Chapter XIV

CHAPTER 14

August 2, 4030

1443 Hours

Alexandra, Mars

Far from Parlem, Mars, is an abandoned Colony once proudly known as Alexandra. Due to it's location, Alexandra was a pivotal stronghold during the Colony war era. It stood on the border of the crawling desert; a large unmappable piece of land that divided the two nations. Most historians would claim that Alexandra was the primary force multiplier that allows the Anchoras to withstand assault after assault from the Unifers, despite their underwhelming fighting force. Yet, looking at it today, you wouldn't a clue of Alexandra's once mighty prominenance over the region. To the average martian, over the large Martian soil hills, reminding that of Saskatchewan prairies, Alexandra is nothing but a standing skeleton. A large rusted eye sore, decomposing into the Martian lands. And behind the one hundred foot tall white, rusted streak walls; three bio-domes of five remain. And Tanks, corpses, and Anti-mechanical units litter the colony.

***

In the middle of Alexandra, at the top of the tallest tower is a large command center. The room is a square; with the left right and rear walls covered in computer screens, chairs, and desks covered in many buttons. During the days of operation, this Command center had access to every single gate, door, and substation system in the Colony. And on the front wall, the entire view of Alexandra and beyond; a spectacular view in its time, reminding one of staring down at a snowflake, with all the intricate systems and architectural engineering that came into building a five biodome colony; of which over one million people lived. As of today, the building creaks and groans with the wind, as every nook and cranny full with Martian soil. And while the glass window remains intact, the years of decay has stained the edges of the window like an old glass coffee pot. But what's the most surprising thing of all, is in the direct center of this room is a deep red leather chair that can rotate to every angle. The Commanders Chair. And in that chair, is a human wearing all black attire and Colony wars era armor painted bright yellow. The humans face is covered by an old Pilot helmet that makes its head look that of a bee; the scavenger is female. Her adequate chest curves outwards and down. She rubs her hands up and down the leather seat, and staring ahead at the long hallway in front of her. At the end of the hall there is an old sign on the wall that reads: war room.

Between her and the war room sign, there are many hanging flags of the Anchoras—Ocean blue with a silver owl. Skeletons in deep red or blue chest rigs litters the hall. At the far corner of the hall is a pile of sandbags that was once used as protection. Behind the wall of sandbags is an orange-brown rusted mini-gun; rounds still chambered. Pieces of bone and shredded armor plating covered in black residue litter the wide corridor. Obvious remants of when grenades exploded.

Above her, the roof buckles inwards like a bowl, slowly crumpling under the weight of the deep orange Martian soil. In ten years', time, this building will have likely collapsed; joining the ruins below. The scavenger presses a button on the side of the chair. Slowly, the chair rotates to the left. It stops. It's here, the remains of ten dead soldiers all nailed to the wall by their hands and feet. These old skeletons are hanging in clothes wearing Red uniforms and ranks of Captain and above. These were soldiers of the Unifers, the eventual victors of the war. And these soldiers were special. They all wore a special helmet with a visible marking on the side, a large capitol P.

They were Mechanical Pilots. And they were executed. She wonders what drove the Anchoras to do such a thing. War make's people desperate. But it doesn't make them cruel.

And yet that mystery will never be—

Music fills the scavenger's ears.

The scavenger presses the button on her chair and orientates herself back to the war room hallway—towards the sound. She's been waiting for this sound all day. Beneath her helmet, a sinister sneer. She can't believe the pestering little robot is singing.

She grips her chair and smiles. She can hear him. Her prize. She can see the piles of cash flash before her eyes as the little robot that beeps and boops and rolls around on the floor gets closer, and closer—yet still not in sight.

Slowly, the scavenger leans forward in the chair; revealing spray painted black letters on her back, shoulder to shoulder. It reads: ScapeGoat.

She puts her hand behind the chair, and slowly, not taking her eyes off the hallway, pulls out an old, shoddy rifle that looks like something from an old Picasso painting. She holds it firmly between her left breast and underarm. With her left index finger on the trigger guard, she freezes.

It's coming closer.

A little jangle; like a tune, gets louder. It sounds like a boy with a killer funky beat and it—

"Sorry—Sorry, Yeah I know that I let you down, but it's too late to say sorry now."

Is that a song?

The scavenger lowers her weapon, the song echoing off the walls as if standing outside a nightclub.

The song is catchy. She finds herself raising her left foot up and down to the beat; unable to stop. She's never heard a musical recording before, and sure enough—the song asscends in volume, getting louder and louder then bam—a small circular orb with a mushroom top comes rolling in, dancing with little arms and two eyes. It continues down the hall, getting closer, and closer.

And it's singing to the tune in a squeakily high-pitched voice.

"And by once or twice, maybe a hundred times. . ." the robot sings. The soldier smiles and lowers her weapon. She watches as this little robot rolls around the room for a brief moment, dancing, singing, ignorant of her presence. It's as if, it's been alone for so long, the robot doesn't actually anticipate anyone being here—the same way if you're not aware something is there, you're less likely to spot it. She watches as this little robot rolls towards the control center, up to the desk, and pops open a small little square hatch and enters, disappearing inside.

The music cuts. Yet she can still hear the little robot humming inside the control center. Sounds of metal on metal, electrical engineering, and other industrial noises that involve sparks fill her ears. Patiently, she places her rifle across her all black thighs; waiting to see the light show. And sure enough, ten, fifteen minutes later, the little robot comes out of the hatch, turns around and closes the hatch—still unaware of her presence. The little robot is humming, and this time pokes a green flashing light on his chest, starting up another tune. And this tune, this tune is epic. It sounds like a man's anthem.

"ILL WATCH YOU EXPLODEEEEEEEEEEEEEE" the little robot screams—the scavenger, unable to contain her laughter—giggles, slamming the butt end of her rifle down on the chair. As she does so, the music cuts dead to the sound of hollow laughter filling the room—the little robot turns to face the scavenger in black.

"Oh no! No! No! NO!"

The Robot erupts, rolling as fast as it can back inside the control center desk.

She sighs and stands, slinging her rifle on her back.

"Come on little one,"

It seems the surprise party is done.

Swiftly, the scavenger approaches the small little hatch the desk, dropping to her knees, preparing for entry. With one hand she opens the hatch. Immediately, the hatch slams shut. She tries it again. She opens it, and watches as a little arm of rusted metal slams the door shut. She tries it again, again, again, and finally—

"We can play this game all day, or you can just go away humanoid." the little robot boasts, full of confidence.

The scavenger stops for a moment, staring at the closed hatch.

It's voice is so clear. Where is it coming from?

She looks around, looking at every corner, every service, wondering how it's communicating so effectively.

" I only wish to talk my little friend," she answers, trying to pinpoint the sound when it speaks.

"Yeah, well I don't want to speak to no humanoid." she's a little bit in awe.

"Well, why don't you want to speak to me?" she asks, moving from her knees, to her butt, opening her legs to the shape of a V. The hatch is perfectly in line with her crotch.

"Because you're a humanoid."

"Well, what if I told you my name is Aviva and I have a treat for you."

"A treat?!" it answers happily.

"Yes, a treat."

"Go fuck yourself with it. What do you think I am, a cow?" It answers.

-What's a cow?

"You don't have to be rude, little dude."

"I'm not little, I'm not a dude, and I have a name,"

In what world does this little feeble robot think it can just tell me what to do? don't all droids serve us?

"Look, I'll give you a couple seconds, alright? Do you happen to know the name ScapeGoat by chance?" .

The robot doesn't answer. Silence.

"Hey you in there?" The scavenger, Aviva, kicks the hatch with her foot.

"Go away humanoid."

"I'm sorry, but no can do. So save me some time and get your ass out here or I'll blow two fucking shells through your little robot created brain and use you for scrap, ya hear me?" Aviva opens up the hatch—expecting compliance but receives none.

The little arm closes the hatch just as fast.

Aviva raises her gun.

"Why you mother—" In anger, Aviva picks up her rifle, points at the hatch and unloads. All before she can finish her sentence. The rounds cut through the control panel with ease, tearing through wires, blocks, and other important pieces of the infrastructure. However, if you could view the inside, you'd see that the robot is casually sitting a few feet down in a little bay, staring at a screen the size of a small, portable DVD player. The robot is currently watching a young princess with a yellow dress slowly turn into a swan. Using a microphone chip and a fake robotic arm it had built for past intruders, you watch as the robot giggles at the film, while moving a little knob at his side that taunts the intruder.

It's a cunning robot and his name is Creed.

"FUCK!" Aviva screams, dropping the empty magazine from her rifle, reloading.

"OPEN THE FUCK UP!" she shouts, slamming both feet on the hatch door as if a toddler having a temper tantrum.

"Having trouble baby?"

Panic. Aviva rolls onto her belly and takes aim at the direction the voice came from. Staring down at her is two pistol barrels. She swallows hard at the known face holding them. The face of a man that looks better off in old prewar comic book series with his dark purple goggles and blonde hair, and his Martian soil coloured trench coat. Behind him, fresh boot polish scuffs the dirty floor. His black boots glisten in the sunlight.

"I'm not your baby,"

"Well, you could be my lover if you like."

"My name's Aviva from ScapeGoat Scavenging Entity,"

"Well Aviva, you're a one-woman show?"

Aviva doesn't say a word; instead, she slowly, but steadily, gets to her feet.

"What is a man like you doing here?" She asks as she surveys around the room, looking for some advantage. As now, with this man and his smile, his cowboy approach and posture, his presence finally hit her like a fool.

"You know the name."

"Of course, I know the name, Jack"

Jack grins and places both hands, pistols included, at his hips.

Aviva steps back a few steps, tightening her grasp on her rifle.

"What are you doing here?"

"I could ask the same question myself. After all, we all know ScapeGoat works alone. . . So, when I see you working with others. . . I can only imagine the haul you have on hand."

His grin grows as each word leaves his lips.

"What have you done to my men?"

"Your men? The dead ones you mean? The ones found in the transport hub beneath the old, abandoned laboratory? What was the number? Twenty? Twenty-two?"

He shrugs, side stepping, of which Aviva mirrors, each stepping in rotation.

Jack, straight-faced—

"All dead. It's a shame. However, princess, please wipe that drool off your chin, you are not a savage."

"A Princess? WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE—"

Aviva pulls the trigger. A round flies; knocking the rifle free from her hands.

Her wrist lurches backwards. A jolt of pain; her eyes wide in disbelief. as her rifle smacks the floor.

I shot first! How did he— Jack closes the distance, placing both cowboy style pistols to her helmet. His eyes saying everything that's needed to be said.

Aviva, hands up, drops to her knees; staring up at the man legends are made of.

She swallows hard.

"Now, princess. We're going to try this introduction again—"

Jack, with one pistol, slides the barrel underneath her helmet, and lifts. The bumblebee coloured helmet hits the ground; only to reveal teary fear filled eyes and long luscious black hair that descends past her shoulders.

Jack feels weak in the knees, a sudden short of breath.

"I knew Princess was the perfect lip word for you,"

He can't resist taking one of his hands and running his fingertips through her hair. It's as soft as it looks.

His hand brushes her cheek and chin. He loves her hazel eyes. It reminds him of—

"Jasmine?"

Aviva looks confused. Jack clears his throat trying to swallow his mistake.

"You're a pretty one. A very pretty one indeed. It would be a shame to kill you. So please, may we start again?"

Aviva tries not to choke on that big piece of meat known as pride.

You're an idiot if you think you can handle him. Play your given role or die. You can kill him another day.

Aviva looks to her left, examining the destroyed security center riddled with bullet holes. She bites her tongue and nods.

He smiles and holsters his pistol, bows, and extends a hand.

"Please, it would be an honor,"

Aviva, feeling weary with each second, accepts the hand and rises to her feet.

Jack bends forward and kisses her on the back of her hand. His cheeks are full of blush.

"It's a pleasure to meet you," he begins,

"Now let's restart princess. I'm Jack Westaway, how-do-you-do?" Jack tips his hat with a smile.

"You murdered my crew."

"My apologies ma'am," Jack answers, bravado on his lips. He walks towards the commander's chair and sits down; spinning it and stopping back to face her. She slams her fists at her side, his gaze blatantly staring at her attire that undermines the size of her figure. An attempt to be as uni-sex as can be.

"If it's any solace, they shot first. I just happened to shoot second."

"It's whatever. You can owe me later. Currently, I'm occupied with this droid."

"Ah yes, the deserted droids of the Colony wars, not many around these days, and those that are—are well, treated quite poorly."

Aviva folds her arms, looking back at the little hatch in the command center.

"Yes, this one is Creed,"

"Oh I know Creed. I also know Letty has been after him for quite some time."

Aviva sighs.

"And?"

"And I already know why you're here, who your client is, and I even know why Letty wants the droids in the first place."

"And what does this have to do with me, and my men you killed?"

"Well nothing, really. . ."

Jack leans back in the chair, reaches into his bag, and pulls out a single ball point bullet. He opens the chamber to his magnum.

"Except that I own these lands. And I'm bored. And so I need a companion."

And loads the round.

"I'm not your companion."

Jack raises a brow, biting his lip. And yet, she can tell his temper is being tested.

"Look, Princess. I know you're here for Creed and Maria. Your men are dead, and I'm currently pointing two pistols at your beautiful body. So please, tell me when I say our companionship will go a lot further, if you relax and smile."

Aviva, fuming, tries to hide her contempt as she stares down the barrel of a pistol.

"Hmm," Jack rubs his chin.

"Look, you're a tough sell. so here's a token of my gratitude, to be in your presence Princess."

Jack stands and pulls back on his trench coat. He removes a rather large metal ball the size of a soccer ball. It's pink and rusted around the edges where the joints would be. It's Maria, sound asleep. Aviva looks amazed, her eyes sparkle.

Hook. Line. and Sunk.

He feels like an old man, showing to a twenty-two-year-old lady of the night, what true wealth looks like. And yet quickly, Jack appears to have overplayed his hand.

"Now be warned, this droid is like a fat spoiled bitch. And I'll happily give her to you as equal payment."

Aviva is taken aback. "For twenty-two guards? No way. Maria was the bonus; Creed was the real important one."

Jack returns Maria beneath his coat. He feels his chance to woo this girl, slipping away.

"So wait, you're telling me you spent a shit ton of money and had that shit ton of money go after a bonus? Do you do your math right hunny?"

Aviva grinds her teeth. Smoke fumes erupt from her ears. Cherry red—she looks on the verge of lashing out and strangling Jack to death.

And I would if I didn't have two barrels staring down my throat.

"I do what I want with my money. And I didn't think you'd be here, nor murder my crew."

"Whatever, let's get this little robot and get out of here."

He smiles, the look of a child taking too many cookies—

"Together,"

"Together? Fuck no,"

Jack brushes past Aviva; ignoring her. He gets on all fours peering at the small hatch. Aviva stands.

"When I get this little robot, we can do what I need to do, then we can get out of here in my awesome carriage of speed; an old Martian runner."

"I don't need your help Jack!"

Jack turns his head with a smile ear to ear.

"If you read the newest adventures in my comics, you'd know I've upgraded."

"I don't need--"

Jack turns back to the closed hatch.

"Are you even listening?"

"Oh I hear you. But. . . all women are my damsels in distress. Besides baby, it's me, Jack. I do what I want, and after we're done here, you will be coming with me." With an effortless pull, Jack opens the hatch, takes out a long, metal rod, and slides it inside.

"Who do you think you are? You can't tell me what to do. I don't care if you're--" Jack Westaway heaves and pulls, hearing a screaming noise down a tube.

"GET YOUR METAL SNAKE OFF ME YOU HUMANOID" a high-pitched robot screams.

It's Creed alright.

Aviva watches. Stunned at this misogynistic baboon.

"I'll cut your hand off, you intruder!" Creed threatens, and as quick as he threatens, Creed emerges from his home. Jack removes Creed off the rod and holds him; an offering towards Aviva.

"See? look what happens when you send a man as amazing as myself to save a princess? Not only do I get her contract complete, I also manage to slap a panty dropping grin on my face."

"I told you, you little bitch I'mma—" Creed stops, his eyes flashing as he processes the information that has all his alarm bells ringing. In front of him, the humanoid who taunted him and shot at him. Yet, she is not holding him. Someone, a man with meaty hardworking hands, is holding him up in the air and by god—Creed jolts and jumps, his top half spins 180 degrees. His sensors explode without hesitation.

"JACK WESTAWAY?" Creed cries in panic. In fear, the bottom of his ball falls from his ass; spraying Aviva head down with decade-old oil.

It takes a few seconds to hit Aviva on what had just occurred; looking at Jack whom is dying in laughter.

Aviva looks down at her all-black attire. It's covered in decade old sludge of oil.

* * *