GARREN: “Well, Rowe, how does it feel?”

ROWE: “I am not capable of feeling anything, Garren.”

Garren nods to himself.

GARREN: “That’s Rowe, alright. Let me rephrase- what are your combat capabilities now that Golt’s had a run at you?”

ROWE: “I am now capable of outputting an enormous amount of blunt force through punches propelled by my elbow rockets. My greatest output was roughly, in Golt’s terms, seven-hundred and thirty PPM.”

Garren glances down to Golt.

GARREN: “PPM?”

Golt has a sinister smile cross his face as he again takes a puff.

GOLT: “Punches Per Minute.”

Garren, although already a pale gray, somehow becomes even more devoid of color.

GARREN: “...God have mercy.”

Golt proudly snickers to himself.

GOLT: “Overclock that sucker and you could far surpass even that. Fella’ could probably melt steel.”

Vlex interjects.

VLEX: “And himself, so let’s not even discuss it.”

GOLT: “Bah, suit yourself. Rowe wouldn’t mind!”

VLEX: “I don’t think Rowe can mind anything, Golt.”

ROWE: “It is true- I am incapable of minding.”

Soon, the sun finds itself set and the bargain bin village of Kreint is shrouded in darkness underneath countless stars. Street lamps that were once landing lights would have cast an uncanny pure white sheen over the town if not for the amber filters placed over top them to encourage a more natural glow. Perhaps half of Kreint would find itself asleep at this hour, with the remaining two quarters doing one of two things; drinking, or wishing that they were.

Our old mercs find themselves a few glasses deep into partaking in the former in the very same dive that Garren waited in prior to the arrival of the Hark. The patrons are more numerous now, and especially more rowdy as the night has progressed. Rowe, of course, is incapable of drinking due to a severe lack of a mouth. Regardless, someone had placed a full glass in front of him within the last hour or so, though none could recall who.