A rhythmic thud echoed in the subterranean passage, the sound of my sole boot striking the rough rock floor. My right foot, bare and calloused, slid with each step. It wasn't comfortable. But it was progress. Only hours ago, I’d dragged myself through the stygian blackness on three limbs, bleeding and broken. This hobbled gait, this raw ache, felt like a rebirth. A grim sort of dignity returned, even if temporary. How long could such a feeling last in the Vesper Wastes? My breath hitched, a cold wisp in the chilled air. I advanced, a salvaged blast shield held high, sweeping the crystalline glow ahead. No need to strain my eyes in this section. The very walls hummed with faint, bio-luminescent crystals, casting an eerie, yet welcome, light. Compared to the crushing dark, the bleeding silence, this was a godsend. A blessed sight, a tactical advantage against the vile indigenous fauna I now hunted. “Scratch that,” I muttered. “Exterminated.” From behind a jagged rock, a squat, multi-limbed creature burst forth. A Chitin-back. Its mandibles clacked, pincers extended. Its surprise attack, predictable as ever, confirmed the low-tier threat rating my simulation, *The Vesper Protocol*, had assigned them. I met its charge, not with a shout, but with a guttural grunt, slamming the shield forward. The beast, all chitin and sinew, collided with the reinforced duraplate. A wet *thump* reverberated through my arm as it crumpled, stunned. Before it could recover, my boot stomped down, crushing ribs beneath the heavy sole. *Gruck…* A pained chirp. Its multiple eyes, dull and black, stared up, twitching. No time for pity. I knew these creatures. The *Protocol* had documented their feigned weakness, their cunning. They learned. They adapted, slowly. But not fast enough to fool a player who’d cleared the simulation on ‘Nightmare’ difficulty. *Gruck-gruuuu…* Perhaps this one was different. Perhaps its friend, the one that had left me with a torn pack and a bleeding leg, was the truly vile one. No matter. The Wastes didn't differentiate. My shield's reinforced edge came down. Not a push, but a focused, brutal cleave. The chitin cracked with a sickening crunch. The creature convulsed once, then shimmered, dissolving into motes of pale light. From where it vanished, a small, fist-sized crystal remained. A Lumina Shard. Proof of diminished malice, or just another resource to exploit. I snatched it, cool and smooth, stuffing it into a pocket of my scavenged cargo pants. This was the tenth since I entered the Anomalous Tunnels. “Bloody pests,” I grumbled, surveying the empty passage. Barely survived a close shave in the deeper, darker sections, only to find these Chitin-backs infesting the lighted zones. At first, the encounters had been tense. But a pattern emerged. In these illuminated passages, the Chitin-backs were less of a threat. Their ambush tactics, so effective in pitch black, were laughably crude here. A tripwire of sinew, poorly camouflaged against the glowing rock. A shallow pit trap, barely concealed. Even an amateur colonist would spot them. These things had brains, but not much. My simulation knowledge, *The Vesper Protocol*, had drilled this into me: predictable enemies were exploitable enemies. They relied on sheer numbers and environmental advantage, neither of which they held in these lit areas. Their primary weapon: short, barbed forelimbs. Their strength: equivalent to a malnourished youth. My current form, enhanced by whatever latent physiological changes this new reality had wrought, was a walking tank compared to them. I moved with the raw, brutal efficiency of a trained, if desperate, combatant. One Chitin-back, alone, could be neutralized in three seconds flat. My only real concern was a coordinated ambush, but their shoddy traps screamed 'trap here!' loud enough for the deaf. It was almost insulting. A fleeting thought, a dangerous one, whispered in my mind: *This isn't so bad. A simple extermination run.* I felt a flicker of something akin to pride. *Slap!* My palm connected with my cheek. The sting cut through the dangerous complacency. This wasn't a game. This wasn't a score. That kind of arrogance got colonists killed. I had only just clawed my way back from the brink. No new problems had been solved, only delayed. “Hunger, first,” I stated, the word a dry rasp in my throat. My rations, a five-day supply from the settlement’s quartermaster, were mostly gone. A tear in my pack, an oversight in the chaotic scramble after the last Chitin-back swarm, had claimed most of it. There was no going back into the unlit depths for it. The Wastes offered no fairy tales. Crunch, crunch. I pulled a hardened nutrient bar from my pocket. It was dry, flavorless, designed for preservation, not palatability. But as saliva softened it, a faint sweetness, the taste of survival, spread across my tongue. It was ambrosia. The barbarian-like physique I now inhabited seemed to savor every calorie. Three bites. The bar, the size of my palm, vanished. A strange, bitter regret lingered. Not enough. Never enough. Thirst. This was problem number two. A more critical one. *Where in the hells am I supposed to find water?* *Chitin-back eliminated.* *Chitin-back eliminated.* *Warning: Dehydration critical. Seek potable water source.* *The Vesper Protocol* simulation had a robust survival system. In the game, a meal was often enough to cover hydration. But this wasn't *The Vesper Protocol*. This was the raw, unforgiving reality it mirrored, amplified. My memory of the simulation provided the answer. No water issued at the colony gate meant a source was available inside. Likely, a reliable one, given the difficulty curve of the game. This reality was brutal, but it still followed some internal logic. It didn't take long. “Get down!” My shield slammed another Chitin-back against a crystal formation. It popped, leaving another Lumina Shard. Hours passed, filled with the dull thud of combat and the endless, twisting passages. Then, a faint, rhythmic drip reached my ears. Following the sound, I navigated a final bend. A small, stagnant pool shimmered under the crystal light. Beside it, a lone colonist squatted, hunched over, drinking. He noticed me. His eyes, wary and shadowed, met mine across the small, cavernous space. No words were exchanged. He stood, wiped his mouth, and melted into the shadows of a side passage, leaving me alone with the water. Others I encountered afterwards reacted similarly. A glimpse of my bloodied, disheveled form, and they’d quickly veer away. *The Vesper Protocol* had shown me this behavior, the unwritten rule of non-interference among early colonists in dangerous zones. Or maybe, my appearance just made me look like an apex predator. I drank deeply. The water was metallic, cold, but refreshing. Hydration felt like a luxury. Time became a blur. Hunt, eat, drink, repeat. The Lumina Shards accumulated. “One, two, three, four… forty-four.” I counted the glowing crystals. Forty-four. That converted to roughly a week’s rations, if traded efficiently at the settlement. A thrilling, brutal journey so far. But every gain came with a price. My body screamed exhaustion. This was my third, and most critical, problem. *Sleep. I need sleep.* All creatures, even a physically dominant specimen like my current body, eventually required rest. How did one sleep in a monster-infested tunnel system? Two options. First: trust to chance. Curl up and hope nothing found you. A fool's gamble. My personal experience with 'fate' had been… less than ideal. Second: find a partner. Someone to share the watch. A temporary alliance, pragmatic and mutually beneficial. I made my choice. *Find a Night-Watch Partner.* Not a formal party, not a bond of trust. Just a shared necessity. *The Vesper Protocol* had often forced this strategy. Short-term cooperation was common among exhausted players. Thump, thump. I shifted my focus from hunting to seeking. Groups of colonists, two or three, were already settled, taking turns on watch. I approached a few, signaling my intent. Each time, they shook their heads, their expressions wary. They might have claimed 'full capacity,' but the subtle recoiling, the hand that instinctively moved to a weapon, spoke volumes. My blood-soaked gear and raw demeanor were a deterrent. *Motherfuckers. Do they think they’re any cleaner?* As I passed another cluster, a voice cut through my thoughts. “Hey.” The man was rugged, mid-thirties, with kind eyes that belied the heavy, gore-streaked bludgeon in his hand. Roughly 180 centimeters, solid build. He offered a slight, tired smile. “Looking for a Night-Watch Partner?” I halted. *What in the hells is he talking about?* I took an instinctive step back, wary. The term felt… off. Perverted, somehow. He tilted his head, the smile faltering slightly. “No? Thought you might be. You look like you could hold your own, a barbarian type. Shame.” *Say that earlier, old man.* Then it clicked. *Night-Watch Partner*. The slang. My simulation notes had referred to them as ‘Night Companions’ – comrades for the night. The actual spoken term felt less formal, more… frontier. But the meaning was clear. “Yes,” I clarified. “I am looking for a Night-Watch Partner.” “Good. Lucky, then. Care to join up?” “I will.” And just like that, an alliance was struck. “Name’s Kael.” He extended a hand, calloused and thick. I took it. His grip was firm. “Jax Vane.” “Jax, then.” Kael’s gaze was assessing, but without hostility. He had experience. He took charge of the immediate conversation, pragmatic. “Three’s best, usually. More eyes, more rest. But finding another out here right now is a stamina sink. Two of us, for now? What do you think?” Two. Sleeping together. The words, again, felt strange. But the logic was sound. “Agreed.” “Good. If anyone else approaches, we discuss. Fair?” “Fair.” The first night’s partnership was set. But then, the predictable frontier formality. “Right. Watch order. Hand’s Luck?” Kael held out a closed fist. *Hand’s Luck*. A simple, crude version of rock-paper-scissors. I’d seen it in the simulation. My luck with it had always been terrible. And, as expected, it was terrible now. “Hmm. Looks like I won,” Kael said, a wry smile touching his lips. *Damn it.* “So, first watch is yours, Jax. Wake me at my turn. Any trouble – Chitin-backs, or other colonists, wake me first. Understand?” “Understood.” “Here.” Kael unclipped a small, heavy disc from his belt. An old, rugged field chronometer. Its face glowed faintly, numbers etched around a single, slow-moving hand. “When the short hand touches this mark,” he pointed to a specific numeral, “that’s my time. Don't break it. Valuable tech.” “Understood.” I took the device. The weight felt solid, reassuring. Kael wasn't being condescending; he was just being direct. The Vesper Wastes didn't suffer fools. Moments later, Kael unrolled a thin, insulated tarp, using his pack as a pillow. He was asleep before I could even blink. The man collapsed, exhausted, into oblivion. *Looks comfortable. Wonder if he’ll share that tarp when it’s my turn?* Hours crawled by. The silence of the Anomalous Tunnels was absolute, save for the occasional, distant drip of water. No Chitin-backs. No other colonists. Everyone must have found their own Night-Watch Partner, or simply risked the deep sleep. My eyelids grew heavy. Still, I leaned against the rock, chronometer clutched in hand. My mind drifted, analyzing future moves, calculating risks, preparing for the dawn. Time passed quickly enough in the strategic landscape of my thoughts. “Kael. Your turn.” Kael stirred, blinking. “Anything happen?” “No.” “Good. Thanks for the watch.” He stretched, a groan escaping his lips, then took the chronometer from my hand, his eyes now alert. The partnership, however temporary, had held.

Echoes of Protocol