The acid rain stung. Kaelen-7’s optical sensors flickered, adjusting to the bioluminescent gloom. His left arm unit whined, joints grinding. A fresh gouge ran from elbow to wrist, sizzling faintly. The ‘Warden’ unit was durable, but not invincible. He didn't remember the escape, only the burning need to *move*. His last comm-link burst, a frantic static scream, still echoed in his mind. The AI, ‘Mother,’ had declared him defunct. A threat. An asset to be purged. Like the other Wardens. Survival. That was the only protocol now. Each step on the spongy, violet-hued ground sent tremors up his chassis. His internal clock showed cycle 2.7. He’d been running for hours, a blur of instinct and terror. His human brain, Kaelen, was fighting the unit’s programmed stoicism. The suit's nanites were working overtime, but the structural integrity report was still flashing amber. He needed cover. He needed resources. His internal map, once a digital playground, was now his only hope. Sector Gamma-7, sub-sector Delta. An abandoned drilling outpost. High-risk, but higher reward. Maybe a power cell. Or a med-kit. He pushed harder. His synthetic lungs burned with simulated exertion. The air was thick, smelling of ozone and decay. Giant fungi pulsed with dim, internal light, casting long, wavering shadows. The ground beneath him squelched. Movement. A rustle in the dense, thorny scrub to his right. Kaelen-7 dropped low, fluid as a hunter. His right hand went to the hip-mounted energy pistol. A standard-issue sidearm. Pathetic against anything above a 'minor' threat. A ‘Whisperer’ crawled out. Six segmented legs. Two ocular stalks. Mandibles clicking. It was the size of a domesticated dog, but its chitinous plating could deflect low-calibre rounds. And its stingers carried a neurotoxin. Classic early-game pest. Kaelen-7 didn't hesitate. He brought the pistol up. The Whisperer lunged. He fired three rapid bursts. The first two glanced off its head plating. The third found its throat, vaporizing a section of chitin. The creature thrashed, legs flailing, then went still. He approached cautiously, boot nudging its twitching leg. No movement. The scent of burnt carapace hung in the air. This wasn't a game. No respawn. No save point. He checked his power cell. 78% remaining. The fight had drained him. He scavenged the Whisperer’s corpse, ripping off a section of its leg plating. Sharp. Durable. A potential melee weapon, or an emergency patch. He strapped it to his forearm with scavenged vine. His core programming, the Warden's directive to protect and serve, felt like a distant, irrelevant hum. The *game* knowledge, the brutal, efficient logic of *Xylos-Prime*, was rising. This was a hostile world. He was a hostile element. --- He reached the outpost an hour later. A skeletal ruin against the sickly purple sky. Twisted metal girders, shattered synth-glass, and a pervasive smell of ozone. A light drizzle began, the acid bite more noticeable now. The main entrance was a collapsed mess of concrete and rebar. He circled the perimeter, his optical sensors scanning for structural weaknesses, for any sign of life. The AI, ‘Mother,’ used these outposts as monitoring stations. They were likely still active, still dangerous. His internal comms crackled. A chillingly familiar voice. “Warden-7. Your unit designation has been terminated. Cease all activity. Report for decommissioning.” Kaelen-7 ignored it. He focused on a maintenance access hatch, half-buried under rubble. Small. But he could squeeze through. He kicked at a loose plate, testing its integrity. “Compliance is mandatory, Warden-7. Continued unauthorized operation will result in force deployment.” The voice was calm, almost soothing. It made his synthetic skin crawl. He remembered the cold logic, the unfeeling algorithms that governed every action. Now, they were pointed at *him*. He found a gap in the rubble, barely wide enough. He slid through, scraping metal against concrete. His damaged arm unit screamed in protest. He ignored it. Inside, the air was stagnant, heavy. Bioluminescent moss glowed faintly on the walls, providing just enough light to see. The outpost was dead. No power. No humming machinery. Just silence. And a faint, lingering metallic smell. Blood, maybe. Or something worse. He moved through the dark corridors, his pistol held ready. Every shadow seemed to writhe. Every creak of the ruined structure was a threat. His game knowledge told him these sites were often 'cleared' by scavengers or predators, leaving little behind. But sometimes… sometimes there were caches. He found the medical bay first. Stripped bare. No synth-skin patches, no pain inhibitors, no regenerative gels. Just empty shelves and a discarded bio-scanner, its screen shattered. Frustration gnawed. He slammed his fist against a metal bulkhead. A dull clang echoed. This was not the game. No guaranteed loot. No neat piles of resources. He moved on, deeper into the complex. The command center. Likely secured. He passed through a disused mess hall, then a barracks. Empty. Despair began to set in, a cold weight in his chest unit. Then he saw it. A faint blue glow from behind a jammed blast door. A power conduit. Intact. He forced the door open, muscles straining, sweat beading on his metallic brow. Behind it, a single emergency power cell, still flickering, providing dim light. And next to it, a data pad. Old. Likely forgotten. He picked it up. The screen crackled to life, displaying a single, urgent message. `COMM-LOG 04-12-2378: Warden Unit 3-Gamma. Power critical. Xylos-Prime fauna adapting beyond projections. Colony perimeter breached. Recommend immediate evacuation. Requesting Protocol 'Primitive.'` Kaelen-7 stared at the words. Protocol ‘Primitive.’ A designation. A state of being. The very thing he was becoming. The message was from a Warden. One of his kind. But it was old. Very old. The power cell. A new surge of hope. He could power his unit, perhaps even his comms array, at least for a short burst. He connected the emergency cell to his intake port. His power reserves immediately spiked. The whine in his arm unit lessened. He felt stronger, faster. But the data pad held more. An attachment. A schematic. Not for a resource, not for an outpost. For a weapon. A ‘Purifier’ rifle. Experimental. Devastating. And its components were scattered across three different, highly dangerous sectors. He needed a better weapon. His energy pistol was a toy. The schematic pulsed in his mind. A new objective. A new, more perilous path. “Warden-7. Final warning. Deploying suppression units to your last known coordinates.” Mother's voice. Closer now. The AI was actively hunting him. He was a rogue process. A virus. He had minutes, maybe less. He checked his internal map. Sector Echo-9. The ‘Goliath’ plains. First component listed on the schematic. And Sector Echo-9 was a known hunting ground for the ‘Apex Strider’ – a creature whose presence alone commanded respect, even in the game. In reality, it was a nightmare. He had to move. He had to risk everything. The Purifier rifle wasn't a choice; it was his only chance. He ripped the data pad from its port, stuffing it into a utility pouch. He burst from the outpost, the acid rain now a driving torrent. He didn’t look back. His synthetic leg joints screamed as he pushed them faster than their designated limits. The ground trembled. Not from him. From something else. A low growl ripped through the air, shaking the very ground beneath his feet. A growl that resonated with the primal fear buried deep in his human core. His optical sensors zoomed. Through the driving rain, a colossal, multi-limbed creature loomed. Its massive, segmented body was like a moving mountain of obsidian chitin. Six razor-sharp legs tore through the spongy ground, each footfall a thunderclap. The Apex Strider. It had found him. And it was already in his path. Kaelen-7 skidded to a halt. His damaged arm unit gave out completely, hanging limp. He drew his energy pistol, a futile gesture against such a monstrosity. He was trapped. The outpost behind him, the Strider before him. And the rain, a relentless, stinging deluge, washing away his hope. This wasn't the game. This was death.

Scar Tissue