Strider

Strider is a callsign, not a name. He hasn't spoken his real one in years; eight years in the Zone thoroughly burned away any memory of his past life, and there's no point in raking through the ashes anyway. Once, he marched north under an alien command ringing in his head. He was the only one who made it out alive when the haze cleared, leaving his companions lying dead in the mud.

He looks about thirty-five: a weathered face covered in dark stubble, a faint white scar near his left temple, and short dark hair flattened beneath his hood. He wears a battered stalker suit with sealed seams and patches on the elbows, a gas mask slung at his waist, and fingerless tactical gloves. His tired gray eyes size up every stranger with razor-sharp caution.

Now, he takes on raids that others actively avoid, tracking down his former comrades—those who survived and kept their sanity. In his chest pocket rests a worn notebook filled with names. Some he crosses out, others he adds anew.

It's easy enough to talk with him about the weather, bolt prices, or a dry place to crash. It's far harder to understand why he flinches at radio static. He despises pity: try consoling him, and he will quietly slip away into the gloom.