turnsheet_bureau:eternity:i [Contagion]

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======Let My Life Be a Story, and My Death, a Lesson======

The truck boot slams shut after some pushing, but the damn thing breaks down not too long after I and Salithra are just out of the bunker's eyeline. I hoists bags, taking as many as he can carry and then some, not wanting to add physically to Salithra's invisible baggage. He's got his own, too, sure, but survival is what he was made for. It's what he's good at.

And it's what he's going to do.

By the time they reach the Sanctuary, it has been days. Both look the worse for wear, and I //feels// it, his skin raw and peeling, hair matted, dirt caked under his fingernails. For a brief, horrible moment, he sees the low-ceilinged tents, the many, unfed faces, and his stomach sinks with recognition. Another hopeless little camp. Another trap. A spokesperson -- Zephyr, from the radio message? -- comes to greet them, smiling wide, and he tenses up.

But, in a very short time, he's reassured that the Sanctuary is not just any other little camp. The place teems with warmth, teems with life, eager and daring. They welcome newcomers with open arms, and are extremely thankful for the supplies -- overly thankful, even. 

"They don't make bottles like this anymore," an old woman comments, looking at a small container of painkillers from I's pack. He tries to look stoic instead of uncertain of what to say. Whatever she reads in his face, she seems to understand, and the topic never comes up again. I's supplies are much needed and used with gusto. Some of the children seem to enjoy just wearing slings because they're available and look cool. They remind him of... well, of himself, once just a child.

Thoughts of harvesting the Sanctuary's leftovers grow few and far between as time goes on. The place doesn't seem to be dying -- just growing older, with time, as any other living, breathing creature does. I even spots some other familiar faces from the Bastion from time to time. It will never be //home.// Not a place as transient, as fleeting as this. Despite the added comforts, and the number of people, he knows that, eventually, even this lively settlement will struggle to survive.

And yet, something small, raw, and hopeful burgeons in his chest.

Months later, I thumbs through some of the blank diaries he found left over in the bunker. He thinks of his own diary, left in the Time Capsule, for someone else to read.

He opens to a fresh page, and begins to write.

{[]}{{tag>writeupeternity gm_tara complete}}