#125

Inspector Fox sees his hand seize uncontrollably in front of him. It's like a dying spider. His spine rattles and shakes and fizzes with agonizing brightness. A million tenth-dimensional thoughts blaze through his brain as he struggles to dissociate himself from that possession attempt. Never again, he figures. Then he senses, in a diseased hipster way, that that thought's ironic.

He looks up, still on his back in the crater. Mark still rages nearby, but he's below his notice. But there are two figures standing over him. Mark and...Lefty Sinister.

But Sinister couldn't stand, not with Mack Greasy ripping his leg off. It's a fight to get his eyes to focus under the sun, which is now blood red for some reason, but at last he notices that Lefty's grabbed a wooden pole and has made himself a new leg with it. He's holding something, which Fox instantly recognizes as a weapon. One of the party's weapons; Moonchild's messing everything up, so he only gets its trope impression. What could it be...? Laser pike? Magic revolver...?

No, of course not. It's something Lefty's familiar with.

Fox gasps, and the sound comes out with a gurgle.

“No!!”

“Buenas noches, Inspector.”

It's only twenty shots, but the echoes in the ruined city makes it sound like more. Even above the Moonchild screams.

Lefty smiles as he looks down at the very mortal mess. He's gonna hang onto this baby; oughta really come in handy. For now, though, it's goin'-on-the-lam time.