Winter having slammed Mordland, the work season officially ended. Fortunately, Pickles developed enough of a rapport with his boss that the nearest cattle ranch remained an option in exchange for a handful of coins each day. Wading through two feet of snow exhausted him before he even got a chance to feed and water the herd. Regardless, he worked hard to earn his pay; plenty of younger, stronger, more motivated men and women would jump at the chance to take his spot.

The pub's dark atmosphere called him in the evening to drown the sorrows of monotony. Pickles hated his job. If not for the lack of money should he quit, he would've done it a long time ago. His talents went wasted here. Knifesmithing was his calling. Seth and his buddies enlisted the redhead to make daggers in exchange for tobacco and beer from a very early age, and once they gave him enough practice, Pickles opened shop. Then one day, in his late teens, the Mordland ambassador to Earth City strolled in and changed Pickles' life by offering the chance to make cutlery for Mordhaus' leadership. One unlikely friendship and a dabbling into swordsmithing later, and—

A pair of hands clapped down on his shoulders. "Pickles, buddy!"

"Don' call me thet." Like Seth, Mitch and Bobby never bothered to correct themselves.

"What should we call you, then?"

Pickles sighed. "Wheddaya need?"

"Nothin', really. Just lookin' for Seth."

"Yeah, you seen'm?"

"Naht since this morning." Despite the miserable weather outside, neither of these jackasses changed out of their usual clothes. Their jeans were soaked past the knees, and while Bobby wrapped a headband around his ears (still exposing his receded hairline to the wind), Mitch wore the same dirty hat as usual. "Maybe Mom wouldn' leddim go out to play, today."

They stupidly guffawed; Bobby nudged Pickles with his elbow. "Tell him when you see him that he missed some good stuff today."

"Yeah. Good stuff."

They moved on, thank Ishnifus. Wisconsin sure had gone to the dogs; its crime rates piqued everywhere but Tomahawk. . .only because the ones to stir the shitpot called this crappy little town home. Funny, how Murderface's prior status as one of Mordland's most reputable police officers should've clued him into Seth, Mitch, and Bobby's black market activities. What good was putting away one of the worst serial killers in recent history if he couldn't halt death where the numbers racked up much more drastically?

Speaking out against Murderface's administration, even in the boonies, wasn't a good idea. Pickles wasn't Pickles anymore, even if he answered to that name and identified as such. His days of making cutlery, even, were over. His niche in the new economy would earn him enough to drink his boredom and bad feelings away each night, then buy a loaf of bread for the folks. Hard physical labour preoccupied his mind; for ten hours a day, he was just some guy who'd never left his hometown or answered a higher calling. But then walking down the road back home, when his muscles and mind gave way to fatigue, Pickles saw the world around him for what it was.

Six years passed since the vikings altered Earth forever. Perhaps they posed little threat on human life in comparison to Murderface, but they presented a truth no one else seemed willing to face: life existed out there, and they might very well be in the way. Not that it made a difference. . .between a hostile alien race and Murderface, this world was as good as over. Humanity had a good run, didn't it?

Existing on a ball of molten rock hurling through the vacuum of space begged the question: could Pickles imagine more vividly his own nonexistence or the nonexistence of everything all at once? Since the ability to inquire proved anomalous self-awareness, he stood apart from Earth's less conscious creatures, who would always take life for granted. They could never comprehend death by Manifest Destiny. Their limitations of physiology promised paradise right until the bitter end. Consequently, those here trapped by a bottle became humanity's honesty. They desperately alleviated thought because once upon a time the miracle of their lives necessitated great will not to feel chosen by some higher power.

Ugh, these thoughts left such a bitter taste in Pickles' mouth. Only beer could temporarily ease his nihilism. As a result, he stumbled home later through the snow, preoccupied with what to tell his parents when the bread money once again went down his gullet in liquid form. He rightly expected confrontation, though not on the front lawn.

"Wait, whet. . ." Pickles wobbled where he stood. His mother was more upset than angry. "Whet're you tellin' me?"

"Some men came 'n' took yer brother away!" Molly's shrill voice caused the redhead to flinch. "Said he might be you!"

"Whet? Thet don' make no sense." Was Seth finally going to answer to all his illegal activities?

"They wouldn' listen ta me 'n' yer father! I dunno whet you did, but you need to clear it up. Go find 'em 'n' tell'm they've made a mistake!"

"But I gaht werk in the morning, 'n' whet the feck does Seth do all day—?"

"I don' care if he's scratchin' his ass, they assumed he was you 'n' wouldn' listen to reason. Go get Sethy back before they hurt him!"

"Whetever, jest lemme get a dry coat. . ."

Not that it helped him keep warm, Pickles changed his wet pants and jacket before heading back out. Goddamn it, Seth. Did he finally get snatched up by someone he fucked over? But his mom said they were looking for Pickles.

Whoever these men were, they seemed to make themselves scarce. Pickles didn't want to return home without news or, worse, without Seth, but what could he do? When did it even happen? How long were Mitch and Bobby searching for him? There was another thing to consider: surely, if this had anything to do with their bullshit, then Mitch and Bobby would either be in the know or gone as well.

Uneasiness tainted Pickles stomach, the more he sobered up. But they thought Seth was him. His mom never specified, but were they searching for Pickles, the former knifesmith of Mordhaus who once forged the most powerful object known to—?

Now just hold on a minute. Did this justify his paranoia? Had Murderface really searched the last three years for him? Did he finally reach the right neighbourhood of Mordland, and just snatch the wrong brother? Fuck, how long until Seth cracked and gave Pickles up? He never could handle stress. What about torture? They weren't torturing his brother right now, were they, for information?

Pickles' feet rooted to the spot at the first sound indicative of someone else too wandering this desolate night. An animal the size of a cow wading through the snow. Forcing himself to his senses, Pickles crouched down in the shadow of a building and waited. Beneath the moonlight, the predicted animal and a rider shrouded in black clothing emerged in the closest intersection. It stilled, not unlike a ghost; only the occasional snort from the horse showed any sign of life. What were they doing? Did this person know Pickles was out here somewhere?

More snorting came from the same direction Pickles arrived. Although certain the riders couldn't see him, nor their animals sense him, he pressed his head back against the wall and held his breath. One wrong move. . .

"Any luck?" One asked the other.

"Not him," a gruff response came.

"How sure are you he wasn't lying? He's been hiding this long."

"He confessed to a lot of crime—seemed to expect that's what we wanted to hear. Get this, though: Pickles is his brother."

A pause, in which all raised their heads. "You're sure he wasn't just saying that to make you stop?"

"Only one way to find out, isn't there?"

"Right. So what all did he say?"

"His brother works at the ranch down the road, usually spends his evenings on the pub a couple streets over. We'll try both those places."

"And I'll go wait at his parents' home," another volunteered. "He's gotta show up there eventually."

Like hell he did. Pickles sat limply in shock until the sounds of the horsemen receded. Seth was okay, right? They didn't hurt him too badly? Maybe he hated his brother sometimes, but that didn't mean it brought Pickles pleasure to know someone else poked and prodded him.

Much as he expected this to one day happen, assuming that Murderface wanted Pickles brought back to Mordhaus, the reality of it refused to sink in. Regardless, Pickles picked himself up. He couldn't stay any longer. Not only were Murderface's men here, but they'd hurt his family to find him. Fuck, what if they drilled his mother next on the whereabouts of her second child? If it meant getting Seth back, she might just. . .

No time to deal with dejection and a sense of inferiority. Pickles could do that when he'd effectively disappeared himself again, moved to another town and assumed a new name. Where would they least likely find him? If they expected him in the area, then pretty much anywhere else would do, right?

He underestimated how certain the riders were on his location. A maze of streets came to dead-ends; men on horses hadn't infiltrated Tomahawk, they'd infested it. Three hours later, Pickles only moved backward, in direction of the Wastelands. Was he desperate enough to leave Mordland entirely? Where did the worst fate lie: out there or in Mordhaus? Pickles wouldn't be able to make a sword for Murderface, but he could definitely show him where Mamingdalafalafal laid if he were so inclined. And that, he wasn't. The only thing worse than Murderface in the Governor's chair was him seated there with Mamingdalafalafal in his sheath.

Southwest posed the path with less resistance. Maybe the riders didn't expect him to head out that way, as not many others would dare. Ever since the civil war destroyed Earth City, the nearest post of civilization, no one had any reason. These lands simply didn't hold up to the lauded safety of times past. Even Murderface didn't brave them, if his lack of communication with Earth City after taking it over were any indication. The last Pickles heard, the supply carts running back and forth with both material goods and people hardly stood a chance against the other gangs, who migrated about these lands and called them their own.

Another horseman ahead forced Pickles back into temporary hiding. From his vantage point, the most common form of graffiti in this part of Mordland illuminated on the side of a building. Who is Toki? For once, Pickles tried not to see it as philosophical or rhetorical. Maybe somewhere out there, there was someone named Toki. But if everyone knew this name, if everyone asked, why hadn't he shown up yet to eject Murderface from his makeshift throne?

The best assumption on Pickles' part regarding a live, breathing person was that Toki took Earth City back from Murderface. That being the case, maybe he didn't threaten Mordland because his own home was all he cared about. Maybe he was just a bigger man than Murderface, could feel content with peace and didn't need to expand his reach over more land than necessary. How difficult would it be, to get there? What kind of preparations did Pickles need to pass through the Wastelands? Maybe as a single traveller, he could go undetected. Go slow. Just follow the Wisconsin to where it meets the Mississippi. No shortcuts, no matter how many days it took.

Although Pickles occasionally entertained the notion that he might one day need to leave Mordland for his safety, the final strip of road before foliage overtook held him at bay. Solitude and a chill spelled out the rest of his days. It shouldn't make a difference; already, he was left cold and alone by the history breathed and suffered by the metropolis he called home. Anyone he ever knew was either dead or gone, now.

Tree cover plunged Pickles into absolute darkness. If not for the rushing river to his right, he'd have absolutely no idea what direction he moved in. He slowed when he started to sweat, then took a break when he needed to catch his breath.

Pickles dwelled quite a bit on things he couldn't help, but he would've eventually accepted the humdrum direction of his life in Tomahawk. For the first time since returning to Tomahawk, the cocktail of fear he experienced as Charles met his fate reemerged. This was real. Even though he fled, he dealt with this all over again. It reminded him a little too succinctly of his last journey through these woods, back before the Wastelands became the Wastelands. Now. . .Mamingdalafalafal seemed further away than ever before. Maybe he should've kept it. If he reforged it for himself, it could come in handy now.

Very handy, if his ears didn't play tricks on him. Like back in the streets, Pickles froze when he heard a large quadruped wading through the snow to his rear. Fuck. Yes, the time Murderface's forces chose to come had to be when Pickles would be incredibly easy to follow. The redhead ran ahead anyway, tripping and struggling in the snow. A false dawn sunk his heart; although it'd do no good, he ducked down behind a tree. Maybe this wasn't the best way to go. How obvious, in hindsight, was his escape into the Wastelands? If only he'd planned better for this situation. He never truly believed he'd be tracked back here. His hometown seemed to exist in a completely different world than the political realm of Mordhaus.

A horse snorted, came to a stop, and torchlight skimmed over the end of Pickles' trail to touch his jacket arm. "What're you doing out here?"

Pickles kept his head down. "Jest travellin'. Leave me alone."

"State your name."

"Whet's it to you?"

"I'm searching for someone, so I would suggest you stop stonewalling me. . .Pickles."

And just like that, the refugee lost the fight that brought him this far. His chin slumped against his chest as the rider slid off his horse and unsheathed his sword. Although he couldn't see it in his peripheral vision, Pickles sensed its point somewhere near his right shoulder. "So whet happens now?"

"Get up."

With legs like jelly, Pickles used the tree as leverage. What choice did he have, but to go along with the cruel hand of fate? Well, judging by the lax grip utilized by the other man on his sword's hilt. . .

Pickles didn't execute it as cleanly as when Charles taught him, but the element of surprise rested on his side. Pure adrenaline stripped the rider of his weapon and a clean slice decapitated the would-be assailant. For a brief second, before the torch hit the snow and extinguished, the redhead heard Charles' congratulatory tone when he managed that maneuver in his private chambers. A little less restraint, and Pickles may have nearly done the same to him.

Somewhere on the ground, the steaming, cooling body bled out. As much as Pickles would love to hide or bury it, steal the man's cloak, and ride on under the guise of Mordhaus, things couldn't be that simple. He had a weapon, at least; determination reinstated, Pickles took the belt necessary to stow it and got up onto the animal. Although the horse was a little spooked by the alteration in weight and temperament, it kept on along the river with the right amount of encouragement.

To the southwest, Pickles crossed an area less affected by the blizzard. Running at full gallop in the new day's light eased his mind, that is, until the pounding hoofs beneath him gained echoes. One glance over his shoulder was enough to confirm that he had company. Could he make it all the way to Earth City like this? Surely, these riders would rather risk their lives than go back to Murderface empty-handed. How long until his horse collapsed from exhaustion? This was no short journey, and the animal already travelled hundreds of miles in the search for Pickles.

Every pound against the Earth acted as an alarm, disturbing the area's quiet nature and alerting those attune to it. Pickles nearly wrenched on the reins when horsemen approached from ahead, but where could he go? The gang besieged them too from the left and right. Pickles kept on straight, at full speed, unsure of the lesser evil and unable to pick. Someone chose for him, by sending an arrow zipping by his ear. Such was his shock to have been missed so narrowly, he keeled over sideways. A rapid roll in the snow left him more than a little disoriented, as well as birthed a sharp pain in his ankle.

Yelling, then the sound of his horse's departure faded away. So this was how he died. Well, better an arrow to the face than torture and forced betrayal back at Mordhaus, right?

One of the men appeared in Pickles' line of sight, as he gazed skyward. "You hurt?"

Pickles couldn't be bothered to tend or react to his physical pain. He nodded.

"Fetch his animal," the man instructed those near him. "It can bear the weight of Mordhaus' scum."

"I'm naht from Mordhaus." Maybe Pickles could appeal to these riders' humanity. "I don' werk fer Murderfeece—"

"Then why are you riding one of Mordhaus' black mustangs?" Before Pickles could respond, the man spoke on. "If that is your claim, then we hold no jurisdiction over your immediate fate. We'll take you with us back to New Valhalla, and it will be decided there."

"New Valhalla?" Pickles never heard of such a place before. Wherever he headed, he had little choice but to ease his way back onto his horse with some help and slump forward onto the animal's neck. Would anyone care if he fell asleep for a little while? Not that his injury or the prospect of having survived would let him get much.

Nodding off jogged the sun in a westward direction. Judging by its position in the sky, they still headed in general direction of Earth City. Maybe they were one in the same; communication blackout would limit Pickles' knowledge on it being renamed, for sure. Whatever it was called, fear reemerged. What awaited him there? Would he be allowed to explain his plight before being put to rest? If the Wastelands' riders belonged to Earth City, then what kind of warmongering culture did they reflect?

"We'll make camp here, tonight," the presumed leader announced, then looked to Pickles, "you'll stick close to me."

Unable to make an objection, Pickles simply went with it. He scarfed down the small amount of dried meat allotted to him and took his opportunity as the other men dozed off around the fire to plead his case. "Murderfeece's men were chasing me. I stole a guy's sword 'n' horse, thet's how I gaht them."

"Pardon my skepticism. Any hint that you're affiliated with Mordhaus can't go unchecked. You're lucky we even spared your life, today. We could've easily left you for the wolves." A long goatee and the firelight emphasized the man's angular face. Copper wire held long, frizzy hair at the nape of his neck.

"Whet's yer name?"

"You won't know that unless Toki labels you an ally."

"Toki?"

Yet again, no answer came. The next day, as their trek across Wisconsin continued, none of Pickles' captors spoke to him beyond issuing orders. His ankle swelled up inside his boot, painfully so, but a quick check had come up with nothing broken. Just a sprain, luckily enough.

He slouched against his horse's neck again late in the afternoon, miserable and feeling quite sorry for himself, when a call from the front of their company pulled everyone to a stop. The leader pointed in direction of the sun, and although it was difficult to make out, a black dot certainly distinguished itself.

"Meteor?" Someone suggested.

"Whatever it is, it's coming this way," the leader replied. "Don't see that everyday."

"It couldn't possibly be. . .?" Another shouted, causing Pickles' stomach to drop. From what he heard, though, the viking ships travelled much more smoothly than this heavenly reject. His instinctual fear went on hold; maybe it was just a frozen chunk of space rock.

As it got closer, its speed—or lack thereof—became more apparent. Something coming from the deep recesses of space to collide with Earth would've already hit. The others realized this as well, realigning themselves in accordance with their surprise enemy. When it passed a couple miles over their heads, Pickles actually ducked. That definitely wasn't a landing. As confirmation, a loud boom sounded, followed by a shudder in the ground.

If Pickles had any say, he'd head off in the opposite direction. On top of everything else that happened in the last forty-eight hours, he couldn't absorb the fact that a viking ship crash-landed right before his eyes. All he knew of this alien race came second-handed; he'd thanked Ishnifus everyday for a long while after Charles took care of them that he never came face-to-face with such brutes. And yet. . .after dealing with Murderface for so long, they hardly seemed at all like a threat. Maybe whatever occupied the ship died on impact and they could carry on to New Valhalla. Where Pickles may or may not be condemned to death.

"Okay everyone, we've dealt with these before," the leader addressed all as they cantered in a northern direction. "Dead or alive, they're coming back to New Valhalla with us. Preferably alive, if we can manage."

"Got a plan, Magnus?"

"Let's find out what we're dealing with, first."

"What about the captive?"

Magnus and Pickles' gazes met. "Take up the rear, but bring him along. If we run into any trouble, hang back. I'm pretty sure nothing would've survived that."

Despite his reserve toward encountering life from another world, Pickles craned his head the entire way. Sure, if the vikings were dead, he wouldn't mind checking out them or their ship.

"Did you deal with the vikings, when they went to Mordland?"

"Not direc—uhh. . ."

Magnus smirked. "So you are affiliated with Mordhaus."

"Naht Murderfeece, though. I werked under Charles. You never gave me the chance to explain thet."

"Good man. . .if you're telling the truth. What was your position?"

"We were friends. But I made cutlery. Nothin' too exciting."

"So what does Murderface want with the knifesmith?"

Pickles shrugged. Like he was going to tell this guy about Mamingdalafalafal.

"Well?"

"I dunno. Naht much of whet Murderfeece does makes sense."

"Hm." Magnus wasn't satisfied with his answer and really, Pickles didn't blame him. Still, it sucked. He would've loved for the sudden appearance of vikings to put him on the back burner. Maybe he'd get the chance to escape or, even better, get a free ride into New Valhalla and fall back into obscurity while they dealt with this whole other issue.

Magnus trotted to the front as they closed in on the wreckage. The ship did more damage to the area—trees in its path either snapped or fell over, and the ship remained in one piece. The riders remained distant as their leader cautiously approached the resultant crater. Even from the back, Pickles made out twin tracks in the snow. With that, he didn't feel so confident anymore. Could they carry on their way, now? Just let the vikings go, to die of hunger or whatever?

"We'll follow," Magnus decided. "They can't have gotten far."

Pickles had no say, unfortunately, as his horse was led on in pursuit. Like coming up on the ship, he sat tall and craned ahead for any sight of the vikings. If the riders planned on taking them back to New Valhalla, that was going to put Pickles in very close proximity to them. They weren't dangerous, right? Because getting away should a clusterfuck present itself wouldn't be easy, thanks to his injury.

"Oi!" Magnus held up his right fist, bringing all men to a stop. They'd found the end of the trail, where two figures dressed in space suits similar to what Charles described headed across a meadow. The uncertainty of what to expect tainted all parties; the vikings halted their march and Magnus ordered everyone to stay put while he advanced his horse a couple strides. "Can you understand me?"

No response. With dark, sleek metal obscuring their humanity—or whatever the vikings equated to the concept—Pickles found no reason to allow these forms further life. Why couldn't they just—?

The vikings mirrored Magnus' raised hand as he cautiously rode closer, but the horse stumbled sideways when a black blaze nearly singed its tail. The snow along the inferno's path melted, as well as that situated on the tree it hit. Pickles mirrored silent shock. Apparently no one else prepared for—let alone heard about—their ability to conjure fire.

The once cool tone Magnus adapted was abandoned when the one viking raised his hand again, and both revealed dark grey blades from their own sheaths. "Shoot them! Shoot them now!"

Two dozen bows were loaded with arrows. Even those that survived the next blast of flame had no effect; they stopped dead against the armour. One guy fell off his horse, clothes scorched, and as soon as Magnus saw that, his upper lip curled. "Draw your swords!"

The intensive training Magnus and his men went through in New Valhalla made itself apparent. Rather than twenty-four individuals rushing toward the vikings, they moved as one. Fire warped the air with its heat in response, disallowing the horses to get too close, and then ice entered the mix. The front half of one horse flash-froze, shattering like glass when its rider's weight forced it to the ground. Unfortunately for the vikings, even supernatural ability couldn't save them against Magnus' numbers. Kept busy, their powers faded. Magnus took the window of opportunity and called for a charge. One viking lost his sword, the other fell to its knees. Rapid use of thick rope forced them against one another. A rider retreated from the organized confusion with the other sword in hand. Just like tying a calf, Magnus jumped off his horse and secured both pairs of ankles and wrists. The vikings resisted but, for such a spirited effort, they'd been taken down.

Hands on his hips, Magnus panted as he looked them over. Danger aside, the rest of New Valhalla's best closed in. It struck Pickles then that he probably could've gotten away, in all the mayhem. Damn it.

"Anyone hurt? Melmord, Damien, you two okay?" The long-haired one boasted a scorched jacket and the other a bleeding nose, but neither put forth complaint. Satisfied, Magnus nodded to himself. "Well, should we take a look at what we're dealing with, here?"

Since everyone slid off their animals, Pickles couldn't see as well anymore. Rather, he was forced to listen. "Fascinating. . .look at this, here. The metal moves with no friction, yet there's no space between the pieces."

"Can you even get its helmet off?"

"Not sure. . ." Magnus wrenched and grunted in attempt. "Guess not. Maybe it's something mechanical. Never seen nothing like this, that's for sure. Not even the last time they came. They've upped their equipment."

"Hey Magnus," Melmord got his attention. "How're we gonna get these things back to New Valhalla? We're already short a horse, now."

"Guess we could drag 'em behind," Magnus suggested, to a round of guffaws. "But I don't want to exert the horses."

"It wouldn't be bad, if we tie them up to more than one. Distribute the weight, and all."

With no other option, that's what they wound up doing. The riders got a good laugh out of it when one pointed out the suited aliens resembled a gigantic turd pulling up the rear. Then, elevating the general mood even further, Damien earned a hefty amount of teasing for potentially having a saddle horn up his ass as he was forced to double with Melmord back to the city.

"It's only another ten miles," Magnus stated when asked if they would bother setting up camp. "Might as well just get there. I'd jump into the river if we lost this haul in the night."

Having hardly slept or been given the chance to get off his horse except for bathroom breaks, Pickles didn't care where he wound up anymore so long as he could collapse. Even his foot, pounding in tune to his heart, seemed distinct from his body. When the roaring Mississippi River sounded behind a high wall in the moonlight, he couldn't be more relieved.

"Let's get these vikings to Toki," Magnus stated. "He won't care if he's woken up over it."

"What about the other captive?"

"Oh. . .right." Magnus looked at Pickles. "I don't know. Hand him off to the prison. He'll be dealt with later. The vikings get priority."

Finally getting to elevate his ankle presented a silver lighting to imprisonment. At first Pickles shied away from a doctor checking out his injury, but before the man could even get his boot off, Pickles' eyelids grew too heavy to keep open any longer. He couldn't even care if he might be executed soon; at least in death, he'd get the rest he so desperately needed.