john doe looked like every other anonymously tagged body to most of the people coming in & out of the morgue, but to algernon pembry (or more privately, zaz), the body was singing. the powder burns dappled along his fingers were all the proof he needed that some serious gunplay was going down in the old town tonight. well, that & the halo that still persisted around john doe's head, fading fast but not fast enough. he wasn't one of the dharma villian's or the black sutra club, & zaz (or less precisely, algernon pembry) knew that those were the boys his boss had brought into town with him. which meant he wasn't worried. yanking the laxex gloves off of his hands with a powdery snap, zaz (just zaz, thank you very much) went upstairs to his locker to get his old colt single action army out of his locker. zaz could be a traditionalist; at least when he was trying to impress his boss.
48 hours later, there wasn't much of a world left. 24 years after that, there was some sort of semblence of a new world being born from the cauldron of war. mankind, tenacious as any weed, had taken root across the globe, streaming forth from thousands of secret places. they had learned to make due, one foot in the grace of yesterday's technology & the other set on the firm ground of today's neoprimitivism. they had to reinvent the wheel, or if not the wheel, than at least irrigation, flint chipping, & post-burn ecology. towns grew, centered around paradoxes. shepherds with a flightstrip for half a dozen foxbat f-117as. tribes of nomads communicating with other continents through the lingering cellular network. the world was being rebuilt in the rust & decay of the last.
& finally zaz got the word from his boss that it was his turn.