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

[phanst]

Chapter 0036: Crawler Territory and Warped Perceptions

The passage Cipher led us into was narrower, more claustrophobic than the wide aqueduct bypass or the musical cavern. Ancient, smoothed rock gave way to rougher-hewn walls showing clear signs of excavation, interspersed with crumbling brickwork supports likely added centuries after the initial tunneling.

The air felt heavy, carrying the damp chill of deep earth and a sharp, mineral tang – iron, maybe copper, leaching from the surrounding strata. The only light came from our suit lamps and handhelds, casting sharp, dancing shadows that exaggerated every crack and crevice.

Cipher's warning about Apex Predator spoor and spatial warping hung in the air, prickling at the back of my neck. "Optimal vigilance," they'd said. Easy for a walking sensor suite to say but harder when your own internal sensors felt like they were picking up signals from alternate, slightly horrifying dimensions.

We hadn't gone fifty feet when Anya, walking point behind Cipher, stopped abruptly, holding up a hand. Her flashlight beam pinned something on the tunnel floor near the wall.

It wasn't subtle. A large, jagged shard of the same obsidian-like material we'd found in the junction lay discarded against the rock. But this piece was huge! It was easily the size of my torso, thick and slightly curved. It looked like a piece of shed plating, snapped off cleanly along one edge, fractured raggedly along the other.

"Crawler," Anya breathed, her voice tight. She swept her light along the walls nearby. More evidence became visible: deep, gouged scratches in the rock, mirroring the ones back at the junction, but fresher looking here, bits of pulverized stone still clinging to the edges. This wasn't just a hunting ground... this felt like a major thoroughfare for the creature.

Leo edged forward cautiously, his earlier fear momentarily overshadowed by intense curiosity. He knelt near the plating shard, careful not to touch it, examining the texture. "The structure… it's layered," he murmured, pointing. "Like compressed silicate fibers embedded in a chitinous matrix. See the slight iridescence?"

He looked up, eyes wide behind his smudged glasses. "Based on the curvature and thickness… the creature that shed this… it's immense. Easily larger than the Probability Drive." His assessment hung in the air, heavy and terrifying. Larger than our mobile armored blockhouse. Down here.

Cipher turned slightly, their cyan lenses focusing on the shard. "Analysis consistent with previous sample," the filtered voice stated. "Estimated shedding event occurred within the last three standard cycles. Moderate probability of originator remaining within local sector." Three cycles. Days, maybe? Recent. Far too recent.

My gaze flicked nervously between the shard, the gouges on the wall, and Cipher's impassive mask. Did they know this specific piece was here? Did their route deliberately bring us past it? A warning? Or just… data collection? The lack of any discernible reaction beyond factual analysis continued to gnaw at me.

"Okay," Anya said, her voice low and urgent. "Stealth protocols mandatory. Minimize noise, stay off loose debris. Light discipline is narrow beams only. Move slow, move quiet." She glanced back at me. "Ren, keep up. No falling behind."

I nodded mutely, forcing my exhausted legs to obey. The knowledge that something that massive had passed through here so recently made every shadow seem deeper, every distant drip potentially the footfall of a subterranean behemoth.

We continued onward, the pace slowing, every step deliberate. My own breathing sounded thunderous in the near silence. The air grew colder still, the mineral tang replaced by a stale, lifeless scent, like air that hadn't circulated in centuries.

Then, I felt it. A sudden, lurching disorientation. The solid rock floor beneath my boots seemed to tilt for a fraction of a second, a wave of vertigo slamming into me. My vision shimmered, the narrow tunnel walls momentarily warping, stretching like taffy before snapping back into place. The entire event lasted barely a second, maybe less.

I stumbled, catching myself against the rough wall, a startled grunt escaping before I could stifle it.

"Ren?" Anya whispered back sharply, pausing.

"Fine," I forced out, my voice tight, heart hammering from the sudden spatial lurch. "Just… uneven ground." It wasn't a complete lie, the ground felt uneven, even if it wasn't visually warped anymore. But I knew what it was. A spatial distortion. Minor, fleeting, exactly what Cipher had warned about. But did they warn because it was a general hazard, or because they knew this specific spot was unstable?

The [ERR: SYNC_FAILURE_7G] code flared brightly in my peripheral vision, overlaid on the rough rock texture, as if the reality hiccup itself had triggered it. I squeezed my eyes shut for a second, trying to force down the rising nausea and the fresh wave of paranoia. Opening them, the code faded slightly, but the background static felt denser, more insistent.

I pushed myself off the wall, forcing myself forward. Keep up. Don't be the weak link. My job wasn't analysis or combat, it was simply endurance right now. And enduring felt like running uphill against a firewall made of corrupted data and bad code.

Cipher, several paces ahead, hadn't even paused during my stumble or the brief spatial warp. Had they not felt it? Or was their own internal stabilization system simply that advanced? Or maybe, the chilling thought occurred, they had registered it, registered my reaction, logged it away as another data point on the 'Runtime Exception Handler's' degrading performance.

We pressed on, deeper into Sector 6-Delta. The tunnel began to show more signs of pre-Crash infrastructure with rusted pipes bolted to the walls, conduits carrying long-dead cables, occasional faded hazard symbols warning of radiation or high voltage, rendered meaningless by time and decay.

Every scrape of a boot, every dislodged pebble, felt amplified in the oppressive silence, each sound potentially attracting the attention of the colossal creature whose territory we were trespassing through. The constant vigilance was exhausting, layering onto the physical and mental fatigue I already felt.

Anya kept scanning ahead, her movements economical and precise. Leo watched her back, his golf club held ready, though against something the size he described, it felt like bringing a toothpick to a tank fight. Cipher glided silently at the front, an enigma wrapped in darkness, leading us deeper into the heart of the danger.

My focus narrowed to the simple act of putting one foot in front of the other, fighting the dizziness, ignoring the flickering code, pushing down the paranoia. We had miles, or maybe just meters felt like miles, to go, through territory belonging to a monster, heading towards a facility likely filled with more monsters, all to retrieve parts for a broken machine.

Just another Tuesday in the Glitchscape. And the sun hadn't even metaphorically come up yet.

 

[phanst]

Chapter 0037: Tremors and Twisted Trails

The stale air in this section of the Undercroft tasted like cold, damp concrete and something else… a faint, dry dustiness, like decaying paper or long-dried spores that had lost their electric buzz. It clung to the back of my throat, different from the sharp mineral tang nearer the surface or the almost sterile chill of the Maintenance Junction.

Every breath felt heavy, unsatisfying. My own internal environmental sensors seemed haywire. I wondered if it was a hint of ozone, sharp and artificial, riding beneath the mustiness? Or just another phantom scent conjured by my glitching brain?

We pressed deeper into the tunnel Cipher's data designated as the 'optimal path'. Optimal felt like a cruel joke down here. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the scuff of our boots on gritty stone and the omnipresent, maddening drip of unseen water echoing strangely. It ssometimes seemed too close, sometimes it faded entirely before returning from a different direction. Auditory lag, or just the tunnel playing tricks? With my current processing state, distinguishing reality from system error felt impossible.

Cipher glided ahead like a silent night ninja of some sorts. Their dark suit seemed to drink the already limited light from our narrow beams. Occasionally, they would pause, head tilted almost imperceptibly, as if listening to frequencies beyond our range or running passive scans.

Once, I saw their gloved hand brush briefly against a panel embedded in their forearm, the movement swift and economical. Running diagnostics? Updating their route? Or, my paranoia whispered, transmitting our position and status to unseen observers?

Stop it, Ren, I mentally chided, the thought sharp like a static shock. Reading hostile intent into routine actions… classic stress response. Or maybe they are just routine actions designed to look routine. The feedback loop of suspicion was exhausting.

Anya followed Cipher closely, her posture radiating focused tension. Her flashlight beam cut a tight cone, methodically sweeping the path ahead, lingering on corners and shadows. She moved with the practiced economy of someone who understood that wasted energy down here was potentially fatal.

By now, Leo had moved behind me and brought up the rear, his own light beam constantly checking our backtrail, scanning the walls and ceiling. He pointed suddenly, his voice a low whisper that still carried alarmingly in the stillness. "Look. Up there."

High on the curved ceiling, maybe twenty feet above us, another set of colossal gouges tore through the ancient rock. These were wider, deeper than the ones near the shed plating, looking less like glancing blows and more like something immense had deliberately raked the stone, leaving fractured trenches behind. Black, obsidian-like fragments glinted within the raw grooves. The scale was horrifying. Whatever the Crawler was, it wasn't confined to the floor or just a few feet on the walls. It could apparently climb high, or reach up, with terrifying ease.

"Keep moving," Anya ordered curtly, not pausing for long, clearly unnerved but prioritizing forward momentum. "And keep scanning high."

The discovery amplified the already suffocating tension. Every dark patch on the ceiling became a potential hiding spot, every rumble from deep within the earth a possible footstep. I found myself constantly glancing upwards, straining my neck, my flashlight beam dancing nervously across the oppressive stone arches above. My shoulder throbbed in sympathy with the phantom impact of imagined falling debris.

We rounded another slow curve in the tunnel. Here, the signs of pre-Crash infrastructure became more pronounced. Thick bundles of corroded cables, draped like dead metallic vines, hung from rusted brackets. Sections of the wall were paneled with stained, unidentifiable synth-metal plating, some panels hanging loose, revealing crumbling brickwork behind. Faded, almost illegible lettering marked one section: Sector 6-Delta Access - Geo-Thermal Transfer Conduit - AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. We were getting closer to Chimera's designated sector.

It was here that the ground seemed to shudder. Not a warp this time, not a reality glitch, but a genuine physical tremor. Low, guttural, vibrating up through the soles of my boots, making the loose cables sway and sending cascades of dust raining down from the ceiling. It wasn't the sharp jolt of an earthquake, but a deeper, more rhythmic thrumming, like colossal machinery grinding somewhere far below… or something impossibly heavy moving nearby.

We froze instantly. Flashlight beams snapped off, plunging us into near-total darkness, broken only by the faint, multi-hued glow of distant fungi patches. We stood utterly still, straining our ears, hearts pounding against ribs. The tremor continued for several long seconds, a physical presence in the dark, then slowly faded, leaving behind an even deeper, more profound silence.

My own senses screamed overload. During the tremor, the [ERR: SYNC_FAILURE_7G] code had pulsed violently in my vision, bright and jagged against the darkness. And I'd heard something else, beneath the physical rumble – a faint, high-pitched chittering sound, almost like stressed metal flexing, but with an organic quality. Hallucination? Or the sound of the Crawler itself echoing through the rock?

When the tremor subsided, the silence felt expectant, dangerous. Had we been noticed? Was the source of the tremor moving away… or towards us?

After what felt like an eternity, Anya slowly raised her hand, making a series of silent gestures: Hold position. Listen. Scan. Her discipline under pressure was remarkable.

Cipher remained utterly immobile, a deeper shadow within the darkness. Impossible to tell if they were scanning, analyzing, or simply… waiting. Their lack of any discernible reaction felt more unnerving than overt fear would have.

Leo pressed himself flat against the wall, his breathing shallow. Even in the dark, I could sense his terror.

My own paranoia spiked again, sharp and cold. This tremor… Cipher's route brought us here just as it happened? Coincidence? Or calculated exposure? The thought felt simultaneously insane and terrifyingly plausible. Maybe the goal wasn't just the Chimera components, maybe it was observing our reaction to the Apex Predator itself. Data collection via controlled stimulus.

Slowly, carefully, Anya partially unhooded her flashlight, casting the weakest possible beam onto the ground directly ahead. Nothing seemed immediately different. No giant obsidian legs blocking the path.

She gestured again: Proceed cautiously.

We began moving again, steps infinitely slower, infinitely more cautious than before. Every scrape of boot on stone felt like a betrayal. I focused intently on Cipher's back, mimicking their fluid, silent movements as best I could, despite the tremor in my own limbs.

The air changed again. The dry dustiness receded, replaced by a faint, sharp tang. Not metallic this time. More like… ammonia? Or some kind of weird, acrid musk? It prickled at my nostrils, vaguely unpleasant, alien. I glanced at Anya as she wrinkled her nose slightly, clearly smelling it too. Crawler scent? Territorial marking?

As the unsettling smell intensified, Leo pointed towards a side passage we were approaching. It was a dark, narrow opening choked with rubble and collapsed pipes. Partially obscured behind a fallen chunk of concrete, something metallic glinted. Not pre-Crash tech. This looked… recent. Twisted, scorched metal plating, maybe part of some scavenged armor or a small drone, ripped apart with incredible force. Dark, viscous stains coated the wreckage and the surrounding floor. It was the same oily ichor or lubricant we'd seen beneath the claw marks in the junction.

Nearby, etched crudely into the tunnel wall beside the side passage entrance, almost obscured by grime, was a symbol. Not the SYNC_FAILURE code. Not the Chimera logo. A jagged, stylized jawbone, teeth bared aggressively.

"Obsidian Jaw," Anya breathed, her voice barely audible, confirming my immediate suspicion.

This wasn't just Crawler territory. The Jaws were active here too. The ripped wreckage looked like the aftermath of a violent encounter. Did the Jaws run afoul of the Crawler? Or was this internal faction fighting? Or… had the Crawler been drawn here by Jaw activity?

The tremor, the scent, the wreckage, the Jaw symbol… it painted a picture of a complex, multi-layered kill zone, and we were walking right through the middle of it.

Cipher paused just past the wrecked passage, turning slightly. "Analysis confirms localized conflict residue. Probability of encountering Obsidian Jaw remnants or Apex Predator foraging activity increased by 22%." Their clinical assessment felt horrifyingly detached from the visceral evidence of violence meters away.

We skirted wide around the wreckage, avoiding the dark stains, the unsettling smell filling our nostrils. My gaze lingered on the torn metal, the raw power implied by the damage. My headache pulsed, a dull counterpoint to the rising fear. Project Chimera felt simultaneously closer and impossibly far away, guarded by layers of overlapping, lethal threats. And our path, chosen by Cipher, led directly through the heart of it all.

 

[phanst]

Chapter 0038: Point Beta Approach and Lingering Rot

The acrid, ammonia-like scent of the Crawler lingered, mixing unpleasantly with the ever-present damp earth and decay as we pushed deeper into the designated Sector 6-Delta access tunnel. Every footstep echoed too loudly in the claustrophobic confines, each scrape of boot on rock was like a potential invitation to unwanted attention, be it from the colossal obsidian predator or the Jaw remnants whose violent passage scarred the environment. My nerves felt frayed, like optic cables stripped of their shielding, transmitting raw, unfiltered static directly into my skull.

Cipher continued to lead, their movements still unnervingly fluid and silent. However, I noticed subtle shifts now, paying hyper-close attention, fueled by paranoia and a desperate need to understand the enigma guiding us. Their head tilted more frequently, micromovements suggesting focused auditory or multi-spectral scanning.

Once, approaching a crumbling section of brickwork overhead, their hand darted out, faster than seemed strictly necessary, snatching a piece of falling debris barely larger than my thumb just before it hit the ground. They examined it for a fraction of a second – cyan lenses momentarily brightening as if analyzing its composition – before discarding it silently into the shadows. They weren't just stealthy, they were proactively managing potential noise triggers. It was impressive, but also deeply unsettling. It spoke of processing speed and situational awareness far beyond normal human limits.

Anya walked close behind Cipher, her movements tight, controlled. Her usual pragmatic confidence seemed overlaid with a grim tension, her eyes constantly scanning, her hand never far from her sidearm. She caught my eye briefly, noting my scrutiny of Cipher, and gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head. Stay focused. Don't borrow trouble. The message was clear, even unspoken. Easier said than done when trouble felt like it was breathing down our necks.

Leo, bringing up the rear, seemed to be fighting his own battle with fear, channeling it into meticulous observation. He kept pointing out details we might have otherwise missed, like the faint stress fractures radiating from Crawler impact points ("That hit nearly compromised the arch support here…"), patches of discolored rock possibly indicating chemical seepage from Jaw activity ("Avoid contact. Looks like acid residue…"), subtle shifts in air currents suggesting intersecting tunnels or ventilation shafts. His draftsman's eye saw the hidden dangers in the structure itself.

The tunnel began to change again. The rough-hewn rock and crumbling brick gradually gave way to sections of more deliberate construction. Dull grey synth-steel panels lined the walls, stained and corroded but clearly artificial. Thick bundles of armoured conduits, marked with faded hazard stripes and unfamiliar corporate logos – one recurring symbol looked like a stylized atom merging with a gear – ran along the ceiling or disappeared into access hatches bolted firmly shut.

Warning placards, mostly illegible due to grime and time, still hinted at high voltage, biohazards, radiation. The air here felt… different. Still stale, but with an underlying current of something else... like a faint, almost undetectable vibration, a low-level energy hum bleeding through the rock and metal.

We were getting closer. The ambient 'wrongness' was increasing.

My hallucinations seemed to agree. The [ERR: SYNC_FAILURE_7G] code pulsed more persistently now, sometimes resolving with painful clarity over surfaces. And the other sensory glitches intensified. I caught a fleeting whiff of sharp antiseptic, instantly transporting me back to the white hallway nightmare, making me gag reflexively before the smell vanished.

Once, I swore I heard the faint, distorted ping of my old office workstation error chime echoing from deeper within the tunnel, a sound utterly impossible down here. Brain's definitely hitting critical error state, I thought, fighting another wave of dizziness. Dragging air into my lungs felt like pulling sludge. Each gasp tasted metallic, like licking a faulty battery, doing damn-all to clear the buzzing behind my eyes.

"Energy signatures increasing," Cipher stated, pausing near a heavily reinforced bulkhead door set into the tunnel wall. The door was massive, pitted and scarred, but seemed sealed tight. A designation stenciled above it read SUBLEVEL ACCESS KILO-19 - RESTRICTED. "Passive readings indicate active, unstable energy field beyond this point. Not Chimera main facility."

"Another dead end?" Anya asked, frustration colouring her tone.

"Negative," Cipher replied. "Our target, Emergency Maintenance Conduit 7 – designated Point Beta – is approximately 80 meters further along this primary access tunnel." They gestured past the sealed bulkhead. "This Kilo-19 access appears unrelated to Chimera, potentially a separate installation."

Or connected in ways the schematics didn't show. Down here, assuming anything was truly separate felt dangerously naive.

We bypassed the ominous Kilo-19 door, the faint energy hum intensifying slightly as we passed, raising the hairs on my arms. Eighty meters felt like miles under the constant tension. The walls here were almost entirely synth-steel panels, many showing signs of extreme heat damage or forceful impact. It looked less like a maintenance tunnel and more like a blast corridor.

Then, we saw it. Up ahead, the tunnel appeared to end abruptly in a massive pile of rubble. Twisted metal support beams, shattered ferroconcrete slabs, thick bundles of severed conduits, etc. There was a chaotic mess completely blocking the path forward. The faint energy hum was stronger here, accompanied by the smell of ozone and something else… a faint, sickly sweet odour, like rotting fruit mixed with burnt sugar.

"Point Beta," Cipher announced unnecessarily, stopping a safe distance back from the blockage. "Schematics indicated internal structural collapse. External debris is consistent with predicted blast dynamics."

Leo moved forward cautiously, playing his flashlight beam over the tangled wreckage. "This isn't just a simple cave-in," he murmured, pointing to the scorched, twisted ends of metal beams. "This was violent. Explosive decompression? Or deliberate demolition?" He traced the edge of a massive concrete slab. "Look at the shear patterns… incredible force."

Anya joined him, scanning the rubble pile intently. "Security breach? Containment failure? Something went catastrophically wrong here." She sniffed the air. "And that smell… never encountered that specific type of rot before." Her gaze sharpened as her light settled on something near the base of the debris pile, partially obscured by a buckled metal sheet. "Well, isn't that interesting."

We crowded closer, peering where she indicated. More signs of recent activity. Discarded power tools like heavy-duty laser cutters, sonic pulverizers, etc. lay scattered haphazardly. Several empty nutrient paste tubes and discarded water flasks littered the ground nearby. And crude pry marks marred the edges of several massive concrete slabs, suggesting a concerted, recent effort to force a way through the blockage.

"Someone else has been here," Leo stated the obvious, his voice tight. "Trying to get into Chimera through the back door."

"And recently," Anya added, pointing to a still-damp patch on the ground near a discarded water flask. "Vultures wouldn't have the gear for this kind of heavy work. Has to be the Jaws." The jagged jawbone symbol wasn't visible, but the heavy tools and reckless methods fit her earlier descriptions.

Had they given up? Or were they interrupted? By the Crawler? Or by something else? The sickly sweet smell seemed stronger now, clinging to the back of my throat.

My gaze swept over the debris pile, my malfunctioning brain struggling to parse the chaos. The flickering [ERR: SYNC_FAILURE_7G] code overlaid a particularly large, precariously balanced concrete slab. Just visual noise, I told myself, but the juxtaposition felt like a warning. Then, another flash with the white hallway, the cages, the hourglass-serpent logo pulsing on a dark console screen. It was getting clearer, more insistent. What the hell happened in there?

"Can we clear this?" Anya asked Cipher, stepping back from the debris pile.

Cipher's head performed a slow, sweeping scan of the blockage. "Debris mass estimated at 75 metric tons. Structural integrity compromised. Clearing via manual excavation carries high probability of further collapse. Optimal approach: localized application of controlled sonic resonance or targeted thermal lancing to create narrow access point."

Anya looked at the abandoned Jaw laser cutter and sonic pulverizer. "Looks like the Jaws had the same idea. And failed. Or got interrupted." She considered Cipher's suggestion. "We don't have thermal lances. Sonic resonator?" She patted the device still clipped to her belt. "Mine's good for locks and maybe stunning Stalkers, not pulverizing fifty tons of reinforced concrete."

"My internal systems include a variable frequency sonic emitter capable of generating focused resonance sufficient to destabilize specific sections," Cipher stated calmly, tapping their forearm panel again. "Requires precise targeting based on material density analysis."

Of course they do, I thought cynically. Walking toolkit, database, and enigma. Their capabilities seemed conveniently tailored to whatever obstacle we faced. The paranoia flared again, hot and insistent. Are they just helping? Or demonstrating capabilities? Showing us how useful, how indispensable they are?

"Fine," Anya decided, apparently choosing to accept the convenient solution for now. "Target the weakest point. Create an opening just big enough to squeeze through. And do it quietly, if possible."

Cipher nodded fractionally. "Proceeding with low-amplitude resonance scan to identify optimal fracture points." They stepped closer to the debris pile, raising their arm, the emitter device presumably housed within the forearm section.

As Cipher began their scan, emitting an almost inaudible, low-frequency hum, my gaze caught on something else near the abandoned Jaw tools. A datapad. Cracked screen, casing scorched, but maybe… maybe salvageable? Maybe it held logs, reasons why the Jaws were here, why they left? Driven by a need to know, to find some answer amidst the overwhelming uncertainty, I took a hesitant step towards it, ignoring the throb in my head and the flickering warnings in my vision.

 

[phanst]

Chapter 0039: Breaching the Backdoor (and Booting Up Trouble)

The air at Point Beta felt thick, heavy with the sickly sweet smell of decay and the tangible hum of contained energy bleeding from somewhere within the entombed Chimera facility. The massive pile of rubble blocking the tunnel didn't just look like an obstacle, it felt like a deliberate seal, a crude scar over something best left undisturbed. The silence pressed in, amplifying the faint, almost subsonic thrum Cipher's sonic emitter began to generate as they scanned the debris.

Cipher stood before the chaotic barricade, arm outstretched, the emitter presumably housed within their forearm directing its invisible energy. Their posture was perfectly balanced, clinical. They moved their arm in slow, deliberate arcs, pausing occasionally. Cyan lenses glowed steadily, focused intently on the dense mass of ferroconcrete and twisted metal. It was like watching a surgeon plan an incision on a mountain.

Anya watched Cipher, her arms crossed tightly, radiating impatience. "Any decade now, ghost guide," she muttered, her voice tight with contained urgency. Every second spent out here felt like an eternity exposed. Her pragmatism, usually a strength, chafed against Cipher's methodical, data-driven approach. This flaw of her impatience under perceived inefficiency could be dangerous if it led to rushing things later.

Leo nervously shifted his weight beside Anya, his gaze darting between Cipher, the ominous rubble pile, and the darkness back down the tunnel. He fiddled with the strap of his pack, his anxiety almost palpable. "The resonance…" he whispered, likely feeling the low-frequency vibrations through the floor more acutely than we did. "Is it… stable?"

"Emitter operating within designated safety parameters," Cipher replied without turning, their voice perfectly level despite the almost inaudible thrumming. "Targeting identified optimal fracture point near upper left quadrant. Minimal collateral destabilization anticipated." Clinical reassurance that did little to soothe the gut-level feeling of precariousness.

While Cipher conducted their precise sonic surgery and Anya fretted, my attention was snagged by the discarded datapad lying near the abandoned Jaw tools. Cracked screen, scorched casing… but potentially holding answers. Why were the Jaws here? What did they find? Why did they leave their gear? The questions buzzed insistently, overriding the throb in my head and the flashing error code in my vision.

Ignoring the voice of caution screaming about booby traps or wasting time, I edged closer to the tools, keeping low, trying to be unobtrusive. The need to know, to gain some sliver of understanding in this chaotic mess, felt like a physical imperative. It was a compulsion born of desperation, my own flawed attempt to regain some semblance of control or usefulness.

My hand hesitated just above the datapad. It looked inert, damaged. But down here, assuming anything was safe was a good way to become part of the lingering rot. I scanned the immediate area quickly to make sure there were no obvious wires, pressure plates, or chemical triggers. Just discarded tools, empty ration packs, and the datapad lying innocently amidst the debris.

Taking a shallow breath, I scooped it up. The casing felt surprisingly heavy, dense military-grade polymer probably, warmish to the touch despite the cool air. Was it residual heat from whatever scorched it? Or internal components still holding a faint charge? The screen was a spiderweb of cracks, but beneath the damage, I could just make out faint, flickering lines of text. Maybe… maybe it still worked.

I retreated slightly, crouching behind a larger chunk of concrete, trying to shield my actions from Anya's sharp eyes and Cipher's omnipresent observation. My fingers fumbled with a small access panel on the side of the datapad, the same kind used for external charging or data ports. My fine motor skills still felt unreliable, clumsy. The [ERR: SYNC_FAILURE_7G] code flickered mockingly across the cracked screen as I worked.

Come on, you piece of junk. Finally, the panel popped open, revealing a standard URE-compatible data port, surprisingly clean despite the external damage. Hope flickered. Maybe I could interface with it using my multi-tool's limited data probe function? Extract any logs?

This was stupid. Risky. My multi-tool's data functions were basic, designed for diagnostics, not hacking potentially corrupted or booby-trapped scavenger tech. And trying any kind of interface, any kind of focused mental effort, felt like playing Russian Roulette with my already damaged cognitive functions. The last attempt had failed spectacularly.

But the potential payoff… answers…

Meanwhile, Cipher finished their scan. "Optimal frequency identified," they announced. "Initiating focused resonance pulse. Recommend maintaining distance and auditory dampening if available."

The low thrum intensified, climbing rapidly in pitch until it was a high-frequency whine just at the edge of human hearing, vibrating unpleasantly in my teeth and sinuses. The air itself seemed to shimmer around the targeted section of the rubble pile near the upper left quadrant Cipher had indicated.

Cracks began to appear in the targeted concrete slab, spiderwebbing outwards from a central point. Dust puffed out. Small pebbles began to vibrate, dancing on the surface of larger rocks. The process was controlled, almost surgical, yet undeniably powerful.

"Hold steady…" Anya murmured, watching intently, hand near her weapon.

Suddenly, a larger crack zipped across the main slab. With a low groan of protesting metal and stressed concrete, a triangular section near the top, maybe four feet wide at the base, sagged inwards slightly, then crumbled, cascading down the front of the pile with a surprisingly muffled thump and cloud of dust.

It wasn't a huge opening, but it was an opening. A dark, narrow gap leading into the blackness beyond the barricade.

The high-frequency whine from Cipher cut off instantly. Silence rushed back in, seeming even heavier now.

"Access point created," Cipher stated neutrally, retracting their arm. "Minimal structural compromise to surrounding debris achieved."

Anya cautiously approached the opening, peering into the darkness beyond, her flashlight beam cutting through the settling dust. "Big enough to squeeze through. Looks like it leads straight into a narrow conduit, just like the schematic showed." She scanned the edges of the breach. "Relatively stable… for now."

Success. Cipher's weird tech had worked. Now came the hard part: going inside.

Just as Anya turned back, likely about to give the order to move, my multi-tool, interfaced precariously with the datapad port, suddenly chirped. Not an error tone. A connection tone.

My heart leaped. Ignoring the throbbing pain behind my eyes, I focused desperately, trying to initiate a simple file directory scan using the multi-tool's basic interface protocols. It felt like trying to thread a needle during an earthquake. Mental static crashed against my concentration. The flickering error code intensified.

Then, text scrolled across my multi-tool's tiny display screen, glitchy but readable: [URE_OS v3.1 - JAWS_MOD] Detected. Root Directory Access Denied. Security Level: KILIAN_PRIME. Attempting User Log Access… FILE CORRUPTED: Daily_Log_Cycle_477.txt … FILE CORRUPTED: Survey_Data_Chimera_Alpha.dat … Opening Last Accessible Fragment: Memo_PRIORITY_7_UNSENT.txt …

The screen displayed a single, fragmented message:

…Crawler breach containment Zone Gamma confirmed. Thorne's Legacy is loose. Repeat, Thorne's Legacy is OUT. Killian en route main force. Objective: Retrieve Sample T-077 at all costs. Secondary: Purge facility. If compromised, initiate Protocol… [DATA FRAGMENT ENDS]

My blood ran cold. Crawler breach… Zone Gamma… Thorne's Legacy… Retrieve Sample… Purge facility… This wasn't just a scavenging log. This was confirmation of a disaster inside Chimera, something related to the Crawler, something called "Thorne's Legacy," and orders involving retrieval and purging. And Killian, the Obsidian Jaw leader, was apparently heading there with his main force.

Before I could fully process the implications, or even warn the others, the datapad in my hands suddenly vibrated violently. A high-pitched whine emanated from it, growing rapidly louder. Red warning lights flashed around the cracked screen, displaying a stark message: SECURITY PROTOCOL KILIAN_PRIME ACTIVATED! ANTI-TAMPER COUNTERMEASURE DEPLOYING! IMMINENT THERMAL OVERLOAD!

Shit! A booby trap! Not a physical one, a digital one! Accessed the wrong file, triggered a self-destruct!

"Ren! Get rid of it!" Anya yelled, seeing the warning lights reflecting off my face, already diving for cover.

No time to think. I flung the overheating datapad away from me, towards the main rubble pile, just as it erupted in a blinding flash of thermite-white heat and a deafening WHOOMP!

The concussive force slammed me back against the concrete chunk I'd been hiding behind. Shrapnel pinged off the walls. The sickly sweet smell was momentarily overwhelmed by the acrid stench of burning electronics and superheated metal. The noise echoed down the tunnel, destroying the fragile silence we'd tried so hard to maintain.

So much for a quiet entry.