Chapter 3: The Axiom Protocol

The stranger's "camp" turned out to be a small fortress built into the remnants of what might once have been a temple. Stone walls reinforced with scavenged metal, strange symbols etched into defensive barriers, and pale blue lights that glowed without fire or electricity.

"Home sweet home," the stranger said, pushing aside a heavy makeshift door. "At least until something bigger decides to take it."

Inside was surprisingly organized. Supplies stacked in careful piles, weapons arranged by size, and what looked like a crude map sketched on a flat stone surface. Three other people looked up as they entered—two men and a woman, all wearing the same cobbled-together armor as their guide.

"More strays, Kieran?" the woman asked, her voice carrying an accent Orin couldn't place.

Their guide—Kieran—removed his helmet, revealing a weather-beaten face with a jagged scar running from temple to jaw. He couldn't have been older than thirty-five, but his eyes belonged to someone who'd seen centuries of hardship.

"Found them about to become Stalker food," Kieran replied, setting his weapon on a table. "Figured we could use more hands."

One of the men snorted. "They look half-dead already."

Orin straightened despite the pain in his side. "I can pull my weight."

The man gave him an appraising look, then shrugged. "We'll see."

Kieran gestured to a corner where crude bedrolls lay. "Rest. Eat if you're hungry. We'll talk when you're not swaying on your feet."

Marisa didn't need to be told twice. She stumbled to the nearest bedroll and collapsed, emotional and physical exhaustion claiming her. Orin moved more carefully, every breath sending fire through his damaged ribs. He eased himself down, back against the wall to keep an eye on these strangers.

A young man approached, carrying a bowl of water and some cloth. "For your wounds," he said quietly. "I'm Tomas."

Orin nodded in thanks, accepting the supplies. "Orin."

Tomas glanced at Marisa's sleeping form. "Your friend going to be okay?"

"Not my friend," Orin said, wincing as he lifted his shirt to examine the damage. Ugly bruising spread across his torso, skin split in places. "Just ended up here together."

Tomas watched as Orin cleaned his wounds. "You're taking this remarkably well. Most new arrivals spend the first day screaming or catatonic."

Orin gave a grim smile. "Day's not over yet."

He finished tending his injuries as best he could, then accepted a bowl of something that resembled stew from the woman, who introduced herself as Nessa. It tasted strange but not unpleasant, with spices he couldn't identify.

"Where do you get food here?" Orin asked between mouthfuls.

"Where we can," Nessa replied. "Some plants grow on the larger islands. Animals too, though nothing you'd recognize. And sometimes..." She hesitated.

"Sometimes supplies just appear," Kieran finished, joining them. "The Rift provides, in its own twisted way."

Orin set his empty bowl aside. "What is this place? Really?"

Kieran settled himself on a crate, the others gathering around as if this were a familiar ritual—explaining the inexplicable to newcomers.

"The Hollow Rift isn't a place, not exactly," Kieran began. "It's more like... a dimension between dimensions. A fracture in reality. Some think it was always here. Others say it was created as a prison or a testing ground."

He gestured to the void visible through a narrow window. "What matters is that it's real, and we're stuck in it. The laws of physics you knew? They're suggestions here, at best."

"How long have you been here?" Orin asked.

"Me? Three years, I think. Time moves differently in the Rift. Nessa's been here longest, nearly seven years."

The woman nodded solemnly. "We were a larger group once."

Orin absorbed this. "Is there a way out?"

The question hung in the air. The survivors exchanged glances.

"There are... rumors," Kieran said carefully. "Of a center to the Rift. A throne, some call it. They say whoever reaches it could control the Rift, maybe even escape it."

"But?" Orin prompted, sensing the unspoken caveat.

"But no one's ever made it that far," Tomas said bluntly. "The deeper you go, the worse it gets. Most don't make it past the Second Layer."

"Layers?"

Kieran nodded. "The Rift is structured in concentric circles—layers, we call them. We're in the First Layer now, the Wailing Grounds. It's dangerous, but survivable if you're smart. Beyond this are more layers, each ruled by more powerful beings."

Orin leaned forward despite his pain. "Beings like that Stalker?"

"The Stalker is nothing," the other man said, speaking for the first time. "A bottom-feeder. The true horrors are the Hollow Lords—entities that have claimed territories in each layer. Some were once human. Most... weren't."

A groan from Marisa interrupted them. She was sitting up, confusion giving way to horrified recognition as she remembered where she was.

"Welcome back," Nessa said, offering her water.

Marisa took it with shaking hands. "I thought it was a nightmare."

"It is," Kieran replied grimly. "Just one you can't wake up from."

Marisa looked around, taking in the group. "How do we survive here?"

"The Axiom Protocol," Kieran said. He stood, pacing as he explained. "It's a system, for lack of a better word. The Rift's way of testing those inside it. Complete challenges, defeat enemies, survive trials—and the Protocol rewards you."

"Rewards?" Orin questioned.

Kieran rolled up his sleeve, revealing a strange symbol etched into his forearm—lines and curves that seemed to shift if you looked at them too long. "Abilities. Enhancements. Powers that shouldn't be possible. The Protocol chooses what you receive based on your actions."

"When does this... Protocol decide?" Orin asked.

"Usually within the first few days," Tomas replied. "It's called Awakening. You'll know it when it happens."

"And if it doesn't?" Marisa asked quietly.

The silence that followed was answer enough.

Kieran broke it first. "Get some rest. Tomorrow we'll see about training you both, teaching you what you need to know."

The group dispersed, leaving Orin and Marisa alone in their corner. She moved closer to him, voice barely a whisper.

"Do you believe them? About all of this?"

Orin watched as Nessa ignited one of the strange blue lights with just a touch of her finger—clearly not natural, clearly not technology.

"I don't see much choice," he replied.

Marisa hugged her knees to her chest. "I was a software engineer. I had a cat named Pixel. I was going to visit my parents this weekend." Her voice cracked. "And now I'm just... here. In this nightmare."

Orin had no words of comfort to offer. His own life hadn't been much to lose—drifting from job to job, city to city, one step ahead of old mistakes and bad choices. No family waiting, no one to miss him.

"Try to sleep," he told her instead. "Tomorrow might be worse."

Marisa gave a sound between a laugh and a sob. "That's not comforting."

"Wasn't meant to be. Just true."

She lay back down, turning away from him. Orin stayed sitting, watching the camp, the survivors, the strange lights and stranger shadows.

Sleep, when it finally came, brought dreams of falling through endless darkness, and a voice—neither male nor female—whispering words he couldn't understand. He woke with a jolt before dawn, drenched in cold sweat.

Beside him, Marisa thrashed in her sleep, face contorted in a silent scream.

"The Rift dreams," Kieran said from nearby, his face illuminated by the blue light. "Everyone gets them at first."

Orin rubbed his face. "Does it get better?"

Kieran's smile didn't reach his eyes. "No. You just get used to it."

Orin looked out the narrow window at the swirling void beyond. Fragments of land floated in the distance, some bearing structures, others barren.

"How do we move between islands?" he asked.

"Bridges when they exist. For longer distances, we've salvaged small crafts. Think of them as boats, only they sail through the void instead of water."

Orin nodded, already cataloging information, planning, adapting. It was what he'd always done—survive by any means necessary.

"And the Protocol?" Orin pressed. "How does it choose?"

Kieran studied him with new interest. "Most newcomers ask about escape, not advancement."

"Seems to me advancement might lead to escape," Orin replied evenly.

A thin smile crossed Kieran's scarred face. "Smart man." He leaned closer. "The Protocol chooses based on your actions, yes, but also on your nature. What you are at your core. Some receive combat abilities, others gain affinities for elements of the Rift. A few... a few receive unique gifts."

"Like yours?"

"Shadow Weaving," Kieran confirmed, his hand momentarily wreathed in darkness. "Useful for staying hidden from things that hunt by sight."

The conversation died as the others began to stir. As the camp came to life, Orin tried to ignore the unsettling feeling that the Rift itself was watching him, measuring, assessing.

Waiting to see what he would become.