"We're in the shadows of a dying world," Clara sang softly as she drove through the old mountainous roads. The album had spun five times since they had departed the mutant-infested satellite compound earlier that evening—it was stuck inside the jeep's antiquated CD player. She didn't know the name of the musicians, but liked to imagine it was the spirit of the jeep singing to her—yeah, it was a goofy fantasy, but stranger things had happened in the wasteland.
Outside, the dark of night drew a curtain across the rocky pass. Mist sparkled in the jeep's headlights. Clara's wrist terminal indicated that they would reach Quadra by sunrise. Until then, with Andy fast asleep in the passenger seat, she enjoyed the rare moment of quiet, mentally preparing for her meeting with their employer Old Blue Eyes. The price was already negotiated: guns, ammo, supplies, fuel, and access to an Augmentation Master Console so that Andy could recalibrate his abilities; but there was something else she intended to ask for—a chance to prove themselves.
Andy stirred in his sleep, muttering to himself. Clara wondered if the AI voice in his head was communicating with him in his dreams, or whether he was just regular muttering. She didn't have a clue how all that stuff worked; Andy never explained it to her, not even the basics. She only knew that he should be recalibrating at an Augmentation Master Console a lot more. Neglecting to do so had stunted his growth, and now she'd learned that there were even potential health risks as the serum altered his DNA unchecked.
If Clara had a power like his, she would treat it a lot differently. She would train and comb over the data provided by the AMC, searching for new ways to advance her powers, new limitations to breach. But Andy seemed content with just about getting by. Therefore, Clara's plan was to raise the bar—push them into more dangerous territories on harder missions, stress his limitations, and force him to adapt. Otherwise, they'd be stuck doing low-paying mercenary jobs for the rest of their lives, until one of them caught a bullet or a bite. Call it wishful thinking, but Clara hoped that there was more to life than that.
As the sun rose, the valley widened and pastures replaced forests. Sheep and cows grazed behind ramshackle fences, guarded by shepherds and dogs. Ahead, a car approached them from around the bend. It leaned sideways, stopping on the road, half-blocking their path. Clara slowed their jeep and drew her pistol, holding it in her lap, safety off. Beside her, Andy slept. This probably wasn't worth waking him over.
A man leaned out of the car window, sitting on the frame. He waved her down. Clara scanned him for weapons, but kept her eyes on the driver's side. If this was an ambush, the man waving was just a distraction.
"Need a top up, lovely," the man yelled.
Clara pulled up beside their compact economic car, looking down from the window of her jeep into the car's back seats. The cushions had been stripped to make room for a dozen large barrels. "Sorry, this baby doesn't run on dilute."
"Dilute?" he whined. "Who said anything about dilute?"
"Me." Clara winked and revved their engine loudly, bouncing over the verge, around the jockey's vehicle, and off down the road. Fuel jockeys were always trying tricks; if it wasn't diluting their haul or sticking a tube into your gas tank, it was trying to intimidate customers. She had personal experience with the trade.
The sky grew vibrant as they neared their destination. Clara slowed the jeep as they passed a convoy of traders travelling down the muddy road out of Quadra. Muscular horses drew three wagons made from the stripped hulls of rusty old cars. The traders' clothes were a patchwork of scavenged garments: sports, military, civilian clothes, all unified by a coat of grime. The skin of their hands was like worn leather. They kept one eye on the jeep as she passed, crude firearms slung over their shoulders. Clara caught the eye of a woman who wore a veil over her mouth, the tail end of a scar disfiguring her brow. There was something sinister in her one remaining eye, bitterness, perhaps something else.
Clara watched the traders depart in her wing mirror. Two children peeked through the curtain draped over the boot of the rear wagon. Their faces were partially obscured by her jeep's fumes, like the memory of a friend whom she couldn't recall. Clara stifled a pang of guilt for having not helped them in some way. But what could she do? What could she spare? Rations maybe? Water? It was already too late; their wagons rattled down the pitted road, heading into the mountain range, beyond the protection of Quadra's influence and into the wasteland proper. Clara wondered what sort of life awaited them out there.
The valley abruptly narrowed, and at its recesses was a looming mountain, whose flanks bowed and stretched over the valley, embracing Quadra in its enormous lap. The settlement climbed up the cliff's semi-circular face like a coliseum. A latticework of wooden walkways and shacks peaked over the city's perimeter like unruly bird nests. Below them, the city hid behind its scrapyard defences: a trench spanned the perimeter, diverting water from a nearby lake to form a moat, dug before a wall of derelict cars stacked like bricks, four-high and laced with barbed wire, too rusted and jagged to climb. Smoke stacks rose from the bowls of the settlement, carrying on the wind the rich promise of warmth and cooked food, which coaxed Clara's foot on the gas pedal a notch more.
Above it all, at the mountain's peak, Quadra tower raised its four-flagged standard accompanied by satellite dishes dotting its stem like silver grapes, catching the glow of the morning sun. Each flag on the tower represented one of the four clans who ruled the settlement at its base: The Harmonies, a smartly dressed, well-organised gang with whom she and Andy were employed; the Grizzlies, a tribe of warriors and hunters who relied on primitive technology and weapons; the Fadeaways, a council of degenerates and drug lords who controlled Quadra's Underbelly, providing a cheap workforce to the others; and the Visionaries, an elusive cult of cartographers who studied the cataclysm and the world, searching for answers where others only accepted reality. Quadra was the largest modern settlement that Clara had ever seen, built entirely after the cataclysm—a hotbed for merceneering.
Ahead, two wood-built watchtowers stood on either side of the gate: a hand-cranked slab of welded sheet metal. Clara rolled to a stop, killed the engine, and sat back, waiting for the guards to approach. An older man with a thick moustache signaled for them to get out. Clara rolled her eyes and obeyed, making sure to keep her hands visible at her sides, and away from the sidearm at her waist.
"State your business," the guard said, casually resting a hand on the pistol at his hip. Clara glanced back at Andy, relieved to see he was still dozing. He wasn't the most tactful teammate when it came to dealing with authority.
"I'm Clara, a mercenary. We were out on a mission for Old Blue Eyes. Just coming back."
"Two of you?" The guard asked. He was wearing a white button shirt, smart trousers, and polished black shoes—the uniform of the Harmonies, of whom Old Blue Eyes was the boss. His lack of suit, vest, or bowtie indicated that he was low-ranked among the clan.
"Yeah," Clara said. There was a silence between them. The guard seemed to expect Clara to elaborate; it was a tactic she was all too familiar with, intended to make her feel uncomfortable. She didn't budge.
"Is he going to say hello?" the guard asked.
"He's sleeping."
"Is he shy?"
Clara laughed. "Oh yeah, terrified."
He scowled. "Mind if I check your vehicle, young lady?"
"Go ahead," Clara said, sickly sweet, turning her back on him. She sat in the driver's seat while he strode around the vehicle.
"There trouble?" Andy murmured, half asleep, shrouded by his jet-black fringe.
"No," Clara said. "Just some new guy showing off."
"Want me to kill him for you?" Andy said deadpan, stretching like a cat beneath his blanket.
Clara laughed nervously, checking that the guard hadn't heard him. "I think we're alright."
"Relax," Andy yawned. "I'm joking."