Sunlight. The fact that you can see it means you survived another night. Another night on this hellish planet, with its hellish people, and its hellish ways. Actually, not everyone is bad here. Just most of them. The everyday folk that go about their lives, blissfully ignorant of the mayhem poised like some kind of giant cat ready to envelop their lives in a cloud of chaos and blood and pain, are not the ones you have to fear. Even in their most wild state, they can be reasoned with or at the least, killed. The animals and wild men of the wastes, however...well, that's a different story.

Imagine, if you will, an animal. This animal is very small, of a mild disposition and no lethal body parts whatsoever. Now blow that image to kingdom come. There aren't animals like that anymore. Everything, everything, from the smallest to the largest is out to get your guts. If they aren't filled to the brim with drooling fangs, they've got spikes coming out of them, poison spitting orifices, or some other kind of sick joke that mean ol' Momma Natural loves to crack. And, as if that weren't bad enough, not all of the plants stay still. Many a man has been ingested, poisoned, infected, absorbed or strangled by the various green-leafed bastards out there.

Sounds pretty bad, huh? Just wait, it gets worse. Every week there's at least one sandstorm, rainstorm, or shitstorm that decides to vomit a bit of messy on the clean lives of the human folk. Summers blister the skin, while winters freeze digits off appendages. In areas more heavily populated, there's a thick smog layer that makes days look hazy or dirty. Small towns or country homes might not have to deal with the smog, but the crops they grow are ripe for the pickin's by all the hungry animals a-prowl.

Luckily, people as a "universal" group figured out how to work together. The Code was first put into practice in 2385, and it established the social mores that people have to abide by, or be hunted like wild animals. Not even the raiders break Code laws, unless they've got the Wildness in them. A person lives too long out there, they start to lose that what makes them us. The mind.
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A bright sunbeam managed to pierce the curtains of protection that Kaiba had put up. Crying out in pain, the wanderer rolled over too far and fell from her perch. With a loud grunt, she hit the floor and managed to twist onto her feet for the rebound. Kaiba sighed sleepily, rubbing her eyes and streching as she walked to her sound system. She slapped at it a couple times till her hand hit the big red button, which commented to her "That was easy!". She flipped the stereo off as she wandered into the kitchen, waiting for the music to start.

"I will BREAAAAAAAAK!", came the first scream. Kaiba grinned to herself, feeling her tired body start to wake up and began to dance around the kitchen. First, she set the coffee machine going, using yesterdays grounds because they were still good. Then she moved into the main room to start her morning routine. 100 pushups and situps to start, followed by curlups, benching the approximately 200 pound boulder she happened to have lying around, and flexibility yoga (which she learned from an old holo-cube).

Sweating profusely, Kaiba quickly disrobed and jumped into the shower, which was just a grille on the ground that ran the waterfall she was drenched in back to the purifier under the house. She took a moment to admire herself in the mirror. Rippling, corded muscles, black swirling tribal tattoos, tight, sexy body. She grinned and winked at herself before getting dressed in her usual half-shirt and cutoff dura-fiber fabpants. Grabbing a tin mug of coffee, she pirouetted through a door into her garage, which she opened, and smiled at the world. Kaiba leaned on the wall and sipped at her coffee as she watched the bustling crowd of people putter hither and thither.

Maybe I'll have breakfast out today. That cafe down the road is pretty good. After a while, she decided against it. She didn't want to creep out the staff. But...No. Kaiba shook her head. If that waitress really wanted her number, she would've picked it up off the table. Kaiba'd watched her for ten minutes, and the waitress had swept the napkin into her trash bin. Kaiba left after that.

It’s not like she burns up when she wakes. The sunlight doesn’t hurt her, just pierces that one part of her that’s still trying to live. The beams cut through the chill in her spiritual bones and gives her a reason to try and smile. To try and make this day the one that opens her up. It slaps her in the face with how hopeless all those thoughts can be. Her mind recedes back into the darkness and she gets up to start a day she will soon forget.
Like always, she forgets that she’s supposed to eat when her stomach growls and as she wades through the floor toward the hotel breakfast bar she tries to remember what she used to eat for breakfast.
Eggs and pancakes. Sometimes cereal. Every now and then, a giant slab of greasy bacon with biscuits and gravy. That only happened on Daniel’s good days. When he’d wake up and cry on her shoulder and apologize and tell her he was finished with it. Tell her he loved her and that she was his world and he couldn’t believe that he would give her up so easily every night.
Those were the mornings she tried to remember. The smell of bacon gravy and warm, soft, biscuits. The way he smiled from behind a tired face covered in scratches and scabs from picking. He still twitched a little when he smiled at her that way, but she didn’t care. Daniel was perfect to her in those moments. When the sunlight soaked into his pale skin and dark circles.
But now she just stared at bland cereals, a jug of milk that had been out for so long it was lukewarm, and some bread and butter for toast. The bar had a radio, playing music she didn’t listen to, and two hotel workers sitting, steering clear from the food. She looked over at them, peering over her spectacles and watching as her gaze turned them back to their quiet conversation about how irritating hotel stayers were.
Valentina Denneri, she tells people to call her Val with false gaiety, pulled her thin legs back to her hotel room to dress and get ready for the part-time job she’d been hired for recently. It was something while she remained in the city for however long she could stand. She’d traveled to many places, trying to find a place where she could live autonomously and not constantly think of how empty she always felt. Something inside her whispered, “Where you live has nothing to do with your happiness. It is whom you choose to live with.” Val knew this to be true, but still, she tried hopelessly to find a simple little room, a simple little job, and a simple little life where she could die someday.
With no real ambition to do anything at all, Val didn’t feel like she just had to live out the rest of her life. If she were raped, mugged, and killed in an alley she probably wouldn’t give two shits less about it.
As long as they didn’t stab her.
No knives.
Shoot her in the head.
Just please, please, for the love of all things great and small, don’t stab her.
Her clothes were clean from the hotel Laundromat and she smelled them. Just clean. Nothing distinct. There was nothing very noticeable about Val to begin with, so this didn’t bother her. She would smell just like all the other clean folk in the city. A good hair brushing, shiny and new, a few barrettes to pin the loose bangs from her dead eyes, and some bangles to jingle about her wrist as she took down orders. Nothing too loud and clangy or it would irritate the customers. Something soft, like pixie bells.
Val was a superb waitress, save for the dead look, even when she smiled. Sometimes, the customers didn’t pay much attention; sometimes, they would try to flirt with her, see the death laying in her visage and quickly turn that idea down. She was used to it. It didn’t affect her ability to do her job. This café would be no different.

Well, it was a city after all. The bar that acted as a hotel provided food and board for the employees if they agreed to a smaller salary. It didn't bother the snoozing man in the slightest, as sunlight filtered through one of the windows onto his legs. It was a small bedroom, accompanied by a small living room, kitchen, and smaller bathroom. The man woke only because of a pounding on his door.

Rubbing sleep from his eyes, Daven Blint picked himself off the mattress, grabbing the snubnose revolver he had under his pillow and walked to the door. He peeped through the eyehole, and saw it was just one of the barmen. He sighed, sticking the snubnose into his pants before opening the door. The barman had a slightly frustrated look about him, and as it turned out, he was right in being so.

"We've got some people who drank themselves unconscious last night. The other guy tried to throw 'em out, but now they're awake and thrashing the poor fellow." He explained. Blint scratched his head. He thought the other bouncer was supposed to be good at this. He reached for his pipe, only to realize he left that in his living room along with his green and his lighter.

"Alright, alright. I'll be down in a minute." Blint said, and the barman nodded and started heading back down the hall. He quickly examined himself. His blonde hair was a mess, but that didn't really matter as he only worked nights when the bar was open so appearance wasn't an issue. He quickly threw on a clean dress shirt and trousers, and planned on coming back up to shower later. He grabbed his holster, shoving the snubnose into the niche and belting the holster around his waist. Walking to the stairs, he only had to go down one flight of stairs- benefits of being an employee, and down a short path to the bar.

Well, it was no wonder the bouncer was having problems. Three bear-like men were in rages fueled by their hangovers- rather than weakened by it. They were pummeling the bouncer, the floors, and each other in a confused brawl that Blint had to work carefully around lest he hurt himself. "Fellas. It's waaaay past closing time, and you can always come back here. But we gotta clean up and you're gonna be scaring the residents up top." He said. One of the hulking men turned a bleary eye to him.

Grunting once, the man threw a huge fist, one which Blint caught with his hand easily. It was almost like one of those freaking movies, except he had to brace himself and the punch had enough force to throw him back a clean foot. Blint's eyes glinted once, as he pulled the man's fist back, sending the man staggering toward Blint's own fist. Daven's punch connected with the man's face, and there was a clean break as the nose cartilage snapped. The man spun to the floor, and the other two looked up at Blint, who was busy rubbing his bruised knuckles. "A little too much on that one. Need my knuckles for anything more." He muttered, looking pointedly at the other two. Of course, he could have used his snubnose to force them out, but who knew if they carried guns? That would spark a fight Blint wouldn't be able to win- as he was only just a fair shot with his gun.

The two men got the point, picking up their unconscious friend and staggering through the double-doors.

Blint helped the other bouncer to his feet- a bulky dark-skinned man named Yommi. As predicted, Yommi looked incredibly ashamed. "Let my guard down." the man said shortly, trying to retain some dignity. Blint let him off the hook- he just needed a smoke right now, and the poor guy just got thrashed by three bear-like men.

"Even so, you still gotta take a trip to the hospital." Blint said. "Need a lift?" Yommi shook his head. He gave his thanks to Blint before leaving the bar himself, walking the short distance to the hospital. Never a more convenient spot than here. The cafe across the street was starting up it's business, but Blint decided he wanted to smoke and shower first. What way to start the day.

A soft humming was the only sound that occupied the brightening cockpit of the Miralight. The sound wasn't particularly tuneful, but it certainly was cheerful. Not ostentatiously, of course; not yet. She didn't need to be obnoxious until she had an audience. Right now, she could simply be content. Five fleshy fingers, nimble and bony, danced a concordance with five metallic ones, equally dexterous but decidedly more unnerving to those who didn't know to look for them. Each flipped a switch or turned a knob with what might have been muscle memory alone, the tiller minded by a knee or spare digit here and there. It all looked so random, and the careless way in which the maneuvers were executed had scared more than one first-time flyer entirely witless.

But to the people who'd flown on this vessel for years, it was just the way of it. The Captain flew her ship like she did everything else. If life was a tightrope, she danced and flipped across it, constant motion keeping her from the inevitable fall should she ever be called to halt and remain steady. Steady was beyond her, but the constancy of motion was a saving throw the universe had seen fit to give her. Incoming sunlight glinted off the various golden, silver, and gem-wrought baubles on her good hand, at her ears, about her neck and in her hair; Ash glittered, and she liked it that way. None of them was worth much; they'd been chosen just for the sort of gaudy quality that demanded attention, not the obvious value that screamed 'mug me, please.'

Though getting mugged could be fun sometimes, she just didn't want to deal with it every occasion she had to land. Repetition was as damning as stillness. Satisfied with her adjustments and relishing in the resulting purr of the ship's engine, Ash engaged autopilot and hopped out of her worn upholstered chair, stretching out with a sort of feline fluidity. She had a habit of falling asleep at the wheel, so luckily she'd programmed the lovely lady to revert to planned course on autopilot when she went longer than a few minutes without doing anything at all.

Cracking the knuckles of her still-intact left hand, she ascended the stairs to the outside deck, breathing in the extremely crisp morning air with gusto, lacing both the natural and artificial fingers together behind her back and plastering a huge smile on her face. Some days, it was good to be alive, and she never forgot it. Standing at the very prow of the ship, it was easy to feel like she was the one flying, and not this impossible-looking hunk of metal that she loved so dearly. Most of the skeleton crew that ran nights had already left for bed, but it would probably be a while before the day folk got themselves off their lazy rear ends and to work. She'd probably make a big show of berating them for it later, but as usual her bluster would mean nothing and nothing would change.

That was fine with her. This little bit of time in the morning, the only people usually awake were herself and Sven. The quiet was actually kind of nice, though she'd never tell. Where was that tower of a Russian, anyway? Oh, there he was. "Mornin' Sunshine!" she called, waving with far too much enthusiasm as usual. She tended to tag people she knew with obnoxious nicknames. His was most assuredly ironic, but she didn't care in the slightest. She practically skipped over to where he was standing, and then, just because she could, hopped up on his back. It didn't matter if he endeavored to keep her there or not, she could manage on her own. "You tall people have such a nice view," she informed him from where she was peering over his shoulder as though this occurrence was perfectly normal (which it pretty much was). "You should enjoy it and smile more."

That wasn't likely, of course, but she continued to tell him so anyway. "We should be landing soon. Lotsa stuff to trade this time." They'd just returned from their latest expedition in the old cities, which was an extremely dangerous, but highly profitable business. The cargo hold was loaded down with their finds: Scrap metal for melting, assorted artifacts, even a few books, which were dead rare these days and worth a fortune apiece to the right buyer. Of course, it was more complicated than that, since what they needed in return were engine parts and supplies. Still, she supposed they'd just do what they always did and take half a fortune in those things and let the mechanic play enriched middleman. Ruin-diving was a lifestyle, not a business.

She might have tormented her trusted Lieutenant further, perhaps by ordering him to carry her somewhere, but she was in a good mood this morning, and so she simply hopped down with a grin instead. Yep; some days, life was good.

A powerful roar reverberated from the Harley tearing down the lonely road. The rider had no companions aside from the rifle slung to the side of the iron horse and the morning sun in the horizon. The rider's eyes were shielded both by the old desperado hat on his head and the pair of mirrored shades. A bandana wrapped around his face to filter out the dust from the lonesome road. He twisted the throttle and the iron horse's roar intensified, carrying the rider down the road even faster and causing his leather dusty to flap mercilessly in the wind.

The rider was a "fix-it" man by the name of Walker. He fixed problems of all kinds, whether those problems be mechanical... Or human. Walker had been a deputy, a bounty hunter, a mechanic, and numerous other occupations that one would take up in a forsaken wasteland. The man recently took up scavenging abandoned towns for parts to sell or use. The motorcycle was old, but Walker was a damn good mechanic, one would have to be to keep the Harley in working order, not to mention the repairs needed to be made on the .308 rifle at his side.

Walker crested a hill and came upon a settlement in the distance. At first, the rider thought it would be another abandoned town and began to contemplate stopping and scavenging. However, as he gained distance, he began to see people milling about. No, not abandoned. Damn. Well, maybe that was a good thing, he hadn't ate anything since yesterday, and it was the last of the canned food he had. Besides, he could use a rest, he had been riding the motorcycle all morning and his ass was beginning to get sore. This was as good a rest place as any. As Walker drifted into the town, he saw the hotel and cafe across the street. He stopped the motorcycle in front of the hotel just as two men left carrying an unconscious man.

Ah, well, that ruled out a liquid breakfast. He didn't want to see the fellow that forced out those men. Instead, he coasted his motorcycle a little down the street and parked in the lot beside the cafe where he killed the growling engine and took a moment on the Harley. He pulled the bandana down from his mouth and pulled out a pack of cigarettes from a pocket inside of his duster, removing one and lighting up. After taking a couple of draws on the death stick (As well as catching a couple of glances from mulling townsfolk) he dismounted, leaving his rifle slung across the Harley. He didn't expect anyone would tamper with it, but god help them if they did.

He entered the cafe to the stares of a couple of early birds, and he took his seat at the bar. A waitress glanced at the cowboy-looking fool, and asked, "What'd ya want?" Walker removed his hat and glasses, and tiredly rubbed his eyes, and slicking back his hair out of his eyes. "If ya don't mind ma'am, I'd like a cup of coffee. Oh, and somethin' with meat," Walker said in a heavy southern drawl. The waitress turned around and looked at the rider. She was older than Walker thought... "And how're ya plannin' on payin' fer it? With your good looks?" Walker smiled and pulled something from his pocket, "If only it'd be that easy ma'am. Naw, I've got it covered, don't you worry," He said, placing a couple of gold coins on the bar. While paper money was worthless aside from being tinder, gold and silver always held value and always will.

The waitress nodded and placed a mug of steaming liquid in front of the rider and set about telling the cook. Walker took one last drawl from the cigarette and sipped from the coffee.

Mechanical fingers drummed a tuneless beat against the gleaming railing, tapping to the rhythmic sounds of Miralight's droning engine. Despite the shuttles shabby outer appearance, all of its' metals and steels were polished daily, by the scrubbing boys or those who were being punished, and reflected it's surroundings, crystal clear. The Russian's stern visage revealed nothing as he stood rigidly at the stern's edge, elbows propped across the railing so that his great bearish hands could overhang. Lieutenant Diederich had a thick accent, two thick fists, and a thick skull. It was rumoured he'd won the ship's position from its previous right-hand-man by headbutting him overboard, but none of the existing crew held much stock in rumours. They've always been taken with wary grains of salt, even if Captain Skybound proclaimed that it nothing but the truth. Still, the overpowering majority of them thought it wise to make themselves scarce, when the Lieutenant was in a temper. Though to be perfectly honest, it was hard to read his expressions with the nonchalant frown settled across his mouth.

The clipper's sails billowed, and the soft humming thrummed from the inner workings of the Miralight. Everything was in perfect working order, and the dusky sun was dragging it's way up the horizon, casting orange embers with the mingling pale blue of the open skies. The Russian always rose early in the morning to catch the sunrise, and knew that his Captain was working busily in the cockpit below, pressing and pushing buttons as if they were extensions of her being. It was unnerving if you didn't truly know her natural capabilities steering the faithful vessel. He wrapped a hand around the guardrail that lined the front deck, pushing himself away from the railing, and relished the feel of open air after a morning spent stuck in that cramped storage room. He'd been sorting the various produce and wares they'd stored down in the cargo bay all night, and the majority of the wee hours of the morning – trading was important when you were a sky privateer. When you weren't pillaging the skies, you were trading with guilds and merchants at port. The hull of a sky ship was always split into two sections; the fore hull normally contained the crew sleeping quarters and a hold and the aft hull which contained the cargo bay, food storage, galley, infirmary, and the housing for control cables. The Miralight was no exception, though she was smaller in size and held the most half-hazard, thrown-together crew he'd ever had the honour of knowing. The wind buffeted him playfully, threatening to tear away the black headband he wore across his forehead to ward the thin film of sweat covering his weathered skin.

The engine belched a cloud of greasy black smoke into the sky behind them, and the ship gave a shuddering lurch. It was likely that Ash had engaged the autopilot, and the resulting whir of the engines was music to his ears – there wasn't anyone quite like Captain Skybound who could effortlessly navigate a stubborn, flighty ship such as the Miralight. Pushing away from the guardrail, the Russian sucked in another appreciative breath of fresh air and stalked down the steps, setting his sights on towards the dining hall. A moment later, the Russian's eyes caught sight of bright baubles glimmering in the sunlight, indicating that his flashy Captain had emerge from the cockpit. Instinctively, he brought his mechanical hand to shield his eyes from all of the bedazzling trinkets glistening hanging from her wrists, neck, and threaded through her braided plaits, casting slivers of light; though, nothing could quite match her beaming exuberance.

Thumbing his chilly fingers across his jawline, the Russian couldn't feel the itchy stubble but knew he was passed due for a quick shave. Honestly, he'd often cut himself more often then not trying to wrestle the small blade into his big hands. Sometimes, he'd simply let it grow beyond his comfort and solemnly ask someone aboard the ship with fleshy, bony, real fingers to shave the damnable thing off. His mouth still formed that Siberian frown he was renowned for, never offering more than a small twitch of a greeting. He wouldn't wave his hand around like a blustering fool, either. A towering Lieutenant with the prominent reputation for being rigid, stern and earnestly fair was better than being a notoriously friendly giant with a gap-toothed smile. The mere thought nearly send a shudder through him, and before he knew it, the Captain was prancing towards him with that mischievous look dancing across her face. Sunshine; that wasn't a nickname he was likely going to ever get used to, even though he heard it several times a day whenever Ash was about. Fortunately, no one else aboard the Miralight had the guts to mimic the Captain.

“Mornin—,” Lieutenant Diederich began to say, brusquely cut off when the Captain hopped daintily onto his back, hooking her arms around his thick throat. He straightened indignantly, though, and tore his gaze away from the endless sky. “No good, alvays vaking up so early vith you, alvays the same,” As usual, it came out sounding as though he’d said it with a mouth full of cleaning rags. For a man who looked as though he’d been hacked out from a tree by someone who had only a very vague idea of what human men should look like, the Lieutenant was extremely skilled at getting the jump on people with his intimidating demeanour and hounding voice. Though, Ash Skybound seemed unaffected by his enigma. “Like a bear trap, ya'.”

Eyeing her through his steely gaze, the Russian locked eyes with hers and managed a curt snort of amusement, though he didn't smile. His arms crossed over his barrel chest, cording his heavily muscled arms. She remained perched on his back like a flighty hawk, so he didn't need to shift his arms beneath her legs to keep her from sprawling across the ship. It'd been ages since he'd genuinely smiled, and it might've even been in the Captain's presence – honestly, he couldn't remember. “Okay, dievka. Get off noaw, bad knees.” And still, the towering Russian made no movements to remove the grappling creature from his back. The Captain, and he bet the remainder of his arms that she fully understood this, could do anything without angering the hulking Lieutenant. “Books for vhat, anyways?” He mumbled, scratching his head with the knuckles of his prosthetic hand.

When the Captain hopped off his back, the Lieutenant faced her, arms still crossed, and mouth still frozen in his peculiar frown. Although, his eyebrows were cocked with general interest – he'd busied himself down in the cargo hold sorting dusty artifacts, books he couldn't read, and pieces of metal that would do well on the stock market, so he hadn't discussed there current destination over their ritualistic glass of vintage wine. All in all, the dangerous trip had been profitable, if not exciting. “Landing vhere, exactly?”

The hotel's hot water came from powerful boilers that ran in the basement. However, at night when many were using it the boilers simply wouldn't be able to stand up to the combined usage of all the paying residents. Luckily, in the morning people weren't too concerned with such a thing- preferring to wash away the morning and day grime at the same time. However, since the sleepy bouncer worked nights, he didn't always get this opportunity. So, he taken to washing twice a day- early morning and late night. A perfect symmetry if you will, washing the sweat from sleeping and the stress from working really helped.

To be honest, Blint never really woke up this early. He usually woke up late- around maybe three or four. He was still, like many people, completely attuned to the rise and fall of the sun. It was a tendency so deeply ingrained that no human could shake it off in a lifetime. Adjust? Yes. Benefit? No. He had read an article by a scientist that the hours where sleep would benefit the human body was around 1 to 3 o'clock in the morning. Well, it wasn't like Blint aimed for a healthy lifestyle. He worked odd jobs, smoked, and hung around alcohol for most of his life. The only real fun and adventure he had ever had was tagging along with a particular group of pirates that went treasure hunting in places that many considered devoid of wealth.

As steam rose from the shower stall and began to cloud the mirror a few feet away, Blint shook himself from his deep reverie and began to scrub himself in gusto. This always happened in the early morning. Almost too sleepy to do anything else other than ponder aimlessly. He was no Descartes, or Ezra Pound. He was just a freakin' bouncer with a strange ability to punch somebody so hard that his own fist would shatter if he wasn't careful. He turned the faucet, cutting the water off as he stepped out of the stall. He wiped down his hair first, combing it lazily so it didn't at least stick up everywhere. As long as it didn't get in his eyes, either. His closet didn't vary much, usually just fancy bartender dress shirts, vest suits, trousers, and sometimes the occasional casual sweat shirt and t-shirt. Most of his other clothes were for labor work such as construction- and therefore deemed unwearable in public. Especially the one he used to heave vats of chemicals around in. Blint shuddered as he remembered the faint fuzzy vibration in his groin after hugging the vat too tightly, too long. Luckily, no pressing side effects had happened. He put on a plain gray sweatshirt and a pair of swamp-green laborer pants.

He picked up his wallet- modified to hold precious metal coins rather than paper money. He counted a fair number of them. He had a lot of these babies stashed in his hovercar's secret smuggling compartment (designed after a prohibition-era compact). Blint stowed the wallet away, picking up his pipe and stuffing some green into it. The rest of the pouch was tied to his waist. He took his specialized lighter- lit the greens. He didn't get the pipe because he thought cigarettes were worse, uglier, or below him- he got it because a pipe was a one-go purchase, while cigarettes needed to be replaced for every smoke. All he needed was the relatively cheap green. He puffed on it once, and walked out his door after belting the holster around his waist. He decided to dine across the street- the bar served good food, but it was mostly dinner food and eating rich stuff for breakfast always left him sick.

Sitting at the bar, he took a seat next to the cowboy. Hell, if he was going to eat out, he might as well socialize, right? Giving the barmaid a gold coin, he asked for some scrambled eggs and milk. Giving the cowboy a discreet examination, he decided to open his mouth before things got too uncomfortable.

"Not from around here, huh?" Blint asked Walker, waving thanks to the barmaid as she plunked a glass of milk in front of him. Looking outside, he immediately decided the harley- an antique nowadays was his. "Nice ride, by the way." Blint would have opted for a two-wheeler, but he had stuff to carry for a traveling laborer, and bikes just couldn't carry all the things he needed.

She tries not to put so much stock into how she’s dressed. This can result in mismatching clothing, socks that don’t fit, or shoes that she forgot she’d bought three years ago until the hole in the side lets water in from a puddle. Today is really no different. Standing in the back, in the cubby all the other waitresses call “The Box”, she looked at her reflection in the mirror and noticed that her sleeve was torn. Valentina isn’t a seamstress by any means and when she sees a tear, she sees money she doesn’t have. It’s not like places like this really pay her. Nothing costs anything unless you really, really need it. Having something patched up means trading the services for something else. Valentina has nothing of value.
Sighing, she leaves it be and walks from The Box into the kitchen and out into the dining area. As a new trainee (though she’s experienced enough from other waitressing jobs) she is always set to the “fill and wipe” task. Filling up salt and pepper shakers, wiping down tables that are worn and permanently greasy. Soon she’ll be given more consuming tasks like helping the cook, waiting on tables larger than four and whatnot. Until then, Val makes do with pepper rising into her nostrils and causing her to have hateful sneezing spells. This only happens once on this particular morning, which she finds gracious enough. Once all that was finished, she was called behind the counter by the waitress who’d been there since the dawn of time.
“I need you to go to the walk-in and fetch me some more cream. Make sure its not frozen. Then grab Paulie whatever fruit we have left back there. He needs to make some pies.” She sighed and handed Val the key. With bandits always on the prowl, the foods stayed locked up. Val had been told that a few years ago they never had to lock up their refrigerator. No one stole from them. You ate for free, why steal it? Some people just let greed get the better of them.
On her walk into the back, she couldn’t help remembering the greed and envy of her own life. Not a personal greed, but the greed of her brother. She sometimes had to wonder what would have become of her if her mother and father hadn’t died. Would she still be in school? Would she be rich? There was no way of knowing. Val had been too young to seriously consider a future career other than singing and dancing or climbing trees. After Daniel had adopted her, any ideas of the future were washed down the drain with every customer that came in. Every dark touch in the back room had driven away what any normal teenager would have dreamt.
There wasn’t much fruit in the refrigerator. Some strawberries that were sitting in the one spot of the fridge that froze things. At least they hadn’t gone bad. But hadn’t strawberries been long out of season? She would have to ask the man at the greenhouse after her shift. With a shrug, Val still grabbed them up, along with the tin jug of cream and worked her way out into the kitchen.
“Val!” The voice turned her around on her heel and she gave a polite, dead smile to the young cook. He was younger than she, maybe even still in his teens, but he tried to act older than that. He had introduced himself as Kyle on her first day. From then on, he’d relentlessly questioned her and offered his ear for listening. Val didn’t talk about anything. She didn’t want him to ask her questions.
“Hey, how are ya?” That was always his first question, condescending and pitying. Val could admit that she really did hate that.
“I’m fine, Kyle. How are you?” She turned, trying to make her way to the front.
“I’m good.” He stuttered. When Val had set her eyes on him she saw there was something he wanted to bring up. She knew he’d been snooping around. He wasn’t the first and she knew he wouldn’t be the last one. Bleeding hearts brought back things to her memory that she’d rather leave buried. Val was readying herself, bracing her psyche for the things he’d bring back.
“I saw an old article in the paper last night.” Valentina stopped at the curtain leading into the dining room, her fake smile gone. Her expression must have taken his breath away because he appeared like a statue before her as she spoke.
“Mind your own business, Kyle.” She wasn’t whispering, there wasn’t a point. “Read what you want, I don’t care. But leave me alone.” With that she exited into the dining room. She had forgotten to try and appear half-alive when she’d come out until she saw two customers seated at the bar. The waitress that had sent her to the walk-in traded Val the tin jug and strawberries for a gold coin. Val looked it over, questioningly.
“This kind man here handed that over for food. I figured you might like the look of it.” She patted Val on the shoulder who turned and smiled at him. She placed it back on the counter. Val wanted to tell him she liked his hat, but she knew that was a senseless comment to make. She would admire it by herself.
“Would you like it back? I have no need of them.”

A plate of sausage and biscuits was placed before him as well as a bowl of white gravy. Walker brightened up at the aroma of the breakfast and took a final drink from the coffee. He peeled off his rough sewn gloves and picked up a fork and then dug into his food. Almost like he hadn't ate in a week. Which was probably truer than anyone suspected. He spent a lot of his time on old roads and not many diners still populate the streets.

Of course, you couldn't throw a stone without striking an abandoned one, and that was where he got most of his nourishment from, always being able to find one or two tin cans of beans or vegetables, not to mention parts from an abandoned stove. Someone always needed a (relatively) new pilot light or a stove light. In a matter of fact, he'd probably have a pilot light in the bags of his motorcycle right now, among a number of other oddities. While you couldn't say that scavenging was particularly... Profitable, it was interesting at the best of times.

Walker, feeling the heat from the outside, loosened the scarf around his neck and sat his hat on the counter beside him, running a hand through his dusty brown hair. The road always wrecked havoc on his hair, and now it stayed perpetually windblown to the back of his head. Which was fine, it keep the dirty locks out of his brown eyes. The rider then realized the wave of heat most likely came from the fellow who sat down beside him. Walker felt a bit of momentary awkwardness. The man didn't exactly own the title 'social butterfly'. Chalk it to the cliche of the 'quiet sniper'.

"Jus' came in," he answered, shoveling another piece of biscuit, sausage, and gravy into his gullet. "Needed a break from the road 'fore I went mad." Long stretches of road old telephone poles could drive anyone mad.

Upon mention of his ride, Walker turned in his stool and peered out the window to the dirty motorcycle. "Thanks. Anabelle's a spirited one... When I'm not havin' to fix 'er." That was the thing about conventional antique vehicles... Even ones with names. They had to be in constant repair. It wouldn't be long before he would have to tinker with the break lines and patch a hole in the exhaust. The reason the roar was so loud. But the man in Walker like the sound, but so did the raiders...

He turned back to his plate and got another piece of sausage in his mouth before his gold coin was placed back on the counter. Another waitresses seemed to have tagged out. A thin dark haired girl with pale skin that mocked her dark hair. Well wasn't expecting that. Walker held the fork by his mouth and looked at the coin, then back to the girl. Finally, he shrugged, "No one seems to have a need of 'em anymore. I was hopin' to pawn in off here," he said, rubbing a finger along the inlaid imagine. Like most, if not all, an eagle holding an olive branch emblazoned the face.

He tapped the coin and leaned back, indicating that was the last of his thoughts on the issue and he didn't make a move to pocket it again. He glanced around a for little then leaned forward on the bar. He asked the new waitress as much as the fellow he sat beside, "You wouldn't know iffin' there was job or somethin' in this town? I'm pretty good with a gun or my hands. I'd like to do enough to get a room over at the hotel... Maybe even a couple a' beers for the night?" he asked. He wanted to do something beside ride another day away on his motorcycle.

She supposed that to most people, he seemed angry most of the time. It was a little hard not to think so, between the stern face that might have been chiseled from granite or some equally-unforgiving stone, and the voice that rasped like he had desert sand forever caught in his throat. It didn’t help that he towered imposingly and had two steely arms. But then, one of her own wasn’t that much different. The truth was that Ash had learned a long time ago not to allow these sorts of things to dissuade her. If all it took to kill the bubbling words on her tongue, to quell the bounce in her step, was a lack of overt approval, she’d have been a mellow, meek little wisp of a person most of her life.

She did not equate his mannerisms with anger. Nor even with ill temper. The Captain could not expect that her joviality would alter him any more than his quietude would disturb her natural cadences. This was the way of it, and she did not mind in the slightest. “Hmm… well, I thought we’d drop down and pay Kaiba a visit, maybe.” Ash didn’t often remember the names of towns they landed in, but rather the people in them, or at least the ones she had cause to deal with. The mechanic she referred to always seemed to have some new or interesting parts for either the Miralight’s engine or one of the number of bikes stored in its hold for overland travel.

Unbothered by her own lack of definiteness, Ash raised a hand to her forehead, shielding her eyes from the morning-bright sun. The metal limb rested naturally on the opposite hip, and wide eyes squinted to verdant slits against the light. If she looked, she could just make out the approach below, the town resolving into small stippled dots on the landscape. It didn’t often see operations the size of theirs, which was precisely why she had chosen it. Eventually, useable things ran low, and people needed a new influx of stuff. The iron and steel they’d harvested could be melted and reworked into any number of things, which made it a great deal more valuable than most trade items. The other items were relics, curiosities, old artifacts.

Chances were, those would not find a buyer here. But Ash knew several folk who collected such oddities. One man fancied himself a scholar, and the book would likely go for quite a bit if she were able to find him. The rest, well… it didn’t really matter.

She’d been asked, once, why she bothered with this lifestyle. It was much more dangerous than jus living someplace quiet and getting by. Obviously, the person asking hadn’t known what a strange juxtaposition someone like her and the thought of ‘quiet and getting by’ would make. She’d known, though, and laughed so hard that the poor man hadn’t known what to do.

The diminutive woman broke the small silence that had descended with a theatrical sigh. “Whelp! Time to land this old bucket of bolts, eh Sunshine? Everyone’s got port leave today, even you, but if you wanna help little old me get some of that scrap to Kaiba first, I’d be ever so grateful.” Ash waggled her eyebrows and winked before darting off to drop back into the cockpit.

Landing the ship was considerably more difficult than flying it, but you’d never know to look at both actually happening. The old girl protested the descent a bit, but a few deft flicks of switches and everything was made right again. Airship flight really was an esoteric art, which the pilot of this one considered a good thing. No need to clog up the sky with competition. No, the only things she liked to fly against were the birds themselves.

The Miralight made a landing about a quarter-mile from the outskirts of town, and after the engine noise had subsided, Ash could be heard bellowing orders at the crew aboard. “All right, you lot! You’ve all got a day’s leave and your share o the loot, so don’t go spending it all in one place! I expect each one of you buffoons to be back here and ready to fly by this time tomorrow!”

There were several muted chuckles and rolled eyes. “Yeah, sure Ash, whatever you say.” That was Tinker, the resident automail mechanic, and she glared.

“Oh, and if Tinker gets sloshed off his ass again, nobody helps him! Captain’s orders.” The middle-aged man looked properly abashed, and she just shot him a dazzling smile, too big on purpose. “Have fun, kids.” Never mind that she was probably the youngest member of the crew, aside from the two actual children aboard.

The Russian's Siberian eyes flickered, eyeing the horizon and then, his Captain. Even if Ash Skybound pranced about with the bubbly exuberance of one who didn't allow life's hardships to get her down, the Lieutenant understood that her heart was made of steel. Not the kind of hardened, glacial metals of his own beating organ – but the kind that allows you to carry on with Herculean responsibilities riding on your shoulders. He was a common man with a common German name; claiming nothing but transparency since his untimely, illegal release from the military. She had the ability to shed her previous skin and acquire a new persona, with naught a care in the world. Everyone knew her by her new alias, and none would be the wiser. Likewise for himself, the Russian was more widely renown for his obvious ascendancy than for his traitorous name: Sven Diederich. For that, he was thankful. His responses might've seemed positively frigid, a little disgruntled and exceedingly grumpy; but in all honesty, she'd saved him from a long life of trudging the wastes forlorn, unaccompanied by anything but dust particles and protruding bones. His hands had touched the bodies of the swollen-bellied innocent and the guilty alike; his mind constantly raced from the pain he's caused; his glacial eyes see what no one else he's met have seen, still; his fingers were instruments of war and still, still she hadn't judged him and only asked as far as he cared to answer.

Ill-tempered as a mule, the Russian's relationship with the Captain was scarcely based on hatred. The truth of the matter was that there weren't too many individuals who could stomach his eery disquiet, and solemn, hounding company – no, but she could. There hadn't ever been a time where she'd taken his drawling rebukes seriously, not seriously enough to be disheartened by it. And he could honestly admit that he didn't mind her energized personality, though he sometimes feared that her unorthodox passion would somehow transfer into gullibility. A fiercely loyal protector, the Russian would bludgeon anyone who dared back-stab the Miralight's Captain. It might've already happened a few times, but whether or not she was aware of it was another matter. A few bloodied corpses weren't going to be missed, especially if he wasn't exhausting any important mercantile opportunities. He frowned, nodding his head. Kaiba excelled at being one of the only women he knew that could impose such danger; trifling in her affairs was fatal, and you'd leave with more than a couple bruises. He respected the mechanic's abilities; both in the shop, and in her physical prowess. Woman, indeed.

He grunted. “Probably. You mean,” The Russian's iron fingers drummed against the metal plates of his forearm, drumming another offbeat tune that might've come from some horrible song his father used to sing. Either way, it sounded dreadful. He stopped his staccato beats and stood deathly still, examining the taut ropes threading its' way across the mast and the billowing canvas. “Offer her place, vhy don't you?” The Russian pondered, thumping his chest with a large, mechanical hand. Whenever they landed in this exact, familiar town, he wondered why they didn't offer the barbaric-looking mechanic a position aboard the Miralight as the head technician. They frequented the city enough, and visited the wayward mechanic each time, to offer her permanent residency aboard the faithful ship. Who, in their right mind, would deny such an opportunity?

Each and every town was a hovel in comparison to the flighty, spirited der Segler. The Russian would consider anyone lucky to have been invited aboard the skyship, though all positions came with a price – loyalty, trustworthiness, and an ability to be utilized and expended. Everyone aboard the Miralight had their own duties, and could perform more than one skill as to be continuously useful. Those that didn't pull their own weight were returned home, or dumped off at the nearest town. Cleaving his singled-minded thoughts, the Russian stepped forward, grabbed hold of the guardrail, and peered towards the tiny buildings ameliorating over the boundaries of the landscape; sun-kissed with shades of orange, and shadowed by large, willowy trees without leaves. They looked like tall men with stick-like arms, bent downwards until malformed positions. Upon closer inspection, they weren't trees at all, nor were they made to look like them – they were pieces of disgusting art created from melted down irons, shaped like begging men with several limbs.

Such old artifacts were left alone. Some proclaimed it was created by some ethereal creature – maybe God, maybe some other religious being – and so, with their superstitions, they left the ugly, disfigured statues alone. It was a strange thing to do in the era of wastes, raiders and blood. The Lieutenant's mouth formed a hard line as he tore his gaze away, choosing instead to regard his Captain with narrowed eyebrows. Unafraid and facing the day with naught but a grin; she was more a man that half the men she knew, and he knew that if he'd ever told her she'd think that it was a compliment. Perhaps it was.

“Ya' ya', down vhe go,” the Lieutenant added, chuckling softly under his breath as the smaller woman sighed melodramatically. Thankfully, the landings were as smooth as butter and he wasn't jolting around the decks like a rattled snake. When she'd mentioned port leave, his nose crinkled and his shoulders tensed considerably. Without duties to be done, the Russian was innately uncomfortable and inexorably lost. So, when the Captain offered the duty of helping her slough off scrap to Kaiba's shop, he stumbled over himself to agree, and hastily coughed in his fist to hide his relief. He watched as she turned to leave, bounding down the steps towards the cockpit and turned back towards the silhouette of the nearing town.

As predicted, the Miralight's landing was stable, and vindicated. He remembered some rickety voyages he'd ever had the dishonour of being on where crew mates had been blown off the deck from such hazardous landings, and then the families hadn't been compensated, or properly apologized to. Ash's bellowing voice cracked across the decks like a clack of thunder, rolling and commanding with the assurance of leadership. The Russian's arms disentangled themselves from his chest, and he meandered closer until he was standing next the ship's cocky auto-mail mechanic and the prestigious cook.

Upon hearing the chuckles and the unruly comment, the Russian's large hand clapped down on Tinker's shoulder, hard enough to form bruises, and remained there, unmoving. “Vhait till you haf more drink,” He drawled casually, leaning forward so that he could crane his head over the man's shoulder. Tinker seemed properly unmotivated to test the bigger man, and remained perfectly still. His fingers gripped his slender shoulder, digging into his collar bone. “Vill see if little man can fly.”

He guffawed loudly, pearly whites flashing in the lazy sunlight. The Russian's humour was sick, and twisted, by all means. There wasn't anyone quite like him who could laugh at a death threat, or make a joke out of someone falling to their untimely deaths – but he could. Without another word, he gave Tinker a knowing look and followed Captain Skybound down the skiff's landing plank.

The roar of the town's steam whistle startled Kaiba out of her reverie, as it meant that an airship had made port. Smiling wide at the thought of getting some sweet loot, Kaiba jumped onto the mule she kept in the garage for hauling purposes and kickstarted the old machine's engine. With a heavy amount of grumbling, the old yellow and black striped brick raised itself into the air, some two feet off the ground and chugged out the garage door. Her trailer, loaded with scraps and parts, bumped against the wall and caused the old garage gate to slam back down into place.

"Ki-YIII!" yipped the wanderer as she slammed the mule into full gear, causing the afterburners to whine into an earsplitting pitch and send the vehicle cannoning down the street. Kaiba took the hairpin turns at full speed, heedless of the crowds of people who often times barely managed to scramble out of her way. After one particularly close call, Kaiba tossed a kiss over her shoulder with an impish grin, but continued on at full speed.

The Miralight floated calmly at the dock, causing Kaiba to grin wide. She managed to slow the mule down enough that she didn't run anyone over as she parked it near the ship. She climbed on top of her vehicle and peered at the ship, waving wildly as she noticed the gruff lieutenant, which meant that his captain couldn't be far off. Kaiba greeted each member that left the ship personally, some with more affection than others. She took her time letting go of one of the assistant mechanic's hands as they chatted, enjoying the feeling of a firm grip from a soft hand. Kaiba had met the other woman the first time she'd traded with the Miralight, and formed a fast friendship.

Finally, she noticed the captain approaching with her trusty Russian, so she popped the lid and sat there grinning while she waited for the pair to get there.

"Now, now, Sunshine," Ash chided in a chirpy sing-song. "At least tie a rope to him first." She stuck her tongue out at Tinker when Sven wasn't looking, then quickly turned away to supervise the loading of what had once been a steel support beam for a building onto a lumbering overland vehicle that was essentially built like a caterpillar, a series of interconnected, wheeled platforms pulled by an engine. Not the most attractive contraption, but at least the color (dusty blue) matched the hull of the Miralight. Oh, and it worked, too.

The beam was swiftly joined by an assortment of car parts, a few old-fashioned farming implements that were probably more valuable for their constituent iron and wood than in themselves, the books, and a few CDs. Those were worth next to nothing, but Ash already had a bunch of them suspended over the bed in her cabin (they were pleasantly shiny when they caught the light and tended to throw rainbows around her room), so there was nothing else to be done except see if someone wanted them. They'd also salvaged about ten gallons of gasoline, which smelled... oddly pleasant but produced lightheadedness when sniffed- something she'd discovered the hard way a few years ago.

She was about to ask Sven if he wanted to drive when she noticed someone pulling up on their location, and it wasn't just anyone. "Tatuaje!" she yelled over at Kaiba, running at full-tilt until she reached the woman. It looked for all intents and purposes as though she was about to try and tackle the much taller, stronger person; until she stopped dead about two steps short and held up her hand for a high-five. No need to get predictable, right? "How are ya? We brought you lots'a goodies this time, we did!"

As the rest of the crew took off towards town for their day of rest and relaxation, Ash led Kaiba over to the Earthworm (as she had deemed the poor terrestrial cargo vehicle) and gestured expansively. "That steel beam was hard to dig out, it was. Sunshine had to fight off two nasties by himself." It had been a rather harrowing experience, all things considered, but then such things were pretty much the norm by this point, and she wouldn't have them any other way. What was life without a little danger, anyhow? "Still sure you don't wanna come aboard? Miralight misses you, she does." She made the offer every time they landed, but for whatever reason, it never seemed to get accepted. Ash didn't mind; the life they lived wasn't for everyone. Some people liked to go to bed at night knowing that they probably wouldn't die the next day, and that was fine, if dull.

It was a life that had cost her much, if she thought about it. She did not often do so, and only sometimes, when the weather was bad and she had aches in the stump where her right arm used to be, would she allow herself any more than a few seconds of it. It was always the same things, anyway, a memory, so it wasn't worth dwelling on. Value was in proactiveness, the present, and what could be found around her, not hidden somewhere in the past of an ill-used corner of her psyche.

"So, whaddya think?" she asked Kaiba. "I bet the steel's useful, but I found a couple books, too. Don't suppose that old guy- Peterson? He's not still around, is he?"

Blint smiled to himself when he guessed correctly. Well, it was more like an educated guess. When one's clothes was lined with dust, you tended to assume he didn't live in town. That's how he managed to differentiate customers that had a home to go back to when drunk and those that were just stopping by. Since his coin was returned to, he knew none of the waitresses wanted the gold, as pretty as it was. No wonder nobody decided to steal it from the ruins. As the man described his bike, he judged that the man was a traveler. Strange he would choose an old-era bike that ate up so much fuel it needed to be kept filled almost constantly. He didn't understand the man, but he didn't need to.

He wasn't a morning person, and even he couldn't hold back a slight grimace when Walker started chowing down on huge amounts of a meat-based breakfast. Nothing really ever went down well with Blint in the mornings in general, be it night or otherwise with his sleep schedule. He wolfed down the eggs presented to him by the dark-haired waitress, who seemed a lot more quiet and repelling than the one who took his order. Actually, most of her attention was on the cowboy because he was being served first, and was being served a lot more. He didn't really mind. As he finished, he listened to the newcomers request. One of those who always worked for his rewards, huh? Blint thought maybe the cowboy and himself weren't so different after all.

He pondered it for a moment. Yommi looked pretty beat up- clutching his chest suggested maybe a few broken ribs and looked fairly concussed with his walking. Maybe he could work as the replacement bouncer.

"Funnily enough, I work across the street as a bouncer. If you're as good with a gun and hands as you say, you could replace the guy that just got beat up trying to throw three guys out." He stopped, realizing being good with your hands doesn't necessarily mean one was good at fighting. "Sorry, I'm being a lil' bit presumptuous." He covered quickly. He looked back across the street, thinking about what job might be open. "Actually, the boilers could use improving- guests are complainin' about the hot water cooling too quickly in prime hours. You got any knowledge of that stuff?"

He would suggest that the man put his gun skills to work by scaring off drunken messes, but more often than not if you used a gun the drunk would turn that right around and blindly challenge the bouncer to a duel. If a bar killed too many guys because of that the place would lose business. Not man people dueled well when drunk or hungover.

For a moment, Kaiba thought about turning it down as whimsically as ever, but found herself reflecting on her current life. Yes, her job was important, but on the other hand it was boring. She was a wanderer, dammit, and she hadn't done a fair bit of wandering in a fair many seasons. However, Kaiba also didn't want to seem like she was giving in, so she turned to the captain and made a thoughtful face.

"Treat me to breakfast and I'll take longer to say no," she quipped with a grin. She put her arm around the captain's shoulder as she led the shorter woman, and by association the mammoth lieutenant, into town. Several times, they were stopped by the people that wanted to know what Ash Skybound, the famous privateer, had brought to them this time. Kaiba always chased them away with a smile, telling them to find her at the ship later and that she was otherwise occupied at the moment.

Kaiba was raised in a tribe of raiders. To them, it was considered rude to not make physical contact with someone. Even enemies had to be approached with blades drawn, as a sign of respect. Relationships were different in that place. Everyone was a family member, but also a lover. Kaiba learned many things in her upbringing with her family, both about herself and about humans in general. Her prowess in combat made her coveted by every male in the group, but she only had eyes for one person. She became the exception in her little world. No one dared approach her without her permission, and she was elevated to Chieftain status.

The first time she came to the city, everyone treated her like the scariest whore alive. She learned the hard way that rules change depending on where you live and who you talk to. However, all the stigma around her vanished when someone started spreading rumors about her bike, and how she built it from the ground up and kept it running. Soon, other people came in to ask for favors and fixings, and her power and influence grew. In a small town with one mechanic, she who holds the wrench holds the power.

"I'll take a more indepth look at your goods later, after chow. I'll be interested in that beam for sure, but I don't think that Old Man Peterson can hold any more books in that house of his. We can see, though."

Snorting like a wounded hound, the Russian pushed past the bewildered mechanic and hadn't so much given him a second glance – he wasn't worth it. In his opinion, disrespect was met with concise punishment and stippled fists. Men always inadvertently looked down on women in authority positions. It didn't matter whether or not they respected them, because women weren't usually intimidating when they were bellowing orders to sweaty, leering men. At least, Ash Skybound wasn't particularly intimidating because of her small stature, friendly personality, and excessive hubbub. He'd always told her that she was too soft on her crew, and needed to punish those who gave her lip – and she'd just laugh at him, telling him to smile and lighten up. Many times, his iron fist framed boyish eyes in soft blacks and blues, so perfectly complimenting the massive hematomas painted on your chest. All in all, the Russian had to admit that she ran a tight ship with a loose hand, and all of the bedraggled, slatternly crew-mates loved her. Whenever the Captain skimped on the punishments, he was quick to offer his dominating height and bearish brawn. “Little man has big mouth,” He grunted, swaggering to Ash' side to survey the loading hooks sluggishly pulling the long, steel support beam onto the perplexing vehicle. Honestly, upon joining the Miralight, it'd been the first time that he'd seen such an bizarre vehicle.

The Russian bobbed his head in approval, barked out a few orders to the loading men and eased his way towards the guardrail to watch as each individual piece was moved onto the interconnected caterpillar-vehicle. His fingers drummed tunelessly against the guardrail, and he grunted incoherently when he spotted the moth-eaten, sparse books being loaded. A few men fumbled below trying to carry the gallons of gasoline aboard the vehicle, and the Lieutenant busied himself jabbing his mechanical fingers towards the back of the buggy – yelling this, and yelling that, whether or not anyone actually understood a word that he was saying was another matter. Understanding his heavy, rasping accent was truly a exceptional feat, only accomplished by the Captain and a handful of others.

Upon hearing the roaring engine below the decks, the Russian's mouth formed a tight line and he teetered forward, leaning precariously over the guardrail so that he could peer down at the outlandish figure disembarking from her hover-bike. While Ash sprinted towards Kaiba, the Lieutenant bayed a few more commands, threatening to kick anyone overboard while in full-flight if they didn't, and turned on his heels to swagger down the wooden ramp. His gait would've accurately been described as bulldogged; squared, brawny shoulders carrying his stomping gait towards the two women. He always wore his advanced Nanosuit – weather permitting or not. Instead of greeting Kaiba like a normal human being, the Russian only nodded his head and crossed his arms over his chest.

Many of the crew-mates—including Tinker and his mates—scattered from the Miralight as soon as the Earthworm was properly loaded and organized, and he could still hear the excited wallopings echoing away as they swaggered towards the meagre town. Like always, the Russian was never excited for boardings and would've rather spent his time carrying heavy burdens, bent over maps, or greasing his firearms. Instead, he followed Ash Skybound faithfully with his icy eyes glued on the horizon. “Vhe kill lots o' beasties just for books,” He uttered throatily, narrowing his eyes. “Bad knees, too.” Offering your life to piracy always came with dangerous, if not fatal, prices. It was one of the many things he enjoyed being aboard such a vessel. There was never a time where he would've grown tired of such adventures, and he still had time to hone his combat abilities. “Big ship. Big engine.” He agreed, eyeing her curiously. Mirth twinkled in those wizened, experienced eyes; if you looked hard enough.

It almost looked silly seeing the hulking middle-aged man following Kaiba and Ash, trailing behind them and scrutinizing the landscape like a tethered hawk. Years of suffering betrayals from the hands of comrades had hardened his heart, leaving him as a cautious as a nomadic hermit. It wasn't often that he added to conversations, so he remained as quiet as a stone sculpture and regarded them with familial respect. He had no desire for food, but knew that refusing Kaiba's offer meant that they'd strike out on the opportunity of having a gifted mechanic aboard the Miralight. “Books,” the Russian grumbled, “Alvays with the books.”

Ash grinned and wrinkled her nose at the mention of breakfast. "Hmm... okay. I think I can manage that. No blood sausage this time, though; that stuff was gross." Perhaps unsurprisingly, the young woman was willing to try anything once, and this extended to foods. She was ever and always fond of the sweeter varieties of fare, a childhood trait that had like so many others not truly disappeared but simply grown up alongside her. It was almost funny- she knew she was grating sometimes and to some people, but it was just one more way of telling who had the patience and good judgement for her line of work, not to mention the sense of adventure. Sunshine didn't seem like it, and honestly had she been a more peaceable person she would never have known it, but he did have that patience.

One example in a long string of them. She took all kinds of guff from her crew and her friends, but it was because she needed no more reassurance of their loyalty than she already had. Underneath all the banter and the idiosyncrasies and the silliness, or the stern silence, they were all fundamentally similar in the only way that mattered to her- they were privateers to the core. Kaiba was like that, too- she just didn't know it yet. So Ash meandered along the path to town, leaving her goods where they were. Anyone stupid enough to steal from the crew of the Miralight had a nasty surprise waiting for them. With a laugh, Ash swung her arm up and around the shoulders of the much-taller mechanic, certain in the knowledge that Sven was watching her back. He always was, and she had come to depend on that.

They reached the settlement proper, and Ash didn't waste time dawdling- she had a place picked out in mere seconds, and was through the door before anyone had a chance to suggest an alternative. Not that they would; she doubted either cared enough to bother. It was one of those friendly, wood-constructed places that drew road dust and sky debris to compliment the local flavor. Speaking of road dust- that guy at the bar definitely looked like he qualified. Probably had it oozing out his ears- likely owned the old wheel machine outside, too. Hmm... maybe he'd be interested in the gasoline they'd liberated.

She stopped thinking too much about that, though, because the head of blond hair seated next to the other guy was very familiar. Snickering to herself, Ash feigned nonchalance and waited till Kaiba and Sven were inside before using the sound of their footsteps to disguise her own. The waitress, a lady she'd never seen before, would obviously see her, but Ash held a finger to her lips in the universal signal for silence, odd in front of her Cheshire smile. Just a few feet further, and...

"Muscles!" she crowed, slapping both hands down onto his shoulders. "How ya been? And what the hell'er ya doing here? Last time I saw you, you were way back west, right?" she jabbed Blint in the side with her non-metal elbow and took the seat immediately next to him without so much as an 'is this seat taken?' and gestured for both Kaiba and Sven to join her.

"I'd love a few pancakes," she told the waitress enthusiastically. "I've gotta few .40 caliber bullets if you put chocolate chips in them." She noted the woman's fish-eyed lackluster, but did not comment on it. To be honest, the lady reminded her a little bit of a lost puppy, and Ash being Ash, her first instinct was to try and fix it, but she'd learned the hard way a long time ago that the world didn't quite work like that. Never stopped her from taking in the strays, of course, but it did stop her big mouth from asking any questions she couldn't swallow again. And she had no desire to be on the receiving end of the inquiries that came to mind, oh no.

Questions weren’t Valentina’s forte. Answers were beyond her. When she was asked something all she could do was stare. It wasn’t a helpless stare, just that blank, “I have no idea what you just said” kind of stare. It was like the person inquiring was speaking some dead language. Val couldn’t help him. She was new here. Her lips remained closed, the corners still, her eyes blank. The blonde fellow from across the street answered him and she went about her own business. Tinkering with things was somewhat calming, kept her mind from digging further into her darkness.
Kyle’s confrontation made that hard to do though. A tin coffee cup slipped from her nimble fingers and she caught it mid air. Perhaps she needed some fresh air?
A breeze entered the diner, as if she’d summoned it, and instinctively, the pale waitress lifted her dead eyes to the newcomers. Two women, one she’d seen around the last few days Val had been staying here. She was ferocious and frightening… to anyone but Valentina. Of course, it wasn’t bloated confidence that she thought this. She just wasn’t scared by people anymore. The other woman was tiny, a giant ball of fire and sunlight and all kinds of glittering nonsense. She was gesturing to Valentina to remain quiet. What need did she have to speak out? This woman was strange. Quite possibly stranger than Valentina.
The third was a towering, dark, rough man. He was awfully intriguing, much like the cowboy and his hat. Valentina always wondered how men could appear so rough on the outside. She wished very much that she could appear as worn and experienced. People mistook her for being innocent, naïve, stupid. She was far from any of those, but her outward appearance begged to differ.
With a voice full of bells and pixie dust, the glittering woman greeted the blonde man with fervor and joy. Valentina found herself wishing for a moment that she could be as animated. Even if it was just an act, it would be a nice change. Filling up three tin cups with water she set them all down on the counter before the three new people and rested her hands on the edge, leaning into it.
Her eyebrow raised at the order she was inadvertently taking. The weight and warmth of the gun on her thigh pressed into her skin at the mention of ammunition. She reached down and removed it, all the while speaking flatly.
“I’ll get you those chocolate chips. I’m sure the cook could use the bullets.” With deft fingers and too much time on her hands, Valentina had taught herself a few tricks with her gun. Twisting, throwing, manipulating in ways no person she’d ever seen could boast. Not that she’d been really looking, however. The handgun opened much the same way a shotgun did and after opening it, she set it on the counter.
“Have anything for this?” Breaking her own habit, Valentina asked a question. It was more on impulse than anything. Lately, the gun had been pressing on her like a ton of bricks. Weighing on what little of her spirit was left alive. She'd pulled it out much the same way she did every night. A compulsion by now, really. Valentina wasn’t even sure she would need ammo for the weapon. She was pretty good at keeping herself out of trouble and getting out of it if presented with the problem. Besides. Daniel had never kept the ammunition for it either. He always complained that it was too expensive. Something about energy and stupid, fucking batteries… Valentina pulled her eyes from the ebony metal and the white cross on the side. When she stared at it she could see his face all over it. Better to stare at the woman who looked like she had the goods and wait for an answer.

Walked had already peeled his duster off revealing a dirty button up shirt and a loose brown vest. It was getting hot inside the diner, and without the rush of cool air on his bike, the air was beginning to stick on his skin. The blond... Bouncer it seemed answered. Help out with bouncing or fixing a boiler. Eh, he could do both. While the sniper wasn't as good with his hands as he was with a gun, he could bullshit and intimidate with best of them. Besides, he always fancied he had a nightmarish left hook. He took another drink of the bitter liquid.

"Well. I reckon I can check out the boiler 'fore it gets night. Then I might help out with your bouncin'. Iffin you think I can get a room and a couple a drinks out of it," he said with a nod. "I got a wrench in the bags on ol' Anabelle. Might even have a couple a spare parts too. Boiler shouldn't be all that bad, probably only take a couple a hours. He said, finishing up the last of his plate, and pushing it forward. "I'll skip on over there after a while. It's been a long morning of ridin' and I really want to take it easy for a little 'fore I get to work." He said with an appreciative nod.

He reached inside his shirt pocket and retrieved another cigarette, and lit it up with his silver engraved lighter. The lighter had an ornate four leaf clover inscribed on the silver case. He had time to take one long drag before they were joined by another group. A spritely girl, a big fellow, and a tatted up tribal looking woman. The sniper jumped a little to the peppy girl's greeting of the bouncer. He regulated himself to just listening in on the conversation, merely an outsider to a circle of friends. Another drag from the cigarette, and another cloud of smoke.

Then the woman mentioned some .40 caliber bullets and his ears picked up. He needed a couple of rounds himself, but the waitress on behind the counter spoke before he did. Apparently, .40s weren't her style, and she needed some for the black and white piece she laid down on the counter. Well, since everyone else was showing off their goods...

"While you are at it, miss, do ya somethin' in the .45 colt flavor? Imma running down on shells. Raiders are eatin' up my rounds like a hog at feedin' time," he said in his stereotypical southern accent. Accompanied by his query, he reached to his side and took his revolver out. He spun the brushed gray metal on a finger by the trigger guard before suddenly grabbing it and setting down on the counter beside the waitress's black gun. The cyclinder had golden detail and generally looked like a fancy gun. It fit walker like a glove.

Daven had just finished his food when the dusty man responded to his request. Since he had taken off his duster, the man was revealed to be wearing a sort of sleeveless suit appearance that befitted the man very much. He seemed pretty sincere, which added to his southern-gentlemanly nature. Jeez, not even the cowboys Daven read in holo-spheres had this much authenticity in them. As he remembered, cowboys herded cattle- and he looked like the sort that he watched in the movies. If he were to go by anything, the duster seemed aged and ragged enough as well.

"Helping out with the Bouncing? Hell, for fixing the boiler the landlord will be so happy he'll let you live there forever!" Blint replied, smiling at the stranger. "Well, he'll let you live there forever on the assumption that you'll fix that damned boiler whenever it breaks up." He added, just before two hands landed on his shoulder. He wasn't as active or aware in the morning, so all the man could do was jump before he heard a familiar voice greet him.

"Ash, small world!" He exclaimed turning around and grabbing her by the arms. "That freaking construction site I was working with was actually a small-time gang hide-out, and the shoot-out killed my boss. Damned idiots thought an incomplete site would be a better base than a finished building." He didn't really mention that everyone was armed- but then again if they weren't the gangs would just force them out by hand- and for the most part the bad-boys were a lot bigger than a majority of the workers. The jab in the elbow caused him to flinch, and take notice of Sven and a girl he had seen somewhere before.

"Sven, it's good to see you!" He greeted. If there was one person Blint respected, it was the quiet Russian man that exuded an aura of palpable command. It was rare to have somebody appear so intimidating, without resorting to violence or force. Well, he was strong and did use force but his demeanor was one-of-a-kind. He wasn't quite sure if Sven liked him or not. Also, there was an unspoken rule in the world of media that you never messed with a hulking Russian man with a heavy accent, because you might just end up with a cactus up your

Nevermind. Either way, he was happy to see them. The last girl, plastered with tattoos that made her look like a living nightmare was one of those passerbys that you tended to remember. So Ash was familiar with her? Either way, it paid to be polite- as his dad had always put it. "Hey, my name's Daven Blint." He offered. He then realized he didn't even know the stranger's name. However, he didn't get the chance as when Ash offered her bullets for an extra on her meal, everyone became interested in what she might have in store. In all honesty, he was too. He had seen her hoisting various amounts of cargo- from the pretty to the dangerous to the useful. The waitress produced a gun- a very interesting black and white design that had Blint's militaristic upbringing inspecting it. A rail gun? No- rail guns were more commonly larger and clunkier. What was it's power source? How did a waitress get her hands on this?

The dusty traveler produced a weapon as well. A pretty revolver, but what intrigued him was the method he drew it. A southern cowboy right down to the core, huh? He had never seen a professional gunslinger doing his work- but what the gentleman did was probably just a taste. Sadly, he didn't need ammo for his snub-nose, as it was exclusively used for duels when drunken customers lost their temper. His sub-machine gun was all set, he had several magazines of ammo for it prepped thanks to his last adventure with Ash. However, he would inquire later if the captain had any green on her. He could get some just fine, but Ash's tended to have that old, musty taste that he rather liked. He unconsciously massaged his bruised knuckles under the table- which were healing at a remarkable rate. A life time of breaking bones, bruising, and tearing flesh due to his body's lack of limiters seemed to have increased the pace in which his body knit itself back together. However, Blint became aware of it's strain when a doctor told him his heart was equivalent to that of a healthy forty-year-old. Not cool.

Ash’s bright eyes went saucer-wide as Muscles recounted the story of a shootout and a con. She lived for this stuff, all the drama and flash-bangs. It went a long way to explaining her rather unique profession, to say nothing of her personality. “And here I thought your life was boring when you weren’t hangin’ out with us!” She exclaimed, and her grin could have split her face.

It seemed like everyone in here was interested in what she had brought in, and at least two people jumped at the very mention of bullets. Ashe snickered to herself, but examined the waitress’s gun first. The side had a white medic’s cross emblazoned upon it, and Ash wondered how she’d come across it. Didn’t see many of these anymore. Though the pirate’s curiosity was insatiable as always, this was a business transaction, which meant that she had to ease up on the antics a bit.

…Or not. When the traveler laid his (very nice) gun on the table as well, she decided it was about time to take advantage of the situation. Even in business mode, Ash was obnoxious as a neon-light sign in a dark ruin. Hopping up with deft grace onto her bar stool, she detached a pouch of ammo from her belt and dangled the drawstring bag in the air between her index finger and thumb, spinning around from her precarious position to make a spectacle of herself for everyone present. Eh, not that much of an audience, but whatever.

“Ladies, gentlemen, privateers who are neither,” she intoned overdramatically from her new and unusual height atop the furniture. “The crew of the Miralight has just returned form a dangerous expedition to the ruins of grand civilizations long past.” Or maybe what had been Chicago about four hundred years ago. Ash rarely let the truth get in the way of a good yarn. “There, in that barren wasteland, amidst the skeletons of the ancient towers of steel and glass, we faced beasts the like of which do not wander here.”

Still dangling the drawstring bag of bullets carelessly in one hand, Ash drew one of her knives with the other, and held it out in front of her as though fending off some attacker or another. “We’d just laid eyes on a glorious cache of ancient artifacts-” the steel beam and a few pounds of titanium- “when we were beset on all sides by a pack of feral wolves, as high as your waist!” She gestured midway up her own torso for accuracy.

“We formed a circle, backs to the center, and watched as the slavering beasts circled us, murderous intent gleaming in their golden eyes, yellowed fangs dripping with saliva, the old blood of the less-fortunate crusted around their maws and powerful forelegs, and we knew we’d have to fight. Just as I drew my knives, the leader lunged!” Ash tipped her stool so it crashed forward into the ground and leapt lightly to the surface of the next table over, landing without disturbing the salt-and-pepper shakers. Whirling around to face the bar again, she made a few parrying and stabbing motions, pantomiming injury with exaggerated flair.

“The fight was gritty, and we came out of it bloody, but victorious. The towering Russian lieutenant-” because Sunshine ruined the effect, but she gestured to the stonefaced Sven anyway, “wrestled two of them to the ground with his bare hands and strangled them to death, his brute force and ferocity greater than any feral beast.” It was clear she admired this trait rather than finding it reprehensible. “The dashing and charismatic captain dueled the biggest one to the death, escaping certain death by a hairsbreadth too many times to count, arms coated in the red stain of victory, breath coming haggard to her lungs.” If ‘dashing’ was usually a word for men, Ash didn’t look like she knew it.

“And all for what? Why, to bring you good people the things you need of course!” Ash’s expression reverted back to her normal cheeky grin, and all solemnity vanished from her tone. “These here are forty-fives, stranger. I’ve also come by some gasoline for your baby out there, if you’re interested.” She tossed the pouch to the drifter so that he could inspect the contents if he wanted. If he tried to walk out without paying, well, that’s the sort of thing Sunshine was real good at handling.

“As for yours,” she told the waitress, righting her stool and sitting in it again, “This looks like it takes charge ammo, and you’re gonna need batteries for that. I’ve got some, but so few people use ‘em I don’t bother carrying ‘em around. I’ll bring a few by later, if you want.” At that point, her pancakes showed up, and she placed three forty-caliber bullets on the counter for the touch of sweetness and took to wolfing them down at impressive speed.

“So Tatu,” she spoke around mouthfuls, “get any nice engine parts lately?”

Kaiba watched the energetic captain with an amused smile on her face. She knew from experience that Ash Skybound loved to exaggerate her stories. Her personality was as extravagant as her clothes, maybe morso. However, that kind of was the reason that Kaiba was seriously considering joining up with the crew. Having a source of excitement in her life was pretty appealing.

Speaking of appealing, a certain mechanic's first mate walked past the cafe. Kaiba almost didn't listen to Ash as she finished her tale, but managed to snap out of her reverie long enough to mutter an affirmative. She had come upon a huge treader out in the wastes, and managed to drag most of the valuables back within a week. The landcrawler also made a good hideaway when she wanted to get out of the city.

"Listen, Ash. Here's the key ta my shop. Don't take anything but the engine parts and leave the loot you got fer me. I have some...Business to take care of." She left the key with lieutenant Deidrich and slipped out of the door.

The Russian was surprisingly quiet whenever he entered a building, lacklustre in his silence and brooding in countenance. Frigid eyes surveyed each and every individual inhabiting the quaint diner; searching for hidden weapons and firearms tucked into sleeves, coats or hidden pockets sewn into their boots. It was only second nature to notice all these things. When the Lieutenant was properly satisfied, he nodded his head towards his Captain and meandered towards one of the awkwardly painted stools. It looked ridiculous when he sat down – almost like a silly animation of a lumbering giant sitting on a child's' chair. Except, that'd be a tad over-exaggerated. He didn't order anything, nor did he offer any salutations or greeting. Only a curt, swift nod in the waitress's direction. Hunching his square shoulders forward, the Russian leaned his mechanical forearms across the counter with his elbows hanging off; manners and etiquette were important in his childhood household, and so he'd uphold his little, unnecessary manners to this day. Sometimes, he even chided Ash Skybound about these niceties.

He raised his Siberian eyes, regarding the waitress as she placed a tin cup brimming with water in front of him. The Russian usually didn't mean to come off as imposing as he did, but it wasn't anything he could help. It was in the way that he stared – as if he could read your thoughts, and pluck your heart out with two deft fingers. Not that he ever would, without propriety. He was a hard man, through and through, but not needlessly cruel. The Lieutenant had seen his fair share of hard men in service, aboard the Miralight, and through his travels aboard the Miralight. He'd seen hard men, in the Naval System's Alliance, in the Naval Brigade, and in the other British armed forces divisions he'd worked with during his 15 years of service. He's opposed hard men in the service of other countries; the Insurgents almost broke him. He's killed hard men, and he's respected hard men. There's something about the way the man's eyes look when they are stone, unmoving, uncaring of anything, and The Russian's eyes were definitely stony. Even if this young, doe-eyed waitress looked as if she needed to stare at her shoes other than meet anyone's eyes – he could see something; a small glimmer, if anything. It was strange. A sad, small fluttering canary with a penchant to don talons.

Without so much as a word, the Russian averted his steely gaze and took an appreciative gulp of water. He could taste the tin, but that was fine. Water was an essential commodity in the wastes. The smell of cigarettes wafted around him, accompanied by the heaviest Southern accent he'd heard in a long time. Holding the tin cup poised in his bearish paw, the Russian glanced towards the source and spotted a weathered young man twirling a fancy revolver around his finger with nimble, practised movements. A faint golden gleam caught his eyes and he narrowed them, peering closer until he turned away. Such weapons were hard to come by, and he could tell just by looking at it that it's craftsmanship was two-parts passion and three-parts wizened mastery. Gilding gold into stubborn metals was difficult; if it was truly gold at all.

A familiar voice caught the Russian's attention, and he immediately cocked an eyebrows towards the blonde-haired fellow sitting to his opposite side. Upon recognizing the towering, blue-eyed bouncer, the Russian smiled; a small expression that curled anomalously. Few men could actually rival him in height, but Daven Blint was a towering monster with a roguish smile and trained eyes. It was hard to tell, but he actually respected the quiescent man. Blint was as patient as the vulture's circling the wastes, waiting and exuding the kind bucolic humility veteran's beheld. He still couldn't understand why Blint chose to be a bouncer, instead of pursuing jobs befitting his abilities – better yet, why he hadn't offered his services aboard the Miralight. “Da, rat teebya veedet',” The Russian rattled off hoarsely, before remembering himself and adding, “Ah—It is good to be seeing you, drook.”

Suddenly, Ash hopped up onto the stool and the Russian was left staring up at her, trying his best not to hang his head and look the other way. He honestly, truly, genuinely couldn't understand her antics. There wasn't anyone quite like Ash Skybound. Her exuberance was often contagious and irritating. He knew that once she begun detailing her grandiose adventure, there was no stopping her. Unless you wanted an eye accidentally poked out with all of her thrashing. Honestly, the Russian believed that she must've been an actress in another life. Listening to Ash reciting the glamourized, exaggerated tale of their recent endeavours – flailing her arms this way and that with flourish, and then leaping nimbly from the stool without causing an enormous mess, he remained stoically silent. The Russian's jaw worked as if he were chewing on leather, and he was about to question her monumental account, then spotted the twinkle in her eyes, and quickly decided against it.

The Lieutenant's large, opened hand suddenly felt keys drop into them and he arched his eyebrow, watching as Kaiba excused herself and retreated from the diner. His gaze lingered on the door before he glanced towards Ash and grunted, wondering solemnly why she'd left in such a hurry. What prior engagements did she have?

"Grand my ass," Walker said under his breath. If the look of run down cities and the stories his pa told him was true, then the cities were hell to live in. Crammed together with hundreds of other strangers you have no love for and working at a sucky job. Pah, sure what he done was dangerous, but it was honest most of the time and exciting all of the time. Walker held his tongue for the rest of the show.

The pirate sure did have a thing for theatrics. Which could only meant that there was some embellishment going on. Oh, he didn't doubt the girl and her swarthy crew delved into a long dead city, they all did that. Nor did he doubt the fact they had a fight. If you were a scavenger, then you are working against a hundred others who want the same things you did. These just so happened to be waist high wolves. Big ass wolves to be sure, but country man in Walker wondered if they skinned the wolves and had their pelts. What he wouldn't give for some wolf-fur lined boots and gloves for the winter.

He was jerked out of his wolf centered thoughts by a toss of the bag the pirate held. He caught off-hand and laid the bag on the bar, "Gasoline?" He asked and looked out towards the Harley. "I may be interest. Jus' a lil' bit," He said with half-grin as he checked the bag. He plucked out one of the golden brass bullets and examined. Sure, it didn't have the fine luster new ones had, but where would you get new ones? An ammo maker?... That would have been a great job to have, and ammo maker. Everyone needs bullets, and you could have an endless supply. Or a knife in the ribs by a raider stealing your goods. Nah, maybe not the best job.

Walker bit the tip of the shell, and the metal didn't give much. Fine bullets for a fine gun. He placed the shell back into the bag and drawn up the ties. Yep, these would do nicely. The man looked back over to the pirate and couldn't help himself but the grin. The girl had set upon her pancakes like a wolf to a steak. Quite the conflicting story about how she and her crew had fended off a pack of feral wolfs. He kept it to himself and took another drag out of his cigarette. She had to get the bullets somewhere. The Russian would probably tell the cold truth... If the Russian even spoke to him.

He shook he head and shrugged. He wondered what the pirate wanted for the gas and the bullets?