ArtofWilson

Collin had no fear, at least not when dealing with such simple delinquents. While he tried to not seem like a weak coward in front of the hooded figure, he knew he could not be too confident. His worried face was nothing more than a guise. “How much further?” Collin asked the figure, who had yet to identify himself. “Why do you insist on asking so many questions?” the figure pulled a handgun out and quickly pressed it to Collin's right temple, “Who are you?” Collin did not display any fear this time, “I’m just a guy looking for sanctuary.” “One looking for sanctuary here shouldn’t keep pestering me with inquiries.” “Look, I was a mercenary hired on by Peterson Industries way back. The Alliance doubled down on hunting me after Nova Station was taken out a few weeks back. I’ve been on the move for days now and I’d frankly like to sit my ass down. So, yeah, I’d like to know how much longer.” The figure was silent for a moment, but then swiftly holstered

“This place is shit,” Collin uttered under his breath. The pub was run down. On the exterior, it was more updated to match the neo-futuristic architecture that made up the city. Inside, most everything was wooden, revealing just how old the pub was. The smell of alcohol, much of which was dried on the wooden floor, stung Collin’s nose, despite that he loved a good beer. Many patrons paused what they were doing, looking up at Collin. The mutant knew well he was in trouble if his cover was blown, meaning no dark matter powers could be used. Luckily, Collin planned only to use his strength, agility, and healing factors, should thing go awry. A Xerofian stood up. A patch covered his left eye, and a scar ran across the bridge of his dark green nose. He wore a simple getup: a white tank-top with a dark brown stain on the stomach, ripped, black denim pants, and worn-out, dark brown work boots. The name “Worj” was tattooed on his left arm. The Xerofian walked up to Collin