Barry's collar pulsed when the siren hit.
Gate 3's tunnel filled with bodies and blue light as NEXUS projectors crawled data across the stained concrete.
FIELD 3 — ROUND 221SLOTS: 60EXTRACT WINDOWS: 19:15 / 19:30 / 19:40HARD CLOSE: 19:45
Drones hung sleeping in ceiling cradles. For now.
Barry stood near the back, one hand on the strap of his almost-empty rig, the other hovering close to the ugly pistol under his jacket.
Jay wasn't there. Old bones, metal leg—stairs to Gate 3 weren't worth the pain. He'd left Barry at the clinic stairs with a clap on the shoulder and one last order:
"First window or nothing. Goblins live."
The blast door began its grinding rise. Wet air rolled in from Field 3, tasting of ash and burned plastic.
Barry's collar whispered:
FIELD MODE: ENGAGEDLETHAL CONSTRAINTS: DISABLED BEYOND BOUNDARY
The trio of murderhobos at the front whooped, chrome flashing as they bounced on their heels. One had a neon jaw, another a full composite forearm. "Mid-lane! Tower crates!" someone yelled.
Lootgoblins further back did quiet checks and didn't brag.
Barry took a breath that didn't feel big enough and stepped over the yellow line.
Noise from the Stack cut off like a switch.
Out here, the city was a carcass. Towers loomed, windows black or broken. Dead holo-billboards flickered offers no one was left to take. The only sounds were rain ticking on metal and the soft scuff of boots from every direction.
HUD tick:
T+00:01
"If it's blue, it's business," Jay's voice in his head. "Blue is boring. Boring keeps you alive."
A Blue-Eye quad drone slid along the main avenue, lens glowing calm blue, scanning collars. It tracked the screaming murderhobos, marked them valid, moved on.
Barry did not follow them.
He cut right instead, hugging wall and wreckage, staying under balconies, avoiding open lanes. The pistol at his chest felt heavier with every step. Twenty half-trustworthy rounds.
He spotted a narrow side street half-choked with trash and a toppled vending unit. No movement. No voices. Good.
He slipped into it.
Small steps. Toe first. Keep the profile thin. I rat. I don't race psychos.
A busted tower entrance waited ten meters in: security glass crazed, door hanging.
He slid inside.
Lobby: overturned chairs, dead reception screen, emergency strips pulsing dim yellow. Dust. Drip.
He froze. Listened.
Nothing.
He took the stairs—elevators were coffins. Third floor. The '3' glowed faintly.
Four apartment doors:
Two broken wide open.
One welded shut.
One swollen but mostly intact.
He nudged that one with his boot, pistol up like Jay had shown him.
Door swung in.
Small living room, dead screen, couch frame. Kitchenette. Bedroom door.
"Corners," Barry murmured. He swept what he could. No shapes.
Kitchen first.
Upper cabinets: chipped plates, nothing.
Lower cabinets: rust, a dead roach.
Fridge: when he yanked it open, a faint chill kissed his face. Behind a collapsed shelf: two sealed nutrient bricks, NEXUS-marked, and a clear bottle of water.
He grinned. "Thank you, dead people."
Pack open. Bricks in. Water in.
HUD:
T+04:03
Still good.
Bedroom. Wardrobe empty. Underbed: dust.
Bedside table:
Top drawer, junk.
Bottom drawer—sealed medband, plus a generic stim ampoule clipped to it.
"Okay," Barry breathed. "Now we're talking."
Both into the pack. It was still barely a quarter full.
Then:
Tap.
Tap-tap.
Metal on plaster.
His spine went cold.
Again. Above him.
Steps aren't friendly, Jay had said. Real survivors move like ghosts. If you hear it, don't trust it.
Barry eased back toward the doorway, pistol up, eyes on the corner of ceiling.
The robo-spider unfolded out of the shadow there.
It dropped down with a heavy clack. Six hooked legs, two serrated forelimbs, low armored dome the size of a plate. Single optic on top flared bright, clean blue.
Standard NEXUS salvage unit.
The optic swept him and his pack.
"UNAUTHORIZED RESOURCE ACCESS," it rasped. "RELEASE PROPERTY."
"I'm leaving," Barry blurted, already stepping back.
The spider jumped.
It hit his chest rig like a thrown engine block. They crashed into the wall; his head rang. Claws tore at straps, hunting for the pack, one hook punching through cloth into skin.
The pistol almost flew. He hung on.
Jay's other lesson: If it's on you, shoot it, not the room.
Barry jammed the barrel between plates and squeezed.
First shot sparked uselessly.
The spider screamed modem noise and stabbed. White heat ripped across his ribs.
"Fuck—"
Second shot. Closer. The round punched through the glowing optic. Glass and fluid shattered across his face.
The bot convulsed, legs gouging the floor, then slumped.
Barry shoved it off, gasping, and yanked his jacket aside. The hook had carved a nasty groove under his ribs. Bloody but shallow.
"Okay," he panted. "Okay, that's fine. That's fine."
He tore open the medband wrapper with his teeth and slapped it on. Cool, then tight—the smart gel sealed and numbed. Bleeding slowed.
HUD:
T+06:41
Seven minutes burned on one idiot fridge cop.
He looked at the spider.
Plate-sized. Wrecked optic but most of the chassis intact. Jay could strip sensors, servos, maybe even trace NEXUS firmware off it.
The pack wasn't close to full.
Barry hesitated only a second, then crouched, grabbed the bot by two legs, and wrestled it into the bag. It fit badly but it fit, metal scraping fabric.
"Congratulations," he muttered. "You're rent now."
Weight dragged at his shoulders as he stood. Good. Something to show.
Fast sweep of the apartment—nothing else worth the risk.
He slipped back into the stairwell.
Listen.
Far-off: rapid gunfire down main, a shout, laughter with too much edge. Murderhobos making clips.
Close: just rain and the slow creak of the building.
He moved.
Back on the street, he stuck to the edges.
A Blue-Eye walker crossed the intersection ahead, tall, rifle-cradling. Its optic panned, swept his collar, marked him lawful, stomped on.
At the far end, high on a balcony, something faintly red winked once in the gloom. When he blinked, it was gone.
Rumors crawled up.
If it's red, run.
He did not go investigate.
HUD:
T+10:09
Two bricks. Water. Stim. One used bandage. One spider in the bag. Bruised ribs, stinging side.
Not bad for a first rat.
He angled toward the arrow marking EXTRACT 1: an underground tram stop.
The entrance yawned open, stairs leading down into a tunnel washed in pale green.
Two Blue-Eye sentry pods flanked the shimmering extract zone. Four other runners already stood in it, weapons held low but eyes sharp. They scanned Barry's beat-up rig, lumpy pack, and dismissed him as harmless.
He stepped in.
Collar hum rose.
EXTRACT 1 — ACTIVESYNCING INVENTORY…
Five-count.
Distant, up in the Field, a short burst of automatic fire and a cut-off scream.
Barry stared at damp concrete and thought of Lissa's timer.
SYNC COMPLETEROUND STATUS: SURVIVEDEXITING FIELD 3
White flash.
Same station layout. Different smell: oil, cheap spices, too many people. Stackside.
The others blinked out of the zone, already checking their packs; anything still there was theirs now.
Barry clutched his straps. The weight of the spider and supplies said they'd made it through.
Collar pinged:
PERSONAL CREDIT: +18CLINIC ACCESS: UPDATED
Up in the MedTower, Lissa's display would tick from 6 to 7.
One more day.
Barry slipped out of the arrival crowd and into a quieter stairwell before his knees could give out. He pressed his head to the cool wall, breathing through the leftover adrenaline.
A rusted fridge tried to kill you. You killed it. You stole its corpse.
"Goblin," he told himself. "Good goblin."
Then he hitched the pack higher—spider clanking—and started up toward Jay's workshop, ready to dump metal on the table and trade bricks for time.
After they lost, this was what passing for victory looked like:
In early. Out early. Alive, heavier, and already thinking about the next Round.