Proficiently Awkward
Professional Cynic
The glossy shine of daylight pooled at low points, fooling the eye and bringing with it temperatures that burned right down to the marrow. Illusions slithered across the dunes, shimmering and heat-slick over the vast emptiness of the wasteland. It was an ocean of grit and sand laid from end to end; as if the world had been swallowed up by the desert. Jagged outcroppings of stone and scrap peppered the landscape – evidence that there had once been something more than the searing sands. Yet here, now, nothing save for blistering gusts of wind even moved.
A dark smudge against the horizon hinted at society…or what little of it managed to linger about. Backlit by the blazing midday sun, little save for a jagged silhouette was visible. The skeletal remains of civilization loomed far-off against the skyline; concrete corpses of skyscrapers and crumbling city-blocks just as hollow and empty as the rolling sands. Whatever rag-tag assemblage of survivors that had managed to chisel out an existence no doubt existed there. It was, after all, less mad than attempting to conquer the wastelands.
It was precisely that dark smudge, and that hint at a possible population, that had driven one particular soul to carve his own niche out of what little the desert had to offer. People, Fidget had found, were much less predictable than the ferocity of the elements. Erring on the side of caution, the industrious youth had stuck it out in the relative safety and solitude of the wasteland.
Tucked neatly into the lee-side of a jutting rock outcropping, Fidget had crafted an oasis amid that expanse of searing sand. Hidden from the howling winds, the dilapidated hull of a city bus lay buried against the sheer rock face. Sand slithered up the sides and had buried the vehicle up to the headlights in glassy grit; a perfect natural camouflage against prying eyes. Rust-eaten panels had been patched here and there with bits of salvaged materials: cloth, tin, and all else there was to be scrounged up. The emergency-exit hatch at the rear of the bus was propped open in a vain attempt at getting air circulating inside the cab. Though the bus was quite the shelter, the steel body eagerly soaked up the midday sun and sent temperatures inside skyrocketing. Even touching the rusted surface was enough to blister skin and split flesh. Rather than brave the heat, Fidget had resolved to lie low.
Unperturbed by comfortless tire-tread pressing against the hollow of his spine, Fidget had his attentions tuned elsewhere. One knee tucked against his chest, the wiry feral was engrossed in disassembling a hodgepodge rifle. The weapon itself seemed homebrewed; none of the pieces quite matched up. Obviously modified with bits and pieces of other firearms, it looked like a monstrosity. The long-gun itself was lightweight and aluminum bodied, though the trigger mechanism and grip had come off some .45 caliber handgun. None of it fit, but practicality won out over aesthetics in the wastes.
Peering through smoked-lenses, Fidget pulled back the bolt and ejected the loaded round. Those gloveless hands were the only scrap of skin visible. A scrap of cloth, serving as a bandanna, covered his scalp. A few haphazardly-cut tendrils of pitch colored hair escaped, obscuring his view through those dark-lensed googles. Aged by sweat and time, it was impossible to tell what color Fidget’s cargo pants might have been. The oil-stained canvas legs had been tucked lazily into a threadbare pair of combat boots. The long sleeved shirt he wore seemed to have that same patina; either too old or too often worn.
Chewing idly on the side of his tongue, Fidget unscrewed the stock from the rifle barrel. Only yesterday the firearm had been meticulously oiled and given a mechanical once-over…it was boredom and the indolence brought on by heat that spurred the action a second time. Low on food, potable water, and riding his last nerve, Fidget anxiously awaited sundown.
A dark smudge against the horizon hinted at society…or what little of it managed to linger about. Backlit by the blazing midday sun, little save for a jagged silhouette was visible. The skeletal remains of civilization loomed far-off against the skyline; concrete corpses of skyscrapers and crumbling city-blocks just as hollow and empty as the rolling sands. Whatever rag-tag assemblage of survivors that had managed to chisel out an existence no doubt existed there. It was, after all, less mad than attempting to conquer the wastelands.
It was precisely that dark smudge, and that hint at a possible population, that had driven one particular soul to carve his own niche out of what little the desert had to offer. People, Fidget had found, were much less predictable than the ferocity of the elements. Erring on the side of caution, the industrious youth had stuck it out in the relative safety and solitude of the wasteland.
Tucked neatly into the lee-side of a jutting rock outcropping, Fidget had crafted an oasis amid that expanse of searing sand. Hidden from the howling winds, the dilapidated hull of a city bus lay buried against the sheer rock face. Sand slithered up the sides and had buried the vehicle up to the headlights in glassy grit; a perfect natural camouflage against prying eyes. Rust-eaten panels had been patched here and there with bits of salvaged materials: cloth, tin, and all else there was to be scrounged up. The emergency-exit hatch at the rear of the bus was propped open in a vain attempt at getting air circulating inside the cab. Though the bus was quite the shelter, the steel body eagerly soaked up the midday sun and sent temperatures inside skyrocketing. Even touching the rusted surface was enough to blister skin and split flesh. Rather than brave the heat, Fidget had resolved to lie low.
Unperturbed by comfortless tire-tread pressing against the hollow of his spine, Fidget had his attentions tuned elsewhere. One knee tucked against his chest, the wiry feral was engrossed in disassembling a hodgepodge rifle. The weapon itself seemed homebrewed; none of the pieces quite matched up. Obviously modified with bits and pieces of other firearms, it looked like a monstrosity. The long-gun itself was lightweight and aluminum bodied, though the trigger mechanism and grip had come off some .45 caliber handgun. None of it fit, but practicality won out over aesthetics in the wastes.
Peering through smoked-lenses, Fidget pulled back the bolt and ejected the loaded round. Those gloveless hands were the only scrap of skin visible. A scrap of cloth, serving as a bandanna, covered his scalp. A few haphazardly-cut tendrils of pitch colored hair escaped, obscuring his view through those dark-lensed googles. Aged by sweat and time, it was impossible to tell what color Fidget’s cargo pants might have been. The oil-stained canvas legs had been tucked lazily into a threadbare pair of combat boots. The long sleeved shirt he wore seemed to have that same patina; either too old or too often worn.
Chewing idly on the side of his tongue, Fidget unscrewed the stock from the rifle barrel. Only yesterday the firearm had been meticulously oiled and given a mechanical once-over…it was boredom and the indolence brought on by heat that spurred the action a second time. Low on food, potable water, and riding his last nerve, Fidget anxiously awaited sundown.
