The Rockaverse

"Sounds like I should put a hole in you, sir," White Hat sleered, marching over the campfire and causing the flames to flail violently around his coattails. White Hat's silver pistol was aimed at M'kama's stomach. "Sounds like maybe you're the ring-leader here. I wanna hear from these ladies you've got all quiet." White Hat turned to Horik & Seru. "I wanna hear you tell me what awaits you in Cobran."

"Salvation," Seru spat, stepping up toward White Hat with her gun in her hand, "The apocalypse is comin', cowboy. The offworlder's ship crashed in Schittle, along with a weapon that'll wipe half of this shithole into Oblivion," she gestured with her revolver, "It's likely been snatched by Crown Prince Theory by now and I needa warn Cobran, so you'd best get outta our way."

"Theory? Sorillian son of a bitch stealin' our women?" White Hat whispered, raising a blonde eyebrow high. He tucked his pistol into his groin before turning to Seru. "Salvation you seek. Salvation I shall provide, lady of the Rock." White Hat knelt for a moment and kissed her gun before rising.

"Ya'll on thin ice but I'll believe you're in need of protecting like these old fucks," White Hat sighed, folding his arms at the camp. "But I got my eye on you... death-lover," He squinted at M'kama before marching toward the camp. "If Crown Prince Theory is moving in on the desert we best be getting out of the dunes... can we all travel tonight?"

Seru squinted at White Hat in visible disgust, but when she glanced at her newly acquired companions and the corpse on the ant she let out a held breath and holstered her gun, "Yeah, let's go. It wont be long before the entire Rock knows 'bout the damn thing."

"Well, I'm glad to be in the company of such esteemed leadership," M'Kama nodded at White Hand in an unimpressed tone. "But if we're done running our mouths and mean to get a move on, I suggest we bury this poor woman's body first. That only seems fair, does it not?"

"We can bury her in Cobran. Make sure she gets a proper autopsy, eh partner?" White Hat chuckled, smacking M'kama on the shoulder before moving forward and whistling at the refugees. Shaken looks in the camp. Glances from the families present. Moving again. It had felt as though they had just settled. But soon enough the camps were collected, the fires put out, and the ant caravans on the move again.

White Hat marched below the Rock's two moons. "Right," He huffed as cold wind pelted him. Ahead in the far distance were the mountains of the Bright. And somewhere, even further, the entrance... to Cobran. And so... the camp moved on.

The desert at night was a vast undulating sea, punctuated by the shadowy silhouettes of a small, slow moving caravan, like great ghost ships upon the sandy waves. Ants tumbled along the dunes in a steady rhythm, kicking up dust against wooden carriages that were pulled by two or, if it were a larger wagon, four ants. A cold breeze had taken away every lick of warmth it could, forcing families to huddle against each other within the safety of the carriages, their conversations as silent as the landscape surrounding them. A starry night loomed above, pretty enough to ignite the heart of any nature's child, yet not one of them cast their eyes upward to see it. The mood was bleak with the knowledge that a weapon of mass destruction was somewhere on their lands.

Seru sat in one of the carriages, her legs dangling off the side. She dozed in and out of sleep for a few hours, fever dreams plaguing her slumber with images of blood and sand, and poor Eren being swallowed by a snake. Suddenly the wagon hit a stone and jolted underneath her, startling Seru awake. It was still dark, but she could see the horizon beginning to purple and the twin moons slowly lowering to meet the land. She turned to see how close they were to the Bright now, and was delighted to recognize hulking mountains of rock towering above, their shadows allowing no light to guide the caravans path. In an hour, when the sun rose, they would be in Cobran territory.

Although it was dark, Seru spotted a white hat riding on an ant not far from the caravan she was in. The woman sat up and leaned forward, her hushed voice drifting through the desert toward him, "Hey, White Hat, why're you and your friends heading to Cobran, anyway?"

White Hat was leading his ant by the reins: a brown burly back, it's leg muscles large and high on it's body while it's abdomen was small and low to the ground. White Hat moved a gloved hand along one of it's antennas as he looked back at Seru. The girl's face stared at him from out the open flaps of the caravan.

"Found these folks west of Termite," White Hat explained. "They were, uh, on the wrong side of a gang war fleein'. Suda's had them cornered, would have killed and eaten them all, probably." White Hat winced. "So I helped, how I could. With a bullet or two." He glanced down. "It's uh... I guess it's what I do."

"What, kill Suda's?" Seru raised an eyebrow, "So this wont be your first time in Cobran, I suppose? If ya do this for a livin'."

"Heh, sometimes my job is killin' Sudas I suppose," White Hat chuckled, looking down at his feet. They swayed in the sand, the desert black and blue under the cold cover of night. "Protectin' people," He clarified. He rose his head even. "Makin' sure there still innocent ladies not yet robbed. Makin' sure there still be men who won't rape and kill." White Hat looked to Seru. "That's what I do."

"So, you're a vigilante, then?" M'Kama asked of White Hat drawing out a trio of cards. "Defending the common folk of the Rock from the many dangers that would perturb them. Excluding the Sudeans, of course."

"I work around here and there, partner," White Hat replied suspiciously. "Protectin' the world from... degenerates."

On the horizon the mountains of the Bright towered. The sky above them was still night, but in the distance, between the peaks of the mountains, light shun like that of a virgin sunrise. Over those mountains was the beginning of the Bright's endless day...

"That's a noble goal, friend," M'Kama yawned, leaning back into the caravan for a moment to grab himself a bowl of the roasted mussel that had been cooked over the fire when they had met these wayward travelers. "There are many wandering these volatile sands who could learn from your example. To put others first ahead of themselves. Not an easy feat when many are simply struggling to survive."

M'Kama took a bite of the shellfish, taking a glimpse at the mountains as the sun began to rise in what was just a few moments ago, the dark of night. The calling card of the Bright. He then continued, "Answer me this, White Hat. What would you do when a starving man attempts to a family of their live stock? Is death the penalty for desperation?"

"That is why there is the Law," Tackel responded as he approached the wagon from one side, raising a hand in greeting. He looked at White Hat with a respectful nod.

"It is good to see that there is another willing to uphold morality and justice in this lawless land," Tackel stated, smiling broadly and showing surprisingly healthy teeth in the process.

Turning back to M'Kama, Tackel continued. "If a man steals, he is a thief. It is not desperation, but pride that a man steals from another. If a man steals from another, even bread to feed his family, his pride is such that he will not ask, beg, or bargain. Of course, perhaps this man did not know of other options, which is why a trial is necessary. It may be that this man will be let free with a penalty to work off. I am not a judge, after all."

“Leave no one alive. These miserable people are not worth capturing,” Theory began as he surveyed Schittle.
“Every last Guardian, and adventurer will be put to death as well, no one who witnessed the Gun’s power can be left to stand in our way, not even her…” he sighed.
The Remnants nodded and set about hunting down the survivors, and various other interlopers from the crash site.
“This god-forsaken world will be mine someday. I will make these people bow down to my power. No one will stop me once this cannon becomes mine!” He laughed, pushing over the brittle remains of a wall, ash rising into the ever gritty air.

***

Syra felt her heart pound as the fighting continued. She’s lost sight of Ash and was wandering the rubble of Schittle alone, dodging members of Theory’s army at every turn. She gasped for air as her lungs burned from running. She’d managed to find a small dagger in the rubble, a more silent option than the gun Ash had so generously given her for protection.
“Just go away…the gun isn’t here morons!” She whispered harshly as she peeked around a corner, following two of Theory’s men who had gone on a small killing spree, ending the lives of those barely clinging to breath under the ruins of their homes. She felt anger rise within her, and before she knew it she was silently sprinting across the sand and ash before sliding the dagger between the ribs of one former Sorillian Knight.
“It’s you!” He gasped as he fell to his knees, his former Oblivionite partner desperately reaching for his own blade. Yet he wouldn’t be quick enough, Syra’s bloodied dagger slit the skin of his throat open, blood spraying the pale girl’s face and chest.
“He…he’ll kill you!” The Sorillian gasped, clutching his wound.
“I’d love to see him try…” Syra whispered, knocking the man to the dirt before stabbing him in the heart.
“You survived one of the worst wars, only to die in a place like this…beg your god for forgiveness.”
The light went from his eyes and he took his last breath, staring up at the stars.
Syra wiped the blade in the sand watching as the dry earth soaked up the thick blood like a thirsty animal finding a small pool of water.


***

“Sir, we haven’t heard from Dickerson or Thawn in a few hours. They were supposed to report in over forty-five minutes ago, and no one has seen them. They were headed to the residential district, and as of their last report they’d managed to find and eliminate a few civilians and some would-be looters.”
Theory waved his hand, unable to be bothered by the news. “We have a few enemies on our hands that are more than capable of holding their own in a fight. Simply send a few more of our men to the remains of the residential district and flush out the rat that thinks they stand a chance against us. I have more important…” He paused, the small framed Thrall he’d captured years ago now standing before him, covered in blood and a fire in her eyes that reminded him that she had once been a soldier herself.
“Syra,” he smiled, “I take it you have come to turn yourself in? After all, you belong to me!” He lunged towards her, but she was faster, moving to the side, a dagger held fast before her.


She felt her heart sink, and her body shake as he lunged at her. She somehow managed to avoid him, but the others, his lieutenants, wouldn’t let her fight back for very long before forcing her to submit. She was prepared to die, and only hoped that before she did, she would be able to hurt Theory. To repay all his misdeeds, all the nights she spent beneath him against her will, subjected herself to his men and women in the name of “morale”. She choked back angry tears and readied her dagger in one hand while drawing the pistol with the other.
“You won’t take me back you bastard!” She shouted, firing off two shots, dropping the man who’d been reporting to Theory when she’d arrived. The man’s death caused Theory to laugh, and the expression on his face to turn into one of sick amusement.

“Yes, sweetheart, let that hatred out! I love it!” He shouted, swinging his blade at her throat, her dagger catching it mid-swing, but spinning from her hand from the sheer force of his swing and knocking her to the dirt.
“I’ll give you one chance to beg for my forgiveness,” he said with a cold smile as he stood over her, his blade to her throat. his boot on her wrist preventing her from using the pistol that was being snatched by a former Seed soldier, Cernix, a highly regarded member of Theory’s entourage, and one Syra had the pleasure of being loaned out to on more than one occasion.
“Beg, bitch!” Theory shouted.

"If there was such goodwill and generosity, there'd be far less beggars and thieves, friend," M'Kama stated to Tackel. "Most thieves desperation is driven from the fact that asking, begging, and bargaining brought them nothing but cold glares and colder nights spent out on the sands. Tell me what your law does about that, infallible as it is..." he asked of the deputy.

"No system is perfect," Tackel shrugged. "But suggesting that the law should be abandoned or altered situationally is fallacy. The law is the law because it is intransigent. Anything else is more like a guideline or a code."

Tackel looked at M'Kama with clear eyes. "I have done my fair share of asking and begging and bargaining, fortune teller. I have been so desperate with thirst that I drank my own urine. But I have never stolen, and never killed except in defense of myself or my charges. I say this not out of pride, but as offered proof that it is possible to survive, even on the Rock, and follow the laws of man."

"I don't deal in your theories, Mister M'kama," White Hat responded with a frown. "There's good and evil. White and black. I wanna be protecting the good."

White Hat paused as Tackle began talking about drinking piss. "You surely are a gang of perverts and degenerates, ain't you? But I suppose the Cobran's will decide your fate."

***

Inside the tent Girthfield had awaited Theory's arrival. He'd heard him outside, wandering the occupied town, but something had distracted him. A voice Girthfield recognized. Girthfield frowned. "The thrall," He cursed. He poked his head out of the tent flap. Ahead was the centre road of town, still occupied by Theory's men and their tents. Girthfield was in the middle of the enemy force. And directly before him Theory and several others stood before Syra, screaming at the woman.

Girthfield retreated his head. He was going to wait until Theory had come to his tent to launch his attack. Outside was... exposed. Vulnerable. The man frowned. But now he didn't much have a choice.

"She's gonna die, sir," Hedon Bad, the only other conscious person in the tent, whispered between bloody bruised lips. "'Less you do something."

Girthfield blinked at the Remnant bandit. "If I give you a weapon... can you shoot it?"

***

Theorie's soldiers had begun to awake. The new day was dawning, at the end of the damaged main road the sun peaking out over the horizon. Whatever damage they'd started to the town they'd surely finish today. A few yawned as they emerged from their tents, tired and ready for a new day in the newly captured outpost. In the centre of the camp Theory stood with his men, threatening one of his thralls. Not an unusual sight to the remnant soldiers. Nothing out of the ordinary.

But, what was out of the ordinary, was the gunshots that rang out. Cernix smashed into the earth, bleeding and screaming. The remnant bandits fell to the ground. Were the townsfolk shooting from the buildings? Surely they couldn't be that dumb. As they scanned the row houses more gunshots shot out, targeting the other members of Theory's entourage. In an instant they were down and suddenly, from an unassuming medical tent in the middle of camp, a man emerged, rifle in hand and bandana over face. He took aim at Theory's legs, blasting one clean, before aiming the rifle at the man's forehead.

Behind him a bloodied Hedon Bad stepped out, gun in hand, aimed at the soldiers in the camp.

"Get up, thrall!" The bandana'd Girthfield hissed at Syra as she stood among the bodies. "You all put your hands up! Or Theory gets a bullet, understand?!" Girthfield glared down at Theory. "Don't do anything smart."

"Truly, we walk among the virtuous today," M'Kama stated, reaching into his pack and drawing out a hat, placing it among his face as he leaned back into the wagon, eager to get out of the Bright's eternally shining suns. The posse stuck to the mountains, taking advantage of the shade to hide themselves, and their ants from the unrelenting sun. Those in among the caravan attempting to sleep soundly, would find that a difficult endeavor. The sun shining magnificently in what was just minutes before the dead of night threw made many restless and even in the shade, the intensity of the heat made many uncomfortable.

As for those steering the caravan, guiding it towards Cobran, they had to maintain constant vigilance, for the land of everlasting light was rife with it's own dangers. There was a constant need for hydration, so the little water they had remaining had to be conserved. They had to constantly make sure they stuck to the shade, not stopping for too long, let's the ant's begin to feel the heat emanating from the sands below. And most worrisome of all were that which dwelled in the Bright. Those dangerous enough to withstand and thrive in it's sweltering suns.

There was a sound in the distance, for instance, resembling a faint scream. A cry warning the travelers of dangers unseen.

The quiet was unnerving. The creaking of the wagons. The exoskeleton of the ants. The beasts seemed to fair better than the humans on the narrow path between the mountainous canyon walls they took up into the Bright, using the shadows as a shield. But as they continued it only got hotter.

White Hat squinted from beneath the brim of his hat. They'd reached a place where the the land was almost as stark white as the sky, and the mountains from years of heat had become rounded, as though someone had taken a flame to the rock and melted it down. White Hat bucked on his ant lazily, his jacket swept back on it's hide and his shirt unbuttoned to reveal a bare torso. The heat was growing near unbearable.

The elderly statesman of the travellers, Grizzle, had a walking stick in hand, his shirt tied around his head to try and prevent the sweat pouring into his eyes. "Sir, we ain't... we ain't meant in this heat," He stammered. "I ain't never seen the world go from cold to hot quite so fast."

"Calm down, Mister Grizzle," White Hat sneered. "Trust me... we're still where we can wander... the entrance to Cobran has to be close. Any further in and we start to get to the point in the Bright where skin boils." He smiled sinisterly. Perhaps a sort of joke.

Suddenly a sound, breaking the relative silence. A scream. Maybe a call. White Hat raised a hand to the group before whipping his ant forward, around the caravans, to investigate. He emerged into the sun, riding up the uneven slope of the mountain before coming to a halt.

He turned around to the group. "It's... it's a face." White Hat turned back, In the ground before him a massive outline of a face was drawn, stylized, almost primitive, like a rune in the sun smoothed earth. "Nah... it ain't just a face... it's some sort of... door." He whispered, his eyes moving around the outlines of the image. "But how the hell do we open it."

"You don't," Seru smirked with amusement, leaning against one of the wagons with folded arms. The scream sounded again, this time surrounding the group with an eerie echo. Suddenly the ground beneath White Hat's feet began to tremble, the ruin of a face lighting up slightly before crumbling into a flurry of rock and swallowing the man whole. A few seconds later he was gone, eaten by the earth before them like some strange magic trick.

From the stark sands and crumbling canyon surrounding them figures began to emerge, wearing clothes that had blended them into the rocks so seamlessly that none of the outsiders had even noticed they had been watched. Seru turned to M'Kama and Tackle beside her, raising her eyebrows and speaking in a spooky, joking manner, "The hills have eyes!"

The people held guns, all of them, pointing the barrels at the group in a suspicious, unfriendly manner. One of the guards spoke up, a woman, her voice the same from the scream that they had heard just minutes before, "If you want your friend back you'd better tell me who you are 'n what you're doing here."

"Out of the frying pan, into the fire, eh?" Tackel joked, the only seemingly unbothered by the heat, although sweat trickled down his forehead all the same. He approached the front of the wagon, raising his hands in a surrendering gesture.

"We are refugees from various locations," Tackel said, bowing to the woman who had spoken. "We were led here by one of your own, and we bring important tidings for the leader of Cobran. Tidings that would be best discussed with him, for they are grave indeed."

Theory fell to the ground, his leg destroyed. He watched as his blood pooled on the sand, and the echoes of his screaming men filled the morning air. He gritted his teeth and watched the bandana'd interloper approach. Syra had slid away from him, her clothes stained with more blood. "You stupid girl...he'll only take you for his own. I was good to you, he won't be so nice!" He muttered through gritted teeth.

"Get up, thrall!" The bandana'd Girthfield hissed at Syra as she stood among the bodies. "You all put your hands up! Or Theory gets a bullet, understand?!" Girthfield glared down at Theory. "Don't do anything smart."

Theory watched as his men did as they were told, too stupid to understand they outnumbered the fool. He shook his head in disappointment. "Who do I owe the pleasure?" He managed, defeat in his voice.



Syra picked herself up from the ground, kicking Cernix in the chest as he writhed on the ground, dying of his gunshot wound. She hesitantly stood beside Girthfield, hoping he would prove to be a Guardian after all, and let her go free when this was all over.

Weapons across the town road were dropped, Theory's henchmen doing as commanded. Hedon gritted his teeth as he looked at his former comrades. One group did not drop their weapons Muskrat the Moleman and a few soldiers beside him.

"Drop the swords!" Hedon screamed, aiming his weapon at them. Muskrat simply stared on at the young man. "You know when the rest of the army sees this they're gonna hang you," He hummed. "On this little excursion we brought maybe thirty men... our Rough Riders. But back across the river we ain't got dozens, Mister Guardian. We've got hundreds."

"I said drop them!" Hedon yelled again.

From the buildings that lined the battle damaged town civilians began to exit their houses, the guards that kept them in now unarmed with theirs hand in the morning air. And standing over their leader, the bandana'd but still recognizable face of that odd guardian. The one no one in town wanted. Girthfield ripped his bandana off and looked out to the houseline, where the citizens emerged. "...You're welcome."

***

"Holy Matran, they blew half the bloody wall down," Girthfield sighed, assessing the damage with the Sheriff. It was morning now, three or so hours since the town had been saved. Otis and Ash had not yet returned. The two overlooked what used to be the west wall of Schittle, now simply ruins. "Half the town destroyed, the other half besieged by bandits," Girthfield frowned. "A bad bit of luck." He slapped the sheriff on the back before marching back down the main road.

In the centre of town Theory's tents were being ripped apart. The soldiers now knelt with their hands tied behind their backs. Crown Prince Theory's knees had sunken into the sand, his head hung as the civilians of Schittle moved to repair their damaged town after the night of chaos. Hedon stood by the prisoners awkwardly. Syra stood a few house lengths away, watching the town's efforts. After the commotion Girthfield had told her that she would need to be questioned as a former member of Theory's gang, even if an involuntary one.

"...I wouldn't worry too much, thrall," Hedon called in a small voice. "Gir'field is a good man. Ain't like I'm off the hook neither but he said he'd try."

"Hedon, Syra," Girthfield's voice called as he marched through the citizens. "I have business to attend to in our office."

"Office?" Hedon asked. Girthfield motioned to one of the lined houses east of the main road, it's windows blasted in but otherwise in fairly good shape. "I'm radioing the other Guardians of Laurenska," Girthfield explained. "We're getting this gun off the Rock before it can do any more harm."

Girthfield began to march off but was grabbed by Hedon.

"Sorry, sir, but uh! The prisoners! The Sheriff ain't got cells for twenty-five men," Hedon said.

Girthfield glanced at Hedon and Syra. "Then make them less."

They paused. Girthfield stepped up to one roped up Remnant and pulled out his pistol. With a bang and a blast of smoke the remnant fell over, dead with a bullet in his head. Girthfield threw the pistol to Syra. "As I said," He called, marching away toward the Guardian office. "Make them less..."

M'Kama turned to Tackel, whispering, "I wouldn't mention too much about that gun if I were you. Word spreads fast on the Rock. And bad intentions spread even faster."