I followed them down a corridor stitched together with rust and old grime. Metal walls sagged like tired lungs. The ceiling flickered, half-lit, as if debating whether it wanted to keep pretending it was part of a civilized structure. The hallway had doors on both sides, some sealed, some whispering.
Aedan stopped at one and slid it open. “You can clean up in here,” he said, nodding toward the shadows inside.
Further down, a thick, reinforced door loomed like a threat. Beside it, another. He opened the second. “Later, you can rest here.”
I stepped inside. The place was small but functional. A cot jammed into the corner, half-covered by a blanket that looked like it had survived a knife fight. The centerpiece was a table made of clear alloy, and inside it, under the surface, was what looked suspiciously like a severed synthetic hand, flipping a slow, mechanical bird on loop.
“Charming decor,” I muttered.
Arvie chuckled in my head. “Slum chic meets war trauma. Ten out of ten, would not sleep here.”
Back in the cleansing unit, I peeled off the garment they’d thrown on me after surgery, the fabric stiff with blood and med-den stench.
The unit barely qualified as functional. I wasn’t bargaining for comfort, just pressure and heat. Got neither. The nozzle coughed out lukewarm mist and fractured sonic bursts. Still, I scrubbed until my skin stopped smelling like antiseptic rot.
The clothes I’d tossed in the corner twitched faintly in the steam, seams tightening, grime leeching out thread by thread.
I froze. “Is that supposed to happen?”
Arvie yawned in my skull. “Standard-issue tricks. Slow to kick in, but relentless once they do.”
I watched them clean themselves while I took a second pass under the spray, just to feel pretty.
When I stepped out, they looked almost clean. I pulled them on. Still smelling.
I went back to the hall. Aedan stood loose against the doorframe, tossing a credit chip end over end and catching it without looking, Vex pacing a tight line beside him like the corridor was too small to hold her. They aborted their discussion when I approached.
He caught the chip, closed his fist around it, and let the smile go grave. “My contact replied,” he said. “Larek's been taken. No confirmation, just whispers. We dig deeper before we believe it.”
Vex stopped mid-stride. “The survivors were pulled from the bunker. After that, nothing. Trail's cold.”
“We're still chasing sources,” Aedan said, and the chip vanished back into his sleeve like it had never existed. He tipped his head for me to follow. “Now. Your neurolink. Two paths. Neither's pretty, but one of them has flair.”
“Color me thrilled.”
He held up a finger. “Option one: old Zorgale's joint. Backroom chop-shop, slum legend. Might work, if the gear's still breathing. Costs credits, and there's a fair chance your link decides you're a toaster.”
“Thrill level: high. Survival rate: classified. My favorite. But hey, at least you'll die interesting.”
I raised a brow. “Option two?”
The other finger went up.
“Option two,” Aedan said, and his grin widened like he'd been saving it, “is a training academy for the slum elite. Their pods are clean. Reliable.” He spread his hands, a small flourish. “Vulkred has a way in, but security's tight and we'll need a techie to slip the locks.”
Vex's eyes cut to me, sharp and assessing. “By any chance, you have the skills?”
“I can handle locks.”
Vex gave me a sidelong glance, all smirk and lifted brow. “Figures. You’ve got that look.”
Arvie applauded inside my head. “Subtle as a hull breach. I like her.”
Aedan clapped once, already moving. “Then it's settled. Vulkred's waiting in Rayjin’s place. He'll walk us through it, the man does love an audience.”
We exited the den, the stink of dank and burnt circuits fading into the thicker, older reek of the underhalls. These tunnels had grown like tumors, layer by crooked layer. Pipes wept. Shadows lingered. Voices rose and fell like tides, moans, threats, deals, prayers. Vex walked like she owned the place, and maybe she did. When a gang of twitch-eyed goons oozed out from behind a drain vent, she didn't break stride, just glared.
One of them stepped closer, skin peeled in patterns that suggested recreational acid and poor life choices. “Evenin’, pretty…”
She didn’t let him finish. One hand flicked her coat, and a thin-bladed tool appeared like a magician’s trick, gleaming softly.
The thug’s mouth shut like a rusted hatch.
We passed through silent agreement.
Soon, the slums gave way to something better disguised, pipes turned to conduits, grime to grime with ambition. We ducked past two guard patrols, slipping through a forgotten storm drain and up a tight maintenance corridor that led to a metal backdoor.
It creaked open.
Rayjin stood hunched like a question mark, furiously muttering at a sparking conduit panel. He wore a coat patched in mismatched panels and boots clamped together with surgical wire, and when he heard us, he shoved a dented welding mask up his forehead, eyes gleaming with half-malfunctioning genius. His voice hit like a fire alarm.
“Ah! My favorite kind of trouble! Come, before the badge-spooks sniff your trail!”
He vanished before I could respond. We followed.
The chamber he led us to was dim, lit by flickering data panes and swaying cables. Vulkred waited inside, dragging his bad leg as he unpacked a case the size of a coffin. His hands were scored with old burns, but they moved with surgical precision. He didn't look up.
“You're late,” he said. “Your collective pulse is practically advertising our position to the wardens.”
Aedan pressed a hand to his chest, wounded. “We stopped to admire the architecture.”
Vulkred made a sound like grinding bone, somewhere between a laugh and a diagnosis. “Charming. Sit down before your enthusiasm kills us all.” He straightened, joints cracking audibly, and gestured at the case. “Here's the plan. I have clearance to the academy. Sort of. I sell them supplies.”
“You sell cadavers,” Vex said flatly.
“I recycle temporarily unfinished corpses, Sylthra.” He sneered. “Don't lecture me on semantics.”
Then he pulled out a long white garment, uniform fabric, sterile folds. Handed it to Vex.
“You'll be the nurse.” A nod toward me. “He'll be the body.”
Arvie shrieked in my head. “Oh! You’re going to love this. Nothing screams ‘undercover mission’ like corpseplay. Do I get to record your heartbeat flatlining? I’m making a playlist.”
I stared at the syringe he pulled next.
“It'll slow everything. Pulse, breath, neural patterns,” Vulkred said, tapping the needle once like he was testing a blade. “You'll feel cold. Dull. Don't fight it. I'll bring you back after the scan completes. Probably. Try not to actually die, the paperwork for an unregistered corpse is a nightmare.”
We argued. Loudly. But Aedan just laughed, bright and genuine, the medallion spinning faster between his fingers like the chaos was feeding him.
“The plan is abhorrent,” he said, grinning at all of us in turn. “It's absolutely brilliant. Do it.”
Eventually, logic won. Logic's a parasite, it sinks in, festers, spreads. We nodded.
Rayjin reappeared from somewhere with a fresh-forged transfer chip pinched between two fingers, still warm, talking fast to a half-dismantled toaster he'd evidently decided was listening. “Bio-signature's clean, scan'll read you as staff, don't sneeze on the sensor or it'll think you're allergic to existing…” He pressed the chip into Vulkred's palm with a wild grin and was gone again before anyone could thank him, vanishing back into his own mechanical chaos.
Vex changed behind a curtain. The nurse's outfit clung too well. She folded her arms, shifting her weight with restless irritation, unable to settle inside the restrictive fabric.
“You look... professional,” I offered.
The glare she shot me was sharp, but the corner of her mouth twitched into a defiant smirk. “Keep your eyes above the neckline, mister, or I'll use the scalpel myself.”
Vulkred prepped the syringe. The fluid shimmered like something pulled from the Nether, probably.
“You’ll feel a sting.”
He lied.
It wasn’t a sting, it was a collapse, a shut-off, the world unplugged. I remember her voice, just before the dark claimed me:
“Sweet dreams, master cadaver. Don’t let the autopsy bots bite.”455Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡsX7WdppeNt
and then Add to home screen.