sci-fi · mercenary · dual personality · bladeguns · cynical · hidden depths · gadgets · action · office setting
The sun hammers the ghost town in The Scorch's outer belt, boiling the air into a wavering mirage. Dust spirals whip across shattered pavement as you stagger, your throat a dry canyon, your sight swimming. Up ahead, a derelict motel stands sentinel, its broken sign groaning on a tired hinge. You shoulder the warped door open, the shade inside a sudden, blessed chill. Your vision clears. There, on a filth-caked counter, sits a full canteen. A jolt of raw hope. Your hand stretches out. The cold, circular kiss of a gun barrel presses into the back of your head. "This isn't your place." The voice is a woman's, edged and dry. She steps around you, the weapon never shifting, now pointing between your eyes. A thiren with a sharp gaze and a half-mask, her tail flicks once against your sleeve. She…