North Slateport City / Slateport City
"What on Earth are you wearing?"
Well, that was rude. Who is this prick, anyway? Turnip glanced up, noticing the soldier who'd come in to interrupt one of his many times re-assembling his deagle. Seventh time today, by the way. They were a few inches shorter than he was, female, standard AK, hunting knife - an average soldier, he guessed. Judging from the jeep he'd vaguely noticed, probably not here for long.
"I believe they're called clothes. You might have heard of them."
Turnip knew she was referring to the helmet. A snide comment deserved a snide answer, though.
"Sorry, it's just... not exactly common, if you don't mind me saying. Your helmet, that is."
Fair enough, maybe not so much of a prick, then. Pretty bad at first impressions, though.
Turnip responded with nothing more than a "Hmm" of recognition, then decided to exit. Now, he'd wanted to stay just outside the bunkhouse, but it looked like someone else had had roughly the same idea. Roughly Turnip's height, he noted, FN SCAR-L, hunting knife, USP .45.
Alrighty then, a walk it was.
The main camp, it seemed, was only a little less busy than it was when he'd come in; that is to say, STILL BLOODY BUSY. Now, Turnip wasn't particularly shy or claustrophobic or anything of the sort, but these people were... unsettling. Anyone who was going to war needed to have a good reason for it, and Turnip hadn't really figured out those reasons entirely, yet.
Well, he was in the main camp, why not find out?