You rise from the stool with a huff. Hunching over, you wander out the door and into the warm mid-morning. The heat has evaporated away the evening rain, leaving a lingering humidity in the air. People wander by, sweating in the heat, but you do not. Instead, you realize you feel nothing, except for a light breeze on your exposed skin. Passing by a merchant's mirror, you take pause. He tries to sell it to you for a fraction of the supposed cost, but you ignore him, fixated as you are by your appearance.
You're a tall, lanky girl, with a shock of bright red hair. Its unevenly cut, a portion of it hanging down past your ears on your left side. The rest is trimmed up high, and the back is shaved to your head. You're pale, far paler than anybody else you see. Almost translucent, with visible veins. The other thing you notice is an androgynous face, were it not for your long hair and the curve of your body, you could be mistaken for a boy.
"If you're not going to buy it, then stop blocking it!" The merchant screeches, and you take your leave.
[19] As you walk away, somebody grabs the back of your coat. You twist out of their grip, swinging around to face them, squaring up, ready for a fight-- with an old man, who huffs and puffs heavily. He leans on a cane, his hands shaking. Nerves or ailment, you couldn't tell, as he looks frightened.
"Wait, please!" He begs, lifting a hand, "I'm not here to fight! I heard you're looking for work. I can provide a job. Please, come with me back to my shop! I can pay you well!"
What luck.You nod, following him back without expression. He leads you to a run-down building off the main sqaure, something that was once a gun-shop, if the signage is to be believed. You enter the dustry main-room, taking in the machines and lathes as he hurries to take a seat, heaving a labored breath. The building is a mess, filled with scattered appliances and dirty clothes, half-finished guns gathering dust. A small reactor hums in the back, a display listing a very large number. Several pistol magazines are plugged into it.
"You, you know how to fight. I can tell!" He begins, staring at you over his glasses, "I need someone like you. You're not with a merchant caravan, either. No attachments. I need someone killed, and you're my last hope." He carefully draws a gun out from a safe, more of a masterpiece than a firearm, he sets it gingerly on the table in front of you. "This gun and [five credits] will be your pay."
"Who?" You query, mind performing the math. [Five credits] will provide you enough to live on for quite a while, a loaf of bread costing somewhere between .03 and .04. A night at the public house was [.2 credits] for the suite. Its a hefty sum, for a place like this.
"I want you to kill the son of the warlord."
You don't remember who you are.
You are peckish.
Your side aches. Blood stains your bandages.
Over Body:
A charred black, brown, armored duster. Torso:
An oversized, grey shirt. (hidden)
Lower Body:
Faded blue scratchy, canvas pants.(hidden)
Feet:
Woolen socks(hidden)
Feet:
A pair of leather boots.
Side: A wrapping of bloody bandages.(hidden)
In Belt: A burned knife.
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Topic: McCreary's Planet -- (FINISHED) (Read 224415 times)