Things are quiet. Things are too quiet out in the deserted wastes of the Lone Star region, but she's fine with that. She's happy with it, even though she'll never smile to show it. It's just the way that she likes things to be. To someone like her, being alone is preferable to being around people. If she could spend the rest of her life without seeing another person, she would.
The bounty hunter smirked dryly to herself, then crouched down close to the ground to examine her quarry's tracks. She
could
spend the rest of her life like that, but it wouldn't be much of a life -- not for its piss poor quality, but for the impossibility of surviving in the so-called Land of the Free without relying on others in one way or another. As much as she hated it, she lived in a society and had to be a part of that society. She had to be a part of that society, even if their culture was anarchy and chaos, with any real civilization or democracy quickly overtaken by the true, cruel and avarice-fueled nature of human beings.
She was a hunter, after all, of men and women. And a few things between the two, so long as they were bipedal (or occasionally tripedal; she didn't discriminate against mutants). If the bounty hunter
knew
how to run a farm or a ranch, she would have been happy to take her riches and purchase one. But even then, she would need other people. Tools would have to be made and repaired. One set of hands wouldn't be enough to plant and harvest crops or herd animals while defending it against raiders. Vehicles needed their fuel, and what was she going to do, drill her own black gold? Press her own bullets? She didn't know how to make gunpowder. Fuck, the best she could do was sharpen and polish her own knives.
No, being a hunter was just what made sense to her. It was all she had ever known, and it just made
sense
with her abilities. The dark-haired woman sucked on her cheek, then pushed against her thick thighs to lever herself to her considerable height. In the dead of night, the wastes could get as cold as mythical ice, cold enough to freeze a poor fucker and kill them if they didn't have a fire to huddle around or another body to cling to. No one in their right mind would be outside without adequate covering -- hell, without one of those treasured vehicles whose heated seating still worked.
"Hn." The bounty hunter followed her quarry's tracks. If anyone was around to see her, her appearance would have boggled them.
Adequate covering
? She might as well have been naked, her thick ass squeezed into a pair of daisy dukes so tight that they most likely restricted her blood flow. They were so damn tight that she couldn't even zip them up all the way, leaving a constant glimpse of the neatly trimmed black hairs that thatched her pussy. And she didn't exactly go out of her way to cover the rest of her long, long legs.
Her spurred cowboy boots went up just past her knees, superfluous belts serving as improvised bandoliers for the baker's dozen knives she kept at her ankles. The bounty hunter's mentor taught her a great deal, and she owed him everything, but his most valuable lesson by far was that you could never have enough knives. Most of hers belonged to him, not that he left them to her. She took them off his body after she killed him. Wasn't like he would need them.
If the bounty hunter could get away without wearing a top, she would. Not that anyone really complained about her buxom, unfairly perky tits being out in plain view; the open tricow-skin vest she wore gave constant glimpses of them and her prouder than proud nipples as she moved around, its hem only reaching down to the flare of her hips. It didn't do shit to hide her pale, toned belly. She was pale all over, as though the sun didn't dare glare down on her body and darken her skin, though the truth was it wasn't for a lack of trying. The vest wasn't there to give her any semblance of modesty. It had hidden pockets for a few more knives.
She really didn't think she could have enough. One of the bounty hunter's first purchases was a repeater, and the first piece of custom work she got done on it wasn't on the gun itself. Its strap criss-crossed her body, running between her tits. Was it
practical
to turn her repeater's strap into a bandolier for another thirteen knives? Fuck no, but she wasn't like normal people. She didn't notice the weight, and the tiny cuts and scratches the blades gave her usually healed within minutes.
"You're a busy bitch, Savvy Sharpes," she mused to herself, toeing at a corpse with a telltale hole in its head before stepping over it. "Ain't nothing but bodies with you." Without looking at the others, she knew they would all tell a similar tale. They would be a waste of time, and bandits seldom had anything worth taking off their bodies. Nothing of real quality, anyway, and the bounty hunter did well enough for herself that she didn't bother with anything less than the best. She continued up to the battered truck, glancing over it briefly. Something big and angry had smashed into it with enough force to dent it, and then went on to cut itself while breaking open the windshield.
Brushcock? Brushcock. For a moment, the hunter ignored it, crouching down and glancing under the vehicle. Her smirk returned at what she saw, caught on a rock and likely blown there by the wind. She eased down a bit further, then reached her arm under to grab the familiar hat, giving it a brisk little shake to beat the dust off it before examining it. It wasn't just cold in the wastes, but it was pitch dark too. The bounty hunter could see as if it were a sunny afternoon.
Savvy Sharpes wasn't just another bounty for her. It was business, sure, but business that aligned with her personal interests. With pleasure. The hunter lifted the hat and pointed a finger gun at the hole of the bullet that knocked it off her head; she could picture nothing else that would make the so-called Lone Ranger of the Lone Star Region abandon her precious hat. "Pchew," she hummed out as she 'fired' that bullet, imagining the shot. She could see Savvy's reaction vividly in her head.
"MotherFUCKER!"
The hunter let herself have the pleasure of a smile after all. She turned the hat around and put it on her head, then eased up slightly to look into the truck. For as long as Savvy had been wandering the Lone Star region, that hat had been her only constant. She had a habit of losing her clothes almost as quickly as she got them, and not always of her own volition. Pretty often of it, though. The hunter sniffed sharply at the torn pants and panties inside the truck, picking up on the familiar scent. She hazarded a guess that Savvy didn't lose a Texas Fold-'Em to the brushcock, and probably didn't decide to fuck it.
Her blue eyes meandered to the stains on the seat. Shifting, she crawled in and leaned down, sniffing at them before ducking her head down and licking at it. The hunter furrowed her brows, then licked again. "You fuckin' horny bitch," she whispered to herself. She would never forget the taste of Savvy's milk. This was distinctly cut with cum, some of the nicest cum the hunter had ever tasted. She licked again and narrowed her eyes, shifting to sit upright afterwards. Normally, the hunter could tell what someone had eaten for the last few days from their cum, but those distinct notes faded with the passage of time. What she did taste... "Hn."
Whomever shot that load had a bad diet. They missed meals. Water and cactus jerky? Seasoned cactus jerky. She narrowed her eyes, folding her arms under her tits as she considered. Shaved soap? No, that was cilantro. No one in the Lone Star region grew cilantro anymore -- and they weren't far from the border. She closed her eyes, going over what she had learned so far. A group of bandits circled up around someone, and Savvy jumped them. If they weren't psychos or mutants, they wouldn't stand a chance against her.
Popping her eyes open, the hunter glanced out of the truck and down at the ground. Whomever Savvy saved hid under the truck during the fight. She coaxed or dragged them out, then -- she started sucking their cock out there, didn't she? Then things continued up in the cab of the truck, until the brushcock arrived. It was probably chasing whomever Savvy was fucking, or else the hunter would have noticed its trail. The hunter snorted quietly and unfolded her arms, scooting to the edge of her seat and hopping out of the truck altogether.