He was Bob the Brown, Arch Wizard of the Mud. A measly thrown projectile was no threat to him. And was that, was that a pebble? A mere pebble? Bob spits on your lowly pebble. Said pebble boomed towards him like the Hammer of Thor. It was traveling faster than he'd imagined, faster than it ought to be traveling. He started to dodge. It was perilously close now. He was still dodging. He was going to make it right. Right?

  The pebble feathered past his left ear and cracked into the tunnel wall. The ceiling shook ominously. Bob didn't need to see the crater to know he wouldn't have survived that. This man was dangerous. Already Bob had whipped his pistol out and was training the barrel on the aggressor. He aimed and... Anastasia stepped in front of him.

  "Thomas! How could you! You might have killed him!"

  "I know. I'm trying to. Get out of the way, Anastasia. One million credits. Do you have any idea what we could do with that?"

  "Thomas, who's in charge here?" The bald leader roared. "He's a D-Ranker. You'll get us all killed."

  "Ali there are eleven of us. He's just one man. We can take him."

  "You're as bad as them Thomas. This would make us nothing more than bandits."

  "One million credits, Ali. One fucking million."

  Bob slowed his breathing. He smoothed away that first jolt of fear and anger. He watched the little boy go strangely stiff and his father put a trembling hand on his little shoulder. He watched the old woman start to pray silently to herself. He caught the moment Ali's neck tensed and his teeth clenched together. He didn't want to fight these people. He wanted to believe in them. In a low voice that cut through the squabbling.

  "Don't make me do this. Walk away. Please, I don’t want to—but I will."

  Thomas was stalking nearer, one hand fishing around in his pocket. He wasn't alone either. Some of the others were eyeing Bob with greedy, million-dollar eyes; they'd started fanning out, blocking off escape routes, reaching for weapons. Why wouldn't they listen to reason? Blood, blood and death. Why did Sophie have to be right? He hated when Sophie was right. Kill or be killed, she had said. They were coming for him.

  Bob's mind went cold. Cold and clear. His breath slowed. His mind sharpened. The battle meditation came over him. Seventeen bullets. Seventeen metal slugs of death. Five adult men. Three woman (not including Anastasia). A little boy and a grandmother. Ten enemies. Anastasia was begging him to be reasonable, promising that everything would be perfect. Easy promises. Thomas's arm twitched. Bang. A pistol report. A stone clattered to the ground. The faintest streak of blood. The bullet had only grazed his arm.

  "Last chance Thomas."

  The leader, Ali, was floundering. It was a mishmash group of survivors, held together by fear and desperation. He shouted. He ordered them back. They wouldn't listen. The smell of gunpowder and blood filled the air. The frenzy was in them. Who wouldn't stake a little for a million credits? A million credits. The figure had a mythical significance. It was a promise of happiness, safety, freedom. Easy promises. And Bob didn't hate them for it. He just wished it wasn't so. So he tried again. One last time: "Don't make me kill you."

  Ali screamed at everyone to scatter. He half-carried the grandmother away himself. Anastasia was crying and crying. The father lifted up his boy and hurried out of the tunnel. Many followed after, rushing to get away. "Stupid Thomas. Stupid, stupid. Robert saved me. We're meant to be together. Why won't they let us be together."

  They were coming. Their eyes were all steel and greed. Better to die for the dream than live without hope. Five of them. Thomas and company. They all looked like fighters. With that grizzled callousness of the human who's killed his fellow. That shield against empathy and pity. Did Bob look like that? Did Bob's eyes look so grey and empty?

  Ali called out to Anastasia. He was waiting at the tunnel entrance, the last to leave. "Anastasia, Anastasia." But the girl wouldn't budge. She stayed right where she had been, right in front of her hero, sobbing her eyes out and bawling.

  Surely they wouldn't attack her. Their companion. A crying teenager. Attack her? You mean like you were planning to do, eh, Bob? Oh yes, oh yes, they would. They will. They won't hold back for her sake. A million credits Bob. One million. One more sacrifice? Ha, the greater good always wants more sacrifices. Bob had to get her clear.

  "Anastasia, go. Now."

  "Robert, Robert, Robert."

  "Go dammit."

  "I'm staying with you."

  "Anastasia, we barely know each other. Please, it's dangerous here."

  "I'm staying."

  Boom. A sonic-wave of energy smashed into Bob. His head jarred. He felt blood dripping from his ears. He wanted to start shooting, but the stupid girl was standing between him and the enemy.

  "Anastasia, get out of the way!"

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  The girl didn't look so good. She'd taken the full-brunt of the sonic blast. She swayed. She stumbled. She fell down.

  A smarter man would have let her fall. Bob wanted to. Oh how he wanted to, to let her fall down to the ground and never see her again. Why hadn't she run away? Why wouldn't she listen? It was her fault. Her own fault. He didn't though. Soft-hearted, mushy-brained, mud-dreamer that he was, he caught her and dived to the side, attacks whistling just behind. He rolled, he ducked, he got a hand down on the mud and a mud wall jumped up in front of them. Safe.

  At that moment, a projectile from Thomas missiled straight through the wall and practically skewered them both. Not safe. The power that man could squeeze into a pebble was mindboggling. Bob shifted positions, digging out a hollow space below the barricade. Anastasia, he conveyor-belted away, past the wall and to the tunnel side. Anywhere was safer than sitting beside the million-dollar bounty.

  Sixteen bullets. Five Rank-E enemies. It should have been easy. He should have slaughtered these guys. He would have too, if he hadn't sacrificed Harry to the fire. For the greater good? Only now did Bob realise just how much he relied on the cloak. His whole combat style: his darting attacks, his daring escapes, his autonomous shield, they all depended on the mud mantle. And Bob wasn't himself. He groaned as his body protested every motion. He hadn't recovered. It couldn't have been an hour since he was passed out and stretched over the back of a monster-cow like a sack of potatoes. If they somehow got him into close-combat range...

  An attacker sprinted forward. Bob shot. The man dodged with supernatural grace. He had a short blade in one hand. He lunged to the side, twisted his foot and... slipped. The mud under his feet had suddenly given way. Bang. Bob shot him in the leg through the mud wall. The man tried to get up, using his blade like a walking stick. Bang. Bob shot him in the other leg. He stayed down this time.

  One down. Four remaining. Thomas and a red-haired woman (the sonic attacker) peppered him from range. They were wasting their time. The mud ate away the sound energy and her attacks reached him as a low buzz. Thomas, on the other hand, hadn't figured out that Bob was beneath the barricade and not behind it. His missile-pebbles sailed far over his head. The other two were trouble though. They both looked liked close-combat specialists and they were getting closer. A lean warrior with a spear and a heavy man braced behind a tower shield. They were working together, each covering the other.

  Bob tried shooting through the shield, but the bullet just ricocheted away. Not even a scratch. The shield was no mortal object. And the tank knew how to use it. The pair edged slowly forward, giving no angles, creeping ever closer. What options did Bob have? Twelve bullets left. A mudfall was high-risk. It takes minutes for someone to drown. They'd never leave him alone long enough. Think, Bob, think.

  Bait and switch. He fired a pot-shot at the red-haired woman. The tank got himself in the way at the last second. I knew you'd do that. Bob had already pivoted, firing two sharp bullets at the now-exposed spearman. The tank lazily stepped back and covered the attack. Bob had been read. I hate competent people.

  Bob was extending his awareness across the whole battlefield. He could feel every step ripple through the mud, but it took most of his concentration just to maintain the mud barricade. He couldn't multicast. He wasn't even sure it was possible. What he could do was increase the scope of his magical expression, making a single, more complex spell. Bob violently pulled the ground under the tank's feet. The tank slipped, his shield clattered down as the man face-planted. Bang, bang, bang.

  The shield had magically reappeared in the man's hand (system bullshit) and he caught the two slugs aimed for himself and the spearman. The red-haired woman wasn't so lucky. The bullet sliced into her side. She crumbled down to her knees holding her chest. She wheezed and there was a sticky gurgle to her breaths. Bob felt her crumble down onto her hands and knees, blood trickling into the mud.

  The spearman rushed ahead. He leapt forward and bounded over the mud wall. He landed catlike, spear at the ready, eyes blazing and... stopped. The man looked left and right. He looked behind him. Had he gotten lost somewhere? Retrace your steps old boy. He'd approached the mud barricade straight on and then jumped over it. Did he get turned around? No that didn't make any sense.

  "T, he's not here."

  "Are you fucking kidding me? He just shot Amber."

  "T, I'm looking with my own eyes."

  Bang, Bang. The spearman actually managed to dodge the first shot. On a blind instinct, he'd thrown himself to the side, but the second nailed him in the hip and something cracked. The spear rattled down.

  "Underground," the man managed to rasp out.

  "For fuck's sake, Lucas."

  Three down. Two left. Thomas had grouped up with the tank. He stayed well back in cover and was riddling the underground with those mighty pebbles of his. He'd gotten more scientific, executing a search pattern across the area. Things were looking dire. The tank had planted his feet and was watching the mud suspiciously.

  Bob tried a few shots, but the tank expertly deflected them. One of the ricochets did thump into the crippled swordsman, however. The poor man had been doing his best to crawl away. He groaned at the impact and stared daggers at his companion. Five bullets left. Only five.

  Bob was running out of time. Sooner or later Thomas would find his mark. But what chance did Bob have at defeating them from distance? The shieldsman was too skilled. Battles are all calculated risk. Bob started slithering forward.

  He hadn't gotten two slithers when a pebble crashed down beside him, clipping his back leg. Bob fought not to scream. The slightest sound would give away his position. It would be all over. The pain shuddered through him. He opened his mouth and... shoved mud into it. The scream dying away in the wet liquid. He regained control of himself and undulated forward, wriggling through the mud. He was close. This could work. This might just work.

  "Robert, Robert, where are you? Answer me, Robert."

  Anastasia had woken up. And she was looking for him. Bob cursed under his breath. Stupid, teenage girls. They are the worst, the absolute worst. Why couldn't she lay there and play dead like a sensible person? She was coming this way. She was throwing herself into danger. She was going to die.

  Bob decided. Bob decided. Call it arrogance. Call it stupidity. But he decided.

  "Stay the fuck away woman. Do you want to get killed?"

  He shouted out and at the same moment, threw up a wave of mud, battering Thomas and the tank, and doing his best to sweep Anastasia away from the battleground.

  Snap. In a single breath, all the mud had disappeared. Redirected away and down. The whole scene was made instantly clear. Thomas crouching behind the shieldsman, Anastasia puttering about, Bob lying on his stomach.

  "There you are Robert."

  Anastasia could see Bob. Bob could see Anastasia. Anastasia could see Thomas. Thomas could see Anastasia. Bob could see Thomas and... Thomas could see Bob. Thomas with a pebble in his left hand and a mean glint in his eye.

  "I hate teenage girls."