The centerpiece is a long duster coat — originally a PolyRoute-brand weathershell, now unrecognizable under decades of repairs. The coat falls to mid-calf in dirty charcoal, its surface a topographic map of patches: waxed cotton over the shoulders, a square of recycled rubberized tarp at the left hip, strips of silver self-repair tape running along every seam like stitched scars. The lining has been partially removed and replaced with salvaged mylar emergency blanket material, giving it a faint crinkle with every movement and serious thermal retention. Beneath the coat: a ribbed tank in stained off-white tucked into high-waisted cargo pants in faded black denim so worn the knees are almost white, with a functional knee pad sewn into the right leg from a salvaged sports brace. Feet are wrapped in double wool socks visible above low-cut boots that have been resoled with a thick rubber compound and laced with paracord in mismatched colors — one strand bright red, one gray, a detail that in certain Shelf neighborhoods signals a specific salvage crew affiliation. A wide-brimmed hat in stiffened waxed canvas, darkened by rain and oil, sits low over the brow. The hat's band is wrapped with a strip of copper wire from which small salvaged objects hang — a cracked data chip, a single augmentation port cap, a flattened bottle cap embossed with a long-defunct street vendor's mark. Gene-compatible: the coat's back panel has been manually cut and re-hemmed to accommodate a prehensile tail, the edges finished with a whip-stitch of heavy nylon thread.