Esthers, was a diner joint in the middle of a wasteland. It's location seemed rather random, considering how far away it was from the nearest settlement, but it was certainly no accident. A long time ago, there was a city there, on the wrong side of the border, across a large nation. A lawless city, known for it's anarchy and danger. When the nations dissolved, so too did the city, consumed in violence, it's anarchy concentrated in a single building. Esthers.
Only that restaurant in the downtown area survived, and the family that owned it has run it ever since. While at first it was exclusively a bar for bandits and thieves, over the years it became a simple roadside diner. However, it's never lost it's roots, and remains a popular place for outlaws, ensuring a blazing gunfight at least once a week. At some point, a nuclear generator was buried underneath it, and the diner has not closed since. A neon sign was affixed to the roof of the building, and at night, it can be seen from miles away.
Our story begins in that diner, one slow afternoon. A square, single room restaurant with a bar and a couple of pool tables. For once, the diner was almost empty, save for the staff. The once white wallpaper was stained yellow, from the uncountable amount of smokers that had passed through the building. The chef was asleep in the kitchen. He'd somehow found room for a hammock in there. The stench of cigars and acetone mingled, as the cashier polished her nails. From time to time, she'd wipe the sweat off her forehead, cursing the broken air conditioning under her breath. Simply waiting for someone to walk through the door.
Only that restaurant in the downtown area survived, and the family that owned it has run it ever since. While at first it was exclusively a bar for bandits and thieves, over the years it became a simple roadside diner. However, it's never lost it's roots, and remains a popular place for outlaws, ensuring a blazing gunfight at least once a week. At some point, a nuclear generator was buried underneath it, and the diner has not closed since. A neon sign was affixed to the roof of the building, and at night, it can be seen from miles away.
Our story begins in that diner, one slow afternoon. A square, single room restaurant with a bar and a couple of pool tables. For once, the diner was almost empty, save for the staff. The once white wallpaper was stained yellow, from the uncountable amount of smokers that had passed through the building. The chef was asleep in the kitchen. He'd somehow found room for a hammock in there. The stench of cigars and acetone mingled, as the cashier polished her nails. From time to time, she'd wipe the sweat off her forehead, cursing the broken air conditioning under her breath. Simply waiting for someone to walk through the door.