Seventh 2 Survive (WAYHAUGHT)

26-135

Being a surface dweller afforded few luxuries. In fact, existing on planet Earth at the tail-end of the 22nd century afforded no luxuries at all, other than perhaps a name rather than a number. Xavier had many names. Some, like the scientist, knew him as the Desert Rat, able to survive where most would perish. Others, like the monk, knew him as the Defender, who had made it his mission to rescue as many as he could from a regime which forced them to work until their lungs gave out. Then there were those, like the Admiral, who called him the Destroyer, fearing his growing influence as someone who wanted a new narrative to be told about Earth. A better narrative, one that included surface survivors.

The monk slowed her bike, spotting another storm brewing on the horizon. She needed to assess the situation. Fast. It was known for winds to toss a bike into the air, its rider even higher. Already too far from the facility to return, she decided to ride at speed towards the edge of the settlement, hoping to outrun what was heading in her direction. That carried its own risks. A buried rock, or some other concealed piece of debris, could throw her from the bike, worse break it, and break her. If she managed not to be injured, the remaining distance on foot almost certainly would kill her.

Setting off, she picked her way through the landscape, the bike growling between her legs. An abandoned army carrier loomed into view, sand whistling around its sides, and through a large hole where a missile must have pierced its thick metal coat. Stripped clean of parts, left to be weathered by the wind, it stood as a rusty relic of that which came before the great migration to the rings.

By the time she reached the perimeter of the settlement the storm was upon her. The wind carried with it razor-sharp grit, travelling at speeds which could peel the skin from a person's face. Thankful for her mask, she let her bike crawl towards where she needed to go, where those who clung to the edges of society hung out. An old military poncho concealing her jumpsuit, she entered the establishment, careful not to make eye contact with those inside. It didn't pay to be too curious in devil dens.

"One booli," she said, parking herself at the end of the bar.

The server returned with a metal beaker, filled a third of the way with a black liquid. "Two tokens," placing the beaker before her, tapping his tattoo to receive payment.

She placed her thumb against his skin. At least her credit was still good, perhaps because this was where criminals made a living, and where those on the very edge of society wound up. She glanced over her shoulder before discreetly placing a blue poker chip on the counter. The server nodded in the direction of the only other person seated at the bar. His clothing suggested freight transporter, although the deep scar on his cheek suggested something else.

She watched the stranger pocket the chip. She heard him leave his seat. "Three booli," he demanded, not bothering to introduce himself. His beaker filled to the brim, he gulped the fermented bean drink without pause. "Meet me outside," he instructed, not looking at her. "Leave yours."

The lower level of a derelict building provided their first stop. An abandoned Tesla their second. Windows smashed, seats ripped, it offered little more than somewhere to sit out the storm.

The stranger handed back the gambling chip. "You shouldn't have come in," he said, his breathing mask cloudy from years of being scratched by sand, his communicator crackly, making it hard for her to hear him over the roar outside.

"Everyone's..." She waved her hand, pointing to her ear to tell him she couldn't hear. He removed his mask, face sweaty. The monk did the same, the stench from the car making her wish she hadn't. "Everyone's edgy since they started letting the women and children go from the domes."