The Rusty Anchor felt heavier than usual that morning. Smoke from the battle still hung thick in the air outside, and inside the back room the lanterns burned low, throwing shaky orange light across the table. Sheriff sat in the reinforced chair, his metal frame dented bad where Mark had stomped him. A deep crack ran across his chest plate and his left leg kept twitching, sending little blue sparks onto the floor every few seconds. Shed paced slow along the far wall, tail dragging, scales still cracked and numb in places from the goons who had surrounded him.
Shed: ok where going bring back Saint but how? That base is locked down tight. High tech gates, guards everywhere, and Mark's crew is still licking their wounds but they have numbers. We saw it during the fight. They have scanners on every wall and hover bikes ready in the east bay. We cannot just walk in."
Sheriff leaned forward, the table creaking loud under his weight. He reached into his duster and pulled out a scrap of paper and a piece of charcoal.
"I know. We cannot charge in guns blazing. Not with me still sparking and you half numb from those stun shots. We need smart. We need quiet at first."
He started sketching rough lines on the paper, the charcoal scratching loud in the quiet room.
"Main gate here. Guard tower on the west wall. East side is the bike bay. That is our way in. They keep the bikes charged and ready. We take one, ride it straight to the cell block, grab Saint, ride out the same way. Simple."
Shed flicked his tail and leaned over the table, yellow eyes narrowing at the sketch.
"Simple? Bro, they have scanners on the gates and guards posted every twenty feet. And the Director's people are probably already there. That masked guy does not mess around. We saw how fast they moved after the battle. If they spot us early we are done."
Sheriff's red eye flicker
"I know. But we have something they do not. Surprise. They think we are broken. They think we will lick our wounds and hide in Ceil. We hit them tomorrow night when they are still tired from the fight. I slip in first through the drainage grate on the north side. I saw it during the battle when the barricades fell. It is narrow but I can fit. I open the side gate from inside. You come in right after."
Shed crouched beside the table, claws tapping the wood.
"I can handle the guards near the cells. My claws still work fine even if the rest of me is sore. I take out two quietly, then we move. But what about weapons? We lost a lot in the fight. The town is helping with bandages and food but they are not exactly lining up to give us rifles after what happened. We have my knife, your revolver, and whatever we grab in the bike bay. That is not much against high tech armor."
Sheriff tapped the sketch with one metal finger, adding small marks for guard posts.
"We use what we have. My revolver still fires true. Your knife and claws are silent. We grab whatever is in the bike bay. Extra power cells, maybe a sidearm or two. We go light. Speed matters more than firepower right now. In and out before they can raise the alarm."
The two of them sat in silence for a moment, the lantern flickering between them. Outside, the two jagged moons hung low, casting long shadows over the ruined barricades of Ceil. The town was still licking its wounds, survivors moving quiet through the streets with bandages and worried voices.
Shed spoke first, voice quieter than usual.
"What if he is hurt? Or what if the Director already took him somewhere else? We saw how Mark looked at him. They wanted him alive but that does not mean they will be gentle."
Sheriff's voice dropped into that deep, steady tone again, the one that carried weight like an old lawman giving orders.
"Then we follow. But I do not think so. Mark said the Director wants him alive. They will keep him close for now. We get in, we get him out, we get gone. No hero stuff. No long fights. In and out."
Shed hissed a short laugh, the sound rough.
"Easy for you to say, tin man. You are the one who took the worst beating. Your leg is still sparking every time you move. How are you going to run through that grate and hot-wire a bike if your wires keep popping?"
Sheriff flexed his damaged leg under the table. Small blue sparks popped once, then twice, but he kept his face steady.
"It will hold. I have walked this dimension longer than most have been alive. A few dents will not stop me from getting our kid back.
I have taken worse and kept moving. You worry about your end. Those guards near the cells will not go down easy even if they are tired."
Shed placed a clawed hand on the table.
"He is crew. That is all that matters. I remember how he stepped forward in the battle and told everyone to stop. Kid had no business doing that but he did it anyway. We owe him the same."
Sheriff kept sketching, adding more details, marking patrol routes he had noticed during the fight.
"We rest what is left tomorrow we scout the ruins from a distance. No one goes close enough to be seen. We watch the patrols, count the guards, make sure the grate is still clear. In 4 days we move. I go through the grate, you on the guards, me on the bikes. We meet at the cell block. Grab Saint. Ride out the east gate before they even know we are inside."
He looked at Shed.
"We bring back Saint. That is the plan. No matter what."
Shed nodded once.
"Got it."
The lantern flame dem low, almost out. Outside, Ceil was still quiet and wary, the survivors moving like ghosts through the streets. But in the back room of the Rusty Anchor two outcasts sat together, already turning pain into purpose. Sheriff's sparks had slowed. Shed's cracked scales looked a little less raw under the warm light. They did not speak much more. They did not need to.
Saint was out there in that metal base, locked in a cell, asking questions no one would answer. He did not know it yet, but his friends were already coming for him. They had a sketch, a plan, and the kind of stubbornness that had kept them alive this long.
The plan was set in 4 days they would move.