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Here is chapter 2. Hope you enjoy it!

The drifter and his sister were born December 2nd, in the year 2213. They were twins, but not identical twins. Their mother, like them, was a mutie, though not perfect. His sister, as his mother had told him, was born with a fatal deformity and died within 2 hours of birth, but the drifter himself was born flawless. The animal genes that seemed to have gotten jumbled with his own were that of a vulpine creature, most likely a red fox. He had a mostly human body, but was covered from head to foot in fur. His palms were bare, but the skin there and on the soles of his feet was thick and leathery. His nose and mouth extended outward into a dog-like muzzle, ending with a black nose slit down the middle. His ears were atop his head, instead of on either side, and were shaped like curved dishes that could swivel independently of each other to pick out sounds, just like a dog, or cat, or any other animal of that sort. A bushy tail was sprouted just above his rump, which twitched and flowed from side to side very slowly, and almost constantly. The fur that coated his body was orange, the fur on his chest, stomach, and lower jaw was white, and the tips of his ears, tail, and the fur from his elbows and knees to his hands and feet was black. Even for a mutie, he was born a fine-looking boy. Unfortunately, however, he was never adorned with a name of his own. It was considered, by humans, improper to allow muties to bear names, or other human luxuries. Things like these changed by the time the gunslinger grew up, however.

He was born in a small nameless settlement in Canada, and him and his mother lived there for two years. When the accumulate radiation of the area became apparent, they moved on. While journeying from his home to the new settlement they planned to live in, they were attacked by a group of "labor hunters", and this is when the gunslinger met the man of his nightmares. Labor Hunters were no more glorious than the name suggests: They seek out potential slaves. When they attacked the caravan that the drifter and his mother were part of, they took him away from the others. He was taken to a place far east, caged up with other young muties and carted into what used to be the United States. He never saw his mother again.

He worked as a slave for 10 years before being traded for the last time, with thousands of other captured muties from across the world. They ranged in size and shape, all the way from sheep and birds, to large bulls and scaly lizards. They were auctioned and sold in bunches, all real humanity stripped from them. The drifter ended up with a group of 20 other muties, sold to a haggard man named Julius.

Julius owned almost 30 acres of water. Pure, clean water. His slaves cleaned it, collected it, tested it, and delivered it. Occasionally, they even got to drink it. Julius employed Labor Hunters frequently to collect his workforce (A workforce which, I may add, died off very frequently), and to watch over the slaves already in his possession. His favorite group of Hunters called themselves the "Mechanics Gang", and were known by being especially violent in their work. They killed, slaughtered, maimed, raped, and took the occasional survivors as slaves. This is the same group that attacked the drifter's caravan.

At the age of twelve, he spent only two months at Julius' lake after arriving. One the first day he was lined up with 19 other muties, all just as young, in front of Julius' home (A still-intact suburban house on a cracked old neighborhood road). They were each given a letter to call themselves by. The drifter was "N".

During his two month stay, he was worked half to death and then some. Even at a young age, he was becoming well toned, and his fur had dullened in color. He met a few other slaves there who could have become close friends, had he stayed longer. They began making up names for each other, based on their assigned letters. They called him Nicholson, and he felt it suited him just fine.

When two months of back-breaking work had passed, he was summoned from the lake by one of the Mechanic Gang. He was led up to Julius' house and Julius was waiting for him there.

"What is your letter?" Julius asked.

"I'm Ni-... N. My letter is N." The drifter had replied quietly.

"N, I am re-assigning you." Julius spoke again. At this, the drifter's heart began to hammer in his chest. During his stay at the lake, many other slaves had told him about the ones who had been "reassigned". They always left with the Mechanics, and never came back.

"You are going to join my group of Labor Hunters, and assist them in their work." Julius finished. The gunslingers heart had dropped like a stone in water. There was no way he would do what the Labor Hunters do, not in a million years. He would rather be their enemy than ever, EVER, be an ally.

Unfortunately, he had no choice. The drifter was taken away and indentured as a slave for the Mechanics, carrying their guns, packs, and food. On occasion he stayed to watch their gear when they left for a hunt. On the first time he was left behind to watch, he was left in the supervision of another Mechanic. The one the others called "Granite".

He had sat quietly in the dark, looking at his own feet, while Granite sat on a knapsack a few yards from him. After almost an hour of silence, Granite spoke to him.

"Ye got a name, son?" Granite had asked.

"N- No ,sir, just a letter." The drifter replied.

"Don't gimmie none of that bullshit," Granite said in a hearty tone. "I know all you mutes' been namin yourselves around. What they call you?" The gunslinger hesitated, then answered.

"Nicholson, sir. They call me Nicholson." Granite gave him a grin that chilled his soul and stood up.

"Well, Nicholson." He said, "You ever handled a peashooter before?" He was drawing his small 9mm pistol from his waistband as he said this. The drifter- Nicholson- shook his head. "Well, it's about goddamn time you tried, huh?" Granite held out the weapon to Nicholson and waited, looking down at him with that same horrifying grin. Nicholson stared at the gun, keeping his fingers knitted together on his lap. After a moment, Granite began to move the gun away. The drifter thought he was going to leave him alone again when he was suddenly knocked sprawling on his side. His vision filled with stars and the side of his head screamed with pain. When his head cleared and he sat up, he could see Granite holding the pistol by the muzzle, and the grip faced out ward like a club.

"Take this here boomer, 'less you wanit to knock ye cross the head again." Nicholson hastily obeyed this time, carefully taking the pistol in his hand. It was heavy, far heavier than he thought it would be, and the grip felt cool and soothing in his hand. He ran his thumb slowly along the side of the barrel, taking in the texture of the switches and buttons for the magazine release, slide release, and safety. It was a little big, and didn't look quite right in his child hands, but he could still get his finger around the trigger. He felt, for maybe the first time in his life, powerful.

"The safe's still on there, so don't be tryin to shoot nothin yet, or you'll just look like a fool." Granite looked around and then pointed off into the distance. "See that thar? Looks like some sorta bird." They drifter looked out at the snowy expanse of flat fields, in the direction of Granite's finger. Sure enough, a mutated bird sat crookedly on an old dead tree, tending to its disastrously-colored feathers. "I want you to see if ya can take a shot to that." Granite said.

Nicholson looked down at the gun in his hands again and then back up at Granite. He didn't dare turn the gun on him. He had no clue what he might be capable of, or what the others might do even if he DID manage to kill the Mechanic.

Slowly, Nicholson got to his feet and looked downrange at the oddly perched bird. He raised the gun to eye level and looked shakily through the sight. "Alright, son. Now, to turn off the safe ya wanna click that button-" Granite indicated toward the white rimmed switch on the left side of the pistol, "so it shows red on the other side." The drifter did this, and saw the button click out on the right side, rimmed in red. "There, now all ye need is to squeeze the trigger." Nicholson looked down the sights again, drawing the bead at the end of the barrel level with the lumpy creature on the branch several feet away. He began to slowly pull on the trigger. The gun fired before he expected it to, shouting its report across the snowy plains. It leapt back in his hands and he let go, dropping it in surprise. It hit the ground and fire again, leaving a bunched line across the snow to trace the bullet. Nicholson fell on his ass, equally shocked by the second shot.

"What the hell was that, ye foolish cull?!" Granite roared at him. "Don't just up and DROP the blasted thing!" He swept the pistol up from the ground and tucked it back into his waistband, muttering profanities under his breath. Nicholson looked back across the plains and saw the bird had taken flight, and now wobbled off into the distance.

"I-I'm sorry, sir..." Nicholson began, but he was cut short when a boot connected with his backside, urging him quickly back up to his feet.

"You got a lot of shit to learn before ye through with us Mechanics, ya hear? If we gotta deal with Julius keepin the likes a' you with us, then you gotta be able to handle yourself." With that, Granite turned and went into one of the tents that the Hunters had set up, and left Nicholson to his own devices.