Oolong and Goku crept along the outskirts of Browntown, slipping behind cover whenever a patrol passed.
"We need wheels, and we need them fast."
They rounded a corner and saw exactly what they'd been looking for at the dead end, a lone buggy idling quietly.
The driver wasn't paying attention to the road.
He was an animalia corgi wearing a scrapper vest that was slightly too tight.
He had a phone pressed to his long ears with a look of exhaustion.
"Shh." Oolong whispered, signaling Goku to stop. "
"Look at him. He's distracted."
They crept closer, edging toward the vehicle.
As they drew near, the corgi's exasperated voice could be heard.
"Sheila, c'mon, listen! Yeah, I missed dinner yesterday, so what? The boss called! It's a freakin' bank robbery!"
He paused, listening to the angry voice on the other end, his tail drooping between his legs.
"I am not making excuses!"
The Corgi barked defensively, then immediately lowered his voice.
"Look, sweetie, I'm tryin' to provide for us, alright? Bein' a henchman's hard work! I can't just bail 'cause your mom's dropping by!"
Oolong signaled Goku to flank the driver's side.
They moved silently, inching closer and closer while the corgi continued his domestic negotiation.
"Yeah, I bought the cake. It's in the trunk… No, not chocolate—carrot, it's healthier! Sheila? Hey, don't you hang up on me—"
He was so engrossed in the argument that he didn't notice the short, red haired man and the spiky-haired boy standing right next to his door.
Oolong reached out and tapped the corgi on the shoulder.
Tap. Tap.
The Corgi froze.
He slowly turned his head away from the phone.
He looked down and saw the disguised Oolong and the grinning boy standing right next to him.
The realization hit him instantly.
"Aw, Crapbasket—"
WHAM.
//////////////////////////////////
Oolong grunted as he hauled the unconscious corgi out of the driver's seat and dumped him unceremoniously onto the dusty pavement next to the trash piles.
"Sorry, pal."
He hopped into the driver's seat and hotwired the ignition.
The engine roared to life.
"Alright, Goku! Get in! We're on a clock!"
"Mmmph!"
Oolong looked over.
Goku was already in the passenger seat, his cheeks stuffed like a chipmunk.
He was holding an empty cardboard box that had, until three seconds ago, contained a whole carrot cake.
"Is that the cake?! You ate the guy's apology cake?!"
"It's not bad... tastes like vegetables, but sweet."
Oolong shook his head, shifting the buggy into gear.
He slammed the accelerator.
The buggy peeled out, leaving the unconscious corgi and the empty cake box behind as they sped toward the center of the city.
//////////////////////////////////
Inside the main administrative building of the scrapper's camp, a well air conditioned structure built from reinforced shipping containers, Dimcha was hard at work making decisions."
THWACK.
A dart buried itself into a corkboard target on the far wall.
It missed the bullseye by an inch.
Dimcha, a muscular man with spiky black hair in a mullet, thick eyebrows, and a neatly trimmed mustache and goatee, ignored the throw.
He wore a torn olive-drab military jacket and matching pants, dark brown gloves and boots, a belt with a skull buckle, and a dog tag necklace.
He was fixed on a small CRT television precariously balanced on a filing cabinet. On the screen, a tearful woman confronted a man in a tuxedo.
"Don't trust him, Maria..." Dimcha muttered to the screen, gripping another dart with white-knuckled intensity.
He was genuinely invested.
"He's clearly lying about the baby."
On the other side of the room, sprawled across a leather sofa that had seen better days, sat Yamcha, the feared Desert Wolf.
He looked bored out of his mind.
Floating beside him was Puar, his loyal shapeshifting companion.
The small blue cat was hovering mid-air, holding a glossy fashion magazine open for Yamcha to inspect, turning the pages with pride.
"How about this one, Lord Yamcha?" Puar chirped, pointing a small paw at a photo of a smiling woman in a business suit walking a poodle.
"She looks very sophisticated!"
Yamcha leaned forward, narrowing his eyes at the page.
He scrutinized the image like a jeweler inspecting a diamond for flaws.
"Nah." Yamcha dismissed, waving his hand.
" She looks like the type who likes men with fixed jobs. Men who wake up at six am and pay their taxes on time."
He leaned back, crossing his arms behind his head.
" She'd probably ask me for a pay stub on the first date. Too much pressure. Turn the page."
"Understood, Lord Yamcha! Very astute observation!" Puar said, nodding vigorously.
The little cat licked a paw and flipped the page to the next spread.
"Okay, what about this one? She's wearing a swimsuit!"
Yamcha flinched, his face turning a slight shade of red, though he tried to play it cool.
"Too... aggressive, turn the page. Keep looking."
The walkie-talkie clipped to Yamcha's belt crackled, cutting through the silence of the office and the dramatic weeping coming from the TV.
Yamcha sighed, tearing his eyes away from the magazine. He snatched the device off his belt and pressed the button.
"Talk to me."
"Yamcha, we got a problem," Grizzlo's voice came through, heavy with static and frustration.
"It was supposed to be a simple grab-and-go at the bank, but things got... complicated."
"Complicated how?"
"We had the perp cornered. Then out of nowhere, a second female jumps in. She hit us with some kind of... I don't know, pink gum or something. Glued me to a car door and stuck Diesella to the pavement. They managed to seal themselves in the sewers."
Yamcha blinked.
He looked at Puar, then back at the radio.
A smirk of disbelief tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"So, let me get this straight. You called me personally just to tell me that you let two girls humiliate you with bubblegum? Is that what I'm hearing?"
"I-I'm telling you because it matters. The blonde wasn't working alone. She had backup waiting in the alley. This isn't just a random crazy person raiding the bank. It's a team."
Yamcha's smirk faded slightly. He stared at the ceiling.
"They're organized, Yamcha. Keep your eyes open."
Yamcha slowly stood up from the sofa.
"A team..." He repeated.
Yamcha walked over to the window, looking out at the dusty camp.
He pressed the talk button on the walkie-talkie again.
"Grizzlo, listen to me. Take Diesella and go after them. Flush them out. If they have high tech gear, they aren't just random punks. Bring them to me."
"Copy that." Grizzlo grumbled on the other end.
"We're popping the grate now."
Yamcha clipped the radio back onto his belt and turned to the door.
"Puar, come on."
"Where are we going, Lord Yamcha?" the cat asked, hovering anxiously behind him.
"Are we going to help them in the sewers?"
"No. If this really is an organized team, then causing a scene at the bank sounds a lot like a distraction. While everyone is looking at the explosion..."
He clenched his fist.
"...I'm going to make sure nobody is sneaking in the back door."
"You don't think..." Dimcha started, finally muting the TV as the gravity of the situation settled in. He chewed on his cigar.
"You don't think it's him, do you? That little traitor, Oolong?"
Dimcha gestured vaguely at the heavy steel safe in the corner of the office.
"He took one Sphere. Maybe he came back with some muscle to grab the second one."
Yamcha stopped walking. His knuckles turned white as he gripped the handle of his scimitar.
"Oolong..." Yamcha spat the name like it was poison.
A vein pulsed visibly on his forehead.
He turned to Dimcha.
"If that bastard has the nerve to show his face in my desert again... I will execute him myself. And I'll make sure he feels every second of it."
Dimcha leaned back in his chair, taking the chewed up cigar out of his mouth and pointing it at Yamcha like a schoolteacher scolding a student.
He squinted one eye.
"Now, lookie here, son. You got a hell of a lot of vinegar pumpin' through those veins. A lot of hate stored up in that heart. And frankly? You're damn right to feel it."
He stood up, walking around the desk with a deliberate, heavy gait, stopping right in front of the fuming desert wolf.
"But you gotta think clear. You just slit his throat in a dark alley, that's just killing. That ain't justice. That ain't satisfaction."
Dimcha placed a heavy hand on Yamcha's shoulder, his expression hardening.
"If you truly want to avenge my boy... if you want to square the debt for your brother..." Dimcha paused for dramatic effect, leaning in close.
"You don't give that pig the mercy of a quick death. No, sir. You take him, and you throw him into the Arena."
He grinned, a sharp, cruel expression.
"You let the people watch him bleed. You make a show of it. That's how you honor the dead."
Yamcha's grip on his scimitar loosened.
The vein in his forehead stopped pulsing as the red haze of immediate rage faded, replaced by something colder and far more dangerous.
A slow, dark smile spread across his face, revealing his teeth.
It wasn't a smile of joym, it was the smile of a predator realizing the trap was already set.
"You're right. A quick death is too good for a traitor. If he is here, I won't just kill him."
He walked over to the window, looking down at the dusty fighting pit in the center of the camp.
"I'll break him and make an example out of him that this desert will never forget."