Biting the Dust - Miller
I had been born with the taste of dust in my mouth, skin leathery and rough from the constant chafe of sandy clothing. I kept a six shooter on my hip and my multipurpose knife strapped to my thigh. My hair was thick and bushy; it had to be cut (hacked) when it became unruly. Dressed from head to toe in men's clothing, I usually kept the worst of the perverts away when travelling. However, my home, if I could call it that, was recently raided by slavers. I had to leave.
My home was more like a encampment. Temporary. My life had always been nomadic, my parents never liking to stay in one place and downright suspicious of cities and towns. I've traveled with so many different groups over the years, I've come to see the worst and best in people. The people I had been staying with were all right, not anything like the best of neighbors (everyone had their differences, after all), but all right. The wastelands were fraught with too much danger to trust anything or anyone beyond all right.
It was dawn when the slavers swarmed the camp.
Usually, I would've been prepared. I would've rolled out my bed, threw on my backpack, and made a fast getaway on my motorcycle. Unfortunately, time spent with this particular group - No, I'm being dishonest. Time spent with a girl, Mira, had made me slow, stupid, and lazy. Unprepared, I barely escaped.
I had been naked and dead to the world, only waking when the scent of smoke drifted into my tent. I fell out of bed, scrambling to my feet, while reaching for my clothing. As I shoved my limbs into my clothes, I grabbed my half-empty backpack. My backpack I usually never unpack, and brushed all my things on my dresser into it.
I ran out of my tent only to run smack dab into a slaver, falling backwards with an undignified, girlish squeak. I saw his leer before I saw his face and reached for my pistol. But my shit-for-brains realized I had just been naked moments ago and my pistol was still in its holster, underneath my pillow. I suppressed my urge to scream at the slaver and lunged for my bed. He caught my ankle easily, sliding his other hand roughly along the inside of my thigh. I brace myself on my palms and deliver a angry kick with my other foot. It hits his fucking grin with crewck sound of breaking enamel.
"Bitch!" he roared, snapping my ankle like so.
The pain instantly makes my body go limp and I can't help my scream then. However, I hear a defeaning gunshot and with the firelight behind him, I see that half of the slaver's head is gone. Without much processing time, I'm being hosited up and dragged out of my tent. My bike is idling only a few feet away.
I'm trying to walk, only to feebly limp. I swallowed each whimper that threatened to escape my lips, clinging desperately to the body beside me. When we get to the bike, they got on first and then I fill the seat behind them. I wrapped my arms about their scrawny waist and pressed my cheek to the warm skin there. The bike kicked up dust as we sped away.
"Thanks, kid," I mumbled, shame burning my face despite the cool air from the bike's speed.
"No problem, Miller," Mira said, gunning the motorcycle like a professional. "I couldn't leave without my BF."
Frowning in confusion, remembering more of our memorable meetings, I said, "But I'm a woman, Mira."
Mira laughed before answering. "I know that. But I don't mean boyfriend. I mean, best fuck."
I'm Kamilla Rhodes. I'm 26. I prefer to be called Miller. I like women. I'm butch. The one who always kicks ass and erases names. And I just got rescued by my lipstick lover.
What a fucking world.
I had been born with the taste of dust in my mouth, skin leathery and rough from the constant chafe of sandy clothing. I kept a six shooter on my hip and my multipurpose knife strapped to my thigh. My hair was thick and bushy; it had to be cut (hacked) when it became unruly. Dressed from head to toe in men's clothing, I usually kept the worst of the perverts away when travelling. However, my home, if I could call it that, was recently raided by slavers. I had to leave.
My home was more like a encampment. Temporary. My life had always been nomadic, my parents never liking to stay in one place and downright suspicious of cities and towns. I've traveled with so many different groups over the years, I've come to see the worst and best in people. The people I had been staying with were all right, not anything like the best of neighbors (everyone had their differences, after all), but all right. The wastelands were fraught with too much danger to trust anything or anyone beyond all right.
It was dawn when the slavers swarmed the camp.
Usually, I would've been prepared. I would've rolled out my bed, threw on my backpack, and made a fast getaway on my motorcycle. Unfortunately, time spent with this particular group - No, I'm being dishonest. Time spent with a girl, Mira, had made me slow, stupid, and lazy. Unprepared, I barely escaped.
I had been naked and dead to the world, only waking when the scent of smoke drifted into my tent. I fell out of bed, scrambling to my feet, while reaching for my clothing. As I shoved my limbs into my clothes, I grabbed my half-empty backpack. My backpack I usually never unpack, and brushed all my things on my dresser into it.
I ran out of my tent only to run smack dab into a slaver, falling backwards with an undignified, girlish squeak. I saw his leer before I saw his face and reached for my pistol. But my shit-for-brains realized I had just been naked moments ago and my pistol was still in its holster, underneath my pillow. I suppressed my urge to scream at the slaver and lunged for my bed. He caught my ankle easily, sliding his other hand roughly along the inside of my thigh. I brace myself on my palms and deliver a angry kick with my other foot. It hits his fucking grin with crewck sound of breaking enamel.
"Bitch!" he roared, snapping my ankle like so.
The pain instantly makes my body go limp and I can't help my scream then. However, I hear a defeaning gunshot and with the firelight behind him, I see that half of the slaver's head is gone. Without much processing time, I'm being hosited up and dragged out of my tent. My bike is idling only a few feet away.
I'm trying to walk, only to feebly limp. I swallowed each whimper that threatened to escape my lips, clinging desperately to the body beside me. When we get to the bike, they got on first and then I fill the seat behind them. I wrapped my arms about their scrawny waist and pressed my cheek to the warm skin there. The bike kicked up dust as we sped away.
"Thanks, kid," I mumbled, shame burning my face despite the cool air from the bike's speed.
"No problem, Miller," Mira said, gunning the motorcycle like a professional. "I couldn't leave without my BF."
Frowning in confusion, remembering more of our memorable meetings, I said, "But I'm a woman, Mira."
Mira laughed before answering. "I know that. But I don't mean boyfriend. I mean, best fuck."
I'm Kamilla Rhodes. I'm 26. I prefer to be called Miller. I like women. I'm butch. The one who always kicks ass and erases names. And I just got rescued by my lipstick lover.
What a fucking world.