The floor underfoot swelled and dipped with each slow wave of the Worm's body, a deep muscle roll that made the walls breathe. Rusty moved cautiously, her boots sinking slightly into the damp, fibrous flesh. Each step had to be deliberate — too quick and you'd slip on the slick film coating everything.
Olmo stayed close enough for his shoulder to brush her arm with every shift. His small hand clung to the back of her coat, and though his head darted from side to side, his gaze always flicked back to her, checking, as if making sure she hadn't started rusting again. She noticed it. Didn't comment.
"Stay close," she murmured anyway, voice low, because sound seemed to travel strangely here — not far, but deep, like it sank into the walls.
They passed the remains of others who hadn't made it. A collapsed figure curled into a corner of muscle fold, its skin half-eaten and flaking away like brittle iron. A weapon — something between a machete and a saw — lay still clutched in its hand. Another body hung from the wall itself, fused to the tissue as if the Worm had grown around it. Olmo's face tightened; he turned his head away.
Here and there, the meat was cut — not torn by digestion, but sliced. Deep, straight wounds lined the wall in patterns. Rusty touched one as they passed. The edges had healed over slightly, but the lines were too clean to be natural. Someone had fought here before.
The Worm lurched. Not its usual rolling gait — this was uneven, as if it had twisted sharply in its sleep. Both of them staggered, knees buckling. Rusty slammed a palm into the wall for balance. Olmo nearly lost his footing entirely, catching himself on her arm.
"You okay?" she asked.
He nodded quickly, but his eyes stayed wide. "It's… moving weird."
They moved slower after that.
Up ahead, the passage narrowed, then rose. The muscle floor angled upward into a series of ridges — uneven, stacked, like a crude staircase. Each "step" glistened, wet, the ridges flexing faintly in rhythm with the Worm's pulse. Rusty halted at the base, staring.
"Don't like it," Olmo whispered.
"Yeah. Me neither."
She scanned around, then spotted something — a loose limb, rusted stiff, lying near a wall fold. She nudged it closer with her boot. "Pick that up."
Olmo recoiled. "It's… a hand."
"Doesn't have to be your friend. Just grab it."
He made a face, lifted it between two fingers like it might bite him, then hurled it onto the fleshy stair. It landed with a wet slap. Nothing happened.
"See? Fine." Rusty took a breath and stepped onto the first ridge.
It happened instantly — the "step" clenched. Muscle closed around her calf, pulling down.
"Shit!" She yanked back, but the grip tightened, heat and pressure forcing its way up her boot.
"Rusty!" Olmo grabbed her arm, leaning back with his full weight. The flesh pulled harder, a slow suction that felt like it was trying to draw her into itself. She dug her other boot into the lower ridge and pushed, pain sparking through her knee.
One more pull — and she came free. They tumbled backward together, hitting the slick floor hard.
The ridges shuddered. Something moved beneath them.
Then they came — beetle-like things, their shells the color of tarnished copper, legs sharp enough to pierce flesh. They poured out of the stair in a clattering swarm, mandibles clicking.
Olmo froze. Rusty grabbed his wrist.
The first beetle leapt.
Rusty shoved Olmo sideways just as the first beetle's mandibles clamped shut inches from her face. Its jaws scraped together with a shriek of metal-on-metal. She caught it by its slick, jointed head, the legs scratching and stabbing at her forearms.
"Rusty!" Olmo's voice cracked.
More beetles spilled down the ridges behind the first.
She gritted her teeth, drove her forehead into the thing's carapace. Pain shot through her skull, but the beetle reeled just enough for her to fling it away. She pivoted toward Olmo — he was stumbling back, hands up, as two more beetles skittered straight for him.
Not a chance.
She lunged, slamming her fist into one with enough force to send it clattering across the floor. The second clamped onto her shoulder — the bite was molten, tearing through cloth and flesh alike. She screamed but didn't stop, grabbing it by the thorax and wrenching it loose, flinging it into the wall.
"Stay behind me!" she barked, planting herself between him and the swarm. Blood seeped down her arm, hot and slick, but she lifted her fists all the same, body low, knees bent.
The beetles came in fast and from angles. She ducked a lunge, drove a fist into one's abdomen; its legs scrabbled uselessly before she flung it aside. Another tried to slip past her on the left — she turned, shoulder-checking it away. A third darted right for Olmo's legs; she spun, sweeping her foot to kick it into the wall.
Every movement cost her — claws cut across her ribs, a mandible caught her thigh, and she gasped as pain stole her breath.
The blood from her shoulder wound wasn't red anymore. It gleamed with an odd orange shimmer. The same shade began to creep along her knuckles where skin split open. She barely noticed — there was no room to think about it.
"Rusty—" Olmo's voice was high, tight with fear.
The Worm lurched again, harder this time. She staggered sideways; Olmo was flung toward the wall, his back hitting the slick surface with a grunt. The beetles saw their opening — three of them darted for him, mandibles snapping.
Rusty pushed forward, but two others intercepted her, cutting her off. She fought to push past, but claws raked her stomach. Behind her, Olmo yelled as beetles grabbed at his shirt, tearing at the fabric.
Not him. Not here.
Her hand clamped around one beetle's shell — and something inside her broke loose. A cloud burst from her palm, a fine, bitter-smelling dust that hung in the air like orange smoke. The beetle screeched, its shell pitting and cracking. Rusty shoved it away, lunged for Olmo.
She hit the first beetle dragging him with a hook punch. The dust followed her fist, exploding in the air, clinging to the others — and their armor began to flake and crumble.
Olmo was coughing, pulling himself up. Even now, he was trying to twist free so he wasn't dead weight. She yanked him behind her again, panting, fists trembling. That strange orange crust coated her knuckles now.
The beetles regrouped and came again. This time, when she punched, the air around her blows seemed to crackle with that same dust. Shells dented, split. She wasn't faster, but she was meaner — and they were breaking.
Still, she couldn't cover every angle. Two beetles flanked her — one from the side, one straight for her spine.
Something hit the side one first. Hard.
A rusted arm — skeletal, brittle — had broken free from a nearby corpse and swung like a club. The beetle reeled, confused for just long enough that Rusty smashed it into the floor.
Olmo stared at the arm in his hands. "It… worked?"
He grabbed another rusted scrap from the ground — a broken weapon handle — and hurled it at a beetle's head. It struck, leaving a powdery smear of rust in the air. Rusty stepped through that cloud and hit the beetle — it shattered like glass under her fist.
They fell into a rhythm. Rusty blocking, hitting, moving. Olmo darting around behind her, throwing whatever rusted debris he could find into the swarm. Every time she punched through one of those clouds, the effect multiplied — shells split, joints locked.
But it wasn't clean. Rusty's lip split. A claw tore into her calf. Olmo took a glancing hit on the arm that left him wincing. Both were panting hard, slick with sweat and blood.
Finally, the beetles began to pull back, their armored bodies clattering against the fleshy walls as they retreated into the dark.
Rusty stayed still for a moment, fists still raised, just to make sure they weren't bluffing. Her breath came in ragged, shallow gulps.
Olmo's shoulder pressed against her side. "You… you okay?"
She tried to answer, but the words didn't come out right. Her legs felt watery. She looked down and saw the dark stain spreading from her shoulder, dripping down her arm. The bite wound. She'd been moving too much to notice how much blood she'd lost.
Her vision blurred. The walls seemed to sway, though the Worm had gone still.
"Rusty? Hey—HEY!" Olmo's hands were on her arms, holding her upright, his face pale with panic.
She managed a half-smile. "Still… alive." Her knees buckled.
Olmo caught her, but her weight dragged them both down to the slick, quivering floor.
"Stay with me! Rusty!" His voice was sharp now, desperate.
She wanted to tell him she would, that she wasn't going anywhere, but the warmth in her limbs was pulling her under. Olmo's words began to stretch and fade, swallowed by the dull roar in her ears.
The last thing she felt was his hands shaking her, the faint tremor of the Worm's heartbeat beneath them. Then nothing.