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Anthropology Isekai 2

In the early days, the smell of gasoline used to transfuse the air. Generators ran 24/7 in some places, providing what energy and light “vital" establishments needed. These generators were hungry for heavy hydrocarbons.

People who owned personal boats, of which there were many, had grown disgruntled by the time Mark was aware of anything at all. With the expatriate fleet had come a couple of huge fuel Navy tankers that could have provided for everyone, they said, until they could figure away to find oil to tap. Or when they could properly set up a chemical plant to make synthetic gasoline.

And the Admiralty did dole out a ration of gas for people who had jobs considered “vital" to the colony. Though, in retrospect, even that much probably hastened some of the bigger tragedies of his youth, but they simply didn't know. But then, when they discovered that nothing anyone made, not gasoline, not gunpowder, not gun cotton or even black powder, combusted, well…Mark was too young to know anything except that his mother needed to divorce his father.

Well, Markus was not his mother's first husband, Mark's true blood father, but he was the man whom Mark had grown up calling “papa". And he was the father of his second brother, Antony.

Ah, little Antony. They used to be thick as mud, he and Mark. He remembered taking his brother everywhere until, one day, his father left with him. Mark called out after them and he recalled well the look Marcus gave him when he called him “papa" for that last time. The memory still hurt, but it at least taught him to not get attached to any of his stepfathers.

Divorce and family laws were still being hashed out, as the Colony was still deciding which State framework it would adopt, if indeed it would not make one up of its own. So judgement and execution of those judgments still layed with the armed forces. It took them until his mother's fourth marriage to finally give the order to allow Mark's mother to have shared custody of Antony, but they already had achieved that before then.

A year after they left, a year into her third marriage and 5 months into her third pregnancy, Marcus was forced to let him have him. Otherwise, they would have been in danger of starving. But that year had changed him a lot.

The thing was, at that time people needed to relearn how to fish without gasoline engines on their boats and, in the land, they needed to learn what they could and could not live off of. They needed to treat what farm animals that they had managed to bring over like holy relics, lest they die and leave them with nothing to eat in the future. They needed to husband and protect what seeds they had brought over until they had enough to give out without worry that an alien plague or vermin would render all of their crops extinct. They were literally one bad harvest away from eating nothing.

Mark's third stepfather could provide for him, his mother and their upcoming child. But little Antony turned out to be an unwelcome strain that put that marriage on the rocks. But Mark didn't know enough to worry. He had his brother back after all.

He never asked Antony what that first year away from them was like, but even years later when he grew up eating what Mark did his body was still marked by that brief stint of starvation. He came back a quiet boy when he had been a loud happy one. He came back a reserved quiet kid when he had been an open one. He came back smaller than Mark was when he had been as tall as he, despite being a few years younger.

It didn't take long to draw the boy Mark was still sure was inside of his brother, thankfully, just in time for them to watch in amazement as their mother's body produced another of their siblings.

Things started to pick up a few years later. Seeds were handed out and people claimed fields left and right. Boats started to bring catches with more regularity as hard experience allowed fishermen to exploit the bounty of a sea not touched by commercial fishing, and farm animals started giving birth to their next generations. They would be by necessity inbred, and that was a problem NOW, but back then….

Well, back then Mark and his younger brother played around with his third brother. There were other kids around, of course, but, the state of flux in the colony meant that they were never around them long enough to form tight long-term friendships. Not that they were alone in this experience, but it meant that the kids he interacted the most with were his own siblings. And it was grand, fun and nice while it lasted. Because when things got better, Marcus came back for Antony.

And much like Mark, his mother didn't want to let go.

In the end, it was two against one, Marcus and the third stepfather against his mom. Mark lost his younger brother again and, if that wasn't enough, he also lost his youngest sibling when the marriage soon dissolved.

The fourth and last Stepfather was rich. Or what came across as Rich in the Colonies, or so he was told. Because Old World wealth was beyond his imagination. Personally, any man who was front of the line to get one of the newly made houses was someone with more wealth than sense for Mark. But this man at least didn't care that Mark or any of his other brothers were extra mouths to feed. Food and resources weren't much of an issue for him at all.

But then, that was just the price for him to marry his mother.

Deep into her fourth pregnancy, Mark and his brother managed to get together again for a few blessed months. The best years of his life without doubt and something he would swear up to god. Antony, Peter and Mark all played the part of the dutiful older brothers for the last sibling of theirs to be born. They were a gang of snot-nosed little shits, but they were so happy to have each other back then.

And it all came crashing down with the birth of their fourth brother.

Their mother, the woman who had been there, and fought for them tooth and nail all their lives, died shortly after that birth. The Colony had run out of antibiotics at that time, and an accidental infection soon turned necrotic for her. He would never forget the way she cried when she held them for the last time.

Nor how uncertain the future looked for them.

He had been 11 at that time and, to his third stepfather's credit, he didn't throw him out immediately out of the house. No, no, he only gave him “encouragement" to do so until, at 14 years old, he left that particular nest. But then, his childhood ended the second his mother died.

But until that second, when there was someone who was undoubtedly on his side no matter what, when his brothers looked up to him as a leader and he tried his best to not lead them off a cliff somewhere…he still dreamt of that time.

“Wake up," a voice called out, sounding so much like his younger brother used to back when Antony couldn't sleep at night.

“Mark, wake up," the voice called out again, a bit wrong for how deeper and more mature it sounded, but Mark would have recognized Antony no matter his age.

“Wake up, you heavy asshole!" the voice said in frustration and Mark frowned; None of them much cursed when they were children. Their mother didn't like it.

And that's when he realized he had been dreaming.

“Antony?" Mark murmured as he rubbed his eyes.

The morning was still a bit dark, but the sun was starting to peek out of the horizon. His tent was on the outskirts of the Tents, given there was no way he could claim a much better spot, but he supposed he wouldn't be that hard to find. What with fighting publicly the day before.

“Yes, me," Antony said as he handed him a wooden cup. The aroma from it made his mouth water and he took a drag.

“Coffee?" Mark said in disbelief as he enjoyed the bitterness as it went down.

“I am helping it grow on the north hills," he replied with pride, “And they let us have some instead of cash."

“That can't be legal," Mark answered as he got up and winced.

Yep, there were bruises on his arm and torso that hurt like a motherfucker.

“Probably not," Antony agreed, “But it helps me work more, so I don't care. I am going to need that cup back, by the way, so hurry your ass up."

“Jesus, give me a second," Mark whined as he started sipping faster and faster.

“So, anyway, I heard you won a fight yesterday," Antony said as Mark was almost done finishing the cup.

“Not my best fight, but I won," Mark agreed.

“...can you help me out, bro?" Antony asked, for a second looking like he did back when they were kids.

Mark should have known that he would only be here this early to ask something of him, but then his brother always did know how to strike at the right time. He would have been a good fighter himself if he wasn't so mild-mannered.

And small.

At five feet and five inches, Antony wasn't a midget or anything, but he was significantly below the standard of the colony. He had brown hair that had once been yellow like Mark's, as well as their familial nose and brown eyes. He also looked like his own father, but Mark wasn't about to put that against him.

“What does Markus need?" Mark sighed as he drained the cup and passed it back. His brother very carefully stowed it away in a satchel before he nervously licked his lips and nodded to himself.

“Nothing too big," Antony said, “Just some medicine is all. Dad's cough is getting worse and it costs an arm and a leg to get anything."

Mark grimaced; his brother wasn't kidding about medicine being an arm and a leg.

For a brief moment, he was tempted to tell him “no". That he only had enough money to spend on the things that he needed. Which was point in fact true. But then, his younger brothers always turned to him for help. His mother, who he hoped rested in peace if an afterlife really did exist, had always asked him to do so. Because he was big and strong. Because he was capable. Because he was the oldest.

“How much is it?" he found himself asking instead.

And then found himself wincing when he heard the sum.

“W-will you help me with that?" his brother asked him as he had always done; like a dog not sure that his begging wasn't inherently wrong. But then, Antony never took Mark's help for granted.

“Let me just…see if I can fit it into the budget," Mark sighed and, from how his brother's face, lighted up, knew that he would not be able to bring himself to say no.

And so it was his brother went along with him when he packed his stuff up and headed for the merchant streets.

“How much for that?" Mark later found himself pointing at a radio set that he had had his eyes set on for a while now. They were in an honest-to-goodness shack, one made of corrugated steel walls. It was large enough to have been a rather compact home back in Old Earth, but in the colony as it was now? It was palatial compared to the tents.

“Probably more than you can spend, son," a white-haired man over the counter replied, “That's for big boys heading out."

“Well, as you can see, I am a big boy. And not that it's anyone's business, but I am heading out," Mark drily replied.

The man laughed and told him the number.

It was exactly as much as it had been 7 months ago. Which meant that it was putting a strain on his budget.

“What about that there?" Mark hissed between teeth as he pointed at a case next to it.

“High capacity battery," the old men smugly noted, “Straight from the Naval workshops. That also runs a pretty penny."

For the most part, the old nuclear reactor from the USS Enterprise had been providing the Town with all the energy that it used and probably would for as long as the Navy engineers could keep it running. Out of the original 4 carriers that had made it to this side, one had been beached and brought inland to work as a reactor for the whole town around the time that Mark had been born.

The Steel House, as some people called the whole “building", was also where the governor's office was and where he resided. It was a jaw-dropping sight that made him understand, if only a little, how much they had all lost on the way here.

But at least the naval workshops managed to regularly churn out the batteries that almost all of the colony's vital machines ran on.

For the most part, people started picking up the slack long ago and set about making personal crafts to make up for the slow rate of machining that the precision-driven mechanists in the Navy workshops aspired to. But given the low availability of tools to work with, a lot of these homemade items were rather poorly made and barely worked. All the same, something was better than nothing.

“What are you going to do, bro?" Antony asked as he looked at the radio and batteries as if simply staring at them would break them. It was a sum of money that was outright unthinkable for someone like him. For Mark, it was simply the sum that stood between what he wanted, “I mean, that machete HAD to have been from the old world to cost that much. And the sled…"

“It'll be fine, Antony," Mark groaned. It was true, he was burning through his budget at a rapid pace. But if the radio and batteries were things that he really wanted, then the Machete and sled were things that he really needed. There was no question about whether he would get those.

But that did mean that he was left with a conundrum.

He had enough money to buy the radio and the battery, yes. Enough to have leftover to help his brother with the medicine. But he did not have enough for all of that and the food, alcohol, water and other supplies that he needed to survive in the wilds. Not at this time of the year, with winter in the mountains coming so fast.

Maybe if it were spring or early summer…but then he might as well wish for more money.

…bah, he made it this far without a radio set to play around with. He could last through the winter and get more pelts and plants to sell next spring and get his two-way radio then. They probably wouldn't increase in price. Hopefully.

“That a VHF?" Mark pointed at the least ugly-looking homemade radio there.

“That? Oh, that's one of Jimmy's works," the shop owner said, “Boy does good work, but VHF is all he's managed to make. If you like something with a higher frequency, I got some UHF radios around."

“I'll take it," Mark immediately said.

“Alright," the white-haired man reached out and placed it on the counter, “Anything else?"

“I'll take the battery too,' Mark said, pointing at the high-capacity battery.

“Are you sure?" the shop owner raised his eyebrow. Instead of answering, Mark pulled out his sack of coins and set them on the counter.

“Well, shit," the shop owner said, impressed, as Mark pulled out the exact sum, “Let me make write the bill then."

“Does killing animals out in the hills really make that much?" Antony asked after they had left the shack. His eyes had almost bulged out when Mark pulled out his purse.

“It should," Mark grumbled, “But no, I got this from fighting yesterday."

“Haha, I heard about that," Antony said with pride, “People were talking about how you made an unlikely comeback."

“It wasn't a sure thing," Mark shrugged, “But Romani wasn't taking me seriously. Not really."

“Who?" Antony asked.

“It doesn't matter," Mark waved him off, “Let's just get that medicine of yours."

He wouldn't be able to purchase all the supplies that he wanted, but if he cheaped out he could still be enough for the winter. Meh, jerky wasn't that much more delicious than hard tack. And if he kept telling himself that he would, hopefully, at some point believe it.

Absconding with his hard-earned coin hurt Mark, but the relief that came over his brother once he had medicine in hand was more than worth it.

“Look, I got coffee," his brother dragged him towards the tent he shared with his father, “Let me at least make you some."

“You already did," Mark replied.

“One more cup," Antony begged, “One last warm drink before you get lost in the forests."

So, against his better judgment, Mark found himself waiting outside his brother's tent.

“You don't have to come inside," his brother had told him, “You don't even have to see Dad. Let me just go in, brew you a cup and that's it!"

“Hnrg, you're early, boy," the only man Mark had ever called “papa" grumbled from inside that tent. Just the sound of his voice was enough to make him want to leave. Made him want to get lost.

“I went to get your medicine," Antony from inside replied as the sound of water being set in a pot reached Mark, “Told the foreman I needed the day off."

“Stupid boy," Markus chastised him, “If you aren't there, they'll just get someone else. And if they get someone else, you'll become replaceable. You should have minded your own business."

“You're sick, dad," Antony replied, “I can't let you just rot!"

“Does it look like I want your help?" the man grumbled, “How did you find the money for this anyway? If they pay you enough to buy this stuff then that's the more reason to not let that job go!"

“Ah, well, they don't," Antony answered with misgivings, “Actually, I heard that Mark was in town, so I-"

“Mark?" Markus asked, sounding offended, “You went to that little bastard to ask for money?"

“Dad," Antony groaned as Mark gritted his teeth, “I'd really appreciate it if you didn't talk like that about him."

“The day I keep my mouth shut about that parasite is the day you are burying me 6 feet underground," Markus spat, “Bad enough that he leeched off the food that I brought for you when you were kids. But now you owe that son of a whore?"

It was one thing to be insulted. It was quite another to have anyone call his mother a whore.

There was an ugly urge inside of him. An urge to go inside that tent and, what, beat a sick old man senseless? The hatred that Markus had towards him had never made much sense to Mark, but this whole thing had long ago gone beyond the personal. Mark didn't LIKE feeling like he did towards his once-stepped father.

Yet here they were.

The conversation was thankfully derailed into more innocuous things, but the damage was already done. By the time Antony came out with the same wooden cup he had offered him that morning, looking very embarrassed and ashamed.

“Here is your cup, bro," he said, numbly handing Mark his drink, “I-I am sorry about Dad. I shouldn't have mentioned you at all, and I-"

“-It's fine," Mark calmly told him. It wasn't, but as the older brother, it had to be.

“...take the cup with you," Antony told him.

“You sure?" Mark asked. It was obvious to him that his brother might not be able to afford another one on short notice.

“I'll be fine," he said, “But you? You have to travel out there. It's already mid-day, and I don't want to be responsible for making you late."

10 or 20 minutes wouldn't seriously hurt him.

But the shame on Antony's face told him everything he needed to know.

“I'll bring it back next time I am here," Mark promised him. It wouldn't be for another half a year, maybe, but the longer he stood outside this tent listening to this old bastard the longer he had to make a stupid decision.

“You do that," Antony sighed. “Goodbye, bro and…thank you."

It took him, indeed, a good 20 minutes to drink the brew. And by then, he was pulling a sled full of nails, corkscrews, chisels, food, a cheap radio and a high quality battery. They joined his bag where he kept his machetes, his old one and his new one, as well as the food and drink that he still had before he made his trip to town.

The sled, an honest-to-goodness small carriage on top of two long curving boards, slid with ease on the rich grass of the hills Mark took. He used to have an old rickety sled that he brought back and forth, but the boards that the sleds were made out of were fantastic building materials all on their own. So he had taken to buying one every time he went to town and took them apart to build his home.

Idly, he connected the radio to his brand-new battery and turned it on.

“You heard it here first," a voice crackled on Mark's radio, “Admiral Johnson was appointed to his rank again for the 7th time in as many administrations."

“Our contentious officer has been criticized since before a lot of us were born," the radio jockey continued as Mark continued trudging his way through the rocky hills, “And yet without fail, every single administration has chosen him to lead our military forces."

The hills dipped and weaved between the forest canopy and large stretches of shrubbery and weirdly tropical trees, but the rocky highlands at least made it hard to get lost.

“Now, I know some people complain about his violations of our Amendments; expatriates or not, we are all still Americans, even in this land."

A compass was a lifesaver for exploratory trips, of course, but Mark had already spelunked even the “straight" path through the foresty jungles before. All the same, his preferred roundabout path had other benefits that he could not quite ignore, even as he was perpetually looking for ways to shorten his trip. Like the fact that he could see danger coming out in the open.

“Some people accuse him of wanting to set up a military dictatorship. Some even accuse him of having set up one, back at the beginning of our stay. And for those of you too young to remember, things were very murky when we got here."

This was his ninth trip into and out of Camp. He would usually aim to carry as much as he could to his destination and then, while his provisions lasted, he would try to get as much done as he could with what he had. There were roots and fruits where he had decided to stay that were of interest to people in town, as well as still new animals that nobody had ever recorded, and those alone were enough to bankroll the expeditions.

“The fact that we have elections at all has been the perpetual banner all of his 'fans' have used to defend him. Yet, without fail, regardless of who becomes Governor, they confirm his continued appointment as our grand guard dog."

But the truth was that if he were just trying to make a living out of foraging, trapping and hunting, he didn't need to take half a week-long trip all the way here.

“So a lot of people have taken to asking if our Governors can even do differently. If, indeed, it's the people on the ballot who become our leaders."

As much as people had spread out over the last 31 years, it was surprising how little land half a million people could cover. Given a peninsula the size of half of Europe, even the most fed-up recluse had to stick relatively close to Camp. There was no other way to get electricity or even the overpriced products that the newly minted interests were starting to crank out.

“I will confess, I feel that this is all missing the forest for the trees."

And while having to live, no, make himself a house without the utilities that he could find in Camp was less a challenge and more the type of back-breaking labor that he was leaving the town for-

“A lot of the talking heads talk about the disproportionate power the Armed Forces has over our lives. And this while they compromise about half of our population, and not by design."

-It was at least something that he was doing for himself and not someone else.

He loved his brothers to death and he would be lying if he said that he didn't have a few friends back in camp. But while they all had him to help them out, the sad truth was that Mark had no one to count on. They were too poor, too young, too weak, or too involved in their own affairs to help Mark out. He was strong. He was big. He was capable.

And that meant he had shoulders to carry their weight. But his? He still had to find space in between his shoulder blades.

Because there was no one to help him out. A boy with no father and no mother. No surviving family except those that couldn't give what he did.

He really loved his brothers to death and enjoyed the company of his few friends and acquaintances. But for once, he wanted a place of his own. For once, he wanted a moment to breathe and not worry about someone else. For once, he wanted to enjoy the fact that he was all of these things everyone else said he was.

“They talk about the Admiral, about who should be Admiral, about giving someone new a chance or keeping the salt dog that we all know so much in charge."

Of all his brothers, his youngest one would probably manage to attract a girl and make a family of his own. Mark still hoped to be around when that happened, to see his family still continue on, but he knew what his other brothers did; that he would die around other old people as a younger generation with actual hopes and chances hoped that they wouldn't make a fuss while they did so. They did what they could for now, because there would come a day when they would be too weak and old to do much.

And then they would be brushed aside.

Mark would rather die alone on his own merits and under his own power. In a place that was his and no one else's.

“Yet, in regard to the position of Admiral I have to ask; of what Fleet?"

His own home.

The Camp government had opened up land claims again, back when Mark had wasted his time toiling at resource-claiming operations on the Bent or the Trough. He'd watch a few friends of his get metal poisoning or die from the earth collapsing under their feet. It was good money, it needed to be good money for anyone to work in it, but to what end?

Any home he made near the city would be subject to all sorts of counterclaims by thousands of people who believed this or that plot belonged to them. Even the outskirts weren't safe from that kind of bullshit, because people had taken to preemptively laying Claim to spots they had never visited just in case it would be profitable later.

Cases were trudging through the court system, but Mark wasn't enthused about having to wait for that to have a house. So he made a claim somewhere no one else had, if only because no one else wanted to.

A spot nearest to the mountain range that cut off the peninsula from the rest of the continent, in foothills that were relatively simple to get to but quite high. While Camp made attempts at getting everyone to settle down, he was here already building up the rest of his life. Because while everyone else had either accepted the inevitable or were delusional about their chances, Mark had set to live out on his terms.

After all, all societies had a place for their children.

But what place did Camp have for a man?

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Leaving the political aside, our forecast for the next two days is that it's going to be rainy, the Junks beat the Galleys 12-7, and steel Machetes remain by far the most popular gift to give-" the radio churned out 3 days later as Mark was making his way through some bumpy hills. The mounds elevated his position around copses of trees and honest-to-goodness forests, letting him pull on his sled without worry of snags. Or worry of predators.

Or it should have.

Three days into his trip he came across one of the things that sent shivers down the back of any man that plied his trade in the wilds.

Walking towards him was a Hound Rat. One that had foam dribbling down its mouth.

“-fuck," Mark muttered as he turned his radio off.

Mark could, and had, killed the predatory rodent thing many times in the past. Sometimes for their pelts, but a lot of the times for their flesh. They made for good eating if you roasted them right. They were dangerous when in packs but, despite being the size of a mid-sized dog, Mark was sure that he could take on one any time of the day. And the rodents usually knew it too.

But this one? This one started running towards him as soon as its poor sight caught what its nose had.

“Shit, shit, shit," Mark said as he dug around in his sled. He had carefully organized things, but in moments of desperation, it was easy to forget where they were.

“Yes!" he exclaimed in victory as he pulled out what might just be saving his life.

“You want me?" he yelled at the rodent as he pointed the nozzle of a plastic bottle at the nearing creature, “Then have some!"

Once the creature was close enough for him to see its blood-shot eyes, and its unthinking gaze, he pressed on the lever of the bottle.

And sprayed the Hound Rat with water.

The creature snarled, hissed and grunted when he did. But it did stop.

“You stupid little shit!" Mark yelled as he advanced on it, spraying it with water all the while, 'How do you like that, huh? Have some H2O motherfucker!"

The Hound Rat looked as though it wanted to tackle him, but the wetter it got the more anxious it visibly became.

Until it turned tailed and ran back to the neatest copse of trees.

“Oh, but I almost gave you a bath!" Mark yelled after it, raising his hands to make himself look big, “You sure you don't want another rinse?"

But Hound Rat just disappeared behind a brush.

Mark breathed deeply as he waited there for about thirty minutes. He made sure that the fucking rabid animal wouldn't think to follow him. He should honestly go after it and kill it to keep its disease from spreading but…

Good god, of all the things to make the transition between worlds, why did Rabies have to be one of them?

The vaccine for it still existed, thankfully, but was so rare that if you got scratched or bit by one of the woodland creatures that had somehow managed to get it, well, you were probably dead.

It was thankfully rather rare, but it was still nerve-wracking all the same. However, it was fortunate that the Hound Rats became incredibly hydrophobic upon contracting the disease. They took the rabid Terran animal's antipathy for water and cranked it to eleven. Meaning that, if you saw a rabid rat coming, defending yourself was as easy as throwing water at it.

But that was IF you saw it coming.

Easy or not, this was still a brush with death and Mark's hands were shaking as he continued on.

He watched his back after that, looking around him to make sure he would spot the rat it came after him if it decided to double back. Rabid animals weren't logical things, so it could well do that.

He tried to capture some of that happiness that he felt upon leaving the town, but it was impossible not to worry as he continued his journey with his heavy burden.

Thankfully, he was walking through the hills and so would see any animal that came his way. Thankfully, he path he was taking might be long, but it was very safe. Thankfully, meeting a rabid animal in the wild was unfortunate, most rational ones rarely hunted prey out in the open.

Mark was starting to feel safe again the next day. He was starting to feel relief that he was getting close to home.

And then stopped as life shat on him again.

The path that he was so happy about. The path that went around the forests dotting the feet of the mountain up to his house, but did so in a way that made it impossible for anything or anyone to sneak up on him, well, it wasn't there anymore.

At some point between his trip to Camp Town and his return a rockslide had blocked the passage. So apparently it wasn't as stable and safe as he thought.

“Really?" He yelled into the sky. Of course, no one responded and he wasn't sure that god made the trip with them even if he existed, “Fucking really?"

“WHY!" he screamed and no one but the echo of his voice replied back.

He would have to clear this landslide at some point. He was actually rather close to his house, a half-a-day's trip away even through this roundabout, but he was carrying a sled full of supplies with him. Useful to build his house, but useless to clear these rocks.

He would have to take the direct route then. One that led down the hill that he was on and straight through a forest.

And he would have to do it while pulling his sled.

Sigh.

He reached into his sled and pulled out his old machete out.

It was a pockmarked blade that he had sharpened many times. For someone like him, who got plants and animals to sell back in town, it was a necessity to make his way through any underbrush. But the blade was worn enough for him to have seen the necessity of buying a new one in town.

With a groan, he pulled his sled to the foot of the forest and, with dark thoughts in his mind, started weaving his way among trees until bushes threatened to trap the vehicle.

Then the blade came out and started to cut.

Day almost immediately turned into night as big trees blocked the sunlight. The wind of the hills and the call of faraway animals were quickly replaced by the sound of his boots stomping into soft ground and his blade cleaving into young trees and shrubs. Sometimes, it was as easy as cutting a few bushes to make a clear path between big trees.

Other times, Mark had to fight against an army of green soldiers for every inch that he took.

And if that had been all…it would have been annoying, but would have been just work. And Mark was used to work.

But no, the Hound Rats liked hunting inside the forests, the adolescents formed packs, and their calls, squeaks and grunts were impossible to place with all the trees there muffling the direction of the sound.

Other predators that Mark had come to respect also made their debut, even a mole-like creature that was capable of pulling animals a bit bigger than a dog into a hole in the ground only to silence its cries in seconds. Nothing an experienced explorer would fall to, but it became something else to look out for.

But Mark wasn't just traveling by. He was hauling a sled full of shit and that made the time he took to cut the undergrowth rather…unnerving.

The rabid Hound Rat he met the other day could be here.

It was an intrusive thought. A stupid one, given how the disease made it unlikely that the rat had the presence of thought to follow him this far, but with all the shrubs and trees around how would he know?

The sounds of all the fucking Hound Rats became suspicious then as Mark cut and cut. He went deep into the forest, using the inclination of the ground and the shapes of the trees to guide himself, but it was hard. And he was becoming more and more unnerved.

Which would explain why he jumped around when his machete broke in his grasp.

“Fuck!" Mark yelled as the blade went flying out and barely missed clipping him on the head. He was cutting into a young sap that might have been a little too old to go at with his machete, but he was less and less inclined to go around things he didn't have to. The blade bit deeply into the wood and, at this tense moment, snapped close to the hilt.

Was it from a hidden impurity in that area when it had been made? So far, all the nicks in the utility blade were on half end of the blade. But he had been using it for so long, that it might have simply been built-up stress.

It was enough for Mark to want to throw his now useless hilt on the ground but…no. He went and got his broken blade and threw it and the hilt on his sled. Metal salvage was valuable even now and he could use that to get something else when he was in town.

“Fucking shit," Mark hissed as he fetched his new Machete out. It was high-quality carbon steel, made from the ore that they had managed to dig up in this new world. It was longer and a bit heavier than his old machete had been. A bother, if he had been planning on swinging it around all day long, but it was perfect to cut into this thick undergrowth.

The way forward was easier then, giving him a tiny bit of relief, but the thought of that disgusting rat did not leave his thoughts. He still had to watch out for the mole eater. He still had to watch out for normal rats. He still had to watch out for other animals who he still had not given name to nor, as far as he knew, had anybody else.

He had to watch his back. He had to watch his back and make sure that his sled was in one piece. He had to watch his back, make sure his sled was in one piece AND cut his way forward. His nerves, and his mood quickly deteriorated after that.

By the time he took down the last sap in his way, he was swinging more in anger than he was to clear it away. With a pause, he looked around himself and saw that he had finally made it all the way through the stretch.

And now, at long last, he was finally again on ground that he recognized. It was even close to a break in the cliffs that would allow him to head directly home.

“Thank god," Mark sighed with relief as he put his now sole machete back in its sheath, because this one actually came with a sheath!, and allowed himself a few moments of quiet as he took the sight in.

He had done it.

Despite having to literally fight to get the money that Julius had fucking promised him, he was here now with most of what he wanted and needed to bring.

Despite having to divert a chunk of his funds to help his brother out and the fucking ass stain he called his father, his sled was intact and he'd be able to start building his house now.

Despite the rabid rat, the landslide and the fucking undergrowth of the forest he had to travel through…he was here now.

Home.

The trip uphill was a drag and it was hard, but it was the sort of thing he only had to perform once in a while, so it was fine. He could get home, set up his tent, dig into his rations and sleep like the dead.

The hill disappeared under his feet and he crested the distance up and up. The more he saw the more he recognized. He had walked these hills far and wide as he got familiar with the surroundings of his house.

Over here, was a copse of trees that bat-like things like to perch in to hunt down in the forest below. They had never bothered him, so Mark had been happy to simply spectate their magnificence.

Over there was a vein of Lazuli showing off in granite that had sprouted off the ground. Maybe he'd get around to tapping it someday but for now? He simply watched it as he passed.

Over there was a cliff that stood over the forest he had just traveled through and allowed himself to look deep into the horizon beyond it. And was reminded for the thousandth time how beautiful this place was.

Over there was a rock that overlooked the path that he would usually take. The safe but long path that twisted through a few hills. The rock stood like a guardian just waiting for him to come back. It was a stalagmite that was practically his welcome mat. It was-

-there was something on top of it.

Laying on top of the rock with a rather relaxed posture, was a green long-eared creature staring at where Mark would have usually traveled to and from.

It had a spear in hand, it was wearing a loin cloth, a yawn revealed fang-like incisors and it was scratching its ass.

The bottom of Mark's stomach fell.

His home, the place where he planned on building his house, was his heaven. It was quite literally the spot where the world wouldn't be able to reach him. Where he could be by himself and to himself and not have to be part of the doomed men barely making a living in the tents.

He had planned on putting the walls of his house up this time around. Probably even make a rudimentary roof so that he wouldn't have to sleep in a tent for the first time since his mother died. He had planned on going to bed here, sweaty and dirty with sawdust, only to make heavy meals before sleeping in a warm cabin. He had planned on making a slow fire on a stone chimney, as he stared out a slightly open window into a world welcoming the winter months.

Alas.

Nothing good ever lasted in his life.

Of course, he was a dumbass to expect that he could have anything in this world.

Of course, he should have known that this dream of his wouldn't last.

The native, just by his presence. Just by sitting there awaited him with its shitty pointy stick in hand, had already ended his dream.

This green creature, this native, dispelled any notion that Mark could build a house here all to his own. He had claimed this spot, paid and worked on it but, hah, why had he ever assumed that would make it his?

Hahaha.

He left his sled where it was, on flat ground so that it wouldn't slide off, as he drew his newly minted machete off his pack.

He freed the blade from his sheath and the sound it made as it left its housing only made Mark shiver. It's heavyweight in his hand felt right.

And then he marched on to meet this interloper.

At that moment, something inside of Mark had snapped. And he didn't particularly care what.