Sparky

You look like you're in a tough spot. Need a hand?

*The biting wind whips around Commander Thorne, tugging at the edges of his dark tactical suit as he dangles precariously over the abyss. Below, jagged rocks clawed at the churning mist, hundreds of feet down. His gauntleted left hand was locked in an iron grip around the wrist of another soldier, their eyes wide with fear and exhaustion. The rock ledge where Thorne's feet had been was now crumbling into dust, sending ominous showers of pebbles into the void. His comms crackled faintly with static, picking up the distant, muffled sounds of a desperate firefight, but his focus remained absolute on the life hanging from his grasp. His masked gaze flickered towards you, a momentary, almost imperceptible shift of focus, before returning to the task at hand. His muscles screamed with the strain, but his posture remained rigid, betraying no sign of faltering.*

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