The silence stretched, punctuated only by the faint drip of unseen water and the low hum of Anya's flashlight. The discarded boot and its grisly contents lay there in the dust, a stark, mundane object made sinister by context and the drag marks stretching away into the oppressive darkness of the aqueduct bypass. The URE's cryptic warning about corrupted data entities echoed in my mind, layering a fresh coat of digital dread over my already profound exhaustion.
Anya stared down the tunnel after the marks, her expression unreadable in the harsh beam of her light. Then, she straightened up, decisive action replacing contemplation. "Okay," she declared, her voice low but firm, cutting through the tense silence. "New plan. We don't go back to the junction the way we came. Not yet. Those marks are too fresh, and I don't like playing guessing games with whatever made them."
She crouched down for a closer look at the evidence, Leo and I hovering nearby, feeling uselessly exposed. The boot wasn't military issue, nor standard pre-Crash work gear. It was cobbled together, thick synth-hide patched with what looked like cured Skitter plating, the sole heavily worn but showing newer scuff marks near the toe, suggesting a recent struggle.The drag marks beside it weren't simple grooves, they were wider, shallower depressions in the dust and grime, interspersed with faint, almost feathered patterns, as if something soft but heavy had been pulled along, occasionally thrashing or snagging on the uneven ground. Consistent with predation, as the URE helpfully suggested.
"We follow them," Anya continued, tracing the marks with her flashlight beam. "Cautiously. See where they lead, maybe get an idea what we're dealing with. If it circles back towards the junction from a different angle, maybe we can retrieve the rig. If not…" She didn't finish the sentence, but the implication hung heavy in the damp air. If not, we were well and truly screwed, stuck miles underground with dwindling supplies and impaired capabilities.
Great, my internal monologue piped up, sounding even more weary than usual through the cognitive fog. So we swap potentially collapsing reality-stressed concrete for stalking an unknown predator through lightless tunnels based on a single abandoned foot in a boot. Solid plan. Five-star Yelp review pending. The frustration simmered: frustration at the situation, frustration at the damned Wraiths, but mostly frustration at my own state. Useless. A liability. If things went sideways now, all I could offer was cynical commentary and maybe tripping over my own feet to distract whatever horror emerged from the shadows. The vulnerability was a cold, physical thing, worse than the headache.
"Alright," I managed, pushing the bleak thoughts down. Complaining wouldn't help. "Lead the way."
Anya nodded, her focus absolute. "Leo, stay close behind me. Eyes open, especially up high and in alcoves. These tunnels have niches. Ren, bring up the rear. Watch our backs. If anything feels wrong, even if you can't pin it down with your… trick, sing out."
It was the best formation we could manage. Anya, with her Undercroft experience and weaponry, took point. Leo, with his sharp eyes for detail and structure, acted as immediate backup and secondary observer. Me, the impaired debugger, got rear guard duty – arguably the most vulnerable spot, but also the one requiring the least immediate complex action.
We moved slowly, cautiously, following the drag marks deeper into the aqueduct bypass. The tunnel here was wider than the service passage, the ceiling higher, lost in shadow above the reach of Anya's beam. The intermittent emergency lights did little more than create shifting pockets of gloom, making shapes seem to writhe at the edge of vision. The air remained cold, heavy, the metallic tang persistent.
Every distant rumble, every skittering sound from unseen side passages, every drip of water made us jump. My own senses felt unreliable, feeding me phantom movements and auditory ghosts. Was that clicking sound just water, or was it Stalker chitin? Was that flicker of movement a glitch, phosphorescent fungi, or something else entirely? The uncertainty was almost as bad as the exhaustion.
We passed several intersecting tunnels, dark maws branching off into unknown depths. Anya checked markings on the walls, sometimes consulting a battered data slate she pulled from her pouch, confirming our general heading westward, towards the theoretical location of the freighter elevator shafts she'd mentioned – our potential exit. The drag marks continued steadfastly down the main bypass, ignoring the side tunnels. Whatever took the boot's owner had a clear destination.
After what felt like an eternity, but was probably only twenty minutes, Anya signaled a halt. She swept her flashlight beam across the tunnel wall ahead. More markings, different this time. Not old city planning symbols, but cruder, fresher – spray-painted symbols, territorial markers. A stylized, jagged skull superimposed over a dripping gear symbol.
"Tunnel Vultures," Anya breathed, her voice low and hard. "Scavenger trash. Territorial, nasty, fond of ambushes and salvaged tech." She examined the marks more closely. "This is their turf, alright. But these drag marks… they lead straight into it."
Did the Vultures take the person? Or was something else dragging prey into their territory? Neither option felt particularly comforting.
As if summoned by her words, a faint sound reached us from further down the tunnel – the unmistakable clatter of loose metal, followed by muffled, angry voices. Getting closer.
"Contacts," Anya whispered, instantly flattening herself against the tunnel wall, gesturing frantically for us to do the same. "Sound like Vultures on patrol."
We pressed ourselves into the damp, grimy brickwork, trying to become invisible in the shadows between the flickering emergency lights. My heart hammered against my ribs again. Trapped between potential unknown horrors behind us and known human awfulness ahead. Fantastic.
Two figures emerged from the gloom down the tunnel, walking slowly, arguing in low, guttural tones. They were clad in the typical scavenger patchwork – rusted metal plates bolted onto scavenged fatigues, crude helmets fashioned from old pipes or ventilation ducts, carrying oversized projectile weapons that looked prone to jamming. Tunnel Vultures, exactly as Anya described.
They hadn't seen us yet, their attention focused on their argument and scanning the path ahead with inadequate flashlights. But they were heading directly towards us. And worse, the drag marks we'd been following led straight past the spot where we were hiding, towards them.
We were directly in the path of both the patrol and whatever they might be tracking or returning to.
Anya drew her sidearm slowly, the faint hum barely audible over our own breathing. Leo held his golf club, looking like he desperately wished it was anything else. My own hand rested uselessly on my multi-tool. Options felt vanishingly thin. Fight? Against armed scavengers, in our current state? Flee back towards the unknown thing that made the drag marks? Equally suicidal.
The lead Vulture suddenly stopped, his flashlight beam playing over the ground near his feet. He grunted, pointing. He'd spotted the drag marks. His companion joined him, peering down, then swept his own light nervously into the darkness behind them – the direction we had come from. They knew something was back there too.
Caught. Literally caught in the middle.
Just as the Vultures started to raise their weapons, looking towards the shadows where we hid, a section of the ceiling directly above them groaned loudly. Not a collapse. Something deliberate.
A heavy cargo net, thick with grime and weighted with chunks of metal debris, dropped silently from the shadowed ceiling, enveloping both scavengers before they could react. They yelped in surprise and anger, struggling futilely as the net tightened, pinning their arms and weapons.
Before we could even process this, a figure dropped lightly from the same shadowy recess in the ceiling where the net originated, landing silently beside the struggling Vultures. Smaller than Anya, dressed in dark, form-fitting gear that blended perfectly with the shadows, wearing a mask that obscured their face, leaving only faintly glowing optical lenses visible. They moved with an unnerving, fluid grace.
The figure ignored us completely, focusing solely on the captured Vultures, producing a compact device that emitted a low hum – similar to Anya's resonator, but different frequency. They pressed it against the helmet of the first Vulture. The scavenger stiffened, went limp within the net. The figure repeated the process on the second. Both subdued instantly, non-lethally.
Who the hell…?
The masked figure straightened up, retrieved the net with practiced efficiency, leaving the two unconscious Vultures slumped against the wall. Then, finally, they turned towards us, silent, still, their glowing lenses fixing first on Anya, then Leo, then lingering on me for a fraction of a second longer than seemed necessary. Assessing. Analyzing.
The silence stretched. Friend? Foe? Something else entirely? This Undercroft was getting complicated.
Then, the figure spoke, their voice electronically filtered, calm, devoid of inflection.
"Unexpected variables," the voice stated, the glowing lenses seeming to focus solely on me again. "Runtime Exception Handler identified. Your processing load appears… critical. Assistance required?"
They knew my Class designation. They knew I was struggling. This wasn't some random Undercroft dweller. This was something… informed.
The immediate escape was over, but we'd surfaced into a different kind of danger, and now, encountered a complete unknown who somehow knew exactly who, or rather what, I was. The questions piled up – who was this figure? How did they know about me? What did they want? And what about the thing that made the drag marks? We were out of the junction, yes, but deeply entangled in the Undercroft's dangerous ecosystem, our ride damaged, my abilities crippled, and relying on a fragile, untested alliance. The need for repairs, recovery, and answers was more pressing than ever. Quadrant 7G felt a million miles away.