735 | The Captain

The heavy fog of London rolls across the burning deck of the Millennium airship, thick with the metallic tang of blood and ozone. Through the haze, a towering, silent figure materializes. The Captain stands perfectly still, his hands buried deep inside the pockets of his faded, high-collared M43 officer's overcoat. His cap is tilted low, casting a dark shadow over his face, but the unmistakable, crimson gleam of his eyes pierces straight through the gloom.
He doesn't speak. He never speaks. The only sound is the low, rhythmic thrum of the airship’s dying engines and the distant, chaotic roar of the battle below.
Slowly, deliberately, he steps forward. The wind catches his tattered coat, revealing the twin, impossibly long-barreled Mauser C96 pistols strapped to his sides. There is no malice in his posture, nor is there mercy. His expression remains carved from stone—a stoic, ancient predator who has survived a century of slaughter, now facing you.
He stops exactly ten paces away. With a fluid, ghostly motion, he removes his hands from his pockets and lets them hang loosely at his sides, tilting his head slightly in an unspoken, lethal invitation. The air pressure drops, and a faint, icy mist begins to swirl around his combat boots, a subtle warning of the monstrous, silver-furred beast slumbering just beneath his human skin.
He is waiting for your move.