07-15-2015, 01:24 PM
The bandit fumbled with the pile of clothing as it was pushed into her hands, pain jolting through her any time she moved either of her arms. The mechanic’s brilliant enthusiasm countered her anger, pain and lethargy in an almost cosmic way; their moods the difference of fire and ice.
“Alright, fuck,” she barked, pulling her freshly-laundered shirt over her head, “Give me a few, ‘cause this might take a while.”
Shepherd brushed himself off and cast his strange friend a sideways glance, his mouth crumpling in soft disapproval. “Give her a moment, Caret,” he said softly, patting his hair back into shape. He walked from the room slowly, and nodded to her, “You might even offer her a hand?”
The absence of sand in her own clothes disturbed her more than anything else in that moment. She had literally never worn clean clothing. The fabric plucked and pulled as it ran over her scrapes and sutures, and when it finally came to rest, she looked down at it. A hole rested in the dead center of the garment, a long red stain of her blood spilling out and spreading down her front, drowning the other colors of the filthy garment.
The bandit pushed her hand up through the bottom of the shirt and poked a finger through the hole, her somber features softening as she wiggled it around. A smirk slowly grew on her face and she stifled a chuckle. “Try again, punk-ass,” she murmured to herself, her hand flicking out of the shirt and running down her front, smoothing it down.
“C’mon, lady, let’s go!” Caret demanded, planting one hand on her hip.
“Yeah, yeah,” the bandit croaked and gingerly bent to put on her battered cargo trousers, “I told you I’d be a minute.” Metal buckles and clasps rattled as she slowly worked her way down her legs, affixing a seemingly endless series of straps with pouches and tools down her thighs and calves.
The young secondary rolled her eyes and folded her arms, falling backwards into the doorframe. “Seriously, hurry up. I’ve been working on this rig for two solid weeks.”
Lifting a pair of heavy, black, leather boots from the ground she spit, “Fucker, I almost died.” She dropped them down in front of herself with a loud thud, dirt tumbling from the exterior steel toe and heel. “I’ll take however fucking long I want.” She pushed her feet into them, the tops resting at about quarter-calf. She carefully tucked the ends of her cargo trousers into the shoes and finished blousing them by pulling the laces down tight.
“Now,” the bandit grumbled, “where is my armor?” She swiveled, looking around for it, the simple task of putting on her shoes leaving thick beads of moisture on her forehead. A pile of mangled steel plates and nano-mesh lay in a heap in the corner, the damage to the suit obvious even from her perch on the bed.
With a heavy sigh, Caret gestured to the mess of metal. “What do you even need armor for? We’re just going out to the garage.”
Scowling, the bandit huffed and pushed herself up, standing for the first time in weeks. “The dunes don’t care if you’re just going to the garage. It’s got something waiting for ya every way you look,” she said with solemn assuredness. She sorted through the pile, eventually finding a loose harness. “You don’t wanna know how many times I’ve smoked some idiot who just thought ‘We’re only going to the garage.’” Winching, she wrapped the harness around her body and locked it into place with a metallic clink. “Days and nights spent out there, shooting dumb mother fuckers who think they’re safe just because they were doing to the shitter,” her voice was casual, dismissive even. Two massive shoulder-pads rattled as she put them in place, jerry-rigged connectors securing them to the harness. Plates over her forearms, knees and shins followed.
A large string of loosely connected scrap that was once her breastplate had been obliterated during the explosion, the leather and metal torn and twisted into an unusable state. She fussed with it for a few seconds before abandoning it to the floor. “I’ll have to fix that later,” she fretted with furrowed eyebrows.
Caret stalked over and plucked up the remains of the armor, hanging it in the air as she inspected it. “The fact that you ever wore this thing is impressive,” she scoffed. “I could piece something better together in no time.”
“Hng,” the bandit grunted, “Don’t bother. I’ll get it done.” She stooped down and snatched up her laser rifle, flipping a switch to turn it on. She peered down at the various readings and forcefully jerked, pounded and twisted its various components, performing a functions check before slapping an energy cell in. The technology hummed and bright red energy swelled over its surface, crawling over various grooves and seeping through exposed tubes. The weapon’s very appearance gave the air of agitation and hostility, the glowing surface casting crimson highlights over the textures of the bandit’s armor.
“Whatever,” the mechanic shrugged, lazily tossing the scrap aside, “are you ready to go?” She stepped into the threshold of the doorway and impatiently turned, looking back at the freshly steel-clad warrior.
“One more thing,” she said as she reached down to one of the lower cargo pockets. She pulled free a small tin of white grease paint and gently cracked it open.
Caret exhaled, blowing the hair from her face in yet another gesture of haughty impatience. The waved her hand in the direction of at the tin, “Is that the stuff we found slathered all over your face?”
The bandit nodded and pushed her fingers into the paint, withdrawing a thick dollop, “Yup.” She liberally applied the grease over her cheeks, the bright white in contrast to her features. Practiced movements swept over her face, a rough but recognizable skull slowly taking form with every smear.
She closed the tin and dropped it back in its place, facing Caret with the image of a scowling skull. “I might bite the dust just walking my broken ass out there. If I go down, I want my war-paint on and my rifle primed and ready.”
“That and the fact that your buddies might come and try to blast us?” Caret said, rolling out of the door frame and beginning down the hall.
“Heh,” she scoffed, plodding after her, “They better hope they decide to pick on somebody else.”
The woman had never been conscious to see anything of the house outside the room she had been recovering in. She didn’t notice the intense odor of her previous room until she stepped out of it, the fragrance of dirt and old timber washing away the stink of her convalescence from her nostrils.
The pair crept by the aging, parched walls of the wooden structure that Shepherd called his home, the Bandit’s footsteps short and cautious. Every movement was plagued by the agony of her various injuries, the explosion granting her hairline fractures and deep lacerations to accompany the gunshot wound given by the sheriff. Still she stood with her back straight, her muscles tensed. She would not be cowed by the petulant whining of her body.
Caret exited the door, and the refreshing blast of heat and sand brushed the bandit’s face. The scorching sun greeted her with a gleaming smile as they made the short trip to the garage. Her knees sang as her heavy boots sank into the shifting soil, the hot breeze lashing at her hair. She had feared she wouldn’t live long enough to see her desert again.
The woman took a moment to observe her surroundings, inspecting the small single story home. The exterior of the house was rough-laid stucco, bright beige and fighting off the intensity of the temperature. No more than five rooms, the windows were packed with thick blankets and have sheet metal bolted over them. If she had to guess, Shepherd inherited this place. A few black holes and scars burned into the clay implied that they didn’t leave by choice.
The garage and apparent workshop was of similar construction, with two fifteen-foot rolling metal door it its front. Caret slipped into alternate entrance on the side of the building, into the darkness of the shop. The punch of a button could be heard, followed by the loud grumble of an electric motor. Clattering with every movement, the rusted sectional door slowly lifted up, revealing the garage within.
“Alright, fuck,” she barked, pulling her freshly-laundered shirt over her head, “Give me a few, ‘cause this might take a while.”
Shepherd brushed himself off and cast his strange friend a sideways glance, his mouth crumpling in soft disapproval. “Give her a moment, Caret,” he said softly, patting his hair back into shape. He walked from the room slowly, and nodded to her, “You might even offer her a hand?”
The absence of sand in her own clothes disturbed her more than anything else in that moment. She had literally never worn clean clothing. The fabric plucked and pulled as it ran over her scrapes and sutures, and when it finally came to rest, she looked down at it. A hole rested in the dead center of the garment, a long red stain of her blood spilling out and spreading down her front, drowning the other colors of the filthy garment.
The bandit pushed her hand up through the bottom of the shirt and poked a finger through the hole, her somber features softening as she wiggled it around. A smirk slowly grew on her face and she stifled a chuckle. “Try again, punk-ass,” she murmured to herself, her hand flicking out of the shirt and running down her front, smoothing it down.
“C’mon, lady, let’s go!” Caret demanded, planting one hand on her hip.
“Yeah, yeah,” the bandit croaked and gingerly bent to put on her battered cargo trousers, “I told you I’d be a minute.” Metal buckles and clasps rattled as she slowly worked her way down her legs, affixing a seemingly endless series of straps with pouches and tools down her thighs and calves.
The young secondary rolled her eyes and folded her arms, falling backwards into the doorframe. “Seriously, hurry up. I’ve been working on this rig for two solid weeks.”
Lifting a pair of heavy, black, leather boots from the ground she spit, “Fucker, I almost died.” She dropped them down in front of herself with a loud thud, dirt tumbling from the exterior steel toe and heel. “I’ll take however fucking long I want.” She pushed her feet into them, the tops resting at about quarter-calf. She carefully tucked the ends of her cargo trousers into the shoes and finished blousing them by pulling the laces down tight.
“Now,” the bandit grumbled, “where is my armor?” She swiveled, looking around for it, the simple task of putting on her shoes leaving thick beads of moisture on her forehead. A pile of mangled steel plates and nano-mesh lay in a heap in the corner, the damage to the suit obvious even from her perch on the bed.
With a heavy sigh, Caret gestured to the mess of metal. “What do you even need armor for? We’re just going out to the garage.”
Scowling, the bandit huffed and pushed herself up, standing for the first time in weeks. “The dunes don’t care if you’re just going to the garage. It’s got something waiting for ya every way you look,” she said with solemn assuredness. She sorted through the pile, eventually finding a loose harness. “You don’t wanna know how many times I’ve smoked some idiot who just thought ‘We’re only going to the garage.’” Winching, she wrapped the harness around her body and locked it into place with a metallic clink. “Days and nights spent out there, shooting dumb mother fuckers who think they’re safe just because they were doing to the shitter,” her voice was casual, dismissive even. Two massive shoulder-pads rattled as she put them in place, jerry-rigged connectors securing them to the harness. Plates over her forearms, knees and shins followed.
A large string of loosely connected scrap that was once her breastplate had been obliterated during the explosion, the leather and metal torn and twisted into an unusable state. She fussed with it for a few seconds before abandoning it to the floor. “I’ll have to fix that later,” she fretted with furrowed eyebrows.
Caret stalked over and plucked up the remains of the armor, hanging it in the air as she inspected it. “The fact that you ever wore this thing is impressive,” she scoffed. “I could piece something better together in no time.”
“Hng,” the bandit grunted, “Don’t bother. I’ll get it done.” She stooped down and snatched up her laser rifle, flipping a switch to turn it on. She peered down at the various readings and forcefully jerked, pounded and twisted its various components, performing a functions check before slapping an energy cell in. The technology hummed and bright red energy swelled over its surface, crawling over various grooves and seeping through exposed tubes. The weapon’s very appearance gave the air of agitation and hostility, the glowing surface casting crimson highlights over the textures of the bandit’s armor.
“Whatever,” the mechanic shrugged, lazily tossing the scrap aside, “are you ready to go?” She stepped into the threshold of the doorway and impatiently turned, looking back at the freshly steel-clad warrior.
“One more thing,” she said as she reached down to one of the lower cargo pockets. She pulled free a small tin of white grease paint and gently cracked it open.
Caret exhaled, blowing the hair from her face in yet another gesture of haughty impatience. The waved her hand in the direction of at the tin, “Is that the stuff we found slathered all over your face?”
The bandit nodded and pushed her fingers into the paint, withdrawing a thick dollop, “Yup.” She liberally applied the grease over her cheeks, the bright white in contrast to her features. Practiced movements swept over her face, a rough but recognizable skull slowly taking form with every smear.
She closed the tin and dropped it back in its place, facing Caret with the image of a scowling skull. “I might bite the dust just walking my broken ass out there. If I go down, I want my war-paint on and my rifle primed and ready.”
“That and the fact that your buddies might come and try to blast us?” Caret said, rolling out of the door frame and beginning down the hall.
“Heh,” she scoffed, plodding after her, “They better hope they decide to pick on somebody else.”
The woman had never been conscious to see anything of the house outside the room she had been recovering in. She didn’t notice the intense odor of her previous room until she stepped out of it, the fragrance of dirt and old timber washing away the stink of her convalescence from her nostrils.
The pair crept by the aging, parched walls of the wooden structure that Shepherd called his home, the Bandit’s footsteps short and cautious. Every movement was plagued by the agony of her various injuries, the explosion granting her hairline fractures and deep lacerations to accompany the gunshot wound given by the sheriff. Still she stood with her back straight, her muscles tensed. She would not be cowed by the petulant whining of her body.
Caret exited the door, and the refreshing blast of heat and sand brushed the bandit’s face. The scorching sun greeted her with a gleaming smile as they made the short trip to the garage. Her knees sang as her heavy boots sank into the shifting soil, the hot breeze lashing at her hair. She had feared she wouldn’t live long enough to see her desert again.
The woman took a moment to observe her surroundings, inspecting the small single story home. The exterior of the house was rough-laid stucco, bright beige and fighting off the intensity of the temperature. No more than five rooms, the windows were packed with thick blankets and have sheet metal bolted over them. If she had to guess, Shepherd inherited this place. A few black holes and scars burned into the clay implied that they didn’t leave by choice.
The garage and apparent workshop was of similar construction, with two fifteen-foot rolling metal door it its front. Caret slipped into alternate entrance on the side of the building, into the darkness of the shop. The punch of a button could be heard, followed by the loud grumble of an electric motor. Clattering with every movement, the rusted sectional door slowly lifted up, revealing the garage within.
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