Chapter 3: Migration


To follow or not to follow. The tracks, probably lead to civilization. The tracks lead to water. The tracks lead to crowds I can blend into. The tracks seem to go on forever.

Pick a direction. Any direction.
North?
Wrong.

Well if this is where it all ends, then walking off into the sunset never to be seen again doesn’t seem like such a bad idea. The stuff of legends, right Boo?

What the…Damn, I’m losing signal. Just as well, gotta conserve power. There’s no good music to celebrate death anyway.

I guess I miss ya already, Harley darlin’. Ever since the escape, the only thing constant in nomadism was you. Even when your starter button was pooched and you wouldn’t start, and I’m guessing that’s not the only reason you were in the repair shop, and I had to bypass the solenoid and spark across the battery cables with some spare booster cable. You were my first hotwired ride. The next 30 hours were magic. 36 miles per gallon; you’d aged gracefully Harley, and you were mine, all mine.

No wait. This isn’t the time to wallow in self-pity! It’s time for despair.
Walk, stroll, amble, swagger, stagger, trip and fall and die. It’s hopeless. How many screens till the mysterious chocobo carriage?

Infrasonic readings: analyse. Keyword: rain. That way.

Get up. Get up. Full speed ahead. If I start now, maybe I’ll get to it in a day or two, before the puddles dry up.

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