Chapter 29 Project Bluelance
The silence afterward always felt heavier than the fight.
I moved through the ruin like a scavenger in a tomb—boots crunching over shattered concrete, broken rebar, and fragments of machine plating still twitching with dying charge. The Hammerrunners were scrap now. Ten of them, each brought down with effort, timing, and more than a little pain. But they were dead. I wasn't.
One by one, I walked their remains.
The skulls were the first thing I went for—hyper-dense impact domes like mechanical battering rams, scarred from years of smashing through whatever stood in their path. I knelt by one, wedged my machete under the seam, and pried until the cranial plate cracked loose. It hit the ground with a dull, bone-like thud. Heavy as hell.
"Gonna need a chiropractor and a back brace at this rate," I muttered, dragging it into my Nanoboy's inventory space. The storage system shimmered briefly before swallowing it whole.
The boosters came next—intact twin pods along their backs, built to slam the things forward like launched boulders. Most were dented. One or two had miraculously survived intact. I took those. Shock absorbers, stabilizers, and two clean power relays—those went in too. Not many machines could move that fast and still maintain their balance. That kind of tech didn't get left behind.
I stored everything except one set.
One skull dome. One booster rig. One matched stabilizer. I left it next to a battered stone outcrop near the Gatecrasher's twisted carcass.
A few feet away, Gildun was elbow-deep in the big bastard's exposed core, his entire upper body vanishing into the machine's midsection like a mechanic being swallowed by a metal whale. He grunted, yanked something free with a wet metallic clank, then popped his head up, face streaked with grime and triumph.
"Got the main coil coupling! Still warm!"
He paused when he saw me standing over the pile I hadn't stashed.
"What's that?" he asked, wiping coolant from his gloves.
"Yours," I said, jerking my chin toward the parts. "One clean skull plate, one booster pack, and a shock unit that's still got charge."
Gildun blinked. "Wait—what? You're giving me those?"
"You earned it."
His brow furrowed beneath the goggles. "But... you killed them. I mean, I helped, sure, but—Rion, this stuff's worth a fortune. You could get another weapon made."
I held up World-Cleaver, the haft still streaked with oil and impact grime.
"Already got mine," I said. "Don't need another. You? You might."
He looked at the pile like it was a holy relic.
I clapped him lightly on the shoulder. "If you ever find yourself in Kansani lands, head to the Pile. Ask for Ubba or Grosh. Tell them you're a friend of the Idiot Tourist."
Gildun blinked again. "The what now?"
"They'll know what it means," I said with a small grin. "And it means you'll get your Suncrusher made with the finest Ironbone craftsmanship we've got. Just make sure to swing it like you mean it."
He stood there in stunned silence.
I turned back toward the Gatecrasher's remains, but I could still hear him stammering behind me.
"You... you don't get it, do you?" he finally said. "A real Suncrusher—those hammers are legend back in the Claim. I'd walk into any tavern and the whole place would stop. Blacksmiths would beg to see it. Hell, it might even—" He paused, rubbing the back of his head. "It might even get me a wife."
I snorted. "Then don't waste your shot."
He didn't reply. But when I glanced back again, he was still staring at the parts like they might disappear if he blinked.
Good.
Let the Claim look at him with envy.
Let them see the kind of man he really was.
The trek back to Golden Plains was quiet, except for Gildun's ceaseless chatter. He'd hardly paused to breathe since we left the twisted remains of the Gatecrasher behind. But I found I didn't mind it as much as I'd expected. His enthusiasm was oddly infectious, and it beat the hollow silence I usually faced after finishing a delve alone.
"So, how do the Oseram usually handle these delves?" I asked, adjusting my grip on World-Cleaver. "I've only done these things solo."
Gildun's eyes lit up behind his goggles, like he'd been waiting all day for someone to ask.
"Oh, it's all about planning and precision—well, mostly," he said, chuckling. "First you pick your team. Usually, there's a lead delver, a forge-smith for immediate repairs, a scout for traps and ambushes, and a lifter to haul out salvage. And then there's me, the... eh... I suppose you'd call me the utility man."
I arched an eyebrow at that. "Utility man?"
"Oh yes," he nodded earnestly, "I've been the lock picker, the salvage sorter, the rope tester. Once, they even sent me first into a ruin to 'test the structural integrity' of the entrance. Pretty important job, actually."
My gut twisted a little. "They sent you in first? Alone?"
He laughed, oblivious. "Oh yeah, I'm perfect for it. Light on my feet. Plus, I don't mind squeezing through tight spaces. Some of the other fellows say I'm blessed by the anvil gods—no tunnel collapse yet!"
I shook my head quietly. The cheerful way he spoke, it never seemed to cross his mind that those "important" tasks might be anything but. He didn't see that his teammates had likely viewed him as expendable.
"So... you've always enjoyed it, then?" I asked cautiously, not quite sure how to broach the subject. "Your team never... gave you trouble?"
"Oh, you know how it is," he shrugged casually. "There's always good-natured ribbing among delvers. They'd joke about me tripping traps to 'keep me on my toes.' But it was all in good fun. They wouldn't let me handle the loot until they were sure it was safe. Said it was to protect me."
He smiled, sincere and utterly clueless. "They really looked out for me, you know?"
My jaw clenched. It was obvious they'd been using him as a living trap detector and pack mule, yet he remembered them fondly. Either he was more forgiving than anyone had a right to be—or he genuinely couldn't see it.
I exhaled slowly. "Sounds like you've had quite the career."
"Oh, definitely!" Gildun brightened even more, his posture straightening proudly. "But this one—this was different, Rion. Fighting alongside you, splitting loot... no jokes, no poking fun. Felt like a real team this time."
I forced a small smile, unable to tell him just how much it bothered me to hear how he'd been treated. "Yeah," I said quietly, keeping my tone even. "It did."
We kept walking, Gildun happily recounting another escapade, while I listened and wondered how many more of these stories ended with him risking everything while his "team" stood safely back. It left a bitter taste in my mouth.
At least this time, I told myself, he'd have more to show for it than bruises and empty hands.
We walked a bit further in comfortable silence before curiosity got the better of me again. I glanced sideways at Gildun, who was humming softly to himself. "So," I said carefully, "besides the Gatecrasher, how's this delve been going? Is this a normal Depth or... one of those Cursed Depths?"
Gildun's smile faltered instantly, his shoulders slumping like I'd just reminded him of some unpleasant truth.
"Definitely cursed," he said, voice dropping lower as if afraid the ruins themselves might overhear. "I mean, normally Depths just have your usual traps—spikes, gas vents, maybe a stray machine. But this one?" He gave a small shiver, shaking his head. "Weapons come popping right out of the walls. Fire these... bright red lasers faster than a Ravager's cannon. Damn near cooked poor Bors alive on the first entry. Had to drag him out by his boots."
My eyes widened sharply, and despite myself, I felt a grin tug at the corners of my mouth. Lasers? Real, functional laser turrets? Forget traps and machine claws—this was genuine, Old World military-grade tech, still operational after centuries of neglect.
"Red lasers, you say," I echoed, trying to keep my excitement in check. "That sounds... dangerous."
"Oh, it's awful," Gildun agreed with a heartfelt sigh. "We lost half our supplies on the first corridor alone. My crew said we should just leave it, call the whole thing off—but you know me, can't let good salvage go to waste."
I nodded slowly, my heart beating faster. Dangerous, sure—but it also meant technology. Working, salvageable technology that nobody had touched in centuries.
Maybe this delve wasn't finished yet. Maybe it had barely begun.
"Well," I said carefully, failing to keep the eager gleam from my eyes. "Maybe on the next run we'll get lucky."
Gildun glanced at me, clearly not sharing my enthusiasm. "Lucky? You really are something else, Rion. If I didn't know better, I'd say you're actually excited about this."
I chuckled softly, unable to suppress the thrill that came at the thought of what waited in those halls. "You have no idea."
The trek back to Golden Plains was quiet, except for Gildun's ceaseless chatter. He'd hardly paused to breathe since we left the twisted remains of the Gatecrasher behind. But I found I didn't mind it as much as I'd expected. His enthusiasm was oddly infectious, and it beat the hollow silence I usually faced after finishing a delve alone.
We kept walking, Gildun happily recounting another escapade, while I listened and wondered how many more of these stories ended with him risking everything while his "team" stood safely back. It left a bitter taste in my mouth.
At least this time, I told myself, he'd have more to show for it than bruises and empty hands.
"How's the rest of the delve been going, besides the whole Gatecrasher thing?" I asked, steering the conversation gently away from his old teammates. "Normal Depth, or...?"
Gildun's expression soured instantly. His enthusiasm dimmed like someone had blown out a lantern.
"Cursed," he said firmly, glancing around as if even speaking it aloud might summon trouble. "Definitely cursed. There's these... weapons hidden in the walls. They pop out faster than you can blink and shoot red lasers—faster than a Ravager cannon, I swear! Lost two good men just scouting the entrance."
My eyebrows rose. Red lasers, pop-up weapons, and lethal speed—sounded distinctly military. I nodded slowly, piecing it together.
"You know," I said carefully, "back in the Old World, those big ruins near Ironwood Grove were known as Wichita. The place was famous for building parts for flying machines. If your Depth's that dangerous, it might actually be an old military bunker. That would explain why it's so aggressively protected."
Gildun's eyes went wide. "Military? You really think so?"
"I'd bet on it," I replied with confidence, feeling a small swell of satisfaction at seeing him absorb my knowledge. "Places like that are locked down tight for a reason. And if they've rigged it up this heavily, that means there's definitely something valuable down there."
He considered that thoughtfully, his mouth pursed in excitement and apprehension. "You really think it's worth all that risk?"
I turned to meet his eyes, dead serious. "Gildun, you don't guard trash."
He grinned again, hopeful and hungry, his eyes gleaming behind those fogged-up goggles.
"Then what are we waiting for, partner? Let's get back and tell the others—they're gonna lose their minds when they hear this!"
"Not so fast," I said, slowing my pace and holding up a hand.
Gildun blinked at me, puzzled. "What's wrong?"
I kept my tone low, eyes scanning the hills ahead. "You ever see anyone in red armor visit your camp? Not Kansani warpaint—actual red metal or leather. Legion-style."
His face twisted into a half-frown, half-wince. "Uh... yeah, actually. A few times. Finnker always kept me busy when they showed up, had me counting rivets or hauling crates. Said they were there for trade, but..." He scratched at the side of his head, goggles shifting up slightly. "They were always kind of rude. Not the friendly kind of Oseram rude either—more like... watching-you-too-long rude. They asked me weird questions too. About how much I could lift. What kind of salvage I was best at. That sort of thing."
A cold knot twisted in my stomach.
That wasn't trade.
That was inspection.
"He was trying to sell you," I said flatly.
Gildun blinked. "Wait—what?"
"To the Legion. That's how they operate. They look for strong workers, technical minds, people they can break or use. Finnker was dangling you in front of them like a trained ox."
"No," he said, shaking his head. "There's no way. Finnker wouldn't—"
"They'll probably try to jump us," I cut in, voice low and sharp. "Either when we get back to camp, or after you help open a deeper part of the Cursed Depth. That's how these setups work. Let the idiot outsiders do the hard part, then make sure they don't walk out with anything."
Gildun opened his mouth, then stopped. I saw it—the hesitation, the instinct to defend his team—but it was already unraveling behind his eyes.
"You ever hear of an Oseram delve lead letting an outsider take a cut this deep into a dig?" I asked.
That hit like a hammer.
His mouth opened again, slower this time, and nothing came out.
"Exactly," I said. "You were gonna let me take a piece of your share. That's your right. But Finnker?" I shook my head. "No self-respecting Oseram would give up loot rights to an outsider unless they were lying."
The silence between us stretched.
Then Gildun finally said it, quiet and bitter.
"He was lying."
I nodded once. "Then we stay sharp. And we don't go back to that camp without a plan."
"How good are they?" I asked.
Gildun looked over, puzzled. "Who?"
"Your camp. Finnker's crew. If it comes to a fight, how well do they hold up?"
He hesitated, chewing the inside of his cheek like he didn't want to admit it.
"Most of 'em?" he finally said. "Bar brawlers. The kind who swing wild and talk loud. Good for moving crates, bad at taking a punch to the jaw."
I nodded slowly. "And the rest?"
He scratched the back of his neck. "Couple of the older ones were mercs. Used to fight for trade convoys back in the Claim before switching to delving. They know how to use a blade, but they're not warband tough. Not like you or the Kansani."
I didn't say anything for a moment. Just walked. The information wasn't comforting, but it gave me something to work with.
Gildun looked nervous now. "You really think it's gonna come to that?"
I didn't answer right away.
Because yeah—if they knew the Depth had military-grade tech buried in it, and they'd already sniffed out an interested Legion buyer?
Then yeah, it was already coming. They were just waiting for the right moment.
"There's an old saying from the Old Ones," I said, breaking the silence as we crested a low ridge overlooking the Golden Plains. "Better safe than sorry."
Gildun tilted his head, still tense. "Huh. That... sounds like something my mum would've said."
I nodded. "Probably. But back then, it wasn't just folksy wisdom—it was life policy. Safety checks, redundancies, backups for backups. Then someone got lazy. Someone forgot that saying."
I looked out toward the ruins in the distance—broken teeth on the horizon.
"And that's why their time ended."
Gildun didn't speak, but I could feel his eyes on me. The weight of it sank in.
I glanced over at him. "We're not gonna be the next idiots who forget it."
"For our sakes," I said, keeping my voice low and calm, "you can't let the others know we're onto them. Not yet."
Gildun flinched a little, rubbing his gloves together. "I'm not the best at lying, Rion. My dad used to say my mum did too good of a job raising me right—couldn't even bluff in cards."
I gave him a quick sidelong look. "Then don't lie. Just redirect."
He frowned. "Redirect?"
"If you can't mask your nerves, lean into it. Just say you're excited. You've got a clean skull plate, a booster, and a charge unit. Tell them you're getting your own Suncrusher made."
Gildun blinked, then let out a quiet laugh. "Hah… that ain't even a lie, is it?"
"Nope."
He nodded, a bit more confidence in his step now. "Alright. Yeah. I can do that. Just gotta act like the happiest hammer-swinging idiot in the Plains."
I smirked. "Exactly. Play your part, Gildun."
He straightened his shoulders, face slipping back into that hopeful gleam of his. "Let 'em think I'm just the lucky salvage pup. Meanwhile, I'll be watching."
"Good," I said. "That's how we survive this."
As we neared the gates of Golden Plains, the timber palisade came into view—half saloon, half fortress, ringed with scaffolding and salvaged machine parts. A couple of guards stood by the main entry, but one of them straightened as soon as he spotted us, then cupped his hands around his mouth.
"By the Forge's cracked teeth—is that Gildun?!"
Gildun perked up, waving both arms overhead like a festival performer returning from a two-year tour. "In the flesh and not flattened!"
The guard let out a sharp laugh and turned back toward someone inside the gate. "Hey! Pay up! You said he'd get crushed under the Gatecrasher's first charge!"
I raised an eyebrow. "They were taking bets?"
Gildun looked sheepish. "Uh... yeah. Might've overheard a few of them placing wagers before I left. Something about 'how flat I'd be.' Didn't think they'd go through with it."
Another voice chimed in from the wall, smug and amused. "I said three to one odds he'd get pancaked. No way you were outrunning that white bastard!"
"Well joke's on you," Gildun shouted up, puffing out his chest. "I didn't outrun it. I helped kill it."
That shut them up.
Rion glanced at him, a little grin playing at the corner of his mouth. Gildun took that as fuel and kept walking with a swagger that was more nervous energy than bravado.
And just like that, the fool's mask was back on.
"Wait—hold up!" one of the Oseram guards shouted, stepping forward with wide eyes. "The Gatecrasher is dead?!"
Others nearby turned to look, surprise blooming like a kicked hornet nest.
"We thought you were back to lick your wounds!" the man continued. "Either that or you hadn't found the beast yet and were bedding down for the night!"
Gildun puffed up even more now, goggles catching the late-day light. "Found it. Fought it. Flattened it. Or well... Rion here really flattened it."
I gave a curt nod, saying nothing.
"You're telling me," the guard said slowly, "that you two took down the biggest demolition-class machine we've ever seen, and came back with all your limbs still attached?"
Gildun grinned wide, gesturing dramatically. "What can I say? Turns out the key to surviving a Gatecrasher charge is not standing in front of it."
Another Oseram snorted. "Forge help me, I knew I should've bet the long odds."
From inside the gate, a couple more voices were shouting—word was spreading fast. Gildun glanced at me nervously, just for a split second, then turned back to the crowd.
"Now if you'll excuse us," he said, hands raised like a showman wrapping a performance, "I've got a Suncrusher in my future, and I need a drink while I still have all my fingers."
I kept walking.
The real fight hadn't started yet.
Finnker came striding up the moment the commotion hit full pitch, his dust-streaked coat flapping as he shoved through the gathered onlookers. His smile was wide—too wide—and his eyes practically sparkled with opportunism.
"Dead? You're telling me the Gatecrasher's actually dead?" he asked, tone as eager as a drunk merchant hearing the word "clearance." "Where? Where'd it fall?"
Gildun started to answer, but I cut in, voice cool and measured.
"We'll sell you the location."
Finnker blinked. "Sell it?"
I nodded once. "Two thousand shards. That gets you the exact site, salvage-ready."
The crowd murmured around us. Gildun glanced at me sideways, catching on that something was off.
Finnker's grin faltered for half a breath—barely a flicker—but I saw it.
If he tried to haggle, he was just greedy. If he said yes immediately… he was planning something worse.
Finnker didn't miss a beat after that momentary pause. "Two thousand? Done. Just say where."
And there it was.
My jaw tightened just slightly. No argument. No shock. No questions about risk or return. Just a perfect, too-clean answer.
He wasn't planning to pay.
He was planning to take.
Gildun stiffened beside me.
I looked Finnker dead in the eye and smiled thinly. "Glad to see you're feeling generous."
As Finnker turned on his heel, heading back toward the tents to fetch the bag of shards, I watched his shoulders—relaxed, confident, too smooth.
Even Gildun, ever the optimist, didn't miss it this time.
He leaned in just a little, his voice low. "That was... wrong."
I didn't look at him. Just kept my eyes on Finnker.
"Yeah," I muttered.
"Haggling's part of the soul, Rion," Gildun said, swallowing hard. "My uncle once tried to talk down a grieving widow at her own recently dead husband's forge sale. It's... what we do."
"For him not to even flinch at two thousand?" I said. "Means he never planned to pay it."
Gildun exhaled, the weight of it finally settling on him. "He's gonna try and kill us."
I nodded once. "Or sell us to the Legion. Maybe both."
Behind us, the camp was starting to shift—Oseram voices picking up, some excited, some too quiet. Word was out. The Gatecrasher was down, and that meant the vault was nearly open.
And someone was already thinking about who wouldn't be walking away with the prize.
I let the noise of the camp fade as I slipped past the edge of the excavation. Gildun kept up the performance, rambling about hammer balance and core salvage yields, buying me the time I needed. I crouched near the exposed slope of concrete and twisted steel, raising my wrist and activating the Focus.
A pulse swept out, rippling through the layers of dust, stone, and machinery.
Signal detected.
Text flickered into view—faint but persistent.
> U.S. Department of Defense: Project BLUELANCE
> ACCESSING ARCHIVE NODE…
> CLASSIFICATION: ANTI-ROBOTIC WEAPONS INITIATIVE
> CLEARANCE REQUIRED: ZETA-4 / MIL-GOV
I narrowed my eyes.
So it wasn't just a military facility. It was a weapons lab.
And not just any weapons—anti-robotic.
My pulse quickened.
Zero Dawn had been a secret, sure—but even with all its genius, it was a desperation play. One coordinated Hail Mary to reboot the world.
But governments—especially pre-collapse America—never put all their eggs in one basket. Every general had a pet project. Every admiral had a "strategic contingency." Half of Congress was bought and sold by defense contractors with shiny acronyms and promises of the next miracle weapon. They'd backstab their own children if it meant getting budget approval before the clock ran out.
And if the Enclave still existed in this world? That proved it.
They were the insurance policy—the cold, paranoid failsafe. And if they made it... then others did too.
I stared at the readout. Project Bluelance. The name wasn't familiar, but the context said everything. This wasn't farming tech. This wasn't weather control or automated logistics.
This place had teeth.
And I needed inside.
I thought of Nemesis—the rotting swirl of the Zeniths' egos, madness, and failure, drifting through space like a vengeful god. The final boss no one knew was coming. The thing Aloy would eventually have to face.
And I thought of Sylens—arrogant, brilliant, doomed Sylens—sifting through Londra's archives, scouring every Zenith data drop for anything that might give humanity a chance. He'd found whispers, coordinates, hints of old test sites—21st-century death factories buried in forgotten concrete, sealed away like guilty secrets.
Bluelance could be one of them.
Not the key to ending Nemesis.
But maybe—just maybe—the thing that could hurt it.
I stepped back from the console signal, breath slow.
I needed into that bunker.
And if Finnker and his little band of backstabbers got in the way... they'd be the first things I tested the old world's wrath against.
I turned sharply from the excavation path and started moving, boots crunching over gravel and exposed rebar. The deeper section of the ruin lay ahead, partially buried in sand and machine-fused concrete, but I wasn't heading toward the visible entrance.
"Gildun," I called, not slowing. "With me."
He blinked and jogged to catch up. "Wait—what? Where are we—"
"Quiet," I said, scanning the fractured wall ahead. The Focus on my temple flared as I swept it across a jagged concrete section scorched black with age.
There.
The signal blinked just once—low frequency, buried deep. I stepped up, knelt beside a half-melted support beam, and pressed my hand against the wall. The Focus translated the glyphs instantly, then overlaid a control pattern. Something no one else could see.
Gildun hovered behind me, shifting from foot to foot. "Rion... what exactly are you doing?"
I didn't answer. Fingers moving in a precise sequence, I tapped the air, unlocking an interface that hadn't seen daylight in centuries.
With a low groan and a hiss of pressurized gas, a thin vertical seam appeared in the wall—then widened.
A hidden door irised open, revealing a black interior with glowing red hazard strips embedded in the floor.
"NOW!" I barked.
I grabbed Gildun by the vest and shoved him through the opening. He stumbled inside just as I ducked in after him—and the moment the door sealed behind us with a clang, the world outside exploded.
Thunk-thunk-thunk!
A flurry of arrows clattered off the sealed bulkhead—followed by the high-pitched screeeee of precision lasers slicing through the air. Then came the shrieks.
Screams. Oseram screams.
And the sound of something burning. Fast.
The bunker's defenses had just woken up.
I turned to Gildun, who was panting, wide-eyed, stunned.
"Yeah," I said. "Definitely not a normal Depth."
Gildun stared at the sealed door, his breath shallow, eyes wide behind his goggles.
"Those arrows…" he murmured, voice cracking.
I said nothing. Just waited.
He stepped closer to the metal, pressing a hand against it like he could somehow feel the truth through the cold.
"They came too fast," he said, almost to himself. "They were already notched. Already drawn. They were waiting."
His hand dropped.
The last hope—that I was wrong, that this was just paranoia, that maybe Finnker was just an ass but not a traitor—that hope died right there, as surely as the Oseram on the other side of that blast door.
"They were gonna kill us," he whispered.
I nodded once. "Yeah."
He swallowed hard, eyes still fixed on the steel. "I was ready to think the worst of you for even suggesting it."
"I know," I said. "But now?"
Gildun didn't turn, didn't blink. Just clenched his jaw. "Now I want my Suncrusher."
Good.
We moved slowly through the corridor—dust swirling in the beam of Gildun's shoulder lantern, the stale air carrying the scent of burned plastic and time-forgotten chemicals. The walls were smooth, Old World sterile, lined with faded warning glyphs and rusted steel piping. It was quiet—too quiet, given the hell we'd just heard behind us.
After a while, Gildun finally broke the silence. "It's... weird," he said, voice hushed. "We haven't run into any more defenses. No pop-out turrets. No floor traps. Nothing."
"That's because we're walking through the proper entrance," I said, glancing down a branching hall that looped back toward a server access alcove. "This door—the one we used—it was meant for internal personnel. Secure, yes, but not meant to kill its own."
Gildun raised an eyebrow. "And the one Finnker was trying to pry open?"
"Cargo access," I said. "Wide doors. Reinforced loading platform. Meant for forklifts and sealed crates. Only supposed to be opened from the inside, or with a keyed override."
"And if someone tries it from the outside?"
I stopped at a junction, sweeping the Focus across a control panel still faintly powered.
"Everything goes to shit," I said. "Defense turrets, pressure sensors, internal lockdowns. Automated threat designations. The system assumes breach protocol. Starts shooting anything that moves."
Gildun went pale, his voice barely above a whisper. "That's what happened back there."
I nodded. "They forced the wrong door."
"And it forced back," he said hollowly.
I glanced at him, then back down the corridor.
"Come on," I said. "If this place was built to kill robots, then we're in the teeth of something serious. Let's find out how sharp they are."
We turned a corner into a rounded chamber, the walls smoothed and reinforced, long-dead terminals lining both sides. As we stepped inside, a faint pulse of light flickered overhead—then flared to life.
A holo-projector embedded in the ceiling hummed. Static crackled.
Then it stabilized.
An image appeared: a man in a lab coat, early thirties by the look of him. His posture was stiff at first, standing before a display board with animated schematics behind him. The recording had the texture of a presentation—one given to people with too much rank and not enough imagination.
He smiled, eager, bright-eyed. "Good afternoon. My name is Dr. Marcus Halden. I'm here to provide a status update on Project Bluelance for the congressional defense subcommittee on Applied Anti-Robotic Countermeasures."
Gildun let out a low whistle. "That's a mouthful. No idea what he's talking about but it sounds important"
"Shh," I said, eyes narrowing.
The holo shifted, and the schematics behind Halden came into full view—a shoulder-mounted energy weapon with a reinforced coil core, magnetic discharge vents, and what looked like ceramic armor plating woven around a focusing chamber.
Dr. Halden gestured proudly. "Project Bluelance is, in essence, the weaponization of Nikola Tesla's dream. Not just free energy—but directed energy. Our initial tests have shown promising results against unshielded mechanical units and lightly armored drones. The prototype can destabilize synthetic core logic using induced electromagnetic rupture at close-to-medium range."
I felt a jolt of recognition.
I knew that weapon.
It was a Tesla Cannon.
From the Fallout universe.
The coiled emitter, the distinctive power cell mounts, the voltage synchronizer on the spine—it was unmistakable. And the common version of it can shoot blue beams of energy. Bluelance fit perfectly.
He continued, animated now, pacing as he spoke. "We've had to limit discharge frequency to reduce feedback, but the results? They speak for themselves. A single pulse can fry a targeting array or shut down a swarm node. Once we stabilize the recoil compensator, we'll have a field-deployable solution within six months."
The feed looped and reset—Dr. Halden's smile flashing again, ready to begin his pitch once more.
I didn't say what I was thinking. Didn't say what he didn't know—what would eventually happen to the world, or the systems that would override his dreams.
I just logged it internally.
He didn't know about Project Zero Dawn.
Or any of the others.
He was working in isolation. Maybe even hope.
But that weapon...
I looked toward the far end of the chamber where power cables still hummed beneath the floor.
That prototype might still be here. And if it was, we would have enough firepower to blast our way out of here.
We moved deeper into the bunker, descending a gradual slope flanked by thick conduit lines and motionless security turrets—long dead, or maybe just dormant.
Another projector clicked to life as we stepped into a lower-level command bay. Dust drifted in the stale air, and then—flicker... flash—the holo bloomed once more.
It was him again—Dr. Halden.
But he looked older now. Maybe ten years had passed. The spark in his eyes had dimmed, the smile more forced. Lines had set into his face like cracks in drying clay.
"My name is still Dr. Marcus Halden," he began, voice steady but tired. "This is an addendum to the Bluelance project archive—Log 413.5."
Behind him, a new schematic was displayed: a larger weapon this time, barrel-heavy, barrel-linked, with power rails branching across a mobile platform cradle. It looked like a scaled-up version of the Tesla weapon we'd seen earlier—meaner, bulkier, designed not to be carried, but mounted.
"We've developed a vehicle-based version of the Bluelance platform," Halden said. "Dubbed the Chimera Lance. Designed for continuous arc bursts, overpressure discharges, and modular EMP payload delivery. In theory, it could match the offensive output of a Faro Khopesh variant—at least long enough to disable it or knock out key limbs."
He paused. The projection didn't glitch. He just... stopped.
"We don't have a vehicle to mount it on," he said finally. "Nothing with the right load balance or cooling system. Not down here. But we've run the simulations. If it works... it's the closest thing we've got to a stand-up fight."
Gildun glanced at me, but I didn't speak. Halden wasn't finished.
His posture slouched slightly now. Less formal. Less like he was speaking to a committee—and more like he was speaking to anyone still listening.
"We've had no contact with the outside since... well, it's been years. We lost sat-links. Supply drops stopped. Last month, we heard automated emergency broadcasts on loop—no human voice. We don't know if there's anything left up there. But the team keeps working. They need something to believe in."
He glanced back at the schematic, then back at the lens. "So we'll build it anyway."
The projection dimmed. Then went dark.
For a moment, the chamber was silent again—just the low hum of buried power, and the soft thudding of my heartbeat.
"They stayed," Gildun said quietly. "Even when everything else fell apart." He, like all the tribals, knew the world of the Old ones ended; they just didn't know how. But he was starting to understand.
"Yeah," I murmured. "They did."
We descended farther still, past sealed blast doors and caution-marked airlocks whose hinges had long since seized with dust and regret. The air was dry, sterile—scrubbed too clean to be natural—and each step echoed like we were walking through the lungs of a corpse.
The corridor opened into a reinforced chamber, lined with crystalline servers and machine arms frozen mid-task. Another projector hummed to life ahead of us.
The image that flickered into place was still Marcus Halden—but now… ancient.
His frame was hunched beneath a thick lab coat, his hair white and wispy, face worn down to gaunt lines and liver spots. Eyes still sharp, though. Still present.
"Log 928," he rasped, voice thin but clear. "Tesla Framework Integration. Final Phase... or what we've come to call Phase Ironhail."
Behind him, the schematic was enormous. Not a portable weapon. Not even vehicle-mounted. This was platform-based—a massive coiled cannon rig surrounded by magnetic stabilizers, discharge buffers, and a crucible-like firing core. A static caption ran across the bottom:
THEORETICAL TARGET RESPONSE: HORUS-CLASS TERMINAL DISRUPTION – 17.4 SECONDS MAX OUTPUT
Gildun sucked in a breath. "That's…"
"A Horus-killer," I said. "Or close enough to count."
Halden kept talking.
"We've completed over two thousand simulations. With proper firing sequence, Phase Ironhail could rupture a Horus' armor casing at 38% power. Not fatal. Not outright. But enough to stagger. To force retreat. To hurt it."
He looked directly into the camera.
"For once, the numbers don't lie."
Behind him, flickers of other weapon designs rotated across the holo display—coil rifles, arc blades, power-fed grenades that radiated electromagnetic wave signatures. All marked under the Bluelance program. All waiting.
He reached down slowly, tapping a screen we couldn't see.
"Our motion sensors show the Swarm hasn't moved in years. They've gone still. But the world outside is... gone. Air quality is non-viable toxins are in the groundwater now. The terraforming project, whatever it was supposed to be... never happened."
He looked down for a long moment. When he looked back up, the fire was dimmer—but not gone.
"All we have left is the work. So that's what we'll do. Until the end. We'll see how far we can take it."
A thin smile pulled at his face, cracked and dry.
"I'll use what years I have left to make it count."
The stairwell ended in silence.
No lights. No fan hum. No fail-safes clicking to life. Just a yawning corridor of metal and dust that funneled us into a final chamber—wider, more reinforced than anything above. At its far end stood a massive door, sealed tight with overlapping bulkheads and a half-dozen locking mechanisms that looked like they belonged on a submarine hatch.
If this facility had still been active, we wouldn't have gotten within five feet of it.
But someone had planned for a different kind of future.
As we approached, a dim blue strip blinked to life above the door. My Focus caught the signal before I even reached it: ARCHIVE LOCKDOWN: OVERRIDE BY TIME-RELEASE—STATUS: COMPLETE.
Gildun glanced over. "That means it's openin', right?"
I nodded slowly. "They set a countdown. Figured there was no point in keeping it locked forever—not when everyone who built it would be long gone."
There was a hiss of released pressure, and then the door groaned as ancient hydraulics wheezed into motion. It pulled open slowly, revealing a chamber bathed in low, white light. The walls were pristine—untouched by mold, time, or violence. At the center of the room was a chair.
A wheelchair.
And in it sat what remained of Dr. Marcus Halden.
The bones were bleached, settled gently into the chair's frame. His coat still hung loose around the skeletal form, badge still clipped to the collar. But as we stepped closer, a soft pulse triggered a ceiling-mounted projector—and suddenly, Halden was there again.
Not young. Not middle-aged.
Old. Frail. But alive in the echo.
A holo-overlay cast his image onto his resting place—eyes sunken, voice a whisper but unwavering.
"If you're hearing this," he said, "then the countdown finished, and someone found our work."
He coughed—real, wet, and tired.
"I don't know how long it's been. A decade. A century. Maybe more. Doesn't matter now. What matters is what we've left behind."
A schematic pulsed into view behind him: a new weapon. Similar to the shoulder-mounted cannon from before—but sleeker, more refined, with layered coils and a far more compact power core.
"We improved the design," he continued, his voice almost proud. "Smaller, lighter. Far more efficient. We call it Zeus's Wrath. The core houses all our research data. Everything we learned about energy discharge, EM disruption, swarm combat patterns. I don't trust the server banks to survive another collapse—but this? This, I trust."
Halden leaned forward—or the image of him did.
"I don't know what kind of world you're walking in. But if you've made it this far, then you've got some fight in you. I hope you use this wisely."
And then, like it had been waiting for his words alone, a panel in the floor clunked and split open.
A lift rose, slow and deliberate, bearing a sealed crate—sleek, black, and stamped with the same Bluelance emblem we'd seen in every log.
Gildun stepped forward first, hands trembling as he unlatched the seals. I helped him lift the lid.
Inside was a weapon that radiated purpose.
Inside was a weapon that radiated purpose. A shoulder-mounted cannon, yes—but nothing like the crude, boxy prototypes we'd seen in the previous holos.
This was sleek. Refined. The outer shell was sculpted from high-density composite alloys in layered panels of matte white, charcoal black, and burnished gold. Twin prongs extended from the muzzle like the teeth of a god, laced with directional vents and power-guiding fins. Between them crackled a faint arc of blue electricity—unstable, angry, alive.
The main body featured a glowing central chamber, encased in transparent armor, where electrical coils pulsed with humming potential. Cooling vents and circuit nodes were nested along the sides, flickering with blue lights that had no right to still be working after all this time. A carry handle jutted from the rear cap assembly, rugged but perfectly balanced.
This wasn't just a weapon.
It was the wrath of the Old World, bottled and waiting for release.
I stared down at it, and felt something cold and electric crawl up my spine.
"Zeus's Wrath," I murmured.
Gildun whistled low. "Rion… this thing's gonna break the sky."
I nodded slowly, eyes still fixed on the weapon's luminous coils.
"You're not wrong," I said. "The people who made this didn't name it lightly. Zeus was an ancient sky god. And when I say ancient, I don't mean Old World ancient—I mean five times older than the gap between us and the Old Ones."
Gildun stood frozen, his hands hovering just above the edge of the crate, fingers twitching like he wanted to touch the weapon but wasn't sure if he had the right. Or the permission.
"You mean to tell me," he said slowly, "that the Old Ones—the people who built the metal towers and flying machines—they had myths? They looked up at someone else's past and saw magic?"
"Yeah," I said, stepping beside him. "They weren't the first. Not even close. They built satellites and swarm factories, but they also built museums to civilizations they couldn't fully explain. Statues, temples, whole languages they had to re-learn. Zeus was from one of those civilizations. A place called Greece. By the time of the Old Ones, it was already over five thousand years gone."
Gildun swallowed, goggles still trained on the weapon like it might vanish if he blinked.
"That's older than... I mean, that's older than history," he breathed.
I nodded. "To them, Zeus was legend. The king of their gods. Wielded lightning. Threw storms from the sky to smite his enemies. They saw his image carved in stone, imagined his voice in thunder—and when they built this?"
I pointed at the coils.
"They called it Zeus's Wrath. Not for show. Not for branding. Because they knew. They were reaching back to a time when humans first imagined power like this. Before electricity. Before industry. Before machines. Just skyfire and fear."
Gildun took a slow step back, visibly shaken but awestruck. "Rion... that's like... like digging so deep you find the bones of a god."
"Exactly," I said. "This isn't just Old World salvage. This is a message. A legacy."
He rubbed his hands together, practically trembling. "By the Forge... what else is still buried out there?"
I looked at the glowing coils, feeling the heat they gave off even before a single shot had been fired.
"Whatever it is," I said, "we're not just delving ruins anymore. We're digging into humanity's deepest memory. And someone made sure this piece survived, just in case we ever needed to remember what it meant to fight back."
Gildun finally exhaled, and this time it wasn't just awe in his voice—it was belief.
"Then let's make sure we give 'em something worth remembering."
The moment of reverence was shattered by a deep, muffled BOOM—dull but massive, like a shockwave had just thumped through the bones of the earth itself. Dust trickled from the ceiling panels. A soft vibration stirred through the floor beneath their boots.
Gildun spun toward the source, eyes wide. "What in the—?"
"Here they come," I said coldly, already moving.
"Who—?"
"Everyone," I replied, picking up speed. "The Legion. Finnker's crew. We gave them a path in that wasn't a death trap. Of course that bastard took it."
Gildun cursed under his breath, grabbing his pack and slinging it over his shoulder. "Then why didn't we just cave in the entrance behind us?!"
"Because I want the weapon. Not a tomb."
I scanned the room, my eyes darting over every flickering panel and dormant console. These places always had control nodes. Manual failsafes. Something.
"Rion?" Gildun jogged to keep pace. "What are you looking for?"
"A security terminal," I said, flipping open my Focus. "If we're lucky, something still here controls the internal defense grid. If I can find the right program, I might be able to tag us as allies."
He hesitated. "You can do that?"
"Better than doing nothing," I muttered.
I swept the Focus along a rusted bank of data nodes near the rear of the chamber. Glyphs scrolled past too fast for Gildun to follow, but I spotted what I needed: a blinking sublayer beneath the main power route—marked in archaic military shorthand.
"Bingo."
"Please tell me that's not Old World for 'we're dead.'"
I smirked grimly. "No. It's Old World for 'I'm about to buy us some very angry, very helpful friends.'"
I reached into the compartment on my belt and pulled out the Faro Override module. The thing didn't look like much—just a dark slab of hardened alloy with exposed circuitry, a few Old World port connectors, and a pale blue emitter ring that pulsed faintly when activated.
Still humming. Still useful.
Real handy for Old World installations, I thought, slotting it into the interface node.
Even without the ability to override GAIA's machines—at least, not yet—it had proven itself more than once. Security locks, bunker access ports, dormant server permissions… The Faro Override wasn't just a tool. It was a skeleton key for the forgotten age.
I'd been meaning to find a Cauldron, see if I could unlock the other override protocols. But to be honest, I hadn't made the time.
Between near-death fights, tribal politics, mercenaries, and training under monsters like Jorta, I hadn't exactly had a chance to go sightseeing.
I tapped through a few menus with my Focus, letting the Override sync.
At this rate, I thought with a smirk, I'm gonna end up like one of those guys who does every side quest first—then walks into the main story at level 80 and steamrolls everything.
Not a bad plan, all things considered.
As the Faro Override synced with the node, I leaned against the panel and let the thought finish crawling through my head.
Getting this strong early... it's great. But it's also a problem.
If I kept going at this pace, dealing with HADES and the Eclipse might not be a boss fight—it might be a mess. They'd come at me harder. Get smarter. Adapt faster. The AI was cunning. The cult behind it? Fanatics with nothing to lose.
But then again… I wasn't just playing against them.
There was the Enclave. The bastards who thought they were the true heirs of the Old World.
And Worm… a shadowy hand tugging at history like it was a marionette.
Each of them had plans. Each of them believed they were the last hope—or the final judge.
And here I was, grinding side quests, leveling up in the ruins, grabbing artifacts like loot, all while trying to stay three steps ahead of the end of the world.
I looked down at the override as it blinked green. Terminal access granted.
Guess it's a good thing I like being a problem.
The override pinged completion, and a soft chime echoed from the console.
"Access granted," the system intoned in a flat, genderless voice. "Security grid primed. Updating personnel registry…"
I keyed the last sequence into the terminal. A chime echoed, followed by a pulsing glow across the floor conduits as the system finalized the override.
Personnel Update Complete:
Field Staff: Marcus Halden (Override Proxy)
Auxiliary Staff: Rion, Gildun
Threat Designation: All other biosigns—Hostile
Somewhere deep in the bunker, relays slammed open with thunderous clanks. Turrets hissed from hidden ports in the walls, their barrels extending like snapping jaws, sleek Old World death-dealers with glowing blue rings along their spines.
"Uh… Rion?" Gildun's voice was tight, his back pressed to the nearest console. The red glow of multiple targeting beams began crawling up his chest, one dot pausing directly between his eyes.
I didn't blink. "Hold still."
"They've got me painted, Rion!"
"Yeah," I said calmly. "That's the system verifying you."
"How sure are you they won't shoot?"
"Eighty-five percent."
"Eight—ARE YOU KIDDING ME—"
The beams suddenly blinked off, replaced by a pulsing blue strobe. The turrets rotated away from us in eerie unison, scanning the halls beyond. A mechanical chime rang out from the overhead speakers:
"INTERNAL CLEARANCE CONFIRMED. PROJECT BLUELANCE PERSONNEL—ACTIVE. THREAT RESPONSE PROTOCOL: LEVEL THREE. EXCLUSION ZONE ENABLED."
Gildun staggered forward, blinking. "You—you tagged us as staff?"
"Had to," I said, stepping past him as another turret unfolded from the ceiling. "Now the system thinks we're part of the project. Everyone else? Not so lucky."
Outside, the first of the motion sensors chimed red. Then the turrets began to charge.
I looked to Gildun. "Time to let the Old World do what it was built to do."
The monitor flickered, casting a pale green light across my face as I leaned in. It was one of the internal feeds from the upper corridor—low angle, grainy, but enough to make out shapes. Bodies. Movement. The trap was almost set.
I watched as the first wave funneled in.
Oseram delvers, pushed to the front. I recognized some of them. One guy with a busted kneepad I'd seen patching gear near the fires. Another who used to sneak extra meals when he thought no one noticed.
They weren't walking in like men looking for loot. They were moving stiff, anxious—forced.
Behind them came the real threat.
Red.
The Legion.
Painted armor, stripped-down and mean. Lean muscle and scarred faces. Eyes like blades. No helmets. Just war paint, grit, and the smug calm of men who expected to take what they wanted.
And there was Finnker.
He turned halfway around, arms gesturing wildly as he said something to the Legion officer walking behind him. The feed didn't have sound, but I didn't need it. I could read the desperation in his stance.
Pleading. Hands wide. Head tilted.
The Legion officer didn't even stop. Just shoved him forward. Another soldier—not much older than me—raised a short spear and jabbed it into Finnker's back to keep him moving.
They weren't asking for help.
They were using him.
You don't partner with the Legion, I reminded myself. You serve them.
I glanced at the motion tracker. The Oseram had crossed the midpoint of the corridor. The Legion was starting to bunch up behind them.
Perfect.
I tapped the terminal.
"Exclusion Zone Activated."
The change was instant.
Turrets burst from the walls like coiled serpents springing from their nests. Red targeting beams flared. The air cracked with energy as the first pulse-cannons fired, lighting the corridor in violent blue arcs.
The Oseram never stood a chance.
Some were vaporized. Others dropped mid-scream as stun rounds, concussive bursts, and electrified bolts tore through their ranks. It wasn't a firefight.
It was a slaughter.
But the Legion…
They adapted.
Even as bodies fell around them, they didn't panic. The officers barked something—hand signals flying—and the front line broke formation with surgical precision. Shields up. Some dove to the sides of the corridor, using the wreckage of the Oseram as cover. Others threw javelins or lobbed crude but effective explosives—salvaged acid pots, sharped rebar, burning oil flasks.
Turrets hissed, choked, and fell silent one by one.
They were disciplined.
Too disciplined.
I watched one of them scale the wall like a spider, knife between his teeth, and jam it into a turret's vent slot. The machine sparked, then died.
I didn't move. Just watched. Took it in.
"They're not going to stop," I said aloud.
Gildun stood nearby, pale, but nodding. "What do we do?"
I looked at Zeus's Wrath, still resting in the crate.
I reached into the crate and grabbed Zeus's Wrath by the grip.
The cannon pulsed.
It wasn't just heat—it was energy. Real electricity. It crawled up my arms in steady waves. I felt it dig into my muscles, bite down into the nerves, and keep going. It didn't stop at my skin. It wrapped around me. The coils at the muzzle sparked once. Then again. A high-pitched hum built in the chamber, low and steady.
I slung it over my shoulder.
The brace clicked into place, the whole frame locking against my back like it had been waiting for me. My fingers settled on the firing grip. A control node along the barrel blinked blue.
I could feel the charge building.
My teeth tingled. My heart didn't race—it slowed. Focused.
"Rion?" Gildun asked.
I didn't answer. I turned back toward the monitor.
The Legion was pushing deeper. They thought the worst had passed. That was their mistake.
I flexed my fingers around the trigger.
"By the Caesar's blood!" one of the Legion shouted from the far end of the hall, eyes wide as he pointed at the crackling remains of his comrade.
I stepped forward, planting my feet, Zeus's Wrath humming against my shoulder like it was alive.
I raised my voice so they could hear me over the charging coils.
"I know that old bastard in St. Louis taught you boys about the Old World pantheon," I shouted. "Rome. Gods. Power."
The next bolt surged down the hall, a white-hot arc of judgment. It struck another Legionnaire square in the chest. His shield did nothing. He went up in a blaze of light and fell as another twitching skeleton.
I leveled the barrel again, eyes locked on the next fool brave enough to move.
"Well guess what?" I growled.
"Call me Jupiter."