Rapi scanned over the stack of building plans and proposals, her brow furrowing at the list of requests. Outside, the muffled hum of construction echoed through the walls, underscoring her focus. She looked up at Liter, who was idly adjusting her hardhat with one hand and stroking her robotic dog, Bolt, with the other.
"An armory, sure. Makes sense," Rapi muttered, flipping to another page, a skeptical brow raised. "But a café, a library… and a toy store? Are all of these really necessary?"
Liter shrugged, a small grin tugging at her lips. "What can I say? The spaces and funds were already allocated. And hey, morale isn't just bullets and rations. Even soldiers need a little downtime, something to look forward to when they're off-duty."
Rapi huffed, her gaze lingering on the toy store proposal with evident doubt. "Shouldn't we focus on utilities first?" She glanced at Liter. "We're out here to carry out our duties as Nikkes, not play around."
With a sage nod, Liter patted Bolt's head, the robotic dog's tail wagging in sync with her words. "You'd be surprised what folks here want to spend their extra credits on. Might as well give them the option, right? Besides, if any of these buildings end up being underused, I can always rebuild and repurpose. That's the beauty of modular construction."
Rapi sighed, setting the forms down. "Fine. Just… let's keep the essentials in mind first, alright?"
Liter chuckled, giving Rapi an exaggerated salute. "No worries, kiddo. Your armory's top priority. The café and library will just… keep the outpost from feeling too much like a prison. And who knows, maybe you'll find yourself needing a book or a coffee now and then."
Rapi shot her a skeptical look. "Guess I'll leave the architectural vision to you."
The door swung open, and Centi burst in, her energy like a whirlwind against the room's calm. Her bright, sporty outfit—complete with construction tools hanging off her belt—added to her vivacious presence. Grinning wide, she held up a blueprint with enthusiasm.
"Hey, hey! So, about that toy store! I was thinking we could add some really fun architecture—something that'll make everyone stop and stare!" Her excitement was as bright as her attire, getting a bit carried away, as usual.
Liter, ever the more grounded one, gave her a look, gently reminding, "Centi, we don't need the store to be a spectacle. Function over form, remember?"
Centi waved her off playfully. "But why can't it be both?" She bounced on her heels, her excitement practically spilling over. "Come on, you have to admit, a flashy building is way more fun!"
Rapi, still going over the paperwork, watched the exchange with quiet amusement. Despite her doubts, Centi's enthusiasm was contagious, softening her stance. Maybe there was value in creating spaces for comfort and joy, even out here.
"What about the armory?" she asked, meeting Centi's animated gaze.
Centi's excitement didn't miss a beat, pivoting seamlessly to the more serious topic. "Almost ready! Reinforced and all, just like you wanted. You're gonna love it."
Liter nodded in approval, arms crossed. "As for the other buildings, the space is allocated, and the funds are ready. We can adjust things as needed, but I'm confident we'll be ready for the influx of new squads."
John moved quietly through the grimy streets of the Outer Rim, the weight of the looming trainyard sinking into his bones. The further he went, the more the world around him seemed to decay—buildings crumbled like forgotten monuments, the air thick with the stench of rot and rust. Shadows flitted through the alleys, whispers of survival in a place long abandoned by hope.
As he neared the far edge of the district, his eyes landed on an old man slumped against the wall, a ratty tarp draped over his shoulders. The man's face was weathered, skin cracked like leather left in the sun too long. He sat beside a small tin cup, its meager contents barely enough for a meal.
John stopped, fishing out a few credits and tossing them into the cup with a metallic clink.
"Appreciate that, son," the old man drawled, his voice carrying a thick southern tang, smooth as molasses despite the grime and ruin around him.
John crouched beside him, lowering his voice as he nodded toward the distant, waterlogged trainyard. "Heard the trainyard's flooded. You know anything about it?"
The old man shifted, tugging the tarp closer as though warding off a chill. "Oh, I reckon I know a bit," he said slowly, the cadence of his words like the drawl of a man who'd seen too much. "Used t'be one o' them pipes, y'know? The big ones, carryin' water from here on up to the Ark." He spat to the side, a tired but deliberate motion. "Well, she done burst 'bout a few months back. Flooded the whole damn place. Ain't no one goes down there much no more. Least no one with any sense, anyhow."
John's eyes narrowed. "So the pipe busted, and that's it? No one's tried to go back?"
The old man chuckled, the sound raspy and dry. "Oh, they tried, alright. But folk who go lookin' down there don't come back. Place like that…" he hesitated, eyes flicking to John as if weighing something, "it's got a feelin'. Cursed, some say." He let the words hang heavy in the air. "But hell, this whole damn place is cursed, if ya ask me."
John nodded, absorbing the information. "Appreciate it," he muttered, standing up.
The old man tipped his head. "Ain't nothin' to it, son. But if yer headin' that way, best mind yerself. Water ain't the only thing you gotta worry 'bout."
Without replying, John turned and continued down the thinning streets, the old man's warning settling into the back of his mind. The smell grew stronger as he neared the trainyard—a mixture of sewage and decay, hanging in the air like a bad memory.
At the edge of the flooded yard, he stopped, staring at the drowned world before him. Rusted tracks vanished into stagnant water that reflected the dilapidated surroundings in murky shades. He knew whatever he was about to uncover wouldn't be pretty.
Taking a deep breath, he stepped into the muck, the squelch of his boots echoing in the stillness of the sunken yard. Each step sent ripples through the water, the silence pressing in like a weight on his chest. Closing his eyes for a moment, he allowed his senses to reach out, feeling for any sign in the oppressive silence that lay ahead.
The cursed energy was thick here, far denser than it should have been. The Outer Rim always had more cursed energy compared to the Ark—it came with the territory of decay and suffering—but this place? This felt different. The energy wasn't just a product of the environment; it was concentrated, pulsing deep beneath the earth like a festering wound, warping the air around him with a thick, suffocating humidity.
John took a slow, deliberate breath, feeling how the cursed energy clung to him, heavy and unyielding. A quiet unease coiled within him as he pieced together the situation—something was lurking beneath the burst water pipe. Something that had been accumulating cursed energy for years, like poison waiting to seep through.
His mind focused sharply on his cursed technique, Ruinous Gambit, as he prepared for the dive. He visualized his body as a series of interwoven systems, each one essential to his survival underwater. This technique had once felt like a curse in itself, a dangerous and limiting ability. But over time, he'd learned to be creative, to push its boundaries.
To extend his time underwater, he first amplified his lung capacity. His cursed energy magnified the power and elasticity of his diaphragm, allowing him to take in an unnaturally large breath. His alveoli—the tiny air sacs in his lungs where gas exchange occurred—expanded, prepared to trap as much oxygen as possible.
Next, he focused on oxygen efficiency at the cellular level. Enhancing the affinity of hemoglobin for oxygen, he made his blood a more efficient carrier, holding onto each oxygen molecule longer. His mitochondria ramped up, burning through oxygen sparingly and creating energy with minimal waste. Even as he exerted himself underwater, his cells would consume oxygen at a fraction of their usual rate.
He then heightened his myoglobin levels—the oxygen-binding protein in his muscles. Normally, myoglobin acted as a short-term reservoir, supplying muscles with oxygen during high-intensity activity. By increasing its concentration, John ensured his muscles had a backup supply, letting him move swiftly without immediately draining his oxygen reserves.
Finally, he worked on his hypoxia tolerance, altering his body's ability to withstand low oxygen conditions. He suppressed the symptoms of hypoxia—dizziness, confusion, and panic—while enhancing cerebral blood flow to keep his brain oxygenated. This way, he could stay sharp even as his body pushed its limits in the depths below.
Directing his cursed energy into these systems, John felt the familiar strain settle over him. Reflexes, hearing, and endurance drained away in exchange—his movements would be slower, his hearing silent, and his stamina limited. But right now, his priority was surviving the dive, not fighting.
A dull ache spread across his muscles as his transformation completed, a bone-deep fatigue that reminded him of the cost. With his hearing gone and his reflexes dulled, each step forward felt more exposed, and he couldn't help but feel the weight of the cursed energy lurking beneath him, pulsing in the darkness.
The familiar drain of energy washed over him as he steeled himself. He took one last breath, feeling the pressure of the cursed energy below. Whatever was waiting for him in those depths, it wasn't safe—but there was no turning back now.
With his lungs filled to capacity, his body functioning like an oxygen-conserving machine, and his mind steeled for the descent, John took the plunge. The icy water enveloped him as he sank into the flooded trainyard, his movements smooth and energy-efficient. Each stroke used minimal effort, his muscles working fluidly without draining his oxygen reserves.
As he descended further into the cursed energy-filled abyss, John felt the pull of the energy growing stronger, more concentrated, as if something in the depths was calling to him. The deeper he went, the more he sensed its presence—a dense, festering pulse that seemed to vibrate through the water itself.
The cold water tightened around him, the inky blackness thickening with each meter he descended. Despite his enhanced lungs, the pressure bore down on him, squeezing his chest in an unforgiving vise. His enhanced lungs resisted, but the ache in his diaphragm reminded him of the limits even his cursed technique couldn't ignore.
Ahead, the ruptured pipe loomed, slick with algae and rot, like the yawning maw of some ancient creature. It plunged sharply into the abyss, vanishing into darkness. For a moment, John hesitated, feeling the sheer weight of the cursed energy that seemed to reach up from the tunnel like a hand pulling him downward.
Hovering at the pipe's entrance, he flicked on his flashlight, its narrow beam piercing the water just enough to reveal the swirling sediment. The light barely penetrated the shadows, illuminating only a few feet ahead. Sound seemed to vanish here, muffled as if the pipe swallowed it whole. All he could hear was the rhythmic pound of his heartbeat and the faint, creaking groan of old metal, like the pipe itself was breathing along with him.
A flicker of doubt surfaced. Was he being pulled by courage, or something far more reckless? But curiosity edged out his fear, and with a final thought, he decided. There was no turning back.
John entered the pipe, his form cutting through the water in tight, controlled movements. The tunnel walls closed in around him, confining him to near silence, where even the slightest sound seemed to echo back in warped whispers. His flashlight flickered, its narrow beam revealing nothing but the oppressive blackness ahead as the cursed energy thickened, clinging to him like a heavy cloak. The deeper he went, the more the energy's pull grew, urging him toward something ancient, something that pulsed wrong beneath the surface.
The descent was relentless, each turn of the pipe twisting him further into darkness. The water felt thicker here, clinging to him, slowing him as if the abyss itself resisted his presence. The tunnel's walls closed in, slick with algae and grime, narrowing until he could barely turn his head. He pressed on, moving faster, feeling the cursed energy clawing at his skin—a silent scream in the void.
Then, faintly, he heard it. A low, guttural groan vibrated through the pipe, an unnatural sound that rattled his bones. His body picked it up with unnatural clarity, a sound that didn't belong to any machine or creature he knew.
Ahead, A small room leading out of the water loomed like a gaping maw. The cursed energy pooled around it, an almost tangible weight pressing down on him. The water felt dense, and his instincts screamed at him to turn back, but something in him—an old curiosity, perhaps even recklessness—urged him forward.
Just as he reached for the edge of the ledge leading to the room, the water around him trembled. He sensed the change a second too late. Out of the darkness, a fleshy tendril, slick and disturbingly fast, shot from the shadows, slamming into his right side with terrifying force.
The initial shock was cold and numbing, his mind processing the attack too slowly. Then the pain hit, instant and overwhelming, spreading like fire through his chest. The tendril buried itself in his side, twisting deeper through muscle and bone. The texture of it was grotesque—slick, pulsating, and horribly alive, writhing against his skin.
His breath hitched, and water flooded his mouth as he instinctively gasped, choking on the liquid. His hand shot to the wound, feeling the vile, pulsating mass lodged in his side. His vision blurred, the cursed energy around him pulsing in sync with the creature's rhythm, as though the water itself was beating with its life.
The tendril twisted deeper.
John's body convulsed as agony exploded through his chest, blood clouding the water around him in dark red blooms. His heartbeat thundered, each pulse a reminder of the lung collapsing inside him.
He fought, desperately clawing to tear himself free, but the tendril tightened, dragging him deeper. The cursed energy wrapped around him like a shroud, thick and suffocating. Panic clawed at his thoughts as he struggled, his mind racing through a dozen survival instincts. But the darkness pressed in, the pain overwhelmed him, and the tendril pulled him deeper, dragging him into the heart of the cursed depths.
Rapi sat at her desk, her eyes narrowing slightly as she watched Neon and Anis locked in yet another pointless argument. The two were standing across the room, both gesticulating wildly as they bickered over something absurd—whether it was better to use real butter or margarine in rations or something equally trivial. Their voices overlapped, rising and falling in a back-and-forth that was both exhausting and somehow...endless.
Neon, always fiery, waved her hands with a kind of exaggerated frustration, as if the fate of the world depended on her side of the argument. "I'm telling you, the texture is completely different! You can't just—"
Anis rolled her eyes, cutting her off. "Look, you say 'texture,' I say 'who cares?' It's all going to the same place, right?"
Rapi let out a quiet, resigned sigh. They were at it again.
It wasn't that the arguments themselves were particularly infuriating. In fact, most of the time they were relatively harmless, filled with banter more than real conflict. But at this moment, with the sheer amount of paperwork that littered her desk and the weight of responsibility pressing on her shoulders, the noise was a constant, pulsing headache. She pinched the bridge of her nose, forcing herself to focus on the requisition forms for the outpost expansion that Liter had given her earlier. It was hard enough trying to balance the needs of the outpost and the mission, but doing it with those two constantly sparring in the background...
She stared down at the forms, trying to concentrate, but her mind wandered. As much as she was used to handling such chaos, part of her couldn't help but think about the commander.
Hopefully, he's having an easier time than I am right now, she thought with a weary glance at the stack of paperwork.
John screamed, a guttural roar of pain and fury as the tendril continued piercing through his side, pushing into his right lung with a sickening thud. His body convulsed, wracked by the searing pain, but instead of retreating, he did the opposite. Teeth gritted, jaw clenched in defiance, he grabbed the fleshy tendril, yanking on it with every ounce of strength he had left.
Dark ribbons of blood clouded the water around him as the creature pulled him closer, dragging him through the murky depths. The pressure mounted as they descended, pressing in on him physically and mentally, his injured lung straining with each beat. Finally, he was hauled into a dim, chamber-like space, where a monstrous figure awaited him.
A grotesque abomination stared back—a twisted fusion of human and starfish, its uneven, leathery skin scattered with sunken eyes that followed his every movement. Its tendrils quivered in the water, holding John suspended in front of it. For a split second, time slowed, and John's fury collided with the sheer horror of the creature looming before him.
Then rage consumed him, overtaking fear.
Fueled by adrenaline and anger, John surged forward. His fist clenched as he channeled every last bit of strength and cursed energy into a single blow. He felt the cursed energy surge, intensifying the burning power coursing through his arm. With a final roar, he swung, his fist colliding with the creature's core.
The impact resounded through the chamber like a crack of thunder, rippling outward as the creature's body crumpled beneath the sheer force. Its leathery skin split, its scattered eyes widening briefly before the tendrils fell lifeless. John felt himself released, the creature's broken remains drifting in the murky water around him.
The pain in John's chest throbbed with every heartbeat as swam back towards the room he had seen and he pulled himself onto a narrow ledge within the room, gasping for air in ragged breaths. His right lung, punctured and useless, made each inhale feel like a battle. The metallic taste of blood coated his tongue, sharp and unyielding. His left lung worked overtime, pulling in desperate gulps of air to keep him alive, while his right side burned in searing agony.
Leaning back against the cold, wet stone, he closed his eyes briefly, his mind racing. He was running out of options; his cursed energy, the only thing keeping him on his feet, was fading fast.
His breathing grew more shallow, a wet rasp accompanying each exhale. The taste of blood lingered in his mouth, thick and metallic, as he struggled to control the pain. The quiet of the room was deceptive, masking the ominous weight of cursed energy that seemed to press in around him, an ever-present reminder that he couldn't stay here.
He couldn't rely on his cursed technique much longer—his body was strained beyond its limits. But rest was a luxury he couldn't afford. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to stand, the agony in his chest blazing as he pulled himself up from the ledge. The cursed energy around him pulsed faintly, as if mocking his weakened state.
Each breath was fire—sharp, shallow, and unsatisfying. Blood trickled from the wound, staining his clothes. His hands trembled from blood loss, the weakness blurring his focus, but he gritted his teeth, pulling out his first aid kit and struggling to wrap a strip of fabric tightly around his torso. Every tightening pull sent fresh waves of pain radiating through his chest, but he forced himself to press on, determined to staunch the bleeding before it overtook him.
With trembling hands, John resumed treating his wound with his first aid kit, his fingers fumbling slightly from blood loss and pain. The antiseptic stung sharply as he applied it to the wound, a biting sensation that cut through the fog clouding his mind. The metallic scent of blood hung heavy in the air as he wrapped gauze around his chest, covering the torn skin with deliberate, if sluggish, movements. His vision flickered, and every breath was a battle—sharp, shallow, and unsatisfying.
His left lung worked overtime, drawing in strained gulps of air to sustain him, while his right side burned in searing agony. As he tied the last knot in the bandage, he knew he had no time to lose. Reaching deep within himself, he tapped into his cursed technique: Ruinous Gambit. Outright healing wasn't an option—his body couldn't handle the energy and materials required to repair such damage on its own. If he tried to force true healing, it would burn him out, consuming calories and bodily resources he didn't have to spare. But he could aid the process, giving his body just enough of a boost to stabilize.
Ruinous Gambit allowed him to treat his body as an abstract system, enhancing one function at the cost of another. With a grimace, he sacrificed some of his dexterity and endurance, mentally adjusting his body's balance. Cursed energy surged within him, focusing around his lungs and wound, encouraging his cells to work more efficiently without forcing full regeneration. The pain dulled slightly, and his left lung's ability to absorb and transport oxygen improved, sustaining him a little more effectively.
But the cost was immediate. A wave of dizziness washed over him, his limbs felt heavy, his movements sluggish, and his reflexes dulled. He didn't need speed right now—he needed survival.
As the cursed energy did its work, he felt the bleeding slow and his wound stabilize, buying him precious time. His lung wouldn't heal fully without proper medical care, but for now, the cursed technique had helped stem the worst of it. His breathing was still shallow and painful, but he could manage.
Time was ticking, and he knew he couldn't stay here. The cursed energy pulsed faintly in the depths, as though something ancient and unseen lay in wait. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to stand, his chest blazing with each movement. This was no place for hesitation.
John tightened his grip on the first aid kit, securing the bandages one last time before letting his cursed energy fade back into the background. His body ached, the strain of the gambit still gnawing at his reserves, but he was ready to move again.
The darkness of the cave surrounded him, but John pushed off the wall, his eyes narrowing as he scanned his surroundings. He wasn't done yet. He needed to find a way out of this hellish place, but more importantly, he had to figure out just what was lurking deeper down in the waters.
He forced himself forward, gritting his teeth against the lingering pain, determined to finish what he'd started.
As John moved forward, his footfalls fading into the murky silence, he remained oblivious to the remains of the cursed creature lay disturbingly still, not dispersing into ethereal wisps upon defeat…
Under the moonlit shadows, Viper moved with calculated silence through the dim corridors of the safehouse. Her breathing was measured, each step deliberate as she neared John's room, her hand grazing along the wall for balance as her eyes locked onto the closed door at the end of the hall. The closer she drew, however, the more an unsettling weight pressed down on her chest—a dark, formless dread that gnawed at the edges of her resolve.
She paused just a few feet from the door, feeling her heartbeat drum louder, her pulse racing against her will. Her fingers twitched, eager to reach for the door handle, but each time she tried, a wave of primal fear washed over her, stalling her hand in midair. The air was thick, suffused with an energy that seemed to creep beneath her skin, filling her with a despair that clawed its way up from her stomach to her throat, making her breath come shallow and uneven.
Swallowing hard, she steeled herself again and took another step forward, but her knees weakened as that dark, invisible force grew more intense, suffocating her with its oppressive weight. Every cell in her body screamed at her to retreat, as if crossing the threshold would pull her into an abyss from which there was no escape. Teeth clenched, she forced herself to press on, inch by inch, before the sensation spiked—an almost physical force of terror that made her body recoil on instinct.
Gasping, Viper staggered back, her resolve crumbling under the weight of the inexplicable fear. She fought to regain her composure, her fingers brushing against her own face as she tried to steady her breathing. She glanced back down the hall, her eyes narrowed, refusing to be defeated by whatever presence lingered beyond that door, yet the despair within her pulsed more potent than her will. It was like being on the edge of a cliff, knowing one step too far would send her plunging into a darkness from which she might never return.
Frustration bubbling up, she clenched her fists, cursing under her breath as she retreated, the unsettling aura of John's room haunting her long after she slipped back into the safehouse's shadows.
John staggered along the tunnel connected to the room, the ache from his wounded lung making each breath a sharp, stinging reminder of the tendril's attack. The air was thick and stale, laced with a sickly dampness that clung to his skin as he pushed forward, eyes scanning for any sign of escape. He barely had time to steady himself before several shapes lunged at him from the shadows, their warped, humanoid figures glinting in the faint light. Five against one, and all closing in.
Pain flared in his side with every movement, but his body snapped into motion. Even battered and bleeding, his movements were precise, each dodge and strike controlled and efficient. He sidestepped the first curse, catching its clawed hand and twisting, sending it careening into the wall with a sickening crack. Another cursed figure lunged from his left; he ducked low, driving an elbow into its torso, sending it sprawling back with a snarl.
As he faced the next two, he switched seamlessly between dodging and countering, his footwork flawless even as the curses swarmed him. Their frenzied, chaotic attacks could never keep up with his calm precision, each strike of his finding its mark while their claws and fangs missed by inches. Wild, erratic, they flailed at him in desperation, but he was a practiced combatant, his discipline carrying him through the relentless assault.
One by one, the curses fell until only one remained—a twisted, pitiful creature whose face contorted in terror. John raised his fist to finish it off when it suddenly cried out, "Help me… end it… please, just end it…" Its voice was a low, guttural plea, almost human in its desperation. For a moment, John hesitated, caught by the flicker of something close to fear in its eyes. It was a curse, he reminded himself, yet in that instant, he could swear he saw the ghost of something more behind its gaze.
But before he could process the thought, the creature lunged, claws extended, its attack more desperate than skilled.
Without missing a beat, John countered, his arm moving in a sharp, brutal arc that took the creature down. He stood over its still form, his brow furrowing as he replayed its last words in his mind. Just a curse, he told himself, a thing born of hatred and suffering. Yet the echo of its plea lingered.
Belorta and Mica were packing up, the air thick with anticipation for their transfer to the outpost. The barracks room was cluttered with gear, half-sorted into boxes labeled with scribbled words like "ammo" and "snacks" in Belorta's scrawling handwriting.
"Hey, Mica, grab that bag, will ya?" Belorta called, balancing a stack of half-empty boxes in her arms.
"Got it, Belorta," Mica replied, her wary smile flickering as she moved to grab the bag. As she leaned over, she noticed a drawer left slightly open, a brightly colored scarf sticking out. Curious, she tugged it, and a coiled snake toy shot out with a hiss, springing toward her. She gasped, stumbling back with a hand over her heart as it landed on the floor, still hissing mechanically.
Belorta burst into laughter, clutching her sides. "Gotcha, Mica! Can't believe you fell for that one again!"
Mica's cheeks flushed as she regained her composure. "You always get me with that… Belorta." She looked down, fingers grazing the frayed edge of an old childhood toy that had found its way into her pack. "I just… really hope the new Commander isn't the type to get angry over things like that."
Belorta plopped onto her bed, fiddling with a tin of mints. "Oh yeah, rumors are all over. Heard he's tough, kinda mysterious, and probably real serious. Like, the kind of guy who'd rather punch a wall than crack a smile."
Mica's eyes widened. "Serious? You mean… like he'd get mad about pranks?"
Belorta waved her hand dismissively. "Pfft. If he can't handle a little humor, maybe he's the wrong guy for the job. And besides, if he tries to stop my pranks, that just means he'll get more of 'em. You can count on that."
Mica nodded but seemed lost in thought, her fingers brushing against the small, frayed toy. "I just hope… he's not the type to get really angry," she murmured, barely audible.
John's rage flared as he barreled through a new wave of curses that had swarmed him, twisted, shadowy forms hissing and clawing from every angle. They moved with erratic speed, half-formed nightmares shifting in and out of the shadows, their eyes glinting with malevolent hunger. But his own fury burned hotter, each punch and shout a release of everything simmering under his skin.
"Is this all you got?" he taunted, laughter bubbling up between clenched teeth. He slammed his fist into the face of a curse, the sickening crack of bone echoing in the damp tunnel as he threw it aside. Another cursed creature lunged from behind, and he twisted around, grabbing its arm and snapping it with a swift, brutal motion. "You'll have to do better than that!" he spat, a smirk tugging at his lips even as fresh blood trickled from a wound above his brow.
The sting of every wound was swallowed by the adrenaline surging through him. Each swing, each crack of bone and hiss of a defeated curse filled him with a manic satisfaction. For a moment, he forgot the pain and allowed his anger to consume him, roaring, "Come on!" as his voice bounced off the tunnel walls.
Inside the bustling loading bay, Café Sweety's team was preparing supplies, readying themselves for the new branch opening at the outpost. Milk, always with a mischievous glint in her eye and a bold attitude, was stacking crates while chatting enthusiastically. Her hair, cut in a tomboyish style, peeked out from under a rugged cap, and her casual combat-ready attire suited her fiery personality.
"So, do ya think this new commander's some kinda martial arts expert?" she asked, tossing a crate to Sugar.
Sugar, casually leaning against her beloved motorcycle "Black Typhoon," caught the crate with ease, her punk style and laid-back smirk exuding a calm confidence. "Doubt it," she replied. "Commanders usually don't get much beyond basic defense training at the academy. Doesn't seem like their style."
Frima, with her ever-sleepy demeanor and draped in a thick, cozy jacket, gave a slow, uninterested shrug from her perch on the couch, barely even glancing up from her tablet. "Probably… just your average guy… with a badge."
Milk waved her hands dismissively, practically bouncing on her feet with energy. "Nah, nah, I'm telling you, this one's gotta be different. He's survived a bunch of missions out there. That's rare, right? Bet he's got some serious moves—probably knows, like, advanced martial arts or something!"
Sugar rolled her eyes, setting down the crate. "Just because he's tough doesn't mean he's some kinda martial arts legend, Milk. Most commanders survive with tactics, not karate chops."
Milk laughed, unfazed. "Well, I'll just have to see for myself. Could be fun!" She gave a mock punch to the air, clearly excited at the thought.
Frima sighed, her voice barely above a mumble, "Better not… scare him off... we need someone willing to pay our café's bills."
Milk just grinned, undeterred by their responses. "Hey, if he's as tough as they say, he won't mind a little excitement." She tossed another crate into the truck, clearly already daydreaming about the first chance she'd get to test the new commander's mettle, much to the exasperation of her teammates.
In the dim, narrow tunnel, John swung a chunk of blood-smeared brick, his breathing a ragged, staccato rhythm. Each swing sent another curse staggering back, twisted limbs flailing, but they kept coming. Hollow eyes glinted with malice, reflections of hunger with no end. Each strike tore at him, the ache in his wounded side spreading, blood staining the ground with every painful exhale.
"C'mon, you… you freakin'—" His voice dissolved into a growl as he stumbled, slamming his shoulder into the wall to steady himself. The curses closed in, tighter now, their movements erratic and inhuman. With a choked snarl, he raised the brick again, bringing it down on the twisted face of a curse, bones crunching beneath his grip.
"Why… won't… you… just…" he rasped, punctuating each word with another swing, brick crashing into flesh and bone. His vision blurred, the dark tunnel spinning around him, thick with the rank smell of blood, sweat, and rot.
One of the curses lashed out, claws grazing his side. He bit back a scream, instead letting out a wild, strangled laugh, a sound that echoed off the tunnel walls. Blood dripped from his mouth as he forced a grin, his hand still clenched tightly around the brick. "Is that… all you got?" he taunted, his voice hoarse but defiant.
Finally, only one curse remained, its form flickering with something close to fear—or desperation? It lunged, letting out a strange, broken wail that sounded almost like a plea.
For a moment, John's grip faltered, an unfamiliar pang tightening in his chest. But as the creature lunged again, the anger surged back, a final roar escaping him as he brought the brick down, crushing its skull with a sickening crunch. As its twisted form slumped to the ground, John staggered back, leaning heavily against the wall, breathing hard as he wiped the blood from his chin.
John limped along the tunnel, his breath ragged and labored, each inhale a struggle that sent fire coursing through his chest. The rhythmic thud of his footsteps echoed against the damp walls, mingling with the faint gurgle of water that dripped from the crumbling stone above. He coughed, the sharp taste of iron spreading across his tongue, and felt the stabbing pain in his side—a brutal reminder of his punctured lung, strained beyond its limits. Blood dribbled from his mouth, staining his shirt and adding to the grim, brutal picture of his battered state, but his gaze remained fixed ahead.
Eventually, he faced a barrier—a shimmering distortion that pulsed faintly with cursed energy, filling the air with a stifling weight. John let out a dry, humorless chuckle, a sound barely more than a rasp. With a steadying breath, he placed his hand on the barrier, weaving his cursed energy carefully through its weak points, like threading through a maze. The distortion flickered, shuddered, then dissolved as he pushed through, the oppressive energy lifting.
Inside, he found himself in a cramped, dimly lit room with rough stone walls pressing in around him. The silence felt dense, every breath magnified in the cold, stale air. In the corner, a rusty metal ladder extended upward. Grimacing, he grabbed the rungs with blood-slicked fingers, pulling himself up one step at a time. His body trembled, his vision blurred as fresh jolts of pain rippled through his ribs, but he clenched his teeth and kept climbing.
Each movement was agony. His breath came in short, ragged bursts, each one sharper than the last as he fought to keep his grip steady. His fingers slipped, but he forced himself to hold on, pushing through the pain that weighed down on him like an anchor.
At the top, he reached a locked metal door. His patience frayed, exhaustion simmering into frustration, and he raised his fist, driving it into the door with all the strength he had left. His knuckles split open on impact, smearing blood across the cold metal, but he didn't stop. With every punch, the metal creaked, bending under the pressure until a jagged hole appeared. He gripped the edges, forcing it wider, ignoring the fresh cuts on his fingers, and hauled himself through with a final grunt.
John lay there for a moment, his breath ragged and heavy, but the relief was brief. He couldn't afford to linger—not when the dangers of the depths still clung to him, like shadows lurking just beyond his vision.
With a shaky breath, he lifted his gaze, taking in the dimly lit room. Against the far wall huddled a ragged group of survivors—young kids with hollowed eyes, women with dirt-smudged faces, and heavily damaged Nikkes, their metal limbs sparking faintly, armor cracked and worn. They pressed close together, casting wary glances in his direction, their bodies instinctively curling inward as though bracing against any sudden move.
Two Nikkes stood in front of the group, their bodies battered but steady, their shoulders squared, hands clenched in fists. Even through the exhaustion that weighed them down, their eyes held a fierce defiance that made John hesitate. He lifted his hand, intending to signal peace, but the movement sent a jolt of pain through his chest. Blood trickled from his lips, and he swallowed, steadying himself, though each breath felt like a knife twisting deeper into his lungs.
The two Nikkes remained motionless, their bodies taut, distrust etched into the way they shielded the others. They'd clearly seen enough violence to recognize its signs, and John's bloodied, battered appearance didn't exactly scream "ally."
Clearing his throat, he managed a rough, quiet rasp, "I'm… not here to hurt you." His voice, barely above a whisper, sounded more like a plea than a promise, and he wondered if they'd hear the sincerity behind the words.
One of the Nikkes, her face streaked with scratches, narrowed her eyes. "Stay back," she warned, her voice a brittle mix of strength and fear. Her gaze flicked over her shoulder at the survivors, as though weighing the odds of facing him alone if she had to. The other Nikke shifted her stance, bracing herself, her broken arm hanging limp but her posture unwavering.
John took a slow step back, raising his hands in surrender despite the pain that shot through his ribs. "I'm just passing through," he said, his voice gentler. "But if you need… anything… I can try to help."
The first Nikke held his gaze, her expression unreadable, while the other glanced back at the frightened group, a flicker of reassurance softening her hardened stare before she returned her focus to John.
One of the younger kids peeked out from behind the women, clutching her arm as she murmured something softly to him, her voice barely audible over the tense silence. John's eyes softened as he watched them, a pang of understanding settling in his chest. These people, battered and worn, were all each other had.
"I don't want trouble," he added, his voice low, each word heavy with exhaustion. "I've seen enough of it myself."
The first Nikke approached him, weary, before replying "Are you… Mahito?"