The night smelled of smoke. Not the faint kind, but the deep, choking kind that clawed at your lungs and made every breath feel like a blade. Jake Slade stumbled through the ruins of his hometown, Andro Creek, his boots crunching on splintered wood, shattered glass, and the blackened remains of things once ordinary: a cracked toy, a scorched table, the remnants of someone's life.
The sky above was dark, the stars hidden behind a thick veil of ash drifting down like snow. Jake didn't bother brushing it off. What was there to brush off? His home was gone. His family—gone. The wind carried a faint wail, part human, part metallic shriek, and Jake froze, muscles tense.
Someone was still alive. Somewhere. Too close.
He ducked behind the twisted remnants of a market stall, trying to focus. Shadows moved through the smoke—masked figures, larger than men, their silhouettes warped by the dancing fires that still licked the streets. Metal glinted in the glow of broken lamps. They moved with a precision that was terrifyingly unnatural.
Jake's heart hammered. He'd survived the outskirts, the gangs, the chemical storms—but never like this. Never a coordinated strike, never the feeling that someone—or something—had singled him out.
A faint humming sound drew his attention to a half-buried crate beneath the rubble. A metallic cylinder, etched with unfamiliar symbols, pulsed softly. It was small, but its presence was undeniable—like a heartbeat buried beneath the ash. He crouched, brushing away debris, and carefully lifted it.
The moment his fingers touched the cold metal, a shiver ran up his arm. The hum intensified, resonating through his bones. Smoke seemed to curl and twist unnaturally. For a heartbeat, his vision blurred, and he saw flashes—cities collapsing, figures moving faster than thought, a web of glowing lines threading across the world, linking people, machines, and something else, something… alive.
Jake shook his head, blinking, and the vision vanished.
Then came the growl. Low, mechanical, yet full of intent. From the street behind him, one of the masked figures was approaching, moving in a way that no human should—silent, deliberate, relentless.
Jake's pulse spiked. He had no time to think. He bolted, clutching the cylinder to his chest, zigzagging through the debris. Every step kicked up clouds of ash. The figure followed, unhindered by rubble, its speed terrifying.
"Gotta… survive," he gasped, voice cracking. Survival had always been instinct, but now it felt desperate, like the ground beneath him might give way.
A collapsed wall loomed ahead. Jake dove through the opening, rolling onto broken pavement. Behind him, the figure paused for a heartbeat, scanning, then vanished into the smoke.
Jake pressed himself against the wall, chest heaving. The cylinder pulsed again, brighter this time. He swallowed hard. Whatever this was, it wasn't just a relic. It was alive. And it wanted him.
The streets were a war zone. Jake navigated the ruin with practiced caution, memorizing paths, ducking under low beams, avoiding unstable walls. His mind replayed the attack: shadows moving in synchronization, smoke hiding more than it revealed. He had never seen masks like theirs—smooth, featureless, and black as obsidian.
A sudden screech echoed. Metal on metal. Jake froze. Around the corner, a small group of survivors—children, mostly—huddled near a crumbled building. Their eyes widened when they saw him.
"Stay back!" he hissed, raising his hands.
They didn't move. He could see their fear mirrored in his own. Survival instincts weren't just for him—they were contagious, a silent rule in this fractured world.
He glanced back. The masked figure had returned, slower this time, methodical, almost… studying him. Jake didn't wait to see what it would do next. He sprinted past the children, praying they would hide and not draw attention.
Around the corner, he skidded to a halt, catching sight of another glowing cylinder half-buried under rubble. Another artifact? His mind raced. He didn't have time to investigate. He grabbed it anyway, feeling the hum thrumming through him. Together, the two cylinders seemed to resonate, faint lines of light connecting them like circuits activating.
Jake staggered, overwhelmed. He had no training, no knowledge. He was just a scavenger from a ruined town. But the hum… the pulsing… it demanded attention, and somewhere deep inside, he felt it responding to him.
A voice, metallic and distorted, echoed through the smoke: "Subject located. Containment: imminent."
Jake froze. The voice was neither human nor machine—it was both. And it was close.
The figure emerged from the shadows again, closer than before. Jake's instincts screamed at him to run. He vaulted over debris, sliding under a fallen beam. Sparks flew as his shoulder scraped metal, but he didn't stop.
Every step made the cylinder pulse faster. It was guiding him—or warning him. He didn't know which.
Ahead, a narrow alleyway opened like a tunnel. He ducked in, heart pounding, praying it would give him cover. The masked figure paused at the entrance, scanning, then stepped back. Jake exhaled, leaning against the wall, sweat stinging his eyes.
The hum of the cylinders intensified. Lines of light flared across their surfaces, connecting and weaving in patterns Jake couldn't comprehend. The vision returned briefly: a sprawling network, cities and people interconnected, pulsing, alive. And at the center—him.
The thought struck him like a punch: This isn't just about survival. They're after me… for this.
He didn't have time to process further. Somewhere deeper in the city, a fire roared, lighting up silhouettes moving in coordinated formations. Jake clenched the cylinders tighter, feeling a strange surge of energy—not power, exactly—but focus, clarity, awareness.
I don't know what this is. But I have to keep moving.
As he sprinted down the alley, the cylinders pulsed in harmony. And behind him, the night seemed to hold its breath, as if the world itself was watching.