<strong>AMBROSEA</strong><div class="spoiler_container"><div class="spoiler_header" onclick="hideSecond (this);" role="button">Spoiler: Click to Show/Hide</div><div class="spoiler_body">"Maybe," Cringe says as Ambrosea goes, and slips away from the pile of cultists as they too stand up to go, following after Ambrosea.  Cringe ends up back at her bean bag chair and settles back into it, and waves as Ambrosea goes.  Her pants are off on the floor elsewhere; she's only wearing socks.  She's still a bit out of it, maybe from that drug, maybe from something else.  Just before Ambrosea slips out from the door, Cringe says, "Hey, if you see Balls out there, let her know I'm waiting for her."  She sort of slinks and digs herself into that chair and curls up, and then Ambrosea's gone, and the cultists disappear out behind her.<br/><br/>After the time in Cringe's air-conditioned room, even the rest of her place is warm.  By the time Ambrosea's back out there, the sun's starting its descent, but man, it is fucking hot.  The worst part of Cringe's chilly chamber is leaving; the sun demands its due in this world, and it's like as soon as Ambrosea's out there again, she's cooking.  Millions is out there with her, too, and did she even bring clothes with her?  She kind of hangs on Ambrosea, she's still naked, slipping her way under the hocus' arm and clinging to her.  She whispers something up, something about needing her fix, and won't Ambrosea please take care of her?  Out in the heat, sweat's starting to bead on her skin, too, almost making her gleam in the setting of the sun.  Something about visiting the altar.  Millions is a pretty girl, but she's addicted <em>bad</em>, her need for that drug borders on gluttonous.<br/><br/><strong>Ambrosea</strong>, your cult's all in places rented from Cringe, right?  Do they have anything besides their drugs going on, as far as religion and faith go?  Rites, rituals, ceremonies?  Enlighten us, Hocus, and let us know what you're up to.</div></div><br/><strong>HAVEL</strong><div class="spoiler_container"><div class="spoiler_header" onclick="hideSecond (this);" role="button">Spoiler: Click to Show/Hide</div><div class="spoiler_body">So Gnarly's out there, somewhere, and Havel can tell because Gnarly's kind of got that sort of voice, the kind of voice that grinds, that brings to mind his namesake, those overgrown places where a tree grows in on itself and in on itself until it's an unhealthy, ugly <em>thing</em>.  And he's like, “Fuck.”<br/><br/>Maybe among some people, these Rites are more involved.  Some of the real crazy types out there, they get really into their ritual and whatever.  They have folks whose only job is to remember these things, word for word, like they're magic.  Maybe the Company has some of those, too, but it ain't Gnarly.<br/><br/>So there's the clad of his boots as he steps over, and he's like, “Yank, man, I fuckin' love you.  You know it.  You're not gonna ride anymore, you know it.”<br/><br/>Yankee's like, “I know it, I know it.”  More wheezing.  “Don't take my colors.”<br/><br/>So Gnarly, he's like, “No way, Yank, you ride in 'em, and you die in 'em.  A real Company Man.”  And then it's just like that, <em>bang bang</em>, almost more like little pops.<br/><br/>Then there's a flare up, all at once, all the bikes present roaring their engines, and that goes on, it goes on for a long time, just Gnarly and Whisky and Brandy standing by while the rest of 'em play out that dirge.  And eventually, that dies down, too.<br/><br/><strong>Havel</strong>, what do you do with your dead?  I'm not about to make a move here; I think maybe you and Gnarly got a few words to exchange before things move – and anyway, it sounds like maybe you're gonna have a visitor.</div></div><br/><strong>RUTH</strong><div class="spoiler_container"><div class="spoiler_header" onclick="hideSecond (this);" role="button">Spoiler: Click to Show/Hide</div><div class="spoiler_body">So this woman, this Morgan, she's pretty upset as it is, though she's got an observant eye on her anyway.  So she's looking around, even as she's waiting for Ruth, though her eyes come back each time, waiting on the doctor.  “Looks like one of your own took some licks,” she says as they start to head out.  “I'm sorry to peel you off from her.”<br/><br/>Then she's back out to where her bike's still goin', still chugging out its engine noise.  She climbs up right up front, waits for Ruth to take that place on the back.  Her bike's not really well set up to seat two people – some of these guys, they have fuck-off huge bikes with side-cars and everything, but Morgan's is sleek and kind of small, so it's kind of a call between sitting back on the edge of the seat or sitting right up against her.  And man, just in case Ruth's never been on a motorcycle and doesn't know what to expect, that thing sure does <em>rumble</em>.<br/><br/>Morgan isn't terribly talkative, but she is in a rush, so as soon as Ruth's back there, she gets moving.  And her bike fucking <em>moves</em>.  She nearly runs down some stupid kid on her way out of town, but the urchin manages to make it out alive, and then she's back out on the road, driving hard until the sound of more bikes comes apparent, and then closes in on this scene: about a half-dozen bikes, all rumbling, three people still straddled over their engines, four more standing around one guy on the ground.  Company Men.  Also, six of those sun-seared cultists and one of their sacrifices, all of 'em dead or if not dead, wounded damn near to it, spread out around where those bikes are parked.<br/><br/>Morgan, pretty calmly, pulls the bike up and kicks down the stand.<br/><br/><strong>Ruth</strong>, you got a situation here, no doubt.  Lot of wounded, lot of leather-clad gunluggers abound.  What do you do?</div></div>