LA was empty. The once busy streets of Down Town were now abandoned and Punk hated the void it left. Not long ago these streets would have been full - experienced men and women brushing shoulders with petty thieves and thugs. Now, just chancers remained. Most were homeless and Punk was one of them.

A chill hung in the air, along with the talk of treachery. The details of how the city came to fall were still sparce, but people were slowly beginning to talk. Punk had little time for gossip. It was a stench that inhibited real conversation, and he was repulsed by those that dealt in it. He had less time for the disloyal mind, and so he found himself tolerating the whispers.

Punk looked out from beneath his hood and into the room. This had been his favourite club once, yet now it was merely a squat. A dark, damp place shared by junkies and vermin alike. Punk had never been a career criminal before now, but he felt something stirring within him. Amongst the squalor, he sensed opportunity, and felt that only by seeking it, would he find the answers to the many questions he had.

The world, and not just LA, was a lonely place right now though. Finding people to trust was going to be difficult. People were watching their backs wherever they turnt and just asking for a light was often met with a sneer. Punk would remain in the shadows of the decrepit room until night fall - only then would he emerge. Dancing between the shadows was the easiest way to stay safe and certainly the easiest way to stay alive.

Until then, all there was to do was wait. He sat with his back against a wall and brought his knees up to his chest. To anyone walking in, he himself could easily pass for a shadow, or a trick of the dim light. He was sure he would go unnoticed. That was unless of course, someone was looking for him.

Punk lifted his head as he saw a street light flick on outside. He must have dozed off. He hadn't noticed the half dozen or so dark suited men on the far side of the room earlier. He was sure they hadn't been there. Some were sat on barrels. Others were on broken stalls. All were engrossed in what Punk assumed was a game of poker.

Before sleep had engulfed him, Punk had decided what he was to do. Slowly he forced himself to his feet. He had no idea who the men playing cards were, but if he made too much noise, he knew he'd find out. Given they were probably armed and Punk certainly wasn't, he wasn't in the mood to find out.

Fortunately, Punk knew the club like an old friend, and so when a particularly large man celebrated a winning hand, he slipped out of a side door and into the night.

Punk's plan was to head to New York - the land of opportunity and home to the American Dream. He hoped he'd find a Family out there. He was spending the last of his money on the flight, so he knew he had to.