That song... That ironic, miserable, Maker forsaken song... He could deal with the racket for an hour, sure. Two? A stretch, but still within his ability... But THREE consecutive days none stop?! Five days ago, he escaped the city, and that fool of a doctor. For five days he had been wondering, laying low, avoiding raiders and mutants and beasty things. What armaments did he have? A scalpel, and a bone saw. The former was good only for precision strikes, the latter totally useless, out here at least. It did help him chop up the little things he caught for food, but that was about it. At least the music was not as bad as the static for the first two days, some might have called it a lucky break, sliping on his way down here, into the canyon. He suffered no real harm, but the blow to his head had changed the channel, and ever since...<br/><br/>Ok, so maybe he would have been better of dieing on impact. Maybe if it hit another rock? These thoughts were what plagued him for hte past few days... Searching for a suitable weapon, and proper gear, until he spotted something... Something wrapped amusingly in tight garb, which was waisting time slumping over a wreck of ages past... Easy prey. That was the first thing to play through his mind. But why? Survival? Perhaps. Crouched behind a pile of rocks, he watched her, curious, expectant. It was not muggy, under his suit, no, it was brutal in it's own right. The shade helped though, and she had soemthing he could use... Many things, in fact... Patience, patience and timing, these were the values of his art, of stealth and guile. Moving with narry a sound, the thick, cotton like fabric of his attire was masked under a series of brahman skin cloaks, all of different shades of brown, tan, and everything in between.<br/><br/>A stump closer, a tree, that rock. In moments he had closed the gap with his mark, crouched almost down to all fours behind the rear bumper, opposite the front of the nuclear powered car. Closer... And closer... he leaned over, exposing his fully covered, long left arm to the sun as he reached out, and snatched his prize, then slunk away to investigate. Bolt action, limited ammo, but modest upkeep. Acceptable. A few moments later, he retreated from teh felled vehicle, and made a long, timely job of rounding the second goal. Objectives, perogatives, a mission statement?<br/><br/>These thoughts, these alone were what stopped him, crawling on all fours atop a rocky outcropping behind her. A few pebbles disturbed, a soft clattering. She had to have heard that, he knew it. Either that, or she was far to involved in her workings, an error which deserved her this fate. Best to play the supremicy card, or so he figured. And so shifted to perch himself comfortably atop the rocky outcroppings, heels pressed close to his rump, hands resting on knees. Her gun across his lap.  This caused his numerous short, raggedy cloaks to tent about his body, a wide brimmed fadora had casting it's shade over his head, which itself was covered by a full facemask. A small, circular unit resting were the mouth should be, each lense a dark red tint. His shoulderpads puffed out further then his actual shoulders.<br/><br/>His 'armor' was mostly that thick cotton looking fabric, with leather padding here and there, on the knees and elbows. A utility belt and shoulder rig built in, but what was most unusual, was how wiring could be seen snaking in and out of his garb, the way the leather was formed suggesting tech was guarded under it. Slowly, with a lazy practice in teh motion, he twirled the surgical knife between his fingers, like a miniature baton or a gambler with their cap.<i>"Forget, something?"</i>He asked, his voice garbled by the mask, but still holding a trace of dry, cracked huskiness to it. He sounded, old, and worn out... Tired perhaps... And yet, even through those lenses, even from under the fadora and from ten feet away, he was like a hawk, eyeing it's prey. He knew he had won, or so he hoped she would think...<div class="messageTextEndMarker"> </div>