33 years after the collapse.
Davidson took one last look at the wasteland outside, his gaze piercing through the blinding glare of the setting sun. The air shimmered with heat, and the sharp tang of dust scratched at his nostrils. In the distance, the blurry haze of a sandstorm rested on the horizon, like a sleeping beast waiting to pounce. He removed his glasses, wiped them clean on his shirt—stiff with old sweat—and slipped them back on with a flick. The world snapped back into focus, but the blurry sandstorm was still there.
He sighed.
His once midnight-black hair had faded to a brittle grey, and his tanned skin was etched with deep lines and cracks. Age hadn't been kind to him, more so thanks to the jolt of pain that stabbed through his left leg with each cane-assisted step he took, sharp as broken glass.
In the centre of the room, his patient lay on a table—a mess of exposed wire and machine. The faint scent of oil and scorched metal clung to her. Her face, human, contrasted sharply with the dark, metallic blue of the machinery beneath her.
Davidson collapsed into the rickety chair next to her with a squeak of warped wood. Not that he could complain—it was one of the last chairs left in the world.
The storm surged ever forward, ripping at the sky and ground alike, its howl faint but growing.
His hands moved with practised shaking—welding, tightening, stripping, soldering. Sparks danced, the air thick with heat. There was no time to dally.
A cold, detached voice sliced through the silence. "The storm is coming. I suggest moving to the bunker."
Davidson glanced over his shoulder at the navy dome under construction. The looming dust cloud sprawled menacingly, roaring ever closer with each gust. He turned back to his task. "Playlist eighty-seven. Volume fifty percent."
The soft strains of whiskey blues filled the room, muffled slightly by the hum of machines. Davidson pressed on.
"The storm is approaching at approximately one hundred and forty-four meters per second."
"Hmm. Fast." He continued his work, focused on sealing the metallic shell of his patient.
"This structure will not withstand the storm. I suggest moving to the bunker," repeated the robotic voice.
"It matters not," Davidson said, his voice steady. "I'm done."
He sealed the last panel and stood, his leg throwing a protest—a dull, burning throb. He shuffled to his desk, picked up a photograph, and traced a finger over the smiling faces captured in its faded colours. It had been his family once. Not anymore.
A lone builder hovered across the desert, its AI scanning feverishly, mechanical arms clicking and clacking as it searched for the bolt it had dropped. It had to find the bolt, it had to…
The storm engulfed it, shattering its camera lens with a sickening crack and ripping the arms from its body. Sand clogged its vents, sucked into its intake like choking ash. It sent out one last burst of radio waves, begging for help.
"We must move to the bunker, now," Arthur's voice clipped, more hurried than robotic now.
"I've lived long enough, Arthur." Davidson placed the photo back on his desk and shuffled to the window, watching as the storm clawed its way closer—sand writhing like serpents in the wind.
"There is still work to be done," came Arthur's voice, sounding more human with each word. "The Dyson swarm, the machine…"
"I've seen civilization crumble around me," Davidson said. "I've outlived everyone I cared about. She and I are the last of humanity. And of us, she's the only one who can endure the thousand years it'll take for the machine to be ready."
"You could undergo the procedure."
Davidson shook his head. "My body won't stand the operation. And I have no desire to live in pain any longer. Besides, if this works, none of this will matter."
The room fell silent, the only sound the fading pluck of a blues guitar.
"I don't want to be alone," Arthur said finally. "She'll awaken only when the time is right, and I'll be left in solitude."
Davidson laughed, dry and hollow. "Didn't think you were programmed for sentiment," he said. "Without the glands for it, I'm surprised you can even express emotion. But what would a few more years of me living in pain accomplish against the eternity you'll face?"
Arthur had no reply.
The fluorescent lights overhead flickered as the building trembled before the approaching storm.
"I'm sorry to leave you with this. She's the world's last hope, and she can't succeed without your help. Please, finish my work and guard her until the task is done."
The storm engulfed the dome, sand shrieking against its navy blue walls and leaving not a mark. Davidson watched it vanish, swallowed whole by the angry beast.
He returned to his desk, retrieving the silver revolver stashed in the drawer.
"I cannot disobey you," Arthur's voice echoed.
Davidson gripped the gun with a shaky hand, the cool metal biting into his palm, positioning it awkwardly behind his head, aiming for the brain stem. He had no intention of being buried alive under rubble and sand—nor of putting a bullet in his head only to suffer.
"Thank you, old friend."
"Until we meet again."
Davidson breathed deep, exhaled, closed his eyes, and pulled the trigger. His skull cracked, spilled crimson across his table.
"Goodbye, old friend," whispered Arthur.
The storm hit the building, shattering windows and tearing it from its foundation, chewing on the remains and crushing it beneath its fury.
1034 years after the collapse.
The double-headed orange-crested bird soared above the ocean of sand, wings slicing the hot wind as it searched. Its sharp twin cries echoed across the dunes, hungry and hollow. It scanned the golden waves for a hardback or maybe a crawler—anything to fill its grumbling belly.
The eyes on its right head caught something moving below, a twitch in the earth.
A robotic hand burst from the sand, then another, fingers clawing against the weight of burial. Grit rained off metal knuckles as Sakura dragged herself free from her grave. Sand clung to her joints and hair. She coughed, spitting grit, and drew one deep, ragged breath—then another.
Standing slowly, she looked around, squinting against the blinding light. She touched her face, confusion flitting across it.
"My eyes are back?" she whispered. Her fingers trembled over intact synthetic skin.
She dropped her hands and spun, searching for the arrows Mysemi had fired into her skull, but there was no sign of them.
She blinked, thinking back to her last memories—trapped in the warehouse in Ying Shang, blind and burning, flames licking at her boots as smoke clawed at her lungs.
"Where the hell am I?" she muttered. Her voice cracked in the dry air. Clearly, it had been some time since the battle. "Ikari! Yuno! Izuna!"
There was no answer.
She turned in place, scanning the endless sea of sand. Nothing but golden dunes—until she zoomed in. On the distant horizon stood a dark blue dome, half-buried in sand.
"Well," she shook her head, and dry granules poured from her artificial hair, "May as well check it out."
Eventually, she reached her destination. The dome towered above her, sun glinting off its surface, gleaming with the same solar cells embedded in her skin.
She circled it, her fingers trailing over the cool, smooth curve, searching for a seam, a weakness, an entrance. The only break came in the form of a door, half-buried in the sand.
With effort—gritting her teeth and digging with her hands—she cleared it. The door was jet black, featureless, and seamless, standing out starkly against the dome's blue.
She placed her hand on it.
It slid open with a soft hiss, like a breath drawn in surprise.
She stumbled inside, reeling from the sudden drop in temperature. The air was cool, sterile, and still. Darkness gave way to a bright overhead glow as the door sealed behind her with a whispering thud. Not a single grain of sand had followed her in.
"You have awoken," came a deep, cold voice, echoing off polished walls. "You have activated all systems."
The floor beneath her shifted with a metallic groan—then split.
Sakura's eyes widened as robotic arms shot up, clamping around her legs like iron jaws.
"DEACTIVATE ALL SYSTEMS!" she shouted, struggling.
"Deactivation isn't an option."
The arms tightened, dragging her across the room with the screech of shifting metal. They hoisted her into a chair that twisted beneath her, reshaping itself. Restraints grew from its arms like vines, coiling around her wrists.
"What the hell is this?" she snarled.
A helmet descended from the ceiling, looming, then locking over her head with a metallic click.
"To save the world," the voice boomed, shaking the very walls, "you must find the truth."
The lights pulsed.
"The end is where we begin."