The M-11 highway stretched ahead of Etrius, an endless ribbon of cracked asphalt bordered by skeletal trees and the husks of abandoned vehicles. Every step was measured, slow and deliberate. His instincts forced him to stop frequently, scanning each vehicle with a wary eye before approaching. He checked for traps or signs of others, but Tver's isolation had spared it from most scavengers. The loot, untouched by human hands for decades, was his to claim.
Each car was a time capsule of lives abruptly interrupted. Some held nothing but decayed upholstery and rust, while others yielded surprising finds. From a corroded toolbox in a pickup truck, Etrius salvaged pliers, a wrench, and a flathead screwdriver—simple tools, but invaluable in the wasteland. In another vehicle, an overturned sedan, he found a bundle of old seatbelts still in decent condition. Cutting them free with his bayonet, he replaced the fraying wires securing his armor plates, knotting and cinching the straps tightly.
As the hours passed, his armor evolved with each discovery. A thick road sign bearing the faded outline of a speed limit replaced a thin chest plate that had been dented during his initial scavenging. More signs, their faded lettering obscured by grime, were bent into curved shapes to cover his thighs and upper arms. By the time he reached the outskirts of Tver, the clanging of his makeshift armor was subdued, his movements quieter and more controlled.
Near evening, Etrius stumbled upon a rusted delivery truck. The vehicle’s back doors were locked, but a few swings of his rifle's bayonet against the rusted latch gave way to its contents. Inside were boxes of spray paint cans, stacked neatly but long forgotten. The first few cans he tested clogged immediately, the propellant useless after years of neglect. But persistence paid off, and eventually, a handful of cans sprayed properly. Over the next hour, Etrius meticulously coated his armor in black paint. The crude markings of road signs disappeared beneath layers of dark pigment. That night, he lit a small fire beneath a crumbling overpass and cured the paint. The heat wasn’t ideal, but it set the paint enough to make it durable. The result was a suit of armor both functional and ominous.
As the fire crackled, Etrius settled in for his first meal of the day—a tin of cold cat food. The taste was unpleasant but familiar now, a necessary concession in a world without options. As he ate, movement from the darkness caught his eye. He froze, listening intently, his enhanced hearing picking up the faint rustle of leaves. Slowly, his green eyes adjusted to the dim light, and he saw it—a rabbit, or at least what might have once been one.
The creature had two heads, both twitching in opposite directions as it cautiously approached the warmth of the fire. Its fur was patchy, exposing mottled skin underneath, and its eyes glowed faintly in the dim light. Etrius stayed perfectly still, his grip tightening on the SKS. When the creature stepped within reach, his arm lashed out, the bayonet skewering the rabbit through one of its heads. Its death was quick, a reflexive strike honed by the survival instincts hardwired into him.
Etrius wasted nothing. The two-headed rabbit became his first real meal in days. Its meat, lean and gamey, roasted over the fire. He used its pelt to fashion small strips of leather, rubbing them with ash to preserve them temporarily. Its bones, cleaned with care, were sharpened into makeshift sewing needles and fishing hooks, tucked carefully into his pack. The intestines were cleaned and dried over the fire, forming crude but functional strings. As the night deepened, Etrius felt an odd satisfaction. Every part of the creature had a purpose—a stark contrast to the wasteful nature of the world he had once known.
The fire burned low, its embers casting faint shadows against the underpass. Etrius leaned back against the cold concrete wall, his rifle resting across his knees. Tomorrow, he would continue down the M-11, his path uncertain but necessary. For now, the soft hum of the wind and the faint warmth of the dying fire were enough to keep him grounded, however briefly, in the chaos of this broken world.
In the morning, Etrius moved cautiously, his boots crunching softly against the ash-covered asphalt of the M-11 highway. The air was still, save for the occasional whisper of wind through skeletal trees that lined the road. Each vehicle he approached felt like a potential trap—rusting shells of what were once tools of travel now seemed to crouch in wait, ready to spring danger upon him. His grip tightened on the SKS, its bayonet locked in place, as he checked each car methodically.
Most vehicles yielded little: shattered glass, decayed upholstery, and empty glove compartments. Still, persistence paid off. In one sedan, he found a bottle of clear alcohol, sealed and untouched. It would serve well for sanitizing wounds. From another, he scavenged strips of sturdy fabric from the seat covers—potential bandages if properly boiled. Etrius worked with precision, his hands steady but his ears attuned to every faint noise beyond his immediate surroundings.
The weight of his gear grew steadily as his scavenging bore more fruit. A compact first-aid kit lay hidden beneath a passenger seat in a van, and he carefully inspected its contents: dried-out antiseptic wipes, a small roll of gauze, and a partially full tube of antibiotic ointment. It wasn’t much, but in this world, anything was valuable. He added it to his pack and moved on.
As he passed a burned-out truck, something caught his eye—a bundle of old clothes stuffed in a torn backpack. The fabric smelled faintly of mildew but seemed intact. He extracted it, cutting and tearing pieces to prepare makeshift bandages, while the rest went into his growing collection of supplies. Inside the backpack’s side pocket, he found a small coil of fishing line and a handful of mismatched hooks. He tucked them away, knowing they could become lifesaving tools.
The journey was slow. Every few steps, Etrius would pause, scanning the area for movement. The highway’s eerie emptiness set him on edge; the lack of human activity this close to Tver felt unnatural, even considering the circumstances. His instincts screamed that safety was fragile, fleeting. Despite this, he pressed on, finding solace in the ritual of scavenging—searching, collecting, and storing each item with care.
One of the more promising finds came from an abandoned SUV with shattered windows and a crushed roof. After prying open the back hatch, Etrius discovered a stash of canned goods: two tins of preserved fruit and a can of beans. A small victory, even if the cans were slightly dented. He inspected the labels for signs of swelling or damage, deciding they were safe enough. They joined his growing collection of provisions.
By nightfall, Etrius had covered only a few kilometers. A rusted sedan with its hood missing provided a makeshift shelter. After gutting its interior, he built a small, smokeless fire using dried twigs and scraps of paper from a crumpled map he’d found earlier. He removed his newly scavenged items from his pack, laying them out for inspection. The alcohol, bandages, extra clothes, and even a handful of spare batteries gave him a faint sense of progress, though it did little to quell the unease that gnawed at him.
As the fire crackled softly, Etrius worked on his armor. He had replaced some of the thinner plates with thicker signs scavenged from the roadside and used strips of fabric to bind the new pieces together more securely. From his collection of backpacks, he harvested pockets, sewing them onto his cloak with the precision of a soldier handling gear before deployment. The extra storage felt like an accomplishment, but the looming darkness beyond the firelight reminded him how temporary any security could be.
Etrius didn’t sleep that night. Instead, he sat with his back against the ruined car, SKS resting across his knees, scanning the highway for any sign of movement. Every sound—the crackle of burning wood, the groan of metal cooling in the night air, the distant howl of some unknown creature—kept him on edge. When dawn began to break, painting the ash-streaked sky in muted greys and browns, Etrius extinguished the fire and resumed his cautious trek. There were kilometers yet to cover, and the world had more to reveal.
Etrius’s boots pressed into the cracked pavement of the M-11, the sound absorbed by the desolate silence of the wasteland. Each kilometer felt like an eternity as he moved with calculated caution, scanning the ruins ahead for signs of danger. His eyes darted to every shadow, every flicker of movement, his grip tightening on the SKS rifle at the faintest hint of the unknown. His path, though isolated, was far from safe; the sheer absence of other humans made him hyperaware of the unspoken threats this wasteland harbored.
The muted howl of the wind was the only warning he had before the mutated wolves descended. They emerged from the overgrowth at the highway's edge—three creatures with too many teeth and glowing, slit-pupil eyes. Their wiry fur was patchy, their limbs longer than they should have been, and their snarls came in unnerving, staggered bursts. Etrius raised the rifle instinctively, his cybernetic strength stabilizing the barrel as he took aim.
The first shot cracked the silence, slamming into the lead wolf’s chest and sending it tumbling to the asphalt. The others hesitated for a heartbeat, then charged. Etrius sidestepped as one lunged, driving the rifle's bayonet into its neck with a brutal thrust. Dark, viscous blood sprayed, splattering his cloak. He twisted the blade free, spinning to meet the third wolf, which leapt with terrifying speed. It collided with his armor, teeth scraping against the thick road sign plating, but Etrius didn’t falter. A sharp kick sent it sprawling, and he fired another round, silencing it.
The encounter left him breathing heavily, not from exertion, but from the flood of instinctive, combat-driven focus that coursed through him. He scanned the area for more threats, his grip still tight on the rifle. When no further movement came, he turned his attention to the slain wolves. Food was scarce, and he had no choice but to make use of what the wasteland offered.
Working quickly, Etrius skinned the creatures with the bayonet, separating their meat and organs from the unusable parts. Their fur was rough and matted, but it could be treated and repurposed. From the carcasses, he harvested sinew to use as cordage, carefully setting it aside. As he worked, his ears remained attuned to his surroundings, every rustle of leaves or distant creak keeping him on edge.
Nearby, a rusting winter service vehicle sat abandoned, its faded orange paint barely visible beneath layers of grime and ash. The back was filled with road salt, hardened into clumps but still usable. Etrius carried as much as he could to the overpass where he planned to camp. There, he built a small fire, smoking the wolf meat over its flames and curing the pieces with salt to preserve them. The smell was sharp and unpleasant, but it was sustenance. He packed the finished pieces into his bag, ensuring they were tightly wrapped to avoid attracting other predators.
As the firelight flickered against the concrete of the overpass, Etrius wiped his hands clean on a scrap of fabric. He stood and scanned the horizon, catching sight of something unusual in the distance. Rising out of the ashen haze was a ruined factory, its structure looming like a specter against the backdrop of the wasteland. Faded lettering across its weathered façade read Kalashnikov Concern.
Etrius’s gaze lingered on the building. If the name was more than just a remnant of the past, it could hold weapons, ammunition, or tools far superior to what he carried. Yet he knew such a place would not be unguarded. Scavengers likely had no means of breaking through reinforced metal doors, but his cybernetic strength might be the key. Still, caution was vital. A wrong move in such a place could cost him dearly.
He doused the fire carefully, shouldered his pack, and began to make his way down the overpass, the factory fixed in his sights.
The factory loomed closer with each step, its jagged edges cutting into the ashen sky. Etrius scanned the perimeter as he approached, his enhanced vision picking out rusted fencing and scattered debris. The air smelled of decay and stagnant metal. The massive structure was eerily silent, its long-forgotten purpose buried beneath years of neglect. For now, it seemed abandoned—no signs of life, no scavengers to contend with.
He reached the factory’s primary entrance, a set of heavy, rusted double doors. Gripping the cold metal handles, Etrius pulled with all the strength his prosthetics could muster. The doors groaned in protest but refused to yield. Frustration bubbled to the surface as he tried again, this time planting his feet firmly and yanking with a force that sent a sharp creak echoing into the desolate surroundings. Still, the doors held fast.
He stepped back, studying them for weaknesses. None were obvious. With a low growl, he rammed his shoulder into the metal, the impact reverberating through his frame. The sound was jarring, but the doors barely shifted. A few more attempts left him winded, his patience thinning. The rusted hinges and warped metal made brute force useless.
Etrius exhaled sharply, stepping away. His eyes moved upward, tracing the lines of the building. The roof was within reach, and if there were access points up there, it might be his way in. He removed his pack and set it against the wall, keeping only his rifle, ammunition, and the essentials in his various pockets. The straps and ropes he’d crafted would allow him to carry anything valuable he found without burdening himself unnecessarily.
Finding footholds in the crumbling façade, Etrius began to climb. His cybernetic arms made the task easier, each pull steady and deliberate as he scaled the structure. The wind whipped against him, carrying loose flakes of rust and ash as he ascended. The surface was treacherous, brittle in places, but his augmented strength compensated for the precariousness of the climb.
Reaching the roof, he hoisted himself over the edge and paused to catch his breath. The view from above revealed a desolate expanse of the wasteland, the cracked highway stretching into the horizon. Scanning the roof, he noticed a small access door, its frame warped and its surface coated in peeling paint. To his surprise, it was slightly ajar, the gap barely wide enough to suggest recent movement—though the thought unsettled him.
Approaching cautiously, Etrius pushed the door open with a creak. Rust flaked from the hinges as he applied force, and after a few moments of effort, the gap widened enough for him to step inside. His boots echoed softly on the metal stairwell as he descended, the dim light from above fading with each step.
The top floor of the factory greeted him with an eerie stillness. Unlike the lower levels he had glimpsed from outside, this area seemed intact, though it was barren of anything immediately useful. Workbenches lined the walls, cluttered with tools and disassembled equipment that had long since gathered dust. Shelves sagged under the weight of rusted components, and a few faded diagrams hung limply on the walls, their edges curling with age.
Etrius moved carefully, scanning each corner for signs of loot. Tools meant for manufacturing or fine-tuning machinery littered the space—precision instruments, soldering kits, and ancient wrenches. They were of no use to him. His focus was weapons and ammunition, but this floor seemed devoid of both. The faint scent of oil lingered in the air, mixing with the omnipresent rust, but nothing indicated anything beyond mundane maintenance operations.
As Etrius scanned the room, his eyes caught on something small and metallic amidst the sea of rusted tools and abandoned equipment—a case, plain yet strangely pristine compared to the surrounding decay. Its dull silver surface reflected the faint light filtering in through the cracks in the walls. What truly drew his attention, however, was the yellowed piece of paper placed neatly atop it.
He approached cautiously, his fingers brushing against the paper. The faint scrawl of Russian lettering, faded but legible, made him pause. He read it aloud in a low murmur: "Deliver to Vladimir Petrovich, Tver General Hospital, 13th sublevel." The words struck him like a physical blow. A chill crept down his spine as he realized the connection—Petrovich, the name that had haunted him since his escape from the laboratory. What was this case doing here, in a Kalashnikov facility?
Etrius’s grip tightened on the paper as unease prickled at the edges of his mind. He lowered it carefully, setting it aside before reaching for the case. The metal clasps were stiff with age, but they yielded under his augmented strength, popping open with a metallic click. Inside, nestled in worn foam padding, was a handgun—a massive, scaled-up version of the Browning M1911 he faintly remembered.
The sight of it triggered a cascade of fragmented memories. Etrius saw himself standing at an outdoor range, laughing with figures whose faces were blurred. The feel of a standard 1911 was vivid in his hands, the satisfying recoil and the smell of gunpowder filling the air as he fired at distant targets. He remembered the warmth of the sun, the metallic ring of casings hitting concrete.
Then the memories were gone, ripped away as quickly as they had come. Etrius found himself on his hands and knees, breathing heavily. The cold air of the factory stung his lungs as he clenched his fists against the floor. The echoes of a life he no longer owned left a hollow ache in his chest, a void he couldn’t explain.
It took him several moments to regain his composure. Slowly, he rose to his feet, wiping the sweat from his brow. The handgun still lay in the case, undisturbed. He picked it up carefully, the weight of it almost familiar, as though it had been crafted specifically for his hands. It was significantly larger and heavier than any handgun he had handled before.
His eyes moved to the slide, where the inscription caught his attention: "Kalashnikov 1911A1 .50BW."
The name Beowulf flashed in his mind, a cartridge far more powerful than any traditional handgun round. While .50 Action Express was renowned for its stopping power in handguns like the Desert Eagle, this weapon housed something even deadlier—a cartridge designed for rifles, chambered in a sidearm. The engineering was staggering. Etrius thumbed the magazine release, sliding the empty magazine free to inspect its size and craftsmanship. A quick search of the shelf above the case revealed three spare magazines along with a box of ammunition.
He opened the box, revealing the .50 Beowulf rounds inside. The cartridges were enormous, dwarfing any standard pistol rounds he had used before. Each magazine held twenty of these monstrosities. On the same shelf, he found a holster designed specifically for the gun. It was robust, built for durability, and fit the weapon snugly. Without hesitation, Etrius strapped it to his belt, securing the magazines alongside it.
For a brief moment, he tested the weapon, leveling it in front of him. The balance was perfect, the grip fitting into his hands as though it had been forged for him alone. The memories of the range flickered faintly again before fading entirely, leaving only the reality of the weapon in his grasp. Satisfied, Etrius slung the SKS across his back once more and loaded his pockets with the ammo boxes. With his new sidearm holstered, he moved toward the stairwell and descended cautiously to the second floor.
The air grew heavier as he descended, the shadows lengthening in the faint light. This floor was different from the one above—darker, quieter, and carrying the faint smell of gun oil and old steel. Etrius stepped into the unknown, his eyes scanning the room ahead.
He descended the factory’s stairwell cautiously, his senses heightened. The handgun, snug in its holster, was a weight that seemed to carry more than just physical mass. The circumstances of its discovery gnawed at him, an itch he couldn’t scratch. The factory was isolated, untouched, and yet somehow it held a weapon that felt like it had been waiting for him. It was too convenient. His grip tightened on the SKS slung across his chest as he muttered to himself, "Coincidence. That’s all it is."
But doubt lingered.
The lower levels were bleak and industrial, their air heavy with rust and decay. He swept through the corridors, his footsteps muffled against layers of dust and debris. Most rooms were empty, save for a few rusted toolboxes and broken machinery. In a corner room, a dented wooden crate caught his attention. Prising it open with the rifle’s bayonet, he found a small cache of ammunition—boxes of 7.62x39 rounds for the SKS. He packed them away, knowing they’d keep him armed for weeks if chose his targets carefully.
There were no more signs of the large-caliber ammunition the handgun required. Etrius clenched his jaw at the thought of wasting even a single round; each one was too valuable to squander. He pressed on, his focus sharp despite the oppressive silence that seemed to grow heavier with each step.
The air turned colder as he reached the bottom floor. The metallic tang of rust was joined by something else—something faintly organic. The source became clear as he entered what looked to be an administrative office, its walls lined with filing cabinets and scattered paperwork. In the far corner of the room, human skeletons lay slumped against the wall, their bones bleached and brittle, stripped clean by time and nature. Etrius paused, his gaze lingering on them.
He didn’t feel sorrow or pity, only a faint unease. Their presence spoke of a time long past, a moment of desperation frozen in decay. Moving closer, he crouched to inspect them. Their positions suggested they’d died huddled together, perhaps waiting for salvation that never came. He rose, shaking off the thought, and turned his attention to the cluttered desks.
Leafing through yellowed sheets of paper, he found mundane records—orders for materials, inventory lists, shift schedules. Most were irrelevant, but a thicker folder buried beneath the others caught his eye. Inside was a single typed document labeled Custom Order 963105-001.
His eyes scanned the words quickly:
Recipient: Vladimir Petrovich, Tver General Hospital, 13th Sublevel
Description: One Replica Browning 1911 chambered in .50BW.
Special Instructions: Constructed from tungsten carbide; material provided.
Etrius felt his chest tighten as he read the details. The gun he now carried was no ordinary weapon; it had been commissioned specifically for him—or rather, for whatever creation Petrovich envisioned him becoming. The difference between caring for a creation versus a person became prevalent in that moment. The realization was hollow, a reminder of the control Petrovich had exercised over every aspect of his existence.
Etrius gritted his teeth and folded the document, slipping it into his cloak’s pocket. It didn’t matter now. Petrovich was gone, his laboratory buried beneath ash and time. The why of it all was irrelevant, the gun was his now, and he would decide its purpose.
With little else of value in the room, Etrius retraced his steps, climbing the stairwell back to the factory’s roof. The wind greeted him with a biting chill as he stepped into the open air. He descended the building carefully, his prosthetics bearing his weight as he lowered himself down its crumbling exterior.
Reaching the ground, he retrieved his pack, the familiar weight settling on his shoulders like an old burden. Adjusting the straps, he cast a final glance at the factory. Its hulking frame loomed against the gray sky, a monument to a forgotten time. Without another thought, Etrius turned and set his path back toward the M-11.
The highway stretched ahead, its cracked surface leading him further into the unknown.
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