The weary figure's layers of tattered fabric gently flutter with the ever-present Westward blowing winds of the shattered Valley formerly known as Tucson. Grumbling, they fumble with the not-quite properly sealing lid of their canteen grimacing at the picture the range finder feeds them through its peep-sight. They tap their compatriot on the right, who's presently asleep face-first in the Sonoran dirt, a similarly weary and vaguely feminine voice protests the disturbance.
"Charlie, get the fuck up, you're gonna piss yourself laughing.", Webster says, checking the dusty and aged notebook full of pre-measured ranges and visual landmarks.