The Latino girl reached to her side and twisted shut the valve that gave her clean oxygen, before removing the head of her suit, the breathing 'octopus,' (or, at least, that was what she thought it was called, the text on the piping was a little faded and spotty- not the best to read, it had to be said, dangling out of her mouth. She picked up the pressure gauge and took a deep sigh. 25 PSI. Enough for about... Fifteen minutes topside. She would need to fill it up again, but for now she contented herself with putting her welding torch down, her shoulder aching from hauling the heavy battery. She didn't know these people, but they [i]were[/i] her best bet at surviving.

She fumbled in her pocket and drew out a tattered box of small, white pills. Caffeine. Worked as a placebo drug too if you didn't know what they actually were. She balled up some spit and popped one of the little things, struggling to swallow. "I'll take one of the cots," she mumbled, before walking over to one of them and inspecting it closely. It looked to be an actual bunk bed, metal posts and frame. She pressed down on the mattress, and even through the thick gloves she was wearing, could feel that they were cheap, and filthy. The mattress had no cover, and the blanket was threadbare, but hey, four pillows. Probably because they were so small.

The rest of her suit came off with a little difficulty. The first thing she needed to do was to remove the overcoat and air canister 'rucksack' sown into it, which required it to be unzipped from the inside. She removed her gloves- they were hockey gloves with a butcher's chainmail hand protections burnt into the plastic for added protection, and a thin leather layer over the top of that. They were heavy to say the least, and clanked loudly when she put them down on the floor. 

Then there was the zip, and she carefully took off the jacket- a thick cagoule with a modified rucksack to hold the air canister and oxygen feed, with waterproof inner layer gloves. She had picked it carefully- it was the item that she was most relying on to not get rad sickness, after all. Underneath she was wearing a ratty white t-shirt with faded blue writing and a graphic on it. If it had been intact, it would have been a biohazard symbol. Slightly ironic- it had been nukes that had bumped them off after all.

She doubled over as a coughing fit overtook her, wiping away the black that she hacked up on her trousers, before undoing the zip on them and stepping out of both her boots and her trousers in one go. They had been salvaged from an actual hazmat suit. Whilst the original wearer had taken a shotgun to the chest, she was no stranger to looting dead bodies. 

Finally, she was left standing, looking like a normal human being. Her eyes had bags that you could carry shopping in, and her hands and arm were a red reminiscent of  bad rash, but she was otherwise OK. She removed the scrunchie around her ponytail, tucking it into a pair of navy tracksuits and walking barefoot out onto the freezing cold concrete. She bent down and unsheathed her machete, before hanging it on the end of her bed and walking back to the unofficial leader of the group. "What now?"