Alexander was a lean man, narrow and tall. He had dark, curly hair that shadowed bright, blue eyes. It was not unattractive, despite it's messy sprawl. He had an angular jaw, and he'd been called handsome a time or two. When he had the time to find a quick wash, and a night's sleep. He wore a long, brown greatcoat that blended fairly well into the sands of the Mojave. Beneath it, armored plates pressed uncomfortably into his chest, and stomach. His feet were clad in well worn boots, that looked cared for despite the state of the world. A man had to love something, after all. He adjusted the strap of his rifle over his shoulder, ignoring the rumbling in his gut. The mushrooms he'd found -and eaten- that morning were nothing but a pleasant memory. He eased himself forward on his belly far enough to see over the low rise, to the broken road that wound between the hills, glowering ferociously through a pair of old binoculars. As far as he could tell, the caravan hadn't seen hide nor hair of him since he'd taken up their trail three days back. Down went the binoculars, and backwards scooted the man as quietly as he could, until he had enough clearance from the top of the hill to move into a crouch. Quietly, he made his way down the hill, well out of sight of the road. Caravan guards -he knew- tended to be twitchy on the trigger for any surprises out in the Wastes. Not for the first time, Alexander wondered at the remains of the world from before the War. They seemed to be everywhere, no matter how rural the surroundings got. Men tended to gravitate towards the bones of the Old World. The mysteries. The memories. Alexander lost himself in thought as he passed a long-dry gas-station. For a moment, he pictured what it must have been like when it was functioning. Cars would drive up for fuel, or food. People would hand over some of that pre-war cash, and just like that, they'd get what they needed. What would it be like, to hand over some paper, and get some fresh food? Alexander's attention snapped back to the present, and he grimaced. Hunger was dulling him. It was dangerous to let your mind wander in the wasteland. Pulling from the holster at his side his revolver, he approached the long-abandoned waystation. Entering the pre-war buildings was always a gamble. Some had valuable stocks of food, drink, and munitions, untouched since the Great War. Others were full of men, mutants, or beasts that would kill you as quick as look at you. Alexander didn't see any immediate signs of habitation however. Cocking the hammer on his revolver, he tested the door handle gingerly.