The Empires.
That was what the few that knew much about history called them. Most born in the generations since didn't bother learning why everything was like it was, they knew nothing else and were taught how to survive.
You, however, were different. Sure, you were good with a gun and could probably fend off a rabid dog barehanded, but what you were interested in was the past.
Chekrova and Pyortovik.
Those were the names of the two Empires.
You live in the shattered husk of a city once held by Pyortovik. It no longer had a name; it was just The City. Most of the citizen, you included, live in an underground bunker network that stretches across The City. Going outside at all was dangerous; go for a walk without any protection and you'd be cancer'd to death - if that was a real phrase - in seconds if your throat wasn't torn apart by dust.
You made a pretty good living for yourself, occasionally venturing out into the wastes in search of books that weren't completely ruined. They sold for a high price, allowing you not just your own room, but a large one at that! And with sound dampening walls, you could actually have a sleep cycle, as opposed to plugging your ears and shutting your eyes whenever you were exhausted. There was always too much noise.
Speaking of your own room, it was pretty nice. Good ventilation, a bed that didn't have shit and piss soaked into the matress, a desk and lamp so you could write using holopaper - books were easy to replicate, but getting them in the first place? A lot harder. And given how the Network's stock of literature was rather pathetic?
Well, there was a reason you were payed so well.
It's like this, you know? You got your 'pad and holopaper, you can just copy the holopaper onto the 'pad and have a permanent copy, but you needed the book in the first place.
And that was your job. Getting books.
A few of the children around the Bunker called you the Librarian. It was easy to see why, although librarians tended to check books out rather than copy and sell them.
Your possessions, like your room, were expensive. A Mortovich battery rifle - rudimentary laser rifle, unlimited battery life but needs to recharge when it runs out of juice - and a full suit of body armour, a radio and mini telescreen, some rather nice drinks, and so on.
Your respirator was also high quality. Better safe than sorry. You'd heard some poor bastard's had failed just before getting into the Bunker. Apparently he could never talk again.
You start off most days with a routine of sorts, and today is no different. Get out of bed, walk over to toilet, piss so the water recyclers let you use the taps without paying for the water, get dressed and have breakfast, then check mail.
You had mail. Probably another job. Might as well take it. You could never get too rich, after all.
So, do you want to continue this storyline, or start your own?   indicates the next chapter needs to be written. |
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