The Watering Hole feels particularly dry this morning. A dry breeze blows in through the windows and saloon doors, making the atmosphere as arid as the sun-baked plains outside. It is barren, save for Helga the hippo behind the bar, and Emma the elephant sitting opposite; their titanic rumps propped up by spindly wooden stools that creak every time they move. Business usually picks up later, when all the regulars were out of work. Farm labour under the hot sun gave them a hankering for strong drink. Though, they might be disappointed this evening as all they can buy is water. Caroline’s booze shipment is running late, which is odd. That alligator was a lot of things, but late was not one of them. This proved so odd that Bertha took it upon herself to do a little investigating. Engines buzz in the distance, slowly getting louder, like a swarm of angry wasps closing in. “Thas prolly her now.” Helga points out, tying her blonde hair into a ponytail that runs down the back of her white tank top. “Mmhm.” Emma responds, running her fat finger along the rim of her glass, not bothering to look up.  The hum of machines dies down and is followed by heavy footsteps that crunch on the dusty ground. Bertha thrusts both of the front doors open and strides inside. A towering figure clad in drab brown clothes slightly lighter than her earthy fur, her long coat and boots spattered with mud. One paw holds the strap of a long rifle slung over her shoulder, while the other clutches an old tobacco tin.

Trailing behind her is a heavyset alligator woman, while Eleanor the eagle, dressed in similarly earthy tones, brings up the rear. The reptile is dressed from top to bottom in a red baseball hat, white t-shirt, and a pair of blue jeans that seem a bit tight for her. In fact, everything, is tight on her. Characteristics like the beer gut hanging over her belt buckle, ample chest and plump rear definitely add to that perception. Her pointy brown boots clack on the floorboards as she moseys on over. Emma and Helga recognize her as Annabelle, Caroline’s younger sister who handled deliveries. “Give our guest here a drink, Barmaid. Emma, get the booze in. I’ll be in my office.” Bertha disappears to the back; the elephant goes outside, and Annabelle sits at the bar without so much as a peep. “So, what brings ya here?” Helga asks, pouring the alligator a glass of water. “Well, on the way over here ah had to stop off at a gas station. Then uh couple varmints got smart and stole mah truck while ah was getting a bite tuh eat. So, ah called Carol, and she told me to sit tight. A couple hours later y’all showed up with mah truck.” She tells them, shrugging. Eleanor pulls up a stool on the far side of the counter. “Uh huh.” Helga responds, turning to the eagle.  “And where’s Cassidy?” The hippo asks. “The boss sent her on a special mission.”

On the outskirts of Iron Alley lies a modest train station, surrounded by rows of wooden crates, barrels and other goods. Cassidy the cougar skulks amongst them, weaving between cover as workers bumble about, unaware of the intruder in their midst. Draped head to paw in brown clothes, the feline was difficult to spot in the ocean of dark wood and mud. Kneeling behind a box, she produces a pistol with a long thin barrel from her breast pocket, all the while her ears move independently of each other like radar dishes, scanning the area for threats. A faint buzzing sound emanates from behind her as a camera sweeps the area. With her surroundings clear, she springs up. The rogue lines up the security cam in her sights. Pulling the trigger, an EMP dart latches onto the device, causing it to pop like a fuse. Ducking down, she dares not move for a few seconds. Nothing. Now, the feline can pass undeterred. Cassidy makes her way to a decrepit looking hovertrain; its exterior having turned a rusty orange. Or so it would appear. 

Trains had become a prime target for bandits as of late, and so, prudent engineers took to making their machines look as dilapidated and rundown as possible, warding off possible thieves because surely nothing of value would be put in a bucket of bolts like this. It usually worked. Meanwhile, she watches as a tall brown draft horse hauling something obscured by a sheet of tarpaulin nears an open boxcar. A huge woman, dressed in green overalls covered in dust, pushes a wheeled dolly  toward an open train cart. Crouching behind cover and flanking around them, Cassidy struggles to get a clear look at the shipment passed her hefty rump. Curious, the cougar hatches a plan to see whatever is under that tarp. Knocking the mover out is not an option. Given her size, a tranquilizer dart would take too long to set in. Hell, even a crowbar would probably just bounce off her thick skull. Some good old-fashioned sneaking was needed. Just as she is working out the best route, a steam whistle screeches in the distance. The porter stops short of a ramp leading into the train and wanders over to the main building. 

Cassidy pokes her head out from a nearby cement tube, the cargo bay having been deserted. On her tiptoes, she creeps over to the mysterious device. Lifting up a corner of the tarp, the cougar’s eyes grow wide like dinner plates. “My my, what do we have here?” A small plaque on its surface reads ‘Aqua-Pure 4000’; an industrial water purifier. A collection of pipes and tanks connected to a console of buttons and dials. Looking over a nearby clipboard, it seems destined to pass by Tinysprings. “Bertha’ll wanna hear about this.” She thinks. Producing a chip from her pocket, she deposits the tracker under the main control panel. Her ears perk up at the sound of heavy footsteps pounding the dirt. Scrambling, she dives into an empty crate, topping it with the lid just as a tall, brown draft horse rounds the corner. Watching them through a slit between its planks, she sees the mare has a red lunchbox in one chunky hand, and a thermos in the other, wandering toward her and sets both down on an adjacent box before parking her fat rump on top of the container, the wood squealing in protest. The feline recoils, the ripe smell of her sweaty rear seeping in through the gaps of wood. “Ugh. How can this get any worse?” Cassidy thinks to herself. The horse woman grunts, almost in response, before a squeaky fart escapes her rear. “Damn breakfast burrito.” She curses, before munching on a hay filled sandwich; dense and boring, much like the horse herself. Eyes watering, the cougar pinches her nose, as the foul stench permeates the box.

Meanwhile, Bertha is holed up in her office above the bar, casually smoking a cigar, her legs propped up on a battered desk, coat draped on the back of her chair, weapons locked inside an adjacent safe. A short lamp, with a gold finish stand and green glass shade, shines down on a trio of tiny coyotes in ratty apparel. None of them stand taller than an inch, they cower beside the woman’s bare feet that stand many times taller than all of them put together. Antonio, presumed leader  of this operation, swings his leg over the short wall of the tobacco tin, the makeshift vessel Bertha transported them in. Brushing himself off, he gazes up at the massive woman. “H-Howdy there, Bertha! This is all just one big misunderstanding!” He explains, nervously. Her chair creaks as she sits up, gazing down at the tiny man. Taking the cigar from her mouth, she blows a puff of smoke directly at him. “Is that so?” Bertha responds, lifting her brow in mock surprise before bringing the stogie back to her mouth to stick out from between her pointed fangs. Coughing, Antonio waves away the thick smoke. “Yeah! We got word that that truck belonged to the Alley Cats gang! We thought we’d take them out and bring your truck back. All safe and sound!” As his friend tries to explain the situation, Carl loses his nerve and jumps out of the container and breaks into a run. Bertha’s fist strikes the table with speed surprising for such a big figure, flattening the yellow-bellied coyote. “Go on!” She demands, unblinking. “Uh, yeah as I was saying. We didn’t know that was yer truck…” Antonio continues, scratching the back of his neck nervously as Bertha peels his friend from her paw. 

“Ah can’t hear you, Tiny.” She says before depositing Carl in the back of her pants. “Can’t have you running away now, can we?” Antonio freezes in horror, thinking his friend dead. As it turns out, the coyote is alive, but not well under the bear’s two-ton rump. Bouncing to a stop, the tiny coyote lands face first on the back of Bertha’s sweat soaked panties. Recoiling, Carl tries to get up but is forced down as the bear’s colossal ass cheeks squash him against her ripe underwear and the musty seat cushion underneath. Fidgeting in her seat, the huge woman casually gets comfortable on top of the poor micro. “Do you expect me to believe that Antonio?” Leaning over, she reaches into the tin and picks up the third shrunken coyote between her thumb and forefinger. He yelps in terror as Bertha lifts him up to eye him closer. Reclining back in her chair, she squeezes the hijacker between her dry digits, while crushing the air out of Carl as her mountainous cheeks squash his miniscule form flatter than a playing card, forcing the air from his lungs and sending him gasping for breath, only to gag on the overpowering stench of Bertha’s sweaty ass. Diego writhes in pain as he feels the blood shoot from his feet to his head and back again, making him feel dizzy. “You bes start being honest with me, right now!” She growls. Cowering, Antonio gives in. “Aright! Aright! We wanted the truck!” The coyote comes clean. “Was that so hard?” Bertha responds, a toothy smile forming on her face. She callously tosses Diego back into the tin before reaching into the back of her slacks, fumbling for a few seconds before finding Carl. Antonio helps his friend up as the bear drops their now foul-smelling partner on top of them. Shying away, they push him off and gesture for him to stand clear. Gagging, the boss coyote staggers to his feet once more. “We can go now, right?! You got your truck back, and we won’t mess with y’all again!” Antonio pleads up at her. “Sorry boys, I jus don’t work that way.” The bear apologizes, putting out her cigar in a nearby ashtray. She closes the tin without so much as a second word, smirking as her prisoners plead for mercy.

Bertha strolls back down to the saloon, her captives bouncing around inside their makeshift cell. Eleanor the eagle sits at the bar, trying not to look like she is listening to Annabelle’s conversation, watching out the corner of her eye as the woman casually leans on a wall-mounted phone. Not that she can make a lick of sense out of what she is saying, only that the hoarse voice on the other end of the line is Caroline. The alligators converse in a fancy sounding language, giving the Fontaine sisters an air of refinement that they did not deserve, as Annabelle nonchalantly scratching her armpit proves. Bertha moves surprisingly quietly on her paw pads, to the point that the reptile is oblivious to her presence until she hangs up. “I trust everything’s okay.” Enquires the bear. “Yep. Carol was just makin’ sure ahm fine. Thanks again fer the help.” Responds the alligator. “A pleasure. Here.” Handing her the tobacco tin, Annabelle cannot help but raise a hairless brow. “Ya got me smokes?” She wonders, confused. Flicking it open, her eyes widen as she gazes down on the trio of tiny coyote men dogpiled on each other. They would be terrified if it were not for the ride down there. As it stands, they are all a bit too dazed to appreciate what was going on around them. “The varmints that stole yer truck.  Ah just thought you’d want to get yer own back on ‘em.” Annabelle manages a gravelly “Thanks.” Closing the tin, she promptly stuffs it in her back pocket; half of it sticks out while the other presses against her fat left cheek . “Ah reckin ya got till sundown before they grow back. Plenty of time I’m sure.” Bertha tells her with a grin, to which the gator simply nods in response. Thanking Bertha again, she makes her way outside, where Emma is hauling a crate of product, its contents clink with each of her heavy steps. The elephant brushes passed her and into the saloon without so much as a second thought. Closing in on her beloved truck, she sees Helga squatting down to pick up the last box of goods, apparently oblivious that her butt crack is poking out over the huge waistband of her green cargo pants. “All done.” She grunts before stomping off inside. Circling her rig, a six-wheeler with a long nose and a metal box mounted on the back, looking worse for wear than she had left it. 

Her staple alligator’s grin turning to a more sinister fanged scowl, she locks up the backdoors and proceeds to the cab. Annabelle’s colossal rump nearly flattens the tobacco tin in her back pocket as she sits down, the container making metallic crunch in response. Leaning on one cheek, she slides it out and tosses it onto the passenger’s seat, the tiny captives bouncing around inside. Slipping off her boots, she awkwardly takes her jeans off, followed by her underwear, a large pair of tight white panties, and discards them in the footwell to reveal her sizable pale green rump that fits the groove of her seat perfectly. Indeed, it was fashioned over many long haul journeys across Purgatory.  Opening the container, with some effort as both the door and the box were crumpled under her generous rear, she peers inside at the group of tiny coyote men. Groaning, they look up at her. “So, y’all wanted to ride in mah truck, huh? Well, yer here now. Here, have the front seat!” The alligator stands up, hunched over the steering wheel, and lifts her thick tail before vigorously shaking the bandits out. They land on the musky faux leather below, bouncing on the soft yet tough material, they gaze up to see the alligator’s gigantic ass loom over them before it crashes down on top of them. Annabelle’s derriere slides right back onto them, pinning them under her cool and swampy backside. Wriggling her rear into the cushion, she squeezes the air out of their bodies as she tries to get comfortable. “Now y’all settle down. It’s gonna take a few hours to get back too thuh Alley.” She announces, reaching for the stick shift. Gears grind together and the engine gives a hearty roar in response. The gator quickly pulls out, not looking either way; there were never any vehicles in this backwater town at this time of day. So, Annabelle reasoned it was a waste of time. Setting off, the driver’s cabin bumps and rocks violently, making the giant woman bounce around, much to the displeasure of her captives who are all but pulverized under her bare backside on the ride back to Caroline’s place in the city.

Jane waits, clutching her hat in both hands. Her khaki uniform torn and pulled out of shape; her chocolate brown hair tinted a dirty yellow as sand clings to each strand. Seattle sits behind an imposing desk, her elbows firmly planted on it oak face, all the while massaging her temples with cloven fingers. “So, instead of keepin’ out of trouble, like ah ordered, you took it upon yerself to break into Bertha’s saloon?” The cow asks.” Well, Sheriff-“ The young doe responds before getting cut off. “Where you assaulted her staff, got shrunk and on top of all that, you’re telling me one of her cronies broke into my office?!”  The deputy’s ear twitches. “Y-Yes, Sheriff.” She admits. “Darn it, Jane!” The huge woman curses, banging her fist on the wood. “You went against a direct order! Now Bertha’s onto us!” She sighs and slumps into her chair. “Turn in your badge and your gun, as well as any department property.” The young doe’s eyes widen, and her mouth hangs open for a few seconds, as if a car were careening towards her. Jane unpins the now dented deputy badge from her shirt and places it on the Sheriff’s desk. Rifling around her pockets, she produces a pair of shattered green spectacles and a busted radio communicator. How, and when, these items got destroyed are not clear. Though, if Jane had to guess, they were smashed by Helga and her two-ton rump outside The Wateringhole at the beginning of her failed investigation. “Where’s yer gun?” Seattle asks. “I lost it when I got attacked.” The cow simply shakes her head in response. “Hopefully, they haven’t figured out how to hack its DNA scanner. It’ll make for a nice paperweight.” She looks up at the ex-deputy. “Clear out yer locker. Yer suspended without pay until further notice.” Swallowing, Jane dons her hat. “It’s been an honour to serve, Sheriff.” Seattle rises to her feet, standing head and shoulders above her former colleague and reaches out. Surprise washes over Jane like a cool breeze as the huge woman’s paw wraps around her own, offering a firm, yet comforting handshake. “Just stay outta trouble, okay?”

The horse woman finishes her coffee, shakes out her cup and screws it back onto their thermos. Wood creaks as she stands up. Squatting low, so low that the pants of her overalls almost burst at the seams, the mare wraps her arms around a crate and hoists it up without a second thought. Cassidy barely manages to stable herself as she is shaken around inside the hotbox. Ascending the ramp, the mover squats down again and shoves the container into a corner of the train cart. “Mary!” A voice calls out. “What?” She shouts back. “Gimme a hand with this, would ya!” Grumbling, Mary stomps away. Punching the lid, Cassidy shoots up and gasps for air. “I don’t get paid enough for this.” She curses under her breath. Clambering out of the box, Cassidy sidles up to the train wall and peaks outside. Mary was busy trying to fix a forklift and there are no other workers to be seen. Sensing an opportunity, the cougar hops out of the train and rolls to a stop between the hovertrain and the platform. Hidden beneath the series of ramps connecting the two, Cassidy is able to skulk in the shadows through the cargo bay and escape through the hole in the chain-link fence she had made earlier. Soon after, the cougar zooms away on her hoverbike towards Tinysprings.

That afternoon, Jane finds herself in the Rust Bucket, a bar located in the Iron Alley docks adjoining the Dry Sea. Fashioned out of an old merchant vessel, it sits on top of the waves unmoving, its underside supported by a series of pillars that lock it into place. Sunlight shines in through the portholes to illuminate the metal interior, with its steel floors and walls painted hospital white. Age, spilled alcohol, wear, and smoke have dulled the paint to a yellow tinge. The furniture has fared better, though, it has seen better days thanks to the careless clientele. This saloon is a touch more welcoming than the Watering Hole: Bertha’s establishment. She was allowed in, for one. Nor was there a surly hippo posted outside to flatten her. The patrons are a different sort, sailors, rather than bandits, though no less seedy. Eyes look the doe up and down as she enters, their glares following her, digging into her sides like daggers. Undeterred, Jane makes her way to the counter. A black wolf man in a blue striped t-shirt stands behind it, wiping a beer glass with a rag. To his left sits a burly grey stallion, propped up on a barstool. A long black tail pokes out through a hole in the back of his blue jeans, gently swinging side to side, like an unconscious tick its owner is unaware of.  “Wilde.” The barman grunts, nodding toward Jane as she closes in. Turning on the swivelled stool, the horse finally notices the doe. Buck was a regular face at the Iron Alley Sheriff’s office and stood out thanks to the black spot of fur covering his right eye. He was no lawman, proving too undisciplined for the department’s liking, Mr Wilde never got through the vetting process. Rather, he worked as a bounty hunter; citizens charged with wrangling up lawbreakers and turning them into authorities for money. A role the stallion filled nicely, bringing in petty thieves, drunks, and vagrants for Seattle’s lot to deal with. Though, more professional criminals either skipped town or were deemed too dangerous for the general public to pursue. Nonetheless, they were a valuable resource in their own right. 

“Well hah there, little lady!” He greets with a smile, wiping his hands on his suede-effect vest before offering one for a shake. Getting up, the horse stands head and shoulders above her, with his broad shoulders and heavyset build he made an imposing figure, much more than the petite deer woman. “Hi Buck.” She winces as the oaf crushes her hand. He was never a subtle one. “What brings you here?” He asks, cheerily. Jane explains the situation: Bertha’s gang being holed up in Tinysprings, her expulsion from the force, and how this will all end badly for the area as a whole. 

Leaving out the various times she was flattened by Bertha and her cronies. “So, what do say? I need your help. I just know Bertha is up to something!” The Doe pleads. “You want me tuh help you take on the Badwater gang? Sure! If ah do that, then Seattle will have tuh make me a Sheriff! Count me in!” Jane smiles, though, she cannot help but feel a pang of unease. Her and Buck were hardly a force to be reckoned with, and without the backing of local law enforcement, this was going to be the biggest challenge of her career. 

With Buck now onboard, the intrepid duo leaves the sleazy bar and make their way through the parking lot. “There she is.” The stallion beams, pointing to a boxy pickup truck with thick tires and a coating of rust that blended well with the desert’s reddish-brown tones. They get in and Jane immediately notices the myriad of safety hazards within his truck, like the absence of seatbelts, but decided against voicing her concerns, it beat walking. Wilde undoes his shoulder holster and places it, as well as his sidearm, in the glove compartment. An old, semi-automatic slug thrower. Such low-tech weapons are common throughout Purgatory, though, they have nothing on the much rarer, but potent energy weapons available  possessed by government officials and the black market. The engine splutters to life and they set off, slowly but steadily through the streets of Iron Alley and westward for Tinysprings. 

Annabelle cruises down a dusty road in the Badlands, her left arm propped up on the inside of the window as she casually drives with just one hand. The sun begins to set, dipping behind the orange ridged mountains behind her. Curiously, Jane and Buck pass by in their old banger of a pickup, not that the gator knows, or even cares for that matter. She just shakes her head. “Uh classic like that deserves better.” Annabelle grumbles. 

The trio of coyotes dotting her generous rump are by now flatter than pancakes. Shuffling in her seat, she squeezes out the little oxygen still inside their tiny bodies. The long drive had deadened the muscles in her backside, causing some discomfort for the woman. Meanwhile, her captives’ bodies were virtually paralyzed under the titanic weight of her ass, a small mercy. Though, Annabelle’s overpowering body odour, is inescapable as it lodged itself in their snouts and refused to leave. It seemed that in the heat of the desert, a vacuum seal formed between her soft green skin and the faux leather of her seat, trapping the stink in the air pockets the coyotes found themselves in. Compounding the issue was that every time she moved, a breeze would seep in, only for the stench to come back with a vengeance once she had stopped fidgeting. Conditions under the alligator proved so bad that both Carl and Diego had passed out; only Antonio is still conscious. Sandwiched between the reptile’s mountainous cheeks, he was spared by not having the bone crushing weight of a fully grown alligator woman on him, but rather, all around him. Though, the woman’s swampy butt crack more than made up for that. Annabelle lifts her lower half and tenses her cheeks slightly, in an effort to get cold blood in her veins pumping again, before dropping it back on the artificial leather with a heavy thump. Squinting, she notices a simple sign in the distance, a wooden pole with a plank nailed to it. Pulling over, the gator shuffles in her seat. 

“Aright ya freeloaders, end uh the line.” She announces, pulling over. Leaning forward, she reaches back and peels the remaining two coyotes off her plump derriere, allowing them a brief respite as fresh air blows over them. Resting on the wheel, the alligator props her head up on her forearms and arches her back inwards before lifting her fat tail. With a grunt, she forces out a wet fart onto them. “Consider that a going away present.” Annabelle taunts with a grin before scooping them up and throwing them out of the window. The trio crash into the soft sand below, kicking up plumes of dirt as they land. Antonio, dazed, manages to gaze up as his compatriots are barely coming to. “Jack mah truck again and ah’ll shoot yer skinny asses!” She threatens from high up in the driver’s cab window. The harsh sound of gears grinding, and the engine backfiring practically deafens the microscopic coyotes as she sets off, covering them in dust. Coughing, they wait for things to settle before surveying the area. “Where in tarnation are we?” Carl asks, perplexed.


“How are we gonna get back?” Deigo retorts, none the wiser. Antonio, the level head of the group, looks up at the giant pillar next to them. “Wherever we are, it looks like we’re walking.”  Craning their heads up, they notice the message above; Iron Alley 10 Miles and a large arrow pointing Eastward. Cursing, the coyotes have no choice to dust themselves off and walk to the capital with their tails between their legs.

Under the cover of darkness, the deer and stallion team pull into Tinysprings. They drive past Tent City, a basic camp set up for the workers to rest after work since there are too few buildings to accommodate them; only the top brass of this operation could afford better lodgings. The town itself is level, set up just in front of a mountain with seven buildings clustered around a horizontal dirt path. The main buildings, the machinist’s workshop, saloon, and general store sit with their backs to the ridge. Both the mechanic and hotel sit either end of the main street, while the remaining garage and pharmacy are opposite the only road leaving the settlement, which lies in the middle and intersects the street to from a T-shape. The road leaving the town descends a slight hill. “Stop here!” Jane tells her partner. Buck hits the breaks. “Why?” He asks, perplexed. “They’ll see us, we should get out and go around the back.” Shrugging, the stallion kills the engine, and they get out at the bottom of the hill leading into the settlement. They sneak around the perimeter, stopping behind the pharmacy. She raises an open hand, signalling for the stallion to halt. “Stay quiet, we can’t let anyone know we’re here.” The doe whispers, glancing over her shoulder . “Hello, amigo.” A hoarse voice comes from the darkness. Wilde quickly draws his pistol, yanking the ex-deputy behind him. “Who’s there?!” He demands, pointing into the darkness. A short figure, dressed in a mustard yellow coat, rounds the corner. “Francisco. A friend.” Answers the blue gecko man, doffing his sombrero to give them a better look at his face, as well as the bright green spines on his head. “Wait! He can help us.” Jane says, grabbing her companion’s arm, making him lower his firearm. “I see you have returned, Deputy.” The reptile starts up. “Well, it’s not Deputy anymore…” The doe corrects him. “In that case, maybe we could make a deal…”

Meanwhile, Bertha sits at her desk, a napkin dangling from her collar, equipped with a knife and fork in hand and a pepper shaker in the other. A sizeable salmon lies on a silver platter in front of her, accompanied by wild berries and a dollop of tartar sauce on the side. Sporting a toothy grin, she vigorously applies the seasoning and is about to dig in just as there is a knock. Her smile changes to a snarl and she bangs her cutlery on the table’s face. “What?!” She bellows, glaring at the source of the noise. “It’s Cassidy! I’ve got something for you!” The cougar hollers back. Sighing, the bear rolls her eyes. “Come in!” She orders. Cassiy slips inside, looking bedraggled from her journey, shutting the door tightly behind her. “What is it?” Bertha grumbles as her subordinate closes the nearby window. “I think I’ve got something big.” She finally answers as the bear cuts into her fish. 

Back outside, Jane leans out from behind the corner of the pharmacy, pointing a strange device at the Water Hole. This new gadget is like a ray gun, but it differs in that mounted to its oval body is a small radar dish instead of a barrel. A wire runs from the bottom of the handle and up to her perky chest, where it splits into two parallel cables and ending in a pair of tiny speakers, delicately inserted into her pointy ears. She grimaces while rotating a small dial on the grip, accompanied by bursts of static . "...I've got something for you."  A soft voice purrs , that must be Cassidy she reasons. "What is it?" The much deeper one responds. That is Bertha, no doubt. During this exchange, the wandering merchant and Buck have decided to haggle in the background. “Uh thousand credits for that pea-shooter? Yer nuts.” Declares the stallion. “It iz good price, friend.” Francisco counters, holding a miniscule laser pistol in his palm. “Shhh! Would you guys knock it off?” The doe scolds, attempting to eavesdrope on the bandits’ conversation. They glance at her before carrying out their argument through sign language; the gecko presents the gun, as if to give it away, while Buck simply crosses his arms and shakes his head. "... 4000... Friday. 8 O'clock. Morning..." The feline says. Jane cannot help but raise an eyebrow at that. "Ya did good. We'll round up the girls and take uh look'. Now get." The much deeper voice growls. A particularly loud burst of interference makes the doe cringe, causing her to discard her headphones almost immediately by yanking their cord. Puzzled, she wanders over to her associates. 

"No deal." She declares, thrusting the device into the gecko's hand. "Are you sure? I'll even throw in thiz gun for your handsome friend here." Franciso counters. "Nuh uh." Jane responds, leaning her back on the wall behind her, folding one arm over her stomach, while stroking her chin with her free hand. "Uh, what's wrong?" Buck asks. "They're up to something, but I don't know what." She replies, perplexed. "Whut did they say?" Her partner asks while the vendor slips his wares back into his coat. "Something 4000, and Friday at 8 in the morning." Wilde thinks it over for all of two seconds. "The bank! They're gonna rob 4000 credits from the bank! It doesn't open 'til 9! So nobody'll be there!" He answers, excitedly. "No, Bertha's not that crazy. The bank is in the middle of town. Way too much security and attention. Besides, it's not enough to be worth it." The doe reasons. "Hmm. Well ahm stumped." The stallion replies, shrugging. "Me too." She responds. "Well, I don't want to be a stump, so I zuggest you ask around town. And fast. Whatever iz going down happens in 3 days." Francsico reminds them. The other two nod in solemn agreement. "We should set up a camp. I can't stay here." Jane tells them. "I know zhe perfect place." Declares the gecko man.

An hour later, the three of them settle down in a cave, a few miles East of Tinysprings, a dry hole in the base of an orange stone mountain. It extends a few paces into the rockface, just enough to protect them from the elements. Francisco explained it was made by ancient natives to serve as a pit stop when travelling through the unrelenting plains. Wilde has already started a fire at the entrance of the recess, and is collecting some more nearby sticks, as Jane and the gecko formulate a plan. "I zuggest you talk to Matilda. Angry little thing but she hates Bertha and her gangers more zhen most. Good start." He propses. "It's a stard." The doe agrees, laying her coat on the floor as a makeshift form of padding. She takes her shoes off and wipes the dust from them. Setting them down, she rests her head on the shaft of her boots and stares up at the ceiling. Her party does the same, except Buck manages to produce a ratty blanket from his truck to use as a mattress. The group quickly falls asleep to the sound of the crackling fire and the stillness of the desert night.