The high walls of the hanger-style warehouse reverbated with the sound of empty oil cans being piled up one upon another.  Q-Ball, a lean, gangly man with grease-stained skin and clothes, hoisted the last one from the latest trade up onto his pile.  The large metal containers always fetched a decent price with the Patricks, but he'd have to wait until tomorrow before heading down there to broker a deal.  Slimy bastards that they were...at least when he dealt with his fellow city-scum he could feel like he was the bigger fish.  The problem with the forts was that they have more bargaining leverage and...<em>fuck what is that irritating sound?</em><br/><br/>As the metallic clanging of his work ceased, he became aware of a ringing somewhere out on the main street.  It wasn't entirely regular, but it did sound like it was moving.  Coming closer to be precise.  Screwing up his face (a face which many would struggle to differentiate between it's screwed-up state and it's regular state) he sauntered away from the building a little way and nearer to the road.  He froze as he saw the lone figure walking right down the middle of the street...it was one of the most bizarre and harrowing things he'd seen in a while.  With it's arms braced up high it looked almost like a walking scarcecrow, and he sniggered to himself.  His first thought that it was a loner breakaway from one of the several flagulant doomsayer cults.  They certainly turned out some weird individuals.<br/><br/>But as the figure got closer, he realised something didn't add up about that conclusion.  For one thing, the stranger was distinctly female...and young...and in good shape too.  Good shape figure-wise that was.  She was severely beaten, injured and debilitated, and struggling to move along with her restrictive yoke, a bare and apparently wounded foot, and the rough sack over her head.<br/><br/>It took a while for his unspectacular mental abilities to slot the pieces into place, but eventually he recalled a critical piece of information he'd heard only the day before.  Kriss...the "grey bitch"...someone had said the Patricks had got her.  Q-Ball hadn't believed it at first; it would be just like the Patricks to put out a story like that to big themselves up.  But judging by what he was seeing now, it was starting to look like the tales were true.  The Patricks<em>had</em>caught her...and boy had they done a number on her.  Every single movement she made looked agonised.  It was a wonder she was still walking.<br/><br/>The grey bitch.  Boy had she caused him problems in the past.  His particular line of business operated on the larger, more infrequent kind of trades, since he didn't let the oil drums go for cheap.  But when mercs like Kriss were making it harder for people in the wastes to get the basics, purse-strings became even more tightly pulled.  That wasn't good for Q-Ball.<br/><br/>Spitting onto the ground he paced haughtily towards her.  "Nice piece of wood you got there darl'n'."  he called out, increasing his pace until he was almost upon her.  Shit, she scarcely looked like she was able to break into a run.  "Looks kinda heavy though.  Why don't you let me help you take a load of for a while."<br/><br/>He lunged for her and clasped one hand on the back of the wooden yoke, and the other hand grabbed a bunch of the back of the bag covering her head.  He yanked her roughly to the side, and placed a hard kick to the side of her knee of the still-booted leg.  This ensured the least amount of resistance when he began to drag her back towards the warehouse.  For once, he was gonna have a little fun after a hard day's work.<br/><br/>"I think I got just the think for you to relax on a while." he drawled, "Hoooooo boy it's been a while since I had a fine HOPA like you to share mah troubles with."