Coming Home [phaslockandload]
“Three and seven, carry the one...khorosho...” Neat numbers lined up in perfect rows on a yellow legal pad, expenses and profits. Four months running they were in the black, turning a modest profit; four months since the road to Sanctuary had reopened. Retirement suited the nomad. He took up farming out in the Fridge, a humid greenhouse bursting with fruits and vegetables shipped from off world. A small herd of crystalisks that grazed on trash and converted scrap metal to valuable oil and energy crystals. “We have enough for new coats, boots, warm wears, before the winter comes. For everyone.” Dima held his fork like a dagger, stabbing at the slice of pie that eluded him. The mutant gave a nod, leaning in to slurp from a saccharine mocha, a thick string of drool tethering him to the straw even as he pulled away. Thoughtful, Nikolai set down his pen, pulled the cathode from the port at his temple, rubbed his eyes. He was still adjusting to the antenna wired into his brain, the lens pinned to the front of his coat that allowed him to see. The coffee shop was a low hum of electromagnetic energy; he could feel the computer at the counter, the power cord with a frayed end, the neon sign that invited Sanctuary’s citizens to Skagbucks.
