The desert winds howled as the battered convertible screeched to a halt outside the sun-bleached ruins of Salinarka. The woman at the wheel flicked her wrist, killing the engine. Dust clouded the air, but she sat still, poised, her blue eyes scanning the horizon through the haze. She could hear the far-off hum of pursuit bikes—mercenaries sent to finish what she’d barely escaped. Her lips twitched into an almost imperceptible grin. They’d underestimated her. Everyone always did.
Danica stepped out of the car—a lean, wiry frame dressed in clothing that seemed both foreign and timeless. Her outfit had been adapted to suit both the harsh desert sun and the chaos of the 29th century: a fitted tunic of deep green woven with lightweight polyfiber, the hem torn mid-thigh from weeks of reckless chases. The tunic’s subtle geometric patterns shimmered faintly when sunlight struck, a reminder of its ancient design roots, salvaged from a pre-collapse fashion archive in Old Geneva. Sturdy leather straps crisscrossed her shoulders and torso, holding a holstered blaster and plasma knife. Thick, utility-grade leggings tucked into sand-caked boots completed the look, but it was her blue fingernail polish—startling and vivid against the harsh backdrop—that hinted at something more personal. Something unbroken. Her curled dark hair framed her face in deliberate disarray, partially shielding eyes that had seen far more than their 27 years should allow.
A light breeze rolled in, carrying the metallic tang of ruined machines. Danica reached inside the convertible, grabbing a tattered map from the passenger’s seat where it threatened to blow away. The map displayed the Old Zones in intricate holographic detail, including Salinarka—a destroyed mining settlement said to still hide rare arcane-tech fragments. She glanced at the location marked in ultraviolet ink: the central spire. It was less than a kilometer away.
She didn’t see them coming until it was almost too late.
The first hunter struck without warning, diving from atop the ruins like a harpy out of myth. Danica ducked instinctively, narrowly dodging the curve of the blade aimed for her neck. She rolled and rose in one smooth motion, her plasma knife hissing to life in a line of searing blue flame. The hunter—a woman clad in patchwork armor scavenged from six different worlds—sneered and lunged again. Danica parried, twirling in a deadly dance as the desert seemed to hold its breath. The second hunter, larger and slower, flanked her from the right. A double-pronged shock lance sizzled in his hands.
“You’re not getting the map,” Danica said coolly, her voice carrying over the arid silence.
The first hunter laughed, her voice low and gravelly. “The map? Oh, sweetheart. We’re here for you.”
Danica’s grip on the plasma knife tightened. She didn’t need a flash of memory to know what they meant. She had tracked her father’s killers for six years through the desolation of the Outer Colonies, unraveling secrets about her own past along the way. What they wanted wasn’t the map—it was her blood. Her lineage. Something ancient carved into her genes.
But knowing this didn’t matter in the moment. The only thing that mattered now was surviving long enough to reverse the roles of predator and prey.
The hunters struck simultaneously, blades flashing, feet kicking up clouds of dust. Danica sidestepped the larger man’s shock lance and drove her knife into his side, the plasma cutting through patchwork metal like sandpaper to silk. He bellowed, collapsing as electricity crackled along his weapon before it shorted out. The female hunter hissed, leaping forward with renewed fury, twin daggers aimed for Danica’s gut. They clashed again, and time seemed to blur—a spinning whirlwind of heat, light, and raw survival instinct.
At last, Danica caught the woman off balance, side-kicking her hard into a weathered statue of some long-forgotten deity. Before her opponent could recover, Danica fired her blaster. The sound shredded through the quiet, and the hunter fell limp into the sand.
Danica didn’t pause to look back. She rechecked the map and resumed her path toward the central spire, her heart pounding in her chest. The spire loomed now, jagged and skeletal, standing defiant as the last remnant of Salinarka’s once-vast promise. Legends claimed its vault held not only arcane-tech but knowledge—knowledge powerful enough to dismantle the fragile alliances keeping the System from total collapse. Of course, legends were wrong about almost everything. Almost.
The sun dipped lower as she reached the base of the spire, its outline jagged against an orange sky. She touched her fingers to the metal door, which thrummed faintly, resonating with whatever ancient mechanism lived within. A light shiver ran through her body as lines of blue light danced across the surface, matching the exact hue of her nail polish. The door creaked open, revealing a passageway into icy, metallic darkness.
Danica took a steeling breath and stepped inside, gripping her plasma knife for what lay ahead.
The pursuit wasn’t over. No, she thought with bitter satisfaction, it had only just begun.
Outside, the hum of engines signaled the arrival of more hunters, this time in greater numbers.
“Let them come,” Danica whispered, an edge of defiance in her voice. Her blue eyes burned brightly, the sunlight catching the faded green of her tunic as the door sealed behind her.
Sci-fi/Action-Thriller
The Source…check out the great article that inspired this amazing short story: Green Bohemian Tank Top and Bold Blue Nail Polish: Convertible Chic Summer Style Inspiration
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