The crimson sky spreads out over the vast wasteland, a scarlet canopy blanketing a thousand miles of sand and rock. In the west, the blazing orb of fire and light began its descent, a few last feeble rays of illumination stretching across the landscape, while in the east a pale sliver could be seen peeking up over the horizon, reflecting the fading, reddish glow. A few stray gusts of wind moaned across the desolate scenery, kicking up the occasional cloud of dust, winding and weaving their way through the rocky crags and fissures that dot the ground.
All in all, an empty scene, a place almost entirely void of life or activity. Almost.
A lone figure slowly treks their way across the desolation, a hulking, metallic silhouette. Ever moving forward, the vagabond harbored inside the steel shell is unencumbered by the stinging dust that *pings* off their craft time and time again, neither are they bothered by the slowly dwindling heat. A cold, cloudless night might be fast approaching, but the traveler cares little for such troubles; a heated cockpit will ensure that they spend the nocturnal hours in comfortable, if somewhat cramped, warmth.
Repressing a yawn, the pilot gazed at the screen before them with bleary eyes, hoping against hope to spot something besides rock and sand. It has been days since they had last seen another living soul, and the stretch of isolation has no end in sight. Maybe it would be best to stop for the night, to set up camp, eat some food, and get a little shut-eye. Who knew, tomorrow might be the day they finally found another human. Tomorrow might be the day that they
BOOOOOOOOOM
The roar of a distant explosion yanks the traveler from their sleepy state; suddenly alert, they scan the area around them with eager, focused eyes. Regardless of its origin, purpose, or result, there was one thing that an explosion always meant: there was somebody, or something , else nearby. Whether it was a potential friend or a certain foe, there was finally a break to this endless waste, an oasis of life in this lonely desert. Something interesting was finally about to happen.
With instinctual movements, the vagabond sends their hands flying around the cockpit, flipping switches and pulling levers, slamming buttons and gripping handles. A small, circular panel set into the central display began to pulse and glow with light, a few rows of emerald bars slowly spiraling around its edges.
While the flurry of activity fills the small chamber, the wanderer's craft begins to come to life: giant fingers begin to flex and clench, steel arms and legs bend and stretch, and a pair of enormous eyes blaze with a powerful, shining gleam.
Awake and alive, the Gunman charges forward, its metal form hurtling forward at speeds far greater than that of its previous treading. As it traverses the desert with massive strides, it takes but an instant for the mecha to locate the pillar of smoke and sparks, rising upwards from behind a nearby dune. Within moments, the Gunman has begun to ascend the sandy slope, its massive feet digging into the soft surface over and over.
Finally, the journey is complete. The machine and its pilot find themselves standing at the top of a small hill, looking into a deep valley spread out before them. Columns of rock dot the dale, but it is still an easy task to spot the trio of Gunman that lurks among the tall pillars. Short and stubby, colored a sickly shade of green, and (in one case) bearing a thick, unwieldy club, they look instantly familiar to the now disdainful pilot. Mass-produced, unaltered models, no doubt piloted by some pathetic class of Beastmen, the three Gunman awkwardly squeeze themselves through the stone obstacle course; judging by the way their massive faces swing back and forth, they're most likely looking for something.
In addition to the trio of enemy mechas, a few other details quickly make themselves apparent to the pilot. Firstly, there is the source of the smoke, and presumably the earlier explosion: a fourth, similarly colored Gunman lies buried beneath an avalanche of stone, its armor shorn and shattered by the massive rocks, a discarded club lying next to it. Exposed wires and tubes belch black clouds upwards, the occasional haze of sparks being emitted every so often. There is no sign of the robot's hybrid pilot; hopefully he still lies crushed beneath those tons of rock.
Second, and more importantly, are the other silhouettes that slowly come into view, as they clamber to the top of other hills or dunes. Soon, half-a-dozen pairs of glowing eyes stand atop their respective peak. Though they may be a fair distance away, it is simple to see that they are nothing like the Gunman in the valley below. Far from the featureless, almost blank design of the mass-produced mechas, these form a veritable parade of shapes and designs, each of them unique.
As the pilot stares, mystified, at the troop of other Gunman, a few lines of text scroll across the view-screen before them, as well as a few pictographs that communicate the same query for the less literally inclined:
Friendly Gunmen detected. Establish A/V connection?
