In a desert, "brrrm...brrr...brrm," a bike was tearing ass across the dunes. The rider was a built guy in a navy-blue duster over a black tee, shades, black gloves, and a helmet.
He was gunning for a cluster of skyscrapers, half-swallowed by the sand, some straight up, some cock-eyed. The bike ripped across what was clearly once a massive metropolis, now just a tomb beneath the grit.
But plenty of folks lived in the wreckage, building little shantytowns out of the scraps. Finally, the bike killed its engine next to a skyscraper—just the top sticking out of the sand. The guy parked. As he stepped off, he spotted a bald, heavy dude with robot arms and legs, half his face showing nothing but machinery, slumped against the wall.
"Oi… up and at 'em," the rider said, tapping the fat guy's head.
"Huh… who… oh, it's you, Slade. Head on in," the fat guy mumbled back.
"Yeah, don't crash out. The boss gets cranky, and then you're screwed, right? Here." "kling," Slade tossed an octagonal coin to the fat guy, who was basically the door guard.
"Much obliged, Slade. Boss is in his spot," the guard replied.
"'Kay."
Slade stepped inside and walked up to a wall, slapping his palm against it. A green laser shot out, scanning Slade's hand. "bzzz error," flashed on the display.
"Ah, figures."
Slade peeled off one glove and slapped his bare hand back on the wall. His hand looked like a synthetic-skinned robot appendage. "Ting." The wall slid open, revealing an elevator. Slade stepped in, turned, and checked the control panel—just two arrows, up and down. He hit down. The doors closed. The elevator dropped. Slade leaned against the wall, folded his arms across his chest, and closed his eyes.
"Another day, another hellhole."
"Ting." The doors opened. Before Slade was a city of rusty, high-rise iron, where the ancient towers poking out of the desert were used as homes. Crowds of people were moving in and out in front of the lift. The place was jammed with flashing signs, neon ads, and storefronts.
"trrt..trrr..trrrt." Slade looked up. A half-dead neon sign was flickering, struggling to stay alive. Slade stepped out and headed toward the market ahead, which was pure chaos. Vendors were yelling, hawking everything from grub to bionic implants.
Ignoring the running salesmen trying to push their junk right next to him, Slade walked toward a rusty, worn-out building. He glanced at a sign: "BOUNTY GUILD," with a pointing hand toward the entrance. "trrt..trrr..trrrt...trek," the neon buzzed and popped, deepening the gloom.
"Sleeeg...jgleg." Slade pushed the door open and walked in. The place was a disaster: cracked floor tiles, a busted neon light casting deep shadows, overturned iron tables, and peeling posters on the walls. Slade walked toward the cage—a counter secured by electrified bars to ward off raiders.
Slade took a pack off his back and pulled out a briefcase. The pack was a dimensional storage box, a pocket dimension for gear. He put the briefcase on the counter and shoved it under the bars. "Tluk." It hit the elbow of a muscled guy in a tank top, with tattoos on his upper arm, long hair tied back, and a wispy beard. Half his body was machine, even his eye, which looked like a camera lens zooming in and out as it checked out Slade.
The man took a deep drag on his cigarette and blew smoke right in Slade's face. Slade didn't budge. The guy flipped the case open. Inside were a wolf-like tail, a red-pupiled eyeball, a knife, a terminal, and a stack of octagonal coins. The man behind the counter reached under the desk, pulled out some papers, and started matching the items in the case to the wanted notices.
"Okay, all there. One second," the man replied.
He reached under the counter again and pulled up a square box, setting it on the counter. He opened it, showing Slade five neat rows of coins filling the length of the box. He shut the box and slid it under the bars. Slade caught it, opened it to verify the contents, and then stashed the box in his pack.
"Any more work, Boss?" Slade asked.
"How many times, don't call me Boss, call me Jack," Jack snapped, his hand morphing into a shotgun barrel that he aimed at Slade's face.
"Whoa… okay, okay, Jack. Got anything else for me?" Slade asked, raising his hands.
"Not right now. Get lost," Jack answered, rough as gravel.
"Alright, alright," Slade replied.
Slade turned and walked out, sliding a hand into his duster. He pulled out a cigarette. He raised his index finger, and a flame sparked out like a lighter. "fuuuuh," he exhaled smoke and pushed the Guild door open.
Outside, Slade reached into his duster again and pulled out an old, yellowed photo of a beautiful girl in vintage clothes. He took off his shades, looking at the face with his blue eyes.
"She was everything. Before all this."
His face was flat, without emotion, but it was crystal clear that the photo made him sad. Slade took a drag of his cigarette and looked up, lost in the memory of his life before he became... this.
***
Earth, 2024. "Hey, look, isn't that the killer?" a high school girl whispered to her friend. "Yeah, it is. Be careful, don't let him hear us, or we'll be next," the friend walking beside her whispered back. They were looking at a tall, muscular, though lean, young man—Slade. Even whispered, Slade caught every single gossip and accusation. It made him walk fast, trying to escape the crowd. He pulled his mask up and his jacket's hood down. He felt every single person was looking at him, though maybe they weren't.
"They all know what I did."
Half-running, he cut through a tight alley to get home faster, unable to stand the crowd that he believed was judging him. The reason was that he'd been out of prison for only a month, and people knew him as a murderer. Slade finally cleared the alley and hit the quiet street near his apartment. He started walking with a slow, heavy drag toward his apartment building, now visible in the distance.
He got to his unit and saw the door was covered in graffiti that read, "KILLER" from the bottom up. Slowly, he went up the stairs so no neighbors would hear he was home. He quietly unlocked the door and slipped inside. He immediately leaned his back against the door, sliding down until he was sitting on the floor. His hand went up and pulled off his hood, revealing his handsome face and messy black hair. He didn't look sad, just blank, but profoundly lonely.
He reached into his shirt pocket, under his jacket, and pulled out a photo of a girl about his age. His finger gently traced the girl's face in the photo, a brief, sad smile on his face. He flipped the photo over. The writing read, "When you get out, find me."
"Sorry… I can't do that," Slade said.
He couldn't see her because he didn't want to mess up the life of the girl in the photo. Even though she had visited him often when he was locked up.