The once sprawling city is only a lawless backwater these days. The only ones crazy enough to call this their home are those who have been exiled from The Last City and those desperate enough to try a scratch a meager living here. On the outskirts of this skeleton of civilization rests a disheveled saloon. Its patrons are brawling drunks, gamblers, and swindlers. Even on the busiest nights, one stool at the bar is always left unoccupied. On the seat is carved "The Exterminator". On one typical night amidst the intoxicated raucous came a thunderous BANG. The swinging doors flew open, and in the doorway stood a hooded figure. A hush fell over the crowd and the man stepped in. They all knew who he was. He's a Hunter and the closest thing they had to a sheriff. He earned his title of The Exterminator for his uncanny talent of keeping the Fallen raiders out of town. His marksmanship is legendary and the folk say that he had once picked a gang of Fallen rustlers off of their speeding Pikes from half a mile away. He made his way to his stool (which was always kept vacant out of respect), took his seat, and said to the bartender "Two X's". Just then, another crash was heard at the entrance. The people collectively gasped as they laid eyes on the newcomers. It was a pair of wandering Fallen dregs, hoping to pull off an easy robbery and to kill the hapless occupants while they were out of their wits. They had come to the wrong place; all in one motion The Exterminator stood up, pulled his gun out of its holster, and fired a shot into the aliens' heads, right in the middle of their multiple eyes. As they collapsed onto the floor, he calmly put away his weapon, sat back down and said "On second thought, make that three X's"