“So what is the problem that you have dictated?” Samantha asks with furrowed eyes.
“If we’re gonna try and join a caravan without a car we’re either gonna get screened out, robbed, or killed in that order.” The Bandit answers with a strange amount of humored coldness. “We don’t want to be attracting too much attention, especially with these things and him.” She tries to avoid motioning to their guns, the fragments in their possession. “So we need a car at minimum. And trust me, fifty bucks ain’t gonna be buying anything.”
It's the economic exchange, a valuation of transportation priced in relativity. A city of gods openly living in rejection of mechanization, ideology only barely overcome with the hand of the conqueror. It's an impossible task to even find a seller, much less one to part with something so precious.
The Bandit tries not to smile as she continues. “Don’t think we can boost a bit of transportation can we?”
“No.” Judge Murphy draws the border.
“Sorry,” She slinks back with sarcasm. “I meant to say: ‘legally appropriate’ a vehicle. Don’t think we can find some asshole, and I mean real asshole and strong arm it from ‘em?”
“To steal while under such a holy task…” Alto begins as he makes himself aware of the fragment on his hip.
“Gods damn… whatever then. But we’re on the clock so we better think of something.”
Judge Murphy asks the unthinkable, a societal power of law on his side as he turns to the twins and then to himself. Gaze settling upon their collective wealth, found in barter. “We can pool more cash, if we are willing to trade in ammunition. How many shots do we have?”
The twins visibly recoil at even the suggestion, their collective collapsing the social bridges almost instantaneously at the prospect of theft.
The total wealth enough to service the Five through an immense valuation of the huge, anti-armor rounds held within spare magazines. A time of military desperation already creating a shortage of the precious munition fired in fully automatic auto cannons, infantry fighting vehicles clearing seemingly endless crowds in the culling of revolutions.
“Its gonna be tight…” The Bandit begins to consider. “We could get maybe 2.5 bucks a piece? Depending on if we want to deal with military or not…”
Samantha stares at them all, speaking with a low growl of hostility. “We will not allow you to take our current munitions.”
There’s already fractures in their group, cultural biases and experiential matters forcing a long silence between them.
Alto mediates, trying to ease the tension between the terminuses as he takes the perspective of the twins. “We’re a collective now. It means we should be supporting each other through any and all things, just like you two have. Together.”
Both Samuel and Samantha stare at him and then back at each other, a quick glance exchanging a wordless conversation between each other.
It’s still barely enough.
Money exchanged on-pace, a movement through the city continuing as the Bandit counts up the collected donations. Brown eyes darting as she mindfully gazes into a river of calculations, basic arithmetic easily compounding in complexity as a genetic intelligence makes itself aware of the factors involved. “We can probably buy a shitbox mass production, assuming we can find an idiot willing to sell. After that if we consider fuel costs to get us to the nearest den that’ll be…”
She stops in her tracks, right against an intersection between alleyway and sidewalk. “Well, the main problem’s gonna be finding a seller.”
“Explain.” Samuel requests further information coldly, dark eyes meeting with the woman’s.
Stolen story; please report.
“If there’s no supply, then the price goes uuuuuppp. And even worse, since the Federation’s having a bad situation these bills might be worthless.” The Bandit chuckles with a strange sense of belonging, happily skipping across the cobblestone. “But have faith in the black market!”
As if on cue they all hear the footsteps and clattering of ordnance, a full squad of twelve poorly armed and armored individuals jogging down the alleyway towards the distant sound of gunfire.
Bolt action rifles of crude plastic and gunmetal wrapped by cloth held by most of the troop alongside modified revolver handguns from rookie gunsmiths barely functional in rust and poor upkeep; heavy arms found in two: one belt fed machine gun stamped with the ancient imperial dotted pentagon carried by an old man alongside a a young, teenage aged anti-tank operator carrying upon her back a shoulder launched rocket propelled grenade launcher.
All wearing pale blue armbands.
They’re under tunnel vision, orders from hidden commanders distributed across the scattered cells of the cult. Quick glances exchanged by two groups, enough to visibility acknowledge connections of humanity but not enough to implicate factions.
Alto’s hand immediately grabs Samuel’s shoulder, an augmented body already warming before immediate termination of hostiles. Words spoken quickly and under hushed tones. Don’t.
Judge Murphy follows quickly as well, a golden badge of seven bars brushed into the folds of a duster coat as he tries to conceal the dark blue uniform of the Federation.
A firefight avoided by mere inches, barely acknowledged bodies of citizens brushed aside as the squad continues the repositioning of ordnance against distant federal authority.
Held breaths released, all of the Five collectively suddenly falling from readied positions.
Samantha turns to her sibling. “Explain the…”
Madeline quickly interrupts her question, turning to the One, to the Being in their midst as soon as hostiles are out of earshot. “Ok… you said Arsa wasn’t dead right?”
He’s on call, words projected immediately from the childlike form without detectable pause by human senses. “Correct.”
The Lawman continues to pace forward, ancient eyes now kept on windows and rooftops. “Then we should assume the Cult of the Savior will be actively hunting us.”
“Well it's not like they know where we are right?” Madeline asks with a mildly concerned chuckle, her hand brushing over the rotary machine gun. “Right?”
Ar keeps his own manufacture hidden, knowledge only given in the most basic levels. “The fragments are traceable. However, within close proximity they are able to suppress the traceable effects to an acceptable degree.”
The Judge focuses on the massive tactical deficit. “To a degree?”
There isn’t even a hesitation in his words. “Between five point seven one and two point eight one miles of uncertainty, depending on the distance between each fragment.”
“How critical is this effect?”
Ar’s dead gaze stares at the old man, in reference to them all. “It has prevented your termination by Arsa. He cannot target you individually without damaging the fragments, so long as you remain in possession of the devices.”
It's a revelation that all of them process, enough to bring a visible concern to even the stoic form of Judge Murphy and Samuel.
“This is a distracting direction of planning, remain focused.” Samantha insists.
“She’s right.” Madeline scoffs, pausing as she also finds the solution. “We need to split up.”
There are no sellers, not in the limited time and space they have.
A realization after the tenth street crossing and fifteenth interaction, the citizenry of March either incapable of financial consideration or simply absent in the wave of approaching chaos.
Madeline continues calmly, penning over her purse of coinage. The suggestion itself is utterly absurd as the Five just stare, a justification fast approaching as she derives her reasoning. “One group buys the transportation, the other supplies and the other various errands we gotta do. That’s the only way we’ll be able to even stand a chance at getting everything we need. I’ll take Alto with me, Judge Murphy you’ll take Samuel and Samantha as well as Ar. Sounds good?”
“No.” Both the twins and Judge Murphy answer.
She just groans at the stubbornness of the two. “Think about it: Ar can track us so you’ll always know we’re not making a run for it. And we’re assured that none of you two will try and turn us in or… murder us while we’re alone. It’s the perfect way to split it.”
She’s not wrong, the Five exchanging cold glances between one another as they all wait for agreement or objection. Gods above coming to heel in this critical moment, a trust barely earned through a failed crusade for just one idol of salvation.
Nostrils filling with the scent of burning biofuel, the crack of distant gunfire resounding across nearly empty streets. Concerned families barricading themselves into apartment blocks, homes to be turned into urban battlefields as young children take in curious glances through frosted windows.
Alto gives his suggestion. “It is the only way.”