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

[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.

 

[phanst]

Chapter 0033: Hostile Handshakes and Haunting Frequencies

The amber text blinked patiently on the ancient console screen, stark against the black background: EXTERNAL HAIL DETECTED - PRIORITY CODE: OBSIDIAN JAW PROTOCOL 7. ACCEPT? (Y/N)_. The air in the Maintenance Junction, already thick with tension, seemed to solidify. Outside, the Undercroft was silent, but inside, the sudden, impossible message felt louder than the spore explosion.

Obsidian Jaw. The name hit like a physical blow. Anya's earlier description – "reckless idiots," known for volatile chemicals and unstable tech – echoed in my mind. They weren't just random scavengers, they were a known, dangerous variable. And they were hailing this specific junction? Using a priority code? The coincidence felt statistically improbable to the point of being openly hostile.

"Obsidian Jaw?" Leo breathed, stepping closer, his eyes wide. "Here? Now?"

Anya moved swiftly from the Probability Drive, her face grim, hand hovering near her sidearm again. She peered at the screen, reading the priority code. "Protocol 7… damn. That's one of their high-level command codes. Used for intra-crew coordination or hailing secured assets." She cursed under her breath. "Either they think this junction is still one of their assets, or this is something else entirely."

Her gaze sharpened as she recalled details. "The Jaws… led by a brute named Killian, last I heard. Cybered up, favors chemical throwers and seismic hammers. Paranoid, violent, thinks everything belongs to him. Their standard tactic is overwhelming force laced with nerve gas or corrosives." She looked pointedly at the sealed main door, then towards the breach we'd made. "If they think this is their territory and find us here…"

She didn't need to finish the sentence. Confrontation seemed inevitable and likely fatal in our current state.

Cipher, who had turned their head slightly when the console activated, remained still, cyan lenses fixed on the blinking cursor. Their impassivity was infuriating. Were they surprised? Or was this expected data? My internal paranoia flared again. Did they know? Did their 'passive scan' predict this hail? Are they analyzing my reaction to the name 'Obsidian Jaw'? Waiting to see if I crack?

"Decision required," Cipher's filtered voice stated, breaking the tense silence. "Responding carries risk of revealing operational presence and current vulnerabilities. Ignoring hail carries risk of hostile investigation and potential forced entry attempt by originator." A perfect, sterile summary of our terrible options.

"If we ignore it," Anya mused, thinking aloud, "and they do think this place is theirs, they'll assume it's been taken by rivals. They'll come heavy." She glanced at the dying overhead lights. "If we respond… what the hell do we even say?"

"Claim technical difficulties?" Leo suggested tentatively. "Faulty comms?"

"With their own priority code?" Anya shook her head. "They'll know it's bullshit. Might buy us minutes, maybe."

My own tired brain struggled to process tactics. Responding felt like poking a sleeping Skitter hive. Ignoring it felt like waiting for the hive to wake up and come find us anyway. The error code [ERR: SYNC_FAILURE_7G] flickered insistently over the blinking cursor on the console screen, a maddening counterpoint to the impossible choice.

Cipher spoke again. "Optimal strategy: Acknowledge receipt with minimal data transfer. Utilize pre-recorded library environmental static burst transmission to simulate catastrophic signal degradation immediately following acknowledgment. Probability of delaying hostile action: 48%. Probability of triggering immediate aggressive investigation: 31%. Probability of originator dismissing as technical failure: 21%."

Anya stared at Cipher. "You can do that? Spoof a static burst strong enough to fool their comms?"

"My internal signal processing suite possesses sufficient capability for localized electromagnetic spectrum manipulation," Cipher replied tonelessly. Implying they could generate a targeted EMP or noise burst powerful enough to mimic catastrophic comms failure. The casual mention of such advanced capability, right after offering schematics and threat analysis, felt… pointed. Another piece of the puzzle that didn't quite fit the 'simple observer' narrative.

My paranoia latched onto it immediately. Generating EM bursts? Is that how they monitor things? Is that how they knew about the SOS signal in the first place? Can they jam our comms? The implications were chilling.

"Worth a shot, I guess," Anya decided grimly, clearly choosing the least bad option Cipher presented. "Better than inviting Killian's welcoming party directly. Okay, Cipher. Prepare your static burst. Ren," she looked at me, "can you hit 'Y' without blowing up the console?"

I nodded mutely, my hand hovering over the ancient, grimy keyboard integrated below the screen. The keys felt stiff, resistant. Pressing 'Y'. Such a simple action, fraught with potential disaster. Sending an acknowledgment would confirm someone was here. But Cipher's plan offered the slimmest chance of deflection.

"Prepare static transmission," Cipher instructed. A faint whine, different from the console's hum, emanated briefly from somewhere within Cipher's suit. "Ready."

Taking a shaky breath, ignoring the frantic pulsing of the error code hallucination, I pressed the 'Y' key. It resisted for a second, then clicked down with a loud, plastic clack.

On the screen, the line changed: ACKNOWLEDGED. STAND BY FOR AUTH…

"Now, Cipher!" Anya snapped.

The whine from Cipher's suit intensified for a split second. The lights in the junction flickered violently. The console screen dissolved into a solid block of harsh amber static, emitting a loud hiss. My comm bead screeched with interference. Even the Probability Drive's minimal systems display inside the cockpit likely went haywire momentarily.

Then, silence. The console screen went black, the faint warmth fading as my jury-rigged power connection predictably fried. My spare energy cell was definitely toast. The lights in the junction settled back into their dim, flickering state. My comm bead crackled, then cleared.

Did it work? Did the Obsidian Jaws buy the catastrophic failure story?

We waited, holding our breath, listening intently. No immediate angry broadcasts demanding status. No sound of approaching heavy footsteps or mining equipment being deployed outside the main door. Just the silence of the Undercroft.

"Status?" Anya whispered after a long minute.

"Transmission sent. Originator frequency ceased broadcast immediately following burst," Cipher reported. "Short-term hostile response probability reduced. Long-term investigation probability remains moderate."

We'd bought ourselves time. Maybe hours, maybe less. But it felt like borrowed seconds.

Exhaustion slammed back into me, heavier than before. The failed debugging attempt on the terminal earlier, the constant headache, the effort of rigging the console, the adrenaline spikes… it was taking its toll. I slid back down the wall, dizziness washing over me in waves.

As I closed my eyes, fighting nausea, the darkness wasn't peaceful. It swirled with fragmented images. The [ERR: SYNC_FAILURE_7G] code pulsed rhythmically. The sterile white hallway from the earlier hallucination flashed by, cages stark and empty this time. Then, the silver locket, tumbling end over end in black space, clicking open to reveal not emptiness, but a miniature, flickering rendition of the Chimera Project's hourglass-serpent logo, before dissolving into static.

Just nightmares, I tried to tell myself. Just the cognitive damage. But the images felt too specific, too connected. The error code, Chimera, the locket… it was a mixture of madness, and I felt like I was just beginning to pull at the threads. The brief spark of hope from fixing the console felt utterly extinguished, replaced by the cold dread of knowing my own mind might be the most unstable variable in this whole mess.

 

[phanst]

Chapter 0034: Final Preparations and Unspoken Fears

The heavy silence that followed Cipher's manufactured comms failure felt brittle, like a held breath waiting to shatter. Outside the sealed steel door, the Undercroft remained quiet with no immediate retaliation from the Obsidian Jaws. But the lack of noise wasn't comforting... it felt like a coiled serpent, patiently waiting. Inside the junction, the only sounds were the low hum of the Probability Drive's struggling life support, the faint buzz of the dying overhead lights, and our own unsteady breathing. We'd bought time, maybe, but the clock was still ticking down with terrifying speed.

"Right," Anya declared, breaking the silence, her voice deliberately brisk, pushing past the uncertainty. "We move out as soon as Leo confirms the route specifics. Gear check. Minimal load. We need speed and silence more than firepower we don't have."

She started laying out the meager essentials on the workbench: the handful of nutrient paste tubes, the water flasks, the tiny medkit, her sidearm energy cells. The pathetic display underscored our desperation more effectively than any words. Looking at it, the stark reality hit hard – if this run went wrong, if we got pinned down or lost, we didn't have the resources for a prolonged engagement or detour. Failure wasn't just an option; it felt statistically probable.

Leo, having recovered somewhat from the adrenaline crashes, was back at the terminal, tracing potential paths through Chimera's Zone Alpha and Beta towards the targeted Gamma Ward. He muttered to himself, comparing Cipher's data with geological overlays, occasionally shaking his head. "The primary access corridor to Beta from the maintenance tunnel entrance looks clear on sensors," he reported, tapping the screen, "but Cipher's route suggestion curves through these secondary labs first. Adds distance."

"Cipher?" Anya questioned, turning towards the silent figure. "Reasoning?"

"Secondary labs exhibit lower probability of residual automated defenses," Cipher replied evenly. "Primary corridor intersects with known security network hubs. Risk analysis favors slightly longer, lower-threat trajectory."

It sounded logical. Almost too logical. My paranoia, simmering constantly now beneath the surface of exhaustion, flared again. Lower threat? Or bypassing something Cipher doesn't want us to see near the main corridor? Guiding us precisely? I watched Cipher's impassive mask, searching for any flicker, any tell, finding nothing but my own reflection warped in the dark cyan lenses. I quickly looked away, rubbing my temples, the [ERR: SYNC_FAILURE_7G] code ghosting across my vision. Need to stop this, I told myself. The pressure's making me see plots where there's just data. But the doubt lingered.

Anya seemed to share some of my skepticism, though she voiced it more pragmatically. "Longer route means more time spent travelling, more potential encounters, more drain on our non-existent supplies," she pointed out. "And relying solely on six-cycle-old scans for defense status feels… optimistic." She chewed her lip, considering. "That static burst might have bought us time from the Jaws, but Killian isn't known for forgetting slights. If they do come investigating…"

"Ignoring the hail might have been better," Leo mumbled, tracing a potential escape route branching off near Point Beta. "Less direct provocation."

"And have them show up assuming hostile takeover, ready to breach with seismic charges?" Anya countered sharply. "No good options, Leo. Just less immediately fatal ones. Cipher's plan worked, for now. We stick to the route that supposedly avoids security hubs." Her tone brokered no further argument, but the friction was clear as she weighed Cipher's suspiciously detailed knowledge against known Undercroft dangers and the wildcard Obsidian Jaws.

While they finalized the route, I focused on a gear check, my movements slow, deliberate. Multi-tool – check, battery - gone (no more flashlight duty, I guess). Comm bead – check, static cleared. My own scavenged clothing – durable but offering zero protection. The cognitive fog made even simple tasks feel laborious. I fumbled securing a pouch, fingers feeling clumsy and disconnected. Useless. The word echoed in my head. I wasn't a fighter, wasn't a navigator. My one unique skill was offline. What was my role on this run? Ballast? Potential bait? Mobile diagnostic subject?

The internal conflict churned. Part of me, the cynical, exhausted part, wanted to just stay here, curl up in a corner, and wait for the inevitable system crash. But another part, stubborn and refusing to accept obsolescence, pushed back. No. I have to go. Can't leave them. Might… might see something. Might be able to help, somehow. The insistence felt thin, desperate, but it was there. I wouldn't be left behind, even if my primary function was currently just 'breathing pessimistically'.

Anya finished securing the meager supplies into two packs: one for her, one for Leo. She hefted hers, then tossed Leo his. "Travel light. Move fast. No unnecessary noise." She then moved to the Probability Drive, running through a quick lockdown sequence on an external panel. Lights dimmed further, the main drive core falling completely silent, leaving only the faint whisper of the junction's emergency battery-powered fans. The silence felt profound, dangerous.

Then, Anya placed a small, sophisticated-looking device – likely a remote diagnostic monitor or maybe even a proximity alarm – near the sealed hatch, concealed from easy view. "Gives us a faint signal if anyone tries to tamper with the rig while we're gone," she explained briefly. "Low power draw, encrypted burst." Her preparedness was thorough, honed by countless risky situations, no doubt. I saw her pause, hand resting on the rig's cold hull for just a moment, a flicker of something deep and protective in her eyes before it vanished behind the pragmatic mask. That rig means more to her than just transport. The thought was clear, even through my mental static.

Leo secured his pack, nervously adjusting the straps. He hefted the bent golf club, its weight seeming utterly inadequate against the horrors we might face. He glanced towards the schematics still displayed on the terminal, specifically the layout of Zone Gamma. "Those… 'bio-engineered specimens' Cipher mentioned," he asked, his voice barely above a whisper, directed mostly at Anya but loud enough for all to hear. "The Chimera files… are they specific? Do we know what we might be walking into?"

Anya shook her head, her expression grim. "Cipher's data dump was mostly structural and systemic. Biological containment logs were either absent or heavily corrupted. All it noted was 'multiple Class 4-7 bio-signatures detected, containment integrity unknown'." She didn't sugar-coat it. "Assume the worst. Assume teeth, claws, acid, maybe reality-warping digestive systems. Treat every closed door like it's hiding something hungry."

Leo swallowed hard, nodding silently. His fear resonated with my own anxieties, amplified by the fragmented nightmare image of things writhing in cages.

Finally, everything was packed. The route was chosen. The risks acknowledged, if not fully understood. Anya stood near the breach, peering out into the darkness of the service passage. Leo stood behind her, looking small but resolute. Cipher waited near the opening, an impassive shadow.

I took my place behind Leo, focusing on the cool feel of the rock under my hand, the rhythmic thud of my own pulse. Just keep moving.

"Alright," Anya breathed, gripping her sidearm. "Let's go fetch some quantum fluid and try not to get eaten by science experiments or obsidian nightmares."

She gave one last look around the dim, failing junction – our temporary, compromised sanctuary – then slipped through the ragged hole into the oppressive darkness of the Undercroft passage, leaving the relative silence behind for the unknown dangers ahead. Project Chimera awaited.

 

[phanst]

Chapter 0035: Stepping Back Into Static

The final moments inside the Maintenance Junction stretched, each tick of the unseen clock counting down the auxiliary battery life feeling like a physical pressure. Anya performed one last sweep with her scanner near the sealed main door, confirming no immediate threats hadn't renewed any direct assault, though the potential for unwelcome visitors likely continued to stress the local reality field. Leo double-checked the straps on his pack, his knuckles white. Cipher stood near the ragged breach we'd blown in the wall, utterly still, a silhouette against the profound darkness beyond.

I watched Cipher, leaning heavily against the workbench, trying to conserve energy. My paranoia, now a constant companion buzzing alongside the headache, focused intently on the impassive figure. They hadn't moved much during our preparations, just... observed. Occasionally, their head tilted fractionally as Leo discussed the schematics or Anya checked her gear. Were they processing? Or waiting? Just now, Cipher performed a minuscule, precise gesture: two fingers tapping rhythmically, silently, against their thigh for perhaps three seconds before stopping. A nervous habit? A coded signal? Or, my weary brain supplied, maybe they were running a diagnostic on their own internal chronometer, calibrating against the temporal weirdness we'd passed through? The ambiguity was maddening.

Stop it, I chided myself, rubbing my aching temples. You're seeing plots in meaningless twitches. But the suspicion lingered, cold and unwelcome. What was their angle in all this? Why guide us to Chimera? A place seemingly tied to the error code plaguing my vision? It felt too convenient.

A memory fragment flashed, unwelcome. It was my old boss, Henderson, smiling reassuringly while explaining budget cuts meant my entire IT support team was being 'restructured'. The disconnect between the calm delivery and the devastating impact resonated uncomfortably with Cipher's detached helpfulness. Trust felt like a luxury afforded only to those not running on fumes in a reality actively trying to delete them.

"Alright," Anya's voice was clipped, pulling me back to the present. "Time's up. Power's dipping below fifteen percent. Locks won't hold much longer." She nodded towards the breach. "Let's move. Cipher, lead out."

Cipher inclined their head and slipped through the opening with that unsettling silence, vanishing instantly into the rough service passage beyond.

Anya took a deep breath, glanced back one last time at the silent Probability Drive – a flicker of worry, determination, and something deeper I couldn't decipher crossing her face – then followed Cipher, her sidearm held ready.

Leo squared his shoulders, gave me a nervous look, and went next.

My turn. Pushing myself off the workbench felt like lifting lead weights. The [ERR: SYNC_FAILURE_7G] code flared briefly as I approached the jagged hole in the concrete. The air flowing out from the passage felt colder, damper, carrying the scent of deep earth and something faintly mineral. Stepping through felt like crossing a definitive boundary, leaving the last vestiges of pre-Crash order behind for primordial chaos.

As I emerged into the passage, my borrowed flashlight beam swept across the rubble near the entrance. It caught something small, half-buried. Not rock. Not debris. A child's bootie. Knitted synth-wool, faded blue, impossibly small and tragically out of place in this subterranean nightmare. A chill colder than the Undercroft air traced its way down my spine. What happened down here? Whose was it? Another victim of the Crawler? The Vultures? Or just a random discard lost decades ago? Whatever the story, it was a grim welcome to the path ahead.

I forced myself to look away, focusing on Anya's back as she moved cautiously ahead. We formed our fragile procession: Cipher's silent shadow leading, Anya watchful behind them, Leo focused despite his fear, and me bringing up our rear, trying desperately to appear functional while my senses felt like staticky garbage.

My senses remained unreliable, a constant source of frustration and fear. The faint dripping sounds echoed strangely, sometimes seeming to come from ahead, sometimes behind, never quite resolving. My vision swam intermittently and made me see the green glow of the sparse fungi pulse unsteadily, and dark shapes seemed to writhe just at the edge of Anya's flashlight beam. Peripheral hallucination, I diagnosed clinically, or just really big, really fast cave spiders. Neither option was comforting. Once, I caught a distinct whiff of ozone and burnt cinnamon – the smell of the spore explosion – but it vanished instantly, leaving only the damp earth scent. Ghost smells to go with the ghost code in my vision.

My shoulder throbbed where I'd hit the floor bypassing the tripwire. The memory made me instinctively more cautious, scanning the path ahead for any irregularities, my footfalls deliberately lighter despite the clumsiness induced by the cognitive fog. Every loose rock felt like a potential trigger, every shadow a possible ambush.

The passage twisted, following the natural contours of the rock, interspersed with sections of ancient, crumbling brickwork. We moved in silence for what felt like an hour, the only sound the soft crunch of our boots on debris and the ubiquitous dripping water.

Then, we rounded a bend, and the tunnel opened into a slightly larger cavern. And stopped.

Not because of a threat, but because of... beauty? It was jarringly out of place. One entire wall of the cavern was coated in a thick, vibrant tapestry of phosphorescent fungi, but not the sparse green patches we'd seen before. This was different. Intricate networks glowed in multiple colours – soft blues, violets, deep reds – pulsing slowly, rhythmically, like a living circuit board or a map of distant galaxies painted onto the rock. Delicate, feathery tendrils reached out, emitting faint motes of light that drifted lazily in the still air. The effect was breathtaking, an alien grotto carved into the heart of the decay. In the center of the display, water dripped from a stalactite onto a smooth stone below, each drop creating a perfectly clear, resonant musical note that echoed beautifully in the cavern – G, then D, then C – a simple, haunting melody in the profound silence.

For a moment, we just stood there, bathed in the soft, multi-coloured light, listening to the accidental music. It was a pocket of unexpected serenity in the midst of unrelenting hostility, a reminder that even a broken reality could sometimes glitch in beautiful ways. Even the [ERR: SYNC_FAILURE_7G] code seemed to fade slightly in my vision, overwhelmed by the sheer, unexpected artistry of the place.

The moment couldn't last. Cipher, after only a fractional pause – analysis complete? Or simply unmoved? – continued forward, their dark form cutting through the gentle glow. Anya hesitated a moment longer, then followed, shaking her head slightly as if clearing a daze. Leo lingered, clearly captivated by the natural (or unnatural) spectacle, before reluctantly pulling himself away.

I followed, the haunting notes of the dripping water already fading behind us as we plunged back into dimmer, more threatening sections of the passage. The brief respite made the return to grim reality feel even harsher.

Cipher led us towards another branching passage, narrower than the cavern, this one showing signs of more deliberate construction with smoothed walls and remnants of conduits. This, presumably, was the start of the route proper towards Sector 6-Delta, towards the Crawler territory, towards Chimera.

As we entered the new tunnel, Cipher paused again. They turned slightly, their masked face angled back towards me, cyan lenses fixed on my position. The scrutiny felt intense, probing, especially after the moment of beauty.

"Handler," the filtered voice stated, flat and calm. "Maintain optimal vigilance. Upcoming sector exhibits increased probability of Apex Predator spoor and intermittent, low-level spatial warping. Cognitive impairment may exacerbate perceptual difficulties."

It wasn't advice... it felt like a diagnostic statement. A reminder of my weakness. Or maybe... a test? My paranoia flared, cold and sharp. Are they warning me? Or are they setting expectations for my failure?

I just nodded grimly, meeting the impassive lenses, the error code flickering stubbornly in my vision. "Understood."

We stepped into the new tunnel, leaving the echoing music and gentle light behind, heading deeper into the territory of monsters, both real and potentially imaginary. The Chimera run had truly begun.