The filtered voice echoed in the sudden, heavy silence of the Undercroft tunnel, seeming to cut right through the oppressive dampness and the lingering scent of fear. "Runtime Exception Handler identified. Your processing load appears… critical. Assistance required?"
My brain, already struggling through a thick layer of cognitive static, felt like it hit a Blue Screen of Death. Runtime Exception Handler? The Class designation the buggy URE had grudgingly assigned me during moments of high energy output. How? Outside of maybe Anya and Leo overhearing a System notification back at the Junction (unlikely amidst the chaos), who else could possibly know that? And 'critical processing load'? That was an unsettlingly accurate, detached diagnosis of my current mental state.
Who IS this? The thought screamed through the fog. A URE agent? Some kind of System moderator, if such things even exist in this broken reality? A highly informed scavenger with access to hacked data streams? A trap dressed up in cryptic helpfulness? Suspicion warred with a desperate, flickering ember of hope. Assistance? Could they actually help? Could they fix the buzzing static behind my eyes, recharge my metaphorical SP battery? The potential, however unlikely or dangerous, was intoxicating.
Before I could formulate a response that wasn't just bewildered sputtering, Anya stepped forward, moving smoothly between me and the masked figure. Her sidearm wasn't raised, but her hand rested casually on the grip, posture radiating wary readiness. Leo stayed slightly behind her, golf club held low, looking utterly bewildered but sticking close.
The masked figure remained perfectly still, a study in shadowed efficiency. I took the moment to observe them more closely, trying to force details through my impaired perception. They were lean, average height, maybe slightly shorter than Anya, with a compact build that suggested wiry strength rather than brute force. Their gear was dark, matte black or deep grey, seemingly made of some non-reflective, segmented material that clung tight – tactical, quiet, practical. No bulky armor plates like Anya's, but integrated reinforcement was visible at the joints.
The mask itself was the most striking feature: a smooth, featureless faceplate of dark, smoked transparisteel that covered the entire head, seamless with the neck seal of their suit. Two narrow horizontal slits glowed with a soft, steady cyan light – the optical lenses, devoid of any discernible emotion or focus point, making it impossible to guess where they were actually looking. No visible external tech components, giving them a sleek, almost disturbingly minimalist appearance. They looked less like a scavenger, more like a ghost from a black ops program that never officially existed.
"Who are you?" Anya's voice was low, demanding, cutting straight to the point. "And how do you know that designation?"
The figure tilted their masked head slightly, the cyan lenses sweeping across Anya, then Leo, before settling back on me. The movement was unnervingly smooth, almost mechanical.
"Identity is irrelevant data in this context," the filtered voice replied, calm and level. "Call me Cipher. As for the designation… URE protocols broadcast Class signatures, albeit heavily encrypted and usually localized. Sufficient analytical tools can intercept and parse these broadcasts, particularly during high-energy events or ability activations." They paused, letting the implication hang. "Your companion," the cyan lenses flickered towards me again, "generated significant reality-stress signatures during his recent… 'debugging' efforts. Such signals attract attention, especially from entities attuned to System architecture."
Attuned to System architecture? Intercepting encrypted broadcasts? This was far beyond any tech I knew existed post-Crash. Either Cipher was incredibly advanced, incredibly lucky, or lying through their featureless mask. My internal cynic leaned heavily towards options two and three, maybe spiced with a dash of four: 'insane pre-Crash AI fragment'.
"Attuned," Anya repeated sceptically. "So you just happened to be in the neighborhood listening to System static when we blasted our way out of a locked maintenance junction?"
"Probability calculations indicated a high likelihood of anomalous activity originating from Junction 4-Gamma," Cipher replied smoothly. "My presence here is… correlative, not coincidental. I was observing the local Apex Predator's hunting patterns." They made a minute gesture back down the tunnel where the drag marks originated. "Your arrival disrupted the observation."
Apex Predator. The thing that left the boot with foooooot*. Great. So, giant armoured centipedes, glitch-wraiths, territorial scavengers, and an 'Apex Predator'. The Undercroft really was the destination resort for everything that wanted to kill you.
"And the Vultures?" Leo asked, finding his voice, pointing a shaky finger towards the unconscious scavengers slumped against the wall. "You just… took them out?"
"Their aggressive posturing and lack of operational security presented a predictable tactical liability," Cipher stated flatly. "Neutralizing them preemptively simplified the interaction matrix."
Simplified the interaction matrix. Right. This person (or thing) definitely didn't operate on standard human emotional protocols.
"Okay, Cipher," Anya cut back in, clearly losing patience with the cryptic detachment. "You know things. You took down the Vultures. You offered 'assistance'. What's your angle? What do you want?"
"Information," Cipher replied without hesitation. "Observation. Specifically regarding the Runtime Exception Handler." The cyan lenses seemed to bore into me again. "His abilities represent a significant deviation from known URE parameters. Understanding the mechanism, the limitations, the potential… is of considerable interest."
Great. I'm not just glitch-janitor, I'm Lab Rat #1.
"And the assistance?" I asked, my voice still rough. "What kind are we talking about?" Hope warred fiercely with deep suspicion.
"Immediate tactical support," Cipher offered. "Safe passage back to your disabled vehicle is statistically improbable given current environmental threats and your compromised state." They indicated me again. "I possess detailed knowledge of these tunnel systems and local entity behaviour patterns. I can guide you via less-trafficked routes, bypassing Vulture patrols and the Predator's current hunting grounds."
"In exchange for… letting you watch me?" I clarified.
"Observation, data-logging during ability use, and reciprocal information exchange regarding encountered anomalies," Cipher confirmed. "A temporary alliance of mutual benefit. My objective is data acquisition; your objective is survival and vehicle retrieval. Our immediate goals align."
It sounded almost reasonable, wrapped in cold, analytical logic. Almost.
A distant screech, sharp and metallic, echoed from deeper down the aqueduct bypass, followed by another muffled thud. It wasn't the Wraiths. It wasn't the Vultures. It might have been the 'Apex Predator'.
Anya looked down the tunnel, then back at Cipher, then at me. The pragmatic need warring with inherent distrust was plain on her face. We were weak, exposed, in hostile territory, with known and unknown threats closing in. Cipher, whatever they were, offered a potential lifeline, albeit one wrapped in question marks and potential ulterior motives.
"The rig," Anya stated firmly. "Getting back to the Probability Drive is non-negotiable. It's our only way out of this sewer."
"Affirmative," Cipher replied. "Retrieval is the primary short-term objective."
"And no funny business," Anya added, her hand tightening slightly on her sidearm. "You lead, we follow. We keep line-of-sight. You try anything… suspicious… and this temporary alliance ends. Loudly."
Cipher gave another slight, unnerving tilt of their head. "Acceptable parameters. The optimal route avoids direct confrontation. Follow."
Without waiting for further agreement, Cipher turned fluidly and started moving back the way we had come, but angled towards a barely visible, narrow fissure in the tunnel wall we hadn't noticed before. It was clearly not the main passage we used. They moved with absolute silence, melting into the shadows between the flickering emergency lights.
Anya exchanged a quick, uncertain glance with me. Distrust radiated off her, but so did grim necessity. She jerked her head towards the fissure. "Come on. Looks like we hired a ghost guide."
Leo hurried to follow Anya. I pushed myself off the wall, every muscle protesting, my head swimming slightly. Following a potentially dangerous enigma into a hidden passage, hoping they weren't leading us into another trap, all while feeling like my brain was packed in cotton wool…
My internal monologue, usually so quick with the snark, just offered a blank screen with a blinking cursor. Processing… Please Wait.
Just another day at the office, I thought later, as I stumbled after them, into the narrow fissure, the darkness swallowing us once more, leaving the unconscious Vultures and the disturbing drag marks behind in the flickering green gloom. The universe's shittiest, most bug-ridden office.
- - - - - - - - - -
* I am very sorry if this messes up the tone of the novel, but I just couldn't help myself. 😭😭😭
:pepethinkinggloves: now the question is, how did that ghosty bug boy know about the Probability Drive (vehicle) and their goal in the short-term with such accuracy? Is the System bugged with hidden mics and cameras, are there flying flies that roam around and broadcast audiovisuals, or something else?
Find out more, in the next episode of Dragon Ball Z cough! cough! I mean, My Reality is Bugged! :burn: