The Aimless Wanderer slowly trudged through the hot, dry dessert. He drug a large object covered in bandages behind him. The Wanderer wore a black top hat pulled down over his eyes, with bat wings sticking out from its sides. On his thin frame hung a dark trench coat covered in zippers, and around his waist were three large belts. He wore thick, heavy boots painted with red “X’s”. It was the outfit of a man exiled from society.

The Wanderer stopped as the dessert sand began to rumble. Mechanical dolls rose up all around him with terrible shrieks. They unsheathed rusted blades from their arms and charged simultaneously. He yanked on the ropes housing the large object he drug behind him. Two gatling guns lifted up into the air, and The Wanderer caught one in each hand. He immediately opened fire on the dolls, downing them in droves. When the last one fell before him, the desert was soon quiet again. Unphased, The Wanderer repackaged his weapons and trudged on. Some say no man is an island. He disagreed.