“Well, look what the traveller brought us!” commented the one who seemed to be the leader, in a frivolous and carefree air. “I don't think I heard right, do we have an Arnoldo here? Let me introduce myself, my name is Harrou and my colleagues are Vincent and Murdock. We are a growing group called ‘The Mad Dogs’. We are also mercenaries, but independent; perhaps you have heard of us.”

Harrou was a stocky man with coppery skin and a shaved head covered with a black cowboy hat. His thick features showed a half-shadowed beard and his eyes were replaced by a pulsating red visor. His arms were replaced by a pair of implants, painted the colour of his skin. He wore a bulletproof dungarees with a pair of shoulder pads, along with military green trousers fastened by a tactical belt, where a holstered revolver and a spiked mace rested.

“Not really, do you have a licence to practice?” Drake tilted his face over his shoulder, unwilling to measure conversation.

“Does it matter, Arnoldo?” Harrou chuckled softly, hiding the fact that he was insulted by that reply. “If my employers liberated this town, I can do what I want, right, boys?” The two mercenaries affirmed in animated unison, drawing the attention of the guardian, who gave them a quick scan:

The second mercenary was Vincent, whose right eye had been replaced by a reddened artificial implant. Lean but muscular, his body was scarred from past conflicts in the barren wasteland.

He wore a worn leather jacket, adorned with insignia of his war exploits, and tight-fitting trousers with a pistol in its holster. He wore pieces of light armour and cap-toed boots, prioritising mobility over protection. His mechanised arms, dented and dyed the colour of his pale skin, showed signs of past combat.

Murdock, his face marked by grotesque reddish pimples on a face of icy features, looked like a creature out of the chaos of the desert. His rough, sun-tanned skin was dotted with bumps. He was shirtless, revealing assembly lines that showed off his cyborg-modified body, with scratches platinised by wear and tear.

He wore camouflage trousers and black lace-up boots, and carried a tactical belt with a revolver. His mechanical arms, cybernetic implants adorned with scratches and burns from past battles, bore witness to his brutality and determination. He had circular infrared-vision optical implants and an iron lower jaw.

“The use of Arnoldo as a derogatory term for the guardians is so burnt out that it lost its grace a long time ago,” reported Drake.

“You cannot forget the roots of your second founder,” said Harrou, smiling, “the apostle who betrayed the Traveller. I am not of the Templar religion, but such a scourge is repudiated everywhere, and you can't expect much from its followers.”

“So what if I am a guardian? Would there be a problem? We follow the former more than the latter,” Drake didn't bother to get up from his chair. I just want to do my job. Nothing more, nothing less.

“You Arnoldos think you can come in and take our game. We've been planning this coup for enough days to have it stolen,” Harrou said scornfully, venting a grudge at the one he saw as the source of his lack of job opportunities.

“A lot of talk and I don't know what you're getting at. What, are you going to beat me up for having a good reference?” Drake crossed his arms behind his neck, not the least bit scared.

“Of course not, that would be ridiculous, we're not starving,” Harrou revealed, for a second he smelled the hint that it was all a game.

“Ah, perfect.”

Drake raised his glass in peace. He wouldn't have to get his hands dirty, a longing that was broken when he saw Harrou pull an ornate metal bucket from his jacket that fit in the palm of his hand.

“Wait and see.”

“What are you showing me your communicator cube for? “Drake said with a potato between his teeth. “If you want to give me your code, let me tell you I'm not interested, I'm more into pretty girls.”

He placed it on the table, and opening a small door, unfolded a keypad which, at the press of a sequence of buttons, the top face opened to reveal a bluish hologram that displayed the image of two wanted flyers.

“News and jobs move fast when you have contacts. “Harrou pointed at the projection.

Drake's serene face was extinguished, sweating profusely, and his jaw nearly dropped to the floor at the sight of the images depicted: Drake Requiem, reward twenty thousand golden crowns. He was drawn with a parody of an ornate helmet, grotesquely deformed with clenched jaws. Lance Fudo, reward fifty thousand golden crowns, depicted with a black sack on his head with two holes for eyes.

“It was a fucking misunderstanding at the horse races!!!! I paid for that freak's bad bet, it doesn't make sense that they'd put a bounty on our heads,” Drake bellowed angrily and indignantly. He took a deep gulp of his drink to calm himself and looked at the flyers again: “How is that lard-headed gambler worth more than me?”

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“Your little friend slept with the mayor's wife, and jumped out the window with his dick out,” Murdock replied, holding in his laughter, “the pictures disturbed me, who the fuck fucks with his clothes and mask on? Now that's fetishistic.”

“Ah, it had to be! As usual, that asshole sticking his dick where it doesn't belong and ending up wrapping me up to clean up his shit. He looks more like my father's son than I do,” Drake thought nervously, thinking about how he would get out of the situation.

“You'd have to be pretty sick to gore a guy with power and a cowboy hat in charge of gambling. “ Vincent's mechanical hand squeezed Drake's shoulder, hard enough to break a bone, barely causing a slight discomfort. “Oops, what have we got here, a pretty heavy shoulder pad! I think I even felt the base of a spike. They sure pay you Trisarians well, it'd be nice to see that armour... maybe it'll fit me.”

“You don't know what you're saying, techno-barbarian.” Drake stood up abruptly and swatted the mechanical implant's grip away.

“Easy, buddy! “Vincent felt confident, being half-machine, he felt he could handle a mutant. “We don't want to scratch that nice armour you're wearing. You know, it would be interesting to know which enhancement is superior, genetic or mechanical? Technomancers and biomancers are still killing each other to find out.”

“I give you two choices, and you'd better choose wisely. No matter what kind of mutant you are, you won't be the first one we dispatch,” Harrou continued after turning off his device and returning it to his jacket, “you take us to your accomplice and get out alive or we'll get creative with your ass, got it?“

“What did I tell you about pretty girls? “ Drake held back a laugh, mocking for a moment the bad taste of the posters: “I respect that, but to each his own.”

Harrou's face flared with anger and embarrassment as he realised what he had just said. That feeling was intensified by the laughter of his colleagues, who immediately fell silent under the hostile gaze of their boss.

“From the looks of you, you looked like you'd never left your mother's tit... or your father's cock,” Murdock sniggered, clutching his right wristband; a warning sign for the guardian.

“Good one! “ praised Vincent, as he bumped hands with his pleased friend, who felt like the king of the world for a few seconds.

Compared to Harrou's imposing size, the guardian was six feet tall. The provocations, far from breaking his temper, only caused him to crack a creepy grin, which gradually turned into a mocking chuckle, irritating the mercenaries, who drew pistols and pointed them at the guardian.

“Boys, whatever you are going to do... please do it outside, otherwise the guard will come. “Suggested the barkeep, raising his hands.

Drake looked around, noticing that several people were stealthily leaving the establishment, while others remained expectant of what was about to happen. The bartender crouched behind the counter, lapsing into a short, sharp silence.

“Look, I don't want any unnecessary collateral damage.“Drake's proposal took the mercenaries by surprise. “Let's settle this in the backyard, in a secluded area away from the mangers. May we, Mr. Innkeeper?”

“Thank you,”said the innkeeper.

“Well, let's go outside. “Harrou ordered his gang to holster their weapons.

“So be it. “With those words, Drake adjusted his garment, completely covering his face.

They went out the back door, into the large courtyard, surrounded by vehicles. They kept their backs to each other, to the watchful eyes of civilians peering out of the windows of the premises and neighbouring buildings; making sure to take cover when the shooting started. They placed Harrou's cube in the centre, from which the hologram of the hundred-second countdown hologram manifested, and when it reached zero, both combatants would attack.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Drake warned for the last time, showing no sign of fear. “I don't like to play games or hold back.”

“We are not mere humans, Arnoldo.” Harrou rested his hand on top of his holstered pistol, confident of his cybernetic enhancements as were his allies. “I heard your father was the gunslinger, how cruelly ironic that his only son should die in a duel. What's the matter, won't you draw your magic staff or sword?”

“Don't say I didn't warn you, “the guardian sighed.

The mercenaries drew and opened fire without hesitation, their shots echoing through the air before the count reached the tenth second. As if he had foreseen every move, the guardian raised his arms with cool precision, hiding his face behind the crimson armbands that protruded from his cloak.

The bullets, most of them dodged with inhuman speed, impacted without effect on the armbands, which absorbed the projectiles as if sinking into a liquid surface. One after another, the ammunition faded harmlessly, until finally the dry sound of empty magazines filled the silence.

Thick reddened living chains emerged from the gauntlets, startling the mercenaries. These symbiotic constructs impacted with precision on the pressure points of their bodies, knocking them to the ground and sending their weapons flying from their hands.

The tavern and the streets echoed with cries of horror and astonishment. Those who did not flee when the bullets exploded took photographs and recorded videos with their buckets.

“Do they still want to go on? Looks like I'm not bad at dueling after all. “ He pronounced with false modesty. “I didn't leave you that bruised, try something else and I promise it will be the last thing you do.”

The guardian's voice rang out with steely mettle, as the mercenaries writhed in pain, futilely trying to get up. Harruo, staggering, fell to his knees and spat two molars from his bloodied mouth. A shriek of pain and fury echoed as his arm implant deployed an anti-tank cannon, aimed directly at the guardian, who was already waiting for him in a fighting stance.

The conflict came to a screeching halt as, from the path leading to the street, ten elite guardsmen emerged, experts in dealing with mutants. They moved with lethal precision, surrounding the scene in a matter of seconds. Their high-calibre rifles, equipped with laser pointers, focused on the heads and limbs of Drake and Harruo, who smiled in relief as he retracted his cannon, dropping to his knees and placing his hands behind his neck.

“Give us a reason not to blow their brains out right here.”

The leader of the group addressed the crimson warrior in a voice that boomed through a megaphone. His tone was firm, without a hint of hesitation, as he pointed his weapon at the young man's head. Drake knelt earnestly, his hands clasped behind his neck, as he spoke in a firm but respectful tone.

“I'm a guardian, and I've come for the job to kill the chimera! “ Drake's nerves seeped into his voice. He knew these were not soldiers he could play with. I've got an ID that proves it. These guys tried to kill me, and I had to defend myself.

“Shut up, you scum! You're coming with us! “The soldier interrupted him, motioning for everyone to get up.