Dustfall Trading Post smelled of dry timber, old sweat, and kerosene. A single lamp threw long shadows across the rough-hewn counter, the floorboards groaning with each step Sera took toward the man waiting in the back. She kept her left arm tucked behind her back, the matte black plating catching no light, offering nothing for strangers to stare at.
The contract sat on the counter between them. Cheap paper. Cheap ink. A job that paid exactly what she needed to eat for another month, maybe two if she rationed. She signed with her flesh hand, the pen scratching against the page, and slid it back without meeting the man's eyes.
He counted creds into a small leather pouch. Sera watched his fingers move, watched the number come up short of what he'd promised, watched him pretend not to notice the difference.
"The boy's outside," he said.
Sera picked up the pouch. Weighed it. Said nothing.
The man turned and walked out the back door without another word. The floorboards complained under his boots, then fell silent. The lamp flickered. Sera stood alone in the empty trading post, the creds warm against her palm, the contract signed in her name, and wondered if this was the job that finally got her killed.
She stepped outside.
The sun sat low in a sky the color of old bruises. Dust clung to everything—the sagging awning, the empty crates stacked against the wall, the boy standing in the middle of the road with a bag too big for his frame. Straw-blond hair fell into his eyes, and he clutched a worn leather journal against his chest like it was the only thing keeping him upright.
Sera stopped. Looked at him. Looked past him at the road leading east, the one she'd walked a hundred times alone.
He didn't cry. She'd expected crying. She'd prepared for crying—had a speech ready in her head, something short and sharp that would shut it down before it started. But he just stood there, small and quiet, his hazel eyes fixed on her arm.
"Does it hurt?" he asked.
Sera's jaw tightened. She tucked the cybernetic arm further behind her back, the servos clicking softly with the movement. "No."
She turned and started walking. The road stretched out ahead, empty and gray, the distant mountains sharp against the dying light. Behind her, she heard footsteps. Small. Quick. Trying to keep up.
She didn't slow down.
The boy's footsteps fell into rhythm with hers after a few dozen paces. He didn't speak. She didn't encourage him to. They walked in silence past the last buildings of Dustfall Trading Post, past the rusted remains of a truck someone had stripped for parts, past a crooked sign that had once pointed toward a town that no longer existed.
His breathing was uneven. The bag was too heavy for him. She could hear it in the way his steps dragged, in the small catch of air between strides. She didn't offer to carry it.
The road curved around a ridge of cracked earth, and the trading post disappeared behind them. Nothing ahead but dust and stone and the darkening sky. Sera set her pace and kept her eyes forward, counting the miles in her head, calculating how far they'd get before the boy collapsed.
He lasted longer than she expected.
When he finally stumbled, she caught him without thinking. Her flesh hand shot out and grabbed his shoulder, steadying him before he hit the ground. He looked up at her, eyes wide, face flushed from the effort of keeping up.
"Sorry," he said. "My foot—there was a rock—"
Sera let go. "Watch where you're walking."
He nodded. Adjusted the strap of his bag. Followed.
The sun bled orange across the horizon, and the air cooled fast—the way it always did in the wasteland, like the world was exhaling after holding its breath all day. Sera found a spot off the road, a shallow depression in the earth that would shelter them from the worst of the wind. She dropped her pack and started gathering dry brush for a fire.
The boy sat down. Hard. His legs gave out beneath him, and he landed in the dirt with a soft thump, his bag sliding off his shoulders and landing beside him. He didn't complain. He just sat there, breathing, his hands resting on the worn cover of his journal.
Sera built the fire without speaking. Small. Contained. Enough heat to chase away the cold, not enough smoke to draw attention. She'd done this a thousand times. Her hands moved on their own, stacking kindling, striking the flint, watching the first flames catch and spread.
The boy watched her. She felt his eyes on her hands, on the black plating of her left arm as it moved with the same precision as her flesh one. He didn't say anything. Didn't ask the question she could see forming behind his hazel eyes.
She let the silence stretch. If he wanted to stare, let him stare. She wasn't here to entertain him. She was here to deliver him alive, collect her creds, and forget his face by morning.
The fire popped. Sparks rose into the darkening air and died.
"My name is Luca," he said.
Sera didn't look up. "I know."
"What's yours?"
She fed another branch into the flames. Watched the bark blacken and curl. "Sera."
"Sera," he repeated, like he was tasting the word. "That's a nice name."
She said nothing.
The fire crackled. The wind picked up, carrying dust across their small camp. Luca pulled his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, making himself smaller, conserving heat. Sera watched the movement out of the corner of her eye. He'd learn. Or he wouldn't. Either way, it wasn't her job to teach him.
He opened his journal. The pages were worn, the spine creased from being opened a thousand times. He pulled a stub of charcoal from his pocket and began to draw, his hand moving in quick, confident strokes. Sera caught a glimpse of the page—a bird, wings spread, rising above a landscape of ruins.
"My mother used to tell me about birds," Luca said, not looking up from his drawing. "She said there used to be so many you could hear them singing from inside your house. Hundreds of them. All at once."
Sera fed another branch to the fire.
"I've never seen one," he continued, his voice soft, almost to himself. "Not a real one. Just pictures. And the ones I draw."
She should say something. That’s what you’re supposed to do, right? That’s not something she would know. She never learned how to talk to people. All she learned growing up was how to survive, follow orders, and kill.
The fire was warm. The boy was quiet now, drawing his imaginary birds. And Sera sat in the dirt of a world that had taken everything from her, watching a child she didn't want to care about, trying to imagine what softness felt like.
She pulled a ration bar from her pack. Tossed it to him without looking. He caught it—barely—and stared at it like she'd handed him something precious.
"Eat," she said. "We walk at dawn."
He tore open the wrapper and took a bite. Chewed slowly, savoring it. She watched him from the corner of her eye, watched the way his shoulders relaxed just a little, the way his grip on the ration bar tightened like he was afraid she'd take it back.
She wouldn't. She'd never taken food from a child. That wasn't who she was. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
The last light bled out of the sky, and the stars came out in their cold, indifferent thousands. Sera leaned back against the wall of the depression, her good hand resting on the grip of her sidearm, her cybernetic arm folded across her chest. The servos hummed quietly in the dark, a sound she'd stopped noticing years ago.
Luca finished his ration bar. Folded the wrapper carefully and tucked it into his pocket—a habit she recognized. Wasteland habit. Nothing wasted. Nothing left behind.
He looked at her. She felt the weight of his gaze, steady and patient, in a way that made her want to look away.
"Thank you," he said. "For protecting me."
Sera closed her eyes. "I didn't do it for you."
"I know."
The fire popped. The wind shifted. Somewhere in the distance, something moved in the dark—an animal, or maybe nothing at all. Sera's fingers found the faded tattoo on her right wrist, tracing the lines of a name she never said aloud.
"Goodnight," Luca said.
Sera opened her eyes. Looked at the boy curled up by the fire, his journal clutched to his chest, his face peaceful in the flickering light.
"Goodnight," she said.
The word felt foreign in her mouth. Like a language she'd almost forgotten.
She didn't sleep. She sat watch through the night, her hand on her weapon, her augmented eyes scanning the darkness. The boy slept soundly, his breathing even, his small body rising and falling with each breath.
She watched the stars wheel overhead. Watched the fire burn down to embers. Watched the first gray light seep across the horizon.
And when he woke, she handed him another ration bar and started walking.
He followed.
The road stretched ahead, empty and endless. Sera kept her eyes forward, her cybernetic arm tucked behind her back, her flesh hand open at her side.
Behind her, the boy's footsteps matched hers.
That's how it began.