The wind howled through the skeletal remains of a long-dead tree, its brittle branches rattling like bones in the shifting sands. A lone figure trudged forward through the storm, his form barely visible amid the swirling dust. Each step was a battle against the elements, the thick Martian dunes shifting beneath his boots, the storm clawing at him with invisible hands.

Through the haze, a blurry shape emerged—a shack, half-buried in the sand. With effort, he forced his way to the door, gripping the handle with such force that the brittle bolt gave way. The door swung open, revealing a dimly lit, dust-choked room. A fire pit lay in the center, its last embers long cold, with pots and pans scattered about. It was shelter, at least—his only refuge from the storm.

From his satchel, he pulled a small ignition device, its metallic prongs sparking to life as he fed it a sliver of battery charge. He pressed it to a pile of dry wood, and within moments, flames flickered to life. The warmth was a welcome relief. Three nights passed as he huddled in the shack, surviving on stolen ration bars from passing merchants. By the fifth night, the storm had finally abated. It was time to move.

Pushing open the door, he was met with a wall of sand blocking his way. It took him an hour of digging before he finally clawed his way free. Taking a moment to survey the landscape, he pulled out a navigation device. The screen flickered to life.

NW – 34.6 M – D-47

"Northwest, huh?" he muttered, turning to face his destination before setting off.

Two hours into his journey, he stumbled upon the wreckage of a military vehicle. The sands had partially buried it, but the frame was still intact. Climbing inside, he rifled through the debris, searching for anything of value. His fingers brushed against a half-buried crate on the passenger seat. Brushing away the sand, the faded text came into view.

MDome-47.

His heart pounded. He was close.

Wrenching the crate open, he grinned as its contents were revealed—military-grade rations, weapons, and a fresh set of clothes. He wasted no time, equipping himself with an energy beam rifle, four power magazines, two cluster shock grenades, and a Martian desert survival suit. Discarding his old gear, he checked the navigation device once more.

N – 12.1 M – D-47

In the distance, a massive black dome loomed. Though he had seen it for miles, it remained unchanged in size, a monolith against the barren landscape. Only when he neared did he realize its true scale—the structure stretched endlessly in all directions, its peak lost in the sky.

As he approached the gate, a long queue of people snaked toward the entrance. Armed guards, clad in black armor, monitored the line, their weapons ready. He took his place at the back, but it wasn't long before a guard approached him, eyes narrowing at the rifle slung over his back.

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"Military-issue energy rifle. Where did you get this?"

"Found it."

"Found it? You lying to me, kid?"

"..."

"Come with me."

He was led to a kiosk where an inspector sat, surrounded by scattered papers and an active camera feed. The inspector barely glanced up. "Who's this?"

"A scavenger, maybe. Found carrying a military rifle. Looks too young to be in any unit."

The inspector studied the boy for a long moment. "Why are you here?"

"The Choosing."

The inspector raised an eyebrow, glancing at the guard. "He said The Choosing? How old are you, kid?"

"Thirteen."

"What's your name?"

"Rust."

"Rust what?"

"Just Rust."

The inspector leaned back. "An orphan. Badlander, huh? You sure you want to go through with this?"

Rust met his gaze. "Yes."

The inspector sighed, signaling to the guard. "Escort him inside. Badlanders aren't welcome here without supervision."

The vault-like doors groaned open, revealing a sealed chamber. Once inside, a speaker crackled to life.

"Decontamination in process. Do not touch the walls."

Nozzles emerged, releasing a thick cleansing gas that clung to the skin before dissipating. Once it cleared, the inner doors thudded open, revealing a bustling metropolis—streets teeming with people, vehicles gliding past, towering buildings stretching toward the heavens. The air was thick, clean, unlike the harsh, dry winds of the badlands.

The guard led him through the crowd to a massive pyramid-shaped building. "Go on in. And don't do anything stupid. People don't take kindly to badlanders."

Inside, a desk loomed at the far end, a single man seated behind it. As Rust approached, the man folded his book and sat upright.

"Name?"

"Rust."

"Full name?"

"Just Rust."

The man sighed. "Age?"

"Thirteen."

"Gender?"

"Male."

"Have you been tested yet?"

"Tested?"

"For your nanoblood count."

"No."

The man groaned, rubbing his temples. "Badlanders… always behind. Follow me."

Rust was led down a dark corridor into a dimly lit room. In the center sat a chair, surrounded by humming machinery. "Sit. Don't move."

Rust hesitated, then obeyed. The man activated the machine, screens flickering as the test began. The chair vibrated, the air crackling with energy. Then, the screens blared with warnings. The inspector’s eyes widened in disbelief.

"Nanoblood count… incalculable."

The man stumbled back, voice shaking. "I-I need to call the heads." He bolted from the room.

Rust’s mind raced. If they knew his count was this high, he’d be a target. He scanned the room for an escape—none. A rush of footsteps echoed down the hall.

The inspector returned, flanked by four hooded figures. Without seeing their faces, Rust felt their gazes pierce through him. One stepped forward, gripping his hand firmly, then releasing it.

"Your name, child?"

"Rust."

"You’re from the badlands?"

"Yes."

"Any contact with the Domes, the Rings, or Jupiter?"

"No. I came for The Choosing."

The figure chuckled, glancing at the screen. "Would you look at that…"

Turning to the others, he gave a single command. "No one speaks of this. Not a word. Send me his data personally."

Rust was led toward the Choosing Hall. As he stepped inside, the voice of the announcer echoed through the vast chamber. "Choose wisely, young ones. You will be commanded… or you will command. The Choosing begins."

Rust clenched his fists. He knew what he had to do.