The steel door of the storage unit rolled shut with a sound like a falling portcullis, sealing Michael inside a cathedral of empty space. The air was cool and still, thick with the smell of concrete dust and the faint, oily scent of his new acquisition—the Isuzu truck, now packed to the roof with the hopes and supplies of a burgeoning nation. He walked the perimeter of the vast, echoing chamber, a lone sentinel in his own private universe, peering through the high, grimy windows to confirm the desolation of the surrounding units. Satisfied with the profound lack of witnesses, he double-checked the heavy padlock on the inside of the door. Home sweet airlock,he thought, a grim smile touching his lips. The transition point had been upgraded.
There was a certain ceremony to it now. He climbed into the cab of the Isuzu, the diesel engine grumbling to life, its sound oddly sacrilegious in the sterile quiet. Beside it, like a sad, boxy shadow, sat the battered Wuling Sunshine. He'd retrieved it under cover of darkness, a decision born of frugality more than sentiment. It was a piece of junk, but it was hispiece of junk, and in the Wasteland, even a piece of junk with four wheels and a working engine was a treasure. He'd tow it through. Waste not, want not.
He closed his eyes, not in prayer, but in focus. The familiar, cool knot of potential behind his brow stirred, unfurled, and blossomed. The world beyond the windshield didn't so much tear as part, the very air in front of the Isuzu's grille shimmering before resolving into the swirling, emerald vortex. He took a deep breath of the warehouse's stale air and drove forward, the tow cable pulling the Wuling obediently behind him.
The spatial vertigo was, as ever, a gut-wrenching lurch. One moment, the smell of concrete and diesel. The next, the dry, mineral-rich scent of the Wasteland cave, undercut by the pungent, animal musk of his Ogre. His vision cleared to reveal the familiar rough-hewn walls, now illuminated by a brilliant shaft of midday sun stabbing down from the cave mouth. Framed perfectly in that blinding rectangle of light, like a living gargoyle awaiting its master, was the massive, craggy face of Zach. The Ogre's single eye blinked slowly, a beacon of simple loyalty.
Michael also noted, with a practical eye, that the roof of the cave now cleared the top of the Isuzu's cargo box by a hand's breadth. This was the limit. Any larger a vehicle, and he'd be shopping for a new dimensional driveway. He filed the thought away for future consideration.
He leaned out of the window, the Wasteland's dry heat a tangible presence after the warehouse's chill. "Progress report, Zach. The time?"
The Ogre accepted the proffered, rustling sack of 'Wei-You' Spicy Strips with the reverence of a priest receiving a sacrament. His eye practically misted over. "The sun is at its peak, Master. Noon."
Perfect,Michael thought, a spark of theatrical instinct igniting. Noon meant the settlement would be at its most populous, taking their meager lunch break. His return, in this impressive new metal beast, would be a public event, a morale-boosting spectacle. "Then we parade, Zach!" he declared, his voice echoing in the cavern. "To Cinder Town! Let them see their lord returns, and let their cheers fuel our endeavors!" He stamped on the accelerator with gusto.
The Isuzu, far heavier and more ungainly than the Wuling, lurched forward like a startled bull. It was only as it began to gather momentum down the rocky slope outside the cave that a cold, horrifying realization dawned. The weight. The sheer, colossal weight of a fully-loaded 4.5-ton truck plus a towed vehicle on a steep, uneven decline. His bravado evaporated, replaced by the stark vision of a catastrophic rollover.
"ZACH!" he bellowed, sheer panic cutting through the engine's roar. "THE BRAKES! PULL! FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT'S SPICY, PULL!"
What followed was not a drive, but a controlled, screaming descent. The Ogre, reacting with astonishing speed, planted his feet, wrapped his massive arms around the Isuzu's rear bumper, and leaned back, his claws scoring deep grooves in the bedrock. The truck shuddered, groaned, but slowed. For the next twenty minutes, they performed a bizarre duet: Michael wrestling the steering wheel, feathering the brakes, and shouting directions; Zach acting as a living, grunting emergency brake and recovery winch whenever the wheels sank into soft sand. It was undignified, terrifying, and somehow, deeply bonding.
As Cinder Town's jagged silhouette grew on the horizon, a sound reached them, carried on the hot wind. It was not the orderly cheer Michael had anticipated. It was a roar. A wild, ululating, incoherent cry of hundreds of voices raised in what could be ecstasy, terror, or madness. It swelled as they approached, a tangible wave of sound.
A rather enthusiastic welcome committee,Michael thought, his earlier vanity cautiously reasserting itself. My popularity is clearly… visceral.
The scene that greeted him as the Isuzu and its pathetic towed shadow rumbled through the town gate was one of pure, unvarnished bedlam. The main street was a river of frenzied bodies. Townsfolk—men, women, children, hybrids of all descriptions—were not lined up in respectful admiration. They were dancing, leaping, spinning in dizzying circles, clutching each other and weeping, their faces contorted with a euphoria so intense it bordered on pain. They were, to a person, utterly, magnificently insane with joy. This was not about him.
Before confusion could fully solidify, the passenger-side door was nearly wrenched from its hinges. Onil, the massive guard, slammed into it, his face a mask of such radiant excitement it was almost frightening. "Master! THE WATER! THE WELL! IT BREATHES! IT LIVES!"
The first half of the sentence sparked a bizarre and entirely wrong interpretation in Michael's mind. The second half corrected it with the force of a physical blow. The well. The deep well. It's struck water.
His own delayed reaction was a pure, unfiltered surge of triumph that bypassed his brain and went straight to his limbs. He joined the madness, leaning on the horn, creating a rhythmic, blaring counterpoint to the cacophony. "WATER! IT'S WATER! WOOHOO!" he howled, pounding the steering wheel. The theoretical thirst of a modern man had been replaced by the bone-deep, lived reality of Wasteland aridity. This wasn't just hydration; this was liberation. Lynda. Faye. Clean. Finally, truly clean.The implications, personal and otherwise, blossomed in his mind like flowers in a sudden rain. And they're of age, by the standards of this place. Stop being a prude, Gao.
He fought his way to the well site, the epicenter of the frenzy. A knot of his inner circle—John, Old Gimpy, Lynda, Faye—stood by the rough stone rim, their clothes dark with splashes. A dog-hybrid miner, his snout quivering with emotion, was holding court.
"...just a seep at first, see? A weepin' in the dark. Then, just before high sun, the pick found a crack in the bone of the earth. A crack! We pried… and the world sighed." The miner's eyes were wide, reliving the miracle. "A gush! Cold and clear! It shot up, it did! Like a fist from below! Hit me right in the face! I drank the sky!"
Michael, caught up in the story, clapped the man on his furry shoulder. "A hero of the aquifer! Your crew will be rewarded. Handsomely." The dog-man looked ready to faint with joy.
He turned to Old Gimpy, who was staring into the well-shaft as if into the face of a god. "The yield? What's the flow?"
The old man didn't look up. "Don't know," he whispered. Then his voice cracked, rising to a tremulous shriek. "WE DON'T KNOW, MY LORD! AND THAT'S THE GLORY! We've hauled fifty buckets! Sixty! The water… it rises! It's not a gift, it's a… a partnership!" He was weeping openly, tears cutting tracks through the grime on his cheeks.
Amid the emotional torrent, Michael's modern mind grasped for procedure. "The counter!" he barked. "The Geiger counter! Now!" A guard sprinted away.
When the device was placed in his hands, a profound silence fell over the immediate crowd. The only sound was the distant, ongoing celebration. Michael switched it on, its quiet, methodical click-click-clickthe most important sound in the world. He held it over a freshly drawn bucket. The clicks remained slow, lazy, background noise. Not the frantic chatter of poison.
He didn't announce the result. He simply dropped the device, plunged his whole head into the bucket, and drank. The water was shockingly cold, with a clean, flinty taste that held a faint, incredible sweetness. It was the best thing he had ever tasted.
He came up gasping, water streaming from his hair. He saw Faye standing nearest, her amber eyes wide. In a single, fluid motion, he hoisted the half-full bucket and upended it over her head.
The deluge drenched her utterly, plastering her simple tunic to her slender frame, revealing curves previously hidden by dirt and loose fabric. She gasped, not in shock, but in sheer, shocking delight, a laugh bursting from her lips.
That was the signal. The dam broke entirely. A human wave surged towards the buckets. People drank until they choked, then flung what was left over their neighbors. Buckets were passed hand over hand from the well, each splash met with screams of laughter. A burly man dumped a bucket over John the Minotaur's head, and the warrior roared with laughter, shaking his horns like a dog, spraying everyone nearby. Children slipped and slid in the suddenly muddy ground, shrieking with joy. The grim, dust-caked palette of Cinder Town exploded into a million glittering droplets, catching the noon sun and scattering it into rainbows.
The First Cinder Town Water Festival had begun, not by decree, but by irresistible, drenching joy. Harry Potter Michael stood amidst the soaking, laughing throng, water dripping from his chin, and knew, with absolute certainty, that he was no longer just a visitor, or a lord. He was the man who had brought the rain.