#duststarter

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

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

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

He likes fighting, and he likes divinity, so it stands to reason that he likes fighting for divinity. Eel has long been one of his favorite towns in Fool’s Prospect on account of Silver Living Gambling Hall, and over the years, this beloved haunt of his has lined his pockets aplenty, much to the consternation of the house. He reckons it’s a little unorthodox, if not a little illegal, to wager ✹100 on a fight and then step into the ring, but—well, he’s not exactly known for doing things the legal, orthodox way. Besides, he’d be hard-pressed to find a safer bet than an outlaw with a six-figure bounty.

Hellion’s fought twice tonight, and already he’s made out like a bandit proper, nearly tripling his wager. But it’s not enough for him—it never is—so he negotiates with the bookmaker and places another bet, and then he negotiates with the pit clerk and enrolls in another match. There’s three more fights until he takes the floor again, so he uses his sizable intermission to catch his breath and rally his aching bones for another round of play. Chest heaving, he situates himself at a secluded table in the corner, gulps down as much water as he can without choking, and uses his discarded shirt to wipe the blood from his face and knuckles. His injuries are minor—messy, but minor—and he can scarcely register the pain of them, for the divinity in his pocket is as fine a balm as any. 

He’s trying, mostly in vain, to remove his hand wraps with his teeth when a looming figure approaches. He doesn’t need to look up to know that it’s one of the gang; none else would have the gall to approach him.

“Have you come to turn a pretty profit on me?” he asks through clenched teeth, still gnawing at the too-tight knot of his hand wraps. Frustrated, he huffs a sigh through his nose and braces his elbows on top of the table, deserting his endeavor to change out his hand wraps for fresh ones. “Or are you here to throw your hat in the ring?” he asks, a catlike smile stretching slowly from one ear to the other as he jerks his chin at the fight unfolding before them.

𝐀𝐋𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐑𝐎𝐁𝐁𝐄𝐑𝐘 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐁𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐀 𝐒𝐔𝐂𝐂𝐄𝐒𝐒, 𝐁𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐃𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐅𝐄𝐋𝐓 𝐔𝐍𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐘. It was difficult for them to determine exactly why they still felt so on edge – replaying the events of the heist over and over again, despite walking away from the train with enough divinity to last them weeks and a nod of approval from Jack. It was like they were waiting for the other shoe to drop – for something they’d missed to come back and bite them, jeopardising their success and tenuous utility within the gang. Though they’d always been caught up in the past, dwelling this thoroughly on a heist was new – coming with the newfound scrutiny they imagined themselves to be under following their sudden desertion and even more sudden return.

Perhaps it shouldn’t have come as a surprise that sleep didn’t quickly befall her. She’d always been a light sleeper – mind never quite switching all the way off, after years of ensuring she was constantly vigilant and alert. Her sleep had always been plagued by dreams – distortions of the past that sent her tossing and turning and unable to clear them from her mind, even long after she’d awoken. Tonight, however, Brontide could not even reach this stage – their mind stubbornly refusing to clear even for the few minutes they required to fall into what would surely be a fitful slumber. Seconds stretch into minutes which stretch into hours, and when they next check their watch they find that late night has bled into early morning, and they decide to give up on the fruitless endeavour.

They stalk their way through the halls of RAVEN’S REST – ( the inn was quaint, but big enough for the needs of the gang, and the owners hadn’t asked many questions yet ), slipping through the entrance and out into the cool night air, breathing it in. EEL was quieter at night – though the odd person or two could still be spotted on the dimly lit streets. It would be almost peaceful were it not for the sounds of patrons stumbling out of the Atlantis down the road following last call – drunken revelry bouncing off the walls and echoing through the streets. The faintest hint of a smile graces Brontide’s face at the sound of the inebriated singing of a familiar tune – but it is gone as quickly as it had came, replaced once again with an impressive impassivity, giving nothing away, even in solitude.