Date: 9.13.2224
Location: Red Rocket Station | Southeastern Texas Corridor
I wasn’t woken by daylight.
I was woken by laughter.
A familiar voice carried through the old station.
“Figured I’d find you here.”
Lance.
He stood outside the Red Rocket like he belonged there. No fear. No hesitation. Like this forgotten gas station was just another stop on his daily route.
Turns out it was.
Lance knew about the lights.
He knew someone was keeping the power running.
He just didn’t know who.
“Been coming here a long time,” he told me. “Stuff just shows up. Cans. Boxes. Water. Sometimes medicine.”
No caravan.
No trader.
No obvious owner.
Just supplies appearing like someone, somewhere, still believed people needed them.
Lance had theories.
Maybe the Brotherhood.
Maybe a scavenger with a conscience.
Maybe some old-world system still running a centuries-old routine.
Out here, anything was possible.
He grabbed a few items from the shelves and packed them away.
Then he looked at me.
“You should come back to the GoodNight Inn.”
I shook my head.
Not because I didn’t appreciate it.
Because I couldn’t.
“I have somewhere I need to be.”
He already knew.
“New Orleans.”
I nodded.
That was enough.
Before he left, something caught my attention.
The outfit.
Different from the Lance I met before.
More colorful.
More deliberate.
More confident.
I looked him over.
He smiled.
“Home.”
I paused.
“Home?”
“GoodNight Inn.”
That only confused me more.
“So what’s with the outfit?”
Lance turned slightly, almost like he was stepping onto a stage.
“Well?”
I stared quietly.
“Do you like?”
I didn’t answer immediately.
Not because I didn’t understand.
Because I was trying to process Lance.
The wasteland changes people.
Some become soldiers.
Some become merchants.
Some become prophets.
Some become performers.
Lance?
Lance became whoever he needed to be.
He laughed.
“My name is Lance,” he said. “But when I’m working, they call me Sensational Sindy.”
That got my attention.
He explained he had just come from the Longhorn Lounge.
Ladies’ night.
He was the host.
A private dancer.
A performer.
A person who turned attention into survival.
Then he explained the kind of place it was.
A place where the women performed topless.
A place where the men performed bottomless.
A place where people came to forget the world outside for a few hours.
And judging by the way he smiled, Lance had no shortage of stories from those nights.
He wasn’t subtle about the fact that he enjoyed the attention.
Or that he knew exactly what kind of invitation he was extending.
The look in his eyes said enough.
He wasn’t just asking me to see a show.
He was asking me to stay.
To relax.
To stop carrying the weight for a little while.
Maybe even to spend the night.
I’ll admit...
For a moment, I considered it.
Not because I forgot my mission.
Because after everything I had seen—the crater, the Atomites, the road, the dead cities—being wanted by someone felt strangely human.
But I shook my head.
“I appreciate it, Lance.”
I smiled.
“But I have somewhere to be.”
New Orleans.
Family.
A promise.
He didn’t take offense.
Actually, he laughed.
“Figured that was your answer.”
Then he hugged me.
Just like that.
No pressure.
No argument.
“You’re always welcome at the GoodNight Inn, Mike.”
Then he walked away.
I watched him disappear down the road, carrying his supplies and his secrets.
I still don’t fully understand Lance.
Maybe I’m not supposed to.
The wasteland is full of contradictions.
A person can be dangerous and kind.
Strange and genuine.
A performer and a survivor.
A mystery and still a friend.
The Red Rocket remains behind me.
The road remains ahead.
And somewhere beyond all this dust and distance...
New Orleans waits.
— Big Chief Mike Marcel
Lance is becoming an interesting counterpoint to Big Chief: one survives by rebuilding order, the other survives by creating moments where people forget the world is broken. The wasteland needs both kinds of people.
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