The dark swallowed Rusty whole.
She could barely make out the outline of the figure ahead of her—tall, shoulders slightly hunched, a colourful flower dangling from his fingers. He looked at it for a long moment, then let it fall, the petals scattering into the blackness before they could touch the floor.
Another figure emerged from the dark. This one had no arms, no expression—just eyes fixed on her, unblinking. He drifted closer, steps without sound, until he was so close his chest should have pressed against hers—except he passed right through her. Cold flooded her chest.
She jerked awake.
Her body was swaddled in bandages, the ache in her ribs like a dull drumbeat under her skin. The metallic tang of blood coated her tongue. The ceiling above her was low and rough, shadows clinging to its corners.
"Morning," came Olmo's voice, somewhere to her left.
She turned her head and found him sitting on a crate, arms resting on his knees, watching her with a faint smile that didn't quite hide the worry in his eyes.
"You made it out," he said. "First thing you need to know—we're not in the Worm anymore."
That caught her attention.
"We fell into a shelter. Rear Arms shelter," he went on. "It's… close to the surface."
He stood, crossing to a narrow window cut into the rock. When he pulled back the heavy curtain, light stabbed into the room, so sharp her eyes watered. She blinked against it, and when the haze cleared—
"The sun…" she whispered.
It wasn't the open sky, not yet. The shelter's walls were carved into a cliffside, and sunlight poured down through some unseen opening above, spilling into the wide street below. Dust motes drifted lazily in the golden beams.
"Close to the surface," Olmo reminded her. "Not quite there. Still underground. But sunlight reaches us."
He helped her to her feet, steadying her as they made for the door. The moment they stepped out, the light hit her full in the face, warm and almost overwhelming after so long in the dim.
The shelter was alive with movement. People strolled without silicon masks or gear, their steps unhurried, their voices relaxed. It was the strangest thing—closer to the surface should have meant more layers, more protection, not less.
They hadn't taken three steps before a small crowd noticed them. Murmurs rose; curious eyes swept over their bandages and worn clothes. One man pushed through the onlookers with the easy grace of someone who was used to being noticed.
"Welcome, strangers," he said, smiling as if they'd been expected. "You've come a long way, I imagine." His voice rolled like smooth glass, every word deliberate. "I'd be honoured to take you to our head."
He extended his hand, palm up, like an invitation rather than a demand. "Name's Sal. You could say I'm the welcoming committee." His grin was quick, almost flirtatious, but never quite crossing the line into smug.
Olmo glanced at Rusty. She gave a slight nod.
Sal led the way through the streets, weaving between stalls and homes carved directly into the rock. They passed a tunnel mouth where battered figures emerged—men and women in dented armour, carrying rifles with chipped stocks, their faces streaked with grime. Some limped, others carried bundles of scavenged metal or packs heavy with unknown cargo. The air there was thicker, the weight of something dangerous clinging to them like smoke.
Sal didn't slow his pace. "Don't mind them," he said over his shoulder. "Just our surface runners, back from another day at the edge."
Rusty didn't answer. She was too busy noticing the way those runners' eyes lingered on her and Olmo—measuring, calculating, like they were deciding if the newcomers were trouble or just another story in the making.
The Rear Arms Shelter had an odd stillness to it—quiet, but never silent. The chitter of distant machinery, the faint hiss of steam vents hidden in walls of rough metal, and the occasional groan of the colossal framework overhead gave the place a heartbeat of its own.
Sal led the two down a narrow causeway, the grated flooring ringing beneath their boots. The walls sweated from condensation, streaked green in places where lichen thrived in the humid warmth.
"I'll say this once," Sal began without looking back. "We don't usually take in new faces—especially not ones fresh from whatever mess spat you out."
His voice was casual, but it carried an edge.
"I'm fine," Rusty muttered, though she still walked with her weight slightly off one side.
"Sure you are," Sal said with a shrug. "Doesn't matter. The Head wants to see you right away. Says you've got answers. Something about… surviving the Mother Worm."
Olmo's jaw tightened. The words hung between them for a beat too long.
Sal glanced back, reading their faces. "Don't ask me. I'm just the one dragging you there."
They crossed into a market strip tucked into the shelter's main spine—a cramped place where traders sat on folded crates, selling things out of tins, woven bags, and welded pans. The air was thick with smells: tangy oils, boiled roots, metal shavings, and something faintly sweet.
Sal stopped beside a squat vendor whose hands were stained a pale green. He plucked three small, round fruits from a woven tray. Their skins were mottled jade, dusted with powdery fuzz.
"Greenberries," Sal said, tossing one each to Rusty and Olmo. "Grow 'em in the drip zones. Tastes better than the metal you've been chewing."
Olmo caught his with a frown. "We didn't—" He stopped mid-sentence. Rusty was looking at him the same way he was looking at her. Neither had mentioned a thing about the metallic rations they'd choked down earlier.
Sal grinned without explaining. "Eat. You'll see."
The fruit's flesh was firm, almost crisp, and the juice cut through the stale taste in Rusty's mouth like rain after smoke. She tried not to show she liked it.
They moved on, the walk growing quieter. Rusty's steps slowed the deeper they went, her eyes tracking the walls. Here, the metal was different—less patched, more deliberate. Shapes emerged in the plating: sweeping arcs, segmented ridges, subtle grooves like scars.
When they finally reached the Head's chamber, Rusty understood.
It wasn't a building. It was a skull.
A colossal head—long and narrow, with the chitin plates of some massive worm fused into the shelter's frame. It jutted from the wall at an angle, the surface pitted with age, hollow sockets staring like the eyes of a dead god.
Someone sat atop it, cross-legged at the crown. The figure's robes were oversized, stitched from layered scraps of leather and canvas, hanging loose enough that the cloth sleeves swayed unnaturally—as if no arms filled them at all.
"Head of the Rear Arms Shelter," Sal announced, looking up. "Rear Arms Gustavo. They're here."
The figure didn't respond. He tilted his head as though watching something distant, the faint sway of his cloth arms making him seem… empty.
Sal sighed. "Really? We doing this?"
No reply.
He took a deep breath, then projected his voice with sudden ceremony. "The survivors of the Mother Worm stand before you, Head Gustavo! Bearer of the rusted banners, keeper of the rear, and—"
Before Sal could finish, the figure moved. He jumped—not climbed—off the skull, hitting the ground with a fluid grace that sent the hem of his robes swirling. The sleeves whipped in the air, folding and twisting in a way that was almost serpentine before settling at his sides.
Under the hood, his face was obscured by a network of thin, angular piercings and chains that draped from brow to chin. The metal glinted faintly under the low light, catching on jagged teeth when he grinned.
"So…" Gustavo's voice was low, amused, and dry as sand. "The Worm spat out two still breathing."
Rusty didn't like the way he said still.
Olmo's instinct was to answer, but Gustavo was already circling them, the soft drag of his boots on the grated floor sounding too light for a man his size.
"Tell me," he continued, leaning in just close enough that Rusty could see the strange stitching along the inside of his hood. "Did it let you go… or did you crawl your way out?"