Chapter 19 The Fire We Keep
The Ironwood Grove market was alive and humming—vendors shouting over bundle prices, forge smoke curling under cloth roofs, and someone already cursing loud about a bad coil trade.
I kept my pace steady. No haggling. No detours. Just one goal.
The Nanoboy was overloaded again, and I was done pretending the junk inside it might someday be useful. I needed space. Shards were just the excuse.
I turned down the lane toward Kardin's stall—same patchwork scaffolding, same bizarre weapon mods hung like trophies, same air of "buyer beware" radiating from every bolt and pipe.
Kardin spotted me halfway down the row.
And froze.
His eyes locked onto the helmet—smooth black shell, burn-brushed finish, sealed red visor with no visible seams or straps. No tribal paint. No glyphwork. No wear marks.
Too clean. Too quiet.
He didn't call out. Didn't raise a hand. He just reached under the stall. Slowly.
I stopped walking. Didn't flinch. Just let the tension hang a second. Then I cracked the seals. The hiss echoed. I lifted the helmet off and let the light catch my face.
"Relax, Kardin it's me, Rion." I said.
Kardin blinked. Tension bled out of his shoulders in a long, tight exhale.
"Shit," he muttered. "Don't do that."
I gave him a look. "Do what?"
He jabbed a finger at the helmet. "Walk up like a war specter in gear nobody here's ever seen before. You know what that helmet says?"
"What?"
"It says I wasn't born here. It says I don't answer to anyone. And it sure as hell says I didn't scavenge this off some Watcher corpse."
He eyed it again, this time slower. "There's not a single weld line on that thing. No glyphs. No rust. It doesn't look tribal. It doesn't even look made. It looks like something that showed up."
I didn't argue.
He leaned on the counter and muttered, "People see gear like that and assume you've got enemies they've never heard of and tech they'll never understand."
He looked me up and down again.
"Glad it's you. Thought I was about to get disassembled for spare parts."
I smirked and pulled the backpack from my back. I stuck the Nanoboy inside and let the junk fill it. "Relax. I'm just here to sell mine."
Kardin couldn't stop staring at the helmet.
Even after I set it on the counter, even after I started opening the Nanoboy panel to line up the junk haul, his eyes kept drifting back to to the helmet it like it might blink.
He didn't say anything for a few seconds.
"So where did you find that?"
I didn't answer right away.
He shifted his weight forward, eyes narrowing. "Because I've seen every trader, salvager, and ruin-hound pass through this Grove for ten years, and none of them have come back with anything like that."
I glanced at the helmet, then back at him.
"Pulled it out of an Old One's bunker," I said simply. "Deep level. Real sealed."
That got a reaction.
Kardin let out a slow whistle through his teeth and stepped back like the counter had just gotten hotter.
"You serious?"
"Wouldn't joke about that," I said, feeding the first batch of scrap into the Nanoboy's offload manifest.
He ran a hand over his beard. "I didn't think anything down there still had juice. Most of those places are picked clean or collapsed in on themselves. Only way you're pulling gear like that is if…"
He trailed off. Then looked at me again, sharper this time.
"You opened the Cursed Depths."
I didn't confirm. I didn't deny.
Didn't have to. Didn't know what he was talking about really. Just figured it was this world's term for vaults.
He backed up half a step anyway, eyes darting toward the helmet like it held the secrets to the universe "…Shit," he muttered. "You really went in."
I kept sorting.
"That name—'Cursed Depths'—tribals use it for anything sealed too tight to breach. Places that kill scavvers just for trying?" It was easy to gather from context.
But I'd gotten in.
And more importantly, I'd walked out.
Kardin rubbed the back of his neck and muttered, "Most people don't even find those places. You're not supposed to open them. Let alone delving solo."
"Guess I didn't ask permission."
He stared at me again—really looked. "You know if anyone else hears about this, they'll start following your tracks."
"Then they'll die tired," I said.
Kardin kept staring—not just at the helmet now, but at me.
"You really did it," he muttered. "You got in."
I didn't answer. Just kept unloading the Nanoboy into the backpack, then pulling bits of warped salvage and melted wire hit the trade mat one after the other. But that didn't stop him.
He leaned forward, voice dropping into that wary, half-superstitious tone Oseram use when they talk about delves that don't leave maps behind.
"They call 'em the Cursed Depths for a reason."
"I figured it wasn't flattery."
He snorted. "It's not. It's history. That name's been passed down longer than some clans. Any ruin with sealed doors older than our records? That's a Depth. And every one of 'em's got something in it that might kill. Mind you it's not a worthwhile delve unless a couple people die, mostly by betrayal. But a Cursed Depth different those always have something that kills in the double digits. Always."
He started counting on thick fingers.
"First type? Machines , not the white one you see everywhere. No jaws, no tails, just… shapes. But not like the mad ones you see in the larger ruin. Things the old ones built to kill that scream like steam and fire plasma hotter than forge flame. They'll level an outpost just by looking at it wrong."
"Second?" He tapped the stall. "Sickness. The air in some of those vaults will burn your lungs before you take your second breath. One Oseram log from two hundred years ago said a crew came out coughing blood after twenty minutes. Everyone was dead by sundown. Bled out through their eyes."
He paused.
"Then there's the scary ones. The stories we don't write down. They just passed around as tales at the pubs"
I didn't say anything. Just let him talk.
"There's an old story that tells of a delve team that ran into something big. Clawed. Fast. Not a machine. They said it moved like a man but didn't breathe like one. Killed two dozen before anyone drew a weapon. Tore out of the vault, disappeared into the hills. You know what people started saying once the Derangement happened and monsters started coming out of the woodwork and recalled that old story?"
I glanced up.
"That it was the first Deathclaw."
I didn't flinch. But I didn't laugh either. I knew he was right, probably one of those nasty Fallout 3/ New vegas type Deathclaws....Fuck. That means those scary fuckers were out there.
Kardin exhaled.
"And some Depths? They don't kill you at all. They vanish. Teams go in, never come out. Sometimes the whole site just… craters. Like the ground decides it's done holding secrets."
He looked back at the helmet, then at me.
"And you walked into that… and came out dressed like you belong to something we ain't even named yet. No prep, no team, just you?"
He stepped back slightly, shook his head.
"I'm not asking what else you found. Because if it's still following you, I don't want it tracking me by scent."
I didn't say anything at first. Just kept sorting salvage into piles—junk, maybe-junk, and "Ubba will probably scream at me for bringing this." But Kardin was still staring, pale under the soot, like the helmet was still whispering to him.
So I spoke.
"I found people down there," I said quietly. "They lost their minds a thousand years ago… and they were still alive."
Kardin froze.
Then—far too loud—"Those stories are fucking TRUE?!"
Every nearby merchant turned. One of the apprentices behind me nearly dropped a crate.
Kardin didn't care.
He stepped back from the counter like I'd grown a second head and it was grinning at him.
"Spirits below," he muttered. "My mother used to scare me and my siblings stiff with that one. Said if you went into sealed bunkers without permission, the dead would find you. Said they walked in circles for centuries, skin like dried leather, breathing rust and iron through what was left of their throats."
He rubbed both arms like the memory had teeth. "I hated those stories. Worse than old sermons. There was this one about a Delver kid who stayed out past dark, came back wrong. Didn't speak. Didn't blink. Just stood at the edge of his bunk staring at his brother for three nights straight. Then jumped head first into a forge fire."
I gave a small shrug. "Sometimes myths have truth to them."
Kardin huffed. "Yeah, well, truth can stay buried."
Then his voice dropped—tight now, with something half-pleading under the words.
"…You did kill them, right? The ones you found?"
I let the silence breathe for a second. Then nodded. Sharp. Final.
He exhaled hard, shoulders slumping like he'd been holding that fear for years.
"Good," he muttered. "Let's... let's talk trade."
I nodded and slid the old backpack off my shoulder. A rugged, high-capacity pack I'd hauled out of the Depths, scarred and faded but just believable enough to look tribal-modified. I set it on the counter and made a show of unfastening the top flap.
Under the stall lip, my thumb brushed the Nanoboy's inner panel. Silent interface. One ping. No glow.
The salvage slid into the pack one piece at a time—old vent grates, busted relay cores, half-melted heat shielding. Each one handed off like I'd been carrying it loose the whole time.
Kardin leaned over the table, squinting at the mess.
"Maker's teeth, Rion," he muttered. "You dragged half a ruin back with you."
"Some of it might even be worth selling."
He gave a bark of a laugh. "We'll see about that."
I popped the backpack open with one hand and kept the other near the Nanoboy's internal trigger, feeding the pieces through like I was just digging deep. No glow. No hum. Just sleight of hand and practiced movements. Kardin didn't blink—he was too busy eyeballing the haul like it was his birthday.
"Let's see…" he muttered, grabbing the first item. A scorched relay coil, half-fused to a mounting plate. "Junk. But the plating's intact. Five shards."
I didn't answer. Just let the Market Gut kick in.
That subtle ping hit the back of my mind. Wrong price. Undervalued. Coil was rare make—pre-Fall thermal-rated, probably from a med-lab junction.
"Fifteen," I said flatly.
Kardin blinked. "Fifteen? You want fifteen for scrap?"
I nodded. "For scrap that doesn't melt when you breathe on it."
He grunted, squinting again. Then shrugged. "Twelve."
I flicked a spike onto the mat. "Done."
He moved on. "What the hell is this?" he said, holding up a translucent object shaped like—
I looked away. When the hell I grab that!?
He turned it over in his hand, expression unreadable. "Is this... is this for stabbing fruit? Or is this—wait—is this what I think it is?"
I didn't say a word.
He cackled. "Oh forge's breath, you did grab one! Thought these were myths! Oseram wives used to say if you ever found one intact, the spirits would never let you sleep alone again."
He tossed it onto a side pile like it might start vibrating on its own.
"Fifty shards. Just for the laugh."
I didn't argue.
Another item came out—burnt-out dataport etched with strange symbols.
"Damn. I've got a buyer who loves anything with letters he can't read. Thinks it's spiritual. Hundred flat."
Ping.
I paused. Market Gut flared again—faint but insistent.
The port wasn't a relic. It was a control interface—probably from an override terminal for a weapon system. Rare. Dangerous if someone figured out how to power it. Must have been Moth-Eaters. Not safe to sell to just anyone.
I reached across the counter and pulled it back.
"Not for trade."
Kardin frowned. "Really?"
"Really."
He didn't press.
The rest came out in waves—sensor lenses, wiring bundles, scorched plating, partial servo motors, Another item came out—rusted, shallow, and coin-sized.
"What in the Forge's name is this? A holy plate for ants?"
I glanced at it. "Tray from an Old One food box. Paid out tokens. Or maybe prayers. Hard to say."
He snorted. "Looks like a tin ashtray that lost a fight."
He flipped it once in his palm and dropped it into the "curio" pile.
"Thirty shards. Some noble idiot'll hang it from a necklace and call it ancient."
I looked down at the thing, half-collapsed and heat-warped from who-knows-what century.
"Well… he wouldn't be wrong. The item's over a thousand years old."
Kardin grinned like I'd just sweetened the deal myself.
"Yep," he said. "And that means it'll sell."
The junk kept coming—lens clusters, coil scraps, shattered mounts, all passed through the old Depths pack one piece at a time. Kardin's hands moved fast, his eyes faster. Every few seconds he'd grunt, nod, or mutter something about "decent alloy" or "good enough for a blade base."
Halfway through the fourth bundle of bundled wiring, he gave me a side-eye.
"…How many pockets does that thing have?"
I didn't miss a beat.
"A lot."
He paused. Just enough to think about it. Then grunted like he didn't want to know more.
"Right. Good. Best not to ask."
I handed him what looked like a scorched cylinder valve with half the threading melted off.
"Here," I said. "Old gas regulator. Might be inert. Might explode."
He nodded approvingly. "So... a conversation starter."
The junk pile was turning into a proper merchant's buffet now—more relics and half-cooked scrap than half the caravans that passed through in a month. Some of it was barely recognizable. Some of it was pristine in a way that made Kardin squint a little too long.
But he didn't press.
Only muttered: "This is going to take me all night to catalog…"
Kardin finally threw his hands up.
"Alright, alright, we've got to trade something, otherwise I'm not gonna have enough shards left to hire an Ashmarked merc to drag my corpse back to the Claim."
I raised an eyebrow. "You planning on dying soon?"
He snorted. "Not on purpose. But you haul this much loot out of the depths, something starts following. Call it superstition. Or karmic accounting."
He ducked under the stall and came back up with a lockbox—scorched, dented, and sealed with three different latches that looked more decorative than functional.
"Gambled with a caravan crew while you were off ghost-hunting," he said, flipping the lid open. "Won half their load while they were too drunk to bluff. Now I've got stuff even I don't understand."
He started pulling out items with a flourish that made it look like he was performing.
"First—" he held up a fist-sized black puck with faint blue veins and a single port socket "—Old One power cell. Charges from ambient light, or maybe rage. I haven't figured it out. But it does hum when you hold it too long."
I squinted at it. The Focus pinged faintly—battery core, degraded, but repairable. High-output burst cell. That was very not junk.
"Second—" he held up something that looked like a collapsible antenna with fiber-optic prongs—"signal repeater. Or… bone comb. Depending on the direction you hold it."
I took one look and felt the Market Gut twitch. Definitely tech. Possibly short-range uplink relay, possibly portable tracking array. Worth more than Kardin realized.
"Third," he said, holding up a small, brushed metal disc with a central lens, "this little bastard came from a Tenakth runner who didn't know what it did—so naturally I won it, then poked it until it beeped."
The Focus scanned it. Micro-projector. Voice-linked. Obsolete, but still functional.
"And last," he added, almost sheepish, pulling a bundled piece of matte alloy wrapped in greasecloth, "this one… might be a blade handle. Or it might be some kind of data wand. I only licked it once."
I stared.
"You what—"
He held up a hand. "Don't worry. I burned the tongue tip off. Safety first."
Kardin spread the four items out across the counter like they were sacred artifacts instead of drunken poker winnings. "Right. You tell me what's worth dying for."
I didn't answer. Just tapped the side of my temple. The Focus clicked on, quiet and cold.
First item: The black puck
[SCAN COMPLETE]
OBJECT: Ambient Charge Cell – Type 47k (Degraded)
STATUS: Stable core. 31% output.
FUNCTION: Stores solar or radiant energy for high-burst discharge. Originally used for emergency toolkits and pre-Fall field medical units. Can power small devices or stun tools.
RISK: May overheat under sustained draw.
RATING: ✦✦✦ (Rare Utility Tech)
MARKET VALUE: 350–500 shards (more to the right buyer)
Potential: excellent for field crafting, small weapon mod, or powering a repair kit.
I gave the puck a second glance. Small. Heavy. Valuable. Might power the Comms Band, or worse—something Ubba would rewire into a plasma toaster.
Second item: The "antenna" comb
[SCAN COMPLETE]
OBJECT: Short-Range Uplink Relay — Model: LUNA-PATH MK.II
STATUS: Damaged. Partial function.
FUNCTION: Personal area signal booster. Increases effective range of Focus, Comms, or proximity sensors by ~30m.
NOTES: Calibration required. Fragile.
RATING: ✦✦ (Functional but unstable)
MARKET VALUE: 250–400 shards
Potential: could sync with Focus uplink. Or short-circuit and fry a boot. 50/50.
Market Gut pinged—slightly overpriced if traded as-is, but still useful. Definitely not a hair comb.
Third item: The projector disc
[SCAN COMPLETE]
OBJECT: Projector Node – VISO Series Compact
STATUS: Operational. Power: 78%
FUNCTION: Projects small-scale holographic images or audio logs. Voice-activated.
NOTES: Security-linked. May contain previous user's data.
RATING: ✦✦✦ (Clean, collectible tech)
MARKET VALUE: 500–600 shards
Potential: carry your audio logs like a ghost with a speaker. Could also record or loop.
Focus logged it as "Old EchoTech." Clean interface. No corruption. Might even have something already on it.
Fourth item: The grease-wrapped rod
[SCAN COMPLETE]
OBJECT: Tool Core / Hybrid Interface Wand (Classification Unknown)
STATUS: Inert. Sealed.
FUNCTION: Unclear. No active signal. Possible hardwired interface key or unlocker for Old World consoles.
WARNING: Unknown purpose. Contains encrypted firmware.
RATING: ✦✦✦✦ (Uncommon tech – potential plot trigger)
MARKET VALUE: Unknown – collectors, Ironbone, or data brokers may pay high
Potential: this might be the kind of thing that opens sealed rooms. Or wipes data. Or both.
I looked at Kardin. He was watching me like a trader waiting to see if the poison had flavor.
I pointed to the puck.
"The charge cell. I want that one."
Kardin blinked. "Really? Thought you'd go for the shiny disc or the weird signal fork."
I shook my head. "That puck's useful. Could rig it for a short-range burst. Stun effect if wired right."
Kardin leaned in. "Stun what? A man? A machine?"
"Either," I said. "If I give it to Ubba, maybe both at once."
He whistled low. "Spirits help us all if she figures that out."
I reached into my coat and pulled out a bag of Shards. Laid them on the table. "Four hundred."
Kardin frowned. "Could get more than that from an Oseram field medic."
"Sure," I said. "But I'm not them. And I'll actually use it."
He paused for a second, then swiped the shards into a pouch. "Fair trade. Hell, better than fair."
I picked up the puck, let it rest in my palm. The Focus hummed faintly—no surge, no warning. Just a stable core waiting to be told what to do.
I looked down at the Tooth of the Roar—my machete—resting in its sheath, blade dulled at the edge, teeth along the spine beginning to warp from impact wear.
Might be time to reforge.
Might as well do it right.
I glanced down at the antenna—thin, half-collapsed, the fiber-optic prongs already starting to bend from Kardin handling it wrong.
"Signal repeater," I said aloud. "LUNA-Path Mark II."
Kardin perked up. "You know it?"
"I know it's fragile. Partial function. Calibration drift. Could break in my bag."
He hesitated. "Still might be worth something."
"Sure. If I want to get two seconds of uplink before it shatters in a crosswind."
Kardin opened his mouth, closed it again.
"Two hundred," I said.
He blinked. "It's worth four!"
"Not to me."
Market Gut was silent, neutral.
I was under market—but not wrong.
He scratched his beard, stared at the repeater like it might speak up and defend itself.
"Two-fifty."
"Two hundred," I repeated. "And I don't look too closely at the next thing you try to sell me."
He grunted.
Then shoved the antenna forward with one hand and took the shards with the other. "Done. But if it snaps in half, I don't want to hear about it."
"You won't," I said, tucking it away carefully. "Unless it takes my hand with it."
Kardin tapped the next item—the brushed metal disc with the central lens.
"Now this one," he said, "this is clean. Doesn't beep. Doesn't flash. Doesn't try to inject you. Might be the first piece I actually trust."
The Focus pinged again.
OBJECT: Projector Node – VISO Series Compact
STATUS: Operational – 78% battery
FUNCTION: Personal holo/audio projection, voice-linked, archival-ready
I already knew the numbers.
"Five-fifty," Kardin said, voice even.
I didn't blink. "Deal."
He looked surprised I didn't haggle—but only for a second.
We both knew what it was worth. Rare, functional, intact.
I counted out the shards clean, no hesitation.
Kardin swept them into a leather pouch and nodded. "Appreciate the straight trade."
I pocketed the projector and gave a slight nod back. "Rare to get something clean. Even rarer to get it honestly."
He chuckled. "Careful. You say enough nice things and I'll start thinking I'm trustworthy."
I turned the disc over in my hand. Clean casing. Responsive seal. I tapped the side twice and fed a pulse through the Focus.
The projector blinked once, then hummed to life.
A small shimmer of light bloomed in the air between us. Static at first—then color. Movement. The image steadied. It was old footage, low-res and grainy, but unmistakable:
Two people sitting on a couch, popcorn bowl between them. A bright living room. Laughter. Then a hard cut—and suddenly a movie scene played across the air: explosions, running, fast edits, and someone yelling about "grabbing the serum before the time gate collapsed."
Kardin's jaw unhinged.
"What the fuck is that?"
"Old world entertainment," I said.
"Is it real?"
I nodded. "Stored media. VISO format. Plays audio and visuals. Archive-grade. This one's got full motion files, maybe even show logs."
Kardin stared at the hologram like it was sacred. His eyes locked on the flickering figures as one actor ran across screen holding a glowing cylinder and yelling about phase particles.
Then he looked back at the projector in my hand.
"…I want it back."
I raised an eyebrow. "You sold it."
"I unsold it."
I didn't answer. Just smiled.
Kardin groaned and slumped over the counter like a man who'd just watched a golden hammer get melted down for plumbing scrap.
"Spirits below, I'm gonna regret this forever."
I shut the projection down with a tap and tucked the disc into my coat.
"Probably."
Kardin stared at the spot where the hologram had just been like he was watching the last cold drink in the world evaporate.
"…I want it back," he muttered again, this time with less hope and more pain.
I didn't even blink. "Not for sale."
He looked at me. "C'mon, Rion. You saw that, right? Moving pictures. Sound. People. This thing could make me the richest bastard east of the Claim."
I tapped the side of my temple.
"Without the device on my head, it wouldn't work anyway."
He stopped.
Glanced at the disc.
Then at the Focus.
Back at the disc.
"…Shit," he muttered. "It needs that thing."
I nodded. "Most Old World tech does. And I'm not selling the headset, either."
Kardin rubbed his beard like he could squeeze a deal out of it.
I shut that down with a single look.
"Not happening."
He threw his hands in the air. "Fine. Fine! Keep the ghost theatre. Just don't blame me when half the Grove starts asking why your coat glows and tells stories."
I tucked the projector deep into the inner pocket. "They can ask. I won't answer."
Kardin grumbled under his breath. "Should've known better. Sell a mystery, get a headache."
Kardin, still sulking about the projector, reached under the counter and slid the last item forward.
"Alright, last one. Won it off a Tenakth who owed me six drinks and a memory. Don't ask which he gave up first."
He unwrapped the greasecloth and revealed the rod—matte alloy, bone-smooth, about the length of a forearm. No markings. No power nodes. No ports.
I stared at it.
It didn't look like much.
But the Focus twitched the second it came into view.
[SCAN INCOMPLETE]
OBJECT: Classification: Unknown
Composition: Alloy composite—non-standard. Not listed in known Old World metallurgy databases.
Firmware Signature: Encrypted. Partial match: 12% to known military protocols.
Estimated Manufacture Date: —
[ERROR: Timestamp outside range of Old World production]
ANOMALY DETECTED.
This object appears to have been built after the fall of the Old Ones.
I stepped back slightly, eyes narrowing.
That wasn't supposed to happen.
"Getting a lot of unknowns on this," I muttered, voice quieter now. "Which… shouldn't be possible."
Kardin tilted his head. "That bad?"
I didn't answer right away. Just stared at the object like it might blink.
Then I looked up at him, tone flat.
"Where did you get this?"
He blinked. "I told you—Tenakth. Guy lost it gambling over a pit fight. Why?"
I didn't answer.
Not yet.
Because if this thing was real—and if it was made after the Fall—then someone was building again.
Someone who didn't want their tools recognized.
And that meant this wasn't salvage.
It was a message.
I didn't answer.
Just stared at the rod, my face neutral while my brain chewed through things I wasn't supposed to know.
The Focus hadn't glitched. It tagged the object clean: post-Fall manufacture. Not repurposed scrap. Built. Which meant someone—somewhere—wasn't just surviving.
They were still creating.
In the world I came from, only a few factions had that kind of capability.
The Enclave? Maybe. They had bunkers everywhere—scattered cells with different goals and levels of insanity. Some just watched. Some rebuilt armies. Some played god with genetics. Their origin was impossible to pin down. Could be the East Coast. Could be the West. Could be right under my feet in Kansas.
I didn't know.
And that made it worse.
Then there was the Institute. Underground lab-myth from Boston. They built androids that passed for human and tech that could teleport across the map—but that was east. Too far. Too precise. This rod didn't feel like theirs.
Which left Big MT.
Big Mountain.
West of here. Not impossibly far. And in the lore I remembered, it was a nightmare wrapped in research. A crater full of madmen with their brains in jars who didn't believe in limits—only progress. The kind that left trails of screaming and rewired organs.
And this thing?
It felt like that. No markings. No designation. Just encrypted firmware and nonstandard alloy.
Kardin said it came from a Tenakth.
So now something from the Mountain—maybe a relic, maybe a prototype—had ended up in tribal hands.
Which meant the mountain wasn't sealed anymore.
Something had started walking out of it.
And it had made it all the way to Kansas.
I kept my eyes on the rod.
Then glanced up.
"…What was a Tenakth doing all the way out here? In the Central Plains?"
Kardin grinned like he'd been waiting for that question.
"Oh, that's a story," he said, leaning on the counter like he was settling in. "Came through with a caravan from the western ridges. Real quiet type. Scars all over. Carried a spear like it owed him money."
"And?"
"And he was here for a woman."
I blinked. "What?"
"Yeah. Said a Kansani Ashmarked went all the way west. Into Tenakth lands. No diplomacy. No banners. Just walked into their training pit, beat the ever-living hell out of him, and left."
I raised an eyebrow.
"She didn't kill him?"
"Nah," Kardin said, shaking his head. "She spared him. Humiliated him. Broke his ribs and his pride. Apparently he sat there for three days thinking about it. Then packed up everything he owned and followed her east."
He waved one hand vaguely toward the hills.
"Made it all the way here—just to find her again. Said something like 'no Tenakth war song ever hit as hard as she did.'"
I snorted. "And you got this off him?"
"Yep." Kardin tapped the rod. "He bet it on a pit match. Lost. Didn't seem to care."
"Of course he didn't."
"Guy was still limping when he left my stall. Saw him later trying to help her carry firewood."
I looked back down at the rod. Dangerous. Enigmatic. Possibly made in a lab buried beneath a radioactive crater—and brought here by a lovesick Tenakth who got floored and fell for it.
Only in this world.
Only here.
I tapped the counter near the rod.
"I'll give you five stimpaks for it."
Kardin blinked. "You'll give me five what?"
"Stimpaks," I repeated, pulling one from my belt pouch and laying it flat on the table.
Sleek black casing. Dual-injector tip. Slight glimmer along the seal line.
Kardin narrowed his eyes. "That a… pen?"
"No."
He picked it up, turned it over, then looked at me. "Alright, smartass. What's it do?"
I reached for the collar of my coat and tugged it down, pulling back the Reboot Suit just enough to expose the jagged scar along the top of my chest—angry, red, ridged like melted plastic frozen in place.
"Reaver, a nasty version of the Undead, got me with an axe. Right here. Split the bone. Dropped me. I used two of them."
Kardin stared at the wound, expression shifting from skeptical to something quieter. He looked back at the stimpak, then at my eyes.
"You didn't have that scar last time you were here."
"Nope."
He held the injector like it was suddenly worth a hundred shards. "And you're offering me five?"
I nodded. "You can't replicate them. You can't refill them. But if you're bleeding and alone, they'll keep you alive."
Kardin didn't speak for a second. Just weighed the rod in one hand and the stimpak in the other.
Then he set the wand down on my side of the counter with surprising care.
"Done."
I swept it into the pack and laid five stimpaks on the table, one by one. Each sealed. Each still holding a little piece of survival.
Kardin wrapped them in a scrap of oiled cloth and tucked them into a side pouch with the reverence usually reserved for heirlooms.
"I ever get skewered," he said quietly, "I'm gonna owe you my life."
"Just don't try to resell them as aphrodisiacs."
He paused. "No promises."
Kardin bundled the stimpaks like they were holy relics, sliding them into a pouch with the care of a man who'd just inherited five extra lives.
I rested a hand on the table before he got too excited.
"Don't waste them. And don't use them one after another unless the first one didn't fix you.
He looked up.
"They're not for headaches. Not for twisted ankles. If you're not running from a Thunderjaw with your insides hanging out, don't touch them."
He nodded slowly. "Right. Serious trouble only. But why not use two? You said they heal, right?"
"They do," I said. "But they're not candy. You use a second only if the first didn't save you. Stack too many too fast, and it starts rewriting things it shouldn't."
He frowned. "Like what?"
I exhaled. "Like your insides. At best, you get sick. At worst?"
I leaned in a little.
"Your dick falls off."
He froze.
"…Seriously?"
"Gone," I said. "Wanders off. Starts a new life. Might send a postcard."
Kardin stared at the pouch like it was a loaded mine.
"Spirits below. Life and death only. Got it."
"Exactly."
Kardin stared at the pouch like it was going to bite him.
"Spirits below. Life and death only. Got it."
"Exactly."
I started gathering my things when he squinted at me.
"…The fuck's a postcard?"
I paused. Looked over my shoulder.
"Little piece of paper. People used to write lies on it and pretend they were having fun."
He blinked. "That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard."
"It was."
And with that, I sealed the pack, slid the helmet back into position, and left Kardin with five injectors, a nervous expression, and a whole new fear of spontaneous genital exile.
The air near the Pile always smelled like violence and invention—scorched oil, hot metal, and the faint whine of pressure seals testing their limits. Smoke rolled from stacked chimneys like the Horus itself was still breathing beneath the skin of its own corpse.
I passed through the outer gate without a word.
No one stopped me. Most Ironbone apprentices were too busy hauling coils, shouting over forge noise, or dodging projectiles that hadn't been technically approved for testing.
I ducked into a quieter alley between two rig stacks and opened the Nanoboy interface. The signal hissed once against my wrist, low and cold.
[NANOBOY 3000 — ACCESS GRANTED]
I opened the storage manifest and scrolled through the most recent acquisitions.
Ambient Charge Cell – Stashed
LUNA-Path Signal Repeater – Fragile, tucked
VISO Projector Disc – Filed under "Personal Archive"
Encrypted Wand (Unknown Origin) – Tagged for deeper scan
Each item shimmered as it compressed back into mist and folded into the internal grid. No flash. No fanfare.
Just gone.
Weight lifted.
The pack sealed with a quiet click.
I gave the helmet one last glance before also -storing it.
[NANOBOY 3000 — STORE ITEM]
→ Item: Echo 9 Helmet
→ Origin: Pre-Fall Tactical Gear
→ Status: Functional — Recognition Risk: High
Confirm.
The mist curled, then swallowed it. No glow. No sound. Just gone.
I adjusted the collar of the coat. Still off-balance without the weight, but that was the point. Too many people had been staring. Too many stories wanted to start from the shape of a visor.
Not today.
I turned down the side trail near the old well tower and kept walking—past the drying racks, past the war-painted hounds that watched but didn't bark. The stitchers worked out of the southern quarter, just beyond the smoke line. Quiet place. Safer, if you were lucky.
Didn't need style. Just needed the coat to stop dragging where it shouldn't.
I went to the place where I bought my gear before. The stitcher talked and moved like she knew what she was doing so she be the best bet to repair the undersuit.
Inside, the air was thick with oil, thread wax, and something sharp—like smoked bark and old blood. The scent of work that mattered.
She was hunched over a sheet of salvaged hide, goggles down, penlight stitched to one shoulder. Her hands moved like always—quick, clean, and confident.
She didn't look up when I stepped in.
"What are you looking for this time?" she asked, voice steady.
"Got clipped," I said. "Outlaw with an axe. Caught the shoulder."
She lifted her goggles, took one look at the coat, and exhaled sharp through her nose. "Clean angle. You twist, or just take the hit?"
"Twisted. Mostly."
She turned the coat over, fingers brushing the scorched outer shell, then flipped the lining back—and froze.
There it was. The Reboot Suit beneath. Scarred, singed, the fine threadwork exposed where the blow had split it.
"You're still wearing this thing," she muttered. "Didn't trust me enough to mention it before?"
"I didn't trust anyone enough to explain it before," I said. "It's called a Reboot Suit. Old World. Regulates core temperature, stabilizes motion under stress. Doesn't hold up well to edge weapons."
She tapped the torn mesh lightly. "I can stitch it."
"You sure?"
"Sure enough. Feather hook, no bind, give it slack—it'll settle on its own?"
"Exactly."
She was already moving, tools coming out of a case that looked like it had survived a collapse and been repaired out of stubbornness.
Then she paused.
Picked up a strip of soot-dyed hide from a rack near the back and held it up.
"I've got a Fire Bellowback sac lining left from a ranger job," she said. "Still flexible. No corrosion. I could mount it inside your coat—shoulder, spine, even your flank. Cut down on radiant heat buildup."
"How heavy?" I asked.
"Light. Dense weave. Breathes better than it sounds. But it'll let the cold in once the frost seasons hit."
I nodded. "Do it. I can layer for the cold. Heat's harder to deal with."
She hooked the new lining over her arm and gestured with the needle.
"Alright then," she said. "Strip down. I'm good—but I'm not fixing it while you're still wearing it."
Before she could reach for the scissors, I held up a hand.
"Hold up. I'm not standing here half-naked while you work."
She raised an eyebrow. "Then buy something off the rack like a normal person."
She jerked her chin toward a side shelf stacked with neatly folded fabric. "Second rack. Nothing ceremonial."
I sorted through until I found a set that looked untouched—stitched trousers, long-sleeve tunic, and a sleeveless overwrap in charcoal canvas. No glyphs, no clan badges. Just quiet, durable clothing for someone who didn't want to be remembered.
"Fifty shards," she said flatly.
I nodded and paid.
She pointed to a cracked folding screen near the back. "There. I don't need to see anything sacred or otherwise."
I stepped behind it, peeled the Reboot Suit down with care, and folded it precisely. For the first time in days, I wasn't wrapped in pre-Fall mesh and fiber-bonded insulation. The new clothes were coarse by comparison, but solid. They breathed. Didn't scream tech. Didn't draw eyes.
When I stepped out, she gave a glance and a short nod.
"They fit."
"Decent enough," I said. "It's spring. Won't be too cold."
"And you don't look like you wandered out of a sealed ruin anymore," she added.
"That too."
She tapped her bench. "Alright. Drop the coat and the mesh. I'll get your tech-pajamas stitched and the lining set before midday."
I handed her the Reboot Suit and the coat, folded clean.
"They're yours for a few hours," I said. "Don't stab yourself trying to figure out the threading."
She gave a dry snort. "Please. I've stitched houndhide with molten resin. This'll be relaxing."
I nodded once, adjusted the collar of the spare tunic, and stepped back toward the door.
"Where you off to?" she asked.
"Food," I said. "Haven't eaten since before the sun set yesterday."
"Try the stew pit near the north well. Avoid the meat if it's bubbles with no fire below."
"Noted."
The door creaked behind me as I stepped back into the light. The coat was gone. The weight was gone. And for the first time in days, I wasn't broadcasting old-world secrets with every breath I took.
The clothes were scratchy, plain, and made me look like half the Grove—but they didn't hum with power. They didn't draw stares. They just fit. Quiet and forgettable.
Exactly what I needed.
I followed the scent of roasted roots and spice smoke down the slope, boots crunching on gravel. The wind carried the smell of stew, hearthwood, and frying something I chose not to identify.
The food lane curved wide around the market's north rim, wedged between the drying scaffolds and the communal ash pit. Smoke hung low, thick with spice oil and the faint sweetness of charred root. A dozen cooking fires crackled beneath clay pots and rusted drums, each vendor shouting over the other about who had the softest bread or the least questionable broth.
I didn't stop at the stews.
Didn't trust meat that had to swim to hide its identity.
Instead, I scanned the stalls for something recognizable—something with bone, texture, and shape that didn't need a translator.
That's when I saw it.
Mid-row. Third tarp in. A thick spit hanging above an open flame, and on it—skinned, browned, and basted in some kind of golden-glaze oil—was a full-grown turkey. The legs hung heavy, skin crisped and flaked at the edges. Fat sizzled off into a shallow drip pan, where root vegetables soaked and hissed.
It didn't look tribal.
It looked honest.
I stepped up to the stall. The woman tending it was older, sunburnt, with long sleeves and scars across both hands—cook burns, not blade work. She looked up once, didn't blink at my gear, didn't ask questions.
"Price?" I asked, nodding at the leg closest to falling off the spit.
"Eight shards. Ten if you want the bone cracked and marrowed."
I didn't hesitate. Pulled eight from my pouch and placed them in her pan. She nodded once, wrapped a thick strip of cloth around the leg, and hacked it clean with a single stroke of a wide, blackened cleaver.
"Hot," she warned as she handed it over.
Steam rose from the split. The skin was crisp, the meat red-gold beneath, and the smell hit me like a memory from a world that hadn't burned yet.
I stepped away from the stall, found a bench near a tool rack, and sat.
No questions.
No eyes.
Just one hand on my lunch, the other resting near my belt.
And for the first time since I'd come up from that bunker…
I felt normalI sat down on a flat-cut bench near a shade rack, the turkey leg resting heavy in my hand. The heat from it bled into my palm, the skin crackling just enough to make it feel like the world hadn't ended.
I took a bite. Grease and salt and something vaguely citrus spread across my tongue.
Good.
Then I looked up—and stopped thinking about food.
This was the first time I'd really sat still in Ironwood Grove without being hunted, assigned, or stitched back together. The first time I wasn't bracing for a weapon or scanning for threats. Just… still.
The market was alive. Not just busy—alive.
Two warriors in paint-stained armor argued over a blade sharpener while a child darted between their legs, laughing and dragging a cloth hound on a string. A tattooed woman bartered for roots with a vendor who kept trying to short her weight, only to get smacked with a folded pouch of coins and a death glare that could cauterize iron.
Across the square, a boy maybe ten winters old chased a loose scrap of paper like it was the most important thing in the world. His friends cheered when he caught it.
I chewed slowly and let the scene settle in.
Until now, I'd thought of the Kansani the same way most outsiders probably did—armored silhouettes, roaring chants, cracked warpaint and fury under bone masks. A wall of grit and violence.
But that was only the surface.
These people lived.
They cooked. They bickered. They raised children and told jokes and wore ridiculous shirts when they thought no one important was watching.
This wasn't a warband.
It was a community.
Not NPCs placed by a dev team to fill space in a game world.
People.
With bad knees and favorite meals and market debts and dreams.
A man near the forge entrance was carving a necklace from melted Watcher casing—shaping each plate into something round and imperfect. Next to him, a young girl tried to copy him with a chunk of blackened wire. Hers looked nothing like his.
He told her it was perfect anyway.
I watched all of it while the turkey leg cooled in my hand.
And for a moment, I stopped calculating odds. I stopped measuring exit routes. I stopped wondering what quest this would turn into.
I took another bite, slower this time. The edge of grease dried on my thumb as I watched the market.
A young boy was playing near the shade line. No older than five. He tumbled in the dust with a hound pup that wasn't much smaller than he was. The pup yipped and pounced, tripping over its own paws as it tried to keep up.
The boy laughed. A full, sharp sound. Not cautious. Not careful. Just joy.
A few paces behind them, the mother wolf lay in the sun. She was scarred, eyes watching the people passing by but she didn't move. Her head rested on her paws. One ear stayed up.
She wasn't worried. Just listening.
The pup barked and bounced. The boy shrieked and fell backwards. Neither noticed me watching.
The mother wolf did.
She didn't rise. Didn't growl. Just shifted slightly, enough to let me know—if something changed, she'd be there.
I watched all of it.
And I realized I'd never seen the Kansani like this.
Not as warriors.
As people.
The laughter faded into the market noise. Rion sat still, one hand resting on the bench, the other holding a turkey leg that had long gone cold. He wasn't hungry anymore. Across the square, the boy and the pup had run off into the shade. The mother wolf hadn't moved. One ear still cocked, just in case.
I watched the people of the Grove move around him. Vendors argued over coil weights. A pair of smiths carried a crate of scorched bolts between them, swearing at every third step. A girl with ash on her nose tried to balance a bowl of dye on her head while her brother laughed and pretended not to care if she spilled it. These weren't warriors on a battlefield. These were people. And that's what stuck with him.
The Enclave would see these lives as inferior. A mistake to be corrected.
Worm would dissect them, catalog every strength, and break them down for parts.
Far Zenith wouldn't even look them in the eye. They'd take the land, strip the value, and vanish before the consequences arrived.
I knew all that. I've seen it before. That was the old world—the worst of it, jacked up by the absurdity of this world, still alive in suits and secrets, just waiting for a reason to come back.
That's why the Brotherhood mattered. Not the Fallout one. Not the bunkered relics clinging to superiority while the world burned outside their walls. This would be different. Built to protect, not to hoard. Built to shield people like these from the monsters who thought history gave them permission.
Someone had to do it. Someone had to say enough. Not for control. Not for glory. Just to make sure that a boy could laugh with a pup while his village lived in peace, and never know how close the fire had come.
I stood and walked across the packed dirt, weaving past a stack of cracked crates and a pair of gossiping traders. Stopped a few paces from the wolf mother. She lifted her head slowly, eyes narrowing. Her jaw didn't open, but the growl came low and steady, rising from her chest like a distant storm. The message was clear: stay back. Her pup and the boy were nearby, still playing in the shade. She wasn't about to let anyone near them unchecked.
I crouched down and placed the half-eaten turkey leg on the ground between them. Didn't toss it. Didn't break eye contact. Just left it there, just within her reach. She didn't move, but the growl lessened, a note of caution replacing the threat.
"I'm not here to hurt them," I said quietly. my voice didn't waver. It wasn't for her, not really. "You don't know me. And that's fine. You don't have to trust me." I kept my gaze steady feeling some of my Speech stat influence me. "But I'm not your enemy."
The wolf's ears twitched. One stayed trained on the pup, the other angled slightly toward me.
"I'm here to protect them," I said. The words were simple. Heavy. Not a promise. A fact. A declaration to the Grove, to the past, and to myself.
The mother didn't respond. She didn't need to. Her growl faded. She set her head back down on her paws, eyes open, ears listening, no longer warning—just watching.
I heard a small light chime as the Speech succeeded.
I stayed crouched, letting the silence stretch between them. The wolf's eyes tracked every movement, but she didn't rise. Her muscles stayed coiled, not from fear, but readiness. She could have lunged. She didn't.
Slowly, carefully, I reached forward. No sudden motion. No challenge. My hand moved past the turkey leg, past the space where her growl had warned me a moment ago. I let her see it, let her scent it.
Then I touched her head.
Her ears twitched once. She didn't pull away.
My fingers brush through the coarse fur between her ears, the scars beneath, the heat of her body steady and strong.
"Good girl," I said quietly.
She didn't growl. Didn't lean in either. Just accepted it.
That was enough.
My hand lingered for a moment longer against the wolf's head before then I heard footsteps behind me. My increased perception made the recognition easier. They were light, deliberate, and familiar.
Then the voice.
"I've never seen old Vilga let any adults get that close when she's got a pup,"Sula said.
I turned. And there stood the warrior girl a few paces back, arms crossed, a pack slung over one shoulder, travel dust on her boots and the edge of her braid coming loose. There was a tiredness around her eyes, but not the dangerous kind—just the kind that came from long miles and no shortcuts. I gave her a sideways glance. "You're back early."
"Caravan moved faster than expected," she said. "No one tried to steal the medicine. We didn't even lose a wheel."
"Sounds like a record."
"It was."
She looked at the boy and the pup for a moment, then back at me.
She looked me over, then raised an eyebrow. "Where's your usual getup?"
I glanced down at the plain tunic and charcoal wrap I'd picked up from the stitcher. It was simple, unmarked, forgettable—exactly what I needed.
"Got damaged," I said. "The coat and the underlayer. I took them to the stitcher. She's patching both."
Sula gave a small nod, but her eyes lingered a second longer on the plain clothes. "Never thought I'd see you in something that didn't hum when you walked."
"It's spring," I said. "The tech's good, but it stands out too much. Easier to blend like this for now."
Sula stepped forward and looked past him at the turkey leg on the ground, then at Vilga, then back at me.
"Still," she said. "That's not nothing. She must like you."
"Or she's too tired to bother," I said.
Sula dropped her pack by the bench and smirked faintly. "She bit a scout once for walking too loud near her den. Took his calf clean through his armor. He limped for two moons."
I stood and brushed the dust from my knees. "I believe it."
"You been alright?" she asked.
I nodded once. "Got some work done. Sold off the junk. Got stitched up." I looked past her, toward the heart of the Grove. "Watched it breathe for a while."
Sula tilted her head slightly. "You sound different."
I hesitated. "I encountered someone that needed help," I said. "And I couldn't save him."
She didn't respond right away. Just stood there, reading more in my face than I was saying aloud.
"It wasn't a fight," I added. "Not really. He wasn't a threat. He just…" I trailed off, shook my head. "I'll tell you about it. Just… not here."
Sula nodded once, quiet understanding in her eyes. "Alright."
She bent, picked up her pack, and slung it over her shoulder again. "Let's go see if your stitcher finished fixing that fancy suit of yours. Can't have you looking like a fieldhand forever."
I gave Vilga one last look. The old wolf hadn't moved. Still resting. Still watching.
I nodded to her, then turned and walked beside Sula.
Not another word passed between us.
For now, that was enough.