You wake with a start, your forehead drenched with sweat and your breaths hot and heavy. You sit up on your bed and wipe your brow, then rub your eyes with the palms of your hands. There’s a dull ache wrapped around your brow and temples, threatening to spread everywhere if you don’t stop it.

Three years, you think to yourself. The same dream for three years. Guess it’s more of a nightmare... Or a torture.

You swing your legs over the edge of your bed, stand up on shaky legs, and gradually steady yourself as you take a few steps out of your room.

Your apartment - or rather the apartment you’ve been staying at - is a bit of a mess. Not that it matters. Nothing seems to matter much these days, all that’s happening is that you move from day to day in a veritable fog.

You trundle over to the kitchen area of your small apartment and rummage through your mostly empty shelves almost mindlessly.

After a half minute of searching, you snag a can of food, open it, and empty it out into a mostly-clean bowl. It’s kind of a soupy mix of baked beans, pork sausage, bacon, and mushrooms. Honestly, it looks little more than cat food to you.

Not that it truly matters. Food is food at this point.

You sit yourself down at a nook in the corner and chow down spoonfuls of your lukewarm breakfast. At the same time, you stare pensively out the window at the crumbling city all around you. Of course, the purple crystals are still everywhere. They’re still growing, and still toppling buildings. But simply not as fast as that first day they arrived.

The sky is a rich red, though the dark orange sun is behind some fluffy white clouds and just barely peeking through. But otherwise your old blue sky is long gone, along with your bright yellow sun. The horizon is hazy, as though from some kind of fog.

But truthfully, that’s because of the intense, ever-increasing heat.

If it isn’t for the occasional downpour, every other survivor would have long cooked in their own skin. Not that you or anyone you know is happy about it, regardless. It’s still hell on earth.

The plants are certainly thankful. Vines and ivy and all manner of other wild plantlife have since broken through the concrete and asphalt and spread everywhere. Some are climbing their way upwards on many buildings, weaving their roots into the brick and mortar or concrete and steel or glass and crystal.

Of course, it’s just the beginning of their eventual takeover, and you like to imagine that in a dozen years or so there’ll be equal amounts of plant and city here.

At the streets below, a pair of metal-hooved, four-legged animals nibble on the long grasses sticking out from the larger cracks. They’re having their own breakfast, potentially one more satisfying than your own. Possibly more nutritious, too.

You gulp down another spoonful, mindless of what it actually is you’re eating. In truth, it all tastes the same to you. Bland, demi-gelatinous chunks swimming in a thick broth. Some chunks seem meatier than others, others more pasty or starchy. But there’s little else to differentiate them.

Not that you hate it. You just don’t care.

“Three years,” you groan, unable to let go of your past. Your memories of them seem stuck to your psyche, unwavering and undiminishing and unrelenting.

And most of all, accurate.

You’ve always been aware of how malleable your memory is, how all your memories are. They tend to shift and change over time, as your mind adds or subtracts various small details. The change is subtle, though you’ve become much more aware of it. Especially now that you have a greater command of your own thoughts.

These dreams, these nightmares - they’re absolutely accurate to the second. They don’t change, and they don’t shift. They’re as clear to you as the time they had actually happened, and they seem to you more a curse than a boon.

No other memories persist quite like those have, and their existence eats away at you, wears at your desire to keep going. But you keep going anyway, for reasons you’re unsure of.

You feel a fuzzy thing bump your hand - the one holding your spoon. And when you glance down, you watch as your cat, Noir, bunt you with her head.

“Good morning,” you tell her.

It’s afternoon, she projects in response.

You glance back out the window in an attempt to see if she’s right. But you can’t tell. You’ve never really been able to tell.

“How do you know?” you ask.

Smells like afternoon, she replies. It’s the way the air tastes, too.

“You’ll have to teach me that trick.”

Humans are incapable, sorry. Noses are too dull. Are you, uh, done with that?

You shrug, then push your bowl over to Noir, encouraging her to eat the rest. You’ve certainly had more than enough.

Noir dives in without hesitation and chomps down on the larger chunks with glee. She makes little smacking and chomping sounds, which fills you with a small sense of joy.

You give her a few pets as she munches down, before standing back up to get ready for the rest of the day. There is quite a lot to do, after all. Though you’re not exactly keen for any of it to happen.

You get into your cleanest possible clothes - some loose-fitting cargo pants and a light long-sleeved shirt. Then you sling your trusty messenger bag over your shoulder, strap your pistol on, slip your knife into its sheath and affix it to your belt, then slip on a thin backpack.

You walk around the apartment for a bit as you pick up various things and stick them into your bags and pockets - a couple cans of food, some snack bars, a box of ammunition, an IFAK, and so on.

You also pick up your canteen, which is filled with your homebrewed electrolyte drink, in what you consider is the perfect mix. Ever since your trip to the stadium, it has become your favorite. Well, maybe favorite is a strong word - you carry plenty of it constantly. Not so much because of the flavor, but because of how much it keeps you alive. It’s practically a necessity.

You also grab a small container filled with your electrolyte mix so you can create a bit more of it while out there, doing your thing. It’s nothing too crazy, just citrus powder, ginger powder, baking powder, salt, and sugar. All you need to do is add water.

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There’s more than enough for a month’s worth, and you stow it away in your messenger bag.

You then sling a hooded cloth poncho over top of everything, though you keep the hood down. At least for now. Afterwards, you check over everything you’ve got to make sure you haven’t missed anything.

By the time you’re done, Noir has finished her meal and watches you intently from atop the breakfast nook.

Today’s the day, huh? she projects.

“Today’s the day,” you echo.

Are you ready for it?

“Not really, no. But I gotta go do it. At least, I think I do.”

You’re really sick of those nightmares, huh?

“Yeah, I’ve had enough. More than enough. And it’s about time I do something about them.”

And you really think it’ll work? I mean, you meeting Kaja’s parents and talking to them. If they’re even still alive.

“Dunno. Maybe if I go to them, tell ‘em what’s happened to their daughter. Maybe apologize for everything that happened… Maybe the nightmares’ll ease up.”

And if they’re dead?

You don’t have an answer. Not that Noir waits for you to answer, regardless.

Also, they’re way across the country, you know.

“I do.”

And for a bunch of maybes.

“Yep.”

We might die along the way.

“We? I’m the one that’s going. You stay here. There’s people here that’ll take care of you.”

Alright, sure. But who’ll take care of you?

“Probably about time I do more of that for myself.”

Noir hops down from the table, pads over to you, leaps up, then climbs up your body via your clothing. Her sharp claws dig into you through the relatively thin cloth and stab your skin. You wince from the pain, but otherwise let her do what she needs to do.

She gets all the way up to your shoulders, then settles into the open hood behind your head, which is propped up on top of your backpack.

Well I’m coming along anyway, she projects.

You take one last look around at the apartment in search of anything else you need, grab your wide-brimmed conical straw hat, then shut the door behind you.

The heat hits you the moment you step out into the street. Waves of it waft upward from the pavement, enough to cause your eyes to dry out quickly. And this isn’t even the worst of it - the sun is still behind the clouds.

If it were out, your hat would already be on your head rather than slung on your back. Neither of you would probably survive direct sunlight for long - its heat has become far too intense this past year.

You walk quickly across the road, which startles a nearby fauna that’s grazing. It hops around the corner and out of view just as you reach the other side. You swing open a nondescript door, duck inside, and step through to the busy makeshift market further in.

There, dozens of your neighbors shop at the rickety stalls set up between the various counters. On the counters are various goods - mostly food and drink, as well as basic supplies and other necessities. Soap and clothes and tools, for example.

You note that everyone here is mimicking some semblance of their old lives, or trying to anyway. They’re buying and selling and greeting and chatting, almost as though the apocalypse is merely a temporary annoyance.

It occurs to you that’s probably how they’re coping with it all in the first place.

“Hey, there you are,” someone says to you. “Wow, you’re looking all extra kitted out!”

“Yeah, prepping for a journey,” you reply. “Could take a while.”

“Damn. Well, make sure to check out what I’ve got today. Could be maybe something you’ll need.”

“Sure. Later though. Is Dad around?”

“Yeah, upstairs with the rest of the Watch, doing their thing as usual.”

You thank him before going down one of the hallways behind the small market floor and up the stairs to the second floor. There’s another market here with half as many booths and patrons, but everything revolves around weapons, ammunition, medicine, and survival tools.

Across from it are a handful of offices and some kind of open meeting room.

A number of people shuffle out of that same meeting room, then head to their private offices nearby. Among them is your father, as gruff as ever. His gut has long since vanished, and his hair has only become even more silvery.

He walks up with a smile after spotting you, but his expression changes somewhat when he notices the outfit you’re wearing. That smile slowly turns flat, almost a frown. But he does his best to restore it anyway.

“Today’s the day, huh?” he says.

You nod in response, unable to say anything.

“Well, I guess it’s about time anyway,” he continues. He exhales at length through his nose, as though he’s relieving some bottled up pressure from deep within. “I know I can’t stop you, and I don’t aim to try to. But if you want, I can come along, help out where I can.”

You shake your head this time around.

“No,” you tell him. “You oughta stay here with everyone else. They need you. To help keep everyone together. Or at least, safer than not.”

“There’s plenty joined up with the Watch,” he retorts. “I’m not the only one keeping an eye out.”

“And besides,” you continue, ignoring his plea. “You’re too old. No offense. Don’t think you’d do well out there.”

“None taken. You’re definitely right on that mark, I guess. Just… look, just ‘cause you’re younger means you’ll last the trip either. It’s a long way out there. Might take you what, a year to make the trip? And who knows what you’ll come across along the way…”

It’s your turn to purse your lips. You always hate getting lectured by your Dad. Or by anyone. But you suck it up anyway. Because he’s right, and this could be the last time he gets to lecture you. So you give him the luxury.

“I’ll come back once I’m done,” you say.

“Don’t,” he replies. “Not that we don’t want you. You’re always welcome to stay with us. Just that we’re planning on moving everything outta here. The city’s just about dry of supplies, good ones anyway. Plus there’s just too many of those damned Bone Crags out there. We keep losing scouts and scavengers to ‘em…

“Anyway, we’re gonna be headed north, to the Colt’s Neck region. Gonna try to merge with the survivors our traders met out there. Maybe start a ranch or a farm or something.”

“Alright then. When I’m done, I’ll come back and try to find you all up there,” you say. “Could take a couple years though.”

“You best do that. Oh! Before you go, I’ve got some stuff for you.”

Your Dad beckons you towards his office, so you follow him dutifully. In there, he produces a cloth bag from out of a metal filing cabinet. He then puts the bag on his desk and pulls out everything inside it, arranging them neatly on top of his paperwork.

“Take whatever you want,” he tells you. “Been scrounging up whatever supplies for some time now. At least, ever since you started talking about going on this journey a year or so ago.”

And there’s a myriad of things - a couple of solar-powered batteries, a tool kit, a couple boxes of pistol ammunition, a length of rope, a collapsible baton, a rechargeable radio, and so on. Your eyes go wide on seeing them all - they could certainly be useful.

“I dunno if I can take any of these,” you say. “There’s a lotta people who could use this more than I can…”

“Don’t worry about us,” he tells you. “We’ve got plenty enough. You’re the one who won’t have much. So take whatever you want. Or take it all.”

You nod as you pick up a solar charger, the radio, and the baton and stow them into your messenger bag. These would definitely be useful. The rest - you’re just not very sure about. But you pick up the tool kit and ammunition anyway and put them into your backpack.

If anything, you might be able to barter them for something more useful later.

As you tighten your straps and get ready to head out, one of the Watch’s deputies runs into your Dad’s office. His face is beet red and he’s panting heavily, as though he’s been running all day.

“Sarge!” he cries out. “Roving band of Crazed spotted! They’re headed in our direction!”

“How many?”

“Two dozen. Maybe more.”

Your Dad immediately hops to attention, his eyes wide as saucers.

“Grab the longarms and round up the Watch,” he yells. “We can’t let ‘em into the neighborhood proper!”