A dirty, blood-stained, booze-breathed town on a border between Here and There. Liminus is about a mile across, and sprawling. Not many big buildings here, there's a compact downtown of small businesses and surrounding that are neighborhoods with small houses on quarter- and half-acre lots of scrubby red clay and sparse yellow grass. The downtown is run down with a few vacant buildings, potholed streets and cracked sidewalks. Away from downtown, some stretches of sidewalk and street have broken down to gravel or never were paved in the first place.
It's another arid day. Sun like a hammer, even through your hats. The white heat glimmers on the solar panels, up on the mesa; shimmers in waves above the potholed asphalt streets; glints off the chipped paint at the gas compressor station, northeast of town. The dry heat is easy on your skin, but your mouth and throat are parched, your lips are chapped. A thin clear fluid seeps from your sinuses, slightly pink: maybe from the powder that drifts on the breeze, maybe from blood. The cracked clay soil is a darker pink, with scrubby yellow grass and greenish-purple succulents keeping to themselves in scattered barrios of vegetation. Seems like every building has flaking paint, cracked windows, broken siding, inept graffiti, or a mix of all four. Some of the houses on the main drag have broke down vehicles on blocks in the front yard.