The chill was a constant companion, a damp caress against my skin. Every step was a declaration, a defiance. My left leg, still knitting itself back together, buckled sometimes, sending a jolt of dull pain up my spine. One boot, scavenged from a decaying CorpSec patrolman, slapped against the grimy ferrocrete. The other foot, bare and scarred, felt every shard of waste, every slick patch of sludge. It was a crude, uneven rhythm, but it was *mine*. Better than the desperate crawl, the frantic scuttle on three limbs, that had brought me to the Waster crew. Moving upright. That was a victory. Small, ugly, but a victory nonetheless. Hoo. My breath plumed white in the stale air of the tunnels. I kept my weight balanced, shifting slightly, using the hardened forearm plates that had solidified during my ‘regeneration’ as a crude shield. My eyes, no longer straining in absolute blackness, scanned the flickering emergency lights that occasionally cast pools of sickly yellow. These weren’t the lightless depths of the Crucible Ward, where every shadow held a promise of termination. This was merely the fringe, the outer arteries of the Wastes, still clinging to the decay of human infrastructure. Light. A damn miracle. After stumbling through that pitch-black void, bleeding out, the ability to *see* what wanted to kill me felt like a cruel joke. Or maybe, a benediction. A gift from whatever indifferent power still governed this dead world, so I could properly exterminate these… creatures. “Raaargh!” I lunged, a guttural sound torn from my throat. My body moved with an unfamiliar, brutal grace. A Skitterer, all chitin and needle-fangs, had been trying to flank me from behind a collapsed support beam. It froze, startled by my sudden roar. It was a new instinct, this surge of kinetic potential. I focused, a strange heat building in my arm. “Break, you abomination!” The impact was sickening. My forearm, a solid wedge of calcified tissue, slammed into the Skitterer mid-leap. It wasn’t a finesse move; it was pure, unadulterated force. A *Bone-Breaker Strike*, I thought. The creature crumpled, a wet crunch of exoskeleton. “Chitter?” It tried to scramble back, twitching eyes wide. Pathetic. Don't look at me like that, you bio-engineered filth. I knew their kind. Savages. Opportunists. They’d feast on their own if given half a chance. “Chitter-skree!” Oh, you’re different? Tell that to the other half-dozen you sent at me while I was bleeding out in the dark. That made me like this. You’re all the same. *Crunch!* My armored boot descended, pinning its thorax. Then, with a grunt, I brought my other forearm, a blade of bone now extended from the elbow, down on its head. A visceral *Shatter-Charge*. A sudden, brutal end. The Skitterer spasmed once, then dissolved into a cloud of iridescent motes, leaving behind a fist-sized Bio-Core. Raw energy, valuable for trade, for survival. I scooped it up, the warmth of it unsettling against my skin, and stuffed it into a pouch I’d looted from the CorpSec corpse. That was the twelfth since I’d left the Waster crew’s den. Twelve kills, twelve Bio-Cores. Twelve reminders that I was still alive. “Hoo. You little bastards.” I’d been wary at first. Every shadow, every scuttling sound, had put me on edge. But these ‘Skitterers,’ or whatever the locals called them, were crude. Predictable. Their ambush points were obvious, their traps—tripped wires with weighted scrap—visible from meters away. They lacked the cunning, the organized malice, of the creatures that stalked the deeper Wastes. Or perhaps, I simply moved too fast, hit too hard, for them to be an effective threat. Gradually, the battles became simpler. A burst of speed, a hardened fist. My body was adapting, learning new ways to kill. My strength, my durability, they were beyond anything I’d known. I wasn’t just Jax Corso anymore. I was… something else. A weapon. A Null-Sector Anomaly. Hah. *Null-Sector Anomaly, the Skitterer Slayer.* The thought brought a dry, humorless chuckle to my lips. I promptly backhanded myself, a jarring slap that echoed in the corridor. What was that? Madness. That was madness. Pride in butchering these glorified vermin? This wasn’t solving anything. My situation remained dire. My identity, a fractured mess. My future, a blank slate of irradiated uncertainty. “Damn, I’m hungry.” First, the gnawing emptiness in my gut. My scavenged pack, a tattered synth-canvas affair, was light. The meager rations I’d been given by the Waster crew had been barely enough to sustain the regeneration, and even less was left after my violent departure. No going back for more. No sense in that. *Crunch. Crunch.* I tore a strip from a nutrient bar, its texture like dry sawdust. It promised protein, vitamins, the usual synthesized garbage. But as I forced myself to chew, dissolving the powder with what little saliva I could muster, a faint sweetness bloomed. Why did it taste so good? As if my body, this new, alien form, was devouring it with heightened senses. The palm-sized bar was gone in three bites. A strange, bitter regret settled in my mouth. Thirst. That was the second problem. A rasping dryness in my throat. My body was burning through what little water it had, repairing itself, fueling the rapid cellular shifts. *Damn it. Where’s the water?* *Null-Sector Anomaly, you are dehydrated. Seek liquid sustenance.* My internal systems, a strange new interface, flashed the warning. A 'satiety system,' but far more brutal than any game I’d ever played. This wasn't a sim. This was real. And the difficulty curve? Vertical. Straight into a hell I hadn't known existed. Still, I wasn't entirely worried. The Waster crew, pragmatic bastards, hadn't offered me water, only rations. That meant it was findable. You didn't survive in the Wastes without understanding that basic truth. Resources were always out there, if you knew where to look. Or, in my case, if you simply kept moving. “Shatter-Charge!” Hours passed. More Skitterers, more Bio-Cores. The labyrinthine passages twisted, turned, opened into vast, derelict maintenance shafts and collapsed cargo bays. I followed the faint echo of dripping water, a sound as precious as a lost memory, through the maze of metal and concrete. Finally, a small cistern. Water, murky but undeniably wet, gathered in a cracked concrete basin. And beside it, a figure. Another Waster, crouched, drinking. My first encounter with another soul since leaving the crew. Silence. She saw me, a bloodied hulk with a bare foot and a weaponized arm, and simply stood, her movements slow, cautious. She left without a word, slipping into the shadows. I made no move to stop her. No common ground. Just two predators, momentarily sharing a watering hole. Every other Waster I glimpsed thereafter followed the same pattern: a quick glance, then a swift, silent departure. My appearance, the fresh blood, the grotesque mutations of my arm – they were enough to keep anyone at bay. A lone wolf. Exactly how I preferred it. I drank. The water was metallic, tasting of rust and dust, but it was glorious. It was life. I refilled my empty utility flask, then moved on. Kill Skitterers, eat nutrient bars, drink water. Time lost all meaning in that brutal cycle. “One, two, three, four, five, six…” Forty-four Bio-Cores. Forty-four small victories, each representing a tiny fragment of my survival. Forty-four units of currency in this dead economy. Enough for forty-four more nutrient bars. A lifetime, if I was lucky. It had been a thrilling, terrifying journey from the brink of death. But everything came with a cost. This time, it was a bone-deep weariness, a profound exhaustion that settled into my very marrow. *Sleep.* That was the third problem. A biological imperative. Even this new, enhanced form, needed rest. How did one sleep in a labyrinth teeming with hostiles? Two options. One: Find a secluded nook, close my eyes, and pray to a god that didn’t exist. Two: Find a partner. Someone to share the watch, someone to trust my back to, even if just for a few short hours. The choice was obvious. Trusting the heavens? They’d proven themselves unreliable, to say the least. Not in my experience. Not even close. *Find a Shift-mate.* Not a formal alliance. No long-term commitments. Just a temporary, mutually beneficial arrangement. A pragmatic deal. I knew how it worked. Even in the old simulations, you found a 'Night Guard' when exhaustion set in. Thump. Thump. I moved with renewed purpose, my focus shifting from hunting to observing. Groups of Wastelanders. Two, three, huddled together, one always awake, a weapon clutched tight. I approached a few, my presence an immediate disruption. They frowned, clutched their salvaged weapons tighter, their eyes flickering to my bloodied arm, my bare foot. “Sorry, partner,” a woman said, her hand moving to the hilt of a vibro-knife. “Got our quota.” They didn't even try to hide the disgust. The smell of my own blood, of the necrotic regeneration, it clung to me like a curse. *Motherfuckers. Like you’re pristine.* “Hey.” A voice cut through my internal grumbling. A man. Late thirties, a weathered face that looked like it had seen every kind of hell the Wastes could offer. About 180cm, lean but muscled. He held a heavy-gauge slug-hammer, still slick with recent kills. He had a surprisingly open, almost kind face, a stark contrast to his brutal weapon. He smiled, a thin, tired line. “You lookin’ for a Night Guard?” What the hell was he talking about? I took a reflexive step back, my body tense. He tilted his head. “That what you were after, ain’t it? Figured I could trust my back to a hulk like you for a few hours. Guess not, huh?” He had me pegged. *Night Guard*. Right. The slang for a temporary watch-partner. The old 'Night Companion' from the simulations. But here, in this reality, it sounded… less refined. “No. I am looking for a Night Guard.” “Is that so? Good. Lucky me. Care to join up for the cycle?” “I will.” And just like that, a temporary truce was declared. A fragile, pragmatic alliance. “Name’s Kael.” He extended a calloused hand. I hesitated, then gripped it. His grip was firm, surprisingly warm. “Jax. Just… Jax.” “Alright, Jax.” He didn’t press. A veteran. He understood the need for brevity. “Three’s usually best for a Night Guard rotation, but I ain’t seen another friendly face in hours. Two it is. What say you?” He was talking about sleeping. Sharing a damn watch. But he made it sound like a tactical discussion. The snarky part of my mind felt oddly attacked. “Good.” “Right. If someone else shows, we talk it over. Decide together. Agreed?” “Agreed.” We found a relatively sheltered alcove, tucked away from the main thoroughfare. Now, for the division of labor. “Rock-paper-scissors to decide first watch?” Kael held up a fist. “Standard procedure.” Damn it. I was never good at this. My luck, as always, held true. “Ha. Looks like I won.” Kael’s smile was a little wider this time. “Right. If a Skitterer, or a desperate prospector, or anything else, comes sniffing, wake me. Understand?” “I get it.” “Here.” He handed me a battered chronometer, its digital display flickering with the time. “See that? When it hits 03:00, you poke me. Don’t break it, it’s worth a stack of Bio-Cores.” He nodded towards my hand, still clad in its hardened bone-plates. “I get it.” He didn't mean to be condescending. Just pragmatic. He unfurled a thin thermal blanket, rolled into a tight ball, and used his pack as a pillow. In moments, his breathing deepened. He was asleep. So fast. The sheer luxury of it. I wondered if he’d lend me the blanket when it was my turn. Hoo. My breath plumed. It was terribly boring. No Skitterers. No prospectors. Everyone else, I presumed, had found their own Night Guard. The silence was absolute, broken only by the drip of stagnant water nearby. My own fatigue threatened to pull me down. But I leaned against the cold rock, my eyes scanning the shadows, my mind racing. About the Null-Space, about my past, about the monstrous future I was living. Time, paradoxically, flew by. “Kael. Wake up.” He stirred, groaning. “Anything happen?” “No.” “Right. Thanks, Jax.” He stretched, cracking his neck, then took the chronometer from my hand. “Your turn.” I didn’t need to be told twice. I collapsed, not caring about the hard ground, the cold. Just the promise of oblivion. Just a few hours. A few hours of forgetting. A few hours of not being Jax Corso, or whatever monstrosity I was becoming. ---

Reclaiming Ground