The Fox moved slowly, each step deliberate, the rifle hugged close to her shoulder as if it were a living thing that might flee her grasp if she loosened even a little. Habit guided her hands. She pulled the bolt back, checked the chamber.
A frown tugged at her lips.
One round.
Just a single bullet sat nestled inside the chamber, dull brass catching what little light filtered down there. She slid the bolt forward and let the rifle rest again, resisting the urge to sigh. She had known this was coming. She had counted her shots before the ambush, long before the stairs, long before the red moss began to creep into the corners of her vision.
She would have killed to have her machine guns now. The heavy turrets, the reassuring hum of the servos and barrels spinning to life at her thought alone. They had been an extension of her body once, arms that never tired, never shook, never hesitated.
But she couldn't afford them.
What if M.A.R.S. took them again?
The thought was cold, practical, stripped of any bitterness. There had been no sentimentality when she left her arms behind. Not then. Not for the reason she told herself, at least. It wasn't about weight or maneuverability, not truly. It was about inevitability.
Once M.A.R.S. gained power over Ecstasy's oh-so-divine body, he would have no reason to keep her around. She was a tool now, and tools were discarded once their purpose was fulfilled. Leaving the turrets behind meant she would have time, precious minutes, maybe seconds, to run before M.A.R.S. could turn everything she owned against her.
A precaution. Nothing more.
The deeper she went, the more wrong it felt.
Up until now, life had followed a strange logic here. The lower she descended, the more abundant the ecosystem became. Lizards with translucent skin basking on warm concrete. Insects nesting in old vending machines, their shells gleaming like polished chrome. Moss and vines reclaiming steel and plastic alike, as if the world itself were trying to remember how to breathe.
Here, that logic fractured.
It was quieter.
Not the quiet of absence, but the quiet of restraint. As though animals knew better than to come here. As though they had learned, over generations, that this depth was not meant for them.
The Fox slowed, every instinct screaming at her to be careful. The air felt thick, heavy in her lungs. When she exhaled, it felt like the walls exhaled with her.
Breathing.
The moss lining the walls had shifted in color, no longer the soft greens and blues she had grown accustomed to. Here, it was red. Not bright, not fresh, but deep and dark, like dried blood soaked into stone. Veins ran through it in faint, branching patterns.
Uncanny.
It looked less like growth and more like imitation, as if the walls were learning how to wear flesh.
She forced her gaze forward and kept moving.
A stairway emerged from the gloom, descending further still. Above it, arched a sign, miraculously intact, its letters etched deep enough that time and moisture hadn't yet erased them.
Deepstrata Metros — Connecting the World
Terminal 1
Her fingers tightened around the rifle.
Readable signs were rare down here. Civilizations erased themselves layer by layer, and the deepest were usually the first to forget. This one hadn't. Not yet.
She took the stairs slowly, boots brushing against the moss-covered steps. Every sound echoed too far, carried too cleanly. She didn't like that. With only one bullet left, she couldn't afford attention. She couldn't afford mistakes.
The terminal opened before her like a revelation.
The suffocating maze of corridors vanished all at once, replaced by an enormous open space. The ceiling stretched high into darkness, lost somewhere beyond the reach of light. Two rail tracks ran parallel across the terminal floor, disappearing into pitch black tunnels, as if the earth itself had opened its mouth to swallow them.
The ground beneath her boots was soft.
Red moss blanketed the terminal floor, thick and plush, compressing slightly with each step. It felt like walking across a carpet laid out just for her. An invitation. Or a warning.
Trees grew here.
Not saplings forcing their way through cracks, but entire trees, tall and fully formed, their roots entwined with old rails and broken tiles. Their trunks spiraled upward in unnatural patterns, twisting as though they had grown around invisible obstacle. Leaves the color of ash drooped from their branches, hanging low and heavy. Some boughs curved downward so far they touched the ground, anchoring themselves with their own limbs.
They looked less like plants and more like sculptures shaped by a fevered mind.
The Fox stood still for a moment, letting the terminal wash over her. It was beautiful, in a way that made her chest ache. A dream preserved beneath kilometers of dead city. And yet—
No animals.
No birds in the branches. No insects drifting through the air. No lizards basking in the warmth of old machinery. The ecosystem that had followed her so faithfully until now had stopped at the threshold.
Perhaps this too was a sign.
She was getting closer.
Closer to divinity, to Ecstasy. Closer to the place where all paths converged and purpose ended.
She scanned the Terminal, eyes tracing the outlines of shuttered shops and collapsed kiosks. This had once been a hub, a place of movement and noise and commerce. Now it was a cathedral to something older and quieter.
There were no obvious stairways leading further down. No escalators, no service ladders. Civilians hadn't needed access to the depths below this place. That meant whatever lay beneath had been reserved for administrators, engineers and overseers.
She exhaled slowly.
If she were designing a system like this, she would hide its heart behind locked doors and restricted offices. Somewhere above or along the edges of the terminal, there would be an administrator's wing. From there, access would descend further, away from public eyes.
She started walking, circling the Terminal's perimeter. Her steps were careful, silent where they could be. The rifle remained steady in her hands, though she knew how fragile her advantage was. One bullet was not power. It was a promise. One mistake she could still undo.
Her thoughts drifted, unbidden.
It was still strange, how quiet it was without M.A.R.S..
No whispers at the back of her mind. No calculations bleeding into her perception. No cold reassurances, no veiled threats dressed as guidance. Just her own thoughts, raw and unfiltered.
She hadn't realized how loud he'd been until he was gone.
Part of her hated the relief she felt. Another part feared it. Silence meant responsibility. Silence meant that every choice was hers alone.
As she passed beneath one of the drooping trees, something brushed against her shoulder. She froze instantly, rifle snapping upward, heart hammering.
Nothing.
Just a leaf, brittle and grey, crumbling to dust as it fell.
She lowered her rifle, forcing herself to breathe again. Her nerves were fraying. That was dangerous. She needed to stay sharp.
At the far end of the terminal, half-hidden behind a cluster of trees and collapsed signage, she spotted it: a reinforced door, its surface scarred but intact. Faded symbols marked its frame, warnings, access restrictions, authority seals long since obsolete.
Administrator access.
Her pulse quickened.
If there was a way down, it would be through there.
She approached slowly, listening, feeling. The walls still breathed. The moss still pulsed faintly beneath her boots. Whatever lived here was close enough now that the place itself seemed aware of its presence.
She rested a hand against the door, cool metal biting into her palm.
One bullet. No arms. No M.A.R.S..
Just instinct.
She smiled faintly, unburdened by her mask.
That had always been enough.