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The aftermath of El Paso still haunts Sara like a half‑remembered nightmare. The explosion was so vast it seemed to swallow the world and should have erased every trace of her bounty on Lt. Toshihara. Yet, when the smoke thinned and the rubble cooled, she found only ash. Piles of it. And one man in ornate ceremonial garb, dying by inches, clutching at Sara’s arm and begging her to save him. His wounds were beyond anything mortal hands could mend. His final words were, "Splynn save me..." before expiring.

Remus and Lance hadn’t been so lucky. What was left of them streaked the sewer walls like some grotesque mural. Eshantra and Karak’t vanished during the chaos, and Kryyn… Kryyn simply dissolved from the world, leaving no trail at all. Leaving Nico Mikado... Who just vanished as well...

Months passed. Sara drifted from job to job, collecting the gems she’d been hunting. Even now, she can’t resist peeking into the oversized pouch, the stones glinting like captured stars:

Emerald — 16 carats
Diamond — 18 carats
Pink quartz — a solid 2‑pound chunk
Sapphire — 10 carats
Ruby — 5 carats
Obsidian — 12 carats, dark as a moonless sky

Not a bad haul for a handful of “small” jobs. But the pouch feels heavier than its weight, like it’s waiting for her to decide what it all means.

Then a rumor reaches her. Someone matching Kryyn’s description has been spotted living quietly in a tiny farming community built around a desert oasis: Camp Wilson. Sara can’t decide whether to claim the reward on the former officer… or help her slip the Coalition’s grasp for good. Either path promises danger. Her story seems intriguing. Why did she desert the military? Why's the bounty so high?

Seven months since she last saw Kryyn, Sara rides into Camp Wilson on her trusted Northern Gun 480 turbo‑jet hovercycle.
The town is mostly horses and dust, with a few stubborn old vehicles rattling around. No real defenses. No sign of militia defense against supernatural threats. Three SAMAS units fly overhead, heading north. They even wave at Sara as they pass. She swears that the surname on the chest plate reads, "Mikado."

As she slows, a group of horse riders approaches from the south; three silhouettes against the shimmering heat. Sara stays in her NE‑C20 armor, visor down, identity hidden.

The riders draw near. The man with the sheriff’s star gives her a measured nod; respectful, but curious. The deputy beside him, about the same age, lifts a hand in greeting. “Hello, ma’am. You new here?” The sheriff slowly shakes his head at the obvious, yet ridiculous question.

The third rider doesn’t speak. No badge. Just a CP‑40 pulse rifle slung with practiced ease. Her blue eyes lock onto Sara, and for a heartbeat, recognition flickers across her face like lightning behind clouds. Then she masks it.

But Sara already knows. It’s Kryyn...

“I’m just passing through on a hunt,” she says. “Where’s the bounty board? Might pick up a little something extra.”

The sheriff’s gaze sharpens, not hostile, but weighing her like a puzzle piece that doesn’t quite fit. “Interesting. And what... or who... are you hunting?”

Beside him, the deputy lets out a low smirk, the kind that says he enjoys being underestimated. “Bounty board? We’re not that kind of town. Buuut…” He drags the word out like bait on a hook. “We could use another deputy. Or a warm body to help the locals shovel out the livestock pens. After the zombies, we need help. Pay’s competitive.”

The air shifts. Kryyn hasn’t blinked once. Her bright blue eyes stay locked on Sara, unbroken, unblinking, uncomfortably knowing. She slides her urban warrior helmet on with slow, deliberate precision, letting her armor settle into place like a memory. Last time, she wore standard deadgirl armor. She knows. She shouldn’t, but she does. How?

The question hangs between them like a drawn blade, silent and dangerous, waiting for the next move.

OOC: Welcome back!

"I hunt for purpose, not fame, glory or reputation. Too many get caught up in the personal and end up dead. I do my best to avoid direct conflict, the dead can not hurt innocence." Sara completely ignores the women with the sheriff. Not even giving her a glance. Not a threat, not a warning, just stating a fact.

"As for the zombies, I prefer to leave the manual labor to the strong handsome men" her voice winking. "But if you need a trigger to help remedy their problems, that's something I can do." She does not intentionally ask how bad it is. She can not do anything for them after the fact. The dead are dead. The damage is done.

"I hunt for purpose, not fame, glory or reputation. Too many get caught up in the personal and end up dead. I do my best to avoid direct conflict, the dead can not hurt innocence." Sara completely ignores the women with the sheriff. Not even giving her a glance. Not a threat, not a warning, just stating a fact.

"As for the zombies, I prefer to leave the manual labor to the strong handsome men," her voice winking. "But if you need a trigger to help remedy their problems, that's something I can do." She does not intentionally ask how bad it is. She can not do anything for them after the fact. The dead are dead. The damage is done.

The sheriff and his deputy exchange some expressions, then eventually the sheriff nods, "Alright, well, we've had a few people show up from Drive City, escaping a violent raid from the Pecos Raiders. Ever heard of them?"

"Raiders are the same everywhere." Her voice speaks with the coldness of the grave. She intentional tightens her hand and faints a move to a weapon. It is all a show but it gives comfort to others

"What proof of death are you requiring? and what is the pay?" Again, intentionally making it out as though part of the payment is justice. She even narrows her eyes in her helmet knowing they can not see but imagining it anyways. Her left foot imprints into the ground and the sound of dirt and rocks whimpers as a quick grinding gesture is made. The imagine of grinding the bodies into dirt projected out.

"Raiders are the same everywhere." her voice carries the chill of a freshly dug grave. She tightens her grip, lets her hand drift just close enough to a weapon to make everyone wonder if she’s about to draw. It’s theater, all of it, but the kind meant to steady the nerves of the people watching.

Kryyn holds her defensive stance, shoulders squared, confidence radiating, but she never once looks away from Sara.

The sheriff tilts his head, studying her. “You get around then, eh?”

Sara doesn’t answer him directly. Instead, she fires back with, “What proof of death are you requiring, and what’s the pay?” She shapes the words like justice itself is part of the bargain. Her eyes narrow behind the visor, even though no one can see it, but she imagines the effect anyway. Her left heel grinds into the dirt, the soft crunch sounding like bones under boot.

The sheriff hesitates. “Well… I don’t know about proof of death. We just need to keep this town from goin’ through what Drive City must be suffering. Pay’s eleven hundred credits and a house while you’re in our employment. Plus a careful screening of your abilities, aptitude, and loyalty to protecting the good folks left.”

He steps closer, his kind blue eyes reflecting in her visor. “Name’s Hank Harper. Sheriff.” He gestures to each person in turn. “Al West, my top deputy. Karen Aoki, volunteer deputy, who's proven damn invaluable. And my boy Reggie’s over at the hospital. We could use more lawmen… or lawwomen. You could tail Reg or Karen once we get your screening done, if you're still interested.”

Kryyn finally speaks, her voice unmistakable; the same one Sara remembers from El Paso. “Hank, we should make sure she has no ties to the Pecos Raiders.”

Hank studies Sara again, searching her visor for something he can’t see. “I’ve got a gut for these things,” he mutters. “She ain’t one of them. She’s after something, or someone, else. Maybe we could assist?” He directs his question as an offer of good faith.

Sara pauses mid‑conversation, head tilting like a curious bird, “Are those…” Her voice bubbles with wonder, "…vultures?” Before anyone can answer, she snaps her rifle upward in a blur; CRACK! Her shot punches cleanly through the O in "Welcome to Camp Wilson" sign, at the end of town, like she’s signing her name.

Hank, Al, and Karen all jolt back, hands flying toward their weapons as Sara’s already moving. Her rifle sweeping in one smooth, arcing motion. Two more shots. Two dark shapes, high above, explode into feathers. The vultures spiral down in ragged corkscrews, scattering black plumes across the sky. She finishes the motion by tucking the rifle under her opposite arm with a flourish, then turns back to the sheriff, deputy, and Kryyn, who all now have their guns drawn, and gives them an exaggerated, “Whoooops!”

The sheriff swallows hard. “That’s… impressive... But why?”

The vultures hit the ground near the library with twin thuds. Sara throws her arms wide and booms, “Résumé!” like she’s auditioning for a stunt‑shooter role in a blockbuster. She gives Kryyn a small nod with less greeting, more told you so. Then, to the lawmen, “Loyalty that’s bought… is loyalty that’s for sale. Best to keep it with those who know their place.”

Al nods slowly. “Yeah… yeah. We get that.”

A few heartbeats pass. Sara shifts into a crisp, businesslike tone. “I’ll take what I want from the spoils. Y’all can have the leftovers.” She's not rude, just unmistakably clear that their offer isn’t matching her talents. “I don’t plan on staying long. But goodwill travels far.”

The sheriff removes his hat, wiping sweat from his brow. “Tell you what. Leave any evidence that we'd need if a legal or criminal case comes up… and maybe go clean up those birds… and we’ve got a deal.”

Kryyn turns to Hank. “Seriously? Just like that?” as she slings her rifle back over her shoulder.

Hank shrugs. “Karen, you saw her shoot. I’ve only seen one person crack shot like that... and he’s standing right next to me.”
He gestures to Al, who’s staring at Sara like he’s trying to place a ghost.

“I ain’t seen someone that specialized since I was a youngin’,” Al says, half‑smiling. “How long was your trainin’? My pa trained me while he was Crenshaw militia. His pa trained him. Who taught you?” A flicker of hope dances across his expression.

Sara grins in her mask as the adrenaline starts to fade. She rarely shows off but when a plan is executed correctly, is like making that perfect shot.

With the enjoyment ending and her tone level again, she glances sideways.
"Training ends when you take your last breath."

She walks over to her hoverbike and makes sure everything is secure. "Where are these pesky raiders at? I could use a little more training!"

Sara’s grin blooms behind her faceplate, sharp and private, the kind a person wears when the adrenaline is finally ebbing and the world snaps back into focus. She doesn’t show off often, but when a plan lands exactly the way she intended, it hits her like the clean recoil of a perfect shot. Her breathing steadies. Her tone evens out. She tilts her head toward Al, voice low and certain.

“Training ends when you take your last breath.”

"Right, my grandpappy used to say that too. Always some space for perfection..." Al smirks like he's heard the funniest joke, but can't laugh, like a grade school boy hearing a fart in classroom during quiet time.

"Something funny, Al?" Hank asks.

"Nope!" Al snickers, trying to hold his breath.

Sara strides to her hover-bike, boots crunching over gravel, and runs a practiced hand along its frame. The machine hums faintly beneath her touch, weapons latched, packs secured, every compartment locked down with military precision. She pats the side panel like it’s a loyal steed. “Now,” she says, eyes gleaming behind mirrored transparent alloy, “Where are these pesky raiders? I could use a little more training.”

The clinic door creaks open. A young deputy steps out slowly, armor plates catching the light. His Wilk’s 457 pulse rifle stays angled toward the ground, but his posture screams ready to snap upward at a moment’s notice. Dark hair, tense jaw, gray eyes flicking between Sara and the sheriff.

“Heard gunfire, sheriff,” he comments, voice tight.

Hank nods, calm but still a little pale. “It’s alright, Reggie. I think we’ve got ourselves a bandit hunter we can employ.”

He turns back to Sara... a woman in mirrored armor that looks expensive enough to bankrupt a small town, with a few grenades clipped neatly across her chest. A rifle tucked under one arm, another slung across her back. And beside her, the sleekest hovercycle he’s ever laid eyes on, complete with a holstered long‑gun mounted beside the seat like it’s waiting for its turn to impress.

“Ma’am,” Hank says, clearing his throat, “last reports say the raiders are pillaging Drive City. ’Bout a two‑hour ride southwest on that… contraption of yours. Haven’t been there in years, but it’s a small place. We’ve had refugees all day. We thought you were one of them… or a raider. Sorry for the misunderstanding.”

"After the recent activities you have had, I would be just as cautious." She mounts her bike with practiced ease and revs the engine. As she turns her bike to head out of town, she says "I wont ever apologize for protecting others!" and while she speeds off the wind carries her simple message "See you soon!"