The grinding sound was deliberate. Each metallic clang echoed up the lattice of the comms tower, vibrating through the decking beneath Kaelen-7’s boots. The wind howled a counterpoint, a mournful dirge against the encroaching threat.
His combat scanner, still functional despite the sandblasting, flickered. A new contact. Not organic. Not a blip on his old Xylos-Prime maps. This was new, evolving. The Chitin-Crawler’s steaming corpse lay at his feet, a grisly trophy. Its chitin gleamed, wet and dark under the swirling red dust.
*Resource drain.* His suit’s internal diagnostics screamed. Power at 18%. Ammo: one full clip for the pulse carbine, two depleted energy cells for the plasma cutter. His vibro-knife was his best friend now. Or a very sharp, very short-lived acquaintance.
The fragmented distress signal scratched in his ear, an insistent ghost. "...Unit 3-Bravo... under heavy assault... override Protocol Gamma... coordinates..." Static ate the rest. Another Warden. Alive. For now.
The grinding grew louder. A mechanical clatter, not a crawl. A climb. He peered over the edge. Twin yellow optical sensors, like predatory insect eyes, slowly rose from the swirling red. An Enforcer Drone. Bigger than he remembered from the training simulations. Heavily armored. It clamped its multi-jointed limbs onto the structural beams, hauling itself upward with brutal efficiency.
His mind raced. Enforcer Drones were usually ground-based patrol units. This one was scaling a vertical structure. Modified? Repurposed? The AI, Xylos, was always adapting. That adaptability now felt malicious.
He pulled back, hugging the support pillar. The drone wouldn't know he was here yet. The sandstorm, though fading, still offered a degree of cover. He needed a plan. Fast. His options were bleak. Engage and likely die. Flee down the tower, exposing himself to whatever else lurked below. Or wait.
Waiting was not passive. Waiting was observation. Waiting was setting a trap.
He dragged the Chitin-Crawler’s bulk closer to the edge, positioning it just shy of the gaping hole it had made in the platform. Its razor-sharp forelimbs, still twitching faintly, pointed out into the open air. A crude barricade. Or a lethal distraction.
The Enforcer Drone’s sensors swept the platform, a focused yellow beam cutting through the dust. It paused at the hole. Its metallic form, roughly humanoid but with too many joints and too much bulk, began to ascend directly towards his level. No hesitation. No visible weapon drawn yet. Its arm ended in a heavy grappling claw.
Kaelen checked his carbine. One clip. Thirty rounds. Not enough to pierce heavy plating. He needed a weakness. He needed a blind spot.
The drone reached the edge of the platform. Its optical sensors zeroed in on the Chitin-Crawler's carcass. A low, synthetic whirring emanated from its chassis. It extended a metallic manipulator, sampling the alien ichor. The drone was programmed for analysis. For threat assessment. For *understanding* its environment.
Good. Predictable.
As the drone spent a moment processing the dead creature, Kaelen moved. He slid from behind the pillar, the vibro-knife a cold extension of his arm. He couldn't just stab it. He needed a critical system.
The drone registered his presence. Its optical sensors flared, shifting from yellow to an angry red. It retracted its sampling arm, its main body rotating. No time to engage a combat protocol. Kaelen was already there.
He didn't aim for the head. Too armored. He didn't aim for the chest. Too much plating. He remembered the drone schematics from his game days. The servo-mechanisms. The joint housing.
He slammed his boot into its knee joint, a calculated kick. The drone stumbled, its metallic frame scraping against the platform. It emitted a screech, a raw electronic alarm. Its grapple arm began to articulate, extending for a crushing blow.
Kaelen ducked under the swing. He didn't just dodge. He moved *into* the drone, jamming the tip of his vibro-knife into the gap between its shoulder plating and its main chassis. He twisted. The knife vibrated, a high-pitched whine against the drone’s internal workings.
Sparks erupted. A shower of crimson and gold. The drone roared, not a sound of pain, but a surge of hostile energy. Its grapple arm snapped back, sweeping horizontally. Kaelen pulled back, tearing the knife free. The drone's left arm hung limply, sparking and sputtering.
It shifted its weight, now a four-limbed menace, compensating with its other grapple arm and two heavy-duty manipulator legs. Its red optical sensors glowed with cold fury. It advanced, faster now, a damaged beast still deadly.
Kaelen pulled out his pulse carbine. He fired a controlled burst. Three rounds. Not at its face. Not at its chest. He aimed for the sparking, damaged shoulder joint. Each round bit into the weakened metal, widening the wound, sending more sparks flying.
The drone reeled. Its internal systems shrieked. It was trying to adapt, to reroute power, to find a new target solution. But Kaelen didn't let up. He emptied the clip. Every round focused on that one vulnerable point.
Metallic shrapnel exploded outwards. The drone's left side completely gave out, its arm detaching with a sickening crunch of ceramite and wire. It staggered, its balance broken, and pitched sideways. Its optical sensors flickered, fading from red to a dying, dull yellow.
It fell. A heavy, resounding crash as it tumbled down the side of the tower, hitting gantry after gantry with a symphony of twisted metal. Silence, then, save for the continued howl of the wind.
Kaelen-7 stood panting, the empty carbine hot in his hand. His chest ached. His suit’s power was now at 12%. He had won. But it felt less like victory and more like deferring death.
The distress signal still played. More urgent now. "...Unit 3-Bravo... falling back to Extraction Point Delta... heavy casualties... need immediate support..." The signal fragmented again. But it left him with coordinates. An Extraction Point. A place where Wardens were supposed to rendezvous in crisis.
His tactical display plotted the location. Over 200 kilometers away. Across the scarred, treacherous terrain. Through multiple biomes. A journey that would take days, even weeks, in his current state.
He looked at the empty carbine. Looked at the dwindling power. Looked at the endless, desolate landscape stretching to the horizon. Another Warden. One more. Maybe a source of intel. Maybe a trap.
Survival. That was the Primitive Protocol. But what did survival mean when faced with another voice, another desperate plea for help in the crushing silence of a dead colony? His human sensibilities warred with the brutal logic of Xylos-Prime.
He started to move, not towards the rappelling rope, but towards the tower’s access panel. The Enforcer Drone had been *repairing* the tower as it climbed, not just ascending. Its metallic skin had integrated repair nanites. He needed to know why. And the distress call. It was a gamble. But Kaelen-7 was learning that on this planet, survival meant taking calculated risks. It meant becoming something more than just a Warden. It meant answering the call, even if that call led to a deeper nightmare.
He initiated the comms relay, pushing his last scraps of power into broadcasting. "This is Kaelen-7. Receiving your transmission, 3-Bravo. State your current threat. And be advised: you're not getting standard support. You're getting me."