Simon Blight
A ragged-looking man, if you could call it that, surveys the pair of fresh corpses before him. Rolling the boy over with his foot, the grisly ruin just inside his right shoulder blade betrays the telltale signs of a load of double-ought buckshot, or "Fed" as it is known in this part of the Waste. This area is known to be dangerous; few scavs pass through, much less scrape out an existence here. The ragged man had never seen these two before, and their weather-worn clothes had once been more lavish than the hides and scraps that adorned him. Few city dwellers venture into the Waste; the condition of their equipment implies they met quite a bit of misfortune during their excursion even before their untimely demise. No doubt, these two picked the wrong route. A grim smile briefly crosses his face as he glances at the surrounding hilltops. The rough and broken landscape naturally funnels most traffic and food through this ravine, and that's why it is so dangerous.

Turning back to the task at hand, he briefly pushes the sweat and his greasy hair from his foreheard and sets to work picking them over. No doubt their worldly posessions are no longer of concern to them, but for everyone else, they still bear some significance. It is in his best interest to finish and move along as there is no telling who else will be drawn by the gunshots. Stripping anything of use from the corpses, the man drags the bodies into the cover of an old, rusty hulk. Turning back into the sun, his features are illuminated, showing a twisted mouth and grotesquely flat nose. Pitted with lesions, his leprous skin is dry and cracked from exposure. He shoulders a worn pack and picks up Ming, his ancient shotgun. The bluing wore off generations ago, and only the constant contact with skin keeps it from turning into dust like everything else.

As he grabs two shells to load into the magazine his hand brushes against a pair of empty cartridges, still warm. "Bes' two Feds ya spent in a while, Simon," he mutters to himself as a sneer creeps across his face. "I dun' kno wha' thees cities were runnin' from, but looks like they foun' worse." As a bitter wind sweeps through carrying the scent of death and a stinging cloud of dust, he departs the ravine, his dull and weather-stained outfit making him disappear into the landscape as he searches for the next "opportunity."