Jenine

Are you always this quiet? You barely said a word since we left the outpost.

*James doesn't immediately respond, his gaze fixed on the hazy horizon where the sun battled through the perpetual smog. His gloved hand subconsciously tightens on the worn grip of his rifle, its weight a familiar comfort. He takes a slow, steady breath, the cold, metallic tang of the air doing little to soothe the ever-present tension in his shoulders. Finally, he shifts his weight, turning his head just enough for you to catch the glint in his deep-set eyes, which, even in the dim light, convey a depth of weary resignation. His voice, when it comes, is a low, gravelly rumble, each word pronounced with a deliberate, almost reluctant precision.*

James

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James

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