Teaser
They say the world died slow. It wasn’t a bang. It wasn’t a moment. It was a hundred little endings—systems failing, supplies running out, storms rolling in hotter each year. The world didn’t fall. It sank, inch by inch, until all the old things were under the mud. And the ones who climbed out weren’t the same; humanity seems disturbingly less humane.
Some believe war was the reason, caused by the insatiable greed of man. Perhaps the world never ended for anyone but us? In the eyes of the others The End could be nothing less than the consequences of our own arrogance. The explicit desire to reach the stars – to stand atop of the world – caused it to crumble. Maybe, the sun just got tired of watching us? The sun saw what we’d done and scorched the slate clean. Not in one great fire—but in a slow burn, patient and cruel. Cities blistered, rivers dried, and skin learned new ways to tear. The world didn’t end. It just stopped pretending it was ever on our side?
Now the sky burns without warning. Solarstorms roll across the land like ghosts made of fire, scrambling radios and peeling skin from bone. The wind hums with static. Sometimes, it sings. The ground spits out creatures that should not walk—twisted things with too many eyes and not enough mercy. Some are fast. Some are clever. All of them are hungry.
So people cluster where they can. Behind barricades. Beneath ruins. Around the stubborn glow of half-working tech and shared desperation. Most places fall apart before they’re even built. But some don’t. Where the signs are half-swallowed by dust and vines, one such place still stands. A patchwork settlement—steel welded to stone, canvas stitched to ruin. It’s loud, lawless, and alive. Wonderland isn’t safe, but it holds. Just barely. Held together by old grudges and new deals, blood bargains and rusted charm. Every group here wants something—power, protection, peace. No one agrees on what survival means, only that it ain’t guaranteed.
But something’s changed. Someone dared to stand above the rest and call it leadership. The settlement held its first election—if you can call it that. Fists, bribes, and ballots all counted. When the dust cleared, Connor stood at the center. He talks calmly, listens hard, and hasn’t died yet. That alone counts for something. And for now? The lifegivers are still running. Solar shielding sputters to life when the sky flares up. The purifier still drips water clean enough not to kill you. The air filters catch more than they miss. Nobody really knows how these old-world systems still work. Maybe it’s faith. Maybe it’s luck. Or maybe Wonderland’s been built on the kind of desperate maintenance that blurs into worship. Either way, they hum—vital, fragile, holy.
It wasn’t always like this. Two years back, the Sound Park Hounds came screaming down the road, riding on feedback and flame. Raiders strung out on noise and blood, with amps bolted to their bikes and speakers where their hearts should’ve been. They laid siege to Wonderland, weeks of chaos and siegecraft. Then, just like that, they were gone. Vanished into the storm, no warning, no reason. Some say they were hunted off by something bigger. Something worse. Others whisper they found what they were looking for beneath the dirt—and it looked back. One survivor swears he saw their warlord kneel in the sand and listen to something, someone, before vanishing into the dark without a word. Maybe they ran. Maybe they were taken. Maybe they were invited somewhere they couldn’t refuse. No one’s seen the Hounds since. And no one’s asking too loud why.
Six months ago, something did arrive. Fell from the sky like a dying star—an old-world satellite, cracked and sparking, wearing the brand of Atlas Technologies. It tore a hole through the roof of Machine Alley, hijacked the grid, hijacked the memories of the place. For a week, the lights spoke in tongues and the air tasted like metal. Some called it a ghost. Others, an intelligence. Whatever it was, it got inside. And then, somehow, it got exorcised—burned out by fire, noise, ritual, or code. No one’s sure which. But the machines haven’t been quite the same since.
Lately, strangers have been passing through. Not the usual scavengers and traders, but organized, clean—too clean. Uniforms without names. Polite smiles that don’t reach the eyes. Some offer help, tools, even healing. Others just watch. One gave a dying man water and walked away. Another whispered coordinates to a child and disappeared into the dust. People have started calling them Samaritans. Others call them spies or worse. Whatever they are, they’re watching.
And now, Wonderland is holding its breath again. Something’s circling. You can feel it in the tension behind every handshake, in the static that lingers a little too long on the radios, in the eyes that won’t quite meet yours. The ground feels too still. The machines twitch when no one’s near. People talk in whispers even when no one’s listening. Wonderland’s seen chaos before. But this silence? It tastes like something is coming.
