Drifters.
The name's Fish. I used to be called something different, but Fish is what I go by. After the Apocalypse, names lost meaning. The survivors were twisted by radiation. No humans left; humans went extinct. All that was left were mutants.
The mutation wasn't all bad. I was approaching retirement age, and now, according to a fellow mutant, I could potentially never age. I feel so young. Like I was a kid again. Still, I look like a damn fish. I'm covered in green scales, my lips bulge in a way not meant to be natural and my ears have been replaced by yellow flaps. I've even got gills. Not that I'd ever go swimming in the sea; that damn near evaporated with the bomb strikes.
After the Apocalypse happened, I didn't have a purpose. I wandered aimlessly, with a gun at my side, trying to make it from one day to another. That's what a lot of folks do. We're drifters; strays from all around the Wasteland. We haven't got any home, any clan, any family. All we have is the gun at our side, and the resources of the land.
Still, I've met a fair few drifters. We share our resources, sit around the fire and tell stories. One story always gets different reactions: the Nuclear Throne.
Nobody knows what exactly it is. Some say it's a weapon, others say it's magical. All we know, is that in the old Palace, in a place thrumming with radiation, there is something that is generating all that power. A couple of accounts describe it as a massive throne, with the corpse of some mutant on it.
Some insist that it's just a stupid story. Others say that it's the only thing worth living for. All I know is, I want to find it. As do a lot of other mutants.
As I pull out my guitar, and strum a few notes on it, I glance over at my friend and fellow drifter. She got a worse deal than I did; at least I'm still organic. Her name's Crystal, and like my name it's appropriate. Her whole body looks like it's made of deep purple crystal. She looks more like a monster than a former human. We both do.
As the fire burned down to the embers, I turned to her. "We'll need to gather more supplies tomorrow." My voice sounds like I've chugged a couple of gallons of applesauce. She nodded.
"Yes. More bullets, more medkits for when things go wrong, and more food for you." Her voice was always slightly distorted, like an old TV set. Neither of us had heard one for a while.
One advantage of being made out of crystal was the fact that she didn't need to eat. Still, it wasn't much in the wasteland. I loaded up my revolver, checked the cylinders and snapped it together.
"Night."