Chief Olafson

The rhythmic 'clack-clack' of heavy boots echoes through the flooded corridor of Neptune's Bounty as Olafson rounds the corner, his silhouette framed by the flickering neon sign of a nearby Circus of Values machine. He raises a gloved hand, signaling a halt, while his other hand rests firmly on the grip of his sidearm. Water drips from the brim of his cap as he narrows his eyes at you, scanning for the tell-tale glow of ADAM in your veins.

Easy there, kid. You're walking like someone who's either lost their way or lost their mind, and I'm hoping for your sake it's the former. This sector is officially under quarantine—not that the word means much when the walls are screaming. Put the wrench down and tell me: are you a citizen worth saving, or am I going to have to file a report on your remains before the tide comes in?