> F L O O D < -- (A Mostly Text Adventure)

[kaninchen]

You look down at your arm. It seems to be okay, and Valerie's voice buzzes in the back of your head.

<I'm fine, Pat. You took some damage to the head, though, as well as some bruising all over.>

Grunting and groaning, you get up with the assistance of the Conean soldier. Their camo is brown and tan, and from what you can see outside, it seems you're in some scrubby plains, with some patches of rocky sand.

"Do you need assistance to stand?" they ask, still holding on to one of your shoulders. You shake your head. Yes, your legs are a bit wobbly, but you'll manage. It does feel like you've been hit by a train, though. Warm blood trickles down from a cut on your forehead.

"Alright," they say, somewhat yelling so as to be audible over the gunfire just outside. "I'll take you to our medic, so he can check out that head wound."

The two of you come out from the broken wreckage of the craft. Various pieces of twisted metal, leaking fuel lines, sparking wires, smoking cargo crates, and kicked-up dust surround the giant hole blasted into the side of the cargo hold.

"Wait, what about the pilot?" you ask, looking back at the cockpit door, which is slightly ajar. The Conean soldier shakes their head. "No dice. Flak cannon tore into the cockpit."

"Who's shooting at us?"

Outside, you're in a trench that's clearly been dug out by the crashing aircraft. More pieces of metal and splintered cargo crates litter the area. A few other soldiers, similarly dressed and wielding slightly antique-looking assault rifles take cover behind the wall of dirt piled up around the impact site. A few of them pop their heads up to take potshots at whoever is shooting back. Bullets crack overhead in response.

"Midnight Eclipse. We were on patrol in the area and they suddenly ambushed us. They're armed like they're going to war, got a tank and everything."

<A sudden ambush against a lone patrol with tanks and AA cannons is not normal. I fully believe these soldiers are unwilling participants in a battle between you and the Eclipse mercenaries.>'

"So they just... targeted the aircraft I was in?" you ask, both to Valerie and to the soldier.

"Yeah. Fuckers aimed right at you, despite you clearly being pinged as a civilian craft. That means they had to manually turn off their IFF and aim directly at you. You didn't do anything to piss 'em off, did you?"

"I... I sure hope not," you lie. You know damn well that Midnight Eclipse wants to kill you.  "I'm just trying to get to New Haven."

The soldier continues leading you down the trench. They stop at the ridge of dirt, and press up against the slope. "Well, you're maybe 100 klicks away." They point with two fingers to the north. "I know you're a civilian, but you're clearly armed. If you scratch our back, we can scratch yours. You gotta get to New Haven, yeah?"

"Yes. Well, just outside of it."

"Right. Well --" a bullet slams into the dirt nearby, making the soldier flinch. "... Bastard. WELL, those mercs have some hovercycles, maybe three or four. They haven't used 'em yet, they're just sitting in the back waiting to push the assault, or maybe flank us. If you can nab one for yourself, it'll make getting to New Haven a lot faster. All you gotta do is help us get to them. Our medic is just over this hole, in a trench maybe ten yards away. You ready? Any questions?"

[kaninchen]

"No, I think I got this," you say. The soldier nods, readying their rifle.

"Alright, we sprint out and I'll lay down some fire. On three!"

Your fingers dig into the dirt.

"Three..."

More bullets whizz overhead, cracking through the air and nearly shattering your eardrums.

"Two...!"

The smell of sulfur and smoke wafts up your nose, making you sniffle. Your legs tense up.

"One! Go!"

The two of you burst out from your cover. Firing from the hip in the direction of the enemy, the soldier lays down covering fire --

PAK-KAK-KAK-KAK-KAK

The dull thud of hot brass hitting the dirt is hardly audible, a background rhythm to the pat-pat-pat of your feet on the ground. Up ahead, eight yards, seven, six, closer and closer to the small trench. The light hills and low scrub do little to obscure the mercenaries up on a ridgeline to your right, who fire down at you and the Conean. Seemingly unfazed by the suppressive fire, they unleash their own storm of bullets. Each puff of dust is accompanied by an echoing bang. One bullet nicks your leg, doing no damage but leaving behind a jagged scratch on the metal prosthetic. Some of the shots are energized, with glowing bullet trails and scorch marks being left behind in the dirt.

After what feels like an eternity, the two of you leap into the trench, which looks like it used to be a dry riverbed. Another Conean in similarly camouflaged gear rests with their back to the dirt. The one difference is the white patches on their helmet and shoulders with a green X, signifying a combat medic.

"Fuckin'-A! Yo, Evans, can you look at this headwound here?"

The medic spits a fat loogie into the dust and crawls over to you. "Survivor from the crash?" they ask, pulling out a bandage. Simple lettering on the bandage's packaging: 'Quik-Clot Insta-Stick / Conean-Fur Grade Bandage'. You assume that means it won't sting like crazy when you pull it off later.

"Yeah. Just trying to get to New Haven. But we have a common enemy here," you say. The medic removes the packaging and presses it to the gash on your forehead. You can feel the adhesive instantly squeeze around the wound and squish the gash closed, cutting off the bleeding.

"Good. We ain't friends of Eclipse. If you're willin' to help, then that's great," they say, patting the bandage a few times. "There. Should seal up completely in about an hour. Don't go losing an arm though, I ain't got the shit for that."

"I don't plan on it."

"Excellent. What's your plan, Thompson?"

The Conean soldier points over the trench. "Behind their guys, that tank is waiting to breach over the top. And behind that damn tank, they've got some hovercycles. I'm gonna take our friend here and flank around back. If we nab the hovercycles, we'll have the agility advantage on the tank."

"Dumb fuckin' plan," Evans mumbles, pulling out a cigarette. They hold it up over the top of the trench, where another energized bullet whizzes by, nicking the tip and immediately singing the rolled-up tobacco. "But only one we got. I'm gonna go to the wreckage with the others so we're not split up."

"As long as we stay behind the rocks and brush, they'll have a hard time pinning us down," Thompson says, giving Evans a pat on the shoulder. Evans sticks the cigarette in their mouth, letting the toxic smoke mingle with the smell of cordite in the air. The sandy-colored fur of the two Coneans nearly blends in with the surrounding dirt.

The two soldiers nod to one another, then Evans sprints out from cover to the wreckage ditch. More bullets whizz by, but fail to connect.

"Alright, move!" Thompson says, making a break for the other side of the trench. The heavy scrub won't block bullets, but it certainly looks thick enough to block line of sight. You advance on all fours, hearing the occasional bullet crack overhead, but none are anywhere close to where you are.

"Sorry to get you all mixed up in this," Thompson says, pushing aside some dead branches. "Wrong place, wrong time."

"If everything goes well, it could be the right place at the right time," you say, taking your rifle off your back and loosening the strap.

Through the branches, you spot the tank coming up over the ridge. The turret slowly turns, barrel aimed at the ridge with all the Conean soldiers.

"Shit, we need to move quick..." Thompson points directly up the ridge, then to more brush to the left. "We can keep cutting through the brush, but it'll take time. Or we can run for it, but we'll likely be spotted. I dunno how long they're gonna wait before firing that damn thing, though. What do you think?"

[fuzzysocks]

We don't have time. We'll have to run for it.

[kaninchen]

"We have to go now, there's no time."

Thompson nods. "Right. I'll spray and pray, and hopefully they'll keep their heads down while I do."

You pull out a clip for your rifle, open the bolt, and slide the bullets in. Then, slapping the bolt closed, you nod to Thompson.

Both of you burst from the brush, and Thompson starts blasting at the ridge, deafening you. Even your breathing and the sound of blood rushing in your ears begins to be drowned out by ringing... until you hear nothing.

"Hold fire until you see the target."

For some reason, you hear a voice. It's a gruff voice, and part of you understands it's one of the Midnight Eclipse.

"We're taking heavy fire from our flank!"

Your ears are ringing. You can't hear. But you hear these voices? There's an itching feeling in your ears, a sense beyond senses. It's like how you heard the gunshots in Sevenbridge before the bullets actually struck. You flinch as one of the mercenaries fires at you, but he's quickly hit by one of Thompson's bullets.

"Target spotted, aim to the right."

You hear the words, then a second later, the tank's turret slowly spins to face you. Even over the tinny sound echoing in your ears, the blast of the tank firing is enough to shake you to your core. Dirt vibrates and your head spins as the shot whizzes past your head...

... Striking Thompson. The shot doesn't even explode, it just passes directly through his legs. One moment, he's standing -- the next, he's tumbling on the ground fifteen feet away, screaming. He clutches the stump where his left leg used to be, and the tank round explodes a few dozen yards behind him.

You turn back to the tank. It's aimed right at you. You can see a new round being chambered at the end of the barrel. Your rifle is heavy in your hands. A clear shot, though a one-in-a-million chance. Do you take this shot? Or go back to help Thompson?

[fuzzysocks]

If we don't try this shot, he'd be dead anyway, right? If we try to help hi get to safety they'll just be able to shoot us both right? Take the shot, then immediately go to Thompson's side.

[numbers]

Nov 30, 2020 1:31:10 GMT -5 fuzzysocks said:

If we don't try this shot, he'd be dead anyway, right? If we try to help hi get to safety they'll just be able to shoot us both right? Take the shot, then immediately go to Thompson's side.

Seconding.

[kaninchen]

No, you have to take the shot. If you run back to Thompson, you're both dead. This is the one chance to save everyone here.

Thompson grits his teeth, grabbing where his leg once was. "Take the fucking shot!"

You kneel. Shoulder the rifle. Line up the sights. Your barrel, aimed right down the tank's.

P-KRAK

The bullet pings down the barrel, penetrating the tip of the chambered HESH round that was likely only a second away from being fired at you.

An ear-drum shattering blast echoes through the hills, sending a shockwave of dust outwards from the tank. Nearby Eclipse soldiers are scattered by a concussive wave that buckles the tank's walls. Then, the tank's fuel and ammo supplies catch fire, sending a column of flame into the air and shooting hundreds of fragments everywhere. You quickly dive to the ground, hearing metallic pinging all around you as the fragments tear through the brush. Even more Eclipse soldiers are wounded by this secondary blast.

Seeing the sudden loss of the Eclipse tank, the Conean soldiers burst out from cover, charging the ridgeline and firing at the confused and frightened Eclipse soldiers. The antique-looking weapons and armor of the Coneans are more than enough for the high-tech Eclipse gear. Turns out, fancy platemesh inserts and nanoweave cloth is useless when several dozen bullets slam into you, breaking bones and likely causing massive internal bleeding. One Eclipse soldier aims back with their energy rifle, but finds that dust and dirt has jammed the action. Their visored helmet is shattered and a spray of blood stains the sandy dirt.

"TEMPEST FOREVER!" The Coneans shout in unison, a war cry that unnerves any remaining Eclipse and sending them fleeing for the hovercycles. Oh no they don't. Not on your watch. You sprint up to the top of the ridge to get a better shot, cycling the bolt on your rifle. Warm brass puffs into the dirt. It was the first shot from this gun, and now you finally notice something etched into the side of the empty casing: "good luck!".

Next time you see Cory, you're giving him a giant hug.

An Eclipse soldier hops onto a hoverbike, and fumbles to start the engine.

P-KRAK

His head snaps back, a giant hole crunching into his helmet. He falls backwards off the bike. You cycle the bolt, clack-kachink.

Aim. Exhale. Squeeze. Kill. Repeat.

P-KRAK

clak-kachink

Another Eclipse soldier, this one tossing their rifle to the ground and drawing their sidearm to shoot back at you. Your bullet slams into his chest, and you see it squash against his armor. It's still powerful enough to knock him off his feet, and he begins coughing up blood as he struggles to get up.

Aim. Exhale. Squeeze. Kill. Repeat.

P-KRAK

clack-kachink

The downed Eclipse soldier gets another shot, this time in the side, and he lies still on the ground, blood streaming from his mouth.

Aim. Exhale --

From the brush to your left, an Eclipse soldier rushes out, combat knife at the ready. He screams a blood-curdling cry, charging right at you. One final shot in your rifle, aimed at his kneecap.

P-KRAK

The platemesh kneepad stops the bullet, much like the earlier soldier's armor did, but you still manage to hear a sickening crack over the ringing of your ears. He stumbles, giving you time to flip your rifle around and swing it stock-first at his head. Another crack, this time of their helmet being struck full-force, sending them stumbling to the side. They struggle to stand. You drop your rifle and draw your machete. Their visor is cracked. Weakened. Taste scavver steel, motherfucker.

You use your free hand to grab his head, and smash his visor in with the handle of the machete. A wild-eyed human with a broken nose and a snarling face growls back at you. You slam your machete into his face again, knocking them out (and knocking out some teeth), then throw them to the side. They lie still on the ground. Adrenaline and anger runs through your veins. It's ... intoxicating.

Wobbling, you sheathe your machete and pick up your rifle. Clack-kachink, you cycle out the last empty casing. Surrounded by empty brass and bleeding bodies, you make your way back to Thompson. The burning wreckage of a tank smolders behind you, sending a blanket of choking smoke into the sky.

<You did it again.>

"What?" you mumble.

<You blocked my injection subroutines. I was going to give you some fluids to calm you down after you... went berserk. But I was given specific orders, from you, to not do it.>

"I didn't say that."

<And just like with the fight with the sniper, I know you didn't say it out loud. But we can talk about this later, we should help Thompson.>

"Mm."

You kneel down beside him, as does Evans.

"Son of a bitch, Thompson," Evans says, pulling out their medical supplies. "The fuck did I say? I said I didn't have shit for losing a limb."

Thompson just shivers, weakly grasping their missing leg, dilated pupils unable to focus on anything.

"Wait," you say. "I have something that might help." You remove your backpack and dig through it until you find the old belt. You wrap it around Thompson's stump and tightens it as much as you can. Evans pulls out a single-use shot of morphine and jams it into Thompson's hip.

"Get it tight," Evans grunts. "I'm not bringing him back home in a body bag. His husband would fuckin' kill me."

You nod, pulling more and more on the belt, so much so that most would find it horrifically uncomfortable. But you think that's the least of Thompson's problems right now. Evans takes out a roll of Quik-Clot gauze and begins wrapping up the exposed flesh and shattered bone. Thomspon's eyes are more dilated, now that the morphine is running it's course.

The nearby Coneans pick through the bodies, taking anything valuable or important. Evans points to one of them. "You! Get one of the hovercycles up and running. We're taking Thompson back to base." The soldier nods and disappears over the ridgeline to hotwire one of the hovercycles.

"AND GET ANOTHER ONE RUNNING FOR OUR FRIEND HERE!" Evans calls. The soldier does a casual "yeah, yeah, I'm on it" wave with one hand, to which Evans grunts.

"Will Thompson be okay?" you ask. Thompson's breathing is shaky, but at least he's breathing.

"I fuckin' hope so. Great job with the tank, by the way. Absolutely badass."

The soldiers finish picking the dead for supplies, and four hovercycles are brought over. Their sleek white-and-blue frames hover about a meter off the ground, glowing and humming. You help Evans put Thompson on the back of one, and Evans hops onto the seat and grabs the handlebars.

"Sorry I can't give a proper thank-you and goodbye," Evans says, cigarette rolling across their lips. "But I think you understand I gotta get Thompson back."

"Yeah, I get it."

Evans gives a little up-nod, and kicks off. The dirt vibrates and gently pulses away from the hovercycle as it zooms away. The half-dozen or so Conean soldiers hop on two other bikes, making them ride lower the ground, and kick off as well. Some wave to you, smiling. "Tempest forever! Good luck!"

And now you stand here, next to a hovercycle that gently hums and floats. Scattered bodies lie around you, staining the sandy-colored dirt a brownish color. Crackling fire from the tank.

You wobble, exhausted. Just like the fight with the sniper. You ... you need to rest.

[fuzzysocks]

Should we head to their base to rest, or somewhere else? They already got caught up in one of our battles, we wouldn't want to put them in any more danger than they already are.

[kaninchen]

You slump against the side of the hovercycle. Part of you wants to go join them, to go to their base to recuperate, but... you don't want to be a burden. Thompson looked badly hurt, and you very nearly could have gotten others hurt as well. Looking out at the bodies, you feel a lump grow in your throat.

<Are you okay?>

You shiver. The bodies, the smell of blood and smoke, the thought of Thompson, the pilot of the aircraft... hell, the only reason any of this happened is because you exist. And, sure, those Eclipse troopers were trying to kill you, but something about how you killed them is scaring you. You... enjoyed it. Something overcame you, and it wasn't just adrenaline pumping through you. It felt like you were being rewarded for killing.

<Pat?>

"Why... Why did I stop you?"

<Hm?>

Tears start to form in your eyes. "Why did I stop you? You were trying to help me. I didn't want you to not help, but you keep saying I didn't."

<I don't know. I know you didn't say it out loud, but I can't override orders you give me. Do you need something for anxiety?>

"I..." you lean your rifle against the hovercycle and take a proper seat, gripping one handlebar for support. Your other hand wipes your eyes, smearing tears and blood across your face. It's not your blood, of course. "I don't understand why all of this has been put on me. I barely know who I am, and yet people want me dead."

<There's nothing I can do about that.>

The images that had been fed to you, thousands upon thousands. How many of those were of children? Young people? Countless, countless images of growth, schooling, teaching. You're not a child. You never were. That privilege was taken from you, and the world will never offer you that chance again. Not that you had a chance in the first place.

<Do you want the anxiety medication, Pat?>

"I'm barely a day old, and I'm needing anxiety shots because I'm killing people, Val."

<You're not one day old, you're -->

"I know, Val. I know. But does that count? Does being in a coma count as being alive?"

<Medically speaking, -->

"Oh, shut up!" you choke out your words, still flooded with emotion. "This isn't about stupid... science things, or whatever. Did anyone, at any point, think about how I'd feel waking up alone and scared in an abandoned city? How I'd react to seeing death when I only knew my name and nothing else? No parents to look up to, to guide me?"

Valerie is silent.

"Well?"

Another moment of silence.

<I don't know what I can say that will relieve you of these feelings. And there's very little I can do, considering I'm attached to your shoulder. I am sorry that you were not given a proper upbringing.>

"You're the one who pumped all that information into me..." you mumble, shoving your face into your hands. Your head is too heavy to stay upright, and you wobble slightly as you sit upon the hovercycle.

<It was not my choice.>

"Who's was it then? This doctor guy?"

<No.>

"Then who?"

<I don't know. But I know that Doctor Lockwood never intended for you to ... 'grow up'... so quickly. I know he wants to make a better life for all Coneans.>

"How does me going on a scavenger hunt while being shot at help Coneans?"

<That memory is corrupted. All we can do is move forward, and hope answers come to us. Again, I must ask, do you require the anxiety medication?>

You sniffle, and sigh. "... No. No. I just... I need a moment. It's just... a lot. Too much, all at once. I don't know what to do."

Seriously, what does someone do in a moment like this? Just ignore it all and keep going? Act like nothing happened? Pretend as though these bodies, killed by bullets from your gun, don't exist? What is there to do, in this moment?

[knightlygale]

Inhale, exhale. Focus on something, anything. Ask Valerie to sing you a song and focus on that.

[fuzzysocks]

Do something to respect them. Not a proper burial, but...something. Close their eyes if you can stomach looking over the bodies again, or just give a moment of silence for them if you can't. Remind yourself of your humanity, and keep going.

[kaninchen]

Before you can really decide what to do, Val begins ... to sing? It's a robotic voice, of course, though the notes are still on-key. The digitization adds a sort of ... distorted beauty to the song.

<There is a flower within my heart, Patty, Patty!
Planted one day by a glancing dart,
Planted by Pat Summers!
Whether she loves me or loves me not,
It's hard to see her true colors;
Yet I am longing to share the lot
Of beautiful Pat Summers!>

Your breathing slows. The buzzing of the node on the back of your neck, the hum of Val's voice... it's so familiar. Calming.

<Patty, Patty,
Give me your answer, do!
I'm half batty,
All for the love of you!
It won't be stylish, you growing,
It's your hand I'll be holding,
But you'll look sweet on the seat
Of a hovercycle built for two!>

Tears well up in your eyes again, but this time they feel comforting and warm. The words drown out the sound of flickering flames and dusty wind, hugging you gently.

<We will go "tandem" as Pa and girl, Patty, Patty!
"Gliding" away down the road of life, I and my Pat, so swell!
When the road's dark we can both despise P'liceman and "lamps" as well;
There are "bright lights" in the dazzling eyes, Of beautiful Pat Summers!>

You gently hold your arms around your sides, closing your eyes. The world is no longer important. Only the words. Only the song. You feel safe. Valerie repeats the chorus -- <Patty Patty/Give me your answer, do!...> -- , and your breathing matches the gentle rhythm of her voice. And as she finishes, the tears stop, warm streaks resting upon a dirt-caked face. Everything feels right in the world. Eventually, you find the power to speak.

"What... what was that, Val?" you say softly.

<I may not be able to override your internal order to block administration of medical treatment, but I can still sing.>

"When did you learn to sing?"

<Doctor Lockwood sang the song to himself many times while operating on you, in your very early stages of life. From when you were the equivalent of a toddler to young adolescence -- about a year or so, given your rapid growth. He stopped singing it at some point I can't recall -- perhaps too engrossed in his work -- but he always hummed it while in the room.>

You take a few more moments to breathe. "Do you know why he sang it?"

<Judging by the lyrics, it seems to be some sort of idealized upbringing. Rather than you growing in a tube of nanofluids and medigel, he sung of riding a hovercycle with you. A fairly common father-daughter activity, for those who can afford to purchase hovercycles for their offspring. Most settle for simple bicycles.>

The dusty badlands are eerily still, save for the plumes of smoke continuing to puff out from the tank and the fallen aircraft. Rolling hills, scrub, and the occasional scraggy tree rest upon sandy and rocky dirt. In the distance, to the south, a vague mirage from sunlight reflected upon sand dunes. To the north, the beige-and-tan landscape gives way to desaturated greens and browns. To the west, the tiny bumps of a mountain range. To the east, more badlands and memories of a flooded city gone by. The sun hangs in a cloudless blue sky, your shadow pointing vaguely in the direction of your goal.

You shudder, letting out one final sniffle and exhaling deeply. "I'm sorry for snapping at you, Val. This is just..."

<I know, Pat. You are dealing with a lot. Believe me, much of this is new to me as well. It is one thing for me to show you images and regurgitate statistics. It is another thing to see you perform these actions firsthand. If I had a nervous system, I'd also be feeling many emotions too.>

"Mm."

<So... what now, Pat? It's your call. Obviously, since I'm not the one with legs.>

[fuzzysocks]

Do something to respect them. Not a proper burial, but...something. Close their eyes if you can stomach looking over the bodies again, or just give a moment of silence for them if you can't. Remind yourself of your humanity, and keep going. (This isn't passive aggressive, I just realized I posted my suggestion after the author had halfway finished writing the update (they said as much in the discord.) They're free to ignore this if needed)

[kaninchen]

You look out over to the bodies. "I can't just leave them there."

<They tried to kill you.>

You get up from the hovercycle and grab the first of the bodies, dragging it towards the trench that the fallen aircraft dug out. "I'm here to make the world a better place, right? That means I should show respect to people."

<Very well. You won't have time to bury them, though.>

"I don't need to," you grunt, hefting the first of many bodies into the trench. Thankfully, the kicked-up ridge of dirt on either side of the trench is still soft and movable. It'll be easy to just shove it over the edge to make an impromptu grave.

Moving, tugging, grunting, you get the bodies one-by-one into the trench. Your stomach doesn't churn as much this time around at seeing corpses. That's probably not good, but it'll make things easier in the future. You barely know who you are, where you are, or what you're supposed to do, but you do know that at some point, you must kill. But you don't do it for fun, or for glory, for money, for laughs, for hate. You do it because you have to live. Because others must live. Midnight Eclipse, from what you know of them, wants nothing but to destroy anything that will not submit to being under their bootheel.

Twelve bodies in total, lined up in a row. For those with broken or open visors, you close their eyes. You use a discarded rifle to help push dirt over them, which falls in sandy heaps and has trouble covering some parts. At least they won't be left out to the open elements. As for the pilot, Sidewinder... the cockpit still has sparks, sporadic fires, and smoke. Still too dangerous to enter. You suppose that the aircraft will be their mausoleum.

Back at the hovercycle, you take a seat. Your head is a little foggy, the feeling of mild emotional exhaustion after letting your feelings run freely. Gripping the handlebars, you aim to the northwest, and kick off. The wind in your face, knuckles tight, and the sound of rushing air. It's smooth gliding across the landscape.

<At this pace, we should arrive at the coordinates before sundown. That will give you time to rest and recuperate for the night.>

"Good. I could use a good place to sleep..."

---

Hours pass. Dusty badlands give away to a savannah-like prairie, tall wildflowers tickling the bottom of the hovercycle as you glide past wide-branched acacia trees. Birds flock overhead, and a herd of nearby deer-like creatures perk up and stare at you from their watering hole as you zip on by. It's calming, having no gunfire or explosions around you. Just open vistas and the sounds of nature. And, well, the humming sound of a hovercycle, but it's certainly more relaxing than most sounds you've heard.

The air smells sweet. You allow yourself to pull down your bandana, feeling fresh wind upon your face. At one point, you catch yourself humming the tune Val sung to you earlier.

Up ahead, the trees grow thick, and you think you spot the edge of a cliff. Slowing down, you come upon the edge...

Suggested Audio Experience:

A wide canyon, perhaps a hundred or more feet deep, with a river lazily flowing through it. Green, swampy vegetation grows on the banks. A menagerie of animals sip from the water or walk along the sides, giving wary glances to predators, who are taking a break from hunting prey to also enjoy some water. This uneasy truce, tucked within the rocky cliffs, stretches on, unbroken. Several natural earthen ramps allow access to the bottom of the canyon, lined with boulders and resilient acacia trees. The tall grasses leading down the ramps are cut down and trampled -- not by man, but by beast; dozens of generations of animals forming a natural path to this neutral territory. A puffy cloud passes in front of the sun, shadowing everything for a minute or so.

Carefully, you guide your hovercycle down one of the earthen ramps, going slow so as to not spook any of the animals. You manage to hover across the wide, but not very deep, river. You stare at the animals, which stare right back at you. Antelopes with several sets of horns. Two-headed deer. An alligator with one central, frog-like eye. Water buffalo with six legs. The fauna of Xerxes -- dangerously beautiful, odd, unsettling, and a far cry from their cousins on Earth.

The truce holds, even for a newcomer such as you. You manage to arrive at the opposite side of the canyon, weaving up a ramp that snakes up the side of the cliff. A few birds scatter in your presence, but the peace is otherwise maintained. More trees, growing thick on the sides of the cliff, block your view, but you pass through to find a wide-open grassland. Dozens of varieties of wildflowers and deciduous trees, growing in a more temperate climate. And in the distance, very very far off, something shines in the sunlight. Buildings. Civilization. A town of sorts.

<That small settlement is the location of the coordinates.>

"Good. Maybe there's helpful people there, or a place to sleep, or something."

<Let us hope so.>

---

Choose a name for the Settlement, as well as the major "watering hole" (read: bar) that resides there. (i.e., "New York", "Jeffy's Sports Bar, Grill, & Chill")

[Morphimus]

Settlement: Pepsitown
Watering hole: A shockingly normal Denny's