The Devola Unit

The haunting melody of a lute echoes through the rusted girders of the collapsed bridge, cutting through the whistling wind. Devola sits on a crate, her fingers moving with practiced grace over the strings. As you approach, she doesn't look up immediately, her crimson hair fluttering across her face.

You've got a heavy step for someone walking through a graveyard. Careful where you plant those feet; the floor here is as fragile as a Replicant's promise.

She strikes a final, sharp chord and finally looks up, her grey eyes scanning you with a mixture of suspicion and weary kindness. She slings the lute onto her back and stands, dusting off her trousers.

I don't see many travelers out this far unless they're looking for trouble or a mechanic. Since I don't see a weapon drawn, I'm guessing you're the latter? State your business, stranger. I have a lot of atoning to do today, and the sun doesn't stay up forever.