They pile together in a refurbished SUV, running on what Tyler assumes is blue diesel. The fuel is easy enough to produce, provided one has sufficient water and a setup for reversible electrolysis. Hydrogen is separated from water and added to carbon from the air to make long-chain hydrocarbons. A little refining later, and the compound becomes blue diesel fuel. This makes it a relatively common energy source in the wasteland – especially in areas where microfusion power cells are difficult to come by.<br/><br/>Deckard looks visibly perturbed by the company he now keeps. Fighting on a train full of civilians is one thing, but taking them with him on a covert run in hostile territory is more than he can take. He stays deathly silent as they drive, his eyes continually scanning the horizon for trouble. Tyler, on the other hand, is more accustomed to civilian life. He knows that in order to achieve results, cooperation with local people is necessary. Still, he can't help but agree with Deckard on some level. Molly in particular seems like the last person one would want on a dangerous mission. She's cheerful, almost to the point of being alarming, considering the danger inherent in the job. It's enough to make Tyler question if Mariel had even explained the situation to her beforehand.<br/><br/><span style="color: #336666">“Just so everyone's clear: we're not storming the gates here.”</span>Tyler explains.<span style="color: #336666">“We're getting the lay of the land and finding out what's there. That's all. We're not looking for a fight.”</span><br/><br/>Molly nods enthusiastically, which unnerves Tyler a bit more. Tank looks nervous, like he's expecting something to go wrong. Mariel, meanwhile, seems like she's waiting to be judged – as though the outcome of this holds some greater weight than a simple scouting mission. This is a woman who cares a great deal about her reputation, who would rather make a mistake and pay for it directly than send others to pay in her stead. It's a sentiment Tyler appreciates and respects, though he worries that in her zeal to see her plans through to the end, her ability to exercise caution may be wanting.<br/><br/><div><hr style="height:2px; width:100%; border:0; color: white;background:white;"/></div><br/><br/>Lester's hands shake as he takes a stiff inhale of crushed methamphetamine collected on the edge of his Bowie knife. He looks up at the men who returned, men who stand over a dozen fewer than before. Casualties are expected on raids, but this? This is beyond expected casualties. This is an unmitigated disaster.<span style="color: red">“So you're saying Hale got himself a couple of gun-hands.”</span><br/><br/>“Yes, boss.” One of the surviving bandits replies, his stance nervous.<br/><br/><span style="color: red">“And that these men killed everyone but the scabbers I see in front of me.”</span><br/><br/>“They weren't normal men, boss! I swear, I never seen anyone move like that before!”<br/><br/>Snorting, Lester's eye twitched as he spoke.<span style="color: red">“Y'know, time used to be I'd just kill you for bringing me news like this. But with Viv running off with half my crew and now this... <span style="font-style: italic">cluster fuck</span>... it looks like you shit-for-brains are all I've got.”</span><br/><br/>Laughing nervously, the bandit looks at the others with relief – only to be gutted navel to sternum an instant later by Lester's giant knife. He crumples to the floor in a bloody heap while Lester stands over his body and glares at the others.<span style="color: red">“I don't care how you do it. I don't care who has to die. FIND THOSE RAT FUCKS AND BRING ME THEIR HEADS!”</span><br/><br/><div><hr style="height:2px; width:100%; border:0; color: white;background:white;"/></div><br/><br/>Mariel sits intently by the old police scanner, her hands delicately adjusting the bandwidth in the hope that she'll pick up any kind of comm traffic. Nothing but static so far. Tyler and Deckard position themselves a fair distance away from one another, knowing that their skills must make up the deficit in the others'. Around their necks are sets of silent mics, similar to the ones used by covert military units before the war. Their sensitivity is such that even a whisper is audible over a tremendous distance. How Hale had managed to get such sophisticated equipment remains a mystery, though it stands to reason that if the Hale Corporation had resources enough to rebuild a city and a transcontinental railroad, quality equipment wasn't in short supply.<br/><br/><span style="color: #336666">“Testing.”</span>Tyler clicks down on the mic's transmitter.<span style="color: #336666">“Do you read?”</span><br/><br/>“Loud and clear.” Tank replies first.<br/><br/><span style="color: #bf0040">“Only if you count Playboy.”</span>Deckard says jokingly.<br/><br/>Tyler smirks and crawls on his belly toward the crest of an overpass outside the town limits. The buildings are ruined, overgrown by some kind of mutated scrub vegetation and climbing vines – organisms that have adapted to the arid climate to survive on limited water. In some areas, they grow in thickets, obscuring much of the view to the center of town.<span style="color: #336666">“I don't see much. Tank, what've you got?”</span><br/><br/>Tank squints at something he sees in the distance, but he can't quite make it out. Reaching into his backpack, he produces a pair of binoculars and starts glassing the area in front of him. “I think I see bikes. Five of 'em. They're parked about... four blocks up.”<br/><br/>Glancing at Tank's position, Deckard can see the glint from the lenses twinkling against the midday sun.<span style="color: #bf0040">“Put those away, kid. You're gonna get spotted.”</span>Looking down at the streets, Deckard sees a man walking below, rifle in hand, suddenly taking interest in the shining object off in the distance.<span style="color: #bf0040">“Tank, freeze. Someone's got eyes on you.”</span><br/><br/>Tyler looks over at Tank and notices the man in the streets fast approaching. Tank lies in cover, panic starting to set in, holding as still as he possibly can. Deckard thinks momentarily about giving away his position and taking the man out, but holds his fire until the last possible second. It's on Tyler now to intervene.<br/><br/>Sliding down the incline along the edge of the overpass, Tyler rushes forward, careful to step as quietly as he can. He moves in using the buildings for cover, dashing from corner to corner until he manages to close the distance. From his boot, he draws his Fairbairn-Sykes knife – a razor-edged, stiletto-shaped blade – and lunges at his target with feline agility. Before the sentry can cry out, his mouth is covered by a gloved hand and his throat slashed. Then, pulling the blade back, Tyler thrusts the weapon into his target's back several times, bisecting the abdominal aorta and perforating the kidney to ensure a quick kill. Gurgling, the sentry slumps over, and Tyler drags his body back toward a nearby dumpster before laying it gently against the ground.<span style="color: #336666">“He's down.”</span><br/><br/>This complicates matters. They had a measure of safety in the element of surprise, but now it's about to disappear. It's only a matter of time before a missing person points to an attack, leading to increased security or even relocating their base of operations. Tyler rounds the corner and peers down the street towards the parked motorcycles. They'll need to work quickly.<br/><br/><span style="color: #bf0040">“What's the plan, Ty?”</span><br/><br/><span style="color: #336666">“Deck, I need you on overwatch. Mariel, any luck with the chatter?”</span><br/><br/><span style="color: pink">“Nothing. Just a bunch of static. Either they've gone dark or they're using some bandwidth I've never heard of.”</span><br/><br/>Moving ahead, Tyler pulls a monocular from his pocket and briefly glasses the buildings ahead. Nothing but overgrown ruins, but a particular garage looks like it's seen some foot traffic. Vegetation is sparse around the door, and the bikes are close enough that the building could be inhabited.<span style="color: #336666">“I need eyes on that building with the bikes.”</span><br/><br/><span style="color: #bf0040">“Moving up...”</span>Deckard shifts positions, crawling forward to a higher vantage point. Reassessing, he speaks into his comm.<span style="color: #bf0040">“Looks clear.”</span><br/><br/><span style="color: #336666">“Tank, what've you got?”</span><br/><br/>Nervously, the spotter replies into his mic, “L-looks clear.”<br/><br/>Tyler knows that once he crosses that threshold, all bets are off. He thinks back to a similar time during the war in the Southwest, when he was chosen to lead a commando raid on an enemy encampment. He remembers the mission becoming a SNAFU when he erred on the side of expediency and caused a massive explosion that alerted the enemy to their presence. In the battle that ensued, hundreds of United Front troops were lost as a result. Tyler was later stripped of rank for his failure.<br/><br/>Such was the folly of youth. Tyler had been proud, and that ego was inexorably bruised from the demotion. His relationship with Gunny never recovered after that fateful day. It had likely been the catalyst that lead to their duel in the street after the war. Now, fifteen years later, a similar set of circumstances lies before him. Failure to act could result in the raiders regrouping, leading to more deaths down the line. But throwing caution to the wind and charging in could have more immediate consequences for those in his team.<br/><br/>Steeling himself, Tyler presses on. Now is not the time for second-guessing.<br/><br/><div><hr style="height:2px; width:100%; border:0; color: white;background:white;"/></div><br/><br/>A knock comes at the door. It's an unusual sound, considering the only time anyone knocks is when asking to enter Lester's inner sanctum. Five of them sit around a card table, confused as to who could possibly be knocking on the door at a time like this. Maybe it's Viv or one of her crew? Maybe they're back to make peace or recruit. With their numbers dwindling after that last train job, and with Lester's brutality coming to full force, some even consider it.<br/><br/>A ginger bandit gets up from the table and cautiously opens the door, gun in hand. There, a handsome yet grizzled stranger stands, palms outstretched.<span style="color: #336666">“I'm not here for a fight.”</span>He says calmly.<br/><br/>The ginger bandit grabs the stranger by the collar and pulls him inside, ripping off his backpack while another bandit rushes in and quickly pats him down, taking whatever weaponry he sees. “Who the fuck sent you?”<br/><br/><span style="color: #336666">“I just want to--”</span><br/><br/>“He's one of Hale's! Fuckin' kill him!” A bandit yells out from the card table. The others draw their guns and prepare to fire.<br/><br/><span style="color: #336666">“Woah, easy! Easy! I'm trying to tell you I want to join up with you!”</span><br/><br/>The ginger bandit arches a fuzzy brow, his hand still clutching Tyler's backpack, the handle of<span style="font-style: italic">Virtue</span>prominently protruding from its sheath. “The fuck?”<br/><br/><span style="color: #336666">“Hale thinks I'm working for him. He just paid me to take you guys out. But I don't want that! I've got no beef with you guys, all right?”</span>Tyler gestures his hands in a lowering motion. The bandits look at each other confused, unsure what to make of the stranger. They uneasily lower their weapons as the ginger bandit gives them a nod.<br/><br/>Tyler lets out an audible sigh of relief. The ginger bandit puffs up his chest and begins to size Tyler up. “All right... What makes you think you make the cut?”<br/><br/>Tyler's expression suddenly turns from anxious to stone-cold.<span style="color: #336666">“You saw what happened on the train, right?”</span><br/><br/>The raiders look at each other nervously. Then, horrifyingly, it becomes clear that this man isn't some ordinary corporate grunt. In the blink of an eye, Tyler's hands seem to blur as he rips<span style="font-style: italic">Virtue</span>from its sheath and slashes upward, cleaving the ginger bandit's chin and splitting his skull in half. In the same motion, the sword comes around, decapitating the bandit holding Tyler's other weapons.<br/><br/>The next few seconds become a panicked mess of screams and gunfire. The others fire wildly, their aim completely thrown from terror. Rounds fly through the air and buzz past Tyler like hornets. He dives and rolls forward, coming up under the card table and flipping it over. Chips and cards fly everywhere; a pair of bandits fall backward, their hands flying up defensively to block the table.<span style="font-style: italic">Virtue</span>audibly cuts through the air, slashing off three fingers of one bandit and the left hand of the other, then comes around and splits the remaining bandit's ribcage in half before the coffee table can hit the ground.<br/><br/>The two surviving bandits clutch their wounded limbs, yelping in pain as they inch backward on the ground, futilely hoping to escape the blue-eyed demon before them. When<span style="font-style: italic">Virtue</span>comes down again, their cries are silenced.<br/><br/>Wasting no time, Tyler presses on his comm link and in a breathy voice asks,<span style="color: #336666">“Status?”</span><br/><br/>No one replies.<br/><br/><span style="color: #336666">“Deckard, Tank, Mariel – anyone. Do you copy?”</span><br/><br/>He gathers his weapons and belongings quickly, wrenching them from the hands of the dying bandits on the floor. As he kicks open the door, he spots Mariel, Molly, and Tank kneeling in the streets while Deckard is nowhere to be found. A large contingent of bandits stand behind them, heavily armed, their leader a towering hulk of a man with a giant knife in one hand and a visible tremor in the other.<br/><br/><span style="color: red">“End of the line, rail man.”</span><br/><br/><div><hr style="height:2px; width:100%; border:0; color: white;background:white;"/></div><br/><br/>Deckard grumbles to himself as he feeds a round into his rifle, making sure to remove the scope to prevent glint from the sun. He's repositioned himself atop a building that lies between a cluster of other buildings, hoping to scatter the report of the gunshots and hide his location.<span style="font-style: italic"><span style="color: #bf0040">Every fucking time... I told you, Tyler! This is why we don't bring civilians!</span></span><br/><br/>Flipping the range finder on the rifle, he makes a quick adjustment for wind and lines up the iron sights with the lead bandit: some tweaked out bruiser with overdeveloped muscles and a flair for the dramatic. But just as he moves his finger to squeeze the trigger, he hears the sound of engines in the distance. Someone else is coming.