For years, the Vesper Wastes survival sim had been my second home. I’d mastered its every nuance, every threat. Knew the flora that pulsed with toxins, the fauna that stalked the shadowed canyons, the weak points of every territorial beast. My brain was a cached library of schematics and combat logs. Combine that meta-knowledge with the ‘Frontier Warrior’ physique Ironhold had blessed me with—tough, durable, built for punishment—and I’d calculated my odds of survival within The Gauntlet were, at the very least, viable. At the time, that belief was absolute. “Hmph.” The moment I stepped through the massive, rust-stained archway into The Gauntlet, absolute darkness swallowed me. Not a metaphor. My vision simply ceased to exist. I might as well have been blindfolded by some cruel hand. The void was total. No distinction. Just nothing. “Damn it.” The ambush was a sensory deprivation chamber. Complete. Utter. I hadn’t even considered it. The other initiates, those lost Stonebacks, they only carried crude shivs. No one had a light source. No need for one, I’d assumed. In the simulation, the Upper Strata of The Gauntlet was always illuminated. Bioluminescent moss clung to the rock faces, ancient xenolights hummed faintly overhead. Always a ambient glow. Even the perimeter dark zones, leading to lower levels, had a faint bleed-off from the central chambers. Had I somehow dropped into one of those deeper dark zones? Right at the start? My mind raced. Starting positions in the sim were randomized. But even a random drop usually placed you near a light source. A convenience, I now realized. A comfort the game developers offered to players. Reality offered no such niceties. What if an unlucky bastard just spawned into utter blindness? The thought was grim. Yes. That had to be it. That was the only logical explanation. If the entire Upper Strata was this black, no one would survive a day. Certainly not me. “Alright.” A deep breath steadied my pulse. My eyes, or rather, my brain, began to adapt. Shapes emerged from the oppressive black. Not clear, just vague, shifting outlines. Better than nothing. The situation, while dire, wasn't yet dire enough for self-dismemberment. Check the system. First things first. “Status. Inventory. Gear log. Tactical overlay. Journal.” Each command was a quiet whisper into the void. Each met with silence. Nothing worked. As expected, but still a cold confirmation. “Move.” One hand clutched the plasteel shield, held out slightly. The other ran along the cold, slick rock face of the wall. Forward movement was agonizingly slow. Slower than a crawl. I couldn’t push it. Not here. Not blind. Danger pulsed in the dark. “Gah!” A searing jolt of pain shot up my right ankle. Unfamiliar. Primal. My nerves screamed. But my analytical mind cut through the agony. A trap. A crude snare, perhaps, or a spiked pit covered with loose debris. No combat log here. The answer was immediate. I’d stepped directly into a Scrapper trap. My strategy had a glaring flaw. The shield. It provided a false sense of security. A psychological anchor. But it ate into my peripheral vision. If I’d strapped it to my back, focused solely on the uneven terrain, I might have spotted the disturbance. A practical consideration sacrificed for peace of mind. A fatal error in this environment. What good was defense if you walked into the enemy’s teeth? “Dammit… ugh…” Pain flared, hot and sharp. My vision swam with black spots. I wanted to howl, to scream until my throat was raw. Instinct. But instinct would get me killed. Screaming wouldn't help. It would only announce my presence, pinpoint my location, betray my weakness. Thump. Thump. Thump. My heart hammered against my ribs. A frantic drumbeat in the oppressive dark. “Huuuk… huuuk… huuuk…” Lips pressed tight, I forced myself to breathe. Slow. Deliberate. My priority wasn't the pain. It was the predator. Only one type of creature in the Upper Strata laid traps: Scrappers. And where there was a trap, there was a Scrapper. I instinctively raised the shield, forming a makeshift helmet. Then held my breath, straining my ears. The silence was absolute. Like time itself had frozen. Was it gone? Had it wandered off? Even Scrappers had to forage. *No. Don't think like that.* My gut churned. I crushed the flicker of optimism. Two reasons. First, there was a difference between calculated positive thinking and idiotic optimism. Second, what I needed right now was a negative mindset. Assume the worst. Always. If I couldn’t be sure, assume the worst. It heard my cry. It was hiding in the dark, patiently waiting for me to bleed out, to weaken. That’s why there was no sound. Because in the simulation… if there was a trap, there was always a Scrapper. “Whew…” I slowly exhaled. The quiet was still total. If it moved, I’d hear it. I had to believe that. First, address the damage. “Huuup!” I crouched, gritting my teeth. Fumbled for the trap. My fingers identified serrated metal, a spring-loaded jaw. Primitive but effective. Two hands, wrenching it open, grunting with effort. A sharp tug freed my foot. Blood welled, hot and sticky. I tore a strip from the hem of my worn synth-weave trousers. My scavenged foot-wraps were shredded, useless. Kicked them off. Applied direct, heavy pressure to the wound. The pain was a constant throb, a fiery pulse that demanded attention. The foot was already swelling. Forget the wraps. They were nothing but glorified rags. If I’d started with proper synth-leather boots, this wouldn’t have happened. *Stop it, Jax.* The thought was self-pity, useless, unproductive. I slammed it down. The past was irrelevant. Cursing my gear wouldn’t change my current reality. My fault for not scanning the terrain, not for the cheap gear. Assess. Always assess. My right foot was numb. A dull heat, fading rapidly. A bad sign, or a good one? Paralytic toxin. Most likely. Scrappers were known for that. It was either a potent dose, or the nerves were completely severed. I didn’t know which was worse. “I know you’re hiding. Come out, then.” My voice was a low growl, strained. Still no sound. Nothing but my own ragged breathing. I shifted my weight, testing the foot. Painful, but I could still move it. The numbness was receding. Or perhaps the pain was just overriding the paralyzing effect. *Why am I still being optimistic?* The thought was a jarring intrusion. I ignored it. “Come out, you coward.” I pushed forward. Slow, deliberate steps. Time wasn’t on my side. Bleeding, injured. If a fight was coming, it was better sooner than later. No time to wait for reinforcements. For either of us. “Not coming?” Perhaps there was no Scrapper. Perhaps I was a fool, bleeding in the dark from a self-inflicted wound, cursing an empty space. So what? Even so, I wanted to survive. I *would* survive. “Then I’ll come to you.” I pushed my pace. A little faster than crawling. Now, it felt like a full sprint. Every step sent fresh agony up my leg. My right foot screamed. “Ssspp… haa… haa…” The toxin was fading, or the pain was breaking through. Either way, nerves were firing. Good. Damage, yes, but not severed. A grim comfort. *Why am I finding comfort in this?* The internal monologue was a jumble of pain and analysis. My brain felt raw, exposed. “Your mother’s a rotting spore-stalk,” I muttered, the words spilling out without filter. Was it the blood loss? The pure, grinding pain? My mind felt dry, brittle. “Your father’s a starved burrow-worm.” I kept moving. Relentless, if slow. “So you’re just a miserable, scavenging blight, aren’t you?” Then, a sound. Small, wet, yet impossibly loud in the absolute silence. *Squelch.* Finally. A presence. “What, don’t like hearing about your parentage?” I knew it wasn't the taunt. It was my movement. The sound came from behind me. It had been forced to react as I moved away. I sped up. The squelching footsteps behind me also quickened. *Squelch, squelch, squelch, squelch.* An unusual sound. Sticky, wet, like something dragging through mud or soft decay. For all I knew Scrappers were barely waist-high, but the sound felt massive, predatory. To combat the rising fear, I kept talking. Barbarian strength, they called it. Primal. If I could just get it into close-quarters, I’d crush it. No Scrapper could stand against a full-grown ‘Frontier Warrior’ in a direct fight. “Don’t just follow. Come get some, you blight.” I taunted, but it merely kept pace, maintaining a precise distance. “Gruck! Gruck!” It was a guttural snarl, close to an animalistic howl. But I felt it. There was a malicious joy in that sound. “Grurururuck! Gruck!” It was laughing. Relishing my pain, my struggle. My bleeding form. Smart bastard. Too smart. Change of plans. I stopped abruptly. Then stumbled, dramatically collapsing to the cold rock floor. My forehead slammed into a jagged outcropping. *Crack!* Blinding pain erupted. A fresh wave of agony. But I forced no sound, no gasp. This was a battle of patience. Of nerve. If it approached, thinking me down, I won. If I actually bled out first, I lost. “Gruck?” A questioning sound. Footsteps approached, agonizingly slow. Deliberate. Despite seeing its prey fall, it was suspicious. *Fucking cautious, aren’t you?* Scrappers in the sim were cannon fodder. Weakest mobs. Traps, poison, yes, but poor in direct combat. This one was different. This was reality. This Scrapper was several times more intelligent than any of the brutish initiates I’d started with. *Squelch.* It stopped. Somewhere between five and ten meters away. Why? A dull thud against my shoulder. Then a clatter. What the—? It was pelting me with stones. Testing. Was I dead? Or merely feigning? *You won’t just stone me until I’m a pulpy mess, will you?* “Grurururuck! Gruck!” A howl of glee. When I remained still, utterly unresponsive, it took my silence as confirmation. Dead. Easy prey. *Squelch, squelch, squelch, squelch.* It rushed forward, footsteps betraying its excitement. Almost skipping. I calmed my own surging adrenaline, counting the distance by the sound. When I judged it close enough, within arm’s reach— “Fuck you!” I sprang up, lunging forward, arms outstretched. Grabbing would be faster, more effective than trying to wield the shield. A surprise grapple. That was the plan. It failed. Again, two reasons. First, I was still a step short. My reach was less than I estimated in the darkness. Second, its movements were far more agile, faster than expected. “Gruck!” The Scrapper leaned back, effortlessly sidestepping. It was impossible to see it, but I felt the air shift. It was gone, out of my grasp.

Gauntlet's Blind Embrace