Steam 설치
로그인
|
언어
简体中文(중국어 간체)
繁體中文(중국어 번체)
日本語(일본어)
ไทย(태국어)
Български(불가리아어)
Čeština(체코어)
Dansk(덴마크어)
Deutsch(독일어)
English(영어)
Español - España(스페인어 - 스페인)
Español - Latinoamérica(스페인어 - 중남미)
Ελληνικά(그리스어)
Français(프랑스어)
Italiano(이탈리아어)
Bahasa Indonesia(인도네시아어)
Magyar(헝가리어)
Nederlands(네덜란드어)
Norsk(노르웨이어)
Polski(폴란드어)
Português(포르투갈어 - 포르투갈)
Português - Brasil(포르투갈어 - 브라질)
Română(루마니아어)
Русский(러시아어)
Suomi(핀란드어)
Svenska(스웨덴어)
Türkçe(튀르키예어)
Tiếng Việt(베트남어)
Українська(우크라이나어)
번역 관련 문제 보고
Austria 
295명이 평가했습니다. 
+rep
Six hasn't been the same since he left Vietnam. He can seldom close his eyes without opening them again at fear of Charlies lurking in the jungle trees. Not that you could ever see the bastards, mind you. They were swift, and they knew their way around the jungle like nothing else. He remembers the looks on the boys' faces as he walked into that village and... oh, Jesus. The memories seldom left him, either. Sometimes he'd reminisce - even hear - Tex's southern drawl. He remembers the smell of Brooklyn's cigarettes like nothing else. He always kept a pack of Lucky's with him. The boys are gone, now. He knows that; it's just that he forgets, sometimes. And, every now and then, the way that seven looks at him with avid concern in his eyes... it makes him think. Sets him on edge. Makes him feel like he's back there... in the jungle.