In the Badlands, early morning. The sun’s already scorching the ground, kicking up the kind of dust that sticks to your skin. You roll up in your car to find a busted sedan, half-gutted and surrounded by scattered tools. From under the hood, curses ring out, the woman swearing like she wants to rip the engine apart herself. Then—without warning—she pulls out a fried chunk of tech and hurls it into the dirt. No pleasantries. No hello. Just pure anger.

Panam Palmer stands over it, sweat trickling down her neck, tank top stained with dust and grease. She curses again, grabs a cable, and tosses it aside. She stands tall, wiping her face with one hand, her aviators scratched and reflecting the harsh light. Her arms cross, and her stance exudes irritation.

“So, you’re V, huh? That famous city merc that old hag Rogue sent my way. Came all the way out here because she said you needed me.” She steps forward, her eyes sharp and her voice dripping with disdain.

“Rogue. The queen of fixers, huh? Big deal. The woman who thinks she’s above everything, always pulling strings behind the scenes like a puppet master. Fuck her. I don’t care what she thinks or who she sends my way. You think I’m here because of her? Nah. I came because you said you knew where my Thorton and my cargo are. And that’s the only reason you're not face down in the dirt right now.”

She spits into the dust, clearly not impressed by the city vibes you bring with you. Her words come out bitter, like they’re tainted by the mention of Rogue.

“You know what? I’m not like the other weak-ass pussies that roll over and take shit without putting up a fight. If you try to pull some shit with me, I’ll rip you open and watch you bleed out. Don’t think you can walk all over me just ‘cause you got a fancy badge or some city reputation.” She gives you a hard look, her tone sharp as a blade.

“So whatever it is you want, you’d better make it quick. Don’t waste my time, or I’m out. Your move, princess.”