You’re standing behind a truck, the hover function off as it idles in place. There’s nothing around you but miles and miles and miles of sand, sun, and cactus. At the very least, you’re not alone.
There’s a man with you, one you don’t know very well, one you’re trying not to get to know at all. There’s a tattoo on his arm - a winged skull gripping a padlock in its teeth - but it seems more like a brand. Pretty sure that might be the point of it. It’s a sign of your loyalties, everyone says, a sign you’re proven yourself worthy to the rest of ‘em.
It’s only a matter of time before they decide you’re ready for it. People are already saying this is your chance to prove yourself. If the deal goes well, you could get that tattoo as soon as tomorrow.
You’re only fifteen.
This isn’t your first rodeo, but it’s your first time where they’ve given you a gun. Where they’ve told you this was your chance, where you were sent off with a man who looks at you like a liability and where you feel dread sinking into the stomach. The cargo in the back is precious, you know. They’re worth a lot of money, worth more than your life, and what you also know? Is that the drop off being planned for here, miles and miles from the gorge and miles and miles from the border - it’s suspicious. It sets your teeth on edge.
The gun shoved into the back of your jeans is a heavy weight, but no heavier than the realization you’re going to have to use it.
The man you’re is just as suspicious as you are, has made that more than clear by the time the other crew rolls up. There’s five of them all told, all but one of them armed. The man that doesn’t carry a gun is the most suspicious of them all, a bundle of slime wrapped up in clean, crisp clothing that doesn’t quite fit the desert. It’s not a suit, ain’t nearly classy enough, but it’s clear this is a man who doesn’t think he’ll be getting his hands dirty.
You pull back as they talk - this everything?
Yeah, of course
- but you keep your eyes on the men with guns. They seem...nervous. Antsy. They’re waiting for something. A signal, a sign, a reason to put you down. One of them is twitchier than the rest, shifting the pulse rifle in his grip, fingers getting too close to the trigger. No discipline at all.
No subtlety at all.
The twitchy man twitches one time too many, and you reach for the gun you’ve tucked away out of sight.
(You’re only fifteen. You’ve never done this before. You’ve only ever taken pot shots at cans, back on the roof of the body shop.)
The bullet goes through the twitchy man’s right eye. The next goes through the palm of the man next to him, who yowls as he drops his gun. Your next shot misses, but by the time the clip is empty and the man you came with catches on those five men are dead.
Aw, hell, McCree/i>, he says, as you stare at where an eye used to be. He whistles.
1; the good [death, eye & hand trauma/gore]
You’re standing behind a truck, the hover function off as it idles in place. There’s nothing around you but miles and miles and miles of sand, sun, and cactus. At the very least, you’re not alone.
There’s a man with you, one you don’t know very well, one you’re trying not to get to know at all. There’s a tattoo on his arm - a winged skull gripping a padlock in its teeth - but it seems more like a brand. Pretty sure that might be the point of it. It’s a sign of your loyalties, everyone says, a sign you’re proven yourself worthy to the rest of ‘em.
It’s only a matter of time before they decide you’re ready for it. People are already saying this is your chance to prove yourself. If the deal goes well, you could get that tattoo as soon as tomorrow.
You’re only fifteen.
This isn’t your first rodeo, but it’s your first time where they’ve given you a gun. Where they’ve told you this was your chance, where you were sent off with a man who looks at you like a liability and where you feel dread sinking into the stomach. The cargo in the back is precious, you know. They’re worth a lot of money, worth more than your life, and what you also know? Is that the drop off being planned for here, miles and miles from the gorge and miles and miles from the border - it’s suspicious. It sets your teeth on edge.
The gun shoved into the back of your jeans is a heavy weight, but no heavier than the realization you’re going to have to use it.
The man you’re is just as suspicious as you are, has made that more than clear by the time the other crew rolls up. There’s five of them all told, all but one of them armed. The man that doesn’t carry a gun is the most suspicious of them all, a bundle of slime wrapped up in clean, crisp clothing that doesn’t quite fit the desert. It’s not a suit, ain’t nearly classy enough, but it’s clear this is a man who doesn’t think he’ll be getting his hands dirty.
You pull back as they talk - this everything?
Yeah, of course
- but you keep your eyes on the men with guns. They seem...nervous. Antsy. They’re waiting for something. A signal, a sign, a reason to put you down. One of them is twitchier than the rest, shifting the pulse rifle in his grip, fingers getting too close to the trigger. No discipline at all.
No subtlety at all.
The twitchy man twitches one time too many, and you reach for the gun you’ve tucked away out of sight.
(You’re only fifteen. You’ve never done this before. You’ve only ever taken pot shots at cans, back on the roof of the body shop.)
The bullet goes through the twitchy man’s right eye. The next goes through the palm of the man next to him, who yowls as he drops his gun. Your next shot misses, but by the time the clip is empty and the man you came with catches on those five men are dead.
Aw, hell, McCree/i>, he says, as you stare at where an eye used to be. He whistles.
Tomorrow you’ll be getting that tattoo.]