Both beast and man stared in absolute awe at the towering pillar of light, marveling as the fusion of the twins imploded down to the density of a star before erupting into a massive, blinding mushroom cloud of stellar fire. The shockwave of the explosion washed over every creature and survivor across the Wasteland. Students miles away felt the heat, saw the flash of the spectrums of stardust painting the sky, and watched every ongoing skirmish grind to an instant halt.
Amidst the swirling storm, a tiny streak of light—a shooting star cast out at speeds the human eye couldn't possibly follow—hurtled across the horizon. Little did anyone know, that falling star was Elizabeth herself.
Far below, Zion stood frozen as he tracked the blazing descent, realizing with a jolt that the falling object was hurtling directly toward his trajectory. As the projectile closed the distance, he screamed at the top of his lungs: "ELIZABETH!"
Without a second to waste, Zion's eyes locked onto a scurry of mice darting through the brush. He instantly morphed his legs, channeling their agile muscle structure to launch himself into the air like a spring. He caught her mid-fall, but the reality of her condition hit him like a physical blow.
Her body was burned to a crisp. Her face was barely recognizable, her bones shattered beneath ruined flesh. By all medical logic, she was dead. Zion couldn't fathom how her heart was still somehow beating, but there was no time to question miracles.
They were deep in the far west of the Wasteland—a waterlogged, marshy sector where moisture and filth meant open wounds would fester and rot almost instantly. His absolute best bet was to find a cool, dry place to hide her until her body's terrifying regenerative trauma response could kick in, even though the odds of survival were microscopic.
Panicking over how to transport her mangled frame without crushing her remaining bones, a grotesque memory flashed through his mind: surviving with his sister in the deep sewers, watching colonies of cockroaches effortlessly haul massive loads with extra limbs. Leaning heavily into his zoological mimicry, Zion forced his biology to adapt, groaning as a third, chitinous arm sprouted violently from his left side. Carefully gathering her broken body with his improvised limbs, he bolted toward a shaded, cool grotto by the water to soothe her searing burns.
Meanwhile, on the opposite side of the map, Michael was settling into the harsh reality of his second day in the Wasteland.
He had already constructed a remarkably efficient, secure camp. He had fresh-hunted rations, a clean multi-stage water filtration system, and a designated storage rack curing strips of dry meat. Sitting cross-legged inside his shelter, he focused entirely on analyzing the volatile, dark energy pulsing through his veins. He wasn't out looking for trouble; his grand, misanthropic idealism could wait. He was far too methodical and patient to throw his life away without fully understanding the mechanics of his newfound power.
While carefully using ancient, trial-and-error clay-baking methods to reinforce the foundation of his shelter, a grim irony hung heavy in the air. Michael spent half his waking hours muttering about how humanity deserved absolute eradication, yet his meticulous preparation, survival instincts, and quiet dedication displayed more disciplined humanity than anyone else alive.
"That's a really nice base, human."