The tunnel breathed ruin behind them. Blood cooled in rivulets across the grating, and the air still tasted of static and old copper. Wren didn't speak. Warren didn't look back. The Leapers were dead. It was over. For now.
But neither of them could keep going yet. Not like this.
Warren led them through a side hatch and into a forgotten maintenance niche, half collapsed, sealed on one end, just wide enough for a body to sit against the wall and breathe without echo. A safe hole in a city that hated safe things. It would do.
They collapsed together, not touching but near. Close enough to hear each other's breath stutter. Close enough to hide, but not heal.
Wren was shaking. Warren only noticed because she was trying so hard not to.
He pulled the med strips from his inner coat pocket. Three left. The fast kind. The kind that forced tissue repair by overclocking nerves. Painful as hell. Worth it.
He passed her one.
She took it without comment. Just unwrapped it, pressed it to the deepest gouge across her ribs, and bit her lip hard.
Then the scream started.
She didn't make a sound. That's what made it worse. She convulsed in silence, every muscle locking down, every tendon flaring. Her body tried to thrash, but she forced it still. Warren watched her knuckles go white against the floor. He said nothing. But he saw her.
She wasn't like him. Pain wasn't familiar to her the way it was to him. Not daily. Not ritual. And still, she took it. All of it.
Respect wasn't a thing Warren gave easily. But she had his completely. Silently. In the way he didn't look away.
He applied his own strip next. His jaw clenched. No sound. But the pain behind his eyes flared sharp and hot, seizing in his ribs, in his spine, in his lungs. He breathed through it. Barely.
Ten minutes passed. Maybe more.
Wren was the one who broke the silence. Her voice was hoarse. Flat.
"You ever wonder how someone ends up like this?" she asked.
Warren didn't answer. He didn't know if she was talking about him. Or herself.
She didn't wait.
"Calra's my cousin. She's older. But she always felt like my little sister. We grew up under the Warlord. It was... alright at first. Before my father disappeared."
Warren didn't interrupt. He watched her, eyes steady.
"When he was around, the Warlord didn't look at us. He respected my father. Or feared him. But then he went on a raid. Didn't come back. No body. Just didn't come back."
Her breathing hitched.
"That was the day it changed. That night. That was the first time he...." She stopped. Her mouth twisted.
Warren waited.
"He took me. I was thirteen. Maybe fourteen. Doesn't matter. That's when I learned not to scream."
She wept then. Quiet, messy, no effort to stop it. Warren didn't move.
"He trusted me more when I obeyed. When I acted like I wanted it. Said I was clever. Said I could be more than a whore if I just listened. I listened. I learned."
Warren could see it, how she moved through rooms, how she spoke when she needed something. Controlled. Performed.
"I did things. To keep Calra safe. He never looked at her like he looked at me. I made sure of it."
Warren didn't ask what kind of things.
"Then one night, he passed out drunk. I'd slipped a fungal distillate into his drink, scraped from moldgrown birch and steeped with bitter rot. It hit slow but deep, knocked the strength out of him without killing the fire in his veins. Just enough to make him clumsy. Open. Blind to a thief with purpose. Told him I wanted to try something new. He laughed. Told me I was full of fire. Said he found a map. Said it would change everything. Said he'd be more powerful than even the ones he worked for."
She looked up at Warren now.
"He never told me who they were. I didn't even know he answered to anyone. Still don't."
Warren gave a slow nod.
"That night, I went through his quarters. Found the messenger band. Two lens disks. I took them. Ran."
She wiped her face, not for dignity, just so she could keep seeing.
"One shattered while I was running. But the band survived."
"How'd you get out?" Warren asked.
Her smile was bitter.
"Paid the guards. With my body. Told them not to follow. Told them I'd make it worth their silence. And I did."
She looked away.
"When I told Calra to come, she refused. Said he'd kill us both. Said I should stay."
Another pause.
"She never knew what he did to me. Even if she's going through it now, she never knew what I did to keep her safe."
Warren didn't speak. He just sat there, the silence around him clean and still.
"I ran," Wren said. "I haven't looked back. Not until now."
The tunnel felt smaller.
Warren didn't speak. He just shifted slightly, slow and intentional, and unhooked the coat from his shoulders. Without a word, he draped it around Wren's back. Not tightly. Not possessively. Just enough to share the weight.
He didn't look at her while he did it. He didn't need to.
She curled her fingers into the fabric, one hand clutching the hem like it was the only thing not trying to take something from her. He could feel her shoulders shudder against the edge of the coat, not from fear. From release.
Wren's tears slowed. Her breath steadied.
She didn't thank him. And he didn't expect her to.
This wasn't comfort. It was clarity.
They sat like that a long while. Not healed. But breathing.
Together.
Warren wiped the truncheon once across a ragged bit of cloth, then slid it back into its loop. No flourish. Just readiness.
But the quiet that followed wasn't empty. It was full. Heavy with something unspoken that neither of them needed to name.
Styll limped forward and pressed herself against Wren's leg. Her fur still matted with blood, but her tail flicked once with calm. Wren reached down, one trembling hand brushing gently along the sleek, damp fur, fingers slowing at the nick along the edge of Styll's ear, a shallow cut, more mark than wound.
Styll chirped. Not in pain. In affection. Something soft and alive and here. Wren closed her eyes and leaned in, resting her forehead gently against the small creature's skull.
"You're braver than most people I've met," she whispered.
Warren didn't say anything. But his hand moved. Reached behind his coat. Unhooked something.
It was wrapped in worn cloth, darker than the rest of his gear. Hand-shaped. Long. Heavy.
He unwrapped it without a word.
"Pipe."
But not the rusted, bent shard she'd mocked with reverence.
It was new. Reforged . The same silhouette, but forged from blacksteel, the shaft now sleek and balanced, the handle bound with gripcord meant for sweat and blood. The end weighted. Functional. Blunt. Beautiful.
He held it out, not like an offering. Like a transfer of ownership.
"You said it was a legendary weapon," he said, voice steady. "Now it's yours."
Wren stared. Her breath hitched. Her hand reached out, slow, reverent.
She took it. Held it. Felt its weight. The way it sat in her palm like it belonged.
She looked up at him. Then stepped in and kissed him.
It wasn't soft. It wasn't broken. It was hers. Fierce. Alive. Real.
Warren didn't flinch. He let her have the moment. Returned it. Measured. Grounded.
When they parted, she touched her forehead to his and whispered, "It's called Stick, remember?"
He nodded once.
Then came the chirp. Sharp and decisive. Styll had climbed up Warren's side again and now perched on his shoulder, looking out with purpose.
They were ready.
But Warren paused. Not to check the corridor. To check her.
"Hold still," he said, voice low.
She raised a brow, but didn't argue.
He stepped close and adjusted the sling across her shoulder, tightening the strap near the buckle. Then reached into his pack and handed her the last med strip. She took it and slid it into her belt pocket without a word. Then he passed her a spare ration bar, the good kind, the ones with barely any bug protein and real nuts. Real fucking nuts. She looked at it for a second like it might vanish. Then she smiled, wide and raw, and tucked it carefully away like it was something precious.
"You keep these. For later."
She nodded and pressed the supplies into her satchel.
"What about you?" she asked.
He tapped the truncheon once against his thigh and gave a thin smile. "I've got what I need."
She looked at him then, not the Yellow Jacket, not the fighter, not the tactician. Just Warren. The one who didn't flinch when she screamed. The one who didn't ask when she broke. The one who gave her Stick like it meant something sacred.
"I love you," she said.
It wasn't soft. It wasn't hesitant. It landed like a fact.
Warren blinked. Just once. The silence between them stretched long. But his hands moved, reached up, cupped her jaw. He didn't say anything at first. Just looked at her like he had to remember how to breathe.
Then: "I know. I do too."
He said it like it wasn't new. Like it had been true for a long time, waiting for air.
Styll chirped again, hopping once from Warren's shoulder to Wren's pack. She nestled in briefly, then paused, nose twitching. The scent hit her fast.
Wren barely had time to blink before Styll dug into the satchel, teeth already tearing through the ration bar wrapper.
"Hey!" Wren protested, grabbing at the pack too late.
But the damage was done. Styll, smug and utterly without remorse, was already chewing with the slow, deliberate satisfaction of a creature who knew exactly what she'd stolen.
Warren didn't laugh, but something in his eyes relaxed.
Wren sighed, pulled the half-eaten ration free, and broke off what was left.
She offered the larger piece to Styll with mock offense.
"You greedy little gremlin. You owe me."
Styll chirped again. No apology. Just victory.
Wren shook her head, half-smiling.
"Your girl's got no shame," she muttered.
Warren shrugged. "She earned it."
Wren laughed through her nose, blinking the last of the tears away.
"Your girl's got good taste," she said, nodding at Styll.
Warren shrugged. "She's never wrong
Their gear was checked. Their weapons set. Wren spun Stick once, feeling its balance like a heartbeat in her hand. Warren adjusted the coat back over his shoulders.
And then they turned.
Toward the corridor.
Toward the Vault.
Toward whatever waited.
Together.
[Examine]
Material: Blacksteel Core / Wrapped Gripcord
Durability: High
Structural Stability: Excellent
Weight: Medium
Balance Rating: Optimal
Grip/Surface Texture: Textured – reinforced for small-hand retention
Fatigue Resistance: High
Sound Signature: Low impact resonance
Modification History: Fully reforged from a salvaged pipe using blacksteel. Balanced for user. none of the original pipe remains just its shape.
They moved forward as one. Not limping. Not hiding.
Healed enough.
Enough to fight.
Enough to win.
The way forward narrowed. Pipes pressed in close. The floor dipped under their weight. Warren ran a hand along the wall, not to steady himself, but to feel what Scavenger's eye was telling him Industrial-grade welds. Some new. Some heat-stressed recently.
Sabotage.
He crouched beside a vent brace, eyes sharp. A support rod had been unbolted, not collapsed. The tunnel hadn't fallen. It had been collapsed. Deliberately. He didn't speak, but Wren saw his knuckles flex once.
"This isn't old ruin," she said quietly.
"No. This wasn't damage. It was deliberate. Someone rerouted us on purpose. They're trying to slow us down."
Wren didn't ask who would do it. She already knew.
She adjusted the band on her wrist, the map flickering dim against her skin. The signal degraded every few turns now, damage from the cracked lens starting to add up. Still, it worked enough for her to read the current overlay.
"Map says we're one junction off the original path," she said, her voice low but steady. "It would've taken us left at that fork back there."
Warren glanced back once. "Straight line's too clean. They left it untouched for a reason."
Wren nodded. "Yeah. That route's got four fixed choke points and a mirrored angle corridor. The kind you use if you want to stage a hit."
He gave a soft grunt, approval not surprise. "Then we go your way until the terrain disagrees."
They moved another twenty meters before Wren tapped her band again. "Map thinks we're close to an old signal hub. If the lines hold, it connects back to a buried tram junction beneath the Vault's substructure."
"And if the lines don't?"
"Dead end. Worst case: structural collapse. Could've been buried decades ago."
Warren turned his head just slightly. "How close?"
Wren ran a diagnostic with a flick of her fingers. "Two levels down. Five corridor segments ahead. But the overlay's fuzzed. They scrambled the interior index."
"Deliberate?"
"Has to be. This was clean when I first decoded it. That corruption's new."
He paused at the next junction, his fingers tracing rust flakes on a dislodged panel. "Then they're closer than I thought."
They dropped into a vent shaft on Wren's suggestion. The main corridor ahead was lit too evenly for comfort. She scanned the map again mid-slide, sweat slicking down her neck.
"Sharp right after the sub-fan cluster. The exit's tight. You'll need to drop low to clear it."
Warren didn't reply, but he altered his posture to fit.
They spilled out near a pressure-sealed door, rusted shut from the inside.
Wren checked the overlay again. "This isn't on the original path. Someone rerouted this zone manually. Hardwired detour."
"Think they're watching the normal way?"
"No doubt."
He checked the floor for residue. Found scrape marks, not fresh, but too recent to ignore.
"They moved gear through here," he said. "Heavy. Controlled loadout."
Wren tapped her screen. "There's a node ahead. Local map cache. Might still hold a clear image if it wasn't wiped."
Warren adjusted his truncheon. "Get me close. I'll hold the door."
She worked fast, fingers darting across the cracked interface. Her breath slowed. Focused. The node sparked, then flashed. A static-ridden pulse of map data flickered through.
"We've got four fallback lines. Only two still viable. And there's a blind pocket. Here." She pointed. "The Vault's edge. We can use that gap if we move quiet."
Warren leaned over her shoulder, studying the projection. "That stairwell, they didn't scramble it."
"Missed it?"
"No. Saved it. They're herding us."
She looked at him. "Then we'll break pattern."
Warren gave her the barest nod. A flicker of shared certainty.
"Your map. My read. We do this right, they never see it coming."
Wren grinned. "Best plan I've heard all day."
They kept moving, her eyes flicking to the band with each new twist, his instincts pulling them away from obvious angles. Where she found the shape of their destination, he found the cracks in the enemy's pattern.
Together, they made progress. Not blindly. Not by chance.
By reading the same map in two languages: system and survival.
They moved in silence. Every shift in the wall felt intentional. Every narrowing of space was a message written in steel and grime: You shouldn't be here.
The path tilted downward, leading into colder air. The condensation was heavier now, veins of wet traced the walls, beading on every seam. The lighting, what little there was, flickered in and out like the breath of something dying. Burned-out tubes. Half-charged emergency units.
They passed through a choke point barely wide enough for Warren's shoulders. Styll leapt ahead, padding along the rusted grating without sound.
Beyond the squeeze, a fork.
Left: dry, straight, wide. Lit. Meant for feet.
Right: dark, narrow, uncertain. No markings. No signs.
Warren didn't hesitate. He went right.
Wren followed without a word.
They climbed over a collapsed service conduit, stepping through filth that smelled like old coolant and mold. Halfway across, Wren's foot slipped. She caught herself with one hand against the pipe wall, grunting softly.
Warren didn't turn. But his pace slowed just enough. Not to help. Just to make sure she had space to recover.
"Thanks," she muttered.
He nodded, still facing forward. "The dry path was too easy. This one? No one's cleaned it. No traps, no eyes."
Wren wiped her hand on her thigh. "You think they want us funneled?"
"They want us seen. Easier to intercept. This route burns more time, but it keeps us real."
They crawled under a fractured arch next. Remnants of a broken access bridge. Shards of rebar like teeth, concrete chunks dangling above them. Warren passed first, eyes always moving. Wren paused under the worst of it.
She looked up.
"Feels like it's watching."
"It is," Warren said.
They pressed on.
Each tunnel bled into the next. Abandoned chambers. Stripped panels. Junctions half-eaten by time. Warren marked each turn with a grease pencil on the wall, quick slashes, readable only if you already knew what to look for.
They weren't just navigating now.
They were threading a needle.
The sabotage they passed wasn't chaotic. It was designed. Welds melted just enough to suggest damage, but structurally weakened in ways that made collapses inevitable. Support brackets swapped for softer metals. Grease lines rerouted. Cooling ducts stuffed with fiber mesh.
It was surgical.
"Someone ahead wants us tired," Wren said.
Warren nodded. "Or slow. Or funneled into a fight."
A grated stairwell dropped them three levels down. They descended in silence, steps echoing in loose rhythm. The further they went, the quieter it got. Not dead quiet. Controlled quiet. As if something had turned off the world.
Warren's hand grazed the wall again.
"Paint's new," he muttered. "This isn't age. This is prep."
He stopped near a terminal panel. It had been gutted. The frame was intact, but the internals were stripped. Recently. Clean cuts, not scav work.
"They don't need us to find the Vault," Wren whispered. "They already know where it is."
"Right," Warren said. "We're not racing to it. We're being delayed until it's ready."
They pressed deeper, each hallway another vein into something older, colder.
Every footfall was a test.
Wren watched the floor now, every pattern, every patch of grime, every groove that didn't look quite natural. Warren kept scanning upward, vents, ledges, kill zones. Both of them moved like they were walking across the mouth of a sleeping god.
Eventually, the air shifted.
Less rot. Less rust.
Stone.
The walls transitioned from panel to concrete. The metal gave way to mineral. The space opened wide, an old chamber half-buried by time. They stepped through cautiously, their footsteps suddenly deafened by the shift in acoustics.
In the far corner: an old lift. Non-operational. Its cage bent. But behind it, another stairwell. Marked.
The mark wasn't Warren's. But he recognized the pattern.
It was military. Old Scav. Code for "secure fallback."
Wren tapped it. "Who would've..."
Warren cut her off with a hand.
They weren't alone.
He crouched low, eyes narrowing. Wren followed, silent.
Somewhere beyond the next passage, the air changed again.
Heat.
Barely perceptible. But real.
They weren't ahead of the squad.
They were close.
Too close.
They pressed on.
Wren tapped her messenger band as they approached the fork. The main corridor ahead was clean, too clean, wide, smooth flooring, no residue, no drag marks. Lit evenly by half-functional strips overhead.
"Map says left would keep us on-route," she muttered. "Faster, clearer shot."
Warren didn't slow. His eyes tracked along the corners, the ceiling, the way the walls curved too perfectly.
"That's the problem," he said. "They want us to take it."
He veered right instead, into a maintenance duct that dipped low and narrowed by the step. No lights. The air smelled wrong.
"This isn't on the overlay," Wren said, but she followed.
"Good. That means they're not watching it."
The new path felt older. Less touched. Pipes groaned with residual pressure. The walls sweated condensation through cracked seals. It felt like a place the world had forgotten.
Warren moved slower now, checking corners, pausing to listen when the floor creaked beneath their weight. Every sound mattered.
Wren stepped lightly behind him, map flickering as she turn it off.
"This ain't on the map," she whispered. "We're off-grid."
"Then we stay sharp."
They climbed over a broken catwalk. Down a twisted ladder. Through a narrow access panel missing its cover. Every turn took them deeper, not into chaos, but into neglect. A place bypassed long before today.
"You sure this gets us closer?" Wren asked.
"Closer than walking into a trap," Warren replied.
Wren didn't argue. She adjusted her grip on Stick and kept going.
Eventually, the conduit opened into a side shaft. A natural funnel, stone and pipe meshed by years of runoff.
Warren stopped at the edge and scanned ahead. No footprints. No marks. Just dust. Honest dust.
"This is real," he said quietly.
"What is?"
"The path. No one rerouted this. No one's touched it."
Wren nodded once. "Then we're finally ahead of them."
Together, they stepped into the dark.
They rounded a turn into a wider chamber with breath held and weapons sheathed. Not a sound but their footfalls. Not a flicker but the amber glow ahead.
And there it was.
They could see the Vault in the distance.
It was massive. A door like a wall of impenetrable steel. Seamless. Angular. Etched markings untouched by time, but the symbol, the spiral bar with twin cuts. The old-world sigils. The etchings meant something once, but neither of them could read it, just symbols and layers from a language that didn't belong to them long since dead.
Wren stared. Her breath caught.
Warren didn't move.
The hallway around them was still. Too still.
Wren stepped forward, slowly, reverently. Her fingers reached toward the edge of the next door but stopped. Her eyes narrowed.
On the wall beside the frame, smeared faintly across the metal, was a mark. Blood. Just a drop. Someone had cut themselves, maybe on the edge of the frame. But the red was vibrant against the dust and grime. Fresh. Human. A trail too small to follow, but loud in the silence.
Warren followed her gaze. He saw it too. Mid-height. Right hand-side. Wet. Recent.
He scanned the edges. The air was disturbed. The dust had shifted. Not by weather. By presence.
They were here.
Or had been.
Warren drew in a slow breath. Calculating.
They hadn't noticed Warren and Wren. Not yet.
He motioned her back. One finger raised. Stillness.
They weren't alone.
But they were unseen.
They'd entered from above the Vault, on a catwalk that ran along the upper interior wall. Thin railing. Metal grating underfoot. Just enough height to watch from.
From below, muffled by echo and distance, came a different kind of sound.
Breathless. Rhythmic. Urgent.
Wren's eyes widened. She froze.
Warren didn't move, but his expression shifted slightly. A tick of the brow. A tightening of the mouth.
Someone was down there. Two people. Mid-act. No urgency of patrol. No mission in their minds.
Just want. Need. Carelessness.
Warren held up two fingers, then tapped his temple. Listen.
They didn't speak. Didn't move. Just listened.
Every sound sharpened. Breathing. Cloth. The creak of a boot shifting post-contact.
Wren leaned in, barely a whisper in her breath.
"They're not paying attention."
Warren nodded. Not yet.
He didn't look at her. He didn't need to.
She already knew what came next.
Together they moved.