The unmapped structure loomed larger as West approached, every step bringing a clearer view of its surface. The dark plating bore no serial numbers, no Pulse grid identifiers, just seamless layers of black alloy. The material shimmered faintly, not with light but with density—as if it repelled recognition itself. It felt wrong. Too perfect. Like something meant to last beyond time.
Behind him, the stranger followed at a measured distance, cloak rustling faintly in the wind. The cracked visor never shifted its gaze.
West didn't ask again. If they wanted to stop him, they would have already. That was how soldiers communicated: through action, not argument.
The double blast doors hissed as he stepped closer. Not opening—pressurizing. Red pulse lines glowed brighter along their seams. Each flicker was timed, like a heartbeat syncing with something deeper underground.
"Aria," West said into his comm, voice low, "Structure is active. Door power online. No entry yet."
"Understood. I'm patching auxiliary drones through your sector feed. Twenty seconds. Hold position if you can."
West waited, pipe resting loosely against his shoulder. His heartbeat stayed steady, but he could feel the adrenaline rising—like in the early days of war, when the unknown was always waiting right behind steel doors.
Then, the doors unlocked.
With a low rumble and hydraulic hiss, the blast doors split down the middle, revealing a dark interior hallway lined with smooth metal walls. No visible light sources—only that same faint red pulse running along the floor like a guiding line, flickering slightly as if responding to his presence.
Aria's voice came back sharper. "West, that signal is spiking. Whatever activated it knows you're there."
"Figures," West muttered.
Without hesitation, he stepped inside.
The air changed immediately—cooler, dry, smelling faintly of old machine oil and ozone. The scent was sterile, like the labs he'd once raided during the last Pulse War. The hallway stretched forward longer than it should have, bending slightly downward in a spiral slope. It reminded him of underground bunkers—hidden from satellites, forgotten by most.
Each step echoed.
Behind him, the stranger followed without a word, their cloak brushing softly against the smooth floor.
West glanced back once. "Since you're coming, mind telling me who exactly you are?"
The figure's voice crackled again. "A survivor. Of something worse than what you've seen. Keep moving."
West didn't argue. He recognized the edge in their voice. Not fear. Not threat. Memory.
Ahead, the hallway widened.
At the end of the slope, a massive chamber opened—a circular space easily thirty meters across, lined with rows of dormant machines. Capsule-like structures rested along the walls, each one sealed with dark glass, cables snaking from their backs into conduits embedded in the floor.
Most were dead. Cold. Dusty.
But one capsule in the center flickered.
Alive.
The red pulse lines connected to it were brighter, almost throbbing now. Data streams scrolled across its base in a language West didn't recognize.
West tightened his grip on the pipe. He could hear something inside—movement, soft and unnatural.
Aria's voice was low now. "That's not standard Pulse tech. I can't override it. And it's broadcasting to something deeper."
West took another step closer, gaze fixed on the central pod.
The stranger stepped beside him finally, visor reflecting red light.
"You wanted to know what's out here?" they said quietly.
West nodded, breath steady.
The stranger extended a gloved hand toward the capsule.
"Then meet Grid-Zero's first generation. Not machines. Not men. Something in-between."
And as they spoke, the pod began to open.