The sun hammered down. Grit ground under Rykard’s massive feet, each step a testament to his Crag-Born frame. The air shimmered, smelling of ozone and the metallic tang of decay. A familiar smell, now real.
His internal map, once a pixelated overlay, now stretched before him in a brutal, living panorama. Ruined skyscrapers, skeletal fingers against a bruised sky. Dust devils danced in the distance, swirling brown blurs against the perpetual haze.
*Apex Medical Depot 7.* A tier-one objective in the sim. Easy pickings. Here? A gamble, a faint hope. His throat ached. Thirst was a dull fire in his gut. His body, this powerful, alien shell, demanded sustenance.
He focused. His senses, heightened, peeled back layers of the desolation. The faint hum of distant, failing machinery. The distant thrum of wind through shattered glass. A slight shift in the ground ahead.
A low growl vibrated through the cracked earth. Rykard froze. His enhanced hearing pinpointed the sound. Not a mechanical groan. Something organic. Something predatory.
Three shapes darted between rusted husks of what might have once been delivery vans. Low to the ground, skeletal, with patchy fur and glowing red eyes. Scruff-Hounds. Fast. Vicious. Predictable.
In the game, a direct charge with his Crag-Born abilities would suffice. Here, he needed subtlety. He needed to conserve energy. He needed to think like Ethan, not just act like Rykard.
He eyed a precariously balanced slab of concrete, part of a collapsed overpass. It formed a narrow choke point. A perfect trap. He sniffed the air, gauging the wind. The Scruff-Hounds were downwind, their poor sense of smell no match for his.
He moved, deliberately, not directly towards them, but angling. He made just enough noise to attract their attention, a heavy crunch of ceramic underfoot. Their heads snapped up. Their guttural barks rent the oppressive silence.
They charged. A ragged, snarling wave of mutated hunger. Rykard held his ground, letting them close. He waited for the lead hound, the largest, to commit. He felt a tremor of adrenaline, a cold, sharp pleasure in the anticipation.
Just as it lunged, teeth bared, he sidestepped. Not a brute force dodge, but a fluid shift. The hound overshot. Rykard’s massive fist, a blur of scarred hide and bone, slammed into the concrete slab. Not a smash, a *push*.
The slab groaned, shifted, then collapsed with a sickening rumble. It caught the lead hound mid-leap. A sickening crack. The other two yelped, trying to scramble back, but the shifting rubble dragged them down. Crushed under tons of concrete.
Rykard stood over the fresh devastation. No roar of triumph. Just the heavy rasp of his own breathing. The stench of fresh blood, metallic and hot. A pang of something akin to guilt, swiftly overridden by the cold satisfaction of survival. This wasn't a game. Every kill mattered.
He spent a minute checking the wreckage. A few broken teeth, some bone fragments. No lingering threat. He needed to be efficient. His body still craved food, water. But his mind was clear.
He pressed on. The Apex Medical Depot was closer now, its ruined structure a skeletal wreck against the horizon. Rebar clawed at the sky like twisted fingers. What little glass remained in its windows glittered, reflecting the harsh sun.
---
The depot was half-buried in sand and rusted corrugated metal. A ramp, barely discernible, led up to what used to be the main entrance. The air grew heavier, stiller. A dead silence. Rykard moved with heightened caution. Every shadow could hide a threat.
A gaping hole, dark as an empty eye socket, served as the main entryway. He paused, testing the air. No immediate danger. No fresh scent of other Spliced. No lingering heat signatures. The building was old. Dead. Or so it seemed.
He stepped inside. The gloom was immediate, a welcome reprieve from the relentless sun. Dust motes danced in the sparse shafts of light that pierced the collapsed roof. The floor was littered with debris: broken equipment, shattered vials, torn documents.
He began his search systematically. No wild smashing. He needed to preserve the integrity of the building. And more importantly, he needed to find what was useful. He knew the layout from the sim. The main infirmary. The storage room. The emergency cache.
His thick fingers, usually clumsy in his human memories, moved with surprising dexterity. He overturned rusted gurneys, carefully sifted through piles of medical waste. His internal clock ticked. Time was not a luxury he possessed.
He found a small, sealed bag tucked behind a collapsed shelf. Inside, three stim-packs. Basic. But vital. Each one a temporary reprieve from pain, a boost of energy. He secured them in a pouch at his waist.
Next, a battered multi-tool. Its hinge was stiff, but the blades were intact. A tiny, invaluable piece of general utility. Better than nothing. He clipped it to his belt. His human mind rejoiced at the practicality.
He moved to the storage room. The door was ripped from its hinges. Inside, more rubble. He began to clear it, grunting with effort. The Crag-Born body could lift incredible weights, but he had to be mindful of structural integrity.
Then he saw it. Not in the game lore. A metallic tang cut through the stale air. Too fresh to be decades old. It was mixed with the faint scent of ash and something else… something aggressive. Not the scent of a beast. The scent of other Spliced.
He pushed aside a collapsed support beam. Beneath it, a small crate. Not a sealed medical crate, but a repurposed ammunition box. It was empty. But what caught his eye wasn’t the box. It was the desk behind it.
Carved into the dusty surface, recent and deep, was a symbol. A jagged claw mark, crudely etched, but undeniably distinct. *Slaggers.* A Spliced faction. Known for their brutal scrap-metal armor and territorial aggression. They weren't supposed to be this far out, this early in the timeline.
His human mind raced. The sim had been accurate on locations, on *potential* resources. But the dynamic, living world was different. Factions moved. They adapted. They left their marks. This wasn't a quiet, forgotten depot. It was an active scavenging point.
He spun, his senses screaming. He hadn’t heard them approach. A chill, colder than the depot's stale air, ran down his spine. His Crag-Born instincts, still raw and untamed, flared to life, urging him to flee, to fight, to simply smash.
He took two steps towards the exit. Too slow. A dark shape filled the doorway, blocking the last sliver of daylight. Then another. And another. Three of them.
They were massive, even by Spliced standards, clad in scavenged armor plates riveted directly into their hides. Crude, effective. Each wore the jagged claw symbol, painted in dried crimson, on their chest plates.
The leader stepped forward. He was taller, broader than the others, his face a scarred mess under a rusty metal mask that only exposed his glowing eyes. He held a crude, but massive, power-maul. Sparks crackled from its head, barely audible.
“Well, well, well,” the leader rasped, his voice a gravelly grind. “Look what the waste dragged in. A lone Crag-Born. Sniffing around *our* caches, are we?” His eyes, behind the mask, glittered with malicious amusement.
Rykard didn't answer. He couldn't. His throat seized. The surprise. The sheer audacity of being caught. His mind screamed a thousand strategies. His body tensed, every muscle coiling for an explosion of violence.
The Slagger leader grinned, a flash of sharpened teeth beneath the mask. “What’s a lone Crag-Born doing in Slagger territory? Speak, brute, or we’ll make you.” He tightened his grip on the power-maul, the crackle intensifying. His companions shifted, crude blades glinting.
Rykard met his gaze. The fear was there, a cold knot in his stomach. But so was something else. A resolve. A surge of primal defiance that surprised even him. This was not a game. He was not a drone. He was Rykard. And he would not be broken.
Not without a fight.
His muscles bunched. His claws twitched. The stim-packs felt like heavy stones in his pouch. The multi-tool, useless. But his body. His body was a weapon.
The leader took another step, raising the maul higher. “Last chance, beast. Pledge to the Claw, or become dust.”