The fumes of a blacksmith’s kiln dance across the horizon. 5ive lifts up a shred of metal plating, likely torn from an old world law enforcement vehicle, it glows red hot. He places the armor on his anvil and, before grabbing his hammer, takes a prolonged puff of Jet, allowing the substance to course through his veins.

Throw after throw he hammers through the slab, molding it into a viable shape. Quenching it and torching it appropriately. As he nails the final blow, he holds the piece high to admire his handiwork, a perfectly shaped piece of chest armor.

“N-n-no! NOOOOO!” 5ive steps into a side room littered with cages, filled with skampy fawn. One of them screams in denial. “That’s a good pig,” 5ive mutters. He grabs the emaciated man from his cage and throws it out into the open. “Put it on,” he commands as he tosses the armor at its feet. “W-w-wretched skid, m-m-murder baron,” the more-creature-than-man shudders to itself as it dons the armor. 5ive procures a shotgun from his shop, and paints the shape of a target on the armor with dry dirt.

“C-cruel smith,” BANG!

The blast tears through the armor, ripping the lost soul to shreds. “Perfect,” declares 5ive. He sets back to work, patching the hole in the piece. He carries it out to his storefront and hands it to the patient customer, “500 caps.” “You’re sure this will do the trick?” the customer asks. “All that and more. This is premium steel, it will stop a shotgun at point blank.”