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.