From the heart of the wasteland, a small tune permeates. Tinny and muffled. A radio, cranked up to its highest setting. Inside, the man is singing along at the top of his lungs, grease smeared over his face as he works with fervour on the project in front of him.
That is, till the door opens, and a chill runs down his spine, causing him to stand rigid. "Well, I...didn't hear you come in." Iggy begins sheepishly, waving his hands to avoid any conflict. "Ya' did knock...didn't ya?"











