A Handful of Dust

July 3 – Araxes, Southern Regions

I poured a little more sand into the small metal bowl, and with the tips of my fingers scoured out the remains of my breakfast. The wind had shifted, and soon I would return to Azaadi.

On this trip, I would drift into town, purchase a few supplies, and generally make myself visible. Instead of asking questions, this time I would start the process of establishing myself as a presence in the area. I would wait and see what information came to me.

I now had two reports that members of the Jade Revolution had passed through the village.  I also had one description of the masks that they wore. I knew I was in the right place.

Suddenly, my thoughts were interrupted by a scream, the long, loud howl of a tortured, hungry soul.

I froze.

REAVERS!

I turned and ran, sprinting away from the sound, my metal bowl dropping to the rock with a clatter.

Around the gully, my feet pounding the dirt, I turned left towards the rocks at the edge of the wadi.  I would be swarmed here in the low ditch. I had to get to higher ground.

I pounced on the embankment and scrambled up the slope.

How did reavers get here? How many were there?

Keep moving.

At the top of the ridge, I glanced behind me.

Far below a thin, solitary figure began its ascent. Ungainly, uncoordinated.

Only one.

I had a chance.

I climbed the next spike of rock and slid down the opposite side. I climbed again, a larger rock, then through a space and up. I doubled back.



The creature had now reached the top of the ridge.

With a fluid motion, I drew my knife.



I paused, measuring the distance, and then dropped to the figure below.

Still airborne, I began to slash. My blade tugged and tore at flesh and cloth, but to no effect.

It had a gun.

The air suddenly filled with the sound of thunder. Hammers slammed into my vest. Ribs cracked one by one.

It fired wildly. That is what saved me.

I threw myself backward, tumbling down the slope, wincing and choking in a shower of sand and dust.

Maybe the knife wasn't such a good idea.

Coming out of my fall, I kept moving. I circled right, to maintain some cover, and climbed.

In due course, I arrived at the apex. The top of the rock was slightly sunken offering some shelter.

The creature lurked below. It had my scent. Bullets zinged by. Chips of stone stung my cheek, missing my eye.

I dropped my knife and plunged my hand into my pack.

Where is it? Where is it?

My fingers touched something cool, metal, then the hand grip. I pulled out my pistol and for a fraction of a second felt comfort wash over me.

I can't stay here.

I hopped over the far side of the rock column and made a controlled descent this time. Pebbles and stones followed me down. I came to rest on the eastern slope, with the spire now between us.

I took a breath. The land beneath me offered no safety.  There was nothing in this part of the wadi to offer protection. And to the immediate south, the ground dropped to the hot sands of the Southern desert pan. The creature lingered on a small rock shelf close to the ridge to my west.



There was nowhere to go but through.

I charged forward to build up my momentum. I grasped the spire and shifted my weight. I swung around the rock, high over the bled. My cloak snapped in the breeze.

He turned. His gun erupted.

Ignore the hits. Focus.

I emptied the whole clip in a tight pattern into his chest, before throwing myself back and down once again.

Coming to rest behind the spire, I was hurting now. I clutched at my side and my hand came away red. I wasn’t sure I would survive another clash. Cautiously, I climbed the rock to the small outcropping where my opponent had been standing.

Is it over?

His body lay face down, sprawled across the small flat rock, his chest leaking into the dry, parched land.

I crouched down and began a quick inspection of the remains. This was no reaver. This was something new.



His face was concealed behind a respirator mask. It had been worn so long that the straps had bitten into his flesh. The wounds looked infected.

The lenses of the mask were scratched by the wind and the sand. It likely obscured his vision and, to my benefit, spoiled his aim.

The filters were clogged with raw desert spice and would no longer have been able to provide protection from the substance’s effects.

His head was nearly bald. Only traces of hair were left.

His skin was burned raw from constant exposure to the twin suns. It was loose in places where the fat had wasted away and the muscles had begun to atrophy.

His clothes were little more than rags. A sliver of plastic was only just visible jutting out from what may have once been a pocket.

Carefully, I drew the object out from the cloth.

It was a miner’s identification card. A photo. The name worn away.

Once, he had a handsome face. A thick, shock of hair and a determined look. Lips that smiled and clear eyes that looked out upon the world.

And now, his name was gone…

What wretched nights had he sat weeping, his boney fingers rubbing his name, desperately clinging to the last traces of his identity as the madness and the desert stole his mind?

I may have just killed him, but he died long ago.

I stood up, and immediately felt faint. My pant leg was now red. 

The truth of my situation sank in as I stumbled back towards my campsite. These wounds can't be ignored. I touched my communicator and broken radio silence with a single tone, signaling for extraction.

Azaadi Watch had come to an end.