Somewhere near Crater Pasteur, 2060

The crooked wings of the owl circling the smoldering ruin of the eternal night's campfire campfire maintained the hush over a small bandit camp. Arthur took off his glasses and peered disapprovingly at the engine before him, grotesquely splayed on the warm tundra. He seemed distinctly out of place, standing straight and proper with a panama hat on his sandy, sunbleached hair. Surrounded by mongrel men in leathers and chains and armed with hand-me-down arms and armor he scrutinized every detail of the craftsmanship at hand.

Clutching a spanner as if to rend it in half, The mechanic Henricks just wished the feared Warboss Arthur Pendrake would start yelling and be done with this infernal waiting. That was the worst thing about riding with Pendrake. When things were good the plains were yours. Even the mad ones, darksiders who ran whooping and blind across the plains, ran off in fear of Pendrake's Knights and their rumbling trucks and bikes.

Arthur returned his glasses, which wrapped around his face and illuminated the darkness in shades of green. From this view, all of his boys had glowing eyes, staring at him like cats in the night, waiting for his decision. He had ordered a Flagship built and a Flagship he now had, the underappreciated genius Hendricks must have sewn and sundered four looted royal caravans. What stood before him was a fortress on wheels - spotlights in all directions and rifleholes scattered throughout the lower and upper decks. The massive engine block countered by the gattlin' gun 'round back. He counted eight tires. He couldn't count the spikes.

What an awful machine. He cleared his throat.

"Henricks, what do you call her?"

Cherrie, was the meek reply, to the warming laughter of the boys circled around their ever loving boss and his pet grease monkey. The tension had broken. No one was going to be shot.

"Cherrie. A beautiful name for a beautiful girl." He slid his hands along an ugly spike laced with rust, "I'd love to see her in makeup. What do you boys say we ride into town and pick up a lick of red paint?"

There was a roar of cheers and engines as bands of boys leapt into trucks and hollared for blood. It was always a good time when they went over into the light side.