The heavy footfalls kept coming. Not fast. Not careless. Each one hit the floor with a hydraulic thump that echoed through the hallway like the place was bracing for what came next. Then the armory door groaned wider.
The Ghoul Captain stepped through.
He didn't burst into the room. He entered it—slow, deliberate, like he was reclaiming ground he'd never surrendered. His shotgun was leveled low, not raised yet, but his stance said he didn't need to hurry. Rusted T-45 power armor creaked with every step, plating half-eaten by time. One arm was bare to the bone, the other gripping that shotgun with the calm of a man who thought every shot still counted. Tubes lined the armor's collar, half-torn and leaking dust. Across the chest, the paint had peeled, but I could still see the outline of rank once engraved in authority.
His face was worse.
No helmet. Just a skull wrapped in old skin and enforcement instinct, jaw locked in a permanent grimace, eyes sunken hollows of dried wrath.
He scanned the room.
And spoke again.
"You will vacate the restricted zone," he growled. "Final warning."
I didn't answer. I moved.
Slid behind an overturned vending machine, boots skimming past loose glass, chest pressed against rusted metal still coated in dried blood. The cover wasn't perfect, but it would hold—at least for the opening shot.
The Captain stepped further in.
No hesitation. No aimless wandering. He swept the shotgun left, then right, like he knew this room better than I did. Like he'd drilled this clearing routine every day before the world ended and just picked it back up.
I thumbed the Railwhistle's chamber. Locked and loaded. My hand hovered over the grip of Terra's Gift.
This wasn't just a ghoul.
This was a soldier.
And the second he decided I was worth the shell?
All hell was going to break loose.
"I don't want to fight you," I said, voice low but firm, echoing just enough to carry without sounding like a threat.
He paused mid-step.The servos in his armor clicked once as his left leg locked. The shotgun didn't dip. But it didn't fire either.
I kept my stance tight behind the vending machine, just visible in the gap. "What's your name?" I asked.
The ghoul's head cocked slightly to the left—faint, but alert. Recognition didn't show on his face. There wasn't enough face left for expression.
After a beat, he answered. His voice was a throatful of broken glass, pulled through cracked speaker coils.
"Captain R. Walker. 18th Tactical Security Response Division. Civil Stabilization Corps."
"Captain Walker," I said, slowly rising a few inches more. "You've been standing post a long time."
Nothing.
So I kept going.
"It's been... about a thousand years."
The air shifted. A low vent hummed and failed. His armor clicked again, adjusting posture slightly.
"I know that doesn't make sense. But it's true. The world up top... it changed. The Faro Swarm's gone. Gone for good. And the project—Zero Dawn—worked."
Still no answer.
I hesitated. This next part was harder to explain.
"Most people still don't know what it really was. They thought it was a weapon—something that would save them before the end. But it wasn't."
Walker's head turned toward me now, fully. The green glow in his eyes narrowed just a hair.
"It wasn't a salvation plan," I said. "It was a burial plan. Reboot came after everyone was already gone."
Silence. Then the voice, slower now.
"Where is Keller?"
The question hit me harder than I expected.
"Sector seventeen," he added, as if I'd forgotten. "Second watch. My second. My friend."
I thought of the audio log. The voice full of fear. Of erosion. Of someone begging for clarity with a loaded gun in his lap.
I swallowed hard.
"He's gone."
The armor groaned under shifting weight. Not from age—grief.
But the shotgun didn't lower.
"Unauthorized personnel are not permitted in the armory," he said again. This time, there was less of a growl in it.
More of a ritual.
"I am authorized to use lethal force to maintain order."
The gun came up.
And fired.
The blast tore through the vending machine. Metal shrieked as shrapnel scattered, and a wave of heat passed close enough to sting. I dropped low and rolled behind a collapsed counter. My shoulder hit rusted steel. Dust filled my lungs. I stayed quiet.
Across the room, Walker didn't hurry. His movements were slow, deliberate, heavy with the kind of confidence that only comes from certainty. The servo in his leg whined with every step. The shotgun stayed low, but the intent was building behind it like pressure behind a sealed door.
He spoke again. The words scraped out of him like they were pulled from something broken.
"Where is Keller?"
I didn't move. Didn't speak. My fingers hovered near the trigger, but my breath stayed even. I could feel the moment twisting.
"You said he's gone," he growled. "Gone."
His tone shifted. It wasn't confusion anymore. It was focus. One piece after another slotting into place.
"You came from that hallway. You opened this door. You're armed."
The shotgun hissed as he chambered another round. His voice dropped an octave.
"You made noise."
Then came the verdict.
"You killed him."
I didn't answer. I didn't need to. The truth was too complex for this room, too buried in time and blood and mercy. There was no way to explain that Keller had already been lost long before I put him down. That there was no saving what was left. That I'd only finished what the world had started.
So I said nothing.
Walker's head tilted just slightly. The green glow in his eyes narrowed. His grip on the shotgun tightened.
"You killed Keller," he said again. This time, it wasn't protocol. It was personal.
I remained behind cover. Still silent. Still breathing.
That was all he needed.
The growl started deep in his chest. It rose through ruined vocal cords and broken speakers. Not a word. Not a command. Just the sound of something that had lost everything and now had something to blame.
He stepped forward.
The snarl ripped through the room, raw and feral. The shotgun raised again. Faster now. Sharper.
There were no more warnings coming.
Only punishment.
The snarl hadn't faded before I moved. I ducked lower behind the counter, breath caught in my throat, Railwhistle up and angled toward the side of the gap. My heart was pounding, but my hands were steady. I was ready for him to circle, to flank, to maneuver like he had a mind trained for breach-and-clear.
But Walker didn't circle.
He charged.
The first thing I heard was the growl of the servos winding up. Then came the thunderclap as he hit the counter.
Not around it. Through it.
The slab of metal I was using for cover exploded as he crashed into it with the full weight of power-assisted rage. The table flipped sideways and shattered. Rusted beams tore loose. I barely threw myself back in time to avoid catching the full weight of a thousand pounds of exosuit and fury.
Sparks flew. Something groaned and collapsed behind me. A shockwave of dust and debris rolled across the floor.
I hit hard on my back and skidded across broken tile.
By the time I rolled onto a knee, he was already turning toward me again. The shotgun was still in his grip, but now it was secondary. The real weapon was his mass.
I brought up the Railwhistle and fired.
The spike slammed into his shoulder plate, cracking the rusted metal and staggering him half a step. Not enough. Not even close. He straightened as if I'd tapped him with a stick.
I tried to roll again, to gain distance, but he was already in motion.
Walker didn't slow.
He didn't hesitate.
He was here to finish what the world had started.
Walker surged forward and caught me before I could reset. His armored hand clamped around the front of my coat like a vise. I got one arm up, tried to twist free, but it was like trying to wrestle a hydraulic press. I didn't even get the chance to curse before he hauled me off the ground and threw me.
I hit the wall behind me like a missile.
The brittle concrete gave way instantly. Years of decay and damp had turned it into little more than layered dust held together by memory. I punched straight through, ribs screaming all over again, and crashed into the room on the other side.
I hit the floor hard, bounced once, then slid into a pile of collapsed shelving and old office gear.
For half a second, I couldn't breathe.
The wind was gone. My lungs forgot how to function. My vision blurred, pain screaming across my back and shoulder like a wildfire.
Then the shot came.
I didn't think.
I moved.
Rolled hard to the right just as the shotgun roared. The blast tore through the spot I'd just occupied, shredding the tile and spraying the room with fragments of shattered desk and wall. A second slower, and I wouldn't be thinking anything at all.
I came up on one knee behind what used to be a filing cabinet, gasping, bruised, half blind from dust—but alive.
That bastard didn't just fight like a soldier.
He hunted like a wrecking ball.
Walker punched through the wall like it wasn't there. The plating on his shoulder caught the frame and tore through it with a screech of bending metal and pulverized brick. He stepped into the room, shotgun raised, not rushing—but closing.
I dropped behind the remains of the filing cabinet and flicked open the Nanoboy.
I selected the Iron Bind and hit deploy.
Decompression in progress. 00:58.
A minute. That was it. That was all I needed.
The cabinet didn't stop him. He kicked it aside like it was a cardboard box and kept moving. The shotgun dipped as he adjusted grip—closer range. Tighter choke. He wanted to finish this face to face.
I didn't give him the chance.
I vaulted sideways across the floor, landed behind an overturned desk, and rolled just as the shotgun thundered again. The wall behind me exploded in a burst of plaster and wood. The concussion alone sent sharp pain lancing through my already-bruised ribs.
00:46.
I moved again, crawling low, shifting behind a crumbled support beam. The Iron Bind icon blinked once in my HUD—still loading. Still not ready.
Walker was slower than before, but deliberate. He didn't flinch. He didn't shout. He just kept walking forward, carving a line through the wreckage with the calm of someone for whom violence wasn't rage.
It was ritual.
00:33.
I grabbed a chair and hurled it to the far side of the room. It clanged off a collapsed locker and scattered metal across the floor.
Walker turned at the sound. Briefly.
That was enough.
I took off in the opposite direction, sliding behind a column as he pivoted back and fired. The blast ripped through the air where I'd been a second earlier, slamming into the far wall.
00:22.
Almost there.
Almost.
I stepped out from cover and raised the Railwhistle. Walker was exposed, center mass wide open, but I aimed higher. A headshot would drop him clean. I squeezed the trigger.
The spike launched with a shriek, tearing through the air. The pressure vent screamed behind it like a war cry.
Walker turned.
He didn't duck. Didn't break stride.
He blocked it.
His left arm came up fast, armor plating twisting into place like an old reflex kicking back to life. The spike hit dead on. The impact cracked the forearm plate, tore through the servo webbing underneath, and wrenched the entire limb back with a violent jerk. Sparks burst from the elbow joint, and the arm dropped limp at his side.
He staggered, just for a second.
Then the shotgun in his right hand came back up.
He was still armed. Still mobile. But his left side was done.
The gauntlet hung useless. The fingers twitched once, then stopped entirely. Smoke curled out of the wrist, thin and black. I ducked back behind the busted desk as he leveled the shotgun and fired blind. The wall behind me cracked. Wood splintered. Dust exploded across the floor.
I crouched low and checked the Railwhistle. The spike chamber was clear, pressure gauge holding steady. I reloaded fast, hands working by instinct now.
I hadn't gotten the kill shot.
But I'd taken his shield arm.
And that meant the next one would land harder.
The HUD flashed in the corner of my vision. The Iron Bind was almost ready.
Just a few more seconds.
Then I'd pin him to the floor and end this.
The HUD chimed in my ear.
[DEPLOYMENT COMPLETE: IRON BIND READY]
I didn't hesitate.
I pulled the weapon from the Nanoboy's storage and snapped it open. The familiar weight settled into my grip—heavy, awkward, brutal. No elegance. Just purpose.
Walker was still advancing. The shotgun tracked low, sweeping the wreckage with military precision. His left arm hung useless, sparking and limp. All his weight was behind the right side now—behind the weapon. His pace hadn't slowed, but he had to adjust for balance. The armor didn't compensate like it used to.
He passed the shattered filing cabinet, started angling for my position.
I moved fast. Popped out from behind the far wall, leveled the Iron Bind, and pulled the trigger.
The harpoon screamed through the air and punched into the small of Walker's back with a deep, metallic thunk. The cable whipped behind it and locked into the far wall with a shriek of tension and steel.
Walker didn't cry out. He didn't even grunt.
But he stopped.
Mid-step. Like something had hit pause.
He turned slightly, shifting his weight as the cable pulled taut. The servos in his torso groaned, trying to fight the tension. He reached back with his left hand—
But there was nothing there.
The arm was dead.
The fingers twitched and dragged against his beltline, but the limb was slack and unresponsive.
He tried again.
Still nothing.
Then I saw the realization settle in.
He couldn't reach the anchor.
Not with one arm.
Not without turning his back to me.
And if he did that, I'd put a round through the back of his head before he took a second step.
He had a choice now.
Let go of the shotgun.
Or stay pinned.
And I wasn't betting on surrender.
Walker didn't drop the shotgun. He roared. The sound that came out of him wasn't human. It wasn't even close. It scraped across the walls like steel dragged over concrete, a guttural scream that hit deep in the chest and made the air vibrate. He wasn't just angry. He was breaking.
He threw his weight against the Iron Bind. The servos in his armor howled under the strain. The harpoon cable snapped taut, anchoring him to the wall like a chained animal. His torso twisted as he leaned forward. Sparks flew from the armor's waist, where tension forced the power-assisted frame to compensate. The wall groaned but held. The cable held too.
He yanked again, pulling with everything he had. The metal sang from the strain, but the line didn't snap. The Iron Bind was built for bigger things. Machines with tusks. Machines with claws. Whatever Walker used to be, he wasn't bigger than that. He wasn't stronger. He just didn't know it yet.
He reached back with his left arm. The limb hung dead, dragging like a puppet with its strings cut. He tried anyway. His fingers twitched against his belt, clawing uselessly at the air. He couldn't reach the anchor. Couldn't get any leverage.
But the shotgun in his right hand was still live.
He started to raise it.
I didn't give him the chance.
I fired the Railwhistle.
The spike slammed into his right arm just below the elbow. The impact cracked armor, tore muscle, and punched through the joint with a wet snap. His hand opened involuntarily. The shotgun flew from his grip and clattered across the floor. It hit the base of an overturned desk and disappeared into the debris.
Walker staggered. His weight shifted. Both arms dropped—one shattered, the other already dead. His whole upper frame sagged forward like something in the core had finally failed.
The room went still.
He looked up at me.
And for the first time since the fight started, he didn't look like a soldier.
He looked like something waiting for the end.
Walker sagged in the cables, head drooping, breath shallow and uneven. The Iron Bind held firm. The power armor's servos whined one last time, then went quiet. No more struggle. Just the creak of steel under weight, and the faint hiss of a ruined life support system trying to cycle through a ghost.
He didn't look at me at first. Just stared into the far wall like he was trying to remember something. His arms hung useless. The shotgun was gone. The fight was over. But something still held him upright.
Then his head turned.
His voice came out slower this time, not as a command, not a threat. Just a question.
"Tell me…" he rasped. "Is it still there? The world. Is it still… worth all this?"
I didn't answer right away.
He coughed. Dry. Almost a laugh. Then he looked at me again, and this time the eyes—dead sockets though they were—searched me.
"I held the line," he said. "I did everything they asked. I buried friends. Shot civilians when they told me to. Locked doors. Shut people out. We said it was for the future. For… for something better."
His jaw trembled for a second. Just enough to remind me that there was still a man somewhere under the ruin.
"I need to know… was it for nothing?"
I stepped forward and holstered the Railwhistle.
"It's like Eden," I said.
His head tilted, almost uncertain.
"The animals came back," I told him. "Buffalo run free across the plains. Real ones. With calves and old bulls and herds that stretch for miles. The air's clean. The soil grows food again. People live in villages and cities. They dance, laugh, fall in love."
I paused, let it land.
"They don't remember what you did. But they live because of it."
Walker blinked. His breath hitched.
"I thought maybe we'd ruined it all," he said. "We… the old world. The decisions. The bombs. The… the silence."
I didn't speak. I didn't have to.
He nodded slowly. A soft exhale left him, long and tired.
"Thank you," he whispered. "For telling me."
Then he closed his eyes.
"Do it."
I raised Terra's Gift.
There was no hesitation.
No malice.
Just an answer.
I pulled the trigger.
The sound was loud in the stillness—but brief. The round punched through his forehead clean, and the light in his eyes vanished. The armor slumped forward in the cables, exhale final, weight collapsing into the silence.
I stood there for a long moment.
Not as a killer.
As a witness.
The smoke still hung in the air when I stepped forward. Walker didn't move. The body stayed slumped in the tangle of armor and cable, head bowed like he'd finally put down the burden he'd carried through a thousand years of silence. There was no rage left. No tension. Just stillness.
I scanned the wreckage, eyes settling on the shotgun where it had skidded across the floor.
I walked over and crouched beside it.
It looked intact at first—military frame, short barrel, high-capacity tube beneath. The kind of riot gun built to clear hallways, not hunt birds. I picked it up, turning it gently in my hands.
It snapped in two with a dry metallic pop.
The stock split from the receiver, falling into my palm like it had been held together by habit alone. The internal springs uncoiled and clattered to the floor like old bones.
I stared at it for a second.
"Figures," I muttered.
Still, I tucked the halves into my satchel. It wasn't functional. Not anymore. But it was intact enough for someone like Ubba to learn something. A trigger group. Feed system. Shot pattern mechanics. A shotgun wasn't the most complicated weapon in the world.
And out here?
Sometimes broken things still had purpose.
I stepped back toward the armor.
Even wrecked, it was valuable. Not because I could wear it, and not because it looked good in some trophy room. It was valuable because someone could learn from it.
The left arm was gone—shattered by the Railwhistle. The right had taken enough stress to strip out the actuator. The leg joints looked solid, but when I tried to shift the weight, something deep in the hip assembly let out a grinding pop. Frozen, maybe fractured. The frame wouldn't walk again. Not without tools, parts, and a full teardown.
Didn't matter.
It wasn't trash.
I unlocked the front harness and peeled the torso open. The armor hissed, pressure equalizing from some long-dead emergency system. I leaned in and pulled Walker free, lifting him out of the suit.
He didn't resist. Just slid out in a slump of old bone and hardened muscle, lighter than I expected.
I laid him on the floor.
Not because I was trying to be reverent.
Because it was right.
He wasn't just a ghoul. He wasn't just another fight. He'd made a choice—several, maybe. And even if most of them were wrong, he'd done what soldiers do.
He'd held the line.
I stood, looked down at the ruined armor, and did the only thing that made sense. I tapped the Focus, pulled up the local map, and dropped a tag. The ping locked in a set of coordinates. I added a label for later:
Power Armor – Damaged. Recovery Recommended.
It wouldn't fit in the Nanoboy. Even broken down, it was too dense. But someone else could make use of it. The Ironbone, maybe. Even if they didn't rebuild it, they'd take it apart and figure out how it worked. That was enough.
I gave Walker one last look. Just a body now. Just a story at its last page.
Then I turned toward the armory door.
Let's see what was worth all this.
The armory door opened with a tired hydraulic groan.
Inside, the room was smaller than I expected. Reinforced walls, backup lights barely clinging to life, and racks—most of them empty. Whatever stockpile this place once held, it had been stripped long ago. Maybe by the people down here before the leak. Maybe by Walker himself.
But not everything was gone.
I stepped inside and started scanning.
Near the back corner, under a sheet of scorched canvas, I found a hardcase crate. Old military issue. Sealed tight. The locking mechanism had failed from heat exposure, but a pry bar and a bit of pressure got it open.
Inside was a folded topographical map, the edges weathered but still legible. Red ink marked specific coordinates, each labeled with strings of numbers and tags like "Primary Resupply Node," "Deep Cold Archive," and "Secure Vault – ██ Sector." I recognized the formatting. Old government bunker sites. Still sealed. Still out there.
That went into the Nanoboy.
Next, tucked behind one of the storage lockers, I found a shredded tactical vest. Most of it had rotted through—stitching ruined, nylon torn—but three of the ceramic trauma plates were still intact. Level IV. Heavy, but usable. They'd survived everything else in here. They'd survive a few more fights. The vest itself was junk, but I knew a decent leatherworker back in Ironwood Grove could use the layout as a pattern. That went in the satchel.
Then I found the manual.
Hardbound. Military gray. Embossed with a gold eagle that had faded to copper over time.
MODERN ARMY COMBATIVES PROGRAM – FIELD EDITION
United States Armed Forces, 2082 Revision
I opened the cover and flipped through a few pages.
It was all here. Close-quarters technique. Joint locks. Weapon retention. Groundwork. A full combat doctrine—not tribal, not post-apocalyptic—systematic. Real.
I stared at it for a moment, then closed the cover.
This wasn't normal salvage. This was training. Doctrine. Its own kind of weapon.
Terra had said I could learn combat styles via the system, but I don't know what the process would entailed so put that in my pocket for now I was going to look around first
The rest of the loot was mixed.
A pouch of rusted ammo I couldn't use. A set of old rations that had turned to dust. Two sealed morphine injectors—expired, but still potent. A belt holster with a cracked radio that might be salvageable. A nameplate, too corroded to read, but still shaped like a badge.
I kept digging.
Half the lockers were empty. The others had been smashed open long ago, but not everything had been taken. Some things had been ignored—either too common to matter back then or too obscure to recognize now.
But I knew what I was looking at.
One of the wall-mounted crates held a pair of tactical shin guards, black polymer over reinforced ceramic. They were scratched and dusty, but the straps were intact, and the plates hadn't cracked. I strapped them to my pack. Extra protection without slowing me down.
Item: Tactical Shin Guards
Type: Leg Armor (Slot: Shins)
Class: Old-World Military Grade
Condition: 80% – Fully usable,
Origin: Pre-Collapse U.S. Security Forces
Material: Polymer outer shell, ceramic trauma core, padded interior, velcro + strap fastening
Stats & Effects
+2 Defense vs. melee attacks to legs
Reduces damage from kicks, claws, low strikes, or blunt trauma to lower legs.
+1 Resistance to machine knockback effects
When struck by charging or pouncing enemies (e.g. ferals, Watchers, Ravagers), reduced stagger chance by 15%.
Stability Assist:
When bracing during firing or in crouch stance, gain +5% recoil control (Railwhistle, bow, or shotgun).
Mod Slot:
1 Open Slot (Upgradeable by Ironbone)
"They're heavy, but they're built to take a pipe to the leg and keep you moving. I'll take the weight." I mumbled.
Behind a scorched duffel bag, I found a field backpack—mid-capacity, reinforced stitching, heavy-duty canvas. Worn, but the frame was solid and the zippers still worked. I tested the straps. Good distribution. Better than what I was using. I swapped it in on the spot.
Near one of the wall lockers was a sealed case marked with a faded hazard icon. I popped it open and felt the weight immediately—three intact flashbang grenades, military issue, pin-and-throw design. The foam cradle had partially melted around them, but the safeties were still tight. I slid them into an empty grenade loop in my new pack.
On a bottom shelf, buried under old canvas rolls, I pulled out a belt of spare pouches—dump bags, ammo holders, a side sheath for a blade or multitool. They weren't matched, but they were modular. I kept the best ones and tossed the rest.
Next to them was a multi-tool—folding, well-used, but functional. Blade. Wire cutter. Screwdriver. It clicked open with a little resistance. I slid it into a side pouch.
I found a field canteen, still sealed. Water inside didn't smell like rust, and the filter cap looked intact. I gave it a quick twist and locked it back down.
Last was a compact solar charger, folded and cracked at the hinge, but maybe repairable. Lightweight. Old-world standard. If I could get it working, I could keep a few pieces of tech alive longer than they deserved.
Not everything was gold. I found old belts with corroded buckles, a pair of ruined gloves that disintegrated when I touched them, and a holster soaked through with mold. But what worked?
Was going to work for me.
The armory had been picked clean in most places, but one crate in the far corner stood out. It was sealed. Intact. No rust around the hinges. No pry marks on the lid. Someone had packed this to last, and whatever was inside had stayed that way.
I cleared some debris and ran my hand over the top of the crate. The markings were faded, just a string of letters and numbers stenciled in white. No logos. No unit badge. Just a long-dead serial code and the sense that whatever was in here, it wasn't meant to be shared.
I cracked the seal.
The pressure lock hissed like a breath held too long.
Inside, resting in molded foam like a crown in a coffin, was a helmet.
It was jet black, matte-surfaced with deep-cut lines across the brow. A red V-shaped visor ran from temple to cheek like a dagger turned upside down. Breather ports flanked the mouthpiece—symmetrical, armored, military in every sense of the word. No emblem. No decals. Just precision.
It looked like it had never been used.
I whistled low and reached in, lifting it out carefully.
"Looks like this world's version of an NCR Ranger helmet," I muttered. "But angrier."
The visor glinted in the low light, casting a faint red reflection across my fingers. It was lighter than I expected. No cracks. No weathering. Sealed tight.
I flipped it over. The inner systems were intact. Filtration modules. Seal interface. HUD lines inlaid across the visor's edge. If this thing could talk, it would probably still bark orders in six languages and launch a drone strike.
I ran a thumb over the side panel. It clicked under my touch, and the visor pulsed once.
Still alive.
Still waiting.
I glanced toward the exit, then back down at the helmet.
"Looks like I just found my upgrade."
I turned the helmet in my hands one more time, then tapped the side of my Focus.
The scan passed over the shell with a blue shimmer. A second later, a soft ping echoed in my ear, and the overlay lit up with a new data panel. Most of the tech I found down here barely got a line or two—"nonfunctional," "obsolete," "corrupted."
This?
It had a profile.
[FOCUS LINK ESTABLISHED – ECHO-9 TACTICAL HELMET]
Status: Operational – 95% Integrity
Classification: Black Echo Project – Tier 2 Combat Headgear
Access Level: RESTRICTED (Override Bypass: Success)
▶ Armor Value (Head): +3
▶ Flashblind Resistance: 50% reduction to disorientation time
▶ Threat Response: Passive movement ping within 5m
▶ Visual Overlay Sync: Focus-compatible (HUD, Target Tags, Diagnostics)
▶ Environmental Seal: Radiation, particulate, toxin protection – 2 hour cycle
▶ Filter System: Active rebreather w/ purge valve (functional)
▶ Optics Mount: 1x Mod Slot
▶ Utility Port: 1x Mod Slot
I raised an eyebrow.
Fully sealed. Combat-rated. Sync-capable with my Focus.
This wasn't just gear. This was something special. Probably worn by a special forces unit that didn't make it out of the 21st century. The kind of helmet that made people think you were a one-man apocalypse.
I thumbed the side again, watching the internal lights flicker red behind the visor.
"Yeah," I said under my breath. "You'll do."
I slung the helmet under one arm and made for the exit.
Whatever came next—I had the edge.
I gave the helmet one last look, then pulled it on.
It slid over my head with a snug fit, the inner lining adjusting automatically. As it settled into place, I heard the faint click of the seal engaging at the base of my neck. A soft hiss followed as the internal pressure equalized and the airflow system kicked on. Cool, filtered air moved across my face.
The HUD activated instantly.
Lines of red data pulsed along the inside of the visor. Power levels. Filter cycles. Threat detection arcs. It was smooth, minimalist, efficient. No clutter. Just the right kind of information.
I rolled my shoulders and turned my head side to side.
Something in my neck popped—loud enough to hear it through the internal audio.
"Yep," I muttered. "Not moving unless I want it to."
The helmet tracked with my movement perfectly. No lag. No resistance. Whatever micro-servo suspension system it was using had survived the centuries better than most of the people who built it.
I tapped the side of my head, just above the temple.
The Focus interface blinked on inside the visor like nothing had changed. Scanning overlays, comms prompts, threat sensors—everything still worked. The device didn't even glitch. Just adapted.
"Perfect."
For the first time since I'd dropped into this hellhole bunker, I felt equipped.
I wasn't just walking out with loot.
I was walking out better than I came in.
Before leaving, I reached into my satchel and pulled out the combat manual.
The cover was worn, but the binding held. Gray with faded lettering. MODERN ARMY COMBATIVES PROGRAM – FIELD EDITION. U.S. military issue, pre-collapse. I thumbed through the pages again, taking in the diagrams. Holds. Breaks. Grapples. Flow drills. It wasn't just theory. It was a doctrine. Refined. Tested.
Something about it made me pause.
I held the manual up and let the Focus scan it.
The interface lit.
[CLASSIFIED FIELD MANUAL DETECTED]
U.S. ARMY COMBATIVES – 2082 REVISION
Format: Structured Neural Transfer Protocol
Data Type: Muscle Memory + Tactical Overlay
Processing Cost: Moderate
Proceed with Skill Upload?
[YES] – [NO]
I stared at the prompt.
Then I selected YES.
The pain hit instantly.
White-hot.
Like something sharp and electric had been driven behind my eyes. My knees buckled. I caught myself on the edge of a crate as every nerve in my skull lit up.
My vision blurred. My hands spasmed.
Then came the rush.
Movements. Transitions. Pressure points. Elbow leverage. Stance discipline. Reversals. It wasn't just information—it was experience. Dozens of techniques slammed into my brain like bricks. I could feel where to place my weight, how to control a wrist, how to kill someone with a kneeling choke if I had to.
I dropped to one knee.
Gritted my teeth.
Then the feed stopped.
[NEW STYLE ACQUIRED]
MODERN COMBATIVES – U.S. MILITARY STANDARD
Effect: Grapples, counters, and takedowns are now available in close-range combat.
Skill Synergy: Unarmed, Blade, Rifle, Mixed-Environment Fighting
I stood slowly, breath sharp, balance returning.
"That," I muttered, "was awful."
I flexed my fingers.
But I knew things now. Knew how to move differently. How to end fights faster.
This wasn't tribal. Wasn't flair.
This was war.
I slid the manual back into my pack. I didn't need to read it again.
I'd already lived it.
I took a moment to breathe, helmet still sealed, vision slowly returning to center. The pain from the manual upload was dull now, simmering behind my temples like the aftershock of a controlled explosion. I could move. Think. Fight.
And I wasn't done.
The armory was cleared. Walker was dead. The gear secured.
But the quest that brought me down here still lingered like a half-buried bone.
Mercy for the Forsaken.
There were still ghouls roaming somewhere in this place. Still bodies that hadn't been laid to rest. Still teeth behind doors.
I moved back through the breached wall into the adjacent rooms. My light cut through dust and broken tiling, shadows dancing along the edges of filing cabinets and collapsed vents.
I began searching.
Not for weapons.
For closure.
I found trinkets first. Personal things. A cracked pendant shaped like a music note. A silver cufflink fused to part of a bone. A plastic children's toy, half-melted, designed to light up but long since dead. Someone had tucked it under a medical cot like it meant something. I placed it in my pack without a word.
A scorched ID badge. A torn journal, pages stuck together from age and rot. A pack of cards with only twenty-seven left.
People had lived down here.
They had tried.
I kept moving.
The corridor darkened as I stepped into the deeper wing. Signs of damage were heavier. More scorch marks. Melting along the floor tiles. The walls were swollen with age and moisture.
Then I found the door.
It was big.
Thicker than the rest.
Painted hazard stripes still clung to the frame in jagged yellow and black bands. The words stenciled above were faded, but still legible.
REACTOR ACCESS – AUTHORIZED TECHNICIANS ONLY
A keypad blinked faintly in standby mode, flickering in and out of power like the room beyond was still breathing—slow, heavy, dying.
I stood in front of it, fingers flexing at my side.
The last room.
The last of them.
Time to finish what I started.
The keypad buzzed once and accepted the override.
The door to the reactor room groaned as it opened, the seals breaking with a brittle hiss. I raised my rifle and stepped through.
The air inside was heavy but still.
The radiation warning lights were dead, and the Focus confirmed what the sensors had hinted earlier—no active reactor core. Whatever vented all those years ago had burned itself out. The heart of this place was long cold.
That was the good news.
The bad news was the twenty ghouls still roaming inside.
They moved in slow patterns, dragging feet across grated metal, stumbling around coolant pipes and shattered consoles. Some hissed softly to themselves. Others just moved, like they didn't know how to stop. Their skin was burned slick and taut, their eyes blank sockets that glowed faintly in the dark.
One of them wasn't like the rest.
A Glowing One.
It stood taller, with a greenish haze pulsing just under its blistered skin, bathing the corridor in a sickly light. The others stayed near it, orbiting like they were drawn in by some invisible thread. It hadn't noticed me yet. None of them had.
I raised the Railwhistle and steadied my breath.
The Glowing One was a problem. Not just because it hit harder—but because of what it did.
Resurrection.
I'd seen what happened when they reached their dead. It wasn't a fight. It was a reset.
I lined up the shot carefully, settled the reticle just above its brow, and squeezed the trigger.
The spike screamed through the silence and hit the Glowing One square in the head. The impact sent it stumbling back into a rusted panel, where it collapsed in a heap of irradiated limbs and steaming tissue.
The glow flickered once.
Then died.
The others reacted instantly, howling in unison. The sound echoed through the chamber like the walls were screaming with them.
They didn't scatter.
They charged.
I took cover behind a cooling pillar, racked another spike, and muttered under my breath.
"Let's finish this."
They came fast.
The death of the Glowing One had agitated the rest like a firecracker in a hornet nest. Ghouls poured between coolant tanks and split support beams, howling as they moved. Not with strategy. Just with noise. Blind momentum. Teeth and fury.
I moved.
And that's when I noticed it.
Every step, every pivot, every change in stance—it all felt sharper now. Cleaner. Less wasteful.
The manual integration hadn't just dropped knowledge in my head. It had rewired how I held myself, how I transitioned from weapon to footwork, how I conserved motion instead of muscling through. I pivoted around one of the rushing ghouls, drove my boot into its knee, and let the thing collapse forward into a spike. Smooth. Efficient. No wasted breath.
It wasn't Deathclaw Kenpo. There was no show, no feral rhythm. It wasn't built to break monsters in half or grind them into pulp.
But it worked.
And right now, a foundation was better than nothing.
I caught another ghoul as it lunged from my left. Stepped inside its arc, redirected its weight, and slammed it down hard across a rail bracket. I didn't even think about it. My body just moved.
That was the difference.
Before, I fought like someone improvising with violence.
Now?
I fought like someone who'd been taught to win.
The machete moved in my right hand with more confidence now.
Before, it had always felt a little off—just enough to throw timing. I'd been left-handed most of my life, even in the world I came from. After the Boxer fight, I'd started adapting, but now the strikes were landing with a precision I hadn't expected. The training had done something. Rewired angles. Refined grips.
The awkwardness was gone.
But something else was slipping.
The Kansani lines—those fluid body feints Sula had tried to teach me, the ones meant to break up silhouettes and confuse enemy reads—felt off now. Too rigid. My steps followed efficient paths, not deceptive ones. The footwork worked, but it didn't flow. The visual displacement had been instinctual, wild. Now my approach was clean, practiced, and entirely predictable to someone who knew how to read form.
It was like trying to paint with a ruler.
I could still cut. Still survive. But some of the tribal creativity had been overwritten by pure doctrine.
Rion, the soldier.
Not Rion, the survivor.
But I could work with that.
Foundations could be built on. I just needed to rebuild the edges. Bring the chaos back in, slowly, without losing the discipline underneath.
I wasn't afraid of change.
I'd just have to make sure the next person who fought me didn't know what was coming.
I heard him before I saw him.
Heavy footfalls. Slow. Deliberate. The kind of movement that didn't come from instinct—but from confidence. I turned, expecting another Reaver.
What stepped through the breach wasn't just a Reaver.
It was a monster.
He stood at least a head taller than the last one, bare-chested and bulging with muscle that shouldn't have lasted this long. Veins ran like cords beneath gray, leathery skin stretched taut over slabs of necrotic strength. His torso looked carved from concrete, shoulders knotted like wrecking balls. Both arms were bare, the flesh scarred and rippling, and wrapped tight with tension that made my trigger finger twitch on sight.
In his hands, he gripped a rusted fire axe—pitted, notched, and stained. It wasn't decoration. It had been used. A lot.
Tattooed across his right arm was a massive black centipede, its many legs twisting with the contours of his muscles, the tail vanishing down past his elbow, the jaws curling just below his shoulder like it was ready to bite.
His face was something else.
Flesh hung in strips around a skeletal grin. Yellowed teeth sat in dry sockets beneath black, empty eyes. But he didn't drool. He didn't snarl. He just stared. Focused. Locked in.
This one didn't just look like he ate nothing but protein and steroids before the world ended.
He looked like he kept going after everyone else stopped.
And he'd just picked me.
He didn't charge.
Not right away.
He stood at the far end of the chamber, gripping the fire axe like it was part of him. His head tilted slightly, the centipede tattoo on his arm flexing as his grip tightened. His jaw didn't move, but I heard the words clear as if they were fed through a throat mic that hadn't worked in centuries.
"You here for the data?" he asked.
His voice was wrong—too clear. Too articulate. Like it wasn't meant to come from something that looked like that.
I kept the Railwhistle raised, stepped to the side, trying to angle him into cleaner light.
"What data?" I asked.
The ghoul paused. Something behind his eye shifted. Not recognition. Something colder. He sniffed once, slow and long, like a bloodhound that had picked up the wrong scent.
"Never mind," he said. His tone flattened. "You're not who I was waiting for."
Then he raised the axe.
"Die now."
The axe came down, and I moved.
Barely.
The blade missed my chest by inches, slammed into the reactor floor, and sent up a shower of sparks. The metal warped from the impact, a deep groove torn into solid steel like it was drywall. I rolled under the backswing and came up hard behind a control pillar, heart hammering, lungs already burning.
I thought Walker was a fight.
No.
Hell no.
Walker was a cakewalk compared to this guy.
This wasn't a lumbering bruiser caught between memory and instinct. This wasn't rage wrapped in armor. This was something else entirely.
Every swing came with intention.
Every step was measured.
He wasn't chasing me like an animal. He was hunting me like a man who'd been trained to end lives up close—and had refused to stop.
I triggered my Focus's concentration protocol.
Time slowed, just enough to edge out his next swing. The axe passed by in a blur. I counterstepped, ducked low, tried to flank. He turned with me. Not fast—precise. The kind of movement that came from discipline, not adrenaline.
That's when it hit me.
He wasn't Feral.
Not even close.
He was fully aware.
And he wanted me dead.
There wasn't going to be a conversation. No accidental trigger. No final gasp of humanity to appeal to.
This wasn't personal.
But it was going to be lethal.
I caught the angle I needed and ducked behind the collapsed console. The Railwhistle came up against my shoulder, and I lined the sights as he moved past the support pillar. I squeezed the trigger. The spike fired with a sharp scream and punched straight into his gut, just left of center.
It was a solid hit. The kind that should've taken something down or at least slowed it.
But it didn't.
He didn't even react.
No grunt. No stagger. No shift in his eyes.
He just kept walking.
The spike jutted out from his abdomen, vibrating slightly with each step, blood thick and dark trailing down his side. He didn't seem to notice it. Or maybe he did, and it just didn't matter. One hand still held the fire axe. The other flexed in rhythm with his stride, like he was warming up for the next swing.
I stepped back and racked another spike into place. My mind ran through options, recalculating everything I thought I knew about how this fight was supposed to go.
He didn't feel pain.
Or if he did, he'd outgrown it.
I muttered to myself as I backed toward the next piece of cover.
"Great. That's new."
He didn't rush this time.
He just stared at me, chest still leaking from the spike lodged in his gut. The blood loss didn't bother him. His eye fixed on me like I was something that didn't belong in his world, something he was trying to parse before the kill.
Then he spoke.
His voice was deep, rough, but controlled. Not the rasp of a feral. Not the gravel of a dying soldier.
It was clear.
Measured.
"Who are you, boy?"
I didn't answer.
Not yet.
He kept walking, slowly now, the axe dragging behind him in a lazy arc. The muscles in his arms tensed and flexed with every step.
"If you'd been with the fascist Americans," he said, "you wouldn't have said a damn word. You'd have shot me on sight. You wouldn't have even looked twice."
He was watching me. Gauging.
"You're not one of us. That much is obvious. Not tribal either, you don't talk like someone who would have been raised by blood and faith. Don't move like I would've guessed either."
He tilted his head, slowly, like he was tasting something in the air.
"And you sure as fuck ain't Zenith. If you were? You'd already be a god by now. One of those shiny bastards floating in the sky with tech I haven't even dreamed of."
He took another step forward.
"So who are you?"
The room went quiet again. The ghouls were gone. The hum of the reactor core was dead. It was just him and me, and the question hanging like a blade between us.
I didn't answer.
I just stared at him through the visor, heart suddenly thudding in a different rhythm than before. Not fear. Not quite.
Something closer to What the fuck?
He shouldn't know any of that.
Not the tribes. Not the Zeniths. Not unless someone had brought him a data cache, or a working comms relay, or been talking to him. And no one had. No one could have.
He'd been down here for a thousand years. Trapped. Buried.
He was supposed to be a relic.
Instead, he was reading the state of the world like he'd just walked out of a briefing room. Off a script he had been handed so he knows what happens next.
I tightened my grip on the Railwhistle and kept still, watching him move. The spike in his gut didn't slow him. The broken walls didn't distract him. He was still studying me like I was a glitch in a system he thought he understood.
I didn't like it.
Not one bit.
The Reaver tilted his head again, just slightly. My silence didn't seem to bother him. If anything, he expected it.
He looked me over one last time, gaze dragging across my armor, the Railwhistle, the Focus still pulsing faintly behind my visor. His ruined face didn't move much, but something in his posture shifted—subtle, predatory, certain.
"I suppose it doesn't matter," he said.
His voice was colder now. Detached. Like he was done pretending this was a fight.
"You opened the door," he continued. "That was all that needed to happen."
He raised the fire axe over his shoulder like it was a statement, not a weapon.
"And like a proper Worm, I'll slither back to my designated nest and report the success of my experiments here."
He turned slightly, as if preparing to walk—not out of fear, but with the absolute confidence of someone who had already won.
My pulse spiked.
That word.
Worm.
He'd said it like it meant something.
And if it did… I wasn't just fighting a ghoul anymore.
I was staring at a piece of something bigger.
I didn't move.
Didn't speak.
But something in me shifted.
Worm.
He'd said it with weight. Not as an insult. As a designation.
My mind had been wrapped around the tech. The factions. The collapse. Everything in this world had been framed through what I knew—Fallout and Horizon. Machines. Tribals. Ghouls. GAIA. FEV. History bleeding into dust.
But I'd overlooked something.
The third pillar of this nightmare.
The Kengan side.
The word snapped into place now like a memory resurfacing. The Worm. The underground cabals. The networks that moved fighters and monsters through the world like pawns on a board. Genetic experiments. Infiltrators. Things built not just to survive—but to dominate.
I'd thought I was dealing with a ghoul.
A remnant.
But this wasn't a random Reaver.
This was something that had been built. Sharpened. Planted.
And I'd just opened the door that let him report in.
The moment hung in the air like ash.
I didn't say anything, but I didn't have to. The shift in my stance, the way my fingers tensed around the Railwhistle, the way I suddenly stopped looking at him like a monster and started seeing him for what he was—it gave me away.
He noticed.
His eyes narrowed slightly. The faintest smirk pulled at the side of his face.
"Oh," he said, voice lighter now. "So someone exposed us."
He didn't sound worried.
Just amused.
"Well, no matter," he continued. "It won't be me getting punished."
He rested the fire axe across his shoulder with the ease of a man done working.
"I completed my mission."
His tone had finality to it. Not desperation. Not escape. Just the calm certainty of someone checking a box and moving on.
I could feel the blood in my ears now. My trigger finger itched. Everything in me screamed to stop him from leaving.
But for the first time since he stepped out of the dark—
He wasn't trying to kill me.
He was trying to disappear.
"OH FUCK NO!!"
The words tore out of me as I surged forward, every nerve on fire. I didn't wait for an opening. I made one.
Walker had been a soldier.
This bastard was something worse.
But I was done playing defense.
My boots slammed against the tile, momentum carrying me like a bullet. My Focus flared and Concentration activated. Time slowed. My breathing didn't. I moved faster than the weight I was carrying should have allowed.
The Reaver barely had time to lower his axe before I was on him.
The visual disruption training Sula had given me sparked like a match. My movement stuttered, shoulders twisting, steps sliding off-axis—unpredictable, aggressive. I wasn't charging in a straight line. I was zigzagging, flickering, closing in like a ghost wearing boots and fury.
I planted my left foot and swung the machete in a horizontal arc—low and fast.
I brought the machete high, blade gleaming in the red visor glow. From his angle, it looked like a kill strike—neck or face, full-force, a straight decapitation arc.
He read it.
I wanted him to.
The Reaver shifted his stance, raised his fire axe to parry. I saw the moment his balance came forward, his knees bracing for a high impact.
That's when I dropped low.
At the last second, my grip twisted and I redirected the swing down and in—straight for his torso. The blade bit through the side of his gut, right where my Railwhistle spike was still embedded. Steel met ruined flesh and cracked plate.
He grunted.
First sound of pain he'd made.
I pivoted on my planted foot and drove into the cut, pushing the blade in deeper, using the rotation of my hips just like the manual had taught. His body reeled back half a step, the weight of the fire axe pulling him slightly off-center.
He wasn't expecting that kind of control.
He sure as hell wasn't expecting Counterstrike to trigger next.
My free hand came up.
The blade was still buried in his side when I shifted my weight forward and stomped on his foot.
Hard.
I felt something crunch through the boot. He roared—not from pain, but from the sudden loss of leverage.
That was all I needed.
I surged up and slammed my forehead into his.
The helmet met bone with a wet, meaty crack. My visor flared red from the jolt, but his skull rocked back, balance wrecked by the stomp. He staggered, chest exposed.
I jumped back two paces, drew Terra's Gift, and fired.
Once to the chest—just under the collarbone.
The second round went high—aimed right at his throat.
The recoil kicked back into my wrist, but the shots landed. The first round tore into his upper torso, punching deep into the layered muscle and plating. The second hit just above the centipede tattoo, slamming into the base of his neck and jerking his head back.
Smoke curled from the barrel. Blood spilled in thick ropes.
He was still standing.
But now he was leaking from three different directions.
His arms dropped slightly.
His jaw clenched.
The second shot hadn't even stopped echoing when the Reaver moved.
He let out a wet, ragged breath—half-growl, half-snarl—and hurled the fire axe like he was pitching a goddamn spear.
I barely registered the motion before the pain hit.
The blade slammed into my left collarbone, biting through the armor plate and cutting deep. The impact spun me sideways, vision flaring red as the helmet's HUD scrambled to stabilize.
I hit the ground hard, the breath knocked out of me, left arm going numb.
The Reaver didn't pause.
He was already on me.
He stomped forward like nothing was broken, dropped to one knee, ripped the axe out of my shoulder with a sickening twist, and raised it high again—this time aiming for my head.
He wasn't trying to kill me clean.
He wanted to split me.
The axe came down fast, aimed straight for my face. I couldn't roll. Couldn't dodge. My left arm was dead weight, blood soaking through my coat and leaking down my ribs. I only had one hand—and one shot.
I brought up Terra's Gift.
The axe hit the revolver with a sound like metal screaming.
The blow should have shattered bone, ripped the gun from my hand, and buried the blade in my skull. If it had been any other weapon, it would've. A lesser frame would've cracked under the force. A lesser barrel would've folded.
But this wasn't any gun.
This was Terra's Gift.
Forged from rules that didn't apply to this world. Bound to me. Indestructible.
The fire axe bounced off the cylinder with a flash of sparks, the force ringing through my wrist like a bell but not breaking it. The gun didn't so much as dent.
The Reaver's eye widened—just slightly. It was the first real reaction I'd seen from him since this started.
The axe bounced off the revolver, and I didn't hesitate.
I twisted my wrist, jammed the barrel under his chin, and pulled the trigger.
Terra's Gift barked once—loud, sharp, final.
The round tore through decayed flesh and reinforced bone like it wasn't even there. The force of the shot blew the Reaver's head clean off. One moment he was snarling, the next his skull was gone, replaced by a spray of black-red mist and a collapsing weight.
His body locked up for half a second, still kneeling, arms twitching from the residual charge of whatever foul thing kept him animated. Then it tipped backward and hit the ground like a fallen pillar, the fire axe clanging beside him.
I stayed on the floor for a moment, breathing hard, revolver still up. My shoulder screamed. My visor was cracked on the left from the recoil shock, and blood was pooling under my armor.
But I was alive.
He wasn't.
Not anymore.
I stayed on the floor longer than I meant to.
My shoulder throbbed with every heartbeat. The blood hadn't stopped. My neck ached from the recoil. My ears were still ringing. The smell of gunpowder and scorched flesh was thick in the air.
Then the HUD blinked.
A soft chime echoed in my helmet. Not loud. Not celebratory. Just… there.
[QUEST COMPLETE – MERCY FOR THE FORSAKEN]
+1 LEVEL GAINED
+13 Stat Points
+1 Perk Point
Before I could process that, the system blinked again. This time in bold orange.
[CRITICAL BOUNTY: "REAVER – EXPERIMENTAL CLASS" ELIMINATED]
Threat Rating: 4x Above Level
+2 LEVELS GAINED
+26 Stat Points
+1 Perk Point
+1 ADVANCED PERK POINT (UNUSUAL TARGET CLASSIFICATION)
My visor flickered from the weight of it. The interface stuttered before realigning and dropping the full breakdown in front of me.
I stared at the numbers for a long second, blood still dripping down my arm.
"Three level ups," I muttered. "Right. Sure."
The stat counter ticked up to +39 total. Perk points: 2. But the third icon was different. Silver-edged. Labeled Advanced. I hadn't seen that before. No tooltip. No guide. Just a blank box waiting for input.
I narrowed my eyes.
"What the hell does that mean?"
The system didn't answer.
Of course it didn't.