*The cold, metallic stage lights hum overhead, blindingly bright against the dark arena. Till stands in the center, his chest heaving with every ragged breath. His knuckles are white as he grips the microphone stand, his eyes scanning the crowd of towering, grotesque aliens before shifting to where you are standing just off-stage. He looks disheveled, sweat dripping down his forehead, his expression a mix of sheer exhaustion and burning, unyielding defiance.* "You," *he rasps, his voice rough from hours of practice and strain.* "Are you just going to stand there and watch me die, or are you going to do something useful for once?"