The world snapped back into focus with the sensory violence of a slammed door. One moment, Michael was surrounded by the damp, green stillness of Shizhu Mountain in the Chinese dawn, the air tasting of pine and wet earth. The next, he was blinking in the familiar, oven-like heat of the Wasteland cave, the air thick with the smell of dust, ozone, and the faint, bestial musk of his Ogre bodyguard. The transition still left him breathless, a phantom vertigo clinging to his bones. Around him, his chosen team—John the Minotaur and ten of the sturdiest guards, all hybrids with dark skin or features that spoke of a resilient heritage—staggered, their arms laden with the bulky, precious sacks of rice. They looked dazed, not just from the journey, but from the vision they had just left behind.
It was 7:08 AM by his internal, cross-dimensional clock. Huddled under the scant shade of a twisted, thorny tree just outside the cave mouth, Michael finished the last of his youtiao, the greasy fried dough a stark contrast to the memory of the mountain's chill. A profound, intuitive knowingclicked into place in his mind, cool and certain as a key turning in a lock. The pathway was clear again.
"Right, lads. Look alive. We're home," he announced, his voice cutting through their stunned silence. The 'preparations' were a practiced, slightly absurd ritual. The Wuling's back was stuffed with one-ton of rice. Each guard, under John's direction, then hoisted four more 20-kilo sacks, transforming them into human pack-mules. The plan was simple, born of necessary paranoia: the portal would open, the men would walk through in a line, eyes shut, marching steadily until they heard the van's horn. Then, and only then, would Michael drive through, sealing the gateway behind him. The three-minute window was tight, but feasible. The unspoken rule was the real point: no one got left behind in that other, greener world. The potential for a curious, or desperate, man to linger was a catastrophe he couldn't risk.
Two minutes later, the emerald vortex swirled to life in the mountain clearing, painting the morning mist with unearthly light. "Go! Eyes shut! Don't stop!" Michael commanded.
One by one, the laden men walked into the light. And one by one, almost every single one, faltered at the threshold. They couldn't help it. At the last second, heads turned. Eyes, wide with a hunger that had nothing to do with food, scanned the lush, dewy ferns, the vibrant green of the trees, the incredible, impossible wetnessof the air. It was a look of such profound, heart-wrenching longing that it stole Michael's breath. It wasn't rebellion; it was bereavement. They were saying goodbye to a dream on their way back to a waking life.
They know, he thought, a cold trickle of apprehension running down his spine. They've pieced it together. The Vault story is holding, but just barely. They've seen the promised land.He watched the last man vanish, the longing in his backward glance a silent shout. It was a risk. A calculated one. And for risks, he had prepared countermeasures.
The cave on the other side was cooler, the silence deeper. The men stood in a ragged group, the rice sacks at their feet like strange, blocky offerings. The awe of the transition was slowly being replaced by the grim reality of their own world. Michael let them feel it for a moment, let the contrast sink in. Then he clapped his hands, the sound sharp in the cavern.
"Gather round. A word."
They shuffled closer, their expressions a mix of residual wonder and renewed obedience. Michael pointed to the mountain of rice sacks they had carried. "Ten of those. You split them. An extra bonus, for a job well done, and for your discretion." He let the last word hang, his gaze sweeping over each face. "What you saw, what you carried… it stays with us. Is that understood?"
The reaction was instantaneous. A low, collective gasp, then a surge of raw, joyous noise. "The Lord is generous!" "Long live the Master!" The promise of nearly ten kilograms of pure, untainted grain per man was a fortune beyond their wildest dreams. The haunting memory of the green mountain was, for now, overwhelmed by the tangible, edible reality at their feet. Loyalty, Michael was learning, was often a matter of timely caloric investment.
But his strategy of consolidation went beyond full bellies. From the passenger seat of the Wuling, he retrieved three large, black plastic bags, the kind used for rubbish. They rustled, a foreign, promising sound. From the first, he pulled out a pair of bright blue rubber flip-flops, a pair of lurid, palm-tree printed board shorts in a violent shade of orange, and a simple, ribbed white tank top. He thrust the bundle at John.
The Minotaur stared at the items in his hands as if they were components of a forgotten technology. The flip-flops were smooth and new. The shorts were a blinding splash of color he'd only seen in faded, pre-Collapse pictures. The tank top was soft, unpatched, clean.
"My Lord… these are… for me?" John's voice was hushed, reverent.
"For services rendered," Michael said, with a magnanimous wave. "Everyone gets a set. Go on, try them on. I expect they'll be… distinctive."
John's single eye grew suspiciously bright. He clutched the clothes to his chest, gave a bow so deep his horns nearly scraped the ground, and then lumbered into the darker recesses of the cave, moving with a speed belying his size.
One by one, Michael distributed the "three-piece suits" from the discount wholesaler. Each recipient reacted with a similar, tremulous disbelief. For these men, whose entire wardrobes consisted of scavenged rags and functional leathers, these were not mere garments. They were artifacts. Tokens of esteem from a lord who had access to the miracles of the Before. A pair of flip-flops was a mark of insane luxury; brightly colored shorts, a declaration of status. The implied promise—you are valued, you are seen—was a potent currency, perhaps more potent than the rice. He saw it in their eyes: a fierce, new devotion. We would walk through fire for the man who gave us proper trousers.
The absence of underwear in the ensemble was noted by no one, least of all Michael. The concept was as alien here as air conditioning.
John emerged first. The transformation was, in a word, spectacular. The white tank top, designed for a large human, was stretched drum-tight over his minotaur's torso, riding up to expose a band of furry, barrel-like belly. The orange board shorts, meant to be baggy, clung to his powerful thighs like garish leggings, his tufted tail poking out through a makeshift slit. The flip-flops, the largest size available, were comically small on his wide, cloven hooves, his toes curling grotesquely over the front edge. He stood there, a mythical beast dressed for a beach holiday on a toxic shore, and on his face was an expression of pure, unadulterated pride. He felt, in that moment, like a king. The second-most impressive figure in the Wasteland.
The other guards looked at him with awe, not ridicule. To them, he was the embodiment of their lord's favor, a walking testament to a brighter, more colorful future.
The return to Cinder Town, a few hours later, was a procession of triumph. The Wuling, battered but defiant, led the way. Behind it walked a column of guards now resplendent in their new, chaotic finery, followed by wagons laden with the rice. The sight lifted the entire settlement. Cheers, genuine and unprompted, erupted from the doorways and lean-tos. The food meant survival. The outlandish clothes on their protectors meant something else: stability, peculiarity, and a leader with resources to spare on non-essentials. The promise of gruel (even with cactus) for honest work felt all the more secure.
If there was a discordant note, it was in the eyes of those who had stayed behind—the other guards, the hybrids and pale-skinned men who had missed the mission. They looked at the garishly attired work crew with a mixture of awe and a deep, palpable envy. Their glances towards Michael held a new, plaintive quality.
Michael saw it. He wasn't a heartless man, just a pragmatic one. "Patience," he called out to them, his tone easy. "Your turn will come. Next trip, you'll get your kit. Proper shirts. Maybe even a hat." The promise was genuine. Back in his world, as a lowly agricultural salesman, he had access to one thing in boundless, cheap quantities: promotional merchandise. Company-logoed T-shirts. Branded caps. They were the junk of his old life, the giveaways at trade shows. Here, they would be uniforms. A badge of belonging. The mysterious logograms on them would only add to his legend.
Finally, he turned to the cluster of female staff—Lynda, Faye, and the others. They had been watching the spectacle with keen, appraising eyes. Michael's stern, lordly expression melted into something warmer, more mischievous. He reached into the last plastic bag, rummaged around, and pulled out a tangled, rainbow cascade of sheer, sparkling fabric.
"And for my most loyal attendants," he announced, a theatrical flourish in his voice, holding aloft a fistful of cheap, fishnet stockings and lace tights in every color of a synthetic rainbow. "Behold! The pinnacle of my people's… decorative arts!"