Doran knelt beside the ruined machine, his expression unreadable.
He pressed two fingers into the bullet hole in its skull. The alloy gave slightly beneath his touch—still warm.
Instantly, black fluid welled up from the wound. Thick. Viscous.
It clung to his glove like tar mixed with ink, slow strands stretching as he withdrew his hand.
He brought his fingers to his nose and sniffed.
A sharp chemical sting hit him.
Acrid. Artificial. Familiar.
Coolant.
Not oil.
His brow furrowed as the realization clicked into place.
Of course.
His expression soured. The quiet spark of curiosity in his eyes faded—replaced by something colder. Annoyance, edged with disdain.
"Damn bounty hunter bot…" he muttered, rising to his feet. "I know you're not dead."
He stepped back and gave the machine a short, deliberate kick to the side—just enough force to rattle the frame. His boot struck reinforced alloy with a dull, metallic thunk that echoed across the bloodstained street.
"Get your ass up."
For a moment, nothing.
Silence.
Then—
Whirrrr.
It started faint.
Mechanical. Uneven.
Like an old fan struggling to spin.
A flicker of red lit behind the hollow lenses of the robot's eyes—dim at first, sputtering like a dying flame…
Then steady.
Glowing.
Its limbs twitched.
Fingers flexed. A shoulder rotated with a hiss of pressurized fluid venting from cracked lines.
Then—
With a groan of servo joints and the rasp of scraped steel—it began to move.
Slowly.
Unbalanced.
Like something waking from too long a sleep.
Its head jerked up, eyes snapping instantly to Doran.
Locked. Tracked.
"Mannnn," it groaned in a glitchy, crackling voice, "how did you know?!"
Doran didn't flinch.
He wiped the black coolant from his fingers onto his pants with a grimace.
"All bounty hunter bots use black coolant," he said flatly. "Designed to match synthetic oil in breach scenarios. Helps them fake a death."
He turned away, his coat brushing against scorched stone.
His eyes shifted toward Kellon—still kneeling in the ash a few meters off. Head bowed, hands braced against the dirt. A man buried beneath weight that had no name.
"Simple knowledge," Doran muttered.
He started walking.
Didn't wait for a response.
Behind him, the bot jolted upright—metal joints clanking and whining as it scrambled to its feet, balance stuttering, movement jerky but determined.
"Hey—wait up!" it called, trotting after him with uneven momentum. "Name's Dusty, by the way! Fastest gunslinging bounty hunter in the kingdom—maybe the universe!"
Doran didn't slow.
Didn't stop.
Didn't care.
He cast a single glance sideways.
Cold. Hollow. Disinterested.
The kind of look that could smother a fire.
Dusty flinched slightly beneath it.
"Sheesh…" he muttered, gears clicking in his neck as he glanced away. "Grumpy-ass guy, you are…"
Then—
Click.
Something inside Dusty's head sparked.
Literally.
A soft tick-tick of internal relays fired.
His posture shifted—subtle, but sudden.
Shoulders pulled back. Lenses refocused. Alignment corrected.
A beat passed.
"Oh! Right!" he exclaimed, voice rising with sudden urgency. "You haven't seen a man and a woman, have you? Both with bright red hair?"
Doran stopped.
Immediately.
Rigid.
He didn't turn—
Not yet.
But the air around him changed.
His stance grew still.
Eyes narrowed.
"…Red hair?" he said, slowly.
Low. Controlled.
Dusty nodded, oblivious to the sudden tension in the air.
"Yeah—like, bright bright. Can't miss it. You'd know 'em if you saw 'em."
Doran didn't speak.
Instead, with one smooth, practiced motion, he reached into his pocket and withdrew a photograph.
Worn.
The edges curled from age.
The ink faded.
But the image—still sharp enough to wound.
He stepped forward, holding the photo out in front of Dusty.
Fingers taut at the corners. White-knuckled.
"Is this the woman you saw?"
His voice was sharp. Clipped.
A near growl.
The picture fluttered faintly in the wind—
A captured moment.
Doran. Benji. Mira.
Laughter frozen in still time.
A memory framed in loss.
Dusty leaned in. Lenses whirring softly.
Zoom.
Adjust.
Focus.
His gaze fixed on Mira's face.
Lenses narrowed.
Click.
Then—
They retracted. The glow dimmed slightly.
Dusty blinked.
"Nope," he said brightly. "Never seen any of those three."
Doran stared at him.
Long.
Unmoving.
Breath still.
Then—
He sighed.
Not with anger.
Not even frustration.
But weariness.
The kind that sits deep in the ribs.
The kind born not from battle… but from hope.
He slid the photo back into his pocket. Slowly.
Each inch pressed deeper with the weight of memory.
"…I'm in the damn photo," he muttered. "You're supposed to be a bounty hunter. Your visual recognition is terrible."
Dusty blinked again. Blank for a moment. Processing.
Then he tilted his head with a cheerful shrug.
"Well, in my defense, I wasn't looking for you."
Doran exhaled through his nose.
Flat. Unimpressed.
Doran started walking again, heading toward Kellon.
The officer still knelt motionless in the ash and dirt, his back slightly hunched, shoulders bowed beneath memory and failure. He looked like a man holding the weight of a war—and losing.
Dusty trotted after him, completely unaware of the tension thick in the air.
"So anyway," the bot said brightly, "red hair's a rare gene, y'know. Statistically speaking, if I find two of 'em traveling together, odds are real high they're siblings. Or assassins. Or both. I've seen it."
Doran, deadpan and without looking back, muttered, "Sounds like that just happened."
Dusty kept going, unfazed.
"Also, you're welcome for me not staying dead. You're lucky I didn't charge a revival fee—those aren't cheap, you know. And technically, that kick you gave me counts as an unauthorized field repair. I could report that."
Doran said nothing. His gaze remained fixed ahead, tuning Dusty out like background static.
The bot looked up, caught the same cold, unreadable stare, and let out an exaggerated sigh.
"Grumpy and quiet. You're gonna be such a joy on this journey."
Doran stopped.
Turned.
Leaned in close—eye-level with Dusty.
His voice was low. Flat.
"We just met," he said, "and you're already the bane of my existence."
Crimson eyes burned like twin embers beneath the veil of dreadlocks.
Then he turned again, continuing toward Kellon without missing a beat.
Dusty stood frozen. Blinked once.
Then:
"What a joker!" he chirped brightly, trotting after.
Doran slowed as he reached Kellon.
The man still hadn't moved.
He remained on his knees, braced against the dirt like the ground might collapse if he let go.
Ash clung to his fingers.
His head hung low, strands of soot-streaked hair falling across his face.
Doran stopped just behind him.
Arms folded loosely across his chest.
"…You planning to stay down there forever?" he asked, voice dry. "Or are you hoping the guilt'll bury you deeper if you sit still long enough?"
No response.
Just breath.
Shaky. Shallow.
Doran let the silence breathe for a moment. Then:
"I know you've gone through worse. What was in that chest that's got you acting like this?"
Kellon's voice came low. Raw. Like it had been scraped out of him.
"…The future."
Doran tilted his head slightly.
"The future?" he echoed. "What do you mean?"
Slowly, Kellon looked up.
His eyes were glassy—tears brimming but unfallen, clenched behind a wall of sheer will.
His jaw trembled, but he forced the words out.
"The future of rune engraving," he said, voice shaking. "It would've made Prade-level look primitive."
He swallowed hard.
Fists curling tighter into the ash.
"And in the wrong hands—"
Doran's breath caught.
His eyes widened. The realization hit like a blade to the ribs.
"They could wipe out planets."
Kellon's words hung in the air like ash.
Still. Heavy. Dangerous.
Doran's jaw clenched.
But before he could speak—
Clank Clank Clank.
Footsteps.
Rhythmic. Loud.
Dusty finally caught up, waving one arm lazily as he approached.
"Hey, hey! You two done with your tragic bonding moment?" he called out. "Because I'm like… super lost. Also, I stepped on something that might've been alive and I'm not checking what it was."
Doran didn't even glance back.
"Dusty, not now."
The bot stopped a few paces away, tilting his head like a confused puppy.
"Aww, come on. I was just trying to lighten the mood. You guys are all gloom and doom—'runes this,' 'planet-killer that.' Yeesh."
He wandered toward the wreckage, peering into the torn side of the caravan like it was a vending machine that had exploded.
As he leaned in—
Thunk!
His head smacked into a jagged piece of broken wood.
"—Ow!"
He stumbled back, sparks briefly flickering behind one lens.
Then—
he stopped.
Mid-step.
Mid-motion.
Dead still.
The red glow in his eyes flickered.
Once.
Twice.
Then deepened—darkened.
The hue sharpened, bleeding into a deeper, colder crimson.
His slouched posture snapped upright.
All jitter vanished.
The twitchy, scattered motions stilled into exactitude.
Even the ambient hum behind his voice shifted—lower now.
Steady.
Grounded.
He straightened. Turned.
And looked directly at them.
"Who the hell are you two?" he asked, voice flat. Cold.
Doran's eyes narrowed.
Dusty—no. Not Dusty anymore—turned back to the wreckage, scanning the obliterated caravan with swift, clinical precision.
Then, without looking, he jerked a thumb over his shoulder.
"You all do this?"
Doran stepped forward, voice cutting.
"Dusty, would you just shut up—"
Click.
The shift was instant.
He tilted his head down.
Left arm cocked back—shoulder rotating with a mechanical Click–CHK.
A soft metallic hiss filled the space between them.
The revolver was already drawn.
Already locked.
Aimed cleanly at Doran's chest.
"My name ain't Dusty," he said.
Voice like steel under ice.
"It's Ray."
Kellon tensed.
Didn't reach for his weapon—
But his stance changed.
Jaw tight. Eyes sharp.
Reading wind.
Doran didn't flinch.
Didn't blink.
He stared down the barrel, unmoved.
His eyes unreadable.
"You're aiming a gun at someone who's not your enemy," he said flatly.
Ray didn't lower the weapon.
"Wrecked caravan. Two survivors. No insignias. One of you has blood on your hands. You tell me what that looks like."
Kellon's voice cut in—controlled, practiced.
"We were the ones protecting that caravan," he said, rising to his feet. His spine straightened. "We were ambushed. Only reason we're still breathing is him."
He nodded toward Doran.
Ray's lenses flicked toward Kellon—analyzing. Scanning.
Not like a man listening.
Like a machine gathering data.
Then—
Back to Doran.
"So I was right," he said calmly. "He's lying."
Doran's eyes sharpened.
His shoulders tensed—just slightly.
Enough to signal the shift.
He knew that look.
That tone.
That inevitability.
There was no more talking.
In a blur of motion—
he moved.
Ray fired.
BANG–BANG.
Two sharp muzzle flashes lit the air—staccato bursts of violence.
In the blink of an eye, Doran's right arm swept back—fingers locking around the hilt of his Greatsword.
Shhhrrk!
Steel sang as it tore free of the sheath just as the first bullet sliced past his shoulder—missing by inches.
Doran ducked low, twisting forward—momentum carrying him into a blur of cloak and heat.
The second shot came faster.
Too fast.
THMP!
The bullet punched into his right thigh—brutal, direct.
His step faltered—boot skidding through ash and blood-soaked stone.
Ray didn't blink.
"Your movements are predictable," he muttered, already recalibrating—already lining up the next shot.
Doran's face barely moved.
But the pain was there.
Buried behind clenched teeth.
Eyes locked, jaw tight.
The Greatsword flared with faint heat—runes along the flat of the blade beginning to hum, a slow ignition.
"I'll admit it," he growled, dragging the blade up into a high guard.
"I underestimated you."
Ray chuckled—short, cold.
"That," he said, "and those oversized swords of yours—"
His stance shifted.
Left leg lifted. Center dropped.
"—will be your downfall."
Then—
He leaned right.
Subtle. Calculated.
Then jolted left.
A blur.
Almost teleportation.
Doran's eyes widened.
For the briefest moment, instinct collided with calculation—
How—?
The air behind where Ray had been still rippled, heat-streaked and warping from the burst of motion.
Then—
CRACK!
Ray's right arm slammed into Doran's left side like a battering ram.
The blow landed with a sickening thud, ribs crunching under the force.
Doran staggered, boots scraping across ash-streaked stone.
A snarl ripped from his throat—teeth clenched against the flare of pain.
But he struck back without pause—
A wide, explosive arc of flame as his Greatsword cut through the air, trailing embers.
WHRRSSHHH!
The blade cleaved smoke.
Only smoke.
Ray was gone.
Ash scattered in his wake, glowing red as it spiraled skyward.
Then—
BANG!
A bullet tore through the space.
It struck Doran's left calf—precise, punishing.
His leg gave.
Buckled.
BANG!
The second shot hit higher—just above the hip.
Pain shot through his spine like lightning, sharp and unrelenting.
If I could just catch one glimpse, he thought, eyes scanning the smoke, desperate.
Just one.
But Ray didn't give him the chance.
With inhuman speed—
He reappeared directly in front of Doran.
And launched a brutal uppercut.
CRACK!
Doran's head snapped back, eyes flashing crimson.
He staggered, boots sliding. Balance slipping.
Then—
THUD!
A jolt of force slammed into the back of his skull.
Ray's dropkick landed clean.
Doran stumbled forward.
Only instinct saved him—
One boot slammed down, the tip of his blade driving into the ground, anchoring him.
Ash swirled around him in glowing arcs.
Pain pulsed deep in his limbs.
Behind him—
Ray laughed.
Cold. Mocking. Delighted.
"Oh come on now!" he called out. "This is too easy!"
Doran's breath came in ragged pulls.
His muscles burned.
Blood dripped down his leg—hot, thick, slow.
And still—
Doran lifted his head.
Blood running. Body aching.
And yet—
His mouth curled into a faint, crooked smile.
A smirk with teeth.
Without a word, he moved.
In one smooth, practiced motion, he swung his sword behind him with both arms—gathering power in the twist of his torso.
Then—
He released with his left hand—
Reached high—
And drew the second Greatsword in one fluid, seamless pull.
Now dual-wielding, he twisted—
And slammed both blades down into the earth.
BOOM—!
The impact cracked the street in half.
Fire erupted from the point of contact.
Dust.
Ash.
Embers.
All exploded upward in a wild, blinding wave.
The world vanished in molten smoke and shattered stone.
Ray's lenses flared.
Targeting systems scrambled.
Visibility: lost.
"Damn it… where did that sword freak go?" he muttered, his internal HUD flickering.
Red warning glyphs danced across his vision—interference, distortion,error.
Target lock: null.
He rotated in place.
Revolver arm raised.
Steps slow. Measured.
Then—
A voice.
Muffled by smoke, but sharp as glass.
"Six."
Ray froze.
The voice came from everywhere.
And nowhere.
"You got me six times," Doran continued.
His tone was low. Precise.
Each syllable wrapped in steel.
"But that body of yours? It won't last six of mine."
Ray's head twitched as he recalculated.
Scanning heat, motion, audio.
Nothing solid. Nothing true.
"We both know how thin your metal is," Doran said. "Under all that bravado—you're fast. But fragile."
Ray didn't answer.
He turned in a slow arc, optics slicing through the thick storm of cinders and ruin.
His trigger finger itched.
Every instinct screamed: fire.
But he waited.
Listening.
Then—
"So let's make a deal," Doran said, voice shifting.
Curious. Controlled. Almost… playful.
Ray narrowed his lenses, calculating risk.
"What do you propose?" he asked, weapon still trained on shadow. "The least I can do is listen before I take you in."
A beat.
Then—
"If I get you once," Doran said, "you stop all of this."
Ray hesitated.
The smoke hung heavy—alive, churning, clinging.
His scanners were useless.
Everything was ghost-signatures and phantom echoes.
He needed time.
Just a little more—
"So what's…" he began, stalling, buying seconds.
Then—
A silhouette moved through the haze.
Broad. Upright.
A figure cloaked in flame-touched mist, emerging like a nightmare made of steel and fury.
Ray's optics locked on.
Zoom. Confirm. Aim.
"…this deal?" he finished, voice low.
He raised his revolver.
Target acquired.
Finger twitching on the trigger—
FWOOOM!
Doran's sword flew.
A blur of spinning steel cut through the smoke—wreathed in fire, trailing embers like a comet torn from the forge.
It came in low, angling upward with terrifying momentum—on a perfect path toward Ray's throat.
Ray saw it.
Barely.
His knees dropped—legs folding as he ducked, the blade screaming past just inches from his neck. Sparks cascaded behind it, fanned by its wake.
But that was the trap.
Ray's optics caught the flicker of motion too late.
Too close. Too fast.
Doran.
He emerged from the side.
Silent.
Sudden.
Lethal.
Ray turned—half a second too slow.
Doran's fist was already in motion.
His gauntlet glowed faintly, runes along the knuckles sparking with stored kinetic energy.
CRACK!
The punch landed flush—slamming into the side of Ray's head with the force of a war hammer.
The impact boomed, echoing through the ruins like thunder in stone.
Ray's body lifted off the ground—his frame twisting midair like a broken projectile hurled by the gods.
He flew.
SLAM—!
He tore through an old iron sign, metal shrieking as it twisted apart around him.
THUD. THUD. THUD.
He tumbled down the cobbled street, limbs scraping, plating denting, sparks bursting from every grinding impact.
Then—
BOOM!
He hit the side of a building.
The wall cracked.
Dust exploded outward.
Stone groaned under the force.
His body had punched through the outer wall, leaving behind a crater of shattered masonry and crumpled steel.
He lay half-embedded in the wreckage, slumped like a discarded marionette.
Silence.
Ash drifted through the air in slow spirals—falling like snow through smoke.
Doran stood at the center of the ruined street, his breath low and even, a single Greatsword still gripped loosely in hand.
He began to walk.
Slow. Controlled.
Each step crunching through broken stone and blood-streaked ash.
Smoke still curled from the edge of his blade as he passed the first sword—the one he'd thrown.
It remained lodged in a cracked wall like an exclamation mark to the chaos behind him.
He didn't rush.
He didn't need to.
Ray's body lay slumped in the rubble, limbs tangled in fractured wood and pulverized brick. His metal frame sparked in short, shallow bursts. One optic lens flickered—barely hanging on.
Doran stopped a few feet away.
He exhaled as the heat faded from his sword.
Then looked down—calm.
Certain.
"Like I said," he muttered, voice low, measured, "you couldn't survive six."
For a long beat, there was nothing.
No twitch. No reply.
Then—
Click.
Ray's head snapped up, eyes brightening.
But not with aggression.
The crimson glow had softened. Shifted.
"Hey there!" chirped a glitchy, cheerful voice—bubbly and oblivious.
"You look all beat up! What happened to you?"
Dusty.
Back again.
One optic was slightly off-center. His head tilted with that familiar, uneven charm as he stared up at Doran like nothing had happened.
Doran blinked.
Then sighed.
Long. Deep. Tired.
He stared at Dusty, his sword still drawn—not from adrenaline.
From restraint.
Dusty blinked back, one eye lagging behind the other.
"Were you fighting?" he asked innocently. "Did you win? I mean, I don't see anyone else, so… you must've won, right?"
Doran didn't move.
His blade still faintly steamed in the cold air.
Dusty glanced around like a tourist waking from a nap—taking in the rubble, the damage, the crater he currently sat in.
Doran's grip tightened on the hilt.
His eyes didn't leave Dusty's face.
"You don't remember," he said.
Not a question.
A fact.
Dusty blinked.
"Remember what? Wait—did I miss something cool?"
Doran exhaled through his nose, trying to cage the fire rising in his gut.
Then—
Kellon's voice, cutting through the smoke.
Low. Cautious.
"You sure it's the same bot?"
His steps approached slowly. Calculated.
"That thing just tried to kill us a minute ago."
Dusty tilted his head.
"Kill you? Me? Nahhh. I wouldn't! I mean—probably not? Unless I had, like… a virus or something."
He paused, as if seriously considering the possibility.
Doran sheathed his blade.
Slow. Controlled.
Not out of trust.
Out of calculation.
This version—this personality—wasn't a threat.
But the other one…
Doran crouched slightly, voice calm, controlled.
"Dusty," he asked, "do you ever… black out? Lose time?"
Dusty's grin faltered. Just a little.
"Uh… sometimes I take naps with my eyes open. That count?"
Doran rose again. He didn't respond.
His gaze drifted from the crater, then toward the curling smoke still rising from the ruins.
Two personalities.
One capable of surgical destruction, zero empathy, and combat prowess that rivaled legends.
The other?
Just a broken machine trying to find a friend.
Doran turned away.
"We're moving out," he said flatly. "Now."
Dusty scrambled to his feet, legs wobbling from the damage.
"Where are we going?"
Kellon passed him, giving a wide berth.
"You're lucky he didn't finish the job," he muttered.
Dusty's legs jerked forward into a slow, mechanical march—uneven, like a puppet on slack strings.
His torso swiveled backward, gaze fixed on Kellon with that glitchy, too-wide smile.
"Ooo, you're jealous of me," he teased, voice sing-song and mock-villainous, like a child playing at menace.
Kellon narrowed his eyes but said nothing.
His boots crunched through the ash, steady and deliberate.
Dusty huffed and spun forward again.
His gait was uneven—one leg still sparking faintly with each step.
"Onward!" he declared, raising one arm like a knight charging into battle—
—and immediately tripped on a cracked stone, stumbling into a janky skip-step.
Doran didn't speak.
He walked ahead in silence—one sword loose in his grip, the other strapped across his back.
His steps were steady.
But his thoughts weren't.
His eyes were fixed on the road ahead.
His mind remained behind.
On him.
That bot.
There was something wrong in that machine's core—something deep.
Not just glitch-level corruption.
Wired into its bones.
Two minds. One shell.
Neither aware of the other.
Glitch… or something else entirely—
I need to keep an eye on him, Doran thought, jaw tightening as Dusty's cheerful humming started up behind him.
And for the first time in a long time,
it wasn't just the shadows he feared at his back.
Kellon moved up beside him.
His steps were quieter now. Less rigid. Thoughtful.
He didn't speak at first. Just walked beside Doran in the low light, both of them facing the smoldering horizon.
Then—softly:
"You ever seen anything like that before?"
Doran didn't answer right away.
His grip tightened on the hilt of his blade—
Then loosened.
"I've seen machines that kill," he said. "On command. On instinct."
A beat passed.
"But I've never seen one so lost."
Kellon exhaled through his nose. A slow, uncertain sound.
"So what now?"
Doran kept walking.
"I won't leave it behind."
"You mean him," Kellon said.
Doran didn't correct him.