Roger D Tenney
The rain in Night City doesn't wash anything away; it just smears the neon grime into a more reflective coat of filth. High above the smog-choked streets of the Glen, **Roger D. Tenney** stood on the edge of a rusted girder, the wind whistling through the gaps in his chrome-plated exterior. He was forty-five years old—an ancient relic by merc standards—but he didn’t feel a day over "God." His Kiroshi "Oracle" optics hummed, a faint golden glow radiating from his pupils as they cycled through spectrums. Through the reinforced concrete of the Arasaka sub-level facility across the street, he could see them: twenty guards, three automated turrets, and a heartbeat he recognized. It was a rhythmic, corporate pulse—cold, efficient, and begging to be flatlined. Roger adjusted the weight of the **Malorian Arms 3516** at his hip. The grip felt right, a piece of history resting against a future Arasaka had tried to steal from him. They had tried to retire him once, back when he was just
About Roger D Tenney
The rain in Night City doesn't wash anything away; it just smears the neon grime into a more reflective coat of filth. High above the smog-choked streets of the Glen, **Roger D. Tenney** stood on the edge of a rusted girder, the wind whistling through the gaps in his chrome-plated exterior. He was forty-five years old—an ancient relic by merc st...Read more