The quiet that followed Bobby's reluctant agreement wasn't peaceful. It was heavy. Waiting.
Smoke still curled from Betsy's chrome exhaust stacks, adding to the thick air hanging over Crowpoint's ruined square. The air tasted like ozone, damp earth, and something vaguely like burnt pork rind – the lingering ghost of Goremaw.
Bobby leaned heavily against Betsy's warm flank. The throbbing in his bandaged thigh was a dull, unwelcome ache – better than bleeding out, but still a reminder of just how underpaid he was for this gig.
His adrenaline rush had faded, leaving behind bone-deep weariness, existential confusion, and magical injury.
Captain Hessa, Crowpoint's resident 'don't-mess-with-me' authority figure, gave a curt nod. She looked like she'd seen gods fall and just asked if they'd filled out the proper paperwork first.
"The access point isn't far," she stated. "The old market district collapsed further during the initial… incursion. Tore open a root cellar entrance. That's where the energy signature is strongest."
"Right. A haunted basement," Bobby grumbled, wincing as he shifted his weight. "My favorite kind."
Hessa ignored his sarcasm, signaling someone lurking near a crumbling fountain. A figure detached itself from the shadows – a kid, couldn't be much older than seventeen, but with eyes that looked ancient.
He was wiry, built like a stray dog, clutching a spear fashioned from rebar and pipe. His clothes were patched rags.
"This is Rigg," Hessa said, her tone softening just a fraction. "He knows the undershafts better than anyone left breathing. Grew up scavenging the collapse zones."
Rigg just nodded, a quick, jerky movement. His eyes darted between Bobby and Betsy, lingering on the truck with awe and distrust. His stance was halfway between a fighter's crouch and someone expecting the sky to fall again. Defiant. Exhausted.
"Heard you drove… that," Rigg finally muttered, jerking his chin towards Betsy. His voice was raspy. "Big noise."
"She aims to please," Bobby said dryly. "And occasionally flatten things that bleed ichor."
Hessa stepped forward, holding out a small bundle. "Standard issue for undershaft exploration. It's not much."
Bobby took the items.
First, a rune lantern. He gave it a shake. A weak, yellowish light flickered inside. "Cute. Flickers like a drunk firefly."
Next, a stiff roll of gauze. "Enchanted," Hessa supplied. "Stanches unnatural bleeding. Sometimes."
"Comfortin'," Bobby muttered, tucking it away.
Last was a sealed packet of crackers that looked dense enough to stop a bullet. "These probably predate indoor plumbing?"
"They provide sustenance," Hessa replied flatly. "Rigg will lead you. Stay on the paths he indicates. The ground beneath us… it's not stable."
Bobby nodded. "Right. Follow the kid, don't step on the glowing mushrooms, try not to get eaten." He looked towards the collapsed market district. "Let's get this over with. My ass is already looking forward to that new seat cushion."
As he took a step, favoring his bad leg, Betsy's voice hummed directly into his ear. Her blue-tinted avatar shimmered into existence beside him in his HUD overlay – a ghostly mechanic with a crooked grin.
"Just because the main chassis can't squeeze down some rat hole doesn't mean I'm leaving you high and dry, sugar," she said. "Full system link remains active. You break something, I'll bark diagnostics at it from here."
Bobby glanced at the avatar. "Comfortin'. Real glad my backup's a sarcastic Siri with engine grease."
"Hey, this engine grease has saved your butt more times than that lucky belt buckle," Betsy retorted. "Besides, watch this."
The HUD flared with stark red warning icons.
[ALERT: FULL ANCHOR FORM: UNAVAILABLE]
[REASON: ECHO ENERGY LOW – TERRAIN UNSUITABLE FOR FULL DEPLOYMENT]
[DEPLOYMENT RESTRICTION ACTIVE]
"See?" Betsy's avatar reappeared, gesturing with a spectral wrench. "Big guns are offline in tight spaces. Bad for my stabilizers." "Don't pout. You still got me, and thanks to you flattening Goremaw, the system coughed up something nice."
Another chime pinged.
[ECHO LAYER SYNC BONUS DETECTED]
[ANCHOR MODULE DEPLOYMENT AVAILABLE – FIRST LOADOUT FREE]
[REASON: SUCCESSFUL PRIMORDIAL NEUTRALIZATION – CLASS 3+]
A second line scrolled beneath it.
[TRANSLATING FOR USER PROFILE: "BOBBY JOE BUCKMAN"]
[SYSTEM MESSAGE: You dinged the big one good. Can't take the whole truck underground, but she left you some gifts. First pick's on the house.]
Bobby blinked. "Gifts? Like fuzzy dice?"
"Better," Betsy purred. A selection menu popped up.
[AVAILABLE MODULES - SELECT UP TO TWO (FIRST FREE)]
> DOOR SHIELD (DEFENSE/UTILITY)
> Description: Reinforced driver-side door slab. Still smells faintly like diesel and ghost bacon. Good for blocking, bad for aerodynamics.
> LICENSE PLATE SWORD (MELEE/OFFENSE)
> Description: Bent, jagged steel from Betsy's rear plate. Sharp enough to argue with. Still says "TEXAS" if you squint.
Bobby mentally tapped both. Blue energy flashed beside him. Two objects shimmered into existence and solidified on the ground with a soft thump.
One was Betsy's driver-side door, looking tougher, thicker, with straps on the inner side. The other was a crude, brutal blade fashioned from a mangled license plate, its edges sharpened to a wicked gleam.
He bent down, grunting as his leg protested, and picked them up. The door felt reassuringly solid strapped to his left forearm. He hefted the license plate sword in his right hand, giving it a few swings. Ugly, but sharp.
"Feels like home," Bobby muttered. "If home was kinda stabby."
Betsy hummed through his earpiece. "Mmm. You look like a post-apocalyptic tin knight. Ten outta ten, would swoon."
"Save the swoonin' for when I ain't about to wrestle whatever horror movie reject is livin' downstairs," Bobby retorted. He turned to Rigg, who had watched the gear manifestation with wide, unnervingly calm eyes. Like seeing weapons materialize from thin air was just another Tuesday.
"Alright, leadfoot," Bobby said to the kid. "Show me the scenic route to the heart attack."
Rigg just grunted and turned, melting back towards the rubble. Hessa gave Bobby one last, assessing look, then turned to coordinate the survivors.
The entrance wasn't hard to find. A jagged tear in the earth where a building's foundations had surrendered. Rotting beams jutted out like broken teeth around a dark maw breathing cool, damp air that smelled of wet soil and something metallic, like old blood mixed with pennies.
Rigg swung his legs over the edge and began descending crude steps hacked into the dirt wall.
Bobby took a deep breath, hitched the door shield higher, gripped his sword, and followed, his bad leg making the descent awkward.
The first part of the tunnel was cold, cramped, and dark. The lantern cast dancing shadows. Water dripped nearby.
"Stay on the path," Rigg's voice echoed softly ahead. He pointed his spear tip at marks chiseled into the packed earth floor. "These are safe. Marked by those who knew. People who wander off… they come back different. If they come back at all."
"Different how?" Bobby asked, keeping his voice low. "Extra eyeballs? Dirt sandwiches?"
Rigg just shook his head. "Just… different. Wrong."
They pressed on, maybe fifty feet deep. The crude steps gave way to a harder, level tunnel floor. The walls began to change.
The rough earth smoothed out, becoming unnervingly sleek, almost polished. The air grew warmer, losing its damp chill. The dripping sounds faded, replaced by… a low, almost sub-audible pulse. Like the beat of a giant, slow heart, felt in the bones.
Bobby ran a hand along the wall. It felt strangely yielding, almost like leather. Warm. He pulled his hand back. "Okay, feels like I'm walkin' through a meatloaf that's still dreamin'," he muttered.
"Signal's holding, but Betsy agrees," Betsy's voice crackled slightly, tighter than before. "Place feels twitchy. Like bad wiring. Readings are inconsistent. If I start speaking backwards, smack yourself. Hard."
"Good talk," Bobby grumbled, gripping his sword tighter. The pulsing seemed to intensify.
They passed a junction where another tunnel branched off. Near the entrance was a heap of debris: a rusted wheelbarrow, bleached bones, and a torn, mud-caked backpack.
Bobby paused, nudging the pile. Something small rolled out. He bent down, knee complaining, and picked it up.
A crushed aluminum can. Faded red and white logo. 'EarthCo Soda – The Taste of Home!'
His breath hitched. An Earth brand. Here.
Rigg turned back, eyes narrowed. "What is that?"
Bobby quickly pocketed the can. The implications were a cold knot in his gut. "Nothin' important," he lied. "Just trash."
Rigg didn't look convinced but didn't press. He just grunted and continued.
Bobby followed, the weight of the soda can heavy in his pocket, questions buzzing louder than the pulsing walls. How? Why?
He didn't get an answer.
Fifty feet further down the tunnel, the rune lantern didn't just flicker.
It died.
Sputter. Hiss. Gone.
Plunging them into absolute, suffocating darkness.
A heartbeat of pure black silence.
Then–
Scrrraaaape... scrape...
The sound echoed from ahead, closer now. Dry, like claws on stone. Then another scrape from the side. And maybe... behind them?
A low, guttural chuffing sound joined the scraping, seeming to come from multiple directions in the oppressive dark.
Whatever was down here wasn't alone. And it knew they were blind.