Rusty's legs still felt like dead weight beneath her, the ache of each bruise and the throb of hidden wounds pushing up through the thin fog of adrenaline.
She kept her eyes on Gustavo, steady and unblinking.
"I guess," she said, voice rasped but clear, "we crawled our way out of it."
Her tone wasn't boastful — more matter-of-fact, like it was the only explanation that mattered.
Gustavo met her stare without flinching, his own gaze sharp as steel worn from years of use. There was something behind those eyes — not quite challenge, not quite warmth — but it pinned her there all the same.
They stayed locked like that until Olmo shifted beside her, breaking the current.
"Well…" Olmo scratched the back of his neck, glancing between them. "The Worm did vomit us out, though. So… maybe it's a little bit of both?"
For a heartbeat Gustavo stayed silent, then a deep chuckle rumbled out of him — unexpected, like thunder rolling where there'd been only still air.
"Very good," he said, laughter settling into a grin.
Rusty and Olmo exchanged a quick look.
"Uh… thanks?" Olmo ventured.
Gustavo's smile widened.
"I already knew the Worm spat you out. I just wanted to see if you'd say it."
They both blinked, unsure what to make of it.
"It's no mystery," Gustavo continued. "You survived because of both resolve and luck… but mostly," his voice dropped into something almost playful, "because I made it spit."
Rusty's brow furrowed as her memory scraped at the details — the violent lurches, the sudden whiplash as the creature thrashed, the air vibrating with its bellow.
"You…" she started, hesitant. "You were fighting it? Alone?"
He turned halfway toward them, his shadow spilling long across the firelight.
"Indeed," he said. "From time to time, I have to make sure she doesn't come near my shelter." His words were calm, almost casual, but the weight behind them was undeniable. "Keeping her at bay costs me dearly… but someone has to do it."
The wind shifted, carrying the dry scent of dust through the narrow canyon. His loose cloth sleeves lifted and twisted with the gust, swaying as though empty.
No shape of muscle or bone moved beneath the fabric.
Neither Rusty nor Olmo asked.
Gustavo's gaze softened just enough to pass for reassurance.
"You've been through hell. I don't know how long you were inside that beast, but long enough that rest is the first thing you need."
He tilted his head toward the figure of Sal, who had been waiting quietly near the shelter entrance.
"Sal will take you both in. Get some proper food in your stomachs, find clothes that actually fit, and try to feel like people again."
Rusty let the thought of food and warmth sink into her bones. She didn't realize until then how much she was leaning into the idea of home, even if it was only borrowed.
"And once you're well rested…" Gustavo's eyes sharpened again. "I have a proposal for the two of you."
***********
Sal had a way of making things sound like gifts, even when they were standard issue.
"Rear Arms attire," he said with a bit of flair, holding out the folded bundles. The fabric was deep charcoal stitched with faint rust-red patterns that curled like worm tracks along the sleeves. A thin hood could be drawn over the head, and light leather plating reinforced the chest and shoulders.
Rusty slipped hers on but tore the sleeves off at the seams without hesitation. The cool air brushed her bare forearms as she flexed experimentally.
"Better," she said.
Olmo kept his intact but folded the hood halfway back, tucking one side in so it slouched over his shoulder.
Sal eyed their adjustments, a flicker of curiosity crossing his face, but he only smirked.
"Stylish rebels," he muttered. "Noted."
He led them down a corridor that smelled faintly of smoke and something meaty. The path widened into an open space where benches formed loose rings around a central cooking pit. People were moving in and out with bowls in hand, steam curling up into the low light.
At the center stood the cook — short but built like a block of iron, broad shoulders stretching the seams of his apron. His beard was thick and coppery, and the hair on his arms was so coarse it caught the light like wire. He looked almost human, but… something in the set of his jaw and the size of his hands made him seem different. Rusty didn't ask. Neither did Olmo.
"Two bowls of HogClog, Crag," Sal said, leaning on the counter.
The cook — Crag — didn't even look up from ladling a thick stew into a dented bowl.
"One left."
Sal's smile faltered. "One?"
"One," Crag repeated, sliding the steaming bowl toward him.
Sal sighed and turned to Rusty and Olmo. "Sorry. Guess the surface runners came back light again."
"It's fine," Rusty said, already stepping back. She nudged Olmo forward. "You take it."
Olmo hesitated but took the bowl under her expectant look.
They carried it to an empty bench, Sal grabbing a jug of water and three cups as they sat. Olmo ate in small bites at first, like he wasn't sure if offering her some would offend her.
She shook her head. "Eat." Then she tipped her cup back, letting the cool water scrape some of the metallic taste from her mouth.
Sal leaned back on the bench, crossing his arms. "Harder to hunt topside these days," he said, glancing toward the tunnel entrance where a pair of dust-covered figures were unloading gear. "Ever since Gustavo's had to stay down here full-time… runners are on their own more often. Not that they can't handle themselves, but—"
"The rust-breath," Olmo said quietly, looking up from his food
"That's the problem." Sal poured himself water. "Without Gustavo clearing the route, the rust-breath settles faster, eats through gear quicker. The runners still go, but their time up there's cut short. Less time means smaller hauls."
Sal's tone shifted, more careful. "Most of us here… we've already been touched by the virus. We've learned to live with it. Not immune, exactly — more… adjusted. Some better than others."
Olmo wiped his mouth. "So the runners are the most adjusted?"
"Second to Gustavo," Sal said. Then his smile tilted, eyes narrowing just slightly at the two of them. "And maybe… you."
Rusty froze mid-sip, but Sal just kept talking.
"He saw it the moment you came out of the Worm. You're like him. The way your skin reacts, the way you breathe here without strain. If I were guessing, the 'proposal' he mentioned will be asking for your help."
Olmo set down his bowl. "Help doing what, exactly?"
Sal chuckled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "That's not my place to answer."
The conversation drifted for a moment. Around them, the sound of boots and clinking metal filled the hall. A group of runners passed by — some limping, others dragging damaged gear. Rusty's gaze followed them until they disappeared toward the far tunnel.
"They're going back out soon," Sal said, catching her line of sight.
Rusty pushed her cup forward and stood. "Then I'm going with them."
Olmo blinked. "Wait—"
"Let me go first," she said. "See how it is. You stay here, get a sense of this place. Besides—" her mouth curved faintly, "I haven't eaten yet. Maybe I can get myself something worth chewing."
Olmo didn't look thrilled, but he didn't argue. Not yet.
Sal smiled at the thought, " well if that's what you want allow me to help you"
**********
They crossed the floor toward the group, where a man in a patched leather coat stood apart, arms crossed. His hair was cropped short, his face lean and weathered, and his eyes tracked them with the kind of stillness that meant he noticed everything.
"Roger," Sal greeted, giving a respectful nod. "This is Rusty. She's new. Hasn't eaten in a bit, so she figured she'd go up and hunt herself some game, if you're good with that."
Roger's gaze slid from Sal to Rusty. "She's new." It wasn't a question.
"Yeah," Sal said. "Don't worry about gear—she won't need any."
One corner of Roger's mouth tugged down, just shy of a frown. He studied Rusty for a long moment, then jerked his chin at one of the runners. "Take five, Dren. Rusty, you're in his place."
The man named Dren stepped out of formation without a word, brushing past Rusty as he went. She fell into line, keeping her eyes forward, but felt Roger's attention lingering.
Sal clapped her lightly on the shoulder. "Don't get lost," he said, the words simple but weighted. Then he moved off to stand beside Olmo, who was watching from a bench.
Roger stepped in beside her as the group shifted into motion. "Ever been to the surface before?" he asked, his tone almost conversational, but his eyes never stopped scanning the room.
Rusty shook her head. "No."
"You know how to hunt?"
She glanced at him, a faint smile curling at the edge of her mouth. "Hunting's killing. And I've killed a few monsters not long ago." She flexed her fingers loosely. "I'll be fine."
Roger's brow twitched, just enough to show he'd taken in the words. "Stay close to the group. The ground's uneven. Visibility's bad. And if you get separated…" He left the rest unsaid.
The runners moved in a tight pack toward the narrow shaft leading up. Rusty could feel the air shift as they climbed, growing heavier and grittier.
Then they broke through.
The surface hit her like stepping into another world—dense with dust and the tang of metal in the air, the sky above a dull smear. Shapes of half-collapsed buildings loomed through the haze. The runners slipped masks over their faces in practiced unison.
Rusty just breathed in.
It burned, but in a good way—like something raw scratching at her lungs. She bounced once on her toes, then twice, before breaking into a quick string of light jumps, the ground crunching under her boots. The dust swirled around her in lazy spirals.
She knuckled her fists together, grinning sharp. "I'm ready."