old halo

—

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 filed that information about Farrier’s brother away, in a brand new box in her mind labeled Farrier. Later, she might be able to use it. Might be able to understand him better, just from that. For the moment, it was pushed away, because as he recounted her story back to her, she began to worry she had a problem. Did he believe her? Was he going to accuse her of being a fraud, in front of the whole camp?

Instead, his question was the last thing she’d expected. Her response surprised even her; she laughed in his face, uncontrollable, hysterical laughter loud enough to make Courier pause in his story and glance over to see if they were alright. She was struggling for air by the time she got a grip. She hadn’t laughed like that since...she wasn’t sure when. In a world where she had to carefully modulate her every reaction to be as saintly as possible, hysterical laughter wasn’t exactly permissible.

“I’m sorry,” she rushed to say, genuinely wishing Farrier hadn’t seen that, worried he might think she was a little too relieved by his question. “It’s just...you said it yourself. I committed a horrible crime against the organization that had been my entire life, I lost everything, and now I’ve joined a group of killers I should be opposed to in every sense. So, hell no, I’m not exactly happy.”

She looked sideways at Farrier. “But the thing is, everything wasn’t at all what I wanted it to be. I don’t think I was happy there, either. And this group of killers and criminals isn’t half as bad as I thought it would be. So, I don’t know. I’m starting to think I could learn to be.” Alarm bells rung in the back of her mind, questioning for what would not be the last time, whether that was truer than she’d meant to be.

—

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.

More than that, he’s glad that she’s here, but that’s… difficult to put into words. All he can do is try to show it where he can. If he were a less awkward man, he might wrap her up in a hug, but then they’d both feel off. He clears his throat and puts the conversation back on track. “You will talk to them, though? Try and keep them calm?” Farrier knows he should apologize, but at this point, it’d probably ring hollow, so there’s not much point to it.

---

Old Halo scoffed. “Farrier, seriously? When you’re using the Faith’s actions to justify your behavior, that’s when you know you’ve gone down the wrong path.” She shook her head. The truth was that she couldn’t say what she would do if she ran into that Resurrector who had lied about her. So she avoided the question entirely, as if she hadn’t even heard it.

“It’s a burden being right all the time,” she replied with a dramatic sigh, a smile forcing its way onto her own lips. It was easier to joke around with Farrier, to fall into familiar rhythms and ignore the fact that he’d nearly killed a member of their gang, nearly destabilized everything they had. That he still might. That he hadn’t promised her a thing, not even to value his own life.

Gull hums with thought, he’s see the one she’s speaking about in York as well. It’s nothing like the grainy and small picture he saw in his book, but he can make out how it once looked. “They must have been. I think people had a lot more luxury to enjoy danger back then.” And what a life to liv in, when you could enjoy such thrilling things. 

He takes a step back with Old Halo, not wanting to cause any more anxiety over the matter. But Gull believes there’s danger in everything a person does. He doesn’t believe the Wheel to be any additional factor to breathing in deadly germs, or dehydration, or a random bullet in the chest.

His hands are now clasped behind his back and he stands straighter, gazing between Halo and the Wheel. “I don’t find myself in trouble very much. I only get into messes when I get wrapped up with you lot.” He gives a crooked smile. “Honestly? I stopped putting money on anyone, everyone is equally capable of causing a mess.”

---

More luxury to enjoy danger. She supposed he made a good point. When they weren’t facing danger around every corner, people had a tendency to seek it out, create it for themselves. She had seen it in her fellow Resurrectors, swaddled in luxury and itching for something, anything interesting. She suspected that that very tendency had been an explanatory factor for why rumors could grow like wildfire within the Faith. Bile rose in her throat, hot and bitter.

She turned her gaze from the Wheel to rest on Gull. “You lot?” she echoed, voice full of mock-indignance. “Hey now, don’t blame me! I’m trying to keep everyone out of trouble, thank you very much. It’s just all the rest of them.”

♡

They’d developed an unexpected habit of crossing paths with their old gods. Though they’d never believed in god in a formal sense— there’d been a select few people in her youth who’d taken on the role of a makeshift god of sorts. A RESURRECTOR seemed like the most obvious choice, but she’d never been fond of any of The Faith in that sense. OLD HALO becomes the exception. Perhaps things were different when a god lived next door to you. Perhaps it was different when said god possessed the gift of storytelling— an ability she’d long coveted and done everything in her power to mimic. This is who Old Halo was for Lark, and even more so in her departure.

To reencounter Old Halo in this manner felt surreal. For what were the odds of Lark becoming a member of the Jack Odyssey Gang, just as she did? If they’d believed in fate, they would’ve designated it as such. Even when she’d known it was all a matter of a world becoming far too small for the both of them. Never mind the fact that each whimsical encounter she has with the woman leaves her feeling all too real— and in ways that were never meant to be. The reason why the MARTYR was so easy to believe in was because he’d been elevated through his death— an elevation that made him inaccessible to humans. Such an inaccessibility was a necessity in the construction of a god.

It was rare that Lark could be found in the confines of her room. Remaining in a singular place always made her restless. She’d been presently plotting her next course of action, the door propped ajar ever so slightly in case someone decided she’d been worth bothering in that moment. She’d expected the presence of Dove, or even Widower, more than anything— but Old Halo had been a welcomed surprise. They clear their throat, forcing herself into an upright position, lowering their boots from the table. She’d suddenly been aware that this was ill mannered— since when had Lark ever given a damn about manners?

They clear their throat uncharacteristically, in search of the right words to say. “Howdy,” she finally manages in greeting, doing their best not to sound startled. People checking in on them was still a foreign concept. “I’m doing alright. I’m just…” She mutters under her breath— exhaling. “No, thank you. Unless you happen to have some whiskey on you.” It wasn’t as if she’d gotten banned from the local bar, but she’d practically been on the brink of it.

Lark catches her lip between her teeth when the subject inevitably pivots to the subject of the robbery directly. To speak of her failure in general was one thing, but to discuss it with Old Halo of all people, was another thing entirely. She resists chuckling— at least she’d had the decency of being sparing with her words— Though she wasn’t so sure she’d been deserving of such grace. “Hairy is one way to put it.” Lark being the one that caused it all to fall apart, was perhaps the most honest way of doing so. They’d never been a huge fan of anything honest. “I appreciate your words— seriously. I wouldn’t say I’m shaken—” a lie, “—but still adjusting to being outside of my comfort zone, is all. How about you? Has anyone asked you if you’re okay?” she says finally looking up at the woman, daring to meet her eyes. There’d been a few times Lark was convinced they’d locked eyes— when Lark was amongst a crowd of people, or hanging out in their neighboring yards— but this was different. This was real.

---

Old Halo raised an eyebrow at Lark’s request. Was something keeping her from the bar? Maybe she’d check on that with the owner. But for the moment, she shook her head. “I’m afraid I don’t. You’d be better off asking - well, probably just about any other member of our party.” She shook her head; she had thoughts about their drinking habits, but she also couldn’t exactly blame them, in a life like this one.

She listened closely as Lark talked about their last job. Outside of her comfort zone, Lark said. Old Halo remembered that feeling all too well. Back when she had first joined the Jack Odyssey Gang, she’d felt constantly as if she were walking around on unsteady, newborn legs. She still did from time to time, though those times were growing increasingly spaced out. Mostly, it only happened around Dove, with her white hot anger.

Though when Lark caught Old Halo’s eyes, she felt an equally unsteady, new sensation. She didn’t know what to do with it, Lark’s own attempt at caretaking. It was so different from what everyone else in the group met her with. Sweet, but Old Halo had grown decidedly unused to sweet.

“Oh.” She laughed. “I would say nobody’s had to. Of course I’m alright. The job went smoothly enough for me. Kind of you to ask, though.” Immediately, she found herself searching for a way to deflect the conversation. “How are you finding Eel?”

–

In the book where Gull learned of the sea, there were other things mentioned there are well. Things of the same grandiose nature like the Wheel. Things that Gull found to be ridiculous uses of resource, and for little purpose. “You know, I read of something that would be typically found in a place mutual to this Wheel. It was…” He thought as he considered the abstract and ancient structure. “It would be a long sculpture, almost, built out of wood or metal, and you would sit in a moving car, and ride along this sculpture, and you would go up and down, sometimes in full circles, without falling out. There was no purpose for it other than excitement, I think.”

Wouldn’t that be a life to live, truly. To be in a world where there were structures build simply for enjoyment. For excitement. Gull once read about long stretches of gardens that existed, where you could walk and look at plants from all sorts of different places. For no apparent reason other than to do so. Didn’t that sound nice?

He watched as the thing creaked in protest against the wind, and gazed to Old Halo who jumped back. He didn’t do so himself, to busy sighing at the thought of Cain getting up to nonsense. “I don’t believe we are at anymore risk of being its casualty than we are any other danger around here.” 

---

Old Halo considered what Gull was describing, her brows knitting together. "Yes, there's one of those in York, right alongside the Wheel. It was made of wood, but it's mostly collapsed. I'd assumed the rotting accounted for its strange shape, but perhaps the hills were intentional. How odd. Do you think they were risking their lives on purpose?" It sounded like something Cain would enjoy, she had to admit.

She snorted, a surprisingly ungraceful sound given the persona she tried to keep up among the gang. "Not any more at risk, hm? That isn't exactly reassuring." She made sure to keep her distance from the structure, eyeing it with a more critical look. Gull didn't seem concerned, but she wished he'd step back, too. She couldn't imagine much worse than losing such an incredible medic. He wasn't exactly easily replaceable.

"How are you finding this little town? Things have actually been surprisingly peaceful so far, wouldn’t you say? Not too many threats to our lives outside of the Wheel. Although, I suppose it hasn't been very long." She chuckled. "I'm sure it's only a matter of time until someone starts something. I'm placing my money on it being Vex. What do you think?"

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.

“The others won’t like it.” Brontide says quietly – they didn’t doubt Old Halo’s ability to spin this into a positive for Jack, the idea that they’d bought the loyalty of the people, and all for a very reasonable price. But they also knew that, were this to go wrong, or were the rest of the gang to take it poorly, it would ultimately come down to Brontide’s head, and their head alone. They know that Old Halo is awaiting their signal, and so they nod stiffly, “Fuck it.” She mutters under her breath, before turning back to the passengers. “We’re not going to hurt you, unless you give us a reason to.” They say – it was a well-rehearsed routine, and Brontide was good at playing the bad guy to someone else’s saint.

---

"Don't worry about the others," Old Halo insisted under her breath. "Jack and I will take care of that." More cynically, she thought that what they didn't know couldn't hurt them. It would be simple. She'd hid far more important things than a bit of missing divinity.

Brontide said fuck it, and Old Halo inhaled, not sure what she was about to do. But when Brontide spoke again, she relaxed, expression calm as the sea on a sunny day. She fell into role of the saint, one she'd played a million times before. "In fact," she continued, "we'd like to help you. You see, we have quite a lot of divinity here. More than the two of us can carry out of here. We thought we could give some of it to you all. If each family could send someone to line up...?"

As the passengers mumbled among themselves, she continued, "There's just one stipulation. No word of this can get out to the Faith. They can never know we were here. And if we do find out that someone talked..." Her expression grew serious, meaning clear in her silence. "Well, I hope it doesn't come to that. Now, any takers?"

The passengers shuffled into line with surprising speed, nearly trampling over each other for the chance at divinity. Old Halo's smile grew, unspeakably relieved that no one seemed to have any objections. She didn't think she would have been able to sleep at night if there were a massacre in this carriage. "See? Easy," she commented to Brontide in a whisper.

“Any attempt to advise me is wasted breath.” He pauses meaningfully, skips one, two, three beats. And then: “Our dear Farrier could’ve told you that.” It’s not a jab so much as it is a thrown gauntlet: we have a common interest, you and I. “But then,” he sighs, voice deliberately charged with something wistful, “he doesn’t talk much about the good ol’ days anymore, does he?” The good ol’ days, as in: the days before you; the days with me. It’s another gauntlet thrown: we have a common interest, you and I, and we stand on diametrically opposite sides of him—a blue-eyed devil on one shoulder, a soft-mouthed angel on the other. 

Do you really need more divinity? she asks, and he scoffs, affronted. Does he need more oxygen since he’s already had so much of it? Does he need more food tonight since he’s already eaten this morning? He offers her no answer, due in large part to his waning tolerance and his reluctance to debate the matter at hand. You can’t argue with nice. 

“Do something—nice? For—Gull?” he repeats slowly, like she’s speaking a language he never learned, like he can’t wrap his head around the idea of kindness for the sake of kindness, no strings attached. She is, and he can’t. “To what end?” he asks, and it’s a half-genuine question; he really wants to know. What purpose wold that serve?

A shout of victory cuts through the din of clinking glasses and cheers and laughter, and he looks over to see one of the fighters in the ring holding up her arms in triumph. One fight down, one more to go until he’s up on the docket. 

“I avoid everyone,” he says flatly. And then, because he can’t stand that forlorn look on her face, and because it reminds him of his sisters, he tacks on, “Don’t take it personally.” He’s not as skilled a speaker as Courier, or Paragon, and he hasn’t the faintest idea how to cunningly sidestep her questions about the robbery, so he evades them altogether and reroutes the conversation. “Well, you’re alive,” he observes, “so I reckon you and Brontide made out fine on your side of the train.” He doesn’t care, really, but he’d rather talk about her role in the robbery than his. 

---

Old Halo pressed her lips together at the mention of Farrier. Hellion had a funny (read: irritating) way of taking the friendly groundwork she'd built up and making her feel as though it were made of eggshells. "Well. Perhaps he doesn't think of those days as good anymore," she commented, voice light like it wasn't meant to be a jab - though silently, she thought that perhaps that had been going a little too far. She hardly wanted Hellion to know just how much he got under her skin by talking about the time before she met Farrier.

His question distracted her from thoughts of Farrier, though. She got a bewildered little smile on her face, obviously trying to figure out whether that was a joke or not. "To the end of being kind to the person who thanklessly takes care of your injuries?" When that didn't seem to evoke anything in Hellion, she tried, "To the end of Gull having less work so that he's not preoccupied with your sorry ass if we have some sort of crisis?"

Twelfth stares at Halo. “Thing is, Halo,” they start, shaking their head, “I have no desire to make your life difficult. Or anyone’s.” And yet, Twelfth is well aware that, sometimes, desire and reality are things that don’t align ( after all, they desired a family and at the end of the day, they don’t have it. Not anymore ). “So, whatever it is you think I’ll do, I most likely won’t do it.” Not when they’re trying their hardest to not create any ripples lest they tumble over because of it and never get back up. 

There’s a part of Twelfth that doesn’t want Farrier to manage his hate. That part wants to hear how they took away Farrier’s family just because The First took away theirs. That part wants Farrier to spit cutting words at her if it means his grief and her guilt can use each other, in a way. The other part wants to remind him she lost something too and that he doesn’t have a monopoly on grief. But that part stays silent. 

There’s a sigh that escapes them. “I’m not too hopeful but that’s alright. Good luck with… All of that,” she says, looking at Old Halo, seeing a bit of genuine feeling behind eyes she would never have trusted before, not even for the single moment she does now. 

Twelfth stands up, careful to keep the cloth around their gun. It’s even more difficult to look at it now. “And I do appreciate you tryin’.” Twelfth looks at her as she wraps the cloth tightly. “Maybe Farrier listens to you more than he listens to his own instinct. I’ll see you ‘round.” She leaves, steps hesitant at first before walking away in a hurried manner.

‣↷

As much as she knows she doesn’t mean anything by it, Witness can’t help finding that small, vacant smile drawn on the page obnoxious and condescending. She supposes that Old Halo’s pedestal, tall and close to Jack’s ear, might make her believe it’s within her right to baby those around her, but Witness isn’t the type to turn the other cheek. Not unless it’s slapped aside.

Her gaze remains unimpressed when it snaps up from Halo’s words. It doesn’t meet hers, rather settles on the plate of slop Poseidon’s set before her. Reluctant as she is to part with what little coin her debt leaves her, Witness hands over the divinity and drags the meal towards her. She swirls it around with the spoon Poseidon provided, watching the steam rise from the questionable colours and textures sitting before her.

“I’ll go after this,” Witness says. She looks over at Halo, “I’m sure Jack’ll have his lapdogs all patched up for when we leave. Or are you doubting Gull’s skill?” It’s obvious that that isn’t Old Halo’s intent, but Witness can’t resist prodding.

“Not sure how he’d feel about that, y’know.”

---

Old Halo chuckled, shooting Witness a look that was both amused and mildly puzzled. She took the paper and pencil back, bending back down over it as she began to write.

"Hardly," she wrote. She adored Gull, after all. He was an odd duck, to be sure, but his quirks made him endearing. The only thing she worried about with him was getting attached. "Gull is a wonderful medic. The only thing I'm doubting is whether you'd actually go to him if you were hurt."

Witness didn't seem to trust anyone in the Jack Odyssey Gang all that much. Old Halo wouldn't pretend it didn't bother her. She nearly handed the paper back, but at the last second, added, "How are you feeling? Did the job go alright for you? If I recall, I heard that you and Lark ran into some trouble. Everything OK?"

He reckons he must have some heart, however black, however shrouded in thorns and bramble, because he doesn’t draw his gun on Old Halo when she approaches, no matter how loudly his instincts bellow in protest of it. It’s not that she’s a threat, no, of course not—it’s that she’s…the opposite, which, frankly, is much, much worse. The acts of service, the good deeds, the warm smiles limned with some kind of unmistakable, unnamable goodness—he doesn’t know what to do with it all, with her. It unnerves him—she unnerves him—and he tries at every turn to avoid her company. He’s not given the opportunity to do so today, though, backed into a corner as he is, and though he wants desperately to raise his hackles, to bark and bite, he doesn’t, if only because she’s unimaginably difficult to be cruel to. 

Alas, his energy and patience are waning by the minute, so his temperance may be short-lived. 

Hellion half-rears back in his chair when she moves to undress his hand wraps, and if he didn’t think Farrier would shoot him dead for it, he might’ve broken her wrist on impulse. Did no one ever teach her how to engage with a wild animal? He thinks not, if her lack of caution is any indication. 

He reeks of tension, discomfited by her attempt at…nurturing, or whatever it is she’s doing, but her wrist bones are yet intact, so he counts that as a victory. He lets her continue the thankless job of changing his hand wraps, but he watches her with a predator-like scrutiny, eyes tracking each tic of each of her muscles. You’re a disaster, she says, and he scoffs at that. “I’ve been called far worse by far worse,” he says flatly. 

He’s wary, more than a touch keyed up, and he’s perhaps the only sorry bastard in the room who would rather be getting bloodied up in the ring than sitting opposite an Old World saint. “If I quit while I was ahead,” he muses, “my bounty would be half of what it is.” He flexes his left hand to test the strength of her knots. They hold up impressively. “And if life was fair”—he spits the word like its a curse—“we’d all be out of jobs.” We, Jack Odyssey’s Gang. “Speaking of,” he says, “shouldn’t you be—I don’t know, advising someone on something somewhere?”

---

Old Halo laughed under her breath, sitting back in her chair as he tested his new hand wraps. She might have been insulted, if she cared enough what Hellion thought of her competence. Instead, she just said, "I'm advising you on this, if you hadn't noticed. Do you really need more divinity? You must have plenty already, and you won't be any use on our next job if you get yourself pummeled before then."

She made a face. "Besides, I doubt Gull needs the extra work. Between Rambler launching himself into danger based on a feeling and Cain threatening to throw himself off the Wheel, I'm sure he has quite enough on his plate. Wouldn't you like to do something nice for him, for once, and not get yourself hurt?"

She looked toward the ring, then back to Hellion. She got the sense she wasn't making much headway convincing him. "I didn't come here to advise you on this, though." She leaned in a little, clasping her hands together atop the table. "I just wanted to make sure you're doing alright...er, relatively, I suppose...and ask how the job on the train went for you. I've actually been meaning to find you for a while. Are you avoiding me?"

She didn't really need an answer to that. She got the sense that, like many in the Jack Odyssey Gang, Hellion wasn't her biggest fan. Why was what she couldn't answer. It frustrated her to no end.

Sure you don’t — the remark, dripping with cynicism, stops at her teeth. There was no point in arguing now, her point made long ago: Dove did not trust Old Halo. Any further expression of the notion would only lead to more futile dismissals by Old Halo. A never ending cycle, one Dove had no desire to waste what energy she had left on. 

She was not ignorant to the way Old Halo hesitated, the way she seemed so ready to speak. She wondered what sentiment lay beyond better judgement, what words went unsaid. And, for a moment, she considers prying it out of her. But, she doesn’t. Perhaps it is her own better judgement that keeps her from doing so, perhaps the words would remain better unspoken, perhaps they would have hurt more than what Old Halo instead chooses to express.

“I’m glad someone is, cause I’m sure as hell not.” It was a feeling that she had sat with, unwilling to truly accept. Dove was not a murderer. An accomplice? Occasionally. But she had not yet assumed the role of executioner. It was something she had been proud of, once, but now the lack of blood staining her hands brought only frustration and regret. Those feelings were accompanied by a smothering guilt — she had spared a life, but such an act brought no peace, only an anger that took over her very being. It horrified her. 

“You know, everyone seems to think that. Everyone seems to think that there’s some moral high ground over gettin’ back at those who wronged you, that revenge isn’t gonna fix everythin’. But … I don’t think anyone really gets it, not ‘til they experience it.” Somewhere, amidst the anger and confusion, a strangled sense of sadness begins to grow in the pit of Dove’s stomach. She can feel it, tightening like a stretched rubber band, one tug away from snapping. “I wanted to kill him, Old Halo. More than I think I’ve ever wanted anything. Maybe I would’ve regret it after, but it would’ve been a hell of a lot better than whatever I’m feelin’ now.

---

Old Halo frowned. Dove's words reminded her of an earlier conversation with Farrier, from the first time she'd tried to convince him not to kill Twelfth. She nearly suggested Dove talk to him, but immediately, she thought better of it. They would probably both persuade each other to pursue their vengeance, and then the whole gang would be screwed.

"You're right," she said instead, voice gentle. "I can't imagine what you're feeling." Although maybe that wasn't quite true. There were nights when she thought about the Resurrector who had tarnished her reputation, spread that damned lie about her, and she tossed and turned for hours. If she saw him, she suspected she'd be driven mad with the same bloodlust Dove and Farrier were dealing with then.

"But, you know, you also can't know what would have happened if you had killed him. It's entirely possible that what you would feel after would be worse. Once you've become a killer, there's no going back from that. The guilt and regret are enough to drive people mad. Not to mention the loss of purpose." She tilted her head at Dove, as if studying a puzzle. "Why do you think you didn't kill the Revenant? Because I can't imagine Paragon physically restrained you."

—

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.

Doesn’t know any of them well enough yet, and the reality that he’s a complete stranger to these people (read: untrustworthy) sticks out like a deep scar. Farrier hums. “Did you believe all the shit you peddled to people? Do you still believe it?”

---

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."

Old Halo was careful not to play favorites within the Jack Odyssey Gang. After all, she wanted the Gang to believe she could be an impartial listener, a fair judge when disputes arose. More than anything, she wanted Jack to believe she was advising him based on the members' abilities, not out of a desire to protect them. Which was why one of the members she cared most about checking in one was left for last.

She was hoping to catch Lark on her own, which was why she stopped by her room at the inn, rather than waiting to catch her at the Atlantis or wandering town. She was a little surprised - and relieved - to actually find her there. She stepped into the room, giving Lark a warm smile. "Hi, dear," she said, gently shutting the door behind her. "I've been going around, checking in on everyone. Are you doing alright, is there anything you need? I did hear that things got a little hairy for you, Widower, and Witness." An understatement, perhaps.

Although with most of the gang, Old Halo's concern was more of a sugar-coated act, she eyed Lark like a worried mother hen. She wasn't quite sure where that sense of loyalty came from. Maybe it was misplaced, stemming from guilt over the community she'd abandoned when she became a Resurrector. Or maybe it was simply because she looked at Lark and still saw a shy child, despite how much she'd grown over the years.

"You handled it well, of course," she continued, careful to keep her tone reassuring. "But I wouldn't blame you, if you were shaken over it."

—

She chews him out, rightfully so, and all Farrier can do is stand there and take it. He doesn’t say much, or cut in, or try to protest for his own damn honor. It’d been a fuck up, on top of an even worse fuck up, and he deserved this. Or… well, maybe not entirely, but it needed to be right. “I don’t know,” he answers, when she’s finished her piece. “I don’t know why I did it.”

It won’t bring your brother back! He inhales, sharp-like, through his nose, and then looks down at the ground again. By this time both their boots have cut shapes in the dirt. He grinds his heel in to ruin the circular spot he’s made from standing and shifting in discomfort. “If I kill Twelfth, I’ll at least know I did one thing right before I died. What good does it do me if they killed my brother, and all I did was sit there and…”

He doesn’t know what to say, or even really how to say it. She’s got that pleading look in her eyes, the kind that has become more familiar to him as of late than he’d like to admit, and Martyr’s sake, if this doesn’t just feel like the worst thing he’s ever done. “I think I’ve done my time, Halo. How many more years of this am I going to be able to stand, before someone else — one of you, maybe, even — goes to cash my head in with a bullet?” It’s not entirely true, and the words come out all ground up, like Farrier can’t bring himself to admit what he’s really saying.

He doesn’t say much after that, hands on his hips, still switching from staring at the ground to staring at her. She’s doing what he wanted to ask her without being able to actually ask, pulling his ass out of the flames once again. “Thank you. For… y’know.” You know, you know, you know. “I can’t promise I won’t. But I’ll try, same as you.”

---

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 there was any indication as to the significance of the thoughts occupying Old Halo’s mind, Rambler believed that it would certainly be the startled tinge to her eyes as they met his own. From what he had observed, Old Halo always prowled with the utmost focus; purposeful, sharp-eyed, and keenly in tune with her surroundings. This was the first time that Rambler had ever witnessed her caught off guard.

It made him wonder how she was faring after the robbery; a recurring query that gripped him in the aftermath of most of the Odyssey’s large-scale hustles. In stark contrast to him and Paragon, nonchalant and unflappable as they were no matter the outcome, Old Halo would often be quiet and lost in thought at that time, private with her thoughts unless prompted to express them. Like always, he wondered why. And like always, he wasn’t sure if he was driven by concern or curiosity. Perhaps this time, he would finally find out.

At her response, Rambler couldn’t help but let his lids drop into a deadpan half-mast, head tilting in a look that said we both know that’s bullshit. But before he could emphasize the implication with words, Old Halo continued on with artful deflection and turned the lens of scrutiny onto him, planting him right within its sunray-speared center. Clearly her talent with words hadn’t waned by a speck since her departure from the Faith. Rambler stole himself a moment of unspoken appreciation for it, silent yet smiling. Then he sat down next to her. “You’re right. I should be occupied with the robbery, but I’m not,” He shrugged. “I made it out, didn’t I? We all did. That’s all that matters. Would be a waste of time to think of anything beyond that, at least to me.”

With an exasperated chuckle, he dismissed her concern with a shake of his head, bored with the constant questions about his leg despite being grateful for them — though he still made sure to thank her with a smile. “It’s fine. Gull said it should be all healed in a little over a week.” He leaned back, arms loosely crossed against his chest and legs leisurely stretched before him as he looked at her. “Believe it or not, I was actually trying to get back into the train and help, for the same reason that I mentioned the robbery to you. I could feel that it was all going to shit,” A pause, then his look turned pointed and meaningful. “And I gotta say, the way you avoided my question only confirms it to me.”

---

"All going to shit?" Old Halo echoed, a disbelieving laugh trailing her words. She grinned at Rambler, the bright, teasing expression betraying none of her concern. "So you really have no faith in any of us! And a lot of good you did, too!"

Her smile faded. "I can't speak for all the others, but Brontide and I were doing fine. And, clearly, it didn't go to shit, because we made it out. With plenty of divinity, at that. I would prefer to describe it as an incredible success. No thanks to you getting yourself shot."

She pressed a hand to Rambler's shoulder briefly. Tone gentle, she said, "You shouldn't have done that. Not based off a feeling. Especially not while paired with Vex, of all people. They hate all of us. You're lucky you're alive. Rambler...don't go dying on me, alright? The whole gang will be in trouble if it's just me and Paragon advising Jack."

Her hands had fallen to her lap. Her thumb pressed against her inner wrist, where her tattoo was hidden by her sleeve. Rambler had had a feeling that something was going wrong. Meanwhile, she and Brontide were in the train, trying to figure out how to deal with a car full of destitute passengers. She didn't believe in the abilities Rambler claimed to have, but she had to admit...there was something strange about it. How had he noticed?

—

…but this could damage the stability of the entire group. 

Twelfth scoffs at Old Halo’s words — it’s an amused scoff, though sad all the same. They can’t help but look at the gun, perfectly clear in their mind even underneath a dirty rag ( fateful gun it is, five bullet left that will rust in their chambers if it’s up to Twelfth and only Twelfth ). She’s very well aware of what someone’s death can do to a group, especially one as tight knit as Jack Odyssey’s. After all, months before, they’d been the one to finish what The First had already done to The Family. 

One bullet faster than her brother’s and it all crumbled in Twelfth’s hand, the only family they’d had slipping through their fingers like the sand in the unforgiving Dust storms. “I’m well aware of that, yeah.” So, no, it isn’t difficult for Twelfth to see the bigger picture, not in this particular situation. Twelfth furrows their eyebrows at Halo’s next words. “What else are you worried about?” Maybe if they weren’t so tired, Twelfth would be able to understand what Old Halo means without having to ask. 

“I’m not going to go anywhere near him unless I have to. And I don’t care about that. He can hate me all my life if he wants to. He should. I didn’t just kill someone he cared about, I killed his brother.” Twelfth hates the frustrated tone in her voice, as if letting it drip from her words goes against what she believes she ought to do with her grief, her guilt. Her gaze is hesitant, altering between everywhere around her and Old Halo’s own. “That’s all that matters to him.” Not the story, not her reason, not the fact Twelfth had lost a brother too — a version of The First that Farrier probably never met. 

---

Old Halo sighed. "There are plenty of ways you can make life difficult for me without actually killing Farrier."  But in the spirit of not giving Twelfth ideas that they might weaponize against her, she didn't deign to elaborate. Instead, she frowned down at her hands.

"I know you did. Don't be mistaken, I'm not saying that he shouldn't hate you. But I am saying that he should be able to manage that hate well enough not to act on it. I believe, eventually, he will be," she said. Admittedly, she knew little about having a sibling murdered. But she did think she understood some things about human nature more broadly.

"It's true, that that's all that matters to him. But perhaps, when the pain isn't so fresh, he'll be able to...not move on, but see the larger picture. Maybe even begin to understand why you did what you did." She crossed her arms. "In the meantime, just don't do anything disruptive. Let me try to talk to him. That's all I'm asking. Is that alright?”