The chain shatters and the door slams open, the sound cacophonous in the old empty city. The original name is out of use, forgotten by the masses. Colloquially it is called The Desert Necropolis. The paladin stumbles in and Dreya closes and barricades the door. The workbench is old like the city and too rust-eaten to stand against any real effort to get through the door, but if the synths found them, it would buy the pair a few seconds. When being hunted, a few extra seconds can be the difference between escape and capture.
The paladin's voice sounds like rasps through a tin can as she crawls over to a short flight of steps leading to a second door. She climbs up two steps and leans her weight on a third. Tossing her helmet on the floor she takes a deep labored breath.
Dreya gives her a sidelong look as she searches the room for anything she can use as a melee weapon. The zealot rifle only has a few rounds left, one more encounter with the corporate synths and the weapon will be better suited as a paperweight.
"I always thought paladin armor was bullet proof," she says as she studies an old steam pipe.
"The round didn't get through, but it dented the chestplate... I can't... breathe."
"You're being dramatic. You-"
Dreya rushes across the room as the paladin slumps.
"Help... me..."
"Sl... slide over the command lock at the waist... then hit the clasp."
Dreya finds it and does what she's told. The suit hisses and she jumps back. The plates shift and the suit splits in half, peeling open like a banana. The paladin falls out of it, sucking in lungs full of old stagnant air. Tearing her eyes away from the toned muscles and the woman's sweat-coated tan, Dreya watches as the armor folds in upon itself and settles into a portable briefcase formation. Licking her lips, she reaches for it.
"Don't. Don't touch it." The paladin struggles to her feet. "They are synced to our bio-signature. If a heretic touches it, the suit will decommission and self-destruct."
"We always thought your paladins triggered that remotely."
"No, the church has made our armor instruments of divine retribution."
"I see... What do I call you?" Dreya asks as she distracts herself by tugging at the old pipe.
"Paladin Alba. Forest Alba."
"Forest." The name feels special, important, but Dreya can't recall the meaning.
"And you're Dreya Thorn. The church has your name on the Index of Heresy."
Dreya snaps the pipe loose and gives it a tentative swing.
"Great. Now we know who we're dealing with."
Something heavy hits the door, shaking the door frame and bringing dust down from the ceiling. The women freeze, staring at the metal door and workbench. The door groans and scrapes open a few inches, allowing in the unsettling sound of a broadcast drone.
"We have to move!"
Forest wrenches the door open as Dreya reaches the top of the steps. They run down a narrow hall of peeling paint and long forgotten detritus, making a right and then a left before coming to an old rusted ladder. The paladin hesitates for a moment, but Dreya prods her up. The sound of approaching footsteps emphasizing her urgency. They ascend, taking two rungs at a time until they get to a hatch. They burst through and emerge on a slanted roof in the dead of night. Moonlight and the spotlight of searching drones illuminate the Necropolis.
"Hurry!" Dreya says as a synth soldier reaches the bottom of the ladder. Slamming the hatch closed, she runs.
The two run, and jump the fifteen foot gap before crashing through a roof too deteriorated to hold their weight. They fall. One floor. Two floors. Three floors before hitting the ground. Dreya is dazed, ears ringing and disoriented. But Forest takes her hand and the two run into an alley full of petrified garbage and through what must have once been a pet shop.
Cages full of bleached and crumbling paper line the walls. Dreya looks around, taking in tiny glimpses of the old world through faded posters and lableless cans. Forest sits on one of the cages, blurting a hurried prayer to her church.
"You okay?"
"No shoes," Forest says as she raises her right foot. Blood pours freely from torn skin peppered with shards of glass.
Dreya finds some old, but mostly clean rags and brings them over.
"Wrap them up. The synths will be on us soon."
"Leave me."
"You're not giving up already? I thought the church made you paladin's tough."
"Why do you care?"
"Safety in numbers," Dreya smirks, "besides, you're quite easy on the eyes."
Something skitters past the window, giant with a chitinous carapace that seems to shun the moonlight. A monstrous scorpion.
"Hurry, paladin," Dreya whispers, tightening her grip on the pipe. "This place is infested with dark claws."
