The baby was barely breathing.
His tiny frame shook with every shallow gasp, his cries now weak and dry. The woman wrapped him tighter in her fleece jacket, holding him close as if her warmth alone could keep him alive.
"We can't leave him," she said, voice trembling. "He won't last another hour out here."
Foden shook his head, jaw clenched. "We're already behind schedule. You know what happens if we miss check-in."
"Damn the check-in, Foden! It's a baby."Her voice cracked, loud enough to startle a bird from the trees above. She turned to the third hiker, eyes pleading. "Kale, help me out here."
Kale looked between them, awkwardly shifting his weight. "She's not wrong, man. We can't just… leave him. Look at him."
Foden scowled. "Exactly. Look at him. Malnourished. Filthy. No ID tag, no registry chip, no family imprint. That kid doesn't exist. You want to explain that at a checkpoint? You know what happens to people who carry ghosts."
The woman stood up, the baby bundled tightly in her arms. "His name is not Ghost. He's alive. He's a child. He didn't ask for this."
"And we didn't ask to be accessories to a breach, Ivy!" Foden snapped.
She flinched.
Kale stepped between them, hands up. "Alright, alright—enough. We keep moving, we don't argue. Ivy can carry him for now. If we get stopped, we'll improvise. Blame it on a rescue alert or something. But if it comes down to the baby or us—"
"Don't finish that sentence," Ivy said, voice like steel.
Foden muttered under his breath, tightening the strap on his backpack. "This is how people disappear."
They hiked in silence after that.
The forest stretched on around them—quiet, damp, watching. Every few steps, Ivy glanced down at the boy in her arms, brushing his dirt-streaked cheek with her thumb.
"I think he smiled," she whispered once, but no one answered.
Foden led, scanning the path like a soldier, jaw tight.
Kale hung back, quiet.
And Ivy, holding the child close, began to hum an old lullaby—one she hadn't heard since she was a girl. A song banned in most districts for being "melancholy."
She sang anyway.
The sky had dulled to a storm-colored gray when they reached it.
An old commuter zone—long since abandoned. Cracked concrete lots, half-buried train tracks, and rusted-out transports with vines crawling through shattered windows. The sign overhead, bent and barely legible, read:"CENTRAL PLATFORM – SMILE. YOUR LIFE DEPENDS ON IT."
Ivy stepped through the brush, eyes narrowed. "We shouldn't be this close to the metro ruins."
Foden scanned the perimeter, then gestured ahead. "It's quicker this way. No patrols. No cameras. Just ghosts and razor wire."
They reached the fence—twisted, towering, and coiled at the top with looping barbed wire that shimmered under the dim light.
"Here," Foden said, tossing down his pack. "We climb, we drop, we move."
Kale looked uneasy. "You sure this is safe?"
"No," Foden said flatly, "but that's the point."
Ivy secured the baby against her chest, tying the fleece jacket like a sling. "I'm going last."
Foden scaled the fence first—swift, practiced—then dropped to the other side with a grunt. He gave a sharp nod. "Clear."
Kale went next.
He climbed carefully, but halfway up, his foot slipped. A sharp gasp escaped as his leg scraped across the wire, slicing a long, jagged line into his calf.
"Shit—!"
He tumbled down the other side, hitting the dirt with a muffled cry.
"Kale!" Ivy shouted voice tight.
Blood soaked through his pants almost immediately. Foden rushed over, pulling a cloth from his bag and pressing it to the wound.
"You're lucky," he muttered, "missed the artery by an inch."
Kale grimaced. "Lucky feels like a strong word."
Ivy climbed fast, dropped harder, but kept the baby close. The child whimpered softly as she landed, then went quiet again—watching everything with wide, unblinking eyes.
"We need shelter," she said. "He needs food. Kale needs rest."
Foden glanced around the crumbling lot. "There's probably an old commuter rest point or service bunker nearby. If the place hasn't collapsed, we might be able to lay low for the night."
"And if someone's already squatting here?" Kale asked, breath shaky.
Foden shrugged. "Then they'll have to make room."
Ivy tightened her grip on the baby and looked up at the smiling, peeling poster above the gate.
"Smile: Happiness is Freedom."
She didn't smile.
The wind howled louder up here.
The commuter lot sloped sharply at the edge, revealing a sheer drop into the forest valley below. From here, they could see for miles—gray trees stretching into the mist like ancient bones.
Tucked into the side of the hill, half-buried beneath crumbling earth and vines, sat a rusted metal door.
"Bingo," Foden said, brushing away debris and twisted roots. A faded insignia was barely visible across the surface:TRANSCOMM RESTATION 12-B
"Looks sealed," Ivy said, shifting the baby.
Foden crouched, flicked open the manual release hatch, and twisted hard. With a metallic groan, the door hissed and cracked open, revealing darkness—and the smell of dust, oil, and old metal.
A staircase spiraled downward into pitch black.
"I'll go first," Foden said, pulling out a flashlight. The beam danced along the walls—peeling paint, faded signage, a shattered light fixture or two. "Stay close. Watch your step."
Ivy followed cautiously, whispering soft words to the baby to keep him calm.
Kale paused.
Something flickered in the corner of his eye.
He turned.
Out in the distance, far beyond the cliff, nestled deep in the trees… a light.
It blinked once. Then again.
Not natural. Not lightning. It pulsed in rhythm—too calculated to be a coincidence.
His chest tightened.
"Guys…" he called out. "Wait."
They stopped on the stairs. Foden turned, irritated. "What now?"
Kale backed away from the door, eyes locked on the horizon. "Down there… I saw something. Lights. In the trees. Too even to be fire or lightning."
Foden stepped up from the stairwell, shielding his eyes and squinting into the fog. "Patrol drones?"
"No. Bigger. Ground-based. Like… like a crawler."
Foden swore under his breath. "They never patrol this far west. Not anymore."
"Maybe they started again," Ivy said quietly. "Maybe they're looking for him."
She pulled the baby closer, her fingers trembling just slightly.
"Alright," Foden said, suddenly all business. "Into the bunker. Now. No fires, no chatter. If they're scanning, we stay quiet, low, and hidden."
"But what if they already saw us?" Kale asked.
Foden glanced back toward the open wilderness, then down into the black stairwell.
"Then we pray this bunker has more than just a staircase."
Without another word, they disappeared into the dark.
The door shut behind them with a hollow clang.
The air inside was thick with dust and old silence.
Each step down the spiral stairs echoed like a warning. Ivy held the baby tighter, listening to the metallic creaks beneath her feet. The air grew colder with every descent, wrapping around them like the breath of something long-forgotten.
When they finally reached the bottom, Foden's flashlight beam cut through the dark to reveal a wide concrete chamber—part storage, part living quarters. Collapsed shelves leaned against stained walls, and rusted crates were stacked in one corner. A row of cracked monitors lined the far side, dormant and covered in cobwebs.
"Home sweet bunker," Foden muttered.
He stepped forward, kicking aside a rotted-out stool, and went straight for the crates. "Start looking for supplies. Weapons. Vests. Anything tagged with military issue."
Ivy placed the baby down gently on an old cot padded with a dusty blanket, then began searching drawers. "It's been decades… if there's anything left, it's probably dead or rusted."
Kale stood still near the stairs, staring at the concrete wall.
His voice was hollow. "We're not getting out of this."
Foden didn't even look up. "Save the drama, Kale. You saw the crawler. That was real. We either hide or we die. Unless you prefer the second option?"
Kale turned, fists clenched. "You don't get it. They don't stop. You think a vest or a gun makes a difference when the world out there is cheering for your execution like it's a circus act? We're not rebels. We're hikers who picked up the wrong baby."
He was breathing fast now. Ivy looked over, concern etched across her face.
"Sit down, Kale," she said softly. "You're bleeding through the wrap again."
But he didn't move.
"We should've left him," Kale whispered, staring at the baby now sleeping on the cot. "You know it. He's not ours. He's a target."
Foden slammed a crate open. The lid cracked off, and he reached inside, pulling out a dusty black case.
"Then why are you still here?" he snapped.
Kale didn't answer.
Foden popped the latches on the case—inside were two compact rifles, still in decent condition, cushioned in hardened foam. A smaller compartment below held loaded magazines and two bulletproof vests, folded and tagged.
He tossed one to Ivy. "Get armored. Both of you. If we're walking out of here, we walk out with a fight."
Kale sank to the floor, pressing his hands to his face.
"Everything's backwards out there," he muttered. "Wrong is right. Right is dead. And we just dragged right into this bunker with us."
Ivy pulled the vest over her shoulders, tightened the straps, then walked to Kale and crouched beside him.
She didn't speak right away. Just rested a hand on his shoulder.
Then softly, "If everything's backwards… then maybe saving him was the only thing we've done right."
Silence fell over the room.
Even the baby, tucked in the cot under a frayed blanket, stirred slightly and let out the faintest sound—
A laugh. Not loud. Not joyous.
Just… a spark.
BOOM—BOOM—BOOM.
The sound hammered through the bunker like the fist of a titan, vibrating in their bones, stirring dust from the walls.
Foden sprang to his feet, rifle raised, eyes razor-sharp as he locked onto the stairwell. Ivy grabbed the baby instinctively, pressing him to her chest, heart thundering. Kale stumbled upright, his wounded leg trembling beneath him.
Another knock.
Then came the voice—calm, mechanical, laced with something far worse than anger.
"Where are your IDs?"
The words echoed with artificial grace, like a polite executioner asking for permission.
Foden gave a short exhale. He slung his rifle across his back and straightened his vest, his face hardening into the cold neutrality of someone who'd survived encounters like this before.
"Kale," he said without looking back, "don't breathe unless I say so."
He climbed the stairs and opened the hatch.
Outside, bathed in the pale light of a dying sky, stood something... wrong.
A figure, tall and still—half-man, half-machine.
Its right side looked almost human: clean, young, with skin stretched too tightly over cheekbones that didn't quite move. But its left side—gleaming metal fused with exposed fiber circuits—hummed softly, a red optic eye blinking with slow precision. Its armor was form-fitted, plated in matte black with faint blue pulses tracing through its arms and chest like synthetic veins.
It tilted its head—slowly, mechanically—and stepped forward with smooth, predatory grace.
Two fingers extended.
Foden didn't flinch.
The red scanner swept across his neck.
"Verified."
The machine's voice returned, even colder than before.
"And the others?"
Without speaking, Foden motioned toward the stairwell.
Ivy emerged, the baby now tucked into the pile of crates beneath a camouflage of jackets and gear. She moved with slow precision, placing herself between the machine's line of sight and the cot.
Kale followed, stiff-legged and pale, sweat dripping from his brow.
The hybrid scanned Ivy.
"Verified."
Then Kale.
"Verified."
The machine paused, its red eye flickering.
Then, it raised its left hand—pressing a symbol embedded in the glowing surface of its wristplate.
"All hail the Conclave."
The words slithered from its synthetic throat like scripture from a dead god.
There was a beat of silence.
Foden forced his face into a grin—wide, lifeless.
"Hail the Conclave," he said, his teeth clenched behind the smile.
Ivy followed, lips trembling as she raised a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Hail the Conclave."
Kale hesitated, the words catching in his throat. His smile was more a grimace than anything else.
"…Hail the Conclave."
The hybrid turned slightly, gaze scanning the forest horizon.
They thought it was over.
Then—
Squeak.
A high-pitched, pitiful sound.
It came from beneath the cot.
The machine stopped mid-step.
Its head turned slowly—mechanical joints whining—until the red optic locked onto the crate stack.
The silence was crushing.
Ivy instinctively stepped in front of the pile, her hands behind her back, heart hammering against her ribs.
The hybrid's expression didn't change. It didn't need to.
"Unverified presence detected."
Foden's hand tightened on his rifle strap.
"It's a beacon," he lied smoothly. "Old tech—probably pinged when we entered. Nothing to worry about."
The hybrid didn't move.
Instead, it advanced, slow and deliberate.
The red eye began to glow brighter.
"Re-scanning."
A horizontal beam swept across the room. It passed over the crates. The baby stirred, letting out a muffled, breathy squeal.
The hybrid's optic paused.
"Processing…"
The room became ice.
Kale's fingers curled into fists.
Foden reached subtly toward his rifle.
Ivy held her breath.
And the world waited to see whether the machine would call it a child…
Or a threat.