Doc jerked awake with a gasp, heart hammering. In his dream, giant mushrooms with gnashing teeth had chased him through the Hollow Vale, their spore clouds spelling out "YOU'RE NEXT" in the air.

  "Elevated heart rate detected," Lux noted. "Nightmare?"

  "Yeah," Doc said, rubbing his face. "Mushrooms were hunting me down. Had little teeth and everything."

  "Likely a manifestation of stress regarding today's mission. Your subconscious processing the fungal threat in literal terms."

  "Great. Even my dreams lack subtlety." Doc sat up, stretching out his muscles. "Just what I needed—psychological validation that I'm worried about fighting sentient fungus."

  Fish lifted her head from where she'd been sleeping at the foot of his bedroll, amber eyes studying him with what almost looked like concern.

  "I'm fine," Doc told her, though the slight tremor in his hand suggested otherwise.

  A soft shuffle of footstep outside his tent interrupted his thoughts. He opened the tent flap to find a small girl—Lina, one of the village children—standing with a wooden bowl of steaming porridge.

  "Maz said to bring you breakfast," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "Since you'll be busy today."

  Doc knelt to accept the bowl. "Thank you, Lina. That was very thoughtful."

  The girl didn't leave immediately. She shifted from one foot to the other, freckled face pinched with worry. "Are you really going to fight the monsters today?"

  "That's the plan."

  "Will..." She swallowed hard. "Will everything be all right?"

  Fish moved to Doc's side, and Lux registered a slight elevation in Doc's heart rate.

  "Everything's going to be fine," Doc said, forcing confidence into his voice. "Fish and I will take care of those monsters and be back before dinner. You won't even have time to miss us."

  The lie tasted bitter, but the smile it brought to Lina's face made it worthwhile. She reached out tentatively to pat Fish's head, then scampered away toward where the other children were helping with morning chores.

  "Your stress indicators increased by 17% during that exchange," Lux observed once she was gone.

  Doc sighed. "Because I just promised a child everything would be fine when we both know the odds."

  "Fish also noticed your discomfort. Her protective instincts are heightened this morning."

  Doc glanced at Fish, who pressed against his leg with unusual insistence. "At least someone's confident," he muttered, though the wolf's behavior suggested she was more concerned than reassured.

  He ate quickly, the porridge bland but filling, sweetened slightly with things he didn't recognize. The camp was already buzzing with activity as he made his way toward the front gate, Fish a shadow at his heels.

  The strike team had gathered—Mazoga in her newly enhanced Ravageboar armor, the metal components gleaming with an inner light where they reinforced the hide. Dulric stood nearby, his smith's apron now threaded with metallic strands that seemed to pulse with his heartbeat. Carl and Calen checked over the three breathing masks repeatedly, while Tanna and Kesh adjusted a quiver of arrows tipped with what appeared to be crystallized fire.

  "Everyone absorb their cores?" Doc asked as he approached.

  Mazoga nodded. "And feeling the effects. That Ravageboar core was... potent."

  "How so?"

  She flexed her hand, and the ground beneath her feet cracked slightly. "Let's just say I hit harder now."

  Dulric grunted agreement. "The Iron Fang core changed something in me too. My forge work this morning—I shaped metal with barely a touch. Like it wanted to obey."

  Similar reports came from the others. Kesh could now sense plant life at a distance. Tanna's connection with animals had deepened, allowing her to communicate basic emotions with non-companion creatures, Calen move silently and can pass brambles untouched. The core absorption had change them. They were stronger. But would it be enough?

  Doc cast a critical eye over the assembled fighters. Mazoga tested the weight of her hammer, now etched with glowing runes. Dulric had forgone his usual blacksmith's tools for a battle axe that hummed with metallic resonance. Kesh performed a final check of his bowstring while Calen verified the improvised launcher he and carl were using in good condition. Carl was still tinkering with the breathing masks, making last-second adjustments to the filters.

  "Final equipment check," Doc announced. "Breathing apparatus?"

  "Three masks functioning at optimal capacity," Carl reported, his fingers working with newfound precision. "The others are still unstable, but—"

  "We'll make do," Doc said, cutting him off. "Wildfire bomb?"

  Dulric patted the reinforced satchel at his side. "Sealed tight. Won't trigger till we want it to."

  "Good. Weapons?"

  Each fighter nodded in confirmation, their faces set with grim determination. Doc felt the weight of the plasma gun at his hip and the plasma blade at his side, their familiar presence both reassuring and insufficient against what awaited them.

  "Then let's move out—"

  "Wait!"

  Doc turned to see Ironha hurrying toward them, a leather satchel bouncing against her hip and determination etched across her face. Her silver-toned skin seemed to shimmer with purpose as she approached.

  "What are you doing?" Doc asked, surprise evident in his voice.

  Ironha straightened, meeting his gaze directly. "As I told you before the camp is as good as gone if the main fighters don't return. You need a healer in this fight, and I'm the only healer we have."

  "It's too dangerous," Doc began. "The spore concentration alone—"

  "I've treated the infection. I understand its mechanisms better than anyone," she countered, her voice firm. "And I've prepared remedies that might buy precious minutes if someone's exposed."

  Before Doc could form another objection, Kesh stepped forward, offering Ironha a bow and a quiver of arrows tipped with crystallized fire.

  "We're going to need her healing abilities in this fight," Kesh said quietly, his amber eyes fixed on Doc. "You know this."

  Doc glanced between them, calculating survival probabilities. Lux's analysis flashed across his vision: Inclusion of dedicated healer increases survival odds by 23.7%. Analytical Healer class evolution suggests unprecedented compatibility with your methodologies.

  "Fine," Doc sighed, recognizing the tactical advantage despite his reservations. "But you stay behind the front line. No heroics."

  Ironha nodded once, slinging the bow across her back. "I didn't evolve my class to watch from the sidelines."

  As the group prepared to depart, the rest of the camp gathered at the gates. Doc was surprised to see nearly everyone there—Brenn and Tor standing tall like sentinels, shoulders squared against the weight of worry; the village children clutching small handcrafted tokens made from twigs and colored string; even Edda was present, her weathered hands gripping her worn ledger as though it might somehow account for their safe return.

  "They're seeing us off," Lux observed through their neural link. "A ritual of solidarity and hope. Anthropologically significant—communities often perform ceremonial farewells before high-risk endeavors."

  Fish pressed against Doc's leg, her body warm and solid, sensing his discomfort with the attention. Her amber eyes glanced up at him, then swept across the gathered crowd. He wasn't used to this—people depending on him, looking to him with such naked trust in their eyes. In his world, he explored alone, reported clinical findings, and moved on to the next anomaly. No attachments. No expectations beyond scientific discovery and data collection.

  Now, he stood at the head of a mismatched team of survivors, preparing to face a horror beyond comprehension, with an entire community's future hanging in the balance. The weight of their collective gaze felt heavier than his pack.

  Mazoga stepped up beside him, her presence solid and grounding. "Ready?" she asked quietly, her voice pitched low enough that only he could hear.

  Doc nodded, forcing confidence into his stance that he didn't entirely feel. "As we'll ever be."

  With a final look at the gathered faces—some hopeful, others afraid, all united in their silent plea for success—Doc turned toward the forest path. The strike team fell in behind him, their footsteps falling into rhythm, a determined cadence as they marched toward the ancient temple and the nightmare that waited within its crumbling walls.

  Doc led the group through the thinning treeline, each step bringing them closer to the ancient temple. Fish padded silently beside him, her midnight fur occasionally rippling with that strange phase-shift effect when shadows crossed her path. The rest of the strike team followed in formation, their breathing steady but tense.

  "Something's wrong," Doc murmured, just loud enough for Lux to hear.

  "Clarify," came the AI's immediate response.

  "It's too quiet. We should have encountered at least three territorial predators by now." Doc scanned the surrounding forest, unease prickling along his spine. "The Hollow Vale is never this peaceful."

  "Analyzing environmental patterns," Lux replied. "Confirming anomalous absence of fauna. No thermal signatures within fifty meters beyond our group."

  Even Fish seemed confused, her head swiveling as she sampled the air. The forest around them stood unnaturally still—no birds calling, no creatures rustling through the underbrush. Just the soft sound of their own footfalls and the distant whisper of wind through leaves.

  "Maybe they sense the fungal creatures and are staying away," Doc suggested.

  "Possible, but probability low. Previous observations indicated predators were attracted to infected hosts as prey."

  As they continued forward, the air grew heavier, carrying the unmistakable scent of damp fungal decay. Doc raised his hand in a silent signal, and the group immediately halted. He exchanged a quick glance with Kesh, whose amber eyes reflected the same cautious assessment.

  "Fish, Kesh, with me," Doc said quietly. "The rest of you hold position."

  The three advanced alone, moving with practiced stealth until they reached a natural rise along the forest-temple border. Doc crouched low, taking in the scene before them.

  Doc surveyed the temple grounds, his eyes narrowing as he cataloged the shambling horrors below. The fungal-infected moved in disjointed, unnatural patterns—some standing motionless for minutes before suddenly lurching forward, others circling endlessly like broken automatons. Their chest cavities pulsed with sickly green light where the fungal cores had taken root.

  "Forty-seven distinct entities," Lux confirmed through their neural link. "Concentration appears highest near the central structure. Movement patterns suggest limited coordination but shared sensory network."

  Kesh pointed toward the northern edge of the temple grounds. "There," he whispered, indicating a natural formation where the land rose into a steep embankment before dropping into a shallow basin. "That ridge gives clear sightlines to the temple entrance. The basin below would funnel them toward us."

  Doc activated his suit's scanning systems, allowing Lux to analyze the topography. A three-dimensional overlay appeared in his vision, highlighting elevation changes, structural weaknesses, and optimal positioning.

  "Tactical analysis complete," Lux reported. "The ridge provides 87% coverage of the temple grounds while maintaining defensive elevation. Basin dimensions would create a natural bottleneck, limiting the number of entities that could engage simultaneously."

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  "Perfect for an ambush," Doc murmured. "We could position our ranged fighters on the ridge—"

  "While our melee fighters fight them from the basin," Kesh finished, nodding. "Force them into a narrow approach."

  Doc ran through the mental calculations. "Tanna, Kesh, Calen, Carl, and Ironha take the high ground with ranged weapons. Gives them clear shots and keeps them above the heaviest spore concentration."

  "Correct," Lux agreed. "Melee combatants—yourself, Dulric, Fish, and Mazoga—would engage from the basin using respiratory protection. The Wildfire Bomb could be placed at the center point for maximum coverage once sufficient targets have entered the kill zone."

  Fish's ears perked forward as she studied the terrain, her amber eyes tracking invisible paths through the undergrowth. She seemed to understand, pressing closer to Doc's side.

  "How are you guys going to get out?" Kesh asked, his voice low. "Once that bomb ignites..."

  "My suit can handle the thermal output," Doc replied. "I'll trigger the device manually, then use my suit enhancements to clear the blast radius."

  Kesh's expression remained skeptical. "And the others in the basin?"

  "We'll need to time it precisely," Doc admitted. "Signal the retreat, give everyone fifteen seconds to clear the area, then detonate."

  The hunter nodded slowly, his amber eyes reflecting the cold calculation of someone accustomed to life-or-death decisions. "It could work. If everyone moves exactly when they should."

  "It's our best option," Doc said, rising from his crouch. "Let's get back to the others."

  They retreated silently to where the rest of the strike team waited. Mazoga straightened as they approached, her posture betraying impatience despite her controlled expression.

  "Well?" she asked.

  Doc quickly outlined their strategy, using a stick to sketch the terrain in the dirt. "The ridge gives our archers and ranged support clear sightlines while keeping them above the spore cloud. The four of us with breathing mask will engage from the basin, drawing them into a concentrated area."

  "Then we blow them all to hell," Dulric finished, patting the bomb satchel at his side.

  "Precisely," Doc confirmed. "But timing is critical. When I signal the retreat, everyone needs to clear the basin immediately. No heroics, no last stands."

  Ironha adjusted her bow, her silver-toned fingers checking the string tension. "And if someone falls during the fight?"

  A heavy silence fell over the group. Doc met her gaze directly.

  "We get them out if we can. But the mission comes first. If that temple isn't cleansed, the entire camp dies."

  Mazoga nodded grimly. "Then let's move. Daylight's burning, and I'd rather not fight these things in the dark."

  The strike team moved out, making their way toward the northern ridge with practiced stealth. As they approached their positions, Doc felt the weight of their trust settle across his shoulders—heavier than any pack, more burdensome than any scientific equipment he'd ever carried.

  "Probability of success?" he subvocalized to Lux.

  "Calculating variables... 62.3% with current parameters."

  Not great odds, but better than he'd expected. Doc adjusted his plasma pistol and nodded to Fish, who padded silently at his side.

  "Let's get everyone in position."

  Doc crouched at the edge of the basin, Fish pressed against his leg, her midnight fur rippling with tension. His suit mask active and filtering out the outside air. Behind him, Mazoga and Dulrics breathing mask covered the lower half of their faces, its filters whirring softly.

  Above on the ridge, the ranged fighters had taken position—Kesh and Tanna with their bows nocked, Ironha checking her fire-tipped arrows, while Carl and Calen readied their improved launchers.

  "Everyone in position?" Doc subvocalized.

  "Affirmative," Lux replied. "All team members at designated coordinates. Fungal entities maintaining previous patterns. No indication they've detected our presence."

  Doc drew his plasma pistol, the familiar weight settling into his palm. He took a deep breath, feeling the filtered air fill his lungs.

  "Initiating contact in three... two... one."

  He aimed at the nearest shambling figure—once a bandit, now a grotesque puppet with fungal growths erupting from its chest and shoulders. The plasma bolt struck true, burning through the infected chest cavity. The creature staggered, then collapsed as its fungal core sizzled and died.

  For one heartbeat, nothing happened.

  Then came the sound—a high, keening wail that seemed to emanate not from any single infected but from all of them at once, as though they shared a hive consciousness. The shambling figures stopped their aimless wandering and turned toward the basin with eerie synchronicity.

  "Contact established," Lux reported unnecessarily. "Forty-six entities converging on our position."

  "That's our cue," Doc called to the others. "Remember the plan—draw them in, keep them clustered."

  The infected charged—not with the frantic rush of panicked creatures, but with the relentless, unstoppable advance of a tide. Their movements were jerky yet purposeful, some running with unnatural speed while others dragged malformed limbs behind them.

  "Fire at will!" Doc shouted to the ridge team.

  Arrows whistled overhead, their fire-crystal tips blazing bright against the dim forest light. Carl and Calen's launchers coughed, sending incendiary bolts into the approaching horde. Three infected dropped immediately, their fungal cores bursting into flame.

  "Thirty percent neutralized," Lux updated. "Forty-three entities remaining."

  The first wave reached the basin's edge. Doc fired twice more, each shot finding its mark, but they kept coming. Fish lunged forward, her form blurring as she phased through an infected panther, materializing with her jaws clamped around its neck. The creature thrashed, then went still as Fish's teeth found its core.

  Mazoga roared, her hammer swinging in devastating arcs. Each impact shattered infected bodies, the Ravageboar core's power evident in the way stone cracked beneath her feet with each step. Beside her, Dulric moved with surprising grace for his stocky frame, his axe humming as it cleaved through fungal flesh.

  "Doc, on your left!" Mazoga shouted.

  Doc spun, barely avoiding the grasping hands of what had once been a forest predator. He struck with his plasma blade, the energy arc sizzling through infected tissue. The creature collapsed, but two more took its place.

  "Thirty-eight entities remaining," Lux reported. "Basin concentration at 47%."

  An arrow whistled past Doc's ear, embedding itself in an approaching infected. The fire-crystal tip ignited, consuming the creature from within. Doc glanced up to see Kesh nocking another arrow, his movements fluid and precise.

  Fish reappeared at Doc's side, her muzzle stained with a strange luminescent fluid. She growled, a low sound that vibrated through the ground, then vanished again into the fray.

  "Doc!" Carl's voice carried from the ridge. "Their movement patterns are changing!"

  He was right. The infected were no longer simply charging—they were coordinating, some hanging back while others pressed forward, attempting to flank the melee fighters.

  "They're adapting," Doc realized. "Lux, analysis?"

  "Fungal network demonstrating emergent intelligence. Possible central control node activating in response to threat."

  A massive infected—once a Ravageboar like the one he had killed—burst from the treeline, its bulk twice the size of the others. Fungal growths had transformed its tusks into writhing tentacles that lashed the air.

  "Target that one!" Doc shouted, pointing at the Ravageboar. "It might be controlling the others!"

  Arrows and launcher bolts rained down on the massive creature, but it barely slowed. Mazoga intercepted it, her hammer connecting with its skull in a thunderous impact. The creature staggered but didn't fall.

  "Basin concentration at 72%," Lux updated. "Twenty-nine entities remaining."

  Doc fired again and again, each shot finding its mark, but the infected kept coming. Sweat beaded on his forehead beneath the mask, his muscles burning with exertion. Fish materialized beside him, her sides heaving with effort.

  "Dulric, status?" Doc called.

  The dwarf grunted, his axe cleaving through another infected. "Still standing. Bomb's ready when you give the word."

  Mazoga finally brought down the massive Ravageboar with a devastating blow that shattered its skull. As it fell, several other infected seemed to falter momentarily, their movements becoming less coordinated.

  "Basin concentration at 89%," Lux reported. "Twenty-two entities remaining, all converging on current position."

  Doc fought mechanically now, conserving energy with each movement. Fire and plasma light cast strange shadows across the basin as the ranged team continued their barrage from above.

  "Basin concentration at 95%," Lux finally announced. "All remaining entities engaged or approaching."

  Doc looked around at his team—Mazoga bleeding from a gash on her arm, Dulric's beard singed from a close encounter, Fish's fur matted with luminescent fluid. They couldn't keep this up much longer.

  "Begin disengagement," he ordered, raising his hand in the pre-arranged signal. "Fall back slowly."

  Doc glanced at the fungal horde, their numbers still overwhelming despite the team's efforts. Every moment they fought, the risk of someone being infected increased. They needed a definitive end to this—now.

  "Dulric," Doc called, moving swiftly to the dwarf's side. "Give me the bomb."

  Dulric's face creased with confusion. "What? Why?"

  "I'm going to rush through them and set it off in the center of the horde."

  Mazoga overheard, her hammer pausing mid-swing. "That's suicide!"

  "Not for me," Doc replied, his voice steady. "My suit can handle it. I can get in, plant it, and get out before detonation."

  Dulric and Mazoga exchanged glances—the kind shared between people who had seen too many brave fools die. Yet something in Doc's confidence gave them pause.

  "You sure about this?" Dulric asked, reluctantly unslinging the bomb satchel.

  "Positive. Continue the fighting retreat. Get everyone clear of the blast radius."

  Mazoga's jaw tightened. "Don't die, Doc. We've gotten used to having you around."

  Doc nodded, taking the bomb from Dulric. "Keep them off me as long as you can."

  As they backed away, Doc turned to the horde. "Lux, activate H.O.T. Protocol. Set suit systems to maximum output."

  "Warning: Extended operation at maximum output may result in—"

  "Override. We don't have time."

  "Acknowledged. H.O.T. Protocol engaged. Suit systems at maximum."

  The familiar rush of combat enhancement flooded Doc's system. Time seemed to slow as his neural pathways accelerated, his muscles responding with preternatural speed.

  "Fish," Doc called, and the wolf materialized beside him, amber eyes locked on his. "Cover my flanks."

  With the bomb secured against his chest, Doc launched forward. His plasma blade hummed to life in his left hand, his pistol steady in his right. The first infected lunged—too slow. Doc sidestepped, his blade slicing through fungal tissue with surgical precision.

  "Three hostiles approaching from your right," Lux reported. "Recommended vector: forty-five degrees left."

  Doc pivoted, firing twice. Two infected dropped, their cores sizzling. The third reached for him, only to be intercepted by Fish, who phased through its chest and rematerialized with its core between her jaws.

  "Fifteen meters to optimal detonation point," Lux updated.

  An infected panther leaped from the side. Doc dropped to one knee, letting it sail over him, then fired upward through its underbelly. He was back on his feet before it hit the ground.

  "Ten meters."

  Fish appeared at his side, then vanished again as three more infected closed in. Doc moved in a blur of plasma light, each strike economical and precise. No wasted movement, no hesitation.

  "Five meters."

  The horde seemed to sense his intent, their attacks growing more frenzied. Doc cut through them methodically, each step bringing him closer to the center. A clawed hand raked across his shoulder, the suit absorbing the impact.

  "Optimal position reached."

  Doc dropped to one knee, planting the bomb firmly on the ground. His fingers moved across the activation panel, setting the timer.

  "Thirty seconds to detonation. Calculating escape vector."

  Doc rose, turning toward the escape route Lux highlighted in his HUD. The way back seemed impossibly crowded with infected.

  "Fish, to me!"

  The wolf appeared, and together they charged. Doc fired continuously, clearing a path while Fish phased through anything that got too close. The timer counted down in his peripheral vision: twenty seconds... fifteen...

  "Recommend maximum thrust now," Lux advised.

  Doc activated his suit's emergency propulsion, the burst of speed launching him forward through the last line of infected. Ten seconds... five...

  He cleared the edge of the basin just as the countdown reached zero.

  The world turned white-hot behind him. A wall of force slammed into his back, sending him tumbling forward despite the suit's stabilizers. The roar was deafening, even through his helmet's audio dampeners.

  When Doc finally rolled to a stop, he lay still for a moment, systems recalibrating. Slowly, he pushed himself up to survey the aftermath.

  Where the horde had been, only scorched earth remained. Not a single infected creature still stood. The bomb had worked perfectly.

  A disbelieving chuckle escaped his lips. "We actually pulled it off."

  Mazoga and the others were making their way toward him, their expressions a mix of relief and amazement. But their celebration was cut short by a sound—a wet, slithering noise from the temple entrance.

  Something massive moved in the shadows, emerging with ponderous, terrible purpose. Fungal tendrils thicker than tree trunks supported a bloated central mass that pulsed with sickly green light.

  "What in the nine hells is that?" Kesh whispered, his bow forgotten in his hands.

  Carl's face had gone pale. "That's... that's not possible."

  The creature dragged itself fully into the light—a grotesque fusion of plant, fungus, and what might once have been a Silvan. Its head was a writhing crown of spore-pods, and its chest cavity housed a pulsating core larger than Doc's entire body.

  "Lux," Doc said quietly, "scan that thing."

  "Scanning," Lux replied, as the abomination fixed its hollow eyes on their group and began to move forward.

  "Scan complete," Lux reported. "Entity classification: Apex-level fungal aberration. Core mass approximately forty-seven times larger than standard infected. Energy signature indicates complete integration with the temple's magical foundations."

  Doc stared at the monstrosity as it dragged itself forward, leaving a trail of phosphorescent slime in its wake. The creature's hollow eyes fixed on their group with terrible intelligence.

  "Tactical analysis?" Doc subvocalized, slowly backing away.

  "Recommend immediate tactical retreat. Probability of neutralization with current resources: 3.7%."

  Doc watched as the creature's massive tendrils uprooted trees in its path, crushing stone beneath its bulk. The forest itself seemed to wither as it passed, life energy being siphoned into the pulsating core.

  "Tactical retreat isn't an option," Doc muttered.

  "Clarification required. Retreat vectors remain open in three directions."

  "Look at that thing, Lux. It's not going to let us just walk away."

  As if to confirm his assessment, the creature suddenly accelerated, covering ground with alarming speed. Its tendrils shot forward, punching through soil and rock, creating a half-circle that threatened to cut off their escape routes.

  "Observation confirmed," Lux conceded. "Entity displays territorial behavior consistent with apex predators. Escape probability reduced to 22.8%."

  Doc felt a hysterical laugh bubble up in his throat. "You know, I'm starting to think this mission was cursed from the start."

  "Cursed is not a scientifically valid classification."

  "Neither is 'out of the frying pan, into the fire,' but here we are." Doc watched as the creature continued its advance, its mass now blocking most of the clearing. "We just obliterated an entire horde of fungal zombies only to find their bigger, angrier parent waiting to introduce itself."

  "That is an inaccurate biological comparison."

  "I'm aware, Lux." Doc checked his plasma pistol's charge—barely 30% remaining after the intense fighting. "Remember when our biggest problem was a malfunctioning coffee dispenser on the research station?"

  "The dispenser malfunction resulted in mild inconvenience, not potential termination."

  "That's my point." Doc sighed, watching as Mazoga and the others prepared for another fight, their faces grim but determined. "Some days I miss simple problems with simple solutions."

  Fish pressed against his leg, her amber eyes fixed on the approaching horror. She growled low in her throat, the sound vibrating through Doc's bones.

  "If we survive this," Doc muttered, "I'm seriously considering a career change. Maybe something relaxing. Like bomb disposal. Or volcano research."

  "Both professions have higher survival rates than our current situation," Lux agreed.

  Doc shook his head, a tired smile forming beneath his mask. "At least we're consistent. We came to this planet in a blaze of glory, might as well go out the same way."

  "I calculate seventeen potential strategies with survival probabilities exceeding 5%."

  "Only seventeen? You're slipping, Lux."

  "Processing power is currently allocated to maintaining H.O.T. Protocol and analyzing the entity's weaknesses."

  Doc squared his shoulders as the massive creature loomed closer, its fungal crown releasing clouds of spores that drifted harmlessly against his suit's filtration system.

  "Well," he said, readying his weapons, "at least no one can say our research expedition was boring."

  "Mission parameters did not include 'entertainment value' as a success metric."

  "Maybe they should have." Doc glanced at his companions, all preparing for what might be their final stand. "Ready or not, Lux. Let's see what this thing is made of."

  "Primarily cellulose, mycelium networks, and corrupted magical energy, according to scans."

  "That," Doc sighed, "was rhetorical."