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The woman made her way through the darkened remains of what had been a quaint English town. The torn stumps of broken trees stood out from the ground, their ends seared like so many matchsticks. She made her way past the empty shells of homes, their interiors filled with nothing but rubble that had been picked through by countless scavengers. She stopped for a moment at a ruined intersection, to get her bearings and rest for a bit. She was tall and lean, wearing the remains of what had been a hazmat suit over top of leathers that had likely come from a motorcycle shop. On one hip was a holstered pistol, on her other side the scabbard of a sheathed machete went down the length of a muscular thigh. ...