Under the bruised belly of a dust-choked sky, the Eclipse Hide ruins shimmered like rusted mirages. The Bone Lot sprawled before them—a twisted labyrinth of stacked shipping containers scarred by years of acid winds and plasma leaks. This was a haven for black-market GEAR dealings, where desperation and greed mixed freely with burnt ozone and bootleg chemicals.

In this festering marketplace, the Rustbloom Reavers gathered. Gristle leaned against a crate piled high with cracked visor chips, his Bronze-tier Wolverine Mittens jittering due to faulty wiring. His perpetually extended claw shook menacingly. Twitch paced anxiously nearby, his wiry frame jolting irregularly from malfunctioning Jackrabbit Spurs embedded in his calves. Beside them stood Venin, the group’s self-proclaimed medic, wearing a rust-welded visor and standing confidently beside their prize—a vat of stolen Hydra Skin, bubbling ominously.

“This here’s our ticket out of Bronze,” Venin announced proudly, patting the vat.

Gristle squinted towards the ominous horizon, unease gripping him. “Then why’s my claw itchin’?”

Before Venin could reply, a shadow swept across the scene.

Gilashot landed atop the containers with the precision of an executioner. Her Horned Visor glowed red, scanning each Reaver. “Targets confirmed. Rustbloom Reavers—last seen fencing Labz property,” her voice was silky yet lethal.

Twitch recoiled in terror. “Oh shit—it’s her—”

Dustwalker emerged silently from the shadows, his K-Rat Cloak flowing like sentient dust. Without a word, he dispatched a scavenger with brutal efficiency, smashing the unfortunate soul’s head into the dirt.

“You Labz dogs think we’ll fold? We got gear too—” Venin hissed defiantly, her Gila Bracers sparking weakly.

“Oh, habibi... you got toys,” Gilashot mocked softly.

Gristle lunged fiercely, but Gilashot moved gracefully aside, bored yet deadly. A swift motion from her Venom Vambraces paralyzed him mid-charge. He fell stiffly, helpless.

Twitch bolted, his Jackrabbit Spurs propelling him chaotically. Gilashot’s visor flared briefly—Twitch’s ankle vanished in a flash of red, sending him crashing through a stall.

Venin fired desperately at Dustwalker, but he deftly evaded, forcing her violently into the vat of Hydra Skin. Her screams quickly turned to silence.

Gristle, paralyzed, spat weak curses. Gilashot crouched calmly. “Already did,” she said coldly, before ending him mercilessly.

Dustwalker kicked a smoldering piece of gear disdainfully. “Roaches. Why'd Labz send us?”

Gilashot paused thoughtfully, lifting a delicate, charcoal drawing of a stitched rabbit. “Because this was here.”

Their wrist-comms buzzed urgently. Neo-Pelt's crimson sigil flickered into life, casting ominous light.

AGENT RETRIEVAL: IMMEDIATE. SUBJECT: TYE ROME.

“Bronze Zone trash?” Dustwalker scoffed.

Gilashot tucked the drawing carefully into her belt. “No. Zugun’s trash.”

The hunters climbed aboard their extraction drone, leaving behind only ash, spiraling upward, forming briefly into the haunting shape of a laughing hare.

Mandark’s Stash Room Showdown

Hidden behind Mandark’s ramshackle emporium, the stash room was a chaotic shrine filled with stolen and illicit GEAR. Dangling from meat hooks under a flickering neon sign—"NO REFUNDS (WE EAT YOUR LIVER)"—were gleaming sets of forbidden tech.

Mandark theatrically kicked open a locker, revealing pristine sets of GEAR. “BEHOLD! Finest bootleg counter-hunter tech this side of Neo-Pelt!”

Soule leaned casually against a crate, already spinning another rhyme. Wavi impatiently snatched the Mantis Shrimp Knuckledusters, their sonic energy humming powerfully. “Perfect for shutting up sand-rats like Dustwalker,” he growled.

Cuh grimaced at the Wolfjaw Grippers, testing their bite-force triggers. “These growl when you clench them? Really?”

“Wolf design, genius,” Mandark retorted cheerfully.

Tye, meanwhile, secured a set of Frog Leggings for himself, its delicate membrane un stiffens dramatically. “Hopping’s cool. Tripping, less so,” he murmured dryly.

Soule eagerly donned Lyrebird Mimic Gloves, instantly mocking Mandark’s exaggerated greeting. Mandark tossed him the Flying Fox Cape with a playful glare. “Shut up and look scary.”

Mandark slammed a holographic map onto the table, highlighting a glowing transport route through Bronze territory. “Before Zugun’s lab, we hit this tonight. Two fresh prototypes—Pistol Shrimp and Cuttlefish DNA. Illegal auction. Perfect cover.”

“Why risk it?” Tye questioned cautiously. “We already have what we need.”

“These prototypes cloak and shatter platinum-tier armor,” Mandark explained patiently. “Zugun’s lab has both.”

Cuh’s vest bristled skeptically. “So we’re your bait?”

“We’re geared,” Wavi stated firmly, cracking his knuckles. “And Dustwalker’s mine.”

Tye slammed his hand onto the table decisively, the gauntlet sparking dangerously. “We’re in. But nobody gets left behind.”

A solemn moment passed. Cuh placed a supportive hand on Tye’s shoulder. “Till the end, hermano.”

Breaking the tension, Soule dramatically cleared his throat, launching into an enthusiastic if corny rap:

“Brothers in arms, brothers in GEAR,
We steal big, we fight with fear,
Labz want war? Well come get some—
Mandark’s crew don’t turn and run!”

Silence filled the room briefly, then Mandark erupted with enthusiasm, popping counterfeit champagne and spraying foam dramatically. “MISSION STARTS NOW!”