Airwave

I'll tell you all how this story ends

where the good guys die

and the bad guys win

(Who cares?)

This ain't about all the freinds you made

just the graffiti they write on your grave.

-Save yourself, I'll hold them back

"Del'rehaz viaca nueo mostro," I murmured to myself; my ritualistic welcome to another blazing sunrise. The dunes, illuminated by the rising sun, cast a red glow upon the endless expanse of the desert. The sand, flying in harmony with the roaring winds, fluttered and twirled through the air.

The visible spectrum of Spianae, the central most continent of the Planet Statica, once known for its dense vegetation and greenery, was fascinatingly devoid of life. Of course that was a matter of opinion, as life was both everywhere and nowhere at the same time. All in all, it fell down to how you looked at the great glass-of-water analogy. Half empty, Spianae was dead and gone, it's great period of lush green swept under the rug of sands and decay. Others viewed the dead lands as a half full glass, with the lands playing host to a great age of human survival.

I took a glance to the distant east, the roaring Nyeas sea was washing against the shores with an arbitrary rhythm. The likelihood of two waves crashing in the exact same formation was mathematically impossible, as each set of green pulses possessed an almost constant independence from it's predecessor.

I squinted as the bright sun pierced my eyes, and raised a half-gloved hand to shield my vision. My blood-red hair fell slightly over my eyes, irritatingly disturbing my view of the desert. I pushed the few long strands away from my eyes, and looked out over the badlands.

Beside me, my companion did the same, her shoulder-length white hair whipping wildly about her face.

Over her plain black tee was an ancient green rank plate, sitting neatly on her right shoulder. She cautiously raised one had to it, touching the single red chevron that displayed the rank, almost as if to reassure herself that she still had it. She had once told me that the plate belonged to her great grandmother, who was a Spianean solider in the satellite wars.

The only break in the cast desert was a tall, rusty structure, the gleaming tower of a radio station. This tower was my home.

This lone station, which broadcast to one of the remaining wartime satellites, had stood for over a hundred years, and had a coarse and fading voice. The history behind the station was shaky, and despite spending the last five years of my life there, I knew nothing about the history of the place. All I knew was that it broadcast at 102.3 megahertz, and kept a roof above our heads.

Unfortunately, we needed more than just a roof to survive. Hundreds of variables kept us on our toes, but none greater than the greedy, corrupted force that thought it had us governed.

If you could ask anyone who lived in the deserts their opinion on the Greater Republic Of New Spianae (commonly referred to as the GRNS or Greens) you'd get a smirk, and one riled up raider.

The GRNS legendarily originated from Nova, the large and icy continent north of Spianae. It's said that it was the people of Nova who began the satellite wars, and scorched our once lush land. After they were done with the wars, they took control of Spianae, and began twenty five years of brutal rule.

The early GRNS wielded their power with an iron fist, governing the people through militaristic might and fear. Human existence had drastically changed. No longer was life lived in comfort. Now, just being alive under their control was the luxury.

But, as with any tyrannical overseer, there were outcasts, rebels; the few who stood up for a different way of life. In our case, those few were dealt with swiftly and mercilessly.

The rebels who survived the mass executions fled to the newly scorched desert on the far east side of Spianae, away from GRNS rule. It was here, under the unforgiving sun, that any ties of unity were severed, and the rebels split to form small groups. Each one fighting for survival, and competing against the others.

Two hundered and sixty four years later, the GRNS were still there. But so were we.

For generations, desert marauders had banded together to form alliances and gangs, some running deep within bloodlines and others that only lasted a few days. I, along with some childhood friends and fellow nonconformists, had founded one of these gangs. Together, amidst the constant skirmishes with other gangs and GRNS, we had managed to survive in the desert, like our fathers and mothers before us. And against all odds our group, Epsilon, had grown in number and strength. Seven active members. Seven warriors. Seven brothers and sisters.

Seven mouths to feed, and we were risking dropping that number down to six.

"Think that these supplies will last?" The white-haired woman asked.

I shrugged. "They have to. Not to mention that the meds we snagged were exactly what the doc ordered."

"Well, I hate to nag, but supplies or not you need to get some sleep when we get back."

I rolled my eyes as she slapped me playfully on the back. Grace had been telling me this for years now, ever since watching Dyrez: (The hydrogen fireball in the sky) rise at dawn had become my morning ritual.

"I'm not exactly the soundest sleeper, Gracie," I reminded her, smiling wryly. "Besides, who'll keep watch if I'm down for the night."

"Well, that's all nice and sweet of you to think of us, but you know we have Roxie for a reason."

"Roxie? That heap of bolts and scrap you call a turret? She can barley stay operational in the sand yet alone defend us."

"You're finding excuses again… Don't kid yourself. You have to sleep," she said smugly, clearly under the impression that she had won the argument.

"I can't," I told her truthfully.

"Maybe you should ask Nero for some advice," Grace said with a smirk.

I sighed at the mention of my friend. Nero Deiik had more medical knowledge then survival instincts. He had devoted his entire childhood to studying ancient medical textbooks that his dad had passed on to him. Each of the Epsilon members held some skill in a scientific and practical art. Ancient textbooks and constant exercise helped us endure the weeklong sandstorms that struck all too often. For example, I had spent a fair amount of my childhood studying physical chemistry, and was fairly good at applying these skills when neccicary.

"I'd rather drink molten lead," I said mockingly. Two years of knowing Nero, and not once had I asked him for advice on such a subject. Nero was not one to take medical issues with a grain of salt; if you came to him with a scraped knee, he wouldn't let you go until you were running a perfect 307.9 Kelvin.

Grace shrugged, but her smirk grew wider.

Two loud coughs from behind me alerted me to the approach of two more Epsilons, and I turned, grateful for a reprieve from the conversation.

The first was a woman, five foot eight in height. Her black hair was long and straight, though styled in a way that was almost angelic in nature. Very attractive, with deep green eyes that complimented her heart-shaped face, Skye Keller's appearance denoted elegance. Her attitude, however, was the complete opposite. She emitted a constant aura of casual dominance and cynicism that attracted the people she trusted, and frightened those she didn't. She happily toted a charcoal black pair of jeans held against her thin waist by a leather belt, and a maroon tank-top beneath a black denim jacket. Her length black hair held in a ponytail, was relatively still regardless of the wind.

Striding behind her, his walk one of confidence that bordered on arrogance, was my oldest friend. His wild, dark brown hair was framed by a bulky pair of black goggles. At six foot one, Nitro Heathson was lean and muscular. A white bandanna was wrapped around his neck, typically worn high above his face. Each of us wore one around our necks when not in the field.

A once hopeful GRNS soldier, Nitro's attire was accentuated by several Novian armor pieces. A single shoulder guard on his right shoulder gave way to a bare, tatooed arm. Faded blue jeans allowed full mobility without being too loose or too constricting, and a pair of shin guards that covered his heavy black boots. His hands were layered by a pair of black gloves that were decorated with small silver discs strapped around his palms.

These devices were antimatter drives, a souvenir of his brief GRNS days. They allowed him to shift the state of antimatter to its various forms and practice the fine art of manipulative antimatter alchemy (aptly named MAA). The antimatter, primed by the device, reacted with the nitrogen molecules in the air, and became a new form of matter. MMA was a long-dated GRNS tactic, with the first evidence of it tracing back to the satellite wars, where the tech was first developed. Even though Nitro had spent four years in the junior GRNS army, we held full trust in him, as he had left the force with guns blazing.

I folded my right hand around my own MAA reactive saw, recovered from the corpse of a GRNS elite two years prior. Nitro had taught me how to use it, and I kept it set on its raw particle function. When activated, a large, antimatter primed ring saw was formed with any of the solids on the periodic table, and was held in suspension with the flat side against my left palm. Each member of the Epsilons used some piece of MAA or antimatter technology, and had to how to use, repair, and care for it. As such, each of us could recite the Antimatter Manipulation Principles and Manipulative Alchemic Laws by memory. The tech was infamously draining of energy, holding back nearly as many ohms as a rocket. Of course, seeing as how energy was a rare thing to come by, we used the tools sparingly. The majority of our weaponry was rusted and dilapidated, various rifles, mostly bolt action, and pistols built from scrap metal.

Strapped to Nitro' back was his beloved weapon, a pale white bolt action rifle, loaded to the brink with homemade incendiary rounds. We defined ourselves as members with our colors and weapon preference. Nitro GRNS training and experience in the field made him our best gunman. Toting black and white colors, Nitro held his position in the public eye as the ruthless, merciless traitor. The propaganda tabloids loved us. We were one of the few gangs to publicly stand up to the GRNS after the rebels had disbanded, and walk out alive. The propaganda papers labeled us as terrorists, a threat to the sanctity of human life.

"You know, Hydro," Nitro began earnestly. "I was hoping you'd gotten some sleep, finally, but it was when I could hear a marker squeaking on a whiteboard at four in the morning that I knew you were a lost cause. I mean, who brings a goddamned whiteboard on a supply run?"

"I was working on some new statistics with your MAA piece." I said smugly, crossing my arms. "Fun fact. Did you know that there's a required triple digit IQ for use of an alchemic manipulator? The average Green solider has an IQ of 64."

"Did you know the average chemist gets his ass handed to him by that solider a hundred percent of the time?" Nitro snapped, causing Skye to chuckle sheepishly.

"But seriously," the ex-soldier continued, "Doc said he had some new injection that'll make you sleep like a baby."

Grace burst out laughing.

"Potassium nitrate mixed with melatonin hormones and phosphorus, and a drop of green dye for effect." I said quickly. "I already saw it, and I'm positive won't work."

"I say you're just afraid of the needle." Skye taunted, leaning back comfortably against a rock.

"Oh, thanks for that little miss therapist." I hissed, knowing that Skye, (who was formidable in the fields of psychoanalytic studies) had my psyche down to a point, and clearly read my fear of needles.

"Now, in the guy's defense that's a rational fear." Nitro added, making Skye's eye twitch. She hated opposition.

"It's stemmed deep in his psyche! That's not rational, its repressed fear!"

"Yeah, well, you're afraid of heights!" Nitro shot back.

"I fell a lot as a kid!"

"And that's not repression…!"

I watched the exchange, shaking my head. The sparks that flew between them were apparent to everyone except themselves, who were blatantly oblivious to the obvious attraction.

"You know, I'm all for standing around, but we should probably get going," Grace interjected, putting a swift end to Nitro and Skye's back and forth. "I don't need to remind you how much time we're wasting."

"You want me to get us home? A full night's sleep is typically a good asset to a driver." Nitro asked, falling into step beside me as I headed to the large cavern now clean of all of our gear, leaving Grace and Skye to converse. I grabbed the keys out of my back pocket, and tossed them into the air.

"I could be drunk and half dead right now, and I'd still drive better than you." I replied sarcastically, entering the chilled cavern in which the sleek vehicle sat. I grinned as I pushed the red ignition switch, and my baby roared to life.

The Voyager sat still, its wheels deep in the sand. Its paint, chipped and worn down to a chalky white, almost glowed under the hot sun.

Four years ago, I had liberated the vehicle from a Skelton City vehicle depot. After one of our raids, Nitro and I had needed to make a swift getaway, and the car had been with us ever since. Its nickname was a reference to its mileage. Being the daughter of the deity of mechanical engineers: Alelwin Nerin, Grace had modified the car for extended use, arming and fortifying it.

Nitro was sitting next to me, fiddling with the safety on the Voyager's hood mounted minigun. Skye and Grace were seated in the back, Skye checking the sharpness of the two long knives that she used. The Zel'kultdaegers were traditional Novian combat knives, with a black hilt designed for both throwing and conventional use, but their most invaluable quality were the magazines that were loaded into the hollow hilt, allowing Skye to use them as small firearms, with the barrels protruding along the blade of the knife.

When I checked my rearview mirror to check on the girls, I noticed that Grace was once again investigating her chevron.

"That thing isn't changing any time soon. You're still a private." I told her reassuringly. She looked up at my reflection in the mirror quickly, but lost interest, and returned to investigating her relic.

"Step on it, Hyd," Nitro said, finally disabling the hood-mounted chaingun's safety. "We have a very small window of opportunity here." The invention allowed him some stability while firing the high-caliber gun, and the barrel was protruding through a hole in the windshield on the passenger side.

Without responding, I lifted my foot off the brake and kicked the Voyager into gear. I pulled out onto the loosely flattened desert road and put my foot down, coaxing the vehicle to higher speeds. In the distance, a brown colossus pack was gracefully traversing the sand. Collosi were often violent humanoid creatures, that walked like men but with skin made from a scaly stone and hair. They stood at about 60 meters, and famously ate whatever they could find, including humans.

"Swerve to the right." Skye murmured, her black hair blowing wildly in the wind. "I promised mom I wouldn't ever die before 7:00 AM.

"Wow," Nitro said softly, leaning out the window. A small grin formed on his face. "Hey, Hyd, we kill one of those and we'll never go hungry again."

"You're the guy with the gun, take the shot on your good conscious." I said plainly, taking one hand off the wheel and peering around the windshield at the sight, the sun glinting off of my dark maroon sunglasses. My black and orange bandanna fluttered around my neck. This simple piece of cloth was the staple of our anonymity. We each possessed one, and it was a staple part of our identity as Epsilons.

"Hey, Gracie," Skye said, glancing at the woman next to her. Grace, who had been sitting casually, one arm propped up against the back of the seat and legs crossed, looked up and grinned a little. "You alright?" Skye continued. "I mean, you've been damn quiet."

"I'm fine, just thinking a bit," Grace said vaguely, rubbing her forehead.

"Well, think less," Nitro shouted over the wind, looking back at her.

"It's never been a problem for you," Skye snapped playfully. "Soldier boy."

Nitro a winced a little at his pet name, and I laughed silently at his pain.

"Leave him alone, Skye; he's had enough," I said, making a wide circle around the herd.

"Oh, I'm just getting started, Red," Skye retorted, referencing my hair. "You still haven't told me which dye you use. No hair is naturally that red."

"No, it's legit," Grace said, coming to my aid.

Skye dropped the issue the moment Grace joined my side.

"Just try to speak up more. We worry about you when you get quiet."

"Hey," I interrupted the other three Epsilons. "We're almost there." The large telltale radio tower stood out against the bluish sky, sparking a nervous twitch within my gut.

"Okay, get the medicine ready, we need to get in there and get him handled immediately." Nitro ordered, and the girls nodded in agreement.

I pulled into the large dirt road that lead to the station, nearly smashing the kaleidoscopically painted mailbox at the end of the makeshift driveway.

I hit the gas harshly sending the car rocketing down the road. I could feel my hand shaking a little bit, and my heart began to beat slightly faster than normal as I thought about what waited for us at home.

Nobody said a word as I applied the brake sharply, and spun the wheel, setting us parallel with the wall of the building. Each of us vaulted the sides, Skye grabbing a blue messenger bag as she went.

We headed towards the large broken glass doors that lead into the station, and pushed our way through with force.

"Shard!" I yelled, pushing past the revolving glass lobby door. "Nero! Eve! Where are you!"

"In here…" A hoarse female voice flowed from conference room 5. I rushed Skye and Nitro in, before following in step with Grace. Lying almost perfectly still on the conference table was a young boy, just 19 years of age. His clothes and body were stained with dark crimson blood, and his face covered by a pale white cloth. I heard Grace gasp sharply as she caught sight of our youngest male member, stillest as he'd ever been.

"Oh god…" I murmured, clenching my fist at my side. "Oh god no… no no no no…"

"Shard…" I heard Nitro whisper, clearly fighting back tears. He wrapped an arm around Skye, who was shaking in disbelief.

"You said we could save him…" Grace said, her voice shaky, and her fists trembling. "You said just one goddamed pill would save him!"

"The infection spread overnight…" Nero said, his plain white t-shirt stained in Shard's blood. "I tried everything, even improvised surgery, but the stinger was deeper in than I could've ever imagined. There was nothing we could've done."

"We took our time getting the meds… if we could've just gone faster-" Skye starts.

"It would not have mattered." He interjected. "If anything, it's my fault. I misjudged the intensity of the scorpion's poison."

"You're damn right it's your fault!" Nitro suddenly yelled, jolting forewards at Nero. Skye reacted quickly, and took hold of him firmly, stopping him in his tracks.

"Shut up!" I yelled, stepping in between Nitro and the doc. I threw a quick right hook at my friend, and landed it right above his jaw. His head snapped sideways, emitting a faint crack as it twisted. "It was nobody's fault! Either control your ego, or get out."

Skye let go of Nitro, who stood flabbergasted at the punch.

"Rrright… ego." He said, running a hand down his face.

The room sat quietly for a minute, as each of us took our time studying the corpse. Finally, a tiny female voice broke the silence.

"Thomas…" Eve said in a tone so quiet, that I almost didn't hear it. "Thomas Vincent Kaymin."

Each of us were taken aback by the name. Skye started to weep more noticeably in the silence that followed it. Every member of the group had taken an oath to never share their true name until they were resting comfortably on their deathbed. Skye, Nitro, Nero, Grace, Eve, Shard and Hydro had all been picked by us upon induction, and our real names were safe in memory.

"Always thought the kid was more of a Micheal, or Colin. Never Thomas…" Nitro said darkly.

"Well then. Thomas it is." I say, kneeling down next to our deceased member. "Thomas it is."

O-O-O

Here lies the memory of Thomas Vincent Kaymin. Shard of epsilon.

The roaring winds send sand careening in and out of the roughly engraved letters on the stone grave. A moment of silence envelops the desert as the thinly visible foundation of the pit is cleared away in the wind. A high pitched whimper breaks the quiet, as our true youngest member lays down flat on the sand, her snout flat against the ground, as if trying to be closer to Thomas. The yellow Labrador retriever whimpered again, and started to slowly dig her paws into the sand, tossing it aside in a vain attempt to be reunited with her absent master. I kneel down next to the pup, and run a hand down her fur, as she whimpers again.

"It's okay, girl. Shard's safe now." I whispered to the dog, petting it again.

"This is an eye-opener, man." Nitro said, kneeling down next to the grave.

"Yeah… we're pretty fragile things when you think about it. A tiny scorpion sting was all it took for Sh-… Thomas."

"Shard deserved to die less than any of us, Hyd. I don't think he'd ever even killed anything bigger than a mouse. But, somehow nature picked him."

"Well, you've said a hundred times that death is just a secondary chemical stage."

"That was me playing god, Nitro. It's really like my dad always used to tell me. We're just lending our bodies to Statica. It'll come for us when it wants us back. We can't fight it."

"Well… I wouldn't say we can't fight it." He said, pushing himself back to his feet. "C'mon, lets give Shard some rest."

I nodded in agreement, and whistled to the attention of the tired looking dog. She clambered onto all fours and bounds along next to us as we head back towards the dilapidated radio station. As Nitro and Kieara entered through the sliding glass doors, I take one quick look over my shoulder at Dyrez, which was setting over the horizon.

"Zah'kchi doran ce felian coleckio." I murmur under my breath, wishing respect and peace upon the deserts in a novian tounge. The almost electric silence of the approaching night, assuring me that somehow, against all of laws of science and chemisty, that some form or another of Thomas was watching over us.

I froze for a moment, and shook my head clear of the thought. When I looked back one last time, I saw no beauty anymore, just a dead, unforgiving wasteland. With one less good person to inhabit it. I almost envied Shard for not having to see it anymore.

With a sharp breath, I slammed the door shut, locking myself away from the tangible nightmare I called a home.




CHAPTER 2 COMING SOON!