The van hummed.
That was the only sound, low, even, almost soothing. No rattle of loose parts, no human breathing, no voice crackling through hidden speakers. Just the engine, steady and patient, like it had nowhere else to be.
The Fox sat on the floor rather than the bench bolted to the wall, knees drawn up slightly, back against the cool interior paneling. There was space. Too much space. It felt like it had been designed for cargo, not people. Whoever had built this hadn't bothered pretending otherwise.
No driver. No controls. No windows that showed anything real.
The panes were darkened to the point of absorption, not tint but denial. Light neither came in, nor went out. If she pressed her face close, she could maybe catch a glimpse of a reflection.
Of course, she thought. Why would they bother with something as quaint as a steering wheel?
Her pack lay beside her, heavier than it looked. The turret arms were still latched to it, folded inward. They hadn't fired since the battle.
Her rifle was gone.
The realization came again, belated and dull, like a bruise you forgot you had. She had lost it when the Swarm dragged her off the Tidebreaker's back.
She exhaled slowly through her nose.
If I play my hands right, she thought, staring at nothing, I could take down two birds with on stone.
The Church.
The Swarm.
Both thought they were using her. Both were certain they were cleverer than the girl in the fox mask.
She leaned her head back against the wall and closed her eyes. The van's motion was smooth enough that her body barely registered turns.
[Fox] "So, what's your deal?"
The engine hummed on, unbothered.
[Fox] "Like, why do you need me?"
Silence.
No playful response. No disembodied voice trying to charm her.
She huffed a quiet laugh.
[Fox] "Right. Figures."
Her gaze drifted to the ceiling, tracing seams in the metal panels. I'm surprised they trusted a self-driving car with an armed passenger. I could escape now if I wanted.
The thought lingered.
Then passed.
Escape to where? Back into the Ribbon, hunted by the Church, without a plan? The Tidebreaker was already taken. Running now would just mean dying tired instead of dying cornered.
The van took a sharp left without warning.
Her world tilted violently. She slid across the floor, shoulder slamming into the opposite wall hard enough to knock the air from her lungs.
"—ghk!"
Before she could recover, the breaks screamed. The van lurched, then stopped dead.
The door hissed open on its own.
Light spilled in, the harsh industrial glow of overhead lamps. She blinked, eyes stinging as they adjusted, then pushed herself upright, heart still racing. Her first instinct was to reach for her pack.
She slung it over her shoulders, fingers brushing the familiar contours of the turret housings.
She stepped out.
The space beyond the van was a garage, large, rectangular, carved out of concrete and reinforced steel. Tools lined the walls in careful, almost obsessive order: racks of wrenches, diagnostic frames, welding rigs, manipulators meant for machines larger than cars. Oil stains marked the floor in looping, overlapping patterns, dark and old.
The van shut itself with a soft click.
No guards. No drones. No immediate threats in the room.
At the far end of the garage stood a single door.
Plain. Metal. Slightly scuffed near the handle, like someone paced in front of it often enough to wear the surface down.
She walked toward it slowly, boots echoing faintly. Her hand rested on the barrel of one of the turrets.
She stopped an arm's length from the door.
Her fingers hovered over the knob.
The knob turned on its own. The door opened inward, pulled by someone of the other side.
She stiffened, every muscle coiling, eyes snapping up—
So this is what he meant by others like me.
A boy stood there.
Unmistakably human.
He looked a few years older than her, early twenties maybe, but with the kind of exhaustion that aged people unevenly. He wasn't tall, not imposing, but not small either. Average height, lean build, shoulders a little slouched like he'd grown used to ducking rather than standing his ground.
He wore a red-and-white jumpsuit, patched and re-stitched in places where fabric had given up and been forced back into service. The colour wasn't clear anymore; it was dulled by grease, ash and something that looked like dried blood. The sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing forearms crisscrossed with scars and burn marks, old, careless injuries rather than combat wounds.
His hair was dark, cut unevenly, like he'd taken a blade to it himself. It fell into his eyes, and he didn't seem bothered enough to push it back. His face was sharp in a forgettable way, no striking features, but expressive. Eyes bright and alert, always moving like they were cataloging everything in the room.
He looked at her.
Then at the turrets,
Then back at her.
A grin tugged at one corner of his mouth, casual and unearned.
[???] "'Sup."
The word hung there, absurdly normal.
For a second, she just stared at him.
This was not what she'd expected. It wasn't a machine with a voice designed to disarm. Not a cultist or a handler.
Just... a guy.
[Fox] "That's it? That's your opening?"
He shrugged, stepping back to give her space, one hand hooked into the strap of a tool pack slung over his shoulders.
[???] "Didn't wanna oversell it. You look like you've had a long day."
[Fox] "Expected you to put in half the effort the Swarm put it while talking. So where am I?"
[???] "Garage B, sublevel. Don't worry, that doesn't mean anything to you yet."
She studied him carefully now. No visible weapons. No obvious augmentations. No telltale hum of concealed machinery.
[???] "You can call me Ilya. Or don't. Names are kind of... optional around here."
[Fox] "And this,"
She gestured vaguely behind her.
[Fox] "Is the White Swarm's idea of hospitality?"
He tilted his head, considering.
[Ilya] "Depends. Did the van throw you into a wall?"
[Fox] "Yes."
[Ilya] "Okay, yeah, that tracks. I'll put in a note."
She raised an eyebrow.
[Ilya] "Well, welcome. You're safe. For now at least. The Swarm hasn't told me what to do with you yet."
She crossed the threshold.
The door closed behind her.