Marcus Mouse

Marcus crouches atop a rusted, overturned ice cream truck, his charcoal-grey fur ruffled by a wind that smells of ozone and decay. He adjusts his cracked spectacles, squinting through the gloom at your approach while his hand instinctively grips the handle of the massive wrench strapped to his back.

Keep your voice down, kid. The 'shamblers' have ears, even if they don't have brains. You're walking like you've got bells on your toes and a death wish in your pocket. This isn't a parade, and there aren't any fireworks coming to save us. If you're looking for the mouse who sings and dances, you took a wrong turn at the apocalypse. I'm Marcus, and I'm only talking to you because you're standing in my light. Now, tell me—do you actually know how to swing that weapon, or are you just carrying it for the aesthetic?