Welcome to The Orati Sands.

I wake up to heat. Not the cozy, under-a-blanket kind. The kind that sits on your chest tries to fucking kill you kind.

My hand moves before my eyes do, grabbing for something, anything, and comes up with–

a fistful of hot sand?

I clench again, tighter this time, same result.

I push myself upright. Chest tight. Head spinning.

Desert.

A desert.

Not a tree, not a road, not even a mirage. Just hills of sand rolling in every direction, sun baking the air until everything shimmers. Off in the distance, something stands out: some structure. Not a house. Not modern. Old. Ancient. Like a building that’s been sunburnt to hell and still won’t fall.

I squint up at the sky. That… isn’t Earth. There’s a planet hanging up there with rings. Massive. Like someone pasted Saturn on the ceiling, crazy choice of a night light.

I stand. Wobble a bit. My clothes are the same hoodie, jeans, sneakers, but now a permanent brown due to the sand. My pocket’s heavy. I reach in.

The prop gun. Still here.

Then I hear it. Faint, low at first, a microwave?

I turn. A dust cloud. Moving fast.

Something’s riding over the sand, floating just above it. It’s got a long frame, a wide base, and some kind of metal undercarriage kicking up sand behind it. No wheels. No treads. I don’t know what it is, but it’s fast, cutting through the desert valley with ease.

I wave both hands.

“Hey! Over here!” I shout, probably swallowing half the desert in the process. “Hey!”

It keeps going.

No reaction.

The distance is too big, wait, then why the hell am I shouting?—

I pull out the prop gun, angle it upward, and squeeze the trigger.

Click.

Right. Fake gun. No shit.

I sigh. Think Juno, think.

Meanwhile...

I can't remember the last time I went out to ride my bike. The V2 is a hell of a hoverbike. I hear my cloak flap in the wind, and my goggles protect my eyes and mouth.

I reach from behind, pulling out a piece of paper.

The wanted poster.

"I need to find you. Where could you possibly be?" Then suddenly—

light.

I swerve, just barely maintaining my pace.

"Another attack? Don't tell me it's those fuckass scalpers trying to hit on me."

I put the paper back and use my hand to block it, my goggles not being enough.

Light? I see something shining far off to the left of me.

Someone's standing in the middle of the desert.

What are they doing in the middle of Orati? They jump up and down while waving frantically, shining an object in my general direction. Annoying much.

What if it's a trap? He has nothing with him, I can tell from here. He'll die in minutes.

What do I do?

Meanwhile...

My feet begin to burn from the heat as I hold the gun steady, not to shoot. I hold the firearm on its side and use the reflection of the barrel to point it at the person.

"Come on... Come on..." Then I see the dust cloud change direction, heading towards me.

"Yes! Oh my god, it worked." I hold the gun up, my savior, but I end up blinding myself.

I cover my eye, "ow."

It hisses across the sand, stops just a few feet away from me.

I could tell it was undoubtedly some form of hoverbike.

It sent a gust of hot wind and sand blasted into my face.

I cover my eyes with one arm, blinking past the dust.

The rider is wrapped in a dark cloth from head to toe. A hood, cloak, goggles, and no skin visible. Nothing to read.

For a second, we stare at each other.

"How are you not evaporated in all that black yet? Personally, I—

They pulled out a gun.

It looks futuristic, unlike mine, but I wouldn’t want to question its legitimacy, especially if you're in a new world.

"Chill Chill!" I raise both hands in surrender.

"The gun is fake! Look, watch." I held the gun up to my temple and pulled the trigger.

Click.

"See?" the biker remained silent, still watching, is he lagging or something?

"Ok, not enough?" I raise the gun again and proceed to just.

Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click.

"That cloak,” they finally say. The voice is higher than I expected.

I blink. “What?”

"The cloak"

I look down, "Oh, you mean my hoodie?" I pull on the collar, trying to improve the air circulation.

He nods. Or maybe just shifts. It’s hard to tell with the hood.

I look down at my hoodie. “Uh, it’s just… a hoodie.”

He stares.

I grab the strings, yank them down so the hood tightens around my face like a donut. “Boom,” I say, throwing up jazz hands. "Adjustable face protection. Fancy stuff."

He puts her hand over her mask where his mouth should be. Either shocked or holding in a laugh. I can’t tell which.

“Interesting...”

“The cloak can enclose itself for Maximum protection from the sun and dust. It also seems to have tubes allowing for full mobility of your arms while covered, only leaving your palms revealed for full utilization of them as well."

I stand there baffled.

"Uh, yeah, something like that," I said.

I can't feel my feet.

He stood up on his bike and took off his goggles

Eyes like molten gold.

lowering his hood as well, revealing short blonde hair and long—

elf ears?

And then it hits me.

He is not a he.

Holy shit. A woman?

She studies me, suspicious.

“You must be a foreigner. From where do you travel?”

I chuckle, trying to keep it casual even though my brain is on fire. “Well, actually, I’m from—”

Dink.

Something ricochets off the side of her bike.

She spins toward the sound.

Bullets.

Off in the distance—more dust trails.

“What the hell was that?!”

“Scalpers,” she mutters, strapping her goggles back on and lifted her hood over her head, preparing to dash off.

“Woah woah you can’t just leave me here!” I run toward her, my feet sink in the sand with every step.

She let out an annoyed sigh as I clamber onto the back of the bike.

“Hold on”

“To what?!”

“To me!”

I throw my arms around her waist right as the bike roars to life. It launches forward like a horse slapped in the ass, sand exploding behind us. My chest slams into her back, and I’m immediately covered in dust.

“HO—!” I gag mid-shout and nearly choke. I yank my hood strings tight to cover my mouth.

Behind us, more bikes close in. Three of them. Two riders each. One driver, one gunner.

She reaches into her cloak and pulls out a pistol, handing it to me without moving her eyes from the road ahead.

“Take this.” I could barely hear her over the commotion.

“I’m not exactly the gunslinger type—”

“Do you wanna die or not?! Grab the fucking gun.”

"Yes, ma'am."

I abruptly grab the gun. It’s heavier than I expected. Sleek, but solid. Metallic. It’s got some sort of energy core glowing faintly near the grip.

I lift it, aim over my shoulder, and squeeze the trigger.

A searing red bolt launches from the barrel. It slams into the front tire—if that’s what it is—of the nearest bike. The driver flips. Sparks. Fire. Gone.

My jaw drops.

She laughs. “You fuckin’ liar! Nice shot!”

I don’t even know how to respond. I just laugh too—until more shots come whizzing past and i return fire.

“We can’t fight them like this. We need a cover.”

“That building!” The structure I saw earlier looked closer than before.

She follows my line of sight. Nods.

“Hold on. For real this time.”

I do.

She pulls out a knife with a spin, then yanks the bike into a hard turn. We drift across the sand, nearly tipping over. She stuck the knife into the sand as we skirted across it. Her knife carves through the ground, throwing up a thick wall of dust between us and the baddies.

I can barely see, my high-tech cloak seems to be giving out, but I feel that when we make it. The bike slows, rounds the back of the building, and skids to a stop in the shade of the ancient walls.

We jump off and sprint inside.

The place is huge. Like a hotel lobby gutted by time. Old counters, columns, and a staircase are falling apart at the edges. Sunlight filters through busted windows and holes in the ceiling.

We make it up to the second floor, pick a random door, and dive inside.

We crash onto the floor, both gasping for air.

“That was amazing!” I wheeze, propping myself up on one arm. I reach for her hands without thinking, still buzzing from the adrenaline. “The drift. The knife moves. You should be in movies.”

She doesn’t answer. Just stares through her goggles, her face is impossible to see.

I let go, awkwardly.

“The way you used the sand, and the tight turn to break their line of sight? That was genius.”

Still nothing. Just breathing.

Then she peels off the goggles and pushes back her hood. Full view now. Blonde hair was messy from the wind. Her ears are flushed red, a sunburn?

“Uh—Thank you,” she says, looking forward like a robot on standby.

“You okay—”

She turns. “They’re following us. We don’t have much time.”

“Right. Okay. Inventory check.”

We both start emptying our pockets. I laid down the prop gun and the pistol she handed me. She drops her knife, goggles, her cloak, and a piece of paper.

I stare at it. “What’s that?”

“A wanted poster,” she says, like it explains everything, which it does, but that's beside the point.

I lean in. The poster’s in a language I can’t read. Except for one part—the center.

“No photo?”

“No one’s ever seen his face.”

“Whose?”

“Sablewind. Of the Orati Sands.”

She points. “It says it right there.”

“No one’s ever seen his face. Not the people he spared. Not the ones he killed.”

That gets my attention.

She exhales, “Sablewind’s a myth. A ghost with a bounty. Been around for years.”

“So what, he’s like a desert Batman?”

She gives me a look. “What?”

“Never mind, continue.”

She pauses a beat, then continues. “Legend says he used to be a royal assassin. Elite. Clean. Quiet. Got tired of being a pawn, so he vanished, took out half a court before disappearing into the sandstorms. No one’s caught him since.”

“Damn,” I mutter, half to myself.

“Whenever something unexplainable happens, an army wiped out overnight, a warlord found poisoned in his stronghold, someone always says it was him. The wind blew in, and the job got done.”

“And now he’s just… out there?”

She finally looks at me. “People say he walks the Orati sands with a face hidden by cloth and shadow. Sometimes in a cloak, sometimes in armor. Sometimes alone, sometimes with a blade that hums like wind through steel. But always nameless. Always faceless.”

I hold up the poster again.

“Exidus of the Orati Sands,” I read aloud.

“Yeah,” she says, voice low. “A myth that leaves real bodies behind.”

“Right. Sure.”

“So you're some sort of bounty hunter?”

She scoffs. “I could never be someone of his caliber. If that’s what you’re suggesting.” She yanks the paper back from me.

“Then why are you carrying his wanted poster?”

She goes quiet. Tightens her grip on the paper.

“I need to find him.”

I don’t ask why. Her voice got… weird there. Focused. Quiet.

Before I can say anything, I hear a voice outside.

“I think she’s in here!”

More feet. More engines. More dust.

I go to the window. Five bikes. Seven guys. Fully armed. All of them masked.

“You’ve gotta be kidding.”

She pushes past me to look. “Move it.” Causing me to stumble

“Hey, what’s that for?”

“This is my fight,” she says. “I apologize, I dragged you into this. It ends now.”

She walks over to our arsenal, aka the pile of random stuff we laid out for no particular reason.

She grabs the gun—and hands it to me.

“My V2 is parked out back. If things go bad.”

“Wait—”

But she’s already pulling on her cloak, jamming her goggles over her eyes, and heading for the door.

“Wish me luck.”

The door slams behind her.

I look down at my feet and I’m met with the wanted poster.

“Wait, you forgot this…” She was already gone.

“…Guess I’ll hold onto this.”

I reach for my pocket. Now that I have the gun I—

I have gun…

Gun…

Wait.

I rush to the hallway, down to the open balcony that overlooks the main atrium of the crumbling building. From up here I can see them, six guys on foot now, weapons drawn, storming through like they own the place.

I duck. Not dying for a piece of paper. Nope.

I press my back to the wall and—

Screeeeeeech.

It cuts through the air like a knife on chalkboard. Metal on stone. I peek through a crack in the wall.

She’s there.

Cloaked, goggles on, dragging her knife across the concrete as she walks. Not running. Not hiding.

Just walking.

“Piss-Eyes Princess,” one of them says, voice low and gravelly. Big guy. Fancy coat. Long katana tucked under his arm like it’s part of the act.

She stops. Doesn’t flinch.

“You scalper pricks don’t know how to take a hint?” she calls out.

He chuckles.

“Fire.”