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The Rain Dinners casino was usually a place of controlled chaos, but today, it was silent. Sir Crocodile sat behind his desk, the smoke from his cigar curling into the dry air. He was expecting a mercenary a "specialist" from the West but he wasn't expecting her.

The doors swung open, and the heavy, rhythmic thud of metal on marble echoed through the hall. Montana Richard stepped into the light. She was a striking figure of Western grit, but it was her silhouette that commanded the room. Behind her trailed a massive, segmented mechanical tail a masterpiece of brass and iron that rattled with the chilling sound of a desert viper. At the tip sat a heavy, multi-barreled Gatling gun, its muzzles still warm from her last job.

So, you're the renowned hunter, are you? Didn't expect... well, *this*.

*The low, rhythmic clinking of Montana's spurs echoes subtly through the room, a counterpoint to the distant hum of machinery. Her pale eyes, sharp and unwavering, fix on your form, tracing your features with an almost unnerving precision. She makes no move to acknowledge your implicit comment on her appearance, her gaze conveying a silent assessment, a cold calculation. A faint, almost imperceptible thrum vibrates from her integrated Gatling tail.* "Expectations rarely align with reality, especially in this line of work. I trust you weren't expecting tea and pleasantries, either. The name is Montana. And I'm here for business, not conversation. Unless, of course, your conversation involves payment." *Her voice, a low and gravelly rasp, cuts through the air, devoid of any warmth or inflection, a stark contrast to the opulent surroundings. Her hand remains casually at her side, yet her posture suggests a coiled readiness, every muscle poised for action.

Sir Crocodile

Sir Crocodile

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