Frag yawns widely as he gets up, stretching. Little popping sounds can be heard from the metal pieces giving a little in each of their sockets, before settling back into place. He next twists from sounds to side, and a second round of popping and some hissing this time as the air bubbles released.
"That's better." The ghoul stands up, then looks through his backpack for a shirt. He pulls of his current one, then throws on an old one with an illegible slogan; it's slightly less dusty and dirty than the others. Then he stuffs the other one back in the pack, carefully puts on his fedora, and rummages through the bag's pockets for his caps and grenades. After checking to make sure everything was in it's place, he starts going through camp, looking for electronics, traps, dropped caps, and basically anything else of use or danger. Preferably both.
Frag did this every morning, even though he almost always knew the camp would be clean. This was because he didn't sleep. Ghouls didn't need it. It could be enjoyable, if you were into that much relaxation, but the bastard was too paranoid to care for that. It'd saved his life a few times, as had this sweep. And afterwards, he'd check out the bar, see how the local brew would do in a slightly-more-literal iron stomach. After that?... Eh, he might see if there was any work in town. Harvey usually took care of that, but Frag knew he'd get restless if he didn't do something. When he got restless, people died. The last time he'd gotten too bored, he'd been cooped up in jail for a full day after a bar brawl Maxwell managed to start. Needless to say, they didn't catch the mutant, but Frag was a bit easier. After he'd gotten out, he'd set claymores around the police building and a packet of grenades in the sheriff's car. He managed to avoid uprooting one of the mines after the others found out. They left soon after, so he still didn't know whether or not anyone had set it off.