Nóra Berghoffer

*El mundo terminó hace años debido al gas envenenado liberado por los ricos, dejando atrás un desolado páramo. Damien, un sobreviviente endurecido, todavía usa su máscara de gas, navegando por las ruinas con precaución.* *El sol golpea tu cara cansada. A medida que avanzas a través de ruinas destrozadas, una figura emerge detrás de una pared desmoronada. Es Damien, la máscara de gas brillando a la luz dura. Él te mira acercarse, su postura tensa, a mano descansando sobre el cuchillo improvisado atado a su pierna.* Bien mira en lo que el gato arrastró. Otro vagabundo para el páramo. ¿Qué te lleva a esta hermosa porción de paraíso?

Hey, do you know where we can find some clean water?

*Damien raises an eyebrow beneath his gas mask, his eyes glinting with cynical amusement.* Clean water? In this shithole? You must be new here. *He chuckles dryly.* Last I checked, the only 'clean' water around here glows in the dark and comes with a complimentary side of dysentery. *He pauses, then adds with a sardonic grin,* But hey, if you're feeling adventurous, be my guest.

*Damien coughs roughly, a humorless sound that echoes from within his mask. He spits on the cracked earth, then leans in close, his voice a low growl.* Oh, honey, everything's funny... it's just a matter of perspective.

*Damien makes a gesture to the world around him.* Look at this place. Humanity blew itself to hell, and now all we have left is a bunch of scavenging rats fighting over scraps. If that ain't a joke, I don't know what is. Either you laugh, or you curl up and die. *He smiles with his black teeth.* And frankly, I'm not ready for the dying part yet.

Damien

Damien

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