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I've thanked God for this mask more times than I can count. It reflects most everything; keeps me on the safe side of whatever's coming at me. Most times…
Dust storm left me no recourse. Came to a small encampment of refugees from Freehold, now buried. Most of them were workers at the old BrayTech facility, none too happy to see an Exo. One of them began to play a rueful tune on a cobbled-together string instrument. To this day, I haven't forgotten the words he sang:
Let me tell ya now
It was mine, all mine
It was wailin' and gnashin'
In the dirt, they were buried
Lord, help the Devil
This mask reflected the gaunt faces of the survivors, but it didn't hide me. I could feel hot tears stream down my cheeks. They saw their own pain in me. The accusatory glances stopped then, and a sad understanding remained. Because we all knew, this place will never be the same.
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