Camera opens on a Nuclear Wasteland that was at one point was Washington DC. Alexander Ovechkin, clad in shoulder pads and armed with his Bauer stick sharpened to a point on both ends, urges his battery powered segway forward through the desolate city. He was on his own, had been that way for as long as he could remember. He hums to himself as he passes blown out shops, dilapidated homes, an empty playground. At some point before the reckoning this had all been his, he had been one of the privileged few of the society before. OV grinned down proudly at his 600th goal puck, displayed on his pads above his heart. He had been one of the best at Ice Hockey, an absurd contest of physical ability played entirely on ice involving putting a rubber puck in a net by hitting it with a stick. Truly remarkable talent at this bizarre and trivial game that they had paid him millions for. He lived like a king, driving the fastest cars and attending the biggest parties. In the midst of what would of been another 50G season, everything had gone white and the world as he knew it had changed. His big house on the hill had been destroyed, and his model wife had been caught in the blast.
It was all over now, it had all crumbled before him, brought down in a flaming fury by the arrogance of man for reasons he would never understand. In some ways, he was still at the top. He ruled this territory, none of the other survivors would dare set foot in his districts. The last man that had tried to steal from him had been left bloody on the windshield of a Range Rover in a major intersection.
Alex had been wondering briefly if he could still put up 50 goals this season if they asked him too, when something clanged loudly off the side of his helmet. He pivoted clumsily on his trusty mechanical steed, still freshly painted proudly with the Russian colours of his birth on one wheel and the Capital's on the other. A half full Budweiser can lay at his feet. Alex looked out through his tinted visor, squinting through the wind and the blowing ash. A hooded figure sitting on a peddle bike and wearing a Penguins jersey idly thumbs a massive pipe wrench. He was impossibly thin, his legs gaunt not even testing the elastics of his sweat pants. From across the eternally gridlocked avenue the man nods a ghostly grin at the Russian Superstar. He grins with the same smug satisfaction all people exhibit whenever they feel any sort of pride in someone else's achievements, and yells "How's the second round taste bitch!".
