The hovercraft swung from side to side. Swamp and sky filled Roy’s vision in turn. He gripped the handlebars tight to keep from falling out, tighter when they turned wet and slippery as the wounds on his palms stretched open.

  It was spinning too, and the rudder did nothing to help. He pushed the throttle anyway. They were going down, and he wanted to land anywhere but within the Rabbit’s zone.

  They whizzed around in circles, and Roy lost all sense of direction. Identical crumbling suburbs and strip malls spun in and out of view, looking tiny from this height, like models built by a child with no imagination.

  Then Roy’s breath caught in his throat when he saw a place that was all imagination.

  He didn’t know if the craft actually spun slower when he saw Lightner World, or if it was just his mind doing it, but that moment seemed to stretch on and on like a perfect memory.

  The castle had towers of pure white, capped with cones of blue and purple that sparkled in the sunlight. Even from above, it looked huge, like a mountain sculpted into a dreamscape.

  Other things stood out too, making him wish with all his heart to teleport down there and stand among them. There was a wooden ship, teeming with so many sails and cannons that it would have been impossible to fit any more. A hot-rod red rocket with curved fins and round portholes, sitting atop a brass launch pad. A network of winding streets with roofs of all different sizes, shapes, and colors.

  The greatest work of theming in the world.

  Roy leant toward it, hoping for a slightly closer look, but then it was gone, spinning out of sight. By the time the hovercraft had spun back around to face it again, it was already shrinking into the distance.

  Riiiiiiiip.

  The balloon lurched downward, going from spinning like a Frisbee to dropping like a rock. Turning the handlebars did almost nothing now. The only control Roy had was the throttle, and all that could do was make them drop at a slightly shallower angle.

  No Great Mall. No Lightner World. From what he couldn’t see, he assumed they were heading south. Below were two rows of big buildings, with a wide road going through the middle of them. They looked bigger every second.

  Roy glanced up. The balloon looked more like a windsock now, providing no lift at all.

  Below, a series of bizarre things zoomed into focus. A giant flamingo, a monumental sword embedded in a rock face, and right in their path: a cowboy with a moon for a head.

  Maybe the fabric of the cowboy hat will soften our fall. It wasn’t fabric, of course, but maybe it would behave like it was.

  It wasn’t lining up right. They were on track to land on the hard asphalt in front. He eased all the way off the throttle, but their angle of descent barely changed. What force did air have compared to a plummeting chunk of steel and brass?

  Flying machines are supposed to be better than this. Steampunk flying machines are meant to have all kinds of tricks.

  As they passed over the front of the hat, Roy slammed the lift fan lever down. It instantly whirred to life, arresting all motion. Roy smacked his head against the handlebars, feeling something break inside his nose.

  For one breathless moment, they hung in place. Then the lift fan gave a sickly whine—and they plummeted.

  The hat did not, in fact, behave like cloth.

  Fiberglass cracked apart like an eggshell as the hovercraft tore through the brim. Plaster dust flew past the rails, and jagged shards rained down on the parking lot below.

  The hovercraft scraped down the moon-man’s face, carving a deep gouge into its forehead. Metal screeched as the hull ground against something solid beneath the facade, too strong to break through. Roy’s bones rattled with each juddering impact.

  With a sudden jolt, they caught on the edge of a raised eyebrow and teetered. Roy slammed into the rails as the craft tilted, nearly throwing him over the edge.

  Below, a massive painted eye stared up at him, cracks spiderwebbing through its surface. Beyond that—a sheer drop towards giant cowboy boots and cracked concrete.

  The hull bounced against the forehead, rocking back and forth on the precipice. Each time, lurching closer to falling off.

  On the final bounce, the fiberglass resisted for a moment, then crumpled inwards, shattering like safety glass.

  A storm of artificial moon dust filled the air.

  Slam. Roy’s head struck metal. Stars flickered in the dust. He gasped, gagging on the thick, dry air.

  He pushed himself to his feet, blinking through the haze. They’d come to rest on a steel beam, part of a skeletal network criss-crossing the moon-man’s hollow interior. Below, a maintenance catwalk of plywood and scaffolding led to an observation platform built into the sculpture’s mouth. Beneath that was an open void. The shattered remains of the gift shop yawned at the bottom of the drop.

  Bastion lay sprawled on his back, with dust and plaster chips stuck to the blood that coated his duster. Roy would have made the obvious joke about that, had his friend been conscious.

  Roy took a step, and steel creaked beneath him. Something wrenched deep inside the structure, followed by a slow, metallic groan.

  The beam sagged and buckled, about to break.

  Roy kicked Bastion under the railing and onto the walkway, then jumped as the hovercraft fell out from under him.

  Then he watched as it landed, flattening a display of novelty mugs. He found himself enjoying the spectacle.

  “Ow,” said Bastion. “What did you kick me for? And where the hell are we?”

  “We’re inside a moon cowboy.”

  “You’re not making any sense, Roy. You must be—urgh—delirious.” Bastion got to his feet, took two unsteady steps, then collapsed. Roy caught him and put his arm over his shoulder to help him along the catwalk.

  Through the opening in the mouth was a highway lined with motels and gift shops, all as heavily themed as this one. He hoped they wouldn’t have to go far to get some healing.

  Making it down the stairs was hard work, and they nearly lost their footing multiple times. By the time they reached the first floor Bastion was wheezing and even Roy had started to take quicker, sharper breaths.

  The ground-floor gift shop was shaped like a foot. Filled with sheriff badge keychains and craft beers with “moonshine” printed on the labels.

  In the heel, the clothing section had been emptied, with not a cowboy hat or waistcoat to be found on the cubbyhole shelves and hangers. On the floor, a roughly ripped blister-box read “Smokin' Six Shooter. Fun for all ages.”

  This place had already been looted of anything useful for costuming, which didn’t bode well for Roy’s chances of finding what he needed.

  He left Bastion to prop himself up against a human-sized statue of the moon-man surrounded by miniature figurines of the same likeness, and shuffled across the cavernous space, listening to the echo of his own footsteps.

  Dust hung in the air, not just from their crash but from a century and a half of neglect. The hole they’d torn in the ceiling sent a narrow pillar of sunlight spearing down, highlighting the motes as they swirled.

  But Roy’s eyes were drawn to a different glow—the one humming from the drinks fridge. It had artwork of potion bottles and starbursts on the sides and “Elixir: Taste the Magic” emblazoned above. The theming had kept the lights on, kept the interior cool all this time, but the only thing left inside was bottled water.

  “No healing drinks here. We’ll have to try somewhere else,” he yelled back to Bastion.

  “Sure. I’m feeling more awake now. I guess not being thrown around on the hovercraft helps with that. Just one question.” He pointed up at the hole in the roof. “Why did you land us there, specifically?”

  “I thought the hat was magic.”

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  He chuckled. “Fair enough.”

  They stepped out of a door in the toe. Bastion still looked kind of woozy, swaying from side to side as he walked. Roy wasn’t in great shape himself. Now that the adrenaline had worn off, his left hand hung limp as his side once more, he could only hear from one side, and pain radiated from his nose, which had swelled enough to make him feel like he was permanently squinting.

  Walking was supposed to feel good, not as good as running, of course, but still pleasant. He was used to having a spring in his step, instead of each step taking conscious effort. At least the sidewalks here were wide enough that there was no chance of tripping into the long grass. There were some obstructions to navigate around, though: downed streetlights and telephone poles, palm and orange trees encroaching on the concrete, and crashed cars on the curbs.

  He took in the sights to take his mind off how hard it was to keep walking.

  There were other gift shops just as elaborate as the moon man. The flamingo was nearly as tall and had a flock of smaller robotic ones at its base in various states of disrepair. Some still preened and flapped their wings, but others were stuck in endless loops of beak dipping or frozen mid-strut.

  The big rubber duck quacked distorted music, and Bastion covered his ears as they passed it, wincing as he moved his injured shoulder. Roy didn’t bother; he couldn’t hear on that side right now anyway.

  When they passed the “Store in the Stone,” Roy made a mental note to come back later. The sign said you could try to pull the giant blade from the rock-face, and that a boon would be granted to anyone who managed it. He’d never been the kind of guy to turn down the chance at a boon.

  To be honest with himself, he really wanted to go in a lot of them. The Dino-Store, the big box store shaped like a treasure chest, and the one with a crashed UFO embedded in the roof all caught his interest. If he wasn’t injured he’d be running inside all of them, forcing Bastion to follow.

  “Look at that one,” said Bastion, pointing at the crashed UFO. “I bet people who come here after us will think our hovercraft is the same kind of pre-Warp theming.”

  Roy took a look back. Steam was still pouring out of the moon-man’s forehead and up along the brim of his hat.

  “A cowboy with a steampunk hovercraft in his face, which is also the moon. That’s not really cohesive as themes go,” Roy said.

  “The whole thing might just start rotting then. Either way, we made a permanent mark on it. I kind of like that.” Bastion pointed to one of the billboards.

  So far, they’d passed a Revus Bandit ad which showed it speeding down the coast, an Elixir one which right now felt like a personal taunt, and one about a new firework show at Lightner World.

  The one Bastion pointed out was different, though. It advertised a place called “West Town,” a history-themed place with a saloon, general store, and cowboys with flintlock pistols, but the original text was painted over with “Food, Lodgings, Trade” in crude brushstrokes.

  “Trade,” said Bastion. “The thief said he sold things in Key West, but he’s a long way from there now. He might try to sell our stuff in this place instead. Maybe we’ll get lucky and catch him before he leaves. I’d say we’re due for some luck right about now.”

  Alongside the billboards were tall, blocky signs for the motels. The one for the “Chrome Castle” was themed with metal crenelations along the top. Some of the letters were missing, but the price was listed at $20 per night, and a smaller sign hung below with the word “pool.”

  Lounging by a pool in the hot sun made people thirsty, and there was no way a place as cheap as that had a bar.

  “Here first,” said Roy. “We need to get healed up.”

  The pool was full of brown sludge and algae, as well as some of the green slime Big Time had warned them about. The motel itself was made of rough plaster covered in silver paint, with a few metal panels higher up. Rough, cheap theming, even when it was new.

  Railings on the balconies and stairwells were rusted through, and Roy didn’t trust the steps to hold their weight, but what they wanted would be on the ground floor anyway.

  In the reception area was a table of flyers for tourists, a lot of those white plastic chairs you found exact copies of everywhere, a gumball machine, and their salvation: an Elixir vending machine.

  It was still lit up. Its theming was keeping it powered, and, Roy hoped, stocked. Magic sparkles covered its sides, and a closed aperture filled the top half. The lower half had large buttons for each kind of drink.

  Bastion pulled the pre-Warp coins from his pocket. Noticing Roy’s confusion, he pointed to his hand. “The green ones are pennies. They’re corroded to shit and we’d need a hundred of them for one drink. Useless. We do have two of the fifty cents though.”

  Roy examined the larger coins. They weren’t in great shape, thin and uneven, caked with grime even after Bastion tried his best to scrape it away with his fingernails.

  Bastion slotted the first coin in. It clinked through, rattled… ding! Accepted.

  The second coin dropped in. For a few moments they heard nothing—clunk! Rejected. Roy took it from the change dispenser and tried it again. No luck.

  “It’s OK,” said Bastion. “We still have four of the quarters. If half of them work, we can split an Elixir between us.”

  The first one was too bent to even fit in the slot, and another was worn so thin it broke in half when it hit the change dispenser. The third one worked, even though it was the grimiest of them all.

  Bastion pulled out the final, half-green coin. Not good. Roy didn’t know how exactly the machine was checking the coins, but he guessed that not being made of the original metal had as much to do with it as the shape and weight.

  Last chance. The vending machine hummed. They held their breath… BEEP—DENIED.

  Bastion hit the machine, tears forming in the corners of his eyes.

  “Wait,” said Roy. Give me that bent one.”

  Bastion threw it. “It wouldn’t fit. Why couldn’t it just—cough—work?” he slumped to the floor, clutching his shoulder.

  They just needed one more.

  Roy stepped outside, drawing as much resonance as he could from the Chrome Castle. It was a pitiful supply. Silver spray-paint and thin aluminum that didn’t look anything like a real castle. He took off his gloves; he’d be getting little help from his theme here.

  He didn’t need much though. He’d been using a grip trainer for years, one he’d found in the local landfill, still shrinkwrapped. Along with enough deadlifts to leave his hands thickly calloused.

  Roy’s left wrist was so swollen now he couldn’t bend it, so he braced it against his brigandine instead as he gripped the other half of the coin and pulled. Slowly, carefully, like trying to crack a nut without dropping any of the shell.

  After a few seconds of resistance, the coin bent back into place. He held it up to his eyes. Still crooked, but it would fit now.

  Heading back inside, he deposited it in the slot and waited. Sweat dripped from his brow.

  Please, please, please.

  A slow, humming rattle. Ding! Accepted!

  The buttons lit up brighter. Roy immediately hammered “Elixir Classic.” The aperture opened and a robotic Wizard burst from the mechanical swirling portal, shaking its staff.

  Bastion jumped back up. “Roy, you did it! Hahaha. You brilliant bastard. Yes!”

  They danced around, high-fiving each other in a shared moment of joy before falling back, wincing from their respective injuries.

  With a twirl of sparks, the wizard completed the motions of his spell, and a can clunked into the receptacle.

  Bastion grabbed it, ripped the ring-pull and chugged, handing it to Roy a few seconds later.

  The first sip hit him like a good night’s sleep condensed down into a single second.

  They passed the can back and forth. After a few mouthfuls, Roy could grab it with his left hand again. His body felt great. He’d had the flu for a solid month once, and when he’d recovered he’d been struck by the way he’d forgotten what his body was supposed to feel like, how great it was to not have everything hurt all the time. This felt like that, only instant.

  “Holy shit,” said Bastion, shaking out the last few drops. “That was the best soda I’ve ever had in my life. It doesn’t normally work nearly that well. Do you think it was because we were so beat up? Like it has more to do, so it has a stronger effect?

  “It might be because it’s all the way out here, in a vending machine nobody’s used for all this time. They work because they’ve themed like magic potions, and abandoned places fit that really well. And yeah, the fact that we were in bad shape and barely got the coins to work added to it.”

  “So the drink saw us struggling and supercharged itself?” asked Bastion. “That’s one upside to a massive setback, I guess.”

  Roy thought about that for a second. As much as it did suck to have the discs stolen, he still found everything that had happened since then thrilling.

  If Tops hadn’t stolen the gold disc, they wouldn’t have gotten to fly, and he wouldn’t have the sense of purpose he now felt in tracking it down. Just like the Elixir wouldn’t have been as good if the first coins had worked.

  A life where everything went his way the first time wasn’t the best kind of life at all.

  “It’s not even a setback,” Roy said. “We’re still on track here. Having the discs stolen is the call to adventure.”

  “You said Big Time asking us to get the discs was the call to adventure.”

  “Yeah, I did, didn’t I? Well, this is the catalyst then.”

  “Did you ever think that maybe that stuff doesn’t apply to reality? And that you could just be ramming events into this model when they clearly don’t fit?”

  “If I am, then it’s worked better for me than any other way of living I’ve tried so far. Just look at where we are.”

  “In a crappy motel in the wastelands?”

  “Adventuring. Experiencing things instead of just daydreaming. Would you really rather be back at the academy right now?”

  “Fuck no.”

  “Right. So I’m going to keep smashing square pegs into round holes until the whole world is made of squares.”

  “Or until you smash the whole thing apart.”

  ”Even better.”

  “I think you’ve let the metaphor get away from you there,” said Bastion.

  “Anyway, this is good. We’re doing the debate stage right now, and then we’ll be on our way to getting everything we want.”

  They stepped back outside, and Roy spotted something sitting on a motorcycle in the parking lot. A helmet. Matte black, with a curved design that enclosed the entire head and a blue-tinted face plate that matched his armor perfectly.

  “You see what I’m talking about? Bad things lead to good things, Bastion. I’m telling you, it’s going to be great.” He pressed a button on the side. The face-plate retracted with a whoosh. “This is so cool.”

  “I’m not going to agree with you until I get a hat too,” said Bastion.

  “West Town then?”

  He nodded, “West Town. Sounds like a good place to look for cowboy hats and thieves.”

  They wandered along the highway. Past billboards and gift shops, chain restaurants and tourist traps. Roy looked at them and thought of Sir Protagonist, of the gold Virtua World Championship disc, but mostly of Lightner World.

  All roads lead to Orlando.