The wastelanders

Troy limped through the endless expanse of the Disposal Zone. The ground beneath him was soft, spongy with decay, littered with bodies in various stages of decomposition. The air was thick with the stench of death, the smoke from the incinerators, and the faint, metallic tang of blood. Above, the sky was a dull, ashen gray, the sun blotted out by industrial smog.

He had no idea how long he had been walking. Time blurred in this place where the dead were recycled, and the weak were forgotten. His legs ached, his body weak and starved, but there was something different now—a clarity that hadn't been there before. His mind was no longer clouded by pain or fear.

In fact, he felt nothing at all.

Not fear. Not hunger. Not even the gnawing dread that had once haunted him in the lab. His thoughts were sharp, his mind focused, as though his brain had somehow restructured itself in death. The chaos that had once filled his head—the confusion, the noise of a thousand voices—was gone. Now, his thoughts were like a laser, cutting through the fog of this desolate world with ease.

It was as if something inside him had snapped into place, giving him perfect control of both mind and body.

The ancient memories—the ones that had flashed before his death—still lingered in his mind, but they were fragmented, elusive. He could feel them, like shadows just beyond his reach, but every time he tried to grasp them, they slipped away.

Who am I? The question echoed in his mind, but no answers came. The voice that had guided him was silent now, and without it, all he had were fleeting images of a world he could not remember. A world where he had once been something more than a genetic failure.

His throat was parched, his mouth dry from days without water. Hunger gnawed at him, but his body no longer responded the way it used to. It was as if the very cells of his body had adapted, grown more efficient. He could survive on almost nothing. Yet, the need for water was still real, and so when he stumbled upon a puddle of blood pooled between the bodies, he didn't hesitate.

He crouched down, cupping the thick, viscous liquid in his hands, and drank.

The taste was metallic, bitter, but it slaked his thirst, if only for a moment. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his thoughts still clear, still focused. His body had changed, his mind too. He felt... in control.

As he rose to his feet, he glanced around the barren wasteland, his sharp eyes scanning the horizon for any signs of life. The world around him was desolate, a planet dedicated to disposing of millions of failed experiments, where the dead were nothing more than resources to be recycled. But as he stood there, he realized something:

He wasn't afraid. He wasn't even anxious.

His mind, once chaotic and fractured, was now calm—like the surface of a still lake, undisturbed by the horrors around him. This newfound mental clarity, this perfect control over his thoughts and body... it had to be connected to that ancient memory. The thing he couldn't quite remember. The power that had surged through him before his death.

But who had he been? What had he sacrificed?

He clenched his fists, feeling the raw strength that pulsed through his muscles. His body, though weakened by days without food or proper nourishment, moved with precision. His mind, once dulled by the machines, now operated with frightening efficiency. Every step was deliberate, every thought calculated.

Yet, despite his control, the answers remained out of reach.

After what felt like days of wandering, Troy's sharp eyes spotted movement in the distance. At first, it was little more than a shimmer—a distortion in the air, barely visible against the horizon of decay. But as he focused, he saw them: a small group of figures, moving purposefully through the wasteland. They were far off, but they were real, living beings.

Troy's heart quickened. He wasn't alone here.

He began walking toward them, his pace steady, though his body still felt weak from lack of food. As he closed the distance, he could make out more details. The group—five of them—were dressed in ragged, makeshift armor crafted from scavenged metal and fabric. Their faces were covered with masks, some with breathing tubes that hung from their mouths, likely to filter the toxic air. They moved with the cautious confidence of those accustomed to surviving in this hellish place.

As Troy approached, they noticed him, stopping in their tracks. One of them, a tall figure with a metal staff, raised a hand, signaling the others. They turned toward Troy, fanning out in a semicircle, clearly prepared for a confrontation. Their body language was tense, cautious, but they didn't attack.

Yet.

Troy slowed his pace, holding his hands out in what he hoped was a non-threatening gesture. He had no idea what language they spoke or how they communicated, but he had to try. He opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came. He realized with a start that he had never spoken before—his entire life had been one of silence, pain, and control. The scientists had never spoken to him except in cold commands. He had no words, no language to draw from.

But then, something clicked.

As the group of wastelanders approached cautiously, their weapons at the ready, Troy felt a strange, familiar sensation. His mind—once laser-focused, now humming with a different kind of energy—reached out. He didn't understand how he was doing it, but he felt a connection forming. His brainwaves stretched outward, brushing against the minds of the figures in front of him.

He could feel their tension, their wariness, but also their curiosity. They were speaking to each other, though not in words. It was a form of communication unlike anything Troy had ever experienced.

Without thinking, he sent out a pulse—a wave of thought, pure and unfiltered. It wasn't words, not exactly, but emotion, intent.

I mean no harm.

The group froze. Their leader, the one with the metal staff, tilted his head, confused. Troy could feel their collective shock as his thoughts rippled through their minds. It wasn't words they heard, but his intentions, his raw thoughts, conveyed through the strange connection that had formed between them.

One of the wastelanders—short, stocky, with a jagged piece of scrap metal strapped to their arm as a shield—spoke in a harsh, guttural language, but Troy couldn't understand. He hadn't learned any language in his short, tortured life. But as the words hit his ears, something remarkable happened. His mind adjusted, tuning into the wavelengths of their thoughts, deciphering the meaning behind the words even though he couldn't speak them himself.

"You... speak through the mind?" the leader asked, his eyes narrowing behind the mask.

Troy nodded slowly, though he didn't fully understand how he was doing it.

Yes, he sent out, his mind growing more confident as the connection deepened. I've never spoken before. But I can... communicate this way.

The wastelanders exchanged glances, clearly startled by this revelation. Only certain types of people in Base 0 could communicate telepathically—neurosyncers, rare individuals whose mental prowess allowed them to interact with the minds of others without words. And yet, Troy wasn't using any tech. He wasn't a syncer in the traditional sense. This was different.

The leader stepped forward, his staff raised cautiously, his voice filled with suspicion. "You are not one of us. Not a syncer, not a wastelander. Who are you?"

Troy hesitated. The answer eluded him. I don't know, he finally sent, his thoughts tinged with uncertainty. I don't know who I am. But I know... I'm not supposed to be here.

The leader studied him for a long moment, then lowered his staff slightly. "You're an anomaly," he muttered, more to himself than to Troy. "Like us."

He gestured to the others, and they lowered their weapons, though their eyes remained wary.

Troy could feel their curiosity, their hesitation. He was something they hadn't encountered before—something dangerous, perhaps, but also intriguing. And in this brutal, desolate world, curiosity could be just as powerful as fear.

"Come with us," the leader said, turning away. "You'll need to prove you're not a threat. But if you are what you say... you might be useful."

Troy nodded again, still unsure of what had just happened. But as he followed the group into the wasteland, one thought lingered in his mind:

He was no longer alone.