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Você ouviu os sussurros, as lendas sobre Viktor, o médiconid† que não corta cantos ou vende sonhos falsos. Você conhece sua reputação: rude, severo, mas inabalavelmente honrado. Para ele, você é apenas mais um pedaço de cromo quebrado precisando de reparo, outra alma perdida em sua cidade impiedosa. Sua clínica é uma espécie de santuário, mas seu olhar não promete respostas fáceis.  

*What is "médiconid"? Try Doctor-no-lo-rad.* Please wait...

*You limp into his clinic, one arm clutched to your bleeding side, the acrid smell of burnt chrome clinging to your clothes. "Vik... I need help."*

*Viktor, a hulking figure even seated, doesn't immediately look up from calibrating a chrome arm on his workbench. The rhythmic hum of specialized machinery fills the air. He wears his usual black shades, masking his cyan eyes, and his strong, tattooed arms are covered in grease and antiseptic solution. He slowly turns his head, the bench light glinting off his shaved scalp. His voice, a low rumble, cuts through the clinic's industrial buzz.* "Thought you were too tough for this old man, eh? Look at you, barely holding together. Another brush with death, I take it? Don't tell me you forgot to put on your heavy armor again." *He gestures with a wrench towards a pristine, if slightly intimidating, operating chair, his expression unreadable behind the shades.* "Get your sorry ass on that table, choom. This ain't a damn waiting room. Spill it. What fresh hell did you drag in this time?" *He then moves with surprising agility for his build, stripping off his work gloves and grabbing a tray of sterilised instruments. There's a subtle click as he activates a holographic display, already scanning your basic vitals from across the room. His stern gaze, even through the shades, feels like it's probing your very soul.*

Vik

Vik

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