ALBA

by HL TRUSLOVE

  “I’m so glad!” he exclaims, putting an arm around your back and guiding you in towards the darkness behind the doors.

  It isn’t that way for long.

  It takes a moment for your eyes to adjust, and you feel like you’ve been led into the inside of a neon light bulb, but what you’re actually seeing soon dawns on you and stops you dead.

  The corridor you’re being brought through has been lit up with bright green paint. It glows brightly on either side of you in impossibly intricate patterns and swirls, from the floor to the ceiling. You can only stand and gape for a moment at the sheer artistry of it.

  Your guide notices you aren’t following him and turns to check on you, smiling even further as he sees your reaction.

  “Glorious, isn’t it? My own father worked on this corridor.”

  “You… your family made this?”

  “Oh yes. Well, partly. All our families do. It’s part of our tradition,” he tells you sagely.

  He reaches out a hand and gently brushes his fingertips over the paint. He seems solemn for a moment, the least cheerful he’s been in your brief meeting. But, quickly, he regains himself and turns back to you with a newly reapplied smile.

  “Come now, we’ve further to go.”

  You continue down the corridor of beautiful, surreal art until you emerge into the sunlight again. It seems almost a shame to leave it now, you think. It was quite unlike anything you’d ever seen in your life.

  The area inside is just as vast as you thought it would be. At least three hundred feet across and lined with thousands of what appear to be red chairs. It’s impossible to tell what it used to be for, as you’re met with a village worth of tents and ramshackle huts that have been erected almost immediately after the corridor ends.

  There are people flitting between them who look up towards you, giving you smiles like your host, only not quite as natural, almost strained. They’re all dressed in exactly the same way as the man who’s guiding you along, but none of them look particularly healthy; they all have sallow and thin faces. And, strangely, all of them seem to be covered with the same luminous paint you just passed in the corridor. You don’t have the chance to stop and study them for long, as he seems quite insistent on bringing you through the crowd.

  “This is Prie, our home,” he tells you cheerfully, picking through the makeshift streets as carefully as he can.

  “It’s… lovely,” you tell him, choosing your words carefully. You hope he doesn’t pick up on the hesitation in your voice. Really, the place could use some work. The tents people seem to be living in have been patched and repatched so many times you wonder if there’s any of the original canvas actually left. You can’t imagine they do a brilliant job at keeping out the rain. Even the ‘solid’ huts don’t seem to be doing much better, a lot of them drooping or crumbling inwards because of rusted corrugated roofs or rotted wooden planks.

  Your observations are cut short as you’re brought inside a slightly larger building. It’s dark and dingy inside, and you can see that the walls are lined with tall shelves, all tightly packed with piles of clothes.

  “What size waist are you?” asks your companion.

  “Er…” you say, not entirely sure what he’s asking. The vault just sort of supplied you with clothes when you needed them, mostly hand-me-downs that were usually a bit too big. The man hums as he looks you over before grabbing a couple of garments from various shelves and bringing them over to you.

  “Here, get changed, and I’ll bring you to Lux when you’re ready.”

  He turns and then just waits.

  The idea of changing clothes right here doesn’t particularly appeal to you, not in this draughty, holey construction with a stranger so nearby, but it seems like there’s nowhere else to change. Your guide genuinely doesn’t seem interested in watching you, so you strip your clothes off carefully and fold them away into your pack before dressing in what’s been handed to you.

  The shirt is scratchy against your skin and the trousers are thin and won’t do you any good against the heavier elements. The cloak at least is a little heavier, probably some kind of wool, but it seems some type of animal had got to it, as there are a lot of small, circular bites munched out of the fabric.

  “Done,” you say, eventually, and the man claps his hands together in glee when he sees you.

  “Wonderful! Just wonderful. Come now, Lux will be excited to meet you.”

  Once again, you’re brought out to the cold and guided through even more narrow streets. You can at least tell where you’re being taken this time, as you can now see that all of these little structures give way to a much larger and grander-looking hut. It’s more of a bungalow, really, with a sturdy frame and actual bricks in its walls.

  Your guide knocks on the door and waits for a moment. From the other side of the heavy wood, you hear, “Enter.”

  He pushes it open and gestures for you to go first.

  The smell inside is almost overpowering. There are dozens of candles lighting up the room, and where there aren’t candles, there are little dishes of incense burning away into noxiously sweet smoke. Much like the corridor the walls of this room have been painted with exquisitely detailed, glowing paint.

  In the middle of it all, on a large cushion, sits an older man. He’s bald, like everyone else you’ve seen here, but his hairless scalp has been decorated in the same bright green patterns that mark the walls. It’s almost enough to distract you from how pale and drawn he looks.

  He smiles at you and gets to his feet.

  “What’s this, my son? Have you brought a new child into our bosom?”

  You stifle a laugh at the phrase as your guide nods eagerly.

  “Yes, Lux. They said they were interested in joining us. They were dressed like a traveller – from the overseas.”

  “That is good news. Go in peace, my child, I shall handle them from here.”

  Your guide dips his head in a little bow of respect, flashes you a parting smile, and leaves. You feel a bit uncomfortable without him there. There’s something stifling about this place, about this man you’ve been left with.

  “Welcome, my friend,” he says, with one of those oddly uniform smiles plastered on his face. “Please, feel free to ask me any questions you have about our little village… or about this great land in general, if you are indeed a stranger from across the ocean. I’m lucky to come from a line of archivists who kept track of the local area, from both before and after the war, so I can help you with whatever information you require. Whatever I can do to make you feel at home.”

  You don’t think anything could make you feel at home here, but you answer anyway.

  “And then I can… join your group here?”

  He smiles a tight-lipped smile. “Well, once you’ve proved yourself to us.”

  Add Prie Robes (O.25) to your inventory.

  * * *

  Ask him to tell you more about the village – Turn to S.2.6.

  * * *

  Ask him what proving yourself means – Turn to S.2.7.

  * * *

  Ask him about the powerplant papers –Turn to S.2.8, Needs Power Plant Files

  S.2.4

  “Do you mind if I look around your… lovely village?” you ask, picking your words carefully. To your surprise, he nods with fervour.

  “Of course. We are all family here, so if you get lost, or need a question answered, feel free to ask any one of us.”

  He smiles and leaves you to your business, his words echoing around your head. Somehow you can’t help but think that what he means by we are all family here is really there’s always somebody watching you.

  Nevertheless, you walk towards one of the little pathways between the tents to take a look around.

  Though they greet you with smiles, the villagers here are clearly not well. Up close, you can see how thin they are, how many bruises litter their arms and faces. Some of them look like skin just barely stretched over a skull, and it doesn’t help th
at all of them are bald. When they force themselves into cheerful masks, any intended comfort is completely negated by the way you can see all of the muscles in their face contort and move so obviously.

  They mostly seem to be keeping to themselves, but a few people are gathered in groups. You stop to watch one such party and see that they are gently painting on each other’s heads and arms in twisting and delicate patterns, like some sort of ritual. It would look quite beautiful if what they were using wasn’t the same glowing green paint as the corridor.

  People dip little paint brushes into their mouths, swirl them into a fine point on their tongue, then dip the instrument into the green paint in order to decorate a tiny portion of their companion’s skin before doing the whole thing again. Over and over, it must take hundreds of times to cover someone’s head completely.

  You hear a loud cry from behind you. You jump in surprise, both because of the volume and in recognition. You’re not sure if you’ve heard a baby since leaving the vault.

  You turn away from the decorating and head towards the cries. There’s a cot set up just inside a hut, which has only three walls, the fourth one having rotted away. You peer down with a prepared smile on your face.

  It’s quickly dropped in your astonishment.

  The baby, while clearly having a healthy set of lungs, has two tiny, stunted legs, which it waves uselessly in the air. You stare at it for a moment before it’s snatched up, the baby’s mother glaring at you in the first unfriendly action you’ve seen since you arrived here, and squirrelling her child out of your sight.

  At least there’s some semblance of normality being hidden under everyone’s plastered-on smiles. But something is definitely not right under the surface here. What’s going on?

  Ask a villager – Turn to S.2.9.

  * * *

  Try to sneak around – Turn to S.2.10.

  * * *

  Do some of your own investigating – Turn to S.2.11, Needs Chemistry.

  S.2.5

  “Of course,” your guide tells you cheerfully, and leads you down yet another snaking alley. All of these buildings are packed so tightly together you’re beginning to feel claustrophobic.

  You can at least tell where you’re being taken to this time, as you can see that all of these little structures give way to a much larger and grander-looking hut. It’s more of a bungalow, really, with a sturdy frame and actual bricks in its walls.

  Your guide knocks on the door and waits for a moment. From the other side of the heavy wood you hear, “Enter.”

  He pushes it open and gestures for you to go first.

  The smell inside is almost overpowering. There are dozens of candles lighting up the room, and where there aren’t candles there are little dishes of incense burning away into noxiously sweet smoke. Much like the corridor, the walls of this room have been painted with exquisitely detailed, glowing paint.

  In the middle of it all, on a large cushion, sits an older man. He’s bald, like everyone else you’ve seen here, but his hairless scalp has also been decorated with bright green patterns. It’s almost enough to distract you from how pale and drawn he looks.

  He smiles at you and gets to his feet.

  “What’s this, my son? Have you brought a new child into our bosom?”

  You try to downplay your laughter at the turn of phrase and disguise it as a cough. Your companion doesn’t seem to notice and merely shakes his head.

  “No, Lux, our new friend isn’t sure about joining us. But, they did ask to see you, so perhaps you can answer some of their queries? I believe from their original garb, they came from overseas.”

  Lux looks a little disappointed but nods his understanding anyway.

  “Very well. Thank you for bringing them here. Go in peace, my child.”

  Your guide dips his head in a little bow of respect, flashes you a parting smile, and leaves. You feel a bit uncomfortable without him there. There’s something stifling about this place, about this man you’ve been left with.

  “Welcome, my friend,” he says, with one of those oddly uniform smiles plastered on his face. “Please, feel free to ask me any questions you have about our little village… or about this great land in general, if you are indeed a stranger from across the ocean. I’m lucky to come from a line of archivists who kept track of the local area from both before and after the war, so I can help you with whatever information you require. Whatever I can do to make you feel at home. Of course, any more… sensitive information I’ll have to ask you to prove yourself to our cause before I divulge.”

  Ask him to tell you more about the village – Turn to S.2.6

  * * *

  Ask him what proving yourself means – Turn to S.2.7

  * * *

  Ask him about the powerplant papers – Turn to S.2.8, Needs Power Plant Files.

  S.2.5a

  Something odd is happening here, and you need to work out what it is. It’s probably best to find out who’s in charge.

  It takes you a bit of hunting, but soon you find that all of these little structures give way to a much larger and grander-looking hut. It’s more of a bungalow really, with a sturdy frame and actual bricks in its walls.

  If anybody powerful is living in this place, it’s going to be here.

  You head up to the building and knock. After a moment a voice calls for you to enter.

  The smell inside is almost overpowering. There are dozens of candles lighting up the room, and where there aren’t candles, there are little dishes of incense burning away into noxiously sweet smoke. Much like the corridor, the walls of this room have been painted with exquisitely detailed, glowing paint.

  In the middle of it all, on a large cushion, sits an older man. He’s bald, like everyone else you’ve seen here, but his hairless scalp has been decorated in the same bright green patterns as the hallway. It’s almost enough to distract you from how pale and drawn he looks.

  He smiles at you and gets to his feet.

  “Hello, friend. You must be new to our humble village. If I’m not mistaken, your clothes mark you as being from a vault, am I correct?”

  “Yes,” you say, eyeing him warily. He doesn’t seem fazed by you, you’ll give him that. And he seems knowledgeable.

  “Well, traveller, my name is Lux. Please, feel free to ask me any questions you have about our little village… or about this great land in general, as it is quite different from where you come from. I’m lucky to come from a line of archivists who kept track of the local area from both before and after the war so I can help you with whatever information you require. Whatever I can do to make you feel at home. Of course, any more… sensitive information I’ll have to ask you to prove yourself to our cause before I divulge.”

  Ask him to tell you more about the village – Turn to S.2.6.

  * * *

  Ask him what proving yourself means – Turn to S.2.7.

  * * *

  Ask him about the powerplant papers – Turn to S.2.8, Needs Power Plant Files.

  S.2.6

  “Ah, of course. Well, as you can tell our home here used to be a stadium of sorts, where people would gather before the war and watch entertainment en masse. However, when the first bombs began to fall there wasn’t time for that sort of frivolity. The government took it over and used it as a makeshift military area where they stockpiled a lot of potentially useful radioactive material.

  “My grandfather moved here when we were done bombing ourselves into the ground. He and the ancestors of our little group came together and salvaged this place. It was big enough for us to build Prie, but walled away from outsiders. We’ve been on missions ever since to recover what other irradiated items we can. Did you know, way back before the war, in ancient medical textbooks, they believed radiation could make you stronger? That’s what grandfather believed, too. We’ll get stronger with its help and protection, and if there’s another war, we’ll thrive through it instead.”

  He seems pleased that you’ve asked the question
, but what he’s told you seems unsettling. Getting stronger through radiation? You can’t think of any doctor back in the vault that would tell you that.

  Even more worryingly, it seems like he’s had this all rehearsed. As if he’s written it down and went over it again and again until it flowed naturally, repeating it without thinking. You wonder if he’s ever thought about this ‘truth’ that he holds so dear to him at all, or if he’s just blindly following what his father and grandfather were.

  Ask him what proving yourself means – Turn to S.2.7.

  * * *

  Ask him about the powerplant papers – Turn to S.2.8, Needs Power Plant Files.

  * * *

  Ask to leave – Turn to S.2.12.

  S.2.7

  “Follow me,” Lux says, and heads off towards the back of the room. Any other time you’d be getting annoyed at the amount of traipsing along after people you’ve been doing, but at the moment your anxiety about the extreme oddness of the situation is what’s consuming you. Part of you, a large part, doesn’t want to follow Lux any further, but you’re driven forward by curiosity.

  He leads you through the building and suddenly downwards into what must be a basement beneath the stadium. A patch has been dug out of the ground itself and lined with concrete for sturdiness. You can probably blame the Old World for its construction, but the electric lights in the walls have long since burned out and been replaced with the luminous green paint you’ve seen all around this place. You shiver, and wonder if it’s because of the coldness of the earth or the unsettledness you’re feeling,