They walked for a while. Simon had calcuted 8.1 kilometers since their departure. Not much, but every step in the dim-lit tunnel felt like a descent into something deeper.
Eventually, they came to a stop.
The road ahead was sealed by a thick, rust-streaked metal gate, standing like a silent guardian.
Simon stepped to the side of the tunnel, kneeling next to a line of aged, dust-coated cables that ran along the wall. He pced one cold, synthetic hand on the conduit. From his fingertips, the bck structure gel, slithered out, wrapping itself into the cable with eerie precision.
A pulse ran through the wires. The gate shuddered.
With a mechanical groan, metal scraping against metal, the gate slowly descended into the floor, revealing the passage ahead.
There it was. The tunnel beyond.
And up ahead, half-shrouded in shadows and remnants of flickering emergency lights, was a familiar wreck: the crushed shuttle.
The very same shuttle that had once been his ticket to Lambda.
Simon stared at it.
"I think it's better it crashed," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. "I don't think I would've survived if it had smmed into that gate instead."
He stepped forward, his gaze briefly flicking to the left where the wall bore a hardened crust of structure gel, solidified like old blood.
The tunnel was damp. A shallow pool of water had gathered in a low dip—just enough to p at his ankles.
Beside him, the submersible swam slowly, hovering like a quiet companion. Its lights shimmered faintly on the wet walls.
Then they reached the shuttle.
It y on its side, derailed and broken like a wounded beast. The metal was warped, the rails beneath torn apart. The front gss panel y shattered before it. A memory struck Simon: he had pulled the emergency tch when the doors failed, ejecting the gss panel ahead. That moment of raw desperation.
They walked inside and towards the rear of the shuttle.
His right arm shifted, and with a smooth, almost liquid transition, a welding tool emerged from his wrist. He pressed the glowing tip against the cold steel. Sparks hissed, slicing through the metal in a clean, circur motion.
The cut was precise. Just rge enough.
With a forceful kick, the back panel gave way, cnging as it fell outward.
Simon stepped thought.
Then, without a word, he walked on.
Simon's sensors picked up the sound before his eyes could see it—faint dragging metal, soft cnks echoing through the shuttle station's dark halls. A swirl of electric static brushed across his whiskers—movement, erratic and unnatural.
He froze.
Then he saw it.
A broken robot, crawling forward using only its arms. Its legs were gone, torn away, leaving behind twisted stumps fused with exposed servo cables and hardened gel. But what truly froze Simon in pce was what y embedded in its torso, held there by a sick cocoon of structure gel and synthetic tubing.
A head.
Not just any head.
Amy Azzaro.
Her face was changed—mutated, barely recognizable from when he'd seen her st. The flesh was drawn tight in pces, loose in others, stretched unnaturally by the gel. One side of her face sagged into a melted grimace, while the other was puffed and swollen, like it had been overinfted. Her left eye had fused with a glowing optical sensor, its mechanical parts twitching out of sync. Pulsing veins of structure gel crawled along her scalp like parasitic worms, embedding deeper into the bone, pulling flesh and tech together into something wrong.
It was a horror—but it was her.
The memory of that room in Upsilon came back with brutal force. The artificial lung, the flickering lights, her voice, asking not to die. And he had killed her anyway. Mercy, he had told himself. But that word was starting to taste like poison.
The robot halted as it heard him. The head twitched.
"Carl?" Amy’s voice came—not from her twisted mouth, but from deep inside the machine, an echo from old, recycled speakers. “Carl, is that you? Let me get this helmet off…”
Simon stepped closer, his bdes retracted.
He slowly kneeled before her.
“Sure…” His voice came as a whisper, warbled by emotion and modutor distortion.
Structure gel slithered from his hands as he pced his hands on her head, ready to end it, to truly grant her peace.
But his hands trembled.
He couldn't.
'She's alive. Somehow... she's still alive,' he thought, his processors sparking with conflicting impulses.
“It seems… the helmet’s stuck,” Simon lied gently, retracting the gel. “Maybe we can find some tools at Upsilon to fix it.”
Amy’s half-mechanical head nodded with slow, creaking motions.
“Bad luck, huh? Alright. Let’s go. But we should be careful, I think there are still some robots nearby.”
She turned and began to drag herself forward again, metal scraping against the metal rail. Her grotesque head bobbed with every inch she moved, the pulsing gel around her temple lighting dimly.
Simon’s soul twisted.
He had done this to her.
He signaled Jerry’s submersible, which emerged from the side tunnel.
“Ahh, I’m so slow these days,” Amy muttered with a warped smile.
“Maybe you're just tired,” Simon replied softly. “Let me help you.”
Simon turned and lifted Amy carefully onto his shoulder, her broken limbs cnking.
“Thanks, Carl.”
“No problem, Amy… no problem at all.”
They finally reached the station.
Simon gently lifted Jerry's submersible onto the main ptform. Its metal legs clicked softly as they adjusted to the new terrain, whirring in quiet anticipation. He followed behind, his heavy footfalls echoing in the hollow stillness of the shuttle station. All around them, remnants of the old world whispered—cracked screens, half-lit panels, flickering status lights long untended.
Across the room, a cargo shuttle sat idle, waiting. Its door creaked open at his approach, groaning like an old memory.
Inside, the stale air smelled of rust.
Simon stepped inside and approached a metal table, his fingers trailing over its scarred surface until they found the dusty tablet resting atop it. He picked it up and powered it on, accessing the system's local archives.
A video started to py in his mind.
"Hey, Amy. It’s me, Dom."
The voice was calm but thick with unspoken fear. A man sat in front of the camera, his eyes red-rimmed, his smile tight and fragile. A white wall stood behind him, and a photo of him and Amy hung slightly crooked. The video was probably filmed in their apartment.
"My folks... they went upstate. Took your dad with them. Said they found a shelter, somewhere safe. I stayed behind to get this out to you."
He hesitated.
"I know this isn’t how it was supposed to go. We had dreams, right? You with Pathos-II. Me working in the bs. I thought maybe one day we’d get out, settle down, live something like a normal life."
His voice cracked.
"I’m proud of you, Amy. Still am. You chased your dream. I just wish it hadn’t come to this. I love you. Stay strong. I hope you get this. Goodbye."
The recording ended.
Simon said nothing. He simply stared at the darkened screen as something in his chest pulled taut. This was the second time he had watched the video, but now, with Amy on his shoulder, the pain sank deeper. The guilt was heavier.
He saved the voice data. He would need it ter.
His gaze turned toward the tunnel ahead. The main passage was partially colpsed, stone and twisted metal blocking the rails. But to the left, a narrow service tunnel opened up. Small, dark, but passable.
He stepped out of the shuttle and nded back on the rail with a heavy thud. His sensors mapped the route ahead.
Amy changed everything.
Originally, Simon had pnned to exit through the decompression chamber. But now... now she was with him. And he couldn’t risk putting her through the pressure of open water. Whatever mutation the WAU had inflicted upon her, Simon had no way of knowing what stress her brain could endure.
One wrong move could sever the st fragile thread keeping her alive.
He wouldn't let that happen.
So the new pn was the main transport hub. The tunnel ahead would take him there. It would be sealed, sure, but no seal had ever stopped him for long.
He made his way around the obstruction, stepping quietly through the gloom. As he passed an open doorway to the left, his sensors fred with recognition.
There, ying motionless and forgotten, was the original body of Amy Azzaro.
Fused entirely into the floor, she had become part of the station itself. Structure gel pulsed faintly around her chest cavity, where once two tubes had anchored her to artificial life. A decapitated relic of mercy gone wrong.
Simon didn’t linger.
He walked past, his shoulders heavier with every step.
The gate before him hissed open.
He stepped forward into the tunnel, Jerry crawling dutifully behind in his submersible shell, and Amy—what was left of her—resting silently on his shoulder.
A ghost, and a reminder of the mistake he couldn’t take back.
He would carry her now.
All the way to the end.
2.3 kilometers ter, they reached the transport hub.
The tunnel opened into a massive warehouse chamber—at least 60 meters wide, and twice as long. The ceiling, lost in shadow, arched high above them, supported by ribbed steel beams like the spine of some ancient beast. The air was stagnant, ced with the sharp scent of oxidized metal and dust left undisturbed for years.
Metallic crates, stacked like tombstones, filled the space. Each container bore the fading insignia of Upsilon’s main assembly line, beled with worn alphanumeric codes. Inside them were all manner of components—servo arms, hydrotube fiments, cortex chip frames, uncut alloy sheets, and preserved vats of structure gel. The remnants of a world that had once built machines of progress, now left to rust.
Overhead, cranes and robotic arms hung motionless. Their once-fluid joints were frozen mid-task, as though the power had been cut mid-movement. Tracks lined the walls where automated lifters once ran to unload cargo shuttles docked just outside. Time had petrified everything.
Simon stepped up onto the main ptform, lifting Jerry's submersible with practiced ease and setting it down gently beside him. The machine clicked and hummed as it reoriented its legs, ready to scurry if needed.
Simon climbed up after it, his sensors already sweeping through the vast warehouse. Then, a sound—low and deep. A metallic groan.
Simon’s form stiffened. He crouched and quickly ushered Jerry behind a container.
The air trembled. Something massive was moving.
From his palm, the snake camera unfurled, slithering over the top of the crate and peeking into the gloom.
There it was.
A robot unit, CRU-09 “Goliath”—huge, towering nearly four meters high, broad and tank-like—was lumbering between the rows of containers. It was a cargo rearrangement unit, designed to lift and stack tons of material effortlessly. Its frame was bulky, with reinforced legs that made the ground shake with each step. Hydraulic arms hung at its sides, terminating in powerful industrial cws.
A single red scanner swept back and forth from its head, casting a razor-thin beam across the room like the eye of a hunting predator. Every few steps it paused, as though listening to the stillness itself.
The warehouse was dimly lit by half-dead emergency lights that flickered with each pulse of the robot’s sensor. In the moments of darkness between flickers, its silhouette almost seemed to vanish—only to reappear again, closer.
Simon and Jerry were completely still, tucked into the crate’s shadow.
Simon pressed his back against the cold metal crate, his sensors flickering in silent panic.
"What's happening? Why are you so quiet?" Amy's voice rang out. Not from her mouth, but from some internal speaker, broadcast like a broken radio tuned too loudly.
"Shh—"
Simon instinctively reached for her, to cover her mouth, but stopped. There was nothing there to silence.
Across the warehouse, the CRU-09 halted mid-step. Its towering frame turned slowly. The red scanner across its face bathed the crates in eerie light. Every pulse of that beam sent a spike through Simon’s nerves.
It moved.
Massive arms with reinforced hydraulics pushed crates aside like paper boxes. Simon ducked lower, heart pounding in his ears.
The Goliath paused just above them. Simon held perfectly still. Even Amy's light sensors dimmed, as if she instinctively understood.
A beat.
Then another.
The CRU-09 straightened and lumbered away, its footfalls rattling the floor.
Simon exhaled, or mimicked the sensation.
"Amy, please—don't speak again until we're clear. There's a CRU-09 patrolling."
Amy gave a slow, creaking nod.
They continued moving, step by agonizing step through the maze of crates and flickering shadows. It felt like walking through a graveyard. Every corner could hold death. But finally, they reached the far side—the exit.
Simon extended his hand toward the control panel. His structure gel surged forward, interfacing with the rusted port. The door hissed open.
A glowing red eye greeted them.
A construct.
It shrieked, a horrible, metallic screech that echoed through the entire warehouse.
Before it could leap, Simon acted. His foot connected with its chest, unching it backward into the hallway beyond.
Arms bred inside his mind. The CRU-09 was coming.
"Run!"
He Jerry’s submersible and rushed through the open door. Behind them, the construct was twitching, its joints sparking as it tried to rise.
The door smmed shut.
Then the thunder began.
BOOM.
The CRU-09 smashed into the door like a god of iron and wrath. BOOM. BOOM. The whole hallway trembled. Simon turned.
The construct lunged again.
Simon didn’t hesitate.
His right arm shifted—structure gel slithering back to reveal the Tes Cannon beneath. It whined as it charged. The hallway lit with searing white light as the weapon fired.
The beam carved through the dim corridor and struck the construct’s head. Sparks erupted. The body jerked once—then colpsed, sliding lifeless to Simon’s feet.
His arm retracted, morphing back into its original shape.
"Carl, what was that?!" Amy asked, her glowing eyes wide, voice unsteady.
"Shh," Simon whispered, finger to his helmet.
Silence again. Then one st BOOM.
The door finally gave way.
The CRU-09's red light scanned the area, pausing on the dead construct. Then, after a few agonizing seconds ,it turned—and continued its patrol.
Simon stood against the wall, motionless, his snake camera still peering down the hallway.
He looked over at Amy and Jerry’s submersible.
Simon raised his eyes to the ceiling.
"Almost there," he whispered, voice fraying at the edges.
Amy:
Designation: CRU-09 “Goliath”
Nickname: The Stacker
A name whispered by survivors who’ve seen it move—its industrial cws crushing bone as easily as crates, its red scanning beam slicing through the dark like a hunter’s gaze.
