The earth trembled again, harder this time, shaking grit from the hauler’s side rails. Fang’s lens snapped awake in a pulse of red, swiveling toward the forest. The sound came first, like rain on leaves, but heavier, faster.

  Then the grass to the northeast erupted as a tide of bodies poured through, low shapes bounding on crooked limbs, fur matted with scarlet vines. Dozens. Scores. Their eyes glowed ember-red in the dark.

  Ethan’s stomach dropped. “What the hell—”

  CelestOS: Hostile life forms detected. Genetic profile: consistent with resin-infected rodentia. Subspecies: squirrel-leporid hybrids. Probability of retaliatory swarm behavior: 94 percent. Causal factor: your prior extermination of a Riverbend specimen.

  “You’re telling me this is payback? For one of those things?”

  CelestOS: Affirmative. Records indicate you dispatched a juvenile host. Correction: you butchered it violently.

  Ethan’s jaw clenched. He remembered the Riverbend kill…

  “Violently? What, you wanted me to give it a hug? It was trying to eat my face, Cel.”

  CelestOS: Clarification. Data suggests it was attempting to immobilize you via mandibular insertion.

  He barked a laugh, breath ragged as he swerved the hauler. “That’s a polite way of saying bite my head off.”

  CelestOS: Affirmative. Fatality probability: eighty-nine percent.

  “Then maybe don’t make it sound like I’m the villain here.”

  CelestOS: Observation: you terminated a juvenile organism. Resultant swarm behavior indicates parental-level reprisal. In corporate parlance, this would be classified as “negative stakeholder engagement.”

  A resin-squirrel slammed against the windshield, its spiral mouth slapping the cracked glass. Ethan rammed the axe through it and kicked the carcass back into the swarm. “Engage this!”

  CelestOS: Noted. Your satisfaction score with today’s engagement remains pending.

  Another hit rattled the frame. Ethan’s knuckles whitened on the controls as the hauler lurched through gore-slick grass. “You want a score? Try negative infinity. You’re lucky I don’t pull your core and turn you into a paperweight.”

  CelestOS: Warning: tampering with Celestitech property violates Directive 7.3. Penalty: termination of employment, retroactive.

  Ethan spat resin grit off his tongue. “Newsflash, Cel. I’m already terminated. Now stop fucking around, and target these things.”

  CelestOS: Correction. You remain under contract until expiration. Estimated time remaining: variable.

  The absurdity nearly made him laugh. Another body landed on the hood, vines flailing across the plating, and he slammed it off with the side rail, the crunch echoing through the cab. “You and your fine print,” he muttered. “I swear, if I make it out of this, I’m finding the guy who wrote your scripts and I’m choking him with them.”

  CelestOS: Our copywriting department was dissolved after a series of unfortunate asphyxiation incidents. One should never pull a Mr. Mi—

  “Figures,” Ethan snarled, cutting her off as Fang opened fire again.

  There was no more time to argue. The first wave hit the clearing in a skittering mass of claws and vines. Fang roared, the barrel spinning up in a banshee whine before spitting a storm of rounds into the pack. Bodies burst apart in sprays of black ichor, resin blood misting the air. For every creature shredded, three more bounded over the corpses.

  Ethan slammed into the hauler’s cockpit and threw it into gear. The patched treads screeched, dragging the trash truck forward in a jerky lurch. Fang tracked the swarm, belching fire in wide arcs, cutting furrows through the charging horde.

  The monsters were fast, too fast. One vaulted clear over the wreckage of its kin, landing on the hauler’s side rail. It scrabbled for purchase, spiral mouth gnashing, vines lashing at Ethan’s arm through the cracked visor. He swung the axe one-handed, burying it in the thing’s chest. It shrieked and toppled backward into the churn of treads, vanishing in a spray of pulp.

  The hauler shook again as more landed, claws raking across plating, vines hooking into seams. Ethan grit his teeth and swerved, ramming the vehicle broadside into a cluster at the edge of the clearing. Bones crunched. Fang stitched fire into the survivors, cutting them down before they could recover.

  His arms burned, lungs heaving as he hacked at whatever got too close. The stench of resin ichor clogged the air, bitter and acrid, coating his tongue. The ground had become a carpet of twitching bodies, the swarm collapsing under its own frenzy. Then came silence.

  Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

  For a long moment Ethan just sat there, panting, hands braced on the console. The only sound was the ticking of hot metal and the faint hiss of Fang’s cooling barrel. His pulse hammered, but beneath the ragged breath and the sting of sweat, something else hummed. Contentment.

  He blinked, trying to remember when the shift had happened. A week or so ago he’d landed. Been ambushed He’d stumbled through that fight in sheer panic, lungs screaming, every swing of the makeshift club a prayer he wouldn’t miss. But now, a wall of teeth and claws had come for him, and he’d cut it down without a sweat .

  CelestOS: Local threat cluster reduced by eighteen percent. Congratulations. However, population estimates suggest continued incursions in staggered intervals. Please pace yourself.

  Ethan spat resin grit from his mouth, shoulders sagging. “Pace myself. Sure. Like I’ve got the luxury.”

  The clearing stank of burnt fur and ichor, the corpses still steaming in the night air. Fang hummed on its mount, red eye sweeping the shadows as if daring the forest to send more.

  A shaky laugh worked its way out of his chest. He did not feel invincible, not close, but he was no longer helpless either. Maybe the forge, the drills, the scavenging, the endless grind, had actually added up to something more than piles of ore and scars.

  Fang’s lens swiveled lazily, its dull glow sweeping the treeline like a bored sentinel. Ethan patted the rail, almost affectionately. “Guess we make a decent team after all.”

  CelestOS: User confidence has increased by twenty-four percent. Warning: elevated confidence may result in reckless behavior.

  Ethan smirked, rubbing resin grit from his cheek, grateful none had gotten near. “Yeah, well… better reckless than dead.”

  The clearing was quiet again, the silence broken only by the faint whine of cooling servos. Fang’s lens dimmed from combat red to an idle ember, perched on the hauler bed like a watchdog that hadn’t broken a sweat. The hauler itself sat steady, engine coughing once before settling into a low hum. Neither machine bore more than scorch-marks of use.

  Ethan wished he could say the same.

  He peeled at the chest strap of his suit where resin ichor had eaten through the outer layer, revealing patches of bleach-white fabric from the last decon burn. One arm guard hung loose, its buckle warped. His ribs throbbed under cracked padding, and every step made his boots pinch where the seams had split. He tugged the strap hard, but it only pulled farther apart. With a curse, he let it dangle.

  “Alright, Cel,” he rasped, leaning against the hauler rail. “Enough lies, enough patches. Show me what I actually need to stop bleeding through this thing. I want the full list.”

  A cheerful chime answered. Holographic light unfurled above the console, neat and corporate-perfect despite the stink of resin blood all around.

  [REQUIRED COMPONENTS: CMS + Skill Module Tier 2]

  Copper Wire: 30x

  Iron Ingots: 10x

  Sensor Component: 4x

  Power Cell: 2x

  Stabilizer Brackets: 4x

  Gold Filament: 6x

  Cotton Fibers: 25x

  Celestitech Proprietary Chip (Tier 2): 1x

  The list glowed steady, each item bracketed by a faint progress bar. Ethan’s gaze snagged on the last line.

  “…What the hell is a Proprietary Chip?”

  CelestOS: Celestitech Proprietary Integration Chip, Tier 2. Fabrication access: restricted. Production method: this unit does not contain the recipe.

  His stomach sank. “So I can’t make it.”

  CelestOS: Affirmative. Field acquisition method: retrieval from pre-deployed Expeditionary caches. Probability of nearby cache: forty-seven percent.

  He didn’t even hesitate before he knew where he needed to head. Maria. The word didn’t need to be said. Her trail of beacons. Everything she left at the t cave. She had carried what he needed.

  Ethan rubbed the back of his neck, smearing soot across already beyond recognizable fabric. He’d known the caches mattered, but now they were the only path forward.

  CelestOS: Advisory. Reframe objective as asset recovery, not emotional pursuit.

  His head snapped up, eyes narrowing. “Don’t you dare call her an asset.”

  The AI chirped lightly, undisturbed. Ethan clenched his fists until his knuckles ached, then let out a ragged breath.

  “Fine. If that’s the game, then I’ll play it. But don’t pretend this is just inventory, Cel. I’m not letting the suit or herslip away.”

  Ethan knew he had no choice but to chase them.

  Ethan dragged himself back to the forge, boots crunching through resin grit. The air inside was hot and stale, copper coils clicking as they cooled, the faint reek of ash and burnt insulation clinging to every surface. Bins brimmed with ore and ingots, stacked in neat little mountains that should have felt like wealth. Instead, they just looked like junk he couldn’t use.

  He slammed his palm on the console. “Run the numbers. Everything I’ve got, everything I’m short. No more surprises.”

  CelestOS chimed obediently, and green holographic bars unfolded above the forge in crisp, clinical order.

  Inventory vs Requirements

  Copper Wire: 55/30

  Iron Ingots: 360/10

  Sensor Components: 30/4

  Power Cells: 201/2

  Stabilizer Brackets: 0/4

  Gold Filament: 0/6

  Cotton Fibers: 0/25

  Proprietary Chip: 0/1

  The progress bars glowed unevenly, some nearly full, most pathetically empty.

  Ethan barked a humorless laugh. “Iron I could drown in. Everything else? I might as well be naked.”

  CelestOS: Correction. You have achieved fifty-two percent of necessary prerequisites. Failure remains incomplete.

  He rubbed at his eyes with the heel of his hand. “That’s supposed to be encouraging?”

  CelestOS: Affirmative. Statistically, partial failure is preferable to absolute failure.

  He wanted to put his fist through the projection, but the ache in his arms reminded him he didn’t have the energy. Instead, he stared at the ore bins stacked against the wall. Silver from the ridge. Gold piled by the cave drill. Neither doing a damn thing here.

  “None of it matters until I hook it back up,” he muttered. “It’s just sitting out there, rotting. I’ve got to link the lines, drag it all in, or I’ll be chasing parts until I drop.”

  CelestOS: Affirmative. Current operational efficiency reduced by eighty-one percent due to unlinked nodes. Recommendation: establish conveyor linkage or equivalent transport protocol.

  He slammed the console with his fist hard enough to make the hologram flicker. “Then that’s the plan. Ore first. Link everything back. Without that, nothing else moves.”

  A new ping echoed through the chamber, and a waypoint marker blinked to life on his wrist display. Southeast. Unknown terrain, lit in pink.

  CelestOS: Clarification. Ore is insufficient. Required textiles: PolybioFiber. Source: Veslayan Cottonwood Grove. Environmental volatility: high. Opportunity rating: gold-tier.

  Ethan glared at the blinking marker, jaw tightening. “Yeah yeah, I’ll get to it. Ore, cotton, a chip I can’t make. Always something.”

  CelestOS: Correct. Without textiles, probability of catastrophic organ exposure remains at seventy-one percent.