NOVPUBBarclay had barely turned his back when Don stepped forward.
No theatrics. Just motion—until he was level with Charles, shoulder to shoulder. His voice came low, but loud enough to carry across the open camp.
"How long until your people arrive?" he asked. "They'll need to inspect the androids before they go down there."
The question cut through the scene like a snapped wire. Even Charles tilted his head slightly in confusion—not enough to look surprised, but just enough for Don to catch it.
He recovered fast, of course. Smoothed it over like it was all part of the plan.
"Soon," Charles said.
But across from them, Barclay froze mid-step.
He didn't ease to a stop. He didn't glance back with smug disinterest.
He halted. Hard. Like the ground had buckled under him.
Then he turned.
His voice was controlled, but his face gave it away—too pale, too fast.
"I hope," he said tightly, "you don't mean those androids." He pointed toward the armored truck where the last few units were still being lowered, the operators careful in their movements.
"Those are Department property. They've already been inspected and cleared to operate in these conditions."
Charles smiled, slow and cunning. "One can never be sure, Mr. Barclay. Besides, your permission to bring in these 'assets' didn't say anything about brief inspections. Seems only reasonable."
Barclay's face twitched. "They aren't your property. And I forbid you or anyone else to touch them. Don't push your luck, young Monclaire."
He tried to inject authority, but it came out brittle.
Before Charles could respond, Don cut in.
"They won't be touched. Just scanned. Nothing invasive." His eyes didn't waver. "Strange that you're so against it, though."
Don took one step forward, tone casual. "You wouldn't be hiding something in that little convoy of yours, would you, Mr. Barclay?"
The camp had quieted just enough for that question to land hard. The nearby contractors didn't say anything, but they weren't pretending not to listen either.
Agent Hathaway cleared his throat.
"If that's a concern," he said, stepping forward, "we have our own inspection drone. Just a quick scan. Won't take more than a few minutes."
Barclay looked like someone had spat in his coffee.
His complexion shifted—less "annoyed" and more "cornered."
Then, he clicked his tongue against his teeth, irritated. "You know what? I won't be insulted like this."
He turned sharply, pointing toward the unloading team.
"You there! Put them back. All of them. Since these two young men don't trust the capable people at the Department."
His voice was filled with mock civility. The men looked at each other, then began reloading the androids, movements slower this time. Stiff. Uneasy.
Agent Defoe stepped forward, trying to reel the situation back in.
"Mr. Barclay, please. Agent Hathaway didn't mean—"
"It's fine," Barclay said, waving her off like a tired aristocrat bored with the help. "Thank them if anything goes wrong."
And just like that, he walked off.
Fast. No hesitation. Straight to his waiting Escalade. The driver opened the door as he approached, but Barclay didn't get in immediately.
He paused, visibly fuming, and adjusted his cuffs as if that would restore control of the situation.
Defoe turned to Hathaway, voice low and clipped. "What the hell are you doing?"
Hathaway didn't answer right away. He glanced at Don instead.
Just a flicker. Then he looked back at Defoe.
"I'll tell you later. We can use our own drone."
Defoe frowned but didn't push it. They walked off, speaking in quieter tones now, the air around them heavier with suspicion.
Charles exhaled through his nose and crossed his arms, expression smug.
"How did you know there was something off about the androids?" he asked, voice pitched low.
Don didn't bother smiling. "I didn't."
Charles arched an eyebrow.
"I just noticed some were being unloaded more carefully than others. It made me curious."
Charles looked toward the truck. And there it was—two handlers easing one unit down slowly, with a caution that bordered on reverence. The others had been handled like cargo. These two looked like glass.
His face darkened slightly.
"You may have just saved us from another nasty gift," Charles muttered. "Barclay's getting bolder."
He turned, eyes narrowing as Barclay finally slid into the Escalade and the vehicle pulled away.
"He'll get his dues."
Don didn't answer. 𝓷ℴ𝓿𝓹𝓾𝓫.𝓬ℴ𝓶
But the thought was mutual.
———
Minutes later, they made the descent into the tunnels.
They took the first ladder down into the earth, with Don leading the drop and Charles following just behind, both silent save for the metal clank of boots against rusted rungs.
The others came after: the Division D team in full tactical gear, then the federal presence—Agents Hathaway and Defoe flanked by a secondary team in hazmat suits, all clutching scanning devices like nervous rosaries.
It was a steep fall into shadow. The tunnel systems were colder than the forest above, the damp in the air thick with something worse than rot—like someone had tried to sanitize gore and only half-finished the job.
Division D moved like they'd rehearsed it a thousand times.
Five total. All in near-identical black gear, marked by the Department's minimalist crest on one shoulder. The visors on their helmets were tinted, their voices flat. Every inch of exposed skin was covered. All but one of them.
The second-tallest of them, with a bulkier frame than the rest and the posture of someone who shaved with a straight razor and read instruction manuals for fun, wore no balaclava. His head was cropped short, face clean, expression hard to read with a scar cut across his jaw.
One of the others held up a compact sensor that gave a quick ping and pulsed.
"Captain," one of the man called, holding it toward him, "last signal from the missing team came from northeast quadrant."
The Captain, unmoved, gave a nod.
"Copy. Tighten formation. Keep eyes peeled."
The others didn't argue. They moved.
But it wasn't the signal that slowed them next.
It was the walls.
Something about them glistened too much under torchlight. What should've been rock was… coated. A mess of bloodied slime mixed with a deep green chlorophyll tint, like something halfway between sewage and sap.
And embedded in it—bones.
Partials. Fragments. One half of a jaw. A still-fleshy femur. A ribcage crushed in on itself.
One of the younger operatives muttered, "Shit. Looks like something blew chunks after digesting a field hospital."
"Don't breathe too deep," another said, stepping around a slick patch on the floor.
A third, eyes scanning upward, muttered, "You think whatever did this is still down here?"
The Captain didn't look at any of them.
"We're not here to play guessing games. Lock in."
Meanwhile, back with the feds, one of the hazmat-suited figures crouched beside a thick smear of slime that had pooled along the wall like spilled glue.
A woman's voice came through the suit's comms. Curious.
"This isn't standard tissue degradation," she said, poking a device into the sludge. "The composition has both plant and human elements. Blood. Spinal fluid. There's a partial decay signature… but something's preserving it."
Agent Hathaway stepped closer, keeping his coat from brushing the wall.
"You getting a trace match?"
The woman shook her head. "Not yet. The rarer trace elements aren't surfacing. I'll need to take a sample back to the lab."
She turned to Charles, her mask visor reflecting torchlight.
"May I?"
Charles didn't blink. "Go ahead. Take what you need."
That caught both agents off guard.
Hathaway straightened slightly. "Thanks… I suppose."
The woman made a small fist-pump. "Yes!"
Her voice echoed slightly through the cavern, earning a few awkward glances.
"…Sorry."
Don watched in silence as she began extracting samples with exaggerated care. Her suit crinkled with every movement.
Over near the other wall, the Captain used the barrel of his rifle to poke at another slime-covered crevice, stepping lightly around the splayed remains of what may have once been a torso. The wall bulged slightly around it—cocoon-like.
He muttered, mostly to himself, "It's like it used body parts to build a nest…"
He looked back at Hathaway.
"You sure this gunk's not poisonous?"
The hazmat woman piped up without looking up from her scanner. "At a first glance, no. If anything, it may actually have health benefits. Look at the cellular preservation—it's storing dismembered organs better than some medical freezers."
She gestured casually at a nearby alcove.
"Like that one."
Everyone followed her finger.
In the far recess of a branching tunnel, tucked half-inside a slime cavity, was a human heart. Still beating. Slow. Rhythmic.
No body. Just the heart.
Agent Defoe turned away quickly, face tight.
"I may become vegan after this."
Charles gave a casual nod and moved things along. "Then we'll go this way."
He didn't wait for agreement.
But just as he turned, Hathaway's voice came again.
"I'll come along."
Charles paused. It wasn't dramatic, just abrupt—too short to be casual.
Hathaway stepped forward, eyes calm. "We wouldn't want the public thinking you interfered with evidence. I've got a recording device on me. Video and audio. You'll be covered… unless there's something you'd prefer to keep private."
Charles chuckled. A dry sound.
"I have nothing to hide, Agent Hathaway. In fact, I think that's a great idea."
Defoe looked less convinced. Her expression said so.
She didn't argue, though. She just offered, "Good luck, Hathaway. Watch yourself."
He nodded. "You too."
The Division D team adjusted their positions, the Captain issuing quiet instructions over comms. They peeled off toward the northeast path, weapons ready.
Don looked ahead at the tunnel they'd chosen.
It was darker than the others. Slightly warmer, too.
He didn't like that.
And far beyond their reach—deep within the twisting corridors of whatever this place used to be—something was alert to their presence.
