Adapting to the Unknown
The stream gurgled softly, its presence a rare comfort in the otherwise heavy silence.
Nick crouched beside it, submerging his plastic kettle beneath the cool surface. Tiny ripples fanned outward as he filled it, sealed the lid, then set it beneath the nearest tree. The metal pot followed, tucked away safely in the shade.
With water secured, he turned his attention to food.
The problem was, nothing here felt normal.
Plants shouldn't hace controllable tendrils. Their stems shouldn’t pulse. Some even twitched at his presence, their tendrils curling as though sensing him.
Nick kept his distance.
Instead, he searched for what looked safe. Stalks that didn’t flex, leaves that didn’t react when touched. He smeared the juice from one plant onto his forearm, waiting for any sign of irritation, numbness, or reaction.
Nothing.
Only then did he gather them.
The Cost of Survival
By the time he returned to his makeshift shelter, his body was a patchwork of scratches. His feet burned, raw from constant exposure. The slightest brush of the unnatural vines left stinging marks on his skin.
He needed clothing. Shoes. Protection. But that, too, would have to wait.
First, fire.
He arranged stones into a crude stove, stacking dry branches and brittle grass inside. Then came the hard part—sparking a flame.
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Minutes dragged into an hour. His knuckles bled from the effort, his fingers blackened with soot. But then—
A flicker.
A coil of smoke. Then a single, fragile flame.
He wasted no time, feeding it carefully, keeping the embers alive.
The berries and mushrooms boiled in water, their earthy scent filling the air. The taste was bland, bitter, but it was food.
It was survival.
That night, exhaustion overtook him, dragging him into sleep. He never intended to rest, but his body made the choice for him.
The foreign world pressed in around him, silent yet watching.
A New Day, A New Struggle
Pain greeted him first.
His back ached from the unforgiving ground, his muscles stiff from sleeping upright against cold stone.
A new routine took shape. No toothbrush—ash would do. No shoes—vines, softened in water, became crude sandals.
But the forest was less forgiving.
The familiar plants were gone. The **safe berries, the harmless mushrooms—**he had picked them all in a single day. Now, only the unfamiliar remained.
He ventured further, hunger outweighing hesitation.
Tall, unsettling trees loomed in the distance, their trunks pulsating like a beating heart.
Vines bled red where they wrapped around the bark. The air near them carried a scent—thick, metallic, unnatural.
A low, guttural sound echoed beyond the trees.
Something alive.
Nick stopped. His breath held.
Then, slowly, he turned back.
Hunger was bad. But not as bad as walking into something he wasn’t ready for.
The Isolation Sets In
As the days passed, the world felt heavier.
The deeper he moved toward the ruined city, the stranger everything became.
Technology that shouldn’t exist. Structures too advanced, yet crumbling. The sheer scale of catastrophe was beyond anything he had ever known.
And worst of all—
The absence of people.
At first, the loneliness was manageable. Necessary, even. But isolation was a slow poison.
The silence grew thick, suffocating. The air carried a taste—dusty, metallic, faintly sweet, yet off. The sunlight never shone bright enough. Even at midday, a dull haze smothered the sky.
He was alone.
And it was beginning to take its toll.
Preparation for the Unknown
He adapted.
Over five days, his hands became skilled at weaving vines into armor-like garments. A sturdy branch, carefully sharpened, became a crude spear.
His shelter was stocked.
His weapons, primitive but functional.
And when he looked toward the hollowed city, its ruins stretching toward the poisoned sky, he knew—
It was time.
Time to search.
Time to understand.
Time to find out what happened to this world.
And, more importantly—
What happened to him.
