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

[phanst]

Right, listen up, meatbags. The world didn't politely end with nukes or zombies. No, reality itself apparently rage-quit, slammed Alt-F4, and now we're living in the cosmic equivalent of a Windows ME crash dump, complete with physics errors, texture glitches spawning monsters made of dial-up noise, and a "System" that's less helpful overlay and more passive-aggressive error log generator.

And guess who drew the short straw for tech support? Yeah. Me. Ren. Ex-Tier 2 drone, current freelance Reality Debugger. My superpower isn't punching holes in reality, it's applying the occasional sanity patch, untangling hostile geometry errors, and maybe, just maybe, figuring out why gravity sometimes decides to take five in the middle of the street.

What This Is:

• LitRPG: But the Universal Runtime Environment (URE) is unreliable, buggy, and probably hates you. Don't expect clean stat sheets or balanced skills. Progression is... messy.
• Post-Apocalypse: Where the apocalypse is the glitch. Expect weirdness, absurdity, and things that defy explanation trying to eat your face.
• Snark & Dark Humor: My coping mechanism. Filtered through years of dealing with user error, now applied to cosmic horror.
• Adventure & Survival: Main focus. Staying alive, scavenging, figuring out what the hell happened and if reality has a rollback option.
• Harem? (Tagged for Honesty): Yeah, it's tagged. But before you sharpen pitchforks or get too excited, it's slow burn, rooted in practical reliance on my unique skillset (apparently debugging reality makes you weirdly popular when everyone's gear keeps glitching out), and definitely not the main focus. Think spice, not main course. Suggestive, awkward, nothing explicit. This ain't that kind of story (mostly).

What to Expect:

• Chapters: Aiming for 1200-1500+ words each.
• Schedule: Monday to Friday, with occassional weekend soda parties if the Glitches Allow.
• Length: Long haul planned. Hundreds of chapters if the server hamsters hold out.

First chapter below. Try not to trip over any clipping errors on your way in. Comments, feedback, and pointing out my typos are grudgingly accepted. Just don't ask me to fix your printer.

 

[phanst]

Chapter 0001: When the Universe Blue-Screens

"No, no, don't kick it! Are you trying to validate its warranty on existential aggression?"

The words ripped out of my throat, hoarse and exasperated. The guy – wild-eyed, clad in mismatched scavenged sports gear, and radiating pure panic – jumped back from the flickering ATM like he'd touched a live wire. Which, arguably, he might have.

The ATM wasn't just malfunctioning; it was actively throwing a digital tantrum. Its screen cycled rapidly through [INSUFFICIENT FUNDS], [REALITY ERROR: PLEASE TRY AGAIN LATER], and bursts of angry red static that coalesced into jagged, vaguely threatening polygons before dissolving again. It shuddered with each cycle, the physical manifestation of corrupted code grinding against burnt-out processors. With each flicker, it spat out another crystalline shard of... something. Hard light? Solidified data? Whatever it was, it looked sharp enough to cut reality itself, embedding itself in the crumbling pavement around the survivor's frantically shuffling feet.

"But it's… it's attacking me!" the guy shrieked, brandishing a bent golf club like it might scare faulty banking hardware into submission.

"Yes! It's glitching! Kicking things that are actively rewriting physics in your immediate vicinity is generally filed under 'Bad Ideas'!" I snapped back, keeping my distance near the shattered storefront of what used to be a noodle bar. "Just back away slowly! Its targeting routine looks like it was coded by a caffeinated squirrel!"

My own view wasn't much better. Instead of a crisp HP bar and objective tracker, the upper corner of my vision was currently occupied by a poorly rendered GIF of a cat furiously playing a keyboard. Below it, text scrolled: [System Message: Current Objective - Survive User ID: Brenda_Is_An_Idiot's Poor Life Choices. Reward Pending…] followed by a string of corrupted characters that looked vaguely like wingdings having a stroke.

Thanks, URE. Super helpful. Knowing the panicking lunatic potentially shared a handle with Brenda from Accounting wasn't exactly boosting my confidence in his survival odds. Or mine.

----------

[Hostile Entity Detected: Automated Threat Machine (ATM) - Corrupted AI Module]

Level: 5? Maybe 6? (Analysis fluctuates wildly)

Threat: Dispenses Non-Euclidean Aggression. Low Rarity. High Annoyance.

Weakness: Probably Terrible Security Protocols? Predictable Error Loops? Try Ctrl+Alt+Del?

Recommendation: Do not insert card. Do not attempt transaction. Do not make eye contact?

----------

The System's analysis flickered unreliably, superimposed over the keyboard cat. Fantastic. It wasn't even sure how dangerous the damned thing was.

I risked a focused look, activating [Perceive Glitch (Level 2)]. The world snapped into a different kind of focus, the air itself resolving into layers of noisy data. The air around the ATM shimmered, thick with tangled lines of angry red 'code' – visualize a bowl of spaghetti woven by malfunctioning spider bots. I could see the core loop: check_balance -> insufficient_funds -> trigger_error_protocol -> access_asset_library[hostile_geometry.pak] -> dispense_sharp_object() -> loop. Basic, predictable, lethally stupid.

There was also a subroutine furiously trying to connect to a non-existent banking network, adding to the processing strain. Kicking it probably just fed garbage data into its damaged sensors, validating the error state.

"It's stuck in an error loop!" I yelled over the zzzt-chunk sound of another crystal shard embedding itself dangerously close to Brenda_Is_An_Idiot's left foot. "It thinks dispensing sharp things is the correct response to not finding money! Just. Back. Away. Don't give it new inputs!"

He hesitated, glancing between me and the polygon-spitting machine. Finally, bless whatever minuscule scrap of self-preservation he possessed, he started inching backward, eyes wide. The ATM continued its rhythmic dispensing, but the shards now landed harmlessly where he used to be. Its targeting was indeed primitive. Like trying to aim with a disconnected mouse.

My SP bar, thankfully visible under the cat GIF, had dipped slightly from the focused analysis. 77/80. Using my 'power' always felt like running complex diagnostics on three hours of sleep – mentally taxing, leaving a faint buzzing behind my eyes.

The survivor reached the relative safety of the noodle bar entrance beside me, breathing heavily. "What… what was that?"

"Tuesday," I replied automatically, scanning the street. Another glitch in the cosmic code. Another ticket in the universe's infinite helpdesk queue. This little encounter probably attracted unwanted attention. Need to move. "Also, a prime example of why you don't argue with broken technology, especially when it has access to physics cheats."

He stared at me, then down at his bent golf club. "You… you knew what it was doing?"

"Debugging is kind of my thing," I sighed, already turning to leave. "Less of a superpower, more of a cosmic janitorial duty. Now, unless you want to wait for whatever else heard that racket, I suggest relocating."

He scrambled after me. "Wait! Where are you going? Is there somewhere safe?"

"Define 'safe'," I shot back, navigating around a car that had partially sunk into the asphalt like quicksand. Saw a mailbox phase through a lamppost last week. Safe is... optimistic. "My definition involves minimal reality tearing and functional plumbing. It's a high bar these days."

My actual destination was the Kwik-E-Mart visible a block down. Looked relatively intact, which usually meant either nobody had bothered looting it yet, or it was guarded by something particularly unpleasant. Worth the risk for potential non-meat-product sustenance.

Brenda_Is_An_Idiot kept pace, looking nervously over his shoulder. "I just got into the city… I heard there were stable zones…"

"Rumors," I grunted, eyeing a flicker in the upper window of an office building. Probably just a texture fail, but you never knew. Nothing hostile, just background corruption. Probably. "Stable is a relative term. Mostly means things only try to kill you in predictable ways."

We reached the Kwik-E-Mart. Its lights stuttered weakly, sign buzzing erratically (Kwik-E - File Not Found). Standard. The automatic doors were stuck half-open.

"Okay," I said, stopping him before he could barge in. "Rule number one of scavenging: Assume everything inside wants to eat your face, use your data for nefarious purposes, or is currently experiencing catastrophic cascade failure resulting in sentience and a demand for union rights. Got it?"

He nodded dumbly.

I peeked inside. Gloomy, shelves mostly bare, but no obvious signs of [Sentient Spam Constructs] or [Aggressive Dust Bunny Swarms]. Just… a faint, rhythmic skittering from the back.

"Stay here. Watch the door. Yell if anything tries to render you non-essential," I ordered, slipping through the gap. The air inside was stale, tinged with ozone. My boots crunched on… something that glittered faintly like corrupted pixels.

The skittering resolved into a familiar nuisance near the back coolers: a Glitch Skitter, a dog-sized mess of bad code and static, bumping uselessly against the reflective surface of a freezer door, caught in a simple reflection loop. Level 2, barely a threat unless you tripped over it.

Ignoring it for now – prioritizing non-hostile targets was key – I scanned the aisles. Jackpot. Canned goods aisle. Relatively untouched. Score! Grabbed three cans of suspiciously perfect peaches and two of the ominous "Processed Meat Food Product (Try It!)". Also found a working (after minor debug-poking) flashlight and a packet of what might be beef jerky, or possibly fossilized boot leather. Protein is protein.

Stuffing my meager haul into my backpack, I headed back towards the entrance. Brenda_Is_An_Idiot was still there, peering nervously up and down the street.

"Find anything?" he asked hopefully.

"Potential indigestion and mild radiation poisoning," I replied, holding up a can of peaches. "Success." I tossed him one of the meat-product cans. "Try it. Or don't. Your call."

He fumbled the catch, staring at the aggressive label. "Uh… thanks?"

"Don't mention it. Now, I'm heading back to my hole. You coming, or are you going to try your luck finding the mythical 'Stable Zone Spa & Resort'?"

He looked down the ruined street, then back at me, clutching the can of mystery meat like a holy relic. "Which way is your hole?"

I sighed internally. Great. A tag-along. Just what my cynical, solitary existence needed. Another user clinging to my ankles, demanding support for systems I didn't design and couldn't possibly fix. But abandoning him felt… vaguely like failing a crucial system check. Besides, maybe he could carry stuff.

"This way," I grunted, heading towards the mostly-stable office building district. "Try not to trip over any localized gravity wells or attract the attention of anything that looks like it lost an argument with a particle accelerator. And for god's sake, don't kick anything."

The keyboard cat on my HUD finally vanished, replaced by crisp, clean HP/SP bars and a new message:

----------

[Quest Completed: Survive User ID: Brenda_Is_An_Idiot's Poor Life Choices.]

Reward: [+15 XP], [Item Acquired: Tag-along (Uneasy Alliance Status)].

New Objective: Don't get Tag-along killed (Optional, but recommended for positive Karma score?).

----------

I closed my eyes for a brief moment. Karma scores? Tag-alongs? Optional objectives with passive-aggressive recommendations? The universe wasn't just buggy; it was developing middle-management P.R. speak. This was my reward? Fantastic.

This apocalypse was getting weirder by the minute. And I had a feeling my headache was just getting started.

 

[Observatory Of Akasha]

Hey, just so you know, only thread marks are counted for words, you should probably switch the chapter to threadmark and the intro to index

 

[phanst]

Hey, just so you know, only thread marks are counted for words, you should probably switch the chapter to threadmark and the intro to index

Click to shrink...

Oh! I didn't know that. Thank you a lot, I will make the change.

 

[phanst]

Chapter 0002: Error 418: I'm a Teapot

The trek back to my little slice of semi-stable reality was, as expected, an exercise in navigating Murphy's Law as interpreted by a reality engine that had clearly failed its QA testing. Leo, my newly acquired tag-along – User ID: Brenda_Is_An_Idiot according to the URE, a fact I was keeping to myself for sheer comedic value – provided the running commentary of someone whose worldview was actively unraveling frame by agonizing frame.

"Did... did that mailbox just phase through the lamppost?" he stammered, pointing a shaky finger like it might pop the illusion.

I spared it a glance. Sure enough, the standard blue postal box occupied the exact same space as the rusted metal pole, their textures flickering and merging like two poorly layered images in a buggy graphic editor. "Quantum superposition," I deadpanned, steering him around the ontological paradox. "Or maybe they're just really good friends exploring the intimacy of shared coordinates. Don't stare. Sometimes co-located objects get violently protective of their personal… shared space."

A few steps later, the texture underfoot changed abruptly. Not visually, but tactilely. It felt like walking on coarse sandpaper, despite looking like smooth, cracked asphalt. "Localized haptic field distortion," I explained as Leo stumbled, trying to adjust his footing. "Feels weird, probably won't skin your knees unless it decides to become actual sandpaper mid-step. Keep moving."

Sound remained a persistent headache. A cacophony erupted ahead – screeching metal, shattering glass. But the noise source was clearly two blocks behind us, the delay creating a disorienting echo that bounced strangely off buildings that weren't quite solid. Leo flinched violently, crouching slightly. "What was that?!"

"Probably just Tuesday," I sighed. "Or possibly a spontaneous multi-car pileup caused by gravity deciding to go on coffee break. Try not to think about it. Auditory lag is common. Focus on what you can see trying to kill you." Easier said than done, especially when my own internal processor felt like it was still defragging after that EMR spike back at the ATM. The constant sensory dissonance frayed nerves faster than almost anything else.

Leo kept glancing at me, a confusing cocktail of fear, disbelief, and grudging reliance brewing in his eyes. "So, you can, like, see this stuff happening? The glitches? The… errors?"

"Sometimes," I admitted, side-stepping a puddle that was calmly bubbling and emitting faint, lavender-scented smoke ([Glitch Effect: Unexplained Aromatherapy? Harmless... Probably.]). "It's less seeing the future, more reading the system logs in real-time. Reality throws error codes before it completely face-plants. Warnings like [Warning: Physics Engine Stability Dropping] or [Fatal Exception: Object Permanence Failure Imminent]. You learn to spot them."

He shook his head, clearly struggling. "Before… before all this… I was training to be an architect's draftsman. Lines, structure, rules… This place…" He gestured vaguely at a nearby building whose corners seemed to be melting like candle wax, defying its own structural integrity. "This place breaks all the rules."

"Tell me about it," I muttered. "Welcome to the bug report that is existence."

We finally reached the sullen monolith of the office building. I bypassed the crackling, user-installed energy field at the main entrance ("Definitely not OSHA compliant, probably powered by tortured squirrels and wishful thinking") and led Leo around back to the service entrance, held ajar by the eternally patient filing cabinet.

Inside, the transition was stark. The chaotic noise and visual static of the outside world muffled instantly, replaced by the cool, steady hum of server fans. Clean, filtered air, smelling faintly of ozone and warm plastic, replaced the street's miasma of decay and glitch-rot. Rows upon rows of blinking server racks marched down the aisles like disciplined technological soldiers, creating canyons of humming metal under the high, grimy windows. Dust motes danced in the beams of emergency lighting like phantom data packets. It wasn't silent, but it was an orderly sound. The sound of computation still valiantly trying to compute.

Leo stopped just inside, genuinely speechless for a moment, simply absorbing the relative calm. "It's... working? It's cool in here."

"Best real estate in the glitch-zone," I confirmed, weaving through the familiar maze. "Independent power filtering, climate control still mostly functional, structurally sound. Built by people paranoid about losing data, not reality itself, but the overlap in precautions is beneficial." I pointed to a server rack displaying a perfectly stable array of green status lights. "See? Some things still remember how to function properly."

My personal sanctuary, the supply closet, was exactly as I'd left it. Leo peered inside, taking in the controlled explosion of scavenged tech. My blanket-nest, the shelves overflowing with components, tools, dubious foodstuffs. A half-disassembled drone sat on one shelf, wires spilling like metallic guts – a project I'd abandoned after realizing its guidance system interpreted 'fly straight' as 'become a non-Euclidean pretzel'. Beside it, my perpetually optimistic coffee maker project remained stubbornly dark, its front panel displaying only [Error 418: I'm a Teapot]. One day, caffeine. One glorious day.

"Cozy," Leo managed, still looking overwhelmed. He perched nervously on the offered plastic crate near the entrance. "You fixed all this?"

"Less fixed, more… curated stability," I clarified, dropping my backpack. "Think of it as a lifeboat in a sea of bad code." I grabbed the flickering flashlight. "Right. Rule two: Don't touch anything unless you want to potentially debug it with your face. Especially the sparking bits."

Sitting on my nest, I focused on the faulty light. Time to impress the newbie (or just make the damn thing work). Closed my eyes. Activated [Perceive Glitch]. Okay, visualize.

The flashlight in my mind became translucent light and wireframes. Cool blue energy streamed from the 'battery'. Followed the flow. There – the angry orange knot, sparking around the blue stream, the parasitic feedback loop ([Error: Redundant Photon Drain Subroutine Active]). Looked like tangled, pulsing static cling on the clean power line. Okay, [Localized Data Glitch Dampening]. Summoned the mental[Logic Probe]. Touched the knot. Felt the resistance – like pushing against thick static, a jolt that echoed behind my eyeballs, tightening the band of my lingering headache. Focused. Found the recursive core of the error: while(light_on) { drain_power(extra); flicker_annoyingly(); }. Sloppy coding. Highlighted the entire loop. Applied the 'isolate and nullify' command. Wrapped it in a mental container, snipped the connections. Silenced it.

The orange knot flared, pulsed erratically, then dissolved into faint grey whisps that faded into the background hum. Blue energy flowed clean and bright. [-8 SP]. Felt like I'd mentally wrestled a stubborn driver conflict.

Opened my eyes. The flashlight beam was steady, clean, strong. Tossed it onto the shelf. Satisfying clunk.

Leo jumped at the sound, then stared, eyes darting between me and the flashlight. "But... you didn't even touch it! It just... stopped!" He shook his head vigorously, rubbing his eyes. "Okay, no. That's not possible. Glitches don't just stop because someone squints at them."

"Battery contacts were loose," I lied smoothly, fighting a smirk. His disbelief was oddly refreshing. "Focused application of percussive maintenance. Sometimes you just gotta knock sense into faulty hardware."

"By thinking at it?" He lowered his voice. "Come on, Ren. I might be new to… this," he waved a hand encompassingly, "but I'm not stupid. What are you?"

"Complicated," I deflected, turning to my backpack. Distraction time. Pulled out a can of peaches. "And hungry." The can felt cool, looked perfect. Popped the top. The syrup inside seemed to almost glow faintly. The scent was intensely, unnaturally peachy. Took a bite. Sweet, tangy, texture disconcertingly firm. Tasted more like the idea of a peach than any fruit grown on actual soil. Finished half the can, pushed down the faint internal query about long-term mutagenic effects. Calories are king.

Then, the pièce de résistance: "Processed Meat Food Product (Try It!)". I presented the can to Leo, which he had returned to me to keep in my backpack. "Your welcoming gift."

He recoiled slightly, reading the label. "Processed... Try It? That sounds..."

"Like truth in advertising," I finished, popping the lid. The smell hit first – vaguely metallic, faintly salty, with an undertone of something that might have been boiled gym socks. The contents sloshed – a pinkish-grey loaf suspended in a trembling, translucent jelly. "Observe." I poked it with my multi-tool knife. The loaf quivered, then slowly oozed back into shape. "Nutritional value: debatable. Texture: questionable. Potential side effects: unknown, possibly hilarious. Recommended usage: extreme emergencies or developing a robust sense of nihilism."

Leo looked positively green. "I… I think I'll pass."

"Wise choice," I conceded, sealing the can with grim finality and placing it on the 'Maybe Later If Actively Starving To Death' shelf section. "More radioactive peaches for me, then."

We lapsed into a slightly awkward silence, punctuated only by the rhythmic chorus of server fans. Leo seemed to be wrestling with the conflicting evidence of his senses versus his understanding of reality. Me? I was just enjoying the relative lack of things actively trying to kill me.

And then, slicing through the hum, it returned.

Click-flash-flash. Pause.

Click-flash-flash. Pause.

Subtle, but insistent. Precise. Coming from deeper within the server farm aisles. A rhythmic disruption in the background harmony. My headache, momentarily banished by the debugging effort, pulsed back into existence, a dull throb keeping time with the anomaly.

Leo tensed. "What's that? That clicking?"

"Just background noise," I lied again, but my attention sharpened. Too regular. Too clean. My [Perceive Glitch] skill focused on the sensation – not chaotic noise, but a structured, repeating pattern. Stable. Clean, in its own corrupted way. Like a meticulously crafted error message. It felt… intentional. "Old servers make weird sounds when they're contemplating retirement."

But the feeling deepened. This wasn't a machine dying. This was a machine broadcasting. A weak, rhythmic pulse echoing in the digital wasteland.

And the silence that followed each three-flash burst felt less like a pause, and more like it was listening for a reply.

My makeshift sanctuary suddenly felt less like a fortress and more like a listening post I hadn't known I was manning. The mystery wasn't just out there in the glitching streets; it was right here, humming patiently in the dark.

 

[phanst]

As it will be a running gag in the series (not every chapter), I would like to explain it upfront to save everyone any confusion.

Spoiler: The Tuesday Joke

It's a running bit of dark humor and sarcastic understatement heavily tied into Ren's cynical perspective and the overall tone of the story.

Tuesday is a normie day, it ain't anything special. It got no dread of Monday or the "Wee! Wee! It's the Weekend >.<" of Friday. It's just... Tuesday. Ren uses "Tuesday" and stuff like "Typical Tuesday tech support challenge" immediately after describing something incredibly "damn, how tf did i survive that" experience. The humor comes from the contrast (juxtaprotion or some other big word) between a normie Tuesday and an encounter with a face-eating spaghetti doggo on the street or some possible gigantic monster bulldozing through everything, almost flattening everyone like those youtube hydraulic press videos do to cute plush toys (f u HydraulicPress6000_V666 for what you did to that blue cute bunny!!!).

In the Glitchstorm, such bizarre, near-death experiences are just another Tuesday. It's regular af here. It's insane but it's common, routine. It's the apocalyptic "Just another day at the office, we just had production go down, the intern deleted the database (how???)" kind of thing.

Essentially, when Ren says something crazy is "Just Tuesday," he means: "Oh great, another impossible, life-threatening absurdity to deal with. Add it to the never-ending pile of bullshit that constitutes my existence now. Business as usual in hell."

 

[phanst]

Also, I hope someone can please help me answer this, but should I put the contents of the chapter in a spoilder tag? I saw some other people were doing that and I feel like it makes it easier to scroll since you can just close them tags and the chapters don't take that much space.

Maybe, it would be easier for people who want to see user replies and stuff that isn't specifically Chapters, Extra Information, and Stuff that is already easy to navigate through the Threadmarks at the top.

This is kind of my first time posting on a forum, so I am not sure what's the better option. What do you prefer?

 

[Dovahkiin]

@phanst I noticed that the synopsis has a typo saying 'attracting powerful grills who find' instead of 'attracting powerful girls who find'

 

[phanst]

@phanst I noticed that the synopsis has a typo saying 'attracting powerful grills who find' instead of 'attracting powerful girls who find'

Click to shrink...

OwO, you noticed!!! It is intentional.

 

[phanst]

Chapter 0003: Static on the Line (and Possibly in Reality Itself)

The clicking persisted. Click-flash-flash. Pause. Click-flash-flash. Pause. It burrowed into the ambient hum of the server room, a rhythmic data parasite gnawing at the quiet. It wasn't just noise; my [Perceive Glitch] skill confirmed that faint, structured pulse of corrupted data syncing perfectly with the sound. Stable. Repeating. Intentional.

"Okay, that's officially upgraded from 'annoying hardware noise' to 'suspicious anomaly requiring investigation'," I announced to the closet wall, already grabbing my multi-tool and the now-steady flashlight. My head still throbbed with a dull ache, a phantom echo of the strain from fixing the flashlight – a reminder that even minor debugging wasn't free.

Leo, still perched on his crate like a nervous sparrow, looked up sharply. "Investigate? Investigate what? It's just a noise!"

"It's a pattern, Leo," I countered, stepping out into the server aisle. "And in this reality, unexplained patterns are usually precursors to things going spectacularly sideways. Either it's a glitch about to escalate, a trap, or..." I let the pause hang, "…or it's something else. Something deliberate." I started moving slowly down the aisle, tracing the faint pulse of distorted data with my senses.

He scrambled up, looking torn between the relative safety of the closet and the sheer terror of being left alone. "But… where are you going?"

"Following the signal," I murmured, eyes scanning the overhead cable trays. "Like tracing a bad network connection. Except the cables might be made of pure anxiety and the data packets could bite."

Leo hesitated, then seemed to steel himself. "My sister… she was the tech wiz in our family. Always said you follow the problem to its source." He fell into step behind me, though he kept glancing around like he expected the server racks to sprout tentacles. Good. Healthy paranoia. Maybe there was hope for him yet. His motivation, flimsy as it sounded, was better than pure panic. A sister to find, maybe? Or just a memory of competence driving him. Didn't matter right now, as long as it kept him moving.

The signal led us deeper into the server farm, past rows of silently humming racks and darker, dustier units that looked like they hadn't been powered on since before the Glitchstorm. My perception painted faint lines of the corrupted data flow, clinging to a thick bundle of ancient, cracking grey network cables – legacy Cat5, probably – snaking through the ceiling supports. They looked brittle, neglected, yet they carried this persistent, looping whisper of data.

The cables terminated near the back wall of the server farm, plunging into a conduit leading towards a heavy, metal door marked NETWORK OPERATIONS CENTER. The door itself looked physically ill. It bulged outward in the center, the thick steel rippling like heatstroke on metal, the paint cracked around seams that no longer quite aligned. A low, almost subsonic hum vibrated through the floor nearby, and the air tasted sharp, metallic – the distinct tang of ozone mixed with something else… like the smell of hot, failing capacitors and burnt, brittle insulation. Classic signs of a localized reality stress fracture.

----------

[Warning: Area Approaching Moderate Reality Instability.]

Field Intensity: Fluctuating.

Potential Effects: Mild Nausea, Spatial Confusion, Temporary Visual Artifacts, Increased Probability of Dropping Important Items.

Suggestion: Maybe just… don't? Or wear safety squints?

----------

"Right," I breathed, stopping a few feet away. "Looks like we found the router experiencing emotional distress." The air shimmered faintly around the door frame, like heat haze on asphalt, but felt cooler, and somehow… thicker. My flashlight beam wavered as it passed through this invisible field, splitting momentarily into fuzzy rainbows. "Definitely unstable in there."

Leo had gone pale, unconsciously backing up a step. "What is that?"

"Localized reality friction," I explained, pulling the prybar end out on my multi-tool. "Space-time getting chafed. Usually means something on the other side is actively messing with the local physics constants, or just failed so hard it warped its immediate vicinity. Either way, door's probably stuck."

"And you're going to… open it?" His voice squeaked slightly.

"The signal's going in there," I stated, wedging the tip of the prybar into the warped seam between the door and frame. "Got to see where it leads. Stand back. Don't touch the shimmer."

Planting my feet, I leaned into the prybar. The metal groaned, resisted. It felt… heavy. Not physically locked, but like pushing against thick, invisible molasses. The subsonic hum intensified, vibrating up my arms. The air grew thicker still, pressing in like unseen hands. My vision swam slightly at the edges. [-2 SP] just from proximity and minor exertion. This wasn't just passive warping; the instability was actively resisting the change.

Come on, you glorified system error… Gritting my teeth, I put my shoulder into it, leveraging my weight. Sweat beaded on my forehead.

With a sudden, jarring CRACK, something inside the frame gave way. The door scraped open, maybe six inches, accompanied by a wave of displaced air that felt strangely cool and carried that intensified smell of burnt electronics and ozone, now layered with something else… a faint, sterile scent, like an old, abandoned hospital room.

The instability field seemed to flicker, momentarily less intense near the opening. I quickly jammed a chunk of scavenged metal into the gap to keep it from sealing itself shut again.

Peering through the gap, flashlight beam cutting through the gloom, confirmed my suspicions. Chaos. Overturned desks littered with smashed monitors displaying only static snow. Racks ripped open, components spilling out like metallic entrails. Network cables dangled from the ceiling like dead vines.

But the cable bundle I'd followed? It snaked across the debris-strewn floor, miraculously intact, and plugged directly into a port on a large, central network switch mounted in one of the few racks that still stood upright. The switch's lights flickered erratically, a chaotic counterpoint to the steady hum emanating from it. That was the destination.

"Okay," I breathed, the air inside feeling heavy, syrupy, pressing against my lungs. Walking in there would feel like wading through reality Jell-O. "Found the end of the line."

"Are we… going in?" Leo whispered, peering nervously over my shoulder.

"Just me," I decided. "No point both of us wading through… whatever this is. Stay here, watch the door. If it starts closing on its own, or if anything else comes out, yell. Loudly."

Taking a deep breath, I squeezed through the gap. The pressure increased immediately. Moving felt sluggish, deliberate, each step requiring conscious effort against unseen resistance. My flashlight beam bent strangely, refracting off unseen facets in the air, casting multiple, overlapping shadows that writhed impossibly. The steady hum from the central rack seemed to resonate in my bones. Mild nausea tickled the back of my throat. [Debuff Acquired: Minor Spatial Disorientation]. Lovely.

Fighting the urge to just turn around, I focused on the target: the central rack, the connected port. Its activity light blinked weakly, almost smothered by the frantic, random flashing of the switch's other status LEDs. It was receiving something, but barely. Like trying to listen to a radio station buried under layers of static.

Okay, Ren. [Perceive Glitch]. Let's see the problem.

The room dissolved into overlapping layers of visual noise in my mind's eye. The ambient instability was thick, a soup of low-level errors and conflicting reality instructions. But centered on that receiving port, like a clot in an artery, was a dense knot of angry, crimson-black code. It churned sluggishly, actively corrupting any data packets trying to pass through – the source of the weak signal light. It felt… malicious. Less like a random error, more like a deliberate filter or block.

Could I debug that? It was magnitudes more complex than a flashlight or a shuriken-dispensing ATM. This was an active, hostile data choke point embedded in a reality distortion field. Failure could mean… well, anything from frying the switch to potentially unraveling myself into constituent error messages.

Screw it. Nothing ventured, nothing debugged.

Planted my feet firmly on the warped floor tiles. Focused my entire will, pushing past the environmental nausea and disorientation. Targeted the crimson-black knot. Extended my mental [Logic Probe]…

WHAM!

It felt like running headfirst into a digital brick wall. A wave of pure static crashed over my senses. [-10 SP!] My vision exploded into white noise, stars bursting behind my eyelids. The hum in the room spiked into a piercing shriek that felt like it was vibrating my teeth. My knees buckled.

No! Fight back! Forced my focus through the static. Saw the knot pulse, momentarily brighter. It knew I was there. It was defending itself.

Okay, direct confrontation failed. Time for finesse. Instead of trying to nullify it directly, find the structural weakness. The flawed argument in its logic. Like debugging spaghetti code, find the one loose thread that unravels the whole mess.

Ignored the shrieking hum, the flashing lights, the [Critical SP Drain!] warning blinking frantically over the static in my vision. [-15 SP… -20 SP…]. Pushed my perception deeper into the knot, feeling like I was pushing against a fundamental disagreement with reality itself. Saw the looping, self-referential arguments, the commands designed to block and corrupt. But spotted it – a tiny recursive subroutine, designed to check its own integrity, that was referencing a variable outside its corrupted structure. A single point of external dependency.

Gotcha!

Instead of attacking, I used [Localized Data Glitch Dampening] not on the knot itself, but on the faint pathway connecting it to that external reference point. Smoothed it out. Severed the connection. Like unplugging a crucial sensor.

The effect was instantaneous.

The crimson-black knot convulsed violently in my mental vision. The shrieking hum cut off abruptly. The oppressive thickness in the air vanished, replaced by the normal, cool stillness of the server room. The frantic blinking on the network switch ceased, replaced by steady, calm green lights.

My SP bar bottomed out. [SP Depleted! Emergency Mental Reserve Activated!]. My vision cleared, but a wave of ice-pick dizziness lanced through my skull. Black spots danced at the edges of my sight. A sharp, metallic tang bloomed at the back of my throat – blood. My nose was bleeding, hot and sticky against my upper lip. Bile rose, hot and acidic. This wasn't just fatigue; this was the system cannibalizing itself to keep the lights on, the mental equivalent of ripping out wiring to power a critical function. The cost felt immense, leaving a bone-deep exhaustion and a throbbing ache that promised to linger. I staggered, catching myself on the now-stable server rack, head pounding like a drum solo performed by jackhammers being wielded by angry giants.

But I'd done it. The connection was clear.

And on the small, previously gibberish-filled LCD screen integrated into the network switch, three lines of crisp, blocky green text glowed in the sudden quiet:

EXTERNAL BEACON DETECTED.

SOURCE: UNKNOWN. Quadrant 7G.

SIGNAL STRENGTH: WEAK. Repeating Pattern: SOS.

External. Quadrant 7G? Pre-Glitch emergency grid designation. Probably packed with dense infrastructure… and equally dense Glitch concentrations. SOS? A distress signal?

The clicking server wasn't just a repeater. It was boosting a distress signal. Originating from somewhere out there in the wrecked city. Weak, but persistent. Someone, or something, was calling for help.

"Ren? You okay?" Leo's panicked voice echoed from the doorway. "Everything went crazy for a second!"

I pushed myself upright, leaning heavily against the rack, wiping the blood from under my nose with the back of my hand. The dizziness was intense, the world tilting slightly. Processing the implications felt like wading through mud. A distress signal. A specific quadrant marker. This wasn't just random chaos anymore. This was a destination. A purpose. Maybe even… hope?

Or, more likely, a wonderfully crafted trap designed to lure idiots like me into a high-density kill zone. Especially idiots currently running on less than fumes.

Either way, chasing down an SOS in Quadrant 7G wasn't something I could do hiding in a server closet, not in this state. I needed recovery. I needed mobility. I needed intel. I needed…

My mind flashed back, unbidden, to the sound I'd heard earlier, before finding Leo. The distinct roar of a heavily modified, reality-defying engine cutting through the urban decay.

Maybe my first step wasn't chasing the signal. Maybe it was chasing the noise. But first… first, I needed to not pass out.

 

[phanst]

*sweats profusely*

 

[phanst]

Chapter 0004: Noise Complaint (Filed Under 'Existential Threats')

The sterile quiet of the Network Operations Center, post-debugging, felt unnatural after the oppressive hum and visual static. My head throbbed in time with the frantic hammering of my heart – the lingering echo of the Emergency Mental Reserve kicking in. Running on fumes always had a kickback, like overclocking a CPU until it screamed uncle, and this felt less like a kickback and more like my entire mental OS had blue-screened and was barely rebooting. The metallic tang of blood was still thick in my throat, and the world had a slightly grey, washed-out quality.

"Ren? You okay in there?" Leo's voice, tight with anxiety, drifted through the doorway gap once more. "Sounded like the whole building was gonna crash!"

"Just… resetting the local network parameters," I called back, pushing myself upright with considerable effort, leaning heavily on the rack. Taking a shaky breath did little to clear the fog. The dizziness was intense. "Turns out the router just needed a stern talking-to." More like a near-fatal argument settled with psychic brute force.

I took a last look at the glowing green text on the switch: SOS. Quadrant 7G. A distress signal. A potential destination. A probable deathtrap. Fantastic. Decision fatigue was a pre-Glitch luxury I couldn't afford, especially when just thinking felt like wading through molasses.

Right now, my options felt limited and universally unappealing. Option A: Huddle in my server closet, hope my SP regenerated faster than my dwindling supply of radioactive peaches, and wait for reality to finally get bored and delete me. Option B: Chase a cryptic SOS into a designated hell-zone based on a single, unverifiable data point while barely able to stand. Option C…

Option C was the engine noise. That roar I'd heard earlier, before meeting Leo. Loud, powerful, cutting through the ambient chaos. Not the sputtering groan of dying pre-Glitch cars, but something… tuned. Something fast. Something that implied mobility far beyond my current scrounging-on-foot capabilities.

Maybe chasing the SOS wasn't the first step. Maybe the first step was finding whoever was making that beautiful, physics-defying noise. Mobility meant options. Options meant slightly better odds than 'certain doom'. And maybe, just maybe, they had coffee. Or at least functional pain relief.

"Okay, Leo," I announced, pushing myself away from the rack and shuffling slowly towards the warped doorway. Each step sent a jolt through my skull. Squeezing back through the gap into the comparatively stable reality of the main server farm aisle felt like surfacing too fast. The slight pressure difference popped my ears painfully. "Change of plans. We're not staying put."

He blinked, relief warring with fresh apprehension as he took in my pale face and unsteady stance. "We're leaving? Are you… okay to move? Where are we going? Quadrant 7G?"

"Negative. Chasing distress signals across hostile territory with minimal gear, zero backup, and my brain feeling like scrambled eggs falls under the 'Spectacularly Bad Ideas' category," I stated, retrieving my backpack from the closet entrance with slow, deliberate movements.

The relative cool and stability of the server room felt marginally better than the NOC, allowing a trickle of SP regeneration, but it was agonizingly slow. Maybe +1 SP every few minutes? Barely noticeable against the crushing fatigue. "Before we even think about investigating that SOS, we need transportation better than these worn-out boots. And I need… time."

"Transportation?" Leo looked around the server room as if expecting a working vehicle to suddenly materialize between the racks. "There's nothing here…"

"Not here," I corrected, securing my backpack carefully. "Out there. Earlier today, before our little ATM adventure, I heard an engine. Something… custom. Loud. Moving fast despite the local reality looking like crumpled paper. If someone's got a working vehicle that can handle the Glitch-zones, that's our immediate target." Finding them might be less taxing than a cross-city trek right now. Maybe.

Leo frowned. "Target? You mean… find them? Ask for a ride?"

"Something like that," I said vaguely, trying to conserve mental energy by keeping explanations simple. Subtlety wasn't my strong suit, but outright stating 'we might need to acquire transportation via morally ambiguous means' seemed likely to send Leo into another panic spiral I didn't have the reserves to manage. "First step, locate the source. Sounded like it was heading… west-ish? Maybe a few blocks over."

"So… we just wander around until we hear it again?"

"More or less," I admitted, leaning against the doorframe for a moment, fighting another wave of dizziness. "Unless you've got a better plan involving summoning a functional Uber out of the static?"

He sagged slightly. "No… Okay. Chasing noise it is. Better than waiting for those… polygon things the ATM was shooting." He glanced at me again, concern etched on his face. "Are you sure you're up for this, Ren?"

"Define 'up for it'," I muttered, pushing off the frame and started walking towards the service exit. "Some things have to be done when the universe is glitching. Let's go."

Leaving the relative sanctuary of the server room felt like stepping out of an airlock into vacuum, minus the instant death (usually). The chaotic background hum of the streets washed over us again. Glitches flickered at the edges of my vision, seeming sharper, more jarring to my frayed nerves. The sky remained a painter's nightmare after dropping too much acid. My SP bar, barely visible under the lingering [Cognitive Strain Debuff] notification, showed a paltry [8/80]. Recovery was glacial.

We headed west, back towards the area where I'd first heard the engine roar, my pace slower than usual, each step carefully placed. The streets here were wider, lined with the carcasses of collapsed department stores and shattered office towers. Debris littered the pavement – chunks of ferroconcrete, twisted metal girders, occasional bursts of brightly colored, unidentifiable glitch-matter that pulsed faintly before dissolving. Looked like the aftermath of a drunken intern playing Jenga with reality.

"Keep your ears open," I instructed, though my own hearing felt muffled, distant. I focused on scanning the rooftops and alleyways visually, conserving what little mental energy I had. "Listen for anything that doesn't sound like collapsing buildings or reality tearing itself a new one."

Leo nodded mutely, clutching his golf club like a security blanket. His architect's draftsman training probably hadn't covered navigating landscapes actively trying to defy Euclidean geometry while escorting someone who looked like they might keel over. A patch of road ahead seemed to be experiencing rapid pixelation, dissolving into blocky chunks then reforming, like a poorly compressed video file. We skirted around it carefully.

A high-pitched whine echoed from somewhere above. We both looked up instinctively. A chrome sphere, about the size of a basketball, zipped silently overhead, leaving a trail of distorted air. It didn't seem hostile, just… weird. [Unidentified Aerial Phenomenon. Threat Level: Unknown. Possibly just looking?]. Thanks, URE.

"What was that?" Leo whispered.

"Probably just the universe beta-testing surveillance drones," I muttered, not having the energy for complex speculation. "Try not to look interesting."

We pushed deeper into the derelict urban sprawl. The sense of decay was heavier here. Less frantic glitching, more silent crumbling. Fewer low-level data constructs skittering about, but a heavier feeling in the air. Like something bigger, slower, and more dangerous might be lurking just out of sight. The slow pace and relative quiet, however, seemed to be helping slightly. The crushing pressure behind my eyes eased fractionally. My SP ticked up another few point. [15/80]. Still dangerously low, but trending upwards, however slowly.

Suddenly, Leo grabbed my arm, pointing. "Look! Tire tracks!"

I followed his finger. There, in a patch of relatively undisturbed dust near the entrance of a multi-story parking garage, were indeed tracks. Wide. Deep-treaded. Definitely not from a standard pre-Glitch vehicle. And they looked… fresh, relatively speaking. Hard to tell with reality playing silly buggers with entropy.

More importantly, the tracks led into the dark maw of the parking garage.

The entrance ramp descended into shadow. No lights were visible within. A faint smell drifted out – gasoline, hot metal, oil… and something else. That faint, sharp tang of ozone that often accompanied concentrated reality stress or powerful energy fields.

"Well," I said, peering into the gloom. My headache chose that moment to pulse sharply. "That smells promising. And potentially explosive."

Could this be it? Could the noise-maker be holed up in there? Seemed plausible. A parking garage offered shelter, multiple escape routes, and defensible choke points. The slow regeneration had brought me back from the absolute brink, but I was nowhere near fighting fit. Still, this was the best lead we had.

"We go in?" Leo asked, his voice barely audible. The darkness of the garage entrance seemed to swallow sound.

I hesitated. Charging into an unknown, enclosed space that might house someone with a vehicle capable of punching through reality felt like asking for trouble, especially in my current state. But the tracks were the first solid lead we'd had. And staying out here wasn't exactly safe either.

"Okay," I decided, taking a steadying breath. The rest had helped, marginally. Maybe I had enough juice for basic perception, if needed. [28/80]. Better than nothing. "New plan. We do not go charging in. We recon. Carefully. Quietly. See if we can spot the vehicle, maybe get eyes on whoever owns it. Information first, 'asking for a ride' later."

Pulling out my flashlight, I flicked it on. The beam cut a swathe into the oppressive darkness of the ramp. Dust motes danced in the light. The air inside felt cool, damp, still.

"Stay behind me," I instructed Leo. "Keep quiet. Touch nothing. And if things go sideways, Plan B is run like hell in opposite directions. Got it?"

He nodded, gripping his golf club so tight his knuckles were white.

Taking another steadying breath, trying to ignore the lingering throb behind my eyes, I stepped onto the ramp, the flashlight beam probing the shadows ahead. The scent of ozone and fuel intensified. Somewhere, deeper within the concrete structure, something heavy shifted with a faint metallic groan.

We weren't alone in here. And judging by the smell and the silence, whoever – or whatever – was inside probably didn't appreciate visitors. This noise complaint was about to get complicated, and I was facing it on less than half a tank.

 

[phanst]

Side Story 0001: A Momentary Drone

Perspective: Unidentified Aerial Phenomenon (Drone Designation: Observer Unit 731?)

Directive: Sector 4-Gamma Atmospheric & Anomaly Scan Pattern 7-Sigma. Active.

BEEP Processing environmental data. Ambient reality static coefficient: 7.3 (Elevated). Localized spatial instability detected: Grid Ref Delta-9 (Pixelation event, moderate flux). Structural integrity of adjacent high-rise sector: 27% (Critical). Probability of uncontrolled collapse: 68%. Risk mitigation parameters active.

Recalibrating flight path. Altitude: 50 meters. Maintaining low-observability protocols.

Boop-WHIRR Anomaly detected. Grid Ref Delta-11. Two biological units traversing street level. Heat signatures: nominal range, elevated stress indicators (cortisol, adrenaline traces detected in localized air sampling). Energy signatures: BIO-ANOMALY 01 emits faint, chaotic energy field (unstable resonance noted, query: damaged? Handler trace probability low but non-zero?). BIO-ANOMALY 02 nominal biological readings.

CLICK Cross-referencing visual/energy signatures against Known Hostiles database... Negative match. Cross-referencing Known Assets database (Restricted Access)... Negative match. Designations default: Unclassified Biologicals 01 & 02.

Units exhibit standard avoidance behavior re: localized spatial distortion (Pixelation event at Grid Ref Delta-10). Locomotion: standard bipedal. Apparent equipment: rudimentary kinetic implement (golf club?), basic carry pack. Low capability assessment.

Threat assessment protocol active. CLICK-BEEP Threat level calculated: Minimal (0.04%). Probability of interference with primary directive: Negligible (<0.01%). Interactive protocol criteria not met. No further action required regarding biologicals.

Logging signatures, location, and assessment data (Tag: LowPriorityBioAnom_S4G_7S) for Passive Anomaly Archive (Sub-level Gamma). Reporting... PING Transmission acknowledged.

Resuming Scan Pattern 7-Sigma. Engaging primary propulsion. Maintaining low-observability field active. Note: Minimal atmospheric distortion generated by field remains within acceptable parameters, though potentially detectable by sensitive optical arrays or anomalous perception modes.

Boop Scan continues.

---

I created this side story? / extra content from the perspective of the chrome sphere zipping past Ren and Leo in the last chapter. Although this does not affect the story as a whole, it adds a nice touch imho - it's also fun. I hope you like it.

 

[phanst]

Chapter 0005: Parking Garage of Perpetual Twilight (and Questionable Odors)

The air inside the parking garage ramp was thick and tasted faintly of cold concrete dust, stale exhaust fumes, and that sharp, electric tang of ozone that always set my teeth on edge. It felt like breathing inside a giant, dead machine that might twitch back to life at any moment. My flashlight beam sliced through the darkness, revealing peeling paint, cryptic graffiti scrawled by long-gone taggers (or possibly reality itself, hard to tell the difference sometimes), and the occasional skeletal remains of a pre-Glitch shopping cart. The low-grade headache from the NOC incident pulsed steadily behind my eyes, a constant reminder of my depleted reserves.

"Stay sharp," I whispered, my voice unnaturally loud in the sudden hush. We moved slowly down the concrete slope, boots crunching softly on loose gravel and unseen debris. The only other sound was Leo's ragged breathing just behind me and the distant, echoing drip… drip… drip… of water from some unseen leak. Standard creepy ambiance, check.

The first level opened up into a cavernous space punctuated by thick concrete pillars. Most parking spots were empty, monuments to a time when people actually had places to go. A few skeletal car frames remained, stripped bare, rusting peacefully in the gloom. My light swept across them, revealing hollowed-out engine bays and shattered windows like vacant eyes.

Overhead, emergency lights flickered sporadically. Not the standard emergency lighting, but rogue bursts of sickly green or buzzing orange light, casting distorted, lurching shadows. My [Perceive Glitch] skill registered them as minor, localized energy flux glitches – probably harmless, possibly prone to exploding if looked at funny. I made a mental note not to look at them funny, conserving the minimal SP required for even passive scanning. [Current SP: 30/80]. Still recovering, slowly but surely.

"See anything?" Leo whispered, his voice tight. He held his golf club ready, though what good it would do against a reality-warping car thief was debatable. Still, points for trying.

"Dust, decay, and disillusionment," I murmured back, sweeping the light methodically across the level. "No sign of our noisy friend yet. Tracks lead deeper."

The tire tracks were easy enough to follow in the thick dust coating the concrete floor. Wide, aggressive tread pattern. They curved around the central pillars, heading towards the ramp leading down to the next level.

As we approached the down-ramp, the ozone smell intensified. My flashlight beam caught something glinting near the wall – a scatter of spent energy cells, ejected casings glowing faintly with residual charge. Looked like standard high-capacity power cells, the kind used in industrial equipment or… heavily modified vehicles. Definitely recent.

We descended to the next level, the darkness pressing in, the dripping sound louder now. This level felt… different. Colder. The air hummed with a faint, almost subsonic vibration that resonated deep in my chest. The dust wasn't as thick here; sections of the floor looked almost… swept?

My beam caught movement near a pillar. I froze, holding my breath, hand instinctively hovering over the multi-tool on my belt. Leo bumped into me from behind with a stifled gasp.

The movement resolved itself. Not hostile. Just… weird. A section of concrete on the pillar seemed to be flowing slowly, like thick grey sludge, defying gravity as it oozed upwards before dripping back down again in a silent, continuous loop. A contained, stable-ish structural integrity glitch. Creepy, but probably harmless unless you decided to lean against it.

"Okay," I breathed out slowly. "Rule number three: Don't lick the architecture, don't lean on the architecture."

"Got it," Leo whispered shakily.

We continued following the tracks. They led towards the far corner of this level, disappearing behind a large, windowless maintenance enclosure built into the structure. The humming vibration seemed strongest near its closed metal door.

Approaching cautiously, I noticed more signs of activity. A discarded oil rag, smelling fresh. Scuff marks on the floor suggesting heavy equipment had been moved. Someone was definitely using this place as a workshop.

The metal door to the enclosure was thick, industrial grade. No obvious handle on this side. But there was a small, grimy keypad mounted beside it, its display dark. Pre-Glitch security. Probably dead.

Or maybe not. I focused [Perceive Glitch] on the keypad, the familiar mental exertion causing a slight throb in my temples. Faint tendrils of corrupted energy flickered around it, connected to a thin cable running into the wall. And behind the dark display… a whisper of active code. Not standard OS, but something… simpler. A basic loop monitoring for input. It wasn't dead, just dormant. And probably powered by whatever was causing the humming inside.

Could I interface with it? Maybe trigger the unlock sequence? It felt different from the glitches I'd dampened before – this was functional, albeit old, tech interfaced with potentially unstable power. Risky, especially given I wasn't at full strength.

But peeking inside seemed essential before deciding our next move. Bypassing security felt safer than trying to force the door and announcing our presence with loud noises.

"Okay, Leo. Stand back, watch our six," I instructed, placing my palm flat against the cool metal door, trying to sense any vibrations from within. "I'm going to try… persuading the lock."

Leo nodded nervously, scanning the dark parking level behind us.

Closing my eyes briefly, I focused entirely on the keypad. Visualized its internal circuitry, simple as it probably was. The connection to the humming power source felt… jagged. Unstable. Like hooking up sensitive electronics to a lightning storm. The code loop was basic: wait_for_input -> check_code -> grant_access/deny_access -> repeat. Standard stuff.

The trick wasn't brute-forcing the code. It was bypassing the check_code step entirely. Find the command flow that led directly to grant_access.

My mental [Logic Probe] extended, carefully navigating the unstable power fluctuations feeding the keypad. Touched the code loop. Found the branching pathway where the input check occurred. The path to grant_access was blocked, waiting for a successful validation signal.

Instead of trying to fake the signal, I targeted the branch condition itself. The if (code_valid == true) statement. What if… what if I temporarily corrupted the definition of 'true'? Just for a microsecond? Feed the system a paradox? Injecting garbage logic felt more my speed than sophisticated hacking.

It felt like trying to perform brain surgery with mental chopsticks, and the effort pulled noticeably on my limited reserves. Carefully, I focused my [Localized Data Glitch Dampening] skill, not to smooth, but to inject a tiny burst of contradictory data right at the conditional check. True = False? Does Not Compute!

The keypad emitted a faint buzz. My SP dipped. [-5 SP]. A wave of faint dizziness washed over me, a reminder of the cost. [Current SP: 25/80]. Still functional, but that small effort felt disproportionately taxing.

A heavy clunk echoed from behind the metal door. The sound of a mag-lock disengaging.

Success!

----------

[+10 XP Awarded!]

Reason: Non-Standard Security Protocol Circumvention (Hacking via Reality Tampering).

(You voided the warranty, though. Obviously.)

----------

I ignored the URE's commentary, the small victory momentarily overriding my fatigue. Gently pushed the heavy door inward. It swung open silently on well-oiled hinges, revealing the source of the hum, the ozone, and the tire tracks.

My flashlight beam played over the scene inside, and both Leo and I sucked in a breath.

It wasn't just a vehicle. It was a beast.

Parked in the center of the surprisingly clean, well-lit (via jury-rigged, humming light bars) maintenance bay was something that looked like it had started life as an armored transport truck, then been viciously cross-bred with a sci-fi pipe dream and a whole lot of salvaged scrap.

It was huge, easily twice the width of a standard truck. Thick, angled plating covered every surface, scarred and pitted from countless impacts. Instead of wheels, it rested on four massive, articulated track units, the kind you might see on a futuristic tank or lunar rover, capable of navigating almost any terrain. Mounted on the roof was a sensor array bristling with unfamiliar antennae and optical sensors. Dark, reinforced windows hinted at a protected cockpit.

But the strangest part was the engine housing. It wasn't a standard combustion engine. Glowing blue conduits snaked across its surface, converging on a central cylindrical core that hummed with barely contained power – the source of the vibration and ozone. Visible heat haze shimmered above it, distorting the air. It looked less like an engine, more like a captive physics experiment. A custom reality-drive? Something capable of punching through glitch-zones? No wonder it sounded so distinctive.

Tools lay scattered on workbenches lining the walls. Welding equipment sat cold. Empty ration packs littered a corner near a sleeping bag. The owner wasn't here right now, but they hadn't been gone long.

"Whoa," Leo breathed, echoing my own thoughts. "What is that thing?"

"That," I said, stepping fully into the bay, flashlight beam sweeping over the impossible machine, "is Option C."

Suddenly, a sharp click echoed from the entrance of the parking garage ramp, far above us. Followed by the distinct sound of something heavy scraping against concrete.

Leo spun around, golf club raised uselessly. "What was that?"

My blood ran cold. That wasn't a random noise. That sounded deliberate. Controlled. Like someone closing a very large, very heavy door.

Or blocking the only way out.

We weren't just visitors anymore. We might have just walked into a cage. And the owner, or something else, might be coming home.

---

pls add commets if you like or have any thoughts :hamster_cri:

 

[Erebos_03_]

This story is so whacky that its difficult to articulate a more advanced comment than what the fuck. So, eh....

 

[phanst]

This story is so whacky that its difficult to articulate a more advanced comment than what the fuck. So, eh....

Click to shrink...

hehe, i hope you like the whacky-ness >.<

 

[phanst]

Chapter 0006: Knock Knock, Who's There? (Answer: Possibly Your Impending Doom)

The heavy scrape and final, definitive thud from the parking garage entrance echoed unnervingly in the sudden quiet of the maintenance bay. It wasn't the sound of random debris shifting. It was the sound of a cage door slamming shut.

My heart, just beginning to recover from its adrenaline-fueled rave courtesy of the Emergency Mental Reserve, kicked back into overdrive. Leo made a choked sound beside me, his eyes wide with terror, fixed on the open bay door leading back out into the parking garage's oppressive gloom.

"Okay," I hissed, grabbing his arm and shoving him none-too-gently behind the colossal track unit of the parked behemoth vehicle. Its cold, scarred plating felt momentarily reassuring, like hiding behind a small mountain. "New plan. Shut up. Don't move. Don't breathe loudly. And definitely don't sneeze."

"B-but what was that?" he stammered, trying to peek around the track assembly.

"That," I whispered back grimly, crouching low and peering cautiously around the edge of the massive machine, "was the sound of us transitioning from 'curious trespassers' to 'cornered rats'. Someone deliberately blocked the main exit."

My gaze swept the dimly lit parking level outside the bay. Empty. Shadows clung thickly to the concrete pillars. The only sounds were the incessant dripping water and the faint, maddening flicker of the glitched overhead lights. But the silence felt… wrong. Charged. Expectant.

Then, footsteps.

Echoing down the ramp from the upper level. Not heavy, clumsy raider boots. Not the skittering of a Glitch construct. These were lighter, quicker, confident. Rhythmic. Someone who knew this place. Someone moving with purpose.

Okay, Ren, information. Ignoring the residual pounding in my skull, I activated [Perceive Glitch], focusing not on the ambient noise, but directing it outwards, towards the source of the footsteps.

It was faint, like trying to pick up distant Wi-Fi signals through concrete walls, but it was there. A subtle shimmer of energy around the approaching figure. Not the chaotic noise of a raw glitch, but the structured hum of technology. Personal shielding maybe? Minor cybernetics? There were tiny instabilities flickering within the signature, like voltage fluctuations in old wiring. Whoever this was, their gear wasn't factory-perfect, just patched together well enough to mostly work. Nothing ever was, post-Crash.

My internal monologue started its usual helpful commentary: "Right. Potential hostiles with active personal tech approaching. Current assets: One cynical attitude, rapidly depleting mental stamina, one terrified tag-along armed with sporting equipment, and zero viable escape routes. Situation Assessment: Sub-optimal."

The footsteps reached our level, stopped for a moment, then headed directly towards the open maintenance bay door. Definitely us they were after. How did they know? Did the bypassed lock trigger an alert?

I risked another peek. A figure emerged from the gloom, silhouetted against the faint light filtering down the ramps. Female frame, lean, clad in practical, worn gear – sturdy composite plating over dark fatigues, heavy boots. Goggles were pushed up onto a forehead smudged with grease. What little light caught her face showed sharp, focused features and an air of weary competence. She moved like someone completely at home in this dangerous environment, scanning the bay entrance with sharp, practiced eyes. Strapped to her thigh was a wicked-looking sidearm that hummed faintly with latent energy – definitely custom, definitely not something you bought off the shelf, pre- or post-Crash.

She paused right outside the bay door, head cocked, listening. Her eyes immediately flickered to the keypad I'd bypassed. A frown creased her brow. She raised her energy sidearm, the hum intensifying slightly as it powered up to standby.

"Alright," her voice cut through the silence, sharp and clear, carrying easily in the enclosed space. Not shouting, but projecting authority. "Didn't think my welcome mat was that inviting. Whoever you are – glitch, ghost, or just terminally stupid scavenger – show yourself. Slowly. Before I decide this bay needs a high-energy deep cleaning."

Beside me, Leo whimpered softly, pressing himself flatter against the vehicle track. His fear was palpable, a static charge in the air.

Okay, Ren. Decision time. Option 1: Stay hidden, hope she doesn't find us behind Optimus Prime's angrier cousin. Unlikely, given her thorough scan. Option 2: Try to bluff or distract. Risky. Option 3: Controlled reveal. Minimal surprise factor, maybe allows for dialogue.

My internal risk assessment algorithm churned. Controlled reveal felt like the least immediately fatal option. Slightly.

But before I could move, Leo shifted his weight. His foot slipped on a stray patch of spilled oil I hadn't noticed near the track unit. He stumbled with a muffled curse, knocking his golf club against the metal plating with a loud CLANG.

Silence. Absolute, ringing silence, broken only by the hum of the weapon and the drip-drip-drip somewhere in the darkness.

The woman outside froze, weapon instantly snapping up, aimed unerringly towards our hiding spot. The low hum of the sidearm intensified, ozone sharp in the air.

"Well," my internal monologue sighed, "so much for stealth. Thanks, Brenda_Is_An_Idiot."

Taking a slow, deliberate breath, I raised my empty hands where she could potentially see them around the edge of the vehicle. "Easy there," I called out, trying to project calm I absolutely did not feel. "No need for energetic sanitation. Just admiring the custom drive core. Really ties the room together."

I stepped out slowly from behind the track unit, hands still raised in a gesture of mostly-harmlessness. Stopped in the center of the bay, blinking slightly in the harsh glow of the overhead light bars.

Her weapon remained steady, trained on my chest. Her eyes – sharp, calculating, maybe a little tired – swept over me, taking in my distinct lack of armor, weaponry, or discernible threat level. They lingered for a second on my face, a flicker of… surprise? Recognition? No, more like analytical curiosity. Like she was trying to categorize me and coming up with [Error: Unexpected Data Type].

"Admiring?" she repeated, voice laced with disbelief and suspicion. "This isn't a museum, pal. And that keypad wasn't bypassed with a sweet smile." She gestured towards the lock with her weapon. "That took either some serious brute-force tech, or…" she paused, eyes narrowing slightly, "…something weirder. Which are you?"

Okay. Direct question. Time for calibrated honesty mixed with deflection. "Let's just say I have a certain knack for convincing electronics to cooperate," I said, keeping my tone even. "Found the door locked, politely requested entry, it complied. Mostly. As for why we're here… we were tracking a noise complaint."

A faint smile touched her lips, gone as quickly as it appeared. Humor, maybe? Or just disbelief at my audacity. "A noise complaint? For my rig?" She patted the armored flank of the vehicle beside me. "She does tend to rumble when she's warming up."

Her weapon didn't lower. "Who's 'we'?" she demanded, glancing towards the spot where Leo was presumably still trying to merge with the vehicle's chassis.

"Just me and… my associate," I said quickly, before Leo could offer any more incriminating sound effects. "He's new to the uh… urban exploration scene. Easily spooked."

The woman considered this, her gaze flicking between me and the hiding spot. The hum of her weapon remained a steady, dangerous presence. The air crackled with tension. This wasn't a raider looking for loot. This was someone territorial, capable, and rightly pissed off that someone had bypassed her security and invaded her workshop.

"Right," she said finally, though her stance didn't relax. "So, Mr. Polite-Request and Mr. Easily-Spooked. You followed my 'noise complaint' into my private, locked-down garage. Now, give me one good reason why I shouldn't assume you're here to try and steal 'The Probability Drive' here," she gestured again to the monstrous vehicle, "and just skip straight to the 'high-energy deep cleaning' option."

My mind raced. Reason. She needed a reason. Something better than 'we're desperate and your ride looks awesome'. Something that leveraged my unique… situation.

"Because," I said, meeting her hard gaze, trying to project confidence I didn't have, "judging by the faint energy fluctuations coming off your personal gear, and the sophisticated but slightly unstable look of that drive core… I'm guessing 'The Probability Drive' doesn't run on standard gasoline." I paused, letting it sink in. "And I bet keeping a machine like that tuned and running smoothly in this reality requires more than just a good wrench. Sometimes, you need someone who can debug the universe's shitty code directly."

I held my breath. Was it enough? Did she even understand what I was implying? Or was I about to get disintegrated for being a smartass? Her expression was unreadable, weapon still steady, the hum of contained power a constant threat in the sudden silence of the bay.

---

Author's Note: Apparently My Narrative Logic Glitched (SP Fixes)

Alright, listen up. Seems my own internal consistency engine threw a few critical errors regarding Ren's SP levels, especially after he practically fried his brain in the NOC. Got called out on it by some sharp-eyed user lurking on whatever platform passes for stable these days – thanks, I guess. Saves me the embarrassment later.

So, I had to go back and slap some debugging patches on Chapters 3 through 5. Here's the gist:

• Ch 3: Made it clearer that hitting the Emergency Reserve actually, y'know, hurts. Badly. Ren's not just tired; he's running on fumes and existential dread, with the system warnings to prove it. No instant recharge here.
• Ch 4: Recovery is now officially slower than dial-up in a reality storm. Ren crawls up to about 30/80 SP by the time they hit the garage, still feeling like chewed-up static cling.
• Ch 5: Fixed the wonky math on the keypad hack (-5 SP), leaving him with roughly 25/80 SP. Still pathetic, but at least the numbers add up, which is more than you can say for most things these days.

Basically, Ren's power source isn't some infinite cheat code. Using it, especially pushing it, has consequences that actually stick now. Consider this particular narrative glitch mostly squashed. Don't expect miracles, though; the universe is still buggy as hell. Carry on.

 

[phanst]

Chapter 0007: Diagnostics and Demands (Mostly Demands)

Silence stretched taut in the maintenance bay, thick enough to choke on. The only sounds were the low, resonant hum of the Probability Drive's core, the distant drip-drip of water somewhere in the parking garage abyss, and the slightly elevated whine of the energy sidearm still aimed squarely at my sternum. My own SP felt fragile, hovering at a precarious [25/80], the keypad hack having taken a noticeable toll on my already strained reserves.

The woman – sharp eyes, grease-smudged cheek, practical armor that looked like it had survived more than a few rough encounters – didn't move a muscle. Her gaze remained locked on mine, intense, analytical, searching for the punchline or the deception in my words. That faint ghost of a smile I thought I'd seen earlier was well and truly gone, replaced by focused scrutiny.

"Debug the universe's shitty code?" she repeated finally, her voice dangerously soft. There was no amusement now, only a razor's edge of disbelief. "That's your pitch? You some kind of Glitch Cultist trying to sell me salvation through technobabble? Or just plain crazy?"

"Neither," I retorted, trying to keep my own voice level despite the adrenaline still making my heart perform syncopated rhythms against my ribs. The lingering effects of the Emergency Reserve from the NOC left a faint tremor in my hands, which I carefully kept raised and open. "Think less 'prophet', more 'specialized exterminator'. Reality's throwing bugs; I swat them. On a small scale. Usually."

I needed specifics, details to anchor her attention, something concrete despite the abstract nature of my 'skill'. "Your personal gear," I said, nodding briefly towards what I guessed was a flickering personal shield emitter (visible only as a shimmer in my enhanced perception), then towards the steadily humming sidearm. "It runs clean, mostly. But there are micro-fluctuations. Inconsistent power draw, faint data echoes. Nothing critical, maybe, but not optimal. Like running an OS with memory leaks. You get used to the sluggishness, but it's still there." I paused, the effort of focused perception sending another throb through my temples. "I can perceive that kind of 'noise'. Sometimes, I can even smooth it out."

Her eyes narrowed further. The gun didn't waver, but I saw a flicker of something else in their depths – not belief, not yet, but perhaps… resonance? Anyone running high-tech gear in this reality knew the constant battle against instability.

Before she could respond, a small gasp came from behind the vehicle. Leo. "Ren," he whispered urgently, his voice cracking. "The… the entrance! That thing they blocked it with… I think it moved!"

Her head snapped towards the sound, then back to me, suspicion flaring. "Your 'easily spooked' associate seems very observant."

"Panic sharpens the senses," I deflected quickly. "Is he right? Did something move out there?"

She didn't answer immediately, her attention momentarily divided. It gave me a fraction of a second. Okay, demonstration time. Risky, especially with my SP barely registering above fumes compared to my usual capacity, but necessary.

"Look," I said, trying to sound reasonable, like explaining a printer jam instead of negotiating with a heavily armed stranger while trapped. "Forget the universe. Let's talk about this." I nodded towards her sidearm. "That hum? It's steady, yeah, but it's not perfectly clean. There's a slight harmonic imbalance, like a capacitor not quite seated right in the energy matrix."

Her eyes snapped back to mine, flinty. "You analyzing my sidearm now?"

"Just noticing the background noise," I countered. "Tell you what. Keep aiming. Don't shoot. Give me five seconds. I won't move." I braced myself internally, hoping I had enough juice left for this without passing out or accidentally making her gun explode. The latter seemed counterproductive.

She hesitated, her expression unreadable. Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe desperation. Maybe she just wanted to see what kind of idiot I really was. "Five seconds," she clipped out. "You twitch, you fry."

Showtime. Closing my eyes wasn't an option. I needed to watch her reaction, and besides, [Perceive Glitch] worked fine eyes open, even if it made my head swim. I focused, pushing past the headache, zeroing in on the energy signature of her sidearm.

Visualize. The weapon glowed in my mind's eye, a compact nexus of contained energy. Found the power flow. Identified the source of the hum – not a physical capacitor, but a tiny, recursive loop in the energy regulation code, creating a minute oscillation, a resonant frequency that manifested as the steady hum. It wasn't dangerous, just… inefficient. A minor bug.

Targeted the loop. My SP bar flickered warningly. [-3 SP]. It felt disproportionately draining, like trying to run uphill through sand. Didn't have the reserves for complex untangling. Just needed to dampen the oscillation. Pushed a simple [Dampening Field] onto the resonant frequency itself. Visualized wrapping the vibrating code in a layer of mental 'soundproofing'. Muffle it. Smooth the wave. The effort scraped precious energy from my already low reserves, leaving a faint wave of nausea in its wake. [Current SP: 22/80].

The steady hum from the sidearm didn't stop, but it changed. The pitch smoothed out, losing its almost imperceptible metallic edge, becoming a purer, quieter thrum. It was subtle. Almost unnoticeable unless you were attuned to it.

Or unless you were holding the damn thing.

Her eyes widened almost imperceptibly. Her knuckles, gripping the weapon, went white for a split second. She didn't lower the gun, but the absolute certainty in her stance wavered for the first time.

"What...?" she breathed, staring down at her sidearm as if it had betrayed her. She glanced back up at me, suspicion warring with outright shock. "...the hell did you just do?"

"Optimized your hardware's acoustic signature," I said, trying to keep the relief and the strain out of my voice. My head pounded. "Reduced energy leakage via harmonic resonance. Marginally increased battery life, probably. You're welcome."

She stared at me, then at her gun, then back at me. Slowly, deliberately, she lowered the weapon, though she didn't holster it. The immediate threat level dropped from 'imminent vaporization' to 'potentially lethal scepticism'. Progress.

"Okay," she said, her voice tight. "Okay. You're not a cultist. And you're not crazy." She ran a hand through her short, grease-streaked brown hair, pushing her goggles further up her forehead, revealing tired but intensely focused hazel eyes. "What you are… is potentially useful."

Finally. "Glad we cleared that up," I said dryly. "My associate and I prefer not being vaporized before lunch. Usually."

"Lunch isn't on the menu right now," she snapped, all business again. "Leo, you said? The entrance moved?"

Leo peeked out cautiously. "Y-yeah. That big… metal slab they slid across? It scraped. Like something pushed it. Or… settled."

The woman's frown deepened, turning her attention fully to the bay entrance. "Dammit. Knew this spot was getting hot. Rival scav crews? Or something worse?" She looked back at me. "Alright, 'Debugger'. You and your friend just walked into my workshop and possibly alerted whatever trapped us in here. But…" she gestured towards the Probability Drive, "…you might be the only one who can fix her fast enough to get us out."

"Fix her how?" I asked, walking closer to the massive vehicle, drawn by the hum of its strange core. The air around it felt thick with power and instability. Even proximity seemed to drain energy.

"The reality drive," she said grimly. "It's stable enough for short hops, navigating minor Glitch-fields. But pushing it hard? Or punching through a major distortion? Lately, it's been throwing… exceptions. Nasty ones. Power spikes, spatial shear feedback, phantom energy readings." She kicked one of the massive tracks lightly. "Nearly got smeared across Zone 4 yesterday when the inertial dampeners decided to argue with local gravity about the definition of 'down'. Almost ended up folded into a pocket dimension shaped like abstract art. If we need to ram that blocker or outrun whatever set it, I need this rig running clean. Perfectly clean."

She locked eyes with me again. "You claim you can debug reality's code. Prove it. Get my drive stable. Truly stable. Do that…" she paused, glancing towards the nervous Leo, then back to me, "…and maybe we can talk about sharing fuel, ammo, and a ride out of this concrete tomb. Fail? Or try anything stupid? And the high-energy deep cleaning is back on the table. Deal?"

It wasn't much of a choice. Trapped, low on power ([22/80]), with an unknown threat potentially closing in. And this impossible machine, humming with unstable power, offering the only conceivable way out.

"Deal," I said, meeting her gaze. "But I'll need diagnostics. Schematics, if you have them. And access." I nodded towards the glowing core. "Full access."

Anya smirked, a genuine, hard-edged flash this time. "Oh, you'll get access. More access than you ever wanted." She holstered her weapon with a decisive click. "Name's Anya, by the way. Welcome to the hot seat, Debugger."

The fragile truce was set. Now came the hard part: trying to fix a reality-bending engine core while running on mental fumes, trapped in a garage with a heavily armed speed-demon and a nervous architect, with unknown entities potentially lurking just outside.

Just another Tuesday. Probably.

 

[phanst]

Chapter 0008: Peeking Under the Hood (of Reality Itself)

The air in the maintenance bay hummed, thick with the barely contained energy of the Probability Drive's core and the residue of our tense standoff. Anya, her hazel eyes sharp and missing nothing, gestured towards the rear of the monstrous vehicle where the glowing blue conduits converged on the cylindrical heart of the machine. My own internal reserves felt dangerously low, hovering at a meager [22/80] SP, the simple act of fixing her sidearm having cost more than it should have.

"Alright, Debugger," she said, her voice crisp and all business now that a fragile truce was established. "There she is. The source of all my speed, and currently, all my near-death experiences."

She moved towards a workbench cluttered with heavy-duty tools – hydro-spanners that looked capable of dismantling a tank, laser cutters, diagnostic pads displaying streams of chaotically scrolling data. With practiced ease, she tapped commands into a ruggedized terminal bolted to the bench, its screen flickering to life with complex energy flow diagrams and error logs filled with angry red warnings. The setup was pure scavenged functionality – high-tech components bolted onto makeshift mounts, powered by thick cables snaking back towards the humming drive core itself.

"Standard diagnostics are useless," Anya stated, pointing a grime-stained finger at a particularly alarming spike on an energy graph. "Reads stable one second, threatens to implode the next. Pre-Glitch tools can't parse reality fluctuations interfering with the data stream. All I know is, when I push her hard, especially transitioning through distorted zones, the core output becomes… unpredictable." She grimaced. "Yesterday, the primary manifold tried generating its own localized black hole. Tiny one. Mostly harmless. Except for the part where it nearly shredded the port-side track assembly."

Localized black hole. Mostly harmless. Right. My definition of 'harmless' clearly needed recalibration to post-Crash standards. My headache, a constant companion since the NOC, pulsed in sympathy.

I cautiously approached the drive core. Up close, the hum wasn't just audible; it was a physical pressure, a vibration that resonated deep in my bones, making my teeth ache faintly. The glowing blue conduits weren't just painted lines; they contained roiling streams of contained plasma, shifting and swirling like captured nebulae. The central cylinder itself, maybe three feet tall and wrapped in complex heat sinks and dampening fields, emanated a faint, cool breeze despite the palpable energy radiating from it. Its surface seemed to shimmer subtly, not quite solid, like looking at something through intense heat haze, but cold. The air around it smelled sharply of ozone and something else… clean, sterile, almost like the inside of a particle accelerator.

"What… what actually powers it?" Leo's voice was barely a whisper. He'd cautiously moved out from behind the track unit, his eyes glued to the impossible engine core, a mixture of draftsman's curiosity and pure terror on his face.

Anya shot him a glance, then smirked mirthlessly. "Couple of salvaged zero-point energy taps, heavily modified, feeding into a reality-stabilization matrix that… well, mostly stabilizes reality. Theoretically." She gestured vaguely at the core. "Think of it as gently persuading the universe to let us cheat, rather than brute-forcing our way through."

Gently persuading the universe. Riiight. And its recent arguments involved miniature black holes.

"Okay," I murmured, taking a deep breath. This was going to hurt. "Let's see what kind of argument it's having."

Activating [Perceive Glitch] felt different here, near the core. Usually, it was like tuning into background static, finding the discordant notes. Here, it was like opening my mind to a roaring waterfall of pure, structured, yet incredibly unstable information. Lines of energy, shimmering matrices of force, layers upon layers of interwoven code – not software code, but the base script of reality itself, warped and manipulated by the drive. It was beautiful and terrifying.

Then, I applied [Glitch Analysis - Rank E].

The waterfall became a supernova.

My mind reeled from the sheer density and complexity. This wasn't like debugging a flashlight's faulty circuit or a keypad's simple logic loop. This was like trying to simultaneously debug quantum physics, general relativity, and twelve competing brands of unstable operating systems all running on hardware forged from condensed nightmares. The sheer scale of it hammered against my already weakened mental defenses.

I visualized the energy flows Anya had shown on her terminal, trying to correlate them with the raw reality-code I was perceiving. Saw the ZPE taps pouring raw potential into the matrix. Saw the matrix trying to weave that potential into stable spacetime geometry, allowing the drive to 'persuade' reality. But there were… errors. Glitches. Deep within the core matrix code.

Imagine trying to follow a thousand glowing threads woven into an infinitely complex tapestry, but half the threads kept randomly changing color, phasing out of existence, or spontaneously knotting themselves into paradoxical loops. That was the core matrix. The 'exceptions' Anya experienced? I saw them as violent cascades, tiny knots in the weave suddenly tightening, forcing reality to snap back violently, creating energy spikes, spatial shears… miniature black holes.

My SP started draining like water from a sieve, far faster than the previous, simpler tasks. [-5 SP… -10 SP… -15 SP!]. Sweat prickled my brow despite the cool air radiating from the core. The sterile smell intensified, making my eyes water. The intricate patterns I perceived flickered, threatening to dissolve into pure chaos. My mental [Logic Probe] felt laughably inadequate, like trying to reroute a tsunami with a toothpick. The effort was immense, pushing my reserves to the absolute limit.

Anya watched me, hawk-eyed. Her arms were crossed, stance skeptical but intensely focused. She wasn't tapping her foot, but the impatient energy was radiating off her. She noted the pallor deepening in my face, the tremor starting in my hands again, more pronounced this time. She saw the strain. Maybe, just maybe, she recognized the look of someone genuinely wrestling with something far beyond normal comprehension, someone running on empty. Leo looked like he was about to be sick, his draftsman sensibilities probably offended by the sheer wrongness of the drive's internal logic.

I pulled back mentally, gasping sharply, the world swimming violently back into focus. The headache had ramped up to migraine levels, complete with bonus nausea and flashing lights at the edge of my vision. [SP Level Critical: 7/80]. Any deeper and I risked serious mental feedback, maybe even permanent corruption from the raw reality code. The buffer was gone. I was right on the edge.

"Okay," I managed, leaning a hand heavily against the cool, smooth flank of the Probability Drive's armor plating to steady myself, fighting the urge to vomit. "Okay. I see it."

Anya raised an eyebrow, noting my obvious distress. "See what? Pretty lights? Impending doom?"

"The core matrix," I elaborated, rubbing my temples, trying to force the words out through the haze of pain. "It's… unstable. Fundamentally. It's like it's running two incompatible physics models simultaneously, and they're constantly fighting for dominance. When you draw heavy power, especially during reality transitions, the conflict spikes. It can't resolve the paradox, so it essentially… throws a cosmic tantrum." I waved a hand vaguely at the core. "Manifesting as energy surges, spatial warping… you get the idea."

"So you can see it," Anya murmured, her expression shifting from pure skepticism to something closer to cautious belief, mixed now with a dawning understanding of the cost involved. Still wary, but the 'useful' part of her assessment was clearly winning. "Can you fix it?"

"Fix?" I gave a short, humorless laugh that turned into a cough. "Fixing the core conflict? That's probably beyond my paygrade. Think 'rewriting fundamental laws of the universe' level stuff. But…" I focused again, briefly, ignoring the screaming protest from my SP reserves [-1 SP], pushing past the surface chaos to analyze the pattern of the conflict, feeling the strain scrape against my absolute limit. "…the tantrums themselves? The way it fails? Those look like exploitable error cascades. Maybe I can't fix the core problem, but I might be able to… install better error handling. Redirect the tantrums. Dampen the spikes before they try to invent new particle physics inside your engine." [SP: 6/80].

Anya considered this, chewing on her lower lip. "Error handling," she repeated slowly. "So, not a permanent fix, but enough to stop the surprise black holes?"

"Theoretically," I admitted, swaying slightly. "Needs more analysis. Deeper dive. Which I absolutely cannot do right now. And probably some way to interface directly with the matrix control system, assuming it has one that hasn't melted."

Suddenly, a low groan echoed from the main garage entrance. Deeper, more resonant than the first sound. Followed by a distinct scrape of metal on concrete, louder this time.

Leo jumped, golf club rattling against the floor. "It's moving again! Something big!"

Anya swore under her breath, pulling her sidearm again, her brief moment of consideration evaporating into renewed tension. "Time's up, Debugger. Deeper analysis later. Can you do something? Right now? Something to give us even a little more stability if we need to make a run for it?"

The pressure was back, tenfold. Stabilize a reality-bending engine core with virtually no SP left, with an unknown threat potentially about to break down the door.

Easy peasy. Right?

"Alright," I said, steeling myself and looking back at the humming, glowing core, knowing this next step would almost certainly force another dip into the reserves I couldn't afford. "Let's try installing Service Pack 1 for applied cosmology. No promises, except that this is probably going to hurt. A lot."

 

[phanst]

Chapter 0009: Cosmic Duct Tape and Qualified Success

"Right now?" Anya's voice was tight, her knuckles white where she gripped her sidearm again, listening intently to the unsettling groan and deep scrape echoing from the main garage entrance. That wasn't random debris; it had a heavy, almost rhythmic quality, like immense stone grinding against stressed metal under deliberate pressure. "Okay, Debugger. No pressure. Just stabilize a reality-bending engine core before whatever's making that noise decides to come pay us a social call. Simple."

Simple. Right. Like performing neurosurgery during an earthquake using rusty spoons, blindfolded, while reciting corrupted code backwards. My SP bar mocked me with its pathetic [6/80] reading, flashing a persistent [Critical SP Warning]. The dregs of the first Emergency Reserve activation still left a metallic taste in my mouth and a tremor in my hands, overlaid by a headache that felt less like ice picks and more like someone was actively trying to defragment my brain matter with a rusty power drill. Pushing further now felt less like debugging and more like deliberate self-immolation.

"Simple," I echoed grimly, turning back to face the humming, glowing heart of the Probability Drive. Its energy felt like a physical weight against my senses, threatening to overwhelm my already fractured focus. "Just need to apply a little… cosmic duct tape and hope it holds." I took a deep, deliberately slow breath, trying to quell the shaking. This required focus I barely possessed. Triage. Patch the worst leaks before the whole dam collapses.

"Leo," I said, keeping my voice low, hoping the forced steadiness was convincing. "Eyes on the bay entrance. Describe anything you see or hear. Noises, shadows, anything specific. Anya… keep those diagnostics running. Call out any significant flux in the core stability, up or down. Especially down."

Anya grunted assent, already hunched over her ruggedized terminal, fingers dancing across the interface. Data streams scrolled past, complex waveforms flickered, error logs overflowed with cryptic warnings like [Reality Skew Detected: Compensator Overload Imminent] and [WARNING: Probability Field Resonance Exceeding Safe Parameters]. "Got thermal, resonance, particle emission, temporal field stability… it's a mess," she muttered, clearly wrestling with the cascade of unstable readings. Leo, pale but determined, took his position near the bay opening, golf club held more like a pointing stick than a weapon now, his focus outward.

Alright, Ren. Empty the tank. Ignore the pain, ignore the noise, ignore the very real possibility that failure means becoming a thin smear of quantum foam across the concrete.

Focus. [Perceive Glitch].

The waterfall of raw information slammed back in, amplified by my hypersensitive, strained state. Swirling nebulae of plasma energy, interwoven threads of reality code flickering like faulty neon signs, matrices of force buckling and snapping under unseen pressures. The sheer complexity was nauseating. Trying to find patterns in this felt like trying to map the static on a dead television channel.

Initial Analysis Redux: Focused on the core instability Anya described. Pushed past the surface noise, seeking the root of those energy spikes, the 'tantrums'. My mind strained against the torrent. It felt like trying to read microfiche in a hurricane. There. The conflicting physics models embedded deep in the matrix code, wrestling like angry gods, generating ripples of paradox. When stressed, these paradoxes didn't just resolve; they exploded outwards as raw, undirected energy. The sparks.

Visualizing the Fix: Error handling. Buffers. Channels. Had to be fast, had to be efficient. Couldn't afford intricate designs with my reserves this low. I pictured simple, thick shields of stable blue energy – imagined them solidifying out of my own focus – snapping into place around the known stress points in the matrix code. Then, broader, shallower 'gutters' designed to catch the overflow, the smaller fluctuations, and channel them harmlessly away, dissipating them as faint heat or harmless static discharge into the vehicle's massive chassis acting as a ground.

The mental constructs flickered into existence. Vaguely shield-shaped fields of translucent blue shimmered around the angriest knots of red code. Wider, flatter channels formed beneath them. It took everything I had left. My SP drained instantly. [-6 SP]. Gone. The warning flared [SP Depleted!].

The blue shields pulsed weakly as the first few energy ripples hit them. One shield, covering a particularly volatile junction, flared dangerously, spitting out violet sparks in my mind's eye. It wasn't holding. The energy spike slammed through it, diminished but still potent, causing a flicker in the bay's real lights. My vision started to grey out at the edges. The patch wasn't strong enough. It was failing.

"Anything?" I choked out, the words scraping my throat, feeling consciousness start to slip.

"Stabilizing! No, wait – damn it! Huge energy spike, sensor Gamma just redlined!" Anya swore, slapping the side of her terminal. "Something's feeding the instability directly, bypassing the main conduits!"

Feeding it? Where? How? My failing perception fluttered uselessly. The shields were dissolving. The system was crashing.

"Ren!" Leo's voice was sharp, urgent, cutting through my failing concentration. He wasn't looking outside anymore, but pointing directly at the drive core. "Down low! On the core itself! Where that thick pipe connects – it's sparking! Blue sparks, on the metal!"

My physical eyes snapped open, vision swimming. Following Leo's finger, I saw it. A physical manifestation. Where a coolant-sheathed conduit met the core housing, tiny blue sparks, like miniature St. Elmo's fire, arced intermittently across the join. It wasn't just running hot; it was actively leaking energy into the physical structure, and that leakage was corrupting the metaphysical matrix code at that critical junction. My shield wasn't failing due to code paradox alone; it was being battered by raw, misdirected physical energy bleeding into the reality streams. Leo's draftsman eye for physical detail, for structural integrity, had caught the tangible source I'd missed while drowning in abstract code.

"Lower coolant conduit junction – thermal overload warning escalating!" Anya confirmed, reading her diagnostics. "Damn shielding must have finally failed…"

"Got it," I grunted, the pieces clicking into place. Targeted intervention. This was it. Everything left. No choice.

Override. Activate reserve. Now.

[Emergency Mental Reserve Activated! Sensory Dampening Initiated!]

The world plunged into a silent, muffled grey, like diving into cold sludge. The copper tang of blood bloomed in my mouth, thick and heavy – nosebleed again, worse this time – and the crushing pressure behind my eyes became a blinding white agony that felt like my skull was trying to fracture from the inside out. This second activation, so soon after the first, felt exponentially worse, tearing through mental safeguards that hadn't had time to recover. Through the sensory blackout, through the pain, I held that single point of focus. Insulate. Dampen. Contain. Hold the line…

No more broad defenses. I poured every last erg of the forced mental energy, every shred of focus borrowed against my own cognitive stability, into reinforcing the one field covering that sparking, leaking junction. Visualized it thickening, solidifying, becoming not just a barrier but a form-fitting insulator, wrapping around the mental representation of the fault, absorbing the leaked energy, preventing it from poisoning the reality matrix. Simultaneously, focusing on the physical sparks Leo had spotted, I tried to subtly nudge the local reality code, reinforcing the damaged conduit's material structure, coaxing the energy discharge to dampen at its source. It was like trying to patch a software bug and a hardware failure simultaneously, using nothing but strained thought and borrowed time ripped directly from my own sanity.

Then, blessed quiet.

Not just silence in my ears, but silence in my mind. The roaring waterfall of information subsided. The angry red spikes vanished. The overwhelming pressure eased. The connection felt… stable. Smoothed over. A cosmic band-aid applied with metaphysical tweezers, held in place by sheer, desperate will.

Slowly, the grey faded. The sounds returned, muted at first, then clearer. The powerful purr of the drive core replaced the threatening hum. On Anya's monitor, a cascade of red and amber warnings resolved into calm, steady green.

"Core resonance nominal," Anya whispered, her voice filled with stunned disbelief. "Stability index… it's holding. Ninety-two percent. Ninety-two! It hasn't been that stable since…" She trailed off, staring at the numbers, then slowly looked up at me. Her internal reaction was unreadable, but the shift was palpable: shock replaced by sharp calculation. He actually did it, Her assessment of me just fundamentally changed. The crazy bastard actually debugged a reality drive. This… changes things._

I staggered back, the final mental construct dissolving, leaving me utterly, terrifyingly drained. My knees gave way, and only grabbing the vehicle's fender kept me from collapsing entirely. Spots swam violently in my vision. Breathing felt like dragging sandpaper through my lungs. The world tilted precariously. [SP: 1/80 (ERROR: Reserve Capacity Critically Low. Prolonged Use May Result In Cognitive Damage)]. Great. Another warning label. This time, it felt less like a suggestion and more like a guarantee.

"See?" I managed, the weak smirk feeling heavy and numb on my face. "Cosmic… duct tape. Mostly holds."

Leo let out a shaky laugh, a sound halfway between relief and hysteria. "You… you did it. I saw the sparks just… stop."

Anya holstered her weapon, moving towards me, her expression a complex mix of awe, calculation, and maybe, just maybe, a flicker of something that wasn't purely transactional concern. "You…" she started, then stopped as a deafening BOOM shook the entire parking garage. Dust rained down from the ceiling. The impact was close. At the main entrance. The sound wasn't just metal this time; it carried a deep, guttural grinding undertone, organic and deeply wrong.

Followed by the high-pitched screech of the heavy metal slab blocking the entrance buckling violently inward.

Whatever was outside wasn't knocking politely anymore. It was breaking down the door.

Anya swore, abandoning whatever she was about to say, her focus instantly shifting back to survival mode. She vaulted towards the vehicle's cockpit access hatch like a practiced acrobat. "Alright, Debugger! Your duct tape better hold! You bought us maybe five minutes of reliable power! Let's see if it's enough!" She slapped a glowing activation panel beside the hatch. Hydraulics hissed. "Strap in! Both of you! Now! Unless you fancy shaking hands with whatever the hell that is!"

The momentary victory, the fragile truce, vanished in a fresh surge of pure, undiluted panic. The fight wasn't over. It was just getting started, and we were about to drive straight into it on borrowed power and borrowed time.

 

[phanst]

Chapter 0010: Exit Strategy (May Void Manufacturer's Warranty)

"Strap in! Both of you! Now!" Anya's command cut through the lingering shockwave of the BOOM from the entrance. There was no time for questions, no room for hesitation. The high-pitched screech of buckling metal from the main ramp confirmed whatever was outside wasn't just knocking; it was ripping its way in.

Adrenaline surged again, overriding the crushing exhaustion from the debugging effort. My SP might be scraping rock bottom, but the survival instinct apparently had its own dedicated power source. I practically dove towards the open cockpit hatch Anya had slapped, following Leo who scrambled in with surprising agility, his earlier terror momentarily eclipsed by immediate, actionable panic.

The cockpit of the 'Probability Drive' wasn't designed for comfort. It was cramped, functional, and radiated an aura of barely contained power mixed with the faint, lingering smell of stale coffee and Anya's ozone-tinged presence. Two seats dominated the space – a pilot's command chair bristling with worn joysticks, holographic displays flickering erratically, and auxiliary readouts, and a slightly less complex co-pilot/navigator station beside it.

Exposed conduits snaked across the low ceiling, patched with electrical tape and hope. A web of auxiliary wires led to custom-bolted consoles displaying streams of complex, non-standard diagnostic data. It looked less like a vehicle interior, more like the command center for a particularly unstable science experiment held together with zip ties and pure stubbornness.

"Seats! Harnesses! Now!" Anya barked, already strapped into the pilot's chair, her hands flying across glowing touch panels and flicking physical switches with practiced speed. Her focus was absolute, the earlier cautious respect replaced by the sharp intensity of someone doing exactly what they were built for.

I fumbled my way into the co-pilot seat, the worn synth-leather cool against my back. The harness wasn't a simple click-in buckle; it was a five-point restraint system that felt like being vacuum-sealed into the chair. Probably necessary, considering the potential G-forces involved when reality itself was part of the suspension system. Leo wrestled with the harness in a smaller, fold-down jump seat behind us, his breathing ragged.

"Powering up main drive sequence!" Anya announced, her voice tight. "Ren, keep an eye on the core stability monitor – upper right display. Yell if that 'duct tape' of yours starts peeling."

My eyes snapped to the designated screen. A complex, multi-layered graphic depicted the drive core's energy flows. The angry red spikes were gone, replaced by steady blue lines. The stability index hovered around 91-92%, occasionally flickering down to 90 before recovering. My patch was holding. For now. But the energy throughput numbers were climbing rapidly as Anya diverted power. Would it hold under this kind of strain?

The entire vehicle vibrated, a low, resonant hum intensifying into a ground-shaking thrum that vibrated up through the seat, rattling my teeth. The blue conduits visible through a small viewport looking back towards the engine bay pulsed brighter, the swirling energy within churning faster. It felt like sitting inside a caged thunderstorm.

BOOM! SCREEEEECH! Another massive impact shuddered through the garage structure, closer this time. Dust and small chunks of concrete rained down from the bay ceiling.

"The slab!" Leo yelled from behind us, pointing towards the main bay opening. "It's bending inward! I see… something… pushing through the gap!" His voice hitched. "It's got… arms? Made of rebar and… stone?"

Arms? Rebar and stone? My mind flashed back to the grinding sound. Organic and mechanical? Sounded like a high-tier [Aggregated Debris Construct] or maybe something worse, cobbled together from the city's wreckage by some malevolent glitch or entity. Not good. Definitely not something we wanted to have tea with.

"Hang on!" Anya yelled, gripping her main control stick. "Engaging drive! Inertial dampeners… mostly online!"

The world outside the reinforced cockpit windows dissolved into a momentary blur of pure speed, even though we hadn't physically moved much yet. It wasn't conventional acceleration; it felt like the vehicle warped inertia locally. A wave of dizziness hit me – the side effect of the Emergency Reserve still lingering, a nasty cognitive lag clinging like sticky malware, amplified by the drive's activation. I gripped the sides of my seat, fighting the urge to black out. [Minor Spatial Disorientation Debuff Refreshed]. Fantastic.

With a jolt that slammed me back into the harness, the Probability Drive lurched forward. The massive track units bit into the concrete floor, spitting up chunks as they gained traction. We shot out of the maintenance bay like a projectile fired from a cannon made of bad physics.

The parking garage level whipped past in a blur of concrete pillars and flickering emergency lights. Anya wrestled with the controls, her knuckles white, navigating the tight confines with incredible precision despite the vehicle's bulk and the strange, non-linear way it seemed to move.

"Target: main entrance!" she barked, more to herself than to us. "Core stability?"

"Holding at eighty-nine percent!" I called back, eyes glued to the monitor, ignoring the swimming sensation in my head. The blue lines were flickering more erratically now under the strain, but no catastrophic red spikes. Yet. "Conduit junction patch is stable!"

"Good enough!"

We rounded the final corner, the main exit ramp looming ahead. Or what was left of it. The heavy metal security slab was grotesquely buckled inwards, ripped partially free from its moorings. And forcing its way through the widening gap was… chaos given form.

Leo wasn't wrong. Hulking arms made of twisted rebar, concrete chunks, and shattered pavement clawed at the edges of the opening. They seemed to pull a larger, amorphous mass behind them – a churning vortex of urban debris held together by crackling purple energy and sheer malevolent intent. No discernible head, just a roiling core of gravitational distortion that warped the air around it. Glitch-spawned nightmare. Grade A, top-tier, run-the-hell-away material.

"Obstruction Class: Significant Annoyance," Anya grunted, her face set in grim determination. "Full power to forward plating deflectors! Brace for impact!"

She didn't slow down. If anything, she accelerated. The Probability Drive hurtled towards the buckled barrier and the debris-construct forcing its way through. The humming core behind us intensified into a near-screaming whine. The stability index on my screen dipped sharply – 85%… 80%… 78%…! Red warning indicators flashed urgently.

"Core flux spiking!" I yelled, my voice barely audible over the engine's roar.

Hold on, duct tape! Hold on! I mentally pleaded with my fragile patch job.

CRUUUUUNCH!

The impact wasn't just sound; it was a physical blow that resonated through the entire vehicle, throwing us violently against our harnesses. Metal screamed. Concrete exploded outwards. The world outside the viewport dissolved into a chaotic spray of debris and purple energy discharge as we smashed through the buckled security slab and the construct's grasping appendages.

For a heart-stopping moment, the vehicle shuddered violently, threatening to stall or tear itself apart. Alarms blared from Anya's console. The stability reading plummeted to 65%, flashing critical red warnings across the screen.

But Anya fought it, wrestling with the controls, pouring power into the drive. With a final, jarring lurch, we broke free.

Bursting out of the parking garage ramp felt like being born into pure chaos. We emerged onto the street under the bruised, flickering sky, leaving behind the wreckage of the entrance and whatever remained of the construct.

The vehicle fishtailed wildly on the cracked pavement before Anya regained control, the track units spewing gravel. We slewed to a temporary halt fifty yards down the street, the engine whining down slightly from its peak exertion, the whole chassis vibrating.

Inside the cockpit, silence reigned for a beat, broken only by our ragged breathing and the insistent beeping of minor system alarms.

"Status?" Anya demanded, already scanning our surroundings through the holographic displays.

I checked the core monitor, forcing my eyes to focus. "Stability… climbing back up. Seventy-five… eighty… eighty-two percent. Holding steady. Looks like… looks like your surprise black holes are still cancelled." My voice shook slightly, a reaction to the near-miss and the sheer drain.

Leo let out a strangled noise from the back seat, halfway between a sob and a cheer. "We… we made it?"

Anya didn't relax. "Out of the garage, yeah." She pointed to a side display showing a tactical overlay of the surrounding streets. Several red icons were blinking urgently, converging on our position. "But that thing wasn't alone. And ramming down its front door probably announced our presence to everything hostile within five blocks."

Sure enough, glancing out the main viewport, I saw them. Figures emerging from the shadowed alleyways and crumbling building entrances. Some were shambling husks trailing static, others were more defined, carrying scavenged weapons. Glitch constructs flickered into existence at street corners. And far down the street, partially obscured by shimmering heat haze (or reality instability), something large and metallic was reflecting the dim light.

The URE, silent during the intense debugging and escape, chose this moment to chime in, its text scrolling calmly over my view:

----------

[Quest Updated: Exit Strategy]

Objective: Survive Immediate Aftermath.

Sub-Objective: Avoid Disassembly by Local Anomalous Entities (Recommended).

Current Threat Level: Elevated (Approximately 'Oh Crap' on the Technical Scale).

Good luck? ( sincerity_level = 0.1 )

----------

"Right," Anya growled, grabbing the controls again. "Welcome to the neighborhood, boys. Let's see if this 'Probability Drive' can live up to its name."

She slammed the throttle control forward. The engine roared back to life, the unstable reality core humming its dangerous song, and the massive vehicle leaped forward into the ruined streets, leaving the relative safety of the garage far behind, heading straight into the heart of the Glitchscape's welcoming committee.

 

[phanst]

WE ARE 10 CHAPTERS IN!!! WEE-WOO-WEE-WOO!!!​

 

[NumberSix]

Clearly inferior universe if it is not running on on Linux or some mainframe os and not written in a proper mission critical language like Ada.
Also, I thought the chapters would be numbered in binary.

Will read this in it's entirety later, but it looks fun.

 

[phanst]

Clearly inferior universe if it is not running on on Linux or some mainframe os and not written in a proper mission critical language like Ada.
Also, I thought the chapters would be numbered in binary.

Will read this in it's entirety later, but it looks fun.

Click to shrink...

There wouldn't be a story to tell if it was running Linux or written in Ada, so some sacrifices had to be made.

Maybe, another Universe could run on Gentoo and some on Arch with the AUR being the Ultimate System Hack with every ability available under the multiversal sun.

I am glad you found it to be fun, hope you enjoy it when you get to reading it. >.<

 

[phanst]

Chapter 0011: The Cognitive Hangover and the Welcoming Committee

Bursting onto the street felt less like an escape and more like being spat out of a concrete cannon into the middle of a very hostile, very glitchy block party. The Probability Drive fishtailed, its massive tracks tearing chunks from the pavement before Anya wrestled it back under control, the vehicle settling into a low, predatory hum. Alarms still beeped intermittently from the console, adding a cheerful counterpoint to the sound of my own blood pounding in my ears.

"Status?" Anya snapped again, her eyes already darting between the flickering holographic map display and the viewports, assessing the rapidly converging threats.

I tried to focus on the core stability monitor, but my vision swam. The crisp numbers and lines I'd seen just moments ago seemed fuzzy, overlaid with faint static trails. My thoughts felt thick, sluggish, like trying to wade through digital molasses, or trying to run modern code on ancient hardware. This was the cognitive hangover, in full effect.

"Uh… eighty-three percent stability," I managed, blinking hard, trying to force the numbers into focus. "Holding… mostly. Patch seems… intact?" Even my internal certainty felt fuzzy. Was it really holding, or was my perception just glitching now too? The [SP: 1/80] warning pulsed weakly at the edge of my vision, occasionally dissolving into meaningless pixels before reforming.

The URE interface, usually an annoying but stable fixture, flickered erratically. A helpful tip about [Optimal Hydration Levels for Cognitive Function] scrolled past, partially obscured by a low-resolution image of a dancing banana. Extremely useful. Maybe I should ask it for a glass of water.

"Mostly isn't good enough!" Anya shot back, swerving violently to avoid a shimmering tear in the asphalt that pulsed with nauseating purple light – a minor spatial distortion that could probably flay the armor plating off the rig if we hit it wrong. "Keep watching it! Leo, eyes open back there! Call out targets!"

Outside, the welcoming committee was assembling. Low-level Glitch Skitters, all static and disjointed limbs, scuttled out from under overturned cars. A shimmering [Data Wisp] – usually harmless but annoying – drifted menacingly towards our viewport before dissolving. More worryingly, half a dozen figures emerged from a crumbling storefront, clad in patched-together armor, wielding scavenged projectile weapons and rusty melee implements.

Scavengers, drawn by the commotion, smelling potential loot or desperation. Behind them, a larger shape coalesced from flickering data streams and ambient debris – a [Minor Data Elemental], perhaps level 4, vaguely humanoid but shifting and unstable.

My [Perceive Glitch] skill felt… muffled. Like trying to listen through earmuffs, or access a server through layers of overloaded firewalls. I could sense the general instability, the hostile energy signatures, but the fine details were lost in the cognitive fog. Analyzing specific weaknesses felt impossible right now.

"Got Scavs, six o'clock high!" Anya called out, referencing her tactical display. "And some low-grade data-crud popping up ahead." She spun a dial, and a low thrum emanated from the vehicle's exterior plating. "Deflectors up. Minimal power draw."

"Anya, wait!" Leo's voice suddenly cut through the chaos, high-pitched but clear. He wasn't looking behind us, but frantically tapping one of the secondary monitor screens bolted near his jump seat – likely displaying side sensor feeds. "Side alley! Right side, coming up! Ambush! Two… no, three heavy weapons!"

My sluggish brain struggled to process. Side alley? Ambush? I hadn't perceived anything specific there, just background noise and the buzzing static behind my own eyes. Anya, however, reacted instantly. Her eyes flickered to the feed Leo indicated, her face hardening.

Draftsman's eye for detail, I thought hazily. Or maybe just less brain-fried than me. Leo, caught between terror and observation, had spotted something crucial we'd missed.

"Got it!" Anya didn't praise him, didn't acknowledge it beyond the instant reaction. She slammed the control yoke hard to port, the Probability Drive responding with an almost unnatural sideways lurch, inertia seemingly optional. A volley of heavy slugs, spitting sparks, impacted the spot where we would have been fractions of a second later, chewing chunks out of a derelict bus stop.

"Nice catch, Leo!" Anya actually grunted, executing a tight, track-shredding turn that swung the vehicle's rear end around, presenting heavy armor towards the alleyway ambushers. "Trying to flank us, bastards!" She thumbed a control. "Deploying countermeasures!"

A wave of crackling blue energy erupted outwards from the side plating – the deflectors pushed into an offensive pulse. Screams and the discharge of shorting electronics echoed faintly from the alley.

"Where are we going?" Leo asked, voice still trembling but laced with the adrenaline of having actually contributed something useful.

"Undercroft access!" Anya snapped, eyes flicking between the main route ahead and the converging threats on her display. "Section tunnels beneath the old financial district. Glitchy as hell down there, full of resonance ghosts and structural failures, but it's the only route west from here that avoids the Kilo-7 Distortion Field – and that's something even this rig can't handle." Her destination hinted at knowledge of the city's deep infrastructure, maybe a past life before courier or scavenger? "Need to get off these surface streets before that thing decides to join the party."

She meant the large metallic object I'd glimpsed earlier. Looking ahead now, as we barreled down the ruined avenue, I could see it more clearly. Distorted by distance and atmospheric shimmering, it looked like a walking construction vehicle, maybe a repurposed mining mech, bristling with crude weapon emplacements and moving with a heavy, ponderous gait that nonetheless covered ground alarmingly fast. Definitely not standard Glitch-spawn. That was built. That was piloted. That was hunting us.

"Core stability holding at eighty percent," I reported, forcing myself to focus, the number swimming slightly. "Minor flux when you pulsed the deflectors." The patch was straining, but not breaking. For now.

"Can you give me a short burst?" Anya demanded, eyes fixed on the road ahead where a cluster of Glitch Skitters and two Scavs wielding sparking stun batons were blocking the way. "Need to clear the road."

A burst? On 1 SP and running on cognitive fumes? "Define 'short'," I managed, already trying to gather my fragmented focus.

"Three seconds. Localized inertia negation," she commanded. "Just enough to… glide through."

Glide through. Right. Easy. I focused on the drive core's representation again, ignoring the throbbing pain. Targeted the specific subroutines controlling localized inertia. Instead of reinforcing or shielding, I needed to inject a brief override. Tell the universe, just for a moment, that the concept of 'mass resisting acceleration' didn't apply right here.

Visualize: A quick, clean pulse of code directly into the inertia control module. set_inertial_mass(target=self, value=0, duration=3s). Simple command, impossibly complex execution.

My remaining SP vanished. The world went grey again, briefly, accompanied by a wave of intense vertigo. [Cognitive Strain Warning: Continued Stunts May Result in Unscheduled Reboots]. The URE's sense of humor was impeccable.

Outside, the effect was instantaneous and eerie. The Probability Drive, despite its immense size and speed, seemed to suddenly become… weightless. Effortless. It didn't smash through the enemies ahead; it drifted through them, their bodies and attacks passing harmlessly through the space the vehicle occupied, like we were momentarily out of phase with reality. The Scavs stared in stunned disbelief as a multi-ton armored vehicle ghosted silently through their position. Three seconds later, inertia snapped back into place with a bone-jarring thud.

We were clear. But the metallic walker behind us was closer now, maybe only two blocks away.

"Undercroft Access Alpha – fifty meters ahead!" Anya pointed towards a gaping hole in the street beside a collapsed subway entrance, reinforced with scavenged steel plates and marked with faded hazard symbols. It looked less like an access tunnel, more like a maw leading into the bowels of a dead city.

"Looks inviting," I muttered, trying to shake off the disorientation.

"It beats becoming scrap metal for that oversized Tonka toy back there," Anya retorted, already angling the massive vehicle towards the hole. "Hold on tight. The entrance ramp is… technically non-existent."

She didn't slow down. As we approached the opening, she hit another control. The front end of the Probability Drive tilted down sharply, track units clawing for purchase on the edge of the precipice.

With a final surge of the reality drive's hum, we plunged downwards, not onto a ramp, but into sheer darkness, leaving the chaos of the street, the converging enemies, and the relentlessly pursuing mech behind us, swapping one set of dangers for another entirely. The darkness swallowed us whole.

 

[phanst]

Please add to your watch list

 

[phanst]

Chapter 0012: Echoes in the Undercroft (and Unpleasant Smells)

The transition from the chaotic surface streets to the Undercroft was less a controlled descent and more a violent, stomach-lurching plummet. For a terrifying second, we were suspended in absolute darkness, the only sensations the protesting groan of the Probability Drive's frame, the G-force pressing us into our seats, and the sudden, jarring absence of the city's ambient reality static.

Then, with a bone-jarring CRUNCH that sent sparks cascading past the viewport, the massive track units hit solid ground – or at least, something resembling it. The vehicle rocked violently, threatening to tip, before settling with a heavy groan. The drive core's powerful purr dropped to a lower, resonant idle, seeming unnaturally loud in the enclosed space.

Darkness pressed in, absolute and thick. Anya flicked several switches, and powerful external floodlights blazed to life, cutting swathes through the blackness, revealing our new, less-than-ideal surroundings.

We were in a vast, cavernous tunnel. Not a smooth, machined subway tube, but something rougher, older – thick, sweating concrete walls weeping moisture, stained with decades of grime and possibly worse. Massive support pillars, scarred and cracked, disappeared up into the oppressive darkness overhead. The ground beneath our tracks was a mess of rubble, shattered pavement, and ancient, rusted railway lines half-buried in debris.

The air hit me next. Cold. Damp. Heavy with the smells of stale water, mildew, wet concrete, and something else… a faint, underlying metallic tang mixed with a sickly sweet odor of decay. Like old blood and forgotten refuse. It was the smell of things left buried and undisturbed for far too long.

----------

[Location Detected: Undercroft Sector 4-Gamma (Unstable Zone)]

Environment: Subterranean, Low Illumination, Variable Structural Integrity, High Ambient Decay Particles.

Potential Hazards: Resonance Ghosts, Glitch Pockets (Spatial/Temporal), Unstable Architecture, Critters (Bio & Data), Questionable Smells.

Recommendation: Hold your breath? Watch your step. Bring snacks.

----------

Resonance Ghosts and Critters. Great. Just what my frayed nerves needed.

"Everyone… still in one piece?" Anya's voice was tight, her knuckles white where she gripped the controls, peering intently into the darkness revealed by the floodlights.

"Think so," I managed, doing a quick mental inventory. Everything still felt attached. My head throbbed rhythmically, a dull counterpoint to the engine's idle, the cognitive hangover settling in like a permanent houseguest. The cognitive fog lingered, making the floodlit tunnel seem slightly unreal, dreamlike. Trying to use [Perceive Glitch] felt like wading through mud. The ambient 'noise' here was different, lower frequency, heavier, punctuated by faint, fleeting flickers that my impaired senses couldn't quite lock onto.

"Yeah," Leo added from the back, his voice shaky but present. "Mostly terrified. What is this place?"

"Old service tunnels," Anya explained, easing the Probability Drive forward slowly, tracks crunching over rubble. "Pre-dates the main subway lines. Maintenance access, storm drains, forgotten infrastructure projects. The Glitchstorm didn't hit down here as hard initially, but it… seeped in. Caused weird resonances, woke things up. Most surface dwellers avoid it like the plague. Too easy to get lost, run into unstable pockets, or meet things that haven't seen sunlight in decades."

"You… know this place?" I asked, eyeing the complex network of intersecting tunnels dimly visible beyond our headlight beams. This wasn't just random knowledge.

She gave a noncommittal grunt. "Used to run cargo through here, back when surface routes got too hot. Specialized deliveries." Her tone discouraged further questions, but it hinted at a past involving more than just daredevil courier runs. Smuggling? Black market tech? Something requiring intimate knowledge of the city's forgotten underbelly.

The tunnel ahead branched. Left fork looked marginally clearer, right fork seemed to descend further into darkness, emanating a faint, almost inaudible hum that made my teeth ache. My muffled glitch perception registered faint instability down the right path.

"Left," Anya decided instantly, apparently trusting her gut or her instruments over my currently unreliable senses. She expertly maneuvered the massive vehicle around a pile of collapsed concrete, the floodlights carving eerie paths through the oppressive gloom.

The silence, apart from our engine and the crunch of debris, was unnerving. No distant sirens, no wind, no surface-level reality static. Just the drip… drip… drip… and the occasional distant rumble that could have been shifting earth or something large moving in the tunnels far away.

"Anya," Leo suddenly spoke up, his voice low, pointing towards a section of the tunnel wall illuminated by our side lights. "Those markings… I've seen symbols like that before. In old city planning archives. They designate… unstable load-bearing points. Potential collapse zones." His draftsman's training kicking in, spotting structural warnings hidden in faded paint and grime.

Anya squinted, following his direction. "Damn. Good eye, kid." She eased back on the throttle. "Route C deviation required then. Cuts through the old reservoir overflow, but beats getting buried alive." She expertly navigated us into a smaller, rougher side tunnel Leo indicated, barely wider than the Probability Drive itself. The walls here were slick with moisture, and the air grew heavier, the smell of decay stronger.

We were forced to slow down considerably, the vehicle scraping against the narrow tunnel walls occasionally with a screech of protesting metal. Progress was agonizingly slow. Every shadow seemed to harbor movement, every distant sound amplified into a potential threat.

My cognitive fog wasn't lifting. Focusing on the stability monitor required conscious effort. My thoughts kept drifting, latching onto irrelevant details: the pattern of rust on a pipe, the exact frequency of the water drip, etc. The URE warning about [Cognitive Damage] echoed ominously. Would the damage be permanent? Had I already fried something important scrambling that reality core?

Then, I felt it. A shift in the ambient… nothingness. My muffled [Perceive Glitch] spiked erratically for a moment, not with hostile energy, but with a sudden, intense cold. Not physical cold, but a chilling void, like a patch of reality had just… stopped existing briefly.

"Whoa!" Leo yelped from the back. "Did you see that? The wall just… flickered out for a second! I could see rock behind it!"

Anya swore. "Resonance ghost echo. Or a minor temporal skip. Damn tunnels are lousy with them." She tapped furiously on her console. "Trying to map the instability field, but the interference down here is wrecking my sensors."

Another flicker, closer this time. The tunnel floor directly in front of us shimmered, went translucent for a heartbeat, revealing darkness beneath, then solidified again. A pocket of unstable spacetime. Drive straight through it, and we might find ourselves embedded in solid rock, or briefly visiting last Tuesday.

"Can you… do your thing?" Anya asked, her voice tight, nodding towards the flickering patch without taking her eyes off the path ahead. "Debug that flicker?"

I stared at the shimmering patch, then down at my trembling hands, then at the [SP: 1/80] indicator mocking me. The thought of actively manipulating reality code again, even on something small, felt physically nauseating. The potential cost…

"I… I don't know," I admitted, hating the weakness in my voice. "Reserves are dry. Pushing it again might… scramble more than just the glitch."

Anya's jaw tightened, but she didn't push. Pragmatism won out. "Right. Plan B then." She scanned the narrow tunnel. "We wait for it to cycle, or we find a way around." Waiting seemed like a terrible option, trapped in this claustrophobic tunnel with unknown things potentially lurking.

Suddenly, Leo spoke again, his voice hushed, pointing not ahead, but back the way we came, towards the darkness we'd left behind. "Ren… Anya… Those noises? The dripping? The rumbling?"

"What about them?" Anya asked impatiently.

"They stopped," Leo whispered. "Everything just… went quiet."

A profound silence descended, broken only by the low idle of the Probability Drive. The dripping had ceased. The distant rumbles were gone. Even the faint hum of the tunnel itself seemed muffled. It wasn't peaceful quiet. It was the held breath before the storm. The silence before something jumps out of the shadows.

And from the darkness back down the narrow tunnel, illuminated faintly by our rear-facing lights, a pair of soft, phosphorescent green lights blinked open. Low to the ground. Watching us. Unmoving.

Critters. The URE had mentioned critters. But somehow, I didn't think it meant radioactive cockroaches.

The silence stretched, thick with unspoken dread. Then, a low clicking sound began, chitinous and dry, echoing eerily in the confined space. Getting closer.

Anya swore again, her hand hovering over the throttle. "Looks like waiting isn't an option after all."

-----

Chitin (for Chitinous): a substance that forms part of the hard outer body covering especially of insects and crustaceans. Imagine the shell of a beetle or the skin of a centipede.

 

[phanst]

Chapter 0013: Critters That Go Click in the Dark

The silence in the narrow, sweating tunnel was absolute, save for the low thrum of the Probability Drive and the dry, chitinous click… click… click echoing from the darkness behind us. It was a sound that scraped along the nerves, methodical, unhurried, like something patiently dismantling its prey bit by bit. The twin phosphorescent green lights glowed unblinkingly, low to the ground, reflecting wetly in the puddles of stagnant water illuminated by our rear floodlights.

My skin crawled. The cognitive fog from the SP depletion felt thicker now, infused with a primal dread that had nothing to do with debugging reality code. My [Perceive Glitch] skill was practically useless. The background noise of the Undercroft combined with my own mental static just created a frustrating, fuzzy mess. I couldn't get a read on whatever was back there beyond 'probably bad', likely multi-legged, and definitely not selling cookies.

The fear wasn't just about the unknown creature, it was the chilling realization of my own current uselessness. Pushing my SP again, trying to force a clearer perception or debug whatever was coming… the potential cost, the [Cognitive Damage] warning, felt terrifyingly real. Could end up like one of those drooling Glitch-shock victims, I thought, the fear a cold knot in my stomach. Or worse, maybe I just... blue screen myself permanently.

Leo, beside me in the jump seat, had gone rigid, his face a mask of terror barely visible in the dim cockpit glow. "What is it?" he finally whispered, his voice trembling so badly the words barely formed. "Is it… is it just one?"

The clicking intensified slightly, seeming to echo from multiple points now. Click-k-klick-click…

"Doesn't sound like it," Anya replied grimly, her hands tight on the controls. She flicked a switch on her console. A burst of harsh static erupted from the comms speaker, followed by silence. "Comms are useless down here. Too much interference."

She spared a half-second glance at the tactical display, which showed nothing but sensor ghosts and distortion warnings behind us. "Alright, standard Undercroft creepy-crawly protocols. Assume it's fast, assume it hunts by sound or vibration, and assume it has way too many legs."

She eased the Probability Drive forward a few inches, the tracks crunching loudly on the debris. The clicking behind us stopped instantly. The green lights remained, unmoving, watching. Waiting.

"They hunt vibration," Anya confirmed, her voice low. "Smart buggers." She scanned the path ahead, illuminated by the powerful forward floodlights. The narrow tunnel continued, twisting slightly. "We can't go back the way we came, especially not with whatever brought down that slab potentially waiting. And we have to get through this sector to bypass the Kilo-7 field." She reiterated the goal, grounding us slightly amidst the immediate panic. Avoidance wasn't an option. "Means dealing with our fan club back there."

The clicking resumed, slow at first, then faster, closer. Click-klick-CLICK-CLICK… More pairs of green lights winked open in the darkness, spreading out slightly, flanking the original pair. Not just one. Maybe half a dozen?

Okay, time for specifics. The lights weren't perfectly round. They were slightly elongated, almost like narrow, horizontal slits. Cold, phosphorescent green, lacking any discernible pupil. Just flat, glowing bars of eerie light.

"See them clearly now," Leo breathed, leaning forward, his draftsman's eye for detail overcoming his fear for a moment. "They're low… segmented bodies, maybe? Lots of… legs. Thin legs. Like… like giant, armored centipedes made of shadow and rust?"

Armored centipedes. My stomach did a slow roll. The URE entry for Critters (Bio & Data) suddenly felt woefully inadequate.

Anya nodded grimly. "Tunnel Stalkers. Thought they mostly stuck to the deeper levels." She keyed another command. "Alright, let's try the welcoming lights."

The rear floodlights suddenly pulsed, shifting from steady white to a blinding, strobing pattern of intense ultraviolet and harsh white light. The effect was disorienting even within the cockpit.

A chorus of angry hisses and clicks erupted from the darkness. The green eyes blinked rapidly, several pairs retreating momentarily deeper into the shadows, but the original pair held their ground, seemingly unfazed by the light. One of the creatures darted forward with impossible speed, a blur of segmented, dark chitinous plating and far too many scuttling legs, visible for only a fraction of a second in the strobing glare before vanishing back into the darkness near the tunnel wall. It was easily six feet long.

"Okay," Anya muttered. "Plan A: Annoy them with bright lights – limited success. They're adaptable." She activated another system. A low hum built beneath us, different from the drive core. "Plan B: Sonic deterrent. Low frequency pulse. Brace yourselves, this might rattle fillings."

A deep, subsonic WHUMP resonated through the tunnel, felt more than heard. It vibrated through the vehicle's frame, through the seats, settling deep in our bones. Outside, the clicking became frantic, panicked. Several green lights darted erratically, bumping into walls.

Success?

Then, the largest pair of eyes – the original pair – lunged. It moved with a speed that defied its apparent size, launching itself up the tunnel wall, scuttling across the damp concrete ceiling like gravity was a minor inconvenience. Its underbelly, glimpsed for a moment, was a pale, segmented horror, rows of clicking legs propelling it forward with terrifying speed.

It was heading over us.

"Ceiling!" Leo yelled, pointing frantically upwards.

Anya swore violently, ramming the throttle forward while simultaneously triggering the side deflectors. "Scrabbling little -! Get off my rig!"

The creature dropped from the ceiling directly onto the Probability Drive's roof with a sickening thud that echoed through the cockpit. Immediately, a horrible scraping, clicking sound began directly overhead, the sound of hardened chitinous claws trying to dig into the surface, trying to rip through the armored plating.

Alarms blared on Anya's console as proximity sensors went wild.

"It's on the roof!" Anya snarled, fighting to keep the vehicle moving forward in the narrow tunnel while simultaneously trying to dislodge our unwelcome passenger. She swerved sharply, scraping the rig's side against the tunnel wall with a horrendous screech of metal on concrete. The creature overhead screeched back, an ear-splitting sound like tearing metal mixed with an insectile hiss, but its grip seemed to hold.

"Can you shake it?" I asked, my voice tight, watching the flickering core stability monitor. The erratic movements were putting strain on my patch job. Eighty-five percent… eighty-three… holding, but barely.

"Working on it!" Anya gritted out. Suddenly, she slammed on the brakes, or whatever passed for brakes on a reality-bending behemoth. Inertia might be negotiable, but momentum was still a thing. We were thrown violently forward against our harnesses. The creature on the roof, presumably less secured, gave another piercing screech as it was likely flung forward.

Did it work?

Before we could tell, more green eyes appeared ahead of us, emerging from fissures in the tunnel walls, blocking the narrow passage. They hadn't just been behind us. They were flanking us, cutting off our escape route.

The clicking intensified, surrounding us now, echoing claustrophobically.

We weren't just being hunted. We'd driven straight into their nest.

Anya stared at the cluster of green eyes blocking the path forward, then glanced at the frantic sensor readings showing the creature still somewhere on our roof. Her knuckles were white on the controls. Trapped between rock, a hard place, and giant, armored, ceiling-crawling centipede things.

"Okay," she said, her voice dangerously calm now. "So much for Plan B." She looked at me, her hazel eyes burning with desperate intensity. "Debugger… I need another miracle. How's that cosmic duct tape holding?"

My heart sank. Miracle quota felt distinctly exceeded for the day. And judging by the sound of claws scrabbling furiously just inches above my head, time was running out fast.

 

[phanst]

Chapter 0014: Between the Chitin and the Deep Dark

"Debugger… I need another miracle. How's that cosmic duct tape holding?" Anya's voice was dangerously calm, a stark contrast to the frantic clicking and scraping echoing from outside and above the cockpit. Her eyes, reflected in the dim glow of the console, were chips of hard hazel, focused, calculating, but underscored by a tension that tightened the lines around her mouth.

A miracle? My brain felt like sludge. My SP reserves were flashing [SP: 1/80 - ERROR] like a dying battery icon. Just thinking about attempting another reality manipulation stunt made my vision swim and the metallic taste of adrenaline resurge.

"The duct tape is holding," I replied, my voice strained, "but it's stretched thin. Another major reality warp like that inertia negation trick… or trying to offensively debug those things… probably ends with my brain trying to divide by zero." I rubbed my temples, the headache a constant, grinding pressure. The URE's warning about [Cognitive Damage] wasn't an idle threat, it felt like a promise my own neurons were desperately trying to keep me from fulfilling.

What options ARE there? my sluggish mind churned. Maybe try destabilizing the local gravity field? Risky, uncontrolled, could collapse the tunnel. Try broadcasting a massive wave of sensory static? Might confuse them, might just piss them off, probably drain me instantly. Interface with their bio-code? Assuming they have code and not just pure, nasty biology... suicide mission, requires touching them or getting dangerously close. The thoughts were fragmented, laced with static and the icy fear of permanent mental burnout. The usual debugging toolbox felt empty, the tools too heavy to lift.

Anya seemed to understand the unspoken limitations. She didn't push, just nodded curtly. "Right. So, brute force it is." Her hands flew across the controls again. "Leo, keep an eye on the one on the roof, tell me if it finds a weak spot. Ren, see if you can spot a pattern in the forward group. Weakest point in their formation?"

Even simple observation felt difficult. The cognitive fog made distinguishing individual shapes in the cluster of glowing green slits ahead taxing. But Leo, his initial panic seemingly replaced by a focused intensity born of immediate danger, was already leaning forward, peering intently.

"The one on the far left!" he called out, pointing. "Its carapace… it's damaged! Older scars, maybe? It's hanging back slightly compared to the others." He was using his draftsman's eye again, seeing the subtle imperfections, the deviations from the norm.

Anya grinned, a feral flash of teeth in the dim light. "Good eye, kid. That's our breakthrough point. Targeting solutions… minimal options down here. Kinetic impact it is."

She activated something else. Not the drive core's reality-bending hum, but a deeper, mechanical thunk from the front of the vehicle. "Deploying the 'Negotiator'," she announced grimly.

From the heavily armored front plating of the Probability Drive, just below the main viewport, a thick, hydraulic ram extended with a hiss. It wasn't elegant. It wasn't high-tech. It was a slab of hardened steel designed for one purpose: hitting things very, very hard.

"Alright, Stalker-bait," Anya muttered, lining up the vehicle with the slightly hesitant creature Leo had identified. "Let's negotiate."

She jammed the throttle forward, not with the reality-warping surge of before, but with raw, brutal track power. The Probability Drive leaped forward, engine roaring in the confined space.

The Tunnel Stalkers blocking the path ahead reacted instantly, scattering slightly, their multiple legs scrabbling for grip on the slick floor. But the damaged one, slightly slower, couldn't evade the sudden charge.

WHAM!

The hydraulic ram slammed into the creature with sickening force. Chitin cracked audibly. Green insect blood splattered against our viewport. The Stalker was flung backward, tumbling into its brethren, creating a momentary chaos in their ranks.

But the creature on the roof chose that exact moment to strike. The scraping intensified, followed by a series of heavy thuds against the cockpit's upper viewport. It had found the reinforced window. Dark, multi-jointed legs scrabbled at the edges, thick claws screeching as they sought to dig into the transparisteel. A hideous, wedge-shaped head, all mandibles and emotionless green slits, pressed against the glass, trying to peer inside.

Leo choked back a scream. Anya swore, wrestling with the controls as the vehicle bucked slightly under the shifting weight and impact.

"It's trying to break through!" Leo yelled.

"Noticed!" Anya snapped back. She swerved violently, trying to scrape the creature off against the tunnel wall. Metal shrieked against concrete, showering sparks. The Stalker hissed, clinging on tenaciously.

"Damn parasites!" Anya scanned her controls. "Can't depressurize the roof plating down here, structural risk… Can't use external countermeasures without hitting the tunnel walls…" She was running out of options.

The Stalkers ahead, recovering from the initial impact, were already regrouping, their green eyes fixing on us again, clicking sounds resuming their menacing rhythm. We were still trapped.

Think, Ren, think! Forget reality code. Basic physics. The creature was on the roof. Vulnerable. Maybe…

"Anya!" I yelled, leaning forward, pointing towards her main console. "The deflectors! Can you overload one? Specifically, the roof emitters?"

She frowned, momentarily confused, even as she dodged another lunge from the Stalkers ahead. "Overload them? Why? That'll blow the emitters, probably cause a cascade failure in the shield grid!"

"Exactly!" I urged, the desperate idea solidifying even through the mental haze. "Don't try to push it off! Try to cook it off! A controlled overload, directed straight up! Burst of pure heat and EM! Might damage the roof plating, definitely fry the emitter, but…"

Understanding dawned in Anya's eyes, quickly replaced by calculating risk assessment. "Shit. That's crazy. And probably expensive." She glanced at the Stalker head pressing insistently against the viewport, mandibles clicking. "...But maybe just crazy enough." Her fingers flew across a different panel, inputting override commands. Red warning lights flashed. [Warning: Shield Emitter Overload Protocol Initiated. Safety Interlocks Bypassed.]

"Emitter five, roof-center, charging overload!" Anya yelled. "Hang on! This might get bumpy! And possibly toasty!"

A high-pitched whine started building, distinct from the drive core hum, resonating through the cockpit plating. The temperature inside ticked up noticeably. The Stalker on the roof seemed to sense the energy build-up, its scrabbling becoming more frantic, its hisses more agitated.

"Now!" Anya slammed her fist onto an activation button.

FWOOSH-CRACKLE!

A blinding flash erupted from the roof emitters, visible even through the thick viewport as reflected light. It wasn't blue deflector energy, it was pure, uncontrolled discharge of white-hot plasma and crackling electromagnetic chaos. The vehicle shuddered violently. The lights inside flickered, dimmed, then surged back. The Stalker's screech cut off abruptly, replaced by a horrifying sizzling sound and the smell of burnt insect flesh permeating the recycled air.

Anya immediately threw the vehicle into a hard forward lurch, dislodging whatever charred remnants remained on the roof. They presumably tumbled off behind us, though neither Leo nor I wanted to look.

The path ahead was momentarily clearer, the forward Stalkers seemingly stunned or intimidated by the violent energy discharge. Anya didn't waste the opening. She pushed the Probability Drive forward relentlessly, tracks churning, ramming through the remaining stunned creatures without slowing. More sickening crunches echoed through the hull.

We burst past the chokepoint, leaving the nest behind, plunging deeper into the twisting, lightless tunnel. Anya didn't ease up, pushing the battered vehicle as fast as the narrow confines allowed. Only when the clicking and hissing sounds had completely faded behind us did she finally allow the engine to settle back into a less frantic rhythm.

Silence fell again, heavy and thick, broken only by the drive's hum and our ragged breathing. The immediate threat was gone. But the cost was evident. Smoke curled faintly from a scorch mark visible on the edge of the upper viewport. Warning indicators for the shield grid blinked angrily on Anya's console. My head felt like it might actually split open.

"Okay," Anya breathed out, running a shaky hand over her face. "Note to self: Sonic deterrents and roof-cooking. Add it to the manual." She glanced back at me, then at Leo. "Status report?"

"Alive," Leo managed, slumping back in his seat. "Need… need new underwear, probably."

"Ditto," I muttered, trying to push down the wave of nausea threatening to overwhelm me. "Core stability… eighty-one percent. Seems unaffected by the light show. But… Anya… my head…" The world was starting to tilt again, the edges of my vision blurring.

"Easy, Debugger," Anya's voice softened slightly, losing some of its hard edge. She was already scanning readouts on her console. "You pushed way too hard back at the garage. Bio-signs are… not great." She frowned. "Looks like your 'Emergency Reserve' has some nasty feedback. We need to get you stabilized. There's a relatively secure maintenance junction about a klick ahead. Used to use it as a layover spot." Her pragmatism returned. "Can you stay conscious until then?"

Staying conscious felt like a monumental task. The darkness outside the floodlights seemed to press in, swirling with phantoms born of exhaustion and cognitive strain. Closing my eyes felt dangerously inviting.

"Yeah," I lied weakly, gripping the sides of my seat. "Just… keep driving." The universe might be buggy, but right now, simple unconsciousness felt like the most terrifying system crash of all.

 

[phanst]

Chapter 0015: Maintenance Junction Oasis (Relative Oasis, Conditions Apply)

The Probability Drive chewed through the narrow, damp tunnel, its powerful floodlights cutting a swathe through the oppressive darkness. Behind us, the silence felt absolute, the nest of Tunnel Stalkers thankfully not giving chase. Or perhaps occupied with mourning (or eating) their electro-cooked comrade. Ahead, there was only the twisting blackness, the rhythmic crunch of the tracks on debris, and the low thrum of the reality drive core, currently behaving itself thanks to my increasingly frayed cosmic duct tape.

Inside the cockpit, the atmosphere was thick with exhaustion, residual adrenaline, and the lingering, unpleasant odor of burnt insect flesh. Leo was quiet in the back, occasionally wiping condensation from a side viewport, his initial terror replaced by a wide-eyed, wary vigilance. Anya piloted with unwavering focus, her face illuminated by the complex glow of the controls, though I could see the faint lines of strain around her eyes. This place clearly took its toll, even on someone familiar with its dangers.

My own condition was… sub-optimal. The world viewed through the main viewport seemed subtly distorted, colors bleeding slightly at the edges, straight lines seeming to curve almost imperceptibly. The cognitive fog persisted, making complex thought feel like trying to swim through syrup. My headache pulsed relentlessly. Trying to even think about accessing [Perceive Glitch] sent warning bells ringing in my skull. It was a visualization of my mental 'toolbox' flickering erratically, the tools sparking feebly, refusing to properly materialize. The well was dry, and attempting to draw from it again felt physically dangerous. The URE's warning about potential Cognitive Damage wasn't just text on a screen... it was a palpable threat looming behind every stray thought.

"How much further?" I asked, my voice raspy. Talking felt like an effort.

"Almost there," Anya replied without looking away from the path ahead. "See that bend? Junction is just beyond it. Used to be a major pumping station nexus before the lines were rerouted decades ago. Relatively secure, structurally sound… mostly. Had power regulation issues, though."

As we rounded the bend, the tunnel widened slightly. Ahead, the floodlights revealed not just another intersection, but a larger chamber carved out of the rock and concrete. Thick pipes, coated in rust and grime, crisscrossed the ceiling and walls. In the center stood an uninhabited, windowless structure built of heavy reinforced concrete. It was the maintenance junction building itself. Its thick steel door looked securely shut.

Anya brought the Probability Drive to a smooth halt just outside the junction building. She killed the main drive hum, plunging us into an eerie silence broken only by the quiet whir of internal life support fans and the distant, ever-present drip… drip. The sudden lack of the core's vibration felt strangely unnerving.

"Okay," Anya announced, unbuckling her harness. "Temporary pit stop. Need to check the rig for damage after that Stalker demolition derby, let the core cool slightly, and…" she glanced back at me, her expression assessing, "…get you upright, Debugger. You look like crap warmed over."

"Feel like crap reconstituted from recycled error logs," I muttered, fumbling with my own harness buckle. My fingers felt clumsy, slightly numb.

"Leo," Anya instructed, already moving towards the cockpit hatch, "stay inside, keep watch. Cycle through the external sensors. Yell if anything bigger than a mutated rat shows up."

Leo nodded mutely, his eyes scanning the sensor readouts she indicated.

Anya cracked the cockpit hatch. The air that wafted in was thick with the Undercroft's usual charming perfume of mildew, decay, and wet stone, but thankfully lacked the immediate scent of burnt insect gore. She dropped lightly to the ground, her boots crunching on the rubble-strewn floor. I followed more awkwardly, my legs feeling shaky, the simple act of standing and moving requiring conscious effort. The oppressive quiet of the chamber pressed in.

The maintenance junction building looked solid, almost bunker-like. Anya approached the heavy steel door, examining an ancient-looking control panel beside it. It was similar to the keypad outside her workshop, but even older, more corroded.

"Standard mag-lock, but the power coupling down here is notoriously unstable," she commented, tracing a finger over the rusted casing. "Sometimes it works, sometimes it needs… persuasion." She glanced at me pointedly.

I shook my head, leaning against the cool hull of the Probability Drive for support. "Don't look at me. Persuasion circuits are offline. Might manage to order a pizza telepathically if I'm lucky, but bypassing security locks? Not happening." Even visualizing the keypad's potential circuitry sent sparks of pain behind my eyes.

Anya frowned, then shrugged. "Figured. Alright, Plan B." She rummaged in one of her belt pouches and produced a compact, multi-frequency sonic resonator – a tool designed for materials testing, or, more likely in her case, finding structural weaknesses. She pressed it against the door near the lock mechanism, fiddling with dials. A low, focused hum filled the air, changing pitch as she adjusted the frequency.

"Looking for the resonant frequency of the locking pins," she explained, concentrating. "Old trick. Usually faster than cutting..."

Suddenly, a high-pitched whine emanated from the device, and it sparked violently in her hand. Anya cursed, snatching her hand back as the tool went dead. "Damn it! Power surge from the building's grid. Told you the regulation was shit." She kicked the steel door in frustration. "Locked tight."

"So… we're sleeping in the truck?" I asked hopefully. The cockpit, while cramped, felt marginally safer than the Undercroft tunnels.

"Can't," Anya stated flatly. "Need to run external diagnostics on the drive connections and check the track assembly for stress fractures after that impact. Plus, the rig's energy signature, even idling, is like a beacon down here. Need to power down fully, and we can't do that exposed." She looked from the stubbornly locked door to me, then back again, tapping a finger against her chin. "There is one other way in. Maintenance shaft access on the roof. But it's small, probably rusted shut, and getting the Probability Drive up there is… not an option."

"So we climb?" I guessed, already feeling exhausted at the prospect.

"We climb," she confirmed. "Or rather, I climb. Get inside, override the lock from the internal panel, let you two in. You," she pointed at me, "look like you'd fall off a ladder standing still right now. Stay with the rig. Keep Leo company. Try not to… I don't know… spontaneously debug the local gravity or something."

It was a pragmatic plan, playing to our current strengths (or lack thereof). She had the agility and presumably the tools. I had the distinct liability of potentially passing out if I stood up too quickly.

Anya retrieved a compact coil of synth-rope and a grappling hook from a storage compartment on the Probability Drive. She expertly sized up the ten-foot height of the junction building, eyed the rusted service ladder bolted to the side, and shook her head. "Ladder looks like decorative rust. Grapple it is."

With a practiced flick of her wrist, she sent the grapple soaring upwards. It hooked securely onto a sturdy-looking ventilation grate near the roof edge. Testing the line with her full weight, she nodded, satisfied.

"Alright," she said, turning back to me. "Shouldn't take long. Keep the comms open, even if it's mostly static." She gestured towards my ear where a small comm bead resided. Standard scavenger tech, mostly useless for long range, potentially viable for short-range line-of-sight. "Yell if anything changes. And Ren?"

"Yeah?"

"Try not to pass out," she said, a ghost of a smirk touching her lips before she turned and started ascending the rope with fluid, athletic grace, disappearing quickly onto the flat roof above.

Left alone in the relative quiet of the chamber, leaning against the silent metal beast, the weight of my exhaustion pressed down harder. The silence felt heavy, expectant. My blurry vision played tricks, making shadows writhe in the corners of the floodlight beams.

Suddenly, Leo's voice crackled over the comm bead in my ear, tight with suppressed panic. "Ren? Ren, you need to see this. External sensors… rear quadrant. Something's coming back down the tunnel we just came from. Fast."

My blood ran cold. Back already? Or something else drawn by the commotion? Alone, outside the vehicle, with Anya on the roof and my brain running on fumes… this pit stop was rapidly turning into another potential deathtrap.