The Badlands. They were bad. And bumpy.
Grimironie judged that she'd catch up to Poultreus by noon. High noon.
A few cryptic messages from Crispy reassured her. They were heading for her projected coordinates. She wondered if Three had recovered. Would he be there?
* * * * * * *
Red sun at morning: sailor's warning. Red sun at night: sailor's delight. This maxim was burned into her psyche as a child. Perhaps her mom sensed that it would be pertinent in her adulthood, yet... yet, she was far from the ocean.
"I defy prophecy!" she yelled to a gaggle of Canadian geese who were busy pooping on a nearby golf course. They appeared unmoved by her declaration. She questioned her sanity. She questioned her fortitude. She questioned her last pedicure choice: coral. Was it appropriate?
The internal agony ceased once she passed the rugged foothills and saw the vast field before her. Poultreus herded the Death Chickens through a narrow pass. She pulled to a halt.
This was the last stand. This was the ground that she must hold.
* * * * * * * * *
Grimironie Von Farmer, grand-daughter of the great Otto Von Farmer, assessed the battlegrounds. With a mass of white rock behind her, she knew that any Porks who passed beyond her line would clam victory.
She texted Crispy. He texted back, "brb."
Within an hour, hundreds of D.C.D.A.'s rappeled down the cliffs behind her, and hundreds more parachuted on the field before her. She popped an Altoid and waited.
More choppers came. She stood taller. Her army had arrived.