The city was dying.
Smoke rose like a living thing, thick and choking, curling through the cracked and broken streets. Above, the sky was ripped open—an unnatural wound bleeding violet light that pulsed like a heartbeat. New Chicago was no longer a city; it was a battlefield, a graveyard, a place where the rules of the old world no longer applied.
James moved carefully, blending into the shadows like a ghost. His mechanical right arm was hidden beneath a worn jacket, servos humming softly beneath fabric that had seen better days. His cybernetic eye remained off—there was no reason to draw attention. The last thing he needed was someone knowing what he really was.
Around him, the world crumbled. Shattered glass glinted on the pavement; broken signs and twisted metal littered the sidewalks. The smell of smoke and burning flesh thickened the air, pressing down on lungs that fought to draw clean breath.
The portal above shimmered like a grotesque aurora. From it spilled horrors—monsters that defied logic and nature. Rippers darted through alleys with serrated claws scraping concrete. Shredders oozed acid, their carapaces glistening and impervious. Somewhere in the distance, a low roar shook the city—likely a Colossus, slow but deadly, crushing buildings like toys.
James ignored it all.
Trust was a luxury no longer affordable. His world had narrowed to the simple rules of survival.
He rounded a corner and came face to face with two men.
They weren't soldiers—not really—but desperate and armed nonetheless. Their gear was mismatched, battered armor patched together from who knew where. One clutched a rifle awkwardly, eyes wide with a mix of fear and hope.
"Hey!" one shouted, voice rough and hoarse. "You—Class user?"
The words felt like a blade cutting into James. A label he hated. A chain others used to control him.
He said nothing.
The second man stepped forward, narrowing his eyes. "Don't play dumb. We need all the help we can get. Government's scrambling. No organized units yet, but they're looking for you. You want to live? Come with us."
James's cybernetic eye flicked on for a moment, scanning their vital signs—their desperation, their terror, the tremor in their voices.
Reveal nothing.
He stepped around them, eyes cold and unreadable.
"Wait!" the first man called, but James was already gone.
The streets twisted and folded into shadows as night fell. Every step James took was a calculation—a balance of risk and reward.
His cybernetic systems hummed quietly, analyzing heat signatures just out of sight: packs of Rippers moving like phantoms, their sharp claws scraping concrete. Shredders ooze slime that hissed against metal. Ghostlike Wraiths slipped through the air, invisible to all but the keenest sensors.
Monsters prowled the city in packs, and humans—those who hadn't fled or died—were often worse.
James knew better than to trust.
He kept to the shadows, watching, waiting.
A sudden scream tore through the darkness.
James's head snapped toward the noise.
A girl, no older than sixteen, stumbled into the street, her face pale with terror. Behind her, a six-legged creature—a Shredder—lunged, jaws dripping corrosive acid.
James's mechanical arm twitched beneath his jacket.
The system inside urged him: Engage. Target hostile.
But something caught in his chest—a whisper of hesitation, a spark of something long buried.
The creature lunged.
James moved.
A flash of metal and light, a crack of energy, and the beast collapsed, twitching and defeated.
The girl looked up, eyes wide and shimmering with tears.
"Thank you," she whispered.
James said nothing.
Because gratitude was a luxury he couldn't afford.
The next day, James kept to the ruins, moving through abandoned storefronts and burned-out vehicles. He watched as small bands of militia and volunteers tried to impose order—hastily patched together groups with no clear command, no training, and too little equipment.
The government was flailing, still scrambling to understand the scale of the disaster. No organized Class units existed yet, no formal chain of command. Only desperate calls crackled over static-filled radios: "Class users report in! We need all hands on deck!" and "We're overwhelmed! Evacuate civilians!"
James listened from the shadows.
He wasn't interested.
He was waiting—for what, he wasn't sure.
He passed a young man clutching a rifle, his wristpad flickering with the glow of a Class interface: Scout, Rank D.
The boy's face was pale, sweat and grime streaking dirt on his cheeks. He glanced nervously at James.
"Are you… one of them?" he asked, voice trembling.
James's lips curled into a faint, humorless smile.
"Depends. What do you want?"
"Help," the boy said. "Protection. A chance."
James shook his head.
"Those don't exist anymore."
The boy's shoulders sagged, hope extinguished.
Night fell again.
James found refuge in a long-abandoned subway station, damp and thick with the smell of decay.
He sat on a broken bench, mechanical fingers flexing as servos hummed softly beneath fabric.
His cybernetic eye glowed faint blue in the darkness, scanning the tunnels for threats and anomalies.
System Status: Stable.Core functions: Operational.Class integration: Complete.Objective: Undefined.
His mind wrestled with the question the system had no answer for.
What now?
The rift pulsed overhead, a dark star bleeding violet light into the night.
James stared into the darkness, part man, part machine, waiting.
The city was no longer a place for heroes. It was a place for survivors.
And James had no intention of being anything but that.