FREE CITY, SALTMINES — They say the air tastes like rust and adrenaline. Somewhere beneath the concrete husk of what was once a nuclear command post, over a hundred bodies twist and collide beneath pulsing red light. This is DESCENT // X-13, a rave that defies the laws of the city, gravity, and, perhaps, reality itself.

The Descent Begins

Bunker X-13 is not on any map. Access requires either a reliable guide — typically paid in drugs, untraceable currency, or whispered secrets — or a willingness to get lost in the Saltmines' vast tunnels. We followed a girl named "Teeth," who traded our passage for a rare vial of Echo-7 and a story we won’t repeat.

The descent took 47 minutes. By the time we arrived, the bass had already found our bones.

A Cathedral of Noise and Light

In the main chamber — once a war room, now a dancefloor — the atmosphere is apocalyptic. Siren-red lights pulse in sync with the bass, while laser beams cut through the toxic mist. A figure stands at the pulpit: DJ Silque, half-machine, fully in control.

Silque’s set isn't just music — it’s weaponized noise. “Most of this gear was military issue,” they say, their voice crackling through a distortion implant embedded in their throat. “I rewired it to speak in frequencies the bunker still remembers.”

Behind them, custom-built turntables built from drone rotors and signal jammers pump out industrial techno laced with sonic scars. “The point is not to dance,” Silque adds. “It’s to survive.”

Fractures in the Underground

But X-13 isn’t just a party. It’s a convergence. Among the writhing crowd are multiple factions, each claiming their own stake in the madness: The Sanctus Nulli, a zealot cult native to the Saltmines, linger like shadows in the corners. Known as “The Salted,” they mark their pale skin with ink and pain. When asked for comment, one simply handed me a crystal of white dust and whispered: “Salt remembers. Flesh forgets.” Fringe artists from Free City’s crumbling edges bring their own chaos. One group, calling themselves the Ghost Choir, performed an improvised sound ritual using melted synths and a haunted vocoder. “This place wants to be heard,” said Trinity, a performance artist whose eyes glow faint blue from long-term interface exposure. “It’s not a rave — it’s communion.” The Drugrunners are impossible to miss. Shirtless and masked, they slip through the crowd like predators and priests. Nova Bliss, a notorious dealer covered neck to heel in glowing tattoos, operates out of a side chamber sealed with biometric locks. “Saltwave is the best seller,” she says, handing off a packet with a grin. “Makes you see the future. Or at least what you think it could’ve been.” 

The Kids of Collapse

Not everyone here is part of a faction. Some are just looking for an escape.

“I live down here, technically,” says Maggot, a barefoot teen with chain-link earrings and a hoodie full of cigarette burns. “The Surface ain’t safe. Down here, nobody gives a f*** who you were.” When asked why he came to DESCENT, he shrugs. “It’s warm. And you might die. That’s kind of perfect.”

The Unfolding Chaos

As midnight passed, tensions thickened. A Nulli brother accused a dancer of "mocking the sacred rites." A fight broke out near the Depths — the part of the bunker only the most devout, or deranged, are said to enter. There were screams, then silence. Then the music changed.

Reports suggest the exit was sealed soon after. DJ Silque transitioned into an unannounced final set: a 27-minute dirge of distorted chants, war sirens, and a heartbeat that wasn’t quite human.

As we left, a few partygoers were still dancing. Others were praying. One girl we saw being carried into the Depths had stopped moving entirely. Nobody looked alarmed.

Aftermath or Beginning?

Rumors swirl this morning: human sacrifices, collapsing tunnels, strange electromagnetic pulses picked up by the nearby water plant. The city will deny it ever happened.

But deep in the Saltmines, X-13 still pulses — a reminder that beneath Free City’s crumbling skyline, the real gods dance to beats you cannot hear unless you descend.

Editor’s Note: Due to safety concerns, the Maze Monitor does not endorse attendance of illegal subterranean raves.