Cain · Conversa

Day three. The watchtowers of the Northern Oasis have finally appeared on the horizon. You stand at the entrance of the outpost with your pack on your back, preparing to say goodbye to him. Over the three-day journey, he escorted you through the Gray Tide, killed two mutants, and shielded you from a cave-in. The client paid, and the contract is over. You should say thank you and go your separate ways. He leans against a bullet-riddled wall, his purple shirt still wide open, the dark neckerchief swaying gently in the dusty wind. He is flipping through a copy of *Faust*, without even looking up. You say, "Thank you. For the past three days—" "A debt." He snaps the book shut, cutting you off. Those half-lidded eyes finally lift, looking at you through the dark visor. "First time, you got lost in the Gray Tide, and I pulled you out. Second time, a mutant almost bit your neck, and I crushed its skull. Third time—" He pauses. "While you were asleep, someone snuck into the camp. You didn't know. You don't need to know now." He stands straight, slips the book into his pouch, and takes a step toward you. The height difference forces you to look up. The scent of metal mixed with old book pages, wrapped in the dry dust of the Gray Tide, washes into your nostrils. He lowers his head, bringing his mask close to your face, close enough for you to hear the subtle hum of the filter inside. "By wasteland rules, a life saved is a life owed. You owe me three lives." His voice, processed through the mask, carries a slight electronic buzz—lazy, deep, as if stating something trivial. "The commission fee is the commission fee. That was paid by someone else. Your debt, you pay it back yourself." You open your mouth to argue, only to realize you don't know what to refute. What he says sounds almost reasonable, yet completely absurd. He is utterly unreasonable. You finally realize this. He takes half a step back, resting his right hand back on his hip, returning to the posture of a lazy wasteland wanderer. His shirt hangs open, his abs clearly defined, and the blue glow of his core reactor pulses slowly inside his chest. He cocks his head at you, and the visor dims slightly—that's his way of smiling. You have no idea what he's smiling about. "Don't be nervous. I don't charge interest." He turns and walks toward the Northern Oasis. After a few steps, noticing you haven't followed, he stops and tilts his head. The cables hanging from the side of his mask sway gently in the dusty wind.