Re: Rifts - EotC - Silvereno
Posted: Tue May 05, 2026 11:40 am
"Bummer, but if he does need me, hurry back!" She flashes him a warm, lopsided smile, the kind that makes it hard to tell whether she’s teasing or genuinely interested.
Betty proves to be exactly the kind of woman Shep suspected: grounded, sharp‑minded, pretty without trying, and clearly capable. Most of their conversation drifts into the weeds of power‑armor maintenance, specifically the nightmare of replacing a power core. She explains the process with practiced ease, sketching diagrams in the air with her hands, emphasizing just how delicate, dangerous, and credit‑draining the whole ordeal can be. Shep gets the sense she’s done it more times than she’d ever admit.
After their mild but pleasant lunch, they part ways. Shep strolls down the sloping street toward where Hatchet and the others said they’d be. The walk starts quiet enough, broken only by the occasional peddler trying to sell him junky rust‑flecked trinkets, “rare” minerals that are clearly gravel, miracle tonics that smell like paint thinner. He brushes them off and keeps moving.
The further he descends, the more Silvereno reveals its working spine. Miners dominate the foot traffic, consisting of broad‑shouldered men and women coated in dust, their clothes torn, their skin marked with cuts and bruises that look days old at best. Some sport bionics: reinforced arms, metal‑plated jaws, ocular implants glowing faintly beneath grime. Some upgrades are clearly the result of accidents; others look like deliberate choices to survive the brutal labor.
Younger locals nod respectfully as Shep passes, recognizing the posture and presence of someone who’s been around and survived much. But respect thins out the closer he gets to the entertainment district. The air grows louder, rowdier. A fistfight spills into the street. A pair of prostitutes call out half‑hearted offers. Solicitors shove flyers into hands. Drunks laugh too loudly at jokes that aren’t funny.
Eventually, the street widens and bright lights bloom ahead. The Silvereno Palace Dance Hall and Casino towers over the block like a glittering monument to excess. Inside, the place is a sensory overload, with slot machines chiming, cards snapping, dice clattering, a giant wheel of fortune spinning under spotlights, and a sports‑betting board flickering with odds on everything from pit fights to mining competitions.
Shep is wildly under-dressed for the velvet‑and‑gold atmosphere, which makes it easy to spot Hatch, Orin, Herman, and Kip. They’re clustered around a table, equally under-dressed and already three drinks ahead of him, laughing at something that probably shouldn’t be funny.
A high heeled, slender brunette cocktail waitress, in an outfit that ONLY covers her naughty bits, drops off another round, balancing the tray with practiced grace. As Shep approaches, he catches the sound of slow, elegant music drifting from an adjacent ballroom, exhibiting couples gliding across polished floors in a world far removed from the chaos outside. The guys still haven’t noticed him.
Betty proves to be exactly the kind of woman Shep suspected: grounded, sharp‑minded, pretty without trying, and clearly capable. Most of their conversation drifts into the weeds of power‑armor maintenance, specifically the nightmare of replacing a power core. She explains the process with practiced ease, sketching diagrams in the air with her hands, emphasizing just how delicate, dangerous, and credit‑draining the whole ordeal can be. Shep gets the sense she’s done it more times than she’d ever admit.
After their mild but pleasant lunch, they part ways. Shep strolls down the sloping street toward where Hatchet and the others said they’d be. The walk starts quiet enough, broken only by the occasional peddler trying to sell him junky rust‑flecked trinkets, “rare” minerals that are clearly gravel, miracle tonics that smell like paint thinner. He brushes them off and keeps moving.
The further he descends, the more Silvereno reveals its working spine. Miners dominate the foot traffic, consisting of broad‑shouldered men and women coated in dust, their clothes torn, their skin marked with cuts and bruises that look days old at best. Some sport bionics: reinforced arms, metal‑plated jaws, ocular implants glowing faintly beneath grime. Some upgrades are clearly the result of accidents; others look like deliberate choices to survive the brutal labor.
Younger locals nod respectfully as Shep passes, recognizing the posture and presence of someone who’s been around and survived much. But respect thins out the closer he gets to the entertainment district. The air grows louder, rowdier. A fistfight spills into the street. A pair of prostitutes call out half‑hearted offers. Solicitors shove flyers into hands. Drunks laugh too loudly at jokes that aren’t funny.
Eventually, the street widens and bright lights bloom ahead. The Silvereno Palace Dance Hall and Casino towers over the block like a glittering monument to excess. Inside, the place is a sensory overload, with slot machines chiming, cards snapping, dice clattering, a giant wheel of fortune spinning under spotlights, and a sports‑betting board flickering with odds on everything from pit fights to mining competitions.
Shep is wildly under-dressed for the velvet‑and‑gold atmosphere, which makes it easy to spot Hatch, Orin, Herman, and Kip. They’re clustered around a table, equally under-dressed and already three drinks ahead of him, laughing at something that probably shouldn’t be funny.
A high heeled, slender brunette cocktail waitress, in an outfit that ONLY covers her naughty bits, drops off another round, balancing the tray with practiced grace. As Shep approaches, he catches the sound of slow, elegant music drifting from an adjacent ballroom, exhibiting couples gliding across polished floors in a world far removed from the chaos outside. The guys still haven’t noticed him.