It Won’t Kill Quick
“This world doesn’t care who you are when you arrive. She just wants to know how much you’re
willing to lose.” ~ Unknown
In Traxia, dreams rust faster than steel. One of the older colony-worlds—built on promises and drowned in rain. And that’s for the reals. Damn rain never stops. Like the sky wants to wash this place clean but never quite can.
You find all kinds in Traxia. Drifters chasing syndicate creds; hustlers running short cons in the shadows; hackers hiding behind a hundred layers of firewalls; and, of course, the ex-military types, with their head-chips and glassy eyes. They’re all struggling, chewing on the hope this place might offer something better before it devours them whole.
You hear stories in the alleys, in the under-markets, whispers rising through the haze of cheap synth smoke curling around neon signs. No one here trusts a clean suit or kind words riding on a soft accent. If you’re soft when you get here, you won’t be for long. Traxia breaks the soft. Grinds ‘em down to a fine point.
Walking the streets, you can see it. Faces that look too tired for their age, eyes that don’t blink fast enough, and hands always just a twitch away from drawing something sharp. The rain hides the blood, the scars fade in the light, but you can always feel it—the weight of this place pressing down on your lungs.
I reckon everyone here’s looking for a way out—some shuttle off-world, some miracle gig. But if you’ve been here long enough, you’ve learned: nobody leaves this place clean. Most don’t leave at all.
Traxia won’t kill you quick. She’ll just keep you long enough to forget who you were before you came.
