We humans had ruled the Earth for millennia, shaping rivers, felling forests, and building monuments that scraped the skies. We had bent nature to our will and, in the process, broken it. We created marvels and destroyed them just as easily.
We simply played god.
Perhaps this was the punishment we invited upon ourselves.
Perhaps the reckoning was long overdue.
Even so, we clung to life. We were stubborn creatures, more stubborn than we gave ourselves credit for.
Even when the world around us collapsed.
When reason demanded surrender, we persisted.
Perhaps that was why, even in this shattered time and place, we continued to struggle, searching for a light that barely reached us.
The year was 2030. Political tension had boiled over, and nations teetered on the edge of war. Leaders squabbled like children, threats and physical disputes replacing diplomacy. In cities and villages, the people rebelled.
The rich exploited the poor openly.
Taxes rose rapidly.
Inflation skyrocketed.
Unrest became the pulse of every nation.
Then it happened. One by one, nuclear firestorms ignited.
Entire cities vanished in a single breath. Eighty-seven percent of humanity disappeared with the press of a button. Countries that had thrived for centuries crumbled into ash and rubble in hours.
The survivors were few. Those who remained had fled underground: military bunkers, private shelters, abandoned subway tunnels. Life became a waiting game — measured by radiation readings, ration counts, and the slow decay of the world above. Panic was everywhere. Even regions untouched by the blasts struggled under the weight of refugees, disease, and fear.
The surface was alien. Streets once teeming with life were silent and gray, layered with ash. Smoke from burning cities hung in the sky for months, forming a veil that muted the sun to a faint, ghostly glow. Temperatures plummeted. Global cooling gripped the planet, and the Earth shivered as if remembering the Ice Age.
Inside the bunkers, life was grim but necessary. Every day was a calculation: how much food to ration, how much water to spare, whether to risk venturing outside for supplies. Fungal crops became the lifeline, cultivated in dim underground farms. Rainwater was precious, filtered carefully. Even small illnesses were dangerous; a cold could spiral into death if untreated.
Some thrived; most merely survived. Ethical lines blurred. Theft, violence, even cannibalism became possible solutions to hunger.
One man, barely twenty, once slit the throat of a scavenger for a loaf of bread. Later, he gave half of it to a sick child in the bunker, tears in his eyes. Humanity was cruel and compassionate in the same heartbeat.
Even in that darkness, glimmers of hope persisted.
A mother risked climbing to the rooftop of a collapsed building to collect rainwater, smiling at her child who clutched a scrap of bread like it was treasure.
A group of survivors dug through a half-buried supermarket, pulling canned goods and medicines from rubble, sharing with neighbors they barely knew. Small acts of kindness reminded us that the human heart had not entirely been extinguished.
Even in the forsaken land where population is strictly controlled life seemed to find its way.
Generations were born into this world. They knew only the shadow of the sun, the taste of fungal bread, the pale light of the ash-veiled sky. Radiation left subtle marks in DNA. Some grew ill. Fertility declined. Many succumbed to sickness in early childhood.
But over time, survivors learned to adapt. Children grew taller and stronger than the first generation, learning to filter water, grow fungi, and even recognize faint signs of sunlight for warmth.
Daily life in bunkers became ritualistic. People measured time by water rations, measured food portions with exacting care, and watched the sky through limited filters.
Arguments over resources were common, yet so were alliances. Leaders emerged: some commanding with fear, others inspiring by example.
Religion flourished in quiet corners — a whispered prayer for rain, a small candle in a dark room, a ritual shared to remind everyone that life persisted.
The psychological toll was immense. Many could not sleep, haunted by visions of fire and ash.
Some clung to memory, reading faded books, recounting old songs, teaching children of a world they had never seen.
A few wandered the dark tunnels alone, speaking to ghosts of the past. The bunkers became both sanctuary and prison.
The diet itself was unforgiving. Fungi fed the body, but minerals and vitamins were scarce. Coastal survivors relied on contaminated seafood, risking radiation sickness for nourishment.
Nausea, vomiting, and reduced fertility were common. Famine claimed many. Others, unable to endure, ended their own lives. And yet, even in desperation, some refused to surrender.
Over the decades, society slowly reorganized. Children grew into adults with knowledge their parents had fought to preserve. They learned to farm fungi efficiently, to navigate the dangerous surface for supplies, to filter radiation from water. They developed a hierarchy not based on wealth, but on knowledge, skill, and courage.
We laughed when possible.
We grieved when necessary.
We struggled, persisted, and endured.
Eventually, we became resilient, our bodies and minds hardened by the trials we had endured.
We became tough, etched into history not as destroyers, but as survivors.
And finally, after generations, we looked back on the ruins and realized something remarkable.
We had endured when almost none of us should have. We had adapted when life itself had seemed impossible.
We became…THE IMMORTALS.
--With Pride--
We Survived.