The Project

The Pig-Man

-Arista's POV-

We have been on the plane for a few hours, and waters are being passed around in glasses. I smirk, thinking back to my prep I did for this trip. Aka, the sleeping tablets in my bag. I don't need a crew with me if I want to actually figure things out, and they already gave me the device with the guys location installed, which was quite frankly incredibly idiotic on their part. I have cup by cup placed the tablets into the water as they went by, and everyone should be asleep shortly. The plane is run off an automated system so no need to knock anyone else out. I hear a barely audible shift in the engines and my ears start to pop, so we must be descending. According to my map, we are landing several miles out of a small, dirt-poor town. No houses, utterly isolated. I have a motorcycle on board, it was my method of transportation even before the Project.

Granted, back then my bike was barely more than a dirt bike but it got me around and I got it cheap. This is a top-of-the-line, more expensive than I am black bike, with every trick in the book built in. It shouldn't be too hard to figure out though.

The plane lands and I roll the bike off with me. I put the helmet and black jacket on with it, it is decently cold here it is already mid afternoon, so it can only get colder. As soon as I get the bike roaring to life I grin, I forgot how fun these were. I look back at the plane, hopefully the guys don't wake up before I'm back. With that final thought, I rev the motor and head off.

The route to town is nothing but a gravel and dirt path for a few miles, until patches of scarred pavement begin to appear beneath my tires. It creates what would be a bumpy ride on anything else, but the suspension on this is amazing. I start to see shacks, with dim lights inside. All very spaced out, with no seemingly no life other than the barely there illumination. But the closer I get, the more I notice the energy suddenly sparking in the air. It is faint, but it's there. I stop at the top of a small ridge and take in what seems to be a small, squashed town. No building higher than someones head it looks like.

I bring the bike up to the edge and can already feel the animosity for someone riding something this expensive. The people all are dressed in whatever they could find I think, some with barely anything covering their skin, but not seeming to care. I am very aware of the knife I have tucked into my boot, and the ones hidden in my jacket. Swords and knives, they're my toys. I pull my helmet off but keep my head low, direct eye contact seems to be an affront to their already tentative hospitality. I don't lower my guard, but I circle the outskirts of this odd village and park behind an abandoned warehouse. It is cumbersome in a crowded place like this, and when I find the man I don't want to lose that bike. I still need to be able to get out of here after all. I pat the other dagger I hid in my pocket, then shove my fists into my jacket and start to make my way into the clumps of people. There is a definite odor in the air, unwashed bodies, odd spices and herbs, and the somehow comforting scent of cigarettes.

I had one relative who smoked, my grandfather. He was my dads stepfather, and even though we weren't related by blood I always felt like he was the only one in my family who really cared for me, regardless of what I did. When he died, that's when I left my parents home. I still attended school, since they were paying for it, but not because of them. Because my Papa always wanted me to do something, because he knew I loved challenging myself with my books and my papers. He did not want me to go because that was what was done, he wanted me to because he believed I could do so much.

Well Papa, I'm hiding knives in my clothes, and hunting down a man in a god-forsaken little town filled with people who look like they'll slit my throat for blinking funny at them. Aren't you proud?

I think grimly. I resent that the Project took my from my school. I loved learning. The smell of cigarettes is getting to me, it just reminds me of Papa. I stop and lean against the corner of a building, eyeing a woman who looks to be in her forties or fifties but is probably at the oldest in her early thirties. That's what pain does to people, they age fast in both mind and body. She notices me staring and mutely holds out a cigarette to me. I nod and take it from her ice cold fingers, with dark crescents under the nails and chapped knuckles. She lights it up for me and I give her a cross between a grimace and a smile. A silent thank you.