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Somewhere a very long time ago, a red sun hung heavy in the sky. The air warm, breeze low and rough over the sand; there was the far-off twinkling of chimes, farm animal chatter and old shoes on beaten-down dirt paths. It was blown to nothing - flesh and blood tacked to a wooden cross - an example made of those who tried, and failed, to form some semblance of peace in a place like the wasteland. After that, it was all shouting, and being hit with clubs. Bootsoles to the back and the taste of dirty sand. Pain lasting for agonizing months, until the body was grown leathered and accustomed to abuse. After that, of course, would come the feel of your own bootsole on the next man's back, smothering someone lower, mouth stuffed with dry desert death. Weak men were made examples of; decorations for a cross, or fodder in a fighting ring. Strong men became sly, clever with their words and deceptive in intention. Adaptable, camouflaged, like a...
"Desert Fox!"
Somehow, all of it led to the revving of a fucked up motorcycle. Vulpes looked up when she called, meeting the Courier eye-to-eye. The clanking of her leg brace was fucking obnoxious. Men broken like that would be given the mercy of a beheading; women like her would be given the punishment of a wooden club to the face. Useless.
She revved it again, smile dopey, eyes shining under the desert sun.
"I'm surprised you expect to drive that with your bum leg."
She rolled those very bright eyes, cigarette dangling loosely from her lips. She took a puff - he half expected her to drop the stupid thing - and smoke billowed from the corners of her lips and nose.
Her chest lowered, like she was goading him, preparing to drive right into him.
"For real? You know my right leg is the driving one. That was just mean."
That earned a huff of laughter from him, which he could practically see her internally celebrating.
The femininity from her was off-putting, at first. She'd taken to wear a pair of blue jeans with a long, thin t-shirt pulled over. Her utility boots still there, stupid goggles still perched on her head. He supposed he probably looked strange, too; legion regalia forgone in favor of more inconspicuous clothes, dirty jeans and a brown jacket over a sweatshirt with a faded, unintelligible logo.
She looked less rough. She looked girly. Fighting alongside her like this, it was harder to suspend his disbelief that a woman could be worth such a fight. In her old oversized jacket and cropped hair, she was more ambiguous. Vulpes was not stupid; he knew women could be useful spies, and that they could fight dirty and hard. It was just difficult that he was... equal to one. That she was his equal, even looking like that.
Her cheek was pressed against the motorcycle handle, gaze sideways while she still sat perched and ready to go, "Earth to Legion deserter..."
"Shut it, woman," Vulpes grit out, coming up to her. She perked up, smiling, looking up at him but refusing to budge.
"Well...?"
"I'm not getting behind you," He said, annoyed. She was clearly fucking with him.
"Aw, don't wanna sit in the bitch seat?"
"The bitch seat?"
"Yeah," she confirmed, deadpan. "Where my bitch sits. Hop on."
It took only the briefest tense of his muscle - his arms, desperately refraining from wrapping his hands around her throat - for her to bust out laughing, hand coming up to retrieve her beloved cigarette.
"If you can drive, I'll most certainly let you," she said, once her stroke-inducing giggles subsided, "But I doubted you could. I've spent far, far too much time with my franken-bike to watch us crash and burn on her."
"Fine," Vulpes snapped, "Though I am not your bitch."
She waited until he'd climbed on to respond, large hands coming to rest on her waist. It was strange to feel her through such little clothing. She shot him a glance over her shoulder, before pulling her idiotic goggles on.
"Understood, Mr. Fox."