The raider with the painted face levels his gun at Hawk's chest.
"Hand over your loot, boy."
Hawk slowly raises his hands.
"Okay, okay, wait—chill. I just got here. I don't have anything."
Another raider—taller, wearing a necklace of bottle caps—steps forward, eyeing the gun on Hawk's back.
"Give us that piece."
Hawk glances at the gun, then back at them.
"This thing? It's busted. No ammo. It's basically a fancy stick."
The first raider sneers.
"We can fix it, you dumbass."
Hawk swallows hard. Shit. If I run, they'll shoot me. If I stay, they'll take everything and maybe still shoot me.
Not ideal.
Then—crack.
A sharp, echoing gunshot slices the air. One of the raiders' heads jerks back, blood misting like red spray paint. He collapses, twitching.
"What the hell?!" the others shout, spinning around.
From the shadows of a crumbling overpass, six figures emerge—tall, armored, and terrifying. Their suits are sleek, matte dark red, plated and reinforced with heavy tech. Glowing visors hide their eyes. A GRIFFITH emblem burns on their shoulders like a badge of judgment.
The leader stands at the center, a flagpole rising from a mount on her back. The flag waves faintly in the dusty air—emblazoned with the full crest of the Global Reconstruction Initiative.
Each soldier lifts a sleek advanced blaster pistol—sleek, chrome, military-grade—and unleashes hell.
Laser rounds carve through the remaining raiders, precise and deadly. Screams echo. Scrap armor melts. Guns clatter to the ground.
When the smoke settles, the leader steps forward.
She removes her helmet with a hiss of depressurization.
Underneath is a young Japanese woman—maybe mid-twenties—with a short wolf-cut hairstyle. The top of her hair is snow white with thin black streaks, while the back fades into pure black. Her eyes are piercing blue, clear as polished sapphire. A single mole sits under her right eye, giving her a striking, almost cinematic symmetry.
Her expression is calm. Measured.
"You okay, traveler?"
Hawk blinks, stunned.
"Y-yeah. I'm… I'm good. That was—uh—fast. And violent."
She nods once.
"I'm Cami, leader of Squad 44. GRIFFITH outpost sector."
She gestures to the dead raiders with a glance.
"Scavver gangs are getting bold lately."
Hawk chuckles nervously.
"Yeah, no kidding. I was about five seconds from becoming a statistic."
Cami's expression turns serious.
"Consider this a warning. If you see anything huge… with rocky skin, stay away."
Hawk tilts his head.
"Why? What are they?"
"Titanborn," she says, voice low. "Big, slow, and brain-dead. Like walking mountains made of asphalt and hate. They usually roam the edges of the city—but lately… they've been moving inward. Attacking our bases. That's not normal."
Hawk whistles, low.
"Sounds like my kind of neighbors."
Cami eyes the gun slung over his shoulder.
"Need ammo?"
His eyes light up.
"Wait—you got some?"
She reaches into a side compartment on her hip, pulls out a small box of rounds.
"12mm rail-slugs. Looks like your piece uses 'em."
He grabs the box, inspecting it with disbelief.
"Oh my god. You're my favorite person now. Like, in the whole post-apocalypse."
She smirks, already sliding her helmet back on.
"No problem, citizen. Just stay alive."
The other GRIFFITH soldiers regroup behind her, weapons at the ready.
Cami pauses for a moment.
"You've got decent instincts. If you find your way to one of our checkpoints, mention my name. Might save you some trouble."
And with that, they walk past him, boots crunching over broken glass and smoldering debris.
Hawk exhales hard, finally letting himself slump to the ground. The ammo box sits heavy in his palm. His face is still crusted with dried Crowl blood, his shirt ripped at the shoulder, and every muscle in his body aches.
But he's alive.
He tilts his head back toward the poisoned sky.
"Guess I made it through my first day out…"
He grins behind the mask.
"Only lost half my dignity and all my patience. Not bad."
Hawk crawled over to the fallen raider, grimacing at the burnt-metal stench wafting off the corpse. He pried the sidearm from the man's limp fingers—a scratched-up ballistic pistol with a cracked sight—and shoved it into his jacket pocket.
He yanked off his gas mask and tossed it aside.
"Useless," he muttered, taking a sharp inhale through his nose—and immediately gagging.
"Jesus Christ… it stinks out here."
He waved a hand in front of his face, trying not to retch.
"Hopefully I get used to that… or lose my sense of smell."
He crouched beside the raider's body, eyeing the patchwork armor made from rusted plates and tires. He poked at it, then shook his head.
"Nah… wear this crap and I'll get shot on sight. Probably by GRIFFITH. Not worth it."
Hawk stood, brushed himself off, and began walking in the direction the GRIFFITH squad had come from. The air buzzed with tension, distant howls, and the low hum of decay that hung over the ruins like a wet blanket.
After a few minutes of cautious movement, he arrived at what used to be a train stop. Twisted rails and scorched timetables marked the place. But more pressing—Crowls.
Three of them skittered through the platform, sniffing and twitching.
Hawk didn't hesitate.
He drew his gun, aimed steady, and squeezed the trigger—BANG! A Crowl's head popped like an overripe melon. He moved quickly, taking another shot—BANG!—and another—BANG!
"Stay the hell away," he muttered under his breath, his finger tight on the trigger.
He climbed to the platform floor, boots clanking on warped metal, and moved down the old stairs. At the bottom, the city swallowed him again—brick skeletons, rusted steel, and nature slowly taking back what fire had left behind.
Hawk looked around, scanning his surroundings—and that's when he saw him.
An old man, hunched and tense, crouching behind a rusted, half-flattened sedan. His eyes were wide, darting toward the street. Hawk approached.
"Hey, mister. Can you tell me where I can—"
"Shhhh!" the man hissed, grabbing Hawk and yanking him down.
"Get down, you idiot!"
Hawk crouched beside him, confused.
"Whoa—what the hell, man?"
"You almost got us both killed!" the old man hissed again, breathing hard.
"From what?!"
The old man jabbed a finger toward the street.
"Look."
Hawk slowly peeked over the hood of the car—and immediately dropped back down.
Two towering Titanborn lumbered just a block away. Their massive bodies were covered in jagged, rocky armor, like someone fused stone with muscle. Their heads twitched slightly as if sniffing for movement. Even at a distance, Hawk could feel the vibration of their steps through the ground.
"Holy shit…" he whispered.
"Yeah," the old man nodded grimly. "Now you see why I freaked out."
"Alright, alright… my bad," Hawk said, keeping his voice low. "I thought you were just being dramatic."
The old man chuckled dryly.
"Most folks think that. Until they see one of them crush a man like a tin can."
"So… why not just take another path?" Hawk asked.
The old man shook his head.
"They're guarding a museum."
"A… what?"
The old man looked at him like he'd grown a second head.
"A museum, kid. Don't tell me you've never heard of one."
Hawk scratched the back of his neck.
"Yeah, no… I haven't."
The man let out a sigh of disbelief.
"Damn new generation. Alright, listen—it's a building that stores objects of historical, scientific, artistic, or cultural value. Back before the nukes, people put important stuff in 'em. Priceless knowledge. Art. Tech. Books."
Hawk blinked.
"And you're trying to… loot it?"
"Well, yeah," the old man shrugged. "Me and my group went in. We were making a haul—good stuff, real rare pre-war tech. But me and Charlie stepped out to grab more weapons, and when we got back, they were just there. Standing guard. Like they knew. Like they were… thinking."
Hawk frowned.
"They're not supposed to do that, right?"
"Exactly. Titanborn are slow, dumb brutes. Barely react unless provoked. But these two? They're acting like sentries. And if that ain't bad enough…"
He pointed silently toward a stop sign pole up the street. Impaled through the metal was a human body—limp, bloody, and broken. It looked like a sack of bones twisted into something almost inhuman.
"That's Charlie," the old man said softly.
"They didn't just kill him. They played with him. Broke his legs. Beat him within an inch of his life. Then shoved his body through that pole like a goddamn warning."
Hawk's mouth went dry.
"Jesus Christ…"
The old man's hand trembled as he pulled something from under his coat—a bundle of dynamite sticks, bound with a rubber band. Ten in total. Enough to blow a building.
"This," he said, "might be my only shot. If I'm lucky, I hit both bastards before they see me."
Hawk raised an eyebrow.
"And if you're not lucky?"
The old man sighed, deep and tired.
"Then it's down into the sewers. But that's no picnic either. Mutant moles. Burrow-beasts. And worse. And I sure as hell can't kill everything down there by myself."
"So what's the plan?" Hawk asked, eyeing the dynamite bundle.
"That's what I'm still trying to figure out," the old man muttered.
"If I blow 'em up, I might attract more—more Titanborn, or worse. Something in this city always hears explosions."
Hawk leaned back, rubbing his temple.
"Sounds like a lose-lose."
"Tell me about it."
They sat in silence for a moment, the distant thump of the Titanborn's footsteps the only soundtrack.
Then Hawk cracked a crooked grin.
"Well… if it makes you feel any better, this is still only my first day out here."
The old man gave him a sideways look, then let out a dry, wheezing laugh.
"Kid… you're gonna fit in just fine."