Hey Man, well this is Babylon

The new treaty re-affranchised Piotr from the years of imprisonment following his plane being downed behind enemy lines. Having not seen beyond his filth-ridden cells in a decade, the effulgence of the sunlit world outside brought him to his knees, tears streaming his face… but he cried not for the sun.

Upon his death, years later, he clutched half a broken necklace – his war souvenir – and gasped a stranger’s name.

The only visitors to his grave were his wife and a tall, teary-eyed old man with a foreign accent, who said only that they had been friends during the war.

Priming his steed to charge once more into the fray, the grizzled champion grunts, and lowers his lance back into position. The signal flashes, the onslaught begins anew. Like wild beasts fleeing a fire, his foes lurch forth as a disjointed mass. He easily pushes through, whacking their ankles and knees with a precision honed by years of practice and victory. The few unfortunates who do not dodge scream in vexation as his steed tramples their errant feet.

Safely through another crowded intersection, the old man lowers his rubber-tipped cane once more, and steers his power scooter down the sidewalk.