On questing in a postapocalyptic future, based on false, romantic tales of the old.
It had been a long and fascinating journey he had undertaken, after being locked up his whole life. One which he could never had foreseen or imagined, even though he had read more than was expected of him. Finally being able to breathe the fresh air of the above had been an immense pleasure, sulphuric and ashful in its bitter taste. The first days it had been difficult, and he often had to use his mask, but as so many other things this turned out to be an acquired taste over time. The only downside was his nose had clogging up like a misused toilet all the time and he had to rinse it with that horrible nasal wash-machine.
Being able to walk amongst the ruins of the old he had unconsciously studied what seemed like all of the great old civilizations (which he of course knew it was not), and the literature he had read came swarming back to him. How many pages of the Lost Lore had he not skimmed through, pertaining to these marvels? The Romans and their huge promiscuous buildings, built to impress the public with great vaults and arches lying twisting and turning on the ground as they had long since fallen to pieces. Somehow this made it even more impressive, since you could without difficulty see how big their structures had been. Some places he had walked over their impressive concrete domes, and snuck a peek under them to see their decorated vaulted ceilings, and stood there for hours with his light-pen admiring the art. For hours he peered at the Byzantine ruins with their gentle and complex mosaic covered structures of stone (that had made his old enthusiasm for mathematics renew tenfold), that had been resting upon massive piers which in turn now rested amongst the great shards of glass colored by sheets of alabaster that once shone enlightenment and divinity through them. The crusaders castles standing like great kings on tops of mountains had served him as a great place to rest and scout towards his target on many occasions, but – as should be – they were never easy to get up to or in to. Perhaps the most extraordinary trip was through the hollow buildings in Beirut, slowly being recaptured by vile nature slinging itself through, between and around both skyscrapers and hard, merciless asphalt. Apparently nature did not take long to retake lost ground, because what had once been the Middle East’s party city was now like a jungle with distant memories of human grandness.
He had only had to use his weapons a few times, against things he had not been able to identify from any of his books, and he had to admit that he did not really know if these terrifying monstrosities had intended to hurt him. Perhaps they had even been sentient. What ever had been on their minds as they saw him, it was now splattered on the ground, and probably being eaten by birds, insects and other vermin. Even fewer times had he met people, and all of these encounters had been quite interesting, if not somewhat disgusting at times. The difficulty communicating was extraordinary, but they had managed to point him in the right direction (although he had no problem finding it alone with a compass) and traded small items. For some reason they had all tried to offer him old coins mixed with even older looking bottle caps for some of his equipment, which he of course respectfully refused, and had pondered over ever since.
Strangely enough he has spotted what seemed like a small encampment in the place he thought to be Sour. This would be most uncommon according to what he had already learned from the Wilderness. Few people lived there, and even fewer stayed put in one place for long. Two days of circling them, observing them and trying to learn if they were hostile or not brought him to the conclusion that they were mostly harmless people, and so he approached them, somewhat hungrily. He was met by two people riding strange creatures which could look like what used to be horses if he squinted with his eyes, according to his memory of Lost Lore. “Salaam aleykum” the riders yelled at him from afar.
- Waleykum asaalam! How fare thee these days? Would I impose myself upon thee for a meal and some directions?
They smiled as they heard him talking, as if he had said something funny, but waved him over and gave him a ride on the back of the horrid creature they rode on.
- We’re gess’in you’d want to talk to an elder of our ville, the one he held tightly as they rode told him in some strange accent he had problems understanding.
- Indeed, a parley with them would be suitable. In fact I have the desire to convey a message to a Vault in this here area, which in fact should not be a far walk away.
They kept silent until they let him off the animal, almost in the lap of a very old, wrinkly man smoking an old fashioned narghile with brightly lit colors, and the soothing sound of bubbles rising from it.
- One who speaketh the old tongue, where arth thou from?
After explaining his story and how he had been chosen from the few to take upon himself this fatal quest to submit a simple message, which meant life or death for his Vault, to the Supply Vault in this area, the old man briskly answered that the Supply Vault had not existed for a long time. It had been sacked by raiders equipped with large weapons and ABC-suits, which had taken them completely by surprise. The few survivors had silently ascended to the surface, through the bloody ponds and breathless bodies their brethren had left behind them and viewed the outside world, something barren and hopeless. Having no place to go they used the vault as a place to fall back into, while setting up this small ville – town – to live in. Others had joined them in time, survivors from similar events or surface dwellers which had lived topside since the Last War.
While being told this story from the venerable old man he did not speak. Nor did he speak as he slowly gaited towards the old vault, to see with his own eyes that it had been destroyed. This world that he had once viewed as having great potential had now become just what his tutors had told him: reckless and horrid. As he had been told to do he brought forth his machete, and wondered if the people monitoring his pulse could see how hopeless and wasteful he felt, based on the curves and beeps of their machines. Harikiri. A cruel and crude way to die, but somehow they needed to know that there were nothing here. He contemplated the irony of him dying here, completely exsanguinated, on the slopes of their so called survival, bleeding to death in a world which it self seemed to bled slowly to death, on a hungry stomach no less.
