Chapter 15: Nacho
The cold wasn’t just in his leg. It was in his bones, his blood, a creeping void that whispered about stopping, about lying down and letting the moss claim him. Fred’s vision tunneled, the clearing tilting on its axis. He heard Eli shouting his name, a distant, muffled sound. He saw Nacho’s smirk, a pale moon in the gloom.
Then a different sound cut through the static in his ears. A sharp, pressurized thwip.
Something small and vibrant green shot past his face. It wasn’t aimed with malice. It arced with purpose.
Doc, Eli’s little green healer, transformed in midair. One moment he was a slug, the next a shimmering, bioluminescent creature like a leafy mantis, radiating a soft, emerald light. He landed squarely on Fred’s chest with a soft plop.
Warmth. Not the aggressive heat of a furnace, but the deep, penetrating warmth of sunlight on stone after a long freeze. It poured from Doc’s tiny form, flooding Fred’s veins, pushing back against the invasive cold. The numbness receded like a tide, the painful pins-and-needles of returning sensation following in its wake. Fred drew in a shuddering, full breath, his lungs finally working properly again.
“Thanks, little guy,” Fred choked out, his voice gravelly.
Doc chirped, a sound of pure, cheerful efficiency, and hopped off, returning to his protoform as he bounced toward Eli’s waiting hand. Fred pushed himself up, his right leg protesting but holding. He snatched his blaster from where it had fallen in the moss. The grip felt like an extension of his hand. He was back.
The clearing was chaos. The five drones were advancing, their movements a syncopated, mechanical rhythm. Blaster fire—searing orange plasma from Eli’s position, staccato blue pulses from the drones—lit the misty air. Eli was pinned behind a thick puffball, Burpy a furious red comet zipping out to deflect incoming shots.
“Should’ve waited for backup!” Eli yelled over the din, but there was no reproach in it, only a grim acknowledgement of their reality.
“They are the backup!” Fred shouted back.
As if on cue, the forest behind the drones erupted.
A massive, armour-plated fist the size of a boulder slammed down from above, crushing one drone into a fountain of sparks and twisted metal. Bulk, fully velocimorphed, roared, his stone helmet reflecting the blaster fire.
Kord charged into the clearing like a living landslide, his own blaster cannon barking. “You call this a welcoming party? Rude!” he bellowed, firing a Thresher slug that burrowed into the ground before exploding upwards under a second drone, shearing its legs off.
From the other flank, precise, whining shots rang out. Trixie moved from tree to tree with a sniper’s grace, her Tormato, Bluster, transforming into a spiraling disc of concussive sound that rattled the remaining drones, scrambling their targeting systems. “Focus fire on the leftmost unit! Its shield generator is exposed!” Her voice was calm, analytical, cutting through the bedlam.
Pronto peeked out from behind Kord’s leg, fired his blaster wildly into the air, and ducked back. “A valiant stand! They shall sing of Pronto’s fearless suppression fire for eons!”
With the drones suddenly engaged on three fronts, Fred and Eli moved. They shared a look, a complete understanding forged in a hundred cramped duels and early morning sparring sessions. They broke cover together, circling toward Nacho.
The enforcer hadn’t moved from the center. He watched his drones fall with detached interest, his red eyes fixed on the two young slingers approaching him. He holstered his ghoul-blaster with unsettling smoothness.
“The gang’s all here,” Nacho rasped. “How sentimental.”
He didn’t reach for a slug. He moved.
Fred had faced fast opponents. This was different. Nacho’s speed was economical, devoid of waste. He sidestepped Eli’s opening shot—a streaking fireball from Burpy—by a millimeter, the heat singing the shoulder of his vest. He didn’t flinch. Instead, he closed the gap to Fred in two long strides, his clawed hand slashing for Fred’s blaster arm.
Fred pivoted on his still-aching leg, swinging the barrel of his weapon up to block. The claws screeched against the metal. Up close, Nacho’s face was a landscape of sharp angles and cold intent. He smelled of ozone and dry earth.
“He wants you alive,” Nacho hissed, his breath hot on Fred’s face. “A special project. But he didn’t say in how many pieces.”
Fred dropped low, sweeping a leg out. Nacho leapt over it, but the move gave Fred space. He didn’t load a slug. He thrust the butt of his blaster like a club, catching Nacho in the ribs. There was a satisfying thud, but it felt like hitting cured leather.
Nacho grunted, grabbed the blaster barrel, and wrenched. Fred held on, the muscles in his arms corded. He was strong, but Nacho’s strength was unsettling, inhuman.
A flash of blue. Voltage, seeing his slinger in a deadlock, launched himself from Fred’s shoulder. He didn’t go for velocity. He became a living taser, clamping onto Nacho’s wrist with a crackle of furious blue energy.
Nacho’s body stiffened, a snarl tearing from his throat. His grip slackened for a split second.
That was all Eli needed.
“Fred, down!”
Fred ducked. A concentrated beam of molten energy, white-hot and precise, screamed over his head. Scorch, in his velocimorph form, shot past like a meteor, the jet of flame not meant to engulf, but to cut. It seared across Nacho’s chest, slicing through straps and blackening his vest.
Nacho stumbled back, batting Voltage away. The Tazerling zipped back to Fred, buzzing weakly. The enforcer looked down at the smoldering gash across his torso. For the first time, that cold smile faltered, replaced by a flicker of animal rage.
Behind him, the last drone exploded in a shower of parts, felled by a combined shot from Kord’s cannon and Trixie’s Tormato. Suddenly, the clearing was quiet, save for the pop of cooling metal and the gang’s heavy breathing.
They converged, forming a loose semicircle. Five blasters, from Kord’s massive cannon to Pronto’s shaking pistol, aimed at the solitary figure.
Nacho stood in the circle of ruin, his clothes torn and smoking. He looked at each of them: Kord’s defiant glare, Trixie’s cold aim, Pronto’s terrified bravado, Eli’s steady resolve, Fred’s grim determination. He breathed slowly, evenly, as if calculating angles that no longer existed.
The rage in his eyes banked, cooled into something like professional appraisal. He gave a slow, deliberate nod.
“A good first round,” he said, his voice still that dry scrape. “The doctor will be… intrigued.”
With a movement almost too quick to follow, he drew his blaster again. But he didn’t aim at them. He pointed it directly at the ground between his own feet.
“Until next time, Shane Gang.”
He pulled the trigger.
The ghoul slug hit the earth. Instead of spreading corruption, it detonated in a sudden, violent swirl of crimson light and inky, particulate smoke. It wasn’t an explosion of force, but of darkness, swallowing Nacho whole with a sound like a dying gasp.
When the smoke cleared, whipped away by a cavern breeze, the spot was empty. Only a faint, sickly red stain on the moss remained.
For a long moment, no one moved. The adrenaline bled away, leaving a hollow, ringing silence.
“Well,” Pronto squeaked, lowering his blaster. “He was… theatrically gloomy.”
Fred finally let out the breath he was holding. He looked at his leg. The sickly grey was gone, replaced by healthy, if bruised, skin. He looked at Eli. “Doc’s a lifesaver. Literally.”
Eli managed a tired smirk. “He likes you. Don’t let it go to your head.”
Kord stomped over, clapping a giant hand on Fred’s shoulder, then on Eli’s, nearly buckling their knees. “You two are a pair of idiot heroes. I love it. Let’s not do it again.” He looked at the drone wreckage. “Gotta salvage the servos. Good components.”
Trixie walked up to Fred, her analyst’s mask gone. The fear she’d held back was now plain in her eyes. She didn’t say anything. She just reached out and touched his cheek, her fingers cool against his skin, a silent check. He covered her hand with his own, gave a small, firm nod. I’m here.
I’m here.
The words were simple, but they drained the lingering fear from her face. She squeezed his hand once, then let go, the strategist already reasserting herself as she turned to scan the treeline. “He teleported. Or something close to it. That tech shouldn’t exist.”
“It does now,” Eli said, kneeling to examine the red stain on the moss. It sizzled faintly, eating into the organic matter. “And he left a calling card.”
Kord started collecting drone parts, tossing circuitry into a sack with metallic clunks. “Call it a draw. We wrecked his toys, he gave Fred a freezey-foot. I’d say we came out ahead.” He glanced at Fred’s leg. “You gonna make it, kid? Or do I gotta carry you?”
“I’ll walk it off,” Fred said, rolling his ankle. It ached, a deep bone-throb, but it held his weight. The memory of that consuming cold was worse than the pain. It felt like a preview.
Pronto puffed out his chest, surveying the scorch marks and debris. “A tactical retreat by the villain! Clearly, the sight of Pronto’s unwavering courage tipped the scales.”
“Sure, Pronto,” Trixie said, her tone dry but not unkind. She was downloading sensor logs from her blaster. “Your courageous hiding behind Kord’s leg is what did it. Let’s move. This place is compromised, and my scans are picking up residual energy fluctuations. It’s not stable.”
The walk back up the path to the clubhouse was a slow, silent procession, thick with unspoken thoughts. The adrenaline seeped away, leaving a gritty fatigue in its place. Fred’s mind replayed the confrontation on a loop, not the action, but the decisions. The moment Kord’s voice had crackled in his ear, urgent, telling them to fall back.
He’d heard it. He’d ignored it.
Trixie walked beside him, close enough their arms occasionally brushed. She didn’t try to fill the silence. She was just there, a solid presence, her camera occasionally whirring as she documented the path, the damage, the grim set of Kord’s shoulders ahead of them.
Fred watched Eli leading the way. He moved with a familiar, easy grace, but his head was on a swivel, constantly checking the shadows. He was the compass. Always had been. Fred had just been too busy trying to be the engine.
The rusted iron bars of the hideout entrance came into view, a welcome sight that today felt like an indictment. Kord heaved the door open, its groan echoing in the bone-white tunnel. The familiar smells of home—oil, leather, sizzling synth-protein from the forgotten griddle—washed over them. It smelled like safety. It smelled like a place he’d almost drawn death to.
Inside, the others scattered to their routines. Kord dumped his salvage sack by the forge with a grunt. Pronto immediately began recounting his "version" of events to a disinterested cluster of protoform slugs. Trixie went straight to her console, her fingers already flying.
Fred stood just inside the door, the weight of his blaster suddenly immense on his hip. He watched Eli walk over to the map of the 99 caverns, staring at the pin marking Quiet Lawn as if it had personally betrayed him.
The words formed in Fred’s throat, heavy and rough. He’d never been good at this. Apologies were greasing a stubborn gear—you applied the right amount, directly, without fuss. This felt messier.
He crossed the room, the ache in his leg a steady drumbeat. Trixie glanced up from her screen, her eyes soft with understanding, then deliberately looked away, giving him the space.
“Eli.”
Eli turned, his expression neutral, open.
Fred took a deep breath, the air catching on something jagged in his chest. “I owe you an apology.” The words hung there, plain and inadequate. “Since I got here… I’ve been acting like this was my crew. My show. Like I was the one calling the shots back there.”
He rubbed the back of his neck, forcing himself to hold Eli’s gaze. “Kord told us to fall back. It was the right call. Smart. I heard him, and I just… decided we knew better. My decision. That arrogance nearly got us killed. Got you killed.” He gestured vaguely at his leg. “I was out of the fight before it even started because I wanted to stand my ground.”
He paused, letting the hum of the hideout’s systems fill the space for a second. “You’re the Shane. This is your gang. Your family.” The next part was the hardest, because it meant dismantling a piece of his own pride. “It’s your choice. Not mine. I’m the vanguard. I’m not the leader. I forgot that.”
Eli listened, his arms crossed. He didn’t interrupt. When Fred finished, Eli just looked at him for a long moment, his blue eyes appraising. Then he uncrossed his arms and leaned back against the map table.
“You’re right,” Eli said, simply. No anger, no grand forgiveness. “It was a bad call. We got lucky Doc works fast.” He pushed off the table. “And you’re wrong.”
Fred blinked. “What?”
“It’s not my gang.” Eli shook his head, a faint, tired smile touching his lips. “It’s ours. My dad… he built this. But he built it for a team. Not a throne.” He stepped closer, his voice dropping, just for them. “You don’t follow my choices, Fred. We make them. Together. That’s the whole point. You screwed up. So next time, I’ll listen when Kord tells me to run, and you’ll cover our retreat. Deal?”
The tightness in Fred’s chest dissolved, not into nothing, but into something workable, like a seized joint finally loosening. He nodded, a short, sharp movement. “Deal.”
“Good.” Eli clapped him on the shoulder. “Now, stop being so dramatic. You’re freaking Trixie out.”
Across the room, Trixie snorted without looking up. “I’m running a spectral analysis on the teleportation residue. Your masculine bonding is emitting negligible readings.”
Kord laughed, a deep rumble that shook the tools on his workbench. “Told you they’d work it out. Less talk, more eat! Food’s getting cold.”
As Fred moved toward the kitchen, the burden felt different. Lighter. Shared. He wasn't a guest trying to prove his worth anymore. He was part of the mechanism, and a faulty part had just realigned itself.
Trixie’s console chimed a sharp, urgent alarm. All lightness vanished. Her screen flooded with frantic, scrolling glyphs. “Oh, slugs,” she whispered.
“What?” Eli was at her side in an instant.
“The residual energy from Nacho’s exit… it’s not fading.” Her face was illuminated by the harsh blue light. “It’s propagating. Acting like a beacon. And it’s pointing straight back to its source.” She looked up, her eyes wide. “He didn’t just escape. He lit a fuse.”