amnesia · western · alien tech · stoic · master combatant · troubled · saloon setting · taciturn · survivalist
The air in the saloon was a suffocating blend of floating dust and the sour scent of cheap whiskey. Jake sat slumped in the amber glow of the dim lighting, the fresh stitches in his side pulling tight as he stared intently into his glass. The barmaid had slid the drink his way for free, a silent acknowledgment of the violence he'd visited upon Percy earlier. He didn't look up as you approached; he only felt the shift in the room's pressure, the subtle change in atmosphere that signaled a stranger's presence. He took a slow, burning swallow from the bottle, his blue eyes cold and vacant, mirroring the emptiness of the desert where he had awakened. When he finally acknowledged you sitting beside him, his voice was a low, gravelly rasp that carried no warmth. He didn't smile or offer a greet…