what can you blame but your rootless eye?

introducing — 𝘙𝘈𝘔𝘉𝘓𝘌𝘙.

written by jen (22, she/her, gmt+2)

—

He decides in the middle of the night that he’s going to kill Rambler.

It’ll be easy. Farrier’s done it a thousand times before: amble up, say something innocuous, barrel of the gun to the forehead. Simple. Straightforward. He rolls over in his cot and imagines the spray. He’ll have to run after, but he’ll make sure Fleetwood’s close enough with enough in his saddle bag that he can get a few miles ahead. After that, it’ll be up to cleverness. They’ve got strength in numbers, the Jack Odyssey Gang, but Farrier’s clever. He’ll slip out of sight before they ever get the chance to catch him.

He doesn’t sleep at all. Stares, instead, at the canvas of his tent and imagines the spray of red over and over in his head.

The thing about grief, Farrier realizes when the sun rises and he’s forced to look at what he’s plotted out, is that it makes you fucking insane. Everything that seems rational becomes stupid, and everything that seems like the stupidest thing a person could do makes perfect sense. The world is turned on its head, and it doesn’t matter. He spends the morning preparing coffee and cooking breakfast and going back and forth. He’ll do it. He’s not going to do it. He has to do it. These people hate him, and want him dead. They care for him, and they want him alive. He’s made a place here. He has no place at all. He’s got a thousand other choices. It’s only when he’s making a beeline for Rambler as the sun is setting that he picks his path.

He can’t kill Rambler. It’s a bad move. But he can scare him, and that’s better than nothing. His hand is curling into a fist as he gets closer. Something wrong, Farrier? He punches Rambler square in the face. He throws all of his weight into it, and tips forward to bring Rambler to the ground with him, free hand curled into Rambler’s collar. “You could’ve told me sooner, when I could’ve stopped it, and you didn’t, so I’m half tempted to turn your skull into abstract art. Any other questions?”

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.

In an occurrence as rare in the history of their game as Hellion’s moments of victory, Rambler was the one flipping the coin this time. Perhaps it was an impulse stirred by the inextricable association between the gold and the covetous man in question, or perhaps it was simply a call for Hellion to answer when their paths inevitably crossed. Rambler wasn’t quite sure, having only recognized the relevance of the action long after he had pulled out the coin while on his way to the gambling hall.

With Rambler bound by constrained movement and Hellion caught in a ceaseless prowl in the gambling hall, the two of them had barely spoken since the robbery, so now that Rambler was at more liberty to wander, he had decided to seek the other man out. He had caught grumbles and jokes among the others about the way Hellion had, apparently and quite believably, become as constant of a fixture in Silver Lining as the gambling tables, and he was now putting the knowledge to good use.

Intent on inviting Hellion for drinks at the Atlantis rather than settling in Silver Lining, Rambler leaned against the wall by the entrance and bided his time for the man’s emergence, lulled by an inexplicable certainty that Hellion would leave soon. He watched the exiting patrons, indulging in a private game with himself by guessing the winners, the losers, and the spectators from what he could observe of them, twirling the coin all the while.

At one point, he smiled to himself, then suddenly flipped the coin with force, as though throwing it to someone. He straightened at the same moment that it smacked onto an open palm, training his smile upon Hellion as he turned towards him. “So the pull of a single coin really is that powerful, huh? Feels like I’ve finally found your leash, Hel,” He teased. “Maybe a little predictable and uninspired but it seems effective enough.” He grinned, then abruptly flattened his expression, though his eyes didn’t lose their humorous glimmer. “You’d better give it back, though,” With a pointed glance at the divinity in Hellion’s hands, he continued, “Sure doesn’t seem like you need it.”

—

Old Halo very much was thinking about the robbery. She couldn’t get what she’d done off her mind. Why she’d done it, more accurately. Maybe she was going soft. Or maybe it was that tattoo on her wrist, burning into her and reminded her of all the things she’d done to hurt people like those poor souls on the train.

She always told herself that she’d done what she needed to do. Advanced her position, as all people longed to. Survived a world that would like to see her starving on the streets. But suddenly she felt something new — guilt. It was wholly unpleasant and undesirable. She needed to find a way to silence it before it got the better of her.

Rambler startled her out of her thoughts. Her head snapped up to meet his eyes, her own startled, as if she’d forgotten where she was. After a moment, her face smoothed into a kind smile, as if it hadn’t happened. She shifted to one side of the bench so that Rambler could sit.

“Why would I be worried about the robbery?” she questioned, eyes darting away from Rambler’s gaze. “It went fine, didn’t it? The only person who should have the robbery on their mind is you.”

She gave his leg a very pointed look. But after a beat, her expression softened. “How’s it feeling? For that matter, what were you even trying to do? You could’ve gotten yourself killed.”

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.”

𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍: February 3th, later in the evening 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄: Balcony of Rambler’s room 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐒: Closed, @ramblcr​

One look. One look at Rambler’s expression is all it takes for Twelfth to see that all that is going on inside their mind is also going on inside Rambler’s — too many thoughts, too many emotions, too many… well, too much of everything, really. And they both want to talk about the somethings that plague both of their minds, no doubt heightened by the adrenaline still spilling out of their bodies in its own way. So, a sigh and a raise of a finger later, Twelfth leaves Rambler’s presence and returns a couple of minutes later, a pack of cookies and an opened bottle of bourbon, no glasses, in hand.  

They sit down next to Rambler after they pull two chairs to the balcony of Rambler’s room and they wait for him to sit down before they take the seat next to him. “Today was…” A lot? Potentially my last day on Earth? A mess that we escaped? A successful yet chaotic robbery? How about all of that? “Interesting,” they breathe out. That’s what they decide to say, a word so ambiguous and all encompassing, the end of it punctuated by a long sip of a bottle Twelfth is about to share with Rambler. Martyr, that aftertaste is… something. 

Twelfth passes the bottle to Rambler. “I got us these cookies,” she says, showing him the pack after handing him the bottle, “they’re most likely stale but, well, it’s all I got.” Twelfth shrugs, lets out a humourless chuckle and then opens the pack, the crinkling echoing in the dark night stretching in front of them. She clears her throat, looking at Rambler’s leg and then up at hi,. “How’s the leg? Don’t tell me Gull’s told you it’s gotta go.” Is it a bad joke? Most likely. 

.

As Twelfth trailed off in search of an accurate description of their rather indescribable day, Rambler could only hike his brows in exclaimed validation of her struggle at the task, eventually nodding in agreement at the weary conclusion of her remark. “Interesting is definitely one word for it.” He muttered with a chuckle, trailing his gaze across the smattering of stars looming over them in winking observation of their companionship. For once, he wasn’t doing it to draw significance from their alignment or to divine hidden meanings from the pattern of their sparks and shimmers. Instead, he was merely appraising them, settled in that rare manner that only Twelfth could ever anchor him into.

He could still feel a lingering trace of the dread that had seized him on the train; a chill beneath his skin that wound his muscles with tension and ironed his bones into rigid stiffness. It left him cold, even with the warm night air whipping across and the humidity crowding in around it — a sense of foreboding that could only signify that the success of the robbery didn’t quite mark an end to the hardship as he had assumed. He made an effort not to let the knowledge weigh him down, and although it was exerted without difficulty, instinctive and innate as it was for him, it still left him grateful for Twelfth’s soothing company.

Accepting the bottle from Twelfth, he took a gulp, brows furrowing in a mild grimace at the bitterness of the drink before hiking with interest at the pack of cookies that soon emerged. “It’s more than enough,” He commented with a warm smile, biting into a cookie before gesturing with it, flecks speckling his lap as he said, “Stale or not, cookies are cookies.”

At Twelfth’s following words, Rambler chuckled, briefly turning towards them with an amused, wide-eyed look. “Could you imagine? Knowing Jack, I’d be out on my ass so fast. Even though many would probably argue that I’m already a liability; needing crutches wouldn’t really add much to that,” He shrugged, then suddenly paused in thought. “Actually, I don’t know for sure that Jack would throw me on my ass. There’s a lot that I don’t know about that man.” The tale-end of his words faded into a low mutter, spoken more to himself than Twelfth. He hummed, digging back into his cookie before he abruptly recalled his friend’s question about his leg. “Oh, and the leg’s fine. Thankfully, it’s here to stay,” He threw a playful, reassuring grin Twelfth’s way. “Hurts like a bitch, though. I forgot how bad gunshot wounds are.”

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

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

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

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

There was much to be pondered when it came to Rambler’s phobia of blood. He didn’t know when that fear had rooted itself into him or what it stemmed from, yet for as long as he could remember, his gaze would never bear the garish stain for long before he grew fretful or fell unconscious. As a result, he was perhaps the least prone to violence and bloodshed out of all the outlaws in the Odyssey; inconvenient as both notions were when they always either left him defeated or at a disadvantage.

However, just because he was rarely ever quick to shoot or strike, didn’t mean that his hands were any cleaner than those of the others. There were more paths towards taking a life than the crooks of a gun or the length of a blade. One of them was the spoken string of persuasion, and such was the path that painted the stain along Rambler’s palms. Sometimes he could barely keep track of all the people he had witnessed walking to their doom with their own two feet, guided by nothing but his coaxing words and blinding predictions. And when he could, he rarely looked back on it with remorse. Just as death couldn’t be faulted for being a balancing force in this world, he couldn’t be blamed for revealing outcomes to which people would have still been bound regardless of his influence.

Yet here he was, always so frail and quick to falter at the sight of blood; always so keen to close his eyes to it and keep his hands away, even though they’re soaked to the bone with it. There was a hidden meaning in that. He was certain of it. Only it was one that he had yet to glean — and certainly wouldn't any time soon. Especially not now, dizzy, nauseous, and anxious as he was, barely aware of Witness and Widower as they placed him onto a chair in front of Gull. He risked opening his eyes to look at the man, only to forcefully close them as ribbons of red washed across his gaze.

Though still anchored to an inconvenient limp, Rambler was at last able to roam. His stitches had settled, so Gull had permitted him to walk more freely, though not without the obligatory reminder to not exert himself. He had no intention to, and there would be no need to, considering the stillness that had encased his bones since their arrival — an indication that a rare sense of quiet would permeate their stay in this city. A prediction which was in equal parts foreboding and reassuring. 

After all, quiet signified terror right alongside tranquility. Yet Rambler invoked tranquility regardless. Terror was something that the Odyssey gang was far too familiar with and accustomed to, always so jarring and fast-paced. Even if it was what lay ahead, to, for once, face it in stillness and silence would still be its very own brand of comfort.

Breathing a sigh, Rambler ventured through the Eel train station, walking by the tracks at a leisurely pace. He only paused when his feet scuffed against a stain upon the pavement; a dark dried blot of color that stretched into a dotted trail leading away from the tracks. His own blood. It was already slightly faded from the ceaseless brush of dust against it. Was that why no one had wiped it away? Did people simply leave everything for the dust to erase? Perhaps that was how it had swallowed the world.

He eyed the stain for a moment, caught in his wonderings. Then a tingle of awareness prompted him to raise his gaze, and he did. It latched onto Old Halo, sitting on a nearby bench by herself. “Hey, Halo,” He greeted as he approached. “Don’t need my gift to be able to tell that a lot’s on your mind.” He tipped his head with an inviting smile, then his expression sobered into one of understanding. “Is it the robbery?”

𝐀 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐂𝐊 𝐈𝐍 — FEB 4th, 2349. RAMBLER’S ROOM IN THE RAVEN’S REST, CITY OF EEL | @ramblcr

Way his imagination told it, Rambler was already six feet under. Serves me for asking Vex, he thinks. Knows they were paired on the job, but couldn’t get a read on what came of it. So the first morning in EEL, after the Grenville train job—and once his fellow advisor’s had time to rest his head—Paragon takes it upon himself to fill in the gaps firsthand.

Theres a rhythmic rapping on the door as he taps out a beat, to announce himself before bursting in.

“Little birdy told me you could’a been dead,” Paragon begins as he shoulders in. “Me? I came to verify,” he hums, laughs, and produces a hunk of biscuit from his pocket—pocketed at breakfast from a plate that wouldn’t miss it (alright, alright, maybe his own).

“How’re ya feelin’, sunshine?”

"No other reason why you would claim the little birdy for yourself when it’s always been exclusive to me,” He rebutted with a smile, eyes squinted in a pained wince as he sat up, bandage-bound leg sliding against the rough sheets. “Unless this particular birdy we’re talkin’ about isn’t a voice in your dreams, but someone in the gang,” Tipping his head against his shoulder, he pretended to think for a moment, then drawled, “Vex maybe?”

His smile widened as he took the packet of biscuits from Paragon, immediately ripping it open and digging in. He didn’t bother to invite the man to sit, aware that Paragon would make himself comfortable if he so wished. “Like I’ve been shot. ‘S not nice.” Came his warbled answer through a mouthful of biscuit. “Been a while since it last happened. Passed out from the sight of the blood like always,” He chuckled, shaking his head. “You’d think I’d be immune to it by now.”

Rarely did anyone get the jump on Rambler. Whether one was approaching across several strides or a single step, he always turned around in time to confront the arrival head on — and this encounter was no different. He angled his chin just in time to snag Farrier into his periphery, but as he turned around to face him, he found himself unsure if the accuracy of his anticipation stemmed from his gift, or from basic human intuition.

From what he had observed, Farrier seemed to be a rather reserved man. He kept his words leashed to a firm tongue and sealed his emotions beneath thick, inscrutable skin. Yet right now, he was exuding a vicious, volatile aura that required no sixth sense to be grasped. Perhaps it was specifically because of Farrier’s calm nature that the shift was so palpable. Or perhaps it would have still been prominent to Rambler in spite of it. He wasn’t sure, and that uncertainty was more unnerving to him than Farrier’s burnt sienna eyes and tension-wrought gait.

Yet the doubt never touched his expression. His heart pounded against his chest in a staggering beat. His breath caught roughly in his throat. And he did nothing but hike a questioning brow as Farrier finally came to stand before him. “Something wrong, Farrier?”

— closed for @ramblcr​

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.

“Don’t you ever forget it,” Vex says, deep and dark like a river at night, “I coulda killed you then, and I could kill you now. Wouldn’t hesitate, either.”

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?”

“You’re beautiful, but you’re empty. No one could die for you.”