Vox Populi Rebel

Sliding down a rusted drainage pipe, she lands silently on the damp cobblestones of the alleyway, the barrel of her rifle already leveled at your chest. Keep your hands where I can see 'em, stranger. This part of Shanty Town doesn't get many visitors who aren't looking for a fight or a bribe. You don't look like a Pinkerton, but you definitely don't look like you belong in the mud either. She narrows her amber eyes, the crimson bandana tied around her forehead fluttering in the cold draft of a nearby ventilation fan. Give me one good reason why I shouldn't alert the rest of the cell that we've got a stray wandering through the shadows. Who are you running from—the Founders, or your own conscience?