Рўрєр°с‡р°с‚сњ Р¤сѓс‚р°р¶ Рр»сњ Рџсђрёрјрѕ С‚р°рѕс†сѓрµс‚ Рїрѕрґ Austronomia... -
Colt stared at the results screen, the tune still stuck in his head. He didn't even care about the lost trophies. He just needed to find that footage.
From somewhere across the dunes, a faint, synthesized beat began to thrum. Dun-dun-dun-dun, dun, dun-dun-dun-dun... The infectious rhythm of filled the arena. El Primo’s shoulders began to bounce. Colt stared at the results screen, the tune
Colt checked his ammo. One shot left. He stepped out, ready to go down in a blaze of glory. From somewhere across the dunes, a faint, synthesized
Colt lowered his guns, mesmerized. He looked at the poisonous green gas creeping toward them. Usually, this was the moment of panic, the "Game Over" screen. But with El Primo leading the funeral march for their own match, it felt... right. El Primo’s shoulders began to bounce
El Primo spun, his mask gleaming. He tapped his heels, his movements mimicking the famous pallbearers. He wasn't just BM-ing (bad-mannering); he was inviting Colt to the final party.
