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Backlit by flame, the ganger strides out of a chemical haze, his eyes reflecting firelight through cracked goggles. His armor is asymmetric—half chainmail, half scorched plating—layered over a combat vest darkened by blood. His arms are bare, massive, corded with muscle, and streaked with soot. A bulky gauntlet on one arm crackles with exposed wires, its servos twitching as he raises a spiked sledgehammer from the ash-covered floor. His mohawk is scorched, the ends curled like iron filaments. Tattoos, faded and broken by scars, run from his clavicle to knuckles. The corridor behind him collapses in on itself, torn by an explosion. He walks through the aftermath like a war-god of rust and fire.