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

[phanst]

Chapter 0027: Echoes, Anomalies, and Unwanted Attention

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[ERR: SYNC_FAILURE_7G]

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

 

[phanst]

Chapter 0028: Junction Recon and Lingering Echoes

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sounds like… the Maintenance Junction? Was something inside?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

[phanst]

Chapter 0029: Damage Control and Diminishing Returns

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Downside?" Anya prompted dryly.

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

Of course it did.

 

[phanst]

Chapter 0030: Calculated Risks and Corrupted Codecs

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

[phanst]

Chapter 0031: Schematics and Suspicions

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

[phanst]

Chapter 0032: Resource Check and Lingering Shadows

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But… maybe…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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