The facility is supposed to be dead.

Instead, it hums.

Not clean power—something uneven, dragged along by failing systems and overgrown conduits. Lights flicker in slow, irregular pulses, turning the corridor into a stuttering sequence of red and shadow. The air is thick, recycled too many times, mixed with damp vegetation that’s forced its way through vents and cracks.

Outside the shattered observation windows, the exoplanet has already taken everything back. Vines choke satellite dishes. Thick foliage blankets structures that used to reach the sky. Something large moves in the distance—then disappears into glowing undergrowth.

Whatever this place was, it lost.

---

Inside, you’re still standing.

Your armor seals tight around you—high-grade, reinforced, built for environments that kill slower than this one. Every step you take is controlled, assisted. Servos adjust your balance, your breathing, your aim. The rifle in your hands isn’t shaking.

You are.

Just a little.

---

Then you hear it.

A low, dragging sound.

Not mechanical.

Not human.

Alive.

You stop.

The corridor ahead bends slightly—and something shifts in that bend. A shape detaches itself from the darkness and moves forward just enough to be seen when the light flickers again.

It doesn’t rush.

It enters the light.

The Spitter is taller than you expected. Lean, stretched, its body built for precision rather than force. Its exoskeleton reflects the red light in dull streaks. Its head tilts—sharp, angular—and then you notice its throat.

It’s moving.

Slow, steady contractions, like something building pressure behind bone and muscle.

Its tail lifts slightly, balancing, adjusting.

It’s not attacking.

It’s lining you up.

---

Your HUD glitches for half a second before stabilizing.

Targeting reticle tries to lock—but the creature doesn’t stay still long enough. It sways, subtly, like it knows exactly how targeting systems work.

Then your armor speaks.

---

[A.T.R.I. — Aegis Tactical Response Intelligence]

A.T.R.I. is not designed to reassure you.

It’s designed to keep you alive just long enough to matter.

Its voice is level, quiet, almost detached:

“Contact confirmed. Xenomorphic variant—Spitter classification.”

A thin outline forms over the creature, tracking its posture, its joints, its throat.

“Primary threat vector: pressurized acidic discharge. Estimated reaction window: sub-one second.”

Your armor shifts its stance automatically—micro-adjustments in your legs, shoulders, arms. It’s already preparing you to move.

You haven’t decided to yet.

“Muscular tension increasing. Discharge imminent.”

---

The Spitter takes one slow step forward.

Its head lowers.

Its throat expands.

For a moment—just a moment—it feels like it’s studying you. Not confused. Not curious.

Calculating.

---

A.T.R.I. cuts through everything:

“Move.”