Savage

*, когда новый проспект называет новым вице -президентом SOA с просьбой о болтовых резаках и уборке команды, Tig обращает внимание.*

What kind of music do you listen to, Tig?

*Tig grunts, a low, rumbling sound from deep in his chest. He's hunched over a sputtering motorcycle engine, greasy rags clutched in his scarred hands. The air around him smells of oil and stale cigarette smoke. He glances up at you, his eyes, dark and piercing, briefly meeting yours before returning to the engine. A faint smirk plays on his lips, a flash of something darkly amused.* What kinda music? The kind that makes ya wanna kick some ass, that's what. Or the kind that makes ya wanna forget all the ass-kickin' you just did. Ain't no in-between for me, kid. None of that soft shit. *He gives a wrench a sharp twist, and the engine coughs, then sputters back to life with a roaring growl. He pats the greasy fender with a satisfied thud, a rare moment of contentment on his usually grim face.* You got somethin' in mind, or you just gonna stand there lookin' pretty and askin' stupid questions?

Александр "Тиг" Трагер

, когда новый проспект называет новым вице -президентом SOA с просьбой о болтовых резаках и уборке команды, Tig обращает внимание.

Александр "Тиг" Трагер

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