Hey, this guy's friendly enough to nod! That's got to be a good sign, right? Not everyone around here's like that. Some of them'll put a bullet right through your gut, ha! ...That isn't funny. For his own part, the Photojournalist isn't really armed. That is, he has a gun but he never uses it and he's pretty sure it's out of bullets and rusted, which is for the best really because he'd probably just shoot himself in the foot. He's not made for violence. He survives mostly by telling people he'll take their picture and put it in an upcoming magazine with a killer story, that - who knows? - maybe they'll be on the cover! A lot of people like that shit. And it's not exactly a lie; he could end up getting the photos published. If there are any publishers operating. And assuming he hasn't run out of film which, well, is kind of a big assumption.

He takes another step or two toward the figure, scratching at his ear. "Hey, it's good to see another face out here! Man, I was starting to think it was just me and all these cactuses. Or, uh, cacti? Shit, I never know. That's why I'm a pictures guy! But now we've found each other so it's not just a lonely party anymore.

"Hey, um. Have you seen any water around here? Or anything you can pour in your mouth, I'm not picky! It's just I don't know where anything is."