THE SMALLEST CHURCH IN BOUNTY

WIDOWER, MAY I?

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♡

It was only a matter of time before the confines of EEL became insufficient for Lark, and the other more than likely restless members of the Odyssey gang. She’d grown accustomed to a life of constant movement— a lifestyle that left little opportunity to be alone with one’s thoughts. Needless to say, an entire week in Eel became practically unbearable. There’d been only so many people she could pickpocket without drawing too much attention to herself— and she was at the precipice of discovering such limits.

Never mind the fact that she’d formally been banned from THE ATLANTIS, an unexpected occurrence that left her with significantly fewer ways to occupy herself as they awaited their next job. They’d settled on hanging out behind RAVEN’S REST, a poorly rolled cigarette between her fingers— muttering something unimportant beneath her breath.

She needs not to look up to know the person that’s joined her. Perhaps she’d grown accustomed to the pacing of their footsteps— perhaps it had more to do with them being one of the few people who could approach her without a proper greeting. Regardless— she’d recognized who it was— and his more than likely reasoning for being there. She exhales deeply, not bothering to disguise her already budding irritation. At least he’d spared her for the first week.

“I’ll give some credit where it’s due. I know you’ve just been itchin’ to get that off your chest,” Lark retorts, her words oozing with sarcasm. “It must’ve taken a significant amount of discipline for you to not immediately tell me everything that’s wrong with me.” Her words were a tad bit more sensitive than she’d intended. It was true that this was WIDOWER’s way of being helpful, but that didn’t make her hate proving him right any less. If they’d approached her right after the robbery— like she knew he truly wanted to— she might’ve told him to fuck off immediately. But the week served to dull her obstinance significantly. “Trust me, I more than know that now,” they assure Widower between gritted teeth. I’ve always known that. “The tips, I’m may be willing to accept. Only maybe.” For now. She’d been too exhausted to put up a fight. “The lecturing? Could do without.” She understands that this is perhaps his own convoluted way of showing he cares— but it still annoyed Lark to no end. “You would think we weren’t damn near the same age with the way you like to scold me.”

She draws the cigarette to her lips before it burns out completely. “You would benefit from sharpening up your bamboozling abilities. It would make you sound less like a crabby old person.” 

☼

Sometimes, engaging with Lark feels more like a bit than anything else. A two-man comedy act (or whatever) scripted by the Martyr (or whoever) and performed in perpetuity (or until one of them dies, at least). 

Widower doesn’t think Lark would appreciate being asked if she feels like she has any control over her life.

“You make it sound like you did everything wrong,” they say instead. “You didn’t die on the train, at least.” It sounds mocking, but Widower means it as a genuine compliment—not everyone would have lived the train heist. Not everyone did, technically. It had been a genuinely difficult fight; even the more adept fighters of the group, Widower included, hadn’t made it through unscathed. 

At Lark’s assent, Widower nods. See? They’re learning how to communicate with her. They don’t comment on the lecturing thing. That really wasn’t a lecture. Still, the defense is reflexive: “We ain’t gonna stay near the same age if one of us dies.” 

With that charming rejoinder, Widower watches Lark smoke. Once again, there’s a joke here: crabby geezer is probably better than the usual epithets attached to Widower’s name. However, making this joke would imply that Widower both knows and dislikes the rumors that hound them, which is simply untrue. As entities neither tangible nor present, rumors were out of the realm of Widower’s concerns. They shrug. “Oatmeal thinks I’m cool.” 

“So,” Widower says, mild as the weather, “that train, huh?”

Here’s a fun fact: the heist had been Widower’s first time on a train. (To them, the railway had always been closer to beast than machine. They heard a story, once, about how giant worms dragged their bodies across the ground, gorging canyons in their wake. There’s a metaphor there, maybe a hubris joke. Someone more loquacious probably would’ve been able to tease it out.)

As far as they’re concerned, the heist will also be Widower’s last time on a train. They didn’t particularly like how enclosed the space was, how it made the animal-sense in them go fight or flight! They particularly didn’t like how the aforementioned enclosed space meant that fight was the only option—they could fight, yes, but they liked having options. The gang had been backed into a corner the entire heist; sure, it ended well enough, but it was a messy fight. Widower didn’t do messy fights, as a general prerogative. “I didn’t realize they moved so fast.”

Frankly, Widower isn’t totally sure why they sought out Old Halo. It’s partially curiosity—Old Halo wasn’t one of the people entangled in the clusterfuck on the roof, and Widower wants to know what was going on in the other compartments of the train—and maybe something like concern, for much the same reason. Camaraderie, if they let themself believe in the concept. They aren’t about to introspect on the issue, however, and instead turn their full attention toward the advisor.

They break off a hunk of their fry bread, hold it out toward Old Halo. “You, uh, kill anyone? Anyone kill you?”

The gang has been laying low in Eel for what, a week? No, longer. Long enough to lick their wounds, certainly. Probably long enough to offload the cargo, though Widower wouldn’t actually know; those tasks have always been left to brighter minds. Long enough for the four walls of the inn to start chafing around the edges, as Widower’s always preferred the transience of camping.

Long enough for tongues to start wagging.

And, okay. Let it be known, first and foremost, that Widower is glad that Lark’s fine. It would be a real waste of talent to lose her like that. (Is that all?) Let it also be known that to this point, Widower has given Lark a wide berth. They’re empathetic like that. But Eel is only so big, and Widower’s temperance only extends so far. It’s fulfillment of inevitability that he catches them outside Raven’s Rest and ambles on over.

“Follow-through’s integral to shot stability,” he opens. It’s brusque, sure, but if Lark is going to leave or cut him off—and Widower is fairly certain that Lark is going to leave or cut him off—best the conversation be productive. “You can’t jerk the gun immediately after pulling the trigger. The bullet’ll go flyin’ Martyr-knows-where.” That’s all he means to say, but he finds himself pressing on. Perhaps Widower is more affected by his restlessness than he thought. “You can’t always just bamboozle ‘em and hope for the best.” They tip their chin at Lark. Butter wouldn’t melt in their mouth. “You see what I mean now, yeah?”

Offence by the switch from you could do it to maybe immediately springs up inside of Cain but because it’s the Widower he’s talking to, he won’t actually get all that mad about it. He just can’t. “You lot really gotta start giving me more credit. Mentioned this to Gull earlier, said I’d better not die. I love grabbing the Reaper by the throat but, come on, this—” he says, his hand flicking upwards,” this is nothing. This is child’s play. Not a maybe. It’s a yes,” he concludes, very sure of himself. Rightly so—climbing the Wheel is at the bottom of the dangerous things I’ve done in my lifetime list. Not a doubt in Cain’s mind that he’ll be fine.

“Well, I can always climb twice. First for the bet, second time to enjoy it,” Cain suggests—it probably makes him sound insane. Nobody wants to climb it once, let alone twice and nobody wants Cain specifically to do it, it seems. But he aims to displease so as stupid of an idea it may be, why not climb it twice. Get some exercise. “Now that you’ve mentioned it, maybe I should climb it tomorrow morning, just before sunrise. Now that would make for a nice view, I guess.” 

“Money’s fine. The bet’s just for fun,” Cain chuckles. Truth be told, he could bet a hundred, two hundred if he wanted to without batting an eye. He isn’t kidding when he says that it’s for fun. That’s all that this is. “So, am I right thinking that you’re not interested in the bet? I’m climbing this thing either way.”

☼

Widower blinks, a slight quirk of the brow the only thing betraying their disbelief. It’s not doubt as much as it’s . . . bafflement? Despite hearing Cain’s logic, the man’s motivation is a mystery. Once, they understand. But surely, there’s only so much novelty in repetition?

( A flash of sense-memory Widower isn’t quick enough to stop—the owner of the general store in Poplar Grove kept a cat. It was an unpleasant, ornery thing, perpetually restless and only emboldened by the existence of concepts like “chastisement” and “punishment” and “death.” You can see its eyes when you look at Cain, can’t you, Widower?

No, Widower can’t. This isn’t Poplar Grove and Cain isn’t a cat. Perhaps a monkey, from the way he’s talking, but that town is a lifetime away. Out of mind, out of mind. )

“That’s kinda stupid,” they say. “Not the climbing it three times thing—“ though it is, to be fair, “—but why would you do the money round before casing the joint?”  Widower shakes their head, faux-chiding. “Ain’t you a professional?” There’s a joke about the train heist they could make here, Widower thinks. Maybe later.

To Cain’s last question, they shake their head. “Nah,” they say, “I’m not a sucker.” They are a fool, though, so they continue: “I’ll climb it with you, though.” They tilt their head at Cain. “Just for fun.”

at THE WHEEL / feb 4th / open

The thing looks like it’s about to fall apart and that’s probably why Cain is so drawn to it. He takes it as a personal challenge, the fact that the wheel’s still standing and he’s definitely willing to see if it can do with a little shake—the view from up there must be something, right? His hand grips the bottom of the ladder and when he lets go of it, there’s rust on his fingers, the brown residue melting into his skin. Cain reaches for the gloves he keeps in his back pocket—should be easier to climb like this—and then someone approaches him as he puts them on.

“Gonna take it for a little spin,” he says as he looks up, eyes squinting—and the left one hurts from the blackeye the engineman gave him yesterday, now all dark and purple around his socket—he can’t really see the top from where he’s standing right now, just the insides—metal rods coming out of everywhere, paint peeling, rusty and noisy. It looks like it’s about to give out but Cain asked around and everyone said it shouldn’t. One way to find out, isn’t there?

The loud ticks and screeching sounds the structure makes only seem to attract Cain further. “Wanna make a bet?” he suggests; if he’s about to do something so stupid, he should at least have some fun with it. “You could time me. Twenty div I make it up and back down in less than ten.”

☼

Widower doesn’t get the Wheel.

They’ve read about the Old World and they understand that resource management then was a fundamentally different game than it is in the present. Still, the idea that people could waste tons of steel and kilowatts of power for something with no discernable purpose but . . . amusement(?) is a difficult concept for them to parse. As such, they avoid it. They brush their horse, add a healthy bonus to their haul playing five-finger fillet at the Silver Lining, and go about their business normally. They don’t worry about the perplexing landmark at the edge of town. Really, they don’t.

Widower approaches Cain, though, because Cain isn’t perplexing. Worrying, maybe, but generally not perplexing. At the man’s explanation and subsequent offer, they give the structure an experimental kick. It croaks out a hollow protest, raining down flecks of paint in what is presumably admonishment. The tip of Widower’s boot is smeared with rust.

“You could do it,” they conclude, though they squint leerily at Cain’s black eye. “I think.” They glance at their boot. They knew someone who died painfully after getting rust in a wound—though they also know someone who did the same and lived, so . . . “Maybe?”

Widower’s next words aren’t spoken; rather, they sort of escape involuntarily from their throat. “But why go up just to come back down?” Ah, but there are no takebacks, are there? “I mean—I’m just sayin’. Gotta be a helluva view up there, right?” They step closer to Cain, reach out a gloved hand, tug on a rung. “Dunno if it’s twenty div’s worth, but,” they smirk, “you’re not strapped for cash already, are you?”