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.