The world woke slowly, like a machine rebooting on low battery. Out in the dead outskirts, there was no sunrise, only the timed flicker of Sector 6's border floodlamps igniting one by one. Harsh white light spilled across the broken highway where the Fox slept, painting her makeshift camp in sharp shadows. She sat up beneath the tarp, stretching until the joints in her limbs clicked in uneven rhythm.Eight metal arms folded and unfolded around her like restless wings. One twithced involuntarily.
"Easy there", she muttered "Don't embarrass me in public."
Her mask hung from a rebar hook overhead. She strapped it on, tied down her tools and started toward the far off hum of living civilization.
Sector 6 rose from the wastes like a wounded fortress,: concrete walls patched with sheet metal, barbed wire and the hum of security grids. Beyond the walls were markets, workshop blocks, cramped housing pods, and people. People who tolerated her at best.
She approached the checkpost gate, her boots crunching over gravel and scattered drone parts. Two gaurds stood beneath the flickering security arch, rifles held casually.
[???] "Oh, its you again.", the older gaurd said, voice flat.
[Fox] "Always nice to feel welcomed," she replied cheerfully.
"Step into the scanner"
She rolled her eyes but obeyed. The machine's sensor beam washed over her, first her human frame then pausing with irritation at the jagged array of metal limbs branching from her back. It beeped, hissed and clicked in disapproval.
[???] "She's carrying turret hardware", the younger gaurd noted, shifting.
[???] "She's always carrying turret hardware" the older said. "If she wanted to break the place, she would have done it already."
[Fox] "Aw, you say the sweetest things."
The machine finally chirped a begrudging green. The gates clanged open.
Inside the walls, Sector 6 greeted her with its usual cocktail of noise and suspicion. Air compressors droned. Vendors shouted their prices over sputtering generators. A tram scraped along its magnetic rail, sparking as it glided over a gap in the infrastructure. People streamed through the walkways, patched-clothing families, soot covered technicians, courier boys weaving between them like feral birds.
Every few steps, someone stared. Someone stared openly, facinated or uneasy. Some looked away quickly, muttering prayers to defunct gods. A few simply tightened their grips on their bags.
She waved at a couple of kids perched on a transport crate. They stared wide eyed at her limbs but didn't wave back.
"Rude", she muttered.
The bazaar sprawled beneath a sagging canopy of lashed tarps, screens and old metro banners. Stalls buzzed with hagglers. Scavenged tech lay on display like organs in a mrket of mechanical anatomy: batteries, smashed datacores, optics, half-melted servo motors. The smell of solder and spiced broth mingled strangely in the air.
A voice rose above the noise.
[???] "Well well, look what the wasteland dragged in."
Jorell leaned against his stall, his grin cutting through his soot streaked beard. His hands were black with grease; his apron was older than the sector walls. But his eyes were warm. Familiar.
[Fox] "Morning Jorell" (she slid a bundle of parts onto the counter) "I brought you offerings."
He picked up a panel, squinted at the melted fuse line and let out a thatrical sigh.
[Jorell] "This is absolutely terrible, did you dig it out of a fire?"
[Fox] "Everything out there is a fire,"
[Jorell] "Fair." (He rummaged under his counter and tossed her a capacitor wrapped in cloth) "This one's steady. Won't explode unless you insult its mother."
[Fox] "Heard." (She tucked it away)
Around them, the bazaar moved like a breathing thing: traders shouting, repair drones hovering, a duo of rust-cloaked monks whispering prayers over a disassembled radio tower. A group of militia recruits marched past, rifles polished, fear poorly hidden.
Jorell lowered his voice.
[Jorell] "Listen, I heard talk. Some folk on the council want tighter security. Less... outside traffic."
Her smile thinned beneath her mask.
[Fox] "You mean less me."
"I mean be careful. You're tolerated, but only because you're useful."
She tapped her fingers against the counter
[Fox] "Well good thing I'm very useful."
Jorell tried to smile but worry tugged at the edges. With a wave, she slipped back into the crowd, her metal limbs folding to avoid brushing passerby. Eyes followed her. They always did.
She would trade, repair and slip out again before anyone remembered to be afraid. Just another day. Another step along the border between the world she lived in and the world that barely allowed her through its gates.
Tomorrow would look the same. Probably.