Wasteland 2087 - Chapter 2

After the incident with Veii, Myra sets off to start her day, but not the way she planned.

Chapter 2.

The tablet starts to take effect, calming my spiralling head as I navigate through the crowded ward of D-wing and towards the pharmacy on the other side of the crossroads. The entire shelter is only five stories high but dug deep into the earth, stretching out into five wings; three residential, one engineering and agricultural, and one for markets, schooling, and other commercial amenities--including the pharmacy. Fortunately, the pharmacy is not too far from the college, so I won't be too late for school once I pick up the refill of my tablets.

I step from the walkway and freeze at the chime of a cheap bell and the skid of tyres. Before I can react, the world turns upside down--a sharp pain radiating from my calf as my legs are swept out from under me. My efforts to catch myself send me spinning, crashing down onto the bridge of my shoulders. From my dazed position on the ground, I realise I had inadvertently wandered into the bike lane. The throbbing ache in my leg and shoulders confirms as much, and a new wave of pounding in my head begins, this time from a different source. My holobook lays scattered on the ground, enduring a few additional scratches, while my empty pillbox rolls farther into the bike lane.

The messenger loses control, his bike spilling to the side. Despite the mishap, he seems relatively unscathed as he picks himself up and turns towards me with disdain evident in his expression. "You stupid woman, don't just step out into the bike lane! You daft Com," he spits, words sharp with contempt.

Still struggling to regain my bearings, my vision taking an abnormally long time to focus, I can't help but note his colourful choice of words; he must be a courier for the 'Vics if he's chastising me for being a Com.

The Civics--or 'Vics--are the upper-class citizens that occupy A-Wing. All the dwellings up there are spacious and lavish; fitting for its usual populous of Shelter Doctors, Engineers, Politicians--and, of course, the Order. It's a stark contrast to the cramped quarters of us Commons--or Coms, as he's called me--who reside in Wings C and D. Less order, more oppression--and I don't mean chaos, I'm referring to the actual Order. They don't frequent our areas much, which suits me just fine. After all, I have no desire to attract the attention of the Wardens, especially considering my family history and the fact that they Walked my father for 'suspected conspiracy to incite rebellion'.

The courier shoots me scathing looks while he hastily gathers his belongings, and I return his gaze with my best 'as if I give a crap' expression. To my surprise, his demeanour shifts abruptly, his face draining of colour as a flicker of fear dances in his eyes. He appears genuinely terrified, hastening to pack up his cart with renewed urgency. It's a strange sensation, to realise I hold such power over someone, and in that moment it feels oddly empowering to be the object of another's fear.

"Are you okay?" A deep, gentle voice asks softly at my ear, its calming resonance filled with bass. I can't help but smile; what a gentleman. Turning to face the source of such a dulcet tone, I suddenly realise I am not the object of the courier's fear--it's this man. Clad in the white-and-blue tunic of the Order's Wardens, he is no ordinary Warden, but the highest rank; a Justicar. Justicar Warden Casillas Gage.

I've never seen a Justicar before, let alone the most recognised one across all the allied shelters--a celebrity in his own right. A crowd slowly gathers to stop and stare; it's a rarity to see a Justicar down here in the crossroads. Yet here I am, face-to-face with the man described as the most dangerous in the world--but he doesn't look dangerous at all. He exudes a boyish charm, with soft, expressive features. His gaze is warm and intelligent, his pupils almost indistinguishable from the rich dark brown of his almond-shaped eyes. A well-defined jawline adds a hint of maturity to his otherwise boy-next-door appearance. Tousled black hair falls effortlessly across his forehead, enhancing his casual yet endearing demeanour. I can't help but imagine running my fingers through that thick mess, pushing it away from those beautiful eyes.

"Miss, are you okay?" He repeats, my eyes go wide and my cheeks flush. Had I just been drinking in the visage of Casillas Gage in the middle of the street with a hundred onlookers? And he isn't just all hair and beautiful eyes; he represents the Order, and everything I despise about the shelter!

Shaking off my thoughts, I try to regain my composure and jump to my feet. "I'm fine!" I snap defiantly, my tone laced with vitriol. Unfortunately, my legs disagree, and buckle under my weight. But he catches me--oh boy, does he catch me. His strong arms hook under my armpits, stopping me from falling. His face is mere inches from mine, and I can feel his breath on my neck; it smells faintly of mint--probably Order-issued toothpaste. Despite myself, I find it oddly comforting.

He smiles as I realise I'm once again rendered motionless and speechless in his arms. But his smile is genuine and inviting, lighting up his face like a beacon of friendliness. I can't help but think that this is what the Order wants--a shining, attractive beacon to draw people into their line of thinking. No wonder he is their poster boy.

I steady myself as I wrestle free of his arms. "I'm fine, thank you," I say, my tone calmer this time, though my head still spins a little. Gage watches me for a moment, and starts to gather my things as the courier sets off.

"Hey," Gage calls out to the courier, who grinds to a halt and glances back nervously. "Slow down. You've already injured one person."

"Yes, of course. Sorry, Warden Gage. I'll be more careful," the courier stammers. The Justicar nods as the courier takes off again, at a slower pace, towards A-Wing. Meanwhile, Gage approaches me, and presents my broken holobook.

"Does this thing even work?" he asks, a smile playing on his lips. I find myself hoping it stays there, against my better judgement. I feel a rush of embarrassment as our eyes meet briefly, and I quickly look away.

"When it wants to. It used to only work when I smacked it on the side, but then the screen split, and smacking it didn't seem like such a wise idea anymore."

"No, I imagine not," he replies, handing me the holobook before hesitating with my pillbox. He spins the tiny cylinder in his fingers, scanning the label quickly as he hands it to me.

"Myra," he says, and I throw him a quick half-smile, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear. His eyebrows furrow. "Sydoxetamine. I've never heard of it?"

"Oh, are you a student of chemistry?" I state matter-of-factly, probably too heavy-handed with sarcasm.

Opening his mouth to speak, he hesitates, smiles, and simply responds, "I... Am not."

"Then I would gather there might be a plethora of medicinal compounds you know nothing about!"

He sighs softly and glances around at the crowd, ever so slightly shaking his head as his smile raises slightly on the left side of his mouth, "Just watch where you're going, Miss Myra Longwood, and get the College nurse to look at your head when you get to school; you can never be too careful with head injuries."

"I never said I was in college," I retort, feeling a pang of annoyance at his assumptions. Despite the fact that I should feel more intimidated by Justicar Warden Casillas Gage, I'm not! I refuse to be, although my heart races at the thought of an altercation with the Order's poster boy.

"No, but the standard issue 'holo' that's seen a few too many 'bike lane incidents' screams ninth form. I was attached to mine two years ago, eager to get rid of it."

"Tenth form actually, this is my last year." It feels good to correct him, and throw that smug insinuation back in his face.

"Ah. Well, All the best in your final year. What career have you been suited for?" he asks, catching me off guard. Memories of the careers exams are still fresh in my mind; it had placed me in the medical and biological field, but I'm not interested in that. It could've been a one-way ticket into A-Wing with how high-profile the industries are, but I want out. I want to walk the wastes as my father was forced to do. Perhaps out of sympathy for my dad, perhaps out of the mistrust I harbor for the Order... Either way, the last thing I want is to be stuck down here.

"I'm joining the ASMC," I say. I lift my chin slightly, hoping to convey that I'm proud and defiant enough to not reveal where I'd been 'suited'. His eyebrows shoot up in surprise.

"Well, perhaps we'll work with each other one day."

The scoff leaves my mouth before I even realise. The smallest of dismissive exhales--but I am talking with a hyper-aware sensic; I might as well have shouted 'I HATE YOU' at the top of my lungs. Intrigue colours his body language as he turns towards me more attentively.

"Longwood," he says, his tone taking on an accusatory edge. I brace myself, realizing I have likely drawn attention to my father--precisely what I'd hoped to avoid. I divert my eyes from his, scanning the crowd and their reactions. As I anticipate a mention of my 'traitorous father', he surprises me by stepping closer and bending over to pick up my water bottle, which I hadn't even realized had fallen.

I steel myself for what is to come; the Order isn't known for subtlety. He steps even closer--so close that his head is near my ear. He is at least six-feet tall, so he has to stoop slightly. "Your father was a good man," he whispers. For a moment, I believe him; it seems like he genuinely means it, since he isn't trying to expose my dad or create a scene. The comment feels personal, meant just for us. "Don't tarnish his legacy by picking fights with the Order," he adds, and with that, my goodwill evaporates. I am back to loathing him.

He holds my gaze from under his brow for a second before releasing the water bottle and stepping back. Turning to the crowd, who are seemingly captivated by the unfolding drama, he addresses them. "As you were; do not block the walkway." Immediately, the crowd resumes their activities at his request. His gaze returns to mine for a few moments as he takes two more steps backward and turns to leave, walking away with a confident stride. Apparently unfazed by the commotion he's caused, and oblivious to the state of confusion, anger, awe, and--dare I say it--lust, that he has left me in.

Flustered and annoyed, I turn back and step forward, only to halt as another cheap bell rings out, a second courier speeding by just inches from my nose. I blow out an exasperated breath; look left and right, then cross the bike lane.