Tex leaned back, letting the cool porcelain support his battered frame.
“See?” he muttered to the autoforge now bolted back into his belly. “Tactical pissing. It's an art.”
The forge clicked softly in what almost passed for agreement.
Time to move.
He didn’t have long before they’d double back and start checking dead zones. The momentary breather was a gift—one he planned to cash in with interest.
He slipped out of the bathroom and ghosted down the corridor, every step wrapped in rubber, every joint muted by grime and resolve. The Ark was quiet again—quiet enough that the groan of distant structural strain sounded almost like a heartbeat.
Next stop: the Armory.
He needed shielding. He needed missiles. But more than anything, he needed to think—really think—about what waited for him in D3.
He kept to the edges.
Every footstep calculated, every corner met with the kind of caution you usually reserved for unexploded ordnance and exes you owe money to.
The Ark’s guts were a maze of forgotten service shafts, sealed emergency bulkheads, and corridors that hadn't seen maintenance since the war made sense. He ducked under corroded conduits, crept past half-crushed cargo bots still mid-task, and once had to tiptoe over what looked suspiciously like the remains of a decommissioned sentry, its optics still glowing faintly like the eyes of a dead fish.
The umbilical cable trailing from his belly plate tugged gently as the autoforge cycled through its last stage of reboot, servos grinding back into place like a smoker clearing their throat after a long nap.
“C’mon,” Tex muttered. “Don’t die on me now. I just got you back.”
The autoforge let out a single, healthy click. Online. Re-linked.
He exhaled slowly, like someone had just handed him his spine back.
Still no hostiles.
But the quiet didn’t comfort him. It nagged.
Too quiet.
Either they’d written him off, assumed he’d fallen through the floor—or they were herding him.
Didn’t matter.
He was almost at the maintenance junction just below the Armory’s subdeck. One more turn and he could slither into the belly of the beast.
And start building something sharp.
Tex peeked around the corner.
There it was.
The Armory.
And a half-squad of infantry morphs parked right out front, shooting the breeze like they hadn’t just locked down the last good thing left on this flying coffin.
He eased from cover.
The telltale hum of his cannon spooling up was the only warning they got.
The sergeant caught a full burst to the chest, optics flaring white before his frame dropped like wet steel. The others scrambled, diving for cover behind crates, debris, even their own fallen leader.
Tex pressed forward, slipping between cover like a ghost. The doorway was close. So was paydirt.
He grinned.
Then pain.
A round caught his left shoulder mid-sprint, spinning him off balance and dragging a shout from his core. He ducked behind a steel crate as rounds started biting chunks off its edge, hot shrapnel kissing his plating.
He checked his cannon—low. No reload. No time.
All he had was his gun, his wits, and a few half-melted prayers.
Something clinked to the ground beside him.
A grenade.
He didn’t think. Just moved.
“Shitshitshit—!”
Tex let out a sharp, undignified squeal as he grabbed the live explosive and whipped it back over the crate like a pissed-off quarterback.
He didn't wait for the bang.
He sprinted toward the doorway before the echoes could catch him, cackling like a lunatic as the explosion rattled the hallway behind him.
In the wake of the blast, a length of pipe clattered from the ceiling, skittering across the deck.
Tex didn't think twice.
He scooped it up mid-run, turning just as the smoke cleared.
The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.
The morphs were still moving—stunned, scrambling, weapons half-raised.
Too slow.
He descended like a wolf on lambs.
The first went down with a sickening crunch, pipe meeting faceplate and sending optic shards skittering. The next got a jab to the gut, the metal rod denting armor with a dull thud before he flipped it around and crushed the back of their head.
No finesse.
Just violence.
Frames split. Servos sparked. Limbs twitched.
By the time the last one dropped, twitching on the ground, Tex stood heaving—grimy, dented, pipe still clutched in his hand.
Resistance: neutralized.
He exhaled through his vents.
Armory secured.
Tex stepped over the ruined morphs and made his way to the armory’s entry pad.
He punched in Havoc’s old code.
Access Denied.
Figures.
The Ark must’ve scrubbed her authorization the moment her vitals flatlined.
“Great,” he muttered. “They always clean up fast when it’s convenient.”
He stared at the panel for a second longer—then sighed.
Welp. Brute force it is.
One destructive override later—complete with some well-placed violence and a now-missing access plate—the door groaned open, servos whining like they knew better.
Tex didn’t flinch, activating his night vision optics before going in.
Inside, the Armory was a cathedral of war’s leftovers.
Weapon crates and racks of ordnance lined the aisles, arranged with an almost reverent care. Some were marked, some weren’t—but none were scattered. This wasn’t a depot. It was a reliquary. A gacha game of war, where every pull was lethal, and he was the last active player… besides her.
He paused near the corner.
There—nestled in the shadows—was a cleared-out bomber-sized berth. Mattresses, scavenged pillows, foam crates stacked and packed tight. Spartan, but lived in. Oil stains and rust streaks marred the bedding like blood on sheets.
They really had left her here to rot.
He stood still for a beat.
Then, quietly:
"You let her choose. That was the right call."
The elevator platform was still raised, sealing the chamber off from the deck above. Gantries and stairwells crossed the massive space like a web. The cranes, once mobile, hung dead—seized in place by rust and time.
Back to work.
He didn’t know how long this window would last. Time was not a luxury.
Tex moved carefully through the aisles, scanning for threats. Nothing stirred. Only dust in the emergency lighting—soft, golden, like ash in sunbeams.
Then he noticed the walls.
Painted. Not carelessly. Shapes. Scenes. The cracks had been outlined in vivid strokes, transformed into twisted forests, angels, monsters, machines. A mural of fractured thought.
Havoc’s work.
He wasn’t built to appreciate art.
But still—he paused.
Raised his wrist.
Snapped a few photos.
Just to remember.
First priority: shielding.
He moved toward the chemical racks marked HAZARD—LEVEL 4, scanning labels until he spotted what he needed:
-
A half-drum of lead-based RadSeal-X
-
Two coils of liquid rubber compound
He hauled them into a cart, ignoring the creak of his servos.
This would be his armor now.
His prayers, painted in gray.
Next: munitions. He limped over to a half-assembled rack of aerial rockets. One was missing its guidance fins—perfect for a quick “Whistler” prototype. He wrenched it free, dragging the stubby thing to a bench.
Under the bench lay a sealed crate marked “DEPTH CHARGE W/ SONAR GUIDANCE”—his Lungfish base. It was swollen with age but intact. He pried off the top and lifted the inner casing out, setting it beside the rocket.
He worked fast:
-
Heat-seeker core from the rocket, carefully unscrewing its nose cone.
-
Ball bearings from a shattered cluster munition, stuffed into the new warhead.
-
Propellant mix spooned from a broken grenade—unstable, but enough for one good blast.
-
Casing swap—rocket fins welded onto the torpedo body, then torpedo propulsion grafted to the rocket’s tail tube.
Each step was rough, improvised—and absolutely necessary.
When the first “Whistler” prototype was taped shut, Tex slapped it against the workbench. It rattled once, then settled.
It would have to do. He prepped it for arming.
Then he turned to the depth charge.
A quick check of the sonar guiders, a splice of power lines from the autoforge cable, and he had a makeshift torpedo ready for launch.
Two homemade missiles in under five minutes.
Tex stepped back, surveying his haul: lead paint, rubber sealant, “Whistler,” “Lungfish,” and a handful of stray fuses that might be useful.
Time to gear up for D3.
Finally… cleanup and application.
Tex deployed his wings with a whine of servos, making his way to a wash station in the corner of the Armory. He grabbed a bundle of steel wool and began scrubbing—slow, deliberate, mechanical. Sludge and filth flaked off in greasy ribbons. The grime he’d marinated in for the past hour clung stubbornly, but he didn’t rush. This wasn’t a delicate process—but he could worry about scratches and repaint jobs later.
Once his frame was clean, he popped the lid on the Radex lead paint with a hollow clunk. Dipped his fingers in and began slathering the stuff on like war paint—thick from canopy to landing toes. He laid it on extra heavy around his reactor seals and vent clusters. The white was gone in minutes, buried under dull, gunmetal gray.
Then came the rubber.
He yanked a sealed tube from the cart, bit the nozzle clean off, and jammed it into his shoulder joint. With a few pumps, viscous black compound began oozing out. He didn’t stop. Knees, elbows, spine, access plates—anywhere coolant could get in, he packed it tight. It’d limit motion, sure. Might even risk overheating.
Didn’t matter.
He’d be neck-deep in irradiated water soon. Better stiff than flooded.
Then came the loadout.
He found a spare belly hardpoint on the rack, chopped it down to size, and welded it flush to his ventral plating. Once cooled, he attached the stubby lungfish torpedo—a relic from the Ark’s old submersible wing. Not elegant, but functional. His wings got a final check and a pair of scrounged missiles for overwater coverage, locked into the rails with a satisfying click.
Lastly, upping his personal firepower. He made his way over to the weapon racks again, finding the firearms rack.
He felt like a kid in a candy store—if candy exploded. He prowled the racks until he hit the rifles. He pulled a M-14 off the rack, feeling the weight in his hands before he said, "Yeah... time to mutilate this into being useful."
he muttered as he got to work. His max range was about 20 yards... but he needed this, which he noted used the exact same ammo as his chain cannon. If that broke, it would be good to have a back up he could rely on.
First thing to go was the barrel, which he chopped down just a few inches above the gas block. Everything beyond that was extra weight and length that would get in the way.
He hacked off the stock, then bit a crude cup into the back with his teeth—functional, ugly, perfect.
He cycled the bolt, and picked up a duty belt, going over and stuffing mags into his pouches before hooking five stick grenades into it, one smoke, three frags, and one bundled one for if he came across anything more durable.
Tex stood still for a moment. Silent. He was a god damned walking armory now, and he NEVER felt more alive.
He pressed a fist to his shoulder plate—where the words “STILL HERE” glinted under a fresh smear of lead.
He paused, looking over and finding a crate labled, "P.A. System." He opened it, smirking down into it as he rumbled, "Oh yeah... this is happening."
fifteen minutes later, he had a cannon on one shoulder, and a loudspeaker on the other, cuing up "Born to Be Wild." If they wouldn't let R/CO DJ... he'd do it himself.
Then, turning toward the door, he whispered to no one—
“Let’s make some goddamn noise.”
And with that, Tex slipped out of the Armory’s dim, cathedral hush—and into the black water ahead.