It was a rough few days. Sand SCRATCHING along his face as he rode along the abandoned highway down the long stretch of nothing expansed out into more nothing as far as the eye could see. Heat trails rising up and the garish rays of the sun beating down on him like hell itself. And despite the heat of the day, it would also be contributed to the worn cracked leather of his jacket.
But the bounty hunter wouldn’t forego that precious bit of clothing. One too many times had he gone SKIDDING along the cracked pavement due to some pothole and pitched him from the motorcycle. Lucky him, he hadn’t been traveling at too fast of a pace, but it was enough that he had warranted a few bruises and scrapes. And likely, he would have lost a good few layers of skin tissue had it not been for the loyal confinement of the leather he wore.
No matter, he continued to press forward.
Whip of his riding scarf billowing out behind him as the motor THRUMMED into the day and the glare of the SUN reflecting off the pavement gave way to a small dilapidated settlement. And he might have simply bypassed the place had he not remembered that he was in need of ammunitions. Perhaps he could barter for a few more. Maybe see if there was any talk about another WANDERER. The bounty hunter considered this for a few moments before carefully making his way off the road and towards the haven.
it’s a shit tip, dirty rotten hole in the ground just waiting to be swallowed up.
that’s the conclusion jericho had come to after the traders tried to rip him off over a goddamn bottle of water, one apple and a can of peaches. always a balancing act between the hard line of the deal and the need to actually - eat. it’s not as though the supplies in his pack were ample to overflowing, getting down to the bare bones of survival. sure there was always the ‘draw your gun, yell a few dumbly testosterone fuelled threats, shoot-em-up’ bullshit. but that tended not to get anyone very far other than - well... dead. and honestly, there are already enough -- dead -- to go around.
there was a hell of a difference between a bad deal and a final one.
so he makes the best one he can before flipping off the guy and trudging back to the outskirts of the ‘settlement’. rusted outhouses, a barn and a few hundred yards of razorwire. more of a pitstop than anything else. he’s just kicking up a cloud of dust, before settling on a fairly rancid chair - some rusty spring poking uncomfortably in his ass when he hears the rumble of an engine. maybe one of the rip off merchants from the settlement... maybe not...
...eyes flicking up to observe the approach.
cautious, wary, maybe not a local then.
then again, wasn’t everyone cautious - living on the strung edge of their nerves. permanent neurosis and paranoia were pretty much symptomatic of survival.
❝ they probably won’t pull a gun on ya, but they’ll try to bleed y’dry another way. ❞
