The rusted strut groaned. Kaelen-7 pressed himself deeper into the shadow of the fallen cargo hauler. Dust choked the air. Not the familiar grit of the waste flats, but a fine, crystalline motes of the imminent sandstorm. His internal chronometer flashed amber. *Stormfront ETA: 0.08 cycles.* He knew what that meant. The *Gladius Nocturna*, the Night Striders, hunted blind in the churn. Their echolocation faltered. They relied on scent, vibration. Kaelen-7 had studied their patterns. From a screen, it was exhilarating. Here, it was a death sentence. His energy cell was at 14%. Weapons: a salvaged plasma cutter, barely functional, and a combat knife. His rations consisted of two nutrient paste sachets. Not enough. Never enough. He needed power. He needed materials. The hauler was picked clean. His gaze drifted to the nearby ridge. An old comms relay tower stood silhouetted against the bruised sky. A risky proposition. The tower was a known *Gladius* den during solar flares. But the storm would flush them out. And the tower held intact power cells, maybe even a working comms unit. A slim chance. A Warden unit would report in. The Primitive Protocol unit would exploit. He moved. Low to the ground. His heavy Warden boots crunched on vitrified sand. Every step was deliberate. Every breath measured. The wind picked up, a mournful howl through the skeletal remains of a colonization dome. He could feel his suit’s integrity stress. His internal sensors flared warnings. The air grew thick, abrasive. He reached the base of the relay tower. The structure was a jagged spire of twisted metal. Its access hatch lay ripped open. Fresh claw marks scored the rusted alloy. Larger than a *Gladius*. Much larger. A knot tightened in Kaelen-7's gut. This wasn't in the game. He gripped the plasma cutter. Its hilt felt cold, slick with his sweat. He activated the internal flashlight. The beam cut through the gloom. Empty. The lower levels were deserted. But the *scent*… Kaelen-7 recognized it. Predator musk, heavy, acrid. It clung to the metal like a film. Something had made this place its own. He scaled the internal ladder. Rungs were missing. He used handholds, bracing himself against the sway of the damaged tower. His movements were fluid, practiced. He moved like a shadow, not a Warden. Not anymore. The old Kaelen, the one who navigated simulated death traps, was gone. This one, Kaelen-7, embraced the real thing. He reached the service platform. A small console hummed faintly. A single power cell glowed green. A jackpot. He moved to extract it. A sudden scrape echoed from above. Not the wind. Too heavy. Too deliberate. Kaelen-7 froze. His internal audio picked up rhythmic clicks. Not *Gladius*. They chittered. This was different. A metallic scraping, like chitin on rusted steel. He pressed himself against the console, plasma cutter ready. A shadow fell over him. Then another. A creature dropped from the ceiling access panel. It landed with a soft thud. It wasn't a *Gladius Nocturna*. This was a 'Chitin-Crawler'. Six limbs, razor-sharp. Its head was a hardened plate, its mandibles dripping with a viscous fluid. Its eyes, multiple and faceted, caught the faint console light. They burned with an intelligent malice. *Xylos-Prime: Colony Collapse* had Chitin-Crawlers. But they were ground-dwellers, blind. This one had wings. Vestigial, perhaps, but they were there. Its mandibles were larger. Its movements, faster. Evolution. Or something worse. His game knowledge, his secret, was failing him. The creature hissed, a sound like grinding stone. It lunged. Kaelen-7 dodged. The plasma cutter flared. A searing arc of energy. It clipped one of the creature's forelegs. The Chitin-Crawler shrieked, a high-pitched, chitinous wail. It sprayed acid. Kaelen-7’s suit hissed as the corrosive fluid ate into the outer plating. Alarms blared internally. *Suit Integrity Compromised. Minor Biohazard Exposure.* He felt the sting. His arm. The acid was already eating through the suit's inner layers. It wasn't minor. He ignored it. Pain was a data point. Nothing more. He fired again, a shorter, controlled burst. The plasma cutter was almost out of power. He couldn't risk a full discharge. He aimed for the creature's exposed joint. Hit. The leg detached, landing with a wet thump. The Chitin-Crawler roared, its fury amplified. It scrambled back, six eyes fixed on Kaelen-7. This was not a fight he could win with conventional means. Not with 10% power and a damaged suit. He needed a kill, clean and fast. His eyes darted around the platform. Scaffolding. Loose cables. A corroded service hatch leading to the exterior. The creature lunged again, faster this time. Kaelen-7 sidestepped, letting its momentum carry it past. He grabbed a heavy wrench from the console. The Chitin-Crawler spun, its remaining five legs scuttling on the metal floor. It prepared to spray again. Kaelen-7 didn't hesitate. He jammed the wrench into the creature's exposed underbelly, twisting. A sickening crunch. The creature shrieked, thrashing. It reared back, exposing its neck, a surprisingly soft membrane connecting its head plate to its body. That was it. The weak point. He remembered it from the game, even if this variant was stronger. His knife. He pulled it from its sheath. The cold metal felt like an extension of his will. He moved in a single, brutal motion. He ignored the creature's flailing limbs. He ignored the burning acid on his arm. He brought the knife down, plunging it into the membrane. Twist. Pull. The creature spasmed, its shriek dying in a guttural gurgle. It fell, twitching, then still. Kaelen-7 stood over the corpse. His suit hissed, venting superheated air. His arm burned. He could see the scorched flesh through a new tear in his suit. He stared at the creature. This wasn't *Colony Collapse*. This was something new. Something more. The game was a guide, but this planet had evolved past his understanding. He ripped out the power cell from the console. He scavenged what he could from the Chitin-Crawler's corpse. A small, hardened plate from its head, surprisingly light. Its venom sacs, intact. Primitive Protocol. He could find a use for them. The storm raged outside. The tower swayed. He could hear the wind tearing at the outer shell. He looked down at the dead creature. It knew this tower was a shelter from the storm. Its intelligence was greater than simulated. Then he heard it. A faint, almost imperceptible whisper through the static of his suit's comms. Not a warning. Not a system update. It was a fragment of a voice. Human. Distorted. Urgent. "...Warden unit... this is unit 4-Delta... under attack... repeated... coordinates... help me..." The transmission cut out. Kaelen-7 froze. Another Warden unit. Alive. And desperate. His training screamed to respond. His new instincts told him to run. To conserve. To survive. He was Kaelen-7, the Primitive Protocol. He had shed human sensibilities. He had to. But the voice… it was real. A faint spark of something he thought he had extinguished flickered within him. He looked at the power cell in his hand. Enough for a short burst of his comms, or to patch his suit. Not both. He looked out into the intensifying sandstorm, then back at the power cell. The coordinates were still faintly visible on his screen, a dying ghost image. What was the Protocol now? To save or to abandon? A low thrum vibrated through the tower's structure. Deeper than the wind. A mechanical pulse. It came from beneath the platform. From the darkness below. Not the storm. Not another creature. Something else. Something large. Something approaching. And the voice… it was calling him into the heart of the storm. Into whatever lay beneath the tower. Into the unknown. The sandstorm howled, a hungry beast. The tower groaned, a death rattle. Kaelen-7 felt a primal dread. This was no game. And the rules had just changed again.

The Primal Lure