A small crowd had gathered in front of the auto repair shop—seven or eight people in total. Considering how desolate this town was, they were probably the only ones around to form a decent audience.
V and Yogan blended into the crowd effortlessly. The local townsfolk were too absorbed in the spectacle to notice the two outsiders joining them.
At the center of the crowd, a drifter and the town sheriff were locked in a tense standoff, a car parked between them.
The sheriff wore a cavalry-style hat and dark sunglasses. A thick chevron mustache clung stubbornly to his upper lip. His white trench coat flared open, revealing a matching vest pinned with a shiny brass sheriff's badge.
His mustache twitched as he spoke. "Listen here, stranger. I don't care what your excuse is. You're paying that fine today."
Across from him, the drifter stood quietly, wearing a cowboy hat and a red-and-white bandana that covered all but a pair of lake-blue eyes.
Though their clothes were stained with the dust of the wasteland, they were tidy, suggesting some effort to maintain a clean appearance despite hard travel. Still, the wear and tear showed—this outfit had weathered many miles. The drifter wore a loose, dark brown leather jacket buttoned up tight from waist to collar. Their khaki jeans were equally roomy, and their rugged square-toed work boots looked built for the harsh terrain.
Unexpectedly, a gentle woman's voice came from the drifter. "I just wanted the mechanic to give me some coolant. I didn't think I posed any threat to your town."
"No threat?" the sheriff scoffed. "Then why not just pay up for the water like everyone else?"
"Because everyone else pays five euros. Why do I have to pay fifty?"
"Is that true?" the sheriff asked, glancing at the mechanic.
"Not at all, Sheriff!" the mechanic replied quickly. "I treat everyone the same. Same price for everyone!"
The sheriff turned to the other spectators. "What about the rest of you? How much did you all pay?"
"All fifty euros, Sheriff."
"Yeah, the mechanic's a good man. Same price all these years."
"That's right. This is the wasteland, after all. Water's expensive—what's the big deal?"
Resting his arm on the car's roof, the sheriff gave a self-satisfied nod. "You heard them, stranger. Pay up. And don't forget the fine for threatening public order."
The drifter stayed silent. Then, a recording played from inside the nearby car:
"Boss, I need coolant! The engine's boiling over in this heat!"
"Five euros. Hose is over there—do it yourself."
Then the drifter's voice chimed in: "Boss, I also need some coolant."
"You? Fifty euros."
"Then forget it."
"Hey—where do you think you're going?"
"What?"
"You heard me. Fork over fifty euros!"
The recording ended. But the sheriff's expression remained unchanged. The townsfolk were now openly sneering at the drifter.
The sheriff adjusted the brim of his hat with a smug finger. "I told you, stranger. Fifty euros. Plus the fine."
"What's this?" V snapped. "You guys running a bandit racket out here?"
The sheriff turned toward V with a sneer. "City slicker, huh? Coming all the way out here just to stand up for a drifter?"
"What, you got something against city folk, you backwater hick?"
At that, the sheriff's face darkened. A few of the townspeople bolted at the shift in tone. But three rough-looking men stayed behind, adjusting their positions subtly to surround V.
The sheriff lowered his sunglasses, revealing sharp eyes. "Listen up, city boy. This isn't your playground."
"So what? You gonna shoot me now?"
The tension between V and the sheriff was reaching a boiling point.
"Let's not escalate," the drifter pleaded. "It's just fifty euros. I'll pay it."
V frowned. "Hey! I'm sticking my neck out for you here. Whose side are you on?"
The sheriff sneered. "This is my town. And you two outsiders need to learn a lesson today."
At the sheriff's signal, the three goons reached for their guns.
V was quick, pulling out his pistol and ducking behind a nearby car for cover.
But someone was faster.
Two sharp gunshots rang out, and the three thugs' weapons clattered to the ground. One of the men was so stunned he fell back on his butt.
The drifter coolly spun the cylinder on her revolver and reloaded. "Sheriff, this really doesn't need to get ugly."
The sheriff snarled and reached for his own gun—only for V to grab his arm, twist it behind his back, and slam him face-down onto the hood of a car. The sheriff's pistol flew out of his hand.
"Oh no you don't, tough guy," V said, grinding the sheriff's hat under his boot.
But the sheriff, pinned and humiliated, kept yelling, "You'll regret this! This is my town! These are my people!"
A gunshot rang out in the distance—louder, heavier. A man who had been aiming a rifle from a rooftop dropped from the second floor, impaled on a metal fence. He died instantly.
One of the thugs tried to run but was shot in the leg and collapsed in agony, his shin shattered.
Yogan stepped into view, holding a Copperhead assault rifle, now fully in combat mode. "Move again," he said coldly, "and you'll end up like the guy on the roof."
When V had heard the recording, he'd already made up his mind to help the drifter. Yogan had gone back to the car to retrieve a weapon that would command respect.
V hadn't expected Yogan to act with such deadly precision.
Now, with one of the sheriff's men dead and another seriously wounded, they had burned all bridges with the local authority. Staying in town was no longer an option.
The drifter turned to V. "Are you Valery? Did Father from Heywood send you to retrieve something?"
"Vina Veilrite?" V asked.
He brushed aside the trembling mechanic and said to Vina, "Go pack your car. We're getting out of here."
"No need," she replied. "That vehicle was a gift from a Night Prowler passing through."
"Wait, what? A Night Prowler gave you a car?"
Vina opened the trunk, revealing a large insulated container.
"Help me with this, would you? It's heavy. And the client said the contents are fragile. Handle it with care."
V shoved the sheriff aside and moved to help her.
Still sprawled on the ground, the sheriff glared with dust-covered rage. He hadn't forgotten who had humiliated him. Slowly, he reached for his sidearm, believing his movement to be unnoticed.
He was wrong. Yogan was watching.
A gunshot rang out, and the sheriff's hand exploded into a mess of blood and bone. He screamed like a stuck pig.
"Be quiet," Yogan said. "Pain is a normal reaction."
The sheriff kept screaming.
Another shot silenced him forever. A bullet to the head ended his life.
V and Vina paused briefly but then resumed loading the container.
Once the box was secured in the back, they both got into the vehicle.
Leaning out the window, V banged on the door. "Yogan! What are you waiting for? Let's go!"
Yogan climbed in, his body trembling violently.
"What's wrong with you, Yogan? Why are you so out of control today?"
"I... I don't know, V. I really don't..."
V saw Yogan shaking harder and harder. Something was definitely wrong.
"Hang in there, man. I'm taking you straight to Doc Vik."