to live like a bullet

𝐕𝐄𝐗 —

Old Halo watched from the Atlantis’s bar as Vex practically robbed their opponent blind, shooting balls straight into holes like it was an art form they’d mastered. It was almost admirable, if it wasn’t such a stupid way for them to risk their divinity. 

She’d intended to stay out of it, but when Vex put their cue stick up against the stranger’s neck, the stranger got a pissed-off look on their face like they were considering getting their money back another way. She sighed; she didn’t want to see anyone get hurt, meaning she had to intervene.

She stood and approached Vex from behind, silent as a cat. She was close enough to speak right in their ear by the time she made her presence known. Softly, she said, “Word to the wise. I think you better quit now, before you lose it all.” She flashed a charming smile to the man across the pool table.

“Sorry to interrupt your fun.” She was not sorry at all. She was of the opinion that she was saving Vex from themself. “Do you mind? I want a word.”

—

When the warmth of another breath fell upon her ear, Vex recoiled away at once. Acid on their tongue, they reeled back to lash out, but the moment passed too soon; Old Halo was draw her weapon, and her weapon wasn’t one Vex could fight against easily. How do you trade blows with a goddamn smile?

Well. Vex could pull her arm back and strike a blow across Old Halo’s chin. Her elbow receded, her fingers tightened — but the stranger was already huffing away, slamming divinity down on the pool table, uttering the same words Vex had already prepared for Old Halo. 

—

A bit of stew. One single beer. That’s all Twelfth wanted to get from The Atlantis before getting up and getting out. Maybe they’d go for ride, maybe they’d go back to their room, they don’t really know. What they never expected, though, is how they somehow ended up playing a game of pool with no one other than Vex. 

“Hm,” they hum in thought, looking at the pool table and then at her opponent. Twelfth never really knows what to expect with Vex, whether it’s a nicer reaction or words as sharp as any hunting knife they’ve come across. Still, they go along with the game, enjoying just how much that is the main focus of the company rather than whatever words Vex might decide to throw at Twelfth out of nowhere. 

Twelfth can’t help the annoyed expression that grows when they feel Vex’s cue stick on their chin. Without hesitation, they just slap it away. “If it means there’s another round of you just playing and not talking,” she starts as she changes her cue stick from one hand to another and look at Vex, “sure. Double or nothing.”

—

This is the best Vex has felt in a long, long time. Taking money from one of the Jack Odyssey gang’s own is something like poetic justice. Like divine retribution. Like everything Vex never had the chance to want falling into their hands. Though it might feel better if Twelfth were Shotgun or Cain, and not just some weakling who couldn’t stomach their own crimes. 

For not the first time, Vex wonders what the fuck Twelfth thought this life would ask of them. Would take from them.

Sometimes, the sight of Twelfth makes Vex feel like boiling water, ready to bubble over and burn whoever is too close. It makes their blood vessels want to pop. She makes Vex want to hurl something at the wall or shoot it until it’s unrecognizable. A glass vase, maybe, or a skull or all the naïveté she sees in Twelfth’s dark eyes.

They’re taking it out on Twelfth now, grinning spitefully at them. “Fuck you, I’m a delight. Losers reset the pool table.” A pause. “That’s you, Twelfth. Though Twelfth is an odd name for someone in the Jack Odyssey gang. Where’s Eleventh? Tenth?”

Vex might not be partaking in the swill the bar is serving tonight, but Paragon helps himself. Helps himself to this hustle, too, when he sees Vex with a patron cornered. The man seems likely enough to take her bait—especially with a little peer pressure, what with the way he sweats at the collar.

”You’d be a fool to quit so early, with a pot like that,” he calls to the table, pulling an expression like he’s just plain envious he isn’t the one who gets to go toe to toe for it; appealing to that sense of possession over the doubling pot. Then he drawls his false assurances (just in case there’s a shred of hesitance left): “come on, lightning don’t strike twice.”

Of course, he knows it’s more skill than lightning where Vex is concerned, but what this betting man doesn’t know won’t hurt him past his pockets.

Round two, and Vex wins again, her pool cue finding its old place beneath the stranger’s chin. By then, the patron’s either ruffled or drunk enough to go for a third round, but Paragon cuts in, guiding the end of the cue to his own neck instead. “Hell, I stand corrected, my friend—you’re not careful, and she’ll clean you out all over again. I’d leg it, while you’ve still got enough tip for your bartender.”

Once he’s gone, Paragon quirks a scarred brow at the pool cue. Swats it jovially aside.

“Train job’s not sitting nice enough in the pockets?” He teases knowingly. “You gotta turn the town’s out, too?”

Vex hates herself for being comforted by the sight of him. The deep hum of his voice. The sweeping gait with which he walks like he belongs in every room he enters. Paragon is larger than life; always has been, even back when they knew him by Sweets and he knew them by Naomi.

But he doesn’t go by Sweets anymore. Naomi is dead. The Lost Boys rejected them both, and they’re not so lost anymore, are they? Paragon belongs to the Jack Odyssey gang, and Vex — Vex wants nothing more than to see the Jack Odyssey gang burn.

Even so, there’s still a part of Vex that wants to lean into the camaraderie he offers so easily, like it costs him nothing. It costs her everything.

Stirred from his slumber, he woke up to a black cat lingering on his windowsill. He instantly stiffened, superstitious dread winding its wires of tension around him as he eyed the creature warily. The cat merely languished in his gaze, prowling back and forth beyond the glass, tail swishing behind it in curling flickers. As the moment stretched, Rambler concluded that beyond the blatant bad omen, there were only two possible interpretations for the scene in front of him: either the cat had recognized his dread and was taunting it for its own amusement, or it was drawing his attention towards something. A cursory glance around the room, and the answer quickly made itself clear.

His own cat was nowhere to be found.

With a groan, Rambler hastily shuffled off the bed and stood up – only for the expression of frustration to choke into one of anguish as he absentmindedly placed too much pressure on his injured leg. Easing off, he took a deep breath, throwing a begrudgingly grateful glance at the intruder at his window before venturing through the inn. When a search across his floor proved futile, Rambler descended the stairs and limped towards the entrance. He wouldn’t be surprised if Cherry had gone off to explore the surrounding area; it was an inconvenient inclination of hers whenever they settled down in a new place.

He only took two steps before he was staring down the barrel of Vex’s gun. Forced back, he winced as pain flared in his leg, yet his features soon smoothed over once he adjusted his stance. “What are you trying to prove, Vex?” He quietly asked. “Your actions speak for themselves. If you think about it, you’ve already killed me. If I hadn’t managed to fall into the car, I’d be dead. So what’s the point of all this?”

—

Are they supposed to feel a flash of remorse when Rambler grimaces? Is Vex supposed to soften at the quiet timbre of his voice? Like his life is nothing, Rambler declares himself already dead, and Vex his killer. It doesn’t matter to Vex whether Rambler lives to see the sun rise or not, but this open-eyed acceptance of their end — it baffles Vex. Confounds them. They have never been able to understand Rambler — and it’s the most infuriating thing about him.

She holds Dahlia’s gun steady. Her voice is clear and unshaken as she calls out, “What kind of mind games are you tryin’ to play, dumbass? You askin’ for me to pull the trigger?”

Vex considers firing a warning shot. Decides against it because they can’t afford to waste a bullet. Besides, the sound alone might draw the kind of attention they know means trouble.

Every movement is deliberate and measured as Vex lowers their weapon. It hangs by her side, though she does not return it to its holster. Anything (anyone) they don’t understand is a threat; it has to be, to make it out alive. "You’re a goddamn coward. You don’t even want to save your own skin? Or what, are you trying to pull one over me so you can kill me in my sleep?” 

at THE WHEEL / feb 4th / open

The thing looks like it’s about to fall apart and that’s probably why Cain is so drawn to it. He takes it as a personal challenge, the fact that the wheel’s still standing and he’s definitely willing to see if it can do with a little shake—the view from up there must be something, right? His hand grips the bottom of the ladder and when he lets go of it, there’s rust on his fingers, the brown residue melting into his skin. Cain reaches for the gloves he keeps in his back pocket—should be easier to climb like this—and then someone approaches him as he puts them on.

“Gonna take it for a little spin,” he says as he looks up, eyes squinting—and the left one hurts from the blackeye the engineman gave him yesterday, now all dark and purple around his socket—he can’t really see the top from where he’s standing right now, just the insides—metal rods coming out of everywhere, paint peeling, rusty and noisy. It looks like it’s about to give out but Cain asked around and everyone said it shouldn’t. One way to find out, isn’t there?

The loud ticks and screeching sounds the structure makes only seem to attract Cain further. “Wanna make a bet?” he suggests; if he’s about to do something so stupid, he should at least have some fun with it. “You could time me. Twenty div I make it up and back down in less than ten.”

—

She recognizes him from far away; has spent hours burning the shape of him behind her eyelids. Even with her eyes closed, she can find them — Cain and Shotgun. Loss has become her reference point to navigate the world, and vengeance, her compass; their ruin, her North Star.

Vex intends to derail him or spit at him. Rub salt into the wound of shooting too quick. He almost fucked it all up; would have if Gull hadn’t been there. Shouldn’t you have learned your lesson by now? Vex wants to jeer. Shoot too early and you’ll be your own downfall. (That same mistake was what brought Vex to the gang’s lap, wasn’t it? And that’s certainly what they intend to be: Cain’s downfall.)

Instead, Vex scoffs and rolls up the sleeves of their shirt. “No, I don’t want to make a fucking bet. I want to fucking race.”

𝐖𝐇𝐎: BRONTIDE & OPEN 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄: RAVEN’S REST, EEL 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍: FEBRUARY 4, 2349 – APPROX. 2:00AM

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. 

They are soon disturbed from their thoughts by the sounds of footsteps approaching, a hand instinctively reaching for the gun on their thigh before they recognise the familiar face, obscured by night, and slowly retract their hand. She eyes the newcomer up and down, letting a long few moments pass before finally speaking – “And here I was thinking I’d be all alone out here at this time of night.”

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.

FEBRUARY 5, 2349. THE ATLANTIS. They’re not drinking tonight. Never liked the taste of liquor much, and never liked the way it made their limbs feel loose and their chest feel light. But Vex does like the games. The edge of the pool table jabbing into her stomach as she leans over and aims.

She’s never been the best shoot, or the best at pool, but when she closes one eye and then the other, imagines Shotgun then Cain then the rest of the Jack Odyssey gang spiraling across the green and falling with a clack! down the rabbit hole —

The 8 ball falls neatly into the corner. Vex straightens, and grins with all her teeth. Stretches the cue stick out until it taps at her opponent’s throat, pushes up against the fleshy part of the chin.

FEBRUARY 3, 2349. The evening chill whistles clean through the bone. It’s quiet. It’s too late to be awake, but Vex cannot unremember the way Rambler looked at her as she turned away and left him to die. His dark eyes blank and bottomless, unknowable. Her boots clanging against the train with every resolute step away.

If he had died, would she be sound asleep right now? Vex turns the ring on their middle finger — the green one, the one that reminds them of Scales and their abhorrent fondness for lizards. 

Probably, they think.

They don’t realize what they’re waiting for, leaning against the side of Raven’s Rest, staring hawk-eyed out into the dark. Only when Rambler arrives does Vex push herself off the wall and step out of the shadows, into the sliver of the moon. She slides Dahlia’s gun out of its holster and aims it at the space between Rambler’s brows. It’s always smooth, there; never creased, never wrinkled.

She’d like to see a hole clean through it.