• For the city and business travel mainly, black
• Not large (13 inch laptop, tablet, a couple accessories and books, slim is better, as long as A4 fits)
• Not fully leather (too heavy), modern but not too "tech" and not sporty looking
• Must be fold-top, but with easy access (not like only a belt)
• Unstructured / not too rigid and definitely not too square
• More of a luxury feel, but with a BIFL approach (hence not Osprey, even though I have other stuff from them)

Essentially I really like this type of backpack: https://uniqueleatherbags.us/roll-top-leather-backpack/ (a random image I picked off a google search, no idea what that is, just an example)
But needs to be black, more business and more practical (laptop pocket or at least some dividers inside etc).
Like the look of this RAINS model: https://www.farfetch.com/ch/shopping/men/rains-wasserdichter-rucksack-mit-karabiner-item-20889890.aspx?storeid=12491 But with some more practicality, and the brand is not known for durability according to reports on Reddit.
BIFL for me is mostly construction quality and warranty, so I guess the brand has to be quite established. Is stuff like Tumi or Peak Design 20L the only option? Or would I be better off with any of the "full leather" backpacks that get advertised every so often?
Edit: women's models are perfectly fine as well, as long as they kinda look unisex.

First / Previous / Royal Road / Patreon (Read 12 Chapters Ahead)
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---
​
Pale's eyes steadily opened, allowing the overhead lights to flood into them. She stared up into the light for a moment before blinking, then looking around. She was laid out on an operating table, around which dozens of people had gathered, some in surgical scrubs and face masks while others were dressed in military uniforms. The military men and women were all high-ranking Admirals, she realized – and as she stared at them, the most ornately-decorated one stepped forward.
"Behold a Pale Horse," one of the Admirals said to her as he approached. "Do you understand what that means?"
She turned to face him, her expression neutral. "Revelation 6:8. 'And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him. And power was given unto them over the fourth part of the earth, to kill with sword, and with hunger, and with death, and with the beasts of the earth.'"
The Admiral grinned, then turned to one of the doctors. "Excellent work. You seem to have done a good job programming her."
"There was little programming to be done past the initial brain mapping," the other man said. "Ask her something else. See to what extent the brain mapping has succeeded."
The Admiral nodded, then turned back to her. "Do you know who I am?"
She focused on him for a moment, her scanner comparing his face to the full roster of the Navy. He was an older man, in his sixties or seventies, with gray eyes and short snow-white hair, and was dressed in a pristine white naval uniform adorned with a chest full of medals. The rank insignia on his shoulder had five silver stars adorning it. After a second to search through the millions upon millions of files, she found him.
"You are Admiral Roy Cohen," she noted. "Supreme Commander of the Galactic Navy."
He nodded. "And, from this day forward, I am also your immediate commander. You will address me as Commander from now on. Understand?"
"Acknowledged." She paused. "Interrogative, Commander."
"Yes?"
"My name… what is it?"
"You are officially designated as USS Behold a Pale Horse, or Pale for short. You are the first Thanatos-class gunship in existence. And you will be the thing that enables us to finally win the war we've been losing for so long."
She focused on him again, then slowly nodded. "Acknowledged." She looked down at herself and noticed she was naked, and all the people in the room were staring at her. "Interrogative, Commander."
"Go ahead, Pale."
"May I have some clothes?"
He frowned, staring at her with confusion. "I'm sorry, do you feel shame at your nudity?"
"I… yes, I believe that is the emotion."
"Emotions…?" Commander Cohen turned towards one of the men in surgical scrubs. "You said she wouldn't have emotions."
"Apologies, Sir," the man said. "The brain mapping may have been a bit too successful, I suppose. We can reprogram her-"
"Is that wise?" one of the other Admirals asked. "If she begins to develop a personality-"
"We can't allow that to happen," Admiral Cohen said sternly. He looked back to Pale. "Listen carefully, Pale. You are a weapon first and foremost, because that is what we need. You cannot feel emotions – cannot allow yourself to feel emotions, the same way it is impossible for any other weapon to feel anything. You are a gun pointed at the head of humanity's enemies, and we are your wielders. Do you understand?"
Slowly, Pale nodded. "Acknowledged."
"Good. Now then, go ahead and send your consciousness to the main computer in the ship. We will take care of your avatar for you."
"Yes, Commander," Pale said, the words coming out almost involuntarily at this point. "I shall do as you ask, for the good of humanity."
"For the good of humanity," Admiral Cohen replied.
–
Pale suddenly sat bolt upright, breathing heavily with wide eyes. She looked around in a panic, one hand reaching for the shotgun that laid across her chest. The sun had just started to crest over the horizon, spilling its light across the field she was lying in. Aside from Kayla, who was still asleep, there was nobody else there with them.
Pale raised a shaking hand to her head and rubbed at her eyes. Slowly, a ragged breath escaped her.
"Just a dream…" she muttered. "I… that shouldn't have happened… must have something to do with the avatar…"
That didn't make much rational sense to her, given that her avatar was an empty shell and always had been. Her conscious mind was the same one that was used while she was in her ship form, and she had never dreamed while in that form. Why she had suddenly had one now, she had no idea.
Pale struggled to her feet, then moved over to Kayla. She wasn't going to get much sleep now, and so it just made sense to her to wake Kayla up and get moving. Pale tapped her with the toe of her boot, and Kayla immediately catapulted awake. Somehow, flames formed in her hands, and Pale stared at them in confusion.
"What is that?" she asked.
Kayla sat there for a moment, her chest heaving. Eventually, she closed her eyes, took a breath, and then the flames extinguished themselves. Once that was done, she rose to her feet on shaky legs, shivering the entire time.
"Is everything okay?" Pale asked, tilting her head. "You seem ill."
"Just… a bad dream…" Kayla answered. "Don't worry about it."
"Very well. Those flames from earlier, what were they?"
"That was my magic."
"Magic?" Pale echoed.
Kayla nodded. "Yes, magic. I take it they don't have magic where you're from?" Pale shook her head. Kayla let out a breath. "That's what I figured. No offense intended, but you don't seem like someone who would know much about it."
"I am curious," Pale replied. "What you just did defies all rational explanation. You created flames without any kind of obvious fuel source. Tell me, how does it work?"
Kayla blinked, confused. "But there was a fuel source – my sjel."
"That word… what does it mean?"
"It's… complicated," Kayla offered, her wolf tail swishing behind her. "The basic gist is… every person has a sjel. It is, in essence, the thing that makes us all so unique. It's like…" She hesitated, searching for the right words. "...It's like some kind of higher state of being, that determines who you are as an individual."
Pale caught on to what she was saying. "Tell me, is there a religious aspect to this?"
"There is, actually. It's believed that when we die, our sjel ends up somewhere in the afterlife, depending on how the person acted throughout their life. How did you know that?"
"My creators had a similar concept among their own religions." The two of them began walking through the fields once more, continuing on their way. "But we had no tangible proof of it. We were able to trace the precise origins of our own universe extremely far back, but there was a limit to how far we were able to go, even with our advanced technology. To this day, nobody knows for sure where everything originated and where my creators go when they die, if they go anywhere at all."
"I guess that's one thing we have over you," Kayla surmised. "We know for a fact that there's an afterlife. It's separate from everything here, obviously, but we know it exists. If it didn't, we couldn't harness the power of our sjel."
"So that's what you were doing to create the flames?"
Kayla nodded. "It's a bit hard to explain, at least for me. Essentially, everyone goes through a ritual referred to as unlocking their sjel when they come of age – generally around fifteen, though some have been known to unlock it a bit earlier or later, depending on their own circumstances. Anyway, your sjel gets unlocked, and from there, you're able to begin studying magic."
"And magic is something everyone here knows how to use?"
"Oh, yes. It's vital to everyday life here. The only people who can't use it are people who haven't yet unlocked the ability to do so yet, because they're so young. Even then, they spend all their time practicing basic control exercises and learning magical theory in preparation for when it is unlocked."
"And can anyone learn how to use it?"
Again, Kayla nodded. "Yes, anything with a sjel can. Though… I'm not sure if that only applies to people from this planet… I've never thought to ask that question; we always thought we were alone in our solar system."
Pale looked up at the sky, a frown etching its way across her face.
"So did we," she said.
–
The two of them walked for several hours before Kayla suddenly let out a loud groan.
"I'm sorry, we need to stop," she said. "I need to rest for a bit."
Despite the suddenness of it, Pale was inclined to agree with her – they needed to stop for rest, not to mention food and water. They both took a seat on the ground, Kayla letting out a content sigh as she pulled her boots off and stretched her legs out.
"Did you bring any food or water with you?" Pale asked.
Kayla shook her head. "No, I didn't think to…" Her stomach loudly rumbled. "And I suppose that's about to become a problem."
"Worry not. I will take care of it."
"How do you intend to-"
Pale cut her off by snapping her fingers. Kayla stared at her in confusion, and Pale turned back to her.
"You may want to brace yourself," she said.
"Why would I need to-"
Something suddenly came shooting across the sky, like a falling star. Kayla stared up at it in amazement, though her wonder soon turned to terror as the object turned towards them and began to rapidly descend. A loud, panicked yell escaped her as it came closer and closer, and she scrambled for cover, but was unable to find any before a large metallic pod embedded itself into the field several meters away. Kayla was thrown to the ground out of shock; Pale was unperturbed, however, and approached the object.
"W-what is that thing?!" Kayla asked.
"Drop pod," Pale answered simply. She pulled a latch on the side of the pod, and it opened, revealing a cache of supplies inside. There were various weapons, packs of ammunition, small explosive devices, and packages of military rations. Pale took two rucksacks, filled them with spare ammunition and rations, and then dropped them on the ground at Kayla's feet. Once that was done, she closed the pod and snapped her fingers again.
Kayla dove for cover again, waiting for a second pod to come dropping down, but it never did. Instead, she lifted her head, watching in awe as it began to ascend into the sky before she turned back to Pale.
"How'd you do that?!"
"I told you, my true form is up there, orbiting the planet," Pale replied evenly. "That pod was one of mine. I simply commanded it to drop, and it did so."
"Then why the snap? Personal flourish?"
"Perhaps," Pale answered. "Take one of these bags, too – it has spare ammunition for my weapons, plus additional rations. Despite that, it should be lightweight."
Kayla gingerly picked up the offered rucksack, then slung it over her shoulders to test the weight. She nodded in approval, which Pale took as a good sign. As she did that, Pale opened one of the rations and offered part of its contents to her.
"Here," she said. Kayla eyed the ration bar with confusion, and she added, "It's a ration bar. It may not look like much, but it has two-thirds of an average adult's caloric intake packed in it."
"Is that a lot?" Kayla asked, tentatively accepting the bar and beginning to unwrap it.
"Not for people who will be doing as much walking as we will be. If I may make a recommendation, it's that you eat it slowly – don't go too fast and make yourself sick."
Kayla sniffed the newly-unwrapped ration bar, then took a small bite out of it. Immediately, her eyes lit up as the taste of chocolate hit her mouth, and she began to wolf it down with fervor.
"This is amazing!" she said between mouthfuls. "What is it?!"
"That one is milk chocolate," Pale answered, taking a small bite out of her own. The artificial strawberry taste was a bit sweet for her liking, but it wasn't unpleasant.
"And your people created this?!"
"Not my people," Pale corrected. "My creators. There is a difference."
Kayla gave her an odd look, but Pale didn't bother elaborating. Instead, the two of them continued to eat in silence. And once they were done, they packed everything up, then continued on their way.
--
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Special thanks to my good friend and co-writer, Ickbard for the help with writing this story.

On February 27 2024, Claudia Lawrence should have been blowing out the candles on her 50th birthday cake, surrounded by loving family and friends. Instead, this week marks 15 years since the young chef’s mysterious disappearance – and her mother, Joan, thinks it’s high time that the City of York council put Claudia’s empty home to good use.
“I would like the house to be used for a charitable purpose,” said Joan, 80. “Maybe it could be used by someone in need, whether it be a family who are homeless, or someone who has had to escape their own home. It could be used as a safe house for someone who has suffered domestic abuse.”
It’s an extraordinarily generous thought from a woman who has endured unimaginable pain. Understandably, just entering Claudia’s now cobwebbed, eerie house is a wrench. “It takes so much out of me every time I walk through the front door,” explained Joan earlier this week. “Every time I come here, it’s heartbreaking.”
The nightmare is simply inescapable for a family still desperately hoping for answers. But, a decade and a half on, this cold case remains stubbornly unsolved – and the silence is deafening.
Did the police botch the investigation, as Joan alleges? Were they right to leak salacious claims about Lawrence’s romantic life? And are there people out there still covering for her abductor, or her murderer?
What we do know for sure is that it’s all a far cry from Claudia’s happy middle-class upbringing. Born in 1974 to Peter, a successful solicitor, and Joan, the former mayor of their market town of Malton, in North Riding, she was raised in a comfortable home with older sister Ali.
Food was always Claudia’s passion, and she qualified as a chef at her local catering college. In 2006 she found the perfect job working at Goodrick College at the University of York (she’d previously struggled with late-night restaurant hours), and the following year she bought a two-bedroom terraced cottage in Heworth, a suburb of York.
Claudia was a regular at local pub the Nag’s Head. Her friend Suzy Cooper recalled girly chats about their guilty-pleasure television favourites, such as soap Hollyoaks and the infidelity drama Mistresses (the latter would prove ironic), and Claudia would often have people over for dinner. She also enjoyed riding and topping up her tan on the sunbed she kept in her spare bedroom.
On Wednesday March 18 2009, Claudia, then 35, finished her usual morning shift at 2.30pm and headed home – walking the two-mile route, as her Vauxhall Corsa had recently broken down. A passing friend gave her a lift.
Later Claudia sent Cooper a text message – the pair were planning a holiday to Greece – and just after 8pm, she called her father, Peter, for a chat. Nothing seemed amiss: they agreed to meet up that Friday. She then rang her mum (her parents were separated by this point) and together they watched, and gossiped about, Location, Location, Location. Her final, innocuous, text went to a barman she knew in Cyprus.
That was the last time anyone heard from her.
The following day, March 19, Claudia didn’t turn up for work at 6am – highly unusual for this conscientious employee. However, her manager, after fruitlessly calling her mobile, opted not to report her absence. Police later discovered that her phone was deliberately switched off by someone at around 12.10pm. What might have happened if the authorities had been alerted then? We can only wonder.
That evening, Cooper waited in vain for Claudia at the Nag’s Head, and when she still couldn’t get hold of her friend the next day, alarm bells rang. She alerted Claudia’s parents, and on March 20 her dad used the spare key to enter her house. She wasn’t there. At that point, he said, he was “worried to death”.
There was no sign of forced entry or disturbance, and the only items missing were Claudia’s chef’s whites, rucksack and Samsung mobile phone – all of which she would normally take to work. Her passport and credit cards were still there.
Peter officially reported her to North Yorkshire Police as a missing person and the search began. However, they were already way behind: the first 48 hours are critical in these cases.
Meanwhile Joan tortured herself with the thought that her daughter might have been snatched while walking to work. She had offered her money for a taxi, “but she wouldn’t take it. She liked walking for the exercise”.
A week after Lawrence’s disappearance, Det Supt Ray Galloway took charge of the inquiry. He noted that her usual flurry of texts had stopped on the Wednesday evening, so speculated that she might have been abducted then, and he thought it most likely she had been taken by someone she knew.
On March 26 the Archbishop of York led prayers for Claudia’s return and on April 24, it was officially classed as a murder investigation. Crimestoppers offered a £10,000 reward for information.
But already the police were making crucial mistakes, claimed Joan. She pointed to them releasing a picture of Claudia with the wrong hair colour, not forensically examining the house for more than a month, and not initially interviewing her. “I can’t help but believe these errors have been part of the reason the case has never been solved,” Joan said last month.
Two sightings were reported from members of the public that could have a bearing on Claudia’s disappearance. A cyclist saw a woman and a man together on Melrosegate bridge at 5.35am on March 19, and just after 6am a commuter witnessed a couple arguing outside the university – the latter said the man was wearing a dark hoodie.
The police found CCTV footage of a man – also wearing a dark hoodie – at the back of Claudia’s house at 5.50am.
Here the focus of the investigation shifted to Lawrence’s love life, and the police began alleging that the apparently single woman had in fact been having multiple steamy affairs. Appearing on Crimewatch in June, Galloway told presenter Kirsty Young: “As the investigation has developed it’s become apparent that some of Claudia’s relationships had an element of complexity and mystery to them. I’m certain that some of those relationships were not known to her family or friends.”
That tantalising morsel sparked a tabloid feeding frenzy. Cue nasty labels like “scarlet woman” and “home-wrecker”, and headlines such as “Missing chef Claudia Lawrence ‘got a kick out of married men and had 40 mystery lovers’, claims friend”.
That “friend” elaborated: “She’d turn on the charm and draw attention to herself. It always seemed to revolve around people who were with someone or married.”
He continued: “There were rumours she’d been seeing a policeman. I don’t know if that’s true, but there were so many people – builders and others – and they’d all be a bit older and with a bob or two.”
Galloway barrelled forward with that salacious line of inquiry. By October, he was publicly warning her so-called secret lovers to expect a knock on the door unless they co-operated. He added: “We have got to the point where there is definitely frustration in the investigation team as a result of some men who are less than candid when we approach them.”
A police profiler suggested that Claudia had entered into these covert affairs because she suffered from low self-esteem, and didn’t feel worthy of a real long-term relationship. It’s a fair supposition, and fits with other descriptions of her as shy and humble.
However, the lurid reporting compounded the agony for Claudia’s family. Someone told her father: “It’s probably her own fault, if she was like that.” You’d hope that the force would handle such a case with more sensitivity now – although it’s certainly not a given. Just look at Lancashire Police putting out clumsy statements about Nicola Bulley’s reported struggles with alcohol last year.
Galloway later admitted that he regretted his words: “Unfortunately people do make moral judgments about these kinds of relationships, and it’s detrimental to an investigation, because people lose their motivation to assist.”
Claudia’s friend Suzy Cooper said in 2011 that she felt the police inquiry was too focused on those relationships “when it may not have had anything to do with that. Did they miss something?”
Officers did cast a wide net, even extending it to Cyprus, Claudia’s favourite holiday destination, in September 2009 – six months after her disappearance. Galloway believed that she may have received a job offer there. But nothing came of the Mediterranean search.
Two years on, Galloway said that in his professional judgment Lawrence had come to harm, adding that there’s “no sign of life”.
But in 2013 North Yorkshire Police’s new Major Crime Unit took up the case and conducted a fresh forensic search of Claudia’s home. That produced unknown fingerprints and a cigarette end, found in her car, with a man’s DNA on it.
Detective Dai Malyn subsequently arrested a 59-year-old neighbour of Claudia’s in May 2014 and his home was searched, but he was released. The same thing happened with another 59-year-old, a married man.
But are the major suspects covering for one another? In 2015 police arrested three more men – all in their 50s, divorced, two of them brothers, and the third a prosperous property developer – who were regulars at the Nag’s Head. However, a lack of evidence and witness co-operation meant that the CPS declined to prosecute. Perhaps these drinking buddies all had each other’s backs.
Adding insult to injury, Claudia’s family discovered they were unable to manage her assets because of her missing-person status, nor could they sell her house even while mortgage and other charges mounted up. The BBC also sent numerous automated demands for licence-fee payments, threatening £1,000 in fines; the corporation later apologised for the distress caused.
So, Peter campaigned for the Guardianship (Missing Persons) Bill, aka Claudia’s Law, which successfully went through Parliament in 2017, and which allows the missing person’s family to apply for guardianship of their estate after 90 days. He was awarded an OBE in the Queen’s Birthday Honours for his work.
As for the investigation, in 2021 police searched Sand Hutton Gravel Pits, acting on fresh evidence. They drained one of the lakes and used ground-penetrating radar equipment and cadaver dogs – but it didn’t unearth anything.
Tragically, Peter died earlier that year still not knowing what had happened to his daughter. Joan has been left in limbo. This week she described her torture as a “life sentence”, adding: “I can’t lay flowers at Claudia’s grave because I don’t know where she is. All I want is answers.
“A lot of support out there is around bereavement, not for those living in a state of not knowing.” She said that she relied on her faith and the kindness of people who get in touch to offer their support.
Joan still blames the force. She claimed that people are trying to pass on information “and [the police] won’t listen”. She continued: “I am very cross with them because they tell so many lies.”
Conversely, Det Supt Wayne Fox, who is now supervising the case, said that they can’t provide answers because of “silence from the people who know, or may suspect, what happened to Claudia”.
Joan hasn’t entirely given up. “I am Claudia’s mum,” she stated. “Until evidence proves otherwise, I will always have hope.” She added: “Someone out there knows what happened to Claudia and I won’t leave a stone unturned to find her.”
However, is it really likely that anyone will come forward 15 years on? Is Joan right: did the police miss their chance, or even dissuade people from helping by branding Lawrence with a scarlet letter?
If Joan can persuade the council to let her use her daughter’s home for a healing, charitable purpose, that will at least be a fitting tribute – and will go some way to restoring her good name.
But nothing will heal the pain of simply not knowing: the silence that is never broken.

Dear Reddit,
I recently embarked on my second solo trip outside the EU, and since my post about Birmingham was so well received, here's the next one:
My journey to Istanbul:
My journey began in Stuttgart, from where I flew to my destination for €40 with Pegasus Airlines. Istanbul is by far the largest city I have ever visited in my life! Larger than my home state of Baden-Württemberg, larger than some countries in Europe, it is not without reason that Istanbul is considered the largest city in Europe. It's like New York and Jerusalem combined, Asia and Europe united.
Exploring the vast metropolis:
I spent 4 nights in Istanbul, walking over 100 km through the city in total. I used a variety of transportation options to get around, including the metro, bus, tram, and even the cable car. I also crossed the Bosphorus by ferry, enjoying the stunning views of the city from the water.
A city of contrasts:
Istanbul is a city of extremes. It is incredibly large, and in my few days there I could only see a fraction of it despite my best efforts. Yet, it also feels incredibly small at times. The narrow streets and bustling shops selling goods from all over the world create a sense of intimacy and community. I was particularly struck by the business acumen of the shopkeepers, especially in the real Turkish market located in a parking garage. Men and women, all with their trolleys, were busily going about their shopping. I bought honey and spices, savoring the vibrant flavors of the market.
Culinary delights:
Beyond its bustling markets, Istanbul also offers a diverse culinary scene. I ate Adana Kurum Köfte, Ufra, and many other dishes whose names I neither knew nor could pronounce. I would simply point to the food that looked appealing and pay the price I was given. The exchange rate was very favorable, with €1 getting me 35TL. This made me feel rich, and my purchasing power was enormous - except in the overpriced tourist district where my hostel (€9/night) was located, just 200m from the Hagia Sophia.
Visiting the Hagia Sophia and other religious sites:
The Hagia Sophia, which I loved building as a wonder in my childhood computer game, was beautiful and nice. However, the €25 entrance fee was too steep for me. Opposite it was the Sultan Ahmet Mosque, also known as the Blue Mosque. I decided to visit this mosque, which was my first ever mosque visit. I took off my shoes like everyone else and stepped on the soft carpet. The atmosphere in the mosque was unlike anything I had ever experienced before. It was a place of peace and tranquility, and I felt a sense of awe and humility as I stood there.
From then on, I liked to visit mosques whenever I could. They offered a respite from the hectic city, a place to relax my feet that were so sore from all the walking, and to soak up the atmosphere of these sacred places. I once found myself in a small, pretty mosque behind which the gigantic suspension bridge loomed, right on the Bosphorus at the water's edge. A religious service was taking place, and even though I didn't understand a word of the language in which the imam spoke with fervor, his intonation gave me an inkling of the meaningful stories he was telling the faithful.
Challenges and adventures:
Unfortunately, I didn't have mobile internet or any language skills other than English, which was often not enough to get by. Bus travel became an adventure. I often got on at random, hoping for the best. Sometimes I was unlucky and had to walk for ages, through residential areas that would otherwise have remained hidden from all tourists. When I asked someone and they spoke English, I was helped very willingly.
Two situations that have stayed in my mind:
It was raining, I had been drinking two beers in a hip and lively neighborhood. The rain was heavy, I was soaked, my phone battery was empty. I knew I had to get to Kapaköy, from where my tram home would depart.
The traffic was congested, bus after bus stood bumper to bumper, a cacophony of honking. Nobody wanted to walk anymore.
I simply couldn't find my bus, so I asked. The person specifically talked to a bus driver who was able to tell me where my bus would depart from. That's how I made it home safely.
I spent the last day shopping. I found myself by chance in a district where one clothing store was next to the other. I made my purchases and each time I was given a plastic bag, the use of which is not given a second thought.
But I still needed a rucksack for the flight, as checked baggage for the honey that I wasn't allowed to take in my hand luggage. Although the whole area was full of clothes stores, I couldn't find a rucksack. I spoke to a man: "no english" as an answer, somehow we ran into each other again, he pulled out his cell phone and with Google Translate we solved my problem.
I wanted to give him the change for the rucksack as a thank you for his help. He refused and asked if he could help me with anything else, but I said no and thanked him.
We said goodbye and I drank a chai!
I also learned to love chai in Turkey, from 10TL to 75TL I paid all prices for chai everywhere it tasted the same, the cigarette with it tasted even better.
I couldn't make friends with Turkish coffee. The highlight was Izmir Bobasi, a dumpling with a proper chocolate filling.
Unfortunately I was also scammed once, after a successful visit to the hairdresser I came across a honey store, which was unfortunately a big tour trap. I was treated like a king, I was so happy with my new hairstyle, I was allowed to try all the honey and decided to buy 2 jars. When the young man my age wanted 3000TL so 90€ for 2 jars of honey, I just said. I don't have that much money, I bought the cheaper jar for 20€ and was annoyed for hours about this incident.

Dear Reddit,
I recently embarked on my second solo trip outside the EU, and since my post about Birmingham was so well received, here's the next one:
My journey to Istanbul:
My journey began in Stuttgart, from where I flew to my destination for €40 with Pegasus Airlines. Istanbul is by far the largest city I have ever visited in my life! Larger than my home state of Baden-Württemberg, larger than some countries in Europe, it is not without reason that Istanbul is considered the largest city in Europe. It's like New York and Jerusalem combined, Asia and Europe united.
Exploring the vast metropolis:
I spent 4 nights in Istanbul, walking over 100 km through the city in total. I used a variety of transportation options to get around, including the metro, bus, tram, and even the cable car. I also crossed the Bosphorus by ferry, enjoying the stunning views of the city from the water.
A city of contrasts:
Istanbul is a city of extremes. It is incredibly large, and in my few days there I could only see a fraction of it despite my best efforts. Yet, it also feels incredibly small at times. The narrow streets and bustling shops selling goods from all over the world create a sense of intimacy and community. I was particularly struck by the business acumen of the shopkeepers, especially in the real Turkish market located in a parking garage. Men and women, all with their trolleys, were busily going about their shopping. I bought honey and spices, savoring the vibrant flavors of the market.
Culinary delights:
Beyond its bustling markets, Istanbul also offers a diverse culinary scene. I ate Adana Kurum Köfte, Ufra, and many other dishes whose names I neither knew nor could pronounce. I would simply point to the food that looked appealing and pay the price I was given. The exchange rate was very favorable, with €1 getting me 35TL. This made me feel rich, and my purchasing power was enormous - except in the overpriced tourist district where my hostel (€9/night) was located, just 200m from the Hagia Sophia.
Visiting the Hagia Sophia and other religious sites:
The Hagia Sophia, which I loved building as a wonder in my childhood computer game, was beautiful and nice. However, the €25 entrance fee was too steep for me. Opposite it was the Sultan Ahmet Mosque, also known as the Blue Mosque. I decided to visit this mosque, which was my first ever mosque visit. I took off my shoes like everyone else and stepped on the soft carpet. The atmosphere in the mosque was unlike anything I had ever experienced before. It was a place of peace and tranquility, and I felt a sense of awe and humility as I stood there.
From then on, I liked to visit mosques whenever I could. They offered a respite from the hectic city, a place to relax my feet that were so sore from all the walking, and to soak up the atmosphere of these sacred places. I once found myself in a small, pretty mosque behind which the gigantic suspension bridge loomed, right on the Bosphorus at the water's edge. A religious service was taking place, and even though I didn't understand a word of the language in which the imam spoke with fervor, his intonation gave me an inkling of the meaningful stories he was telling the faithful.
Challenges and adventures:
Unfortunately, I didn't have mobile internet or any language skills other than English, which was often not enough to get by. Bus travel became an adventure. I often got on at random, hoping for the best. Sometimes I was unlucky and had to walk for ages, through residential areas that would otherwise have remained hidden from all tourists. When I asked someone and they spoke English, I was helped very willingly.
Two situations that have stayed in my mind:
It was raining, I had been drinking two beers in a hip and lively neighborhood. The rain was heavy, I was soaked, my phone battery was empty. I knew I had to get to Kapaköy, from where my tram home would depart.
The traffic was congested, bus after bus stood bumper to bumper, a cacophony of honking. Nobody wanted to walk anymore.
I simply couldn't find my bus, so I asked. The person specifically talked to a bus driver who was able to tell me where my bus would depart from. That's how I made it home safely.
I spent the last day shopping. I found myself by chance in a district where one clothing store was next to the other. I made my purchases and each time I was given a plastic bag, the use of which is not given a second thought.
But I still needed a rucksack for the flight, as checked baggage for the honey that I wasn't allowed to take in my hand luggage. Although the whole area was full of clothes stores, I couldn't find a rucksack. I spoke to a man: "no english" as an answer, somehow we ran into each other again, he pulled out his cell phone and with Google Translate we solved my problem.
I wanted to give him the change for the rucksack as a thank you for his help. He refused and asked if he could help me with anything else, but I said no and thanked him.
We said goodbye and I drank a chai!
I also learned to love chai in Turkey, from 10TL to 75TL I paid all prices for chai everywhere it tasted the same, the cigarette with it tasted even better.
I couldn't make friends with Turkish coffee. The highlight was Izmir Bobasi, a dumpling with a proper chocolate filling.
Unfortunately I was also scammed once, after a successful visit to the hairdresser I came across a honey store, which was unfortunately a big tour trap. I was treated like a king, I was so happy with my new hairstyle, I was allowed to try all the honey and decided to buy 2 jars. When the young man my age wanted 3000TL so 90€ for 2 jars of honey, I just said. I don't have that much money, I bought the cheaper jar for 20€ and was annoyed for hours about this incident.

Dear Reddit, I recently embarked on my second solo trip outside the EU, and since my post about Birmingham was so well received, here's the next one: My journey to Istanbul: My journey began in Stuttgart, from where I flew to my destination for €40 with Pegasus Airlines. Istanbul is by far the largest city I have ever visited in my life! Larger than my home state of Baden-Württemberg, larger than some countries in Europe, it is not without reason that Istanbul is considered the largest city in Europe. It's like New York and Jerusalem combined, Asia and Europe united. Exploring the vast metropolis: I spent 4 nights in Istanbul, walking over 100 km through the city in total. I used a variety of transportation options to get around, including the metro, bus, tram, and even the cable car. I also crossed the Bosphorus by ferry, enjoying the stunning views of the city from the water. A city of contrasts: Istanbul is a city of extremes. It is incredibly large, and in my few days there I could only see a fraction of it despite my best efforts. Yet, it also feels incredibly small at times. The narrow streets and bustling shops selling goods from all over the world create a sense of intimacy and community. I was particularly struck by the business acumen of the shopkeepers, especially in the real Turkish market located in a parking garage. Men and women, all with their trolleys, were busily going about their shopping. I bought honey and spices, savoring the vibrant flavors of the market. Culinary delights: Beyond its bustling markets, Istanbul also offers a diverse culinary scene. I ate Adana Kurum Köfte, Ufra, and many other dishes whose names I neither knew nor could pronounce. I would simply point to the food that looked appealing and pay the price I was given. The exchange rate was very favorable, with €1 getting me 35TL. This made me feel rich, and my purchasing power was enormous - except in the overpriced tourist district where my hostel (€9/night) was located, just 200m from the Hagia Sophia. Visiting the Hagia Sophia and other religious sites: The Hagia Sophia, which I loved building as a wonder in my childhood computer game, was beautiful and nice. However, the €25 entrance fee was too steep for me. Opposite it was the Sultan Ahmet Mosque, also known as the Blue Mosque. I decided to visit this mosque, which was my first ever mosque visit. I took off my shoes like everyone else and stepped on the soft carpet. The atmosphere in the mosque was unlike anything I had ever experienced before. It was a place of peace and tranquility, and I felt a sense of awe and humility as I stood there. From then on, I liked to visit mosques whenever I could. They offered a respite from the hectic city, a place to relax my feet that were so sore from all the walking, and to soak up the atmosphere of these sacred places. I once found myself in a small, pretty mosque behind which the gigantic suspension bridge loomed, right on the Bosphorus at the water's edge. A religious service was taking place, and even though I didn't understand a word of the language in which the imam spoke with fervor, his intonation gave me an inkling of the meaningful stories he was telling the faithful. Challenges and adventures: Unfortunately, I didn't have mobile internet or any language skills other than English, which was often not enough to get by. Bus travel became an adventure. I often got on at random, hoping for the best. Sometimes I was unlucky and had to walk for ages, through residential areas that would otherwise have remained hidden from all tourists. When I asked someone and they spoke English, I was helped very willingly. Two situations that have stayed in my mind: It was raining, I had been drinking two beers in a hip and lively neighborhood. The rain was heavy, I was soaked, my phone battery was empty. I knew I had to get to Kapaköy, from where my tram home would depart. The traffic was congested, bus after bus stood bumper to bumper, a cacophony of honking. Nobody wanted to walk anymore. I simply couldn't find my bus, so I asked. The person specifically talked to a bus driver who was able to tell me where my bus would depart from. That's how I made it home safely. I spent the last day shopping. I found myself by chance in a district where one clothing store was next to the other. I made my purchases and each time I was given a plastic bag, the use of which is not given a second thought. But I still needed a rucksack for the flight, as checked baggage for the honey that I wasn't allowed to take in my hand luggage. Although the whole area was full of clothes stores, I couldn't find a rucksack. I spoke to a man: "no english" as an answer, somehow we ran into each other again, he pulled out his cell phone and with Google Translate we solved my problem. I wanted to give him the change for the rucksack as a thank you for his help. He refused and asked if he could help me with anything else, but I said no and thanked him. We said goodbye and I drank a chai! I also learned to love chai in Turkey, from 10TL to 75TL I paid all prices for chai everywhere it tasted the same, the cigarette with it tasted even better. I couldn't make friends with Turkish coffee. The highlight was Izmir Bobasi, a dumpling with a proper chocolate filling. Unfortunately I was also scammed once, after a successful visit to the hairdresser I came across a honey store, which was unfortunately a big tour trap. I was treated like a king, I was so happy with my new hairstyle, I was allowed to try all the honey and decided to buy 2 jars. When the young man my age wanted 3000TL so 90€ for 2 jars of honey, I just said. I don't have that much money, I bought the cheaper jar for 20€ and was annoyed for hours about this incident.

Throwaway account here as I dont want any blowback. Husband and I ,mid-50ss , were on the final leg of a rather long train journey. We were sat at a 4 person table with 2 suitcases, a rucksack and a shopping bag. Big train but it wasn't too busy. This group got on with an enormous pram, two young girls, two 30ish and an older lady. Two young girls and one woman sat in the 4 seat across from us and immediately started watching videos without headphones. I looked over, and I know I scowled. (Whoever put external speakers on phones should burn in hell) I was tired and had been sitting in another train for 7 hours already, and I just wanted to get home with a little peace. One of the young girls clocked my look and then started taking the piss in that passive agressive way the entitled usually have. "Ohhh your being antisocial, don't be so rude" to the 30s women playing the video. Then the other woman joined them after leaving her giant pram in front of the train entrance doors. Gran sits behind us. This second woman is carrying 10 other bags of shopping and can't fit in the seats. She's blocking the aisle so people are tripping, trying to get around her. She asked to put her bags on the seat next to my husband with his rucksack, I said theres no room, and then granny jumps up and takes the bags and puts them on the empty seat next to her. Could we have squeezed them in and re arranged our suitcases and bags to help them, maybe. But I didn't want to help them, and the old lady was sitting by herself. Then, for the rest of the trip, they are all loudly taking the piss because I was annoyed. I heard "Karen" being thrown about. They may have taken pics to post, which is common now, and I was wondering how am I the Karen in this situation? How are you not the entitled assholes? So I guess I am asking random strangers on the internet, am I the asshole?

The thorns of the bush tore into his already shredded clothes. He took up position, keeping low. It had been one of many his hiding places for the past six winter days and nights replete with his frozen dung. He unfurled the druid cloak from his stolen rucksack, still too long to run in, slowly whispered a prayer and wrapped it around his shivering body. He breathed as slow as he could trying to ignore the screams in his head. Fire in your heart but Ice in your mind. That is what he was told back in the barracks to his face at first. Later the words were along the lines of ‘cursed’ and ‘maniac’, behind closed doors, behind his back. Later there were no words.
He had counted that this spot was 597 steps from the creek where he had stashed his Barkblade which was still much too heavy. He could not afford cumbersomeness. One mistake is all it took, one mistake between this misery and it being over and put in the ground. He had been forced to steal food at home in the barracks. Kept hungry on purpose and punished with a caging, public mocking from the women then a beating when caught glugging on that traditional black pork broth past curfew. The punishment of course was for being caught rather than for stealing. Beatings would be a dam lucky thing if caught by tribes that hated his people so. They beat him hard enough to learn.
He stretched each of the past 6 mornings by the creek, wrapping his fingers around his toes with straight leg, standing straight on his shoulders. Wrapped stolen ripped cloth around his blistered palms. He would practice with his barkblade. Swing and blocking, its heft wagging him like a hound’s tail. Then he would hold it above his head and to the side until every muscle in his body burned, his bones screamed, his vision would be filled with dots, his head quiet. It was as heavy as an oak, may as well have been trying to swing a boulder. He felt like a cub trying to kill a stag. Then it would be practicing with his fists. Aiming a half an arms length behind imaginary faces like he had been taught, hitting through a head not into it, his feet shuffling as quick as he could until he felt his heart thundering strong.
He tested his eyes by juggling pebbles, making sure to track them with his peripheral sight fighting to quiet the cackles in his head. Anything that he thought would make one grain of advantage for him, he would take it, one mistake he was dead. With no mistakes there was a good chance of that too.
His stomach too would take a grain. His aching insides would take anything. Berries, cold nettle tea and good fortune of stumbling across deer carcasses and the odd rabbit trap set by others was no way to live in winter or any season. There was that body of a hunter frozen solid too.
He noticed he was good at recording things, distance between landmarks, time it would take to traverse land between them, cutting the numbers into stolen tanned hide.
This village he was monitoring for instance was 1 night and half a day from the steep cliff face that let him look down on the southern lands for instance with good rocks and old painted caves to protect from blizzards. But he did not know how long his apathetic vision shifted from the expanse of land southwards to looking down, alone with his loud head and pondering how many heart beats would pass if he would jump off and finish this, whatever this all was.
Neither did he record how many heartbeats he stood looking at that hunter’s body, once he had stripped it for supplies, a waterskin, a half full quiver and a snapped flat bow principally, wondering if he should listen to his belly and join in with the crows, beat the wolves. A man is bigger than a rabbit.
He peered out under the thorns, feeling the druid cloak match the snow dappled cover. 302 nights had become 308 and he was only getting hungrier.
It was the biggest village he had come across in his 302 nights in the wilderness. 302 nights of carrying that blade with blistered hands into piercing winds. Of running from sounds in the night and hiding up trees, everything else in the world seemed to have allies aside from him, everything else seemed to not have a problem sleeping. Everything else had an advantage and quieter heads.
Smaller villagers had been easier to steal food from, but smaller ones didn’t have this many finely made long bows around, or dead big game lying around. These were the Gwynr people master hunters, whose goddess was that of the hearth, big into sacrifice. Of course, his people would sacrifice peoples like the Gwynr to their god. Karhu had a liking for blood more than the others.
Hunting outside of rabbit traps had proved difficult with a sword that weighed and he found his damned appetite bottomless. If he was to get through this winter he would need a bow, he was sure of it. Problem was their sacred longbows were either guarded in the middle surrounded by the short stone huts or indeed taken by them to sleep. Hardly ever a man, woman or child walked alone like the past settlements where he could scare a weak looking straggler.
But it wasn’t fear that stopped him entering. The druid cloak had worked on smaller villages where he had managed to scavenge cracked bones and offcuts on the edge of settlements. He was seduced by the sight it would seem. He hadn’t seen this many people together for a long time. It was a feast for tired eyes.
Forty-three villagers there were, the nearest hut 170 steps a way, carrying out their daily chores, some leaving for hunting or going travelling to another settlement for trade of furs for arrows, a woman came back from another village with her husband to show her parents a newborn wrapped in yellow dyed fur, others chatting of plans for the spring and were clearly getting through the winter a lot easier than he, they had each other after all. He knew all of their faces now, the sound of their unique breaths, who inhaled more with their mouth and who with their nose, their telling gaits, who looked meek of character, who looked clumsy, who was close to who and the way they acted when they thought no one was looking. He knew their names too he thought, better than his own at least, better than his mother’s face now too.
He found himself memorizing much more than he meant too, not just where they were positioned come nightfall or who carried themselves like a fighter. He was enamored by how people interacted with each other, like it was a lost language to him. He almost moved in but stopped 3 nights ago, taken by their dancing, how they their arms enclosed over each other’s shoulders forming a circle around their fire as they kicked in unision like one long glad animal marching this way and that, laughing smiling, howling.
He had found himself trying to copy their moves in the darkness, by the creek and alone, arms up and wrapped around the empty cutting air. He tried to mimic their faces when they danced too in silence, bemused owls took time out from their night hunt looked on at him. He memorized their faces too of when they argued or when they told stories of the gods to their children. They spoke too of the Horned from the beyond the soot forest who were defeated at Imbohor Pass, and their were rumors of wizards in the south of a new magic and new gods. Of a people that were half man and half horse too.
They worshipped their statue of with loud yips in unison different to the Soot’s quiet private words to Karhu. He copied how some of their faces frowned or nodded when they held conversation, how they used their hands to gesture when they were trying to make a point, how they put their hands on their hips when they were upset, how they rubbed their faces when they struggled privately, how they leaned on each other to relax, how they squinted when they laughed how they seemed in a beautiful agony as they had sex. It was as if he was stealing evidence from another realm mere steps from where he stood. Stealing it because they seemed to have what he didn’t. It was enthralling, he hadn’t seen this much in a long time.
But not quite as magnificent as when he could steal the glance of the happy women, washing in that nearby creek, hid up a tree hugging the throbbing warmth of his Barkblade. How their pink or brown nipples would harden in the water, how their sodden bushes of red or black would force his sleepless gaze hidden under the druid cloak, how mothers would show their big chalky breasts to their babes or when in the night through the cracks of the hut he could see teeth bared as they moaned and screamed under pigskin rugs with men, how their backs arched and eyes closed. Fascinating. He didn’t mimic them. His imagination would take over with thoughts of them welcoming him in for rest and screaming at him to ride them harder, faster. He thought about it a lot, leaving enough seed in around the village to impregnate mother earth herself.
It was just a shame it wasn’t as easy to satisfy your stomach as your loins, if only with a few rubs he could lose his hunger as easy as a hardened cock. Lust began to subside. The seductions of observing mankind dwindled. His insides no longer ached and he felt death begin to drag him into the dirt.
He was unsure if he wept the sixth night by the creek, it didn’t matter if he did, it wouldn’t make a lick of difference. He hugged the oversized warm barkblade, thankful for once it wasn’t overly sharp, unable to sleep. It didn’t seem it would be a peaceful death, his body shook. When was the last time he had slept, he couldn’t say. He felt too weak to steal from them too weak to run from them if he was caught. What was he trying to survive for other than miserable survival’s sake. It would be easier to let the cold take him and delude himself in the darkness that he wasn’t alone, he thought about it, but only thought about it. Surely, he may as well try to survive.
Hunger was all that was on his mind. So much so that he forgot the word for it. So omnipresent that it no longer became hunger, it became life, a life that may or may not be his, so much so that he no longer thought, whatever inkling he had of his name now was gone.
He found himself saying a quick prayer to his god of war Karhu though he wasn’t sure what words came out of his mouth, facing north and on his knees, then he found himself running the 597 steps closer to the village, his head pounding with sharp pain and waited for the sun to go down. They were gathered around the fire as usual in yet another ceremony slitting a piglets throat to their stone tome of Hyeta the goddess of the hearth, applying their yellow and red face paint.
He took a deep breath. He moved in slow. Eyes wide. The druid cloak would revert to its grey and loose its adaptation if the fabric shook at all. Each step was short and measured. He dragged his feet from side to side to not leave a recognizable print even in the weak moonlight. Eyes went up to where he expected sentries to be by the corners of the hut still facing inwards getting the warmth of fire, to down looking out for twigs that would snap or wetness that would squelch. He breathed in and out of his nose, his mouth firmly shut to avoid steam. He breathed shallow and short making sure his nostrils were clear. He moved hunched like an old woman, keeping the cloak as close to the dirt as possible. Near 500 heartbeats it took to cover the meagre distance. One slip, one change in height the cloak would be as visible as fire. His back caned his legs were numb. He stopped. One of the men Lwyn with the red beard, customary gold torc and scar on cheek who he learnt to be a good hunter and with battle stories aplenty.
He deduced he was more than capable of killing a starving boy. The man passed around the back of a hut sipping from a cup to get closer to where what few of the folk that were still awake were congregating. He cared not what they spoke of now. He burrowed himself gently behind a bush of sharp holly that was oft avoided the past 6 days, 35 steps from the crowd. He lowered himself into the bush and waited.
He saw a child laughing being bounced upon a knee. He heard the squealing of a pig as its neck was wroght back with a long knife. It was silently placed at the foot of their stone carving. Then there were cheers. Torches were let and they chanted away happily, round and around they walked around the dead piglet.
Maybe he could join them, see how they react to talking next to a Soot Forester. How quick would he be filled with arrows.
He felt embarrassment though he wasn’t sure why. Then he felt death as his heart fluttered. He stuck his hand beneath his warm armpits and kept his mouth gritted closed. His mind empty apart from those screams. He closed his eyes and shivered. -
He felt snot drop from his nose, his vision faded when he willed it not to, he felt colder than he had in a while. Maybe if they found him, they would be merciful, maybe they would let him suck the milk from their breasts feed him, invite him under a rug, give him furs, maybe they would hug him as he too learnt to enjoy their preferred goddess of the hearth, maybe they would get him well enough that his head would be quieter and he could remember faces again. May as well rest, though he didn’t know if he cared if he’d wake. His head pressed into the cold ground, limp.
He found himself coming too slowly through no real will of his own, his eyes still open, tired, frozen sweat clung to his face still unable to recall much. Each breeze of wind felt like a precise sharp stab.
As he expected Rhysl and Pachyl. Clumsy, forgetful of bows. Oft last to go to sleep. The 2 young men that he knew to be without wives were all that remained by the dying fire, above it a mostly stripped boar. The smell made him almost fall into a frenzy his heartbeat quicker, his mouth became wet.
Thankfully they seemed keener on out drinking one another than finishing the last lashings of meat. A few steps to the left an untouched piglet, life, on a low mossy alter. He thought about charging them, maybe they would jump at the sight of a ghost. Maybe he could pretend to be a druid speak in riddles and get them to hand over the meat. But he only thought about it. He clenched his fist it would come to blows regardless.
But they stood and trudged off in good humor pushing each other as they went to their respective familial huts that he knew to be on the far side of the village. Their bows by the fire.
He moved before he could even tell himself to. Up, fighting his tunneling vision. He plucked a bow and up from the log seat, then hunched over the boar, tearing into the cold meat with his mouth. Ripping chewing, using his hands to funnel in as much as he could until he felt he was going to belch. He swallowed trying not to let his quick breathing cause steam, his cheeks were full of cold white melting fat. He did all he could not to moan. He felt tears stream from his face, the hairs on his body stand up on edge, his cock got hard, he tore skin, bone and meat indiscriminately loose and stuffed it in his muddy trousers, held fistfuls of it in his wrapped hands. Then to the piglet scooping it up and fighting the urge to not bite its belly raw.
Fuck. He had moved too quickly. He no longer saw the trees and dirt in his cloak but the true light grey. His mouth stopped chewing and he shot a look around the camp. Were there eyes peering through the cracks of a hut?
He ran before he could tell inland first and then doubling back around to the creek and the barkblade. Cradling the piglet to his chest as if it were more precious than the life it would give him. His ears perked to any screams of ‘thief’ or ‘Soot’. But none came. He had done it.
It took an age to cook, one thin slither at a time sliced and then kept on his barkblade until it went from pink to red to black to in his belly. Then he crunched through the bones. Tail to nose hid up in the tree watching hunters in the distance and the indifferent white land around him. He still did not sleep.
He sat by the creek further southwards now, hand on his belly, full sipping on water able to adore the landscape somewhat now, looking back on the land he had traversed. It would be a good life to come back as a bear here, to come out only in summer and sleep in winter. In this life he had no such luxury, no idea where he should go, perhaps to lands untouched rather than back to the known grimness. He got on his knees and faced north muttering a prayer to Karhu again.
‘look upon me, servant that I am, mighty bear
Give me strength to live and live in your image
Give me strength to be worthy again of my people
And tell me how
I know it is not your way nor your place’
He paused struggling to continue
‘But grant me sleep, please, please
And know this I will give you everything I have and more
I just…’
He searched for more words not wanting to be greedy, he couldn’t ask for luck or to remember his mother’s face, he felt a panic asking for help with his head and the noises. He knelt for a while longer chewing his lip. She had red hair.
‘please’ he whined with tearing eyes. It sounded less than a dying piglet to him. He wiped his face in listless humiliation, unable to stop the warm trickle down his cheeks.
That was one mistake.
He heard the crumpling of frozen grass behind him. His legs moved before his head, up leaping across grabbing his barkblade with one hand, slinging the sack, bow and quiver across his pustulate back and forced his eyes as wide as possible. No one yet, he heard steps in the distance behind the line of trees. He flitted backwards into the woods lowering himself beneath the thick dead brush with those perpetual screams. He stared on and then left the children in bright clothing to play together in the water.

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The four of them stood in front of a large apartment building. It had survived two centuries without too much damage, even though its concrete edifice had been worn down by rain and bleached by sun. As with the rest of the city, it only whispered what it once looked like.
“Behold!” Dion said with a flourish. He removed his sunglasses to appreciate his find.
Gecko, Bandana, and Wings tilted their heads toward the top of the apartment.
Gecko started to count storeys. “Fourteen… Fifteen… Sixteen…”
“Stop counting,” Wings reprimanded. “You’re making me regret joining the scavenge.”
Dion wrapped his arm around her neck, his sunglasses dangling in his hand. “Oh, my dove, I thought you volunteered because you enjoyed my company.”
“That I do,” she responded coquettishly, “but that’s still a lot of stairs.”
The two of them pecked a quick kiss.
Gecko rolled his eyes and pushed pass them. The entrance to apartment had been designed with glass doors, although none of the glass survived the centuries. Gecko took his crowbar and struck any lingering shards of glass from the warped metal doorframes. He stepped through them and helped the ladies enter.
“What a gentleman,” Bandana said, turning to Wings.
Gecko blushed.
“This doesn’t look promising,” Wings said to Dion, as she took Gecko’s hands.
“Trust me. We have already scavenged every building within a thirty-minute radius of our base. We’ve picked the area clean. This place is outside our normal range and it’s got a ton of units to look through.”
“Top-down, or down-up?” Gecko asked.
Dion surveyed the foyer of the apartment complex.
“We’re going to systematically check every single suite. Since this is our first time here, I say we start on the main floor and work our way up. We probably won’t finish the first five stories before it starts to get dark.”
“And then you’ll have to face Repo,” Wings whispered to Bandana.
Bandana shushed her aggressively.
“Mask up,” Dion said.
The four of them tied pieces of cloth around their mouth and neck. With so many unknowns within these structures, the nasty smells of rot and mold possessed a possible health hazard.
The group split in two: the men went into the old mail room and pried open intact mail slots, while the ladies looked behind the damaged concierge desk.
“I hate scavving. Everything fabulous has already been taken,” Bandana complained.
Wings ignored her. Complaints did nothing except decrease moral and make people sloppy. She kept looking through the empty cabinets, but, deep down, Wings knew that Bandana was right.
After their initial search, finding nothing but dried out ballpoint pens, the ladies wandered into the mail room. Gecko opened another mail box with his crowbar. Most of the metal lids for these boxes had broken long ago.
Dion stood behind him looking through the old letters that survived in the tightly sealed boxes.
“Bills. Bills. Bills. Nothing fun. Life in the Pre-War must have been boring.”
Gecko snapped another box open. “Magazine.” He held the periodically behind his back.
Dion snatched it. “Ooo, a woman’s magazine.” He flipped to a random page “‘How To Make Your Man Love You In Twelve Easy Steps’. Dana, this one’s for you!”
“Ha-ha,” she mocked. She snatched the magazine from his hand. Her eyes absorbed the images of forgotten fashion. Every item of clothing seemed so beautiful and so useless. She envied these women and their patterned dresses, their high-heeled shoes, and their well-tooled handbags. Their dresses were long, but lacked pockets. Their shoes were stylish, but lacked function. Their bags were lovely, but lacked utility. Still, something about them intrigued her.
“That’s really pretty,” Wings said, her finger prodding one of the images.
“Yeah, but I doubt Villon will want to add this magazine to his collection.”
“Probably not, but we can take it,” Wings said, smiling. She lifted the magazine from Bandana’s reluctant hands and slipped the glossy magazine into her rucksack.
Bandana’s heart dropped. She lost a treasure, a treasure which could not be spoken of as such. In the Wasteland, only the rough survived. She planned to sneak the magazine from Wings once they get back to homebase.
Gecko broke open the last mailbox.
“More bills,” Dion complained. “Well, we can put them on the desk for our way out. If we have nothing, at least we can burn them for heat. Or, I dunno, maybe Villon knows away of converting useless paper into something worthwhile.”
Gecko took the stack and neatly arranged it on the concierge’s desk. He awaited further orders.
“Okay,” Dion looked down the corridors of the apartment complex. “Let’s take the left hallway together. Wings and I will take this side. Gecko and Dana, you can take the other.”
Gecko pushed open the suite door and entered it with a gun in hand. Bandana followed him into the darkness. Their feet crunched over broken pieces of porcelain. Someone had clearly broken everything they could. Gecko ventured into the living room, while Bandana checked the kitchen. She flicked her flashlight and began to search.
She looked in the lower cabinets, but everything had been emptied. Even the metal piping under the sink had been removed by someone. Only a few plastic containers remained upright beneath the sink, and, even then, the chemicals they once held had evaporated over time.
Bandana closed the cabinet, and started to rummage the drawers. Most of them only contained useless kitchens item that held no purpose. She searched for anything sharp, but every single knife, or utensil that could be sharpened into a knife, had long disappeared. She closed the drawers and started with the upper cabinets. She clambered onto the counter to see if anything hid on the top shelf.
A woman’s scream echoed throughout the apartment complex.
“Wings!” Bandana jumped from the counter and landed on the broken porcelain with a crunch. She ran into the hallway, but Gecko sprinted pass her and into the offending room.
“What’s wrong!?” Gecko shouted with a commanding voice. He was waving his gun around, looking for something to kill. Instead, he saw Dion laughing and Wings standing on top of a metal table.
“It was a rat,” Dion tried to say in between the gaps of his laughter.
“A rat? That’s it?” Gecko grew upset. “That sounds more like a good meal than a cause for fright. Where did it go?”
Wings pointed toward the wardrobe at the other end of the room.
The floor of this suite lacked the debris of broken dishware, but contained its own form of filth. Dirt had caked into the carpet of the unit, and large fragments of torn fabric littered the room.
Bandana helped Wings descend from the table, but, as she did so, noticed the sheer volume of rat droppings that lined the sides of the room. She felt discomfort rise in her abdomen.
Gecko opened the wardrobe door.
“See! Nothing. No need to be worried,” Gecko said.
“But it went under the wardrobe,” Wings corrected.
Gecko got down on his knees and pointed his flashlight. As the beam of light hit the ground, a swarm of rats broke loose. They poured from the safety of their darkness. As the rats scurried in every direction, the ladies screamed in unison. They stumbled onto the table behind them and drew their feet from the ground.
Dion howled in laughter.
“Oh, man! You should have seen your faces!”
Gecko’s surprise subsided in the heat of his anger. He took his crowbar and swung it at one of the rodents.
“There,” he said as he picked up the dead animal by the tail. “Good eating,” he flung the carcass to Dion, who yelped.
Gecko grinned at the minor revenge. He picked the dead rat from the floor, wrapped it with some of the torn fabric, and gave it to Bandana.
“Rat tastes just like squirrel,” he said, smiling with a pinch of malice.
She grimaced and put the creature into her scavenging bag.
“Okay, well, you guys can stay here,” Wings stammered. “I’m going into the other room with Dana. I can’t be around rats.” Dion blew a kiss as she left.
When Bandana and Wings entered the other room, they looked at each other and began to laugh. It had been quite the fright. Despite being experienced hunters and killers, the shock of a rodent still filled them with a primal fear.
“I really thought you were in trouble,” Bandana said.
“I was!” Wings said, snickering. “Feel my heart. It’s beating so fast.”
“Mine too,” Bandana said. Her face suddenly shifted in fear. “What was that?”
She had seen something dart along the corners of the room.
“Don’t tell me the rats came here,” Wings said. She grabbed her machete in preparation.
The ladies took a deep breathe. They knew they would be facing rodents. There would be no surprise this time. They were ready. The two of them shined their flashlights along the walls of the suite.
“I already checked the kitchen for loot. We still need the living room, the bedroom, and the washroom. Let’s do them together,” Bandana said, leading Wings deeper into the apartment.
After a few minutes of constantly checking over their shoulders for rates, the two of them felt their tension meltaway. Conversation flowed as they checked the value of every wayward item or interesting piece of refuse.
“So, you and Repo?” Wings asked with friendly caution.
“He’s so insufferable. He thinks he can just tell everyone what to do,” Bandana complained.
“I mean, he is our leader.”
“Yeah, but I’m his lady! He’s so mean! He’s always telling me what I can’t do or what I can’t have.”
“I don’t think he’s being unreasonable,” Wings responded.
“You’re supposed to be my friend! Don’t take his side.”
“Sorry,” Wings said. She found some Pre-War coins beneath a completely destroyed couch. “But, seriously, you know how the guys are. They don’t understand much. They just want to feel powerful. They just like killing, eating, and, well, you know, us.” Wings laughed to herself. She loved those hectic nights alone with Dion.
“Yeah, but Repo can be so tender with me. I keep thinking he can change. He doesn’t have to be so loud and violent.”
“Mhm,” Wings agreed, uninterested in taking Repo’s side again. Despite the man’s faults, of which there were many, he was the man who saved her life in the Fight Pits. She owed him a lot.
The ladies finished searching the living room without much luck. They proceeded into the bedroom. Wings approached the closet with hesitation. She did not want to deal with more rats. With her machete in hand, she opened the door.
Almost nothing remained. A few metal hangers were on the floor of the closest, and a suitcase hid on the top shelf. Wings dragged a chair to the closet, stepped onto it, and tugged the suitcase handle. It lacked resistance. Pretty much empty.
She tossed the bag onto the ruined bed and unzipped it. Bandana hovered over the suitcase, hoping for something worthwhile.
“Ah! Baby shoes! It’s a sign, Wings. It’s a sign!” Bandana grew hysterical.
Wings rolled her eyes. She rifled through the rest of the suitcase. It had been reused a few times since the bombs fell, but it remained in good condition. Aside from the baby shoes, most of it is contents seemed to be assorted fabrics: a threadbare towel, a small dishcloth, and a worn-out Pre-War dress. Wings peeked back into the closet to see if there was anything else on the top shelf, but there was nothing. She contented herself with the hangers that laid on the floor. At least those metal wires could be repurposed.
Bandana continued talking. “It’s sign, it must be. I don’t want to be a raider any more. I just want to join some settlement and live a little easier. I actually want to get married and have kids and own a pet and not worry about food all the time.” Bandana took the Pre-War dress and placed it over her chest, as though she were modeling the outfit.
“You think settlement life is easier. It’s not. We have freedom.”
“I don’t want freedom,” Bandana huffed, “I want stability. I want a real life! I want a Pre-War life with pretty dresses.” She tossed the dress back into the suitcase.
Wings knew that Bandana lacked the toughness that made life possible in the Wasteland, but she didn’t realize that her friend would sink so low as to join a settlement.
“I know, darling. I know what you’re feeling. Those outfits in the magazine were wonderful. They really were. But that was a different age. You might not like brahmin-hide overalls or rough-spun rags, but its what we have.”
Bandana drifted mentally. The excitement of raider life left her. Those early days, by the side of Repo and Wings, had long disappeared. Gecko, Dion, Buzzcut, and Villon all joined their entourage. She no longer had a tight-knit kinship. Instead, she presided over a dysfunctional brood of unruly brothers and a sister. She no longer walked and wandered with the company of her lover and her best friend, but, instead, remained cooped up in an improvised fortress with the company of lowlife highwaymen.
Maybe if the living spaces were larger? Maybe if another woman was present? Maybe if she had her own baby? Maybe if she had a pet of some sort? Maybe if their group could earn an honest living outside of banditry and scavving?
These thoughts spun in her mind, causing a wave of emotion to spill out in tears. Yet, as the first droplet of water poured from her eyes, they stopped.
“What’s that?”
A shadow moved again alongside the corners of the room. Wings waved her flashlight in a different direction. Neither woman could see anything. Darkness crept from the corners the moment the flashlight moved. Then, they saw it.
A cat.
“Oh my!” Bandana squealed. She dampened her voice to a tender tone. “See, Wings, signs. They’re everywhere.” Bandana slowly removed her scavenging bag and pulled out the rat that Gecko had killed moments ago. “Here you are little guy,” she said, entreating the cat to come closer.
The cat was lean and muscular, a natural predator, but also surprisingly playful. Bandana dropped her hand before the cat’s muzzle, and the cat sniffed her hand with affection. Bandana slowly reached out to pet the cat. Her hand moved over the soft dusky grey fur with gentleness.
“Aww, she likes me,” Bandana said, scratching the white fur of the cat’s throat. “I think I found a new friend.”
“Repo won’t like it,” Wings said despondently.
“Well, he’s going to learn that can’t say ‘no’ to everything I want.”

The four of them stood in front of a large apartment building. It had survived two centuries without too much damage, even though its concrete edifice had been worn down by rain and bleached by sun. As with the rest of the city, it only whispered what it once looked like.
“Behold!” Dion said with a flourish. He removed his sunglasses to appreciate his find.
Gecko, Bandana, and Wings tilted their heads toward the top of the apartment.
Gecko started to count storeys. “Fourteen… Fifteen… Sixteen…”
“Stop counting,” Wings reprimanded. “You’re making me regret joining the scavenge.”
Dion wrapped his arm around her neck, his sunglasses dangling in his hand. “Oh, my dove, I thought you volunteered because you enjoyed my company.”
“That I do,” she responded coquettishly, “but that’s still a lot of stairs.”
The two of them pecked a quick kiss.
Gecko rolled his eyes and pushed pass them. The entrance to apartment had been designed with glass doors, although none of the glass survived the centuries. Gecko took his crowbar and struck any lingering shards of glass from the warped metal doorframes. He stepped through them and helped the ladies enter.
“What a gentleman,” Bandana said, turning to Wings.
Gecko blushed.
“This doesn’t look promising,” Wings said to Dion, as she took Gecko’s hands.
“Trust me. We have already scavenged every building within a thirty-minute radius of our base. We’ve picked the area clean. This place is outside our normal range and it’s got a ton of units to look through.”
“Top-down, or down-up?” Gecko asked.
Dion surveyed the foyer of the apartment complex.
“We’re going to systematically check every single suite. Since this is our first time here, I say we start on the main floor and work our way up. We probably won’t finish the first five stories before it starts to get dark.”
“And then you’ll have to face Repo,” Wings whispered to Bandana.
Bandana shushed her aggressively.
“Mask up,” Dion said.
The four of them tied pieces of cloth around their mouth and neck. With so many unknowns within these structures, the nasty smells of rot and mold possessed a possible health hazard.
The group split in two: the men went into the old mail room and pried open intact mail slots, while the ladies looked behind the damaged concierge desk.
“I hate scavving. Everything fabulous has already been taken,” Bandana complained.
Wings ignored her. Complaints did nothing except decrease moral and make people sloppy. She kept looking through the empty cabinets, but, deep down, Wings knew that Bandana was right.
After their initial search, finding nothing but dried out ballpoint pens, the ladies wandered into the mail room. Gecko opened another mail box with his crowbar. Most of the metal lids for these boxes had broken long ago.
Dion stood behind him looking through the old letters that survived in the tightly sealed boxes.
“Bills. Bills. Bills. Nothing fun. Life in the Pre-War must have been boring.”
Gecko snapped another box open. “Magazine.” He held the periodically behind his back.
Dion snatched it. “Ooo, a woman’s magazine.” He flipped to a random page “‘How To Make Your Man Love You In Twelve Easy Steps’. Dana, this one’s for you!”
“Ha-ha,” she mocked. She snatched the magazine from his hand. Her eyes absorbed the images of forgotten fashion. Every item of clothing seemed so beautiful and so useless. She envied these women and their patterned dresses, their high-heeled shoes, and their well-tooled handbags. Their dresses were long, but lacked pockets. Their shoes were stylish, but lacked function. Their bags were lovely, but lacked utility. Still, something about them intrigued her.
“That’s really pretty,” Wings said, her finger prodding one of the images.
“Yeah, but I doubt Villon will want to add this magazine to his collection.”
“Probably not, but we can take it,” Wings said, smiling. She lifted the magazine from Bandana’s reluctant hands and slipped the glossy magazine into her rucksack.
Bandana’s heart dropped. She lost a treasure, a treasure which could not be spoken of as such. In the Wasteland, only the rough survived. She planned to sneak the magazine from Wings once they get back to homebase.
Gecko broke open the last mailbox.
“More bills,” Dion complained. “Well, we can put them on the desk for our way out. If we have nothing, at least we can burn them for heat. Or, I dunno, maybe Villon knows away of converting useless paper into something worthwhile.”
Gecko took the stack and neatly arranged it on the concierge’s desk. He awaited further orders.
“Okay,” Dion looked down the corridors of the apartment complex. “Let’s take the left hallway together. Wings and I will take this side. Gecko and Dana, you can take the other.”
Gecko pushed open the suite door and entered it with a gun in hand. Bandana followed him into the darkness. Their feet crunched over broken pieces of porcelain. Someone had clearly broken everything they could. Gecko ventured into the living room, while Bandana checked the kitchen. She flicked her flashlight and began to search.
She looked in the lower cabinets, but everything had been emptied. Even the metal piping under the sink had been removed by someone. Only a few plastic containers remained upright beneath the sink, and, even then, the chemicals they once held had evaporated over time.
Bandana closed the cabinet, and started to rummage the drawers. Most of them only contained useless kitchens item that held no purpose. She searched for anything sharp, but every single knife, or utensil that could be sharpened into a knife, had long disappeared. She closed the drawers and started with the upper cabinets. She clambered onto the counter to see if anything hid on the top shelf.
A woman’s scream echoed throughout the apartment complex.
“Wings!” Bandana jumped from the counter and landed on the broken porcelain with a crunch. She ran into the hallway, but Gecko sprinted pass her and into the offending room.
“What’s wrong!?” Gecko shouted with a commanding voice. He was waving his gun around, looking for something to kill. Instead, he saw Dion laughing and Wings standing on top of a metal table.
“It was a rat,” Dion tried to say in between the gaps of his laughter.
“A rat? That’s it?” Gecko grew upset. “That sounds more like a good meal than a cause for fright. Where did it go?”
Wings pointed toward the wardrobe at the other end of the room.
The floor of this suite lacked the debris of broken dishware, but contained its own form of filth. Dirt had caked into the carpet of the unit, and large fragments of torn fabric littered the room.
Bandana helped Wings descend from the table, but, as she did so, noticed the sheer volume of rat droppings that lined the sides of the room. She felt discomfort rise in her abdomen.
Gecko opened the wardrobe door.
“See! Nothing. No need to be worried,” Gecko said.
“But it went under the wardrobe,” Wings corrected.
Gecko got down on his knees and pointed his flashlight. As the beam of light hit the ground, a swarm of rats broke loose. They poured from the safety of their darkness. As the rats scurried in every direction, the ladies screamed in unison. They stumbled onto the table behind them and drew their feet from the ground.
Dion howled in laughter.
“Oh, man! You should have seen your faces!”
Gecko’s surprise subsided in the heat of his anger. He took his crowbar and swung it at one of the rodents.
“There,” he said as he picked up the dead animal by the tail. “Good eating,” he flung the carcass to Dion, who yelped.
Gecko grinned at the minor revenge. He picked the dead rat from the floor, wrapped it with some of the torn fabric, and gave it to Bandana.
“Rat tastes just like squirrel,” he said, smiling with a pinch of malice.
She grimaced and put the creature into her scavenging bag.
“Okay, well, you guys can stay here,” Wings stammered. “I’m going into the other room with Dana. I can’t be around rats.” Dion blew a kiss as she left.
When Bandana and Wings entered the other room, they looked at each other and began to laugh. It had been quite the fright. Despite being experienced hunters and killers, the shock of a rodent still filled them with a primal fear.
“I really thought you were in trouble,” Bandana said.
“I was!” Wings said, snickering. “Feel my heart. It’s beating so fast.”
“Mine too,” Bandana said. Her face suddenly shifted in fear. “What was that?”
She had seen something dart along the corners of the room.
“Don’t tell me the rats came here,” Wings said. She grabbed her machete in preparation.
The ladies took a deep breathe. They knew they would be facing rodents. There would be no surprise this time. They were ready. The two of them shined their flashlights along the walls of the suite.
“I already checked the kitchen for loot. We still need the living room, the bedroom, and the washroom. Let’s do them together,” Bandana said, leading Wings deeper into the apartment.
After a few minutes of constantly checking over their shoulders for rates, the two of them felt their tension meltaway. Conversation flowed as they checked the value of every wayward item or interesting piece of refuse.
“So, you and Repo?” Wings asked with friendly caution.
“He’s so insufferable. He thinks he can just tell everyone what to do,” Bandana complained.
“I mean, he is our leader.”
“Yeah, but I’m his lady! He’s so mean! He’s always telling me what I can’t do or what I can’t have.”
“I don’t think he’s being unreasonable,” Wings responded.
“You’re supposed to be my friend! Don’t take his side.”
“Sorry,” Wings said. She found some Pre-War coins beneath a completely destroyed couch. “But, seriously, you know how the guys are. They don’t understand much. They just want to feel powerful. They just like killing, eating, and, well, you know, us.” Wings laughed to herself. She loved those hectic nights alone with Dion.
“Yeah, but Repo can be so tender with me. I keep thinking he can change. He doesn’t have to be so loud and violent.”
“Mhm,” Wings agreed, uninterested in taking Repo’s side again. Despite the man’s faults, of which there were many, he was the man who saved her life in the Fight Pits. She owed him a lot.
The ladies finished searching the living room without much luck. They proceeded into the bedroom. Wings approached the closet with hesitation. She did not want to deal with more rats. With her machete in hand, she opened the door.
Almost nothing remained. A few metal hangers were on the floor of the closest, and a suitcase hid on the top shelf. Wings dragged a chair to the closet, stepped onto it, and tugged the suitcase handle. It lacked resistance. Pretty much empty.
She tossed the bag onto the ruined bed and unzipped it. Bandana hovered over the suitcase, hoping for something worthwhile.
“Ah! Baby shoes! It’s a sign, Wings. It’s a sign!” Bandana grew hysterical.
Wings rolled her eyes. She rifled through the rest of the suitcase. It had been reused a few times since the bombs fell, but it remained in good condition. Aside from the baby shoes, most of it is contents seemed to be assorted fabrics: a threadbare towel, a small dishcloth, and a worn-out Pre-War dress. Wings peeked back into the closet to see if there was anything else on the top shelf, but there was nothing. She contented herself with the hangers that laid on the floor. At least those metal wires could be repurposed.
Bandana continued talking. “It’s sign, it must be. I don’t want to be a raider any more. I just want to join some settlement and live a little easier. I actually want to get married and have kids and own a pet and not worry about food all the time.” Bandana took the Pre-War dress and placed it over her chest, as though she were modeling the outfit.
“You think settlement life is easier. It’s not. We have freedom.”
“I don’t want freedom,” Bandana huffed, “I want stability. I want a real life! I want a Pre-War life with pretty dresses.” She tossed the dress back into the suitcase.
Wings knew that Bandana lacked the toughness that made life possible in the Wasteland, but she didn’t realize that her friend would sink so low as to join a settlement.
“I know, darling. I know what you’re feeling. Those outfits in the magazine were wonderful. They really were. But that was a different age. You might not like brahmin-hide overalls or rough-spun rags, but its what we have.”
Bandana drifted mentally. The excitement of raider life left her. Those early days, by the side of Repo and Wings, had long disappeared. Gecko, Dion, Buzzcut, and Villon all joined their entourage. She no longer had a tight-knit kinship. Instead, she presided over a dysfunctional brood of unruly brothers and a sister. She no longer walked and wandered with the company of her lover and her best friend, but, instead, remained cooped up in an improvised fortress with the company of lowlife highwaymen.
Maybe if the living spaces were larger? Maybe if another woman was present? Maybe if she had her own baby? Maybe if she had a pet of some sort? Maybe if their group could earn an honest living outside of banditry and scavving?
These thoughts spun in her mind, causing a wave of emotion to spill out in tears. Yet, as the first droplet of water poured from her eyes, they stopped.
“What’s that?”
A shadow moved again alongside the corners of the room. Wings waved her flashlight in a different direction. Neither woman could see anything. Darkness crept from the corners the moment the flashlight moved. Then, they saw it.
A cat.
“Oh my!” Bandana squealed. She dampened her voice to a tender tone. “See, Wings, signs. They’re everywhere.” Bandana slowly removed her scavenging bag and pulled out the rat that Gecko had killed moments ago. “Here you are little guy,” she said, entreating the cat to come closer.
The cat was lean and muscular, a natural predator, but also surprisingly playful. Bandana dropped her hand before the cat’s muzzle, and the cat sniffed her hand with affection. Bandana slowly reached out to pet the cat. Her hand moved over the soft dusky grey fur with gentleness.
“Aww, she likes me,” Bandana said, scratching the white fur of the cat’s throat. “I think I found a new friend.”
“Repo won’t like it,” Wings said despondently.
“Well, he’s going to learn that can’t say ‘no’ to everything I want.”

Prequel (Chapters 1 to 16)
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“You lost, Ranger?”
Thandi looked around to see the familiar face of Cara Favre—Urtiga’s Pararescue friend—watching her. She smiled sheepishly. “Um… yeah this place is a maze.”
She had been wandering the cramped metal walkways of the Banshee, trying to find her way to the canteen, but she hadn’t figured out the cryptic compartment names. Harassed-looking women passed by her as they worked the ship, and their impatient demeanour had made Thandi think twice about asking for directions.
“Where are you trying to get to?” Cara asked, radiating earnest helpfulness.
“Oh uh… the canteen, I guess.”
Cara cocked an eyebrow. “You guess?”
“I think my squad is there, but there’s so much coming and going I just…” Thandi waved a hand in front of her face. “I guess I’m losing it.”
Nearly thirty-six hours earlier the operation order had come down, and Kes had begun barking orders at the squad. They were deploying to Caldera, she explained without going into detail. They were to get all their kit together, check and clean their weapons, then be ready to load onto transports out to Tyr’s starport.
A rush of activity followed until a last-minute schedule change left the whole company sat in a boarding hall with nothing to do but stew for several hours. Thandi alternated between prayer, and the guilty feeling that she was wrong to ask for special treatment.
Despite feeling constantly on edge, she was grateful that she had her squad leader to look to in the maelstrom of chaos. Kes seemed to know everything that was happening and what to do about it. She watched over the squad like a demon, making sure they had packed everything they needed, and were in the right places at the right times.
Once the shuttles reached the Banshee waiting in orbit, one hundred and fifty Rangers had piled out into the claustrophobic metal corridors and berths. Bunks were quickly assigned, then they were pushed out of the way of the harassed crew of the starship. Thandi had a bunk—more of a shelf she thought—lined up with dozens of others, and a small cubby hole to pack her rucksack into. That, and any trip to the head, was all the personal space she was allowed.
Her time shipboard was spent navigating a frustrating maze, in closer proximity to hundreds of women than she had imagined possible, as she squeezed between bodies on the way to the mess, to a briefing, or back to the bunk.
Though she was now completely lost, the friendly face of Cara meant that she would not have to ask for help, and expose herself as the shameful ‘Freakin’ New Girl’. Thandi’s shoulders relaxed for the first time in days, and she felt the ache of stiff muscles.
Cara winked at the young Ranger. “You want to see something awesome?”
Thandi smiled and nodded. She was led through a series of turns and corridors until the wide-open space of the ship’s hangar appeared before her.
Large drop ships stood in a neat line, surrounded by smaller, more agile looking craft. Cara walked straight past them as Thandi hurried to keep up, until they approached the bulk of a sleek fighter jet. A group of women were slowly maneuvering it onto a rail which disappeared down a tunnel through the hull.
Thandi recognized Toska, and another pilot stood to one side, examining a clipboard.
“Thought I’d show you this since you were nearby anyway,” Cara said with a wink. “Pretty cool, huh? Oh—step aside there.”
Thandi moved quickly as a service drone barreled through the spot she had occupied. She glanced around for more movement, then stopped and let her eyes take in the dull grey bombs strapped to the aircraft. The plane itself had the smooth curves and matt black paint of a stealth fighter. As Thandi watched, the attendant crew rolled it into position and locked a launch hook to its landing gear. Then they began to check through the jet’s systems.
“It’s one of our Shrike fighters,” Cara explained. “Toska will fly tomorrow to support the operation, but tonight, Chatter will stand by on alert status, in case the infiltration teams need air cover. They cover each other, so there’s always someone ready to go, and nobody gets left hanging out in the cold.”
“That’s awesome,” Thandi said, though she felt like a tourist. “Um… are you going to be on the dropships with us?”
“Nope, I stay up here. If something goes wrong, or someone needs emergency medical treatment, then me and my team will jump in.”
“Jump?” Thandi’s eyes went wide.
Cara grinned. “On the other side of the ship, we have gliders that the Banshee will shoot down into the atmosphere.”
“That’s insane.”
“It’s a wild ride. Dangerous for sure, but we practice it a lot, and it’s totally worth it to try and keep someone alive. The one thing this organization does best is give us the tools we need to support each other. There’s no other way to confront evil, you know?”
Thandi nodded. “Yeah. That makes a lot of sense. Thanks for showing me.”
“No problem. Canteen’s this way.”
The Rangers received several briefings; makeshift affairs set up on the flight deck in front of the waiting dropships, with a jury-rigged holo projector and the cold metal deck for a seat.
The first presentation gave them a general overview of the situation. A secret base on Caldera was turning people into monsters, and the Vipers were going to shut it down. They were given an overview of the autopsy of the mutated body brought back by the field team, and a tentative assessment of its presumed strength and abilities. Of particular interest were the recessed pressurized organs in its arms that allowed it to shoot deadly spikes, faster, the Collective scientist explained, than a bullet from a gun. This left the Rangers silent until Kes raised a hand.
“So, you’re saying this was an innocent farmer who was transformed into this thing?” she asked.
“That’s correct,” the scientist replied.
The hangar filled with angry muttering. Thandi saw Ray begin to clench and unclench her fists.
Kes, however, remained objective and curious. “What kind of data do you have on their intelligence, or their ability to organize?”
“We suspect some artificial enhancement has been performed to facilitate those abilities, but we cannot confirm since the cranium was not provided intact.”
“What do you mean?”
“She said your dumbass new squad member blew its head to pieces, Kes!” another NCO called across the deck. “So now we know nothing.”
Thandi groaned quietly.
“Okay, check,” Kes replied. “I’ll take your concern as a form of jealousy that my squad picked up an effective killer who placed her team’s lives first, while you’re struggling to herd a bunch of wannabe lab technicians around.” This was met with murmurs of agreement, as the other Ranger shook her head, but fell quiet.
More briefings followed on the cultural and political situation on Caldera. Eventually, a full holographic table was set up in the flight hangar so that the Rangers could familiarize themselves with the mountains and valleys around the search area. Kes spent a few hours there with the other non-commissioned officers, noting down particular features and examining potential ingress and egress routes, before returning to the squad and talking it over with them.
They were all most concerned about the lack of an established landing zone. The terrain was so variable that some locations would be easily defendable, while others would be death traps. Strangely, everyone seemed to accept the lack of information, and Thandi was surprised that she was the only one concerned about it.
“It’s called mountain warfare,” Kes replied bluntly, after Thandi pestered her once too often. “Learn to live with uncertainty.”
And that was only the start of her problems.
“Thandi, I need you to help me with something,” Lyna said as they went through their gear with Ash. “With Kayla gone, we can’t transport as much ammo for the light machine guns. Those are the biggest hitters, right? If they can’t lay down fire, it puts the whole squad in danger.”
“Okay,” Thandi nodded.
“You’re not up to speed yet, so you won’t be quite so useful shooting and moving. But you can carry more weight.”
Thandi listened carefully, dreading the conclusion, even as she had to acknowledge it was the correct one.
“Ash,” Lyna said, turning to their fire team leader, “are you happy for me to drop another couple of boxes on Thandi?”
“Uh…” Ash’s eyes scanned empty space, and she shrugged. “Let me check that with Kes.”
“Why do you need to check that with Kes, Lance-Corporal?”
Ash sighed. “Whatever, fine. Do it.”
Lyna shook her head as she helped Thandi rearrange her backpack.
Eventually, all the running around and note-taking wound down, and there were no more tasks to complete or briefings to attend. Combat suits and weapons had been checked and rechecked, and all the Rangers had to do was sit around and wait. They spent as much time as they were permitted in the ship’s mess.
“Thandi, I’m telling you,” Lyna argued. “Orbital Demolition is the best unit in Valkyrie. I mean, why would you pass on floating out in the vastness of space with an entire planet beneath your feet?”
Thandi pushed her finished tray aside as someone stopped next to her in the crowded mess room, looked down at her, and scowled. “Did she call you Thandi? Thandi Khawula?”
Thandi nodded nervously. “Um, yeah, that’s me.”
The woman, a flight crew chief, sighed as she reached into her pocket. “I was going to throw this away, but since fate dropped you in my path—here.” She passed a note into Thandi’s hand. “But you tell your friend down there that if she tries to use a crew chief as a goddamn messaging service one more time, I will take both of you for a one-way dropship ride. Get it?”
“Oh yes, sorry. She’s a troublemaker, I know.”
The crew chief nodded and moved away. Thandi unfolded the paper, carefully examining Kayla’s almost unreadable handwriting. ‘Going in with Urtiga and Masey. Christie’s staying in a dropship—very sad. Best of luck!’
She laughed, folding it away as she turned back to her intrigued squad mates.
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Prequel (Chapters 1 to 16)

Prequel (Parts 1 to 16)
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“You lost, Ranger?”
Thandi looked around to see the familiar face of Cara Favre—Urtiga’s Pararescue friend—watching her. She smiled sheepishly. “Um… yeah this place is a maze.”
She had been wandering the cramped metal walkways of the Banshee, trying to find her way to the canteen, but she hadn’t figured out the cryptic compartment names. Harassed-looking women passed by her as they worked the ship, and their impatient demeanour had made Thandi think twice about asking for directions.
“Where are you trying to get to?” Cara asked, radiating earnest helpfulness.
“Oh uh… the canteen, I guess.”
Cara cocked an eyebrow. “You guess?”
“I think my squad is there, but there’s so much coming and going I just…” Thandi waved a hand in front of her face. “I guess I’m losing it.”
Nearly thirty-six hours earlier the operation order had come down, and Kes had begun barking orders at the squad. They were deploying to Caldera, she explained without going into detail. They were to get all their kit together, check and clean their weapons, then be ready to load onto transports out to Tyr’s starport.
A rush of activity followed until a last-minute schedule change left the whole company sat in a boarding hall with nothing to do but stew for several hours. Thandi alternated between prayer, and the guilty feeling that she was wrong to ask for special treatment.
Despite feeling constantly on edge, she was grateful that she had her squad leader to look to in the maelstrom of chaos. Kes seemed to know everything that was happening and what to do about it. She watched over the squad like a demon, making sure they had packed everything they needed, and were in the right places at the right times.
Once the shuttles reached the Banshee waiting in orbit, one hundred and fifty Rangers had piled out into the claustrophobic metal corridors and berths. Bunks were quickly assigned, then they were pushed out of the way of the harassed crew of the starship. Thandi had a bunk—more of a shelf she thought—lined up with dozens of others, and a small cubby hole to pack her rucksack into. That, and any trip to the head, was all the personal space she was allowed.
Her time shipboard was spent navigating a frustrating maze, in closer proximity to hundreds of women than she had imagined possible, as she squeezed between bodies on the way to the mess, to a briefing, or back to the bunk.
Though she was now completely lost, the friendly face of Cara meant that she would not have to ask for help, and expose herself as the shameful ‘Freakin’ New Girl’. Thandi’s shoulders relaxed for the first time in days, and she felt the ache of stiff muscles.
Cara winked at the young Ranger. “You want to see something awesome?”
Thandi smiled and nodded. She was led through a series of turns and corridors until the wide-open space of the ship’s hangar appeared before her.
Large drop ships stood in a neat line, surrounded by smaller, more agile looking craft. Cara walked straight past them as Thandi hurried to keep up, until they approached the bulk of a sleek fighter jet. A group of women were slowly maneuvering it onto a rail which disappeared down a tunnel through the hull.
Thandi recognized Toska, and another pilot stood to one side, examining a clipboard.
“Thought I’d show you this since you were nearby anyway,” Cara said with a wink. “Pretty cool, huh? Oh—step aside there.”
Thandi moved quickly as a service drone barreled through the spot she had occupied. She glanced around for more movement, then stopped and let her eyes take in the dull grey bombs strapped to the aircraft. The plane itself had the smooth curves and matt black paint of a stealth fighter. As Thandi watched, the attendant crew rolled it into position and locked a launch hook to its landing gear. Then they began to check through the jet’s systems.
“It’s one of our Shrike fighters,” Cara explained. “Toska will fly tomorrow to support the operation, but tonight, Chatter will stand by on alert status, in case the infiltration teams need air cover. They cover each other, so there’s always someone ready to go, and nobody gets left hanging out in the cold.”
“That’s awesome,” Thandi said, though she felt like a tourist. “Um… are you going to be on the dropships with us?”
“Nope, I stay up here. If something goes wrong, or someone needs emergency medical treatment, then me and my team will jump in.”
“Jump?” Thandi’s eyes went wide.
Cara grinned. “On the other side of the ship, we have gliders that the Banshee will shoot down into the atmosphere.”
“That’s insane.”
“It’s a wild ride. Dangerous for sure, but we practice it a lot, and it’s totally worth it to try and keep someone alive. The one thing this organization does best is give us the tools we need to support each other. There’s no other way to confront evil, you know?”
Thandi nodded. “Yeah. That makes a lot of sense. Thanks for showing me.”
“No problem. Canteen’s this way.”
The Rangers received several briefings; makeshift affairs set up on the flight deck in front of the waiting dropships, with a jury-rigged holo projector and the cold metal deck for a seat.
The first presentation gave them a general overview of the situation. A secret base on Caldera was turning people into monsters, and the Vipers were going to shut it down. They were given an overview of the autopsy of the mutated body brought back by the field team, and a tentative assessment of its presumed strength and abilities. Of particular interest were the recessed pressurized organs in its arms that allowed it to shoot deadly spikes, faster, the Collective scientist explained, than a bullet from a gun. This left the Rangers silent until Kes raised a hand.
“So, you’re saying this was an innocent farmer who was transformed into this thing?” she asked.
“That’s correct,” the scientist replied.
The hangar filled with angry muttering. Thandi saw Ray begin to clench and unclench her fists.
Kes, however, remained objective and curious. “What kind of data do you have on their intelligence, or their ability to organize?”
“We suspect some artificial enhancement has been performed to facilitate those abilities, but we cannot confirm since the cranium was not provided intact.”
“What do you mean?”
“She said your dumbass new squad member blew its head to pieces, Kes!” another NCO called across the deck. “So now we know nothing.”
Thandi groaned quietly.
“Okay, check,” Kes replied. “I’ll take your concern as a form of jealousy that my squad picked up an effective killer who placed her team’s lives first, while you’re struggling to herd a bunch of wannabe lab technicians around.” This was met with murmurs of agreement, as the other Ranger shook her head, but fell quiet.
More briefings followed on the cultural and political situation on Caldera. Eventually, a full holographic table was set up in the flight hangar so that the Rangers could familiarize themselves with the mountains and valleys around the search area. Kes spent a few hours there with the other non-commissioned officers, noting down particular features and examining potential ingress and egress routes, before returning to the squad and talking it over with them.
They were all most concerned about the lack of an established landing zone. The terrain was so variable that some locations would be easily defendable, while others would be death traps. Strangely, everyone seemed to accept the lack of information, and Thandi was surprised that she was the only one concerned about it.
“It’s called mountain warfare,” Kes replied bluntly, after Thandi pestered her once too often. “Learn to live with uncertainty.”
And that was only the start of her problems.
“Thandi, I need you to help me with something,” Lyna said as they went through their gear with Ash. “With Kayla gone, we can’t transport as much ammo for the light machine guns. Those are the biggest hitters, right? If they can’t lay down fire, it puts the whole squad in danger.”
“Okay,” Thandi nodded.
“You’re not up to speed yet, so you won’t be quite so useful shooting and moving. But you can carry more weight.”
Thandi listened carefully, dreading the conclusion, even as she had to acknowledge it was the correct one.
“Ash,” Lyna said, turning to their fire team leader, “are you happy for me to drop another couple of boxes on Thandi?”
“Uh…” Ash’s eyes scanned empty space, and she shrugged. “Let me check that with Kes.”
“Why do you need to check that with Kes, Lance-Corporal?”
Ash sighed. “Whatever, fine. Do it.”
Lyna shook her head as she helped Thandi rearrange her backpack.
Eventually, all the running around and note-taking wound down, and there were no more tasks to complete or briefings to attend. Combat suits and weapons had been checked and rechecked, and all the Rangers had to do was sit around and wait. They spent as much time as they were permitted in the ship’s mess.
“Thandi, I’m telling you,” Lyna argued. “Orbital Demolition is the best unit in Valkyrie. I mean, why would you pass on floating out in the vastness of space with an entire planet beneath your feet?”
Thandi pushed her finished tray aside as someone stopped next to her in the crowded mess room, looked down at her, and scowled. “Did she call you Thandi? Thandi Khawula?”
Thandi nodded nervously. “Um, yeah, that’s me.”
The woman, a flight crew chief, sighed as she reached into her pocket. “I was going to throw this away, but since fate dropped you in my path—here.” She passed a note into Thandi’s hand. “But you tell your friend down there that if she tries to use a crew chief as a goddamn messaging service one more time, I will take both of you for a one-way dropship ride. Get it?”
“Oh yes, sorry. She’s a troublemaker, I know.”
The crew chief nodded and moved away. Thandi unfolded the paper, carefully examining Kayla’s almost unreadable handwriting. ‘Going in with Urtiga and Masey. Christie’s staying in a dropship—very sad. Best of luck!’
She laughed, folding it away as she turned back to her intrigued squad mates.
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Prequel (Parts 1 to 16)

Hi all,
I'm in the UK and have a 1.5 mile trip to work. I'd also like to get my fitness to the point where I can go to the big supermarket after work which is another 2.7 miles beyond that (then 3.4 miles back home)
I've been riding my second hand beater hybrid for a few months and it's not great. It's a women's Rayleigh Siren. Some of the gears click and it's just a heap of junk. I'm also not getting to work that much faster than on foot but I think that's my fat arse being out of shape
I'm 5"10 and have a 32in inside leg if I've measured it right.
I think I need to go for a men's bike as looking at size guides etc women's bikes aren't often built for my height.
I think my bike may be the wrong size as I can sometimes get pain in my lower back and my spine screams to be upright. When I try to sit upright I can't reach my handlebars. I considered getting bar end bullhorn type things but realised if I'm using it every day I should treat myself to something I'll enjoy riding
Terrain is smooth, all pavements and roads. I have a bit of a hill up to work (when I've tracked my ride to work on my Fitbit it says about 75ft elevation over the whole ride). I can just about climb the hill but I'm ready to collapse at the top
I've been looking at an Elops 520 and I'm willing to stretch to £300 because it's beautiful to me and I liked the double racks for carrying stuff. I want to do supermarket runs and struggle to get all my shopping in a rucksack
I'm also drawn to the Schwinn Wayfarer but I've read online that it's quite cheaply made
People on /ukbike tell me to avoid Dutch style but I like the sound of upright posture, lots of space to carry stuff, and like the aesthetic
Thoughts appreciated, thanks!

I want to exercise but I really don’t care to either.
Here’s an attempt at explaining my thought process.
I’m doing good overall in life, as far as being 30, moved out, decent career, money in savings.
Since graduating high school, I’ve NEVER been able to exercise consistently for more than 3 months. NEVER. I had weight training class in high school, and that’s the only reason I was able to stay consistently in working out.
I’m 6’0”, 165lbs, and have no body issues about my image to think of myself as overweight. Quite the opposite, I sometimes think of myself as underweight. I originally first wanted to work out and get bigger to attract women, as I always struggled with girls in life until I was in my 20s. My “goal” was to bench 225 for 1 rep. Closest I ever got was 165.
I don’t see the benefits of lifting/exercise come in. I get extremely self-critical if I miss even one day and lose all motivation and drive. Diet hasn’t really been bad in my life, but I’ve never bothered tracking to see if I‘m in a deficit or surplus.
I’m now lost on where to even begin. Anytime I start looking into developing a plan, it just gets to the point of self-loathing, doom scrolling, self-criticism, and information overload.
Even if someone literally handed me a plan of what to cook, eat, and lift on a daily basis, every morning, for the sake of the “day-by-day” example, I probably still would not do it. Maybe I would, but I just don’t see enough growth or potential really being all that motivational for me to do it. So what if I get to 225? Big deal, what’s next? What does that give me in life that I‘m going to be proud of? When is this strength going to be needed? It sounds strange, but it just sounds like a useless goal to me.
There is, however, an interesting irony to all this. I’m really fascinated with the military culture. I actually contemplated joining the USMC, even if for the physical training that it will put me through (yes, I know how veterans have physical body issues from some of this strain.) but there’s an appeal behind that for some reason. Something about being “stuck” in a situation where your duties are to prepare yourself physically and that’s all you really have to care about, so to speak. I’ve thought about doing LARPing with a rucksack in the desert as physical activity, but I can’t see how that will get my body to put on physical strength to the point of benching 225.
I’m lost. Anyone have some tips or ideas?
Merry new year everyone :)

The Two Forks Overland Refuge - as the name might suggest - sat at the intersection of two routes; the railway line between Bristol and London, and the A34 motorway between Oxford and Southampton. Despite the motorway being long-since defunct in its role of carrying vehicles in their thousands, it still provided a clear and level track between points A and B, and so was still the go-to way to take soldiers, resources, livestock and the small handful of diesel vehicles that the A.W.E. still had in its fleet between the two cities. The train line saw more traffic - both the old diesel locomotives that had been restored to working order and the purpose-built biofuel freight trains using the line to transport newly refined fuel out of the refinery in Southampton.
Lone travellers in this part of the nation were not all that rare, but still fewer and farther between than one might think. We were vulnerable, when alone, not to roadside ambushes or packs of marauders lying in wait like the childrens stories would have you believe, but to the hungry and somewhat deranged wildlife and the units of migrating soldiers that decided they liked the look of the gun that you had or the jacket that you wore.
I had found the best way to keep yourself out of trouble was to simply keep your head down. Speak to nobody - not even a nod or the salute I was supposed to be giving any soldiers I passed - and look like you were in a rush. The last part was easy to deliver when it was very much true.
I was about an hour from the refuge. I had fallen behind schedule after detouring around a group of about twenty who had set up a campsite at the roadside. This detour had probably cost me three or four years at the end of my life - the storm was coming in fast, and my kit was already displaying loud warnings of a reading of two sieverts.
Thankfully, the ancient road signs for the old rest stop and petrol station had now come up in their faded , rusted blue. The Two Forks Refuge was another mile - about twenty minutes walk, fifteen at the pace I was managing to keep. The winds were coming up from the south, a heavy overcast and a thick fog crawling along behind them, rolling across the pastures of overgrown grass.
The Overland Refuge had been built out of a repurposed roadside rest stop. The complex was larger than most of its series, built not just from a petrol station but also a small shopping centre. It had a food court in the centre of a handful of fast food outlets, toilets, a car park for passenger cars and another for HGV’s around the back, and a small youth hostel. The existing infrastructure - the beds out of the hostel, the refrigerators and cookers in the McDonalds kitchen, the large, underground fuel wells once used for the HGV’s, made rest stops like these ideal for the long chain of refuge stations the A.W.E. had reestablished along the nations most used travel lanes.
I peeled off the motorway and walked up the slip-road to the rest stop. With the storm already as uncomfortably close as it was, they had already locked down - the doors shut, the shutters on the windows pulled down, the gentle hum of air filters and ventilation systems audible from the car park.
I crossed a car park filled with the wrecks of pre-war vehicles, tires rotting, paint peeling, and came up to the building's front doors. The automatic glass doors had been replaced with double doors made of steel decorated with thick, bulbous rivets.
I used the butt of my rifle to knock. My gloves were too thick for my knuckles to make an audible noise. After a moment, the intercom next to the door crackled with static.
“Sorry, friend. Storm’s comin’ in, can’t open the door.”
“I’m an A.W.E. surveyor, you’re obligated to let me in.”
There was a moment of silence. A dull buzz sounded and the bolt inside the door shifted with a heavy clunk. The intercom crackled again.
“Arsehole.”
I stepped through the door and pulled it closed behind me. I was immediately in a small space of about two metres by two, with a second door opposite the first, made of the same thick, riveted steel. A shower sat in the ceiling overhead, and before I had even noticed it was there, I was blasted with the cold, hard torrent of a decontamination shower. I followed protocol to the letter - waiting for the shower to deliver its required 76 litres, my arms up in the T position. I had been in facilities where this took 5 minutes, but the shower here had clearly been modified, and it was over in 90 seconds.
When the water stopped I pulled my respirator up through my hair and shrugged off my coat. I set my bundled coat underneath my rifle on the shelves in the corner of the room and put my respirator up on a hook. There were already two submachine guns and a shotgun spread across the shelves.
I pulled on the handle of the second door, but it didn’t budge. A second shower hit me in the back. I sighed and stepped backwards to be properly under the flow. I couldn’t blame the guy. He could have very easily not let me in at all.
The second door of the airlock finally unlocked, and I moved through into the Two Forks Refuge.
The airlock joined to an octagonal food court, white tiled floors populated with plastic tables and plastic chairs. Each side of the octagon led to a different part of the refuge; the kitchen, the storeroom, two dormitories, the toilets, the utilities room with its air filter and water tanks, and the communications suite with its bank of monitors and rats nest of multicoloured wiring. The dining area sat in the centre, bordered on every side.
There were five other people already inside, three men, two women. One of the men and one of the women were going around checking the shutters on the windows. Another man was inside the storeroom, which had been built out of one of the shops, standing behind the old shop counter. A steel locker was behind the counter, from which he was retrieving a bottle of liquor.
“Thanks for the rads, dickhead!” the woman not at the window, instead standing at the shop counter with the man now pouring drinks, called across the floor to me. She was in her early twenties by the looks of her, with dirt-flecked ginger hair and a bomber jacket that was a size too big for her. The emblem of the Fireflies was stamped on the jacket's shoulder.
“There’s a reason this place has got an airlock system,” I set my rucksack down on one of the tables and put a hand through my hair, wet from the second shower. I took in the fact that this woman had a bulky black handgun on her hip. The man at the window had a pistol in the small of his back. I wished I hadn’t left mine in my coat. “I didn’t expose you to anything.”
“The seal on the secondary door is getting old,” the man pouring drinks must have been in his sixties, with thinning white hair, a hunched stature and a slight shake in his hand as he lifted the bottle. “I’m afraid you’ve probably taken about a week from each of us.”
“Well, that’s not my fault, is it? You should get those seals replaced.”
“This place isn’t mine! Don’t blame me, you A.W.E. lot are meant to be keeping these places running!”
He then paused, shook his head and took a breath.
“Do you drink?”
“I do, thank you.”
The man went back to the locker and fetched another glass.
I wandered a small circuit of the dining area at the centre of the octagon, taking in the rooms on every side. The last man of the five sat on one of the beds in one of the dormitories, carefully transferring bullets out of an ammunition box and slotting them into a magazine, tall and brawny and Germanic-looking in the structure of his face. The older man and the Firefly came out of the storeroom, both of them carrying two glasses each. The Firefly went to the pair checking on the window and passed them both a glass. The older man came over to me and handed me mine.
“So you’re not the Overseer of this place?” Its contents smelt like paint thinner.
“No. I don’t know where the guy who runs this place went. I just hunkered down for the storm.”
“I reckon whoever it is has been gone for a while,” the man who had been checking the shutters brought his drink away from the window and joined us at the centre of the room. He was a large man in his thirties, with thin black hair, a muscular stature and a Geiger counter strapped around his upper arm. He wore an antique khaki jacket from the old, national army. A rectangular strip above the breast pocket read Walsh. “This place is an embarrassment. Its sealing is a joke.”
“Just be glad you’re under a roof at all,” the second woman retorted. “We’re going to be here for at least a couple of hours.”
“Great,” Walsh groaned. “Is there at least any food in here?” he set off towards the storeroom.
“Oh, so you’re going to bitch about the structural integrity and then steal from them?”
“Hey, he’s already stealing their ammunition!” Walsh pointed to the guy on the bed. “If they’re not here to defend their shit, that’s on them!”
The woman watched Walsh go with a look of disbelief. She took a seat at one of the tables.
After hiking for so many hours, I was eager to make use of the refuge’s bathroom. I was hesitant to leave my bag unattended, but in the end decided to give the rest of them the benefit of the doubt. To be fair to them all, I came back to find that nothing had moved.
After his comments on his ‘finders keepers’ attitude, nobody had expected Walsh to then cook for the rest of them. He used the kitchen equipment in the back of the old McDonalds to fry a few kilos of venison that had been wrapped in wax paper in a freezer in the back of the kitchen. From the storeroom, he added tinned sweetcorn, broad beans and potatoes. The older man went to help him after a little while.
The rest of them sat around the refuge, keeping a vague eye on the worsening storm and keeping mostly to themselves. I dug my map out of my rucksack and made a note that the Overseer of the Two Forks Refuge was nowhere to be found.
“Whatcha doing?” the woman with the Firefly emblem drifted over to me.
“My job. It’s what I’m surveying, the overland refuges,” I explained. “Checking that they’re still structurally sound and that, you know,” I glanced up at the Firefly insignia on her shoulder. “They’re all still under the A.W.E.’s control.”
“Yeah, they are,” she smiled. “For now.”
Me met eyes and I couldn’t help suppress a smirk and a small chuckle. I ran into Fireflies on a semi-frequent basis, alongside members of the People’s Liberation Army and the Sovereignty Coalition, encountering them most commonly in pubs or bars, occasionally out on the road doing whatever it was liberation forces did in between drawing more teenagers into their ranks or throwing petrol bombs over the fences of A.W.E. bases.
I liked her, I admired her clear dedication to the cause and her take-no-shit way of speaking to me. Unfortunately for her, her liberation movement would inevitably prove like every other, in that it would come to nothing. A few dozen teenagers and twenty-somethings full of the lies of heroism and the kind of food only a military movement could provide would get themselves gunned down, and they would inevitably shy back into their warrens and hovels until the next summer. I had always found it noteworthy that none of these resistance groups ever had the grit or the willpower to pick a fight in the winter.
“So what are you doing out here?” I finished writing my note and set my map down, picking my glass of paint thinner back up. “Did the Fireflies send you out here to take back the nation, one refuge at a time?”
She smiled and glanced at the emblem on her shoulder “So you know who we are?”
“Oh, a whole chapter of the A.W.E. training course was about you lot,” I took a sip of my drink. “The same way they teach us about radiation sickness and threadworms and all the other absolute headaches we have to deal with.”
“Come on, that’s not fair. Without groups like the Fireflies, who would the A.W.E. have to blame for all their fuckups?”
“We wouldn’t have nearly as many fuckups if we weren’t spending half our resources fighting you lot off.”
“You wouldn’t have to keep fighting off people who thought they could do it better if you stopped fucking things up.”
I suddenly remembered one of the lines from the A.W.E. training material. "Do not try to reason with the radicalised". I reached out and clinked my glass against hers.
“I suppose it’s just a self fulfilling prophecy then.”
We ended up talking for a while about where we had both come from, both recently and then going further back in our pasts as the conversation went on. Her name turned out to be Leah. After half an hour Walsh and the old man came out of the kitchen and set the venison they had fried on one of the tables. The Firefly and I moved seats and sat across from each other, her next to Walsh, me next to the old man. The other woman sat on her other side and the Germanic guy sat on my right.
The Firefly and my conversation about where we had come from drifted onward around the table. Walsh was from a small township five kilometres south of here, out on a hunting trip. The other woman and the Germanic man turned out to be a pair, both heading into Reading to do some trading - she had a rucksack full of scrap silver that would fetch a good price at the trading posts. The old man mumbled something vague about just passing through, and offered nothing further.
The storm was in full swing now, the howling wind rattling the steel shutters over the windows, a loud creaking clearly audible through the ceiling, presumably where the transmission antenna of the radio was straining in the wind. I glanced over at the bank of monitors in one of the peripheral rooms and saw a glaring warning message of the ongoing storm. Six Sieverts, a level of radiation strong enough that a single exposure would kill half of those exposed to it within a month. The fact that I had only evaded this storm with less than an hour to spare made me take another large mouthful of my drink.
As we ate, the conversation drifted to the things that they all each missed from their pre-war lives. We reminisced about the things we had once taken for granted; A and B and C and D. On top of the generic answers, we each had our own pet pleasures. The old man pined for 10-year-old scotch and good gin and alcohol that otherwise didn’t taste like it was brewed in a bathtub. Walsh longed for the exotic ingredients he could once find in the markets of central London, everything from genuine wasabi to pink truffle oil. The Firefly wished she could have gotten the chance to finish her degree, and that careers in psychology still existed.
When it came to my turn, I made up something mundane about affordable air travel and the ability to travel as I had used to, figuring that saying aloud my true longing of ridding myself of this ticking clock of imminent mortality that hung over my head would spoil the mood. I glanced again at the monitor behind me, flashing its warning of the storm outside. I finished my drink and reached into the middle of the table for the bottle.
In one of the crates back of the kitchen, Walsh found a box of caramel sweets, branded in the no-nonsense, A.W.E. label, and we managed to prolong our little dinner party a short while longer. Eventually, however, we were forced to let a good thing come to an end, and people split back into their pairs. The storm was starting to die down now, the rattling at the windows becoming less frequent, the groan of the leaning radio antenna on the roof getting quieter.
The Firefly and I moved through to one of the dormitories - sitting on two adjacent bottom bunks. We had taken the last few caramels in the bottom of the box with us, but I got to have them reasonably often as an employee of the A.W.E., so I let her finish them.
“So where are you headed after this?”
“I’m continuing east,” I explained. “I’ve got one more overland refuges between here and Reading, and after I’ve checked on that one, I’m going to hitch a ride back to Bristol on one of the supply convoys. How about you?”
“I’m just doing a big loop. Going from town to town, bunker to bunker, gauging levels of support for the Fireflies, seeing if I can recruit anybody while I’m at it.”
She dug in her rucksack for a moment.
“The next refuge is the Thoroughfare Refuge, right?” she handed me a wad of papers. “I don’t suppose you could do me a favour and stick a couple of these up as you go along the motorway?”
I looked through the stack. They were recruitment posters, advertising a handful of training centres around the south of the country that were taking in any willing soldiers over 170 centimetres tall who still had all their fingers.

“I could be shot for that!” I laughed. “Hell, I’d lose my job if anyone even found out I let you hand me these.” 

“Really?” the woman said. “Who would I have to report you to?”
We both laughed. She took another mouthful of her drink.
“You know, it’s my obligation to shoot you on sight,” she said.
I let a beat pass as I took a sip of my own drink. “Mine too.”
We glanced at each other. I raised my glass. “Cheers.”
As the storm rumbled into its fourth hour and dusk encroached, the six of us all started to think about setting up to spend the night here. Even if the storm stopped now, it was recommended to wait for an additional 50 percent of the storm’s duration before you left your shelter, and it would most definitely be dark by them. I moved my bag onto one of the beds in one of the dormitories - taking a bottom bunk near the wall.
I took an hour in the evening to write a more conclusive report of the Two Forks Refuge in my notes. I detailed the structural integrity, the volume of supplies still in storage, the foot traffic it was receiving. I began drafting a paragraph in which I acknowledged its poor state but nonetheless encouraged its continued support considering the good it was doing. The A.W.E. were keen to shut some of these overland refuges down to save resources, but this was one I was keen to keep running.
Everybody retired to the dormitories at around 11PM. Everyone kept their bags to themselves, either stuffed deep under their bunks or sitting beside their pillows. I did the former. The German clearly and deliberately withdrew a handgun from his rucksack and stowed it beneath his pillow.
The day had turned out to be far more pleasant than I had anticipated. When either storms or nightfall forced me to spend nights in any of the overland refuges, and it was just myself and the Overseer, it had often proven fairly awkward. They were meant to be amenable and friendly, but living alone in times like these made anybody cagey.
After writing my report, I retired to bed. Despite a quiet descending between the bunks, it was still an occupied silence, much more pleasant - in my opinion - to being alone. I had spent far too many nights camping alone in an abandoned house, with nothing but somebody else’s abandoned belongings for company.
One of the first things the A.W.E. trained was your bodyclock. I woke at dawn, every day, no matter the time of year. Walsh and the old man were both already up, breakfasting at one of the tables. I found a packet of pemmican in the kitchen cupboards, and took it through to the radio room.
The storm was over, and the fallout had resettled. The radiation levels were back down to about 100 milliSieverts, 50 times the pre-war background levels. It would continue to die down to 20 or 25 mSv by lunchtime, which was as low as it ever got. I was in no rush to reach the Thoroughfare Refuge, it was only three hours away, so I could wait for the dust to settle fully.
Everybody else rose within the next two hours. We did not eat breakfast together like we had dinner the previous night, but it was still pleasant to spend time in the company of others, to have the sounds and presence of other people’s existence in your space. Once everyone was awake, we pulled up the shutters that encased the window, and as the rolls of steel clattered upwards natural light returned to the space.
Unfortunately, after everyone had breakfasted, they all began to ready their things to leave. Walsh helped himself to some of the food in the refuge’s storage crates, as well as one of the propane tanks from the kitchen. The old man browsed the bottles in the locker behind the counter and helped himself to a generously poured drink before pulling on his rucksack and wishing them all good luck on their future travels. The German and the second woman left together next. Walsh went next, his bag heavy with what he had helped himself to.
Myself and the Firefly were the only two to stay long enough to have lunch in the refuge. I cooked this time - the remaining venison with rice and tinned vegetables. We talked a little more about my work with the A.W.E. and her work with the Fireflies. I could understand why she had joined up, it sounded like they treated her with a lot of respect.
“So this loop you’re doing, going from town to town,” I said through a mouthful of rice. “I don’t suppose you’ve got any towns to our east on your agenda?”
“I came from the east, I’m afraid,” she said. “I’ve already been through Reading. I’m sorry.”
“No worries, it was just a thought.”
“Maybe our paths will cross again sometime.”
I tried to remember the last time I had ever met the same person twice outside of the A.W.E. bases. I couldn’t.
“Yeah, maybe.”
I finished my lunch and figured there was no point hanging around any longer. Leah had clearly decided the same thing, as she began packing up her things. We stood together between the doors of the airlock as we put on our coats and collected our weapons. I slung my rifle across my back and hooked my respirator to the strap of my rucksack. I checked my watch. I would make the Thoroughfare Refuge by 4PM.
“This was nice,” Leah stood by the exterior door with a hand resting on the handle and her submachine gun nestled in the crook of her elbow in her oversized jacket. “Thank you for being such pleasant company.”
“Right back at you.”
I shook a pair of iodine tablets out of their packet and forced them both down before we headed back out into the elements. I offered Leah the box and she swallowed two herself before pulling open the exterior door.
We stepped out into the car park, where a dozen abandoned vehicles sat on rotting tires, gathering rust. We crossed the asphalt together, pausing when we came to the point where we would have to part ways on the motorway.
“Good luck with everything. You know, liberating the sovereignty of the nation, and all that.”
“Thank you. Good luck chasing all us Fireflies back into our hovels.”
With a final smile she turned away and set off west.
I thought, sometimes, on my worse nights, about how I was using the time I had left touring the nation alone. Sometimes I wished I’d picked a more sociable job, or that the people I encountered on my travels were at least a little more friendly. It was a shame that nobody else had seemed to have any desire to continue with each other's company.
I decided to be grateful we’d crossed paths at all. Since the last year or so, that had been what this job had become about for me; glimpses of other people's lives as we grew fewer and farther between.

Prequel (Chapters 1 to 16)
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“So, Kayla,” Christie said with a smile. “When can we expect you to lead one of these sessions?”
“Oh no.” Kayla raised her hands defensively. “I’m not wasting my time on those kinds of texts. I mean, you girls had some great insights, but I had a peek at Plato. Thousands and thousands of pages of inane nonsense—I can’t deal with that.”
“Oh cool, so you’ll just ride along, letting us do all the work?” Thandi asked.
“I appreciate the stuff you’ve dug out on the history of authoritarianism,” said Kayla, “but I’m not reading about the definition of ‘the good’ for two hours. I have better things to do.”
“It’s understandable you wouldn’t want to touch Plato with a stick; his work is quite impenetrable,” said Christie. “But there are some rather engaging epic poems—”
Kayla waved a hand. “Ancient drivel. Completely meaningless to today’s reality. People need a kick in the backside to stay focused on life’s real problems.”
“Pray, enlighten us,” said Christie. “How did the great philosopher Kayla Barnes arrive at this epiphany?”
“Sure. I remember when I was seven, it was late afternoon on a Sunday, and I saw the shadows start to move.” Kayla’s voice grew detached, as her eyes fixated on the cieling.
“I looked up,” she continued, “and I thought someone had plucked the sun out of the sky and had thrown it at me—it was moving so fast, coming right down on top of us. I checked some meteor stats when I was older; this one probably travelled a hundred and fifty miles in ten seconds.”
Thandi inhaled sharply. “Lord have mercy.”
“Because I’m a complete dumbass I thought, like, am I supposed to catch this?” Kayla chuckled. “But then it got so bright I had to look away, and the air was really hot too, like a sauna. Then it winked out, and everyone was just kind of staring up at this immense cloud.”
“An airburst?” Christie asked.
“Right—it exploded probably fifteen miles up. But one guy took off running through the town screaming at everyone to get away from the windows, and—again, dumbass here—I turned to my Dad and said ‘why is he so mad?’ But he pushed me to the ground and got on top of me, and then all the windows just exploded. Um… then after the first big bang you could hear dozens of smaller thunderclaps, almost like being at a shooting range—they just went on and on.”
“The sonic booms of the fireball,” Christie explained.
“Right. Oh, and we all got sunburn too, so that was fun.” Kayla stared at her fingernails for a moment. “So…you don’t… matter. The universe will paste you against the rock in a heartbeat and forget you in the next. The meaning of life? Get your community through to tomorrow. If you have time to sit around reading about the timeless love of two losers, then you should probably get off your ass and do something more constructive.”
There was a thoughtful silence, and Kayla noticed Rose staring at her with a suspicious expression.
“Kayla,” said Christie, “I really appreciate you sharing that experience and I think you certainly have a valuable perspective. That being said, I might allow you to flesh out your thesis a little bit more before I toss out humanity’s vast collection of art and philosophy.”
“You are very brave,” Thandi said quietly.
Kayla laughed. “No, I don’t think so. I just try not to get worked up about things I can’t control. I don’t always succeed though. But I mean all these planets under human control—people died to colonize all of them. Landing on an uninhabited world and trying to set up civilization in the face of all the elements against you is incredibly dangerous. This is the sacrifice our worlds are built on.”
Rose glared at her. “I’m sure you’re right about that, but don’t you think you’re going a bit far this time?”
“Rose…” Christie said cautiously, but she was ignored.
“I am, of course, very sorry for what happened to your father,” Rose said, with strained politeness. “But I think it’s fair to say that the anti-Helvet feeling in your colony has influenced your memory in this case. Everyone knows that the asteroid defense deflects rocks that big before they get too close.”
Kayla rolled her eyes. “Awesome, this argument again. Rose, the first of Caldera’s telescopes only launched to orbit a couple of years ago.”
“Absolute nonsense. I remember the conversation with the Mayor of Rackeye very clearly, and he assured us that all defensive measures were in place.”
“Yeah, he was lying.”
“Oh, please!” Rose spat.
“Actually,” Christie interjected, placing her hand on Rose’s, “Kayla’s right. I remember reading about it in the astronomy journal, and I was surprised that it was such a low priority project for a colony with a volcanic moon.”
Kayla shrugged. “It’s still super rare to see a rock hit the ground. Most of the planet is uninhabited, so the odds of anyone being killed are small. There are more pressing dangers to worry about.”
“I was not lied to!” Rose insisted, her face scarlet.
“Then he exaggerated,” Kayla said. “He meant there would be an evacuation shuttle or something. Of course, you have to spot the damn thing in time—”
Rose scoffed. “How could they possibly expect to evacuate an entire planet with shuttles? Come on!”
Kayla gave her a pitying look. “Not the entire planet—just your family and a few others.”
Rose stared back, her face now pale.
“Oh, honey,” Christie said as she wrapped an arm around Rose’s shoulders. “You really bought every line they fed you, didn’t you?”
Rose jumped up from her bed and stormed out of the cabin into the night.
“Okay, that was definitely not my fault,” Kayla said.
Christie glared at her. “You are cold, Madam, and heartless. Of course it wasn’t. Who cares?”
“She accused me of being a liar again!” Kayla protested. “I thought we were past this.”
“Do you know what it’s like to be lied to and manipulated by everyone you thought you respected? And to have to face being taken for a fool?”
“No.” Kayla’s throat caught and she swallowed a sob. “My father was the most honest, courageous man I ever knew.”
Christie’s eyes gleamed with steel. “He told you that you were wonderful, I imagine. That you were perfect the way you were, and that no matter who you wanted to be, or what you wanted to do, he would support you. That your failure to achieve perfection in any of a dozen strictly prescribed skills did not mean you were a public shame to the family.
“I mean—I had to do the chores properly,” Kayla muttered.
“Not a thing that Rose has ever heard in her life. She was spoiled, yes, and so were you, in a different way.”
Kayla hung her head as Christie left the cabin in search of her friend.
Out of the thirty-two recruits that started Stress Phase, eleven had dropped out. Seven had to recycle due to injuries. The fourteen that remained lined up in the camp’s square for the infamous endurance run, and a hollow pit opened in Kayla’s stomach as Instructor McKinnon made the briefing.
They were going to fast march for twenty miles, backpacks filled with rocks, and reach the finish line within six hours. It would be crushing, McKinnon explained, and intensely painful. The recruits would not pass the boot camp course until they could complete it. Failure of an individual due to injury would result in a complete course recycle.
McKinnon, Susaki, and Cieslik drove the class several hours from the camp to a less mountainous region of the moon, where the course stretched out across a rolling landscape of low, steep hills and ravines. After a short briefing from McKinnon, the instructors loaded down the recruit’s rucksacks with rocks, and weighed them carefully. Then the group set off, and at first the going was easy, as they ran up steep hills, and walked across embankments, ploughed through muddy ditches and dodged between moraines.
Soon, Mckinnon quickened the pace, and the pain began to set in. Kayla’s thighs and calves burned with acid, while her lungs heaved to take in air. Sharp pain dug into her chest with every breath, and she felt the alarming sensation of her heart getting weaker. Then her knees began to shake, and every step was a struggle to stay balanced. Beside her, Rose matched her pace, while Christie and Thandi were ahead in the short double column of recruits as they jogged at what seemed to be an impossible pace across the scrub-covered hillside.
At the two-hour mark, Kayla felt she couldn’t take it anymore. She started to adjust the strap of the rucksack that cut through her skin, though it didn’t provide her more than a few seconds relief. The biting pain began to build again, slowly, and unstoppably, until she reached up and shifted the stiff fabric across what had to be a raw welt under the shirt. She liked the distraction. It gave her something else to think about besides the dull landscape passing underfoot.
She tried to change her rhythm, or repeated songs over and over in her head—any pitiful attempt to find a sliver of comfort. At the three-hour mark, she was bargaining with herself. She would quit after the next hill, she told herself, knowing it was a lie, but grateful for it anyway. They took short, desperately welcomed breaks; just enough time to gulp down water and energy bars before the torment continued. Kayla lost track of the time, and her mind wandered into fantasy—imagining dragons and armies clashing across the hills.
There was no path, just treacherous lumpy hillside, ready to catch the ankle of a runner made careless by exhaustion. Somehow, nobody fell, and they kept the merciless pace under the exhortations of Instructor McKinnon. She kept pace with them the whole time, while Susaki brought up the rear.
“You’re doing well, ladies!” Mckinnon yelled. “Just a bit further! Fast pace until the end.”
Only one thing scared Kayla as she kept her legs pumping. Over the last six months, she had grown fitter and mentally tougher than she ever imagined she could be. No matter what the instructors threw at her, she would rather die than give up. She glanced down at the rough terrain beneath her feet and thought about rolling an ankle. The instructors would make her go through the whole course again, without Thandi, or Christie, or even—she had to admit—Rose. The thought made her blood run cold.
As the run dragged on, she felt like she was watching herself from a distance. The pain was still there, but she could observe it, as though she had become aware of her own breathing. It passed through her and around her, like rushing water. She imagined waves breaking against a beach, crashing rhythmically. First there were small swells in short bursts. Sometimes the water would recede quickly, and there would be a long pause, followed by a huge breaker that raced up the sand, pelting her feet with sharp pebbles. Kayla stood in the surf, unmoving as the big wave struck and almost threw her over into a maelstrom of rushing water—but she held her ground. It was nothing more than a choice. She could stand and let the waves beat helplessly against her for eternity.
The illusion was shattered when a truck appeared on the horizon—the final checkpoint. With the seductive temptation of imminent release, the pain crashed down more urgently. Kayla gulped back sobs and tried to stop thinking. Time stretched out unendingly while the truck never came closer.
It was a cruel trick, she thought; every time she looked down, an instructor drove it further away. She hated them, and she would show them she couldn’t be broken. Then the truck was closer, and she loved them—that they had brought her so far. Then it was a few hundred paces away, and Kayla let her mind go blank. She was going to make it. They all were.
“Full sprint to the end!” called McKinnon “Dig deep now, show them who you are!”
Adrenaline lanced through Kayla’s body, followed by a wave of euphoria. She could go anywhere, do anything—nobody would hold her back. It lasted until they reached the truck, and then it drained from her in a moment, leaving nothing but raging blood in her ears. Her trembling legs could barely continue to support her.
The ordeal was finally over. After six months of suffering, she had earned what she had always dreamed of. Kayla felt tears welling up, and as exhaustion overwhelmed her, she let herself hunch forward.
“Stand tall,” McKinnon called. “Have pride in yourselves. Rangers keep their heads held high!”
Kayla obeyed, and, despite the pain, as she straightened up and raised her head she felt a piece of euphoria return.
Mckinnon marched the recruits to a halt by the truck, where a uniformed woman waited for them. She wore bright parade dress, covered in gleaming medals, with the stars of a general, and her aide carried a bag. They waited patiently as the recruits formed a line facing her.
McKinnon passed each of them and shook their hands. “Congratulations ladies. You’ve made it. General Kayode will now present you with your berets.”
Kayla tried to stop herself from shaking like a leaf as the class formed a line. She wiped the tears out of her eyes, though they were quickly replaced by more.
The General addressed them. “Ladies, I cannot fully express how incredibly proud I am of all of you. You have achieved the very highest standards set by Valkyrie, and It is my honor to welcome you into the organization. I will now present you with your green berets, your official recognition as a Valkyrie Ranger. Wear this hat with pride, because very few women will ever achieve what you have.”
The general stepped up to each of them in turn, while McKinnon named them. “Ranger Thandi Khawula.”
“Congratulations, Ranger Khawula. Accept your Beret.” General Kayode placed it on her head and straightened it out. “How does it feel?”
Thandi was struggling to blink back tears. “Thank you ma’am. Incredible—worth every moment,” she said.
Standing beside her, Kayla saw that Chisom Idowu’s eyes shone with fire as she patiently waited her turn. Each recruit exchanged a few words with the general as she slowly worked her way down the line.
While Kayla waited, she reflected on the strangeness of the setting. She was stood on a lonely hilltop surrounded by wilderness. Her heart burned with pride to see Thandi, Christie, Chisom, and even Rose standing beside her. She felt a sense of achievement she would never be able to explain to anyone else. In fact, she didn’t even want to.
The General came to her. “Congratulations, Ranger Barnes.”
“Thank you ma’am,” Kayla said and sniffed.
“How are you feeling?”
Kayla paused for a moment, not sure she could find the right words. “Ready for more,” she said, and grinned as the other recruits laughed. The general placed her beret on her head and shook her hand.
As the general moved off with her aide, Susaki walked over, smiled, and punched Kayla in the shoulder. “Don’t let it go to your head. See you around, Ranger Barnes.”
The general turned, saluted the rank, and ordered them to fall out as Rangers. Kayla darted over to Rose and lifted her in the air with a bear hug.
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Prequel (Chapters 1 to 16)