A/N: Ha! I've finally started in on this one. This story is going to be long and it takes place over the course of many years. It's actually going to be broken up into arcs (4 to be exact)but they'll all be posted under here. This is the first arc.

Some of the things you guys might not like about this story, I'm guessing, will probably be the long descriptions, the lengthy chapters filled with mostly explanations (because it's a sci-fi story and I'm creating, basically, two whole new worlds. That are both strange, unfamiliar, and very different from one another). I also should warn you guys, there are going to be a lot of original characters, two of which play large roles in the story (though they're not main characters and won't be in every arc and every chapter...blah, blah, blah) because this is such a grand scaled story. I don't think anyone will have a problem with my OC, and if you read the story you can definitely tell they are necessary. Another thing, you guys don't get to know the story of how Spinelli became Bandit until the beginning of thesecond arc. HA!

Thanks to all those who reviewed: TNPD, TheAngelOfAnarchy, PureEvilOne, Stacy, iluvdanbyrd, darkangelguadianlight, momo-chan, goofymonkeychild, cap'tcow, MagistrixMundi, and RecessFanatic. Some of you had questions, but you'll just have to read to find out the answers. To PureEvilOne, no this isn't an alternate ending to the movie. This isn't an AU at all. Everything will be explained later in the story, all of that in the first arc, actually. I'm glad you all liked the beginning, I was kind of in a weird mood when I started it, and fretting about how well it would go over with you guys. I know it was confusing, because I didn't want it to be from first pov or third pov, I just wanted it to be a headrush, to emulate the feelings of the subject of the prologue.

Whew, I think that's about all I have to discuss. A new chapter to start off the New Year.

ENJOY!

Chapter 1: Brat Bandit Co.

There's a funny thing about legends. Do you know what that is? What they all have in common? They're all gone, all dead, no longer or never did exist. That's what makes it so easy to pretend they were superhuman. They're not there to disprove those stories floating around about them. They also had to have done something great, but that's a given. As I think about it, I've decided that the fact you're gone isn't what bothers me the most; it's that you've become a legend. They'll say he was eight feet tall and once killed twenty faculty members at the same time with his little pinky and laughed heartily about it, because the faculty are the scourge of the human race. I get dragged into the stories, the legend that is you. I sometimes forget that you weren't eight feet tall, that when you went you were only five foot eight or nine, and that you've only ever killed one man as far as I know and you cried afterwards. I want to idolize you as they do, to put you on this high pedestal and stand around with the others and say, "if only there were more of him around, then things would get better". There was one of you, and you were one of thousands who stood up, and fell. You weren't a legend; you were just a kid. I don't know, I like forgetting, and I hate forgetting. Either way, you're gone.

-Excerpt from Bandit's Journal

The land was barren. A waste, really. Desert, for miles. And desert brought to mind the word, deserted. Uninhabited. And that would be the first impression one would get when they first laid eyes on the land rimming the city surrounded by barbed wire, electric, chain-linked fences. There was the roar of an engine in the background, somewhere in the distance, and heads peeked out from burrows in the sand. The desert stirred with life, scarce, but there, proving that it was not in fact uninhabited and that first impressions do deceive. There were some jeers, angry cries at those bringing about the disturbance. A dirt bike kicked sand up in a furry of dust as it soared past, catching air off one of the dune-covered trailers that a desert dwelling resident called home. The resident, of course, was outside shouting obscenities at the delicate rider of the obtrusive vehicle. He stopped, realizing who rode that wild animalistic machine, and a smile slid across his face. He cheered into the wind.

"Get 'em Bandit!" he cried, "Get 'em girl!" The rider, needless to say, couldn't hear these eggings. The roar of her engine muffled by the thick leather helmet she wore was the only sound that filled her ears. Thin goggles, ancient, much like those of a pilot, adorned her face, making her dark eyes appear bug-like. She wore a wild grin, tearing into the distance at unimaginable speeds, maneuvering through her surroundings with neck-breaking reactions. Her eyes were focused on the horizon, and more specifically, a dune buggy fading into the horizon. Her target. She was gaining fast.

It was getting clearer, the target; a blue vehicle like a cockroach on a patch of snow. The driver was struggling to keep control at the speed he was traveling. A smirk played its way across his assailant's lips, and she put more pressure to the gas, pushing her dirt bike into the air, sailing over his head and kicking up a storm of sand. The man was blinded. She propelled herself off the bike and it fell over with a furry of dust and a magnificent spill, while she climbed into the dune buggy, her fist connecting with the driver's jaw. He was taken aback, knocked out. She pushed him aside, bringing the buggy to a halt, pulling herself out and frowning at her bike.

"Vladimir Brash," she seethed, as the man started to stir. She lifted her eyewear over her helmet. She was a pretty woman, extremely tanned from obvious long hours in the sun. She was thin, but wiry muscles were apparent along her limbs. She had broad shoulders for her height; two breasts peaked from beneath her loose white cotton tank top, smudged with dirt, sweat, and grease, and her hips jutted out almost as far as her broad shoulders. Her stomach was flat, curving in from the hips, and out to the shoulders. She was wearing cargo pants, cut to her knees, and black boots on her feet. She tapped one of those boots, before using it to nudge the man. She threw off her helmet into the back of the buggy, revealing short black hair sticking up and out wildly, uneven and unkempt. Mussed from the ride. It was pulled into tuft pigtails, and finer strands curled around the contour of her face. Her skin was laced with sweat and smudged with dirt.

"Who…who are you?" the man gurgled.

"Bandit," was the cocky reply, "The name is Bandit." She eyed the large convoy van edging its way along the desert towards them, kicking up dirt as it slid to a halt. The hatch door flung open and out hopped a large black man. He was nearly three feet taller then the young woman, and three times larger. He was lined with bulging muscles, dressed in makeshift clothing, leather padding, stretch legging, black cloth material, deep brown suede straps. He was grinning broadly.

"Nice work," he cried in a deep croak, "Vladimir is in the bag!" He hopped down from the gargantuan vehicle, beside the young woman, clapping her heavily on the shoulders, "That was a wild chase, Bandit." He tugged the man to his knees, pulling out a small object; a sharp needle spiking from a handheld computer screen type.

"Bastard gave me a run for my money," Bandit said scathingly.

"Literally," the man chuckled, shoving the needle into Vladimir's arm, and clicking his tongue, "We got a DNA match."

"Damn well better…look at Black Beauty," Bandit cried with disgust, lifting her bike from the sand that was quickly covering it. She pushed the bike to the behemoth vehicle that the hulking man had arrived in, "Where the hell were you anyways, Brat?"

"I was busy," the man, Brat, explained offended, "But you did fine without me. You're a lone wolf, Bandit, and Brat respects that. I know when to stay back and let you do your thing, girl."

"Do all the work, more like it. Which means the prize is mine…"

"What do you mean 'mine'?" Brat argued, slipping his large arm over her shoulders, engulfing her, "I thought we rid ourselves of such petty proclamations of ownership when we got into business together?" She pulled away from him, pushing Black Beauty into the convoy.

"Just toss the wall-bait into the Basilisk," Bandit spat. Brat puckered his lips.

"Well, I love you too," he called after her, tying up Vladimir and dragging him into the large vehicle, the Basilisk. He returned shortly for the buggy, strapping it atop the hull of the van, no use wasting good material.

Bandit slipped within the backroom, leaning Black Beauty against the wall of the van, strapping it in place before working her way back up to the front of the Basilisk. The van was a hulking beast, really, on the outside a beige behemoth, ugly to say the least, but blended in well with the desert scenery. It was almost invisible to the untrained eye when unmoving. The inside was a dug out conclave strung with wiring, weapons of all shapes and sorts, a large screen, a keyboard hooked to the wall, more wiring, and a bathroom featuring little more than a toilet. Bandit settled into the passenger seat in the front, staring out the windshield, frowning. There was another monitor screen up front, settled in the dashboard, between the passenger and driver's seat, little rubber buttons lined up beneath it. A green one, a red one, several black ones, some with numbers. She reached forward, pushed the green button and the screen lit up.

"Katz?" she mumbled, leaning the seat back, lifting her feet up on the dashboard, and closing her eyes. A face filled the screen of a young man, sallow with brown hair. His eyes had little red veins crawling across the pure white, his lips were chapped, and he had the look of one who'd just drank a pound of coffee.

"Didja get 'em?"

"Yeah, me and Brat are gonna stop at Gringo's for some restitution before we haul in. Want us to pick 'ya up anything?"

"Nope. I'm good. Just…uh…scanning…looking…um…I'll call in to the…uh…the…uh…Hookies was it looking for him?"

"Yup. See ya' then." Bandit clicked the red button and the transmission ended as Brat joined her, "I called Katz. You think Gringo got water in?"

"Lord, I hope so," Brat chuckled, as the Basilisk roared to life.

Gringo Salazar was an old Hispanic man. His town had been one of the first to join the Playground. He set up his convenience shop, selling whatever contraband or cargo he could get his hands on. He made dealings with the two biggest gangs in the Playground and the School Campus known as the Dropouts and the Hookies, had connections with the Sanctuary; a large nomadic haven for victimized families living outside the School Campus or having escaped from it, and various other groups within the Playground. Gringo's was a neutral ground. Enemies could shop there and not have to worry about the other pulling a gun on them. It was the most civil place left in the whole of the Playground. Scratch that, the whole of the world.

The place Gringo had carved out for himself appeared to have once been a self-serve gas station. The windows had been boarded up, but the pumps were still functional and, while no one was quite certain where his source was, Gringo always had gas and oil in.

Bandit stepped from the Basilisk; shielding her eyes with her hand, she glanced around. Gringo was sitting on the front stoop of the store, his bare feet buried in the sand. He stared out at them, dark wrinkled skin, gray hairs, a white fisherman's cap atop his head. He held a cane, the tip shoved into the desert. Brat bounded from the Basilisk, stretching his arms and giving a wide yelp. Bandit secured her shotgun to her back, scratching her head and moving towards the gas pump. She saw a little Latino boy perk up when he saw her. She frowned.

"Hey, Bandita," the boy called, jogging over, "Long time no see," he said to her, grinning widely. He was young, about fifteen, short, thin. His skin was dark, and his black hair was little more than stubble, cut close to his scalp. He was wearing a dirty white shirt and long baggy jeans. Homemade sandals adorned his feet, "I knew you'd be coming back."

Brat made his way over to Gringo, settling next to the old-timer as Bandit snarled at the Hispanic boy.

"How's it going," Gringo greeted, not bothering to look at the younger man. He was wearing sunglasses and watching the desert as though expecting someone, "Catch any good bounties lately?"

"Yeah, we're toting one home right now," Brat chuckled, "What'cha got for me?"

"Bottled water, fresh from the pipelines," Gringo said. Brat grinned.

The pipelines were the irrigation system established by the Faculty. They were large pipes that ran under the desert, bringing water to the School Campus and everyone living within it. Every now and then, if one in the Playground knew where to look, a small cavern or hovel could be found leading to a pipe. The Playgrounders would tap the pipe for water, they called those drinking fountains. Rumor had it that Gringo's home was nestled right over one of these fountains and he only made it seem as though it were a great deal getting water in. Rumor said that in truth, he only liked to dry them out so that he could charge more when he brought some in. Brat only partially believed the rumors.

"Good thing, too, Katz is getting antsy, our supply's running low. We were getting desperate, thinking of picking up and moving again in search of our own pipeline," Brat joked, "Katz would die if we had to do that. He says we got a perfect spot, radio transmissions come in smooth, and we've got a perfect barrier against the storms." He meant sand storms, of course.

"Hey, Bandita," the little Hispanic boy continued, leaning on the gas pump and admiring Bandit's shapely form as she filled the Basilisk's tank, "I know you been thinking about sneaking up here late night."

"Eh, Jorge, leave her alone," Brat called, and the boy gave him an annoyed look.

"My name's Henry, man."

"Whatever, just back off, alright?" Brat hollered, before turning back to Gringo, "I'll take as much water as you can load me up with. What else you got in?"

"Preserved foods, canned foods…hm…you'll like this one. I got a shipment of winger dingers in," Gringo said and he could just feel the broad grin stretching the muscles along Brat's jaw.

"No joke? Man, I need some chocolate sponge cream-filled…I'll take the whole shipment, screw the costs, I got the money…"

"Hey, Bandita, when you gonna come up here and give me a little of your love, eh?" Henry persisted, and Bandit's itching fingers brushed along the hilt of her shotgun. She watched the younger boy from the corner of her eyes, a dour glare playing along her chapped lips.

"Bandit," Brat called, and she glanced his direction, "Play nice." Her hand drew away from the gun, and she tilted her head slightly to admire the layer of dust gathered on the gas pump.

"Don't listen to him, Bandita," Henry pressed, licking his lips and inching closer, "I like girls who play rough."

"¡Henrio, le dije no incomodar a los clientes! ¡Licencia!" Gringo shouted, and Henry flinched slightly.

"I'm helping her, pop," he replied, taken by surprise when Brat stepped in front of him, "¿Que?"

"Get lost, Jose," Brat sneered.

"My name ain't Jose," Henry spat.

"Like I care. I think your dad told you to beat it, ese," Brat said, bending to eyelevel with the younger boy, who looked up at him haughtily, almost challengingly.

"Whatever, tonto," he muttered, then to Bandit, "Whenever you decide to ditch this bastardo hombre and get a real man, Bandita, you know where to find me." And with that said, he begrudgingly turned, trekking back up towards the gas station. Brat saluted Gringo politely with cheeky mirth.

"Pleasure doing business with you, Señor Salazar," Brat roared and Gringo nodded, his eyes never leaving the desert horizon. It took a little less than half an hour for Brat and Bandit to get the Basilisk loaded with their purchase, several unmarked boxes filled with water and foodstuffs. Bandit checked on Vladimir, though she hadn't expected him to have even reached consciousness after the last clop Brat had laid on the pathetic prisoner.

The Basilisk was born for desert movement, gliding along the sand like a sailboat on water. Brat drove, humming lightly to himself, and Bandit sat beside him. Her eyes were closed and her breathing steady, but Brat knew better than to assume she was napping. She was widely awake, in fact, her guard never dropped until they were safe at the Hull, and even then she still slept with one eye open and a finger on the trigger of her trusty weapon. It was a sleek brown sawed-off shotgun, old, weather worn, the hilt wrapped in sticky silver duct tape long since coated with dirt and grains of sand, and even Brat wasn't certain of where she'd gotten it. She kept it strapped to her back with a leather belt loop that wrapped diagonally around her chest and spine.

Their wayward 'house', better known as the Hull, was a large land-roving creation, a 'moving base' they often joked, much as the Sanctuary was often joked as being a 'moving city'. It was large enough to garage the Basilisk as well as several other desert vehicles the hunters had procured on their many bounties, all of Katz technical paraphernalia, his main computer that was nearly twenty feet wide and weighed about a ton, separate rooms for Brat, Katz, and Bandit, as well as a dining area, a make-shift kitchen, and a few storage bays, not to mention a cozy bathroom equipped with a shower that didn't always work and a toilet that constantly backed up. The Hull housed a satellite on top of it that utilized the many orbiting and now very obsolete satellites that the forgotten government, before the School system was set up, had once shot into space, as well as antennae for picking up radio transmissions, should the weather allow it. It moved slowly, was thrown together with little more than scrap metal and leftover pieces of various abandoned vehicles and other such contraptions, but it was most definitely home.

They were nearly a quarter mile from the coordinates the Hull was located at when Brat saw the bug like motorcycles buzzing along the backdrop of the sunset. He scowled slightly, noticing how they hovered around in a particular area, or more specifically, a particular barricade.

"What the hell have we got here?" he growled softly, and Bandit's lids parted slightly to gaze warily out at the crowd.

"They're orange flagged," she noted, drawing Brat's attention to the bright neon paint stripe down the motorcycles, and the brilliantly gleaming patches on each of the rider's arms, "What the hell are School Safety Patrollers doing so far from the Campus?"

"It ain't none of our business," Brat told her calmly, though the steely edge in his voice and wrinkle of his brow suggested how truly worried he was.

It was true, the Patrollers never came out into the Playground, they were forbidden for various reasons. They were the Student police force of the Campus, keeping order and peace amongst their fellow Students. The Faculty knew that plebeians reacted better when they were guarded and policed by similar plebeians. It gave them a feeling, as though they have some control over their own situation, and as if they could have some power, or aspire to at the very least. But, of course, Patrollers were still Students, under the same restrictions of their peers, unable to cross the boundaries of the School Campus into the harrowing dessert known only to them as the Playground. No matter how well trusted the Faculty members found a Patroller to be; he, because they were always men these days, could still be influenced by the threatening outside ideal that their was something more to offer in the world than the School had to give. There was always that off chance that the Patroller's head would be filled with outrageous ideas, and that the taste of freedom would be too overwhelming to stave off. That was why, whenever anything needed to be done outside of the School Campus, the Faculty would send a Hall Monitor.

Something serious was going down, that much was for certain. Bandit had sat upright, her interest peaked, chewing her thumbnail thoughtfully, her eyes alight with dancing curiosity. Brat smirked, raising his eyebrow as he continued pushing the Basilisk forward.

"None of our business," he repeated.

"Come on," she pressed, "You hate the Orange belts as much as I do, if not more. Let's just go see what they're up to."

"I don't know, Bandit," Brat hefted indecisively, though he had pulled the Basilisk to a halt.

"Think about it, Brat," Bandit pressured, "If it was just one of them, we could figure it was an AWOL, right? But a whole group of them suggests serious shit definitely associated with the Faculty."

"I don't want to mess with the Faculty, girl, you know that," Brat hissed, fingering the clutch, his foot anxiously settled on the gas peddle, hesitantly applying pressure.

"Don't you see," Bandit persisted, "The whole lot of them ain't crazy enough to go AWOL together, they know one or the other will rat them out for whatever benefit it would provide them within the Campus. Truth be told, Brat, they gotta be out here for a reason. Far be it for me to suggest…but maybe they're scouting."

"For liberation?"

"Or for territory. Maybe expansion."

"You can't be serious. No way the Faculty would risk a group of Patrollers out here on no enrollment hunt."

"I ain't talking about Student expansion," Bandit spat, "I'm talking about Campus expansion."

"Shit, Bandit, you're starting to sound like Katz with that paranoia bit," Brat groaned, running his hand over his bald head, "They know Playgrounders hate Patrollers, the fucking traitor scumbags. Ain't a step too far from being Faculty members, far as I can tell. Might as well be Hall Monitors, way they give up their souls like that for a bit of power. Playgrounders would sooner kill the lapdogs then let them breathe, pushing further out into the desert on some scouting expedition, and the Faculty knows that. They would send a Hall Monitor for that kind of shit."

"Then maybe the Faculty don't know about it," Bandit pressed, "All's I know is they got that smug, pugnacious attitude about them of those who think they're better than us because they're part of some fascist system, playing by the rules like good little boys, and they're trespassing where they sure as hell ain't invited. I'm just suggesting we go greet 'em and teach them to bring a helmet next time they decide to come gallivanting about on our blacktop." Brat switched the Basilisk's engine off, pulling the keys from the ignition and pocketing them.

-0-0-

Berger Miller stood snidely beside his cycle watching as the other boys rode recklessly on their own bikes, kicking up sand wildly, laughing heartily. They were only five belts, not even enough to complete a squadron. He was the oldest at nineteen, and felt that gave him the authority of leadership. The others felt different. They'd elected a frizzy headed boy, Samuel Porter, a sixteen year old charmer, as the one in charge. Berger couldn't say this fact didn't appall him, in fact, it only insulted him. He was surrounded by sixteen and seventeen year old children and he was expected to answer to one of them? Surely he had more experience, surely he was better educated, granted more trust.

Berger puffed his chest out slightly, proudly emulating the loyalty that was undoubtedly recognized in him by his superiors. Those five, chosen to venture out on a dangerous mission, into the foreboding waste known to all as the Playground. It was a haunting terrain, rumored to be occupied by savage cannibals and genetically engineered creatures of fearsome proportions. It didn't make sense to him though, why the Faculty felt it was so important the five of them travel out into the hazardous Playground all for one young man. But he didn't feel it was his place to question his superiors.

They'd decided to camp in that area for the night, and dusk was quickly falling. Berger was startled from his thoughts as the other boys pulled in from their rowdy goofing around. They each killed their engines, dismounting their bikes and settling around the chosen place of encampment. They'd chosen the ruins of what had apparently once been a house, but now had been, for the most part, plucked of most wood and glass, leaving nothing but a plastered shell behind.

They gathered around a metal barrel trashcan that one of the boys had lit on fire. The nights could get cold in the Playground, or so they had been warned. They planned on being prepared to keep warm for the night.

A snub-nosed, pug faced Monty Grudger was the first to notice the advancing figure. He'd stood to reach for some food, his sausage sized fingers reaching into their packs for any salvageable nourishment he could find. He called out in startle upon seeing the hulking man, and the other boys, already on edge from being in such unfamiliar territory, each quickly grappled their guns, shakily pointing them through the dimming evening air. Berger was the first to step forward, bravely holding his pistol before him, taking note of how the democratically appointed leader, Samuel, just sat staring wide-eyed in fear, a trembling finger pressed to the trigger of his own, most likely not even loaded, weapon.

"I'll have you know," Berger daringly called to the intruder, finding himself standing mere feet from the tall and muscular black man. They held each others gazes for a length of time, Berger finding his heart pounding madly in his chest from fear and excitement all at once. He was staring down one of the Playgrounder scourge, one of the fools that had turned down admittance into the ubiquitous School system, "That we are Safety Patrollers of the prestigious, and all-powerful School. If you've come to harm us, I suggest you turn and leave now, lest we be forced to deal with you forthright." He jumped when the man raised his hands up in an obviously defensive gesture.

"I'm sorry," the man replied in a deep throaty drawl, that if Berger had been paying attention, he would have noticed the sarcasm in the man's voice, "I wasn't aware you were so high on the uppity up. I was just coming to give you a howdy, but I can see you're much too busy to deal with the likes of me."

"That's right," Berger declared, relaxing, and standing with proud dignity as he waved the gargantuan man away, "Just keep moving."

"Alright, I'll leave," the man chuckled, "But…uh…my friend wants to say 'hi' first." He motioned behind the boys, and they all turned abruptly. They hadn't even noticed the young woman, shotgun in hand, sitting atop the ruins and grinning widely down at them.

"Welcome to the Playground, boys," she greeted, and before any could react she was on the move, jumping down and landing a kick to the jaw of the first boy she saw, spinning her shotgun around, and smacking another, Samuel, with the taped up hilt, both went down limply and failed to rise again. Berger moved for his gun, but he felt the clawing grasp of a large hand engulf the side of his head, and his face plowed forward, connecting with another boy's, Monty. They both sunk to the ground, out cold. The last boy stood cowardly before the two menacing figures, trembling, he raised his gun, running his tongue over his bottom lip.

"D-d-don't c-c-come a-a-any closer," he stammered. And to his surprise, they both stopped. His chest swelled with confidence, and he straightened, "Yes…um…stay right there…or I'll…I'll shoot you."

"I think he's serious, Bandit," the man jeered.

"Out of curiosity, Brat, when's the last time I been shot?" the young woman asked, tilting her head to her comrade.

"It must have been at least three months ago," was the quirky reply, and the boy felt his shaking come again, unable to hold his gun steady. The woman sneered his direction, a devilish smirk playing it's way across her face, and she stepped forward. Before he even knew what he'd done, the boy compressed the trigger of his gun.

"Oh no! I didn't mean to," he cried, his eyes clenched shut. He couldn't open them, didn't want to see the horrified look on the woman's face, didn't want to see the blood, knowing he'd caused it.

"Hey," a soft whisper caressed his ear and he opened his eyes squinting, his vision filled with the carefully crafted face of the woman. She was beautiful, full red lips split on the bottom with an old jagged scar, large doe eyes, a scratch on her chin, and another faded scar on her arced eyebrow. She was smiling bemusedly, her mouth pursed, the corners rolled up in amusement, she said, "It's not loaded." And that was the last he recalled, as a fist connected evenly with his jaw and sent him into a deep sleep.

Bandit took a side-saddle seat on one of the motorcycles, pulling a half-foot long gnarled blade from her boot and picking at the chrome of the handlebars with it. She eyed Brat as he flipped the boys over, searching them, sometimes finding currency and pocketing it, sometimes finding other valuable things; ammunition, food supplies, water, he took their guns and any other armaments he found as well; tossing everything into a large canvas bag he'd brought from the Basilisk.

"Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer do," he was singing, glancing to Bandit every now and then as though serenading her with the words, "I'm half crazy, all for the love of you…" he stopped, lifting up one of the boys and patting down his pockets, "You know," Brat said, "This was fun."

"Yeah," Bandit clucked, then teasingly, "We should do this bonding shit more often."

"You think we should just leave them here?"

"Why?"

"Well," Brat droned haggardly, as though it were a lecture he'd given her several thousands of times before, "If they wake up and go running back to the Campus, they'll tattle to the Faculty about how the Playgrounders ambushed them and…"

"Pfft," Bandit snorted, breaking into laughter, "And what will the Faculty do, huh? They have no jurisdiction out here. They'll just use it as propagandist crap to promote the idea Playground bad, School system good. I know how they work."

"Really?" Brat questioned skeptically.

"Yes, really," Bandit snapped, "Can we get going? Hanging around these Orange belts so long is making me queasy."

"Should we take the bikes?" Brat mused, the question was only half-rhetorical.

"Naw," Bandit answered, as she stalked back in the direction of the Basilisk, shouldering her shotgun strap, "They'll need them to run back to the 'safety' of the Campus."

Brat shrugged, slinging the bag of stolen goods over his shoulder and following Bandit in a swaggering strut.

They drove the rest of the way to the Hull in silence. It was a large metal frame, or hull, hence the name, riveted with bolts and tightly locked and secured with no apparent openings save the locked latch on the very top of the whole thing. It took the shape of a large ship, almost, one would say a cross between a submarine and a jet. It stood several hundred feet high, towering up, but well hidden n the mountainous location they had chosen to 'park' it. Brat pressed a manila button on his overhead controls, and the front bottom of the Hull creaked, parting ever so slightly, and dropping slowly to the ground, providing a ramp up to the large Parking Garage, as they had dubbed it. When the Basilisk was fully in, Brat pressed the button again and the opening clamped shut once more.

The Parking Garage was several hundred square feet, taking up the entire front of the Hull, and opened to the very top. There were several vehicles already scattered around the garage, some were in pieces and disarray, there were grease stains on the metal floor, and tools were scattered about with extra pieces and strange devices. For the most part, this was Bandit's domain. To the far left of the room was a door that lead to a small storage where all their guns and weaponry were neatly kept. That was Brat's hobby shop.

Pressed farther back were the ascending stairs, leading up to the more lived in area of the entire Hull. And farther back from the Parking Garage lay the inner working of the vehicle; the engine. Bandit's room was at the very top, the third floor, and was very much off limits. Brat bunked with Katz in a lower second floor room. The rest of the area was divided between the small bathroom, the dining room, the kitchen, a common room and the central station or Pilot's cockpit, where everything inside and out of the Hull was constantly monitored by Katz. He hardly left the room, it was where his main computer was located, not to mention several other computers, monitors, wirings, and anything else that Katz found necessary to stick in the room. It was a techno-nerd's wet dream. Brat and Bandit avoided the room for the most part, afraid to touch anything for fear of causing some shortage or power failure or worse to happen. So Katz had communication monitors set up around the entire Hull, even briefly in Bandit's room until she found it and dealt with him swiftly and painfully, so that he could contact them without having to leave the room and show them basic things on his screen without them having to come to him.

Bandit swung open the door, hopping out of the Basilisk, and wheeling her bike, Black Beauty out into its designated spot. She bent to examine it, brushing sand from the chrome exhaust pipe, and, closing one eye, peered into said pipe. Her frown deepened.

"It's clogged," she muttered. Brat was busy dragging Vladimir from the Basilisk. He threw the crumpled form of their bounty onto the cold metal floor of the Parking Garage, putting his hands on his hips, and puffing out his barrel chest.

"We're home," he hollered, and the words echoed throughout the Hull. The monitor, slung up at the top of the stairs, flickered on and Katz shiny face gleamed down at them.

"You don't need to shout," he snapped, "I already know that you're back, and I also know that…hey! Did you bring me back some sugar and cream? I can't very well drink coffee without sugar and cream! Probably not, they never think of me. Did you two have fun? Oh good. I contacted the Hookies…yeah…them, they sent me the meeting place info. All you guys gotta do is go down and make the exchange."

"Not tonight, though, right?" Bandit moaned, making her way up the stairs towards the kitchen, her stomach grumbling in a plead for food.

"Well…they did say they wanted him as soon as possible…but…okay…I can contact them again…how's tomorrow morning? Mmm…seven?"

"Seven in the morning?" Brat demanded, Bandit stomping her way from the room. She could still hear them arguing about the right meeting time, but didn't really care. She paused in the kitchen, catching sight of her reflection in a window. She tugged a loose strand of hair and stuck her tongue out.

"I used to be someone else," she reminded herself, "God, I hate that."

END A/N: So, how do you guys all like Bandit's character. She's going to come off as very eccentric, very soon. What about Brat and Katz, my two OC? Within the next couple chapters we're going to get very in depth of their personalities.

I know it's a slow beginning, but it had a lot of action in it, huh? It's going to take its time getting started, as nothing great was ever accomplished in a short period of time. Rome wasn't built in a day. And sure, God made the world in six days, but I'm not God, however, I am damn near closer than anyone else you'll ever meet.

Um...yes, this world is plagued with guns, and violence, and other such scary things. It's also going to deal with drugs, alcohol, sexuality, and a multiplicity of other very scary things. Please excuse any grammatical and typing errors.

REVIEW! The next chapter's going to be awhile, so you have plenty of time to digest this chap and contemplate what you want to say to me in your REVIEW!

Thanks for Reading.

Did you REVIEW? I could sic the evil monkey that lives in my closet on you!