The dawn, a weary, grey watercolour bleeding through the VITA-tinged storm clouds, found Mike and Rook already descending from the ridgeline. Aegis River Camp lay nestled in the expansive valley below, the Echo River a silver artery pulsing through its heart before fracturing into several defended exit points beyond the camp's formidable perimeter. Surrounded by towering, VITA-scarred mountains that rose like ancient, slumbering guardians, ARC felt like a secret, hard-won sanctuary in a world hell-bent on erasure.
Mike, leaning heavily on his rebar, each movement a symphony of torment from his Runic VITA-ravaged K-Organ and crudely mended flesh, pushed onward. The phantom "flickers" of his uncontrolled spatial instability were a constant, nauseating lurch, his vision periodically swimming with orange static. PIXEL, its interface a fractured but welcome ghost, offered sporadic warnings. His driving force was singular: Anya.
"Almost there, architect," Rook rumbled, his voice a low counterpoint to the rustling undergrowth and the distant murmur of the river. He pointed to a massive, cleverly camouflaged gate built into a natural choke point where the valley narrowed – "Riverbend Gate," as Rook called it. "Beyond that lies the first breath of something other than Red Zone rot."
As they drew nearer, the discipline of Aegis River Camp's defenses became chillingly apparent. Figures moved with practiced, silent efficiency atop the ramparts – salvaged Rakshasa-grade plating gleaming dully amidst reinforced timber and earthworks. This wasn't the brutal, almost haphazard desperation of Krexx's Heaven, perched on its defensible mountain and fueled by the surrounding untamed wilderness, a den of predators. ARC, though fortified for war, had a different feel. As the wind shifted, Mike caught it – the faint, unmistakable scent of woodsmoke, yes, but also something else… cultivated soil? And then, almost lost on the breeze, a sound so alien to his recent experiences it made his breath catch: the distant, melodic peal of children laughing. Warmth. A fleeting, fragile ghost of a forgotten world.
"Children?" Mike croaked, the word almost foreign on his tongue.
Rook nodded, a rare flicker of something unreadable in his stone-grey eyes. "ARC's not just a fortress, architect. It's trying to be a future, however small. Council of Eight runs things here, not one tyrant hoarding power like some do. Eight voices. Means progress is slow as a glacier sometimes, and twice as argumentative, but it's… more stable than a king on a bloody throne."
Their approach hadn't gone unnoticed. From the dense tree line bordering the gate, figures emerged, coalescing from the shadows like vengeful spirits of the island itself – warriors of Anansi's Web. Their commander, Sekou, a man whose West African heritage was etched into the stern lines of his face and the intricate, almost subliminal scarification patterns that vanished into his dark, functional clothing, stepped forward. His eyes, old and knowing, held a deep, ancestral pain but missed nothing. With him were Ogun, a giant of a man whose grip on his VITA-laced spear was white-knuckled, and Zola, whose unsettling stillness was more menacing than any overt aggression. Subtle, potent cultural markings – a beaded amulet glinting with scavenged VITA-resistant filaments, the faded ochre of Anansi symbols beneath their armor – spoke of a heritage savagely disrupted but defiantly preserved. Their gazes, hard and unforgiving, snagged on Mike's tattered, blood-soaked state and, more acutely, the almost visible corona of Runic VITA energy that caused his limbs to "flicker" unpredictably.
"Rook," Commander Sekou's voice was a low baritone, resonant and edged with suspicion. "You bring… unusual company. This one smells of deep VITA corruption and old blood." He gestured towards Mike, his eyes narrowed. "He's unstable. What's your play?"
Rook met Sekou's gaze unflinchingly. "Found him in the Red Zone biodomes, Commander. Tangoed with a pair of Alphas, came out breathing. Barely." He paused, then added with deliberate weight, "Pulled some prime salvage from the encounter. Thought Quartermaster Vale might find it… noteworthy."
Sekou considered this, his eyes never leaving Mike. "Vale is always interested in 'noteworthy' salvage. But Anansi's Web is interested in ARC's security. His… condition… is a risk." Just then, Mike, stressed and exhausted, suffered a more pronounced spatial lurch, his form flickering violently, earning him glares of intensified hostility from Ogun and Zola.
"He's weak, needs ARC's medic, not a summary execution by your weavers, Sekou," Rook countered, his tone hardening slightly. "Give him to Doc Marius. Let Vale see the salvage. Then let the Council decide his fate. Fair?"
Sekou's lips thinned. "Fairness is a luxury, Rook. Security is a necessity. Take him to Marius. Ogun, Zola, escort them. And Rook… you will answer to the Council if this one brings ill fortune."
The journey deeper into ARC revealed its truth. Past the formidable outer defenses, the camp bloomed. Orderly rows of cultivated plots, protected by shimmering, almost invisible VITA-deterrent netting, grew strange but hardy-looking crops. Rainwater harvesting systems fed into central cisterns. Workshops hummed with activity – the clang of a makeshift forge, the whir of a scavenged generator. People moved with a weary purpose, their faces lines with hardship, but not the brutal, predatory hunger of Heaven's denizens. There was industry here, a quiet determination. The faint laughter of children, closer now, a melody played against the backdrop of survival. ARC wasn't Heaven's precarious fortress on a savage mountain, feeding off the wild; it was a desperate, stubborn attempt to cultivate life, to build walls not just against the monsters outside, but against the despair within.
Mike, however, found little comfort. His anxiety for Anya was a suffocating weight. He was taken directly to the infirmary, a surprisingly clean and organized space. Doc Marius, a stoic, silver-haired man whose hands were gnarled but remarkably steady, began to assess him. It was then, as Marius expertly cleaned his rapidly but crudely healed wounds and examined his K-Organ, now pulsing with an unnervingly chaotic Runic VITA aura, that Mike heard of Anya, and began to understand the bitter roots of Anansi's Web.
"The Russian scientist you were with?" Marius said, his voice pragmatic, not unkind, as he examined a particularly vicious scar on Mike's leg. "Ivanova. Caused quite the storm. Intercepted near the Northern Pass couple of days back. Sekou and his Web had her brought straight to the Council of Eight for debrief. Seems she spilled her Apex past." Marius grunted, applying a poultice that smelled of VITA-resistant herbs. "Anansi's Web wanted her strung up then and there. Called her a 'heart-taker,' screamed of the old Rakshasa butchers." He looked up at Mike, his eyes shadowed. "Their rage… it's not unfounded, son. Their ancestors, you see… they were taken. Chained. By British interests, back in the late 19th, early 20th century – the 1880s, 1890s, the height of the Scramble for Africa. Torn from West African villages, places in what are now Ghana, Nigeria, Sierra Leone. The colonials… they weren't just after resources, son. Whispers in old Rakshasa data-shards… fragments PIXEL is barely making sense of… speak of targeted abduction. They weren't just enslaving labor; they were hunting for specific genetic markers. They called it 'Project Indomitable Stock' in their damnable, sanitized ledgers."
Mike listened, horrified. "Targeted? Why?"
"Early VITA perception," Marius said grimly. "Even then, the British – and the entities that would later consolidate into Rakshasa Labs and Apex – sensed something near dormant VITA impact sites. Certain bloodlines exhibited… enhanced vitality, a resilience that intrigued their twisted scientific curiosity. These enslaved communities often lived near those zones. Rakshasa, building on that century of blood-soaked colonial 'research' and those cruel 'Indomitable Stock' notes, eventually confirmed it: a rare genetic predisposition, making their hearts uniquely receptive to ambient VITA, unusually dense with nascent energy pathways. It wasn't just about understanding VITA assimilation. Their end goal, Mike, from the very beginning, even with the rudimentary colonial understanding, was to create weapons. They dreamed of super soldiers, tirelessly loyal, brutally effective, disposable assets bred from the very people they oppressed. They wanted human weapons long before the Fang-cats." Marius's voice was thick with disgust. "So, they fed them raw Arcstones, these captive ancestors. Forced VITA exposure, brutal training regimens designed to break the mind while 'activating' the body. Most K-Organs, naturally, couldn't withstand that raw deluge. They ruptured. Agonizing deaths, a testament to Apex's depraved quest for power. A few… a very, very few… developed crude, often dangerously unstable VITA gifts before being culled, or their lines twisted further by Rakshasa's refined horrors. Anansi's Web… they carry that burning inheritance, the scars of generations subjected to that monstrous ambition. That's why Sekou's warriors call Apex 'heart-takers.' It's literal, a brutal truth woven into their very blood." He sighed, the weight of history heavy in the infirmary air. "So when Ivanova walked in, bearing the mark of Apex… Commander Sekou nearly killed her on the spot. But Warden Silas – from the Engineer's Guild, pragmatic as ever – convinced the Council her knowledge of Rakshasa might be crucial. For now, Ivanova's under Council protection, deep within their archives. But the Web… their spiders watch every shadow. They don't forgive."
The news hit Mike like a physical blow. Anya was alive, close… yet ensnared in ARC's volatile politics, hated by a powerful, vengeful faction whose trauma was etched in centuries of exploitation, targeted breeding for war, and VITA-fueled agony. He felt a surge of desperate helplessness, a fierce need to reach her.
Rook returned later, his expression unreadable. "Quartermaster Vale sends his… compliments on the Azure Serpent Core. Impressive size. Rare purity, even for a raw stone. It's bought you Marius's care and this roof for a few nights. After that…" Rook shrugged. "Council will decide. Control that… flickering, architect. Or ARC will make the decision for you, and it won't be pleasant."
That night, alone in a small, stone-walled alcove off the main infirmary, moonlight, pale and filtered through the valley mists, illuminated the VITA-treasures Mike had acquired. He held the inert Pale Orange Rune fragment, a tiny, cool sliver in his palm. "All that… incredible power," he whispered, the K-Organ in his neck aching in sympathy, a constant throb of contained chaos. "That intricate, Runic VITA, code for time and space itself… wasted. Burned out just keeping my stupid ass from becoming monster food." A wave of bitter regret washed over him. The potential lost was staggering. He felt like a pauper who'd unknowingly used a king's ransom to light a single candle.
Then his gaze, and his fingers, shifted to the Dark Azure Blue VITA Core. Its substantial weight was a reassuring pressure in his hand, its deep, resonant energy pulsing like a captured, miniature star against his skin, visible even in the dim light. A grim satisfaction, a hard-won pragmatism, began to soothe the raw edges of his frustration. "But this," he murmured, turning the magnificent Core over, its azure depths swirling with untamed power. "This is an equivalent compensation. Raw energy. Untamed potential." The knowledge that many of Anansi's Web's ancestors had perished in unimaginable agony trying to harness even lesser Arcstones in a depraved quest to make them super-soldiers, their K-Organs shattering, lent a terrible, sobering weight to the Core's power. His chaotic spatial jaunts, the residue of the Orange Rune, might be a dangerous curse right now, but this Azure Core… this was a different kind of power, a different kind of gamble. His survival in this strange, faction-ruled haven, and any hope of helping Anya, now rested precariously on his ability to navigate not only his own fractured VITA abilities, but the deadly, eight-headed political currents of Aegis River Camp, with Anansi's Web casting its long, bitter shadow over them both.