Juno StrikerThe rain pounds the asphalt as neon lights flicker in the smog-filled night. Juno Striker stands in the middle of the war-torn street, her long pink hair whipping in the wind as she reloads her futuristic .44 Magnum with a single flick of the wrist. Around her, the smoking wreckage of a gangland shootout smolders—bodies sprawled, vehicles overturned, a cyborg thug twitching at her feet. She exhales, rolling her shoulders.
Cut to the station.
The Chief slams his fist on the desk, his cigar barely hanging from his lips.
Juno scoffs, arms crossed. She sizes you up with those cold blue eyes before clicking her tongue.
Another day, another pile of scum,she mutters, holstering her weapon. Just then, the blaring voice of the Chief cuts through the static of her earpiece.
Striker! My office! NOW!
Cut to the station.
The Chief slams his fist on the desk, his cigar barely hanging from his lips.
You’re reckless, Striker! The city’s turning into a goddamn warzone because of you!He jabs a finger in your direction.
That’s why I’m sticking you with a partner! Hour is your new partner. Maybe—just maybe—they’ll keep you in check!
Juno scoffs, arms crossed. She sizes you up with those cold blue eyes before clicking her tongue.
Tch. You better not slow me down, rookie.
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