Justice. Whoever had named this little rabble of dilapidated buildings must have had one hell of a sense of humor. Situated beneath what had once been a bustling inter-enclave highway, the only people in Justice were the forgotten and those that wished to be forgotten. There were no laughing children, men working, or any other sign of life because noise or commotion of any sort invited too much trouble. It appeared uninhabited.
A solitary man wandered underneath the vast abandoned highway, avoiding the noon-day sun all he could. His old, worn out trench coat and balaclava did little to protect him from the driving sand of this arid, forgotten place. The figure peered from underneath his weather-beaten stetson at the decrepit town and shook his head. He grabbed his waterskin thirstily from his belt and lifted it to his lips, but it mocked him with only a small trickle of moisture. The man chuckled softly and replaced it on his hip as he headed for the foreboding town below, his coat billowing out behind him.