Dust tasted like pulverized concrete and dried blood. It clung to the air, choked the weak light from the grunts’ helmet lamps. We’d stepped into the Crucible Ward, and the air itself felt like a physical weight, pressing down, smothering thought. My own enhanced optic sensors struggled to cut through the particulate haze, painting the desolate corridors in shifting, monochrome fractals. Neo-Eridu’s underbelly. Home. What a fucking joke. ‘Form up,’ I rasped into the squad-link, voice rough. The grunts, five of them, bunched tight, their fear a palpable thing. It radiated, a foul scent in the stale air. They were just biomass, tools for the tithe. My tithe. Intel on the Crucible Ward was always fragmented, often outdated. Null Sector considered it disposable, a meat grinder. Optimal movement protocols dictated a rapid transit, minimizing exposure. But ‘optimal’ always assumed a clear path, an intact structure. This wasn't a holo-simulation. This was reality, raw and unforgiving. A groan of stressed metal echoed from somewhere above, a deep, unsettling note. Each step sent vibrations through my augmented frame, a constant reminder of the thin line between this crumbling architecture and the oblivion below. Footfalls crunched on shattered ceramite. A faint tremor rippled through the floor plates. Not structural. Something else. Instinct screamed danger. My gaze flickered, but the dust was a constant barrier, a grey curtain over the unknown. Grunts shuffled, their nervous energy grating on my senses. Focus. Always focus. Then my right foot slipped. Not a trip. A give. The floor beneath was a corroded mesh, concealed by a layer of fine, grey sediment. Before I could compensate, a sickening lurch, and my lower leg plunged through. Pain. A hot, searing agony. It ripped through my enhanced nerve clusters, momentarily overriding Null Sector’s dampeners. Not structural collapse. Something living. Something that bit. Blood bloomed, dark and hot, against the icy chill that spread rapidly from the wound. A localized neurotoxin, fast-acting. My limb stiffened, muscles locking, then went numb. A dull throb, a dead weight. ‘Spike!’ a grunt cried out, fear making his voice crack. My internal comms crackled. ‘Stay back. Perimeter watch. Do not engage.’ The order was clipped, automatic. But inside, a curse clawed at my throat. My heavy-duty tactical boot, designed for extreme durability, was now fused to the corroded grating, a useless anchor. The protective plating had made me complacent, blind to the ground beneath. I’d chosen defensive bulk over situational awareness. My calculations, so precise in the sterile environment of a tactical brief, had failed in the Ward's brutal reality. Another lesson, seared into my meat and bone: theory was fragile. Practice was a beast with teeth. Shoving the pain down, I gritted my teeth. Null Sector's bio-integrations surged, attempting to neutralize the toxin, but it was like pouring water on a wildfire. My right leg felt like dead weight, a marionette limb with severed strings. Survival demanded adaptation. With a grunt of effort, I wrenched my leg free. The tactical boot remained, a mangled wreck of plating and melted synth-fiber, still clutched by the unseen teeth below. Blood welled, thick and viscous. No time for cauterization. Not yet. I tore at the utility pant leg, ripping the tough fabric with a snarl. Exposed the wound. A deep, ragged bite, inflamed and purpling. The neurotoxin was already doing its work. My foot twitched, an involuntary spasm, then went still. ‘Sir?’ another grunt asked, helmet lamp wavering. ‘Move. Now.’ My voice was a low growl. We couldn't stay static. The creature that had bitten me wouldn't be alone. Nothing was alone in the Ward. Pain was a dull echo now, a constant reminder. But a new sensation, cold and predatory, sharpened my senses. Something skittered in the gloom ahead, a faint, chitinous rustle. Then another. And another. Not goblins. Worse. These were Ward-scavengers, mutated insectoids. Chitterers. Small, but vicious, and always in packs. ‘They smell blood,’ I muttered, more to myself than the grunts. Their enhanced hearing would pick it up. My blood. My weakness. The primal fear was a jolt of adrenaline, clearing the residual haze of the toxin. My primary weapon was still secure, but its weight felt different now, an unbalanced extension of my compromised frame. The Null Sector overlay in my vision flickered, highlighting faint bio-signatures. They were moving, circling. Cautious. Smart. ‘Come on, you parasitic waste,’ I taunted, the words a low rumble in my throat. ‘Come get your piece of me. The tithe waits.’ Silence answered, thick and heavy. Only the grunts’ ragged breathing and the distant creak of collapsing metal. The Chitterers were playing their game. Patience. Null Sector protocols preached patience, but this wasn't Null Sector’s game. This was the Ward’s. One leg dragged, a leaden weight. I kept moving, a slow, uneven shuffle. The Chitterers wouldn’t rush a crippled opponent. Not when they could exhaust it, bleed it dry. Time wasn’t on my side. The toxin would spread. The grunts would falter. My control would break. ‘What, too afraid?’ I snarled, injecting scorn into my voice. ‘Or waiting for your elders to teach you how to properly scavenge?’ A faint chittering responded, a dry, insectoid laugh from the shadows. They were enjoying this. The hunts were always a show for them, a slow death dance. I kept going, one foot dragging, the other pushing. Each step a small victory against the encroaching numbness. The pain in my leg began to return, a sharp, biting agony. The toxin was wearing off, or my internal systems were finally gaining ground. Either way, it meant nerves were still alive. A mixed blessing. ‘Your mother gnaws on cadavers, and your father drinks runoff,’ I spat, the words crude, guttural. An old Wastes taunt. ‘You’re all just glorified maggots.’ A louder chittering, closer this time. A rush of movement. They’d closed the distance. My mockery had stung. Good. Scrabbling sounds behind us. Fast. Too fast for a full charge, but enough to push. My enhanced hearing picked up the sticky clicks of their multi-jointed legs on the polished floor. They were small, maybe half a meter tall, but their presence felt enormous, a crushing weight in the oppressive darkness. My barbarian instincts, buried deep beneath Null Sector’s cold logic, flared. Get them close. They wouldn't stand a chance then. ‘Come on, filth! Don’t just follow, attack!’ They maintained distance, darting in and out of the grunts’ limited light, a blur of motion at the edge of perception. They didn’t want direct combat. Not yet. They wanted to wear us down, to let the toxin do its work, to pick off the stragglers. Change of tactics. I needed them close. Needed them to commit. With a raw cry, I stumbled, falling heavily. My shoulder slammed against a exposed length of rebar, sending a jolt of pain through my collarbone. My head cracked against the ceramite floor. I stifled a grunt, focused on the dull ache spreading through my skull. From now, it was a test of wills. A battle of patience. ‘Gruck?’ a chitter came, closer. Hesitant. The Null Sector grunts froze, weapons raised, their fear amplified by the sudden silence. I lay motionless, forcing my body to relax. My breathing was slow, shallow. I had to believe in the durability of my Null Sector shell, the raw endurance that had gotten me this far, even with a poisoned limb. Scrabbling. Closer. The sound was agonizingly slow, deliberate. They were suspicious. These weren't mindless beasts. They were cunning, honed by generations of survival in the Ward’s depths. Why were they so cautious? Goblins were simple, but these Chitterers… they were something else. Squelch. A small, dull thud against my helmet. Then another. Tiny chunks of corroded metal. They were pelting me. Testing. Seeing if I was truly dead. My jaw clenched. Null Sector wouldn’t tolerate such inefficiency. I was a target. They were testing the target. More chitters, louder now, a triumphant cackle. They assumed the kill. My stillness had convinced them. Good. That was the plan. My plan. Scrabbling, faster now. They were rushing in, their excitement a palpable surge of motion. I counted the seconds, using the increasing volume of their clicks to gauge distance. And when the sounds were right on top of me, a swarm of hungry death— ‘DIE!’ I roared, exploding upwards. My enhanced strength propelled me, hands outstretched, biological weapon system flaring on my forearms. Claws of hardened bone, razor-sharp, extended. My aim was for the nearest, largest cluster. But the plan unraveled. Two reasons. First, they were still a hair’s breadth out of reach. Second, their agility was sickening. A blur of chitin and segmented legs, they scattered, a hundred tiny fragments of darkness. My lunge met empty air. I was exposed, off balance, and the horde was now around me, not in front. ‘Gruck!’ Their triumphant chitters echoed from all sides.

Abyssal Descent