The weeks that follow his coma are spent in rehabilitation. His body atrophied, he starts the long process of regaining his strength – small steps at first, like training himself to walk with a modicum of stability. Then physical therapy and weight training. By the third week, he takes to running along the city streets and performing calisthenics in the park, rebuilding his speed and agility.<br/><br/>Kelly watches Tyler from the window of her office that overlooks the park. For the past hour, she's watched him exercise, using the playground equipment as a personal gymnasium. As he begins to run laps around the park, Doctor Stiles enters her office and clears his throat to get her attention. “Mayor Denton?”<br/><br/>She turns and smiles.<span style="color: violet">“Kelly, please.”</span><br/><br/>He nods. “You wanted to see me?”<br/><br/>She beckons him forth and points out the window.<span style="color: violet">“How's our patient doing?”</span><br/><br/>“I could write an entire book on his recovery. Frankly, it's nothing short of remarkable.” He comments as he sees Tyler finish another lap. “Less than four months ago he was barely clinging to life. Three weeks ago, he was in a coma. Now he's running laps out there, putting men half his age to shame.”<br/><br/>She watches out the window with a nostalgic look in her eye.<span style="color: violet">“Back when you were just a boy, this town was a much different place. The tenements were overrun by gangs, and Lord Howard kept everyone under his thumb. It was hard for good people back then. Men like him – they built this town into what it is now. One bullet at a time.”</span><br/><br/>“Hard to imagine...”<br/><br/><span style="color: violet">“The first time I met him, he was battered and bleeding. He'd just cleared a gang out of the apartments next to my bar. Barely a week later, he was taking on the Empire at the Battle Royale.”</span>She looks at Stiles.<span style="color: violet">“That man is made of the toughest stuff I've ever seen.”</span><br/><br/>“I'm just sorry we couldn't do anything for Mr. Canon...”<br/><br/>She tightens her lips.<span style="color: violet">“Me too, Doc. Me too.”</span>She watches as Tyler finishes his final lap and pauses to rest.<span style="color: violet">“Woe be to his killer. Hell is coming.”</span><br/><br/><div><hr style="height:2px; width:100%; border:0; color: white;background:white;"/></div><br/><br/>Those in the rehab gymnasium watch on in awe as Tyler's fists move with nigh imperceptible speed. With a flurry of resounding cracks, he strikes the wooden dummy – a relic of the days of the Empire, when their numbers were high and their training camps dotted the entire Northwest. His expression is focused, determined. With every punch is seems as though the battered training device will snap under the stress. When his final blow does just that, the crowd gathered behind him lets out a collective gasp before watching him walk away in silence.<br/><br/>He's unused to walking the streets of this town in peace. The last time he was here, walking without a weapon at your side was an invitation for trouble. Now, people go about their business, as carefree as one could be in this world.<br/><br/>He opens the door to the apartment above Kelly's Bar and Grill, his temporary residence during his recovery. It is the same apartment he had stayed in years before, back when he was just another hired gun in a lawless town. In those days, evenings were illuminated by lamplight and water was limited to Empire-controlled buildings. Now, it has all the comforts of civilization: water, electricity, and a mattress that isn't covered with stains or protruding springs.<br/><br/>He heads to the shower first, washing away the sweat and grime of training. As he finishes and walks to the bed, he notices the fresh clothes sitting there below a note that reads:<br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic">Thought you could use these.<br/><br/>-Kelly</span><br/><br/>It's similar to the gear he had before: Kevlar-lined jeans and an armored motorcycle jacket. An assaulter-style backpack with a tactical harness, filled with the tools and gear necessary for travel in the wasteland. His weapons had been stripped off and stolen by the Fire Lilies, but in their place is a pair of Glock 20 pistols, an M-4 carbine pattern rifle with a tactical scope, and some kind of forged dagger made of high-carbon steel. Smiling, he looks the weapons over and places them in their respective holsters before getting dressed.<br/><br/>A knock comes on his door right as he finishes donning the last of his gear. He opens it and sees Kelly in the doorway, greeting him with her classic dimpled smile.<span style="color: violet">“I see you got my little going away present.”</span><br/><br/><span style="color: #336666">“Thank you...”</span>He says warmly.<span style="color: #336666">“I see you decided to skip the speech about me staying here instead.”</span><br/><br/>She gives him a wry look.<span style="color: violet">“I can always give you one if that'd make you feel better.”</span><br/><br/>He smiles faintly back at her, saying nothing. With a sigh, he sits on the bed and stares off into space. As she sits by him, she gently pulls his head to her shoulder and rubs his back tenderly.<span style="color: violet">“I know you, Tyler Bellford. I know what comes next. Only question is what happens once that's done.”</span><br/><br/><span style="color: #336666">“Get back to my life, I suppose...”</span>He exhales.<span style="color: #336666">“I've got people back east. A home. I just wonder if they'll even recognize me. I wonder if maybe I've just been pretending these last few years. Maybe Deckard was right. Maybe this is who I really am.”</span><br/><br/>Kelly looks Tyler in the eyes.<span style="color: violet">“You know what I see? I see a good man -- who's gonna be good regardless of the path in front of him. I see a man who won't let a wrong thing go unanswered. If your people have a lick of sense in their bodies, they'll see the same thing I do.”</span><br/><br/>Tyler sighs, nodding slowly. Reaching into her pocket, Kelly produces a set of car keys and hands them to him.<span style="color: violet">“It ain't that badass looking thing you rolled in with, but it'll get you where you need to go.”</span><br/><br/>He looks down at the keys and smiles slightly again.<span style="color: #336666">“Thank you, Kelly...”</span><br/><br/>The two embrace for a moment. Kelly kisses him on the cheek and whispers in his ear,<span style="color: violet">“You find that bitch and put her in the ground.”</span><br/><br/><div><hr style="height:2px; width:100%; border:0; color: white;background:white;"/></div><br/><br/>He's silent over Deckard's grave. It's freshly dug, grass barely covering the unearthed ground. It lies next to the ruins of The Pit where Tyler's statue stands, a placard succinctly summarizing his epitaph:<br/><br/>“On December the 31st, 2195, Deckard Canon saved two-hundred people from The Pit as it collapsed. His courage will always be remembered.”<br/><br/>It's no statue, and in fifty years' time, he wonders if Deckard will be anything but a footnote in the history of this town. The prospect of him being forgotten gives him a sinking feeling, and for a brief moment he is overcome with a sense of sorrow for his departed friend. Kneeling on the burial plot, he places a hand on the grave marker. There he lingers, his dark blue eyes focused on the name engraved in stone. It's an image etched into his memory – a mark as permanent as the chiseled granite before him.<br/><br/>Standing, he turns to the jalopy car parked outside the park and walks away. The vehicle groans to life as he turns the key, and with a final lingering glance, he leaves the city in his rearview.<br/><br/><div><hr style="height:2px; width:100%; border:0; color: white;background:white;"/></div><br/><br/>A cold wind blows from the north, whipping through the long strands of Tyler's hair as he exits the old jalopy and walks to the overlook above Star Lake. He lowers his profile as he reaches the precipice, and taking the binoculars out of his backpack, he glasses the yurt community below. The weeds around them are overgrown, and the drifts of dust around the doorways look undisturbed. Wherever the Fire Lilies are, they left this place a while ago.<br/><br/>As he's about to put his binoculars away, he notices a lone figure with a parasol slowly strolling the dried barrens that used to be a lake shore. He glimpses at it, noting the porcelain skin and fiery red hair. A surge of anger rises up within him.<br/><br/>The jalopy roars to life, Tyler popping the clutch and rolling the hulk down the hill towards the yurt community below. The woman with the parasol turning as she sees the plume of dust being kicked up by the vehicle's tires. She dips for a weapon at her waist and fires, the bullets cracking the jalopy's windshield as it barrels towards her. But before she can roll out of the way, it cuts its wheels suddenly, jackknifing to the side and slamming into her body as it it spins to a halt.<br/><br/>She flies through the air, landing on the desert pavement with a hard smack. Ribs cracked and organs ruptured. Her eyes filled with tears as blood begins to pour from her mouth. Tyler slowly disembarks from the car, taking his time as he walks over to her broken body, preparing himself for the savory taste of vengeance...<br/><br/>But the body before him is one of a stranger – a decoy. The realization comes right as the ground before him becomes pockmarked with gunfire. He glances up at the overlook and sees them: mercenaries in war rigs. Hired guns to close the trap. Another salvo buzzes past him as he raises his rifle and returns fire. Two of the sharpshooters on the overlook fall. The other mercenaries pile into their vehicles and begin the descent towards him. Running back to the car, he dives into the driver's seat and slams the jalopy into gear.<br/><br/>He knows his vehicle is no match for the war rigs. Underpowered and lightly armored, the jalopy's only advantage lies in its comparatively high maneuverability. It doesn't take long for the mercenaries to catch up to him. One by one, they begin to flank the jalopy, turret gunners firing into the sides. Now more than ever he feels the sting of Deckard's absence as he is forced to drive and fire simultaneously. Emptying his Glock into the war rig on his left, he manages to blow one of its tires and puncture the radiator. It's enough to slow the vehicle down, but not stop it entirely. Dropping the spent gun on the seat next to him, he steers with his knees and draws the other, taking aim on his right and firing a burst of well-placed shots into the driver. The war rig veers out of control, but smacks into the jalopy's rear bumper, causing Tyler to momentarily lose control of the vehicle.<br/><br/>As he eases off the gas to straighten the car out, the war rig to his left is able to close the gap. More bullets pepper the jalopy, a few striking the engine and causing a plume of smoke to burst up. The heat gauge soars and the tachometer drops: within seconds, the jalopy's engine grinds to a halt. Knowing he'll be stuck in place, he cuts the steering wheel left and lets the car skid until the side faces the war rig. If he can't move, he'll use the car for cover.<br/><br/>Barreling out the door and ducking behind the car, he reloads his weapons as the war rig turns and comes around to attack him head-on. He waits, steeling himself before he pops up from cover and fires, pistol in each hand. Powerful 10mm rounds rip into the driver and turret gunner, their blood like a puff of red mist in the air. With a slump, the dying mercenary cuts the wheel too sharply and the war rig flips, skidding across the group with the dead jalopy right in its path. Tyler lets out a curse as he dives out of the way, barely avoiding the crashing of metal as the two vehicles collide.<br/><br/>He looks at the smoldering wreckage and lets out a sigh. He'll need a vehicle to have any chance of surviving the wastes alone. About a mile back, he spots the other war rig.<br/><br/>Tyler approaches the second rig cautiously, spotting the gunner that must have fallen out and broken his neck when the driver lost control of the vehicle. Checking the corpse, he finds little of value, save for a pocket knife and a full canteen. He takes the items and proceeds to the driver's side door of the rig, where the mercenary driver's body drops to the ground as Tyler opens it. He manages to recover a flare gun and some kind of Saturday Night Special pistol with a handful of bullets. A few mags of usable .223 ammunition for a rifle that looks to be in far worse condition than his own. In the back of the war rig, he finds a stack of explosive-tipped spears and enough blue diesel and drinking water to last him for days.<br/><br/>Starting the rig's engine, he sets off into the wastes.<br/><br/><div><hr style="height:2px; width:100%; border:0; color: white;background:white;"/></div><br/><br/>Slater looks down grimly at her body double, knowing full well that the task would leave her dead. It was a calculated move – one to determine if Tyler had, indeed, survived their last encounter. When a pair of Fire Lilies approach her from the south, her suspicions are confirmed. “There are two wrecked vehicles a short distance from here. We only found the bodies of the mercenaries we hired.”<br/><br/><span style="color: #ffa07a">“Man is an animal of great cunning...”</span>Slater whispers to herself. She turns to her follower and orders,<span style="color: #ffa07a">“Contact the others. Tell them to watch for Bellford. He will no doubt be seeking me.”</span><br/><br/>“Yes, mistress.”<br/><br/>Slater looks down at the corpse of her double.<span style="color: #ffa07a">“And tell them to be wary. He is a dangerous man.”</span><br/><br/><div><hr style="height:2px; width:100%; border:0; color: white;background:white;"/></div><br/><br/>The days that follow are a blur of asphalt and ruins. Centuries-old hulks of cars dot the freeway, relics of a bygone era reduced to the habitat of flora and fauna. Sprawling stretches of scrub weeds descended from invasive species, their genetic makeup irrevocably changed by background radiation. The occasional crucified bandit pecked at by mutated crows. Signs for towns that exist only as craters in the earth.<br/><br/>He stops at roadside bars. Barricaded motels. Bunny ranches whose deformed working girls indulge in the most lurid and perverse acts for a chance at earning enough to survive. He gathers clues to his prey's whereabouts from those willing to help; he extracts information from those who are not. The path behind him becomes an endless stretch of broken fingers and pulled teeth, until it finally leads to a crossroads motel on the Oregon border.<br/><br/>A woman in a kimono takes a gentleman caller by the hand and leads him inside one of the rooms. Tyler parks nearby, following them with deathly quiet steps.<br/><br/><div><hr style="height:2px; width:100%; border:0; color: white;background:white;"/></div><br/><br/>Their lips meet before he lifts her off the ground and throws her on the bed, his mouth salivating and his hands feverishly tearing at his clothes. She coos and slips the silken kimono off her shoulders, exposing her naked body beneath. As he climbs atop her and begins grunting in pleasure, she lets out a rhythmic series of moans that grow progressively louder, until at what seems like their apex, another sound can be heard: the sound of another clearing his throat in the room.<br/><br/>The man atop her stops suddenly, shouting out, “What the fuck?!” as he spins in bed to see the stranger standing there.<br/><br/><span style="color: #336666">“Get out.”</span>The stranger says in a gravelly voice.<br/><br/>“Fuck you! I already paid her!”<br/><br/><span style="color: #336666">“I wasn't asking.”</span><br/><br/>The man suddenly bolts out of bed and rushes at the stranger, but feels his arm grabbed mid-swing and the sickening sound of cartilage ripping as his limb is twisted backward. He lets out a yelp of pain as the stranger grabs him by the head and slams his face into the wall, knocking him out cold. The man's body slumps to the floor and the prostitute quickly reaches for her nightstand, but the stranger's gun is trained on her in the blink of an eye.<span style="color: #336666">“Don't even think about it.”</span><br/><br/>Her eyebrows turned downward in anger, she glares at the stranger. “What do you want?”<br/><br/><span style="color: #336666">“The Desert Flower.”</span><br/><br/>She scoffs. “Is that supposed to mean something to me?”<br/><br/>Suddenly, he fires, ripping into her kneecap. She lets out a scream and clutches the wound, sobbing heavily as the stranger stands stone-cold above her.<span style="color: #336666">“Let me be clear: this isn't about whether you live. This is about how slowly you die.”</span>He places the hot barrel of the gun against her cheek.<span style="color: #336666">“Where is she?”</span><br/><br/>“Star Lake!”<br/><br/>He points the gun downward and fires again, shattering her tibia below the first wound. She can barely let out a sound louder than a gasp as tears streak down her face.<span style="color: #336666">“Try again.”</span><br/><br/>She sobs, her hands shaking as she clutches the wounds on her leg. “S-she's gone south... She's going back for Scarlet...” He places the gun on her other leg and she shouts out, “Vivian! Vivian Rowe!”<br/><br/><span style="color: #336666">“Where?”</span><br/><br/>“Elko! Nevada! That's all I know! That's a-a-all!” She sobs the last words out. Wadding up the silk kimono on the bed, he tosses it to her and gestures at the wounds on her leg. Shakily, she puts the garment on the wound to stop the bleeding, and he turns to leave.<br/><br/>Suddenly, her sobbing stops as his back is turned, and she reaches for the nightstand again, pawing for a pistol with surprisingly dextrous hands. But before she can grab the weapon, the stranger turns and fires, the last round hitting her square in the heart. She lets out a final convulsing gasp and the weapon falls from her delicate fingers.<br/><br/>He looks at the woman with cold detachment as she dies. In another life, he'd held a code against harming women. In those days, such actions would have warranted swift, brutal justice had he seen them in another. But those days are gone, and the Fire Lilies are no ordinary women. He'd made the mistake of underestimating them once. Deckard paid the ultimate price for it. Now, he is pitiless in his dispensation of violence. In his pursuit of revenge, no one is spared his wrath.