The crude oil, now dubbed "Black Gold" by the euphoric onlookers, had slumbered for two hours in its makeshift steel cradle, the frantic heat of its birth slowly leaching away into the cool morning air. When the time was deemed right, Michael performed a simple, almost ceremonial act. He filled two clear glass jars, placing them side-by-side on a relatively flat section of the trailer's bed. The contrast was stark, a visual poem of aspiration versus reality.
In one jar sloshed the diesel he had brought from the other side—a clear, pale amber liquid that caught the weak dawn light like fine whiskey. In the other jar rested the fruit of their all-night vigil: a substance so profoundly dark it seemed to swallow the light, a viscous, inky sludge reminiscent of thick soy sauce or cold, congealed blood.
A collective, subdued murmur ran through the gathered crowd. The visual discrepancy was undeniable, a splash of cold water on their earlier fervor. Old Gimpy's hopeful expression faltered. Broyo scratched one of his horns, a low, doubtful grumble in his chest.
Michael, however, looked utterly unperturbed. The notes had been explicit about this. The "Black Gold" would be high in sulfur, acidic, and brutal on any engine unfortunate enough to consume it. Its color was the least of its problems. A bit of bleaching clay and some chemical agents—the ratios meticulously noted—could turn it amber or a deep claret red. But in Michael's mind, such cosmetic refinement was a ludicrous extravagance. So it's black?he thought, a wry smile touching his lips. Be grateful it exists at all. Take it or leave it.
To confirm its fundamental nature, he performed a test both absurd and practical. Dipping a finger into each jar, he brought a tiny droplet of each liquid to his tongue. The modern diesel delivered a familiar, chemical bitterness. The Black Gold followed with a nearly identical, eye-watering burn. He spat violently into the dust, chasing the taste with a long swig from his canteen.
"It's the same breed, if not the same pedigree," he announced, wiping his mouth. "Time for the real test."
A decrepit Great Wall pickup truck, a veteran of the Wasteland scavenged and revived, was rolled into the cordoned area. Under the red-rimmed, intensely focused gaze of Old Gimpy, its fuel tank was drained of the precious, pale legacy fuel. Then, with a reverence usually reserved for sacramental wine, roughly five liters of the pitch-black liquid were carefully funneled in. The act felt both sacrilegious and thrilling.
"Gimpy," Michael said, his voice cutting through the tense silence. "Do the honors."
He wasn't being lazy. He understood the politics of spectacle, the currency of participation. In the eyes of his people, to be the one who turned the key was not a chore, but a blessing, a mark of profound trust. It was a small gesture that cost him nothing and bought immense loyalty.
The effect was immediate. Old Gimpy, his eyes already raw from sleeplessness, now swam with unshed tears of sheer, overwhelming emotion. His gnarled hand, the one that had assembled countless broken things, trembled violently as it reached for the ignition. It took him three attempts to steady it enough to slot and turn the key.
The engine coughed, sputtered, and then, with a sound like a sick bear clearing its throat, rumbled to life. But the vigil was not over. The old fuel lines still held traces of the good diesel. They waited, the minutes stretching like taffy, listening to the uneven grumble of the engine. Would it seize? Would it choke on this strange, dark blood?
Five minutes passed. The engine, while running rougher, with a thicker, dirtier sound, continued to turn over. It lived. It functioned.
The realization dawned slowly, then all at once. The miracle was real, and it was hideous, and it was theirs. Michael let the moment hang, savoring the dawning awe on their faces, before breaking the silence with a pronouncement.
"Ladies and gentlemen of Sweetwater Gulch," he called out, his voice ringing with a theatrical triumph that would have made a Quidditch announcer proud. "Let the record show! As of this dawn, we are no longer supplicants begging for fuel! We are producers! We have our own refinery! The era of scarcity is over!"
The dam broke. A roar of pure, unadulterated joy erupted, louder and wilder than before. This was not the shocked cheer of proof-of-concept, but the full-throated celebration of a future reclaimed. The barmaids, Linda and Kaoru, squealed with laughter and launched themselves at Michael, peppering his face with grateful, exuberant kisses. Beyond the tarps, children who had been woken by the first cheers now added their shrill voices to the cacophony. Soon, the entire settlement, many still rubbing sleep from their eyes and unaware of the specifics, was caught in the wave of jubilation. For two hours, Sweetwater Gulch was not a besieged outpost in a broken world, but a village at the heart of its own renaissance.
Later, as the celebrations subsided into a warm, exhausted hum, the inner circle gathered around Michael, their eyes shining with a fervor that bordered on religious zeal. They awaited his next command, ready to march into hell itself if he asked.
Their leader, however, was pragmatic. "Right," he said, clapping his hands together. "We've all been up all night re-inventing the wheel, or at least the fuel for it. Everyone, go get cleaned up, find some food, and for heaven's sake, get some sleep. We'll reconvene later to plan the next steps." He then added, with a grin that was entirely his own, "Oh, and Linda, Kaoru… my dears? Do pop by my quarters later. I seem to be coming down with something. I believe a… thorough examination is in order. Bring the nurse outfits." He winked.
The fervent, devoted expressions on the faces of Old Gimpy, Broyo, and the others flickered, replaced by a unified, profound, and utterly speechless bemusement. "..."
Michael awoke to the soft lavender hues of dusk filtering through his window. After the long, grimy vigil, the simple pleasures of a shower with actual, scented soap, a gloriously pungent bowl of noodles, and a deep, dreamless sleep felt like luxuries befitting a king. The only slight disappointment in an otherwise perfect day had been the arrival of his "nurses." For alongside the giggling Linda and Kaoru, clad in outfits adapted from a pre-Collapse medical catalog, had been Jasmine. The amnesiac woman, upon hearing "Ba-Ba" was playing a new game with the sisters, had insisted on joining with an expression of pure, innocent curiosity. Faced with that guileless gaze, Michael's more salacious plans had evaporated. He had simply gone to sleep, albeit with a mind mildly tantalized by the peculiar possibilities of the situation.
By the time he stirred, the rest of the settlement had been awake for hours, buzzing with a nervous energy that no amount of sleep could quell. A late "dinner" was consumed, and then, as proper night fell, the council reconvened in the main lodge. The air was thick with the smell of weak tea, woodsmoke, and ambition.
The agenda was singular: the establishment and operation of the "Sweetwater Gulch Diesel Concern." And as it turned out, Michael's lieutenants had not been idle during his rest.
"Lord," began Old Gimpy, using the more formal title that surfaced in serious moments. "We spoke. We believe a secure, walled compound must be built, solely for the refinery. John has sworn his men will guard it with their lives. We'll even mount one of the heavy machine guns. This secret… it cannot leave this valley."
Michael leaned back, steepling his fingers. "A valid concern. But tell me… are you all certainthis knowledge is lost? The process seems… brutally simple. Surely someone, somewhere in the Great Barrens, must have stumbled upon it?"
Old Gimpy shook his head with conviction. "We are certain. No settlement has such a thing. The reason, we think, is that before the Great Burning, in this land… they had no need. The earth bled the easy oil. Why dig through trash for it?"
The insight struck Michael with the force of a physical blow. Of course. In the profligate old world of America, swimming in crude, who would bother with the messy, toxic hassle of pyrolyzing plastic bags and old tires? The knowledge, if it ever existed, would have been a fringe curiosity, not a survival skill. The cataclysm had not destroyed it; it had simply never been common enough to preserve. The thought was staggering in its irony.
"Very well," Michael nodded, approving the security measures. He went further, his mind leaping ahead. "We'll zone an entire industrial sector in the rebuilding plans. A single, sooty cauldron is a start, but it is not an industry."
Pleased, the council presented their problems. "The fuel for the boilers, Lord," said Richard, the half-elf's practical nature coming to the fore. "Wood, scavenged coal… it consumes a great deal. Sustainable for a week, a strain for a month. And the feedstock—the rubber and plastic. The scavengers can supply us now, but for continuous operation? The demand will outstrip their finds."
Michael's smile returned, wider this time. These were not mysteries, but logistics. And logistics, with the resources of two worlds at his fingertips, could be managed.
"Then we shall solve them," he declared, and began to outline schemes, one after another. Some were brilliant in their simplicity, others wildly ambitious. Ideas flowed for sourcing fuel, for incentivizing scavengers, for creating collection networks. His lieutenants, grounded in the harsh realities of the Wasteland, refined them, sanding off impossible edges, reinforcing practical beams. The conversation spiraled outwards, from the refinery to crop rotations for the newly broken earth, to the sewage system for the growing town, to the reinforcing of the palisade.
Dawn was once again tingeing the sky when they finally adjourned. Exhaustion was a physical weight on their shoulders, but it was drowned out by a fiercer, hotter fire burning behind their eyes. The Wasteland had taught them the value of toil. It had taught them that sweat was the currency of survival. And now, for the first time, they truly believed that their sweat was building something that would last. The future was no longer a dim hope; it was a blueprint, smudged and hastily drawn, but tangible. And it was theirs to fill.