*** 7 Arcology ***
It was sad they had to leave the buggy behind, but it would have been too easy to track once the villagers came looking.
The trash punks continued to their eventual destination, but decided to look at the newly built (and still under construction) arcology. The glistening towers of the aboveground structures made it trivial to find.
The punks approached the entrance to the underground part. The massive gate carried the arcology symbol – a hexagon spiral.
At the entry checkpoint, two men in green and white shorts waited for them. The boys had to undergo a quick full body scan and all their possessions were scanned by a different apparatus.
They had to leave their weapons behind and got a wristband each to make them trackable inside the vast system of hexa-glass-tunnels and caverns.
As soon as they exited the elevator a few geological layers deeper, Fucker saw a somewhat familiar symbol. It was not painted onto a door or a rock this time, but properly printed on a billboard.
Now he could see the bird was actually a human with his arms spread. All in all, it looked a lot more science-y and a lot less cultist-y. The attached organization was called Sunbreaker Syndicate.
"Fuck no," Pyro said. "Is there a whole institute of those freak-crazed assholes?"
Fucker grumbled. "I guess we should keep an eye out for any freaks and ask what's up with that."
"Agreed. Let's send Hardass to restock our food supplies. Hardass, you got our money? All right. See you later."
The boy and his slave made off, while the original trio stayed together and took a stroll through the re-naturalization park where almost extinct plants were grown to repopulate the landscape.
With all three of them on the lookout, it didn't take long to spot a pair of black eyed guys.
"Yo," Fucker said. "Can I ask you two a question?"
The shorter one had to be about 18 and wore a jock strap plus boots. His emerald mohawk was long enough to give him a fringe. He had the vein-riddled super-muscles similar to the punks' brute.
"Yo, who's asking?"
"I'm Fucker, these are Pyro and Savage. We're trash punks. We saw the Sunbreaker board. Heard they have something to do with freaks. You know anything?"
"Fuck yeah," said the other one. "We work for them." He was tall and thin with his yellow mohawk grown out so much, it hung over his left ear. He wore a big hip scarf, covering most of his legs. He had a hexagon spiral on his chest, apparently being a proud arcology inhabitant.
"Oh, really? You're with Sunbreaker?"
"Yup. You want to meet the director? He's always looking for new freaks."
Fucker wondered if he was getting his gang into trouble. But if there was a danger to freaks like them, he needed to know about it instead of waiting until it caught up to them.
"Sure. Tell me more."
The short strength freak introduced himself as Little, his taller one was called Spitter. They headed for their workplace.
It was a quick stroll to the shiny interior of the Sunbreaker HQ. Men in lab coats and slaves in loin cloths worked on mechanical projects across the halls Fucker's group was led through.
As it turned out, the cultist they had met was a former employee. Sunbreaker had its fingers in many areas of science, but once they had noticed it was impossible to create freaks on purpose without killing someone, the research had stopped. One guy stole the equipment and bailed.
The lead scientists were glad to hear about his demise and the destruction of the machine. Fucker thought it wise not to mention that he had used it on himself.
Next, Little and Spitter led the trio into their "office", where they showed off the equipment they used for milking.
Spitter dropped his scarf, slipped a tube over his dick and turned it on. The milking was just like Fucker remembered seeing it at the base where he had gotten his skin armor, but Sunbreaker had developed it further.
They had added an anal plug that stimulated the prostate in perfect synchronicity with the tube's motions. This way, the milked boy could produce indefinite pre-cum without orgasming.
Their efforts had caused an increase in freak-derived medicine by 400 percent.
Of course, the trash punks volunteered to help - out of the goodness of their hearts.
Soon Fucker, Pyro and Savage were plugged and tubed, lunging on a sofa where they rubbed against each other. Every 30 minutes or so, they connected the tube to a container which drained the collected cum.
After a few hours, the sensation became a constant, low-key orgasm and Fucker felt oddly sleepy for someone so horny. His and Pyro's lips were chaffed from making out all the way through.
Eventually, they had to return to the spot where Hardass was going to look for them, so Fucker dragged himself and his friends away from the milking machine – for now.
To their disappointment, Hardass wasn't there yet, so they broke off again and walked around the stalls.
The first thing Fucker bought was a can of rinse-gel. His old one was almost empty. He sprayed himself from head to toe, then added a shot into his mouth and finally into his thong. Dried sweat and cum flowed off him like rain off a plastic roof.
Squeaky clean, he looked for some food.
Pyro came back with earrings. Fucker approved out loud, but flinched internally. His friends were getting used to luxury, it seemed. Maybe the trash punk days were really coming to an end.
Meanwhile Savage had gotten another tattoo. The ink bug must have bitten him with the first one. He now had a barbwire ring around his neck, raised at the back where it drew attention to the middle finger fist tatt he already had.
Hardass finally found them, licking an ice pop. He brought a flyer. Pisspig carried their rations.
"Yo," Hardass said. "They don't have a fucking bulletin board here but they do have all the notices from around the area. I think those two could be up our alley."
Before the punks even took a look at the sheet, Hardass was pulled along, back to Sunbreaker HQ. He, too, got to help with medicine production – entirely out of selfless generosity.
Fucker had been right.
There was a reason why kidnappings were such a big issue in the north now. While NewLaw had pacified the area in general, there was one place they never went – beyond Dead Mountain.
The infected who had resisted the retro virus were trapped inside a crater big enough to contain entire cities. Eventually, criminal elements had figured out how to survive in that environment and used it as a base. Very close to the heart of the north, but totally inaccessible.
Mercenaries willing to do the dirty work were highly sought after.
There was an easier mission, too. The one Hardass would have preferred. Since they talked it out in the lounge at Sunbreaker, getting milked, Spitter overheard their conversation.
Spitter could get them bikes. That was the best piece of news Fucker had heard since... well, since learning about the milking device mark 2.
Additionally, Spitter offered to come with them – if they did the mission that wouldn't lead into the deadlands.
Four trash punks. One slave. Spitter. Together they had borrowed six two wheelers from Sunbreaker – low, compact, dark vehicles, each with a few different modifications from the research department. Plus 360-hexa-glass helmets.
Spitter had exchanged his hip scarf for a more practical green and white thong with the arcology logo. He showed them the basics of driving and took off ahead, leading the group to a cross road an hour away.
There, they parted ways. The original punk trio went straight ahead, toward the air lock at the base of Death Mountain, which led all the way through the rock.
The other three went east, to look for an escaped slave. An easy task.
Tune in next time to see what's behind Death Mountain.