Tarda mors-XXXII
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DATE:5th of June, the 70th year after the Coronation
LOCATION: Concord Metropolis
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My head still Hurt even after having sex. I don't know why I thought this would cure it, but whatever.
I was sing her lap as a pillow, but I have to admit it was a much worse version than Sasha's. I couldn't stop thinking about Barry.
At first I wasn't sure why as I technically didn't care much for him, but trying to put my memories in order, I found a very strange difference between the part before my Southern desert deployment and after. Almost as if after that they became blurred and my condition of apathy started. But why?
Was I really so changed by that experience?
I had to remember what actually happened that time..._
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DATE:14th of April, the 55th year after the Coronation
LOCATION: Dunes of Salvia
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The morning sun is unforgiving, baking us all alive before we've even started the day. I can barely feel anything besides the sweat pooling on my neck, the grit in my teeth. The first sign something's wrong is the blank, unblinking stare of the drill. No hum, no lights, no movement—just silence, dead and heavy. Word spreads fast that the generator's been sabotaged, and the captain wastes no time pulling the workers into a tight circle, eyes cold and lethal.
He circles them like a predator, his voice sharp and slicing as he demands answers, his gaze turning colder with each denial. He doesn't need to raise his voice; the hard glint in his eyes is enough to make even the toughest among them tremble. When no one speaks, he ups the stakes, his hand resting deliberately on his holstered pistol. "You think this is some game? I don't need all of you here—one of you speaks, or all of you suffer. Test me."
It doesn't take long for the weakest link to break, the worker's voice quivering as he points a shaking finger at another man in the back. The one at fault, barely a kid by the look of him, tries to protest, but the captain doesn't give him the chance. One crack of the Ventium-powered pistol, and the worker's head is gone, splattered across the sand like a dark, blooming stain. The others watch in horror, frozen, as if trying to shrink into the ground itself. I can't look away, even though I want to. The brutality, the finality of it—it's sickening, even to me. I force myself to stand still, expression blank, feeling the way the silence around us fills with the weight of unspoken fear.
The captain wipes his hands as if nothing happened and turns to Gennaro, the cook, asking if anyone here knows a damn thing about generators. Gennaro just shrugs, looking as lost as the rest of us. "Might know how to turn one on," he mutters. "Beyond that, I'm about as useful as the sand we're standing on."
It's then I find myself stepping forward, almost surprising myself. "I, uh… might be able to take a look," I say. "Used to fix up some lights for my old man. He didn't trust electricians." A dark smile almost forms in my mind, remembering how my father, a butcher with too much paranoia and too little patience, swore that anyone he didn't know was sent to spy on him.
With no other options, I get to work, clambering around the broken generator, adjusting fuses and rewiring with little more than guesswork and luck. It's enough to get the power up again, though the drill flickers and falls dark every few minutes. I'll take that over silence.
The captain claps a heavy hand on my shoulder when I'm done, nodding in that rare, reluctant way. "Not bad, Zaun. I'll make a note of this. Might even get you a bonus if this hellhole ever wraps up."
I say nothing, just nod. My hands still tingle from the work, the muscles in my neck stiff as I follow the others back to our bunks, barely glancing at the captain's pleased expression as I retreat into the small, musty room. The place reeks of stale sweat and dust, and I can feel sand in every fold of fabric. I lie down, exhausted, the heat and grime clinging to me like a second skin. The entire job feels like it's fighting against us, every step of the way. This desert? It's more hell than land. The dust, the grit, the way the sand gets everywhere, in my clothes, my hair, even my mouth. I hate it. If the job doesn't kill me, the sand just might.
Barry shuffles in, kicking off his boots, muttering to himself. "Idiots, the lot of them," he grumbles. "They'd rather throw their lives away for some cash from the insurgents than stay out of trouble. They must be out of their minds to try that."
He turns his gaze to me, asking the question I wish he'd leave unasked. "What do you think, Zaun? Why would that guy try something so stupid, huh?"
I don't answer, just stare at the ceiling as Barry's question lingers in the air. Maybe I could guess—maybe it was desperation, or fear, or some loyalty to a cause I'll never understand. But I don't know. And maybe I don't want to. I close my eyes, letting the memory of the explosion fill the darkness, the flash of red as the man's head was blown apart in an instant. I can still see his face before it happened, still whole, still alive. I don't know anything about him, but I know he had a life. Maybe he had a family, people waiting for him somewhere. He didn't deserve to die in the sand, nameless and alone.
A single tear slips down my cheek, almost surprising me. My body feels heavy, and exhaustion pulls me under, dragging me into a sleep where memories swirl, distant and painful, like half-buried bones in the desert sand.
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DATE:5th of June, the 70th year after the Coronation
LOCATION: Concord Metropolis
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It's strange. Back then I could actually cry. Why can't I do that now?
I press my face in this girl's belly and all my worries go away.
I never was so close with a woman. Well, not since that one...
My phone makes strange noises. I think they are notifications from Emily, but I am too tired to take it from the desk. Alice apparently had another idea as she raised my head and stretched to get it herself.
"Didn't know you want talk with Emily."
"It must be important if she calls, right?" Wait, it could be about the Donn! I got the phone from Alice before she saw the messages herself.
It was just as I thought. Emily found one of his arms dealers, a doctor by the name of Biz. What is with this city and mad doctors? You'd think the colleges are more strict with their psychological profiling...
"Well?" She had stars in her eyes. Did Alice want to go on a quest?
"Yeah, it's a doctor called Biz, I think? Emily found his hideout?
" What? Biz? No way!" Her reaction was the opposite of what I expected. She was angry at hearing about this man.
" What is with him?"
" With him? Everything. Biz is a horrible person. He experiments on people like Secundo Manus, but he is even worse. He combines them with machinery."
" Like Cyborgs?" That sounded so sci-fi.
" Yeah. Really horrible stuff. He also makes weapons. The Legion tried to search him since years ago, I can't believe Emily got hold of his compound!" Oh, this certainly was terrible. He must be dangerous.
" Let's go to the HQ to report it immediately."
" Great..."
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As I got in the car, I couldn't help but feel something crawling my skin . It was a strange sensation and I was sure it was entirely metal. But why?
Was it me reminiscing about what happened? Those dreadful days...
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DATE:The rest of April, the 55th year after the Coronation
LOCATION: Dunes of Salvia
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The following weeks passed in a tense, simmering quiet. The workers continued their grueling labor under the desert sun, their faces hollowed by exhaustion and cracked by the relentless heat. We mercenaries didn't have it much better: the food was stale, barely edible, and water was rationed so tightly that I'd started swallowing sips just to keep it in my mouth a little longer. But what we endured was nothing compared to what the workers faced.
I watched them day after day, forced to drink a grim sludge that passed for sustenance. Even looking at it made my stomach turn; it was thick and gritty, sometimes half-melted in the heat, but they drank it with hollow eyes and no complaints. Their skin was worn and gray, and there was always at least one of them being dragged away, dehydrated or feverish, another body lost to the desert.
Paul, the team's doctor, paid them no mind. His job was to keep us alive, and I could see he'd made his choice early on. He kept his supplies locked down, watching as a few workers suffered and eventually collapsed under the heat. He could've saved them; I was sure of it. I'd seen him bandage up infections and treat severe burns for us with ease. But his priority was clear: he was here to ensure we made it out intact, not them. And he didn't bat an eye when they fell.
It chilled me, seeing him so cold, so detached. I didn't know if it was pure pragmatism or something darker. He didn't seem like the type to enjoy watching suffering, but his utter lack of empathy unnerved me, especially in those late hours when I'd lie awake, hearing his careful footsteps outside, wondering if he'd slip into my room just as silently if I ever fell out of favor.
The cook was the opposite, always grinning, cracking jokes about the brutal conditions or telling morbid tales around the fire. But his humor was a mask. The glint of his knives and the look he gave the workers made me wonder just how those blades had been used before. I could imagine him drawing it out, inflicting pain in the same casual, jolly way he served up our miserable meals. His laughter seemed almost predatory, like he was reveling in some joke only he understood.
All of it kept me up at night, lying there in the stifling heat, barely able to breathe as the sand drifted through the cracks in the walls, coating everything in a fine, irritating dust. I could feel it settling in my lungs, scratching at my throat every time I tried to sleep. There was nowhere to escape it; the desert was inescapable, its grip as tight on me as it was on the workers. My every breath felt like it brought me closer to suffocating under the weight of this endless, desolate place.
And then, there was the moon. Each night, as it rose over the sands, it looked broken, fragmented, like some vast cosmic mirror had been shattered across the sky. It was a phenomenon unique to this desert, a warped reflection of something bigger, more ominous. I couldn't help but feel it was an omen, a silent reminder of everything festering here, of the lives lost in the name of extraction and profit. Every time I looked at it, my stomach twisted, knowing that it saw everything we did here—and, perhaps, it was waiting.
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DATE:2nd of May, the 55th year after the Coronation
LOCATION: Dunes of Salvia
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The first day of May brought with it the kind of sandstorm that makes any sane person lock down and wait it out. Sand and wind howled against the flimsy walls of our camp, threatening to tear the place apart from the ground up. Normally, a storm this fierce would mean everything was on hold—the insurgents knew better than to try anything in this weather, or so I thought.
But the captain came in with that look in his eye, the one that meant trouble was coming whether we wanted it or not.
"Listen up!" he barked, gathering us around the flickering light of the command tent. "A shipment of Ventium was ambushed out in the storm, not far from here. Insurgents moved in fast. We're the closest team to the site, so the administrators want us on it. No choppers can fly in this, so it's down to us to recover the goods before those rats run off with them."
A groan ran through the group, though no one dared voice it outright. Taking a convoy into a sandstorm was dangerous enough, but taking dirtbikes out there? It was suicide. Still, the administrators had spoken, and we all knew better than to challenge a direct order. But "a shipment"? How many excavation teams were out there, stealing these people's resources?
"They're insane," Barry muttered beside me, his voice barely audible above the roaring wind. But he followed as we moved to the shacks, where three battered dirtbikes sat, each covered in a layer of gritty sand, a reminder of just how poorly thought out this setup was. They'd been airdropped "in case of emergencies," and apparently, we'd just hit that mark.
The captain didn't waste any time, splitting us into teams: Barry and me on one bike, the cook and the captain on another, with the cook steering and the captain ready to pick off anyone foolish enough to stand in our way. Korvan, our grizzled rifleman, took the last bike with Paul, who looked less than pleased at having to drive.
Barry ran a hand over the bike, inspecting it with a grim expression. "Can't say I've ridden one of these before," he admitted, glancing at me. "But I'd rather have you steering than me. With my luck, we'd flip before we hit the sand."
I tightened my grip on the handlebars, ignoring the nagging feeling in my gut. The storm was already bearing down on us, kicking up grit that stung my eyes and sand that caught in my throat.
"Let's just hope it's intact when we find it," I muttered.
The captain shouted for us to start up, and as the engines roared to life, the full weight of our task settled in. The administrators didn't care that we were pushing out into hell itself. The shipment was worth more than we were, and there was no guarantee we'd be coming back in one piece.
Barry slapped my shoulder. "Alright, Zaun. Let's ride before we all get buried."
I grit my teeth and pushed forward, the sand battering us as we tore into the storm.
I wasn't so sure about my so-called luck. I hadn't ridden one of these before, and I knew Barry hadn't either. The storm was building in the distance, the wind howling like something feral, and every instinct told me that riding out in this mess was a mistake. But orders were orders.
"Let's hope you're a fast learner. Come on now." Barry muttered, strapping himself in behind me. He held his rifle ready, his back pressed to mine, a solid, reassuring weight. "Got to say, though—if we're supposed to protect that shipment, riding out in the middle of a storm doesn't sound like the brightest idea."
I had to agree, but I kept my mouth shut. The sandstorm was already licking at the edge of camp, the wind throwing waves of sand at us like a warning. But the captain wasn't about to let a shipment of Ventium slip through his fingers, not when we were the closest team. No helicopters were coming. Just us, exposed and on our own.
Barry slapped me on the shoulder. "Let's go, Zaun! Just try to keep us upright!"
As we revved the bikes into the full fury of the storm, Paul's voice crackled over the comms, his worry breaking through the static. "Captain, what happens if someone hits the camp while we're gone?"
The captain's answer was calm, almost casual. "The processed Ventium is worth more than anything still underground. That's what the admins care about. And don't worry about the workers. They wouldn't dare run."
Paul pressed him further, though he must have known it was useless. "And if they do?"
"They won't." The captain's voice cut through the wind like a knife. "The administrators have their families as collateral. And even if they tried to flee, they'd never survive out here without a vehicle. This storm would bury them."
The cold certainty in the captain's voice sent a chill down my spine, one even the heat of the desert couldn't burn away. I thought of that young worker the captain had executed, his face twisted with fear before the shot had torn through him. What about his family? Were they suffering somewhere in silence because of choices he had no control over?
The sandstorm clawed at my face, sharp grains cutting into my skin and scraping across my goggles. My every breath felt like inhaling dust, grains working their way into my throat, my lungs. I hated this place—the sand that slipped into every crack, that swallowed everything in sight, that even managed to coat the back of my throat with grit. It wasn't just a nuisance; it felt like it was invading, slowly wearing me down.
The bike bounced beneath me, jolting as the sand gathered into small dunes, obstacles I could barely make out through the murk. Barry clung on, his hand gripping my shoulder for balance, his voice a low curse against the wind.
"I swear, this is hell," I muttered, squinting into the storm as I navigated. "Sand, sand, and more sand. Gets into your eyes, your mouth, like it's trying to bury you alive. Every step, every breath, it's there."
Barry chuckled darkly behind me. "That's the desert's way, isn't it? Eats you up, piece by piece."
I didn't answer. My thoughts were stuck on the workers' faces, their empty expressions in the camps as they tried to choke down that sludge they were given as food. It was bad enough that they lived with nothing, that they worked to near-collapse every day in these conditions. But knowing their families were held captive somewhere, that the admin could just tighten the leash if anyone dared to step out of line? It was monstrous.
The bike slid sideways as we hit a patch of loose sand, and I forced myself back to the present, steadying us as best I could. Barry gave a grunt of approval, tightening his grip as he aimed his weapon forward, eyes sharp despite the sand pelting his face.
"You're doing fine, Zaun," he muttered, half to himself. "Just keep us from crashing."
I nodded, gritting my teeth as I pressed onward, hating the feel of the sand with every fiber of my being. The storm felt alive, relentless and eager to swallow us whole. Somewhere behind the stinging veil, I could almost make out the shape of the broken moon hanging low in the sky—a strange omen, its jagged edges shattered like some god's warning.
The storm had swallowed the world around us, an endless swirl of sand and darkness. Every few seconds, I feel the sand pressing against my goggles and mask, pushing its way into every crack and crevice. It's like the desert's breathing us in, pulling us deeper with every passing mile. I cling tightly to the back of the bike, my fingers numb against the metal as Barry revs the engine through the churning sand. The roar of the storm blends with the grind of the bike's engine, creating a deafening hum that drowns out everything except the constant sting of sand against my skin.
God, I hate the sand. It gets into everything—my mouth, my lungs, even the inside of my mask. Every time I inhale, I can feel it clinging to the back of my throat, like it's trying to bury itself in me. My eyes feel like they're grating against my skull, each blink scraping dust across my corneas. It's as if the desert itself is trying to break me down piece by piece, to turn me into just another part of itself. Even wrapped up, I can feel it burrowing in, relentless and cruel.
Barry's voice is faint over the storm as he yells something to me, gesturing with one hand while he keeps the other on the bike. "Stay close to the others!" he shouts. I glance ahead, barely able to make out the other two bikes through the storm, each one a shadow in the swirling haze of sand. Ahead of us, the cook and captain lead, with Paul and Korvan right behind. Paul's bike wobbles in the storm, barely keeping steady against the winds, and I wonder if he's even as confident on it as he pretends to be. Barry's better off with me holding on and him aiming his gun, though I can't shake the feeling that one wrong move and we'll both be on the ground, swallowed by the sand.
I try not to think about what the captain said back at camp, about the workers' families being used as collateral. The boy who sabotaged the generator—did he know his family was in jeopardy before he tried to act? Or did he find out only too late, like some final cruel joke? I force the thought down, but it lingers, festering like the grit caught in my lungs.
The captain had made it clear that no one would dare try to escape while we were gone. The workers were trapped here, just like us, but with less protection, less chance to survive if anything went wrong. They couldn't even run if they wanted to; their families, probably starving or trapped somewhere just as desolate, were the ultimate leverage. It's like something out of a nightmare, this desert that holds people in its grasp, suffocating them with nothing more than sand and silence.
Another gust of wind smacks against us, nearly sending the bike off balance. Barry curses, gripping the handles tighter, but I can see him grinning beneath his scarf, that mad look of someone who thrives in chaos. I envy him, almost. He doesn't care about the sand, or the workers, or the weight of this mission; it's all just another day, another job. I, on the other hand, feel like my soul is eroding away with each grain of sand that scrapes against my skin.
We press forward, the storm pushing against us like a solid wall, and I feel my body bracing against it with every jolt of the bike. The whole mission feels like a lost cause already, each mile through the sandstorm a fight against something unstoppable, a force so much bigger than any of us. We're nothing but specks in its wake, barely worth the effort it takes to swallow us.
My mind drifts back to that broken moon I'd seen the night before, fractured and ghostly, like a promise of something worse waiting beyond the storm. It's an omen, sure as anything, and I can feel it pulling at me, whispering that this desert holds nothing but death.
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DATE:5th of June, the 70th year after the Coronation
LOCATION: Concord Metropolis
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As we arrived to the HQ, I couldn't help but feel frustrated. I mean, the time in the desert certainly is the reason why I hate sand, but the rest? Why did I care about those pathetic workers? Why did I cry for them?
Why was I even so inpress by how Barry acted? I saw many psychopaths in my long career, he wasn't special. Even back then the instructors at the mafia Camp were much more horrific.
So why did I care?
Was I more innocent back then?
No, that isn't the case.
What I am sure of is that I left that desert a changed man.
Did some part of em die?
Did it remain there?
No.
Then what was true?
I opened the door to the lift full of anger.
What exactly happened in that desert?-