It has been 22 years since the world ended. 

Cadavers of herbivores and carnivores mounted up into starving, emaciated masses within these two decades; the continent of Europa was bleeding into a slow, inevitable death to both mankind and womankind. 

It has been 22 years since the sun ceased to shine, leaving the remnants of all animals alike to gaze at the giant, gray twopenny of a dead star which used to emit natural light. 

As the solis was a nurturing mother who births life, her final breath created a calamity which disrupted the course of nature altogether. 

Crops died. People cried. And people died. 

That was a famous line amongst average go-comers in the nation of the Old Westmeister.

The people who had survived the 22 years of torment still adhered to the country as England, but after the coup d'etat of King George III, Northumberland, Cumberland, Westmorland, Durham, and the York of East Riding suddenly became a barren land, leaving the Southern remaining part of the British Isle, as well as Wales, with this certain name. 

Just like everywhere else in Europa, the commoners in this place never lived. They always survived. With barely any rations to spare, criminal behaviours were a normality. 

For people like Wojtek Zuev, survival was his altruistic means to his end.

The lynx had always counted the years of passing. It was difficult to keep track of the others, but his eye were always fixated on the giant, electric clock which stood proudly in the middle of the bay under London Bridge. 

The rails vibrated against the grimy floor in which he sat idly, taking in the view of the emasculating structure which was surrounded and blurred by a gray fog, accompanied by crashing waves from below. 

If there was some sort of hope of a livelihood, this clock was it. 

The London Bridge was gargantuan both length and width-wise, stretching from Gizmovale (London and surrounding) to Prestoria (Wales). The foundation of the bridge on its own was notably the strongest, as it used “cable bridges in which the Almighty God doth blessed." During the innovative revolution of steam-based engineering in the early 18th century, the bridge was used to move large masses of coal, brass, gears, cogs, wood, and other assortments. The train which supported these materials was naturally fast. However, with the lack of abundance of coal throughout the years, the transportation leisurely travelled across the Old Westmeister. 

Minus the endless stream of filthy starving squatters, the daytime was not any different in comparison. The air smelled of coal smoke, sweat, and wet gravel; it was a scent which was always too familiar for Wojtek.  

The platforms of the train were filled to the brim by both workers and sneaky stowaways, seeking an easy way into the town. All clinging onto the rusted-out railings, barely holding the crowd's weight. 

No bystanders dared to crease their shoes against the cobblestoned bridge for fear they would be torn apart by the Deckers with their infectious, keen blades. No one, except for Wojtek.  

Hopping off of the train, he arrived at the desired location: in the middle of the London Bridge. 

Dressed as if he came out of an industrial labouring factory, Wojtek Zuev's attire was unflattering: he fitted a pair of bedraggled leather boots, accompanied by a baggy dark-brown worker's pants. He also fancied a loose gray deckhand's jacket, half-open to the wind to reveal a heavily scarred chest beneath his unkempt attire. 

Aside from his eyepatch on his right eye, Wojtek's body shared stories of past tussles, slashes, and shanks, almost like a canvas portraying his mightiest battles in the ruthless nature of this country. With the rough exterior in place, complemented by a tall, muscular physicality. 

His fur would have looked snow-white if his body wasn't sullied by the coal stains from riding alongside a gaggle of coal labourers on the train. 

"Fuck me."  

The feline shook his head, the smell of carbon emissions seeping through his mind in a breath. Sliding off his fisher's cap between his long, white ears, he expected another visitor who would expect his arrival any time soon.

Within the bustling streets of Gizmovale, Wojtek had an affair to attend. The feline had a liaison from Prestoria who was to meet with him by the obsolete part of the bridge, where no one except for the trains would go through. 

As he was caught beforehand, Wojtek had handled these affairs discreetly, to not bargain for attention from other syndicates that are not the Wolfhounds.

The Wolfhound syndicate was Wojtek's pride: it was his valued grandeur which he held dearly to his heart. Being a captain of twelve other people, the charismatic philosophy of altruism which Zuev held many positive factors during persuasion. 

The job of the lynx's liaison is to gather information on certain things which could grant a better chance of survivability in the next haul. 

While waiting on his jack card, Wojtek slid his right paw into his pants pocket for a cigar, whilst his other hand tried to rummage through a crumpled box of matches. While rummaging, his topaz, golden eye remained to wander through the horizon of the ocean, accompanied by a silhouette of buildings from afar. 

'Such beautiful lights.. Tarnished by a damning fog." He thought to himself, placing the cigar on his lip while he leaned against the railings.

Trying to set aflame, the wet and murky air made it difficult for his blunt to burn through its stress-relieving nicotine. The icy wind also proved Wojtek a challenge.

It was a persistent fight for self-pleasure, just like this dog-eat-dog world.

"Come on, you fuckin' bugger.."

The lynx muttered, his eye narrowed down while he remained to scratch the phosphorus out of the stick against the box, struggling to get a flame. The grip of his teeth against the cigar tightened, his persistence increasing. 

Due to his intense fixation, Zuev failed to recognize a few footsteps which seemed to head in his direction.

Footsteps whose patterns were slow, silent, and steady; one just like a predator setting up its ground to pounce its prey.

Whilst Wojtek continued to scrub down the small matchstick to get a flame, the steps increased in frequency.

What used to be cobblestone tapping against boots increased into crunches of a soft, deliberate sprint towards the distracted lynx.

As the lynx turned around towards the sound, his one eye met a pair of emerald ones as the figure lunged towards the mercenary. The silhouette was ready to pursue his potential victim almost like a spider to a fly stunned in a web. 

In a single motion, Zuev pivoted with light-speed precision, snaring the figure down against the edge of the rails with a loud THUD. The slim aggressor toppled over, in the lynx pressed his coal-stained boots against the form's neck, his kukri knife yielded into his grip and pressed right at the aggressor's throat. 

"Don't you fuckin' dare do that shit in front of ME! I'll gut-"

Wojtek came to an abrupt halt, his eye slowly probing- registering to unravel the mysterious man whom he had pinned onto the rocks. 

The pressure of the lynx's boots loosened. 

Before the captain's eye was a slim leopard. Not just a leopard, but it was specifically Wojtek's liaison or his own little protege. The leopard seemed to dress a little bit dapper than the captain: A long, brown overcoat that reached towards the end of his knees, a white dress shirt stained with an assortment of dirt, muck, and possibly blood, with saggy blue trousers. He wasn't the neatest compared to some aristocrats, but he was known to keep himself arrogantly clean. 

“..Colton." The lynx whispered, stepping back as the younger feline continued to cough from the traumatic pressure inflicted. 

Aside from being notably the youngest in the Wolfhound, Colton Johnathan Wayton was literate amongst his crewmates thanks to his past education. 

Wayton's family were barons; his bloodline's contribution to making steam engineering before the apocalypse had commenced. Even despite how the world was depleting of all materialistic sources, the Wayton family was swimming in their riches. 

To Wojtek, Colt was like a little brother he never had. 

“Fuck..! Cap'n! You almost fuckin' busted my trachea! I didn't lay a fuckin' finger!" The young leopard hacked out, one hand holding the bridge of his throat while the other against his left temple.

The dense silence between them was occasionally interrupted by a few wheezes from Colt. The two felines traded gazes; it had been three whole months since their last interaction.

“..Sorry, mate." 

Zuev sighed, motioning Wayton to lean against the metal rails with him. He could have sworn that something was about to lunge at him. But his perception was mixed in with mild paranoia. 

“On days like this, I ain't got a bleedin' clue who's fuckin' lurking behind me." 

Colt watched as his captain pressed his back against the rails in a dormant disposition, copying him as well. The leopard silently remained to observe Wojtek's poor attempt at lighting a match for his cigar.

"I get it." The leopard crossed his arms, looking down at the cobblestone floor. “..I daresay that's the fittin' behaviour. People'r eating each other because they're sick of mushrooms." 

“Maybe one mornin', I'd probably would have to eat ye'." Wojtek jokingly chided, bumping his shoulder against his pseudo-brother. 

Finally, with one flick, both of their eyes met a small joy of light from the thin stick. Pressing his mouth against the cigar and biting down, Zuev presses the piece of match against the butt. His ears indulged the sound of the cigar's sizzling, and Wojtek's mouth indulged the woody, ashy taste that emitted from its content.

“Sorry to pry, but do you have anotha' one? I'd kill for a smoke." Colt raised an eyebrow. 

"This is the only snout that I have, kid. I'd offer you some, but I gotta savour somethin' that put my shillings worth."

"Thrifting on your shillings, Captain Dice? I'm not surprised... I presume it's the consequence of playing the gambling games so.."

Colt pinched his chin with two fingers, maintaining a childishly smug look while he tried to find the right word to adhere to Wojtek's gambling addiction. Of course, he snapped his fingers before pointing at Wojtek after five seconds of wondering.

"..So relentlessly."

“Gimme a fuckin' break. I ain't gambled in a while, the whole 'Captain Dice' jig is old." 

Wojtek rolled his eye but did not feel the need to react anymore. Wayton was technically right, unfortunately. But admitting to such nonsense felt like his position to be a captain would be obsolete to the crew. 

"Alright, alright. I shall give you a break, sir. Anyhow." Colt cleared his throat, looking up at the sky above. “I do admit. I am surprised that you have read my letter and agreed to meet with me here." 

“F'course I'd hafta, either way.. I'm no one's sir, kid. I'll treat ya' the same way as I'd treat a brother. Sir's don't travel in the coal-choked trains." The lynx turned his face down to the ocean below, letting out a soft blow of smoke. “Why'd ya think that'd be the case?"

"..Well. Simeon told me that most novices starting fresh like meself in the Wolfhound are... Diminutive." Colt tugged on the collar of his shirt.

"Diminu..Whatnow? Bloke is a Yediniyan, how the hell does he know all these abbreviations?"

The lynx pinched his cigar, looking up at the sky while he blew the exhaust smoke out of his lungs once more.

"Simeon's quite a talker, eh? If words could kill... But yer' not here to gossip, are you?"

"Well, Captain Dice. I do wish we could catch up for ol' time's sake. As much as I could fathom walking through Prestoria unprovoked, I'd love to come back, so I can love the seas once more." 

The lynx's only view was suddenly obstructed by a fine-printed envelope, a red stamp with the initial 'H' embedded into the rims of the stamp. It smelled of a fine-dinery, one of meat and broth that anyone could ever savour here. It was a letter which had a royal symbol, something that Wojtek had never seen before. 

"I'm here to deliver this. To you." 

The leopard remained to carefully observe the reaction of his superior, his thumb gently creasing over the waxy stamp that was sealed over the envelope.

"Duke Herrington of Prestoria City has a word with you."

“Christ.." Wojtek idly gazed at the envelope, feeling a sudden bump in his heart. “..Herrington. Y'mean the bloke... That owns all sovereignty in... All of Prestoria?"  

Wojtek closed his eye, his head sinking as he let out a soft chuckle. 

"Look at you spilling out big names here, my boy. I wonder what's this all about." 

Zuev's paw slipped into his pocket once again, pulling out his trusty flask, with one of his fingers pushing out a cork with a little chain keeping it in place.

Thonk!

A gust of pungent moonshine odour filled the air; a distilled mill that came from Eastern Europa was called a Yeltsin shot. It was purely manifested from highly-concentrated fungi, which was distilled over time without the usage of yeast. The white lynx raised the flask, his index finger raised towards Colt as if he were asking the leopard to wait before taking a large sip.

One of his brows rose, as Colt began to finger the seal of the envelope... A mild suspense rose in the lynx's mind. 

"Wai-wai-wait, don't open it nor tell! I want to guess."

The Captain shoved the canteen in its place, dusting off his arms and placing both upon his waist. Tilting his head back again as if lost deep in thoughts, his eye focused on the glistening moon.

"Mmm... Lemme guess. Is it... Maybe a bounty for me head..? For 'alluv my crew's head..? Is that one time when we were stealing whale fat, but that dumbass Kangaroo decided to light his pipe right beside the barrels? Oh man, ain't that a blast from the past. Damn shame the whole trader's boat sank. Along with a pocket full of Crosby Nash. No?"

The feline scratched his temple, looking back at Wayton for an answer, in which he shook his head no. 

"No, no, no, wait! Is this about the Fisher's Fungal Wine Reserve? That. Must. Be. It. Somehow, our fuckin' Corgi managed to mishear 'gently fuckin' bash the owner over the head to keep him down for a few' and ended up caving the old man's skull right in! Stank up our ship, the poor sack of grease. And the wine was shite too. Bullseye? No?" 

The lynx rested his palm on his chin, his brows remaining furrowed in focus.

"No, Cap'n," Colt replied, rolling his eyes, waving the envelope towards the lynx to just let him read it.

"Oh, I know! Is it about The Hamster and his grubby, little perverted hands? I told him to provide a distraction in the Prestorian Square. And by distraction, I didn't fookin' mean grabbing the first gal walking nearby right by her Brace and Bits. In front of a bodyguard too! Yeah. Simeon spent a whole week pulling lead from the rascal's arse." The Captain rolled his eye, leaning back onto the railings.

“Sir. Just..- Just.. Open the..-" 

"Or maybe the Herrington is having pubic lice and can't sit on his arse straight and wants us to scratch the hemorrhoids off of his buttocks in trade for our current notoriety... I did 'ear that he's been doin' the same with the others. His guarantee of amnesty is worth as much as mouldy slop! Guh. Just open the letter already, Wayton. I'm done with my rant."

Colt looked down at the letter and stared at the fine print for a few seconds in admiration. To even touch this with bare hands was such a prestigious, pompous honor. Flicking off the embeddings with quite delicate notions, he held up the letter as if it were a scroll. He took a huge breath in. 

“To my dearest benefactor, Wojtek Zuev, the man whose purse weighs on retribution, I beseech thee, with a heavy heart, that the continuous ghastly deeds of the Old Westmeister has taken my son, who were taketh my throne after my inevitable passing. My heart is burdened by my kin's crimson-stained ghost, and my tears only showeth anger." 

Colt read out loud, periodically watching Wojtek as he nodded along with the difficult, Shakespearean lingo that the Herrington had put into. 

“Despite my clouding doubts about the notoriety, and the path that you, Comandeer Zuev, had chosen, I will, as the First Duke of Prestoria, exchange your service for a Duke's Pardon, to get rid of the wretched animal who had taketh my son's life.. Mortiz Vincent. Do what you must with this information. But I advise that you doth inquire among the denizens that roam through my city. As he breathes the same air as I do, I find myself repulsed. I shall give you my Pardon to you, and all of your associates, when you bring me the head of the deviant, as a token of my gratitude." 

Colt turned the letter around to show Wojtek that this was signed by Duke Herrington, which was included with a stamp. 

“..In other words, it's a bounty request." The leopard concluded, folding back the letter to its original shape.

"Fuckin' knew it." 

The larger feline stretched his paw, finally snatching the envelope with a slight image of grudging disappointment. The captain suddenly squeezed his fingers, crumbling the paper. Throwing it over the underpass of the London Bridge, his expression remained unphased to such an 'honourable' request. 

"Of course instead of shillings, he's paying fuckin' amnesty. Might as well try to sell us a bucket full of seawater for our services. His amnesty, from what've heard, is staler than a cracker sat on the windowsill for fif't days!"

Wojtek tilted his head over to Colt, an eyebrow raised once more towards the curious leopard. "What do you think, kid?"

"First of all." 

Colt cleared his throat, propping himself up by his back to appear a bit more assertive than Wojtek.

"I'll stop calling ye' sir if you stop calling me kid. I am older than the spirit you cradle in your paw. Second of all. Why not take heed of the opportunity before us?" 

Colt took a step forward towards the lynx again, as if he was doubling down on the proposal.

"...This isn't some bloke who stole an apple for his kid. Scoundrels of this kind verily get off with a sterning.. and both hands chopped off. This is a person who slit the throat of royal blood. We don't have to turn him in... We can trade him for a profit... I bet this bounty is high up on the Shilling's Board." 

The Shillings Board was a socially constructed bounty board in which the most affluent pirates of the Old Westmeister keep track. The more dastard the crime, the higher a person becomes on the list, and the more incentive to hunt. The Shilling's Board is a humanized black market, in which all criminals have an influential tab for every scandal they have come across. Either people within the Board could be pawned off into undignifying slaves, or have their carcasses sold. 

The mention of the Shillings Board made Wojtek's ears twitch. 

A smile escaped his lips, brows narrowed down in a sudden euphoria. 

"Look at ye', boy. Speakin' pennies, the native language of the Wolfhound." 

Taking his chest off of the wooden rails, Wojtek's ears twitched once more from the brain-splitting sound of a locomotive incoming, its steam hissing from miles away with the cogs churning, making its gnarly, grinding sound. 

"Cab's coming. Join me for a pint, Johnny-boy. I reckon that it's time that you left ye' post in Prestoria, and be with the laddies. It's a long walk to either Prestoria or Gizmovale. Unless you fancy walking till the oil lamps grow dark, and you want to fancy being ripped to shreds by the Deckers."

“..I would love to go for a shot." 

Squinting towards the incoming light of the metrocab, Colt walked adjacently towards the train rails.  As the metal steam locomotive passed through their little meetsite, the two felines disappeared as quickly as they had come. 

With enthusiasm stuck in the lynx's mind, his mind wandered again. How could someone hate themselves so bad, that they would kill a Duke's son? 

It was soon enough that Wojtek Zuev would find out. 

And now, it was up to fate to shake the hand that holds the Dice.