Sheah wandered her way down Anset’s main street, soaking in the pleasant atmosphere of the charming shops and the people around them. Villagers and children went about their day, intermingling with wearied expeditioners and other travelers looking to resupply, reconnect, and find reprieve from the dangers of the wastes. To think she had let herself become so swayed by fictitious tales of the wasteland settlements. Now she could plainly see how naive her worries truly were.

  Approaching the village general store, Sheah reached into her coat pocket and removed her scrupulously prepared shopping list, the paper rolled into a dense scroll. She let out a sharp sigh—ostracized by her own crew, relegated to this most mundane of tasks. Whether consciously or not, they continued to demonstrate doubts in her abilities—not only as a leader, but also as an adventurer. Well, she would prove her teammates wrong, first by resupplying the ship so efficiently and thoroughly that they would be frothing at the mouth with esteem! Holding her head high, she marched into the shop.

  The general store was quiet, with no shoppers in its foyer and no staff to be seen, which Sheah attributed to it being an odd hour of the afternoon. There was an archaic simplicity to its interior, with patterned plaster walls and terracotta tiles that flowed up and over a thick counter which ran across the width of the room. Behind the counter stood rows upon rows of shelves, densely packed with food, gear, ammo, and everything else an adventurer might need, stretching back far further than Sheah had expected based on the store’s modest exterior.

  Sheah ambled up to the counter and rang the bell sitting beside the register. Moments later, a mild-looking shopkeeper materialized from behind the shelves. He wiped his hands on his apron and slipped into his post at the counter.

  “Good day, shopkeep,” greeted Sheah politely. “I would like to secure some provisions.”

  The clerk gave her a bizarre look, his eyes traveling over her spotless violet frock coat. Sheah could feel him judging her, labeling her an outsider already. She tried her best to deflect her discomfort.

  “…I have a list,” she added.

  “Whatcha be needin’?” asked the shopkeeper, carrying on with professional civility.

  Sheah unfurled her list, the paper draping down to her navel. “Firstly—You wouldn’t happen to have any wooden logs, would you? My Captain is requesting them. I don’t understand it, but so it goes.”

  “I got some good firewood out back. Reckon it’ll suit your needs.”

  “Capital,” Sheah declared. “I am also in need of—let’s see here—ten pounds of cured meats, eight pounds of fruit preserves, a length of rope—”

  “Ya can’t go wrong with some good rope,” the clerk interjected, digging under the counter and removing a short step-ladder.

  “That is what I always say!” Sheah enthusiastically agreed—finally, someone who understood the essential importance of rope.

  The shopkeeper noted the goods and eyed the long list in Sheah’s hands “What else?”

  “Oh, plenty more. Do you happen to hav—”

  Just then, the door behind Sheah flung open, smacking loudly against the wall and startling her dearly. Settling her nerves, she whirled around, ready to give a dutiful dressing down to the purveyor of such a rude disturbance. The moment she laid eyes on the culprit, however, she instantly buttoned up.

  Standing in the doorway was a familiar-looking man, short and scraggly, with hair like a goat and a face like a human ashtray. While Sheah had only seen him briefly from afar, his was a silhouette that one did not so easily forget. The last time she had crossed paths with the man was less than a week prior, when he and his pirate cohorts of the landship Dead Ringer attacked the Redland Runner on their way back from the Dremasean hills.

  …Oh dear.

  “…and it’ll be good to finally get the ship outta that hangar,” the pirate continued, throwing himself flush with the door. Respectfully, he bowed his head and gestured his arms into the store.

  Through the threshold stomped an imposing woman, crooked like a bird of prey, with tattoos running along the shaved sides of her head. She scuffed her boots into the floorboards and scanned the store judgmentally, a scowl carved into her face.

  Sheah’s pulse quickened. She felt a dizzying sickness churning in her stomach. Standing before her was the captain of the Dead Ringer itself, the one Jira had called ‘The Vulture’.

  “I’ll come back later,” Sheah whispered to the shopkeeper, promptly rolling up her list. Making her way to the exit, she moved to pass around the pirate captain, her eyes averted, her head held low.

  A calloused, bejeweled hand suddenly thrust itself in front of Sheah’s chest, halting her in her tracks.

  “Hey now, princess,” the Vulture sneered. “Where ya headin’ off to?”

  “Nowhere,” replied Sheah, trying her best to hide her unease. “I realized I have business. Please let me pass.”

  “Really?” said the Vulture. “Because it looks like you were leavin’ on account of me. Now, you wouldn’t want to be insultin’ me like that, would ya?”

  “Of course not, ma’am. I just really must be going.”

  “Ma’am!” The Vulture snorted. She and her first officer exchanged glances and broke out into a fit of wild cackling. Sheah stood there, still as a statue, as the two pirates chortled at her expense. “Oh—hoho…” chuckled the Vulture, wiping a tear from her eye. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

  “No ma—Um, no.”

  The Vulture took a step forward, propelling Sheah back into the store. “What brings a prissy little thing like you out to the sticks?”

  “Uh, I—I’m a botanist,” stammered Sheah. “I am traversing the Sarulean Valley in search of medical samples.”

  “Botany, you say?” asked the Vulture with a dash of sardonic spice. “How interestin’. We sure do love plants, don’t we Wesli?” She looked to her first officer, who nodded profusely, flashing Sheah a misshapen, toothy grin. “A lot of money in botany, I bet,” the pirate continued. “Must be how you can afford those fancy clothes.”

  “I, uh…”

  “No? Are you sure?” The Vulture leaned in, her mocking tone growing increasingly spiteful. “Seems to me what we have here is a little rich girl pretending to be some kind of explorer.”

  “I am not rich!” protested Sheah, only then realizing how poor a comeback that was.

  “Look, are you lot gonna buy somethin’ or what?” asked the shopkeeper, visibly fed up with the pirates’ antics.

  The Vulture rolled her eyes. “Wesli, give ‘im the list.”

  The first officer slipped the clerk a tattered piece of paper covered in ink spills and a handful of scrawled words and amounts. The shopkeeper took a second to decipher the inane scribbling before disappearing into the rows of shelves.

  Sheah pursed her lips. She was all alone now.

  The pirate captain returned her attention to her and growled. “You aristocrat types are always thinkin’ you can come out here and show us how it’s done. Well, you best watch yourself out there, because if the wasteland doesn’t eat you alive—” The Vulture leaned in, flicking her tongue against her canine. “I will.”

  “Of course,” said Sheah, putting on a brave face. “Thank you for your concern.”

  “You sassin’ me?”

  “No ma— …I genuinely appreciate a pirate’s word of caution.” Sheah performed a polite bow and moved to pass the Vulture. “Now, if you would please excuse me.”

  “Stop.” The pirate captain thrust her hand out, blocking Sheah’s path once more. She looked Sheah over, studying her intently. “…Have we met?”

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  “I’m sorry?” asked Sheah.

  The Vulture tapped her finger against her lips, staring at Sheah all the while. “Ya know, there’s somethin’ familiar about you.”

  “I am sure it is just a fleeting thought.”

  “And yet,” said the Vulture. “You know who I am.”

  Sheah swallowed deeply, realizing what she had just let slip. “Oh, of—of course I do,” she stuttered. “Who wouldn’t know the great pirate captain, uh…”

  “Nice try, girlie.” The Vulture placed her hand on her gun and took another step into the store, her first officer joining her side. They stalked towards Sheah, cutting off her only means of escape. “You’re hidin’ something, I know it,” hissed the Vulture. “So, you’re gonna stick around, and we’re gonna get to the bottom of this, one way or another.”

  Brrrrm!

  A resounding horn blared in the distance, its deep tones rumbling across the mesa and into the store. Sheah recognized the brand of the horn instantly, the color leeching from her face.

  Verloren. They had found them.

  The Vulture and her first officer whipped their heads to face the windows, alarmed by the sudden noise. Sheah seized her opportunity. She darted away, slipping between the two pirates in their moment of distraction. Flinging herself through the doorway, she ran clear of the shop.

  “Hey!” roared the Vulture behind her.

  Sheah sprinted down the road, only to be forced to slow a few meters on. Amassing in the direction of the gates was a dense crowd of onlookers, stricken with curiosity over the source of the horn. Shuffling to the edge of the crowd, Sheah looked over her shoulder in time to see the two pirates jump out of the storefront and point directly at her.

  Sheah squeaked with alarm. Without further hesitation, she wormed her way into the pack of people, her gentle shoves accompanied by profuse pardons and apologies. Seconds later, she heard the pirates digging their way into the crowd after her, far less cordial about it. Dipping into a slight crouch, Sheah sunk deeper into the throng, withdrawing her head from view. She veered off to the side of the road and slyly ducked into a narrow alleyway. Positioning herself behind some mangled lumber, she watched with stifled breath as the two pirates muscled their way through the mob. They obliviously pushed on past the alleyway and disappeared from sight.

  Sheah expelled her pent up breath. That was one problem down, though a far larger one yet remained.

  The horn echoed out over the valley once more, louder and longer and altogether more impatient. Standing, Sheah squeezed through the alley and approached a set of stairs built into the side of a building. Hoping to secure a better view, she ascended the stairway and arrived at a rooftop overlook. A group of inquisitive bystanders were huddled together on the roof, flush with its edge, fencing off Sheah’s sight of the gates.

  Tactfully, she approached the pack. “What is happening?” she asked a man standing at the back of the group.

  “There’s a ship at the gates,” answered the townsperson, angling for a better look himself. “Mayor’s goin’ up to talk to ‘em.”

  “What kind of ship?” asked Sheah, fully hoping her earlier assessment was in error.

  Before the man could answer, a booming voice rippled across the village. “Attention wasteland settlement,” rang the voice. “Verloren Industries is currently searching for four fugitives last seen in this region. We respectfully request your cooperation in this matter.”

  A hot shiver crept up Sheah’s spine, fear surging into her eyes. She was right—they were cornered. Panicked, she squeezed her way around the side of the pack in order to see the ship waiting at the gates for herself.

  It was even worse than she had feared. Ominously idling at the edge of the mesa was a towering Verloren warship, Crusader-class, studded with a host of multiform weaponry. It leered over the village gates like a great beast, hungry for its prey.

  Movement on the ladder of the landship Divinity caught Sheah’s attention. She leaned in for a better look, thankful that the overcast skies had tempered the desert brightness. A figure was scaling the ship, climbing up towards its deck. Even from a distance, Sheah could tell that it was the Mayor.

  The Mayor hoisted himself up to the deck of the old Dierrosi warship and was tossed a radio receiver by one of the sentries. Staring down the bow of the Verloren ship, he stood defiant, his legs proudly splayed, his long coat ruffling in the breeze.

  “Tsis is Genzo Xenova, Mayor of Concord,” he announced, his voice booming out for all to hear. “Declare your business here.”

  “Greetings,” replied the disembodied voice of the corporate vessel. “This is Verloren Industries landship: Gilded Fortune, requesting assistance.”

  “What can we do for you?” asked the Mayor politely.

  “We are looking for information regarding the potential whereabouts for the fugitive lanship known as Redland Runner. Any intelligence that leads to a successful capture will be handsomely rewarded.”

  “I see… I am aware of such a ship.”

  Sheah felt the blood drain from her body. The Mayor—he was turning them in! Why did she trust that he wouldn’t? Well, it didn’t matter now. Her expedition, her life, everything, it was all over. She will have died as she lived—a constant catastrophe.

  “Tsis Redland Runner, tsey came to us this morning, asked us for shelter,” the Mayor continued. “And I told tsem tsey had no welcome here. Concord village does not harbor enemies of Verloren Industries. We know better tsan tsat.”

  Sheah reeled, gobsmacked by this sudden reversal. Once again she had misjudged the integrity of the wastelanders. Noticing the townspeople around her, she watched them look to their Mayor, stalwart support written on their faces. This town, its people, they would be damned if they would let the corporations tread on them. Sheah was finally beginning to see that.

  “When tsey retreated, tsey looked to head east,” said the Mayor. “And if tsey should show their faces here once more, tsen you will be the first to know it.”

  “Understood,” stated the voice from the Verloren ship. “We are grateful for the information.”

  After a beat of silence, the Mayor turned and moved to enter into the rusted warship.

  “We would like to request a formal search of your encampment,” announced the voice abruptly, interrupting the Mayor’s leave.

  “What for?” asked the Mayor, returning to his spot on the deck.

  “It is only a precautionary measure.”

  “And if we are to refuse?”

  With a menacing lurch, the guns on the front of the Gilded Fortune angled themselves upward in a technically non-threatening gesture.

  “Well, we can be very persuasive,” said the voice.

  The Mayor stood motionless for a long breath. “Aie,” he finally affirmed. “You are welcome to it.”

  Sheah dug her fingers into her cheeks, completely aghast.

  “Only,” the Mayor continued. “I tsink your ship is not sized correctly for our door. And I should give you warning, we have experienced many Unbound attacks in recent days. As you can see.” He gestured to the mountainous rotting corpse splattered on the dirt and the streams of blood staining the cliffs. “But if you are good with sitting static for a few hours, tsen I can give entry to your people to perform a search.”

  No reply came from the Verloren ship. Instead it simply idled for a prolonged, agonizing moment, as the members of its crew doubtlessly debated the situation. Eventually the voice returned.

  “That isn’t necessary,” it said with a hint of businesslike apathy. “We appreciate your time.” Slowly the ship hummed into reverse and pulled out of the field. “Please remember the good work of Verloren Industries when considering all of your future landship needs. We wish you a pleasant day!” Once past the opening, the ship spun around and gradually retreated back into the vastness of the desert.

  The Mayor watched until the ship was gone completely and handed the radio to a sentry. He turned and pumped a strong fist to the crowd in triumph. The people of the village returned his gesture with tenacious faces. Pleased with the progression of events, they slowly dispersed, resuming the ins-and-outs of their days.

  Sheah inflated, beyond relieved, though her body felt weakened by such a ferocious volley of emotions. Slipping from the rooftop crowd, she descended the stairway and emerged back onto the road.

  The villagers thinned out as they returned to their business, leaving Sheah alone in the street. She walked in the direction of the garage, ready to return to Dez and tell him all about her experiences. Doubtless he would have some amusing thoughts. Plus, she had had enough excitement for one day. Her shopping could wait until the following morning.

  Without warning, a dense strip of cloth was hooked over Sheah’s mouth. It yanked back on her head, stifling her startled screams. She was pulled into a pair of strong, bejeweled hands, which gripped her tightly and forcefully dragged her off the road and into a darkened alleyway.

  “Gotcha!” growled the Vulture.