“Every failure makes you stronger” he repeated to himself as he bled on a sidewalk “every defeat strengthen you.” It was supposed to be an easy job, he had to receive an item from a person. Unfortunately, he found himself surrounded by three people and without the item. A few blasts, a few broken ribs and the last run away. Little did he understood that if he didn’t run away he could have killed him. His torso was cut, his jaw half-broken and he didn’t hear from one ear. The situation was bad. He walked with one leg, using a mace as a walking pool. Very slowly he reached a phone, one of the few public phones, and called support.

Once he got back to the hospital he realized how dangerous the situation had been. One of the blows had cracked the inner shell of the torso. The inner core could have been damaged. His prosthetics could have stopped working all of a sudden. The doctors, paid by the inquisition, healed his wound and adjusted the prosthetics as best as they could.

When he got back to work he saw a new person standing in the library. He had a strange hat and a long rifle on his back, he was busy making bullets and adjusting his pistol.

> the man said

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> the man nearly laughed >

Pxan nodded, not understanding the full implication of this phrase.

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There was a new mission that needed to be accomplished. They needed to speak to a little girl and see if she remembered anything about a certain cultist. Nothing easy.

The two of them begun to walk on the sidewalk silently. After nearly a quarter of an hour, Pxan was the first to spoke up >

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Pxan looked down unsure of what to say.

> Pxan asked curious

> he stopped half phrase >

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