Flicking a bit of sweat- hers, she hoped, not one of the green punks'- off the upper curve of one soft breast, Arlen did as she was asked, even turning once in place as she smirked. She sized up the redhead more fully as she did; a little too Conan for her taste, and the scars were certainly not ink (hey, she knew some folks with some real creepy tats, OK?). But the ginger was a scrapper, which she liked and....redheads always got her wet.  The long pointy stick was maybe a bit much, but she was sure glad the wench had had it with her.<br/><br/>Of course, more than anything else, the weapon  raised the question of 'why'. Many 'whys'. Why green guys, why near-naked, beat up gangbanger redheads in chainmail bikinis with pointy sticks, why wasn't she in jail for indecent exposure or weapons charges or something...<em>why me?</em>As impossible as it was...maybe she really<strong>wasn't</strong>in Kansas any more...<br/><br/>"The prancing part is sorta my job. The naked part wasn't by choice. Though you shouldn't talk, you know. Call that armor?  I call it 'paint targets on my boobs and see who goes for the bait.' Uh...anyway. Thanks.  You got any idea where I could remedy the 'not a string' part of things?  Or, for that matter, even where I am?"