Stale Bravery and the Unforgettable Paranoia

Outside promised nothing more than stale air and inaudible surroundings---no animals, no people, no signs of life, anywhere.

Inked arms slapped the control panel to open the metal doors, ideally, she would be scanned and cleaned of any toxin before being allowed to enter; but, like usual, someone was not where they needed to be to make sure the machine (and the old missile silo turned into home base) was running well oiled.

The large doors opened slowly, creaking as they did, sending the sound through the dank, empty hallways, the labyrinth of the building. Her steel-toed combat bootsclacked along the cement floors, when she arrived into the building. She peered into the control room and saw no bodies present where they should be, or maybe she just had a different plan envisioned. She huffed and turned away to have her legs carry her to the stairs. She was tired---fighting for survival all day for not only herself but for the KillJoys as a whole, had taken a toll on her overall being. She folded her arms to stop the chill of the facility; it was always cold here, especially at night.

When her mind had caught up with what her body had done, she realized that the rooms adjacent to the stairs were surprisingly quiet, the voices of other KillJoys were absent, bleeding as they did through the paper thin walls was something she had learned to live with. At least, in this life. She slowly brought her right leg up and then its weight of hiding a backup pistol caused it to slam back down on to the stairs. Exhaling, she gathered herself once again and climbed to the second floor.

The monotone walls her fingers traced came to a halt as the sliding doors stood before her. With yet another creaking sound and slow movement, they rolled open and exposed the scene out for her to see. The laboratory was fairly large---larger than the one she used to occupy in town, and larger than that of most rooms in the bases she occupied. Still, however, it was not the same as the one she first grew up in.

"Hello, dear." a warm, familiar voice greeted her. Even after the roughest days she could have, his voice would bring her back to sanity.

"How are you doing?" his voice asked her. She thought of an oasis of lies she could spew to answer his question, to satisfy him and make him not worry---much like he did about her and his own daughter. It was always odd to her that he could love something other than his own blood, but that was the reality now. She simply smiled over in his direction (which was rare), and said she was fine.

"How were the routes today?" he hummed while leaning over his desk, looking over pieces of data from the recent test he conducted. She was never one to understand what he was working on, or blantly she didn't care. She always saw eye to eye with the scientist of the resistance of KillJoys, she knew what they were doing was just as important as what the rebels were doing. Whether ot was fighting draculoids in the field, or finding information to counteract effects of their medication and bring their empire down, at the end of the day, anything they could contribute was satisfactory in her mind.

"They weren't too busy. Not as many bugs as I thought there would be," she said, adding the slang to get him more accustomed to the world outside the laboratory.

"Bugs? Oh, yes, the draculoids," he said, reminding himself of what slag the KillJoys use to one another over broadcasts of just everyday conversations.

"The entire base seems so quiet." She started. "Maybe just because I've been hearing Better Living Industries's message all day," she added.

"You were that close to the city?" he asked, taken back for a moment.

"They play that damn broadcast to every zone, sometimes it even clouds out the radios in each station." She said, rightfully so.

"Are you ever going to try and make it to the diner?" he asked.

She would have been quick to answer, but she bit her tongue after his question; she might go to a prominent spot, where KillJoys could trade supplies and refuel themselves, but was uneasy in the idea. She had been part of Better Living Industries, but then again, almost every one who is a KillJoy now, had been too. Only few were lucky to resist them head on. That thought always hung above her head, like a florescent sign, showing her off.

When the noise and debris cleared, there was an empty corridor of endless sirens and ghosted voices. Peering through the rising smoke, she surveyed the vicinity for anything else coming her way. Running a hand through her hair to keep it from blocking her view, she spun around at a noise that came from behind her—but nothing was there. Sirens continued to echo and she knew what was coming, and mentally braced herself for the worst. But each time she had too, her best effort seemed not enough.

Notes