In which Sonnet reflects upon his time in the Mojave Wasteland, vowing to carry out his code of justice and honour despite the hellish conditions he now finds himself in. Continuing on his quest to find his place in the broken world, he collects his thoughts as he comes across a regular and quite extraordinary sight in the Wasteland…

[audio:http://ready-up.net/blogassets/mike/mike-tnw-dry.mp3]

I venture alone in the vast devastation,

the remnants of what was once a great nation.

A prosperous land that has since been left hollow

where the wretched remains of the past now wallow.

It’s warm midday as the harsh sun beats down,

charring the skin on my uncovered crown.

Inside of my armour, all dusty and brown,

the sweat starts to pool and I feel I could drown.

Amidst this discomfort, I remain calm,

even as my gun starts to slip from my palm.

These are conditions to which you never acclimatise

from the day of your birth to that of your demise.

Over the horizon, I encounter a body.

Its weapons are rusty, its armour is shoddy.

I leave his armaments: they’re rusty and crumby.

I pick from his pockets – from the dead – his money.

I carry on hiking the perilous road

on the hunt for my next temporary abode.

I wander the landscape, from base to base

looking for somewhere to call my own place.

I journey onwards, towards my next home,

travelling forwards, lost and alone.

Though I travel solo, both at night and in day,

it didn’t always used to be this way.

I’d explore with companions, a varying bunch,

whom I’d always pick out on little more than a hunch.

There was a world-weary sniper, a feisty young girl,

a centuries-old ghoul who’d seen enough of this world.

Alongside these people with whom I indentured,

together into the vast wasteland we ventured.

But as pleasant as it was to travel with a friend,

such bonds were always severed brutally in the end.

A bullet to the head finished one companion;

for another, a tumble into a deep groaning canyon.

A vigorous beating, a step on a mine,

Ended their lives way before their time.

So I wander myself, isolated, alone,

searching for a place I can call my home.

I will no longer inflict such levels of pain,

although in the wasteland, this view may be vain.

But in my honour of justice I will not be mistaken,

for it was these honest hearts that I had forsaken.

In this harsh desert, death may come soon,

I think as a figure crosses a dune.

It may be an insect, hideously mutated;

a pariah who’s exiled and beaten, berated.

A bloodthirsty maniac, with lust to be sated,

or simply a patch of land irradiated.

The ways to succumb to this harsh place are vast,

such are the ways to depart the world fast.

I lift up my sniper scope and line up the sight

over the figure on the hilltop’s height.

My heart rate slows down, my breathing starts to plummet

as I target the person on the hill’s summit.

My target lines up with the head of the figure

as my finger starts to gently squeeze the trigger…

A man on the crest, with a child in his arm,

laughing and smiling, safe from harm.

I lowered my sight: it’s hard to remember

not everyone here is out here to maim and dismember.

Before I reholster, I give a quick scan,

ensuring the safety of the boy and the man.

I remain disillusioned in this world half-filled,

but I will not allow those not worth it be killed.

I’ll dispatch of the evil that deserves it;

slavers and fascists and pieces of shit.

But in this world, in its broken beauty,

to defend the weak and the innocent is my duty.

I lower my weapon when I’m satisfied

that in the surroundings no villians reside.

I continue on my way in my cracked leather shoes,

my only reminder of those old world blues.

I hoist on my backpack, my heavy load,

once again setting off down that lonesome road.

Despite this new world’s established insanity,

I remain Earth’s last, best hope for humanity.