CITY OF VERNON - NIGHT

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The industrial zone sprawls like a carcass. Warehouses are hollowed out, smokestacks vomit fumes into a starless void. Chain-link fences are crowned with razor wire stretch for miles.

Streets lie slick with oil and shadows, streetlights flickering like dying embers. Salvage yards choke the landscape—mountains of rusted metal, half-dismembered cars stacked like corpses. The air reeks of burning scrap and old motor oil.

Beneath it, Vernon has a second skin. A labyrinth of forgotten tunnels, collapsed storm drains, and factory catacombs long abandoned. Some lead nowhere. Others lead to things that should’ve stayed buried.

Shay’s motorcycle jolts over the rusted railroad tracks, its headlight slashing through the dark, catching glimpses of twisted metal and tangled bull thistle weeds. The bike growls beneath them, tires skidding over loose gravel as she fights for control.

Reine clings tighter. “How much longer?”

“Three minutes out,” Shay mutters, eyes locked ahead.

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STREET - SALVAGE YARD

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Echo stumbles down the cracked sidewalk, her breath ragged, blood, the soldiers, mixed with shimmering nanoblood seeping through her fingers as she clutches her side. Every step is a fight against the pain, against the exhaustion dragging her down.

A drone whirs overhead. Its red eye scans the darkness.

Echo sucks in a sharp breath and presses herself into the shadows, heart hammering against her ribs. She peeks out, eyes darting, then bolts across the empty street toward a salvage yard. Her limbs shake. 

At the edge of the yard, she drops to her knees, fumbling with a rusted storm drain cover. Her bloody fingers punch in a code on the embedded lock. A soft click. She wrenches it open, glancing back once—nothing but the silent, watching dark—then slips inside, dragging the cover shut behind her.

The world above vanishes.

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TUNNEL

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She sways, blinking hard, forcing her implants to switch to night vision. The tunnel stretches ahead, slick with moss, dripping with something she doesn’t want to think about. Rats skitter past her boots, their high-pitched squeaks bouncing off the cold concrete.

A low groan echoes through the drain. Not a rat. Not the wind.

Echo grips her side tighter, teeth clenched. She’s almost there. Almost safe.

She hopes.

Echo stumbles to a rusted steel door embedded in the tunnel wall. A biometric scanner pulses red beside it. She presses a trembling, blood-smeared finger to the sensor.

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SALVAGE CENTER UNDERGROUND

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A pause. Then—click. Hydraulics hiss as reinforced bolts retract, and the door groans open just wide enough for her to slip through. She yanks it shut behind her, a heavy clunk echoing through the tunnel as auto-locks engage.

Dim blue lights flicker to life along the curved walls of the passage ahead, illuminating sleek titanium plating beneath layers of grime. The space hums with hidden power—ventilation drones hovering just above, scrubbing the air, scanning for biohazards.

A surveillance camera snaps toward her, its optic lens whirring as it locks onto her battered form. Echo lifts a trembling hand, signaling for help. The camera beeps, then swivels back. Access granted.

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LAB

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She staggers forward. The tunnel curves, widening into a stark white lab, walls lined with bio-recovery pods softly pulsing with oxygenated nanofluid.

Auto-suture drones hover over gleaming operating tables, their scalpel arms folded in wait.

A human-sized 3D printer hums, assembling synthetic organs layer by layer, a fresh lung forming in its polymer bath. Nearby, a blood-processing array churns, separating plasma from artificial nanocytes, monitoring vitals from unseen patients.

Echo grips the edge of a surgical table, her breath coming in ragged gulps. Machines whir around her, scanning, assessing.

A heavy thud echoes from above—then another. The rhythmic clatter of a cane against metal spirals downward.

Harlan Fuse, 71, white lab coat, descends the narrow staircase, his wiry silver hair wild, his tattooed arms lined with faded ink and old scars. He moves with urgency despite his limp, his cane striking each step hard, his breath uneven.

His sharp eyes lock onto Echo, crumpled near the surgical table, her small frame trembling, nanoblood, slicking her fingers where she clutches her side.

“They hurt me, Papa,” Echo says, sniffling, trying to control her tears.

“Oh dear, what has she gotten you into.” 

Fuse eases Echo onto the table, his hands steady but his heart hammering. He lossens her tie, unbuttons her blood-soaked blouse, peeling it back to expose the wound.

His breath tightens. “Damn it.”

A clean exit wound, but the bleeding—too fast, too dark.

“The bullet went clean through, Papa,” Echo murmurs, her voice barely there. “It nicked artery 031.”

Fuse grits his teeth. “Hold on, kid.”

With a swift motion, he slides a microlens over his eye, the augmented display flooding with a real-time schematic of Echo’s circulatory system—veins, arteries, and synthetic pumps glowing in layers of translucent gold and red. He zooms in, isolating the damaged artery, tracking the nano-fibers struggling to clot.

He snatches a Pulse-Seal, a sleek device the size of a scalpel, its tip a micro-precision needle laced with liquid cauterization gel.

“Stay with me, Echo,” he mutters.

With surgeon-like precision, he eases the needle into the wound. A soft hiss—then a flash of blue plasma as the gel fuses the artery shut, sealing it instantly.

Echo shudders, exhaling sharply, but her vitals stabilize.

Not enough.

Fuse reaches for a vial of plasma nanocytes, slams it into an auto-injector, and presses it against her skin. A sharp click.

The nanocytes surge through her bloodstream, racing to repair microscopic damage, rewiring and reinforcing what the bullet tried to take from her.

Echo's body jerks, a sharp gasp escaping as her fingers claw at the table. Then—stillness. A shuddering exhale. Her breathing evens out.

Fuse grabs a sanitizer cloth, wiping the grime and blood from her face with surprising tenderness. His touch lingers over her knuckles, washing away the fight.

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ALLEY

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Reine tightens her grip as Shay skids the bike to a halt in a stinking alley, where feral cats streak after bloated rats, their screeches lost in the howling wind that kicks up trash and broken glass.

Potholes yawn like open wounds, graffiti demons leer from the walls, and fresh paint drips from a single, defiant word: REVOLT.

Shay leans over, yanking a loose brick from the wall, revealing a grime-slick keypad. Fingers fly over the numbers—five quick taps. A mechanical groan echoes through the alley as the wall shudders, then jerks outward an inch before grinding open.

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TUNNEL TWO

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Beyond, neon-black lights flicker to life, casting an eerie glow over the tunnel’s ribbed metal walls. No hesitation—Shay guns the throttle, the bike roaring into the abyss just as the entrance slams shut behind them with a final, bone-rattling clank.

The bike screeches to a stop beside a row of silent e-bikes, their charging ports glowing faintly. Shay swings off, plugs in the charger, and turns to Reine, hand outstretched.

"Device. Now."

Reine hesitates, gripping it tighter. "It’s clean. Can’t be traced."

She snatches it, shoves it into a matte-black debugging safe, and slams the lid shut.

"You’ll get it back when it’s wiped."

Her wrist device buzzes. A name flashes—Jax. She taps the screen.

"Where the hell are you?" Jax’s voice is raw, urgent. "We need to meet. Now. Shit’s blowing up."

Shay’s fingers fly over the screen. "Sending coordinates. Come alone. No devices. Got it?"

A pause. Static hums. Then—"Yeah. On my way."

Shay exhales, jaw tight. Whatever Jax just got into, it’s bad.

Shay and Reine move to another steel door made out of car doors.

“Who was that?” Raine asks.

“Jax. She’s one of us.”

Shay punches in another code. The heavy steel door hisses before sliding open, revealing a fortified hideout bathed in dim, motion-sensing LED light. 

Inside, the kitchen and living area are spartan but efficient. Stacks of MREs, gallons of purified water, crates of ammo, and an arsenal of weapons meticulously arranged on industrial shelving.

A battered old couch sits beneath a wall of flickering monitors, each streaming live surveillance feeds from the junkyard’s perimeter—heat signatures, motion sensors, and drone footage scanning for threats.

Reine glances out a small window into the the salvage yard, studying the fortress of rust and steel—wrecked cars stacked high, welded together into barricades, reinforced with barbed wire and motion-activated turrets.

A crane stands in the distance, repurposed as a lookout post.

Two black SUVs rest by a garage. Their armored exteriors reflecting the faint glow of perimeter floodlights.

Two large guard dogs weaving between wreckage, their ears perked, alert. A rogue rooster struts through the dirt, indifferent to the tension. Chickens cluck in reinforced cages, their presence an odd contrast to the looming defenses.

This isn’t just a junkyard. It’s a war-ready survival bunker.

Shay’s grip tightens on Raine’s shoulder. Raine flinches.

“You’re in now. No way out. No second thoughts.” Shay’s voice is ice. “What you see stays buried. You understand?”

Raine swallows hard, nodding.

Shay leans in, eyes dark. “I need to hear you say it.”

Raine’s breath is shaky. “I’m in. All the way.”

Shay doesn’t blink. “Good. Because you’re going to be tested. And in this world, loyalty and trust are the only currency that matters.”

She strides down the dim hallway, passing doors, tapping each one with her knuckles. “My room. Grandpa's  room. Bathroom.” She pushes open another door—just a bunk bed and a dresser. “You can crash here.”

They keep moving. The walls tighten, shadows stretching under flickering neon strips. At the end of the hall, a heavy door made of welded car parts looms.

Shay stops.

In one swift motion, she pulls a 9mm from the small of her back and presses the cold barrel against Raine’s forehead.

“Now prove yourself.”

Shay opens the door and shoves Reine forward to a steely stairwell. 

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