1
"Once Upon a Time"
This here is Mobius. 19th century.
In this world, you'll find humans, Mobians, and critters. But it's the Mobians who matter most in this tale. They're animals shaped like people—maybe a bit shorter than your average man, but with the same kind of mind and spirit.
Most of the land's a dry and blisterin' desert, yet somehow rivers snake through like they don't belong. Folks say the waters come straight from an ocean sittin' somewhere dead-center of the sands.
Now, this was a time when law ain't stretched too far, and what little there was of it, couldn't shoot straight or ride fast. Outlaws roamed like coyotes. Every man, woman, and child kept a pistol close—and slept with one eye open. You never knew when death might ride into town.
Instead of coins or bills, folks traded with Rings—yep, actual rings.
And while some things might feel familiar, this world had its own kind of magic: steam-powered technology, the kind that puffed and whirred ahead of its time.
Somewhere out there was a stretch of sand cursed by name and reputation—
---
"The Golden Dust Zone"
"A heaven for gunslingers… but a hell for the common folk."
Somewhere in a dusty little town, deep in that forsaken land…
---
Clip-clop... clip-clop...
Hoofbeats echoed slow and steady. Someone was ridin' in, alone.
---
Just one rider.
"Hey... someone's comin'." A Mobian muttered.
"Ridin' solo, looks like," another whispered.
"Well ain't that a shame—for him." A third Mobian pushed between the two, sneerin'.
They said no more. Just traded glances, and then crooked grins.
---
Across the way in the barbershop, two more Mobians—one snippin' hair, one gettin' trimmed—paused and turned toward the sound. Eyes fixed like prey had stepped into the lion's den.
The rider didn't dismount. Just kept trottin' through town, eyes sweepin' side to side, takin' in the sights.
What he saw was silence—graveyard silence. A noose dangled off someone's porch. A pile of Mobian corpses, not yet cold, were gettin' loaded onto a cart bound for a graveyard. And still, the rider didn't flinch. Didn't blink.
---
"HEY! HEY, DARKY!"
A shout cut through the still air.
The three Mobians had stepped into the rider's path.
But the rider—black-furred, hedgehog-shaped—said not a word. Just gave a slow grin and steered his horse to the porch of a nearby house. He tied it off at a wooden beam.
Then he turned, boots hittin' the dirt, and walked toward the trio.
He wore a battered poncho, shadowin' most of his body—good for blockin' sun, dust, and maybe hidin' more than just skin.
"....."
"Y'all sure about this?" The hedgehog finally spoke.
"If we weren't, we wouldn't be standin' here," said the first Mobian.
"What's your name? I need it for your headstone," sneered the second.
The third didn't talk. He just laughed.
The hedgehog paused, then asked:
"Which one's quicker—your guns, or your mouths?"
That shut 'em up. Their faces twisted, pride wounded.
---
Time froze. No sound but breath and the whisper of anticipation. The townsfolk gathered—young 'n old—like it was some kinda show.
"Who you bettin' on?" "Heh, easy—the Jenkins brothers." Two Mobians chuckled, coins already changin' hands.
---
Whooooosh… whoooooosh…
Only the desert wind still moved. It didn't give a damn.
Click. A hand touched the grip of a revolver.
BANG!!
BANG!!
BANG!!
THUD!!
Who dropped?
Was it the mysterious hedgehog... or the Jenkins boys?
---
"AAARRGGHH!! DAMN IT!"
"IT HURTS!! THIS WHAT DYIN' FEELS LIKE?!"
"WHY DIDN'T YOU JUST KILL US?!"
The three Jenkins brothers writhed in agony, bleedin' but breathin'.
"Killin's easy," the hedgehog muttered, calm as a monk.
"But makin' 'em remember till they die? That's the hard part."
He holstered his gun, untied his horse, and mounted up.
Rode right over their broken bodies like they were tumbleweeds.
"Oww! You sonuvabitch!"
One of 'em howled as hooves stomped him.
"Guess I lost that bet. Dammit!" Mobians bickered over the winner.
"Get those boys to a doc!" someone shouted.
---
The hedgehog didn't stick around. Not long after, he hitched his horse in front of a saloon.
CREEAAAK... CREEAAAK...
Each step on the wooden floor echoed like thunder. Folks inside went dead silent.
The hedgehog sat down at the bar like nothin' happened.
"Viper's gonna come huntin' for you, boy..." The barkeep, grizzled and local, spoke with a drawl.
Still, the hedgehog said nothin'. Just sat.
Soon, the place came alive again. Laughter. Cards. Music. As if gunfire hadn't just blessed their streets.
"Who's Viper?" the hedgehog asked casually.
"The fella who rules this whole zone," said the barkeep.
"Place used to be just another patch of dirt 'til he came along. Now it's full of gunmen like you."
"Name sounds like a snake," the hedgehog smirked.
"A rattler with a machine gun tail," the barkeep replied. "Those three you just took down? His boys—the Jenkins Brothers."
"You shoulda killed 'em. Now they'll be back."
"I'm countin' on it," the hedgehog said, unfazed.
"..."
"I warned ya," muttered the barkeep. "Last guy I warned like that? He's one of them corpses you passed on the cart."
The hedgehog paused, then said:
"Why worry? We all end up in a hole anyway."
He walked out.
"No drink, no name. Just riddles," the barkeep grumbled.
---
Doctor's Office
Inside, the three Jenkins brothers laid in side-by-side cots, bandaged and bitter.
Their crew crowded the room.
"You look rough, boss," one said.
"Damn bastard's gotta pay!" yelled the third Jenkins.
"What's his name?" asked the second.
"No one knows. Spies couldn't find a damn thing."
"I don't care who he is," the third snarled. "He meant to hurt—not kill us. Then rode his damn horse right over us!"
"Word is, he's stayin' at the Paradise Inn."
"Good," said Jenkins #3, suddenly standin' like he was never wounded.
"It's time I use that."
"You brought it?"
"Yes, sir!" Two goons rolled in a heavy crate like they'd done it a hundred times before.
The three brothers stood tall now.
"Crowbar."
Someone handed it over. Jenkins #3 didn't wait—smashed open the crate.
WHACK!
---
Hours later... after sundown. Paradise Inn.
Room 003.
Knock knock.
"Your supper's here, sir."
"Leave it at the door. I'll grab it myself," the hedgehog called out, still readin' a worn paperback.
CLINK. The tray hit the floor.
Thump... thump... thump... The server walked away.
Quiet again.
The hedgehog stood, hand already inchin' toward his holster. Just in case.
Peeked left, peeked right.
"......."
Coast clear. He stepped out, grabbed his tray, and shut the door.
Dinner: boiled beans and salted meat. He dug in without ceremony.
But outside...
Five Mobians crept through the shadows.
The Jenkins Brothers' gang.
"Hey... you five," growled Jenkins #3, wrapped in bandages and anger.
The five said nothin'. Just waited.
Jenkins pointed at the Paradise Inn.
They nodded—and made their way.
"Why're we doin' this, big bro?" asked Jenkins #2.
"To kill a beast, you gotta study it first." Jenkins #3 answered.
To be continued...