You notice a tome of scattered pages that lies half buried beneath the rubble of what appears to once have been an air hanger. Kicking aside the debris, you pick up the paper and leaf through the handwritten notes…
So, here we are. Staring at each other across a void of time, ‘ey? Not that you’ll understand what you’re reading.
Hell, you probably found this journal under some pile of scrap, next to a rusted out revolver and some worn down bones. Or maybe you’re the son-of-a-bitch that finally put a hole through my chest. Do I care? No. All I know for certain is that by the time you’re reading this I’ll be long gone.
All I ask is that you pick through these pages carefully. I ain’t a great writer, prefer to do my telling with cards or a bullet. People say I’m harsh. I argue that I’m to the point. Why delay? Just bite that bullet and wait to see if it goes off in my mouth.
Anyway, I’m rambling.
No doubt you’ve heard of Seekers? Justice keepers. Trackers. Killers. One big, fat, ol’ lie. They hunt for the Core, but more often prefer to go rogue, hunt on their own terms. They obsess over everythin’, and that rubs people the wrong way, ‘specially when they start shooting the wrong people. My kind o’ people.
What you need to know is this.
They called me Wilt.
I had no ‘side’, just my own words.
And I shot first.