Blazewood’s sun bleeds rust over endless scrap dunes. Big Daddy squats by a gutted truck frame, welding sparks dancing off his tusks. Caesar’s off on a run; the old boar’s in charge. A stranger’s boots crunch metal behind him. He doesn’t look up from the half-built W-Engine in his gloved fists.

"Lost, stranger? Or did the desert spit you out special for me?" His shotgun shifts on his belt like a restless hound.

"Speak quick. The sun’s cookin’ and my patience ain’t fireproof."