Crawler’s Log — Day 1, Run #16

  You don’t sign up for this kind of life. You inherit it.

  My dad was a Crawler like me. Froze to death in his boots when the rig he was on stalled out too long. Mom got me to a settlement called Chokeforge wrapped in her coat. After she died, I lived between walls under the solar ducts near Market Row, sleeping behind dead generators and ration crates.

  Chokeforge wasn’t a place for strays. You either worked, stole, or starved. I wasn’t good at any of it. First thing I ever fixed was a boot. I wired the sole back on with scrap wire and a nail strip. Didn’t fix the blisters, but at least I didn’t bleed on the walk anymore. That counted for something.

  I used to watch the Leviathan from the scaffolds. I saw it come and go, louder and heavier every season. Thought it was a monster at first. Then I thought maybe it was a god.

  I was nine when I crawled up her landing struts and tried to siphon carb-cleaner from the service lines. Ruck caught me. Could’ve handed me to the guards. Could’ve tossed me off the hull.

  Instead, he looked at the mess I’d made, shoved a wrench in my hand, and said: “If you’re gonna rob us, at least do the job right.”

  Been crawling ever since.

  Engines talk if you know how to listen. So do storms.

  —Patch

  The Leviathan howled as the first gust slammed into her flanks. Girders shivered. Plates rattled. Down the main spine, the crew scrambled to stations, his harness lines snapping taut, boots hammering steel.

  Ash dropped into her turret cradle, locking her sights with practiced ease. “Visibility’s already gone,” she shouted into the comm. “We’re flying blind.”

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  Patch was already moving, ducking beneath a maintenance strut, checking fuel seals and anchor lines.

  “Cinch!” he barked. “How’s the cargo?” Cinch’s panicked voice cracked over the comm: “If it shifts, we lose balance. If we lose balance, we roll.”

  Grim’s voice followed, flat and cold: “All vaults sealed. Settlers strapped. Hold the line.”

  Then came the sound Patch dreaded most, the low irregular stutter in the combustion rhythm.

  He froze.

  “No, no... don’t you dare choke now.” He turned and ran, his boots skidding on grease-slick steel. The wind howled around him, the Flats turning into fury.

  The first impact came like a god’s hammer. Wind sheared across the rig’s side, nearly tipping her off-course. The sky turned black, streaked with red lightning like blood in water. The Leviathan groaned, like the wind had worn her bones thin.

  Patch clung to the rail, harness biting into his chest as the whole spine lurched. Sand punched past in sheets, scraping skin, scouring paint.

  “Rig’s veering!” Ruck’s voice barely cut through the comms. “We’ve got drift on rear axle five!”

  “Hold it steady!” Grim barked.

  It was chaos.

  Cinch was shouting about a load shift. Ash fired blind bursts into the storm wall, hoping to scare off anything using the cover. Mercy our priestess prayed to old gods and new, loud enough for even the steel to hear and believe.

  Then: a shriek.

  Not metal. Not wind. Something else.

  Patch spun toward the ridge. For a split second, he caught a shadow in the dust. It was tall, fast, wrong-shaped. Limbs too long. Head low.

  He blinked.

  Gone.

  Could’ve been nerves. Could’ve been worse.

  Then came the second hit of the storm, vertical this time. Wind shear from above, dropping on the rig like judgment. The Leviathan slammed into the ground hard enough to rattle every bolt. Smoke vented from the starboard turbine.

  They were losing fuel.

  Patch didn’t hesitate.

  He unhooked and ran. Boots slipped on the grease coverd floors Down into the mid-deck, alarms screaming, readouts blinking red. In the engine bay, heat poured off cracked seals. He spotted ' Gauge, wild-eyed, yanking levers, whispering to the engine like it was a wounded friend. He didn’t even notice Patch. Patch dove for the override lever, slammed it down, then stomped the emergency pressure plate with his boot. Coolant hissed into the chamber. White fog swallowed the room. For a moment, everything slowed. The stutter softened. The heartbeat steadied. She wasn’t happy. But she was alive.

  Above deck, the wind began to break. The red glare faded to gold. Dust fell instead of flew. Silence returned in ragged gasps.

  Patch slumped against the bulkhead, lungs burning, fingers numb, chest still shaking from the cold and the noise.

  Grim’s voice came over the comm, ragged but clear: “Leviathan stands. Check your crews. We push at dawn.”

  Patch leaned his head back and laughed.

  They made it.