FICTION: Neuroshima Hex – Runners

Today, we have an excellent piece of fan fiction to share with you from author Hanibal Sonderegger. Enjoy!

The Runners

Hanibal Sonderegger, 2015

H0ogrider shifted his shoulder uncomfortably. His new armour was heavy, and his slight frame bounced around in it as he ran. He had made his first kill last week, and so, they had proclaimed him a ganger. Hogrider had not killed out of anger, or hunger, or even survival. He had killed to prove that he was a worthy soldier of the Hegemony. He was not strong, like the Gladiator, who wore armour crafted from the remains of a burned-out squad car, nor was he tough like the guard, whose chest was crisscrossed with old scar tissue, testaments to a thousand knife wounds. He was fast, and his blade was even faster.
Hogrider had started out as a runner, but now that his knife had tasted mutant flesh, they made him a ganger. His new armor was cured leather, and that meant that he might just live a little longer in this crazy world. He didn’t need to run now that his vitals were firmly ensconced in tough hide. In fact, he now commanded a runner as part of his personal team. And speak of the devil- the dust clouds off in the distance announced the return of Flyflesh, his subordinate.

Something was wrong. Flyflesh was shorter, and didn’t have black hair. Hogrider squinted, and put his hand against his brow to block out the glaring sun. The runner was wearing faded green armor… Outpost! Hogrider pulled his knife out, and licked the blade. He dropped low, keeping his knees flexed, assuming the stance of a wrestler he’d seen in an old pre-revolt magazine.

The runner saw him, and slowed. He was carrying something, Hogrider could see. It was a big metal box. Hogrider smiled. Boxes were good. They had ammo, food, bandages, and sometimes even fuel. “Drop the box, meatbag, or I’ll cut you open and wear you like a skin suit.” Hah! Skin suit! Hogrider was proud of his cleverness. The runner put down the box, and raised his hands. Hogrider moved closer, slowly. The runner was tired, and was panting heavily.

“Don’t cut me, I’m just a runner, man.” The runner kicked the box forward, towards the knife-wielding ganger.

Hogrider jabbed at the air in front of the runner, and put an inquisitive hand on the box. “What’s in here?”

“Nothing, man. Just let me pass!”

Hogrider motioned at the runner. “Toss me your knife.”

The outpost man did as he was told, and the knife landed neatly to Hogrider’s side. Hogrider never lowered his knife, but still managed to pick up the outpost runner’s in his offhand, and in a single swift motion, jammed it into the latch of the box, and stomped on it, opening it with a crack. Inside, was the most wonderful prize he had ever seen.

Dirty mags. Hundreds of them! He couldn’t believe it. Women of all color and size, baring their breasts and other parts that Hogrider had never seen before. He thumbed through a few, and then just began digging through the pile. It was unbelievable! He couldn’t believe that women had ever looked like this, or that they would do such things. Hellfire Anne was a woman, but she was a net-master- her studded armour looked spiky, she was constantly covered in dirt and blood, and she had a bad habit of boxing his ears when he came close. These women wore much softer clothes, and seemed to shine, as if someone had covered them in engine oil. Hogrider’s little mind was figuratively being blown, and then, as the high-velocity round tore through the back of his skull, splattering bone splinters, blood, and brain matter across the top of his box, literally.

* * *

Pvt. Hemmings was annoyed. This dumb ganger had broken the latch. He was trying to fix it as the mobile armour, Sgt. Brooks, sauntered over. She popped the visor of her armour, and laughed. “I can’t believe this works. Are all you men this dumb?”

Hemmings cracked a wide grin, from ear to ear. “I told you this thing would save us ammo. You underestimate the power of pre-revolt dirty mags on the savage men of a post-moloch age.” He pressed hard on the broken mechanism. “Anyway, the Salvaged Boob Total Distractor is an awesome idea, and I deserve a promotion.”

Brooks frowned. “I don’t like the word boobs. Can you just call it by its codename?”

Hemmings managed to jam the latch back shut, and clapped the blood and brain from his hands. “Fine. Just so long as you admit the SaBoTooR is awesome.”

Brooks lowered her visor. “I’ll admit that when we make it to the checkpoint safely. In the mean time, buckle up. Bogie at 3 o’clock, 1.5 klicks out.”

Hemmings smiled, picked up the SaBoTooR, and began to run.