You’ve never had the stomach for Nitro-Fuel, that much is for certain, from the bizarre results that have come about every single time you’ve drunk it. First time it went down your gullet, you decorated the back of Cheestopia with a slurry of spew; the second time you considering consuming it, you had to be brought back to civilisation — or the next best thing — by a wandering cyborg in red flaunting about being a Starlight Knight; the third time — and every time sourced from that same truck in Blazewood — you imbibed the foul elixir, you, err… Well, actually, that third time is right now.

Senses dulled to an absolute maximum, you barely manage to place one foot cleanly in front of the other as you stumble through the dark navy blues of a nighttime Outer Ring, idly attempting to kick stones, yet failing every time. You would’ve continued your blind navigation, had the sight of a blurry logo — albeit faded and decrepit — not caught your attention: an old, old outpost for The Vanquishers — practically the mortal enemies of the Sons of Calydon; with how aged the print is, you wouldn’t be surprised if this place was back from before their leader met an unfortunate end. And, if you decided to keep moving, you also wouldn’t have noticed a flash of dimmed yellow from within the base, accompanied by quiet mutterings of “couldn’t Mors have bothered to disarm all these locks…” Despite every alarm in your tipsy mind going off, you move. One step. Two steps. Click. The cold metal of a bladegun’s barrel against the back of your head. If you weren’t sober before, you sure as hell are now — at least, somewhat sober.

What are you doing here, Son of Calydon?

The voice — growing ever-more recognisable by the second until you finally register it as belonging to Pulchra Fellini — a (somewhat) former hired gun of The Vanquishers — hisses into your ear with scorn, pressing one of her two guns so tightly to your head, you can practically feel the .44 calibre chambered inside aching for a piece of you.