BRONTIDE

𝐃𝐎𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐄𝐑 ; 𝐁𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐃𝐄, as penned by jenna.

𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚍𝚎 (𝚗) : 𝚊 𝚕𝚘𝚠 𝚖𝚞𝚏𝚏𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚜𝚎𝚒𝚜𝚖𝚒𝚌 𝚛𝚎𝚐𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚘𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚕𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚜

Gull grew up around certain rules and a culture that was unlike the one many people grew up around. It was a huge curve to get used to when joining the gang, having been brought up in completely opposite circumstances. But Gull always wanted a life more grand than the one he was given. One with more wonder, more action. Even if he didn’t need a gun in his hand, he liked just being invited to tag along. Like on the train. As stressful as it was, it was far better than spending every day and every night looking at pustules and rashes. 

Sure, he does that sometimes here, but at least they’re funny about it.

They’re all a family in the weird kind of way all families are, and Gull takes that sentiment to heart. Even if Brontide wasn’t really someone close, they were still a part of that. Everything else doesn’t really matter. Life outside of this doesn’t really matter.

“I’m ot sure what constitutes as a proper meal. Growing up I had heard that people used to eat lamb and ducks, and that was supposed to be food for rich folks. That sounds like a proper meal.” He says as he scoops up more of his stew. “This is good too.”

“Can’t say I was ever afforded the luxury of lamb or duck,” Brontide says, the faintest hint of a laugh in her voice. When she was young, really young, her grandmother had been the one to cook for the family – the woman had been able to turn the scraps that they were often left with into something Brontide and their sister were both overjoyed to eat. Perhaps they had been spoilt, back then – but they hadn’t known it, and in the years since, they have never been able to find something that tastes as distinctly comforting as their grandmother’s cooking.

The food at the Atlantis was, at least, edible. “As for a proper meal,” They pause, taking another sip of their soup, “I’d say anything prepared in a kitchen by a competent chef counts towards that end.” Perhaps it was a low bar – but considering how much time the gang spent between towns, it was a novelty in and of itself to have a meal prepared by a chef.

OPPOSITE — @brntide​​ the kitchen of raven’s rest, a few days after the robbery

Save for the expense of a hot bath at the inn and a few purchases from the general store, Rambler’s share from the robbery was more or less untouched. The ceaseless hustle of the Odyssey and the outpour of divinity in its wake carved out ample room for indulgent spending. Yet despite the way he sometimes gave in to it whenever the impulse struck, Rambler was nonetheless careful with his money, his hand often stayed by the resourcefulness that his solitary years of survival had ingrained in him.

So he had more than enough on him to afford a meal off the pricier, more exclusive selection on the Raven’s Rest menu — which didn’t quite explain why he had opted to swindle the cook instead. Perhaps he had grown cheap over the years, or perhaps his time with the Odyssey gang had made him prone to taking the easy way out whenever it presented itself — and truly, there was not much choice in the matter considering how it seemed to present itself in all things, at all times. Otherwise the world certainly wouldn’t have been as effortlessly lawless as it was. Whatever the reason, Rambler hadn’t bothered to consider it as he latched on to the cook’s disgruntled exclamations while sitting at the bar; loud, blaring complaints about the supplier who apparently kept cheating them, providing culinary supplies of lower quality than what they paid for and expected.

Rambler had slinked out of his seat in a flash, venturing into the kitchen and smoothly injecting himself into the cook’s rant. I can help, he had declared, unflinching in the face of the irritation and bafflement that he had received, I have a sense for things like this. I can tell you which ones are bad right off the bat and save you the trouble of putting them in food that’ll only be thrown in your face for it. The cook and his team had been skeptical, but Rambler hadn’t given them a chance to object; quickly sinking to his knees in front of the assortment of herbs, seasonings, and vegetables. And what he had asked for in return? A free premium meal for each time that the inn received a compliment on the food rather than the usual complaint.

Such was the sight that Brontide walked into; Rambler on his knees, surrounded by the perplexed cooking staff, thumbing through leaves and nosing at salts, murmuring commentary to himself as though divining things from the smells and textures. “Brontide,” He greeted when Brontide drew his attention, mildly surprised that they sought him out. “Want me to have them reserve one of the premium meals for you?” He asked, tipping his head towards the staff with a grin, resolutely untouched by the outraged scowls he earned himself.

Although she hadn’t been actively seeking out RAMBLER, Brontide had been hoping to come across him over the past few days. They’d seen him since the robbery, of course – but each time had been fleeting, or in the presence of others, or otherwise inopportune for the conversation they were hoping to have. In the past, perhaps, she would have been glad not to have been left alone with Rambler for too long – she had found him somewhat strange, and the things he said to be off-putting. Brontide had never considered themselves to be a particularly spiritual person – they’d never dabbled much in the idea of a higher power, nor did they believe that Rambler had the ability to gaze into the future, no matter what Jack said.

Rambler had always done his best to convince Brontide otherwise, of course – sharing the dreams that featured her and throwing out predictions when they were caught alone together, all of which Brontide brushed aside with a stiff nod and a barely suppressed roll of their eyes. They’d never expected any of Rambler’s words to have any real weight – to ever come true, or to mean anything beyond the crazed murmurings they took them for at face value. 

This, of course – had been before they left. Perhaps he had been trying to warn her, and, perhaps, had Brontide not been so stubborn, she might have listened. Might have headed to the warning of Rambler’s dream – Brontide, with blood on her hands and guilt on her conscious, something which had been easy to disregard until they finally made their way back to the gang and the memory of his words resurfaced with a new weight to them, the sight of Brontide’s mother and sister burned into the back of their mind. The rational part of their mind would say it was simply coincidence – and perhaps it was, but Rambler seemed to know more about Brontide’s destiny than even she did, and, suddenly, she saw him in a new, more flattering, light.

Despite the apparent success of the robbery, Brontide was still afflicted. As far as they’d seen it – this had been their first ( and perhaps only ) chance to prove themselves since returning to the gang. Proving that, despite walking away from this life, they were still good at it. She isn’t quite sure what she was expecting ( perhaps something far more dichotomous than what had ultimately transpired – that she would either be thrust onto a pedestal or shunned without remorse ), but the only validation she’d received following the robbery had been a nod from Jack as the divinity had been distributed. Once, this would have been more than enough – but with their position within the gang as precarious as it was, Brontide felt themselves clamouring for something more – however pathetic it may have seemed.

If there is one thing Vex can trust about the world — one thing she knows will stay true, no matter whose gun is fired or whose stomach finds the bullet — it is that nothing comes easy. Nothing is free. Nothing remains. Sleep doesn’t come easily either, not on the nights after a job. She is waiting for the sky to fall, or the inn to be taken over and claimed, along with their lives. It’s happened before; Vex remembers, and she does not forget.

This is the most dangerous part: when the night is still and all seems at peace. The air is thicker and calmer. It lulls the soft-hearted to sleep.

It leaves Vex uneasy. Their skin crawls, up and down and side to side, and they scratch hard down their arms with what little nails they have left. Success is too easy to trust. Hiding means waiting — means being found — means dying, means losing.

Vex watches the hand that goes to the gun, watches Brontide recede. They wonder if Brontide would pull their hand away if they knew who Vex hired to burn Jack Odyssey down. They wonder if Brontide’s ever seen them: the bulky, burly asshole who Vex paid with all the divinity they had left.

“Don’t be an idiot. No one’s asleep.” Vex jilts their chin at Atlantis, sound leaking out from its walls. “They’re all celebrating. Wasting their money on shitty beer, too.”

VEX, Brontide thinks, had certainly done all they could to earn their moniker. It wasn’t as though Brontide actively disliked her – but they found themselves immediately growing more weary as Vex approaches them, steeling themselves for confrontation before the other has even had a chance to speak. Though Brontide could understand Vex’s frustrations with their position – they were also of the impression that beggars could not be choosers, like Brontide, Vex had been allowed to live, only they didn’t have the decency to fall into line. 

There was also the issue that Brontide had become quite convinced that Vex was hiding something from her. It was not a rare thing for members of the gang to keep their cards close to their chests – secrets and deception were like their bread and butter, and Brontide could never claim to be free of the weight of secrecy, their own past buried so deep that few had ever caught a glimpse. No, it was not rare – and, normally, Brontide was above prying if she had no reason to suspect the safety gang was at risk, but they couldn’t miss the way that Vex looked at her, interacted with her – as though she had something over Brontide and was dangling it just out of reach. 

It was irritating, to say the least. Brontide didn’t like to feel as though somebody else had the upper hand.

He’s ✹93 richer now than he was at dusk. A night spent swindling divinity from men too drunk to know better at Atlantis has left him with heavy pockets, and his content shows in the swagger of his step, lazy and catlike, as he makes his way back to Raven’s Rest. He’s only sorry that the bar’s last call was so early, and that his window for highway robbery was cut lamentably short. With another hour or so, he could’ve doubled his winnings, he’s sure.

As he nears Raven’s Rest, he palms tonight’s earnings from his pocket and counts them, and then double counts them, and so on. Perhaps openly counting divinity in the middle of Eel at 2:00 in the morning isn’t the wisest choice, but it’s far from his most foolish, and he isn’t particularly concerned, anyway. His reputation precedes him wherever he goes, and most know better than to tamper with the likes of the big, bad bandit. Those who don’t never live to tell the tale.

The divinity in his hands—the weight of it, the feel of it—soothes the restlessness in him a little bit, takes the edge off his appetite. He isn’t sated, not really, but he’s no longer famished, which, for Hellion, who’s always wanting, wanting, wanting, is about as good as it gets. As he draws nearer to the inn, a familiar silhouette appears, and he considers turning on his heel and finding somewhere else to stay the night just to spare himself the interaction. Alas, he pushes onward, if only because Brontide is among the more tolerable of the gang.

“Does the time of night matter much?” He licks the pad of his thumb to separate two sandwiched bills and continues shuffling the divinity between his hands. “You’re always alone.” It’s not a blow, or it’s not meant to be; it’s merely an observation, one made with little judgment, for Hellion is perhaps the only one of the gang who’s alone as often as Brontide. He likes the solitude; he’s not certain they do.

He doesn’t give Brontide the common courtesy of looking her in the eye, preoccupied as he is with the divinity in his hands. “Your finger should’ve at least been on the trigger,” he says absently, distracted by the counting in his head as he jerks his chin at the gun strapped to her thigh. Eighty-seven, eighty-eight, eighty-nine… “By the time I reached you,” he clarifies, “you should’ve been ready to shoot me dead if the need arose.” Ninety-one, ninety-two, ninety-three.

Have you gone as soft as they say you have? he doesn’t ask, mostly because he doesn’t care enough to. The sentiment is half-implied, though.

You’re always alone. Brontide hums at the statement – however harsh it may seem, it is said without malice, and they know it to be true. They’d learned a long time ago to become comfortable in solitude – grown accustomed to the sound of their own thoughts rather than the sound of their words, though this was a habit formed out of necessity rather than enjoyment. The first time she’d found herself terribly, painfully alone had been after the death of her father – a self-imposed exile which quickly became something more inescapable. 

It was a skill, Brontide thought, being able to survive on one’s own – a skill she suspected HELLION was far more adept at than even she was. They’d noticed that he seemed to spend much of his time alone – and they’d noticed that he seemed to prefer it this way. For Brontide, solitude was more requisite, particularly these days. It was difficult to miss the stares and barbs that were often thrown at them following their return – some members of the gang had yet to move past it ( though she couldn’t quite say she blamed them for their hesitancy ), and any words spoken to them seemed laced with a new, unfamiliar brand of venom. 

So, solitude became a safe haven.

“I suppose that’s true.” She says, shoe scuffing against the dusty ground as they take in the sight of Hellion. He’s barely looked up once since approaching Brontide – instead preoccupied with the divinity in his hands. They suspect he’s managed to acquire this since arriving in Eel, subsequent to the train robbery, and it almost makes Brontide chuckle. Even after they’d all walked away from the train ✹250 richer ( it could have been more – had she and Old Halo not distributed some of the winnings among the passengers, the concern that the other members of the gang would find out taking root at the back of her mind ) and yet it wasn’t enough. For some, she supposed it would never be enough – though simply getting rich was no longer the incentive it had once been for Brontide. 

—

Old Halo watched Brontide and, not for the first time, wished she could get a glimpse of what was going on in that head. She opened her mouth, but before she could ask, Brontide’s gun was out and firing at the end of the carriage. Old Halo inhaled sharply and whirled around. The back wall of the carriage was splattered with blood. Beneath that, the body of a Revenant lay slumped. Old Halo pressed a hand to her chest, grateful that it hadn’t been a passenger. But there wasn’t much time for gratitude.

She turned her head back when Brontide spoke. At least they both desired to keep the passengers alive. The question merely how they would carry that out without the Faith finding out about their movements. Old Halo doubted persuading these passengers that they were on the same side would be an easy task, especially considering that they’d just seen Brontide shoot that Revenant.

Brontide was asking her a question. “Almost 300,” she replied, giving Brontide a small frown. That was hardly the most pressing issue, was it? Except - she turned her attention back to the carriage, ran a quick mental count of how many people were in there. They had enough Divinity to give everyone a few pieces. It would hardly be missed, in the grand scheme of things. Certainly less expensive than trying to hide from the Faith. These people were desperate and easily bribed…and they had the power to make them a little less desperate. Engender good will in the process.

Beyond that, though, beyond any reasonable argument, she looked at that child hiding behind her mother and she wanted to leave them with something better than the memory of gunfire and blood. 

“We’ve already gotten more Divinity than we expected. It wouldn’t harm our finances to distribute it among the passengers of this carriage, with the expectation that they’ll give us their secrecy in return,” she said under her breath. “The gang might not…love the idea, but I could work that out with Jack.”

Almost 300, Old Halo relays – and Brontide quickly does the math in her head. Despite how crowded the carriage seemed ( even more so, now, as the passengers have huddled closer to the windows and exits, shying away from Brontide and the weapon which still gleamed menacingly in their hand ), there weren’t as many passengers as Brontide had first thought – certainly few enough that herself and Old Halo could offer them each a couple of divinity and still make away with more than half of the winnings for themselves. 

Looking at the patrons, Brontide could tell that even a little divinity may spell the difference between a warm meal and going hungry, finding shelter or wandering the streets, perhaps even life or death. A gesture of good faith – to keep them quiet, compliant, and to keep their hands clean ( or, as clean as they could be ). Brontide had anticipated that the majority of their winnings would come from the front end of the train – where the truly wealthy patrons would be sitting. Anything they managed to get down this end was almost a bonus – though perhaps this is just something she tells herself to make the gnawing of guilt subside. 

A moment longer, and Brontide finally lowers her weapon – though she never lets the glint of the metal leave the passengers’ sights. All the ways this could go wrong were already ticking through their mind – there was nothing to stop the passengers from simply taking the bribe and getting off this train and talking to the revenants about what they saw anyway – doubling whatever they might have received and getting on the right side of the Faith, at the same time. It’s what Brontide would have done. The logical thing would be to kill them – to ensure their silence, rather than try to buy it, but, for those who have long wondered about where someone so ruthless might draw the line – this was it.

Perhaps she really was going soft.

𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍: February 8th, early afternoon 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄: Small field behind General Store 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐒: Closed, @brntide​​

Throughout the early morning and lunch time, Twelfth feels restless — with more than enough on her mind, paired with the usual feelings of guilt and grief, which never seem to leave them be, anyway. Twelfth tells herself she should be used to it, to the weight on her shoulders that feels like it will always drag her down. Most likely all the way to an early grave, if not because of their occupation then at the hands of Farrier ( a thought they never really dared to think so often about, not until the robbery ).

The food at the bar leaves a lot to be desired. Cold, salty, Twelfth has to battle scrunching her nose just so the barkeep doesn’t get a reason to throw her out for insulting the cook. Without wasting any time, after the last bite, Twelfth is out of the saloon and walking through town. Bow hanging at her back, she remembers that’s a way to battle the restlessness and so she heads to a small field behind the store, hoping she’ll be allowed some alone time with only her bow, her handmade arrows and a makeshift target.

Who knows whose face Twelfth is imagining when she fires arrow after arrow. 

They hear someone’s footsteps on the dry dirt and they turn around. Their expression doesn’t change from their tired one, nothing on it says whether or not they’re happy Brontide’s the face they see, the presence they now have to get used to. A few moments pass, Twelfth waiting for Brontide to say something ( though they don’t wait long enough, restlessness still coming through, now like impatience ). 

“Are you just going to stand there? It’s… distracting. You can shoot some if you want.”

EEL, Brontide thought – was a strange place. Perhaps they simply weren’t giving it a chance, given their lingering anxiety over the status of the robbery, slinking around and waiting for Jack to drop the other shoe on them – approval over their work seeming almost too good to be true, given their past transgressions. It was much smaller than BOUNTY – though far more lawless, which, Brontide supposed, was at least one thing to be grateful for – fleeing glances over her shoulder far less frequent when she had little reason to suspect she was being followed by REVENANTS. 

Unfortunately, the positives of Eel seemed to be outweighed by the negatives – such a small space quickly found Brontide growing restless – the inn they’d been posted in was too stuffy and suffocating, the food at the Atlantis left much to be desired ( though, she had to admit, it was still preferable to the food they cooked for themselves at camp ), and Brontide soon found themselves somewhat aimlessly patrolling the dusty streets of Eel, lost in their own thoughts, as they often were.

They spot TWELFTH some distance away as they’re passing the general store – her bow hung at her back as she ducks behind the storefront and out of Brontide’s sight. They try their best not to cast suspicion on their fellow crew mates ( at least, not now, not after everything they’d put them all through ) – but Twelfth was something of an anomaly. Brontide couldn’t claim to know them particularly well, but what they did know tended to worry them, and though Twelfth had thus far proven to be loyal, Brontide couldn’t help but wonder how long it was until she trained her weapons on the Odyssey, too. 

The robbery’s been a success. They’ve done well enough, and making it to Eel means that they won’t be hunted the way they usually are after a win in Bounty. It’s a relief that even after all these years, they can bank on cowardice of men and women who otherwise call themselves all-powerful the minute they pass some imaginary marker.

He’d questioned the choice to put Brontide in charge, he’ll admit to that, but they’ve done so much repenting over the past few months they’ve been with the gang again that there’d been no other option. This had been Brontide’s moment of sink or swim, and by the Martyr, they’d fucking swam. It wasn’t exactly a tiny haul that they all pulled, was it? Shame about the injury to the engineman, sure, but that’d been Cain’s notorious temper and not anything that Brontide could’ve stopped unless they’d fought to the front of the train to the back. He still doesn’t have all the details, but even he knows that would’ve been a tough ask.

Farrier decides, resolutely, that after his conversation with Twelfth he needs a drink. Most encounters he has with them leave him with a dry mouth, and that’s what has him in The Atlantic, listening to the idle conversations of those around him. The place isn’t packed, but it’s close, and he’s been eavesdropping on a couple that seems to be on the verge of breaking their sanctimonious vows after a few rounds. He’s taking silent bets in his head: another drink if they do split, two if they don’t, three if they decide to head upstairs. What else does he have to do, beyond wait for them to get out of there? Waking up with a hangover wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.

He’s not surprised to see Brontide, but they look like someone told them Winslow had just keeled over and died, so that doesn’t bide well. He’s bracing himself; they’ll either sit, or they won’t. She gets a drink, and sure enough, here she comes, whiskey sour in hand. He nods in agreement at the empty space in the booth, placing his glass down and going for the cigarette that’s been quietly burning in the ashtray for a few minutes.

“You should be feeling good,” he quips, brows lifted to punctuate. Maybe not, though — how many jobs did he pull and feel like complete dogshit after? More than he could count. That lent more to Raph’s temper than anything else. His brother would be hooting and hollering, and there Farrier’d be, picking through the carcasses and just waiting for the other shoe to drop. It did drop, eventually, but not when he though it would. He watches Brontide’s face, doesn’t break eye contact. “What’s on your mind?”

Since their untriumhpant return, FARRIER had been one of the few who afforded them the rare commodity of KINDNESS – something Brontide was unsure they deserved, but still devoured like a desperate animal. Farrier wasn’t apathetic to their disappearance in the way GULL or LARK were – no, he instead seemed to have taken a particular interest in Brontide since her return that she isn’t sure was there previously, ensuring she felt as safe as possible within a crew that had previously been family – and were still, perhaps, even if the bonds were more difficult to recognise as an outsider. 

Farrier was kind, yes, but kindness was still a commodity – and, just as with food or water or clothing, it came at a price. Brontide just wasn’t sure what it was yet. 

So, they maintained a safe distance. Sure, they engaged in pleasantries and indulged in Farrier’s kindness – speaking to him when it felt as though others would never see her as anything but a traitor ( no matter how pure their intentions had been, not that they had bothered to divulge these to anybody ) – but their most valuable cards remained firmly against their chest. Even though part of her longed desperately to reveal them and shed some of the weight that had long burdened her shoulders, Brontide knew the risks that came with vulnerability – had been witness to them, over and over, and would not allow herself to fall into this same trap again. 

So, when Farrier asks what is on their mind – the response is stilted ( nothing sits poised at the tip of their tongue, a potent dismissal that worked well enough for those who did not care to pry deeper ). You should be feeling good, he says – and Brontide is inclined to agree. They can’t quite pinpoint when they’d first noticed the doubt that had begun to creep in at their every move – the feeling that every decision they made had more weight than before, that a single wrong step would spell the difference between flying or falling. 

@brntide​

WHERE: The Atlantis WHEN: Feb 5th

It’s not that the food Gull has with the gang is not good. He’s been quiet impressed with that they’re able to do, considering it was not a skill Gul was taught and his time on his own always lead for very disappointing meals. But they were in Eel and he felt that he could use some food cooked by the hands of another person. Just for something different.

And the food wasn’t anything to holler about either, but they seemed to use different seasonings and Gull found that perfectly appealing. As he took aother bite of his stew, he found that his company was no longer solitary as Brontide had approached the dining section.

He kicks out the chair in front of him, the wood scraping wood as it slid. He pops a potato into his mouth and gestures with an empty hand. “The chair is cold.” He says as an observation. “It’s looking for a rear to occupy it.”

Brontide was used to making do with whatever food was available. When they were younger, they’d had the luxury of home-prepared meals ( though home may have been a slight stretch – their family moving between camps much of the time ) – however scarce their supplies may have been, her parents did their best to ensure that Brontide and their sister were, a blessing that, like so many others, Brontide failed to appreciate until it was snatched away. They quickly found themselves alone, and any food they could come across was better than starvation – so they learned to focus on sustenance rather than flavour – something they were glad for whenever the crew was short on supplies or they stopped off in a small town with little resources to prepare a tasteful meal.

The food in EEL was better than she was used to – or perhaps having something warm and hearty was always going to be a welcome change from the morsels they’d grown used to during their isolation from the crew in the preceding months. She orders a simple soup from THE ATLANTIS as the sun starts to grow heavy in the sky, glancing around the establishment for an empty seat before her eyes land on GULL, who quickly waves them over. Truth be told, they’d paid little attention to the MEDIC before ( everything was divided into before and after, these days, separated by the callous act of bloodshed that sent Brontide spinning back into the crew’s orbit ) – she’d always been grateful when he stitched up her wounds, but, beyond this, had little interest in making smalltalk.

𝐀𝐋𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐑𝐎𝐁𝐁𝐄𝐑𝐘 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐁𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐀 𝐒𝐔𝐂𝐂𝐄𝐒𝐒, 𝐁𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐃𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐅𝐄𝐋𝐓 𝐔𝐍𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐘. It was difficult for them to determine exactly why they still felt so on edge – replaying the events of the heist over and over again, despite walking away from the train with enough divinity to last them weeks and a nod of approval from Jack. It was like they were waiting for the other shoe to drop – for something they’d missed to come back and bite them, jeopardising their success and tenuous utility within the gang. Though they’d always been caught up in the past, dwelling this thoroughly on a heist was new – coming with the newfound scrutiny they imagined themselves to be under following their sudden desertion and even more sudden return.

Perhaps it shouldn’t have come as a surprise that sleep didn’t quickly befall her. She’d always been a light sleeper – mind never quite switching all the way off, after years of ensuring she was constantly vigilant and alert. Her sleep had always been plagued by dreams – distortions of the past that sent her tossing and turning and unable to clear them from her mind, even long after she’d awoken. Tonight, however, Brontide could not even reach this stage – their mind stubbornly refusing to clear even for the few minutes they required to fall into what would surely be a fitful slumber. Seconds stretch into minutes which stretch into hours, and when they next check their watch they find that late night has bled into early morning, and they decide to give up on the fruitless endeavour.

They stalk their way through the halls of RAVEN’S REST – ( the inn was quaint, but big enough for the needs of the gang, and the owners hadn’t asked many questions yet ), slipping through the entrance and out into the cool night air, breathing it in. EEL was quieter at night – though the odd person or two could still be spotted on the dimly lit streets. It would be almost peaceful were it not for the sounds of patrons stumbling out of the Atlantis down the road following last call – drunken revelry bouncing off the walls and echoing through the streets. The faintest hint of a smile graces Brontide’s face at the sound of the inebriated singing of a familiar tune – but it is gone as quickly as it had came, replaced once again with an impressive impassivity, giving nothing away, even in solitude. 

—

Old Halo had a bad feeling about this mission from the start. Call it a message from the Martyr, although truthfully, it was nothing more than the knowledge that they’d be dealing with revenants weighing on her mind. Every time they got close to the Faith, Old Halo had the feeling that she was dancing around fire, that her mask might be burned off and reveal her for what she truly was. But she couldn’t betray that fear, certainly not in front of Brontide, so she strode through the train like she owned it.

It was actually going quite smoothly. Brontide dispatched any members of the Faith that they came across with a chilling sort of ease, while Old Halo persuaded the rich denizens of the train that they would be better off emptying their pockets without protest. That was, until they got to a carriage where the inhabitants had nothing in their pockets to begin with.

It was immediately obvious that this car was different. If not because of the thick scent of dust and body odor of dozens of sweaty people packed in like sardines, then because of the ripped seats, the shattered windows, and the people with steely eyes and hollow cheeks.

Old Halo caught the eye of the same small child that Brontide saw, and it was like looking in a fun house mirror. She saw herself and her siblings, wide-eyed and barefoot, chasing after a Resurrector and begging for food or coin. Only, this child was much worse off than she had ever been, because her parents were unable to keep the Revenants at bay. The tattoo of an open palm on her wrist suddenly seemed as though it was burning through her.

Brontide’s comment snapped her out of it. She turned to look at her, brows knitting together. “Yes, I see that,” she replied. How oblivious did Brontide believe her to be? Understanding dawned on her a moment later; these people had nothing for them, so they would have to decide what to do with them. They would be easy to bribe, if they let them go and the Faith found them. Not so easy to scare into silence, given that they had nothing to lose. Her expression hardened and she whispered, “We’re not killing them.”

We’re not killing them. Brontide had no desire to do so – they’d gained a reputation as RUTHLESS over the years, but they attributed their success more towards their intelligence, strategy, and restraint, rather than indulging in unnecessary bloodshed. Killing a carriage full of innocent bystanders didn’t sit well with her – not when she looked at them and saw desperation – the eyes of people just looking for a fresh start, an escape – something Brontide had been gifted, time and time again. Who were they to rob these people of that same chance? Who were they to viciously snatch away their dreams and their lives?

At the same time, the survivor and the outlaw in their mind raised its voice – for the right price, these people could be bought by the highest bidder. For the right price, they could recall Brontide and Old Halo’s faces – they could sell the JACK ODYSSEY GANG down the river and see to the swift end of everything they had built. She looked at them and saw desperation and sorrow, yes – but also danger. If they were to exit this train alive and tell their tale to any ears that would listen – it would ultimately come back on Brontide, and this was a risk they weren’t sure they were willing to take. 

A movement at the end of the carriage tears Brontide from their thoughts – a REVENANT has arisen from his seat and looks upon Brontide and Old Halo with revulsion. He’s quick to reach for a weapon, but Brontide is quicker – hand already on the gun they use to deliver a clean shot to the head. They don’t feel satisfaction at the fact that this was the very same way Revenants had killed their father all those years ago – eyes back on the passengers, who now flinch away from them with fear that they’ll be the next targets she trains her weapon on. 

𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐃, 𝐁𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐃𝐄 𝐒𝐔𝐏𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐄𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐑𝐎𝐁𝐁𝐄𝐑𝐘 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃 𝐁𝐄 𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐃 𝐀 𝐒𝐔𝐂𝐂𝐄𝐒𝐒. They were glad not to have known about the various complications which had arisen throughout the course of the heist at the time – each recollection of the events she’d heard since disembarking had only served to cause her concern, and increasing surprise that they’d managed to make it off the train with all crew members and divinity in tact. It was no secret to all involved that this heist had needed to go well – and that BRONTIDE had the most riding on its success of them all.

It had almost come as a shock when Odyssey had informed them they’d be leading this heist – the first one they’d been put in charge of since returning to the crew a few months ago. Sure, she had been welcomed back by their leader upon her return ( she won’t go so far as to say with welcome arms, but the fact that he hadn’t shot Brontide dead on the spot was probably as close to welcomed as she was going to get ), and they had been keeping their head down and working hard ever since – but, truthfully, they’d not expected to be entrusted with something so... critical so soon. 

While she might have questioned the move on Odyssey’s part, she was also sure that there were several other members of the crew who felt the same way, and they weren’t willing to provide those who might doubt her with an opening to question her position more than they already did. So, Brontide had graciously accepted the appointment with a firm promise that they would not let Odyssey down ( though their promises carried little weight these days, it still felt right to say it ). They hadn’t allowed themselves the chance to breathe until all members of the crew had exited the train, until they had met up again with Odyssey and Courier, until the divinity had been counted and divided – until Odyssey had looked her in the eye and nodded, as close to approval as she imagined she would get.

Still, Brontide felt as though they could have done MORE.

Twenty-four hours later, and while they imagine the rest of the crew are riding high off the thrill of SUCCESS, Brontide still exists within their own thoughts. They run over the events, again and again, considering changes they could have made – ways they might have improved. Perhaps it was unhelpful to dwell on the past – but this had always been their way, so trapped in what was and what might have been, that they forget to focus on what is. This may have been a success, yes, but it still failed to truly feel like one.

𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐓𝐎 𝐆𝐎 𝐖𝐄𝐋𝐋. This rang true for everyone, they supposed – failure of this robbery would not only mean a significant financial loss for them all, but would certainly spell trouble with the REVENANTS they would all prefer to avoid – but the caper held particular significance to BRONTIDE, a chance, perhaps FINAL, to prove that they still held value within the JACK ODYSSEY GANG. If this were to fail, they knew it would become significantly more difficult to justify their role within the crew – and if their role could not be justified, it was only a matter of time before it would slip from their grasp altogether, and Brontide would find herself either wandering FOOL’S PROSPECT alone, or buried beneath it. 

They weren’t sure which option was worse.

The clock strikes 6:00PM, and Brontide starts the signal – a long, low whistle before OLD HALO takes the cue to drop her hat. This was a signal they’d used before – one that had originally been taught to her by JACK ODYSSEY himself, back when it had only been he and COURIER and Brontide traversing the landscape of Fool’s Prospect – back before the Odyssey Gang was a group to be feared, and back before they could have ever dreamed of pulling off something so elaborate as what they are attempting. 

She knows what is to happen next – PARAGON will no doubt say something obnoxious and showy, and then – 

The sound of a single bullet fired from the front of the train lets everybody know that the heist is now in motion. This part, for Brontide at the very least, was SIMPLE. Though it was no longer a fact that she took great amounts of pride in – Brontide was proficient when it came to parting people from their divinity. When they’d been doing it for so long, it was difficult not to be. She approaches this part almost clinically – she has no personal vendetta against these people, but their assets would simply... be better off with the Odyssey.

Even as Brontide and Old Halo pick their way through the back carriages with an expert precision, she cannot help her mind from drifting to the other members of the crew. This part was difficult – Brontide’s reputation, her standing, and her future within the gang were all resting upon the success of this heist – and, unfortunately, the success the heist hinged upon the cooperation of the rest of the crew, which could never be guaranteed. She could have sworn she saw more than a few disappointed faces when it had been announced that Brontide would be leading this robbery – and they cannot help but wonder whether personal grievances would alter the behaviours of the rest of the crew.

Perhaps, though – this is what they imagine Brontide deserves.