The world was a storm. Jenny’s mind swirled in a haze of half-formed images and voices—shouting, screaming, and the sterile calm of news anchors slicing through the noise. She stirred, the fragments coalescing into a chaotic blend of sights and sounds, her consciousness swimming just beneath the surface.
The first voice was crisp, a polished British accent cutting through the fog: “BBC News at six. Violent clashes in Hong Kong as police deploy live ammunition to disperse crowds.”
The visuals flickered, the grainy footage of protesters collapsing under a barrage of gunfire. Blood smeared across the pavement as bystanders screamed, their faces contorted in horror.
Then another voice, this one with a smooth American drawl: “This is CNN Breaking News. Armed militias storm a refugee camp in South Sudan. Scores are dead, and dozens more are unaccounted for.”
Jenny’s breathing quickened, her fingers twitching as the imagery shifted. Gunmen, their faces obscured by scarves, sprayed bullets into panicked crowds. Smoke curled from burning tents as children stumbled, coughing, through the haze.
A sharp, clipped tone came next, German-accented: “Live from Berlin, this is DW News. Ethiopian forces are accused of mass killings as footage emerges of bodies dumped in a shallow grave.”
Her vision swam, pulling her into the scene. Soldiers in mismatched uniforms stood over a pit, their rifles slung casually across their shoulders. The camera shook as it zoomed in on the heap of lifeless bodies, their faces frozen in silent screams.
“Welcome to Al Jazeera,” an accented voice announced calmly, almost soothingly, though the words were anything but. “Mass protests in Thailand have been met with brutal force. Authorities claim to have ‘restored order,’ but eyewitness accounts tell a darker story.”
The screen crackled, showing riot police advancing with batons and shields. Protesters were dragged through the streets, their cries drowned by the relentless thud of boots on asphalt.
Then, a jarring shift—gunshots echoed through the noise. A trembling voice narrated, “ABC News brings you live coverage of yet another school shooting in the United States. Early reports indicate multiple casualties, most of them children.” The screen filled with chaotic images of students fleeing a building, their faces pale with fear. A backpack lay discarded on the blood-smeared floor, a pair of glasses shattered beside it. Parents clutched each other, their sobs filling the air as emergency lights flashed against the walls.
The imagery shifted again. A somber Irish accent carried the next report: “RTÉ News. An explosion in Belfast this morning has left twelve dead and many more injured. The IRA is believed to be responsible for the car bomb that tore through a crowded shopping district.” Flames consumed twisted metal as sirens wailed in the distance. Dust-covered children cried as firefighters carried them to safety. A scorched teddy bear lay abandoned in the rubble, a haunting symbol of shattered innocence.
Jenny groaned, her eyelids fluttering as the wall of sound grew louder, more insistent. Each voice seemed to overlap the next, a disjointed chorus of human suffering:
“French forces withdraw after allegations of abuse in Mali. France 24 reports widespread outrage.”
“Live from Tokyo, NHK Newsline brings you reports of catastrophic violence in Myanmar’s border regions.”
“This is RT International. The Syrian conflict reaches a new level of devastation, with accusations of chemical weapons use.”
“TRT World News. Kurdish villages are bombarded as Turkish forces push deeper into northern Iraq.”
The visuals bombarded her: bodies falling under gunfire, a severed head held aloft by laughing militants, a stone hurled through a crowd and striking a young girl who crumpled like a rag doll. Blood spattered on riot shields. Desperation etched into faces as they screamed into cameras.
Jenny’s head throbbed as her subconscious tried to grasp the onslaught. She recognized fragments, hints of places she’d read about in the Bunker’s archives. The patchwork of chaos wasn’t random. It was familiar, yet foreign—bits of history pieced together from across the globe, stitched into a relentless tapestry of humanity’s collapse.
Her chest rose and fell in shallow gasps as she clawed her way toward awareness. The voices blended into a distorted cacophony, their accents merging into a faceless blur of sound.
And then, as her mind teetered on the edge of wakefulness, one phrase emerged from the chaos, clear and damning:
“This is the world as it ended.”
Jenny’s eyes snapped open.
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Jenny's world was dark and stifling, the cable-like webbing cocooning her body in a relentless grip. Each strand was a chaotic fusion of materials—rubbery insulation, gleaming copper, tangled fibers—woven together into an unyielding prison. It felt alive, pulsing faintly against her skin, a surreal amalgamation of organic and mechanical.
At first, she couldn’t move. Panic bubbled in her chest as she tested her limbs, but the webbing held firm, her muscles refusing to respond. Her left arm, the only one she had left, lay pinned against her side. She willed it to move, straining against the suffocating paralysis.
Then, a flicker of sensation. Fingers—her fingers. She could feel them. Jenny focused all her effort on that faint spark of control. She twitched them once, twice, and a flood of relief washed over her as she managed to curl them into a fist.
She unclenched her fingers, moving them one by one, testing their strength. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. The paralysis was fading. Slowly, painfully, her body began to obey.
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Her mind raced. What now? She wasn’t strong enough to break free outright, not yet. But she remembered the knife—Reed’s knife. He had “lent” it to her, though she suspected he’d only called it that to ensure it came back in one piece. Either way, it was hers for now, and it was her best chance.
Jenny’s fingers moved to her belt, feeling their way toward the left side. A stroke of luck: the knife was still there, nestled securely in its holder. She fumbled for the strap holding it in place. Her fingers worked clumsily, but the catch gave way with ease.
One step down. Now the hard part.
She gripped the handle, her fingers wrapping around the worn leather. She tried to pull it free, but as she moved her elbow, it pressed against the webbing, scraping uncomfortably against the tight strands. She froze, biting her lip to stifle a gasp as the pressure dug into her skin.
“Damn it,” she hissed under her breath.
Her arm was pinned too tightly to draw the knife fully. She adjusted her grip, using just two or three fingers to nudge the blade upward, millimeter by agonizing millimeter. Her elbow rubbed against the webbing with every movement, the friction growing hotter and sharper as she worked. The coppery strands bit into her skin, but she gritted her teeth. Pain or not, she couldn’t stop now.
“Come on,” she whispered to herself. “Almost there.”
The blade inched higher. Her heart pounded as her grip wavered—if she dropped it now, it would be impossible to recover. She shifted slightly, ignoring the way the webbing seemed to tighten in protest, and focused all her energy on keeping the knife steady.
Finally, with one last push, it slipped free.
Jenny let out a shaky breath, clutching the knife tightly. Her arm was still in an awkward position, bent at an unnatural angle, but she had the blade now. That would have to do.
She brought the knife to the nearest strand, the sharp edge meeting the twisted webbing. She pressed down and began to saw. The blade bit into the material, but the progress was painfully slow. The strands weren’t soft like spider silk. They were tough, a bizarre mix of rubbery insulation and metallic wires that seemed to resist every movement.
Her arm ached, the muscles trembling as she forced the knife back and forth in tiny, deliberate motions. It felt futile, the blade barely making a dent in the cable-like fibers, but she kept going. There was nothing else to do.
Grind. Grind. Grind.
Her breathing steadied, the rhythmic motion of the knife grounding her amidst the overwhelming stillness. Each stroke sent tiny vibrations through the webbing, but she didn’t stop. The strands were relentless, but so was she. Bit by bit, the blade began to cut deeper, fraying the fibers ever so slightly.
“Come on,” she muttered through clenched teeth. “Don’t give up on me now.”
The pain in her elbow flared with every movement, the webbing scraping her skin raw. Sweat beaded on her brow, trickling down her temple as she worked. The knife moved steadily, her resolve as unyielding as the strands she fought against.
One fiber snapped. Then another.
It wasn’t much, but it was progress. And in this moment, progress was all that mattered. Jenny kept grinding, her breaths coming in slow, measured bursts as she worked her way toward freedom.
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Jenny grunted as she worked the knife into the webbing, the blade finally creating enough of a gap for her to wriggle her left leg free. She pressed against the sticky strands, kicking awkwardly until her foot popped out. Her thigh scraped against the sharp edge of the web, a searing pain tearing through her leg. She hissed in frustration but didn’t stop, her fingers trembling as she shifted the knife to free her right leg.
The second leg came free with less resistance, and Jenny practically tumbled out of the cocoon. Her landing was far from graceful—a clumsy, sprawling heap on the cold ground. She groaned, rolling onto her side as she pressed a hand against her thigh. The gash bled sluggishly, a thin crimson line seeping through her pants. She stared at it, her breath coming in short bursts.
“Just a scratch,” she muttered to herself, wincing as she straightened. “No time for this now.”
She hauled herself to her feet, gripping the knife tightly as she looked around, her breath catching at the sight before her.
The space was surreal, otherworldly. The voidspinner den was an amalgamation of chaos and technology, cables sprawling in every direction like the veins of some unnatural beast. Networking tech jutted out at odd angles—switchboards, routers, even wi-fi antennas glowing with a pearlescent sheen. The light from the devices cast a faint, iridescent glow across the cavernous space, illuminating the twisted mass of cables that formed the walls, ceiling, and floor.
Jenny’s eyes scanned the room, and her heart sank when she spotted another cocoon not far from her. It looked almost identical to the one she’d escaped, the same horrifying blend of organic and mechanical strands wrapping tightly around its captive.
“Reed,” she breathed, her chest tightening.
For a moment, she stared at the cocoon, her mind racing. Then she shook herself, glancing down at her leg one last time. “Eh, just a scratch,” she repeated firmly, ignoring the sting. “I’ll live.”
Knife in hand, she crossed to the cocoon, moving quickly despite the pain in her thigh. She called his name as she approached, her voice hushed but urgent. “Reed! Hey, come on, wake up!”
There was no response. His face was slack, his body eerily still. Whatever paralysis the voidspinners used was still holding him firmly in its grip.
Jenny set to work, her hand steady despite her pounding heart. The knife moved faster this time, slicing through the webbing with precision. There were no awkward angles, no tight spaces to navigate, just her and the strands that needed to be cut. She worked carefully, though, her gaze flicking to Reed’s face every few moments. The last thing she wanted was to injure him while trying to free him.
“Come on,” she muttered, her fingers trembling as the blade cut deeper. “Don’t make me do all the work here.”
She paused for a moment, her eyes lingering on him. Reed, silent. It was such an alien sight. He was always moving, always talking, his insufferable grin never far from his lips. She caught herself staring at them now—his lips. Who even looked at lips? A heat rose in her chest, and she shoved the thought away with a grimace.
“Not now,” she said under her breath, focusing back on the webbing. “We’ve got a job to do.”
It wasn’t long before her efforts paid off. The cocoon slackened just enough for Reed’s arm to drop free. His fingers twitched, and he groaned faintly, his eyes fluttering open.
“Jenny?” His voice was groggy, his words slurred with confusion.
Jenny leaned back, exhaling sharply as she allowed herself a small, wry grin. “Guess we’re even now, eh?”
She handed him the knife, her arm trembling from exhaustion. “The rest is all you. My arm’s about to fall off. And it’s the only one I’ve got left, so, you know... gotta make it last.”
Reed chuckled softly, still half-awake, but his fingers wrapped firmly around the knife. “Fair enough,” he murmured, shifting awkwardly as he began cutting at the remaining strands.
Jenny leaned against the wall of cables, her eyes on him as he worked. His movements were slower than hers, his body still sluggish from the paralysis, but he was steady, deliberate. Bit by bit, the cocoon fell away, and soon they were both free, standing amidst the surreal glow of the den.
Reed turned to her, his face a mix of exhaustion and determination. “Now what?”
Jenny straightened, gripping her thigh briefly as she scanned the room. “Now?” She met his gaze, her voice firm. “We figure out what the hell we’re dealing with—and how to get out of here.”