Fueled by a zeal that bordered on the fanatical, the natives, now operating with the collective drive of a kicked anthill, proposed a simple, time-saving solution for the midday meal: bring the food to the fields. Eliminating the trek back to the settlement would grant them more precious daylight for the sacred task of reclamation. Michael, observing the remarkable transformation in their demeanor—the slump of despair replaced by a purposeful, almost frenetic energy—readily agreed. The dream of a better life, it seemed, was a more potent stimulant than any chemical.
He even acquiesced to the children's clamorous, half-joking demand for a celebratory feast of babao fanto replenish their strength, though the notion made his modern sensibilities twitch. After a moment's internal wrestling, he shrugged. He'd finally pushed past his own lingering squeamishness. The processed "eight-treasure rice," once one accepted its origins, was, by all logical metrics, safe, sterile, and packed with calories and nutrients. It was efficient. As for supply, the formidable proprietress of the Fat Lady Diner back on the other side could likely provide an endless river of the stuff, given sufficient profit. She'd probably monopolize the entire Yang City grease-trap market for it.
Having reached this pragmatic, if slightly nauseating, epiphany, Michael felt a weight lift. He summoned a lanky, sharp-eyed young man from the guards. "You," he pointed, "run back to town. Borrow Richard's pedicab—the rickshaw—from the motor pool. Load it with babao fan, as much as it can carry. Bring it here. Let everyone eat their fill."
As an afterthought, his own stomach rumbling, he added, "And tell Kaoru, the one tending the wounded, that I'd like a braised pork over rice for my lunch. Tell her…" he emphasized, "to go easy on the lard. I'm feeling like something a bit lighter today."
The young man, eager to please, nodded vigorously. "Light on the lard! Yes, sir!" he repeated, turning on his heel and breaking into a sprint back towards the distant walls. Michael watched him go, the lad's long legs eating up the distance, his lips moving silently as he rehearsed the order. A bit simple, but the enthusiasm is commendable, Michael thought, turning back to survey the progress in the fields.
The meal, when it arrived, was a raucous, communal affair. The large pot of babao fanwas greeted with cheers, and people gathered in loose circles, shoveling the fragrant, calorie-dense mixture into their mouths with a gusto that spoke of hard labor and bright hope. The mood was almost festive.
Michael's own meal arrived separately. He took one look at the container handed to him by the panting, proud messenger and felt his stomach sink. The "braised pork over rice" was less a dish and more a soup of congealed, white pork fat, with a few sorry strands of meat and vegetables swimming in it like shipwreck survivors in a greasy sea. A small lake of oil had pooled at the bottom, soaking the rice into a translucent, glistening mass.
He sighed. The eager runner must have tripped over his own feet, literally or mentally, and gotten the message perfectly backwards. More oil, the boss doesn't want it light today.He poked at it with his chopsticks, his appetite fleeing. Eating this would be a one-way ticket to a very unpleasant afternoon. But he was starving, and the smell of the rich, fatty pork, however overwhelming, was also perversely tempting.
He was just mustering the courage to take a hesitant, grease-skimming bite when the young messenger, who had lingered nearby hoping for praise, suddenly gasped. He wasn't looking at Michael's disastrous lunch, but past him, towards the southwestern horizon, his eyes wide as dinner plates.
"Boss!" he blurted out, his voice a mix of awe and confusion. "Look! A huge… bird! So big!"
'Pfft ~'
Michael choked, spewing a mouthful of the oily rice he'd just bravely ingested. He whirled on the youth, a torrent of indignant, profanity-laden rebuke already forming on his lips. "Huge bird"? What kind of juvenile, asinine—His mental tirade about inappropriate commentary and the size of one's avian observations died abruptly as he saw the boy's face. It wasn't leering or joking; it was etched with genuine, slack-jawed astonishment, his gaze fixed on the sky behind Michael.
Michael's instincts, honed by months in the Wasteland, kicked in before his modern cynicism could reassert itself. Here, the unknown was not a source of curiosity; it was a precursor to danger. He spun around, his eyes scanning the hazy, sun-bleached sky.
There, in the southwestern distance, were three shapes. They were still specks, but large, moving with a purposeful speed unlike any bird he'd seen. Their formation was a perfect arrowhead, and as they drew closer, details resolved. Vivid, garish plumage of reds, yellows, and blues. A shape that suggested immense, predatory wingspan.
"Bloody hell," Michael breathed, the curse lost in the sudden silence that had fallen over the field. Every head was now turned skyward. His earlier, humorous misinterpretation of the boy's words vanished, replaced by cold adrenaline. "Take cover!" he roared, his voice slicing through the stunned quiet. "Everyone, scatter! Find whatever cover you can! Now!"
He acted even as he shouted. The container of greasy rice was flung aside, spilling its unappetizing contents onto the freshly turned earth. In one fluid motion, his pistol was in his hand, the metallic kach-ckof the slide being racked loud and definitive. His other hand snatched the walkie-talkie from his belt, thumb mashing the transmit button.
"Harry Potter to all stations! Three unidentified hostile aircraft, repeat, three hostile aircraft approaching from the southwest, vector directly over the reclamation site! All guard personnel not on critical perimeter duty, mobilise immediately! Full combat load, all weapons, and get out here NOW! Support at the fields!"
Only after barking the frantic order did the absurdity strike him. A runner? I sent a bloody runner for lunch when I have a radio!The irony was a bitter pill, almost as bad as the oily rice. He pushed the thought aside, focusing on the rapidly approaching threats. The "birds" were closer now, their details becoming unsettlingly clear—and wrong. The wings didn't flap. They spun. The bright colors weren't feathers; they were strips of ragged cloth and garish paint slapped onto a mechanical frame.
"Trike-planes," he muttered, the tension in his shoulders easing a fraction, replaced by wary confusion. "They're just… bloody trike-planes." He recognized them now—flimsy, open-cockpit, single-rotor contraptions, the sky's equivalent of a rickety moped. Someone had decided to "decorate" them to look like terrifying avian monsters, a psychological tactic that had worked all too well from a distance.
The three aircraft buzzed overhead, the putt-putt-puttof their small engines now clearly audible. They circled once, a predatory loop, before one broke formation and began a slow, cautious descent towards the relatively flat area near Michael. The other two remained aloft, circling like vultures. Michael tilted his head back, squinting against the sun, and his blood ran cold again. From the rear seats of the circling trikes, the unmistakable glint of rifle barrels pointed groundward was clearly visible. Not friendly visitors, then.
The lead trike-plane bumped to a landing, skidding a short distance on the hard-packed earth before coming to a stop about ten meters away. The pilot cut the engine, the sudden silence feeling heavier than the noise. The figure in the cockpit was small, helmeted. It climbed out with an agility that spoke of practice. Standing barely over four feet tall, the figure pulled off a motorbike helmet, revealing a face dominated by a thick, russet-brown beard of impressive proportions. A dwarf, or more likely, given the Wasteland's odd minglings, someone with strong gnomish ancestry.
The little man hitched his thumbs into his belt, his gaze sweeping over the gathered, tool-wielding natives with open disdain before landing on Michael. His eyes, sharp and assessing, took in Michael's relatively clean, short-sleeved white shirt—a stark contrast to the sea of scavenged advertising t-shirts and stained tank tops. The mark of authority, however unintentional, was clear.
"You," the gnome called out, his voice a surprisingly deep rumble for his stature. "Harry Potter. Of Cinder Town."
Michael kept his pistol lowered but ready, his finger resting alongside the trigger guard. "I am," he replied, his voice flat. "Though it's called Sweetwater Gulch now. And if you're here for trouble," he gestured slightly with the barrel towards the two circling aircraft, "feel free to start it. Otherwise, tell your friends upstairs to point their toys elsewhere. Now."
Around him, his people had recovered from their initial shock. The fear of monsters had evaporated, replaced by a more familiar, terrestrial hostility towards armed intruders. Shovels, picks, and hoes were hefted, not as tools, but as weapons. They began to close in, a rough semicircle forming around Michael and the gnome. Their expressions were no longer those of frightened farmers, but of hardened Wasteland survivors protecting their own. A few of the more enterprising ones were already scouring the ground for sizable rocks, their intentions towards the buzzing aircraft overhead comically optimistic but fiercely sincere.
The gnome pilot seemed unimpressed by the display of agrarian might. He snorted, a puff of air stirring his magnificent beard. "Sweetwater Gulch? Sounds like a puddle for livestock. Don't get your knickers in a twist. We're not here for a fight. Just looking to trade."
His tone was casual, but the arrogance was palpable, a veneer over clear tactical caution. The rifles from above still covered the crowd. The unspoken message hung in the air: You have numbers. We have the high ground.
This tense equilibrium held for another minute, the buzz of the circling trikes the only sound. Then, a new noise intruded—the gritty roar of poorly tuned engines, growing rapidly louder. From the direction of the town, a small convoy erupted into view, kicking up a plume of dust. Two pickup trucks and three of the boxy, resilient little vans, all loaded with armed figures, barreled across the rough ground towards the field.
The dynamic shifted instantly. The gnome's eyes, previously glinting with condescension, darted to the new arrivals. He saw the armed men piling out, taking up positions. He saw the muzzles of various rifles and shotguns pointed with practiced ease. And then his gaze locked onto the pickup truck at the front of the pack. Mounted in its bed, swiveled to face the sky, was the heavy, brutal form of a DShK 12.7mm anti-aircraft machine gun. A belt of massive, glinting cartridges fed ominously into its side.
The color drained from the gnome's face, his bravado evaporating like a puddle in the Wasteland sun. The smirk vanished, replaced by a strained, wide-eyed expression of reassessment. He held up his hands, palms out, in a universal gesture of whoa, there.
"Hey now, friend! Easy! Easy!" he called out, his deep voice taking on a distinctly conciliatory, almost wheedling tone. The arrogance was gone, sandblasted away by the sight of the heavy machine gun. "Just a bit of fun, yeah? A misunderstanding! We come in peace! Strictly business!"
He glanced nervously back at his two comrades still circling above, giving a sharp, downward chopping motion with his hand. Reluctantly, slowly, the rifles in the other aircraft wavered, then pointed away from the crowd, towards the empty sky.
Michael finally allowed himself a small, cold smile. The language of the Wasteland was universal, and it was seldom spoken in words. It was spoken in horsepower, in steel, and in the diameter of your gun barrels. The "aerial visitors" had just received a very eloquent vocabulary lesson.