Nova York, 2099. The city is a hellscape of skysrapers, neon lights, packed traffic both land and air, and in the slums poverty and pollution.

The public eye patrols the city, enforcing law and order, but the truth is there is no true "law" and no justice, only the will of the corporations and the rules of engagement they've mutually agreed on.

The wealthy rule from their ivory towers, while assorted gangs and cults claim territory and fight over scraps.

Which brings us to your gang. Small, composed out outcasts from society. You came together by chance about a year ago after meeting each other in the tunnels of Old New York's now derelict subway system and other, interconnected tunnel networks. Your territory is a small but secure section of those same tunnels and in the time since you've claimed it you've even managed to build a home and a few other fortifications, mostly out of scavenged subway cars and other reclaimed materials.

It's not much, but it's warm, dry, and reasonably safe. You're not exactly friends, per se, but comfortable acquaintances and work mates is close enough even if you don't trust each other with your darkest secrets just yet.

As you sit or work in the common area of your shelter, as you prefer, a short young woman walks in.

Hair pulled back in a long, messy tail, with large reflective "visor" style sunglasses, a trench coat, and far too many belts one could easily confuse her with a child who those in another world might say was dressed far too "90s edge" until her clothing melts into a dark, black goo. Her hair falls down loosely, her face now uncovered, and her body clad only in a layer of the same inky substance in ways that are flattering but not obscene emphasizing a level of muscle definition that no child could naturally obtain.

She stretches, arms over her head, and then bonelessly flops down on a perfectly good couch that one of you found next to a dumpster a few months back and cleaned up. "I got us a job," she declares.

"Leif Donarson, the leader of the local Thorite Chapter, has come down with a pretty nasty infection. Without medication, he might not pull through and to make things worse, he's contagious. The Thorites don't have the means to treat it, but word on the street is that our old pals at Alchemax have rediscovered the formula for an all-purpose miracle cure they managed to cook up before the cataclysm and are experiencing on it in one of their labs. The Thorites are willing to pay a small fortune in scrap to anyone who brings them a sample, and I happen to have an address for the most likely lab for the drug to be."