<span style="font-weight: bold">Days ago.</span><br/><br/><div style="text-indent:1em;"><span style="font-style: italic">The air is stale and infected with the sharp copper smell of blood. A crowd is gathered around a pit that was once an indoor pool. They chant and scream, whipped into a frenzy like feeding sharks. In the pit Deckard Canon breaks a piece of wood over the head of his opponent. Crimson sprays as a nail imbedded in the plank tears flesh.</span></div><br/><div style="text-indent:1em;">Deckard's opponent staggers backwards, clutching at his steadily dripping wound. There is hate in his eyes, while a wicked grin plays across Deckard's face. He tosses the improvised weapon aside and cleanches his fists, knuckles popping under the cloth wrapping. They're both shirtless and covered in scars. A mixture of blood and grime decorate the wasteland chiseled muscles.</div><br/><div style="text-indent:1em;">"That was a cheap shot, asshole," the pit fighter spits blood at Deckards feet.</div><br/><div style="text-indent:1em;"><span style="color: #BF0040">"Yeah, but the crowd loves it. That and I'm paid by the body,"</span> Deckard responds smiling, he crouches down and, with his hands, plays with some of the filth rotting on the floor.</div><br/><div style="text-indent:1em;">His opponent comes at him like an angry bull; six feet tall and bulging with buffout muscle. Deckard casually tosses a handful of dirt into his eyes, and as he stumbles delivers a low uppercut to his crotch. The pit bull tumbles forward and over Deckard, slamming into the ground hard enough to shake the rotting ceiling of the casino's basement above them.</div><br/><div style="text-indent:1em;">Deckard walks over, slapping the dirt from his hands, then runs them over his shaved head. <span style="color: #BF0040">"You've lasted longer than most of the people to get in this ring with me. I'll give you that,"</span> Deckard chuckles and shakes his muscles loose with a few hops.</div><br/><div style="text-indent:1em;">Then the big guy is up, as tough as he looks, with a nasty looking shiv in hand. Deckard frowns at that. Then it's a different game. The bull swipes, his reach and strength making each stab and slash a deadly one. Deckard dodges, rolls, blocks, and throws whatever junk he finds at the assault. But this pool isn't that big, and the cheating piece of trash takes up more space than Deckard.</div><br/><div style="text-indent:1em;">It's when he's forced to the pool wall that someone jabs the hilt of a katana in his face. Deckard looks up, and sees a dead man staring back at him. <span style="color: #408080">"I always seem to find you at your bloodiest,"</span> Tyler Bellford says, not quite a smile playing across his weather beaten face.</div><br/><div style="text-indent:1em;">Deckard grins and pulls the sword free. He recognizes it. It belonged to Wolf. Then he turns to his opponent, and things get messy.</div><br/><br/>***<br/><br/><span style="font-weight: bold">Now.</span><br/><br/><div style="text-indent:1em;">It's a roiling mass of noise and stink. Deckard doesn't know what they're burning to keep that thing moving, but it has a sickly sweet smell he recognizes from somewhere.  The pair circle behind the smoldering wreck of their vehicle as the road-train squeals to a shuddering halt.</div><br/><div style="text-indent:1em;">It looks like it was once a semi truck, but in place of freight the rear end holds some kind of monstrous smoke churning engine. It is composed of black and gray metal, greasy and hot. Pistons pump and green lights dance over small computer panels. Trailing behind it are a series of cars. Some actually are cars, built and fused together into bizarre carriages. Others appeared to be shacks fastened to scrapyard frames and wheels.</div><br/><div style="text-indent:1em;"><span style="color: #BF0040">"I hope there's a food car,"</span> Deckard remarks. Tyler shrugs in response.<br/>Then the driver side door opens and a man wearing a yellow hazmat suit hops out. He brandishes a lever action revolver and eyes the two men through a dirty gas mask.</div><br/><div style="text-indent:1em;">Tyler speaks first, keeping his hand on his gun, <span style="color: #408080">"You providing transportation? As you can see, ours just died."</span></div><br/><div style="text-indent:1em;">When the conductor speaks it comes out muffled, "That depends, you paying customers?"</div>