All options stripped away: their armor, their swords, and soon enough, their very skin.

Dimm and Boren sat adjacent of Vera within a refugee transport truck, shackled with only a ragged loincloth covering each of their lower halves.

Vera himself seemed very confident and steadfast; his stance lacked any alarm. His rifle remained pointed to the floor while it swayed from side to side.

An entire famished day had passed, only a healthy feeding from a nine-tail spared to tenderize their meal. The renegades faced humiliation to no gain; not even as much as a question was spat their way.

A beating only for spectacle.

It was then—in his recollection—that Dimm began to investigate certain aspects of their rifle builds. Most notably, the dull-green bone bayonets.

Residue solidified itself around the base of the blade. Weird, how it appeared to be cauterized. Green goop with a dense, blood-like form. Usually, gunsmiths would want to leave their weld lines hidden. But not here.

Dimm's thought process scattered into a spiral. Little snippets of echoing whispers and fuzzy images.

Why were these extensions so familiar?

Before long, Vera noticed this attentive concentration, broke it with a chuckle, following his sabotage with a simple question.

"What's running through your head, young Scholar?" he asked, laying the gun on his lap with undivided attention. "I assure you, planning escape is a waste of such great potential. I would love to hear some philosophy from you." Dimm shared his own glare, but soon turned his attention back to the weapon.

"Why not some gun talk, huh? About your rifle, Vera."

"Pretty straightforward questioning, Scholar-"

"Dimm Oxmen." Vera sighed. "Oxmen. I think you and I already know what this weapon is made of.

"Don't you know an enemy when it's staring back at you?" Then the spiral hit its maximum.

He was, indeed staring at a bygone enemy of the Brotherhood. At least, what remains.

"Is that—Wermolt?"

"No fucking way! Those damn bugs?!" yelled Boren. Dimm gave into Vera's demand for an audience further.

"I knew those bayonets looked off ..."

"But how?!"

"The Wermolt hive was toppled to bits and pieces by the time we got there"—Vera paused—"along with most—or even all—of its residence.

"I must commend Sarmak's army for such a feat: to annihilate sum bitches with one war!" His words had an underlying toxicity.

"Who's to say it was Anubians?" retorted Dimm. "Besides ... Sarmak is dead. We could never manage that kind of destruction as we are."

"Hmph. Well, isn't that something?" Vera appeared to encroach, intrigue sprouting from his smarm grin. "But no matter who your Monarch is now, I know you Anubians well. "The Wermolt never killed another soul that wasn't Anubian. Not even human! Your battles were ... hard to miss.

"Well-witnessed for sure. Everybody knew of the feud. For what they were looking to ascertain, I can only hope you proved who was the better—thing."

Dimm's eyes darted to the hard metal floor of the convoy truck. His shackled wrists blurred into focus as his familiarity with them dissipated.

These don't belong here. They're not permanent.

Alas, the Scholar lacked any idea of escape.

A sort of accomplishment evoked the metal man's demeanor, using the gun as a support when he leaned further.

"Thanks to you, I was able to harness the remains: to arm the Cannibals like they've never been armed before! Efficient and without shortage – that's how you rally a people. Unlike the bureaucratic clown in charge, prior to myself, would ever do." Vera then stood up, brandishing the rifle once more, at attention.

Dimm and Boren longed from the rickety truck canopy as it burrowed its tires through rough terrain. They witnessed their goal shrinking in the distance – headed far away from Crygor.

Their morale nose-dived.

"I thank you, Oxmen, for sharing your mind with my own. But it's inevitable that you will be the next step in my rule," with pity as a snarl curled on Vera's desert-worn face. "Forever a shame to myself, make no mistake."

The mechanical behemoth gazed above to the hidden heavens with a clanking punch to his chest.

"Here's to a new day-"

His words ceased at the crunch of a rifle's bolt-action fury.

The echo's path soon indented itself into the back of the truck on the bumper – nearly dislodging the frame, but still leaving a remarkable scar.

Vera's attention darted to the back in haste while he maneuvered to the hatch.

Another shot discharged, this time striking the back-right tire, tearing it to pieces in a shroud of rubber and rusted hubcaps fragments. All passengers stumbled over themselves instantly.

Boren fell flat to the floor while Dimm caught himself on one knee. The rotted smile faded, gritted across Vera's bleeding gums. He gripped tightly onto the tarp frame overhead as he looked back to the two soldiers.

"Were you boys expecting a rescue?!" he chastised, then shook his head in disbelief. "And here I thought we were breaking some even ground, Oxmen!"

"Oh, you can just go to hell!" roared Boren, picking himself up against the vibrating truck bed. "You really think you can take on the fucking Brotherhood, hotshot?

"Ha!

"We're gonna wipe you off our fucking boots just like the Wermolt before you!" He mockingly gestured a thumbs-down, made difficult from the restraints.

Vera growled in bitter annoyance, aimed the rifle to Boren's head with full intent.

"I've bit through lead before, shit beetle!"

Suddenly, their rickety and unstable ride somehow became more so when an outside assault rifle discharged, effectively painting the front with fresh, malnourished blood; it almost lacked a red shade, giving it a rose pink shade.

The truck careened violently to the left and drooped lower to the right, emitting sparks from what little rim there was left across the rough terrain.

Its balance too delicate to maintain, the entire vehicle began toppling over. Vera collapsed onto the floor, the wind being knocked right out of him from the unexpected shift like reality itself just blindsided him.

With their captor momentarily incapacitated, both Dimm and Boren scrambled for their gear. In the tumult, it nested under Vera's side of the truck benches.

At least now it was.

The pieces had been nested right under their asses before they spilled from the benches beneath. The pieces also brought with it one of their blades. It soared, grooved with gravity for a brief moment. The tarp now shredded against the rocky desert way; its thin tarp frame now grasped at the terrain as if it had a will to live all its own.

The two captives instinctively clung to the now-top bench, braced for dear life as their feet clamped themselves against the bottom bench. Any footing besides that below was the equivalent to a meat grinder. The brothers wished not to tenderize themselves for their famished hosts.

Ceasing the opportunity, Boren shifted himself upon the bench, nudging only inches with each stride and pull. Dimm paid mind to a stirred Vera quickly establishing his hold onto the bottom against the frontend, using both benches to anchor his massive being in an x formation.

Boren's strides then paced rapidly, fueled by panic of becoming a casualty of this entire rescue.

Or assassination.

Well. He was persistent enough to at least survive to find out which later.

When he hovered over the quaking armor pieces and blade, Boren attempted to peck the weapon in-between his feet as he dangled from the bench.

Unfortunately, he lost his focus.

The momentum gnashed to a slow chugging along the ground, then to a dead stop. This caused Boren to clumsily unlatch his grip and spiral face-first into the crevice under the bench. Thankfully, the blade's scabbard spared the burly Anubian any clumsy lobotomies.

It unnervingly bounced upright against the bench in the ruckus, however. At the instant, he shook off his mistake. Boren made it a point to finish his goal, taking ahold of the blade in both hands then carefully approached the back opening.

Vera appeared limp when the shaken Scholar approached him. Relieved, Oxmen formed up near Boren's six. Though as if his judgement overriding his motions, Dimm powered through the cramped space, to the right – ahead of his point man.

"Boren, to the left!" he whispered, demanded further with a sporadic gesture. Boren immediately followed, laying hope that his gifted companion knew something that he didn't.

Soon, both now picked up on footsteps not too far from the outside. Out of key and asymmetrical like there were two figures fascinated with the damage.

"Oh, we're so fucked." said Boren. He struggled to unsheathe his sword. "Alright. I'll go out swinging like a crazy person while you slip by and clock 'em in the ass!"

Dimm appeared dumbfounded.

"That's retarded!" His face was drenched in rivulets of sweat and dirt, eyes drained and breath heavy. Needless to say, this was a mirror to Boren.

His voice settled back down to a whisper as he continued. "We can get through this. You. Me. And all our limbs intact."

"Alright, alright, alright ... Why don't we-"

A knock drummed against the truck from the outside. Then, a high-toned cat call.

"Man, you guys bitch a lot!" the unknown figure exclaimed. "Come on out already and kiss our feet!"

Both of their jaws fell galvanized.

Being struck with banter rather than more bullets, they promptly pulled themselves together. Painstakingly careful in all his motions, Dimm pushed the tarp aside and peaked out, followed by Boren; their eyes took a second to adjust to the afternoon sun.

Two figures stood in front of the boys, as far as they could tell at first glance. One, from the left, was much larger than the other. Finally, the foggy gaze subsided as both Dimm and Boren looked upon their rescuers in clarity.

Questions immediately began answering themselves.

They, too, were Anubians.

In fact, Oxmen remembered seeing these two amongst the white noise of their Crygor Stronghold, but never got a name.

The shorter one held a large, bulky sniper weapon, propping it up on its stock from the ground. Funny, how it came to his shoulders in height. Similarly, he stood only to the other's lower torso; of whom, towered over damn near anything in the vicinity – sans the convoy vehicle if it were upright.

The shorter struck the first chord.

"Sweet Spiritmother," coyly uttered Arrok to Taoron as he stroked his clear-faced chin, "both of them look like they haven't seen the sun for days!"

"Just one day in a Cannibal checkpoint would make anyone appreciate the outside world." Tao seemingly reminisced in a gruff, nail-hammering tone of voice. He shot unconvinced glares at the supposed scouts, deep into them with a frightening precision.

He knew how to rip them apart.

Arrok effortlessly picked up his massive rifle and rested it lazily over his right shoulder.

"But do they have to be so dramatic about it?" He began to approach the two, who were just now venturing from the confines of their blender prison.

Taoron followed up, demeanor radically different of Arrok's calm stance and lazy strut. The steps of the brute took hulking strides forward as he walked. He prominently wore a scowl upon his face that could kill all on its own.

"Over here guys!" Arrok parted a friendly wave. Unfortunately, Taoron wasn't feeling the same comradery, storming towards them more vigorously. What little relief the two felt instantly sank, icy feet halting in place. That little possibility of being caught as rogues was starting to seem bigger by the second.

Boren glared to Dimm, almost about ready to snap at him like a feral animal.

It was there that the rogues stood in a deadlock of panic and pointing fingers until Taoron eclipsed their sunlight, standing over two feet high above them. The angry brute interjected between them, gripped onto both of their bare arms with ludicrous amounts of force and yanked them closer.

Dimm and Boren grunted in pain, feeling the strain threaten to tear those appendages from their sockets.

"You two have a lot of explaining to do!" Taoron decreed. "What're you two doing mucking around the Cannibals?! What kind of scouts are you?!" His storm showed no quarter, growing even more furious. "Are you even scouts at all?

"Some goddamn AWOL cowards, I bet! Better answer now or I'll answer for ya!"

Stricken with fear, the boys scrambled for an answer.

"Tao, would you stand down already?" Arrok chilled with a laugh. "I'm more than sure they're capable of answering for themselves." He paid close attention to Dimm in particular; more so, of his birth mark. "Isn't that right guys?"

As if against every twitch in his being, Taoron complied, undoing his grip.

"Standing down, sir," like a grumbling beast.

"Alright, that's what I like to see." Arrok looked to Taoron, then back to the renegades. "Now.

"What are you doing out here? Remember: a wrong answer means a bullet between the eyes."

Even this glowing beacon had to be shot down.

Alarmingly, Dimm felt a flushing surge of energy manifest within his head, brought on by laying eyes into Arrok. Though slightly painful and strained, something was very different of this Anubian. Something under the red bandana.

He, too, looked at Dimm in a similar manner, presumably to figure out the deadeye stare. As they prolonged eye contact, Boren contemplated. He feared their silence was becoming more and more suspicious.

Arrok broke the silence with a gesture.

"Well?"

Boren obliged.

"It's just-"

"We appreciate the rescue," Dimm then commandeered," but classified information can't be handed out to just anybody. We have our orders straight from the General himself."

"Hrrm, you're lying." Arrok motioned his hand, signaling silence.

"Hold on, let 'em finish."

Dimm contemplated to himself shortly.

He felt as though backtracking would be a more feasible option in this uphill climb. But ultimately, decided to wear this lie like a fine coat.

"No, I'm sure I'm finished. No words could rectify the ass-kicking Gore would lay onto both our hides if I talked."

"C'mon, not even a hint?" Arrok chuckled.

Dimm shook his head no, fully content with the strings he pulled. Smitten look prominent in the short marksman's face, he then glanced over at the two; hum escaping as he finally drew to a conclusion.

"Alright boys, I believe ya," as he slung the rifle back to his shoulder. "Pleasure to assist you.

"Just don't make a habit of it." Arrok nodded to Taoron, of whom appeared dumbfounded still.

No audible words came from the pair when they began their trek. However, incomprehensible murmurs buzzed frequently when they closed a fair distance away. Either way, the renegades' nightmare had just come to a close.

Boren soon turned to the master sleuth, eyes widened. Dimm attempted to talk, but was cut off immediately.

"Just ... get the gear ..." Dimm shrugged and began heading back to the decimated truck.

"Are you not even gonna acknowledge that slick tongue work?" Dimm disobeyed.

"I will acknowledge you're one lucky son of a bitch." Boren turned in the direction of Crygor, newfound enthusiasm reigniting itself on his fool's errand. Dimm rolled his eyes, softly chuckled to himself as he entered the truck bed.

Suddenly, he was subdued.

Vera clenched onto his being and drug him closer to his hiding place within the corner. With a firm grip of his leg, the figure's mechanical muscles rendered Dimm immobile. The helpless Scholar now attended another unwanted audience.

"Well, young Scholar," with a grimace, "I'm glad to see you well – as you should be. This little coup of yours has opened my eyes to much opportunity that a simple sacrifice could never accomplish."

"Boren, Vera's still aliv-"

Dimm's mouth was snuffed out by Vera's hand, cutting his pleas to lunatic rambles. Under their mechanical breath, a fair warning.

"Prepare for war, Private Oxmen.

"Next time will be a proper duel ... to both our deaths, if need be."

The promise was sweetened, bayonet of Vera's rifle then puncturing the center of his captive's cuffs.

Dimm couldn't muster—well. Anything. Was it better to be spared, or worse to live for what's to come?

For now, it didn't matter.

Vera rose and exited the truck as fast as his inner workings would allow him.

What followed from Dimm's paralyzed point of view was Boren fumbling on a grunt of swears when he presumably spotted this madman, soon confirmed by frantic boots scrambling.

Dimm's head had filled with bellowing hums of varying octaves circling around his center. He remained inert on the harsh, rocky ground below, illuminated by slight cuts of sun through the tarp above.

Doom was prominent on the horizon.

Something felt like it had awoken, however; like a contingency to the sense of danger the Scholar faced. They built themselves to what sounded like static.

Soon to a piercing volume.

Dimm was driven to shut his eyes, grunted through pained lungs.

... Mother? Is that you?