The world was broken beyond repair, a hollowed wasteland of bent steel and crumbling stone, where the wind carried the sound of old battles lost and forgotten, and amidst this endless ruin stood a small figure, silent, unmoving, untouched by the madness that still lingered in the air.
He was not like the others, those hulking machines that tore through the earth and skies, thirsting for blood and ruin; no, he was different, built with hands that had long since turned to ash, powered by a core that pulsed not with hatred, but with something softer, something that flickered weakly like a dying candle.
Proto did not yet know what he was.
He simply stood, watching, the fractured skies reflected in his round, glassy eyes, his body small and worn, arms hanging by his sides as he processed the world without urgency, without fear, without anger.
Step by step, he began to move, his joints creaking with the gentle sound of forgotten gears, each footstep stirring dust from the broken concrete, each step carrying him forward even when he did not know why.
There was no one to guide him, no voice to tell him where to go, no purpose embedded deep within his code, only a faint, soft whisper at the edge of his mind, a whisper he did not yet have the words to name.
He wandered through shattered streets where vines crept over fallen skyscrapers, through empty highways where the bones of cars sat rusting, forgotten by time, and everywhere he went, the world was silent, save for the distant roars of his kin who still hunted for human lives.
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Proto did not hunt.
He only searched.
Passing beneath a broken archway, he found himself in a place once teeming with life, where storefronts with cracked glass still displayed faded posters and mannequins missing arms and heads, and it was there, among the debris and the dust, that he saw it: a sign hanging askew, battered by time and war, but still legible beneath layers of grime.
PROTO.
The letters called to him, though he did not know why, and he reached out with a trembling hand, brushing his fingers against the cool, broken metal, feeling something stir inside him, something tender, something painful.
He stared at the sign for a long time, tilting his head slightly as if waiting for it to speak again, before finally, in a voice that cracked from disuse, he whispered a single word.
"Proto."
The name tasted strange on his mechanical tongue, unfamiliar yet comforting, and so he said it again, this time louder, with a certainty that seemed to root him to the earth.
"Proto."
The name was his, and by naming himself, something shifted deep within his hollow chest, a soundless shudder like a forgotten heart struggling to beat once more.
Satisfied in a way he could not explain, he moved on, the ruins closing behind him like a grave.
As he walked, Proto watched the sky, marveled at the way the clouds bled colors at sunset, fascinated by the way birds still soared through poisoned winds, free and alive.
Passing through a broken street, he came across a scene of death, where a band of humans had been caught by his kin, their bodies lying still in pools of crimson, their weapons shattered, their faces twisted not in fear, but in sadness.
Proto stood there for a long time, looking down at them.
He did not understand why his chest hurt.
He only knew it did.
"Why," he said, the word slipping from him like a broken prayer, soft and confused, and when no answer came, he continued walking, carrying the nameless ache with him like a secret.
The city fell away behind him, swallowed by mist, and in the distance, somewhere beyond the mountains, Proto saw the faint glimmer of lights, flickering weakly like the last embers of a dying fire.
He would go there.
He would find something.
Someone.
Anything.
And maybe, just maybe, he would find a way to fill the emptiness that rattled inside him like loose bolts in a hollow frame.
For now, he only had his name, and that was enough.
Proto.
