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

[phanst]

Chapter 0027: Echoes, Anomalies, and Unwanted Attention

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[ERR: SYNC_FAILURE_7G]

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

 

[phanst]

Chapter 0028: Junction Recon and Lingering Echoes

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sounds like… the Maintenance Junction? Was something inside?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

[phanst]

Chapter 0029: Damage Control and Diminishing Returns

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Downside?" Anya prompted dryly.

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

Of course it did.

 

[phanst]

Chapter 0030: Calculated Risks and Corrupted Codecs

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

[phanst]

Chapter 0031: Schematics and Suspicions

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

[phanst]

Chapter 0032: Resource Check and Lingering Shadows

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But… maybe…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

[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.

 

[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.