The first thing Rusty felt was warmth. Not the damp, metallic chill of the tunnels, but something soft… almost golden.
She was small again. Her legs didn't ache, her chest didn't burn. She sat cross-legged on a threadbare blanket, the kind her mother used to keep folded in the corner of their quarters. In front of her sat her mother, knees tucked, hair tied back the way she always did when she read.
The old book lay open in her lap—its corners frayed, its pages yellowed but still holding that faint smell of paper, something rare now. The cover showed a faded drawing of a green hill beneath a blue sky.
"Tonight," her mother said, smiling, "we'll read about the surface."
Rusty leaned forward, eyes wide. "The real surface?"
Her mother nodded, tracing the words with a careful finger as she read:
"…And up there, the stars come out one by one, like lanterns floating in a sea of black. The air smells clean, and the trees—"
"What's a tree like again?" Rusty interrupted, already grinning.
Her mother chuckled. "Tall. Taller than our tunnels. They have branches that reach out like arms, and leaves that whisper when the wind moves through them." She turned the book around, showing Rusty the illustration of a great oak, its roots curling like a giant's toes.
Rusty sighed dreamily. "One day, we'll go up there, right?"
"One day," her mother promised, brushing a strand of hair from Rusty's face. "I promise."
The reading went on. Rusty rested her head against her mother's arm, watching her mouth shape the words as if they were spells. She felt safe, safe in the way that made her forget about the constant hum of machinery and the smell of rust.
Then her mother turned the page. The new picture was strange—dark soil cut away to show wriggling shapes beneath it.
"Worms," her mother read softly. But something in her voice faltered.
Rusty looked up.
Her mother wasn't sitting on the blanket anymore. They were in a tunnel now—narrow, wet, the shadows stretching too far. Her mother stood ahead of her, the book hanging at her side. And behind her, the shadows shifted.
Rusty's heart pounded. "Mom?"
The darkness bulged, and from it, a vast, pale shape slid forward—segmented flesh rippling. The mouth opened, rings of teeth glinting wetly.
"Run!" Rusty screamed, rushing forward, grabbing her mother's arm. She pulled, but her mother barely moved, her gaze distant, locked on the thing behind her.
The tunnel walls groaned. The thing surged. Rusty pulled harder.
Then everything went black.
She woke up.
Her chest rose and fell in shallow, shaking breaths. She couldn't see much—just an endless dark pressing in around her. Her body felt wrong, too heavy in some places and too light in others. Her arms trembled when she tried to push herself up.
The silence was loud.
She swallowed, but it felt like her throat was made of sand. She could feel herself breaking—inside and out. Not just the pain from her wounds, but something deeper. A crack in the part of her that had kept her moving.
That's when she saw it.
A faint smear of orange, drifting lazily in the dark. Not a glow, but a color that didn't belong here.
Her fingers scraped against the floor as she reached. The movement tore through her muscles, but she kept going, dragging herself inch by inch.
When her hand broke into the orange, it swirled like smoke disturbed by wind. Then it moved—towards her.
Before she could flinch, it curled around her face, slipping past her lips and into her nose.
It tasted like heat. Like metal and something sweet she couldn't name.
Rusty jerked awake with a gasp, coughing hard enough to make her ribs ache. Something gritty and metallic sprayed from her mouth in fine bursts—orange flecks that drifted into the air before dissolving into the gloom. Her throat felt scorched, her tongue dry as old leather.
She blinked, vision swimming. The ceiling above her pulsed faintly, veins of pale flesh flexing with the Worm's slow movements. She was still inside it.
"Rusty?"
She turned her head. Olmo was kneeling beside her, relief flooding his face. His hair was damp with sweat, his breathing uneven. He wasn't wearing his shirt.
" you're back!" he said, voice trembling.
It took her a second to realize they weren't where they'd been before the fight. The ground here was slicker, the smell stronger—like copper and rot mixed together.
"How…?" she croaked.
"Don't move yet." He slipped an arm under her shoulder, helping her sit up. Her side burned, and she glanced down. Her wounds were wrapped tight in makeshift bandages—thin strips of cloth, stained rusty brown.
She frowned. "Is this…?"
Olmo looked away. "Yeah. It's mine. You were bleeding bad. I thought—" His jaw tightened. "I thought I'd lost you."
Rusty's stomach sank. She swallowed hard, but the metallic taste still coated her tongue. "What's with the… metal taste?"
Olmo hesitated, then sighed. "Okay, you're gonna hate this. But while you were out, I tried something. I… fed you."
Her eyes narrowed. "Fed me what?"
He rubbed the back of his neck. "Some of the remains around here. The rusted bits. Bones, scraps… it's not as bad as it sounds."
She gagged and turned away, retching weakly onto the slick floor. "Olmo!"
"Wait—listen!" His voice sharpened. "I didn't do it for nothing. I noticed something when I was patching you up. The rusted stuff… it healed you. Slowly, but it did. Same with me. It's like… I can absorb it. And if I eat it, it's even faster. I didn't want to, but with those monsters possibly coming back, I had to get you back on your feet."
She stared at him, still grimacing, but he pressed on. "And… I think I can feel rusted things now. Like I know where they are. Maybe even… control them."
He stood, raising his hand toward a heap of debris in the corner. A splintered, rust-flaked bone shuddered, lifted, and floated unsteadily into his palm.
Rusty blinked, the corners of her mouth twitching despite herself. "Huh."
"I also carried you for a bit," Olmo admitted, scratching his cheek, "but not too far. Didn't want to stay in one place for long."
She reached out and ruffled his hair, her palm lingering for a moment. "Thanks… for doing that. Really."
Olmo's eyes softened. "I know you've been carrying the weight. Taking care of me and Dad all this time. I just wanted to show you… you don't have to keep pushing yourself until you break. I can take care of us, too."
Rusty's throat tightened. She let out a small laugh, half to keep the tears from spilling. "Alright. I get it. And I'm grateful, Olmo."
Before he could answer, the Worm shuddered violently beneath them. The floor tilted, a low rumble echoing through the walls.
They both braced themselves against the pulsing flesh.
"It's been doing that more," Olmo muttered. "Like… a lot more."
Rusty's gaze swept the tunnel ahead. "Then we keep moving. The sooner we're out of here, the better."
And together, they pressed forward into the shifting dark.