For a while, Rocky lay inside the cold, damp dark, curled himself inside the narrow pipe as if he would be dead again, and he felt as if a casket was trying to reclaim what the grave had lost. He could feel his blood mixing with his fear, giving birth to endless torment in his mind—warm for a moment, then cold.
Above him, the wind screeched through the ruin, as if a mother was mourning her child's death. Somewhere distant, the machine-beast hybrid shrieked into the endless night—a warning or a promise that it would be back. Only one among them is destined to see the lights of the next day.
"Survive."
The word echoed again, not from the System this time, but from his own cracked mind.
He dragged himself forward; each movement felt sluggish, like dragging a corpse that didn't quite belong to him.
At last, when he crawled out the other side, the night was dark—the moon hid behind crimson clouds. He lay on his back on the twisted weeds and broken stones, gasping for air that tasted like rust and ash.
Above him, one skeletal tower seemed to have collapsed against another one, forming a jagged archway into the destroyed city. Somewhere in there, there would be answers. Or at least a roof over his head for one more night.
"System… status," he demanded.
A soft beep answered.
|=========STATUS WINDOW==========|
Vital Signs: Critical
Bleeding: Minor
Infection Risk: High
Nearest Human Signal: 10.7 km East
Energy: 12%
Memory Recovery: 7%
|=================================|
"Great," Rocky muttered to himself. He pushed himself forward while using a chunk of rusted pipe as a cane.
In the distance, through the gaps between ruined buildings, a faint orange flicker caught his eye. Not the cold, dead, red haze, but something warm. A fire, a hope.
His ribs bent forward with each and every step, but he limped towards it, driven by hunger that bit deeper than any other wound on his body. He needed warmth and water. Maybe someone there could tell him who he really was.
The flicker led him through a maze of skeletal frames and collapsed concrete; this city had turned into nothing but a graveyard of glass and steel. Shattered signs swung in the wind above the stores, filled with nothing but rot and ruin.
Upon reaching Closer. The light pulsed gently behind a fallen billboard. He pressed himself against the cold wall, peeking around it.
There was a small campfire burning on a circle of broken bricks. Three shapes huddled around it, who were in coats and scraps of old uniforms. One of them was humming—an old lullaby that spoke to something raw in Rocky's mind.
People! Who were real, breathing.
He took a breath. His hands shook, then he glanced at the status window. No answers. Just the cold command:
Survive.
He stepped forward, his feet crunching the gravel. The humming stopped. Three pairs of eyes turned toward him—wide, wary, hollowed out by hunger and years of fear.
Rocky raised a hand to show he held nothing. "I'm not… I'm not here to hurt you."
Silence.
The tallest figure stood—a woman, though her face was wrapped in a filthy scarf. She held a sharpened spear; the tip was glinting in the firelight.
"You're breathing," she said. Her voice was soft but sharp. "You're not one of them."
Rocky's mouth was so dry it hurt to speak.
No… I don't think so."
The woman tilted her head, studying him like a stray dog that might bite her.
"Then why are you out here alone?"
Rocky opened his mouth—but no answer came. So he told the only truth he had.
"I don't know."
A cold whistle of wind passed between them—carrying ashes, secrets, and the soft crackle of the fire.
Finally, the woman lowered her spear a fraction. "Come closer, stranger, before the night swallows you again."
Rocky stumbled forward; his legs seemed to have given up. He sank near the warmth—the flames that brought life back into his frozen bones.
The woman watched him through the flickering light, her eyes sharp above her scarf.
"Name?"
Rocky forced a dry laugh.
"Rocky… I think."
"You think?" The second figure—a boy, no older than fifteen—said it with a tired laugh that died in his throat. "It's a hell of a place to forget your name."
Rocky didn't answer. The fire reflected in his eye, symbolizing fragility and trembling.
Somewhere in the shadows, the machine-beast howled again.
Closer, which was Searching for Him.
The woman leaned in and spoke in a low voice. "You better remember fast, Rocky. Out here? Names are the last thing that keeps you human."
Rocky's shivers washed away, replaced by a dull ache that was caused by the cuts on his arms and legs. The warmth of the fire was like a cruel kindness—every flicker of heat reminded him how close he'd come to freezing in that pipe.
The woman sat on a half-broken crate. The boy and a third figure—older, gaunt, with eyes sunken deep into a skull-like face—watched him like they were waiting for him to speak.
The boy broke the silence first. "You really don't remember anything? Are you from one of those shelters?"
Rocky stared into the flames. Images stirred behind his eyes—white walls, metal doors, and fire. A monster roaring behind reinforced glass. And then… darkness.
"Bits," he rasped. "Nothing useful."
The woman exchanged a glance with the older man.
My name is Alisa," she said with a calm voice, but her hand was still tight on her makeshift spear.
"He is Lyle," while nodding to the boy, who gave Rocky a cautious nod back, "and that's Old Pete."
Pete just grunted, not bothering to speak. His eyes saw Rocky's wounds, then the night behind them, as if he could see the machine-beast still stalking in the ruin.
Ailsa's eyes narrowed. "What's trying to hunt you?"
Rocky hesitated. "Some… thing. Metal. Legs. Red light."
Alisa's lips pressed against each other. While Lyle's face was drained of color.
"Reclaimer," Lyle spoke. "It's a freaking Reclaimer."
Rocky was shocked. "A what?"
Old Pete replied. "Cleaners or Sweepers, whatever name you want to use. Which is used to pick scraps off the battlefields. Used to rip bodies, metal, anything useful. Now they hunt the living too—like we're just another pile of salvage."
Alisa leaned closer. Her eyes were sharp as glass. "Have you led one here…?"
Rocky shook his head. "I lost it. I think."
He remembered the screech in the pipe—the way the monster slammed against the metal and then fell silent. But its cold red eye was burned into the back of his mind. Searching.Always searching.
Lyle kicked at the rubble near the fire. "We can't stay here if there's a Reclaimer around us. I am sure it'll call more."
Old Pete let out a hacking cough, then saw the shadows.
"Let 'em come. We'll be gone by dawn."
...
[To Be Continued…]