Desert Treasure

[t0l]

Another gust of wind blew over shifting desert sands, sweeping up an opaque beige cloud and depositing it over an old, lonely two-lane road that lead to nowhere in particular.

Tal sighed as more hot air passed him by, sweating half to death under the scorching desert sun as he sat discontentedly in a tattered plastic folding chair. At his feet were several water bottles, some empty, some full; all cluttered around the faded exterior of his rifle's stock. A single drop of sweat fell from his chin, through the thin grates that formed a catwalk-turned-observation-post, and onto an uncovered light vehicle's cloth seating down below.

He shifted his head up, wiping some sweat off of his brow with a gloved hand, and looked around. To his right was a young man who somehow had managed to fall asleep in all the discomfort of Nauru's desert, a similarly-styled weapon lying next to him. Tal turned his head left to find two other mercenaries leaning on a rusted railing, one staring out into an entirely empty expanse with a pair of binoculars while the other had a smoke. With nothing else to do while on post, he leaned back in the chair and opted to reflect upon all of the mistakes he'd made in life.

The most recent of these mistakes had to be taking this job, as in the aftermath of Yaren's capture the Core had put out a bulletin looking for any interested parties who would assist them in cleansing Nauru of any dissident Corsair survivors who escaped their grasp in the initial brawl. It was to be a quick, easy buck, and Tal was always down to make a quick, easy buck.

Only this time, it felt like he'd been sitting out here for years.

Omicron Delta's three suns continued relentlessly beating down on their makeshift desert checkpoint, hastily set up on a rusting, old overpass, while Tal slipped a black, sweat-soaked beanie off his head, revealing short black hair that glistened a bit under the light. Normally, he'd hang the garment out to dry, but doing so here would only invite sand to get all over it and increase his levels of dissatisfaction.

"'Fierce planetside opposition' my ass," he thought, stuffing the fluffy hat into a back pocket before returning to a more lax position.

Time continued to tick away, winds continued to blow, and all three suns continued to "be a bunch of assholes" until suddenly, the howlings winds that carried clouds of sand across miles of open desert just died off, leaving complete silence in it's wake. Holofilms and superstitions led him to believe that an ambush was afoot, causing him to tense up and prepare for action, waiting for a bullet that never came screaming past overhead. Instead, after around forty-five seconds or so, the wind picked back up, blowing a load of sand into his then-open mouth.

Tal spat with several exaggerated "p-tews", gaining unwarranted attention by his equally bored squadmates. "You okay?", one of them asked.

"Yeah, just got some uh, sand in my mouth."

The man returned to his cigarette and machine gun whilst Tal coughed up what he hoped was the last stray sand particles that lodged themselves in his throat and spat them down through the grates, wiping his face off before returning to sitting around aimlessly, staring off into the distance.

"Why are we even here?", he thought, shifting around so he could sit up straight, "Couldn't the Corsairs just not take the road? God, this sucks."

He didn't particularly want to taste combat again, especially not against a bunch of starving, deranged Corsairs, but partaking in pretty much any other activity sounded a fair deal more appealing to the mercenary. Hell, he was even willing to visit Kusari.

With a swift motion of the arm, he brought a watch up to his face, eagerly scanning the device to see if any time had actually passed, only to be disappointed at the fact that hardly five minutes had gone by since he last checked his timepiece. He looked around, scanning his comrades once more, and sat back slumped into his seat.

It was gonna be a long week.

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