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  Bruce smiled with a familiar sense of attitude as he drew his sword and pointed it his way. “Or what? You gonna detain me you old bastard? Try it!” Bruce called out challengingly, his eyes ablaze with determination.

  Hanzo waved his hands, exasperated. He took a picture of the Mots to show what the Knights had accomplished for their funeral reel, then turned and headed back for the Holdfast.

  “It’s your story, gallant Knight, may your blade carve a place for our weak, stupid species.” Hanzo muttered to himself sarcastically with a smile. Just as stubborn as his father, he might have a real chance... He thought to himself, while he sealed the holdfast and locked it down tight. Concern etched his face when he caught a last glimpse of the Mots. Maybe... The last thing he did, before taking temporary authority per Holdfast policy, was upload Bruce’s biometrics into the Holdfast security system as Jonathan wanted.

  Chapter 3 – Lone Wanderer

  Bruce had passed the broken building he saw before the fight, wandering past the curious contrast of burnt tree husks and flourishing fauna. Almost immediately, he realized all of his nature studies were useless, since the only living flora was mutated far beyond known Earth variants of the past. Rusted structural beams of once ornate city shops now supported vines. Devastated former roads had become miniature mountains of uplifted, badly faded, asphalt. Monolithic tree roots burst from the ground at points before burrowing through another section of broken road.

  Anything that might’ve once shined in the afternoon sun has lost to centuries of weathering, or barely visible beneath clumps of massive foliage. Cars once briefly parked on the roadside had been melded with the landscape around them by sheer explosive heat and force. Stark shadows etched ominous lines that led Bruce’s sun weary eyes toward buildings that had long since collapsed. Occasionally, between the crunch of his footfalls on the disintegrating remains of human society, he could hear small creatures skittering among the buildings. Allaying his fears with his quest of vengeance he continued forward until the restrictive destroyed town opened up into a weather-worn dusty path.

  Here it was evident there hadn’t been enough existing structure to harbor the infrequent rains. Framed by the husks of neatly arranged trees mixed in with light posts and backed by a wrought iron fence, Bruce felt as if he’d walked into a colorless void. Nuclear fire had burned everything to the same bleak shades of grey, only to be further muted and worn to nothing by years of violent weather. Ahead, Bruce could barely make out improvised structures tossed together with whatever rotting metals remained. He walked forward purposefully, keenly aware of the massive Mot footprints below him.

  Bruce drew his blade when he reached the first structure. Stepping inside quickly, his armoured boots made a muffled thump on its metallic floor. A hurriedly painted sign scrawled out the word “Trade” over what used to be a calendar pinned to the wall by an overlapping wall section. A small table that looked to be made of an unknown wood was the only furniture. Closer inspection revealed the whole shack was stained with what looked like dried blood.

  Further inspection told similar stories in each of the other structures, with the only difference being the occasional abandoned body part rotting inside. Bruce followed the King’s fading foot trail far past the structures, no doubt installed to pander to him during his frequent visits to the Holdfast. Ahead a crumbling overpass loomed, its massive concrete support pillars stained with black ash. On what remained of the roadway it once held, Mots stomped around destroyed cars grumbling to each other. Improvised lookout towers had been constructed of salvaged materials, lit only by sunlight or the occasional barrel fire.

  The closer he got to the overpass the more he could see. Further inspection revealed what looked like holders with massive spears, guarded by growling, ginormous mutated dogs. The Mot sentries seemed content to bicker amongst each other while they gathered supplies. Bruce concluded that with the King no longer making business trips to the Holdfast, there wasn’t any reason for them to care. Suddenly ,the mutated mutts started roaring at him, rushing from the overpass with their shocked masters in tow.

  Adrenaline pumping, Bruce ran under the overpass, seeking poor cover between its concrete support structure. Heavy growling breaths preceded sharp clinking footfalls of clawed feet on hard ground, followed by the heavier thuds of two Mots. Trying to mask his fearful breathing, Bruce waited until they were almost upon him to draw his sword. As the first mutant dog’s beady black eye stared around the corner at him he rammed his blade into its skull. Using forward momentum to push it deeper he rushed from hiding with fearful rage and no plan.

  To his horror, the first thing he saw was a filthy hunting rifle backed by lean muscle. Bruce violently uppercut the barrel, getting in close to the lean Mot before ramming his blade into its throat. Immediately, his right leg was seized by the second attack dog, while his struggling victim grabbed his sword arm, holding him fast. In his peripheral vision, he barely caught glimpse of a huge corroded blade coming down on his head. He ducked forward just enough that the blade only dirtied his neck armour.

  Strength fading, his intended target’s grip loosened on his arm just enough to let him force the blade in deeper. The Mot sentry fell to its knees gurgling for air. Suddenly, it raised its gun, blasting Bruce with ancient ordinance. Thankfully for him, it hadn’t the strength to aim for his exposed head, battering his gut and legs before the arm dropped. Shocked by the brutal impacts Bruce tried to step backward, finding his leg had been freed.

  Ignoring the whining of their dog, Bruce barely managed to dodge another blade strike before being knocked off balance by a powerful punch to his side. Bruce ripped the rifle free of the first Mot’s dead hand, turned, and took a hip-fire shot at the last Mot right as it tackled him to the ground. Laying in the dirt, all Bruce could see was darkness above him and a rusty blade imbedded millimeters from his head. With great effort he barely managed to push his dead opponent aside. Groaning, he retrieved his bloody blade and took a closer look at the gun.

  Curiously, it had a relatively full magazine and appeared almost new save for road dust flaking from its barrel at his touch. Holdfast armoury issue... Bruce noted, recognizing its shape from hunting lessons he mostly ignored in class. Must’ve got 'em from the King since the bastard probably raided all the other holdfasts with dad’s permission. Bruce concluded, seeing no reason why he wouldn’t steal the guns along with the citizens. Cynically aware his father wouldn’t have foresight or reasoning to see the value of guns when he put no value on human life, save for that of his family, supposedly.

  Can’t have anybody armed in case one is qualified to fight back...assuming anyone else is still alive. He wondered, peering down at the bodies, confused. The mots he had killed were more along the lines of human scale, with wiry muscle, but the same disgusting exterior. The hounds, however, were utterly grotesque with piercing black eyes, patches of mottled flesh without fur, filthy huge teeth, and abnormally muscular jaws on their otherwise malnourished frames. All the better to maul mutated muscle with. Bruce thought, noting the tooth marks in his suit’s leg.

  He was overjoyed to find the damage to his suit was superficial, given it was made to withstand railgun level attacks, but his body still hurt all over from the rifle burst. I’m shit at this. He admonished himself as he walked away painfully, stopping in an abandoned building to rest. To his surprise, he woke up the next day parched and confused. His head pounded in protest of the light.

  Bruce wandered for days along a trader's trail frequently used by the Mots. Eventually, he arrived at the Master's Mecha, a thriving dystopia built upon the ruins of various cities that was cobbled together with wooden bridges. A dingy wood sign hung on mutated vines to proudly proclaim the name of the dilapidated city. Looking from side to side as he hoarsely took a swig from a canteen he found, Bruce could see smaller Mots running shops with human slaves, selling, abusing, or killing them as they pleased. Filthy human bodies lay discarded around a few of the shops.

&nb
sp; Otherwise, human population was relatively sparse. Bruce stole a ragged black sheet from one of the unstaffed shops to cover his futuristic black armour so he could pass as an abandoned slave. Risk was everywhere as the shop he’d stole from was as practically see-through as his façade. Many were improvised with the same rotting salvaged material as everything else. Holes in the gaps of walls voided the need for windows.

  “You, boy! Get back to the Exchange!” A wiry Mot called out to him. Bruce gave him a dark sidelong glance, content to carry on defiantly. Unfortunately, the Mot didn’t take kindly to his attitude. “You hear me?!?” It shouted, heading towards him from its position in front of a dark alley.

  Bruce rushed the alley with his blade drawn under his cloak. Bruce pushed the Mot back with blade in neck, rage deafening him to the screams of a woman. He left the body to gurgle to death alone before fully realizing what he’d interrupted. A slight-of-frame brunette was forced bent forward into a wall by one Mot while the other brutally humped her. Seconds later they realized what he’d done.

  Wordlessly, he deftly dispatched one Mot before slicing the cock off her attacker, leaving it to scream in adrenalized pain before ramming his blade deep through the front of its throat. The girl quickly removed the dismembered member from herself while crying in a combination of regretful succumbing and sudden rage. The girl stands there shuddering and nude, her rags torn.

  “You’re okay.” Bruce says with calm certainty while quickly and respectfully covering her in his makeshift cloak.

  When it was apparent she was in shock, Bruce was filled with hate. Her body was strong by the looks of it, bruises and cuts did enough to tell of her desperate fight. Her eyes were profoundly empty like she had evacuated to another reality. Wordless, Bruce left the alley directly into a crowd of shocked Mot onlookers. Some stared at his armour like it was an alien commodity though it wasn’t long before they saw his bloody blade. Investigators probed the alley, quickly raising an uproar.

  “Where’d you get that suit boy?”

  “What are you doing walking about like that?”

  “Get back to work, meat!”

  “Jerk my rod while you're around!”

  One by one various Mots mocked him in a bigoted symphony, barely drowning out the outrage of the investigative Mots. Some of the Mots walked close enough to slap him with their cocks in dominance. Bruce could smell their breaths, thick with a toxic smell, stupidly ignoring the blade that saw their members severed. Shocked silence at his violent defiance filled the crowd. Soon screams of rage mixed with pain as drunken slave owners set upon him, enraged.

  Through the few gaps in mutated flesh Bruce witnessed the girl he’d helped get publicly restrained by her master while she kicked and screamed, staring at him with suicidal raging eyes that told him she'd had enough. Bruce was forced to abandon helping her again due to the growing crowd surrounding him, beating his armoured body mercilessly. Thankfully, most of the Mots were smaller, unarmed, his armour did well to absorb their drunken abuse. Forcing an opening, Bruce tiredly cut through the crowd just enough to stand clear briefly. Out of the corner of his eye he spotted his childhood friend Dave tied to the exterior of the largest building like a horse, his body badly beaten.

  Impulsively driven by rage only an abuse victim knows, Bruce charged through the crowd, threatening or cutting any Mots in his way before cutting him free. The pair fled while a crowd of Mots gained chase. Horn blowers blared alerts through the city, leaving them with nowhere to go.

  “Bruce, how the hell? Nevermind, leave me and run, you’re spent as it is!” Dave exclaimed hurriedly through strained tired breaths.

  “Fuck off.” Bruce seethed raggedly, leading Dave ahead despite realizing his body was tiring. Due to the close constraints of the makeshift city, most inhabitants had no trouble catching up to them. To his dismay they were gradually herded back to the tall building Bruce had found Dave at. They were surrounded by walls of muscle with the occasional improvised weapon.

  “You of the inferiors should submit!”

  “Let this be an example to the rebellious meat!”

  “Was death worth all this effort, worthless boys?”

  “Humanity had their time, we are the master race of this planet!”

  “We auhtta keel em all, don’t need this shit!”

  “All this for a pound doll?” “Kill em!”

  Various Mots shouted racist, hate filled judgements as they gathered en masse, curiously maintaining some distance. Gradually Bruce and Dave were herded down the derelict street towards the largest modified skyscraper adorned with the most vines. Suddenly, the crowded parted in front of them, forming walls to either side like an honour guard. Heavy pounding footsteps approached from the left that felt vaguely familiar. Bruce stood defiantly, his throat hoarse with the effort of breathing the dusty air. Dave collapsed from weariness beside him, giving him a sad, almost apologetic look.

  “You shouldn’t have come for me...” He said sadly.

  “What kind of friend would I be if I didn’t drag you into certain death like this? Gotta make sure you die like a man after all!” Bruce said jokingly, becoming increasingly weary.

  “Fuck off!” Dave yelled painfully.

  Moments later Bruce stood tall thanks to sudden burst of rage and adrenaline; he instinctively knew what was coming. King Bonerend stomped menacingly to the forefront of the citizen’s guard. Upon seeing Bruce, he burst into uproarious laughter.

  “The golden boy of worthless humanity has come to me to die? How convenient!” He exclaimed. “Come then, Meat. I’ll break you until you submit! Scream loud enough to make your mother proud from beyond the grave, one all of your kind should occupy!” He seethed.

  Enraged Bruce charged at him, like always, bullheaded with no training. He swung wildly at the hulking mass of Bonerend, leaving only superficial cuts. Bonerend merely walked around him, mockingly batting Bruce’s blood-encrusted blade away like a nuisance as Bruce’s strikes become increasingly feeble. Adrenaline failing Bruce is forced to face his inability to fight further. Laughing, Bonerend punched him in the gut so hard he feebly fellsto the ground.

  “Like your father before you, shrouded in the same apparel, you will become nothing more than a temporary indent in the ground.” Bonerend promised as he brutally beat Bruce repeatedly with his meaty fists.

  Grunting and gasping pain, Bruce was heaved into the air by his bruised neck. Body hanging mere inches from the ground, Bruce put everything he has into his defiant hatred, hoping at least Bonerend can feel that. Cheers from the vengeful crowd rose with his body, drowning out passionate mercy pleas from Dave. With a heavy finality, Bruce’s sword falls from his tired grasp to the dusty ground below, its blood-soaked blade coating in dust like symbolic rust. Suddenly from behind a triumphant Bonerend, occupied spinning around with his trophy, Dave seized the sword.

  With a powerful yell, he rammed the blade into Bonerend’s back, sinking it in a bit before Bonerend’s muscle tightened in surprise. Bruce was abruptly thrown to the ground, landing like a ragdoll on his side. All he could do was watch as Bonerend has an onlooker free the blade. Others held Dave up by his arms like an offering. Bonerend violently slammed the tip of Bruce’s sword into Dave’s chest, piercing through his heart before emerging out his back. Roaring, Bonerend slowly pulled the blade free, showing him the blade dripping with his only friend’s blood.

  “Shame daddy wasn’t here to clean up this mess... I pity you, impetuous golden boy. You’re too stubborn to submit, I can see that. Doubtless wishing you had the energy to spout idealistic vengeance. But know for now and always that your words, like your life and that of your friend here...are worthless. Humans are tools, but you are one to be discarded, floated like garbage!” Bonerend monologued his announcement to his adoring fans who cheered dutifully at his victory.

  Many Mots demanded he instead be hung and eviscerated like a disobediant slave, his body displayed as a warning for other would be rebels. Bonerend roared
over the din.

  “FLOATED!” HE SHALL BE FLOATED!” He said with enraged finality before slamming his foot down on Bruce finally.

  “You will break and die remembering my face to the last.” Bonerend seethed, inadvertently highlighting scars Bruce and Jonathan caused.

  Bruce managed one final laugh, with blood seeping from his mouth, before he was knocked out by a final vicious blow to the head. Disoriented, Bruce was dragged like a corpse through an area resembling a public square while Mots chant "Floated to their end." Repeated in strange eerie unison like a religious mantra. Vaguely out of his peripheral vision, Bruce notices the girl he helped be tossed down beside him screaming, before she, too, was dragged along in restraints. Thumping announces other bodies discarded by society joining their procession. Eventually Bruce's head is covered in a filthy rage before he's knocked unconscious again with a kick from one of his guards.

  Chapter 4 – Island Bound

  Hours later, Bruce awoke groggy and in pain with only his secondary senses to discern his surroundings. Over the squeal of rusted metal, he could vaguely hear the voice of a belligerent man and the girl he saved as they groan or mumble protest. Fastened to something in an upright position, he could feel them travelling along broken paths, the painful jarring of the terrain on their transport offset only by the smell of human waste. An unknown time later, a Mot presumably put something under his nose, knocking him out cold. When he finally awoke, his blindfold was gone and he could see many people all crammed inside the rusted pitted interior of a large box-shaped human vehicle retrofitted like a carriage, pulled by overly muscled mutated horse-creatures.

  Through holes in their transport, he could see miniature mountains made of broken roads, overgrown massive trees mixed in with bleak nothingness, and the occasional Mot trader caravan that jeered at them as they passed, repeating the eerie mantra from before. Most of the few remaining signs of humanity had either been obliterated beyond hope or overgrown by mutated vegetation - unrestrained by hundreds of years of Mot rule. Occasionally, they'd pass through the equivalent of towns with the same cultural reception, showered by waste from Mots and their mutant pets. Every once in a while he saw what might have been diseased abused humans of all ages working themselves to the bone or passed around as sex objects by the master race. Sometimes people trapped alongside him would cry at the site of their brethren while they still had the energy.