There was a slight twinkle in the eyes of the grinning woman as she peered over at the naked man, offering to help dress him… or more, whatever that meant. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but he knew he wanted none of it all the same. The slight stare from Hook was enough to make him blush and pull the raggedy sheets up to his neck, hiding his slight tanned nipples below.
“Oh. Erm, no. Thank you.” he said, diverting his eyes elsewhere.
Thankfully for him, Hook’s attention went elsewhere, which gave him enough time to take whatever little privacy he had been afforded by this ragtag group of would-be gangsters and slip the old denim jeans on underneath the sheets. They were slightly too tight for him and made him feel like his parts were being squished, but he didn’t exactly have the luxury of choice right now. He would have to take what he was given. He pulled the green shirt over his head and pushed the covers off from him. They had been starting to itch and irritate his smooth skin.
Everything and everyone seemed so dirty around here. So marred and marked. Everyone but him that was. He couldn’t help but stare at his hands for a moment, noting that his nails were perfectly trimmed and formed. His hands felt like silk within each other… no callus or scars to be seen anywhere, unlike Cricket, who seemed to have little scabs scattered over her. His eyes scanned her once more as she lost herself in a cigarette.
Can no-one take care of themselves around here? Missing teeth, scabby skin, blotches of hair missing. Although, those legs… damn.
A small draught of air from the ajar window on the other side of the room caught his attention. He had hardly even thought of the world outside this room. Perhaps he had a family somewhere waiting for him? Perhaps Anna was out there somewhere? His stomach rumbled and twisted something fierce, perhaps from some unknown nerves, but most likely from the wafts of succulent meat that drifted through the doorway.
He pushed himself up to his feet and fell into the hard wall to his side until he was steady enough to hold himself upright. A sudden rush of blood to his head made his sight blurry for a second, but that had gone as quickly as it had come.
His bare feet made a slight slapping noise as he walked across the cracked concrete floor below. His long, thin legs were still somewhat weak and shaky as he slowly walked over to the barred window. It was the weirdest feeling ever. As though he had never truly walked before in his life. Or perhaps just not in a very long time.
He approached the window and steadied himself by grabbing the bars with both hands. He could barely see anything through the pitch black darkness outside. He raised his eyes to the skies above and was met with the majesty of the stars in full. The whole sky was covered in them, like splashes of white paint on a black canvas. If the world was this beautiful at night, he couldn’t wait to explore it in the morning.
He sighed gleefully at the sky above. He would happily stand here all night, just staring at the twinkling lights above. A distant noise broke him out of his dream-like state however. Loud bangs in the distant darkness, screams and then silence.
It was enough to send him back, startled and scared.
(Innokha 15)
Cricket snuffed the butt of her smoke against the wall then flicked it into the room outside her own when she heard a thump. She glanced to her side and watched with the corner of her eye as the mysterious man who emerged from a box of ooze was holding himself steady against the wall looking a bit disoriented. He seemed more human now that he wore clothing which disguised much of that physical perfection which was so strange he still seemed artificial even though she knew he wasn’t a synth. He moved without strong balance, legs barely carrying him, and that together with old uncleanly clothing contrasted the attractive glow of his face. The man wrapped his hands around bars at the window and gazed out. What’s going on in his mind, she wondered. Everything about him was mysterious to her -- especially his motives. Cricket's eyes traced the outline of his shoulders, and his neck as he tilted his head up to look at the sky, and the set of jaw, and his hair, and…. He was beautiful. If she had to describe him in one word that would be it. That’s why he was so strange. He was beautiful when the world, and everyone else around him was ugly.
What should I call him.. she thought next. He didn’t remember his name, so he would need one. In the gang people didn’t name themselves anyway, they were always given their names. Blister had named her Cricket. She remembered the first thing this guy had directly said to her, disoriented confusion aside. ‘My brain is full of rust'. Rust. Perhaps it wasn’t as pretty as he looked, but that would be fitting for a raider gang. Hm.
If the man, er Rust, hadn’t stumbled back from the window in surprise, Crick wouldn’t have even noticed the sounds of gunshots ringing off in the distance. That was such a normal chorus from the night that her brain normally just tuned it out now.
“Finally yes! Been fuckin' dying over here!” Meat Hook said, and Crick's attention went to her. She was back to sitting in her chair in the center of the room, Michael having been put down in his bassinet over by her own mattress so her focus was totally on the three thick new steaks. They were brought together on a chipped plate and were being set down on the overturned plastic bin that served as their table in front of where Hook sat. The fidgety and scrawny teenage boy who delivered it said nothing, made no eye contact, and practically fled as quickly as he could, off to deliver more food to the gang probably, trying to avoid garnering unwanted notice.
Cricket pushed away from the doorframe and took two steps toward the small lounge area in her room, which now featured dinner, before she paused. She felt a hand set on her shoulder. She didn’t flinch, but she froze, hair on the back of her neck prickling and her fingers grasped toward her thigh where the holster for her pistol normally was, but she wasn’t wearing it right now.
It was Boxer, one of the roadie guys that rarely spent time back at base but his crowd always caused issues when they were here because they were so fucking rowdy and cocky. Even if she didn’t know him, his red dyed buzzed hair, tattooed face, and crisscrossed bandoliers of ammunition worn under his leather jacket but over a bare chest gave away what class of gang member he was. He shoved Cricket aside and strut over to the food, picking up a steak with his hand which wore a fingerless black leather glove.
“Way I see it is…” Boxer said loudly, his presence domineering over the two women around him, practically ignoring them as he instead glared in the direction of Rust but still spoke as if he wasn’t there, “I heard this fuckin' new guy is getting a feast. And what tha fuck he do the earn it, huh? He hasn’t worked for us yet. What are we a fuckin' charity group man. You’re a fuckin' joke you dumb bitches. I, on the other hand, worked today.”
Meat Hook reacted by folding her arms casually behind her head, and kicking her heels up onto the ‘table’ beside the dish of steaks. “Oh? You're gunna rob food from us now ya think?” Her grin was somewhere between threatening and comical, and her eyes were dancing with amusement. Suddenly, Boxer dropped the steak and it fell with a splat back onto the plate, his hands and body frozen stiff. It wasn’t Hook's thin threat though that pushed a sudden surrender from him -- it was feeling the barrel of Cricket's shotgun press against the base of his skull.
“You wouldn’t.” Boxer spat, but the stiffness of how he stood spoke to his reluctance to truly call a bluff from her.
“Ohhh c’mon Boxer, you ‘member what Crick did to Compton, and for helluva lot less.” Hook said, flicking her wrist dismissively.
“Way I see it is…” Crick hissed through gritted teeth, her shotgun was loaded and cocked, finger tight against the trigger and her shoulder poised to accept the kickback, “I’d be damned if this fucking guy gets hungry and I'm forced to give him some of my share again. I already had to give him some of my water, and he’s not touching my dinner so you’re not fucking touching his. Got it?”
Hook’s smile didn’t falter as she looked up at Boxer then leaned forward to pick over the steaks. “Here if it makes ya feel better, I’ll give him the one with the most tumor in it.” She flashed the new guy a cheshire grin and held out a steak marbled with fatty growths toward him.
"Come eat your fucking share, Rust, before another vulture swoops in on it.” Cricket said, moving her eyes at the new guy while still holding Boxer at gunpoint.
(Ser Kex 16)
The stale, warm air from outside drifted through the barred window. It was still cooler than inside the room, perhaps the various fires and hot heads added to the sweltering heat within the complex. Things certainly escalated quickly around here. No sooner than had he heard the distant gunshots and subsequent blood curdling screams, a large man with a face full of ink and some ammo bandoliers walked into the room. He could tell right away that he didn’t like the look of this guy as he barged Crick out of the way. He had a threatening arrogance to his stride, the kind of walk that just dared someone to fuck with him and it was all seemingly direction at the new guy.
New guy? Pulling my weight? I don't want to be part of this gang.
Before he had any time to try and explain himself to his aggressor, a thick, black barrel was placed up against the back of the man’s buzzed, red head.
Perhaps he had really misjudged the whole scenario. If these people were willing to kill a man over a charred piece of meat, then it wouldn’t be out of the realms of possibility that they’d simply get bored with him and promptly dispose of his useless body.. Instead, Crick held out a battered, metal plate with a large slab of meat on it.
"Come eat your fucking share, Rust, before another vulture swoops in on it.”
Rust?
There was to be no doubt who Crick was referring to. She was staring right at him, holding a plate full of food towards him. It wasn’t the prettiest of names, but it was certainly better than being called ‘the new guy’.
He knew better than to turn down whatever it was they had been so eager to consume, not after she had just put her neck out for him. Hell, if he had been stupid enough to turn it down, she would probably just let the tattooed man stomp his face into the ground for good measure.
“Thank you…” said Rust, trying to sound as though he was actually thankful about it. The meat was charred black from whatever fire they had been cooking it on.
He slumped into the corner of the room, not far from the window he had been gazing out and poked the charred meat that took up much of his metal plate. He stared at his bare feet for a second as he sat with his back against the wall and the plate on his lap. They were surprisingly clean for being barefooted this long. He’d have thought by now there would be all kinds of dirty and grime under his toenails, but all that was there was a little sand in the webs of his feet.
He returned his gaze once more to his warm plate. The outside of the meat was as tough as old boots, practically covered in little bits of ash and white marbled balls of what he hoped was fat. Every inch of his being was telling him not to eat it, that is, apart from his stomach which was in near stitches. He couldn’t remember the last time he had actually eaten anything, which was exemplified by his now salivating mouth.
Here goes nothing…
Slowly he raised the chunk of meat to his lips and bit into the hard exterior, tearing away at the black and grey outside, revealing a bright red meat inside. It was still bloody, squishy and filled with more of those little white lumps. He slowly started to chew, but it felt like he was chewing on putrid rubber balls. As he tried to swallow it, his gag reflex shot up, making him choke and cough out the hunk of meat. His mouth was rapidly filling with saliva and his stomach started to pulsate.
“Fuck. I think I’m gonna be sick!” moaned Rust, covering his mouth with one of his hands.
There was no holding back now. Rushes of warm liquid thrust up from his stomach as he dropped the plate to the ground and a crystal coloured ooze spurted from in between his fingers as he desperately tried to cover his mouth. It was the same kind of ooze that he had seen in the desert, he could remember that much. Perhaps it had come from the box that the others had claimed he was from.
The liquid was bitter and shiny as he wiped the last drops from his lips. He was gasping for breath and going as red as the desert sun through embarrassment or fear.
Small chunks of meat were sprayed across the room in the direction of Rust as an eruption of laughter exploded from the burly tattooed fiend. He was creased over, holding his stomach through the wraps of ammunition coiled around him.
“Well, fuck me.” he shouted through his laughing, “You got any more of that baby food there, big Hooky? Seems like this one ain’t much of an eater, huh?”
He pushed his seat back from under him and walked over to the slightly shaky Rust. Rust had never been this scared of anyone in his life, he kept his eyes down low as Boxer approached and kneeled down beside him.
“Now, you don’t care if I just go ahead and take this, do you?” he said, motioning at Rust’s plate with no more than a whisper.
“No.” Rust tentatively replied.
“I can’t hear you.” said Boxer, grabbing Rust’s chin and running his dirty thumb across his wet lips. “Well, aren’t you a pretty little boy? The pretty ones never last long. Ain’t that right Cricky?”
Boxer stared deeply into Rust’s eyes, giving him a smile that confused Rust as to whether he was hungry for his steak… or something else. He let go of Rust’s small chin and swiped his plate away, taking the charred meat back to where he had been sitting before.
(Innokha 17)
Cricket didn’t lower the barrel of her gun till Rust took his share of food from Hook, and even then Crick stepped back with caution, still holding the shotgun defensively as if she was expecting Boxer to turn and backhand her or draw his own weapon on her now that he was given the room. She was inherently always holding herself prepared for the worst in people, as that was often the side of people that came out to her one way or another. She receded to the wall behind her, watching from the shadows as Rust sat with his food and proceeded to attempt to eat it. Meat Hook didn’t hesitate to gnaw at her food as well but Cricket would never feel comfortable eating while Boxer was still in the room, that would leave her too vulnerable. Instead she watched the two men intently and quietly, even as Rust blew chunks then Boxer laughed and approached him.
She glowered at Boxer when he spoke to her, but said nothing, disdain twisting through her and she watched him threaten Rust like the creep he was. But Rust, frustratingly, submitted and gave him the rest of his food despite Cricket just having fought for it. Her glower didn’t fade, this time it directed at Rust as Boxer took his food then left the room. He flashed Crick an unsettling wink before he passed through the doorway that made her stomach sink with disgust.
Still, Rust wasn’t off the hook. What an asshole. She didn’t care if his stomach was fragile from all that ooze n whatever so he couldn’t keep the food down, she had been bold in an attempt to stick up for him and he was a fucking pussy about it and wasted it all in the end. Worse yet, now Boxer knows he’s weak, and he would be back. She didn’t like that Rust gave him a reason to come back to her room. He could show up and hurt her again, like he had in the past.
Once Boxer was out of the room, Cricket stormed over to her bed, threw down her shotgun, strapped her holster and handgun to her leg, then went over to pick up her own steak. She didn’t say anything to Rust, but before she left the room, angry and uninterested in eating in the place that was now soiled with the sour stink of this guy's stomach contents, she looked at him with frustration in her eyes and a slight snarl – her way of saying she’s pissed off and he better stay the fuck out of her way. Then she turned and strode out of the room, off to find somewhere she could eat in solitude.
(Ser Kex 18)
The room steadily emptied itself in the same way that Rust had just emptied the contents of his stomach, which only happened to be more of that strange crystal-like liquid. For the first time that Rust could remember, he was now completely alone. Perhaps people didn’t want to be around someone as cowardly as himself, especially when they had just put their neck on the line for him. Slowly, he crawled along the ground on his hands and knees towards that lumpy old mattress he had woken up on and away from the shiny, foul goo on the ground.
He lay for what seemed like forever with his back up against the wall, afraid that Boxer or Cricket might come back to give him a piece or their mind, or worse. His eyes were dry, itchy and stinging but he didn’t want to fall asleep. To leave himself vulnerable and at the mercy of those around him. He had already shown them too much. He had shown them all how much of a pushover he really was, freely giving up his only meal at the first time of asking.
A slight noise of a rusted old tin can being kicked across the room broke his troubled train of thought. The room was pitch black by now, way too dark to see anything. With his breathing heavy and his eyes even heavier he called out into the dark.
“Hello?” whispered Rust, “Is anyone there?”
There was no reply. No sound. Nothing to indicate that there was someone or something staring back at him through the dark abyss. Perhaps he had simply imagined it from lack of sleep or maybe it had been a noise from outside. Slowly he closed his eyes and tried to drift off to sleep when he felt a rough hand cover his mouth tightly.
Rust’s eyes shot open and this time they were met by the dark, menacing eyes of Boxer.
“Did you seriously think I wouldn’t come back for you, boy?” grinned Boxer with a hushed voice, “A little blooming flower such as yourself?”
Boxer pushed Rust down onto his black with force rendering him unable to move or fight back. There was a distinct smell of cigarettes and whiskey on his breath as he came face to face with the immobilized young man. The rough raider climbed on top of Rust, grinning down at him. Boxer moved his hand away from Rust’s mouth and gripped it around his neck, slowly squeezing the breath from him.
“You’ve got sweet little lips, boy. I could pump you full Med-X right now and have my way with you and no-one would be the fucking wiser. I don't they fuckin' care anyway. But I’m not going to do that, little boy. That would be a waste of my chems.”
Rust felt a rough tug at his waist line as Boxer ripped the jeans off from him, leaving him squirming and partially naked as Boxer continued to choke the life out of him. Rust’s eyes were bloodshot and bulging as the vice like grip on his throat got tighter and tighter. He frantically scanned around the room looking for anything or anyone that could help him. He could hear what sounded like Boxer’s belt coming off through the dark and the little chinks of ammunition clattering around together on his chest. Rust was flailing his arms and legs, trying to do anything he could to get Boxer off of him, but he was too weak, or perhaps Boxer was simply too strong.
“Stop squirming you little cunt and just take it!” spat Boxer, his drunken breath encompassing Rust.
From the corner of his eye he saw Cricket. She was just standing there, glaring at Rust, her burning eyes looking straight through him, going to his very core.
“Way I see it is… You brought this on your fucking self! Fuck him up Boxer!” laughed Cricket.
Rust tried to speak, shout, cry… anything… but no sound came out…
“Now, you don’t care if I just go ahead and take this, do you?” grinned Boxer.
All of Rust’s protests were in vain. His body was limp and lifeless and he had no voice. He felt as though he had regressed… back to what he had been before… a baby man.
Something stiff pressed up against his exposed naked ass as Boxer parted his legs. The face of the fiend was rotting and falling off, but he looked as though there was nothing else in this world that he would rather be doing right now. A sharp pain shot through his guts as Boxer forcefully entered him, slithering deeper and deeper inside with no end apparent.
“The pretty ones never last long. Ain’t that right Cricky?” shouted Boxer as he ploughed into Rust.
“That’s right Box!” laughed Crick.
Boxer’s eyes rolled back into his head as he let out an almighty moan, his teeth falling out on to Rust and tears of black blood seeping from his eyes. Just like that Rust sat up panting for breath and covered head to toe in sweat. His hair stuck to his face and his legs were shaking slightly, but thankfully his denim jeans were still tightly on him. He gripped the jeans at his crotch… thankfully that they were still there and that he was still fully intact.
What the fuck? What the fuck!
It had been a dream. A dream like he had never had before. A nightmare. The possibility of Boxer coming into his room and forcing himself upon Rust was now all so real. He swung his head around the dark room but there was no Boxer, nor Crick either. He could faintly see the silhouette of someone sleeping on a mattress at the other end of the room, snoring loudly.
It was just a dream. It was just a fucking dream. I need to get out of this place!
Slowly he pushed himself up to his feet and off the springy, dirty mattress that he had been sleeping on. He almost tripped over the duffel bag at the end of the bed, which was a happy inconvenience as there was a pair of old leather boots inside. He thrust them onto his bare feet and made his way to the doorway.
With his heart beating hard, he made his way out of the only room he had ever known and into the heart of the complex. The walls were all peeling and battered. It looked as though they had been through a war or something with black charred marks, bloodstains and bullet holes everywhere. A dirty old chandelier hung from the ceiling at an odd angle… it looked as though it could fall at any moment. A large spiral staircase led down to the ground floor of the gang’s hideout.
You can do this, Rust... he thought to himself, finding it a little odd that he had started referring to himself as ‘Rust’.
With every step that he took down the old staircase, there was a slight creak that accompanied him. When he finally got to the ground floor he let a slight sigh of relief out. He was so close to being out of this hell hole. It was, however, hard to see anything through the pitch black. The windows were barred with old planks of wood, just the same as the door, which had the faintest of lights slithering through the bottom of it.
He made his way over towards the door, getting closer and closer to fresh air and freedom when suddenly his legs gave way underneath him. He was sent reeling into the air as he stepped on what looked like a small toy car. Rust crashed to the ground with an almighty bang which no doubt woke up every single raider in this complex… Including Boxer.
