For three hours, I walk down the dirt road surrounded by woods with a pounding headache, taking a break halfway to fill my water by a stream fed pump. I roll up my jacket and squeeze it between the top straps of my pack when it starts clinging to me from the sweat.

Despite the day I was having, I can't help but appreciate the occasional cool breeze washing the heat from my skin and the song of rustling leaves dancing on their branches.

I scan deep into the shady undergrowth as I walk, expecting to see dark shadows of reinforcements darting among the trees at any moment.

But none showed.

The sun is well past its apex, the breeze sporadically carries the charm of rubber and asphalt, mixing with the green sweat of foliage and baking earth.

I hear a few mumbles of human activity shortly before the woods give way to fields of mixed crops, looking more like giant gardens than farmland. Emerging from the shade, she can see the sun glaring off the windows from the town ahead.

Something’s wrong. Where are the people working the fields? There were always at least a few people out here, but today, none. That wasn't all. It was quiet. I carefully scan over the town, seeing a few people moving about the streets. No uniforms or weapons, though.

Something didn't feel right. I stuff my jacket down deeper into my bag and tie my hair into a bun before moving in. Few people knew me by sight here. My friend Tara delivered most of my supplies when she made her rounds in her pickup truck. In exchange, I would volunteer at her animal sanctuary a few days out of the week.

The first thing I do is dip into a bar and steal some dude's straw hat off the rack, hoping the guy won't mind. I'd leave it with Tara before I left. Just in case it holds some kind of sentimental value, she could return it to the lost and found. My first priority is fixing my tablet, then finding a network to connect to.

There was something disquieting in the atmosphere as walked through the streets. People were still going about their day, shopping, eating, and talking, but it was usually much more lively and welcoming. It had to be connected to the mechs. Maybe people saw them, and now everyone was spooked. Maybe whoever sent them was still in town somewhere. Either way, I best move quickly.

I eventually arrive at another bar. Small, windows painted black and barred. No sign. If it wasn’t so clean, it’d look abandoned.

I open the painted glass door and get a rush of lukewarm air, the hydraulic door stop hisses over my head as I step in. I scan around and take in all the details of the unfamiliar layout. First thing I note is the stainless steel door leading to the back kitchen. No other exit.

The warmly lit interior bends into an L-shape. The first little wing has small tables and chairs scattered about, two restroom doors running down the back wall.

Directly in front of the door is the central walkway. The actual bar stretching down inner wall, stopping at the stainless steel back door, while the other side hosts a column of booths. The interior of the black windows are boarded up with some kind of foam insulation. Soundproofing, if I has to guess.

The place was called Mickey's, though no one who worked here was actually named Mickey. Two middle-aged men were chatting in one of the front booths. A dark silhouette of a man reading in the back corner booth. One young skinny guy at the bar, accompanied by the large bartender. Six people, counting myself.

I walk as casually as I can and sit a few bar stools away from the back door. As I pass, the man reading in the back turns out to be a dark gray statue. Some kind of memorial? The table’s wiped clean, its glossy finish showing a warped reflection of the soft light above. It couldn't be solid stone. It would be too expensive, heavy, and awkward to set it there. Maybe it was hollow.

Wonder what you could hide in there?

“Write down your order, and I'll give it to the chef. You drinkin'?” The bartender, Thomas, asks. Portly, balding, glasses. Nice and straight to the point.

I shake my head as he slides a notepad and pen and instantly regret the motion as bruised brain rattles around my skull.

‘Shattered tablet screen, and some wifi.’ I write.

All electronic devices are highly illegal and heavily regulated. This town is far enough away from any authorities that you don't need fancy codes and ciphers. You just don't want to leave a trace that could wind up on someone's server, or picked up by a nearby microphone.

There were always people traveling through these backwater towns, fugitives, informants, bounty-hunters. Mostly people escaping the war and looking for work, but it’s always best to be careful.

Thomas picks up the notepad.

“Wait by the statue.” He turns and heads to the back room.

“Uh, you sure?” Isn't the whole point of memorials not to disturb them.

He looks over his shoulder at me.

I get up and move. Setting down my pack in the booth and slide in across from the statue. I look across at the figure, holding up a book with a burnt cover; 'Kropotkin' being the only word visible.

I stare at the statue, trying to piece together who this man was. No older than me; they gave him a thick wig of curly brown hair. A bushy brown beard sprinkled with ginger hairs framing a peaceful slate-gray face, eyes closed.

How weird would it be if they actually took the man's hair and glued it on after he died? Under a black t-shirt, the statue was thickly built like a powerlif—

“Do you—” The statue springs to life, darting it’s eyes open.

”Ah!” My waist smacks the table as I jump from my seat.

The two guys in the other booth bust out laughing, the skinny guy at the bar looks over at me, the statue grinning fiercely at me.

Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

Then the stone man turns and raises his hand at the two in the booth. They quiet down.

“Oh my god, you're a— I'm so sorry, I thought you were a—” The words fumble from my mouth, my face burning red. The man’s a div.

“I think the heart attack I gave you makes us even. Please, sit, my wide-eyed friend.” He says, folding up the book and placing it in the bag at his side.

“As I was saying, do you need something?”

I hesitate.

“It's safe to talk. I know these guys.”

“My tablet's broken. I need a new screen, and I need it quick.”

“Alright, I can take it to-”

The front door flies open, held back by the hissing door stop, and everyone turns to look. Stark white light stabs into the warm yellow glow of the interior. Five men stalk into the bar and fan out. The lead man's eyes dart around the room. The patrons rise out of their seats, slowly.

”Never-mind.” the gray-skinned man sighs.

The leader’s hungry gaze settles on us in the back corner, forcing the taste of copper into my mouth. I know a bounty hunter when I see one. Their mismatched plainclothes outfits scream amateur, and amateurs tend to be unpredictable.

His followers have clubs and nightsticks. Two brandish them openly, the rest have them strapped to their sides. Their eyes darting from person to person to each other.

“The rest of you can leave. We're here for him.” The leader says, whipping out a pistol and waving it at us.

Amateurs shouldn’t have firearms. Only hunters registered with a corporation are allowed guns. So the leader’s the real deal, the rest are his deputies. They made no mention of me, so maybe I could still get out of this.

I glance over to the stone guy. He’s my only shot at fixing my tablet. But the tablet isn’t worth my life, I really just want to get out from under this gun first.

“Alright, everyone out.” The stone man speaks up, prodding the civilians into action. He nudges me with his eyes.

“Oh no, not her. We get a bonus for anyone associating with a fugitive, so you stay right there.”

Great.

“Now,” He indicates to the stone man after people walk past his goons and clear out the front door with their hands up, “go get your friends out the back. Try to run, and we bring your lady friend in cold.”

The stone man gives me a slight shrug by way of casual apology and slides out of the booth. Fingers and bare feet scratching and scraping against the wood.

Could his skin actually be made of stone?

After he disappears to the back room, my legs shake, and my chest starts heaving. I make sure the men take notice before sinking back into my booth. With my back to the gunman, I don’t have to try too hard to sound distressed.

I look down and my face hardens as I dig a hand through my pack, craving the familiar grip of my stylus.

“Oh no, you scared her, Anthony.” One of the gunman's confederates tease.

“Being into bad boys ain't as fun as you thought?” Another chimes in.

The stone man strides through the back door. “They ran out the back when you came in. They're not here.”

I forget to shake and labor my breath as attention returns to the living statue.

“If you're lyin-”

“Go in and check, then.” The stone man retorts as he walks back to the booth. He leans over the table and grabs something from his seat.

“Get ready to hit the deck.” He mutters. He's not going quietly.

Good, neither am I.

My stylus feels cold as I slide it from my bag.

He emerges with a gray backpack in one hand and two sabers, tips folded over, clenched in the other.

“You'll want these, I assume?” He starts walking toward the group.

“Hold it.” The leader says, jerking his gun around to accentuate his points. “You stay right there. You two, check the back.” The leader turns to another man. “Search him and take his shit.”

Two goons walk to the back door, exchanging glares with the living statue as they pass. Behind the leader, a small, dark-haired man keeps an eye on the front door. A bulky guy, nightstick tucked in his belt, approaches the slate-gray man, who presents his belongings. Did his skin get darker, or was it a trick of the yellow lighting?

The bulky one snatches the bag first, digs through it, and tosses it behind him. He grabs the swords, turns to toss them, only to be grabbed by the wrist, swords clashing to the floor, as the statue twists his arm around his back.

He throws his other arm around the bulky man's chest, grabbing his throat, and holds him close as he rushes the man with the gun. The bulky man making an adequate surprise shield.

The leader shouts and levels his pistol, backs into a table, and stumbles as the bulky man collides with him while I hit the deck.

The stone man goes straight for the wrist holding the gun and wrenches it free with his other hand. A single blinding flash and deafening pop fill the small bar.

The stone man knocks the guy who was watching the door to the ground as he rushes in. I rise as the statue tucks the pistol into his waistband and retrieves his sabers.

We look at each other.

“Can you fight?” he asks as the three thugs pick themselves up and regroup.

“Yeah.” I turn as the other two burst through the back door. At the ready, but keeping their distance.

“Good. This'll be over quick.” He hands me a saber.

“No thanks.”

“Suit yourself.” We turn, falling in back to back. Our backs touch, and I feel warm and taut muscle under his shirt.

So, he's not all stone. His back's vulnerable.

Wait, so is mine.

“Kill these assholes!” The leader shoves the bulky man forward.

I power up my stylus as my two advance. They slow to look at the ethereal pink glow coming from the tip and stop as a hot pink flare fountains out. I thrust it forward, the first guy ducks as the blade materializes inches above his head. The other jolts to the side.

Whoops.

They both look to my blade, then to me.

I smile.

They run.

I turn to see the stone man, back against the bar, one sword leveled at the dark-haired man, who's on all fours, clenching the side of his face. The other sword leveled at the bulky man and the leader, backs to the booths. All four frozen, looking at me with wide-eyed stares.

That is, until the statue leaps forward and kicks the bulky man into the leader. Sending both crashing into the table.

“Run,” Someone yells.

The three thugs stumble over each other, fumbling out the front door. We pause to catch our breath.

“Friends of yours?” I ask the stone man as he reaches down and shoulders his pack.

“Something like that. Do you have a place to stay? This town might not be safe for you anymore.”

“I was on my way out, anyway.”

“Those mechs scare you that bad?” He flips the front door sign to closed.

“What do you know about them?” I ask with a start.

“People 'round here saw one flying, and one jumping around the fields just before noon. Based on the pictures I saw, they must be a field test of those mechs the Aris Corporation's been working on.”

I look away.

“I'm guessing you're not a fan of those guys, either?”

Silence.

“Anyway, let's go somewhere else.” He walks toward the back in a strange gait. I follow.