Bert stared at her pistol.

It was not a happy stare, nor was it even remotely a contented casual glance. It was an unblinking gaze. Importantly, she stared at her pistol clutched in the filthy bandit hands of somebody that, most assuredly, wasn't her.

Minutes before, after Bert had stood up behind the dishevelled car, she shuffled around the front of it and the bandits had swarmed out of their hidey holes to surround her completely. Weapons were waggled, and growls were growled.

"I mean you no harm," she had said rather stupidly, in hindsight.

"Oh but dear," their leader had replied, a rifle in his hands, "we most certainly do."

But it had all gone well, you see. Bert had survived the crucial first moments of any Waste encounter (the shooty bit), and had the opportunity to, well, make this pack of bandits an offer they couldn't refuse. And you know what?

They had refused. But they were at least willing to talk, so long as she handed over her beloved pistol.

So maybe things weren't going quite as well as she had hoped...

Windy bellowed like an angry child suffering its first mutation, slapping at the corrugated tin walls of the Old World shed Bert and the bandits had moved to after her surrender. She was sitting cross-legged on the mouldy wooden floor, her hands bound behind her back with a rope she hoped was meant to be black. She had vocally disagreed with the need for such measures, but when a horde of armed, seasoned bandits ties you up for their own safety, the best way to take it is to be flattered.

Most of the small horde waited outside, but before her sat one of the most finely dressed bandits she had seen since the days before Smack-dab, and long before Lord Ash or this Farmer Brown mother fu-

"It really does sound like a load of fisticuffs we needn't be a part of," spoke the man. He had a truly spectacular moustache on his grubby, weather-beaten face - the kind that women he'd been close to probably either passionately loved or deeply hated, for it was not a mouthpiece for anything other than extremes - and his outfit looked as though, in a distant past life, it had been a three-piece, pin-striped suit. Now it was a three-piece, pin-striped, muddy, bloody, torn and altogether bedraggled ensemble, but relative to what bandits usually wore, which consisted of far too much leather for Bert's taste, the man may as well have been royalty. Bert had learned his name was Sir Robert, the ex-captain from Lord Ash's private guard, and a man who was not a man, but rather a chap. Or a lad. An old boy would also be an acceptable reference. These were the Polite Bandits, apparently. Though it seemed an oxymoron to Bert.

Inside the shed were two other individuals: one a slender, nervous-looking man called Toddrick whom Bert had found out was behind the bird calls, but who would not accept that the species had gone extinct years back (and who Bert suspected simply couldn't do any other bird calls); and the other was a woman. Now, this was not unsurprising in and of itself - women bandits were not uncommon after all, and some of the worst packs Bert had met were women-only - but the disconcerting thing about the woman known as Doris was the ease with which she could at once eagerly grip the most rusted, most well-used hunting knife Bert had ever seen, whilst at the same time smiling as sweetly innocent as someone who had never been out in the Waste before. She was the type of person who, upon seeing their face for the first time, you'd immediately wish to be friends with. Best of friends. For to be anything other than allies would be terrifying.

"But don't you want the fort back, Sir Robert? It's rightfully owned by the Polite Bandits, you said so yourself," Bert responded, tearing her gaze from the bone-handled weapon.

"Well, Bert," replied the man carefully. His eyebrows rose and fell in majestic, thoughtful waves. They would be considered finely manicured and superbly presented were they not up against the competition of his fuzzy upper lip. "If you feel my jolly band here could siege the fort, and I'm not saying I particularly agree with you there, but if you think we can, why don't we just, if I do say, siege the fort, eh? I rather think that getting involved in this Smack-dab business puts us," he stopped, snortled a chortle, and then grinned proudly, "...smack-dab in the middle of trouble."

"Top word play, sir," said Doris, smiling that sweet, sugary smile. Except it wasn't sugar, it was probably anthrax.

"Thank you, Doris. Would have been a good one for Lord Ash's radio plays, eh?"

"Absolutely, sir, a fine bit of banter."

Sir Robert turned on Bert. "Did you know our Doris here used to be an actress in those plays? She was quite the rising star, if I might say so."

"Oh stop, sir, you'll make me blush."

"No no, I simply must brag. I'm sure you heard them, Berty, everybody listened in."

Bert had. But now wasn't the time to voice her true opinion about the Lord Ash Chronicles, which she had angrily told Phoenix once that she felt were utter, complete tripe - particularly the acting, which again, she would fail to mention at this very moment.

Sir Robert was still smiling, and talking. "Quite the emotional journey, I felt. If you weren't laughing, you were crying."

" 'cept the one about the duck," muttered Toddrick, who was leaning against the outer wall.

A darkness fell over the group's faces - even Doris.

"Ah yes, that was poor taste. My apologies, Doris, but it was a terrible choice of script."

"Almost a career killer, sir, no need to apologise. We learned our lesson."

"Indeed, indeed, and speaking of lessons learned," Sir Robert said, returning his attention to Bert, "we've had our fill of death at the walls of the fort, Berty, and I rather think now is not the time to do it all again. So, if you won't mind, my dear, I'm going to kill you now and rob you of all your belongings."

Kachunk. The echo was loud in the small shed.

Sir Robert levelled his rifle while Toddrick sidled behind Bert in the background, the glint of metal sparkling in his hands.

"Wait!" Bert gasped, a quite drastic surge of adrenalin exploding into her brain. Internally, the spirit of Bert wrestled with the spirit of Rage, trying desperately to hold it down and to keep this conversation as polite as can be. An outburst of Bertrage would probably do poorly until her hands were free. Pipes rattled with the stress, but it seemed, at least for the moment, that the spirit of Bert was winning for once.

Sir Robert frowned at her with open disappointment, a harrumph of impatience juddering out from beneath his furry lip companion. "I'm sorry Berty, but it's cold today and I'd really rather be popping back south to our HQ in Burnt Ham for some tea right now. So make it quick."

Bert breathed out slowly, letting the steam in her system vent out her mouth. It curled in angry little wisps, shaking its misty fists at the rest of the room. "Look," she said, her voice trembling with calm, "how much has Farmer Brown taken from you, Sir Robert? How much money? How many men? And your home. He's trying to take my home, too - take my family. But if we can unite enough people against him, we can stop this madness before it goes any further."

Sir Robert eyed her with a deep suspicion. "And how are we going to get that many men, hmm? I barely have enough survivors to defend Burnt Ham, and our town is minutely small. We wouldn't fair too well against an army that has already toppled us once, behind a fort no less, now would we? It's tough just finding fighters fit enough to meet our weekly theft quota. I've had to adjust them down twice this month already. We're starting to let traders through Burnt Ham without harming them, would you believe it? It pays more to just toll the buggers, me oh my what a disaster."

Doris and Toddrick shook their heads.

A few muscles in Bert's upper lip attempted a mutiny on her face, pulling into a slight curl at the very thought of bandits robbing traders and other folk along the Highway. And here was Bert sitting with them, practically begging them for help. And worst of all, they actually seemed kinda nice - except the part where they wanted to kill her, but then, that was mutual. Bastards. Utter bastards. Mentally, she punched her upper lip in the face until it came back down again. Now was not the time for open contempt.

"As we speak I have men trolling Can't Be Buried for allies," she said, forcing the tone of her words into some semblance of civility. And it wasn't a complete lie, either. A little embellishment of truth never hurt between bargaining partners. Mostly. "I'm building an army of my own, Sir Robert, and I want to hand you the grand prize. You help me defeat Farmer Brown, help me put an end to his reign of Taxation, and you can take the fort in his place. Reclaim your home, and your honour."

And then I'll deal with whatever mess you create later, she added in her mind.

"Hmm," said Sir Robert.

The man stroked at his moustache with long, twirling motions. His fingers grasped thoughtfully at strands beneath his nose, gently meandered their way along the soft, greying river of his facial hair, and flicked into a neat curl right at the end. The oil and grit in the hairs helped them stick in place, too, giving him that classy, cultured curly look. If he wasn't a barbarian in a waistcoat, an up-tight son of a bitch, and, not to mention, a bandit, he might even be attractive. He'd probably only be a three-drinker - Bert's measurement of attractiveness in men. She was yet to meet anyone who came close to even being a one-drinker (and she couldn't imagine a no-drinker even existed).

"No," he finally said, shaking his head apologetically.

"No?" Bert replied, aghast.

"Quite," he said back. "Too many variables, you understand. No real guarantee for me and my own. It really would just be smarter for me to shoot you now, take your things, and start our own little uprising should we feel slighted in the future. But in the meantime, it's back to road tolls and rebuilding. So, on that note, goodbye, Bert. It has been a pleasure."

Bert swore in her head. She tensed her crossed legs and pushed at the ground with her feet, trying to spring off to the side. She was just achieving lift-off when she, in the kind of horrific, salt-in-the-wounds slow motion that seems to occur mostly for people about to die, giving them a perfect opportunity to watch their own demise in glorious detail, watched Sir Robert squeeze the trigger of his rifle.

Her eyes closed.

The shot fired.

...

...

...

...

...

...

...

Bert opened one eye.

She was still in the shed, but now she was prone on the ground. Her left shoulder bloomed with pain from the impact on the floorboards, which despite how soft they felt from rot, turned out to be a less than ideal place to land. Her ears were trying out tinnitus for size, but perhaps most noticeable of all was her ability to notice.

She was still alive.

Bert opened her other eye and absorbed the room, feeling out of breath from the expectation of being, well, permanently out of breath. Sir Robert was clutching the hunting rifle in his mitts, but the barrel was pointing at the far wall. To what appeared to be Sir Robert's mutual surprise, Doris had a firm grip on the barrel and had yanked it towards herself, thus directing the shot conveniently away from Bert's internal organs. Toddrick was looming above her prone figure, a machete raised in anticipation.

"Doris," Sir Robert said, finding his voice in the sticky silence. "Would you care to explain what just happened?"

The woman named Doris promptly let go of the rifle, allowing it to drop lifelessly to Sir Robert's lap. A little streamlet of smoke drooled out of the barrel.

"I'm sorry, sir, I'm out of line, sir, but if I may, sir?" Doris replied, her words anxious.

Sir Robert glowered up at her. "I rather expect that you might, Doris, for there is a great deal of explaining needing done."

Bert wriggled like a worm on the ground to curl her legs up to her stomach so she could sort-of fall upwards into a seated position. The rope sawed at her wrists, much to her discomfort, but so long as her skin held firm, she wasn't at risk of an infection.

Doris nodded quickly. "Yes sir, sorry again sir, but sir, our honour, sir."

"Our honour, Doris?"

Bert propped herself up, and Toddrick plopped himself down. They sat side by side, shrugging at each other, equally not a part of the goings on. It was almost as if one of them wasn't just about to machete the bullet-ridden body of the other.

"Our honour, sir, yes, sir. It's true that Bert's deal isn't perfect, but our honour, sir, if I may, we need to think about that. Remember what that Brown did to Lord Ash and the lads? Horrible, it was."

Toddrick, silent until now, murmured low in agreement, his head bowing low. Sir Robert narrowed his eyes.

"If I may speak above my status, sir, I would say we owe it to Lord Ash, and to Henry after him, and to all the rest who died at the Ash Fort, to honour their memory and show that Farmer what good manners looks like. And, if I may be so bold again, sir, what the impolite end of an axe looks like while we're at it."

Toddrick grumbled a "Here, here."

Bert stared deep into Sir Robert's soul, or at least her best guess as to where it might be. She always figured most bandits were just big, black voids filled with devilish goop that sought only to steal and burn, and sometimes fuck, but mostly the first two. So far her perceptions had never been challenged. Not until Doris, anyway.

Something resembling a grumble oozed out of Sir Robert's magnificent moustache. "You're suggesting I risk our entire tribe for dead men, Doris? Men who, might I add, are well and truly gone? We didn't even find all the bits of Henry."

"Exactly, sir, that's what I'm saying. Our own Henry, bless him wherever he might be now, wasn't even buried whole. He's off to whatever afterlife he believed in without both his feet, some of his organs and only three of his eyes. He used to need all five, sir - he'll be blind wherever he is. And Lord Ash begged us for vengeance, sir."

Toddrick sunk lower, giving the impression of one removing one's figurative hat.

"So it's not just for Henry, sir, or Lord Ash. It's for our honour. A chap can't be a chap without his honour."

Sir Robert stared at his lieutenant for a long while, his fuzzy caterpillar (which, in certain parts of the waste, is a highly dangerous insect) twitching back and forth. His fingers drummed on the cracked wooden stock of the rifle, his brow creasing slowly. Then his eyes darted to Toddrick, still sitting in a glum minute of silence.

"Do you agree, Toddrick?"

The man mumbled out a "Yes."

"Hmm."

Sir Robert's gaze fell back on Bert.

He sniffed.

"Do you really believe we could teach that Brown a lesson?"

Bert nodded, for it was the only logical response for self-preservation whether she truly believed it or not. "I do."

"And this new army of yours will be a match for Brown?"

"We'll make sure it is."

"And his truck?"

She felt her eyelid twitch. "Not a problem."

"Well then," Sir Robert replied, gazing once again around the room. "For Lord Ash. For our honor."

Toddrick looked up, and he and Doris responded as one. "For our honor."

Then, a quiet sigh escaped through the dense forest that was Sir Robert's mouth. "So, what next?" His eyebrow arched.

The slightest smile of satisfaction played on Bert's lips, despite her general misgivings about bandits. Bandits or not, this was still a victory - and Bert liked to win. Mind you, her eyelid still trembled, and her upper lip tried curling again at the thought of spending more time in the company of Highway bandits. But her smile was to win the war of facial expressions.

"Well, I need more bandit tribes, if you know of any."

Sir Robert nodded after a moment. "Indeed I do. There's a strong old group down in Dunce Town - moved in after Gren and his Catchfires caught fire. But this new group are, how should I say, less ... polite, than us."

Bert's smile pulled a Catchfires and fizzled off her face. "Less polite?"

"Yes, they have quite the tendency to mutilate, I'm afraid. Bit of a bad habit, I understand. Not quite our style, but then Lord Ash always trained his tribe better than most."

The words 'Breaking News: This is a bad idea, awooga awooga' scrolled past at the bottom of Bert's vision as the war of expressions broke out once again on her face. Her eyebrows put her lids into a chokehold and her lips fought bravely in an all-out brawl against her cheeks, but somehow her voice managed to squirm its way through the throng and croak some level of response before finding itself under a pile of fighting emotions.

"That'll do," it managed. "Let's go get them."

* * *

Lesh goooo. While a "tendency to mutilate" doesn't sound too healthy, surely people like that would be a tremebdous asset to Bert's cause? Now we just have to convince them to join the team. Find out if Bert can in the coming parts!

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