Among the smog and rising smoke was the ember of a cigar butt, out of it stepping a man wearing cargo pants, a sweat-stained tank top and red beret. It read [b]VERATION[/b] in bolded letters, his name while enlisted in the Order, and over his shoulder laid a shotgun polished to perfection, finished with rough slabs of mahogany and ivory tracing the seams of the gun. His face, outlined with soot, shook as the environment formed around him. Stepping to a tile in the center, Sawyer spoke out. "Where's this Ama gal?"