This place is a desert for the mind—devoid of emotion, devoid of thought. At least, no real thought. It's no surprise. Most minds here have long since atrophied, starved by years of neglect. They sit in flatline, waiting for the next jolt of synthetic stimulation to make them feel something.
The real world can't compete—not that it's even allowed to. Thinking about reality leads to seeing it for what it is: a prison. A cage for the body, the mind, the soul.
I've spent my whole life shackled, terrified by the idea that I might be capable of something different. Something original. That maybe—just maybe—my instincts weren't wrong. But how can I blame the others for numbing out, when I've done the same?
It wasn't always like this.
There was a time when we had hope. Charles…
He was my ride or die. We grew up in the slums, scavenging scraps and dreams. I haven't seen him in years. Ever since the Federation swallowed the government from the inside—crippling the military, corrupting the politicians, and rewriting reality itself.
But reminiscing doesn't keep you alive out here.
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[Present Time]
I wake to the sound of hundreds of feet shuffling through dust. The sun's barely up, and already the air's heavy—thick with heat and grit. I sit up and scan the room. Not much left: half a loaf of bread, maybe enough for the day. After that, I'll have to scavenge. Water's top priority.
Out here, dehydration doesn't knock. It drags you out kicking and screaming.
I throw on a tank top and some shorts, then glance to the left. Goggles. Spare shirt. That'll do to keep the sand out of my lungs. I tie the shirt around my face, tug the goggles down, and strap my knife to my belt.
The roof's sagging—if it can still be called a roof. Another dust storm and it'll probably cave in for good.
It gets hotter every day. Water's harder to find. I've buried too many friends who ran out before they could make it back. I won't be one of them.
Not today.
The streets are more dust than stone now—veins of old concrete peeking out between dunes like fossilized bones. The wind kicks grit into my teeth as I move, crunching underfoot.
People don't talk much anymore. Most of 'em walk like ghosts, faces wrapped in cloth, eyes sunken. Every few blocks there's a collapsed billboard or rusted-out truck half-swallowed by sand. Reminders of what used to matter. Ads for energy drinks, mobile networks—synthetic dreams for synthetic minds.
I pass a group of kids fighting over a plastic bottle with maybe a mouthful of water left. Nobody steps in. If you do, you better be ready to take care of all of 'em. I keep walking.
There's a spot I've been scouting—an old municipal pump station on the edge of Sector 4. Supposed to be dry. But last week I saw smoke near the place, and if someone's burning wood, there's water nearby. Has to be. People don't waste fire if there's nothing to drink.
The climb out of the inner zone is steep. Sand drags at my boots and heat rises off the ground in waves. By the time I hit the ridge, I can feel the burn in my shoulders and back.
Then I see it.
The old station is mostly collapsed, but part of the roof's been reinforced with sheet metal. There's movement—figures. Three, maybe four. Not Federation. Too scrappy. Could be survivors. Could be worse.
I crouch behind the broken husk of an old solar car, squint through the goggles. One of them's standing guard with a makeshift rifle, but it's cobbled together from scrap. Good. Means they're desperate, not organized.
I can wait. Watch. People always show their hand when they think nobody's looking.
The sun is a cruel god. It doesn't rise—it climbs, dragging the weight of its own damnation across the sky. By midmorning, my skin's already baking beneath the tank top, sweat evaporating faster than it can pool. You don't notice dehydration until it's in your bones. Until your thoughts feel like rusted gears grinding against each other.
I stay crouched, watching the station.
The guard's bored. Shifting his weight, chewing something. Not alert enough to survive long out here, not unless he's part of something bigger. That's the worst kind of danger—the kind that doesn't know it's fragile.
Then I hear it.
A laugh.
Not the kind people make when they're happy. That kind doesn't exist anymore. This one's sharp, nervous. From inside the station. A woman's voice. Younger than I expected.
She says something I can't hear. The others laugh too. There's tension in it, like a rope pulled too tight. This ain't a camp. It's a negotiation. Maybe a trap.
I grip my knife.
Not 'cause I'm gonna rush in like some storybook hero. I don't believe in that shit. I grip it to remind myself what's real—cold steel, worn leather, calluses. The feel of now. Everything else is noise.
I crawl closer, just enough to catch sight of a cracked window near the rear of the building. My boots crunch glass. No one hears. They're too focused on whatever's inside.
That's when I see it.
A girl—barely more than a teen—handcuffed to a rusted pipe, her face caked with dust and blood. One eye swollen shut. There's a man in front of her. His back's to me, but I see the rifle slung lazily over his shoulder.
I exhale slow. Mind going static.
This world doesn't give you choices. It gives you trade-offs.
Risk water for a stranger? Die trying?
Walk away? Live with it?
Charles would've rushed in. He always did. That's probably why he's gone.
But me? I've learned to watch. To wait. To strike where it hurts.
I back off the window and circle wide. My knife's not just a weapon—it's a promise.
Tonight, when the desert swallows the light and the real monsters come out…
I'm going to be one of them.