The tunnels breathed like the lungs of something ancient and buried.
Zahir's boots crunched against the brittle remains of old infrastructure—splintered conduit, cracked ceramic tile and moss-slick concrete, rebar jutting from the walls like steel bones. Definitely not his idea of a crew outing.
His LED torch swayed in slow arcs, its beam slicing through the dark like a scalpel through muscle, casting jagged shadows along the ribcage of the tunnel ceiling. Cracks bloomed across rusted pipes overhead, and somewhere distant he could hear dripping water. It felt like an organic ticking clock.
Elai moved like always—quiet, sure, reading the tunnel like it spoke a language only he caught. "Keep right. Flow's cleaner," he said. No force, just facts. And somehow, that was enough to sharpen Zahir's edge instead of dull it.
He'd felt it the first time they met. Couldn't name it then—still couldn't, not really. Just a steadiness that made Zahir want to stick around.
At first appearance Elai looked like someone who might rob you—tatts, locs, resting menace—but Zahir once caught him deep in a comment thread arguing about collapse‑era architecture and rare Field-tech collector drops in the same breath.
He was the only one who humored Zahir's wild ideas, then pointed out every flaw—without making him feel stupid. Most people made you choose between being seen and being challenged. Elai just made the plans better.
Zahir adjusted his grip on the torch and glanced back. Mekka brought up the rear—silent, coiled, eyes catching every angle.
Her presence had always filled the spaces she entered. You felt warmer from the inside. Like a low heat you only noticed because it made you more aware of your own body in the room. Especially in relation to hers. Zahir had seen tough men—and women— get quiet around her without knowing why. He wasn't immune.
He trusted her. Not just because of that presence—though that was part of it—but because she'd been one of the best fighters in their gym. Male or female. Including him.
She didn't waste energy. On the mat, she waited, watched, then flipped the whole match in one move. Zahir had seen it more than once. He'd never figured out how she timed it—but it always landed. He was counting on that now.
The three of them moved as a single thread through the fraying hem of Calvessan's past. Creeping through abandoned water lines, decaying transit tunnels, and shattered power conduits. A forgotten city beneath the living one.
Brin had split off ten minutes earlier to set up the distraction. He was planting a surge bomb near one of the old power junctions—something loud and flashy to make the system think there was a breakdown up top. If it worked, the guards would rush to check it out, leaving the vault below wide open for twenty minutes.
Zahir trusted him. Mostly.
"This doesn't feel right," Mekka whispered. Her voice barely reached above the drip and crunch of movement.
"It's not supposed to," Zahir muttered, scanning the darkness ahead.
The tightness in his chest was too familiar. He'd felt it running bags of street level synthetic drugs through alley mazes before his OG died. That edge-of-glitch feeling scratched at him again. He shoved it down.
Then came the boom—deep, distant, but unmistakable.
Brin's signal.
They reached a bent service grate—half-pulled from the wall, flanged bolts rusted and hanging like dead teeth. Zahir knelt, pried it the rest of the way off, and led the way in.
The chamber beyond was larger than the map made it seem—wide, dome-shaped, with peeling ceiling panels. A busted filtration system stood in the center like a collapsed altar, surrounded by crates stamped with outdated registry seals and faded BQP tags.
"This is it," Elai said, already moving toward the crates as he scanned the perimeter.
Mekka crouched near one of them, using a short crowbar to pry it open. "One of these better have primer."
Elai cracked another. "Relay nodules. Might still be worth something if we resell—"
His voice warped—like it had suddenly dipped underwater.
Zahir's skin prickled.
A whisper of frenetic energy crawled down his spine. His pulse thudded in his ears.
"No, no, not now," he muttered.
The air around him _twitched_.
Light bent the wrong way for a split second—then snapped back.
Then: _ping._
A faint system chirp echoed through the chamber—high and hollow, like a machine waking up after too long asleep.
Zahir froze.
Bzzt. A sharp burst of static crackled from above, followed by a mechanical _whirr_.
He looked up.
A red light blinked to life on a ceiling node—an old surveillance camera, cracked and dust-covered, now turning slowly on its axis.
The system was rebooting itself. Somehow, his glitch had tripped it.
"What the hell was that?" Mekka hissed, rising from her crouch.
Then came the footsteps. Above. Close. Too close.
Zahir's stomach dropped.
"They're not supposed to be here," he muttered. "They were supposed to be topside."
He'd tripped something. His Error must've nudged the system just enough to wake a dormant power node—and BQP had seen the ripple.
The distraction had worked. But his glitch had fucked it all up.
"Hide," Elai hissed.
They scattered. Elai ducked behind a collapsed support beam. Mekka disappeared behind a stack of crates. Zahir found cover under a half-collapsed duct.
The sound of boots echoed down the tunnel, heading towards the chamber. One pair. Then three. A soft buzz as a pulse rifle hummed to life.
"Yo, someone down here?" a voice called out.
A flashlight beam slashed into the room, cutting across the crates and floor. It moved slowly, searching. Zahir held his breath, trying to slow his heartbeat. Every nerve in his body screamed run, but he couldn't. Mekka and Elai were pinned, and if the guards turned—
The light drifted too close to Mekka's crate. Dust hung in the air around her, caught in the beam—shimmering, just slightly off.
Zahir's body moved without thinking. He stood up, arms raised, seizing their attention.
The light hit him square in the mask. A flash of black metal and one scorched lens staring back.
"There!" someone shouted.
The guards froze.
One of them, a younger guy, muttered, "Who the hell—?"
Zahir lifted his hands slowly. "Hey. Relax. Just lost, man. Got turned around."
Another guard raised their weapon. "Don't move."
Zahir didn't.
The third one stepped forward, squinting. "That mask—wait... is that the Mercer kid?"
Zahir tilted his head. "I don't know who you think I am, but I promise—wrong guy."
The guard kept staring.
Zahir felt a flick of heat behind the mask. _Might've been smarter to make these things less custom._
"You're not supposed to be down here," the guard said.
He shrugged. "Guess I'll just be on my way, then—"
Hearing the pulse rifle charging, Zahir dove sideways just as the guard fired.
The bolt slammed into the duct behind him, leaving a glowing hole where he was just standing. Using the flash to act, Elai surged up from the dark with a grunt, his blade flashing in a sharp arc.
It struck a guard's arm with a crack—and then surged with energy. There was a sickening rupture as the area around the blade overcharged—flesh split and exploded outward in a bloom of blood, splattering across Elai's panicked face.
Then, chaos erupted.
Mekka sprang up next, drawing her burner—too late. A second bolt from another guard caught her in the ribs. She screamed and dropped, smoke curling from her jacket.
"Mekka!" Zahir shouted, but Elai was already there, hauling her back behind cover.
"Go!" Elai roared.
Another bolt hit the ceiling. Concrete rained down.
Trying to orient himself in the chaos, Zahir spotted a guard advancing on Elai and Mekka's position, a plasma-club raised to bring down on their heads.
Zahir didn't have a weapon. But he knew how to take someone's balance. He'd practiced this hundreds of times in that dingy gym he was forced to go to.
His world narrowed to the guard's silhouette and the distance between them.
'This has to work', flitted through his mind—then instinct took over.
Dropping his center of gravity low, Zahir felt his body flow into a familiar stance, coiling. Then he launched.
With a guttural shout, he ducked under a wild swing, shot forward and slammed into the guard, wrapping low around the waist. Momentum carried them both into a clinch, and Zahir twisted, dropping his weight into the movement. It wasn't clean—his form was off, sloppy from adrenaline and tunnel dust—but it was enough to shift their balance.
They crashed into a support beam. They crashed into a support beam. The guard grunted and swung wildly with the club, catching Zahir across the back. Pain roared, but Zahir bit down, hooked a leg, and drove them both into the wall.
The impact knocked something loose—a rusted girder or broken panel, he couldn't tell. The guard slipped.
Zahir growled through his teeth, hooked a leg behind the man's knee, and drove them both backward into the wall.
So did Zahir.
The floor groaned.
Cracks spiderwebbed underfoot, and then, with a sickening lurch, the world tilted for the second time tonight.
Things descended into a chaotic whirlwind of cement powder, twisting metal, and panicked limbs.
The thunderous roar of the cave-in chased them down, drowning out shouts and gunfire above.
Zahir's arms flailed for anything solid—but there was only crumbling stone and open air.
He was falling.
Down through the floor.
Into the darkness.