Three identical faces looked back at him. M-001, M-002, and the newly materialized M-003 stood in a neat rank, their grey eyes reflecting the sterile light of the Barracks. They were tools, waiting for application. Isaac felt a strange dissonance—the pride of a commander with functional units, and the cold dread of a man about to spend lives that felt real, yet utterly disposable.
"Listen up," Isaac said, his voice adopting the clipped, clear tone of a briefing officer. He pointed to a section of the floor, and with a mental command, the System projected a simple, glowing schematic map. It showed the Core Chamber (green), the Barracks (blue), and the snaking, unexplored corridors labeled Sector 1.
"Our objective is reconnaissance and clearance of this hallway network. Priority one: identify any additional functional facilities. Priority two: locate and neutralize hostiles. Priority three: identify salvageable resources. We move in standard diamond formation. M-001, point. M-003, rear guard. M-002, you're with me in the center. Weapons condition three—loaded, safety on, bayonets fixed. We do not fire unless fired upon or I give the order. Is that clear?"
"Acknowledged, Commander," they chimed in flat unison.
"Move out."
M-001 stepped through the ruined doorway without hesitation, musket held low and ready. Isaac followed, with M-002 to his left and M-003 falling in behind. The green moss-light of the corridor seemed even more malevolent with the rhythmic, synchronized tread of four pairs of boots echoing off the stone.
The map in Isaac's vision updated as they moved, sketching the rough outlines of walls and doorways. The first side-passage was the looted armory. He signaled a halt. "M-002, clear left. Quick visual."
M-002 peeled off, entered the room, swept its musket in a methodical arc, and returned. "Room clear. No hostiles. No significant salvage detected."
They moved on. The next door was sealed, a heavy slab of iron-bound oak that refused to budge. The System labeled it \[Storage – Status: Locked/Sealed. Integrity: High\]. A target for later, with proper tools.
The corridor branched ahead. To the left, it sloped downwards into utter blackness. The schematic labeled it \[Possible Access to Lower Depths/Manufactorum?\]. To the right, it continued on level ground, with more doors. The air from the left branch carried a faint, metallic tang and a whisper of stale, oily air.
"Left branch is our primary facility target," Isaac murmured. "But descending blind is a tactical error. We clear the level branch first, secure our rear."
He pointed right. M-001 obeyed.
They passed two more empty dormitories. The silence was deepening, becoming a tangible pressure. Then, from around a bend ahead, a new sound. Not skittering, not grinding. A wet, guttural dripping, followed by a soft, fleshy squelch.
M-001 stopped at the corner, back against the wall. It peered around, then pulled back, turning its blank face to Isaac. "Visual on hostiles. Two biological entities. Corridor junction ten meters ahead."
Isaac edged forward and looked.
The junction was wider, with a collapsed fountain or statue in the center, creating a pile of rubble. On top of this pile, two creatures were… feeding. They were vaguely humanoid, but their skin was a translucent, sickly grey, stretched tight over distended bellies. Long, whip-like tongues, tipped with bony barbs, lashed out to spear chunks of unidentifiable carrion from the floor, retracting to stuff them into circular, lamprey-like mouths. They moved with a sluggish, bloated indifference.
Entity Identified: Gloomspawn – Category: Bloater (Tier-1). Threat Assessment: Moderate. Caustic bodily fluids. Limited mobility. Enhanced durability.
Two Tier-1s. Not as directly dangerous as the Amalgam, but with a ranged, corrosive attack.
Isaac's mind worked. The junction was a kill box. The Bloaters were elevated on the rubble, giving them a slight field of fire. A direct charge up the open corridor into their tongues was suicide for his lightly armed militia.
He needed to control the geometry. Again.
He signaled a retreat back around the bend. In a hushed tone, he laid out the plan. "They're slow. We use their immobility against them. M-001, you are the bait. Step into the junction, present a target, fire one shot to get their attention, then immediately fall back around this corner. Do not slow down. Do not let the tongues reach you."
"Acknowledged."
"M-002, M-003. You will be stacked on either side of this corner. The moment M-001 clears the corner and the first Bloater pursues into the kill zone, you will step out and fire at will, aiming for the central mass. We will focus fire, one target at a time."
He looked at their empty faces. "Execute."
M-001 moved. It marched around the corner with that same, unnerving calm. Isaac heard the squelching stop. A moment of silence. Then the sharp, deafening CRACK of a flintlock musket.
A roar, not of pain but of aggrieved annoyance, echoed down the hall—a sound like a bellows full of wet meat.
M-001 reappeared, walking backwards with swift, disciplined steps. Right behind it, lashing around the corner, came a grey, barbed tongue. It missed M-001's back by inches, slapping wetly against the stone wall where it left a sizzling, pitted scar.
"Now!" Isaac hissed.
M-002 and M-003 stepped out in unison, shouldering their muskets. The lead Bloater had rounded the corner, its bulk squeezing into the narrower hallway, its mouth gaping for another lash.
Two more musket shots, nearly simultaneous. CRACK-CRACK!
The sound was tremendous in the confined space. Smoke billowed. Both balls struck true, punching into the Bloater's gelatinous torso. They didn't penetrate far, sinking into the dense flesh with wet thumps. Ichor, clear and sizzling like acid, wept from the wounds. The creature bellowed, but didn't go down. It was tough, as advertised.
"Reload!" Isaac commanded, his own pistol raised. The second Bloater was now shambling into view behind the first, its tongue lashing out.
M-002 and M-003 fell back behind the corner, their movements a blur of mechanical efficiency—biting cartridges, pouring powder, ramming shot. They were fast, but not fast enough. The second Bloater's tongue shot past its wounded companion, aimed at M-003.
Isaac fired. CRACK-HISS. His plasma bolt took the tongue in mid-air, severing it in a burst of steam and blackened flesh. The stump retracted with a screech.
The first Bloater, wounded and enraged, lurched forward, trying to close the distance. Its maw opened wide, ready to spray or bite.
"Fire at will!" Isaac yelled.
M-001, having reloaded, stepped out and fired first. Its shot hit the creature's gaping mouth. The Bloater convulsed, a gurgling shriek choking off. M-002 and M-003, now reloaded, stepped out and fired again, their balls striking the same wounded area.
The combined damage was too much. The first Bloater's torso seemed to liquefy from the inside. It collapsed into a heaving, melting pile of corrosive sludge that began eating into the stone floor. A small, pulsing core was left behind in the dissolving muck.
The second Bloater, now tongueless and facing four armed opponents, emitted a low, bubbling whine. It began to back away, its body shuddering.
"Don't let it retreat and warn others!" Isaac ordered. "Advance and fire!"
His militia obeyed, marching forward in step, reloading as they went. They were an inexorable wall of noise and smoke. They halted at his mental command, raised their muskets, and fired another volley into the retreating creature's back.
It pitched forward onto the rubble pile, twitched, and fell still. Another core glowed amidst the acidic ruin of its body.
Silence returned, thick with the smell of gunpowder, ozone, and the stomach-turning acrid stench of dissolving Gloom-flesh.
Two Tier-1 Hostiles Eliminated. Essence Cores (Standard) Acquired: +30 Units.
Militia Unit M-003 Status: Minor Caustic Burn (Left Vambrace). Integrity: 95%.
Isaac let out a tense breath. Thirty Essence. A windfall. And no casualties. He watched as his militia automatically began the reloading drill again, their movements precise, unhurried. They were expendable, yet their efficiency was beautiful in a horrifying way.
"M-003, report the extent of the damage."
The unit held up its left arm. The leather and cloth of the vambrace were pitted and smoking where a droplet of acid had landed. The pale synthetic skin beneath was reddened and blistered, but not breached. "Non-critical. Combat effectiveness unimpaired, Commander."
"Good. M-001, secure the cores. Be careful of the residual acid."
M-001 moved forward, using its bayonet to carefully pry the glowing cores from the diminishing acidic sludge. It wiped them clean on a dry patch of stone and brought them back. They hummed with potential.
Total Essence: 34. Salvage: 12.6.
They had cleared the junction. The level branch continued a short distance before ending at a collapsed ceiling, a dead end. But off the junction, there was another door. This one was different—heavier, with faint, intricate scrollwork etched into the metal, now tarnished and scarred. The System schematic flickered, then resolved.
Facility Identified: Logistics Depot (Level 0). Status: Sealed/Damaged.
The Logistics Depot. The key to automated resource movement. The very thing he needed to stop being a pack mule.
"This is the objective," Isaac said, a spark of genuine excitement cutting through the fatigue. "M-002, check the door. Is it locked? Barred?"
M-002 pushed against it. It didn't budge. It examined the seams. "No visible external lock or bar, Commander. Likely sealed from within or mechanically fused."
Isaac examined the scrollwork. It wasn't decoration; it was a schematic of interlocking gears. A puzzle lock. He traced the lines with his finger. Some were damaged, the lines broken. He'd need the Barracks console or maybe the Core to interface with it. Or…
He looked at his plasma pistol. Two glowing segments left on the grip.
"Stand back," he ordered. He aimed not at the door's center, but at the point where the metal met the stone frame, targeting the ancient, likely corroded hinges. He needed precision, not brute force.
He fired.
CRACK-HISS. The bolt struck the top hinge, melting through it. The metal glowed cherry-red and sagged. He fired his last charge at the bottom hinge.
The door groaned. With a shriek of tortured metal, it tilted inward, then fell with a ground-shaking BOOM that sent dust billowing out into the corridor.
Isaac swapped the depleted pistol for the notched short sword, a pitiful substitute. "M-001, point. Clear it."
M-001 stepped through the smoke into the darkness beyond.
The report came back instantly. "Room clear, Commander. No hostiles. Facility is non-operational. Significant structural damage detected."
Isaac entered. The Logistics Depot was smaller than the Barracks, but more complex. Conveyor channels were etched into the floor, leading to wall-mounted sorting hoppers and storage bins, all now still and dusty. The central console was a shattered wreck, crushed by a fallen section of the ceiling. Rubble was everywhere.
But along the far wall, stacked neatly on undamaged shelving, were rows of ingots—dull grey metal, and beside them, chunks of raw, cloudy crystal.
Salvage Cache Discovered: Refined Ferrous Ingots (x12). Salvage Value: 2 Units each.
Salvage Cache Discovered: Raw Conductive Crystals (x8). Salvage Value: 1 Unit each.
It was a treasure trove. Twenty-four units of high-quality metal salvage. Eight units of a new, advanced material.
But the console was destroyed. Repairing this would be a major project. For now, it was a looting site.
"This changes everything," Isaac muttered. He turned to his three silent soldiers. "M-002, M-003. You will begin transporting these ingots and crystals back to the Barracks stockpile. Prioritize the crystals. Make as many trips as necessary. M-001, you will guard them during transit. I am returning to the Core Chamber to reassess."
"Acknowledged."
As his militia began the systematic work of stripping the depot, Isaac stood amidst the dust and ruin. He had won the hallway war. He had secured a vital resource node. He had thirty-four Essence and a soon-to-be massive stockpile.
The schematic in his mind updated. The Manufactorum, deeper down, was now the obvious next target. But to take it, he would need more than three militia and a sword. He needed an army.
He looked at the empty production queue in his vision. He had the resources. It was time to build.
The Bastion was no longer just a shelter. It was becoming a factory. And he was its foreman, its general, and its god.