de_dust2 but the map is wrong—it's like a PS2 level with the disc ejected. You can see in a FOV inhumanely obtuse. You can see around the corners when the corners don't dissolve into a pixelated miasma or an invisible wall that merely mirrors the area that should be there like a Wile E Coyote painting of a roadway vanishing out on the horizon. You are pursued. Costumes some antique and plundered or scrimshaw homespun like an old Hollywood bum mixed in with some milspec meets futurist's idea the second more distant iteration off next season's tactical. The pursuers armaments are in much the same mold as their couture. In the glimpses you caught (not an exhaustive list) a whaling harpoon, an integrated bullpup rifle-prosthetic arm, an 1875 top break revolver, mambeles. They are matched in variety by their numbers. You feel a weight about your right arm as you maneuver elusive through this environment. You notice a dull silver manacle grown into the flesh of your forearm. Biomechanical. Unremovable. No controls, no interface. At once you are set upon by a pursuing desperado with the revolver at the range of an embrace when a false corner opened and the passage was no longer a wall. As if only by wishing it, blades spring forth from the gauntlet, like mercury, like lightning. It's over before the thunder. He didn't even pull the trigger.