The caravan woman’s cries rang out. “Good trick,” one of her motorcycle bound tribe mates exclaimed, as they watched upon the ransacked caravan Pinball had lured into letting their guard down. The woman kneeled there, over the arrow-laden corpse of her lover.

The other members of her tribe circled the caravan, picking up scrap and valuables. Pinball watched on, soaking in the effervescent smell of burning guzzoline. The woman stood up, wailing, and approached her. Pinball sat backwards on her bike, unmoved. “You are the mad rad who ruined the world,” the woman shakily muttered, before procuring a handgun from her dress and training it on Pinball. She looked at the woman for a brief moment, then hit her clutch and gas, spewing sand into the wretched soul. The woman fell to the ground. Pinball stood over her, raised her crossbow, and smiled.