The sun had risen once again, bleeding across the vast desert wastes with a maroon and hazy light.
As the wind swept the desert floor, sand and grit rustled against rustic metal sheets, whistling through worn-out holes in the scrap.
Cough!
"Ahh, what a nice air…"
It was a blessing in disguise—a rough one at that, especially on the throat. At least the wind could somehow wash away the pungent, heavy stench of decomposition.
A few meters outside the Outskirts' makeshift defense gate sat the territory known as the Outlands.
There, a man wearing an oversized, ash-dirt mantle sat against a wall. His left arm rested on a propped-up knee, while his other hand shielded his face with a dirty cloth.
Green and yellow pus drenched his cloak. His visible skin was a map of wounds—some fresh and weeping, others dried into jagged crusts. Most of his flesh was bumpy, deformed by tumors grown from too much exposure to radiation or what they called Glow.
As his weary brown eyes stared at the sky, a faint and… radiant? smile touched his lips.
"Another day, huh."
Taking a roughly sewn leather container, he removed the cork and raised it above his mouth. He squeezed the leather until a single drop of dirty water wet his tongue.
'Damn this life…'
Sighing, he looked at the massive armored truck parked just in front of the gate. Its front was equipped with a spiked bumper stained with old, dried blood. On its roof, a machine gun stood ready, a belt of bullets fed into its chamber, prepared to fire at a moment's notice.
His eyes drifted to the back of the truck. Five men stood there, busy distributing food and water while laughing madly at the Scavengers who received their 'Blessings' with their bare hands… literally.
The five men—the Mutants—wore tight, skinny leather armor, seemingly immune to the desert sun that made their gear shimmer. Even their flawless skin seemed to glow with life, a stark contrast to the wretched souls they mocked.
'Will I die today?'
Rising weakly to his feet, the man shuffled toward the end of the line, plastering a fake, submissive smile onto his hideous face.
'At least I'll die trying with food in my stomach.'
A few moments passed before the man reached the end of the line. He poked the person in front of him, and whispered:
"What's the 'Last Meal' for? Bait or Exploration?"
The man in front sighed heavily before turning around. His eyes widened in disbelief as he stared at the man who had poked him.
"S-Scrappy? You're still alive, man? How's that Skinny Pig? Is he with you?"
The man was Scrappy's friend… or an acquaintance? at least. They had known each other before their fates changed—back when things were normal, and they still held their real names.
Scrappy shrugged, his expression turning melancholy as he faced the man now known as Blackie.
"No… I buried him deep in the sand. At least those damn Cannibals won't be eating his imaginary fat."
Blackie's head hung low. Another of their batch gone. Sooner or later, it would be one of them—or if they were lucky, both.
"Good for him. He escaped this hell first."
Sighing, Blackie looked back toward the truck, taking a step forward as the line moved.
"I think it'll be the end of our hell after this. The Variants said they're investigating a Restricted Area with Glow so strong that even normal mutants couldn't last a week before their bodies ended up like ours. So, it's both: Bait and Exploration."
Scrappy's ears perked up. His eyes glistened for a brief second before returning to their usual gloom.
'Hope, huh.'
With a soft sigh, he glanced back over his shoulder toward the towering wall that loomed five hundred meters high.
Geoforge Settlement. A home for the Mutants.
The home where he had left his family behind. They didn't even know if he was alive, or if they had been told he was already dead.
The home he had promised to crush… along with the Ruler who had shattered his dreams in an instant.
That promise was the only thing keeping his heart beating.
'If I can't do it now, I'll do it in my next life.'
Hiding his powerless rage, he looked back at the people in the queue.
They were the Scavengers; most were born in the dust outside the walls, while some, like Scrappy, had been cast out.
All of them were covered in the same weeping blisters. Their faces were a blurred mess of similar deformities, yet each held unique, tragic features. They looked like monsters—so much so that if they lost the ability to speak, a Mutant might mistake them for a Metabeast and kill them on the spot… or just on a whim.
The beings once called Humans were now the monsters of the New World. Worse yet, they were at the bottom of the food chain. Even an evolved ant could end them.
'Maybe for others, but not me… I've killed one before.'
As the line thinned, Scrappy forced a bright smile as he came face-to-face with the five Mutants.
One man, equipped with a cybernetic eye that zoomed and whirred, analyzed Scrappy's emaciated frame. He smirked and tossed a hard object—a piece of bread, or perhaps a stone? Scrappy caught it with practiced reflexes before holding out his leather container.
"You're fast, huh? Are you one of the failures?"
Scrappy nodded repeatedly, his submissive smile never wavering.
"Good… At least we got something useful. Here's your water."
But before Scrappy could position his container, the Mutant tilted the jug. The water splashed onto the thirsty sand, pooling briefly before being swallowed by the heat.
Scrappy immediately dropped to his knees, scooping the wet sand into his dirty cloth. He looked up, smiling again at the Mutant who watched him with a look of amused disdain.
"I thought since you're one of our Alumni, you'd be fast enough to catch it. Well… that's that. You're just a Human… Next!"
Scrappy didn't wait. He rushed to the side of the truck, using its massive shadow as a brief shelter.
Placing the leather container beneath the cloth filled with wet sand, he squeezed. He twisted the fabric until a few precious drops filtered into the container. He repeated the process until the sand was… somehow dry. Then let out a ragged sigh.
'What a waste…'
He glanced back at the Mutant with the cybernetic eye, who was still busy tormenting the Scavengers.
A glint of pure hatred and madness ignited in Scrappy's eyes—hidden carefully behind his mask of submission.
'Don't ever give me a chance to get my hands on your neck, Because I promise to make you as dry as this sand.'