Futuristic From End to End [Post-Apocalyptic RP]

[Proficiently Awkward]

Illusions slithered across the dunes, shimmering and heat-slick. Even from Newt’s precarious vantage point, posted haphazardly against the roof of the transcontinental tour bus, the city was just a greasy smudge on the horizon - obscured by the blistering heat. The glossy shine of daylight pooled at low points, fooling the eye and bringing with it temperatures that burned down to the marrow. Dawn had come on with searing ferocity, same as always.

Bracing a hastily tied boot against the emergency exit hatch, Newt peered off into the western horizon, catching the faint outline of buildings towering in the distance. Posting against the sun-baked roof, the youth took little notice of the unyielding heat. By some saving grace, a congenital anomaly, Newt was spared the discomfort of his station. Chipped paint so hot it peeled clay-baked skin back from the flesh and raised blisters and he didn’t feel one iota of pain. Somewhere, something in his wiring wasn’t quite connected right. The desert could peel his carcass wide open and it wouldn’t have concerned Newt in the slightest. The complete absence of nerve-endings made him a right ferocious individual.

Well-toned muscle stuck stubbornly to his frame, filling out what would have otherwise been a ribby, unimpressive stature. Newt was neither short nor tall but was overall proportioned. Grease-paint striped across Newt’s eyelids, brushing dull-steel eyes to a bright shine; meant as a shadow to keep the reflection of the desert from blistering his eyes. A short mess of sandy-auburn hair was slicked back from his forehead, again by use of grease and it created a tousled, unkempt effect. Otherwise, the boy seemed unremarkable. Save for the marks peppering his chest and forearms - a myriad of oddly shaped scars. Slivers and pock-marks flecked his frame, the highest concentration of them rippling over wrists and fingers and low on his waistline. Natural scars – unadorned and undecorated.

As Newt scanned the increasingly indistinct line of horizon less and less of the cityscape was visible. The warmth of the morning was drenching the world and causing mirages to pool and slither into low spaces. Already, it was a heat-slick. Licking cracked lips, Newt impatiently hammered the heel of his boot on the cracked-open lid of the top emergency hatch. The thudding resonated in to the shell of the half-buried bus with a satisfying clang. It elicited no response from Rook, who was no doubt relishing the lingering coolness inside the makeshift bunker. Doggedly, Newt tilted his head, angling himself to try and peer through the slim opening in the top-hatch.

“Ought’a go ‘for it gets too hot, don’cha think?” The stocky youth barked jovially, giving the hatch another sound tap with the heel of his boot.

Newt’s incessant hammering had accomplished little more than arousing Rook’s temper. Of course, Newt was correct – Rook was procrastinating. Indulging in the cooler temperature within the bus was far and beyond more satisfying than traipsing around the salt-flats and the rawboned young man was loathe to give up his last few moments of relative comfort. Still chilled from the frigid desert night, the inside of the bunker was a pleasantly bearable temperature. Sunlight had only just begun to seep in through the cracked windows, only half-visible above the sand. Golden particles fluttered about, suspended in the half-light and giving the early morning an almost dreamy quality. Rook was loathe to give it up. Laying atop his pile of bedding near the left side of the vehicle, the rays of light had just begun to slither across his side, interrupting his laziness with a sticky warmth. Even as Newt banged again to rouse him, Rook had begun sweating. The moment was gone.

Heaving a petulant sigh, the lanky youth drew up one elbow, posting on it before he pulled the rest of his carcass up to a sitting position. Rubbing scarred fingertips through his scalp, tousling the mess of near-black hair into further disarray, Rook kicked his legs over the side of his makeshift mattress.

There was an eerie stillness about Rook. Every motion was cool and calculated. Thought out; no movement was wasted. Lanky limbs granted the man a swift, graceful appearance, but it was there that any semblance of elegance ended. Every bit of muscle Rook could boast was stuck hard to his frame, making him look raw-boned, bedraggled, and a bit malnourished. Only the burning green paleness of his eyes offered any real spark of life to the half-slumbering individual. Rook’s nose was smallish and well sculpted, though it was apparent the tender sniffer had been broken on more than one occasion. A bit of it was crooked, the mid-section raised and crossed with a paper thin scar. Another silver-sliver of scarring bisected the left side of his lips. It gave his final, defeated smirk a decidedly lopsided look.

“Right.” Grumbling groggily, Rook’s response was nearly inaudible. It wasn’t until he finally bothered to gather up coltish legs and stand, stretching, that he finally hammered a fist on the low roof of the bus. “Let’s get a move on.”

 

[Lenaara]

Proficiently Awkward


It was hot.

No, hot was an understatement. It was scorching. The air felt heavy, the sort of heaviness that one feels when inhaling and feeling the nose burn from the inside. This heavy heat pressed from all sides, unavoidable and inescapable. And it was not even noon, when the sun reached its peak and burned everything with its blinding rays.

Damn the heat. Damn the sun.

Thankfully, shadows were aplenty. Indeed, the shadow she picked for herself was a good, wide one. It failed to provide relief from the burning air, but in the very least Victoria did not feel like she was being baked like an injera, a spongy bread made of the only few kinds of grain able to survive the climate. Perched beneath the eaves of a decrepit little building of pale concrete and metal rusty framework, she sat under a large piece of cloth, its frayed edges stained with smears of various locales. It stretched across the narrow road and flapped in the soft breeze. The entire street was covered in such a way, giving the inhabitants of this part of the town enough safety from the sun to walk outside and do their daily chores, whatever those were.

Victoria raised her arms above her head and stretched, long and slow, enjoying the way her stiff muscles begin returning to life. The small concrete piece of a fence in front of her was digging into her ankles where she rested them. She adjusted the way her legs were crossed and settled a bit more comfortably on a flat rock. Sand trickled down from her coat.

She was comfortable for a whole lot of five minutes.

Irritation spurred her into action and Victoria reached towards her ear.

“I’m bored,” she snapped into the communication device. The scarf wrapped around her face muffled her voice enough not to be overheard by the passers-by, however few they were in number. Last thing she wanted was to attract attention by talking to herself. Appearing as a lunatic wasn’t the issue. The communication device, that small little piece of metal she could crush in her palm, was expensive.

An uncomfortable, expensive piece of metal the size of a bottle cap.

Static buzzed in response, hindering the voice on the other end from being heard. For a moment, Victoria thought the damn device was broken. Not that she cared whether the thing survived the heat; she wanted to know when it broke and be the one to have done it, to take pleasure in ripping it off her ear and crushing it underfoot.

For two days it’s been stuck in her ear. It hurt. For all the time it took to make it, Sidonis may as well have made the damn thing comfortable.

“Don’t kill the batteries,” the voice finally came through. Victoria thought she heard a sigh. “Do whatever it is you usually do when you wait, V.”

“Can’t. These fuckers spot a stolen item faster than they’d notice their own ballsacks missing,” Victoria grumbled in response.

“Here I thought you meditated. You’ll kill the batteries.”

Victoria shrugged, though she knew the voice in the comm couldn’t possibly know she did. “I can, I think. How solid is this intel, anyway?”

When no response came from the communication device, Victoria frowned and let out a long, tired sigh. They did agree to stay radio silent unless the target came into sight. Wasting precious electricity wasn’t worth meagre attempts at entertaining herself.

With no other option but to stay put and wait, Victoria turned her head to watch the street. Through the murky goggles everything appeared to be orange. A breeze passed beneath the cloth awnings, sending coils of rope into a fleeting flight. Dust and sand shifted over the cracked asphalt and pooled under the makeshift market stands put up along the road.

Desert dust coated her clothes, pooling into the folds of her close fit jacket and pants. They were once black but the sun’s unforgiving rays have turned the colour into an ashy brown and the dust, settling on her almost immovable frame, gave Victoria a ragged appearance.

A scarf was wrapped around her head and neck and the large goggles covered the rest of her face. It was suffocating but at least the sand did not get in the way. A mop of wavy chestnut brown hair shifted in the wind, its ends frayed and dry and as dust covered as the rest of Victoria. She wouldn’t be surprised to find sand in places it shouldn’t be. Two days of waiting out in the open, doing nothing but sitting still since she’s received enough information from the locals about her targets, has done that to her.

Even the shadow – no other trader in the market came to set up shop under this particular piece of sandy cloth – began to lose its appeal. It was as boring as the rest of this street. Watching people trade one useless thing for another had become boring on day one.

Victoria breathed in deeply, paused and let out a harsh, irritable sigh.

“Still bored,” she whispered to herself and crossed her arms over her chest. Sidonis wouldn’t have replied anyway if she’d complained into the radio comm wedged into her earlobe. Leaning back against the concrete wall of a half-ruined building behind her, Victoria turned her attention back to the main road.

It was the market street. One of the few main ones in this part of town, the closest one to the salt fields of a dried-up ocean. Through the gaps in the cloth awnings above the road, Victoria could spot the husks of once grand skyscrapers. Their carcases had been looted long ago, stripped of everything, even broken windows. Roofs and parts of the outer walls caved in, gaping at the sky with wide, dark holes. It was impossible to tell if anyone lived there; it was a foolish place to stay in. Not enough exits and when cornered, the only way out was down.

Even if there were laws in place to stop theft from occurring, Victoria knew from experience that banking on someone’s honourable nature was as foolish as falling asleep in the middle of the road at noon. It was plain idiotic.

The coastline was buzzing with life. Well, buzzing was the wrong word, unless used to describe the myriad of flies that flew around people in zig-zag patterns. People lived here as they lived anywhere else, surviving and thriving in their own pathetic ways. A certain sense of security and camaraderie did exist, but it was fragile. Hunger and prospect of death drew people together and could just as quickly drive a wedge between them.

It was also idiotic, this sense of unity and order. A waste of time. Victoria couldn’t bring herself to think on it too much and see the point behind it all. Was her throat not dry, she wouldn’t spat on the ground out of sheer disgust.

As it was, Victoria was saving her water the same way she was saving the battery life in the communication device. Without either, she wouldn’t be able to make it back to the rover and return to their hideout.

Despite the boredom and annoyance with the heat and the dull pain in her ear, Victoria remained mostly still. Each movement was subtle, unconsciously restrained not to attract unnecessary attention. It made her already small frame even less noticeable. In no way did Victoria stand out from the rest of the town’s folk – shabby dressed at first glance, lounging in the shade.

And just as any other idiot unfortunate enough to be forced outside of the cool shadows of their dwellings, Victoria was cursing the world for being a hellhole.

 

[Proficiently Awkward]

Salt ash scuffed-up from the bone-white flats coated both wastelanders from toe to tip by the time they trudged into town. Underneath the blistering midday sun, Rook looked to be little more than a corpse – shuffling petulantly and covered with a ghostly pallor of desert chalk. Rivulets of sweat ran clean paths down along his temples and neck, peeling away the grime as droplets slithered down his skin. Only the sight of the shade-producing canvas awnings strung between the derelict network of buildings put pep back into his stride. Adjusting the strap on his bag swiftly with one, thin shoulder, Rook breathed an audible sigh of relief as they slipped under the first awning. Bliss.

Contrary to Rook’s pitiful condition, Newt seemed fresh as a daisy. Covered in filth and salt-stained from the journey, true enough, yet the younger of the pair strode along with nearly foolhardy confidence in his fortitude. Raw, pink lines were evident along his smiling lips; dehydration was a real force, as much as Newt managed to ignore it. Still, the man never once wet his lips. A crimson droplet oozed at the corner of his mouth, a spot where his smile had stretched the skin too thin. Still, nothing. He paid the scorching heat no mind and seemed nearly jovial about that fact. Redoubling his keen grinning, Newt shouldered Rook boisterously, scuffling his hair – a cloud of salt ash plumed.

“Oi! How long we stayin’?”

Rook gave a grunting oof and ducked away from his companion’s exuberant outburst. In the same manner that Newt went without noticing the uncomfortable elements, he didn’t quite seem to grasp the force behind his friendly gesture. It had damn near knocked him into the dirt. Settling narrowed, pale eyes flatly on his companion, Rook sighed. It was a difficult question.

Getting into town wasn’t the issue. It was getting out that often proved problematic. Trading for whatever survival essentials took time. Took luck enough to find the right buyer. And not finding the wrong end of a knife doing it. Scavenging had lent them a lean season and what precious little they had to trade with had to stretch a ways.

“However long it takes.”

 

[Lenaara]

Proficiently Awkward


Beneath the awning, the scruffy dressed figure did not stir as two men ducked under the canvas and strode by, entering the market street. They were three stalls into the street when Victoria uncrossed her legs and rose to her feet. There was no need to pretend to be slow and inconspicuous. After hours of not moving, her muscles had fallen asleep and when she stirred, willing life into her numb legs, dust and sand fell to the ground in a misty plume.

Fucking finally.

“He is here,” she spoke into the communication device, pressing the button while adjusting the scarf from slipping from her face.

A moment of static passed before a response followed, broken by white noise, “Ack..nowledged.”

The breeze had picked up, blowing plumes of dust into the air. Sand hissed against the old worn leather of Victoria’s boots as she made her way down the road. The market street stretched for only two blocks and most stalls were half empty, displaying goods both valuable and not. Iron tins of salvaged pieces of old-world technology, rolls of dirty and thin clothing, pieces of plastic cut or ripped apart into square pieces. As Victoria passed a stall with injera, her stomach rumbled in protest. How long has it been since she’s eaten? At this point, it was hard to tell. The hollow emptiness within her belly was a constant feeling, present since she was a kid.

Two targets passed several stalls and if they stopped, Victoria did too with an intentional delay. She would feign interest in the items displayed or pretend to be taking a break by leaning against the old rusted lamp posts, lightbulbs of which were either smashed into pieces or missing. There was nothing for her to trade but the things she carried, hidden beneath the flaps of torn, layered, dusty clothing, were valuable enough to get any item from the market street. Not to say she was not mildly tempted by the earthy smells traveling along with the breeze towards her.

Several stalls were set up under the sun where the awnings ended. Patties of grain mixed with a bit of water sizzled on the rounded, hot from the sun, stones. There was no meat or fish, of course, only varieties of the same sort of spongy bread. Victoria’s stomach rumbled again at the sight and she sucked it in, rubbing a hand over the spot under her ribs.

Shut up. I will eat when this shitty job is done.

Yet again, she stopped, this time to press a shoulder into an alcove between two stalls. There were two men there, both sitting on the ground and both surrounded by an army of flies. Putrid stench of sweat and urine and iron – blood? – made Victoria’s stomach churn unpleasantly, all thoughts of food chased away. She ignored the two men as they grumbled in annoyance at the woman sharing the little shadow with them in the niche of a long-abandoned building. For their petulance, one of the vagabonds received the pointed tip of an army knife slipped precisely beneath the tip of his rounded, smashed-looking nose while Victoria kept her attention on the group of men who appeared to be tailing the same targets as her.

There were four, all of them prime examples of their race. Clad in rags patched and patched again, sampling various stains and dirt of many locales. They were not as inconspicuous as Victoria, who took great care in masking her pursuit of Newt and Rook – names more suited for dogs, but Victoria was nicknamed after a letter so she couldn’t complain – and slipped into the crowd at irregular intervals to remain unseen. And the four morons? They walked in a small group, beelining straight for Victoria’s targets.

“Oh, fuck me,” she grumbled in response and felt the tips of someone’s fingers slip over the backside of her knee. Without looking down, she kicked the man with enough force to make him roll on the ground, and nonchalantly stepped over him and made her way down the street. The army knife remained in her hand, tucked into the pocket of her baggy coat.

Another stall was passed when one of the four – the one in the middle, with a tangled mop of sun-dried hair – said something to his group and they dispersed, entering the many alleyways branching from the market street. The leader himself continued to trail Newt and Rook, carefree and untroubled by being spotted by his targets.

Holy hell you are a moronic imbecile.

Raising a hand to her ear, Victoria said into the comm-device, “Complications. There’s four shitheads trailing our guys. Should I kill them?” It was spoken softly, as if Victoria was commenting on not too favourable weather changes.

“If you have to,” Sidonis’s voice sounded tired through the static. “Follow and observe for now.”

Victoria shrugged, tucked her hands back into the pockets of her coat, and followed the orders.