Cole stood at the outskirts of the slums, weighing his options. He needed supplies, that much was certain. This place wasn't ideal but there would be at least one or two people willing to trade for supplies. Well, that is.... Cole sneezed. ...if they didn't try to kill him first. Cole wasn't entirely sure what he was sick with, except he did know it wasn't the Fungus. Normally, this would be a good thing, but paranoia was high and Cole doubted that the people in the slum could tell the difference between the Fungus and the flu. At best, he would be ignored by the dwellers. At worst, he would be driven out or attacked. Cole peered into the brown leather pouch that hung from his side. It was discouragingly empty. Well, without supplies he would die anyway, so might as well take the risk. With a sigh, he pulled a gas mask over his face. The slums probably weren't so bad that he needed it, but the mask would at least cover up his tired eyes and running nose. Here goes nothing. Cole mustered up his energy and headed into the slums.