Alright, I know that this chapter is probably going to raise a lot of questions. Don't worry, this isn't one of THOSE fanfics. I have good, solid, logical reasons for what his happening... or so I think. The explanation will be delivered bit by bit as things go on, but some of you might be able to piece things together a lot sooner. If you really want to ask the hard questions, leave a review or send me a PM, I don't bite.
He had been running for four days and four nights by the time that Outlook came into view, silhouetted against a rising sun. Skeletons of abandoned buildings slowly crumbled back into the bleached grey dirt surrounding them, converted from reality to fading memory long before war scarred the four corners of the earth. Amidst the quiet desolation, the scout slowed his harried pace, allowing himself to catch his breath. Traveling through brush trails by day and side roads by night, rarely stopping to rest, the journey took its toll on his body. Now that the ground was rising up into foothills beneath him, his journey was almost over, and he could afford to slow down and pace himself. Another day to reach home was more than enough.
A light breeze, cool and dry, ruffled the scarves wrapped around his head and flipped the collar of his long coat up. The scout ducked into what was once a modest house, sitting down on a sagging bench and setting his rucksack aside. Loud crackling noises came from each shoulder as he rolled them in turn, stretching the accumulated tension out of them. The cracks were echoed by growls from his stomach. He glanced around, checking for any prying eyes, before he dragged the rucksack in front of his legs and removed his gloves to rifle through it.
When he pulled the heavy leather off his hands, pale flesh pebbled with darker grey gleamed in the dull light.
The scout undid both tie-straps and opened up the canvas bag, shuffling through the contents eagerly. He pulled out one of the strange tins he had found, rectangular and thick with rounded corners and a strange metal key stuck on the side. Setting this aside, he fished around some more to come up with a cylinder of light metal, strange runes embossed into its side and a similar looking key embedded in the top. He grabbed the rectangular box first, turning it over several times until he was sure he had the top facing up. Pulling a crude knife out of his belt, he jabbed a series of perforations all around the lid and carefully pried the jagged chunk of metal away.
Fish. Smaller than what he was used to, headless and tail-less and in a bath of light yellow liquid. They smelled pleasantly pungeant, and he removed his head wrappings to eat, burlap falling away from knobby bare flesh, heavy brows and snarling lips. The drone winced as he took off his goggles and the sunrise flooded into his beady yellow eyes. He tossed the clothing in a pile and lifted one of the fish pieces delicately with clawed fingers. It tasted even better than it looked, and he tipped the rest of the box into his mouth, chewing crudely. Grabbing his knife again to open the can, the drone hesitated. Perhaps it was a good time to put some of his observations to use. Humans, he'd noticed, used the tab on top to open it. Sure enough, it came free without a fuss, allowing him to sniff at the opening tentatively. There was no smell save the metal itself, and a sip revealed it to be plain water, although far more pure and tasteless than what he was used to. The drone pondered why anyone would seal water inside a can when it flowed freely all over the surface, but soon accepted that he was simply not equipped for such philosophical thinking. He tossed the empty canister back into his bag and lifted it onto his knees, hunting around for any other items of interest.
There was a tiny metal box with a crank on one side that produced strange tinkling tunes when turned. There were little packets filled with strange, sweet smelling red goo, bitter clear liquid and spicy-scented yellow paste. There were bits of human clothing, fistfuls of gun cartridges, knives, strange pinching and cutting tools, delicate glass orbs with metal plugs on one and and tiny wires inside. The drone shook one, ever so gently, and heard a faint tingling from within. Somehow, they could be made to glow; he had seen the human dwellings become awash with orange every time the great burning heavens fell beyond the horizon.
Right now, the light was coming in a steeper angle, telling him that he had rested long enough. He pulled one last item from his bag, a thin metal frame with two dark glass lenses set into it, something he'd been wanting to try ever since seeing it in use. The two nubs between the lenses sat awkwardly above his nostrils and the long side-arms fell uselessly down by his jaw. Things designed for humans rarely fit his people well. He grabbed a headdress from the bag, a cloth mesh dome with a brim on one side decorated with the emblem of a growling mountain cat. Fitting. The two side arms of the strange goggles fit into the mesh sides of the hat perfectly. Placing his hands on his hips, the scout looked around, marveling at how the light was dimmed without any slats or mesh in his eyes. He shouldered his pack once again, and started off towards the distant grey peaks, smiling as much as a drone could smile
He would be praised when he returned, and Colony would be amazed when they saw what he had collected.
"Grampa, it's Hubs," the young man protested, rocking his chair upright on all fours. Nothing he did seemed to make his self-anointed nickname stick. "Everybody calls me Hubs now, 'cause it's cooler."
"Nonsense, Hubert. You have a fine name." His grandfather replaced his reading spectacles with sunshades and pulled on a vest. "I don't expect we'll get many customers while I'm gone, but remember: be courteous, be attentive and smile."
Hubert watched him leave and rocked his chair back against the wall, thumbing through the tattered pre-war comic book. Many? Try none, he thought. It was already three in the afternoon, warm orange rays streaming in through the slatted blinds of the front windows. A handful of people came in daily to buy handmade smokes or candies; if it wasn't for those goods, nobody would come in at all. The half-empty racks of brooms, old plates, useless electrical cords and ratty pre-war books were not exactly hot-ticket items.
Books… that reminded him of something. He flopped his comic down on the counter and stealthily padded over to the bookshelves, as though there were dozens of eyes on him. Picking a thick, dusty engineering tome from the top shelf, he pried it open a crack and retrieved the magazine from inside: just a little something he'd spotted out of the corner of his eye while unpacking a box of scavenged goods. This was something that would definitely sell, considering they hadn't made any of it for over sixteen years. His fingers trembled slightly as he gripped the still-shiny cover of the magazine. SLAMMERS sprawled out in big red letters above a woman wearing a few strips of leather and a saucy smile.
A genuine, bona-fide skin rag, the kind of thing any other fifteen year old would tell the tallest of tales about, right here, in his possession. Sometimes minding the store alone had its perks.
Back behind the counter, he cracked it open to a random spot, too eager to hold back. A curvy blonde lay sprawled all over both pages. "Wow," he enthused quietly, "she looks just like Christine McCuddy, give or take five years." Except prudish, haughty Christine would never do thatwith her legs… would she? This magazine was definitely being spirited away to his room; it was too good to lose. He'd find a way to sneak something else to gramps in return. "Oh my god," he moaned, turning the page. "Look at the size of these bazong-"
The door's bell chiming nearly gave him a heart attack and made his chair topple over backwards. He managed to avoid crinkling the magazine into a ball, not sure of what he'd do with himself if he destroyed what could be the last porno mag on Sera.. He levered himself up onto the counter with the thing still in his grip, squinting at the bulky figure standing in the doorway. The stranger had 'odd' written all over him, mostly from the fact that where most people had skin showing, he had burlap wrappings and goggles. Hub squirmed, recalling some of the stories he'd heard about soldiers so mangled, they patched them up with dead men's faces. 'Slammers' suddenly became the second most interesting thing in the store.
The man walked slowly around, appraising all the items on the shelves in turn. Hub peeked over the pages of the dirty mag, watching him pick up an old desk fan that probably didn't work and turn it over in his gloved hands like it was studded with gemstones. Damn big hands too, he thought, as his own gripped the magazine tighter. "Alright, where was I?" he murmured. "Miss Bloom, right, Miss Bloom…"
A shadow fell over his face. He looked up slowly into the steel mesh lenses of the man's goggles and swallowed nervously, dropping the magazine. A few old illustrated farmer's encyclopedias thumped onto the counter, along with some silverware, a mug and a box of mints. The man looked over the jars of sweets sitting nearby and slowly reached one massive fist inside. Several lemon sticks tumbled onto the pile of goods. Hubert stared, dumbstruck into the goggles as the man reached down onto the counter and grabbed something. He looked down, examining the magazine. Hubert's magazine.
White hot embarrassment coursed through his veins. Oh god what if gramps comes back right now? What if he tells gramps about this? What if he says something really awkward? Oh god, I've gotta say something. I've gotta say-
"Th-that will be si-six dollars and, uh…"
Wordlessly, the man gathered all the things he'd purchased into his backpack. He reached into his coat and tossed a small pouch on the counter; it jingled loudly. As the man left, Huber slowly upturned the pouch, watching as gold coin after gold coin spilled out on the worn wood. Not alloy or brass plate, but real gold, heavy as hell and soft enough that most were bent and rubbed-down from centuries of wear. They were all shapes and sizes; some almost modern, with recognizable dates stamped into them, some so old he couldn't even tell if they were Ferian. If they added up to anything less than a hundred, he'd be shocked.
"Gramps is going to flip when he sees these," Hubert softly whispered.
If I was going to produce a porno magazine, I'd totally call it Slammers. Because I'm hella immature.