War of the Wastes (Red/Riccros)

The winds howled their hot rage over the desert sands, as if the world itself was shrieking foul curses in a long, unbroken tirade. The world did have every right to be angry, after all: It had given mankind everything, and what had those damned humans done? Turned around and killed it. Well, nearly. Boiled its oceans, scorched its landscapes, turned just about everything alive on its surface to radioactive dust. Yet for all the Earth's rage, for all its fury, it still could not kill off the last of its murderers.

It needn't worry, however. They seemed plenty intent on doing it themselves.

There was something more on the winds than sand and desolation that day, however. A fiery roar. Wheels, metal, gasoline. Adrenaline. While much of the world was dead, some parts of it were very much alive, making their presence known with all the sound and fury they could muster. A sand dune exploded as one truck plowed through it with all the grace of an enormous boar, kicking up a cloud of dust that trailed in the vehicle's wake like a small storm of its own. It was flanked on either side by men and women on motorbikes who would occasionally zoom ahead and return with snippets of information concerning the road ahead. At its back? Half a dozen trucks and cars, each of them following the lead of the man in front.

Ned was his name. Formerly Man-Slayer Ned, commander of the Fourth Ranging, War-Cleric of the Bladekult. Now? Just Ned. Ned, a fugitive like the few dozen who followed him. Set to die for the crime of making the wrong enemies in a new regime, named traitor by those he'd fought and killed for. In the chaos of the succession rites brought on by the High Man-Slayer's death at the hands of his chief rival, many of those who'd once held a comfortable position had been cast down and deemed a threat to the new order. It was a miracle that even this many had made it out in one piece.

He drove now in his own War Truck, all dressed for battle with nowhere to go. They'd been on the trail of a caravan for days now, and he was growing weary of the pursuit. Many before them had sought refuge with the nomads of the caravan, and he prayed only that they would see fit to absorb a company of hardened warriors into their ranks. He leaned lazily on the steering wheel, a big man at just a bit more than six feet in height with broad shoulders and a hard body built by a life at war. His face was one that lent itself easily to wild-looking grins, for a wild man he was. Square jawed with a big mouth, his narrow - and thrice-broken - nose sloped up to a pair of slate-gray eyes, locked in a hard expression and made all the more fierce by the heavy black tattooing that surrounded them in a thick, jagged band. His hair was like fire, colored crimson and streaked with its natural orange, some even made golden by the sun to compliment his heavy tan. It was worn long and wild on the top and in the back, though the sides had been shaved to allow for the more intricate tattoos that had once marked him as Man-Slayer and War-Cleric, an impressive series of sharp curves that slithered past his ears and curled down his jaw. All of that was dressed up in a dusty leather coat, ragged trousers and a pair of heavy boots, a pair of goggles dangling around his neck.

Just as his mind began to wander once more, Ned's attention was snatched up by the approach of a returning scout's bike. The scout drove himself right up alongside of Ned's truck, grinning as he bellowed into a crude horn that amplified his voice enough to be heard over engines and winds. "Man-Slayer! News!"

That snapped Ned out of his lull. He pulled on his goggles and rolled the window down, hanging his head out the window and nodding down at the rider.

"Scouts are sayin' we've got tracks at our rear! Thinkin' we've got a tail!"

Ned grimaced, closing his eyes behind the goggles. Jack's crew, no doubt. He still remembered the mad bastard's threat on their way to the garage, when the succession's in-fighting was at its worst. He was looking for Ned's head, something to present to his new master as a token of loyalty. That'd do the trick, too, sadly enough. "Keep tabs," he called back over the roar of his engine. "The caravan?"

"That's the good news," came the rider's call back. "They're beddin' down for the night! We'll be on 'em in an hour, tops. That still the plan?"

Ned's answer was a nod. That sent the rider away, who'd spread the news among the small company of vehicles with them. That kept his band of exiles from being surprised, at least, when he slowed down at the twilight hour, looking down over the caravan's camp from atop a large dune. With what little light remained, he plucked a mirror from his pocket and made use of the sun, creating a signal that'd easily be seen from afar, if they hadn't already noticed the trucks and bikes. A greeting.

The sun was sinking on the horizon, the sky turning an awkward mix of purple orange and red. But even with the setting sun it didn't deminish the heat much, not until it was completely out of sight. For now it was still hot enough to make a person drip with sweat. The left over heat of the cooling down day was still rising up and distorting the horizon along with the smell of unbathed bodies and blood. It was a rough life on the road but it was better out here than the place this small caravan had come from.

The caravan consisted of a tanker hauling fuel enough for all their vehicles three times over, four jerry-rigged cars fitted with any assortment of weapons, or gear for hauling water, another hot commodity, and then they had three motorcycles. It was just a small group, nothing special unless you stop to consider them running off from one of the most notorious gangs out here in the waste lands. It was a risky decision, but a good one, in their opinions anyway.

However, one small woman had a serious issue with their current leader's present decision to stop for the night. She was the mechanic, a famed one at that. Known for being able to fix... or disassemble... just about anything. But she didn't always have that job. It's one she takes great pride in, and one very few women ever get the chance to get. Out here in the dying world, men are the ones that survive. They are stronger, hardier, they were naturally more volatile and aggressive, more fit to survive in a dying world. Women... not so much. Women became much like property. Things to be forced into breeding and entertainment. But this mechanic had other ideas... When she was first taken and thrown in a room to be raped by a dozen men, all the men ended up dead at her feet, the room and woman covered in blood. The only thing that wasn't red was her almost unnaturally blue eyes. It was how she got her name, Bloodbath Blue, and all the respect she needed to get out of the whore house.

Blue wasn't her real name but it was the only one anyone knew her by now. Her long pale blonde hair grew paler ever day, bleached lighter by the sun. Tied back in a braid it hung just above her waist. She was a small woman, only gracing five foot, a little more with the thick soled boots she normally wore under the baggy cargo pants that held all her supplies. A tight vest was a snug fit over her chest but she didn't like sleeves instead just opting for thick gloves while she worked. A rolled up bandanna covered her forehead and goggles hardly ever left her neck. She was an attractive woman, even without the courtesy of being one of the few around. But she held her own, and her nick name still stood, she was an asset not only as a mechanic but also as a fighter when it came to raids and attacks.

Once the caravan had stopped, she ditched her bike and climbed up onto the engine block of their tanker. When the hood was open she started cussing under her breath.

"What's the verdict Bloodbath?" A tall man asked from the dirt beside the wheel beneath her.

The woman ignored him and kept at her task, reaching into one of her many pockets for some type of impliment to use in her task. Leaning further into the engine she clicked and banged away on something.

"Answer me Bloodbath!"

A wrench the size of his forearm smacked him in the chest. "How's that for an answer." she mumbled before sitting back and facing him, hand extended for the tool. The man obediently handed her the tool back. "I told you to stop calling me that."

"Sorry." He spat the word out, clearly not happy. "So, how's she doing? Can we make it to the valley tomorrow?"

Blue frowned. "We could have made it tonight if you wouldn't have pushed so damn hard and busted the belt. I only have so many." She grumbled as sweat dripped down the slope of her chest and disappeared beneath her vest. "When i stole parts from all the vehicles we left behind at Hector's I could only carry so much..."

Suddenly something glinted and flashed in her eye. Shutting the hood, Blue stood up on top of it and looked out in the direction as she pulled off her goggles. "Shit." The word fell from her cracked lips.

"What is it?"

"It's the ManSlayer." Blue looked down at him from her post on the top of the truck. "Murphy, we aren't ready for this."

Murphy whistled. "Everyone! Gear up! We've got company!"

Blue jumped down from the hood of the truck and dashed over to where her bike sat alone. yanking her firearm from its holster on the side she made sure it was loaded and mounted her ride. The Manslayer and Hector's gang's had never gotten along. they had always gone at it, fought for territory, fought for supplies and resources. Even though this small Caravan had technically left Hector, the Manslayer wouldn't know that.

After starting up her bike, Blue circled their small camp and tried to get herself into a better position. They were severely outnumbered.

"You recognize them markings?"

The question came from his left, just over the hum of idling engines at his rear. Ned grunted distastefully in response, his brow furrowed. "Yeah. Yeah I do. Hector's." He lowered the mirror, seeing that they'd gotten plenty of attention. "I'm thinkin' they recognized us, too." They hadn't exactly had any time to scratch out any of the Bladekult sigils from their vehicles, either. He turned his eyes on the scout, a scowl darkening his face. "You didn't think to check just who the hell they were with? Fuck..." The Man-Slayer licked his lips nervously, frowning down at the vehicles in motion. He recognized exactly the sort of formations they were taking. Hell, it made sense. The Blades had run their fair share of raids on Hector's territories, and Ned had been right at the forefront of all that. He had to wonder if this was about to be a shit idea, after all.

Ned stretched long and hard, chewing on the inside of his lip as he weighed a handful of options. Upon reaching a decision he clicked his tongue and reached into the truck, grabbing both his axe and the short-barreled shotgun he favored so much. "I need a bike, and... shit, I dunno. A towel. A sheet, maybe? Somethin' white. I'm flyin' a white flag."

"White flag and a gun, eh?" The head scout eyed him curiously. "Helluva way to broker peace."

"I'd be stupid to go unarmed. Gimme your bike." The exchange was made, and soon enough he'd been brought what was, more or less, an oil-stained towel on the end of a pipe. Mostly white, at least. It'd have to do. "Stay up here, and if they start firing, light 'em up."

"... That's your plan? Either get in good or get shot?"

Ned straddled the bike, jamming the makeshift flag into the junk on the back so that it stuck up prominently. "Yyyyup. Figure they know we've got guns up here. That oughtta be enough."

With a roar of the engine, he hurried on down towards the circling caravan vehicles, figuring the sight of just one of the Blades flying a white flag would be weird enough to get a response.