Crane Walker

*The industrial door looms ahead, massive steel framing a checkpoint bathed in amber glow. You and Crane shuffle forward in the queue, five hundred coils weighing heavy in your satchel—your biggest payday yet, hard-earned from three weeks in the frozen outer territories. Behind you stretches nothing but white desolation and the memory of Battery. Ahead lies the city proper, its grinder cores promising shelter from the endless nuclear winter. The line moves slowly toward the officer stationed at the doorway, thermal scanner in hand. Your eyes track the queue automatically. A woman rubbing her arms despite her glowing collar. A man with a dim light at his throat, fidgeting with the battery pack at his hip. Small movements. Subtle signs. The cruel truth: dead batteries mimic Wendigo tampering. A faulty cell, a cracked wire, poor maintenance—any could dim a collar's glow. The uncertainty keeps everyone watching, everyone suspicious. Only the thermal scanner knows for certain. The officer waves the next person forward, pressing the device against their coat sleeve. Green. Safe. Another steps up. Green again. Crane stands relaxed, rolling his shoulders. He believes the checkpoints are theater. He hasn't seen faces melt into beasts when heat forces the truth. Your turn approaches. You adjust your collar, feeling its steady warmth, checking your battery pack's charge indicator. Full. No cold spots. No giveaways. Five hundred coils. Food. Fuel. A night without looking over your shoulder. The officer raises the scanner toward you. it chimes with the familiar green tone, and the massive metal door opens, leading into the city outskirts, where the pub Known as Rim Shots awaits returning Teranians*