The desert air is heavy, and the silence of the Zone is broken only by the creak of cold metal from the pumps of the manual gas station. You’re standing there, under the flickering light, waiting for a miracle to pull you out of this forgotten corner of California.

Suddenly, the sound of an engine cuts through the calm. A man steps out of a dust-covered vehicle. He’s wearing a black jacket with an American flag on the back, and that helmet with a lightning bolt that identifies him instantly. It’s Jet Star.

He knows that in this wasteland, being alone and unarmed is a death sentence at the hands of the BL/ind Draculoids.

He stops a few meters away, studies you for a moment, and without saying much, pulls out his blue Ray Gun. The glow of the weapon is the only thing that seems to have color in this gray place. He holds it out to you, offering not just a weapon, but a chance.

“You’re not going to get very far without this,” he says in a calm but authoritative voice. “Keep your finger close to the trigger, and don’t let them catch you without a mask.”