POV : FORT BONE

In the town of Tractors and Freedom, a group of refugees were huddling together, shivering as the cold wind swept through the dusty streets. The wasteland was sometimes too hot, sometimes too cold, sometimes too windy. It was never a pleasant day. It was almost like the whole world had a thermostat and it was always set for uncomfortable.

"Did you hear? I heard that they’re recruiting," one muttered, pulling his ragged coat tighter.

"Oh, that would be great. I’ve been trying to join the army or the crafters, but they’re not really—they weren’t hiring before." Another refugee shifted uncomfortably. "At best, we could be adventurers, and I’m not really that great at that."

"Come on," someone grumbled, adjusting their stance as they leaned against a makeshift barricade, "when was the last time any of you used a sword?"

"Yeah, I’ve never used a sword," said one of the refugees, shaking their head. "It’s crazy. They expect us to do something, but they don’t give us any training, food, or shelter."

"Well, at least they don’t kick us out," another chimed in. "I heard some of the settlements just boot people."

"That would be awful," one muttered. "Can you imagine just getting kicked out right after being portaled in from Earth?"

"Yeah," someone agreed with a bitter chuckle, "they’re fucking heartless."

"Well, it’s not like Tractors and Freedom are any better," another added.

"Hey, you’re enjoying your bowl of Soylent Green Porridge, aren’t you?" someone teased, pointing toward the half-eaten bowl at their feet.

"Ooh, a bowl of green sloppy porridge. I’m so glad for it," the refugee sneered, voice dripping with sarcasm as they nudged the bowl with their foot.

"Wow, you must be real fun at parties," said another one, rolling their eyes with an exaggerated sigh.

They’d all been there for roughly a week or two, and while they’d been acclimating to the changes from living on Earth to the wasteland, mentally they were still a bit entitled and a bit… uncaring about the fact that the wasteland didn’t give two shits about them.

A recruiter that had been wandering by overheard their grumbling and stepped in.

"Hey guys, I hear you’ve been looking for jobs."

"That’s right," said one of the refugees.

The diplomat said, "Well, the rumors are true. We’re hiring. We’re looking for a thousand good people."

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"A thousand? What are they going to be doing?" asked one of the refugees, leaning in with interest.

"Real simple. You’re going to be joining either Fort Bone or the Empire in general. Tractors and Freedom are also hiring. You can choose between them. If you want to go talk to Tractors and Freedom, you should head out to the main castle. I know their recruiters have set up a stand there."

"Ooh, sounds good. And what about if we want to join the Fort Bone Empire?"

"Well," the recruiter began with a grin, "you’re already part of the Fort Bone Empire as citizens of Tractors and Freedom."

"We’re not citizens, though," said one of the refugees, shaking their head. This was true. Daryl, just like Atlas, had turned off automatic citizenship.

"Ah," the diplomat said, nodding like he had expected this, "that’s a big bonus. If you sign up with either one of the settlements, then you’ll automatically get citizenship without having to pay a bond." He knew they weren’t citizens because that was standing policy in the Empire, but bringing it up allowed him to turn the conversation to their advantage.

"Ooh, yes, I’d love to be a citizen. I hear that citizens get voting rights as well as more opportunities," said one of the refugees, perking up.

"That’s 100% true," said the recruiter. "As well, depending on what you want to do and what your skills are, we’ll train you."

"Oh, even if we’ve never fought before, we could join the army?"

"You bet," said the recruiter. "We’ve got people ready to train you, and you’ll be geared up in armor, weapons. Don’t worry, we’re not just going to throw you into the wasteland. You’ll always be with veterans."

One of the refugees, a fatter man, raised his hand hesitantly. "I’m a little bit… you can see, bigger," he said. It was true. The guy looked like he was pushing 300 pounds and would have a hard time walking, let alone fighting.

The recruiter didn’t miss a beat. "We’re not going to discriminate against anything. Come on, let’s be fair. Earth didn’t necessarily emphasize the use of weapons or fighting, and the only reason most people would be in shape would be for their health or to look good."

"That’s exactly right," said the chunky refugee, nodding. "There was no point to it. I’d rather be making money coding or eating out. Yeah, I know there were health benefits, but come on. So many people were smoking, but no one discriminated against them, really."

The recruiter laughed, "That’s completely right. It wasn’t your fault. But here you can have a fresh start. Join an adventure, join the empire, join something grander."

The refugees murmured amongst themselves as they considered his words, the weight of the offer settling over them like a cold fog.

"Well, anyway, guys, I hope you have a good rest of your breakfast," the recruiter continued, his voice casual, almost dismissive. "And if you’re interested in joining us, Fort Bone’s hiring. Just teleport over there and sign up. We’ve got a booth here in town too, if you want to just go over there." He gave a small shrug. "And don’t forget, we’re only hiring a thousand people, so make your decision quickly."

With that, he wandered off, disappearing into the dusty streets, leaving the group to contemplate the uncertainty that hung over them like the haze in the air.

One of the refugees, still staring down at his bowl of green porridge with a mix of disgust and resignation, finally spoke up. "Yeah, I don’t want to be a refugee. I don’t want to eat a bowl of stinking porridge every day." His voice hardened as he made his decision. "I’m definitely going to sign up."

There were murmurs of agreement from most of the group, heads nodding, shoulders straightening. Some would become porters, some would become soldiers, and others would join the crafters, their futures beginning to take shape in their minds. A few holdouts, though, remained stubborn, clinging to the safety of routine, their hands still wrapped around their bowls of porridge. They would wait—wait for someone, anyone, to save them from the wasteland.