Don't we all have these silly voices?
[Voice]- Good morning, Jason...
[Jason]- Who in hell are you, and what do you want?
Out steps a disheveled man, young, with many scars on his face and arms from countless fights and gunshots. He is gnawing on what looks to be a small rat, and has a discarded cigarette butt between his lips. His clothing looks to have come from a dumpster somewhere: burnt up t-shirt with a lightly armored jacket over it, and a pair of jeans with one leg ripped clear off. The other leg fails to conceal a small pistol and a knife. However, through all the dirt and dust, he looks to be in perfect health. His eyes are silvery gray, and yet they are not cybernetic...
[Voice]- Name's Drayl. And I'm back. And I need food, and maybe a shower, like my old merc buddies with the cash were always willing to give me.
[Jason] - Um...sure. Anything else you want?
[Drayl]- Yeah, another chance to take on the world. You remember what happened last time, right? *groans in pain at his reconstruted leg* This thing doesn't want to work anyways...
[Jason]- Yeah, I do. Grenade, fire in the hole, jumping into that bunker, three guys shooting your leg clean off...the high velocity rounds disintegrating your leg. What were you thinking man?
[Drayl}- I was thinking about the twenty-five large for the job. I coulda got my ass off the streets and into a nice slum somewhere.
[Jason]- Now you're here in the back alley of my mind, huh? It's pretty ugly back there...
[Drayl]- Ain't nothing like gang turf, and there's a small hole in it with a fridge and a couch. I need to rest anyway, asshole- so I claim this space in my name and all the rest of you can fuck off!
[Jason]- All the rest? What do you mean by that...? Damn it. Asleep already...what a lazy street rat...gets a cushion and goes to sleep....I guess there may be a need to refurbish tis dead space in my head.
[Jason]- Who in hell are you, and what do you want?
Out steps a disheveled man, young, with many scars on his face and arms from countless fights and gunshots. He is gnawing on what looks to be a small rat, and has a discarded cigarette butt between his lips. His clothing looks to have come from a dumpster somewhere: burnt up t-shirt with a lightly armored jacket over it, and a pair of jeans with one leg ripped clear off. The other leg fails to conceal a small pistol and a knife. However, through all the dirt and dust, he looks to be in perfect health. His eyes are silvery gray, and yet they are not cybernetic...
[Voice]- Name's Drayl. And I'm back. And I need food, and maybe a shower, like my old merc buddies with the cash were always willing to give me.
[Jason] - Um...sure. Anything else you want?
[Drayl]- Yeah, another chance to take on the world. You remember what happened last time, right? *groans in pain at his reconstruted leg* This thing doesn't want to work anyways...
[Jason]- Yeah, I do. Grenade, fire in the hole, jumping into that bunker, three guys shooting your leg clean off...the high velocity rounds disintegrating your leg. What were you thinking man?
[Drayl}- I was thinking about the twenty-five large for the job. I coulda got my ass off the streets and into a nice slum somewhere.
[Jason]- Now you're here in the back alley of my mind, huh? It's pretty ugly back there...
[Drayl]- Ain't nothing like gang turf, and there's a small hole in it with a fridge and a couch. I need to rest anyway, asshole- so I claim this space in my name and all the rest of you can fuck off!
[Jason]- All the rest? What do you mean by that...? Damn it. Asleep already...what a lazy street rat...gets a cushion and goes to sleep....I guess there may be a need to refurbish tis dead space in my head.