A rickety ash stained bus drove on through a desert road. The sand was streaked black by ash from a ruined city on the approaching horizon. The bus was full of people many of which were odd looking by human standards. Different colors and patterns decorated their skin. Many of them had features or forms that made them look almost unbelievable in their appearance.

Stitches was one of them.

Unlike most of the others on the bus, he wore a red striped orange jumpsuit. He had a villainous look about his face, only further intensified by an intimidating buzzcut. To his embarrassment, he’d only started cutting his hair because of the way it frizzed out in response to his static.

Scars discolored his arms and knuckles as the result of dealing with wild dogs from the streets, or catching the attention of those who didn’t appreciate his defiant eyes. He used to think if he had a softer look people might have taken pity on him and he’d have been spared his tough upbringing, but he didn’t regret it for even a second. He had achieved a muscular body and a quick wit earned through years of work as a thug in the slums.

His fingers brushed his family’s insignia tattooed on his chest thinking nostalgically. “For a time, that life went pretty great” he thought. Eventually, government backed metamorph hunters had caught on to his exploits. He fought hard against capture for several long weeks, but Stitches learned quickly that nothing can escape the grasp of human fear.

Some metamorphs end up choosing exile when they’re caught to protect their independence, but most choose instead to be adopted by groups offering food and shelter in exchange for use of their gifts. Some are researchers, some are harvesters, but the corporation that contracted with Stitches was a scavenging group called Prospector Corp.

Stitches eyes focused on a Prospector Corp logo glued onto the back of the bus driver’s seat. The bus was completely salvage, not one part of it manufactured besides the plastic symbols that were messily stuck onto rusted metal.

After the ascension that shook the world to its core, scavenging groups emerged from the scars, sending the greedy and stupid into the ruins to plunder the valuables left behind. Prospector Corp was a big one; out of all the scavenging groups that had rose and fallen, Prospector stood the test of time.

They were the first to contract metamorphs to scavenge in high-risk areas, eventually using them in all scavenge ops due to the cheap cost. With decades of experience behind it and high aspirations, the CEO himself vowed they would be the first to attempt an operation in the Crown of God and succeed.

Stitches eyes drifted out the window to the approaching charred city. The glare of sunlight off of a twisted tower made his eyes tear up and he looked away.

The Crown of God was the city with the worst reaction to the ascension. A massive crater sat in the middle of it surrounded by warped steel skyscrapers and buildings scorched so black, the obsidian shined for miles around as a reminder of humanities past failings. It was widely known as the reason parents would occasionally conceive a metamorph child.

Stitches saw it fitting that he’d be sent to the Crown. It’s like his life had gone full circle and he was on his way back to his original home, although no one knew the reason metamorph children were born or their connection to the Crown of God.

Stitches sighed and looked around the bus. “Quiet as a grave in here…” he mumbled.

Realizing his voice passed his lips he looked back and forth towards the people nearby. None gave him any attention. The girl sitting next to him had rough looking skin with developing scales dotting it. She played with her hands, brushing the scales on her fingers and knuckles, examining them intently. Her cheek was pressed against the bus window and her brown hair draped over her face.

“Are your hands really that interesting?” Stitches spoke, breaking the silence.

If I have to boringly endure any more of this silence ill go insane, he thought.

The girl turned her head to look at him, not leaving the comfort of the bus window “hmm?” she voiced

Her eyes were a piercing yellow with slit pupils that caught Stitches off guard. “What’s your name?” he asked

“I’m Maribel,” she answered. As her lips parted into a polite smile, needlelike teeth glinted in the buses overhead bulbs.

“I’m Stitches, good to meet ya” he responded warmly

Maribel laughed shortly “where’d you get a name like that?”

Stitches pulled up the sleeve on his prisoner jumpsuit revealing lightning patterned burns striping his arm “my family named me it after these” he ran his finger down a long one flowing from his bicep to his wrist “They even exist under my skin, mostly where there’s a lot of blood flow”

“Your mother really named you after your skin pattern?”

“Never had a mom” Stitches answered, “I loved my family though, they were better folks then I could’ve asked for.”

Maribel’s head tilted back towards her hands “That’s nice you had a family. I was just sent to an orphanage” she brushed her hands together and stroked her developing claws “they were alright though.”

“When did the hunters pick you up?” Stitches asked

Maribel sighed and turned her face further to the window, “I’m sleepy, ok?” she half whispered.

He’d touched a nerve, “alright…” he looked away.

He leaned his head out into the aisle propping his arms on his knees. The bus had two rows of seats facing towards each other. Some metamorphs were wearing ordinary clothes rather than prison jumpsuits. He guessed that they weren’t processed by hunters the way he was. Almost all of them were in their own little worlds staring intently into empty space.

Towards the front of the bus the driver sat in a jury-rigged couch seat and the security guard sat near the door facing towards them. Stitches couldn’t quite make out the bus driver but the security guard was clearly a metamorph.

He had long strands of what appeared to be thick hairs, or maybe tendrils that covered his head tied back behind him in a ponytail save for a couple strands that drooped over his face. His body hair was made up of shorter tendrils that appeared like a sort of natural armor that covered portions of his arms. His uniform set him apart from the other metamorphs but his eyes said a lot to stitches that he probably couldn’t say himself.

They look very tired

The guard slumped over a shotgun leaning on his shoulder with an arm holding a wrinkly magazine wrapped around it. In his other hand he held a smoldering cigarette, ashing into a bowl of pistachio shells by his feet. A closer look at the magazine revealed it was a dirty mag and a snicker escaped Stitches lips.

The guard’s eyes looked up towards him, he took a drag of his cigarette and diverted his attention back to his magazine, completely ignoring him.

Stitches wondered why security was so lax when they’re transporting such dangerous cargo. As he was escorted to the bus from his holding cell, they removed his cuffs and guided him to his seat as if he wasn’t just held under threat of death in a processing facility.

He smirked as he thought about the number of hunters needed to take him down. The way he saw it he earned that spot in maximum security. He even took pride in the way they clutched their weapons in anticipation as he passed them by. Here however they didn’t show him such respect.

We chose to be here I suppose

It wasn’t another prison he was being sent to, nothing here is here because I didn’t ask for it.

I probably wouldn’t make it on my own through exile.

Through the window behind him, dust and ash floated through the air like clouds of smog. At this point in the road the sand was stained completely black. It almost pretty in the way light glimmered off of it by the sunlight that managed to break through the ash flowing on the wind.

He angled his head to see the road beneath them. It was a cracked and beaten asphalt trail drenched in sand and ash from years of abuse.

It’s almost a miracle this bus could handle a road like this.

The man on his left slumped back in his seat and stared at the windows across from him.

Having friends will probably help where I’m going.

“See anything out there?”

The man turned to look at him. He looked like a typical human but there was an odd sheen on his skin. Stitches realized his otherworldly “normal” look was by design. The red striped prison jumpsuit that matched his gave away that he wasn’t an easy catch either.

“Just a whole lot of nothing” the man laughed

Stitches grinned, “Wonder if we’ll just be going out there with shovels collecting sand”

The man shrugged smiling, “maybe, if we’re lucky. But I doubt they’d need us if that’s what they’re after”

“I’m Stitches” he extended his hand

The man shook it and responded “Jerry”

“How’d they get ya?”

Jerry laughed slumping his arms onto his lap, “wouldn’t believe this…” his smile faltered a bit “chick I was dating ratted me out”

“Shit…” Stitches cleared his throat, “That sucks, man.”

Jerry leaned back, “Probably would’ve been fine off if I never met her. I’d’ve made it my 23rdyear about a week ago.”

Stitches was surprised, “how’d you make it so long without getting caught?”

Jerry brushed his face and it began to warp and tint until he looked almost entirely different. “Any time people began to stare too long I’d just change and forge new documents.”

“You probably could’ve made it all the way with an ability like that.”

Jerry crossed his arms leaning back in his seat, “not anymore.”

“What do you mean?”

“I heard the guys that processed me talking about some new DNA tests to pick up on cloaking types like me.” his eyes returned to the passing clouds of dust, “pretty soon, a halfway honest life with the humans will be impossible. We’ll all be forced into exile or the underground.”

“Or here…”

“Yea…” Jerry spit through gritted teeth, “or here.”

Stitches face hardened, “have you heard anything about the wastelands?”

“Plenty. Nothing good. Exile is surely just a cheaper way of execution.”

Stitches sighed, “There must be some who got something together out there.”

Jerry picked at chin, “Doubt it would last long if they did. Fuckin ash people will tear you apart if the mutants somehow don’t.”

“Is there any difference being recruited by salvagers? We’re still fighting those things.”

Jerry stayed silent for a second, “were equipped at least.”

Stitches didn’t say anything. He looked forward as if only just now realizing why nobody was talking.

An elbow struck him in the side, “Chin up. You didn’t get put in that jumpsuit because you’re a pushover, right?”

Stitches laughed and rubbed his side, “Yea! We’ll show em how stripes can handle!”

Jerry returned to his thoughts and Stitches shrugged back into his seat. From his right he heard the soft snoring of Maribel.

He leaned his head back, she had the right idea he thought, as his eyes drifted shut.