Holding his shield out, Ryder limped into the disturbing scene.
The weird music sounded like a mix of garbled radio and a strange march. It felt like it crawled under his skin, a deeply unsettling sound that grated on his nerves and mixed with the thick stench of stale rations and burnt weapon lubricant, clogging his nostrils.
Flickering, unseen lights cast strange, shifting shadows across warped metal lockers and stained tables that still seemed to be forming from the anomaly's substance.
With a jolt, he realized this place was actively building itself from his memories.
He moved onto worn concrete flooring, the transition feeling abrupt after the polished metal of the corridor.
Crudely built bunkers made of packed earth and bone lined one wall, looking cold and wrong.
Overhead, fluorescent tubes buzzed violently, their erratic flickering providing the main source of light while fighting against the shadows and Rigg's green glow-rod light.
The whole scene felt cheap and artificial, like stepping inside a poorly constructed movie set trying to imitate a forward operating base, built by someone who'd only heard descriptions. It was familiar, yet fundamentally wrong in a way that made his skin crawl.
[MEMORY ECHO DETECTED: FIELD OUTPOST]
[ENVIRONMENTAL INSTABILITY: MODERATE]
He scanned the empty bunkers and the long makeshift counter gleaming under the flickering lights. "Place gives me the creeps," Ryder muttered, half to himself. "Something ain't right." His instincts screamed caution.
Rigg stayed close, his face pale and eyes wide as he took in the bizarre transformation. The kid looked completely bewildered by the mundane wrongness of it all—the strange metal boxes, the harsh lighting, the unfamiliar smells.
"This place..." Rigg whispered, his voice tight with unease. "It feels… hollow. Like a skin without anything inside. It feels... dead."
The kid wasn't wrong; it felt like a hollow echo, a stage waiting for actors.
"Well, ain't this familiar?" Betsy's voice cut through the thick air. "Feels like old times, don't it, hotshot? Nostalgic, even. Except for the faint smell of corpse. Something big is waiting behind that counter, though. Playing quiet."
Ryder didn't need telling. His eyes were already fixed on the shadowy space behind the counter, past the fake stacked ammo cans and discarded ration packs that looked filled with dried leaves. Something was definitely back there. He could feel it.
He started moving forward slowly, his boots scraping faintly on the worn concrete as he tested his footing. Rigg stayed glued to his side, the kid's head whipping around at every flicker and buzz. Ryder kept his shield angled, ready.
They reached the center of the room, the open space between the bunkers and the counter feeling dangerously exposed under the stuttering lights. Ryder shifted his weight and planted his feet, bracing for contact.
Then, movement exploded from behind the counter. A dark shape launched itself upward as a stack of what looked like corrupted field manuals went flying, scattering like dead leaves. It landed hard on the floor with a heavy thump-CLANG of rusted metal and dry bone hitting concrete.
What came out was something almost human, yet so clearly not: a withered figure rattling inside ill-fitting plate armor. The metal was deeply rusted, fused directly to bone and stretched, dried skin in patches, looking less like armor being worn and more like a cage grown around a corpse.
Its head was mostly encased in a dented helm, the gap showing a skull-like face beneath, its empty sockets burning with a faint, hateful green glow that pulsed faintly.
A Living Corpse. Nasty stuff. He hated dealing with undead in video games, and this was way worse. In its grip was a massive greatsword, chipped and notched along the edge, trailing a blackish-green smoke that felt colder than ice. That sword looked incredibly dangerous.
Suddenly, with a sound like air escaping punctured lungs, a dry, rattling hiss escaped it. The Corpse raised the greatsword high overhead and leaped forward, its joints popping audibly in the air, its glowing eye sockets fixed on Ryder. It moved with surprising speed, despite its appearance.
Ryder didn't flinch or hesitate. Combat reflexes honed by countless drills and real-world contact took over. He brought the shield up hard, planting his feet.
CRUNCH-CLANG!
The sound was deafening in the confined space, echoing painfully off the hard surfaces and rattling unseen equipment behind the counter.
Sparks showered the floor as steel met reinforced shield plating. The sheer force of the blow shoved Ryder back a step.
As his boots scraped for purchase on the concrete, he felt the bone-jarring impact travel up his arm and into his shoulder. Damn thing hit hard.
"Watch out!" Rigg yelled, scrambling backward to dive behind the relative safety of a warped metal locker. He peered cautiously around the edge, his glow-rod casting shaky light across the floor.
The Living Corpse continued its assault. It adjusted its grip on the greatsword, the ominous smoke swirling thicker for a moment, and lunged forward, raising the sword for another heavy swing.
The fight was on.
And Ryder knew right away this wasn't like the scrap constructs in the arena.
This felt different. Messier. More dangerous. Like facing down a determined, heavily armed enemy in close quarters, but one that didn't feel pain and radiated an unnatural cold. This would be ugly.
It swung the greatsword wildly, hammering brute force blows against Ryder's shield. Ryder adapted quickly.
This wasn't a precision fight; it was a brutal exchange.
He focused on blocking the main, obvious swings with the heavy shield, letting the impacts jar him but holding his ground and absorbing the shock through his braced stance, looking for an opening in its relentless assault.
Suddenly, it brought the sword slamming down onto a nearby table made of fused bone and metal. The top exploded into jagged shards that flew across the room, stinging Ryder's exposed skin like tiny blades.
Immediately after, the corpse swept the blade low in a wide arc that forced Ryder to hop back, sending overturned crates sliding across the floor.
Ryder timed a heavy downward chop from the corpse and deflected it slightly with the shield's edge to send the sword biting into the concrete floor with a screech of metal on stone.
Before the creature could wrench it free, Ryder shoved forward hard with the shield's flat surface, right into its chest plate. A hollow clang echoed.
The corpse, already off balance from the unexpected deflection, stumbled backward, armor clanking loudly as it tripped over one of the fallen crates.
Seeing the opening but wary of the frosty sword, Ryder didn't immediately press the attack.
Instead, he kicked a stray metal container—the kind used for storing rations, but just loose junk here—sending it skittering across the floor into its path, hoping to trip it up further if it charged.
His own blade stayed ready, low and angled, darting in for quick, opportunistic cuts whenever the living corpse overswung or left itself open during its wild attacks.
Keep it off balance, make it make mistakes, he thought. A quick slash across an armored forearm drew sparks but no blood. Another nicked the already dented helm, making the thing hiss again. The armor was thick, but maybe damaged somewhere.
"Watch out! It knocked something over, floor's slick there!" Rigg shouted from his cover behind the locker, pointing towards a small scattering of white crystalline powder near the corpse's feet where some container had clearly shattered.
"Good eyes, kid." Ryder felt his boot slide slightly as he adjusted his stance, simultaneously feeling the slight give of a loose section of flooring under his left heel. This floor was a damn death trap on its own. Hazards everywhere.
"Hotshot, doesn't this remind you of that CQB training sim?" Betsy chimed in. "Remember that heavy breacher dummy? Except this fella's way past his expiration date and leaking something nasty. Also, look at that dent in his shoulder pad, rusted right through. Might be a good spot to aim for."
Ryder grunted acknowledgement, dodging another wide swing that whistled past his head. He saw the dent Betsy mentioned—a deep gouge in the right shoulder plate, rust flaking around the edges like dried blood.
A weak point. Finally. He kept it in mind, waiting for his shot and trying to maneuver the corpse into a position where he could exploit it.
The fight devolved further into an ugly scramble: close quarters, stumbling over debris, impacts against the flimsy outpost furniture that groaned and splintered under the abuse. It was chaotic and brutal, just like real close-quarters fighting.
The corpse lunged again, swinging low in a wild arc aimed at Ryder's legs. Ryder sidestepped the attack, letting the momentum carry the blade past him.
The greatsword slammed into the side of a silent, flickering comms panel with a screech of tortured metal, embedding itself momentarily in the warped casing and knocking the whole unit sideways with a crash.
The impact caused the flickering lights overhead to buzz even louder, threatening to plunge them into darkness. Just great.
Ryder saw his chance while the blade was stuck. He lunged forward with a quick sword thrust aimed at the corpse's exposed side.
But the creature wrenched its blade free with surprising, grating strength and batted Ryder's blade aside with the flat of its own corrupted steel. The impact felt numbingly cold through Ryder's weapon. Damn thing was still strong.
Having freed its weapon, it immediately lunged forward, abandoning finesse for a crude grapple attempt. It reached out with gauntleted hands, its glowing eyes fixed on Ryder.
Reacting on pure instinct, Ryder brought his shield up horizontally to block the clumsy grab, the impact rattling his teeth again.
He shoved hard, using his leverage against the creature's awkward posture and pushing the stumbling corpse back against the main counter. Mimicked ration packs, apparently solid enough to hurt, scattered on the floor, adding to the crunchy debris underfoot.
The corpse scrabbled for footing on the worn concrete, its metal boots slipping. A low groan escaped its helm, like rusty hinges forced open.
In that moment, shoved up close with his shield pinning its arms, Ryder got a clearer look past the rusted helm into the shadows beneath: a gaunt face, skin stretched paper-thin and taut over bone, grey and desiccated. Eyes vacant, yet burning with that cold green fire—a soul trapped in a husk.
It wasn't just a monster. It was what was left of someone. Some poor bastard who drew a bad hand somewhere down the line—maybe a soldier like him, maybe just a guy in the wrong place—twisted into this walking nightmare by whatever forces were at play here.
The thought didn't bring pity, just cold resolve settling hard in his gut. This needed ending. Fast. For its sake as much as his. No one deserved this.
Rigg ducked again as a chunk of shattered metal plating the size of a dinner plate flew past his head, hitting the wall behind him with a sharp crack.
The living corpse roared, a dry, rattling sound, and pushed back with incredible strength, breaking Ryder's shield pin. It staggered free, swinging its greatsword defensively in a wide arc to create space.
Ryder pressed forward again, refusing to give it room to recover fully. He deflected a clumsy swing with his shield, the clang ringing in his ears, then swung his blade low, aiming for its leg where the armor looked thinner near the knee joint.
The blade scraped against rusted greaves, sparks flying, but failed to bite deep. Still too tough there.
The corpse retaliated instantly with a powerful backhand swing that Ryder barely caught on his shield, the force spinning him halfway around.
He recovered his footing just as the creature brought the sword down again in a heavy, two-handed overhead slam.
Ryder met it squarely with the shield, the impact driving him back another step. The floor beneath him cracked audibly this time under the strain. His shield arm was starting to burn.
He could definitely feel the thing weakening, though. Its swings were still heavy, fueled by that unnatural energy, but they were slower now, more predictable, leaving bigger openings.
The smoke leaking from its sword wavered inconsistently. The green glow in its eyes flickered slightly, less intense than before.
Time to press the advantage, before it got some kind of second wind or the damned outpost decided to throw something else at them. Almost there.
Ryder blocked another heavy, desperate swing aimed at his head.
Instead of just absorbing the blow, he let the impact's momentum help him pivot smoothly, turning his shoulder into it, redirecting the force and using the creature's own momentum against it.
As the corpse overextended, Ryder slammed the sharpened top edge of the shield hard into its side, right below the armpit where the plating looked thinner and less secure.
CRUNCH.
A sound like dry branches snapping, louder this time, accompanied by the screech of protesting metal.
The living corpse let out that hissing groan again, louder this time, and staggered sideways, armor groaning, knocked completely off balance.
Its sword arm dropped slightly, the greatsword dragging on the floor for a second.
It stumbled backward, away from the counter, moving erratically towards the section of wall near the fake supply room doors—the flimsy kind often seen in temporary structures. Got it.
"That wall looks unstable, hotshot!" Betsy yelled. "Now's your chance! Hit him hard! Send him back where he belongs!"
Ryder's eyes narrowed, tracking its movement and planting his feet. That wall section… it looked different.
The cheap, peeling paint pattern, some faded camouflage design, seemed to be actively buckling, rippling like disturbed water. The material beneath looked strangely fluid, as if it were even less real than the rest of this place. What the hell was that? The wall looked like it was barely holding together.
He saw the corpse, momentarily exposed, clutching its injured side, right in front of that weird patch of wall.
It tried to raise its sword again, maybe for a final, desperate attack, but the movement was sluggish and weak.
This was it. The opening. Time to finish this.
Ryder planted his feet firmly on the cracked floor, ignoring the debris crunching under his boots.
He gripped the shield tight, feeling the familiar weight, the solid reality of it in this place made of bad memories and corrupted materials.
Muscles coiled in his shoulder and back, burning with fatigue but ready. One good shove.
He lowered his shoulder, breathing out hard, channeling every bit of frustration, exhaustion, and pure stubbornness into his legs. Forget training sims. This is real. End it now.
Then he drove forward. All his weight, all his momentum, poured into a single, powerful shield charge aimed squarely at the staggering, energy-leaking corpse, aiming to smash the damn thing straight through that peeling camouflage and into whatever waited behind it.