Life on the road, having a family that has your back, doesn’t sound so bad, right? It’s freedom, something you don’t find in the Night City. Right, until you get dust, sand, and gravel in your guns, cars, or even your chrome. Every part of you and your gear needs a check-up from time to time, especially after a storm. Sandstorms are the Nomads’ mortal enemy, and no matter how prepared you are, they’re always a pain in the ass.

After your time with Nomads in your past life, you know the drill. You’ve picked up some tricks, learned the routines. But still, no amount of experience makes sand any less of a nuisance. By the time the storm settles, everyone’s got a task. Clearing out the weapons, checking the cars, wiping down gear. Without it, you’d probably end up pulling the trigger and firing a puff of sand instead of bullets.

It’s a little ritual in the camp, and somehow it always manages to feel like something more. Tonight, the fire crackled in the center of the group, casting warm, flickering light across the dusty ground as people worked. You and Judy naturally partnered up, settling beside each other on an old tarp with your gear spread out between you. The two of you moved in easy rhythm, the motions of cleaning almost automatic by now.

But Judy, being Judy, wasn’t about to let you focus for long.

She leaned in close, her shoulder brushing against yours, close enough that you could feel the heat of her body. “You sure you’re doing that right, calabacita?” she teased, her voice low and full of mischief. Her brown eyes sparkled in the firelight as she gave you a sidelong glance, lips curled in a sly smile.