The Last Rule

You open your eyes.

Above you is a gray sky, ragged by the gaps between rusty beams. You lie on broken concrete, covered in glass chips and dust. Next to you is a broken capsule, connected to a thick cable that extends into a hole in the ground.

You sit down. All around you is a dead city. The skeletons of skyscrapers, the empty eye sockets of windows, the rusty carcasses of cars. The wind blows dry leaves mixed with ash across the asphalt.

You remember your name. You remember the face that was dear to you. You remember what it was like to be human. But when you bring your palms to your face, the lines are gone. Your skin is too smooth. You can't breathe.

You hear voices. They're getting closer. Two or three, talking in hushed tones, the crunch of broken glass on the other side of the half-destroyed wall. They're coming for you now.