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The cyclops in red fled across the planet, and the drifter followed.
The drifter always found peace in walking. Ain't as serene when there's naught else to do but fight, though. The drifter trudges on. Have to find Him. He has it. He has to.
Eventually the drifter runs out of walking to do. No land left; just him, some strange horned stone platform, and the locals itchin' to put him in a shallow grave.
The drifter touches the stone, a beam of red light flares up into the sky, and the gates of Hell crash open to meet him.
Giant bugs, mountainous walking rocks, some peculiar creature looking like a teapot. The drifter knows all too well any wrong move could be his death. A flash of blades and barrage of gunfire sends them back where they belong.
But the drifter ain't much better off.
He doubles over, lungs in throes. Blood comes up where phlegm should be. It's getting worse.
And the cyclops in red has the cure.
He has to.
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