This is a story I'm writing as part of NaNoWriMo, which is a month-long event where writers from around the world focus on writing each day of the month of November in order to finish, or create a piece of fiction.
I did start this story before November but decided to use this month to try and get this one finished, or at least get a good bit of it written.
M'Trada constantly glanced at the blip on the console of his transporter. They were closing in, and the further along they went, the more anxious he felt. There was no intention of working for Crovin in this way, and that slime-bag was no doubt reveling in the idea of him taking a slight beating, only to slink off to fetch whatever it was that he was being sent to get.
The city lights blinded him. From the pitch blackness - by comparison - of The Western Wastes, the inner city was a massive torch, engulfing the world as a whole. To see it from space is quite the sight. He thought to himself while looking out at the sickly neon glow, and verts playing endlessly on flickering screens.
There is so much more out there. That's the sentiment Andron held earlier on, and he was right. Not that M'Trada would dare admit that. There was more to be seen in the galaxy, more than some useless patch of waste ground on the edge of this machine. A machine was all Talirda was, after all. It was a bastion of peace, security, and innovation. After being laid waste, however, what crawled from the wreckage were multiple power-hungry firms who wanted nothing more than to squeeze what they were owed out of anyone unfortunate enough to have survived The Confederation. They'd get their money, and make sure to stamp everyone else into the ground for it, including each other.
The firms weren't afraid of clashing with one another, especially for the reason of expansion. They'd blow up buildings, and send their private militia to swarm headquarters. They had no concern for anyone who got in the way, civilian or otherwise. He stared at the passing lights with absolute disdain. Funny enough, it was considered 'business' in the eyes of the TPD, and T-TEC. However, if that same business was conducted in any other part of Talirda, they were considered 'gangs' or 'criminals' and were to be dealt with in the most violent and swift means necessary. Just another way of keeping people down.
It wasn't that long ago that M'Trada had his own little operation going on, alongside Andron, Mari, and Parkly - the scruff bag. Their first few operations were pretty successful, and they were set to make a serious amount of FST's. The image of Parkly would forever be engrained in his mind; seared in there like decals on a speeder. The Beskin was an old friend of theirs and grew up in the same skyward block.
He was happy-go-lucky. Always up to cause some mischief and was only ever concerned with one thing. Money. Not for greed, but to help people close to him. To have the backing to do some work far and wide and bring about change. Loyal to his patch of waste ground, and more so to his friends. It was his idea to get into heading into the Dead Zone, especially when he heard there were scrapped vehicles up for grabs. Parkly had a good knowledge of hardware and barely had to look at something before evaluating whether or not it was worth the risk.
The day he died was a dark one, and left a mark on all of them, especially Andron. In fact, it was then that he started distancing himself, and started to seem less and less interested in 'dodgy dealings' as he called it. "Do you want us all to go the same way!?" He shouted one night, in a distraught state. It was weeks before they'd seen him again, and at that, it wasn't the same. Something had changed in that space of time, not that Andron mentioned it.
"Do you know where you're going?" Arien asked.
M'Trada almost shed his scales upon hearing her voice. He was so lost in his own head that he had forgotten she was with him.
"Yeah, not for now." He replied, glancing over to her before looking out at the glowing city.
"You nervous or something?" She asked, to which M'Trada shook his head.
"Nervous? Me?" He tried to act like going out this far didn't bother him. That working for Crovin didn't bother him. That being little more than a delivery boy, didn't bother him. "No, I'm not nervous. I just got a bit lost, and let myself drift into the past. These parts of Talirda tend to do that." He continued coldly.
"You don't really like leaving your own territory? The West."
"It's not that I don't like leaving it in general. I'd just rather leave it for somewhere a bit better if I'm honest." He cleared his throat after speaking, which sent shivers of pain through his ribs.
"What's so bad about this place? For most, this is where they want to get to." She looked out the window at it all. The vast expanse of life.
"Most people have no idea what they want, and those that go into a place like that, tend to lose sight of it very quickly." M'Trada pointed out at the buildings that waged a war with the sky. "That place has been the death of many great, and innocent people. The ones who run it, are scum, and the ones that flock to it are mesmerised by the lights, and the promise of something more. It's all fake, lies, and manipulation. Created by the ones who run it, because they're desperate for fresh meat to exploit."
The capital planet of Free Space lost its title long ago. They desperately tried to latch onto it, but it was long gone. The Western Wastes - while it wasn't a great life - had freedom, and that was something that was utterly lost by the ones who came to reconstruct from the ashes, the idea of what this world stood for. M'Trada knew full well the power of greed and corruption and knew he would never be a part of it.
"Fresh meat to exploit?" She asked as she stared at him. "I didn't take you for the revolutionary type." She started laughing.
"I'm not, and never claimed to be. I just know what I like, and I don't like that place, or the ones running it. Their tendrils are everywhere, and by any means necessary, they won't get to me."
