001a.

[ It looks surprisingly like the pre-war filling stations he sees along Highway 95. The sleek and swooping boomerang-style support columns, the colorful (if rusting) decor, the old advertisements peeling off the walls. It's the lack of immediately recognizable materials, though. A shuttered garage is familiar, but none of the aging products are smeared with familiar, gaudy designs. The candles and shattered glass he glances at, wrinkling his nose in distaste as he pats himself over with the air of a man who has definitely been robbed and left in the middle of nowhere before. All items presents and accounted for, for now. ]

Some people are into the weirdest shit.

[ He mutters to himself, putting some space between himself and the circle that might give the Cult of Mars a run for their money. One of Len's hands drifts to the pistol at his hip as he eases the door of the cluttered garage open, tensely expecting to engage his erstwhile kidnapper. What he doesn't expect to see is a massive truck parked next to a diner that wouldn't go amiss off the interstate. The former stretches down a ways, the length of a train, parked in the middle of a road in what is decidedly not the Mojave Desert. ]

...now this has gotta be either the worst trip I've had in a minute, or I've really cracked my dome this time.

001b.

Son of a bitch.

[ Len swears under his breath, chucking a rusty can over one shoulder in the darkened interior. The diner feels like a shell of its former self, a visual not unfamiliar to someone accustomed to digging around in the remnants of another time, but not exactly a comfort, either. The ever-present electricity doesn't seem to bother him all that much, though it's clear he's keeping any excessively buzzing machinery in the periphery. Last thing he needs is to get his ass electrocuted.

He crouches down and a fuzzy hum emits from the device on his arm when he presses a switch, bathing the area in immediate proximity in sickly green light. Len nudges a couple objects around behind the counter - coffee carafes, chipped mugs, forks that have seen better days - sending a small cloud of dust off of the middle shelf.

The box he pulls out and examines is an old set of tools, something he picks though with a careful eye before pocketing a couple of pieces out of habit. Len hums to himself before glancing over his shoulder at the person behind him. ]

Hey, you find anything that ain't garbage yet?

002a.

[ He can smell the rain a mile away, pelting the ground as it starts to sweep across the parched earth and toward this illustrious caravan of metal, as though it were chasing the creatures dive-bombing them. It took him all of a minute to figure out a decent way to clamber up on top of one of the truck's containers, uncomfortable with the exposure but also lacking in altitude. Beggars can't be choosers.

Len takes to one knee to swing his rifle around, flicking the safety off with deft hands and lining up a shot through his scope. A swarm of the creatures shift like a flock of birds, moving with purpose- ]

C'mon, c'mon-

[ -and he squeezes the trigger. A suppressed crack snaps from the barrel as he clips a wing and one of them immediately plummets to the ground, hitting it hard. The screeching from the group grows discordant and one of them breaks away, tucking its wings to go after a target on the ground, someone he doesn't know. Len doesn't hesitate to take aim again, and the subsequent shot blows a wing off of its body before it slams into the dust next to them.

Len gives them a wave. ]

Y'all right there?

002b.

[ Mildly radioactive precipitation is one thing. Precipitation that soaks through his shirt and starts furiously itching is another.

Situated under some sparse cover from the convoy, catching his breath - and assessing his ammunition - Len holsters his weapon and starts rolling up a sleeve in abject concern. The skin of his forearm prickles uncomfortably, then painfully, diamond-shaped scales with a dark brown sheen pressing up through the flesh. He stares at it for a long moment, then at the person next to him. ]

You seein' this shit?

003a.

[ When cloud cover clears, so do the unfortunate side effects it brought with it, much to his relief. Len spends the scavenging hours picking up remnants with the others, sorting a few crafting items out for his own use, before bothering to analyze any of the animals that attacked them in the first place.

He nudges the desiccated form of one of the flying creatures with the toe of his boot and pats himself over for a small metal cigarette tin, tucking one into the corner of his mouth and looking askance at the person nearby. ]

I'd ask whether this happens often but I'm gettin' the distinct impression this is a regular occurrence.

003b. [ OOC: Dealer's Choice! If you have something that tickles your fancy that I didn't cover, hit me with it! ]