After the first short, I felt compelled to make at least one more entry into the world of The Wasteland, and it's Avatar.
The Wasteland is a desolate place. A world without law, where those with power take what they want, and those without live in fear. Even those with power live in fear, and band together, to increase their power, and push their fear away.
The Wasteland is a land without law, but it is not a land without justice. There is a man, spoken of in whispered voices by those who do evil, and spoken of in awe by those who live peacefully. He has no name, they refer to him only as 'The Avatar of the Wasteland.' He is a human embodiment of the land they live on, harsh, and without mercy.
Those who live by stealing and killing others fear the Avatar. The sun had set on one of the raider outposts. The air was filled with the voices of loud, bragging men. They spoke lout to hide the fear in their voices, because if such a man was afraid, such a man was soon dead.
A man walked into the outpost, he wore a gray shirt, and worn jeans. The tattered remains of a cloak clung to his torso. Two USP .45 handguns rested in a spot that might have been hidden by the ragged cloak. His eyes were a cold, stone gray, and held no kindness. His face was severe, like a man who has forgotten how to smile, or even frown.
The man walked into the sand-worn building the raiders used for a bar. Without a word, he raised both guns, and began to fire. Bullets flew with unerring accuracy, punching holes in cloth and flesh. The Avatar rotated, continuously squeezing the triggers.
When the Avatar ejected the ammunition clips, only four others stood in the bar. A very scared looking man behind the counter, a glass still held in his hand, two girls, much to young to be in such a place, and certainly not here of their will. The final man was a very angry looking raider, reaching for his gun. In a flash, the Avatar tossed one of his guns into the air, and hurled a knife, before snatching the gun before it dropped to the ground. As his hand touched the grip, the knife buried itself into the raider's throat.
The cloaked man reloaded his guns and walked calmly out of the bar, leaving the three remaining inhabitants breathless. The desert air blew, and a hail of bullets raced out toward the Avatar. His boots made contact with the sandy ground, even as the first bullets leaped from his guns.
The Avatar spun, still firing, and avoiding bullets. The shots charging toward him tore his clothing, and flew all around him, but never touched his flesh. The men who had dared to raise arms against him fell to the desert ground, along with all the spent casings. As the Avatar walked away, reloading his weapons, not a single man in the street still drew breath.
The Avatar's boots crunched on the sand as he left the raider's outpost, now nothing more than a mass grave for those evil men who had once dwelt there. He departed the town with the same expression his face had held as he entered, none at all. As the Avatar walked, rust colored sand, dyed by the blood of men, flew along side him, lifted by the winds.
This one shows the same child as from the previous story, only years later, a legend in his dying world. I tried to show how much he is actually connected to the planet with the wind and sand.