Chapter 3: Neon Nightfall Tactics
Night falls like a guillotine's blade, but the neon in Embergate barely blinks. Through the grimy window I see a luminescent haze over the streets. Rain—yeah, that's ash falling, not rain. Red and green lights blotter out the darkness. The room's cold now; not even that weak heater can patch the chill.
SYSTEM: [OPTIONAL QUEST LOG] Find better shelter.
Drat. The safehouse—I should get on that. Cassius's blinking objective remains: reach Safehouse 001. Wonder if it's marked AR-style on my HUD. Let's see… Yes. A tiny house icon pulses 200 meters NE on the map overlay. Three blocks north from here. Hauntingly precise.
I gulp water from my canteen. It's nearly empty. I have only that one flare, two bandages left. No ammo. Knife, pipe, the cyber-blade hidden in my fist. That's it. Unfriendly odds, but them's the cards.
I stand. The building groans. My knees crack politely. Wincing out loud, "Thanks, joints."
CASSIUS: Birthdays do that to us all, user. Cue sad trombone.
Sarcasm or not, age by itself is a death sentence here. One thing at a time. I edge to the door.
SYSTEM: Press the floor vent quietly, estimate. Nothing stationary detected. Undead near—2 by AR.
Two unknown life signs? Maybe survivors, maybe... No, undead.
Only one way to find out: door's closed, no noise yet. I reach over, shove my entire weight. The locked flight door halts me. Guess the manual override works: bolts slide and it swings open.
Just shadows—empty corridor. I slip through, not even realizing I'm sprinting. Pulse quickens. End of the hall: a stack of corp-funded crates and barricades. They haven't been disturbed. Safehouse waiting around the corner, or not?
I carefully peek around. A dim corridor links to a faint green EXIT sign. That must be it. The safehouse. Yet a shape shifts in neon gloom—a hunched figure with gnarled arms and teeth. Oh no.
A boomer of a zombie, it appears, quite chunked up in veins and drooling green foam. It's a classic Bloater type (if I were to guess), dripping infectious ichor. It sees me, charge mode. Loud squeals of metal echoes, heart leaps.
Evasion time. I don't have time to hack or fall back. Sprint is useless for tankers. Dodge and weave. Cassius's voice cuts in:
SYSTEM: Hostile variant: Bloater Zombie. Physical engagement ill-advised.
Great. Advise means run. I leap back, kick a crate as obstacle, but it's barely phased. This beast is too big for misdirection. I react. Glitch Pulse.
SYSTEM: Glitch Pulse (READY)
Slow motion again. Everything brightens in detail, like a film reel smeared with molasses. The Bloater is a hulking silhouette staggering, dripping foul liquid. I channel the hack. Slow. Fast. Activate.
Reality warps. Its choke-sighs become drawn-out roars. A reminder on HUD: COOLDOWN: 30s for Glitch. I pound my legs and roll under its close swing. It misses by miles as if suspended. If I wait another second, cooldown nearly done.
The neon lights remain strobe—this might be the only comfortable way to fight, in slow-mo. Focus. While the world crawls, I circle behind it. It sniffs, then lurches. Pipe whistling back, smash—smack the back of its knee joint. A thunk like breaking wood. It wobbles. Hit it again, but adrenaline roaring: I can feel its rotten breath on my neck.
The slow-mo almost ends. The skill's urgent beep: Glitch worn off, coming back.
I kick at its knee. It crashes down, used like a lawn ornament. The tunnel vision stops. Back in real-time, it crashes, stirring up dust. Its eye-sockets glow green with infection. I'm not out of luck yet, but that only tore it in half. It's pissed off.
It rises, though slower. I feel a spark behind me—water in knee. Shrapnel from knee-blow? Doesn't matter. The pipe overhead, more brimstone. I dodge left. It screeches; one punch sends me to the wall. My health hits 10%.
That's curtains. But I'm unconscious at 0% sometimes, so maybe we survive.
My vision narrows. Consciousness flickers. Cassius:
SYSTEM: HP CRITICAL!
I see myself on the floor, hearing Cassius. The world dims out of control. I slump behind a crate. The Bloater knocks hard on something ahead—like a door? Outside voices: HUNTERS, maybe. Another time, they'd mean ammo or rescue; this time, just background static.
And then—flatline silence. For a beat, I'm out.
What a bright flash.
SYSTEM: Safety Net Activated. Transitioning...
I come to on the floor, head spinning. The world comes back in jagged shards. My hackjack implants burned all circuits for this miracle. The wall is painted with my blood. The Bloater moans in the distance, but outside the door locked up. I'm alive, maggots.
SYSTEM: System check. Bodily damage: Severe concussion. Rook status: FREE (survived fatal injury).
Lucky me. My heartbeat is a slow hammer and every breath a new problem. But I'm upright—sort of. I'm alive. The Bloater's noises fade as it wanders off. It did not survive, though. Oops—never mind, heard a big exit boom that probably equaled dinner for half the block.
I cough. Thin slivers of pain radiate from everywhere. My left arm still tingles—metal fused into flesh. Yet I remember the cool aside: I have something burning in my veins. Adrenaline.
SYSTEM: ABILITY UNLOCKED: Adrenaline Surge.
Heck. My heart feels like it's powering the city. More than that, unspoken knowledge surges: I can bleed and keep going.
I lean heavily on the wall, forearm across mouth to stifle retch. Adrenaline Surge. The name alone. Conversion of pain to power. But we're not quite using it yet. Because some things are better left until needed.
SYSTEM: Rookie advice: use it in a crisis. I count this as one.
Pulsating red iris. Bruises already blossoming on my ribs. Two shattered kneecaps. But we're talking "living," not "healthy." Life wins.
I scan myself via HUD: HP is still at 1/100. A solid one. And I have three bandages. Bandage up, bandage down. Cover my neck wound (bronco bite from an earlier stray). Dab at my forehead. Nothing's gushing, just steady oozes. Health maxes out to 20 after each patch.
SYSTEM: Low health detected. Time to regroup, hero.
I manage a small grin, shaky. "Regroup? Sounds like Pilates for mutants." I whisper the joke, and Cassius laughs softly like a lowering of volume. He's pleased I woke up.
The safehouse is just beyond that last door. Two blocks left. On my feet again, I limp out the side room where I fell. Corridor splits. One path leads back; the other to stairs. Up. Exit sign. Feet wobble but I go.
Stairs are fine—my medpack cough, my back-up bandage does its thing. I slip and catch myself, heart murmurs redlines. The door. I see it now: "SAFEHOUSE 001" in sloppily painted red on the metal front. Good coding style.
A keypad. 6 digits, symbols layered with grime. Cassius drifts overhead:
SYSTEM: Surprise, do we have the code? Of course not. Time to improvise.
I don't have an override on this. I might have to break through, or crouch in a vent. I check my surroundings: an ignition panel with cracked glass, a dumpster and cars. Could set the building on fire, but inside is fewer flammable hazards.
Time is not my friend. Behind me, metal groaning; a heavy shape lurches. I whip to see: a long-necked runner variant, snarling, missing its own right arm—the one a zombie doctor grabbed—stares at me. Oversize hands. It charges.
No glit h-pulse, that's on cooldown. No time. I switch fully to survival.
I do have adrenaline. Might as well.
Activate adrenaline surge. A white-hot rush as pain fades to pure energy. The world hums high-speed again. My limbs feel almost mechanical now.
It's close. Its roar deafens me. I hook my boot into its side like a pro wrestler, sending it careening. Without thinking, I kick it hard. My heel slams into its jaw—the bone doesn't break; it just cocks back. It snaps at me, scything its left talon arm. I tumble just in time as it misses. The concept of pain disappears. I scramble up.
It grabs for me and knocks a trashcan aside. I see it's bullet wound is dirty black gas—one infected gas round, patched into its mecha-limb. Probably packed it in from combat drills gone wrong.
There's a pipe railing beside me—golden opportunity. Without slowing, I slam upward, gain height, and then drop with full body weight onto its neck. Its teeth snap against the railing. I wince, but I break its spine with a final crunch. It flies off.
SYSTEM: +20 XP (Zombie Neutralized).
I stand at the keypad. The monster's dead weight thumps behind the door. My ears ring. Safehouse. The keys... Could Cassius guess?
My HUD beeps: ADRENALINE SURGE READY AGAIN. Sweet merciful endorphins, I just leveled life to monster-whacker.
But first: survival. I pull off my jacket and soak it with water from a bottle for flammable cover. Then set the lighter to auto. Just in case this bastard had upgraded locks, we play fire rescue. A quick spark—
FFFWHOOM!
Flames ripple on the wet cloth, but as planned they curl into black smoke. The keypad catches, obscuring the code. Heat warps the letters. Good enough—now either the code or the lock will fail.
From inside, I hear a door whir. No static; a manual latch. The front door slides open. It's an airlock of smoke. Just as the third click of ignition sets in, the safehouse door clicks open.
SYSTEM: UNLOCKED. +15 XP (HACK SUCCESS).
This isn't exactly hacking, more sabotage, but whatever.
Finally. I duck through the entry. Smells of machine oil and older bodies hit me. Light flickers from a broken neon lamp. A dusty table holds a crude radio patched into wall power. Files pinned: rebel graffiti. A faded poster: "Resistance: Your City, Your Rules." Inside a first-aid cabinet: med-pack with a full medikit. Jackpot. I rip it open and treat myself properly. Needles, bandages, antibiotic gels. Wrapping deep wounds meticulously.
I hang my bloodsoaked jacket to dry in a corner. Free couch—miracles. I collapse there, catching my breath properly for the first time in hours. Cassius hums softly.
SYSTEM: Ambient analysis: Safehouse maintains rudimentary power from hacked microgrid. Bandwidth: 0.17% (non-operational). Neighbors: none active.
Neighbors none active—I guess I'm alone. I rummage the place. A dusty shelf offers canned food and batteries. Check the radio: static. A crinkled electrical map marks several zones (Quarantine Zone to the north, corporate district to the east). I snap photos with my HUD. Might come in useful.
SYSTEM: XP Total: 185. Current Level: 3. Stat Point: +1, Skill Point: +1. Quest "Reach Safehouse" completed.
A new digital checklist flickers into view. Clear, completed in neat block letters. Next quest? Nothing. Cassius must be thinking about it.
I sit still and tense, adrenaline finally receding. My head aches. Thinking surfaces. I'm alive. I wiped blood, ash, sweat, and it was enough. Tomorrow comes, I'll live some more.
CASSIUS: Interested in next move? Could scavenge that police drone hanging out in Sector 4. Or don't. Your call, Heroic Meatbag.
Grinning, I let a long breath out. Perhaps I'll dream… of a cold shower and a hot meal. But not yet. Tonight, I just survive.
Beyond the barricaded door, Embergate shivers in neon rain. Inside, I roll onto my side, wrap the med-gauze tighter, and stare at the cracked ceiling. There's a long road ahead.
I close my eyes. For once, hope flickers just a little.
Chapter 4
I awake to the faint hum of the safehouse's power inverter. My head's fuzzy – must've passed out right after the Runner fight. My right arm, the cyber-blade, trembles slightly as I flex it. It clicks into place at my command, reassuring me it still lives. I'm strapped onto a battered cot in Safehouse 001, the one Cassius marked on my HUD. The walls around me are concrete, scarred with bullet holes and streaks of rust-red. Neon light from the street leaks in through a cracked window, casting eerie colors on the blood-slick floor. The smell of coolant and old vomit mingles with the antiseptic sting of the med-kit Cassius insisted I finish. I sit up gingerly, every muscle aching from yesterday's carnage.
A synthetic voice pipes in my skull. "Up and at 'em, Champion. Stat screen on your left reticle."
I glance left. Floating in mid-air, a holographic overlay hovers just outside my vision. It looks the same fractured green interface from the prison: a data panel with jagged digital borders. The words STATISTICS glow neon-green at the top. Below, numeric values:
LEVEL: 3
XP: 185 / 300 (Next Level at 300 XP)
STRENGTH: 6 (+1 unused) [Physical damage & carry]
AGILITY: 8
PERCEPTION: 8
TECH: 5
ENDURANCE: 6
LUCK: 2
Unused Stat Points: 1
Unused Skill Points: 1
The numbers are bright cyan against the dark HUD background. I blink at them. This all happened so fast. Barely a day, and I'm already Level 3. Cassius's smooth, sardonic voice echoes, "Congrats, your Royal Highness of the Damned. Level three—hardly the Emperor of new worlds, but you're climbing."
I rub my temples. "Cassius. That level-up glitch nearly fried my skull last night. Need a sec."
He doesn't answer, but the HUD panel flickers with definitions of each stat as if summoned by my thought. Maybe I can just read it directly.
Strength: Physical power and carry weight. Affects how hard I hit with melee and how many pounds I can pack.
Agility: Speed and reflexes. Faster reloads, quicker dodges, better stealth moves.
Perception: Awareness, tracking skills. Enhances my vision modes, target-lock, and ability to spot hidden traps or loot.
Tech: Aptitude with electronics and machines. Determines how fast I can hack doors, disable drones, or use high-tech gear.
Endurance: Raw vitality. More Hit Points (HP), higher stamina, and resistance to infection or toxins.
Luck: A wildcard stat. Influences critical hit chance, quality of loot, and weird chance events.
I grunt. So that's the menu. My brain sorts it slowly. "All right, Cassius, run me through this." I flex a hand to gesture, and the HUD scrolls down.
"You tell me, oh wise computer," I mutter, trying to keep the bitterness out of my voice. "What's Strength do again? Besides letting me punch zombies more?"
Cassius replies with a hint of amusement in his tone. "Strength increases your melee damage and carry capacity. Like it lets you swing heavier weapons or hurl smarter insults with more force. With higher Strength, you won't snap necks like a twig." His retort reminds me I have the folding gyro-blade in my arm; it folds out with a silent whir. "And if we find a heavy obstacle, you can haul it quicker. The more powerful you are, the more you can bash through barriers."
I nod slowly. Nice. More Strength = more smash. Not terrible.
"And Agility?" I swipe right. Cassius's text blinks. "That's your speed demon stat. Quickness in movement, firing rate, reaction time. Higher Agility means better dodging, faster combo attacks, and just general spryness. You're like a cat on hot wires already—Agility's why you dodge better than last ditch man in these alleys."
I smile despite myself. Being a cat in hell is better than nothing.
"Perception," I say, staring at the floating letters as they define themselves. Cassius: "Awareness. It boosts your ranged targeting, lets you spot hidden foes and treasures. Basically, it's the difference between you seeing a zombie sneaking up or getting pounced like a snack. In practical terms, your thermal vision, sound detection – you'll pick up clues others miss."
I think of how often the HUD's infrared vision helped me see those runner mutants in the dark. Good stat to have high.
"Tech," I read out loud, a smirk forming. The voice continues, "Tech handles your hacking and gadget skills. Everything from door hacks to dismantling security systems, to, say, jamming a drone. If you want to interface with the city's rotten tech—shit like that—it leans on Tech. Also improves any gear mods you might find, like better cyber-weapons."
Hacker instinct to the rescue. Not my highest stat, but this will do.
"Endurance." I glance to the number. "Think of Endurance as your durability. More HP, more stamina. It'll help soak damage and shrug off poison, radiation, whatever nasty stuff the plague throws. With higher Endurance, you can take more hits before keeling over—kind of like my iron will but in number form."
Luck. I raise an eyebrow. Cassius's tone gets playful. "The mysterious stat. Critical strikes, better loot chances, random perk chance—Luck is chaos in numerical form. High Luck means sometimes that dime on the street becomes a clip of bullets, or a zombie's drop yields a sweet prototype. Also, you might just survive that head-on collision with an oncoming Loader-zombie."
"Like when I survived that bloater?" I half-joke, but Cassius sighs.
"There, you see? A little luck on your side so you didn't become gas-mask stew. Mostly, though, just don't rely on it."
I lean back, letting my knees knock together as I sit cross-legged. The safehouse is small—a single room filled with scavenged cots and crates. A flickering fluorescent lamp overhead buzzes. Cobwebs and dust cover the corners. On a rickety table, my gear is spread out: my pipe (stashed low in rank now that I've proven it lethal), a battered flare, some bandages, empty bottles of water, and a first-aid injector. I have ammo for the small pistol Cassius let me find, but it's nearly spent. I'll scavenge better gear later. For now, I rely on what's on hand.
With these stats explained, the reason for our entire run becomes obvious. The System is all about progress. More XP, more levels. And that means fights. Dangerous fights. I feel a knot tighten in my gut. Every kill made me stronger, yes—but at a cost. The fact my last near-death unlocked a new power (Adrenaline Surge) still baffles me.
"Cassius." I say, almost under my breath. "Am I being, what…used? Like, the more trouble I get into, the more experience I get. You're pushing me to fight."
The AI chuckles darkly. "My dear Rook, what else did you expect? This is the System—an optimization engine, not a babysitter. Danger equals XP, XP equals strength, strength equals survival. I don't push reckless, but I nudge necessary. Trust me, scaling the food chain is key. Larger threats demand your power."
I scoff. "It's still twisted, that's all. Sometimes I feel like I'm bait."
He sighs mockingly. "Poor you. The alternative is cowering in a corner, waiting for one of these festering corpses to nosh on your face. Why not fight smarter, not fewer fights? And maybe enjoy the game."
Right, "game." He calls it that like it's fun. I close my eyes for a moment. No, it's life and death, and he sounds like a damn tour guide.
Opening them, I gaze at the cracked window. The LED map on my HUD overlays a translucent schematic of Embergate City. Sector 7 is off-limits, locked by walls and quarantine lines. The map highlights in jarring red all the slum and corporate sectors out there. Our small dot blinks in Sector 4, labeled "EMBKGATE – Sector 4 (Infested)." In green, far to the south, the inner city walls lie – still intact from what I can see.
Only this chunk is burning. The rest? According to the map, stable for now. "So," I say tentatively, "this sector's a slaughterhouse, but if I ran south… I might hit the wall or a safe zone."
Cassius's tone shifts, a hint of frustration. "You could, I suppose. Hightail it out the back door. But tell me, Rook, think a moment. The wall doesn't care about you; those gates have heavy defense. You think you and a satchel of beans have enough pull to slip through once the military comes around? Besides, aside from scavengers and dead tech, that wall holds something."
"Like?"
"Sanctuary? Outposts? Something safer than this neon gut-factory you're standing in? We don't know. But you won't find out running. Better to carve a path, get tough, then plan an exit."
The logic is there, ironically. My mouth almost curls as I retort, "And here I was thinking of handing in my membership card to the Bloodthirst Club."
Cassius's synthetic chuckle rumbles. "Membership unpaid. A bargain? Either way, the offer's still on the table. If you live a little, you'll live longer. Also, zombies are less likely to surprise you with dumb luck afterwards."
I lift a hand, eyeing the HUD where the city zone map rests. The quarantine walls are to the south-east, lit by spotlights that cut through the hazy morning fog. I could try for it, but half of me is still itching to see what killing a few dozen undead does to that XP meter. "Fine," I mumble, mostly to myself. "One more day of carnage, and then maybe I break out of here."
With decision settled by stubborn pride more than reason, I get to my feet. Every muscle in my body protests the move. My jacket creaks as I slip it on – the LED strips on the sleeves glow faintly blue. I cinch a belt of grenades and salvage pouches tighter around my waist, checking that the holster containing my pistol is secure. Not much ammo, but enough to make something. If I survive.
The safehouse's sparse living quarters give no more gear. Time to hit the streets.
Before leaving, I allocate my hard-won points. A glowing console appears on the HUD with a prompt:
LEVEL UP!
Stat Points Available: 1
Skill Points Available: 1
"Welcome to RPG-chanry-rook," Cassius offers. "Stat and skill points ready."
I frown, thinking of what I need most. My body still feels like it spent the night being chewed on. Endurance beckons — more hit points, more stamina. The safehouse rack listed Endurance as 6; with another point it becomes 7. I tap the Endurance stat. The value increments. [+1] glows green briefly. The HUD ticks, then confirms:
ENDURANCE: 6 → 7
HP +10.
Instantly, a numeric overlay shows +10 HP boosted. I breathe a little easier. My chest fills out, lungs pulling in a fuller breath as though some internal gauge just raised. More stamina means less cramp next sprint. Yes, this will do nicely.
Now, skill point. The HUD shifts to available skill trees: Combat, Tech, Survival. Each shows locked and unlocked nodes. I scroll through. Combat offers a "Tactical Reload" node (faster reload after kill), "Blackout Strike" (lethal finishing move), and survival has "Scavenger's Instinct" (find better loot). Tech has "Advanced Cyber-Scan" (improved scan range/detail).
CASSIUS pipes up: "Whaddya' think? We need more shells or more brainpower?"
Without hesitation, I point at Tech. "Advanced Cyber-Scan," I say. It fits: I rely on scanning to navigate deserted facilities and ambush enemies. Better scans mean fewer surprises.
"Selecting Advanced Cyber-Scan." The HUD locks it in with a satisfying chime. A tiny schematic appears: my hacking interface upgrading. "Cyber-Scan* enhanced. Scan radius increased, life-sign resolution improved."*
So basically, I'll spot things easier, see deeper under rubble. Sweet.
I close out the menus. With Endurance and Scanning boosted, I feel slightly more confident.
I turn to Cassius. "Okay, bring it, you digital asshole. Let's see what's out there."
He chuckles softly. "I was hoping you'd say that."
Slipping quietly to the door, I peer outside. The street is eerily silent. Dawn light fights through a carbon-choked sky. Neon signs and streetlights still glow in sickly red and green. (A tactic by whoever put this safehouse here – we still have power from some compromised grid.) A streetlamp's light falls in splashes on old concrete. Trash bins overflow; a pigeon flutters off. The enemy patrol drones – long deactivated without new fuel – hang motionless in the air around the city, like vultures that lost their dinner.
Footsteps and distant groans echo in the alley. I slip out into the open courtyard outside the safehouse entrance. The city is waking, but it's a nightmare dawn.
Blade in hand, I listen. Drone wings hum overhead. One mechanical whirr of a delivery drone around the corner. Concrete barriers, corroded guardrails, and piles of rubble scatter the wide street. A burned-out bus lies on its side, tires melted into the pavement. Steam still rises from torn sewer grates. The barrel of a neon soda machine stands pumping eerie ice fog.
Ahead, around a corner, I hear shuffling. Groans. The undead are about.
I step forward, silent as a ghost. The moonlight signs on storefronts let me navigate through this labyrinth. Something glints in the shadow near the crumpled bus: a zombie munching on a human leg (it looks like it, or maybe just shredded clothing). Shards of bone and marbled flesh scatter.
The rotten bastard doesn't see me yet. It's filthy and burned, like iron had been poured down its throat. I recognize this variant – a Creeper. Its hands and feet fused with barbed metal, it shoves a chunk of car door into its mouth as if trying to eat metal. Thick, web-like blood oozes from everything.
Creepers are nasty. Cassius confirmed: chance to infect on contact. Great. I creep closer, heels raised to avoid ankle snaps. It grunts around its meal. Its foot spikes glint in neon light, catching my eye.
Game time.
I tap my HUD: [SYSTEM ALERT] Creeper Zombie Detected (21m) in a flicker at my sight edge. Its name pops up with a red HP bar. "Lone, did you have to be like that?" I mutter under my breath.
I spring out from behind the bus, blade first. Flash of steel in neon strobe. The Creeper whirls, mouth open in a gurgle. Its hackles stand. I slide under its raised arm; blade slashes into its midsection. It screeches, lurches forward. Rotting flesh parts at the cut; crimson and black slime spurts on the pavement.
In my HUD, words appear:
ZOMBIE (Creeper) NEUTRALIZED +20 XP
Remaining HP: 0
My XP climbs to 205/300. Cassius pipes up, "Well done. Another notch on your blood-splattered scoreboard."
I wipe gore off the blade on the bus's twisted metal. One kill; relatively clean. I crouch, scanning for its mate. Maybe there were more around.
Suddenly, a shimmer in the alley catch my eye – Cassius's Enhanced Cyber-Scan flashing. The HUD highlights a corner ahead. Sure enough, through a rip in the dumpster's metal, I catch the glint of a running cable and two glowing eyes. Another zombie, but this time... something different.
It dashes into view with unnatural speed – Runner. Lean, sinewy. Clad in scraps of neon cloth and fused circuitry. Its face is human, but contorted in hunger; eyes too bright, like LEDs. Circuit tattoos on its skin... It's not one of ours. Possibly a mutation.
We both freeze for an instant. It's pink-haired, wearing a torn black jacket with neon trim. Two smaller feral zombies flank it: one human, one like a bloated cop-bot.
I snap to attention. Heart thuds like a subwoofer kick. Cassius aside: "Welcome to the freak show. That's Aria "Specter" Kobayashi. She's very twitchy."
I frown. "You mean she's a freak? She's not shambling."
Aria: she looks over at me, bright silver eyes glinting behind binocular-like implants. She doesn't speak, but waves a copper coil at the cop-bot zombie. A nanosecond later, the coil spins rapidly and latches onto the drone-zombie's head. Wires burst from it; the hybrid system convulses and collapses. Circuit tattoos across her arm glow, manipulating a spike through the creature.
She flicks the coil, and the Runner ladles its attention on the third monstrosity.
Aria darts forward with an inhuman flip, sword dagger drawn, slicing through one feral in the shoulder. As its robotic arms stiffen, she kicks it in the gut. It topples back, shrieking metal sparks.
A spray of bullets from an open car door bursts near me. Oh shit, civilians. I curse and cover my eyes for a moment. Cassius blares in my ear: "Heads up, Rook! Civilian targets! Great job, Specter."
I see it—some lunatic in a nail-studded jacket trying to hop into the car as a zombie tries to bite him. Fuck. I rush forward.
Leaping low, I slam my blade into the foot of a runner who lunged at a crumpled lamppost. It topples, shrieking. Aria dives through the air, connects with another quick slash that snaps a freak's spine.
The last runner (with the pink hair) stumbles back, facing me. Her silver eyes flash concern at me, not unlike horror. "Get back!" I warn her, though she's already moving.
She effortlessly vaults behind me and catches the mutt from behind its knee. Its spine creaks. Rook and Specter, back-to-back, two of us against three.
We blitz in coordinated instinct. The third zombie (the bloated cop-bot) roars unsteadily on its knees. I roll to my left, and as it lunges, I jab upwards. The cyborg's jaw fuses shut with another mechanical snap, its eyes flicker. Aria then leaps onto its back, yanking wires until it collapses onto its face, sparking.
The walker behind me (the metallic zombie) snaps at nothing as Aria finishes it with a neck snap.
Silence falls between the thrashing bodies. We stand in the middle of the street, chest-heaving. Neon signs blink overhead: "KARUCO RAMEN" flickers, minus the 'K'. A soda advertisement glitches on the wall: a pixelated mouth screams. Everywhere, the city's decay glows electric.
Our eyes meet. Pink and silver. Hers curious and slightly amused. Mine a bit wary.
"You mind?!" She throws a look at the last moving corpse, which gurgles. With a dive, she slices into its skull cleanly. We step back, surveying the damage. Four zombies, neatly sliced, bodies now twitching with second-hand death rattle. Blood runs in black rivulets over the cracked asphalt.
Cassius's silent take: "Nice show. Amateur hour, but coordination was cute."
I snort. "Say that again and I'll unplug you."
Specter brushes flecks of gore from her neon-pink ponytail. For a moment, the fading adrenaline gives her a statuesque calm. Her silver eyes narrow at my stance. She raises an eyebrow.
"You hack robots," I say warily. "You gonna hack me next?"
She smirks, glancing at my armblade. Circuit tattoos across her pale forearms glow faintly. "Only if you're rotten on the inside. Name's Aria. But you probably know that."
"How do I know that?" I ask, puzzled.
She glances at the HUD overlay blipping above my eyes. "Is Cassius your personal ghost?" She says in a light voice, cheeky. "That voice inside your head. You got a railed-on computer buddy?"
Fuck. The HUD. Is it showing to her? I sweep the menu back out of sight as if I can.
"Special ocular gel I guess." She winks. "Rookie moves: killing Zeds like a boss. Nice."
I shrug, pretending calm. "Not actually big on freebies. Cassius here is a friend. Or a frenemy. He's a chatty one."
She laughs softly, a high metallic tinkle. "He's definitely a frenemy. We have one of those too."
We start backing up, shoulders still nearly touching in alert stance. The adrenaline fades in our veins, replaced by a glow of intrigue.
"So, Specter, as my AI friend calls you," I begin, ignoring Cassius's whining. "What's your deal? Surviving in the same cesspit?"
She folds her arms, quirking a shard of the destroyed zombie's skull onto a street grate. "Gotta survive, right? I'm headed for the Quarantine Zone wall on the east side. They say there's a network of hackers, maybe a safe haven for doing things our way."
I nod. The wall is the rumored boundary of the old city core – heavily fortified. "Smart. This sector's a shark tank. If you can hack it, maybe find other tech-heads there."
She gives me an unreadable smile. "And you? Running some errands in undead territory?"
A snort. "Trying to earn a few levels."
She quirks an eyebrow. "You're literally grinding monsters."
What does she think? I force a grin. "Better grinding than freelancing to whichever zombie bites me first. Besides… it's kind of addictive, actually."
Aria eyes me appraisingly. "Most people I know here go straight for the wall, not sit around tossing corpses for points."
I shrug, flicking a piece of wet hair from my own face. "Call me weird. Maybe I like the grind, not the prize. I'm on the clock now. Got bloodlust in my veins – has to be scratched."
She laughs again, genuine this time. "You're twisted, aren't ya?"
"Just hungry," I say, adjusting the strap on my med kit pack.
We stand there, the city noise creeping back in. A distant siren, the buzz of a firing electricity line. The broken neon train whirls overhead, scratching a melody across the night. Aria's silver eyes find mine. Something flickers – an electric current between us, or just adrenaline.
"You wouldn't happen to have an extra stat point?" She teases softly.
I smirk. "Life isn't fair."
She cracks a grin. I step close to scoop something from the downed foe. A charging battery pack! The dead cop-bot has a foot-long cylinder blinking. Perfect. I plug it into my belt slot. My HUD shows [CHARGED: +15 Energy Cells].
She nods approvingly. "Nice. Energy cells are hard to come by."
"Taken." Cassius shoots me a glance. "Though I was thinking dinner first."
Aria arches an eyebrow. "Hacker talk. Heads up, tin man." She scans my HUD glitchily. "You pulling tech moods from your implant?"
"CASSIUS, I retort quickly inside my head, give the lady a tour.
CASSIUS pipes up aloud, voice tinted with static humor. "Meet my humble self. The sublime System AI CASSIUS at your service, darling Aria. Compliments? I hear we have mutual friends."
Aria narrows her eyes and smiles. "You got chutzpah talking like you're more than a voice."
"Only due respect, Specter, but I came online before you opened your mouth."
She laughs at that. It's weird, but infectious. I feel a strange kinship forming, despite my usual lone-wolf groove.
"Well, Aria, I gotta bounce. I'm scoping this sector." I gesture down the road.
She steps toward me suddenly, puckering her lips. "Be careful out here, Rook. Not everything's as scripted as our little show. Don't do anything reckless… unless you have to."
Our eyes lock, just for a moment. Her neon pink hair drifts like a flame in the alley's cold breeze. I think I blush.
We part after that.
Aria lifts her chin. "Stay alive, Rook. Maybe I'll see you on the other side."
I salute with my blade as a joke. "You too, ghost."
She melts into the shadows, slipping between abandoned cars, already scanning for new signals. The silver glow of her eyes is gone by the time I hear the first low growl from down the street.
So… Aria "Specter" Kobayashi, huh. Hacker by trade. Fiery and brave, it seems. She vanished as quickly as she arrived. But right now, I have other flesh to fry.
She was heading out – presumably toward the wall – whereas I stay on this kill-floor. The adrenaline pulse lingers. The corpses and cables are left behind me, and I jack my adrenaline surge off. Glint. Done.
Time to hunt.
I dial my focus up, sense sharpened. Drones lazily buzz overhead; flickers of neon run across puddles on cracked pavement, graffiti glistens in the early light. From the scooter's lens, I could almost taste the tension in the air. Cassius remains ironically calm: "Monster trophy number unknown: Rook picking up scavengers. Score: 205 XP."
I don't answer. Sometimes I find talking to the AI wastes focus. But a joking remark pops out. "21 more XP and I'll be level four, right? Maybe I should kill that creeper last."
Cassius snorts through my link. "The one with the train tint? Yeah, go for it. I'll adjust the meter."
I smirk, scanning. Another groan reverberates from a sewer grate behind the bus. No doubt more of the damned. I switch to scan mode manually, unleashing the new Cyber-Scan. A faint sonar ping ripples outward from me, shades of midnight blue: faint heat signatures, electronic tags. A faint ghosting flickers on my HUD of another zombie loping in the distance, twelve meters to the right. Closer: a small mutant hissing behind a vending machine.
[SYSTEM MESSAGE]: Hazard: Mutated Zombie – Atkin Variant Detected, 12m EAST
A drooling figure with elongated arms. I chuckle darkly. Cassius: "Hey, maybe you scare it with your breath, huh? That thing's part spider."
"Never trust a vacuum cleaner dog."
I maneuver quietly. Not head-on yet. These thick-skinned mutants can spray acid or jump. I need a plan. Observing the alley around me: barrels, rusted cars, that lamppost, my old friend the flare.
I spot a pair of zip-ties from the safehouse stashed in my pack. Booby-trap maybe? I could anchor a trip-wire. I dash behind a dumpster and snap one end to a leg of the smashed soda machine. Reel out a wire quietly. Across the alley between crates, a steady handful of wire. Good. It's hardly stealthy, but maybe the quick movement won't draw its attention.
The mutant creeps up, back hunched, eyes scanning. I hold breath. It steps exactly into my wired trap. With a thunk, its leg snaps on the wire, and it stumbles. The jarred zombie shrieks, swatting at the wire and lumbering backward.
Now. I rush out from cover. It's free now but off-balance. Blade up. I slide under its next swipe, and it wobbles. Then I spin, windmilling the gyro-blade into its side. Purple ichor sprays. Its legs crumple.
[Adrenaline Surge Activated] The city sounds slow in my ears. Cassius quips, "That trap thing you set? Impressive. Who are you, Rook Spider-Man?"
With the rush of endorphins, I break apart the trap wire and coil it around the mutant's body, jerking it so it topples face-first. A quick finish. In one fluid move, just like that, it's over.
"Mutated Zombie Neutralized +20 XP," flashes on my HUD. XP now 225.
I open my eyes to normal speed, breathing a bit heavy. This adrenaline thing is turning me into a demon on reflex.
"That was almost fun," I admit begrudgingly to Cassius.
He condescends, "Practically humming with delight, you taxidermist."
I grit my teeth. If the voice wasn't synthetic, I'd punch it. Instead, I check my surroundings again. One, two, three kills down and I've got 40 XP. Not bad, but still shy of the next level. Maybe tonight, after a few more.
I move down the alley toward the bus. Broken neon windows overhead, twitching holographic ads flicker onto spilled puddles. My boots splash through something soggy – old blood, maybe guts. The smell of decay clings to the humid air. Somewhere behind me a rooster—a lone one?—crows into the ruins.
Ahead, between two burnt-out cars, I see a horde of shamblers shambling. Ten, at least. They're picking at an old road sign. Dull blue eyes reflecting neon. They'd never know I was near unless I twitch. No stealth here: I can't dodge that many.
Traps. They're big so low traps only do so much. But maybe I can thin them out first. I toss a brick or two among them, causing them to lurch and slowly converge.
"Objective: Cleanse the group," Cassius suggests. "Beguile them one at a time."
As they smell the trick, one lunges at me. Already half-panicked, I backpedal into the bus's broken door, slam it shut to trap a couple inside? Yes, scramble. The two pinned inside slash against the metal.
From my hip, I draw my pistol and fire two shots. One zombie topples (Spitter variant – blew its head off). The other, I kick away. The throng's pushing, the trapped pair try to chew through.
"Come on, think, Rook, think," I murmur. The enclosed space. If I block it again, I trap more of them?
I shift a big chunk of metal pipe left by the bus. Wedge it in the doorway as a barricade. It rattles, but they can't get it open easily. The horde on the street now surges toward me. I lock eyes with my target: the biggest one, a bloated Nurse variant, crawling out of an alley. Fangy, drool dripping. It tastes fear. It's coming at me raw.
Time to kill. Adrenaline ready. I pull the trigger of the pistol, unloading remaining two bullets—one grazing another's jaw, second put another down. The Nurse rears, hisses.
I charge it. Side-step its lunging bite, slide behind it. Whip out the cable I found on one of the corpses. It's almost a whip now. I lash at its ankles and upper body. It screeches, the cable digging, binding. It struggles but can't pull away. It's off-balance.
I knee it hard as it thrashes, and in slow motion Cassius's voice is clear, "GLITCH PULSE ACTIVATED."
Neon frizzles. Everything slows. The Nurse reaches out, snapping, missing. The cable tightened around its legs and neck.
In that slow motion scene, I use my borrowed time. One foot on its spine, I drive my blade through the sticky flesh of its neck—split chin to throat. Lungs deflate with a last gurgle.
I step back. The glitch wears off. The Nurse collapses.
[Zombie (Nurse) NEUTRALIZED +20 XP]
I revel a second, gunsmoke and stale gore in the air, heart pounding. The residue of adrenaline surges through me. I'm so high I could probably fly.
Cassius's voice is excited. "Nice one! Slow-mo decapitation with extra cable. Very creative."
I roll eyes (though he can't see). "Thanks, carpenter of the dead."
I check the other handful of shamblers. Two are trapped behind my welded door trap. Another about a dozen milling around. They don't seem aware. Let's thin them further.
I heft a rusty green detonator I scavenged from some bombed-out storefront (score early-game loot!). It's a drum of propane I rigged with an electric grenade. I drop it in the middle of the group and run. Deadly silence for a second – then, WHOOOMPH.
The bus on fire, zombies charred and convulsing. The alley glows hellish orange. The rest scream in throaty rage, staggering away.
"ZOMBIES NEUTRALIZED +80 XP" flashes – the whole group went up. Bonus XP for traps I guess. Score goes to 305 XP, which means LEVEL UP (time to hit 4!).
A neon-green LEVEL UP! banner pulses across the air. I've been wanting a reason to cock an eyebrow. Cassius: "Level 4 achieved! Enjoy your moment of glory, warlord."
I grin and bow mockingly. New points already stacking in HUD.
This safehouse crawl seems like the right move after all. These fights are shaping me.
Physically, I feel less worn out, thanks to that Endurance boost. Mentally sharper, adrenaline less jagged.
I catch myself managing scenarios instead of just bashing. Cleverness was all I had, after all. Cassius guessed it early: "Fight smarter."
I think I might just get what he meant.
As the flames die down, smoke curls up to meet the neon haze. A delivery drone limps overhead, its spotlight skipping around on busted pavement. There's life in the city, ugly but alive.
Level four. I display the HUD again:
LEVEL: 4
XP: 5 / 400
STR: 6
AGI: 8
PER: 8
TECH: 5
END: 7
LUK: 2
Unused Stat Points: 2
Unused Skill Points: 1
I now have 2 stat points waiting and 1 skill point. Nice.
Cassius entreats, "Stat dump time, boss. Make it burn."
I stifle a grin. Still on adrenaline, I feel invincible. A few more points and I could handle anything. If I want to keep it that way.
I look at the screen. Strength still 6, Agility 8, Perception 8, Tech 5, Endurance 7, Luck 2.
What's next? I could pile into Agility, but two others feel low too. Luck is just 2—maybe that's fine low for now. Tech is 5, pretty low. If I can hack stuff, maybe I should prioritize that. But immediate survival: more Strength means bigger hits, so maybe do that again? Or Endurance even more?
The memory of a second-chance from that Bloater night still haunts me a bit. It reminds me I'm not unstoppable. Maybe a mix is smart.
I hesitate. Cassius pipes up, impatient, "Decision time, punch dummy."
I growl back, "Not a dummy, smart." Rolling eyes at my own sass, which, to be honest, I'm not sure is directed at Cassius or myself.
I'll put one into Strength (I feel muscular still but could hit harder) and one into Tech. The world's got weird mechanical things; my hacker skills should get help.
And Skill point? Maybe new skill: "Tactical Trap" or something? Let's see the menu again:
Combat tree: "Overwatch Sniper" (headshots do extra), "Shadow Strike" (sneak attack bonus).
Tech tree: "EMP Blast" (short-range pulse drains electronics), "Hacking Protocol" (can hack certain zombies).
Survival: "First Aid Mastery," "Endurance Training."
Hacking a zombie? "Hacking Protocol" sounds nifty. I like being able to jolt a crawly.
But Tactical-wise: maybe a turret or blackouts.
But to fit theme: Hacking. Or maybe EMP to disable drones and mechs easily.
Considering drones up there: yeah, "EMP Blast." That would fry nearby electronics and stun. Handy if I get swarmed with bots.
Yes, that seems useful.
So: Strength +1 (to 7), Tech +1 (to 6). Then pick skill: EMP Blast.
I do it. The HUD pulses:
STRENGTH: 6 → 7
TECH: 5 → 6
Skill Unlocked: EMP Blast
A small schematic flickers: like a rounded wave from my palm. Cassius explains: "EMP Blast – unleash a short-range electromagnetic pulse, frying bot brains and stunning cyber-infected."
I flex experimentally. Might come in handy when drones or robo-zeds are nearby. Should pack my EMP grenades if I find them now.
Now — time to move on. I don't see any immediate reinforcements of zombies, but I do have roaming these alleys. Aria's tagline "walk carefully" echoes.
I leave the burnt area behind and continue deeper into Sector 4.
The streets narrow. Buildings crumble, old transparent neon adverts still flicker in the gloom. Something scurries behind a dumpster to my right. Cassius and I were once on survival mode, but adrenaline is dormant now. I scan: a slender Runner mutant, perched on a fire escape, silver eyes glint. He drops and crashes near a wire barrier (still live, no fuel).
He looks at me, uninterested in a fight — oh right, because a pale figure stands behind him.
Aria steps from the shadows, hands in her coat pockets, neon-pink hair in a messy bun. Her gaze sweeps the alley before meeting mine.
We share a look: no kill zone, no threat. Just acknowledging each other.
"You survived," I remark wryly.
She grins, stepping over one of those fallen drones. "See? Told you I'd see you again."
Behind us, one of the tied shotgun pumps drop to the floor with a hiss. We both snap to attention. A Hornet: a fast-flying mutated drone that's been chasing me for half a minute now. The bastard was about to snipe Rook.
I didn't notice her approach — guess she did. Pink hair glows with static, her knife slicing through the Hornet's metal wing mid-flight. Sparks rain. It loses balance, crashes behind a metal door.
I smirk. Aria grins back, edges her close, and ruffles my hair (she jumps from a low ledge onto me, quick as a cat). My cyber-eye flickers; hers tinkers with some embedded chip. She's smiling wide, almost defiant.
"You're really a piece of work, Rook," she says softly.
I laugh quietly. "So are you, Specter."
Blood and gore are our shared dish. A tiny smile now breaks a hardened routine.
But the moment can't last. We step around and kill that Hornet piece by piece. Aria pulls out a portable scanner and datajack I hadn't noticed, tapping skulls (the cobbled brains of mechanical zombies after the EMP).
She works quickly. "Huh, that was funnier than hacking a traffic light. Hey, I saw on your face when you leveled—felt it too."
"Yeah," I nod, still breathing heavy. "Good stuff."
She looks at me from the side, expression playful. "You think this system inside you is… actual destiny? Or just binary shit?"
I pause. Real question. "Hell if I know. Maybe it's punishing me for my past. Or saving me." I shrug. "For now, it's the only thing I have that pulls these strings. It's complicated."
Her eyes, silver bright, lock mine. "It's gotta scare you sometimes, huh? Being guided by...something else."
I smirk again, already inside. "Yeah. But I survived one hell of a prison. If anything, the System's the only constant friend in my head. I guess I'm getting used to the idea — and using it to have the upper hand."
Aria steps closer. "Yeah. I'm a ghost in the machine, too, if you catch my drift. Knowing I can trust something means it's risky."
Dangerous gaze. It's flirty but real. The neon casting outlines on her face make those silver eyes gleam. Her nose tip scrunches. "Looking to see who'll blink first, huh?"
"Guess so."
We share a second of silence. The world hums around us — distant alarms, the moan of an alarmed scooter on standby. Even the early dawn winds pick up, dust swirling.
Aria breaks it. "Alright, Night Hunter." She extends a limp hand. "I may want your system's secrets someday. Don't give me too hard a time."
I take her hand in greeting. "Just call me Rook."
She presses my hand briefly and releases. "Ride safe, Rook. These streets are chewing gum: sticky and unexpected."
I raise a finger in a mock salute. "You too. I'll be around if you get bored of hacking the dark."
She smiles, and steps back into the shafts of neon and shadow. "Later, Rook Jensen." The name sounds strange out loud. My surname feels like an echo when she says it.
Specter flicks out a data shard. "Catch." She tosses it. Instinctively, I snatch it with my fingertips. It's a small chip with circuits.
"Careful," she smirks. "System's bread crumb. Or friend request." Before I can ask, she's already gone – melting around a corner, pink hair a flickering neon trace.
I stare at the block she dropped. My HUD scans it: [Encrypted data chip – possible interface link to Aria's network]. She's leaving clues? Or just some decryption key?
Cassius in my head: "Shall I upload it for later? Little gamer gifts?"
She might have just left me an ally beacon. Maybe a trap – but she's no slouch. If she trusts me with that, maybe she's not entirely hostile.
"Cassius," I mutter quietly. "Lesson time. You think that link's safe?"
He sounds disappointed. "Where's the fun in that? Fine, scanning. It looks like an access code, probably to some hacked server."
I pocket it. Even if it's not safe, and in the slim chance she turned on me, at least I have Aria's code to play with later. Better than nothing. I need all edge I can get.
The footsteps behind me are slow and measured. Two shamblers, crawling, arms flailing like at a seance. I spin, dagger up. They're gluttons, likely drew in by the drone's crash. That EMP must've fried their brains.
Quick. In a flash, I plunge the blade into one's spine. Cassius confirms: +20 XP. The body goes limp. I nail the second with my armblade, blood spurts.
Another +20 XP. My HUD surges to 305 again (though I don't track precisely now).
I take a steadying breath. Tools: maybe time to exit to safehouse to heal up and stash loot.
I pause at the building corner, scanning the city. The rising sun's rays reach over the horizon. Neon signs flicker off gradually as daylight steals scene. Smoke from fires drifts up, birds begin to peck garbage.
I catch myself grinning for the first time in days. Leveling up, teaming with someone, fighting together - that's connection. I'm not only a survivalist anymore. Something is untying in my guts. Maybe I'm enjoying it, this life.
Cassius notes: "Looks like the carnage recharges you, huh?"
I smirk at him. "Don't piss in my adrenaline, buddy."
He laughs, quietly. "Working on it."
Another disembodied voice in my head. Strange peace washes over me as I make my way to Safehouse 001 once more, carving a path behind me. Streets that were nightmares now feel oddly like home.
As I fade from alley to alley, I sweep each block clean. Booby trap in one, concentrate fire in another. No chaos; just a game. A game I'm winning by the dozen casualties at a time.
I slide down a fire escape to the street level. Sunlight hits me full in the chest. It warms my shoulders.
One zombie left at the bakery corner, half its face blown off. It must've heard me creeping. It staggers forward through a haze of flour from broken bakery walls. I cock the pistol. The final shot is antifreeze to this nightmare: a clean hole through its brain. It falls like a puppet with its strings cut.
[ZOMBIE NEUTRALIZED +20 XP]
That taps me to… 345 XP (approx). Just shy of level 5 (need 400). But I already feel significantly stronger.
My reflection shimmers in the cracked window of a convenience store I passed. Recessed eyes glowing. Cut marks, dried blood on my jacket. I hardly recognize myself – and yet I do. He's there. A brawler with honor, playing a twisted chess game.
I push off the door to Safehouse 001. The old keypad is fried, but I rigged a bypass with my last flare (soft hack). It sparks and obliges. The door opens.
Inside, I collapse onto the cot. Safehouse #001, my little fortress among the ruins.
CASSIUS now speaks softer. "Rest well, victorious one. More battles await."
Rest I do. My mind replays the encounters: the traps, the gliding kills, Aria's eyes. The adrenaline seeps out. Fatigue presses on me like a lead vest.
But I rest with confidence. I've beaten the odds at every turn. Each XP climbed, each level earned means I'm less prey, more predator in this game.
Outside, through broken blinds, the city's humming liveliness breathes neon life. Everything is fucked up, yes—but it's a world I'm starting to understand and, more importantly, to master. I've lost some innocence for sure, but found a strange pride in the carnage.
Rook Jensen has a purpose now. Survival was just the tutorial. Level up, gear up, step up.
Tomorrow, I'll wake up and do it again. And the day after. And keep on.
The skyline glows as dusk approaches. Somewhere far off, sirens wail and drip of distant gunfire echoes. That's my cue that the world's still turning.
I close my eyes. For the first time, that's okay. In this brutal grind, I finally know what to aim for.
CASSIUS (softly, as darkness falls around us): "Until the next kill, Rook."