Wasteland

The humanoid being recoiled, its anger igniting as the stab barely scratched its dense, alien hide. Its nostrils flared, its body vibrating with rage. With inhuman strength, it retaliated—a powerful punch sending Martikani stumbling backward, his boots skidding until he found firm footing.

Martikani's breath came ragged, his fingers flexing. He wasn't built for brute force—not against something like this. The realization settled fast. He couldn't win in close combat. 

His hands moved instinctively, his body trained for moments like this. Twin guns slid from their holsters in a fluid motion, the metal cool against his grip. He didn't hesitate. One shot aimed for the towering beast, the other fired at the humanoid locked in battle nearby.

The poison worked fast.