Sagolia

Name - Aidan O’Connor

Occupation - Writer

Location - European Shroud Zone (Old World Ipswich)

Time - Five years after the Fall

It’s never a good thing to smell burning wood this early in the morning.

I woke to screams and the crackle of flame, dragging myself off the lumpy mattress in what passed for a bed these days. The room was one of many carved out of an old-world storage center—concrete walls patched with scrap wood and metal, now optimistically called an inn. Groggy as hell after three straight days on the road, I stumbled to the door and swung it open.

Across the cracked street, a roaring fire consumed what used to be the town hall. Dancing in front of it was a shirtless, bald Junker with a massive raven tattoo inked across his entire face, his skin mottled with bulging purple veins that pulsed like living worms under the flesh, eyes wild and glassy from a fresh Sagolin hit. The perpetual violet haze hung low, turning the sunrise into a bruised glow and painting everything, including his twitching muscles, in that unnatural tint.

“Do you mind?” I mumbled, voice thick with sleep and my lingering Irish lilt. “Some of us aren’t used to sacrifices this early.”

The psycho paused, glanced my way with a stunned grin—like he couldn’t believe someone had rented a room here either. He then snatched an engraved blade from his belt and charged, yelling something incoherent.

“Must we?”

He crashed through the flimsy front gate. I drew my Kimber revolver—the one a mate back in the old world gave me to settle a debt—and put a round center-mass. The impact flung him backward into the splintered wooden fence, blood spraying across the wreckage in a hot arc that steamed in the chill morning air.

“We must, it seems.”

I approached the corpse, the metallic tang of blood mixing with the acrid Sagolin residue leaking from his pores, and checked his pulse. Dead. One shot—lucky, really. Junkers like this usually soaked up a few before dropping, their Sagolin-mutated bodies too wired to quit.

“OH THANK THE LORD! YE SAVED MY LIFE!”

An older woman burst from one of the inn’s rooms—Mable Crokett, the owner. She was built solid: short, broad-shouldered, grey-streaked hair in a tight bun, skin carrying that same faint purple hue we all had now from breathing the fog too long. Blushing made her look like an overripe plum.

“My pleasure,” I said. “Though if I might be blunt, you really had nothing to defend yourself against a Junker?”

She flushed deeper. “I didn’t think I’d need to! Who hurts an innswoman? I’m not stealing from him. He’s free to do as he wishes, but he said he wanted my hand in... marriage, or whatever madness, and set fire to the town hall as some proclamation. Lord, I was worried he’d force his way with me.”

I sighed. Junkers were cracked-out wrecks, sure, but next to Mable’s raw strength, that twig of a man hadn’t stood a chance. I pried his custom blade from his grip and held it out to her.

“At the very least, keep this. Defend yourself.”

She took it, gripping it tight with a nod. “It’s lovely... thank you dearly, sweetie. I’ll always remember this.”

Don’t thank me too much—I was planning to sell it at the next outpost. Didn’t say that aloud. At this rate, maybe I’d get my money back for the room. No one mentioned Junker attacks in the “reviews” scrawled on the inn’s sign.

“Oh, dear... Gundie’s going to be quite upset,” Mable mumbled, staring at the flames licking the sky.

I headed back inside to gear up. Grabbed my pack—stuffed with notebooks, pens, a few pre-fall books I couldn’t bear to trade—and shrugged on my weathered leather coat. Ran a hand through my dark hair (too long now, matted with road dust), scratched at the stubble turning into a proper beard. The cracked mirror showed a man of thirty who looked older: pale green eyes ringed with fatigue, the kind of rugged face that used to turn heads back when I was a playboy writer hopping beds in Dublin.

By the time I stepped out, a young woman stood beside Mable—pale as fresh snow, long faded black hair from old-world dye tied in a loose braid, sharp grey eyes that had seen too much. Remnants of black liner smudged around them. Attractive, in a haunting way—the purple tint on her skin only made her look more ethereal, her figure accentuated by the tight, scavenged tank top and torn clothes that clung in all the wrong ways for a man trying to stay focused.

“Ah, there you are, Mr. O’Connor!” Mable beamed. “Hoping to catch you before you leave.”

Maybe I’ll get a refund—or cigarettes, at least.

“I want to reward you for saving me and the town from that Sagolin-infused druggy.”

Here it comes.

“I want you to take my daughter with you.”

Huh?

“I beg your pardon?”

She placed her hands on the girl’s shoulders. The girl glanced at me slowly, sighed, then turned back to the fire.

“That’s right. Take Riley here, teach her to survive out there. I’m still stuck in the old ways—I’ll get her killed if she stays.”

Riley didn’t look much like Mable—at all, really. Tall for a woman, nearly my height.

“I’m going to miss her dearly. In the half-year since she wandered in, she’s been a true blessing.”

“Ah, there’s the trick.”

She laughed. “Oh, you big joker, you. I do honestly believe her to be my daughter, but you’re right, she’s not actually my daughter. Found her half-starved on the outskirts one day. Couldn’t leave her alone. But now you can look after her.”

I held up my hands. “Listen, Mable, I’m honored, truly, but I can’t take someone with me. I don’t know the first thing about kids, let alone girls.”

She shook her head. “Nonsense. You’ve been a true gentleman. I know you’ll take great care of her.”

Riley stepped closer, looking up at me. “I’m not a kid. I’m 22. And out here, with the average lifespan? I’m basically retired.”

Fair point. And hearing she wasn’t underage eased one worry, even as old habits stirred at how the haze seemed to sharpen every curve and shadow on her.

She leaned in, whispering: “Just keep me till the next town. Ditch me there. Granny’ll be happy, we part ways. Hell, try selling me off—I’ll escape, you get paid, never see each other again.”

Tempting. Though the thought carried darker edges, I shoved down.

“Alright, fine. She can come.”

Mable cheered, lunging into a hug that nearly cracked my ribs.

“Gah... you’re too kind.”

Riley chuckled as Mable sobbed. Finally, we left the town behind—shacks of scrap and pre-fall ruins glowing faintly violet under the endless haze—and walked the broken roads together.

I glanced sideways. This was going to be a disaster.

“Wanna play I Spy? I’ll start... I spy something purple.”

I already regret this.

We’d been walking for hours, boots crunching over cracked asphalt choked with weeds, the perpetual violet haze turning the overgrown trees into twisted silhouettes. Riley had a curious streak—kept asking about the old world, the politics that lit the fuse.

“Did they really refuse to give it back?”

“Who?”

“The Sauds!”

“Oh, yeah. They kept it for themselves. Everyone expected that, though.”

“That’s fucked up. Didn’t it belong to Jordan first?”

“Yeah, well, the world’s been fucked up long before the Fall.”

She wasn’t wrong. I’d been like most people back then—some independent writer knocking about Dublin, chasing women and deadlines, barely glancing at the news. Middle East drama felt a continent away. My mates wrote papers on it; I nodded along in pubs. It wasn’t until the UK declared war on New Iran that it hit home. By then, it was far too late.

“Why didn’t we help Jordan? Aren’t we allies?”

“What, and commit an act of war against Saudi Arabia?” I snorted. “No one wanted to fight the biggest oil seller on the planet.”

“But Sagolin was clearly better. Jordan could’ve cut a great deal.”

I shook my head. “No one knew how good it was until it was too late. Too many ‘ifs.’”

She growled and kicked a loose stone. “People are stupid.”

I laughed. “That we can agree on.”

Then I froze.

My hand shot out, grabbing her arm and yanking her back hard. She stumbled into me with a grunt, her body pressing close for a heartbeat too long—soft warmth cutting through the chill haze before I steadied her.

“Hey! Get your paws off me, pervert!”

The joking died when she saw my face. She followed my gaze ahead.

A shallow pond had formed in a cratered stretch of road, fed by years of unchecked rain. Trees had punched through the asphalt around it, roots sprawling like veins. Floating face-down in the murky water was a body, still in full gear, backpack intact, not a scrap looted.

“Oh god,” Riley whispered, voice trembling. “We should help him.”

I shook my head slowly. “He’s been dead a while. Too untouched. Too perfect.”

Her eyes widened as it clicked. Smart girl.

“Shit. You think they already see us?”

“Yep. Waiting to see if we bite. Patient bastards.”

I’d liked fishing once, back when fish didn’t fish you back. Now, the haze made everything a predator, twisting hunger into something that craved more than meat.

“What do we do? Turn around and run?”

“No. There’ll be a couple behind us already herding us the right way. If we stall too long, they’ll even wander up friendly-like and suggest we check the body.”

Riley’s voice cracked. “This is so fucked up, Aidan. Are we going to die?”

I met her eyes. “How fast can you run?”

Tears welled, but she sucked in a breath and nodded, steeling herself.

“NOW!”

I shoved her to the right and sprinted after her, keeping my hand on her back, my body between her and the open ground. The moment we broke cover, guttural screams erupted in some twisted tongue, followed by the crack of gunfire. Bullets whined past us, splintering bark and kicking up dirt, shards embedding in my arm with burning stings.

We crashed toward a derelict shack—boards nailed haphazardly over pre-fall brick, roof half caved in. Riley reached for the door; I yanked her aside and slammed my shoulder into it. Wood exploded inward.

I tumbled inside, crashing straight into a waiting figure clad in torn riot gear patched with scrap metal and leather. A full gas mask hissed, hooked to a back-mounted tank glowing faint purple—pure concentrated Sagolin. His exposed skin was a nightmare: bulging veins throbbing, patchy crystalline growths cracking and oozing viscous purple fluid, bloodshot eyes glaring through cracked lenses.

He roared—a wet, ragged sound reeking of decay—and swung a makeshift club. I ducked, slammed him against the wall, grappling for control. He was unnaturally strong, chem-raged muscles surging, breath hot through the mask. I twisted hard, jammed my Kimber under his jaw, and pulled the trigger. The shot deafened in the confined space; he went limp, slumping in a heap. The mask cracked open, revealing a face frozen in eternal agony, teeth elongated into jagged fangs from years of exposure.

Riley shouted behind me. I spun—she stood frozen in the corner, hands over her mouth.

“Sorry!” she gasped, snapping out of it.

“You alright, love?” I muttered, catching my breath, body aching from the rush.

She nodded shakily, staring at the corpse. “Who are these people?”

“Chem Pirates. Deliberate overdoses on Sagolin till they’re barely human. Stronger, meaner, completely mad. They raid for flesh as much as loot—turn captives into playthings before the mutations finish them.”

I knelt, rummaging his gear. Nothing is worth much except the mask and tank. Then I spotted it—a dead-man switch clutched in his gloved hand, thumb hovering over a purge valve that would flood the shack with raw gas.

“Do you have a mask?”

“Mask? No, why would I—”

I dropped my pack, dug out two old filters I’d scavenged years ago, and tossed her one.

“Put it on. Now.”

She fumbled with the straps, securing them without question. Good instincts.

Movement flashed at the doorway. I snapped up my gun and fired as the second pirate burst in. He dropped convulsing, purple foam bubbling from his mouth, crystals already forming on his skin as the haze claimed him even in death.

A metal canister clattered across the floor, hissing purple smoke.

I locked eyes with Riley through our masks and nodded once. Hold on.

The canister erupted into a thick, churning cloud that clawed at our filters, whispering hallucinations of twisted pleasures and endless pain at the edges of my mind.

I blasted the back window with two shots, smashed the remaining glass with my sleeve-wrapped elbow, and boosted Riley through. She scrambled out; I followed just as heavy boots thundered into the room behind us.

“GO!”

We ran blind—no direction, just away—crashing through undergrowth, leaping fallen trunks, lungs burning behind the filters. We didn’t stop until the bruised sun dipped low and our legs finally gave out.

We holed up in a half-collapsed bookstore—shelves toppled like dominoes, pages scattered and swollen with damp, the air still carrying the faint ghost of old paper beneath the violet tang. I barricaded the door with a heavy shelf while Riley sank into a corner, pulling off her mask and staring blankly at the floor.

“Not used to the chaos yet?”

She looked up, shook her head. “I stayed in my apartment for the first five years. High floor—nobody bothered climbing that far. Stocked enough food for a while. I kept hoping my parents would come home, but…”

She winced. I nodded, letting the silence speak.

“Then I ran out. Wandered until Mable found me.”

“Yeah,” I said softly. “You’ve been with her since.”

She hugged her knees. “Don’t get me wrong—I knew how fucked everything was. Heard the gunfire, the screams drifting up. Knew people were killing each other. But seeing it… doing it…”

She took a shaky breath. “Sorry. You don’t want to deal with some kid breaking down.”

I gave her a tired grin as I set up the little gas stove and cracked open two cans.

“You’re doing grand, Riley. Takes the heart out of anyone the first time they’re in the thick of it. Just keep your head straight. I’ll get you somewhere safer.”

Her vulnerability stirred something primal—a dangerous tangle of protector and predator in this violet hell. I forced my gaze away as she hugged her knees tighter, the low cut of her top a fleeting distraction I buried deep.

She managed a small smile. “Thanks, Aidan… though, do we have to eat that? I hate chicken noodles.”