The room was dark, silent but for the faint, intermittent crackle of failing circuitry. An occasional flicker of dying lights cast erratic shadows, throwing strange shapes across the fractured tiles and walls. A faint hum vibrated through the air, a sound as much mechanical as it was alive, a failing heartbeat of a place long forgotten.
Then, with a final groan, the generator stopped.
The sudden silence was overwhelming, but only for a moment. With a hiss of decompression, one of the cryogenic pods in the corner released its seals. Frost-covered glass slid back sluggishly, revealing a figure within. His chest heaved sharply, expelling stale air from dormant lungs. His muscles trembled as he moved for the first time in...how long? He couldn’t know.
The floor was cold against his bare feet as he stumbled out of the pod. His legs gave out, sending him sprawling to the ground. The impact sent a jarring sensation through his body, but he felt detached from the pain. Groaning, he tried to push himself up and stopped.
His hands—if they could be called that—were not flesh. Smooth, blackened metal glinted dully in the faint light. Mechanisms whirred softly as he flexed his fingers, each movement precise yet alien. These were not his hands. Or…were they?
He couldn’t remember.
He couldn’t remember anything.
He glanced around, dazed and shivering. To his right, another pod stood empty. Frost clung to the nameplate: Ravenna. To his left was another, seemingly untouched, labeled Rallus. It was pristine, unblemished by the years of decay around it.
He turned his gaze to his own pod, its nameplate illuminated by a faint, flickering light. Etrius.
Etrius. It was a strange word, both unfamiliar and oddly fitting. Was it his name? It had to be. He repeated it in his mind, as though clinging to the only piece of himself he could grasp.
Pushing himself upright, Etrius stood, unsteady but determined. His eyes adjusted to the dimness, revealing more of the room’s ruin. Equipment lay scattered and broken, their purpose a mystery. He moved forward, unsure of where he was going but driven by a need to understand.
A glint caught his eye. A piece of shattered glass lay on the floor. Kneeling, he picked it up and froze.
The reflection staring back at him wasn’t human. It had humanoid features, but his face was covered in thick, striped fur, and his eyes glowed faintly green in the dark. Long black hair framed his head, streaked with white in one patch, and a pair of feline ears twitched involuntarily.
Startled, he dropped the glass, then hesitantly picked up another shard. This time, he examined his reflection carefully. His mouth parted slightly, revealing sharp teeth. His pupils were slitted, like a predator’s. His body—what little he could see of it—was covered in fur, his chest broad and muscular, his shoulders unnaturally wide. His legs bent oddly, the structure not quite human.
Was this really him?
He touched his face, feeling the fur and the angular planes of his features. The reflection mimicked him perfectly, confirming the truth. Swallowing hard, he glanced down at his body.
His arms were clearly cybernetic, ending in retractable claws. Lower, his glance fell to his genitals, and he froze, his mind struggling to process the mixture of familiar and alien features. He pushed the thoughts aside. This wasn’t the time to indulge in shock or shame.
Taking a deep breath, he turned back to the room. Answers lay somewhere in the wreckage.
He picked through the remnants of the facility, finding little at first—shattered equipment, rusted tools, and faded labels in a language he couldn’t quite understand. Then, buried beneath debris, he found papers. Most were destroyed, but one diagram stood out. It was a detailed sketch of a human body—his body.
The name on the corner of the diagram read Vladimir Petrovich.
The name stirred no memories. The sketch, however, was unsettlingly familiar. Notes in cramped handwriting surrounded the image, detailing surgical procedures, grafts, and chemical formulas. His eyes caught a line referencing him directly—but it described a human man, not the creature he had become.
What was he?
A failed experiment? An abandoned project?
He stared at the papers until his vision blurred, a hollow ache growing in his chest. There were too many questions and no clear answers.
Pushing himself to his feet, Etrius clutched the papers tightly. Somewhere, in this ruined facility, the truth awaited.
Etrius wandered through the maze of broken corridors, the metallic echoes of his steps reverberating through the dead space. The air was stale, thick with dust and decay. His breaths were steady but shallow, each exhale visible in the faint light that managed to sneak through cracks in the walls. The facility seemed endless, every hall identical in its desolation.
Occasionally, he stumbled upon remnants of what had once been—notes scrawled, diagrams of organs and machinery pinned haphazardly to corkboards, fragments of reports with cryptic annotations. Each discovery only added to the fog in his mind, fragments of a puzzle he couldn’t begin to assemble.
A room off to the side held skeletal remains of machinery, its purpose now lost to time. Another was filled with rows of empty lockers, their contents long decayed. He found no food, no water, nothing of substance to answer the questions clawing at his mind.
The silence pressed down on him.
As he walked, the emptiness of the facility began to weigh on him, the sheer lack of life. How long had this place been abandoned? And why had he been left here?
Eventually, his path led him to a larger chamber near the edge of the facility. His eyes scanned the room, landing on a wooden crate pushed against one wall. The crate was unremarkable except for a note taped to its front.
Etrius approached cautiously, the sound of his bare footsteps louder against the concrete floor. The paper was yellowed and brittle, its edges curling with age. He lifted it carefully, brushing off the thick layer of dust to reveal a short, handwritten message:
The world above is dangerous. I know you are capable, but please be careful. There is no telling when you awaken, but when you do, you must prepare for survival.
The words lingered in his mind, gnawing at him. Who had left this? Petrovich? Or someone else? And what was waiting for him beyond the walls of this place?
Setting the note aside, Etrius pried open the crate. Inside, he found a pair of black cargo pants, a grey tank top, and a battered leather backpack. Beneath the clothing were small, rectangular packages. He picked one up, its writing faded beyond recognition.
MREs. Meals Ready to Eat.
The term bounced through his mind, stirring something within him. He froze, his grip tightening on the package as a flash of light seared across his vision.
Camouflage uniforms. Soldiers laughing. A dusty road stretching endlessly under a scorching sun.
The vision passed as suddenly as it had come, leaving him on his hands and knees. His head throbbed, his breath ragged. The crate and its contents swam back into focus as he forced himself upright.
The Army. Which army? His?
The memory dissipated like smoke, leaving him empty and frustrated. With deliberate movements, he dressed in the provided clothing. The tank top stretched over his broad frame, the pants fitting snugly around his digitigrade legs. He packed the MREs into the backpack and slung it over his shoulder, its weight grounding him.
He turned to the staircase leading up, its steps crumbling but intact. Each step felt heavier than the last, the air growing thinner as he climbed. The scent of rust and earth faded, replaced by something unfamiliar—cold, sharp, and wild.
Hundreds of steps later, his eyes adjusted to a faint glimmer of natural light seeping through an opening ahead. The final barrier was an old, heavy metal door, its hinges creaking as he pushed it open.
The world beyond the facility stretched in every direction, gray and lifeless under an oppressive sky. Snow fell lightly, muting any sound Etrius might have expected in this wasteland. The jagged remnants of buildings clawed at the horizon, their skeletal frames a grim reminder of the world that had come before. The Russian winter was cruel enough without the lingering nuclear chill.
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