For a long moment, Tristan just sat there on the pile of shattered concrete and twisted metal, the cold rain mixing with dirt and hardening his torn clothes against his skin. His body screamed at him,the dull ache in his skull had turned into a pounding drumbeat; feverish heat radiated from the jagged wound in his side. His broken arm, cradled uselessly against his chest, throbbed with a deeper, sharper pain. Breathing hurt. Moving hurt more. But nothing hurt more than the sight before him.
The city was dead.
The eerie green light looked to be fading with each pulse overhead, it cast long, dancing shadows across the landscape of destruction. Fires burned in the distance, sending plumes of thick, black smoke into the stormy sky. The silence was heavy, broken only by the rain and the occasional groan of stressed metal.
"Gone. Everything is gone."
The words echoed in the silence, no longer just shock, but a grim fact settling in.
But acceptance didn't mean surrender. Survival was the first step. But even as he thought of it, a wave of dizziness washed over him, stronger than before, leaving him shivering despite the unnatural heat that filled him. He needed shelter, clean water, something to treat the wounds, something to splint his broken arm. He needed resources, and fast.
Slowly, painfully, Tristan pushed himself up with his good left arm, His legs trembled. The world tilted wildly. He caught himself against a piece of twisted rebar, gritting his teeth against the jolt of pain. He scanned the immediate area through blurred vision. Rubble. Shattered remnants of buildings stretched in every direction. No clear path, no obvious destination, no safety. Just an endless landscape of ruins.
He looked down at himself, soaked, bloodied, filthy. He was exposed, vulnerable, and weakening. Anyone else who survived this would be desperate; desperation could turn anyone dangerous. He couldn't rely on help finding him. He was alone for the time being.
First step: Assess. Prioritize: Bandage. Splint.
His inventor's mind struggled to focus through the fog of pain and fever. He took a tentative step, testing the stability of the rubble. It shifted slightly, sending loose gravel skittering down. He needed to move carefully, conserve energy. Every step was a risk in this treacherous landscape, and he had the growing feeling that time was running out.
Moving through the ruins was slow torture. Every step on the uneven, shifting debris sent jolts of pain through his body, and every movement sapped his strength. The rain continued, cold and miserable, soaking him to the bone and making surfaces slick and treacherous. He had to stop frequently, leaning against chunks of concrete, fighting waves of dizziness and nausea. The fever was definitely getting worse; his thoughts felt muddy, disconnected.
He scanned the wreckage desperately. Most of it was useless – pulverized concrete, twisted metal beams too heavy to move, shattered glass. His eyes, trained over years of scavenging through dumpsters, automatically cataloged potentially useful junk. A cracked data chip here, a burst power cell there, mostly ruined, but he instinctively pocketed a few smaller components.
He had to step carefully around unsettling shapes half-buried in the debris, pale hands reaching from beneath concrete slabs, limbs twisted at unnatural angles, sights his mind registered with a dull shock before forcing himself to look away.
Survive now, mourn later.
He spotted a length of relatively clean-looking cloth snagged on a piece of broken pipe. He carefully pulled it free. Damp and dirty, but usable. He tore off a strip and clumsily tried to wrap it around the wound in his side, hissing as the movement aggravated the injury. The makeshift bandage quickly soaked through, but it offered minimal protection.
Next, he needed something for his arm. While searching for a sturdy, straight piece of debris, he gathered lengths of intact wiring he spotted snaking through the rubble, coiling them and tucking them into his pocket out of habit. He eventually found a length of lightweight composite plating. He needed more cloth.
He found another piece of fabric, grimier this time, pulled from the tattered remains of what might have been an office chair, and tore it into strips. Trying to immobilize his own broken arm one-handed while feverish was frustrating, but he managed a crude splint, tying the plating against his forearm. It felt loose, inadequate, but it would work for now.
He saw a low spot in the ground where rainwater had gathered. Nearby lay the mangled, smoking husk of what looked like an oven. He briefly eyed its casing before dismissing the thought of ripping out its heating elements. Kneeling carefully, wincing, he scooped up handfuls of the cold rainwater. It tasted metallic, but it was wet. He drank his fill until his stomach cramped, trying not to look too closely at the dark stains marring the concrete nearby.
He rested for a moment, leaning back against the slab, shivering uncontrollably. The brief exertion had cost him. The heat he felt was more intense, and the pain in his side made it difficult for him to breathe when he put pressure on it. He needed medical supplies, painkillers, proper bandages and antibiotics. Finding those seemed impossible amidst the carnage.
Shelter was the next priority. He pushed himself onward, forcing aching legs to move, scanning the ruins for any overhang or cavity.
After what felt like hours, he found something: a small pocket formed by leaning concrete slabs, a cramped cave mostly shielded from the rain. Exhausted, Tristan crawled inside, collapsing onto the relatively dry ground. He huddled, shivering violently, pulling the damp cloth tighter around his wound, try his best to ignore what pain he could.
The overwhelming weakness of his body was terrifying. The heat, the chills, and the foggy thinking made him wonder if this was what it was like to die. His makeshift treatments were a joke. Without proper medicine, it as only a matter of time. He was breaking down.
Just as despair threatened to consume him, his eyes caught a glint of metal near the entrance of his shelter. A familiar shape. He reached out, pulling it free. It was a server casing, dented but surprisingly intact, thrown clear from some office or data hub. Emblazoned on its side was the stylized logo of Atlas Corps.
"Atlas."
A bitter sneer touched Tristan's lips despite the pain.
"Built to last."
Their arrogant slogan echoed in his fevered mind. Their hardware lasted, sure, while the people using it died. But the phrase sparked something else.
He stared at the Atlas Corp logo, repeating over and over again in his head, Built to last. Flesh wasn't built to last. It was weak, easily broken. But machines... He thought of the intricate joints and mechanisms he'd built into his little figurines, the miniature servos and actuators he'd salvaged and repurposed. He knew how to make small parts move, how to connect them, how to build complex little structures from scrap. What if he applied that skill to himself? To fix his broken arm, maybe even build something to keep himself warm on the go? He could do that.
It wouldn't be easy, especially not like this, but the principles were the same as his hobby projects, just scaled up. He needed more materials, and something better than plastic, of course. He needed a power source, micro-processors, the list went on. He glanced at the Atlas server casing. High-quality components, shielded, probably some salvageable tech inside. It was a start.