Chapter 16: Bones and Steel
Grosh crossed his arms like he was welding the air shut. "You come back tomorrow," he barked, voice echoing off the forge rafters. "Midday. Ubba'll have her mods ready by then—assuming she doesn't try to bolt a grappling hook to your spine just to see what happens."
Rion raised an eyebrow. "And if I stay the night?"
Grosh's eyes narrowed. "Then I might end up a grandfather by accident, and not even a Deathstorm gets me that drunk. Out. Now."
Sula snorted beside him, clearly enjoying the mental image more than she should.
Rion sighed, slinging the satchel higher on his back. "Fine. Back to the Grove."
Grosh just jabbed a thick finger toward the exit. "Go. Before I assign you to ventilation duty and you end up coughing soot until your great-grandchildren are born sideways."
Rion took two steps before pausing, glancing over his shoulder with a smirk.
"Wouldn't that mean your great-great-grandchildren are the ones born sideways?"
Grosh didn't even blink.
The hammer was already in the air.
Rion's instincts kicked in a half-second before the tool would've caved in his shoulder. He ducked, the hammer whistling overhead and embedding itself—shaft first—into a beam behind him with a heavy thunk.
Grosh didn't even blink. "That's the one I call Patience. Don't make me throw Judgment."
Rion straightened slowly, brushing dust from his coat. "Noted."
Sula was openly laughing now.
Grosh grumbled something about "forge rats with too much charm" and waved them off. "Go. Walk off whatever stupid you've still got in your system. You'll need the space tomorrow."
They left the Pile as sunset dipped low behind the machine-ribbed horizon, steam hissing from the Horus's broken vents like exhausted breath. The path back to Ironwood Grove was quieter this time—less tension, more dust, the kind of silence that came not from fear.
The gates of Ironwood Grove creaked open with their usual weight and warning, but the air inside felt different tonight—charged, but quiet. As they passed the central path, Rion slowed. A crowd had gathered near the community fire circle, not for trade or sparring, but to listen. At the center stood an elderly woman, wrapped in layers of ochre-dyed fabric and soft ash-stitched wool. Her back was bent but proud, hands steady as she held aloft a faded Old World poster—Jun kneeling beside children, face unpainted, his massive hand resting gently on a boy's shoulder.
"That's Elder Meelo," Sula said softly beside him. "She's the oldest voice still standing. The one who remembers the Lonaki—not just what we lost, but how we used to stand still before we struck."
Elder Meelo's voice, though worn by time, carried without effort. "It is not weakness to pause," she said. "It is not betrayal to feel." Her eyes swept across the painted faces of gathered Kansani. "The War God did not roar alone. He knelt. He listened. And when he laughed, it wasn't from rage—it was from defiance without hate."
A hush settled over the Grove. Meelo raised the poster slightly higher, the light of the nearby fire casting long shadows behind it. "Do not forget the Lonaki," she said. "Do not forget the part of you that does not need to burn just to be strong."
The fire crackled behind Elder Meelo as she lowered the poster. She didn't speak again, and she didn't need to. The Kansani gathered around her remained silent, faces painted with black and white, eyes fixed on the image of Jun kneeling beside children. His mask was gone in that moment—no roar, no fury. Just presence. Just strength without violence.
Rion scanned the crowd. He could see the tension in their jaws and shoulders, the way some of them still gripped their weapons like they didn't know what else to do with their hands. He saw the rage in their faces—but he also saw some of it begin to fade. Not vanish. Just… ease. Like pressure releasing from a wound that had been clenched too long.
Living only for anger wasn't what Jun had done. It wasn't how the First Kansani had stood. He had laughed in defiance, yes—but not in hatred. He had endured, but not just to break others. There was stillness in him too. Purpose. The ability to kneel and listen and lift someone else without needing to fight.
This crowd needed to see that.
Sula stood quietly beside Rion. Her voice was low, but clear. "She says it better than the rest of us ever could."
He nodded. No jokes. No commentary. Just silence, as the warriors of Ironwood Grove remembered something older than pain—something deeper than vengeance.
Legacy wasn't just who you killed for.
It was who you stood for.
The silence lingered even after the crowd began to break apart. Most drifted back toward their lodges or patrol routes without a word, the weight of Elder Meelo's speech still thick in the air. Rion stood with Sula a moment longer before she gave a small exhale through her nose and turned.
"Come on," she said. "Let's eat before you fall over and I have to tell Jorta his newest student died of dramatic silence."
Rion raised an eyebrow. "That's a hell of a diagnosis."
"Eat first. Complain later."
She led him toward one of the smaller food circles near the outer firepits—where meat skewers hissed over open flame and traders leaned in close to mutter prices. A group of warriors were seated nearby, eating and arguing softly about whether or not one of the new apprentices had actually earned her paint yet.
Sula didn't say a word as she approached the fire. She simply pulled a thin pouch from her belt, popped the clasp, and handed over a few Shards—flat, dull-edged metal slivers. The cook nodded, reached into a bundle of pre-wrapped sticks, and passed her two, still steaming.
When she came back and handed one to Rion, he held it up, squinting in the firelight.
"…Is this rat?"
Sula gave him a look. "No. It's burrow squirrel."
He turned it slowly. Thin limbs curled in from the heat. Crispy tail wrapped under the stick. "That's a prairie dog."
"We don't use that word," she replied, already taking a bite.
He paused, skewer halfway to his mouth. "Because of the Legion."
She nodded. "They made 'dog' a curse. It means loyalty without pride. Pain without choice. They called their slaves that word. Branded them with it."
Rion looked back down at the charred meat. "So anything named 'dog' gets renamed."
"Or forgotten."
He took a bite. Tough, smoky, a little salty. Not bad.
"Burrow squirrel it is," he said around a chew.
Sula gave a small nod like that was the correct answer. "They're leaner this time of year. You want one with fat, wait until the frost breaks."
He pulled a string of meat off the skewer with his teeth. "Is that advice or a warning?"
"If you choke, it's a eulogy."
They ate in companionable silence for a few minutes, the only sounds the crackle of the firepit and the quiet chewing of roasted meat. A few more warriors passed by, nodding to Sula but saying nothing. The night air was cooler now, carrying the faint scent of ironwood smoke and scorched sap.
Rion finished the last of the skewer, flicked the stick into the ashes, and leaned back with a low sigh. "So," he said, brushing crumbs from his coat, "what's the plan for tomorrow? Jorta's still out for the week, and unless someone ambushes me with a lesson plan, I'm guessing it's just me and the wind."
Sula nodded. "You guessed right. I won't be here either."
Rion glanced over. "Yeah?"
She stood and dusted off her hands. "Caravan run to New Ton. We're hauling back the rest of the medical supplies Curie flagged—field kits, stims, anything that didn't fuse to the shelves."
"Newton," Rion corrected automatically, then added with a smirk, "or am I supposed to forget how vowels work?"
Sula rolled her eyes. "Nobody here says it like that. 'New Ton' fits better in the mouth. Besides, the old name's just a ghost. The tribe made it into something useful."
He gave a slow nod. "How long?"
"Three days minimum. More if the road sinks or someone twists a wheel axle trying to race a machine herd."
Rion looked back at the fire, his jaw tightening just slightly. "So I'm grounded while everyone else moves."
"You're not grounded," she said. "You're unchained. Jorta needs rest. Grosh won't be waiting on you. If you want to train, walk. If you want to hunt, hunt. The Grove's not going anywhere. But you don't need anyone's permission to move."
He considered that.
Sula turned, adjusting the strap of her satchel. "Don't get killed," she added. "We just fixed your mentor and you're starting to become slightly tolerable."
"I'll do my best to disappoint you."
She smirked. "You usually do. Now one last thing. You're not bunking with me, Jorta would skin you so I'm taking you to the local tavern, the Spiked Paw"
Rion raised an eyebrow but followed without protest. They passed the central firepit and slipped down a quieter path lined with timber-framed structures, warm light flickering behind slatted shutters. Eventually, they stopped in front of a two-story lodge with a swinging wooden sign painted in simple glyphs: a cracked mug and a spiked paw print. His Focus made out the name, The Spiked Paw, Voices echoed from inside—low laughter, metal clinking, the scrape of chairs.
Sula pushed open the door and stepped in like she owned the place.
The tavern was warm, wood-paneled, and practical. No fancy carvings, just benches, barrels, and a long counter behind which a broad-shouldered woman wiped down a metal mug with a cloth that looked like it had survived a war. Her hair was streaked with forge soot, and a thick leather apron hung from her hips.
"Brakka," Sula called, giving a nod.
The woman looked up and grunted in greeting. "What can I do for you Sula?"
Sula jerked a thumb at Rion. "He's free-roaming for a few days. Set a room aside for him. Back corner. Clean sheets if you can spare 'em."
Brakka eyed Rion. "You break furniture?"
"Only when it deserves it," he replied.
She smirked and slid a token across the bar. "One month. He pays next time."
Sula took the token and tossed it to Rion, who caught it easily.
"I covered the first stretch," she said. "Monthly fee's not much. But next time, it's on you. Shouldn't be a problem—Ironbone just put up new bounties in the town center. Easy Shards if you're not planning to nap through the week."
Rion tucked the token away. "You know, most people say goodbye with a handshake."
"I'm not most people," she said. "Besides, this way you don't end up sleeping in a barn."
She gave him a final nod, then turned for real this time, vanishing through the tavern door like smoke on wind.
Rion looked around, then back at Brakka, who was already stacking tankards.
"Rules?" he asked.
"No fighting, no free food, no pissing in corners. You break the bed, you sleep on nails."
He grinned. "Noted."
"See you in a few days Rion, be careful when testing Ubba's weapon" Sula told him before walking out into the night.
Rion headed for the stairs, token warm in his hand, the fire of the forge fading behind him and a new kind of silence settling in.
Rion climbed the creaking stairs to the second floor, following the narrow hall past shuttered windows and flickering oil lamps. The door to his room was marked with a simple glyph—rest—and the handle turned without resistance.
Inside, the space was small but solid. A cot with a thick mattress, a wool blanket folded at the foot. A water basin, a small shelf, and a shuttered window facing the moonlit Grove. No rats. No machines. No dust choking the air. Just silence and soft wood and the smell of ironwood smoke seeping faintly through the walls.
He set his satchel down, kicked off his boots, and sank onto the mattress.
It wasn't luxurious. But after weeks of travel, bunking in ruins, tents, or forge-floor corners—it felt like heaven.
The water basin had a jug filled with water and a simple soap next to it. Rion slipped out of his clothes and bathed himself with the soap and a washcloth, once clean he dumped the water out the window, checking to make sure no one was below him.
Rion let out a long breath, eyes tracing the wooden slats above. The silence wasn't threatening tonight. It didn't coil or press. It just was.
He pulled the blanket over his chest, shifted once, and let himself relax.
For the first time in days, he didn't fall asleep from exhaustion or pain or vigilance.
He just… slept.
And it felt good.
Rion woke to the sound of muffled voices and the smell of cooked meat and onions.
For a moment, he didn't move. The warmth of the blanket still clung to his chest, the light from the shuttered window soft and golden. His body—so used to waking with aches or alarms—took a full breath before registering what morning could feel like when it wasn't dragging itself out of survival.
He opened his eyes slowly. No rust. No broken beams. No flicker of machine lights ready to kill him in his sleep.
Just a room. A bed. And the scent of real food rising from below.
Someone laughed downstairs—deep, casual, half-choked around a mouthful of something probably greasy. The smell of fire-kissed onions hit harder now, stirred by a shifting draft, followed by the distinct tang of roasted peppers and charred flatbread.
Rion sat up, running a hand through his hair. His coat still hung from the peg. The token Brakka gave him sat on the shelf beside his belt, untouched.
It was the first morning in a long time where nothing demanded his blood. No lesson. No mission. No schedule.
And for once, he wasn't late for anything.
His stomach growled.
He stood, stretched until his back popped, and began pulling on his gear.
Rion descended the stairs, each step creaking faintly beneath his boots. The common room of the Spiked Paw was already alive—warriors half-dressed in padded leather, traders in sleeveless tunics counting coins, and a pair of younger apprentices arm-wrestling over a half-eaten plate of skewers. The smell of roasted onions, flatbread, and sizzling meat filled the air like a welcome punch to the gut.
Brakka stood behind the bar, sharpening a cleaver that looked like it could split stone. Her apron was streaked with oil, and a fresh burn mark curled near her shoulder.
Rion stepped up, tapping the counter once. "What's breakfast cost?"
Brakka didn't look up. "Depends what you count as breakfast."
He gestured at a nearby table where someone was digging into roasted burrow squirrel, onions, and what looked like mashed roots. "That."
"Simple plate. Ten Shards."
Rion pulled the pouch from his belt without hesitation and counted out ten dull metal slivers. "Fair trade."
Brakka took the Shards and nodded once. "Sit where you want. It'll come hot."
He chose a seat near the hearth, where sunlight cut through a narrow window and dust danced in the beams.
A plate arrived a few minutes later—roasted meat seared at the edges, soft-root mash sprinkled with cracked salt, and onions browned just enough to melt on the tongue. No ceremony. Just real food, served hot, with a battered tin cup of herb-steeped water.
Rion took the first bite without hesitation. Savory, crisp, a little smoky.Just flavor, heat, and the faintest hint of wild herbs. He exhaled slowly and kept eating, eyes half-lidded against the morning light.
Between bites, Rion glanced around the room—watching a few groggy faces slowly return to focus as hot food and strong-smelling tea did their work. He couldn't help but wonder if this world had anything close to energy drinks. The real stuff—lightweight cans packed with caffeine, electrolytes, and whatever else gave you that second wind. He used to drink one a day, just enough to stay sharp without burning out. Coffee never worked right for him. His metabolism flipped it backwards—made him sluggish, slow.
He chewed thoughtfully, eyes narrowing.
Coffee, if he remembered right, had come from Africa originally. Didn't mean it grew here now. Not with Gaia limiting species to their natural habitat.
He'd have to ask Curie. If anyone could identify a local stimulant or synthesize something similar, it'd be her.
Maybe she could even make something better.
He paused mid-chew, a sliver of roasted onion hanging from his skewer.
Wait, wasn't he thinking of Jet?
The name alone made his stomach tighten. He hadn't seen it in his own world—Jet was a relic of the Fallout series, something born of game logic and bad decisions. But this world? A fusion of realities, accidents, and chaos filters? There was no guarantee it didn't already exist somewhere. And if it didn't… he had to be careful not to accidentally create it.
It wasn't hard to imagine. A little too much sugar, a little too much rush, just the right mix of desperation and chemistry—and suddenly you had a habit with a name.
He took another bite, slower now.
Curie could probably synthesize something safe. Something clean.
But he'd have to make sure.
No accidents. No echoing old mistakes.
Rion made sure to finish everything on the plate—every shred of meat, every smear of root mash, even the last softened slice of onion. It wasn't just about manners. Wasting food in a place like this felt wrong, like spitting on the effort it took to hunt, cook, and serve.
He stood, picked up the tin plate and cup, and brought them back to the bar.
Brakka raised an eyebrow but gave a short nod. "Appreciated."
"Good food deserves respect," he said simply.
That earned him a grunt that might've been approval—or just her getting back to work.
Rion stepped outside into the morning light, the door of the Spiked Paw swinging shut behind him. Ironwood Grove was waking with purpose. Traders opened stall flaps. Children sprinted between barrels and planks. Warriors stretched or sparred in open circles, their breath misting in the cool air.
He adjusted his coat, feeling the weight of his satchel settle against his back, and scanned the plaza.
If the Ironbone had put up bounties, they'd be on display where every passing hunter could see.
He started walking—eyes searching for the board.
He caught sight of a younger man walking by—light armor, bone-bladed axe across his back, chewing on a strip of dried root. Looked like a scout or maybe a courier.
"Hey," Rion called out, stepping off the path. "Bounty board?"
The man stopped, blinked once, then jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "Center ring. Left of the old sun post. You'll see the Ironbone mark on the frame—black iron, red paint, lotta knives stuck in it."
"Appreciate it."
The man gave a half-wave and kept moving, already halfway into his next bite.
Rion adjusted his pace and veered toward the plaza's heart, keeping his eyes peeled for a board that looked like it wanted to stab back.
The center ring of Ironwood Grove came into view—an open plaza ringed by traders' booths, weapon racks, and a half-cracked sundial that looked like it had once been welded to a machine rotor. At the far end stood a broad slab of black iron framed in scorched wood, half-covered in nailed parchment, etched plates, and leather tags. Knives had been stabbed into every corner—some for pinning contracts, others just for decoration.
That had to be the bounty board.
As Rion approached, his Focus flickered to life—recognizing familiar glyph patterns, scanning strokes and context, and cross-referencing with its slowly expanding language matrix.
[SCAN COMPLETE – KANSANI TRADE SCRIPT: STRUCTURAL UPDATE 43% ➜ 79%]
His brow lifted.
The device pinged quietly, cycling through highlights—words that had shown up on multiple postings. Hunt. Herd. Blood. Shards. Confirmed. Claimed. Witness. Patterns were emerging. Some were old-world symbols adapted into tribal shorthand, others were completely homegrown, developed in isolation.
He hadn't realized how quickly the Focus was learning.
Dozens of contracts stared back at him—some simple, others brutally detailed.
He stepped closer, eyes scanning.
📜 BOUNTY BOARD – IRONWOOD GROVE
Frame: Black Iron / Red Paint
Updated: Today
1. ⚙️ "Snapmaw at Broken Shallows"
Glyphs: [MACHINE] – [WATER] – [AMBUSH] – [PROOF] – [CLAIM]
"One Snapmaw spotted near the sunken grain mill at Broken Shallows. Fishermen can't work the river until it's cleared. Bring jaw assembly or core. Burned kills disallowed—too much damage to proof."
Reward:900 Shards
Bonus: +200 for intact lens
Posted By: Waterkeeper Ralo
2. 🧨 "Sabotage at the Western Relay"
Glyphs: [BLADE] – [STEEL] – [SABOTEUR] – [IRONBONE] – [EXPOSE]
"Someone's been tampering with Ironbone relay crates west of the Grove. Tools gone. Caches broken open but not looted. Find the saboteur, prove it, and end the threat. No clan protection will be honored."
Reward:1,200 Shards
Bonus: +100 if tools are recovered
Posted By: Foreman Jurg, Ironbone
3. 🔥 "Scorcher Pack Sighted"
Glyphs: [MACHINE] – [FIRE] – [PACK] – [KILL] – [WARNING]
"Three Scorchers roaming south ridge. Scouting party lost one runner. Do not engage alone. Remove threat and bring three fangs as proof. Charred kills acceptable if core survives."
Reward:1,500 Shards
Bonus: +300 if alpha unit core is intact
Posted By: Hunt Circle One, verified by Grosh
4. 🐺 "Gray Wolf Gone Rogue"
Glyphs: [HOUND] – [CLAN] – [BLOOD] – [MOURN] – [RETRIEVE]
"Kansani hound broke rank during a skirmish last moon. Now harassing small camps near the Ironbark trail. May be injured or Ash-touched. If it cannot be reclaimed, put it down with respect. Proof required: collar or tooth."
Reward:800 Shards
Bonus: +150 if returned alive
Posted By: Wolfmaster Kael
5. 🚚 "Escort to New Ton"
Glyphs: [PROTECT] – [CARGO] – [SICK] – [SAFE] – [ROUTE]
"Supply wagon to New Ton departs at dusk. Medicine and tech inside. Machine herds have shifted east—expect contact. Two guards needed, more are welcomed. Must be able to run and shoot."
Reward:1000 Shards
Bonus: +200 for zero cart damage
Posted By: Sula, acting quartermaster
Rion scanned the board, eyes narrowing as he considered the options—Scorchers, Snapmaws, rogue wolves, even sabotage. Each one pinned with blades or hammered tags, waiting for someone with enough grit—or desperation—to claim them.
He reached for one, then hesitated.
A Kansani warrior stood nearby, arms crossed, watching a pair of younger hunters argue over the merits of solo contracts. She looked experienced—broad-shouldered, weathered face, twin axes slung across her back.
Rion stepped over. "Hey. Quick question."
She turned her head. "Mm?"
"If I want to take one of these bounties… do I just pull it off the board and go? Or is there a system?"
She gave a half-smirk, then jerked a thumb toward a shack near the corner of the plaza—small, metal-roofed, with smoke curling from a vent pipe.
"You pull it down, then take it to Tarn. He's in the claim shack—gray eyes, missing a hand, always chewing on dried pepper root. He logs it. You take the copy. Go do the job. Bring back proof. If you're still breathing, he pays."
"Simple enough."
"Don't get too eager, though," she added, narrowing her eyes slightly. "New blood like you can only take one at a time. It's a test. Prove yourself a few times, and maybe Tarn lets you juggle."
Rion raised an eyebrow. "And if I don't prove myself?"
"Then you're just another name we paint over on the side of the shack."
He grunted. "Noted."
Rion stepped back toward the board, eyes sweeping across the bounties once more. The Scorchers were tempting—high payout, high risk—but he wasn't in the mood to get cooked alive just yet. The rogue wolf hit too close to home, and he wasn't ready to test those waters, not after what he found in Newton.
His gaze settled on the Snapmaw at Broken Shallows.
Simple. Contained. One machine. Water-based terrain, but manageable. More importantly—it was the perfect excuse to test Ubba's rifle.
He reached out and tugged the metal-pinned tag free from the board. The bounty clinked softly as it came loose, iron ink slightly smudged from weather.
A detail caught his eye as he flipped the tag over.
Posted By:Sula, acting quartermaster.
He let out a small breath through his nose. Of course.
Even when she wasn't around, she still had a hand in shaping what came next.
Rion tucked the bounty slip into his coat and turned toward the shack the warrior had pointed out earlier. One job. One machine. One chance to see what that prototype rifle could really do.
Time to meet Tarn.
The shack's door creaked open under Rion's hand, the hinges groaning like they hadn't been oiled since the Horus fell.
Inside, the space was dim and cluttered—part office, part armory, part graveyard of contracts long fulfilled or failed. Bounty tags lined the walls in uneven rows. Broken weapons leaned in corners. A half-burnt mural of Kansani wolves watched from the ceiling.
At the center sat a man behind a metal slab desk. His arms were thick, though one ended just below the elbow, wrapped in a tight leather cuff. His face was a roadmap of scar tissue—cheek gouged, nose flattened, one eye cloudy white. His remaining eye tracked Rion the moment he stepped in.
The man didn't speak at first. Just chewed slowly on a strip of dried pepper root, the scent sharp in the musty air.
Rion held out the Snapmaw bounty tag. "Figured I'd start with this."
The man took the slip with two fingers, leaned forward, and grunted. "River kill. You swim?"
Rion gave a half-shrug. "Well enough."
Tarn nodded once, then stabbed a carved bone stylus into a ledger made from pressed bark parchment. His movements were slow, deliberate—each line etched with care.
"You're the outsider. Jorta's new shadow." His voice was rough, gravel dragged through gravel.
"That's me."
"No one dies clean in water," Tarn said. "Machine or man. Be smart. Make it loud."
"I've got the right tool for that," Rion replied, point his thumb at the Iron bind on his back
Tarn handed back a stamped slip. "Proof comes back here. Core or jaw hinge. Damage it too much and I don't pay full."
Rion nodded. "Understood."
Tarn leaned back, eye still on him. "Don't get cocky. You ain't earned the right to die stupid."
Then he went back to chewing.
Rion pocketed the slip, stepped back out into the Grove's rising light, and exhaled.
Rion lingered a moment at the threshold before stepping fully out into the daylight.
Then he paused, turned back toward the shack's interior. "Hey—what's the time limit on a contract?"
Tarn didn't look up from his ledger, still chewing slowly on that strip of pepper root. "Standard's a week," he said, voice like gravel under boot. "Sooner's better. Faster you finish, faster we log it."
Rion nodded, then raised an eyebrow. "And if something escalates?"
That made Tarn look up.
"Then the board gets pulled," he said flatly. "If it turns into a pack, or someone else dies, we post it again—harder, riskier, with a bigger tag. Sometimes that means someone else gets paid. Sometimes it means we carve a new name into the Grove wall."
He went back to writing without waiting for another question.
Rion gave a short grunt of acknowledgement and stepped fully outside, slipping the stamped contract into his coat and the sun starting to rise higher over the Grove, Rion adjusted the satchel on his back and set off down the well-worn path toward the Pile.
The dirt was still damp from early frost, crunching softly beneath his boots as the blackened silhouette of the dead Horus rose ahead like a rusted monument to the Old World's arrogance. Steam still hissed gently from its cracked vents, the smell of oil and iron thickening with every step.
The Pile was awake—sparks flaring behind half-open shutters, and clangs echoing from somewhere deep inside the skeleton of the machine yard. A few Ironbone smiths were already hunched over salvage tables, their voices gruff and short, drowned out by the low roar of a forge brought back to life.
Rion stepped through the gap in the main hull, ducking under a length of cabling that hadn't been there yesterday.
Grosh wasn't at the front. Good.
That meant Ubba was probably in the back.
He followed the sound of hammering—steady, sharp, methodical—and then turned a corner to see her hunched over a table, goggles pulled down, sparks dancing across her face as she worked over a weapon cradled in a vice.
The Railway Rifle—or whatever version of it had finally clawed its way out of her imagination—gleamed in places, matte in others. It looked heavier. Meaner. And unmistakably ready.
Rion stepped forward and cleared his throat.
"Ubba. Tell me that beast is ready."
Ubba didn't look up right away. She gave the rifle one last check, then grabbed a heavy leather glove and smacked the weapon across the side of its reinforced chamber. A sharp metallic thunk echoed off the workbench, followed by a low, satisfying whirr as a compressor core hummed to life inside the barrel assembly.
Rion heard the click of internal seals engaging. The rifle exhaled faint steam from a vent near the stock.
"Yep," Ubba said, finally lifting her goggles and pushing a wild strand of hair out of her face. "She's mean. She's loaded. She'll probably whistle if you fire too fast."
Rion stepped closer, eyes running over the modified frame.
"You name it yet?"
Ubba grinned. "Not my job. That one's yours."
She patted the top of the rifle affectionately. "But if it explodes, I do get naming rights over the crater."
Rion stepped forward and grabbed the rifle by its grip and under-barrel support. It was heavier than it looked—but perfectly balanced. The compressor core purred softly against his palm, and the vent piping thrummed with stored pressure.
He turned it slowly, admiring the work.
The body was a mix of matte industrial black and salvaged white plating, accented with angular tribal inlays. The stock and grip had been carefully carved and painted in sharp black-and-white geometric patterns—Kansani work, no doubt. Machine steel met tribal craftsmanship in a way that felt… right.
It looked nothing like the old-world Railway Rifle he remembered from Fallout.
It looked better. Stronger. Cleaner. More alive.
"Damn," he muttered, running his thumb along the edge of the barrel casing. "This puts what I thought it would look like to shame. By a mile and a half."
Ubba smirked from behind her goggles. "Told you I wasn't gonna make a junkbox. This thing's got whisper vents, reinforced rails, two-stage loading, and a hand-carved recoil damper. It'll sing when you fire it. Just don't get cocky. She kicks."
Rion nodded slowly, still turning it in his hands.
He was going to need a name.
Ubba watched him turn the rifle over one last time, checking the chamber alignment and trigger tension.
"You gonna name it or just whisper sweet nothings to it all morning?" she asked, one brow raised.
Rion gave a half-smirk, then set the stock against his shoulder and sighted down the barrel for a moment.
"I don't need to get poetic," he said. "It is what it is."
He lowered it, gave the side a firm pat.
"Railway Rifle."
Ubba blinked. "That's it?"
"That's all it needs."
She stared for a beat, then chuckled. "Figures. You're a function-first bastard."
Rion just grinned. "And you built a masterpiece, so I guess that makes us even."
Ubba reached over and popped the release catch on the side, exposing the rifle's inner chamber. "Alright, before you get yourself killed with it, listen up."
Rion watched as she moved with practiced precision—tapping key parts of the weapon as she explained.
"This gauge here—" she pointed at a small circular dial built into the left side of the casing, just above the magazine well "—tells you how much compression's left in the pressure tank. Red means vent it. Yellow, you're fine. Green means she's ready to sing."
She tapped another slot just above the trigger guard. "This lever resets the rail conductor. You don't slap it before a reload, you're asking for a misfire. Ask Grosh what a misfire looks like—he's still got a scar on his ribs from the first version."
She moved to the loading chamber and pulled back the top latch, revealing a rotating drum. "Now here's the important part—ammo. These aren't arrows. They're spikes. And not just any spikes."
From a nearby crate, she pulled out a small bundle wrapped in oilcloth and unrolled it to reveal a dozen jagged, glinting lengths of machine bone—smooth, dense, slightly iridescent.
"These are stripped from dead machines," she said. "Strong, plentiful, easy to shape. Not as sharp as metal, but they hold kinetic force like nothing else I've found."
Rion picked one up, turning it between his fingers. "This is why you built it like this."
Ubba nodded. "Exactly. You don't need a forge. You don't need arrows. You kill a machine, rip out the bones, and you've got ammo. That's the point. This rifle's not just powerful—it's sustainable. Tribal strong."
She loaded a spike into the chamber with a heavy click and handed the rifle back.
"Now aim true, and don't forget—if the gauge starts hissing, stop firing or it'll scream like a boiling kettle and blow your cover."
Rion slung the rifle over his shoulder, freshly armed and newly educated.
"Got it," he said. "Keep it green, keep it clean, and don't be an idiot."
Ubba grinned. "See? You're learning."
Before Rion could turn to leave, Ubba held up a hand. "Hold up. One last thing."
She moved to the side of the workshop and pulled a tarp off a tall, ragged shape. Beneath it stood a mannequin—half melted, scar-patched, and dressed in salvaged red-painted armor pieces, stitched in the Legion's brutalist style. The faded symbol of the Missouri sunburst was painted across the chestplate.
"Found this down in the scrap bins," Ubba said. "Thought it might make you feel better."
Rion raised an eyebrow. "You made a Legionnaire dummy?"
Ubba gave a fierce grin. "Call it therapy."
She stepped back and jerked a thumb toward the far side of the forge yard, where a reinforced wall stood blackened from past testing.
"Fire when ready."
Rion took position. Raised the Railway Rifle. The compressor gauge hummed in the green. His finger rested on the trigger.
The shot cracked through the air with a high-pitched whistle, followed by a sharp clang as the spike blasted across the space and punched clean through the dummy's chest. The mannequin jolted back and slammed against the wall, pinned there like an insect—its chestplate split open around the embedded spike.
Ubba gave an approving whistle of her own. "Dead center. Armor didn't even slow it down."
Rion lowered the rifle, nodding slowly.
"Yeah," he said. "That'll do."
Rion slung the rifle back over his shoulder, the last echoes of the impact still vibrating through the forge walls.
Ubba crossed her arms, watching him with a glint of pride in her soot-smeared eyes.
He gave the weapon one last glance, then looked at her. "I'm heading to Broken Shallows. Snapmaw bounty."
Ubba raised an eyebrow. "Bold choice for a first shot."
He shrugged. "If it can punch through a Snapmaw's core, I'll know it's not just flash. Might run into a Hammerrunner or two along the way, depending how far they've roamed."
Her eyes lit up with curiosity. "So this is your trial by fire."
He nodded. "Field test. But I'm already pretty damn confident—it's ready. Might even be safe to mass-produce, assuming the Ironbone are willing to back it."
Ubba smirked and gestured toward the pinned mannequin still vibrating slightly against the wall. "Get me a Snapmaw core and a Hammerrunner head, and I'll take it to Grosh myself."
Rion tapped the side of the rifle and turned for the exit. "Deal."
Rion made it three steps toward the exit before stopping short.
He stood there for a second, silent, then turned halfway back toward Ubba.
"…Okay, hold up. I just realized something."
Ubba cocked her head. "What now?"
"I have no idea where I'm going."
She blinked once. Then laughed. Loudly.
"You're taking on a Snapmaw bounty without knowing how to get to Broken Shallows?"
He rubbed the back of his neck. "I figured I'd… wing it."
Ubba snorted and shook her head. "Wandering into Snapmaw territory without a map. Gods, you're lucky you're cute."
She walked over to a side shelf and rummaged through a pile of rolled hides, oilcloth charts, and slate-plated carvings. After a moment, she pulled out a folded, grease-marked piece of stitched leather.
"Here." She handed it over. "It's old, but the rivers and elevation lines are still good. Broken Shallows is here—" she tapped a faded blue splotch toward the lower right quadrant, "—just past the sunken mill and the tar ridge."
Rion took it carefully, unfolding it partway.
"Appreciate it."
Ubba pointed to a faint red scratch looping across the center. "That's the machine herd's usual run pattern. Don't cross it unless you've got a death wish."
"Noted."
"And if you die," she added, "I'm keeping the rifle. And naming it after myself."
Rion gave her a crooked smile. "You'll have to pry it from my corpse."
Rion held the stitched leather map up in the light filtering through the forge shutters. His Focus flickered at the edge of his vision, humming softly as its lens adjusted to the hand-drawn contours and tribal inkwork.
[SCAN IN PROGRESS…]
[UNRECOGNIZED CARTOGRAPHIC FORMAT – MANUAL TRANSLATION INITIATED]
[KANSANI TERRITORY MAP INDEX: STRUCTURAL DATA RECONCILED – REGION: IRONWOOD SECTOR]
He blinked as lines began to overlay across the surface—his Focus auto-adjusting the scale, sharpening ridge contours, and translating tribal glyphs into clean, glowing English script within his HUD. A small tone pinged as the device finished syncing.
New icons dotted the display—machine migration paths, Snapmaw hunting zones, Oseram trade routes, and faint warning markers over zones tagged with Legion sunburst symbols. A few outposts blinked orange: known ruins, sealed bunkers, and collapsed towers now labeled in plain script alongside Kansani names.
He zoomed in with a blink and touch gesture, watching the labeled zone of Broken Shallows pulse gently with a quest marker glow. The tar ridge was marked as unstable. A ghost icon shimmered over the location of the old sunken grain mill.
Ubba raised an eyebrow as his eyes flicked through invisible data.
"Let me guess," she said. "Your magic eye's doing that weird thing again."
Rion nodded. "Just backed up the map. Translated most of the glyphs, too. I've got location data now. Routes, hazards, even camps."
"Of course you do," she muttered. "If you ever start seeing through walls, I want a cut."
Rion smirked and carefully rolled the leather map back up. "I'll bring it back. But now I won't get lost on the way."
Ubba gave a satisfied grunt. "Good. Just don't get cocky. The land remembers more than you do."
"If I come across any more Focuses out there—salvage, ruins, sealed domes—I'll bring them back."
That got her attention. She straightened slowly, eyes narrowing with curiosity. "You serious?"
Rion nodded. "You and Sula know this land better than anyone. If this thing can help you see more of it—track machines, read maps, pick apart old tech—then you should have them too."
Ubba studied him for a long moment, the usual sarcasm absent from her expression.
"Alright," she said. "You find another one… I won't say no."
"And if Sula starts seeing through walls before you," Rion added, smirking, "I take no responsibility for the rivalry."
Ubba barked a short laugh. "Please. She'd see through a wall and still trip over her own pride."
He chuckled, then gave the workbench one last glance before turning for the exit.
"Stay alive, rifle-boy," she called after him.
"I plan to," he replied.
The wind shifted as Rion stepped beyond the shadow of the dead Horus, the metal ribs of the Pile groaning behind him like the exhale of a giant long past its final breath.
The path out of Ironwood Grove was sunlit and damp, carved by generations of footsteps and salvager carts. Frost still clung to the edge of the brush, crackling softly underfoot as he made his way toward the southern trails.
His Focus pulsed once, overlaying the route ahead: Broken Shallows – 11.2 klicks southeast. Terrain markers flashed across his HUD—uneven ground, floodplain remnants, a submerged structure tagged as the sunken mill. A glowing ripple tracked along the map's edge: machine migration band—Scorchers had passed through three days ago. No sign of them now, but that didn't mean they were gone.
Rion adjusted the weight of the Railway Rifle on his back. It felt right—solid, dependable. His coat shifted with his stride, satchel slapping against his hip with every step.
He passed a few Kansani foragers on the edge of the Grove, their faces painted and baskets half-full of early roots. One of them nodded silently at him, eyeing the rifle with a glimmer of interest but saying nothing.
The woods opened ahead, wind whispering through low pine and skeletal birch. In the distance, he could already hear the faint trickle of water—the start of the southern tributary that led toward the flooded basin.
The hunt was on.
After the first mile, Rion felt the weight of his gear shift uncomfortably—coat, satchel, the Railway Rifle slung across his back, and the Iron Bind still sheathed across his shoulder. The walk was manageable, but cluttered. Too many pieces, too much drag.
He paused beneath the limbs of a bent pine and reached across to tap the side of his Nanoboy 3000—the compact module integrated into his left forearm bracer. The screen flickered softly as it powered up, its tiny projector scanning his loadout.
"Store Iron Bind," he muttered.
A soft click-thrum answered him. The blade vibrated faintly in its sheath as the nanobot mesh extended from the bracer—crawling up and over the sword like liquid metal. In seconds, the weapon shimmered, broke down molecule by molecule, and collapsed into the Nanoboy unit's internal storage buffer with a quiet shhhft.
Lighter. Cleaner. Ready.
He flexed his arm once and resumed walking.
The Railway Rifle stayed in place. That one he wanted quick access to.
The terrain shifted gradually as Rion moved southeast—pine giving way to low, marshy ground studded with redroot grass and stubborn cattails. The air grew cooler, denser. Fewer birds. More silence.
Just ahead, his Focus pinged.
[UNREGISTERED STRUCTURE DETECTED – PROBABLE OLD WORLD ORIGIN]
[ANALYSIS: PARTIAL COLLAPSE – INTEGRITY 31% – ENTRY POSSIBLE]
He slowed.
Half-sunken in the reeds and brush, a weather-worn hulk of Old World steel jutted from the earth like a broken rib. The outline of reinforced walls and a collapsed overhang marked what had once been a maintenance outpost or relay station—likely pre-Collapse. The rust patterns told him it had been scorched at some point, maybe by a wildfire or a machine charge.
A faded yellow glyph was still barely visible near what remained of the door: "EMER ACCESS POINT – CORE GRID 27B"
Rion crept closer, boots squelching in the wet grass.
The door had long since been torn open. Inside was a short corridor, half-collapsed, the floor littered with broken panels, stripped wires, and mud-caked debris. But his Focus lit up again—something in there was still giving off a signal. Weak. But real.
He leaned against the frame, peered in, and muttered under his breath, "Alright… what are you hiding?"
Rion stepped through the warped threshold, one hand on the grip of the Railway Rifle, the other adjusting the light filter on his Focus.
The interior was tighter than it looked from outside—claustrophobic and twisted, as if time and earth pressure had folded the hallway in on itself. Bits of dried moss clung to the ceiling. Metal tiles buckled underfoot.
The signal was stronger now.
[SIGNAL SOURCE LOCALIZED – SUBSURFACE STRUCTURE PRESENT]
[SCHEMATIC REBUILD IN PROGRESS… ESTIMATED DEPTH: 3 FLOORS]
He stopped short.
This wasn't just an outpost. It wasn't a relay shack or a rest bunker. This place went deep.
At the end of the corridor, a half-shattered security door stood embedded in the floor—vertical rather than horizontal. A maintenance ladder dropped into the dark like a snapped spine. His Focus pulsed faint orange, highlighting a glyph partially scrawled in dried blood on the side panel:
VAULTED CORE ACCESS – GRID 27B // SURVIVAL ZONE AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY
He stared at it for a moment, then dropped into the hole.
The ladder groaned under his weight but held. The descent took him past old conduit pipes, faded warning labels, and a gnawed emergency ration wrapper caught on a step—chewed clean down to the foil. Rats hadn't done that. Something else had.
He dropped onto the next floor.
The space opened into a narrow hall, still lit by flickering emergency strips. Vents hissed softly overhead. A few skeletal remains slumped against the walls, still wearing rusted evac gear. One had a pistol melted into its palm. Another had scratched something into the side panel beside him:
WE LOCKED IT IN BUT IT WON'T DIE
DON'T OPEN THE LOWER DOOR
Rion exhaled quietly.
Of course it was that kind of bunker.
Rion moved slowly down the hall, stepping over twisted cables and the occasional scorched frame of a terminal unit. His Focus pinged again—audio file detected.
He turned to see an old holotape recorder embedded in the wall, half-caked in corrosion. The play button flickered faint blue. Manual trigger still intact.
He tapped it.
The speaker's voice crackled to life—tired, frayed at the edges, the cadence of someone who hadn't slept in days.
"This is Commander Ellin Park… Vaulted Core Grid 27B. Date marker… doesn't matter anymore. We've lost contact with external nodes. Oxygen recyclers are holding, but power regulation's shot. Reactor suffered a breach in the lower coolant chamber. Radiation's climbing fast."
There was a pause—shuffling papers, someone coughing in the background.
"We had to seal Level Three. They were already coughing up blood. Anyone exposed down there wouldn't last another day, and the coolant had already hit critical."
"Two hundred people. Trapped behind a blast door we welded shut with our own hands. Families. Crew. Hell, one of them was my brother."
The speaker's voice dropped.
"We had no choice. Save two hundred, lose the rest. Or lock the two hundred in and maybe save a thousand. I chose. I made the call."
"If anyone finds this—don't try to open it. The door downstairs. We didn't lock in survivors. We locked in death."
The tape clicked and fell silent.
Rion stood there for a long moment, jaw tight.
The flickering light above him made the scratched message on the wall seem fresher now. More desperate.
DON'T OPEN THE LOWER DOOR
He looked down the hall. At the sealed blast door up ahead. The one covered in rivets and scorched sealant. Silent now.
But not innocent.
Rion moved deeper through the second floor, stepping over torn ration sacks, broken visors, and old evac tags trampled into the steel flooring. Every corner smelled like metal and mold and something far older—stale air that hadn't moved right in years.
His Focus pinged again.
[AUDIO FILE DETECTED – PRIORITY MARKER: EMERGENCY LOG]
This recorder was different—propped against the body of a technician still slumped beneath a wall vent, eyes long since gone, body curled like he'd died listening to his own message.
Rion crouched and pressed the play button.
This voice was younger. Breathless. Barely holding it together.
"Park was wrong."
"We sealed the door, yeah. Welded it shut. But the motion sensors… they still ping. Every hour. Every hour since the breach."
"They're still down there. The ones we locked in. Alive. Or… moving, at least."
A harsh breath.
"I hear them sometimes. Groaning. Like they're choking on glass. Like they're still trying to breathe down there. Reactor must've warped their lungs. Or maybe they just… didn't die."
A scraping noise in the background. Something dragging.
"If you're hearing this—don't open it. For the love of whatever gods survived—don't open that fucking door."
"They're still alive."
The recording cut off with a metallic snap, followed by static and a low, distant hum.
Rion slowly stood, staring down the corridor. Ahead, the sealed blast door loomed—its edges blackened with torch welds, warning signs half-torn and marked with claw-gouges from the inside.
His Focus flickered.
[MOTION SIGNATURE DETECTED – SUBLEVEL 3 – CONFIRMED MOVEMENT]
Not dead.
Not yet.
He moved past the last wall of scrap and stepped through a fractured security door, the blast seal half-melted by something far hotter than a cutting torch.
The air here was different—drier, scorched. Char on the walls. Black residue flaked from the ceiling panels, and the stench of ozone and long-cooled metal filled his nose.
Then he saw them.
Scattered across the floor, slumped against walls, buried halfway into the rubble—dozens of Corruptors. The unmistakable skeletal bodies of Faro "Scarab" units, their insectoid limbs locked in frozen spasms, chassis warped and half-melted. Burn scoring across their faces. Some were fused together, crushed in desperate close-quarters fighting.
All of them dead.
But Rion's gut turned.
These things didn't just show up.
They hunted.
And someone had drawn them here.
His Focus beeped again.
[AUDIO FILE DETECTED – HIGH PRIORITY MILITARY TAG – ENCRYPTION DECRYPTED]
He pressed play.
Gunfire crackled instantly through the speakers—wild, erratic. Screams in the distance. And then a woman's voice, breathless, urgent.
"This is Chief Operator Lang to anyone receiving—Level Three is gone. They tore through the lower seals like they weren't even there."
"The reactor leak... it spread faster than we realized. It saturated the groundwater, the outer shell. We think that's what triggered them—some kind of Faro fail-safe picked up the energy pattern."
"They found us. They found us."
Rion heard more gunfire. Closer this time.
"We tried to hold the breach. They didn't come in waves—they came in crawling. Over the walls. Ceiling. Vents."
"They're not machines anymore. They're something else. Something angry."
Another burst of fire. Then static. And finally, the last words, choked out and distant:
"We buried two hundred behind a door to stop the leak… and it just brought them."
Silence.
Rion stood among the rusted corpses of the swarm, rifle tight in his grip.
He'd thought this was just another sealed tomb of the Old World.
But the ground here had whispered louder than any grave.
And the Swarm had heard it.
Rion stepped over the last of the scorched Corruptors, the soft crunch of brittle machine limbs breaking the silence around him. The heat damage on the floor grew worse the farther he went—conduits blistered, walls warped from internal pressure, and streaks of melted steel pooled like frozen blood.
Ahead, it waited.
The blast door to Level Three.
Even sealed, it looked wrong.
Massive, circular, and locked with six deadbolts the size of his forearm, it had been torched shut with external welding across every seam. Emergency glyphs were still half-legible across the surface—QUARANTINE in red, STRUCTURAL BREACH in yellow, and below that, DO NOT UNSEAL carved directly into the steel with something jagged and desperate.
His Focus pinged faintly again.
[MOTION SIGNATURE: FAINT – 17 METERS BELOW CURRENT POSITION]
[SUGGESTED CLASSIFICATION: BIOLOGICAL // POSSIBLY MUTATED]
Rion stared at the door. One of the welds had already cracked. A thin breath of air hissed from the fracture—barely audible, but real.
He stepped forward and laid his hand against the surface.
Cold. Vibrating, almost imperceptibly.
Something was still moving down there.
Not Scarabs. Not survivors.
Something else.
And it wasn't asleep.
A glint of light caught Rion's eye just to the left of the blast door—a partially melted terminal embedded in the wall, its casing half-pried open, like someone had tried to rig an uplink or bypass it with raw desperation.
His Focus flickered again.
[UNSECURED LOG FILE DETECTED – ORIGIN: LEVEL THREE – PERSONAL RECORD // UNIT ID: 3A-16-H]
He synced with the file. It was audio-only. No timestamp. Just pain.
The voice that came through was male—young, cracked, wavering.
"Day… I don't know. Maybe five? Seven?"
"Still breathing. Not sure if that counts as good."
"Skin came off this morning. Not bleeding—just… slipped. Peeled like wet paper. No pain. That's the part that scares me."
There was a long silence. Then movement. A breath.
"I'm not alone down here. Some of them are still walking. Not talking. Just walking."
"Juno—she was one of the techs—started laughing last night. Wouldn't stop. Scratched her own face off. Then dropped."
"I hear them near the coolant pits. Groaning. Dragging their legs. One of them still hums the reactor maintenance song. I think it's Craig. He was nice."
Another silence.
"Gunfire upstairs. Just for a second. Then nothing."
"God, I hope someone made it. Hope Park's plan worked. We were supposed to save people. We locked ourselves in to save them."
A broken cough, distant metal clanging.
"If anyone finds this… tell my mom I was still me when it started. I stayed me. I stayed—"
Static swallowed the last word whole.
Rion stood in absolute stillness, staring at the sealed door. No words. No movement. Only the memory of someone buried alive—body breaking, mind unraveling—still praying for someone else's survival.
Even in that place.
Even at the end.
The blast door groaned open fully now, rails shrieking as the seals gave way one by one. A wave of stale, dry air rolled over Rion—hot with the scent of rot, rust, and long-dried blood.
His Focus pinged again.
[NEW QUEST UNLOCKED]
✦ MERCY FOR THE FORSAKEN
Objective: Release the ghouls from their long nightmare
– Eliminate all hostile entities in Level Three
– Confirm site is secure
Rion exhaled through his nose.
So that's what they'd become.
Not just victims. Not just the dying.
Ghouls.
Twisted remnants of those who'd been trapped behind this door for centuries—radiation-blasted, mutated, clinging to what little life their bodies refused to let go. It wasn't mercy that had sealed them in.
It was fear.
And now they were awake again.
He stepped through the threshold, the Railway Rifle raised and humming with charge. His boots touched Level Three's floor for the first time in a thousand years.
The hallway ahead was dim. Red light flickered weakly through long-dead emergency strips. Dried claw marks marred the walls. A distant, wet shuffling echoed somewhere deeper inside—along with the faintest sound of groaning.
Not pain.
Not rage.
Just endless suffering.
Rion's jaw tightened. He gripped the rifle stock.
"All right," he whispered. "Let's finish this."