One Round Only: The

Magnus alights like an inky little storm cloud on what he was affectionately calling the poop deck, because he's an immature teen and also a bird and doesn't have time to be all stern and serious when there's a global hub of trade and business to be exploring.

There's several warehouses' worth of floor space all laid out with fuel and spare machinery and chimneys and industrial-looking lifts that must lead down into the bowels (*Magnus laughing*) of the city, but Magnus is more concerned with how they haul all this up and in here. Ahead of him is all the right-outta-my-young-adult-fantasy-novels market streets, which look way too narrow to let all these huge crates through. Magnus has seen apartments smaller than these, dang.

He looks up at the big shoveoff imposing wall that's shielding off this end of the city-ship-car-train-whatever, and his keen bird senses spot a skeletal shape breaking up the curvature. A crane! Or a lift. Or whatever. It hauls things up, including horses.

With all hands further forward on the deck fighting raiders, it's quick uninterrupted work for Magnus to fly back onto the wall, and figure out which button lowers the lift. He races it down, beating it despite lazy circling-about on the desert updrafts.

His horse isn't where he left it, which kind of sucks because Magnus has no idea where it could've gone. Experimentally, he yells into the dust cloud "Fuck the police!" hoping the police horse gets real offended and comes and tries to tell him his rights.

Instead, he's answered by the purr of a motor, and the silhouette of a figure on a dirt bike emerging from the dust.

"Fuuuuck the police?" Magnus asks, a little more cautious.

"Fuck the police!" affirms the raider. Magnus high-fives 'em.