As for Great Zimbabwe, IOTL the Rhodesian government pressured archaeologists to deny it had been built by black africans. The area of OTL Zimbabwe in WMIT is chopped between the carolinians, the mittelafrikans and I think that maybe a bit of Dutch South Africa too. Granted, Mittelafrika is not long for this world, but I don't think the other two, even the comparatively liberal dutch, are going to be much different from the rhodesians in that regard. Same for other archaeological findings under those governments.
I really only mentioned Great Zimbabwe because it was the first thing that came to mind. Egypt is probably going to be the one they really love.

(also love the TL btw, def my favorite on this website)
No freaking way

"I'm gonna need what you got, fellas. It's all just business," a drawling but gentrified Southron accent shouted out over the crackling, hissing, popping of burning vehicles and wreckage of the American convoy.

"Get fucked, merc!" shouted an ORRA boy with a New York accent from inside an overturned truck. "We're taking this gold back to the states or dying trying."

"Fellas, I am, well, to be frankly, unscarcely afeared that there is gonna be a whole lot more of the latter," said the Southron hired gun. "Y'all know who I am, right? I respect the hell outta y'all ORRA boys, but I think we know who is gonna come out on top here. You are surrounded on all sides by the best guns Black Orchestra has. There ain't no gettin' out of this alive with the loot. So lay down your guns and we'll let you go. No need to widow y'all's wives and girlies. Ya hear?"

"You're Skellie, the dollar dan from Osage," shouted one of the ORRA boys who had survived the initial ambush that had seen their lead truck detonate in a fireball thanks to a well-placed mine, causing a massive pileup. As the Americans tried to hop out of their wrecked vehicles and return fire, Black Orchestra sharpshooters turned the whole event into a reenactment of Braddock's Defeat during the Seven Years' War. Only a handful of Americans now survived.

The Southron smiled underneath his massive mustache, the pale blue eyes under the brim of his dark tan pinch-crown hat lighting up from the flickering reflection of the blazing inferno all about him. "I am indeed Skellie Skelton, the dollar dan from Osage. Y'all know that the original Dollar Dan, the greatest damn mercenary of all time, was my mentor?" He shifted on his feet, the antique long-barrel revolver twitching in his hand as he kept an eye out for movement or tricks from the ORRA boys. Skelton was one of the last of the cowboys, in his own personal grand sense of self-perception, and Dollar Dan's Moneymaker, with its ivory grips, marked him as the best, and last, of the old-time gunmen. "So, listen, boys. Lay down your guns and come on out. We'll tie you up, leave you be, and no one else has to die, ya dig?"

"You gotta mighty big head for a traitor!" the New York accent retorted, followed by the sound of a new magazine being loaded into a rifle.

"I am no traitor, boys," said Skellie calmly. "America was founded on the principles of freedom and personal liberty. To quote Tommy Paine, 'The world is my country, all mankind are my brothers.' Somewhere along the line, we stopped giving a damn 'bout any of that, but I didn't. Now, one last chance, boys. Come on out, or we come on in, and if come on in, you won't being comin' on out ever again, and that's a fact, by God."

A bullet fired from inside the truck with the New Yorker whizzed by Skellie's head, leaving a small scorch mark on the brim of his hat. He smiled and sighed as he raised Moneymaker up to eye level and squeezed the trigger, resulting in a scream from inside the vehicle. "What a man gets for expressing mercy and charity in the Lord," he muttered.

In an instant, the entire road lit up with gunfire and muzzle flashes. Although he was striding into the open and with seemingly vanishingly slim care if he lived or died, Skellie was unharmed. The gaunt merc walked ahead at a leisurely gait, his brown trenchcoat blowing in the breeze. ORRA troopers were leaping out of every nook and cranny along the debris-strewn country road, but every single one who raised a gun against Skelton was either cut down by Moneymaker or sniped by a Black Orchestra "musician." One trooper, covered in blood and badly injured, was choking on his own blood but still attempting to raise his sidearm to take aim at Skellie. Within a nanosecond, a bullet slammed into the young man's hand, sending bone, blood, and the sidearm flying through the air. Skellie merely looked down at the dying man, touched the edge of his hat in acknowledgement, and said, "'Scuse me, fella. Comin' through."

"Fuck you, hillbilly!" screamed a trooper from behind an overturned truck. He held up a grenade, pulled the pin, and lobbed it at the uncaring and seemingly inattentive mercenary boss. It skipped on the ground once... twice... three times--and then rolled directly under Skellie's heel.

"'Praise be to the Lord my Rock,' Skellie calmly recited Psalms to himself and whoever could hear. "Who trains my hands for war, and my fingers for battle.'" At the end of the verse, his leg moved at seemingly superhuman speed, his oxblood captoe boots sending the grenade straight back from whence it came with freakish precision. The resulting explosion killed the original thrower and two more Yankees as well, sending gore, glass, and shrapnel flying through the air.

Over the next ten minutes, Skellie proved why he was considered the greatest gunfighter alive since the death of Dollar Dan Dunwich. Not once did he take cover, not once did he flinch, he merely made his way down the line of trucks taking out every single opponent in his way as snipers backed him up and two more Black Orchestra gunmen advanced from behind. Within this short span of time, the ORRA squad was almost entirely destroyed. In between every six deadly shots, the Osage-native flicked the cylinder of Moneymaker out and loaded it with six more bullets, all perfectly arranged on speed-loaders kept in his combat belt's satchel.

Arthur Aldridge was just coming to, rubbing his head as he tried to get his bearings straight and understand what was going on. New York, the man he thought was his friend, had knocked him out when he had tried to keep the American from massacring English civilians. Now, gunfire was erupting all around and the smell of fire and gunsmoke was overwhelming. The young teen tried to rise to his feet and saw New York, blood pouring from his arm, firing blindly out the back of the truck. The first bullet Skellie had fired had struck him and made it nearly impossible to reload his weapon. The man turned and looked at Arthur with bloodshot eyes.

"Look, kid, I need your help. You think I'm a bad guy? I ain't got shit on what's coming our way. So, please, kid, help me reload this gun and we'll get outta here. I promise."

Arthur crouched down and made his way over to New York, taking the empty rifle from the man's bloody grip. New York moved his injured, shattered arm with a groan and used his good hand to retrieve a fresh magazine from his belt, handing it to Arthur. The gunfire was dying out outside, the number of surviving Yanks depleting to near-zero. With a click, Arthur slid the magazine into place and wracked the bolt.

"Thanks, kid. Gimme that thing, hurry!" New York begged him, his fingers making a desperate grasping gesture as the footsteps of Skelton approached outside. Arthur stood up straight, looked once at the rifle and then down at New York. "Kid?" The young lad raised the rifle so that New York was gazing directly down the barrel. "Kid, put that down and give it to me! For fuck's sake, c'mon! We're pals!"

"You're nothing but a dog," Arthur spat back. "And dogs get put down!" Before he could make another plea, the firing pin struck the fatal round and New York's throat was aerated by his own weapon. A deathly gurgle escaped his lips as he slid to the floor of the truck.

"Nice work, son," said a drawling Southron accent just outside the truck. Arthur shakily aimed the rifle out the back of the truck, but saw no one. Then he noticed that the hole in the canvas from the round that hit New York's arm formed a peephole. A pale blue eye was gazing at him through it. "Now drop the rifle, son. I got fifteen guns trained on you right now. I don't have no quarrel with children."

Arthur's hands shook even more, sweat pooling on the grips of the rifle. "Who-who are you?" the kid asked.

"I'm Skelton. Conductor of the Black Orchestra. You ever heard of us?" the man asked, his pale, unblinking eye still laser-focused on Arthur.

"Black Orchestra? Yeah, you blokes are legends. Adventurers without a country. I r-read 'bout you lot in the pulps."

Although Arthur could still only see the eye, he was sure he could somehow sense the man was grinning. "That's right, son. We got no quarrel with you. Put down the gun, and jump out of the truck and you can live just fine, see? Whaddaya say, pardner?"

Arthur had killed two men now. He wasn't trying for a third, nor did he think he could actually outgun a mercenary legend. With a cracking voice, he replied, "O-okay, deal, sir. Please don't shoot. I'll drop the gun."

"That's a lad," the Southron said with a happy chuckle.

With a loud clang, the rifle hit the cobblestones outside. In a moment, Arthur came out afterward, his whole body shaking. He could see multiple gunmen all along the roadside, all of them with rifles pointed directly at him. Then there was Skelton, in his trenchcoat, sideburns, and bushy mustache, who was, as he had guessed, smiling broadly and triumphantly. The man didn't look especially evil or diabolical, but at the same time looked like he knew how to kill a man in one thousand different ways, and he probably had. "I surrender, sir," Arthur said.

Skellie Skelton chuckled and lowered Moneymaker. "Hah! He surrenders boys! Get our trucks pulled in and start loading this god-danged loot! Move it, y'all!"

As the Black Orchestra "musicians" loaded the beloved treasures of the Britannic Union onto their own "civilian" transport trucks, Arthur sat on the roadside, his chin on his knees and his hands wrapped around his ankles, thinking of all the times in the past couple days he had narrowly survived being shot to death. To his surprise, Skelton walked his way and asked him, "You okay, son?"

"I'm fine, I guess," Arthur replied glumly. "I just want to be somewhere safe."

"Well, sorry, pardner, but that ain't here. That anthrax should be rolling in here in a few hours. These guys giving you a ride, I take it?"

"Yeah, they were. I even helped them fight some Imperials. But then they massacred a lot of my people, and I realized they were right proper evil sons of bitches, sir," Arthur told him, his voice brimming with anger as he remembered the thump of the dead refugees under the wheels of the American truck.

"Where you headed?" Skellie asked, crouching down on one knee to be eye-level with the boy. "You got folks?"

"My dad got killed. My mom and sister were headed for London when we got separated. It's too late for me to go there now. The Yanks were taking me to the southwest coast."

"Sorry for your fortune, pardner. Really I am. Tell you what! If you promise not to shoot me like you did Bluebelly back there, I'll take you to Berlin with me."

"Thank you, sir, but there's nothing for me in Berlin. I suppose I will just get on the nearest rescue ship if you can get me to the coast."

"Berlin is like a whole 'nother planet, son. There's freedom, there's opportunity. I ain't taking you to the coast and puttin' your ass on some godforsaken slow boat to hellhole land, because right now there are two options for rescue ships, and damn both of 'em. One is the American 'ark' fleet and the second is the Loomies. The Loomies said they aren't gonna let 'their fellow men' die of some damnfool national suicide, and the Bluebellies are gonna send all the Brits they can get to 'promised land' of New Zion. But when a gift horse is Loomie or Yankee, don't just look it in the mouth, son, you better have it analyzed in a damn laboratory. Come with us, to Berlin, and I'll see if you got what it takes to become a Black Orchestra man. I don't do this job because I enjoy killin', and I gave these boys plenty of chances to surrender, just like I gave you. I do this job because this is the closest you can have to personal freedom and living life on your own terms. I have no borders. I have no state. I don't belong to a cult. I go wherever I please on other people's dimes because they want me to work for 'em. They don't care if I'm cornbread, they know I am the best at what I do. And I could train you to be better than me some day. I ain't never had time for a wife or a steady gal, so I don't have kids. But a lot of Black Orchestra boys adopt war orphans and bring 'em up. This is a silver platter, son. Reach out and dig in."

A million thoughts pounded through Arthur's skull. If he didn't go with them, he would never get out of the country in time on his own. But if he went to Berlin, the odds of him finding his mother and sister dwindled to almost nothing. Who even knew what ship they would get put on? They could be in America or Russia inside of a month. It was a nightmare, and he just wanted it all to stop.

"Boss!" yelled a German man wearing a black combat uniform, his Loomie-made submachine gun slung over his chest, paratrooper-style. "We have incoming Wormist vehicles! We need to get moving, mach schnell!"

Skellie picked up the American rifle Arthur had tossed down earlier and held it out, gesturing for Arthur to take it. "I ain't leavin' you with some Wormist psychos, pardner. Take this here gun and get in one of the trucks and I'll make sure you get out of this shitshow in one piece. I promise that, son."

Arthur locked eyes with the man, looked down at the gun, and back up at the man. Then, he made his decision, stood up, and took the gun. "Alright, sir."
It sure feels like the ruthless mercenary organization is the one of the least evil factions operating in Britain right now which says a lot considering they’re still pretty damn bad.
I'm really sorry for little Arthur, now he has next to zero chances of seeing his family again. But, on the other hand this is an extremely interesting development. Skelton doesn't seem like a bad guy (and that's saying something), and maybe he'll be a positive thing for Arthur, maybe even a new father figure.
Paris is so close to all that anthrax i doubt it can continue to serve as the capital of Europa. If Napoleon was smart he'd move it to Algiers

The convoy of Black Orchestra vehicles rolled to a halt in the town of Truro, location of a landing of French troops during the Fall of the Empire so many decades before. It had not been an uneventful ride, with widespread violence, looting, and mayhem breaking out on every inch of Britannic soil that had not yet been abandoned silenced by the inevitable tendrils of the Massive Area Denial Device. The town of Truro was overwhelmed by refugees, which simultaneously annoyed, disturbed, and gratified Skelton, who sat in the driver's seat of the lead truck.

"Isn't it dangerous for us to be in the front of the convoy, sir?" young Arthur Aldridge asked from the passenger seat as he fidgeted with his oversized rifle and looked out the window at the herds of frightened masses.

"Indeedy, son. It is. But I don't trust my fate to no one, y'see? I trust the Good Lord to protect me, and when it's my time to die I will. But it is not this day, kid. We're almost to the meeting spot. Home stretch!" Skellie said with a cautious smile as he side-eyed a nearby beggar, pawing for a ride.

"So why do they call you Skeleton?" Arthur inquired, raising an eyebrow.

"I used to be quite thin, ya know. When Dollar Dan took me in, I was starvin', emaciated, and on death's door. He called me Skeleton. Plus, along with that, I'm a bit of a grim reaper, some folks say. So I just take it as it comes and go with the flow, so to speak, hear? It fits me, I think."

"Tell me about Dollar Dan," Arthur said, excitedly. "I heard you mention him a couple times, now."

Skelton grinned and took a sip from his canteen before handing it over and offering it to Arthur, who greedily drank it up. "Dollar Dan was the greatest gun-fighter and frontiersman since Daniel Boone, if you know who that was."

"The chap who wore the opossum on his head, right?" asked Arthur.

"Eh, you got the general idea, yeah. Dollar Dan was such a grand hired gun that his very nickname became a byword a-sorts for all hired guns everywhere. People called him Dollar Dan the Killin' Man, the Osage Gun-Goblin, even Destiny Dan, and lots more, but his name was Daniel Boone Davis--and yes, named for the man with the, uh, possum on his head. He started out as a paid explorer for the Bluebelly government, surveyin' land after the conquest of California and Canada. Now old Dan, he was a fast draw, and after the companies and corporations started a-claimin' soil after said conquest, they needed gunmen to patrol it and keep the filthy tide of peasants and regular folk from comin' in."

"So... the government let the companies have first call on the new land?" Arthur asked, trying to understand his bizarre American cousins.

Skelton made a turn down a suburban neighborhood. The houses were all shattered and looted, with several men still in the act of pulling someone from a cellar entry and delivering a beatdown for daring to hold out supplies. "Same as it ever was, and has been, in America, I'm afraid, son. The government promises the people the world, promises them gold, soil, and glory, but in the end, the companies, the Economic Clans, always get first dibs over normal folk. It's just how it goes. Anywho, back to my main tale, the main show, as it were, pardner. Y'see, old Dan found himself in the employ of the Holyfield Security Force. Holyfield is that creepy family of inbred oilmen you might have heard of. Their current head was given the entirety of Colombia as a personal playground. Anyway, the Holyfields were building this pipeline to bring water to Angel Grove, a city that by all rights should have never been more than a few houses, a church, and a brothel, and instead it's now a major city back there. Farmers in the Mono Valley didn't take kindly to getting, one: screwed out of the first dibs on the good land, and two: having these inbred apes take their water and kill their crops. They started blowin' up parts of the pipeline and even blew up a damn company aeroship. HSF goes in, Dollar Dan in tow, and they don't truck with company property bein' destroyed. They cleaned house. Every last farmer went down--some clapped in iron and others in six feet of soil. Dollar Dan was a hero, got himself a big raise. And there he is, gettin' all celebrated-like, but he's feelin' not so great about it. He quits and becomes a free agent, y'see? Over the years, he becomes the greatest free agent of all. Eventually, he got drafted by the Black Orchestra outfit out of Berlin. He rescued me from a human trafficking outfit that some cultists were runnin'. I was gonna be sacrificed to the serpent god. He took me under his shoulder and later, as he was dyin', he gifted me Moneymaker, his six-shooter. Old lady, this gun, but I wouldn't go anywhere without her."

"How did he die, if you don't mind me asking?" Arthur asked. He was greatly enjoying the story and it distracted him from the chaos around them.

"Black Orchestra answers to no flag but our own. We were founded by an old-time Nipponese samurai who came to Europe after the Americans took over. He was a great musician and conductor, best since Beethoven, some said, but he was even better at killin'. Finally, one day, Dollar Dan became more popular than this old Nip, and the Nip was gettin' up there in years. So he challenges him to a duel. If Dan defeats him in singular combat, he has the right to lead the company, y'see? All of us are trained in Nip-style swordsmanship, includin' Dan. But... well, the luck ran out, and the Nip ran him through. Still never lost a gunfight. I was there. I watched him die."

Arthur looked down, saddened. "I watched my father die, as well. I'm sorry, sir. I know... I know what that feels like."

Skelton slid a hand across and clapped Arthur on the shoulder. "Yeppers, I reckon you do. Hang in there, son."

"What about the old Nipponese man? What happened to him?"

A look of focus and anger came over Skelton's face as he replied, "Old bastard died of a 'heart attack' a few months later. Command went to his son. I'm gonna--one day, y'see, and one day soon--challenge that little daddy's boy for command and have my justice. This job is gonna be my last big one, y'see? I'm gonna use the profits to buy me some loyalty and mount me a little rebellion, and put my sword through that little entitled paper-pusher's throat. Hey, I think we're about here."

Up ahead, at the end of a long empty street, a cluster of official-looking vehicles was parked like a circle of covered wagons from the Indian days. Mercenaries in suits, ties, and combat gear strode about, watching the convoy of Black Orchestra vehicles roll in. In a moment, a man with a thick head of brown hair and a pristine gray business suit waved them down and motioned for them to lay on the brakes. Arthur did so, and within a moment, he, Arthur, and the rest of the mercenaries began to bail out and stretch their legs.

"You must be Mr. Skelton!" said the businessman, pointing to the spindly merc. His other hand carried a gas mask.

"Indeed. Whom do I owe the pleasure?" Skellie asked, shaking hands.

"Ebeneezer Bush the Younger. Folks call me Eb. I'm the general accounting manager for Bank of the Union. My cousin, Pinnacleus, the CEO, sent me to oversee our little transaction." All about the convoy, the armed men in suits began to examine the content of the trucks and were busy noting things down on papers and bustling about with boxes of the most valuable items. After a few speedy moments, two adjutants brought a iron box before Bush and opened it up, revealing the antique crown jewels of the old British Empire of the Hannoverians.

Skelton crossed his arms. "Alright, Mr. Eb, we followed through with our end of the bargain. Do you have our reward?"

"Indeed. My cousin thanks you for the retrieval of these incredible assets, and for your speed. This might have been a hasty operation, but you excelled. Tremendous work! Not only does my CEO thank you, Mr. Takahashi does, as well."

"Takahashi? What do you mean?" Skelton asked, his heart skipping a beat. Takahashi was the name of the leader of Black Orchestra, the cowardly little desk-dweller who he had so long planned to challenge.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Skelton. I'm afraid this operation is highly sensitive, and cannot have even a man like yourself walking around, opening your big, fat, country-fried mouth about the whereabouts of the Crown Jewels and all this beautiful gold. And Mr. Takahashi has reason to believe that you are plotting against him. That, you might call, a bit of a convergence of needs. We, Mr. Skelton, need you dead," Eb said dramatically, almost theatrically, as he slunk behind a meat-shield of goons.

Just the smell of the Bostonian's rancid cologne made Skelton ill. His fingers twitched as his hand went toward the pearly grip of Moneymaker, and his other hand drifted toward the Nipponese dagger under his trenchcoat. He surveyed his options as he heard his men begin to form up behind him. Those same men were starting to realize that they were about to be attacked by their allies after risking their necks to complete an incredibly dangerous and exhausting mission. Their fingers began to twitch as well as the suited goons began to pour out of every nearby doorway an alleyway, raising their guns in the direction of the mercenaries. "Mr. Bush, you're a curr, a liar, and furthermore, a proper rapscallion. I spit on you, sir. If I'm to die today, and my men, as well, at least we will die honorable deaths in combat."

"There will be no combat, Skelton," said Bush as he boarded one of the black armored vehicles and readied to close the door. "This is an execution, not a battle."

Arthur looked up at Skelton, panic setting over him again. "All this, just for us to die here?"

Skelton grinned and shrugged. "I'm sorry, pardner. No one has ever dared double-cross me before. But I suppose there's always a first time, eh?"

A hail of gunfire erupted all about, men dropping like flies. The only issue for the Bank of the Union security men was that it was not their guns, nor the Black Orchestra men. Instead, they were being dropped from behind by an oncoming tide of government troops in uniforms covered in bizarre sigils and occult symbols. It was the retrieval force sent out by Marshal Ephraim Becket, the acting leader of Britannia, the head of the Army, and the new leader of the late Dr. Clubb's Wormist sect.

After realizing what was going on, Skelton didn't hesitate to turn around, throw Arthur to the ground, whirl back around, draw Moneymaker, and blast three of the stunned and panicking Banking men. As the cultists poured into the area from every possible direction, the hired gun knew he had to act quickly if he and his young squire were going to get out of here alive. As a Wormist trooper charged him with a bayonet, he pulled out the short Nipponese sword from under his coat, deflected the attack, and then shoved the blade directly under the man's chin and out the back of the skull. He pulled the blade out like the victim's head was made of butter. He then reached into his combat belt, drew a small black orb, and threw it to the ground, sending a noxious cloud of smoke in all directions. Without a second to lose, he grabbed his young ward, plunged the sword into the ground, and in one swift movement sent a sturdy metal sewer lid flying. As the sounds of battle overwhelmed the senses, he and Arthur hopped into the sewers of Truro.

As our protagonists desperately waded through filth and muck as they made their escape, they could hear the buzzing noise of approaching whirlygigs. Bush had ordered in backup, and now the Wormist troops were getting a taste of heavy metal as full-auto side-cannons ripped into their ranks. The oily Banker watched from inside his armored car as five nearby cultists were slammed by the death from above. One man was sent careening backward and into a dumpster, which was a fitting resting place for such filth, Bush smiled. The battle would rage on for thirty minutes. All of the Black Orchestra men were cut down, and the cultists were sent reeling back in retreat. But the fight wasn't truly over. More Wormists were arriving by the minute and advancing on their position.

"Sir!" shouted a terrified driver to Eb Bush. "What are your orders? We're surrounded."

"You are the only one surrounded, Roy," the Banker said with a wry, wicked smile.

"Sir?" the clueless driver asked as he loaded a sidearm and waited for further explanation. Bush simply grabbed a helmet from the seat next to him, stepped out of the car, and shot a flare into the sky from a small orange device he had kept under his suit jacket. Within seconds, one of the Bank of the Union choppers had landed and was waving to him to hop on. Bush grabbed the chest containing the crown jewels and hopped aboard. He could hear the driver's door of the armored car open up and Roy come hurtling his way, exclaiming, "Wait! Please, sir! Don't leave me with these heathen!"

But the chopper was already lifting off, Roy's fingers barely gripping the side of the craft. Eb Bush smiled and looked down at the pathetic chauffeur. "Sorry, pal. My mission is to bring these shiny babies back to my cousin. And you're dead weight that will only slow us down."

"Sir! Please! I have children!" begged Roy as Bush's oxford dress shoe moved over his fingers and the chopper rose higher and higher. "Please! Don't leave me! I have served you for eight years! Is that not worth anything to you, you rich bastard?!"

"The only thing worth anything is money, Roy!" The shoe bore down on the pale, white fingers. As Roy hurtled toward the pavement below, Bush merely slapped the chest of jewels with one hand and mockingly saluted the splattered remains of his driver down below. "Mission accomplished! Now let's get back to the States!"
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For a moment I really thought that Arthur and Skellie were going to die. Luckily they escaped, and hopefully they'll live long enough to fight another day and kill Takahashi.
1) Least violent day in the capital of the British Union
2) What fascism does to a mf
3) Most beautiful Pinnacle Men
I especially like the flying stop sign, if that is what it's for.

Seriously though, a gunslinger who carries a Japanese short sword as backup fighting company goons sent by Bush, only for them to both be attacked by apocalypse cultists who worship the Conqueror's beautiful.
Dang we’re really going in on Skelly being the least evil guy we meet here.

Gotta admit I didn’t expect Eb to actually escape but I guess they get the Jewels.