The makeshift medical treatment stabilized Neo's fractured ribs, dulling the pain, though weakness and hunger still gnawed at him. He had no strength to resist. Flanked by the hulking "Anvil" and the quiet, watchful medic, he staggered step by step out of the mech hangar—a place that had sheltered him briefly, then nearly become his tomb.
The squad's leader strode ahead, her movements sharp and confident, while "Owl" brought up the rear, eyes scanning, rifle at the ready. Their formation was flawless, efficient, and silent.
Outside, Neo saw the new world clearly for the first time.
The sky hung in a sickly haze of gray-yellow, forever veiled by a shroud of dust clouds. Sunlight struggled to pierce through, coating everything in a suffocating filter. The air reeked of rusted metal, chemical pollutants, and a nameless rot that stung the lungs with every breath.
Everywhere he looked, ruins sprawled. Towers once proud now reduced to twisted skeletons of steel, crouching like dead leviathans across the land. Weeds grew unchecked among the rubble, but they too were wrong—sickly gray-green, warped in shape. In the far distance, monstrous howls rolled faintly across the wasteland, a reminder that danger was never far.
A graveyard of a civilization, Neo thought bitterly. More absolute, more despairing, than any battlefield he had seen in his past life among the stars.
The squad moved swiftly, navigating a path already cleared and concealed. Along the way, the leader—her codename now confirmed as "Falcon"—exchanged clipped bursts of encrypted comms through her visor.
"…target recovered, with an additional survivor… identity uncertain, displays anomalous technical knowledge… requesting clearance for return to Prism Base…"
Prism Base. Neo etched the name into memory.
After nearly half an hour, they reached what seemed to be nothing more than a jagged crack in the mountainside. Falcon pressed something against the rock face. A camouflaged steel door slid open without a sound, revealing a descending tunnel bathed in dim emergency lights. The air was cooler here, cleaner, carrying the filtered tang of circulation systems.
An underground refuge, Neo mused. A classic survival structure for an age of ruin.
At the tunnel's end, an armed checkpoint awaited. Guards in similar combat suits examined Falcon's squad's credentials before allowing the heavy inner gate to rise.
What lay beyond forced even Neo, veteran of interstellar frontiers, to pause.
This was no cramped, desperate cave. It was a vast cavern, retrofitted into a fortress of survival. The ceiling soared dozens of meters high, artificial lights simulating patches of "sky." Buildings stood in neat rows—prefab housing, warehouses, workshops. A vertical farm glowed faintly with photosynthetic lamps, casting soft green across the stone. The air buzzed with life: the tang of machine oil, the sharp scent of ozone, and the warmth of cooking food.
People moved quickly, wary but alive. Their clothes were worn but clean, their eyes alert—not hollow with despair like the slaves of Red Iron Town. Weapons lay in maintenance, vehicles modified for war, and in the distance, inside a guarded hangar, the unmistakable silhouettes of mechs—old models, yes, but carefully kept functional.
An organized enclave. A survivor base with discipline, technology, and production capacity. Neo's mind filed the data quickly. Better than his previous situation, but also far more dangerous. Secrets were harder to hide in a place this advanced.
Falcon's squad wasted no time. They led Neo past the living quarters, down a soldier-guarded passage, and stopped at a heavy steel door labeled: Interrogation / Evaluation Chamber.
"Doctor, clean him up. New clothes. Standard rations," Falcon ordered flatly. Then she looked at Neo, "Eat. Afterward, someone will speak with you. Cooperation will be… in your favor."
The door shut behind him. The chamber was small—just a shower unit, a set of gray uniforms, and a table with a packet of high-calorie rations and a bottle of purified water.
Neo wasted no time. He scrubbed the blood and grime from his body, pulled on the clean clothes, and forced down the tasteless food. His body needed strength. He knew—the next conversation would decide his place in this new world.
Half an hour later, the door hissed open again.
Not a soldier.
A man entered—middle-aged, bespectacled, calm, dressed in a white researcher's coat. An assistant followed close behind with a datapad. Falcon lingered in the doorway with folded arms.
"Hello, survivor," the man greeted, sitting with an ease that disarmed rather than threatened. His voice was warm, almost soothing. "I am Dr. Dane, one of the base's researchers. Relax—we only want to understand what happened out there. Especially… in that warehouse."
Alarm bells screamed in Neo's head. He repeated the same story he had given Falcon: a desperate drifter, chased by aberrants, lucky enough to survive when the mech inexplicably belched fire.
Dr. Dane listened patiently, nodding at times. When Neo finished, the man adjusted his glasses, still smiling faintly.
"A vivid tale of survival," he said gently. "But I find myself curious about one particular detail—the Ravager, you claimed, suddenly breathing fire. You see, to our knowledge, the NT-7 Ravager's emergency failsafes contain no such function."
He paused, tapped a finger against the table. A holoprojection unfolded above it: the Ravager's schematics. One section pulsed in highlight—the auxiliary energy board Neo had tampered with.
"Moreover, our scans revealed recent modifications. Delicate work. Precise work. In fact… techniques that exceed our current engineering standards."
Dr. Dane leaned forward slightly, voice still warm but sharpened with intent.
"Tell me, young man—how does a supposed drifter know how to activate and rewire the dormant Hermann Circuit of a war machine that has slept for decades?"
The room froze.
Neo's heart thundered in his chest. The easy lies had shattered. These people were sharper, more advanced than he had expected. He could no longer hide behind crude fabrications.
Now came the choice—cling to the mask, or reveal fragments of truth in hopes of trust.
He raised his head, meeting Dr. Dane's probing eyes. And beyond them, the visor of Falcon—silent, unreadable, yet burning with a gaze that seemed to pierce straight through him.