He almost misses it. The suns are in his eyes, his water's nearly gone, the radio hasn't picked up anything but static for over an hour, and there's something wrong with the front right wheel that's making the car vibrate in a concerning way. Wolfwood's half watching the desert in front of him, half scanning over the map spread out over the steering wheel, checking for any town between here and December that might be big enough -- or intact enough still -- to have fuel, water, cigarettes, because this car is about to die, and he's got no plans to die with it.

It's just a flicker on the horizon, and at first he thinks it's just more rocks. But the color isn't right -- it's not the dark brown-red of stone in shadow. It's black, and very few things out in the desert are black during the day. Is it a person, out there wearing all black in the desert heat like some kind of idiot? He's grumbling as he turns the wheel, but he can't just leave them out there, can he? With his luck, it's another him, out here skeletonizing in the middle of nowhere.

And then he sees the roots, and everything slows down. He knows those roots. He watched them climb out of the tower in Julai and destroy the town, roots the same color as the wing Stampede had sprouted when he fell out of the sky. Roots that crushed everything in their path. Roots that are now stretching out across the desert, with a human-sized shape in their center.

He should get back in the car (when did he get out of the car? Suddenly he's standing beside it, mouth agape, with no memory of stopping) and drive away as fast as he can. He should flee... but he has to know. He has to see it for himself.

"Blondie?"