It was another hot, muggy day in a series of many. Bugs of all sizes filled the morning air, fighting for space or food, whichever one was more urgent of a need. Some Radgators had come out of the murky swamp waters to sun themselves in the pillars of light coming down through the trees. Others lurked beneath the elevated walkway that led from one end of the swamp to the other, the makeshift highway to and from settlements that dared to stake their claim in the unforgiving territory. Radgators were easier to predict that people, though, so maybe settling in the swamps was worth losing a brahmin or twelve and a few settlers here and there.

John Martinez, better known as Gator because of course he was, had been busy all morning making repairs to the walkway. Sweat soaked his brow, hands, and clothes, dripping down onto the wood and scrap the walkway was made of. His hammer and nails didn't want to stay in his sweaty grip by this point, but he wasn't going to stop replacing rotten planks with new material until all the weak spots were taken care of. The swamps were unforgiving to those that lost their footing, almost as unforgiving as the raiders that this hostile environment warded off.