She was actually having a pretty good day, she told herself. She'd broken up the slaver caravan with extreme prejudice and the kids she'd been sent to look for had been smart enough to run. There was cover here and their people were looking for them. Sure, she was pinned down with less ammunition than she'd have liked and more raiders arriving, but into every life, some rain must fall. (She'd never understood what was wrong with that, but it probably wasn't worth arguing with songs written before the sky burned.)
"What do you think, puddin', improvised explosives? We're so good at that game..." It helped center her to chat with Dogmeat, who was an old hand at firefights and quite sensibly crouched beside her behind her helpful ridge of rock. The mangy little shepherd just cocked his head and she patted him absently as she debated tipping half her failing supply of bullets into an incendiary and hoping for good aim. A peek around the side just let a bullet burn a scored line in her cheek and sent a few curls drifting to earth.
In the last few months, the roads between the Bullet Farm and the Green Towers--formerly the Immortan's Citadel--have gotten dangerous. Partly it's due to more limited traffic between the two strongholds and partly the significant reduction in the forces they have to defend themselves. There may be other factors; one revolution can easily spark others, after all, but if there's more to the sudden influx of scavs, Buzzards, and other road gangs, Furiosa isn't yet aware of it.
She's interested in becoming aware of it, though, which is why she's out today. She had an escort of one Vuvalini and three War Boys, but when they spied the dust and gunfire ahead, they split up. The other two vehicles are circling around with the intention of gauging the means of their opponents; the numbers, how well-armed they may be, and why some of them seem to have broken off into a haphazard retreat while others are closing in to serve as reinforcements. Furiosa, though, in the smallest and lightest car, is just reckless (kami-crazy?) enough to plow into the midst of the violence.
The resulting shower of sand is impressive, and backed by the pop of bullets from a Taurus PT99AF (why it's her favorite, she can't explain, except it feels right in her hand). It's just a strafing run, but in the sweep and turn at the far end, she gets a glimpse of what the slavers had been shooting at up until she showed up.
A person; she can't determine age or gender at this speed, and it doesn't really matter. She was born of the Vuvalini and raised a War Boy, and both of those groups love to root for the underdog.
Getting them both killed would be pointless, though, so she makes another charge through the ranks of scavengers, and this time she fires off an incendiary bolt from a handheld crossbow. By itself, it will do limited damage, but the fireburst might create enough confusion for the stranger to run, or at least for Furiosa to swing around and try to pick her up.
((Thought I'd leave space in case you wanted Indrani to have a chance to heave a bomb, because explosions make the world go round.))
While she keeps her makeshift bomb more or less ready, the sudden influx of roaring engines complicates matters enough that she holds off for now. Really, much as she enjoys the idea of a big boom solving her problems, she's a much better precision shot than she is a strong upper arm. Better to take her chances and conserve her ammunition a little. The new players on the field would shift the power balance and hopefully distract from the bolting scruffy kids. Which meant the possibility of making a better vantage point for a girl and her dog. She didn't even think of running away. Thing about slave takers. They'd come back for more unless you really went ahead and crushed the bastards.
At the wonderfully convenient flare and the mess is causes for her opponents, she makes a break for a higher ridge. One that's even mostly successful. Bad luck does her in as much as bad choices, the wild fire of a blinded raider ricocheting off the rock and into her shoulder. The loss of momentum minimizes the damage, but it's still too much to count on remaining functional. Certainly without much in the way of drugs on her. With one arm hanging useless, she opts to draw a revolver that looks much too big for the little girl pointing it and fire a few decisive rounds at the slavers before she even thinks to try and stop the bleeding. That's what they get.
Further out in the melee, the Vuvalini woman and her War Boy escort may also be doing their best to get between the fleeing children and their former captors. No point in chasing the little ones down, though, even to try helping. They'd probably just panic more.
Furiosa, in the meantime, tracks the stranger's dodge and sudden halt, registers that there's something small running with her--is that an animal?--and then goes back to fire another bolt.
The flurry of violence continues for several more minutes, in the end, and one of the War Boy cars chases after the handful of fleeing slaver-vehicles, with the lancer within hanging out the window and yelling, clearly enjoying the opportunity to fight far too much. Furiosa is amused. You can change the entire nature of their home base around them, but a War Boy is still a War Boy. At least the battle instinct is being put to better uses now.
She is more interested in salvage, but living people are the first priority. She stops her car well within the stranger's line of sight and gets out. There's a gun at her hip, but her hands are up, one of them clearly a steel prosthesis. "Hey! Cease fire?"
The enemy of her enemy is not necessarily a friend, but unquestionably a person of interest.
Indrani's thoughts are bent the same way, though she's starting to have that wobbly, crushed sensation that comes as blood loss starts to be a problem more than a nuisance and the ebb of adrenaline makes it harder to command her body to ignore its damage. She manages to hold the beast of a revolver steady, but it takes just about all she's got as she turns toward the voice. She'd like to believe in a rescue, but if she trusted that easily she'd have been reduced to a little red smear a long time ago.
Her voice is a bit shaky as she answers, as sheer force of will can't actually overpower physics, and her energy is running low much too fast. Stupid bullet. Stupid blood everywhere. Stupid Dogmeat, whining and making it harder to concentrate. "I'm not firing if you're not," she says, almost evenly. She is a bit of a mess, whatever impression she tries to get across. There's nothing unusual about ragged, dusty clothes or gear that's seen better days, but the blood, the flyaway rebellion of her hair, and general pattern of distress suggest she's been in this fight a while.
Long hair is par for the course with a lot of scavs and road warriors, just because it's easier to tie it back than keep it chopped short; the higher pitch of the strangers voice, though, tells Furiosa this is probably a woman. While that probably shouldn't be an automatic point in her favor, Furiosa has reasons for her inherent biases. She lowers her arms slowly, nodding. "Good. You hurt?"
She advances up to the ridge slowly, pulling off the black scarf around her neck and shaking the dust out of it. Might be needed as a tourniquet; she can see the wet, dark gleam on the stranger's clothes and assumes it's blood. "I'll help you if you'll let me."
And Mothers-bless-her, there is an animal here! A dog, she thinks, though the last time she saw a dog was before she was stolen from the Green Place, so she could be mistaken. "Is that going to bite me if I get close?"
Never mind the revolver still shakily held in place. Furiosa's seen more guns than she has dogs.
Furiosa herself is not exactly the picture of a cool, put-together fighter. She's road-dusty, goggles perched askew on her forehead, still flushed and slightly breathless with adrenaline. She's unhurt, though, and her body language is loose, speaking without words: she's not gearing up for an attack.
She lowers the revolver slowly, making a bit of a show of it. It pays to keep up the act with a gun that doesn't actually have any bullets left. But she's just as inclined as Furiosa to trust another woman more easily. So, at that, is the dog, who reads a lot less threat to his person coming from another female. He's already relaxing, believing in the power of humans to use their thumbs and abstract planning skills to fix a too-much-blood problem that he could only really fix by licking.
Which makes it a bit less impressive when Indrani glances dizzily down at him and shakes her head unsteadily. "He's fine. Dogmeat, relax." He's definitely already more or less relaxed and even wagging his tail a little. Embarrassing animal. She holsters the gun carefully, resting a loose grip on it, and set her other hand between the animal's ears. Leaving no hands for attempting to staunch the blood flow. Oh, well, she gets helped or she's probably dying anyway.
If someone's pointing a gun at you, you always assume it's loaded. That's a lesson Furiosa learned as a very young girl, before she was stolen from her home. If you're pointing a gun at someone else, you always assume it's loaded.
Don't point a gun at anything you don't plan to shoot. Don't shoot anything you don't plan to kill. She's relieved when the revolver gets lowered.
If Indrani feels Dogmeat is letting her down in the ferocity department, at least the fact that Furiosa clearly has no idea how to read the animal's body language should help. She'll have to trust the dog's master, take her at her word. She comes within arm's reach of the pair of them, hands still held within view, and then she sinks to one knee craning her neck to peer at what little of the wound she can see through torn clothing. "Right. That's not going to stop bleeding on its own. I'm going to wrap it up; it'll hurt, but you'll live."
Sometimes, you just have to take a leap of faith. She reaches under the other woman's arm with her scarf, pulls it up, and twists it tight, giving her space to breathe--or yell, if need be--before tying it off.
Indrani's philosophy is more improvised and less coherent, as she tends to rely on a strict policy of making it up as she goes along. Hard to think fast when your insides are rapidly becoming your outsides, though, and she just nods to Furiosa's instructions. The arm. She's as good at pain as any loaner has no choice but to be. Can't scream when it might attract attention.
"Think the bullet made its way out," she says as helpfully as she can. It's not like this would be the time to get the damn thing out, but it might be useful information. "Too bad, though. I liked the jacket." And that's just babbling. She's very used to being able to talk to herself, or Dogmeat, who continues to wait politely, keeping an eye on the interloper but mostly unperturbed now that the immediate violence has calmed down.
"That's good. Better that way than trying to pick out shrapnel." Furiosa's been fortunate enough to have only been winged by the occasional bullet, but she knew plenty of War Boys who had worse and never really recovered fully from the damage. Sometimes you have to leave the pieces in the wound. "We might be able to do better, if you'll allow it."
"You were fighting that gang. Can you tell me why?" Once the scarf is tied off, Furiosa sits back and pulls a canteen off her belt, offering it to the other woman.
Her gaze strays toward Dogmeat briefly, calm and analytical. The Citadel--now the Green Towers--needs animals. Milk and egg producers more so than companion animals, but she's going to have to ask some questions when the opportunity arises.
She could be cagey about it, but it's the kind of story that isn't likely to earn her a lot of enemies. At least, not enemies who are also the kind of people who go to the trouble of patching up strangers. She considers her angle for a moment, covering the pause by accepting the canteen and taking a quick, polite swig of water. That does help. She holds it in her mouth a moment to enjoy the fleeting experience of not being thirsty.
She hands it back as she answers. "They caught a couple kids from a little comm about a week that way. I caught up a few days ago and I've been picking them off. They caught on today, but the kids got clear. I should go catch up, make sure they get home..." She doesn't look much like she'll be in any shape to travel for a while. Even with the bleeding stopped, there's something unpleasantly ashy in her complexion, and the bullet did plenty of damage.
Furiosa accepts the canteen back with a thoughtful look. "A week's journey. That's a long way to chase raiders."
Normally, she'd be curious whether that makes this woman a paid mercenary or simply abnormally charitable. With that kind of ground covered in pursuit of her goal, though, she may very well be both.
Furiosa shakes her head and sits back on her heels to think. "You're not in good condition to drive, let alone run after frightened children. That rip in your shoulder is going to need stitching."
She could probably get her own escort to track the children and help them home. Maybe camp somewhere close by here and make sure the wounded woman is stable? "My name is Furiosa," she says. "Of the Green Towers. We'll help you, if you'll let us."
She's not sure whether her name or the name of her settlement will be familiar. Either way, she offers an armclasp as a show of good faith.
That's a lot of information for the increasingly bleary mind to follow. She sorts through it all thoughtfully and decides against trying to explain most of her end of things right away. She confuses most people she meets. Deal with the practical for now. She's in no condition to refuse treatment. She might be able to patch herself up on her own, but she's outside her usual stomping grounds and there's nothing less fun than being feverish and delirious out in the wastelands. Might as well see where this goes.
...But not without a little negotiating. "Don't have much in the way of trade goods on me, but I'll be a decent mechanic when I have my brains unscrambled again. Better if you focus on getting those girls back home than on me. But nah, not gonna say no to bleeding less." She hopes it's getting hotter, which would explain the haze in a way that doesn't suggest her vision's a bit swimmy.
Oh, yes, introductions. That. She takes the offered arm only a little unsteadily. "Indrani Mukherjee. The Kid from the Vault." She doesn't mind that that won't mean anything all the way out here. Clearly she should know Furiosa and the Green Towers, or she'd like to, anyway. Word only travels so far, and there's no shame in being out of her usual circuit.
The way she says her name, it sounds to Furiosa like this is a girl with a reputation of her own. That makes her very curious, indeed, but now is not the time to question. She glances at the dog again, wondering if it has a name, assuming it does, and deciding to ask that, later, too.
"Well met. We can always use a mechanic," she says, understanding the need to bargain. Owing favors to strangers is never a good feeling. "There are some vehicles our friends left behind. Let's patch you up and then you can help us patch those engines up, and we'll go from there."
Meanwhile, they need shelter. Furiosa stands and gives a loud whistle, waving her metal arm to flag down the one vehicle of her entourage that remains behind. It's bigger than hers, essentially a truck with a cover over the back bed, and they camp in it in a pinch.
The Vuvalini driving it is the youngest still living (other than Furiosa), and once it's close as it can be, she slides out easily. The War Boy in the passenger's seat remains where he is, guarding quietly, but he's staring at Indrani with polite curiosity.
"Switch," Furiosa tells the older woman. "You and Spanner can take my car. See if you can gather the children; we can make sure they get home safe. If they won't come to you willingly, at least leave them water. This one needs stitching and shade and probably a nap."
The exchange of vehicles is efficient, over and done in the blink of an eye, but with a few friendly looks and subtle back-pats passing between all three. Not until the smaller car is speeding off does Furiosa turn back to Indrani and offer her left arm. "Let's get you into shelter. I'll help you up. Grab the metal all you need to; won't hurt me."
That's a lot of action to keep up with, and what she can follow, she's impressed with. She doesn't often see this sort of coordination, or not from the kind of people who might step in to help the underdog in a fight like hers. Maybe it's cynical, but she expects the well outfitted and decently trained to have gotten there by stepping on everyone else. Maybe if she had the energy she'd be a little more mistrustful, but she's willing to see where this goes.
In that swimmy, nonsensical way that the brain will fasten onto inconsequentials when there's too much going on (or not enough blood moving oxygen around, in this case), she finds herself staring at the arm a little. It's a mechanic's gaze, analytical and admiring, with no hint of pity or disgust. It's a pretty piece of work. She wouldn't be up to it. She nods and lets herself lean a bit on the other woman as she gets her feet back under her, not something she likes doing to friends, let alone strangers. "Right, thanks. Dogmeat, move." Not a very formal command, but it does the trick, and the dog trots along with her, looking as relieved as a canine face will allow. He lost a human before and prefers not to risk it happening again. "Ugh. Not usually stupid enough to get in the way of an idiot's bullet. Had better days."
To be fair, some of the coordination was taught by the previous regime, which really did do a lot more stepping on people then stepping in for them. Furiosa has just held onto some of what worked and redirected what didn't. The War Boys still need a fair bit of authority over them, lest they go off and assume their own might makes them right. There are changes, though. No unnecessary killing.
Furiosa doesn't really like having her arm stared at. It is what it is, and she's not ashamed by any means, but there's always a worry that an intent look means someone visually testing for weaknesses. In this case, she's inclined to let it slide, though. If she were in this woman's position, she'd be looking for weaknesses, too, if only to reassure herself.
"Dogmeat?" she repeats, helping Indrani slowly up to and into the back of the truck. There's no tailgate, just flexible webbing stretched across the end. There are supplies inside, bound tight so they don't bounce or fly around on a fast drive, but the truck bed is padded with dust and dried chaff from the gardens.
"Heh...I hear you, but any day I live through is a good day, as far as I'm concerned."
She's a bit defensive about his name, which she feels stops being funny or clever about twelve seconds in, but since he responds to it, she's stuck. "I didn't name him. Was written on his collar when we met." When Furiosa repeats it he wags his tail a bit, glad to be included. Stupid Dogmeat. Ah, well, she's starting to trust this woman, too, more than she really should.
At the bed of the truck, she makes an effort to clamber into place on her own. It's not particularly effective, but it's the principle of the thing. It does look cool and inviting in there. Traveling more or less alone like she does it would be stupid to have digs like this, but she can't help envying the relative comfort a bit. She'll have to go find her bike soon, but she's not sure she could even ride it with this arm. When she's a little more rested.
"So about those stitches you offered?" She'd like to just collapse, but she should get the dangerous bits out if it's safely possible and close up the worst of it.
Written on his collar? Furiosa has a suspicion that might have been meant to be a label rather than a name, in that case. "Would you believe I haven't seen a real live dog in over a decade?"
Pelts, yes. Actual animals, no. "I might have some questions for you later, but...yes. Stitches first."
She helps Indrani into the back, as much as seems necessary and no more. She can respect her need for some semblance of dignity. Furiosa climbs up after her, though, and pushes aside the webbing in case the dog insists on joining them. There's plenty of space.
She tugs at the ties holding rolled blankets and a ratty little bag down in the bed, and sets the roll just behind Indrani's back. "Lean if you have to. Breathe deep. Ever get sewn up before?"
She's guessing she probably has. Most Road Warriors seem to tend their own wounds. She wouldn't be entirely surprised if this woman could stitch herself up, but there's no reason she has to, here and now. Furiosa can do it, and doesn't mind. "Have to get the jacket off first..."
"He's my first. Was still chewing on the rats who took out his last owner," she babbles aimlessly, settling into place. She's decided the jacket is worth saving. She hates to waste even scraps. The shirts underneath can probably be reassembled into something later, but a coat that holds together reasonably well is worth salvaging. And that means taking a bit of care getting out of it. She grits her teeth and manages to get the uninjured arm out with just a bit of wincing. The injured shoulder, raw and ragged, is more of a problem. She bites down on her knuckles as she peels the shredded and bled on cloth free.
Ugh. That was bad. She's even a bit dizzy from that pain and awkwardness of that. Yes, she could probably stitch it up herself, if not well, but it would be nice to have another pair of hands in on it. "Might have to cut off the rest." The shirt she's wearing is patched and torn already anyway. She's not particular about it. "Just... Got anything I can bite while you get it done?"
Furiosa grimaces. Rats, she's seen, although usually they're being eaten rather than attempting attacks on human beings. She can see how they'd be dangerous, though. Bold, nasty things, especially when they're starving. Sounds like Dogmeat likes rat-meat, though. Didn't they used to have hunting dogs in the old world? She's heard they used to be trained to help the blind, too.
She doesn't interfere as Indrani struggles free of her jacket, but she nods in relief at the suggestion they just cut the shirt. "That'll be easier, yes. It won't help if you break your teeth...here." She reaches to undo one of her own belts, unbuckling and then folding it in thirds, then offering it out.
"Camel leather. Sorry if it tastes like road dirt." Her lips quirk in a smile that's meant to be part-sardonic, part-reassuring, and she pulls a pair of scissors out of the med kit, prepared to cut through the tattered shirt fabric before removing the scarf she's bound over the injury.
"What doesn't taste like road dirt?" She sounds more or less confident, though she's glad to have a woman helping her under these vulnerable circumstances. It may not be logical, but she can be calmer. And that, in turn, should be helpful if she does need to react quickly. She bites down on the heavy leather, focusing as best she can through the pain, and manages a crooked, slightly gap-toothed smile back. If she could really relax, this would be almost nice, and it's pretty close now.
And while there's pain in having the bloodied, stiff cloth cut away, it's clean and clarifying. The kind of pain that might mean avoiding the swelling and fever that comes of a wound healing dirty. Aside from a soft grunt and brightening eyes, she gives away nothing as the shirt and makeshift bandage come away. She's as thin and scarred as any loner out on the road, the only notable feature a few lines of dark blue ink peeking around her shoulders and sides. She makes a muffled sound of encouraging assent, only a bit strained.
"It's a good seasoning, road dirt, but a bit of it goes a long way." Furiosa has a somewhat deadpan sense of humor, but she does have one. She gives Indrani a reassuring nod and trims the sleeve and shoulder of her blouse carefully, laying it open until she can see the wounded area. Then she carefully unbinds the scarf.
The wound is a mess, predictably, and Furiosa breaks out some clean rags and water to swab it with first. She mostly uses her left arm to brace the younger woman, trusting the dexterity of the flesh-and-blood hand more. "It's not as mangled as I was afraid of," she tells her quietly, switching to iodine. "This part's going to sting. You can grab the metal if you need to."
She tries to respond, but her attempt to talk around the belt is totally unintelligible, so she keeps her not particularly clever retorts to herself. Bantering can help keep a girl sane, but it's not worth it to take the belt out of her mouth. She does make an attempt to smile around it in appreciation. It's a messy, tedious little chore that no one wants, patching up a mess like this, and the offer to hold onto the arm is appreciated. She tries not to cling too much, but her uninjured hand does drift to Furiosa's arm. Better than trying to dig into the bed of the truck and damaging her fingers. That'd be just her luck. Dogmeat whines a bit but stays put, having seen a few minor surgeries in his time and knowing it needs to be done.
Furiosa tends to clean and stitch a wound quickly, ruthlessly; she's done plenty of it on the road. You can't afford to be a bleeding heart when someone else is also bleeding. Still, she knows the value of distraction, and Dogmeat is helpfully volunteering. "You can do the stitching when you grow thumbs," she tells him over her shoulder. "Even with one arm, I'm still one up on you."
Her stitching is not especially pretty. It'll probably still scar; someone with two hands and medical expertise could do better. Still, it'll keep out the dirt, and that's what's most important.
She uses a layer of gauze overtop of the wound, then wraps a clean rag over that, tying it firmly. "I have some herbal painkillers, but they're slow. Catch your breath, I'll mix 'em up."
Indrani's used to supplies like that being limited. And to the defensive smokescreen of macho denials that can keep a loner alive sometimes. "Don't tap too far into your stores on my account." She's had worse, and Dogmeat licking her cheek does a lot to help. She could probably power through this without too much help, though the thought of painkillers is almost as nice as not dying of a pointless infection.
She does shift a bit, trying to find a way to lean that doesn't set off the shoulder. Too much pain for lounging, too tired to sit up. Can't win. Might as well try and learn a bit about the helpful lady with the fancy arm. "So you know what I was doing. What'd I end up chasing those slavers into? Normal patrol?" She's not even sure whose territory this is, aside from, apparently, Furiosa's, which is good news. The Green Towers is a promising name, but it doesn't mean much to her yet.
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sarken
How's this?
Date: 2015-08-18 03:34 am (UTC)"What do you think, puddin', improvised explosives? We're so good at that game..." It helped center her to chat with Dogmeat, who was an old hand at firefights and quite sensibly crouched beside her behind her helpful ridge of rock. The mangy little shepherd just cocked his head and she patted him absently as she debated tipping half her failing supply of bullets into an incendiary and hoping for good aim. A peek around the side just let a bullet burn a scored line in her cheek and sent a few curls drifting to earth.
Great!
Date: 2015-08-19 02:56 am (UTC)She's interested in becoming aware of it, though, which is why she's out today. She had an escort of one Vuvalini and three War Boys, but when they spied the dust and gunfire ahead, they split up. The other two vehicles are circling around with the intention of gauging the means of their opponents; the numbers, how well-armed they may be, and why some of them seem to have broken off into a haphazard retreat while others are closing in to serve as reinforcements. Furiosa, though, in the smallest and lightest car, is just reckless (kami-crazy?) enough to plow into the midst of the violence.
The resulting shower of sand is impressive, and backed by the pop of bullets from a Taurus PT99AF (why it's her favorite, she can't explain, except it feels right in her hand). It's just a strafing run, but in the sweep and turn at the far end, she gets a glimpse of what the slavers had been shooting at up until she showed up.
A person; she can't determine age or gender at this speed, and it doesn't really matter. She was born of the Vuvalini and raised a War Boy, and both of those groups love to root for the underdog.
Getting them both killed would be pointless, though, so she makes another charge through the ranks of scavengers, and this time she fires off an incendiary bolt from a handheld crossbow. By itself, it will do limited damage, but the fireburst might create enough confusion for the stranger to run, or at least for Furiosa to swing around and try to pick her up.
((Thought I'd leave space in case you wanted Indrani to have a chance to heave a bomb, because explosions make the world go round.))
(no subject)
Date: 2015-08-19 03:30 am (UTC)At the wonderfully convenient flare and the mess is causes for her opponents, she makes a break for a higher ridge. One that's even mostly successful. Bad luck does her in as much as bad choices, the wild fire of a blinded raider ricocheting off the rock and into her shoulder. The loss of momentum minimizes the damage, but it's still too much to count on remaining functional. Certainly without much in the way of drugs on her. With one arm hanging useless, she opts to draw a revolver that looks much too big for the little girl pointing it and fire a few decisive rounds at the slavers before she even thinks to try and stop the bleeding. That's what they get.
(no subject)
Date: 2015-08-20 11:27 am (UTC)Furiosa, in the meantime, tracks the stranger's dodge and sudden halt, registers that there's something small running with her--is that an animal?--and then goes back to fire another bolt.
The flurry of violence continues for several more minutes, in the end, and one of the War Boy cars chases after the handful of fleeing slaver-vehicles, with the lancer within hanging out the window and yelling, clearly enjoying the opportunity to fight far too much. Furiosa is amused. You can change the entire nature of their home base around them, but a War Boy is still a War Boy. At least the battle instinct is being put to better uses now.
She is more interested in salvage, but living people are the first priority. She stops her car well within the stranger's line of sight and gets out. There's a gun at her hip, but her hands are up, one of them clearly a steel prosthesis. "Hey! Cease fire?"
The enemy of her enemy is not necessarily a friend, but unquestionably a person of interest.
(no subject)
Date: 2015-08-21 09:02 pm (UTC)Her voice is a bit shaky as she answers, as sheer force of will can't actually overpower physics, and her energy is running low much too fast. Stupid bullet. Stupid blood everywhere. Stupid Dogmeat, whining and making it harder to concentrate. "I'm not firing if you're not," she says, almost evenly. She is a bit of a mess, whatever impression she tries to get across. There's nothing unusual about ragged, dusty clothes or gear that's seen better days, but the blood, the flyaway rebellion of her hair, and general pattern of distress suggest she's been in this fight a while.
(no subject)
Date: 2015-08-22 03:20 pm (UTC)She advances up to the ridge slowly, pulling off the black scarf around her neck and shaking the dust out of it. Might be needed as a tourniquet; she can see the wet, dark gleam on the stranger's clothes and assumes it's blood. "I'll help you if you'll let me."
And Mothers-bless-her, there is an animal here! A dog, she thinks, though the last time she saw a dog was before she was stolen from the Green Place, so she could be mistaken. "Is that going to bite me if I get close?"
Never mind the revolver still shakily held in place. Furiosa's seen more guns than she has dogs.
Furiosa herself is not exactly the picture of a cool, put-together fighter. She's road-dusty, goggles perched askew on her forehead, still flushed and slightly breathless with adrenaline. She's unhurt, though, and her body language is loose, speaking without words: she's not gearing up for an attack.
(no subject)
Date: 2015-08-23 02:00 am (UTC)Which makes it a bit less impressive when Indrani glances dizzily down at him and shakes her head unsteadily. "He's fine. Dogmeat, relax." He's definitely already more or less relaxed and even wagging his tail a little. Embarrassing animal. She holsters the gun carefully, resting a loose grip on it, and set her other hand between the animal's ears. Leaving no hands for attempting to staunch the blood flow. Oh, well, she gets helped or she's probably dying anyway.
(no subject)
Date: 2015-08-23 03:19 am (UTC)Don't point a gun at anything you don't plan to shoot. Don't shoot anything you don't plan to kill. She's relieved when the revolver gets lowered.
If Indrani feels Dogmeat is letting her down in the ferocity department, at least the fact that Furiosa clearly has no idea how to read the animal's body language should help. She'll have to trust the dog's master, take her at her word. She comes within arm's reach of the pair of them, hands still held within view, and then she sinks to one knee craning her neck to peer at what little of the wound she can see through torn clothing. "Right. That's not going to stop bleeding on its own. I'm going to wrap it up; it'll hurt, but you'll live."
Sometimes, you just have to take a leap of faith. She reaches under the other woman's arm with her scarf, pulls it up, and twists it tight, giving her space to breathe--or yell, if need be--before tying it off.
(no subject)
Date: 2015-08-23 04:14 am (UTC)"Think the bullet made its way out," she says as helpfully as she can. It's not like this would be the time to get the damn thing out, but it might be useful information. "Too bad, though. I liked the jacket." And that's just babbling. She's very used to being able to talk to herself, or Dogmeat, who continues to wait politely, keeping an eye on the interloper but mostly unperturbed now that the immediate violence has calmed down.
(no subject)
Date: 2015-08-24 12:47 am (UTC)"You were fighting that gang. Can you tell me why?" Once the scarf is tied off, Furiosa sits back and pulls a canteen off her belt, offering it to the other woman.
Her gaze strays toward Dogmeat briefly, calm and analytical. The Citadel--now the Green Towers--needs animals. Milk and egg producers more so than companion animals, but she's going to have to ask some questions when the opportunity arises.
(no subject)
Date: 2015-08-24 02:12 am (UTC)She hands it back as she answers. "They caught a couple kids from a little comm about a week that way. I caught up a few days ago and I've been picking them off. They caught on today, but the kids got clear. I should go catch up, make sure they get home..." She doesn't look much like she'll be in any shape to travel for a while. Even with the bleeding stopped, there's something unpleasantly ashy in her complexion, and the bullet did plenty of damage.
(no subject)
Date: 2015-08-25 02:07 am (UTC)Normally, she'd be curious whether that makes this woman a paid mercenary or simply abnormally charitable. With that kind of ground covered in pursuit of her goal, though, she may very well be both.
Furiosa shakes her head and sits back on her heels to think. "You're not in good condition to drive, let alone run after frightened children. That rip in your shoulder is going to need stitching."
She could probably get her own escort to track the children and help them home. Maybe camp somewhere close by here and make sure the wounded woman is stable? "My name is Furiosa," she says. "Of the Green Towers. We'll help you, if you'll let us."
She's not sure whether her name or the name of her settlement will be familiar. Either way, she offers an armclasp as a show of good faith.
(no subject)
Date: 2015-08-25 02:40 am (UTC)...But not without a little negotiating. "Don't have much in the way of trade goods on me, but I'll be a decent mechanic when I have my brains unscrambled again. Better if you focus on getting those girls back home than on me. But nah, not gonna say no to bleeding less." She hopes it's getting hotter, which would explain the haze in a way that doesn't suggest her vision's a bit swimmy.
Oh, yes, introductions. That. She takes the offered arm only a little unsteadily. "Indrani Mukherjee. The Kid from the Vault." She doesn't mind that that won't mean anything all the way out here. Clearly she should know Furiosa and the Green Towers, or she'd like to, anyway. Word only travels so far, and there's no shame in being out of her usual circuit.
(no subject)
Date: 2015-08-27 02:09 am (UTC)"Well met. We can always use a mechanic," she says, understanding the need to bargain. Owing favors to strangers is never a good feeling. "There are some vehicles our friends left behind. Let's patch you up and then you can help us patch those engines up, and we'll go from there."
Meanwhile, they need shelter. Furiosa stands and gives a loud whistle, waving her metal arm to flag down the one vehicle of her entourage that remains behind. It's bigger than hers, essentially a truck with a cover over the back bed, and they camp in it in a pinch.
The Vuvalini driving it is the youngest still living (other than Furiosa), and once it's close as it can be, she slides out easily. The War Boy in the passenger's seat remains where he is, guarding quietly, but he's staring at Indrani with polite curiosity.
"Switch," Furiosa tells the older woman. "You and Spanner can take my car. See if you can gather the children; we can make sure they get home safe. If they won't come to you willingly, at least leave them water. This one needs stitching and shade and probably a nap."
The exchange of vehicles is efficient, over and done in the blink of an eye, but with a few friendly looks and subtle back-pats passing between all three. Not until the smaller car is speeding off does Furiosa turn back to Indrani and offer her left arm. "Let's get you into shelter. I'll help you up. Grab the metal all you need to; won't hurt me."
(no subject)
Date: 2015-08-27 03:39 am (UTC)In that swimmy, nonsensical way that the brain will fasten onto inconsequentials when there's too much going on (or not enough blood moving oxygen around, in this case), she finds herself staring at the arm a little. It's a mechanic's gaze, analytical and admiring, with no hint of pity or disgust. It's a pretty piece of work. She wouldn't be up to it. She nods and lets herself lean a bit on the other woman as she gets her feet back under her, not something she likes doing to friends, let alone strangers. "Right, thanks. Dogmeat, move." Not a very formal command, but it does the trick, and the dog trots along with her, looking as relieved as a canine face will allow. He lost a human before and prefers not to risk it happening again. "Ugh. Not usually stupid enough to get in the way of an idiot's bullet. Had better days."
(no subject)
Date: 2015-08-27 11:22 pm (UTC)Furiosa doesn't really like having her arm stared at. It is what it is, and she's not ashamed by any means, but there's always a worry that an intent look means someone visually testing for weaknesses. In this case, she's inclined to let it slide, though. If she were in this woman's position, she'd be looking for weaknesses, too, if only to reassure herself.
"Dogmeat?" she repeats, helping Indrani slowly up to and into the back of the truck. There's no tailgate, just flexible webbing stretched across the end. There are supplies inside, bound tight so they don't bounce or fly around on a fast drive, but the truck bed is padded with dust and dried chaff from the gardens.
"Heh...I hear you, but any day I live through is a good day, as far as I'm concerned."
(no subject)
Date: 2015-08-28 02:32 am (UTC)At the bed of the truck, she makes an effort to clamber into place on her own. It's not particularly effective, but it's the principle of the thing. It does look cool and inviting in there. Traveling more or less alone like she does it would be stupid to have digs like this, but she can't help envying the relative comfort a bit. She'll have to go find her bike soon, but she's not sure she could even ride it with this arm. When she's a little more rested.
"So about those stitches you offered?" She'd like to just collapse, but she should get the dangerous bits out if it's safely possible and close up the worst of it.
(no subject)
Date: 2015-08-29 03:02 am (UTC)Pelts, yes. Actual animals, no. "I might have some questions for you later, but...yes. Stitches first."
She helps Indrani into the back, as much as seems necessary and no more. She can respect her need for some semblance of dignity. Furiosa climbs up after her, though, and pushes aside the webbing in case the dog insists on joining them. There's plenty of space.
She tugs at the ties holding rolled blankets and a ratty little bag down in the bed, and sets the roll just behind Indrani's back. "Lean if you have to. Breathe deep. Ever get sewn up before?"
She's guessing she probably has. Most Road Warriors seem to tend their own wounds. She wouldn't be entirely surprised if this woman could stitch herself up, but there's no reason she has to, here and now. Furiosa can do it, and doesn't mind. "Have to get the jacket off first..."
(no subject)
Date: 2015-08-29 06:58 am (UTC)Ugh. That was bad. She's even a bit dizzy from that pain and awkwardness of that. Yes, she could probably stitch it up herself, if not well, but it would be nice to have another pair of hands in on it. "Might have to cut off the rest." The shirt she's wearing is patched and torn already anyway. She's not particular about it. "Just... Got anything I can bite while you get it done?"
(no subject)
Date: 2015-08-29 11:44 pm (UTC)She doesn't interfere as Indrani struggles free of her jacket, but she nods in relief at the suggestion they just cut the shirt. "That'll be easier, yes. It won't help if you break your teeth...here." She reaches to undo one of her own belts, unbuckling and then folding it in thirds, then offering it out.
"Camel leather. Sorry if it tastes like road dirt." Her lips quirk in a smile that's meant to be part-sardonic, part-reassuring, and she pulls a pair of scissors out of the med kit, prepared to cut through the tattered shirt fabric before removing the scarf she's bound over the injury.
(no subject)
Date: 2015-08-30 01:57 am (UTC)And while there's pain in having the bloodied, stiff cloth cut away, it's clean and clarifying. The kind of pain that might mean avoiding the swelling and fever that comes of a wound healing dirty. Aside from a soft grunt and brightening eyes, she gives away nothing as the shirt and makeshift bandage come away. She's as thin and scarred as any loner out on the road, the only notable feature a few lines of dark blue ink peeking around her shoulders and sides. She makes a muffled sound of encouraging assent, only a bit strained.
(no subject)
Date: 2015-08-31 01:06 am (UTC)The wound is a mess, predictably, and Furiosa breaks out some clean rags and water to swab it with first. She mostly uses her left arm to brace the younger woman, trusting the dexterity of the flesh-and-blood hand more. "It's not as mangled as I was afraid of," she tells her quietly, switching to iodine. "This part's going to sting. You can grab the metal if you need to."
(no subject)
Date: 2015-08-31 03:12 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2015-09-01 11:54 am (UTC)Her stitching is not especially pretty. It'll probably still scar; someone with two hands and medical expertise could do better. Still, it'll keep out the dirt, and that's what's most important.
She uses a layer of gauze overtop of the wound, then wraps a clean rag over that, tying it firmly. "I have some herbal painkillers, but they're slow. Catch your breath, I'll mix 'em up."
(no subject)
Date: 2015-09-01 02:52 pm (UTC)She does shift a bit, trying to find a way to lean that doesn't set off the shoulder. Too much pain for lounging, too tired to sit up. Can't win. Might as well try and learn a bit about the helpful lady with the fancy arm. "So you know what I was doing. What'd I end up chasing those slavers into? Normal patrol?" She's not even sure whose territory this is, aside from, apparently, Furiosa's, which is good news. The Green Towers is a promising name, but it doesn't mean much to her yet.
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From:((Sorry for the lag; I went on a trip))
From:No worries, I've got classes again so I'm back to busy anyway
From:Ah, Autumn! ;)
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