...Toll of Abyss

Eilífr stumbled into the narrow cave, the jagged edges of the entrance scraping against the battered plates of his armor. The small space barely accommodated his hulking frame, forcing him to crouch awkwardly as he collapsed against the rough wall. His chest heaved with labored breaths, the suit's warning systems a cacophony of overlapping alerts.

Critical fatigue detected. Warning: organ strain. Combat efficiency: 12%. Immediate rest required.

The robotic voice droned in his ear, but it was just noise now, blending into the haze that clouded his mind. He couldn't focus on it, couldn't process the data scrolling across his visor. His head pounded relentlessly, each heartbeat like a hammer against his skull. His vision swam with dark spots, and the faint glow of his heads-up display flickered like a dying lightbulb.

His body screamed for rest, the effects of 200 hours without sleep overwhelming even his enhanced physiology. The adrenaline that had kept him moving was gone, leaving behind raw, crushing exhaustion. Every joint felt like it was filled with gravel, grinding painfully with even the smallest movement. His muscles, once augmented to withstand inhuman strain, trembled uncontrollably, twitching with spasms he couldn't suppress.

He reached up to wipe at his visor, but his arm felt like it weighed a thousand pounds. His movements were sluggish, uncoordinated. It was as if his body no longer obeyed him, each action delayed as if stuck in molasses. Even his breathing was shallow and uneven, each inhale a conscious effort that left him lightheaded.

He blinked slowly, trying to clear the fog in his mind. Thoughts came in fractured bursts, disjointed and fleeting. He couldn't hold onto a single train of thought; his mind would start something only to abandon it halfway through, leaving him staring blankly at the jagged rock walls.

Auditory hallucinations. That was the term the medics had used back in training. The whispers he heard now—hushed voices calling his name, the faint sound of skittering claws just outside the cave—were likely symptoms of extreme sleep deprivation. He clenched his teeth, trying to push the phantom noises away, but they lingered, gnawing at his frayed nerves.

His eyes burned with the kind of exhaustion that no blink could fix. They felt like sandpaper every time he closed them, yet staying awake was even worse. He couldn't afford to rest, couldn't risk letting his guard down. The Extractants might not have been clever enough to detect his hiding spot immediately, but they were patient hunters. They would wait.

His head lolled against the wall, the coolness of the stone doing little to ease the feverish heat radiating through him. His skin felt clammy, even inside the armor's controlled environment. Sweat dripped down his temple, stinging his eyes as it mixed with the grime and blood caking his face.

"Rest... just a minute," he mumbled to himself, his voice hoarse and barely audible. He knew it was a lie. There was no "just a minute" in a place like this. Closing his eyes even for a second could mean death, but the pull of sleep was overwhelming, seductive in its promise of release.

His hands trembled as he reached for his MK99, propping it across his lap like a sentinel. He forced himself to stay upright, leaning heavily against the wall as his legs threatened to give out entirely. The cave was silent save for the rasp of his breathing and the faint hum of his armor's cooling systems struggling to compensate for his deteriorating condition.

The alarms blared again, louder this time, the suit's AI emphasizing the severity of his condition.

Warning: neuromuscular response delayed. Dehydration detected. Neural activity: critical. Immediate intervention required.

He squeezed his eyes shut, pressing a trembling hand to his helmet as if that would make the noise stop. His mind was slipping, fraying at the edges like a threadbare rope. He saw flashes of memories—faces of people he'd saved, places he'd left in ruins, the haunting glow of Sister Lydia's rosary resting in his chest compartment.

The image of her handing it to him resurfaced, her trembling hand holding out the simple trinket as if it could shield him from the horrors of this place. For a brief moment, his fingers brushed against the small compartment on his chest. He hesitated, his exhaustion-addled mind unable to decide if opening it was worth the effort.

Instead, he let his hand fall limply to his side, the motion almost robotic. His head tilted forward, chin resting against his chest as his vision darkened. The pull of unconsciousness was irresistible now, a wave crashing over him no matter how hard he tried to fight it.

"Just... one minute," he whispered again, his voice trailing off as his trembling body stilled.

And in the oppressive silence of the cave, the only sound was the faint, rhythmic hum of his suit as it stood vigil over its battered occupant, the predator of humanity reduced to a man on the brink.

Eilífr's head dipped lower, his consciousness teetering on the edge of collapse. His vision blurred, and the oppressive darkness of the cave felt like it was swallowing him whole. The world narrowed to the shallow rasps of his breath, the occasional flicker of his HUD, and the faint, phantom sounds that might have been real or might have been the result of his tortured mind.

But then, like a crack of lightning, an image burst into his thoughts—Alekzandra. Her face, stained with tears, as she stood at his funeral. The thought wasn't a new one; in the quiet moments between battles, he'd imagined such a scene before. But this time, it was visceral. He saw the way her lips trembled, the way her hands clutched his dog tags tightly, her voice breaking as she whispered his name. It wasn't a thought—this was a vision that tore into his soul, shaking him to his core.

"Aah… Alekzandra. Don't cry," he whispered hoarsely, his lips barely moving. His voice was cracked and dry, the words more a plea than a command.

The sheer weight of the image jolted him like a surge of electricity. His body, though on the verge of complete failure, tensed instinctively, adrenaline squeezing out of the last reserves of his utterly drained system. He gritted his teeth, his breathing turning into harsh, raspy growls as he forced his head upright.

The moment was fleeting—just enough clarity to make him painfully aware of how vulnerable he'd become. And then he heard it: the faint crunch of movement in the cave, far too deliberate to be an echo of his own actions. His eyes darted toward the sound, and his HUD pinged faintly, the motion tracker barely picking up the source.

The hallucinations weren't hallucinations at all.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the glint of a chitinous leg emerging from the shadows. His instincts, dulled as they were, kicked in like an ancient reflex. He didn't think. He moved. His trembling hands tightened around the MK99 in his lap, the action sloppy but effective as his finger found the trigger.

BOOM.

The rifle barked to life, the muzzle flash illuminating the pitch-black cave like a flash of lightning. The Extractant, a grotesque mix of sinewy limbs and jagged mandibles, shrieked as the round punched through its chest, sending it sprawling backward into the darkness. The sound of its death rattle echoed off the walls, a grotesque symphony that only confirmed what he already knew.

He wasn't alone.

The adrenaline surge steadied his hands just long enough for him to rack another round into the chamber. He shifted his weight, planting one knee firmly against the cave floor, his senses sharpening despite his exhaustion. His vision cleared, his breathing deepened, and his mind locked into the one state he knew best: survival.

The skittering grew louder now, the creatures emboldened by his weakened state. But Eilífr wasn't done. Not yet. He pushed himself upright, his body screaming in protest as he straightened. His gaze flickered toward the entrance of the cave, a faint shimmer of light teasing him with the promise of escape.

But no. He couldn't leave. Not yet.

"Alekzandra..." he whispered again, his voice low but resolute. Her face lingered in his mind, a stubborn reminder of why he had to keep going.

And so, as the darkness around him churned with movement and the Extractants prepared their next strike, Eilífr stood tall, his weapon ready. He was battered, exhausted, and barely holding himself together, but there was one unyielding truth that echoed in his mind:

He wouldn't let her cry for him. Not today.

Eilífr's armor groaned under the strain, its systems blaring warnings that had long since faded into the background of his awareness. His body was a wreck, pushed to limits even his enhanced physiology wasn't designed to endure. Each step felt like it might be his last, the weight of exhaustion threatening to drag him down into the dark abyss. But he didn't stop. He couldn't.

The tunnel descended sharply now, a narrow, spiraling path that seemed to lead directly into the earth's core. The air grew thicker with every step, humid and suffocating, carrying a stench of decay that clung to his senses. His HUD flickered erratically, struggling to maintain any semblance of functionality in the oppressive environment.

"Warning: Neural fatigue critical. Muscular degradation detected. Immediate rest required."

The AI's monotone voice was a mocking reminder of his condition. Rest? There was no rest for him. He gritted his teeth, forcing one foot in front of the other. His vision blurred, his steps faltered, but sheer willpower kept him upright.

I'm not done yet.

The faint, rhythmic sound of his boots hitting the stone floor echoed through the tunnel, the only sound in the oppressive silence. But then, gradually, another sound began to seep into his awareness—a low, pulsating hum, deep and resonant, vibrating through the very walls of the tunnel. It grew louder as he descended, a heartbeat of something vast and terrible.

Finally, the tunnel widened, opening into a cavern so immense it defied comprehension. Eilífr stopped at the edge, his HUD barely able to render the space before him. The Hive Mind.

It sat in the center of the cavern, a massive, pulsating mass of organic material that seemed to glow with an eerie bioluminescence. Its surface writhed with movement, thousands—no, millions—of tendrils and appendages shifting and undulating as if alive. The Hive Mind was enormous, a living mountain of flesh and sinew that radiated an aura of malevolence so intense it made his stomach churn.

The cavern floor was alive with movement. Extractants swarmed in every direction, a seething tide of grotesque forms guarding their master. Some clung to the cavern walls, others patrolled the floor, their alien eyes scanning for intruders. They were of every variety—spindly, insectoid stalkers; hulking, crab-like brutes; serpentine creatures that slithered with terrifying speed. Millions of them.

Eilífr's breath hitched as he took it all in. This was it. The source of the hive. The heart of the Extractant scourge that had ravaged the surface.

He flexed his trembling hands, feeling the familiar weight of his MK99. It was almost laughable—one man, one weapon, against an entire army. But he didn't hesitate. His body screamed for rest, his armor blared alarms, but he forced himself forward, each step dragging him closer to the monstrous horde.

The Extractants sensed him almost immediately. A wave of chittering, shrieking sounds filled the cavern as their movements synchronized, all turning toward the lone figure that dared to approach their master. The pulsating hum of the Hive Mind grew louder, as if aware of the intruder and preparing to defend itself.

Eilífr's HUD lit up with red markers as the Extractants began to converge on his position. His heart pounded, adrenaline flooding his veins and drowning out the exhaustion. He raised his weapon, his finger tightening on the trigger.