Mother

Wind sighed through the barren tree branches, the pines having long ago given up on water in this dry, hot mountainside. The flowing air currents brought with them the sulfurous stink of the underworld, the heat tortured scent of metal, the soft, yet overwhelming reek of cooked carrion. The ground beneath was warm to the touch even this far away from the flames, the heat having remained here for so many years, long ago setting the asphalt to melting, sinking, dribbling along the edges of the roadways and between the rocks, adding its own powerful aroma to the noxious gusts from the valley below. In the night sky, even before topping the rise to look down into the valley, the air shimmered and danced, a mad dervish in celebration or, perhaps, mourning for the destruction below.

A figure crested a ridge, feet crunching on the tarred gravel of a long ago heat eroded road, heavy boots making a thump-crunch-grind with every step, pointed toes leaving a series of indents to mark the path of her travel. A sorry lack of security protocol for her, but this night wasn't about stealth and secrecy. Not anymore. Her long, thick denim coat billowed behind her from the thermal winds, the frayed edges flapping quickly, out of time with the longer, slower movements of the heavy fabric as it swirled and swayed in the air. Legs thickly encased in dusty, patched and faded canvas that bore straps and pouches, knives and tools. Her arms, covered as they were in the heavy, faded coat, hung at her sides and swayed with every step, but never seemed to stray far from her hips. Those hips, accordingly, didn't sway, sashay or slink, instead tending more to the walk of a matron in the halls of some private school on the way to her duties; formal and business like. The holsters of two weapons slung low on her hips evidenced the reason for her gait, the large pistol grips rising from the leathery cocoons festooned with sigils and markings the likes of which hadn't been seen on this planet in millenia, if ever at all. The heavy belts around her waist were adorned with symbols of various faiths and beliefs and around them both dangled trinkets and baubles of even more. They tinkled softly in the hot air as they swung and swayed, clattering against one another, creating a soft, incongruous music, filling the air immediately around her with something that tasted of hope, smelled of fear, felt like a promise. Layers of leather and canvas covered her body, the remnants of a flak vest unfastened and open atop the layers, with another two pistol grips protruding from just beneath her breasts. Though smaller and less threatening in appearance, their grips were also covered in the strange symbols that decorated their sisters in their low slung homes. All over her coat and clothes, belts and body, were pouches; some small and compact, others large and bulging, and still more long and stiff. Each one containing the tools of her trade as well as food and, most importantly, her pipe and weed, for, no matter where she went or what she might be faced with, she could make the tools and find the food to complete her mission. A sturdy pipe and good weed were rare commodities indeed.

Stepping beside the long razed ruins of a large and probably once fancy home, she pulled the thick, dirty scarf down from her nose and mouth, taking her first real breath of the foul, acrid air. Her upper lip curled slightly, seemingly in disgust, as the sweat beaded across its full curve. Raising the goggles she wore, settling them upon her brow beneath the brim of her rumpled, dusty drovers hat, her expression was one of sadness and remorse. Her large, pale green eyes were soft and sympathetic, expressing both sadness and delight seemingly at once. Placed elegantly between them a small, pert nose with a slightly rounded tip crinkled slightly in the hot, fetid air. Her lips chapped, her dark, burnished skin dry and cracking along her knuckles, and smile lines and dimples plainly evident that complimented the deep crow's feet at the corners of her eyes, the face of a grandmother who spent much time with her children and grandchildren, laughing, loving, and full of the wise kindness of a mother's heart. The incongruity of her attire and the matronly appearance of her countenance would have been confusing for most, were it not for the hard steel behind those eyes. She may have been a grandmother, possibly still was, but she was also a woman who's duty was plain before her, and her every motion, every expression, said that she made no bones about completing that duty as quickly and efficiently as possible.