It was morning and Dusk was already on the job. She had awoken early, as always. Her attire was a pair of black booty-shorts and a dark navy corset top that tied around the neck. She was sitting at mike with her headphones around her neck; the volume ramped up to full blast. Her slender tattooed arms worked the volume and music keys to keep everything in balance. It wasn't a difficult task, but keeping her attention on the keys and not the music was always a challenge. Most of the music was a mix or rock, screamo, and pop-rock. All of the songs reflected upon the disaster that the world humanity had created, how there was still a chance to change, or how love had abandoned them. It wasn't the most terrific music ever, but when you lived in a hell-hole like they did, making any music at all was a miracle.

"Hey hey," the blonde said into the microphone as 'F.R.E.E.D.O.M' ended its final note. "You're listening to 711, Rebel Radio. Updates on riots, murders, and battles will be revealed later tonight when Hollow-Point takes over. Right now your listening to Dusk, the one and only." She paused as she fumbled for the list of songs. "For the next sixty minutes as your going about your day we'll be having continuous, commercial free music." After listing off some of the songs that would appear, she turned off the mike and excited the small confinement of the room.

She headed out the back door to bask in the sun's harmful rays. Dusk stretched, a small, satisfied smile on her face. There was no need to stress over the world on such a fine morning. Dusk and beyond was the time when you really had to be on your toes. A small breeze tickled her freckled complexion. "Alright," she murmured to herself and returned back into the building. The blonde picked up her guitar and began jamming out with the songs that were blasting out through the speakers.

Worrying about the world around her was something that she didn't allow herself to do. Long ago she'd excepted that she was considered an inferior being. But she was completely satisfied with her life; life wasn't a life without struggle, and she had plenty of that. Apparently she was living to her full extent. Dusk's strumming came to a slow stop and a frown curved her full, peachy lips. What were Angel and Saint doing? She hadn't heard from them in a while, not that she cared all that much. They were always strung too tight, stressing over things that they should be calm and level-headed about. There were certain parts of the day where you needed to be calm and others where you needed to be on your game. And for her, that time was definitely not now.

It started as a small thing, a mere disturbance in his throat. Then there was a scratching sensation and Saint was breathing and hacking in his throat and, at last, Saint spat up a blob of blood. Thankfully, he was outside so there was no one to notice. He stared at the blob of plasma thoughtfully. Blood. His life had introduced him to plenty of it. Growing outside of the so-called utopias and in "Old America", it was not a question of if you'd see blood and suffering, merely when. There were always shortages. Medical supplies, food, water, you were lucky to have one or the other and even luckier if it didn't kill you. It wasn't the sort of life for a weak heart.

But then, when was Saint ever lucky? Neither he nor his parents knew what was wrong. They only knew that exercise, especially aerobic exercise, helped as well as heart medicine, what little of it made its way out of the city. Still, there was always hoarders, scavengers who managed to get their hands on goods from the Cleans in exchange for the rubbish they dug up. They always charged too much for their goods. Saint remembered a particular hoarder, a fat greasy pig who forced his mother to sell her decency in exchange for the medicine that saved his life while his father slaved away in crumbling buildings looking through waste for valuables. After his parents were killed in a raid, he had chosen that man as his target for his initiation in a gang. Saint wished that he didn't enjoy it. He wished it was quick. To this day, it was the only murder he had enjoyed and it disturbed him.

He knew he was living on borrowed time and he had accepted it. There was little point in life anyway. When he was in a gang, he had only stolen and taken medicine out of reflex and a desire to die fighting rather than in bed. He was content that with the few friends he made, he wouldn't die alone. Then it had happened. The police killed everybody. Again, Saint was alone, save for a few wanderers he had run into who were too weak to survive on his own. Strangely, they had formed a gang with him as the leader, but he couldn't attack and steal from other Unclean anymore. It was the police and the Society's fault that they were what they were. He had dared to fight back with no hope for survival, but he had become good at keeping himself and his followers alive. Soon, they were depending on him and Saint knew that he had to live for their sake. It was then that he dared to infiltrate the city himself for treatment.

Saint smiled slightly. That event held one of the few good memories of his life. He had run into Angel there. At first, he wanted to hate her. She was everything he was not, a privileged Society girl, but she had helped him. He found a doctor that would actually help Unclean in secret, Dr. Solus. His illness was cured for the most part, but then, like on so many occasions in his life, Society ruined it. Solus was killed and he and Angel were on the run again. He was forever grateful to that kind doctor. For the first time, he was healthy and in control of his illness and he used that second chance to avenge the doctor and make the police pay.

When he returned, he was thrice as good as he ever was. People were in awe of him and the new girl he brought with him. Of course, his illness was like a weight. Where previously it had weighed him down, he soon discovered that it made him stronger, able to endure more.

Saint coughed again before popping a pill in his mouth. Of course, he still needed to take medicine, but the one he needed plentiful, a fairly common one. He smiled slightly. Society citizens ate too much and contracted heart disease, resulting in a pill to manage and cure most common heart ailments. It was ironic that their overindulgence benefited him. If there was a God, He had a sense of humor. He scratched the ground with his shoe, covering the blood in dirt. He had overexerted himself the night before and it had Angel worried. He didn't need her scolding him, though. He knew his limits. He was healthy and willing to fight to defend the people Society had discarded. A little heart problem wasn't going to stop him.

Joseph woke up in a dark room sitting on the peeling floor with his back propped against an ugly couch trimmed with hound’s-tooth fabric. He felt like shit. His hands lay at his sides - the left holding a beer can, the right cradling a large canister. He brought the opening to his nose and sniffed. It was whiskey. He experimentally shook it and inside tinkled a small trickle of liquid.

He seemed to be in a small shack. The air was heavy and unfiltered. Apart from the couch he was leaning against there stood a small rickety commode in front of him, an ugly painting of flowers hanging above it; everything else lay bare. There were four windows, all of them squeezed on the left wall and covered with cardboard, and a door wedged between the second and third window. He saw the orange band of sunlight peeking on the sill.
He got very drunk last night because it had been a very bad week, a week full of raids, murders and losses. He always faced tragedy intoxicated. He had no idea how he wound up in this room. He tried to remember some detail from yesterday, but everything came to him wrapped in a thick film. Alcohol still swirled in his system and a major hangover started threatening against his temples and stomach. It's a good thing you didn't get nabbed by the feds, you moron. He quietly thanked the Lord for watching out for him in his stupor. It was good to have God on his side for a change.

Joseph closed his eyes and let out a slow even breath, then very cautiously got up, unhooking his fingers from the empty containers and bending over like an old man. Without a second glance he stumbled toward the door,opened it and stepped out into the street.
He wasn’t far from HQ and it was still morning, he realized with surprise as he took out a cigarette from the inside of his leather jacket – an outright miracle for him to be wide awake at this hour. He usually slept ‘till two in the afternoon, tired from his all night marathon supervising the radio station or making plans for the new movement against Society.

The mass of the Old City opened in front of him. Smoke wound itself around the tall decrepit buildings, girders and destroyed constructions like a serpent and the glass windows glared in the harsh sunlight. Papers and dirt rolled in the potholed street, carried by a slight breeze. Not a lot of people were out on the streets this morning, but the ones who passed him didn’t even give him a glance. Joseph looked like any other Exiled – dirty, sullen and mean.

He shielded his eyes with his free hand. The sunlight was starting to bother him. A thin needle of pain sunk into his brain; he was on the verge of a big headache. Pushing the cigarette into his mouth, he started walking towards the hideout. He might actually surprise Dusk in a good way for once.

His patient had finally arrived. A beautiful rose amongst weeds and thorns. An Angel. The doctor's smile stretched almost unnaturally across his face, revealing a collection of rotten, broken teeth. He took a step toward to welcome his patient, wiping sweaty hands on his already filthy trousers before offering his hand out to the woman in front of him. Dark hair, pale skin, those beautiful eyes, now filled with pain. His eyes wandered downwards. Her clothing was loose; an old battered black vest that he could have sworn that he once saw on Saint, and black cargo pants of the same color. It didn't take a genius to work out it she'd been hit by a laser. Such as shame... she had such a wonderful body, and lasers had a habit of leaving such unrefined scars.
"Forge." Angel snarled, snapping him back to reality. "Let's get on with this."
She really did not want to be here, but the pain was getting in her way now. Forge had been kicked out for a series of rapes and sexual assaults in Society, but no one could deny it -- The dirty old pervert was the best doctor they had at the moment, and one of the few that had actually been to medical school. The ratty little man gestured to a broken sofa, still wearing that god awful smile across his face. Angel really did not want to know what he was thinking about. She suppressed a shudder and reluctantly sat down.

As Forge edged closer to her, the smile never once flickering from his weasel-y face, she wished for a moment that she had brought Saint with her. He would make sure that Forge kept his distance and behaved himself. But her partner wasn't well either, she knew it. He was hiding something from her, and she felt confident that it wasn't a girl.

"What seems to be the problem, m'dear?"
Angel had to bite her tongue to give the real answer.
"I got hit with a laser." She grunted, "I just want you to check it's not infected and bandage it."
"Payment?"
She took out a bottle from a messenger bag he'd missed on his initial inspection. "Vintage Merlot, 2013. As promised."
The doctor looked pleased, snatching the bottle from her grasp, and examining it carefully. "Shall we get started, then?"
Angel slowly lifted up her top, exposing the section of her stomach badly burned from the laser blast. The doctor tutted and started muttering about availability and high prices, rummaging around in drawers and cupboards for the highly valuable burn gel. It was in high demand, with notoriously low supplies making it through.

As a soothing sensation spread across the woman's stomach, she began to relax a little and let her mind drift. Angel's uncle had been a doctor. At some stage or another, she recalled wanting to follow in his footsteps. He had been her idol, which was why she had trusted him with her biggest secret; the sick boy she now called Saint. Not that enjoyed being called a kid, but he hadn't been much more than that. A filthy, desperate troublemaker teen with an attitude. He hadn't changed much since then, she thought with a smile... A smile?

Angel kicked as hard as she could manage, the sole of her boot coming into contact with Forge's stomach, just as his hand was passing under the waistband of her cargo bands. Sedative in the gel, she should have seen that one coming. The doctor stumbled backwards, and Angel was on her feet, grabbing some supplies and smashing the bottle of wine on the way out. She then paused to take out her gun, firing into Forge's shoulder as a warning. She began bandaging herself up on the way down, adjusting Saint's top back around herself.

Gun still in hand, she decided to take shortcut through one of the quieter areas of the City. She could do without having to deal with any other... unpleasantries on the way back. She trekked through a few back alleys, avoiding the main streets when possible. A figure was standing on their own a little bit ahead, their back to her. Angel smiled. She'd know them anywhere. She quickened her pace, putting her arms around Saint's waist.
"Morning," Angel whispered, a small smile playing on her lips. "How are you feeling?"

The sun just began to peak over the horizon when the sound of a hard thud on metal echoed around the destroyed and deserted buildings. If someone had the view of any of the insects that zipped and darted around the refuge that lay scattered around the street, they would see the dirty and dust clothed figure walking around the two wheeled hunk of metal. A single strip of matted black hair ran over his tanned scalp as Daken walked around the largest paper weight in the world, or his motorcycle as he called it sometimes, cursing allowed for the world to hear.

“Stupid piece of shit, fucking rusted bucket of bolts,” echoed his deep, husky voice into the buildings that had just recently carried the thud of metal from his kicking the motorcycle’s frame, “Can’t ever run when I want you to. Just like a damn woman,” he laughed at the last comment and knelt down next to the engine and rummaged through one of the packs on the back of the frame.

Near him was the ring of charcoal, which had been his fire the previous night. Next to that was his backpack which was opened to reveal some of his most precious belongings. The clang of metal on rusted metal echoed through the silence that had been building in the last couple of moments and another curse as Daken stuffed his dirty thumb into his mouth. A wrench stuck out from the side of the engine block of the motorcycle where he’d been holding it when he hurt himself.

“Damn it you piece of fucking rusted metal,” came his voice accompanied by another loud thumb and to Daken’s amazement the sound of the motor turning over and roaring to life, which causes any animal that may be close to him to scatter, “About damn time,” he said as he collected up his gear and tossed his pack over his shoulders and roared off into the destroyed city, another day in the life of a criminal and outcast in the ruins of America.

Saint couldn't help the smile that quirked on his face even before he felt her arms around him. Angel. His Angel. The one that left Paradise and entered into Hell without one complaint or regret. Mentally, he knew that he shouldn't have taken her hands into his or lent her his clothes to wear. It was too dangerous. Spies were everywhere, some of them poor Uncleans desperate for a bit of coin and others intentionally planted here that deserved nothing but death, but he could not fight the stirring inside his chest that said it was okay to not be careful, just this once. So they shared those looks, these small moments when they were alone.

"I feel fine. I'm more concerned about you. You were the one that took that laser shot yesterday," he told her, his tone reproachful with a only a small hidden bit of tenderness that only those who knew him well could detect. Again, he kicked dirt upon the blot of blood on the ground. There was no need to worry her, "Is Forge up to his old games? I swear that if I receive another complaint about him, I will lop off the offending member."

It was a just punishment, he felt. Men could live without their genitals so long as they could still dispose of their bodily waste. And it was always better to disarm than to kill when it was possible. It was better than setting him loose to play upon other females like the Society did, but then, they didn't consider them human anyway.

"Another eight people dead because they needed to "thin out our numbers". I'm surprised they don't take hunting trophies. Of course, they never expect game to fight back," he stated in a mix of anger and grim satisfaction. He frowned slightly, his hands tightening her grip on hers.

"They're getting closer to HQ."

Then, unexpectedly, he smiled, revealing a bit of good humor, "Dusk and Hollow-Point will have to stay indoors tonight. Sober. God help Dusk."

Hallow-Point never liked staying sober, but it was for his own good during a Raid.

The music was going good. Messages of freedom and exile rang out from the speakers of the 711 HQ. Dusk had of course taken precautions to keep the place built up nicely. A couch sat scrunched between the equipment in the back corner and the chairs had comfortable padding despite their shredded appearances. It was difficult to get anything that would provide even minimal comfort. She'd had to gamble with her body on the line to even get the couch. Even now she didn't use it; it had been a generous gift for Hollow-Point and after all, the old man she'd taken it from seemed to have an obsession with sex. She'd taken into consideration that he'd been a rapist. For that reason she was careful when passing his place.

A beep from the fax machine told her that info from the previous night's raids and battles was in. She yanked it from the paper tray and examined the information. "What a shitty world," she muttered. The blonde slid over to her chair and pulled the headphones over her ears. Her slender fingers played with the keys as she toned down the music.

"Hello hello, your listening to 711. You been waiting for news on last nights terrors? Maybe this'll spook you." Dusk cleared her throat and began to read off the list of names who were found dead only earlier this morning. "To add to those 24 tragedies, Saint's army lost eight good men as they fought for our rights. Bless their bloody corpses. Now lets return to the music, shall we?"

The blonde clicked off the microphone and slid off the headphones. Eight dead. She couldn't help but wonder how Saint and Angel were taking it. A angry scowl formed on her lips. Were the rumors true? They were a couple? Although Dusk didn't take much faith in the rumors around the Exiled Land, that rumor had caught her ear and had stuck. What did Angel have that she didn't?

A movement outside one of the windows caught her eye. Someone was heading for the building. She moved to peak through the blinds, heart pounding, adrenaline pumping. She was disappointed to see Hollow-Point, stumbling and looking as hung-over as ever. Dusk, irritated, marched over to the door and flung it open.

"I don't want your drunk ass in the station," she yelled, fists clenched. "Come back when you're sober." She slammed the door and locked it, not caring whether he'd come for her benefit or not. "Drunk bastard," she growled under her breath as she turned around to sit on the edge of the table and sift through important papers.

Joseph stared at the door with bloodshot eyes, the wood just inches away from his nose. Jesus she had a set of pipes on her. He chuckled, pinching the burnt out cig from his mouth and crushing it under the sole of his boots. He was used to having hang overs at least twice a week. He would shrug this one in no time at all, but Dusk never could take his drinking. He didn't blame her. In fact he always got thrown out like this. What was he expecting, a welcoming committee? The throb in his head exploded. It felt like crushed stone moving around his frontal lobe and pushing against his eyeballs. The headache was destroying him on the inside, but it didn’t show on the outside.

Joseph’s face could only express docile indifference or raging anger. There was nothing appealing in his expression; every part of it was set. Nothing unusual or beautiful could be found in his features. It was a face of an average Joe, a face that belonged to a thousand others. But then he opened his mouth and people stood aghast. His voice was deep, of a warmer timbre and a little on the rough side; it crooned sweet lullabies and snarled death threats. Armed with this voice he comanded over the radio waves. It was one of the things that helped him get to the position of leader. His face had a limited amount of expression to it, but his voice compensated for every emotion he couldn't show.

Music, the horrible and senseless kind vibrated from the reinforced walls. He hated Dusk’s taste in music. He had voiced his opinion to her many, many times, but she stubbornly refused to play anything else. He had been standing there for only four minutes and he could swear that the pain was even worse from the incessant noise. Groaning, he slid another cigarette between his lips. As he turned to leave, he stopped and called over his shoulder:

“If you can hear me in there, please do me a favor: if Saint and Angel come while I’m gone, restrain yourself and don’t act like a little bitch in heat. And turn off that horrible racket. You’ll self-lobotomize yourself with the noise.”

He jogged into a nearby alley before she could open the door and start screaming again, snickering like a mischievous boy and feeling a building need to vomit. He started heading towards downtown, sick, but still in a good mood.

Angel relaxed against Saint, resting her head against his shoulder. This was dangerous, the two of them together like this in such an open area. One good shot with an old fashioned sniper would do the trick, kill two birds with one stone. But when Saint held her hands... She felt safe. Her brain knew it was false, illogical sensation and those little bits of hot lead or deadly beams would pass through her just as easily, but she needed these moments to stay sane. Angel found it hard, not being able to even hold his hand in the presence of others, but in the bigger picture, she told herself it was for the best.

"I'm okay. I've had worse." She sighed. Saint seemed to be okay, using soft words spoken almost scoldingly. She'd let his health go for now, and interrogate him about it later. "Forge's back putting sedative in the burn cream. I took care of him, and I think I got all of it. I thought it might come in handy, for the guys who get pretty burnt up." She shook her head at the memory, squeezing Saint briefly. "That bastard deserves everything that comes to him."

Angel sighed again as Saint continued with the bad news. Another eight dead, and they're getting closer... He squeezed her hands.They had lost more in a single night, but last night hadn't been a massive fire-fight, and eight was a lot to loose. If cops were getting closer, they would have to up and move again. Not that their base was anything spectacular, but finding a place that suited their needs got more and more difficult as time moved on.

She looked up. Saint was... smiling? It stirred up the familiar fluttering sensation in her stomach, a small smile of her own slipping onto her face.
"Dusk and Hollow-Point will have to stay indoors tonight. Sober. God help Dusk."
Angel smiled, almost laughing. "For goodness sake, don't tell them until we need to. We can't have them killing each other before midnight."
There was a roar of an engine somewhere relatively close by. Angel didn't need to think, pressing the gun in her hand into Saint's, and pulling her revolver from her bag, twisting around and standing back-to back with Saint. Her was was pounding, waiting for something, or someone to appear.
"Retreat on your signal," She breathed quietly, holding her gun steadily.

"Good thinking," he mused, frowning slightly at the thought of that creep trying to take advantage of Angel. He could not deny that the wastelands were filled with scumbags that fit Society propaganda pretty well, mostly those that were born in their precious utopia and thrown out for their crimes to prey upon those who had no authority to run to for protection. Except for him or Angel, of course.

"Women or girls shouldn't go to him alone. Or young boys for that matter. I'm not sure if he'd..."

At once, Saint was alert, soft words forgotten as he gripped the gun she handed to him, his eyes scanning from front, to left, to behind him, and to his right. It didn't sound like a Society vehicle. Much too loud to be a vehicle used by the police. Were they on hover cars now? That was the rumor, but then, rumors had a history of being unreliable at the best of times. He made a mental note to attempt to infiltrate the city to learn more about what the police were up to.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a few rodents running for cover, so he headed in the direction they were running away from. It didn't take him too long to see a man on a beat-up motorcycle riding into their part of town. The man riding it looked like a typical Unclean: tough, scarred, muscular, and armed. Either he was a wanderer, a spy, or a mercenary. Whatever it was, they'd have to find out.

"Hide and train a gun on him," he whispered to Angel before walking into view calmly, firing a warning shot in the air to show that he wanted to talk. It was an unspoken trust that Angel would protect him should the man turn hostile or take them by surprise.

"Friend or Foe?" he asked

The hunk of junk was a piece of shit, but at least the radio worked. It was the reason he was heading to this part of town, the signal was getting stronger and stronger the closer he got. Music jammed out of the radio station, the only one that was still on the air; 711 Rebel Radio. He’d been listening to this radio station since he started the bike eight months ago and so far his favorite time to listen to it was in the morning, Dusk had a superb selection of music.

Coming around a corner of a ten story building, where he had to turn left because trash and scrap metal and what looked like a burnt-out bus were all taking up the middle of the intersection. Wind ripping over his rusted goggles, the glass that was protecting his eyes barely clean at this point and his long black mohawk flailing behind him he heard the warning shot.

*CRACK*

Right hand tightening on the break handle, and the back tire squealing as he slid over the garbage covered street to a stop and looked at the man standing before him. Daken quickly sized him up and knew immediately that he didn’t have anything to worry about from this man, however the way he stood and spoke he knew that the man wasn’t alone. Kicking the kick-stand out and leaning the loud running bike onto it before shutting it off, the music that had been blaring out of the one good speaker dying instantly. Swinging his right leg over the back wheel of the bike and stepping next to it before he lifted the goggles from in front of his eyes.

“Friend or Foe?” came the question from the man standing before him, but Daken’s eyes weren’t on him at that moment, they were busy scanning the buildings on either side of them.

Closing his eyes as he resigned himself to the fact that he couldn’t see anyone in the windows, he looked directly at the man who stood about fifteen feet in front of him. Raising his hands a little to show that they were empty he gave a half crooked smile and finally spoke aloud, his voice harsh and rugged, “Neither at the moment. How about you holster that metal slinger and we can talk business.”

Angel felt Saint tense up as they checked their surroundings, momentarily aroused. She shook her head, dragging her mind out of the bedroom to focus on ensuring they both managed to walk away from whoever--whatever that noise was. She nodded as Saint gave her the simple instruction, swinging herself up onto the window frame.
"I've got your back," She mouthed, flashing Saint a small smile before dropping down into the empty house beneath her. She kept low, gripping her revolver as she began to pick out a good advantage point. Most of the windows had long lost their glass, and so they would not pose any problems if she needed to shoot quickly.

Angel chose the third window, here she had a clear view of her partner and was just out of the big, tough, mildly scary man's eye line. She the barrel of the gun on the very edge of the sill, keeping herself at a slight distance. She could pick out the familiar noise of 711 just before the newcomer killed the engine. That really didn't help identify him as a friend or enemy. Saint called out to him, but he seemed to ignore him, instead scanning the buildings each side of him. Angel silently dipped down under the window, resuming her position once he was facing Saint again.

Angel trained her gun on the man's nearest shoulder. Few people had these kind of guns nowadays; lasers were easer to get a hold of and she knew from experience that they did a lot more damage to a person with a single shot. She had stumbled on this little advantage when she'd first used a bullet-firing gun; these guys caused a hell of a lot more pain when fired into a joint. Like the shoulder, or the knees, for instance. The first bullet would go in the biker's shoulder, the second in his chest if he dared make a foul move.
He raised his hands, finally replying to Saint. She frowned from her hiding spot. 'Metal-slinger?' That was a term she hadn't heard to describe a laser weapon, much less hers. She adjusted her weight, feeling the beginnings of a dull ache under the bandages. A piece of glass that had escaped her attention crunched underfoot. She swore for making such another stupid mistake, flattening herself against the floor. Had she given away her position? The man seemed unarmed, and maybe the sound had been intensified by Angel's own jumpiness.

Shadow relaxed by himself in front of his makeshift shack, listening to the 711 Rebel Radio. His old fashioned Desert Eagle laid across his lap and his machete was slung across his back. His back was to some large buildings, the sun glaring in his face. He drew his hoodie around him as a cold breeze picked up. He reclined in an old chair he had scavenged from a trash avalanche he had found nearby. His favorite song came on the radio, so he turned it up. He smiled and closed his eyes, humming along to the song. A loud crackling sound accompanied by a smoky smell alerted Shadow to his old radio catching fire. "oh, shit... Not again..." he stood quickly and rushed into his small shack he had made from scavenged materials, such as metal sheets and wood.

When he came inside, he lit the lantern in the corner, illuminating the room. He took in his surroundings that he already knew so well... He had a small workbench against the wall directy opposite of the door. An unfinished sniper rifle laud across the bench, tools and pieces of te gun were scattered across the bench. A bookshelf was next to the bench and a longe chair next to that. The shelf was full of books he had found on his scavenging trips. There was a door leading to the rightthat lead to his bedroom/kitchen. The left lead to his makeshift garage, inside of which housed his motorcycle, built for speed and maneuverability.

His kitchen was fairly small, a gas stove and fridge were lined up against the wall. His fridge was plugged into a solar powed generator that was sitting outside at the moment. A table was in the middle if the room and a counter was next to the stove. A sink with a hole in the roof above it was filled with water from the rain. He ran to the kitchen and grabbed a rag and dunked it in the water, running back outside. He beat at the flames with the rag, putting them out. The fire slightly melted the radio, but it was otherwise okay. His favorite song was still on, and the burnt speakers sounded kinda cool, so he sat back down on his chair out front and squeezed the rag into a cup that was resting by his chair. He looked at the water... It was a little dirty, but it's the Best you could ask for in the wastes...

"Alright," Saint commented. He could not help but smile slightly as he placed the gun at his side. The traveler seemed reasonable, though whether that was because he guessed he was in someone's sights or not was anyone's guess. He followed the stranger's eyes and was pleased to see that there was no sign of recognition upon falling upon him or any indication that he had found Angel. He was careful not to look in her direction incase the stranger was following his eyes. Instead, he stared straight at him.

"What brings you to this part of the wastelands? Are you just passing through or has Rebel Radio made you curious?" he asked with a raised eyebrow. He heard a glass crack, but he hoped the stranger didn't hear. He'd have to talk to Angel about being silent. He smiled slightly at the implications, but pushed such thoughts away. Now was no time for them.

"Your motorcycle looks like it could use some newer parts. There are a few scavengers that might have some to sell you," he suggested with a shrug, "My name is Saint. And yours would be?"

He resisted the instinct to grip his laser pistols. He did not want to aggravate the man while he still might be peaceful. Besides, if he mad a move, he knew that Angel would be able to take him out.

A gust of wind silenced the world for a brief second, though the structures around himself and the man in front of him caused the gust to only hit Daken. The sound of the braking glass fell upon def ears.

“Alright,” came the man’s replay to Daken’s request, “What brings you to this part of the wastelands? Are you just passing through or has Rebel Radio made you curious? Your motorcycle looks like it could use some newer parts. There are a few scavengers that might have some to sell you,” the man shrugged before continuing, “My name is Saint. And yours would be?”

The name instantly peaked his curiosity and he almost raised his right eyebrow to show that it had but he controlled the urge and gave a soft laugh, lowering his hands to his sides but not moving them anywhere else.

“The name is Daken. So your Saint, the man that is always being talked about on Rebel Radio. I figured you’d be taller and maybe a bit more muscular,” he grinned at the jab he tossed Saint’s way, “I was just passing through, following the signal strength of Rebel Radio, been wanting to meet the one named Dusk for sometime now,” he looked back at his bike and sigh aloud, “Ya it could but it runs and the radio works.”

As he spoke, Daken felt a sharp pain at the base of his skull, where his spine and skull met and then everything became fuzzy. He could have sworn he hadn’t had anything to drink today but his world looked like he’d been on a drinking binge for the last week. Staggering and reaching out for a nearby cluster of rubble to stop his fall, missing and landing hard on his left shoulder and letting out a cry from the sudden pain. Looking at Saint and then his world went black.

A flash of clean, white light and he stood up in an empty room, wearing only a pair of white boxer shorts. Looking around, he noticed the tattoo that he’d gotten a year before was gone and the scars he’d gotten were gone too. The room was only filled with a single bed, with a flat mattress and that was it. No door, no hanging light but the room was lit. Where the hell was he?

Angel rolled against the wall, a cool breeze sending goosebumps across her bare arms. She adjusted her grip on her weapon, waiting for something to confirm if she had been detected or not. It wouldn't matter if he had originally come with peaceful intentions; experience told her that people generally turned hostile when they discovered a hidden shooter.
Saint was still talking, trying to determine who this man was, and why he was here. Not hearing any shots or footsteps in her direction, Angel cautiously inched herself along the floor.

The man laughed, lowering his hands. Angel heaved a mental sigh of relief. He didn't hear her. She resumed her position at the last window, brushing a few shards away from her arm, leaving behind a few deserved scratches for earlier. She was almost behind the biker now, her view of her partner partially obstructed. Saint had the idea of introducing himself, which meant the man was going to do one of few things. She supposed the ribbing wasn't expected, but she felt surprised to find herself being a little bit insulted. There was nothing wrong with Saint's height or build; he was just right for the position in her mind. He also wanted mentioned a want to meet Dusk. Angel had never really seen eye to eye with the radio presenter; there had always been a glint in her eye, or a covert comment. She'd even given credit to Saint for several mission's that Angel herself had masterminded and carried out. Those that noticed guessed that it was because that Angel had always had Saint to fall back on. Not many people had that luxury.

The biker started swaying and staggering like Hollow-Point after a long night's session, keeling over onto his side with a crunch and a sort of shout. Angel was startled. This hadn't happened before. She climbed out the window, gun still trained at the fallen man. She looked over at Saint. Your turn to cover me.
Approaching him cautiously, Angel was surprised to find that he was smaller closer up. They were about the same height, but with that physique, he would be able to pick her up and throw her pretty easily, never mind disarming her. She straddled his back, checking his pulse and breathing rate and giving his shoulder a quick check. She ran her hands up and down his back, finding a quiet impressive body underneath, lowering herself enough to blow a steady stream of cool air into his ear.
Angel sat up again, looking at Saint with a faint smile on her lips. A little teasing would do no harm. "He's still breathing, his pulse is up and I think he's hurt his shoulder. Over all though, he seems to be quite..." She paused, trying to think of the right word. "Well-built. What do you think we should do with him?"

Shadow had always wondered where the 711 broadcasted from... And the signal had always been strong, so he thought he must be close. He thought about it some more, then decided he would soon search for this radio tower. It's not like he had anything else to do... His song ended and Dusk's beautiful voice which he'd always fantasied about meeting the owner of came on and said.

"Hello hello, your listening to 711. You been waiting for news on last nights terrors? Maybe this'll spook you." Dusk cleared her throat and began to read off the list of names who were found dead only earlier this morning. "To add to those 24 tragedies, Saint's army lost eight good men as they fought for our rights. Bless their bloody corpses. Now lets return to the music, shall we?"

Shadow whistled in amazement. Eight men down? It was getting worse. He also silently scolded himself for thinking the things he thought about Dusk. She was probably older than him and he was only 14, probably the youngest guy out here. He didn't particularly like the next song put on, so he walked back inside to work on his Sniper Rifle. He sat on a rickety chair and examined the Rifle. He had pieced it together from parts he scavenged. He had every piece in the right place except for the bolt assembly and stock, so it still needed some work. Most of its exterior he had fashioned himself. The scope could magnify so accurately as to be able to knock the cigarette out of a man's mouth from a mile away. It was a fancy police scope he had found on a corpse after an officer got outnumbered. It was odd that the murderers didn't get to it first. He holstered his Desert Eagle and checked a pouch attached to his belt. He had at least 80 .50AE rounds for his weapon. He also made sure his machete was secured.

He made a mental note of the parts he had to get and strode to his garage, his motorcycle just waiting to be ridden. It was a crotch-rocket of sorts, built for crazy speeds. He mounted the bike and pit on his black helmet, the radio and cycle coming to life as he turned the ignition. He brought the kickstand up and slowly pulled out of his crappy garage. He made a sharp left and drove around the back of his house. Before him was a large city, once a great part of America. He knew of a trash avalanche with all sorts of goodies in it about 3 miles away. He had a clear expanse of road directly to it; No turns, obstructions, nothing. Just 3 miles of open road. Shadow thought for a second, and decided to take his helmet off, and let it fall to the ground. He relished the feeling of the wind in his hair and the intense speeds. He pressed the accelerator down and put the pedal to the metal. He sped off along the road, a loud whirring emitting from the engine as he sped along at 120 MPH towards the trash heap. He knew it probably wasn't the best idea to have himself exposed and so loud in an open area, but he didn't care. Little pleasures like this were what kept him going. And besides, who could hit a 120MPH target in this situation?

He also remembered of a crumbling ruin of an old tower. The last time he had been there, it was creaking and groaning menacingly. It probably could have fallen if a fly had landed on it... He was surprised it hasn't fallen yet.

Little did he know that the 711 Radio station and the small village that accompanied the station lay behind this crumbling tower.

"Hm. The way Dusk and Hollow-Point describe me, I'd be 8 feet tall and shoot lasers out of my eyes. And be nice and sparkly like the superheros from those old comic books," Saint snorted in amusement. Both of the radio commentators, especially Hollow-Point, exaggerated his accomplishments, partly for morale, though he was glad that at least Dusk was more balanced and reported the casualties consistently. She did seem to have a bout of hero-worship, however. That troubled him slightly. He didn't see himself as a hero. Just a leader of rag-tag group of freedom-fighters. He didn't want to be seen as infallible. That's why he made Angel his lieutenant. He needed someone with the smarts and courage to point out potential mistakes in his plans and, subsequently, safeguard the men (or women, as the case may be).

He was surprised, however, to see the man begin to stagger before, at last, falling unconscious. He frowned, checking his arms for needle holes, but found none, so it couldn't be from drugs. Recreational drugs, anyway. He nodded at the look Angel gave him and allowed her to examine him. He felt a shiver of jealousy as she felt around his obviously well-built body, but he suppressed it. There were more important matters at hand than silly feelings of possessiveness. What had caused him to lose consciousness. He didn't seem drunk. He drove his bike too well and spoke too coherently. He didn't inject anything in himself and he didn't seem to have taken cocaine or smoked crack. Perhaps he had a medical condition? An instant bout of sympathy shuddered through him. He knew what it was like to be subject to a disease with little hope for treatment out in the wastelands. If it wasn't for Angel and her uncle, he would be dead by now. He smiled slightly. That was why he called her his Angel.

At her question, he smirked over at her, "Hmm... Well, if he's so well-built, you can always use a new pillow. You drool when you sleep. Gets all over me."

He sighed, "I suppose we should take him over to Forge. At lease he doesn't molest grown men. At least, I don't think he does. You can never tell with him..."

He gently picked him up, supporting him on his shoulder and gesturing Angel to the do the same before heading back to the little village that hid behind the decrepit tower, guarding the only radio station that wasn't sponsored by the Society. He made a note to post a guard near him while he rested, incase he turned hostile or someone in the little settlement knew and held a grudge against him. It was rare, but it had been known to happen. It was a small world and Unclean tended to hold grudges, mostly because little wrongs could result in life or death situations.

There was a clatter outside. Whether is was because of Hollow-Point, Dusk wasn't sure, but she was going to take care of it. As she stalked towards the door she pulled out a dagger from the sheath that was strapped to her tattooed thigh. She peaked out the corner of the blinded windows. Three guys were kicking over the trashcans that belonged to the station. The snotty, satisfied smirks on their grimy lips pissed her off even more than anything. From what she could see, they had also vandalized the back wall of the building that connected to the station. Her cheeks flushed in embarrassment at the word. 'What the hell,' she thought, and opened the door abruptly, causing it to slam against the inner wall.The three guys looked up from their fun, faces blank momentarily before their grins returned. She marched towards them, face hot and irritation flaring.

"Hey hey," one said with a laugh. "Look at this babe!"

"That's Dusk," another piped up. He smoothed back his hair - his buddies laughed in response. "Long time no see, honey."

The blonde halted a few feet away. It was clear that her battle ground would be this back road, one that was rarely used by the folks of the city. "Do you jack-asses have something to say for yourselves?" she asked, deep chocolate eyes staring daggers at the three. "Or are you going to be douche bags and run off like pansies?"

The third, who had yet to spoke, cackled in laughter. "I like this chick. Let's take her home."

"I want to see every inch of that tattooed body," the first one added - again, more laughter.

They were moving towards her now, cheshire grins reaching ear to ear. But they didn't understand what they were up against. They expected her to cry and scream, maybe even kick a little. A small smirk upturned the corners of her lips. "I warned you," she said and lunged. Dusk wasn't one to kill, but being ruthless was something everyone had to be. She kicked the first in the nose; the snap satisfied her deeply. The second came around the side and was caught in the side by the sharpened blade of her dagger. The third proved to be more difficult. He had some sort of martial arts training and was proving to be a problem. With nowhere else to turn, Dusk tossed up her dagger, caught it so the blade was facing towards him, and stabbed him in the shoulder. He let out an agonized yell and stumbled away, grabbing at his wound. Bruised and beaten, the three boys hurried off in a fit of yells and cries.

"Don't fuck around with me," she spat after them, then wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. The blonde felt sore and her arms hurt from being hit and scraped. A light coat of sweat caused a shine over her lightly bronzed skin. Dusk sheathed her dagger and, heaving in a breath, eyed the sky with a frown.

If you turn right from the big main street and through a dilapidated portico, head up the four flights of winding and crumbling concrete steps squashed between tall dusty buildings, you will get to destroyed yard of The Dry Dock. It was a tall lodging made out of orange brick, but the walls were dirtied by smoke and smog and the brilliant color had faded into a sick brown. A creaking wrought iron sign hung over the wide doors. No one knew what the sign said or if it said anything for that manner, but the owner kept it because he felt it gave a rustic charm. There were thirty windows in all, all of them covered by heavy curtains full of dust.

Inside the air was thick and musty; it seemed that no matter how big the room was the air would never dilute and the patrons would always feel it pressing on their heads, their mouths and their lungs. The Dry Dock was a filthy place, a place where every Exiled went when he (or she) felt bored, agitated or just looking for plain old entertainment. You could get clean hookers dirt cheap here; you walked in thinking of just buying a beer or two, but then you looked up and they would be lined up on the balcony, leaning lewdly on the wooden banister and you ended up staying a little longer than you earlier predicted. The place was always crowded and you could hardly hear anyone speak over the radio blasting on the 711 station.

Joseph hated the whole place out of a derivative nature, and yet he still kept coming back, asking for more. Now he rested his head on his folded arms on the counter of the bar, too sick and weak to think. He managed to vomit three times before reaching the place and even though he gushed out a gallon of liquid, a concoction of bourbon, rum, whiskey and a small speckling of food, he felt ready to puke another mouthful.

Jeanie, the barmaid, stomped her way towards him holding an empty pail. She was an ample breasted and motherly figure of The Dry Dock; with a wavy fall of auburn hair and big warm eyes placed too close together in her round ruddy face she could cheer up any downbeat customer in a bat of an eyelid. She didn't want the boy throwing up on her floor and she didn't have the strength or time to throw him out. He was a regular; regulars and the bar workers always had some kind of pact going on between them.

“You’ve been drinking again, lovely,” she said as she placed the pail next to Joseph’s left elbow.

He groaned something into his hands. She frowned, but went off smiling to the other customers sitting in the lounge a few feet away. Joseph murmured once more and then he was silently snoring away.

In this City, it was hard to find anything to enjoy, and so Angel got her kicks were she could. Having a hundred and seventy, maybe one eighty pounds of pure muscle between her legs was all well and good, but it didn't compare to that flash of jealousy in Saint's eyes. Her lips twitched into a smug smile. It was childish, the man below her, for all she knew, could be dying.

"You don't complain if I use my drool in other capacities that benefit you," Angel sniffed, "And besides, you snore. You can keep me awake-" She stopped in her tracks, realizing what she'd said with a dirty smile. She reluctantly removed herself from the biker, placing her weapon in the waistband of her pants.

"Forge?" Angel shifted uncomfortably, following Saint's suit and grabbing Daken's arm to take some of his weight. "I kicked him, shot him, stole some of his most expensive gear and broke the bottle of wine that I was going to pay him with. He's not going to be in a very good state."
She shook her head, pulling the man's arm a little more securely around her. He was pleasantly warm. "I reckon things would be easier if I kept watch."

"Hmm, you do have a point. You have benefited me with that drool," Saint told her with a smirk, returning her teasing. He raised an eyebrow, "You're showing quite an amount of insubordination, Lieutenant. I believe disciplinary action is in order when we return to camp."

Normally, he didn't engage in the dirty talk his men were fond of, but with Angel, it was different. His eyes sparkled as he took in her figure and he was about to say more when he caught her expression. Quickly, his lust turned to anger at Forge and he made a mental note to punish the man severely.

"Perhaps one of our more trustworthy doctors would do. Maybe Sarah? She mostly treats bullet wounds, but she's an attentive nurse," he offered her, "I suppose Forge is too incapacitated to do the same, even when he's perfectly healthy."

Quietly, he moved to grip her hand. His meaning was clear. He would do anything to keep her safe. No matter what.

Shadow flew across the tarmac, kicking up dust as he flew along the road. Sadly, he could see the junk pile getting closer, so he gently applied the brakes. A very loud metallic clang emitted from his bike, a large chunk of probably important metal falling away from his bike. His eyes widened and he pressed down the brakes once more. The brakes gave no resistance and had no effect. Shadow panicked. His brakes had failed.

He was flying along at well over 125 MPH and the trash heap was getting closer and closer. The crumbling tower was also leaning very precariously, destined to fall at any second. Shadow shouted at the top of his lungs "SHIIIIIIIIIT!!!!" as he flew across the road, nothing able to stop him. He tried to stick his feet down on the road to stop him, but the speed was too great and almost dislocated his leg.

Shadow yelped from the pain, and his attempt to brake gently tipped the bike, but at this speed it slowly sent him into deadly speed wobbles. Shadow was fearing for his life. He heard a loud crunch of metal and the tower began to fall,. It was timed so precisely that shadow knew it would crush him if he didn't do something. Just his luck. His brakes were broken, so he could only think of one other thing to do. Accelerate.

He revved the engine and drove EXTREMELY FAST, topping out at 150 MPH. The tower kept falling. Shadow directed his bike at a large sheet of metal laid across a trash heap, making a sort of ramp. He knew hitting this ramp would result in a VERY hard landing, but what else could he do? He directed his bike towards the ramp, the tower only 50 feet away from crushing him. He shouted in fear and hit the ramp, launching directly into the air.

The world went in slow motion, he could see everything.The tower had fallen and crushed the trash heap in front of the ramp. He was eye to eye with the side of the tower. Gravity played its role and collapsed the tower inwards, allowing just enough space for shadow to pass over. The collapse sent a booming sound and dust, heard for a mile around.

Shadow was ecstatic that he had leaped the tower, but his celebration was short lived. He was at least 50 feet above the ground, and things weren't in slow motion anymore. He swallowed his fear and clenched his eyes shut, bracing for impact, saying a silent prayer inside his head. His bike hit the ground, the tires popping and the wheels crushing and twisting, the shocks taking most of the impact, but not all of it. The remaining forced smashed shadows torso against the handle bars so forcefully, he vomited his dinner instantly. He could feel his right hand break from the impact but he was so full of adrenaline, it didn't hurt. The bike had lost most its speed on impact, and the tires were crushed, so it tipped and flew out from underneath Shadow. His left shoulder hit the ground at 30 MPH, and he he tumbled and skid across the asphalt for about thirty seconds, during which Shadow's world was spinning. His first instinct was to curl up in a ball and protect his head, which he did. He tumbled and rolled, gaining no less than 30 scrapes and cuts across his body. His hoodie tore at the sleeve as his arm got caught in a pothole, breaking his right forearm as well. He gradually skid to a stop, his mangled bike skidding to a halt next to him.

Shadow opened his eyes wide, fear and pain coursing through his head. His arm felt like it was on fire, and he suppressed a scream. He was in a dangerous situation, being out in the open, injured like this. He had to get to safety. He fought against himself as his entire body screamed at him to not move, but he did anyway. His right arm was limp and disfigured, bent unnaturally. His face, body, and damn near everything else was covered in scrapes, cuts, and scratches. The front of his hoodie was decorated with his half digested dinner, mixed with some blood... His stomach was on fire... He was absolutely AMAZED that he was alive. He slowly got to his feet, his left leg almost giving out from under him. He fought back tears as his right arm burned and his body ached. He limped as fast as he could away from the building. He chocked on the dust it kicked up from the collapse. He looked around through blurry, fuzzy eyes and saw a radio station. He had found 711 Rebel Radio. He was thankful for these miracles and limped quickly towards the tower, drawing his Desert Eagle and holding it awkwardly in his left hand; His off hand. His right arm was curled up against his body, bent and mangled. His hood was torn and so was his sleeve. His face was bloodied and so was the rest of his body. He probably looked like a damned zombie. He grinned at the thought of his looks then winced in pain; Everything hurt. His head swam and his eyesight was failing, blurry and distorted, yet he continued to limp towards the radio tower.

"Sure, if you think Sarah'll be okay with it, and if you're alright hauling him that bit further," Angel's gut twisted in a moment of guilt. She'd seen girls younger and physically weaker that her take more serious, actual assaults and after a drink, continue on like nothing happened. Getting beaten almost senseless with a metal pipe, she could take. Getting shot, she could handle too. But this tiny incident shook her to her core. 

Saint's hand brought her back from her thoughts. She didn't need to look at him to know what his face was like at the moment. Worry, concern, a flicker of murderous intent in his eyes. The sensation felt odd, bubbling up from somewhere deep inside her. Something told her that this was not a normal reaction, but it felt good. "You're going soft, Saint." She laughed, meeting Saint's eyes, "And you're dragging me down with you. Maybe I'm not the only one needing discipline, sir."
A large groan came from nearby, too loud to be the biker. A second groan drew Angel's attention to the tower in the not-so far distance. She took a step backwards, watching the pile of concrete, steel and glass come crashing to the ground. Was there anyone down there? What had finally made the building collapse? The sound was enough to make Angel's ears ring. She released a breath she hadn't noticed she'd been holding, looking over at Saint. She was still gripping his hand. "You okay?" She shouted.

Shadow gasped and coughed on the dust he had inhaled. He tried to shout for help, but his windpipe was so agitated that he could only let out checked sobs and hacking coughs. He limped frantically up a small hill, upon which rested the Radio tower. His vision cleared for brief second allowing him to take in the sight of two figures supporting a large muscular man. The three were about 20 feet away. Shadow coughed and almost fell to his knees, but he kept dragging his broken and beaten body behind him. His foot caught on a rock, sending him face first into the ground. He landed on his right arm and his Desert Eagle broke from his grasp. The intense pain from the impact knocked Shadow unconscious, his body going limp before the three.