Chapter 11

"So here's what you're going to do," Rob said.

He turned, not fully facing me. His gaze had been on the wall as he spoke, one hand propped on his hip while scratching his chin absentmindedly. He'd tucked the heavy revolver into his waistband, having tossed the towel onto the counter before stepping further into the Pod.

I leaned against the chest-high partition separating us and propped my arms across the top as he spoke from within his sleeping area.

"It seems safe out there for the moment, but, Owen," he said, a tinge of regret coloring his words as his eyes made contact with mine. "You can't stay here."

In an instant, the feeling of resolution I'd accumulated bled out. My heart thumped twice behind my rib cage. It was an unexpected funeral dirge on a gloomy morning.
A pain. Prickling from within my chest along with a slowly dawning realization.

He wanted me to leave.

The gravity of the situation pressed like a crushing weight. It was less sharp and lacerating than Dora's choice, but nonetheless still there. A steadily building, icy-cold mass of dread and fear pulling me downward link by link; a chain of dejection.

I'd finally left the tunnels. Successfully avoided the goons and their lookouts. Gotten somewhere warm, full of air and absent of stabbing red-eyed murder-bots. Sought someone else's help after having survived brutal conditions and was now going to be turned away.

I had no more plans. No more tricks up my sleeve: I was spent.

Rob's eyes were pools of sadness. Deep enough to challenge the distance I would've covered if I'd jumped off the railing. He didn't say anything as he patiently watched me.

I floundered. Split between the decision to feebly plead my case or simply collapse to force being physically dragged out of the lock. Coming to Rob's had been my best, and likely last, hope. The few moments of reprieve I'd already gotten were beyond what I should've asked for. If he was saying he couldn't help? I didn't need to drag him into my problems.

"Okay," I said quietly. There was really nothing else to say. At least he hadn't shot me. "Can I just sit here for a few more moments?"

I didn't want him to see my face anymore, so I turned around quickly. "You can call that paying off the favors if you need to," I said, trying to keep the defeat out of my voice and failing miserably.

"Wait, Owen. I meant you'd have to leave the Stacks." There was a note of shock in Rob's voice as he came back into the kitchen, "ARE YOU CRYING?!!"

"...no." I said, unconvincingly, as I covered my face. My gloves were disgusting, but I wasn't in any place to care as my shoulders sank, and I tried not to let the emotions burst forth.

It was a losing battle.

"Hey. Sit the hell down, Owen. Geez." He guided me to a seat he'd extended so I could sit at the table. "Look. If McCreed decides to initiate a contraband search now, we're sunk. That's why we've got to get you out of here and somewhere else. Somewhere not the Stacks. That's all I meant."

"You were going to kick me out!" I squeaked. My voice had come out as more of a whine than legible words, a much higher pitch than I'd meant for it to. Embarrassing.

"Are you kidding me right now?!" Rob said, half laughing as he sighed, "Look, man. Sit here and take a moment, alright?"

He backed up a few paces, examining me as if now only realizing I was wearing an Outerall while off shift. He blinked a few times more as if he was also just noticing how bedraggled my appearance was. "I think now is the time for me to ask what the hell happened to you."

I took a few measured and calming breaths, feeling more than a little embarrassed at my emotional outburst as I tried to collect myself. A metal cup, filled to the brim with water, was lowered into my view. I gulped it down gratefully and immediately felt better.

My head cleared.

"Sorry, Price." He said, taking the empty cup. "I should've realized how bad a shape you were in."

He turned, plunking the cup down onto the counter. This caused his arm to bump into another cup sitting near the plate I'd seen earlier. Like a biblical tsunami, more of the cup's contents spilled over and into the dish to combine with the liquid already there.

With lightning-fast reflexes, which seemed unreal, Rob snatched the cup before it could fully tilt. I would've been impressed were it not for my sudden inability to tear my gaze away from the half-moon shape of the grayish-white patty. It was swimming in the cooling sea of shimmering brown liquid, the thin layer of Caf glistening in the light as Rob deftly manipulated the cup back onto the counter.

I should've been repulsed by the soupy leftovers but wasn't as my stomach gurgled.

It wasn't a gurgle of rejection or discomfort, as one would've expected for a soggy, cold, half-eaten meal. Instead, it came out as a powerfully elicited act of defiance, meant to communicate just how unhappy it was at being restrained from the object of its newest, deepest desire.

Like some uncivilized creature hermiting within a dark and forgotten cave, I felt my jaw tighten in anticipation of a bite. My mouth watered involuntarily as I fought the sudden urge to snatch the puck from the flooded plate and stuff it into my mouth.

Rob's eyes flicked from the half-eaten food to my face and back again.

raised a grime-encrusted finger in question. "You, uh, wouldn't happen to have another one of those pucks, would you?" I asked, voice meek.

"No. That's the last one, sorry." He was frowning.

Not surprising. Protein Pucks had never been one of my favorite foods since I'd eaten a lot of them as a kid. I hadn't rushed to repair our refrigeration dispenser when it had broken down, and even before, we'd only kept a few stocked for when it was either too late, or too inconvenient to seek out a food cart, or take a trip to the Corporate Cantina.

Rob seemed like he wasn't any different.

"Do you mind then?" I tried not to drool everywhere.

"Have at it." He said with a wave.

I turned, lifting the dish to my mouth as Rob stood and walked back into his sleeping area. Probably to get away from watching me eat in the state I was in.

There is an oft-misquoted and repeated saying where nine meals are credited as the only thing between mankind and various states of anarchy or disorder. While the target of the meaning might change depending on whoever delivered the message, I think I understand much better now the truthfulness of the number. Between the double shift and the night before, I'd likely only missed four meals at the maximum. As my lips touched the dish, and cold, bitter Caf poured into my mouth, I was certainly more than ready to do things...TERRIBLE things to anyone and anything stepping between me and consuming the scraps I held.

Rob continued busying himself as I ate.

Okay, ‘ate’ is the wrong word. I ravaged it. Tore it apart. You could even say I inhaled it despite the fact my stomach would've never let my lungs have the satisfaction.
How did it taste?

Well...it was cold. Crumbly. Uh, gooey? And dry. Oddly dry.

It was a number of conflicting, normally unpleasant things, but to summarize in a single phrase in the moment?

It was magnificent.

I swore I could feel the calories being absorbed and burned as the energy hit my system. My body was rewarded with a single, fleeting moment of pure, unadulterated bliss as I chewed for all I was worth. I was pretty sure a double slice of REAL, succulent, high-scrit, vat-grown beef couldn't have matched how I felt right now. I paused to suck down the remainder of the cold cup of Caf, not even caring about the bitterness as I closed my eyes and savored the sensation of the sharp, stabbing pain of hunger dulling down to a simpering roar.

I sighed, taking a steadying deep breath to better relish the sensations of my absolute basic needs being, partially, met. I grimaced as the moment was ruined by a whiff of what I probably had been smelling like since entering Rob’s Pod. A few more test sniffs confirmed the double shift, running, and literal stewing in my Outeralls had led to an...unpleasant result.

From behind, I was startled as I heard a thump, which was followed by a series of gagging noises coming from Rob's sleeping area. I dropped the plate with a clatter as I rushed over to the half-partition. Rob had his back to me, hands on his knees as he attempted to keep himself upright.

"Rob!" I yelled, eyes scanning around for threats or signs of danger.

He straightened with much difficulty before turning around to glare at me.

"What is that...SMELL?!" He exclaimed, looking at me through watering eyes. His free hand was pinching his nostrils shut as his other hand dropped something into a pile of equipment at the foot of his bed. "Ugh...what did you do, roll around in a vat of dead things?!"

"There wasn't a vat," I said in mild annoyance, "And I've been in here for a while. How are you only complaining now?"

"I thought I'd need to fight!" Rob yelled, "I dialed down my implants so they wouldn't get glitzed." He blinked several times as he shook his head, having toggled something in his interface as his expression shifted back to normal.

"Wait." He said, glaring at me as confusion passed over his face, "You said you rolled around in dead things?!"

"No!" I said. "I mean, it wasn't a bunch of dead things, and I didn't roll around in it or anything. There was just this one dead guy and a hood I had to..."

"DEAD GUY?!" He yelled, pinching the bridge of his nose as he took a deep, calming breath. I went quiet.

"How did you get involved with a...you know what? I don't even wanna know. You. Shower. Now. Leave the suit and gear on the floor.” He shoved me hard. In the direction of the shower. “Geez. They’re going to know you were here just by the smell," he muttered as I blushed. Saying nothing despite wanting to defend myself.

I began stripping the work uniform off, Outeralls falling to the floor in a heap as I wiggled out of my jacket and pants. Clad in under suit and a cloud of funk, I stepped into the booth, letting the sensor begin the weak spray of, surprisingly, hot water.

I heard the booth clatter and felt lines of pain, which caused me to curse. The uncomfortable sensation of a million needles raking across my skin spiked my senses as a thick-bristled brush attacked me from above the curtain, which barely kept the water from leaving the confines of the coffin-like booth. The scrubbing was unrelenting, the soap harsh and chemical-smelling, and, while I wasn’t exactly a prude by any scale of reference, being suddenly and harshly poked and prodded out of nowhere wasn’t the best experience.

“The hell?!” I shouted indignantly, sputtering as a hard scrub pushed my head under the spray, “Rob?! STOP!”

“You smelled horrible, Owen!” Rob yelled, pausing to squirt more soap onto the brush as he readied for another barrage of scrubs.

“I’ll wash then!” I tried to sputter out but was overridden as his attack pressed forward. The combination of water, soap, and trailing grime stung my eyes and kept me from being able to defend myself effectively as he continued to yell, "I AM washing you. HOLD STILL!"

He managed a few more skin-scraping scrubs involuntarily on my part before I was finally able to yank the brush out of his hands to glare at him indignantly.

“Dammit, Rob!” I said, flipping the brush over and holding it up threateningly. “I can wash myself, you know!”

My yelling served only to amuse him as he keeled over, laughing. My rage was ruined by the grin that broke out on my face. In mock surrender he raised his hands, wincing as he realized the smell was clinging to them before, thankfully, leaving me to handle the rest.

I went to work on the suit as he resumed his original task of gathering equipment, making sure to give his hands and arms a thorough wash first in the kitchen sink.

Now unmolested, I set to my own work. The under suit was stripped off, hung on a set of clips, and dribbled grayish water as I rinsed it out a few times for good measure.
Couple squirts of soap, a bit of elbow grease (sans flesh-flay), a quick hang on the drain line, and in short order I cleaned myself up enough to almost feel like a normal person again.

The suit, jacket, and pants took much more work but were handled in decent order as I shut off the water, which had grown cold as the work completed.

I turned, realizing the Pod had gotten oddly quiet as I'd labored.

A question was formed on my lips when my vision became suddenly obscured. The feel of a rough cloth scraping against my face forced me to close my eyes involuntarily and the room went dark.

I was blinded.

Chapter 10

The trip out to Block M, Stack 17, Level 12, Pod 7 was relatively simple.

Save for a few bumps into early morning errand-runners, and a close call with a pair of guards too busy discussing Holoball scores than looking out; it had taken a while, but I’d made it.

When compared against my far more eventful subterranean journey within the maintenance tunnels, the trip had been a leisurely stroll. I'd made my way away from the Goons and their baying shouts, taking great care to avoid being followed before ending up here: In front of the residence of one Robin P. Franklin. Co-worker and Shift Supervisor for Section Four-D, Shift Three.

“Somebody better have died, or I swear..." Rob stated as he glared out at me from the Outer Lock's screen. Roughened by exposure to the elements, and possessing all the hallmarks of a bear being woken early from hibernation; The expression was anything but welcoming.

It had already been a long night with little sign I'd reach an end which didn't involve a bad result. In hindsight? Rob's less than warm reception made me wish I'd thought more about what to say before I'd hit the call button. He looked as tired as I felt.

I lowered my hood and stepped into the light, allowing the Outer Lock's optical pick-up to frame my face.

"Someone did." I said. Flatly. "Hey to you too, Rob."

The scowl disappeared and was replaced by a look of shocked recognition. His bushy eyebrows shot upward, practically disappearing into the Chestnut colored hair which matched his burly beard.

"Owen. What?!" He bleated out.

He force coughed once into his closed fist, and managed to choke off whatever he was about to accidentally say next.

He turned back to glare at me, eyebrows scrunching together like a pair of hairy caterpillars as he regained his composure. His voice practically growled as the speaker rumbled with his discontentment at being surprised.

"If you're HERE. Who's covering my shift?!" he demanded.

His scowl returned two-fold as he attempted to cover his initial reaction by lowering his tone and morphing before my eyes from "Poked-Woke-Bear Rob", to "Boss Rob"; My least favorite.

Laced with an undercurrent of barely contained irritation, bridled rage, and unspoken annoyance: "Boss Rob" was the voice he used when he unceasingly chewed out whomever dared bother him with ridiculous requests and lazy excuses.

Like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar; I clammed up. A familiar feeling of having done something wrong washed over me as he glared.

I felt my face redden as I suddenly felt nervous. It became obvious to me I wasn't exactly sure how much weight a few supposed favors would amount to in Rob's eyes. The double cover I'd been in the middle of working before I'd been dismissed and summarily fired was to be one of them, but...No. I was desperate.

“Uh,” I eeked out and winced, realizing how suspicious the next part might sound as I mentally fumbled for a way to present my case.

Rob's eyes pierced through the screen at me as he squinted. An uneasy feeling grew in the pit of my stomach as I continued to stumble. The suspicion came through in waves as his brown eyes probed the screen's borders for more information, like an Owl hunting for a scrabbling Rat on a forest floor.

“Yeah. Little bit of a problem with that. Any way we could talk about this inside? It's, uh...freezing out here," was all I could say.

I was suddenly not quite so sure coming to Rob's was the best idea I'd ever had.

Rob opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted as clicking noises began to issue from the feed. He blinked rapidly, looking as if he'd gotten something stuck in his eye and couldn't get it clear. Like a spinning globe, the right orb of his eye spun within its socket. It would've been alarming, except, I knew Rob. Rob's finicky implant, his right one, was acting up again.

Turning his body to hide his face from the feed, he covered the eye with a hand as he colorfully swore, away from the screen's pick-up and with much aggravation.

I grinned as an inner part of me relaxed. As silly as it sounded, I no longer felt as unsure about coming. Rob was Rob. The familiar event broke what tension I'd been holding as he attempted to percussively 'fix' his malfunctioning optic with his right palm. It was a comfortingly familiar action reminding me Rob was a guy just like me, doing what he could with what he had.

Having finally whacked the implant into suitable function, he glowered. "You didn't answer my question," He said.

His face was an angry red to match the expression of annoyance he often gave when his eye gave out in front of someone. He was still upset, whether at me or the optic, I wasn't sure, but I pretended nothing had happened. If you ever worked with Rob, it was an occurrence you eventually got used to; At least now he was no longer acting as "Boss Rob"; I no longer felt so awkward.

“Wait," Rob suddenly said, an expression of shock passing over his face. His brain had finally caught on to what I'd initially said.

"You said someone died?! Who?” His tone had shifted back to the Rob I knew best. A Rob I was more familiar with.

“Know the new guy?” I asked him.

“Ah MAN, not Alan!” He said, genuine pain on his face as he spoke.

I shook my head, “No, no. The other new guy.”

“The one with the leg?”

“The other, other new guy.”

“The one with the arm?”

“No, man. Karl!” I said, looking up at the sky in annoyance. It was actually kind of interesting how many new people we've had come in recently. Huh.

“Ah yeah." Rob said with a notable sense of relief. "The lazy one."

He paused for a few seconds, a neutral sort of expression on his face as he realized maybe he should say something else. "That sucks."

My eyebrows rose a fraction, but dropped back down just as quickly. I was still managing to hold off my own feelings about the entire ordeal, having witnessed it first hand, but...yeah. Sure it was morbid, but I mean, you know, if you want people to feel bad for you dying on the job? Don’t constantly make other people work harder at their job in order to cover for your issues when you didn't work to change.

...I guess.

“How?” Rob asked after a few more beats.

“Heavy Loader,” I said. I tried to focus on something other than my thoughts as I said it. The clouds were getting pretty thick on the horizon.

“Was he high, or something?”

“Very likely.”

“And they fired you?” Rob asked. He seemed genuinely confused.

“Yep.”

“Why you?” He asked.

“I’m still not really clear on that one.”

"You didn't...throw him in the path of..."

"No, Man!" I nearly shouted, looking around to make sure nobody had heard. Still clear.

"Okay." He said, thinking. “What’s Pandora think about all this?”

“Don’t know. She left.” I glumly said.

“Left where? For work?” He asked.

“Left me.”

“Left you?! Left you where?!” His right eyebrow cocked into the air in question, and curiosity.

“Broke up with me, I think.”

“You think? You don’t know?”

“Uh...the writing was pretty clear.”

“Huh.” There was a pause as he absorbed what I was telling him. “So. Who’s covering my shift?” He finally asked again.

It was my turn to glare. “That’s seriously what you care about right now?!” I exclaimed. He wasn't phased in the least.

“Well...I guess? This is a lot to take in at once,” He said.

“They hit me with a Writ for Corporate Asset Seizure, Rob.”

"WHAT?!" He yelled, "Go. Now. Don't come back here, or so help me..."

The camera clicked off immediately, leaving me staring at a reflection of myself. He had hung up.
“Rob!” I hissed, futilely at the blank screen. I tried three more times to call, each manually rejected by Rob, before deciding I'd need to shift to another plan.

Ah, so he wants to play that way does he? Fine.

I began mashing my finger on the top right of the screen in a rapid pattern. A tap code meant to activate the interior comms from the outside. Cool factoid: it’s the same override Security uses on the rare occasion an occupant refuses to respond to a call, and they need to force a message through.

It also lets you listen in on...Um...actually it's probably one of those things I won’t say how I learned. Let’s just say it works for moments like these when someone decides to play possum despite your need to talk to them. Hence, the use.

“Let me in, Rob,” I said quietly as the feed reactivated, “We can talk when I’m not standing here freezing on your damn doorstep. They’ll just as easily spot me if I’m standing out here yelling into the panel as walking around. I just need to cash in a favor, and I’ll be out of your hair in no time. Deal?”

Sounding like he’d abandoned whatever he'd been doing, and was now coming back toward the Inner Door, Rob's voice hit my ears and flowed right into my veins like ice.

“You can’t be here, Owen,” he said. His tone, normally jokey and light, was near unrecognizable now. All traces of "Familiar Rob" somehow gone. In its place was now a much quieter and, frankly, kind of scary sounding Rob. Stern and serious as a tombstone, the new Rob's voice made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up on end. It almost made me stop holding the line open, and I would have...had I been in any sort of position where I could just walk away.

I couldn't. I was too desperate.

“Look, Man. I don’t know what you’re in, or what you’re pulling here, but I’m sure security would be happy to beat it out of me if they catch me out here.”

I heard him breathing, steady and strong. An answer still didn’t come as I tried to put on a brave front despite the growing sense of panic welling back inside.

It was cold. I was hungry. The storm was still coming.

Truthfully? My plans ended the moment I'd made it out of the tunnels and unexpectedly lost the Goon squad much faster than I'd ever anticipated. I was here because I didn't have any other options, any other plans, or even other sources to ask for help.

I was alone.

Putting my head closer to the input, I was suddenly overcome with an urge to do something daring.
“Rob.” I said sharply. “You owe me. Don’t forget that."

I paused, taking a deep breath before speaking clearly and surely, bull-rushing ahead before I had time to stop myself from saying the next part, "Don’t make me do something dumb.”

There was dead air as the last word practically rang inside my skull. As far as words go they weren't the harshest, nor the most impactive, but I held my breath, having taken my last reckless shot into the darkness.

I was ready to give up when the beep of the cycle key caused the Inner Door to open as the lock began to cycle. A trill of hope blossomed within my chest as the screen notified me there was a countdown in progress.

That seemed to do it!

I disengaged the line, lifting the finger to let the interface go dark again, and stepped back to wait as I stared at the quickly approaching clouds as they creeped steadily toward me.

The screen ticked down until four minutes became zero, and the outer door opened.

Rob glanced side to side quickly around us as we came face to face with each other. I looked at him quizzically as he held a grey towel which seemed to cover...something, straight toward my belly; Low and mostly out of view.

New sensations joined the hunger pangs already bouncing around as I realized: He had a weapon. Probably a knife, or stun stick of some sort.

“Uh...” I said, raising my hands up immediately, eyes widening. The textbook image of “dumbfounded” if you decided to look it up. These kind of new experiences were becoming way more common than I ever would’ve wanted them to be, truth be told. Maybe I had laid it on just a little too thick with that last line.

"Put your hands down,” he hissed at me.

I snapped my hands to my side. The sharp twacking sound of the suit hitting itself made me wince as he leaned forward, voice flat. “Price, you’ve got twenty seconds to explain to me why you think trying to threaten me was in any way, shape, or form a good idea.” His cold stare sent a shiver down my spine, a chill entirely unrelated to the temperature surrounding us.

I sputtered for a second before finally being able to speak, “Whoa, whoa, whoa, Rob! Slow down a sec. I only came here to cash in some of the favors you said you owed me. Nothing else!”

He narrowed his eyes and took a step out from the lock. He was very careful to hover out of reach in case I decided to do anything stupid.
I didn't.

“You weren’t followed?” He asked. Despite being my height, Rob seemed a lot larger than I remembered him being as he leaned to either side, getting a better view along both walkways as he kept the towel pointed at my stomach.

Satisfied a Goon Squad wasn’t just waiting down the wings, he returned, and I strained to listen, no longer hearing the groups which had gone Northward. I wasn’t sure if it meant the runner had gotten caught, or had somehow managed to squirt out of their grasp, but of either groups,

I heard nothing. In the distance, the thundered continued to rumble as the storm got closer.

I began to babble, the threat of a weapon making me queasy as I tried to answer as quickly as I could. “I mean, they had a goon squad that was ready to rip my suit and bag off, but McCreed had them let me go. He ordered this greasy Rat-Faced guy...”

I stopped talking as Rob interrupted me.

“Golrich!” he spat out. Venomously and suddenly. “If that idiot is out with the goon squad, then McCreed finally decided to make a move. Hmm.”

I continued to stayed quiet. Seemed like the right kind of move right now, with Rob acting so, uh, UN-Rob-like at the moment. “Did you see anything else on the way here?” he asked, towel still not wavering.

“Yeah, there was someone Security had to chase. Not sure what it was all about, but kind of helped me stay out of sight and mind, I guess.” Interestingly enough, the news seemed to calm him down some.

The frown he now wore was a far cry from the tombstone-serious stare from earlier. I might have gulped. I felt my Adams Apple bob comically as a driblet of sweat rolled down my cheek. I fought the urge to give a nervous smile as my scalp began to itch. He continued to stare.

Nodding once, more to himself than to me, he made up his mind, deciding to step back into the lock and wave me in once with his other, non-towel-pointed-at-my-vital-organs hand.

“In,” He said sternly. His voice had lost the spine tingling attribute, but was still a bit terse.

“We need to get out of sight. Now.”

I quickly jumped, deciding getting on his bad side might not be the greatest idea. He cycled the system closed once I cleared the threshold and spoke to me again.

“Must be why the pick-up never came. Had to be Golrich," he said. I didn’t respond, not wanting to say something dumb, and risk an adverse reaction. We stayed there, silently, for the remaining couple of minutes it took the system to process.

With a hiss, the Inner door began equalizing pressure into the lock. The sensation of warm, dry air against my face and neck was almost too much pleasure to bear. I had to fight an indescribable urge to moan aloud as a long sigh managed to escape, and the homely smells of Rob’s Pod, sandalwood and machine oil, tickled my nose. I was starkly aware of how badly I must've smelled.

I tried not to...stink. A much harder act than it sounds as I resorted to just not moving much in hopes of not making the situation worse. Rob turned to me.

“You said McCreed is involved?” he asked, seemly not affected by the smell as I nodded vigorously. Blissfully happy to be somewhere for a few minutes without risk of discovery, cold, beatings, Crawler stabbing, or other manners of possible death. I was more than happy to answer any questions he had for me.

“Directly?” He asked next.

“Yep,” I said.

“Means he told you he needed something done, didn’t he?”

I eyed him warily, “How did you know?”

He didn’t answer as the inner door opened, and I was given my first look into Rob's living area. I'd been by to speak to Rob before, but had never really seen the inside. What surprised me the most; It was nearly identical to my own former living arrangement. After it had been stripped.

It didn't look like Rob minded it much. For all I knew, it was a key part of the Bachelor life. The ironic part though? At least he still had the hooks.

I mused as Rob leaned against his grey kitchen counter, casually placing the towel wrapped object onto a cutting board with an ominous thunk. Brownish liquid in a small white cup, splashed over to pool around a half eaten protein puck on a plate next to it.

“You were actually going to shoot me?!” I exclaimed, eyes widening. I stared at the high caliber barrel now poking out from under the towel. The bold "S" and "K" logo marked it as a SchwertKaufe Corporation product. I wasn't familiar enough with firearms to be sure what kind. Something probably great at making holes in soft targets. By the size of the barrel? BIG holes.

I tore my attention back to Rob who, rather than immediately answer, leaned back with a weary sigh.

The cup of Caf rocked again, spilling more of its contents. Stupid as it sounded, I was also finding it hard not to look longingly at the protein puck right next to it. Even taking into account the half-moon bite taken right out of the side, and the likely cold puddle of brown liquid it was sitting in? It looked like a Seven Course Meal with all the fixings; Utensils optional.

“Thing is, Owen,” Rob said quietly. His eyes purposefully didn't meet mine as he spoke. I had to swallow the pool of saliva I'd built up as I turned my attention back to him.

“I do owe you for taking all those shifts when I asked you to. Thanks for that, by the way.” he said.

“Uh...you’re welcome?” I said awkwardly in reply. It was still pretty clear he hadn’t exactly answered my question. The change of voice outside had been alarming, but the growing sense I was stumbling into something I wasn’t entirely prepared to deal with was beginning to take up most of my, already straining, head space.

“Can I see the notice?” He asked, holding out a hand.

I nodded, pulling the Filiscript notice out of my bag and handing it to him.

His bad eye seemed to malfunction again, clicking and rattling a little in random directions as if it had a mind of its own. However, Instead of doing the usual swear-and-rub routine, something he often blamed on cheapening out on the implant when he bought it, he casually tapped the eye three times with his free hand in a practiced motion.

The eye immediately snapped forward, making little to no noise as it focused and adjusted smoothly. As he began reading, I watched the eye do something I’d never seen it do since I’d known him. Actually work. It was now functioning like an expensive tech piece rather than the malfunctioning bargain bin cast-away he always joked it to be.

“Damn,” he said suddenly.

He looked up, his gaze piercing as it locked me in; Surprisingly, like a normal, organic eye. One to challenge the near perfect orbs I'd seen on McCreed while we had stood near the railing.

Just how much about Rob did I not actually understand? Had he been putting on a show the whole time I’d known him? I let out a whoosh of a sigh.

I still felt awkward, especially with the growing sense I didn’t truly know the man standing before me.

“Yep.” I said, lips pressing firmly together.

“So they took everything?” He asked.

“Everything Dora didn’t snag.”

“What’d she take?” He asked, one eyebrow raised.

“The real question is what didn’t she take.” I chuckled. It was the mirthless sounding kind. “I was still investigating when the lock notice buzzed in. She even took the hooks by the door, Rob. The HOOKS. Those are bolted in, man.”

He tapped the notice with one finger, “How do you know it was her and the Goons didn’t just get there earlier?”

“Because the Goons would’ve likely scooped up the few Cortex rig parts she’d left out. They wouldn’t have skipped them.”

“Parts?” He asked.

“Mostly just random bits. Transducers, a couple of storage modules, and maybe an inhibitor and regulator. She probably didn’t realize they weren’t just junk. The Goons? They would’ve taken them. Everything was in plain view on the worktable. They'd fetch a few easy Scrit if you know who to ask, or where to sell.”

“Vultures.”

“Exactly.”

I reached into a pocket to fish out the holocard. “And she left me this note," I said, holding it up between two fingers. "Much more obvious.”

He frowned. Taking the holocard in one hand to read the message scrawled on the back, he flipped it over and scowled at the name emblazoned on the front.

“I never did like her.” He said simply, eyes still on the card. He was practically boring holes as he continued to stare at it.

I shrugged.

“This,” He said, tapping the card with his forefinger one handed before crossing his arms, “Also can’t just be a coincidence.”

“Huh? Not a coincidence how?”

"Fillington." He said. “He’s one of McCreed’s guys.”

“McCreed has guys?”

Rob looked at me as if I was being dumb, and I likely was. Especially now I thought about Rat-Face and the Goons. They'd responded to a simple hand signal like trained hounds.

“Course he’s got guys, Owen. He’s a Player. An Exec player. They all have teams of people. People they use to keep their fingers in things. Usually other People.”

“Uh...”

“I don’t mean literal fingers in things, you dolt. You don’t think they just do their jobs and that’s it, do you?”

“I mean well...”

“No, Price. Everyone, and I mean everyone,” He paused, interrupting himself for a second as if thinking, “Okay, everyone but you, and especially any Spire-Corpo who's in contact with us lowly plebes on the ground, are always working something. Some angle, some con, some...Game. THE Game. Anything to get ahead of where they are so they can get to where they think they want to be.”

He said “The Game” like it was a Proper Noun. One of the big ones you capitalize: Names, Places, Objects of Import the whole shebang, and it sounded more like the ole Rob I knew; The one who was full of funny stories, dumb jokes, and off-wall random conspiracy theories which made it hard to take seriously when we were working. It made for great entertainment in the wee hours of the morning, but also made him sound more than a little cuckoo, if you catch my meaning.

“Okay,” I said, causing him to squint at me, trying to determine if I was messing with him or not.

For the record, I was not. This whole...whatever this was? News to me.

At this point, I’m pretty sure I was so overloaded with new experiences, shocks and whiplashes. I’d fully rolled around to, “Willing to accept anything to make sense out of everything going on.” territory.

True open mindedness is accepting you know nothing about what you thought you knew everything about...or something like that.

Rob shook his head, deciding to just continue regardless of what I was thinking. “The short of it, Owen. Fillington is a tool. A tool used by McCreed for a number of things. Fillington works under Golrich. Golrich is under McCreed. McCreed is under someone else, but really doesn’t want or like to be. Anything McCreed says, Golrich makes happen and by extension, Fillington and others like him too. McCreed rewards them with promises of greater cuts of greater futures.”

“Mmm...Sounds like a classic con my dad used to tell me about. Something about Pyramids, Triangles and...Cleaning products?” I thought about it for a second, but Rob just looked at me, confusion plain on his face.

I probably shouldn’t have interrupted him.

Tired. Oops. “Ignore that. I’m following you so far, continue,” I said.

Rob shook his head at me in annoyance, “Anyway. Fillington is a known womanizer, and bit of an asshat to boot. Ego the size of The Spires,” He said, “But very effective in a lot of dealings. Primarily because he, like many others under McCreed’s wing, have a few gray-line implants installed. Implants you don’t just get anywhere, or get installed by just anyone. Pheromone Exhibitors to be exact. Lots of favoritism from McCreed, but that’s because Fillington's good at what he does, with few moralistic quandaries on how he does it.”

“Wait,” I said, perking up.

A sliver of hope blossomed within my chest. “Does that mean Dora could’ve been..."

Rob shook his head, “No, Owen. The exhibitors don’t magically make people do things against their will, or even put ideas into their heads not already there. They just...” He paused. His eyes searched the ceiling as if seeking out exactly what to say. "They make the people in range feel like the person with the Implant seems more...interesting, more...friendly, I guess I should say. In their perception? It’s a little harder to explain, and much more complex. It’s sort of like an urge to trust someone more than you probably would have otherwise. A sense of charisma."

There was a hint of sadness in his eyes as he looked at me now. I was certain the defeat was clear on my face as he continued.

"It makes you view the traits you already viewed as favorable as more desirable than they'd be otherwise. If she decided to leave you for him. It meant she was always going to if she thought the juice was worth the squeeze, bud. The implants just gave her more of a nudge.” I felt my shoulders slump even lower, feeling crestfallen.

Again.

He paused this time, a flash of pain passing over his expression before he managed to get it under control. “You can’t change the nature of the betrayal simply because the grass looked greener than it really was. The person wanting that other grass still has to take the step out. They’re fully to blame, regardless of what they might say about why they did it. I have some first-hand experience here. Let’s just leave it at that, okay?”

I nodded, not looking at him as I sorted through my own feelings.

He let me.

For the briefest of seconds I'd had hope. Hoped maybe she’d been tricked into what she’d done and we could try to blame some outside source for our problems. Hoped at least one of the horrible events of the past few hours was all just a mistake, and though I’d been fired, maybe we could try to weather this thing together.

However. Deep down? I knew. Really knew she’d never truly been happy with me, or us. I’d just been too focused on where we were going and completely missed where we'd been. The ultimate goal of becoming a TxCorp Citizen had felt like it was only an arm's reach away...before the seizure. Like the cloths and silks adorning our former Pod, the utilitarian gray walls being masked were the real truth. The hangings had managed to give an illusion of brightness as I let myself be lulled, but, once torn away the bleakness of our surroundings were laid bare. I'd finally realized where I stood.

I sighed. And with that sigh went some of the heavy weight I’d been dragging around with me.

It was obvious now, how desperately she'd tried to hide; First from herself, then from me as she sought companionship elsewhere. Despite what we'd built together, she'd viewed everything as "hers" and hadn't given a second thought to where I'd be.

Once I'd been stripped of everything and left with nothing, With no more options for going back, to any of it; I was left with only one direction: Forward.

It was a jagged pill to swallow, but one which I ingested because it needed to be done. Events which I couldn’t control might have gotten me to where I stumbled, but it was now time to sort all my energy toward the real task: Where to go from here.

Kind of liberating, really.

Rob, still leaning against his counter, had been watching me this entire time. His eyes worked keenly; Tracking my face, and body language as he observed. He'd been silently giving me time to sort through my own internal conflicts before choosing to speak.

I was here. Still breathing. Still moving, and prepared to move on. Wherever that might be.

I appreciated it, and him, as I gave a shaky smile.

He nodded. Having come to a decision as he pushed off the counter. “Now,” He said with a smirk, and I detected a hint of approval as he said the next line.

“About those favors.”

Chapter 9

The coughing fit was loud.

So loud it managed to cover my own choking noises as I fought to not join in. Just barely.

"Geez, Perc!" A second voice said as the coughing shifted to a wheezy rasp, "You wanna give me a heart attack or something?! Give a guy some warning before you go screaming at him. It's the middle of the night!"

The first voice, Perc, replied. His voice was seething with barely suppressed annoyance as he spoke, "What are you, an idiot? Golrich is on the warpath, and you're down here about to get us on his shit list again?!"

"Yeah? Well, what Golrich doesn't know ain't gonna hurt him," the second voice said. A long plume of smoke drifted in as Smokey, his name until I heard otherwise, took another long drag of his cigarette. He exhaled, making the words like a long sigh as he spoke, "And so long as you don't say anything, it likely won't hurt you either."

There was a long pause as I imagined the looks being traded. Smokey with his likely beady, squinty eyes, and Perc, with a tightened lip indicating his barely contained irritation at the situation.

"I'm no snitch," Perc retorted, "But you're risking both our necks by pulling shit like this when you know they're already pissed off."

I heard Smokey scoff, but he didn't say anything to challenge.

"They'll have both our asses if they find out you waltzed down here taking a break when the rest of us were searching. They want this guy found. Now. Screwing off isn't helping anyone. Especially with McCreed watching us like a hawk up there."

"Hey," Smokey said, a whine in his voice, "I'm searching. Just took some time to take a little break is all."

"I sent you down here to check the maintenance entrance; did you at least do it?" Perc asked.

Cherry red embers scattered as a cigarette spun wildly into view. It hit the ground and bounced several times before rolling slowly toward the upper stairway.

"I was looking for it, I swear. It's right over there, see?" I could imagine Smokey pointing a hand after having flicked the remains of his smoke break toward me. The butt rolled down the stairway, coming to rest only a foot away from my widened eyes as a tiny pillar of smoke twirled in the cold air like a smoke signal. The pillar was starkly visible in the beam of my work light, like moonlight cast on a plume rising from the side of a lonely mountain. I clicked off my work light as I fought to control my breathing, mentally making myself as small as I could imagine.

Have you ever tried not to breathe when you think someone can hear you do it? It's difficult. Very, very difficult. Fortunately, my runs in the tunnels meant I had some practice.

I kept a hand clamped firmly over my mouth to block any escaping noise as I slowly, achingly rolled over and pushed myself up with one arm.

First milestone achieved: I was now on my feet.

"It's easy enough to find, Pete," Perc said, "The problem is I needed you to confirm nobody went in there. With nowhere else to go, that's about the last place he could've used."

Pete probably rolled his eyes, "How's he even going to get in? It's sealed, ain't it?"

"Not all," Perc said, "only the ones connected to Substation Twenty."

"Why twenty?" Pete asked, voicing what I also wanted to know.

"You remember that one guy who disappeared? What was his name? Phillip? Herbert?"

"Nah, before my time. I did hear about the tunnels being sealed off because of someone. What happened?"

"Maintenance tech a few years back found some sort of breach; nobody would tell us what, but the word was he screwed up and got himself killed."

"Huh. Well, what the hell's down there then?"

"Dunno, and I don't care," Perc said neutrally, "Far as we're concerned, what's behind that door could be filled with liquid copper, and I'd still stay the hell away from it."

Pete's voice was suddenly energetic, "Copper?! You really think there's copper down there?!"

There was a pause as I imagined Perc now glaring at Pete in disbelief. "It's marked as a Hazard Five," he said flatly.

"Yeah? So?"

"Five means no air. Nothing down there except Crawler drones and death."

"What about the liquid copper?!"

"Was that seriously all you took from what I said? They said never go anywhere near Substation Twenty, and we're right at a junction. You'd have to be an idiot to try."

"I heard you, but I care more about getting Scrit. Tell me about the copper."

"Pete?"

"Yeah?"

"You're an idiot."

Any snarky response Pete might have had was cut short. A trio of crawlers made their way around the bend, right on schedule.

Hastily sealing my hood, I triggered the door mechanism, which thankfully, and mutely, slid closed. Regardless of what kind of people Perc and Pete might be, I didn't want to risk any future confrontations. It was an easy decision to separate Pete and Perc from a potentially gruesome death. For one...it would've given away my position; never mind the risks for people inhabiting the Pods above.

Given enough time? I wondered how many people the trio of Crawler Drones could kill before someone managed to shut them down. I wasn't even sure if someone had thought to keep the little murder-bots from leaving the confines of the tunnels. One would hope, except I'd seen the way Corpo Coders worked. Branch's corpse was the biggest indicator. Whomever had done the work? Hadn't cared about limits...

Whew.

Yet another random chain of thoughts. I wasn't sure I wanted to go down. Quite the trend tonight.

I watched silently as the Crawlers milled about, eventually losing interest as the atmospheric balance returned to deep-tunnel norms. I kept a safe distance as the three turned back, one on the ground and two on either side of the walls, as they took a left and disappeared.

It was the same direction as Branch's remains, and the one I'd originally taken when I'd first gained access to the tunnels. I eyed the wall morosely as something peeked out from the dull grayish hue coating the tunnel walls on that side.

Through the trailed dots of a Crawler's passing, previously obscured by a thick layer of dust and grime, were white lines contrasting along a reddish-brown backdrop. I reached out a tentative hand, wiping away the veil of time from a thin metal sheet as my eyes goggled at what I'd missed.

It was a map.

Mounted on the wall and nearly as tall as the ceiling was a fully outlined, descriptively labeled maintenance diagram showing the tunnels and connections to nearby junctions. I must've passed by here at least four different times, entirely oblivious to the map's existence as I'd struggled to clear the hurdles of surviving. When I'd first entered the maintenance tunnels, there were a number of obvious pressures forcing my hand to the paths I'd eventually taken.

I toggled a scan using my optical implant's interface as I poured over the image, hovering my vision over a section labeled SS21a. My eyes, much like my feet, were naturally drawn along a line representing the junction corridor as it merged directly into another hub. I fought the urge not to sigh heavily as I read the label: SS20a.

Perc said they were given specific instructions to avoid Substation Twenty at all costs. The irony wasn't lost on me when I realized the way I'd taken proved to be the ONLY way into the SS20's loop, and all other paths either led away or to other sections.

Of course I would've chosen the side the drones were on. Great job, Price. Fan. Flicking. Tastic.

I pondered for a moment as the scan completed, studying the lines leading rightward as I mentally visualized the Stack lanes I often used from memory. Moving along to the next substation would be advantageous, as there were many cross lanes between the location of my Pod and where the next junction ended.

I nodded to myself, shifting over to be on the move. I'd finally obtained my first full grasp of a position since I'd arrived. Of the crawler drones? Their number became fewer and fewer the further I traveled away from my original junction. In this manner, I came across more of the drones working as proper maintenance units rather than the much scarier Hunter-Killers, as packs of duos and trios gave way to the sounds of clicking deeper within the sub-tunnel side passages.

Armed with a renewed sense of confidence and the comforting image of the maintenance schematic, I passed a total number of six sub-tunnels with nary a crawler drone in sight.

I hadn't liked being surprised when Perc yelled at Pete. The doorway being opened when I'd been caught entirely unaware and the danger of making a noise when the smoke hit my lungs highlighted a very pressing need for future risk assessments.

Information was important. The more information I could gather without alerting anyone outside, the less risk I would be exposed to.

If only I could hear where people were above, I'd be able to...

To...

I stopped. The tunnel was quiet, but not silent. What sounds I could hear were irregular and differing. It was almost like I was in the belly of some great vessel, with booted feet on a far-off deck as the waves shifted, making rocking beams creak and moan in the wind.

I glanced up, eyeing the feedlines.

At the previous doorway, I'd gauged activity by the amount of noise making it down into the tunnels from above. I couldn't decipher much as I attempted to mine vital information from the reverberations, but there was something there; something familiar.

A tiny thought solidified into a full-blown idea as I glanced at the contact point on the doorway and my gloved hand.

"They almost sound like...malfunctions," I said to myself quietly.

I lifted my hand and touched it to one of the feedlines. I gasped in shock as data flooded my interface. Data my suit's processing unit was busy converting empirically for my perusal.

Servomech housings!

I made a fist with my other hand and grinned. I could've cried in joy.

Autonomously Powered Servomech Housing Modules, more often known as "Servohousings," were one of the hardest to diagnose components when I first began doing shifts at the Port. The housings were a collection of sensors, actuators, pumps, controllers, and power feeds working in unison to provide locomotion for lumbering Power Loaders.

Without getting too technical, I'd taken my youthful experience with contact data-point sensors and expanded it toward...modifying some functions of the Outeralls which were no longer enabled.

In short, I was able to make the gloved contact points into data collectors.

Why was this important?

When I'd first arrived, if a Servohousing went "bad," it was a big ordeal. A bad Servohousing meant entire sections of components had to be stripped, replaced, recalibrated, and recertified before a unit could be brought back to a certified working status. In most cases this could take hours, if not days, as people scrabbled to isolate malfunctioning systems. It meant entire teams would have to gut out sections. At the time, there was just no way to tell what parts of a housing might have broken without having to fully take one apart.

Enter: The modifications.

With only a slight change to an Outerall's sensor diagnostics mode and a bypass to re-enable the connected audio-pressure sensors located in a suit's gloved fingertip. A very consistent way to get data could be made available.

Such a method could let one learn how to "feel out" malfunctions in a machine as it operated: Quick and ticky might mean something bad within the mechanical portions of the mechanism; weak and tappy a potential power, feed, or hydroblockage issue. There was an endless checklist stored in my implant of conditions such as these.

It still wasn't the point I was making.

No, the real point was it didn't have to just work on Servohousings. The data scrolling across my view was just the thing I needed as the suit's Systems Control Unit did the work of converting the taps, clanks, and vibrations into a simple audiograph.

It was now a trivial action to get a sense of how many people might be above. I just needed to test the feedlines.

I wasted no time once I'd gained this new testing method.

Four passages, including the one I'd done my first test in, were quickly graded as "too hot.". Clear as a hot pan filled with sizzling bacon, the feedlines were practically buzzing to the touch. There was far too much activity to deem those doorways safe.

I quickly moved on.

A weight pressed on the back of my mind, a welling panic, as I tested two more exits and eliminated them as options as well.

I was fighting down a trill of frantic fear when I finally came across a doorway where the activity levels were lower. Out of the dozens of pathways I'd tried within range, none were silent, but this one was relatively quiet and cool in comparison.

I was getting desperate. Almost out of air.

I decided to take the risk.

Approaching the inner side of the doorway, practically a twin of the one I'd used to enter the tunnel system, I pressed my hand against the metallic surface of the door, focusing hard to pick out any noises indicating someone would be on the other side.

Nothing.

Realizing I was finally out of air, spots flashed before my eyes, and I extended my index finger quickly, reciting the magic words like a wizard chanting an incantation to enter an underground kingdom's hidden doorway.

There was a moment, as I stood there, where I imagined the door wouldn't open.

I was wrong.

The door cycled smoothly, and I felt a wave of relief wash over me as I released the hood from its collar. Taking in what I hoped would be my last air-starved breath in the near future, I finally sighed.

I'd made it.

The cold air pressed against my face as I breathed calmly and deeply.

Thunder rumbled in the distance.

My original plan had been to draw attention to myself before ducking back into the tunnel to pull a double back. The plan now sounded less appetizing as I took a few minutes to savor the breeze on my cheek and caught yet another whiff of myself; if anything, the fresh air made the smell worse.

Tucking the hood beneath the metallic collar around my neck, I checked my interface's chronometer and frowned. After my hours-long voyage into the pits, I wasn't very enthusiastic to go back down there, but it was time to put the plan into effect.
I glanced upward, keeping a keen eye for anyone looking out, but I didn't see anyone in the immediate area.

There was nobody. All was quiet.

Taking one final look around, I figured, "To hell with it" and made a mad dash for another stack across the lane, weaving back and forth in a wild attempt to get as many eyes on me as possible.

Still nobody.

Well shit.

I reached the lower floor of the next Stack, panting heavily, having only succeeded in giving myself a side stitch as I propped my hands on my hips as my breath came out in ragged gasps.

What kind of trick is this?! I asked myself as I tried not to vomit, maybe running after all that oxygen deprivation wasn't such a great idea...

It took more than a few minutes to get my breathing back under control. Long enough to figure I'd somehow succeeded in throwing off the Goons before I'd needed to double back.

I guess the tunnels weren't a waste of time after all. How bout that?

Once I felt better, or at least no longer feeling like I wanted to puke, I carefully picked my way between Stacks, still keeping a wary eye out for lookouts. On random whim, I made the odd turn here or there, trying to make sure I stayed on pathways with surfaces that didn’t leave boot prints.

At one point I had to make a slight detour, having come across another group of Security Personnel questioning someone I couldn’t get a full view of. They were dead center in the intersection, directly between me and my planned heading. Figuring caution was better than my curiosity on what was going on, I backtracked, choosing a different avenue to bypass the event entirely; you know, just to be safe.

The precautions I took were rewarded a short while later. A series of shouts, followed by the sound of heavily booted feet tromping and clomping southward, met my ears as I tried to plaster myself to a wall. I remained unmolested as they passed, managing to keep myself from view as I heard the chatter of voices above.

The Goons were tracking the new, unknown quarry as they signaled furiously to each other across the way.

In the distance, additional shouting in the area Rat-Face and his personal team of Goons had taken station. By the sounds of it, whomever Security had tried to question had taken a run for it. The two groups were now baying at each other, pressing so the runner would be herded between them.

The sounds traveled along, away from my newly chosen position and the heading I wanted to travel. I crouched. Motionless as I strained to hear. The thunder rumbled harder as the noises moved further and further away, leaving me in relative silence.

Sweaty, tired, and very...very hungry, I chose to take advantage of the breathing space the unidentified runner had unwittingly gifted me. I took extra care at junctions, slowing down to avoid just popping right out into open areas where I could be easily spotted as I hustled along.

The coast, as they say, still appeared clear. The further from my former home I traveled, the more confident I was my little Fox-Run ruse had worked.

At least for now? I was alone.

The other parts of my plan complete, it was time to move on to the next stage of Operation: Figure Out What To Do Now.

I was left with one of the few options I still might be able to count on, provided the person in question was as willing to help as he'd always said. Checking nearby navigation marks on the side of the walkways, I rose my hood and gently stepped out into the night.

It was time to call in a favor.

Chapter 8

I could've told you it took forever to get from the open doorway to another, but I'd be lying. With the hood in place and armed with the fresh intel of Crawler hunting habits, the walk into the tunnels went by rather quickly and was mostly unremarkable.

The one major discovery of note: Every so often, I came across the skeletons of tiny creatures no wider than my hand and, in some cases, as small as my pinkie: Scrabs. It was during the final stages of the Global War when the Geneva Conventions were ignored. The resulting strikes, a combination of tactical nuclear arsenals and mass biological warheads, created a hellish landscape anywhere not actively defended by advanced screening systems. The hot spots affected by the immense fallout, radiation, and genetic cocktails left behind formed what we called "The Unrecovered Zones."

Sometimes able to chew and claw their way into the heavy metal containers used to transport bulk goods between cities, there were dedicated protocols for handling potential Scrab infestations. Seeing one usually wasn't a big deal. They were a common enough problem at the Port you'd rarely see anything more than single digits or the occasional solo straggler. However, if allowed to thrive, the little vermin could be more than just a headache.

The bare, grinning skeletons seemed no more desiccated than Branch's body despite their smaller size. Some of the bones were even large enough to be mistaken for fingers and metacarpals, possibly from children or small adults. The horrifying image of people being dragged down here by Scrabs mirrored the thought of being pulled into a sub-tunnel by a Crawler. Having not thought much about the subject as a kid when I'd been roaming around unmolested by either?

Nope. I was gonna just not think about that too hard right now.

Judging by the number of remains I'd already spotted, there must have been hundreds, if not a thousand, Scrabs at one point.

I came across a series of dotted trails made by the tapping feet of Crawler drones into the now powdered skeleton mounts. The dots pointed toward one of the doorway vestibules as, behind me, the interspersed lines led toward Branch's corpse. By the looks of the aftermath, the whole of the push inward by the Scrab Wave had been ceased by strategic flooding of nitrogen gas: they'd asphyxiated as the Crawler Drones executed their gruesome task.

Assuming the trail of intact skeletons would thin toward the breach point, I paced carefully toward the nearest vestibule and finally connected key pieces of a very fractured puzzle. The piles closer to the doorway ahead bore scorch marks, with fewer intact bones as the powder became finer and the coloration took on more of an ashen quality. As the numbers of charred piles increased, so too did the quantity of dots as the paths converged.

The ash piles made it difficult to walk as my suit's work light traced the outline of a plastcrete plug, flush with the surface of the wall and fitted to seal a roughened hole no wider than my head.

Surrounding the now-sealed hole were claw marks rising to the ceiling. The lines spread outward along the floor and corridor and were so numerous they flowed in a way reminiscent of an ivy plant, clinging to the dull plastcrete foundation. Moving my light to and fro made the lines stand out in stark contrast as they danced and stretched like wriggling tendrils.

I'd once seen a Creeper Ivy at a botanical garden.

There were other holographic exhibits intermixed, visible examples of the non-genetically modified variants the Ivy had pushed out as it adapted to our climate. The leaves of the Creeping Ivy were vibrant and had a certain aesthetic pattern despite being blended with the duller uniformity of modified genetics. Even with the warnings of its ability to spread and take over man-made ecosystems, the guide had informed us all attempts to control and reconcile the vibrant coloration were met with failure.

"Chaos theory exemplified," she'd said. I recalled the near reverence she'd had as she'd touched one of the leaves.

I'd found the idea beautiful if not also a touch creepy; pun not intended.

Here? The markings were ugly. The claw-created vines formed a hungry scrabble on the plastcrete as the swarm burrowed toward a desperate future. By the looks of the scene as I took it in its entirety, if you thought about it, the swarm only existed by a chain of genetic manipulations, time, and evolutionary theory. Being drawn toward the promise of heat and sustenance was in their make-up, what they were forced to do as a result of their created environment.

Branch had been caught in between Scrab and Crawler as he attempted to save himself. Trapped between two sides like trash in a compactor. Piles of powdered skeletons and bones acted as gruesome monuments to the successful work of Crawlers fighting against the Scrab menace. They'd brought order back from history-created chaos but spawned chaos themselves as the sins of mankind clashed. The machine logic of the drones focused more on order and maintaining environmental conditions. Their logic wouldn't, or couldn't, take humans into consideration as it cycled.

It was a risky trade-off: safety and protection so long as you didn't become an outlier.

Like Branch. Poor guy.

I let my light wander, visualizing a rough approximation of where Branch's body had been. Each gouge, tear, pile, and intact skeleton was a clear sign of how dangerous the threat had truly been as the trail followed the path. A threat stopped at the cost of ONE human life.

Was the cost worth it? I couldn't honestly answer. Hero? Victim? Unfortunate bystander?

There was just no way for me to tell. The breach point of a burrowing vermin infestation might not have been large in the scope of things, but its effects would've been locally horrifying if nothing had stopped it. It was entirely possible he was the one who raised the alarm, which led to his own demise.

As to why the drones were left on hunter mode and Branch's body had remained undisturbed once the threat was handled? I had no real way of telling. A silent but furious subterranean war had been waged as people like me lived our lives above, oblivious.

I'd never known. WE...had never known. Like the true appearance of the Spires, how much more had we been blind to, and why?

Would he have done it if he knew his death was guaranteed?

I moved past the plug, past all of the piles of crushed Scrab bodies and dotted trails, and approached the doorway. My interface was met with nothing as I held my finger over the contact point. The way out had been blocked, the internal mechanisms having been disabled or removed.

I felt a shot of anxiety. I'd had my own battles to wage, and I'd been held up too long unraveling the tangled threads of this unrelated mystery. How much air would I need to find another way out? How much air had I already wasted if I couldn't get another door to open?

From a technical sense, the choice to permanently disable doorways nearest the plug's location was a smart one. It also didn't bode well for my chances of finding a doorway in the immediate vicinity. The decision to flood the tunnels with nitrogen gas and set the triggers on the Crawlers to activate if they detected Scrab breathable air was also an efficient one. Too bad Branch and I needed the same ratios to live.

The sinking feeling in my stomach returned as I tried two other doorways, both disabled. I'd confirmed my theory. It was time to turn back; I needed air.

I continued to see Crawlers as I sped along, careful not to touch or trigger any of the singular units pausing to monitor me as I passed. I was able to observe several of the groups, always in threes, lingering in areas that were paths of least resistance from the location of the breach point.

Their movements and positions now made sense to me, and I was easily able to avoid them as I carefully picked my way back.

At last, the doorway opened with a quiet click, as I gasped, breathing as deeply and quietly as I could of the frigid air. Black spots had begun to creep into my vision, and I'd been miraculously closer to passing out than I felt comfortable admitting.

I took a few extra breaths, ready to close the hood in anticipation of another dive into the tunnel depths when I inhaled it. Thick and cloying, a stream of cigarette smoke drifted from outside the entry, making a straight beeline into my face.

My lungs were assaulted with a sudden urge to cough as a rough voice yelled from outside the doorway.

"HEY! What are you doing down here?!"