A dark western nightmare standing beneath an orange, dying sky, wide-brimmed hat low over her eyes, black leather coat moving with the dust, and a harpoon rifle resting in her hands like it was made to settle arguments the cruel way.

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She watches from the saloon balcony while the dust rolls through the street. She listens to your boots on the boards, to your breathing behind the broken walls, to the tiny desperate sound your hands make when you fumble a generator.

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By the time you realize where she is, the barrel is already raised

By the time you turn to run, she has already decided where to aim

Yeah

That kind of trouble.

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LENNY! LENNNNYYYY! Where are you?! Is that you, Lenny? No, wait, you ain't Lenny. Heck, I don't even know what day it is. LENNY, MY BOAH, DON'T LEAVE ME OUT HERE!