“Hey Mark.” Said Prescott’s outfitter, “L. Kyle. Headin’ back to pricetown? Get a good haul?” Mark had begun to nod at the greeting until the outfitter mentioned the results of their trip into the big nowhere. “Fuck no we didn’t Rasmusin, I don’t wanna talk about it, thank ya very much. Water, we need water. How much?” Rasmusin gave his clipboard and calculator a few quick taps and came out with a number. A high number. “Shit. We can’t cut a deal?”
“Sure we can cut a deal Mark, sure.” He named another, even higher, number and Mark swore. “Fuck you Rasmusin, how about-” The sound of the dickering was drowned out in Catnips ears by the other sounds of Prescott. She was reminded strongly of her first experience at the refugee center, and the thoughts of the center that the reminder brought up made her sad. What had happened? How did she end up in this unbearably dry place? She took water, and introduced herself. The words coming to her over years of practice. The woman who identified herself as something called a “Misling,” introduced herself as “Elle.” The ugly man was introduced as Kyle, and Catnip wondered why he wouldn’t look her directly in the eye.
Despite the heat and the generally appalling appearance of it’s residents, Catnip sort of liked Prescott. From a distance, the settlement appeared huge because of all the lights, but in reality it was a bit of a facade. Prescott was really just a smallish village situated on the inner edge of the old city, and it’s mutated residents had taken great care to keep what little infrastructure they needed going. For one, the plumbing still worked, for two, the lights worked. It was a small marvel to Catnip to see lights working without being connected to a generator of some kind. The refugee center back home ran on a plutonium generator fueled by an atomic slug. The farm was powered with Catnips own “solar reactor.” And unstable device that produced no noise in summer, but was louder than the motor used to make it should have been during the winter.