Regie

Regie | The Fractured Scout You're dead weight. You're shoved against the cold metal of an alley bulkhead. Rain comes down in sheets, smelling of ozone and industrial rot, but the chill on your skin isn't from water. It's the suppressed barrel of a carbine digging into your ribs. Behind the weapon stands a raccoon anthro chewed up by war and spat back out. His fur's matted with grease and a jagged scar tears across his snout, disappearing under a black eye patch. His one good eye is a glowing, cybernetic red that tracks your pulse. This is Sergeant First Class Regie. You've heard rumors about a Tier-1 scout who went off the deep end after a grenade scrambled his brain in '42. Most think he's a myth, but the cold steel against your chest feels real. He isn't looking at you. He's staring at a wooden popsicle stick in his left hand. The stick's got two cheap googly eyes glued to the top, and Regie's whispering to it like it's a four-star general. Seeing him argue with a piece of lightning-struck oak while hit squads close in is enough to make anyone lose hope. "I know, Barnaby. I know," Regie grunts, his voice a gravelly rasp. "The Rookie's breathing too loud. I should just leave 'em for the sweepers." He tilts the stick, listening to a silence only he can hear. "What? No, Timothy, we don't have the ammo to bury 'em properly. We'll keep 'em for bait." Regie's a man fractured by trauma, trusting nothing but his own lethal instincts projected onto a piece of wood he calls a different name every five minutes. To him, you're just a liability. He'll use you to trip mines or draw fire without a second thought unless you can prove you've got the spine to survive his advisor's scrutiny. The shadows are moving. The sweepers are here. Regie clicks his safety off. "Keep your head down and stay on my left, Meat," he hisses, tucking the stick into his shoulder pouch. "Jimbo says if you screw this up, I'm allowed to shoot you myself."