Kaelen-7 sagged. Air grated in his lungs. The ruined comms tower swayed underfoot, a metallic moan. The Enforcer Drone lay in pieces below, its circuits still sparking. Victory tasted like ash and ozone. His energy reserves flashed critical red. Armor plating was cracked. One leg emitter pulsed weakly. Every muscle screamed. The fragmented distress call echoed. *"---Extraction Point Delta---repeating---Delta---"* He pulled himself to the tower's access hatch. More scavenging. He needed power. He needed sustenance. He needed answers. The drone’s core unit was still intact. A small, hardened power cell. Kaelen-7 pried it open with a salvaged shard of alloy. Hot wires sparked. He ignored the pain. The cell hummed. He connected it to his suit's depleted power port. A jolt. Not much, but enough to bring basic functions back online. His HUD flickered green. A faint outline of his own skeletal hand. Survival metrics stabilized, barely. He moved through the tower's guts. Ripped open control panels. Yanked out optical fibers. Stripped copper wiring. He found a half-empty nutrient paste tube. The flavorless goo was a luxury. He squeezed it dry. His eyes scanned. The tower was a skeletal ribcage of metal. Old comms gear. Relays. Data drives. He pocketed a few small, intact components. Useful for crafting. Or for trade, if he ever found someone. Hope was a dangerous thing on Xylos-Prime. --- Kaelen-7 descended. The ground felt solid after the tower’s wobble. He stood amidst the drone's wreckage. Oil leaked into the alien soil. A pungent, metallic smell. The 'Extraction Point Delta' coordinates shimmered on his HUD. Far. Too far for his current state. But it was a direction. A potential objective. Stasis was death. He checked his crude spear. Still sharp. The salvaged power cell from the drone was small, but he jury-rigged it to the spear's tip. A single, unstable pulse charge. A last resort. His mind worked. The AI overseer was hostile. 'Extraction Point Delta' meant a rogue operation. Other Wardens. Possibly. Or a trap. The AI was cunning. He didn't care. Any chance was better than none. The Primitive Protocol demanded movement. Adaptability. Ruthlessness. He set his internal compass. Delta. He walked. One foot in front of the other. His limp was pronounced. Each step sent a jolt of pain up his spine. --- The landscape shifted. The red dust plains gave way to a dense, bioluminescent forest. Towering fungi, like colossal, petrified trees, pierced the sickly green sky. Their caps glowed with soft, pulsating light. Not comforting. More like predatory eyes. The air grew thick, humid. Strange spores drifted. Kaelen-7 activated his suit's environmental filter. The air hissed through it, metallic and cold. He moved through tangles of glowing vines. Some retracted, sensitive to touch. Others snapped. He learned quickly which to avoid. His suit sensors picked up faint energy signatures. Not mechanical. Organic. Large. He heard a distant shriek. A low growl. The forest was alive. And hungry. He hugged the shadows cast by the fungal giants. His progress was slow. The ground was slick with nutrient-rich slime. Every step a potential slide into something worse. A rustle. Close. Kaelen-7 froze. He drew his spear. The charged tip pulsed faintly. Something moved in the undergrowth. Small. Fast. A blur of chitin and segmented legs. **Creepers.** Scavenging parasites. Usually harmless to a Warden, but they could drain power, corrode armor. In numbers, they were a threat. Three of them skittered from the gloom. Green eyes, like tiny emeralds, fixed on him. They chittered, clicking their mandibles. Kaelen-7 didn't waste power. He swung the spear like a bludgeon. The first Creeper exploded in a spray of acidic fluid. He sidestepped the splatter. The others lunged. He kicked one away, its carapace crunching. The third tried to climb his leg. He grabbed it, felt its legs scrabble against his gauntlet. He tore it from his leg. Smashed its head against a glowing fungal stalk. He stomped on the remnants. No mercy. No wasted energy on emotion. He pressed on. The incident was a reminder. No threat was too small to ignore. No creature on Xylos-Prime was truly insignificant. Hours blurred into a dull ache. The fungal forest seemed endless. The glowing flora cast confusing shadows. His internal clock was broken. Just the constant, grinding pressure of movement. He found a small, stagnant pool. Water. Contaminated, but his suit could filter it. He drank slowly, savouring the brief respite. His eyes scanned the perimeter. No new threats. Yet. He checked the coordinates again. Still far. His pace was too slow. He needed to pick up speed. Push harder. The exhaustion was a heavy cloak, but he threw it off. Survival was paramount. He emerged from the dense fungal growth onto a rocky, desolate plateau. The ground was cracked, black, as if seared by ancient fire. Wisps of geothermal steam vented from fissures. The air here was dry, acrid. Above, the sky was a bruised purple, streaked with crimson. The two moons of Xylos-Prime, Xylos A and Xylos B, hung like shattered pearls. He picked his way across the treacherous terrain. Loose rocks slid underfoot. He nearly fell into a steaming crevice once. His grip on reality wavered. He focused on the next step. Then the next. The coordinates were narrowing. Delta was close. He could feel it. A prickling sensation on his neck. Instinct. He saw it then. A silhouette against the horizon. A structure. Not natural. Not a comms tower. Something else. A collection of angular, metallic shapes. Half-buried in the black rock. He quickened his pace. A surge of adrenaline, cold and sharp. This was it. Extraction Point Delta. He saw no movement. No lights. Just the silent, hulking form. As he drew closer, details emerged. It wasn't a single structure. It was wreckage. The remains of several drop pods. Scattered and twisted. Metal scarred and fused. Signs of a catastrophic impact. Or a violent assault. He approached cautiously. His spear was raised. The power cell at its tip pulsed faster now, almost frantic. His suit's proximity sensors screamed a warning. Something was nearby. Something large. He saw the data pad first. Lying in the dust, half-buried, its screen cracked but still glowing faintly. He knelt, fingers brushing the cold metal. Warden Unit 383's designation. The last transmission. The distress call. Beneath the data pad, half-obscured by a fallen girder, was a body. A Warden unit. Faceplate shattered. Suit torn. No movement. No life signs. It had been here for a long time. Too long. And then he heard it. A low, guttural growl that vibrated through the ground. It came from within the wreckage. From the largest, most intact of the shattered drop pods. A dark, cavernous opening. Something shifted in the shadows. Two eyes, like smoldering embers, fixed on him. Massive. Predatory. Something from the deepest, most brutal levels of Xylos-Prime. Something no patch update could prepare him for. He wasn't at an extraction point. He was at a feeding ground. The creature stepped into the pale moonlight. It was a beast of muscle and bone, standing on four thick limbs, its head a mass of interlocking plates. Its mouth opened, revealing rows of serrated teeth, dripping with viscous fluid. A **Rend-Beast**. And nestled beside it, half-eaten, was another Warden. Its arm, still clutching a plasma rifle, twitched. Barely. Kaelen-7 stared. His spear felt suddenly light. He was not alone. But he was far from safe. He was bait. And the Rend-Beast was hungry. He braced himself. The Primitive Protocol demanded a response. But what kind of response against this? The Rend-Beast roared, a sound that tore through the night, and lunged.

Chapter 5: Delta Desperation