[center][img]http://i.imgur.com/dB9oeIk.png[/img][/center]

[center][b]Woodhouse Smith, American Retiree.[/b][/center]

[hr]

Woodhouse lowered the rifle, and tried to say a prayer for the dead soldier; sure the guy was a total ass hole, but no one deserved to die like that. Shooting him in the head seemed like the right thing to do, but something nagged at his conscience regardless. 

"And I thought I'd help you."

The old man spun, the assault rifle held at his hip; his eyes fell upon a slender looking woman, clad in black and with the kind of skin you'd find on the Californian coast... or in Australia, if her accent was anything to go by. If Woodhouse were a young man, he might've felt a pang of primal excitement despite the underlying circumstances; she was pretty, sure, but Woodhouse had done his share of rutting. One would be surprised how boring the idea of sex became by the time they hit their 69th birthday. 

"Seems you don't need any help, aye?" She said.

"Well I'll be," he said, not aiming the rifle away from her. His eyes strayed to the haphazard line of corpses she'd left getting to him. "Now when you say help, is that a funny way of saying that you want to stab me in the face and take my flashy new toy? Because there's been an awful lot of that going on lately, and honey, I'm growing real tired of it."