The fight erupted instantly. The Red Hands came at them with overwhelming force, taking advantage of their exhaustion. Gabe struggled to stay airborne, forced to dodge Felix's lightning-fast strikes. Sly blinked through the battlefield, narrowly avoiding fatal blows, while Iris fought to keep them from being surrounded.
Bob clashed with Darius, the force of their blows sending shockwaves through the ruins. Darius was relentless, his strength amplified by his Implant, making each strike feel like colliding with a battering ram. Bob's body ached, but he refused to fall.
Meanwhile, the Archivists had not stopped moving. Under the cover of battle, they worked quickly, securing the Voynich Manuscript from the ruins. The second they had it, they made their retreat, slipping away unnoticed in the chaos.
Iris, catching sight of them, gritted her teeth. "They're leaving."
Sly parried an attack, ducking beneath a Red Hands officer's strike before slamming his blade into the enemy's side. The Red Hands weren't just standing around—they were pushing hard, forcing Bob's crew to divide their focus.
Gabe was locked in aerial combat with two of them, his wings barely keeping him ahead of their relentless pursuit. Iris dodged a Red Hand's lance, countering with a sharp kick that sent them tumbling. Even in their exhausted state, Bob's crew refused to be overwhelmed.
Felix, emboldened by the chaos, turned his focus onto Bob. "Let's end this," he hissed, his body weaving through the mist as he struck. His speed was near impossible to track, his claws grazing Bob's side before vanishing into the fog again.
Bob winced at the sting, but he wasn't going down that easily. Iris's aura flared. This time, instead of spreading wildly, she focused it on Felix. The moment it hit him, his movements shifted. His calculated attacks turned erratic, aggression clouding his judgment. He was losing control.
Gabe capitalized on the opening, tackling Felix mid-strike and sending him crashing into the ruins. Sly flickered behind him, slashing deep into his exposed back. Felix hissed in pain, struggling to regain his composure, but Bob was already there, pushing through two more Red Hands who attempted to stop him.
"You talk too much," Bob muttered, summoning his Fog Gauntlet.
With a single, devastating punch, he drove his fist through Felix's chest. The Naga assassin gasped, his eyes widening before his body went limp.
Silence fell. The remaining Red Hands faltered, momentarily stunned. Darius, still engaged in battle, turned just in time to see his comrade crumple lifelessly to the ground. His expression darkened, his grip on his weapon tightening as he took in the shift in the battlefield.
"You're going to regret that," he growled, but he didn't attack. Instead, he took a step back, assessing the battlefield. They were injured, yes, but the fight wasn't worth the loss of another officer.
Darius's gaze lingered on Bob. "This isn't over. The next time we meet, you won't be laughing."
With a sharp motion, he signaled his men. The Red Hands withdrew into the fog, vanishing as quickly as they had arrived.
Bob staggered, his muscles screaming in protest. He took a deep breath, letting the tension settle as the echoes of battle faded.
Gabe landed beside him, wings folding in. "We made it."
Iris exhaled. "Barely."
Sly wiped the blood from his blade, wincing. "And the Archivists?"
They were already gone. The Voynich Manuscript was secured by the Archivists, now that Bob and his crew had cleared the path.
Bob groaned and leaned forward, hands on his knees. "So... did we just get used? 'Cause it kinda feels like we just got used."
Sly let out a dry chuckle. "You're just realizing that now?"
Gabe stretched his sore wings. "To be fair, we're alive. That's something."
Bob stood up straight, wincing at the pain in his ribs. "Yeah, yeah. We did our part. That's enough."
Iris raised an eyebrow. "That sounded oddly responsible of you."
Bob gave her a tired grin. "I'm evolving."
Sly smirked. "Yeah, like a really slow, really dumb Pokémon."
Bob opened his mouth to respond, then stopped. "...I don't know what that means, but I feel insulted."
The crew let out a collective, exhausted laugh. Even in the face of everything, they still had that. But deep down, they all knew—this war was just getting started.
The pickup truck rumbled through the mist, its tires crunching over broken asphalt as Bob's crew moved cautiously through the endless Pink Fog. Bob drove with one hand on the wheel, the other occasionally adjusting the rearview mirror to glance at the three figures marching beside the vehicle.
Sly, Gabe, and Iris kept pace, their Glint forms shifting slightly with every step. The Pink Fog was thick today, denser than before. Even as they moved, they remained alert, scanning the mist for anything lurking within. They had fallen into a routine, one riding inside the truck to revert back to human form while the others stayed outside, maintaining their Glint states. It was the only way to ensure they would be combat-ready at a moment's notice.
"This is getting boring," Sly muttered, keeping his pace steady. "Not that I want another Red Hands ambush, but it's been days. They're either gone, regrouping, or waiting for us to let our guard down."
"They're not gone," Gabe said, scanning the skies. "They're just patient."
"Patient sucks," Bob grumbled from the driver's seat. "I'd rather get it over with."
Iris, who had been mostly quiet, spoke. "Maybe no trouble is a good thing. We should take what we can get."
The truck continued through the fog, the days blending into one another. Then, on the third day, they came across the settlement.
It was small, barely standing, and surrounded by makeshift barricades of rusted metal and broken-down vehicles. A few survivors moved sluggishly behind the barriers, their eyes tracking the truck as it rolled closer. There was something off about them—not the desperate hunger of the starving or the hardened caution of warriors. Their eyes held something else.
Hollow. Tired. Fading.
Bob slowed the truck to a stop just outside the perimeter, exchanging looks with his crew. "Well, this place screams 'bad idea.'"
Gabe exhaled. "Agreed. But we're already here."
As they stepped out, a group of settlers hesitantly approached. They weren't hostile, just wary. One man, older, with deep lines etched into his face, nodded at them. "Travelers don't usually stop here."
"We go where the road takes us," Bob replied. "And it led us here."
The old man studied them for a moment, then motioned for them to follow. "Come inside. But don't cause trouble."
The deeper they went into the settlement, the stranger it felt. The people weren't starving, but they weren't thriving either. A dazed sluggishness clung to them, as if they were somewhere between being alive and something else entirely. Then Bob caught sight of something in the shadows—a transaction happening in the open, but with hushed movements.
A thin man, his hands shaking, passed a few broken valuables to another, who in return handed him a vial of shimmering pink powder.
Bob frowned. "What the hell is that?"
The old man, who had been watching, sighed. "Little Finger's Pink Dust."
Iris narrowed her eyes. "A drug?"
"A lifeline," the old man said bitterly. "Or a curse. Depends on who you ask."
Pink Dust. A refined version of Pink Fog fragments, processed into an addictive, inhalable form. It granted a temporary surge of strength, heightened senses, and an almost euphoric feeling of invincibility. But the withdrawal was brutal, and over time, the mind degraded, slipping closer and closer to the edge of losing control.
"And people still take it?" Gabe asked, disgust in his voice.
"People take what they need to survive," the old man said quietly. "Some do it to keep moving forward. Others… because they've forgotten how to stop."
A small voice cut through the silence, filled with fragile hope. "My dad will stop. He's getting better. He promised."
Bob turned. A girl, no older than ten, stood a few feet away, clutching a worn-out scarf in her hands. She looked at them with wide eyes, unshaken by the bleakness around her.
"He promised he'd stop. Then we're gonna leave this place together. Somewhere safe." She smiled, as if the thought alone was enough to make it real.
Bob and his crew exchanged glances. In the distance, a man sat slumped against a crate, a nearly empty vial of Pink Dust beside him. He was barely conscious, his breathing shallow.
Bob exhaled, his fists clenching. "Kid... how long has he been saying that?"
"A while," she admitted. "But this time, he means it."
Iris looked away, Sly rubbed the back of his neck, and Gabe simply sighed. This wasn't a fight they could win.
Bob stared at the man, the 'traders' lurking in the background, the girl's unwavering belief in a future that would never come. His usual response—breaking something, tearing it down—wouldn't work here. The drug trades would continue, the Pink Dust would keep flowing, and desperate people would keep searching for ways to escape their reality.
Bob hated walking away from a fight. But this wasn't a fight. It was just... life, in the worst way.
Without a word, he turned and walked back to the truck.
Sly followed. "That's it? We're just leaving?"
"Yeah," Bob muttered.
"You're not gonna smash anything? Punch a dealer? Break the crates?"
"Would it change anything?"
Sly hesitated. He wanted to say yes, but he knew better.
Iris glanced back at the girl one last time. "Let's go."
They climbed into the truck, the engine rumbling to life. As they pulled away, Bob checked the mirror one last time. The girl was still there, still waiting for her father to wake up. Waiting for a promise that would never be fulfilled.
Bob's grip on the wheel tightened, his knuckles turning white.
Sly broke the silence. "You're thinking too hard again."
Bob exhaled. "Not everything should be this broken."
No one had an answer to that.
The truck rolled forward, disappearing into the fog.