Europe, distant future. A meteorite impacted on the area of Russia, turning the area into a dead zone. Moreover, it emits a strange radiance which increases the impact survivors and their offsprings' endurance and strength, but also causing them to...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
The perception attack me with a violent brutality. I hear loud, bestial cheering. Alongside a surge of heat, I smell mustiness, sweat and several other hard-to-describe smells. I'm afraid to step inside, but I do it anyway. Within a second, the cheering stops and the dwellers look at us.
There are both Castaways and Healthy, usually in pair. Probably Champions and their partners. They mostly look rough and somehow... street. Messy hair, ripped clothes, extravagant styles. The Castaways are armed with various proths, usually customized and personalized to somehow match their style.
I can fit in fairly easily, with a black cropped top, unzipped hoodie and gray capri sweatpants. But I feel bad for Ryan. His formal clothing is as fitting as bikini in a theatre. The dwellers look at us with a variety of emotions - amusement, disbelief, curiosity.
Then, the inevitable happens. They start to laugh.
One of the Healthy, a young man in a baseball cap, steps forward with a grin. "God, you have to be the most pathetic Champion-partner pair I've ever seen."
I feel an embarassed blush taking over my face, but in this place, it seems that I have to play hardball. I approach him, looking dead in his eyes. "That's why I came here," I say with a voice as firm as possible. "I don't want to be pathetic anymore."
The laughter changes to amused "Oooh!"
"A newb, huh?" the man's Champion approaches me. It's a lean Castaway with spiky, dark purple hair in unzipped leather jacket and ripped pants decorated with chains. He pokes me in the chest with his black-and-red mechanical arm. I have no choice but stumble backwards. "What's ya name?"
"Zoya," I reply.
"Nobody gives a fuck about your real name. We use Champion names here."
"I don't have one yet," I admit. "I'm just getting started. I came here to train, get some skills and ask you for some tips and strategies. I hope I came to a right place."
"What makes you feel we'd help you?" the punk Champion smirks.
"The solidarity," I reply without hesitation. "We've all been through the Dead Zone."
"That's true, but why would we raise a competition?"
I keep silent. There is no answer for this.
"Come on, Blackbolt," says one of the female Castaways, a lean, muscular woman with a black ponytail, mechanical legs and a scar over her left eye. "There's no way this tiny something can become a competition, don't you think? I guess it's okay if we teach her a trick or two, so she can survive in the arena for at least a minute. Or thirty seconds - let's be realistic."
"Don't be so mean, Swiftwind," another Castaway, this time chunky and older, scolds her. "We all remember you when you came here for the first time. You looked almost identical to her and you'd be nobody if Scarlet Sparrow didn't teach you how to fight."
