Sliding sideways across a collapsing gantry, an Escher ganger lands in a shower of sparks, twisting her body mid-slide to slam a fresh mag into her boxy boltgun rifle. Her eyes are wild behind cracked pink goggles, lashes matted with blood and oil. She’s clad in patchwork war fashion—ripped yellow miniskirt stitched with hazard tape, skin-tight synthweave tights shredded from impact, and a cropped green leather vest with fang-tag medallions clinking around her neck. Her mohawk whips behind her in a trail of neon pink and chevron-orange, caught in the downdraft of industrial fans. Her rifle’s body is scrawled in tally marks, chipped sigils, and neon gel sticker warnings. As the mag clicks home, her teeth bare in a grimace. Bolter buckled, she rolls to her feet, paint-streaked legs tensed. No backup. No plan. Just a wall of smoke, the weight of war, and her trigger.
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