A Restless Tomb

The city scowled at him. 
Through the haze, the dust, the dying rays of the setting sun, Owain-B176 could feel its glare. It resented him. It judged him. Every eddy of dust pulled into a miniature cyclone down an alleyway, every vehicle left behind mid-evacuation, every wizened twig that once brought leafy green shade to the streets opposite. 
The last time he had seen New Alexandria, he was leaving it. He was fleeing it as it burned, as a whole squadron of pilots burned to ensure he got to safety. He had abandoned it, and now it was making it clear he was unwelcome.
A moment passed, and the winds shifted ever so slightly. He released a breath he didn't realise he had been holding. The storms had stopped him in his tracks - the thick layer of glass-sand hanging in the air had brought visibility down to nothing, cut off comms with the Mako-class in orbit, had threatened to throw his commandeered Spade off the road at any moment. So now all he could do was wait, sheltering beneath an underpass until it, well, passed.
It would pass, of course. It would. Owain said it to himself, internally, quietly, every few minutes, doing an altogether poor job of convincing himself. His brain knew it would pass, it understood that Reach's weather cycles, mangled as they were by the obscene amounts of heat dumped into them a few years before, would eventually move the storm onwards. It even remembered the forecasts that had been provided to his COM, down to the minute. But whatever rational thoughts he had, his gut still feared that this was all there was - that the empty skeleton of a city would have no end, that it would swallow him whole. 
Listening to the dusty wind ceaselessly whipping down empty highways and across bare plazas, his gut seemed to make the better argument.
"Boo." The voice from the figure behind him was flat, matter-of-fact, neither a genuine attempt to surprise nor a playful tease.
He looked over his shoulder, and the domed outline of a Pilot helmet was there, silhouetted in the dim haze. 
"Go away."
The next time he glanced over, she was gone. 
Owain sighed and made his way over to the Spade, teeth a hair away from gritting. The thing was still running, engine ventilation running in reverse in order to keep the filters free from the fine, powdered silica blown in from glass-scars far to the west. Filters were always a chore - and an awkward one to do with gauntlets on - but one that needed doing nonetheless. Even if he couldn't make headway for now, his collection of power packs, transponders, and COM amplifiers needed the recharge as much as he did.
"Here all on your own, big guy? Nobody left to ride shotgun?"
He didn't dignify that one with an answer, instead steadying himself with one arm as he reached down into the passenger footwell. His hand came back up carrying a ration pack, a sealed pouch of precious calories, fluids, stims and sleep-aids. He knew he'd need the last one if he wanted a moment's rest; the sound of the wind blasting away at every exposed surface carried through his helmet irritatingly clearly, and he didn't expect the few intact structures around to do much better.
"I mean, you ask me, it's a lot of effort just to come back to somewhere you gave up so easily."
"Go away, Hilda."
Turning away and into the wind made him involuntarily squint, if only for a moment, and his eyes caught the mirrored finish of her visor again. It was impossibly clear, as if polished, compared to the sandblasted windows of the towers above them.
It wasn't real. She wasn't real. Not that it made the pit in Owain's stomach any shallower. 
"Come on. Humour me. What, it's not like you have anyone else to talk to here." 
His arms reached upwards, servo-enhanced grip straining to haul himself up on the side of the support slab, then reaching up to the lip of the roadway above once his boots found footholds. The wind made it difficult - the eroded concrete threatening to crumble beneath his grip made it harder still - but with some effort and frustration, he managed to haul himself up onto the top of the flyover. 
Hilda was waiting for him up there, of course. 
He walked past her wordlessly. She followed.
Ahead of them lay a squat, grey box, sticking out from a viaduct that otherwise blended form and function with the same architectural cues of the city around him. Grandiose support arches had turned into emaciated ribs; slender passages had been filled with sand drifts until they were blocked completely, sweeping roadways were clogged with abandoned vehicles. But an ugly concrete box was an ugly concrete box. He needed a few moments of rest - perhaps a little more than that - and it would do the job.
"Left the spade running, you know." The voice was little more than a joking nag, but Owain was already tired of the exchange before he even answered.
"It'll be dead by the time the storm passes."
"And you won't?" 
He shrugged, suddenly exhausted by the exchange, and turned away. The door opened with a brief tug, and for a moment he stood there, looking at the small room and the stairwell beyond it.
"Doesn't look like either of these lock. Hardly the most secure napping spot." 
"So? There's nobody else in this boneyard."
"Oh, right. I forgot, I'm not really here." The memory of Hilda nodded once, curtly.
"You did leave me for dead, after all."
Owain closed the door, and darkness enveloped him.
Category:The Weekly
Category:Tooth and Blade