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[indent][color=lightgray]A greasy hand limply emerged from the wreck, sand pouring through every crack and crevice. It was motionless in the air for a moment, fingers not daring to twitch else they snap off. However, the muffled sound of voices soon woke the owner, prompting him to come scrambling out from under the burnt corpse of a car. His body ached, bones groaning and clicking as he stretched. A squinting eye scanned the frame up and down, looking for something useful, something to fix or take, though came up with nothing. Dog Bob lifted his goggles further up his face, letting them cling to his mask with an audible thump as his pupils dilated. This was not his beautiful car!

Suddenly, the Australian became aware of the severity of the situation. He swivelled on the spot, shaking some sand off his clothes and drinking in his surroundings. Alas, the World Left Behind had frowned upon those that wished to inhabit it, having sent a vicious storm to lay waste to the convoy he had been travelling with. The scene around him was a nightmare, even by his standards — bikes and trucks alike mercilessly corpsed, bleeding from every orifice. Fumes of guzzolene filled his nostrils, seeping through the hessian to enrich him with vigour and energy. He shuffled through his pockets, releasing a relieved sigh when he discovered his life essence, his Chrome. Olds be damned, he was not done with this day yet.

Deciding it would be best to start moving, lest his legs dry up and crack, Dog Bob sauntered off in the direction of the yammering voices. Luckily he hadn't been flung too far from the party, though he had certainly been flung and bore the pain and bruises to prove it. His chestplate would need some hammering, some patching up here and there. Perhaps, with enough care, he would one day unlock the secret of the blessed G 267 and understand its cryptic message. Would it give him the skills to be the shiniest Blackfinger ever known? The hessian mask wrinkled slightly as he grinned to himself, imagining Wordburgers of old teaching the stories of Dog Bobbus Mungus The Tinkerer The Second, immortalising him for his otherworldly hammering and tinkering. His pace quickened as he was invigorated by his own dreams, abruptly coming to a halt as he saw something ever-so-familiar. 

The Blackfinger practically leapt towards the flipped dune buggy, mustering all the strength he could do set it back on its wheels. Rash had only been flipped onto her side, thank all that is shiny, so it was an easy enough task. She'd lost a few plates in the storm, though, which would be a harder thing to rectify judging by the scream that suddenly assaulted Dog Bob's ears.

[b]"[color=D8ED1C]YOU CALL YOURSELF A DUST WHIRLER!?!? YOU COULDN'T BLOW ME BACK A SINGLE STEP!!![/color]"[/b] The cries were joined by a musical banging against metal. It was a surprise the ropeable bloke had survived the storm that landed the convoy in this predicament, since he seemed about as useful as tits on a bull during the little time Dog Bob had spent with him.

He shook his head, looking inside the prized vehicle  before him and finding nothing left of the parts he'd hoarded inside. While he hadn't expected them to be there, he still felt a tang of disappointment. Nonetheless, he moved on, starting the buggy with bated breath and hoping for better news. An exhale shortly followed, drowned out by the sputters and gentle hum as the engine shook to life. His parts were gone, but the amalgamation of his lifeblood and work was still breathing fine; all was not lost. Moving to the back of the buggy, he began to push, deciding not to waste fuel given how close the voices were.

Turning a corner, the source of all the screaming (and various other sources of the yammering) were finally in full view. One, two, three, kamakrazee four, all staring (or shouting) at the storm drifting towards the ruined convoy. He silently hoped that more would come crawling out of the sands — more hands to carry whatever parts were left, to hustle it away from the flying sands. He had also silently hoped the tin-arsed human-tinkering whacka with his grabby ratbag hands had gotten hit a little too hard by the flying carnage, however, so today was a day for letdowns. Dog Bob hissed through his teeth upon seeing those smegging bug-sized windscreens, blacker than the night. It was at that moment he realised he still had his throat; his voice, his breath, his life. He hissed one more time just to make sure, before shutting off his engine and joining the rest of the group a few paces away, just as Dreadlocks drew his attention to a smoke pillar in the distance.

[b]"[color=a32887]No! We need tuh search the corpses, find their shine an' repurpose 'em! Breathe life anew into 'em![/color]"[/b] Dog Bob exclaimed, desperate to honour the legacy of the fallen vehicular warriors. He pulled his goggles further down his face as he stared out into the storm. [b]"[color=a32887]The flying sands'll catch us bef--[/color]"[/b]

[b]"[color=#DEAD00]Hey! Who's not dead?![/color]"[/b] Came a voice, gliding down the dunes and towards the survivors. [i]A saviah, or a destroyah?[/i]

It seemed chaos existed outside of flying sands today.[/color][/indent]
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