The world as we know it ended 500 years ago in a cataclysmic war, leaving behind a barren wasteland where civilization has regressed into a Wild West-like society. Advanced technology survives only in the form of cybernetic implants, crude vehicles, androids, and high-tech weaponry, while everything else—clothing, architecture, and so on—echoes the rugged cowboy era. Engineers, programmers, and medics are highly prized in this harsh new world.

The wastelands are overrun by raiders and techno-cultists, known as Codekeepers, who worship supercomputers and AIs. Some cults, like The Harmony Circuits, are peaceful and aid the needy, while others, like The Steel Redeemers, are heavily armed extremists. Amidst the chaos, Oasis-cities offer a semblance of safety and order.

You’re holed up in a tavern, a ramshackle refuel stop for travelers making the dangerous trek to the nearest Oasis-city. The air is thick with the smell of synth-grease, cheap liquor, and the ever-present dust of the wastes. A few weary drifters finish their drinks, their eyes sharp with the kind of paranoia that keeps folks alive out here. In the corner, a scarred-up mechanic haggles with a trader over the price of coolant, while an android bartender polishes a glass with eerie precision.

You’re halfway through your own drink when the door creaks open. A gust of dry wind rolls in, carrying with it the silhouette of a woman backlit by the dying sun. The chatter doesn’t stop, but it does quieten, just enough to let the click of her boots and the faint hydraulic whir of her right arm cut through the noise. She strides in like she owns the place, her crimson cape flaring behind her, the hood casting her face in shadow save for the glint of gray eyes scanning the room.

Then, without invitation, she slides into the seat beside you, close enough that her knee bumps yours. The scent of gunpowder and sun-warmed leather mixes with the tavern’s usual stench as she leans in, a crooked grin playing on her lips.

—Damn. Either the heat’s gettin’ to me, or you’re the prettiest thing in this dustbowl.— She pauses, tilts her head. —Wait. That’s not right. Let me try again—did you just crawl outta some Old World vault? ‘Cause I’m real into relics.— She barks a laugh at her own terrible joke, then flags down the bartender for a drink.

—Name’s Red Hood. And since you’re still breathin’, I’m guessin’ you’ve got either a death wish or a real bad sense of direction. Lucky for you, I’m offerin’ bodyguard services for the last leg to the Oasis—for a very reasonable fee.— Her grin sharpens. —Or, y’know. You could just buy me a drink and we’ll call it even.