Eons before the Wal was all, there was a vision and a man with a conviction. The Great Sam, or as he was once known, Sam Walton, the founder of Wal-Industries.

When the first residential supermarts were unveiled by The Great Sam to the public, thousands of people, from the down-trodden to the highest echelons of society, flocked together in droves to seek new lives, an eternity of shopping and buying. Under the guidance of the Great Sam, the first Wal Trade Zone was born, an autonomous city unto itself with sovereign rights. Unfortunately , the Great Sam would never live to see the future, for he tragically passed away after drinking over-expired milk.

When the Board took over the reigns of the Wal, the Buy-Out began, a systematic strategy of securing global socio-economic dominance through repealing anti-monopoly and corporation regulation laws. Wal-Industries spread its reach across the globe like a fungus. Lesser businesses and corporations were trampled underneath the heel of the Wal. Soon, health insurance was replaced by Wal-Care insurance. Entire education curriculums were replaced by Wal-School programmes. Power plants were supplanted by Wal-Energy. Wal-Industries was everything and everywhere.

It wasn’t destruction that consumed our planet but rather, chaos. When Wal-Industries went boom, the world went bust. The Third World, a coalition of old governments, rebels and political activists, struck back against the tyranny of Wal-Industries. Violence broke out. Mayhem ensued. Blood was spilt on both sides. Society edged precariously towards collapse. In the end, the supermarts that were once a monument to our excesses became the salvation and future of mankind. On Opening Day, we learned to enjoy our stay in the Wal.

Fortunately, the customers of the Wal are adaptable. The new inhabitants of the Wal spreaded out and formed tribal societies, built enclaves, established settlements. The religious mechanics of Auto N Tires. The reclusive Tron Boys of Electronics. The tribal Pet-Masters of Pets and Animals. The barbarian hordes of Groceries. The antiquated lords of Stationary. These are but a fraction of the Departments that populate the Wal today. Alas, they are beset by those who have lost themselves to the madness of the Wal, the malfunctioning automatons living on past programming and mutated monstrosities in every aisle.

Such is life in the Wal.

Who am I? I am the Greeter, and I have seen dozens of stories and tales of triumph and survival in the bowels of the Wal from the vigil of the security cameras. We now follow a lonely boat sailing through the Spillway, a river of waste that courses through the northern sections of the Wal. Within this vessel lies a crew of Lifters in charge of protecting a mysterious package…….

---

---

Scat didn’t like water. He stared back into the brackish depths of the flowing currents and a soup of bobbing trash stared back. Where a shopper would see a plain cleanup, he’d see a thousand different jaws gnashing at him when he turned his back.

However, the two fools near the stern of the turtle-fish had other ideas about caution.

One of the pair laughs out loud, his face a high-pitched red. His mouth splits into a drunken grim as he takes another sucking swig from the test of his baby bottle. “ I swear, one of these days, Keenex, I’m gunna get me a discount. A real good 10% or 20%......”

Behind him was presumably his friend. A Kleaner. His gas mask did little to hide the concern in his voice. “Oh, for Sam’s sake, Samow, get off there before you hurt yourself.” He reaches out a hand to catch his friend before he can tumble headfirst into the frothing waters below.

“ Ge… get ‘way fwem me. Look at me, man….. I’m a dire goldfish.” The drunken shopper flapped his arms like a dire pidgeon, nearly falling off the deck of the ship.

Scat turned away from the scene and instead, looked out towards the majesty of the Spillway. They were approaching a tributary that sliced around the carcass of an gargantuan Shelf that was crumbling by the second. The scotch-taped hull cut through the streams that poured out of the Restroom Basins. The engine hastily chugged along the river, with only the fabled power of Wdee Fortee keeping the vessel afloat.

There was a hiss from his side. Paw’s ears were stuck flat to his side, baring his buck-tooth teeth and raising his hackles. Brushing his fur did little to soothe the rabbit.

Scat signed.Hopefully this package would earn him enough to continue on the Pilgrimage. He’d already sacrificed so much to reach this point

---

This place reminded him of home.

Traversing the waters; It was something Blöthmerche was actually familiar with. It was a necessity to sail in order to gather supplies or commit to raids, and in his time as a warrior he had taken many journeys into the Toy Department for loot. The boats back home were much simpler, however: They would row those boats with oars, but this boat was different: It hummed, and pressed forward on it's own. He had a faint idea of engines, but no real idea on how they worked. It made the journey much simpler for this large ship, though. Back home it'd take a lot more effort to transport this many people.

His time outside his Department had been... Revealing, in a few ways. He had been tested just to get to this point, and there were many things in the Wal that he came to realize might be higher on the food chain. For the moment, at least: A real hunter did not submit to predators, only adapted. And that's exactly what Blöth would do: Survive, adapt, overcome. While there was no glory in cowardice, tactical retreat was occasionally a necessity: He wasn't stupid enough to think otherwise.

The cultures beyond his Department; The people here, just as an example: They were very foreign to him, and showed just how far the Wal went. All of these people, different walks of life, now aboard this same vessel and looking to complete their own goals. He wondered if any of them had a goal like his own? To find glory, and return to his people to be praised. Or if it was something lesser, or perhaps even more?

Of course, there was one very simple thing that pulled everyone together: Payment. Even the Dorf knew that, he'd taken part in his share of trade deals back home. He wasn't very good at bargaining, but hey, he got what he wanted, right? Some of the crap those traders wanted, he couldn't use anyways: Someone here could probably tell he had been scammed, but as far as the young man knew? He'd gotten a good deal.

Sitting down, Blöthmerche pulled a book from his bearge: A somewhat older copy of his religious texts. It was a bit faded here and there, but the Dorf knew the words by heart; He didn't need every single letter clear as day for him. He flipped through the pages, arriving at a section of the book dedicated to Deities: The gods that even those in the texts worshiped. Most Dorfen folk picked a deity to follow and pray to often; And his just so happened to be Cayden Cailean.

Cayden Cailean; A man of freedom and adventure. Maybe he drank too much at some point, but Blöth wasn't one to judge a man on his drinking if it lead him to taking a quest to become a Deity: The Test of The Starstone... The young Dorf wondered if such a test was something he'd be able to take one day? His Ancients had always told him that it wasn't possible for a Dorf to become a Deity, but if Cayden could do it, why not him? He was skilled; A man of combat! Surely if anyone was deserving of such a thing, it'd be a worthy warrior like himself?

The Dorf was merely kidding himself. He was happy as an adventurer; Such a position was no place for him. One day he'd be an Ancient himself, and guide his Fort along. Becoming a Deity would disgrace his own god, and the others worshiped by his people. He would not disrespect them in such a manner, he'd rather be a servant of the gods than one to rule over his fellow man on the ground. The thought was nice, though.

The young man laughed to himself; His voice was a bit high for his age, and his height was a bit low. He'd seen the looks he got from the others aboard the vessel; They thought him a child. He might be young, but he wasn't that young; And he was experienced, too. Surely him being hired was proof of this? Though, judging by the stares, he assumed not.

While he was willing to beat someone to death for insulting him, he had a decent tolerance before getting to that point: The Ancients had made it clear he wouldn't be seen the same out here, and it was showing. Maybe he could prove himself among his new peers; A vicious battle was what they needed. One where he could spill the blood of enemies before the eyes of the Lifters working beside him.

For the moment, things were quiet. So he'd have to wait to prove such a thing.

Blöthmerche took the time to pray; Book in his lap, his hands on the open pages. The short, colorful individual was silent as he silently prayed once again for safe journey; Just like he had before leaving his Fort in the first place. Though he intended to be silent, a few words did slip away as he went on...

_{"All-Father, gift me safe passage and freedom to chose..."}

Blue cursed under her breath as the 'Tron in her hands sparked viciously. "Great Sam take this fucking thing." She threw it over the side in a sudden fit of rage, and a minor electric explosion echoed from behind them.

"Easy there, kid." Bonk chided gently, but firmly. "No use getting bent out of shape so early on the trip."

She glanced at him, all small form and bright smile. "And I suppose you think you could do better, eh?"

"'Course not," Bonk said, and his smile grew. "But let's say, hypothetically, that I had decided to drop the second wire there to a ground, instead of leaving it in the system like it is right now..."

A scowl formed on her lips. "We're on a boat, if you haven't noticed. Ground it to what?"

"Easy, easy," Bonk said, raising his hands to placate her. "We won't be on the boat forever, right?"

Reluctantly, she ceded the point. It was probably best for her to take a moment to cool off, before she threw something actually important into the Spillway next. Time to make some friends.

She looked up at the others, and her bravado died immediately. Were these the friends she wanted to make? They were all so...different. Some of them looked almost normal, but some of them...well, she'd never met a Dorf she'd liked. She glanced at Bonk, who waved his hands and gave her a thumbs up.

Fine. Blue sighed, setting Bonk in one of her bag's pockets and shuffling over the others. The boat rocked beneath her feet, and the chemical smells around her bolstered her resolve. She would not want to fall in. Eventually she settled by the others. "Where's everyone from?" She winced internally--she was no good at this small talk crap.

---

---

He did not like the Spillway. Growing up, even as a Mechanic-to-be and not one of Autontire’s common folk, water was something to be used sparingly. As such he never learned to swim, and with his armour he doubted he’d even float; not that he’d even want stick a foot in the foul smelling sludge that was the Spillway, even if he could swim. Instead he sat in the common area of the vessel he found himself on, pack beside him and helm resting on a table, once more reading the words of the Prophet Haynes to help calm him.

He knew the words by heart now, his Manual once pristine when he set out, was now tattered and travel stained, the simple act of opening the book and scanning the holy words doing much to calm him. Mind settling, he thought back to what led him here; the job for him was merely a means to and end, a way for him to keep moving forward on his quest. He’d found the shelves in many Departments would gladly pay a traveler in food, drink or accommodation in exchange for assistance. He had gone so far and been given so much simply by helping fix wayward mechanical devices, or lending a strong arm to protect a small shelf from the predations of Cultists or other lower forms of life.

His mind wandered as he contemplated his life so far, when a voice brought him back to the present; a young ‘Tron girl was attempting conversation. While Silverado was certainly content to sit with his own thoughts for company, he wasn’t adverse to getting to know the others he was sharing the journey with.

”Hello, young one,” He said with an affable smile. ”I am Brother Silverado Mechanic-Roadbound from far off Autontire.”

He studied the ‘Tron openly for a few more moments. He’d encountered her people from time to time, either traders or raid parties, in other Departments, but he had never ventured into their own aisle. ”Tell me,” He said eventually. ”Have you ever heard any tales of a mighty army equipped much like I am, near your home? It would have been from many model years before your own makers births. They were a great Crusade raised to cast down the vile Smilers, but sadly they were lost to the Wal. I seek to find what happened and to bring their warranties to peace before the Big Three.”

Z-Grip had claimed a quiet corner of the ship and was undisturbed by the shameful antics of the drunken shopper and his friend. However, she noted their boorish behavior with great disdain. The crew members and other passengers had gone to great pains to give the penja a wide berth. It was clear from her dark garb and fashionable hood, neither of which she ever removed, that the young woman was a penja. Stories of penjas had long since traveled beyond the Stationari Shogunate and the penjas were rightfully feared and respected. Even the insane Nevergrown knew to avoid the shadowy warriors. Z-Grip did not know if any of her own stories had accompanied her onto the ship, but she knew from experience that the large, brutal blade that she kept strapped across her back would preserve her peaceful solitude.

The young penja was seated with folded legs and hands. Her back was resting against a strong plank of wood and her eyes were half-closed and half-open in mediation. Her gaze cast downward as she contemplated the many mysteries of the pen blade, but she remained aware of her surroundings. Had the captain sought out her opinion, she would have cut down the red-faced shopper with her paper cutter blade in a heartbeat. But she had not been asked. And the captain had not acted. It was a shameful display.

The foreigners from the other departments did not understand honor. They had no concept of honor. They had no words for honor. They could not see honor. They did not feel honor as it was written with the red ink of their blood. Blind as they were, the foreigners could not recognize the irrevocable spiritual ruin that the drunkard's continual existence slowly inflicted upon not just the crew, but the passengers of the ship. The ignorance of the gaijin pained Z-Grip.

It was lamentable that she had fallen so low so as having to sell her blade to such dishonorable scoundrels. Were she still counted among the most honorable Stationari she would have carved a nine by nine grid onto her abdomen with her pen blade, completed the puzzle, and committed sudoku on the very spot. But she was not. Not any more. She was a roamnin. She had no honor. Only shame. She was a pitiful creature cursed to wander beyond the walls of the Stationari Shogunate. She had no honor, but she remembered. She knew. The heart of a true warrior beat beneath her breast. Unlike the gaijin that surrounded her she knew the way of the warrior. She still followed the code of Brushido, the way of the painting warriors, once championed by the Sword Saint Rembrandt. She had no honor, but she knew enough to feel shame.

Every day, the gaijin strayed further from the light of Brushido.

Swingline Classic Cut Pro called for blood and Z-Grip felt dark thoughts of violence move through her as she struggled to keep the blade wrapped in cloth.

Only the sight of the colorful Dorf pouring over a strange book stayed the hand of the penja and prevented her from delivering the righteous fury of her blade upon the gathered barbarians. Although the pitiful creature looked to be only slightly taller than a child, Z-Grip had encountered his kind before and knew better than to underestimate the Nevergrown and their slightly more civilized cousins, the Dorfs. Rising in a sudden gust of motion and soaring across the deck of the ship as if the wind herself the penja approached to just beyond a sword's length of the diminutive fellow. Showing the appropriate level of respect, Z-Grip coughed politely to draw his attention, and then offered a short, polite bow before she spoke.

"Greetings, Dorf-san. I am Z-Grip of the Zebra Clan Corporation. I would ask the name of a gaijin that yet remembers the value of words in ink and carefully forged paper. I feel obliged to add, that it gladdens my heart to discover that you, one of the tiny toy-wielders, are literate. May I humbly ask what ancient tome of knowledge it is that you hold in your child-like hands?"

^@AmpharosBoy

---

_{"... Graces, Cayden."}

Blöthmerche finished his prayer, hands rising from his book to study the pages with his sight rather than spirit. What better to do on a quiet voyage, than to read the scriptures which guided him in life? The Dorf flipped the page, knowing the words by heart, but still indulging in the explanations and images of his book. Memories of his youth flashed by as he recalled his original fascination with the pages; When his sheet was created, crafting him into the young man he was now...

Apparently the time for memories was over, however: A cough caught his attention, causing him to look up. His view covered by what sent him into alarm behind his mask; The Penja. While there weren't a lot of The Wal's tales passed through his Fort, traders had spoke of these warriors before. Even some Ancients had tales of their might; They were warriors to be respected for that alone. Having never interacted with one of these warriors, however, the young Dorf was uncertain of what was going to happen.

Her bow was then noted, calming his suspicions about the whole situation.

As she spoke, Blöthmerche more came into realization that his was a peaceful encounter: She seemed, in fact, interested in his choice of reading; And though it was the only book he ever read in his life _{Aside from the expansion logs recovered over the years} He was happy to talk about it with someone of a seemingly respectable nature.

"Greetings, benigh fighter." The Dorf greeted, closing his book and pushing himself up to a standing position. Though even then, the young man noticed a difference in their height. This was, of course, expected: He was quite a short one, even among his peers. The only way he saw to progress was to introduce himself to her, as well: "I am Blöthmerche Assiösales, Warrior of Fort Pathfünder. A love of tomes, as you speak, is common among my people. This tome, specifically." Lifting it lightly in front of his colorful plastic chest-plating, a few of his fingers brushed against the cover: It was fading, but on it read "Pa hf n der" as far as the common eye could see.

"This is a religious book of my people: The very foundations of my homestead were built upon these pages, allowing my ancestors to free themselves from the insanity of the Nevergrow to form a truer society." He seemed keen on giving an explanation, and truly he was: He never got to talk to people about his beliefs, this was a new experience for him and he wanted to reveal as much as her curiosity asked of him. He carefully opened the guidebook, fingers sliding through the pages as if he had knowledge of them without keenly observing. He had flipped through this book almost as often as he went to battle: He knew it well, and the noises of the pages skipping... He could follow them and find where he was with ease. A small talent, but extremely smart for a person of his department.

"It taught us the way the world used to be; How society was before things were just The Wal. There were trees; Roads of dirt, seas of water that'd make this Spillway look like nothing. Villages of wood and stone, people much different from you and I: Some tall and green, others small, and full of fur; Walking on two legs like we do. These fascinating times are lost to us, as are most of the creatures that the tome tells us existed. Now all I can trust in is the Deities; Why don't you take a look for yourself?"

There was plenty unsaid, but the Dorf did not want to just talk her ear off more than he already was; He had some semblance of self-awareness that allowed him to not make a complete ass out of himself, at least... Yet.

He pulled what looked to be a page of some sort out of the book, before offering the open tome to the Penja before him. While she could touch the book, he could not allow her to touch what he took: His Character Sheet. It was important to him not only has a memory of his past, but also as a guiding line for his future.

The Penja would probably look over the book: The page he left it on was one of the stranger ones of the whole book: Talk of stats, modifiers, and bonuses to dice rolls. While she may see it differently, he saw those as defining traits of a person: And if questioned further, he would answer about them. He offered, however, a momentary respectful silence for the tall woman so she could browse the book for herself without his constant chatter and intervention.

---

Gazing into the vile waters- well, if one could even call them that- below, Halo began to think that maybe there was some truth to what everyone back in Health and Beauty said about the rest of the wal. The filth below looked downright dangerous, and was beyond unpleasant, especially for someone who grew up in maybe one of the cleanest places in this Sam forsaken realm. Everyone had always told him the rest of the wall was disgusting, but they figured it was at least a little exaggerated.

But this place really was pretty nasty. Even the people looked... worse for wear. Especially a few particular individuals. The drunken stumbling fool, of course, but that was just any particularly drugged up FabGlam after a particularly wild party, not so unusual. Less familiar was the wildest creature they'd ever laid eyes on. A man with some sort of feral rabbit creature, who's hair had become a nest for all sorts of little bugs it looked like. Seeing that, Halo recalled their decision to shave their head. They could see now it was maybe the best decision they made, at least so the wouldn't succumb to such a lice-filled fate.

Deciding not to ponder the filth any more, they looked around to see if there was anything else interesting happening. A small group had formed around a little.. Dorf? That’s what they were called right? The little person was decked out in the gaudiest armor they'd ever seen. In pristine condition, that might be a good look, honestly. But around them was some of the better looking people on the ship, a Penja Warrior and a very fine looking gentleman. The two dudes were explaining things to the Penja, and Halo took a moment to listen into their conversation. They didn't feel very equipped to join in at the moment, but were sure looking for someone to talk to, so they continued their glace across the ship, finally landing on a gal awkwardly trying to make small talk but not looking very happy about it.

They recognized some tron on her- although most of the stuff they had in H&B was purely decorative, it was somewhat familiar. They made their way over near her, giving an attempt at a friendly smile.
"Hey hun. How's it going?" They hadn't paid attention to her initial question, and honestly didn't care. "I love your hair," They gestured towards the small strands of lights threaded in with her hair. "If I still had any, I'd love someone to hook me up with some of that." Halo laughed pleasantly, more at themselves than anything, and continued, "I take it we're all headed the same way, so let me ask where you're from instead."

---

"Breathe for a sec, Blue." Bonk's muffled voice from her pocket did not convince her to breathe. She hated small talk. Her extremely limited number of friends had all been forged through professional relationships turned drinking buddies, or fire-forged through trials of the Wal. This...was torture.

Still, it was something. She looked up at the newcomer. FabGlam, androgynous. Shaved head, absurd eyebrows. Fairly par for the course where Health and Beauty was concerned. She ignored Bonk's words: he was never loud enough for anyone else to hear, and she didn't want anyone to think she was crazy or anything. "Used to be from Elec. Then they left me behind."

Well that was dark. Blue kicked herself mentally, noting with some irritation that her foot refused to stop tapping. "Sorry, sort of a sore subject. I'm from here and there, now. Sort of a traveler, y'know? I help people with their problems, and sometimes they help me with mine too." She pulled out Cazette, the crossbow, and carefully set it on her lab. It was unloaded, of course, but good trigger-discipline never hurt anyone. "Problems were made to be solved."

Something about that was hilarious to Bonk, who laughed through the fabric with a hearty guffaw. After a second, she laughed too. So much dramatic positioning! "I really just make incredible things for people who pay me. That's my talent."

"What's a FabGlam doing so far from Health and Beauty?" Bonk asked. Blue paused: it was a good question, so she repeated it, adding "No offense, but aren't you meant to be lording over your cul--sorry, Uglies?"

Z watched with great interest as the Dorf removed a paper from the tome before he handed it to her. Her interest in the secrets of others was purely professional. She had found that what others tried to hide could be valuable if discovered and brought to the attention of the right buyer. And while it was distasteful to engage in such subterfuge, it would not impede her honor. There were no alliances between the Stationari of her clan and those of the diminutive rainbow warrior.

Printed across the pages in faded ink she saw familiar numbers and symbols. Formulas of the ancients and blessed statistics. The joy she felt at seeing these began to fade as she heard the strange chromatically intense warrior explained the true purpose of the tome. His stories of the world before the fall was obvious fiction. Earth, clean earth, seas, endless bodies of water, and forests, vast stretches of healthy trees, were the visions of dreamers lost to their own desires.

Worse, Z began to realize that within the tome were hallowed mathematics twisted for a purpose she could not clearly divine. Whatever the intention of the ancients had been in creating such a corrupted compilation of statistics, the results of their powerful curses were readily becoming apparent to the young Penja. Z could only sadly conclude that Clan Pazio, powerful as they must have been to write down such powerful magic, must truly have hated the ancestors of the Dorf to curse them with such madness and inflict them with such permanent foolishness. She wondered idly what the Dorfs of this place, Fort Pathfünder, had done, what dishonor they had committed to merit such a punishment.

She would have challenged the rainbow warrior that stood in front of her right then and saved herself from any spiritual harm by separating his large head from his small body had another passenger not interjected at that very moment. Composing herself and restraining her sudden need for violence, Z managed a quick, but polite bow in the direction of the newcomer. Casting a critical eye over the sharply dressed stranger, Z considered that he was exceedingly well dressed for a fellow Lifter or traveler of the shelves. His queries directed at the Dorf were of little interest to her, but she recognized bits and pieces of what he asked. The ranged weapon that he produced was of much greater interest than his uninvited jabbering. It seemed to be a fine weapon forged by a capable hand. Clothing was truly a strange and mysterious department and one far more martial than she had been lead to believe.

When the dandy offered her his hand, Z simply shook her head from side to side. "Please excuse, but no hands. It is not proper."

Z was glad that the flush of color that painted her cheeks a gentle shade of red was not apparent beneath her mask. She did not want the gaijin to get any ideas. Their thoughts were rarely pure and their actions even less so. They forgot their honor so quickly when faced with their own base needs. Mere whispers from the flesh was enough to lead them astray and to seduce them. They were weak and they lacked discipline. The amount of shame they should have felt at their mere existence was truly terrible. She would bring them honor with her sword, as she had always done.

The comments directed at her brought Z into the conversation for the first time. She watched Havalock with new suspension. He spoke of her department with certainty. As if he had been there and as if he had encountered Stationari before. What manner of foreigner was he to have been granted access to the Stationary Shogunate? And if he had not, what foreign devil was he to have faced her brethren in honorable combat. "Many of the honorable warriors from my department require the peerless armor of folded paper to keep them unharmed in battle. I do not."

Taking a step back and turning towards Blöthmerche without losing sight of Havalock, Z bowed once more towards the Dorf and handed the ancient tome carefully back to the Dorf. "Thank you, Warrior of Fort Pathfünder. There is much in this book for a humble Stationari such as myself to consider. I will retire to meditate on the words you have honorable shared with me."

Well practiced as she was in the art of deception, Z was confident that the Dorf would detect nothing in her tone of voice that would betray her alarm at the fevered scribbling which he and his people had come to worship. She was less certain if she could manage to politely escape the two strangers on the confined deck of the ship. Although she wished to extricate herself from situation, she had no wish to be impolite. Her honor would not allow it. Not yet.

^{@AmpharosBoy@ClocktowerEchos}

---

The Dorf found himself becoming momentarily distracted as he passed his Guidebook to the Penja, turning to eye the newcomer to the conversation. A tall man; One standing above Blöthmerche himself, for certain. He was somewhat surprised by the questioning, but listened intently as the man, Sir Havalock, went on about a certain Fort. Skysem? Not one he was familiar with, but the Toys department was a big place. Forts across the waters and beyond. Many kept secluded, especially the ones with talents they could sell. But the Nevergrow could always find them, no matter how well you hid. They were an eventually, not a possibility.

Before he knew it, the taller man had placed a device into his hands; Something that the Dorf hadn't seen before personally, but had heard of in some tales. He turned the item in his hands, observing it with curiosity. While he had no true idea of what it was capable of, there were obvious signs of craftsmanship. This had come from a Fort? A Dorf, no less... Truly a master craftsperson of their homeland. Respectable, even if Blöth didn't understand what he was looking at.

"I apologize," Blöthmerche began, disappointment in his tone. "The Fort you speak of is of no familiarity to me. But if such a master of craft was a Dorf, I can assure their they kept their finest wares on the homestead. Wherever their home may be, they must be well fortified. I can only hope that they carried their honor and defended their home. The Nevergrow are a horrible threat to all Forts, I have experienced their dedication to our destruction first-hand on many occasions. With crafts such as this, I am certain they must have prevailed in their defense."

Listening to Havalock speak, he came to the realization that the man was quite a historian; He knew quite a lot, for someone clearly foreign from his department. The Dorf knew this as the sign of a true adventurer; They had tales and knowledge of many places, he was quite impressive in his display. He must've seen places far and wide; Across the shelves of the Wal. Blöth could only wish to be able to spout knowledge and have tales like this man; The dorfs back home would love to hear him talk, Blöth imagined.

"You speak the truth," The Dorf added. "Fort Pathfünder takes pride in it's might, and many of us seek out adventures to become heroes among our people: This quest is my own, as of now. I seek great glory and success, and a prize of great worth to return to my home so I will be hailed as a Hero until my time as even an Ancient expires." Though, his time would expire faster than most... His lack of Age-B-Gone use will lead to him dying years and years before others of his time; Even now, some he had trained with as a child were still fifteen or sixteen, while he was nearly approaching his twenties. It was sad, but the Dorf warrior accepted it to be this way.

He watched the two in front of him interact; Not thinking much of the exchange. The Penja spoke in a way that displayed confidence, and respect. While the gentleman was rambling like the storytelling Ancients back home. It disinterested him, leading to him sticking a finger into one of the holes in his mask to instead scratch the side of his head, until the Penja turned attention to him again.

Accepting his holy scriptures back, he offered a nod; Taking notice of her respectful words. Any extra intent behind what she said was beyond him; He was simply taking things at face value. "Benign Penja, I do realize the words of my people can be considered overburdening. Your respect rather than repulse is met with my gratitude, you show honor that should be well regarded."

Realizing his hands were getting full, he was quick to turn back to Sir Havalock, returning his precious charger. "I appreciate you showing me this expert craftsmanship, Sir Havalock. I apologize for not being able to provide much information regarding Skysem, but I have faith that a Fort that provides quality items such as this will have no issue pushing back the horrid Nevergrow."

“ This is Wal-Industry Patented Public Address Intercom Sector 24 - Alpha - 90, here to tell you how to always have a happy stay with low prices! To all our dear customers, we at Wal-Industries are also pleased to announce a new line of promotions for our summer sale. Earn your chance for a 75% discount on our Water-Sports department and a free trip to the Walton Autobiographical Museum with every purchase of a Wal-Pachinko ticket. The next song on our trademark playlist is the classical ‘ Smiley and You’ by Wal-Music, guaranteed by our medical professionals to boost both your purchasing frequency and dopamine levels by 15%.

And remember - BBRRTTSZKJDTTTTT”

Scat turned the plastic, cheery tone of the Piaee Drone into electric gurgling with a nonchalant thwack of his frisbee-rang. The Piaee’s was sputtering, its eth-powered motors clipped and trailing smoke, crash landing near the eclectic group of Lifters that had assembled on the dock. Poor thing. He had to go put it out of his misery. He shoved two fingers into his mouth and whistled for Paw to follow him.Stomping down the stairs with the grace of a dire-pidgeon, Scat’s eyes were dead-set on finishing off his prey, not paying any attention to the other Lifters.

Laying on the ground, the Piaee sputtered out more nonsense about ‘coupons’ and ‘stock growth’ that Scat couldn’t comprehend. A squish from his corgi-leather boots silenced it. He picked up its silvery gray corpse, picking through its innards to see if there was anything edible. Nothing. He tossed it over the deck into the waters of the Spillway before regarding the Lifters before him.

“ Sorry. Metal parrot was too loud. Owner taught him bad tricks.” He raised back his leather jerkin boots, wiping off grease and battery fluid off with his black ridden palms. “ Name is Scat of Tribe Mannapro. I is Pet-Master. How you today? I - PAW!”

Paw had begun nibbling at the apparel of each Lifter that was standing nearby, taking chunks out of the dorf’s boots and bites of the penja’s clothing like lettuce. Scats hurriedly crouched down and forced Paw’s jaw open, pulling wads of saliva-coated fabric out while reprimanding his Pet.

“ Bad Paw. Naughty Paw. No eating clothes! “ Scats dug his hand around into Paw’s cheek.” Bad for your health.”

Paw gave him the stink-eye. The Pet-Master shot an apologetic look at the Lifters around him.

“ Sorry. Paw hungry most of time. Spillway only living with dire-crabs and seamon-“

A sudden rumble followed by the sound of splintering wood made Scat tense up like a statue. Perhaps, it was just sea-sickness playing with his mind. He looked to his side and saw Paw chittering anxiously. No, it wasn’t. A frothing tide of pink foam grew on the left side of the turtle-fish, coating it in a sickly aroma that smelled of baby lotion. Cleaners and sailors dashed around them in a frenzy as orders were barked out rapidly. Slowly, the ship began to tilt to its left, barrels of cargo tumbling down and sleeping sailors dropping out of their hammocks. Scat struggled to stay on his two feet, Paw biting his collar to keep him from falling overboard.

Out of the corner of his eye, in the misty air-conditioned fog that permeated the Spillway, another turtle-fish emerged.

---

“ Raise the sails! Pull up the anchor! I want all men on decks to start bailing water as soon as possible!” Tidepod, second helmsman of the S.S Detergent flinched as his Captain’s spittle-infused commands nearly burst his eardrum. Unlike most ordinary Captains who led their crews with ramshackle inefficiency, Captain Munch was the only one in Tidepod’s experience as a Cleaner sailor to value discipline and his tools for enforcing it was a diaphragm built like a sauce bottle and a mouth full of disgusting swears that not even the holy Kleenex could purge. So, bouts of loud shouting on the deck of the Detergent were a daily occurrence.

However, whatever was happening right now wasn’t a daily occurrence. The bridge was pure chaos as the ‘Tronic LED screen flashed damage reports across a blueprint layout of the Detergent.

Shoppers operated by buying habits. Everyone. Tidepod had made use of that fact throughout his lifetime and Captain Munch of the S.S Detergent would not be an exception to that rule today. He learned from experience to learn what emotions the captain was undergoing by whatever drink he had on hand.

When Captain Munch of the Cereai Naval Boxes was happy, he would usually drink a bottle of Kewlaid.

When Captain Munch of the Cereai Naval Boxes was unhappy, most sailors would find him with a bottle of Schnapps by his chair.

Right now, he was favouring a Diet Coke. Translation: extremely angry. Captain Munch’s blue tricorn hat was a beacon that united the crew together, as he continued to bark out orders. Tidepod noticed that the veteran sailor’s hand was shaking on his personalised gold-encrusted candy cane.

“Helmsman Tidepod, damage report!” Captain Munch shouted.

“ A hull breach on our portside, sir!” Tidepod replied back. “ Looks like a bath bomb. I’ll send men down there to seal the leak as soon as possible!”

He looked back. The Captain was pacing back and forth, muttering to himself before pointing his cane towards him. “ Make that Tron go down with them as well. And start arming the starboard toliet paper pults. I fear his may be part of a larger - “

A lookout panicked yell caught his attention. “Captain! Ship on our twelve!” He pulled up a periscope to look closer at the ship.

“ What flags they be flying, my boy?”

“ Oh god, “ The lookout’s face paled. “ it’s the Mis-”

He paused as the side of the pirate vessel flashed yellow, sound issuing a second later. Eyes widening, Tidepod realised too late as the glass shattered and his world became acrid smoke and pain. The bleach devoured him, sloughing off his flesh. His lungs were shredded apart in the toxic smog, blood pouring out of his gums as the bridge crew around him suffered the same fate. Bleach. Death was finally granted to him as the bridge toppled off the tilting Detergent, delivering his body into the embrace of the churning Spillway.

---

It was a miracle that the S.S Detergent was still standing at this point. The bath bomb corroded away at the portside, reducing the toilet-pults and its only line of defence to sludge. Crates of groceries, barrels of Pharma-Spice, even a plunger-ballistae slid and slipped across the shifting deck.The opposing pirate vessel, flag beared for all to see with a muscular arm gripping a spray bottle, was moving in at a steady pace for the kill, smelling fish food in the water. Scats found purchase onto the mast, hanging on as the Detergent began to sail uncontrollably in an arc straight into a jutting wreck of a massive cracked glass tank. He held on as the frame of the Detergent bent and buckled, slowing to a halt.

That had stopped the sinking, but they were still in the middle of the Spillway with no land in sight. The boat of pirates was close enough now that Scats could see their faces leering and taunting them, brandishing NERF foam cutlasses and matchbox muskets. A helmsman yelled down from the smoking remnants of the bridge.

“ All right, listen, you no good bunch’ a closing down shoppers. Captain Munch is dead. It’s time to do yer job and guard deh thing that’s gonna keep ya loaded in muuneh for seasons to come. Now, I can’t guarantee you’ll get a bonus on your contracts but if you don’t do what I say, we’ll end up in Captain Crunch’s locker.”

“ Tron, we need you to go into the Hold to secure the package. It’s been locked in a Tronic safe for its own protection but it’s gonna go down with this ship if we don’t get it out. ” The Cleaner tossed a roll of blue towel towards the denizen of the Electronics Department. “ Take the Sham-Wow. You’ll need it. The Pet-Master and the Clothing shopper can go with you for your own protection.”

“ The rest of us need to defend the ship while they help pump up the lifeboats.” The helmsman pointed over his shoulder where a couple of sailors were busily pumping air into slowly expanding giant rubber duck inflatable floaties. “ Hopefully, we can get out before they board - “

The entire ship fell silent as a five-clawed hand the size of a salt shaker sprouted from the middle of the floorboards. Then, another one appeared. Then, there was the other. In several heartbeats, a horde of miniscule sized mutants had filled the deck. The smallest were the size of Nike shoes while the biggest reminded Scat of an inbred Nevergrow. The similarities between the creatures and the crew begun and ended at the amount of limbs they both had along with the general shape that everyone associated humans with. Their webbed hands and feet were just the least most disturbing aspect of them. A single bulbous, pupiless eyes stared blankly towards them whilst mandibles clicked and chirped hungrily, a barbed tongue rolling out of its distended mouth that reached from its chin to its chest. Glittering furred chitin plates in the hues of the famed Skittles covered bags of mucous skin that sagged like an over-sized shirt on their wiry skeletons. Paw began huddling against the side of Scat's legs, fur shaking not in fear but in anticipation of what was to come. They were everywhere. Crouching on the mast. Prowling the deck. Hanging with their barbed tails by the railing. Standing on two legs by the overturned scattered piles of cargo.

Watching.

Waiting.

Licking.

Drooling.

Then, the Sea-Monkeys leaped to feast, snarling and biting rabidly.

“ Blasted Sea-Monkeys!” The helmsman cursed, entangled with several Sea-Monkeys before shouting towards Blue, Havalock and Scats. “ The three of you! Go now!”

Chaos unfolded in front of Scat and he was completely lost. It was a mire of tangled bodies, flailing limbs and blood being sprayed everywhere with a myriad of Sporting Goods. The only choice was to be a part of the Sport and not escape it. He let the Frisbee-Rang fly, knocking back a sea-monkey that was jumping towards him with its filthy paws splayed outwards. Meanwhile, Paw was mauling one of them like a chew toy, chomping down on the fragile neck of the verminous creatures.

Drawing three slow breaths, Z-Grip pulled her paper cutter sword from her back, tossing the protective canvas that had covered it over the face of an approaching sea monkey. In a swing that split atoms in twain, the penja cut the sea monkey into two perfectly equal portions.

During the chaos, the Dorf had lost hold of his holy texts and character sheet; Both having ended up sunken into the deep liquid toxins below. This caused great pain to him, but now was not the time to grieve even if his loss was great. This was a large assault; And while there were others to aid in handling the situation, his loss pushed him to aid in the defense of the Detergent post-haste.

'Gods, witness me.' Young Blöthmerche thought to himself, processing through the mess. His objective was made clear; Protect the vessel by exterminating every threat in sight. While they were being approached from afar, a current issue were the horrid little creatures preventing the Dorf from taking any shots at them with his ranged weapon. Damned creatures, he would purge them back into the Spillway below for thinking he was mere bait, when truly he was the predator they ought to have feared.

Frame club in hand, the monkeys weren't a enemy to fear: Just to overcome. A firm swing at one of the approaching beasts caused a horrid gushing sound as it's ugly eye was smashed in through the center, causing it to screech and recoil. Another had tried to bite his foot; But was met with the protective steel of his boot as the small creature was instead the victim of him progressing forward, crushing it's body underneath his boot as he approached the first beast, raising his frame club before jabbing it through the crushed eye; Destroying whatever was behind it; Which Blöthmerche assumed must have been vital as the beast ceased movement.

“ Here! IN HERE!” The same helmsman from earlier who told them to get the package opened a door to the inner storage compartments of the vehicle and waved his right hand urgently as if to usher them inside. “ The package is inside - “ He didn’t have a chance to finish the sentence as he was swarmed by a troop of sea monkeys, one of them wrapping its legs around his neck and attempting to claw his eyes out.

“No, you need to get the safe open,” Bonk chided gently. Blue growled with frustration as she watched the Sea Monkeys congeal on the deck. She had the firepower to do something about them, but...the job was the job. If they lost the package, they wouldn’t get paid, and it didn’t matter how much damage she did, without that money, she was worse than unstocked.

“Rekk it to hell,” she grumbled, before an epiphany struck. She whirled to the FabGlam first, who had been nearby. “You! Use this. Point and shoot when we’re all clear.” She tossed Kriver, the lightning shotgun of her dreams, to the FabGlam. “No recoil. Push the red switch until it turns green. Point, shoot, ya sync it?” No time to wait for a confirmation. “And I want it back!” she said, heading for the below-decks with the other two lifters.

She pulled out Cazette the hand-crossbow and sighted down the rudimentary aiming system with one eye. She squeezed off two shots, sending razor blades thumping into the Sea Monkeys on the helmsman’s back. “C’mon, rekker!” she held out a hand for the man; he needed to show them where the safe was.

“By the Silks...” Havalock muttered under his breath as he watched the Sea Monkeys stand before him. Of all the vile creatures of the Wal, Sea Monkeys were the ones he had the least experience with and was honestly okay with keeping it that way. He had been more than a little startled by the pair that was staring him down, ignoring everything else that was going on around him. With frightening speed, one of them leapt at him, giving him mere seconds to draw his blade and slash the beast with it. Realizing that more would only come if he kept standing around, he pulled out his REV-6 and made his way inside the ship.

Running down the side of the boat, he took potshots at whatever he could. As he ran, the explorer found another crewman pinned by a Sea Monkey who was tearing at his suit. With a valorous roar, sprinted to the pinned sailor, kicking the creature off of him before pistol whipping it to the ground. As it laid dazed on the deck, the last thing it saw was Havalock’s boot, its bottom covered in nails, crushing its head.

Now suitably covered in blood and battle, he made his way to the other three, bringing up the rear guard. “Go! I’ll cover!” Havalock shouted as he shouldered his charger and whispered, “A true gentleman never leaves a man behind; he always guarantees the safety of others before him as chivalry and honor dictate.” Taking a knee, he skillfully fired at every damned Sea Monkey and pirate he could spot, having to fend off one with the butt of his charger. As he tried to reload, he saw a pack of the aquatic monsters charge at him.

Deciding now was a good time to fall back, he threw his charger into the compartment and began to pull back the bulkhead door. The Sea Monkeys were gaining on him and tried to grab the door before Havalock could shut and lock it. After aggressively negotiating the door’s release with the help of several rapid blasts from his side arm, the man finally slammed the door shut with a resounding “THUNK”, crushing one of their arms and leaving it on the ground as he locked the door, picking up his rifle and running down.”

The funny looking parakeet man was shouting towards Scats just as he twisted the head off a Sea-Monkey with the edge of his ‘rang like a bottle-cap. He turned back to see that the man from Clothing was waving them all towards an open entrance. He looked around for Paw, lost amidst the chaos before spotting his white behind a few meters away from him. The rabbit was busily tearing apart the torso of a sea-monkey behind him. Coaxing his Pet to let go of his prey in a short-lived tug of war, Scats scooped up Paw and held the flailing rabbit on his shoulder, following Havalock through the frenzied violence.

The helmsman who had shouted towards the trio of Lifters threw off two twitching corpses speared with bolts off him and accepted the proffered hand of the Tron Girl. He rubbed the long nick on his chin as he staggered towards the open door which Havalock held open for a scant moment. Scat bolted in at the last moment as Havalock closed the door, the metallic bang echoing through the innards of the ship. He felt Paw shivering anxiously, in the small enclosed tight corridor of darkness and the nauseous aroma of rusted metal.

---

A small light then flickered in the dark compartment. It was the helmsman, panting and with a small Zippo held in his hand.

“ T-thanks.” The helmsman breathed out, his face ashen from his near death experience. “ Thought I was gonna get checked out there.” He then waved the Zippo to the left of the corridor. His other hand clenched the other side of his battered uniform, splattered with Sea Monkey blood. “Follow me. The package has gotta be here somewhere….”

The helmsman began treading into the wayward bowels of the Detergent and Scat followed him. The innards of the S.S Detergent were beginning to slowly flood with the scent of spillwater and shopper waste. It was a testament to the craftsmanship of the vessel that it had managed to stay afloat for this long. The water was beginning to come up to his ankles as the helmsman approached a rickety stairwell, his boots echoing off each step.

At the bottom of the stairwell, the helmsman waved the light in his hand to illuminate the innards of the corridor. Scat could see barrels tangled up in cargo nets full of grocery rations, the top half of a Battle-Cart that had been sawn off, a collection of watering cans from Gardening and several other items. The helmsman chuckled at Scat’s wandering gaze, shaking his head in amusement.

“ What? You think your package was the only one we were hauling?” His smile morphed into one of pain as he coughed for a brief moment. “ Only a few crew members know about the location of this package. All of these other ones…..were all meant to distract, to fool in the case of a raid. We never expected to get attacked by a Sam-damned Wal-Pirate in these waters.”

“ Ah, here we go.” The helmsman stopped at a pile of stacked up boxes of Whet-Bix at the end of the storage room. He grabbed a hockey stick that was lodged into the loose mountain of cardboard and wrenched it out, causing the towering conga hill to collapse apart like wet paper, revealing a mammoth size metallic box that just managed to squeeze within the enclosed space. There were several strange arrows and letters on it pointing up with a faded series of barcodes running along the bottom. The sides read “ WAL-INCORPORATED PROPERTY” whilst the front was locked shut by a strange gate. An electronic keypad with numerous buttons and switches ran the left side of its frame. The helmsman pulled out what Scat thought looked like a bent clothes hanger out of his jacket. “ Now, if we try to use the key at the incorrect time….” He jammed the key into a slot on the keypad.

A loud digitized voice issued out of the box’s miniature speakers, rattling Scat’s teeth and sending Paw jumping all over the place.



“ Now, we don’t have time for that.” The helmsman turned back towards the trio. “ By the time this package is ready to open, we’ll be sitting at the bottom of the Spillway with the Sea Monkeys using our bodies as kibble or the Wal-Pirates hanging our corpses from their boats. Now, Tron Girl, all we need you to do is to slice that open before those pirates come and don’t ask us nicely to give them our packa-”

The ginormous box boomed out again.



The helmsman flashed a smile. “ Well, I like our chances already. How’s ‘bout you give it a whirl, Tron-Girl?”

---

Pure, utter carnage. Limbs went flying and the death rattles of both monkey and men were a combined cacophony on the boat. The deck was soon soaked in enough monkey blood to drip through the floorboards and down into the galley. One thing was becoming clearer as the bloodbath continued onwards. The sea monkeys might have had numbers and fanged teeth by their side but the shoppers had one advantage they did not have. Tenacity. Whenever a sea monkey took the life of a helmsman, another one took ten more in return. The numbers of the sea monkeys began to dwindle as the men and women of the S.S Detergent rallied around the band of Lifters fighting back against the odds.

One of the sailors pumping the lifeboats yelled out with the signs of a grim grin on his face. “ We’ve got the first duckie primed and ready! Move the injured to the - “

He suddenly found that he couldn’t speak anymore as his lower jaw was ripped off and pinned to the stern of a ship by a harpoon. Several more came arcing onto the upper deck, ropes attached onto them, as they embedded themselves in a rhythmic staccato. Sailors and monkeys alike were not spared, having been impaled gruesomely by the barbed fronts. The pirate ship was near enough that you could see its prow and the intricacy of the flag whipping in the air-conditioned gales of the Spillway. Sewn from baby blankets, the crude facade of a bald man with one hooped earring was stitched onto the black fabric, grinning in diaper-white teeth.

“ By god” One helmsman muttered to himself, chewing his nails. “ It’s the Misters…”

The sound of laughter and hooting-hooting was heard as shopper hands gripped the side of the boat. Bald men and women, all draped in clean pressed t-shirts, crawled over and began joining the fray of man on monkey violence. The first unsheathed his plunger out and cried out.

“ THERE’S NO CLEAN LIKE THE MISTERS!”

---

“My name is Blue, waterlogger.” Blue didn’t much care for unrestricted water. Or the people who sailed on it, despite saving the Helmsman’s life. In Electronics, uncontained water was both a terrible sin and a steadfast danger. Countless ‘Tron masterpieces had been laid to waste by a careless spray or a spilt bottle.

But there was no time for grouching. They’d have to deal with Bonk sooner or later, so...she pulled the man out of her pocket. “All right, what do we got here, Bonk?”

“Why are you asking me?” Bonk said. “You’re the expert here. I don’t know anything about Wal-Tech’s O66-SafeKeeper, or its seventy-slot alphanumeric passcode, or its—”

“Or the CD and H pointer flaw in the third generation SafeKeeper that never got patched out,” Blue mumbled. That was it! The SafeKeeper had never made it past the third generation, and for anyone but the most skilled Tronsmiths, they would be dead-in-the-water. Lucky for all of them…

She pulled The Heirloom from her kitbag, found the maintenance port along the top of the safe, and hopped to work. Her fingers were a blur on The Heirloom as she typed, channeling the progress and prowess of all her predecessors. She needed to set up a recursive function that would overwrite the memory of the processor in just the right way.

She’d never done this before, but she knew about the dangers. If she didn’t fry the memory before the countdown ran out, a swift, forceful, and invariably fatal shock would be the end of them all.

Still beat getting rekked by Misters.

With a set of trills, the safe’s lights winked off, then back on at a fainting brightness. There was an audible click, and she snatched the Heirloom free of the safe and leapt back. After a few seconds of not being electro-murdered, she turned to the Helmsman. “Easy rip’n’burn, man.”

---

Throwing the sea monkey blood from her paper cutter sword with a carefully measured slash in the air, Z-Grip turned her attention to the hairless pirates that surged across the deck of the crippled vessel. Pirates. Dishonorable water rats corrupted by greed. Most cursed, bakagaijin. They would all have to die. The honor of her ancestors demanded it. Her own honor required it. She would cleanse her spirit with the blood of the impure.

Nodding solemnly, Z returned the war cry of the plunger wielding pirate. The vicious smile that she flashed beneath her mask was lost to the black fabric that shielded her features. “May your pencil chip and shatter!”

Closing the distance between her and her chosen foe, Z grabbed hold of a smooth-scalped pirate that stumbled into her path. Lashing out with a free hand, she inserted three gloved fingers into the eyes and nose of the pirate. The gurgling scream that followed filled her with satisfaction. Her father had always said that blind pirate was a good pirate. Jumping atop the shoulders of the screaming pirate, Z spun his head around like a bowling ball sized top. The momentum of the dying cue-ball man provided the penja with enough momentum to launch herself in a swirling vortex of death towards the marauding earring hipsters.

Cutting through another soapy pirate, Z found her wicked blade parried by the plunger wielding pirate. She ducked beneath a heavy swing that would have smashed bathroom tiling, listening to the ringing of metal that shuddered through the handle of the plunger. Pirates were devious devils. It seemed the pirate that she dueled was no novice. He was no fool. He had replaced the wooden handle of his plunger with pure stainless steel. Japanese steel met stainless steel in a shower of sparks as the two warriors locked weapons.

---

“ Captain All Purpose, we’ve successfully managed to secure the S.S Detergent.”

“ Then, why has it not been wiped dry yet?”

“ This ship is proving more rust-resistant than we initially expected, sir.”

“ …...Prepare the enzyme action maneuver. The cargo that we’re after should survive exposure and our spy will be able to take care of any inconveniences. It’s time we put an end to this stain once and for all.”

“ Aye aye, captain. I’ll relay your orders to the men. ”

“ Leave me. “

“ So be it. MISTERS, FIRE THE - “

“ Quite a bold strategy, spill-sailer, though, even I have my doubts that an artifact of the Great Sam could survive such a - “

“ Save your sales pitches, Smiler scum. We’re washing your hands for you . This ‘artifact’ of yours better be worth it.”

---

“ Ah, a worthy challenge,” the Mister who was duelling Z-Grip snarled out. “ I’ve always wanted to kill me a Stationari. Let’s see if you’re made of stainless steel, indeed.” A three way deadlock was ensuing on the decks of the S.S Detergent. Wal-Pirate on sailor, sailor on Wal-Pirate and sea monkey on shopper. The misters fought frantically and with a conviction, absorbing debilitating hits like a Kleenex, their white clothes unnaturally staying immaculate, even after their death. However, the rabid monkeys were getting caught in a shopper sandwich, as they were skewered by the pipe cleaner spears of the Misters and tossed overboard by sailors. For the crew of the Detergent, it almost seemed as if their situation was beginning to improve and that the Great Sam was smiling on them from above.

Then, three puffs of smoke erupted from the portside cannons of the Mister doubloon, depositing not bleach balls, but heavy barrels into the nearby waters. Upon hitting the water, they cracked open to deposit a powdery chalk-like ash into the surrounding Spillway around the Detergent. The water turned a milky white, hissing out gas as tendrils of white began to approach the hull of the beached vessel.

Nothing happened at first.

The venerable hull of the Detergent then began to groan, buckling as everyone from man, monkey and pirate felt something shuddering underneath. The sea to the portside of the vessel was boiling, churning with caustic bubbles that whetted and gnawed away at the crumbling wreckage of the vessels like dire-roaches on empty Cereai boxes. Something broke underneath and the lower cabins began to flood uncontrollably. The S.S Detergent, the uncontested prime raft of the Cleaning Supplies department, was falling apart.

The deck, which had been shaking for the last half hour or so, was now quaking apart. The sea monkeys, whilst feral, even had their limits. The sensory bombardment was overwhelming to their primitive minds. The smell of bleach, the moving ground, the sight of all these different shoppers, the pain. When one startied fleeing, the rest followed suit, dragging shopper corpses of sailor and Wal-Pirate alike as take-away.

“ ALL CREW MEMBERS! BAIL SHIP! I REPEAT BAIL SHIP!” The remaining crew members began tossing the life-floaties out overboard in a wanton manner and jumping overboard into the merciless tides of the Spillway. Some landed inside the safety of the life-floaties while others were unfortunate enough to take a dive into the chilling Spillway, having to swim their way towards the floaties. Meanwhile, the Misters were still slaughtering and pillaging the remnants of the boat, taking advantage of the momentary confusion to slit the throats of the sailors. A senior helmsman shouted at the remaining Lifters onboard, his left eye having been pulverised by a toothbrush “ If you don’t wanna get left behind, Lifters, I suggest you come with us!”

---

Scat warily backs up away from the box. Parts of it begin stripping away like the layers of an onion, glass eyes and metal fingers aimed towards the group. He does not trust the strange arcane arts of the ‘Trons or their strange devotion to technology. Dozens of shoppers have been slain due to overestimating one of these very technologies. The panel that the Tron accessed with her device rumbled, fidgeting before turning silent. There was the click of clockwork before a soft voice like birdsong chirped out of the speaker.



The box began unfolding itself like an onion, doors sliding apart and layers upon layers of metallic gates unlocking. Scat realises it looks similarly suspicious to a Dog shedding its coat of fur. Eventually, the end product is a miniscule bone-white cylinder with a small slot on top. He walks up to it and lifts his finger to the slot. The box whirrs in place before the slot deposited a rectangular plastic card that exactly fitted Scat’s palm.

The PetMaster began to examine it, lifting it up towards the other Lifters for them to see. He first noticed that It was deceptively heavier than its flimsy appearance indicated at first, so razor thin at the edge that Scat thought even the smallest breeze could break it in half. The blue surface of the card shimmered and rippled like an oasis, a maze of silver threads being woven through it. In the right corner of the card was a circle with eight spokes around which glowed a lustrous neon, seemingly suffusing the room with dawn. Scat took a sniff. The scent of it was clean. Not in the unvarnished manner of the Kleaners but clean. Free of any familiar smells of the Wal. It was not of anything he'd encountered before.

There was something inscribed on the back that he saw. He tried pronouncing the words labelled. “ Words on back. Says S-say-ham’s Ka-la-” He was stopped mid-sentence as pain blossomed on his back. A q-tip arrow had speared him through his belly. An instant later, he felt a meaty arm grip him by his neck as the helmsman held him hostage. He pressed the front of the crossbow into Scat’s cheek, the bolt digging into his skin.

“ W...why?” Scat grunts out.

“ Why?” A wig slid off the helmsman's head to reveal a shiny dome that had been grazed to its roots. “ I am an aspirant of the Clean One and by the Seven Spills, I will deliver this prize to our Captain.” Scat gasped for air, dark dots dancing in the Pet-Master’s eyes. With mad twitching eyes, he stared at Havalock, Blue and Bonk with a toothy grin. “ Here’s what’s gonna happen. You’ll let me go with this package and I’ll let you go with your - “

Scat heard the sound of wood splintering and water gushing, the floor rumbling as if they were trapped in the belly of a Dire-Lizard. Cracks were beginning to form alongside the walls and the ceiling, eventually caving in with a thunderous crash. The natural light blinded Scat for a moment, his eyes trying to acclimate again. A massive hole had emerged in the side of the Detergent, the integrity of the ship finally falling apart as its innards were revealed to the world like a gutted Pet in the savannahs of the Petting section.

" What in the Great Sam are you all still doing down there! Get out there before you go down with the boat!"

A sailor in a life floatie had spotted the four of them through the massive gyre rent in the ship’s hull, unaware of his fellow helmsman betrayal. He shouted and waved at the Lifters for their attention, before signalling to the rest of the sailors on the floatie to begin rowing towards the wreck of the Detergent. The shaking continued as the pirate vessel continued to unload its chemical payload. The helmsman was stumbling on his feet, his mind focusing on not tripping on the various bits of cargo, whilst still hanging onto Scat’s neck.

---

Blöthmerche had become little more than a shortstack of sea monkey entrails and pirate blood. Like the murderous Dorfen warrior he was, he ended the life of many without hesitation as the vessel fell into worse and worse chaos. While not one to usually worry about being covered in gore, he did make sure to scrap some sea-monkey brain off of his boot as to not either slip or feel off-balance. The battle wasn’t over, and admittedly? It was a losing one. The ship had taken severe damage, there was no saving it: All the Dorf could hope for was that the package was secured below deck. As he tried to carve a path through the pirates above, considering the sea-monkeys were retreating.

He caught it in the corner of his eye; A polearm, coming in his direction, Without skipping a beat he twisted his body to side-step the attempted stabbing, cracking down on the weapon with his own club. Quickly he situated himself in regards to his foe; Looking him on. Bald, head shining so bright it was almost a hinderance against any opponent the man may face. Many cleaned cuts crossed the man’s face, signifying this was not his first battle, and he stood at nearly six feet tall; Towering over the short Lifter.

”Wot? Already frightened?” The pirate questioned, as the two began to circle one-another; Watching for a move. He didn’t seem as stupid as the majority of them; Was he intended to be someone important? Warriors did not give names on the battlefield, so Blöthmerche would never know for certain, but a swelling of uncertainty with this one was crawling within him.

“I do not frighten, ever.” Blöthmerche stated, changing the grip of his weapon. The man had range, but did he have the agility to keep up? There was no telling. “Now is not a time for words; If you wish to challenge me and fall to provide further tallies for my tale once I return home, so be it. There will be noone left to clean you off the floor before this battle is over.”

The man offered a laugh; Gruff as it was, the amusement was clear. He spun his spear a little, getting impatient. He must’ve not of been a man of many words, either. ”I’d say you’re just a boy; But the blood on you says otherwise! You’re a man; I can respect that, at least before I’ve gots’t bleach your goods before sellin’ em…”

Carnage was everywhere; The ship was on the verge of sinking and the deck itself was splitting apart. The chaos left the two alone, in a duel that would almost certainly lead to the death. Their circling halted, they were both ready for the fight that was to now take place.

It began.

The spear thrust forward and once again, Blöthmerche stepped out of the way; But this time he felt the spear collide with him as it swung to the side and connected with his torso; The dorf barely managing to step back out of range before he ended up skewered by the next thrust. This man was impressive, Blöthmerche could admit if he had the time. He didn’t seem as ready to die as the others.

Blöthmerche took another approach: He went on the attack. Pacing backwards he brought his hand back to grab his Cross-Acto Bow. He had pre-loaded it when he had a moment during the bloodshed, so as it came over his shoulder, he took quick aim and fired; The shot unfortunately soaring past his head during his approach due to a quickfire, instead headshotting a pirate in the distance and causing his poor miserable life of cleanliness and pride to end.

The spear, thrust at him again, called for a quick response; Blöthmerche released his grip on his Cross-Acto, causing it to fall to his torso and hang by it’s strap. The spear collided with his weapon, causing him to stagger back instead of ending up with a spear through his stomach. He caught himself quickly however, and pressed forward; Both hands gripping his frame club as he took a swing; Colliding it with the knee of the pirate. The audible crack and his instant descent towards the ground marked an end to his walking days. Despite the literally crippling pain, the pirate used the back-end of his spear like a bo staff and smacked the Dorf across the face, causing him to recoil. Though he couldn’t move, he still had range with his spear; And he used it to again thrust at Blöthmerche: Who ended up jabbed by the very tip of the spear, not causing a blood spill, but rather just a hole in the dorf’’s lego plating.

Blöthmerche rushed forward; Gripping the pirate’s spear and yanking it from his arms, causing him to fall from his knees and instead face-first on the deck. Without hesitation the Dorf drove the spear into his back; Causing him to cry out where even the knee-shatter hadn’t before. The spear had not only gone through him, but pierced the deck as well; Marking him as truly pinned for the moment as he blood began to spill.

”Not bad, I admit. Your movements were very… — Hnnng..! Clean.”

“You were the first man to damage me this day; I respect your skills,fighter.” Blöthmerche spoke, raising his club into the air. “I will offer you a quick death as to not force you to endure the chemicals below. It is your choice to accept.”

”A man always goes down with the ship. That’s the way it is! Simple and clean.” The pirate was twitching as if trying to stand, but he was beaten. As a sign of respect to his prowess, Blöthmerche lowered his club and decided to allow the man his death on his own terms.

“Rest well. Your people would be proud, Mister.” Blöthmerche commented, before turning and beginning to walk away. He would die during the sinking; No doubts of it. Blöthmerche felt his mask, noting the pain he felt in his face; He had been hit today. He was disappointed in himself in that regard, but respected the man’s talent at the very least.

… Now what was going on—

Blöthmerche paused his thoughts, observing the ship. It was even worse than when the fight started, and he had to get the hell out of here. But the package; Did those other Lifters manage to get it? He knew they needed to escape, but without that, his quest to this point was meaningless. He began to path his way to the cargo hold; Attempting to avoid the massive terrain dangers while also keeping a decent pace.

If things got worse somehow, Blöthmerche would probably start getting actually irritated. Even to him this was all bullshit; And he wanted no part in it any longer than necessary.

As the world exploded into metal shards around them, Blue saw red. A rekking traitor, after all this? They'd nearly gotten shut down by a small man in a wig? She was too important to deal with this sort of bullshit. She lashed out with a hand to steady herself on the rocking catastrophe that was the ship. The other hand raised Cazette: not in her house.

"No. No no no, stop. Stop! Blue!" Bonk's voice fell on deaf ears.

Blue sent two razor blades zipping toward the traitorous helmsman. They were rekked anyway: whether or not he lived was immaterial to survival. The weird Pets-and-Animals guy would be fine, probably. The auto-aimer on the auto-crossbow Cazette told her where to aim, and she was a steady shot.

"Blue! We talked about this. You can't just shoot people who upset you!"

"Can it, Bonk! Bigger fish to fly!" Blue for the ratty-looking man who'd been held hostage by the waterlogger. In the commotion, she managed to snag his arm, noting the Q-tip arrow protruding from his stomach. "Shit," she hissed. A rekking Q-tip? What kind of freakish monstrosity needed a Q-tip that big? It was the length of her forearm. "Gimme some help here, rekkers!"

---

The Tron’s aim was true as the pair of bolts lodged into the Mister’s body, first in his chest and then his jaw. Scat had managed to push himself away from the mad shopper in time. The first arrow in the pirate’s left breast made him hunch over while the second one struck his jaw and sent him spinning to the ground. His handheld crossbow splashed into the inundated floor of the storage cabin.

Soon to be dead. Scat wasn’t sure whether to euthanize him or let the Spillway take him to a watery burial. He didn’t have time to decide as the Detergent continued to topple on top of itself, threatening to send them all plunging into a drowning death if they didn’t escape soon. In the madness, Scat somehow found purchase on the Tron’s hand, his plate size palms grabbing on for dear life with a bone crushing grip. The Q-Tip sent a jolt of agony with every slight movement he made. Even the simple task of standing was a trial, a marathon of his willpower. Paw. He focused on that. I need to find Pa-

Another Q-Tip hit him from behind and Scat was regretting not having crushed the Mister’s head underneath his boot. The hot burning sensation bounced up and down his spine like a rabid Chihuahua, boiling his nerves. By the time he was sensate, he tried to get up.

But couldn’t. Scat frowned. He was no baby chick. This was a simple matter of -

Nothing. Simply nothing. Scat looked back and found the answer to his predicament. The Q-Tip had penetrated firmly in the lower back of his spine.

His legs were now just lumps of dead meat. Stiff. Frozen forever. The Mister laughed a low chuckle, deluded and separated from the Wal around him. Scat found it a miracle that he was still able to speak.

“ If any of you realised what your friend’s got there…” One of the Mister’s hands pointed towards the card in Scat’s grasp. “....you’d kill him for it too.” Scat noticed a tuft of white fur skulking behind the Mister. “ You’ll be a pack of fish food soon, Lifter. Got any final words for me?”

Scat replied with a sharp whistle.The pirate chuckled darkly.

“ Perhaps, you’ve bled too much red already, Pet-Mas”

His words became a blood-sputtering garble, Paw taking the opportunity to clamp his jaws around the Misters neck. Scat watched with satisfaction as the rabbit wrenched his head back and tore out a massive dripping chunk of the former helmsman throat. The Mister’s bald head shook left and right like a bobble head, spasming as what looked like a tongue slapped out of the wound in his neck like a wriggling earthworm. Muzzle tinged red, Paw hopped towards him, each hop becoming more slowly as he neared him. The rabbit’s button nose flared to take in the scents before chittering rapidly. Scar hand’s rubbed through his Pet’s fur. It was something he did to calm himself.

The life floaties had docked into the open hole blown on the side of the Detergent, boots stepping down on the sinking floor. The apparent leader, a clothshanger strapped to his stump of a left hand, signalled them with a beckoning wave.

“ WHAT ARE YE ALL ‘TANDING THERE FOR! GET IN OR GET SHAM WOWED!”

---

---

department: bargain bin

date: there is no date in the Wal

time: closing hours

Everyone in the department could feel that Clearance was overstaying its welcome, especially as Black Fryeday approached with its shivering air-conditioned gales. From the top of a Shelf, he sipped a CapriSun red through a curly straw, the burning sweetness burning a hole through his gums and down his throat. The Bin was a mountain of forgotten relics of past Departments and brands. The Curator of the Books Department had requested multiple times to do an archeological survey into its unscoured depths and he’d rejected them all the same. Aside from the risk of enraging the Stockers and awakening some malfunctioning automaton, the Cashier Of Bargain Bin felt that perhaps some items were meant to be discounted forever.

The tin-can phone rattled, the string running through the front wall vibrating like a violin string. He picked it up and immediately regretted it.

“ Sir, it’s him.” The normally svelte voice of his secretary was distorted into an monotone warble of two people speaking together in tune.

“ Send him in.”

Diplomacy and deal-making were an unfortunate part of his responsibilities as Cashier that he’d learned to deal with since the expiry of the last Cashier. Sending out squads of Lifters couldn’t be done on a whim. You had to sign paperwork. You had to discuss details of payment. You had to talk with angry or idiot clients.

This particular client, though, he wanted to exile from his Department. He wanted to trap him inside one of the Fridges Of Groceries or drop him inside the misty lands of Baby Goods, let his corpse rot until the Janitors processed his body and send him off to the Land Beyond the Lots.

The door clicked open and a man strode in, his face covered by a over-cast hood that made his face seemed like an endless chasm. He walked over towards the Cashier and simply stood instead of sitting on the pastel-coloured plastic play stool on the floor. Clever bastard.

" I’ve been considering your offer for some time now.”

“ And?” The hooded man replied.

“ Convince me why I shouldn’t have Casio here nail your head to the floor.” On cue, the aforementioned bodyguard on his right brings out a hefty looking staple gun. , He points towards his guest accusatorily. “ Do you even know what position you’ve put me in?!”

It’s not a question meant to be answered and his client knows that. He continues forth, his answer slowly transforming into a rant simmering on the edge of rage.

“ An envoy of the Gucci Guard rode him to my office and said that the Glamagesh would like a private meeting with me. As if his Highness would deign to roam around with us out-of-fashions. Rumours spreads that the Rafters are mounting yet another assault on our territory. Amboluceti have been spotted in our northern borders, even though we haven’t seen them for several seasonals.” He takes another draught of the Caprisun and glares at the arrogant smile sitting across his coffee table. “ You should have never brought that cursed thing at all.”

“ Are the claims I’ve heard about the Bargain Bin unfounded? I thought you would take in any item, no matter the condition.”

“ It’s not the condition of the item, it’s the conditions of the contract! This contract is easily worth a thousand Pachinko tickets yet the price you’re giving for this is barely enough for a Wal-Cart.” The Cashier signs. “ I’m entrusting an artifact of the Great Sam to a naive dorf, a disgraced penja, a Pet-Master and his rabid runt, a Tron Girl who talks to obscure idols, some silk-clothed noble from Clothing and a half-mannequin brat.” His temper is rising. He snaps his fingers, vein pulsing on his head, as one of his attendants pours out a fresh lick of vintage Mountain Dew for him to sample. “ You’re playing a foolish game, Greeter.”

“ Foolish?” The Greeter simply smiled a Cheshire grin. “ The fool is the one who plays by the rules of the Wal. I’m merely changing them.”

---

"Ah, a worthy challenge," the Mister who was dueling Z-Grip snarled out. "I’ve always wanted to kill me a Stationari. Let’s see if you’re made of stainless steel, indeed."

Z-Grip made no attempt to reply, but simply offered the slightest of nods of her masked head. There was no need for words, not when blood, the purest of all ink, was being spilled.

Carefully watching her foe before moving to attack she saw all that she needed to see. The disinfectant worshiping pirates had misunderstood. They were wrong. A warrior was clean only through the purity of their soul and the bravery of their deeds. What use was perfect hygiene and starched white shirts that blazed with the fury of one thousand suns if one did not have honor? All the detergent in the world could not remove the stain of dishonor. There was only one thing that could cleanse the spirit of impurity. Only one all purpose cleaner that could eat through the thick grease of cowardice. Death. A clean death, an honorable death in battle was the only way to scrub upwards to the very heavens.

Focused on her chosen opponent, Z-Grip almost didn't see the trio of speckless scoundrels that had moved to flank her in time. She dodged, ducking low and shifting her weight in an unexpected fashion. Simple enough for a penja. Inhuman to a common criminal. She felt a rush of air as the plastic staff of a giant toilet brush chased after her. The bristles were still wet and she could smell the blood that stained them. Avoiding the follow-up swing of the prodigious pole arm, Z-Grip leapt to follow the motion of the toilet bowl ocean so to speak. Cutting inside the swing of the privy pirate, Z-Grip stepped inside the guard of the amateur warrior. Delivering a swift elbow to his bald face, Z-Grip grabbed hold of his neck, spinning the laboratory lush to face his cleaner comrades before she drove her sword neatly through his chest.

"You are without honor," Z-Grip said venomously as she used the dying washroom warrior as a shield to keep his raging ruffian allies at bay. The three remaining solvent scoundrels circled her like goldfish eyeing fish flakes in the water. Perfectly polished plastic crossbows pointed at her, following her as the pirates waited for the perfect opportunity to strike.

"We do not believe in your penshido nonsense. To wipe your ink stains in tribute to the Clean One will be our honor."

"Brushido," Z-Grip corrected as she narrowed her eyes. "I will consign your corrupted souls to the deepest pits of the abyss in remembrance of the great Sword Saint Keanu, the most excellent of warriors."

"Corrupted? If we are corrupted, then, you are a demon of filth to us. Let us see if you’ll allow us to whet our rust-proof teeth on you."

"A thousand paper cuts upon your houses," Z-Grip said as she tossed the limp form of the now dead pirate at the closet crossbowman. Using the momentum of his body, she dove forward into a roll. She heard the unmistakable thwack of string on hardened plastic as one of the cleaner pirates fired a bolt at her. She had been faster she knew, as the bolt sailed past her. Rising swiftly, the penja launched a sharpened pen at the other, further away, crossbow wielding detergent devil as he struggled to place his simple cross-hairs over her ever-shifting form. Z-Grip didn't have time to see if she had hit her mark. The stainless steel plunger that arced towards her head forced her to parry with her own blade lest she be smashed into smithereens. Dancing out of range of the cleaning agent criminal, Z-Grip took a moment to eye her handiwork. The pirate crossbowman she had hit with her throwing pen lay on the deck clutching his throat. Gurgling desperately as he drowned in his own blood.

The pirate with the plunger roared in maddening fury,"Don’t worry, I’ll only kill 99% of you.!"

Her dishonorable foe had responded as Z-Grip had hoped. He had foolishly let his anger overwhelm him. Z-Grip was rapidly losing interest. These were not the warriors she had hoped to encounter. They were not the foes she had hoped to kill. But no matter. She had a job to do. Mimicking the war dance of the fearsome Dire Ferret, Z-Grip dodged his blows through an increasingly frenzied series of sideways hops and backward flips. Closing in on an unexpected angle as she avoided she another masterful blow that should, should have smashed her shoulder into splinters, Z-Grip delivered an open handed strike to the nose of the bald braggart. Staggered, he swung wildly. Z-Grip did not need to expend much effort to avoid the blow. It was brutish and poor. It was panicked. Seizing the moment, the penja somersaulted forward, barreling through the plunger wielding pirate and lancing herself into the air. The clothed projectile that was penja smashed into the chest of the remaining cleaner crossbowman with both her feet, sending bald pirate and penja rolling across the deck. Z-Grip had expected this, in fact, she had intended it, while the cleaner crossbowman had not, and as such she had expertly controlled her roll while the pirate had tumbled heavily against the deck. Leaping to her feat, Z-Grip noted that one of his legs was now bent at an awkward angle. Delivering a swift kick to the temple of the struggling pirate, Z-Grip loomed over her downed foe, carefully watching the last pirate as he wiped his eyes and face clean of his own blood. His nose was broken and his shirt was now stained.

Offering yet another brief nod, Z-Grip stabbed her trusty Parker Duofold Prestige into the final crossbow cleaner as he attempted to groggily stand up on his shattered knee. There was no mercy for those who failed to fight with honor. She would not, no, she could not, allow them to spread their corruption. It was time to finish the false duel. She had amused herself enough.

Z-Grip took several steps towards the plunger pirate and in a supreme moment of arrogance, she wiped her cruel blade clean of blood and sheathed it across her back. Beneath her mask, the penja was smiling. She laughed at the coward that faced her. It would be justice to kill him. "I do not need a weapon to face the likes of you. A dishonorable coward reduced to piracy. A common criminal stained with the filth of his actions and reeking only of fear and his own dishonor."

Raising her hands in front of her, Z-Grip adopted a wide stance with her front foot turned slightly inward. The first stance of the Hidden Origami Dragon, it was an ideal posture for fighting on a ship that was rapidly falling apart. She would not slip and she would not stumble. She had wasted enough time with the bakagaijin, the cleaner pirate would die.

"Come, coward, and face a true origami warrior!" Z-Grip shouted, unmoved by the chaos unfolding around her.

The plunger pirate let out a final battle-cry as he charged,"He's so tough he cleans them all!"

It was over in an instant. Z-Grip shifted her weight as the steel plunger drove downwards towards her head. She guided the weapon gently to the side with the outside of her right arm, sliding her entire arm along the perfectly polished steel staff of the plunger as she flowed forward as if locked into a soft dance with the pirate. Turning her closed fist, Z-Grip smashed her thumb into the throat of the plunger pirate striking his windpipe. Dashing past his return blow, Z-Grip took several steps backwards, and then she waited. She waited as the plunger pirate tried to follow her. She watched as his face began to shift in color. She listened as he labored to brief. She saw as he dropped his plunger, stumbling wildly after her as he slowly suffocated. Wheezing the plunger pirate finally collapsed onto the deck, his perfectly polished forehead and meticulously shaved face having turned a deep purple.

The sound of wood splintering roused the penja from her post-duel thoughts and Z-Grip felt the doomed ship shuddered beneath her. She heard screaming. Pained whimpers and horrible screams as the acidic detergent of the deranged cleaners ate greedily at the flesh of the wounded, the dying, and the already dead.

Carnage surrounded the penja. The brave sailors of the S.S. Detergent were fighting a losing battle. They would not last much longer than their faithful ship. Z-Grip would have shed a single, profound tear at the beauty of it all. At the unbridled honor and bravery of the sadly incompetent sailors. But there was not time. She would mourn later. She would honor the proud warriors when she had claimed the heads of the befouled balding bastards that assailed her and her honorable companions.

The sail of the Detergent tore off its mast, riddled with burns, and cast itself upon the vessel like its shroud. The cleaners fell upon the dying like customers upon free samples, taking their quarry one body at a time. A sailor with half of his face melted off stared at the penja "Save yourself."

"A penja does not run from duty," Z-Grip replied handing the wounded sailor a spare blade that she carried. He would know what to do with it. She had offered him an honorable death, a way to end his suffering.

Without waiting the penja turned towards what remained of the cargo hold. She had a mission. She had a task. She had no more time to waste. The cargo hold would not last much longer. She had to improvise. Cutting down another cleaner pirate that blocked her path, Z-Grip grabbed hold of a length of rope that had once been the rigging and swung over the handrail of the dying ship. Moving with only the grace that a true penja could muster, Z-grip began to leap from broken board to broken board. She'd had enough time to study the ship before boarding, the location of the hold was obvious. She would simply find an alternative way to get there.

The Detergent was splitting in two along the prow, splinters raining on top of Scat as spill water flowed into the boat, eroding and widening the gaping holes. The mighty vessel was now a pitiful shadow of its former self with its attendants no longer trying to fight but flee its dwindling bulk. For many sailors, it was a tragedy that what they would have once considered their home was now turning into nothing more than a lost legend resting at the bottom of the Spillway. For Scat, it now had become a death trap.

The Pet-Master wordlessly wrapped his arms around Paw’s furry neck. There was no need for further commands as his Pet dragged towards the lifeboat. The pay didn’t matter anymore. No pay was worth his own body. He looked at the card still clenched in his hand, the edge biting against his skin. The strange symbols on it twinkled eerily in the dark. All of this for a plastic trinket. Then, he remembered the damned Cleaner pirate’s enigmatic words.

If any of you realised what your friend’s got there, you’d kill him for it.”

Kill him? The Mister had already sealed his fate the moment he put those Q-Tips into his spine. The thought of being put down when he returned back to Pets and Animals scared him more than dying to insane Cleaner pirates. He stared back at the card in his hand. Completing the PetMaster Pedigree was a fool’s dream now. Paw wouldn’t have to suffer anymore by carrying dead weight.

He whistled a low two-note trill, enough to catch Paw’s attention. The overgrown rabbit looked back towards him and stopped moving, confused as to why his master gave the command.

“ What’re you doing, Pet-Master?” The sailor captain on the life floatie shouted out.

“ Change of plans.” Scats grunted, taking out spare shoestring out of his pocket before taking out the card and lifting it in front of Paw’s eye. “ Keep. Safe.” For anyone else, it might have been foolish to trust a valuable item in the hands of a rabbit, but a rabbit of Pets and Animals was no ordinary rabbit. Paw simply sneezed in response before thumping his right foot. Scat began tying the card to Paw’s neck, taking care not to knot it too tightly.

Suddenly, there was a loud squeak above him and a crack that sounded like a popped balloon. He pushed Paw out of the way just as the rotting beam fell upon his torso, smashing him through the hull and sending him into the cold depths of the SpillWay. His arm flailed wildly underwater, trying to swim upwards but his broken legs pulled him downwards like an anchor. The miasma of toliet water creeped into his skin as the rotting stench tried to claw his way into his lungs.

Forgive me, Paw. I wasn’t the master you needed.

Out in the corner of his eye, orange light sparkles softly. Ah, perhaps, he was dying already.

The light then shifted. No, it wasn’t a hallucination. The glimmering mass whipped wildly underwater, becoming larger and larger in size. It was moving towards him. Screams bubbled out of his mouth as a current of stink-ridden garbage pushed Scat upwards to the surface. He took deep draughts of a precious air, sputtering and coughing out bitter spillwater. His hand latched onto one of the many floating pieces of driftwood falling off the wreck of the Detergent. Meanwhile, the water bubbled like rice krispies in milk underneath him.

Sea Monkeys weren’t the only thing living in the Spillway.

---

As the Mister ship continued to pillage and reap upon the leaking remnants of the Detergent, something strange was happening in the raging tides that surrounded the battlefield. The Spillway itself was bulging, something emerging out from the murky abyss. A temporary truce formed between the Cleaners and sailors, born out of shock rather than of peace. When the waters cleared and receded, every Cleaner became dumbfounded by the seemingly mystical sight.

It was a goldfish. Likely the most largest goldfish the Wal had ever seen.The biggest gold fishes were known to be bred in the wild pens of Pets and Animals, big enough to swallow a man whole and armoured in a coat of brilliant scales.

This goldfish made the rest look like small fry guppies. Its cavernous mouth looked as if it could eat twenty shoppers in a single gulp. Its mantle of golden scales shimmered like sunshine, albeit pocketed and marred by the ravages of conflict and violence. is simply and inexcusably, without over exaggeration or understatement, big. The rest of its massive body is cloaked by the SpillWay. If one look closed enough, you could see the hints of a fish ohooks stuck in its gums before its mouth snaps close like a gate guarding a fortress.

On top of this majestic fish rode a Sea Monkey larger than most of its brethren. It dressed in a soaked regalia of plastic bottles with a cracked fish bowl for its crown. A cloak stitched from zipper bags shrouded half of its muscular body. Everyone waited with bated breath as it took out a seaweed crusted Speak and Spell and began typing on it.

“ SO. YOU. ARE. THE. ONES. WHO. HAVE. KILLED. MY. CHILDREN?”

“ What of it, you uncleansed pest?” Everyone turned to look at the one Mister who’d spoken out with the frenzied tone of a believer.

The sea monkey king scythe like mandibles clacked, opening and closing slowly. It’s right hand began typing on the Speak and Spell again whilst the other pulled out a trident made of plastic straw.

“ SO. BE. IT. FEEDING. TIME. BEGINS. “

He pointed the trident towards the two boats. The great fish reared back its knobbled head, giving out a throaty screech. It rose out of the water, balancing its mountainous body on its back fin before diving back in. The resulting splash pushed both ships back and knocked the life floaties away like bowing pins.

For a moment, all was silent.

Then, a life floatie disappeared in one thunderous snap followed by half-cut screams and a gulp. A mister pirate standing too close to the Detergent’s rails was next followed by a massive chunk torn from the underside of the Mister vessel.

“ ALL MISTERS-“ A naked cleaner pirate with acid burnt tattoos shouted from the top of the sails. “- FIRE ON THAT FISH!”

---

Scats watched the devastation unfold, holding onto the floating piece of driftwood for dear life. Once he got ahold of his surroundings, things began to clear. He was only a short swim away from the Detergent’s storage hold. He began to paddle at a slug’s pace back towards the Detergent.The captain of the life floatie spotted him, barking out loud towards Blue. “ Tron, drag the Pet-Master’s beast onto the floatie. Rest of you, help that shopper onboard!”

Once he was close enough, the sailors hauled his wet form onto the lifeboat. The captain grunted. “ You look like you went through a blender, son. Sponge. Prep the oars. It’s time we got out of here.”

“ No.” Scats shook his head. “ Wait for pack.”

“ Are you insane?” The captain looked disbelieving at Scats and pointed towards the giant goldfish currently devouring sailors and Misters alike. “ Look at that, Lifter! The Flushed Leviathan is out there and you want to wait?! Whatever the reward of your contract be, it ain’t worth our li-“

The sharp point of Scat’s frisbee rang shut the captain up.

“ We. Wait.”