Page 3 of Remnants: Disruption
Four Thirty A.M., October 22nd , 1030 A.D.
The issue with our current predicament is that we view Remnants as an anomaly. This is simply not true. They were the ones who remained. The ones who survived. Remnants are not a glitch in reality—they are the future.
Damien Roberts III, The Fallout: A Guide to Nye Verden, 1020 A.D.
New Chicago is a hellhole.
At least in my opinion. And my opinion matters because I am, indeed, a New Chicagoan. If you were from, say, the Alliance, the Steel Empire, or, God forbid, the Keep, you’d be flayed for daring to badmouth our city-state.
But as a native? You get the right to shit on this place. With its steel and copper buildings towering into the sky and the unending pipes of red Affliction traversing between power stations, it’s ugly as all get out.
Even the smog and pollution of the Affliction-powered machinery barely hide the behemoths of industry. You can see the way reality warps around the more powerful siphoning units as they pull Affliction seemingly out of thin air.
“You look stuck in your head again,” Percy’s soft voice, lilted with the Chicagoan accent, interrupts my train of thought.
“I was just thinking about how gross this whole place is,” I scoff, watching the lights of other vehicles flash by along freeway.
“It could be worse,” she says with a snort, turning down the busy commercial district. “You could live in the Western Alliance where everything is cowboy themed.”
“At least they’ve got animals,” I say with a sigh. “And probably something green.”
“Have you been to the Alliance?” she asks, shooting me a quick glance.
“Not that I recall,” I say quietly.
“Sorry, I—” Percy begins, hitting the ignition switch on the squad car.
“No,” I say, waving her off as I push open the door. “I will not accept you apologizing for my poor memory like it was your fault.”
Percy grabs the door to the bar for me, giving me a quirked brow as she swings it open.
“Alright, myamnesia,” I amend over-enunciating the word.
“You ladies are in early,” the bartender, Frank, chimes from somewhere near the sink. The dim lighting makes it somewhat difficult to even parse out the row of tables, capped by a selection of booths. “Or super late.”
“The former,” Percy says, moving over to a booth on the furthest end of the bar.
I do my damndest to avoid watching her hips sway. I promise I do.
“The latter,” I grunt, following behind her.
“You were already up?” Percy asks as I slide into the chair across from her. Her attention is somehow both on me and on our surroundings. Amber eyes lock onto my steel-gray ones.
“I have trouble sleeping, you know this,” I say, shrugging dismissively. Nightmares are common enough in Nye Verden, what with the incidence of traumatic events. If it’s not a Remnant attack, it’s an Infliction event, or a militia skirmish.
This damnable world leaves no one unmarred, not even the former soldier across from me. She reaches her bionic hand across the table, softly brushing velvety meshed skin across the back of my hand. Even without the genuine thing, the touch sends a shiver down my spine.
“Are they getting worse?” she asks, her eyes softening.
“No,” I say, watching as Frank moves to our table with our regular orders. “Just annoyingly confusing.”
“The mule for the silver one,” he gives me a warm grin, sliding the copper mug to me. “And the rum on the rocks for the psychopath.”
“Sue me,” Percy sniffs, giving him a smile. “I can’t help that I’m the only one with taste around here.”
Frank gives us both a nod before returning to the bar. I take a swig of the cocktail as Percy continues to stare me down.
“And what, exactly, were you doing up at four in the morning,” Percy’s brow quirks as she watches me. “Or who?”
