Gonzo the Dissident

By Gonzo’s estimation, every direction lead only to death. At his left came the heavy plodding of tens of thousands of evacuated citizens, marched from their hollow, dilapidated apartment blocks by thrasher bots and tripods with incinerator cannons. At his right, a steady, disembodied voice over loudspeaker.

“May I have your attention please? May I have your attention please? There is an unaccounted actor among you. Remain cooperative; the problem will be rectified.”

Gonzo hung against the concrete wall, pulling at his jumpsuit. He tried to stifle his breathless grunting the best he could, but there was only so much his nerves could take. They were looking for him–with lasers that could peer through blast plating, with aura-sensing scanner drones, and EMP echolocation radars.

A few radioactive orbs blew past him, and he pressed himself against the wall away from them, whimpering.



In reality, Gonzo was fast asleep on one of the couches in the art gallery’s lounge. The Guardian sat nearby, eyes a cold, nervous blue, and Colton hung over the arm of another couch. He watched as Gonzo wriggled erratically, twitching occasionally at gnats no one else could see. He was a little disturbed.

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