Saul blinked and slowly nodded. The volunteer's tone implying he had repeated himself wasn't a good sign.
He didn't remember being asked the first time.
Hunger long since faded from a gnashing hole in his gut to to plain emptiness that left his mind buzzing like a cloud of insects, unable to settle in any one place and form coherent thoughts.
Scribbling a few lines on the datapad and shuffling through the dust to stand behind the other hooded, stinking figures, he struggled to remember the events leading up to the line... only to stumble as impatient refugees nudged him forward, those in front creeping ahead without him.
He gave up on thinking for the moment and mindlessly trudged after the person in front of him. An eternity later table filled his vision and a steaming bowl was handed to him. Barely managing to retain some dignity and not down it immediately, he shuffled carefully not spilling a drop to a place that stank slightly less before tipping the broth to his lips.
It burned down his throat and scorched his gullet, far too many spices used to cover for the flavorless, chewy protein chunks that floated in the stew, barely anything resembling vegetables.
And it was the best thing he'd tasted in his life.
Only a sip had passed to warm his gullet when he quickly lowered it. Some part of his mind awakening, the insects stilling, sated.
Sip. Nibble. Or you'll throw up.
His voice, in his own head. A memory. He obeyed it and continued to nurse his hunger as his perception grew beyond the coarse sands he sat on and the stew in his hands.
The line that had seemed endless had truly only numbered a few hundred people, now sitting in clumps under hastily erected shelters. A few tents likely holding supplies, a massive vehicle everything had likely been packed onto and a few portable showers with commodes that had been set up for the refugees.
He brought a hand to his coarse beard, now greasy with stew and made a mental note of it.
Of the volunteers themselves, he noticed there were only a handful operating the camp and more importantly, no armed guards.
Ah, that's why he'd come.
He was always a fan of method acting. No better way to enter a refugee camp than truly, as a starving and destitute refugee. Also the first few sips of a meal after a week of fasting was beyond what even the most exquisite Canopian chief could concoct. Hunger was truly the best spice.
After the hunger had faded, well...
He glanced around before tipping the bowl of sludge to the ground. This camp wasn't the greatest catch, but loading it ontop of their current haul would be enough to afford to test his theory of hunger vs Canopian cooking.
Making a final glance around camp to confirm the lack of defenses, he reached a hand into his robe for the transceiver at his waist ,opposite the needler he'd carried in case they did have guards. A moot point now.
"Excuse me, sir?"
He froze, was there something he'd missed? He grunted something approximating a reply and turned slowly, bleary eyed in expression but more alert than he'd been in weeks.
"I saw you spilled yours, we don't have much more but it's yours if you'd like it!"
One of the volunteers, a young woman in a hood had brought him another bowl of the swill. He hadn't noticed much beyond the bowl of soup when she'd handed the first to him. He'd expected something matronly like an old nun or a local woman but she was neither matronly nor local.
He caught himself just a moment before it became awkward and muttered thanks, releasing the handle of the needler he didn't remember clasping and handing her the empty bowl.
She was cute, that much he'd admit. Though the uniform and garb made it difficult to gauge her figure, he allowed himself at least a moment leering as she walked back to the kitchen. Perhaps another spoil? He struck down the thought. Maybe some of the other men would do that kind of thing but not him...
..but does that make him any better, allowing it to happen?
Brushing thoughts aside he focused on eating the stew, with renewed and significantly faked gusto. Finishing the bowl and handing it back before retiring to a shady corner with a good view of the entire camp to continue his survey. But in the hours passing there was nothing else of note.
It was a small camp set up to feed, clothe, and give a wash to refugees from the Davion terror attacks. Or at least, so the royals proclaimed. But then they blamed everything on the Davions.
It didn't really matter to him. An easy score was an easy score. So easy, maybe he could warn them off before the crew showed up. He wouldn't even have to fight, maybe just tell them the truth "A bunch of mercs are coming with guns, mechs and a pissed off attitude. Leave now or you're dead. Or worse."
He thought of the woman again. At least maybe he could just warn her....
Shouts of alarm brought him back to the present. VTOL's were coming in low and fast towards the camp. Scouts, and he recognized the insignia. His crew. He quickly reached back into his robe and checked the transmitter, sure enough, he had hit the button earlier but hadn't noticed. Or maybe hadn't meant to?
His mind was still fuzzy.
Either way, he'd have plenty of time to think about it on the way back. The rising cloud of dust from the direction of the VTOL's was not raised by the craft themselves, but something far heavier lumbering his way, coming to collect.
And nothing in this camp he'd seen would be capable of stopping that.
Folding his arms behind his head, he let out a long sigh as the refugees began to rise and stumble weakly though there was nowhere to run. A few others who had simply given up, satisfied with one last meal emulated his posture. Simply lying down prone in the mid day sun, accepting whatever came next.
To be continued...
Edited by Kriegson, 22 September 2022 - 04:13 AM.