Kassur’s knees hit the slick, grimy floor with a thud that echoed in the vast, drowned chamber. The fog swirled around them, thick with the metallic tang of irradiated water and the sickly sweet scent of bio-spores. Nia lay limp, her head lolling against his shoulder, eyes closed. The mineral shard near her elbow pulsed, an alien heartbeat beneath translucent skin. Forty-eight hours. The words screamed in his head, a colder, more immediate terror than any bio-horror he’d faced. He fumbled in his trench coat, pulling out a stained, ripped strip of cloth he usually kept for polishing his pistols. His hands were shaking, not with the usual pre-combat jitters he’d learned to mask with bravado, but with a raw, guttural fear. No jokes came. No snappy one-liners. Just the frantic need to *do something*. He gently unwrapped the tattered fabric from his sister’s forearm, the sight of green tendrils now visibly snaking up toward her bicep making his stomach clench. He pressed the clean strip of cloth against the eruption, as if simple pressure could halt the alien blight. “We need to get her somewhere dry,” Zadira’s voice was softer than he’d ever heard it, devoid of its usual clipped edge. She stood over them, her sniper rifle held loosely, its barrel reflecting the faint bioluminescent glow from the walls. “This… this isn’t helping.” He nodded, swallowing hard. The words were stuck in his throat, a thick, nauseating lump. He scooped Nia into his arms, ignoring his souring stomach as her limp weight settled against him. The water was waist-deep, churning with debris and the occasional bloated, half-eaten corpse of some unfortunate slum-dweller. Zadira moved ahead, her boot-clad legs cutting through the water with practiced ease, her rifle scanning the gloom. They found a flooded hydroponics bay, a vast cavern where derelict irrigation pipes snaked across the ceiling, dripping intermittently. What remained of the cultivation troughs were overturned, decaying fungal growths clinging to the nutrient-rich sludge. But there was a raised platform, a few meters above the waterline, where a cluster of bio-luminescent mosses cast a dim, comforting glow. Kassur laid Nia down as gently as he could, the movement jostling the crystal shard. A faint whimper escaped her lips. He knelt beside her, pulling out another, cleaner bandage from his kit – an actual medical bandage this time, pilfered from a forgotten aid station. His fingers trembled as he unwrapped it, the synthetic fabric cool against his skin. He dabbed at the mineral spike with the antiseptic wipe, the sharp, sterile scent cutting through the humid air. He felt Zadira watching him, her gaze fixed and sharp. He didn’t look up, too focused on the task, on the sheer fragility of his sister’s life in his hands. “It’s… it’s spreading fast, isn’t it?” he finally managed, his voice raspy, barely a whisper. The pretense of humor, the shield he’d always used, had shattered. This was real. This was Nia. Zadira knelt opposite him, her movements fluid and silent. She didn’t offer platitudes. Instead, she reached into a pouch on her tactical vest and pulled out a small, worn oilcloth and a cleaning rod. Without a word, she slid one of his sidearms from his hip holster, her fingers brushing his. The skin-to-skin touch grounded him, slicing clean through the suffocating dread. She began to dismantle it with practiced, meticulous efficiency, her movements calm, deliberate. “The Xar-Kutu spores… they mutate quickly,” she said, her voice low, a rhythmic counterpoint to the soft clicks of the disassembled cylinder. “Especially in the younger ones. Their systems are more… receptive.” She looked up, her steely grey eyes meeting his. For the first time, he saw something akin to concern, a flicker of vulnerability beneath the stoic mask. “You’re doing what you can, Zinn. That’s all any of us can do.” He watched her clean the cylinder, her hands steady as she ran the rod down the bore. The metallic scent of gun oil mingled with the earthy dampness of the bay. He picked up his other pistol, mimicking her actions, the cold heft of the iron a small comfort. Their hands worked in tandem, the quiet intimacy of the shared task a strange anchor in the chaos. He found himself studying the sharp line of her jaw, the way her dark hair framed her face, the almost imperceptible curve of her lips as she focused. The air between them went taut and quiet over the chasm of their desperate circumstances. His gaze dropped to her mouth, then back to her eyes. The concern was still there, a soft grey cloud in the otherwise sharp features. He felt an urge, raw and unexpected, to lean closer, to close the small distance between them. She drew in a sharp breath. Their eyes locked, silence stretching between them, until… A wet *thump* directly at his feet made them both flinch. Lurk, coalescing from the shadows beneath his boots, had dropped a glistening, fleshy mass onto the floor between them. It was a grotesque thing, the size of his fist, pulsing faintly with a dim, internal light. It looked like a discarded organ, slick with ichor, and emitted a faint, high-pitched hum. [Ereshkigal-Echo: Xar-Kutu Tracking Gland acquired. Passive Bio-Signature Tracing enabled. Current target: Cultist Overseer. Range: 1.2 kilometers. Direction: Lower Levels – Aqueduct Delta.] Kassur stared at the pulsing gland, then at Lurk, who merely tilted its head before melting back into his shadow. “Well, that’s one way to get directions,” he muttered, the unexpected return of his cheeky tone feeling foreign even to his own ears. “Creepy little delivery service.” Zadira picked up the gland with the tip of her combat knife, turning it over. “A Xar-Kutu tracking gland,” she confirmed, her voice now back to its usual crispness, though a hint of wonder lingered. “They use them to mark prey, or for inter-colony communication. This one is fresh. He must have shed it in his escape.” She pointed the knife towards the edge of the platform. “The Aqueduct Delta. That’s the deepest access point to the subterranean ocean docks. He is heading for the Leviathan.” He looked at the gland, then at Nia, her breathing still shallow. The leviathan. The cure. It was all inextricably linked. He gripped the hilt of his weapon, the metal cold against his palm. “Then we follow the beacon.” As he stood, his hand brushed against the ancient clay tablet he kept tucked into his inner coat pocket. It flared, not with the usual system prompts, but with a sudden, glitchy blue light. A holographic projection shimmered above the tablet, flickering like a faulty transmission. It was *him*. Or rather, a version of him. Younger, colder, his face unmarred by the weariness of the slums, his eyes piercingly intelligent and utterly devoid of humor. The holographic Kassur spoke, his voice crisp, precise, and chillingly devoid of emotion. “Zinn. If subject Nia’s bio-signature mutation exceeds critical thresholds, and the progenitor-spore assimilation continues unmitigated… amputation is the only viable recourse. Immediate surgical intervention is required to prevent systemic integration.” The hologram flickered, then vanished, leaving only the oppressive silence of the flooded bay. Kassur stared at the spot where his colder self had stood, a sickening dread twisting in his gut. Amputation. Nia. His hand went to her arm, resting gently on the crystalline growth. It was still growing. He felt a sudden, sharp pressure against his leg. Zadira. She had drawn her combat knife. The polished blade gleamed, reflecting the dim light of the mosses. She looked from the knife, to Nia’s unconscious face, then back to him, her grey eyes hard, unwavering. “Make the choice, Zinn.”

Rust and Bandages