[Current Objective: Survive]

The town gate of Rustborder loomed at the edge of the sprawling, eccentric township like a perplexed sentry questioning its own purpose. It wasn’t so much a gate as a chaotic assemblage of salvaged metal sheets and repurposed car parts, welded together with a reckless embrace of disorder.

Above, a weathered banner fluttered, emblazoned with the town's emblem: a stylized hand clutching a cog wheel, encircled by a rusted iron ring that had seen better days.

By the gate, a caravan of five pack-laden mules waited, flanked by a pair of guards—a man and a woman—both dressed in combat fatigues that looked worn well beyond their prime, hidden beneath long dusters. Their wide-brimmed hats cast deep shadows over their faces, giving them the appearance of being caught in a standoff with the relentless sun.

At the forefront stood another figure, a man who seemed to have weathered life's trials with a stoic resolve. His steel-gray hair cascaded into a reluctant ponytail, defying gravity as though locked in a perpetual struggle between order and chaotic follicles. A wiry beard, more a habit than a choice, swayed gently in the occasional breeze that slipped through Rustborder’s gates.

Unlike the bustling townsfolk, who flitted about with the restless energy of scripted NPCs, this trio remained immobile. Dressed in dusty flak armor that bore the scars of countless skirmishes, the man cut an imposing figure against the backdrop of Rustborder’s makeshift fortifications. A long gun, slung casually across his back, hinted at distant adventures and dubious allegiances.

Their demeanor radiated an air of expectation, as if they were waiting for an adventure just as much as I was. Intrigued, I found myself drawn closer, a mix of naiveté and the irresistible pull of eccentric characters guiding my steps. As I approached, their eyes, shaded by the brims of their hats with practiced indifference, seemed to size me up with the bemused skepticism of seasoned adventurers accustomed to the whims of fate.

As I walked past the caravan, I caught snippets of the woman’s advice.

“If you’re looking for work, Rolland’s your guy,” she said, gesturing toward the grizzled man at the caravan’s head.

Her companion, a weathered figure in dusty gear, added, “Guarding caravans can be dangerous out there. But Rolland has a knack for finding relatively safe routes into Nowhere City.”

I left them to their rehearsed spiel and turned my attention to the caravan’s contents. The packs were filled with grain, odd herbs, and various knick-knacks of dubious worth—a classic mix that hinted at an agrarian economy in Rustborder, with Nowhere City as the trading hub.

This observation led me to ponder whether Apocalypta operated more as a wasteland simulator than a mere video game. Everything I’d encountered so far seemed to fit together with a logical coherence—a clear cause and effect. I had already learned the hard way that stealing from the caravan would be a mistake.

“Hey there,” Rolland greeted as I reached the front of the caravan. His voice had a depth and warmth that stood in stark contrast to the flat tones of the other guards. Clearly, Rolland was someone of importance, perhaps a quest-giver. As if reading my thoughts, he asked, “Looking for work?”

“Depends on the job,” I replied, my gaze lingering on the laden pack animals.

Rolland’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “Well, I need someone to help with gelding these critters,” he said, his response surprising me with its spontaneity and contrast to the scripted dialogue of the others.

I couldn't resist a playful jab. “Ah, you’ve caught me there. My talents lie more with a spatula than shears.”

Rolland let out a hearty laugh, clearly appreciating the jest.

“But I can be a useful caravan guard, if you need one,” I added with a grin, trying to balance earnestness with the banter.

“Are you sure about that?” Rolland's gaze was scrutinizing. “You don’t look like you’re cut out for the wasteland. Granted, the trip to Nowhere City isn’t the deadliest, but I’d hate to see some hired hand end up as roadkill.”

Given my current state, Rolland’s skepticism felt justified. It seemed like a test to gauge my readiness for a quest in the Wasteland. I saw an opportunity to secure some much-needed gear.

“Don’t let appearances fool you,” I fibbed. “I’m actually a crack shot with a pistol. Just hit a rough patch and had to sell everything I owned. If you can spare some gear, I promise I’ll return it once we reach Nowhere City.”

Rolland’s gaze remained unwavering.

“Can’t say I believe you,” he said slowly. “But you’re clearly itching to get out of this town.” He paused, then added, “Damn it; my wife always says I’m too soft and bound to get myself into trouble. Don’t make her out to be right. I’d hate to spend the afterlife getting a lecture from her.”

With a resigned sigh, Rolland handed me a well-worn semi-automatic pistol. I checked my inventory screen and saw it was loaded with fifteen rounds, plus an additional thirty rounds. The pistol’s expected damage was a solid seven, but its worn condition reduced it to six.

I was tempted to complain about the pistol’s less-than-stellar quality but chose to thank Rolland instead. There was no point in sulking over an imperfect gift. Besides, with three other characters wielding superior weapons, I’d likely be firing wildly while my companions dealt with any trouble we encountered in the wasteland.

Living this way, I figured I’d enjoy the spoils of the journey without lifting a finger, gradually building my stats and inventory. If the caravan quest could be repeated, I’d stockpile enough items to make a meaningful decision about my next move—whatever that might be.

We set out toward Nowhere City, with Rolland at the helm and the other two guards bringing up the rear. I trailed in the middle of the caravan, shifting from side to side as I took in the scenery.

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“It’ll be a few hours before we reach Nowhere,” Rolland said, his tone rehearsed and matter-of-fact.

“What should we keep an eye out for?” I asked, eager to get some practical advice.

“This time of year, Rust Badgers can be a real nuisance. Watch for those. There’s also word of a pack of Plague Wolves nearby—best to steer clear of them. Titan Beetles are getting cranky with mating season coming up, though they’re generally not a big threat. And, of course, you might run into a Raider gang or some desperate Scavvers.”

“So, nothing too alarming?” I quipped.

“Quite the comedian,” Rolland replied dryly. “But overall, Rustborder isn’t too bad. Things get rougher up north, and even worse down south. There used to be great cities there, before everything fell apart.”

“And east and west?” I pressed, curious about the less-explored directions.

Rolland shrugged nonchalantly. “Can’t say for sure, buddy. The badlands start not far west of Rustborder. There are a few settlements out there, but it’s mostly Tribal territory.”

“Any trouble with the badlands Tribes?” I asked.

“Not recently,” Rolland mused. “We’ve had some issues in the past, but being so close to Nowhere, Rustborder falls under their protection. If things get hairy, the cavalry would show up pretty quick.”

“Aren’t raiders considered trouble?” I pressed.

“Eh, raiders are more of a nuisance. Dangerous for travelers, sure, but they don’t pose a major threat to anyone with real power. Raiders are usually small, disorganized gangs out for loot. Some might grow into Mafias, becoming more dangerous. Others turn into lunatic Cults—those are the ones you really want to avoid.”

Rolland’s words hung in the air with an eerie finality, as though his script had reached a dramatic pause. The party continued in silence, the crunch of gravel and the steady plod of the mules filling the void. The wind carried a mix of early summer scents—dust, pollen, and the faint tang of rust and baked concrete, remnants of a bygone era.

Despite knowing it was all digital, I was fully immersed in the experience, making it my own.

“Forests are to the east,” Rolland broke the silence, his voice cutting through the quiet. “I don’t care for forests. I went into one once. Never again. Couldn’t see a damn thing with all those trees. Too claustrophobic.”

I tried to dig deeper about the forests, but Rolland was unresponsive. It seemed his role as an information source had ended. Undeterred, I kept at him, crafting questions designed to confuse or glitch the AI. I looped logic and threw out outrageous questions, hoping to crack the façade of this meticulously crafted world. Yet, nothing seemed to faze him.

I probed Rolland’s digital persona thoroughly, treating him like a living encyclopedia. I dug into his personal life—his wife, his daughter, their interests and skills. I explored the complexities of the Tribal settlements and their shifting politics. Just as I had a firm grasp on the local lore from Rolland’s perspective, something shifted with the mules.

The animals displayed a subtle, almost imperceptible change. Their steady plodding faltered, their heads lifting slightly. They snorted and sniffed, reacting to an unfamiliar scent on the breeze, like prey sensing danger.

“Something’s not right,” I said, loud enough for the group to hear.

The caravan came to an abrupt halt, unsettling the already nervous mules. Rolland and the two guards immediately drew their weapons, their movements sharp and practiced. I readied my pistol, feeling its weight settle into my grip.

“Watch your sectors,” Rolland commanded. The guards turned outward, scanning the open pastures and the encroaching scrubland.

The area was starkly desolate, a reminder of our isolation from civilization. The wind stirred briefly before falling silent.

“Contact!” one of the guards shouted, but her voice was cut off abruptly by a burst of automatic gunfire.

The mules bolted in a panic, and I found myself shielded by one of them, its body taking the bullets intended for me. I spun around, pistol raised, trying to locate the source of the attack. It was Rolland who acted first.

With the precision of a seasoned veteran, Rolland’s sharp eyes locked onto the threat. He fired a calculated shot toward a cluster of trees. A dark figure tumbled from the branches and vanished into the underbrush.

There he was—emerging stealthily from the tall grass, another Raider clad in a meticulously crafted ghillie suit that blended seamlessly with the surrounding flora. The effectiveness of his concealment was astounding; his form seemed to flicker and merge with the shifting patterns of light and shadow cast by the swaying grass. His movements were fluid and precise, a testament to years of expertise in stealth and ambush. He zeroed in on one of the guards, a knife poised for a lethal strike.

I quickly readied my pistol, the metallic click of the hammer echoing in the eerie stillness of the desolate landscape. Taking aim, I prepared for the confrontation.

With a panicked war cry, I fired three shots at the Raider. Each bullet went wide, a stark reminder of my lack of marksmanship under pressure. My voice trembled with fear, but it was enough to alert the guardsman. He spun around and delivered a powerful blow with the wooden stock of his rifle to the Raider’s face. There was a sickening crunch as bone met wood, and the Raider staggered back. Before he could recover, the guardsman finished him off with a decisive shot.

But my fleeting sense of relief was shattered as gunfire erupted from behind. Another barrage of bullets cut down the guardsman, his body collapsing to the ground like a discarded ragdoll. Chaos enveloped us, a maelstrom of dust from the stampeding mules mingling with the acrid smoke of gunfire.

I spun around to find two more Raiders emerging from the grass, both cloaked in the same camouflaged suit. One, further back, was reloading an assault rifle, while the immediate threat was the larger Raider, who wielded a massive, savage-looking axe. The brute swung the axe overhead with terrifying force.

I braced for the blow, dread coursing through me. As the axe descended, I instinctively ducked to the side, narrowly avoiding a fatal strike. The axe’s haft struck my left shoulder instead of my head, and I felt a searing pain as my health dropped by twenty points.

Pain surged through me as the axe's sharp edge hovered above my shoulder, mercifully missing its mark. Despite this, I couldn't stop myself from screaming as the sheer force of the impact shattered my shoulder bones. A warning icon flashed in my field of vision, signaling my Crippled status. My left arm hung limp and useless, a stark contrast to the intense pain coursing through me. The numbness that accompanied the condition was unexpected and unnerving—I had no sensation, no control over my muscles, and no ability to grasp anything, including the pistol that had become a dead weight.

Fortunately, my pistol had been quickly shifted to my right hand. Without hesitation, I pressed the muzzle against the Raider’s chest at point-blank range. The shot was unavoidable, and I squeezed the trigger repeatedly until the Raider crumpled to the ground at my feet.

Experience points flashed briefly in the corner of my vision, a small consolation for the chaos of the moment.

Ignoring the experience notification, I steadied my pistol to target the Raider struggling to reload his assault rifle, now only about five yards away. Pain throbbed through my good arm as I fought to aim, while the Raider's hands fumbled with the weapon.

Driven by desperation, I fired two shots—one went wide, the other flew skyward as recoil disrupted my aim. The Raider’s rifle finally chambered a round with a satisfied crunch. Whether the Raider smirked in anticipation, I couldn't tell. Before she could fire, however, a precisely placed bullet from Rolland's rifle cut through the dust and ended the threat abruptly.

I stood for a moment, counting my lucky stars that I was still alive. Then I realised that perhaps Rolland had not escaped with as little damage as I had.