As darkness spilled across the dead land, the squad gathered at the edge of the wall — that old, groaning monument to fear and forgetfulness.

  Their task was simple, at least on paper: descend into Ground Zero, observe, record, return.

  But simplicity is a lie the living tell themselves before meeting the unexplainable.

  They spoke in checklists and formation codes. They moved like doctrine could save them..

  They did not look down for long. They did not ask what built the silence.

  And they never asked the one question that mattered:

  “Why was the wall built facing inward?”

  The question — unspoken, unformed — left their minds like breath on a mirror. And with its absence, something else settled in.

  A weight. A presence. The kind you don’t name out loud.

  None of them said it. Soldiers rarely do.

  But every one of them checked their gear again.

  A second sweep. Gloves adjusted. Straps tightened. Weapons drawn and re-holstered. Not because orders demanded it — but because something deeper, older, did.

  The feeling returned as they finished — heavier this time, colder. The air itself pressing against their backs like hands trying to stop them.

  Still, they stepped to the edge.

  And finally… they looked down.

  Into Ground Zero.

  Into the quiet.

  Into the mouth of a question they’d already begun to answer just by arriving.

  At last, the time came to descend.

  The squad leader stepped forward and unhooked the restraints, lowering the rope ladder down into Ground Zero with the kind of care usually reserved for altars.

  One by one, they climbed down — calm, practiced, just as they’d trained. Orderly. Efficient.

  As if routine could insulate them from what waited below.

  The silence was not quiet. It was consuming. A silence that seemed to absorb breath and footfall alike — not the absence of sound, but the presence of something listening.

  When their boots met the ground, none of them said it — but they all felt it.

  This was not earth. Not stone. It shifted slightly beneath weight. Not enough to alarm, just enough to remember.

  It felt… alive.

  But there was no light. No detail. Just the vague sensation of being watched by terrain.

  So they pushed forward.

  Because that was the job.

  And because they did not yet understand that Ground Zero was not a place.

  It was an answer. Waiting for the right question to walk into it.

  They moved in formation, eyes scanning the ruins ahead, rifles ready — but nothing came. No echoes. No movement. Just the steady rhythm of boots against breathing stone.

  Ruins loomed around them like broken teeth. Burned-out buildings, long since emptied, leaned like drunks against fungal-coated walls. Steel beams curved in unnatural angles, melted not by fire but by decision.

  They passed a corpse fused into a wall — not burned, not decayed. Absorbed.

  They didn’t stop to look closer.

  Then it appeared.

  No sound. No warning. Just the sense that the terrain had rearranged itself, and now something stood in it.

  A shape — armoured, low, broad. Half-shrouded in ruin and rot. It was a tank, in theory — but too smooth, too organic in some places, and too precise in others.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  Its turret tracked them without sound.

  Lenses blinked like eyelids. Tubes pulsed with something darker than blood.

  It did not fire.

  It did not speak.

  It just… stared.

  The squad froze. No orders. No gestures. Nothing trained for this.

  And then, without movement, without noise, a voice entered their minds. Not a whisper. Not a threat.

  Just a classification:

  “Assessment: Level Theta. Sentience confirmed. Threat: minimal.”

  The thing reversed slowly — not in retreat. Just… removing itself from view.

  And then it was gone.

  No attack. No trace. Just silence again.

  They pushed on in silence. A tension left unspoken hung in the stale air between them — until it cracked.

  “Well,” one of them muttered, “guess it’s not so bad down here.”

  Another snorted. Nervous. But it caught.

  “Didn’t even shoot. Scanned us like grocery items and drove off.”

  Laughter followed. Small at first. Then a bit louder. Relief in disguise.

  “Minimal threat,” someone said mockingly, puffing their chest. “Guess we’re not worth the ammo, boys.”

  Their boots fell heavier now. Less cautious. The tight formation softened. Fingers relaxed on triggers.

  Their courage didn’t grow.

  It returned.

  But they never noticed the change beneath them.

  The ground — soft, layered, watching — vibrated in time with their steps. Fungal filaments beneath the surface twitched in harmony, mapping their weight, posture, emotional resonance.

  Every heartbeat. Every nervous laugh. Every arrogant word.

  Logged. Indexed. Assessed.

  Somewhere deep below, in a chamber lined with writhing neural cables and the skeletal remains of old minds, an impulse fired.

  “Pattern logged: Confidence Spike.”

  “Recommendation: Delayed Correction.”

  The terrain adjusted — ever so slightly. One corridor narrowed. A side path collapsed behind them. They didn’t notice.

  They felt better. That was the point.

  Whatever thinks beneath this place is not interested in terror.

  Only in outcome.

  And overconfidence made for cleaner data.

  They crested a low ridge and came upon the clearing — wide, broken, open.

  Buildings crushed into skeletal shapes. Old trenches sunk shallow and half-covered in ash. Dead vehicles burned to their frames. Plenty of cover. Clean fields of vision. High ground behind. A textbook pass-through.

  The sergeant scanned the area, rifle sweeping with calm efficiency. One hand motioned forward. Another gave the all-clear.

  This place was fine. Designed, almost.

  And that’s because it was.

  Not by nature.

  Not by war.

  By something watching their minds and calculating the shapes that would not raise alarm.

  The squad moved into the clearing in a staggered pattern. Spaced. Disciplined.

  And exactly how the sequence predicted they would.

  Thirty more feet and the ground shifted under the lead man — not crumbling, not loud. Just a soft compression. A change in texture. Not enough to notice.

  But below the surface, sensors closed. Data captured. Firing solutions locked.

  The clearing was no longer terrain.

  It was geometry.

  “Killbox integrity confirmed.”

  “Engagement parameters met.”

  “Observation phase concluded.”

  And the ground twitched in anticipation

  The clearing shifted again — just once. Barely perceptible. Like the world holding its breath.

  Then, shapes.

  They emerged from the ash and ruin not like predators, but like props lifting into position — perfectly timed, perfectly placed.

  Six shapes. Massive. Armoured. Silent.

  Not built — grown into function. Guns already levelled

  One behind. Two at the flanks. Three ahead — spaced just beyond ideal cover points. Because they knew exactly where the squad would take shelter.

  Red lenses blinked. Pressure built. Still no sound.

  Then came the scream.

  A single, shrieking howl from the sky — a pitch not made by wind or metal, but by calculated velocity.

  An artillery shell. Massive. Spiralling down like a judgment.

  And just as it was about to hit—

  Time stopped.

  Not slowly. Not dramatically. Just gone. Sound vanished. Movement froze. The squad locked in perfect, helpless motion. Eyes wide. Mouths mid-command.

  And perched on the side of the falling shell — one leg crossed over the other, cloak billowing gently despite the dead air — was the Bushman.

  Leaning on the warhead like it was a bar counter. Studying the squad with the same interest most give to insects in jars.

  He didn’t speak at first. Just smiled faintly — not kindly. Not cruelly.

  Just like a man who already knew the punchline.

  Then he looked to the shell beneath him and tapped it once, softly.

  “Boom,” he whispered.

  And then turned his gaze to you.

  “Well... you made it this far.”

  He paused, as if genuinely impressed.

  “Shame. You almost asked the right question.”

  He stood now, stepping lightly off the shell, walking through the frozen soldiers. Studying them. Not speaking to them — speaking around them.

  “You thought you were here to observe. To report. To maybe fight.”

  “But you were the report.”

  “You were the observation.”

  His voice shifted — softer now. Amused.

  “It watched your boots fall. It listened to your lungs. It mapped the weight of your hope. And now it knows…”

  “Exactly…”

  “…how to end you.”

  He turned back to the shell. Tapped it again.

  “No glory in this. No last stand.”

  “Just… data complete.”

  Then he looked up one last time.

  “See you in the margins.”

  And he vanished.

  Time returned.

  And so did gravity.

  The shell did not land with sound.

  It landed with purpose.

  Light bloomed.

  Heat flash-boiled the mist.

  Shapes ceased.

  Coordinates reset.

  The clearing became a crater.

  The squad became entries.

  The moment became… irrelevant.

  There was no screaming.

  No echo.

  Only silence.

  That same awful, perfect silence that follows understanding.

  The kind that doesn't mourn.

  It confirms.

  Correction complete

  (Pause)

  Later, much later — if time even works that way — a single phrase was recovered from a black box cracked open near the crater’s edge. The voice was calm. Familiar.

  “Observation complete. Pathfinder Group: concluded. Memory integrity: sufficient for replication.”

  (A soft click. Then another voice. Dry. Measured. Smiling where a smile shouldn’t be.)

  “Well…”

  “They asked the question, didn’t they?”

  “Shame no one warned them about the answer.”