Engines *growled*, rumbling deep into the cracked earth like something *restless*, something waiting.
Five men sat astride their motorbikes, their movements *lazy but sharp*, like wolves not quite hungry—but always ready.
Then— *a sixth engine sputtered, coughing out its last breath*.
It *lagged behind the others*, a brief hiccup in the rhythm before falling silent.
Dust *lingered, swirling in the headlight beams*, curling like smoke before settling.
Lwazi *rolled his shoulders*, shaking off the ride like it was more *a nuisance than a journey*, his coat still carrying the scent of *dirt, oil, stale wind* —the kind that *stuck to you long after you'd stopped moving*.
A swipe of his sleeve did little against the *yellow-green slime* clinging stubbornly to the corner of his *oversized eye*, glistening under the lantern's glow, *refusing to be wiped away like a problem that refused to be solved*.
"They're settled," he murmured, voice *rough*, like radiation had *gnawed at it* for years.
"Ten men. Healthy. Armed. No magic users."
Dumoluhle's *grin pulled just a little too wide*, like his skin was stretching *against its own limits*, testing its own strength.
"Food?"
Lwazi's *fingers flexed against his knee* — *too long, curling at the tips*, like they were still *figuring out what hands were supposed to be for*.
"None. They're feeding on the dying. But they have water, women, children—and more preserved sperm than you would think possible."
Thabani *snorted*, adjusting his grip— *two fingers tapping against the handlebar*, where the *other three should have been*.
His knuckles cracked with the kind of ease that suggested *he hadn't needed a full set of fingers to break a man before*.
"Then we hit them. Healthy sperm could make a good trade deal."
Dumoluhle's *tongue flicked against his teeth*, *long, forked, tracing the edges*, like a *bad habit he wasn't even aware of anymore*.
"Only ten Tribal men guarding property that expensive? I don't know. Feels too easy."
"If we don't, someone else will," Zibusiso muttered, *rolling his shoulders*, his *neck shifting slightly*, stretching *just enough* to make the veins beneath his skin *stand out in the low light*.
"You know that."
Nkosi *tapped his boot against his bike* —one leg *shorter than the other*, but the boots made them *look even*.
"So we wait. Let them tear each other apart first. We move in when it's clean."
He leaned back, satisfied.
Like he'd solved a puzzle no one else could see.
Dumoluhle *exhaled sharply*, brushing a hand along his thigh— *his nails thicker than they should have been, edges blackened*, splitting slightly as he moved, like *his own body was tired of holding itself together*.
"That plan isn't bad, but you're missing something—this is a highly radioactive zone. If they're resting here, they have pills to keep them alive. Do we?"
Silence.
Mxolisi *laughed*, rolling his shoulders, the faint glint of *metal plating barely peeking beneath his shirt*, flexing with him— *his body hadn't quite decided whether it was human or machine yet*.
"Yeah, well, I wouldn't wanna die getting eaten alive by a giant cockroach."
His *eyes flicked toward Lwazi*, his grin widening.
"The women you saw… any worth looking at?"
Lwazi *blinked*, wiping at his eye again.
The slime *dragged across his cheek*, pooling near his collarbone before disappearing into his coat—his *biology firmly rejecting the concept of hygiene*.
"Two. Maybe three."
Mxolisi *smirked*, *revving his bike*.
"Then it's worth the risk."