Final Agony

STAGE 1: The Road Thereto

The dust of the desert dispersed through the air, and the weather had unsavorably been tainted. Across the mediterranean coasts, the world watch silently as humans have long been scraped, scraped again. Hundreds of civilizations now decreased to tens, the rarest number. A nuclear assault had occurred within the lands of America, and millions of lives that were craving to still hold now stained their skin onto the road they laid themselves to. A charred gaze of brown-husked skies flocked about the atmospheric despair, and there was little to no people as it had already been empty. The slouches of sand now accompanied by the irradiation of items stripped off from color, the taste of dirty iron coated the air and many would die first before long the taste succumbs. The amount of radiation levels are not as worst however, as people can still breathe freely on most routes and places. Some were marked as taboo to keep them out from dangers, now paintings have overruled the city like its an art canvas of taboo marks.

A man wearing what looks to be a mixture of tattered clothing walked across the deserted highway, he put his hands one way into the curvature of his weapon. A shortened grip shotgun known as the Grazon 77, 12 gauge and pump action. He thrusts his movement to a nearby formed village of the Industrials. Known as Mudflock, the sign entrudes its name. The man entered the village and set down on a bar to rest. There was people, up to 40 of them as far as he can see. The tradesman gave him a glass of water, he drank. He put the glass down, clasped both of his hands and rubbed before blowing wind to its crevices. The tradesman looked to him, studying what he's doing. The man looked to the tradesman, an eye for an eye sight appeared to bond. As the tradesman studied more, his hair were long and untidied. The man's skin appeared to be a mixture of both orange and white, and a blood mark with scraped skin letters of H, T and F was written on top of his forehead.

Their silence was soon disturbed, a large bang was heard outside the bar and the savages outside ran like dogs of scared faces. The man watches the tradesman hid behind the counter as the man prepared for the arrival of who might be an attacker of Mudflock. He pulled his shotgun up, turning off the safety before he aimed towards the door. His gaze unsevered but the man's skin began to giggle and shiver uncontrollably. His fear runned down to the wooden room of the bar and his grip on the shotgun lightens longingly. He kept gazing to the door, his sweat trickled from his forehead and to the blood mark as it have not washed it. The shot rang and hit the nearby counter up his right rear, the man shoots the shotgun and broke the door in front of him. He lunges forward to cover, hiding nearby the trampled tables and loaded a shell. He looked over outside, taking a peek of the attacker before going back. He then pumped the shotgun. The attacker appeared, walking into the bar with his brown boots and flickering black duster. He looked over to the left and then to the right, he shot the grouped up tables and dumped every single bullet within his weapon.

The foul air creeped in and the attacker sat on the countertop, shooting the hiding tradesman before sipping a beer. Behind the table, the man breathed in and gathered his cherished courage. He stood from the table and shot the attacker right on the chest in point blank range. The attacker drops from the counter and hit the floor behind the counter, he coughed in his own blood and the man simply dies. The man puts down his weapon, looking over to the attacker and seen his dead corpse littered alongside the tradesman's. He pulled his head back and walked outside. He revered himself and tracked his steps from the highway and to the Mudflock, finally leaving the settlement broken from the near-death attack.

A group of roamers passed the days gone by, the cities that once thrived peacefully now reduced to only orange ash that joins the mist. There were 7 of them and all which they came by from the Cordillera Perimeter and they twiced their hours of turf to make way for themselves outside of Acadia. They are driven to escape this broken city and settled somewhere more hospitable, they pitted their horses and walked across. They examined each parts of the broken city, the flies were mutated to have grown twice the size. Almost as if it has been the same height of a human kid. The roamers watched and continued walking down the past rims of the world. The roamers catch glimpse upon a large dead tree, there were no leaves and the barks were already burnt by the concurred nuclear explosion. Everything was black and the roots may have dissolved under the dirt. Once they see another man, he was standing by the dead tree reminiscing to the roamers. His face unseen and the man's long hair was the signature decadence for them to see upon. Once they blink, the man was nowhere to be seen. The outstretched caldera watches and waited for the roamers and they continued walking.

-They reeled their horses down on an abandoned market, locked tightly under a rusty padlock. One of them grabbed a set of pliers and broke the lock open, pulling the steel door and opened them to a refreshened and supplied market. The atmosphere was dry but their sight was wavering towards the amount of food the market has, they start foraging each of it and take what they needed best. They carried these large backpacks mixed with other bags, as they had able to store items much of their lives as they explored the wastes. The grit taste of the food, yet savory, eaten under their jaws and their face glimmered in happiness. The others packed the rest of the food into the bags and carried it outside the market. One of them board each bag onto their horses, and they hiked up to the saddle again, continuing their expedition.

-The dead weeds jagged about the silent desert, the roamers sat down as they rest nearby the starlight roof of once an apartment of people. A campfire settled in the center of their shelter as they drank around it. There were no beers or alcohols left to consume and otherwise, they would just drank water. It is what they have now for a celebratory night. It marks their place within this lone world and across the dry wash, the people who have made this far for their purposes. One of them furrowed their fingers on one of the bags and give them each of their food, they cook it on the pot and made themselves a soup. They ate as they watched over the skies, there were few stars tonight and the moon was now at crescent dusk with its orange color ran across the black skies that gleams in enlightening hope. They talked to one another and enjoyed their lives while it lasted, their horses now falls to asleep and they so too. Deploying their mats and grabbing up their pillows, they sat and lay their backs before closing their eyes.

Orchard sat in all his glory, always watching and always hearing. He was present within the shelter, casually sitting on the edge of the roof with a broken chair and a rusty table. He lay his hands behind his back and his legs were stretched up to the table just to watch the roamers relaxing. He grinned and his faceless shadow still crumpled to his face. The man was left unscathed after what has happened previously, and yet here he is, still standing. Orchard is but a preserved dinosaur of many names, and his jaw was now a ripped hull of deadly maw. He pulled up his card, and then he pulled out 3 rocks and putting it on the table. He looked at the roamers again and laid himself relaxed, he kept grinning. "In 3 of 2 and 1, boys..." He whispered through their ears before giggling, he then stood and walked over to the campfire. He spat on it as it sizzles, putting the card and the rock stationed nearby the boiling pot. He walked again to the edge of the rooftop, and gazed to the city. He looked to the skies and then looked back again, the man felt his presence still within the city. He jumped from the roof and landed on the nearby crossroads, walking casually as his nemesis laid resting.

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