Dixon hadn’t been sure what to expect when he’d heard voices coming from the server room up ahead. He’d been ready for anything, expecting the worst, but he could admit to himself that when he’d seen the kids in there, unharmed, a little something akin to relief rushed through him.

Sure, they’d been acting a little squirrelly. But, honestly, he was starting to realize Glory was just like that. And Needles, for all his failings, was the type to take the fall for anything, especially something Glory did.

He wasn’t sure why they’d want to access an old world computer database—after all, old world knowledge was what led to the current state of the world. But, honestly, between the two of them, he could believe that they were just the types to want to save all knowledge, no matter how potentially dangerous.

On the way out of the facility, he’d been on high alert, ready for anything. Or, so he’d thought. Yet he’d somehow managed to miss the throwing knife aimed right at his head. He’d have been skewered if the kid—Glory—hadn’t been paying attention and yanked him out of the way. Damn she had good reflexes.

Hiding around the corner, he’d gotten a look at the knife, lying on the ground a few feet away. He recognized the craftsmanship, at least vaguely: it reminded him of some of the tools his mother had brought with her from her old home in the NNN.

That just raised more questions, though; a Navajo, in an old world underground facility overrun by cultists?

Talking to the man didn’t help Dixon’s suspicions any. Aside from the whole knife thing, he was also snippy, but Dixon supposed he couldn’t blame the man. Being kidnapped by mutants would do that to a person.

His eagerness to get out and deal some payback to the muties certainly helped to endear him to Dixon, but even as they made their way to the service tunnel that had led Dixon inside, he could admit that something was nagging at him.

It just felt… too convenient. The secret underground facility is completely empty, except for one Navajo man who also happens to be the same man Centauri left home to look for? Whom they got there just in time to rescue before the cultists came back with more prisoners?

Call him a pessimist, but he was ready for just about anything to leap out at them on the way back.

It didn’t help that the kids—Glory and Needles—were acting a bit more touchy-feely than usual. True, they were probably the closest out of their merry little band, but Glory at least was usually stiff and distant enough to brush off the ex-cannibal’s more affectionate behaviors.

What the hell had happened in the half-hour or so that they’d been separated? Or were they always that close and Dixon just hadn’t noticed?

He felt like the over-protective father of a teenage daughter watching her and a new boyfriend stumble around each other, and wasn’t that a lovely thought?

But, aside from the whole ‘ex-cannibal ally and cultist’ thing, Dixon supposed that Glory could do worse than Needles. He seemed like a decent, respectful guy, and Dixon would really like to stop thinking about those two together, so he instead turned his attention to their newest acquaintance.

Gray Hawk looked to be around Dixon’s age, or maybe a little older, and he was absolutely covered in tattoos. And in all different styles, too: some were clearly native designs, though Dixon couldn’t tell exactly which tribe. Others appeared to just be decorative—a skull and a pile of bones on an exposed, weathered bicep; a tangle of thorned vines twisting up a forearm, a series of numbers across his upper back.

Sleek, graying hair hung in a tight ponytail pulled forward over a shoulder. Altogether, his tall, muscular, yet somehow still lean figure reminded Dixon of the old, dead tree just a little south of Black Sun.

Well, what was left of Black Sun, now.

He wasn’t halfway hard on the eyes, either.

And Dixon averted his gaze quickly at that thought. They had a job to do, dammit. He couldn’t afford to be distracted, by the kids’ maybe-romantic drama or handsome Navajo men who just conveniently, suspiciously crossed his path.

It took Dixon a couple seconds to realize that Glory was talking to him. He blinked rapidly and shook his head. “What? Sorry, I was distracted.”

“I can see that.” She sighed harshly in that way that reminded Dixon of Lucy when she was fifteen, except Glory had to be in her twenties, at least. Still, she reminded him of a bratty teenager sometimes. “I said, how did you find this tunnel?”

He laughed humorlessly. “Luck, mostly. I found a metal trapdoor in one of the old outbuildings, an’ it led here.”

Gray Hawk hummed. “That reminds me… how do you three know each other?” He peered between them, dark eyes shrewd. “I’m curious. How do two upstanding citizens of the wasteland end up with one of them?” He sneered in Needles’ direction, who grimaced but said nothing.

Glory looked incensed, so Dixon interrupted before she could snap something insulting, or something else that’d make Gray Hawk even less willing to deal with them. “He saved us from ‘is brother and friends. That’s all you need to know.”

“Yes, but are you sure he’s trustworthy?”

“More trustworthy than you,” Glory snapped before Dixon could answer. “Or do you think we’re stupid enough to just see you, in there, all alone, and assume it’s all completely innocent? How do we know you aren’t working with the mutants?”

Gray Hawk glared at her. “If you don’t trust me, then why’d you bring me with you?”

“Dixon made the choice.” Glory nodded in his direction. “I don’t need to agree with it.”

“Okay, enough, Glory,” Dixon said. “We can argue about this once we’re back with the others. Centauri’s probably gonna have some questions, too.”

Glory, though obviously unhappy, shut her mouth. And, surprisingly, so did Gray Hawk. Needles let out a relieved little breath. Looked like Dixon wasn’t the only one who’d recognized Glory’s waspish temper.

Then the tunnel shook around them, accompanied by a low rumbling boom from the surface. Dixon gritted his teeth, waiting for the power to go out again and surprised when it didn’t. But then, the sound of cracking stone and concrete all around them made Dixon’s blood freeze.

He looked around himself, at the slowly-dawning looks of horror on his companions’ faces, and barked, “Let’s move!”

They sprinted towards the exit, as a deep crack crept up the wall next to them. A chunk tumbled down from the ceiling, about the size of a man’s fist, and nearly landed on Glory, though she managed to dodge out of the way with an alarmed cry that sent a jolt through Dixon.

Not much farther now, Dixon thought, trying to reassure himself. It didn’t help, really. He could hear the others’ clattering footsteps behind him, just enough of a reassurance that he didn’t stop to look.

Just to know they were safe.

They had to keep going.

The ladder appeared ahead of them light a beam of light cutting through a sea of black clouds, and Dixon skidded to a stop beside it. He turned to the others, gesturing wildly towards the ladder. “C’mon! Move it!”

Needles—easily the most valuable of their group, much as that might annoy the rest of them—went up first; followed closely by Glory; then by Gray Hawk, whose sour attitude had apparently faded somewhat since the threat of being crushed had entered their list of concerns.

The Navajo man scrambled up the ladder, and Dixon followed right behind him, emerging out of the same trapdoor he’d climbed in through in a cloud of dust, wheezing. Glory reached down to yank him to his feet. She was surprisingly strong for such a reedy-looking girl, but Dixon had more important things to think about.

The four of them stood around in a little half-circle surrounding the trapdoor. Gazing down into the relative gloom, Dixon could just make out the roof caving in, chunks of concrete and dusty orange rocks clogging the path they’d just used.

Glory, still panting, stared into the gloom with what looked suspiciously like heartbreak. Or some other flavor of misery—it was kinda hard to read on her. She took a few steps back until she stood next to Needles, who reached out to clap a comforting hand on her shoulder.

She either didn’t notice or didn’t care about his attempts to be supportive, judging by the way her entire frame quaked. At first, Dixon thought she was crying. Then she reared back with rage flashing in those bright green eyes. “Ffffffff—fuck!” she spat. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!”

Dixon stared at her, both eyebrows arched so high they were almost hidden under his hat. “Language, kiddo.”

“Fuck you!” she spat, still sounding entirely unused to the word. Or maybe it was the concept of swearing in general.

Needles shuffled from foot to foot beside her, clearly uncomfortable with the direction the conversation was going. “Glory—”

“A century!” Glory squeaked, voice sounding bizarrely raspy, compared to how she usually sounded. “A hundred years old, at least! And it’s lost! The elevator,” she ticked off her fingers, “lost! The emergency tunnel,” she ticked off again, “lost as well! Might as well pour six-hundred tons of concrete and tar on top for all the good it’ll do us now!” She wove fingers through her hair and began tugging, as if she were planning to yank her own hair out by the root.

Dixon didn’t know what to do. Not only had he never seen Glory like this before, he couldn’t remember having seen anyone like this before. He remembered the Dorns’ youngest kid had rages, where he’d just scream at everyone who came near him until he calmed down, but this…

This was something different.

At least Gray Hawk looked similarly bewildered, across the room.

Glory began pacing up and down the length of the outbuilding, still raking her fingers through her hair, until Dixon well and truly worried she was about to rip it out by the roots.

Then something went wrong—her right knee seemed to give out beneath her, and she staggered. Before she could hit the ground, though, Needles stepped forward to grab her.

He grunted and staggered under her weight, which—weird. Glory was a good couple inches shorter than him, and had to be at least ten to twenty pounds lighter. She shouldn’t have been able to stagger him like that without meaning to unless he was letting her, which… why?

But the shock of the sudden contact seemed to knock her out of her spiraling breakdown, and she fell silent. Needles took advantage of the sudden hush to grab her shoulders—gently, but firmly. “Listen to me,” he said, voice deadly serious, all traces of sheepishness or awkwardness gone. In its place was Doctor Needles, the healer who knew what he was doing. “Listen to my voice. Stay in the moment.”

She took in a deep, rattling breath, voice hoarse and harsh and unsteady as all hell, but she at least seemed to be listening to him. Her voice was still doing the weird, raspy thing as she murmured something to the healer than Dixon couldn’t quite make out. If he didn’t know any better, he might’ve called it static. But that was stupid, right?

“It happened,” Needles whispered. “It’s over. It’s been over a century, right? It’s a miracle that place lasted as long as it did. It isn’t your fault the ceiling caved in.”

She sucked in another deep breath. “But—but the earthquakes—” She cleared her throat, shaking her head as if to clear it. “This is one of the most seismically-active locations in the desert! How did over a hundred years’ worth of earthquakes not affect the construction, but a few little explosions did?”

“I don’t know,” Needles said. “Maybe there’s a difference in how the vibrations affected the structure. Maybe the facility was designed to withstand earthquakes, but they never thought anyone would be stupid enough to chuck an explosive at it. Maybe it was just bad luck. The point is, it’s over. And you need to calm down and relax.” He sucked in another deep, performative breath, and breathed out, an action swiftly copied by Glory.

Gray Hawk, still staring at them, grumbled, “Are we done here?”

Glory took a few more breaths, her form visibly relaxing ever so slightly. “Yes. We’re fine.” She swallowed thickly. “I… apologize for my outburst.”

“We are gonna discuss this later, Glory,” Dixon said, earning a glare from Needles and a look that he’d almost call wounded from Glory, though the latter was quickly covered up by her usual indifferent gaze. Still, that little sliver of hurt in her eyes… Dixon could feel himself soften ever so slightly, and he sighed. “But, I’m glad you’re doin’ better, kid.”

She didn’t answer verbally, instead merely nodding.

Then another explosion from outside the little outbuilding tore all their attention away from Glory’s outburst to the situation at hand. Namely, their two missing companions.

Dixon just hoped they weren’t too late.

***

Until that moment, Glory had never understood the expression “she wished the ground would open up and swallow her”. But right then, with three different pairs of eyes on her—one sympathetic, the other two varying levels of disbelieving and disgusted—she did indeed wish it were possible to simply seep into the ground like toxic waste.

Or, perhaps groundwater was a better, less disgusting metaphor.

Either way, as grateful as she was to Needles (not that she’d admit that out loud), she found that she couldn’t look Dixon or Gray Hawk in the eye, instead focusing on the worn collars of their shirts.

Luckily, the explosions outside had broken the tense silence, so thick with awkwardness that even Glory could feel it. Gray Hawk reached the outbuilding door first and threw it open, only to splash searing sunlight across the first meter or so of space from the entrance.

The sun, as it was wont to do, had risen while they had been underground, and was now comfortably hovering directly in front of them in its mid-to-late-morning position. Needles sucked in a hissing breath of dismay beside her, and Dixon and Gray Hawk wore matching unhappy frowns.

“Shit,” Dixon hissed.

“Where’s the wind farm from here?” Glory asked nervously. If they got separated… If even one of them got separated from the others…

Dixon nodded vaguely over his shoulder. “Behind us an’ a little to the left. But that don’t mean nothin’ if we can’t see it.” He smacked his forehead gently against the wall beside the door, before nodding to the next-closest cluster of outbuildings, and the shade they offered. “When I say run, you run. Don’t stop ’til you hit the shade. Got it?”

They all nodded.

“‘Kay. On three. One, two—” A loud, creaking groan from the ceiling interrupted his countdown, and he shouted, “Move!”

They sprinted out into the sunlight just as the building began to collapse, a pile of debris nearly trapping Glory’s foot. Luckily, she was able to pry herself free and tear after the others. Glory could hear them letting out various grunts and yelps of pain as the light hit them.

The sun wouldn’t hurt her—not like it would the others, at least. Especially Needles, given how pale he was compared with the other two. Still, the sheer brightness seared her optics, even with the sensitivity turned down as far as it would go, and made it genuinely difficult to navigate to the next cluster of buildings. The ultraviolet light caused colorful spots to dance across her vision, forcing her to blink rapidly to clear it as soon as she was safely in the shade once more.

It had been 2.0043 seconds, and the UV light had already affected her. How badly would her humans be damaged before they were safe?

Looking around wildly, with her vision only partly clear, she managed to spy the brim of Dixon’s hat and a few strands of Needles’ white hair, and she desperately staggered towards the familiar sight.

Needles was letting out soft, pained noises and panting rapidly. Dixon and Gray Hawk were groaning softly, but seemed to be in relatively better shape. Or perhaps they were just better at hiding their pain than Needles was.

Glory’s own vision was slowly repairing itself, thanks to her nanites, but even in the shade, the rays of sunshine were obscenely bright.

“You okay, kid?” Dixon asked. It took Glory a moment to realize he was probably talking to her, and she nodded jerkily.

She jumped when she sensed movement right next to her, but relaxed when she saw Needles’ hair again. He had his eyes squinted shut, and most of his face and chest were bright red with raw and painful-looking sunburn.

“Shit,” Dixon grunted, seemingly having noticed Needles’ less-than-pristine state at the same time. He hesitated for a moment before gently patting Needles on his sole non-sunburned shoulder, grimacing all the while. “You… You’re gonna be fine, kid.”

“It hurts,” Needles moaned.

“I know.”

Glory grabbed the underside of Needles’ elbow, where the sun wouldn’t have reached, and tugged him closer. He jumped at the contact, before shuffling closer and burrowing his face into her shoulder.

That wasn’t quite what she’d had in mind, but she couldn’t find it in herself to be too upset. She tried to ignore the knowing looks she could feel Dixon and Gray Hawk shooting in their direction, and instead gently raised her hands to his sides, where his arms would have blocked the sun’s rays.

“My bag,” Needles murmured. “Near the bottom, there should be a small, circular container. Can you grab it?” He held his burnt hands up delicately. “I can’t really root around in there right now.”

Glory nodded once, her chin brushing his shoulder, earning another pained hiss. Glory tried not to wince at the noise, and instead reached for the bag on his hip and began rummaging through his possessions. Bandages; various ointments in small vials; and several instances of his namesake, safely packaged and capped to keep from accidentally stabbing anyone who went feeling around in there. And, at the very bottom, just as he’d said, Glory’s fingertips ran across a smooth, circular container.

She pulled it out and unscrewed the lid, revealing some kind of cream. She peered up at him, brows furrowed in a silent question.

“It’s meant for chemical burns,” Needles admitted, “but it should do in a pinch.”

Glory doubted that, but she wasn’t the healer between the two of them. “What do I do?”

“Slather it on. Be generous, but no so much that it’s dripping off.”

Glory obeyed, scooping some of the gel-like substance onto her fingertips and rubbing it as gently as she could across his shoulders and pectorals. Rather than more pained hissing, Needles let out a sigh of relief. “Ohh, thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” Glory muttered, as she continued down his arms, around his hands, then to his abdomen, then to his back when he turned around to face away from her.

At the end of it, Glory gazed into the little ointment left in the container. “You’ll need to get some more,” she said. “I used most of it.”

He grunted dismissively. “It’s easy enough to make. Just—Just a matter of finding the right ingredients.” He slowly turned back to face her, as she re-capped the container and handed it to him. “Thank you,” he said, sliding it back into the bag at his hip. He let out a low breath and murmured, “I always… always thought they were exaggerating. When they said the sun burned them.” His voice was muffled by Glory’s shoulder, and quiet enough that she doubted the other two could hear, but he continued on uncaringly with a derisive snort. “Some healer I am.”

“Well, now you know,” Glory said.

“We need to keep moving,” Gray Hawk said.

Glory glared at him over Needles’ shoulder.

He either didn’t notice or didn’t care, as he continued smoothly, “Centauri could be in danger, too. And it’s only a matter of time before the cultists return with their prisoners.”

Dixon, at least, seemed more sympathetic, and frowned lightly. “Yeah, but…” He trailed off, and began whispering in Gray Hawk’s ear.

Glory nudged the sensitivity on her auditory system up a few notches, allowing her to pick up most of their conversation, though she was careful to keep her face impassive.

“Look at him,” Dixon whispered. “He’s burnt to a crisp. Isn’t there a way to—”

“He’s a mutant,” Gray Hawk gruffed back, sounding thoroughly unsympathetic. It was all Glory could do to keep from snapping at him. “We have more important things to see to than the comfort of one—”

“I know!” Dixon barked softly. “Damn it, I know. But…”

“You care about them,” Gray Hawk finished. “About him.”

“…I know I shouldn’t,” Dixon agreed, sending shocks through Glory’s very core. “But… Glory can’t be a day over twenty. Needles’ ain’t much older’n that. They’re kids, dammit! They shouldn’t be out here with us. They should be safe in a town, somewhere. Centauri, too, for that matter.”

Rather than the hostility Glory had admittedly expected from Gray Hawk upon Dixon’s admission, the Navajo man instead seemed to soften almost imperceptibly. “You trust him?” he asked.

Dixon hesitated for the slightest moment, before murmuring, “Yeah. I do. Damnedest thing, but I do. He’s looked out for us so far.”

Gray Hawk huffed a breath. “Then I suppose I will, too. For now, at least. But… We need to find Centauri. I don’t know where those explosions came from, but—”

“Wilkes,” Glory blurted, then immediately wished she could take it back as the two older men turned to look at her, and even Needles pulled back far enough to peer up at her in confusion.

“What about ‘em?” Dixon asked. Though, with her audials as sensitive as they were, it came across more as shouting until she nudged it down again, trying not to wince.

“The explosions sounded a great deal like the ones back at Black Sun,” she said. “Lucy’s ordnance. I saw Wilkes tucking a few sticks into their pockets before we left.” She shrugged a single shoulder—the one Needles wasn’t currently leaning against. “It makes more sense than the raiders collapsing their own allies’ secret facility.”

Dixon snorted. “Wouldn’t surprise me if it was them. It’d be just like ‘em to break toys they don’t get to play with.”

Gray Hawk, however, simply looked confused. “Hang on… how did you know we were discussing the explosions?”

Glory panicked. “Hmm?” she asked, feigning confusion. “I was just thinking about what could’ve been causing the quakes all this time. They seemed oddly centralized for actual quakes, and, well…” No need to let them know she knew they weren’t ordinary earthquakes. “Explosives could be an explanation.”

Gray Hawk still looked suspicious, but Dixon seemed distracted, staring out around the corner of the building whose shade they’d taken shelter in. Gray Hawk opened his mouth—to continue his questions, no doubt—when Dixon held a hand up and let out a low, sharp whistle.

The four of them fell silent, and Needles at last pulled away from Glory, shifting over to stand beside her with his back to the wall instead.

Now, with her companions silent, Glory could make out the sound of approaching footsteps. Needles held his breath beside her as a raider with a face full of piercings rounded the corner, only to come face-to-face with the muzzle of Dixon’s rifle.

“The Navajo boy and the one in the gas mask,” Dixon growled. “Where are they?”

The raider hesitated.

Gray Hawk snarled like an animal and lashed out, snatching up the machete at the raider’s hip. With one good, solid swing, he slit the raider’s throat and made one additional, deep cut across his chest.

The raider fell to the ground, choking and burbling. Red blood splashed out to stain the sandy ground. And Dixon whirled on the Navajo man with a glare. “What the hell is wrong with you? We needed information!”

“He never would’ve told us anything,” Gray Hawk interrupted with a sneer. “We’ll have better luck finding them on our own.”

Dixon scoffed. “In this light?”

“I think I know where they are,” Glory interrupted the argument. She tried not to fidget with her hands as she nodded roughly north-west of their current position. “I think I heard gunshots coming from that direction.”

Gray Hawk frowned. “I didn’t hear anything.”

“I did!” Needles sputtered at Glory’s side. “Very faint, but she’s right.”

“When?” Dixon asked with a frown.

Glory nodded to Gray Hawk. “While he was slitting the raider’s throat.”

They’d both been fairly distracted. She hoped it’d be enough to convince them that they’d missed something major like a series of gunshots.

Dixon sighed. “Fine. We’ll stick to the edge of the basin. The mountains should give some shelter from the sun.” He turned to Gray Hawk with a scowl. “Don’t go slitting any more throats without asking first, okay?”

Gray Hawk simply reached for the raider’s lifeless body and began stripping off his machete sheath. Fastening it to his own belt, he said, “Whatever makes you feel better, marshal.”

Dixon grumbled, but didn’t answer, instead turning to slowly inch around the corner the raider had come from. Gray Hawk followed shortly behind him, and after a brief pause, so did Glory and Needles.

Before they could actually leave, however, Needles reached out and grabbed her wrist. “How did you know where they are?” he whispered.

“I calculated it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Remember in the elevator?” she asked. “The explosion that knocked out the power. I did my best to track the origin. It should at least point us in the right direction.”

He stared at her. “How?”

“Replaying my memory of the event, plus my knowledge of the average strength of a stick of dynamite. Assuming Wilkes was only using one that first time, it’d place them approximately ninety meters from where we were at the time, on the surface. Which, the elevator’s in the center of the wind farm, so…” She nodded in the direction she’d directed the others. “That way.”

He stared at her. “You did all that in just a few seconds?”

“One-point-eight-three seconds,” Glory corrected him. “I think at the speed of light.”

“Of course you do,” he murmured, though he sounded awed.

“Come on. We can’t stay for long, or the others might get suspicious.” She moved to step around the corner, then paused. Needles’ ointment may have soothed his sunburns, but there was nothing saying it would prevent further burns. She hesitated for a split second before unbuttoning her jacket, blessedly lowering her core temperature by a few degrees, and turning to him. “Put this on. It’ll keep the sun off you.”

“But you—”

“I don’t get sunburnt.”

He shook his head, flexing his jaw. “What if Dixon or Gray Hawk get suspicious?” he hissed. “You can’t put yourself in danger for my sake.”

“You’re our healer!” Glory insisted. “You’re more valuable than I am. Even Gray Hawk has to realize that.” She thrust the jacket at him again. “Just take it.”

He frowned, but reluctantly accepted, pulling it on and tugging the hood up to cover his head. It wasn’t terribly deep, and wouldn’t protect him as much as, say, Dixon’s hat did, but it was something.

Glory turned to round the corner proper this time, leaning out and immediately spying the brim of Dixon’s hat a short distance ahead. They hadn’t gotten far while Glory and Needles had been distracted, and in that time, Gray Hawk had taken the lead. Meanwhile, Dixon noticed her gaze and beckoned her and Needles over frantically.

They stepped out to shuffle along the narrow band of shade that led to his current position, and it took Glory a few moments to realize that Needles was still holding her hand, their fingers laced loosely together.

She should yank her hand back. She really should.

She didn’t.

“What took y’so long?” Dixon snapped when they finally reached him. Strange question, given how Needles wearing Glory’s jacket should’ve been obvious to anyone with eyes. But Dixon didn’t always ask logical questions. Glory was used to it.

Glory shrugged. “Sorry. We had things to discuss.”

“An’ they couldn’t wait ‘til we were safer?” Dixon shook his head. “Never mind. Damn kids these days.”

They turned to sidle their way along after Gray Hawk, and Glory desperately hoped her calculations were correct.

***

Centauri’s body shook where he was curled up behind the ridge, his arms thrown over his head. Bright red blood covered his chest, his face, even dripped from his hair. It wasn’t his, thankfully, though at least if it was, maybe he wouldn’t have felt so sick.

His stomach roiled and twisted as Wilkes fired off shots at the few raiders still brave or stupid enough to stick their heads out. The smarter ones had all turned and ran off after the first four dozen or so raiders dropped—either blown to bits by Wilkes’ dynamite, or blown full of holes by Wilkes’ revolvers.

So much blood. Centauri could handle death—he’d been around it most of his life. But there was a difference between a single shot, a handful of bodies, and an entire mountain of blood-soaked, mangled corpses that had once been almost human.

Centauri could admit that Wilkes had good aim with their dynamite. Damn good aim. Scarily good aim. They could toss a stick at the muties, wait a few seconds, and be left with nothing but mutant chunks. And, somehow, they knew exactly where to throw so the muties wouldn’t notice the dynamite stick at their feet until it was too late.

But, explosions were messy, and at least some of those mutant chunks found their way soaring over the ridge to land at Wilkes’ and Centauri’s feet; the remains of what had once been mostly human. Even looking at them made Centauri’s stomach roil.

Wilkes didn’t seem to have the same problem.

Wilkes paused in their firing for a split second as they seemed to eye him concernedly. It made something sour bubble up in his chest, and he silently wished his companion wasn’t wearing that damn gas mask, so he at least might’ve been able to read their expression.

Then the moment passed, and Wilkes stuck their head out again, revolvers at the ready. When no more gunfire immediately followed, though, Centauri dared to lower his hands from his ears.

“Is—Is it over?” he croaked, voice raspy like he’d been gargling sand.

Wilkes didn’t answer, of course.

Centauri swallowed, and slowly crawled out around the other side of the ridge, peering out over the shallow valley they’d been defending against. The sheer amount of blood and blown-apart corpses that decorated the sand made Centauri’s stomach twist all over again. It reminded him far too much of the village raids from his childhood—he couldn’t remember most of them, but the blood… he’d never forget all that blood.

Just then, he spotted movement deeper in the valley; a lone raider, perched behind a decent-sized boulder in front of one of the turbines. Given the angle, it was possible Wilkes couldn’t see the mutant from their spot at the far end of the ridge. But Centauri could, and it seemed like the raider hadn’t noticed him yet…

Centauri reached for his rifle, aimed, and fired. He wasn’t as good as, say, Gray Hawk, or even Dixon from what he’d seen. But he got the bastard in the chest, knocking the raider to the ground.

Centauri peered over at Wilkes, who nodded their approval.

Just then, however, the rocky dirt under Centauri’s feet shifted, and he nearly went tumbling down the rocky cliff face. A high-pitched, almost girlish shriek escaped him, and he might’ve been embarrassed, if the immediate fear of falling into the valley of blood wasn’t a more immediate fear.

A firm hand wrapped around his arm, yanking him back from the edge. He looked down, and saw one of Wilkes’ familiar gloves. The hand underneath at least felt human enough, even if the leather was too thick and bulky to really make out the approximate size of the hand.

Still panting, he turned to Wilkes, swallowing thickly. “Thank you.”

A series of rapid gunshots ricocheted against the rocky ridge barely a few feet away from the two of them, and they scattered back behind cover. What sounded like an entire platoon of raiders came running out into the valley, into the gore pit left behind by their companions. How many were left? And where the hell had they come from?

Centauri eyed Wilkes for guidance, and the masked figure grabbed the lighter off their belt, and lit the fuse on one of their last sticks of dynamite. Tossing it over the ridge, both they and Centauri settled in to brace against the rock as the explosion rattled the entire wind farm basin.

Except, this explosion was… stronger, somehow. Or, at least, it felt like it. But, as far as Centauri knew, it was identical to the rest of the dynamite.

But, in the wake of the explosion, there was more than just the typical shifting of sand and small rocks. There was a deep rumbling, under the ground. One of the turbines shuddered, its anchor points snapping with an almighty squeal and groan of metal. It tipped over, knifing through the air somehow both impossibly fast and in slow-motion to Centauri’s eyes, and landed in the sand with a crash loud enough to cause another quake.

The world shook for a good few minutes, then everything fell still again. And with that stillness, came the silence.

Somehow, that silence was even worse than the raiders screaming for their blood.

“What was that?” Centauri croaked, reasonably certain that he didn’t have to specify what he was referring to.

His masked companion shrugged, and though Centauri could have imagined it, he thought he saw a slight hint of nervousness—almost sheepishness—in the angle to their shoulders.

Something sour twisted in the pit of Centauri’s stomach as he stared out at the devastation that they had caused. “You think…” He didn’t want to voice his thoughts, in case Stands-on-Stone’s beliefs that one’s words could affect the world around them was true, but he couldn’t help himself. “You think we… caused a cave-in?”

Wilkes, of course, didn’t answer, but judging by the slump of their shoulders, Centauri wasn’t the only one worrying. Then, moments later, they squared their shoulders and clapped a hand on Centauri’s shoulder before turning back to the ridge.

Centauri, on the other hand, couldn’t look away. He stared in a mix of awe and disbelief as the collapsed turbine seemed to sink deeper into the rocky sand around it. Moments later, he realized that that was exactly what was happening.

It couldn’t be quicksand—he didn’t know of any underground water sources nearby, or the villages at the southern edge of the New Navajo Nation would’ve at least tried to tap into them. This had to be something else; some kind of underground chamber collapsing, taking everything on top down with it.

Centauri peered out over the valley, and prayed to any gods or spirits that might be listening that the rest of the group hadn’t been down there when that collapsed.

***

As they inched ever closer to the rough position Glory had calculated, they came upon a series of locations that could only be described as ‘epicenters’. Decorated with the blood and gore of some particularly unlucky raiders that had grouped together long enough to be blown apart by a well-tossed stick of dynamite, they were grim landmarks on their trek to locate the two missing members of their band.

Needles groaned as they approached one such site. He had a hand over his eyes, blocking his vision from the bright light. “I smell blood,” he moaned. “What is it?”

“Just raiders,” Dixon said, in what was likely meant to be a reassuring tone of voice. “Don’ worry ‘bout it.”

Needles just moaned some more, his grip on Glory’s hand tightening.

“I haven’t seen anything that would suggest your friends are out here,” Gray Hawk grunted. “Are we sure they—”

“Get down!” Glory barked, having noticed some motion at the top of the nearest ridge.

All three of her companions immediately obeyed, dropping behind a convenient outcropping of rocks. As Glory and Dixon peered out, however, Glory vaguely recognized the top of the gas mask that lurked above, gleaming in the sun.

Wilkes.

“Psst!” Dixon hissed. “It’s us!”

A moment of silence passed, before Centauri popped into view over the ridge, grimacing and shielding his face with an arm. “Get up here!”

They did so, Glory catching Needles before he stumbled over a particularly large rock that jutted out of the ground. They skidded to a stop and crouched down low, their backs pressed against a low ridge that kept them relatively shielded from the sun.

That wouldn’t last long, though. In only a few short hours, the sun would’ve traveled high enough into the sky to roast them even there. But for now, it was perfect protection.

“Gray Hawk!” Centauri cried, scrambling to greet his… mentor? Teacher? Glory wasn’t sure. Rambling in Navajo, he skidded to a stop a few centimeters in front of the older man, who chuckled and yanked him into a gruff hug.

Dixon collapsed into a heap beside Wilkes. When he noticed the masked figure looking over at him, he offered a shaky thumbs up.

Centauri pulled back, sharing rambling conversation with Gray Hawk, who could barely get a word in edgewise. He began to intersperse English words with Navajo, until he’d almost entirely switched back over to speaking English again. “Wh—How did you find us?”

Gray Hawk nodded to Glory, and she suddenly felt all eyes on her. In a bad way. “Ask her. She heard your gunshots.”

Glory forced herself to relax and shrug. “Just got lucky, I guess. No thanks to you. Your explosions nearly collapsed the facility on us.”

Centauri winced suddenly, and shrunk in on himself, pointing accusingly at Wilkes. “It was their idea!”

Wilkes held their hands up defensively.

But then, Centauri cocked his head. “Wait… what facility?”

“An old world facility, under the wind farm,” Dixon said, as though that explained everything. Judging by the confused frown on Centauri’s face, and the way Wilkes had their head cocked to one side, it did not.

Glory reset her vocalizer before the round of questioning could begin. “Listen, I know traveling during the day is… perilous, but we need to find shelter before the mutants regroup and the cultists return. Is there a way out of here that isn’t in direct sunlight?”

Dixon’s lips pursed. “Well, there’s this old crack straight through the sandstone that leads through a couple miles west of Sanctum Mesa. At the other end is this ol’ apartment complex. The crack is sorta like a narrow canyon.” He held his hands close together, as if to demonstrate just how narrow. “We’d be relatively safe from the sun until we hit the other end, then the apartment building could keep us safe ‘til sundown.”

“I think I know the place you’re talking about,” Gray Hawk said, nodding in agreement. “It’d give us a place to rest until evening.”

Glory sat up straighter. “Well, good. Where’s this crack?”

Dixon nodded behind her. “‘Bout half a mile that way. Easier to see once you get closer.”

“We should move,” Needles said. “Who knows how long until the others come back.”

One by one, the members of their ever-growing group nodded in agreement, and clambered to their feet, ready to brave the trek to relative safety.

Glory kept close to Needles, mostly out of familiarity. But, she had to admit that, between all of her companions, he was the one she trusted the most.

And if she noticed Needles gazing over at her with a small smile every few minutes, she kept quiet. No need to draw attention to him, after all.

***

Some time later…

High Purifier Taurus was, above all else, a reasonable man. And, although marching to an outpost during the day searching for souls to save might’ve been seen as unreasonable by certain members of the Order, Taurus was convinced that it was a necessity.

He had been less certain about entrusting their new forward base to the madman clans, but it wasn’t as if those savages would’ve known how to enter it, even if Taurus had shown them himself.

He was, therefore, rather piqued when he and his attendants returned to the forward base to find most of the madman clans unconscious, at best, and entrance to the base was blocked.

Actually, no, that’s an understatement.

He was furious. The Order would no doubt use this as evidence that he was unfit for his position. But those worries could wait; for now, he needed to find out what had happened.

While a great many of the madmen had been killed during what was quickly shaping up to be a deliberate attack, one of the leaders—Bulletproof Vance, was it? Evidently, bulletproof or not, he was not explosives-proof—had survived, shaded from the burning daytime sun under the wreckage of a fallen turbine; a far kinder fate than the rest of his cohorts.

‘Bulletproof’ Vance sputtered and jerked when one of Taurus’ attendants splashed cold water across his heavily tattooed and pierced face, and crawled backwards away from them until he hit a rocky ridge. A few moments followed while his eyes adjusted, and only when he saw Taurus and his attendants in front of him did he calm down slightly. Only to immediately tense up again when he realized what had happened.

Good. So Taurus wouldn’t have to spell out why he was displeased. At least the madmen were intelligent enough to figure that out.

“What. Happened?” Taurus demanded. His voice was deeper and raspier than he’d been expecting, but it worked in his favor.

Vance’s jaw flexed, but he managed to keep his emotions in check surprisingly well. Too bad for him that Taurus could positively smell the fear and anger warring for dominance in him.

“We were attacked,” Vance croaked.

“By whom?”

Vance’s expression twitched into something approximating a smile, but Taurus knew it was just a muscle tic. Vance wasn’t the only one of the madman clans to express such a tic; only the most pronounced Taurus had met.

“I didn’t see them.” Vance paused to hack into the crook of an elbow before glaring up into Taurus’ disgusted gaze. “They had explosives.”

“Explosives?” Taurus scoffed. That sounded… unlikely. Extreme, for one. Not to mention, where would a group of disorganized wastelanders even find explosives?

But Vance was adamant, nodding insistently in spite of Taurus’ obvious skepticism. “I don’t know how many; I passed out after the first four blasts. But we could hear them from all the way across the basin.” He shook his head. “There were at least two, I’m sure. I saw them with my own eyes.”

Taurus knelt down until he was eye-to-eye with Vance, his icy gaze piercing as he peered into the madman’s eyes. “Describe them.”

Vance swallowed thickly. “One wore a hazmat suit—I never saw them take it off. The other was a kid; Navajo if I had to guess. The hazmat one was the one throwing explosives. I think the kid was sniping at us, but the basin makes every little noise echo all over the place, and if he was, he wasn’t very good at—”

“Monsignor!”

The familiar voice drew Taurus’ attention away from the barbarian before him, and he turned to face Tasha, the youngest of his attendants, dragging another madman behind her. She tossed the man into the dirt in front of Taurus, chains jingling, and bent down into a swift-yet-elegant curtsy, her gaze fixed on the ground.

All around them, Taurus’ other attendants turned to face them, hoods drawn and heads cocked in curiosity.

“What is this…” Taurus nudged the groaning newcomer with the side of his boot, “offering you bring me, dearest?”

She swallowed. “He claimed he had seen two of the attackers, on the opposite side of the basin.” She hung her head even lower. “I… assumed you would wish to speak with him yourself.”

Taurus gently tapped her chin with the tip of his finger, tilting her head up to face him. “Rise, child, and hold your head high. You assumed correctly.” Once she was standing, he turned to the two barbarians before him.

He nudged the newcomer until the man rolled over to gaze up at him with bleary eyes. This one had considerably darker skin, and his tattoos didn’t stand out nearly as starkly as they did on the first. But it didn’t matter—dark or light, the madman clans were all the same.

Taurus sneered down his nose at the man. “What are you called?”

“B—Bolt. Sir.”

Well. At least the lesser beings knew how to recognize their betters. “Speak, then, Bolt. What did you see?”

“A cannibal.” The man rolled over and hacked rough coughs into the dirt.

Taurus’ nose wrinkled at the display. “A cannibal? What do you mean?”

“I mean, I saw a cannibal. ‘Cept…” He started coughing again, only speaking once he caught his breath. “’Cept he wasn’t like no cannibal I’ve ever seen before. Skinny as a twig, with long ratty hair, full pants. And… And he had a human face. Y’know… like you.”

Taurus’ nostrils flared. A human cannibal. Interesting. Hadn’t Sagittarius and Scorpius—

No. They were dead, all thanks to Sagittarius’ machinations. Thinking about what could have been would bring nothing but sorrow.

This so-called ‘human cannibal’ had to be something else; a coincidence.

“And what of the other?” Taurus asked, after forcibly calming himself. A display of despondency would do no one any good at the moment, after all. “Tasha said you saw two.”

Bolt nodded. “The other one was a woman. Nothing spectacular, except—”

“Except what?” Taurus demanded, after a few seconds of silence passed.

Bolt shook his head. “It’s nothing. Must be my imagination.”

Taurus sneered, knelt down, and wrapped a hand around Bolt’s neck. He applied no pressure (yet), and merely allowed the suggestion of a threat to get his point across. “Do we pay you to think, my friend? We do not. Your job is to report everything you see and hear, and I will do the thinking for you. So, I’ll ask again: what did you see in the woman?”

Bolt gulped, but at least the implied threat loosened his tongue. “R—Remember what you told us to keep an eye out for? Back at Sedona?”

Taurus nodded carefully.

“She… I think she’s one of them. She fit the description, at least.”

“Truly?” Taurus’ brow arched, curiosity piqued. “Interesting.” He turned his head just far enough to catch sight of Tasha out of the corner of his eye. “Send word back to Sedona, my dear. Tell them, we have some mysteries to solve.”

“An—And the wind farm facility?” she asked, voice quaking ever so slightly. “Monsignor?”

Taurus’ jaw clenched, but he forced himself to relax long enough to answer her. “Lost. But rest assured, I will deal with the situation.”