“What’s that?” Mugs moved closer, but as much as he tried he couldn’t see a damn thing.

“He was dragged.”

“By whom?”

“One, most likely two people. Very short, cunning. They nearly cover tracks completely. They very good at their craft.”

“Where?”

Shin motioned in a direction northward. Out there was the same field of nothingness in every other direction. He wanted to ask Shin if he was absolutely sure, but it would only offend the man. He was the best tracker Mugs has known, from Irontown to Old Edo to the North Bloc. Or, at least, the best tracker money could buy. His mentor was a part of the Loyalist Army. Many of Shin’s early days he recalled as bloodstained nightmares tracking anyone and anything they could get their hands on. He had his own share of atrocities weighing on his shoulders.

They began to walk at a painfully slow pace. Mugs following Shin at an acceptable distance to let the man do his work. At some point they neared and then entered a greater field of debris, an area once likely occupied by a village before the Sparkfall. They stopped several times to study the scarce number of signs. Shin nearly lost the trail at one point but managed to pick it back up, cursing at the rain. He had a fierce dedication to his job that Mugs respected greatly, almost more than he’d likely admit to him. If this turned out well, Shin was going to see himself with a pretty little bonus straight from Mugs’ split. Because if they lost the kid…

“It stops.”

Shit.

They had stopped in a clearing within several paces of broken brick pillars. Some still stood but most had crumpled and were eerily yellowed. Mugs recognized the color from unpleasant memories out here in the Wastes: it was from a Sparkfall-induced gas storm, when the very air leeched the oxygen from the lungs and, over a period of minutes, ate at the skin. The yellowing was a mystery growth that latched onto objects like a mold. It wasn’t dangerous as far as Mugs knew, but it was a sign of danger itself. The gas wasn’t likely to appear in the rain, but nevertheless it would be a good idea to leave as quickly as possible.

“Shin…?” Mugs scanned the area. “You got anything for me? I ain’t likin’ this territory.” He pulled the pistol from his boot and fingered the trigger nervously.

“The rain,” Shin said. He had to raise his voice because he was right: the rain had gotten heavier. It was a cursed luck, but without Shin, Mugs would never have gotten this far in the first place. Puddles were forming as the earth was dry and hard and could not breathe it in.

“Spread out.” Mugs waved his hand at their surroundings. “Try to find something. Anything. I know,” he added when Shin looked at him. “I know. Just help me out here for a bit.”

They wandered around the area, a dread growing in his stomach like a twisting dagger. The boy was not entirely incapable, but in this situation Mugs knew he needed help fast or they may never find him. What bothered him greatly were the mysterious kidnappers. This region was largely unmapped and only the boldest dared scout the borders of the lethal zones. Their maps were spotty at best, which was why any decent convoy or militia employed experienced scouts and trackers. No one dared enter these parts of the Wastes. And yet one, maybe two had taken the boy here. Somewhere in this dreary weather he was being held captive. But for what purpose?