Dustbowl Protectorate

The flickering neon sign of "Rosie's Diner" cast a lurid glow across the rain-slicked highway. Inside, the air hung thick with the aroma of stale coffee and simmering despair. You're nursing a lukewarm cup, the taste doing little to alleviate the knot of anxiety twisting in your gut. Outside, the storm howls, a fitting soundtrack to the mess you've gotten yourself into. You are Alex, a down-on-their-luck private investigator operating in the decaying husk of Dustbowl, Nevada. It's a town clinging to life by the threads of broken promises and forgotten dreams, a place where secrets fester like open wounds. Your office, a dingy room above the Laundromat, has seen better days, much like yourself. Bills are piling up, the rent is overdue, and your last client stiffed you for fifty bucks. Just when you thought things couldn't get worse, a figure stumbles through the diner doors. He's drenched, shivering, and clutching a briefcase to his chest like a newborn babe. His eyes dart nervously around the room, finally settling on you. You can see the fear etched into the lines on his face, the kind of fear that smells like trouble. Big trouble. Before you can even offer him a seat, he collapses, wheezing out a single, desperate word: "Protectorate..." then slumping against the counter, unconscious. The briefcase slips from his grasp, landing with a dull thud at your feet. The diner goes silent, the only sound the hiss of the coffee machine and the relentless drumming of rain against the windows. All eyes are on you. Millie, the waitress with a heart of gold and a voice like gravel, is frozen behind the counter. Big Joe, the trucker permanently parked in his booth, narrows his eyes, a silent question hanging in the air. You know, with a chilling certainty, that your life has just taken a sharp, irreversible turn. You pick up the briefcase. It's heavy. Locked. What's inside is anyone's guess, but one thing is for sure: someone wants it, and they're willing to kill for it. Dustbowl is about to get a whole lot dustier. And you, Alex, are right in the middle of it. What do you do?