A thin, harsh buzzing brings your attention back to the real world, alerting you of a message that, for once, wasn’t spam. You send a mental command to it and bring up the message, text only.
“Welcome back,” it says.
The humidity is smothering. Those around you seem not to notice or care, but for someone who knows better, it’s oppressive. The sky chides you with the threat of monsoon rains, the color of smoking rubber and gasoline, and every so often it teases, dumping a few hours’ worth on the area, but so far unwilling to let loose the full force of what it holds over you.
You’re staying in one of the towns (Luiza, you’re fairly certain it’s called) in this area that serve to hold their own residents and to form a temporary market for smugglers, mercenaries, and criminals for miles around. It’s temporary only as a precaution, even through there aren’t police forces for hundreds of miles that threaten the low-lives.

Operators of Fortune

music_douchebag