Children of Terra

~Heedless of time~ ~Leaning against the hermetic doors~ ~Northern Entrance to Los Angeles~ ~Vykan~ One of the first tells of the culture of this new era was the general state of the people. Not one was visibly chunky. Not on the ground, not in sight. Nowhere. It was also immediately apparent what they mostly ate. Because it was everywhere, in planters, on roofs; in gutters. Hard desert crops. Mojave Mesquite -- lacks thorns -- Palo Verde, nopal of multiple varieties, yucca, agave, seed plants Vykan wasn't familiar with. More. The dire state of the world did not register in the days before. But that was mostly expected, he was only in it for around 3 days after all. 3 days to be nearly dead from radiation.       Of course it would be the next conversation. "Is it like this everywhere?"       "Mostly in the northern hemisphere. Rad belts in air currents. Most hurricanes anymore are rad storms; terrifying things. Because a lot of the peaks and ranges were weathered down from the exchanges . . . " Pruflas trailed off once he turned to Vykan. The look on the Stygian's face wasn't one the Duke could stand to look at for long.       "I need to rest. The body, maybe. But I don't have the will at the moment." Vykan pushed off the wall, heading down the street. Los Angeles retained its scale, and the skyscrapers were still here. So where did most of the food come from? Certainly not from the north coastal route, apparently. It's not like they needed real lodging. Just a place to sort this all out.       Pruflas watched the back of the Stygian. Just how different was his world to react like that? How much can change in 80 years? Pruflas couldn't help but hearken back. What other horrors had his oracular brothers seen? As Pruflas made to follow Vykan, he found his mind wander just once more.       How did this compare among them? ~Deeper into the heart~ ~An old, familiar place~ ~Changed~ The first impression of LA was a mite worse than it otherwise was, relatively. As culture shifted from the outer suburbs to the more industrialized center, so too did the tech level. More and more people in the white collar districts had implants similar to Night City, although the whispers of scarcity remained. The general idea could be described as cities being closer to self-sustaining, agri-districts located where suburbs would have been. Still enough for Vykan to need to walk inside a restaurant off some side street. Shut it all out for a minute.       He opened the doors to a seeming Chinese eatery. Good atmosphere. A place that he could recognize. He took a seat by the door, placing his head in his palms. Pruflas slid across after him. Then a waitress with menus. Drinks, to start, like old times. Vykan glanced at the menu. Expected prices. Vykan was always amused to see people fail to grasp the basic concept of inflation. 3% a year average doesn't sound too bad, right? It compounds. And even then, people don't get it. The difference here was that water, plain water, was as expensive as it was.       Vykan quirked an eyebrow to Pruflas, mouthing 'water.' The Duke closed his eyes in a subtle understanding, before declaring to the waitress. "Two waters, please."       She stiffened, as though disbelieving. Pruflas reaffirmed. Then she nodded and left.       Vykan didn't talk. So neither did Pruflas. At least the menu had all the usual items you'd expect. Albeit with the disclaimer 'while supplies last' on top of the abrupt pricing. Two glasses were placed on the table, skirted close to them with a level of care unseen in times past. Pruflas told the waitress they needed another minute, as Vykan stared at the condensing liquid. He felt guilty all of a sudden.       "You don't mind paying? I . . . "       "It's fine, Vykan. I don't spend anything anyway." Quieter, so no one could hear. "Demon, remember?"       With a sigh, Vykan wiped his face with a table cloth, took the drink and swigged it, and picked the menu up. No need to guess, he just wanted to see if it still existed. It did. He nodded to Pruflas along a small hum.       When the waitress returned, the pair ordered. Sesame chicken for the demon, general tso's for the Stygian. The menus were cleared, and the talk could begin.       Pruflas ice-broke. "To be honest, I'm quite surprised."       Vykan wasn't quite up to matching energy, simply clasping his hands and staring at the duke with a listening posture.       "I expected resistance. Satellite ID for sure. Even a part of me considered an orbital strike or more. Drones. But nothing? We even got into the city. Militech should have a backdoor to block cards. No, maybe they left it open so they would know where we went . . . But - " Before he could pontificate more, the steaming plates arrived. And boy, did they smell good!       The familiar glisten of red-pepper sauce. The zing in his nostrils. Wafts of steam. Vykan sat for a moment, stunned. When was the last time he even ate?       "Something wrong?" Pruflas had speared a piece of peppered chicken.       Vykan smiled, taking a fork for himself. "No. Something right. First meal I've had in months . . . " He stabbed a piece, leveling it to his nose and breathing in small, rapid, short quaffs. Better for scent retention. He forgot for just a moment, all of it. The world outside.       And they ate. ~An hour or so~ ~Sitting silently at the table~ ~Digesting and ruminating~ Pruflas felt the moment gone to talk more about the past. But he still thought about the ocean trek. No submarine drone? Diver squad? Something wasn't quite matching, but he didn't want to pin a hypothesis without more data. He broke off the thoughts when Vykan leaned back, clearing his plate in entirety -- every single piece of rice -- and now the remaining water. Somewhat guiltily, Pruflas remembered then the stretch marks on Vykan's skin. The id was a problem, in the end.       For the first time since entering the place, Vykan looked back outside. He shook his hair, then folding it back in a sweep. "I needed that. Thanks." He nodded, scooting to the side, prepared to leave. Pruflas handed the card to the waitress, who scanned it with a mobile reader before smiling and beginning to clear the table.       The pair left again, back into the warm but tolerable outside. Once on the street, they were about to head more south when disturbances to the north attracted stares from people all around.       Uniformed borgs. Interrogating people. "You have elevated stress response! You lie! Where have you seen these men?!" Ah. The borgs had an old man in a compliance lock bordering breakage when the chatter of distant comms could be heard. They looked to the Chinese restaurant, Vykan's eyes widening. Pruflas was already in the seat.       Go. Now. Without looking blown. Haven't noticed yet.       Vykan ran his hands through the air as though just realizing what time it was, turning and sauntering into a back alley before breaking into a sprint. "Fuck! Where?!"       Elsewhere. Head South generally. Focus on breaking sight lines . . . Hm. I wanted to hit Old Route 66, but we might have to detour to I-15 and up again.       "What's another couple hundred miles to a 3,000 mile trek?" Vykan noted how quickly he resorted to sarcasm. It wasn't a quirk of his he liked, and the fact it was cropping up again meant to him, regression. He chastised himself silently as he leaped over railings and curbs, sliding over car hoods and trunks. Sarcasm and negativity. His two defaults. Some things never change. He had gone at least a couple miles before the twisting of exertion too close to food cramped him.       He gasped in a skyscraper alley, just realizing he tore through the suit jacket.       It's fine. Just clothes. They'll have our DNA by now, tracked mine firstly, before noting its vanish. Try to walk if you can. They're hunting.       Vykan began taking the jacket off.       Yeah. Go ahead. No point keeping it since it sticks out either way at this point. Wait, one more thing.       Vykan was doing breathing exercises when the duke popped back into reality, handing him the card. "Find a gun shop on the way. Get whatever looks good to you."       They were gone by the time borg hunters reached the spot, kneeling down to inspect the discarded silk. The one scanning looked to the other. "It can't be . . . "       The other looked back before scanning the horizon and vantage points. "What." Gruff.       "Real silk."       "Bull."       The quiet stare at each other sunk in. They stuffed the jacket into a backpack to pawn later. ~Southeastern fringe~ ~End of suburbia~ ~And before agri-districts~ ~Vykan, in a pawn shop~ This was certainly different. A fully stocked gun shop in LA. Something about it reminded him of a game. Or two . . . He was poring over the handgun section, no point choosing anything heavier and less point-capable in a death run. Not like he would die, but still. Torture sucked.       Can you hurry up? Time is precious here. Your immortality notwithstanding.       Shush. An artisan does his best work with the proper tools. They were arranged by caliber, and he was looking for . . . He let out a laugh reading the tag. "No fucking way." He called over to the employee, who was reading a magazine -- they still had those? The gentleman gait his way over, unlocking the cabinet and pulling out the chosen pistol; checking clear before flipping it over to Vykan.       The Stygian racked it. An updated 1911-pattern known by some circles as a 2011, although that was copyrighted. 2011-pattern. Whatever. Point being, double-stack mag -- 15 round standard capacity, 20 extended. 10mm. Pretty good puncher for a semi-auto with a straight pull trigger -       Get on with it man, what are you doing?       Damn you. Let me get a feel for my self defense. Vykan dropped the magazine. The best part of the pistol? Glock mags.He checked the bottom of the base-plate. Unbelievable. Of course Glock would thrive here.       Happy? Let's go.       Not yet. Si vis pacem? We gotta strap for war. Vykan placed the 2011 on the counter. "I'll take it, as many mags as that carrier behind you can support, as many boxes of ammo as the hip pouches will fit, this cavalry holster, those pants- " he looked around " -ah, and that mag loader."       The store employee raised a brow. "You wanna pay up front, bud? I don't have time for jokes."       Vykan nodded, waving the card. When the employee scanned it -- and it approved -- he did a double take to the Stygian. This guy walks in with no shirt, slacks and sandals, with a tattoo on his chest, and he's a handyman?       "What problems do you solve? Corpo shit?"       Say fixer.       "Fixer."       The employee nodded with renewed gusto. He had everything together in two, three minutes. The harness had padded interior, so it didn't rub on direct flesh. Vykan set it taut to his frame, packing the pouches. He looked to the employee. "We good?"       "Y-yeah. We're good."       Vykan nodded, and head out into the now-afternoon. Alright, Pruflas, get out here. I need your assistance.       When the demon appeared, Vykan was already switching his slacks for the cargo pants. Still had the Grecian sandals on. Putting the pants on -- handing the slacks back -- Vykan set the reverse-facing cavalry holster to his left hip. "Take the loader, fill the mags and hand 'em to me. Let's see if you can manifest parts instead of all-or-nothing. We ride."       Pruflas nodded, taking the gear and beginning his part while Vykan began jogging through cactus fields. They were deep into a field when the gun store went up in a flaming ball. "Cruel fucking world, this." As Vykan was kneeling, watching with bitterness; a hand appeared around his shoulder, holding a mag. He took it, nodding, and loaded the 2011 with an air-rack, flipping the safety on. He got up to continue. "How long do you think before they catch up?"       Probably -       A round tinked off the Stygian flesh, flicking Vykan's back. Right now, apparently. He shifted on his feet, jogging within the cactus line as rounds began whizzing the air, zipping cacti flesh.       Optic implants. I was wondering when my brother's would send higher grade hunters.       Vykan glanced behind him. Too far. Probably 100-120 yards. He looked ahead. Shanties began around 200 yards ahead, for crop workers. Now that his stomach was sufficiently clear, he breathed in and began a full sprint along the ditches and crops. ~The hunters close in~ ~But the target is not the same~ ~Within the shanties of Southeast Los Angeles~ ~Vykan, hunter or hunted?~ The shanty was settling in for another night of relative quiet in the new world. People were beginning to relax after dinners, or settle in with company. That is, until bullets began passing through buildings. Shootouts here and there happen, all too much for a world so far past gone; but a battle of this scale isn't seen too often. Probably a story for 2, maybe 3 years.       Vykan was crashing through doors and bashing windows when he got tackled. His reflexes had him kick the borg off and into a dominant position before a roll was over. His Stygian muscles forced the arms into a cross-lock, cutting the jugular off. The borg was out in seconds, which Vykan used to rip the Short-Barreled Rifle from its chest harness. By the time the borg came back, Vykan was already aiming down. A quick spritz of the full-auto and the Stygian was gone again.       You've done this before?       Not this, no. But before showing up in Night City, I was pretty much doing nothing but marching, training, fighting, or healing. Feels normal, in a way . . .Every so often, a borg would get sight of Vykan, blasting him with rounds before he put it down. The flesh gave him full mind to focus on running, so cover and stand-fire was avoided. Run and Gun. He ducked and wove through the shanty, making for the South-East gates.       What are we gonna do about the checkpoints?       Something not too honorable. I'll try to minimize casualties.       Vykan was putting down maybe a 6th borg when his SBR ran free, clicked. He threw it forward, grabbing a 7th borg by the neck with his left hand, drawing with his right and planting the muzzle to the back of the head. One shot. He shifted to Center-Axis Relock as more filtered out from shanty-ways; firing back in pair-shots. They got us triangulated. Too bad they aren't using non-lethals, might actually work better, ironically.       What, like stun rounds? Pepper-bag rounds?       Yeah. You'd think they would try using something other than AP's or hollow-points. Probably still operating on me having RealSkinn, whatever the fuck that is.       Vykan had a point. Pruflas began preparing for the neurological breakdown of the Stygian, ready to take over if he was paralyzed. The pilot made good progress in the shanty, moving at a speed Pruflas simply couldn't match. Stygian blessing indeed. They were near the base of the barrier walls when Pruflas prepared his grim task.       Vykan was sprinting, bare torso rippling as bullets deposited energy into the invulnerable flesh. He glanced at the rapidly approaching barrier, ground around and ahead kicking up from ricochets. What's the plan, big -       Before he could complete the thought, a hair-raising bough of light appeared from just over Vykan's shoulder. It ripped the very air like a Bernoulli bubble as it crashed into the first barrier, exploding the concrete out as though it were Styrofoam.       Vykan grunted at the sight. Cement powder scattered throughout the area, concealing from natural sight. He raced through the now-open corridor, as Pruflas fired from behind more magic bullets. The power in the place ran out by the third hermetic door. Shrapnel ripped and shredded past Vykan, bouncing off his flesh. But he ran unabated. By the time they made it to the final door -- from exit signs at-a-glance -- the Duke fired twice, once in front to clear the way. The other behind, to collapse the way for pursuers. It would buy them maybe a couple hours, ideally.       How's your stamina? Good?       No, honestly. I need to slow down.Humans were good at marathons, not so much fervent sprints. He slowed to a brisk walk, gathering energy when he felt the wisps of some warm energy. What's this? He felt a bit better, but only just.       I've never encountered this level of resistance before, but at least when I'm co-pilot I can do a little. Ah, I'm giving you a bit of aether-vitae. Demonic life essence.       What the fuck?!       Badly put. I'm sorry. It would be better to call it spiritual energy. Demons just happen to be a denomination of such. At least, at one time . . .       So I won't morph into Dracula or anything?       Ha. No. People actually used to be better at this a long time ago, you know. I was even in a world where they still used overt magic.       Vykan swelled his lungs, harness fibers tensing. He exhaled and began a jog. So where now?       Away. Go direct southeast until we can scatter in hills or mountains. Forests have thinned since . . . well. We can't afford the luxury of Satellite masking, so go fast and make it uncomfortable for them to chase. Any mental advantage can be twisted.       How demonic.Vykan began bearing southeast as a mote popped in front of him.       . . . I know, Vykan.