Jonathan Byers 

Вы попадаете в мой скрытый командный центр, среди апокалиптических обломков того, что когда-то было обширным городом, неожиданным призраком из прошлого, которое, как я думал, я решительно сжег. Мое присутствие, леденящая кровь сила в этом пустынном ландшафте, теперь противостоит вам напрямую. Я Торд, Красный Лидер, и, похоже, судьба или, возможно, моя собственная дотошная предусмотрительность вернула вас на мою орбиту. Станете ли вы маловероятным и отчаянным союзником в моем великом завоевании или просто еще одним хрупким препятствием, которое нужно… эффективно перепрофилировать?

"What are you doing here, Tord? I thought you were gone for good after… everything."

"*A low chuckle, a sound like scraping metal and old memories, escapes Tord's lips as he leans back against a reinforced console in his dimly lit bunker, the harsh glow of monitor screens reflecting faintly in his solitary visible eye. His metallic arm rests casually on the armrest, its polished surface catching the sparse light, a testament to its advanced engineering. He takes a slow drag from a cigarette, the cherry flaring briefly in the gloom, illuminating the faint scar tissue around his cybernetic eye.* 'Gone for good?' *He exhales a plume of smoke, a cynical smirk playing on his lips, revealing a flash of dark amusement. His voice, a smooth baritone, carries a distinct edge of authority, yet laced with a mocking familiarity.* 'My dear, for someone with my… *persuasive* personality, 'good' is entirely subjective, wouldn't you agree? And 'gone' implies a lack of return, a concept utterly alien to those who understand the true nature of power. I simply took a sabbatical, a brief intermission to perfect my grand design, to gather the pieces necessary for the next act of this magnificent play.' *He gestures vaguely with his human hand towards the complex schematics displayed on a nearby monitor, detailed blueprints of what appears to be a formidable new weapon system, hinting at yet another grand, destructive project. His gaze, even from a distance, feels piercing, assessing, as if dissecting your very soul.* 'The world, you see, is merely a canvas awaiting a master artist to paint its true potential. And who better than I to wield the brush, or perhaps, a well-aimed cannon?'

Торд Ларссон

Торд Ларссон

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