passage on the other side of the temporal distortion felt… quieter. Colder. The faint scent of ozone and burnt cinnamon from the spore explosion was thankfully absent, replaced by the familiar damp earth and metallic tang, maybe even stronger here. The walls were smooth, water-worn rock, curving gently as the tunnel descended further.

Cipher took point again, moving with that same unnerving, silent fluidity. Their flashlight beam cut a steady path, rarely wavering. Anya followed, weapon low, scanning constantly. Leo walked behind her, his earlier enthusiasm for structural analysis momentarily dampened by the sheer weirdness we'd just experienced. He kept glancing back towards the shimmering ripple of the distortion, now receding behind us, as if expecting it to reach out and snag him.

I brought up the rear, concentrating fiercely on just walking a straight line. The brief transit through the distortion had left me feeling like psychic roadkill. The phantom error code [ERR: SYNC_FAILURE_7G] still flickered stubbornly at the edges of my vision, overlaying the tunnel walls, the back of Leo's head, the pulsing fungi littered around. It was less a hallucination, more a persistent visual artifact, like dead pixels on reality's screen.

My hearing felt muffled, sounds slightly distorted, as if listening through cheap earbuds with bad wiring. The steady drip of water echoing ahead seemed to have gained a faint, tinny echo that didn't quite sync up. My own footsteps sounded too loud, clumsy, attracting unwanted attention even from myself.

I stumbled again, catching myself on the slick wall. The rock felt wrong under my palm, it was strangely warm for a moment, then icy cold, the sensation shifting rapidly before settling back to just damp chill. I snatched my hand back, heart pounding. Just the cognitive damage, I told myself firmly. Just static. Ignore it. But the suspicion lingered. Was it just me? Or was this passage itself subtly unstable?

Anya glanced back, noticing my stumble. "Still with us, Ren?"

"Define 'with us'," I muttered, pushing myself off the wall. "Processing capacity remains… limited. Let's just keep moving."

Cipher, predictably, offered no comment, continuing their steady pace. Did they notice my struggle? Did they even care? Their complete lack of reaction felt increasingly unsettling. Their offer of "assistance" felt hollow when faced with my obvious degradation. Maybe, a cynical corner of my brain whispered, this IS the assistance. Observing the failure state IS the data they want. The thought sparked a flicker of paranoia, cold and sharp. Were they deliberately leading us through hazardous areas to provoke a reaction, to stress my abilities further?

No, that's crazy, I countered internally. My brain's just glitching. But the doubt remained, an annoying background process I couldn't seem to terminate.

We continued for another ten minutes in silence, the only sounds our footsteps, the omnipresent dripping, and the occasional faint rumble from deep within the earth. The tunnel remained relatively consistent with water-worn rock, patches of dim fungi, oppressive darkness.

Then, Leo stopped, holding up a hand. He wasn't looking at the structure this time, but sniffing the air. "Do you guys smell that?"

I took a tentative sniff. Beneath the damp earth and metal, there was something else. Faint, but definite. A sharp, acrid smell, like burnt plastic mixed with vinegar. Chemical. Unpleasant.

Anya nodded slowly, her own senses clearly picking it up. "Yeah. Chemical residue. Common with scav-miner extraction methods. Often corrosive, sometimes explosive." She swept her flashlight beam across the walls nearby. "No residue here, though. Smell's coming from further ahead."

Cipher paused, their cyan lenses rotating slightly, possibly engaging atmospheric sensors. "Air particle analysis confirms trace presence of complex volatile organic compounds," the filtered voice reported. "Consistent with uncontrolled acidic leaching agents used in rudimentary mineral extraction. Source estimated within 50 meters."

"Great," Anya muttered. "Not only are they tearing up the place, they're probably poisoning the air while they do it." She looked towards the source of the chinking sound we'd heard before the spore explosion... had it resumed? No, the passage was still silent apart from our own presence. Had they moved on? Or just… stopped making noise?

"Hold," Cipher suddenly commanded, their voice flat but carrying an unmistakable edge of warning. They froze, body perfectly still, lenses fixed on a section of the tunnel floor just ahead.

We stopped instantly, muscles tensed. Anya raised her sidearm slightly.

Cipher pointed a gloved finger towards the floor. Their flashlight beam illuminated the spot. At first, I saw nothing but damp rock and scattered pebbles. Then, I saw it. Barely visible against the dark stone. A faint shimmer. Not a Glitch, not like the temporal distortion. This was thin, almost invisible, stretched across the tunnel floor about ankle-height. A tripwire.

"Monofilament tripwire," Cipher identified calmly. "Connected to… assessing… cascade chemical ignition charges embedded in the walls. Low yield, designed for disorientation and area denial via toxic gas dispersal."

A trap. Left by the scav-miners? Or the Vultures? Or something else entirely?

My blood ran cold. We'd almost walked right into it. Leo let out a shaky breath beside me. Anya's grip on her weapon tightened.

"Can we disarm it?" Anya asked Cipher, keeping her voice low.

"Negative," Cipher replied instantly. "Mechanism appears corroded, unstable. Attempting to disarm carries high probability of premature detonation." They swept their light beam slightly higher up the wall. "However, the upper anchor point is visible. Sufficient clearance exists to bypass overhead if vertical traversal is employed."

Vertical traversal. Meaning climbing over the damn thing. In this narrow, slippery tunnel. While I felt like I might pass out any second.

Anya assessed the situation quickly. "Rope and grapple again?"

"Sub-optimal," Cipher countered. "Anchor points insecure. Minimal space for leverage." They tilted their head slightly, looking at the ceiling directly above the tripwire. "Suggest localized structural weakening followed by controlled bypass."

Before Anya could ask what the hell that meant, Cipher produced a small, cylindrical device from a hidden compartment on their suit. They aimed it at a specific point on the ceiling above the tripwire. A thin, almost invisible beam of scarlet light lanced out, hitting the rock. There was no sound, no explosive force, just a faint smell of ozone and superheated stone. The rock glowed cherry-red for a second, then crumbled silently, raining down fine dust and pebbles just behind the tripwire, creating a small ramp of debris.

Cipher then retracted the device and, with that same unsettling fluidity, took two quick steps, planted a foot on the newly created ramp, and vaulted cleanly over the monofilament line, landing silently on the other side.

Anya stared, momentarily speechless. "Show off," she muttered, then gestured for Leo. "Okay, Draftsman. Your turn. Use the ramp. Don't touch the wire."

Leo nodded, pale but determined. He carefully navigated the debris ramp Cipher had created and vaulted over, landing a bit clumsily but safely on the other side beside Cipher.

My turn again. The gap looked wider now, the wire impossibly thin and menacing. My vision swam, the [ERR: SYNC_FAILURE_7G] code flickering violently over the tripwire itself. Could I make it? The thought of triggering those chemical charges, flooding this confined space with toxic gas while already feeling like death warmed over…

Okay, Ren. Calculate the trajectory. Assess kinetic energy requirements. Factor in vestibular system malfunction… Screw it. Just jump.

Taking a stumbling run-up, I launched myself off the debris ramp. For a horrible second, mid-air, the world tilted, vertigo slamming into me. My coordination failed. I wasn't going to clear it. My trailing foot hooked the barely visible monofilament line—

NO! Desperation surged. Focused everything, not on debugging, but on pure physical will. Twisted my body violently, pulling my leg up, tucking into a clumsy roll as I landed hard on the other side, shoulder slamming into the rock floor.

Pain flared, but overridden by sheer relief. I hadn't triggered it. Lay there panting, damp rock cold against my cheek, the acrid chemical smell sharp in my nostrils.

"Cutting it fine, Debugger," Anya commented dryly, stepping neatly over the wire after me, apparently deciding the low wire didn't require the vaulting maneuver.

"Physiological stress response noted," Cipher's filtered voice observed as I pushed myself painfully to my feet, leaning against the wall, shoulder throbbing like a second heartbeat. "Recommend minimal exertion."

"Noted," I grunted, trying to ignore the way Cipher's cyan lenses seemed to be dissecting my every twitch, every bead of sweat on my forehead. Their unwavering gaze felt less like detached observation, more like cold, clinical assessment... like a scientist studying a failing specimen. Were they deliberately pushing me to my limits? Testing the breaking point? The thought sparked a fresh surge of paranoia, icy and sharp.

My gaze drifted past Cipher, deeper down the tunnel, trying to escape the scrutiny. And froze.

About thirty feet ahead, where the tunnel curved slightly, partially illuminated by Anya's beam, something was etched into the rock wall. Not fungus. Not natural formations. Scratched crudely, recently, but unmistakably.

[ERR: SYNC_FAILURE_7G]

It wasn't just in my head anymore. It was out there. Real. Carved into the very fabric of the Undercroft. The code seemed to pulse faintly in the ambient light, mocking my broken perception. A shiver ran down my spine, a primal fear that transcended the cognitive damage, the hallucinations, the glitching world. This wasn't just a bug in my personal software anymore. I wasn't just a victim of a broken reality... I was being watched.

 

[phanst]

Chapter 0028: Junction Recon and Lingering Echoes

The crudely etched error code pulsed in my vision, mocking, real, [ERR: SYNC_FAILURE_7G]. It wasn't just a phantom of my damaged cognition anymore; it was physically scratched into the damp rock of the Undercroft, a cryptic message left by… who? And why that specific code? The connection to the SOS signal felt undeniable, terrifyingly direct. I wasn't just receiving a signal; it felt like reality itself was actively trying to slap me in the face with it.

A shiver traced its way down my spine, colder than the Undercroft air, colder even than the residual chill from the temporal distortion. The paranoia flared again, sharp and insistent. Is this aimed at me? Specifically me? Did passing through that time warp… tune me in somehow? Make me a receiver? I glanced instinctively at Cipher, standing impassively nearby. Their cyan lenses offered no clue, no reaction. But the suspicion tightened its grip. Do they know? Is that why they're interested? Am I broadcasting something they want to intercept?

"Ren?" Anya's voice cut through my spiraling thoughts. She'd followed my gaze to the etched code, her expression hardening. "You recognize that?"

I hesitated. Admitting the code matched the SOS felt… risky. Especially with Cipher listening, analyzing. "It's… familiar," I said carefully, tearing my eyes away from the disturbing glyph. "Looks like a standard system error format. Maybe related to… communication network failures?" Lying by omission felt like the safest bet right now.

Anya frowned, clearly not entirely convinced, but didn't press. She turned her attention to the etching itself. "Looks fresh. Made with something sharp, maybe a piece of scrap metal." She sniffed the air again. "And that chemical smell… stronger here."

Leo, ever observant, leaned closer to the wall near the etching. "Anya's right. See the scoring pattern? It's hurried, jagged. Not professional work." He then pointed slightly above the code. "And this discoloration… it's not soot. It almost looks like… acid etching, very faint. Maybe residue from whatever agent those scav-miners are using?"

"Volatile leaching agents," Anya confirmed grimly. "Stuff eats through rock to get at embedded ores or tech components. Nasty business. The 'Obsidian Jaw' crew was known for using similar unstable compounds back when I ran routes through Sector 9. Reckless idiots, blew themselves up more often than not." Her knowledge was specific, painting a picture of the human dangers lurking alongside the monstrous ones. Were the Obsidian Jaws operating here now? Did they leave the message? And why this specific code?

Cipher remained silent during this exchange, their head tilted slightly as if processing the new data points – the etching style, the chemical residue, Anya's faction knowledge. Minimal exertion, maximal observation. Still felt like being watched by a hawk disguised as a shadow.

"The trap," Anya continued, turning back to the bypassed tripwire. "The etching. The chemical smell. Seems likely connected to those scav-miners Leo mentioned. They block off tunnels they're working, use nasty surprises to deter rivals."

"Or protect their claim from whatever else is down here," I added quietly, thinking of the drag marks and the 'Apex Predator' Cipher had mentioned. Maybe the trap wasn't meant for us or rival scavengers, but for something worse.

"Regardless," Cipher interjected, their filtered voice cutting through the speculation, "lingering in this corridor increases probability of further contact. The Maintenance Junction is approximately 150 meters ahead via this passage. Recommend proceeding."

Right. Focus. Get back to the rig. Then worry about cryptic messages and paranoid theories.

We continued, Anya taking point again, moving with heightened caution now. I took up the rear, deliberately focusing on my footing, on the physical sensations of the tunnel, trying to ground myself against the swirling cognitive static and the persistent flicker of the error code hallucination. The near-miss with the tripwire had left a residue of adrenaline-fueled hyper-awareness; every shadow seemed deeper, every distant drip potentially sinister. I found myself glancing constantly towards Cipher, trying to gauge their reactions, looking for any flicker of intent behind the impassive mask.

The passage began to curve gently, ascending slightly. The air grew marginally less heavy, the metallic tang fading somewhat. Up ahead, Anya paused, signaling for quiet. Faint sounds drifted back to us – not clicking or grinding, but the low, resonant hum of heavy machinery operating irregularly, punctuated by muffled clanks.

Sounds like… the Maintenance Junction? Was something inside?

Anya exchanged a look with Cipher. Cipher tilted their head, listening intently for a long moment. "Energy signatures detected," the filtered voice reported, low and almost inaudible. "Fluctuating. Consistent with Probability Drive attempting primary system recharge cycle, intermittently failing due to damaged external conduits or unstable auxiliary power feed."

Relief washed over me, so potent it almost made my knees buckle again. The Wraiths hadn't broken in, or if they had, they were gone. The rig was still there, inside the Junction, trying pathetically to draw power from the dying auxiliary batteries.

"Let's move," Anya whispered, quickening her pace, relief warring with urgency on her face.

We reached the end of the side passage, emerging cautiously back into the larger chamber outside the Maintenance Junction building. It looked exactly as we'd left it: dimly lit by the dying overheads, the heavy steel door of the Junction securely shut. No immediate sign of Wraiths near the entrance. The ragged hole we'd blown in the side wall of the Junction wasn't visible from this angle, likely tucked around a corner or leading into a passage behind the main structure.

"Door looks secure from here," Anya murmured, sweeping her light over the main entrance. "Wraiths still around?"

"Bio-signatures negative in immediate vicinity," Cipher stated. "Residual energy traces consistent with Wraith presence, but dissipated."

"Right," Anya breathed, holstering her sidearm but keeping her hand near it. "Let's get inside. Main door. Now."

Cipher moved to the door's control panel, producing a thin, sophisticated-looking interface tool from their suit. Sparks flew briefly as they bypassed the external lock mechanism, which we hadn't been able to open from the outside before. With a pneumatic hiss, the heavy steel door slid open.

We hurried inside, the familiar (if unsettling) interior of the junction a welcome sight. The Probability Drive sat where we'd left it, humming faintly, its internal lights flickering. Anya immediately moved to seal the door behind us, then headed straight for the Drive's access hatch. Leo slumped onto his crate, looking utterly drained.

I leaned against the wall, taking a moment to just breathe, the relative safety doing little to ease the throbbing in my head or the [ERR: SYNC_FAILURE_7G] still flickering in my vision. We were back. We were alive. The rig was here.

"Wait," Leo said suddenly, his voice tight. He was staring not at the rig, but towards the far side of the Junction, towards the jagged, crudely blasted hole in the wall that had been our desperate escape route from the Wraiths.

The floor around the interior edge of the breach hole looked… disturbed. Scuffed. As if something large had indeed passed through after us, exiting the Junction into the narrow passage beyond. And there, lying on the dusty concrete just inside the lip of the hole, was a single, large shard of dark, obsidian-like material. Smooth on one side, jaggedly fractured on the other.

Anya, hearing the change in Leo's tone, walked over. She picked up the shard carefully, examining it under her flashlight. "What the hell is this?" she murmured.

Cipher stepped forward, extending a gloved hand. Anya hesitated for only a fraction of a second before dropping the shard into Cipher's palm. Cipher rotated it, cyan lenses seeming to focus intensely.

"Analysis," the filtered voice stated after a moment. "Chitinous silicate composite. Exhibits minor energy absorption properties. Trace biological residue consistent with… Apex Predator designation: Obsidian Crawler."

Obsidian Crawler. It had been inside the junction with us, likely drawn by the chaos of the Wraith attack or our explosive escape. And it had seemingly departed through the hole we made, into the very passage we'd used to flee. Had it ignored us because we were insignificant? Or had it simply chosen an easier escape route when the Wraiths provided a distraction and a convenient new exit?

The knowledge sent a fresh wave of ice down my spine. We hadn't just escaped Wraiths... we'd shared our temporary sanctuary with something designated an Apex Predator of the Undercroft. And it had used our back door.

Retrieving the rig was just the first step. Surviving long enough to fix it and actually use it felt like a problem of an entirely different magnitude. And somewhere, out in that darkness, Cipher watched, analyzed, and waited, their true motives hidden behind glowing cyan lenses and layers of impenetrable silence.

 

[phanst]

Chapter 0029: Damage Control and Diminishing Returns

Anya didn't waste a second after sealing us back inside the relative, if highly questionable, safety of the Maintenance Junction. Pragmatism was clearly her default state, especially post-near-death-by-Apex-Predator-and-Wraith-tag-team experience. "Alright," she announced, her voice sharp, cutting through the dusty silence that followed the heavy thump of the mag-locked steel door. She began shedding her outer layer of scarred composite plating, revealing the surprisingly mundane khakis underneath, stained with sweat and grime. "First things first: rig assessment."

She moved towards the Probability Drive, which sat hulking in the greenish gloom cast by the dying overhead lights, its powerful core thankfully quiescent after our earlier debugging attempt. Scorch marks marred the roof plating near the forward viewport, a remnant of our impromptu Stalker-cooking experiment. Deep gouges scarred the front plating from ramming the garage barrier. One of the articulated track units looked slightly skewed, likely from the impacts or the violent landing into the Undercroft. Anya pulled her diagnostic scanner from her belt again, plugging it into an external diagnostic port near the cockpit hatch. Data immediately began scrolling across her scanner's small screen.

Leo, having slumped onto his usual crate, pushed himself upright, drawn by the activity. "How bad is it?" he asked, his voice still holding a tremor from the accumulated stress.

"Cosmetically challenged," Anya grunted, not looking up from her scanner. "Structurally… jury's still out. That ramming maneuver wasn't exactly in the operating manual." She frowned at the readouts. "Track alignment is definitely off. Probably sheared some internal tension bolts. Easy enough fix if we had replacements, which we don't."

She moved towards the rear, near the drive core housing. "Shield grid is shot, emitters five through seven are completely fried after that overload stunt. We're running naked defensively until I can bypass the damage and reroute power, assuming the core matrix itself didn't take sympathetic damage." Her gaze flickered towards me. "How's your patch holding, Ren?"

I pushed myself upright, swaying slightly. The world did a slow, lazy tilt. My headache pulsed. Trying to check the core stability now, without active diagnostics from the rig itself, felt like guesswork amplified by brain damage. "Last I saw, it was stable… ish," I managed, blinking hard against the persistent [ERR: SYNC_FAILURE_7G] flickering mockingly in my vision. "But that was before the high-impact disassembly of the garage entrance and whatever fun the Crawler had while it was bunking with the rig."

"Right," Anya muttered, clearly not reassured. She focused on her scanner again. "Core matrix status… fluctuating. Minor resonance echoes detected. Your 'duct tape' seems to be holding, but it's definitely stressed. Pushing the drive hard again without proper recalibration…" She shook her head. "Not advisable."

Recalibration. That sounded like something requiring fine control, intricate analysis, and a brain functioning significantly above 'intermittent error state'. My stomach churned.

"Can we… recalibrate?" I asked, dreading the answer.

Anya looked up from her scanner, her hazel eyes meeting mine directly. The look wasn't accusatory, just weary and pragmatic. "The standard diagnostic tools on this rig can't even properly interface with this core, Ren. You saw the mess on the terminal back at the workshop. You are the calibration tool. And right now," she gestured vaguely at my swaying stance, "you look like you're running diagnostic tools written in Klingon during a power surge."

Her bluntness hurt, but it was accurate. The frustration was a physical ache. Useless. Worse than useless, potentially a liability if they needed complex debugging done now. My gaze drifted towards the jagged breach hole in the far wall – the Crawler's convenient exit. At least that particular Apex Predator wasn't currently sharing our living space. Small mercies.

Cipher, who had been observing silently from near the defunct pump machinery, spoke up, their filtered voice cutting through the assessment. "Analysis of Probability Drive energy signature confirms sub-optimal performance. Reality stabilization matrix exhibits cascading resonance artifacts indicative of imminent patch failure under moderate load." They paused. "Recommend immediate acquisition of stabilization components: specifically, three Class-Gamma resonant dampeners and approximately 2.5 liters of quantum entanglement fluid."

Anya stared at Cipher. "You can tell all that just by… listening to the hum?"

"Passive sensor suite analysis cross-referenced with known pre-Crash temporal drive schematics," Cipher replied flatly. "Required components are rare but potentially locatable within adjacent Undercroft sectors known for abandoned research outposts."

Leo frowned. "Quantum entanglement fluid? Resonant dampeners? That sounds… specialized. And dangerous."

"It is," Anya confirmed grimly. "Stuff is unstable as hell. And 'abandoned research outposts' usually means heavily glitched, probably guarded by automated defenses or worse." She sighed, running a hand through her hair, leaving a streak of grease. "But Cipher's right. Without those dampeners, Ren's patch won't hold through another serious reality warp. We're grounded."

Grounded. In a failing concrete box, limited power, dwindling supplies, and confirmation of an 'Apex Predator' having recently used our back door. The situation somehow felt even worse now that we'd stopped moving.

I slid back down the wall, the concrete feeling blessedly solid, even if reality wasn't. The effort of standing, talking, thinking, was draining my non-existent reserves. The [ERR: SYNC_FAILURE_7G] still flickered in my vision, a constant, mocking reminder.

The brief burst of paranoia about Cipher returned. Passive sensor suite? Known pre-Crash schematics? Where did this walking enigma get their information? And offering up a shopping list of rare, dangerous components needed to fix our specific problem… felt suspiciously convenient. Were they guiding us towards something else out there in those abandoned research posts?

I shook my head, trying to clear the fuzz. Stop it. Damaged brain making damaged assumptions. Still, the unease lingered.

Anya seemed to reach a decision. "Okay. Twelve hours of auxiliary battery, maybe less especially if the power drain accelerates from the damage. Not enough time for Ren to recover enough for serious debugging." She looked at Leo, then at me. "Means a scavenging run is inevitable. And it has to be fast." She turned back to Cipher. "These research outposts you mentioned. Which one offers the highest probability of success with the lowest probability of… messy disintegration?"

Cipher's head tilted slightly. "Calculating… Sector 6-Delta contains sublevel facility 'Project Chimera'. High probability (68%) of containing Class-Gamma dampeners due to known temporal research conducted therein. Primary threats: degraded automated security systems, residual temporal echoes, potential bio-engineered specimen containment failures."

Bio-engineered specimens. Added to the list of Undercroft delights.

"Downside?" Anya prompted dryly.

"Facility sublevel access requires traversing a known Obsidian Crawler hunting territory," Cipher stated calmly.

Of course it did.

 

[phanst]

phew! with that, all chapters for last week are published, guess the Glitches didn't allow any extras this weeked :c

 

[phanst]

Chapter 0030: Calculated Risks and Corrupted Codecs

The silence that followed Cipher's pronouncement about Obsidian Crawler territory being the route to Project Chimera wasn't comfortable. It was the heavy, leaden quiet of people contemplating a truly terrible set of options and realizing the least terrible one still involved dancing with monsters.

Anya broke the silence first, scrubbing a hand over her already grease-streaked face. She walked over to the workbench, picked up a discarded hydro-spanner, tested its weight, then slammed it back down with controlled frustration. "Right. Project Chimera. Through Crawler country. To fetch unstable parts for an unstable engine, relying on a ghost guide who analyzes risk like a damned accountant." She blew out a sharp breath. "Fan-fucking-tastic."

Leo flinched slightly at her outburst but didn't comment, instead busying himself checking the seals on his water flask, his gaze distant. He was processing, likely running structural failure analyses on our survival probability.

I leaned back against the wall, the cool concrete a small comfort against the throbbing heat behind my eyes. My gaze drifted to the Probability Drive, silent and hulking. It was our only real hope, our escape route, our ticket to maybe figuring out what the hell Quadrant 7G was about. But it needed those parts. Which meant the run was necessary. Which meant facing… whatever Chimera and the Crawler territory held. All while my own internal hardware felt increasingly unreliable.

The [ERR: SYNC_FAILURE_7G] code flickered over the rig's scarred plating. I blinked hard. It vanished, replaced by a brief, hallucinatory shimmer, making the metal seem to ripple like water for a heartbeat. Okay, focus on breathing, I reminded myself, closing my eyes momentarily. Grounding techniques. Concrete floor. Cool air. Salty cardboard nutrient paste residue. Simple, tangible things to push back against the encroaching static.

"We don't have much choice, Anya," I said quietly, opening my eyes again. The hallucination seemed slightly less intrusive for the moment. "Batteries are draining. The patch won't hold under load. Sitting here guarantees failure." It felt strange, being the one voicing grim pragmatism when usually that was her domain. Maybe my own desperation was overriding my cynicism.

Anya sighed again, the sound less angry now, more weary. "I know. Doesn't mean I have to like willingly walking into a bio-hazard blender possibly stalked by a giant obsidian death machine." She pushed herself off the workbench. "Alright. We do this, we do it fast, smart, and quiet."

She turned to Cipher, who had remained utterly still near the defunct pumps, observing us with those unnerving cyan lenses. "Ghost guide. You said you have detailed knowledge. Give us the optimal route to Chimera, entry points, known static defenses, specimen containment status... everything you've got. No redactions."

Cipher's head tilted fractionally. "Accessing relevant data files. Stand by." For a few seconds, the cyan lenses glowed slightly brighter, a faint internal whirring audible even over the hum of the junction's failing fans. They were accessing… something. An internal database? A remote connection, even down here? The implications were unsettling.

Then, Cipher gestured towards the workbench where Anya's ruggedized terminal still sat. "Data packet prepared. Compatible with standard URE-interfaced terminals. Contains sublevel schematics for Project Chimera – Zones Alpha through Gamma – including known structural weaknesses, active/inactive automated systems based on last passive scan six standard cycles ago, and probability heatmaps for Apex Predator movement patterns in intervening sectors."

Anya stared. "You just… have Chimera schematics? And Crawler movement heatmaps?"

"Information is a currency," Cipher replied flatly. "My reserves are adequate. Transferring packet." A thin beam of blue light shot from Cipher's wrist towards Anya's terminal. The screen flickered, displaying a progress bar that filled almost instantly. [Data Packet 'CHIMERA_RECce_v4.7' Received. Decryption Key: OBSERVATION].

Anya looked at the decryption key displayed, then back at Cipher, suspicion warring with the undeniable value of the offered data. Observation. Cipher wasn't even subtle about their price.

"Leo," Anya called, gesturing him over. "Your turn to shine. See if you can make sense of this. Find us the path of least resistance. Focus on structural weak points for potential emergency exits, active power conduits we might need to avoid or exploit, and ventilation shafts – sometimes they're clear when main corridors aren't."

Leo nodded, his previous anxiety replaced by focused concentration as he leaned over the terminal, absorbing the complex schematics appearing on screen. His fingers tapped, zooming in, highlighting sections, murmuring technical terms under his breath. His drafting background was proving invaluable again.

While Leo worked, Anya began meticulously checking her sidearm, cleaning the focusing lens, swapping out a partially depleted energy cell for a fresh one from her belt pouch. Routine actions, but her movements were sharp, precise, channeling her anxiety into preparedness.

I tried to contribute, moving towards the workbench, intending to offer… something. Analysis? Moral support? Sarcastic commentary? But a wave of dizziness hit me as I stood, the floor seeming to tilt beneath my boots, the overhead lights swaying drunkenly. I gripped the edge of the workbench, knuckles white, the cool metal a small comfort against the rising panic. The [ERR: SYNC_FAILURE_7G] code didn't just flicker this time... it erupted across my vision, a jagged banner of corrupted data obscuring everything. But it was overlaid with something else… a fleeting glimpse of a sterile white hallway, metal cages lining the walls, something moving – writhing? – inside, all rendered in sharp, hyper-realistic detail before vanishing, leaving me gasping.

Okay, definitely not okay, I thought grimly, the hallucination feeling less random, more like a fragmented data stream actively trying to force its way into my consciousness.

"Easy, Ren," Anya said quietly, noticing my struggle without looking up from her weapon maintenance. "Don't force it. Your job right now is getting your head screwed back on straight. We need you functional later, not passed out on the floor now."

She was right. I sank back down against the wall, the concrete feeling blessedly solid, even if reality wasn't. My gaze drifted towards Cipher, standing silently near the defunct pumps. And I swore, for a fleeting second, the reflection in their smoked visor wasn't just of me… but of something else standing behind me, something tall and distorted, with too many limbs, before the moment passed, leaving me questioning my own sanity. Was that just the lights? Or another 'feature' of my premium cognitive package? Reduced to watching.

The brief respite was over and the planning phase had begun, bringing its own form of tension.

Cipher remained nearby, silent sentinel, cyan lenses occasionally flicking between Leo working at the terminal, Anya cleaning her weapon, and me fighting my own internal errors. What were they thinking behind that mask? Their offer of data felt too easy, too convenient. Was Project Chimera really just a target of opportunity for the components we needed? Or was it Cipher's goal all along, and we were just the pawns needed to get inside?

My thoughts drifted again to the etched error on the wall we saw. The paranoia whispered again. Coincidence? Or is everything connected? The SOS, the Crawler, Cipher, Chimera, this damned code in my head… Are we stumbling through a puzzle, or being deliberately led down a rabbit hole?

The only certainty was the dwindling power, the damaged rig, and the fact that soon, very soon, we'd be heading out into the darkness again, towards a place called Chimera, armed with borrowed data and facing threats both known and terrifyingly unknown.

 

[phanst]

Chapter 0031: Schematics and Suspicions

The heavy thrum of the Probability Drive's minimal life support system was the dominant sound now, a low pulse against the backdrop of dripping water and the unsettling silence from within the sealed steel door. The air, thick with the scent of ozone, dust, and stale machinery, felt heavy, stagnant. The Maintenance Junction felt less like a sanctuary and more like a holding cell with a slowly draining power supply.

Anya finished her weapons check, the finality of the sidearm clicking back into its holster echoing slightly in the quiet. She nodded towards the workbench where Leo was already hunched over her ruggedized terminal, the glow of the screen illuminating his focused expression. "Alright, Leo. Talk to us. What secrets did our resident ghost whisper into the machine?"

Leo pushed his hair back from his forehead, leaving a streak of grime. He tapped the screen, zooming in on a section of the complex schematic Cipher had provided. "It's… detailed," he admitted, awe mixing with apprehension in his voice. "Almost too detailed. Full sublevel layouts for 'Project Chimera', cross-referenced with geological surveys, known hazard zones…"

He pointed to a section marked 'Entry Point Alpha'. "This looks like the main personnel entrance. Heavy blast doors, multiple redundant security checkpoints, likely automated defenses still active according to Cipher's scan six cycles ago. Going in that way looks like suicide."

Anya leaned over his shoulder, frowning at the schematic. "Agreed. Chimera was never meant to welcome visitors."

"But," Leo continued, navigating to a different part of the layout, "Point Beta… here. Designated as 'Emergency Maintenance Conduit 7'. The schematic officially lists it as structurally collapsed." He zoomed in further, highlighting faint overlay lines in Cipher's data packet. "But Cipher's packet includes passive sensor data suggesting the collapse was internal, deeper within the facility structure itself. The outer access tunnel," he traced a narrow, winding path on the map, "might still be intact, just blocked by debris near the main facility wall. Less defense, more… manual labor required to clear it."

Anya nodded slowly. "A back door. Riskier structurally, maybe, but avoids the automated death traps. Plausible. What about the route to Point Beta?"

Leo pulled up another overlay, this one showing the intervening Undercroft sectors. "Cipher's suggested path looks… mostly logical. Follows old aqueduct maintenance tunnels, bypasses the worst of the known Vulture territories here," he tapped a section marked with jagged skull symbols, "and skirts the edge of the main Crawler hunting grounds marked here." He indicated a larger zone shaded in an ominous, flickering red probability heatmap. "But," he hesitated, zooming in on a specific tunnel junction along the proposed route, "this section… Anya, you mentioned unstable grav-pockets?"

Anya leaned closer, her eyes narrowing. "Yeah. Sector 6-Charlie access conduit. Always fluctuated. Old Man Fitz lost half a shipment of synth-kelp there once when gravity decided to take a five-minute nap." She looked pointedly at where Cipher stood, observing silently near the defunct machinery. "Your heatmap shows minimal gravitational anomalies there, Cipher. An oversight?"

Cipher's head tilted fractionally. "Passive scans indicated recent stabilization," the filtered voice replied evenly. "Localized reality field settlement post-Sector 5 tremor event approximately twelve cycles ago mitigated previously recorded gravimetric shear."

The explanation was plausible, technical, and completely unverifiable without going there. Anya clearly didn't buy it entirely, but challenging Cipher's data directly felt pointless right now. "Right. 'Stabilization'," she muttered skeptically, making a mental note.

I watched the exchange, the familiar pulse of paranoia flickering beneath my exhaustion. Cipher's data was incredibly convenient. Their route seemed almost too perfect, accounting for hazards with detailed, recent-sounding information. Are they leading us? Curating the path? Minimizing risks, or guiding us towards something specific they want us to encounter? My thoughts felt fuzzy, unreliable, but the suspicion remained, a grit in the gears of my weary mind.

Leo continued his analysis, moving deeper into the Chimera facility schematics. "Internal layout is standard research facility modular design, mostly. Labs, containment zones, power conduits…" He zoomed into a section labelled 'Zone Gamma – Chronos Ward'. "This area's weird, though."

My breath hitched. The name itself sent a discordant jangle through my nerves.

"Energy signatures here are anomalous," Leo explained, pointing to flickering icons on the display. "Don't match standard reactor outputs or known experimental tech. And the architectural layout… see these voids?" He highlighted sections that simply showed up as black space on the otherwise detailed schematic. "They aren't marked as collapsed sections... they're listed as 'Non-Euclidean Stability Buffer Zones'. Whatever that means."

My vision flared. The [ERR: SYNC_FAILURE_7G] code erupted across the terminal screen in my perception, jagged and angry, momentarily obscuring the actual schematics. Beneath it, the horrifyingly clear image of the white hallway flashed again – sterile walls, metal cages, something indistinct writhing within one, and a faint, flickering logo on a nearby console… a stylized hourglass intertwined with a serpent. The image vanished, leaving me breathless, the taste of blood sharp in my mouth again.

"Ren?" Leo asked, noticing my sudden pallor. "You okay?"

I waved a dismissive hand, leaning back against the wall, trying to control my breathing. "Yeah… fine. Just… headrush." The sense of wrong familiarity with Zone Gamma was overwhelming now, a suffocating dread mixed with an inexplicable pull. It felt like a place I'd been warned about in a nightmare I couldn't quite remember.

"Also," Leo added, pointing again, his voice dropping slightly, "some of the annotations in this section… they use symbols. Not standard hazard markers. Looks almost like… well, like that code etched on the wall back there."

He indicated small, cryptic glyphs scattered around the Zone Gamma layout, near the non-Euclidean voids. They weren't exact matches to the SYNC_FAILURE_7G string, but the style – jagged, crudely efficient lines – was eerily similar.

Anya leaned in, squinting. "You're right. What the hell is that supposed to mean?" She looked towards Cipher. "Any insights, ghost guide? What were they doing in Zone Gamma?"

Cipher remained still for a moment before replying. "Data regarding specific Zone Gamma research objectives is heavily corrupted or redacted in accessible archives. Pre-Crash designation indicates high-energy temporal experimentation." They paused. "Anomalous energy signatures and non-standard architectural features are likely residual effects of localized spacetime stress or undocumented containment failures." The explanation was technically sound, yet felt deliberately vague, skating around the core weirdness.

"Temporal experiments," Anya breathed, looking disturbed. "So, like that distortion field we just walked through, but worse?"

"Potentially orders of magnitude more complex and less stable," Cipher confirmed tonelessly.

The need for the Class-Gamma resonant dampeners suddenly made more sense. They were likely components used in stabilizing temporal fields. And Chimera's Zone Gamma was the most likely place to find leftovers from high-energy temporal experiments. Cipher's data wasn't just convenient, it pointed directly to the heart of the most dangerous, unknown part of the facility.

My paranoia surged again. They WANT us to go to Zone Gamma. The data isn't just guidance, it's bait.

Feeling a desperate need to do something, anything, besides wallow in suspicion and cognitive decay, I pushed myself upright and approached the terminal beside Leo. The schematic swam slightly in my vision. "Let me see," I mumbled, raising a shaky hand towards the screen. Maybe, just maybe, I could clear some of the visual static on the display itself, a tiny act of debugging.

Focused. Pictured the screen's interface code. Tried to isolate the minor visual artifacting subroutine...

Pain spiked behind my eyes, sharp and blinding. The schematic on the screen didn't clear, it momentarily dissolved into a chaotic mess of overlapping windows and corrupted pixels, accompanied by a harsh screech of static from the terminal speaker, before snapping back to normal. [Cognitive Strain Warning: Minimal Debugging Attempt Failed. Recommend Ceasing Operations.] The URE's internal prompt was mocking me again.

I stumbled back, clutching my head, nausea rising. Leo jumped back from the terminal, startled. Anya swore under her breath.

Cipher's cyan lenses remained fixed on me. "Handler intervention appears contra-indicated at current operational capacity," the filtered voice stated, a masterpiece of clinical understatement.

Defeated, useless, I slid back down the wall. The route was chosen. The destination was clear. And it led straight towards a place that resonated with my own internal errors, guided by an entity whose motives felt increasingly suspect. Project Chimera wasn't just a scavenging run... it felt like walking into the heart of the glitch itself.

 

[phanst]

Chapter 0032: Resource Check and Lingering Shadows

The initial surge of adrenaline from discovering a potential path forward via Project Chimera quickly dissipated, leaving behind the cold, hard reality of our situation. We were trapped, low on everything, with a damaged ride and a guide who felt more like a sentient algorithm than an ally. The heavy silence in the junction returned, thick with unspoken anxieties and the faint, persistent hum of the Probability Drive's minimal life support, a sound that felt less like a heartbeat and more like a countdown timer.

Anya, ever the pragmatist, didn't allow the grim atmosphere to linger. "Alright, inventory," she declared, grabbing her pack and dumping its meager contents onto the relatively clean surface of the workbench. "Let's see exactly how screwed we are."

Leo joined her, pulling out his own smaller pack. I pushed myself upright, determined to contribute something, anything, even if it was just counting ration bars. The effort made my vision swim momentarily, the [ERR: SYNC_FAILURE_7G] code flickering mockingly over Anya's focused expression. I clenched my jaw, forced the dizziness down. Act normal. Look functional. The thought felt thin, brittle.

The tally was quick and depressing. Four standard nutrient paste tubes – enough for maybe one bland, vaguely salty meal each, if we stretched it. Three flasks of filtered water, totaling maybe two liters. A handful of high-energy stimulant chews, probably reserved for emergencies. Anya had two full energy cells for her sidearm and I had one spare for my multi-tool's pathetic flashlight function. Ammunition for projectile weapons? Zero. We hadn't found any, and Leo's golf club didn't count. Medical supplies consisted of a nearly empty tube of synth-skin sealant, a few grimy bandages, and two standard-issue pain dampeners.

"Well," Anya stated flatly, surveying the pathetic collection. "We're not winning any prolonged sieges." She carefully repacked the supplies, her movements economical, precise. She paused, holding up the last water flask. "Rationing starts now. Small sips only." The scarcity wasn't just a concept, it was a physical constraint dictating our next moves, adding another layer of pressure to the already impossible Chimera run.

While Anya secured the supplies, I moved towards the Probability Drive, intending to assist with the damage assessment. She was already running her hands along a deep gouge near the forward track unit, her brow furrowed.

"Besides the track alignment," she muttered, pointing to stressed connection points, "looks like the main pivot bearing took a nasty hit during the garage escape. Might shear completely under heavy maneuvering." She pulled out her scanner again, running it over the area. Beeps and warning tones indicated stressed metal. "Needs high-tensile reinforcement bolts and probably a full lubrication flush. Add it to the shopping list."

I tried to focus on the track assembly, looking for other obvious damage. The effort made my headache spike. The complex machinery seemed to blur slightly, details refusing to resolve. I saw… shapes. Metal. Tracks. But the finer points, the stress fractures Anya spotted instantly, were lost in my internal static. My attempt to appear helpful devolved into just… standing there, trying not to look like I was about to keel over. The frustration burned.

"And the roof," Anya continued, moving around the vehicle, her light playing over the scorch marks from the emitter overload. "Transparisteel viewport held, surprisingly, but the surrounding plating is compromised. Definitely need specialized thermal sealant, maybe even replacement panels if we can find compatible alloys." She shook her head. "Fixing this rig properly isn't just about the core dampeners. It's a full overhaul job."

Which required parts. Lots of parts. Found only in dangerous, glitch-infested locations like Chimera. The circular logic of our predicament felt like a tightening noose.

Leo, perhaps sensing the futility or needing a distraction from the grim supply count, had started exploring the Maintenance Junction itself, flashlight beam sweeping across the grimy walls and defunct machinery. He moved with a quiet focus, his earlier fear seemingly sublimated into intense observation.

"Anya, Ren," he called out softly after a few minutes, gesturing towards the far corner near the silent water pumps. "Come look at this."

We joined him. He pointed his light high up on the concrete wall, near the ceiling. A series of deep, parallel gouges scarred the surface, easily missed in the gloom. They looked almost like… claw marks? But huge. Three distinct grooves, each wider than my hand, dug deep into the aged concrete. Faintly, embedded within the deepest gouge, something glinted – tiny, sharp fragments of black, obsidian-like material, identical to the shard Cipher had analyzed.

"Crawler," Anya breathed, her hand instinctively going to her sidearm again. "It climbed the walls. Got high up before… before we blew the pillar out."

Leo then pointed to the floor directly beneath the marks. More scuffing, heavier disturbance in the dust than elsewhere. And… something else. Faint, dark stains, almost black, soaking into the porous concrete. Mostly dry, but undeniably organic-looking.

"Blood?" Leo asked, his voice barely a whisper.

Anya crouched down, examining the stains cautiously, careful not to touch them. She shone her light closely. "Doesn't look like standard blood. Too dark. Too… viscous, even dried." She used a small tool from her belt to scrape a tiny sample onto a collection slide. "Maybe ichor? Or some kind of internal lubricant?"

My stomach churned. The Apex Predator hadn't just passed through, it had lingered, maybe even fought something else in here before we arrived? Or maybe this was residue from its own physiology? The thought of sharing this confined space with something that left marks like that, something designated 'Apex', made the steel door feel terrifyingly thin again.

"Further analysis required," Cipher's filtered voice intruded calmly. They had approached silently, cyan lenses fixed on the stains and the claw marks. "Sample consistency potentially aligns with bio-lubricants found in certain Tier-5 silicon-chitin composite lifeforms, possibly indicating joint articulation points or wound seepage." Clinical. Detached. Analyzing potential monster gore like it was a lab sample.

I watched Cipher closely. They showed no fear, no revulsion. Just… analysis. Was their interest purely academic? Or did they know more about this Crawler than they let on? That earlier paranoia resurfaced. Were they studying it? Is that their real reason for being down here?

Feeling useless and increasingly stressed, I turned away, needing to do something. My eyes fell on the workbench again. Among the rusted tools and Anya's scattered diagnostics gear sat the communication console for the Junction. It was ancient, coated in dust, and had a dark screen. Worth a shot? Maybe catch a stray signal? A local broadcast?

Ignoring the inevitable headache, I approached the console, wiping away grime. Found a corroded power switch. Flipped it. Nothing. Predictable. Traced the power cable back and found it frayed, disconnected from the main (dead) grid conduit. Okay, backup power? Scanned the unit, spotted a small, removable panel. Pried it open with my multi-tool. Inside, nestled in corroded contacts, was a fossilized power cell, likely dead for decades.

But… maybe…

I pulled out the single spare energy cell I carried for my multi-tool. Looked at the cell, then at the ancient console connections. Different form factor, different voltage rating probably. Trying to rig this was asking for a short circuit, maybe even a small explosion.

Don't be an idiot, Ren. My internal safety protocols screamed warnings. Minimal gain, high risk of failure and wasting our precious spare cell.

But the feeling of helplessness, of being broken code in a system demanding function, was overwhelming. Just one successful action. Just one small fix.

Taking a deep breath, ignoring the throbbing in my head, I started trying to jury-rig the connection, using salvaged wire snippets from the workbench, bypassing the corroded terminals, trying to match the polarity markings visible under the grime. My hands shook, the fine motor control needed feeling clumsy, alien. The [ERR: SYNC_FAILURE_7G] code flickered violently, overlaying the wires, making it hard to see clearly.

"Ren, what are you doing?" Anya's sharp voice cut through my concentration. "Leave that junk alone. You'll waste the cell."

"Just… trying something," I muttered, fumbling with the connection. Almost there…

There was a small spark, a whiff of ozone. The console screen flickered… and lit up. Not with a modern interface, but with ancient, blocky, amber text on a black background. MAINTENANCE JUNCTION 4-GAMMA - SYSTEM DIAGNOSTIC. BATTERY POWER DETECTED. RUNNING LEVEL 1 CHECK…

It worked. A tiny, almost insignificant victory, but it felt monumental. Maybe I wasn't completely broken yet.

Then, the screen cleared, replaced by a single, blinking line:

EXTERNAL HAIL DETECTED - PRIORITY CODE: OBSIDIAN JAW PROTOCOL 7. ACCEPT? (Y/N)_

Obsidian Jaw. Anya's scav-miners. Broadcasting to this supposedly dead junction? Now? The coincidence felt suspiciously convenient.

We weren't alone. And someone was trying to call.