As I surveyed the area of swamp I'd found myself in, my eyes were drawn to several scattered pieces of metal and plastic. Recognizing them as parts of the MRI machine I had been strapped to just hours earlier, I rushed over. Ironically, because of my habit in life of researching everything that might be wrong with me, I had looked into MRI machines in detail in the weeks leading up to my exam, fearing the scan might affect me in some unforeseen way. As I inspected the debris, I realized that my fears were in a way realized. While I might not understand the intricate workings of every component, I certainly recognized most of their names.

“There,” I said to myself, setting down another of the scattered pieces of metal and plastic. I’d decided to gather them up, placing them near the base of the tree so I could see my haul more clearly and hedge my options.

“Now…which of you little devils is going to help me best?” I wondered.

I was meant to participate in some god awful trial, according to Myri, but I was left abandoned and directionless as to how. Sure, I knew I had to find the Ancestral Mangrove, but how and where to start? There were no signposts or guides in this vast, seemingly unending fucking swamp. So, knowing I’d need to at least try, or probably be killed in the attempt, I set to work considering how I might repurpose these remnants of the modern world to aid me in this place.

Fortunately, I had some experience in that regard.

For the last eight years, I'd worked in the shop at Rollins Customs—a fabrication facility. We made all sorts of things, really, and I had even been part of the team to design some contraptions and set pieces for big blockbuster movies and the like. It was often a grueling job, but it was also a fun one, and kept my mind too busy to worry about what might be wrong with me. Usually this was because of the periods of intense activity, but there were also stretches of downtime. Mr. Rollins always encouraged creativity during these lulls. He'd say, "Use this time to build something, Leo. Keep your mind sharp." And that's exactly what I did.

Ever since I was a kid, I'd had a knack for cobbling things together—a makeshift go-kart, a jury-rigged radio, you name it. It usually led to injuries and groundings—especially if the invention were particularly dangerous. But it never dimmed my shine for the practice. Working at the facility, I honed these skills further. Whether it was a piece of discarded machinery, some spare electronic components, or even stuff I picked up off the street, I found joy and challenge in giving them new life, in finding purposes they weren't originally meant for.

Now, as I stood in the swamp, surrounded by parts of a machine I once feared, I couldn't help but smile at the irony. I'd spent years preparing for this—not the swamp or the trial, but the act of creation, of turning the mundane into something useful. The scattered remnants of the MRI weren't just debris; they were opportunities, puzzle pieces waiting to be assembled into something new.

Among the tangled wires, broken panels, and metal fragments, I found the cylindrical bore of the MRI machine. Its shape and weight made it…well, using some creative reasoning, a proper replacement for a club. I knelt down, examining its structure. After a few moments, I had an idea, and then hopped to it. I swaddled the side I’d chosen as “the bottom” with some of the wires before coiling them around a broken branch until it formed a sort of makeshift handle. Then, I wrapped them tightly with cloth by tearing long strips from the hem of my tattered hospital gown. This fabric not only provided a better grip but also a touch of comfort against the cold, hard wood and metal. Turning the bore over in my hands, I practiced a few swings, each motion rustling the reeds around me as though whispering approval. I wished I’d had access to some of my tools like I did at Rollins Customs, but, hey—any port in a storm, right?

Satisfied, I moved on to the next task.

I managed to knock the office chair out of the tree branches using some rocks. The chair, though slightly damaged from its fall, was still solid. The seat was broad and sturdy, shaped perfectly to act as a shield. I trimmed its edges with a sharp stone, rounding them out—all the while keeping an eye on the water and the trees for any sign that the monster was going to return. The cushioned portion offered some padding, but to bolster its defense, I reinforced the outer surface with the reeds from the swamp. It took some trial and error, but eventually I was able to weave them tightly together enough to be serviceable. This provided a tougher exterior while—in my mind—maintaining flexibility. Using the chair's armrests, I fashioned straps on the back, allowing me to grip the shield securely.

Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.

Lastly, with a bit of effort, I managed to detach one of the chair's legs. After some sharpening against the same stone I’d used on the seat, it became a rudimentary spear. Honestly…I felt good about my odds—death would be held at bay for at least a few more hours.

The Boglands take note of your ingenuity and look upon your work favorably.

The words startled me. The voiceless voice speaking about the Boglands was…weird, right? As though the Boglands were a thing and not just a place. I considered that. Hadn’t I heard something similar? It seemed like a dream. I was growing concerned that this was actually some sort of mental break—which threw me into another panic. It took me a bit to get myself under control, but eventually I was able to calm down…though I was still not a hundred percent convinced I wasn’t losing my mind.

That was of course, when I discovered something awful.

As I continued arranging the various machine parts, a pungent odor wafted through the air. It wasn't the dank, earthy smell of the swamp. This was different—sharper and more acrid. Following the scent, I stumbled upon a sight that made my heart drop: a lifeless body, half-submerged in the muddy waters of the swamp.

Drawing closer, a chilling realization washed over me. It was the MRI tech—the same man who had prepped me for my scan. His face, though partially obscured by the water and muck, was unmistakable. The man who had tried to ease my nerves despite my general rudeness was now motionless, a tragic victim of the same circumstances that had brought me to this place. I’d lived and he’d died.

I felt a wave of guilt for having survived when he hadn't and a strong desire to puke. I turned away, feeling like I was intruding on something…private. Mr. Rollins had once told me about finding his brother dead—he was a man with a strange idea of what made for casual, work-appropriate conversation—and described it as though he was stumbling into something he shouldn’t have been. Like he shouldn’t have been allowed to see it. That’s what this felt like. I wanted nothing more than to get away from this body, of the tech whose name I didn’t even know. But the cold reality soon took hold. I needed to survive, and to do so, I had to be…resourceful.

Taking a deep breath, I approached the body. His clothes, though muddied and wet, were intact. They would provide me with warmth and a bit more protection in this environment than my current outfit. I gently removed his pants, belt, shirt, shoes, and lab coat, whispering a silent apology as I did so. They were wet and a little small looking, but workable. I waited about an hour—noting that the twilight did not move into night at all during that time, before donning the clothes. Then I used the belt as a sort of bandolier, strapping the spear I’d crafted across my chest. It was a tiny bit uncomfortable, but I figured it would be good in a pinch.

It was a harsh reminder of the dire situation I was in. I had to be pragmatic, even if it meant making choices that weighed on my conscience. Not knowing what else to do, I gathered up the bits of the machine I hadn’t used and covered him with it—hopefully to protect his body as long as possible from animals. Then I used the remaining scraps of the office chair, and marked the spot like a tombstone. I didn’t know if it had been his chair, but it seemed about as appropriate as could be hoped.

With a heavy heart, I left the MRI tech's final resting place, armed with my makeshift weapons and no idea where I was going. So, I chose a direction, and started walking.

Several hours later, the perpetual twilight of the swamp remained unchanged. The eerie half-light gave the Boglands an even odder feel than it just being somewhere in another world entirely. I began to wonder if the sun ever truly rose or set in this place. Was it like those northernmost regions on Earth, like Alaska or the Nordic lands, where day or night could stretch on for months? The thought was disconcerting, adding to the dread of my solitude.

The landscape shifted as I trudged on, with deeper, murkier waters replacing the shallows I had been navigating. Soon, I was faced with a stretch of swamp so vast and deep that it seemed impassable without Waterwalking, a risk I wasn't willing to take. I didn’t know what might live beneath the surface, and wasn’t too keen on finding out. It might have been that things that would make the crocodile monster look like a kitten were lurking there, and my heightened sense of those things that could kill me wouldn’t allow me to try and find out. I mean, suppose I were halfway across and something leapt up to swallow me? I thought that, perhaps until I could master the magic, I’d just stick to the shallows.

And then, a new sight caught my eye: boot prints, solitary and distinct, imprinted in the soft mud.

A surge of hope rose within me. While I couldn't be sure how fresh they were, the fact that the ever-present waters hadn't yet washed them away suggested they weren't ancient. Could it be another soul traversing this strange land? Someone with knowledge that could guide me? Or maybe it was just someone out for a stroll on their way back to their house—which, if that were the case, that meant at least something resembling civilization.

The size of the boot prints struck me. Bigger than most, they hinted at a person of considerable stature. Maybe a tall traveler, used to the rough terrain? The prints were deep too, suggesting whoever it was, they weren't light on their feet. My mind toyed with the possibilities – could this be a lone wanderer, or perhaps a more rugged, outdoorsy type?

I decided to follow the tracks.

They wound along the swamp's edge, occasionally veering off into the thickets of trees and underbrush. More than once, I lost the trail, only to pick it up again in some damp clearing or by a fallen log. The journey was tedious, especially carrying my fabricated weaponry, and each time I lost the tracks, a pang of despair threatened to overtake me. But I pressed on, the thought of finding another living being in this desolate place urging me forward.