Arthur ran until the City's emergency beacon was a low, irritating hum behind him. His body was protesting violently. The shoulder wound from the Mimic was deep and jagged, and the strain from using the Reckoning Blade had undone some of The Surgeon's work on his forearm. The pain was sharp, but manageable. He moved into the Salt Flats, a zone of endless, blinding white dust where cover was nonexistent. It was the best place to confirm he wasn't being followed.
He found temporary shelter inside the hollowed-out hull of a rusted transport ship. He cleaned the new wound with his remaining antiseptic and swallowed another one of Elena's restorative potions. He despised the need for them, but he was a pragmatist; self-care was survival.
As the potion worked its magic, the familiar feeling of being watched returned. It wasn't the cold, animalistic presence of a monster; it was something intelligent, persistent, and annoyingly human.
He waited for an hour, blending perfectly into the rust and shadow. His instincts were screaming.
"You know, hiding in a metal box in the middle of the Salt Flats is very predictable, Ash Walker."
The voice was calm, tired, and definitely female. Arthur spun, the Reckoning Blade already in his hand, a black blur slicing the air where the voice had come from.
Elena was standing twenty feet away, dressed not in her full Silver Wing armor, but in heavy, tailored black fatigues. She was holding a small, specialized tracking device that was blinking steadily. Her emerald eyes looked exhausted, and she carried a battered Guild backpack.
"You're slow," Arthur growled, keeping the sword leveled.
"I'm tired. I just spent two days arguing with military bureaucrats who think monsters only move in straight lines," Elena countered, lifting her hands slowly. She ignored the lethal weapon pointed at her. "I didn't bring my sword. I brought supplies."
She slowly unzipped her pack. Arthur watched her every move. She pulled out a fresh, professional medical kit—the kind only the City Guilds possessed—and a foil-wrapped military ration pack.
"Put the sword down. Your shoulder is going to get infected," she said, her tone shifting from Guild Master to a weary, slightly exasperated friend. This was her softer side: stubborn concern.
"I don't need your supplies, Guild Master. Leave," Arthur commanded.
"I'm not the Guild Master right now, Arthur. I'm Elena. And I'm not leaving," she said, dropping the supplies on the salt ground. "You saved those people in the Shattered Plaza. You fought three Mimics silently, alone, with a broken arm, just to protect two dozen nameless civilians. That's not efficiency, that's heroism. And you hate yourself for it."
Arthur's control snapped. He lunged forward, the blade stopping inches from her face. "You don't know a damn thing about me. Don't assign me motives. My action was geometric: eliminate the immediate threat to prevent a larger, more inefficient failure later."
Elena didn't flinch. Her eyes, close up, were kind and utterly certain.
"No, it wasn't," she whispered, not challenging him, but stating a fact. "If it was about efficiency, you would have shot one Mimic and used the noise to scare the civilians away, or just left. You used your body as a shield to keep the silence. That was compassion. And it nearly killed you."
She reached out slowly and gently touched the fresh blood staining his shirt over the shoulder wound. "You are suffering, Arthur. And I refuse to watch the hope of this city bleed out in the desert simply because he is too proud to accept help."
Her sincerity was a heavier weight than any armor. Arthur felt his usual hostility waver, replaced by a deep, uncomfortable ache.
He stepped back, lowering the sword slightly, his eyes burning with anger and confusion. "Why? Why me? You have an entire Guild, a Vice-Guild Master, a system. Go back to your walls."
Elena sighed, looking momentarily lost. She sat down abruptly on the salt ground, ignoring the grime, looking less like a powerful leader and more like a very tired person. This was the moment of awkward, almost cute vulnerability that broke the tension.
"Marcus is amazing. He's the rock of the Guild, which is why I left him in charge," she admitted, running a hand through her dust-matted hair. "But the Guild—it's built on rules, on reports, on committees. It's a slow-moving shield. I built it because I had to. My parents were high-ranking City Defense, and they died because they were following protocol when the first wave hit."
Hint at her background: She didn't choose the Guild Master life; it was a burden forced on her by loss and duty.
"I took over because someone had to hold the line, but I hate the paperwork, the politics, and the slow pace of command. That's Marcus's job. My job is to find the way to win."
She looked up at him, her expression a mix of pleading and steel. "And you are the only one who sees the Mimics for what they are: a problem that needs to be solved with brutal efficiency, not with bureaucracy. You are the fastest tool we have. But you are running on empty, relying on terrible pain management. I'm not asking you to join the Silver Wing. I'm asking to be your logistics and information channel."
"No," Arthur immediately refused, turning his back to her. "I work alone. You bring complications."
"Complications? I bring high-grade meds, intelligence reports, and clean water," Elena shot back, standing up and dusting the salt from her trousers. She then did something unexpected: she picked up the military ration pack, walked up to him, and deliberately, stubbornly, shoved it into his hand.
"Eat it. You look like you haven't slept in a week. I'm not asking for your permission, Arthur. I am simply stating my intent. The fate of the City—your chosen battlefield—is too important for your stubborn pride. You are going to need help, and I am going to be that help, whether you like it or not."
Arthur stared down at the foil pack in his hand. Her touch, brief and forceful, had left a startling warmth on his scarred palm. He looked at her—determined, exhausted, covered in the same grime as him, abandoning her powerful position just to chase him down in the desert. She was maddeningly persistent.
He knew, with the cold clarity of his pragmatism, that he could not kill her, nor could he efficiently intimidate her into leaving. She would simply track him again tomorrow, wasting his precious time and energy.
He let out a long, ragged breath, the sound of pure, defeated irritation.
"Fine," he spat, the word tasting like ash. "You stay away from my operations. You don't interfere. You only bring information. And if you bring trouble, I will cut you loose."
He didn't look at her, but he knew she was smiling.
"Understood, Partner," Elena said, her voice brightened instantly, full of relief and a tiny, triumphant edge. She grabbed her backpack. "I'll bring fresh armor-piercing rounds next time. And maybe a clean shirt."
She paused for a moment, then added, her tone suddenly softening again, showing a glimmer of her true, burdened self. "And, Arthur? Don't die trying to pay a debt. You've earned the right to live, too."
She turned and left, melting back into the white glare of the Salt Flats with surprising speed.
Arthur watched her go. He stood there for a full minute, the untouched ration pack heavy in his hand, the silence no longer empty, but filled with the irritating, persistent sound of complication. He had finally found the one force in this wasteland more difficult to eliminate than a Level 4 Mimic Horde: a determined Guild Master with a rescue complex.
He sighed, ripped open the foil pack, and began to eat. The cooperation had begun.