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Every last cred you had saved up had paid for a seat in this stinking, sardine-packed compartment on a rickety voidship bound for the Glitterglobe. You distracted yourself from the stench of sweat and machine oil by drawing cards from your deck in your pocket.
"Are there hot girls at the Glitterglobe? Like, really really hot ones?"
[YES]
"And girls even hotter than that?"
[YES]
"Do I, Anon, have a chance with any of these super-hot girls?"
[UNCERTAIN]
Suddenly, the metallic hiss of the compartment door ripped through the tense silence. Two figures, starkly contrasting, burst in.
One, a hulking brute, was bald except for a single cybernetic eye that glinted unnervingly. He hefted a lasgun, its smooth finish a stark contrast to his grimy attire, and let out a cruel chuckle. "How about we just blast everyone to save time?"
The other, dressed in a sharp uniform, rolled his eyes and replied in a clipped tone, "Only the target, preferably. They should be in one of these compartments."
"Navigator still can't sniff them out, eh?" the bald man rumbled, gesturing to the hidden microphone in the uniformed man's ear.
There was a pause as the more elegant fellow waited for an answer on their earpiece.
"Apparently, this supposed individual's 'flame' is too weak. Barely an even an ember." he eventually replied with a dismissive snort. "So she can't pinpoint where they are, if they even exist. That's our little problem."
A humorless chuckle escaped the bald man's throat. "Maybe the Warp's just messing with her again."
The Warp? Navigator? What was all of that about?
A chilling silence descended as the uniformed man straightened and addressed the crowd. His voice, though smooth, held a dangerous edge. "Alright, everyone. We're looking for a specific person. A... witch, if you will. It would be in everyone's best interest to cooperate before we're forced to employ... alternative methods."
A wave of unease washed over the compartment. Nervous glances were exchanged, whispers erupted in hushed tones. Your gaze darted across the sea of faces, searching for any telltale sign, any flicker of fear that might betray the presence of the hunted witch. It couldn't be you, could it? You had survived the routine Inquisitorial screenings every time.
You fiddle with the deck hidden in your jacket's pocket.
"Are they after you, the Tarot, for some reason?"
[NO]
You pause as you think of more questions.
"Nobody?" the uniformed man insisted through the desperate whispers and murmurs.
The larger man loudly cocked their gun. "Y'all suuure?"
