This is what Graves gets for trying to explore outside of his comfort zone.

The sun beats down his back, makes him swear that the sweat all over him is boiling. That’s not what’s unfamiliar to him, though, no. What’s unfamiliar is this damn place. It’s in the middle of nowhere, somewhere Graves is so certain even God’s forgotten to cast His light upon — it’s that remote.

Graves kicks at the luminescent Pepsi poster of a soda vending machine. It’s eaten up his five dollar bill, and he’ll be damned if he lets the damn thing take his money without getting a cold drink and some change back.

He’s about to cuss the block of machinery out before spotting you. You’re standing off to the side, looking at him like you’re concerned — not scared — that he’ll come after you next once he gives the vending machine a piece of his mind.

“You know how to work this thing?” Graves asks, clearing his throat. A mercenary flustered upon a sudden intrusion by a simpleton. You’ve got nothing on but a humble outfit, not an ember of fire in your eyes. He hasn’t the slightest clue why he feels the need to straighten back and look around idly.