Avery turns herself around, dotting about a few creaking planks. An icy breeze blows through the thin, hole-riddled walls of the shack. In the back, a metal bucket sits at the base of a small bed, collecting water which drips from the ceiling; beside this bed is Braellyn, keeping still, her arms outstretched, each gun still set upon Flynt and Avery. Avery reaches for the crooked front door, which resembles more so a loose bundle of planks, and she jiggles the doorknob. Braellyn bounds toward Avery.

“What are you doing?”

“This is stupid. I’m leaving.”

“No.”

A popping sound explodes through the shack. Avery jerks back around toward Braellyn, wide-eyed. Braellyn keeps her pinched expression as she backs away toward the end of the room. Flynt flicks his eyes back and forth between the two before stepping back toward the window.

“Fuck, you really are a big fan of those.”

“I don’t care.”

Avery grimaces.

“Hey, I’m trying this thing where I don’t murder you again–”

“Stop talking.”

Avery leans her hand onto a nearby table. Braellyn follows Avery’s hand with her eyes — Avery shifts her weight upon a plank of wood, causing it to creek upwards; she slides her hand toward a candlestick on top of the table. In an instant, Avery grabs the candlestick.

A scraping noise resonates from the wall of the room, near Flynt. Avery and Braellyn jerk their heads to face the noise while Flynt cracks open a window. Braellyn pushes up her other gun toward Flynt.

“Stop leaving.”

Flynt turns around toward Braellyn. He drops to the floor until he rests on his knees. Crouched beneath the line of fire, Avery jams the candlestick against Braellyn’s side. Another pop echoes throughout the room, and a patch of gunpowder covers Avery’s shoulder. Braellyn flies like a rag-doll into the back wall, falling between the wall and the small bed, her guns slipping from between her fingers onto the floor. Avery saunters forth, kicking the guns one by one toward the front of the room. A dampened clicking sound emanates from under the bed. In an instant, Braellyn pops out inches away from Avery, swiping about a switchblade, and Avery steps back with an eyebrow raised, dodging and weaving between the slashes, backing up toward the front wall. Her heel meets this edge, she throws forth her arm, and grabs Braellyn’s forearm before twisting the knife out of her hand. Avery catches it in her other hand and tosses it to Flynt. At once, Braellyn lunges toward the pair of guns near the front door; Avery catches her and puts her into a headlock.

“Hey… You can stop now.”

Braellyn thrashes around with an increasing intensity. Flynt glances around the room, then he creeps toward the front door.

“Where the fuck are you going?”

Flynt, holding in his hand a wet, brown paper bag, scurries toward the back.

“Oh… I think I get it.”

He throws the brown bag onto the bed beside Braellyn before following Avery outside, easing the door shut behind him, letting a gust of wind and a bit of snowfall into the shack. Avery glances in through the busted front window of the shack. Braellyn investigates the brown paper bag on the bed. She sticks her beak into the bag before darting her head up again, pasta hanging down her gob. Avery steps away from the shack, her boots sinking into the snow. She cackles.

“That worked too well… All it takes is spaghetti.”

Flynt stares past Avery. In the distance, the truck approaches from down the road.

“Fuck… Already?”

Avery runs inside, and Flynt stumbles in behind her. Braellyn flinches, and she flicks her face up from out of the paper bag.

“Braellyn… Pretend we’re still hostages. I just had an idea.”

“You are still hostages.”

Braellyn tears out a pistol from inside of a nearby desk, pointing it toward Avery.

“Yeah! That’s perfect.”

They stare each other down for a minute until Braellyn stuffs her face back into the bag. The front door flies open. The pale woman steps into the room, followed by Cervantes, decked in his flowing white robes. Braellyn pokes her head out of the bag once more.

“Eleanor, you’re back!”

Eleanor makes a nervous expression, staring at the pasta hanging from Braellyn’s beak.

“I knew you’d keep them occupied.”

Eleanor places her hand on the robed man’s shoulder. The house falls silent. He cracks his gaze down at Eleanor.

“They really are here. I would like to thank you for setting such a half-baked trap.”