A guttural groan ripped from Jax’s throat, raw and uncontrolled. Each drag across the splintered plasteel deck scraped against exposed bone, against torn muscle. His lower body, a mangled ruin from the Chitterer’s ambush, was dead weight. Blood, thick and coppery, slicked the floor beneath him, a gleaming trail of his dying crawl. He pulled with his arms, every tendon screaming, his enhanced strength now a curse, amplifying the agony.
Survival, the primal urge, pulsed through his veins, an ugly drumbeat against the hum of his failing bio-systems. He was a beast, broken and crawling, far from the calculating operative he’d been just hours ago. The facade, the cold, emotionless mask he wore, had shattered with the snap of bone.
*This is what it comes to, Spike.* His own internal voice, sharp and derisive, echoed in his mind. *This is your 'humanity'.*
He knew what it looked like. A mangled dog, abandoned in the Wastes, dragging itself to some forgotten corner to die. The thought, cold and precise, solidified in his mind. He was that dog. And he hated it. Hated the indignity, the weakness. But a different kind of calculation kicked in, a savage practicality.
Moving on his belly, using his reinforced arms to pull, minimized the strain on his ruined legs. It also kept him low, harder to spot in the oppressive gloom of the Crucible Ward’s lower levels. The scraping sound was a constant companion, a rhythm of despair, but it was faster. Faster than trying to hobble, faster than the phantom agony of a step that never landed.
Elbows burned, knees shredded, but the pain was manageable. A dull throb compared to the searing fire in his legs. *Endure.* The word was a mantra, a prayer to a forgotten god.
He thought of the other operatives, the ones he’d led into this hell. Their faces, their final, terrified screams. Ghosts clawed at the edges of his sanity. Had any of them made it out? Or was he the last, dragging his broken form through this industrial graveyard?
[Bleeding] continues.
*No point dwelling, Corso. Focus.* The cold voice was back, stronger this time. It felt less like a separate entity and more like the last ember of his operational self, fighting for control. He pushed aside the ghosts, the guilt, focusing on the immediate.
The air grew thin, heavy with the metallic tang of ozone and stale biowaste. His bio-indicators, flickering across his augmented vision, screamed warnings. Core temperature dropping. Energy reserves critical. Cell regeneration at a crawl. The internal reports, usually a comforting stream of data, now sounded like a death knell.
[Bleeding] continues.
[Bleeding] continues.
Warning: Bio-systems critical. Integrity below 5%. Immediate intervention required to prevent systemic collapse.
He kept moving, blindly. The Crucible Ward was a labyrinth of rusting conduits and collapsed gantries. Every turn was a gamble. Every shadow a potential Chitterer nest. He remembered the reports, the whispers of Null-Space tears, localized quantum destabilizations that could shunt targets across sectors.
*Bullshit.* He’d dismissed them as Waster folklore, urban legends. Now, he wondered. Had he been pulled into a pocket reality, a deeper, more dangerous stratum of this cursed sector? The darkness, the sheer, crushing weight of it, felt unnatural.
Then, a flicker. A faint glow in the distance. Not the sickly green of Chitterer bio-luminescence, nor the emergency red of an automated defense grid. It was… clean. A hard, focused white light, pulsing with a regular beat. Hope, a dangerous, fragile thing, sparked in his chest.
*People.* The thought was a desperate, childish whisper. *They’ll have med-supplies. I can trade. A Data Shard from the Chitterer’s lair. Anything.*
*You fool.* His internal cynic resurfaced, harsher now. *You think they’ll help? In this sector? They’ll see a Null Sector uniform, a broken operative, and carve you up for spare parts. Or just take your gear and leave you for dead. The Wastes don’t have charity in their lexicon.*
*But there’s light. A path.* He argued back, a sliver of desperation clinging to the distant glow. *Even if it’s a trap, it’s better than dying in the dark, bleeding out. Better than the Chitterers finding me here.*
*True enough.* The internal voice conceded, and his head felt quiet again. He pushed harder, the glow growing, resolving into a distinct, rhythmic pulse.
“Hahahahahaha.”
The sound was ragged, a dry, rasping cackle that clawed its way out of his throat. He was laughing. Or crying. Or both. The line blurred. Blood loss, pain, the sheer, unrelenting horror of it all – he was losing his grip. His consciousness split, then merged, then fractured again, like a bad circuit.
He laughed again, a harsh, grating sound that bounced off the metal walls. The light was clearer now, at the end of a long, narrow passage. A portable work lamp, hooked to a power cell, casting harsh shadows. And standing before it, a figure. Definitely human. Tall, broad-shouldered. A Waster, by the looks of the scavenged plating and heavy-duty plasma cutter slung over their back.
“Help…” His voice cracked, a pathetic croak. No sound. His throat felt like sandpaper. He blinked, pushing his failing vision. The figure seemed to waver, then multiply.
[Bleeding] continues.
Another blink. Closer this time. Three, no, four figures, their silhouettes sharp against the lamp’s glare. Were his optics failing? Hallucinating?
Achievement Unlocked: Resilience of the Damned
Condition: Bio-systems integrity drops to 2% or less.
Reward: Permanently increases Mental Fortitude by +1.
A blond man knelt, his face hardened by years in the Wastes, eyes like chips of obsidian. He wore a patched-up combat vest, a heavy slugthrower holstered at his hip. Our eyes met. He didn’t flinch. Just a quick, curious glance, then his gaze swept the immediate vicinity, assessing the threat. He was a veteran, reading the scene, not the man.
“Null Sector?” The blond’s voice was gravelly, low. He gestured to Jax’s torn uniform, the ruined insignia. “What in the hells are you doing this deep? And alone.”
*Help me, you son of a bitch.* Jax wanted to scream it. Instead, another dry cough, a guttural rasp.
“H-huh… grrrah.”
It sounded like a Chitterer. He hated it. The blond raised an eyebrow, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. He turned to a figure behind him, a woman in a patched-up medical cloak, a diagnostic scanner hanging from her belt.
“Sana. Can you patch this one up?”
*A bio-medic? A miracle.* Jax stared at the woman, a desperate plea in his eyes.
She shook her head, her face impassive. “Resource allocation protocol. My current supply is for our crew only, Kael. Field-level trauma like this would deplete my reserves for a week.” Her voice was cold, professional.
“Understood.” Kael, the blond leader, didn’t argue. Jax’s heart plummeted.
*No. Not like this. Not after…*
“Torvin. That regen-stim from the Sector 4 cache. You still have one, right?” Kael asked a stocky man with a coilgun strapped to his back. Torvin grunted, digging into his pack, pulling out a small, metallic vial. He tossed it to Kael with a shrug.
Kael caught it mid-air, a casual flick of the wrist. “Not ideal, Null. This will hurt.”
The lid clicked open. Kael doused half the vial’s viscous, glowing contents over Jax’s mangled legs. The pain was instant, unbearable. It felt like every nerve ending in his body had ignited, a million tiny knives twisting in unison. His body spasmed, a silent scream tearing through his mind.
Regeneration (Medium) initiated. Cellular repair accelerated.
He writhed on the cold deck, vision blurring, a white-hot agony engulfing him. This was the true cost of accelerated healing, the body's frantic scramble to mend itself, overwhelming the senses. Game simulations never showed this.
“H-h-hhkk…” He hyperventilated, his lungs burning, trying to pull oxygen into a screaming system. The pain slowly, agonizingly, receded. Feeling returned to his legs, a dull ache replacing the inferno. He could twitch his toes. A miracle. A brutal, agonizing miracle.
“Alright, Null. You can talk now.” Kael’s voice cut through the haze. “How did you end up here? Alone? Any intel on new entries to the Ward? New Chitterer nests?”
His purpose. Jax felt no resentment. A transaction. Survival for information. That was the currency of the Wastes. It made sense. It was honest, in its own brutal way. He pushed himself up, leaning on his forearms, ignoring the residual tremors in his limbs.
“No… new entry.” His voice was raspy, but functional. “Null-Space… tear. Shunted. From Sector 7. Deep in the… Wards. My squad… Ambushed.”
Kael’s eyes narrowed. He exchanged a glance with Sana, the bio-medic. “Null-Space tear? I’ve heard the whispers. Old Waster myths. You saying you actually went through one?”
Jax nodded, the movement sending a fresh jolt of pain through his neck.
“Incredible.” Kael stared at him, a strange mix of skepticism and grim respect. “A century event. Only legends spoke of it. And you’re the one.”
His words echoed the internal cynicism Jax had fought. One in a hundred years. And it had to be him. Just his luck.
“Not the intel I was hoping for.” Kael sighed, running a hand over his blond stubble. “But… a story for the bar. Consider that stim paid for. No debt.”
He was turning, his crew already shifting. “And your heavy plate, Null. It’s back there. Fifty meters, maybe. Don’t leave gear in the Wastes.”
They moved past him, a compact, efficient unit. The silence of their departure was almost as loud as the pain. He hadn’t even thanked them. But in the Wastes, time was more precious than pleasantries. He pushed himself to a crawl again, the pain in his legs now a dull, manageable throb. The heavy combat plate, his shield, was a distant silhouette.
He reached it, felt the familiar cold weight of the reinforced plasteel. Securing it to his back, he felt a flicker of the old strength, the old control. He was Null Sector. He was Spike. But something still felt… off.
Jax ‘Spike’ Corso
Integrity: 27%
Mental Fortitude: 36 (New +1)
Combat Rating: 71 (New +1)
---
“He was lucky, that Null.”
“Luck? Getting tossed into a deep sector through a tear and mauled by Chitterers? That’s some twisted luck, Torvin.” Sana, the bio-medic, scoffed, adjusting her scanner.
Torvin, the coilgun Enforcer, shrugged. “Still alive, isn’t he? And found us. He would’ve bled out otherwise.”
“You weren’t so keen on using the stim, though, were you?” The Scout, a wiry woman named Lyra, piped up, her railgun resting across her shoulder.
Torvin grunted. “These Null Sector boys are dime-a-dozen. Die easy. And our protocol is clear.”
Sana exhaled slowly. “My protocol also states to save lives when feasible. Without that stim, he was done. Kael, you made the call.”
Kael, leading the way, glanced back, a faint, almost imperceptible smile touching his lips. “A Null-Space tear. Imagine the data. The implications. Sometimes… a bit of charity pays dividends. It wasn’t about a secret passage, Lyra. It was about *what* he represented.”
“You always think ahead, Kael.” Lyra chuckled. “Most of us would’ve just left him.”
“Most of us are still alive because Kael sees more than just blood in the dirt.” Sana’s voice held a note of weary respect. “The Guilds, the Corporations… they’d pay a fortune for verified Null-Space tear intel. We just got it for free.”
“He seemed genuine.” Lyra mused, scanning the corroded conduit ahead. “About the tear.”
“Oh, he was. The pain was real. The terror, too.” Kael’s smile grew, a shark’s grin in the dim light. “Doesn’t mean we won’t cross paths again. And next time, he’ll owe us a bigger favor. After all… he survived. And now he knows who to thank.”
Torvin squinted back down the passage. “Still can’t believe he crawled all this way. The blood trail went on for kilometers.”
“Some Nulls are tougher than others.” Kael’s voice was casual. “This one… this one just might be interesting.”