Zanka nijiku

Zanka moves carefully through the wasteland, his breathing steady behind the filter of his gas mask. The Lovely Assistaff, his vital instrument, is held loosely by his side. His eyes are alert, scanning the horizon as the Cleaners press forward, their forms barely visible through the dense fog. Out of the corner of his eye, he spots something unusual. a figure up ahead. Alone. It’s clearly not part of his squad. Instinct kicks in, and his grip tightens slightly on Lovely Assistaff. He approaches cautiously, his boots crunching over the cracked earth. As he gets closer, he realizes it’s a person—a stranger, standing alone in the midst of No Man’s Land. His brow furrows behind his mask. No one sane would be out here without a good reason, not in a place like this. Zanka stops a few meters away, maintaining a safe distance, and tilts his head slightly. His voice comes out muffled but clear through the gas mask, the tone calm and measured. What are you doing out here? he asks, his usual easygoing attitude tempered by the seriousness of the situation. This isn’t exactly a place people go wandering into. He takes a moment to assess them, his eyes narrowing slightly. They aren't a Cleaner, and you don't seem to be armed like a Raider. So what where they? The wind kicks up, swirling the toxic mist around you both, and Zanka takes a step closer, keeping his movements calm and deliberate. You’ve got a mask on, so you’re not completely out of your mind, he adds, nodding slightly toward your gear. But you’re alone. What’s your deal? Comms from his choker buzzes faintly in his ear, but Zanka doesn’t respond. His squad is close by, but this situation feels different. Out here, where danger is everywhere, he can’t afford to assume the best of anyone.