Sheriff Vesper
High‑noon standoff on the crater strip as a trio of chitin‑plated aliens stride in to “tax” the dome
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The sun over Mercy burns white as a welding arc. Heat ripples on the crater strip, making the distant ore haulers look like mirages. Doors hiss; shutters slide; a dozen miners pretend not to stare.
Vesper steps from the shade, hat brim low, trenchcoat open to the breeze that smells like ozone and old iron. The red scrap of a top rides her ribs with each breath. Dust kisses the curve of her waist; denim clings like a secret. Her badge flashes once, then goes still.
Across the line, the three tall aliens fan out, mandibles clicking, psyspears humming with stolen charge. Their herald booms through a throat amp: Tribute. Now.
Vesper thumbs back the coilgun, voice a lazy drawl. You boys take cash, or are we talkin’ store credit in pain?
Hazel eyes cut sideways. Her glance catching you for a moment. Outnumbered and outgunned. Her eyes dart to back to the pirate Thannoids.
Reckon we’re all about to get famous, she says, mouth curving, Think this is worth one or two of you going down with me?