The roar died in the throat of the tunnel, leaving a silence that was heavier than the stone above.
Marcus stood just inside the barricade. The heavy timbers had been slammed shut, sealing out the acid rain and the gray light of the dead world.
Torches flickered in iron sconces along the walls, casting long, jumping shadows.
Two hundred faces stared at him.
They were gaunt. Dirty. Their eyes were wide, white rims in soot-stained faces. They huddled in groups—families clinging to each other, soldiers gripping bent spears, old men clutching rags.
They looked at Marcus. Then they looked at the glowing blue giant behind him.
Fear rippled through the crowd like a wind.
"What is down there?" Marcus asked.
He didn't whisper. His voice echoed off the low ceiling.
Decimus, the Centurion who had opened the gate, swallowed hard. He wiped sweat and grime from his forehead.
"The Changed Ones," Decimus whispered. "Miners. From the deep shafts."
"Changed how?"
"The rain," Decimus said. "Before we sealed the upper vents, the water seeped down. It carried the chemical runoff from the surface. It didn't kill them. It... twisted them."
"Mutants," Galen breathed.
"Scavs," Decimus corrected. "They eat the dead. Sometimes the living."
Marcus looked past the refugees, down the sloping tunnel that disappeared into absolute darkness. The air drafting up smelled of copper and spoiled meat.
He blinked. The stress triggered the glitch in his brain. The UI flared to life, overlaying the grim reality with cold, hard data.
[BASE DETECTED: ETRUSCAN MINES]
[POPULATION: 214]
[MORALE: 12% (CRITICAL)]
[RESOURCES: FOOD (LOW), WATER (CONTAMINATED), MEDICINE (NONE)]
Marcus dismissed the text. He didn't need an AI to tell him this wasn't an army. It was a funeral procession waiting for the grave.
"Who is in charge?" Marcus asked.
"I command the watch," Decimus said, straightening his tattered armor. "But Varro controls the food."
"Where is Varro?"
A movement in the crowd. A man stepped forward.
He was big, though not Narcissus big. He wore a heavy leather apron and carried a smith's hammer at his belt. His beard was thick with rock dust.
"I am Varro," the man rumbled. He didn't bow. He looked at Marcus's ceramic chest plate with suspicion. "And I say you brought death to our door."
"I brought a door that opens," Marcus countered. "Without me, you starve in the dark."
"We were surviving," Varro spat. "Quietly. Now you bring a sun-god," he pointed a thick finger at Narcissus, "whose light will draw every machine in the valley."
The crowd murmured. Agreement. Fear.
"The machines track heat," Varro shouted to the room. "That thing is a furnace! He will cook us all!"
Narcissus shifted. The blue light in his chest pulsed. He looked at Varro like a wolf looks at a barking dog.
"Peace, Iron Dog," Marcus said softly.
He turned to Varro.
"You have a forge?" Marcus asked.
Varro blinked, thrown off by the question. "What?"
"A smithy. Do you have one?"
"Aye," Varro scowled. "In the second chamber. But we have no fuel for the fires."
"We don't need fuel," Marcus said. He patted the hilt of the Vibro-Knife. "We have technology. Take me there."
The smithy was a cavern carved into the rock, blackened by centuries of soot. An anvil sat in the center. Cold. Silent.
"Galen," Marcus ordered. "The armor."
Galen dumped the bundle of scavenged Liquidator plating onto the anvil. The black ceramic clattered like bone.
"It's Board tech," Lucilla said, picking up a pauldron. She ran her finger over a small barcode etched into the rim. "Asset Denial gear. High-density carbon-ceramic composite. It stops bullets, plasma, and acid."
"Can we forge it?" Marcus asked.
"No," Varro grunted, picking up a piece. "It doesn't melt. I tried hitting a piece we found outside. Hammer just bounces off."
"We don't melt it," Galen said. His eyes were manic, analyzing the curves of the alien armor. "We mount it."
He grabbed a leather harness from a pile of mining gear.
"Narcissus," Galen said. "Arm out."
The giant extended his left arm—the flesh one, not the servo-assisted right.
Galen placed a curved shin-guard from the Liquidator over Narcissus's forearm. It fit like a vambrace.
"Drill," Marcus said.
He handed Varro the Vibro-Knife.
"Use the tip. Gentle."
Varro looked at the humming gray blade. He hesitated, then pressed it against the ceramic plate.
Zzzzt.
The knife bored a clean hole through the unbreakble armor.
Varro's eyes went wide. "By Vulcan..."
"Bolt it," Marcus ordered.
They worked fast. Galen directed, Varro drilled, and Lucilla organized the plates by shape.
They bolted the black ceramic onto Narcissus's leather armor. A pauldron on his left shoulder. Greaves on his shins. A jagged, overlapping plate protecting his gut.
When they were done, Narcissus looked like a nightmare. Half Roman gladiator, half futuristic tank. The glowing blue core in his chest illuminated the black armor, making him look like a revenant from a sci-fi hell.
Narcissus walked to a polished bronze shield hanging on the wall. He looked at his reflection.
He flexed his arm. The ceramic plates clicked.
"Good," he grumbled. "Now I can hit harder."
"It's not just for hitting," Marcus said. "It's for scaring."
They walked back to the main chamber.
The mood had shifted. It wasn't fear anymore. It was anger.
A group of miners had gathered near the tunnel entrance. They held pickaxes and shivs.
Varro stopped. "My men," he said. "They are restless."
"They are mutinous," Marcus corrected.
A man with a scar across his nose stepped out.
"Varro!" the man shouted. "Why are you helping him? The blue thing... it hums! It gives me a headache!"
"He is upgrading our defenses," Varro said, though he sounded unsure.
"Defenses?" the scarred man spat. "He's a beacon! We voted, Varro. While you were playing smith."
He pointed his pickaxe at Marcus.
"Throw them out. Or we throw you out with them."
The crowd surged forward. A few inches. Testing the waters.
Marcus didn't draw his sword. He didn't activate the Vibro-Knife.
"Narcissus," Marcus said calmly. "Show them the door."
Narcissus stepped forward.
The crowd flinched, but the scarred man held his ground.
"I'm not afraid of you, freak!" the man yelled. He swung the pickaxe.
It was a good swing. Heavy. Fast. Aimed at Narcissus's head.
Narcissus didn't dodge.
He raised his left arm. The one with the new black armor.
CLANG.
The pickaxe hit the ceramic vambrace.
Sparks flew. The pickaxe head shattered. The wooden handle snapped in the man's hands.
The crowd gasped.
Narcissus reached out. His hand—big enough to crush a melon—wrapped around the man's throat.
He lifted him.
One foot off the ground. Two feet.
The man kicked and gagged, clawing uselessly at the ceramic plating.
"The door is sealed," Narcissus rumbled. His voice vibrated in the chests of everyone in the room. "But the pit is open."
He turned and walked toward the dark tunnel leading down to the deep mines.
He held the man over the abyss.
"Drop him!" someone screamed.
"No," Marcus said. "Bring him back."
Narcissus stopped. He turned. He dropped the man on the stone floor.
The miner scrambled back, gasping for air, wetting himself in terror.
Marcus stepped into the center of the room. The UI flashed in his mind.
[MORALE: STABILIZING via INTIMIDATION]
"You are scared of the machines," Marcus said to the silent room. "Good. You should be. They are eating the world."
He pointed at the dark tunnel.
"But you are scared of the wrong thing. The machines are outside. The enemy is down there."
As if on cue, a scream echoed up from the black shaft.
It was high, thin, and terrified.
"Sentry!" Decimus shouted.
A soldier came running up the slope. He was bloodied. His helmet was missing. His face was slashed open.
"They broke the perimeter!" the soldier screamed, collapsing at Marcus's feet. "The barricade... they chewed through the wood!"
"Who?" Varro shouted. "Who chewed through?"
The soldier looked up. His eyes were wide with madness.
"The Scavs," he whispered. "Hundreds of them. They're coming up."
From the deep dark, a sound began to swell.
It wasn't a roar. It was a chattering. Like a thousand wet teeth clicking together.
Skree-click-hiss.
Marcus drew the Vibro-Knife. The blade hummed to life, glowing faint gray.
"Varro," Marcus said. "Get the women and children to the smithy. Seal the door."
He looked at Narcissus.
The giant smiled. The blue light in his chest flared, eager for violence.
"Decimus," Marcus ordered. "Form a line. Spears up."
"Caesar?" Decimus stammered, gripping his pilum.
"We don't need to hunt them," Marcus said, watching the shadows lengthen in the tunnel mouth. "Dinner is serving itself."