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"The Chronicles of the Tetrad are a compiled series of tales. They detail the adventures of the Sandmelters Aria and Caroline, as well as their android companion Travis and The Great Hive-Fortress Melitodes. These are helpful to new adventurers as they tell cautionary tales of the dangers one faces in the wilderness." ~Guide, Table of Contents.

I waited low to the ground, my bow cocked in my steady hand and paw, with a piercing glare cast towards the locked Rat burrow. Though I sensed no sandstorm in the near future, the wind was still picking up and I had to keep my cloak up. I hate crouching in wait for a whole innocent family in the dead of night, especially so close, but my stored kills have almost all been eaten. I was getting desperate; hunting for food hasn't been so lucky since the rats learned how to shoot back.

My ears, made specifically to pick out the smaller sounds from the wind's sharp whistle, perked up from under my cloak's hood at the sound of a tiny footstep. I tense up, my honed cat reflexes focused on that one single source. The door creaks open, and in the blink of an eye I swiftly disengage after I spot the black glint of what surely would have been death by laser pistol. I only nearly evaded being turned into a smouldering pile of sand. Only thing left behind where I once was ready to strike was a small temporary crater and cloud of sand that had been disturbed by the blast. Crestfallen, I left the winds to cover my evidence and hightailed it back to Travis at our campfire. After being seen, a small Sand Cat like me would only try again if they had a death wish.

Back at the camp in a small alcove hollowed out by laser pistol within the base of a cliffside, me and Travis sit at the campfire as I wrestle the last pitiful piece of lizard jerky from my sack. All I have left is some nanomachine "bread" that doesn't do much for nutrition at all, but it sure is good at medicinal purposes. This was my fifth unsuccessful hunt in a row, and the worst food shortage I've had after officially leaving home. Though I knew The Glassen Wastes and its surrounding area like the back of my mechanical hand, in all my life I've never seen rats so armed to the teeth. On top of that the local desert rats are only scavengers.

And here I was, yowling into the night over this turn of events. "That sentry even zapped my hunting bow, and there's no way I can pounce on any prey packing like that. If we don't find a way to food soon, you'll be carrying me back home in a body bag." I continue for probably a good ten minutes, swearing there's some bastard sheep making a killing on so many levels from selling weapons to the prey. As tempting as fresh lamb chops sound I dare not even think about getting a Wooly Union bounty on my ass. Or worse.

Travis arched a remarkably lifelike eyebrow. "Tried the lizards?"

"They've all run into their holes by now thanks to the noise."

"Maybe you should try being a herbivore. I hear the cacti are pretty good this time of year."

"Har har har, Mr. Comedian! How would you like me to uninstall your speech drivers?"

I was somewhat envious of Travis's non-reliance on food at that moment, but I loved him like a brother and he understood because I had met him during simpler and more confusing times. He isn't the only one of his kind, but close. Androids with emotions are not a well known subject at all, with even human intelligence about the subject all but wiped out due to unwise use in that era. One night a hunting caravan found his body left out in the middle of a sand dune. Tales of his death were highly exaggerated because his "fur" was a rather unnatural shade of bright blue, one of the very few colors us sand cats can see. Sentient androids with no main function are quite uncommon in this world to say the least, so my clan thought he was possessed by Set of all things. Laugh all you want but they take their ancient Egyptian deities seriously. Not so much for me, so with my natural aptitude for machines we became fast friends.

After a few minutes of silence however, he now became more of a wall to wail at. "I'd hate to make my supposed homecoming so soon. Can't even survive a week." Travis, lounging on what could be best be described as a sad attempt at a makeshift couch made of a sandbag and spare synthetic cotton, had nothing of this as soon as I paused. "Working yourself into a fit won't help. I'm sure Caroline could hook you up with something."

Travis had a way of recognizing things that are almost always correct. Sometimes that irritates me. "You're not the one who gave 'em a middle claw on the way out!"

If you haven't caught it by now, I'm not exactly the classiest feline around. At least they earned it. I was all but kicked out over suggesting that Travis be let out of jail, after years of them graciously letting me fix him up and generally care for him. Us Sandmelters have a predator code of sorts. Even as an ex-member it can't pass my lips, but the gist is to never hunt outside of the wilds and only when either threatened or hungry. But most important of all: a warrior always dies with their boots on. Though I would not be buried in the hallowed catacombs, I was offered a warrior's death alone.

I groan while lifting my improvised chair, having revealed the sting of not getting away completely unscaved. I could be stoic about it so long as it wasn't immediately visible, but on the other hand I'd do anything to put off my apparent homecoming.

"Hey Travis, hold on for a second. Is this cut too visible?"

"I'd say nothing to worry about, if you're looking for a cool battle scar to accentuate your look!"

"I'm afraid that laser-burned flesh just isn't in right now. Watch the hatches while I nap, I don't want my paw trapped into my back again."

The one striking thing about my looks outside of the great big metal right arm is that my back stripes are grey, as opposed to every single other Sand Cat's slim back around here. Another ritual forced upon us in childhood is the assignment of augmentations, one year after we're born and almost to our full growth. As it sometimes happens, our cave is situated right next to some ancient human medical technology. Our ancestors saw this as a gift from Anubis after an accident, and so our coming of age also includes being randomly "gifted" a mechanical prosthetic or two. I gained a five-fingered right hand, and of all the things a mechanical spine complete with tiny nanomachine generators.

What does that mean? For one thing, it's impossible to hide to the point of needing open-back shirts due to them tending to tear things apart. For another, the weird feeling of sections of your back opening up to patch a wound. Any wound, and you hear a loud click with a "kssssh." It's a weird feeling but you get used to it, along with the constant buzzing of the nanobot hive. Most of the time. I suppose it beats going to that horrible hospital place where most would never go, dating back to pre-Birthright vets.

"Well, no sense in prolonging the inevitable for much longer." With that statement we did the rest of the packing quickly, me keeping my own laser pistol out. Us nocturnal animals can't really be too careful when the sun starts to come up, and morning was no time to attempt hunting. The only acceptable reason to do anything in the daylight was if it was a matter of life and death. The worst part of it all was the nagging urge to go back to my former home certainly felt that way, only partially for my own addiction to their company. Caroline was waiting.