Ethan set Harold down gently beside the hauler. The broken little dog like machine looked like it was simply resting, its red sensor flickering faintly in the sun. He pulled the CelestiCraft unit from its crate and snapped it open, the grid blooming over Harold’s warped frame. Lines of stress fractures and warped joints glowed angry red across the overlay. It was clear, unless Ethan did something the drone wouldn’t last the day let alone the week.

  And for what felt like the thousandth time, it was like Celestos was reading his mind.

  CelestOS: Warning. Improper modifications may void warranty. Proceed anyway?

  “Yeah,” Ethan, said already loading the forge bin with PolybioFiber strands, copper filaments, and fresh alloy braces. “I’m gonna, proceed anyway. I didn’t save the drone just to see it collapse.”

  The grid hummed as components spun out one by one. These weren't scavenged junk or desperate straps. They were real resources. His hard work paying dividends and making his life better.

  He worked methodically, creating a set of new struts he’d slide into Harold’s harness and the tightening webbing that cinched like muscle across the cracked plating. The sag in the frame straightened. Its weight shifted into balance. Now, Harold looked less like wreckage and more like a machine-dog again.

  Maria used to talk to her drones, half-joking and half-serious, like they were stray pets she’d adopted. He used to roll his eyes. But with Harold’s cracked sensor blinking faintly at him, Ethan finally understood. Saving the drone felt suspiciously like saving himself.

  A small part of him knew it was delirium setting in. Everyone he knew was dead except Maria, Celestos was psychotic, and the planet had a raging need to kill him. Bit this one tiny dog-bot would be all standing between him and the last of his sanity collapsing.

  He reached for the portable turret he’d had on the new hauler, before mounting it onto the reinforced harness. He fed a power line into the upgraded bus and fed the dog a source of electricity. Harold and the turret hummed alive, swiveling experimentally.

  Ethan leaned back on his heels, grime streaking his arms, and barked a laugh. “Not showroom fresh, but field-ready.” He slapped the drone’s side. “Congratulations, Harold. You’re armed.”

  CelestOS: Liability confirmed. Please consider taking a dog and firearm course.

  Ethan smiled despite himself. The little motor behind him filled the quiet and gave him a comfort he didn't know he needed. Without further preamble he whistled to the dog and got into the hauler. The dog chirped as it jumped up beside him and curled into a ball beside him

  The hauler rattled over the last rise, its treads clattering like loose teeth. His stomach growled with a fierce heat as the Camp came into view through the shimmer of heat, the crooked conveyors and clanking fabricators still standing as if they had been waiting for him.

  Ethan eased the hauler to a stop and cut the engine. Silence settled heavy, broken only by the faint whir of Harold’s motors as the drone shifted in its new harness.

  He slid down from the cab, every joint aching, and looked down at the drone. The word slipped out before he could stop it. Alone. The sound of it hung in the air, heavier than he expected. Saying it to a limping drone with a crooked turret felt pathetic, almost insulting. But that was the truth. Since he’d crash landed for all intents and purposes that was what he’d been.

  He shook his head, forcing a dry laugh. “Guess it’s you and me now, huh?”

  Harold’s sensor blinked red, weak but steady, like an answer. It wagged its turret almost like it was waving a tail.

  CelestOS chimed in, chipper as always.

  CelestOS: New asset successfully integrated. Survival probability increased by another 12%. Congratulations, Ethan. You are now statistically less incompetent.

  He laughed despite himself, shaking his head. “Thanks for the support. I was actuallly aiming for statistically less alone, but that’ll do.”

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  CelestOS: You’re welcome. Would you like me to generate the next cache route?

  Ethan glanced past the camp toward the horizon, where heat and dust blurred into endless distance. The missing suit pieces waited in bins. The chip he still needed pulsed in his thoughts, and Maria’s trail stretched on ahead, cache by cache.

  He exhaled, shoulders tight but resolve sharper. “Yeah. Pull it up. We’ve still got ground to cover and time to burn.”

  The AR map flickered alive, a dotted line stretching into green-marked terrain east of camp. CelestOS’s voice chimed in, already overlaying the route with tags.

  CelestOS: Destination is the Heartfruit Forest biome. Environmental tags include high humidity, vertical canopy layering, and neural-interlinked bomb-throwing flora. Hostility rating is Green-Low. Red-spike events have been recorded under specific stimuli.

  Ethan sighed. “The Heart fruit forest again? You sure have a fetish for putting me near psychotic trees.”

  Nearly an hour later, Ethan nudged the hauler forward along the dotted path, its treads grinding through loose loam that gave way under the weight. The farther he pressed into the treeline, the narrower the way became.

  Roots arched like ribs across the soil, their slick surfaces too high for the treads to climb cleanly. Vines hung low, braided so thick they slapped across the canopy struts and tangled in the turret mount. Each turn felt tighter, each gap smaller.

  Harold whirred uneasily in the cradle. The hauler lurched, tilted, then bottomed out with a metallic screech as the frame caught on a buried root. Ethan cursed and killed the engine. Steam hissed from the intake, the smell of hot resin bleeding through the vents. He tried reversing, but the tread only spun, chewing moss into pulp.

  “This isn't happening,” he muttered, pushing the stick again. The hauler jolted, fought, and settled deeper into the thicket’s grasp. The forest wasn't a road; it was a wall, and it wasn't letting him drive farther.

  He sat for a long moment, forehead resting against the wheel, then exhaled. “Fine. On foot it is.”

  He unlatched Harold’s harness and stepped down into the soft loam. The air wrapped around him like damp cloth, heavy with fruit-sweet rot. Behind him, the hauler sat skewed among the roots, a stranded animal watching him walk away.

  The terrain shifted quickly as coarse volcanic soil gave way to soft loam spiked with pale fungal tufts. The air thickened, growing warmer with every step, like walking into a greenhouse someone forgot to ventilate.

  The trees towered above them, stretching thirty meters or more, their trunks curving in smooth spirals as if shaped by muscle instead of bark. Their surfaces were waxy and mottled pink and gold beneath thin sheaths of climbing moss. Heart-shaped fruits fanned out overhead in dense clusters, dripping with condensation that spattered gently onto the forest floor. Birds called in the distance with strange, warbling notes that trilled too long before cutting off abruptly. Something darted overhead between branches, a flash of crimson feathers, and the canopy shifted with its motion, rustling softly.

  The forest was mostly peaceful, but every so often, a branch didn't sway with the breeze but tilted slowly toward them. “The colors are off,” Ethan murmured. “Like someone oversaturated the whole place.”

  The green wasn't just green; it was a neon-jade, slick with light. The reds in the moss pulsed faintly, especially near the base of the larger trees. Veins ran up the trunks like vines with a purpose, converging around sagging fruit sacs suspended from curled branches. for some reason, unlike his last visit, nothing seemed poised to strike him. They glowed softly, appearing as pale pink bulbs with visible veins, and twitched when the wind brushed past.

  Harold chirped uneasily and paused beside a sloped root, giving a wide berth to a nearby fruit sac that sagged low.

  “Not a fan of the local produce?” Ethan muttered.

  He received no answer, just soft clicks and another distant, low, and warbly bird cry. Something about this place watched and remembered as it swallowed them whole.

  Sunlight filtered through in slow, syrupy beams, casting golden ribbons across the undergrowth. Above, the canopy fused into a cathedral of heart-shaped leaves and red-veined fruit pods that dangled like swollen lanterns. Each one swayed gently, even when the wind was still. Ethan slowed his pace, his boots squishing through thick carpets of moss and root webbing. The ground beneath him felt strange. It was spongy, but not with the bounce of fresh soil. It compressed like muscle, holding the shape of his bootprint for a moment too long, as if it didn't want to forget him.

  Harold's feet clicked behind him, but the drone wasn't keeping pace. It paused often, backing away from certain branches and giving wide arcs to the drooping fruit sacs above. At one point, it froze entirely and let out a distressed trill.

  Ethan turned. “Something I should be worried about?”

  CelestOS: Heartfruit pods identified. Functions include nutrient dispersal and lure emission. Note, pods may rupture under duress, and airborne dispersal is probable. Do not inhale.

  Harold froze, treads squealing against root bark, and let out a distressed trill as a singular fruit fell to the floor.

  CelestOS: Technological memory conflict detected. Previous trauma is likely.

  As much as part of him wanted to personify the drone?Ethan stopped cold. “Previous trauma? It’s a drone.”

  But the words didn't sit right. A machine shouldn't shy away from trees or whine like a wounded animal. He watched Harold backpedal, optical sensor jittering red, and a chill edged through the humid air.

  What the hell had this unit seen out here? An exploding forest wasn’t enough to scare him, right? Maybe there was something else about this forest he just didn’t know yet.