Author's Note: Okay, hoping to see some new bridges built with this fic. Remember to rate and review.

Deep within the Heartland of the Outback Wasteland::

It was hot in Australia, like, really fucking hot. When the sun reaches its peak, if not blocked by radiation storms, is likely to roast anything beneath its fiery gaze. Many had perished among these hill, most would consider it a graveyard, not him, to him, this was home. The roar of his motorcycle ripping dirt, sand, and shrubs from their stationary position as he flies down the road.

His radio hummed softly with what he liked to call the old world blues.

"Ain't got no place to call a home, Only chains and broken bones, Ain't got no place to call a home, So come on Lord, won't you take me now?"

He hummed softly along with the music, muffled by the wind and rebreather attached to his face. He heard the familiar sounds of engines roaring behind him. He looked over his shoulder and caught sight of his pursuers, six vehicles in total, two motorcycles, three cars, and one big rig, all rusted and damaged to some extent, with metal plates semi professionally welded to the side acting as makeshift armor.

"Hmph, fuckin' junkers.."

He growled softly, irritated that he would be arriving home with more trouble than he planned. He slowed his bike as to let the vehicles catch up. He readied his 1911, and hit the brakes harder, becoming parallel to one of the other motorcycle riders. As he aimed, this was not unnoticed by the other junkers, who tried to run him down before he started firing.

Before the bike riders could react, a .45 round was fired and fine red mist exiting the other side of his head, causing him and the bike to swivel back and forth before crashing altogether and being run over by the big rig. He quickly began firing taking the other rider and one of the cars out of commission by eliminating the driver. He holstered his 1911, and slowed down more to pull up the side of the big rig. He grabbed a small cylinder from his belt beneath his duster, and slammed it against the side of the rig. He pulled the accelerator as hard as he could, launching himself ahead, deciding to add a wheelie for a good final 'Fuck You'. As soon as he passed the front of the rig, he glanced behind him to watch the show.

*BOOM!*

The rig's trailer flipped on the right side opposite to the fireball that rose to the left side of the trailer. Its resulting flip caused it to land on another car, while the other came to a stop, presumably to help out their fellow junkers. He kept down the long stretch of road, his radio still blaring in the wind. He followed the long road for miles with no stop, before pulling off to the right side onto a dirt road. He turned and dwelled deeper into the desert, enjoying the sea of blue, red, tan, and occasional green that was the Outback.

He pulled up to an old church in the middle of the desert. Its tall bell tower blocking out the sun, giving it a more mysterious look at first gaze. He pulled the bike up next to the door, before sliding off the bike and kicking up its stand. The masked man pushed the old, dusty, doors open with one big push, followed by the loud creak of the aging wood. He sauntered in, his boots making a quiet 'thump' each time it connected to the old wooden floor.

He looked around his "house" of sorts. There was a living area in the main hall, a large workshop like table, scattered with blueprints, guns, knives, and other parts, with a small fire pit in the middle, currently not lit. The kitchen was off to the left, consisting of a small island, a mini fridge, a old cast iron stove, and a few cabinets. On the right side was a old ceramic tub and metal bucket for washing. He didn't have a bed, but rather a sleeping pad braced with a few old dusty ponchos. But for the most part, he slept in the bell tower, incase of attack, he would know of his enemy. He spent weeks, months even, getting everything he had in here. This was one of his only possessions, his home. One of the few things he would die for. He held four things in high regard, his guns, his armor, his bike, and his home, in that order.

He flipped on a radio on a small table in the middle of the chapel. It filled his cozy home with the old words of Johnny Cash's 'Hurt'. He set down his duffle bag and lit a lantern on the table, turning the knob until he felt that it was producing the appropriate amount of light. The masked man grabbed his M1903 Springfield Bolt Action, his cleaning kit and sat down at the table and pulled a cigar from a breast pocket within his duster. He grabbed his mask and used his free hand to unlatch it from the back of his head. He placed the mask on the table and scratched the scruff on his cheek, itchy from being trapped in-between dirt, sand, and a tightly bound mask.

He closed his eyes and imagined the gun in his hands, completely bare, parts undone and carefully categorized. He placed the rifle on the table and with meticulous and carefully planned movements of a unspoken expert. He field stripped the gun in seconds, parts lay organized in a pattern only this waster could recognize. He realized he had yet to light the cigar he had in his mouth, he flicked open his old zippo, striking a flame, and quietly puffing his cigar, till the end glowed a soft red. He flicked the lighters lid back down and returned it to his pocket. The waster took no time in cleaning his weapons.

His "many" years here, despite his youthful age of twenty one, has taught him a variety of lessons. Clean weapons; especially since bullet cartridges tend to leave a gun far more damaged than pulse rounds. Ammunition; always keep a steady supply, he was lucky to have an ammo bench out back using recycled shells, but since they were a rarity, scavenging and recycling will have to do. Cooking; eh, better than ninety year old rations, am I right? Oh, and most importantly, stimulation of the mind; he learned years ago that endless hours of nothing could cause one to loose his/her mind. He saw it in the eyes of many of the Junkers, Raiders, and Madmen that wondered the deserts and savannas of the Outback. That raging fire of rage and revenge at the world for its cruelty, for taking their mind, their soul…

*BOOM*

Dust shook itself free from the rafters, floating down to the table in front of him. He lurched from his seat at the table, quickly grabbing his mask and rifle, now completely assembled and making way for the bell tower. When he reached the top, he was surprised to find the sun had set, how many times did he clean his rifle?

'Eh, who cares, I have more pressing matters.'

He aimed his rifle in all directions before a steady orange glow caught his eye, he zoomed the scope in to see a distant fire fight between two factions, he laid down and opened the bipod, aiming to get the best sight possible. He soon heard the steady ignition from a drop ship. He flipped over only to catch a glimpse of it as it flew over head, cut from view by the roof over the tower. He flipped back over to see it fly towards the distant gunfire. The night sky, despite the bright stars on the clear night, the darkness kept him from the drop ship's sight as it approached the fire fight. He kept his scope on the air support, and soon recognized a symbol on the drop ship. "OVERWATCH" He raised his brow, he had been through their old, abandoned bases, some out deep in the wastes like he was, in fact, if he was correct, there was one only a few miles from his home. 'At least I know where they are, but why is overwatch going to its old bases, i thought they were shut down by NATO and the UN?'

The gunfire escalated for a moment, his sights catching the members of Overwatch boarding the drop ship, and taking off with the hatch still down. They closed in on his position and he tensed instantly, 'Please don't bring your fucking fight to my door step..' Two fighters tailed the Overwatch drop ship before both released missiles. The masked waster's eyes widened, he aimed and and traced the missile a bit over sixty meters ahead and fired, his bullet slamming into the missile. The explosion was blinding, but it mattered not as the second missile struck the still open drop ship. He stood up as they passed the front of his land. When the missile made contact, he heard a scream as a woman clad in white plummeted out the back of the drop ship.

'WHAT ARE YOU DAFT? SAVE HER YOU DEGENERATE!'

The masked man shook his head of one of his more distant memories. He dove down the sloped roof before jumping, tucking, and rolling. As soon as he was back up, he sprinted forward already closing the gap and stopping, his arms held open to save whoever the hell decided against buckling up during Ariel combat. 'Omph!' He groaned as he caught the woman, holding her bridal style in his arms. Her eyes squeezed shut in fear of a death that did not come. The first thing he noticed, 'Heh, Im holding a fallen angel.' He joked internally. Second was her medical condition, she had a gash on her temple, a cut lip, and he could see a bruise crawling its way up her neck, like someone had been choking her. 'Omnic did it by the looks of it, too much damage for a normal hand.'

He grimaced softly, he had a really bad experience with being choked, 'But thats a story for another day, right now I need to get this woman back to her buddies…fuck.' He thought bitterly. With that, the Overwatch and pursuing ships sailed off into the distance. He grunted before turning and began walking towards his home, woman firmly tucked in his arms.

He glanced down to see she was still dazed and confused, shock and adrenaline in her system. Her focus came to the masked man before her. She opened her mouth to say something, hesitating before speaking. "W-who are yo-u?" She managed to stammer out.

'So she's Swiss, or German, can't really tell…'

He said nothing, hoping she wouldn't press further. She's a smart one, didn't push it, 'Thank you' he thought with appreciation. He turned around and pushed the door open with his back. Sighing softly as he brought her to the sleeping pad. He laid her down gently, noticing her closed eyes. She most likely passed out from exhaustion. He said nothing as he turned to activate the fire pit, eager to bring light to the dim room. He crawled underneath the table and turned the knob for the propane tank on, and using his zippo to light the pilot light. He crawled back out to see the room enveloped in a warm glow, as fire radiated heat and light to its surroundings.

He walked over to the woman and truly looked at her in the proper lighting. She was beautiful, clad head to toe in a set of armor he recognized from the posters in the old Overwatch base. White plate composite armor complete with a halo and set of wings. She was missing that staff from the posters, 'Where is her doo-hickey?' He tried remembering if he saw her grasping the staff when she fell, and remembered she most certainly was. He left his home, door cracked open and went outside to where she had fallen. He saw a small pulse pistol and a staff that seemed incomprehensibly complicated, there on the ground. He approached and picked both up. He twirled the staff and looked at it stoically, examining it. He heard the door creak and spun around, pistol aimed at the door. He put the staff in-between his back and one of the bandoliers strapped to him. He kept the pistol level to the door and approached quickly going to the side of the door. He used the muzzle of the gun to push the door open.

First thing he noticed when he opened the door. 1. Lady in White was not on the bed. 2. His 1911 on the table was gone. 3. There was a presence of a cold metal barrel pressed against the back of his head. He sighed audibly before raising his hands and turning around, she had his gun pointed at him, trembling some-what.

"Al-lright, here's what's gonna happen. Y-You're gonna give me my staff and gun, and I-HEY!" She leveled the pistol to his head as he reached behind him, he stopped his movements before continuing until he grabbed her staff. He instantly noticed she stopped tensing as much. He pulled it free from his back, in an instant he used it's superior length to knock the pistol out of her hand, with it up in the air, he brought his hand up and caught his 1911, bringing it back down, level to her head. She gulped and raised her hands. Her confidence destroyed, she stood back. "S-Stay Back! Pl-lease don't hurt me!" He lowered his handgun and holstered it. He walked to a locker in the corner and opened it, he placed the staff within it as well as her pistol before locking it and placing the key in his pocket. He turned back to her and pointed to the bedding. She looked terrified, like someone who was trapped in a cage.

He decided that if he didn't want Overwatch coming in and wrecking the place, he needed to let her know he didn't plan on doing anything to harm her, and for some reason, the look of fear she gave him bothered him more than usual. He just wanted to heal her up, and send her on her way. Maybe Overwatch would even give him stuff to make more ammo! Oh boy, what a dream…with that, he sighed, and began.

"You hungry?" She looked surprised by his question, even as far to say, "C-come again?" He grunted softly before speaking again, his rebreather deepening his voice. "Are you hungry?" He said louder this time. She seemed taken aback before reluctantly nodding. Its not like she remembered to grab rations before she was forcefully ejected from a drop ship. She had planned on eating as soon as she returned, but it appears she will be dining with a stranger tonight. He said nothing and walked to the kitchen, preparing Angela's first meal in the wastes. She watched him and slowly made her way to the pallet he had laid out and after carefully removing the wings and halo circlet from her head, she laid down and stared at him from across the room.

She took in his appearance, he was tall, at least by her standards, and that says a lot considering the super soldiers she fixed up in the past, coming up to a comfy 6'7. He wore a large brown duster, with kevlar armor underneath, and black combat pants and boots. His dark brown hair and faux haircut stood out, she wondered how he managed to keep it so short considering the lack of barbers in the area, it spiked up slightly in the front. She saw he still wore the rebreather even inside, were the radiation levels here high or something? Or did he just not want her to see his face. She imagined it was the latter. His holster shook has he stirred whatever was in the pot on the stove. He turned and set the woken ladle down and placed a top over it. He walked over to the radio and turned the knob, only receiving static on his end. "Grrrrr, stupid fuckin' rad storms.." He turned to a trunk near the locker he placed her staff in. and approached it. "R-radiation? Is it bad here?" He stopped and looked at her before smiling behind his mask.

"*chuckles* You have no fuckin' idea." He rasped. She paled before trying to sit up, he lost the smile and changed course and went to push her back down, she grunted, but offered no resistance. He turned his attention back to the trunk and opened it. He pulled a old standard issue gas mask, a med kit, and a small electric guitar and amp from the old steamer trunk. He used his foot to close it and sauntered back over to her before setting everything down. "The gas mask is for when a rad storm hits, which it should in the next day or so." She shrunk even more.

He grabbed the medkit and opened it, opening old packets of alcohol wipes and opening them. He looked at her a sighed, know full well he was going to have to take the make off so he could see her wounds more clearly. He reached behind his head and unlatched the main connecter and pulled the mask free from his face. He heard her soft gasp. He almost chuckled. 'Of course, why would i expect otherwise?' He thought darkly. He looked up at her and saw something he didn't expect. He expected pity, fear, maybe even disgust, but only a look of pure sadness adorned her graceful features. 'Graceful?' He shook his head and began wiping the blood from her face and from the sides of her lip. She hissed as the wipes made contact. She winced every dab he did, and saw that the woman was in deep thought. 'Please don't ask me…' "I-If you don't mind me asking, what happened to you?" He lowered his hands to his lap, looking into her eyes, trying to detect any type of malice or ill intent of the question, but found none.

He continued cleaning her face as he began speaking. "When I was but a boy, and for many years to follow, I was a slave for the local raiders, any minimal crime and the slaves were punished harshly, if there was absolutely anything out of place. I was caught sneaking food to other slaves. The penalty for that is death, but my owner decided i was still useful, so he decided to whip my face with a bull whip twice, once for my mistake, and another so i would never do it again. The other scars range from fire fights, to tumbling around with the local wildlife. Something ill need to keep you informed on if you are to survive longer than a week here, and the last are from fires, some brands, some punishment, they all vary.

She soaked in all the details with rapt attention, and slowly studied his face. High cheek bones, strong jawline, face full of scruff, he was the perfect picture of a survivalist, the idea of a man overcoming nature by himself. Three large scars all parallel with a few inches of space between each on the right side of his face, the middle one having barely gazed past his eye. 'Wildlife..' Two more jagged scars on the left, one from his strong cheek bones to his nose and a slightly longer one above the first, 'Punishment..'

"How..how old are you?" She asked softly. He stayed quiet for a moment. "Twenty one I think, I lost track after out here is relative." He finished shortly afterwards, and sat back, looking at the bandages that covered her perfect, pale, complexion. They both stared at each other, her blue eyes noticed they way his turquoise eyes seemed to shine in the light of the fire. "Thank you…for saving me." He nodded quickly, unsure how to respond to praise. He closed his eyes before strapping the mask to his face and walking back over to the stove. He opened the lid and quickly dished it into a bowl. Before setting the bowl along with the spoon next to her, he grabbed a pillow from his steamer trunk and approached her. he grasped her shoulder and helped her sit up, she shivered at the feeling of his armored gauntlet supporting her. He placed the pillow behind her and handed her the bowl. With a quiet thanks, she began to eat the soup. It didn't taste bad, just, earthy, like nuts, spices, and kind of an beany flavor.

He smiled behind his mask when she ate it without any protests of taste. She seemed to be wholly focused on her food. He turned to walk towards the stairs of the bell tower, rifle, guitar, and amp. He was about to reach the stairs when her gentle, swiss voice broke the pregnant silence. "You never told me your name?" Not a statement, but a question, one she seemed an answer too, well, he'll get the ball rolling for her. "You can call me Perdido.." With that he began his climb of the stairs, not bothering to look back for her reaction.

Author's Notes: Well, here ya go, it isn't much to go on, but its most definitely a start. Lemme know ya'lls feedback. Btw if my spanish is correct "Perdido" means lost.