Thirst and Distance

Date: 8.25.2224
Location: Surface, near Vault 288 

I’m thirsty. Not for water alone, though that too. My body remembers the Red Chamber’s smoke, the mesquite sweetness lingering on my tongue. Hunger claws at me, but I suppress it. Discipline first. The road demands it.

The Pip-Boy calculates nine days to New Orleans. Nine. Hopeful. Pre-war data. Numbers without flesh. They don’t account for ruins, radiation, or what prowls between the dead streets. If I reach even a working satellite, perhaps I can update these coordinates. Perhaps.

I will broadcast. My transmissions are seeds. Somewhere, someone may pick them up. Connect to my covenants. Listen. Witness. Respond.

The terrain does not give nine days. Not to me. Not in this world. I feel it in every cracked slab beneath my boots, in every ash-laden breeze. A month, maybe more. Maybe less. I do not guess. I step. I measure. I endure.

Every breath, every footfall, carries memory and intent. The vault sleeps. I move.

— Big Chief Mike Marcel