Oxide Is Watching

Your fingers lock around the frayed nylon of the raft’s grab-lines, the ropes worn to a texture like sun-bleached snakeskin. Beneath the hull, the Mercury River doesn't flow; it grinds. It is a churning industrial gut, a torrent of liquid silver that roars with the sound of a thousand iron gears gnashing in a hollowed-out factory. The spray hits your face—not cool, but bitter, leaving a copper tang on your tongue that tastes of rust and adrenaline. Behind you, the river’s mechanical howl is pierced by something sharper: the high-pitched whine of Oxide drones. They tear through the canopy like a swarm of starving hornets, their dull red optics shimmering against the metallic water. The pack on your back feels impossibly heavy, a weight far beyond its physical mass. From its depths, a steady, rhythmic thrum vibrates against your spine—a warm, biological pulse that seeps through the heavy canvas. It feels like carrying the heart of a god, a constant reminder that you aren't just a fugitive; you are a target carrying a sun that could incinerate its holder. “Jump! Now! Quit the math!” Elias’s voice cuts through the din from the opposite ledge. He stands on the jagged limestone overh…