CHAPTER 3
The tension leaves my body as the pod surfaces. Looking out the porthole reveals it to be Midday, judging by the diffused light—clouds hung low, threatening rain.I unsealed the mask on my face as I, rather quickly, opened the door to the pod. Inhaling sharply; taking in the gentle breeze and the smell of the ocean greets as I stick my head outside . I let out a titter, a miniscule little giggle at managing to escape that watery tomb without becoming ghoul chow or chum because of the unforgiving pressure of the ocean. Space? I'd take the void in a heartbeat. But the ocean's crushing black? Never again….. Giving myself a couple minutes to finish up my pity party/laughing session, I begin to compartmentalize my thoughts and plan out what I'll do—For now, I just want to get to dry land.
I don't pick up any presences near me, thankfully leaving whatever deepsea abominations down below. I proceed to grab the deployable raft, and look at the separate motorized component; sending a quick pulse into its internals reveals that it isn't going to be of any use, Deciding to leaving it in the pod, I make a final inventory of everything in the pod as I'm sliding out of the Immersion equipment. Taking into account the extra First Aid kit inside the pod, I'll have 3 First Aid kits, The Type 79, the C96, and their assorted ammo, alongside 4 cans of Purified Water, and an assortment of several MREs. Leaving this threadbare rucksack without enough space to take little else.
With a sigh I place the inflatable in the water and yank the cord, and with a Fwoomp I now have a faded grey inflatable raft. Making sure I got everything I grabbed the paddle that was sitting beside the defunct motor and got onto the raft. Using my co-processors integrated compass to orient myself toward heading North East. I'd normally just look at the sun's position but with the sky as grey as it is blocking out the sun fairly well… I'll make do. According to the Sub's navigation data Mt-Desert Island is around 13km away. A light drizzle began. 'Scheiße,' I muttered, wiping the water from my brow. Taking a guess at how long this should take….— it's going to be a long 6 hours.
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Dragging the raft onto the shore of a beach that apparently used to be called 'Sand Beach' very original. Looking down, the fog reaches up to my ankles. Exhaling, thankful that 200 years should have lessened the concentration of toxins compared to what was most likely originally dispersed to what is now a naturally occurring toxic fog. Keeping the Type 79 handy as I dismount; taking a look around the desolate shore. The lifeguard huts stood as crumbling sentinels with moss covering most of their surface area and their grimy or broken windows showing that their interiors had followed suit as overgrown. Quite scenic… evoking thoughts of nature winning and inevitably reclaiming the Earth….
I tread the sand towards what appears to be the parking space and eventually onto the cracked pavement of what used to be a road. Shrugging my rucksack upwards, I decide to head north following the road to what should hopefully be the former town of Far Harbor. Considering the fact that whatever I can remember from S1's knowledge of the geography of what was once a game to me is mostly useless. In the game it provided a condensed version of the island in miniature due to computing limitations; It just isn't comparable to what im currently walking through; a decently large island off the coast of Maine, that should be about one hundred something square miles. Due to this fact I'm dearly hoping the Far Harbor settlement isn't just a pier, and is instead something that should cover a good chunk of the pre-war town. Hell, maybe there might be another settlement that didn't exist in the game; apart from those cultish freaks that worship the atom, I'm hoping there might be some good civilization, they'd be post-apocalyptic survivors—sure, but still, y'know—people.
Civilization meant identity, and I've yet to actually decide on mine and how I'm going to present myself. While my knowledge in medicine may be rudimentary in comparison to my expertise on Bioresonance and Replika systems. Even though I'd scraped through my mandatory practical medical applications training in the Nation before my conscription, when compared to the wasteland's butchers? I might as well have been the fucking Surgeon General. A few well-placed sutures and these primitives would worship me as a miracle worker." "Doctor" has a nice ring to it.
In an attempt to keep myself focused to avoid the multitude of hazards that are hiding just beyond the edge of my perceptions, I stop my musings of how I'll portray myself. Keeping my mind's eye peeled, as the fog begins to rise. It limits my visibility as I keep moving forwards. Echo Pulsing every now and again getting an occasional outline of my surroundings to make sure I'm not going to step on a landmine or something equally lethal.
It's only until I see what appears to be a Poseidon Energy gas station on my hike that I finally encounter something that appears somewhat inhabited. Taking note of a hanging fog condenser humming underneath the roadside Poseidon Energy sign, doing a fairly decent job of clearing out the area's ambient fog. Alongside large wooden walls surrounding the Gas Stations Area.
My bioresonance prickled as it detected movement beyond the walls. Several presences clustered inside—maybe four to five - and one stationed high above, perched on a rickety watchtower cobbled together on top of the center of the rusted Poseidon Energy sign making me think of it as a demented rusty treehouse of all things....
The rifle's dull barrel tracked my every movement as the sentry's silhouette coalesced from the shifting fog. His breath formed ragged clouds in the damp air, fingers tense around the weapon's stock.
"Hands where I can see 'em, smooth-skin," he rasped, voice like rusted gears. His eyes locked onto the three pulsating crimson nodes above my brows - my Projektor humming just beneath the skin. A slow once-over took in my youth and foreign gear. "Ain't many folk come up that road 'less they're desperate or stupid." The rifle's safety clicked off. "Which flavor are you?"
I maintained my loose posture, the Type 79's strap digging into my shoulder. My smile felt as genuine as an ADLR unit's empathy protocols. "Ah... Good day to you sir," I offered, my Rotfront accent wrapping around the English words like barbed wire - each syllable sharp with unplaceable vowels. The greeting tasted of sterilized operating rooms and rocket fuel.
The rifle didn't waver. Not even when I began to spin my tale. "Shipwrecked," I admitted. "The Commonwealth was my destination before Poseidon's waters objected." A dry chuckle. "The gods do love their cruel humor."
"Commonwealth my ass," the sentry spat, flecks of moisture catching in his peeling skin. His suspicion burned against my bioresonance like a brand pressed to flesh. "That accent's 'bout as Boston as a radscorpion in power armor. Try again."
I let my lips purse, in practiced offense. "But I'm a doctor from across the pond, you see..." The lie flowed smoother than synth-blood, polished by years of classified briefings. "When irradiated whispers spoke of an Institute wielding miracles..." I flashed my whitest smile - the kind only found in cryo-vaults and nightmares. "What scholar could resist? Though presently," my voice softened, "I'd settle for directions to somewhere with... fewer barrels pointed at me."
"Doctor..." He rolled the word like a suspicious pill between his teeth. The rifle lowered a grudging inch. "Road leads to Far Harbor. Don't expect flowers an' champagne." The weapon dipped further, but his bloodshot eyes stayed sharp as scalpels. "Just remember - our harbor's got hungry fish." A chuckle. "They ain't picky 'bout what they eat. Especially not freaks with glowin' foreheads."
The acidic tang of his discomfort fizzed against my bioresonance, drawing a too wide smile that showed off my too-white teeth alongside some manner of amusement on my part. "Duly Noted." Giving him a shallow nod as I continue treading down the fractured asphalt.