Daylight fluctuated in mirage-like waves of prismatic silver, the rancid smell of blood thick in the air. Bruised and battered bodies lay scattered across the desert sand, strewn amid the rusted wrecks of ancient automobiles like dead leaves blown down by the wind, gore and splattered brains cooking in the hot midday sun.
A pack of feral dogs nosed around the dead, a few snarling and scrapping over choice cuts of meat. Others lounged in the shade of a nearby shack, seeking a reprieve from the harsh sunlight wherever they could find it.
The sign hanging from the shack’s roof whined sharply as the wind gave it a good jostle, promises of fueling and good spirits painted across it in sloppy lettering. The shack itself was squarish, a wreck of splintered wood and exposed metal pipes that had been arranged into something vaguely building-shaped, the windows caked with so much dirt it almost looked like a second set of curtains.
An old woman sat in a rocker on the porch, dozing lightly, disinterested in the dead bandits scattered around her makeshift junkyard. Black eyes squinted out from her craggy face, her long skirt and wide-brimmed hat sheltering her leathery and sun-cracked skin from the elements. A loaded shotgun sat propped against her knee, a scruffy little yapper dog snoozing at her feet.
Abruptly, one of the feral dogs let loose with a loud
boof! The old woman’s eyes snapped open, fixing on a point in the distance— narrowing at the sight of a figure approaching on the horizon. Their silhouette cut a fierce shape against the blazing cyan sky, the remnants of a sandstorm gusting around them. She could not see much of her visitor from this distance, only that they were dressed in a rumpled-looking hat and poncho, the loose fabric swirling around them as they crested the slope of a distant sand dune.
The woman waited, gnarled fingers tightening around her gun and mouth set in a grim sneer. It was only when the squeaking of articulated mechanical legs reached her ears, accompanied by the sound of heavy metal tromping over coarse desert sand, that she loosened her grip, a flicker of recognition sparking in her dark eyes.
She clambered to her feet, moving to lean against the porch railing, the little dog scrambling out of the way of her fluffy petticoat with a yelp. She watched with keen interest as her visitor drew closer, her pinched frown only seeming to deepen as they drew ever closer to the outpost’s front step.
“Howdy, friend! I have returned, just as promised!” Pathfinder greeted, his single orange optic seeming to fairly
glow with pleasure as he trotted right up the outpost’s steps to meet her. The old wood creaked and groaned alarmingly under his weight, threatening to splinter; the little dog scampered to safety on the opposite side of the porch, leaving his owner to deal with the towering bot.
The woman observed all this with an air of long-suffering, the wrinkles lining her face seeming to deepen with her increasing disapproval. She crossed her arms over her chest, peering down her nose at the MRVN’s cobalt blue frame, letting him stew in silence for a moment as she looked him over.
Her gaze paused on his hands, taking in the sight of articulated fingers flecked with gore and gritty sand. The sour look on her face increased in dourness when she noted that they were, yet again, disappointingly empty.
Finally, the old woman looked up. She met her hired hand’s placid, one-eyed gaze with a fierce squint, hands planted firmly on her hips. “Well, did you manage to find it? Don’t tell me I sent you out there for sixteen days only for you to come crawling back here empty-handed.”
“Yes ma’am!” Pathfinder sat up a little straighter, joints creaking audibly as he did so. “I have it right here. Would you like to see?”
“
Yes,” said the woman, exasperated, but the sudden glint in her eyes betrayed her interest. “Hand it over.”
Pathfinder turned with his back to her, fiddling with something. The woman’s eyes narrowed as she craned her neck to see whatever he was doing, but by then the bot had twisted back around to face her, his hands clasped in a protective curve around something deceptively
small.
Ever impatient, the woman reached out, her gnarled fingers tapping lightly at Pathfinder’s curled metal digits. Slowly but surely, the robot’s finger’s pulled away one by one— revealing a soft pink cactus blossom, the delicate petals unfurling in a gentle plume as the sunlight cast over them.
Despite the effort he’d gone to to retrieve the flower (several weeks of wandering and bloody skirmishes!), the robot easily relinquished it when the woman’s fingers stretched out, hesitant, as if she could scarcely believe it existed.
“Oh,” the old woman breathed, seemingly overcome. She blinked back tears from her eyes, one hand fumbling to cover her mouth, as the blossom settled into the palm of her hand. “I didn’t think you’d actually find it.”
“It was a little hard,” admitted Pathfinder, his ordinarily exuberant vocalizer sounding a bit sheepish. “Do you think this will help with Waylon’s pain, Miss Belle?”
The old woman, Belle, nodded fervently. She swept a hand over her eyes quickly, wiping away the tears, and a rare smile twisted on her lips. “Yes. I know it will.”
For a moment the pair stood in perfect silence, the only sound being Pathfinder’s systems humming faintly with suppressed joy. A
creak from inside the building at their backs seemed to snap Belle out of it, though, and she quickly recalled herself, the open look on her face hardening into something stonier, more closed-off.
She cleared her throat, tipping her head back to look Pathfinder in the eye. “That reminds me… someone came looking for you. Don’t know who they are, but Waylon’s pouring them a drink inside. They seemed to know
you pretty well, though. Been waiting about thirty minutes now, they have.”
Pathfinder brightened. His optic whirred as it focused on the door, flickering with interest. “Who could that be? I wasn’t expecting to meet anyone here.”
“I see. You think they’re dangerous?” asked Belle, giving her shotgun a speculative look. She paused, however, when Pathfinder held out a staying hand.
“It’s okay, friend! I can handle this on my own.”
Belle raised a single eyebrow, disbelieving. “You’re sure?”
“Absolutely,” Pathfinder said with certainty, already heading for the door. “This might even be fun!”
The old woman
hmmm-ed at the MRVN’s retreating back, but didn’t move to follow him. She had…
some faith in his abilities. Instead, she sank back down into her rocker, the old chair giving a protesting creak. “Alrighty then, suit yourself. Just… one more thing?”
Pathfinder turned back with a whir of his stabilizing servos, head tilted in confusion.
Belle’s mouth twitched in amusement, though the emotion was scarcely detectable around her usual glower. “Remind me why you’re dressed in that foolish cowboy getup again?”
The MRVN perked up, nearly incandescent with simple happiness at the question.
“I’m dressing for success,” Pathfinder informed her cheerfully, bending down to duck inside the shack’s doorway. “You’re looking at the next Dante’s Abyss champion!”
*
Upon entering the ramshackle house, Pathfinder immediately identified who Belle had said was looking for him. They were seated at the little kitchen table that Belle and Waylon used for their morning and afternoon meals, a somewhat dusty glass of cola placed before them on the table. On the opposite side of the room sat Waylon, a grimace of apparent discomfort on his face as he pretended to read an old auto repair catalog.
And Pathfinder could definitely see why! Instead of a normal uncovered face, his visitor appeared to be wearing a funny porcelain mask. Only the faintest glimpse of their eyes was visible through the narrow, crescent-shaped slits, an unsettling smile pulling the curves of the mask’s cheeks upward. What’s more, they were dressed to the nines— a pretty stark contrast to Waylon and Belle’s musty home!
Still, Waylon was pretty burly, even if he
was getting up there in age. It was only his illness that kept him back, really—even now Pathfinder could see the fine lines of pain creasing his face—and Pathfinder had no doubt that he would have defended himself quite well against this diminutive stranger if he
really wanted to. Thus, Pathfinder could only infer that it was the mask’s creepy vibes that kept the man distanced to the other side of the room.
This reasoning only became more plausible when Waylon finally noticed Pathfinder’s entrance. The brown-skinned man visibly relaxed, a relieved sigh puffing out of his chest, and rose to his feet. He made to shuffle past Pathfinder to go join Belle, only pausing a moment to clap the towering MRVN on the shoulder.
“
Good luck,” Waylon muttered with feeling, then promptly skedaddled out the door. Pathfinder gave him a friendly wave as he passed, then turned back around to face his masked visitor.
“Hi there! My friends said you wanted to speak with me,” said the MRVN, stepping closer to the table and discarding his poncho over the chair’s back, exposing the glowing screen mounted on his chest. He (very briefly) contemplated sitting, but instead settled for crouching a bit and emanating his friendliest energy. He didn’t want to break the chair, after all!
“Yes, that is true,” the masked stranger said. Their voice sounded soft and pleasant, almost musical. “You’re a hard bot to pin down, Mr. Pathfinder. You’ve been wandering around the Crossroads for a long time, haven’t you? Searching for something, correct?”
Pathfinder tilted his head to the side, the cowboy hat he wore skewing wildly around his metal crown. “I have! I’m looking for my creator. You… wouldn’t happen to know anything about them, would you?”
“Potentially,” said the stranger, smoothing a hand down the front of their impeccably primped suit jacket, and Pathfinder’s interest increased a thousandfold. “But it’ll come at a price, one that I have no doubt you’ll be willing to pay due to your... history.”
“My history?” Pathfinder asked, several question marks flashing across his chest screen. He wondered exactly what they knew about him, considering that he only knew a little bit himself.
The masked stranger looked at him, what the MRVN could see of their eyes sparkling through their mask. “I’m referring to, of course, your involvement in the Apex Games. You have quite the track record, don’t you? You’re a winner, a team player… and a nearly perfect killing machine.”
“Thanks! I try very hard to win,” Pathfinder said, a cheery yellow smile reappearing on his chest screen. “Or, tried. Tried to win.”
“Do you ever miss it?” they asked, leaning forward, peering intently into his face. “Do you miss the rush? The teamwork? The
killing?”
The MRVN considered this question very seriously. “Hmm… well, it
was fun to win. And I sure do like using my grapple!”
Somehow, the eternal grin of the stranger’s mask seemed to stretch even wider. “
Excellent. Well then, Mr. Pathfinder, how would you like to enter a similar competition? Something my colleagues and I like to call… the Death Game.”
“The Death Game?” asked Pathfinder, hands clasped together in excitement. A heart-eyed emoticon flashed on his glowing chest screen, pink hearts fluttering across it.
The masked stranger chuckled. “You’re interested, I take it?”
“I am!”
“Good. Good,” they stood from the chair, leaving the dusty glass of cola untouched. “We’ll have to travel to Karim, then. We can finalize your registration with the Carnivale there and—”
“Sure, friend!” Pathfinder cut in immediately, marching out the door with a spring in his step. “But I need to say goodbye first!”
The well-dressed stranger paused, seeming oddly
ruffled by the interruption. They stood inside the empty house, quaking in silent rage amid the dust and clutter. How
dare that insufferably cheerful little…?
Finally (and after giving themselves a light shake), they followed behind, gloved hands clenched into tight fists.
*
“So, it’s Pathfinder, right?”
“That’s right! I’m very excited to be here.”
“Good, that’s good. Well, what are you all about, Pathfinder? What do you have that sets you apart from the other contestants?”
“That’s a good question, friend! I would say that I’m pretty good at not dying, though the other fighters in this competition should feel free to prove me wrong! I also have my grapple, which lets me get to hard-to-reach places. Wait there, I’ll show you—”
“Oh, that’s really alright, you don’t have to—”
“Watch THIS, friend!”
“...”
“...”
“...”
“See, very cool! Right, friend?”
“... yes, of course! I… I think we’ve finished the interview, thank you.”