Talbot Grimes’ languished gaze peers out from under heavy eyelids. Orange candlelight blurs through a dense fog that descends upon him, tendrils snaking over his limbs. He thinks to pull away but cannot, he tries to scream but his voice is muffled. Fog seeps into his lungs. He relaxes, accepts it. Invites it closer.
The fog, the dark fog.
He shakes his head as clarity returns to him. He’s in his tent. A thin plume of fog—no, grey smoke—spirals from the pipe on the arm of his chair. Near his feet, a small bowl is broken, poppy seeds spilled over the ground.
Morning already. He stumbles from his tent with cane in hand, takes a breath of cold, Mongolian air, and stiffens his shoulders. Snow has nearly reached the base of the mountains in the distance. He stands in an expanse of dry, frost-covered grass crunching underfoot. The tents nearby seem out of place.
Sain Bainoo, Mr. Grimes. Your people wait.
A small, prune-faced woman looks at him, nearly engulfed by her fur hat and hefty woolen coat. Her polite tone is forced in a way that crosses cultural barriers. You’re late, you opium-addled idiot, is what her voice truly reveals.
She leads the way, a scant one hundred yards, to what looks like a cellar door in the ground. Her help is unneeded, but she’s been Talbot’s guide during his foray into Mongolia and she’s willing to see it through to its end. She pulls open the door to reveal a dirt staircase descending into the earth.
Talbot gives her a parting nod and steps inside. He works his way over uneven steps, planting his cane into each one. He enters something resembling a room—more a muddy hollow with lanterns placed on the ground. A mass of black fog swirls in place. It’s not the first time Talbot’s seen such a phenomenon but it still chills his bones.
Nearby a figure sitting in the shadows rises.
About damn time, Talbot.
Declan’s words are carried by the stench of fermented milk. He moves forward, his pale face glowing like a ghost in the dim light. His rumpled shirt, pulled up at the sleeves, reveals scars over lean muscles.
A washed-up mercenary, too drunk and violent to be anything but a problem. But Talbot personally selected him. Surviving a Bleed site with body and sanity intact has given the chemist leverage within The Company.
His other recruit, Nigel, smiles eagerly. The gentle philosopher’s slim frame moves with cheerful anticipation that is out of place in the underground hovel. He has already donned most of his protective suit. It is something akin to a diving uniform, its helmet a metallic globe with a glass porthole at the front.
Talbot has informed his companions that this mission into the fog is one of exploration. But there is another element he has left unsaid. He is observing the realm’s reactions to what he calls biological signatures: the theory that a person emanates a unique energy—one that may act as a beacon for otherworldly Predators.
Declan and Nigel are the test subjects.
Talbot drifts through the fog, unsure if it’s his feet moving or something else tugging, beckoning him closer. He stumbles but the force doesn’t slow, drawing him in, pulling, and then, violently expelling him. He plants his cane and brings himself up to one knee, sliding a hand over a smooth, obsidian-like surface. Sharp slabs of black rock jut out beyond, creating a fractured, spiny landscape under a purple sky.
Behind him, Declan and Nigel emerge from the fog wearing their protective suits. Even clad in the copper and heavy cloth of the outfit, Nigel appears sparse and vulnerable. Declan, however, stands tall, as if the weight is no burden to him.
Useless, either way. That such a thing could be a defence from this place, spoke to the naivety of its creators.
Declan stomps forward. He assumes an attack pose but struggles to find a target.
What the hell is going on here? I didn’t plan for this.
Through the porthole on Declan’s helmet, Talbot notices the man’s clenched jaw and focused eyes. He wants to kill something, assure himself he has control over this strange land.
You knew what you were getting into. It was in the dossier.
Declan growls.
Didn’t read it.
The man is an idiot, but a useful one. Talbot’s theory is that Declan’s biological signature is that of the Aggressor: one whose energies express anger and violence. He expects the Bleed will embrace Declan, as if he’s a creature native to its environment.
Then there is Nigel. The Prey. He stands wide-eyed and frozen at the world before him. If Talbot is correct, his biological signature is like a burst of light signalling its presence to every Predator around. He is an invader, not meant for this place.
The only part that bothers Talbot about his theory is how he fits into it. He is a man of science—not the brutish Aggressor that Declan clearly is. So why does he pass through Bleeds unharmed, with barely visible wisps of black fog clinging to his presence? Why does he sense that every time he steps into a Bleed, that he is invited, not just to where he stands now, but somewhere else.
Somewhere far beyond.
Talbot tries to keep his nerves intact. In the distance, there are sounds he can’t quite place; in his peripheries, movement he can’t quite glimpse. The landscape changes abruptly, as if an unseen line marks the borders of two environments. The group moves into a swampland. Unnatural swirling clouds form above. Hanging from the twisted branches of a tree is a half-rotted corpse.
Talbot thinks back to the dossier. Bramburn Mire. Recent expeditions described it as a swampland littered with unusual metal structures and less than inviting inhabitants.
Nigel stretches out his arms, as if welcoming an auditorium of guests.
Ah! Our minds are attempting to interpret the fog we passed through. In fact, we are still in it! Such a foreign element, that we’re imagining it in a way we can visually process. This is all an illusion!
Declan flicks the corpse’s loose jaw, chattering its teeth.
Even I know that’s not an illusion, you fucking idiot.
Talbot ignores them, setting his sights on an unusual metal carriage next to a shack. Before he can appraise it, the ground rumbles, tossing him to the ground. Pieces of earth are pulled into the sky as if gripped by an invisible hand. Trees are thrown about like twigs; metal twists upwards into a vortex. The group watches in shocked awe. Talbot waits for the ground beneath his feet to crumble, but it remains firm. He allows himself to exhale in relief.
The maps from these excursions have never matched up. I believe we’ve discovered why.
Something moves through the treeline; its wet, rasping cry calls out. A hideous creature of muck and bone staggers into sight, its clumsy movements unusually fast. It sees the trio and stops, as if pondering their presence.
Declan leans forward, squares up. The imbecile’s ready to charge into battle without so much as a second though. Talbot lifts a hand.
Slow. Do not provoke it.
He motions the group back. With careful steps, they edge away from the creature, but it does not break its gaze. It seems almost content to leave them be, rattling strange sounds from its gullet, until—it screeches.
A horde of muck creatures emerge from the trees.
A moment of doubt flickers within Talbot. This is the moment to test the theory. Or die.
Run, boys. Run.
The trio take off, clunking through the swampland in their damned suits, each step made harder than it should be. With uneven limbs, the abominations gallop and stumble, a disaster of movement that somehow quickly clears the gap. They cry for blood.
Talbot breathes through clenched teeth, chest heaving, begging for oxygen. Pain works its way through aching muscles. He risks a look back and… stops.
The entire horde ignores Talbot and Declan, focusing only on Nigel. A muck creature leaps at the philosopher, swiping a sharp claw through his Achilles tendon. The rest capitalize, gripping onto the man, gnawing and slashing through sprays of blood.
Through the horror, Talbot sees evidence of his biosignature theory: the Bleed attacks that which is Prey.
Nigel screams for help. His arms flail, swatting at monsters that are losing interest as he bleeds out. They leave him with some parting swipes and stumble back, sated, gurgling in delight. Nigel speaks but the words emerge only as bubbles of blood from his lips. A scene of terror and sadness plays out on his face. He looks to Talbot and without speaking asks a question: why?
Talbot walks to Nigel, kneels at the man’s side. He observes him through a lens of logic and rationality, noting the lacerations, the blunt force trauma. Nigel’s shaking hand reaches out to no one and in his tear-soaked eyes there is something so… human.
Not Prey. Not Aggressor. But human. Something Talbot had forgotten. He looks to Nigel’s broken body and feels envy. How unfair that the pursuit of knowledge has stripped so much of himself.
He rips a shred of cloth from Nigel’s suit, wraps it around a gaping wound on the man’s leg, tying it tight.
Declan grabs Talbot’s shoulder and spins him around.
What are you doing? He’s a dead man!
Talbot doesn’t hear him. He tears at the suit, presses a palm to an ugly gash. But his movements are mechanical, lacking desire.
Whatever you were, you are no longer—there is no saving yourself. Better to accept and live.
Before he can turn away, the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. The muck creatures watch curiously from a distance. One takes a step forward. Snarls.
He nearly chuckles through the fear as he realizes his mistake. The creatures must wonder, why would one with a biosignature such as his attempt to provide compassion to wounded Prey?
There are many ways a Predator could react to the unfamiliar. One of the most common responses? Violence.
He taps Declan on the arm.
We should go.
Now.
The two men step back, trying not to stir the creatures. It’s too late. The horde follows, stalking slowly. Talbot notices it is only him their eyes turn to. They dare him to run.
Dark thoughts flood Talbot’s mind. He feels the agony to come, muscles ripped from their frame, jaws prodding into his wounds and snapping bones. The animalistic desire to live clutches him tight, demanding action. His heart thunders against his chest, muscles tense. A shiver runs down his body, refusing to leave his hands.
The monsters advance. Talbot grits his teeth till they’re ready to crack. He tightens the grip on his cane, squeezes like it’s a hand pulling him from a cliff.
He swings.
The cane smashes into Declan’s helmet, ripping it from his head. Before the big man can recover from the shock, Talbot swings again, planting the cane into Declan’s skull with a sickening crunch. Declan falls to the ground, gasping for breath, fingers scraping through the mud. Talbot turns to the monsters and screams.
The muck creatures chitter approvingly. As Talbot drops to the ground, they turn their attention to Declan.
They pounce, wriggling into his suit, playfully tearing off strips of flesh. His head rises with heaving sobs as he squirms ineffectively. A creature slashes a sharp gouge through his cheek, burrows its head into his mouth. His body seizes in horror.
Talbot tries to draw back but cannot look away, eyes fixated on blood, on body.
On Prey.
