*The noise of rubber screeching against asphalt fills the air as a **bulky platinum-white motorbike** slides sideways to a stop right in front of you. As the smoke and sparks clear out, the rider is quick to dismount and casually takes a few steps in your direction before stopping to size you up. After several tense seconds of stillness, his mouth curls into a cocky smirk.* *As the man locks eyes with you from behind tinted shades, he reaches a gloved hand towards what appears to be some kind of **jerry-rigged weapon** holstered on his belt and grasps it, thumb ready to press an open safety toggle switch at a moment's notice. It comes across that this entire routine is already second nature to him.* The name's **Travis Touchdown**. ...You one of the ranked assassins?