FAMILY.

TWENTY-EIGHT. DEMIWOMAN & SHE/THEY. PORTRAYED BY JESSIE MEI LI.

written by lu (twenty-six, she/they, gmt).

—

Twelfth has the graciousness to take the can but doesn’t seem interested in eating anything. He sits down alongside her, resting his hands on his knees, and tries to decide the best way to proceed with a conversation as awkward with this one. There’s no polite small talk he could even entertain. Better, then, to just rip the bandage off. He looks down at the art, instead of her. The seconds seem to pass by too slow.

Now that he thinks about it, she’s scarcely eaten these past few days. He’ll need to keep an eye on that, to ensure she doesn’t starve herself out of her sorrow.

“Listen, uh, there’s no nice way to ask this. But my brother joined your Family a few years back. About six or seven. He would’ve been a little older than me, a little taller… his name was Raphael.” A beat. He looks at them, then, eyes steely, preparing for the worst. It’s a long shot, he knows that, but he still wants to hope for something, even if it’s just a memory. “I realize that there were a lot of you, but I was wondering if you knew what happened to him.”

—

Twelfth half-expects the other ( Farrier, is it? They rack their brain, trying to remember the names introduced to them over the last few days but, even if they wanted to, it’s like their brain’s processing power died along with Mother and The First ) to just stay around for a few moments before deciding to walk away. It’s not out of rudeness but there’s barely anyone in the camp that can actually “gloat” about having had a full conversation with her. 

And the moment she hears what Farrier has to say, Twelfth finds herself wishing it had been kept that way — no conversation, no sharing, no questions, none of what Farrier has presented her with. They look at him, they stare just for a moment too long as if they’re trying to decipher whether or not they heard it right or if it’s just their brain trying to make them feel worse.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. It’s all real, isn’t it? Farrier is asking about his brother. Farrier is asking about Raphael. Farrier is asking about The First. The same First Twelfth shot in the head. They can lie, they realise. They can say they don’t know. What are the chances of running into someone from The Family that would know everything ( or at least enough ) to tell Farrier the truth?

Just lie, Twelfth, just lie. “Raphael? Your brother?” She killed her brother and she killed Farrier’s brother. Maybe she deserves whatever comes to her if her lips decide to pour out everything. “He was your brother.” It’s not a question, just a mumble and more of a vocal and painful realisation. “He’s — he’s dead, he’s — he was shot.” That’s it. That’s all you have to say, Twelfth. That’s it. Good job. 

I said that’s close enough. Twelfth’s warning cuts through the air with enough force to send a little chill hopping down the knobs of Hellion’s spine. His eyebrows shoot up high, surprise surprise softening the hard lines of his face. It’s not the command itself that galls him, no—it’s the bite behind it, cold and hard as steel. If he wasn’t watching Twelfth with his own two eyes, if it was Paragon reciting this story to him, he’d write it off as a one of the raconteur’s make-believe anecdotes, well-woven but untrue. But he is watching Twelfth, and he sees them, clean through, for perhaps the first time. 

And then she calls him a coward, and though his pride bristles, and though his instinct is to raise his hackles, to bark and bite, he refrains, if only because he knows a fishing lure when he sees one. She’ll have to do better than “coward” if she intends to bait him into sticking his neck out for her. Would that Paragon were here, or even Rambler; Paragon, who knows well enough how sway the immovable needle of Hellion’s compass with well-placed words, and Rambler, who knows how to ply him with games and tricks, cloaks and daggers. Pity for Twelfth that both are far, far away from here. 

You can watch your leader’s brains splatter on the ground in front of you.

Hellion thinks she’s bluffing, and so, too, does the gang’s leader, apparently. Turns out she’s not bluffing, not by a long shot, and the gang’s leader pays handsomely for his error in judgment. Hellion lets out a low, impressed whistle as the rest of the small gang stares in horror at their felled leader, whose brains are indeed splattered on the ground before them, as promised. “Good shot,” he muses, and he means it.

The gang has a choice to make now: tuck their tails or bite back. He watches them as they no doubt weigh the pros and cons of flight or fight. He banks on them opting for the latter, so he makes quick work of running his own list of pros and cons.

Pro: if the gang advances and Hellion aids Twelfth, he’ll get to fight or kill or both, which means he’ll get to scratch that ever-present itch of his.

Con: if the gang advances and Hellion aids Twelfth, Twelfth will live another day—or rather, Twelfth will cry about their dead brother another day, and then another, and then another.

Pro: if the gang advances and Hellion doesn’t aid Twelfth, she will perhaps not live another day, which might awaken something monster-like in Farrier, which will be great fun.

Con: if the gang advances and Hellion doesn’t aid Twelfth, one of his fondest sources of entertainment will be dead, likely, and he’ll be a little bored without Twelfth’s at-times-diverting company. Also, he thinks the gang might not be too happy to hear he left one of their own for dead.

In the corner of his field of vision, he sees one of the gang pull a revolver from his waistband. Fight it is, then, not flight. He huffs a petulant sigh as the right call grows clearer in his mind’s eye. “Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, using the toe of his boot to kick the barrel of his shotgun up off the ground and into his hands. He cocks the hammer of his shotgun quickly, smoothly, like he’s been doing it all his life, like it comes as naturally to him as breathing. He has, and it does. Before the gang can retaliate, he fires, cocks the hammer, and fires again. He does this twice more, until none of the gang are left standing.

“You’re welcome,” he says emphatically to Twelfth. It’s a fucking ludicrous remark, frankly. You’re welcome for hanging you out to dry and watching you almost die for sport, and then deciding to come to your aid in the eleventh hour to avoid being drawn and quartered by the rest of the gang. “What a waste of gunpowder,” he laments.

—

It all happens fast. One moment there’s a group of rowdy men, the next their bodies are slumping to the floor, tainting the dirt with their blood. One second there’s only one gunshot that rings in Twelfth’s ears and in the next, there’s a few others, interrupted only by the cocking of Hellion’s shotgun. 

Twelfth expects there to be some regret, creeping up on them as soon as silence settles in and their arm lowers, finger still on the trigger. It’s frozen there, really, at least until reality catches up and she realises there’s no feelings inside her chest that will keep her up at night. Twelfth has to wonder if shooting people — killing people — has become easier because none could ever make her feel the guilt and the grief she already feels. Every damn day. Every damn minute. 

You’re welcome. 

Twelfth just looks at Hellion, eyebrows furrowed in both disbelief and annoyance. 

What a waste of gunpowder. 

Did he really just fucking say that? Had he not spent the whole time asking her questions about her brother, had he not made her think about something even more than she already does only to then raise and clean his hands of a confrontation brought to them, maybe Twelfth would have just walked away, maybe they would have just rolled his eyes, shook their head and walk away, leave Hellion to think about all the wasted gunpowder. 

Instead, they stay right where they are. Instead, Twelfth turns to fully face Hellion.

"That could have been avoided if you weren’t so committed to being a piece of shit, y’know?” Twelfth tried, she knows she did. She tried to rack her brain, look in the furthest corner of her mind, find anything that would make him, his actions, make sense. “We’re supposed to be lyin’ low and you just takes this opportunity to — to what?” The frustration is clear in every syllable they speak, a scoff soon following as they shake their head at the same time they put their gun back in its holster. “See how far gunshots echo in this place? Please explain it to me because I’m afraid I might just lose my mind if I try to understand you by myself.”

EEL, Brontide thought – was a strange place. Perhaps they simply weren’t giving it a chance, given their lingering anxiety over the status of the robbery, slinking around and waiting for Jack to drop the other shoe on them – approval over their work seeming almost too good to be true, given their past transgressions. It was much smaller than BOUNTY – though far more lawless, which, Brontide supposed, was at least one thing to be grateful for – fleeing glances over her shoulder far less frequent when she had little reason to suspect she was being followed by REVENANTS. 

Unfortunately, the positives of Eel seemed to be outweighed by the negatives – such a small space quickly found Brontide growing restless – the inn they’d been posted in was too stuffy and suffocating, the food at the Atlantis left much to be desired ( though, she had to admit, it was still preferable to the food they cooked for themselves at camp ), and Brontide soon found themselves somewhat aimlessly patrolling the dusty streets of Eel, lost in their own thoughts, as they often were.

They spot TWELFTH some distance away as they’re passing the general store – her bow hung at her back as she ducks behind the storefront and out of Brontide’s sight. They try their best not to cast suspicion on their fellow crew mates ( at least, not now, not after everything they’d put them all through ) – but Twelfth was something of an anomaly. Brontide couldn’t claim to know them particularly well, but what they did know tended to worry them, and though Twelfth had thus far proven to be loyal, Brontide couldn’t help but wonder how long it was until she trained her weapons on the Odyssey, too. 

She follows Twelfth behind the general store – perhaps somewhat unsurprisingly finding them undertaking target practice, seemingly unperturbed by Brontide’s presence. Don’t stop on my account, she’s about to say, when Twelfth beats her to talking ( if there was one thing Brontide knew, it was patience ). “Sorry,” Brontide says, though the bemused smirk on their face indicates that they’re actually anything but. They consider the invitation for a moment, before shrugging – “Sure.” She says, crossing the remaining distance between herself and Twelfth, “I was never much good with a bow.”

—

Twelfth does not know what it is but every time Brontide is around, there’s hesitation coursing through their veins. Every time they look at Brontide, it’s as if there’s two things waiting in her eyes — an opportunity and a lot of patience. That’s what Twelfth sees ( that’s what they think they see, at least ) but what they don’t see is what the opportunity and the patience are for. For them? For the gang? For anyone that speaks to her when she doesn’t wish to be spoken to? 

There’s amusement in the half chuckle that escapes Twelfth, shaking their head and fully turning to face Brontide. Sorry. She’s not, Twelfth can see it plainly as day. Still, they welcome the company, safe in the fact no harm will come to them in such a public setting. Despite the uncertainty that is always around Twelfth’s throat when she’s around Brontide, she speaks naturally, no crispiness in her voice akin to when one is choking another. Not for now, anyway. 

She walks towards Brontide, offering her their bow. "I was never much good with a bow, either, ‘fore I picked one up and kept shooting.” They wait for her to pick it up. “I promise I won’t laugh if you’re terrible at it.”

“Yeah, I do. Wouldn’t do that for free now, would I,” he says even though had nobody come along, he absolutely would have done that just for the sake of it. No bet, no reward in sight, just the challenge of climbing the Wheel itself. “Now that I think about it, it’s probably worth more than twenty but I’m feeling generous today. Keeping it low for once.” Cain does like a bit of gambling here and there. He barely ever spends money on things, at least not past necessities. He’ll wear his clothes until they can’t possibly be mended anymore and if he needs anything new, he’ll try to steal it first rather than buy it. But gambling is something that he doesn’t particularly mind spending money on—it’s fun, and that’s what ultimately matters to him the most. 

The scenario (because Cain refuses to call it a possibility—him falling is not an option) gets a laugh out of him, a sudden bark which seems to make the thing above him tremble. Only makes Cain more curious of it—how it’s going to feel under his feet once he finally gets on with his idea. “Now you’re onto something,” he chuckles and scratches at his jaw. “Think I win. Reached the ground faster, like you said. You give the twenty to Shotgun then, they get to keep my shit after I croak,” he says. “But that’s not gonna happen because I’m not falling. Can’t believe you have this little faith in me. I’ve done worse and managed.”

“What about you?” he asks, his head tilting upwards. “Think you could do it?”

—

There’s a semblance of amusement ( and incredulity ) dripping from the scoff that Twelfth lets out at Cain’s words. Wouldn’t do that for free now, would I. If he’d actually been asking, Twelfth would say he’d be a fool to do it for free — just as much as he’s a fool to actually do it. There’s already so many threats to their safety, between bandits and the divinity offered for each of their heads, Twelfth finds there’s no reason to add to it. "I have no doubt you’ve done worse but I doubt even you’d survive this big a fall. I reckon ‘tis ain’t ‘bout skill but more about luck.” Cain is nothing if not skilled, they all are, but there’s much to be said about their luck. “There’s a chance it’ll break when you put your feet on it, there’s a chance it won’t. That’s all.”

Twelfth’s own gaze follows Cain’s, steadily running up the monstrous relic of The Old World. It studies The Wheel — the old, decrepit, rust filled wheel — and it follows every part of it that screams with the wind. It screams of danger and possibility, it screams of pushing one’s own limits and the danger of the long fall. It reminds Twelfth of a tale Mother had told them, a tale of the world before the Old One, a tale about flying too close to the sun and letting one’s wings get burned. They can’t quite remember the name of it nor if there’s more to it than what she thinks of now but it’s something Twelfth can’t help but see, sprawled all over the wheel.

WITH: @twvlfth​ WHERE: camp WHEN: november 9th, 2348

When Jack drags Twelfth back to camp, he doesn’t think much of it at first — and maybe that’s on him. They gel in with everyone else the same most do when Odyssey decides he’s going to tack on another member to their ever-growing… family. Things are awkward, at first, but he brings them meals and Gull hovers to make sure they’re not going to fall over dead. No horse with them; Odyssey’d had them ride along on his horse. Strange, but maybe understandable.

But there’s this strange thing happening in the pit of his stomach, bizarre nervousness that hinges on anxiety if he doesn’t babysit it. It’d only arrived when Twelfth had, and it doesn’t seem to disperse no matter how hard he tries. He spends days chewing over it, wondering and waiting, and then it all clicks into place.

It clicks, then, as he’s watching Twelfth. What Rambler said hits him like a train. She was in The Family — so it’s a slim chance, but there’s still a chance. It’s with this in mind as he brings them a can of salted fish to eat. No one’s been hunting in the past few days, so what they get is what they get. If anyone complains, they get an evil-eye sharp enough to move mountains. There’s no preamble as he approaches, can in hand, offering it to her: “You were with The Family, right? And then you ran.”

—

Minutes turn into hours, hours turn into days and none of what Twelfth has been feeling subsides in the slightest. Their hands tremble every time they think about what they did, thumb kneading on the palm of their hands as if rubbing away blood that’s not there — not physically, at least, but Twelfth believes right there and then that it will never truly wash away. They will die and their last thought will be how The First felt when he met the same fate. They will cease to exist and they will think about how The Mother was there one day and not the next. There will not be a moment, awake or asleep, where Twelfth won’t think about what she’s lost.

Twelfth has been surviving the last couple of days... or was it more like almost a week? They can’t really tell anymore. They feel as if they’re simply floating most days, unable to properly control anything their mind or what they body does, going from A to B and back to A without really noticing they’re doing it. They barely eat, just the minimum to keep their body from wanting to shut down, they barely sleep, just enough to keep insanity away. She is barely herself but that doesn’t feel like a loss as big as the one she brought on herself.

.

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.”

—

There’s a bittersweet feeling to the conversation regarding the train robbery. While it was successful ( no one of the gang died, they walked away with enough divinity to make the troubles all worth it ), it’s not that fact that Twelfth keeps thinking about. It’s not the shots fired that she keeps hearing but rather Farrier’s breathing right behind her. It is not the bullets used that keep her awake at night but rather the single one that didn’t get to be fired. 

And it’s those thoughts that keeps Twelfth from hearing anything else Rambler is saying. Slowly, his voice becomes more distant and distant. With each second that passes, Twelfth feels like reality is just slipping away, slipping through her fingers like sand and there’s nothing she can do to stop it from happening. One single thought damned the rest of their mind, their eyes losing focus, open but not looking at anything at all. They can hear Rambler still, he’s talking and they want to listen to his words, rather than just his voice ( which is, in its own way, the only thing anchoring Twelfth, keeping them from fully floating away into the dark depths of unwanted thoughts ) but they’re still trying to force themself to do it. They want to take the piece of cookie that fell on their lap after they took a bite of it and it all crumbled but their body isn’t responding to anything they ask for it. 

"Farrier had a gun to my head.” That’s the first thing that leaves their mouth, spoken quickly and as if they’d been holding onto it for decades rather than just a few hours. Twelfth doesn’t even know if Rambler has finished speaking and they hate the fact they hadn’t listened to whatever their friend had said. They feel guilty, in a way, for dumping something like this on Rambler and not give him the benefit of being heard right before. With a sigh, they continue. “Back in the train. Vex came out of nowhere and nothin’ happened but...” They look up at Rambler, eyes tired not only from the long day but the implications of the turn the conversation had turned. “...I think it was going to.”

—

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?”

—

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 walks out of the general store still inspecting the bristles of the new brush she got for Sugar. It’s menial tasks like this one that seem to be keeping them together, in a way ( though, if one were to compare it to anything, it would be like she’s something put together with rusty nails and bits of wood that don’t belong together, barely hanging on — one blow in the wrong direction and it will all come crashing down ) and they’re thankful they can still leave the locked room they keep themself in. Just in case, they’ll repeat.

They hear commotion from behind the store and their eyebrow quirks up in a curious manner. Perhaps curiosity will be their downfall one day — along with the fact they’d shot their brother, of course, something they’ll carry with them to their early grave — but they still walk towards the back of the store, noticing a familiar figure along with three others. 

She walks up to Witness, making sure she’s standing near enough so she can see them. For a moment, they look at the game Witness is playing. Horseshoe throwing. Twelfth can’t help the amused smile on their lips. "You’re winnin’, aren’t you?” They look at Witness, enunciating each word. “Those fellers ain’t too happy about it.”

—

You seem too sure I’ll just wait for you to shoot me when I spot you.

Oh, this is daring. They’re playing a dangerous game of what-ifs, here, and Farrier wants to smack himself in the face for it, even as his temper flares. He does his best to keep his expression neutral and fails. “No one’s around, Twelfth. You could go get your gun and shoot me the minute I turn my back. What’s stopping you?”

Well, he knows now: what’s stopping her is the lack of bullets. Used too many, she says. Leave them for the clerk downstairs. Now that? That’s something. Fear, maybe, or irritation. Arrogance. Could be anything. He looks down at the floor and then back up again, peering over her shoulder into the darkness of the room behind her.

“Bullets. Will do,” Farrier says to them. They’re done here. He’s made his point, they’ve made theirs — the rest is just… posturing. The sort of thing he would’ve done when he was younger but tries not to do now if he can help it. “Close that door if you want. I won’t be coming to see you again.” He doesn’t know that, and can’t exactly promise it, but he’s had enough of them for now, and he’s sure they’ve had enough of him.

It’s as close as he’s come to admitting the truth. Twelfth can apologize all they want, but Farrier still wants to see them hang. He smiles, grim-like, and then turns away to descend back down the stairs. “Have a good night, Twelfth!” It’s tossed over the shoulder as he goes, casual and smooth, like they’re the best of friends and not bitter fucking enemies. “Have some sweet dreams of shooting my brother without the audacity to feel bad about it.”

I suppose I can see why you’d confuse the two. 

He laughs at that, partly because it’s true, partly because it’s funny, and partly because it’s the first sign of life he’s seen in Twelfth all night, if not all week. Finally, he thinks. 

He marvels at the way their countenance shifts, how they morph into something imperceptibly but somehow altogether different. It’s little things here and there: the scrunched-up crease of their brow, the way they begin to weave touches of steel into their voice, the narrow slit of their eyes, suddenly hawklike. These parts amount to the whole of a predator: sleek, subtle; dangerous. In this light, he can imagine it: Twelfth, one of the Family’s most chilling nightmares. 

The mirage stutters, wavers, and before he knows it, he’s again looking at the Twelfth he’s familiar with: subdued, restrained; half-dangerous at best. Like a child who hasn’t gotten his way, he frowns, petulant, and instantaneously mourns the loss of what might’ve been a little fun. Perhaps there’s some way of drawing the shadows from them again…

Somethin’ we can help you with? Twelfth asks, and he balks at her. 

“We?” he mutters under his breath emphatically as he swings his legs over the bench and pushes himself up to his full height. He counts four of the approaching gang, which are odds he’d bet on any day. Two of Jack Odyssey’s Gang is worth at least four of any other, he reckons; Jack’s lot are meaner, quicker, and a far sight harder to kill than your average bandit.  One of Jack’s gang against four of another, however…

The leader of the gang begins to advance on Twelfth, and Hellion unceremoniously withdraws his shotgun from its holster—and braces the barrel of it on top of the ground, using it as a makeshift cane to lean his weight on. Two of the gang exchange bewildered looks with one another, no doubt wondering why the fuck Twelfth’s companion is laying down his arms before the dogfight’s even begun. “I have no dog in this fight, I’m afraid,” he coos in answer to their unvoiced question.

He tips his hat to Twelfth and offers up his best impression of one Paragon’s winning smiles and a cheeky thumbs up. “Holler if you need a hand, partner,” he calls out, but something about the way he says it suggests he might be hard of hearing when she comes a-calling. 

Let’s see those shadows again.

—

Hellion’s laugh echoes between the two and for a couple of heartbeats, Twelfth’s eyes leave the bandits and look at the man who she’s meant to call company, half of the duo that’s meant to keep an eye out on the train station ( though, all she’s met with is someone that is far too quick to surrender to boredom and not easily predictable because of it ). Twelfth looks at Hellion and they can’t decide whether to be annoyed by the reaction or shudder at it, letting the laugh run down their spine like a bad feeling. 

A bad feeling that’s almost immediately justified. 

Twelfth’s eyes land back on the bandits but their nostrils flare up at Hellion’s lack of care. They never expected him to try that hard to help them; the most they thought they’d see — or rather, hear — was Hellion say something to the bandits, something other than the immediate submission he seems to have taken to. Perhaps a warning, a mean stare to make the bandits feel less inclined to get closer but he gives them nothing. Absolutely nothing. They can’t help but still be disappointed for some unknown and frankly irritating reason yet, at the same time, not at all surprised. 

There’s a sharp, exasperated sigh that leaves Twelfth’s nostrils. Eyes still on the bandit leader ( but always aware of the rest of their sorry excuse for a group ), the former Family member plays with a non-existent ring on their finger, a tattoo that doesn’t move but still burns whenever they pretend to move it. The Mother taught them a lot, teachings that will not be tossed to a dust storm and forgotten. 

Before the leader can get any closer, too close for comfort, Twelfth raises their gun and points it at the middle of their forehead. “I said that’s close enough.” Voice is sure, unshaken and harsh. It’s sad how easily their frustration slips through the cracks. They’re not ready yet, they realise, to stand so close to a man and aim at their head, finger so steadily on the trigger and no hesitation seeping in.

( Mother, if you’re here with me, don’t let me forget what you so lovingly taught me. Don’t let me forget how to kill a man with a quick and sure shot, even if I used that same teaching to kill your son, my brother. )

“I know my partner here might come off as a coward,” Twelfth starts, spitting out the same word Hellion used for them only seconds before, “but don’t confuse me with him.” If Hellion wants to be of no-help so he can sit back and enjoy the show, then he’ll get the shit he deserves for it. “Any of you take another step, you move another inch or reach for your gun and you can watch your leader’s brains splatter on the ground in front of you.” Twelfth doesn’t want to, they really don’t — not because they will lose sleep over it but because they know it’s not the smartest move to start shooting near the train station. 

—

“Farrier hurting you is my problem, actually.” There was a tired note to her voice. Everything Farrier did had suddenly become her problem. Her weakness. It was just one of the many costs that came with caring about someone. “I’m sure it’s difficult for you to see the big picture while your life is being threatened, but this could damage the stability of the entire group.”

She laughed under her breath. “I’ll stop worrying when this planet falls into the sun. And you shooting Farrier isn’t the only thing I’m concerned with. But I appreciate the assurance, nonetheless.” She was equally concerned with Twelfth telling the others, or Jack, but she didn’t say that. She didn’t want to put any ideas in their head, after all.

She glanced sideways at her. “I will make sure Farrier doesn’t harm you. And though I can’t promise he will ever be friendly with you…I doubt it will be like this forever. He didn’t like me, either, when the two of us first joined the Jack Odyssey Gang. Of course, I didn’t kill anyone he cared about, but…” She lifted a shoulder. “My point is that his opinion can change. You can change it, with time. Although I would advise keeping your distance for now.”

—

...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.