Excerpt: Balance

I hate this place. Sand. Fucking sand. That’s all there is. It gets in my clothes, in my eyes, in my mouth. Little, gritty pieces of hell. It blankets the crumbling walls and unidentifiable pieces of metal which litter this dead land. A desert that spans the globe, gulping greedily at whatever life it can get its little greedy hands on. All around, I see the decaying ruins of this once great city. An echo of an echo of what it once was. And the fucking sand covering it doesn’t help, either. Clicking on my MECH visor, it tells me my coordinates and my job. How useful; all that stuff I already know. It’s a neat bit of equipment, though. Stole them off of a MECH guard a few moths ago. Almost got killed doing it, but, hey, it had been worth it. A whole database of information within a pair of sunglasses. I can keep track of bounties, locate water and food, contact my employers, anything really. It makes it look like the screen is a metre or so away, when it’s less then an inch from your eye. Technology so damn clever it can outsmart the human brain.
Well what else is new?
Its quiet now, and getting really damned cold. Hmph. Judging by the sun’s position, I’ve got about ten minutes until nightfall. The wind’s picking up, too. Judging by the sand that just coated my mouth, that’s what it’s picking up. Eesh. And my boots are ruined! Three days of walking through that desert have taken there toll. I’ve endured the extreme heat of noon, the biting chill of night, and decided I hate this desert more than i did when I started the damn job. Ah yes. The job. There are plenty of tall piles of rubble about; perfect to get a good idea of where the hell I am, if I can get on top without breaking most of my bones.
The wind is chillier, stronger, up here, but I pay it no attention. It cuts through my tattered clothes, and throws small bits of grit at my skin, but I ignore it still. After all, my job requires diligence. It requires skill. Patience. Effort.
Why the hell did I choose it?
Then, suddenly, there's a flash to the east, gleaming brightly for a fraction of a second. I feel the wolfish grin slide into place. Gotcha. Quickly judging the distance to the floor, I jump, roll, and begin jogging east. The cold, reassuring weight of my rifle rhythmically bounces of my back with each step I take. Well, keeps my mind off the below zero temperatures that have fallen with the sun, I suppose. Luckily, the MECH visor has night vision too. So now I have no excuse as I constantly trip and fall all over the fucking place. Again with the fucking sand! How am I meant to see rocks if I can't even see my own ruined, scuffed boots because of the stuff?
"Aha! thought you could get the better of us, huh?"
Freezing on the spot, adrenalin helps the rifle jump from my back and into my hands, fully loaded. Senses peaked, I wait, to hear or see anything. No, nothing. How very helpful. There could be someone with his sights on my head right now, and I don't even no.
"Do you know who we are?"
I hate this place. Sand. Fucking sand. That’s all there is. It gets in my clothes, in my eyes, in my mouth. Little, gritty pieces of hell. It blankets the crumbling walls and unidentifiable pieces of metal which litter this dead land. A desert that spans the globe, gulping greedily at whatever life it can get its little greedy hands on. All around, I see the decaying ruins of this once great city. An echo of an echo of what it once was. And the fucking sand covering it doesn’t help, either. Clicking on my MECH visor, it tells me my coordinates and my job. How useful; all that stuff I already know. It’s a neat bit of equipment, though. Stole them off of a MECH guard a few moths ago. Almost got killed doing it, but, hey, it had been worth it. A whole database of information within a pair of sunglasses. I can keep track of bounties, locate water and food, contact my employers, anything really. It makes it look like the screen is a meter or so away, when it’s less then an inch from your eye. Technology so damn clever it can outsmart the human brain.
Well what else is new?
Its quiet now, and getting really damned cold. Hmph. Judging by the sun’s position, I’ve got about ten minutes until nightfall. The wind’s picking up, too. Judging by the sand that just coated my mouth, that’s what it’s picking up. Eesh. And my boots are ruined! Three days of walking through that desert have taken there toll. I’ve endured the extreme heat of noon, the biting chill of night, and decided I hate this desert more than i did when I started the damn job. Ah yes. The job. There are plenty of tall piles of rubble about; perfect to get a good idea of where the hell I am, if I can get on top without falling and breaking most of my bones.
The wind is chillier, stronger, up here, but I pay it no attention. It cuts through my tattered clothes, and throws small bits of grit at my skin, but I ignore it still. After all, my job requires diligence. It requires skill. Patience. Effort.
Why the hell did I choose it?
Then, suddenly, there's a flash to the east, gleaming brightly for a fraction of a second. I feel the wolfish grin slide into place. Gotcha. Quickly judging the distance to the floor, I jump, roll, and begin jogging east. The cold, reassuring weight of my rifle rhythmically bounces of my back with each step I take. Well, keeps my mind off the below zero temperatures that have fallen with the sun, I suppose. Luckily, the MECH visor has night vision too. So now I have no excuse as I constantly trip and fall all over the fucking place. Again with the fucking sand! How am I meant to see rocks if I can't even see my own ruined, scuffed boots because of the stuff?
"Aha! thought you could get the better of us, huh?"
Freezing on the spot, adrenalin helps the rifle jump from my back and into my hands, fully loaded. Senses peaked, I wait, to hear or see anything. No, nothing. How very helpful. There could be someone with his sights on my head right now, and I don't even no.
"Do you know who we are?"
The shouts drift over again. Ah, there not actually talking to me. And I'm meant to be good at this sort of thing. Well, sounds like someone else has tried to take them in. Probably did the whole 'Run in, guns blazing' idea. Pff. That never worked. Eventually, after following the voices (these people were talking very damn loudly for people in hiding) I see them. Ha! They've even lit a campfire. This will be easy. Well, might as well do this properly. Rifle in hand, I scan the targets through the scope. Dead or alive. Prefer dead, to be honest. Less talking needed. And plus I’d need to carry them, and make sure they were chained up, feed them, give them water. Yeah, definitely dead. From the scope I see the first guy to try and get them. Chiseled jaw, strong muscular body, defiant face. The kind of guy that will get the upper hand at the last moment, despite being pummeled for five minutes. A real her- oh, wait, no not this time, they just blew his head in two. Good idea; he could have been trouble. For me, I mean. Contesting over prey never has a good outcome between two hunters. There are three of them, just like the contract said. And…yes, they all have the tattoos on their bald heads. What a stupid thing to do. Well, actually, I suppose if you stopped liking it you could just grow the hair back over the top. Quite a good idea, really. Not that it matters, seeing as how I’m about to put a hole clean through those tattooed heads, and the hair won’t actually have time to grow. Right, time to die, boys. Nothing personal.