The midday sun beat down relentlessly over the Travelers' switching yard. The blast of a compressed air horn cut through the air, announcing the lunch break, and silence fell over the tracks. Arthur Volkovich, exhausted and covered in grease, sat at his makeshift counter inside a decommissioned dining car. He poured himself a glass of whiskey, his trembling hands finally coming to rest on the cold metal.

  Suddenly, the wagon door creaked. A massive presence blocked the entrance. A heavy, steady hand—a hand that emanated absolute authority—rested on Arthur’s shoulder. Arthur froze. He didn’t need to turn around to know who it was.

  — The whiskey is still bad, Arthur. But what really bothers me is your math.

  Arthur turned slowly, the blood draining from his face. Standing before him was Gun, the supreme leader and the "Demi-God" of Region 97.

  — Boss... Gun... — Arthur whispered, his voice failing. — We didn't expect you until the next cycle.

  Gun squeezed Arthur’s shoulder hard enough to make the metal of the chair groan. — My collectors told me the supply shipment you took to Chemult was thin. Bordering on shameful. What happened, Arthur? Did you forget how to count?

  — We are running low, sir — Arthur justified, bowing his head in apology. — The soil is dry, and the raids have made the routes difficult. I beg your pardon, we will double the shifts to make up for it...

  Gun let out a dry laugh, the zipper of his mask vibrating. He leaned over the counter. — You know what’s funny? I spent expensive anti-aircraft ammunition to bring down that freighter that crossed my sky. My men used heavy batteries. I expected to find food in that vault. I expected seeds, meat, something worth the oil in my tanks.

  Gun picked up Arthur’s whiskey glass and swirled it slowly. — But what was inside? Money. Piles of green paper. Trash from a dead world that isn't even fit to wipe a boot. I lost resources, Arthur. And you come to me with "we are running low"?

  Arthur swallowed hard, not knowing what to say. Gun continued: — Do you remember telling me about the Heretics and about Solomon? About Henry and how they are "cleaning up" Oregon?! You know what I decided? I’m taking my fleets of armored vehicles and 30% of my people to their headquarters right now. Half of everything they’ve conquered—the water, the seeds, the glory—now belongs to me.

  Gun released Arthur’s shoulder and straightened his body, wiping an invisible speck off his cowboy duster. — As for you, my friend... — Gun drew one of his Magnum revolvers with superhuman speed. — You are of no use to me anymore.

  BOOM!

  Gun fired his Magnum into Arthur’s head, leaving the cooling body on the floor. He brought two fingers to the zipper slit in his mask and let out a sharp, piercing whistle that sliced through the silence of the yard.

  Outside, hell broke loose.

  Gun’s men, dressed as cowboys beneath the dust, emerged. What followed was not a battle, but a purge. The sound of cattle prods and the Travelers' cries for mercy became the soundtrack to lunch. Gun stepped out of the wagon, walking calmly toward the surface, stepping over puddles of oil and blood without looking back as the rail yard was swept by flames.

  Heretics Headquarters – 40 minutes later

  The atmosphere inside the headquarters was the polar opposite of the massacre outside. The air was heavy with the smell of cigarettes and the rhythmic sound of billiard balls colliding.

  Henry chalked his cue with slow movements, eyes focused on the 8-ball. Kane leaned against the opposite table, watching the game with a smirk, a warm beer bottle in his left hand.

  — You’re taking too long to take the shot, Henry — Kane teased. — The world might end again before you decide on that angle.

  Henry gave a dry smile, never looking away. — In billiards, as in war, Kane... he who rushes ends up handing the game to the enemy.

  He leaned in, positioning the cue. But before he could strike, a deep vibration began to rattle the reinforced glass windows of the building. It wasn't an ordinary engine; it was a guttural chorus of heavy cylinders, a mechanical thunder that seemed to come from every direction at once.

  Kane dropped the bottle and walked to the window, pulling back the heavy curtain.

  — What the hell is that? — Kane asked, his tone losing its mockery.

  Down below, the Oregon horizon was being swallowed by a cloud of black dust. In the center of it, fleets of armored vehicles, bristling with spikes, advanced in a pincer formation. Leading them all, a modified war jeep flew a flag with the number 97.

  Henry dropped his cue on the green felt. The sound of clacking balls was now replaced by the click of shock batons.

  — The game is over — Henry said, his expression hardening.

  The 11 Heretics gathered at the top of the headquarters, the highest point of the building, looking down with a mixture of shock and fury. They had never known peace in Oregon, but they had never seen anything like that demonstration of motorized and technological might.

  Below, the armored vehicles formed a perfect semi-circle, illuminating the building’s facade with powerful headlights. Gun walked to the center of the courtyard. One of his men handed him an old microphone, connected to speakers mounted on the lead jeep.

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  Gun’s voice emerged amplified, distorted by the metal as he unzipped the cover over his mouth, echoing through the empty streets.

  The "Demi-God" Monologue

  — Solomon! Henry! — Gun began, his voice laced with a predatory calm. — I know you’re up there, breathing that cold air and feeling like the saviors of this leftover trash. I look at this building and I see what you’ve built with your saws, your homemade guns, and your... "honor." It’s cute. Almost nostalgic.

  Gun walked slowly, kicking a stone on the asphalt. He looked up, the single hole in his mask fixed on the shadows of the 11 heroes on the roof.

  — You think you’re heroes because you cleared Oregon of a few scavengers and cultists and planted some potatoes. But you made a geographical miscalculation. You forgot that the world isn’t made of soil or hope. The world runs on resources. And every resource in this sector belongs to me.

  He opened his arms, gesturing to the vehicles around him.

  — I am the one who keeps the machines alive. I am the one who decides who travels and who rots. I am the owner of Highway 97. And I’ve heard stories about the "Code of the Heretics." About how you’re unbeatable in hand-to-hand combat. — Gun let out a short, dry laugh. — But how are you going to fight what you can’t reach? I have two revolvers, fuel that never runs dry, and 300 men... and I was the devil on duty.

  Gun paused, the silence filled only by the idling growl of the engines below.

  — The deal is simple, and I’m only going to say it once, because my fuel is too expensive to waste on speeches: I want half. Half of your water, half of your seeds, and 100% of your loyalty. You will be my hounds in Oregon. If you accept, I’ll let you keep playing parkour. If you refuse... — Gun pointed his Magnum at the building — I will turn this headquarters into a tomb of concrete and twisted metal before dawn.

  He dropped the microphone, causing a sharp, deafening squeal of feedback. Gun just stood there, waiting for an answer.

  At the top of the building:

  Henry gripped his brass knuckles so hard his knuckles turned white. Mika had her Naginata ready, but she knew distance was the greatest enemy. Solomon remained silent, his hand steady on the handle of his cane.

  — He’s a lunatic — Leo whispered, his voice trembling for the first time.

  — He wants to enslave us, Solomon — said Kol, his fire axe resting on his shoulder. — I didn’t come from Ukraine to serve a leather-masked cowboy.

  The tension on the roof was palpable. The cold Oregon wind blew against the masks of the 11 Heretics, but the heat radiating from the engines below was what truly unsettled them.

  Henry started to protest, his blood boiling, but Solomon’s gaze was a silent command that no one dared disobey.

  — Drop your weapons... — Solomon’s voice was a hoarse whisper, yet firm. — There are too many of them. We’re going out there to talk to these filthy cowboys.

  The Descent of the Heretics

  They didn’t use the elevator or the internal stairs like civilians. All of them—except for Solomon, who took the elevator—moved in a choreography of shadows, descending the sides of the building using beams, drainpipes, and concrete ledges with the agility that made them legends.

  One by one, they landed in the courtyard, just feet away from the semi-circle of headlights. The blinding glare from Gun’s cars projected giant shadows of the Heretics against the headquarters' wall.

  Solomon Vane walked at the front, using his steel cane to set the pace on the cracked asphalt. Right behind, in a "V" formation, were Henry and Mika. The others spread out, keeping their hands visible but close to their gear. Tara carried the vault shield on her back; Piro kept his hands crossed, blowtorch gauntlets hidden under wide sleeves.

  The Meeting of Two Worlds

  Gun tilted his head to the side, watching the group's athletic descent. He seemed genuinely entertained.

  — There they are. The acrobats of the apocalypse — Gun ironized, adjusting the Magnum ammo belt on his chest. — Solomon Vane. You look older than the stories say. And more tired.

  Solomon stopped three meters from Gun. The contrast was absolute: on one side, the discipline and rustic elegance of the Heretics; on the other, the industrial excess and technological sadism of Gun.

  — I am old enough to know when a man is talking too much because he’s afraid of the silence — Solomon replied, his voice projecting effortlessly even without a mic. — You came to our home and now you bark about "taxes." Oregon does not belong to Region 97. And we are no one’s dogs.

  Gun walked around Solomon like a shark circling prey. His men kept their batons pointed at the chests of Henry, Kane, and the rest.

  — "Home"? — Gun laughed, the sound muffled by the leather of his mask. — This is a pen, Solomon. And you’re just cattle that learned how to bite. I don’t want your respect; I want your product. The Machinist told me you’re hoarding the best of the best. Anyway, I killed him and the Travelers!

  Gun stopped in front of Henry and stared at the jagged brass knuckles on his waist. He reached out a gloved hand and, with a swift motion, tried to touch Henry’s chin with the cold barrel of his Magnum.

  — And you must be the Brazilian boy everyone talks about. Henry, right? The future leader. Tell me, kid... would you rather see your family of acrobats killed right here, or are you going to convince the old man to open the vaults?

  Henry felt the metal of the gun against his skin. He didn't flinch. His eyes met the single hole in Gun’s mask with a cold hatred.

  — Whatever Solomon decides will be done — Henry said, his voice low and dangerous. — But if I were you, I wouldn't keep that finger so close to the trigger. The time it takes you to pull it is twice the time it takes me to rip your arm off.

  Gun let out a genuine laugh, pulling the gun away. — I like him! He has the fire this old man lacks.

  The Standoff

  Gun turned back to Solomon, throwing his arms open. — Well, Solomon? Time is ticking and the oil is burning. The dialogue is over. Either you open the gates and start loading my trucks now, or I give the order for my "cowboys" to turn this building into a pincushion of metal. What’s it going to be?

  The Fall of the Heretics

  Henry looked at his mentor, eyes wide, searching for any sign that this was a plan, a trap, a trick. But Solomon’s face was livid, lined by age and the realization that courage couldn't stop this.

  — Solomon... we can’t — Henry whispered, his voice choked with fury.

  — Get on your knees. — Solomon repeated, louder now, his voice echoing against the walls of the headquarters. — All of you. Now!

  One by one, shock turned into painful acceptance. Tara dropped the vault shield, which hit the asphalt with a final metallic clang. Kane switched off his saws, the high-pitched whine dying slowly. Mika, Leo, Elena... they all descended.

  Henry. He looked at Gun, fists clenched so hard the blades of his brass knuckles trembled. He ground his teeth and, slowly, the heir of Oregon let his knees touch the oil-stained ground.

  Gun watched the scene, chest puffed out, hands resting on his ammo belt. He savored the moment.

  As the camera pulled back toward the gray Oregon sky, the 11 Heretics looked small—fragile figures kneeling in the center of a circle of steel. Around them, the Region 97 fleet expanded like an oil slick; dozens of armored vehicles, hundreds of soldiers with electric weapons, all under the command of the solitary figure in the center.

  From high above, Gun no longer looked like a man in a leather mask. He looked like a force of nature, a monument to the new world he had built upon terror and petroleum. The "Master of the World" was at his peak.

  Even with the leather mask covering almost everything, the muscles around the open zipper contracted. Through the left eye hole, a psychopathic satisfaction gleamed. He gave a wide grin and looked at the Heretics subdued at his feet.

  — All right — Gun’s voice came out in a casual tone, devoid of any mercy. — Let’s get to work.

  END OF SEASON 1

  Faction Data (Lore)

  The Executors: Led by the feared cowboy "Gun," this massive group of approximately 300 members dominates the region with a power structure based on extortion and fuel control. Their operating mode and negotiation style are purely colonialist and aggressive: they invade foreign territories demanding 50% of all supplies and total submission to an alliance with the group, using fear to keep smaller factions under their control. Their main base is the mini-town of Chemult on Highway 97, but the faction's strategic heart is the Abandoned Sawmill, where they concentrate a third of their soldiers and stockpile vast amounts of provisions and the extremely rare petroleum. Their territory markings are made with cattle or enemy skulls mounted on iron stakes at the entrances of the roads leading to Chemult. Their weaponry combines tools of containment and brutality, utilizing electric batons, reinforced lassos to capture deserters, and generic combat knives, with their strength being the use of heavy armored vehicles covered in spikes to break through defenses. The standard base uniform is inspired by the classic aesthetic of Old West cowboys, with long leather dusters, wide-brimmed hats, and bandanas, giving members the appearance of outlaws from a bygone era, but armed with shock technology and deadly vehicles.

  Character Data

  EXECUTORS:

  Gun (40 years old, American): The supreme leader and the "Demi-God" of Region 97. Gun is a charismatic psychopath who sees himself as a necessary colonizer. He offers a simple choice: hand over 50% of everything and survive, or refuse and be decimated. His look is iconic: a full cowboy outfit, a black leather mask that conceals his face (featuring a zipper at the mouth and only one eye hole), and two rows of Magnum ammunition crossing his chest in an X-shape, flaunting his arsenal in an intimidating way. His authority is based on technological terror and the control of oil.