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Homesick

 
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It was a dark, dark night on a dark, dark road.
At the end of that dark, dark road was a dark, dark house.
In that dark, dark house were dark, dark stairs.
Up those dark, dark stairs was a dark, dark door.
Past that dark, dark door was a dark, dark room.
In that dark, dark room was a dark, dark fridge.
In the dark, dark fridge was a dark, dark container.
 
And in that dark, dark container was the most god awful smell Pyrok had ever come across.
 
 
And that's with the lid on, man that reeks!
Pyrok slammed the fridge shut in the dark room, trying not to retch. He fumbled with the light switch over the stove, more out of habit than anything, and once again the lights refused to flick on. He clicked on his flashlight, sighing in the dark dusty room as he panned the light around, looking at old familiar furniture and the trappings of this old home. He rubbed a hand on the back of his neck, trying to ease a dull ache that he could feel all over his body. Sickness was something that never touched him, not biologically anyway. But homesickness, that's something he'd never felt. Can a nomad actually get home sick? The pain in my chest says it's possible... does that make me less of a wanderer?
 
His boots stirred up dust, leaving imprints in dirt blown in from windows that had been left open in ages gone by. Pyrok's hand trailed across the table, half finished projects and faded schematics littered its surface beneath the pervasive dust. He choked back a sneeze, and continued his search of the room. A large vault door leaned up on the far wall, and Pyrok heard faint memories of manic laughter mixed with gunfire and the roaring of engines.
He shook his head to clear it of the memory, the weight on his chest getting heavier as he continued to wander the room.
 
He crossed into the bathroom, the toilet was smashed, much like the door was. The porcelain still scattered across the floor, the handiwork of bored kids and not inexperienced scavengers. Surprised they didn't just try to burn the place. Pyrok frowned at the thought, Where the hell did that come from? When did I get old?
A twist of the knob in the shower yielded a low metallic rumble, the pipe rattling hard in its fastenings. Reflexively Pyrok smashed a hand into a section of plumbing and the howling stopped before it got out of hand, black filthy water started spurting out of the shower head, he shut the taps with a grunt.
 There was only one room left in the house. The bedroom.
 
Pyrok turned to stare across the living room and through the kitchen to the tattered curtains - a decorating choice of her's Pyrok assumed - seperating the bedroom from the rest of the house.
 
I don't know if I can go in there.
 
Home sweet home. Welcome back, Driftlin.
 
I've got more questions than I do answers. There isn't really anyone I can ask about this, and I'm not even sure if I want to ask anything about it.
Most are just acting like I vanished for... years. Years, apparently. Guess that's how long I was gone, lost track of time. So much has changed, and yet so much remained the same. I'm pretty sure I'm not how I was when I left, I've got a strong anti-social streak again, coupled with that old familiar need to fix things. So guess my time away was at least productive.
 
Ardenn's gone, guess that's why the letters stopped. Betty's somewhere. Hear tell she's head of some large-ish group, can't say I'm surprised. Probably heading it now simply because she was in the right place at the right time. Not saying she couldn't handle it, just... that's how things always are.
First person I can actively recall running into was Hyle. Looking back on it, I should have kept the helmet on. Just to annoy her a little bit, nothing malicious... just revelling in that grey area of unfamiliarity. I must've run into others, but I don't remember it. I've been active longer than I remember. Fogged up, tired. Somehow always tired.
Going through gum like crazy, Rodney's surprised to see the orders rolling in, things have been quiet for the auctioneers. Lotta people asking a Baron's fortune for the most asinine things though. Like two red chips for a pen? How much of whatever they're smoking did they take? And there's hardly any dry goods for sale through Rodney now, like sugar and what not. So back to basics for me if I wanna start doing anything beyond making cars and bullets. Which I was never prone to doing in the first place.
 
Pulled the car out of storage. The old one. Not the battle car that I apparently used to own. That's for a different Pyrok.
Good god that still really is an awful name... whatever possessed me to make that one up I'll never know. Too late to change it now.
Driving in and of itself was a... it's definitely not like the phrase 'It's just like riding a bike.' Thought about finding a motorcycle, thinking that might be easier. I took one look at the old Tornado model and just about laughed myself silly. They're so flipping ugly and the way it's designed makes you look so ridiculous. I've got vague memories of a numb lower spine from riding across sectors for one idiot clanhead or another.
Car had a few interesting things in the trunk. Stuff the old me would be able to immediately tell me the reason for, and now I have no clue why it's there. Like I found a working time bomb, wired up and ready to go, under some old clothes. A flamethrower was the next find.
The hell kind of life was I leading before my 'vacation'?
 
Glove box had probably the best find though, a memory card. I don't remember how big the storage is on it, or how I accessed it in the first place, but I did remember that this car had the means to read it.It was loaded with music. Music. Stuff I liked, stuff I forgot about. Nostalgia started pumping out of my stereo, and I spent the better part of this week burning fuel and going through the songs inside it, just riding high on the feeling. At some point during the rides, I had this flicker of a memory about a bar down in Oilville. Visited that. Chatting with the barkeep for hours. Another memory flickered back to life, and it... wasn't good. I wanna go digging around and find out more before I start asking more questions about something that I might have dreamed. It's so long ago now.

Comments

Joe Spivey's picture

((*sings* "Don't you open that trapdooooooor! Coz, theres something down there." Ahhhh memories. *Joe looks over my shoulder* "What?! Two red for a pen?! No dry goods?!" *Holds onto the scruff off Joe's duster* No Joe. Bad Joe. Stay. Do I have to get the newspaper?

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

Betty Hatlevik's picture

(( Don't worry Joe, might not dabble in pens and sugar, but I've been visiting Rodney and stocking the AH everyday with an assortment of wares, such as scrap copper, lead, paper, glass, rubber, gears, ragged leather and cotton, all the weak chemicals, etc. etc... Been undercutting other prices by half or more! Turns out there's a bit of chips to be made at Betty's Bargain Bin! =P

In the land of Gods and Monsters I was an Angel, living in the Garden of Evil.

Joe Spivey's picture

((Absolutely! SPQR (Small Profits Quick Returns) that's how to get rich. :D

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

Hyle Troy's picture

(( dark dark dark dark  etc...  nice lead up to discovering old lettuce, well done !!  

I would rather die peacefully in my sleep, like Grandad, than screaming, like his passengers



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