"Hope Tim wasn't stupid enough to attempt a conversation with Rocky," Nick shouted back to Xanthus as he raced through the door and outside.
Earth's Great Cloud gave the appearance of a steel-domed sky above Colorado City. Always slightly damp outside, Nick braced himself for the cold breeze as he raced down the wooden steps to Hiker's Canyon. The canyon cut a firm line between the massive, newly built homes of the rich and the Colorado Intranational Youth Refugee Camp with its shanties and dorms and Geneva stricken teenagers. Also known as the genetic plague, the Geneva virus had swept across Earth nearly twenty years ago, devastating Earth's population. It attacked the nervous system, killing adults but only crippling the children. By the end of the epidemic, the Geneva virus had left millions of children homeless. Local orphanages were unable to deal with the demands, forcing the countries to form refugee detainment camps to house their own citizens.
Nick couldn't have felt luckier.
Living next to the camp was the best part about being on Earth. Nick couldn't stand all the kids at his private school. They were snobbish, preppie students. But refugee kids? They knew how to have a good time. Tough as nails and wouldn't say no to anything. Unfortunately the refugee kids didn't like his brother Tim very much, other than as an opportunity to pound his face in.
Nick slowed down, taking a moment to scan for any signs of his brother. Xanthus caught up to him with rattled breath. A hoverbus swept over and toward the refugee camps. The sound of the anti-grav engines made him drop his gaze down to the bottom of the canyon. There lay a blond, curly-headed boy, clutching his stomach while coughing and heaving. A large teenage girl towered over the curly-headed boy.
"Oh boy," Nick groaned. He had found his brother, Tim.
And so had Rocky the Lord-Bully.
"You should know better, Tim," Nick continued leaping down every other wooden step. "Never go to the canyon by yourself. I've told you a hundred times … Back off, Rocky!"
Nick yelled to a six-foot-tall, thirteen-year-old girl. Her parents had named her "Rocky." Shortly thereafter, they passed away from the virus and she was shipped off to the Colorado refugee camp. The refugee kids gave her the full title, "Rocky the Lord-Bully." It didn't help she had armored herself with scraps of drone parts. For years Rocky had savagely hunted down all the drones to repurpose their technology for armor, weaponry, even shelter. Nannydrone skulls served as her chest plate. Pyrodrone casing shielded her forearms, calves, and legs. Electronic wiring kept all of the various parts in place. Recalling all of this, Nick saw his brother clutching his stomach, and made a quick, confident assessment.
Tim's bodily organs wouldn't survive the afternoon.
"Rocky!" Nick yelled again as he jumped several steps and landed in a puddle.
"I can—take—her, Nick," Tim said, trying to stand, but his legs were matchsticks. "Go away! I don't need your help."
Rocky shoved him down again.
"Leave him alone," Nick warned.
"No, Nick—khaa—khaa!" Tim clutched his pant legs, letting out another round of coughs. "You promised."
"I can help." Nick leaned around Rocky.
"Go away! I said I don't need your help."
Nick new nothing could have been farther from the truth. He had been protecting Tim from bullies since kindergarten.
"Look, everyone," Rocky jeered. "Tim's big brother's come to the rescue, again."
"Little brother," Tim countered, trying to stand up again. "Nick's the little brother. I'm the oldest."
"By twenty-eight minutes," Nick said. "We're fraternal."
"Fraternal?" Rocky twisted her thick brow into a question.
With the tone of a school teacher, Nick said, "Fraternal means we're twins but not identical. We're not copies of each other."
Rocky swung around, her drone armor banging along. She critiqued Tim's floppy physique, dusty, blond hair and sloping brow. Even though he was thirteen, Tim wasn't much taller than a fifth grader. He even had small hands and slow reflexes.
Rocky with her unibrow aimed back at Nick. He was tall and stocky with large hands, more like their grandfather, Grand.
An unearthly sound came from deep within her. It proved to be a laugh. "Hah, hah, haaaaah!" Her finger pointed at Tim. "Tim's the big brother! Oh, that's funny! Ha ha ha! Ha ha ha! You're like Nick's little fart."
The hecklers roared at that one.
"Shut your drain," Nick gritted through clenched teeth.
Rocky's mouth clapped shut, the heckler's laughs stopping immediately. She heaved her drone armored body around to face Nick. The armor gave her the appearance of a nightmare hockey goalie.
"Out of the way, Rocky," Nick said, trying to step around her, but she shadowed him until they were facing each other, neck to chin.
His eyes crept upward, and he didn't like what he saw. Either Rocky's hair hadn't been combed for months, or the brush had given up on her, taking an easier job as a street scrubber. Her right piggly hand hung clenched, while her other hand held a Pappy's Pudding Finger, which left her mouth and fingers caked in brownish white cream. From her nose came an inordinate amount of hair, especially for a thirteen-year-old. In fact, she just had an inordinate amount of facial hair altogether.