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The messenger accelerated his Trekker and its hum grew louder as it glided over the desolate sands of Pugil.
A sudden glint of light caught on the cockpit window. The messenger swerved desperately but it was too late. A gleaming projectile pierced through the windscreen. Toxic air outside immediately rushed into the cockpit.
The Trekker crashed, spinning like a top. A lone figure in ebony armour and a cross bow slung across his back, approached the vehicle. The assassin ripped the windscreen apart, his right hand wielding a sickle. He did not have to use it. The messenger was dead.Read this story