The heavy scrape and final, definitive thud from the parking garage entrance echoed unnervingly in the sudden quiet of the maintenance bay. It wasn't the sound of random debris shifting. It was the sound of a cage door slamming shut.
My heart, just beginning to recover from its adrenaline-fueled rave courtesy of the Emergency Mental Reserve, kicked back into overdrive. Leo made a choked sound beside me, his eyes wide with terror, fixed on the open bay door leading back out into the parking garage's oppressive gloom.
"Okay," I hissed, grabbing his arm and shoving him none-too-gently behind the colossal track unit of the parked behemoth vehicle. Its cold, scarred plating felt momentarily reassuring, like hiding behind a small mountain. "New plan. Shut up. Don't move. Don't breathe loudly. And definitely don't sneeze."
"B-but what was that?" he stammered, trying to peek around the track assembly.
"That," I whispered back grimly, crouching low and peering cautiously around the edge of the massive machine, "was the sound of us transitioning from 'curious trespassers' to 'cornered rats'. Someone deliberately blocked the main exit."
My gaze swept the dimly lit parking level outside the bay. Empty. Shadows clung thickly to the concrete pillars. The only sounds were the incessant dripping water and the faint, maddening flicker of the glitched overhead lights. But the silence felt… wrong. Charged. Expectant.
Then, footsteps.
Echoing down the ramp from the upper level. Not heavy, clumsy raider boots. Not the skittering of a Glitch construct. These were lighter, quicker, confident. Rhythmic. Someone who knew this place. Someone moving with purpose.
Okay, Ren, information. Ignoring the residual pounding in my skull, I activated [Perceive Glitch], focusing not on the ambient noise, but directing it outwards, towards the source of the footsteps.
It was faint, like trying to pick up distant Wi-Fi signals through concrete walls, but it was there. A subtle shimmer of energy around the approaching figure. Not the chaotic noise of a raw glitch, but the structured hum of technology. Personal shielding maybe? Minor cybernetics? There were tiny instabilities flickering within the signature, like voltage fluctuations in old wiring. Whoever this was, their gear wasn't factory-perfect, just patched together well enough to mostly work. Nothing ever was, post-Crash.
My internal monologue started its usual helpful commentary: "Right. Potential hostiles with active personal tech approaching. Current assets: One cynical attitude, rapidly depleting mental stamina, one terrified tag-along armed with sporting equipment, and zero viable escape routes. Situation Assessment: Sub-optimal."
The footsteps reached our level, stopped for a moment, then headed directly towards the open maintenance bay door. Definitely us they were after. How did they know? Did the bypassed lock trigger an alert?
I risked another peek. A figure emerged from the gloom, silhouetted against the faint light filtering down the ramps. Female frame, lean, clad in practical, worn gear – sturdy composite plating over dark fatigues, heavy boots. Goggles were pushed up onto a forehead smudged with grease. What little light caught her face showed sharp, focused features and an air of weary competence. She moved like someone completely at home in this dangerous environment, scanning the bay entrance with sharp, practiced eyes. Strapped to her thigh was a wicked-looking sidearm that hummed faintly with latent energy – definitely custom, definitely not something you bought off the shelf, pre- or post-Crash.
She paused right outside the bay door, head cocked, listening. Her eyes immediately flickered to the keypad I'd bypassed. A frown creased her brow. She raised her energy sidearm, the hum intensifying slightly as it powered up to standby.
"Alright," her voice cut through the silence, sharp and clear, carrying easily in the enclosed space. Not shouting, but projecting authority. "Didn't think my welcome mat was that inviting. Whoever you are – glitch, ghost, or just terminally stupid scavenger – show yourself. Slowly. Before I decide this bay needs a high-energy deep cleaning."
Beside me, Leo whimpered softly, pressing himself flatter against the vehicle track. His fear was palpable, a static charge in the air.
Okay, Ren. Decision time. Option 1: Stay hidden, hope she doesn't find us behind Optimus Prime's angrier cousin. Unlikely, given her thorough scan. Option 2: Try to bluff or distract. Risky. Option 3: Controlled reveal. Minimal surprise factor, maybe allows for dialogue.
My internal risk assessment algorithm churned. Controlled reveal felt like the least immediately fatal option. Slightly.
But before I could move, Leo shifted his weight. His foot slipped on a stray patch of spilled oil I hadn't noticed near the track unit. He stumbled with a muffled curse, knocking his golf club against the metal plating with a loud CLANG.
Silence. Absolute, ringing silence, broken only by the hum of the weapon and the drip-drip-drip somewhere in the darkness.
The woman outside froze, weapon instantly snapping up, aimed unerringly towards our hiding spot. The low hum of the sidearm intensified, ozone sharp in the air.
"Well," my internal monologue sighed, "so much for stealth. Thanks, Brenda_Is_An_Idiot."
Taking a slow, deliberate breath, I raised my empty hands where she could potentially see them around the edge of the vehicle. "Easy there," I called out, trying to project calm I absolutely did not feel. "No need for energetic sanitation. Just admiring the custom drive core. Really ties the room together."
I stepped out slowly from behind the track unit, hands still raised in a gesture of mostly-harmlessness. Stopped in the center of the bay, blinking slightly in the harsh glow of the overhead light bars.
Her weapon remained steady, trained on my chest. Her eyes – sharp, calculating, maybe a little tired – swept over me, taking in my distinct lack of armor, weaponry, or discernible threat level. They lingered for a second on my face, a flicker of… surprise? Recognition? No, more like analytical curiosity. Like she was trying to categorize me and coming up with [Error: Unexpected Data Type].
"Admiring?" she repeated, voice laced with disbelief and suspicion. "This isn't a museum, pal. And that keypad wasn't bypassed with a sweet smile." She gestured towards the lock with her weapon. "That took either some serious brute-force tech, or…" she paused, eyes narrowing slightly, "…something weirder. Which are you?"
Okay. Direct question. Time for calibrated honesty mixed with deflection. "Let's just say I have a certain knack for convincing electronics to cooperate," I said, keeping my tone even. "Found the door locked, politely requested entry, it complied. Mostly. As for why we're here… we were tracking a noise complaint."
A faint smile touched her lips, gone as quickly as it appeared. Humor, maybe? Or just disbelief at my audacity. "A noise complaint? For my rig?" She patted the armored flank of the vehicle beside me. "She does tend to rumble when she's warming up."
Her weapon didn't lower. "Who's 'we'?" she demanded, glancing towards the spot where Leo was presumably still trying to merge with the vehicle's chassis.
"Just me and… my associate," I said quickly, before Leo could offer any more incriminating sound effects. "He's new to the uh… urban exploration scene. Easily spooked."
The woman considered this, her gaze flicking between me and the hiding spot. The hum of her weapon remained a steady, dangerous presence. The air crackled with tension. This wasn't a raider looking for loot. This was someone territorial, capable, and rightly pissed off that someone had bypassed her security and invaded her workshop.
"Right," she said finally, though her stance didn't relax. "So, Mr. Polite-Request and Mr. Easily-Spooked. You followed my 'noise complaint' into my private, locked-down garage. Now, give me one good reason why I shouldn't assume you're here to try and steal 'The Probability Drive' here," she gestured again to the monstrous vehicle, "and just skip straight to the 'high-energy deep cleaning' option."
My mind raced. Reason. She needed a reason. Something better than 'we're desperate and your ride looks awesome'. Something that leveraged my unique… situation.
"Because," I said, meeting her hard gaze, trying to project confidence I didn't have, "judging by the faint energy fluctuations coming off your personal gear, and the sophisticated but slightly unstable look of that drive core… I'm guessing 'The Probability Drive' doesn't run on standard gasoline." I paused, letting it sink in. "And I bet keeping a machine like that tuned and running smoothly in this reality requires more than just a good wrench. Sometimes, you need someone who can debug the universe's shitty code directly."
I held my breath. Was it enough? Did she even understand what I was implying? Or was I about to get disintegrated for being a smartass? Her expression was unreadable, weapon still steady, the hum of contained power a constant threat in the sudden silence of the bay.