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[indent][color=c3c1bf][i]C[/i]assandra Pacheco knows a pretty mouth piece when she sees one, and Elijah Shuppert is a pretty one tuned with sarcasm and tweaked with a lop-sided simper that draws a smirk from her; cheek to cheek, punctuated with teeth. She's already got her papers folded twice within her grasp, credentials secured by her persistence the moment these rumours of a convoy making way yonder the walls came about, not to mention, the expenditure that entirely back-boned the scavenging of resources; an assurance she openly advocated for. After all, [i]she[/i], wasn't going to last much longer and the insurance supplied to her senior status and health could only be exploited for survival for so long, to Jacob's utterance whenever the prospect of the elderly came about. Such was a universal certitude to where expenses could be afforded; foster the youth, or preserve the old.

She doesn't like to think too much on it, so she doesn't.

Instead Cassandra flicks her papers clasped between forefinger and middle gesture and assures its authenticity with little ceremony, her well worn inclination of felidae temperament doesn't allow for much else in impressions. 

	[color=a69b89]"Might as well go for the window seat, don't 'cha think?"[/color] She quips, unwarranted caustic and trenchant jeers falling from the bite of her smile as she clamours aboard her new cage.

[hr][hr]

With keratin betwixt teeth and lip, Cassandra promptly glares upon the laces of her boots, contemplating their knots done thrice. She recalls a fellow Scav having tripped upon poorly done laces, landing face first within a particularly carnivorous plant that dug down deep with their roots, and awaited prey within a trap door of vines, teeth laced like barbed wires that wept acidic goo that congealed upon flesh. The memory alone bids shudders down the individual notches in her spine, taught and tense until the bed of her clasped digit meets the bone of her rigid bite, having effectively bitten down to the skin. Scouting and scavenging come secondary in nature to her prowess, she has experiences with such activities and a life before has seen her swift and efficient; muling and distribution and dabbling within a considered sin - who knew such variations would apply here.

A sudden vine falling onto the cage in a slap draws her musings from the loops of her footwear and back skyward, or, rather, to the thickets teeming above with fauna she's only glimpsed every so often, but never enough to actually know what half of them could be. Every tremor of emerald green foliage and every shudder of the branches containing them sends her alive in equally effective quivers, it's not the monstrosities that make her nervous, no, it's the literal green house that these territories have become. Creatures could be tamed and put down with enough bullets bumped into their bellies, but these spear impaled vines and festering flowers could only be pushed back so far. It seemed where one thicket of plants fell, others crept into place, lacing across their path and teeming about the wheels of their transport with every inch they made deeper into the zones beyond Refuge walls. 

Cassandra linked her fingers through the lattice wires of her cage, peering through the provided gaps and tugged her black mask from hanging around her nape and shielded it over her nasal. With this much teeming wildlife about, angered and vengeful at their intrusion, there was no telling what pores were being released in their fury. She knows well enough, most flowers possess thorns, if not something of the more bloody thirsty and impaling variety.

	[color=a69b89]"Creepy shit,"[/color] she mutters, palming the blade at her hip, fingers dancing among the saw back peaks and steel. The imagery of her brother falls into place and beneath the cloth of her mask, she sneers and allows her gaze to fall onto those within the same volunteering conditions as she. Every Scav knows a Scav, but the others, she barely knows them by countenance or voice, their names bleeding outward into a monochromatic discrepancy that adheres to her lack of knowledge and care. Some chatter among themselves, or does that [i]one[/i] count as just one, and others become transfixed to the same view as any other. 

When they stop, Cassandra lingers within her cage, eyes on the clearing crew as they hack and impale, pushing back the barriers teeming before them. Best avoid that shit, she thinks, hopping down from the transports and immediately finds the jutting hilt of her Rail Bat, finding comfort among the leather bearings, the slugger a balm to her quaking nerves. She's itching for a cigarette, the nicotine craving creating a constant tick with her facial structure, jaw hardened, her teeth slicing into her pout as she observes though with sheer envy at having such luxuries to their own. The one she lost was her last one.

	[color=a69b89]"Balls,"[/color] Cassandra breathes, finding most drawing towards their pretty-mouthed provider, food she presumes for their brief break until they continue onward, once last glance towards the flora before them and Cassandra looms closer, eager to either move onward or to just bask into the cloud of smoke he breathes. 

[i]It's going to be a long day.[/i][/color][/indent]