Old man Chester poked at the fire with a blackened stick, sparks flickering their way up into the star filled night sky. The others had just returned from a scavenging trip from the city once known as Philadelphia and it had been a successful time. Grunt dragged in a whole bag of tin from a burned out recycling station that was buried in a pile of rubble, hidden from other scavengers. His sister, Tinker, had even managed to find some shoelaces and would be able to trade them for several meals with the Rovers the next time they came by to haggle. The little group was worn out and drew close to the fire tonight, celebrating their success with a few sips of oil-ale and some rotten-toothed smiles.

“So, you ain’t gonna let me sleep tonight without hearin’ bout the Magar Machine again are ya?” Chester eyed the ragtag bunch huddled around the fire, the firelight dancing in his eyes, which were day by day slowly being filled by cataracts.

The other remained silent but here and there a slight nod or a smirk wiggled its way onto someone’s face.

“Well it ain’t been so quick since we last heard it so I'm guessin’ it’s time for another go at it. Shuffle up then.”

The others scooted a little closer to the aged man, some drawing arms around one another, while a few others pulled their tattered blankets a little higher over their shoulders and closed in, eagerly anticipating the telling of one of their favorite tales.

Chester paused for a moment and eyed the individuals who gave him such attention. To think of what could have been for them had the cataclysm not happened. So much of their future would have been so different.

“As ya know, it all started before the Rupture. The world was an incredible place filled with wonders that we ain’t never even imagined now. One of the greatest of these was ice hockey. Great warriors would attach blades of steel to their feet using leather boots and laces, and do battle on a sheet of ice to try and determine who was the greatest among them.”

Tinker fingered one of the shoelaces she had recently found, rubbing it lightly between thumb and forefinger as if it were a string of prayer beads that she had read about in one of dark books.

“These battles,” Chester continued, “were narrated and announced by great orators who would speak of their deeds on the ice as it happened, while multitudes would listen in using talk boxes, or even watch it themselves on the fabled televisio portals.”

This never ceased to amaze some of the younger ones who believed that old man Chester made some of the details up for they could not believe that such a thing were possible. Still, the whispers in the firelight among two of the littles could be heard above the crackling of the flames.

“Over and over again the great warriors would wage war against each other in tight formations. They would wear armour and hold dull bladed spears, hurling hardened chunks of frozen rubber down the ice in a stunning display of bravery. The greatest of these men would be given awards, with their deeds being written down for all to read of, at least before the Rupture came along and destroyed these tales from written memory. But the greatest of the awards. The task that all warriors dreamed of before they laid their heads down for the night, was the Challenge Cup. Forged in the great forges of a city now long forgotten by time, it was said to hold magics that would make the warriors cry should they hold it, and would cause the wombs of women viewers to be filled with child when the men who supported their warriors celebrated the victory of their tribes.”

Eyes narrowed as Becel heard this last line. Though she was noted as one of the most beautiful in camp, having nearly half of her teeth still in her mouth long past her sixteenth birthday, she raised a hand and set it upon her own belly. To think that the process of having a child could happen simply by men seeing their tribe win a Challenge Cup. That kind of magic was something that she dared not even dream of these days.

“Year upon year the tribes did battle, with great warriors such as Lord Pretty Flacko, VLAD McZehrl, and John McBride, entering the arena and accomplishing deeds that few thought were possible. However, all of this was before Magar. Before the Machine. Before the Rupture.”

Chester went quiet, his eyes flittering from one to another as a solemn look fell upon all of their faces. The Rupture was rarely spoken about except during the Times of Tales, and even now it felt shameful to speak of it, though they knew it must be said.

“Then he arrived. The tale of his journey before he came to wage war with the others is for another night, but his arrival was barely noted in the great books at the time. Few even noticed his existence, with one of the historians writing only that ‘This player has no future in the arena beyond a carrier of spears or holder of water jugs. He will be lucky to even be acquired in the Day of Selections.’ It seemed as if Magar was destined to have a tale like so many others, of a star fallen from the sky only to burn up as it fell.”

A series of coughs began to rattle in Chester’s chest, banging away like the Forge of the Fury during one of the Reapenings of old. Flecks of blood spattered out and onto the ground in front of him and Grunt offered up his oil-ale for the old man to drink of, though Chester waved it away with a shaking hand. Several minutes later his coughing ceased and with a quick wipe of his mouth with the back of his hand he carried on.

“For a time it seemed that Magar’s story would be as it was foretold. Short and unmoving. However, it became clear soon enough that there was the blood of an old warrior in him, though it would take many Reapenings to discover which Ancient gave him his powers. As he started on his first days in the Underleagues, few gave him any notice. He was a Guardian of the Blue and often those who assume such roles are ignored as being less important that the others. The Flingers of the Bullet, the Defenders of the Cage, or even the Swingers of the Knuckles, were given more respect and spoken about in ways that Guardians rarely ever were. There was a story being written from the first day. A story that would echo onto into eternity and be woven into the very fabric of our life here today. Tomorrow I will continue that story and tell you more about the Machine.” Chester went quiet, his eyes turning to the firelight as he reached out to warm his wrinkled fingers by the fire.

Some sounds of ‘More! More!’ burbled out from the group, while a few of the elders shushed them, telling them to be respectful and wait until the next day. One by one they left the protection and warmth of the fire and retreated to their caves for the night, hoping that they would make it one more sleep without the Scowlers finding them.

Eventually there sat only Chester and another of the Elders, Darius, a silence growing between them. Darius picked up a rock from his feet and tossed it into the darkness, his eyes staying on the firelight as he spoke. “Do ya still believe the Machine is out there Chester or do ya tell it only for the littles?”

Chester shook his head, a quiet rattling in his chest as the fluid built up slowly over time.

“I ain’t got no hopes but for believin’ it Darius. I either believe it or all hope is gone and we should just all march down to the Wells and end it now. He’s out there and his armies are gonna one day come back and take back what was stolen from us all by the Scowlers. For the littles it’s what I cling to.” S
Silence once more, and this time it remained.

Darius and Chester sat for a time before they too rose up and took to the caves, kicking some dirt over the fire to douse the light before they did so. Hope was all that was left for them now. Hope that Magar the Machine would one day return to reclaim what was stolen from them all.

I might just be a sucker for dystopia but hype af for a second part.