FERRYMAN

FARRIER  •  SUMMARY, POSSIBLE PLOTS, FULL APPLICATION  •  BIOGRAPHY

—

Twelfth half-expects the other ( Farrier, is it? They rack their brain, trying to remember the names introduced to them over the last few days but, even if they wanted to, it’s like their brain’s processing power died along with Mother and The First ) to just stay around for a few moments before deciding to walk away. It’s not out of rudeness but there’s barely anyone in the camp that can actually “gloat” about having had a full conversation with her. 

And the moment she hears what Farrier has to say, Twelfth finds herself wishing it had been kept that way — no conversation, no sharing, no questions, none of what Farrier has presented her with. They look at him, they stare just for a moment too long as if they’re trying to decipher whether or not they heard it right or if it’s just their brain trying to make them feel worse.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. It’s all real, isn’t it? Farrier is asking about his brother. Farrier is asking about Raphael. Farrier is asking about The First. The same First Twelfth shot in the head. They can lie, they realise. They can say they don’t know. What are the chances of running into someone from The Family that would know everything ( or at least enough ) to tell Farrier the truth?

Just lie, Twelfth, just lie. “Raphael? Your brother?” She killed her brother and she killed Farrier’s brother. Maybe she deserves whatever comes to her if her lips decide to pour out everything. “He was your brother.” It’s not a question, just a mumble and more of a vocal and painful realisation. “He’s — he’s dead, he’s — he was shot.” That’s it. That’s all you have to say, Twelfth. That’s it. Good job. 

“I shot him, I — he had his gun trained on me.” Farrier needs to know. He does. He deserves to mourn his brother, just like Twelfth has been trying to. He deserves to feel it all without deceit. 

—

Twelfth speaks with hesitation, like they have to pry the words out of their own mouth with just their hands. Farrier watches their face carefully, mouth turned down into something that isn’t quite a frown but close, and waits. He just wants an answer, he thinks, some sort of indication that will tell him what he needs to know. It’s yes or it’s no, that’s all it is, and yet—

The world shrinks to the size of a pin. It pricks into his fingers, sharp but not exactly painful. It’s not quite the devastation that Farrier would approximate or equivalate to being shot. No, it’s more like the breath is whisked out of him. The numbness starts at his feet and moves upwards at such a slow pace he thinks it’ll never arrive at his skull. “What?” They’re joking. It’s a joke, obviously. He starts to take a step forward, thinks better of it, and then does it anyways. Not quite crowding in. He doesn’t want to startle her, send her on the run.

He’s dead. He was shot. Alright. He’s dead. He was shot. An inevitability, Farrier knows, and that’s something he can cope with, the idea that things were always meant to be this way. And then Twelfth keeps fucking talking. Farrier’s head starts to spin. He has to think about it. He really has to think about it, what it is that they’re telling him.

I’m sorry, he wants to say, but the words don’t come out. It’s like they’ve reached into his mouth to pry the words out and keep ‘em for themselves. He steps back again. “What the fuck are you talking about?” The First — Raphael had been The First? The puzzle slowly begins to piece itself together, at least inside his head. “Twelfth,” he snaps, his voice sharp around the edges, taking another step forward and then back again and he doesn’t know what to do with his hands, “what the fuck are you talking about?”

On a good week folks come and go from Paragon’s tent like it’s open season—so this quiet? It’s unbecoming of him. It gives him too much time to simmer there where that glaring sun can’t reach. Farrier’s rare company, sure, but he takes what he can get. Drinks from it like a man gone a hundred days in a dust storm. He manages a laugh; faint and hoarse (nothing like his usual jovial bellow).

“Then I’ll enjoy it while it lasts.”

Paragon eats, and eats until his plate scrapes clean.

There’s only a passing groan of protest—muffled around the tines of his fork. A few moments of staring Farrier out beneath a knitted brow. Then he puffs a small sigh and says, “I don’t know how much lifting I got in me as of yet, but you point me in the right direction and I’ll make do.” Fed and ready as he’ll ever be to do what Farrier wilt, Paragon turns to snag his shirt from where it’s draped by his cot. Pulls it over his head with only some difficulty, his sore body aching in protest. 

“Day’s not getting any younger, right?”

—

In truth, seeing Paragon agree is something of a relief. Farrier wasn’t sure he would — feared, even, that Paragon would remain in his tent and rot away in misery like others have in the past when mortally wounded. But he collects the last vestiges of his meal at the end of his fork and devours it like any other starving man would, and Farrier quietly plucks the plate out of his reach when he goes to put his short on. “No, there ain’t. But I figure you’ve got plenty of long days ahead of you.”

He hopes so. He really does. He’d never admit it, but he likes Paragon. And some days, even as an outlaw, you get tired of dealing in death.

“We’ll start with the horses,” he says, moving to the flaps of the tent. “Feed ‘em, water ‘em, brush ‘em if someone’s forgotten. You can just watch me. I can do the heavy lifting for now.”

—

He’s quick to make a few discovers about Paragon in the upcoming days: the man has good intentions nested within these discoveries, but that doesn’t change the reality of them.

Somehow, he’d always managed to elucidate a response without directly answering her question, but it was always a response that said more than a plain yes or no ever could. “There are far worse animals than cats that you could’ve designated the lot of us. So I guess it isn’t too miserable of a job,” Lark responds in playful contemplation. “There aren’t many others I’d trust to handle my food, if that counts for anything. Or the management of anything, let alone themselves.” The comment isn’t about anyone in particular, but a few people came to mind. “I don’t think I’m in the position to dispute the murder or management part, but I’m willing to take your word for it.”

 They continue with their designated tasks with burgeoning ease. “I’d be more than happy to, but I’m guessing the hellfire left in my wake will fall on you once you get back,” Lark reminds Farrier with a waggish smirk, knowing there existed more truth in that statement than she’d intended. “We could start smaller. Like me becoming your assistant chef that works part-time. Better yet— a seasonal assistant chef. The hours would work better for me.”

Farrier likes Lark, frankly. She’s funny and sharp as a knife when she wants to be, and it’s easy to imagine her doing as well as she does in any situation. It’s like she’s prepped for all environments... except for whatever one she’d been in when Odyssey had plucked her up and into the band of fools instead. He laughs, loud and gawkish. “Seasonal assistant chef? What season — the one where it’s blistering hot for three quarters of the year, or the one where it’s almost blistering hot?” He can see it now, the two of them dressed in matching regalia and all. He’s found worn-down nametags from the Old World, punched through with metal. He should try and fashion something like that for the two of them.

He could see the punch coming; a prediction that was truly no prediction at all, tailored from the blanched coil of Farrier’s fist and the burning intent in his eyes. Yet the knowledge was as useless as anything Rambler could have said or done to quell what was coming — it didn’t halt the fist that came flying towards him, or push him out of its single-minded path.

Rambler could only weather the unstoppable, eyes clenching shut as pain imploded across his jaw and breath snagged into a knot in his throat, the air sent fleeing into the uncomfortable choke-point by the weight that settled over him. It was only when he opened his eyes that he realized he was on the ground with Farrier pressing down on him, and when it became clear that the man had no intention of extricating himself any time soon, Rambler turned his head to the side, snatching a breath that tasted of blood.

It wasn’t the hand snared in his collar that made him turn back towards Farrier, but the words that fired out against the unmarred side of his jaw. He searched Farrier’s face with wide, perplexed eyes, before his expression slowly sobered into a look of grim understanding. So this was about the prediction that he had given him not too long ago; one that had clearly come to pass. That much was clear, but there was still something missing. Rambler couldn’t shake that feeling, even as he disregarded it in favor of reassuring Farrier.

He gripped the man’s forearm, in the same place as when he had told him of the loss he had foreseen, hoping to affirm his honesty with the touch. “I told you as soon as I saw it, Farrier. And I didn’t tell you anything more or less than what I actually saw.” He said, eyes locked on Farrier’s. His lips parted around an apology, but he didn’t voice it, realizing that the words would be utterly meaningless to Farrier and would most likely only serve to anger him further. He swallowed, throat bobbing beneath Farrier’s hand. “So… so it happened.” He stated hesitantly, lips parting once more only to close with the same futility as before. He shook his head, frustrated at the way his words were failing him, yet aware that there was nothing he could do about it. He could only lie here at Farrier’s mercy.

—

He’d become used to a certain kind of reaction when he decided to hit someone. Some kind of plea, or begging off, or even the occasional weepiness if he hadn’t shot them already. Rambler does none of those things; in fact, all he does is say more cryptic shit. The fury in Farrier’s belly turns over and he goes in for a second hit. By this time other members of the gang have looked up, but it’s hard to tell if they’ll come over and actually intervene or not.

“Yes, it fucking happened, you piece of fool’s fucking gold. What’s wrong with you?” He’s tempted to squeeze his hands around Rambler’s throat and end his time as a prophet right here, right now, but somehow thinks better of it. Just like that, the sky clears of clouds, and he comes back to himself.

—

Old Halo’s eyebrows shot up at his immediate answer. His clarification, that that wasn’t who he was anymore, was less than reassuring. He told her her days with the Faith were behind her, and though it was just about certainly true, she had to suppress a grimace. “Mm. Martyr-serving. That’s exactly what I think of when I look at you,” she said, a weak attempt at a joke.

She sighed at his question, as if her betrayal was a story she was tired of telling. Truthfully, she was beginning to hate echoing the lie over and over. But if it kept her in the group’s good graces, she’d say it until she believed it herself. “I’m surprised you haven’t heard it already,” she muttered. “I thought everyone on the continent had by now.”

She looked sideways at Farrier. “When I joined the Faith, it was because I believed in the Martyr’s ideals. I wanted, more than anything, to help people. To uplift my fellow man, to bring them hope and salvation in the darkest of times. But the higher I climbed in the Faith, the more I realized that that was the opposite of what the Faith actually does. It’s a corrupt organization, filled by people no better than criminals, only looking to earn divinity. While I preached, they sent Revenants to cut down everyone who didn’t believe in their message. Or, really, anyone who couldn’t pay.”

She frowned. “Eventually, the greed and corruption was too obvious to ignore. I wasn’t just disillusioned. I grew to hate them for the way they tore down the very people I was trying to help…and I hated myself, for helping them. I wanted to take down the Faith, to destroy every Resurrector and Revenant who only sought power or divinity. So I did something stupid.” She scraped her spoon against the bottom of her bowl, eyes downcast as if she was ashamed. “I began giving information to a group of outlaws, about where and when my fellow members of the Faith would be, so that they could attack and rob them.”

Her expression contorted into a perfect mask of contrition. “Of course, the Faith was bound to find out eventually. As soon as I got word that they had, I left as fast as I could. I know perfectly well what they would have done to me had I stayed. Now my reputation and everything I’ve built up is gone. Worse than gone. Stained.”

She pursed her lips. “So, in answer to your question…I still believe in some of the Martyr’s teachings. I believe in generosity, in kindness, in community. But I don’t believe in the Faith, not in the slightest.”

—

While she speaks, he keeps his head downturned and his eyes on the ground, at the little sprouts of grass peeking through the soil. They’re not a particularly lush green, but he thinks they could be vibrant one day if given the time to grow. Old Halo, at least, seems to buy into what she’s saying. She weaves a story about what she had thought faith to truly be and what it actually turned out as, and his heart might hurt for her, just a little bit.

From the fire across the way, Courier jumps up to pick the story up where Jack Odyssey left off, their hands waving and mouth split into a wide smile. Farrier watches them for a little while, and imagines her approaching some nasty bunch with a request that no rational person would want to commit to.

Outlaws, of course, aren’t rational people — especially not when they’ve been plied with divinity.

He’s not the man who should be judging anyone, especially not for murder, but Farrier still smiles when she’s done talking. “That’s cold,” and he means it, because it is cold, but there’s also a twist of pride to his tone that indicates that might not be a bad thing. It takes guts, after all, to betray the very people you thought you loved for years and years. “My brother did the same thing to me, leaving me behind, I mean. And I still hate him, so... you might fit in here more than we thought you would.” Unspoken: more than I thought you would.

He shifts a little, straightens his spine. “You believe in generosity, kindness, and community, but you pay a bunch of killers to slaughter someone who might’ve been as deep into it as you were, and then you run and join a bunch of killers because that’s obviously the next best option.” He hums, halfway between an actual laugh and more of just a noise. Farrier pauses. “ You’re a funny woman, Old Halo. Lemme ask you something: are you happy?”

—

Old Halo shook her head. “Revenge isn’t the right thing,” she insisted. It was what a Resurrector would say. She couldn’t bring herself to reject everything the Faith stood for; she wasn’t sure she could pretend to if she tried. Even if she wasn’t the true believer she’d claimed to be, its teachings had wormed their way into her brain, entangled themselves with her synapses. She hardly realized how much they were part of her.

“All it does is put more death into the world, and you won’t feel any better then than you do now,” she said. It wasn’t like she would know, but she willed Farrier to listen anyway. She had to find a way to talk him out of this. Otherwise…she didn’t want to consider the consequences if she didn’t. “We’ll all be worse off if you do this.”

I think I’ve done my time, he said. Her hand leaped from her side with a mind all its own and grabbed his, her fingers curling around his palm. “Don’t talk like that,” she snapped. Her hand dropped as soon as she realized she was clutching his, a surprised look in her eyes like she hadn’t realized she could interact with the physical plane. She cleared her throat.

“If you truly can’t stand living like this,” she gestured back to the town, to the Gang, “I believe you’ll find a way out. When I look at you, I don’t see a man on the verge of death. I see someone with a lot of life left to live. Someone with a future; just, maybe not a future here. But if you live like you’re going to die, of course you will. Don’t just throw your life away. Can you promise me that, at least?”

—

He hears her say it. He does. But he just doesn’t know if he believes it, and he thinks that it probably shows on his face. “The Faith’s been taking revenge on people for years just for the crime of existing in the wrong spot. You’re telling me that if you didn’t see the bastard that chased you out, you wouldn’t shoot him on the spot?” Even after all these years, Old Halo’s given him sparse details on the events leading up to her abandonment of her old life. From what he understands, it’d been ugly, but...

She’s right. She’s right, because killing Twelfth doesn’t get him shit except for that one moment of relief that the old adage eye for an eye still applies. She takes his hand, and it’s nice just to have her there, even if she drops it a second later.

“You know, I hate it when you say things that make sense. Perfect sense, even.” Farrier can’t help it if he cracks a small smile as he speaks, humor breaking through the grim clouds of guilt.

–

There’s a smirk on Farrier’s face, which then causes Gull to give and amused huff, and toss the jam over in his hand. “I seem to have come in possession of an influx of divinity.” And with the money he’s not putting away to save, he feels he can treat himself to a jar of jam. It’s about the little things.

However, the following question is not what he had expected. He was usually the one to check up on others, not others checking up on him. He looks up, staring at the things affixed tot he shelf as he considers his response. Gull never spends much time considering how he is ‘doing’. “I think, in the grand scheme of the mental condition, I’m doing alright. My spirits are not exactly low, but I feel as though there is always a level of anxiety with this group that I cannot seem to do away with. Perhaps there was more anxiety than I typically experience— but no.” He nods his head, as if to convey certainty, “No, I think I am rather well now that we’re done and everyone has come out alive. That’s always a victory, you know.”

—

I feel like there is always a level of anxiety with this group that I cannot seem to do away with. Farrier can’t help it. He cackles. It’s loud, and obnoxious, and the first good laugh he’s had in months. He has to look away from the bizarre can of beans and the shelves. People in the general store shove right on by with a strange look on their faces, and even the man behind the counter stacking coins gives him an odd look, but the joy keeps going until he’s bent halfway over and coughing for air. It’s only when he resurfaces, wiping at his eyes, that he manages to speak. “Oh, that’s good! Level of anxiety, he says. You’re a funny man, Gull.”

He’s right, though. It’s a miracle that they all managed to pull it off successfully and make it out alive, especially with Brontide running things. Brontide’s been rattling with some bizarre fear since they came back, but they proved themselves three times over in spite of the chaos. “You did a good job, you know. I think I would’ve just shot Cain and saved myself the trouble.” Not really. Cain’s frustrating, but he’s more useful than Farrier thinks he realizes. An asset. And Shotgun would lose their fucking mind if Cain died. That’s another can of worms entirely.

FEBRUARY 6th, 2349. RAVEN’S REST. CLOSED TO @ferriar​​​.

He’s spent the better part of the past hour rifling through the gang’s carts out back behind Raven’s Rest, pilfering whatever strikes his fancy and whatever he thinks he can pocket without raising any flags. So far, he’s taken a gold-plated watch engraved with the initials D.H., an emerald ring, and a handsome stack of divinity. He wears the jewelry on his person in plain sight, a flagrant display of his offenses, and he find a home for the divinity in the pocket of his coat. 

Quarter’s untimely kink in his plans aboard the train a few days ago has left his pockets wanting, and he’s keen on making up for time and profit lost on account of the mettlesome debtor. Mostly, though, he’s keen on having a little fun, which he’s been sorely lacking since the gang’s arrival to Eel. Pillaging his own gang’s loot is little more than a happy diversion as he bides his time until the arrival of his real happy diversion.

He can’t know for sure that Farrier will show face, but if he was a gambling man, which he is, he’d bet a pretty penny on Farrier making an appearance here tonight. The horses need to be fed, for one thing. And for another, Hellion can only guess at whatever existential crisis Farrier’s moral compass is ushering him towards in the aftermath of the robbery, so he’s betting he’ll turn up here to feed the horses and use the window of solitude to dissect the same thought again and again, until his brow aches from brooding so intensely.

He’s pulling on the drawstrings of a small pouch of coins when he hears the loud clamor of a door swinging open. The quiet din of nightlife all around him falls silent, and even the crickets stop rubbing their wings together, as if anticipating the exchange about to unfold. The only sound that reminds is the soft whinny of Bastard, no doubt happy to see perhaps the only person he’s ever happy to see. Traitor.

“Honey, you’re home,” Hellion deadpans, voice glib. He doesn’t look up, mostly because he doesn’t have to. He’s a gambling man, and he bet on the right horse tonight. “You’re late,” he calls out to Farrier, which is an altogether outrageous thing to say to someone with whom you have no standing appointment. His fingers reach deftly inside of the pouch of coins, rummaging through its contents for sport more than anything else. The texture of the coins, cool and hard and smooth, soothes something restless inside of him, and the sensation emboldens him. He makes no effort to hide the watch on his wrist, or the ring on his little finger, or the pouch of coins in his hands. Let Farrier see. Let him do something about it. You won’t, he silently dares him as he pulls a coin from the pouch and begins flipping it in the air. 

“How was your day?” he asks, not because he particularly cares, but because he’s fishing for a ‘how was your day?’ in return.

The clock strikes six, and Farrier admits to himself that sitting around and waiting for something to happen is not productive. Hauling his ass out and making sure the horses are taken care of is something that he can do, so... even if he mutters the entire time as he uses the inn’s back-room sink to (slowly, slowly, so slowly) fill buckets with water. When he steps outside, the sun is already setting behind the horizon. The wagons and horses are eclipsed in orange, and more than that, the horses are snippy, like they know that he’s an hour late.

Assholes.

He usually starts with the worst of them (so, Angel to start with) and works his way to the ones who behave themselves well enough. He’d never admit to playing favorites, but Fleetwood and Bastard never put up any big fuss. They don’t bite, or try to kick, or knock him over when they drink. He watches as Fleetwood more or less puts his whole damn face in the basin and considers sleeping outside tonight.

He hasn’t been able to really rest since the robbery, and sleeping inside might mean a visit from Twelfth. If she were to shoot him, the horses would at least throw a fit, and then she’d probably be caught red handed. If he were inside... fuck. He can hear Old Halo now, saying you shouldn’t have told them, but it’s not like he’d been thinking rationally at the time. Quite the opposite, in fact: he’d been out of his fucking mind.

He’s going for the sacks of feed when he hears it, the rustling inside the wagon. The first thing he does is pull out his pistol, draw back the hammer, and wait to see if anyone pops their head out. Should’ve known better, he thinks, to expect thieves. Except it’s not a thief (in the exact sense) that pokes their head out. It’s Hellion.

Farrier weighs the pros and cons of shooting Hellion now while he has the chance. Bastard whinnies again, all soft and polite-like, as if telling Farrier to get a move on so they can all eat. He looks Hellion up and down, from the ring to the watch to the coins, and holsters his guns. It’s not disbelief that paints his face, because this is, frankly, textbook (that’s what Gull calls them, right?) Hellion. It’s more like disappointment. He wastes no time in walking right up to him, hand out in expectance. “You can have the watch, and the ring, but not the coins. Hand ‘em over, you fuckin’ magpie. Were you planning on doing this all week, or is this a flight of fancy?”

‣↷

Farrier has an awkwardness about him that puts Witness both on edge and at ease. What she sees is a man wrestling with kindness like one might wrestle to put a too-tight shirt on. It’ll never quite fit; reality bursts from the seams: Maybe he isn’t kind. But then, what is kindness?

Witness has found it in the small acts, yet even those come with a price on their head. And so she’s concluded that kindness is a mirage, wobbling in the distance on a very hot day. Unreachable. Unknowable.

It doesn’t matter if she might find some of it in the clarity of Farrier’s words, the patience with which he concocts and writes them. What he’s written isn’t kind. If anything, it’s perplexing.

Beneath a quirked brow, Witness’ gaze snaps up to meet the man’s. She pauses, waits for him to crack a smile and lightly thwack the top of her head with the notepad, just so he can reveal that it was all a joke, of course he isn’t going to take her with him, of all people. He doesn’t.

“Me?” Witness asks, “you’re serious?”

—

Witness doesn’t seem to be able to believe that he wants her along for this, but to him, she makes the most sense. He doesn’t really know what experience she has in regards to... their line of work, so figuring it out now is the best way to do that. Farrier glances down at the pad and takes the time to scribble out Serious as a heart attack. A learning experience for you. Go get your stuff and meet me outside.

He flips the pad around and then hands it back to Witness before descending to give her time to get herself sorted. There are maybe three groups of fools he can see that are worth robbing. Wiley’s Angels, the Roadkill Bunch, and if they’re feeling ambitious and Witness has done well, they could see about calling in some sort of favor with the mayor, who undoubtedly has some sort of stockpile.

The inn’s quiet. It always seems to be quiet. He doesn’t know how Jack pulled that off, but he did manage it, and Farrier’s equal parts grateful for the chance to be alone with his own thoughts and resentful. When he focuses on things too much he tends to spin into a frenzy; Halo’s told him that.

He busies himself with checking his gun before stepping out into the bright light of morning. It probably won’t end up being used, but that’s alright. The message is more than enough. When he catches sight of Witness on her way down, he steps out the door and into the street to smoke a cigarette. It’s not busy yet, but it ain’t dead, either. Perfect. That’s just what they want.

—

Minutes turn into hours, hours turn into days and none of what Twelfth has been feeling subsides in the slightest. Their hands tremble every time they think about what they did, thumb kneading on the palm of their hands as if rubbing away blood that’s not there — not physically, at least, but Twelfth believes right there and then that it will never truly wash away. They will die and their last thought will be how The First felt when he met the same fate. They will cease to exist and they will think about how The Mother was there one day and not the next. There will not be a moment, awake or asleep, where Twelfth won’t think about what she’s lost.

Twelfth has been surviving the last couple of days… or was it more like almost a week? They can’t really tell anymore. They feel as if they’re simply floating most days, unable to properly control anything their mind or what they body does, going from A to B and back to A without really noticing they’re doing it. They barely eat, just the minimum to keep their body from wanting to shut down, they barely sleep, just enough to keep insanity away. She is barely herself but that doesn’t feel like a loss as big as the one she brought on herself.

The unknown voice brings her back from wherever dark, thought-fill pit Twelfth was about to jump into again. It takes her a moment to full process what he’s asked her. Her chest feels heavy, a lump growing on her throat. Just hearing about it makes her want to cry ( but you can’t cry, not now. Not yet. ). “Huh,” Twelfth starts, clearing her throat before continuing, “yeah, yeah. That’s, I don’t know what Jack’s told people but, yeah, that’s — yeah, that’s the gist of it.“ She accepts the can he offers her, even if she knows she’s not going to eat it. Just thinking about eating it makes her sick. “Why?”

—

Twelfth has the graciousness to take the can but doesn’t seem interested in eating anything. He sits down alongside her, resting his hands on his knees, and tries to decide the best way to proceed with a conversation as awkward with this one. There’s no polite small talk he could even entertain. Better, then, to just rip the bandage off. He looks down at the art, instead of her. The seconds seem to pass by too slow.

Now that he thinks about it, she’s scarcely eaten these past few days. He’ll need to keep an eye on that, to ensure she doesn’t starve herself out of her sorrow.

A couple days in town and Cain’s climbed the Wheel not once, not twice, but three times now. What’s even more interesting is that the thing’s still standing. So the locals were right, it is going to take a lot more than someone like Cain giving it a go for it to come down. 

He’s around (totally not thinking about doing the climb again) when Farrier finds him. Favor does not sound very appealing but the coin that accompanies it might just be the thing that makes him feel a bit charitable today. “Hmm. Alright,” he nods as he plucks the coin from Farrier’s hand, a smirk slowly forming on his lips. “You know, I like the one where you threatened to shoot me better. Might even be my favorite,” he says as they start walking towards the cart. Truth is, any and all of Farrier’s stories that involve him are his favorites—it’s a gateway into his past and Cain will take any opportunity to step through it. So ultimately, it’s not the money that swayed him into helping Farrier, it’s the promise that came after. “So how about both?”

—

Farrier’s lucky that Cain takes the bribe and starts to follow along, because there are absolutely days where Cain tells anyone and everything to fuck off... and they do, because you just don’t fuck with Cain if you can help it. It’s that simple, and Farrier learned the math to that equation a long time ago. “I think you like yourself a little too much, Cain,” but that could be argued for all of them, couldn’t it? He doesn’t say much else until they actually arrive at the wagon, with crates piled high and bags still needing to be dispersed. Farrier feels his soul shrivel up a little.

He points at a stack of crates: “start with those. Neatly, please. If I catch you throwing shit I’m gonna shave your head while you sleep.” That is not an idle threat, either. He starts working on the opposite side, organizing supplies and packing them away. As he does, he tries to summon up the details of the heist and the time he’d almost shot Cain in the head. “I think we were riding out of ‘Bucks, and there was a bounty on yours and Shotgun’s head that we’d decided to go after. Well, fate should have it, we meet at the crossroads, and we’re all tired, because The Faith have been chasing after us for six days. Were chasin’ after you too. You remember that?”

When Jack drags Twelfth back to camp, he doesn’t think much of it at first — and maybe that’s on him. They gel in with everyone else the same most do when Odyssey decides he’s going to tack on another member to their ever-growing... family. Things are awkward, at first, but he brings them meals and Gull hovers to make sure they’re not going to fall over dead. No horse with them; Odyssey’d had them ride along on his horse. Strange, but maybe understandable.

But there’s this strange thing happening in the pit of his stomach, bizarre nervousness that hinges on anxiety if he doesn’t babysit it. It’d only arrived when Twelfth had, and it doesn’t seem to disperse no matter how hard he tries. He spends days chewing over it, wondering and waiting, and then it all clicks into place.

It clicks, then, as he’s watching Twelfth. What Rambler said hits him like a train. She was in The Family — so it’s a slim chance, but there’s still a chance. It’s with this in mind as he brings them a can of salted fish to eat. No one’s been hunting in the past few days, so what they get is what they get. If anyone complains, they get an evil-eye sharp enough to move mountains. There’s no preamble as he approaches, can in hand, offering it to her: “You were with The Family, right? And then you ran.”

—

It’d be a bad way to die. Twelfth can’t help the scoff that escapes them, head shaking ever so slightly. Are there any good ones? Whether it’s at the hands of a stranger that looks at you with the same care one does at a tumbleweed or it’s at the hands of someone that knows your name, your story — none of which sounds good. “Don’t pretend you care about whether or not the way I die is a good or bad one. No one’s around.” After all, Farrier did just tell them they oughta thank Vex for still being alive. Twelfth doesn’t find it hard to believe part of the reason they’re still alive is because no one would believe whatever story Farrier had most likely concocted in he aimed his gun at them. 

And then, Farrier says something even more ridiculous and Twelfth doesn’t know what to think or what to feel anymore. Does he really think them that forgetful, that stupid or is he just undecided about the way he wants to put them out of their misery? They tilt their head, looking at Farrier straight in his dark eyes — eyes that look darker than the darkest shade of black there is and Twelfth swears the more she looks, the scarier he gets. “You wouldn’t have?” Another scoff. “You’re telling me if Vex hadn’t come around and I refused to turn around to meet your eyes, you wouldn’t have shot me? Bullshit.” 

Twelfth feels all the blood drain from their face, their body. All they want to do is take that coldness in Farrier’s words and wrap it around themself, willing themself to either get used to it or die in its familiarity. A heartbeat passes, then another one and another one, each seeming closer to the last. “You seem too sure I’ll just wait for you to shoot me when I spot you.” They throw his apparent promise back to him. Twelfth might live with an overwhelming guilt but not enough to have them give up like that. They’d lost it all before, the realisation of her brother’s crime taking everything out of her, and they still managed to outgun The First, after all. 

After Farrier’s question, Twelfth asks the same thing inside their mind. Soon enough, there’s an answer. “Bullets. Used far too many on the train and I might need some soon enough. Leave them with the clerk downstairs.” No need to face Farrier again, not for a while. "If there’s nothing else you want to tell me, I’d rather just close this door right now.” And lock it tight, just in case.

—

You seem too sure I’ll just wait for you to shoot me when I spot you.

Oh, this is daring. They’re playing a dangerous game of what-ifs, here, and Farrier wants to smack himself in the face for it, even as his temper flares. He does his best to keep his expression neutral and fails. “No one’s around, Twelfth. You could go get your gun and shoot me the minute I turn my back. What’s stopping you?”

Well, he knows now: what’s stopping her is the lack of bullets. Used too many, she says. Leave them for the clerk downstairs. Now that? That’s something. Fear, maybe, or irritation. Arrogance. Could be anything. He looks down at the floor and then back up again, peering over her shoulder into the darkness of the room behind her.

“Bullets. Will do,” Farrier says to them. They’re done here. He’s made his point, they’ve made theirs — the rest is just... posturing. The sort of thing he would’ve done when he was younger but tries not to do now if he can help it. “Close that door if you want. I won’t be coming to see you again.” He doesn’t know that, and can’t exactly promise it, but he’s had enough of them for now, and he’s sure they’ve had enough of him.

It’s as close as he’s come to admitting the truth. Twelfth can apologize all they want, but Farrier still wants to see them hang. He smiles, grim-like, and then turns away to descend back down the stairs. “Have a good night, Twelfth!” It’s tossed over the shoulder as he goes, casual and smooth, like they’re the best of friends and not bitter fucking enemies. “Have some sweet dreams of shooting my brother without the audacity to feel bad about it.”

—

Old Halo took a cigarette and lit it - and once Farrier began his story, she was very glad she did, so that she could focus on breathing smoke in and out of her lungs rather than on his words. She couldn’t even force a smile as she listened. Instead, she stared back at him, brows lowered over her eyes in concern, a small frown darkening her expression. She thought of that woman, trapped in a house in the middle of nowhere with a man she couldn’t stand.

“That is funny,” she said, when Farrier finished his story, “that you killed a Resurrector who abandoned her post. I didn’t take you to be the sort who does the Faith’s work for them.” She raised an eyebrow at Farrier, as if silently asking, is that who you are? For all that outlaws claimed to be outside of the Faith’s influence, even working against them, so many of them played right into the Faith’s schemes. Perhaps that was why they’d been allowed to exist for so long.

Farrier’s other question, though, was a good one. Admittedly one that she hadn’t actually considered. Her frown deepened. “A friend of mine let me know that I was in danger, just before word of my betrayal got out. I left with my things in the middle of the night. I’m…not sure why they haven’t sent anyone to kill me. Perhaps they have, and they just haven’t found me yet.”

She lowered the cigarette, real worry making her expression tense. “Or perhaps it’s because I was so popular. Everyone throughout Bounty knows who I am. Was. If they were to kill me immediately, they’d risk public opinion turning on them. Maybe they’re waiting for the public to accept that I’m a traitor to the Faith before they send someone after me, so that it doesn’t harm their image. In that case, I suppose it’s only a matter of time.” She glanced toward Farrier. “Would you kill me? If the bounty on my head was high enough?”

—

Old Halo’s got a way with words. That’s obvious from the jump; the timbre of her voice is comforting just to listen to. If he thinks about it a little, he can see her among the masses, offering words of solace and prophecy and Armageddon left and right. He sits in the quiet with her for a minute and considers. Is that who you are?

It was, once. There’d be days where they just went on and on and on and on, for miles, after a lead, and didn’t much care where the hunt took them so long as they got paid. Faith, outlaw, family, friend, foe? None of it mattered, until all of a sudden Farrier looked back at what he’d made himself into and decided that it mattered very much. Call it a crisis of faith, or something along those lines. My betrayal, she says, and he turns to look at her fully. He wants to ask: betrayal of what? The Faith? Her friends? Herself? He wants to ask if she knew him, if his reputation had climbed that far North, but that’s a prideful inquiry. He’s trying to stay away from those.

“I would.” Not even a beat of hesitation when she asks, but then Farrier pauses to consider. He takes a pull from his cigarette to buy himself some time. “Well, not now... So, would’ve? Back then, maybe, but I’m doing my best to be an upstanding, Martyr-serving man. None of the shit I used to do back in the day. They’re behind me, much like your days with the Faith are behind you.”

He can’t possibly fathom a reality in which they take her back. The Faith aren’t really the sort of people who accept apologies with a couple of ‘div to buy some chocolate in York. They’re more the hunt-you-to-the-ends-of-the-Earth type, in his experience. “Nice of your friend to warn you, though. What’d you do to get them so riled up?” Thus far, Old Halo seems mild-mannered. Calm. Maybe a little deflated, but he doesn’t know her well enough yet.

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. 

This desire to prove herself had never been present before – a symptom, she supposed, of her desertion and return, trying to claw back the position she once held and never thought twice about, but which was suddenly uncertain due to her own lack of forethought. And, even though the robbery had been a SUCCESS, it still didn’t feel like enough – like it wasn’t remarkable enough to feel as though Brontide had earned back her place. “I don’t know if Cain should have been up the front of the train,” They say instead – a pointless pulling at threads, “We might’ve avoided what happened to the engineman. Should’ve thought of that.”

—

There’s something that Brontide isn’t saying, Farrier thinks. Their words come out half-a-beat off, like they have to pick them out, and he can’t help but furrow his brow. “You don’t think so?” He wonders how much they’ve picked this exact scenario apart over and over in their head. Did they run it back-to-front, front-to-back, just to see where they could’ve been held responsible? He hums and takes a pull from his drink, considering.

How Jack feels about the whole thing is still up in the air. A mystery more than anything else. Farrier’d been pleased to see Brontide back at the helm, as they’d been so many times before they’d turned traitor, but whether or not everyone else felt the same may as well have been a two-div mystery novella. They’re not trusted, yet, not even close, and this small win will not return them to the good graces they’d previously held. He knows that, and he can’t imagine that Brontide wouldn’t. They’re too smart not to know. “Who would you have put up their instead? Witness? Rambler? Gull? Me?”

He scoffs out a laugh, imagining himself young again at the front of some billowing Faith-owned train that’s eating up Vitriol like nobody’s business. He and Raph hadn’t ever robbed a beast quite like that in their lifetime. Too much work for payoff that wasn’t even guaranteed. Today’s violence had proved that ten times over, if the way Revenants had been jam-packed into every single car meant anything.

He shifts in the booth and leans over the table to make them really look at him. Brontide had gotten off track, but that didn’t necessarily mean they couldn’t get back on, and besides that, he likes them. Maybe even more than he likes Jack, and Jack’s made him a rich man. Ten years ago that would’ve been all that mattered, the divinity, but today? It’s more about the moral, the principle of the thing. (Except when it comes to shooting Twelfth in the back of the head, but he doesn’t want to think on that too much. Revenge and morals do not supersede or intersect with one another in Farrier’s head.)