A breath. Not the sterile, recycled air of Habitat-7, but thick, hot breath. It tore into Elias's lungs. Coarse, alien. It burned. His vision swam. Not data streams, but a riot of greens and browns, a dizzying blur. He blinked, the lids heavy, slow. His body. Wrong. Every nerve screamed. Muscles bunched, taut. A coiled spring. He wasn't in the simulation pod. The cool gel, the neural interface hum – gone. This was real. A jolt of pure panic shot through him, seizing his diaphragm. He wanted to scream. No sound came out. Only a low growl, deep in his chest. His chest? Not his. Kaelen's. The name, a phantom memory, surfaced through the haze. Kaelen. Silent Fang. Stonejaw Tribe. Elias thrashed. His limbs moved with an unnatural power. They slammed against something hard. Earth. Not the smooth, polished plasteel of the habitat deck. This was rough soil, damp and alive with unseen things. A searing pain lanced through his side. Not a wound, but an ache. A memory. Kaelen's memory. He was crouched, pressed against the knotted roots of a towering ironwood tree. The trunk pulsed with phosphorescent lichen, casting sickly green light. Heat. Humidity. It clung to him like a second skin. Primal. Unfiltered. The air tasted of damp earth, decaying leaves, and something sharp, metallic. Blood. Not his. Nearby. His ears, impossibly acute, picked up the rustle of a thousand unseen insects. The distant thrum of heavy wings. A low, guttural snarl from deep within the jungle. Every sound was a hammer blow against his orbital-dweller's delicate hearing. Elias tried to focus. His vision sharpened. The dense foliage, a wall of alien biology. Massive ferns, their fronds wide as a man. Vines thick as an arm, hanging like serpents from the canopy, fifty meters above. Bioluminescent flora bloomed in impossible colors, casting shifting, vibrant pools of light on the jungle floor. He pushed off the roots. His new body moved with effortless grace. A silent coil and spring. He rose to a crouch, not on his knees, but on the balls of his feet, muscles flexing. Every fiber of him was alive, alert. This wasn't a sim. This was the raw, brutal surface of Xylos. Kaelen's instincts flared. *Danger. Movement. Ten paces, to the left.* Elias fought it. No, that wasn't him. He was Elias. Data archivist. He cataloged species, didn't hunt them. He analyzed risk models, didn't live them. But the body moved. It moved with a purpose. It pulled him deeper into the undergrowth, low, fast, silent. His fingers, strong and calloused, brushed against rough bark, wet leaves. His bare feet, toughened leather, found purchase on slick moss, jagged stones. His clothes were simple. Thick, woven fibers. Animal hide. Practical. A crude utility belt held a bone-handled blade, a sling-pouch, and a small, cylindrical device. Elias recognized the shape. A power cell. Old World tech. Scavenged, repurposed. He touched the device. A jolt of Kaelen's understanding. It was a tracker. Crude. But functional. He was tracking something. Or someone. Kaelen’s memories flooded his mind: fragmented images, sensations. The smell of damp stone, the taste of dried meat, the chill of mountain air, the warmth of a tribal fire. Faces. Stern, weathered. The elders. The hunting party. He was on a solo scout. Beyond the recognized borders. Seeking. Always seeking. Resource rich zones. Signs of the Sky-Eaters. Or the Ash-Stalkers. Rival tribes. A flicker of movement ahead. Elias froze. Kaelen's body went utterly still. Only his eyes moved, scanning the emerald gloom. He pressed himself against a tree trunk, melding with the shadows. A scuttling sound. Low. Fast. Small. A flash of iridescent scales. A ‘skitter-rat,’ Kaelen’s mind supplied. Scavenger. Harmless, unless in a swarm. He relaxed a fraction, the tension bleeding from his shoulders. But Kaelen’s mind remained vigilant. Skitter-rats often heralded larger predators. They fled the approach of anything bigger, faster, hungrier. Their sudden darting indicated something. Something close. He sniffed the air. Not consciously. Kaelen’s nose twitched, taking in the complex odors. The sickly sweet tang of decaying carrion. And beneath it, a faint musk. Predator. His hand, Kaelen's hand, instinctively went to the bone knife at his hip. The grip felt natural. Balanced. A weapon. Elias, the archivist, had never held anything more dangerous than a data stylus. Now, he was ready to kill. He edged forward. Each step was a masterclass in stealth. Placing his weight carefully, testing the ground, avoiding snapping twigs. He moved like a shadow, a whisper. The 'Silent Fang' moniker wasn't just a title. It was a description. The smell grew stronger. The ground ahead was disturbed. Crushed undergrowth. A trail. Fresh. Too wide for a skitter-rat. Too small for a full-grown Xylos 'Thorn-maw' predator. A human? Or something else. Kaelen’s memories clicked. A 'Glint-back' stalker. Smaller, swifter, venomous. Ambush predators. He hated them. Their chitinous plates reflected ambient light, making them almost invisible in the jungle’s shifting patterns. He crouched low, his eyes scanning, not for shape, but for distortion. A slight shimmer in the air. A broken line where there should be none. The Glint-back's camouflage was good, but not perfect. A breath. Held. His muscles coiled. He felt the tremor in his legs, the raw power ready to unleash. Elias was a terrified passenger, screaming in the back of his own mind. Kaelen was the driver, cold, calculating. There. A slight ripple in the air, near a cluster of large, red-veined leaves. It shimmered. Too uniform. The Glint-back was there. Waiting. Kaelen didn't hesitate. He launched himself forward, a blur of motion. His knife flashed, an arc of honed bone. The Glint-back, faster than thought, sprang from its ambush point, a nightmare blur of chitin and venomous claws. Elias felt the impact. Not a blow, but a glancing scrape. Kaelen had pivoted, turning the full force of the beast’s pounce into a tangential strike. He plunged the knife, not into its center mass, but into the softer joint where the segmented leg met the carapace. A shriek. High-pitched, guttural. The Glint-back thrashed, six legs churning. Venom dripped from its mandibular fangs. Kaelen, already moving, yanked the knife, tearing through sinew and plating. He didn't stop there. With a brutal efficiency, he slammed the butt of his palm against the creature’s exposed underbelly, crushing its vital organs. The Glint-back spasmed, then went limp. Its iridescent scales dulled. Its venomous fangs clacked once, then were still. Elias gasped for air. He stumbled back, leaning against a tree, his own heart pounding a frantic rhythm against Kaelen's ribs. The adrenaline surged, shaking him to the core. He had just killed. With his bare hands, with a crude knife, he had ended a life. An apex predator. This wasn't a sim. This was blood. This was death. His hands trembled, not with fear, but with the lingering echo of Kaelen's battle rage. A strange, terrifying satisfaction. He forced himself to breathe, to calm. Kaelen's focus returned. The Glint-back was dead. Good. One less threat. But its presence here, so close to the border, was unusual. These creatures typically kept to deeper, darker territories. He knelt, swiftly carving a trophy from the Glint-back's shell. A small, triangular scale. Proof of the kill. Then, he gathered a few small pouches from his belt. Kaelen’s fingers moved with expertise, extracting venom sacks, careful not to pierce them. Valuables. For trade. For use in hunting. --- Hours passed. Elias had lost all sense of time. The orbital habitat's precise chronometers were replaced by the shifting light filtering through the canopy, the changing calls of unseen creatures. Dawn. Day. Now, twilight approached. The jungle intensified its chorus. The shadows lengthened, swallowing the vibrant colors. Kaelen's body, driven by an innate purpose, continued its patrol. He moved north, following an ancient game trail, rarely used by humans. He was searching for something specific. Something Kaelen’s memories only vaguely hinted at. A ‘Whisperer’s Hollow.’ An Old World ruin. A place of forgotten power. Dangerous. But often, rich in salvage. Or information. The Stonejaw Tribe held these places in reverence, but also in fear. They called them 'Ghost-Hives.' He remembered a fragment: an elder's warning. “*Do not disturb the sleepers. Do not touch the tainted metal. Only observe. Only report.*” Suddenly, Kaelen froze. Not an animal. Not a Glint-back. A different smell. Smoke. Fresh. Not jungle fire. Something else. Processed fuel. Old World tech, burning. His heart hammered against his ribs again. This wasn't right. Another tribe? The Sky-Eaters were rumored to have working Old World vehicles, but usually larger, slower transports. This smoke was lighter. Faster. He dropped to a low crouch, moving off the trail. He ascended a moss-covered boulder, finding purchase with effortless ease. From the top, peering through a curtain of thick, purple-leafed vines, he saw it. An opening in the dense canopy. A small clearing. In its center, a vehicle. Not tribal. Not natural. A sleek, metallic craft. Dark gray. Angular. It looked like a smaller version of the patrol vessels Elias had only ever seen in historical archives from before the Great Collapse. But this one was grounded. Damaged. Smoke plumed from its rear section. And figures moved around it. Not Stonejaw. Not even Sky-Eater. Their armor was too refined. Too smooth. Their weapons, not crude spears or bone knives, but sleek, energy-based rifles. The kind that hummed with a low, deadly thrum. Elias gasped. These weren't primitives. They were *advanced*. More advanced than anything Kaelen's memories could account for. They wore helmets that concealed their faces, but their posture, their movements, spoke of training. Discipline. A military unit. Then he saw the symbol on their shoulder pauldron. A stylized claw, gripping a cracked cog. Not a tribal mark. A corporate insignia. A ghost from humanity's forgotten past. One of them knelt, examining the ground. His helmeted head turned, slowly, inexorably, towards Elias's hiding place. The visor was dark, reflective. But Elias felt its gaze. He was certain. He had been seen. Kaelen’s instincts screamed. *Run! Hide! They know!* But Elias, the archivist, was gripped by a different kind of fear. These people. They were a threat, yes. But they were also a key. A link back to what he knew. To his own time. To his own species. And they were here. On Xylos. After centuries of silence. A low growl, not his own, escaped Kaelen's throat. His hand, already gripping the bone knife, tightened. He couldn't just run. He couldn't. A voice, distorted by a comm unit, crackled from the figures below. “*Contact. High heat signature. Unidentified biological.*” The figures raised their energy rifles. Muzzle flares. A sound Elias knew from simulations – the charge-up whine of a plasma bolt. The light grew brighter. Closer. Kaelen moved. But he was too slow. A blinding flash erupted from the clearing. A searing, invisible force slammed into the ancient boulder. Rock splintered. Vines exploded. Elias was thrown backwards, tumbling down the slick, moss-covered stone, pain flaring across Kaelen’s exposed back. He landed hard on the jungle floor, disoriented, breath knocked from his lungs. Above him, the whirring hum of another plasma charge built, louder, faster. And then a new sound. The distinct whirr of a drone launching from the damaged craft, ascending into the twilight canopy, its single optic glowing red, locking onto his position. There was nowhere left to hide.

A Fang in the Wild