The desert air is painful, each breath scratching at my throat, each blink leading to granules of sand cutting my eyelids, each sniff of the air like thousands of needles stabbing into my nostrils, forcing my olfactory sensors into a botched plastic surgery. The land itself would've been beautiful, had it not been destroyed, bombed, and leveled by humanity throughout the years, craters line the wasteland, some charred black as the scars of the neverending wars may never get the opportunity to heal over. Torn up tents and truck hoods roll with the wind, likely abandoned materials that had once covered a family, shot dead and robbed where they slept.
"First order of business," Antonio starts, having to shout above the blasting winds, just short of choking on the mask meant to protect him from the sand suffocating him. His voice is colder now, serious, just like the real him. "We go into town, Desx, find their most public spot, a pub, a saloon, whatever, and we just listen. Understood? We don't know how these people feel about women in public spaces just yet, especially since it's been years since either of us have been here, so keep quiet and I'll do all the talking."
"Why? So then you can piss people off and get us in trouble in your own special way?" I mock him, and he glares sidelong at me, swerving the truck just enough to the left to cause a large, sharp wave of sand to smack me directly in the face. He chuckles quietly to himself as I struggle to wipe myself off, eyes watering as I clench them closed. "Asshole."
"Bitch." He mumbles, still proudly smirking to himself. "Oh don't cry," he speaks sarcastically, "Maybe your little boyfriend can comfort you."
"Are you able to tell me what's been up with you yet, or are you still busy having a microphone and camera shoved so far up your ass that they can almost see your tongue as it actively talks shit about caring for others?"
He breaks out laughing now, hands gripping the steering wheel as we blast through another wave of sand, thankfully our uniforms have masks. Would it really be so hard to have given us a window? "That's a good one, I almost thought you were as funny as a man for a second there."
"Oh we're in Rapard for less than an hour and you already view yourself as above women?" I gaze sidelong at him, catching a glimpse at his soft smile beneath the mask, his scarred face once more reminding me of that day. The amount of innocent deaths caused by my hands.
"Above women? No, some of those people can be fucking terrifying, Princess could take me down in a heartbeat from just strength alone." He starts, hesitating for a moment as he mentions the name of a crewmate. Princess. I'm sure she's fine, nothing could break that woman. "But you? Absolutely, millions of levels above you, I'm in a whole 'nother galaxy compared to you."
"Oh really? So I guess just waiting for me to wake up was just a charity case then?" This time, I pay close attention to his eyes, they darken for a moment, or that could've been the sand, I don't know. "Well thank you for gracing me with your almighty presence. I feel empowered."
He doesn't react nor respond, instead, he eyes a small collection of trucks to our left, about four, but there are I'd say fifteen people running around and screaming like maniacs as they chase after each other with axes and crowbars. He speeds up, focusing straight ahead as tire tracks begin to show deeper as we continue on.
"What do you think the gun laws are in this nation?" I ask, noticing the first batch of camps appear past the horizon, vehicles of all shapes and sizes riddle the area like beacons of civilization.
"Gun laws are the same in every nation, absolutely banned." He exhales deeply and the rowdy cheering reaches us through the gusts of sand. "I'm just hoping they regulate it like how they should."
Riding into Desx is like running through a rabid monkey exhibit: there's shit everywhere, everyone is crazy, and for some reason they're climbing on top of each other and their homes. Children run after us like we're the ice cream truck, and in the eyes of scavengers, we might as well be. Antonio shifts his feet on the petals and blasts a wall of colourful sand towards the children, they back off instantly, laughing amongst themselves as they clear out their eyes, parents yelling at them to get back inside the tents. There aren't many solid buildings around here, primarily just tents and cars, and even the few buildings present are covered in fabric and painted with sand, camouflaged to anyone gazing in from afar.
"Over there," I point, noticing a solid building, moistened with what appears to be piss and shattered liquor bottles, there's a crooked sign above the curtain doorway, the paint clearly not given time to dry before it was hung as it bleeds down in a language I do not understand.
"You can read it?" Antonio asks with surprise.
I shake my head, "Of course not, but what other reason do you think there could be for a building like that to be covered in dark fluids?"
He exhales through his nose, eyes dark, "Many reasons, but you're lucky, cause it says it's a prayer pub."
"Wouldn't that be a place of no alcohol?"
"Not in nations like these," he mumbles, pulling over to the side, across the street from the building. Families stop and stare at us, as well as shop merchants that line the dusty roads on either side. Fathers leave their tents, watching as we dismount our truck, ignoring their presence in hopes of avoiding an uproar.
They don't bother us, they just gawk.
The blanket covering the doorway smells rancid, with chunks of mold growing upon it, it itches and makes my skin crawl as we push past it, marching inside like we've always belonged. Only, we were wholly unprepared for just how the norms and behaviours are within this nation.
A majority of the people within this bar are half naked, wrestling atop tables and the bar, screeching at the top of their lungs. A dusty bottle of booze is thrown just beside our heads, shattering and soaking the floor and a portion of our clothes.
When we turn to find who had thrown it, we find it to be the bartender, seemingly pissed beneath his orange facial covering and heavy breathing. "Wjy I I I, You iota drink or fuck outta ere!"
"He's not a threat," Antonio mumbles as we head for the bar, three half naked men brawling atop it. "Just drunk."
We stand before the bar, narrowing avoiding the loose limbs as they flail about. The bartender has crazy eyes, the kind that takes drugs through injections then snorts the remainder, no matter its state of matter. "ERe dis!" The bartender shouts, voice crackling like a bonfire as he tosses two bottles of unmarked alcohol at us, shooing us away immediately, like our presence will reveal their secrets.
Antonio sniffs the bottle, adams apple bobbing as he freezes in place, eyes watering, "It's just straight dehydrated piss, don't drink it." He gazes around at the nonsensical behaviours. "No wonder everyone here is so wild, they're all poisoned, and not a fun poison."
"They're all still watching us." I speak softly, aware of the darkened glances, there hasn't been a moment since arriving in this nation where a set of eyes weren't locked on us. Watching the patterns of movements as well, about twenty people are piled into this one room building, it's like they're subconsciously synced to not look away from us completely. Our moves are always being watched from every angle.
The lady in the far right corner, surrounded by six, half drank bottles.
One of the men on the bar brawling behind us.
The bartender.
A man by the doorway, half asleep as he lazily continues to drink with his head on the table.
What appears to be a child, sitting alone, nursing a lone bottle quietly, likely afraid of being caught where he isn't supposed to be.
An elderly man, sitting back and laughing at the nonstop fights.
Where did it go? I can't see who's staring at us next, come on, come on. I need to keep track of this pattern.
One of the men fighting on one of the five long tables in the room. Shit, that means I lost one. Likely one of the people behind us then, or perhaps someone here has a larger peripheral vision than most and that's how they got past me.
"Come on," Antonio speaks, marching past the colossal of fused bodies as though he belongs there. "It shouldn't be too much different from Ulnac, just louder. Follow my lead."
I do as he says and he leads us towards one of the tables, more in the corner but just before the one where the child is placed. Two men are on top of it, sticking broken bottles towards each others' throats, three other people sit around them, minding their own business and occasionally watching us. The moment we sit down on the cracking chairs, another man comes prancing through the door, excited, wild, native in this land.
"What is up, barkeep!" He cheers loudly, reaching his hand out for a bottle.
"Jut di and nev retorn!" The bartender shouts in response, throwing a bottle straight for his head, he catches it with his left, another catches it with his right, another hits him in the jugular but he manages to hunch over and catch it. "I haet yu fookin Brive!"
The man breaks out laughing, using one bottle to open another and begins to chug it down, dark liquid slipping past his lips and staining his dark fabric. He takes a seat nearby us, seemingly recognizing the people we are seated with.
There was an opening when this guy arrived, an opening where no eyes were on us. If he's a guy who is confident enough to grab everyone's attention then he may be the type of guy who also has a lot of information he's willing to divulge.
"How's it going Brek, Inis, Kili," He greets the three people sitting down happily then turns his attention to the two men fighting, "Still got small dicks, I see, Gary and Lary."
"Shut up!" One man says through gargled words.
"Those aren't our fucking names, you bitch!" The other attempts to kick at the guy but instead loses his balance causing both of them to fall off the table, continuing the fight on the dirty floor.
"Yo, I gotta tell you guys about a chick that Swine fucked!" Antonio nudges, and I listen closely, looks like Swine is the name of one of our targets. The man laughs as he continues to clammer on. "She wouldn't stop crying and attempting to fight back, like seriously? A chick thinks she can overpower Swine of all people?" Nobody seems to acknowledge his existence, instead, they stare down blankly at the sandstone table, drinking their bottles far more frequently now. "And then, get this, he used one of his testing drugs on her and she turned fucking gray!" He belly laughs, like he genuinely believes this is one of the funniest things he has ever seen. "Oh my god, and apparently we're preparing to wait some poor fuckers soon too, so you better keep your doors locked!" He moves to stand, scanning the tables happily as he does so. "Oh wait, what doors?"
His laughter is now far more similar to cackling as he moves back over to the bar, hassling the bartender for some more bottles of piss. Why do these people enjoy it so much? Are they not aware it is literally dehydrated piss?
Antonio nudges me once again, pointing out how he's being kicked out. We'll give him a minute head start.