Killian’s heart pounded as he peered through frost-crusted bushes, breath shallow, fingers tight on his bow. Five sentinel robots scuttled through the trees, their black, dog-sized bodies moving with eerie precision, blue sensors sweeping the forest floor in a grid. Five miles from the Potomac, and the Ascendancy’s perimeter had already snared them. Killy cursed silently, mind racing. He’d built a village to evade such threats—hidden trails, no crops, silent nights. Now, his creation was ash, and Junior’s life rested on his next move.

  Junior crouched beside him, small frame tense, clutching his dad’s Milwaukee Fastback knife. His wide eyes held fear but trust, a weight Killy felt like a stone in his chest. He couldn’t fail the kid—not after Pine Hollow, not with Nora, Reese, and Clay in Ascendancy hands. The sentinels weren’t clankers, built for slaughter, but surveillance drones. One signal to their masters, and Killy’s mission would face soldiers, clankers, or worse. Option one: hide and pray they passed. Their grid pattern would hit this spot soon, though. Option two: destroy them fast, before they signaled. But networked bots meant a failsafe—kill one, and the others might scream for help.

  The Trident hummed in his pocket, nanobots buzzing in his veins. Its plasma blade and bolts had worked in Willow Creek, but the Engineer’s dream—whips, levitation—hinted at more. Killy’s pre-Cutoff days as a mechanic sparked an idea. The bots’ sensors pulsed in sync, a faint wireless hum linking them. A plasma surge, not a bolt, could ride that signal, frying all five in a chain reaction, minimizing the chance of an alarm. Risky—he’d never tried it—but he’d outsmarted drones by burning false camps. This was his ground, his fight.

  He pulled the Trident, thumb brushing its lens. Closing his eyes, he focused on the nanobots’ hum, feeling their pulse in his blood. Green gel surged, forming a shimmering gauntlet, alive with his heartbeat. He pictured a plasma surge tracing the bots’ wireless threads, leaping between them, scorching circuits. The air shimmered, a ghostly green web mirroring the bots’ positions, a projection of his thought. The nanobots hummed louder, as if nodding approval. Killy’s pulse quickened—they weren’t just tech; they were partners, urging him to push. Unnerving, but it fueled his confidence at the same time.

  “Junior,” Killy whispered, voice low over the breeze rustling brittle leaves. “Stay down. I’m trying something with the Trident. If it works, the bots are gone. If not, we bolt.” Junior nodded, knife tight, voice shaky but firm. “I trust you, Killy.”

  Killy gripped the Trident, gauntlet glowing, and channeled his will. The nanobots surged, the lens flaring green. He released the surge with a thought—a crackling pulse of plasma leapt, following the wireless signal, chaining bot to bot in a heartbeat. The forest flared green, then darkened as the sentinels froze, sensors strobing, then collapsed, sparking and smoking. Three seconds, and silence fell, only cooling metal crackling.

  Killy exhaled, hand trembling as the gauntlet retracted. The nanobots’ hum softened, satisfied. He’d done it—no signal sent, but the Ascendancy would notice soon. “Move,” he said, pulling Junior up. “That bought time, but they’ll come looking. Deeper into the woods, toward the river.”

  They wove through dense pines, frost crunching underfoot, the air sharp with pine and damp earth. Killy’s mind churned—patrols would find the bots, then hunt. He’d kept Pine Hollow hidden by thinking three steps ahead; now, he needed a plan to reach DC unseen. A sharp whistle sliced the air, deliberate, no bird. Killy froze, Trident ready, Junior pressed close, knife gleaming.

  “Up here,” a low voice called. Killy’s gaze snapped to a figure on a branch fifteen feet up—lean, sharp-featured, pale skin weathered, dark hair gray-streaked. His dark jacket pulsed with micro-LEDs, Ascendancy tech, a curved blade at his belt, a metallic pipe in his mouth trailing cannabis smoke. Gray eyes glinted, calculating.

  “You’re in deep shit if you don’t hide,” the man said, swinging down, landing lightly. “Ascendancy patrol’s coming—saw them from my lookout. Ten minutes, maybe less. You fried those bots, I’m guessing.”

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  “Who are you?” Killy demanded, Trident raised. “Why trust you?” The man’s lips twitched, a humorless smile flashing perfect teeth—Ascendancy elite. “Lane. I know these woods, bot routes. They sweep every two hours, grid pattern. You hit the tail end, but that mess will draw eyes. Come hide, or face their goons. Your call.”

  Killy hesitated, Lane’s polish and knowledge screaming insider. Those teeth, that tech—he wasn’t a scavenger. But his patrol warning could save them. Junior’s uncertain glance sealed it. “Fine,” Killy said, lowering the Trident. “I’m Killian. This is Junior. Lead on, but if this is a trap, you’re done.”

  “Noted,” Lane said, gesturing them to follow. He moved fast, precise, jacket blending into shadows despite its glow. Killy and Junior trailed, low and alert, through thickets and frost-kissed pines. Five minutes later, Lane uncovered a hidden hatch, pressing a panel. It hissed open, revealing stairs to darkness. “My bunker,” Lane said. “Ascendancy can’t detect it.”

  Killy followed, Junior close, into a sleek chamber, walls shimmering with force-field tech like DC’s spires. Metal floors gleamed, storage units held rations, weapons, tech, and a hydroponic cannabis setup glowed under UVs. A holographic map glowed, a table held a comms device, data chips, and Lane’s pipe. Killy’s survivor instincts kicked in—this was no simple shack; it was a fortress.

  “Sit,” Lane said, pointing to cushioned chairs. He lit his pipe with a plasma torch, cannabis scent filling the air. “I’m Lane Carver, ex-Ascendancy, now smuggler and grower. Best cannabis east of the Mississippi, sold to city folk escaping control. Smuggled tech to build this, stay off their grid. Want a hit?”

  Killy sat, Trident in lap, nanobots humming. “I’ll take one. Junior doesn’t.” Lane raised an eyebrow, dragging smoke. “He’s got rights. Nine? Ten? City’d say he’s old enough.”

  “Nine,” Killy said, taking the pipe, its sharp scent a pre-Cutoff echo. He lit it, inhaling bitter warmth, tension easing slightly. “Weed’s a drug, Junior. Relaxes you, maybe loopy. Not for kids—messes with your brain. When you’re older, you choose. I decide now.” Junior nodded, curious but accepting.

  “Smells funny.”

  “Carver’s Reserve,” Lane smirked, taking the pipe. “Keeps clients hooked.”

  Killy’s mind sharpened. “You sell in the city. You know a way in. We need DC—three kids, taken from my village for the Lattice, a network to reach The Engineer, a pan-dimensional thing trading tech for blood. I’m getting them back.”

  Lane’s smile vanished, eyes narrowing. “Lattice? Heard it was neural tech, classified. Pan-dimensional beings? That’s new.” He leaned back, smoke curling. “I was Ascendancy elite, born into it. My family helped The Cutoff, hoarded tech, rebuilt DC. I hated the control—monitored, tracked. Faked my death, crashed a transport, smuggled tech here, grow cannabis, stay free.”

  Killy’s jaw tightened. Lane’s elite roots explained his polish, but his skepticism was a hurdle. “You don’t believe me—about The Engineer.”

  Lane shrugged, dragging smoke.

  “Not saying you’re lying. Never heard of blood sacrifices, and I was high up. Thought it was a breakaway civilization, hoarding tech while you scrape. Interdimensional stuff? Stretch.”

  “I saw it,” Killy said, voice low, eyes piercing. “In a dream, real as this. It spoke—nanobots link us. Said it watches humanity, trades tech for blood. Kids are under the tallest spire, where the Lattice hums. Believe me or not, I need in.”

  Lane studied him, then nodded. “Alright. I’ll help—not for your story, but I’ve seen their cruelty. Kids in a machine? Not on my watch. Your grit reminds me why I left.” He activated the hologram, zooming on DC’s tunnels. “Old train tunnels, pre-Cutoff, unused now. I smuggle through them. Entrance a mile from the river, maintenance shed. Hits the central district—your spire’s there. Leave at dawn, you’re in by midday.”

  Killy eyed the map, tunnels a risky but viable path. “How long to the entrance?”

  “From here, by dawn,” Lane said, pocketing his comms. “Rest now—patrols are out. First light, we move.”

  “Deal,” Killy said, the plan’s weight settling. Lane offered cots, their tech humming warmth. Junior curled up, knife close, asleep fast. Killy lay awake, Trident near, force-field walls glowing. The Engineer’s dream haunted him, but exhaustion won, nanobots’ hum pulling him into darkness.