The floor—it's hard. What's this? Sand?
It hurts. I feel light, and my forehead is cold. I must be bleeding. I think I'm missing a limb.
I'm thirsty.
The breeze is cold. I can hear it scream in my ears.
It hurts.
I have to rise.
The sky is starry.
Where am I? Wait… can I even recall my name?
My… name? I'm…
I can't remember.
I woke up on a sandy floor, bathed in blood. It must be mine. Today, the pain isn't as intense as before, but I still carry the scars of that day on my left shoulder. My head still aches, and my wounds heal slowly.
I don't know this place. I can't remember my origin either. I am lost.
It's been two months now since I regained consciousness. By my side, nothing but a tag on my white T-shirt. It reads "XN." XN—that's how I'll be called.
In the night cold that received my arrival, I walked disoriented through the dunes, void of any other form of life. For a long while, the hazy sight of sand stretched beyond horizons, and winds saturated the air with metalloids. My saliva tasted like metal all the while.
After what seemed to be an endless walk, I spotted a pile of junk surrounding a crate. The door was open. I think someone had been here before. The crate was furnished with a desk and a… bed? Also, there were a few books and pages scattered on the floor. I stumbled upon one whose pages were unused. That's when I had the idea of recording my journey.
The day finally showed up, and the sun was blazing. It's crystal clear—night and day are two extremities here. Over time, I uncovered the reasons why the night was more ambient… and more dangerous.
Some species of humanoids walk fully covered. They are more likely than those who do not. Clothed in an overwear they call an "Anti-Radiation Cloak," they seem to fear the radiations of the day and the toxic air. So I courted this culture.
Gradually, I'm learning from the books in here and the experiences I live about this world. The best outcome would be for me to regain my memory. If I'm being honest, I don't really hope. But for the moment, that's the only thing that keeps me living—learning.
I analyzed the dynamics of this area called "The Wastelands." Fleets of ships hover over the lands. Sometimes, they discharge immense piles of materials—scraps. The residents of this ecosystem compete for these resources. It figures that the early mornings are the best moments to go scavenge.
They fantasize about some mighty walls, within which the quality of life is said to be drastically ameliorated. That sometimes the lights of the towns there are so intense that they light up the nights of the Wastelands. I haven't seen any yet. Maybe someday I'll find it.
It's been approximately eighteen months now that I live in this crate. I long hesitated to journal my life, but I fear my memory could be altered. I've had dreams of a life I don't recognize, and they sometimes interfere with my perception of reality. So I documented my life—each day uncovers a discovery.