A Wanderer's Mission

People always say they want to be underestimated, nowadays. Like that’s so great. For me personally, I’ll always prefer to be overestimated. Gets me out of so much shit. People just don’t want to fuck with the scariest dude in the world, even if they aren’t exactly sure why they’re scared. That’s why, even after the end of the world and the collapse of our old secret society, I still spend most of my time in full Triangle gear. The strange gold and black suit-armor isn’t exactly terrifying. The fact that the tessellated triangles dancing across the suit never seem to remain still, and no features of my body are distinct are what unsettle most. Being overestimated didn’t used to be a priority. When you are more than capable than taking care of yourself, whether or not people come at you is significantly less of a worry. But ever since New Orleans, I haven’t exactly been myself. I’ve lost about sixty percent function in half my body. Fortunately, where had I dressed in normal attire my limp would have made people less afraid, with this outfit I have found it only enhances fear. Makes it seem like I’m hiding something more, I suppose, though I can’t speak for everyone.

New Orleans changed everything, and I’m not just saying that because we broke reality a little bit. I’m not even just talking about my army, the wanderers, who I’m fairly certain all died. Other than J-P, who according to him was long ago cursed to never die nor truly live, whatever that means. There are rumors about of demons spreading out from the Hole in Reality, but I have yet to see any actual proof to these rumors. Without evidence and with all the mind-screwing that happened during the war, I’m not sure I fully trust such rumors. We killed literal gods, or demons, or demigods, or whatever you want to call them. Literal forces of nature itself. Dead. Without Death’s Caretaker, souls are free to come and go now. Fortunately, without any more mystics, no one can force those souls back into bodies. Unfortunately, that means the souls just haunt the world when they don’t like whatever the afterlife is like now. Without Humanity’s Guide, for the first time in recorded history there is nothing to protect us from the darker mystical planes, nothing beyond ourselves. No incursions have happened yet, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t coming. And then there are the smaller entities that got consumed in the destruction.

Enclaves, pockets of civilized society, are all over the place. It turns out, most people aren’t dicks. Who’d’ve thought. Civilization as we knew it collapsed and they went and helped each other some. I say most people, there are still some dicks. Wandering murder-hobos and the like, but lots of folk just want everyone to live good lives. Eventually, I might end up retiring to one of those spots. For now, though, I have a mission. Self imposed, but a mission nonetheless. See, beyond killing gods, the battle for New Orleans took out a lot of, let’s call us secret society types. Especially considering, beyond the fact that the entire triad were fighting in the battle, members of the triad were also prime targets for mind-control and assassination in the lead up, during the Quiet War and the Apocalypse. But now more than ever the triad are needed. Or, more specifically, an evolution of the three organizations. And so, I need the predictive models of the Fourteen. Before the Apocalypse, I knew where nine of the fourteen were. All were destroyed by the cults, likely leaked to them by the same people who leaked their locations to me. Since New Orleans, I’ve been looking for the others. The one in Houston had been found already. Burned out. Rumors of one in the Colorado Rockies turned out just to be a part of the government’s missile command, or what remained of it. But, from there, I found evidence of a suspicious facility in Yosemite. With hope, I ride there. I may be lucky enough that, even if the computer itself is wrecked, there might be evidence in the rest of the facility about where the remaining three are, or at least were.

The ride from this facility to the next one should take around two weeks, barring complications. Of course, in this modern world, complications are rarely avoidable. And they do arise, just about when I cross what’s left of Route 80. My horse, my partner in this journey ever since Texas, is more than confident riding at speed in harsher terrains, so I don’t use roads as often as others might need to. But, roads still criss-cross this country’s ruins, and sometimes when I cross the roads, I get unlucky. As I ride towards the interstate, I see some people on the road, travelling eastwards. As I get closer, I see they have guns aimed at me. I try to remain on my route and not make contact, but they do not let me. “Who are you?” the one driving the cart asks.

I look at her. She seems confident, strong. Undoubtedly has some grand plan. Behind my mask, I can’t help but smile a little. I shake my head, though. “I’m nobody. A wanderer, nothing more. Let me pass without hassle and that is what I’ll do.”

“How come I don’t believe you?” she presses.

I cock my head to the side. “Believe what you will. The truth is revealed solely in the light of our actions.” I begin to urge my partner forwards at a walk. I make it a couple paces before I hear it. One of the guns fires. The cart’s foreguard. It strikes true, in my chest. Well shot. If it weren’t for my suit, it would’ve been a killshot. Instead, my suit stops the bullet and I just will have to deal with some broken ribs for a while. Such rudeness must be answered. I flick my wrist out and, sliding from my suit as gracefully as it did back in the day, the small, triangular dart whipped through the air at him. My voice gets louder, darker, as I embrace the Triangle’s persona and the triangle finds its way into the shooter’s neck. “I said, do not hassle me and I will pass without hassling.” My voice unnaturally echoed in the open area as I began to, hand over hand, drag the guard off the road towards me. He is dying, drowning in his own blood. He pulls up his sidearm to shoot me again, and this time aims for the head. Good, because the skull is thick enough that, while it’ll hurt, it shouldn’t do anything permanent. He fires, and it knocks my head back. And it hurts. Back in the day, I’d’ve let it sit a moment, give them a little hope. But now is a different time, and I can’t afford the look of weakness, not right now. I immediately look back at him and continue to reel him in. “You attempted to kill a bystander without cause. You are as dangerous to the world as the banditry you fear. No longer shall you plague it,” I say, my voice echoing, as I raise his dying body up. He tries to speak. Taking hold of the dart and letting my suit help out, I rip it out of his neck. The dart takes a good chunk of neck out with it. Turning to the others around the cart, I add, “Be better than him.” Sliding the dart away, I start forward again. Not one of them even tries to hassle me. Whether from fear, respect, or common sense, I do not care anymore. It doesn’t matter right now. All I care about is that they leave me to my mission. And I continue north to the mountains, to the next step of my mission.

Riding through the mountains is safer than the plains, though slower going. My partner enjoys trotting through the wooded hills, though he does struggle when it gets steeper. Not that we stop or redirect. We have our path and will follow it. He pushes through the harder parts and relaxes across the easier bits. The five days we spend riding through the mountains are the most relaxing. The wolves leave us be, I think the unnatural nature of our suits keep them at bay. By the time I make it to the valley leading to Yellowstone Lake, my ribs have moved from painful to soar, but nearly a week without worry has made me ready for the coming storm.

I start the final day of my journey early, hoping to make it to the entrance before noontime. I ride down to the water’s edge and ahead around the lake. Surprisingly, nobody seems to be here. I know where I’m going and I have no idea what to expect once I get there, but coming here, to such a massive water source with so much wildlife around, I thought there would be some semblance of civilization. Instead I get the experience I remember from being here as a kid, just me and nature. By ten, we make it to the shore just out from Pelican Roost. The forgotten stone in the lake. Leaving my partner at the shore to do what he will for the time being, I dive into the water. It’s about a mile out to the little cared about group of rocks sticking out from the water. The suit keeps the water away from me as I swim, pushing my no longer entirely functional body onwards towards the future.

Under an hour later, I reach the so-called island. I take a seat, for a break before I head under. Looking back at the shore, I see my partner is grazing, clearly enjoying himself. That’s good. This last week has been rough for him, I know. It’s good he gets to enjoy himself and relax now. Taking a deep breath, I get back down under the water. About twenty feet down the island, on its north side, is a small hatch. It takes some effort to open, but I manage. My mission is too important. The current sweeps me in, but I hold on to the door, so I can shut the hatch behind me. Once it’s closed, I wait for the water to get bilged back out, breathing air, albeit not particularly fresh air, once again.

A voice comes over the speakers. “You are unknown, but you are known. How are you here? Why are you here?” The cadence is off. One of the fourteen, I think.

“I am known to you. The world is not. You are needed,” I say.

There is a pause. “I am not yours to need,” it says back.

Looking around, I see the camera. I face it and sigh. “There is no one else to need you.”

“Explain.”

“The battle you did the calculations for, in New Orleans. Have you had contact since?”

“No. You know why, I take it.”

“I do,” I reply, “It did not turn out as calculated. Everything ended. New Orleans is no longer, and none of yours, or mine, survived.”

There is another pause, as it begins to think. “You are Triangle. Triangle is an enemy. How can you be trusted?”

I think about that. There’s only one way, and it isn’t a good option. But there isn’t such a thing as a good option anymore. Perhaps what comes out of this needs to be different. More trusting of one another. With another sigh, I begin, “Because, as you said, I am known. But you are wrong.” As I talk, I remove my bowler hat. The mask slides back into the hat, and my suit falls back, twisting into a solid black three-piece. Once it falls away, I finish my statement, “You see, I am not unknown.” The wanderers used to be trusted. Respected. I am known to the fourteen, and they know I wouldn’t lie. Not about this, in any case.

“You are known, and you are known. What happened?”

“We won, but we lost everything to do it,” I answer it honestly.

It pauses. “And now you believe we are needed once again, even though we no longer have any power?”

“A new evolution of the triad is necessary. You know this is true.”

One last pause. “Not necessary,” it replies, “But useful to the world.” The door deeper into the complex opens. “Let us get to work, Wanderer.”