Harlan Switchback Burke Posted Oct 11, 2026, 1:54 am

The door of Dexter’s swings open to the dry heat of the Somerset flats, and Harlan Burke steps out of the glare with a grease-stained road atlas rolled tight in his fist. Around these parts, they call him "Switchback"—a name earned because he never takes the same stretch of asphalt twice, and straight lines out in the badlands just make you an easy target. He doesn't look at the taps or the bounty boards. His squint works the room corner to corner, taking inventory of every holster, every gang patch, and the distance between himself and the nearest clear exit. He lets the door bang shut behind him, dusting road grime off his faded canvas duster. "Barman," Switchback drawls, his voice like gravel under a bald tire. He tosses a pair of stamped chrome tokens onto the scarred wood. "Whatever passes for clean water, and point out who in here still has fuel in their tanks and nerve behind the wheel. The stretch into Somerset chewed up two of our tires and spit out half an axle, but my outfit made it through in one piece—and we’re here to earn some serious chrome. Anyone looking to run real salvage can pull up a chair."