GUN SALAD

Morgan collapsed to the ground with a grunt. The aged, weather-worn woman before him had been kind enough to shoot him loose from the crane, but she’d left the bindings on his wrists intact–an intentional choice, no doubt. If the roles were reversed, he reckoned he’d have done the same.

He coughed and squirmed in the dust, still disoriented from the little thrill ride she’d subjected him to. Addled and ornery as he was, though, he knew well enough that she wasn’t to be trifled with. Anyone capable of bringing down a structure as sturdy as Copperlock’s tower was bound to be powerful, and he was in no position to challenge her anyhow.

Besides, she seemed to know something about him–about the man he used to be.

That explains the way this rescue has gone so far, he thought bitterly. He rolled over onto his back and squinted up at her, the sunlight stinging his eyes. Beyond the haze of Segue Enclave it shone just as brightly as it did anywhere else on the range, silhouetting his savior against a backdrop of clear blue sky.

“Well?” she prompted.

“Well what?”

“I came on t’you just now. Didn’t you hear?”

Morgan looked up at her blankly. “Oh, that? You were bein’ serious?”

“I was. But you’ve gone and blown it, now.”

He blinked, then, barely suppressing a sigh of relief. “I don’t even know who you are.”

Out of nowhere, her foot lashed out, delivering a violent kick right to his gut. “Don’t you lie to me!” she growled. “I’ve come too far–risked too much–to get jerked around by the likes of you. Everyone knows who I am… And you, especially, must considerin’ the company you keep.”

“And what company’s that?” he grunted, clutching at his abdomen. At that, the woman cocked her head and lowered herself to her haunches, speaking her next words in a deathly whisper:

“...Now why would you go and ask me a question like that?”

Morgan didn’t intend to respond, but the ensuing silence stretched on long enough to make even him uncomfortable. “Lost my memories,” he eventually admitted. “You may know me from way back when, but I’m tellin’ the truth when I say I don’t know you. Last thing I remember is comin’ to in a hotel bed a few weeks back.”

That wasn’t strictly true, of course. The dreams he’d been having had revealed a damn sight more of his past than he was letting on, but it just didn’t feel right to share them with anyone yet… Particularly the overly aggressive stranger looming over him now.

Thankfully, he could tell by the way she straightened her shoulders that she’d bought into his story. “I see,” she murmured. “That tracks with what I’ve heard from some others over the years, so I’ll go ahead and take you at your word. Sadly, that means this was all an enormous waste ‘o’ time… And that you’re next to worthless to me now.”

With that, she rose up to her full height and looked down at him with an unreadable expression on her face. “You were my last lead. So now I’m goin’ to have to do somethin’ I’ve been holdin’ off on for years… Somethin’ that may damn well get me killed,” she said. “You any good with that heater on your hip?”

“Good enough to get by,” he answered.

She shook her head. “That was a trick question. You were the best, tenderfoot–or one of ‘em, anyway. That’s the only reason I ain’t plugged you yet. Where I’m goin’, I’ll need all the help I can get.”

“That so?” he replied. “Care to elaborate?”

“Nope.” Without warning, she whipped her gun out and shot at him. He squeezed his eyes shut, all but certain that she’d decided to end him after all… Until he opened them to find that his bindings had been severed cleanly down the middle. He looked up in bewilderment, meaning to offer something in the way of gratitude, but a peculiar sight caught his eye before he could:

A whole heap of dark clouds gathering over the enclave, concentrated almost entirely over its southern reaches.

The woman followed his gaze and cussed, holstering her weapon with practiced dexterity. “Godammit, Teresla… I told you to let ‘em alone…”

Morgan took the opportunity to scramble to his feet, his eyes lingering on the gathering storm clouds. “Never seen a storm kick up so fast.”

“My idiot partner,” she explained. “Always been too impatient for their own good. C’mon.”

“Wait!” Morgan exclaimed, causing her to pause mid-step. “Before I go stickin’ my neck out for you, at least answer me this: who the hell are you? And why’d you go to all this trouble over me?”

The woman stiffened, stubbornly refusing to look his way. “My reasons for doin’ what I do are mine alone,” she answered. “Same goes for my real name. If you’ve got to call me somethin’, though, you can call me by my moniker:

“Catastrophe Joan.”

—

Marka charged through the rain, weaving between construction equipment and half-finished buildings alike. He had Roulette bundled up in his arms, having struck out from the enclave’s entrance in search of a safe place to stow her, but he found himself at a loss; how did one protect themselves from something as lethal and unpredictable as a lightning strike, after all? 

Conventional wisdom dictated that he find a sturdy building to hide in, but the sturdiest structure in Segue–the prison–was closed to them. Meanwhile, every store and residence in its vicinity had been hewn of little more than flimsy walls of sheet metal cobbled together atop a cracked concrete foundation.

They’d have done nothing to shelter Roulette, but the current crop of options was no better. Much of Segue Enclave’s southeastern quarter seemed to be undeveloped–exposed pipes and waist-high walls were the norm, and every “interior” in sight was exposed to the elements. With every unsuitable refuge he passed, his heart beat a little bit faster, and the threat of an impending strike loomed larger in his mind.

Roulette’s fingers had tensed around Lady Luck like a vise, making a target out of them both. He had neither the heart nor the time to wrest the weapon free, and so he simply ran, slogging through the deep, sucking mud in anticipation of a sanctuary he might never find. 

Why did you do it, Roulette?

Ever since he’d scooped her up and begun his mad dash, the thought had refused to leave him. He trusted the girl’s judgment more than that of anyone he knew, but this…? Stepping out into the storm and welcoming it into her body?

It was madness. She hung limply in his arms, completely unmoving. If she was breathing, it was so shallow as to be imperceptible. For all he knew he was carrying a dead woman, and the stress of it frayed his nerves like nothing else. 

He had come to realize that he loved her like a daughter. And the thought that their journey together would end here, like this, was almost more than he could bear. But if she was alive–if there was even a single chance that she would recover–he had to take it.

…And finding a safe, dry place to lay her down would be the first, most essential step toward that goal.

Marka could feel a charge building in the air around them. They didn’t have much time left, now–before long, the stranger’s lightning would come down on them like a hammer. The openness of their surroundings made him all the more anxious, spurring him to move faster, push harder. For all he knew, safety was just around the corner. He just had to keep pushing. 

He just had to believe…

There! In the light of a fresh (and mercifully distant) lightning strike, Marka spied a tarp fluttering over a square-shaped hole carved into the stone of a nearby foundation. He barreled toward it and ripped the tarp aside to reveal a set of stairs leading down into the earth: a basement! Loosing an explosive sigh of relief, the man hunched down to bear his precious cargo down below, basking in the quietude of their newfound fortress.

Here, the lightning couldn’t touch them. Here, Roulette might have a chance to regain her vitality. He reached the bottom of the steps and strode forth into the darkness, then chose a nice, flat spot to lay her down. 

“Rest well, dear heart,” he muttered, gingerly stroking her hair before turning his attention to the rain-slicked steps he’d entered by. She was safe for the moment, but Marka knew that it was up to him to keep her so. Under no circumstances could he allow the enemy to find their hiding place.

And so, Marka Moukhala–wet, tired, and gunless–made his way back out into the rain, determined to stop the stormbringer by any means necessary…

…Even if it meant tearing them apart with his bare hands.