He didn't remember himself. Did he come to be out of something much less, or much more?
Blinking, he stood, not bothering to brush the dust from his clothes, and looked out over the vast, still city before him. Red. Everything was tinged a blood-red color, dark burgundy in the shadows.
He started to walk, having no compulsion to stay, yet none to go somewhere; he merely wished to wander.
Bare thoughts tickled at his mind as he meandered, barefoot, through and around cars that he didn't recognize. He remembered his name: Pride. He remembered a deep voice, thrumming it in his ear, and then no more, for the first thing he'd seen had been this desolate road, broken, bruised and crimson.