Biff trudged through the packed snow beneath him. His leathers did little to keep him warm, and he was desperate to find a place to make himself comfortable. He took the cigar from his mouth, dropping the butt into the snow, and stopped to place a fresh one into the hole of his surgical mask, before lighting it. There was a long trail of cigar butts spanning hundreds of miles behind Biff. He'd been walking for nearly a month without stopping, and he was beginning to feel the fatigue.

He perked up when he thought he heard gunshots. Could this be the action he was so starved of? He stuck a finger in his hear, doing his best to quell the constant ringing from decades of gunfire and explosions. He turned and took a few steps towards the gunfire when he heard a faint whisper, "Crochet for my crotch."