Ouroboros (And Other Wasteland Tales)

Stella: Dead Man's Tales

The wind here is a comfort to the hopeless. A gentle whisper through the branches of dead trees, it lets us know there's still life out there.

There aren't many of us left. I try to spare any thought to those I've loved, laughed with, and ultimately lost. It does me no good to grieve, and only lets the despair rot my gut. No, it's all we can do now to push through each coming day, and take whatever comfort we possibly can in the few days left to us.

I can stare out the small, dusty bearing windows to a world somehow more grey and dead than it's ever been. That alone is the reason the wind brings a small iota of happiness; it brings some life back and restores a semblance of normalcy.

"General, breakfast is ready." A soft, pitying man's voice intruded into my thoughts. "If you want it outside." He finished after a short pause. Heavy cloth rustled when I neglected to reply, indicating his departure.

Where to start? Why even bother, for who would possibly read the ramblings of a defeated leader? I scoffed dryly at myself and pulled my muscles together to sit up. The blankets piled into my stomach as I sat, looking at tht same dull window; my morose reflection barely visible in the filthy glass. I look tired. Too tired. I thought to myself in response. The woman stared back at me, the deep-seated bags under her eyes staying despite my criticism.

Sliding myself off the rough mattress, stuffed full of old ruined fabrics and brahmin pelts, the cold of the outside stung my legs. After a moment of staring blankly at the floor inches below my feet, I stood to face whatever the day wanted to throw at me.

--

The fire crackling was one of the first sounds to accost me, followed swiftly by the hushed murmurs of conversation not meant to be heard. I shuffled forward, keeping my eyes to the gravel and sparse grasses beneath me until I reached them before looking up at my companions.

One of the two figures was the man who spoke with me earlier. A tall, lanky lad with the dirtiest and disheveled hair you can imagine, it's natural black coloring faded to a dusty brown. His face was gaunt, carved with years of suffering and months of starvation. He turned to face me and tried for a slight smile.

"Morning General, glad to see you out and about." His quivering voice barely registered, as he was doing his best to keep quiet as possible. I grunted in response and his smile died altogether.

"Mmh, morning Jun."

The woman standing beside him said nothing at all at my presence. Rather, her gaze was pointed behind the man, into the woods surrounding us.

"Any sightings while I was out?" I asked her directly, my voice grating with a sore and dry throat. She shook her head, ruffling her wind slicked, coal hued hair. It gleamed in the clouded sunlight, as if it was clean out of bathing. Part of that rubbed me the wrong way but I stifled the feeling and sighed. "Good. More than we could have hoped I suppose."

I lowered myself down to sit on a log cleaved in half; our makeshift benches. The wood below hurt my weary bones but then, everything usually did these days. I stared into the weak fire before me, its warmth barely touching my legs before it was carried away by that same, lively wind. I huffed at praising it just minutes before, now cursing it for stealing away fires gift.

After a while, our female companion's voice broke the silence; lilting in a youthful tone, unscarred by age. "We did get word back from Somerville." I lifted only my eyes to meet hers, which were now resting solely on my face as well. "And?" I asked, impatience coloring the single word.

Her eyes welled, or at least sheened in the imitation of tears. "It was hit two nights before the messenger got here. Disciple flag now flies proud over the ashes."

My mouth somehow went drier than it already was. I shouldn't be surprised. Anger welled in my stomach; both for myself for even daring have hope anymore, and for the sick bastards who called themselves "disciples."

"That's it then." Jun's voice broke. He dissolved into silent sobs as I kept my gaze locked on the other woman, refusing to acknowledge his distress.

"So it is." I mumbled. "Where'd the messenger go, Eve. Couldn't have possibly gone back." She visibly gulped and nodded her head sharply to the left, away from our meager camp. Just beyond, in the shadow of a great dead pine, a body was slumped to the ground. A ragged blue jacket was draped over it, but did little to conceal the blood staining the very tree it rested against.

"He..he gave up." Eve murmured, her own voice starting to falter.

"Then there were three." I replied, my eyes starting to sting.

This is why I feel it so unnecessary to tell my tale. Tell everyone's tale, I suppose. Hope, resilience, courage- it was all stomped out by the cold boots of raiders, dictators and psychopaths. Anyone out there reading our tragedy would surely not care about our pain, or not remember any of us enough for there to be much meaning. But if by some miracle those who find these records care enough to try and pick up the pieces? Well.

My name is Stella Montjoy. I was the General, and what was called the best hope, of the Commonwealth Minutemen. This is how I failed them.

This is how the Commonwealth died.