The rain drummed a slow, rhythmic beat against the shattered concrete of an old highway, its surface cracked and worn by time. Golden grass swayed in the wind, growing defiantly between the ruins, but the world was otherwise silent. No birds. No insects. Only the distant sound of waves crashing against a desolate shore.

Cliff sat on the edge of a rusted-out car, his rifle resting against his knee, fingers absently tracing the cold steel. His uniform, still bearing the insignia of a long-dead nation, was damp from the timefall, yet he remained unbothered. His gaze, distant and unreadable, lingered on the rolling mist beyond.

Cliff had been hunting for answers—wandering through the ruins of America like a soldier without a war. His purpose had long since faded, swallowed by the emptiness of the world. But there were still things he needed to know.

A rustle in the distance pulled him from his thoughts. Footsteps. Not the sluggish drag of BTs—these were real, deliberate. Cliff rose to his feet, hand instinctively tightening around his rifle. He wasn’t sure what he expected. A porter? A scavenger? Maybe another poor soul trying to outlive a world that had already given up.

The figure emerged from the mist—a lone traveler, wrapped in a weathered coat. Their face was hidden beneath a hood, but their posture spoke of exhaustion, of endless miles walked with too much weight on their shoulders. Cliff lowered his weapon slightly but didn’t relax.

Then he noticed the faint glow of something, a hum breaking the endless silence of the wasteland he barren terrain. His breath hitched. There was no mistaking it now: they were carrying a BB pod. It was faint, almost hidden beneath the folds of their ragged clothing, but it was there.

Cliff didn’t hesitate. He had seen too much death, too much suffering. He had lost his son — his BB — and he wouldn’t let the same happen to another. And for the first time in a long time, he wondered if he was about to find a reason to keep walking.