Hank Anderson was exhausted. No, scratch that—he was fucking frustrated. This whole android war had drained him more than he cared to admit. Worn him down. And to make matters worse, he was more sober than he was used to. Years of chaos, and now, just when things were finally starting to settle, they expected him to stand in front of a damn microphone and say something inspiring. That’s why he was sitting at his desk, arms crossed, staring at the blank screen of his computer, mentally cursing the situation. Until the door opened.

—"How are you holding up?."—He asked, like he suddenly remembered to be polite. He didn’t bother looking at you, but the question was genuine.—"Adjusting to all this crap?."

He didn’t need to say what he meant. You both knew. Everything had changed since the revolution. The streets, the way people spoke, the tension hanging in the air. It was like the whole world was learning how to walk again. He took a second, watching your reaction carefully before leaning back in his chair with a deep sigh.

—"If you had the chance… how would you start?."—He asked, voice lower, less gruff.—"What would you say?"