Phoenix was bent over, hands on his knees, trying to find the air somewhere in his lungs. So far he was struggling, and so he just stood, doubled over, rasping on the spot, wishing he wasn't so unfit. His bandit tackling shoulder was so buckled that the plating would need replaced before it was of any use again, and the bruises beneath would last for weeks. His head felt like a little irradiated pixie with a hammer was pounding on his amygdala, and the side of his neck bled from where a bandit with a machete got a lucky hit mere seconds before.

Something in the dust at Phoenix's feet groaned quietly, and twitched a small puff of dust into the raging air. Phoenix eyed up the thing, inspecting his handiwork as he caught his breath. Plumpy the bald-headed thief was foetal in the dirt, his clothes torn apart by the Merciless and Supremely Painful Castigation of Seven Million Phoenixes. A throwing knife lay embedded in his ear. All around were nine other bodies in a neat circle, slashed, broken, stabbed or beaten. One was also inside out, but Phoenix wasn't sure he did that. A little rabbit-like creature with a scar over its eye was battling for at least some of the ten-on-one frenzy, and didn't have quite the same mercy as Phoenix.

But, killing nine out of ten bandits by himself still counted as the whole ten, because who would believe that a small, fuzzy creature would appear and obliterate the poor inside-out man? Phoenix smiled as he ladled breaths into his tired lungs.

And as for the gun-thief dying in the dirt, Phoenix crouched down clumsily, woozy from the pain in his brain, and shuffled almost drunkenly to the bald thief's face. His beautiful automatic rifle, Phoenix's pride and indeed joy, was mangled, buried in multiple pieces around the battlefield. All because of this asshole's poor handling.

He pulled himself on top of the man, poking him in the cheek. "See ... you bastard," he puffed, poke poke poking all the time. "This ... this is what happens when you steal."

The figure groaned and curled up tighter, looking away so as to die in peace, rather than pieces. Phoenix scowled and crawled further on top of him, trying to catch his eye line. "Hey, don't you look away from me. Stealing..." poke poke poke "...is wrong."

No more groans.

"Did you die?" Poke poke.

Nothing.

"Oh, how rude."

Then, from somewhere close by, a voice that made Phoenix's hairs all stand up wafted in on the torrents of dust and stones and bits of human organs.

"PLEASE STAND STILL, FLESHY SCARED HUMAN. THIS WILL BE FASTER IF YOU REMAIN STATIONARY."

Phoenix gazed in the direction he reckoned he heard the voice from, squinting into the maelstrom. The noise sounded suspiciously like one particularly dastardly robot, whom Phoenix had developed a distaste for...

"LOOK AT WHAT YOU HAVE DONE NOW. BY MOVING, I HAVE CLAWED YOUR ARM OFF, NOT YOUR HEAD. THIS PAIN YOU FEEL IS YOUR FAULT. PLEASE STAND STILL."

Oh ho ho, thought Phoenix. An Overlord - a very special bastard of an Overlord - was somewhere close and, by the sounds of the horrible squishy noises, quite distracted.

Aside from being violent, bossy, and creepy-looking, the robotic race of Overlords that lauded over mankind were Phoenix's single biggest nemesis, even greater than Dr. Nemesis, whom he had a brief but explosive exchange with in his earlier career. You see, for as many successful adventures that Phoenix and his various adventuring buddies had completed, there was almost an equal number foiled by these pesky, meddling robots. Particularly the H-models like H2-149, who were notoriously common, aggressive and, unfortunately, accurate.

Phoenix, still resting on top of the now-deceased Arnold, inspected his row of grenades with the anticipation one might feel as a child on Christmas day - Christmas being the day when most of the Orcks in the Orcklands left weaponised gifts for all the little boys and girls, hoping to turn them into psychopathic killers and, one day, employees. Phoenix's reddened, cut-up fingers delicately caressed a high-explosive grenade, then an inferno grenade. Such beauties, they were. So shiny and quiet, yet so rough and loud. He quietly unhooked the explosive number, looking into the eyes of the smiley face painted on one side of the cylindrical object. He held this alongside his Waste Beast tooth knife and a sly grin spread beneath his bloodied dust mask. This was way too good an opportunity; a chance to let out some stress.

H2-149 was dead meat. Dead parts, anyway.

Phoenix rose to his feet, or more accurately, eventually rose to his feet (he was not in the greatest of health). Then he started jogging lightly, towards the sounds of excruciating death being dealt by a particular robot apparently not too far away. Next he was sprinting, charging at full speed with a dangerous grenade in one hand and a less-dangerous, but still rather deadly Waste Beast tooth knife in the other. He pounced, hurtling through the air with a battle cry on his lips that he was far too light-headed to realise was escaping his lips. His battered body flew through the air, a majestic Devil Terror diving on its tiny rabbit-like prey, preparing to land on the robot's back and immediately cave a new hole into its skull. Then he'd hit the button on his grenade, pop it in the new hole, dive off in an amazing feat of acrobatics, and stare away from the explosion as it tore apart his metallic rival - because every adventurer knows that you should be facing the other way when an explosion happens, just in case someone is watching and sees how cool it looks.

And so Phoenix flew, visions of grandeur sweeping across his imagination, straight for H2-149's back.

And then he landed on H2-149's front.

Phoenix yelped squeakily and clanged off its skeletal body, landing on his ass in the dirt. He immediately scuffled back a few feet to put some distance between himself and the robot, but it took steps equal to his shuffling and loomed over him like some personification of death (which, if the bodies were anything to go by, it had been more than once this afternoon).

"HELLO, NOT-TRADER. PLEASE REMAIN STATIONARY WHILE I KILL YOU."

Phoenix yelped a second time, higher-pitched than the first, and rolled to the side as a metal heel thumped down where his skull used to be. He rolled again, and again, moving constantly so as to avoid the barrage of metal heels bombarding him from above.

"I APOLOGISE IF YOU DID NOT HEAR ME, NOT-TRADER. I REQUESTED THAT YOU REMAIN STILL. YOU ARE MAKING THIS DIFFICULT."

Phoenix scrabbled quickly in the dust and moved himself farther away, this time creating some actual distance between him and the robot, if only a miniscule amount. It was enough, though, for him to spring deftly to his feet and turn to fight back face to bulb. But the bulb of H2-149 was closer than Phoenix anticipated, and next he was ducking and weaving, once again barely avoiding the robot's swift attacks. It lashed out with claw after claw of sharpened metal fingers, each aiming straight for the adventurer's throat.

"ACCEPT DEATH, FLESHY NOT-TRADER. LIFE IS INCONVENIENT FOR ORGANIC BEINGS. PLEASE ALLOW ME TO ASSIST YOU."

Phoenix ducked again, H2's pinky claw nicking his scalp and cutting a tidy little line into his head. Blood bubbled out and dribbled through his hair, clogging instantly with eager particles of dust. Phoenix winced. Why was it always the tiny cuts that hurt so bad?

He began to run in big circles, hoping to confuse the robot's eye sensor at least a little. For all their advanced technology, the Overlord's eyesight still wasn't as accurate as a human's during a storm. Or rather, it was too accurate for a storm, in that its many imaging scanners had trouble determining quick movement amid such a tumultuous backdrop. Granted, the chances of Phoenix moving quick enough for that to be relevant were next to nothing in his current state, but it felt better to be trying.

On his third lap, Phoenix was ready to close in and stabby stab stab the robot when he noticed its cannon lying lifeless in the dust. Ahah! he thought hungrily, swooping over and grasping it in his hands, momentarily stowing away his grenade and knife. He hooked an excited finger around its bulky trigger and swung the huge weapon around, resting it partly on his knee. He smiled at H2-149, which stalked straight towards him without so much as an emotion.

"Overlord? I'm over you," he stated loudly, and squeezed the trigger.

The big weapon hummed to life, a mechanism somewhere inside suddenly whirring up to full speed. Blue lights lit up all along the gun down towards the barrel and then ... nothing. No bullets came out.

"THE RG-003 THAT YOU HOLD, NOT-TRADER, RAN OUT OF AMMO AT B30 dash 29 dash 19585. IT HAS ELIMINATED APPROXIMATLY FORTY-EIGHT SKINBAGS."

Phoenix lowered the weapon. "Forty-eight, are you serious?" And here was Phoenix thinking ten was heaps.

"PLEASE DIE NOW, NOT-TRADER."

H2-149 leapt suddenly forwards before Phoenix could react, bounding across the final few feet to tackle Smack's adventurer with its metal face. He let out an audible yelp as the blow connected, sending him reeling backwards. The cannon clattered away from his fingers, useless.

He tried to sit up and run away, realising at least on some instinctual level that the fight was going entirely not his way, but a clawed hand reached out and grasped him by the collar.

Oh butts, Phoenix thought.

Next, another razor-tipped set of claws raked across his back, screeching awfully as it scored great gouges in his armour. Phoenix started to roll away but a second claw came thundering in, striking him in the back a second time and knocking him to the side.

He landed, once more out of breath, but far woozier than before, not far from the Overlord. It towered above him, a shadowy figure against the glowing brown rage of the storm, with one pulsating red eye gazing down at him, devoid of any readable expression except 'red'. Phoenix reached for his knife, but caught a heel to the hand for his troubles. So instead he scurried backwards, hoping to get away again - but H2 was learning his tricks. It jumped forwards instead of stepping, landing with a metallic thud next to Phoenix's retreating form. He turned to look at its shiny legs, giving him a front-row seat to the foot that swung for his face.

Blood streaming from his mouth, Phoenix recoiled backwards from the blow, landing starfish on his back as dust, blood, and air all fled his weakened body. He wheezed loudly, blood pooling in his mouth, wishing the world would stop spinning so that he could stand up and do something useful.

Above him, H2-149 stepped towards him to finish the job.

* * *

They found Ernest covered in the blood of some one-armed cultist, and the internal organs of his bugle-wielding sister. His clipboard was broken into three pieces, and it looked like he'd been using them as daggers - successfully, even. His eyes were wide with fear, but alight with blood. He'd seen and done things he'd never seen or done before, and would likely never see nor do again. He told them that he felt sick, disgusted with himself, but some suspected he felt sick because, against all expectation, he had enjoyed being the strong one - the one with power. The one to dish death, not count it.

He had asked if they were winning, and they told him yes. But nobody knew for sure. What else would you tell a man who still had a piece of kidney clinging to his dungarees?

* * *

A figure darted behind Meatsack and he spun. Nobody was there.

Then there was a flash behind him. He turned. Nobody there.

Meatsack shuffled anxiously on his big feet, his tiny arm held worriedly to his face mask. He couldn't find anyone he knew, and he didn't know where to go. He wanted frightfully to ask Windy's father, Stormy, for assistance finding his way, but he didn't have much of a relationship with Stormy, and he was very afraid of him. He was loud and violent, and cared little for Smack-dab. Stormy was mean. Meatsack needed Berty - Berty would know what to do.

A silhouette flew through the air somewhere ahead of him, and it looked like it had the chunky hand of Berty Bert! Meatsack's face lit up in a big grin and he started running for her.

Then something landed on his back.

* * *

Yeah ... so these are the bad chapters where everything is bad. Sorry about that. Even Meatsack doesn't escape.

Please remember to keep showing your support for the book, even if you're mad at me for putting Meatsack in the middle of all of this, by Voting and commenting. I appreciate it!

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