Phoenix stood alone upon the ruins of what civilisation had grown to call the Back Road.

He was having a moral conundrum of sorts. You see, someone once asked him, if a man-eating tree tripped over in a forest and nobody saw it, did it truly happen? This sounded philosophical enough, but Phoenix couldn't help but think that of course it happened, and all the tree's friends probably pointed and laughed. "Have a nice trip," they would say. "See you next fall."

Now, though, Phoenix was wondering: If somebody were to sucker punch a wounded, drunken man, but nobody was there to see it, did it truly happen? Great heroes were never supposed to kick a man while he was down, no matter how much of a bastard he was. It would be unethical. Damn near immoral. At least bloody rude. But, standing on the broken asphalt as little wisps of dust rolled past his boots, Phoenix couldn't help but grin and look at the blood on his knuckles.

Fuck it, he was retired.

The distant figure of Terrance Leeland was fading to brown in the murky horizon to the north. His ragged silhouette limped and staggered all down the way, leaving a little trail of breadcrumbs ... made of blood. He had sworn revenge. He had sworn he would return. He had sworn an awful lot. Well, at least he had learned some manners before he left. Right to the face.

Smack's adventurer felt proud in his full adventuring gear, a man finally back in his own skin (not that he was ever in someone else's skin, which should be clarified. There are plenty in the Waste who have found human skin makes a nice coat, especially when it's fresh). He tapped out a gentle rhythm on his thick, plated body armour and began strolling in the opposite direction to Terrance. His long, brown trench coat billowed out behind him like a muddy waterfall of fabric, a large Waste Beast tooth knife (acquired very recently) dangling by rifle magazines, grenades and myriad pouches at his belt.

He shrugged his shoulder to push the strap of a large automatic rifle into a more comfortable position, preparing himself for a long march into nowhere. The weapon was heavily customised, even compared to other Waste weaponry (that was often measured not on weight or balance, but use of duct tape and spikes). It had enough slots for two or three magazines, an additional grip at the front, a bloody great scope on the top, a slot for a bayonet (which Phoenix had lost), a laser sight that never worked, and plenty more that Phoenix had forgotten the use of.

Phoenix considered himself Smack-dab's resident badass. He understood that Bert and The Woman were close, but she really had to admit that The Woman's adventuring gear was not up to modern standards (or, considering her demise, not up to historic standards, either). She didn't have bandit-tackling shoulder plates like Phoenix, or punchy punchy metal knuckles, or steel-capped boots. Hell, she didn't even have theoretically bulletproof armour, which was armour that you were told is bulletproof, but you haven't had tested yet. All she had was a bone-handled peashooter and a grimace. Oh, and a statue.

Not that he'd tell Bert any of this, of course. Especially at the moment, as she appeared to be particularly shooty. And so, gently humming the Starry Place's Battle Tune - which had been stuck in his head since the attack - Phoenix pushed down his thoughts of superiority and went to go do Bert's dirty work.

So, Phoenix thought to himself, if I were a salad, where would I be?

He stopped walking and narrowed his eyes. Through dirty, well-worn goggles he saw the big ol' Waste, and rather dismayingly, not a whole lot else. The last salad Phoenix had caught was half way up a mountain, clinging to a rock on a sheer cliff and gnawing on the bones of some long-dead creature. A big long-dead creature. Boy had that turned into a shitshow. He'd wasted a tonne of ammo, a precious and very limited commodity, and then the little bastard had the gall to escape!

The nerve of some food, Phoenix grumbled quietly. Every salad that escaped meant he'd have to kill another rabbit thing, and he hated killing them. They were so cute, and innocent. And quick.

And that was how the bottle holding Phoenix's feelings shattered open.

On the note of salads, he harrumphed with pouting lips, why was there even salad on the menu? Who does Bert think she is? Oh yeah, let's just put a damn salad on the menu. That sounds fancy. That will draw the customers. That'll make the moneys. Nyer nyer nyah nyer nyer, I'm Bert, and I put salad on menus then ask other people to catch the sneaky little bastards. I don't think about work health and safety.

Yeah well, screw you, he yelled (silently, where Bert could never hear he was complaining). Screw you and your, your stupid ... ass.

The gentle sound of laughter met Phoenix's grubby ears, carried on the dulcet tones of a small, fierce bar fight. He heard the sharpness of a woman's voice rebuking someone, followed by a bigger, bassier thump. The laughter only increased, but the thumps and bumps ceased. Phoenix shook his head and started walking again.

That woman, his thoughts continued, pouring through his brain like green foam from an open wound. That ludicrous, red-faced, angry, stupid, blue-eyed goddess of a woman. That, that blasted, no-good, tight-assed, short-tempered, sexy bar owner of a, a bloody woman. That's what she damn well was. Yeah. A bloody woman.

And you know what the worst part is? his mind continued, a veritable flamethrower of emotion. You know, the worst part, really, is ... is ... Gah! He threw his arms up and kicked at the dirt, which hadn't done anything to him except make the mistake of being dirt that was kickable. Phoenix could barely get a good rant going. Every time the motor in his brain worked up to a good speed, he'd see a mirage of Bert's ass swaying across his eyes and the motor would stall and spit out smoke. It was like that story he was told by a trader, about an Old World bus that couldn't slow down without being blown up by bandits. Except the opposite. Curse that stupid, perfect, awful, down-right spectacularly bloody beautiful piece of human backside. It was a weapon of mass destruction, and the Overlords ought to be told so they could confiscate it.

He walked on, a little stompier than before. Behind him, a patch of dirt swore that it was done with big-Waste life, and would return to the humble Old World garden where its family was worried sick to death.

The wind was picking up around Phoenix, grabbing clumps of dust and throwing them into his face. It blew in unobstructed from the coast; an icy gust that bit through his body armour and coat, gnawing at his bones. He shivered and hunkered down into his coat, pulling it tighter across his chest and crossing his arms.

But the sudden wintery blast had doused the flames of his mind.

Bert had taken Phoenix in when nobody else would, then resisted his advances like nobody else could. Or at least, he had thought that nobody could. Oh lovely, terrifying Bert. She was a bitch, quite honestly - though he would never be so honest where she could hear. But she was the good kind of bitch. The kind of bitch that was at her bitchiest when she was protecting what she cared about. Like Meatsack, and even Phoenix. And that stupid bar.

He didn't really understand why Smack-dab was so important to Bert, but he had of course seen the statue out front and heard some of the stories. To Phoenix, home was wherever you collapsed, either wounded or exhausted or, typically, both. He'd never felt the same passion Bert had for Smacks. It represented history, or rather, History. She was willing to die for that place in the same way that someone would be willing to die for their loved ones, or to die for some promise they had made to a dead loved one. Or ... something about dying loved ones, anyway.

But then, death was all that would ever happen unless Bert made some more friends. She was too much of an isolationist, if you asked Phoenix. The Woman had been quite the relationship builder, and tried to act as a political entity in Can't Be Buried. But when she passed away (or rather, when bullets passed through her), Bert closed right up. Open for business only. No politics, no friends, and definitely no bandits.

Oh goodness, and Phoenix couldn't even get started on Bert's hatred for bandits. He'd never heard so many insults before.

A mischievous gust of wind drove dust through Phoenix's thought bubble with a comedic pop. A feint, sweet smell wafted through the air in front of him with beckoning arms, curling into his surprised nostrils with little smoky fingers. Phoenix recognised it instantly, and eagerly traced the smell back to a tiny little bush just off the road, momentarily distracted from being distracted. The adventurer grinned widely and pulled out his Waste Beast tooth knife.

This was one of the few remaining fruit bushes that hadn't decided to fight back. It was a bonkerberry bush, and when the sweet little red fruit was chewed, juiced or taken as a suppository, the user would be in for ... well, Phoenix would be using it this evening, that was for certain.

But as he was gently cutting berries from the bush...

"Ho there!" a surprise voice sung out. It cut through the quiet, shifting air like a vocal machete.

Phoenix almost fell over the bush, spinning with a fright. His weapon was in his hands even before his conscious thoughts had decided that would be a good idea, his body dropping low, ready to spring.

Two figures were approaching from the south, walking along the road. Phoenix hadn't noticed them in his dream state. Stupid! he roared at himself. Stupid, stupid! That's how you get killed out here.

With a tense hand he pulled the cocking mechanism back on his rifle, and an ominous kachunk echoed across the Waste. He peered through the scope to get a better look at the approaching bogies. The hazy air was getting all up in his line of sight, thick clumps of dust drifting in and out of view, but he could tell that one of the figures was a short fellow with neat hair and a patchwork, though very tidy, set of dungarees. Oddly enough, though, the short man had no discernible firearm or clobbering implement - just a small clipboard clutched in his skinny little fingers. But as odd as a clipboard might seem in the middle of a barren, clipboardless environment like the Waste, it didn't quite have the same oomph to Phoenix as the man's travelling companion.

Phoenix's face grew tight, alarmed, and the blood drained right out of it. The great sea of haze had parted enough for him to see a humanoid robot keeping pace with the short-arse. Its polished metal shell gleamed gently in the smoglight, a cyclopean red eye fixed in the middle of its boxy skull. Some type of massive, flashy Overlord cannony thing was mounted to its back, not like it probably needed a large-calibre weapon for most fleshy little human victims.

"Shit," whispered Phoenix. "Shit shit shit shit."

They had found him! His mind started panicking. Sweat broke out in a riot on his forehead, and the police of his sleeve only made the crowd angrier. He had travelled into the ass of the Waste just to escape the Overlord's creepy claw-hands of wrath. There were no major population centres here, there shouldn't be any Overlord activity. The Ash Fort wasn't big or dangerous enough, was it? No, it fucking wasn't.

They were walking straight towards Phoenix, approaching from the direction of the fort. But why was an Overlord with a human? Now Phoenix's adventurer instincts were kicking down the doors of panic and arresting any thoughts that might stir up trouble. His brow creased and his fingers tensed around his weapon. Overlords didn't work with humans, they tried to restrict and control their population. When the Old World moved out and the neighbourhood got a little rougher, the Overlords decided, for some inexplicable reason, that it was humanity's fault. They took it upon themselves to wrangle the human population into relative peace - so folks couldn't keep nuking themselves. But their numbers dwindled without the resources to build more units. They stuck to the big cities, and never went into the countryside without a good reason, let alone with a human. So why was an Overlord walking with this guy? It didn't make any sense.

"Howdy, stranger!" the short man shouted again. The duo was close.

Phoenix kept his weapon trained on the robot. Too close. It was decision time. Kill or be killed. Now or never.

The little man waved with an innocent smile on his face, stopping a number of metres away. If he seemed bothered by the rifle trained on his menacing companion, he didn't show it. The robot didn't seem to care, either. But then, there wasn't a whole lot of emotion that a singular light bulb could display.

"Mind if ya put down that there weapon an' come over t' have a wee chat with us?" the man called.

Phoenix's finger danced on the trigger. "What do you want?" he called back, feet sliding into a wider stance.

Dammit, Phoenix, his thoughts yelled at him. Just shoot the both of them! Snap the clipboard in half and beat him to death with it. Those are dungarees. That's an Overlord! But the man seemed so calm, so pleasant. Phoenix hesitated.

"We'd like t' talk, if ya don't mind. No need f'r violence, just lower yer weapon."

Then the short man's smile lost its realism, as though his face had glitched. It was a worried smile. "Please, unless ya want my ... friend, t' get nervous."

On cue, the Overlord reached back and unhooked the cannon, bringing it forwards. Its arms, although no bigger than your average human's, supported what must have been an immense weight like it were plastic and shot foam darts.

"MAKE A SMART MOVE, STRANGER," it stated through hollow-sounding synthetic vocal chords. The voice had no emotion, couldn't comprehend inflection, but somehow still dripped with a poisonous malice.

Phoenix gripped his weapon tight, but he knew that an Overlord holding its gun diminished his survival chances from <insert maths here> to <insert lower maths here>. He didn't need the specific numbers, just the adrenalin.

"It doesn't look very nervous," he replied, though he wasn't sure why. His brain didn't catch the words in time before he said something antagonistic. To an Overlord. A fucking Overlord. Oh for the love of...

"Well I assure ya, sir," replied the human, his face a forgery of pleasantness, "yer'll make it that way. Now put yer gun away and let's have us a chinwag, eh? Before this gets worse than it needs t' be." He raised his hands to simulate peace.

Phoenix only tightened his grip further. He wondered silently how many bandits a single Overlord might be worth.

Hopefully it was less than ten.

* * *

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