Freddy and his sister Fredina stopped what had now become quite a heated argument about worldly beauty, and listened. There was an insect somewhere in the darkness, a species that neither had heard before. Fredina was quite an avid entomologist and was curious about the development, though Freddy hated the horrible little beasties. His cheek was bitten by a fuzzy caterpillar once, and the scar never healed properly.

Quite unexpectedly, a metal pipe lunged out of the shadow and clocked Fredina straight in the temple, knocking her out instantly. She slumped to the side, bumping Freddy on the way down, who jumped, startled at the sudden commotion. Panic filled his mind as thoughts of losing another one of his sibling heads gusted through his imagination, while a host of armed figures materialised from the crushing black night. His panic soon curdled, souring to an intense rage. Rage that someone would try to take his family away from him while he was out here waiting for more of his family to come back.

The mass that was now just Freddy turned to face his immediate attacker: a three-armed, tall bandit wielding a bloodied metal pipe. The figure was taking cautious steps backwards, presumably realising that his efforts at knocking out Freddy and Fredina was somewhat complicated by the victim having two heads in need of knocking.

Without a second thought (literally, considering Fredina's situation), Freddy fingered a large metal horn at his belt and hurriedly unclipped it. He brought the ugly, twisted shape up to his lips and sucked in a mighty breath before something flashed in the corner of his vision and then struck him in the skull, just like his sister.

His vision swam for a moment, spots forming where spots never used to be, and spots dissolving where spots used to be. Then he saw a short, angry-looking woman with a chunky metal fist pulling back for a second swing, which came for his face.

Then everything went black for Freddy.

* * *

Bert quietly wiped her metal knuckles with a piece of her clothing as the Polite Bandits snuffed out the mutant's light and proceeded into town. The night pressed in all around them, oppressing Bert's senses as though she were standing in a small, cramped cupboard. Occasionally someone would flicker a light on and off to check the route, but mostly the Polite Bandits walked softly through the darkness.

They came in through the main road, but soon split off into multiple small groups as they approached closer to the middle of Dunce Town. Bert was partnered with three low-level bandits, each of which were far too scared of Bert to dare take command of the group - which was fine by her. Bandits were a lot more pleasant to be around when they were being crushed under her heel.

As the groups parted, skulking off between derelict houses and bedraggled streets, their members used nondescript insect noises to communicate relative positioning. From Bert's guess, she was close by to maybe two other groups, and the rest were arcing around the orange glow to flank from the other side.

The town itself would have been considered small even by Old World standards, and though Bert couldn't see much right now, she remembered bits and bobs from her prior travels through here. The houses were reasonably sized with plentiful garden space around them, and the streets were nice and wide - perhaps because neighbours didn't want to be too near each other? Bert could only guess. Except of course now it was all ruined, and only the skeletal remains of the reasonably sized houses persevered through dust storms, acid rain, and the general wear and tear that comes with existing in the Waste. The wrecks of cars littered roads and old driveways, but most of even those were gone now, long picked clean by roving bandits, scavengers, and passing scrap merchants (who were arguably all of the above).

In a deafening silence, Bert and her three lackeys crept from wall to wall, fence to fence, slowly closing in on the orange glow, which was now accompanied by the muffled sounds of laughter. An insect nearby revealed that another cell of Polite Bandits was pushing out to the left, to which Bert's insect responded by saying they were going to proceed straight into the glow from here.

Then she heard a scuffle somewhere nearby, and she hissed at her companions to stop. They froze in place, crouched low behind the corpse of an old minivan, straining to hear anything above their own breathing. Footsteps crunched dust nearby, approaching slowly from the direction of the glow. Bert narrowed her eyes and focused, trying not to let her robotic hand move for fear that the whirring might alert the passer-by. Carefully, she craned her neck up and glanced through a hollow window in the van's side, peering hard into the murk. Against the slight orange tint ahead, she could just make out a muscular shape coming closer, straight for the van. It walked with caution, taking long, slow footsteps with what might have been a weapon of some description clutched tightly in its fingers.

Bert let out a very soft, very slow breath and strained her muscles to keep from moving, sensing that the minions next to her were doing the same. The silhouette came right up next to the van, on the other side of it from Bert, and appeared to make one final glance left and right.

She narrowed her eyes.

Then heard a zipping sound.

Oh for the love of-, she thought.

The sound of liquid hitting metal filled the bitter air, a small grunt of satisfaction emanating from the shadowy figure. Bert gritted her teeth as the silhouette relieved itself on her hiding place, listening to the inconsistent stream reveal what must have been a disappointing struggle. The liquid splashed out in quick bursts, not a steady stream by any means, and the man grumbled at it to hurry up.

For a solid ten or so seconds Bert and her minions crouched in absolute stillness as events unfolded, but Bert could feel her patience wearing thin - particularly as the noxious smell of ammonia, must, and rotten pus swept up from the van and invaded her nostrils. She almost gagged from the smell.

Then, it ended. The man breathed a final sigh of relief, cursed the name of what Bert presumed was a previous sexual partner, and then zipped up. He marched away a lot quicker than he came, half-jogging to get back to where there was better light. And silence resumed.

Bert heard three breaths released all around her, and someone snigger quietly. She turned to shoot the bandit a look, then realised he probably wouldn't see and relegated herself to reprimanding him at a later date.

And so they continued onwards.

More insect noises stated that the Polite Bandit's noose was beginning to tighten, with each group closing in on the orange glow. A chill wind whistled through the open streets, coughing up whorls of dust and discarded food scraps into Bert's wincing face. It chittered and cackled as it shook the ragged corpse buildings of Dunce Town, carrying with it the sound of hearty laughter, people fighting and the occasional echoing belch. Bert followed the sounds like a wolfcat might trail its prey, a slight flicker forming on her lips as she realised that, for once in her life, she was the Thing to go bump in the night.

It felt good.

Then, as she ducked around the corner of a half-crumbled brick wall, she slammed straight into the ass of some sweaty, dusty figure who was standing as a picket guard where Bert hadn't been paying attention. She fell back with surprise, swearing under her breath as she hit the ground. The figure turned around to reveal a middle-aged woman with scars all over her face clutching what appeared to be an Old World electric drill duct-taped to a stick.

"What the...?" the woman said aloud, her voice sounding like a booming thunderstorm amidst the sticky silence of the night's raid.

Bert watched as the woman held her small lantern up, her face widening in horror as Bert was cast out of the shadows. With no time to do anything else, Bert pushed herself off the ground, robotic hand reaching out for the woman's face. But the bandit stepped suddenly backwards out of the way, narrowly avoiding robotic fingers that reached to cover her mouth. She raised her drill-axe in defence, her face still an O of shock.

"Who the fuck are you?" she growled. "Wait, you're an intruder! Holy shit."

The bandit kicked out at Bert just as she was launching a second assault. Bert knocked the foot away with her arms but it threw her attack, causing her to stumble back and lose the momentum. In that backwards motion, she watched with frustration and horror as the bandit dropped her lantern and went for her horn.

But it never made it to her lips.

Arms wrapped around her from behind, smothering her nose and mouth, then coiling around her neck. The arms tightened firmly, muscles bulging beneath fraying shirt sleeves, cutting off all oxygen supply to both the bandit's lungs and brain. They staggered on the spot for a moment before a second pair of arms reached out to grab her torso, then a third to snuff her lantern. Bert stood awkwardly, not knowing whether to watch or help, as the life was squeezed out of the poor picket guard with every passing second. In an eternity that Bert would only remember as a flashing blur, the woman went limp.

Darkness closed in again. Bert heard a dull thump on the dust.

"You OK?" whispered a voice after a moment.

Bert nodded, then rolled her eyes as she remembered that they couldn't see her too well. "Yeah, I'm alright. Thanks for the save," she replied.

"No worries. Let's get moving, eh?"

"Yeah, let's."

After proceeding past the limp body of a poor picket guard whose name nobody would likely remember, at last Bert and her troop could see the campfire, blazing brightly in the middle of a courtyard teeming with a vast bandit tribe. Men, women and those somewhere in between danced, laughed and fought their way around the brilliant orange totem, drinking from huge barrels and showing off their spoils in great competitions of testosterone. The group had obviously come across a trade caravan recently, for a two-wheeled metal trailer was parked in the centre of the camp and its crates and boxes were strewn around the area. Two charred human shapes could be seen smouldering in the piercing white heart of the flame. Bert's lip curled.

A bellow of laughter exploded to her left, and she saw a man sitting on a crude throne of corrugated tin and old car parts placed upon the traders' trailer. At the sight, Bert's stomach churned and roiled like the vast, grey ocean, a wave of nausea sweeping across her and threatening to buckle her knees. Her skin paled, her eyes widened and her fists tightened into angry balls. Especially her metal fist.

She recognised him.

He was a big man in all respects; meaty was a good word. His muscles swelled beneath leathery dark skin, with scars laced over his body like spiderwebs. He wore nothing on his exposed torso despite the harsh cold of the recent weather, instead showing off his impressive muscular abdomen and the network of injuries that tattooed his skin.

Bert's blood boiled at the very sight, and her left arm ached where flesh met metal. Insect noises jumped around the evening's festivities, but Bert no longer paid them any attention. Pipes rattled in her skull, steam whistling out through her ears and nostrils, soon turning into jet-black smoke. The sounds of laughter and fighting muddied to an indistinct thrum. The pumping of her heart filled her ears as blood filled her face, her iron gaze locked on the man on the tin throne.

Insect noises crooned again, accompanied by one ill-placed bird caw. Around the camp, Polite Bandits emerged from their hiding places with weapons raised, leaping on the Dunce Town mob and wrangling them into restraints. Fights were breaking out around the edge of the courtyard, some of the quicker mob realising they were under attack. The clash of metal rung out in the night.

Bert saw it all through a red haze. She too emerged from her hiding place, but marched straight for the bastard on the trailer. A young Dunce Town lad tried to swing an axe at her, but one of Bert's minions leapt in from behind and tackled him to the dust. Her hands and legs shook uncontrollably as she marched resolutely towards the trailer, her pistol having appeared loyally in her hand as her knuckles went white from clenching.

The bare-chested bandit on the throne was standing up, fury stretching across his ugly, angular face as he roared at the sudden ambush. A scar ran down one side of his face, starting at his bald head and winding down, through an eyepatch, to the base of his cheek. On the other side of his face, one singular brown eye was getting smothered by a patchy eyebrow above it.

And then the eye found Bert in the crowd, and it widened with sheer, genuine shock.

And Bert snarled like a wolfcat, closing in on its prey.

* * *

You know, of all the characters who are hard done by in this book, I think I feel the most bad for Freddy and Fredina. I dared to give them a smidge of backstory and then dared to snatch it all away, and for that I apologise.

Unrelated, did you Vote for this chapter yet? I'd really appreciate if you did. That one small click could make a big difference to the book. Thanks so much!