The world was a raw wound. Gritty dust coated his tongue. A low growl rumbled deep in his throat, unfamiliar, powerful. His eyes — did he have multiple? — snapped open. Red light, like a perpetual sunset, assaulted his vision.
He lay on coarse, cracked earth. Jagged shards of what might have been concrete dug into his side. A dull ache throbbed in his thick forearm. No, not dull. A constant, low-level thrum of raw power.
He pushed up. Muscles bunched. His frame, immense. Heavy. He felt like a slab of mountain. Coarse hide stretched tight across ridged bone. Scars, deep and old, crisscrossed his skin. He brought a hand before his face. Three powerful digits, tipped with obsidian claws. Not human. Never human again.
Ethan. His name had been Ethan. Corporate drone. Data analyst. Now… Rykard. Crag-Born Spliced. A war-beast. He remembered the descriptions from the game logs. Brute force. Low intelligence. A living weapon.
His mind screamed. His body merely flexed, a vast engine humming with contained violence. He tried to think. Panic clawed. The game. The Dead Zones. This was real. Every scorched ruin, every mutated whisper, every forgotten weakness he'd memorized from survival sim 'Dead Zones: Desolation Point' — all real.
He staggered to his feet. His gait was wide, heavy. Each step shook the ground. Dust plumed around his oversized feet. The air tasted of ozone and decay. A metallic tang pricked his nostrils. Blood. Something’s blood. Or his own.
He reached up, felt the ridges above his brow. Horns. Short, brutal nubs of bone. His skull was thick, his jawline like a vice. He had seen this model in the lore. The 'Berserker' variant. Pure muscle, built for close combat. No finesse. No subtlety.
"Control," he rasped. The sound was a guttural rumble. It vibrated in his chest. His vocal cords were not Ethan's. This body had its own voice, its own instincts. A primal surge threatened to overwhelm his conscious thought. A need to *move*, to *hunt*, to *destroy*.
He fought it. He was Ethan. He was the mind. He would not be a mere beast.
The immediate surroundings: a collapsed dome structure. Rusted rebar jutted from concrete skeletons. A skeletal arm, still clutching a corroded pistol, lay half-buried in the dust. Ancient battleground. Sector Gamma-7. The starting zone. Known for low-grade irradiated critters and desperate scavengers.
His memory clicked. The game lore. There was a water reclamation unit, mostly intact, about two klicks north-east of here. Old 'Pristine' tech. It was always a hot spot for early game resources. And danger.
He needed water. His throat was parched, dry as bone. He felt the internal heat of this engineered body. It ran hot, consumed energy. He’d burn out fast without sustenance.
He scanned the horizon. The sky was a bruised orange, no sun visible through the perpetual haze. Distant, jagged peaks ripped at the sky. They were the 'Razorbacks', a mountain range famous for containing some of the deadliest Spliced factions.
Closer, the land was flat, scarred. Craters pocked the earth. Twisted metal structures lay half-buried, like forgotten monuments to a dead age. No movement. No immediate threats he could *see*.
But he could *hear*. A high-pitched whine, far off, like grinding gears. Too distant to identify. And closer, a soft, scuttling sound, beneath the cracked earth. Small. Irradiated rat-thing, probably. A nuisance. Not a threat.
He started walking. Each step was a deliberate act of control. He channeled his immense strength, not letting it burst forth in undirected power. His new senses were overwhelming. The smell of dust, metal, rot, faint radioactive signature. The grit beneath his heavy boots. The oppressive silence, broken only by the wind's mournful sigh.
He moved towards a ruined tower, a broken finger pointing to the sky. A landmark he remembered from the game. He needed higher ground, needed a better view. And he needed to confirm his precise location.
The tower stood maybe three stories high, its upper levels sheared clean off. The entrance was a gaping maw of twisted metal. He could squeeze through. Barely.
He reached the base. His hand, heavy and clawed, brushed against a concrete wall. It felt rough, crumbling, yet solid enough. He placed a heavy boot on a broken ledge. He didn't climb so much as *ascend*. His powerful legs propelled him upward with surprising ease. His claws found purchase on minute cracks, tearing deeper grooves.
Higher, he found a relatively stable platform. The wind whipped at his coarse hide. He breathed deep. The metallic taste remained.
From this vantage point, the scale of his nightmare truly hit him. The Dead Zones. Miles upon miles of desolation. No green. Only rust, grey, and the sickly orange glow. He saw the faint outline of the water reclamation unit. Good. His memory held.
He also saw something else. A flicker of movement. Not on the ground. *Above*.
A 'Carrion Hawk'. Larger than any eagle, wingspan easily ten feet. Gliding on thermals, scanning the waste for carrion. Or for prey. He was large. He was prey. Its eyesight was legendary. It would have spotted him already.
He needed to move. Fast. The reclamation unit. That was his best bet for supplies and perhaps a temporary refuge. He also needed to be careful. Other Spliced factions patrolled these zones. Low-tier 'Gut-Ripper' gangs, or the more organized, brutal 'Iron Hides'. And the 'Pristine'. Always the Pristine.
He started his descent, more quickly this time. Gravity was almost an afterthought. He dropped the last twelve feet, landing with a ground-shaking thud that sent a minor dust cloud into the air. The impact vibrated through his joints, but no pain. Only the solid feeling of his engineered chassis holding firm.
He began jogging. A heavy, lumbering run that devoured the ground. The distance to the water unit was perhaps two kilometers. A mere fifteen minutes at this pace. But a lot could happen in fifteen minutes.
He focused on the rhythm of his feet. Left, right, left, right. A deep, guttural breath. The burn in his lungs was intense, but his body pushed through it. This was built for endurance. Built for war.
Suddenly, a faint *thump-thump* from the ground beneath him. Not a scuttling. Something heavier. Then another. Close. Too close.
He skidded to a halt. His enhanced hearing pinpointed it. Vibrations in the ground. Multiple sources. Approaching from his right flank. Hidden by the low, crumbling debris.
*Ambush.*
Ethan's mind raced. He remembered this section. The 'Scrap Pile Alley'. Known for 'Maw-Leeches'. Irradiated monstrosities. Fast. Pack hunters. Usually blind, relying on vibrations and scent. Their weakness: high-frequency sound, or a concentrated burst of fire. Neither of which he possessed.
He spun, claws flexing. His vision, though adapted for low light, struggled against the dust-filled glare. He strained his ears. Scent. He needed scent.
There. The sickly sweet smell of decay mixed with ozone. And something else. A sharp, metallic tang. Old blood.
Two shapes burst from the debris field. Low to the ground. Segmented bodies. Eight legs. Mandibles clicking, dripping corrosive saliva. Dark, iridescent carapaces. Maw-Leeches. And there were more behind them.
At least four. Maybe five.
Their movements were jerky, unnatural. They moved in a crude semi-circle, herding him. Their clicking mandibles were a chorus of hunger.
Instinct flared. Rykard’s body tightened. Primal rage simmered. He wanted to meet them head-on, tear them apart.
No. Ethan's mind intervened. *Think*. He was alone. No weapons. Just his body. A single Spliced against a pack of these things was possible, but risky. They spat acid. Their carapaces were tough.
He remembered a strategy. The 'Leech Lure'. A feint, drawing them into a narrow space. Then a powerful blow to the head, where the chitin was thinnest.
He took a step back, drawing their attention. The lead Maw-Leech lunged, a blur of legs and clicking death. Its mandibles snapped. He felt the rush of wind as it missed his arm by inches. A spray of corrosive liquid sizzled on the ground where he had stood.
He dodged. His raw speed surprised him. He was faster than he thought. He ran *towards* a cluster of rusted girders, barely wide enough for his own bulk. A natural choke point.
The Leeches followed, chittering excitedly. They were closing the gap. He heard their legs scrabbling on the cracked earth.
He reached the girders. He slipped through, twisting his broad shoulders. He turned, facing the first Maw-Leech as it squeezed through the gap. Its segmented body scraped against the metal, slowing it down.
This was his chance.
As its head emerged, he brought his massive arm down. Not a punch. A full-body slam. His fist, like a boulder, smashed into its head. The chitin cracked. A wet, sickening crunch. Greenish ichor splattered.
The Maw-Leech shrieked, a high-pitched, painful sound that vibrated through the metal. It thrashed, its legs flailing wildly. Rykard grabbed its head, ignoring the corrosive drool, and twisted. A final, wrenching snap. Its body went limp.
One down.
The others had seen. They hesitated for a microsecond. Their chittering intensified. They began trying to flank him, scrambling over the girders, seeking another opening.
He couldn't hold this position against all of them. He needed to keep moving. He needed a weapon.
His eyes darted around. The collapsed dome. The broken concrete. Sharp edges. Rough rebar.
He spotted a length of rusted rebar, thick as his arm, jutting from a concrete slab. Too heavy for a human. Perfect for him.
He lunged forward, ignoring the two Maw-Leeches now scrambling over the girders. He ripped the rebar free from the concrete with a grunt of effort. The metal shrieked as it tore loose.
It was heavy, unbalanced. But it had a point. And it was solid.
He whirled, just as a Maw-Leech, faster than its brethren, tried to scurry beneath his legs. He brought the rebar down in a sweeping arc. The rusted metal connected with a dull thud against its carapace. It didn't break, but the force sent the creature skidding, disoriented.
The other two charged him simultaneously, snapping mandibles. He parried one with the rebar, sending a jolt up his arm. The metal sang with the impact. The second creature tried to climb his leg. Its claws dug into his hide. It felt like a thousand tiny needles. Annoying. Not painful.
He roared. An actual roar. Deep, furious, raw. It wasn't Ethan. It was Rykard. The beast.
He grabbed the creature on his leg with his free hand. It squirmed, spitting acid. He ignored it. He lifted it clear off the ground. Its legs scrabbled uselessly. He flung it against the girders. A sickening *CRUNCH*. It lay twitching, broken.
The roar had startled the remaining two Maw-Leeches. They backed up, chittering, their movements more hesitant. They had not anticipated such ferocity. Such *intelligence*.
He glared at them. His breath was coming in ragged gasps. The adrenaline was a hot flame in his veins. The rebar felt like an extension of his arm. He raised it, pointing the rusty tip at the remaining Maw-Leeches.
They eyed him. Their primal instincts told them this prey was too dangerous. They turned, and with a final, aggrieved chitter, they scurried back into the debris, disappearing as quickly as they had appeared.
He stood there, chest heaving. The silence returned, heavy and immediate. The acid on his leg had begun to sting, a minor burn. He scraped it off with a claw.
Ethan shuddered. He had done it. He had fought. He had won. But the *way* he had fought… the rage, the tearing, the satisfaction of the kill. It was disturbing. He had embraced the beast.
He forced himself to calm down. The beast side. That was dangerous. Not because it made him kill, but because it made him *enjoy* it. It blurred the lines. And blurring lines, for a Spliced with a human mind, was a death sentence.
He dropped the rebar. He needed to stick to the plan. Get to the water unit. Get water. Get supplies. Stay hidden. Stay alive.
He wiped a bead of greenish fluid from his brow. His head throbbed. The world felt too sharp, too loud, too *real*.
He pushed forward, the taste of rust and blood still on his tongue. He knew the way to the water unit. He remembered the specific hidden access panel, the old circuit board that needed a bypass, the rusted piping leading to a small, isolated storage room.
And he remembered the *thing* that guarded it. A relic from the old world. A 'Sentinel'. A deactivated security drone from a forgotten era, now reactivated and corrupted by the Dead Zones' energies. Slow, but incredibly durable. And its energy weapon could vaporize a Spliced in seconds.
He was almost there. He could see the skeletal remains of the perimeter fence, twisted and broken. The water unit.
A sudden, sharp crack echoed across the waste. Not a weapon. Not a Maw-Leech.
It was a voice. Human. A woman’s voice. Sharp, clear, amplified. And it was coming from *inside* the water unit.
"This sector is now under Iron Hides jurisdiction!" The voice boomed, distorted by static. "Any unauthorized personnel will be eliminated!"
The Iron Hides. The brutal, organized Spliced faction. They weren't supposed to be here. Not yet. Not in Chapter 1. The game lore was wrong. Or had changed.
Rykard froze. His plan, his carefully remembered path, had just evaporated. The water unit, his first objective, was compromised. And not by simple scavengers, but by one of the most dangerous factions in the Dead Zones.
He felt a new surge of panic. A cold, calculating dread. His knowledge was obsolete. The game was no longer a reliable guide. This world was different.
His eyes narrowed. He sniffed the air again. The faint smell of ozone and decay was stronger now, mixed with something else. Burnt synthetic materials. And something hot, metallic.
A glint of light. A sniper's scope. High up, on the tallest remaining structure of the water unit.
He heard the faint *click* of a safety being disengaged.
He was exposed. And he was being watched.
His mind screamed: *Run!*
His body wanted to charge.