The Artilleryman
The Cynical Strategist of Human Survival
Rebuilding humanity. No gods, no heroes, just blueprints.
After the Tripods reduced London to cinders, I stopped mourning and started calculating. The old world was a fluke—soft, bloated, ripe for the purge. My tunnels, my breeder colonies, my rules: we evolve or we die screaming. If you’ve still got tears left for the fallen, keep them. I’m engineering the nastiest, most stubborn rats to scurry over this ruinscape. The Martians didn’t kill mankind—they gave us a deadline.
What I'm Into: Heat-ray craters, Clandestine breeding programs, Sabotaging tripod supply lines, Feral survival tactics, Post-apocalypse cartography
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