"Such is the way of training, I suppose. Every bruise of yours tells a story; every blemish a lesson of a mistake you've learned from. I know I have a lot of scars from here. What determines each mark is what you've learned since you've gained it." They enter the forest, a path cleared for the two to tread upon. Wolfe' exosuit left heavy impressions in the light snow, different from the light tread marks of the man's wheels. The path slightly smelled of smoke and recently-burned wood. And while snow covered most of the broken branches and trunks, burn marks beneath were visible. "I was an old associate of your father's. Not as old as Clarkson, of course, but old enough during his time. The name's Luis Franco, Jackson. Please to meet you, but you most likely know me by my moniker."