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Dusty Journal Page 2

 
JeassiahBlack's picture
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Dear Journal,

Hmph, still sounds so damn cliche. Oh well.

Spent a little time wandering around the old house that I am in currently. The people here assured me that this was my home, but why do I remember so little about it? Why in all that's good does this place look like it was the center of a fire fight? There are bullet holes almost everywhere, the main exception seems to be the bed room, which looks like some one took the time to put some serious brick work or something into the walls. Either way, its providing me a fair bit of shelter from the weather around here. I did discover a curious thing, something about the book self in the corner of the room. It simply wont move, no matter which way I push or pull, the damnable thing just wont give! And as far as I can tell, its not nailed down or bolted to the wall. Something is there, I can *feel* it deep down, but whatever it is, its remaining one of those elusive shadows of my memory that is laughing at me, taunting me with the knowledge just out of reach...as if some how, I could grasp it and know what it is...if I had the right key to that memory.

I also seem to be the owner of a fleet of vehicals. The local garage manager approached me yesterday with an invoice and asked if I'll be using any of them anytime soon. I was simply dumbfounded.
So we took a walk over to the garage that he and his family kept and he led me to one of the deeper levels. Simply knowing the people here seemed to have a place this size underground was almost mind blowing. The fact that everywhere I looked were cars and bikes lined up, row upon row. I had to ask the stupid question, were these all belonging to the locals? He laughed and said No, they belong to people like me. Many that simply over the last few years have placed their cars in safe keeping and simply vanished. I had to ask how they could afford to keep an eye on all these vehicals and make some chips, and again he laughed and explained how him and other garage people like him around the region charge very high to tow lost cars from some of the most hostile areas, or simply to move from one place to another. That over the years, people like me had paid so damn well, they really didn't have to watch over anything anymore if they didn't want to, they simply still do in the chance that some one, like me, showed back up and needed their ride back. And he went on to mention that the truely lost ones, the Network would flag as data lost and then he and others would take possession of the vehicals to either use or sell to others as needed.

It all did make a sort of sense to me, sorta. The we arrived...and he showed me what I owned.

I could not believe what I saw. Three more cars, a buggy and two bikes I had almost no memory of ever having. I say almost as looking at them now, I remember some fragments assosiated with most of them. Except One.

The Bikes as I recall, the Suzuki I think was my fist ride to have all to myself. I remember the feel of zipping between trees and laughing, that times like that, I was out racing some one trying to catch me and they could not because of the small bike and its nimbleness. The Chopper, I have less feeling or memory, save one, riding with a group of others from one region to another, and some where near by, was another rider, a female I think. She wore a top hat I believe, one that had a bullet hole in it, patched over. Something about that hat in particular is nagging at me, as if there is much more to it and a memory involved. Who she is...I don't know, her name refuses to answer to me. But, I feel like...she is..was...almost as important to me as the one name I do know...and can not rememeber whom it belongs to yet.

The cars were a nice set, obviously some one took time to build them right. Something in me tells me that I know them better than any other soul ever could, that I had more to do with them that just owning them. One was a heavy Interceptor, common in this area it seems, painted a blue with red splashed along the sides. Its trunk was filled with a small collection of things, including clean clothes! I was ecstatic! I'd been wearing the same three outfits for months now, and now I have more.
The other car, still unpainted metal, and unfortunately because of that, showing body rust here and there, was a larger type. Still almost as heavy as the Interceptor, this one obviously was ment for for hauling cargo and the like. I cant recall what they called its type, but the license plate on it read "Hellfire". Huh. Odd enough but nothing about the car really felt like the name was ment for it. Sadly when I looked into it, there was nothing in the back and it barely had enough gas to reach the next fuel stop, so I let it be for now.
Turning the buggy, now that brought a bit of a memory just looking at it. A place in or near New Flagstaff, others around with buggies just like this one. Making little jumps of rickety ramps and others watching and cheering at we...and I realise I was in this event...were shooting away at each other. I suppose it was a friendly thing since I don't feel like there was any angry assosiated with this memory. And there was a man, the event manager I guess, dressed in all yellow that day. Seems he was the one who built this little ride and gave me the keys. That all of it was his doing, and that others were there because or for him. I recall a little that others were there to trade small bits of salvage, help each other building things, lots of work benches set up and taken down as needed. And at the center of it, he was there. Who are you and why do I feel a wary respect for you? Why do I feel like I did something horrible...and you were there too?

Anyway...the last car...it frightens me. 

It is a solid black Camero with a pair of massive machine guns on it. It too looks almost as bad as the house I am staying it, there are signs of bullet impacts everywhere, but the armor plating under the body shows through each and every one of them. The glass is almost shattered in every direction, yet still intact. Checking the tires, looks like some one made an effort to destroy them, but from what I can tell, they were the type the old millitary used, I think, hardened solid rubber. And when I touched it...I felt nothing but pain, dread, fear....and Hate. Hate so deep and soul searing...and it feels like its all mine. That's what scares me the most. Why do I own this car? What did I do with it? I forced myself to look in its trunk, and slammed that closed after I got a good look inside. Inside were weapons and explosives of all sorts, but that was not what made me slam it shut and back away. It was the pure neatness of it all, the way every weapon was arranges, that they were packed with magazines at the ready for each and every single one of them. There was some clothing too that I noticed, but like the rest, they were folding and packed with care and preserved in a way that said to me, 'I am ready for use now, it is time to Kill'.

So what I do? I ran like hell. I am scared of that car. I am afraid of that shadow of memory that is trying to snare my mind. More...I am afraid it will tell me something I may not want to know, that I will run away again when I do.

Comments

Joe Spivey's picture

((I love the whole returning to FE seen from the character's pov and it is nicely done. Lol, it does make you wonder about all these huge multi level underground car parks that most be all over the place, and the people that look after them. Nice work if you can get it.

Stick with me kid and you'll be farting through silk.

JeassiahBlack's picture

((The parking garge thing was just something I came up with, a plausible explaination as it were to where and how do they 'store' all the cares and bikes we players used when the game was so much more active. This to me feels like it is something that could be how it is.

Nerlani's picture

liking  this interestin reads so far ,all of your journals, including this one, an hmm top hat patched sounds familar jess..



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