Morning came gray and cool, the kind of dawn that made the wasteland look softer than it really was. Coco woke up to find Meadow already sitting up, watching the horizon with that same focused attention she gave to everything else.
"Slept well?" they asked, rolling up their bedroll.
Meadow glanced at him and made a small sound that might have been agreement. Then she pointed east, toward a cluster of broken towers barely visible in the distance, and tilted her head in question.
"Those?" Coco followed her gaze. "Old world ruins. Nothing useful left, they have been picked clean decades ago. Most cities like that are just... shells now."
He shouldered his pack and started walking, Meadow falling into step beside them. The morning was quiet except for the sound of their boots on gravel and the distant whistle of wind through the broken concrete.
"See, the thing about the surface," Coco said, settling into the rhythm of walking, "is that it's not really meant for people anymore. Not since the collapse, anyway." They gestured at the barren landscape around them. "It used to be different. Green. Cities everywhere, people living up here like it was normal."
Meadow made an encouraging sound, so they continued.
"Now most trasgos live underground. Safer that way. The cities down there are... well, they're actually pretty nice. Connected by tunnels, markets, proper beds, running water." They kicked a pebble out of their path. "Some trasgos never see the surface their whole lives. Don't want to."
A shadow passed above them— just a bird, but Coco tracked it instinctively until it was gone. Old habits.
"But some of us... we can't stay down there. Wanderers, we call ourselves. We trade between the underground cities, carry messages, scout for resources." They paused. "And some of us just... need the sky, you know? Need to see what's out here."
Meadow nodded seriously, as if this made perfect sense to her.
They walked in comfortable silence for a while, following what used to be a road. The asphalt was cracked and overgrown with small plants, yet it still provided easier footing than the raw wasteland.
"The underground cities have names," Coco continued eventually. "Haven's Deep, New Sanctuary, Copper Falls — that one's built around an old mine. Each one's got its own personality, its own way of doing things. Some are more... traditional. Big on the old ways, the prayers, keeping things proper."
Something in her voice must have changed, because Meadow glanced at her sideways.
"Others are more practical. Less concerned with ceremony, more focused on surviving." They shrugged. "Both kinds work, I guess. Just depends what you need."
They stopped to rest by a rust-stained concrete barrier, sharing water from Coco's canteen. The sun was getting higher, and with it came the day's heat. Meadow seemed unbothered by it, but Coco pulled their scarf up higher to shade their face.
That's when Meadow's expression changed. She was staring at Coco's face with sudden intensity, head tilted in that way that usually meant she'd noticed something important.
Before Coco could ask what was wrong, Meadow raised her hand and pointed — not rudely, but with clear curiosity — at their left temple.
Coco's stomach clenched. They knew exactly what she was pointing at.
"That's..." They started to speak, then stopped. The words caught in their throat like thorns. "It's nothing. Just... old."
Meadow's pale eyes stayed fixed on the mark, the black ink stain that spread across Coco's cheekbone like spilled paint. Her expression was gentle but questioning, waiting.
Coco looked away first.
"Enough talking, we should keep moving," they said, capping the canteen with more force than necessary. "Still got a long way to go before we reach anything resembling civilization."
They stood and started walking without waiting for Meadow to follow. Behind them, they heard the soft sound of bare feet on stone, but no more questions came.
For which they were grateful.
"The thing about being a wanderer," Coco said after they'd put some distance between themselves and that moment, "is that you learn to read the land. See those scrub bushes over there? The way they're growing tells you there's probably water underground. And that pile of stones — that's a marker. Means other wanderers have been through here."
Meadow nodded, apparently content to let the previous subject drop.
"We have our own language, sort of. Signs and symbols that tell you what's safe, what's not, where you can trade, where you definitely shouldn't stop." They pointed to a small cairn of rocks balanced on a broken fence post. "That one means 'safe water two miles north.' Saved my life more than once." They looked proud meanwhile the ink stain on their face felt hot in the sun, like it was burning all over again. But Meadow didn't look at it anymore, and for that, Coco was more grateful than they could say.