A little over a year passed since Moss' escape from the military base. Forced into hiding, Moss had taken refuge inside a semi-collapsed two level bridge. The river below it had long since dried. The bridge had collapsed more on one end than the other, turning it into a sort of tube, sealed off on one end. When he had first arrived, he had used the Biped as a sort of temporary wall, but as he had gathered more supplies, he had actually built a sealed, defensible barrier on the open end. It had become a bunker, of sorts, and with the addition of a small watchtower atop, his own stronghold. The watchtower was really just an old delivery van parked over a manhole. Some structural re-enforcement here and there, removed the axle and tires, and it was as good is it could get. Lately, he had been working on a sort of sonar, using salvaged parts from about a dozen broken walkie-talkies.<br/><br/>The biped was in the back of the shelter, in a sitting position, back propped against one wall. Over the years, he had collected a lot of equipment. It had not been active for a year, but Moss had spent his time in between excursions outfitting it with new parts and tiny upgrades. It was yet unknown whether the biped would even start again, let alone benefit from Moss' tinkering.<br/><br/>Moss yawned and looked over at the 'wall of clocks'. He sat up and rubbed his eyes, and dismounted his bed-couch. He then walked over to the wall of clocks and adjusted one or two, and made his way over to the 'kitchen counter'. He grabbed a handful of dried pasta, tossed it into a bowl and walked casually over to the fire pit, which had long since gone out. He tossed a few twigs and some old newspaper into the fire pit, which had been the wheel rim of a semi trailer. He lit a match, and tossed it in. It caught slowly, but soon there was a small blaze in the center. Moss hauled a broken truck grill onto the fire pit, and set down upon it a small pot of water. He anticipated one or two visitors this week, and so he was boiling some water to sanitize it.<br/><br/>He had several months ago turned his habitat into a kind of trading post. He didn't get visitors very regularly, but when he did, if they had anything that might be of use to him, he would invite them in, share with them a warm meal, and discuss trading possibilities. Most of the time, Moss would offer to repair something in exchange for something else of value, such as food, ammunition, or the occasional busted piece of tech; he had at one point traded four cans of beans for what seemed like an irreparably broken hunting rifle and a carton of the wrong type of ammunition. However, as sure as the days were long, he had brought it back to working order, and had overhauled it to use a different kind of ammo, to boot. Word of his aptitude didn't travel very quickly, but nevertheless, he had his fair share of encounters.