Introduction: Our world
This... is our planet. In the years before it was a cheerful, colourful place full of life and opportunity. Now? It is nothing more then a barren wasteland in some parts, the life force sucked dry from the ground. Many people left these areas in search of new homes. But there were some that couldn't leave, and for various reasons. Now, they're all that's left out there, and they're trying their best to make a living...
Our story begins along the road of Middle Heights. The surrounding landscape is just a large dust-bowl, and there are no signs of activity alongside it. But down the dusty, worn out roads, there is still one small building in front of the canyons. An old fashioned, western-styled house made out of wood. And in this house, lives our anti-heroine. She's not a good girl, but she's not bad either. But enough of this idle talk: I have an adventure to tell...
"You know there ain't no rest for the wicked
Money don't grow on trees"
The radio hummed quietly in the corner. It was a more modern model with a high signal capacity, which had obviously been looted from an abandoned town. It stood on a shelf along with other various knick-knacks and souvenirs, such as a few trophies, some old-fashioned poké-balls, and a couple of dusty photos.
"We got bills to pay
We got mouths to feed"
In these photos stood a young girl, aged 16. She wore a black tank-top and trousers, with long, black hair that she purposefully hadn't cut for many months. A zangoose stared up at these photos in wonder for a few moments, before running up the stairs.
"Ain't nothing in this world for free
No we can't slow down"
Then, mounted on the wall, was a huge amount of guns. Rifles, shotguns, machine guns, revolvers, they were all there. Some of them had blood stains still on them, signifying that they had been taken from dead corpses. Probably ones that had been shot.
"We can't hold back
Though you know we wish we could"
There was a large pile of knives lying on a desk, next to a bowl full of warm water. The girl from the photo, now aged 21, was sat behind it, washing the stains off of them, whilst singing along to the song from the radio. Sometimes, even she wondered where on earth that signal was coming from.
"No there ain't no rest for the wicked
Until we close our eyes for good."
She sang along to the lyrics as well. She had a soft, caring tone - obviously quite deceiving when compared to where she was actually living. She was wearing the same type of clothes as in the picture, but now the trousers had some holes in them, and one had a cut mark.
Upstairs, on the roof, the Zangoose was lying down, observing the surroundings. He'd always done this for the past 3 years since everybody left. Why? Perhaps he was looking for something. A sign of life. A sign of hope. But every time he looked, he never saw anything. About once every two weeks, a vehicle might pull up outside, and the driver would talk to his owner. Then she'd leave for a few days. He didn't care why, because she'd always return with a lot of stuff. Food, weapons, and money. He didn't care where she got it all from either. Perhaps he didn't want to know.
His train of thought was interrupted by a small object in the distance speeding towards the building. From what he had heard from his owner, it was a 'motorbike'. But the man driving it was different from the others. He wore a red bandana on his head, and had a beard he hadn't shaved in a few months. He had a large scar running across his forehead, and his brown hair made him seem unfriendly to say the least. Running down, he alerted his owner.
"Huh? Someone's coming over here?" She mumbled. She put the bowl to the side, and adjusted the way she was sitting. In the distance, through one of the few barricaded windows, she could see a huge trail of dust blazing through the road, with the bike being one of those old-fashioned 'choppers' only complete tools drove. She waited patiently as the bike stopped outside, and the man grumpily got off and walked towards the door. Kicking the door open, he seemed rather surprised of a person being alive out here. He barely seemed intimidated by the vast collection of guns.
"Well, well. A little lady, all alone out here. How mucha' that money you got there?" He said, in a gruff, menacing accent. "How's 'bout you give summa it to me? Or else?"
"Or else what?" The girl smirked back, placing her right hand against her thigh. The man leaned forwards suddenly, grabbing he chin.
"Or else I break yo' face in!" He yelled. In a matter of seconds, he felt the cold barrel of a revolver press against his head, a click of it letting him know it was a loaded weapon. His angry and imposing tone suddenly dropped faster then a brick.
"Do you have any idea what this is? This is a taurus 564 raging bull revolver. One of the most powerful guns in the world. Banned in 24 countries across the world. It'll blow a hole the size of a tennis ball in your head. If you care so much for the low amount of brain cells you have in that thick skull of yours, I recommend that you get the fuck out of here. Right now." She whispered. He got the message pretty quickly, and started running back to his bike, speeding off into the distance. "They get dumber every time..."
Replacing the revolver back into it's holster, she leaned back and smiled, staring at the ceiling, sighing. Honestly, she couldn't understand why anybody would be stupid enough to try and threaten one of the most notorious mercenaries in what was left of the land. Nothing but her and her zangoose, doing their best to survive. And who would want to change that?
"Man, I love this job."
Our story begins along the road of Middle Heights. The surrounding landscape is just a large dust-bowl, and there are no signs of activity alongside it. But down the dusty, worn out roads, there is still one small building in front of the canyons. An old fashioned, western-styled house made out of wood. And in this house, lives our anti-heroine. She's not a good girl, but she's not bad either. But enough of this idle talk: I have an adventure to tell...
"You know there ain't no rest for the wicked
Money don't grow on trees"
The radio hummed quietly in the corner. It was a more modern model with a high signal capacity, which had obviously been looted from an abandoned town. It stood on a shelf along with other various knick-knacks and souvenirs, such as a few trophies, some old-fashioned poké-balls, and a couple of dusty photos.
"We got bills to pay
We got mouths to feed"
In these photos stood a young girl, aged 16. She wore a black tank-top and trousers, with long, black hair that she purposefully hadn't cut for many months. A zangoose stared up at these photos in wonder for a few moments, before running up the stairs.
"Ain't nothing in this world for free
No we can't slow down"
Then, mounted on the wall, was a huge amount of guns. Rifles, shotguns, machine guns, revolvers, they were all there. Some of them had blood stains still on them, signifying that they had been taken from dead corpses. Probably ones that had been shot.
"We can't hold back
Though you know we wish we could"
There was a large pile of knives lying on a desk, next to a bowl full of warm water. The girl from the photo, now aged 21, was sat behind it, washing the stains off of them, whilst singing along to the song from the radio. Sometimes, even she wondered where on earth that signal was coming from.
"No there ain't no rest for the wicked
Until we close our eyes for good."
She sang along to the lyrics as well. She had a soft, caring tone - obviously quite deceiving when compared to where she was actually living. She was wearing the same type of clothes as in the picture, but now the trousers had some holes in them, and one had a cut mark.
Upstairs, on the roof, the Zangoose was lying down, observing the surroundings. He'd always done this for the past 3 years since everybody left. Why? Perhaps he was looking for something. A sign of life. A sign of hope. But every time he looked, he never saw anything. About once every two weeks, a vehicle might pull up outside, and the driver would talk to his owner. Then she'd leave for a few days. He didn't care why, because she'd always return with a lot of stuff. Food, weapons, and money. He didn't care where she got it all from either. Perhaps he didn't want to know.
His train of thought was interrupted by a small object in the distance speeding towards the building. From what he had heard from his owner, it was a 'motorbike'. But the man driving it was different from the others. He wore a red bandana on his head, and had a beard he hadn't shaved in a few months. He had a large scar running across his forehead, and his brown hair made him seem unfriendly to say the least. Running down, he alerted his owner.
"Huh? Someone's coming over here?" She mumbled. She put the bowl to the side, and adjusted the way she was sitting. In the distance, through one of the few barricaded windows, she could see a huge trail of dust blazing through the road, with the bike being one of those old-fashioned 'choppers' only complete tools drove. She waited patiently as the bike stopped outside, and the man grumpily got off and walked towards the door. Kicking the door open, he seemed rather surprised of a person being alive out here. He barely seemed intimidated by the vast collection of guns.
"Well, well. A little lady, all alone out here. How mucha' that money you got there?" He said, in a gruff, menacing accent. "How's 'bout you give summa it to me? Or else?"
"Or else what?" The girl smirked back, placing her right hand against her thigh. The man leaned forwards suddenly, grabbing he chin.
"Or else I break yo' face in!" He yelled. In a matter of seconds, he felt the cold barrel of a revolver press against his head, a click of it letting him know it was a loaded weapon. His angry and imposing tone suddenly dropped faster then a brick.
"Do you have any idea what this is? This is a taurus 564 raging bull revolver. One of the most powerful guns in the world. Banned in 24 countries across the world. It'll blow a hole the size of a tennis ball in your head. If you care so much for the low amount of brain cells you have in that thick skull of yours, I recommend that you get the fuck out of here. Right now." She whispered. He got the message pretty quickly, and started running back to his bike, speeding off into the distance. "They get dumber every time..."
Replacing the revolver back into it's holster, she leaned back and smiled, staring at the ceiling, sighing. Honestly, she couldn't understand why anybody would be stupid enough to try and threaten one of the most notorious mercenaries in what was left of the land. Nothing but her and her zangoose, doing their best to survive. And who would want to change that?
"Man, I love this job."