* Chk-Chk

. * BANG * Chk-Chk

.

.

. * BANG * Chk-Chk

.

.

. Red growled as the wind changed directions, blowing her tumble weeds in a way that was harder to shoot. She squeezed her legs around Prongs' midsection, using the pressure her knees and ankles provided to Steer the moving jackalope along to circle the outcrop of rocks where her weeds had blown. Her longtime companion had started getting antsy so Red had taken him on a ride to get some target practice in; or at least that's what the wrangler had told the rest of her party. In reality she was the one getting agitated.

It was that damn peddler again. That silver tongued, sleazy overconfident tall drink of water Russel Navarro.

That stupid man always knew how to get under her skin. Ever since the day they met all those months ago in the train he could play her like a fiddle. Granted he had calmed down significantly from overtly flirting to a more gentlemanly approach.

It made Red want to punch his stupid pretty face.

"Bastard...why does he give so much of a shit anyways..."

*BANG

.

. Dammit, a miss. Red lowered her rifle muzzle, signaling for Prongs to pick a different path and break from the circling. She holstered the gun in the custom pocket for it on her saddle, freeing up her hands to hang onto the reigns that had been loosely tied to the pommel.

"Alright old friend, let's get some laps in"

Prongs chuffed in response, bunching up his hind legs and launched into full gallop. Red leaned into Prongs' front, placing her weight better in line to help him run. Her hat slid backwards off of her head and caught on the neck tie under her chin, her hair whipping behind her head in a bouncy curly red mass.

To Red it was like any other ride at speed, working with her jackalope instead of against him, taking in the sights and smells and sounds of being out in nature. To an outsider it was almost picturesce, billowing hair, concentraion written along the freckles on her face, lean lithe body twisting and rocking along with the movement of her mount, the natural grace of a Jackalope in full sprint; one with his wrangler companion. Relaxing but not totally at ease, one could never ever truly let their gaurd down out here, even in The Greens.  She knew someone in her party was watching her, they weren't exactly being sneaky.

It wasn't uncommon for her group to keep tabs on one another. Red watched Sam and Jack, making sure the good Doctor and the idiot gun sligher kept themselves out of trouble. The teacher had grown a soft spot in her heart. Everyone kept their eyes on Bruno, hell it was hard not to. He was a retired fire wrestler who still lit himself on fire for Pete sake! Ozzy, the trapper she terrorized way back in the day, he was one she never thought she could get along with. He kept his eyes on everyone, he tried to keep the peace along with Sam. Tempers were hot in this group, Bruno not withstanding. And even though Russel infuriated her, he was necessary, he was the only healer they had.

Red knew she was being watched. She would be a fool not to know, but she didn't turn to look at him. She would let them look. Let them watch her exert her mastery of her lifelong occupation. Let them watch the way her body moved and shifted.

If they were the deep chocolate eyes under the fringe of hair that looked soft enough to stroke. If they were the eyes attached to the kind warm features, sculpted by his own years of hard work providing medical care....

'This is a stupid idea....This is such a stupid idea why did I agree to this'

Red thought to herself as she picked her way across the camp in the dead of night, making as little noise as possible. Prongs had lifted his head when the Wrangler had slipped silently out of her wagon, seeing as he slept on top of the damn thing he knew when the door opened, craning his head down to sniffle her hair as she left.

Red had timed this trek to be after her turn standing watch, Ozzy taking his turn to make a perimeter to ensure the group's safety. Even in the Greens a traveler had to stay vigilant, it was no where near as dangerous as the Badlands or even near Lake Jacobson, but a tired caravan still had critters and roving bandits to worry about.

She shivered as she quietly made her way through camp to the other vehicles, being only half dressed made for a chilly walk but at least she had her coat. Boots over bare feet, oversized button down acting as a night shirt to cover her and her riding coat was all that visibly adorned the redhead. She didn't have her trademark hat or kerchief around her neck, though future Red would most likely have it tied firmly around her throat for several days.

Jeremy cracked open one big brown eye, watching her sneak past himself and Bruno, the hodag huffed and closed it again after a gentle shushing motion from Red. The horse Dusty was much the same.

The animals knew she was up to something, but she hoped to the Proto-martyrs that the rest of her party didn't.

Well...one did.

It was a blessing and a curse that everyone in the group had their own type of transportation. It made them highly versatile, the mounts belonged to Jack with Dusty, Bruno on Jeremy and herself on Prongs. The hovers: her wagon, Sam's bike and the two vans belonging to Ozzy and Russel. It was one of those vans that was her goal.

.

.

Red stopped in front of the door to the medical van and knocked twice, blinking as the door opened and light fell across her face. Hear head darted side to side one last time before stepping in.

♡○♡○♡○♡○

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.

.

Morning broke atop the rooftops of the vehicles, mounts shifting and waking their owners. The humans were getting up and around, cleaning up and getting breakfast ready.

Except for two that is.

Wrapped up in each other and the sheets of Russel's futon lay the Wranlger and the Peddler sound asleep, having only very recently slipped into the realm of dreams.

It wasn't the knocking on the door, or the opening of the door that woke them.

It was the bellowed "RUSSEL I CANNOT FIND RED. SHE IS NOT IN HER WAGON DO YOU- oh"

From their dear friend Bruno Musclevitch who had stuck his head inside the van looking for them, and subsequently got an eyeful of both of them who had sat up before even thinking of covering themselves.

"BE SAFE AND RESPONSIBLE MY FORNICATING FRIENDS I WILL NOT TELL THE OTHERS"

It was in a moment of rest that Dahlia witnessed the fact that Burgh could dance.

They sat down and rested their legs from their travels. As they did, Burgh pulled out a sketchbook from his bag and some form of pencil. Dahlia knew many an artist and had seen them work. She had witnessed the birth of a drawing as the pencil breathed life into the paper multiple times. Yet, this was different. The pencil in his hand wasn't a pencil - It was an extension of himself.

She found herself in a trance as she watched him fill the paper with bullets of graphite.

Her knees were brought up to her chest and her folded arms rested on them with her head on top. The movements of his hand were careful, deliberate, yet at the same time Dahlia thought it resembled a dancer jumping across the stage. She asked herself if he had any sort of music playing in his mind as he was doing this. Was it classical? Pop? She made the conclusion that maybe what was playing in his head was something he made himself. Was an artist not a composer as well?

She couldn't stop watching as his hand glided across the stage of the paper. Dahlia felt like a child again, staring at dancers for the first time on her father's old, static-y television with the bent antennae and aluminum foil wrapped around a good portion of them. Now, she was seeing the art being performed in high-definition, two feet away from her.

He seemed satisfied with what he did and proceeded to close his sketchbook, like a coffin to be reopened again. He placed it in his bag along with the pencil, slung it over his shoulder and looked down at his companion who seemed to be staring off into space.

"You okay there, Dahl?"