<span style="font-weight: bold">Then...</span><br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic">For Tyler, living in the small town of Black Stream was the closest thing to retirement he could think of. He had come to know the people here, and over time had gained their respect as a pillar of the community. Though he had no aspirations for leadership or political clout, his word was trusted and his judgment was held in high regard.<br/><br/>For the most part, he simply tried to be helpful. His expertise was lent as it was needed, working to improve the lives of the simple folk trying to eke out an existence for themselves. Typical work consisted of fortifying shelters or repairing the machines needed for food and water production. It was a peaceful existence, and short of an occasional animal or rabid ghoul, Tyler rarely needed to take up arms.<br/><br/>In the back of his mind, though, he knew that real danger loomed over his shoulder. It would strike when he least expected and tear away in an instant the life it had taken him fifteen years to build.<br/><br/>As he and Kira walked down the streets at dusk, he looked at her eyes and saw the longing there: that desire for companionship and safety. In another life he would have taken her to bed without hesitation. But old memories stayed his advances – memories of a love lost. Elektra Keyes had paid the ultimate price for loving him; he could ill afford another such victim. Still, despite his distance, Kira enjoyed Tyler in the platonic sense that he allowed. They were fast friends, and though he was ten years her senior, he found himself nonetheless engaged by her.<br/><br/>They made their way to Andy's pub and passed through the threshold, where a prewar jukebox played some electronic tune from a bygone era. The usual suspects were present tonight, drinking their fermented mushroom liquor: Kevin, the local machinist. Curly, a wide-eyed, wiry-haired ginger in her early twenties who specialized in GIS – Geographic Information Systems. Dot, a clunky service robot who spilled more drinks than it served. And, of course, Andy: the local brewmaster.<br/><br/>Tyler was greeted with enthusiastic nods as he walked in. In the corner, however, a man in gecko leather clothing and a hooded duster coat sat in the dim and slowly smoked a cigarette. He couldn't fully make out the figure's face, but somehow he could feel him watching from under that shroud. Tyler surmised that the man must have come from the warmer western climate, as giant geckos never traveled this far north. As to why he was in Black Stream, that remained to be seen. It seemed unlikely that a man from the deep western wasteland would travel this far unless he was fleeing something.<br/><br/></span><span style="color: #336666">Or following something...</span><br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic">Whatever the stranger's intent, Tyler made sure to keep him in sight at all times. Fifteen years was a long time for a vendetta to come knocking, but one could never be too careful. Danger had a habit of striking when one felt safest.<br/><br/>* * *<br/><br/>Somewhere in the course of the evening, between rounds of drinks and inevitable restroom breaks, the figure vanished. It took only a moment for Tyler to notice. He tried to get a bead on the stranger, but after several minutes of failed searching, he eventually gave up. It was probably nothing; strangers came and went in towns like this. But something about the shadowy figure didn't sit right with Tyler. For the rest of the evening, he couldn't help but feel distracted. Kira took notice and asked about it a short while later, but Tyler dismissed her concern and promptly excused himself for the evening.<br/><br/>Returning home, he felt a sense of paranoia – a feeling that someone waited for him in the shadows. In town, he normally walked around unarmed, and his weapons were packed away in a foot locker beneath his bed. Before heading home, he took a detour to the gunsmith shop and knocked on the door.<br/><br/>Answering the knock was Henry, an older man with a horseshoe of gray hair around his bald head, and a pair of spectacles soldered together from scavenged frames. He looked at Tyler and said, “Yes?”<br/><br/><span style="color: #336666">“Hey, Henry. I know this is gonna sound weird, but I need to borrow a piece. Doesn't matter what – anything will do as long as it shoots.”</span><br/><br/>Henry arched a brow, but Tyler's credit was as good as anyone's in town. “All right, give me a moment.”<br/><br/>A few minutes later, Henry arrived with a composite-framed 9mm – a chintzy, blocky thing that held eight shots. It would do.<br/><br/>Tyler thanked the gunsmith and returned home a few minutes later. He checked the locks first, wondering if there were any signs of tampering. Seeing none, Tyler placed his own keys in the lock and slowly opened the door. It was dark, and there were no traces of anyone else inside. Were it not for the aroma of cigarette smoke, the stranger sitting in his living room would have gone totally unnoticed.<br/><br/>Tyler's aim snapped to the target with viper quickness. The figure did not respond. <span style="color: #336666">“You have some experience with locks.”</span> Tyler commented. <span style="color: #336666">“It was your smell that gave you away.”</span><br/><br/><span style="color: #bf0040">“I thought you still smoked. Didn't expect you to notice.”</span><br/><br/>The figure reached over and flipped on the nearby lamp. When the lights came on and he lowered his hood, the face was one Tyler hadn't seen in a long time. Deckard Canon smirked, accentuating the lines on his face. He was a bit more haggard than Tyler remembered, though the same could be said of himself. Nobody aged gracefully these days.<br/><br/><span style="color: #bf0040">“You look pretty good for a dead guy.”</span><br/><br/><span style="color: #336666">“Which begs the question: how did you find me?”</span><br/><br/><span style="color: #bf0040">“Well, a big empty grave is a pretty big clue.”</span><br/><br/>Tyler set his pistol down and began rifling through his cabinets for drinking glasses. He pulled down a pair of them with a bottle of whiskey and began to pour as he asked, <span style="color: #336666">“Do I wanna know why you found out it was empty?”</span><br/><br/><span style="color: #bf0040">“Honestly?”</span> Deckard chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. <span style="color: #bf0040">“I figured they buried you with your boots on. Always kinda liked 'em.”</span><br/><br/>Tyler rolled his eyes and walked over to Deckard, handing him a glass. <span style="color: #336666">“So I take it by the theatrics that this isn't a social call.”</span><br/><br/>Deckard's expression suddenly turned hard. He took a sip before replying, <span style="color: #bf0040">“Wolf's dead.”</span><br/><br/>Tyler downed a large gulp of whiskey and let out a sigh. <span style="color: #336666">“Happens to us all, I suppose.”</span><br/><br/><span style="color: #bf0040">“Not brained over your dead girlfriend's grave from a mile and a half away, it doesn't.”</span><br/><br/><span style="color: #336666">“Jesus...”</span><br/><br/><span style="color: #bf0040">“Suppose it was the only way to bring the bastard down safely. Any closer and he'd have torn whoever it was apart.”</span><br/><br/><span style="color: #336666">“You have any leads on who did it?”</span><br/><br/><span style="color: #bf0040">“Just one: fella by the name of Wind.”</span><br/><br/>Tyler remembered the name. He was in the Battle Royale nearly twenty years ago, though beyond that, he didn't know much else about him. He recalled that him and Wolf had a somewhat antagonistic relationship, but outright murder seemed out of character.<br/><br/><span style="color: #336666">“Anything else?”</span><br/><br/><span style="color: #bf0040">“I figure that's where you come in, partner.”</span><br/><br/>Tyler looked confused. <span style="color: #336666">“Come again?”</span><br/><br/><span style="color: #bf0040">“Truth is, I've hit a wall with this one. And much as he was a friend of mine, he was a friend of yours too. I know you want to see him avenged as much as me. If we pool our resources...”</span><br/><br/>Tyler shook his head. <span style="color: #336666">“I'm retired, Deck.”</span><br/><br/>Deckard snorted. <span style="color: #bf0040">“Says the man who went out of his way to get a gun on the off chance that he might have a prowler by his home. Yeah, you're retired all right. That gat's purely decorative I'm sure.”</span><br/><br/>Tyler frowned. There was truth in Deckard's words, even if he didn't want to admit it. No matter how much he tried to hide, no matter how far he attempted to live a quiet life, there was a drive within him – an instinct no amount of domestication could suppress. Still, he had made a life for himself. It was a good life, and not one he was eager to toss aside.<br/><br/><span style="color: #336666">“I've got a good thing here. I'm not about to throw it all away...”</span><br/><br/>Deckard rolled his eyes. <span style="color: #bf0040">“Come on, man. Who are you talking to? I'm not saying burn your house down and ditch your people here. I'm saying come with me so we can set things right. We owe Wolf that much.”</span> Standing, Deckard downed the rest of his whiskey and set the glass aside. <span style="color: #bf0040">“So how about it, Tyler? You gonna have my back on this one? Or do I gotta find Wolf's killer alone?”</span><br/><br/>* * *<br/><br/>“I don't understand. Where are you going?” Kira looked bewildered, lost. As Tyler packed up his things, it became apparent that he was going to be gone for the indefinite future.<br/><br/><span style="color: #336666">“Idaho.”</span><br/><br/>“Idaho? Why?”<br/><br/><span style="color: #336666">“To set things right... Look, Kira...”</span><br/><br/>He could see her eyes welling up with tears. Something about this struck a familiar chord with her, though he hadn't the time to figure out what. All he knew was that somewhere in her lifetime, she had dealt with abandonment before. But that was a conversation for another day. For now, all he could do was reassure her that he was coming back.<br/><br/>“Just... promise me you'll come home. Promise me this isn't permanent.”<br/><br/>Tyler smiled. Softly, he pulled her close and kissed her on the top of the head. <span style="color: #336666">“Water my plants while I'm gone.”</span><br/><br/>She laughed, breaking the pool of tears in her eyes and sending a pair of streams running down her cheeks. With a short nod, she agreed, leaving Tyler to collect the rest of his gear.<br/><br/>The footlocker beneath his bed contained a collection of mementos from days gone by: the first pistol he ever owned, a slimline 10mm automatic, covered in the same tanned leather under-waistband holster that was given to him in his youth. A handcrafted Peacemaker revolver, chambered in .338 Lapua Magnum rounds. His old combat boots and bluejeans, and the snap-collar motorcycle jacket with a Kevlar weave, made during the days of biker gangs to stop a bullet or the edge of a knife. Wearing these items felt like stepping into a time portal: he was suddenly a man out of time. When he stepped out of his house in them, he was sure that his friends and neighbors didn't even recognize him.<br/><br/>He hardly recognized himself.<br/><br/>* * *<br/><br/>Great Bend was the nearest civilized settlement for a hundred miles in any direction. Though Black Stream had provisions and technology, its supplies were limited, and no one had transportation more sophisticated than a bicycle. If Deckard and Tyler were to make it to New Boise, they would need a vehicle.<br/><br/>It was a two day walk to Great Bend from Black Stream, a problem inherent with having to circumnavigate irradiated lakes, made worse by having to do it stealthily to avoid roving packs of cannibal raiders. On the road, the two traveled in relative silence. Fifteen years was a long time, even for comrades. When it came down to it, neither was sure how to broach the subject of what had transpired in that time. Where had Deckard been? Why had Tyler stayed hidden for so long? Why was arguably the most notorious gunslinger in the Southwest spending his days fixing windmills and planting mushrooms? More importantly, how had Deckard tracked him down?<br/><br/>In the end, these questions were too many and too long. Neither was prepared for that kind of discussion on foot. When they had a car, that was another story. Hours of sitting necessitated talking. For now, the awkwardness of conversation could at least be chalked up to needing to stay vigilant. Raiding parties had grown in number during the last few years. Tyler had seen many hired guns pass through town hoping to collect a bounty on them, only to leave empty-handed due to Black Stream's lack of funds. And so they went unchecked, leaving the surrounding area somewhat volatile. Fortunately, most were only armed with crude weapons, so they rarely deigned to attack the town directly. The few that did were quickly picked off by sharpshooters. Out in the wilderness, though, even lightly armed raiders were dangerous.<br/><br/>At night, they set up camp and kept warm with a battery and a hot plate coil: an old trick Deckard had learned from bounty hunting. The hot coil provided sparse heat, but it was enough to keep them alive and hidden; campfires could be seen for miles in the wilderness, even with the substantial tree cover. They ate their canned goods in silence and slept fitfully until dawn, when they packed up and continued on their way.<br/><br/>* * *<br/><br/>Great Bend was a typical wasteland trading hub: a shanty town built around two market bazaars and a fissure in the earth that had become a fighting arena. Captured raiders, slaves, and all manner of brawlers would compete: sometimes for coin, sometimes for freedom. When Deckard saw it, he nudged Tyler and asked, <span style="color: #bf0040">“How about it? It'll be just like old times.”</span><br/><br/>Tyler gave a faint smile and shook his head. <span style="color: #336666">“Go ahead. I'm gonna shop around for supplies.”</span><br/><br/>Deckard shrugged and walked over to the pit boss, cracking his knuckles. Tyler went off alone to the bazaar, his eyes scanning the crowd, ever-vigilant for pickpockets. Each stand in the bazaar was packed with assorted junk, weapons, food items, and prewar curiosities. He carried a bag of assorted wasteland currencies from his travels: bottlecaps, ringpulls, prewar coins, whathaveyou. Bits of junk that held no real value, but for some reason were accepted as trade in most places. He stocked up on food and batteries, mostly. Ammunition was scarce, probably because so few murdered wanderers carried any in these parts. Swords, bats, axes, and knives were the typical weapons of the locals. Only a select few carried firearms, and most of those were posted around the pit and in guard towers.<br/><br/>As Tyler examined the canned goods for signs of rust or seal compromise, he spotted something poking out of a basket behind one of the vendors: something that caused his eyes to fall on it for a bit longer than normal. The vendor, wasting no time, saw Tyler's gaze and began the hard sell. “Ah, you noticed the sword? Very fine craftsmanship. For you, a paltry two-thousand caps.”<br/><br/>Tyler narrowed his eyes. Something about the sword didn't sit right with him – something eerily familiar. <span style="color: #336666">“Let me see that.”</span><br/><br/>The vendor nodded and removed the sword rather unceremoniously from the basket. The black lacquered scabbard was scuffed and battered from mishandling, but when Tyler pulled the blade back and revealed the iridescent blue metal, he could feel his heart grow heavy. Closing his eyes, he snapped the blade back into its sheath and whispered, <span style="color: #336666">“Where did you get this?”</span><br/><br/>“Ah, I cannot reveal my source! It's my policy to—”<br/><br/>Tyler cut him off, his expression becoming so icy, it made the vendor take a nervous half-step back. <span style="color: #336666">“I'm going to ask you one more time: where did you get this?”</span><br/><br/>The vendor nervously sized Tyler up, noting the fighting scars, impressive build, and multitude of armaments on his person. The coldness of his dark blue eyes was that of a killer – a man who had spent his entire life killing, who had no compunction with doing so again to get what he wanted. Swallowing hard, the vendor replied, “J-just a man. A month ago. I think he was Asian. Didn't say where he got it; he just traded three bottles of whiskey for it. That's all I know, I swear!”<br/><br/>Tyler set the bag of currency on the counter and took the canned goods he had selected, then strapped the sword across his back and gave the vendor a nod. <span style="color: #336666">“Keep the change.”</span><br/><br/>Leaving the merchant and the bazaar behind, he made his way past the gambling ring: shell games and poker tables were packed with people. A pair of men in tattered business suits stood menacingly nearby, ensuring no trouble came to the winners. Back at the pit, Tyler saw Deckard fighting a man who looked like he was on every combat drug known to man, swinging a shiv wildly. Taking Wolf's sword in hand, he marched over to the pit to even the odds.<br/><br/>* * *<br/><br/>The bruiser collapsed in a bloodied, twitching heap, the shiv embedded in the base of his skull. Deckard stood over him and looked at the familiar sword. <span style="color: #bf0040">“Jesus... Is this...?”</span><br/><br/>Tyler looked grim, but before he could answer, the pit boss grabbed Deckard's hand and raised it in the air. “Ladies and gentlemen, we have a winner!”<br/><br/>Howls of excitement and bloodlust erupted from the audience, but Deckard seemed more concerned with the recent turn of events. Why was Wolf's sword here? Had he made it this far east or had his killer simply taken the weapon as spoils and pawned it? Quickly, he collected his earnings from the pit boss and climbed out of the arena. Tyler stood aside, his arms folded and his expression contemplative.<br/><br/><span style="color: #bf0040">“Was he here...?”</span> Deckard asked, putting his shirt back on.<br/><br/><span style="color: #336666">“No... I don't think so. The vendor said some Asian guy traded it for whiskey last month. Whoever it was, he's long gone by now.”</span><br/><br/><span style="color: #bf0040">“Damn it...”</span> Deckard muttered.<br/><br/>Suddenly, Tyler patted him on the shoulder and motioned to the gambling tables. <span style="color: #336666">“Come on. Now that everyone's scared of you, they won't try to kill you for winning too much.”</span></span><br/><br/>* * *<br/><br/><span style="font-weight: bold">Now...</span><br/><br/>Tyler looks at the conductor and gestures at the now derelict vehicle behind them.<span style="color: #336666">“Help yourselves to anything in that rig. There should be parts enough to pay for the two of us.”</span><br/><br/>The conductor scratches his stubbly chin, considering the offer for a moment. “We're on a tight schedule. Boss wants us in Cheyenne by sunup. Ain't got time to scrap a car.”<br/><br/><span style="color: #336666">“Who's your boss?”</span>Tyler asks.<br/><br/>“Percival Hale. Y'know, the Hale Corporation? You fellas not from around here?”<br/><br/>Tyler shakes his head.<span style="color: #336666">“Just passing through. Think you can help us out?”</span><br/><br/>The conductor looks at his watch and sighs. “All right, come on. We'll put you to work in the boiler car. You help get us to the station on time, ride's on us. I'll warn you, though: you step out of line, you'll be getting real intimate with the tracks. You follow?”<br/><br/>Tyler nods.<span style="color: #336666">“Lead the way.”</span><br/><br/><div><hr style="height:2px; width:100%; border:0; color: white;background:white;"/></div><br/><br/>The pair step into the passenger car on the way to the boiler, making casual glances at the people in their seats. Civilians, mostly. Scientists and engineers hoping to ply their trades above ground -- people who can barter technology and advanced skills in exchange for passage. A few men and women look like laborers, and by the logos on their uniforms, it is clear that they are employed by the Hale Corporation.<br/><br/>The idea of a corporate entity seems strange in this day and age. Most such organizations Tyler had seen were little more than enclaves of power and wealth, like the Empire in the Pacific Northwest, or the Triads in San Francisco. The Hale Corporation must have had considerable resources to refurbish a railway like this. Tyler remembers reading an old magazine article that detailed the transcontinental rail system in America. Before the war, it was the lifeblood of civilization, sending supplies to every corner of the country via an intricate and delicately balanced network. If that network were to fail, even for a day, it was said that the entire economy would collapse. Whether that theory was true would remain a mystery, as the apocalypse had destroyed the world before an economic collapse had a chance to happen.<br/><br/>They move past the passenger car, opening the door to the partition that leads into the boiler. The walkway between cars is covered in patches of scavenged rubber and canvas, stitched together in a mosaic. Despite this ramshackle design, the train itself appears incredibly sturdy. Armored plating lines the driving wheels along the tracks. The walls of each car are reinforced and lined with spikes to prevent scaling from raiders. It is a fortress on rails.<br/><br/>But like all fortresses, they come under siege.<br/><br/>The train rocks from the explosion, sending both Deckard and Tyler crashing to the hard metal floor. Grabbing a nearby railing, Tyler forces himself to his feet and peers out one of the windows. Outside, a convoy of vehicles runs alongside the train tracks. A few men on ATVs and motorcycles, some in jalopy technicals armed heavy machineguns. Their clothing adorned with sinister accents and their faces coated in warpaint. Deckard groans and pulls his revolver from its holster.<span style="color: #bf0040">“Motherfuckers are gonna die...”</span><br/><br/>Before Deckard can pop his head up, Tyler grabs him by the collar and yanks him back to the floor just in time for bullets to shred the car at eye level. Windows shatter and shrapnel flies in every direction; tiny flecks of broken glass cause dozens of tiny cuts on their hands and faces. Looking up in surprise, Deckard mutters,<span style="color: #bf0040">“Or we can wait...”</span><br/><br/>The train buckles and bounces as the technicals fire again. Taking a piece of glass in hand, Tyler holds it up and glances at the reflection of the bandits outside.<span style="color: #336666">“You loaded?”</span><br/><br/><span style="color: #bf0040">“Of course.”</span><br/><br/><span style="color: #336666">“You take left, I'll take right. Ready? Now!”</span><br/><br/>The pair pop up, revolvers in hand, firing at the men on the technicals first. Tyler's .338 round makes a heavy crack as it tears through the air and blows a grapefruit-sized hole through the machinegun bandit's chest. Deckard fires four times, killing the two men on motorcycles riding escort just behind the technical. The pair duck down right as another explosion nearly knocks the train off the tracks.<br/><br/><span style="color: #bf0040">“What the hell keeps doing that?!”</span>Deckard shouts, cracking his revolver open and dropping the spent shells<br/><br/>Tyler pops up long enough to see another technical with an old RPG-7 taking shots at the cars in the back. The small explosive rounds are weak – barely a stick of dynamite – but enough of them would destroy even the most heavily armored train. Staying low, Tyler bolts ahead to the end of the car.<br/><br/>Outside, a squad of raiders fire rocket-propelled grappling hooks into the hull of the train and prepare to board. A gout of flaming diesel fuel sprays forth from the train's aft defensive turret, its range short, but its flames enough to lick the raiders who climb too close. A handful of charred bodies fall from the grappling cables before a well-placed shot pierces the turret gunner's heart and renders the rear of the train defenseless.<br/><br/>Inside, Tyler and Deckard rush to the rear of the train, past the terrified passengers huddled in their seats. Right as Tyler opens the door to the next car, the fabric covering of the walkway is ripped asunder by another explosion, and two raiders burst through the fiery opening.<br/><br/>Tyler raises his pistol an instant too late, and the shot goes wide as a club fashioned from lengths of rebar smacks the weapon from his hand. Tyler dodges the second swing, and grabbing the raider's wrist, pulls it forward right as the second raider swings his crude axe downward. The blade lands hard, slicing the unlucky raider's arm off in a single blow. A look of horror from the axe-wielding raider precedes a swift punch to his throat, sending him barreling backward as Tyler kicks the disarmed raider out the opening onto the tracks outside.<br/><br/>Rushing forward, Tyler leaps into the air, both feet coming down with full force upon the axe-wielding raider's chest, completely knocking the wind out of him. The raider barely has time to catch his breath and sit up before Deckard picks up the dropped revolver and leaves a smoking crater in his skull. Looking at Tyler's custom pistol, Deckard smirks.<span style="color: #bf0040">"If you die, I'm keeping this."</span><br/><br/>Tyler stands and grins as his partner tosses the weapon to him.<br/><br/>* * *<br/><br/>Utter horror strikes the passengers inside the burning locomotive. More raiders make it aboard: their methods savage and their lust wanton. Those unfortunate enough to be caught in their path are cut down or worse. The weakest are dragged aside and pawed fiendishly, their attackers' carnal appetites undiscerning, sparing neither man nor woman. The train guards fall one by one as their resolve is shattered by sheer numbers and unrelenting brutality. A handful barricade themselves in one car as Tyler and Deckard race to the rear of the train and prepare for the onslaught.<br/><br/><span style="color: #336666">“Who's in charge here?”</span>Tyler shouts over the cacophony of gunfire. The train guards look back at the pair, panicked; the answer completely escaping them. Whatever semblance of order they once had is lost in the chaos of battle.<br/><br/>Seeing no one to step up, Tyler grabs a guard by the collar and commands,<span style="color: #336666">“Get everyone to the front of the train! Now!”</span><br/><br/>The guards look at each other, unsure of how to proceed before Deckard fires a shot into the ceiling and yells,<span style="color: #bf0040">“Move it!”</span><br/><br/>The barricaded guards suddenly fly up from their positions and rush to the next car. Deckard looks at Tyler grimly, knowing what his old comrade is planning.<span style="color: #bf0040">“So much for our ride...”</span><br/><br/>Nodding, Tyler waits for the last of the guards to clear the car before rushing to the walkway and unlocking the hitch connecting it to the rest of the train. The pair watch the train and its remaining connected cars speed away while the aft cars slow to a halt. The raiders, content with attacking easier prey, leave the train to flee, and begin to form a circle around the stationary cars.<br/><br/><span style="color: #bf0040">“Kinda wish I hadn't fired that last shot...”</span>Deckard mutters as he loads his revolver and shotgun.<br/><br/>Tyler takes the time to reload his own weapon, pulling the finger-sized shells from his jacket pocket.<span style="color: #336666">“How many did you count?”</span><br/><br/><span style="color: #bf0040">“Two technicals with about a half dozen in each, eight motorcycles. Give or take a man or two.”</span><br/><br/><span style="color: #336666">“Long odds.”</span><br/><br/>Deckard smirks.<span style="color: #bf0040">“I know for a fact you've had worse.”</span><br/><br/>Snapping his revolver closed, Tyler prepares for the fight ahead.<span style="color: #336666">“Let's hope our luck holds out.”</span><br/><br/>The pair rush forward, bracing against the door to the next car. With a pat on the shoulder, Deckard gives the signal and the door is ripped open – then for a few terrifying seconds, the world becomes a blur of deafening gunfire.<br/><br/>Tyler lines up each shot with precision, the heavy rounds in his revolver ripping through makeshift raider armor with minimal effort. In the blink of an eye, four men are felled with four shots. At the same time, Deckard snaps left and empties both barrels of his shotgun into a bruiser of a raider, then drops the weapon, and in barely the space of a heartbeat, draws his revolver and fires on two more as they pour in from the next car. When the smoke clears a few seconds later, seven men lay dying.<br/><br/>Before the petrified passengers can process what has happened, the gunslingers gather up crude armaments from the dead and rush forward to the next car. Tyler wields a rusty machete; Deckard a war club made from a cinder block. As they pass the threshold, Tyler embeds the weapon into the neck of the first opponent he sees and pulls the body in front of him as a human shield. Deckard hurls the club through the air and caves in another raider's skull before expertly twisting around and grabbing the machine pistol strapped to Tyler's dying hostage. Like a whirling dervish, Deckard spins again, lining up three more targets and emptying the pistol's magazine into each of them.<br/><br/>Bullets fly forth from the opposite end of the car, riddling Tyler's meat shield but leaving him unscathed. Deckard dives to the side, letting the seats soak up the damage. The remaining two rounds from Tyler's revolver kill two more before he drops the weapon and draws the 10mm from his waistband. As his meat shield collapses in front of him, Tyler peppers the last remaining raider with bullets, and all goes quiet inside.<br/><br/>A pregnant pause lingers in the air outside the train cars. Motorcycles idle softly while the technical drivers sit in confusion. Was that gunfire just their own people finishing the job? Had a pair of train guards gone out in a final blaze of glory? Or had something gone horribly wrong?<br/><br/>While the raiders outside deliberate, Tyler and Deckard waste no time. A pair of grenades fly from the windows of the train car, each landing on a separate technical. The men aboard them barely have a chance to cry out before the vehicles are engulfed in flame. The men on motorcycles unload their weapons on the train, but seeing their odds rapidly decrease, the majority of them scatter and drive off. Tyler manages to kill one at a distance before the others are too far out of range.<br/><br/>Seeing the carnage they wrought, the two gunslingers glance at each other and breathe a sigh of relief.<span style="color: #bf0040">“Well that fucking sucked...”</span><br/><br/><div><hr style="height:2px; width:100%; border:0; color: white;background:white;"/></div><br/>Turning back to the train car behind them, Tyler notices the surviving passengers begin to poke their heads up from their seats. Nobody knows what to make of the two men who almost single-handedly fought off the entire raider attack. Some are afraid. Most are bewildered. Only one manages to stand up and say something: "You... you guys are heroes!"<br/><br/>Deckard almost cringes at the word and whispers to Tyler,<span style="color: #bf0040">"Oh boy... You want to deal with the fan club?"</span><br/><br/>Tyler smirks and walks up to the man in the passenger car.<span style="color: #336666">"Everybody in one piece?"</span><br/><br/>Looking at the others, the passenger nods hesitantly. "I think so... I just... Goddamn! I've never seen anything like that! You two just tore through those guys like they were nothing!"<br/><br/><span style="color: #336666">"Does anyone know how far we are from Cheyenne?"</span><br/><br/>"About forty klicks? I don't really know for sure." The passenger replied.<br/><br/>Deckard sighs and shakes his head.<span style="color: #bf0040">"Train full of civilians? We'll never make it on foot."</span><br/><br/>Tyler glances out the train window, spotting a motorcycle lying in the dirt by the last raider he killed.<span style="color: #336666">"We might not have to..."</span><br/><br/>Confused, Deckard follows Tyler's gaze until he notices what he was looking at. It doesn't take long for him to piece the plan together: Tyler riding ahead and fetch the train.<span style="color: #bf0040">"Oh goddamn it... You're seriously gonna make me babysit?"</span><br/><br/>Tyler smirks, producing a bottlecap from his pocket.<span style="color: #336666">"We'll flip for it."</span><br/><br/>As Tyler flicks the cap into the air, Deckard calls out,<span style="color: #bf0040">"Heads!"</span><br/><br/>But the cap lands face-down, and Tyler gives a reassuring pat on his comrade's shoulder.<span style="color: #336666">"It'll be fine -- you can just tell them that joke you know."</span><br/><br/>Rolling his eyes, Deckard watches Tyler walk over to the motorcycle and stand it upright. There he is: ever the cowboy, riding that steel horse quite literally towards the setting sun. The sight is almost comically picturesque.<br/><br/><div><hr style="height:2px; width:100%; border:0; color: white;background:white;"/></div><br/><br/>“Jesus... How many did we lose?”<br/><br/>“Three cars. If it weren't for those gun-hands...”<br/><br/>“Oh, shit! We've got incoming!”<br/><br/>The guards peer out the windows at the rapidly approaching motorcycle. One by one, they line up their rifles and take aim, their fingers set to squeeze the triggers until one finally shouts, “Wait!”<br/><br/>Within seconds it becomes clear: the rider approaching is no raider. Cranking the throttle, he races ahead and waves at the train to stop. The passengers aboard watch in awe: mere minutes earlier, this man was outnumbered and outgunned, and now he rides alone, unscathed. This is a man who is more than a mere wanderer – more than a hired gun.<br/><br/>He is a legend.<br/><br/>* * *<br/><br/>Cheyenne: gateway to the West. A single bastion of civilization in a desert that seemed to go on forever. The locomotive growls as it slows to a halt and parks in the depot. On opposite tracks, other trains lay in waiting, their construction equally imposing, thrown together using whatever resources were available. Some are made from old semi trucks. Others, from actual locomotive engines. As the weary passengers disembark, a contingent of men in polished private security armor are already on the platform to greet Tyler and Deckard. They look raw, untested. The apprehension in their faces is visible as they size up the pair of seasoned warriors. One of them speaks, his voice controlled and authoritative, but in a manner that's practiced rather than natural. Their body language speaks volumes more than words ever could. “Mr. Hale would like to see you both. If you'd come this way...”<br/><br/>Shrugging, the pair glance at each other and gesture for the guards to lead on. Normally, an armed escort never ended anywhere good. But the two have seen the Hale Corporation muscle in action. Any fear of being outmatched is quickly allayed.<br/><br/>They're taken through the depot past a busy work zone. Laborers of all kinds mill about as sparks from machine tools and welding torches fly through the air. Whatever the Hale Corporation is up to, the work being put into it is immense. A short walk later they arrive at what looks like an old government building, guarded by more men in polished armor. Tyler watches them give each other furtive glances before letting the pair of gunslingers into the main hall. Their escort ends at a large office, where a gaunt, middle-aged man in jeans and a tweed blazer stands to greet them.<br/><br/><span style="color: orange">“Gentlemen. Welcome to Cheyenne.”</span>The man gestures to the guards to wait outside before extending his hand to the pair.<span style="color: orange">“Percival Hale, president of the Hale Corporation.”</span><br/><br/><span style="color: #336666">“Tyler.”</span><br/><br/><span style="color: #bf0040">“Deckard.”</span><br/><br/>The three exchange handshakes before Hale invites the two to sit. The chairs are comfortable, made of premium leather and rich mahogany – relics from before the war. Glancing at Tyler's sidearm, Hale folds his hands and regards it quizzically.<span style="color: orange">“That's an interesting weapon. Can't say I've ever seen one like it.”</span><br/><br/><span style="color: #336666">“Had an armorer build it for me a few years back. Needed something with a little kick to it.”</span>Tyler pulls the revolver out and offers it to Hale.<br/><br/>Taking the weapon gingerly, Hale nods in approval.<span style="color: orange">“See, now that's a sign of trust. Take any other couple of gun-hands from the wastes and they wouldn't hand over their weapon even if you paid them for it. But you? You give respect. That's a sign of greatness. True greatness.”</span><br/><br/>Deckard clears his throat, unsure of what to make of all this. He isn't used to dealing with any kind of authority – not in a civil manner, anyway. The most contact he ever has with them is dealing with local law offices to collect bounties. Hale points the revolver at the wall and looks down the sight, then flips it in his hand and offers it back to Tyler.<span style="color: orange">“Break top, nice balance... Might have to find me this armorer of yours. Give him a job.”</span><br/><br/>Tyler holsters the weapon and replies,<span style="color: #336666">“I take it you didn't ask us up here to talk about guns.”</span><br/><br/>Hale bows his head in agreement.<span style="color: orange">“My men told me about the attack on my train. They said that you two fought off an entire bandit attack without so much as a scratch on you. I could use men like you in my organization.”</span><br/><br/>Tyler folds his hands and shakes his head.<span style="color: #336666">“Tempting as that sounds, we're just passing through.”</span><br/><br/><span style="color: #bf0040">“Could use some transportation, though. Maybe some fresh supplies.”</span><br/><br/><span style="color: orange">“You're free agents. I can respect that. Thing is, we've got ourselves a bandit problem in these parts. I can't let good help just pass on by.”</span><br/><br/>Deckard's face hardens.<span style="color: #bf0040">“You aiming to stop us, cochise?”</span><br/><br/>Hale holds up his hands and shakes his head.<span style="color: orange">“Please, gentlemen – if you help us with this problem, we'll send you on your way with all the supplies you need.”</span><br/><br/>Deckard looks like he was about to protest, but Tyler gestures for him to wait.<span style="color: #336666">“We help you, we're gonna need more than the two of us.”</span>