The Price Is Right

Dawn had barely stretched its pale fingers across the sky when the first doors creaked open. Farmers, grocers, and merchants stepped into the crisp morning air, their breath curling like smoke in the cold. The town was supposed to be safe now. The fires from the raid had long since died, and the corpses—human and mutant alike—had been buried or burned. But a shadow still lingered. A feeling, a whisper in the marrow of their bones.

The first man to see it was an old vendor setting up his stall. His gnarled hands froze mid-motion as his eyes locked onto the parchment nailed to the wooden post. A face—not a man's face, but a nightmare given form. It was monstrous, wrong. Even in ink, it seemed to move, as though something ancient and unfathomable stared back. The tendrils that dripped from Fletcher's maw, the hollow voids where his eyes should be—it was as if the very paper itself trembled under his presence.

A slow, chilling wind swept through the street as more people gathered, their hushed voices swallowed by an unbearable silence. One by one, they read the bounty. 50 billion Lyd. It was incomprehensible. A number so vast that it felt less like a reward and more like a desperate plea.

Mothers clutched their children tighter. Merchants stole wary glances over their shoulders. Farmers gripped their tools like makeshift weapons. The streets of Yuccavale felt smaller, the sky heavier. No one spoke his name aloud, but the unspoken question clawed at the air: "What if he comes back?"

Lilian jogged through the quiet morning streets, her breath steady, her mind lost in thought. The cold air nipped at her skin, but she welcomed the sting—it kept her grounded. Kept her from thinking too much about everything that had happened.

But then she noticed it. A crowd. A hushed, unmoving crowd gathered around the central post near the marketplace. Too many people, too silent. A sick feeling coiled in her stomach as she slowed her pace, her steps hesitant as she approached.

Then she saw it.

The poster.

The inked image of him.

Lilian's breath hitched. The grotesque, slithering tendrils, the abyssal pits where his eyes should be, the way the sketch itself seemed to crawl and breathe. Fletcher. His presence still loomed over them, even in something as simple as ink on parchment. But it wasn't just the image. It was the number beneath it. 50 billion Lyd.

Her heart pounded. That wasn't just a bounty—it was a declaration of war. The government didn't offer numbers like that unless they were willing to do anything to see it claimed.

Lilian clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms.

"He's still out there."

Lilian didn't think. She just ran. Her breath hitched, her legs burned, but she didn't stop. The weight in her chest grew heavier with every step, every glance at the twisted, inked horror on the posters plastered across town. The faces of the people around her—pale, anxious, afraid—only made it worse. She had to do something.

She sprinted past the marketplace, past the blacksmith's forge where Samuel used to sit drinking his morning coffee, past the inn where Barry once sat on the porch, pretending he didn't care but always watching over everyone. Now? He was rotting in Abysra while the real threat still lurked out there.

The mayor's house loomed ahead, a grand structure of carved stone and polished wood, standing tall and pristine at the top of Yuccavale's main hill. Lilian barely slowed as she reached the steps, practically throwing herself against the door, pounding hard.

"Mayor Thorne! Open up! Please!"

No answer.

She slammed her fists against the wood again. "Rosalind! This is important!"

A shuffle from inside. A lock turning. Then the door creaked open, revealing Mayor Rosalind Thorne, her sharp hazel eyes narrowing at Lilian's breathless, disheveled state. Her auburn hair was still half-pinned, as if she'd been in the middle of getting ready.

"Lilian?" She arched a brow. "What in the world—"

"We need to talk," Lilian gasped. "Now."

Thorne frowned but stepped aside. Lilian didn't wait—she pushed in, still breathing hard, her pulse hammering. The mayor's home was pristine as always, decorated with bookshelves, elegant tapestries, and a grand desk cluttered with official papers. But Lilian didn't care about any of that.

She turned to Thorne, eyes burning.

"Barry," she said. "We need to bail him out of Abysra."

The mayor exhaled sharply, rubbing her temples. "Lilian… that's not how this works. You think I can just sign a paper and—"

"Then let the town decide," Lilian cut in. "Put it to a vote."

Thorne blinked. "A vote?"

"Yes." Lilian took a step closer, hands clenched. "Half the town already wanted Barry gone. The other half saw him as a protector. You saw how divided they were during his trial." She gestured toward the window, toward the streets filled with fearful townsfolk. "They're terrified. Not of Barry—of Fletcher. They need him now more than ever. So let them decide."

Thorne sighed, arms crossed, considering.

Lilian pressed on. "He stopped Fletcher once. And if we don't do something, who's going to stop him next time? You? The Capitol Patrol Guard?" She shook her head. "No. It has to be Barry. And I know the town will see that—if you give them the chance."

Silence.

The mayor studied her, eyes unreadable. Then she turned, walking toward her desk. Slowly, deliberately, she sat down, pulling out a fresh sheet of parchment.

"If we do this," Thorne said carefully, dipping her quill into ink, "the vote must be public. Every citizen has a say. And if the majority rules against him, Barry stays in Abysra."

Lilian's heart pounded, but she nodded. "That's all I ask."

Thorne exhaled through her nose, then began to write. Then, Thorne sealed the parchment with her official wax stamp, then exhaled. She looked up at Lilian, studying her with something between exhaustion and admiration.

"You're relentless," she muttered.

Lilian stood firm. "Barry deserves this."

Thorne shook her head, grabbed her coat, and reached for a set of keys on her desk. "Come on. We'll take my scooter."

Lilian blinked. "Your scooter?"

"It's old, but it works."

Without another word, Thorne led her outside to the side of the house, where an ancient, rust-speckled scooter sat leaning against the stone wall. It looked like it had seen better decades. The seat was cracked, the mirror was half-broken, and the paint was peeling, revealing the metal underneath.

Lilian hesitated. "…Are you sure this thing still runs?"

Thorne swung a leg over the seat, inserted the key, and gave the kickstart a brutal stomp. The scooter sputtered… coughed… then roared to life.

She smirked. "Get on."

Lilian sighed but climbed on behind her, wrapping her arms around the mayor's waist. The scooter lurched forward, rattling down the dirt road, kicking up dust as they sped toward town hall.

The town square was empty. Lilian paced on the steps of the town hall, eyes scanning the silent streets. The sun hung lower in the sky now, casting long shadows over the buildings. The official announcement had been made. The bells had rung. But no one had come.

Thorne stood beside her, arms crossed, gaze distant. "It's possible they're afraid."

"They should be," Lilian muttered. "But they should also be here."

More time passed. Still, the streets remained lifeless. Then—a shuffle. Lilian turned sharply.

A man emerged from the alley, an older fisherman named Gerard, his face lined with years of hardship. He hesitated, then stepped forward, head slightly bowed. Then another. And another. One by one, townsfolk began to arrive.

Mothers clutching their children's hands. Shopkeepers wiping their hands on their aprons. Farmers, blacksmiths, traders, all moving cautiously, reluctantly, but coming.

Lilian swallowed hard as the crowd thickened. More faces. More voices murmuring. More of Yuccavale.

And then, finally, when the square was full, Thorne turned to Lilian.

"This is your fight," she said simply. "Tell them what you demand."

Lilian took a deep breath, standing tall before the gathered townsfolk. The weight of their eyes, their fear, their hesitation bore down on her, but she clenched her fists and began to speak.

"I know why none of you want to be here," she started, her voice steady despite the turmoil inside her. "I know what you're thinking. After what happened—after what Fletcher did—you don't want another monster walking among you."

The crowd was silent, but she could see it in their faces—the exhaustion, the wariness. The hopelessness.

She swallowed hard and continued.

"But I need you to understand something. Barry isn't Fletcher. Barry fought Fletcher. If not because of him, this town—all of you—would be dead."

She scanned the crowd, looking for the people who had once stood by Barry during his trial. The butcher, the innkeeper, even Gerard, the old fisherman. But now, they wouldn't meet her gaze. Lilian's stomach twisted, but she pressed on.

"I've lived in this town my whole life. And I know what you all want—peace. A place where our children can grow up without fear, where we don't have to wake up wondering if this will be the day our homes are burned to the ground. I want that too."

She took a step forward, her voice growing softer, pleading.

"But that peace doesn't come from locking up the only man who stood between us and real terror. It doesn't come from pretending that the world outside Yuccavale won't reach us eventually. We're safe now, but for how long?"

Still, nothing. The silence stretched, heavy, suffocating.

Lilian gritted her teeth. She turned her gaze to the few who had once defended Barry. "You all saw what he did. You know what kind of man he is. Why are you silent now?"

Gerard shifted uncomfortably, his eyes cast downward. The innkeeper shook her head, crossing her arms. Finally, the butcher, a burly man who had once argued in Barry's favor during his trial, spoke.

"We thought he could control himself," he said, his voice rough. "We thought he was different." He exhaled, his jaw tightening. "But look around, Lilian. Look at what's left of our town. Because of him, because of what he is, Yuccavale is barely standing."

Lilian's breath caught in her throat. Another voice joined in.

"The CPG already saw this as an excuse to tighten their grip. The Treaty Act is about to get worse because of him."

"He turned into a beast, right in front of us."

"If he wasn't here, none of this would have happened!"

The murmurs grew louder, spreading through the crowd like wildfire.

Lilian shook her head. "No. That's not fair. You all—"

"You're asking us to vote for the man who brought this chaos to our doorstep."

A cold dread spread through Lilian's chest. They weren't just against Barry. They were tired. They had given up.

The realization hit like a knife to the ribs. No matter what she said, they wouldn't fight for him. Not now. Not after everything. The town she had hoped would stand by him stood in silence instead.

The long silence stretched, suffocating the town square. Lilian stood there, her heart sinking deeper into the abyss. No one moved. No one spoke.

Then, a voice—raspy, dry, and tainted with amusement—broke the stillness.

"Well, well… ain't this just the saddest damn thing I've ever seen?"

Lilian's breath hitched as the crowd turned toward the source. Gideon.

The old creep leaned against a wooden post, arms crossed over his chest, a twisted grin on his face. His sharp eyes flickered with something unreadable—mockery, maybe, or something far more unsettling.

"If none of you cowards have the guts to stand with the girl, then I will."

A ripple of unease went through the crowd. Some shifted uncomfortably, others murmured under their breath. Gideon wasn't exactly… trustworthy. He was the town's shadow in the alleyway, the whisper in the dark, the rumor you never wanted to believe. People avoided him, never knowing if he spoke truth or lies.

Lilian, still processing what had just happened, blinked at him.

"You…?" she whispered, barely believing it herself.

Gideon chuckled, slow and deliberate, rubbing his stubbled chin. "Oh, don't gimme that look, sweetheart. I ain't doin' this outta charity. Hell, I ain't even doin' it for Barry." His grin widened, showing crooked teeth. "I just hate watchin' a town that once had some damn spine roll over like beaten dogs."

Lilian exhaled sharply, something like relief washing over her. She had expected anyone—anyone—but him.

For as long as she had known Gideon, he had always run his mouth about Barry. Whether it was exaggerations about his past or wild rumors about what he really was, Gideon had never passed up an opportunity to stir the pot.

Yet here he was. The first and only one to stand beside her. She smiled—genuinely, gracefully.

"Thank you, Gideon."

He snorted. "Yeah, yeah, don't get all teary-eyed on me. We still got work to do."

Lilian turned back to the crowd, emboldened, stronger now. If Gideon—of all people—was willing to stand for Barry, then maybe, just maybe… he wasn't the only one.