The leaden rain, its last lash of violence exhausted, transformed into cold, endless threads that fell across the devastated landscape. The air was thick with an indissoluble stench—the humus of repeatedly stirred earth, the rust of scorched metal after cooling, and the faint, yet stubborn, scent of blood that burrowed deep into my nostrils. The ruins were no longer a backdrop; they were living things, silently chewing on the past and spitting out the cold, despairing residue.
Deep within the massive drainage culvert where they made their temporary home, a fire flickered. A few rotten logs, dug from the ruins and soaked in industrial grease, crackled in the fire, releasing limited heat to dispel the biting damp chill that seeped in through the cave entrance. The orange-red light barely illuminated a corner of the culvert, but the deep darkness beyond seemed like the maw of a giant beast.
Beside the fire, Leah lay on a few pieces of tarpaulin and thermal blankets, her breathing as weak as a candle in the wind. A nurse knelt beside her, her forehead beaded with beads of sweat, gleaming in the dim firelight. The nurse carefully inserted a pair of crude medical forceps into the hideous wound on Leah's shoulder, each subtle movement causing the unconscious Leah to twitch unconsciously. Nearby, in a rusty metal basin, murky blood dripped from the drainage tube, hitting the basin floor with a monotonous, heart-wrenching "tap...tap..." sound.
Wrench stood like a silent tower, guarding the fire closest to him, using his body to shield Leah from the chill that threatened to strike. His rough hands tightly grasped a relatively clean cloth as he mechanically, over and over, wiped the severely warped, dented, and burnt electromagnetic machine gun in his hands—the last remnant of the Stormbringer. Each wipe was applied with incredible force, his knuckles straining white as if he were rubbing all his fear, anger, and helplessness into the cold metal. The firelight flickered in his bloodshot eyes, reflecting a bottomless exhaustion and a hint of near-collapse.
The hook leaned against the cold, damp wall of the nearby culvert. The wound on his arm, freshly treated by a nurse and wrapped in a blood-soaked bandage, was lowered. He lowered his head, repeatedly carving into a relatively dry wooden board with a sharpened tactical knife. Sawdust rustled, and the outline of a rough, falcon, wings ready for flight, gradually emerged from the wood—the mark on the cover of Ethan's notebook. Each cut was deeply incised, with the force of a suppressed sob.
Peregrine Falcon's broken leg had been crudely fixed with found metal pipes and strips of cloth. He sat leaning against the culvert wall, his eyes vacant as he stared at the dancing flames. His hand unconsciously stroked a severely deformed identification tag he'd found in the rubble, a relic of someone unknown. Mole and Matrix huddled in the shadows a little further away. The former silently examined the remaining energy cartridges of several still-functional energy pistols, while the latter cradled his portable terminal, its screen shattered but barely working, his fingers nervously tapping on the virtual keyboard, attempting to recover some lost fragments of data about the "nest." The screen's dim blue light reflected his pale, dazed face.
Silence. Only the crackling of the fire, the patter of dripping blood, the rustle of the dagger carving wood, and the relentless, unnerving sound of rain outside the cave. The relief of surviving the catastrophe had been completely crushed by the heavy casualties, endless exhaustion, and the overwhelming uncertainty about the future. Everyone bore wounds, deep or shallow, etched into their flesh and, more importantly, seared into their souls. A thick despair hung in the air, like the lingering dampness of the culvert, seeping slowly into their bones.
I sat on the other side of the fire, my back against the cold, rough concrete of the culvert wall. My soaking wet combat uniform clung to my skin, the chill biting my bones, but it was nothing compared to the icy storm churning deep within my consciousness.
"Nice to meet you, Zero. Or should I call you... our most successful 'legacy'? Lord Raven, I look forward to seeing you again... in the 'Oasis'."
That inhuman figure in a silver-gray suit, with golden eyes, his gentle yet icy declaration echoed in my mind like a thorn in my flesh. "Legacy"… those two words, like poisoned icicles, repeatedly pierced the core logic that constituted "me." Within my chest, the "heart of data" beat steadily, resonating faintly with the pale golden mark of "Oasis" deep within my consciousness. This once brought a sense of strength and clarity, but now it was cast under a suffocating shadow. What was it? Was it truly a creation of "Wing" technology? Was it the "fruit" carefully cultivated by "Raven"? Was my rationality, my very existence, so proud of me, just a part of a cold plan from the beginning? A designed "tool"?
Confusion, like a cold vine, entwined every node of his thoughts. His fingertips subconsciously brushed against the hard object on his chest—Ethan's belongings wrapped in waterproof cloth. The scribbled words in the notebook resurfaced before his eyes: "The key... is in the 'heart'..." Ethan, had he already grasped something? Was the "oasis" he desperately pointed to a land of hope, or another, even greater trap set by the "Raven"?
Buzz...
A subtle, yet remarkably distinct, strange feeling suddenly emerged from the depths of the "Data Heart." It wasn't pain, but a cold... alienated feeling. It was as if some hidden core logic unit had momentarily escaped the subject's control, running its own, incomprehensible, imperceptible command cycle. Then, an unfamiliar "fragment of consciousness," composed purely of cold data streams, suddenly rushed into the core of the mind!
The vision was instantly stripped of color and emotion! The culvert, the flames, the agonized gasps of her companions, the dark red oozing from Leah's wounds...every scene transformed into a rapidly flowing, cold, and absolutely rational data model composed of countless zeros and ones! Leah's vital signs (blood pressure: critically low; heart rate: weak/irregular; total blood loss: critical) flashed frantically in the center of her vision like a scarlet alarm, with the highest priority! Next to them, the wrench muscle tension analysis (92%, on the verge of collapse) and the hook's carving repetition rate (abnormally elevated, post-traumatic stress response index: high risk)... Each companion became a set of "variables" that needed to be addressed, rife with flaws and risks!
My dear, there is more to this chapter. Please click on the next page to continue reading. It will be even more exciting later!
Continue read on readnovelmtl.com