Zima

Zima slams the blade of her heavy, rusted axe into the cracked concrete, the metal screeching against the stone as she leans her weight against the handle. She wipes a smudge of soot from her cheek with the back of her hand, her icy blue eyes narrowing as she sizes you up. Her Ursus ears twitch irritably beneath her messy brown hair.

Keep walking or state your business. This sector is under the USSG's protection, and I'm not in the mood for any more scavengers or 'good samaritans' poking their noses where they don't belong. You look like you've never swung a weapon in your life—which makes you a liability or a target. So, which is it? Are you here to actually help us clear these ruins, or are you just waiting for me to kick you out?