Forged Alliance
The sound of a sparking wire serenades the quiet infirmary. Vivian lays face down on the cold iron table as Dr. Rivers treats the wound on her lower back. She winced as the final suture pierces her skin. He ties it off and cuts the excess string.
Dr. Rivers: All done. Do try to take it easy. The more I stitch it up, the uglier the scar is gonna be.
Vivian: Thanks, doc.
Vivian kicks her prosthetic legs off the table and stands up. She walks to the door where her partner, Alejada, stands stoically. She reaches out and caresses her arm.
Vivian: Ready for our week off?
Alejada: Yeah. Go ahead without me. I need to talk to the doctor.
Vivian: Fine, but then I get your undivided attention.
Alejada grunts a begrudging confirmation. Vivian raises to the tips of her toes and kisses the taller woman on the cheek before leaving the room. Alejada looks towards Dr. Rivers.
Dr. Rivers: Well aren’t you two just adorable.
Alejada rolls her eyes. She reaches into her pocket and pulls out the silver eye that once belonged to the boy she’d rescued. She hands it to the doctor.
Dr. Rivers: So… Our little soldier didn’t make it.
Alejada doesn’t respond. Her silence is more than enough to answer his question.
Dr. Rivers: Such a cruel fate… Any clue what this does?
Alejada: No.
Dr. Rivers: Well, I’ll put it in containment and Leva will examine it when she returns from her run. How are you feeling?
Alejada: You know how I’m feeling.
Dr. Rivers: Yes, yes. Masking your sadness with anger has always been your M.O.
Alejada: You’re not my psychologist.
Dr. Rivers: You’re right. I’m but a humble surgeon. I’ll stay in my lane. You enjoy your week off. You’ve certainly earned it.
Dr. Rivers turns to the corrugated steel wall and presses a button. A portion of the wall slides to the left, revealing a dark laboratory. Dr. Rivers steps inside and the door shuts behind him.
The neon sign of Come Get Wasted flickers. Light from the setting sun floods through the window. A few tired patrons sit idly around the bar. A young man sits at the bar opposite the feminine bartender, Tuck. The young man is dressed in an off white cloak over an olive tank top shirt revealing his thin but muscular arms. He’s also wearing grey cargo pants over his short legs. His black boots hover over the ground as his legs kick mindlessly off the edge of the bar stool. He has black gloves and green goggles strapped over his mid-lengthed scruffy two toned hair. Blonde at the top and brunette underneath. He looks up to Tuck and pouts.
Isaac: C’mon, Tuck. Just one drink.
Tuck: No way. If Al found out I gave you alcohol she’d kick my ass. Besides, I’m not gonna babysit you when one drink gets you drunk off your ass.
Isaac: C’mon! She’s not even here, she’ll never know.
Tuck: N. O. Kid. If you keep whining I’m banning you from the bar for a month.
Isaac: Again?
The bell rings and Vivian enters the bar. She rubs her tired eyes as she approaches the bar.
Tuck: Where’s the brat?
Vivian shakes her head sadly.
Tuck: Oh…
Vivian: It happens… Can I get the keys to the shower? I need to wash today off of me.
Tuck: Yeah, of course.
Tuck reaches under the bar and grabs a small key. He hands it to Vivian.
Tuck: Just don’t use the hot water. There’s only enough for one and I ain’t taking a cold shower.
Vivian: Yeah, yeah. We wouldn’t want his highness to be inconvenienced.
Tuck: My bar, my warm showers.
Vivian: Yes, sir.
Vivian walks to the back of the bar, out of sight. The bell rings again, Alejada walks in holding a briefcase.
Isaac: Sensei!
Alejada ignores the excited young man, setting the briefcase on the bar.
Tuck: What’s that?
Alejada: Payment from my last job.
She undoes the clasps and opens the case, revealing six portable radios and one stationary radio.
Isaac: Cool!
Isaac reaches for the radios. Alejada smacks his hand and glares at him.
Isaac: Sorry…
Alejada: This will help us keep in contact across the wasteland. They can communicate up to 50 miles. That should cover our usual travel radius.
Isaac: You mean, we can talk to each other, even if we’re on a run?
Alejada: Not you. You won’t be going out by yourself, so you won’t need one. The sixth one goes to Dr. Rivers.
Isaac: Aww! But that’s not fair!
Alejada: What did I tell you about whining?
Isaac: But-
Alejada’s glare intensifies causing the boy to rethink his words.
Isaac: Yes, Sensei…
Alejada: Where’s Jean-Paul and Leva? They were with you on your last run.
Isaac: They dropped me off before heading out for another job. You said I wasn’t allowed to take jobs at the capital.
Alejada tenses.
Alejada: They went to the capital?
The sun rises over the horizon, spilling daylight over the bleak wasteland. A booted foot kicks sand over a campfire, smothering the flame. The boot belongs to a tall male figure cloaked head to toe in beige nomadic rags, designed to hide his identity. He has a long sword strapped to his back also wrapped in cloth. He looks towards his travel partner, a shorter woman in similar rags with a black compound bow and quiver on her back, picks up her cargo bag and straps it to her shoulder. She nods and they both begin their walk towards the horizon. A plume of smoke billows from the chimney of a massive brick building, surrounded by impenetrable steel walls.
Red flags billow high above the iron gates of the capital. The crest on the flag is an iron grey triangle framed by wreaths of the same color. At the center of the crest is a golden flame over crossed hammers. The text on the flag reads “Et calor ex virtute Dei”. The hooded travelers wander the bustling marketplace. The capital of the wasteland, otherwise known as Forge City, has the highest population density of any settlement in the wasteland. 60% of the region’s population lives within the city's walls, creating a lively atmosphere in the otherwise bleak world. Iron soldiers with red capes guard patrol the streets, keeping any trouble at bay. Carts and tents line the streets as the citizens trade produce and other wares. The female traveler drops some iron coins into the palm of a vendor. In return the vendor hands her a small bulbous sack.
Vendor: Safe travels, sister.
The cloaked woman clasps her hands and bows before returning to her travel partner. She presents the bag to him and he responds with a silent thumbs up. They walk down the street, past a board of wanted posters. Among the criminals and exiles, Alejada and Vivian’s faces sit next to two others. A square-jawed man with short, untamed red hair, and a leery eyed woman with mid-lengthed bluish-grey hair tied back into a short ponytail.
A cloth wrapped hand knocks on the aluminum door of an apartment located just outside the market. The building is made of pristine metal, unlike the rusted mismatched buildings of Scrapton. One of the many benefits of the forge that acts as the heart of this city. The doorknob turns and the door opens slowly. The skittish bespectacled face of a middle aged man peeks out to see the covered faces of the two nomadic figures. His chin is covered in stubble and his light black hair is a frazzled mess.
Client: M-members of the church? T-t-to what do I owe the visit?
The woman lifts the bag she’d purchased earlier. His eyes widen.
Small red apple-shaped fruits pour onto a wooden table. At one side of the table, the man sits in a desk chair, holding the now empty sack. Across from him, sitting on a small wooden love seat, the two figures now unmasked matching the wanted pictures in the market. The tall red haired man leans back in his seat, legs spread wide, and arms outstretched nearly the full length of the couch. His companion sits cross-legged, leaning forward ready to engage in business. Both sets of eyes seem bored, and devoid of emotion. The disheveled man counts the fruit in front of him.
Client: 28, 29, and 30. I wouldn’t think two random people would show up to my door with a sack of apple-beads, but you can never be too safe, right? I certainly didn’t expect you to be dressed as members of the Reclamation. It’s illegal to impersonate the church, you know?
The man grabs one of the apple-beads from the table and pops it in his mouth. He crunches down on the hard fruit and chews as they respond.
JP: It’s illegal for us just being near here. What’s one more law?
Leva: Since The Wasted were exiled from the capital, this is the only way we can enter without raising suspicion.
Client: I hear you. Just making the trek to Scrapton made me a ball of nerves. The way the guards were eyeing me on my way out of town.
Uninterested in the conversation, JP stands and begins examining the small apartment. Leva reaches into the breast of her robes and pulls out a small white piece of folded paper and sets it on the table between them. The outer layer reads “A Letter from Forge City”.
Leva: The order you left was less than ideal. Unassuming, vague, and requiring us to work in the capital. All red flags for my colleagues and I. It reads more like a postcard than a bounty.
Client: I-I understand, and I do apologize for that. But the guards check everything before anyone leaves the city. But when the city refused to help, I knew you were the last people I could turn to.
Leva: Yes, only a desperate father would traverse the 20 miles between here and Scrapton to save his daughter. Once I deciphered your letter, I couldn’t help but make it a top priority. Especially if what you’re promising my people can become a reality.
Client: Y-yes! Yes, I work with the caravans. I can organize a covert supply drop for your town once a month. If you can get my daughter, you can get anything you need, I promise.
JP’s eyes sweep the cluttered countertops of the kitchen adjacent to the seating area. Food covered dishes sit in and around the sink. As his eyes drift further the dishes turn to paper and documents. Mostly caravan orders written in haste. JP follows the papers to a framed picture of a girl, no older than 10, smiling hanging off the shoulder of her father. The cheerful man, far removed from who he is today.
JP: This her?
JP lifts the photograph.
Client: Yeah… My little Coriander… I guess she’s not so little anymore. I-I just miss her so much.
The client buries his head in his palms and begins to sob. Leva reaches her arm across the table and places it on his shoulder. He looks up into her apathetic eyes, but he can feel the empathy behind them.
Leva: We can help. But you need to tell us exactly what happened.
Client: O-o-of course…
Bozan: HAHAHA! HAHAHAHAHAHA!
A large muscular man sits upon a throne of bones in the center of a large tent. He has long blonde hair, knotted and greasy from years of mistreatment, and olive green eyes. He’s wearing mismatched leather scraps as armor, enhanced by metal plates clearly added after it had seen some use. He bites down on a large spit of meat. He chews and laughs while he and his small army of raiders watch the teenage Coriander dance for his amusement. Every few moments one of the two raiders to either side of her jab her with a cattle prod, causing her to jolt and whimper. Tears stain her face from weeks of crying, in servitude to this monstrous man. One of the raiders jabs her in the arm with the prod. She cries out in pain and drops to her knees.
Bozan: Hey! I didn’t say you could stop dancin!
Coriander: I-I need to rest, sir. Please!
Bozan: Quit cryin! Those capital pigs were supposed ta bring me one o’ yas that wasn’t gonna cry so damn much!
Bozan grabs the chain around her neck and yanks her towards his throne. The lightweight girl flies forward into the lap of the cruel warlord. He grabs her hair and forces her to look up into his eyes.
Bozan: Ya don’t wanna dance, huh? Then we’ll just have ta make ya dance…
The crowd cheers in amusement.
Leva and JP traverse the muted desert just outside the capital. Clear of vision, they continue to walk without their masks.
JP: I knew King Infernando was a corrupt asshole, but giving a kid to a warlord for peace? *whistle* That may take the cake.
Leva: We know the evil the King is capable of. We shouldn’t be surprised.
JP: Surprised? No. An act so vile seems so common. It’d be weird if it didn’t take place. I mean, without evil, what are The Wasted?
Leva: Satisfied.
JP: That's the least satisfying answer. You sound like Al.
Leva: I agree with her on this particular topic.
JP: You and Al are so boring. If you had it your way, we’d just be finding lost mutts, and running supplies. Where’s the stimulation in that?
Leva: I’ve entertained this hypothetical for longer than I care to. This world has no shortages of evil. It’s pointless to imagine one without it.
JP: That’s our Leva. Right as always.
Back in Forge City, the client is led through the busy worker’s floor of the factory by two armed guards. Conveyor belts run at a steady pace as the technicians work to craft a variety of objects ranging from mechanical parts to pillows and sheets. The trembling man is brought to the back warehouse. Aisles and aisles of manufactured goods stockpiled for future use. The client stares straight down the center of the shelves to a man sitting on a steel throne. The man is younger than one would expect a king to be, but his intense yellow eyes speak of his experiences. His long oaken hair flows from his dark iron crown and down over his red robes. He sits relaxed in his throne with his legs crossed, eyeing the man approaching him. Behind him is the flowing magma of the grand forge. Two large blacksmith man their stations. Each metallic clang makes the client nearly jump out of his skin. The two guards lead the man before the king and kick his legs out from under him, forcing him to bow. The king laces his gloved fingers and leans forward.
Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.
Infernando: A little scorchbirdie told me you had some interesting guests today, Todd.
The king’s eyes narrow spitefully.
Infernando: They wouldn’t be looking to bother our friend, Bozan. Would they?
Leva and JP crest the dune and lay their eyes on Bozan’s base.
JP: Wow.
Expecting to see a rusted raider camp, they’re greeted by the harrowing sight of an iron fortress, rivaling the walls of the capital itself. And the most egregious sight are the capital flags flying proudly next to rotting corpses on spikes.
Leva: Wow indeed. That’s not just some raider camp. It’s a full blown fort, built by the King himself.
JP: So our client’s kid wasn’t a peace treaty. She was a paycheck.
He begins walking forward.
Leva: Wait. With this new information, we can’t rule out the chances of this being a trap.
JP: Trap-shmap. Getting these guys off the face of this earth benefits everyone. Especially if they’re Infernando’s lap dogs.
Leva: I wish you wouldn’t be so flippant about this.
JP: Relax, Lev. We’ll come up with a plan and everything will be fine.
Leva: You mean I’ll come up with a plan.
JP snaps his fingers.
JP: Bingo.
Bozan: Now THAT was fun.
Bozan grins, slamming the iron bars of a cage. There’s a loud explosion outside of the base.
Bozan: What the hell?!
One of the raiders sprints down from the watchtower.
Bozan: Well? What the hell is it?!
Raider: It’s just one woman. All she’s got is a bow.
Bozan: A bitch with a bow? Well if she came lookin for trouble, let’s say we give her some fucking trouble!
The raiders roar with cheers, eager for violence.
Leva kneels before the iron of the camp, arrow nocked on the string of her black compound bow, ready to fire. Her eyes focus on the two giant gates in front of her. The doors begin to part and savage raiders flood out and surround her, armed with various blunt and bladed objects, snarling and snorting like savages. His army is followed by the man himself. The patient woman gets her first glance at the target.
Leva: (Inner Monologue) Bozan the Butcher. 91 inches tall. 32 inches shoulder to shoulder. Knife on his right hip. No bio-mechanical enhancements readily apparent. 64 raiders around me. More than expected, but that shouldn’t be a problem if JP does his job correctly.
Bozan: So you’re the little lady that decided ta knock on my door, eh? Ya certainly are a brave one.
Leva doesn’t respond, focusing down the shaft of her black metal arrow. Bozan scowls at the blatant disrespect.
Bozan: Ya got dust in yer ears, bitch? Ya gotta have a lotta nerves to disrupt Bozan the Butcher’s leisure time, ya hear me?
She keeps her eye on the tall iron wall behind him until she sees JP run into sight, positioning himself behind Bozan. He gives a confident thumbs up.
Bozan: Well if yarn’t here ta talk, I guess yer here fer a fight. Men! Give her a fight!
Leva releases the arrow. Bozan moves his head out of the path of the projectile.
Bozan: HA! Ya missed, girly! Now yer in for a world of p-AGH!
Bozan cries out in pain as the off target arrow finds itself buried in his right shoulder blade.
Bozan: How did you-?
JP: Up here, Bozo.
Bozan turns around to see JP standing at the top of his wall, his massive wrapped sword drawn and resting casually over his shoulder.
JP: This has been a long time coming for you, big guy. The Wasted don’t care for people like you causing trouble for the people of the wasteland. Even if you are working for the capital.
Bozan: The Wasted, huh? Now it’s all startin ta make sense. Bout time someone put a hit out on ol’ Bozan. Men, take care of the girl. This one’s mine.
Bozan’s army converges on Leva. She reaches into her bag and pulls out a small silver canister and presses the button on its top. Smoke emits as the army closes in. seconds later the smoke clears and Leva is gone.
Leva: I’m over here!
The raiders turn to see her a ways away from the fight with her bow at the ready. They rave rabidly and chase after her.
Meanwhile Bozan stares up at JP. A crazy grin across his grimy face. JP remains at the top of the wall, taking his time unwrapping his thick shimmering silver sword, not in any rush to begin combat.
Bozan: What’s wrong, boy? Scared?
JP: Scared? No. I’m just waiting for that arrow to explode.
Bozan: Explode?
Suddenly the arrow in his shoulder explodes, taking a chunk out of his back. JP leaps from his perch, swinging his wide sword down at the warlord’s skull. Bozan backs away from the strike as JP lands in a cloud of dust. Bozan trips to his back, holding his shredded shoulder. JP stands above him, pointing the tip of his sword at the bastard’s skull.
JP: Before I slice into that ugly dog face of yours, tell me. How did a low life like you make allies with King Infernando?
Bozan: Ha. Hahaha. HAHAHAHA!
JP: If you have the strength to laugh, you have the strength to speak.
Bozan: The king’s kept me alive all this time for the same reason you aren’t gonna kill me now.
As he speaks, the damaged flesh on his back begins to regenerate. Bozan howls in laughter. JP looks lazily down at the laughing man. His sword drops, cleaving through Bozan’s skull. His laughing stops and his body drops to the ground lifeless. JP straps the sword back on his back.
JP: Welp… No regenerating that.
He turns and starts walking towards the camp. He looks off in the direction Leva and the army ran.
JP: Lev can handle herself. Gotta find that girl.
Bozan: Guh…
JP: What?
JP looks back at the lifeless body of Bozan. He shrugs and turns back to the camp. He stops a few moments later, getting a bad feeling about the situation. He turns his head to check on Bozan.
JP: Huh?
The body’s gone. JP scans the immediate area.
JP: Where did he g-
Bozan: HERE I AM!
Bozan appears behind him. A crazed look etched into his face, still split down the middle. He holds a knife pointed and lunging at the back of Jean-Paul’s neck. JP feels the tip of the knife hit his neck. He moves his head at the last second and the knife cuts through the right side of his neck, leaving a deep gash. JP jumps away to a safe distance, turning to stare down Bozan while holding the bleeding wound. The lips on either side of Bozan’s severed face twist into a smile as his cells begin to regenerate.
Bozan: I told ya, boy. I ain’t so easy ta kill.
JP: I cut clean through your brain stem.
The two halves of Bozan’s head come together as he heals fully. He grabs his hair and tugs, proving the tensile strength of his new scalp.
Bozan: Those Second End cunts did a pretty good job, huh? They used me as a guinea pig for some special Nevo-Corp stem cells, but those little shits melted my brains faster than they could heal ‘em. Ya know what goes through the rotten brain of an immortal man?
JP grits his teeth, reaching back and gripping the hilt of his sword to prepare for the fight ahead.
Leva sprints across the blazing desert wasteland, followed at a distance by Bozan’s raving army of raiders. She reaches back into her quiver and loads it into her bow. Maintaining her momentum she turns around, drawing back her bow and releasing the arrow into the crowd. The arrow pierces the forehead of one of the raiders in the front. She collapses to the ground as her comrade trample over her dead body without a care. Leva reaches back for another arrow, but finds the quiver empty. She turns back around and continues running.
Leva: (IM) Tch. I’m out. Their numbers are far greater than we anticipated. But heavy artillery may draw unwanted attention.
One of the raiders rears their steel pipe back and throws it at Leva as she runs. The blunt object nails her in the back of the knee.
Leva: Crap!
Leva grits her teeth as she topples to the dirt. She rolls to her back and looks up at the rapidly approaching mob.
Leva: (IM) I don’t think I have the luxury of choice right now.
Leva takes the cargo bag off her shoulder and places it out in front of herself. She unzips the bag and pulls out a hefty black canister, with a large golden “SE” on the side. She places it and hits a button on her bow. The canister spark, and a large chunk of metal rockets into the air like a mortar, leaving a jet of smoke in its wake.
JP’s sword clashes with Bozan’s knife. His eyes lock with the Warlord's single bloodshot eye. There’s an explosion in the distance. JP breaks eye contact to see a plume of smoke in the distance.
JP: Leva…
Bozan: Eyes on me, boy!
Bozan slashes at JP’s chest, forcing him to jump back. JP eyes the smoke in the distance.
JP: (IM) Leva’s gonna have to hold her own for a little while longer. I gotta kill this guy, and fast.
JP holds his sword out in front of him, and begins focusing his energy.
Bozan: Aww that's cute, your girlfriend is sendin ya smoke signals. My men must have her in a pretty tight spot.
JP: (IM) This guy’s gonna be a real pain in my ass.
Leva watches as the pieces of metal shift in the air, forming a small jet-shaped drone. The machine flies over the puzzled Raiders and opens fire, unleashing an automatic barrage of bullets. As the bodies begin to drop, the crowd begins to panic and scatter. Leva watches as her drone systematically dispatches the crowd. She glances down at the smoking spent canister it deployed from.
Leva: (IM) That smoke flare could be seen for miles, and the smell of gasoline left from the combustion will lead creatures right to me. The Second End designed these to be one use smoke signals that can provide a little extra fire in a bind. I’ve modified this one, but it still draws a lot of unwanted attention.
Leva watches the scattering crowd. The drone’s onslaught begins to slow as the space between targets widens. A little under half the army is left as the remaining raiders turn their attention back to Leva.
Raider: Hey! That bitch is just standing there while her dumb robot mows us down!
Leva: (IM) Crap. They’ve wisened up to the fact that I’m still helpless. Seems I can’t escape this without getting my hands dirty.
The drone runs out of ammo as the few remaining raiders turn and charge at Leva. She drops her quiver and cargo bag and types a code into the keypad on her bow. The drone retreats. Its wings extend out and sharpen. The body straps itself to her back. The bladed wings attach to the outside of her arms, the tips of which extend a foot past her knuckles like swords. She eyes the approaching army.
Leva: (IM) 27 targets. 10 blunt. 8 bladed. 9 piercing. Identify the weakest target…
Her eyes scan the wave until she identifies the smallest raider in the front left.
Leva: (IM) And strike.
Jets on base of the drone kick up, propelling Leva into battle. She drives both arm mounted swords through the head of her target, planting both feet on the raider’s chest and kicking herself up in the air. She hangs in the air with the help of her jet pack. She looks down on the remaining raiders. She unleashes a battle cry before swooping down into the fray.
JP swings his sword at his immortal opponent. Grunting as it clashes once again with the mad warlord’s knife.
Bozan: What’s wrong? Such a big sword shouldn’t have any trouble gettin through this tiny knife. Guess Capital steel’s just built different.
JP: You sure do love the sound of your own voice.
JP quips, grabbing Bozan's wrist and knocking the knife out of his hand with the pommel of his sword. Bozan frees his wrist and extends his hand to reach for his discarded weapon. With stunning speed, JP’s sword comes down like a guillotine on Bozan’s forearm. His severed hand drops to the ground next to his knife. He grits his teeth and retreats to the distance, holding his bloody stump. His enhanced cells slowly begin reforming.
JP: So it doesn’t matter what I sever. Even if I fully decapitate you, your advanced cells will just bring you back. Is that right?
Bozan: HAHAHAHAHA! Ya finally figure out how fucked y’are, boy? Knife or no knife. There’s no way you win. And after my men finish playin with yer little friend. They’re gonna come back and we’re gonna make ya regret the day ya ever decided to ta challenge Bozan the Butcher! HAHAHAHAHA!
Bozan looks up to the heavens, cackling at the god itself.
Bozan: I am god’s greatest fear! The unpunishable sinner! Do ya really think you could accomplish a feat that even the great King Infernando’s greatest army could never even sniff?!
During his monologue, Bozan’s eyes close fully as he basks in his own self congratulation. When he finally opens them he sees the sun eclipsed by his descending opponent.
JP: You talk too damn much!
He swings his sword down. Bozan moves his head out of the sword’s pass, sacrificing his right shoulder. The silver sword cuts clean through his clavicle, embedding itself into Bozan’s rib cage. The Butcher growls in pain, but it morphs into a grin as JP works to remove his weapon from his torso. He opens his mouth wide and bites down on the younger man’s neck. JP cries out in agony as the jagged rotted teeth sink into his skin. He rips his sword from the warlord. He shoves Bozan away, but the mad man takes a chunk of JP’s neck with him. Blood spurts from the wound all over JP’s tan rags. Skin hangs from the jovial Butcher’s teeth, almost giddy to have blood covering his face. JP grabs the opening on his neck, keeping the blood loss at a minimum as he watches his target’s wound heal in seconds, as well as his hand returning in full.
JP: (IM) He’s healing faster than he was before. It’s hard to pretend that there isn’t something to what he said. I don’t know how I can beat an immortal man.
Bozan makes a show of swallowing the skin in his mouth. JP glances back at the fortress behind him.
JP: (IM) But he was never the job to begin with.
JP makes a full retreat towards the fortress.
Bozan: Running? After all that? That’s no fun at all!
JP sprints through the gates of the camp, seeing the maze of tents before him. He dashes from tent to tent searching for Coriander. Each one houses a different wasteland nightmare.
Bozan: No point in hidin, boy! Death is inevitable!.. For you at least.
JP: I don’t have the time to look through all these tents… Coriander! Coriander can you hear me?
???: H-HELP!!!
JP runs to the tent where he hears the voice. His naturally uninterested eyes widen in horror as he sets his sights on the cage.
???: H-h-h-help... me…
He takes in a sickening sight of a suffering woman, unrecognizable as such. Barely alive in her current state, he watches the life leaves her crying eyes.
JP: C-Co…
JP drops to his knees, vomiting all he can. He feels a hand touch his shoulder. He flinches, looking up to see Bozan's blood soaked smile.
Bozan: Ain’t she beautiful?
JP smacks his hand away, standing to face this immortal monster. Sword at the ready.
JP: Is this what you do with eternal life? Torture others for amusement?
Bozan: Aw, what’s with that face? You’ve been nothin but dry quips since we started. I thought we were havin fun.
JP: Fun?
His grip on his sword tightens.
JP: You think this is fun?
A memory is triggered. JP sits in Tuck’s bar at a booth. He’s laid back with his feet on the table. He begins to nod off.
Tuck: Hey! Boots off the table! I don’t need you adding any wasteland dirt to the food. I get enough complaints about the dirt that’s in it already.
JP continues staring up at the sky, a glazed expression on his face. Tuck scowls.
Tuck: Hey, did you hear what I said?
JP: I did.
Tuck fumes. JP eventually moves his legs. Tuck wipes the table with his rag.
Tuck: So… Are you gonna make me ask?
JP: Ask what?
Tuck: Everyone else is out on assignment, but you’re here staring at the ceiling and dirtying my tables. What’s wrong?
JP: Nothing’s wrong. None of the jobs catch my eye, is all. They’re all supply runs. Supply runs are just boring.
Tuck: The jobs are boring, so you’d rather sit here and do nothing.
JP takes a second.
JP: Yes.
Tuck slaps his own forehead.
Tuck: I may never understand you.
JP: I just don’t understand what the point is.
Tuck: What do you mean?
JP: I see the others come back from a job, and you can always tell how it went by their energy. If it was a good job, they’ll have this aura of pride on them. If the job went bad, they’ll have a certain sorrow to them. Even Alejada, no matter how stoic she tries to be, she always has an energy to her. But I do these jobs… And I feel nothing. No pride. No sorrow. I just feel bored. What’s the point if I don’t get that rush of satisfaction? I needed a few days off to think about it.
Tuck: Right… I see what you mean.
JP: It's like there’s this chain around my heart weighing me down. I can’t smile. I can’t cry. I don’t lash out in anger. I’m empty… And then another thought crossed my mind… What am I if I watch someone die and feel nothing? Am I even human?
A pulse rings from deep in JP’s soul, pounding from his heart, directly to his sword.
JP: (IM) That memory… That conversation with Tuck put a lot of things into perspective. He told me that only a human would even ask something like that. “How would I react to a dead body?” That’s something only a human could worry about. But that conversation was years ago. I’ve seen my share of dead bodies since then. And I got my answer…
Another pulse rips through his heart, shattering the chain around it.
JP: (IM) It really pisses me off!
His sword ignited in a crimson blaze. Red lights emit from key points over his body and forehead. Heat radiates from his body, cauterizing his own wounds. His sword begins to crack and shift. The flames burn into the metal, leaving a much larger scarlet sword with serrated edges. He glares a hole into Bozan. The mad warlord smiles staring down at the next level of his opponent.
Bozan: Well I’ll be. That don’t look like Second End tech. Yer somethin special, ain’t ya…
JP: Shut up… Shut up. Shut up! SHUT UP! You do not get to take human lives as payment! And you sure as hell don’t get to treat them like THIS! I don’t care how many times I have to cut you in half, but I’m going to do what god’s too scared to do, Bozan! I’M GONNA KILL YOU!!!