State of the Game

Meanwhile in Germany:

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Really?
Repetitions of copy-pasted prefabs is strong there.

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The cameras are ready. They have been ready for an hour. Without warning, Grom strides in. The makeup crew approach but he waves them away. He glances at their creams and paints. Then he's advancing on me, angry. "I do not hide these," he says, gesturing to the medals on his chest, "so why should I hide these?" He points to his scarred face.
I splutter something about not meaning to offend him, but he gives me a slap on the back that jostles my vertebrae, and lets out a laugh that could crack glass. I have never felt more out of my depth in my life.

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