* Act 2 *The Edge of Desperation

The first rays of dawn peeked over the horizon, casting a soft golden light over the barren wasteland. Near the small stream they’d stumbled upon the night before, Mary crouched behind a cluster of bushes, her eyes scanning the area while she waited for her clothes to dry after being washed in the cool water. She shifted uncomfortably, grumbling under her breath about the smell of that disgusting monster still lingering on her skin.

Bass, sitting nearby, stretched his arms and yawned. His mind had been churning all night about the strange events that had unfolded. His gaze wandered over to Zipper, who sat cross-legged by the water, looking perfectly content, as though being mailed across the desert was a normal, everyday thing.

“So,” Bass started, his curiosity finally getting the better of him, “what’s the deal with you being sent by mail? That doesn’t sound... normal.”

Mary, still hiding behind the bushes, chimed in, her voice casual despite the odd conversation. “Surprised? Well, believe it or not, the post office can mail kids under a certain height. Thought Zipper was a child when I picked up the job.”

Bass blinked. “Wait, that’s a thing? You can just... mail a kid?”

Mary shrugged, though Bass couldn’t see her. “Yeah, if they’re small enough, the post office doesn’t really care.”

Bass scratched his head, still trying to process the absurdity of it. He glanced at Zipper, who looked more amused than anything.

“Alright,” he continued, “so where were you being mailed to, anyway?”

Zipper perked up at the question, a bright smile spreading across her face. “Oh, to the President!”

Bass nearly choked on the air. “The President?”

“Yup!” Zipper nodded cheerfully, as if mailing someone to the most powerful person in the land was a perfectly ordinary thing to do.

Bass shot a glance toward the bushes where Mary was still hiding. “And you didn’t think that was strange?”

Mary’s voice drifted over the bushes, as dry as ever. “Honestly, didn’t care. A job’s a job.”

Bass sighed, rubbing his temples. This was shaping up to be an even weirder day than the last.

As Bass leaned against a rock, watching the morning unfold, he casually asked, “So, why d’you care about the mail so much, Mary?”

Mary, still hidden behind the bushes, didn’t answer immediately. After a beat, she responded with a dry tone, “You want the answer to that? You’d better bust out that harmonica again.”

Bass smirked but shook his head. “Nah, it’s too bright and early for that.”

Mary chuckled in agreement, while Zipper, sitting cross-legged nearby, pouted slightly. “I wanted to hear it...” she mumbled, half to herself.

Ignoring the disappointment, Bass stood up and stretched, his eyes on the sky. “By the constellations, we should be about a day and a night north of Tomney Gulch.” He gestured vaguely toward the distant horizon. “Railroad loops through that town. You ever been there?”

Zipper shook her head while Mary muttered from behind the bushes, “Once or twice.”

Bass nodded, thinking aloud. “The way the railroad’s built, it loops up and around the mountains nearby. We disembarked on the far side of the loop, so we’re cutting straight across—parallel to the tracks but heading in a straight line. We’re circumventing the loop entirely.”

As he spoke, the wind began to pick up, carrying with it the dry, dusty scent of the Filgaian wasteland. Zipper’s sharp eyes caught something moving in the distance. She stood up, squinting into the breeze. “What’s that?”

Bass followed her gaze. His eyes narrowed as he spotted a cluster of eerie, balloon-like creatures drifting across their path. The creatures—distorted, floating heads with gaping mouths and twisted expressions—moved as if carried by the wind itself, bobbing lazily but menacingly across the landscape.

“Balloon monsters,” Bass muttered, instinctively reaching for his gun. “Stay low.”

The group crouched, watching in tense silence as the creatures floated along, casting long shadows against the rocky ground. The balloon monsters didn’t seem to notice them, their strange, hollow cries carried off by the wind. One of the creatures drifted close enough for Bass to see the grotesque details of its twisted face—a blend of agony and rage—but, thankfully, it passed by without incident.

They waited until the entire cluster had crossed before standing again.

“Let’s move,” Bass said, exhaling. “No sense in sticking around.”

The trio continued on their path, carefully skirting the balloon monsters' route. As they moved further from the eerie scene, the wind began to die down, leaving them in the quiet of the wasteland once more.

As the wind settled, leaving the air still and heavy, the group pressed on, their footsteps crunching softly against the cracked earth of the Filgaian wasteland. Bass kept glancing over his shoulder, making sure the balloon monsters weren’t doubling back. Their hollow wails still echoed faintly in his ears, and the image of their gaping mouths stuck with him. Filgaia had its fair share of strange creatures, but those things always gave him the chills.

Zipper walked beside him, her small frame almost lost in the oversized coat she wore. Despite her size, there was something resilient about her, a quiet strength that belied her innocent demeanor. She had fallen silent after the encounter, her green eyes scanning the horizon for any other dangers.

“You alright, Zipper?” Bass asked, breaking the quiet.

Zipper nodded but didn’t look up. “Just thinking... those things, they didn’t seem alive. More like... shadows.”

Bass frowned at that. She had a way of seeing things differently, but that was part of the Elw nature. “Maybe. Maybe they’re just part of this wasteland, like ghosts or something.”

Mary, trailing slightly behind them, scoffed. She had her katana resting against her shoulder, still on edge. “Whatever they were, I’d rather not cross their path again. Shadows or not, they look like trouble.”

Bass nodded in agreement. “Can’t argue with that.”

They walked in silence for a while longer until the terrain started to shift. The rocky ground became softer, the cracks filling with sand and patches of dried grass. The faint sound of running water caught Bass’s ear, and he picked up the pace, motioning for the others to follow.

Not far ahead, a narrow stream cut through the wasteland, its clear water a welcome sight after the dry heat of the day. The small creek meandered through the cracked landscape, as if defying the harshness of the world around it.

“Finally, some good luck,” Bass said with a smile, kneeling beside the stream to splash his face. The water was cool and refreshing, a sharp contrast to the oppressive dryness of Filgaia.

Zipper leaned down and cupped some water in her hands, her eyes lighting up as she drank. “It’s sweet,” she said with a soft giggle, as though the simple joy of finding water was a small miracle.

Mary stood a little way off, keeping her eyes on the horizon. “We’ll rest here for a bit,” she said, her voice more relaxed than before, “but not for too long. We still don’t know who or what might be out there.”

Bass nodded, taking a seat by the stream, letting the cool breeze and the sound of water soothe his nerves. It was rare to find moments of peace in a place like Filgaia. The wasteland was unforgiving, but every now and then, it offered something good—a patch of water, a brief rest. But Bass knew better than to take it for granted. He glanced up at the darkening sky, the stars beginning to peek through the purple haze of twilight.

“Tomorrow, we should hit the outskirts of Tomney Gulch,” he said, more to himself than anyone else. “With any luck, we’ll find out why Zipper was being sent to the President.”

Zipper perked up at that, her curiosity reigniting. “Do you think he’s nice?” she asked, her voice full of wonder.

Bass chuckled. “I don’t know about that, kid. Presidents usually aren’t known for being nice, but we’ll find out soon enough.”

Mary smirked, though she kept her eyes on the distant horizon. “Let’s just hope getting to Tomney is the easy part.”

As night fell fully upon them, they made a small camp by the stream, taking turns keeping watch while the others slept. The fire crackled softly, its glow casting long shadows across the rocky landscape. Despite the peaceful sound of the stream, an unease hung in the air, as though the quiet was waiting to be broken.

Bass lay on his back, staring up at the stars, letting his mind wander to the journey ahead. Tomorrow would bring more questions, and probably more danger. But for now, he let the sound of the water and the warmth of the fire carry him into a restless sleep, the distant wails of the balloon monsters still lingering at the edge of his dreams.

Fonder stormed down the scorched trail, his black coat swirling around him, his boots pounding the dusty ground. His eyes were sharp behind the gold-rimmed spectacles, fury burning as hot as the wreckage that lay ahead of him. He could already smell the smoke before he even reached the wrecked train. Flames flickered in the distance, casting eerie shadows on the crumpled steel and debris.

The train wreck lay sprawled across the barren Filgaian landscape like a broken spine, with jagged metal shards and twisted railcars scattered haphazardly along the tracks. Thick, black smoke billowed into the sky from fires still smoldering at the wreckage, their orange glow casting an eerie light over the shattered wood and iron. The sound of hissing steam mixed with the occasional creak of metal bending under the heat, and the acrid stench of burning fuel filled the air. Wrecked carriages, once holding cargo or passengers, were now little more than charred husks, many torn open by the violent derailment. Strewn debris—suitcases, supplies, and personal belongings—littered the ground, evidence of the chaos that had unfolded.

As he drew closer, the sound of manic laughter filled the air, distorted by the hiss of a gas mask. Fonder’s jaw clenched. Clifton.

There he was, the arsonist crouched amidst the smoldering remains of the train, laughing madly as he sifted through the debris. Clifton’s entire outfit was caked in ash and soot, but his posture was casual, as though setting fire to the train and its contents was a regular, delightful afternoon activity. The multi-colored vials of volatile liquids strapped to his body clinked together as he moved, grabbing a metal object and examining it with amusement before tossing it aside.

"Flambé!" Clifton cackled in his thick accent, flinging a half-burned trinket behind him. “Ah, ze flame—she always gives such magnifique results, no?”

Fonder’s fists tightened around his revolver. He stalked forward, his face hard as stone. “What the hell are you doing?”

Clifton turned his head slightly, the glowing lenses of his mask reflecting the firelight as his laughter bubbled up again, unnerving and unhinged. “Ah, monsieur! I am, how you say, cooking up a masterpiece, no?” He waved his gloved hand across the burning ruins as though presenting a grand piece of art. “Flambé!” he repeated with a flourish, his voice muffled through the gas mask. “It is... how you say... sublime.”

Fonder’s eyes narrowed as he stomped forward, and without warning, he cracked Clifton across the head with the butt of his revolver. The hit landed hard, sending Clifton sprawling sideways with a grunt, his laughter cut short.

The arsonist rolled onto his side, holding his head but still giggling weakly. “Ahh, monsieur, why so... unpleasant?”

Fonder leaned down, his voice low and seething. “The part of the train we wanted went rolling down the track thataway—” he pointed furiously toward the horizon—“and the part we didn’t need? That is what you just turned into your little bonfire.”

Clifton’s laughter came back, stifled, but bubbling beneath the surface as he straightened his hat and wobbled to his feet. “Ah, you wound me,” he said, clutching his chest dramatically. “But what can I say? Zey were all begging to be flambéed!” He twirled one of the vials between his fingers, the glass shimmering ominously as he inspected it with twisted admiration.

Fonder gritted his teeth, his patience wearing thin. “We needed that shipment—intact.”

Clifton shrugged, not a care in the world. “You win some, you lose some, non?” He took a casual step over a smoldering chunk of wood. “Besides, moi? I make things... more exciting, no?”

Fonder looked like he was about to explode. “The only thing you’re making, Clifton, is a bigger mess than we can afford right now.”

Clifton leaned in close, his gas mask whirring slightly. “But isn’t zat why you keep me around, monsieur?” he asked in a low voice, his manic grin clear even through the mask. “For ze... chaos?”

Fonder glared at him but said nothing. He hated that Clifton was right. The man was insane, reckless, and had no sense of restraint—but he was also unpredictable, and unpredictability had its uses.

After a tense pause, Fonder turned away, muttering a string of curses under his breath. “Get this mess cleaned up. We’re going after the part of the train that mattered.”

Clifton gave a mock salute, spinning one of his vials with a flick of his wrist. “As you wish, monsieur! But if I may say... flambé always leaves behind such beautiful destruction.”

Fonder didn’t respond. He simply marched off toward the others, his mood as dark as the smoke rising from the wreckage.

Clifton watched him go, then turned back to his handiwork, laughing softly to himself. “Ahh, monsieur Fonder, always so serious. Flambé never fails to bring the joy.”

With that, he tossed another vial into the flames and watched with glee as it exploded in a burst of color, the fire roaring even higher.

From the wreckage of the derailed train, another figure emerged, stepping out of one of the ruined railcars with a heavy, deliberate gait. The low hum of his chainsaw ARM buzzed quietly in the background, a sound that seemed to blend seamlessly with the crackling of the nearby flames. Sawyer, dressed in an assortment of rough, patchwork leathers, appeared like a ghost from the mountains—his outfit seemingly made from animals he’d hunted, tanned, and stitched together himself. Every inch of him screamed survivalist.

In one hand, he casually hefted the massive chainsaw, its teeth still covered in metal shavings and debris from cutting his way into the train. In the other hand, completely incongruous with his imposing presence, was a small, dainty lapdog. The tiny thing barked once, yipping at Sawyer’s large, calloused hands, its fluffy tail wagging.

Sawyer looked down at the little dog with something that almost resembled affection, then back at the train wreck as if he were sizing up the spoils. His chainsaw ARM, capable of cutting through damn near anything given enough time, had already proven its worth today. The massive saw had felled a water tower earlier in the day, bringing it crashing down over the tracks, derailing the train just as planned. And when the rest of the crew caught up, he had already begun carving through the railcars, searching for anything of value.

Fonder watched from a distance, wiping sweat from his brow as he stomped over to Sawyer. Unlike Clifton, the lunatic with a love of fire, Fonder actually liked Sawyer—he was dependable in his own strange way. The man had a singular focus, and once he set his sights on a task, you could count on it being done, no matter how crazy it seemed.

But that didn’t stop Fonder from raising a brow when he saw the lapdog nestled in Sawyer’s hand.

"Dammit, Sawyer," Fonder grumbled, glancing at the dog, "you ain’t gonna eat that varmint, are you?"

Sawyer’s eyes went wide with genuine horror, his grip tightening protectively around the little dog. “Eat him? Hell no, boss! What kinda monster do you take me for?” His deep voice rumbled through his thick beard, sounding more hurt than anything.

Fonder almost laughed but held it back, realizing Sawyer was serious. “Alright, alright,” he said, putting up his hands in mock surrender. “Just checkin’. So... what’s the plan with the pup?”

Sawyer looked down at the dog, his expression softening. “I’m gonna take him back up to the mountains with me once all this is over. Teach him how to be a real dog.”

Fonder shook his head, amused. The image of this towering, leather-clad mountain man teaching a pampered lapdog how to survive in the wilderness was too bizarre to imagine. “A real dog, huh?”

Sawyer grinned, lifting the dog to eye level as if the little thing might understand. “Yep. Gonna show him the ways of the woods. None of that fancy town living. He’ll learn to track, hunt, maybe even run down a wild boar or two. Ain’t that right, little fella?”

The dog, oblivious to Sawyer’s plans, licked his face and yipped happily.

Fonder chuckled and patted Sawyer on the shoulder. “Well, don’t let him slow you down. We’ve still got work to do.”

Sawyer nodded, setting the dog down gently on the ground for a moment before picking up his chainsaw with both hands, the machine humming back to life. “I’ll get back to cuttin’, boss. There’s a lot more we ain’t cracked open yet.”

With that, Sawyer marched back toward the wreckage, his chainsaw buzzing as he continued cutting through whatever obstacles stood between him and the loot. The little lapdog trotted faithfully behind him, tail wagging, completely unaware that it had just been claimed by one of the most dangerous men in the wasteland.

Fonder stood there for a moment, shaking his head. “That man...,” he muttered under his breath before turning to oversee the rest of his gang.

The woman walking confidently along the dusty path looked like someone who had no business being in a wasteland like this, let alone wielding the powerful magic she used. Her blonde hair was tucked beneath a bright red cowboy hat, and her face, while sharp with determination, bore a smirk that suggested she thought she was invincible. The oversized blue jacket hung loosely on her frame, yet the bright yellow vest beneath hinted at a sense of style far removed from the gritty realities of Filgaia.

From the shadows of the smoldering wreckage, Nadja approached, her stride calm and deliberate, as though the destruction around her was nothing out of the ordinary. She twirled her magical rod casually between her fingers, the crystal at its tip catching the fading sunlight, reflecting a faint glow of magical energy. Though she hadn’t joined in the looting frenzy like the rest of the gang, the scorch marks on the side of the train made it clear she had been far from idle during the chaos.

Her sharp eyes swept over the mess, taking stock of the gang’s handiwork. The flames danced around the ruins, Clifton’s pyromaniac tendencies visible in every corner, but it was Nadja’s own precise, controlled destruction that dotted the metal with searing marks. Fonder, standing near the remains of one of the railcars, noticed her approach, his gaze falling on the telltale burns left by her Crest Sorcery.

“Nadja,” he muttered, half in greeting, half in warning.

She tilted her head slightly, her eyes narrowing as she gave the wreckage another quick glance before addressing him. “Where are Rin and the new kid?”

Fonder spit on the ground, his expression hardening as he straightened up. “The new kid done run off with the prize. I shot Rin. Left him in the desert. ”

Nadja froze, her fingers tightening around the handle of her magical rod. “What?” Her voice was sharp, disbelief flashing in her eyes.

Fonder’s lip curled slightly. “Got in the way of my shot. Wasn’t personal.”

Nadja’s brow furrowed, her usual composed demeanor cracking for a moment. “Is he alive?” she asked, her voice cold and edged with anger.

Fonder shrugged, indifferent. “Shot wasn’t fatal. Ol’ boy’s got that healing sorcery, don’t he?”

Nadja’s eyes darkened, her grip on her rod tightening. “And if Rin doesn’t come back?”

Fonder gave her a look that bordered on annoyed, his voice cool and dismissive. “Then he don’t come back.”

For a moment, the air between them was thick with tension. Nadja stared at Fonder, the flicker of something dangerous in her eyes. She had never been one to show her emotions freely, but there was an unspoken understanding between her and Rin—a kind of loyalty she didn’t extend to many. His absence didn’t sit well with her, especially not under these circumstances.

But Fonder wasn’t a man to argue with, not openly. Nadja exhaled slowly, the flicker of energy from her magical rod dimming slightly. She knew better than to push him too far. She’d seen what happened to those who crossed him, and though her loyalty to Rin was strong, she wasn’t about to jeopardize her own position within the gang just yet.

She tilted her head, the smirk returning to her face, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “If Rin doesn’t come back after this, I’m not gonna be picking up his share of the magic duty around here,” she said softly, “I don’t have enough Crests for that even if I wanted to.”

Fonder didn’t respond, just shot her a cold, unreadable look.

With that, she walked away, the soft glow of her magic trailing behind her like a warning to anyone who might think of questioning her next move.

Fonder stood there, his sharp gaze shifting between Nadja and the rest of his gang, noticing that Sawyer and Clifton were watching the exchange with barely-contained amusement. The two were always keen to see someone else get into trouble, especially with Fonder. He rolled his eyes and decided to get straight to the point.

"That damn new kid," Fonder began, his voice hard and cold, "grabbed the girl we’ve been after. Last I saw, they were headin’ off into the wastelands."

Sawyer, leaning lazily on his chainsaw with the small dog now tucked under his arm, grunted in disapproval. "Wastelands, huh?" He shifted uncomfortably, his dislike for that part of Filgaia clear. "Ain’t no place I’d go by choice. If they’re heading into that forsaken stretch of land, might do ’em in for us."

Fonder, who knew better, shook his head, spitting into the dirt. "No, they’ll survive. Kid’s half-Baskar. Knows the land too damn well for that wasteland to finish him off."

Clifton, ever the schemer, let out a muffled laugh through his gas mask, the sinister tone unmistakable. His twisted mind was already hard at work, formulating one of his trademark plans—something dangerous, chaotic, and blood-soaked.

“Flambé, monsieur,” he said with an exaggerated wave of his hand. “We start a big, huge fire. Burn the whole damn wasteland. When everyone comes runnin’ to see what’s going on, we shoot every last one of ’em until we find the ones we’re lookin’ for.” His laughter bubbled up again, clearly entertained by the sadistic imagery dancing in his mind.

Sawyer shook his head, clearly not impressed. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve heard today, Clifton. Ain’t gonna burn half the wasteland and then wait for a crowd like it’s a bonfire party.”

Clifton snorted but said nothing as Sawyer, who had already begun mulling over a more practical approach, straightened up, adjusting his chainsaw. “What we could do is head up into the hills. Dam up a river. Cut off their water supply, then...”

Fonder raised a hand, cutting him off mid-sentence. “Thanks for your help, Sawyer,” he said, a tinge of sarcasm creeping into his voice, though it was clear he wasn’t actually mad at Sawyer. "But I’ve got other plans."

Turning on his heel, Fonder called out after Nadja, who had started walking off again. “Nadja! Get back here, we’re about to ride out.”

Nadja stopped, turning slowly to face him, her expression a mix of frustration and curiosity. “What now?” she asked.

Fonder jerked his thumb in the direction of the wreckage. “We need the horses back. Mine got chopped in half by a postal worker.”

Nadja’s eyes widened in disbelief, and then her temper flared. “You what?” she snapped, storming back over. “You let that thing get destroyed? Do you have any idea how rare and valuable that artifact was?”

Fonder, feeling a bit cornered by her sudden outburst, threw up his hands defensively. “It wasn’t my fault!

Fonder waved her off, unwilling to debate the logistics of fighting someone wielding a magical sword. “Just get the horses back with your magic, alright? We’re burning daylight.”

Nadja huffed, muttering under her breath about incompetence, but she flicked her wrist, holding her magical rod in the air. The crystal at the end pulsed with energy, glowing brighter as she began casting her spell to retrieve the gang's scattered horses.

Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

The trio made their way through the rugged terrain, the heat of the Filgaian sun bearing down on them as they crossed the rocky wasteland. Bass kept a steady pace, his eyes occasionally glancing toward the horizon, always alert. Beside him, Zipper walked with her usual curiosity, her eyes darting around, but something had been on her mind since they’d left.

Finally, after a long stretch of silence, Bass turned to her and asked, “So, Zipper, what’s the deal with wanting to see the President? You haven’t really told us why.”

Zipper hesitated, biting her lip as if unsure how much to say. “I… I can’t tell you,” she said softly. “I’m really sorry, but I can only tell the President. It’s important.”

Bass raised an eyebrow but didn’t push her any further. “Alright, fair enough,” he said with a shrug. “But just so you know, the President you’re trying to see… that’s Old Henry.”

“Old Henry?” Zipper asked, curiosity piqued. “Who’s that?”

Bass chuckled. “You don’t know? I guess you wouldn’t. President Henry, or Old Henry as people like to call him, is the man who practically rebuilt Filgaia.”

Zipper’s eyes widened. “Really?”

Mary, walking just behind them, chimed in. “Years ago, Filgaia was on the brink of destruction,” she explained. “A great evil, something called the ‘Tide of Disaster,’ swept across the land. It threatened to swallow everything. But Old Henry and his gang, the Wild Bunch, banded together to stop it. They saved us all.”

Zipper’s jaw dropped slightly. “I… I had no idea. That’s incredible. So, the President is a good man?”

Bass smiled. “Yeah, he’s a good man, alright. After they defeated the Tide of Disaster, Henry and his gang didn’t just go their separate ways. They helped rebuild what was left of Filgaia. Most of the major settlements you see today? They helped establish them.”

Zipper looked down, clearly impressed. “I didn’t know… I didn’t know he did all that.”

Mary nodded. “He and the Wild Bunch were heroes.”

Zipper’s curiosity only deepened. “The Wild Bunch? Who were they?”

Mary’s voice softened with a bit of admiration. “They were the best of the best. There was Old Henry, of course. Then there was Dead Eye, Six Gun, and Doc. Together, they were unstoppable. A group of legends.”

Bass chuckled. “They were the kind of people who could walk into a town and have it cleaned up before sundown. Each of them had their own talents, their own ways of fighting.”

Zipper smiled, her spirits lifted. “I’m glad the President is someone like that. It makes me feel better… knowing he’s a good man.”

Bass and Mary exchanged a glance, but neither of them responded to that. The President may have been a legend, but Zipper’s innocence, especially in the world they lived in, was a fragile thing. The Filgaia they walked through was a land shaped by violence, betrayal, and survival. But there were still good people, like Old Henry had once been.

As the conversation between Bass, Mary, and Zipper continued, Zipper’s eyes lit up with curiosity. “And what about Dead Eye? Who was he?” she asked, eager to learn more about the legends who helped rebuild Filgaia.

Mary smirked. “Dead Eye... now he was a man you didn’t want to cross. Best marksman Filgaia’s ever seen. They say he could hit a target from miles away, even in the worst of conditions. Cold, calculating, and never missed a shot.”

“Is that why they called him Dead Eye?” Zipper asked.

Bass nodded, his expression thoughtful. “Yeah, but there was more to it than that. Dead Eye wasn’t just some guy with a gun. He had a way of seeing things, seeing people, like he could read your next move before you even knew what it was yourself. That made him a nightmare for anyone who went up against him.”

Mary continued. “He carried a rifle as long as your arm, and he used it like an extension of himself. Some say he never even hesitated when he pulled the trigger. If you were in his sights, it was already too late.”

Zipper’s eyes widened as she imagined the imposing figure they were describing. The image of Dead Eye formed in her mind—a man cloaked in mystery, wearing his long coat and scarf, the brim of his cowboy hat shadowing his face. His large rifle, always ready, was an iconic part of him, and the precision with which he wielded it earned him his name. A true legend among the Wild Bunch.

“Was he a good guy?” Zipper asked, a little unsure.

Bass and Mary exchanged a glance before Mary answered, “He did what he had to. A man like Dead Eye... well, he wasn’t about being good or bad. He just got the job done. When the Tide of Disaster came, he fought for Filgaia, same as the rest of them. But he was always a little... distant. Like he saw more than the rest of us.”

Bass added, “People say he didn’t take pleasure in killing, but he didn’t shy away from it either. That’s what made him Dead Eye. He was a man with a purpose, and that purpose was to keep Filgaia safe, no matter what.”

Zipper looked down, pondering their words. “I guess... sometimes people have to do things they don’t want to for the greater good.”

Mary smiled softly. “That’s right. The Wild Bunch... they weren’t just heroes because they fought evil. They were heroes because they did what others couldn’t. Even when it wasn’t easy.”

Zipper’s eyes were still wide with awe as she learned more about the Wild Bunch. “What about Six Gun?” she asked, her curiosity piqued by the name alone.

Bass and Mary exchanged a look before Bass chuckled. “Six Gun was something else. A man with more arms than you’d think a human could have—and each one held a revolver, ready to fire.”

Zipper blinked, confused. “More arms?”

“Yeah,” Bass said, grinning at the memory. “He had six arms, each one trained to draw, fire, and reload faster than anyone you’ve ever seen. He could unload a whole chamber, reholster, and be firing again before anyone even knew what hit them.”

Mary nodded. “He wasn’t just fast—he was accurate. Could take out multiple targets in a single breath, without breaking a sweat. When the Tide of Disaster hit, Six Gun was there, mowing down hordes of enemies before they even got close.”

Zipper tried to picture it—Six Gun, standing tall, revolvers in hand, each one spitting bullets with deadly precision. The idea of someone with six arms seemed unbelievable, but the way Bass and Mary talked about him made her believe it was all too real.

“Why did he have six arms?” Zipper asked.

Mary shrugged. “No one really knows. Some say it was a curse, others say it was a gift from a long-forgotten era. But however he got them, Six Gun turned it into his greatest strength. He could hit you from any direction, and you’d never know where the next shot was coming from.”

Bass added, “He was a wild one, though. A bit unpredictable. But when it came to a gunfight, there wasn’t anyone who could beat him. Six Gun lived for the thrill of the fight.”

Zipper’s eyes sparkled. “He sounds incredible.”

Zipper looked up, her curiosity still not satisfied. “What about Doc? What did he do?”

Bass smirked, leaning back as if recalling a fond memory. “Doc? Now that was one smart son of a gun. He wasn’t your typical fighter. Sure, he carried a weapon like the rest of us, but it wasn’t any ordinary gun—it was a Sorcery Cannon. He built it himself.”

Zipper’s brow furrowed. “Sorcery Cannon?”

Mary nodded. “Doc was a Crest Sorcerer, one of the best. But he wasn’t content just casting spells like a regular sorcerer. No, he wanted more power—more precision. So, he created this cannon that could harness his magic and fire off blasts of pure energy. The thing was as dangerous as it looked.”

Bass chuckled. “And believe me, it looked dangerous. Picture this—Doc in his white coat, standing there with that massive cannon slung over his shoulder, round glasses reflecting the sun like he’s got it all figured out. He could wipe out enemies with a single blast, and no one ever saw it coming.”

Zipper tried to imagine it—Doc standing tall with his Sorcery Cannon, calm and collected as the rest of the Wild Bunch tore through their enemies. His long coat billowing in the wind, round glasses giving him a strange mix of a scholar and a warrior. But most of all, she pictured the cannon—a massive piece of tech, crackling with magical energy, aimed at the Tide of Disaster or any other threat to Filgaia.

“What kind of person was he?” Zipper asked.

Bass scratched his chin, thinking. “Doc was a thinker. Always had an answer for everything. You’d go to him with a problem, and he’d already be three steps ahead. But he wasn’t some cold, heartless scientist. He had heart. When the Tide of Disaster came, he fought just as hard as the rest of us, even if his weapon of choice was... unconventional.”

Mary added, “He was confident, maybe even a little too confident sometimes, but that’s why we trusted him. Doc didn’t just rely on magic or technology—he combined the two in ways no one else could. He could turn the tide of battle with a single shot, and he did more than once.”

Zipper smiled, imagining this brilliant sorcerer-scientist on the battlefield, wielding his powerful creation with skill and intelligence. “He sounds like he was really cool.”

Fonder, Sawyer, Clifton, and Nadja rode up the winding path on their cybernetic horses, the creatures’ metallic hooves clinking against the rocks as they ascended the rugged hills. The horses, controlled through Crest magic, moved with an eerie, mechanical precision, their glowing eyes reflecting the late afternoon light. Once they reached a high vantage point, overlooking the wide expanse of the wasteland, Nadja dismounted. She inhaled deeply, raised her magical rod, and let her sorcery flow through her veins.

Her eyes glowed faintly as the spell took hold, casting an unseen net across the landscape. With a flick of her wrist, the magic transformed her vision into a heads-up display—a magical HUD that revealed the hidden world in front of her. Circles with arrows flickered into view, marking anything living within her sightline, no matter how small or distant. Her brow furrowed as the spell’s precision illuminated the unsettling creatures lurking in the wasteland below.

She saw strange, slithering creatures, their elongated forms moving silently through the shadows of jagged rocks. Small, insectoid beasts, skittered across the ground, their numerous legs kicking up dust, while mutant scavengers, half-human and half-creature, prowled the wreckage of the train far in the distance, sifting through the debris for anything edible or valuable. Overhead, giant carrion birds circled lazily, their ragged feathers gleaming in the fading sunlight as they waited for death to claim the remnants of the wreck below. Her vision caught something else—a mass of pulsating tendrils, hidden behind a large boulder, something not entirely of this world, writhing grotesquely as it burrowed deeper into the sand. Nadja grimaced. There were far too many things she wished she hadn’t seen.

But then, far to the south, her magic detected something familiar. The outline of a man—his aura unmistakable. She focused her spell, narrowing the field, until the circle zoomed in. It was Rin. He was alive. “I found him,” Nadja declared, her voice cutting through the quiet.

Fonder rode closer, his face unreadable beneath his hat. “Good. Now keep looking. Find something important.”

With a frustrated sigh, Nadja redirected her spell, widening its scope. She pushed past the unsettling creatures and the hostile fauna that dotted the wasteland. Then, her vision settled on a trio moving steadily through the desert—a man, a woman, and... something else. The spell identified the man as Bass—a familiar signature now that the spell had locked onto him. Beside him was Mary, her weapons at her side as they pressed onward, her form tense, alert.

But what caught Nadja off guard was the smaller figure. The magic flared as it tried to make sense of the third presence, a child-like shape that walked between them. The spell began to process the information, and Nadja's eyes widened in disbelief as the outline flickered and finally settled on a reading that stunned her. The child was an Elw.

She blinked rapidly, shaking her head as if the vision would clear. "No... that can't be right," she whispered to herself, her grip tightening on her magical rod. Her HUD didn’t lie, though. The spell had identified the small figure—though not by name—as an Elw, one of the ancient races long thought to have vanished from Filgaia.

Nadja’s breath caught in her throat. “I... I don’t believe it,” she muttered, still staring at the display in front of her.

Fonder’s eyes narrowed. “What is it?”

Nadja hesitated, still processing what she had seen. “I found Bass and the others... but there’s something else.” She swallowed, her voice barely above a whisper. “The kid... the one they have with them. She’s... she’s an Elw.”

For the first time, Fonder’s stoic demeanor cracked. His gaze snapped to Nadja, and for a long moment, neither of them said anything. The implications of this discovery hung heavily in the air.

Fonder's eyes narrowed as he leaned in close to Nadja, his voice low and dangerous. "Don’t say that word again,” he warned, casting a quick glance over his shoulder to ensure Sawyer and Clifton hadn’t overheard their conversation. His lips pressed into a tight line, his gaze flickering between them before returning to Nadja.

She snorted, crossing her arms. “As if they’d even know what an Elw is,” she muttered under her breath, casting a sideways glance at Clifton, who was busy tinkering with a firebomb, and Sawyer, who was idly petting his stolen lapdog.

Fonder straightened, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Everyone, get ready for a hard ride.” He looked back at Nadja, his expression hardening. “You—cast your Crest Sorcery. Speed the horses up.”

Nadja hesitated for a moment, her fingers gripping the rod in her hand. “That’s bad for them,” she pointed out, knowing the toll it would take on the cybernetic beasts.

Fonder’s glare darkened, his voice cold and unyielding. “I don’t care.”

Mary, the tallest among the three, was the first to spot the train tracks ahead of them. Maybe a long sprint's distance away, the metallic rails glinted faintly in the afternoon sun. She pointed. “There. Tracks.”

Bass followed her gaze and nodded. “If we go left, we’ll eventually reach where we started back at the wreck. But if we go right and follow the tracks...” He paused, calculating. “We should hit Tomney Gulch before sundown.”

He turned to check the horizon behind them, scanning the path they had come. Dust trails rose high into the sky, pluming unnaturally, as if cast by something traveling at a high rate of speed. His stomach sank. “That can’t be good,” he muttered. “Looks like horses, but... faster.”

It hit him then, and his face darkened. “Nadja.”

Bass grinned wickedly. “Fonder must’ve finally convinced her to use Quick Crest Sorcery on the horses. I guess she wasn’t happy after you chopped one in half. If she gets here with them, we’re in for a fight, and we’re outnumbered two-to-one.”

Mary’s eyes flashed with cold determination. “Good. If I get the chance, I’ll do the same thing to the rest of them.”

Bass sighed, not eager for another brawl. “Let’s avoid that, shall we?”

Zipper, who had been quietly listening, suddenly cut in, her voice bubbling with indignation. “Hey! I’m a fighter too! Why am I not included?”

They turned to look at her, bemused. Bass raised an eyebrow. “You can fight?”

Zipper puffed her chest out, trying to look fierce. “Kinda.”

A silence hung in the air for a beat before Bass chuckled. “Alright then. When the time comes, you do your thing, and we’ll just try to stay out of your way.”

Mary grinned and added, “We need to head east. There’s cliffs. We can lose them down there.”

“Down the cliffs?” Bass repeated, his expression souring. “That sounds... unpleasant.”

Mary shot him a look as she unraveled a rope from her pack, her fingers tying knots with practiced ease, even while her eyes stayed on the path ahead. “Only way to shake ’em. The horses won’t be able to follow us down the cliffs. We’re too far from anywhere else.”

Reluctantly, Bass started running alongside her, Zipper bounding along behind them. As they hurried east, the land sloped down gently at first, but then it opened up before them into an immense scar across the landscape—a jagged precipice that stretched deep into the earth. The drop was steep, nearly a hundred feet to the bottom, where shadows pooled in the crevices and crags of the red rock below. Across the gap, the other side loomed about fifty feet away, a near-impossible leap.

Bass stared down into the abyss, his throat tightening at the sight of the drop. “Instead of climbing down... let’s climb across,” he suggested with a nervous laugh, though he clearly wasn’t thrilled about any of it.

Mary, still working the rope, eyed the other side. “We’ll climb down first until it’s narrow enough to cross. Then we’ll figure out where to go from there.”

Bass groaned, rubbing the back of his neck. “I really don’t like this plan.”

“It’s either that or face Nadja and the rest of them on the open ground,” Mary shot back, her eyes narrowing. She tossed him one end of the rope. “Tie this around you. Let’s go.”

Bass muttered something under his breath but complied, securing the rope. Zipper, too, tied herself in, her face full of determination despite her small size.

As the group reached the edge of the cliff, the ground seemed to drop away into nothingness. The sound of the wind howled through the crevice, and the depth of the drop made the air feel cold and thick. Mary wasted no time, anchoring the rope to a sturdy boulder as she positioned herself at the edge. “Alright,” she said, voice steady, “we go down, slow and steady. Then we find a crossing point. Got it?”

Bass stared down into the dark abyss below. “Got it,” he muttered, but his heart was pounding.

The wind picked up again, sending a wave of dust and dry air whipping around them. Far in the distance, the dust trails continued to rise—Nadja and the others would catch up soon. Time was running out, and their only option now was down.

The wasteland stretched before them, barren and lifeless, as the chase hurtled toward its climax. Fonder, his jaw clenched, pushed his cybernetic horse harder, the metallic beast’s joints screeching under the unnatural strain of Nadja's Crest Sorcery. The magical energy pulsed through the mechanical muscles, forcing the horse to sprint far beyond its intended speed. Dust flew up behind them in clouds, swirling in the harsh, dry air as the four riders chased the fleeing trio ahead.

The train tracks loomed ahead, cutting a path through the wasteland like a dark scar. Fonder lined his group up with the tracks, ensuring they had a straight shot at their prey. Bass, Mary, and Zipper were running, trying to make for the cliffs, but their lead was shrinking fast.

“Run them down!” Fonder shouted over the roaring wind, his voice thick with fury.

Sawyer, grinning with a kind of reckless joy, dug his heels into his cybernetic horse, urging it to gallop even faster. His heavy armor rattled with every bounce, and the chainsaw strapped to his back swayed dangerously as the Quick Crest pushed his steed to its absolute limit. But the weight of both him and the beast proved too much. His horse let out a metallic whinny of distress before its legs buckled, the sheer strain snapping its joints. The horse collapsed into the dirt with a heavy crash, throwing Sawyer to the ground.

Sawyer groaned, getting to his feet, but the horse was done—its body a smoking heap of ruined metal. “Damn it,” he cursed, pulling himself up, though there was no chance of catching up now.

Nadja, who had been trailing just behind, called out sharply, “Stop! We’re pushing them too hard!” Her eyes darted to the others. She could feel the strain her magic was putting on the creatures. The Crest Sorcery was powerful, but it wasn’t meant to be used like this—not for this long. The horses were breaking under the pressure.

Fonder ignored her completely, his eyes fixed on the fleeing figures ahead. He could see Bass’s dark coat flapping in the wind, Mary’s tall figure running with determination, and Zipper’s smaller form struggling to keep pace. His fury only grew. He was not going to let them get away. His horse shuddered beneath him, its legs trembling violently, but Fonder pushed it harder, urging it forward even as Nadja’s warning echoed behind him.

Clifton, ever the light rider, was handling the pace much better. His gas mask hissed rhythmically as he breathed, his eyes gleaming behind the lenses. The Quick Crest hadn’t strained his horse as much, and now he was gaining the lead, slipping ahead of both Fonder and Nadja. He laughed maniacally to himself, his mind already formulating what he would do when he caught up to their prey. Burn them. Flambé. Watch them scream.

Fonder’s horse, however, could take no more. Its legs finally gave out, sending it crashing to the ground in a tangled heap of metal and dust. Fonder leapt off, landing roughly on the ground but quickly recovering. He stood up, glaring furiously at the useless wreck of his horse. “Damn it!” he snarled, his fists clenched. But there was no time to dwell on the loss.

Clifton was still riding ahead, undeterred, his figure shrinking in the distance as he gained on Bass, Mary, and Zipper. Fonder cursed again, watching as Clifton raced toward their fleeing targets. He could still hear Nadja urging caution behind him, but he didn’t care. His focus was solely on catching the trio—and Clifton was the only one who might still be able to reach them before they disappeared into the cliffs.

The tension mounted as the gap between Clifton and the trio narrowed, the others left behind in a trail of dust and frustration. Clifton’s laughter echoed faintly through the wasteland as he closed in, ready for whatever chaos would come next.

Clifton’s wild laughter echoed through the murky air, drawing closer. As Mary tightened the last knot on the rope, Bass instinctively drew his ARM, the Peacemaker, but the cold weight of the gun in his hand filled him with doubt. Could he really shoot a person?

“I—" he hesitated, “I don’t know if I can do this.”

Mary glanced at him, her expression calm, despite the situation. “Don’t worry about that yet,” she said quietly. “It’ll just happen when it needs to.”

Meanwhile, Zipper was practically bouncing on the balls of her feet, excitement buzzing through her small frame. “Adventure climbing!” she grinned, almost oblivious to the imminent danger.

Before they could take a single step toward the cliff’s edge, something whistled through the air. Mary’s instincts kicked in. “Get down!” she yelled, diving for cover.

A chemical flask bomb, fired from Clifton’s slingshot, sailed through the air, exploding on impact just a few feet from them. Instead of a fiery blast, it released a thick cloud of choking yellow dust. The trio ducked beneath the cloud, rolling out of the way just in time. Even so, the acrid powder burned their eyes and throats, forcing them to crouch low to the ground where the air was marginally cleaner.

Clifton rode by on his gasmask-covered horse, laughing like a madman. Another flask flew from his hand, exploding mere inches away from Bass. They scattered again, coughing and choking on the poisonous air, struggling to keep their bearings as the smoke and dust began to obscure everything around them.

The gas was heavy and thick, swirling around them, and it became obvious why Clifton wore a gasmask—he had planned this. Mary squinted through the haze, barely making out Bass and Zipper’s silhouettes. “Can you at least shoot the horse?” she shouted through the swirling cloud.

Bass raised the Peacemaker, aiming through the fog, but doubt clawed at him again. His heart wasn’t in it, and the gun did nothing. Click. He lowered it, frustrated. “I—” He shook his head, defeated. “It won’t work.”

Mary didn’t need an explanation. She understood. Bass wasn’t like her. He wasn’t ready for this kind of fight. With a snarl of determination, she slashed off a length of rope from her belt and began working it into a lasso. Clifton’s hit-and-run attacks forced them to scramble again as he rode by, lobbing more chemical bombs that added to the thickening fog of dust and gas. The air was becoming too thick to breathe, and their vision was reduced to mere feet in front of them.

Forced to the ground, Bass, Mary, and Zipper could only suck in breath through the dirt, where the air was somewhat clearer. Mary had had enough. She tied off the last knot of the lasso and winked at the others, determination lighting up her eyes. “Stay here.”

With a deep breath, Mary pushed herself up, plunging into the noxious fog. She squinted, her eyes watering instantly as the gas burned her lungs, but she kept moving. Clifton’s maniacal laughter gave away his position. He was close.

In the swirling yellow mist, Clifton rode confidently, his biggest firebomb in hand. He was ready to find them on the ground, desperate for air. He would burn them. He would watch them scream. Another crazed giggle bubbled from his throat as he heard a female voice call out, taunting him. He turned his horse toward the sound, eager for the kill.

Then came a strange swishing sound, something cutting through the thick air. Before Clifton could react, he was jerked violently from his saddle, crashing to the ground with a thud that knocked the wind out of him. But the worst was yet to come. He heard another swish of the rope, this time going away from him, and the realization hit him with brutal clarity.

She’d lassoed him. Mary had looped one end of the rope around Clifton’s body, dragging him off his horse, while the other end was fastened to the horse itself. And now the beast was moving—dragging Clifton across the ground. He screamed, arms flailing, but the lasso held firm.

The trio of Bass, Mary, and Zipper stumbled out of the gas cloud, gasping for clean air as they made their way north, away from the chaotic scene behind them.

Zipper, still catching her breath, glanced back. “Do you think that horse can see through the fog without a rider?”

As if in response, the sound of the horse’s galloping hooves suddenly cut off, followed by the unmistakable disturbance of loose rocks at the cliff’s edge. Clifton’s scream echoed into the air, growing faint as it disappeared into the void. There was a brief, horrible silence.

Then—BOOM! The sound of an explosion shattered the quiet, and from the edge of the cliff, a mushroom cloud of smoke and flame erupted skyward, accompanied by a final cackle of laughter.

The trio stood in stunned silence, staring at the distant blast. Zipper’s eyes widened, her face a mixture of awe and confusion. “Oh.”

Mary wiped the dirt from her brow, shaking her head. “Good riddance.”

Fonder sprinted through the wasteland, closing the distance to where Clifton had disappeared into the yellow fog. His mind raced with thoughts of vengeance, of putting an end to this farce, but then... it hit. His entire body slowed, as though the air itself had thickened around him. His legs felt like lead as his movements dragged into slow-motion. Fonder gritted his teeth, trying to push through the invisible force pulling him back. He stopped in his tracks, his breath coming out in slow, exaggerated gasps.

He knew this feeling well. Slowdown Crest Sorcery.

“Nadja!” he called out, his voice unnaturally drawn out. “Where did you say you saw Rin last?!”

Whether or not she could hear him, it didn’t matter. Fonder’s question was answered almost immediately.

From the shimmer of the air ahead, Rin Vladislav appeared, materializing from his Hide Crest Sorcery, his expression as irritated as ever. The slow-motion effect lifted from Fonder, but Rin’s casual, mocking tone was anything but slow.

“I knew you’d just heal that gunshot wound,” Fonder said, his voice dripping with annoyance. Rin's knack for bouncing back from injuries always grated on him.

Rin glanced down at his leg, then at the hole in his pants, before raising his arms in exasperation. “Is hole. You shoot leg. Now I stomp mudhole in your posterior!” His eyes flashed with fury, but there was still that undertone of humor in his voice, as if the whole situation were some absurd joke.

Fonder sighed and lifted his ARM, Mistress, the black-plated revolver gleaming in the waning sunlight. He pointed it at Rin lazily, as if to say, "I got you dead to right, bucko."

Rin narrowed his eyes. “Try it.”

With a shrug, Fonder fired. The sound of the shot cracked through the air, but instead of hitting its mark, the bullet ricocheted off a barrier of shimmering force that appeared in front of Rin, curving away harmlessly into the distance.

“Is magic,” Rin said flatly, unimpressed.

Fonder scowled. “How many of those Crests you got left?” he asked mockingly, his voice taunting as he spun the cylinder of Mistress.

Rin cocked his head, ever the smartass. “How many bullets do you have left?”

Before Fonder could respond, Rin pulled out another Crest Graph, already prepping his next spell. This time, it was Blind Crest Sorcery, a spell designed to disorient and completely shut down Fonder’s ARM before he could even think about firing another round. Rin was always about efficiency, ending things with as little effort as possible.

But Fonder wasn’t as clueless as Rin might have thought.

The moment he felt the familiar hum of his ARM resonating, Fonder’s entire demeanor shifted. His focus sharpened, and he sent his will into the Adaptive Resonance Module. The interior of the ARM subtly shifted, something that would go unnoticed by all but the most trained eyes. It was nothing flashy—no dramatic transformation—but the potential for destruction had just multiplied.

Fonder smirked as his Trick Shot move began to take form in his mind. He aimed his first shot at the ground, off to Rin's side. Rin, thinking it was another distraction, started to brace for the Blind Crest, but before the sorcery could take full hold, Fonder fired again. The second bullet slammed into the first with a precise ping, ricocheting at an angle that sent it straight into Rin’s other leg.

Rin’s eyes widened in disbelief. “Is... is trick?” he sputtered, more incredulous than angry. Then the pain hit him full force, and he collapsed to the ground, clutching his leg in fury. “Dammit!”

Fonder didn’t waste another breath on him. As Rin writhed on the ground, trying to process how he'd been outmaneuvered, Fonder kept moving. He had bigger priorities than dealing with Rin right now.

Up ahead, Nadja and Sawyer were still far behind, Nadja’s lighter frame allowing her to keep a steadier pace, while Sawyer lagged from the weight of his chainsaw ARM and his heavy leathers. Fonder glanced back briefly, making sure the others weren’t too far, before returning his attention to his ARM. Mistress hummed with energy, and as Fonder willed the weapon to shift, its form began to morph subtly but decisively.

The sleek revolver expanded, transforming into something more formidable—something that resembled a shotgun made of black armor, its cold metal parts snapping into place like the joints of some malevolent creature. The engraving of the horned wolf along the handgrip seemed to snarl as the transformation completed.

Fonder grinned darkly. “Time to get me mine.”

With Mistress now in its new form, he charged ahead, ready to put an end to this wild chase once and for all.

Rin, bloodied and angry, cast his last Invisible Crest Sorcery, fading from sight as he crawled away to heal himself. He had no idea that just moments away, Clifton had met his explosive demise, the madman felled by his own chaotic weaponry. The ground still trembled slightly from the explosion, but the tension remained thick, far from over.

Back on the cliffside, Mary bit back a curse as the billowing cloud of noxious fumes lingered where they had tied the rope. The gas clung stubbornly to the air, a searing nebula of toxicity that made any hope of descending the cliff impossible.

“We can't use the rope,” she muttered, her eyes darting toward the distant figure of Fonder as he strode purposefully in their direction. His form was cloaked in shadow, and for a moment, Mary almost relaxed. “Doesn't look so bad,” she said dryly.

That was until Mistress—Fonder’s ARM—began to shift again. The sleek black revolver transformed into something larger, something meaner, and far deadlier. The plating expanded, reshaping itself into a dark, armored shotgun that gleamed with a malevolent sheen.

“On second thought,” Mary added, eyes narrowing, “maybe we should beat a tactical retreat.”

Bass, his chest heaving with anxiety, held his breath and nodded. “Back into the cloud.”

Fonder was closing in fast, his eyes locked onto them as if he knew exactly where they were hiding. Just before the trio could dive back into the thick of the gas, Fonder leveled his ARM and fired. The sound of the blast echoed off the cliffs, and the bullet whizzed past them, missing by inches before they disappeared into the fog.

The trio scrambled down the side of the cliff, holding onto the rope for dear life, their feet barely catching on the rocky outcroppings. The toxic air above stung their lungs, but the lower they climbed, the more breathable the air became. They hung just off the edge of the precipice, gasping for clean air, suspended between the deadly gas above and the dark abyss below.

“We can’t hide here forever,” Bass panted, looking up at the roiling yellow miasma that hung like a curse over the landscape. The cliffside was jagged and unforgiving, but at least down here, they could breathe. Bass’s fingers clenched around the rope, the sweat making his palms slick. He glanced at Mary and Zipper, both equally tense, dangling beside him.

Their hope was that the gas would keep Fonder from coming in after them. Surely, no one would be crazy enough to walk through that cloud of poison.

They were wrong.

Coughing, his black duster whipping in the wind, Fonder stepped out of the toxic cloud like some vengeful spirit. His hand was wrapped tight around his shotgun-formed ARM, Mistress, and though his eyes were bloodshot from the fumes, his gaze burned with an unrelenting fury. He waved away the thick fog with his free hand, each cough a reminder of the poison in the air, but he never stopped moving forward.

Fonder reached the cliff’s edge, his silhouette looming large against the dying light. He looked down, a smirk tugging at his lips as he stared at the three of them, helplessly hanging just off the edge of the cliff.

Their hearts pounded in their chests, and for a moment, no one moved.

“End of the line,” Fonder said, his voice hoarse but still full of menace. He cocked his ARM, the click echoing across the cliffside.

The three of them hung there, helpless, suspended between the cliff and the abyss, with nowhere left to run.