Hit the Dust

He throws his head back and screams into the empty air, his red hair hanging down over his shoulders as he does so, and he wonders long and hard how it came to this, with supplies back at base virtually non-existant, numbers dropping drasitcally every other night, and hope beginning to burn out.

Scuffing his boot against the soft ground, the dry sand of the California desert feels hot beneath his feet and he falls back against the driver side door of the car and clutches the hair at the sides of his head in both hands, breathing out sharply. The hot sun beats down upon him, burning his skin, and he welcomes it happily as a change from the bitter cold the night brings.

He's not so comfortable with the eerie silence that surrounds him, though. Out here, silence is never a good sign. It may mean there isn't a raid taking place, but grave silence like this - with nothing but the breeze and his own heavy breathing to break it - this usually means Killjoys have died during the night. With their numbers already dangerously low, every loss is felt with a heavy heart and a sharp realization of the threat posed against them. Out here there are worse fates than death, but it still doesn't do them any favors.

The young man sighs into the air and bows his head, taking a moment of peace and thought for the fallen - although he doesn't yet know who they are - and prays with everything he has that it isn't anyone from his own team. I've only been gone twenty-four hours, he thinks, but he knows all too well that anything can happen in a day. He has never felt so helpless in all his twenty-six years.

But still he stands upright from his position against the car, and moves round to the back to slam the trunk shut on the four-by-six crate of bottled water he managed to pick up on last night's raid of the next Zone over, after tossing his rucksack inside. Four-by-six is better than nothing, he supposes. He ducks back inside the car once he's composed himself and hits the gas, beginning the two hour journey back to HQ. He decides against turning on the radio and just sinks comfortably into the silence, hoping there are still three Killjoys back at base and feeling a little more empowered as he drives through the destruction. There are still plenty of Wanted posters covering the walls of broken down diners and houses, still plenty of brightly dressed individuals wandering with their masks off and their guns on their hips.

Just because they've won a battle, he mutters to himself, doesn't mean they're gonna win the war.