Control
Beneath the skeletal remains of skyscrapers clawing at a sulfur-stained sky, a small shadow darted—Whisper, a mouse with fur the color of rusted iron and a prosthetic hind leg forged from a scavenged fork. Her claws clicked against cracked concrete as she navigated ruins choked by vines that pulsed faintly with bioluminescence, remnants of the Cataclysm that had fused organic and machine. The air reeked of ozone and decay, but her nose twitched at a sharper scent: steelwort blossoms, their petals sharp enough to draw blood, blooming where radiation pools shimmered. She avoided the glowing fungal colonies humming with predatory static—last week, they’d liquefied Jitter, a rat who’d gambled on shortcutting through Spore Alley. Today, her goal was the Warren’s eastern cache, where algae wafers were rationed, but the crumpled map in her satchel (traded for three cicada shells) burned against her ribs. Its symbols hinted at the Seed Vault—myth or miracle, no one agreed—a trove of pre-Collapse flora said to still thrive in a buried arcology. Whispers of soil untouched by acid rains kept her awake during curfew, when the drones’ spotlights raked the rubble. The elders called it a fool’s quest, but she’d seen the vault’s glyphs etched into a salvageable server chip, coordinates overlapping with the map. Survival was arithmetic here—calories in, risks out—but as she nibbled a stolen wirenut, she pictured roots splitting concrete, leaves drinking sunlight instead of toxins. Her fork-leg scraped a deliberate rhythm against stone, a counterbeat to the dirge of the dying city. Tomorrow, she’d breach the Sewer King’s territory. Tonight, she sharpened her claws.
c
Press and hold to grow the pole. Aim for the perfect length to cross between platforms—too short and you won’t make the gap; too long and you’ll lose balance. Time your stretches carefully to keep your climber moving forward without tumbling into the void.
