#dexblik

Magnus clearly wasn’t pleased with the situation, but Bazlee kept him appeased, so he was kind enough despite having nothing but disdain for Gaztonne. And over time, much to his own relief, Gaztonne started to feel more “himself”… whatever that was. Placid, bored, and soon enough, back to his unusual creepy “neutral” smiling. Sure, he was being drugged into oblivion, but anyone would say it was better than the other option. Clarity calmed down too, back to lazily lounging around on his shoulders and head, and everything seemed to be back to normal.

Well, mostly. Bazlee still wouldn’t let him leave. Had to keep watching him for a while yet, to determine if he was safely stable again. (To Gaz’s chagrin, he had yet to be allowed his precious cleavers; that, too, had to wait until Bazlee was certain he would not use them in self destructive ways.)

“This is boooooooring,” Gaztonne complained one day, laying such that his upper half hung upside down from the sofa where he currently sat beside Magnus.

Flipping the page of the prayerbook he was reading, Magnus simply said “deal with it.”

Gaz made an irritating drawn-out groaning noise as he slowly slid off the couch, until nothing but his calves rest beside the priest.

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re a gigantic pain in the ass?” Magnus asked casually, not so much as looking up from his book.

“Everyone I’ve ever met,” Gaztonne snickered.

A knock came to the door, and that’s what finally prompted Magnus to insert a bookmark and set aside his reading material. Bazlee was away with a patient; thus his babysitting of the disturbed rogue. So it would have to be he who answered the door.

Patting his lap, Magnus stood. He gave Gaztonne a passing glance of distaste as he headed to the door. “Behave,” he said. Gaz gave him a thumbs-up from the floor.

As the door pulled open, Magnus was met with a sight horrifying but not unwelcome—the one goblin he ever knew who could truly be said to tower over him, Don Gutshot. With injuries he had not the last time Magnus had seen him, his arm in a sling, and… well, just seeming rather rough over all.

“Hunting trip?” Magnus asked calmly. He was used to it.

Don nodded, unusually somber. Magnus frowned, backing up to let him in.

“Smoke, Don?” he asked—not that he needed an answer. There wasn’t one between the man’s lips, which was an automatic “yes, please.”

“You’re my best friend, y’know that?” Don said with a grin.

“I certainly hope so,” Magnus said, popping a cigar out of a drawer (he had told Bazlee that it was vital to have a stock, just in case.) As Don gratefully took and went to light the much-missed vice, Magnus leaned back against the counter.

“So what happened to you, anyway?”

As he asked, a champagne-yellow eye peered very slightly from behind the wall that split the kitchen from the living room area. Don stared at it.

Magnus glanced between the two for a moment, uncertain what to make of the sudden tension.

“Gaztonne, don’t be rude,” he concluded, prompting a flinch before Gaztonne shuffled out from behind the wall.

Emotion was something he wasn’t too capable of while medicated, but at the very least, Gaztonne seemed aware of the negative aspects of what he had done, the slightest discomfort wavering his toothy smile as he inched towards Don.

“Hey, Boss.”

Before Magnus could make any sense of any of it, he was gaping at an entirely different scene—Gaztonne had hardly finished his last word by the time Don’s fist met his face, toppling him back and onto the floor.

Dizzily sitting up and rubbing his cheek, Gaztonne only laughed, staring up at Don; Don in turn glowered down at him like an angry green volcano, smoke rising from his cigar seeming a metaphor for his wrath.

Magnus didn’t interrupt, instead taking a seat and watching as though it were a perfectly peaceable conversation occurring. This, he was also used to—and more than happy to see, considering how often he’d wanted to sock the agitating goblin himself in the past several days.

“Don’t enjoy this, you piece a’ shit,” Don said, swooping down and wrenching the rogue up by the front of the straps he wore in place of a shirt.

Gaztonne only laughed again, drooping, empty-seeming eyes staring now directly into Don’s, the acrid smoke stinging at his nose as he snickered.

“I can’t shoot a fuckin’ gun now because of you, Stretch. I can’t do the one damned thing I really, genuinely like t’ do—because of YOU.”

“Well that answers my question,” Magnus muttered in the background.

Gaz swallowed, continuing his usual creepy grinning and giving a slight little shrug as he scratched at the floor with toenails that were the only part of him that could still reach it. “Sounds like you need a neeeeeeeeew hobby,” he said.

He was slammed into a wall (a quiet objection about the paint came from Magnus) and as Don’s furious glare came so close to his own that their noses pressed against each other, Gaz had to admit he was impressed at the violent power the man had in only one of his arms.

“You think you’re funny, huh?” Don asked. “Real gods-damned hilarious. Well, clown, think serious for a moment an’ give me one good reason I shouldn’t kill you right here, right now.”

Gaz was quiet for a few tense moments before coming up with an answer.

“You’d get blood all over the preacher’s new hardwood.”

Silence fell over the room.

“He has a good point there,” Magnus admitted from the sidelines.

A huff of a breath came from Don, who stepped back, releasing Gaz and letting him fall back to his feet; only then was it clear the huff was a laugh, the hunter grinning around his cigar.

“Fucker.” He gave an irritated sound, turning as he quietly admitted, “nobody’s kicked my ass that bad in years, fer fuck’s sake…”

Gaz giggled, sorting out the mildly displaced leather straps he wore. “You’re welcome to punch me moooooooooore if it’ll make you feel better,” he said, eager eyes watching Don as he wandered over to where Magnus sat.

“Gross,” Don said. “Get someone else to get your masochistic rocks off, Stretch.”

Gaztonne stuck his tongue out, scampering over to the table and settling himself into a chair with his legs folded up against his torso before Don even could, glancing between the two large goblins expectantly.

Don sat with a heaving sigh.

“I’m tired, Maggie.”

“What’s this about not being able to shoot?” Magnus asked, eyeing the arm that rest in the sling.

“Can’t feel this one no more,” Don answered, nodding his head to his right in clarification. “Can’t feel it, can’t move it. Got some kind’a fucked up out there.”

Magnus shot a venomous glare at Gaz, who hunkered down into his knees.

“Perhaps I can help,” he offered. “That’s why you came, anyways, is it not?”

Don pulled the cigar from his mouth and pointed it emphatically at Magnus. “And because I love ya.”

Magnus smiled, shaking his head. “Okay.”

“And also, I needed to make sure that motherfucker got to the doc safe.” Don gestured a thumb at Gaztonne. “Didn’t realize I’d be findin’ all this in one place, though.” He eyed Magnus mischievously. “So what’s the news then?”

Magnus blushed, sheepishly peering down at the table. “Oh, well, y-you know…”

“I don’t.”

Magnus raised his left hand for Don to see—the golden band around his middle finger glimmered in the sunlight that spilled in through the windows and Gaztonne got to see what was quite possibly the most ecstatic expression he’d ever seen on anybody, much less The Boss.

“That’s great!” Don said, hand smacking onto the table excitedly (somehow the cigar stayed between two fingers regardless.) “When’s the ceremony? Who’s yer best man? I swear t’ th’ Light I’ll kill you if it ain’t me.”

Magnus laughed, setting his hand down gingerly. “Of course it’ll be you, idiot. But that’s not important right now—“

“It’s VERY important!”

“Not now.”

Don scowled, but shut up as Magnus stood to walk to his side and began to tug back the loosely unbuttoned shirt Don had sported for the time, lifting the gauze and bandages on his shoulder to observe the wound.

“Yeesh.”

“Yeah.”

Gaz snickered—perhaps some distorted expression of guilt.

“Well, I’ll see what I can do, but I can’t make any promises,” Magnus said, tugging Don’s shirt back over his shoulder properly.

“Any effort is more than I could ever ask of you,” Don said, standing to follow Magnus to a more comfortable room to attempt a healing. Behind them, Gaztonne followed, out of both boredom and curiosity.

“Nnh—ow.”

“Hm.”

Don sighed, scowling down at his arm. “Well, it’s… workin’ now.”

He wiggled his fingers on his right arm—that alone was more than he had been able to do since the fight. He grit his teeth as he did so, however. He got movement back from Magnus’ focused Holy magic, but with it came back feeling—and that feeling was pain.

“Perhaps the disabling was a protective measure,” Magnus said. “I can’t imagine this is much better.”

Don bent his arm, pulling it up into the position where it would be were he preparing to pull the trigger of one of his beloved guns… or, he would have, but trying to move his shoulder in that way at all made him cry out in pain, his left hand coming up to hold at it as he took a deep, focusing breath.

“Guess that settles that,” Don concluded.

“I’m sorry, Don,” Magnus said, ears dropping a bit. “I wish I could have actually helped.”

“You did what you could, Maggie,” Don reassured the priest, giving him a pat on the shoulder (and then wincing, as raising that arm so high hurt like a bitch.) “You got it movin’ again, anyhow. I appreciate it.”

“Do you… do you want me to try to make it go numb again? You seem to be in quite a lot of pain…”

Don huffed indignantly. “I ain’t givin’ up the use of one a’ my arms cuz of a little pain. I can take it.”

“Bazlee can probably get you some pain killers for it, then.”

“…I can take that, too.”

Their conversation was interrupted by a single finger prodding into Magnus’ arm, which was met with a sour face. “What do you want, you impudent, childish wretch?”

Don barely held back a grin at the insult, which seemed to have absolutely no effect on the person to whom it was spat.

“May I go out into the city, siiiiiiiiiir?”

Magnus furrowed his brows. “What? Why?”

“Fresh air.”

Magnus gave him a doubtful look.

“If you aren’t back in half an hour, I will personally hunt down and gut you.”

“Noted, Brother,” Gaz snickered, giving Magnus a mockingly gracious bow. Magnus rolled his eyes, and Gaztonne crept away and out of the building.

It was very nearly 30 minutes, but Gaz stepped back into the building just in time to escape the supposed wrath of the priest’s likely-unmeant threat. When he entered, it seemed nobody was around anymore—cocking his head, he wandered into the half of the home that was instead used as an office. There he found the residents—Magnus sat aside on a chair, watching with crinkled nose as the redheaded doctor stitched now-professionally-treated lacerations closed. Most of them had loosely scabbed over, and Cochoora had done a fairly decent job of keeping them from splitting back open; but noting signs of likely infection, Bazlee had insisted upon reopening and caring for the injuries himself.

The doctor’s gaze stayed intently focused on the thigh where he carefully sewed through skin. The patient’s eyes rose to greet the newcomer.

“Well look who’s back,” Don said (sporting naught but underwear at the moment, for the sake of wound-access.)

“Damn it,” Magnus muttered, still watching the stitching with morbid curiosity.

Gaztonne snickered, hopping over to the table on which Don sat.

“Look, look,” he said, seemingly excited. With that, he pulled out a pistol—which he spun on one finger before taking a dramatic shooting pose, one foot ahead, one behind, knees bent, body tilted back and arms straight ahead. He made a quiet “pchoow” sound with his mouth, tilting it up in mimicry of having shot it, then turned to grin up at Don.

Don stared for several moments, squinting.

“The fuck is that?”

“A gun!”

“It’s puny.”

“Yeeeeeeeeah,” Gaztonne said, standing like a normal person again, making a fingergun with his open hand and pointing both at Don. “Easier to conceal. Like a knife. Not that I conceeeeeeeal my knives, but…”

Don cocked a brow at him. Gaz hesitated a moment. Hold on. He wasn’t getting his point across, was he?

“I’m—“ Gaz wiggled his weight from one leg to the other, tucking the pistol under his belt and clenching and unclenching fists in front of his chest as he tried to figure out how to speak his thoughts.

“I’m gonna use it. For you.”

Don blinked. “Ya what?”

“Yeah. You can’t uuuuuuuuuuuuuse a gun anymore, right? Because I fucked up your arm.”

“That’s right,” Don said with a scowl.

“So I’m gonna use one for you. Uh. In your honor.”

Don seemed perplexed, considering the man before him. Was this a weird Gaztonne-y way of apologizing and making up for what he did?

…Actually, it was kind of flattering, though. Shooting was his favorite thing to do, but getting others into it was probably a safe second.

“A’right, Stretch, but… that gun?” Don looked extremely uncertain. “What good is such a tiny gun?”

“Shorter range, but portable, stash-able,” Gaztonne said. “I’m not the far-away type anyways.” His eyes wandered to some of the already-sutured gashes on Don’s upper half as though emphasizing to himself exactly what type he was.

“Hum.” Gon gave a weak shrug. “Whatever works for you, Stretch.”

“Give it,” Magnus said, holding out a hand and giving Gaztonne a stern look.

Gaz laughed, tugging the pistol out of his belt and placing it into the priest’s hand.

“You can have it back when the doctor says it’s safe to trust you with weapons,” Magnus said, placing it in his lap and returning his gaze to the gory mess he couldn’t seem to stop watching despite his own disgust.

“Yeah, yeah,” Gaz said, flopping to the floor, folding his legs, and staring up at Don as the process went on.

Eventually, Don realized he was being stared at and peered down at the rogue. The stare was, as usual, highly unnerving, but as he studied the seemingly-same expression Gaztonne held, he noticed a vaguely different feel to it.

Was that… respect? Admiration? …or was Gaz just checking him out? He huffed a laugh, shaking his head. It hardly mattered, anyway.

There was not much in the way of conversation as Bazlee, still very focused, moved on to the next cut; Magnus kept on watching in horror, Don idly watched as well, and Gaztonne gazed up wordlessly at Don. After some time, Magnus finally broke his own stare to peer curiously up to Don.

“What are you going to do now, anyway? Suppose your hunting days have come to a close?”

Don glanced down at his right hand, which he lifted and observed—pain shot up it with every slight movement. He couldn’t reliably hold a rifle with the amount of pain caused by the required positioning; and even the kickback from Gaztonne’s weird, tiny gun would probably jerk his shoulder enough to cause issue. He couldn’t pull back a bow string, hold a crossbow…

His brows furrowed, memories of the quiet Tauren and the awful jungle stirring up.

He moved his hands and mimed several positions (Magnus and Gaz watched in befuddlement) of holding a polearm. The only thing that caused any severe amount of issue—aside from the constant pain caused by moving his right arm at all—was to lift above his head, but it was still not as much as the gun-wielding pose.

“Maybe not,” he said.

“How so?” Magnus asked. “Even painkillers won’t get you through one of your “hunting trips”.”

Don grinned down at Magnus, eyes then drifting over to Gaz, whose ears perked up in excitement at the expression. Oh, something fun was happening, wasn’t it?

“Good work, Sureshot. Clean as usual. Not that I’d expect anything less,” came a crackling voice from the radio. The goblin holding it grinned at the sniper, who gave a sheepish smile and shrug in return.

It wasn’t necessarily a daily thing for him to kill, but it was something he was accustomed to after having worked as one of the Gadgetzan defense snipers. Often the target only needed a shot to the leg to stop them from fleeing, or one to the shoulder if they were assaulting someone, though. Regardless, Donovik Sureshot, son of revered hunter and local retired sniper hero Jagnix Sureshot, always hit exactly where he meant to. It was in his blood. Hell, it was in his name.

His companion, Magnus Dexblik, wasn’t quite as accurate. Well, most of the other sniper squad wasn’t, and for the tough jobs, when it was most important, they called on Don. Not that Magnus minded—he preferred watch duty anyway. Less pressure, and he got to hang out with his best friend and watch him mow down thugs like sitting ducks.

“Deserved it,” Magnus said, leaning back in the folding chair he’d set up at today’s station point. “Scum, all he was. Criminals.” He made a disgusted noise, folding his arms behind his head and staring up at the desert sky.

“Attempted murder,” Don said, peering through the sight on his gun to nothing in particular, scanning the town. “If he didn’t actually do it, did he really deserve t’ die for it?”

Magnus raised a brow. “He had every intention of doing it. Just because he failed to doesn’t make him any less guilty, if you ask me.”

Don gave a little shrug. “Guess so.”

He focused the view on the spot where he had felled the criminal. The bruisers had dragged the corpse away to be taken care of, and all that remained was blood-spattered dirt.

He was good at it. So it was what he did.

Weeks passed, with relatively little trouble. A couple leg shots, a few arms, but no more need to end a life. Today was like the rest, it seemed. Sunny, hot, and generally uneventful. A breeze kept the rooftop guardians cool, a stiff gust here and there ruffling brown hair as they idly chatted and watched the going-ons of the settlement.

Somewhere below, a gnome stole an apple from a fruit cart. A shot to the ground beside him by one of the less skilled snipers was enough for him to drop it and surrender to the bruisers. A few other small events, most of which didn’t require a drop of bloodshed, were handled by the others as well. Don groaned, leaning against the ledge his gun perched over.

“This is borin' as all get out.”

“It’s work,” said Magnus, flipping disinterestedly through a brochure for tropical vacation spots. “Work is not known for being fun.”

“It should be fun.”

“Then it wouldn’t be work.”

Don scoffed, rolling his eyes. “If it were fun, more people would wanna work.”

Magnus laughed, tossing the brochure off the rooftop where it landed with a pap onto an unsuspecting passerby's head. A harsh gust of wind blew sand into the town, causing the young goblins to squint such as to not get it in the eyes. As it settled, Magnus gave a worried look to the vast desert landscape that went on for miles in most directions from Gadgetzan.

“Might be a haboob day,” he muttered. “That sucks.”

Another gust, blasting sand against them and all others in the town, seemed to confirm his statement. A lingering stronger breeze followed, and the two begrudgingly began to prepare themselves to sandstorm protocol. Bandanas like masks covered their noses and mouths, and goggles strapped over their eyes protected their sight from the grating sand that flew through the air with each strong wind. Don instinctively recalled how he’d have to adjust his shots based on the levels of wind, if he even got any assignments today. Sureshot second nature.

The storm worsened quickly, prompting much of the inhabitants and visitors of the town to retreat indoors. Soon enough, there was hardly a soul to be seen in the commons, but the defense squad was expected to stay on duty. Don scanned the town through the sight of his gun, catching pieces of the town square through puffs of brown sand clouds that hindered most view. Bad for sniping, but nothing ever happened during haboobs anyways. Nobody wanted to be out in that shit.

That is, usually nothing happened.

A crackling voice came through on Magnus' radio: their captain.

A kidnapping.

A human man had snatched a tauren child who had strayed too far from her mother’s side where they hid from the wind in the inn; he made through the sandy gusts knowing that were anyone to pursue, he could lose them easily.

The command: kill on sight, avoiding the child.

Magnus took up his binoculars and Don searched through his scope, the two looking towards the area the crime had been reported from, scouring through blinding sand for any sign of the kidnapper.

“There!” Magnus said, “by the blacksmith’s!”

Don aimed toward the blacksmith, and sure enough, there was the man. Weeping child tucked under his arm, he crept around the back of the forge, glancing around for chasers or bruisers. Don frowned, a gnawing anger churning his stomach at the sight of the frightened, innocent little girl. It was one of those times he would agree in full that the criminal deserved it.

“You got this,” Magnus said, watching the man carefully to offer input on his movements.

“Yeah, yeah,” Don said, squinting as though it would help him see through the sand. He kept the crosshair firmly on the man's head, watching, waiting. The man paused in his movement; it was time to take the shot.

The wind settled just long enough for the distance between the gunner and the criminal to clear enough for decent visibility—panicked eyes caught on the gun pointed at the target from a not too distant rooftop. Shit.

The man made a run for it; there would be no more easy shots now. It was time for predictive shooting. Moving targets were always the worst.

“He’s heading towards the northern exit,” Magnus reported worriedly. “If he gets out that gate there’s going to be no chance of us downing him.”

“He’s not gonna make it out that gate,” Don assured with a disgruntled huff. Adrenaline rushed through his veins, the barely-audible crying of the poor kid only fueling the flame. The grit-filled wind picked back up strongly, the man was racing to the gate, he was almost out! A cloud of dirt kicked up in view but it was now or never—

A rifle shot rang out, and there was a scream. No, two screams. A scream of fright from the child, and a scream of pain from the man.

That wasn’t right.

Don blinked in befuddlement as gaps in the sandy wind gave him insight to the situation. The girl, released, had crawled backward on her rear in the sand, staring in horror at her wounded captor. Said captor hunkered on to the ground, holding his abdomen, from which blood gushed.

“Yeesh,” Magnus said, rubbing at the back of his head. “That’s got to hurt.”

“I missed.”

Magnus glanced over at Don, brows furrowing. “Well, you can’t be expected to have your usual lethal accuracy in this weather,” he reassured, eyeing the goblin who seemed to be in shock. “You hit the guy at least, and got the kid away safe. That’s what matters. The ground team will take care of him.”

And as he said, bruisers arrived, safely escorting the terrified girl back to the inn to her worried mother, others surrounding the kidnapper.

The radio cracked, the captain’s voice coming through—“What the fuck was that?! A gut shot?! Don’t tell me you let Dexblik take this one!”

Magnus gave a look of offense before responding.

“Weather and moving target, sir. Just a bit of bad luck on the timing.”

Don's eyes hadn’t moved from the scope, watching in morbid interest as the bruisers surrounding the man awaited orders, not touching him in the meantime; which left him to moan in agony, blood oozing from the wound. He shuddered forward, vomiting suddenly, the result red and telling of his state. A shaky hand pulled away from the shotgun blast that tore his abdomen open, and as he did, a little bit of his internal organs pushed against the opening, shredded and ruined and gory as hell.

“Don.”

A wracking moan followed, the man uselessly trying to push things back in before vomiting again. Don couldn’t make out what he was saying from this far away, as it was much quieter than his previous cries, but through gusts of sand, he could read the man’s lips well enough--'please, kill me'.

“Don.”

The man dropped to his belly in the sand, curling up and moaning again—lowering a radio from his ear, one of the bruisers granted him his repeated wish—heaving his spiked mace over his head, it came down with enough force upon the dying man's own that it burst in a shower of blood and brain and—

“DON!”

“Huh—what?” Don asked, finally tearing his eyes from the scene to pay attention to Magnus' demand.

“You… okay?” There was worry in his friend’s eyes visible even through the protective eyewear he sported.

“Yeah,” Don said, leaning back from his gun and giving a quiet sigh. “I’m glad the kid’s a’right.”

“Same,” Magnus murmured, still staring with concern at Don.

“Did you… did you see that?” Don asked, peering quizzically at his friend.

“See what? The guy down there?”

“Yeah.”

“No, I wasn’t watching. Why would I be? We all know what happens anyway.”

Don shrugged.

The streak of uneventful days started anew, so little use for Don's excellent marksmanship that he hadn’t used a single shell for a week straight. Most of his days were spent reading magazines, tossing rocks at birds, and having contests with Magnus over who could spit more times onto unsuspecting passerby's heads.

Then, again, something finally happened. A murderer—a goblin criminal on the run from Ratchet had been spotted taking hospice in Gadgetzan. Kill on sight. The watch began.

In the dark of the night, an alert crackled over Magnus' radio. The criminal was sighted—on the move towards their part of the town. Magnus kept a keen watch until they found him. Then, as usual, Don pointed his gun towards the hapless enemy, crosshair centered right between the eyes…

A shot sounded, the noise seeming to echo in the alleys between mud brick buildings.

Following the shot was a scream of pain.

Magnus looked appalled, balking at Don. “You missed?! How?! He was standing still!”

Don stared wide-eyed through the sight of his gun.

“The captain is not gonna be—“

“GUT SHOT?!” yelled a voice through the radio.

“—happy.”

Don's ears lowered slightly, but he didn’t take his eyes off the wounded goblin, the gore seeping from the target’s stomach clear even in the low lighting of night.

“Are your eyes goin', kid?! You never miss! That’s your shtick!”

Magnus frowned, glancing from the radio to Don and back again before replying. “Accidents happen,” he offered.

“Not to a Sureshot they don’t,” scoffed the captain.

Magnus shrugged, looking up at Don. “Nobody’s perfect,” he said.

Don stared placidly through the sight of the gun, as though he didn’t hear a thing being said. In the distance, the shot goblin cried out in agony, trying to drag himself away to safety, or something, before the bruisers came to put him out of his misery.

Two weeks later, another job was given to the pair, and Magnus patted Don on the shoulder in encouragement as he sought the target.

“This will show them,” he said. “You’ll bring back that Sureshot quality and everything will be back to normal.”

“Normal?” Don asked, searching through the rifle's scope as he spoke.

“Er—yeah. I mean. You know, talk has been going around about your aim. People are saying you’ve slipped, lost the family gift. Some are even, uh, starting to call you “Gutshot” as a joke.”

Don huffed a laugh, spotting the target and beginning his careful aim. “That so?” he asked. “Lost my gift, did I? Cuz I’m… missin’.”

“Well, yeah. It was just an accident though. I’m sure you’ll get this one.”

Don smiled, and pulled the trigger.

A booming shot—and a scream.

Magnus stared out to the distant target in shock, eyes slowly dragging back to Don, who was watching the mark with fascination.

“It… you haven’t lost your aim, have you?”

Bright red eyes darted aside to Magnus, seeming to challenge him to go on.

“You’re aiming for their stomachs. It’s not an accident at all.”

Don grinned, returning his attention to the scene through the sniper scope.

“Why?” Magnus asked, voice seeming more concerned than anything else.

“Dunno. It's fun.”

A raging voice came from the radio—“SURESHOT, MY OFFICE, NOW.”

Don rolled his eyes to the radio with a “tch”, standing from his station and propping his gun over his shoulder casually as he made for the exit to ground level. Worriedly, Magnus followed.

“You wanna explain what’s goin' on here, son?”

Don stared the captain right in the eye—well, kind of. Despite being significantly younger, Don was always an unusually large goblin, and was already taller than the old man. His answer was an aloof shrug.

“He missed,” Magnus offered from a little behind.

“That many times in a row? My most accurate sniper? That don’t make any fuckin’ sense,” argued the captain. “So tell me what's goin' on for real.”

Don stared down the man in thought. What was going on? He couldn’t really figure it out himself. There was just some odd thrill that came from the deadly but painful paunch-piercing shot that he never experienced before. What was it? It’s not like he’d never killed before. He was numb to killing, to wounding. But...

“If I may,” Magnus said, shuffling forward a bit to peek around Don to the captain. “As his watchman, I have noticed Donovik's been a bit out of it lately. Maybe he just needs a vacation or something.”

Don gave an incredulous look to Magnus. The captain gave him an even more incredulous look.

“Oh sure, sure,” he said. “A vacation. How about this, then, boy: have a vacation.” The captain’s face pulled into an infuriated scowl—“a permanent one! We’re supposed to be Gadgetzan’s protection, not a Light-damned torture agency!”

Don's brows rose, but he didn’t seem too put off. Magnus, however, interceded.

“Sir! I assure you, it was all just a slip-up. You don’t want to lose Gadgetzan's greatest sniper of the generation, do you? Please reconsider—“

“You shut your mouth, Dexblik, or you can leave with him. Your fat lazy ass wouldn’t be much of a loss in comparison to this damn blind rat!”

Magnus' ears pinned down, looking quite displeased—now Don reacted. His brows drew down in an uncharacteristically aggressive leer, disdain nearly tangible in the look he gave the angry little man.

“Leave him outta this, he ain’t done shit,” Don said.

“No he sure ain’t done shit,” agreed the captain with a snide tone, “which is why he can go ahead an’ take a permanent vacation too. Both a' you idiots are fired. Now get out of my office.”

Something seemed to click as Don scowled at the goblin who stood before him, not so much as budging. He figured out why he had taken to “missing”.

“Don, let’s just go, we don’t need this—”

“I SAID,” the captain hissed, “get outta my office, Sureshot.” His nose crinkled in a sardonic sneer. “Or should I say, Gutshot?”

He shot them in the gut because he enjoyed watching people who deserved to die suffer.

“Yeah, actually,” Don said, the gun he had been holding at his side rising to jab the man in the abdomen, pinning him between the barrel and the front of his desk. “Call me Gutshot.”

The captain glanced between Don and the gun. “Wh--?!”

A gunshot cracked through the building, and then a sharp scream of pain. Oh, the horror in that pissy little man's eyes. The pain in his cry. The blood.

“Holy shit, man,” Magnus muttered, tugging Don back to face him. “We gotta GO.”

Don blinked at his friend in surprise. “That’s your response?” he asked with a slight laugh.

Magnus glanced at the man who was now on all fours, clutching his gut as he moaned and cried out, coughing blood onto the dirty floor. Sure, it was apparent his friend was kinda messed up, but… Magnus gave a shrug and a nod.

“Deserved it.”

A decent way into Thousand Needles, they stopped to camp and consider their course of action.

“We could go hide out somewhere. Probably not a Steamwheedle town, though, since they'll probably have us on wanted posters soon enough. Maybe those tauren on the needles will take us in…”

“You didn’t even do anything wrong,” Don pointed out. “If anyone’s in trouble, it’s me.”

“Hey, I’m an accomplice,” Magnus scoffed, tilting his head up in indignation. “I should have turned you in, by all means; instead, I helped you escape. Maybe it’s not as bad as purposeful murder of your boss—“

“Ex-boss. He fired us.”

“Right, well.” Magnus frowned, looking about the dusty terrain. “What are we going to do now?”

“I think I wanna travel.”

“What? Where?”

“Everywhere.”

Magnus rubbed at his cheek in thought. “Everywhere? The world’s a big place, Don. That’d take forever. And what are you even going to do? How will you make money to survive?”

“I’ve got an inheritance waitin' for me whenever the folks croak,” Don said with a shrug. “In the meantime, what’s it matter? I’ll live off the land. Hunt for food, camp out.”

“You’ll die.”

“Maybe.”

“Don!” Magnus said, exasperated.

“Look,” Don said, patting a hand onto Magnus' shoulder. “We’ve spent our whole lives in that stinkin' desert. There’s so much more out there. You’ve seen the pamphlets, the fliers. There’s a ton a' stuff we ain’t ever seen. Stuff nobody has seen. If I gotta run away, then I wanna see things while I’m at it. I I don’t wanna jus’ hole up somewhere safe an' hide. I can’t stand stayin’ still anymore.”

Don gave a stern look into the worried eyes that matched his.

“It’s borin’.”

Magnus took a deep breath.

“Fine,” he said. “Go out and let nature eat you alive. I’m going to find myself a nice hole and hide while you do.”

Don smirked, and Magnus shoved his hand off his shoulder with a defeated laugh.

“Keep in touch, though. I expect to stay your best friend even if you’re out there rafting down waterfalls and swinging from vines.”

“Of course,” Don said. “No matter what happens. If you stop gettin' letters, assume me dead.”

“Don’t say that,” Magnus scolded warily. “You’ll jinx yourself.”

“Right, right. Well, what’re you gonna do in your hidey hole then?”

Magnus stared up at the darkening sky in thought.

“Was thinking maybe I’ll go study. Never been a good shot, not much for labor, but I figure maybe there’s some place for me in the magical arts. Maybe I’ll be able to dazzle you with arcane sparkles when you visit—and you will visit, naturally.”

“Oh, naturally,” laughed Don. “I’m sure you’ll do somethin’ great.”

Magnus shrugged dejectedly. “We’ll see.”

Don scooted over closer to Magnus, wrapping an arm over his shoulders in a supportive gesture. “Don’t worry ‘bout it, Maggie. Our lives’ve jus' begun. Carry yourself with confidence an' you’ll achieve anythin' ya put your mind to. Then, some day, we'll both be exactly where we ought to be; happy, content, an' satisfied with what we've become.”

Magnus nodded, reaching his hand up to pat the one draped down from his shoulder. “Yeah,” he said. “You’re right.” He looked thoughtful for a moment, eyes peering aside towards Don as a question came to him.

“You’re not really going to go by “Gutshot” now, are you?”

Don nodded. “Sure I am. Don’t reckon my old man is gonna appreciate me keepin' his name after all them “misses”, after all. Hell, he probably won’t wanna be associated with me at all once word spreads ‘bout what happened. Besides,” he said, giving a cheeky grin aside to his companion, “Gutshot sounds cool, don’t it?”

Magnus shook his head slowly, but didn’t fight him on it.