So… I'm gonna finish this book. Not that anyone seems bothered whether it continues or not, but… yeah – I don't wanna leave things half-baked.
I will say that only one person who's has actually reviewed every chapter – doesn't need to write an essay, just puts down his thoughts. Like every therapist will tell you – communication is key. So, TheBlueJay2003, you get a gold star, bragging rights, *and* a high horse which you can look down on everyone else from. Honestly, my guy, you are a shining light and your back must be hurting from carrying all the other readers. (I notice you LadyLannister01 - c'mon, my Lady, catch up!)
In all honesty, I do get it. I too have a life and have to wait to gather my thoughts – and even then, it can be hard to find the time to write your thoughts down. Anyway, here's over 8,000 words of fiction.
The autoshop in Pine Hollow smelled different to the one back at camp – oil, burning metal, and something faintly sweet that Vann could never place. His legs swung back and forth as he sat on the scuffed worktop, his sneakers tapping against the metal frame. The bench was rough under his palms, and his fingertips brushed over gouges and dents like they were little mysteries to solve.
His heels bumped against the worktop as he watched his mother dig into the guts of the car's engine. Her ash-blonde hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, a few strands stuck to her face with sweat. She had grease smudged on her cheek and hands, her knuckles scraped from a long day of work. Her black leather kutte was worn and cracked, the patches on it fraying at the edges, and her jeans were patched up and tucked into scuffed boots. Her steel-blue eyes were sharp, focused on the engine, unbothered by the sweat dripping down her temple or the dirt streaking her fingers.
"Hand me the ratchet," his mother called, her voice muffled as she leaned under the open hood of the car.
Vann picked up the greasy tool and leant forwards to pass it to her, careful not to drop it this time. She grunted in thanks, her arm streaked with black smudges as she adjusted something deep in the engine.
The faint hum of a rock song drifted out of the radio on a nearby shelf, tinny and crackling. Vann tapped his fingers against the edge of the worktop, the rhythm sticking in his head. He was more used to the music played back at camp – slower and softer, with less shouting and swearing.
"Almost done?" he asked.
"Patience, kiddo - good work takes time."
Vann's legs swung back and forth as the sunlight poured into the garage, catching the dust motes floating in the air. The shop smelled different from the hangar back at camp – cleaner, almost clinical. Too polished. The tools were better here, though, and Vann's mom had said there was no fixing up the car without them.
Outside, a breeze kicked up, and Vann heard the faint murmur of voices. A kid, maybe a year or two younger than him, stood just at the edge of the garage doors. The boy's face was pinched with curiosity, his dark eyes flicking between Vann and the car his mother was working on. Vann straightened up a little, trying to look older or tougher – or maybe just interesting. But before he could say anything, the boy's father strode over, placing a firm hand on his shoulder and steering him away.
"C'mon," the man said, not sparing Vann or his mother a glance. "Don't stare." His tone was clipped, low, like he didn't want to be overheard. The boy stumbled slightly as his father led him away, his head turning for one last glance before disappearing down the street.
Vann felt his stomach twist, a pang of shame he didn't understand yet. He looked down at his hands, at the grime caked under his nails and the faint streaks of oil on his palms. He rubbed them together like he could scrub the dirt off with sheer will.
"You're drifting, kiddo."
"Huh?" Vann blinked and realized she'd been holding out the wrench to him while he was staring out toward the wide-open autoshop doors. He picked up the wrench and set it back down on the worktop.
"You'll need to keep sharper ears than that if you're going to be any use," she said, smearing a bit of oil on his cheek. Her hazel eyes glanced back to the doorway for a moment. "Don't mind him: Some folk got small minds. Doesn't mean you've got to fit inside 'em."
Vann nodded, but the knot in his stomach didn't loosen.
The low rumble of an engine broke through the stillness as a beat-up truck pulled into the lot, drawing both their gazes. Vann knew the sound before he saw the vehicle.
Alexander Jachmann stepped out of the cab like he owned the ground he stood on. His black synth-leather kutte gleamed dully in the dry breeze, and his sharp eyes took in the garage in a single sweep.
"Afternoon, Bon," Alex said.
"Deadeye." She stepped back from the car and wiping her hands on an already-filthy rag.
From the passenger side of the truck, Tara clambered out – a gawky and thin girl with a mane of ginger hair tied into a high ponytail that looked like it had been fighting with a brush and won. She stood awkwardly, her hands stuffed into the pockets of her patched-up jeans, and scuffed her boots on the ground, glancing around with the eagerness of a much-younger child.
"Say hi, Tara," Alex said, his sharp-edged voice a little softer.
"Hi, Tara," she parroted her dad. Vann's mother grinned, amused.
"Listen, Bon, I need to go see Lincoln…"
"Why? Something the matter?"
"No, nothing bad – someone mentioned a transport contract and I figured he'd wanna know about it. Would you mind watching Tara – just for an hour or two?"
"Sure – I can't promise I'll give her back, though," Vann's mother said, reaching out call Tara over and wipe some oil on her brow.
"Fine by me, but Mary might have a thing or two to say about it…"
Tara stuck her tongue out at her father. She caught Vann's eye for a brief second and he looked away, his face turning pink.
"She's spent too much time with Clownie…" Alex said a little sheepishly.
"Nah, a sense of humour never hurt anyone – even Clownie's…" Vann's mother grinned. "How's she and Marge holding up?"
Alex opened his mouth and then closed it before glancing down at his daughter. "Hey, Tara, why don't you ask Vann to show you around?"
"Yeah, hey, I need some... spark plugs – why don't you poke around in the back and see if you can find some?"
"What's a spark plug?" Tara asked.
"Vann knows what they look like – why don't you go with her, kiddo?"
Vann paused. His palms felt a bit clammy. Tara already walked off to the other side of the shop, pulling on cardboard boxes.
"Uh… sure," Vann said, hopping off the worktop and hurrying over to her. Vann kicked at bolt as they passed it. The shelves and parts stacked around them were so tightly packed, it almost felt like walking through a maze. The air was still and quiet, the only sound their footsteps scraping against the concrete floor.
"So," Tara said, breaking the silence. "Your mom been busy?"
Vann managed a shrug: He wanted to say something cool, something that would make her smile or laugh, but his mind had gone blank.
"Your dad?"
"Nothing too exciting. He says I'm 'helping,' but mostly I just end up standing around holding stuff." Tara glanced at him, her eyes briefly meeting his before she looked away. She shrugged, then glanced back at him. "But I like being with him. Even if he's boring sometimes."
"Sounds like a dad thing," Vann replied.
"Sure, it's a 'dad' thing," she said, her lips twitching like she was holding back a grin.
Vann suddenly realised about how grubby he was. He wiped his hands on his shirt, then regretted it when he saw the streak of grease it left behind.
"Hey, Vann, why did the bike fall over?"
Vann frowned. "What bike?"
"No, why did it fall over?" She asked, grinning widely and waiting for him to admit he didn't know.
"I don't know..."
"Because it was two-tired!" She burst out excitedly, waiting for him to laugh.
It took a moment before it clicked in his head. He nodded and gave a polite smile before picking up another box. Why didn't he laugh? He should've laughed. But the moment had passed - laughing now would've made him look like a maniac.
"You know, you don't smile much." Tara reached for a shelf and pulled down a box of parts, glancing into it before setting it down on another shelf.
Vann blinked, surprised. "I smile."
Tara snorted, nudging him with her elbow. "No, you don't. Not really. You look like you're always thinking about something bad."
Vann looked at her, trying to figure out if she was messing with him. "I'm not thinking about anything bad."
"Yeah, right," she snorted. "But hey, it's okay. You just have that... tough guy thing going on. It's a lot."
Tara was already pulling down another box, her expression a mix of mischief and thoughtfulness.
Vann shrugged, a little confused. "I'm not trying to be tough."
"I said you're trying to look tough – I don't think you actually are…" She shrugged. Vann blinked, surprised by her words, but before he could say anything, Tara added, "But, hey, you don't have to be."
He scratched the back of his head, not sure how to respond.
"I think you should try smiling more. You'd look less grumpy." Tara grinned at him, her face bright.
"I'm not grumpy," he frowned.
"I'm not grumpy," she mimicked him, putting on a guttural voice.
Vann didn't have a response for that. He went to put one of the boxes she had pulled out back when he looked down and found a half-dozen opened boxes with terminal nuts peeking out.
"Hey, this it," Vann said, reaching in to pull out the boxes. "You almost put these away!"
Tara nodded. "Yeah, almost…"
Vann led the way back to his mother, who was saying goodbye to Alex. As they returned, Vann noticed something in his mother's eye, in her slight smile – like he saw something that Vann hadn't figured out yet.
Something important.
12:40, 1st March 2090
Redstone, Utah
"¡Oye! Vann?" Diego's voice crackled loudly over the radio.
"Wha- yeah, I'm here." He answered.
"Comms good?"
"Yeah, all fine."
"Need some more coffee, kiddo?" Seph asked. Vann's knuckles turned white as they gripped the steering wheel.
"I'm good."
He looked up at the approaching town of Redstone as the Lost Ghosts rolled in with clouds of gravel and old dirt as they turned off the cracked highway and into the fading streets. The town lay nestled in the thin, shrivelled valley of the Utah desert, almost forgotten by time, a relic of something that used to be. The air was hot, dry, and the smell of sun-baked adobe clung to everything – buildings, cracked fences, and the very earth beneath their boots.
The neon signs above the row of old shops were flickering half-heartedly, like they were tired of fighting the wind. A faded, rusted 'Redstone General Store' sign swayed from a barely-hinged post. The streets had just enough life to remind you that they had once been busy; the small town still held onto its bones, but now, only a handful of souls were left to see it decay.
There wasn't much here. Just the wind, a few tumbleweeds rolling across the street, and locals hiding behind wide-brimmed hats and mirrored sunglasses, glancing over at the convoy of battered vehicles and motorcycles with distrust – some were even half-smiling, but it wasn't the kind of smile that made you feel welcome.
Vann didn't give them a second look, but he noticed the group of rough-looking men leaning on the porch of a small building with the faded 'Leo's' sign hanging crookedly over the door, their cold eyes tracking their every movement. The past few months had been like a fog he couldn't quite shake, and the faces of people who might have known him before didn't bother him anymore.
The engines of their vehicles sputtered and popped as they came to a stop outside the building. Vann let the engine idle for a moment, his hands gripping the worn leather of the steering wheel. His knuckles turned white as he tried to steady his breathing. The tension in his chest had been there for as long as he could remember, a weight that seemed to grow heavier every day. He pushed open his door and swung his legs out of the car, looking over at Diego, who climbed out of his Mizutani Shion. He seemed relaxed as always, despite the arid heat.
"You sure about this?" Vann muttered over the radio, picking up his water canteen and taking a sip.
Diego shot him a glance and then wiped the sweat off his brow. "Listen, we're just gonna have a conversation and get some supplies – won't be here long enough to cause trouble. Let's get it done and move on." He cracked his neck and gave a chuckle. "At least Maggie knows her business."
Vann nodded stiffly. He wasn't convinced, but that was hardly anything new.
Diego turned to look at Daisy, who had climbed out of her rusty, beaten-up Shion. The damned thing had broken down twice that day. Vann thought it likely the thermostat, but Daisy had insisted it was the old radiator she'd salvaged from her van. It was a miracle it even made it to Redstone.
"Daisy, there's a shop up yonder you can use for your car. If Charlotte's working, be polite, even if she's not, and don't let her work on your car. If it's Levi, just pay him up-front and leave him be. And take Mo with you, too."
"Seriously?" Daisy asked.
"I'm not letting her walk around on her own around here."
"Yeah, don't let Ramona walk around on her own," Mo croaked, dismounting her bike and pulling her goggles down to her neck, "but I, Dynamo, am totally a-okay to check out town on my own!"
"I'd hope so – but… best to travel in pairs, just in case."
He'd learned long ago that he had no use for hope anymore. Hope made things worse. Instead, he turned his gaze to the weathered, sun-beaten building ahead, squinting at the sign as if it might fall apart any moment. The door swung open, and a woman stepped out onto the porch. She was a tall, dark-haired old woman, with sharp silver eyes that scanned the nomads that exited their vehicles. Her presence alone was enough to silence the few locals still lounging on the steps.
She didn't smile when she saw them. In fact, the look she gave Diego was more like a gambler eyeing a bluff – cool and calculating.
"Salazar," she said, her voice flat. "Didn't think I'd see you around here again."
He flashed a grin that had been honed to charm just about anyone. "What can I say, Maggie? I've got a habit of showing up where I'm needed."
Maggie's gaze flicked over to Seph and Vann. "I take it these are your... associates?" she asked, each word like she was measuring them for something – probably to make sure they weren't more trouble than they were worth.
"Yeah, they're good," Diego answered, leaning back against the side of the truck. "They've handled worse than a few barflies."
The locals on the porch muttered quietly to each other, their eyes flicking back to the three of them. Vann could hear snippets of the conversation.
"Damn Nomads," one man grumbled, casting a sideways glance at them. "Always beggin' for scraps."
"Better go check your ride ain't missin' any parts this time," another one shot back, his voice louder, so the words carried on the breeze.
Vann's jaw tightened. He could feel the heat of anger building in his chest, making his fists clench until his nails dug into his palms. Another town in another state, and still treated like scum. But he said nothing. Not yet.
Maggie's eyes met his, and the smirk that spread across her lips made him bristle. "What do you want, drifters?" she asked, her tone bored, condescending. "If you're here to beg for charity, I'll save you the trouble. We don't have much to spare."
Diego stepped forward, letting his charm smooth over the tension in the air. "We're not here for handouts," he said, his smile still easy, even if the irritation in his eyes was just barely masked. "I've got some iron for you. Something you can move fast, make a real profit."
Maggie's eyes flicked to the trunk of Diego's Mizutani. "Hmph. Klepped iron? I've got no use for anything that'll bring heat down on my head." She tilted her head and surveyed the trio, her gaze lingering on Vann for a moment too long. "And I don't do favours for nomads. You come into my town, you play by my rules."
Vann's hand twitched, and his teeth ground together, but before he could open his mouth to snap back, Diego beat him to it, his voice smooth but firm. "Not asking for favours, Maggie. Just trying to make sure we all walk away with some scratch."
Maggie took a step forward, her boots kicking up dust as she crossed her arms. "And what makes you think I'll help you?"
Diego's grin was as wide as it was dangerous. "Because, Maggie, you need something. Everyone always needs something. And we're the only ones who can get you it."
"You reckon so-" One of the boys on the porch steps began, but Maggie's voice cracked out like a whip.
"Quiet, Jesse." She looked back to Diego. "Keep talking."
"You send one of your people out to klep something, people know where to look. We pull the job, and… well, who's to say we told you where it came from?"
For a long moment, Maggie didn't move. She just stood there, eyes narrowed in thought. Then, slowly, she sighed and uncrossed her arms.
"Come inside. It's too hot out here to talk biz."
Diego started walking forwards, climbing up the stairs, past the guy that had tried to speak. As Diego ascended to the porch, one of the locals hawked up some phlegm and spat it out on Diego's tan synth-suede jacket.
"That's for the last time you folk showed up here."
Vann stepped forwards, but Seph grabbed his elbow to hold him in place. He wanted to smash the butt of his handgun into the man's jaw. Seph's hand on his arm was not tight enough or strong enough to keep him from doing so, but it did keep him grounded. He bit his tongue, hard. Diego wiped the phlegm off with his bare hand and looked at the man for a long while before turning to Maggie.
"Fine friends, Maggie," he said, voice smooth and confident.
"Ollie, delta." Maggie ordered. Vann watched Ollie snort and chuckle with Jessie as the two began to make their way from the porch. Jessie, the shorter of the two, barged his shoulder into Vann, and his frustration broke loose.
"Touch me again," he snapped, his voice sharp, and his fists clenched at his sides.
Jesse and Ollie gave smarmy grins that showed their yellowed teeth. Jessie took a step back to Vann.
"You want me to touch you, boy?" He giggled.
"I want an excuse to put another hole in your fuckin' skull."
"Watch yourself, nomad," Jesse said softly, his voice like the hiss of a snake. "You don't know who you're dealing with-"
"Do I look like a give a shit?"
Jesse's eyes flashed, a dangerous smile tugging at his lips. The air felt colder, and for a moment, the entire street seemed to hold its breath. The words hung in the air, thick with challenge, and Vann knew he shouldn't have said it. He shouldn't have let his anger get the best of him – again. But it was too late now. He was already wound too tight, the flame too close to sparking.
Jesse leant forwards slowly, going to push Vann's shoulder. Vann, already alert and not as arrogant, reached out a hand to grab Jesse's wrist. His other hand went for the Tamayura stuffed into the waistband of his jeans, but Seph's grip tightened on his arm and she pulled him back.
Before Vann could make another move, Jesse stepped in between them, a hand on Vann's shoulder, forcing him to look at her instead of Jesse. Seph's voice was smooth, too smooth, when he spoke.
"Varrick," Seph said quietly, "let's not turn this into a fight we don't need."
"Yeah, listen to mommy," Jesse taunted him.
Before Vann could even take a step, Seph's grey, chrome-plated knuckles tightened on his shoulder. Her bright gold eyes were steady as she looked at him, and without a word, she turned and led him away from the office.
The dry, hot wind hit Vann's face like a slap as he walked back to their cars with her. The moment they were out of earshot, Seph didn't waste any time.
"You need to cool it," she stated.
"You just saw what happened, didn't you?"
"I did."
"I should've beat him the second he-"
"Easy," she urged him. "Relax…"
"Relax – that gonk deserves a bullet in the head!"
"Maybe, but… what, over an insult? A bit of spit on a jacket?" She frowned, a little confused. "Look, you've got a fire in you, Vann – and that's a good thing! But if you aim it at the wrong people, you're just gonna burn bridges that aren't even built yet."
"They treat us like dirt, Seph. You expect me to just sit there and smile?"
"No," Seph says, her tone softening. "But pickin' fights with every loudmouth in town doesn't make us better than them. You think this is the first place to look down on nomads? Hell, you think it'll be the last? Who cares what they think of you? Why do you care?"
Vann didn't respond right away. He just stared straight ahead, his jaw tight, his chest still heavy with anger. They didn't deserve to be treated like this. And no-one shared his anger! They didn't have any fucking rage!
Seph let out a sigh and ran a hand through her braided black hair, patting at the small beads of sweat on her brow.
"Just… go and check on Daisy and Ramona…" She said as she opened up the trunk of his car and began taking out empty black duffel bags.
"What?"
"I need to get us some food, Vann – tell me you can bite your tongue the whole while and you can come along." Seph held out the empty bags and gestured to general store.
They stayed in silence for a while longer, watching the dust blow through the streets of Redstone. Vann eventually gave a small nod and turned to walk down the other end of the street.
The town was a pit stop – a forgotten corner of nowhere with dusty streets and rusting signs swaying in the dry breeze. Vann shoved his hands into the pockets of his kutte, scanning the peeling paint and boarded-up windows as he walked. The heat pressed down like a weight, but he kept moving, the sound of his boots crunching on gravel the only company. He didn't like lingering in places like this.
The auto shop sat at the end of the street, a squat, ramshackle building barely holding itself together. The faded sign above the door read 'Fix-It' in cracked paint. He pushed the door open, a tinny bell announcing his arrival, though nobody seemed to care. The scent of grease and old rubber filled the air, and somewhere in the back, he heard the rhythmic clink of tools on metal.
"Daisy?" he called, stepping inside.
"Back here," came a muffled voice.
He followed the sound, weaving between stacks of tires and cluttered workbenches until he found her. Daisy was bent over the engine of a small, beat-up Mizutani, a smudge of grease streaked across her cheek. Her dark hair was tied back in a messy bun, though strands had fallen loose to frame her face. She wore a cropped grey tank top, revealing the blue-and-salmon petal tattoos on her chest and the mechanical gleam of her cyberarm as she worked. Her bolero jacket was draped over a nearby stool, and the workshop lights caught the faint edges of a nine-pointed star tattoo on her back whenever she moved just right.
"Thought you'd be done by now." Vann leaned against a workbench, crossing his arms.
"Thought wrong." Daisy wiped the back of her organic hand across her forehead, smudging a streak of grease. "It's overheating again. Radiator fan's shot, most likely."
"You sure it's not the thermostat?" Vann asked.
She paused, turning slightly to glance at him. "No, thermostat's fine. Radiator fan's the problem," she said, her tone clipped but calm.
"That's what you said before," Vann replied, crossing his arms. "But it overheats even when you're not idling so I'm pretty sure it's not the fan. Checked the oil? The-"
"Yes, I checked the oil and the water-pump, and I filled up the coolant."
"Want me take a look?"
Daisy sighed, stepping back reluctantly. "Fine. Knock yourself out."
Vann stepped closer and leaned over the engine. The faint scent of grease and metal was familiar – almost comforting.
"You're low on coolant," he said after a moment, unscrewing the cap of the tank.
"No, I just filled it up." Daisy frowned, leaning in to see for herself. Her cyberarm brushed against his shoulder as she leant forwards, running her fingers along the edge of the hose.
"Damn it, there's a leak..." she muttered. "Thought I checked that already."
"Easy to miss," Vann said, stepping back to give her room.
An awkward silence stretched between them, filled only by the distant hum of the fan.
"So – is Mo back here as well?" Vann asked finally, breaking the quiet.
Daisy tossed the rag onto the workbench, crossing her arms. "She's off being Ramona – sorry – Dynamo. Probably blowing something up or picking a fight she can't finish. Y'know, her hobbies."
"Helpful." Vann sighed, scratching his head.
"Wasn't trying to be." She shot him a sideways glance.
"You're not worried about her?"
"What's the point in worrying about her? She'll come back - she always does," Daisy replied evenly. "Besides, worrying doesn't fix anything."
Vann's brow furrowed. "And if she doesn't?"
"Then I guess we'll celebrate. And I don't have to worry about her totalling my new ride…" Her voice softened – almost sounding a little sombre. Vann had expected her to be angry about her van getting wrecked by Mo, but he didn't expect her to be sad.
"Real attached to the Villefort, weren't ya?"
"You attached to the Quadra?"
"Sure, I mean, it's my car."
"Bought it?"
"Inherited it."
"Exactly." She said, walking around the car to pick up a spoiler and mount it on the black steel supports at the rear. "Was in the Carson clan longer than I was, longer than my Pah was. And now it's just in junk, somewhere out in the shit – except for these…" She kicked one of the tires.
"One nomad's trash is another nomad's treasure," Vann said, in the exact same cadence Chip had to him, those years ago. He picked up the multi-tool from the nearby workbench and passed it over to her.
"It wouldn't be trash if it wasn't for her," she muttered darkly. There was the anger Vann had expected.
Vann exhaled, the sound halfway between a sigh and a growl. "Guess I'll go find Mo."
"You don't have to." Daisy straightened up to look at him. "She's not your responsibility."
"I know," Vann said, "but neither are you."
Her lips twitched into the barest hint of a smile, but there was no humour in it. "Fair point."
Vann turned to leave the autoshop and walk back out into the blinding light of the Utah sun. He squinted and began searching the town – which was little more than a single street. He kept his head low, hands stuffed in his pockets, part of him hoping that Jessie and Ollie would come looking for him. After searching the general store, the diner, and the local ripperdoc's clinic, Vann tried his luck at the bar.
It was a grimy hole-in-the-wall, barely illuminated by flickering neon beer signs and a single cracked bulb hanging above the pool table. The air was heavy with the smell of stale beer, cheap cigarettes, and the faint metallic tang of sweat. A jukebox in the corner wheezed out a distorted rendition of some pre-Collapse hit, the lyrics mangled enough to make the song unrecognizable.
Vann paused in the doorway, his shoulders tense as he scanned the room. The crowd was rough – tough men and women with scarred knuckles and suspicious glares, people who lived hard and drank harder. And there, right in the middle of it all, was Mo.
She was impossible to miss: Her platinum blonde hair was tied into high, uneven pigtails that bobbed with every exaggerated gesture. Dust was caked into her bronzed face, (except for where she had been wearing her goggles) and she wore a tank top smeared with oil and sweat under a bright orange and black jumpsuit, the sleeves tied loosely around her waist. The bulky boots on her feet looked like they'd seen every inch of the Badlands, but somehow, her nails were perfectly painted – a blinding pink with little skull decals.
She perched on a wobbly barstool like it was a throne, tequila bottle in hand, regaling a group of locals with one of her endless stories.
"…and then Daisy was all, like, 'You better not touch my ride again, Dynamo,' and I was, like, 'Okay, but technically, it wasn't my fault, because the van was in the way, so, like, priorities?'" she said, her drawl ringing out over through the low murmur of the bar.
The locals chuckled, a few raising their drinks in amusement. Vann noted how some of the laughter didn't quite reach their eyes.
"Mo," he said, stepping forward.
She froze, tequila bottle halfway to her mouth, and turned toward him. Her eyes lit up with delight.
"Vanny! Oh my God, hi! What are you doing here? You, like, never go out!" She slid off the barstool and bounded toward him like an overexcited puppy. Her boots thudded against the floor, and he had to put out a hand to catch her as she tried to regain her balance.
"You're drunk," he realised, his tone flat.
"You're drunk," she replied.
"Come on, let's go."
She blinked at him, then tilted her head. "Um, first of all, rude. Second of all, I'm, like, in the middle of making friends."
"Yeah, I don't think this is the place for that," he said, lowering his voice as his green eyes flickered from local to local.
"Oh my God, not you as well..." she groaned, throwing her head back dramatically.
"There a problem here?" The bartender asked.
"No," Vann replied tersely.
"Vanny's just grumpy because he can't handle the fact that I'm, like, the fun one. It's not his fault. He was probably born that way."
The locals around her chuckled again, though this time, Vann noticed a few sideways glances being exchanged. He clenched his jaw, his eyes flicking toward a group of men at a corner table. They weren't laughing. One of them, a hulking figure with a shaved head and a jagged scar running down his cheek, leaned toward another and muttered something. The others nodded, their expressions hardening as they looked at Mo.
"Mo, we need to leave. Now."
"Ugh, why?" she whined. "You're, like, super killing my vibe right now."
"Because powder keg," he gestured to the ceiling, then to her, "match."
"Oh my God, you're so dramatic," she said, rolling her eyes and staggering back to her stool. "I'm fine. These guys are, like, totally preem." She waved at the scarred man in the corner. "Right, Bulldog? You're, like, not gonna stab me or anything, right? 'Cos that'd be, like, so rude."
The man – Bulldog – smirked, his scar stretching unnervingly. "That depends, sweetheart," he said, his voice low and gravelly. "You planning on paying for that tequila you've been pouring out all night?"
Mo gasped, clutching the bottle to her chest like it was a family heirloom. "Oh my God, Bulldog, you're, like, so dramatic!"
"Mo…" Vann began.
"Aw, look at the little baby…" Mo cooed, pinching Vann's cheek. "Look at his little face!"
The locals around her erupted into laughter, but Vann didn't miss the way Bulldog's smirk twisted into something colder.
"Ramona," Vann said sharply, "put the bottle down."
She blinked at him, her smile faltering for the first time. "Vann, what's your deal? You're being, like, such an absolute buzzkill right now!"
Bulldog stood, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. The room seemed to tilt as the laughter died, replaced by a tense, expectant silence.
"I think your friend needs to learn some manners," Bulldog said, his eyes locking onto Vann. He looked big enough pull Vann's head off his neck.
"Or maybe," Vann said, stepping between Mo and the towering man, "you just need to sit back down and shut the fuck up."
A murmur rippled through the bar as Bulldog crew stood up behind him. Vann could feel the weight of their stares, the tension coiling tighter with every second.
Mo, oblivious as ever, peeked around Vann's shoulder. "Oh my God, are we, like, fighting? Because I am so not in the mood for that right now."
"No one's fighting," Vann said, his voice low and calm.
"Depends," Bulldog said, cracking his knuckles. "You planning on paying her tab?"
Vann's jaw tightened. His hand inched toward a Tamayura handgun tucked haphazardly into the waistband of his jeans.
Behind him, Mo giggled nervously. "Okay, like, maybe we should go," she whispered, her drawl suddenly less confident.
"Great idea," Vann said through gritted teeth.
Bulldog stepped closer, the distance between them shrinking. "Thing is," he said, his grin sharp and mean, "I don't think I like how you're talking to me. I think the price just went up."
The tension was thick enough to choke on. Bulldog's eyes gleamed with the kind of malice that belonged to small-town kings, the kind of man who thought he owned every inch of the dust-streaked town. His crew lingered behind him, smirking and cracking their knuckles, eager for a fight.
Vann didn't flinch. He stood steady, but his jaw was tight. There was no bluffing his way out of this one – not with Bulldog's hand twitching on his weapon. And he didn't want to talk his way out.
The bartender was edging toward the back exit. The other patrons pretended to look elsewhere, but no one left - this was the best show the bar had seen in years.
"See, I don't think you understand," Bulldog growled, taking a step closer to Vann. "This ain't your town, nomad. You and your little ratpack don't belong here."
The bar felt heavier tonight, weighed down by stale cigarette smoke and the low hum of too many conversations dying out too quickly. Bulldog stood at the centre of it all, towering and solid. His DR-5 Nova revolver gleamed in its thigh holster, and his lips curled into a cruel smile as he faced Vann across the uneven floorboards.
"Pair of strays, ain't ya?" Bulldog's voice was a rumble, low and dangerous. His hand hovered near his gun, daring Vann to move. "You sure you're in the right place, boy?"
Vann didn't answer. His posture was deceptively relaxed, his weight resting on one leg. But there was something in his jungle-green eyes – a glint, sharp as broken glass – that dared Bulldog to make the first move.
The bar's patrons watched with bated breath, shifting uncomfortably in their seats. Even Bulldog's lackeys were quiet, their usual jeers replaced by wary silence.
"Figured you'd be smarter," Bulldog continued, his grin widening. "But no. You had to come pokin' around. You had to make yourself my problem. So tell me, stray – what's the last mistake you're plannin' to make tonight?"
Vann tilted his head, his lips twitching, but it wasn't a smile. It was something darker, closer to resignation. He didn't answer Bulldog's taunt, didn't flinch as the bigger man stepped closer. If anything, he leaned into it, like he was daring Bulldog to pull the trigger.
Bulldog's hand inched toward his revolver, the metallic scrape of his holster loud in the stillness.
And then the door swung open.
Seph walked in, boots scuffing against the wooden floor, and the air shifted like a storm rolling in. She was a commanding figure, her synth-leather trench coat billowing slightly with the gust of wind that followed her inside. Her long braid, streaked with green at the tips, rested against her shoulder, the dust-covered goggles hanging around her neck. Her golden eyes scanned the room, sharp and assessing, until they locked onto Bulldog and Vann.
"Seriously?" Seph's voice was low, edged with annoyance and something harder. She strode forward, the meander-patterned shemagh around her neck shifting as she moved, one hand brushing back the trench coat to rest on her hip. Her boots thudded against the floor as she crossed the bar.
Bulldog turned to face her, grinning and still full of bravado. "And who the hell are you supposed to be?"
"His problem-solver," Seph said coolly, stepping between him and Vann without hesitation. She didn't spare a glance at Vann; her angular sunglow eyes narrowed - locked on Bulldog now, her posture steady and unyielding.
Bulldog chuckled, a deep, unpleasant sound. "Listen, pal, you sure you want to step into this? Might not like how it ends."
Seph's lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "You're used to people backing down when you puff out your chest." Her tone sharpened, her words slicing through the air. "And you've just met someone who doesn't."
For a moment, Bulldog hesitated. For the briefest second, his grin faltered. There was something in the way she stared him down, perhaps he was actually swayed by her words. But then his hand twitched toward his revolver.
Seph moved faster.
Her cyberhand shot out, grabbing the front of his shirt and yanking him forward. Bulldog stumbled, his hand freezing mid-draw as Seph's other hand slammed onto his wrist, pinning it against the counter and making him gasp in pain. One of the locals rose from their stool, but she quickly pointed a finger at them, and they slowly sat back down.
"Draw that iron, and I promise you won't get to use it," Seph growled to Bulldog, her voice low and venomous. She leaned in close, her gaze boring into his. "Do you want to test me? Do you?"
Bulldog grimaced, his jaw tightening. But the fight in him wavered as Seph's grip tightened. She was smaller than him, sure, but the strength in her hold – and the pure fury in her eyes – made it clear she wasn't bluffing.
The bar was deathly silent. Even Bulldog's lackeys seemed frozen, unsure whether to step in or step back.
"Good," Seph hissed as she released his wrist and shoved him backward. "Now get out of my sight."
Bulldog glared at her, his ego bruised and his pride bleeding. But he didn't argue. He shuffled towards the door, cradling his wrist and muttering something under his breath. As the door slammed shut behind Bulldog and two of his cronies, Seph exhaled slowly, rolling her shoulders as she turned to Vann.
"You okay?" she asked, her voice softening slightly as she searched his eyes. Vann gave her a curt nod.
"You are like so scary right now, Mommy," Mo whispered from the bar, an amazed grin on her face as she twirled her finger around the rim of her empty tequila glass like a fashion accessory. "You want, like, a drink or whatever? I think you totally deserve one."
Seph shot her a look but didn't respond. Instead, she reached into her trench coat and pulled out a crumpled note of cloth-like paper. She glanced over to Mo for a moment before taking out another note and tossing it down on the bar.
"We'll take another bottle," she said to the bartender.
The barman, who might have turned her down at first, seemed to be more cautious than Bulldog, and quickly pocketed the notes before grabbing another bottle and placing it down on the bar. Seph picked up the bottle and thrust it into Mo's chest.
"We're leaving," she told the two nomads, and gave Vann a firm nudge toward the door. "This town's not worth the dirt it's built on."
Without waiting for a response, she ushered him out, her hand lingering near his back like a shield.
The arid air of a Utah afternoon hit them as they stepped outside. Seph didn't stop scanning their surroundings as she led them back to their cars and bikes, where Daisy and Diego were, loading the now-full black duffel bags into the trunks the cars.
"Next time, Vann, don't go looking for a fight," Seph said, her words heavied by weight of a warning.
"I wasn't."
"You're gonna get yourself hurt one of these days."
"I said I wasn't."
"Y'know, we could've just taken the bottle," Mo called from behind them.
"Not here to steal things from these folk," Seph responded.
"They're a bunch of assholes," Vann muttered bitterly.
"That doesn't give us the right to be." Seph ran a hand over her braid as she glanced back toward the bar.
The midday sun bore down hard on the Lost Ghosts as they regrouped around their vehicles, the heat shimmering off the asphalt in waves. Many of the townsfolk had gathered in clusters at the edges of the square, their glares cutting like daggers. Parents clutched their children close, others muttered under their breaths, and a few braver souls stared openly, their disdain as clear as the cloudless sky.
Diego, perched on the open door of his old Mizutani rig, grinned wide, the kind of grin that had weathered enough punches to no longer care.
"All good?"
"Guess we won't be on their Christmas card list," Seph replied.
Vann leaned against the door of his Quadra, and glanced over the hood at the small groups of townsfolk that began to gather into a crowd. No, not a crowd - a mob.
"Nah. They'll remember us next time, though. That's what matters." Diego lit a cigarette with practiced ease, the ember flaring bright against the gloom of the town.
Seph stood by her bike, her shemagh tied loosely around her neck, the edges of her synth-leather trench coat fluttering in the faint breeze. Her gold eyes scanned the crowd, searching for any signs of trouble. Beside her, Mo straddled her Brennan motorbike, humming a pop tune as if nothing had happened.
Diego took a long drag from his cigarette, exhaling a stream of smoke that swirled into the air like a signal. "Alright, Ghosts. Job's in Nevada. Simple haul-and-drop. Cargo's sensitive, so no pit stops, no screwing around. We're running it straight up the 15. If we're lucky, it's just a paycheck. If we're not..." He paused, taking a deep breath before scrunching up his face. "Well... you know the drill."
Before anyone could respond, the sound of heavy boots crunching on gravel drew their attention. Bulldog emerged from the diner, his DR-5 Nova gleaming at his hip. This time, he wasn't alone. His cronies followed, accompanied by Jesse and Ollie, all armed with pipes and pistols, eager to make a point.
"You think you can walk outta here like nothing happened?" Bulldog bellowed, his voice carrying over the growing murmur of the crowd. His cronies spread out, forming a loose line that blocked the road ahead of them. "Scum like you doesn't get to make the rules."
Vann straightened, his hand drifting toward his waistband. For a moment, his heart quickened – not with fear, but with something darker, something reckless. He almost welcomed it, the thought of throwing himself into the chaos, no matter the cost.
"Varrick." Seph's voice cut through his thoughts like a blade.
She stepped forward, her gaze locking on Bulldog with a quiet ferocity that made him falter for half a second. The crowd seemed to hold its breath as she closed the distance between them, her boots stirring up dust.
"We're leaving," Seph said, her voice calm but iron-hard. "You've got your bar. You've got your town. But if you think you've got the firepower to stop us…" She pulled aside her trench coat, revealing the brown handle of her Overture revolver. As if on cue, Diego had a hand on the blue-grip-taped handle of his Techtronika handgun, and Daisy slipped her DR-5 revolver from the leather holster on her left thigh.
"Go on," Seph urged Bulldog. "Try. Right here. Right now."
Bulldog hesitated. Seph didn't need to draw her own gun; the threat was there for all to see.
One of Bulldog's cronies shifted nervously, glancing at the crowd. It wasn't lost on anyone that the Nomads were outnumbered, but they projected something undeniable – like a storm about to break.
After what felt like an eternity, Bulldog spat into the dirt. "Ghost the fuck outta here."
"Gladly," Seph replied, not breaking eye contact until Bulldog turned away.
The pack moved fast, engines roaring to life one by one. Vann climbed into his Quadra without a word, closing the door and gripping the wheel. Seph mounted her Brennan, all black and menacing with the skull of a coyote painted around the headlight. Her trench coat billowed as she revved the engine.
Ramona waved dramatically from her bright orange bike. "Bye, losers! Don't miss me too much!" she called to the crowd, earning a few muttered curses.
The convoy rolled out, a plume of dust rising in their wake as they hit the open road: Diego's Mizutani in the front with the bikes following close, then Daisy and Vann in the rear. Vann took a hand off the wheel to hook up his radio and watched the town shrink in the rearview camera, its hostile glares and threats left behind.
Diego's voice crackled over the radio.
"Anyone wanna tell me what that was about?"
Vann took a deep breath. Now, with the town fading out of sight, he felt the anger begin to slumber once again, and all he was left with was a knot: dread at the prospect of hearing Seph explain it all.
A long pause was punctuated by the crackle of another radio.
"You know, just some dumb hick who blames nomads for everything," Seph said nonchalantly. Vann waited to see if Diego would ask further questions and was relieved when he didn't.
"Yeah, I know the type… Maggie went on and on about some family rocking up and making off with one of the pick-ups."
Vann pressed a button his radio. "Raffen?" He asked quickly. That rage began to bubble inside him again.
"Maybe. Just another reason not to make stops – I don't want us around here to find out. Nevada, here we come."
Vann glanced at the horizon, his green eyes narrowed against the sun. The adrenaline of the encounter still coursed through him, but he pushed it down, focusing on the road ahead. There was always another job, always another fight.
The Lost Ghosts never looked back.
Man, that was a long chapter. It's only that long because I wanted to show each member of the Lost Ghosts.
So, there's a couple of people that have never reviewed the story, never replied to a message about a character, never shown any sign of reading or caring. Which is cool, you can't force feeling. But I know there might be a person or two who does care, so I may start culling the character list a little bit. And yes, that includes the POV characters.