JunkYard

The women walked on slowly but surely in hopes to find something to wrap her wounds, as well as cloth her body, moving across the plains and pass the river, blood still dripping from the gashes on her chest,-abdomen, and stab wounds on her legs, arms and shoulder. She kept her posture straight, walking without limping in case her original attacker came for a second round, but she knew without a single weapon or armor, she would die by his very weight, if it had been another Yautja whom done this, but no one else could have done this much damage to her. The women carried herself across the plains just right to the bank of the river, and even standing there, she was in view of a pleasing sight to her very eyes. A Junkyard laid right before the city limits, and she knew that there had to be a spot for old clothes. The factor the clothes could be dirty or contaminated, didn't concern her that much, she knew her acid blood would burn away any cause of harm to her body, but the question was... would they hold until she fully recovered? Pain shot through her leg, as she dunk her leg into the water, having the cold liquid just brush over her wounds to clean them off, of remaining blood if it had healed, but to her surprise, her wounds were still fresh, and still bleeding out. The women groaned seeing her green blood mixed with the river, taking her leg from the waters grasp, and sat for a moment or two in thought. She looked to the other side of the river in measurement with her lip slightly pouted out in curiosity. Slowly she stood to her feet again and began to step back a few feet, looking as if to have calculated all the measurements in her head, as she began to run, gritting her teeth past the pain, and jump right over the river in one leap, and land perfectly with a slight shock onto her face, making it to the other side perfectly. Standing straight she nodded her head in approval of her success, and continued on to the Junkyard ahead. She sneaked over to the gate, being very mindful of gang members, and the garbage men that lingered day or night in places like this but she always looked out for a section for clothes. Right away she spotted a place full of old clothes piled up on the ground, with holes in them, tares, patches, and funky styles, and with success, she moved toward them, without being seen, and began to tear at the first shirt she got her hands on, and wrapped her wound as tight as she could handle. The clothes began to sizzle and burn at the very touch of her blood, but she kept adding layers to the wraps, making sure they would last till she found someone who could help her. As soon as a shirt was used up, she would grab another one, and another, until she was satisfied, and then worried about clothes to wear on her for an outfit, and not bandages. But nothing seemed to fit the style she wanted, or that was in, but a voice quickly knocked her off concentration, and made her jump in her place, dropping a pair of jeans she was looking at onto the ground at her feet. She narrowed her eyes as she turned around to see two males standing side by side with poles came out of no where to her standards, unsure how she had missed their scent, or breath. As they walked closer to where she stood, they stared at her in interest, that one would think to be a complement, but she didn't seem to like their expressions and backed up a bit, as the taller one, around her height, 6'2" walked toward her, smacking a metal pipe against his palm with a snobby grin. "Look at what we have here, we have ourselves a Jamaican." He looked to the smaller guy, who stood shorter then the two about 5'6" at most, chuckling a bit turning their gaze back onto the girl. She made a small face when they called her Jamaican, but playing with one of her dread-locks she figured it was an honest mistake. She looked up from her hair to the taller man, now in her face, and blinked at him gently with a confused expression, backing up more from him for her space, and safety. "Don't worry doll-face we won't hurt ya, just want to know your name." He leaned against the pipe digging it into the ground to hold him up, as the smaller guy chuckles. "Yeah, just want to know your name." He repeated. The women rolled her eyes thinking the smaller man was a parrot or something other then an ooman, as she spoke. "My name is Kas've, and I'm NOT Jamaican." She placed her hands on her hips with a serious look to her face, but with the looks on the boys faces, it hit her that she couldn't speak ooman, ooman's couldn't understand her and all they caught from that whole sentence was a bunch of clicks and purrs. Great. "Whats wrong with her?" The smaller man asked scratching his head. "Sounds like a broken record." The taller one commented back, still trying to figure out if he can make out what she said. The smaller one snapped his fingers with a look of an idea in his head pointing to the girl with a explanation "She must be a mute! They always make funny noises when they try to talk."  The taller man shrugged at his partner, and took hold of her pipe. "Well i guess nobody will hear her scream then." The boys began to walk closer to her, weapons in hands, and evil smirks, on their faces, but Kas've wasn't at all scared, she tried to save them from getting hurt. If it's a fight they want, a fight they'll get. She looked over the men as they moved closer and saw the small mans clothes. He wear a white tank top with a plaid over shirt, with dark blue jeans and Nikkie sandles that were to long for him, but they were just right for Kas've. A smile crept on her face with an idea, as she let the boys come at her without even backing up or flinching. She was going to get her outfit, and have some fun, all in one shot. "Katie I hope your not far from here, cause I hate walking." She thought with a sly grin, and charged at the two men, with bare fists.