It was darn hot out here, nothing new, but still, it was hard getting used to. In the city in the shadow of the ruins of buildings the air had a little coolness to it. But here, there was nothing, but her little shag, a rather shaky build made from planks and pieces of metal she found in old homes, dead cars and other places people 100 years ago would not have gone even if they were forced. Nowadays it was normal, every-day life, sunshine sundays.<br/><br/>The hot sand flirred in the distance as she let her brown eyes wander, the fingers of her slim hand, loosely on the grip of the SG 550 rifle she stole from her last victim. It was not that she was looking (much) but trouble came her way, it always did. Blowing a strand of the brown hair out of her face she raised to her feet. Heavy looking boots digging into the sandy ground. The croaky sound of her leather jacket mixed with the soft jingle of the rifle when she strapped it on her back. Time for her round, she thought to herself, digging her feet into the sand as she walked forward, always better to have some grip.<br/><br/>A smirk crossed her face, as she looked down, the short skirt, a mix of leathertop and black cotton had been a nice donation from the last family inviting her into their home. She let them live, there was no reason to kill anyone, helping her. The long hair was held up with a mix of combined fabrigs, knotted so it was one long band and wrapped around the hair a few times. It looked messy, but kept the hair out of her eyes, apart from a few disobedient strangs.<br/><br/>The desert was quiet, it usually was. But travellers and merchants made their way through the wasteland all the time, especially since she camped between two towns, and she was curious. Staying behind the dune she squinted her eyes, spotting a little group, a woman among them, guys and.. a falcon? Shaking her head about the animal she grabbed the strap of the rifle and soved the tip into the ground leaning on the grip to bend forward, watching them. But something seemed familiar, or rather someone.<br/><br/>She silently laughed as she recognized him. Oh that arrogant sod, walking his head up high as if nobody could do him any harm. If he only knew that she was around, it wasn't the first time they met and both of them were still alive. That gave enough away, didn't it? Quietly she approached, taking care that they would not see her before shouldering the rifle and aiming. Not at him, that would be boring, the games they played were much more fun than to actually kill him. Last time they wandered together for weeks, but that did not mean that they did not try to have some fun during that time, how often did she wake up with the muzzle in her face or a blade at her throat, but for him it had been the same. And the verbal slugfests.. who would want to miss that just because the dead body brought some money.<br/><br/>Just a second later the bullet slammed down in a piece of junk, right behind that group, the sound echoing across the wasteland. She waited just a second and stood up right on the dune, the wind catching her messy hairdo and her skirt, the rifle shouldered, held with one relaxed hand.<br/><br/>Al waited again until the group turned to her and a smirk crossed her lips again and her amused but husky voice echoed along to the group. "If that isn't Marcus? Who would have thought that those carrion revelers would let you life that long that we meet again!"