A Nameless Survivor

Layer upon layer of worn, weathered gear hide every shred of identity, but the way this figure walks suggests it is an able-bodied man, not nearly old enough to have been part of the world-that-was. His gear is mismatched and scavenged: a tankbuster's helm, dented and corroded. Heavily tinted gamma-filter goggles, the left lens coating chipped just enough to reveal the glint of a dark, intelligent eye. A heavy scarf shrouds what might be a warming mask. His tattered outer coat looks like it once belonged to a soldier of the western confederacy, but the infantryman's rifle he carries is of inner-ring make. Mismatched pieces of riveted armor and thermal padding bulk out his silhouette until the build beneath cannot be seen. His boots are beginning to crack in the punishing cold.

Beneath the gear, the survivor turns out to be a young man, dark of hair and eye, with a scruffy beard born more of prolonged disregard than style. Like any other wanderer of the frozen wastes, he's pale and rawboned.