Damp misty clouds moved like lost souls over the green wheat fields. Fat drops formed in the bent ears and soaked my cargo pants. Crouched, I crawled through lands, ignoring the cold that crept into my limbs. For hours I roamed the plain without success.

In front of me, the ten-step-wide black silhouette of an almost square fortified tower appeared. It was made of medieval-looking stone blocks which disappeared into the mist at high altitude. The dwelling of a squad of Archers. Native, humanoid creatures. Not unlike small-bodied humans. Because of their full-body leather armor, no one had seen their faces.

A long-drawn whistle, like that of a defective steam locomotive, made me pause. The whistle died away in the fog. The plaintive sound resounded again. Was this the chance I had been waiting for days? In this area I should find my targets. With deliberation, I drew the heavy revolver and waded in the direction of the sound. The cool metal of the weapon laid reassuring in my hand. Realistically, it would be useless against the creature that emitted the sound. The repetitive wailing sound echoed piercingly across the fields. The course was right, but the dense fog obscured anything lurking more than a hundred yards away. An entire army of Archers could easily move through this soup unseen. Or a single Async agent, like me. But my eyes were primarily focused on the ground.

In the meantime, the oblique whistling had assumed a volume and pitch that made my goose bumps grow. In some steps distance the wheat stalks ended abruptly, as with a flattened about three yards wide circle in the field. The shrill sound faded away. The shallow murmur of the wind mingled with my vigorous heartbeat. Tension made my knuckles pale at the grip of the gun. Was there a trap waiting for me? It didn't help. Mission was mission. With slow steps, I reached the edge. It broke off into a man-deep hollow filled with a reddish light. Below lay a shimmering metallic body. Resembling a massive lizard. Nearly six feet long, armored, with clawed legs and a blunt saurian head studded with two pointed horns and no mouth. In its head, a single fist-sized eye glowed a clear red. It was watching me. The plaintive sound rang out again. Quieter, like the whimpering of an injured dog.

It was a "Rusher". Creatures that loved the open terrain, where they played their extreme speed of up to 300 mp/h. This specimen had fallen into someone's trap. Sharpened wooden poles rose from the ground. The creature's massive armor had broken most of the stakes like toothpicks, but one had poked through its sensitive abdominal armor and impaled it like a butterfly.

A stroke of luck, since I could easily finish it off with one shot from a distance. After that, I would take a few tissue samples and my mission would be over. At home, Nicole and our two-year-old son Marc were waiting for me. Taking another deep breath, I targeted the red eye, the creature's second weak spot; focusing on the hypnotic glow for the shot. Plaintive whimpers echoed in my ears. It would be a salvation for the wounded Rusher. A mercy shot. Seconds passed. My arm began to shake. Crap. Why didn't I pull the trigger? There was clear intelligence in its gaze; in its whistle, a pleading plea for help. If it were human, would I pull the trigger? No. Of course it wasn't. But it wasn't. Just an animal. Wasn't it?

In the end, I lowered the gun and let the breath escape. The consequence of this decision was clear: if I didn't want to let the creature die miserably — and fulfill the mission — I had to go into the pit. If the Rusher didn't tear me apart, I could easily get out again with the help of the broken lances. One last breath. I clawed my hands in tufts of wheat and lowered the body belly-down to the creature. The hopeful sound of its soft whistling encouraged me. Shortly thereafter, I stood in the earthen hollow between arm-thick broken wooden stakes. It smelled of damp earth and sweetish blood, which seeped reddish from under the man-sized Rusher. The red eye in the mouthless head watched intently for any movement. The massive creature easily weighed four times my weight. Unimaginably, it raced the landscape at the speed of a Formula 1 car. Crude Backrooms physics.

"Take it easy, my boy. I just want to help you." Surely it did not understand the words. But I hoped the tone had a calming effect. "Let me take a look at that."

Slowly, I stepped toward the injury, reached my hand forward, and carefully touched the head of the racing lizard. Its armor was hard as steel and warm to the touch. A cold-blooded animal like a crocodile it was not. The mournful whistle turned into a low growl that made my whole body vibrate. Moving to its torso, I realized that one of the arm-thick spears had pierced it completely. Amazingly, the creature was alive. The long wood had snapped off and was stuck in the ground. What could I do? A saw was not among my equipment. If the heavy Rusher was not able to tear it down, I was even more without a chance. My military knife! It had a saw edge on the back. A decent piece of work lay ahead of me, but the remaining wooden bristles would be able to be cut with it.

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Sweat dripped into my eyes and my shoulder ached from the constant strain and like movements. Half an hour later, I severed the last woody fibers. The Rusher sank to its side, seemingly relieved, and emitted a mixture of humming and miserable whimpering. The thick spur was still stuck crosswise in its body.

"All right, kid. We've got that covered. What should I call you, anyway?" He squealed.

"Hmm ... how about Chroma? It goes with your fancy armor." Another beep.

"Okay, Chroma. Now it's going to hurt. If you were human, I'm afraid I wouldn't give you a chance to survive. So let's hope your body is significantly tougher than mine."

I interpreted his whimper as approval. Sitting on the seat of my pants, I grabbed the remains of the lance with both hands, propped my feet against its solid carapace, and pulled. A shrill whistle and the wriggling of its limbs testified to the pain the creature suffered as I smacked the wood out. A last hand's breadth of the spear was still in Chroma's belly, when an arrow splintered crashing on his head. Startled, I stopped and looked up. At the edge of the pit stood three Archers with bows cocked. Earth-brown inlaid leather armor covered their bodies. The leather helmets left narrow slits, from which tiny eyes glared at me.

"Hey. Pavla Akka Hinunindi!" shouted the one on the right, who at that moment was cocking a new arrow on the string of his bow. Unfortunately, I didn't catch a word, though it could be assumed that the three of them thought I should keep my hands off their prey. After all, they had not directly chased a projectile into my back.

What to do? Leaving Chroma to his fate and disappearing would certainly be the healthiest option. To attack the Archer trio from the pit with the revolver just to save one creature, basically suicide. The Rusher looked to me. A low rumble combined with three short whistles reached my ears. It was clear to me what he meant. That was the clincher.

With a final jerk, I tore the remains of the lance from his body and threw myself in his direction to find at least partial protection through his armor. Two arrows struck the earth where I had been sitting. Blinding pain exploded in my knee joint. The third projectile had pierced it. Chroma jumped up in a flash, clawed briefly at the edge of the pit, and not a second later landed crashing with his razor-sharp claws on an Archer. Panicked screams came from his throat, arrows shattered harmlessly on the giant lizard's carapace. He was already ramming the next one. He toppled astride into the pit and breathed his last on a sharp lance nearby. The last one tried to flee. Another dull thud and abruptly dying scream out of my sight testified to the fact that Chroma showed no mercy. The whole spook lasted no more than three seconds. Shortly after, the metallic Rusher pushed its head over the edge and let out a questioning whistle. "I ..." in pain, hardly a word left my lips. "I can't. The arrow. Give me a moment."

Through clenched teeth, I retrieved a medical injector from my pants and jammed a dose into my thigh. A little later, the pain subsided as painkillers and steroids washed through my body. The cocktail of drugs our soldiers were using wasn't healthy, but it was better than dying down here. Shortly after, I was able to break off the arrow and pull out what was left. Despite the medication, this brought me close to fainting. The Rusher waited. I didn't have to fear any more Archers. The arm-thick lance in his belly seemed to have affected him much less than me the thin arrow in my knee.

"Chroma? I could use your help. I can't get out of the pit alone." At the same time I tried to convey to the lizard with gestures what I wanted from it.

In fact, he climbed into the hollow again and lay down next to me so that I could mount onto his back. Before that, however, I took a glass sample container out of my pocket and filled it with blood-soaked earth. The target of the mission. Well, at least close to the goal.

Stunned, I realized that I barely had to hold on while the lizard jumped out of the hole. As if I were glued to its back or a part of its body.

"Thank you, Chroma." I patted the side of his chest. "That makes us even, I think."

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"Blood?!" Maurice looked at me in amazement and examined the contents of the glass tube I handed him in his lab three hours later. "Knut, you were supposed to pick up feces from a Rusher. Poop — get it? We're Biologists, not the A.E.G. that shoots every creature that comes in front of their shotgun right off."

"Take it easy. It were Archers who set a trap for the critter. Thanks to me, it escaped. I even caught an arrow in the knee for that. Remember?" I pointed my finger at the thick bandage and the crutch I used to keep myself upright.

"Humph. Okay. Unfortunately, that doesn't help us find out more about the Rusher's diet. We won't know what the DNA analysis will reveal for a few weeks." With that, Maurice placed the sample in a suitable holder.

"All right. Keep me posted. I'll make sure I get home." ... And stay there as long as possible, I added in my mind. "Gotta think of a good excuse for how I got a hole in my knee when I was a crane operator."

"It's just a dangerous job with the crane on the construction site and all. Dissatisfied clients are capable of anything."

"Ha, ha. Very funny. Next time, get your own Rusher poop."

With that, I turned and limped toward the exit. Dox, another Biologists agent with whom I had a deep friendship, had promised to wait there. Looking for a no-clipping exit in the first level without an escort and with a bum knee would not be fun otherwise.