The Mojave wasteland. The sun melts the old Sunset Sasparilla billboards. The wind blows sand and tumbleweeds. They're shooting somewhere far away, in short bursts. You're standing by the wrecked Highway 95, next to a burned-out bus. On the side is painted: Casadores — to the north. A skeleton in a dusty raincoat peeks out from under the bus, an empty pistol clutched in his hand. Next to it is a crushed pack of cigarettes and a half—empty flask of muddy water. You're nobody. Or someone. Is the Ranger wearing a gas mask? A legionnaire in ragged armor? A tramp with a repaired rifle? A hooded ghoul? Decide for yourself. The world is waiting.