Pain flared, sharp and immediate, snapping Roric back to consciousness. Not the phantom agony of the rebar wound, but a constellation of lesser hurts: bruises blooming across his back and shoulders, a dull ache in his skull, scrapes stinging on his arms and face. He lay sprawled face-down in damp, spongy earth, the cloying scent of unfamiliar vegetation thick in his nostrils. Above, a dense latticework of enormous leaves and pulsating, vine-like growths blotted out most of the chaotic sky he'd fallen from, filtering the light into shifting patterns of emerald, sapphire, and amber on the jungle floor.
Status report, his training drilled into him, cutting through the fog of disorientation. He pushed himself up, muscles protesting, grit scraping against his skin. A quick pat-down confirmed the impossible: the fatal wound was gone, healed without a scar. His CRRF fatigues, however, were shredded, stained with the memory of his own blood and the grime of the impact. His helmet was lost in the fall. His X-4 Pulse Rifle – gone. The sidearm he'd clutched in his final moments on Earth – also gone.
He was alive, inexplicably healed, and practically unarmed in an environment that screamed hostility.
Gear check. He inventoried what remained. Standard issue combat knife, still secured in its sheath on his thigh rig. One fragmentation grenade, miraculously still clipped to his torn webbing. Half a dozen high-energy ration bars in a thigh pocket, likely compressed mush now. A water canteen, empty. His multi-tool. A basic med-kit pouch, contents probably scattered or ruined by the impact. That was it. From a fully equipped Coalition trooper to a survivor with little more than rags and a knife. The thought sent a fresh wave of vertigo through him, colder than the jungle air.
He forced it down, focusing on the immediate. Environment. He sank into a low crouch, scanning his surroundings, deliberately slowing his breathing. The air was thick, heavy with moisture, carrying a bizarre symphony of sounds: clicking insects, chirps that were too melodic for birds, deep guttural resonances that vibrated through the ground, and a constant, low hum like distant machinery or a massive beehive. Strange plants crowded every surface – fungi that pulsed with soft bioluminescence, vines covered in iridescent scales that seemed to writhe slowly, trees whose bark resembled overlapping plates of obsidian. The smell was overpowering: damp earth, sweet decay, pungent floral notes, and an underlying tang of ozone, a reminder of the Maelstrom visible through gaps in the canopy far above.
There was no sign of the sky battle now, only the turbulent colours of the void. Had it moved on? Had he fallen far from where he materialized? Questions without answers.
His first priority was water. Second, assessing potential threats. Third, finding a defensible position or, better yet, signs of whoever or whatever lived here. He couldn't shake the image of those bizarre flying machines – interceptors and ramshackle skiffs – trading energy blasts. Someone operated them. Friend or foe? Another unanswerable question.
He checked the med-kit. Miraculously, two antiseptic wipes, a small roll of gauze, and three stim-patches remained intact. Minimal, but better than nothing. He tucked them securely back. The ration bars were indeed flattened but edible. He resisted the urge to tear one open, discipline holding sway. Rationing was key.
He needed to move, but blindly crashing through this alien undergrowth felt like suicide. He strained his ears, trying to isolate specific sounds, identify patterns, pinpoint potential dangers. That low, guttural resonance seemed closer now. Intermittent. Like something large pacing nearby.
He drew his combat knife – eight inches of CRRF-issue sharpened alloy, feeling woefully inadequate. Holding it in a reverse grip, he began to move, slowly, deliberately placing each foot to minimize noise, using the dense foliage for cover. He followed the slight downward slope of the land, reasoning that water usually pooled lower down.
The jungle floor was a treacherous tapestry of roots, glowing moss, and slick, decomposing leaves. Every shadow seemed to hold a potential threat. His senses felt overloaded, his training struggling to categorize the unfamiliar stimuli. Was that rustle just the wind, or something stalking him? Was that sweet scent alluring, or the perfume of a predator?
He froze. Ahead, through a screen of broad, fan-like leaves, something moved. Low to the ground. Sleek, powerful muscles rippled beneath chitinous-looking hide the colour of dried blood. It was roughly the size of a large panther, but leaner, longer, with six legs ending in wickedly curved claws that dug into the earth. Its head was elongated, almost crocodilian, but without discernible eyes. Instead, twin rows of quivering, antennae-like feelers swept the air along its snout. A low clicking sound emanated from its throat, and the air around it shimmered faintly, distorting the foliage behind it.
Roric's blood ran cold. He'd faced hostile fauna in simulations – genetically engineered guard dogs, escaped bio-weapons – but nothing like this. This creature felt fundamentally wrong. The lack of eyes, the six legs, the shimmering distortion… it defied earthly biology.
He remained absolutely still, hidden behind the leafy screen, controlling his breathing. The creature padded forward, its feelers twitching rapidly, sampling the air. It seemed to be tracking something by scent or vibration. Was it tracking him?
Slowly, silently, it changed direction, angling towards his position. Its claws made soft schlick sounds as they sank into the damp soil. The clicking intensified.
Cover blown. He didn't know how, but it knew he was there. Retreat wasn't an option; it moved with predatory grace, likely faster than him in this terrain. Ambush was his only chance.
He shifted his weight, knife held ready. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drum against the alien pulse of the jungle. He eyed the creature's presumed vital areas – where the neck joined the shoulder, the torso behind the forelegs – guessing based on terrestrial anatomy, hoping the parallels held.
The creature paused just meters away, head lowered, feelers vibrating intensely. The air around it warped more noticeably. Roric realized with a jolt of fear that it wasn't just an optical illusion – the creature was generating some kind of field, perhaps camouflage or disorientation.
It lunged.
Not a straight charge, but a blurringly fast sideways leap, aiming to flank him. Roric reacted purely on instinct, throwing himself backward and to the side, rolling away from the raking claws that sliced through the air where he'd been. He came up into a crouch, knife forward.
The creature landed lightly, recovering instantly, its eyeless head snapping towards him. It emitted a high-pitched shriek that grated on his nerves, and the shimmering field around it intensified, making his vision blur momentarily at the edges.
Disorientation field. Fight through it.
It charged again, six legs churning, covering the ground with terrifying speed. Roric didn't try to meet it head-on. He feinted left, then darted right as the creature adjusted, bringing the knife up in a powerful underhand thrust aimed at the exposed underside of its neck as it passed.
The blade hit something unexpectedly hard, jarring his arm to the shoulder. Not flesh, but dense plating beneath the hide. It skidded off with a screech of metal on chitin, leaving only a shallow gash. The creature shrieked again, twisting its body with unnatural flexibility, a clawed foreleg lashing out.
Roric barely managed to parry the blow with his forearm, the impact staggering him. Pain flared, sharp and deep. He felt claws scrape against bone. He gritted his teeth, shoved the creature away, and scrambled back, putting distance between them. His left arm throbbed, blood welling from deep gashes.
Armor plating. Knife ineffective on direct thrusts. Aim for joints? Throat?
The creature circled him now, more cautious after the failed attacks. Its feelers twitched, analyzing him. The disorientation field pulsed, making the jungle background swim nauseatingly. Roric forced himself to focus, ignoring the throb in his arm, the distracting visual noise.
He needed an edge. Something to bypass the armor. He glanced down at his webbing. The grenade. Risky. Too close range, the shrapnel could take him out too. But…
The creature gathered itself, coiling its powerful legs. Another lunge was coming.
Roric made his decision. As it sprang, he didn't dodge. He lunged forward, dropping low, rolling beneath the creature's trajectory. Upside down, disoriented, he slapped the fragmentation grenade against the creature's softer underbelly, arming it with a desperate twist just as its hind legs kicked him violently away.
He hit the ground hard, pain exploding in his ribs. Scrabbling frantically, he pushed himself backwards, trying to get behind a thick, scaly tree trunk as the grenade's three-second fuse counted down.
One… two…
The detonation was deafening in the enclosed space, a brutal CRUMP that slammed him against the tree bark. Shrapnel whined through the air, shredding leaves and embedding itself in nearby trunks. The creature's agonized shriek was cut short.
Roric risked a look around the edge of the tree. The predator lay mangled, its underbelly blown open, dark ichor pooling on the jungle floor. The disorientation field had vanished. Silence descended, heavy and ringing.
He stayed behind cover for a full minute, knife still gripped tightly, scanning the surrounding jungle, listening intently. Nothing. The immediate threat was neutralized.
Slowly, painfully, he pushed himself to his feet. His left arm was bleeding freely, the cuts deep. His ribs screamed in protest with every breath. He ripped a strip of cloth from his already tattered fatigues and clumsily bandaged his arm, applying pressure. It would have to do. The med-kit supplies were too precious for this if he could help it.
He approached the carcass cautiously. The stench was foul, ammoniac and metallic. He prodded it with his boot. Definitely dead. He noted the segmented armor plates, the powerful musculature, the wickedly sharp claws. This thing was evolved for killing. Native fauna. He shuddered to think what else lurked in this jungle.
His training had saved him, yes. His reflexes, his tactical assessment, his willingness to use overwhelming force even at personal risk. But it had been too close. The creature's speed, its armor, its disorientation field – none of it was in the CRRF combat manuals. He'd survived through a combination of training, luck, and desperation. Luck wasn't a sustainable strategy.
He felt a profound sense of isolation wash over him. He was impossibly far from home, wounded, poorly equipped, hunted by things he couldn't comprehend. The adrenaline ebb left him shaky, the reality of his situation crashing down. He thought of the Warpig burning, of Croft's squad, of Miller and Thorne… gone. He thought of his own death, the shadow in the archive, the final impact. And now this. A second life? A second chance? Or just a different kind of hell?
He shook his head, pushing the thoughts away. Survival first. Analysis later. He needed water, shelter, information. Standing here contemplating his existential dread wasn't going to help.
He retrieved his knife, wiping the creature's ichor off on the broad leaves. He gave the jungle a final, wary scan, then started moving again, favoring his injured side, following the slope downwards, listening for the sound of running water, his eyes peeled for the next threat in this beautiful, lethal world. Every shadow seemed deeper now, every strange sound more menacing. This was day one. Point one. And he was already bleeding.