Chapter 28 Gatecrasher and Real Friends
The wind whipped past my face as I stood atop the Tallneck's crown, arms loose at my sides, boots planted between its antenna ridges. From this height, the land stretched out like a wrinkled map—scarred by time, stitched by roads no longer traveled, and spotted with rusted bones of old-world ruin.
I wasn't in a hurry.
After the climb, after the chaos of the Grove, after Jorta's warning and Ubba's upgrades, I figured I'd earned a few miles of peace. And honestly? Riding a walking satellite dish across the plains beat trudging through brush and mud with half my gear rattling on my back.
The Tallneck didn't care I was up here. Just kept walking with those long, thundering strides—slow, deliberate, ancient. Like the whole world still made sense if you just kept moving forward.
I knelt briefly, tapping my Focus. The data uplink had fully synced. Whole regions of the map now gleamed in soft blue, including Golden Plains and a few markers between here and there. One was the camp. One was the Gatecrasher.
And a few were... question marks.
Probably trouble.
I sat cross-legged near the central spine, letting the rhythm of its steps thud through me like a mechanical heartbeat. I had time to think. Time to prepare.
Time to accept the fact that I was going to have to kill a Gatecrasher before I could even think about surviving Legate Lanius.
Eventually, the Tallneck gave a low, almost mournful rumble and began to shift course—angled east, veering away from the old riverbed path that led toward the mining camp.
"Alright, big guy," I muttered, getting to my feet. "Appreciate the ride."
I unhooked the rappelling line from the side latch on my Pullcaster harness—a recent addition from Ubba's brilliant, mildly sadistic mind—and clipped it into the anchor point bolted behind my right hip.
This time, I had a way down.
"Let's not make this a repeat of the Horus," I said under my breath, double-checking the knots. "No faceplants. No dirt eating. Just one clean drop."
I stepped to the edge of the Tallneck's head as it crested a small rise, the land sloping gently below in a soft patch of green-brown scrub. No rocks. No cliffs. No reason to screw this up.
"Let's do this."
I braced, took one breath—and jumped.
The rappelling line hissed out with a smooth mechanical whirr, tension gliding into my harness as I dropped in a clean arc. My boots hit the ground with a solid thud, knees bent, arms spread for balance.
No bounce. No crash. No curses.
I straightened up slowly, dusted off my coat, and looked back up at the Tallneck, which hadn't even noticed.
"See?" I said, mostly to myself. "I can do graceful."
A moment later, a single Snapmaw roar echoed faintly from the riverbed below.
I sighed and drew Terra's Gift from my side.
Graceful time was over.
The roar echoed again—closer now.
I spun toward the sound, boots crunching the brittle soil beneath me.
A Snapmaw burst from the edge of the dried riverbed, jaws wide and eyes glowing, its metal hide slick with grime and heat shimmer. It moved like liquid fury—low, fast, and vicious.
I didn't hesitate.
[FOCUS — TARGET LOCKED]
I thumbed the side dial on my Pullcaster and took aim—not at the Snapmaw's head, but just over its back.
"Let's ride, asshole."
THWUNK.
The anchor shot from my hip in a blur, slamming into the earth just behind the machine as I yanked the trigger. The harness kicked hard, launching me through the air like a bullet from a goddamn slingshot.
I landed square on the Snapmaw's back, knees locking around the armored spine as the thing bucked like a wild bull, twisting and snapping in rage.
It tried to shake me off—thrashing side to side, slamming into rocks, spinning in the dirt—but I held on, one arm locked around a coolant fin, the other drawing Warcrime from my back.
"Bite this."
I jammed the barrels into a seam near its rear venting plate and pulled both triggers.
BOOM. BOOM.
The twin blasts tore into the Snapmaw's spine, ripping chunks of armor and scorched internals into the air. Sparks and coolant sprayed in every direction. It shrieked—high-pitched and furious—and then dove into a wild roll, trying to death spiral me into the dirt.
I let go.
Flipped backward.
Rolled once, twice, came up on one knee just as the thing snapped back upright and surged forward, jaws wide and ready to tear me in half.
I didn't draw a gun.
I drew World-Cleaver.
Ubba's creation felt heavier than any weapon I'd ever held—but as I activated the booster module, I felt the hum, the charge, the pressure.
The Snapmaw lunged.
I met it head-on.
With a roar, I brought the axe down in a diagonal swing, both hands wrapped tight, boosters flaring from the haft as it connected—
CRACK-KROOM!
The blade slammed through alloy and hydraulic neck pistons like they were paper. The Snapmaw's head separated clean, crashing into the dirt and skidding another six feet before coming to a twitching stop.
The body collapsed at my feet, smoke rising from the severed column.
I stood there for a moment, panting. Then I dropped the axe, my arms numb from wrist to shoulder.
"God damn!" I barked, shaking my arms out like I'd just bare-knuckled a generator. "Ubba, you crazy, wonderful, weapon-making maniac—this thing's gonna tear my damn shoulders out!"
The axe sat in the dirt, half-buried from impact, still faintly steaming.
I knelt beside it, flexing my hands, still tingling with aftershock. Around me, the plains were quiet again—nothing but the wind and the ticking metal corpse of the Snapmaw.
And I was still a few miles from camp.
"Long day ahead," I muttered, dragging the axe back to my side.
I let the axe rest in the dirt a moment longer before walking over to the Snapmaw's carcass. Its severed head lay twisted at an angle, one eye dimming with a soft crackle of failing optics.
I crouched beside the body and drew my blade, prying up a panel along the spine where coolant cables and battery nodes were half-exposed.
"Let's see what you're hiding, big guy…"
A few sparks flew as I worked the knife in, slicing through scorched plating and tugging free a half-melted processor core. Not pristine, but usable. I pocketed it into the Nanoboy 3000's storage with a flick.
[LOOT STORED — Snapmaw Coolant Coil 1 Servo Clutch (Damaged) 1 Composite Alloy Plate 2]
I grunted as I pulled free the last alloy segment, flexing my shoulder with a wince.
"Next time I level up," I muttered under my breath, "I'm dumping points into melee weapons. Or at least learning how to aim for the goddamn soft spots."
The recoil from World-Cleaver still buzzed in my bones. I hadn't realized just how much force Ubba's boosters added until they detonated against the densest part of a Snapmaw's armor. It was like swinging a freight train into a steel wall—and being surprised when your arms didn't like it.
I stood, shaking out the tension and rolling my neck.
"Hell of a weapon. Just wish it came with a chiropractor."
With the parts stashed, the Snapmaw cooling, and the trail ahead clear, I grabbed the axe by the haft, gave it a grunt-worthy heave, and slung it back into its rig. And started my walk to the camp.
…
By the time I reached the edge of the Oseram camp, the sun was angling low, casting long shadows across the scrub-choked plain. The old mining site wasn't much to look at—rusted cranes, half-collapsed scaffolds, and a perimeter wall cobbled together from machine ribs and scavenged support beams.
I was just starting up the hill toward the main gate when the air snapped.
THUNK-KRAK!
A ballista bolt slammed into the dirt three feet to my right, kicking up a geyser of soil and shredded roots.
I dove left on pure instinct, rolled once, and came up with Warcrime already in my hands.
"WHAT THE FUCK, DUDE!?" I roared up at the wall.
There was a brief pause, followed by some scuffling and the sound of a man yelling.
"Damn it, Gildun! You're supposed to fire a warning shot—not kill a potential customer outright!"
A beat later, the makeshift gate creaked open, pulled by a pair of grumbling workers. Up on the wall, someone stepped into view, peering nervously over the edge.
Short, stocky, rosy-cheeked.
Wore a padded leather cap with vented goggles, oversized belt buckle, and a guilty-as-sin smile plastered on his face.
He waved sheepishly with both hands.
"Sorry! Real sorry! I didn't mean to—wasn't—uh—new winch mechanism, y'see! Caught a bit more tension than expected. And then, well… there it went!"
I blinked. Then blinked again.
That was Gildun.
The Gildun. No mistaking the voice, the awkwardness, or the way he radiated both guilt and hope like a walking forge bellows.
"Well," I muttered under my breath, lowering Warcrime, "this day just keeps getting weirder."
The camp's lead stepped through the gates, wiping sweat from his forehead, and gave me an apologetic nod.
"Come on in, friend. We'll make it up to you. First drink's on us."
I eyed the still-quivering ballista bolt buried in the dirt.
"Damn right it is."
The Oseram foreman rounded on Gildun the second I stepped through the gate. He was broad-shouldered, sunburnt, and already red in the face as he started shouting.
"What in the Forge-fire were you thinking?! We told you to give a warning shot, not trigger a godsdamn war!"
"I—I know, I know," Gildun stammered. His hands flailed in nervous half-circles. "It was the crank! It's old tech—unstable tension—I tried compensating, but it snagged and, well, she jumped before I could—"
"Just stop talking," the foreman snapped. "Every time you open your mouth, we lose another shard's worth of dignity."
Gildun flinched, shrinking back like he'd just taken a hammer to the ribs.
Behind the visor, I winced.
This place had all the makings of another Gildun story. Awkward, talkative, too trusting for his own good. I hadn't even known the guy for more than ten seconds, but he didn't need a character reference. I already knew the type. He was too eager to help, too earnest, and that made him a magnet for getting taken advantage of.
It didn't take a genius to see how this was going to go. They'd drag him along for the bunker dive, probably use him to test doors, trigger pressure plates, or distract whatever was guarding the place. And when the real loot showed up? He'd "accidentally" get left behind, or told some bullshit about how his share went to repairs or hazard pay. And Gildun? He'd buy it. Smile. Say thanks. Maybe even apologize for screwing something up along the way.
He wasn't a bad guy. Just the opposite. That was the problem.
The foreman stomped off, still muttering curses under his breath. Gildun stood near the gate, fidgeting with the leather strap on his tool belt, eyes down, face tight with embarrassment. He didn't even glance back at me. He probably didn't want to see anyone looking at him like that.
I took a slow step forward.
Not to say anything.
Not yet.
But I was going into that bunker, and if this place really was setting him up to take a fall, I'd be watching. Closely.
Someone had to have his back.
Might as well be me.
The foreman finally cooled off enough to walk back over, brushing his palms against the sides of his coat and eyeing me more carefully now. "So, what's your business here? Looking for something in particular?"
"Yeah," I said. "Heard you've got a Gatecrasher problem. I'm here to help with that."
His eyebrows went up. "That so?"
He didn't even try to hide the relief in his voice. "That damn thing's been harassing us for weeks now. Mostly at night—comes barreling in from the tree line, knocks over scaffolds, sends everyone scrambling, then disappears before we can hit it with anything that sticks."
I nodded slowly and glanced around the camp. Now that I was looking closer, the signs were obvious—chunks of reinforced concrete half-buried in the dirt, twisted rebar poking out from old foundations, scattered beams of rust-eaten metal arranged in half-hearted barricades. This place wasn't just a camp. It had been built right on top of an Old World site—some kind of industrial building, maybe. Factory or storage center. Whatever it was, the skeleton was still here, and the Oseram had set up shop right on its spine.
The foreman followed my gaze, and I caught a flicker of knowing amusement in his eyes.
"Yeah," he said, catching on. "You're putting it together. Name's Finnker, by the way."
He crossed his arms and looked out across the camp. "See, it's not uncommon for machines like Gatecrashers or Hammerrunners—or anything else with a taste for demolition—to target sites like this. You build on top of something they already knocked down, and it tends to piss them off."
I raised an eyebrow behind the visor. "They remember?"
"Don't know if they remember or just react," Finnker said. "But something in their heads doesn't like it when we repurpose old ruins. It's like—territorial. Like we're undoing what they already did."
He motioned around with a gloved hand. "Still, you find a delve like this? You take the risk. There's good salvage underneath. Enough to fund ten more expeditions if we can get that Gatecrasher off our backs."
I looked back toward the horizon, toward the stretch of scrubland and collapsed concrete that marked the edge of the ruins.
"Then let's hope it shows up soon."
Finnker gave a sharp grin and patted my arm. "You're either brave or stupid. But either way—we'll take it."
Behind him, Gildun was still awkwardly adjusting the ballista, pretending not to listen.
I'd have to keep a close eye on this whole crew.
Especially if we found the bunker I was expecting beneath our feet.
And especially for Gildun's sake.
Finnker gave a low whistle and motioned for someone to fetch a waterskin. "You want to help with the Gatecrasher? Good. Means I can finally stop losing sleep every time the wind knocks over a barrel."
He turned and pointed toward the wall where Gildun was fiddling with the ballista's crank mechanism again, probably hoping no one still remembered what had just happened.
"I'll have him help you track it," Finnker said, jerking a thumb in Gildun's direction.
I tilted my head. "Seriously?"
Finnker grinned. "Oh yeah. Gildun's got an unnatural streak of luck when it comes to surviving that thing. Beast's chased him half a dozen times and never once managed to land a clean hit. It's like the damned machine can't decide whether to kill him or just give up out of pity."
I didn't respond right away. Just stared at Gildun as he tripped over a coil of rope and nearly fell into a crate of broken spearheads.
"Sure," I muttered. "Looks like a real survival expert."
Finnker snorted. "He's not good, he's just lucky. But that kind of luck has its uses. Worst case? He draws the thing out. Best case? You get a clean line while it's too busy trying to turn him into scrap."
He clapped me on the shoulder like we were already comrades in arms. "Put an arrow—or whatever you're packing—into its side, and maybe we can salvage more than just spare parts this time."
I said nothing, but my grip tightened slightly on the haft of World-Cleaver.
The idea of using Gildun as bait didn't sit right. I could already see it—the awkward Oseram running through a field, breathless, terrified, while the Gatecrasher barreled after him with single-minded purpose. And the others, sitting back, watching, waiting for the right moment to strike.
Waiting for him to fail.
I looked at Gildun again.
He still hadn't looked over.
"Yeah," I said, tone flat. "I'll make sure he gets through it."
Finnker just nodded, pleased. "Great. He'll be glad to hear it."
Somehow, I doubted that.
Finnker cupped his hands and called out, "Gildun! Get down here!"
From the upper walkway, Gildun leaned over the railing, looking like a man already regretting whatever was coming. "Me?"
"Yeah, you," Finnker barked. "You wanna help our new friend here track the Gatecrasher?"
Gildun hesitated, visibly uneasy. "I mean… do I have to?"
Finnker crossed his arms. "The camp would greatly appreciate it."
That was the hook. I watched Gildun wilt, then straighten. Like he wanted to say no, but the need to be liked won out fast.
"Right! Sure, yeah—just gotta grab my kit! Back in a flash!"
He darted off like a kicked puppy trying to win a medal.
Finnker exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "Guy's got nerves made of sponge. Still, he's got the luck of ten men. Just once I'd like that damn Gatecrasher to go after someone else for a change."
He looked back at me and gave a thin smile. "Anyway, good luck. Don't really care what happens, so long as that thing dies."
I didn't react to the casual dismissal. Just crossed my arms and said, "Fine. But if I'm taking care of your oversized headache, I get a crack at the Depth you're digging."
Finnker's amusement vanished. "Now wait a damn second—"
"I could also just walk. Let the Gatecrasher knock your entire wall over next time."
He opened his mouth, shut it, then let out a frustrated grunt. "Fine. You can take what you can carry. That's it. The rest of the claim's ours by right of founding—and all the blood and sweat we've already sunk into this site."
"Sounds fair," I said, voice flat. I didn't know what was inside the Depth, but it didn't matter. Anything hidden that deep was bound to be useful—or at least valuable.
Finnker muttered something under his breath and stomped off, leaving me by the main walkway.
A minute later, Gildun came jogging back across the camp, oversized pack swinging behind him, half his gear clanking like loose cookware. He waved with that same nervous energy he'd had up on the wall.
"Alright! All set! Lead the way, boss!"
I sighed.
This was going to be a long day.
I followed Gildun down the broken trail that led south of the ruins, toward the treeline where the Gatecrasher was last spotted. His gear clanked with every step—pickaxes, rolled wire, a collapsible scope bouncing off his side like it had a mind of its own. The guy moved like a salvage cart with legs.
He started talking before we'd even cleared the first ridge.
"You know, I've actually been with the Golden Plains crew for a while now. Good folks, mostly. Finnker brought me on after I helped him out of a jam with a rigged pressure valve. Didn't mean to help, actually. I just hit the wrong lever and—boom—saved his leg. Funny how stuff works out, huh?"
I didn't say anything. Just gave a grunt that he took as encouragement.
"Been on four delves with 'em since," he went on, oblivious. "Usually they send me in first. Not sure why. I guess I just have a sense for traps! Or maybe I'm light on my feet. Ha! Well—not light, I suppose, but you know. Spry. For a delver."
He chuckled awkwardly.
I winced behind the visor.
The longer he talked, the more it became obvious.
They were using him.
Every "lucky escape" he mentioned was really just him being the first one pushed forward. He'd tripped a collapsed floor section in one ruin and fallen straight into a coolant vat—only to be laughed off after they fished him out. Another time, he'd been sent to "check" a malfunctioning door that was clearly a vent trap. Half these stories ended with him bruised, covered in oil, or half-conscious while the others looted whatever was inside.
He never seemed to catch it. Never once phrased it like they were taking advantage. Just kept painting them as good, busy folks who "trusted him to do the dangerous parts."
My stomach turned.
They didn't trust him. They were using him. Walking shield, disposable scout, glorified distraction. And the worst part? He kept smiling through all of it.
"I even overheard Finnker say I was 'the luckiest bastard he'd ever met.' So I figure, hey—if that's how I help, that's fine by me!"
I kept walking, eyes forward, one hand resting on Warcrime.
"Gildun," I said finally, "you ever wonder why you're always the one in front?"
He blinked, caught off guard. "Well… I mean, I guess I've got the reflexes for it. And I don't complain much, so they figure I can handle it."
I didn't respond.
Didn't have to.
The silence said enough.
Gildun pointed down the trail, eyes scanning the ruined ridge ahead. "Right, so—Gatecrasher. Imagine a boulder got angry and learned how to sprint."
He raised a hand and gestured vaguely in the air. "Big thing. Covered in cracked armor plating like it was built out of canyon rock. You see those massive pods on its back? Most folks think they're cannons—they're not. They're boosters. Full-blast ones. When that thing charges, it hits harder than a Snapmaw with a grudge and twice as fast."
He mimed the shape of it with his hands. "Low center of gravity, legs like tree trunks, and a head built for punching through support walls. And under its neck, there's this blue glow—like a belly vent or a power sink. Probably important, but good luck getting close enough to poke it."
Rion kept walking in silence.
Gildun trudged beside him, not getting the hint. "Thing's flattened scaffold, torn through three of our outer towers, and once knocked over a Snapmaw that wandered too close. Just body-checked it like it was nothing."
He gave a weak chuckle. "We call it a Gatecrasher 'cause it didn't just tear through the west gate—it used it like a ramp. Took out the watchtower behind it, too."
Rion glanced sideways. "And you've survived how many run-ins with it?"
Gildun scratched the back of his neck. "Five. Maybe six. Hard to count when you're tumbling down a hill or hiding under a half-broken cart."
Rion exhaled through his nose. "You weren't kidding about that luck."
"Yeah," Gildun said, voice trailing. "Lucky's one word for it."
We passed through the remains of a collapsed rail gantry, twisted steel beams jutting from the ground like broken ribs. Gildun kept pace, still talking—though his voice had dropped a little. Less excited now. More honest.
"Truth be told… I've always had a thing about Snapmaws. Hate 'em. Big, loud, always too many teeth. But at least with them, you've got a chance. If you see one early enough, you can zigzag, bait it into mud, climb a rock—something."
He kicked at a stone, sending it tumbling down a shallow incline.
"But Gatecrashers?" He shook his head. "Different story. Doesn't matter how clever you are. If it decides to go full speed and you're in the way… it's over. Doesn't roar, doesn't give you time to panic. Just—boom. Wall, cart, person—it crashes through like it's proving a point."
He looked over at me, and for once there was no smile. Just tired eyes behind soot-smeared goggles.
"I've outrun Snapmaws. More than once. But the Gatecrasher?" He hesitated. "I almost didn't make it a couple times. One of them, it clipped the edge of a ridge I was jumping off. Sent me flying. Cracked two ribs and I don't remember the landing. I woke up with half a scaffold on top of me and everyone thought I was dead."
He scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. "Some days, I wonder if I was supposed to be."
I didn't say anything. Just kept walking.
Gildun wasn't a coward. Just smart enough to know when something really could kill you—and humble enough to admit how close it had come.
Behind the awkwardness, behind the forced smiles and constant chatter, the guy had survived things that would've broken most people.
…..
We crested a ridge overlooking a sunken basin where an old-world parking structure leaned like it was trying to remember how to stand. Rusted rebar jutted from concrete slabs, and half-collapsed levels made it look like a fossilized hive.
Then I saw them.
Ten machines in total—thick-limbed, heavy-footed, all of them moving with intent.
Hammerrunners.
They looked like someone had built a brick-headed pachycephalosaurus out of machine parts and bad intentions. Each one had a reinforced dome skull, squat body, and legs that hit the ground like hammers. Their heads were already scuffed and dented from too many collisions to count.
Some of them were outside, slamming themselves into rusted cars and crumbling pylons, reducing metal to scrap with every hit. Others were deeper inside the garage structure, knocking down walls with mechanical precision—like they were clearing out a nest.
I watched one tilt its head, back up, then charge through a half-standing support beam. The wall exploded on impact.
A second later, a pair of Hammerrunners pushed a stripped-down car toward the edge of the third story.
Then they shoved it off.
The vehicle crashed to the ground in a shower of twisted metal and dust, landing with a boom that echoed across the ruins.
Gildun crouched beside me, peering over the ledge as another Hammerrunner rammed straight through a concrete pillar like it owed it money.
Then, to my surprise, he smiled.
"Well," he said, adjusting his goggles, "guess that's good news."
I looked at him. "You call this good news?"
"Absolutely," Gildun said, gesturing at the chaos below. "Means we don't have to track the Gatecrasher anymore. We kill these guys, and he'll come charging in like an angry father looking for his kids."
He gave a nervous chuckle. "It's not elegant, sure, but it saves time."
I shook my head. "Your version of optimism is dangerous."
"Yeah, but practical," Gildun shot back. "Trust me—when these guys stop moving, he'll feel it. Whatever machine brain he's got, it notices when the ground crew goes quiet."
Another Hammerrunner threw itself through the side of the garage, ripping out a stairwell and sending a fire door clanging down the rubble slope.
"Alright then," I muttered, raising my weapon. "Let's make some noise."
Gildun pulled a crude throwing spike from his belt and grinned a little too wide.
"Now you're talking."
We started moving down the slope, weaving between rusted beams and skeletal trees, keeping low and quiet.
That's when we heard the voice.
It was warbled, mechanical, strained through centuries of decay.
"This facility is restricted. Please vacate the premises immediately."
I froze, peeking around a fractured retaining wall.
Down below, standing defiantly in front of the garage entrance, was a single rusted Protectron. Its chassis was sun-faded and scorched, its arms twitching slightly as it raised them in a half-hearted gesture of warning. A faded security logo was still stamped across its chestplate, barely visible through the corrosion.
The Hammerrunners didn't even slow down.
One of them—larger than the rest—stomped forward and dropped its head low. Vents hissed on its back as orange glow flared through its booster ducts.
Gildun whispered, "Oh no."
The Hammerrunner launched forward, boosters firing with a shriek of pressure.
In a second it closed the gap and slammed full-force into the Protectron's chest.
CRUNCH.
The security bot folded like wet tin. Sparks exploded out its back as the impact tore it off the ground and hurled it into the concrete.
The Hammerrunner wasn't done.
It reared back and started slamming its reinforced skull down—again and again—into the ruined body. Each impact rang out like a blacksmith hammering a spike, over and over. Metal groaned. Gears flew. One of the Protectron's arms rolled limply across the lot, still twitching.
"Dear Forge," Gildun muttered.
I didn't say anything.
I just watched as the Hammerrunner finished the job with one final, brutal headbutt that left the robot's upper half embedded in the pavement like a half-driven nail.
The machine backed up, shook dust from its boosters, and rejoined the others like nothing happened.
Gildun leaned forward slightly, eyes wide as he watched the Protectron's remains twitch in the dirt.
I adjusted my grip on World-Cleaver.
No more warnings. No more speeches.
Time to thin the herd.
I turned to Gildun. "Keep your eyes open. If the Gatecrasher shows, I need to know before it flattens me."
He nodded, gripping a rust-pitted tripwire spool like it might save his life. "Right. Watching. Quiet. Got it."
I slipped into the grass without another word, crouched low, moving slow between waist-high reeds and the rusted husks of Old World sedans. The Hammerrunners were spread out, aggressive but unfocused—knocking over debris, headbutting walls, chewing through what was left of the parking structure's supports.
Perfect.
I ducked behind a twisted frame and pulled a rock from the dirt. A smooth chunk of concrete no bigger than my fist.
I tossed it.
Clack.
The sound echoed off an old exhaust pipe, just enough to draw one of the machines toward the source. The nearest Hammerrunner paused, head tilted. It let out a soft mechanical chuff, then started stomping toward the noise with heavy, deliberate steps.
I waited in the grass, heartbeat steady.
As it passed the ruined car I was tucked behind, I moved fast. No noise. No hesitation.
My hand shot out and grabbed the base of its neck plating. Before it could react, I drove my machete straight up into its gut—right below the rib-like armor.
The blade pierced through a bundle of hydraulics and synth muscle.
The machine jerked violently.
I yanked it back into the grass with a grunt, silencing its whirring limbs as I twisted the blade, severing its power spine. Its head flickered, then slumped.
One down.
I pulled the machete free, wiped it against the grass, and looked back toward Gildun.
He gave me a shaky thumbs-up.
I motioned for him to stay down.
Because this was just the start.
And things were going to get loud, soon enough.
As I crouched beside the fallen Hammerrunner, I took a moment to scan the others.
No Watchers.
Of course.
Hammerrunners moved in wide packs, spread out to cover terrain and clear debris. Too much ground for Watchers to patrol efficiently. Probably a design oversight—or maybe just arrogance in whatever subroutine managed their routes.
Either way, it left them vulnerable.
Their heads were built like bricks, blocking half their own field of vision. No side-mounted optics. No scanning lenses. Just raw momentum and forward focus.
That was their strength.
It was also their weakness.
I moved through the brush like a shadow, circling wide around a pair that were butting heads over a crumbled support beam. They grunted and shoved like territorial bulls, unaware of the knife slipping between them.
The first went down clean—machete into the base of the neck, just under the dome.
I dragged it into a rusted hatchback as its power died with a hiss.
The second turned, confused by the sudden absence of its partner.
Too slow.
I leapt up from behind a rusted fender, slamming the blade into its joint and driving my boot against the back of its knee. The machine crumpled, and I finished the job with a wrench of the wrist that severed its core lines.
That made three.
I ducked back into the grass, breathing low and steady.
That's when I heard the stomp.
Too close.
I turned just in time to see the last Hammerrunner outside pivot sharply toward the open stretch of brush I'd just crossed. Maybe it caught the motion. Maybe it spotted a gleam off the blade. Whatever it was, it didn't hesitate.
It bellowed a warning chuff and lowered its head, boosters flaring to life.
It locked onto me and lowered its skull, those shoulder boosters lighting up like warning flares.
I pulled the Railwhistle from my back in one motion and fired.
CLANG!
The spike hit dead center—but the bastard's head was so damn dense it deflected. Not even a crack. Just a fresh dent in the dome.
"Shit."
I dove sideways as the Hammerrunner let loose.
It blasted forward with a roar of igniting pressure, closing the distance in a blur of motion. The sheer force behind it kicked up a wall of dust and dead grass.
It missed me by inches—but the rusted truck behind me wasn't so lucky.
The machine plowed into it full force, and the whole chassis exploded into motion. The truck flipped once, then twice—metal groaning, wheels popping off—five full revolutions before it finally slammed down in a heap of twisted wreckage, upside-down and burning.
The Hammerrunner backed out of the wreckage, bits of truck still hanging off its armor.
It snorted a jet of heat from its side vents and scraped a foot across the ground like it was lining up round two.
The Hammerrunner flared its boosters again, vents hissing violently as the machine lowered its skull for another charge.
This time, I was ready.
I triggered Concentration.
The world narrowed. Sounds dulled. Everything slowed.
I saw the ignition bloom in the booster vents—the swirl of pressure, the shimmer of heat distortion. Its feet tore up chunks of pavement as it launched forward, faster than any machine its size had a right to be.
I lined up my shot.
Breathed in.
Focused on the right-side booster, just behind the shoulder mount.
BOOM.
The Railwhistle bucked in my hands, spike whistling through the air like a banshee.
Direct hit.
The booster exploded in a shower of sparks and shredded metal. The machine jerked sideways mid-charge, momentum twisting it off-course.
It screamed, a harsh metallic whine, legs flailing as it careened off-target.
The Hammerrunner slammed full-speed into the side of an old minivan.
CLANG.
The impact folded the vehicle in half. The machine crumpled into it, its legs tangled in the frame as smoke hissed from its damaged systems.
It wasn't dead yet—but it wasn't getting up fast either.
I let out a breath and reloaded.
Smoke still hissed from the shattered booster as the Hammerrunner groaned and began to move again. It yanked itself free of the crumpled van with a metallic shriek, armor plates grinding as it staggered upright.
I didn't wait.
I lined up the second shot and fired.
WHISTLE—BOOM.
The spike slammed into the other booster pod, detonating it in a spray of shrapnel. The machine staggered sideways, now completely off-balance, limbs struggling to coordinate with its crippled propulsion system.
Its head lifted, one eye glowing dimly beneath the dome.
That's when I saw the opening.
I raised the Railwhistle, exhaled, and pulled the trigger one last time.
CRACK.
The spike pierced through the narrow socket beneath its cranial plate, sinking deep.
The Hammerrunner twitched violently—then collapsed mid-step. Legs buckled. Its head struck the ground with a final, heavy thud.
It didn't move again.
I lowered the rifle and rolled my shoulders, tension bleeding off as I scanned for the next threat.
Only wreckage.
But from inside the parking structure, I could hear the others starting to stir.
And now, they were pissed.
The ground rumbled.
Before I could reposition, a section of the garage wall to my left exploded outward in a cloud of dust and shattered concrete.
One of the Hammerrunners burst through the breach, chunks of rebar and drywall falling off its shoulders. It skidded on the loose ground, claws gouging deep into the dirt as it reoriented.
Then it let out a sound I hadn't heard from the others—something like a screeching hydraulic whinny, sharp and grating, full of blind fury.
Its boosters flared to life.
It scraped a foot back, pawing at the ground like a bull lining up its charge.
Then it came for me.
Fast.
Too fast.
I snapped my hand down and fired the Pullcaster, the line latching onto a chunk of twisted scaffolding jutting out of the nearby wreckage. I yanked myself sideways just as the machine barreled through the space where I'd been standing.
Whump—BOOM.
It missed—but barely.
As I landed, I swung around mid-motion, drew Warcrime, and pulled the trigger.
The custom shotgun roared, muzzle flash flaring like a dragon's breath.
The shells slammed into the Hammerrunner's exposed flank—chunks of armor tore loose, sparks trailing as it stumbled mid-gallop, momentum dragging it another few meters before it collapsed into a spin and crashed onto its side with a heavy, screeching grind.
The downed Hammerrunner twitched on its side, one leg kicking as its servos struggled to right it. It wasn't going to get up fast—not with half its flank torn open and sparks bleeding from a fractured booster mount.
I stayed low and circled wide, eyes still scanning the structure. More would be coming.
But as I moved, a thought settled in.
These things were stupid.
Not just aggressive. Dumb.
They didn't coordinate. Didn't flank. They fought like drunk brawlers with built-in battering rams—just charged, headfirst, like their only instinct was to break whatever they saw.
I watched one inside the garage try to ram through a steel pillar that had already fallen, its dome thudding off the side like a frustrated child.
Honestly, it wouldn't surprise me if these were some of the first machines GAIA ever designed—probably way back at the start of the terraforming phase. Simple minds, basic functions: see wall, smash wall. No subtlety, no tactics. Just brute force applied until something broke.
It made sense. They weren't designed for war—they were probably built to knock over ruins, bust open old-world blockages, and clear terrain fast.
And now, without supervision?
They were just head-butting the world one dent at a time.
Effective in numbers. But dumb as bricks.
Which gave me an edge.
I reloaded Warcrime and moved toward the groaning machine, ready to finish the job.
The wounded Hammerrunner tried to roll upright, vents hissing weakly.
I didn't give it the chance.
One shell from the shotgun to the exposed core behind its shoulder joint ended it. The machine jerked once, then collapsed with a dying whine, sparks flickering out across the cracked pavement.
I stepped over the smoking heap and slipped through the jagged opening it had blasted in the wall.
Inside, the garage was a broken maze of concrete, rebar, and dust. The air was hot, filled with the scent of scorched insulation and the low electrical hum of machines stomping around above.
I kept close to the wall, shadows wrapping around me as I moved along the inner corridor. The broken lights and old signage still clung to the ceiling like barnacles.
I pursed my lips and let out a low, simple whistle.
Just a few notes.
Echoing. Distant.
A lure.
Something curious—and just annoying enough to draw the attention of a dumb brute.
Sure enough, I heard the scrape of heavy feet.
One of the Hammerrunners rounded the far end of the hall, its blocky head turning slightly toward the sound.
It didn't wait. None of them did.
It charged—boosters flaring, claws gouging up the floor, skull aimed right at the source of the noise.
I didn't flinch.
I kicked hard off the wall behind me, sliding sideways as the machine blasted past.
It couldn't adjust in time.
The whole mass of it slammed straight down the corridor, exposed flank now wide open.
I pivoted, leveled Warcrime, and fired.
BOOM.
The slug tore through its side like a thunderclap, punching into the exposed internals and rupturing its power spine. The Hammerrunner let out a guttural shriek as it collapsed, scraping along the floor in a shower of sparks.
Dead before it even stopped sliding.
I loaded in a new shell.
And whistled again.
I stepped over the wreckage, the machine's carcass still hissing as coolant leaked from a ruptured line. Smoke curled upward, lit faintly by stray beams of sunlight breaking through the cracks in the ceiling.
Another whistle echoed down the hallway. No answer this time.
I let the silence settle, then muttered under my breath. "A Tripcaster. That's what I should've brought."
These things were built to charge. All momentum, no brakes. A few well-placed wires and pressure triggers would've turned this whole garage into a meat grinder—for them, not me.
Would've made this clean. Efficient.
And if the Gatecrasher was just a bigger, meaner version of these morons—like a Foreman overseeing the demolition crew—then a Tripcaster would've been perfect.
I exhaled slowly and checked the corridor again.
I hadn't thought about it.
I'd be the first to admit it—I wasn't perfect.
Sometimes I got it right. Sometimes I just had a bigger gun.
This time, it worked out. Barely.
But next time? Next time, I bring wires.
I took a few quiet steps deeper into the structure, eyes scanning for movement, hand resting near World-Cleaver's grip.
That's when the wall beside me exploded.
CRASH.
A Hammerrunner burst straight through the concrete like a sledgehammer through drywall, its dome-shaped head smashing into my side before I could react. The hit launched me clean off my feet, and I slammed through the opposite wall in a cloud of dust and shrapnel.
My back hit rebar. Something cracked—but not deep.
Pain exploded across my ribs.
If my Endurance hadn't been so high, my ribcage would've folded like a cheap tent.
Still hurt like hell.
I coughed once and rolled onto my side, vision swimming.
The Hammerrunner pawed at the ground again, its boosters charging up for a follow-up charge.
I didn't give it the chance.
I grabbed World-Cleaver and hauled myself upright, bracing as the machine surged forward.
Just as it closed the gap, I twisted and brought the axe up in a sharp arc.
CLANG!
Steel met ceramic armor as I caught the beast's charge dead-on, the flat of the blade deflecting its skull to the side with a bone-jarring grind.
The machine stumbled sideways, its charge thrown off-course.
I staggered back, left arm already going numb from the impact.
But I was still standing and now I was pissed.
I gritted my teeth, both hands tightening around World-Cleaver's haft.
The Hammerrunner shook off the last deflection, boosters screaming back to life as it lined up for another charge.
I didn't move.
Not yet.
I shifted my grip, raising the axe like a bat—angled just right, blade tilted low. My footing sank into the dust. Muscles tense. Breathing slow.
Then I triggered Concentration.
The world narrowed.
The machine thundered forward—each step exaggerated by the slowed flow of time, boosters flaring like twin suns on its shoulders.
It lunged.
And I moved.
A precise twist of the hips. A sidestep at the last second. I angled the axe with practiced fluidity.
The Hammerrunner barreled past—
—and ran its own neck across the blade.
SHUNK.
The axe's edge split clean through the thinner junction at the base of the head. Sparks and black fluid sprayed the wall behind me as the entire head came off, tumbling midair before slamming into the floor with a final, metallic thud.
The body skidded a few more feet before crashing sideways and twitching violently.
Silence returned.
I exhaled through my teeth and rested World-Cleaver on my shoulder, letting the pain radiating through my ribs settle into a dull burn.
"Dumb bastard," I muttered.
Then I started walking again.
Because something told me the Gatecrasher hadn't shown up yet—
—but it would.
I let World-Cleaver rest against the concrete wall and pressed a hand to my side.
Pain flared under the armor—deep, bruising pain that pulsed with every breath.
"Great," I muttered. "I'm gonna be pissing blood for the next couple days."
Couldn't tell if it was a cracked rib or just blunt force trauma, but either way, I wasn't walking this off anytime soon. I reached into a pouch, popped a stim tab under my tongue, and pushed forward.
Still had three more of those bastards somewhere inside the building.
I moved slower now—careful.
The garage's interior felt like a tomb, the concrete echoing with the distant thuds of moving machinery. The damage the Hammerrunners left behind was everywhere—collapsed walls, split support beams, crushed cars folded like tin cans.
I stuck close to the shadows, eyes scanning every corner. Every low rumble might be a charge winding up.
They weren't smart. But they were strong.
And even with their numbers thinning, one lucky hit could still turn my spine into powder.
I gripped World-Cleaver tighter and kept moving.
Gildun, still crouched behind a collapsed overpass outside, felt the ground tremble beneath him—slow, rhythmic pulses that rolled up through his boots and rattled his teeth.
His eyes went wide.
"Uh, Rion?" he shouted, voice cracking as he cupped his hands around his mouth. "I think the big guy is coming!"
The warning echoed faintly through the structure's fractured bones.
I didn't need a second confirmation.
The low roar in the distance—deep, guttural, and filled with weight—told me everything I needed to know.
The Gatecrasher was on its way.
And I wasn't about to let it corner me inside this maze with three more of its little brothers running around.
I sprinted through the corridor, boots slamming against broken concrete, ignoring the fire in my ribs. Every breath was a hot knife under my sternum, but I pushed through it.
No time.
As I rounded a bent pillar, I caught sight of the seventh Hammerrunner stomping along a lower ramp, oblivious.
Didn't wait. Didn't think.
I charged it full-speed and pulled Warcrime free mid-run.
It turned too slow.
I slammed into its chest, shoved the barrel under its chin, and pulled the trigger.
BOOM.
The blast ripped its head clean off, launching the dense dome upward like a cannon shot. The head smashed through a rusted overhead beam, then crashed through the window of a nearby sedan, shattering glass and crunching through the roof like a meteor.
The body twitched once, then collapsed in a heap.
I reached the roof of the parking structure, boots thudding against the broken concrete as I climbed up a rusted maintenance ladder and hauled myself over the edge.
That's when I saw it.
Cresting the hill like a landslide given shape, the Gatecrasher emerged through the dust and haze—elephant-sized, armor cracked like old stone, its shoulder boosters glowing with built-up heat. The low blue sac sloshed and I realized it was a chilwater sac, and its head swayed like a siege ram mounted to a living freight train.
"Oh son of a bitch!" I shouted, recoiling a half-step.
I hadn't thought it would be that big.
Not that big.
It looked like the ugly god of Hammerrunners—heavier, meaner, and somehow… smarter. The boosters on its back flared slightly, venting heat as it surveyed the garage below, like it already knew where I was.
I didn't have time to panic.
I had two Hammerrunners left.
I cupped my hands and shouted loud enough to echo off the whole damn basin. "Come on, you brick-headed bastards! Let's finish this!"
For once, luck answered—and so did bad luck.
Both Hammerrunners appeared, stepping out from opposite ends of the rooftop deck. One emerged from a half-collapsed stairwell. The other climbed over the edge from a broken skybridge, boosters flaring slightly as they locked onto me.
They pawed at the ground in unison.
Oh, hell yes.
I tilted my head. "Wait a second…"
I'd seen this in cartoons before.
I was about to do the classic make the two enemies hit each other by dodging out of the way move.
The machines fired their boosters, roaring toward me like locomotives on a collision course. I spun, aimed, and fired my Pullcaster harness at a half-buried car across the roof.
The line yanked taut—jerking me sideways through the air just as the two Hammerrunners barreled past.
CLANG-BOOM!
They collided mid-charge with a sound like a godsdamn wrecking ball. The impact flung both machines backward, limbs tangling, boosters sputtering as they crumpled into a smoking heap.
I landed in a rough roll, boots skidding, and came up grinning.
"Beautiful," I muttered. "That one's going in the highlight reel."
The two tangled Hammerrunners writhed in a heap, trying to untangle themselves like drunk brawlers who'd just slammed into each other at a bar fight.
I didn't give them a chance.
One clean shot from Warcrime into the first machine's exposed power housing. The blast tore through its ribs and silenced it instantly.
The second tried to rise—limbs scraping and head lifting.
I stepped in close and drove my machete straight through the base of its neck, twisting until its legs kicked once and then stopped.
I backed off, chest heaving, pain still throbbing in my ribs.
Seven, eight, nine, ten.
All dead.
Which meant—
A deep roar rolled through the canyon like a landslide. The kind of sound that hit you in the lungs before you even heard it fully.
Then came the boom.
The Gatecrasher's boosters ignited, and it launched forward, stone-cracking feet pounding the earth as it barreled down the hill like an avalanche made of metal and hatred.
"OH FUCK!" I yelled.
I turned and sprinted for the edge of the building.
Dust and concrete exploded behind me as I reached the lip of the roof and yanked out my rappelling rope.
The line hissed and locked.
I jumped.
KR-KROOM!
The Gatecrasher hit the building just as I dropped, a full-body impact that shook the sky. The entire west quarter of the garage collapsed in on itself, layers of floor pancaking as support beams snapped and dust erupted like a mushroom cloud.
Chunks of rebar and shattered concrete rained down past me as I rappelled hard down the side, boots skidding off the wall.
I hit the ground in a roll, shoulder screaming from the impact—but I was alive.
I turned back just in time to see the Gatecrasher walking through what used to be the roof.
I backed up, boots crunching on gravel as I stared at the Gatecrasher emerging from the collapsed ruin like it had just walked through paper.
Dust rolled off its shoulders in thick clouds, booster vents still glowing faintly orange. Slabs of reinforced armor clung to its frame like quarried stone—cracked but unyielding. Every step it took left a crater in the concrete.
It didn't have cannons.
No tail weapons.
No laser arrays or mounted guns like a Thunderjaw or Ravager.
But looking at it now?
It didn't need them.
This thing was the weapon.
All blunt force and endless forward momentum.
I watched as it scraped its thick front claw against the ground, head tilting ever so slightly as it locked onto me. The heavy breathing sound of its vent cycles echoed like a sleeping giant stirring to life.
"Son of a bitch…" I whispered, breath caught in my throat.
No precision strikes. No quick kill shots. I was going to have to break it down piece by piece.
This was going to be a tough fight.
I gripped World-Cleaver tighter and stepped sideways into the open, heart hammering.
I circled slowly, keeping just outside its charge range, eyes locked on the machine as it tracked me with that squat, menacing head. Its armor was thick—layered in jagged plates that had already tanked half a building like it was nothing.
But machines weren't perfect.
They were built. Designed.
Which meant they could be broken.
I studied the shape—thick tail, stocky legs, wide flat skull. There was no mistaking it now. The Gatecrasher was based on a pachyrhinosaurus.
The dinosaur's big blocky head was the perfect blueprint for a walking battering ram.
Made to flatten obstacles and survive doing it.
There had to be some sort of weakness
Then I saw it.
Just beneath the throat, nestled in a scoop of armor plating, was a soft blue glow—pulsing faintly with every breath-like hiss of the machine's internals.
The chillwater sac.
Not just a power regulator. Probably also a cooling core for the boosters on its back.
Expose that?
I could cook the machine from the inside.
"Alright," I muttered, grip tightening around Warcrime. "That's your heart."
And I was going to punch a hole through it.
The Gatecrasher let out a deep mechanical growl—less a roar, more like a hydraulic exhale under pressure—and then did something I hadn't expected.
It reared up, massive forelimbs lifting off the ground like a warhorse preparing to stomp down.
"Shit—"
Both feet came crashing down with a titanic slam, and the ground beneath me lit up.
A ripple of blue-white electricity surged out in all directions, cracking through the concrete like a spiderweb of lightning, chasing every metal trace and buried wire in the earth.
The air snapped with static as the shockwave hit.
I dove to the side just as arcs of energy lashed past, barely missing my foot. Sparks jumped from the debris, lighting up rusted rebar like fuse lines.
I landed hard behind the shell of a collapsed sedan, heart thudding.
That wasn't just a flashy entrance.
"That's a goddamn overcharge ground surveyor pulse," I muttered, panting. "Probably built to map terrain—or fry anything standing too close."
Made sense.
If this thing had originally been designed to flatten and clear ruins, it would need a way to find unstable pockets, buried structures… or intruders.
Like me.
So it wasn't just durable.
It was smart enough to flush prey out of hiding.
This fight just got worse.
I heard the sudden roar of thrusters behind the dust cloud and bolted.
"Move—move—move!"
I dove out of cover just in time to avoid getting vaporized by five tons of pissed-off machine.
The Gatecrasher tore past, shoulder boosters flaring white-hot as it smashed through the parking structure, annihilating everything in its path. Concrete exploded. Cars were launched into the air like toys—one slammed into a pillar and folded in half, another spun through the air before crashing three stories below.
Debris rained down around me, and I had to dodge—not just the machine, but the falling aftermath. Metal groaned and cracked overhead, chunks of rebar slicing past my helmet as I sprinted through the shifting maze of broken terrain.
But then my experience as a gamer kicked in. This was a boss mechanic.
The cover in this fight wasn't static. Every charge, every crash, every tremor reshaped the battlefield. No safe spots. No fixed corners to camp behind. You had to stay mobile—react, improvise.
And now, it was my turn.
I spun out of a sprint, shoulder-rolled behind a wrecked bus, and swapped weapons.
Railwhistle.
I sighted one of the boosters mounted to the Gatecrasher's back as it skidded through a wide turn, flinging chunks of debris.
The armor there was heavy—thicker than most weak points. I was gonna have to work for this one.
I lined up the shot.
WHISTLE—CRACK.
The spike slammed into the side of the booster and bounced, leaving only a small dent and a burst of sparks.
I gritted my teeth.
This wasn't going to be one of those two-shot kills.
It was going to take persistence.
And probably a few cracked ribs.
But I'd bring this monster down, one shot at a time.
The Gatecrasher reared up again, its front claws kicking up dust as it lifted its massive bulk skyward.
"Not again—"
BOOM.
Both feet slammed down, and another wave of crackling electricity pulsed out across the battlefield. Blue arcs spiderwebbed through the ruined ground, running across debris, latching onto exposed metal, and lighting up every ruined car like a short-circuited beacon.
I dove behind a half-buried engine block just as a surge snapped across the concrete.
The metal around me vibrated—charged—but I stayed grounded.
The pulse passed.
I peeked out in time to see the machine's head turn slightly, its boosters adjusting position.
It wasn't just lashing out randomly.
That electric pulse? It was scanning the battlefield.
It sent out the wave, mapped the area, and then locked onto the next structural weak point or target of interest.
It was learning.
Adjusting.
And more importantly—it meant the fight had a pattern.
The stomp-pulse to flush targets.
The booster charge to crush them.
Then a reset.
And repeat.
It wasn't just about breaking the machine. I had to exploit the pattern.
"Okay," I muttered, loading another spike into the Railwhistle. "I see how you play."
And I was about to play it better.
I stayed crouched behind the debris, watching the Gatecrasher shift its weight, steam hissing from its back vents as it adjusted course.
Even here, in a world rebuilt from ash and ruin, there were still traces of the old design. This place might look tribal, might feel real, but deep down, I knew what I was seeing.
This world was based off a game.
And some of those systems still lingered.
Not in a blatant, heads-up-display kind of way—but in the way machines moved. How they followed loops. How they reacted to stimuli. Patterns. Timings. Windows.
Even this beast—massive, armored, brutal—it still followed its script.
Shockwave. Charge. Reacquire. Repeat.
It wasn't random.
It was predictable—if you paid attention.
I'd fought enough machines now to know they still operated off preprogrammed behaviors, the echoes of some long-dead AI's logic still buried deep inside their code. Somewhere in that armored frame, in that chillwater core, was a system doing exactly what it was told to do. Even if it didn't understand why anymore.
And that meant I had an edge.
Because I did understand.
I knew how games worked.
And no matter how big or terrifying this thing was...
It was still just a boss with a moveset.
I raised the Railwhistle, sighting the booster again.
And I waited for my moment.
I braced myself behind the pillar of a collapsed stairwell, sighted in, and fired.
The spike from Railwhistle slammed into the booster housing again—same target, same angle. This time, the impact pierced deeper. A burst of fluid hissed out, igniting as it hit the booster's hot casing.
Flames licked across the right booster, crawling up its armored shell like angry fingers.
The Gatecrasher halted mid-step.
Steam hissed violently from its undercarriage. A loud whirring sound kicked in—a heavy-duty pump spooling up beneath the armor.
Then I saw it.
The chilwater sac under the machine's throat pulsed, drawing coolant from deep within its core. A jet of mist vented out through tiny slits near the booster—dousing the flames in a harsh burst of cold vapor.
It worked.
The booster didn't just pop off like in a game—it was too well-built, bolted in with proper engineering. But set it on fire, and the system redirected coolant to keep the machine from overheating.
And while it stood still to extinguish itself...
The sac was wide open.
"Okay," I muttered, heart pounding. "Now I see the pattern."
Burn the booster.
Trigger the response.
Hit the weak point.
It was a realistic machine, yeah—but it still had rules.
And now that I knew them?
It was only a matter of time.
Just as I lined up my next shot, a series of explosions rocked the Gatecrasher's flank.
THUMP-THUMP-BOOM!
Bombs burst across its left side, sending sparks and smoke into the air. The machine let out a metallic bellow and pivoted slightly—enough to pull its attention away from me.
I glanced up at the next ridge and spotted him.
Gildun.
He was standing wide-legged on a busted rooftop, Blast-Sling in hand, a nervous grin plastered across his face as he fired another arc of explosives. The charges hit high—non-lethal, more noise than damage—but it was perfect for breaking the Gatecrasher's focus.
"Hey, big guy!" Gildun shouted. "Over here, I'm talkin' to you!"
I didn't know whether to laugh or worry.
But I'd take it.
"Gildun!" I shouted, cupping a hand around my mouth. "It's got a pattern—listen up!"
The Oseram ducked as the Gatecrasher locked onto him. I watched him slide behind a chunk of concrete and then pop up again, ready for more.
"When it rears up, it sends out an electrical pulse—take cover or it'll fry you!"
"Got it!"
"When it charges—move fast. Don't try to tank it!"
"Roger that!"
"And when it slows down to vent steam or adjust direction—take your shots!"
"Shots! Right! I like taking shots!"
He was still Gildun—awkward, overly enthusiastic, maybe a bit gullible when it came to people—but when it came to machines?
He knew what to do.
I couldn't help but grin behind my helmet.
Maybe I wasn't fighting this thing alone after all.
"Only take shots if it gets too close!" I shouted over the rising hum of the Gatecrasher's boosters. "Otherwise, stay in cover!"
Another explosion rang out as Gildun ducked behind a sloped metal sheet, peeking out with wide eyes.
"You sure?!"
I nodded once, leveling Railwhistle at the cooling sac again.
"You're a Delver, Gildun. Not a frontliner. Leave the fighting to me."
He blinked, confused. "But I—"
"When we go delving," I added, firing a spike into the sac as steam hissed again, "I'll listen to you. That's your arena."
Gildun froze for a second behind the chunk of stone—like those words hit harder than the bomb he'd just thrown.
Even through the haze of smoke and grit, I could see the way his expression shifted.
Surprised.
Not because of the danger.
But because someone actually meant it. That they'd trust him, work with him, not just use him to trigger a trap or open a door.
And for a second, the awkward Oseram just smiled—soft, genuine.
"Alright," he said, voice steadier now. "Deal."
Then he ducked back behind cover just as the Gatecrasher pivoted to face me again, boosters whining.
We kept the rhythm.
Stomp. Pulse. Cover.
Charge. Dodge. Counter.
Steam vent. Core exposed. Fire.
Over and over.
The Gatecrasher was powerful, relentless—but it was predictable. And every time the booster caught fire, every time it paused to cool itself, I hit that chilwater sac like it owed me shards.
And finally—
CRACK—HISSSSSSSHH!
The sac burst, a geyser of super-cooled mist erupting from the Gatecrasher's throat like a geyser. Frost formed instantly across its torso, creeping along the armor like veins of ice, the internal temperature shock freezing parts of its core from the inside out.
The machine staggered, its posture hitching.
"Hit it with everything you got!" I yelled, already charging forward.
Gildun didn't hesitate.
More explosive bombs arced overhead, slamming into the now-sluggish frame. One caught the joint of the left shoulder, another blew off part of the machine's flank.
I raised Warcrime, locked on, and fired at the damaged booster—right into the crack I'd been hammering for minutes.
WHISTLE—BOOM.
The shards tore into the core, found the pressure line—and detonated.
The right booster exploded, shrapnel spiraling off as the entire side of the Gatecrasher blew out, knocking the massive machine off balance. It tried to realign but its thruster failed to fire—one leg buckling beneath the weight.
It was on the verge now.
We'd broken its rhythm.
Now we were going to break it completely.
I didn't wait.
The second the booster blew, I fired my Pullcaster Harness, the line whipping out and latching onto the Gatecrasher's spine just behind the shoulder armor. I launched myself forward, boots slamming down hard on its armored back.
The surface was scalding hot beneath me, scorched from the explosions and burning coolant. But I held on.
"Gildun! Legs!" I shouted, planting my stance as the machine thrashed. "Take out the legs!"
"On it!" I heard him yell back, followed by the echo of more bombs arcing through the air.
The Gatecrasher stumbled as one explosive caught its rear leg. I didn't give it a chance to recover.
I pulled Warcrime free, angled down, and fired point-blank into the second booster.
BOOM!
The metal casing warped, coolant hissed again, and the remaining booster flared out in a final burst—only to sputter and die.
With both boosters crippled, the machine slowed to a crawl.
I holstered Warcrime and yanked World-Cleaver free.
No finesse now.
Just rage and steel.
I started wailing on the machine's back, each swing ringing out like a blacksmith's hammer, cleaving through damaged plating and cracked welds. Sparks flew. Steam jetted. The Gatecrasher let out a low, broken groan as I hacked my way toward the front right leg.
Five swings.
That's how long it took.
On the fifth, World-Cleaver bit deep into the joint—right where Gildun's bombs had softened the frame.
CRUNCH—SNAP.
The leg tore free with a final screech of overstrained metal and the Gatecrasher buckled.
I rode the massive machine down like a collapsing titan, holding onto a spar of frame as it crashed into the earth, a shockwave rolling out from the impact.
At the last second, I jumped, boots hitting dirt just as the beast crumpled fully behind me, its head slamming into the rubble with a final hiss of spent coolant and dying light.
I exhaled hard.
"Stay down," I muttered.
And for once… it did.
I stood over the wreck, chest still heaving, the ache in my ribs pulsing with every breath.
The Gatecrasher's eye-lights flickered—soft, sputtering blue for second—and then finally went dark, fading into hollow glass.
I waited a second, half-expecting it to twitch, to groan, to lash out in one final death spasm.
But it didn't move.
Just silence.
And then—like a phantom breeze brushing against my spine—a familiar pulse rolled through me.
My HUD flickered briefly inside the helmet.
Level Up.
I blinked, exhaling sharply. "There it is."
13 Stat Points. 1 Perk Point.
Felt good.
Felt earned.
I'd fought plenty of machines, but this? This was a true boss fight—pattern recognition, timed dodges, tactical exploitation, and raw endurance. And it paid off.
I rolled my shoulders, the strain of swinging World-Cleaver starting to catch up with me.
"Could really use a chiropractor perk one of these days," I muttered.
Still, thirteen points to play with... and one shiny new perk slot.
Time to think about where to invest.
But first—loot.
I turned toward the crunch of footsteps over gravel and saw Gildun making his way down the slope, smoke still drifting behind him. He looked like a man halfway between amazement and disbelief.
I wiped some of the grime off my visor and called out, "Hey!"
He jogged the last few steps and stopped next to the fallen Gatecrasher, eyes wide.
"Great metal gods…" he whispered. "You actually did it."
I pointed a thumb toward the smoldering wreck.
"Yeah, but now comes the hard part."
He looked at me, confused.
I motioned to the heap of thick armor, shredded boosters, and mangled joints.
"What the hell do you even loot from a Gatecrasher?"
Gildun blinked a few times, then laughed nervously. "Right! Uh… well, uh…"
He stepped closer, rubbing the back of his neck as he circled the machine like a man who'd just stumbled into a gold vein and wasn't sure where to start digging.
"Booster casing's rare, I know that," he said. "And the coolant regulator coils—tribes will pay a fortune for those if you can get them out clean."
He crouched beside one of the forelimbs. "Some of the pressure-assist pistons in the legs? Might still be intact. Big money in salvage markets."
He paused, peering into a cracked panel.
"...And maybe—if we're real lucky—a primary logic core survived in the chest housing. It's rare in demolition-class machines, but if it's there…"
I tilted my head. "That worth something?"
Gildun glanced up at me and grinned.
"That's worth a trip back to town riding on a throne of Shards."
Gildun stood beside the Gatecrasher's head, peering down at the flat, scarred front plate where the boosters had once vented.
"If we were back in the Claim," he said, voice low with a kind of wistful reverence, "the Aldermen would've had the tinkers mount this whole thing to a wagon. Turn it into a battering ram—drive it straight into a Carja fort wall."
He chuckled, but there was no humor in it. "And they'd love this find. Folks in Golden Plains—they'll definitely try to take it back."
I let out a dry laugh, already knowing where this was going.
"They're not good people, Gildun. They didn't earn this."
He hesitated, still looking at the carcass of the machine like he wasn't sure which way his heart was pulling.
I crossed my arms.
"They didn't bleed for it. We did. You helped. You saw what they'd do. Probably already thinking of how to twist this into more power, more leverage."
His face tightened slightly.
"So here's what we'll do," I said, firm now. "We sell the location. Let them scavenge it. After we've taken what we can carry. Let them pay through the nose for coordinates."
"But…" Gildun glanced at the wreck. "It was their camp."
"No." I shook my head. "It was their problem. I got tasked with killing the Gatecrasher. Not giving the parts away for free."
He looked at me a long moment, then sighed—and nodded slowly.
"Yeah. Yeah, that's fair."
"Don't worry, buddy," I said, clapping him on the shoulder. "I'll split the Shards with you."
He blinked.
"Buddy?"
That one word hit harder than I expected. Gildun stood there stunned for a second—like he hadn't heard it in a long time. Maybe never.
And then—
[PERK GAINED: Heart of the Delver]
My HUD pulsed. For a second, I just stared at the notification.
I thought perks only triggered from Fallout figures—Boone, Raul, the companions. I hadn't gotten one from Raul yet, probably because the old man's trust had been burned raw by the Legion. It was gonna take time with him.
But this?
This meant something else.
It meant I could gain perks from others.
Avad. Varl. Erend. Maybe even Aloy herself—if the bond grew strong enough.
Perk Gained: Heart of the Delver
Source: Gildun
Effect:
You gain a permanent bonus to component salvage quality (15%) when looting machines, and a minor chance to uncover hidden compartments or structural weaknesses in Old World structures while exploring Delves. Also unlocks optional dialogue when dealing with Oseram delvers and tinkers.
Description:
Gildun may be awkward with people, but he's a natural-born Delver—instinctive, thorough, and hopelessly curious. His optimism is infectious, and for those rare few who call him "buddy," his spirit becomes part of theirs. You now see the world through just a bit more wonder—and your hands get just a bit dirtier in the right ways.
Gildun's face lit up.
"You—you mean that? I'm your buddy?"
I gave him a nod.
"Hell yeah. You earned it."