Chapter 10 Buried Strength
We moved through the ruins in silence. The earth remembered. The buildings—less so. Structures leaned at odd angles, gnawed by rust, wind, and time. The bones of Newton bore the weight of a thousand years of decay. New scars layered over older ones. You could trace the desperation in the architecture—the haphazard expansions from before the Fall, built not for beauty but necessity.
Ahead, through the mist and twisted wreckage, a larger silhouette loomed—massive, cracked, defiant: the medical campus. I slowed, heart tightening. Parts of it were familiar. The older wings—the squat emergency centers, the heavy stone corridors—had the footprint I remembered from my time. But above them? Newer skeletons. Taller towers grafted onto old spines. Expansions from a desperate world that hadn't known it was dying yet.
It felt like looking at an old friend, half-swallowed by a stranger's armor. Hospitals didn't rebuild. They survived. They layered new wings atop old ones, devouring land and sky and stone because patients never stopped coming. Because life didn't wait for perfect blueprints. But after the Fall—after the Faro Plague—no new construction came. Only rot. Only silence.
Sula stepped beside me, tension radiating off her in quiet waves. "Stronger bones than the others," she murmured.
I nodded slowly. "Hospitals were built to endure. Even the Collapse didn't tear them down. Only time could."
I dragged my eyes up the broken shell of Newton Medical. It was still standing. But only because it hadn't figured out how to fall. Sula stared at the twisted bulk of Newton Medical, the way newer wings devoured old stone. Her brow furrowed.
"Why does it look like they just kept stacking more on top?" she asked.
I shook my head. "Couldn't afford to tear it down and make a new one, people still needed healing, so they added on. But Not always. Sometimes they build around the old buildings."
She glanced at me, wary but curious.
"There was a place back in my world," I said. "Bellevue Hospital. One of the oldest. They built new towers, glass wings… but inside, through the windows, you could still see the original stone building. Hundred years older than the skin wrapped around it."
She blinked. "They trapped the old one inside?"
I smiled faintly. "They honored it. Built around it. Kept it breathing, even when it didn't fit anymore."
Sula's gaze lingered on Newton's shattered silhouette, mist curling around its ruined spires. "Sounds like what your father did," she said softly.
I stiffened for half a second. Then nodded. "You said he kept the basement," she added. "Built the new world over it."
"Yeah," I said, voice low. "Wasn't much left by then. Just the old cellar. Stone walls. Iron pipes. The kind of foundation you laid before anyone had machines to do it for you."
I exhaled, thumb brushing instinctively against the leather of my glove. "One of the old stones cracked once. I was helping patch a leak after a bad storm. Thought it was just a regular break."
I paused, the memory surfacing like a ripple under ice. "But inside the crack—there were fossils. Tiny ones. Trilobites."
Sula's head tilted slightly.
"Old creatures," I said. "Lived in the oceans long before people ever walked. Before there were birds. Before there were trees."
I smiled faintly at the old memory. "The rock had held them for hundreds of millions of years. And we built our lives on it without even knowing."
Sula was silent for a long moment, eyes distant. Then she said, "The bones under the bones."
"Yeah," I said quietly. "The world remembers deeper than we do."
She looked back at Newton Medical—at the wreckage, the layers, the stubborn scars. And somehow, it didn't look like just a ruin anymore. It looked like a grave. And a seed.
The mist thickened as we crossed the cracked threshold of the campus grounds. Asphalt gave way to broken blacktop and the skeletal remains of cars, their frames half-swallowed by roots and rust. Weeds pressed through shattered windows. Vines wrapped steering wheels and door handles like nature claiming its prize.
Sula shifted closer, one hand resting near her axe, her posture tense but not panicked.
Then I heard it.
A low, metallic voice—garbled, rusted, tired.
"CITATION. NOTICE. VEHICLE REGISTRATION... EXPIRED... THREE HUNDRED SIXTY-FOUR THOUSAND SEVEN HUNDRED NINETY-THREE DAYS PAST TOLERABLE STANDARDS."
I froze.
Ahead, a Protectron shambled between the dead vehicles, its shell eaten by centuries of rain and wind. One optic flickered erratically, its frame jerking with every uneven step.
"FINES ACCRUED. IMPOUND AUTHORITY ENGAGED. PLEASE REMAIN WHERE YOU ARE FOR PROCESSING."
Sula's eyes narrowed. She watched it with the kind of wary sadness you reserve for wounded beasts.
"What is it doing?" she asked quietly.
I sighed. "Old world law enforcement. Parking violations." I heard the whirring of a printer trying to make a ticket with no paper and shook my head. "It's trying to fine abandoned cars."
She frowned deeper, studying the machine's broken movements—the way it limped in endless circles, babbling laws to empty air. Then, almost under her breath, she said, "Poor thing."
I glanced at her.
She didn't take her eyes off the Protectron.
"In our beliefs," she said softly, "when a spirit forgets who it was—when it clings to the world out of duty or sorrow—it becomes trapped. Twisted. Like this." She nodded toward the broken machine. "They are not alive. But they are not free, either."
I swallowed, the weight of her words cutting through the fog.
"We believe such spirits should be released," she said. "Freed from their torment."
I looked back at the Protectron.
"ESCALATED RESPONSE... ESCALATED... ESCALATED..."
It twitched, spasmed, righted itself—and kept pacing. Not hunting. Not guarding. Just remembering something that no longer mattered.
I exhaled through my nose, steady.
Drawing Terra's Gift crossed my mind—but no. Ammo was precious. And this wasn't a fight. It was an ending.
Instead, I drew my machete, its edge catching a ghost of light in the mist. I approached slowly, boots silent against broken concrete.
The Protectron didn't react. It was lost somewhere far away, writing fines for a world that didn't exist anymore.
One clean movement.
I stepped close and drove the machete up under the junction where its head met its frame.
A spark. A jolt.
The Protectron twitched once—then sagged—and collapsed into the wet earth with a hollow clatter.
Dead.
Free.
I wiped the blade on my pants leg without ceremony and slid it back into its sheath.
Sula murmured something—a prayer, or maybe just a breath meant for the spirit.
I bowed my head for a moment. Not because I believed the machine had a soul—it was too simple for me to believe that—but for what it meant. It was a reminder that the world had died, and when it was time to bring life back into it, things were just left to rot because Ted Faro didn't want to be judged as the idiot he was.
We hadn't even made it to the hospital steps before the first one rolled out of the mist. A battered Protectron, olive-drab casing cracked but intact, its optic flickering between green and red. Its lower half wasn't legs—it was a built-in rotary mower assembly, blades spinning with a low, menacing hum.
The sight of it twisted something in my gut. I knew these things. Greenthumbs. One of the first machines I ever fought after waking up in this broken world. Back then, I barely understood what I was seeing—just a rusted hulk trying to split me open for stepping on grass that no longer cared. Now? Now I understood too well. Their minds had rotted down to a single command: protect the grounds, protect the grass, destroy anything that didn't belong.
The Greenthumb's voice buzzed out, crackling and warped:
"CITIZEN. PLEASE REMAIN. ON. THE. SIDEWALK. TRESPASSING ON GRASS IS PROHIBITED."
Sula stiffened beside me, hand tightening on her axe. I glanced down. The ground was all grass—trimmed, perfect, eerily untouched by time. No sidewalk remained. Just vague impressions where it used to be. But the Greenthumb didn't see that. It only saw a trespasser.
Another rolled out of the mist behind it, buzzsaw whining weakly, and then a third—spraying a line of acid across a patch of moss with almost loving precision. The old fear was gone. Only grim irritation remained.
"FINAL WARNING. RETURN TO THE SIDEWALK. OR BE STERILIZED."
Sula gave me a flat look.
"There's no sidewalk," she said dryly.
"Nope," I muttered. "And they don't care."
The Lawnmaster's rotary mower spun faster, the whine rising like a dirge. I dropped into a half-crouch, drawing my bow in a fluid motion. Sula shifted into a low stance, bow already sliding free across her back—mirroring me without needing a word.
Unlike a rabbit, these things weren't going to dart away. They were big. Heavy. Predictable. Perfect targets.
I nocked a hardened arrow—one of the steel-tipped ones we'd crafted after Wichita—and aimed center mass. The lead Greenthumb, the one barking sidewalk orders, stomped closer, buzzsaw arm twitching. I exhaled—slow, steady—and loosed.
The arrow slammed into the machine's torso with a metallic thunk, punching deep into a seam between armor plates. At the same moment, Sula moved. Smooth. Surgical. Her first arrow flew—striking lower, right at the mower's rotary mount. A sharp ping of metal-on-metal rang out as her shot embedded just beneath the spinning housing. The Lawnmaster shuddered violently, its blades juddering to a halt. Crippled, but not finished.
Its optic flickered, then flared full red.
"VIOLENCE DETECTED. INITIATING. GROUND PURGE PROTOCOL."
The Lawnmaster variant screamed—a horrific metallic shriek—and lurched forward, mower-blades spinning up to lethal speed, breaking the arrow in its maw.
Another Greenthumb lurched into the mist behind them, buzzsaw sputtering. Sula didn't wait. She fired again—this time aiming for the optic cluster. The arrow shattered the cracked dome, blinding the machine on one side. It staggered sideways blindly, spraying acid in a wild, hissing arc.
"Take the legs!" I shouted.
Without hesitation, Sula slung her bow and drew her axe in one swift motion. I dropped another Greenthumb with a third arrow, catching it in the actuator seam at the hip. It buckled and collapsed in a heap of sparking metal.
Then the distance closed. One of the Lawnmaster variants surged at us, engine whining, spinning half-frozen blades like a battering ram. Sula was already moving—pivoting low, axe sweeping through the rotary mounts. Sparks and shredded steel erupted. The bot slammed face-first into the earth, twitching.
I kicked off a broken lamp post, using the momentum to drive a final arrow through another Greenthumb's neck seals. Metal tore. Sparks spat. The machine collapsed.
A gap opened between the closing bots and the hospital doors beyond.
We could have run. But instinct—and hard-won experience—screamed against it. You don't leave enemies at your back. Especially when you don't know what hell waits inside.
Sula saw it too. One sharp glance exchanged between us. No words. We stayed.
The crippled Greenthumbs lurched toward us, dragging broken limbs, leaking acid across the trimmed grass they had sworn to protect. I dropped low, drawing another arrow—aiming for the coolant lines exposed along a damaged bot's inner thigh assembly.
Release.
The shaft punched through. Superheated fluid burst from the rupture, spraying in a short, sharp jet. The machine staggered, locking up mid-step before crashing face-first into the ground with a heavy, final thud.
Sula was already moving—her bow flicking up, another arrow snapping into the optic cluster of a second bot. It spasmed, spinning in a mindless, broken circle, acid venting uselessly into the air. She closed the distance without hesitation, swinging her axe in a tight, brutal arc. The blade caught the neck seam, bit deep. The head tore free with a shriek of grinding metal and cables.
One. Two. Three.
Systematically, we tore through them. Protectron limbs cracked under heavy strikes. Optics shattered under precise shots. Joints gave out as arrowheads found their marks.
The Lawnmaster variant made one final, pitiful attempt to spin up its broken mower blades—but I moved in fast, plunging a reinforced arrow through its central power housing. The machine let out a distorted whine—then went still.
Silence fell across the hospital lawn. Only the mist moved now, curling lazy fingers over the perfect, bloodless grass.
Sula exhaled, slow and steady, lowering her axe.
I scanned the field, bow still half-drawn—watching for any last twitch, any last threat.
Nothing.
The Greenthumbs were dead.
Truly dead this time.
We stood there a moment longer—two living figures among the rusted ghosts.
Sula finally spoke, voice low.
"Clear."
I nodded.
Only then—only when we were sure—did we turn our eyes back to the hospital doors. The real danger still waited inside. But at least now, the ground behind us wouldn't betray us if we needed to run.
The Greenthumbs lay on their manicured earth, sparks dying in the mist.
I straightened, breathing hard, pulse slowing — just barely.
And then—
A soft, firm pulse rolled through my Focus.
A familiar, silent message.
[LEVEL UP: 12 Skill Points Earned]
[Perk Available: Choose 1]
The feeling hit like a quiet click inside my bones.
Not luck. Not some miracle.
Growth.
Work.
Cost paid in blood and scars.
The Focus flickered options into view — subtle, waiting, mine to claim.
Skill Points Available: 13
[Survival] — Better scavenging, faster healing from natural sources, increased stamina efficiency.
[Guns] — Sharper aim with bows, faster firing speed, bonus damage at mid-range.
[Melee] — Improved axe and close-combat efficiency, increased stagger chance.
[Sneak] — Quieter movement, better use of cover, harder to detect.
[Medicine] — Stronger first aid, faster stim/makeshift healing use, bonus to stabilizing others.
[Repair] — Field-patching weapons and gear, improve durability of scavenged tech.
[Speech] — Easier to intimidate, negotiate, or rally allies.
And something more:
Perk Available:
[Battle-Hardened: 5% resistance to all damage for 10 seconds after killing an enemy.
[Keen Eye: Hidden caches and loot are more likely to be detected with Focus scanning.
[Rapid Retrieval: Reload speed with bows and crossbows increased by 20%.
I moved through the settling mist, bow still half-drawn, scanning the ruins for any sign of movement.
Seeing no incoming threats I allocated my level up
Skill Points Allocated:
10 Medicine —
Field triage knowledge flooded sharper into my mind — techniques, terminology, what to trust and what to burn.
I could already feel it:
Reading medical signs faster, recognizing sealed stasis pods, knowing how to spot a stable system versus one waiting to fail.
It wasn't just bandages and bone setting anymore.
It was understanding the machines that once healed humanity.
3 Survival —
(Residual points left over — instinct honed a little tighter: breathing quieter, moving smarter.)
Perk Chosen: [Keen Eye]
The world itself shifted.
No, not shifted — sharpened.
Details sprang into view where before there had been only ruin:
The Focus synced to it, highlighting micro-anomalies. Things that could be looted, that contained something, whether or not it was useful didn't matter, I wouldn't need to waste time looking through empty bins
The mist clung to us as we crossed the broken threshold —
but inside the hospital, it faded.
The heavy doors had shielded the interior from the open air for centuries.
Here, the atmosphere was still — thick with moisture, rot, and a metallic tang that clung to the back of the throat.
The light dimmed to a murky twilight.
The trimmed grass gave way to cracked tile, slick with condensation and patches of moss.
The walls sweated moisture.
Ceiling panels sagged under the weight of soaked the breathless stillness of a place abandoned too long.
Sula shifted her grip on her bow, nostrils flaring slightly as she adjusted to the change.
Silent. Watchful.
I scanned the lobby — collapsed reception desks, shattered gurneys, overturned IV stands tangled in vines and rust. Signs still clung crookedly to the walls:
NEWTON MEDICAL CENTER — COMPREHENSIVE CARE FOR A CHANGING WORLD
EMERGENCY TRIAGE
ROOFTOP EVACUATION
Their promises had outlived the world they were written for.
Farther ahead, under the sagging remnants of emergency lighting, something hunched among the debris. A figure. Still. Too still.
The ruined hospital air pressed down around us — no mist, no breeze. Just the slow, heavy smell of mold and the taste of old sorrow on every breath. We watched it. It watched us. Or waited.
It floated a few feet above the ground, its spherical body battered but still recognizable. Three long, multi-jointed arms hung from its underside — one ending in a broken surgical manipulator, another in a long, flickering diagnostic scanner. The third was simply an empty clamp, twitching in slow, unconscious spasms.
A Mister Orderly. Hospital model. Designed to heal. To help.
It turned slowly as we approached, its optical lenses flickering — not hostile. But not quite right either. Its voice warbled out, soft and cracked like a record worn thin:
"Ah, greetings, most esteemed patients. You appear... slightly disheveled. Might I recommend immediate hydration and modest sedation? Purely as a precaution, you understand."
It drifted closer with an unsettling grace, cables dragging lightly across the floor. Sula tensed, half-raising her bow but not drawing.
The Mister Orderly continued, voice gentle and impeccably polite:
"Please, do remain calm. Elevated cortisol levels are most unbecoming. A simple intravenous intervention will have you feeling your very best in no time."
A small, rust-stained hypodermic needle extended from one manipulator — trembling slightly with age. I raised a hand slowly.
"Negative. No treatment required."
It drifted closer — the needle arm trembling with what might have once been mechanical precision, now jittery and half-rotted. I caught a better glimpse of it up close. The hypodermic wasn't clean. It was stained brown with corrosion, fine cracks running up the shaft. Bits of organic matter — old blood? — clung to the seals. Death, not healing.
I stiffened, hand lifting instinctively.
"No," I said firmly. "We're fine. Decline treatment."
The Orderly paused. Its optics whirred. It even seemed to stutter back slightly, as if trying to process the command. For a moment, I thought it would listen.
Then:
"Patient noncompliance detected. Sedation protocol escalation authorized."
The needle lunged forward — fast. Too fast. Sula spun aside instinctively, the tip missing her by inches. I backpedaled, hand already flying to my weapon.
The Mister Orderly's voice remained impeccably polite, almost cheerful:
"Fear not, good patients! A minor discomfort, followed by blissful recuperation!"
Another arm extended — the cracked surgical manipulator snapping open like a steel claw. Sula bared her teeth in a silent snarl, bow dropping and axe sliding into her hand with a rasp of metal on leather. I drew Terra's Gift in a single smooth motion, the revolver heavy and solid in my palm.
The Orderly surged forward again, still speaking in that damnably calm voice:
"Now, now, none of that unpleasant resistance, please! Health is my highest priority!"
The Mister Orderly lunged — and I snapped Terra's Gift up, lining the shot without thinking. One squeeze of the trigger.
The revolver barked. The round punched clean into the thruster assembly under its battered frame. The Mister Orderly spasmed, optics flickering wildly.
"Oh, dear—system stability compromised—"
It wobbled, then crashed onto the cracked tiles with a shriek of tearing metal, steam venting from shattered joints. It twitched violently, dragging itself forward with one broken arm, the rusted hypodermic needle still trembling toward us.
"No need to panic, honored patients... minor adjustments in mobility... kindly remain still for intravenous treatment..."
It wasn't dead. Not yet. It clawed toward us across the ruined floor, optics stuttering between green and red, a broken hymn of service still spilling from its speakers.
Sula moved without hesitation. One smooth motion. Her bow came up — an arrow nocked, drawn, released all in the space of a breath. The steel-tipped shaft flew straight. It struck the Mister Orderly dead center, sinking into the exposed seam just below its primary lens.
There was a short, sharp crack of sparking metal. The Orderly jerked once, then sagged heavily to the floor, finally still. Its voice faltered, stuttering into silence:
"H-healing... p-protocol... end..."
The last light guttered from its cracked optical lens. Gone.
Sula lowered her bow calmly, exhaling through her nose.
The Orderly's frame twitched once more, then sagged completely, a final wheeze of steam hissing from its thruster vents. The silence that followed was thick.
I approached carefully, Terra's Gift still drawn.
Nothing.
Dead for good.
Sula stood watch, arrow half-nocked, while I crouched by the broken shell. Up close, the damage was worse than it had looked — corroded manipulators, joints clogged with rust, servos seized into twisted lumps of iron.
But not everything was useless.
I crouched low, prying at its battered casing. The delivery systems were wrecked — rusted, clogged, broken. But tucked deeper, behind armored panels, the Focus picked up faint signatures.
I forced the access hatch open. Three narrow ampoules. Two sealed injector units. A faded trauma satchel, stitched with the Newton Medical insignia.
I scanned them fast — my upgraded Medicine routines snapping assessments across my vision.
Sterile. Viable.
Not what we needed. But precious nonetheless.
I packed them quickly into my satchel. Then I shifted my machete in hand and went to work.
The Mister Orderly's frame wasn't just rust and rot. Beneath the weathered plating, it still housed usable alloy panels, brackets, and strut braces — the kind of dense, high-carbon metal that could be melted down, reforged, or simply cut into arrowheads.
I jammed the blade into a seam and leveraged a panel free with a shriek of tearing steel. Three pieces, fist-sized each. Good weight. Good metal.
Shards — in raw form.
Currency. Craft material. Ammunition.
I packed them carefully into my side pouch, feeling the comforting extra heft.
Nothing wasted. Not in this world.
Sula watched silently, her sharp eyes catching every movement.
"Anything useful?" she asked once I straightened.
I nodded once.
"A little metal. Medicine. Not what we need for Jorta though."
Her lips quirked into a faint, grim smile. "Could save a life. Or make the shot that does."
"Either way," I said, sliding Terra's Gift back into its holster, "we'll need it."
I gave the broken Orderly one last look. Once a healer. Now nothing but another cracked vein in the corpse of the old world.
Then it was loot time.
We didn't rush.
Rushing got you killed.
Instead, we moved room by room —
clearing each space with methodical, merciless efficiency.
Most of the hospital lobby had collapsed into rot —
cracked tiles, sagging walls, mold devouring every corner.
But among the ruins, the Focus highlighted faint anomalies —
subtle glimmers where metal glinted under dust, where plastic cracked instead of crumbling.
Salvage.
Life hidden under ruin.
Sula kept watch, bow half-raised, while I worked.
We tore through old reception desks —
ripping open drawers, kicking aside decayed paperwork.
Found:
Three usable medical clamps — strong alloy, worth good Shards.
A handful of faded employee badges — the backings still metal, easily meltable.
A bundle of sealed wiring looms — corroded, but with copper cores intact.
Anything small.
Anything sturdy.
Anything that could be melted down, sold, or shaped.
We checked shattered vending machines —
found two untouched water purification canisters, the kind the old world used to keep beverages "safe."
Still good. Still sealed.
Rion's Focus pinged a hidden pocket behind a broken display:
Two emergency ration bars.
(Expired centuries ago — but wrapped in carbon polymer — technically edible. Technically.)
Sula smirked when I tossed them into the bag.
"That desperate already?"
"Not yet," I said. "But we might find someone who is."
No laughter followed.
Only agreement.
We picked through every abandoned room, every overturned stretcher, every ruined supply closet.
Found:
Spare medical scissors — dulled, but still sharp enough to gut wire casings or trim leather.
A cracked but intact datapad — worthless for information, but the inner casing was high-grade ceramic weave.
A ring of old janitorial keys — solid steel, could be reshaped into arrowheads or small tools.
Shard by shard, piece by piece, the bags on our hips grew heavier.
Not rich.
Not yet.
But enough to matter.
Enough to make sure the dead world hadn't wasted everything after all.
Room by room —
salvaging what we could touch, and what we could only read.
Sula kept watch with her bow half-raised as I moved through the ruins, my Focus humming low at my temple.
Every time we tore open a collapsed desk or kicked aside a fallen locker, I scanned the wreckage —
pulling faint scraps of data from battered datapads, fractured terminals, old medical monitors that still whispered static into the stale air.
Most of it was junk —
patient files, rot schedules, scraps of cafeteria inventory.
But now and then, something important flickered through the noise:
Partial building schematics.
Emergency access codes.
Security lockdown records.
Admin notes about maintenance cycles.
Nothing I could read fully yet.
Not here.
Not now.
But I tagged and stored every scrap in the Focus's quarantine memory —
to decrypt later when we weren't standing in a grave.
Sula watched me at one point, frowning slightly.
Not alarmed.
Just... curious.
She nodded toward the faint flicker of my Focus interface, the way data rippled invisibly across my vision.
"What are you doing?"
I didn't stop moving.
Didn't bother with a long explanation.
"The device on my head," I said, "can read things the Old Ones left behind. Their records. Their thoughts."
Sula's eyes narrowed slightly — processing that.
Not understanding the mechanics.
Just accepting the truth of it.
Good.
We didn't have time for more.
We gathered everything physical we could find too:
Three solid medical clamps — dense alloy, good for forging or sale.
A half-melted janitor's key ring — still solid steel.
Bundled copper wire torn from a collapsed ceiling strut.
An old trauma satchel half-filled with expired, carbon-sealed ration bars.
Pieces of sturdy vent grating — heavy, but good shard material if we needed to trade.
Shard by shard.
Byte by byte.
We robbed the dead world blind, and it didn't even notice.
Finally, we reached the inner lobby where the building split into wings:
CRITICAL CARE / TRAUMA
LONG-TERM PATIENT STORAGE / STASIS BAYS
We pressed deeper. The corridors narrowed, walls sagging under the weight of centuries. Ahead, the air grew colder—and thicker—like walking into the lungs of a dying beast.
Sula shifted closer without speaking, bow half-raised. I mirrored her, an arrow sliding into place across my string.
The first Orderly drifted into view just beyond a collapsed triage desk. It was worse than the last. Its frame was corroded down to the bones—metal arms twisted into clawed shapes, surgical lights flickering erratically from ruined optics. It turned toward us, voice warbling out, rich and polite:
"Greetings, honored patients. Vital signs erratic. Treatment required. Resistance is ill-advised."
Another hovered behind it—missing one arm entirely, dragging a trail of frayed cables through a puddle of stagnant water. And another. Three of them. Maybe more lurking deeper.
Sula shifted her stance—low, silent, steady. I felt the same instinct.
Distance. Disable. Then kill.
I drew, aiming for the base of the lead Orderly's thruster—the weak point where exposed copper coils and ceramic struts fed into the propulsion core. Sula fired a breath before I did. Her arrow slammed into the first Orderly's thruster casing with a sharp metallic crack. It dipped—sputtering wildly, slamming into a wall with a screech of tearing sheet metal.
I released a heartbeat later. My shot punched through the second Orderly's vent assembly, sparks geysering from the impact, sending it spiraling into the floor with a hollow crash.
The third Orderly surged forward—rusted needle arm extended like a spear.
"Do not resist. This will only worsen your condition. Allow sedation!"
Its thruster flared bright. Sula's second arrow buried deep into its intake valve, twisting it sideways mid-air. It spun out of control—smashing through a broken gurney and crashing to the tile.
All three flailed on the ground—arms scrabbling, broken voice-boxes still muttering polite, hollow reassurances.
We advanced carefully, bows drawn, placing arrows with methodical cruelty into key servos, optics, and weak seams.
Cripple. Disable. Move.
Cripple. Disable. Move.
By the time the last Orderly's optics flickered out, the hall was littered with twisted metal. Sula exhaled sharply, lowering her bow.
"Good shots," I said, voice low.
"Clean targets," she answered simply.
We stepped over the broken machines, their last words still clinging to the dead air:
"Healing... cannot... be refused..."
We didn't look back. There was no healing for this world. Only survival. And even that came by inches.
The corridor opened into a wide alcove—an old nurses' station, half-collapsed under sagging beams and blackened insulation. A cracked half-circle counter. Dead monitors. The smell of wet stone and old dust.
Sula posted up near the main door, bow half-raised. I moved behind the counter, Focus humming low against my temple. The first few scans pulled up little—rotted appointment logs, half-deleted patient charts.
I almost moved on. Almost.
But deeper in the archive, tucked under Emergency Inventory Files, a fragment surfaced:
FINAL SUPPLY CHECK — PRIORITY STOCK
DATE: October 14th, 2065
ACCESS: NURSE SUPERVISOR 'W. HOLLAND'
I flicked through the broken entries, Focus highlighting scraps of usable text.
Medical supplies.
Surgical tools.
Field trauma systems.
And then—
Item #4219-E — Neural and Muscular Regeneration Stimulator
Status: Relocated to SURGERY STORAGE, Sublevel 2A
Notes: High priority stabilization device. For battlefield-grade trauma intervention. To be secured pending power fluctuations.
A surgical stimulator—designed to reconnect severed nerves, accelerate muscle fiber repair, and kickstart atrophied systems.
I backed away from the nurses' station, heart hammering.
Sula caught the change in me immediately.
"Found something?"
I nodded.
"Old surgical tech. A stimulator. Designed to rebuild muscle and nerve pathways after critical injuries."
Her brow furrowed slightly, but her voice stayed level. She only understood the rebuild muscle part, but was bright enough to figure out nerve pathways mattered too.
"If it works..." she said.
I nodded.
"He fights again."
Sula glanced once down the broken hallways toward Sublevel 2A.
"We get it," she said.
The main hallway ahead was a dead end—collapsed under the weight of centuries. Steel beams and shattered concrete formed a jagged, impassable wall.
I cursed under my breath, pulling up the partial map I'd pulled from the nurses' station archive. It flickered against my Focus—cracked, incomplete, but usable. I traced a finger along the fractured schematic, looking for an alternate path toward Surgery Storage.
A faint thread appeared, looping around the wreckage. Through another wing.
I squinted, parsing the old world words burned into the blueprint.
"Pediatric Ward," I muttered.
Sula, standing guard at the edge of the collapsed rubble, turned her head sharply.
"Pediatric?" she repeated, testing the word carefully on her tongue.
I glanced over. She hadn't flinched when I mentioned trauma wards. Hadn't blinked when I talked about surgical wings. Those terms had meaning even now—pain, blood, knives, survival. But "Pediatric" meant nothing to her.
"Children," I said simply. "It was the part of the hospital for treating young ones. Before they were old enough to fight for themselves."
Her brows drew together for a second—a flicker of emotion there, quickly buried.
"young ones," she said quietly.
I nodded.
"young ones," I agreed.
No judgment. No mockery. Just fact. The Old World had carved out whole wings to shield its young—to heal them, protect them.
We slipped into the Pediatric Wing. The air shifted immediately.
The halls here were narrower—walls painted in the faded pastels of a forgotten world: soft blues, warm greens, colors meant to soothe frightened children. The floor tiles cracked under our boots. Once, they had been patterned with dancing animals—now little more than twisted shadows. Broken toys lay scattered among the debris—cracked plastic dinosaurs, a limp puppet missing half its face.
Sula said nothing. Neither did I. There were places even the rot didn't laugh.
As we moved deeper, past the collapsed intake counter, something caught the edge of my vision. A rectangle of stubborn color on the far wall, half-shielded behind a fallen steel support beam.
I shifted closer.
A poster. Still clinging after all these centuries.
The paper was yellowed, edges curling inward like a dying leaf—but the image survived.
Sekibayashi Jun stood in the center. Larger than life even here—broad shoulders, towering frame, a smile like a sunrise breaking through a storm. One massive hand rested on the shoulder of a young boy in a hospital gown—the boy beaming up at him, clinging to Jun's forearm like it was an anchor against the world. Jun's other arm was flexed theatrically—a little girl perched on his bicep, laughing so hard her tiny hands clutched her sides.
Above them, a cheerful title, faded but still legible:
A Champion's Heart: Sekibayashi Jun Visits Newton's Youngest Heroes!
At the bottom, smaller words, almost lost to time:
Strength isn't just surviving. Strength is giving it away—to someone who needs it more.
We stood for a moment longer, looking at the poster. Jun's massive frame, the tiny hands gripping his arm, the smiles too wide to fake. Sula's eyes stayed fixed on it—not blinking, not moving.
I found myself speaking quietly, not because I needed to, but because it felt right to explain it.
"A foundation called Make-A-Wish used to arrange things like this," I said, keeping my voice low. "When a child was sick—dying, sometimes—they'd make a request. Meet a hero. Live something they dreamed about."
I gestured lightly toward the image.
"He was probably here because one of them asked to see him."
Sula's mouth twitched—not a smile. Something harder. Something prouder.
"Then he answered," she said.
I thought we would leave it there—a memory, a ghost.
But Sula moved forward, slow and sure, bow shifting onto her back with a fluid motion. She stepped up to the wall where the poster hung—where Jun's smile still survived the ruin.
For a moment, she simply stood there—head bowed slightly, eyes sharp and unreadable. Then, carefully—so carefully I barely saw the movement—she reached up. Her fingers, calloused from bowstrings and battle grips, brushed the edges of the poster like it was sacred.
Gently, she peeled it free. The paper tore slightly at the top—centuries of glue fighting her—but she worked it loose with patient, reverent hands. Folded it once, precise and neat. Slipped it into a leather roll at her side—a place usually reserved for important maps or clan messages.
No words.
No speeches.
Just action.
Just meaning.
When she turned back toward me, there was a fire banked behind her blue eyes.
"The Kansani need to see this," she said simply.
I nodded—nothing more.
She didn't mean the muscles. She didn't mean the battle cries or the broken teeth scattered across ancient arenas.
She meant this.
The smile.
The strength given freely.
The kindness that required more courage than any fist ever did.
They needed to see that Jun had a Lonaki side, too.
And that embracing it wasn't weakness.
It was remembering what real strength looked like.
The hallway ahead ended abruptly, blocked by a massive collapse—concrete and twisted metal spilling into our path, piled high and impenetrable. Dust motes floated in the stagnant air, disturbed by our arrival, drifting lazily through beams of muted sunlight.
Sula moved forward cautiously, eyes scanning the blockage. She pressed her hand against a slab of rubble, testing its stability. "This way's done," she muttered. "We'll need another path."
I stepped beside her, squinting into the wreckage, then glanced upward. A faint sliver of darkness caught my eye—a cracked doorway, half-hidden behind a hanging beam and tangled cables.
"The elevator shaft," I said quietly, stepping closer. I lifted a hand, brushing aside rusted wires. The shaft yawned open, black and narrow, a vertical tunnel cutting upward through the ruin.
Sula followed my gaze upward, her brow knitting in faint disbelief. "You want to climb up through that?"
I nodded slowly. "If we get to the second floor, we can bypass this whole collapsed area. The surgical storage we need is accessible from there."
She didn't look convinced, studying the fractured walls and the twisted, skeletal remains of the elevator car, jammed sideways like a broken tooth halfway up.
"You think it's stable?" she asked warily.
"Stable enough," I replied, placing one hand experimentally on the edge of the shaft. The metal was cold and solid beneath my fingers, layered in rust but not crumbling. "We'll take it slow. If it held this long, it'll hold us."
Sula exhaled quietly, adjusting her grip on her bow before slinging it securely across her back. "Lead the way."
I stepped onto a jutting piece of rebar, testing its strength with my weight. It held firm. Carefully, I began to climb, hand over hand, choosing each foothold with meticulous caution. The shaft echoed softly around us, every creak of metal unnervingly loud in the enclosed darkness.
Sula followed close behind, her breath steady but sharp, matching me move for move. Bits of debris dislodged under our feet, spiraling down into darkness, landing below with muted clatters.
Halfway up, we reached the stuck elevator car. It tilted precariously, wedged firmly in place. Edging around it took agonizingly slow minutes of careful movement, gripping the rusted beams as though our lives depended on it—because they did.
Finally, we reached the second-floor opening. I pulled myself through first, turning to extend a hand. Sula grasped it firmly, pulling herself up beside me.
We paused a moment, catching our breath. Ahead stretched a long corridor, mostly intact, littered with debris but navigable.
Sula glanced back at the shaft, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. "Good call," she admitted grudgingly.
I nodded once, turning to face the darkness ahead. "We're getting closer."
Together, we stepped forward into the shadows of the second floor, leaving the shaft—and the wreckage—behind.
The second-floor corridor stretched ahead, darkened and quiet, its walls marred by cracks and water stains. Our footsteps were muffled by layers of dust and mildew, the air tasting stale as we moved deeper into the ruin.
A short distance in, Sula suddenly slowed, raising one hand in a silent signal. I stopped beside her, instinctively following her sharp gaze toward a dark heap sprawled across the floor ahead.
It was another Mister Orderly—its once-white casing now brutally cracked and distorted. Its arms were splayed outward at unnatural angles, optics shattered and frame battered. Something had attacked it—but not with blades or arrows.
No. This was different.
I knelt beside the ruined machine, brushing dust away to reveal the damage clearly. The metal was warped inward, each impact mark deep and defined.
"These are fist impressions," I murmured, pressing my fingertips into one of the indentations. "Someone punched it to death."
Sula leaned closer, examining the pattern. Her brow furrowed, clearly unsettled by the sheer force displayed. "Who could do that?"
I exhaled slowly, standing again. "Only someone—or something—with strength beyond normal limits."
A cold knot twisted in my gut. These weren't random blows. They were targeted. Precise. Designed to cripple, then kill.
She glanced toward the corridor ahead, tension radiating from her frame. "Do you think it's still here?"
I let the question hang in silence, my eyes scanning the darkened hallway. If something was strong enough to tear apart a Mister Orderly with bare fists, we needed to be cautious—especially since it had left no obvious tracks, no clues beyond its overwhelming power.
"I don't know," I finally answered, voice low. "But let's hope we don't meet it."
Without another word, we moved forward again, footsteps lighter, weapons drawn tight and ready, the battered machine left behind as an eerie warning—a sign that something stronger, and far more dangerous, might already be watching from the shadows.
We pressed deeper into the second-floor corridor, shadows thickening with every step. The air felt heavier here, charged with silent tension. Our footsteps echoed dully off cracked walls, distorted by the dampened decay surrounding us.
Then we found another.
A Mister Orderly lay broken across the threshold of an examination room, twisted almost beyond recognition. One mechanical arm had been ripped clean from its socket, wires frayed and sparking weakly. Its chassis was crushed inward, each dent another clean, powerful imprint of knuckles pressed deep into metal plating.
Sula stared at the wreckage, expression hardening, axe half-raised. "It wasn't just one," she murmured quietly.
I nodded, pulse quickening as my gaze swept further down the hall. There, only a few paces away, another Mister Orderly had been slammed into a wall, its central casing shattered open, scattered circuitry glittering like spilled entrails.
"This was methodical," I said grimly, kneeling briefly beside it. "These hits are targeted. Whoever—or whatever—did this knew exactly how to dismantle these machines. Weak points. Structural vulnerabilities."
Sula stepped carefully around another fallen Mister Orderly, its arm nearly twisted free. "And they're not stopping," she said, voice tight.
We moved silently, counting each broken Orderly as we passed. They littered the corridor, each one more violently dismantled than the last—arms torn away, thrusters shattered, frames bent and twisted by immense force. The floor beneath them glittered with shards of ceramic and twisted alloy, a battlefield where the opponent had fought bare-handed.
Sula glanced sidelong at me, her voice dropping to a wary whisper. "Is this another machine, Rion? Hell's Angel?"
I considered the damage again. Clean, focused blows, precise strikes delivered with overwhelming strength. Machine-like precision—but something was different.
Hell's Angel was based off Jun, he was a wrestler, these strikes are too precise to be made by something that follows that fighting style, if what Sula told me was right.
I shook my head slowly, kneeling again beside the ruined Mister Orderly. My fingers hovered just above the precise indentations, carefully tracing the shape of each strike without touching the warped metal. These hits weren't reckless or flashy—they were disciplined, targeted.
"No," I finally said, rising to meet Sula's questioning gaze. "Not Hell's Angel. This isn't wrestling, no deep dents like the brutal strikes like Jun would have made. Jun's wrestling was different from regular wrestling. His style was combat wrestling—built for real fights, not just spectacle. It was powerful, yes, but focused on overwhelming an opponent through endurance, pain tolerance, and devastating grappling techniques."
I shifted slightly, demonstrating Jun's wide, commanding stance briefly. Then I straightened, raising my fists in a tight, defensive posture, shoulders hunched, feet shifting in short, balanced steps. "But this is boxing," I explained quietly, throwing a few controlled punches into the empty air. "Fast, precise hits. Meant to disable quickly, targeting weak points."
Sula watched intently, absorbing the distinction. "So the person who did this—they weren't just strong. They fought with a completely different style."
"Exactly," I agreed. "And they're probably still here."
The silence that followed was thick, pressing down around us. The corridor felt narrower now, each shadow deeper, every damaged machine another silent warning of a skilled and dangerous presence still lurking within these ruins.
A sudden crash shattered the stillness, echoing sharply down the corridor and vibrating through the old, worn walls. Instantly, Sula's grip tightened around her axe, eyes snapping toward the sound. I drew Terra's Gift, the revolver's familiar weight settling comfortably in my palm.
A crisp, authoritative voice—smooth, refined, unmistakably British—carried clearly down the hall. "Attention! Unauthorized equipment detected upon hospital premises. Kindly remove said equipment at once. Director's approval is required for all items utilized within this facility."
Sula's eyebrow raised slightly. "That sounds... different."
I nodded, keeping my voice low. "It's not trying to treat anyone, it's like it's telling something that doesn't belong to leave."
Another metallic crash echoed, louder and heavier this time, accompanied by a harsh scraping sound of metal against tile. Again, the Orderly's voice carried clearly, unshaken by the violence:
"I must insist. Non-compliance is most unacceptable. Cease this activity immediately, or you shall force my hand."
A rapid series of footfalls followed—light, balanced, precise. Human.
I signaled quietly, gesturing for Sula to follow close behind. We crept silently down the corridor, pressing ourselves against the wall and peering cautiously around the bend.
Ahead, beneath flickering fluorescent lights, hovered a single Mister Orderly, pristine compared to the battered shells we'd encountered earlier. Its polished casing glowed softly, thrusters emitting a gentle hum. Facing it stood a figure just beyond clear view, obscured by shadow.
The Orderly straightened imperiously, mechanical limbs poised neatly at its sides, optics narrowing slightly. "Final warning, sir," it announced with impeccable clarity. "Vacate the premises , or I shall be compelled to take appropriate measures."
A sudden flurry of movement erupted—sharp, precise strikes ringing out, fists impacting metal with controlled, rhythmic violence. Boxing punches.
Sula glanced sharply at me, her expression shifting instantly. "Your boxer," she whispered tensely.
I nodded slowly, heart thumping steadily against my ribs. Whoever was standing against the Orderly wasn't just powerful—they moved with practiced skill, dismantling the machine like a boxer against a heavy bag.
Another series of blows echoed sharply, and the Mister Orderly staggered backward into clear view, its optics flickering as it attempted to stabilize itself.
Another sharp metallic crash erupted from around the corner, and suddenly the Mister Orderly was thrown violently backward, slamming against the corridor wall. Sparks cascaded from its fractured frame as its sophisticated, authoritative voice sputtered indignantly:
"This—this is exceedingly improper…unauthorized equipment shall be immediately—"
The Orderly's voice abruptly ceased, its optics dimming, the life draining from its battered frame.
Its attacker stepped into the faltering fluorescent lights, fully revealing itself.
My breath caught sharply.
A humanoid machine stood poised in the corridor, its form sleek and muscular, encased in segmented armor plating. Beneath the gray metallic shell ran tightly woven strands of vivid red synthetic musculature. Its fists were armored, fists encased in gauntlets resembling boxing gloves, knuckles darkly reinforced.
Recognition flared instantly in Sula's eyes. She tensed sharply, her grip tightening around her axe as she whispered urgently, "Rion, it's one of them. The metal men—from…Wich-i-ta." She spoke the unfamiliar name slowly, carefully, testing the word as if uncertain she'd pronounced it right.
I glanced at her, immediately remembering her earlier account—the humanoid machines she'd encountered in those distant ruins, how they'd copied warriors' movements, adapting, learning, growing more lethal with each encounter.
"You're sure?" I asked quietly.
She nodded once, sharply, eyes never leaving the machine. "Yes. Gray armor, red muscle fibers beneath. They fought like us. Copied us."
My pulse quickened sharply. I focused again on the machine's poised stance—tight, controlled, unmistakably precise. "Smaller and faster than the ones you described," I muttered softly.
Sula shook her head slightly, affirming my thoughts. "The ones I've seen are lanky, and the scouts who have seen Hell's Angel described it as way bigger. More powerful. More brutal."
I looked at the machine as it tilted its head and then took a stance and practice some jabs, "Bigger isn't always better."
As if answering our whispered words, the machine's head swiveled sharply toward us, its ocular lenses flaring fiercely orange. It shifted seamlessly into a perfect boxing stance, fists raised protectively, its posture radiating calm, lethal readiness.
A deep, mechanical hum reverberated from its core—a clear, silent challenge.
It had seen us, and now there was no going back.