4317 woke to sterile whiteness.
Not the barracks' grime-streaked concrete. There was no blood, no stain of filth. It was white. Clean, smooth walls. A soft bed that cradled his broken body. The air smelled of antiseptic and something floral.
Panic seized him. Trap? Experiment chamber? He tried to sit up.
"Don't."
A voice, calm and synthetic. 4317 saw a thing plated in dulled white polymer with patches of worn steel exposed like scars. Four mechanical limbs extended from its torso—two ended in delicate features, two for restraint. Each ended in modular attachments: needles, mesh, and scalpel, so thin they shimmered like threads of light.
A glowing green lens served as its only eye, swiveling and adjusting with every breath 4317 took. Along its chassis, faded warning sigils blinked dimly. It hovered by the bed – One arm gently pressed him back.
"What are you?" 4317 trembled.
"Unstable heart beat. Please calm down," it said.
4317 asked again, calming down a bit, "What are you?"
"You can call me H-3L. I'm a healer droid, serving under the Emberdeep Empire."
4317 didn't understand.
Healer droid? Emberdeep coil?
"You have multiple fractures. Dislocations, and broken bones. Acidic burns. Severe contusions and blood loss. Malnutrition Level Gamma. Healing protocols activating. It'll be over when you wake up."
The droids' tendrils hummed. Hiss erupted, and sweet, cold air enveloped his mouth and nose. He jerked back, instinctively.
"Do not resist. Inhalation sedation commencing. Nitrous-halothane blend stabilizing autonomic distress." The droid said.
4317's head felt… floaty. Limbs light. He tried to speak, but only a murmur escaped. The world softened at the edges.
A glint of steel came into view another tendril, primed with a long, slim needle.
"Anesthetic loading."
4317 blinked once, twice and stopped.His body slumped. The droid steadied him.
"Unconscious. Beginning treatment."
It began to hum a tune, old, and forgotten, probably uploaded by some long-dead tech.
...…..
4317 woke up groggy. He still felt sleepy. It was the most peaceful sleep he ever had. He stared at his left arm. The jagged bone was gone. Skin closed, though bruised purple and yellow. His leg was encased in a clear polymer cast humming with blue light. The pain became a dull ache. He never felt this energized.
Why?I'm supposed to be compost by now.
"Vitals stable. Condition healing." 4317's vision panned to the droid. It stood there watching him.
4317 tried sitting up. It said, "Resting is advised."
He sat up anyways, "Thank you, Hel."
The droid stayed silent for a second. Its singular eye glistened. It responded with a soft mechanical whir, "Welcome, human. I don't remember the last time I was appreciated. What's your name?"
"I don't have a number. We're slaves. You can call me 4317. Thanks again for treating me.
I never felt this good."
"It must be tough. I'm H-3L, but Hel works too."
"Yeah, what about you? Treating these dickheads must be hard too." 4317 chuckled dryly.
"I'm made to heal."
Neither of them spoke for a moment.
Then Hel extended an injector. "Nutrient boost. Accelerates tissue repair."
4317 flinched. The droid paused. "It won't hurt. Promise."
He submitted. The cool sting in his neck was followed by warmth spreading through his limbs. Strength trickled back.
Hel turned, floating to the corner of the room and brought the linen bound bread. It was still warm.
4317 broke off a piece. The crust cracked softly in his hands, steam curled from the center. He broke off another piece, and handing it to Hel.
Hel made a soft whirring sound, "Thanks, but I can't eat."
4317 looked at him, eyes widening, "How do you survive?"
"Sunlight, mostly."
"Sunlight?" 4317 repeated, puzzled.
Hel turned toward him. "The sun. Light from the sky, natural source of radiation. It powers my core."
"The sun…" 4317 squinted. "Is that… like a giant bulb or something?"
Hel paused, "You never… saw.. The sun?"
"Umm no." 4317 shook his head.
"Poor soul," Hel's tone changed, soft. "It's a disk in the sky, it's pretty, but don't look at it directly. It'll hurt your eye."
"Oh, is it like the moon?" 4317 asked.
"Yes, yes. Did you see it?"
"No, I heard it from… 3952.. my brother." 4317 suddenly stiffened, voice cracked. His heart ached, a tear rolled down his eyes.
A little bit of comfort, and I forgot. Asshole.
"Heartbeat unstable. Mood destabilized." Hel reported softly. "Breathe. Please remain calm."
"I can't calm down," 4317 snapped. "And he… he'll become plant food in a while."
"Sorry, for your loss."
"He said… it was pretty… The moon." 4317 closed his eyes.
"It is beautiful." Hel said, "You should eat the bread before it turns cold."
4317 nodded. And he put both pieces in his mouth.
Flavor bloomed. Rich, nutty rye. Hints of molasses. A texture that was both dense and airy. It was better than their ration, better than the memories of childhood.
And it tasted like ash. 3952. I miss you.
Tears flooded in his eyes. His brother's fierce grin. The vine spearing down. The blood on the mud. His body.
How could I forget? He was… he was
Hel whistled a tune. It reminded him of all the memories, even if it was all bad days, 3952 somehow managed to crack a joke, gave off warmth that he never felt. 4317 bawled his eyes out.
I made a promise. I can't let him become plant food.
The rage returned, colder, sharper than before.
You'll get a grave, no ones stopping me, not till I'm breathing.
He rewrapped the bread, the warmth now an insult.
"Don't" Hel's voice cut into his thoughts. 4317 stared at him.
"I can more or less guess what's running in your mind, from the strong brain waves you are emitting." Hel explained.
"Are you gonna stop me?" 4317 glared.
"They will."
"Even if I die…"
"That would be meaningless."
4317 punched the bed, "Our life never had meanings."
"I can change that," Hel assured. "You reminded me of something."
"Why help me?" 4317 was baffled.
Why is everyone being nice.
"Nothing in particular, you'll know," Hel hovered back to its station and took out some vial, and brought them to him.
It reached one of its tendril, "Drink."
4317 compiled. Hel started humming, it glowed faintly with mystique blue light. He drank the whole vial, it tasted like water, clean water.
All of Hel's tendril ended in thin needles. 4317 closed eyes. He felt the pricks this time. Four of them. A strange power gushed in him. He felt livelier. He opened his eyes. He was glowing in the same shade. It felt magical.
It lasted for about a minute. "All done," Hel sounded satisfied, as he proceeded to cut off the cast on his leg. 4317 couldn't believe his eyes. It was a miracle. It was like he was never injured before, not even a scar from old days remained.
What kind of magic is this.
4317 hopped of the bed, and hugged Hel. It was strangely cold. He reverberated trying hard to control his tear.
"May the seed bloom, Shooooo now" Hel waved his tendril.
"Won't they harm you?" 4317 concerned about it's safety.
"They won't dare touch an unit under imperial command," Hel assured, tossing another vial to him. "Use it as an emergency, it'll boost your power significantly but will leave you vulnerable after the duration ends."
4317 looked back one last time, "I'll get you some sunlight."
He slipped into the corridor but he could hear a series of clipped, rhythmic pulses vibrating from the healer's den.
Huh, why is he laughing!?
The corridors were sterile, empty, lit by soft glows. He moved like a shadow, hugging walls, using ventilation shafts and service ducts marked on his internal map of survival. He knew the dome's guts. Knew where the waste went.
Two more minutes of crawling through the vents and it was in his vision.
The Nutrient Chute Hub.
A vast, cavernous space reeking of decay and ozone. Conveyor belts carried mangled remains – human, plant, unidentifiable pulp – towards a grinding maw that churned everything into viscous, greenish slurry. The air thrummed with the sound of the macerators.
No guards. Usual.
But he still tiptoed around, carefully searching. He spotted it near the primary intake belt. 3952. Or what was left. Wrapped in a torn thermal tarp, one arm exposed, the skin already greyish, torn by thorns.
His breath hitched. No time for grief.
He darted across the open space, heart hammering. He grabbed the tarp. He slung the bundle over his shoulder like a sack of stolen hope, the weight crushing his soul more than his body.
**Control Room - Sector 7**
Lady Elara Veyron sipped steaming kaff from a porcelain cup, watching the wall of monitors. Her gaze lingered on Feed 17: Nutrient Intake Hub.
She saw the ragged boy, but he was in way better shape than she could've thought. He darted from the shadows. Saw him heave the tarp-wrapped burden onto his shoulder. She saw the fierce, desperate determination on his face as he turned to flee.
Her guard shifted. "Shall I intercept, Lady Veyron?"
Elara watched the boy disappear into a service tunnel marked 'West Barracks - Disused'. She took another slow sip.
"No," she murmured, a ghost of something unreadable in her eyes. "Let the rat bury his cheese. For now. Increase patrols near the perimeter airlocks in… thirty minutes."
...
4317 ran as fast as he could. The tunnel was dark, damp, smelling of rust and forgotten hopes. The weight on his shoulder was everything.
We're almost there, brother.
He saw the access hatch ahead – a rusted metal door leading to the barren strip between the dome and the outer walls. 3952 used to sneak out from here.
He reached for the manual release wheel.
The ground beneath him EXPLODED.
Not an explosion. A rupture. The ferrocrete floor buckled upwards, then collapsed downward in a shower of debris. 4317 stumbled back, shielding 3952's body with his own as chunks of concrete rained down.
From the jagged hole, thick as a man's torso and glistening with viscous slime, erupted a tendril. Not Ironclaw Vine. Something worse.
It was the sickly white of a corpse's underbelly, pulsating with veins of poisonous green. Thorns, not bone, but jagged shards of obsidian, covered its length. At its tip, instead of a barb, gaped a maw lined with rotating, glassy teeth that caught the dim light. It was a gravet-maw vine.
SKREEEEEEEEEEE—
The sound was pure, predatory hunger. It vibrated through 4317's bones, deeper and more terrifying than the reactor's roar. The creature sniffed the air, its maw twisting towards the bundle on 4317's shoulder. Towards 3952. After all, it savored corpses more than the living.
I heard about you, but you're not getting even a single lick.
4317 tightened his grip on his brother's remains, backing towards the hatch. His eyes darted – the hatch wheel, the advancing horror. Running back wasn't an option. It awaited the same fate.
The monstrous tendril coiled, muscles rippling beneath its slimy hide. 4317 dodged as it lashed. He ran in circles.
Think. Fuckkk! Should've brought a stick or something. I must end it before the guards get here.
The vine launched again—horizontal sweep this time. 4317 ducked and rolled, but a thorn clipped his shoulder. Blood splattered the concrete.
"Fuckkk!"