[color=gray][h3][sup][sup]Heat, and the sun beating against her brow.

She doesn’t feel the ache of the bones, no leather in the skin, no tremor in the hands, and she [i]sees[/i]. She does not question why she [i]sees[/i], and there it is all the same. An old, sick pack to the oasis, manged and broken and led by a lioness. Who are they? The answer does not come immediately to her mind. She knows that the water is good, though, calming, peaceful.

The perspective shifts; a male wanders off into the grasses, and a whoop of laughter comes up against her. Blood, red, [i]hot[/i], and the smell of flesh into the air. Her eyes follow to the ground, to shadows shifting here and there without any meaning, red lines in the sand tracing rivers down, down into the oasis waters. Lines spread out into the water, spiderwebs of veins before muddling into into a red mist. It stays.

Laughter grows. It sounds like they’re inside her ears, they’re so [i]loud[/i]. Red eyes watch from the grasses, between the shadows cast in the tall yellow, as she hears the whines of the pack, fearful, clamoring together. Then the pair emerge, mottled tortoiseshell-brown and tarnished-gold, snouts still red, eyes still hungry. They circle about, and the pack treads back, and back, and back…

Then the sights stop pounding against her skull, and Martha woke up. 

Her head hurt, all the way in the back of it, and she could feel hot breath against her face. Someone close by. The smell of cheap cigarettes and an old surplus jacket that still smelled a tint of mothballs. Arnold? The shuffle of feet was nearby, too. She must have fallen…yes, yes, must have fallen…and that did somewhat explain why her head hurt, why her arms ached more than normal, why her legs felt as though she’d been running. When was the last time the old woman could remember running? She felt tired.

A pause, the smell and shuffling fabric of the jacket moving away.

“She’s awake!”

“Are you a-a-alright, Martha?”

“Hell was that?”

Was there a point in that long breath out? That exhale that meant absolutely nothing because Martha hadn’t breathed for a decade? She wasn’t certain, if any time had ever been given to the activity of thinking about all the different things one that didn’t ultimately matter. If for her own sake or for the sake of those who watched, whichever which, Martha gave out a long exhale. She was alright. She knew what it had meant. She was alright and the universe had just knocked in against her skull, like it did every now and again. Taking a moment, Martha creaked out her own words. “I’m alright, I’m alright. Just a fit. Where’s my cane?”

A pause, another shuffle of feet. Coldness touched against the palm of her hand, one that she grasped onto tight and sure. There was the cane. “Here ya go. Jay, grab her other…yeah, yeah, you won’t break her, man. O-Kay, Martha, you ready? Up on three?”

Hands grabbed either of her arms, up from the elbow, fingers bony, palms clammy. “Up on three.”

“A-one, A-two, A-[i]three[/i].”

A perspective shift. Up from the horizon to the vertical, along with the inhale and holding of one throat on either side of her. Feet scrambled for a moment before they found the ground, the old woman leaning down on her cane. She could feel eyes still against her, the others still waiting and watching to make sure that ol Martha wouldn’t keel over the moment they turned away. There were other signs of that too, though, like hands fidgeting in pockets to scratch against the fabric, or the playing with of buttons, or the pursed-lips whistle exhales of Clyde. He spoke, too, lower while the wind played between the missing teeth.

“You’re facing the main tent. Do you need a doctor or…or…?”

“I’ll be fine, just need to make myself some tea and…go pet some cats or something. Calm my nerves. You all get to sleep.”

Another pause. Feet didn’t move. Another exhale as Martha shook her head. They wanted to see if she actually would make it to the tent…and yet, there was some other idea in mind, along with the tea. She needed to sit down first. Cane tapped against concrete as she hobbled over, still feeling the eyes against her, step after step after step…then cloth caught on the tip of the cane. There was the door. Her free hand reached out for a moment, finding the flap of cloth. Step up high…joints groaned with the effort of moving feet up higher than she was used to…and there she was.

A few steps to the right…there was the chair. It was cheap, the kind of white plastic one might expect to be left outside for years for a patio, and felt flimsy even under her little weight as Martha settled down. She could even feel the legs splay out a little bit, setting the cane to lean against one armrest.

The pack. The pack was hers. When she thought of the male, she felt sad…he had been one of the camp, but had been killed and [i]eaten[/i] by predators…by other, new kindred. They were still hungry, they would still hunt, and none of hers were necessarily safe as long as they roved free. There would be more deaths, more murders, and even if Martha didn’t want some form of justice…whatever authority would exist looked down on such familiarity, such sentimentality…in a sense, it was best that the pair were caught before they did something immensely stupid. That they were hunting and killing so freely, so often from the last to the next, that meant they had no self control. That meant someone would have to get talked to in order to find them.

Who would be best? The answer was fairly simple in her eyes. There weren’t too many enforcers of law, not as far as the kindred in Las Vegas. Of course, that assumed that the killing [i]had[/i] been done by a vampire, but if it wasn’t…then it indicated some other killing force. Something else that could do with investigation and, if it was something simpler, something smaller, then maybe it was something that could serve as payment in flesh for those enforcers. A pair were already in mind; Beauclerc, García. They’d been by the camp, too, which gave some good enough benefits.

Of course, neither of them were especially [i]ideal[/i]. Martha knew that. Beauclerc wasn’t a kind man, nor an amazingly compassionate man, but he was a man of business and on that at least the two found a degree of trust. García always seemed like she came from the trades of death, but…had always been respectful, to one degree or another. They’d come by before, asking questions about this person or that person, tracking down the various members of the city’s less glamorous citizens. They’d never stayed especially long. She almost wished they did. Almost.

A hand reached out to the nearby table, a bell that was…well, Martha had been told it was never-shined silver, a tinny little sound that probably meant it wasn’t even silver. Dinner bell for the little ones, that’s what it was, for the cats and fluffy friends and all the rest. They wouldn’t be happy about the idea of coming forth to get food, [i]at an unscheduled time no less[/i], and not receiving it, but that would be a placation for when they arrived, not a worry beforehand. Besides, Martha needed them and she needed them yesterday. She rang it.

“Mau, mau, mau, mau, mau, mau…” came one, constant in the volume as he came closer. It wasn’t especially loud, though, close-in to the ground as he padded through the camp before arriving at the little door. The whish of thin, clear plastic as he jumped through. The meowing continued even as he drew about the chair’s legs, weaving back and forth to pass between outstretched fingers. She could feel his fur like bristles on a brush.

Another, an irregular little purr that sounded like a lawnmower. She weaved here and there on the route before following him in, then stopping where the bowls normally would be filled. The lawnmower revved, quiet, then revved again. Another, and another, and another. She waited patiently for each to file in, swallowing at the prospect that they would find who she needed. It was a shot, sure, but not a particularly good one. At least, there wasn’t anything that was shifting the scales to Martha’s favor. She waited still. It was, at the very least, better than nothing…especially when nothing entailed another loss with no great progress. No, she needed someone to fix the problem and that pair would likely do just fine.

A breath in, tapping into that power in the blood, before she spoke to them. “[i]Two have come here before, a man and a woman smelling of death. Beauclerc. García. I need them here again. Find them, and lead them back. The winner will be given twice the normal amount. Go. Go, find them, and bring them back.[/i]”

Feet padded out of the room, leaving Martha alone to her thoughts.[/sup][/sup][/h3][/color]