The roar of Kanza’s rig clawed at the arid air, a defiant shriek against the Dune-Seas’ oppressive quiet. Twin exhaust pipes spat black smoke as Kanza wrestled the heavily modified beast over a ridged dune, the sun-baked sand churning under its studded treads. The speedometer needle quivered near its max, pushing the ancient engine past its limits. Not fast enough. The metallic whine, thin at first, grew into a hungry snarl behind them, the signature sound of a Vayan ‘hound’ on the hunt. A rapid-fire *thwack-thwack-thwack* erupted from the rear, a flurry of slugs ripping into the bike’s rear chassis. Kanza felt the impact as a jolt through the frame, then a sickening lurch as the left tire blew. The machine bucked, a wounded animal, throwing Kanza sideways. Instinct, honed by years of surviving Vayan family ‘tests,’ took over. Kanza locked muscles, feet finding purchase on the footpegs, and cut the engine, hoping to ride out the uncontrolled skid. It was a mistake. The bike dug in, throwing Kanza clear in a violent arc. The world became a blur of ochre sand and searing sky, then a brutal impact as Kanza slammed down, rolling, the air driven from their lungs in a ragged gasp. Sand gritted against teeth, scraped across exposed skin. The frame, still snarling, cartwheeled once before exploding in a ball of flame, a monument to a botched escape. Kanza lay sprawled, a throbbing ache blooming across their ribs, the scent of burning oil and hot sand filling their nostrils. Above, the drone of a syndicate sky-skiff grew louder. They were closing in. Kanza pushed up, every muscle protesting, vision swimming at the edges. The bike was gone. Their only way out. Then, a shadow. Not the skiff, not yet. Beneath the gnarled roots of a petrified sand-tree, half-buried in a drift, lay a figure. A man, facedown, unmoving. A mercenary, by the look of his worn, patched duster and scuffed boots. Kanza’s mind, usually a whirlwind of hot rage, clicked into a cold, calculating gear. Survival. That’s all that mattered now. And protection. For those Kanza was running to protect. A desperate plan formed, as brutal and swift as Kanza’s usual temper. Kanza stumbled towards the unconscious man, each step a fire in their bruised ribs. The sky-skiff’s engines now pulsed directly overhead, a mechanical hawk circling its prey. No time. Kanza knelt, pulling the man over with a grunt. His face was obscured by matted, ash-colored hair, but his breathing was shallow, a faint, raspy sound. “Sorry, friend,” Kanza muttered, the words tasting like grit and desperation. Kanza’s own heavy, custom-fitted duster, emblazoned with a crude, stitched Vayan insignia on the inner lining, was a death sentence. Kanza tore it off, ripping at the heavy Vayan family signet ring on their right hand – a twisted serpent devouring its own tail, set with a blood-red obsidian shard. It was heavy, too heavy, a beacon. Kanza shoved it deep into the unconscious fighter's duster pocket. Then, Kanza stripped the man’s simpler, sand-stained jacket. It smelled of stale grit and a faint, metallic tang Kanza didn’t want to think about. Kanza pulled it on, the rough fabric chafing against their torn skin. Next, the dog tags. Kanza ripped the worn leather strap from the man’s neck, the metal disc swinging free. Kanza tossed their own, micro-chipped Vayan ID into the sand, kicking dust over it. The metal tag was simple, a rusted rectangle of iron with crudely etched characters: ‘DALKO.’ Kanza clipped it to their own neck, the cold metal a stark contrast to the burning pain in their chest. The skiff’s landing struts extended, a low hum preceding its touchdown. Kanza scrambled away, crawling on elbows and knees, burying themselves behind a cluster of razor-tipped desert flora just as the skiff settled with a hydraulic hiss. Three hulking figures, clad in Vayan black and chrome, disembarked, their heavy-bore energy rifles scanning the dunes. One pointed towards the burning wreckage. “There, you vultures! Find the body!” a guttural voice barked from the lead figure. Kanza watched, breath held tight, as they fanned out, their heavy boots crunching the sand. One of them found the decoy. “Boss, over here! Looks like our runner. Dead, by the looks of it.” A surge of nausea hit Kanza. *Dead.* Would they just… execute him? The mercenary had been alive, barely. Kanza clamped down on the tremor, focusing on the rough texture of the sandstone floor. It was done. The gamble was cast. Kanza had to believe the Vayan’s ruthless efficiency would work against them, that they wouldn’t bother with a second look. Hours later, Kanza walked. The Dune-Seas stretched endlessly, a furnace under a copper sun. The stolen jacket, now stained with Kanza’s own blood, felt heavier with every step. The ID tag, Dalko, bit into Kanza’s skin. The pain was a dull throb, nothing compared to the gnawing fear that tightened Kanza’s chest. That stranger. Would they find the ring? Would they know? As the sun dipped, painting the sky in violent streaks of crimson and orange, a faint, geometric shadow appeared on the horizon. Not a trick of the light. A canyon wall, impossibly sheer, scarred with ancient wind-worn carvings. And nestled within a colossal fissure, like a pearl in an oyster, stood the Hollow-Rock Inn. Its fortified walls, built from fused canyon stone and scavenged plating, glowed faintly with internal light. A beacon. A sanctuary. And the reason Kanza had to survive. Kanza stumbled through the canyon entrance, the air immediately cooler, thicker with the scent of spiced brew and engine grease. The sound of distant laughter and clinking glasses was a lullaby after the wasteland’s silent menace. The Inn’s heavy blast-doors stood ajar, revealing a bustling interior. Exhaustion, a relentless predator, finally caught Kanza. Their legs gave out just as they reached the taproom, the scent of a pungent cactus brew filling their head. Kanza felt a sudden lurch, a dizzying spiral towards the rough timber floor. But the impact never came. Instead, a massive, scarred hand, calloused and firm, closed around Kanza’s arm, holding them upright with effortless strength. A deep voice, rough as ground stone, rumbled from above, “We don’t do dead bodies in the taproom.”

The Dead Man's Jacket