They weren't always riders.
Once, they were just boys. Brothers in name and in blood, raised in the dying breath of a world already crumbling.
No law. No guidance. Just scraps and fire, passed down from the dead to the desperate.
They had no father—only stories of one. A ghost in leather who rode into the storm and never came back.
Their mother taught them survival like scripture:
How to fix an engine with wire and instinct.
How to shoot straight.
How to run faster than the hungry.
They slept in the rusted ribs of an old rig, abandoned in the sand like a fossil.
Dreamt of roads that led somewhere better.
Places with rain.
With music.
With color.
But dreams don't last in the Wastes.
The world took their mother first.
Then it took their peace.
Peeled everything from them until only two remained—back to back, guns drawn, facing down a gang three times their size.
They rode together after that. Not because they wanted to.
Because it was them… or no one.
But even brothers split in a world like this.
All it took was a single choice.
A gun not fired.
A name betrayed.
A lie believed.
Now the road stretches between them—wide, empty, waiting.
And only the grave can close the gap.
Ready for Chapter 3?