Twelve Days of Hawtness

Day 5 | Blue Valentine (1) | LL Montez

An ARC10 Short

Synopsis: In a post-apocalyptic world, what's left of humanity has retreated underground to create a survivalist bunker city called the United Regions of Earth. Militia Captain Janika Lorn is charged with leading a top-secret evacuation to another planet. Despite preparing for launch, her obligations to her dying civilization still stand. She must produce offspring with her scientifically matched and legally contracted partner, Captain Dean Freyer – her best friend. When unfruitful, their contract is invalidated, making their union illegal. Only then do sparks fly. 

The night was darker than smoky obsidian – not a single star peeked through the roving debris-cloud that circled the globe. My night-vision lenses were suctioned to my face for so long, they became a natural extension of my head. Ears, eyelashes, chin, lips, goggles – all the same shit that made up my rugged mug.

Scanning left, I watched the official government Scavengers dig through piles of ice and snow for metal salvage, disheartened when they reached the bottom to find nothing but broken asphalt. The winter had been the hardest yet. I shuddered despite the high-tech insulation in my specially-designed battle dress uniform for Topside militia. We Reapers, the military operators who patrolled the surface of the destroyed Earth, needed all the warmth we could get.

"Captain Lorn," one of my Reapers sidled over, his rifle slack in his hands, "we're ready to wrap-up here."

"Rally the Scavs," I said, pivoting to exit the mountainous range of snow drifts. "I'm out to inform Tactical Recovery we're returning to base." My grin was imperceivable under my half-mask. "And thank them for their hospitality. Everyone's to remain here for my return."

My Reaper chuckled. "I'm sure you'll thank TR plenty for all of us."

I stopped and glanced over my shoulder. "Want to say that again, Reaper?"

I didn't need night-vision to watch him squirm. "No, Ma'am. Sorry, Ma'am."

He remained rooted to his spot as I resumed my journey over the black-splattered terrain of the ice-coated, rubble of the old city, keeping to the path plowed by militia boots on this two-week mission. TR team had made a cozy home of their outpost. Tent tops spiked from within the remains of toppled structures with four-foot-tall snow drifts flooding the valleys between them.

As I entered their camp, I was greeted by the familiar heat signature of the Tactical Recovery captain.

Of their own volition, my lenses' sensors zeroed-in on his form, reporting his 6'6", 250-pound frame, his sharp profile, his size 15 boot, his AB+ blood, his 98.5-degree temperature, his list of recent vaccinations, and his slight vitamin D deficiency. It felt strange to be struck by his green outline, the specific stats scrolling over my eyes. The scopes zoomed on his steady heartbeat. The organ appeared in my sights, highlighted in a little box that flicked to the top of my vision.