Tristan's head pounded like a drum, and every breath made his ribs scream with pain. It hurt everywhere, yet it served as a constant, screaming reminder that he was still alive.
He tried to move his arm, but a sharp, grinding feeling stopped him. Slowly, carefully, he tried to figure out his situation without moving too much. He seemed to be wedged in a small space, surrounded by broken concrete and twisted metal. Rainwater dripped down somewhere nearby, mixing with the dust to make a thin mud. The air smelled like burning chemicals, wet ash, and something else, something rotten.
He could hear faint sounds filtering through the rubble. Distant crashes, maybe more buildings falling. Sometimes, a low moan or a cry for help that quickly faded. But mostly, there was a terrible, unnatural silence where the sounds of a busy city should have been.
Gritting his teeth against the pain, Tristan focused. He needed to get out. Staying here meant dying slowly from his injuries, or being crushed if the wreckage shifted. He ignored the throbbing pain in his head and the fire in his side. He needed to think. What did he have? Nothing. His tools, his computers, his little robots – all gone. It was just himself.
He started testing his limbs carefully. Left arm seemed okay, just scraped. Right arm... definitely broken below the elbow, sending jolts of agony up to his shoulder when he tried to move it. Legs felt pinned, but maybe not broken? He couldn't tell for sure. The sharp metal that had cut his side was still pressing against him. Moving felt dangerous, like it could make the bleeding worse.
He breathed a steadying sign, and started to take slow, shallow breaths, trying to stay calm and push down the rising fear.
"Think, Tristan, think."
Helpless? Not yet. He needed leverage, a way to shift the debris pinning him. He felt around blindly with his good left hand, fingers brushing against rough concrete, sharp metal edges, and something smooth... plastic? His glasses. Miraculously, they had landed nearby, though one lens was cracked. He carefully took them. Even broken, they were better than nothing.
Carefully, he began to pry at loose chunks of concrete. With each small shift, he tested the stability of the surrounding debris, wary of potential collapse. Sweat beaded on his brow as he worked, the wound at his side relentlessly throbbing, a constant reminder of his situation. With each passing minute, he widened the gap, allowing more of that eerie green light to fill his prison.
Tristan, now able to see clearly, slid his cracked glasses onto his face. He found himself trapped in a tight cage of twisted metal and shattered concrete. A heavy slab pinned his legs, making escape seem impossible.
His eyes darted around, analyzing the problem. A thick pipe, maybe plumbing, was wedged diagonally just above him. Leverage? Maybe. Using his good left arm, he reached up and pushed against the pipe, trying to angle the force down onto the slab trapping his legs.
Nothing. The slab didn't move. Pain shot through him, sharp and blinding. He scanned the slab again. It wasn't flat against his left leg; a smaller chunk of rock was wedged underneath near his knee.
Ignoring the agony, he shifted his position slightly, braced his hand against the pipe again, and focused all his effort on pushing near that smaller rock. He grunted, muscles screaming, vision blurring. For a heart-stopping moment, nothing happened. Then, a faint grating sound. The small rock shifted wedging the slab further upward.
The pressure on his left leg eased. Not free, but looser. He gasped for breath, resting his head back against the rubble. Just then, a low rumble vibrated through the wreckage. Dust showered down from above. He froze, listening, heart hammering against his ribs. Was the fragile pocket about to collapse?
The rumbling faded. The pocket held. Taking shaky breaths, Tristan tested his left leg. It moved! Painfully, scraping against rough edges, but it moved. He pulled it slowly, carefully, wincing as the movement sent fresh waves of agony from his injured side and broken arm. Then he tried his right leg. Still stuck fast. He pushed again with his left hand, using the pipe, trying to shift the main slab just enough. It groaned, scraped, and moved maybe an inch, but it was enough. With a final, desperate yank, assisted by his free hand, Tristan pulled his right leg free, tearing his trousers but freeing himself from the crushing weight.
He lay there for a moment, gasping, body trembling from the pain and effort. Then, using his good arm and his legs, he began to claw his way upwards, towards that sickly green glow filtering through the cracks.
Scrambling upwards, loose debris shifting under his weight. Pain was a constant, but manageable now, overridden by the desperate need for open air. His hand broke through. Cold, wet air hit his face. He hauled himself out, collapsing into the jagged pile of rubble.
He blinked, rain stinging his eyes. The sky pulsed with that sick green light. What is that energy? Unstable, chaotic... not like any known radiation or energy field. His analytical mind, battered but functioning, tried to categorize it, but failed. Then his gaze dropped, sweeping across the landscape. His breath caught.
Gone.
The word echoed in the sudden, vast emptiness of his mind. Not just his apartment block. Everything. Toronto. Flattened. Twisted metal skeletons clawed at the sky where skyscrapers once stood. Fires dotted the landscape like angry eyes in the gloom. Mountains of rubble stretched to the horizon. The air itself felt wrong, humming with a dangerous energy that prickled his skin. No sirens, no traffic, no voices. Only the crackle of flames, the hiss of rain, the groan of dying structures.
"My lab... prototypes... data... My life. It's all gone."