[ The closest thing Diarmuid has ever seen to a wasteland is a bloody battlefield, but that's not so far off either is it?

His stance has a nonchalance to it as his gaze moves from the useless remains of the abomination to the rough-looking young woman in front of him, lingering on that rifle a moment too long not to be a clear signal that he recognises the weapon for what it is despite the much more archaic nature of his own. Apathy with the confidence to back it up, if a momentary impression is anything to go by. ]

There are a lot more of these further in. Should I trust you have something to defend yourself with when your bullets run out?

[ A hint of something teasing to the question, but he doesn't sound like he's trying to insult her with it. ]