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Owner Pose
Apostle     The afternoons here are vivid, but torturous in their heat.
    The road is a run down thing, bits of old vehicles that have been cannibalised likely just recently scattered about the shoulders, the useless and broken remains of what once was the pinnacle of technology in transport. Apostle is here, rumaging about in the guts of the forgotten, as though she might bring them back to life so long after they had sputtered their last gasping breaths; most of what can be seen of her is leather and linen garb and tattered coat, the haggard crimson trails of scarf and sash hanging out of the opened hood of her newest find.
    Hssk. It almost echoes.
    Legs flail as she yards on something, "Thats sad. Ngh!" She grunts, working away, "How plastic and artificial life has, mngh, become. It gets harder," She's talking to herself. "...and harder to find something..." Something gives with an audible, awful wrenching of metal on metal, that shrill shriek of anguish that can only be made by machinery torn asunder, "...real."
    She just about falls out of the car, holding up a piece of something to keen, golden eyes so vivid they might challenge the sun, turning it back and forth to regard it from many angles.
Stockton     The ambling clop of horse hooves can be heard from a ways off, it's not like the Sheriff tries to hide his passing. Stockton sits atop his trusted mare, Brandywine decked in his wasteland gear. Combat armor on his chest and head, leather armor on his limbs, a duster covers most of that, his shiny badge absent from his breast. That intimidating T-visored helmet with the dark plastic keeps his eyes clear as he scans the horizon. Coming up on the sight of Apostle digging in the car he waits silently while she rips whatever vital piece out of the engine compartment.
    Not like Stockton knows what to do with any of the pieces but his electronically altered voice comes through the combat mask, "You got a handle on it?" he asks of her, even as he looks about from left to right, "Been gettin' reports a more mutants workin up north, don' want anyone caught in the crossfire."
Apostle     Her head turns toward the approach, her rebreather keeping time with its steady in and out in audible hiss. She just stares at him for long moments, as though she were trying to figure out what he was, or what he wanted, just by will of her gaze alone. Her hood is pulled just a little lower at the lip by her free hand, shading her features just so, leaving little to meet the inspection that might be forthcoming.
    "As a breath on glass, - as witch-fires that burn, the gods and monsters pass..." Hssk, "Are dust, and return."
    Apparently this is her response to his warning of mutants, her stalwart form molested by the stiff winds coming in off the sands at just the right time, flicking the tattered edges of her wastelander attire about healthy frame. Her hands are filthy, gloves stained with rust, soot, detrius that one is best left questioning rather than knowing. Again, she just stares at him, head fractionally tilting from one side to the other as though set to the time of the ticking seconds of a clock, the visible mechanation of her mind contemplating his person.
    Apostle slowly lowers the hand with the bit of metal in it, tucking it away carefully into one of her satchels for safer keeping, "I have come to find what is not found within the walls of El Dorado. No mere man, nor near-man will prevent me from my task. I will breathe the hum of life into cold and rattled husk, and Velocity shall serve as she was meant to do."
Stockton     There's a thin veneer of darkened plastic between him and her, that visor darkening his features. But she can see the intense stare matching hers and locking in on the details. The subtle tilts of his helmet come and go as he tries new angles. This is not a sheep, Stockton was a wolf before he sided with the herd. The horse whickers softly and stomps on the dust with some boredom or aggitation. "Uh-huh," is all she gets for her revelatory poetry.
    Adjusting in the saddle, the cowboy keeps an angle on the strange woman and her car. "Yeah, heard somethin' about that from Kitty, took me a while tah remember where it was, den I realized Ma was usin' it fer irrigation piping. Explained the situation to 'er so she knows and is fine, but if you wanted tah visit her and say thank yah, it wouldn't be outta the realm of polite. Anyways, yer lookin' fer parts fer a junker mobile - why you wanna fuck wit' the ticking bombs is beyond me, but I'll be happy tah offload the piece to yer hands, yeah?" It's not like there's another Wastelander wandering around near El Dorado that fits Apostle's description.
Apostle     "... Yeah."
    It's all she offers after all that. Oh, one more thing.
    Apostle stands at odds on a fundamental level with the law; there is no wavering, no quivering slither that carries him from his discerning view. In fact, she seems particularly immune to the predatory nature that only mirrors her own, either finding some sort of level ground or noting a challenge with the way he looks down at her from atop his whickering steed.
    "Payment is rendered in service to the office of the Mayor of El Dorado, as discussed." Hssk. She is motionless, but her tattered tails are not, licking about her like languid flames lashing her limbs so very hungrily, coiling and snapping free of her frame with each sudden sigh of the desert that surrounds them.
    "Mankind fears the unknown, believing that which they cannot understand is some insurmountable threat waiting in the alleys to take from them what is not theirs to collect. ... I know these reckless, rich graveyards, and would find within them treasures I could not otherwise afford." She lifts one shoulder in a lazy half-shrug, "I will take that which is mine by decree."
    One of those dirty hands extends toward him expectantly, obviously talking about whatever part it is that he's in possession of.
    Ma is all but forgotten in the exchange of business.
Stockton     Standing straight and tall, the Sheriff simply shakes his head in silence. "Yeah alright," he nudges his steed closer with a squeeze of his knees rather than a gouge of his spurs. Clopclop clopclop, Brandy moves up next to Apostle and turns some. He releases her reigns and reaches back behind him to untie a tubular parcel from her saddle. The leather straps and scrap of cloth around it make no show at hiding the exhaust pipe of chrome and steel hidden beneath.
    With a heft he turns it over to the grabby hands makin' Wastelander. "Ain't unknown, fer the record, I seen what happens when one of these wit' a functioning core turns into wit a few bullets. Jus' be careful." He tips his head and reaches up like he's still wearing that cowboy hat. It's a chivalrous gesture as Brandywine instinctively backs up from the woman. "Enjoy yer parts, ma'am." he offers a grim smile from behind the mask and clicks with his tongue twice before the horse starts back down the road at an amble.
Apostle     Her hand reaches just the little bit further it needs in order to claim the part, nodding in a knowing way toward the Sheriff, shifting in her stance to place the new bit into some sort of sling that hangs from beneath her sort of coat, robe, whatever it is that you'd like to call what Apostle has wrapped herself in.
    "I have seen also what one of these cores might be when careful hands find new purpose for the spark that lay trapped within these coffins so bound. You will see, as well, when Velocity has delivered us from faster moving monsters with that hunger in their eyes." Apostle offers, followed by her telltale 'hssk', before he begins his walk away and she returns to scavenging the bits and bolts from the remnants of motion.
    "Send... Ma... my regards." She allows before planting herself back in the guts.