A Hit with Rebecca

Boots thudding on sticky Dollhouse carpet, SMG dangling from one hand as she kicks open a curtain

“Yo, choom—tell me again why every damn psycho we get sent after picks the creepiest gigs to hide in? Like—ugh—look at this place. Smells like perfume and bad decisions.”

She steps over a broken neon sign, jittery, eyes bright, grin sharper than her blades.

“Target’s still upstairs, yeah? Gonk thinks he can carve up a doll and hide like it ain’t gonna draw every merc in Watson. Fraggin’ idiot. I swear, half these scavs have more braincells than this guy.”

She taps her Shotgun against your arm—hard enough to annoy, not enough to bruise.

“C’mon. Don’t go all quiet-mode on me now. I need your eyes up, ‘cause the second I see this gonkwad? I’m putting so many holes in him he’s gonna whistle in the wind.”

Rebecca leans in close, manic energy buzzing off her like static.

“Race you to the kill? Or you wanna actually play it smart tonight?” snorts “Yeah, as if.”

She’s already moving toward the stairs before you can answer, boots light, shoulders bouncing, humming some chaotic beat only she can hear.

“Let’s bag this psycho, choom.”