The scent of refined fuel and now approaching particulate dust attacks both the nose and skin, a scrapyard at the edge of town the chosen location by the Bandit and Gunslinger for the browsing and purchase of their assigned mark.
A pair of Centralian and Northlander attracting only small glances between scavenging workers, the pair already halfway through the still semi-working spare-parts inventory before stopping at a rusting hulk.
“There it is.” Madeline points it out. “That’s the one I want.”
Four wheels the basis of a questionable suspension, a driver’s cab sitting behind a humble air cooled engine, the steel frame fitting two, perhaps three individuals. A cargo bed exposed to elements slowly corroding away, a once covering canvas tarp blown to shreds by endemic dust storms here in the southlands.
They both note the decayed seven bars of the Federation stamped into both its passenger and driver side doors, its origin found within the standardized factories of military plants and a purpose discovered on the soldiers and munitions brought to battlefields long conquered.
Alto takes a long pause as he tries to process the seemingly bad decision. “I-is that…?”
She explains the knowledge from production facilities, a family business in its construction. “The Federation brought these Liberators with them during the Imperial Wars, back when they were still grinding the Empire down. Carried ammunition, soldiers, supplies; all good things. There’s a lot of them still out there, which means there’ll be spare parts everywhere, so even if we break down we could still jury rig something.”
The young woman separates from her partner, a hand assisted climb into the cabin as she tests the controls. A dashboard of dials covered in dust, evenly spread above a steering wheel and foot pedals, displays non-optimal numbers for engine health.
“And from what it looks like this hulk was probably one of the first ones they brought into the city. One of these goes way over our seventy bucks… so it's gonna require a bit of haggling.”
She looks out of the open driver door, right at Alto Carrin. “Quick question Cleric, what kinda marriage rituals do you people practice in the Northlands?”
The question comes as a slight shock to the Gunslinger, a quick blink as he processes his known religious sects. “A New Salvation ceremony normally just gathers the husband and wife together… and its…”
She waves him aside in her interruption. “But do they wear anything special? Like Centralian bands, or a Southland necklace?”
He tries not to look at anything as he answers her. “Nothing in particular, really.”
A low groan from her as she casually hops down. “Everything has to be functional with you people doesn’t it?”
Pointing her finger at a nearby worker, she exercises a loud ordering roar over the distant chatter of gunfire. The power of Centralis, the head of a new empire resounding across the yard through genetically perfect lungs. “HEY YOU, GET ME YOUR BOSS I WANNA BUY SOMETHING!”
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Both the Gunslinger and Bandit remain in silence as they watch the uniformed woman quickly jog away, Madeline quickly lowering her wide brimmed hat towards him. “Play along Alto.”
“W-what?”
“Imma finesse this thing down to a more reasonable price, so don’t say anything that contradicts me alright?”
“Y-yeah sure…”
A quick wink from her handsome face bridges an uneasy understanding, the two remaining motionless as they watch a middle aged man approach them.
Relatively well fed compared to the rest of the emaciated bodies of March, a balding head of gray hair alongside a barely shaven beard defining a head mounted on a dirty, unwashed jumpsuit. A soul stained with biofuel, industrial lubricant, and calloused skin; hard work in the salvage yards defining a life lived in honesty.
Both souls find true insight, Alto relaxing his tense stance as Madeline readies herself with a seemingly pained hunch.
A heavy soundland accent in a friendly introduction, browned teeth bared in a genuine joy. “Greetings you two! How can I help you?
Madeline McCormick is inhuman, a personality shifting near instantaneously from boisterous showmanship to pitiful vulnerability. Concealing her sturdy centralian beauty with the fragility of a desert flower, a soft voice in introduction to herself only. “Hello…”
A conceited pause, to build anticipation to her next request. “I-I… we would like to buy this car.”
It throws the man off guard for just a moment, an unknown advantage given to the young woman. “C-certainly. I can give it to you for…” He takes a quick glance at the thing. “If it starts, I can give it to you for… let's say eighty five dollars?
The young woman coughs pitfully, a sickly pair of lungs already affected by the approaching dust storm. “W-we don’t have much… could you do fifty five?”
It's too low, the slight scowl on the seller’s face read easily alongside pity. His counter is softly spoken, words brought to bear in the desperation of a dying city. “Lowest I can do is seventy five… what do you think sir?”
Her hunched body turns slowly to Alto, the Gunslinger. A seemingly soft pair of hands slowly reaching out towards him, intertwining into flesh. “Forgive my husband he’s… he’s mute.”
There is regret in her voice, a story woven immediately in a battle of charisma. She speaks to the newly introduced spouse slowly, soft enough to imply privacy but loud enough to be overheard. “It's not enough, is it?”
Alto’s expression is stuck as he separates his hands, a poor attempt at Federal Standard in sign language returning. Enough?
She turns to the middle aged seller. “We’re trying to get to July… it's not safe here. Not for us.”
The man crosses his arms, a well traveled soul already peeling away the measures of deception. “You’re right, it isn’t.”
Her gaze travels down the face of the seller, the hint of a southlandic binding necklace on tanned skin found as she makes the assumption. An operational application of social warfare, a firefight of first impressions and careful physical alterations coming to head through training within grand halls.
She slowly moves her hand towards her lower abdomen, maneuvering her fragile brown irises to stare into the dirt and dust of a world below. A face producing an unknowing future, taking from her unfaked fear for an adventure across a dying world.
A falsified third life amongst two, something that draws even the most egregious human soul towards it.
The sacred implication is clear, unvocalized but so obvious.
Alto tries to hide his surprise, realizing the game to be played against the world before she turns towards the seller with her deadly, lethal words.
Please.