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

[phanst]

Chapter 0016: Holding the Door (While Mentally Rebooting)

"Ren? Ren, you need to see this. External sensors… rear quadrant. Something's coming back down the tunnel we just came from. Fast."

Leo's panicked voice crackled through the comm bead, a jolt of ice water through the syrupy fog clouding my brain. My head snapped up, scanning the oppressive darkness back down the narrow tunnel we'd just navigated. The Probability Drive's rear floodlights cast long, distorted shadows, but the tunnel itself remained stubbornly empty. For now.

Fast. That wasn't good. The Stalkers had been quick, but this sounded different.

"Specifics, Leo!" I barked into my comm, trying to keep the tremor out of my voice, leaning heavily against the rig's cool plating. My legs felt like overcooked noodles. Being outside, exposed, with my primary defense mechanism – my brain – running at dial-up speeds felt terrifyingly naked. Can't debug, can barely think straight, and Anya's playing rooftop ninja while I'm zombie-bait down here. The fear wasn't just of the unknown threat... it was the fear of my own uselessness.

"Uh… okay, okay…" Leo's voice stammered slightly, followed by the faint clicking of him presumably interacting with the sensor controls inside the cockpit. "Sensors are glitchy, lots of interference, but… it looks like… three distinct signals? Moving in tight formation. Smaller than that big construction thing on the surface, but much faster. Energy signatures are… weird. Mixed. Part biological heat, part unstable energy field? Like… like pissed-off ghosts piloting go-karts made of static?"

Ghosts piloting static go-karts. Wonderful. Just another Tuesday in the Undercroft. "Biological and energy?" I muttered, trying to process that. Glitch-augmented creatures? Technologically enhanced critters? The Undercroft clearly had its own unique brand of horrors. Three of them, coming fast.

Above me, I heard a faint scraping sound as Anya presumably reached the maintenance access shaft on the roof of the junction building. No time. We had absolutely no time.

Why did we even stop? The thought was sharp, cutting through the fog. Oh right. Damage assessment. Drive core cooldown. Fix the damn roof emitter properly. Get my brain back online. Anya's reasons were sound. Pushing the damaged rig further, especially with my patch job potentially degrading, was borrowing trouble. This layover wasn't optional, it was essential system maintenance. Didn't make being the bait any more pleasant.

I pushed myself away from the Probability Drive, forcing my shaky legs to cooperate. Needed distance. Needed options, however limited. My eyes scanned the immediate area illuminated by the vehicle's forward floodlights. Rubble piles. Thick, rusted pipes lining the walls. The sealed steel door of the junction. Not much cover.

The comm bead crackled again. "Anya? Update?" I kept my voice low.

"Working on it!" Her voice was muffled, strained, followed by the sound of metal screeching against metal. "Shaft cover is rusted solid. Applying… percussive negotiation!" A loud clang echoed faintly from the roof.

Great. She was beating on it with a wrench, probably. Meanwhile, the static go-kart ghosts were closing in.

My gaze fell on the thick pipes lining the tunnel wall near the junction entrance. Coated in grime and rust, yes, but solid-looking. One section, about waist-high, seemed to have a pressure-release valve wheel, also rusted solid. If those things hunted by vibration or sound… maybe…

It was a stupid idea, born of desperation and a brain firing on only two cylinders. But it was an idea.

Stumbling slightly, I moved towards the pipe, keeping an eye on the tunnel entrance behind me. Nothing visible yet, but the feeling of something approaching, a subtle pressure change in the heavy air, was undeniable. My dulled [Perceive Glitch] skill might not be able to analyze details, but it could still register imminent doom on a general level.

Reached the pipe. Placed my hand on the large, rust-fused valve wheel. Tried to turn it. Didn't budge. Of course not. Put my shoulder into it, grunting with effort, pain spiking behind my eyes from the exertion. Still nothing. It was seized tighter than a miser's coin purse.

Think, Ren! Don't need to open it. Just need noise. Vibration. Distraction.

My multi-tool. Still clipped to my belt. Fumbled it out with numb fingers. Selected the heaviest, pointiest attachment, a reinforced alloy punch. Maybe if I could just jar the valve, create a loud noise down here, it might draw their attention away from the Probability Drive, away from the sounds Anya was making on the roof.

Took a deep breath. Aimed for the thickest part of the valve casing, right near the rusted spindle. Swung the multi-tool with all the force my exhausted body could muster.

CLANG!

The sound echoed deafeningly in the enclosed chamber, far louder than Anya's rooftop negotiations. The valve itself didn't move, but a shower of rust flakes rained down. Did it work? Did they hear it?

A low, guttural hiss echoed from the tunnel entrance. Not insect clicking this time. Something wet. Visceral.

My blood ran cold. Turning slowly, I raised my flashlight beam, hand shaking.

Three figures emerged from the darkness, moving with an unnatural, gliding speed. Leo wasn't wrong. They were vaguely humanoid in shape, but hunched, limbs too long, joints bending at impossible angles. Their forms shimmered, constantly phasing between solid, oily black shadows and bursts of crackling, corrupted data. Purple and sickly green static clung to their outlines like tattered clothes. Where faces should have been, there were only swirling vortexes of energy, pulsing faintly. Biological heat signature and unstable energy field. Glitch-Wraiths? Data-Daemons? Whatever they were, they looked like they'd crawled out of a broken server rack in hell.

They hadn't been fooled by the noise. They were heading straight for the biggest energy signature, the Probability Drive. And I was standing right beside it.

"Ren! They're here!" Leo's panicked yell came over the comms.

The three Wraiths flowed over the rubble, their movements disturbingly silent now, the earlier hissing faded. They moved like liquid shadow, closing the distance with horrifying speed. No time to run. No energy to fight. No way to debug.

My hand instinctively went to the pipe beside me again. Useless. Brain scrambling for options. Found none. Just pure, undiluted panic starting to cut through the cognitive fog.

Suddenly, a section of the ceiling of the junction chamber directly above the Wraiths exploded downwards in a shower of concrete dust and rusted rebar.

Anya dropped through the newly created hole, landing cat-footed amidst the debris, her sonic resonator already humming in her hand. She must have given up on the shaft cover and simply blasted her way through the ceiling itself.

"Party crashers!" she yelled, immediately triggering the resonator. A focused beam of intense, multi-frequency sound slammed into the lead Wraith.

The creature convulsed, its shimmering form flickering violently, static crackling audibly. It recoiled, letting out a silent scream that I somehow felt as a spike of pure mental pressure. The other two hesitated, their energy fields wavering.

"Inside, Ren! Now!" Anya yelled, holding the resonator steady, forcing the Wraiths back momentarily. "Door override engaged!"

With a heavy clunk and a pneumatic hiss, the thick steel door to the maintenance junction slid open beside me. Safety. Relative safety, anyway.

I didn't need telling twice. Scrambling on unsteady legs, I practically threw myself through the doorway just as the lead Wraith recovered, lunging past Anya's sonic assault towards the opening.

Anya jumped back, firing a quick burst from her sidearm. Not lethal energy, but a concussive blast that slammed into the Wraith, sending it staggering back into its companions. She leaped through the doorway after me.

"Leo! Seal it!" Anya bellowed into her comm.

From inside the Probability Drive, there must have been a remote control or something. As soon as the Probability Drive slid through behind us, the heavy steel door slid shut with a clang and a final, solid thump of engaged mag-locks, plunging us into the near-total darkness of the maintenance junction, the sounds of the enraged Wraiths scraping and hissing against the outside of the door muffled but terrifyingly close. Safe. For now.

 

[phanst]

Hi everyone,

I will be following the below release schedule:

- 1 Chapter around 05:00 AM UTC time
- 1 Chapter around 03:00 PM UTC time

Chapters are definitely going to be released from Monday to Friday, with a chapter or two on the weekends if life allows it.

Thank you for reading, and do leave comments, feedback, likes, and remember to add to your watchlist! :>

Note: as there is no way to schedule chapters ahead of their release, I will need to post them manually, so please give me a 15-30 min grace period.

 

[phanst]

Chapter 0017: Oasis (Subject to Bugs and Poor Lighting)

The heavy thump of the mag-locks engaging echoed finality in the sudden, heavy darkness of the maintenance junction. Outside, the muffled scraping and hissing of the Glitch-Wraiths against the thick steel door served as a terrifying reminder that 'safe' was a highly relative term. My heart hammered against my ribs, each beat echoing the dull throb in my skull.

"Lights!" Anya snapped, her voice tight but controlled, already moving deeper into the pitch blackness.

A moment later, with a hesitant flicker and the buzz of protesting old capacitors, rows of overhead fluorescent tubes sputtered to life. They cast a harsh, flickering, greenish-white light across the interior, revealing not a cramped closet like my server room haven, but a surprisingly large, cavernous space.

It was clearly built for function, not comfort. The floor was bare, oil-stained concrete, littered with discarded tools, empty ration packs far older than the ones Anya carried, and rusted metal shavings. Thick bundles of pipes and conduits snaked across the high ceiling and down the walls, feeding into massive, silent machinery that hulked in the corners – water pumps, air filtration units, power transformers, all coated in decades of grime and looking decidedly inactive. A faint smell of ozone lingered, stronger than in the tunnels, mixed with the ever-present damp concrete and mildew, plus an underlying hint of something acrid, like old battery acid.

A metal catwalk ran along one wall, leading to secondary control panels higher up. Below it, a heavy workbench cluttered with more ancient, rusted tools stood against the wall near the door control panel Anya must have overridden remotely.

Overall, it felt… derelict but solid. A forgotten pocket of industrial functionality left to decay. Less immediately hostile than the tunnels, but radiating a quiet sense of neglect and potential malfunction.

"Secure?" I asked, my voice still rough, leaning against the cool concrete wall just inside the door, trying to catch my breath without inhaling too much questionable air.

Anya was already examining the internal door control panel, running a diagnostic scanner over it. The device beeped with gloom. "Mag-locks are holding at eighty percent charge. Door integrity… compromised after my… enthusiastic entrance, but it'll hold against scratching." She shot me a wry look. "Probably wouldn't stop a determined assault from something with actual breaching capability, though. We bought time, not invulnerability." She turned her attention back to the panel. "Main power grid down here is offline, obviously. Running internal systems off auxiliary batteries. Looks like they have about twelve hours of life left, judging by the discharge rate."

Twelve hours. A deadline, then.

Leo had slumped onto an overturned crate near the workbench, running a shaky hand through his hair. He looked utterly spent, the terror of the Wraith encounter leaving him pale and trembling slightly. "Those… things," he stammered. "What were they?"

"Glitch-Wraiths," Anya confirmed grimly, fiddling with the panel settings, likely reinforcing the lock commands. "Nasty pieces of work. Part residual human echo, part corrupted data, part pure environmental spite, from what I gather. Fast, silent when they want to be, drawn to energy signatures and strong emotions. That sonic resonator disrupts their cohesion, usually. Doesn't kill them." She frowned. "Never seen them hunt in coordinated packs like that before. Or be that aggressive this close to the surface levels. Something's stirring them up."

My mind briefly flashed back to the SOS signal from Quadrant 7G. Was there a connection? Was some larger disturbance radiating outwards, affecting even the deep Undercroft? Or was it just another delightful coincidence in our increasingly complicated lives? The thought process felt sluggish, like wading through cognitive quicksand. Trying to analyze deeper implications right now was pointless, my brain simply wasn't up to the task. Survival first. Analysis… eventually. Maybe.

"Alright," Anya straightened up from the panel. "We're locked in. They're locked out. For now." She surveyed the junction. "First order: Check your gear, count your ammo," she unconsciously patted her sidearm, "tend to any immediate injuries." Her gaze lingered on me again. "Which includes mental ones, Debugger. You need to recover. Whatever those Wraiths were, I have a feeling they won't be the last welcoming committee we meet down here."

She was right. Pushing myself further wasn't just risky, it was stupid. If another crisis hit, I needed to be capable of more than just identifying problems I couldn't fix. "Yeah," I conceded, pushing myself off the wall. "Rest. Water. Maybe some non-radioactive food, if such a thing exists?"

Anya gestured towards her pack, leaning against the workbench. "Got standard-issue nutrient paste, guaranteed to taste like vaguely salty cardboard. And filtered water. Help yourself." She started moving towards the hulking machinery in the corner, pulling out a more sophisticated scanner. "I need to check these old power conduits. See if there's any residual charge we can tap to supplement the batteries, or if trying just risks blowing the whole junction offline."

I gratefully snagged a water flask and a nutrient paste tube from her pack. The water was clean, blessedly cool, easing the dryness in my throat. The nutrient paste tube was depressingly familiar military-grade grey. Squeezing some onto my finger, I tasted it tentatively. Vaguely salty cardboard was a remarkably accurate description. Grimly, I started forcing it down. Calories were calories, even if they tasted like recycled packaging material.

Leo seemed content to just sit on his crate, taking slow sips from his own water bottle, eyes still wide as he stared at the heavy steel door. The encounter had clearly shaken him to the core.

I found a relatively clean patch of floor near the workbench, slid down the wall, and leaned my head back against the cool concrete. Closed my eyes. Not sleeping, just… trying to let my brain defragment. The throbbing headache eased slightly with the hydration and the grim necessity of the nutrient paste. My SP indicator still flashed ERROR, the number stubbornly refusing to climb above 1. Recovery wasn't going to be instantaneous. It felt like my mental 'RAM' had been completely overwritten and needed a slow, painstaking rebuild.

The only sounds were Anya's quiet movements as she worked on the machinery, the faint hum of her scanner, Leo's soft breathing, and the muffled, rhythmic scrape… scrape… hiss… from outside the steel door. The Wraiths weren't giving up. They were waiting.

Time stretched, measured in the flickering of the overhead lights and the distant, imagined dripping of water. I focused on breathing, trying to push down the lingering fear and the cognitive static. Tried to access [Perceive Glitch] gently, just testing the waters. Instantly felt a sharp spike of pain behind my eyes, like touching a live wire. Retreated immediately. Nope. Still offline. Recovery required actual rest, not impatient poking.

Maybe ten minutes passed. Maybe thirty. Time felt fluid, unreliable down here.

Suddenly, Anya swore softly from across the room. "Well, shit."

My eyes snapped open. Leo jumped. "What? What is it? Are they getting in?"

"No, door's fine," Anya said, frustration clear in her voice. She held up her scanner, pointing towards one of the massive, silent transformer units. "Power conduits are shot. Completely corroded. Trying to draw power would be like plugging into a fireworks factory." She sighed, running a hand through her hair again. "So, twelve hours on the batteries it is. Max. And that's just for basic life support and keeping the door locked. No recharging the rig's main cells."

Twelve hours. Not enough time to fully recover. Not enough time to effect major repairs on the Probability Drive, even if I could help. Just enough time to be trapped in here until the power failed and the door unlocked itself, delivering us gift-wrapped to the patient horrors outside.

Unless…

Anya followed my gaze towards the large, silent water pump machinery dominating another corner. Thick pipes led into and out of it, disappearing into the concrete floor and walls.

"Don't even think about it," she said sternly. "That's the old reservoir overflow pump system. Hasn't been active in decades. Probably seized solid. And even if it wasn't, the outflow tunnels likely lead deeper into unmapped, flooded sections. Trading hungry Wraiths for drowning in Glitch-infested sludge isn't an upgrade."

She had a point. Still, a potential alternative route, however unlikely, felt marginally better than just waiting for the batteries to die.

The scraping outside the door intensified momentarily, then fell silent again. Were they trying different tactics? Or just… listening?

We were in a concrete box, low on power, with nightmare creatures waiting outside, my primary skillset crippled, and our only potential escape route likely led to drowning or worse.

The URE, ever helpful, offered a notification:

----------

[New Quest Suggestion (Low Priority?): Find A Better Hiding Spot.]

Potential Reward: [Delayed Demise]

Warning: Current Location Stability Rating: Degrading due to External Entity Pressure.

----------

Degrading stability. Great. Just freaking great. The box wasn't even guaranteed to remain a box.

Anya saw the flicker of the URE interface in my eyes. "System giving you helpful advice?" she asked drily.

"Suggests finding a better hiding spot," I replied, forcing down the nutrient paste. "Also notes location stability is 'degrading due to external entity pressure'. Which I assume means those things scratching at the door are literally stressing the reality of this room."

Anya's expression hardened. "Yeah. Wraiths can do that. Corrode reality locally if they focus." She looked around the junction, her gaze sharp and assessing again. "Twelve hours just became a very optimistic estimate."

Our temporary oasis was already starting to feel like a slowly collapsing trap.

 

[phanst]

Chapter 0018: Structural Integrity (Optional)

The heavy steel door separating us from the Glitch-Wraiths vibrated faintly, a low-frequency thrum that resonated through the concrete floor and up my aching bones. The muffled scraping outside had taken on a new, more worrying quality. It was a deeper, grinding sound, like something trying to chew through the metal itself. My already fuzzy vision seemed to worsen and I saw faint, iridescent geometric patterns, like oil slicks on water, flickering intermittently across the grimy concrete walls near the door, vanishing as soon as I tried to focus on them.

"Stability degrading," Anya observed grimly, her gaze fixed on the shimmering patterns. She had her scanner out again, pointed not at machinery, but at the air itself near the door. The readings scrolled rapidly, mostly gibberish and error codes, but the trend line was clearly downward. "URE wasn't wrong. They're actively stressing the local reality field. Trying to unmake the door, maybe? Or just weaken the whole damned room."

The thought sent a fresh wave of cold dread through me, colder than the lingering chill from the SP burnout. This wasn't just being trapped, it was being trapped in a box that was slowly being deleted.

Debug options? The thought sparked instinctively, followed immediately by a lance of pain behind my eyes. I squeezed them shut, picturing my mental toolkit. It looked… pathetic. The visualization was fuzzy, indistinct. My [Logic Probe] tool flickered like a cheap holo-emitter running on a dying battery. The 'Shields' construct seemed cracked and fragile, incapable of holding any real energy. Trying to actively do anything, like reinforcing the junction's reality field? Suicidal. The mental backlash would likely cause the very cognitive crash the URE kept vaguely warning me about. My only recourse was observation, and even that felt like trying to read fine print through frosted glass.

"How long does that take?" Leo asked, his voice tight. He'd forced himself off the crate and was nervously pacing near the workbench, eyes darting between the vibrating door and the flickering lights overhead. "How long until they… stress it enough?"

Anya consulted her scanner again, her expression grim. "Hard to say. Depends how focused they are, how many there are. But this junction… it wasn't designed for heavy reality flux." She traced a pattern in the air, likely recalling old schematics or past experiences. "It's old. Solid physically, but the underlying reality code? Probably riddled with legacy vulnerabilities. Hours? Maybe. Minutes? Possible. Especially with the auxiliary power draining." She nodded towards the dimming overhead lights. "Less power, less inherent stability."

"We have to get out before the power fails then," I stated the obvious, pushing myself upright again. The brief rest hadn't done much besides solidify the exhaustion. "That water pump system…"

"Is a deathtrap," Anya finished firmly. "Flooded tunnels, unknown critters, probable structural collapses. And even if we survived all that, where does it lead? We're taking this Undercroft route for one reason – to get west, under the Kilo-7 Distortion Field that makes surface travel impossible. Those overflow tunnels could dump us anywhere, probably deeper, further east." She shook her head decisively. "Not an option unless the alternative is certain death." Which, admittedly, felt increasingly like our current situation.

Leo, meanwhile, had stopped pacing. He wasn't looking at the door anymore, but frowning at the massive, silent pump machinery that dominated the far corner of the junction, his gaze tracing the thick, rust-coated pipes that disappeared into the concrete wall. His draftsman's instincts, perhaps?

"Anya," he said slowly, walking towards the pumps, "you said this place had power regulation issues?"

"Notoriously," Anya confirmed, still monitoring the door and her scanner. "Blew circuits constantly back when it was operational. Why?"

Leo ran a hand over one of the large pipes near where it bolted into the wall, dislodging flakes of rust. He peered closely at the concrete around the join. "Because… look at this." He pointed. "These cracks… they aren't random stress fractures from age. See the pattern? Radiating outwards? That looks like damage from repeated, focused energy discharge. Like the unstable power wasn't just blowing internal circuits... it was arcing out, hitting the structure itself, right here."

He moved along the wall, tracing the pipework, tapping gently on the concrete. "And this section…" He stopped near a large support pillar that intersected with several major conduits. "The concrete sounds… different here. Thinner? Or maybe hollower?" He looked back at us, a spark of nervous excitement replacing the fear in his eyes. "This whole corner feels like it took the brunt of those old power surges. It might be the weakest point in the whole junction. Structurally."

Anya frowned, lowering her scanner and walking over to where Leo stood. She examined the cracks he indicated, then ran her own hand over the pillar, her experienced touch assessing the texture, the subtle vibrations. After a moment, her eyes widened slightly.

"You're right," she murmured, almost to herself. "I remember reports… Old Man Fitz used to complain about needing to reinforce this section constantly after bad surges back in his smuggling days. Said the rebar was practically cooked." She knocked on the pillar herself. It gave back a dull, slightly resonant thud compared to the solid density elsewhere. "Weak point. Definitely."

A potential way out? Not through the Wraiths at the door, not through the flooded death tunnels, but through the wall itself?

My foggy brain tried to process the implications. Creating a breach… would require force. Noise. Attract attention. But maybe… just maybe…

"Can we break through?" I asked, taking a step closer, the idea feeling fragile but vitally important.

Anya assessed the pillar, her gaze calculating. "With what? My sidearm on overload might crack it, but the feedback in this confined space? Bad idea. The Probability Drive's ram? Can't maneuver it in here." She looked around the cluttered junction. "No heavy demolition tools…"

Leo, however, was already examining the nearby pump machinery again, his eyes lit with a different kind of focus now, the focused gaze of someone understanding complex systems. "The pump mechanism… see that main impeller housing? It's designed to handle massive water pressure. It's got hydraulic pistons, pressure seals… if we could somehow reroute the hydraulic pressure…"

Anya stared at him, then back at the pump, then at the weakened pillar. A slow, dangerous grin spread across her face. "Reroute the hydraulics… use the pump itself as a battering ram against the weak point…" She looked back at Leo, truly impressed this time. "Draftsman, huh? You got a devious mind when you're not panicking."

Leo flushed slightly but nodded eagerly. "The control systems are dead without main power, but the hydraulic reservoir might still have pressure. We'd need to bypass the electronic controls, trigger the piston release manually… maybe reroute a fluid line directly?"

"It's insane," Anya breathed, but the grin remained. "Crazy noisy. Might bring the whole ceiling down. And we'd need tools we don't have to reroute high-pressure lines safely…"

"Maybe not," I interjected, pushing myself away from the wall again, an idea flickering through the cognitive static: not debugging reality, but physics. Applied physics. "Forget rerouting the lines. What about the valve stems? The main pressure release valves on the pump housing? They're designed to handle catastrophic failure. If we could somehow shear the stem bolts…"

Anya looked at the massive, rust-seized valves on the pump housing. "Shear hardened steel bolts? How?"

I held up my multi-tool, hefting the alloy punch attachment. "Targeted percussive application," I said, echoing my earlier deflection, but this time with grim intent. "Maybe not shear them clean, but weaken them. Brittle fracture. Then apply blunt force." I nodded towards Leo's golf club, leaning against the crate. Not ideal, but maybe enough?

It was a long shot. A noisy, dangerous, potentially suicidal long shot that relied on Leo's structural assessment, Anya's acceptance of a crazy plan, and my ability to hit something hard enough despite feeling like wet cardboard.

Outside, the grinding noise intensified. A visible crack, thin as a hair but emitting faint purple sparks, spiderwebbed across the steel door near the lock mechanism.

Time was officially up.

"Alright," Anya declared, grabbing a heavy wrench from the workbench. "Crazy plan it is. Leo, show me exactly where you think the weakest point on that pillar is. Ren… start tenderizing those valve bolts. Let's make our own damn exit."

Our unlikely trio – the cynical debugger, the pragmatic speed demon, and the observant draftsman – prepared to bring the house down. Literally.

 

[phanst]

Chapter 0019: Percussive Negotiations and Structural Untruths

"Alright," Anya declared, hefting the heavy industrial wrench as if weighing her options. Her gaze flicked between the groaning steel door, now showing a network of hairline cracks spiderwebbing from the main impact point, and the silent, hulking water pump machinery. "No time for finesse. Leo, mark the exact spot on that pillar – maximum weakness, minimum chance of bringing the entire ceiling down on us."

Leo nodded, his earlier nervousness replaced by a focused intensity that seemed almost out of place on his young face. He grabbed a piece of chalky, crumbling concrete from the floor and hurried over to the pillar he'd identified. He ran his hands over the surface again, eyes tracing patterns only he could see, referencing the radiating cracks originating from the pipe junction. Okay, focus the stress here… factor in the estimated hydraulic force… avoid that primary load-bearing rebar cluster… His internal calculations were almost palpable. Finally, he drew a rough, chalky 'X' about chest-high on the pillar.

"There," he stated, his voice tight but steady. "Hit it square, aim slightly upwards. Should exploit the sheer stress fractures from the old power arcs without compromising the main overhead beam. Theoretically."

"Theoretically," Anya repeated dryly. "Good enough for government work. Or desperate Undercroft escape attempts." She braced herself, planting her feet, ready to direct the hypothetical hydraulic blast.

My own task felt far less precise and infinitely more exhausting. "Tenderizing the valve bolts," Anya had called it. Sounded simple. Felt like preparing to arm-wrestle a tank using only a glorified screwdriver.

I approached the massive, rust-encrusted pump housing, the acrid smell of old oil and stagnant water thick in the air. The main pressure release valve assemblies were huge, bolted onto the thick cast-iron casing with hexagonal bolts the size of my fist. They looked like they hadn't moved since the last ice age, fused solid by time, corrosion, and neglect. My multi-tool's alloy punch felt laughably inadequate.

Okay, Ren. Don't think about the Wraiths clawing through the door. Don't think about your brain feeling like scrambled eggs. Don't think about the fact that this plan relies on breaking hardened steel with minimal leverage and near-zero energy. Focus. Brute force. Percussive negotiation. This is just like dealing with that stubborn server rack in Sector Gamma… only with more rust and a higher chance of immediate, violent death. The internal pep talk wasn't exactly inspiring. My hands trembled slightly as I gripped the multi-tool.

Targeting the first bolt head on the primary release valve – the one aligned most directly with the weakened pillar – I took a shaky breath. Remembered Anya's sonic resonator finding resonant frequencies. Maybe… maybe it wasn't just about hitting it hard, but hitting it right?

My muffled [Perceive Glitch] skill flared weakly, not with reality code, but with a sense of… stressed material. Like listening to the faint groans of metal under tension. Focused on the bolt, trying to feel its internal structure, the lines of force, the points of potential weakness within the corroded metal itself. It was faint, like trying to hear whispers through static, but I caught a flicker, a subtle harmonic dissonance, a tiny internal flaw near the edge of the hexagonal head. [Target Acquired: Material Fatigue Point (Minor)].

Okay. Not just random hitting. Targeted percussion.

Raising the multi-tool high, ignoring the screaming protest from my shoulder muscles and the pulsing agony behind my eyes, I brought the alloy punch down hard, aiming squarely for that perceived weak spot.

CLANG!

The sound ricocheted through the junction, painfully loud. My arm jarred violently up to the shoulder. The bolt head didn't shear. It didn't even noticeably deform. But a tiny network of micro-fractures, almost invisible, appeared on its surface around the impact point. A faint, high-pitched ping resonated from the metal.

"Anything?" Anya called out, glancing over.

"Made it… complain?" I grunted, resetting my stance, lining up another shot. The exertion sent spots dancing in my vision. [Cognitive Strain Increasing].

CLANG! Another jarring impact. The micro-fractures deepened slightly. Another high-pitched ping.

Scrape… GRIND… A louder noise from the main door. The crack widened, spitting more purple sparks. They were getting closer.

"Faster, Ren!" Anya urged, her voice tight.

No time for finesse. Just hit it. Hit it hard. CLANG! PING! CLANG! Again and again, ignoring the pain, ignoring the exhaustion, pouring every ounce of remaining strength into the impacts, guided only by the faint sense of stressing that internal flaw. The bolt head visibly started to deform now, the edges blunting, the micro-fractures connecting.

Sweat plastered my hair to my forehead. My breath came in ragged gasps. The world narrowed to the rust-colored bolt head, the jarring impact, the responding ping.

CRACK!

The sound was different this time. Sharper. Final. The bolt head didn't shear clean off, but a significant crack propagated through it, nearly splitting it in two. It was critically weakened. Brittle.

"First one's tender!" I yelled, stumbling back, arm aching, head swimming.

"Leo!" Anya commanded instantly. "Your weapon!"

Leo reacted immediately, darting forward, swinging his bent golf club like a clumsy hammer. Not elegant, but it was enough force needed now, not precision. THWACK! The club head connected squarely with the fractured bolt.

With a sharp snap, the bolt head sheared off completely, ricocheting off the pump housing with a clang.

"Yes!" Leo cheered raggedly.

"One down, five to go!" Anya yelled. "Faster! Ren, next bolt!"

But the noise from the main door changed again. The grinding stopped, replaced by a series of heavy, rhythmic THUDS. Like something massive repeatedly slamming itself against the steel. The entire door shuddered with each impact. The crack widened visibly. Dark, oily shapes started to ooze through the gap.

"They're breaching!" Leo screamed, scrambling back towards Anya.

"No time for the rest of the bolts!" Anya decided instantly, her eyes wild. "Plan C! Ren, get clear! Leo, brace yourself!"

Plan C? What was Plan C? Had there even been a Plan B?

Anya didn't wait for an answer. She adjusted her stance, aimed her sonic resonator not at the Wraiths, but directly at the single, fractured valve stem where the bolt had sheared off.

"This is gonna blow back!" she yelled, gritting her teeth. "Cover!"

She triggered the resonator on its highest, most focused frequency. A piercing, almost unbearable whine filled the chamber. The fractured valve stem glowed cherry red almost instantly under the focused sonic assault. It vibrated violently, threatening to tear itself apart.

Then, with a sound like a cannon firing underwater, the weakened stem failed catastrophically. A high-pressure geyser of thick, sludgy, foul-smelling hydraulic fluid erupted from the pump housing, spraying across the room.

But that wasn't the main event. The release of that pressure slammed the pump's internal piston backward, then forward again in a failsafe recoil, directly towards the weakened pillar marked with Leo's chalk 'X'.

CRACK-BOOM!

The impact was deafening. The weakened pillar didn't just crack... it exploded outwards in a shower of concrete chunks and dust. For a heart-stopping moment, the ceiling above groaned ominously, dust raining down, threatening collapse.

But the main beam held. And where the pillar had been, there was now a ragged, gaping hole leading into… darkness. Blacker, damper, somehow colder than the main junction. A blast of air smelling of deep earth, stagnant water, and something indescribably ancient washed over us.

Our new exit. Assuming it didn't immediately collapse.

"Go! Go! Go!" Anya screamed over the lingering echo, already shoving Leo towards the opening. The Wraiths were now pouring through the buckled main door, flowing like liquid shadow towards the sudden chaos.

Covered in hydraulic sludge, deafened by the blast, head pounding, I stumbled after Leo towards the ragged hole in reality's basement. Escape wasn't guaranteed, but we'd just punched a maybe-hole through the bottom of the trap. Now we just had to survive whatever lay on the other side.

 

[Stimpak Medic]

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

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

 

[phanst]

Chapter 0020: Subterranean Scramble and Shadow Plays

"Go! Go! Go!" Anya's scream propelled us forward, the adrenaline momentarily overriding the exhaustion and the pounding in my head. I stumbled after Leo through the ragged hole where the reinforced concrete pillar had stood moments before, the acrid smell of pulverized concrete and ozone thick in the air. Behind us, the enraged hisses and screeches of the Glitch-Wraiths pouring into the junction faded slightly as we plunged into the unknown darkness beyond the breach.

Anya was right behind me, pausing only long enough to fire another concussive blast from her sidearm back towards the compromised main door, hopefully discouraging immediate pursuit, before following us through.

We found ourselves not in a finished tunnel, but a rough service passage, clearly never intended for regular traffic. The air here was different. It was heavy, still, tasting of damp earth, cold stone, and something metallic, like licking rusted iron. It was blessedly free of the Wraiths' corrosive presence and the hydraulic fluid I was still partially coated in, but it wasn't exactly welcoming. The ground underfoot was uneven bedrock, slick with moisture. Faintly phosphorescent fungi clung in patches to the rough-hewn walls, casting an eerie, insufficient green glow that barely pushed back the oppressive darkness beyond the reach of Anya's shoulder-mounted flashlight beam.

"This way!" Anya grunted, taking point immediately. Her flashlight beam danced ahead, revealing a narrow, twisting passage barely wide enough for us to walk single file. Water trickled down the walls, pooling in shallow puddles on the uneven floor. "Looks like an old geological survey tunnel, or maybe drainage overflow. Definitely not on any standard Undercroft map I ever saw."

Leo stumbled slightly on the slick rock, catching himself against the wall. He looked back towards the ragged hole, now just a dark opening behind us, his face pale in the eerie green glow of the fungi. "Are they… following?"

Anya paused, listening intently. The only sounds were our own ragged breathing, the drip of water, and a faint, low rumble from somewhere deep within the earth... perhaps the distant operations of still-functioning geothermal taps, or just the planet's indigestion. No hissing. No scraping. "Don't think so," she said finally, though her hand stayed near her sidearm. "That blast probably disoriented them, and the structural collapse might have made them hesitant. Wraiths are nasty, but not always stupid. They might not risk following into an unknown, unstable passage immediately."

Small mercies, I thought, leaning against the cold, damp rock wall, trying to regain some equilibrium. My head swam. The faint green phosphorescence seemed to pulse sickeningly in time with my headache. Assessing my cognitive state: still garbage. Focusing felt like trying to grip smoke. The mental 'static' persisted, making even simple recall feel sluggish. Remember Anya's reasoning for the pit stop? Check. Essential maintenance, cooldown, brain repair. Remember the SOS signal? Check. Quadrant 7G. Need the rig working. Remember my own name? Mostly check. Progress was minimal. Recovery was clearly going to be a slow burn.

"Keep moving," Anya urged, pushing onward. "This passage could collapse, flood, or just plain end. We need to find a junction with the main tunnels."

We shuffled onward through the narrow, twisting passage. It felt like miles, though it was probably only a few hundred yards. The air grew progressively colder, damper. The metallic tang intensified. Occasionally, the rock walls would shimmer faintly, similar to the instability pockets in the upper tunnels, but these felt older, more settled – echoes of reality stress, not active threats. Still, we skirted them cautiously.

Leo, despite his fatigue and fear, seemed to regain some composure in the new environment. His eyes scanned the rock formations, the water seepage patterns, the structure of the passage itself. "This wasn't natural," he murmured after a while, running a hand along a section of wall that showed faint, regular scarring. "These marks… maybe mining tools? Or boring equipment? Very old."

"Place is full of forgotten projects," Anya confirmed without slowing. "City planners, corporations, military… they burrowed all over the place before the Crash. Who knows what they left behind?"

Finally, the passage began to widen. The rough-hewn rock gave way to sections of ancient, crumbling brickwork, suggesting we were intersecting with older city infrastructure. Ahead, Anya's flashlight beam caught the welcome sight of a larger opening, an archway leading into what looked like a main Undercroft thoroughfare.

"Alright," Anya breathed, pausing just before the archway, peering cautiously into the larger tunnel beyond. "Looks like the old Sector 5 aqueduct bypass. Should lead west towards the freighter elevator shafts eventually."

The thoroughfare beyond the archway was wider, easily accommodating the Probability Drive if we could retrieve it. Faint emergency lighting flickered intermittently along its length, casting long, dancing shadows. The air here smelled slightly less of decay and more of stale, recycled air, suggesting proximity to ventilation systems, however defunct. Sounds echoed differently here, the cavernous space carried faint rumbles and clanks from indeterminate distances. It felt marginally less claustrophobic, but also more exposed.

"Okay," Anya said, stepping through the archway, weapon ready. "We need to circle back to the junction, retrieve the rig. Quickly, quietly. Hope those Wraiths got bored and wandered off."

But as I took a step towards the archway, a faint prickle ran across my skin: the barest whisper from my damaged [Perceive Glitch] skill. Not a Wraith signature, their corrosive static felt different. Something else. A faint, localized coldness again, near the floor of the main tunnel, just beyond the arch. Followed by… a scuffing sound? Like something soft but heavy being dragged across concrete.

"Wait," I croaked, holding up a hand. My head throbbed with the minimal effort. "Something… else."

Anya froze, instantly alert. Leo stopped beside me, peering nervously into the thoroughfare. Anya swept her flashlight beam across the tunnel floor near the cold spot I indicated.

Empty. Just dust, debris, and more puddles.

Then, the beam caught it. Faint drag marks in the dust, leading away from our position, heading deeper into the aqueduct bypass tunnel. Beside the marks, almost obscured by shadow, was a small, dark object.

A single, discarded boot. Scuffed leather, worn sole. Looked relatively recent. Not ancient debris.

Anya approached cautiously, keeping her light steady on the object while scanning the surrounding darkness. She nudged it with the toe of her boot. It rolled slightly, revealing itself. Not empty.

We weren't the first ones to come through here recently. And judging by the drag marks and the single boot, which appeared to still contain the grisly remains of a foot, whoever it was hadn't left willingly.

The silence of the thoroughfare suddenly felt much heavier, charged with a different kind of menace. It wasn't just environmental hazards and Glitch-spawn down here. Someone, or something, else was active. Hunting? Scavenging?

Our supposedly secure route back to the Probability Drive, back to our only means of serious transportation, suddenly felt fraught with fresh, unknown peril. And the URE chose that moment to offer its wisdom:

----------

[Environmental Alert: Unidentified Biosignatures Detected Nearby (Non-Hostile? Maybe?)]

[Cross-Reference Found: Drag Marks Consistent with Predation/Scavenging Activity by Entity Type: [DATA CORRUPTED] ]

Suggestion: Proceed with Caution (Or Panic Quietly).

----------

Data corrupted entity type. Wonderful.

Anya looked at the boot and its contents, then down the tunnel where the drag marks disappeared into the shadows. Her expression was grim. "Okay," she murmured, almost too quietly. "Maybe circling straight back isn't the best idea right now."

Our escape from the junction hadn't led us to safety, just smack-dab into a different layer of the Undercroft's deadly onion.

 

[phanst]

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

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

Click to shrink...

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

 

[phanst]

Chapter 0021: Tracks, Traps, and Temporary Truces (Arc 1.1 End)

The silence stretched, punctuated only by the faint drip of unseen water and the low hum of Anya's flashlight. The discarded boot and its grisly contents lay there in the dust, a stark, mundane object made sinister by context and the drag marks stretching away into the oppressive darkness of the aqueduct bypass. The URE's cryptic warning about corrupted data entities echoed in my mind, layering a fresh coat of digital dread over my already profound exhaustion.

Anya stared down the tunnel after the marks, her expression unreadable in the harsh beam of her light. Then, she straightened up, decisive action replacing contemplation. "Okay," she declared, her voice low but firm, cutting through the tense silence. "New plan. We don't go back to the junction the way we came. Not yet. Those marks are too fresh, and I don't like playing guessing games with whatever made them."

She crouched down for a closer look at the evidence, Leo and I hovering nearby, feeling uselessly exposed. The boot wasn't military issue, nor standard pre-Crash work gear. It was cobbled together, thick synth-hide patched with what looked like cured Skitter plating, the sole heavily worn but showing newer scuff marks near the toe, suggesting a recent struggle.The drag marks beside it weren't simple grooves, they were wider, shallower depressions in the dust and grime, interspersed with faint, almost feathered patterns, as if something soft but heavy had been pulled along, occasionally thrashing or snagging on the uneven ground. Consistent with predation, as the URE helpfully suggested.

"We follow them," Anya continued, tracing the marks with her flashlight beam. "Cautiously. See where they lead, maybe get an idea what we're dealing with. If it circles back towards the junction from a different angle, maybe we can retrieve the rig. If not…" She didn't finish the sentence, but the implication hung heavy in the damp air. If not, we were well and truly screwed, stuck miles underground with dwindling supplies and impaired capabilities.

Great, my internal monologue piped up, sounding even more weary than usual through the cognitive fog. So we swap potentially collapsing reality-stressed concrete for stalking an unknown predator through lightless tunnels based on a single abandoned foot in a boot. Solid plan. Five-star Yelp review pending. The frustration simmered: frustration at the situation, frustration at the damned Wraiths, but mostly frustration at my own state. Useless. A liability. If things went sideways now, all I could offer was cynical commentary and maybe tripping over my own feet to distract whatever horror emerged from the shadows. The vulnerability was a cold, physical thing, worse than the headache.

"Alright," I managed, pushing the bleak thoughts down. Complaining wouldn't help. "Lead the way."

Anya nodded, her focus absolute. "Leo, stay close behind me. Eyes open, especially up high and in alcoves. These tunnels have niches. Ren, bring up the rear. Watch our backs. If anything feels wrong, even if you can't pin it down with your… trick, sing out."

It was the best formation we could manage. Anya, with her Undercroft experience and weaponry, took point. Leo, with his sharp eyes for detail and structure, acted as immediate backup and secondary observer. Me, the impaired debugger, got rear guard duty – arguably the most vulnerable spot, but also the one requiring the least immediate complex action.

We moved slowly, cautiously, following the drag marks deeper into the aqueduct bypass. The tunnel here was wider than the service passage, the ceiling higher, lost in shadow above the reach of Anya's beam. The intermittent emergency lights did little more than create shifting pockets of gloom, making shapes seem to writhe at the edge of vision. The air remained cold, heavy, the metallic tang persistent.

Every distant rumble, every skittering sound from unseen side passages, every drip of water made us jump. My own senses felt unreliable, feeding me phantom movements and auditory ghosts. Was that clicking sound just water, or was it Stalker chitin? Was that flicker of movement a glitch, phosphorescent fungi, or something else entirely? The uncertainty was almost as bad as the exhaustion.

We passed several intersecting tunnels, dark maws branching off into unknown depths. Anya checked markings on the walls, sometimes consulting a battered data slate she pulled from her pouch, confirming our general heading westward, towards the theoretical location of the freighter elevator shafts she'd mentioned – our potential exit. The drag marks continued steadfastly down the main bypass, ignoring the side tunnels. Whatever took the boot's owner had a clear destination.

After what felt like an eternity, but was probably only twenty minutes, Anya signaled a halt. She swept her flashlight beam across the tunnel wall ahead. More markings, different this time. Not old city planning symbols, but cruder, fresher – spray-painted symbols, territorial markers. A stylized, jagged skull superimposed over a dripping gear symbol.

"Tunnel Vultures," Anya breathed, her voice low and hard. "Scavenger trash. Territorial, nasty, fond of ambushes and salvaged tech." She examined the marks more closely. "This is their turf, alright. But these drag marks… they lead straight into it."

Did the Vultures take the person? Or was something else dragging prey into their territory? Neither option felt particularly comforting.

As if summoned by her words, a faint sound reached us from further down the tunnel – the unmistakable clatter of loose metal, followed by muffled, angry voices. Getting closer.

"Contacts," Anya whispered, instantly flattening herself against the tunnel wall, gesturing frantically for us to do the same. "Sound like Vultures on patrol."

We pressed ourselves into the damp, grimy brickwork, trying to become invisible in the shadows between the flickering emergency lights. My heart hammered against my ribs again. Trapped between potential unknown horrors behind us and known human awfulness ahead. Fantastic.

Two figures emerged from the gloom down the tunnel, walking slowly, arguing in low, guttural tones. They were clad in the typical scavenger patchwork – rusted metal plates bolted onto scavenged fatigues, crude helmets fashioned from old pipes or ventilation ducts, carrying oversized projectile weapons that looked prone to jamming. Tunnel Vultures, exactly as Anya described.

They hadn't seen us yet, their attention focused on their argument and scanning the path ahead with inadequate flashlights. But they were heading directly towards us. And worse, the drag marks we'd been following led straight past the spot where we were hiding, towards them.

We were directly in the path of both the patrol and whatever they might be tracking or returning to.

Anya drew her sidearm slowly, the faint hum barely audible over our own breathing. Leo held his golf club, looking like he desperately wished it was anything else. My own hand rested uselessly on my multi-tool. Options felt vanishingly thin. Fight? Against armed scavengers, in our current state? Flee back towards the unknown thing that made the drag marks? Equally suicidal.

The lead Vulture suddenly stopped, his flashlight beam playing over the ground near his feet. He grunted, pointing. He'd spotted the drag marks. His companion joined him, peering down, then swept his own light nervously into the darkness behind them – the direction we had come from. They knew something was back there too.

Caught. Literally caught in the middle.

Just as the Vultures started to raise their weapons, looking towards the shadows where we hid, a section of the ceiling directly above them groaned loudly. Not a collapse. Something deliberate.

A heavy cargo net, thick with grime and weighted with chunks of metal debris, dropped silently from the shadowed ceiling, enveloping both scavengers before they could react. They yelped in surprise and anger, struggling futilely as the net tightened, pinning their arms and weapons.

Before we could even process this, a figure dropped lightly from the same shadowy recess in the ceiling where the net originated, landing silently beside the struggling Vultures. Smaller than Anya, dressed in dark, form-fitting gear that blended perfectly with the shadows, wearing a mask that obscured their face, leaving only faintly glowing optical lenses visible. They moved with an unnerving, fluid grace.

The figure ignored us completely, focusing solely on the captured Vultures, producing a compact device that emitted a low hum – similar to Anya's resonator, but different frequency. They pressed it against the helmet of the first Vulture. The scavenger stiffened, went limp within the net. The figure repeated the process on the second. Both subdued instantly, non-lethally.

Who the hell…?

The masked figure straightened up, retrieved the net with practiced efficiency, leaving the two unconscious Vultures slumped against the wall. Then, finally, they turned towards us, silent, still, their glowing lenses fixing first on Anya, then Leo, then lingering on me for a fraction of a second longer than seemed necessary. Assessing. Analyzing.

The silence stretched. Friend? Foe? Something else entirely? This Undercroft was getting complicated.

Then, the figure spoke, their voice electronically filtered, calm, devoid of inflection.

"Unexpected variables," the voice stated, the glowing lenses seeming to focus solely on me again. "Runtime Exception Handler identified. Your processing load appears… critical. Assistance required?"

They knew my Class designation. They knew I was struggling. This wasn't some random Undercroft dweller. This was something… informed.

The immediate escape was over, but we'd surfaced into a different kind of danger, and now, encountered a complete unknown who somehow knew exactly who, or rather what, I was. The questions piled up – who was this figure? How did they know about me? What did they want? And what about the thing that made the drag marks? We were out of the junction, yes, but deeply entangled in the Undercroft's dangerous ecosystem, our ride damaged, my abilities crippled, and relying on a fragile, untested alliance. The need for repairs, recovery, and answers was more pressing than ever. Quadrant 7G felt a million miles away.