The decision to return to the cellar hideout felt like choosing between being cornered by wolves or walking into a bear trap. Neither option offered safety, only varying degrees of known and unknown danger. Yet, with the sewer junction contested and their physical state demanding rest and recovery, it was the only viable choice. The journey back towards the familiar territory of the Lower District was undertaken with a level of caution that bordered on paranoia.
Rhys pushed his Echo Sense to its absolute limit, the constant scanning a dull throb behind his eyes. He guided them through the deepest, most forgotten conduits, routes choked with slime and debris that discouraged casual travel. He timed their movements meticulously, waiting in hidden alcoves while the tell-tale energy signatures of Crimson Hand patrols passed in adjacent tunnels. He used the background noise of dripping water and distant machinery to mask their own sounds, moving with the practiced silence of ghosts.
Even so, the increased Crimson Hand presence was undeniable and deeply worrying. As they drew closer to the Lower District access points, the patrols became more frequent, more heavily armed. At several key sewer intersections, crude checkpoints had been erected – makeshift barricades of scrap metal and debris, manned by bored but watchful thugs wielding stun-batons and crude slug-throwers. They weren't just patrolling; they were actively controlling movement, strangling the usual flow of scavengers and tunnel dwellers.
From the concealed vantage point of a high drainage outflow pipe, Rhys and Boulder witnessed one such checkpoint in operation. They watched as a pair of gaunt scavengers were roughly searched, their meager findings confiscated, before being subjected to aggressive questioning about any unusual activity, any sightings of "a skinny kid and his big friend," or any "glowing rocks or weird tech." The fear radiating from the scavengers was palpable, their desperate denials met with cuffs and threats. This wasn't just routine Syndicate thuggery; this felt targeted.
Their closest call came while navigating a notoriously confusing maze of intersecting, multi-level pipes near the old Mill district. Rhys sensed them just seconds before they would have rounded a blind corner – a heavy patrol, at least six members, their energy signatures sharp and alert. And leading them was the unmistakable, cold, calculating presence of Scar-Lip Jak's second-in-command, a particularly ruthless enforcer named Vorlag. Scrambling desperately, Rhys pulled Boulder into a narrow, filth-encrusted overflow channel, pressing themselves flat against the slime-coated wall as the patrol stomped past just feet away.
Huddled in the stinking darkness, holding their breath, Rhys strained to catch their words carried on the damp air.
"...no sign of Calder or the brute in weeks," Vorlag's voice rasped. "Waste of resources sweeping these lower tunnels."
"Orders are orders, Vorlag," another voice replied. "The energy signature near Sigma-Nine faded right after Jak's team went silent there. Boss thinks they're connected. Wants anything that looks like unusual tech from that sector, or anyone asking about it."
"And the glowing rock Jak's team mentioned?" Vorlag scoffed. "Probably just phosphorescent fungus."
"Maybe," the other voice conceded. "But the Boss wants it found. And he wants Calder. Alive, if possible. Seems the kid might know something."
The patrol moved on, their voices fading. Rhys sagged against the slimy wall, relief warring with cold dread. They were still priority targets. The Hand suspected their involvement in the Weaver ruin incident (Sector Sigma-Nine) and Jak's disappearance. And crucially, they were actively searching for 'unusual tech' and the 'glowing rock' – which Rhys knew could refer only to the shard he carried or perhaps even the datapad. The order to take him alive suggested they believed he possessed knowledge, making him even more valuable, and therefore more hunted.
After what felt like an eternity of nerve-wracking stealth, they finally reached the dilapidated alleyway housing the loose grate leading to their cellar. The area seemed quiet, but Rhys scanned it meticulously with his Echo Sense before signaling Boulder. Slipping down into the familiar damp darkness of their hideout and securing the grate felt less like reaching safety and more like entering a baited cage. But for now, it was shelter. They collapsed onto their piles of rags, the accumulated exhaustion of days spent in perilous ruins and tense flight washing over them.
Once the initial wave of fatigue passed, Rhys forced himself to sit up. They needed to face the grim reality of their situation. He methodically laid out the threats and challenges, speaking aloud as much for himself as for Boulder.
"Okay," he began, ticking points off on his fingers. "The Crimson Hand is actively hunting us by name. They suspect our connection to the Weaver ruin incident and Jak's disappearance. They know about the shard – the 'glowing rock' – and are searching for any 'unusual tech', which means the datapad is a massive liability if found. They want me alive, likely for information."
He paused, taking a breath. "Sera Bellweather knows I have the datapad. She won't help unlock it unless I retrieve her chronometer from the Sunken Archives – which is suicide right now. Or she wants me to trade the slate, which I won't do."
"Master Kaelen provides training and limited supplies, but he's holding back knowledge. His warnings about Weaver tech suggest he knows more about the dangers, maybe even about Aether Weaving itself."
"Our safe Aether source at the sewer junction is contested by Corbin's crew. Returning there is risky."
"This hideout," he gestured around the damp cellar, "is compromised. My visit to Sera was likely noted. Someone skilled tailed me. We could be watched right now."
"And we still don't know who was breaking into the Weaver ruin, or if they got through the bulkhead after we did. If they did, they might also be looking for us, or the slate."
He leaned back against the wall, the sheer weight of their predicament pressing down. "Supplies are gone. Aether Pool is maybe half-full. Every direction we turn, there's danger."
Boulder listened silently, his expression grim. He offered no easy answers, only his steadfast presence.
Driven by the desperate need for some kind of progress, some key to unlock their situation, Rhys retrieved the Weaver slate again. He settled into a meditative posture, placing the shard directly onto the slate's surface. He poured his recovered Aether – perhaps sixty percent capacity now – into the device, focusing his will, visualizing the 'key' Kaelen had mentioned metaphorically, trying to attune his energy to the slate's complex internal resonance.
The patterns on the slate glowed brighter than ever before, shifting and swirling in response to his focused intent and the shard's amplifying effect. He felt a stronger connection, a deeper resonance. It wasn't just a dead lock; it felt like an incredibly complex mechanism recognizing his unique energy signature, altered by the shard and his Aetherium practice, but still demanding a specific sequence, a final passphrase written in energy itself, that he simply didn't know. He perceived layers within the slate, dormant functions, vast stores of potential information, tantalizingly close yet inaccessible. He pushed until dizziness forced him to stop, the slate falling silent once more. Progress, yes, but not the breakthrough he needed.
Hiding was no longer viable. Waiting meant being caught. Rhys closed his eyes, formulating a desperate, multi-stage plan born of necessity. First, risk another visit to Kaelen. Trade the potential of future resonant materials for immediate survival supplies and another brutal training session – he needed every edge. Second, brace themselves for the most dangerous gamble: approach Sera again. Not begging this time. Perhaps hinting at the potential knowledge within the locked slate could be leverage? Or, if all else failed, seriously preparing to undertake the suicidal Sunken Archives mission. It felt like choosing which poison to drink, but inaction was the most certain death of all.