Chiyo closed her eyes against the rush of cold air against her face. Stepping into the dimly lit tavern offered her respite from the toxic fumes of the wasteland, and from the damp embrace of her trusty gas mask. Warm tunes played from a jukebox in a corner, and she hooked her ‘outside face’ to a clip on her belt, sizing up the locals around her.
The watering hole was sparsely populated. A shifty-looking ghoul in a business suit was the most attention grabbing of the lot, arms waving in exaggerated motions to a disinterested middle-aged man. A couple of scrawny teens in rags and overalls brandished rusty baseball bats, comparing them as if they were measures of their egos… or some other unmentionable appendage.
Chiyo paid them no heed and made her way to the counter in the end of the room. Her equipment jangled behind her, barely drowned out by the ambience around. The bartender had been staring at her since she’d stepped in.
“What’ll it be, Wanderer