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Futuristic Our Last Days [Luscin/Syntra]

Luscinioide

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To say that Lara Permann got herself into trouble on a regular basis would be wildly inaccurate, for numerous reasons. It really depended on your definition of 'trouble,' for starters; and, perhaps even more importantly, on your definition of 'herself' as well. Sounded a bit victim-blamey, you know? Especially considering her role in this entire mess, which was practically non-existent. She was the very picture of innocence, and anyone claiming otherwise was a filthy liar!

...Okay, maybe not. Definitely not, come to think of it. Who really cared, though? Certainly not her. Admittedly, Lara hadn't cared much even back in the better days, and no power in the known universe could possibly force her to grow that kind of conscience now. And, no, it wasn't because she had unlocked some god-tier level of her 'giving no fucks' skill, or even because she was convinced of her own righteousness. The real reason was...

"Fuck," she cursed, looking outside the window. "Fucking... fuck." There were several signs that their experiment had gone more than just a little awry, but that the skyline of the city had changed beyond recognition was the biggest slap in the face. Gone were the lush gardens, the square with the statues she'd admired as a child, and even the old museum; the buildings standing there now were small, grey, uniform. Almost as if they had been printed by a 3D printer, really. All of them were unfamiliar to Lara's eyes, and under the weight of all the evidence, she had to admit to herself that, yes, she'd fucked up. Kind of.

The plan had been to stay frozen for five years. Five years was nothing at all in the grand scheme of things, especially not with the power of time on her side; for Lara, they said, nothing would really change. When the sarcophagus opened, it would be as if she had just had had a night of long, restful sleep. (That part... wasn't necessarily a lie, she supposed. Unlike the rest of it. It felt like a night, nothing more and nothing less, and Lara could even taste the cigarette she had smoked before still, even if... damn, it had to have been decades. That kind of change didn't happen overnight, or even over a few years. Fuck, how long had it been? A historian might have been able to tell, maybe, based on the degree of transformation, but Lara hadn't wasted her degree on that. On the other hand, maybe she should have? The greatest threat that historians faced was going blind from lying in all the tomes, as opposed to... uh, this. No, she didn't want to name it.)

"Piece of shit," Lara kicked the machine. Her fury was righteous, indeed, but that didn't exactly make the metal any softer, and she ended up clutching her foot in pain. "Ouch, ouch, ouch!" (Note to self: do not take out your anger on inanimate objects next time. Tempting as it is, it's rarely worth it.)

Staring outside the window, Lara considered her options. They weren't numerous, no matter how you looked at it; she could stay there and, you know, die of hunger, or head outside and investigate. Regardless of how you sliced it, the latter looked far more appealing. Maybe things wouldn't be that bad? Yeah, it was hard not to see the negative aspects of this fiasco now, but when life handed you lemons, you had to make some lemonade. If nothing else, there were things to discover, data to collect. Better than thinking about how everyone she had ever known was probably dead, eh?

Her legs didn't really feel like her own, that much had to be said. Lara supposed that that was a side effect of them not being used for so long, though she still didn't appreciate it; it sort of felt as if a whole colony of ants had moved inside, and, trust me, you didn't want them there. (Or anywhere, really. Unless you happened to be a weird ant lover, which she very much wasn't.) Hopefully, it would improve later? Because if not... well, Lara didn't know what to do or who to sue, but she was sure she'd think of something. That was kind of her job.

Outside, Lara was greeted by a soft morning light, not that dissimilar to a caress. Some things don't change, I suppose. Was that a comfort, or yet another painful contrast? There was no way for her to tell, and, to be quite honest, no point to that, either. Life went on. It would go on even if she broke down in tears, and so she didn't! The victory of pragmatism, etc. etc. Maybe one day, when things didn't feel quite as weird, Lara would write a bestseller about it.

The streets were oddly empty, she thought; not surrounded by the kind of sleepy energy that turned into hustle and bustle later, but tired, stagnant, dead. A rotting corpse, with flies all over it.

"Citizen?" Lara did not turn around. There was only one kind of person who called strangers 'citizen,' and they... weren't her favorite people. In fact, she'd rather meet your average mass murderer. "Yes, you! What are you doing here, breaching the quarantine?" Oh, shit. An array of excuses emerged in her mind, but most of them kind of relied on the 'clueless 21st century person' shtick, and that honestly sounded ridiculous even to her. Despite it being the literal truth, mind you! And then, as if that wasn't bad enough on its own: "Identify yourself."

It didn't usually take much to trigger her fight-or-flight response, and those words sure as hell did the trick. Identify herself with what? A centuries old ID? Yeah, no, thanks! Especially since she was sure that cops being unreasonable was the one (1) thing that would never change. (Without the adrenaline flooding her veins, it might have occurred to Lara that her reactions also weren't totally reasonable. It might have, but it didn't! Imagine a sad soundtrack playing in the background.)

So, long story short, Lara bolted. The daring escape went fine till it didn't; mostly because it was not too strategic to crash right into the skyscraper-sized lady crossing the road. Not too aerodynamic, you know. "Eeek!" Lara offered as her only explanation, right before tumbling down on the ground. (A half-forgotten instinct made her grab the lady's shirt, so, if she was lucky enough, the both of them ended up there. Oh, god.)

"I'm sorry," she stammered out, looking anywhere but at her face. "I really am, but I need to--"

"Stop, in the name of the law!"
 
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There had been stars there, once.

The void was vast. Endless. It stretched across the horizon, an inky black leaking forth from a depthless, nameless abyss – dark tendrils, clawing up from the barren earth, reaching for the forlorn heavens that had lost their light so long ago. Once, gazing upon the galaxy reflected in the canvas of the sky had brought hope; hope, that, somewhere out there, there was a chance to begin anew. The millions of unmapped stars, unseen, unheard, unknown, resplendent in all of their shining glory. Reach out towards them, feel them in your hands, so close but yet so far.

Four remembered their naivety with a burning resentment.

It was all a lie. Nobody would ever reach them, nor escape this wretched place, nor experience the miracle of their childish dreams and ambitions coming to fruition. There were no stars. No utopia lying unseen, hidden behind the veil of the nebulas. No hope.

There was only reality. The universe had spoken, and from its cruel lips, it whispered – ‘This is all you will ever know.’

The transparent barrier of the dome overhead was a curse, Four thought, for the view it granted of the outside world served as a constant reminder of what their lives truly were. Beyond the confinements of their delicate little ‘safe haven’ that stood teetering at the edge of a societal collapse, there was nothing. Ruins as far as the eye could see, the remnants of a dying world pushed to the brink of extinction by the greedy hands who sought to squeeze every last ounce of lifeblood from it. Abandoned factories, manufacturing facilities, high-volume housing complexes. Decaying flora, wilted and misshapen from the scorching sun that dared not show mercy upon those who did not deserve it. They could not recall the last time they had seen wildlife out there.

So thick was the smog that its toxic vapors were visible as it rolled across fractured terrain; only when the rare rainfall came did it subside, but even then, it was replaced by acidic waters that threatened to eat away at one’s flesh. Such was life.

Life. Was that what this was?

A dark scowl tugged at the corner of their lips. This existence, Four thought, was as much of a life as that of a rat whose sole purpose was to serve as another subject in a grand scientific experiment. They wondered what defined the difference between mere survival and living; was it access to nourishment, shelter, the bare minimum that humanity required to function at the most basic of levels? If one closed their eyes and refused to acknowledge that their days were numbered, that this castle of glass could not last forever…was it possible to have a normal life? Yes, they presumed that if you tried hard enough, you could fool yourself into thinking that everything was as it once was. The daily grind. Wake up, clock in, repeat the same routine, clock out, fall asleep.

Listen to their words. Convince yourself that things were fine. The government shall provide. Give from yourself, and they shall give back. Sacrifices are necessary. Trust in our promise that by letting the weak falter, the strong shall prosper.

Do not open your eyes.

Once your eyes have opened, you cannot go back.

Do not open your eyes, for once you gaze upon this world for what it truly is, you will understand that there is no saving it.


Sector-37-C was a medium-sized enclave nestled on the border of Zone HALCYON; it lingered close to the ravaged band of land known simply as the ‘Wastes’, where the long stretches of uninhabitable coasts stretched for hundreds of miles. Some believed that it stood too close to it, for when the weather within the Wastes grew dire, Sector-37-C often fell under collateral damage. A frequent complaint was that the sight of the horizon was horrendous and remarkably ugly to look at on a daily basis, so each morning a simulation of a regular daytime sky was activated, and each night, it was turned off. This was, of course, catered to the curfew hours. The citizens never had to worry about being faced with reality.

The ones that abided by the rules, anyways.

While the sector’s vertical architecture might have not been the most appealing, it was the peak of efficiency. Literally. Calling it tall was an understatement. There were numerous layers, and within those layers, smaller sections that each served a distinct purpose. Commercial, housing, manufacturing, and corporate. Most people thought of Sector-37-C in a three-tiered system, as it was the simplest way to coalesce the megastructure into a more easily understood map.

The bottom consisted of the oldest structures, repurposed from the Old World – or, at least, that was the term that government liked to use. In truth, there had been little to no renovations performed, aside from the fresh coat of paint here or there, a new support beam crafted of shoddily recycled materials to prevent imminent collapse, and perhaps a patching of the runoff pipes once every few months. For all of the elites’ virtue signaling, they seemed to have no qualm with stuffing the derelict and ‘useless’ members of society into these overcrowded slums. Here, it may as well have been a lawless underground; security personnel were few and far between, and their time was better served ensuring the safety of the more valuable individuals that had something to contribute to the grand scheme of things. Entry – and departure – from this tier was closely monitored.

There was little worth mentioning about the middle section of Sector-37-C. Stereotypically average and forgettable, it contained what most people pictured when they imagined the words ‘middle-class’; the largest portion of the commercial and manufacturing districts (of which, the runoff was neatly drained to the bottommost tier), a fine selection of standard housing complexes, and herds of mindless wage slaves who were fairly to content to act as though their lives were completely normal. Neat. Orderly. Clinically clean and sterile. At 08:00 each morning, on the dot, the artificial sunrise came to life and a cheerful, robotic voice over the intercoms announced the lifting of curfew hours. If you could overlook the armed squadrons that routinely patrolled the streets, life here was familiar and almost comforting. It was easy to let yourself fall into a state of obliviousness, to forget about what lie out behind those protective barriers.

As for the highest peaks, few knew what was up there. The government officials, corporate heads, and other persons of particular importance, obviously. Them, and their luxurious condos that were a far cry from what the majority of the population lived within. It must have been where the control rooms, research facilities, and other buildings that were of too much importance to risk security breaches with were kept. Aside from that, the only other known details was that this was where all traffic – incoming and outgoing – was directed through, standing as the only approved gateway to the outside world.

Four intended on one day finding their way up there. Not today, but soon. To be so closely protected, there had to be something hidden behind those walls…

The slender woman breathed in the sterile air, tilting their head up towards the domed ceiling. If the synthetic color arrangement of soft, warm yellows and oranges could be trusted, they supposed it was somewhere around dawn, early enough that widescale blackouts and curfew hours had yet to be lifted. Or ‘quarantine’, as they now called it. They weren’t surprised. It should have gone without saying that cramming tens of thousands of writhing bodies into the architectural equivalent of a cardboard box was a major biohazard, a festering breeding ground for disease and filth. They figured things would be back to normal in a few days.

Shifting on their heel, they fished around in their pocket for something often referred to as…vintage. A thin, rolled paper, containing a knockoff recreation of what might have been tobacco – though nobody really knew what it was supposed to taste or smell like. It was close enough. Four lifted a small cartridge to it, and with a single button press, a small arc of electricity buzzed to life and lit its end on fire. A dark, odorless smoke rolled off it, dissipating neatly into the suffocating ventilation of the alleyway.

Breaking two rules now. Daring.

They let the mock cigarette dangle precariously from their lips. In their head, they ran over the agenda for the day: meet the agent in District 3, acquire the shipment of dopamine boosters, turn it over to the fence in District 5, attend the meeting with the representative to establish a new route, and…and something else that they couldn’t quite remember. What had it been?

Four’s towering boots rolled off the pavement with an almost feline level of grace. The ease with which they blended into their surroundings was baffling – to all but the most scrutinous, believing that they were supposed to be there came naturally. Perhaps it was their confident stride, a head held high with an apathetic stare as they stomped through the streets in fierce determination. Or, maybe it was the sleek, all-black attire, pinned and cinched and polished in all the right places. It could have even been the distinct lack of care for anything in the world, as though they were completely ignorant of the corporate guard dogs lurking about, ready to pounce on any imbecile foolish enough to disregard ‘martial law.’

And it did work, for the most part. Fascinating how much you could get away with, should you act as though you knew what you were doing and knew that you belonged.

…That wasn’t to say that they hadn’t had the misfortunate encounter every now and then, of course.

Their head spun. With every fiber of their being, they regretted the poor decisions leading up to this very moment, damned their past self for determining that a night of partying with hot ladies heavy drinking right before an important day was a good idea. As it was, they couldn’t even remember what the hell they were supposed to do at the end of today, and it really did sound like it was an important task.

Pressing two fingers into their temple, they delicately rubbed their aching noggin. Everything was too loud. Especially whatever commotion was going on down the street. Whoever had taken it upon themselves to start shrieking at this hour needed to be shot. Several times.

Why was it getting closer? Whatever. Somebody else’s problem.

They shoved their hands in their pockets, returning their mind to the task at hand. Now, then. They had little more than an hour or two before the agreed upon meeting time with the District 3 agent – what was their name, again? – which might’ve been long enough to grab a bite to eat. Or a shot. Either one worked to soothe a hungover, churning stomach, and Four figured that was the most pressing issue to deal with first. They couldn’t handle another morning of Nutri-Paste™, but they’d heard about a new joint hidden nearby that recently received shipments of the real stuff.

Some warm miso soup, maybe a side of-

From absolutely nowhere, Four was struck with the equivalent kinetic energy of a steroid-raging quarterback. Still helplessly suffering from the lingering effects of far too much booze, the well-dressed woman was side checked directly into a nearby light pole, where they almost managed to catch themselves. Emphasis on almost. The tall heel of their boot rolled underneath their feet, snatching away their last chance at maintaining their dignity and footing. They fell, quite literally, head over heels.

There were certainly worse people in Sector-37-C that Lara could have body slammed. This one, at the very least, was rather pleasant to look at…even as they sputtered and struggled for words in an utmost unflattering manner.

“What the fu-

They never got the chance to finish their expletive filled sentence.

At once, a looming shadow fell over both women. Four blinked slowly, barely processing the menacing sight before them; a patrol officer, garbed in stark white riot gear with a glossy, black ‘37’ printed in the dead center of the chest. The two stared down the barrel of an old assault rifle pointed directly at their heads. Rude.

“You’re pointing a gun at my face.” The stranger’s tone was flat, monotone. An odd accent hung to the ends of their words, their pronunciation ever so slightly off – it didn’t sound like their first language. “You know, most people would consider that to be pretty rude.”

A disapproving scowl fell over their sharp features.

“Do you even know who I am? I could have you and your supervisor’s head. Who do you think you are, pointing guns at a chairwoman?”

It was distinctively bullshit. But the bullshit was audacious enough to make just about anyone take a moment to second guess themselves on whether or not it actually was real, because who in their right mind would try to pull off such a ridiculous lie? Clearly, all security personnel within the Sector would be briefed on the important figures and their clearance levels, and only an idiot wouldn’t realize that-

Four donkey-kicked the weird lady off her and made a lunge for the baffled patrol officer in the same motion. For someone with so much limb, they were oddly well-coordinated; they tumbled forward, metal arm forming a vice grip around a vulnerable ankle and ripping it out from underneath the man. To his credit, he didn’t drop the rifle until they fell upon him like an enraged chimpanzee. Such was the fate of he who interfered with a woman powered by spite and hanger. He should have known better.

There was also the fact that he had kept the weapon on safety, for whatever reason. A small detail that prevented any stray bullets from firing in their mad struggle.

Ultimately, Four emerged the victor – swinging the butt of the rifle overhead triumphantly, they brought it down upon his masked head in one fell swoop. Something might’ve cracked. For good measure, Four did it again. And then one more time. There may or may not have been blood pooling on the inside of his headpiece at this point, but it was well deserved.

After their would-be assailant stopped writhing and no longer released guttural groans of agony, Four ceased their beating and pulled back. They examined the firearm in their hands, turning it over thoughtfully and tracing their fingertips along its dented metal. Splotches of crimson stained its surface, shining brilliantly in the fake sunlight. Finders keepers.

Only then did they remember why this had even happened in the first place.

They peered over their shoulder.

“…What? He was going to shoot us.”
 
Lara wasn't religious, to put it mildly. The most thought she'd ever put into that avenue of life were convoluted plans revolving around how to steal the sacramental wine without the fat fuck of a priest noticing, and, well, let's just say that Granny had never made the mistake of forcing her to go to the church ever again. As she stared into the barrel of the assault rifle, though? Yeah, she still didn't bother re-evaluating her lifestyle. If god existed, he clearly wasn't her fan, and she, in turn, wasn't nearly enough of a bootlicker to employ the fawn tactics. (In hindsight, that might have been the very reason behind his hatred. You know, independent thought alert? Yeah, that sort of thing!)

"Shit," Lara cursed, with all the charm of stale bread. She felt that way, too, which only made it all the more thematic. Just, why weren't her legs obeying?! That was the entire point behind having legs, she was sure; so that you could escape the predators, instead of smiling awkwardly as they cocked their gun. Again, not claiming to be an expert here! But it did strike her as the more successful survival strategy, if only because you got to... survive. Fuck, fuck, fuck! "I don't... I don't know, man," she stammered out. (An interesting piece of Lara trivia: the cogs in her brain did, in fact, stop turning whenever faced with overwhelming stress. No, that also wasn't a good survival strategy. Quite honestly, the woman's continued existence might have been the cosmos' way of testing out just how far you could bend the usual rules without the fabric of universe breaking.)

"Isn't that a bit too excessive? We can have a nice conversation about this, like civilized people. No need to do... all that. I thought you were meant to protect and serve?" No, Lara didn't believe that for a second, but she did believe that she could stall for long enough for her legs to come to their senses. Or, uh, rely on the skyscraper lady to solve it all for her? (The skyscraper lady who, Lara did not fail to realize, was hot. Like, smoking hot. Being-able-to-fry-your-eggs-on-their-face level of hot, though that obviously would have been a shame. It was a useless observation, of course; this wasn't the time to be serenading random women, and even if it was, someone like her wouldn't be doing it. Only corny romance books heroines did that, and she... well, she was more of a horror movie redshirt. More than anything else, this was probably her brain trying to focus on the one nice thing about this, shortly before it got blown to pieces. Better to die with those legs in mind, eh?)

...but not with those legs buried in her stomach. Lara did not even get to protest, really, before she was kicked aside; the motion knocked the wind out of her, and, for a moment, all she saw were stars. Ugh, what was that for?! (Alright, Lara could think of a thing or two. Dragging them, a complete stranger, into a life-or-death scenario might have had to do with this, as well as the initial impact. Still, there was no need for her to actually be fair about this; speaking from the position of someone who very much did not want to be kicked around, Lara allowed herself the luxury of closing her eyes before reason. You had to treat yourself, and was there a better time than shortly before your death?)

Except, for the nth time today, Lara ended up being wrong. A rare occasion with such an insufferable know-it-all, and it was rarer still that she actually, you know, didn't resent it. Quite the opposite! (The skyscraper lady worked with an efficiency you might call... hm, eye-catching. Poetry in motion, if you happened to write about killing people. That, too, was an unnecessary observation, but her brain was a gift that just fucking kept on giving.)

"...I'm not complaining," she said, wiping some of the stray blood off her face. It was true, too. Yadda yadda yadda, the sanctity of human life and shit, but what did it mean, really? Oh, yeah. The sanctity of her life! Which the ex-cop, current corpse, had very much been threatening. Call her sociopathic to your heart's content, but Lara certainly wasn't going to shed bitter tears over him. If anything, she might have been closer to throwing a party. ('Us,' they'd said. Us, not her. A weird thing to include her like that, as if she was a friend and not someone the woman had literally met five seconds ago. Maybe they forged bonds faster in the future? Or present, technically. Whatever. This jet leg was going to sting.)

"Won't there be more where he came from, though?" she raised her perfect eyebrow. "Where I'm from, a cop's corpse is a magnet for trouble." Finally, Lara collected herself from the ground. Just like many times today, she considered her options; and, much like every single time before, came to the conclusion that they fucking sucked. To try to stay with a murderous lady, or to not do that? 'No, no, no,' whispered common sense, but common sense was only really good for common situations. And, no matter how she looked at it, the cold hard truth was this: out of the two people she had met, they were the one who hadn't tried to kill her. See? Statistics! Almost as grim as they were useless.

"Listen, I... thanks. The name's Lara." Awkwardly, she kicked a rock that had dared to exist in her vicinity. Heh, take that! Lara totally wasn't doing this just to avoid looking the babe in the eye, by the way. "Do you know of someplace safe? Cop-free, I mean. I'm... not from around here." The euphemism of the year, to be sure, though not necessarily untrue.
 
“…Oh, I’m sure of it.” The skyscraper lady turned their head back towards the open street, where – for the time being, at least – there appeared to be a lull in activity. Asides from their impromptu beatdown, that was. But if the beeping pager at the suspiciously still man’s was any indicator, the tranquility wouldn’t last for much longer. “He’s not a corpse, though.”

They nudged the security officer’s collapsed body with the point of their boot. He didn’t move.

“Not yet, anyways.”

Slinging the stolen well-earned battle trophy over their shoulder, Four casually strolled away from the crime scene without the slightest hint of guilt over beating some poor shmuck halfway into a pulp in broad daylight. Their indifference was nearly contagious; if this individual could be so effortlessly nonchalant about the situation, then what reason was there to panic? They must have had everything under control. Definitely.

A single dark, hazel eye stared down at the stranger, narrowing scrutinously and observing both her odd ensemble and equally odd behavior. Her attire was out of place, remarkably outdated to the extent of possibly being considered ‘vintage’. She gaped and gawked as though she had just been teleported into the midst of another, otherworldly dimension, flailing about helplessly in the same manner a newborn gazelle might. Peculiar behavior for one so brazen as to violate quarantine procedures – the punishment for which was often particularly violent. It didn’t quite add up.

For the misplaced scientist, the appearance of her impromptu savior likely looked just as – if not more – outrageously eccentric. They wore a one-sleeved, asymmetric jacket fashioned in a utilitarian style with a surplus of pockets. It was high cropped at the upper midriff, worn overtop a sleek, black mesh bodysuit. The baggy cargo pants and thigh-high heeled boots were certainly an odd accessory to go with it. But perhaps the most outlandish of their entire getup was the almost comically villainous eyepatch over their right eye, granting them the appearance of a cheap James Bond antagonist.

Somehow, someway, they still managed to pull it off and make it look fashionable. It truly was a talent.

As the newcomer brushed herself off and found her footing, Four shifted their attention to crouching over the definitely-not-deceased officer’s form, where they procured the blaring walkie-talkie from his hip. They weren’t entirely familiar with the coding system utilized by the law enforcement, but something about the number 10-999 didn’t sound promising…

“Not from ‘around here’?they parroted, shooting the woman a skeptical look. Their mind didn’t immediately jump to anything implausible, of course; their best guess was that she must have meant that she was from the lower tier. How, exactly, she might’ve found her way up here was a suspicious scenario worth questioning her about – the security on the gateways weren’t what they considered to be light – but right now was neither the place nor the time to figure such mysteries out.

One thing was for sure, though: she was coming with them.

“…Well, ‘Lara’. It seems as though you’ve found yourself in a rather...unfortunate predicament.” Rising to their feet once more, they tossed the stolen pager to the ground and stomped it under their heel. The fragile clamshell casing cracked apart with ease, exposing a complex board of circuitry and wires that were swiftly demolished. “You’ve chosen quite the place to mistakenly wander into.”

Content, they took the initiative to begin heading down another alleyway close by, prompting Lara to accompany them with a slight tilt of their head. Following strangers into dark backstreets was rarely a good idea. Following strangers that had just brutally murdered someone with zero hesitation less than five minutes ago, even less so. Desperate times called for desperate measures, however.

“But I suppose you’re fortunate to have wandered into me, no?” They reached back to gather the flowing cascade of their silky hair into their hands, effortlessly twirling it up into a hairdo that was a bit more practical. Having several feet of such magnificent locks was marvelous to gaze upon, but considerably inefficient for more hands-on work. Two framing strands of silvery white, a stark contrast against midnight black, were left to dangle on either side of their face.

The two disappeared down a twisting labyrinth of sharp turns, sudden corners, and confusing stairways. Lara would be left with zero downtime whatsoever to question her mysterious benefactor and their intentions; should she pause for even the slightest moment, she may find herself left in the dust of a woman who was moving startlingly fast for someone in three-inch heels.

There was good reason behind it. Somewhere not far behind them, the beginnings of a commotion were taking form. Shouting voices. Thundering footsteps, the low whine of what might have been an alarm. Looking back on it, leaving the body out in plain sight was a mistake – but they weren’t in the right state of mind to be thinking clearly, dammit. Too early for all of this. All because of some damned broad bumbling into security officers like she was blind. If she wasn’t pretty, they would have left her to deal with the mess she had made.

“You may call me Four,” they finally offered. Not typically the type to be concerned with formalities, the nuances of the proper way to progress in introductions were often lost to them. Four did not need to worry about making first impressions, unless it involved the tip of their blade and the other person’s throat. “For now.”

Four opened their mouth as if to elaborate, but they never got the chance to finish their sentence. This was now the second time that had happened, they noted with growing irritation. A homing projectile blasted into the cement wall several feet away from Four’s head, forming a small, cylindrical crater that sent spiraling cracks up into its surface. Faint tendrils of smoke whispered off the impact zone, sizzling off of the tiny bits of repurposed metal fragmented off of whatever the hell had just tried to rip half their face off.

Looked like they’d found the guy. Oops.

“…Maybe we should start walking a little faster.”
 
If there was something about her brain that Lara really, really disliked, it was the way it filled with distracting thoughts. Much like with a kaleidoscope, all it took for a new narrative to emerge among the scattered shards of ideas was a well-timed shake, and... well. Let's just say that it didn't always focus on the super important things. Has anime won? the scientist asked herself, as she tried (and failed) to comprehend a) how the fuck the stranger's outfit hadn't caused the universe to implode on itself yet, b) how it worked, somehow. (It had to be the hot privilege. Hot girls could get away with pretty much anything, and Lara herself had engaged in some fairly advanced hot girl apologia before. Did she regret it? No. Was she going to stop? Also no.) Seriously, though. Does everyone dress like an anime villain with a tragic backstory in the future? Lara's teenage self would have been thrilled, but her adult version, the one who had a career and everything, had her doubts. How long did it take them to get dressed every day? Was it really worth it, to waste your life away buckling all those belts? Though, to be fair, thinking about all of that was probably equally pointless. Especially, you know, with the corpse cooling on the pavement! Priorities, anyone? ...certainly not Lara Permann, as was becoming increasingly obvious.

"Yeah, count on me to land into the deepest pile of shit ever," she sighed. "I'm real good at that. Once, I didn't pay a fortune teller for having my fortune told," it had revolved around her supposedly finding her 'true love' at twenty and being a mother by twenty five, which honestly sounded more terrifying than most things even her anxious mind could come up with, "and I think she may have cursed me in response. Not that I believe in that, but yeah. May or may not be relevant." Why Lara was sharing that anecdote of all things, she didn't know; most likely because of that pesky 'brain autopilot' thing. With no appropriate social scripts accessible, it just... gave a bunch of error codes, really. To her credit, it really was hard to come up with what to say to someone who may or may not have been planning to murder her the second they got somewhere private. That being said, her savior didn't really appear to have qualms about that sort of thing? Had they wanted her dead, Lara concluded, she likely would have followed the guard's trajectory real fucking quick.

Oh well, she thought, with all the resignation of Sisyphus pushing his great boulder forward. If I am to die here, at least it will be one of those 'step on me' scenarios. See? Hot girl apologia did wonders for one's mental stability, actually! ...if you wanted to pretend that that was what it was, anyway. Lara, in particular, was very invested in keeping that strain of delusion alive. "I'd like to think so," the scientist muttered under her breath. "So you play the good Samaritan all the time, or just for me? Four." Briefly, Lara wondered whether she hadn't stumbled into one of those dystopian futures where people had been stripped of names and went by numbers only, for that sweet, sweet dehumanization factor. Fuck! Had she just blown her (admittedly pretty flimsy) cover? Probably not, because Four didn't really look that scandalized. More than likely, this was just a nickname. Four what? Brain cells? A pretty mean thought, and quite frankly, not even one that Lara was really enamored with. Like, you know those gacha machines that gave you a random toy whenever you inserted a coin? She was kind of like that, except with insults. You could just tell she was the life of any party.

Just like most brainy stereotypes, Lara didn't really appreciate having to move from point A to point B at a speed higher than that of the average turtle. Still, miraculously enough, she was finding the motivation to do that right now! Maybe her life being threatened had been the right approach all along; someone should have told her poor, poor gym instructor. "Fuck," the scientist cursed. "One fucking thing after another." Would reality ever get tired of flinging more bullshit at her? No? Good to know, Lara guessed.

More bullets followed the suit, and the sheer number of voices coming from literally all directions didn't exactly fill her with optimism. Shit, shit, shit! "Running might be a better idea." And that was saying something, coming from Lara 'PE Hater' Permann! (Vividly, she could see the memory; her old PE teacher, Ms. Crowley, and her ten-year-old self, wearing her usual skeptical frown. "But it's so pointless!" she'd complained. "There's literally no reason for me to be able to run for three laps in a row. Name one situation where it might actually come in handy." The teacher, for a lack of a better word, had looked tired. "Well, what if you're chased around by a villain?" And, really, the fact that the universe itself somehow validated that super unlikely scenario was about the most depressing thing Lara could think of. Nice flex, she guessed?)

So, just one tiny issue: running was great and all, but not when you had no idea where the fuck you were going. "Eeek!" Fuelled by the survival instinct, Lara's legs had woken up from their coma; unfortunately, that very same survival instinct couldn't really install an infrared vision device into her brain, and so she was still pretty surprised when an armed dude emerged from behind the corner. Fortunately, the dude seemed about as surprised as them.

"Hey, stop right--"

And Lara did stop, alright. Maybe she'd reached some sort of breaking point, or maybe it was just Four's blessed influence; the history would never know, and she wouldn't, either. The point was, the scientist grabbed a brick lying on the windowsill nearby and straight up slammed it in the poor guy's face.

"Aargh!"

...could have been more stealthy, she supposed. They also could have been dead, though, so Lara wasn't going to complain. Despite having no idea how to use it, she took the scarily-looking rifle from him, and didn't look back. Probably just to prevent him from using it? Duh. "Quick," she glanced back at Four, "we need to--"

--get the fuck out of there, obviously. Faceless officers were pouring in from many directions at once now, swarming them like ants, and, shit, wasn't that awesome? (Spoiler alert: it really, really wasn't.)

That was roughly when Lara noticed that going left or right weren't their only options. The abyss beneath the endless staircases seemed scary, but, now that she was really looking, the ground seemed to be covered with... garbage? And it probably wasn't that high. Like, high enough for it to hurt, but probably not high enough for them to be straight up killed. Bullets definitely struck her as more lethal.

Without really thinking about it, Lara pushed Four over the edge. No time to explain, y'know? Naturally, she proceeded to follow her; both landed into the garbage, right where they belonged. "Fuck," she half-sighed, half-giggled, teetering somewhere between hysteria and adrenaline-fuelled exhilaration. A great time for a conversation, right? "The future really does feel like the present on steroids. Is this what you do every day around here?" ...or maybe not. Shit.
 
“Depends on the lady,” they said with an all too cheeky smirk playing on their lips. Amazing how they could maintain such charisma and poise while someone was taking pot shots at their head. It really did lead a person to believe they did this on a regular basis. “If she bears a particular resemblance to a troglodyte, I leave her to fend for herself. But I’m something of a gentleman, you know.”

Gentleman. Gentlewoman. Gentle…person?

“Running is an admission of guilt.” Unlike Lara and her intense hatred for the forbidden act of ‘running’, Four had a fondness for being able to slip into a steady sprint. The action made them feel alive, if but for this brief, fleeting moment – although that might’ve just because their life was on the line. Their limbs, despite their willowy lankiness, shifted with ease as they took on the movements of a honed predator. Heels pounded effortlessly against the pavement, showing no signs of slipping or even hesitation against the slick footing below.

But as always, things had to go wrong. Four wondered if they were cursed, to be quite frank. Nothing ever went their way. Especially not with women.

Lara’s panicked stumbling had briefly separated the two, and by the time Four whipped around a corner to reunite them, the batshit crazy chick was bashing someone’s skull in with a brick. They did indeed admire her tenacity and resourcefulness, but also thought that these were not the circumstances to be adding further charges to their list of crimes. One homicide charge was bad enough. Two made for quite the story to explain.

“You killed him.” Like anyone needed them to point that out. The guy was literally twitching on the floor, having assumed the fencing position of someone with traumatic brain injuries. He was dead. Or about to be. “Good. Great. Amazing. Did you think this one through?”

Realistically speaking, an individual with honed instincts to the degree of Four’s should’ve noticed the wide-eyed stared on Lara’s face, pointed directly at whatever was behind them. Blame it on the alcohol, general exhaustion, or the presence of an attractive gal – they failed to notice it, and they certainly paid for it. Their head snapped back, and before they saw it coming, that little bitch had-

“W-WAIT-“

Their words faded off into oblivion as they were dropkicked into a pit of bleak darkness. They fell in a cartoonishly comical way, contorting and twisting and flailing around while disappearing into sheer nothingness; the only detail missing was a forlorn ”TEAM ROCKET, BLASTING OFF AGAAAAIN.”

There for a solid half a minute, it probably seemed like Lara had just shoved Four off into certain death. And she might have, if they hadn’t hit the dumpster with a rather loud kTHUNK and subsequent screeching of their discontent regarding her actions. They sounded pissed.

Looked pissed too when Lara decided to join them in the trash party. Fortunately for her, Four had yet to figure out how to make their seething scowls kill.

“…Garbage,” Four petulantly mused. They tore their arm free from a glob of unidentifiable sludge, curling their lip up in disgust at the tendrils of miscellaneous waste that still clung to their limb. Why was it wet? “Out of all the possible places you could have thrown is into, you chose a pile of garbage. Astounding.”

Dislodging themselves from the swathes of trash around them took no small amount of effort. Four struggled to pull their legs loose, their pointed heels finally coming to bite them in the ass – they’d punctured into a garbage bag, becoming entrapped by thick layers of sludge akin to liquid cement. When they finally managed to escape the urban quicksand, their shoes were practically ruined by all of the filth seeping in to the expensive material.

…Damn. Those hadn’t been cheap.

The steely woman awkwardly tumbled out from the dumpster they’d landed in, careening directly into the cold, hard ground in what was a solid two-to-three-foot drop. If not for their reemergence several moments later, it was quite reasonable to think that they may have bashed their skull open down there and passed out. But, unfortunately, they were still very much conscious. And miffed. Very miffed.

Nonetheless, Four was not one to leave pretty women flailing around helplessly in the refuse of god knew what. No use in burning those sorts of bridges – never knew when it might come in…handy. Their above average height proved to be useful in extending a gloved hand over the rim of the garbage container, though their less than meager strength struggled to actually succeed in pulling her above it. Silently, they damned the weakness in their muscles; the fucking cutthroat pharmacists had gouged the prices of their compounded medications yet again, and they were swiftly becoming far too costly for them to keep up with.

But that was something to worry about at another time. As were the majority of their problems. At some point, they were going to get hit with a metric shit ton of procrastinated concerns that they really should have dealt with a good while ago. That, however, sounded like a problem for future Four.

“…No. I only jump into garbage on Tuesdays,” Four drawled, adding in a petty roll of their eyes. For someone with a smear of dark oil (or at least what was hopefully oil), they sure were acting like a dick. It truly would be a shame if nobody told them about it. “I try to avoid it most days. It turns out that playing in a dumpster is frowned upon in a social context.”

Once Lara was on her feet again, the snarky lady gave her a few moments to collect herself. In the meantime, they frowned and furrowed their brows, attempting to make sense yet again of this bizarre situation. To no avail, of course. They may have been street-smart and known their way around plenty of weaponry, but complex concepts such as ‘science’ and ‘technology’ were far above their paygrade. Four got paid to shoot people, not study them. And for good reason.

“Run this whole thing by me again. I’m not entirely sure I understand. You say you’re not from around here,” they confirmed. An edge crept into their voice, suggesting they did not entirely believe this claim – though Lara could not have possibly known why it would sound so unbelievable to any regular passerby.

Traveling between cities and regions was the norm, if not expected out of your daily life several hundred years ago. Crossing from one country to another was little more than a lighthearted trip that could safely be managed in a day or two. These days, doing so was a death wish, even if you were somehow able to bypass the intense security patrolling the only gateways leading out of the fiercely protected establishments. Such were your choices: die of sickness or starvation in the wastelands, or die from two hundred bullet holes riddling your body. Reassuring odds, if you asked Four.

Four themselves couldn’t remember the last time they had left this godforsaken place. When their brother was still alive, maybe – but back then, the circumstances hadn’t been so dire. The same couldn’t be said for when those fucking brutes took over and instilled a military regime upon everyone.

“How, exactly, might that be?” They fixed their gaze on Lara, an accusatory glare forming in the depths of their hazel eye. “Enlighten me.”
 
"Well," Lara's left eye twitched, "so sorry that I wasn't able to secure a cotton candy landing for you. How supremely silly of me. Next time, I will keep it in mind: 'Four doesn't like garbage.' Noted." Next time, pfft. As if she was willing to stay with a skyscraper bitch that couldn't even appreciate honest fucking effort! (You know, not that many people would have been fine with impromptu killing. Data spoke clearly. The vast majority of them would have panicked, or refused to do it, or had an existential crisis; society's teachings ran too deep, and thinking beyond 'thou shall not kill' was too much for their stunted little brains. Lara, on the other hand? She'd done her best, only to be judged by a chick who had literally beaten someone to death a few minutes ago! Pot, meet kettle? ...Then again, Four still hadn't tried to kill her. Considering that the number of people who hadn't done that yet was quickly dwindling, perhaps she should, you know, not burn bridges. Just to be on the safe side. Disclaimer: the fact that they were hot as fuck had absolutely nothing to do with it. Ha, ha, ha!)

Fortunately for Lara, her clothes had kind of looked like trash even before the not-so-voluntary trip down the garbage lane, and so her losses weren't so tragic. Yay for not being a hostage of the fashion industry, she guessed? (The smell... wasn't ideal, no. You know what else wasn't ideal, though? Her entire goddamn life, since the time they'd bullied her in junior high for 'being too much of a smartass' to her getting the brilliant, brilliant idea to volunteer in the cryostasis experiment. 'Volunteer' may have been a strong word, come to think of it, but yeah! Her long, long history with not-so-ideal situations allowed her to accept this one with relative grace.)

"Stop whining," she recommended Four, in a rather daring performance of 'Why Lara Got Bullied as a Kid, episode 64.' (The best thing? The tickets were free! Coincidentally, that also happened to be the worst thing about it; much like most free things, it was utter garbage. Ba dum tsss!) "The latest research proves that trash is great for your skin. It's analogous to how shit is actually really good for soil." And, again, that wasn't really a lie. Like, if you wanted something to grow on your skin, then covering it with garbage was the way to do it! ...Yeah, she may or may not have been losing it. Give her a break, okay? You didn't get teleported into the dystopian future every day. "What I meant to say is," Lara dusted herself off, "that you should follow your dreams. If playing in garbage is part of that, don't let peer pressure stop you. Shine on, you crazy diamond."

That Four began recapitulating her story like that, as if she was trying to poke holes in it, should have served as a warning sign, but it didn't. Maybe due to all the adrenaline? You know, since that hormone was so good at killing brain cells. "Yeah, I did say that," Lara confirmed. "It's also true." And, true, the scientist really didn't have any idea that her story didn't work, or why it was so. What she did have, though, was a pair of working ears. How, exactly, might that be? Yeah, not something you told someone after hearing a Completely Normal StoryTM. Ah, shit, shit, shit! Had Lara been even a little more dramatic, she would have said that she could feel the noose wrapping around her neck. What was wrong with it? Was there only a single habitable city, with the rest finding their demise in a nuclear winter? Were hotties not allowed to travel these days, due to Hotium somehow being the main energy source? Lara didn't fucking know, and the longer she lied about it, the more apparent it would become. Clinging to it would only make her look even less trustworthy, and... yeah, not good. Not good at all.

"I..." the scientist hesitated, looking Four in their eye. Can this really be much worse, though? I mean, they have seen me bash a guy with a brick. The truth was also, as the cool kids would say, straight up nuts. Something within her, and it was probably the part that had grown up reading conspiracy novels, resented the idea of telling anyone, but it was also true that Four probably wouldn't even believe her. Plus, maybe it would be funny to tell them. When shitposting was all you had left, you just... had to go along with it. Such was the law. (That was what Lara told herself to justify her fuck ups, anyway. It mostly worked.) "I said something stupid, didn't I?" she tilted her head aside. "Fine, I give up. I am from around here, but I'm not from around now." Ah ha, there it was! The glorious revelation. (Please, please, please, don't kill me? That would be nice.) "I'm actually from the past. See, they decided I was too hot and wanted to share that with the future generations." Well, kind of. But mostly not. Actually, not at all. "I guess they forgot to unfreeze me in the utopian future, and instead I got this. What's the year, anyway?"
 

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