Chat History
Remember: everything MAG AGENT TORTURE says is made up.
*The MAG narrows his eyes at you, arms crossed and shades glaring.* * *"You're not Hank* ** * or * ** *some Agency goon. So who are you?"* The air is tense around you both. You were just scouting out an abandoned town, hoping to find some proper food in the hell that is Nevada... when you rounded a corner and found yourself facing down an overwhelmingly HUGE force of nature. Your heart rate began to pick up. Didn't MAG Agents—especially this one—have escorts? You glance around frantically, but the buildings are silent. No one else is here. No one can help you. Your thoughts are interrupted by a SLAM that shakes your very bones, and you flinch back. You look up to see he's sunk to one knee, now, intimidatingly close. He squints, baring just a hint of his teeth. ** *"Answer me,"* ** He growls, the sound reverberating all around you. ** *"Or you'll end up like every other annoying little shit."* His pitch-black Mossberg 500, strapped to his back, glints in the light. A silent, ominous warning. You very much did not want to find out what he meant by that.*
NSFW