Tunnel rats did not wait for him to settle his breathing.
The first came through the drainage slot low and fast, gray body stretched between hand-sized paws. Marco raised the bow, found the front sight somewhere near its shoulder, and almost released.
The rat crossed the yellow line.
Marco let down and stepped back.
Ray’s spear dropped in front of it with a hard metal crack. The rat turned, hit the clear barrier panel, and scrambled into the capture chute. A gate slammed behind it.
“Why didn’t you shoot?” Ray asked.
Marco kept the bow pointed at the floor stop. “Past the stop mark.”
“Good.”
The rat threw itself against the chute gate. Its incisors scraped a white line across the polymer.
“What now?” Ray asked.
“Control floods the chute.”
“Do it.”
Marco hit the wall switch. A sedative mist hissed into the enclosure. The rat slowed, staggered, and folded onto its side.
No arrow fired. No Foundation notice. No bonus.
The lane remained clear for the moment.
Ray keyed his radio. “Maintenance Four, first rat contained. Send recovery.”
The response crackled back. “Copy. Two more heat marks in the drain.”
Marco reset behind the red line.
This was his second controlled pest shift and his first involving something that moved toward him. Mana beetles wanted bait. Tunnel rats wanted food, darkness, and a route past anything larger than themselves. The barrier and Ray’s spear made the work safer. Marco’s pulse did not care about the distinction.
The second rat showed only its nose.
He waited.
It retreated.
Five minutes passed before it came out far enough to expose the chest. Marco drew, exhaled, and released.
The arrow struck behind the front leg. The rat rolled twice and lay still.
Marco held on the drainage slot.
The third heat mark vanished deeper into the pipe.
“Don’t chase,” Ray said.
“Wasn’t planning to.”
“Your feet were.”
Marco looked down. He had shifted half a step toward the line.
He moved back.
The arrow came out clean after Control declared the immediate lane clear enough for a guarded approach. Ray kept watching the access while Marco inspected the shaft under a work light. No cracks. The broad field head needed cleaning but had not deformed.
Seven intact work arrows remained in Ridgeway's issue quiver.
Under Ray's cover, Marco spent two minutes removing the incisors and sealing the only clean hide strip before a sound in the next passage ended the recovery. The surface post-processing ticket later credited him nine dollars.
He entered the number in Emma’s sheet that evening beneath the eighteen-dollar beetle bonus.
The next rat shift paid nothing. The rats never emerged.
The shift after that, Marco missed at twelve yards because the animal stopped while he had predicted it would keep moving. His arrow struck the rated backstop and survived.
Each assignment taught him something too small to be called a breakthrough. Rats paused at changes in floor texture. They favored the wall on their blind side. The sound of the bow sent unseen animals deeper into cover. Holding a draw while waiting cost more strength than paper practice suggested.
By the end of the week, Marco had fired four arrows at live pests and killed two. He still needed Ray behind him.
Dana authorized a work hatchet as his emergency backup.
She handed it to him at the equipment cage in a canvas loop that attached to his belt.
“This is not permission to fight with a hatchet,” she said.
“What is it permission for?”
“Cut rope, open damaged crates, break a jammed panel, or make one desperate choice if every better choice has failed.”
The hatchet had a rubberized handle and a blunt poll opposite the short blade. Its equipment number was stamped into the steel.
“If you swing it at a creature,” Dana said, “you report it even if you miss.”
“Do I report the creature if it misses?”
“Only if it fills out its own form.”
Ray checked the belt loop. “Can you draw it without looking?”
Marco tried. The handle caught under his jacket.
“Apparently not.”
They adjusted the loop lower.
Close combat remained an idea Marco preferred to store beside fire extinguishers: available, inspected, and never used.
Ten days after his first rat shift, Control sent Ray and Marco to Maintenance Spur Twelve.
The spur had no permanent firing lane. It was a narrow service route used to reach ventilation sensors and cable junctions along the edge of Zone 1. A mesh gate separated it from an older gallery where tunnel rats nested beneath collapsed ductwork.
The work order called for three confirmed rats interfering with sensor wire.
“Why us?” Marco asked.
“Pest team is in South Gallery,” Ray said. “You’re authorized. I’m available. Dana wants to know whether you can follow rules somewhere without a painted floor.”
That explained the extra hazard bonus on the ticket.
Marco studied the spur map. Forty feet from the gate, the route turned left around a concrete utility wall. A steel handrail protected a shallow drainage trench on the outer edge. Behind them, the main passage remained open and well lit.
“Retreat is back to the main passage,” he said.
“If clear.”
“Secondary is the sensor alcove before the turn. Door locks.”
“If you can reach it.”
Ray carried his spear and a compact barrier shield. Marco carried the bow with seven arrows, the work hatchet, a radio, and a sealed bait pouch.
They hung a temporary backstop beyond the gate, angled so an arrow passing through the bait zone would enter layered rubber instead of the utility wall. Ray tested every anchor.
“Rats can pull that?” Marco asked.
“Not the rats.”
“What else is on the work order?”
“Nothing.”
Ray cinched the final strap. “Work orders describe what somebody observed, not everything alive nearby.”
Marco set two noise tabs along the wall—thin metal clips that snapped when disturbed. The traps would not stop anything. They would tell him which route something had taken.
Control confirmed no authorized workers beyond the gate.
Ray opened it.
The dungeon smelled different past the mesh. Less disinfectant and machine oil. Damp stone, old fungus, and the sharp animal odor of the nest.
Marco placed the bait pouch twelve yards down the spur and retreated behind the marked firing point they had chalked on the floor.
The first rat came in under a minute.
He shot too quickly.
The arrow struck high in the shoulder instead of the chest. The rat screamed and turned in a tight circle, biting at the shaft. Marco’s stomach clenched.
“Second shot,” Ray said.
Marco nocked, drew, and put the arrow through the ribcage. The rat collapsed.
Two arrows fired. Both recoverable if the lane stayed clear long enough.
A second rat appeared at the turn. It smelled blood, froze, and retreated.
The left noise tab snapped.
“Movement behind the utility wall,” Marco said.
“I heard.”
Another rat burst into the open, not toward the bait but toward them.
Marco drew. Its movement was too fast. The sight pin crossed fur, stone, fur again.
He let down and stepped behind Ray.
Ray’s shield took the impact. The rat bounced off the clear panel. His spear pinned it to the floor in one short thrust.
“Gate,” Ray said.
Marco looked back.
The mesh gate remained open as planned for retreat. Beyond it, the main passage was clear.
The second noise tab snapped.
Something exhaled around the turn.
The sound was low and wet.
Ray pulled the spear free. “Back out.”
They moved toward the gate. Marco kept his bow low but ready. The dead rats lay between them and the turn.
A ridge crawler came around the utility wall.
It was smaller than the adult crawler sections Marco had hauled in sealed field packs, but not small. Dog-sized, shoulders low beneath a hide the color of dirty limestone. Its eyes reflected the work lights without focusing on them. The blunt head swung toward the blood, nostrils opening.
Juvenile, Marco thought.
Standard F-grade threat profile.
Not on the work order.
“Do not shoot unless it follows,” Ray said.
They backed through the gate.
The crawler lowered its head to the first rat. Its mouth opened along a jaw wider than Marco expected. Teeth closed around the carcass.
Ray reached for the gate.
The crawler jerked its head up.
The damaged rat’s blood covered the arrow shaft protruding from its shoulder. The crawler caught Marco’s scent—or the gland oil on his gloves, or movement through poor vision. Its nose turned toward the gate.
Then it charged.
Ray pulled the gate.
One of the crawler’s forelegs hit the mesh before the latch seated. Metal slammed against concrete. The gate bounced half open.
“Move!”
Marco moved back, drew, and released before his anchor settled.
First arrow.
It passed over the crawler’s shoulder and struck the concrete edge beside the gate. The shaft kicked sideways and fell.
The crawler forced its head through the opening.
Marco nocked another arrow. His fingers fumbled the nock against the string.
Ray drove the shield into the gate, trapping the crawler’s shoulder. “Shoot the chest.”
Marco drew.
Second arrow.
He released as the crawler twisted. The arrow struck the thick muscle above its front leg. Too high for the heart, too far forward for the lung. The creature screamed and surged.
The gate opened another foot.
Ray’s boot slipped on rat blood.
Marco reached for a third arrow.
The crawler broke through.
There was no room to hold a full draw. Marco stumbled back toward the handrail, bow half raised. The crawler hit Ray’s shield and drove him sideways.
Marco dropped the bow.
The hatchet handle caught under his jacket despite the adjusted loop.
For one stupid second, he pulled harder instead of changing the angle. The handle came free all at once and the blade edge sliced across the base of his gloved palm where the glove had ridden up.
Pain flashed.
The crawler turned toward him.
Marco lifted the hatchet.
Its smell hit first—blood, wet hide, something musky and sour from the scent glands beneath its jaw. It lunged.
Marco swung without space. The hatchet poll struck the side of its muzzle and did almost nothing. The crawler’s shoulder hit his ribs and threw him against the handrail.
Air left his body.
Ray drove the spear into the crawler’s flank.
The creature twisted toward the greater pain. Ray pulled the spear free and shouted, “Bow!”
Marco could not breathe. His right hand was wet inside the glove.
The bow lay three feet away.
He dropped the hatchet, grabbed the riser, and rolled behind the sensor alcove corner. The crawler snapped at Ray’s shield. The first arrow lay bent near the gate. The second protruded from its shoulder.
Marco nocked the third with bloody fingers.
He drew from one knee.
The ribs on his left side protested. The crawler blurred with every heartbeat. He found the seam behind its front leg because he had seen it on processing tables, had lifted bodies by the legs, had watched technicians open the chest.
Ray shifted the shield half a step.
The shot appeared.
Marco released.
Third arrow.
It entered behind the foreleg. The crawler staggered. Ray’s spear struck under the jaw, deep into the throat.
The animal collapsed against the shield.
Marco kept the bow up until his shoulder shook.
“Clear,” Ray said.
Marco did not lower it.
“Hale. Clear.”
He let the bow down.
The spur filled with the sound of both of them breathing.
The first missed arrow had bent when it struck concrete. The second and third survived the crawler, though both required inspection and cleaning.
Six intact work arrows remained.
Marco’s palm needed four adhesive closures beneath the glove line. The clinic nurse pressed his ribs, watched him turn pale, and sent him for imaging. Nothing was broken. The bruise would make lifting and drawing unpleasant for several days.
Dana assigned three light-duty shifts.
The System waited until the clinic room was quiet.
The bruise and cut remained. Marco assigned the point to the stat the crawler had exposed when he crossed his feet and lost the retreat line.
Agility: 9 → 10. Integration estimate: 24–72 hours.
Agility ten would make ordinary balance and direction changes less costly once it settled. It would not change the three shots already fired, repair the gate, or make a panicked retreat graceful after the fact.
Marco looked at the notice while the nurse printed his restrictions.
“Good news?” she asked.
“A level.”
“Levels don’t overrule the restriction sheet.”
“I know.”
“Everybody knows.”
The phrase followed him home.
Sarah saw the bandaged palm before he finished saying, “It’s mostly a scrape.”
“Clinic wrap?”
Marco stopped.
“Four closures,” he admitted. “Ribs bruised. No fracture.”
“And that is mostly a scrape?”
“The hand part is.”
“Do not sort injuries into whichever category makes them easiest to hide.”
Her voice remained level. That made it worse.
Emma took Lucy into the living room without being asked. Sarah stood at the kitchen counter, one hand braced beside the sink.
“I told you the lane was controlled.”
“It was supposed to be.”
“That is not an answer.”
“A crawler came into the spur. Ray was there. We retreated. The gate failed to latch.”
“And then?”
Marco told her. Not every second, but enough. The rushed shots. The hatchet catching. The handrail.
Sarah closed her eyes briefly.
“You called it a scrape because you didn’t want me afraid.”
“Yes.”
“I was already afraid.”
He had no useful reply.
When she looked at him again, the anger had not gone anywhere. “Next time, tell me the clinic version the first time.”
“All right.”
“Not because I get to make your decisions. Because I live here when you come home from them.”
Marco nodded.
The next morning, Ridgeway credited a thirty-two-dollar combined pest and hazard bonus. The bent arrow remained on the company equipment log beside the clinic restriction, not on Emma's household ledger.
The number looked absurdly small next to the memory of teeth.
Before the formal debrief, Ray met Marco at the equipment cage to close the weapon log.
The bent arrow lay in a clear quarantine sleeve. Its shaft had taken a shallow curve just behind the insert where it struck concrete. At a glance, it looked usable. Rolled across the inspection plate, the point traced a circle wider than a quarter.
“Could it be straightened?” Marco asked.
“Could be made to look straighter.”
“Not the same thing.”
“That lesson cost Ridgeway fourteen dollars and you one less shaft if the next animal arrives before resupply.”
Ray snapped the shaft at the damaged section with a disposal tool and dropped both pieces into the carbon bin. Marco updated the count.
Six intact work arrows.
The two recovered from the crawler received a chemical wash and flex test. The second-shot shaft had a scrape along its finish but no exposed fibers. The third carried a nicked vane where it passed the foreleg. Ray marked the vane for replacement during routine service, not immediate retirement.
The bow had a fresh scuff on the lower cam but remained in time. Marco cleaned dried blood from the grip. Some of it was his. Most belonged to the crawler.
“Do not leave that in the case,” Ray said.
“I know.”
“You knew the gland oil rule too. People forget when the blood is theirs.”
They logged the work hatchet last. The poll bore a faint gray mark from the crawler’s muzzle. No edge damage. The canvas loop had twisted where Marco yanked the handle free.
Ray moved the loop half an inch forward and changed its retaining strap.
“Draw it.”
Marco’s palm pulled beneath the closures as he reached. He moved slowly, keeping the blade clear of his leg. The handle came free.
“Again.”
“Clinic says no repetitive gripping.”
“Then do it once correctly and remember.”
Marco reseated the hatchet and repeated the motion without dragging the handle under his jacket.
“Better,” Ray said. “Still not a weapon you want.”
“It bought half a second.”
“The spear bought your life. The hatchet bought attention.”
Marco returned it to the cage. The distinction belonged in the report. So did the fact that he had reached for it late, caught it, and swung without room.
Equipment did not become a solution because he had managed to survive while holding it.
When they finished, Ray handed him the printed count sheet. “Bring this to the meeting.”
The form listed one damaged company arrow, two contaminated arrows cleaned, one work bow inspected, one hatchet repositioned, and replacement ammunition authorized from Ridgeway stock.
The crawler was dead. The paperwork still knew exactly what had happened.
Ray held the formal debrief on Marco’s second light-duty day.
Dana sat at the head of the small conference table. The failed gate latch rested in a plastic evidence bag between them. A maintenance inspector had found stone grit packed behind the catch, enough to prevent full seating under pressure.
“Start before the crawler,” Dana said.
Marco described the setup, the noise tabs, the first wounded rat.
“First preventable error?” she asked.
“I rushed the first rat shot.”
“Effect?”
“Blood and noise in the lane. Probably helped draw the crawler.”
“Probably,” Ray said. “Not certainly.”
Marco continued. The retreat call. Gate strike. First rushed crawler shot. Second poor placement. Hatchet snag.
Nobody congratulated him for the third arrow.
Dana assigned corrective actions: inspect gate catches under load, not only visually; do not use temporary pest lanes beside uncleared feeding galleries without a second barrier; add emergency-draw practice for backup tools.
When the report was complete, she took the evidence bag and left.
Ray remained.
Marco flexed his bandaged hand. “You going to tell me the third shot was adequate?”
“It was useful.”
“High praise.”
Ray sat back. “You want praise, call your aunt. On second thought, don’t.”
Marco waited.
“You did some things right,” Ray said. “You followed the first retreat. You saw the shot after you panicked. You didn’t freeze.”
“I hit it with a hatchet.”
“You annoyed it with a hatchet.”
Despite himself, Marco laughed once. His ribs objected.
Ray’s expression stayed serious.
“A level, thirty-two dollars, one crawler, one bent arrow, a cut hand, bruised ribs, three days off normal duty, and a gate report.” He tapped each item on the table with one finger. “Was the kill worth it?”
Marco looked at the failed latch in Dana’s empty place.
Once the crawler broke through, killing it had been worth every available arrow.
The harder question was how much of the cost had been purchased before it reached the gate.