The sky darkened to a sickly orange by the time the boy and BP reached the collapsed structure nestled beneath a half-buried plateau. What once may have been a roadside diner or a refueling station in another age now stood sunken and skeletal—its steel ribs twisted, glass long since reduced to sand. The neon sign, unreadable and broken, flickered faintly from old solar cells, flickering like a dying firefly.
"This'll do," the boy said, tugging his scarf down. "Roof's still intact. Maybe there's a corner without scorpions."
BP chirped skeptically as he hopped ahead into the shadows.
They ducked under a bent support beam and stepped into the gloom. The air was dry, heavy with the scent of rust and baked dust. The boy dropped his gear beside a wall, checking his flask. Two sips left.
"Gonna need more soon," he muttered.
BP beeped again—sharper this time.
"What now?"
BP stood near a pile of debris, claw arm pointed toward a glint of glass and metal half-buried beneath old food containers and shattered ceramic. The boy walked over, brushing sand aside with his boot until he uncovered the relic fully: a smooth black rectangle, scratched but intact, with a single round button at the bottom.
"What the hell is this?" the boy asked, crouching. "Old-world trash?"
He picked it up. It was surprisingly heavy.
BP jumped up beside him and activated a projector built into his shoulder. A pale blue hologram burst to life, showing a diagram of the object. An ancient screen. A logo of a fruit with a bite in it. Then words appeared:
SMARTPHONE – Human Communication Device – Circa 21st Century.
It rotated, showing how people once used it—talking into it, listening to music, taking photos, even watching entertainment. The boy's jaw dropped.
"All that… in this little brick?" he asked.
Beep peeb!
"You're telling me this is worth—wait, how much?"
BP chirped, and the projection shifted: Estimated Collector Value – 10,000+ Gold Units.
The boy stared. His eyes widened. That was more than enough to buy a new Cytra, food for months, even a place in Central World's outer circle—if he could ever get past the slave walls.
"No way…"
Beep.
"I swear, BP, if we don't die in the next day or two, I'm giving you half."
BP puffed proudly, hopping up onto the boy's shoulder.
Then—click.
A soft noise. Mechanical. Familiar.
The boy froze. Slowly, he turned his head toward a small wire buried in the rubble near the door—his sensor trap, an old can rigged with string and a metal nut. It had moved. The string had snapped.
Someone had entered the shelter.
BP let out a low, warning peeb...
The boy grabbed his pipe weapon and silently slid toward the nearest ladder, motioning BP to follow. They climbed fast, breath held, reaching the rooftop just as faint boots scuffed against the floor below.
From the top, they could peek through a crack in the rusted ceiling panels. Six figures marched in from the haze—dark shapes, wrapped in scavenged armor, weapons drawn and faces half-covered by visors and cloth.
One of them was massive—shoulders like a mutant ox, covered in fur, goggles strapped tight over glowing cybernetic eyes.
Graka.
The bandit warboss.
"I saw his smoke trail," Graka growled. "He's here. Boy's got a relic—and I want it."
"Should've finished him back at the canyon," muttered one of the gang.
"No. We do this slow," Graka replied, tapping a weapon at his side—a massive custom rifle, reverse-engineered from a fallen Bright Light soldier's gear. The barrel hissed softly, glowing faint red. "We get the bot too. Strip him clean."
On the roof, BP's servo leg shifted slightly—CREEAK.
The sound was small, but in the silence, it was thunder.
"Up top!" someone shouted.
A flash of blue—ZWWWWAP!—a bolt of plasma shredded through the ceiling just inches from the boy's arm. He rolled away, pulling BP with him as the roof exploded into a mess of dust and rust.
The boy dove off the far side, landing on a pile of old crates.
"MOVE!"
Another bolt shot past his head. He ran, pipe in hand, boots skidding through rubble. The bandits surged from the shelter like wolves.
BP zipped beside him, keeping low and fast.
One of the raiders broke off, trying to flank—coming around with a curved blade. The boy stopped short, spun, and slammed his pipe into the man's kneecap. The raider collapsed with a scream.
"Stay down."
A second came from the left—rifle raised. The boy ducked just in time. The shot missed. He leapt forward, cracking the pipe against the weapon, knocking it from the raider's hands. A boot to the chest sent the attacker flying into a sand pile.
Two down.
But the third was waiting.
This one was faster—twin knives, glowing faintly with alien power. She slashed low. The boy parried with the pipe, sparks flying. The blades hissed dangerously close to his neck. He kicked upward, catching her hand, then swept her legs with a burst of sand.
"Not today!"
She hit the ground. A final smash to the helmet knocked her out cold.
Three down.
Breathing hard, the boy spotted his chance—a bandit Cytra, parked just outside the ruin, engine humming low.
"BP! Let's ride!"
The droid jumped onto his back just as the boy sprinted and leapt onto the bike. The engine roared. He jammed the throttle. The Cytra screamed across the cracked earth, its aged frame clattering as it took off.
Behind him, shouting.
Then—gunfire.
The remaining bandits, including Graka, burst from the shelter, plasma rifles glowing.
"GET HIM!"
Bolts sizzled through the air. The boy leaned low, weaving erratically. The Cytra bobbed and kicked, barely holding together.
Graka mounted a larger hover-trike, flanked by two shooters.
They chased.
A bolt skimmed past the boy's head, slicing his hood. Another shot burst into the sand beside him, sending debris flying.
BP let out panicked BEEP-BEEP-BEEP!
"I KNOW!"
The boy swerved between two dunes, trying to break line of sight. A bolt struck the rear turbine—sparks flew.
"Hold together, girl!"
They entered a ravine—walls tight, speed high. One bandit tried to close in from the side. The boy swerved right, skimming the cliff wall. At the last second, he twisted the handle and kicked the Cytra sideways. The bike's side slammed the bandit's mount, flipping it violently into the air.
"One more down!"
But Graka was still on his tail.
The warboss leveled his weapon—a long-barrel railgun. It charged, humming with red light.
BP screamed PEEEB!!
The boy ducked just as a beam of plasma tore through the air, vaporizing a boulder beside them.
"HE'S MINE!" Graka roared.
But then—over the next rise—a wall appeared.
An old dome. Towers. Watchtowers. People.
A camp. A survivor stronghold.
"Hang on!"
He blasted past the old welcome sign—"Camp Solace"—and skidded to a halt inside the gates. Dozens of ragged men and women in scavenged armor raised weapons, aiming at the open desert beyond.
The boy raised both hands. "I'm not with them!"
BP stood tall on his shoulder, arms up like a tiny surrender.
Behind them, the bandits crested the hill—then stopped.
Just outside the boundary line.
Graka glared from his trike. "Kamaro's rats…"
From the tower, a voice boomed.
"Lower your weapons. You shoot once, and it's war."
Graka cursed under his breath, seething.
Then he turned, spitting sand from his teeth, and signaled his men to fall back.
The boy collapsed from the Cytra, chest heaving.
He'd made it.
Safe—for now.
And within the walls of Duke Kamaro's camp, a new chapter was about to begin.
---
The gates of Camp Solace clanged shut behind Aren and BP. Soldiers in patchwork armor relaxed slightly—enough to breathe again. But as the boy stumbled inside, hands on his knees, Larisa came storming forward.
Larisa—a sharp-featured woman in austere garb, hair pulled into a tight bun—rounded on the boy like a desert storm.
"Aren! You absolute fool!" she hissed, jabbing a finger toward him. "Do you realize what you nearly did? Inviting Graka's gang to our walls? One stray shot and every outsider guarding this camp could have lit them up!"
Aren gulped, head down. BP chirped timidly at his feet.
One tall guard stepped forward, voice low: "Ma'am, he saved lives back there. Eliminated bandits, brought their Cytra in. It's not reckless—he's resourceful."
Larisa's eyes snapped. "Resourceful or suicidal? His impulsiveness could've started a war."
Another guard raised a hand, gently: "He got in under pursuit. If they'd entered with guns blazing, we'd have had a firefight in our streets. Instead he pulled them outside."
Larisa sniffed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "We can't afford border incidents now—"
Aren risked looking up. BP stood ready beside him.
There was a heated back-and-forth. Larisa argued protocols. The guards reminded her that youth sometimes brought clever solutions.
But Aren knew he'd overstayed.
As Larisa turned to bark more orders at the guards—assign someone to guard the relic, question the boy, log the Cytra—he took one quiet step back.
Then another.
And slipped away before Larisa could notice entirely.
He darted into one of the terraced tent alleys toward his home: a tent supported by bent poles, draped with patched canvas, reinforced with scrap-metal sheets. Not lavish—but sturdy, private, the only patch of relative comfort he owned.
He paused at the entrance, chest tight. "Home," he whispered to BP. The droid clicked softly in response.
Inside: a narrow space lit by a flickering lantern. A few crates held supplies. In one corner, hanging behind a cloth, were tools and spare parts. His bedroll lay on the ground, neat. This was his domain. His world.
He called out. "Erina? I'm back."
Silence.
He frowned. "She's out."
Removing dust-coated layers, he stripped into cooling undergarments and folded his sun-resistant jacket and pants neatly. Sweat cooled on his skin. He sat, legs crossed, on the woven mat.
Beside him: the relic smartphone. Dirt-rimmed but immaculate. He placed it gently on his lap, examining grooves and scratches.
BP hopped onto his knee, optic lens blinking, ready to display again.
Aren touched the cracked glass. "10,000 stellar units... I still can't believe it."
BP chirped affirmatively.
Aren held the relic up to BP. "Think about it, BP. That much worth... we could trade it. Get proper parts for the Cytra—or build a new one. We could have clean water for months, maybe buy passage inside the slaver's wall... maybe even Central World contracts. Or at least enough to never scavenge again."
BP tilted toward him reassuringly. Beep-peeb.
Aren laughed softly. "Yeah. You're right. We'd still argue about who gets it first." He looked at the droid sideways. "Spoiler: I'd win."
BP responded more cheerfully this time.
But Aren's face shadowed. "I'm scared, BP. Not for me—I can handle sand storms and mutant worms. But for Erina. For home. For the camp. I can't bring trouble here. I just can't."
BP hopped down and tapped the relic gently—perhaps acknowledging the weight. Beeb…
Aren nodded.
Then—they heard footsteps approaching. Tent door flap stirred.
Aren panicked internally. He grabbed the relic and slipped it inside his canvas knapsack. Then he rolled it under his bedroll.
He stumbled to his feet. Turned quickly toward the flap.
"Aren?" a soft voice asked.
He froze.
Bright red hair fell past a pale face—his sister, Erina, taller by a few inches, same bone structure, same curious gaze.
"Aren…" she said, voice slightly trembling. Then more firmly: "Is that you?"
He forced calm. "Yeah."
She stepped inside, arms crossed over a thin tunic. "Where've you been? I looked for you at the salvage line, then the kitchen, then—"
He swallowed. BP backed behind him.
Erina frowned. "Why's BP hiding?" she asked, suspicious.
Aren wiped sweat from his forehead. "He's... uh, charging his energy cell."
She glanced at the mat. "It's weird. You never—" she stopped, softened sight. "Are you okay?"
He forced a smile. "Fine. Just tired."
Erina sat, apparently deciding not to press further. She rummaged in a cloth bag and pulled out bread rolls and a couple of glistening artificial fruits—pear-shaped, synthetic flesh tinted pastel. "I brought food."
He exhaled relief. Erina unwrapped the bread and split it, handing a roll to him. BP hopped onto a box nearby, watching.
They ate in tense silence for a moment. Crusty bread, sweet fruit juices, the lantern's flicker mingling.
Erina finally spoke, sighing: "So... what did you find scavenging today?"
Aren carefully peeled a rind off the fruit. "Something old. A device. Can't say much about it yet. Some relic. Might be valuable, might not."
Erina cocked her head. "You happy?"
Aren paused. "Yeah. Sort of. If it is worth anything, maybe we can get out of this... hell."
She stared, frowning slightly. "You're talking about leaving camp?"
He shook his head. "No. Just... giving options."
Erina opened her bread slowly. "Dad always said we could build from nothing. But... he'd want us safe."
BP chirped thoughtfully.
Erina nudged the relic's bag with her toe. "You hide something?"
Aren stuttered. "No. It's—BP—charging."
Erina looked at him for a long second. Suspicion flared—but then she shrugged. "Okay. Just... don't keep secrets."
He nodded.
BP tilted his head in relief.
Silence settled, soft.
Erina munched quietly. Aren stared at the tent flap, heart slower but still twitching.
BP beeped softly.
Erina looked at the droid. "That's BP, right?"
Aren nodded.
She gave a small grin. "Still bickering?"
BP responded with playful beeps.
Erina laughed softly. Then ate bread. They sat on the mat, food between them, sister and brother.
Minutes passed. Then Erina asked, "Does it hurt?"
"Huh?"
"Being chased. By bandits. On vacation. I heard you got shot at."
He forced a casual tone. "Nah, close calls. I've dealt with worse."
Erina stared. "That's you. Aren't you… always taking chances?"
He shrugged. "Better me than the camp."
She smiled faintly. "Still reckless."
He winked.
BP chirped.
Aren looked at her. "You... you find anything today?"
Erina shook her head. "Just food scraps and clean cloth strings."
BP beep-wow.
Aren nodded. "Good."
Erina sat back, looking tired. "Come back before dusk next time."
He swallowed. "I will."
BP's projector flickered—the small battery signal from the relic, dormant since last time.
Aren blinked, leaned forward. BP chirped urgently.
He gently retrieved the relic from under his bedroll, but kept it inside the bag. "Maybe I can learn more tomorrow."
Erina didn't ask. She looked out toward the camp lantern glow beyond the flap.
Aren felt peace seep in. BP settled beside him.
They sat together in silence, sharing bread, fruit, flickering lamplight—the last of the day's heat draining into the dark.
At the edge, shadows of the camp moved across the walls. Guards patrolled at a distance, watchtowers blinking. But inside the tent, brother, sister, and droid—safe for now—watched the sand settle, the world quiet just long enough to breathe.