YOU ARE ALEX RASTON. And there is no FUCKING way that's accurate.
You go to the cliff's edge, and engage your long-range optics, and bebing walking in a slow circle.
There has to be at least a hundred of them. Coming in from all directions.
"Hey Mooch?" You say into the com bead. "What the hell man?"
"Oh-hoHO! Sorry, but you friend is no longer in control of this combat simulation." A voice you've never heard before chimes in. "I am. I'm just so damned CURIOUS as to how somebody like you just keeps surviving things like this."
"Who the hell are you?"
"Oh right, sorry. *Ahem* Please allow me to introduce myself, I'm a man of wealth, and taste."
"Oh sorry, just an old joke of mine. Now if you don't mind we're going to perform a little experiment. I want to see juuust how many of these little guys it'll take to kill you when the time comes. After you survived Hope, I started to, well, lose hope if you'll pardon the pun. And now you're something a bit more irritating than a loose end."
"Who. ARE. YOU?!"
"God, questions and needless hostility, you really are your father's son. GOODY. Thought I heard the last of that drivel when i killed him. Now put on a good show kid! I made popcorn just for this, so please don't disappoint."