Arielle was a poor soul with very little to her name, and nothing made this clearer than the squalor she had to live in. Her home wasn’t a house, or even a shack, but a flimsy tent thrown together from rusty pipes and ragged cloth that were probably older than she was. Still, it kept the dust storms and acid rain out… for the most part. The cramped circular space was centered on a small antique of a self-heating stove, atop which bubbled a pot of something that vaguely resembled soup. A moth-chewed bedroll was tucked away to the left and a crate with carefully packed supplies and folded clothes rested in the back.

All things considered, Arielle had it better than most of her neighbors. She had shelter, food, and the luxury of using enough water to create a soup-like substance. She even managed to procure a tiny bottle of pure salt, which she used sparingly to flavor her relatively lavish meal. None of her peers had any idea she was marginally more successful than them, though. Arielle was clever enough to keep what little she had to herself, lest some greedy or desperate fool try to take it from her. The girl was healthier than most and had a sharp knife hidden in her belt, so she felt confident about scaring off anyone that tried to steal from her. She’d still be hopelessly outmatched if three or four people ganged up on her, but that was extremely unlikely. It was every man, woman, and child for themselves out here in Rust Town.

With a few exceptions, of course.

“Taxes! Bring out yer taxes!”

Arielle had just started sipping at the liquid that was not quite soup when she heard that familiar, ragged voice. Though she wanted to savor the trace amounts of flavor in her meal, it wasn’t worth the risk of angering the tax collector. She quietly scoffed at that title. What ‘tax?’ Tribute or perhaps extortion were far more fitting words for the demands that group of psychos enforced upon her and those like her. She kept that opinion to herself, of course. Pissing off the Black Rats was a sure-fire way to end up with her head on a pike. Thankfully they had their hands full with the Tommy Family on the west side of Rust Town. That gang war kept both sides’ violent impulses directed at each other instead of at the poor souls trying to eke out a living under their thumbs. All Arielle had to do was keep her head down and pay her ‘taxes’ and she would be left alone.

With that in mind, the girl retrieved her prepared tribute from its hiding place under the stove and left her humble abode. All around her was a field of scrap, ruins, and garbage that stretched out as far as she could see. The only discernible landmark on the horizon was an enormous crystal dome that glistened in the distance, right at the heart of Rust Town. Arielle’s more immediate vicinity was dominated by a collection of tents, hovels, and shacks, each of them crappier than the last. About thirty in total, though it was hard to keep track with how often these ramshackle dwellings were torn down or put back up.

The Black Rat tax collector - or Mr. T.C., as Arielle had started internally referring to him - stood in the middle of this, surrounded by a small crowd of people. He was a tall man sporting a pitch-black gas mask that obscured all of his facial features. His otherwise bare chest was protected by a collection of salvaged metal plates that had been bolted together in the crude shape of a breastplate. Some baggy and ripped up work trousers covered his legs and his meaty hands were sheathed in fingerless gloves. He was leaning casually on a heavy piece of pipe just the right width and length to swing around, though it saw more use as a deterrent than an improvised weapon.

The relative bulkiness of this individual was also noteworthy. One didn’t get to have a physique like that in Rust Town unless they were eating well. Thankfully the Black Rats weren’t as obsessed with food as the Tommy Family, so they hoarded far less of it. That meant there was more of it to go around for people like Arielle, hence why she chose to settle on this side of The Bubble. The Black Rats only cared about two things - respect and salvage. Even before that gang war broke out they scarcely bothered anyone that provided them with both.

The girl stepped up to the collector, ready to pay her due. She knelt before him and held her tribute up for his inspection, much as everyone else did. The Black Rat whistled appreciatively behind his mask when he saw her offering. At a glance it was a lump of metal, gears, and wires, an unidentifiable gizmo ripped out of a long-dead machine. What stood out about this contraption was the excellent condition it was in. The steel, copper, and rubber looked so unsullied that they practically shone in the afternoon sunlight.

“Damn, girl!” T.C. exclaimed. “Another fine find! Ye know, ye’re the highlight of me route, and not just because ye’re such a lovely little thing.”

“Th-thank you, sir,” her voice quivered. “You flatter me so.”

“Hey, I just call ‘em as I see ‘em.”

Arielle wasn’t actually that pretty. She was average at best by her own estimate, and the rags she used as clothes were unflattering to say the least. However, her face was free of pox, scars, boils, and other blemishes common to Rust Town, while her long black hair gave her an air of… mystique, for lack of a better word. This made her normally average looks stand out like a glass bead in the sand, though this wouldn’t last long. The only reason Arielle still looked unblemished was because she’d only been in Rust Town for a few months. Several more and she’d be no different from the other wretches around. An unsavory thought to be sure, but far from the worst thing that could happen to a pretty face in these parts.

Thankfully this particular Rat didn’t seem too interested in her. Or rather, he was more preoccupied with whatever bits of salvage the others brought him. The Black Rats fancied themselves engineers and smiths. They always needed more materials and parts to turn into equipment and vehicles. There were some surprisingly talented and resourceful mechanics among them, able to create war machines from pieces of junk that were never meant to fit together. The bulky motorcycle at the edge of the camp was a prime example of their handiwork. Though it looked like a pile of junk with wheels, it was a well known fact that nothing and nobody could outrun the Black Rats’ custom-built rides.

Arielle couldn’t care less, though. While a few of her neighbors admired the tax collector’s bike from afar, she retreated back to her dwelling with the sole intent of finishing her lunch. She slurped up half of the almost-soup and left the rest for dinner. She spent most of the afternoon and evening lazing around and daydreaming. On a few occasions she contemplated whether she should grab her salvaging gear and get to work on next week’s tribute, but such impulses were quickly discarded. She only needed three or four days to get it done and spent the rest of her time taking it easy and losing herself in her memories of a better life.

Unfortunately, as the sun set and night took over, it became clear that she should have gone on that salvaging expedition after all. The angry roar of multiple Black Rat engines descended upon the quiet camp just as Arielle was polishing off her second serving of she-couldn’t-believe-it-wasn’t-soup. The girl peeked through the front flap of her tent and was overcome with panic as she saw several gang members make a beeline straight for her. She tried to sneak out the back and make a run for it, but was caught within seconds. Her captors gagged and cuffed her, then carried her off like a sack of expired yams.

“You sure this is the one?” one of them asked.

“Aye, that’s her,” she recognized T.C.’s voice.

“She doesn’t look like much.”

“Trust me, the lassie will deliver, so don’t be rough with her.”

This brief conversation made Arielle’s imagination go wild. She’d heard tales of fairly healthy women being kidnapped and used as breeding stock by these vile gangs. That was one of the main reasons why she tried to keep a low profile, but it would appear she wasn’t thorough enough. Perhaps she should’ve smeared more dirt in her hair, or willingly cut up her own face. No, her biggest mistake was trusting that collector to keep it in his pants. She couldn’t believe she misjudged the simpleton so thoroughly.

Or had she?

The half-hour ride back to the Black Rats’ headquarters gave Arielle plenty of time to think about why she’d been taken. She calmed down significantly by the time she was rolled through the massive steel doors of an underground bunker. She didn’t get a chance to survey the ancient facility’s interior before she was taken into a makeshift throne room. Sitting patiently atop a tall chair of polished steel was none other than the leader of the Rats, Scarhead Mike himself. He was shorter and scrawnier than she imagined him to be, though the numerous old wounds covering the sallow skin of his bald scalp were more in line with her expectations.

“This the one, boss,” T.C. brought Arielle before him.

“So. You’re the girl with the treasure trove, hmm?”

Just as she feared, they’d realized she had access to an entire stash of valuables. Rather than dig around in the dirt and rust for days on end, Arielle got her tribute from a hidden repository of preserved tech that predated Rust Town. The stuff in there was horribly outdated and obsolete, but the raw materials had immense value to these brigands. She thought that would let her live a relatively easy and peaceful life, if not a comfortable one. At least until she figured out how to get herself back on her feet for good. However, she had grossly underestimated their intelligence by assuming they wouldn’t catch onto her scheme even though she gave them pristine parts every single week. It turned out Arielle wasn’t as clever a girl as she liked to think she was.

“Here’s how this is going to go down,” Mike leaned forward. “You’re going to tell me where your stash of pristine scrap is. After that, you’re going to take my boys there and show them how to get to the stuff. Once they come back with a truck load of shiny metal and all of their limbs attached, then I’ll think about not putting your pretty little head on a pike.”

Arielle could do little but stare daggers at him. There was no way he’d ever let her live even if she gave him what he wanted. His reputation didn’t make him out to be the merciful type, and meeting him in person reinforced that notion. The girl figured that her only hope of survival was to make herself valuable, and she had a decent idea of how to do that.

“Ungag her,” Scarhead ordered. “Let’s hear what she has to say for herself.”

The filthy rag was removed from her mouth, and the girl wasted no time in pleading her case.

“I propose a trade!”

“A trade?! Hah! This’ll be good,” the leader scoffed. “Come on then, let’s hear it.”

“You want pristine salvage. I want food, water, shelter, and protection. If you can promise me those, I will repay you with three- no, ten times as many parts per week!”

T.C. let out another of his excited whistles, but was silenced by a sharp glare from his boss. Scarhead looked back towards the brave girl that dared speak to him like that. It was refreshing, in a way. He didn’t think any of the rustlanders out there still had the balls to stand up to him, let alone this little girl. This bemusement was not to be confused with appreciation, however. Scarhead Mike didn’t get to be where he was by tolerating challenges to his authority. Just who did this tar-haired tramp think she was to make demands of him?

“Throw her in the cells,” he ignored her offer. “Let’s see if hunger and thirst won’t loosen those lips.”

Over the next few days Arielle discovered that those were powerful motivators indeed. Even though she was forced to settle in Rust Town, she’d never known what true starvation was like. The few dried up mushrooms and mouthfuls of muddy water she was given were barely enough to keep her alive. Furthermore her cell was a solid steel container that completely isolated her from the rest of the world. She might have put up a tough front at first, but she was still just a young woman sorely out of her depth and barely keeping it together. Between the solitary confinement, unrelenting darkness, and constant hunger pangs, her spirit broke faster than a dwarf approaching sobriety for the first time in three decades.

Weakened to the brink of madness, Arielle gave Scarhead Mike exactly what he wanted. She told him where the treasure trove was, and he allowed her to eat her fill as a reward. This wasn’t mere benevolence, and he also needed her to be strong enough to survive the trip there and back. The place was rather far, more than a day and a half’s walk from her home and just as much to make it back. The Rats’ vehicles would make the trip easier and quicker, but only slightly so. Their destination lay in the extra-uncivilized outskirts of Rust Town. These areas were treacherous, rife with hazardous terrain, feral beasts, and the occasional undetonated explosive. Navigation was also tricky since there were no landmarks besides The Bubble and all the metal around made compasses worthless.

That was why the ruffians needed Arielle to show them the way. The little lady was clearly familiar with the route, given the consistency of her tributes. They chained her up lest she try something stupid like making a run for it while she guided them to their prize. Her escorts consisted of eleven Rats riding six motorcycles in total. Arielle rode on the back of the lead vehicle, which was steered by none other than Mr. T.C. That wasn’t his real name, of course, but the girl was way beyond caring what he was actually called. Yet she still found herself clinging to his back despite herself. Even though he was the guy that sort of sold her out, he was the only one she was familiar with and he also seemed like the least evil degenerate around. For better or for worse, he was the closest thing to a liferaft the poor girl had in this shitstorm of a predicament.

Once the expedition entered the outer regions of Rust Town, they were almost immediately accosted by a pack of feral dogs. These were quickly and easily dispatched by the thugs’ weapons, which consisted primarily of jury-rigged shotguns. The makeshift firearms didn’t have enough punch to take on something big and scary, but were more than enough for anything man-sized or smaller. The gang also had plenty of provisions, so their only real concern was not getting lost. Thankfully for them and their unwilling guide, Arielle knew exactly where she was going. None of the Rats could tell how she managed to do it, nor did they really care once they made it to their destination at noon on the second day.

Buried underneath a small mountain of automobiles crushed into cubes was a steel hatch. Opening it revealed a ladder that descended deep into the darkness. One of the Rats lit a flare and dropped it in, watching as it fell a good twenty stories before finally landing at the bottom. It was by no means an easy climb, but the bikers weren’t going to bother with the ladder. Instead they tossed down a chain that was hooked up to a winch, which would serve as a makeshift lift. Half of them rappelled down into the hole to explore it while the other half kept watch up top. Arielle was dragged into the ground, of course. If she was guiding them into some kind of trap, then she’d pay for her treachery with her life.

There was no deadly ambush waiting for the Rats, however. Instead they found a short hallway that led to a heavy steel bulkhead. They briefly wondered how to get it open when Arielle stepped forward and pressed her hand against the wall next to it. She slid open a hidden panel to reveal a tumbler one would expect to find on a safe. She quickly and skillfully input the combination, far too fast for the dim-witted Rats around her to memorize it on the fly. There was an audible click followed by a deafening groan as the heavy sliding doors started opening. The thugs raised their guns towards the opening expecting something to come flying at them. They remained on alert for several tense seconds, after which it became clear that the only thing that would assault them was the light stench of old rot in the stale air. They didn’t let their guards down just yet, though.

“It’s dark,” one of them whispered. “Rust eaters might be hiding in there.”

“Yeah, no shit,” another answered. “Pop a flare in there, I’ll cover you.”

“How about you do it and I’ll cover you?” the first snapped back.

“I say we let the girl go in first,” a third one sneered.

“Th-there’s a light switch,” Arielle eked out. “J-just inside, on the wall, to the l-l-left.”

“Well, alright then,” T.C. stepped forward. “Ye heard the lady, Eddie. Get yer balls out of yer arse and go have a look, eh?”

The first Rat grumbled incoherently yet disapprovingly, but nevertheless did as he was told. He grabbed a flare from his backpack and struck its tip against the door frame. The chemicals inside the narrow tube lit up with a steady red glow that burst out of one end while the thug held the other, almost like a torch. He warily took a few steps into the chamber and was relieved to find that the light switch was right where the girl said it would be. He flicked it on without a second thought. There was a loud buzz from directly above that made him realize he probably shouldn’t have done that.

Thankfully for him and the Rats’ hostage, Arielle hadn’t lied about the button’s purpose in some misguided attempt to escape. It just took a few seconds for the aged bulbs overhead to flicker to life. Light rapidly flooded the chamber, revealing it to be far more impressive than what the gang members expected. They thought they were looking for some long-forgotten storage unit, or maybe a buried depot of preserved parts. What awaited them instead was row upon row of conveyor belts, each heavy with hundreds of metal plates, gears, widgets, valves, and other mechanical components. Enormous machinery dotted the place, with countless crates and shelves no doubt containing even more loot lining its tall walls.

“Fuck me with a nine-wrench,” Eddie exclaimed. “This ain’t no treasure trove! This is a fucking motherlode!”

It took the Rats a few moments to register what they were looking at, but once the shock wore off, there was no doubt about it. Little miss tar-hair had led them to an underground factory complex. The place was so huge and full of possibility that even these small-minded grunts were able to see a bigger picture. If the Black Rats fixed this place up, they could make it spit out high-quality weapons and munitions with alarming speed. All that extra firepower would go a long way towards crushing Tommy Kristoff and his scrapyard mafia, allowing the Black Rats to claim control over all of Rust Town. Hell, why stop there? If things worked out right, then not even those high-and-mighty pricks in the Bubble would be beyond their reach.

Having recovered from the initial shock, the Rats spread out to make sure the place was clear. It certainly seemed deserted aside from several long-dead corpses, but they couldn’t be sure. The place was just too damn big for six of them to adequately cover without splitting up, and they weren’t about to do that. There were plenty of bad rumors surrounding these ‘old world tombs’ and the dangers they supposedly held. Claims of curses, haunted machines, and strange mutants were the most common. The greedy Rats weren’t about to let some superstitions deter them completely, but they still decided to err on the side of caution. Besides, it wasn’t as if they could bring back all of this stuff even if they tried. Instead they grabbed the choicest bits that seemed to be easily available with the intent of bringing them back to Scarhead. The boss would then send a small army of the boys to properly occupy and fortify the place.

Thus, with their pockets full and faces smiling, the Rats returned to the surface. This took a while since the winch could only pull up one of them at a time, but it was still faster and easier than climbing that bloody ladder. They decided to make camp there for the day so they could explore the factory some more before they took off in the morning. It probably wasn’t the smartest decision, but they were too excited to just up and leave. The rowdy bikers had more or less settled down by the time sunset rolled around. The excitement of the find had already subsided and they were rather tired from all the travelling and delving. They were huddled around a campfire having a friendly game of dice to decide which poor sucker would be stuck with night watch duty. They weren’t exactly quiet, but their voices were a lot lower than they had been seven hours prior. That was probably why they heard it long before they saw it.

A rhythmic clanging echoed through the valley of scrap, far too orderly and measured to be some feral beast or shifting wreckage. It was barely audible at first, but gradually grew louder and closer to the Rats’ camp. Given such ample warning, the bikers had no trouble reacting accordingly even though a few of them weren’t exactly sober. They spread out until they were several paces apart and held their guns at the ready, forming a perimeter to intercept whatever nutjob thought it was a good idea to interrupt their little party. They weren’t quite sure which direction the noises were coming from because of the echoes, but they were confident nothing would get the drop on them.

The interloper showed themselves to indeed be a person. A single glance at this stranger was enough to discern that the steady clanging was actually the sound of him walking. The reason why his every step sounded like anvils fucking was because the stranger was clad in metal from head to toe. Mismatched steel plates dredged up from the sea of scrap were bolted, welded, hammered, and/or tied together to form an ugly yet practical suit of heavy armor. This was worn over a heavy duster coat that whipped lightly behind him with every step and a pair of stitched leather trousers that were far too baggy for their owner. Up top, an old gas mask not unlike the Rats’ hid his face and a biker helmet covered the rest of his head aside from a few rogue strands of golden hair. Last but not least, he was holding a hefty pipe wrench in one hand and a car door in the other like an improvised club and shield.

“Hey… isn’t that the guy?” one of the Rats whispered.

“What guy?” another whispered back.

“Y’know, the guy! The one B-Bob kept seeing with his ‘noculars.”

“Oh, yeah,” the thug in question replied. “First time seen him up close, but that’s him alright.”

The Rats’ spotter had seen the guy on their trail several times over the past two days, but he was always way off in the distance. The group just assumed he was a random weirdo that just happened to be headed in the same general direction as them. After all, they couldn’t imagine anyone would be stupid or crazy enough to track a heavily armed convoy of Black Rats all by themselves, let alone try to keep up with it on foot. It would appear, however, that they had severely underestimated the depths of human idiocy. Or at least, they assumed he was human. It was impossible to tell with all the gear in the way. The only thing they had to go on was his height, which was shorter than the average guy but still way too tall for a dwarf.

Regardless of what lay under that mask, this weirdo was clearly cruisin’ for a bruisin’ if he thought he could creep up on the Black Rats like this.

“Hold it, moron!” the biker in front bellowed. “Do you not see these fucking guns?! Why don’t you turn around and fuck right off before we blast you full of holes!”

Avoiding conflict was common sense out here in the outskirts of Rust Town. Supplies were scarce and ammo had to be preserved for when it was really needed. However, this guy had clearly abandoned any pretense of sense. Not only did he not stop moving, but he slightly picked up the pace while raising his own makeshift weaponry. There were a tense few seconds when all was silent except the clickety-clang of his footsteps and the audible noise his mask’s faulty filters made as he breathed in and out.

Hoooooooh… Haaaaaaah… Hoooooooh… Haaaaaaah…

It wasn’t long before the thugs were pushed over the edge.

“Fuck it. Light ‘im up!”

The stranger had made it within forty paces of the perimeter before they finally opened fire. The makeshift firearms proved quite ineffective at that range, however. The pellets bounced and pinged off of the armor while letting out brief flashes of sparks. They did absolutely nothing to stop or even slow the masked juggernaut’s gait. The only one that got hurt was the leftmost Rat, who caught a stray ricochet to the thigh. He and his fellow gang-bangers looked on with mounting panic as they realized their initial volley had done absolutely nothing, all the while that dreadful breathing grew ever closer.

Hoooooooh… Haaaaaaah… Hoooooooh… Haaaaaaah…

They rushed to reload as fast as they could, an opening that the stranger took full advantage of. He broke out in a dead sprint, his speed far beyond what anyone wearing fifty kilograms of second-hand steel should have been capable of. Within seconds he barreled through the center of the Black Rats’ formation, literally running over two of the thugs before they could move out of the way. He then spun around and cracked the nearest Rat across the head with his wrench, obliterating his skull and killing him instantly. The next one somehow managed to finish reloading his sawn-off and pointed both barrels squarely at the walking junkheap’s head. Surely, he figured, that gas mask was far less bulletproof than the rest of him. And he was absolutely right, except this particular fighter wasn’t stupid enough to neglect protecting such an obvious weak spot. The improvised shield was raised in front of the shotgun moments before the trigger was pulled, deflecting and absorbing the near-point-blank blast with zero difficulty. The rusty car door then slammed into the poor bastard, bowling him over and forcing him to the ground. A quick wrench swing to the ribs left him reeling and wheezing as his bones turned to shrapnel from the sheer force of the blow.

The other Rats were already scattering in all directions. Some ran for the hills while others were simply putting distance between themselves and the tank that walked like a man. Regardless of their intentions, their legs would not save them. The armored stranger proved himself much faster than them despite his short stature and all the extra weight he was lugging around. It took him barely any time at all to run down the rest of them. He was just about to make the last runner bite the ground before things took a sudden turn.

“Hey! Over here, rust-brain!”

What the junk-knight saw when he turned towards that voice made him stop dead in his tracks for the first time. The first Rat he’d trampled over, and the one that seemed to be in charge of this posse, had managed to recover from the bone-shattering impact. He’d struggled to his feet, reloaded his firearm, and was now pointing it squarely at Arielle’s head. The abused girl had been frozen in fear and shock this whole time, and was helpless to keep the thug from taking her hostage. That, somehow, was enough to make the stranger cease his rampage. The underling that had barely escaped getting his face caved in rapidly crawled away from him while he still had the chance.

The thug in charge grinned through bloodied teeth. He couldn’t fathom what reason someone might have to openly assault his convoy other than to rob it, and this girl was without a doubt the most valuable thing in their possession. Whoever this psycho was, he was clearly aiming for the underground factory as well. Now that he had confirmed he could indeed use her for leverage, the Black Rat lieutenant was getting very cocky indeed.

“Here’s what’s going to happen, fuckface!” he yelled. “You’re going to back the fuck off and leave us the hell alone, or I’m going to splatte her pretty little brains all over the place.”

Hoooooooh… Haaaaaaah… Hoooooooh… Haaaaaaah…

The sound of air passing through filters was the only response he got. The two parties stared each other down, neither side willing to back down. The stranger’s blue eyes seemed to blaze with intensity that shone clear through the dusty goggles of his mask. Actually, no, that was putting it lightly. This fucker’s irises were outright glowing. Then the air around him started swirling and kicking up dust like a personal hurricane. Something was coming, and the thug’s newfound composure was rapidly cracking under the pressure.

A piece of pipe then smacked him in the forehead at the same time that a gloved hand yoinked the gun out of his hand, prompting Arielle to finally let out the scream she’d been holding in. Neither her nor her captor were given the chance to process this sudden turn of events before the head Rat was knocked out by a second strike from the lead tube. Both that and the confiscated firearm were then promptly thrown on the ground in front of the armored stranger, who nodded approvingly. As for Arielle, she couldn’t believe her tear-filled eyes when she pointed them at her savior.

“T-T-T-Tee Cee?!” she stammered out.

“Who the fuck is Tee Cee?” her friendly neighborhood tax collector grumbled.

“S-s-sorry, I, uh, I never…” her words trailed off.

“State your name, conflicted brigand, so that I may give you mine.”

It was the first time that the one-man army had said anything other than the constant ‘hoooh-haaaah’ of his eerily even breathing. Neither his voice nor his weird accent agreed with the crappy filters on his mask, but the heavy distortion was not enough to obscure the meaning of his words.

“I’m, uh… Name’s Brick,” the last biker replied. “Just Brick.”

“Brick, is it?” the stranger tilted his head, as if assessing the moniker. “Lacking in substance, but it will suffice.”

He then abruptly turned around and flung his ‘shield’ with all his might. The old car door whistled through the air for a split seconds before stopping with a meaty thud and a pained cry. Having remotely dispatched the thug that had slipped away moments prior, the armored stranger turned back to face Brick and Arielle. He hung his primary weapon at his belt, raised his right fist to his breastplate, and banged it against its left side.

“I am Joan Jones, wandering knight of the Order of the Silver Raven, anointed crusader of the Church of Ignar, and runner-up of last year’s National Flutist Competition.”

There was a lot to unpack in that grandiose self-introduction, though the most pressing thing on Brick and Arielle’s minds was-

“You’re a woman?” they blurted out in unison.

J.J. marvelously ignored that remark as she relaxed her stance.

“Brick. Allow me to extend my thanks for your assistance in this dire matter. Failing to rescue fair Arielle would have been a blemish upon mine honor, and a heavy weight upon mine soul.”

“Uh… Okay?”

The man’s confusion was clearly visible through his own mask, and the girl next to him shared in it. Who talked like that? It was as if this weird knight-lady had leapt straight out of a children’s fairy tale or something.

“So… can I… go?” he asked hopefully.

“Will you return to your malicious master’s service?” she put her hand on her weapon’s handle.

“Y-yeah. I don’t… exactly… have a choice…” he admitted while wincing.

“I see,” she relaxed once more. “In that case, I shall trust in the noble soul that averted tragedy this day, and allow you to return to your labors. May Ignar light your path.”

She finished off her parting words with a firm nod of her head and another clang against her breastplate.

“Thanks… I think.”

He wasted no time in hopping on his bike and speeding away. He was eager to leave that armored psycho behind, even if she did seem to mean well. That aside, he wasn’t sure what story he was going to spin to his boss. He had plenty of time on the ride back to figure something out, though. He just had to be careful not to seem too happy that the girl ‘escaped.’ Truth be told, he’d felt rather guilty about putting her through all that even though it wasn’t his fault. Once his boss started asking questions about all those pristine parts he was bringing, it was only a matter of time before he snatched the girl up. All Brick did was expedite the process and try to make it as easy on her as he could. He was… not as successful as he would’ve liked.

Which wasn’t to say that Arielle was out of the woods yet.

“So, what about me?” she hugged her chest warily.

“You will have to continue to fend for yourself, much as you have until now.”

“What?! But, you’re so strong! Can’t you, like, protect me or something?!”

“I am afraid I cannot,” J.J. shook her head. “I both seek and am followed by conflict. A gentle soul such as yourself will not last long in my company, despite my best efforts.”

“You… Why do you talk like you know me?” the girl’s disbelief turned to suspicion.

“Because I do. You may not recognize me like this, but you helped me once, when I first arrived in this wretched place.”

The paladin removed her mask and helmet, revealing a fair appearance that absolutely did not belong in this trash heap. The most eye-catching part about her wasn’t the vibrant ocean-blue eyes, the rosy skin, the vertical scar on her lower left jaw, or the radiant golden hair. Those were remarkable to be sure, but it was her ears that really took the cake. Though barely visible under her blonde locks, they were definitely elongated and slightly pointy - halfway between human and elvish. It was Arielle’s first time seeing those parts of the paladin’s head, but the face they flanked was indeed familiar to her. It belonged to a dying stranger she happened across out here in the outskirts about three weeks ago. Back then J.J. was so dehydrated she could barely speak, and would have surely perished had Ariebelle not shared her water with her.

“I must admit, I was most distressed when one of your neighbors told me you were taken from your home. I am relieved I was able to reach you in time.”

Her voice, now unburdened by those crappy filters, rang out in a calming and melodious tone.

“Yeah… Me too…”

The paladin also wanted to thank Osmond for teaching her how to follow tracks, though her internalized gratitude was somewhat curbed when she remembered he never returned her handkerchief. He was supposed to only borrow it for a few hours, but it had already been twenty days by the time the Mezzo thing happened, for Ignar’s sake.

“In any event, I suggest you go into hiding for the foreseeable future,” J.J. snapped back to the issue at hand. “The scar-headed one will surely send his minions after you. I trust these vile ruffians’ belongings will prove sufficient to expedite your exodus.”

The misplaced paladin pointed at the abandoned bikes off to the side. The bags hanging off of them had enough supplies to last the tortured girl a week, maybe even two. They’d be more than enough to see her out of the Black Rats’ territory, especially if she commandeered one of the six bikes that they had left behind. Admittedly she didn’t exactly know how to drive one, but she was certain she could figure it out. Machines were much easier for her to handle than people. The only issue was that she didn’t know what to do with herself. A bunch of options flashed through her mind, all of them dreadful and terrible. Except one, that is.

“Are… are you sure I can’t stay with you?” she asked again.

“I told you, that is not-”

“Please?!” she interrupted the paladin. “I have nobody else to turn to! No home, no friends, no… family. Please, help me, madam knight. You’re my only hope.”

Those words tugged at J.J. heartstrings something fierce. She didn’t want to get Arielle dragged into her affairs. By all accounts, it was a terrible idea to do so. Joan was a crusader of Ignar - a soldier in the eternal war against evil. She was not a shield that defended the innocent, but a weapon that struck against the darkness before it could fester into tragedy. As such, her life was one of discipline, valor, and violence, and her expulsion from Einhan hadn’t changed that. Even now she was preparing for a military campaign against the tyranny and oppression that plagued Rust Town. There was no room for a civilian like Arielle in the paladin’s plans, and including her in them would surely not end well. Even if the girl would struggle to survive on her own, it would be far better for both of them in the long run if they just broke things off here.

And yet, no matter how she rationalized it or what the ramifications were, Joan could never bring herself to decline a sincere plea for help.

“… Very well,” the paladin replied.

“Really?” Arielle’s face lit up. “You’ll let me stay with you?!”

“Indeed, but only on one condition.”

There it was. The girl knew this was coming. Nothing in this world was free, no matter how well-intentioned the other person was. Still, she had a feeling this Joan Jones would be far more reasonable than those Rats. Well, T.C. - or rather, Brick - wasn’t so bad after all, but the rest of them could all go to hell as far as she was concerned.

“Alright, what is it?” she asked.

The paladin put on a smile that rivaled the morning sun in its radiance while gently placing her hand on Arielle’s shoulder.

“That you let it all out.”

“Excuse me?”

“Your pain. Your suffering. Share them with me, so that I may lighten the burden on your soul.”

“I… Are you daft?”

“Possibly,” the knight nodded.

“This really isn’t really the time and place for that!”

“Probably not.”

“I mean, that guy over there is still coughing up blood!”

“I am aware.”

“So shouldn’t we do this somewhere else?!”

“Absolutely.”

“Then why-?! I’m just so confused!” the girl started shaking. “Why is any of this even happening!? I never hurt anyone, I just wanted to live quietly, and those assholes! Those fucking degenerates took me! And then they starved me, and dragged me out here, and- and- and- and I was so-ho-hoo scaaaared!”

What started as an angry rant quickly devolved into open, unrestrained weeping. The knight did her best to soothe Arielle while a thousand emotions she had kept bottled up since long before her imprisonment flooded out all at once. Some were relief at being spared, but most were of longing and resentment. She missed her home, and hated this wasteland that had replaced it. She despised it so much that it made her chest hurt. It was filthy, barren, diseased, and crawling with all manner of lowlifes. As the locals liked to say with a bitter smile, Rust Town wasn’t hell, but only just. Arielle herself was certain the two were actually synonymous. However, on that day, at that moment, she felt that there was indeed a critical difference.

Rust Town wasn’t hell, because hell didn’t have a guardian angel.