Roam’s Inner World

If the construct possessed a soul, it might have felt a kinship to a shepherd guarding a particularly foolish flock of one. But its purpose was more profound: balancing the Waste, the human, and the potential reactivation of the past.

Dren was a conundrum. His survival instincts were abysmal, yet his optimism had a strange power. The construct couldn’t deny that Dren’s relentless hope had kept it moving forward, adapting in ways it hadn’t anticipated. Dren’s belief in his own ingenuity, while entirely unfounded, was a stabilizing force in its calculations—an anchor to the unpredictable human spirit. He was an excellent mechanic, though.

As they approached, faint patterns began to emerge on the surface of the “big thing”—intricate, geometric designs that seemed to move and shift like living tattoos. Dren felt a strange pull, like the patterns were speaking to him, though he couldn’t understand the language.

The construct hesitated, then let out a low, mournful tone.

“What? You scared?” Dren asked, patting its side. “Don’t worry, I’ve got this.”

But the truth was, he didn’t feel so confident. The closer they got, the more the air seemed to hum with energy, the patterns on the “big thing” growing more complex and hypnotic.

And then, for just a moment, Dren thought he saw something in the patterns—a shape, or maybe a message. He blinked, trying to focus, but it was gone before he could make sense of it.

“What the hell is this place?” he muttered.

The construct let out a low, uncertain sound, as if it was wondering the same thing.

Dren pressed on, his curiosity outweighing his fear. Whatever this “big thing” was, he had a feeling it wasn’t just some random relic of the Waste. It felt important, connected somehow to everything that was happening—even if he couldn’t yet see how.