Mentally, Tuskaloosa kicked herself. With a turf war underway every gang in the Barrens was likely to be on the watch...and as a stranger she stood out even more so.
Quietly she returned the Guardian to the slide and re-buttoned her coat.
As grateful as she was to see the situation resolve itself peacefully, Hrock's timely intervention—and this Angel fellow's jab at her armament—left a bitter aftertaste: she was used to being the Cavalry, not the other way around. She knew she was a wounded bear and would continue to be harassed by wolves—and razorbacks—until she healed.
It's not like I want to be hamstrung.
She pulled her helmet off to be polite, but now it was her turn to snort disdainfully.
Downtown indeed. “Thou art mistaken—the only 'Mi'lady' I know is my Mother.”
“Seriously though” She continued as waved them to lead on. “If I'd known I needed a passport, I'd have stopped at the check point.”
* * *
Although it was not cold enough to accumulate—yet--the snow was coming down briskly by the time her 'escort' deposited her at the head of a side street: “Just down the block. Can't miss it.”
Tuskaloosa hadn't been in the Redmond Barrens long, but she could still recognize a nice place when she saw it.
For starters, the street was clear of junked car corpses. A side street in the Barrens was a prime spot to ditch a vehicle, knowing vultures would strip it clean of lingering evidence as well as parts. The longer a neighborhood ignored them, the more 'presents' they could expect.
As a matter of fact, she saw no cars as she approached the unimpressive building.
A small lot tucked away somewhere, she mused.
Behind the building perhaps? That it wasn't easily visible spoke volumes about this 'Arc': Nothing to see—move along.
And she'd bet her tusks that 'Arc' had plenty of incentives to discourage loitering.
Still...it was a run-down light industrial building in a side street full of run-down light industrial and residential buildings: one more mushroom in a fungus bloom. Tuskaloosa re-checked her AR display to be sure. She wasn't off; this was apparently the “place”.
As she approached, more of the building came into view. A smaller building—office space she guessed--extended off the back corner of the larger garage itself. The closest door to the office area was a troll-friendly one, attached to the garage side of the triangle the two buildings made. Hanging on a pole beside the door was an open-ended wrench as long as her forearm; twin links welded to it for hanging.
A white-haired woman was leaning against the garage wall, smoking a cigar.
Based on her clothing, Tuskaloosa figured this was only temporary—she had stepped out to smoke and would return inside when she finished.
The smoker was slim; she was slouching as well.
Not a problem to Tuskaloosa; she'd met plenty of wiry little mechanics in her time. As she approached, she noted the pointed ear—elf or elf-friend.
Then she met the woman's gaze. An itch sprang up between her shoulder blades.
Tuskaloosa was tall; lots of people had to look up at her—whether they wanted to or not. In her time however, she'd come across people that made her feel that she was the one being looked down upon.
This woman was one of those people. It was not a haughty, chin-lifted look, but a calculating measurement that she felt in those violet eyes.
Sugartank. Hrock, what did I do to get on your bad side? “...Arc?”
