Roar, Lioness. Roar

Midday at the Oasis

The oasis is considered to be the center of The Bright Waste even though it is quite a ways south of the true midpoint of the vast wasteland. It sits equal distance from Phalanx in the northeast and Cruel Claw Expanse to the southwest. On the northern bank of the oasis's highly sought after watering hole sits Market Town. By unwritten agreement amongst both the reaver clans and the valkyrie, the walled off collection of structures is accepted as neutral territory, a safe space for commerce and refuge. Anything can be purchased if one is willing to pay the price. If it can be found in The Bright Waste, it can be found in Market Town.

The warden of Market Town is a foul tempered old bastard named Abornazian. Everyone calls him The Old Fart and he seems to like that name just fine. His sons handle the finances of the many merchant stalls, and The Old Fart's personal army, known as the Tax Collectors, handle security. Together they keep the peace in one of the only two places within The Waste where men travel freely. The infection has never taken root within Market Town's walls thanks to The Old Fart's secret remedy, and no one has ever broken his rules more than once.

As the hunting party skirts the banks of the oasis's watering hole, Rebel and Verlaine joke about their assault on The Red Rock and their brush with the infected.

"I count four," Rebel boasts. "Three with my ax and one I bashed against the cliff rocks."

"That one could have survived," Verlaine says sagely.

"With half a face, maybe!"

"I shot four in the head and one in the chest. That's five verses your four."

"Wait, Old One-Eyed Fawna was shot in the head and she's still kicking. You can't be sure those are confirmed kills." Rebel does some math with her hands. "I'll give you half: two kills, maybe three."

"Old One-Eye! She's insane."

"But she's alive," Rebel laughs.

"Alive- half the time she thinks she's a waste hound."

"Still alive."

"No way. It's five to four."

"So now the bashed one counts?"

Rebel shoves Verlaine who then kicks her in the rear. They start to wrestle and Latisha continues walking with the others. The walls of Market Town draw closer with each step.

A group of The Old Fart's sons, each with half of their head shaved, fill barrels with water under the watchful eye of a Tax Collector armed with a drum-fed shotgun. Hammered metal and thick padding painted black and stained with the skewered S symbol of Market Town identify her as the law within. Outside, she was no one, her gun and armor only as protective as her ability to use them.

The tax collector watches the reavers as they draw near, shifting her weight from heel to heel. Latisha smiles, her mirth showing in her eyes even if the rest of her face is hidden. There's no doubt that more of the heavily armed women watch from the guard tower jutting out from the town's walls. The idea of taking the woman's gun and tossing her into the water makes Latisha chuckle. She wonders if the watchers would be able to respond in time to make a difference.

"Anya, bring me the bed warmer. I want to ask her a few questions."

Anya pulls the girl over and hands Latisha the chain. The huntress studies the girl then studies Bria as she pedals the desert bike. The vehicle kicks up handfuls of sand as it struggles on the hard packed road. In the open desert it moves smooth and fast, but on a real road it is slow and clunky.

"I didn't see any clan marks on you. No slave tattoos either." Latisha gives the girl's chain a little tug as she meets her eyes. "Where are you from?"

The girl stares at Latisha, eyes void of malice or challenge.