"Last Touch. An event which destroyed humanity. A will of a God? A punishment for evil deeds? It could be both, although the real answer those who left won't find in this world." - From the Book Of Destruction, writter unknown.

Soma was standing on a cliff looking in a distance seeing an endless wasteland before him. Endless desert now covering the whole world where once powerful cities reigned. Last Touched erased it all along side the memory of sinners. Soma was one of the humans who did not departure for Future and now he cries along other android type humans for redemption, for forgivness of his past deeds. Sinners is their name now that perfectly describes this world as a rotten world where only those who sinned can live.

Soma was standing leaned on his hover bike, he slowly removed his googles from his head and see clear in a distance. Endless nothingness now ruled, wasteland, deserts and androids is all he know in this ruin of a past world. How can one to find a forgivness in such a place. The thoughts constantly echoed in his mind. He just stared in blank space, trying not to think, but he couldn't block the thoughts. "It's dawn again. Sun's rays are more brighter today." He whispered looking at the sunrise. "It's time to move." He whispered again returning his googles on his face and starting the engine of his bike and drove down the cliff as the wind calmly blew in his face.

Lice was busy fixing up her sand-buggy under the makeshift garage of corrugated iron and general scrap. Inside was an array of transportation devices, ranging from sand-buggies, quad-bikes and their only hover-bike (Ghen, their leader, demanded sole access to this gem - and no one complained lest they wanted a new missing limb). Though under shelter, the light of the burning sun directly above pried through the gaps and gauges of the scrap roof made by the beating of many a sandstorm.

The rest of the pack were gearing up ready for the next salvage sweep. Just outside the garage through its large, door-less opening, was a large piece of fabric propped up by sticks of metal stuck into the ground; beneath it, her pack were preparing, loading weapons, tweaking the hydraulics of their mechanical limbs, strapping on makeshift armor, loading heavy rucksacks with water and rations for the next few days. The pack only sent out a few men at a time on general scavenge trips, but today there had been word from their crow (a pack boy who sat at the top of a high pylon they had erected at the center of the camp to spot prey) of a caravan making its way across the desert. On trips like this the whole pack was needed, which meant they left absolutely nothing behind - in fear that other scavengers might find something useful to steal. Their normal numbers they left behind would usually have been enough to fend off outsiders, but they could not afford the risk: everything but the walls and tents were coming with them.

Lice was lying on top of a plank of wood with crude metal wheels underneath her buggy. She was adjusting the suspension for the ride to come - with such hazardous, ever-changing terrain she could not afford for her vehicle to get stuck in the sand. She noticed a pair of feet stood by her.

"Lice," spoke the voice, a mechanical foot lightly kicked her in the side. "We've gotta move, stop tinkering and get to - you've been under that buggy for almost an hour."

"Shut up, Quint. You know what happened last time I didn't adjust the hydraulics: you got stranded for three days.", Lice and Quint got on fine enough, but Quint was always complaining she pulled more than her own weight, and Lice complained Quint never pulled his own.

"Yeah, yeah, what happened to never bringing that up again?", chuckled Quint. "Anyway, c'mon. It's time to get going. Ghen is out front."

Lice slid out from under her vehicle - the sand-buggies weren't the fastest in the pack, the bikes were much faster (especially the hover-bike), but the buggies were always reliable and less likely to get stuck, which is why Lice liked them. "You piggy-backing my left?"

"Sure am," replied Quint. "Three's got your right."

"Urgh," moaned Lice. "Three can't shoot for hell. But I guess he'll have to do." It was typical for two men to hang on to the sides of the buggies, especially on big hauls: there weren't enough vehicles to go around everyone.

Lice stepped outside the garage; she had already suited up in her armor, her shotgun lightly bumped against her leg with each step. She'd managed to strap some small metal sheets across her mechanical arm - save her joints getting shot apart. Ghen stood ferociously on top of an ammunition crate, the pack gathered beneath him dressed in a myriad of armor, clothing and weapons - only the strips of red cloth tied around their arms, heads or necks distinguished them as a unit.

"Alright boys!" shouted Ghen.

"And girls" whispered Lice.

"We've got a big caravan off north ways. Don't know what they're carrying but it looks like a good haul: they've got gunmen supporting them, ten or so." The pack muttered to themselves in self-doubt.

"But we've taken on bigger before, and we know these dunes better than anyone else!"

"Aye!" cried the rest of the pack.

"Bikers follow me, we'll scatter them up. Buggies follow behind, hook the vans and raid every last ounce of scrap you can!". He raised his Kalashnikov above his head with a muscly pump of his arm. The rest of the pack returned the salute, shouting and chanting in excitement and adrenaline.

In an organised choas of scrambling feet and shouting, the pack jumped to their vehicles, engines roaring and revving. Ghen glided to the front of them. "WHO ARE WE?"

"THE RED SUNS!"

"DAMN RIGHT WE ARE! LET'S RIDE!"

In a cacophony of screaming and whooping the pack set off. Quint and Three held onto the sides of Lice's buggy, jostling about, but not in discomfort, as they rode out onto the sands. Quint called over over the scream of engines, the packs cries and the wind, "BEEN ON A HAUL THIS BIG BEFORE, THREE?"

"NEVER," returned a nervous voice.

"YOU'LL BE FINE, JUST SHOOT STRAIGHT AND WE WON'T DIE."

"OH"

Kieran loaded his 50 cal. He looked out into the barren desert, through the dust and sand blowing in the cool breeze. Then a small black dot appeared. It got bigger and bigger until he could make out the shape of a person. He peered through his scope. It was a lone traveler, carrying a large leather knapsack and what looked like three canteens on his waist. Kieran waited and watched the speck grow from his perch on a small cliff. He checked his scope again, and the traveler was closer. It's time. His finger brushed the trigger as he focused on the object. Then he shot. The bullet flew through the air and hit the traveler in the chest. He re-loaded. He shot. He watched the traveler stumble and fall, and then he left his perch and ran toward the person. He took everything, the backpack, the gun and ammunition, (A 9mm pistol and three boxes of ammo.)
He then rifled through the brown knapsack. He found some parts and a small black taser. He saw a few more things, but didn't bother to look at them. He dumped the contents of the backpack into his almost empty one.
Then he as remembered, a tear rolled down his cheek and he dug a two foot pit in the sand. He stuck his hand into one of the many pockets of his backpack and took out a makeshift cross. He gently lay the travelers body down into the pit and said a small prayer.

"May you rest in the heavens forever."

He covered the cadaver with sand and stuck the wooden cross into the tan sand. He knelt there until the sun was barely visible behind the horizon. The light cast a orange glow onto the sand and Kieran looked at the now red, glowing sand. He went back to the cliff and took his rifle. He took out his compass and walked north-east until the broken down gas station came into site. It was on a crumbling street in the middle of nowhere. He went into the rusty gas station, overgrown with brown weeds. He crawled in through the back window. He went into the locked "lounge" where he used as a shelter. He took out a gold colored key and slipped it into the keyhole. He had taken advantage of the un-raided gas stations little store. He always had bubblegum to chew and he had framed awkward greeting cards. His moral was boosted every time he stepped into the small lounge and saw the faded white card with a pug on it, two googly eyes stuck to its head, and its pink tongue hanging out of its slobbering mouth. If he looked to the right he saw the framed card with two babies on it in a bath, with bubbles in the back of him. This was his favorite. He locked the door. With no windows, the room was pitch black. He took a match and struck it. With a small flame illuminating the cabinet in front of him, he wrenched open the drawer and picked up the dirty gas lamp. He poured a small amount of gas into the chamber and flicked the switch. The lamp lit up the room and Kieran laid the lamp down onto the cabinet.
He Checked the lock and then closed his eyes.

Breath in.

Breath out.

Sleep.

Jack, the mechanic, was a fairly hefty man, about 5'10", with long dirty blonde hair and green eyes.

Jack looked up from his hard work, scanning the horizon for movement. Nothing. There had been nothing happening for days, but still he looked, because caution had been all that had kept him alive through numerous failed raider attacks over the past years.

He returned to his work, thankful for the cover of his hangar. A cheaply built thing, made of a pair of large aluminum strips he'd bent into shape and dug deep into the ground, with plastic from an industrial size roll he'd picked up from a trader hung over the top to keep the rain out. The hangar was filled with a small assortment of important things - a small solar panel and battery kept a refrigerator running, and a few plywood walls formed a "bedroom", where he kept sentimental objects and a rope bed. Much of his food and water came from a small plot of "farm" (really, just a series of trash cans, bags, and drums he grew potatoes in) he'd been working on every night before bed, and he made compost with every bit of waste he had and some of the waste he picked up while trading with the caravans that stopped by every few weeks.

Two years of trading potatoes for mechanical components, scrap, and engineering textbooks had gotten his biggest project to where it was - a huge set of four vaguely arachnoid legs supported a hip piece with multiple layers of copper and steel circles and gears. The feet at the bottom of the legs had black rubber skirts around them for rudimentary air-cushion type hovering. Two arms were nearby, presumably to go with the legs. All he needed to finish his work were a fairly powerful generator, a computer, and something to serve as a cockpit.