The sun was setting behind the jagged mountains, casting an amber hue across the ruins of the old world. The air was thick with dust, so fine it almost shimmered, and Mira gazed out from the ridge, her silhouette sharp against the crimson sky. Her skin glowed beneath the layer of grime that clung to her from days of trekking the wasteland, a woman forged by fire and fury. Her lone figure blended naturally up there — wild, untouchable, commanding.
Her homemade armor clung to every curve, pieced together from scavenged metals and leather. A breastplate, sculpted from rusted steel and worn smooth from years of wear, curved tight against her chest, moving almost fluidly as her body twisted in anticipation of unknown threats. On her shoulders and thighs, pieces of plating were bolted into the mixed furs, protecting her limbs without sacrificing flexibility. Beneath it all, ripped and tattered layers of faded fabric fluttered in the wind, part of a once luxurious dress that spoke of a different life — a life before the Collapse.
Her headgear was adorned with tufts of coarse fur and long, sharp feathers, remnants of creatures that roamed the wasteland’s wide plains. It framed her sharp face, the high cheekbones and piercing dark eyes, eyes that had long since learned not to trust easily. Her lips, cracked by the unforgiving weather, held a stern line that warned off any idea of weakness. Everything about her screamed survivor — someone who had been through hell and back, and who was prepared to do worse to anyone who crossed her.
Mira hefted the oversized weapon that rest against her shoulder. The gun — if it could still be called that — bore intricate carvings from long before the Collapse. It was a fusion of deadly artistry and functionality, hand-hammered metal fused with twisted wires and electronics. The muzzle, broadened by retrofits, glinted under the dying light, much like her eyes. The weight of it was second-nature to her now; she swung it with ease and precision as though it’d been a part of her soul long before the world became a wasteland. Each mark carved into the grip was a story. Each kill was a memory.
And despite how deadly she looked, there was still a softness to those memories. A longing. *What might’ve been.* What could’ve been hers if the Collapse hadn’t ripped it all away. That softness is what she kept hidden beneath the icy exterior. She kept her eyes trained on the horizon, though her instincts were in full alert — predators could sense hesitation. She wouldn’t give them a single inch.
A flicker of movement far below caught her eye, descending into the dusty canyon. Someone was down in the valley. A man, tall, broad-shouldered, armed but a distance too great to read his intentions. Mira’s grip tightened on her weapon, her muscles taut as she crouched, ready to strike if needed. She had seen others before; scavengers, betrayers, desperate souls who would kill then smile about it.
But this one… Something in the way he moved spoke of restraint, like a creature walking with wounded pride rather than ambition. His coat was torn but less ravaged than others she had seen; his weapon slung low, not drawn yet — potential trust, or sheer ignorance?
Their eyes met, even across the canyon, caught between the perils of the landscape. For a brief moment, the dying sun reflected off his pale blue eyes and pierced straight through her cold heart. The months of isolation flickered in her core, but she quickly stamped it down.
Mira knew better. Restraint wasn’t her game. Survival was.
And so, she stood, mechanical and fur, femininity and fury, ready to raise hell if he came any closer.
Mira never trusted strangers. But–somehow—she hoped, quietly, deep down… that this one would be different.
—
As the valley’s shadows began to lengthen, he finally lifted his hand in a slow, cautious wave of peace. Mira didn’t move. She only watched.
In this world, trust was the difference between life and death.
And right now, Mira wasn’t quite sure where that line had been drawn.
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