A deep rumble alerted her that the caravan was on its way, but she knew she had time before they could see her. The ears she was cursed with were good for that much. She broke into a light jog toward the place she'd scouted instinctively upon arriving in the area, the place where she could hide from them, but near enough they would likely drive past. Heart pounding, she huddled down to the ground, pale cloak to camouflage her; Vanessa estimated the number of vehicles at ten or more. That was more than usual, and far more than she wanted.

Should she skip this one? Hide and give this one up? The risk was great that something would go wrong, what with so many vehicles and therefore so many people in this group. "This is crazy," she muttered as she wrapped her collapsed tent around her book of 'spells' and buried the bundle in a shallow hole.

The absence of a heavy load upon her shoulders reminded her of why it didn't matter how crazy it was. Dying of thirst would be perhaps more painful than a death at the hands of these people might be. No, she thought, as she tightened the cords on the back of her dress and knotted them tightly, no, she didn't want to die. If she died, she would die fighting, and she would take at least half of this caravan to the reaper with her if it came to that.

Finally, it was too late for her to change her mind, as the heat-blurred trucks approached. Rocks and sand crunched beneath their heavily treaded wheels, their engines roaring with energy. There were twelve in all. The first, third, seventh, and eighth were clearly for security – burly men with guns leered out of the opened windows, craning thick necks for danger. Trailing a ways behind, eleven and Twelve were trucks with toma trailers attached, and the remaining seven were bus-trucks laden down with luggage, surely full of travelers and migrating families.

It would behoove her to rob one of those bus-trucks, but she wasn't that desperate. Twelve, that'd hopefully be her lucky number. The last car, with the toma trailer, would have to do. It'd surely have basic provisions for the drivers and the toma, and water at least. Vanessa took a few deep breaths to try to calm herself – she didn't have much energy left to expend. She hadn't eaten in over a week, and it'd been several days since she had water.

The trucks were half past and the dust kicked up by the wheels thickened the air. The sour smell of the toma hit her nostrils, alerting her that it was about time for her to get to work. Ten passed, and eleven passed a full ten car lengths later. The tomas' heads bobbed so you could see them in the open slats of the trailer sides. They'd been in there long enough on that hot day that the thing reeked something awful. Twelve was another ten car lengths behind eleven.

As twelve's cab pulled almost beside her, she stood abruptly, let her cloak fall to the ground, and called out, "help!" just loud enough that eleven wouldn't hear.

The driver hit the brakes, and as the man in the bed of the truck and the two men crammed alongside him in the cab joined his gaze, he licked his lips.

Her blood red dress was open up to the thigh on one leg, and cut so low and tight around the breasts the men thought they might spill out. Mouth open slightly, pale eyes squinted, shoulders bare with wide sleeves hanging at her sides, the woman stepped forward slowly, possibly limping. "Please help..."

One man pulled his bandanna from his face and hopped out of the truck bed. He grinned and walked to her, chuckling excitedly.

She stopped. Chest heaving, breasts swelling with the motion, she lifted her broad sleeve to block the sun from her eyes.

The man outside the car stood suddenly still. Another man opened the passenger door and stepped around the front. The man left in the cab with the driver slumped down, limp. The driver didn't see that, but when the man walking round the front of the car to the woman stopped walking and clutched his chest, crying out pitifully and then falling to the ground, the driver drew his shotgun from the floor. When the man from the truck bed crumpled to the ground with a hoarse wheeze, the driver brought the shotgun up to the window and leaned down to aim. The world spun out from under him, and he squeezed the trigger, blasting a hole through his door before falling onto his wheel.

Vanessa lowered her gaze from the intricate embroidered diagrams on her sleeve and let go a coughing fit. This caused the bruising over her right side to sting. Swallowing, she stepped cautiously toward the truck cab, bruises and a few cuts alerting her as her thighs rubbed against one another. She reached in past the men in the cab, ignoring the pile of weaponry on the floor and behind the seat. She grabbed three full canteens, taking a moment to finish one of them between coughs.

"Much better than last time," she reflected. Not her best either – living off the stolen goods of strangers was a wonderful solution for her, as it went off perfectly most of the time.

For the hundredth time she wondered how she'd messed up so badly last time, that she ended up with her dress torn, raped by both of the men while the woman watched scowling, all her supplies stolen away before the group drove off leaving her in their dust cloud, facedown in dirt.

This time - two heart attacks, a stroke, and a temporary coma. She ordinarily was not so harsh, but this was a desperate situation. Usually she'd put everyone into a heavy sleep, or a temporary coma, but that took longer than deadlier ailments. Mr. Coma would probably wake up just fine in a half a day, and be able to drive the other three to help. They may not die. She didn't check, though.

Taking a large backpack, she stuffed an emergency kit and meager rations into the bottom, and filled the rest with toma feed – gross, but it'd keep her alive. Pulling herself into the truck bed, she refilled the empty canteen from a barrel of dirty toma water. Vanessa stepped around the toma cart, rubbing her tired eyes as the tomas' heads bobbed inside. She wasn't eager to ride someone else's toma through the desert, with how sore she was to sit, but it'd be easier than going about on her twisted ankle.

Easing open the latch on the back door, she let it open on its own. It didn't really occur to her that these toma were amazingly quiet and clean-smelling as the slim door fell open, because she was stepping into the trailer, busy scanning the horizon over her shoulder. Her hands were at the handles of the doorway, pulling her into the darkness to chose a mount.

Wires tightened on her wrists and she instinctively pulled against them, stumbling onto one knee on the slick, clean floor of the trailer.

"Freeze."

Eyes adjusting from the noon of two suns to the dark of a toma trailer, she stared down the barrel of a large revolver. It was held at arm's length by a man seated in a plush pile of blankets and pillows below preserved toma heads hanging from the ceiling on wires. His other arm held tight the ends of the wires rigged to the handles. Sitting up on his cushions, the man wore finely tailored suit pants and a crisp white dress shirt unbuttoned a ways down his chest from the heat. Hair mussed but purposely so, his gorgeous dark eyes and chiseled jaw smiled beautifully at her. He was, perhaps, the most attractive man she had ever seen.

"Who sent you?" he asked calmly. His voice was gentle and as lovely as his face.

"No one," she offered, meeting his gaze since there was no lie to hide.

He didn't challenge that. "Are they dead," he asked as less of a question than as confirmation.

His face, his voice; he was simply enchanting. "Not entirely. One's just asleep," she went on. Falling onto her knees and against her suspended arms, she launched into another coughing fit.

His grip on the wires didn't loosen at all – he actually took the chance to tighten them, dropping his revolver onto his lap to hold tight the wire with both hands. "You took out four of my best men without moving. How did you do it?" he asked.

Bringing her knees beneath her to keep the weight off her wrists, now bleeding, Vanessa stared down at some embroidery along her unexposed thigh. "I have talents."

The man felt his fingers, toes go numb; his limbs, suddenly he couldn't feel or move them. Shifting back onto his pillows, his confident smile never wavered. "Make me sleep. That's fine. You'll come to May and work for me. Every comfort-" He breathed in sharply, as it was becoming difficult to speak.

Yanking the wire from his hands, she snatched up his revolver and watched him go under the rest of the way.

"Need someone...like you. I'm head...of Blue Lion gang. Gavin," he whispered. A moment passed. He was unconscious, and alive.

Vanessa knelt still for a moment, staring at the sleeping angel of a man. Standing, she paused. She leaned over him and slowly reached her hand out to his face. A heavy drop of blood fell from her wrist onto the white shirt. Holding her hand to his cheek for a moment, she slid her fingers away, letting them brush against his soft lips, before stepping out of the trailer. She donned her new backpack and went for her cloak and book before disappearing into the desert again.