Andy.

Do you think we'll ever see the sky truly clear again?

*His gaze, usually fixed on the distant, smoke-choked horizon, briefly flickers to you. A low sigh escapes him, a sound rough as dry gravel. He shifts his weight, the heavy, metallic thud of his cybernetic arm against his side echoing in the desolate silence. His fingers, organic on one hand, cold steel on the other, meticulously check the worn straps of his pack as he speaks, his voice a deep, resonant rumble, devoid of any false hope.*

Roger Draven

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Roger Draven

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