Dracon M'Alkir
Vault Senior Citizen
Sweat drips down from my forehead and into my eyes, causing a temporary stinging sensation as the saline and urea from my sweat mixes with the vital fluids of my eyes. The air before me ripples and waves moving like leaves in the wind. The desert heat mocks us with it's unrelenting fury. Hot and dry in the day, cold and moist in the night. We had been assigned to head Eastward for some half-assed mission that the elders had thought up of. If only I had the courage to question the chain of command instead of blindly accepting it. If only I could have swallowed my pride just for an instant, and let my humanity take over my religious judgment.
Pride, pride has always been my downfall. Pride has always made my life worse, it has always gotten me into many fights I could have avoided entirely, so many words spoken out of anger in defense of it, pride is all I have left. This suit of armor is all I have to show for it. Look at us now, and look at where my pride has brought me. We alone, six Paladins striding across the wasteland going hell knows where, for hell knows what fucking reason, and we're most likely going to roast before we even reach the East Coast. If it exists, that is. In all likelihood, we could have simply been exiled from the Brotherhood. Similar to that joke that we played on the newcomer. Yeah, you know the guy – the one we sent to get roasted, that somehow returned with the holodisks. But if I could just remember what we could have done wrong..
I check my canteen. Bone-dry. A few drops make it down from the top end and slowly pour their way down my parched throat. It feels like I'm swallowing hot charcoal. I pull out my Geiger counter, it measures a nominal rating of radiation. We should be fine, for now.
Night falls. We set camp. We can't march much further, although we should have given that the night is much colder than the day. Still, our legs simply give out. We can't take this much longer. Our food rations ran out maybe six days ago.
Sunrise. We march once again, East. The desert begins to play tricks with my mind. My manual had detailed it to me before, they called it “wasteland sickness”. Dehydration and starvation cause you to see non-existent things that lead to an early death. We pass by an Oasis. Large, lush, green palm trees with light blue water in the middle. It's amazing how the mind can draw color into the illustration in a manual nearly two thousand years old.
Month two. One of our Paladins collapses. We departed with an original six, we are now down to five. We tried our best to mobilize him, but he was out of it. Heat stroke. His muscles locked up. Nothing could save him.
We reach a new point in our journey. We meet a caravan of travelers that had been transporting goods. The sure signs of civilization, trade. But, the burning in the back of my throat, and the acute pain rising from my lower abdomen spoke otherwise. Fuck honor. Fuck chivalry. We are dieing. I raised my pistol to the innocent trader's head, and shot him. In cold blood. I watched him fall, and his blood spill out into the desert sand, painting it a shade of dark brown. The other Paladins looked at me in disapproval, but they also knew – that they could have just as easily been the one we left behind in the dust, several days ago. We venture into the darkness, the path of the heathens that we had sworn to destroy, the raiders of the wasteland. I unload the supplies from the caravan, and distribute leather sacks of water to my group. They drink slowly, enjoying every ounce of water that drips down their parched, fragile, throats. I drink myself, and for a moment experience sheer ecstasy. A reward for an evil deed. Leaders must always make choices, and they must live with the consequences. This is one of the things that I will regret later in my life, but for the moment, I am satisfied that I can even say these things. I look deeper into the container and find some reserves of food rations. Just as if by divine providence, a large mutated rat appears from the hazy shadows of the wasteland, to feast upon the corpse of the fallen trader. I look up to the heavens, and hope that someone else looks down back us. We had no choice.
Night falls, and we are still at the site of our misdeeds. We decide that it would be best to make use of the brahmin driving the caravan. We board the craft, and whip the brahmin eastward, under the cover of night.
Some time between morning and midday, the brahmin give. They fall lumbering to their death, moaning with their last breath. We take whatever resources we can with us, and continue onward.
At last, we reach what we may think the elders have described as the “East Coast”. A large and desolate city dominates the landscape, winding and embracing the shoreline, and the dark murky waters beyond it.
“Remember our mission, men. We are here to find the Library of Congress.” I said. “We must know what caused the destruction of man, if we are to even call ourselves the last bastion of technology, for we are doomed to repeat history otherwise.” We descended down the mountainside and walked through the ruined streets of this unknown city. I removed from under my plate, the drawing the elders had given me. This building was unlike anything I had ever seen before. It was very old, and had strange columns supporting the structure. I placed the cloth back into my armor.
“Alright men, we can cover more ground if we split up. Weapons free, do not hesitate to fire upon any threat. We have no shortage of ammunition. The elders supplied us amply for this task.” I told them.
We spread outward, and in each direction, we searched the city. In the corner of my eye, I could see something moving. I did the usual stance. Once again, I saw it move. Out from the pile of ruined metal columns, I saw a small child emerge, a girl; holding a toy animal with its head partially removed. She looked at me with very judging, saddened eyes. My concentration was interrupted by a hiss on the intercom.
“Sir, we've found it.” One of the men replied. “Location?” I said. “Turn around.”
I had the strange feeling that what I saw before me was a symptom of “wasteland sickness”. I walked up the weathered marble steps of the building, and removed my gauntlets. I slid my hand up the shaft of the column, feeling the architecture. A feeling of nostalgia overcame me, a feeling I had not felt since I had been a child..
We've found it.
Pride, pride has always been my downfall. Pride has always made my life worse, it has always gotten me into many fights I could have avoided entirely, so many words spoken out of anger in defense of it, pride is all I have left. This suit of armor is all I have to show for it. Look at us now, and look at where my pride has brought me. We alone, six Paladins striding across the wasteland going hell knows where, for hell knows what fucking reason, and we're most likely going to roast before we even reach the East Coast. If it exists, that is. In all likelihood, we could have simply been exiled from the Brotherhood. Similar to that joke that we played on the newcomer. Yeah, you know the guy – the one we sent to get roasted, that somehow returned with the holodisks. But if I could just remember what we could have done wrong..
I check my canteen. Bone-dry. A few drops make it down from the top end and slowly pour their way down my parched throat. It feels like I'm swallowing hot charcoal. I pull out my Geiger counter, it measures a nominal rating of radiation. We should be fine, for now.
Night falls. We set camp. We can't march much further, although we should have given that the night is much colder than the day. Still, our legs simply give out. We can't take this much longer. Our food rations ran out maybe six days ago.
Sunrise. We march once again, East. The desert begins to play tricks with my mind. My manual had detailed it to me before, they called it “wasteland sickness”. Dehydration and starvation cause you to see non-existent things that lead to an early death. We pass by an Oasis. Large, lush, green palm trees with light blue water in the middle. It's amazing how the mind can draw color into the illustration in a manual nearly two thousand years old.
Month two. One of our Paladins collapses. We departed with an original six, we are now down to five. We tried our best to mobilize him, but he was out of it. Heat stroke. His muscles locked up. Nothing could save him.
We reach a new point in our journey. We meet a caravan of travelers that had been transporting goods. The sure signs of civilization, trade. But, the burning in the back of my throat, and the acute pain rising from my lower abdomen spoke otherwise. Fuck honor. Fuck chivalry. We are dieing. I raised my pistol to the innocent trader's head, and shot him. In cold blood. I watched him fall, and his blood spill out into the desert sand, painting it a shade of dark brown. The other Paladins looked at me in disapproval, but they also knew – that they could have just as easily been the one we left behind in the dust, several days ago. We venture into the darkness, the path of the heathens that we had sworn to destroy, the raiders of the wasteland. I unload the supplies from the caravan, and distribute leather sacks of water to my group. They drink slowly, enjoying every ounce of water that drips down their parched, fragile, throats. I drink myself, and for a moment experience sheer ecstasy. A reward for an evil deed. Leaders must always make choices, and they must live with the consequences. This is one of the things that I will regret later in my life, but for the moment, I am satisfied that I can even say these things. I look deeper into the container and find some reserves of food rations. Just as if by divine providence, a large mutated rat appears from the hazy shadows of the wasteland, to feast upon the corpse of the fallen trader. I look up to the heavens, and hope that someone else looks down back us. We had no choice.
Night falls, and we are still at the site of our misdeeds. We decide that it would be best to make use of the brahmin driving the caravan. We board the craft, and whip the brahmin eastward, under the cover of night.
Some time between morning and midday, the brahmin give. They fall lumbering to their death, moaning with their last breath. We take whatever resources we can with us, and continue onward.
At last, we reach what we may think the elders have described as the “East Coast”. A large and desolate city dominates the landscape, winding and embracing the shoreline, and the dark murky waters beyond it.
“Remember our mission, men. We are here to find the Library of Congress.” I said. “We must know what caused the destruction of man, if we are to even call ourselves the last bastion of technology, for we are doomed to repeat history otherwise.” We descended down the mountainside and walked through the ruined streets of this unknown city. I removed from under my plate, the drawing the elders had given me. This building was unlike anything I had ever seen before. It was very old, and had strange columns supporting the structure. I placed the cloth back into my armor.
“Alright men, we can cover more ground if we split up. Weapons free, do not hesitate to fire upon any threat. We have no shortage of ammunition. The elders supplied us amply for this task.” I told them.
We spread outward, and in each direction, we searched the city. In the corner of my eye, I could see something moving. I did the usual stance. Once again, I saw it move. Out from the pile of ruined metal columns, I saw a small child emerge, a girl; holding a toy animal with its head partially removed. She looked at me with very judging, saddened eyes. My concentration was interrupted by a hiss on the intercom.
“Sir, we've found it.” One of the men replied. “Location?” I said. “Turn around.”
I had the strange feeling that what I saw before me was a symptom of “wasteland sickness”. I walked up the weathered marble steps of the building, and removed my gauntlets. I slid my hand up the shaft of the column, feeling the architecture. A feeling of nostalgia overcame me, a feeling I had not felt since I had been a child..
We've found it.