I open my eyes with the rising sun, the mountains create a barrier between the glaring orb of light and myself. The tall peaks cast shadows across the valley I find myself in. Two towers in the distance create their own, expanding shadows as the sun rises higher and higher overhead. The empty remains of a small town, irradiated beyond repair, lies behind me, just down the small hill along the cracked, crumbling road.
Ahead of me numerous figures run around in the distance, and without too much thought towards the topic I run towards them.
The simple rock I’ve got to defend myself looks silly against their metal hatchets. Each of them has their face covered in a cloth wrapping, their bodies matching in armor, all of cloth. They stop and eye me up and down, determining whether to kill me and take my stuff or not.
One of them uses the hatchet to bash at someone’s house; the wooden walls are failing their owner as the hatchet destroys it. I heft my rock and begin bashing the wood down as well, showing I am friendly and willing to join their group.
Their thoughts of killing me subside and they return to their work, destroying homes in the valley and taking whatever contents lie within.
One of them stops mid-work and drops some cooked chicken for me, leaving it in a sack cloth on the dusty ground. I thank him and grab hold of it, tearing into the cooked food and satiating my longing hunger.
We return to bashing open homes, knocking down the first and discovering a wooden crate. I open it up and discover numerous pieces of cooked chicken. I evenly distribute it amongst the group of bandits I now call friends. They return the favor with my very own metal hatchet, dropping it before my feet in a token of welcoming.
I quickly ditch my crappy rock and scoop the hatchet up. Back to work. We continue our rush through the valley; we are like a storm destroying everything in sight. We aren’t as lucky in our search for supplies; the other houses are barren besides the telltale signs of a campfire tucked away within their confines.
I look up towards the sun, now setting; we had whiled the day away with our work–bandit work–but work nonetheless in this godforsaken land. I eye the tower looming over us, the bandit home. At the very top a sniper watches over us, the glint of his rifle peeking out over the edge of the wooden structure. I am thankful for this new group, protecting, feeding, and accepting me.
The rifle above fires a shot off, we all stop hatcheting the wooden structure and turn towards the gunfire.
Someone has entered our valley and is looking for supplies of his own. He has a homemade shotgun in his hands and he’s running towards us with it. Four of us on the ground, all armed with hatchets at first. Two of my bandit companions pull custom revolvers from somewhere, the third withdraws and M4.
Being the foolish new bandit that I was, I attempted to prove myself to this new family of the wastelands.
I rushed forward with my hatchet, swooping in upon the survivor like a storm. My arm swung and I struck him numerous times with the edged blade.
The man gets a shot off, the shotgun blast slamming into my chest. I’m still standing and still swinging my hatchet, the adrenaline pumping through me as I attempt to survive this fight. My fellow bandits have encircled us and are taking potshots at the man. A few hit, I see the spurts of blood as he runs for cover. He ducks behind a tree for safety, but is it really safe?
I follow him, sprinting after the, now, wounded man. I come around the tree just in time to see him reload the homemade shotgun. He swings it up and fires. Everything goes black, I feel the ground slam into my back as I hit it. The dust and rocks fly up with the impact of my body.
Learn how to survive your first day/night in Rust.
