The wasteland’s changed, darlin’. New words, new sights, pages updated and stories stirred. Thought you knew it? Look again.
The dimly lit room echoed with ragged breaths and the occasional hiss of dripping water from an out-of-sight crack in the ceiling. The air was heavy, a stifling blend of sweat, blood, and fear. In the centre of the room, bound to a chair with his face bruised and swollen, Number 3 hung his head low, his breaths shallow. His iconic red helmet lay shattered into chunks scattered across the floor. Around him, his captors loomed like vultures, their shadows stretching across the concrete walls as one began to rewrap his knuckles before going in for another blow.
“Where’s Mr 8 hidin?” growled the leader of the gang, a brute with fists like sledgehammers. He grabbed 3 ball by the collar, lifting him slightly from the chair. “Tell us, and maybe we’ll let ya keep the rest of ya teeth.”
The captive spat a thick drop of blood onto the floor, smirking despite his split lip. “Ask again later,” he muttered.
The leader’s fist collided with his stomach, forcing a pained gasp and the unmistakable snap of a rib “Keep up the jokes ya fuckin chalk sniffer,” he snarled. “You’re runnin out of time.”
One of the thugs leaned against the wall, his rifle ready beside him. “Boss, what if the Snooker boys really don’t know we’ve got 3?”
“They’ll know soon enough,” the leader snapped back. “8 Ball will come sticking his dome 'ead round like he always does. When he does, game ov…." Everyone in the room paused for a moment, holding themselves steady as the floor began to shake just a little under their feet and the noise of an engine grew from a distant rumbling purr quickly into a thunderous roar.
“What the hell is that?” one thug asked but no one in the room could answer him except for Number 3 who had begun to laugh painfully through his slowly deflating lung.
BOOM
The entire side of the building exploded inward. A massive white spherical tank burying itself into the rubble. Dust and debris flew in all directions as the monstrous machine screeched to a halt. “It’s him! It's an 8 Ball!” someone shouted, panic spreading through the gang. From Big Betty, a cylindrical canister shot into the air before clattering to the ground and erupting with a hiss. A dense cloud of thick blue smoke consumed the room in seconds, reducing visibility to nothing but a cerulean haze.
“Spread out! Eyes open!” the leader barked, coughing as the acrid gas filled his lungs. The gang stumbled through the fog, their movements clumsy and frantic. Somewhere in the room a faint tapping echoed—a rhythmic click, click, click—like a cane striking against the ground. One thug spun toward the sound, squinting into the haze. A shadow darted past him, swift and silent. Before a reinforced thunk sent him sprawling to the ground. Another thug fired blindly into the blue, the muzzle flashed briefly illuminating a flickering, slim silhouette except for the disproportionately large and round head. The figure moved like a ghost, closing the distance in an instant. The thug’s gun clattered to the ground as again a loud thwack was heard, knocking the air from his lungs.
“Boss! I can’t see anything!” another screamed, his voice breaking with fear. The leader gritted his teeth, his fists clenching. “Fight, you cowards!” But the room had descended into chaos. One by one, the gang members fell, their cries muffled by the choking blue vapors. Finally, the leader turned toward the sound of deliberate footsteps emerging from the fog. His heart pounded as the smoke began to clear, revealing a figure standing amidst the wreckage. 8 Ball was there, clad in his sleek black suit, his helmet gleaming—a perfectly polished sphere, the iconic white circle and black number 8 facing outward. His reinforced cue stick rested casually across his shoulders, the weapon’s tip faintly dusted with blue chalk while the shaft was dripping with blood. The leader stumbled backward, tripping over the unconscious body of one of his men.
“Wait! Please!” he begged, falling to his knees. “I’ll give you whatever you want! Please, you won’t kill me right?” 8 The ball tilted his head slightly, his gaze unreadable. He stepped forward, his movements calm, deliberate. With a flick of his wrist, the cue stick swung downward, pointing at the leader. His voice, low and mechanical, echoed in the silent room:
“Outlook not so good.” The cue stick came down in a sharp, decisive arc into the leader's cranium, and silence reclaimed the space. Behind him, 3 Ball groaned, struggling against his bindings. 8 Ball turned, cutting him loose with a single stroke of the stick.