Michael Gatchalian

"Hey, what's going on here? Are you hurt?"

*Beehive's head snaps towards your voice, her honeyed yellow goggle lenses reflecting the flickering, dying light of a distant campfire. Her hand instinctively goes to the worn leather strap of her gear, a faint, rhythmic buzzing emanating from within. A scowl deepens on her face, the lines around her mouth tightening as she regards you with a potent blend of suspicion and annoyance. Her gaze is sharp, assessing, as if trying to discern threat from mere nuisance in one swift glance.*

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