H I R A E T H

amity ↠ nesta ↠ WITNESS

as penned by fia • she / her • gmt+1 

There on the porch of the inn, the watch goes by nicer than any he’s had on the open road—it’s a step up from dust and dirt: only his boots coated with it, instead of every nook and cranny. There’s lamplight, too, shining from all the windows and washing down on their backs. There’s light enough to at least see his conversational partner by, and he trusts her trigger hand enough to let her sit at his blind side and cover the gaps. Paragon turns his head, so Witness can see the shapes his mouth pulls when he says, “sure—safer than most. But truly safe? That’s a luxury long gone for people like us. Consider this a precaution, for thieves on the run.” His lips twitch back, a vague grin that pulls at his teeth.

“Lets see that pocket knife.” He holds out a hand. “Come on, I know you got it.” With the other he produces a small hunk of wood, wonky shaped, from his pocket. “If your eyes are getting tired of the horizon, then spare a glance over once ‘n a while—tell me what needs tweakin’.” With that, he illuminates that the knobby piece of wood is, in fact, the novice’s latest whittling project. “It’s, uh, s’pposed to be Heironymus.” But, Martyr, right now it’s the farthest thing from a horse.

‣↷

Times like these are a reminder of betrayals to come.

No Odyssey is worthy of trust, be it the porter of the name itself or those who represent it. They’re all as slick as the bloody divinity they slip out of their dead victims’ hands. Maybe that’s why Jack keeps such a firm grip on the scruffs of their necks.

And that’s incentive enough, surely, to shoot off those fingers and bolt for freedom, once and for all. But then there’s times like these.

Each day’s passing makes it harder to picture how she might kill Paragon. Farrier. Rambler. Hell, even Hellion, who knows not the meaning of hesitation, but rather takes pleasure in snuffing the light from a person’s eyes. She might have vowed against attachment, yet here she sits, a bundle of warmth nestling in her chest as she watches Paragon’s clumsy chipping.

And here she is, giving in to the pull drawing her head onto his shoulder, so that her stinging eyes might strain less against the whispered urge to sleep, and instead enjoy the jerky crack of blade against wood as it scrapes and flicks chippings to the deck below.

There’ll be pain, this she knows, when she finally puts gun to head, or chest, or throat, and finally pulls the trigger. Save for some, Witness doubts the pleasure of claiming souls, of delivering them to the Wind for Her to carry to farther fields, someplace safe from grit and famish. She’ll enjoy taking Shotgun, of course, and Cain; Jack; Old Halo— her pious niceties far too generously spared to the point of obnoxiousness. But then, cruelty begets cruelty, and even kindness can feel bitter in a world so far from clean. And they won’t travel someplace sweet. 

Paragon might.

Then comes the distrust, brittle. How much can she lean on him, when it might all be carefully curated to serve his survival? None of them know each other, and those who do only seem to be acquainted through pain. Pain they itch to return. Witness spares a thought to the sight of Farrier’s steely gaze, always turned cold when it fixes on Twelfth. She wonders if Paragon’s ever looked at any of them that way. Wonders what he may have vowed to the night, what might keep that toying grin on his lips.

—

Witness doesn’t seem to be able to believe that he wants her along for this, but to him, she makes the most sense. He doesn’t really know what experience she has in regards to… their line of work, so figuring it out now is the best way to do that. Farrier glances down at the pad and takes the time to scribble out Serious as a heart attack. A learning experience for you. Go get your stuff and meet me outside.

He flips the pad around and then hands it back to Witness before descending to give her time to get herself sorted. There are maybe three groups of fools he can see that are worth robbing. Wiley’s Angels, the Roadkill Bunch, and if they’re feeling ambitious and Witness has done well, they could see about calling in some sort of favor with the mayor, who undoubtedly has some sort of stockpile.

The inn’s quiet. It always seems to be quiet. He doesn’t know how Jack pulled that off, but he did manage it, and Farrier’s equal parts grateful for the chance to be alone with his own thoughts and resentful. When he focuses on things too much he tends to spin into a frenzy; Halo’s told him that.

He busies himself with checking his gun before stepping out into the bright light of morning. It probably won’t end up being used, but that’s alright. The message is more than enough. When he catches sight of Witness on her way down, he steps out the door and into the street to smoke a cigarette. It’s not busy yet, but it ain’t dead, either. Perfect. That’s just what they want.

‣↷

Excitement feels sharp when it plunges into her chest. It grows, roots burying themselves in her body until she feels alive with it, awake. Witness doesn’t quite know what to do with it. Jittery, she doesn’t let Farrier go without smacking his arm with the notepad, but there’s a skip in her step when she turns to rush back into her room. 

Potential is a rare gift— a lesson Witness learned the hard way, back in her Sand Siren days. Boone had spotted glimpses of it, glimpses the rest of the world had been blind to. When he’d told her, she’d felt that very same sharp, piercing sensation; she hadn’t known what to do then, either.

Maybe the sharpness had been a warning: A double edged sword serving as a reminder to keep hopes quelled. So Witness braces herself against those fluttering nerves and gathers her tools.

When she exits the building, her eyes narrow against the blast of sunlight waiting to greet her. She lowers her brows and, silent as when she hunts, slips over to Farrier.

–

Gull gathers his things, and comes back to where Witness sits, looking… well, like she just came from a fight. He hums, grabbing a seat in front of her and starting to take a look at the tear in her cheek. At least he hasn’t been fully blow through the skin.

“That depends,” He says, stilling looking over the gash before grabbing a rag soaked in something to help clean the wound. He thinks to warn Witness of the sting, but by now, if she doesn’t know what’s coming, that’s on her. “Are we talking physically or emotionally?” As Gull finds those to be two entirely different metrics to measure by. 

‣↷

Were it not for the twitch in her eye, Witness’ gaze would have flashed with keen interest. Instead, it clouds, the sting burrowing deep and making the rest of her bruises and aches throb, as though complaining about the cut being the first in line for tending. But that doesn’t dissuade her curiosity.

“Either. Both,” Witness quickly rectifies. She cocks her head a little, “what’s the difference?”

—

Old Halo chuckled, shooting Witness a look that was both amused and mildly puzzled. She took the paper and pencil back, bending back down over it as she began to write.

“Hardly,” she wrote. She adored Gull, after all. He was an odd duck, to be sure, but his quirks made him endearing. The only thing she worried about with him was getting attached. “Gull is a wonderful medic. The only thing I’m doubting is whether you’d actually go to him if you were hurt.”

Witness didn’t seem to trust anyone in the Jack Odyssey Gang all that much. Old Halo wouldn’t pretend it didn’t bother her. She nearly handed the paper back, but at the last second, added, “How are you feeling? Did the job go alright for you? If I recall, I heard that you and Lark ran into some trouble. Everything OK?”

With that, she slid the paper back. Then, she lifted a hand to get Poseidon’s attention, so that she could order some food for herself. She still wasn’t hungry, but it felt rude to sit there without ordering.

‣↷

“Oh, fuck off.”

It’s a scathing enough delivery to draw a few curious glances from the other patrons. When Poseidon reaches them, his gaze is more guarded than before, broad, thick muscles tight with tension. Witness wonders what kind of weapon he wields, or if he’s comfortable enough with his callouses to let them guard against bullets while he smashes skulls with his bare hands. She doesn’t care to find out.

“No trouble,” she assures him. After all, it’s just a petty spat between Jack’s family. Witness scoffs into her cup of water, then sips to cool the simmering in her veins. She sets the cup down with a weighty thunk against the bar, spoons some gloop into her mouth. It’s salty. Sticks to her throat on its way down.

“On finding me a cigarette?” he asks flippantly, cheeky as ever. “Farrier’ll probably be your best bet, but if you can’t pickpocket me, you sure as hell won’t be able to pickpocket him, which leaves us at an impasse.” He huffs a long, drawn-out sigh, as if he’s mourning the loss of someone beloved to him, and not rolled tobacco.

Hellion drops the charade a moment later, good humor giving way to something far less pleasant but of far better use to Witness. Gone is the light in his eyes, however dim, and gone, too, is the amused slant of his lips, however cruel. He’s all business now, nothing personal.

She doesn’t wait for him to offer her a hand up, which means she’s learning, at least, because he wouldn’t have, and he never will. He makes a mental note of that small sign progress and tucks it away neatly. 

Her brow is scrunched up with visible frustration, and he reaches out to tap, tap, tap the crease there. “Stop trying to prove something, for one thing,” he says, pulling his hand away before she can think to do something impish, like bite it. “You reek of emotion,” he says flatly, and the way he cuts his voice, cold and sharp-like, makes his opinion on the matter clear. “Which is fine, if you’re keen on catching a bullet before you ever get a chance to try and put one in one us.” It’s a blasphemous thing to say, but he knows Witness, so he knows there’s at least some truth to it. Still, he infuses his words with enough levity that they can be written off as a bad joke, if she wishes it so. Joke or truth, it matters little to Hellion—he’s unbothered either way. If she doesn’t want to put a bullet in any of the gang, fine. If she does, also fine. Based on her performance here today, she’ll be shot dead by him or one of the others before she can even think about pulling the trigger. 

“You’re too loud, for another thing, which I know you know how not to be, because I’ve seen you hunt—and well.” He begins circling her in slow, leisurely steps, like a bobcat taking stock of its prey. “I suspect that’s due in full to all that emotion, too.” He circles her once, twice, and on his third round, he pauses mid-step, braces the barrel of his shotgun between her ankles, and swings it like a pendulum, toppling her once more. “And you don’t pay half as much attention as you ought to, for another thing.”

‣↷

It’s too much.

Witness lands on her hip, bone smacking into dirt and dust with punishing force. Something muffled throbs in her ears, and she can feel her breaths quickening as they leap in and out of her tightening lungs. Her heartbeat explodes into a breakneck pace, sending wave after wave of blood gushing into her already dizzy brain.

Hellion’s cruelty comes as no surprise. It never has, never will. It’s swift and cold, and dangerously powerful. Witness has only heard tales of the ocean, of its merciless currents and their pull towards the deep, the vast emptiness hidden beneath blanket upon blanket of suffocating saltwater. Glaring up at Hellion now, her gaze swimming, she can’t help thinking of it. He smothers; unlike the ocean, Hellion does it with vitriol. He has a taste for it.

This must be a decadent treat, one that Witness struggles to find much use in other than serving as a toy, puppeteered for Hellion’s amusement. The jabs to her forehead were too big a distraction to focus properly on his lips, to the point that Hellion’s words were falling flat onto the ground around her; she was too angry, too helpless to even try to pick them up.

And then he’d circled her.

Stop moving, she’d wanted to say, but the lump in her throat had forced the words back down into her stomach, which was busy recoiling, rolling around inside her to the point that she’d felt sick. Stop moving. Stop moving, enunciate. Stop. Mov—

Witness lands on her hip. Witness draws her gun.

The sting in her eyes spills over; sticky, salty tracks glisten in the glaring sun as tears plummet down her mucky cheeks and collect in one great droplet on her chin. More follow and, soon enough, Witness is sniffling, her teeth gritted, as she holds the gun in both of her trembling hands.

𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍: February 10th, early afternoon 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄: Behind General Store 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐒: Closed, @wtnssd·

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.”

‣↷

Beneath the wide brim of a black boater hat, Witness’ eyes narrow. She’s as focused as she would be whilst hunting for game, lips licked time and time again as though to savour the taste of triumph. A few feet to the side of the throwing station, a pretty pile of goods sits, basking in the sun: A small sack of divinity leans against a rolled up sleeping bag; on the ground before them, a handmade crate containing a set of blood red dominoes.

Among the group Witness has challenged, only one looks a little more lavish. It’s odd that he should have invited himself to play, but Witness won’t complain. He’s already bet his coat— an expensive looking thing, sturdy. It’ll match her new hat, Witness thinks to herself.

The man— a silver-haired smirk on legs with a well-kept moustache and a gold tooth —has introduced himself as “Merry Jack”. He’d seemed neither surprised nor disappointed at Witness’ lack of reaction, though he had looked more than satisfied when the others (far lowlier than him) had scrambled to play another round, vigour renewed. The satisfaction had pinched around the edges, though, when Witness had refused to answer any of his questions about the gang. She mightn’t be loyal to them, but she isn’t stupid. And so he’d bet his coat; if she loses, Witness will provide the greatest fountain of power: Knowledge.

Twelfth appears almost out of nowhere— or would have, had Witness not noted the curious, guarded glances of those around her. She relaxes her stance and turns to look at the other Odyssey member.

Out of everyone, Twelfth is one of the few who keeps their words clear and concise. It’s a kind consideration, one that Witness finds... odd. Genuine kindness is baffling.

–

It’s important to make sure that everyone is still in one piece when they come back from a heist. Or if they’re not, to fix them up properly before it’s too late. So Gull is typically rather busy after a heist is finished.

He’s cleaning up his station after just patching up one of the others when there’s a nudge at his door. He looks up to find Witness, not in the worst state, but also not looking like she’s looking for a jolly time with a friend.

“Sure,” He nods, drying off his freshly cleaned hands. She’s always been a curious one but apart from her interest in medical facts, he’s not so sure what to do or who to be around them. He’s still trying to figure that one out.

“What hurts?” He asks as he goes to grab his tools.

‣↷

Gull’s attention is on his tools rather than Witness when he asks, and so she doesn’t get a chance to see his mouth move to form the question. Not that she’s looking at him. She, too, is busy, though it’s only with taking a seat and shuffling into a comfortable slouch.

There’s a cut on her cheekbone where a bullet snagged her skin, splitting it open as it sliced through the air inches from her and plummeted into a passenger’s shoulder. Better them than her. Her knuckles are bruised on both hands, though the left is a little more swollen than the right. She’s also just... generally achy, feeling battered and winded still. And tired, always tired. Witness wonders if now might be a good time to prod Gull for some sort of sleeping aid.

All this time, and he still can’t figure Witness out. Her distrust is obvious, and, frankly, understandable. But she does good work, and he can at least appreciate that aspect of things. Her gaze narrows in on him, and he doesn’t squirm, but he does nod his head just a little. She’s pushed after him for months to speak clearly, slowly, calmly, just to help her out, and Martyr knows that he tries.

It just so happens that sometimes he doesn’t try hard enough, and doesn’t quite realize it. She disappears into her room, and returns with the pad and pencil, and he considers what to put down for longer than is probably reasonable. How to even put it?

Finally, he scratches it out with actual effort to ensure that it’s readable: robbing old friends for ammo. None at the general store. Work OK? He’s never taken her along on a trip quite like this before, and more likely than not it will be ugly, but Witness has proven herself to be tough in these last few weeks.

He turns the pad around and offers the pencil back, holding it steady so that she can read it. He already knows where they’ll go, and to whom they’ll go after. Shouldn’t take them long, Farrier thinks, if they do it the right way.

‣↷

Farrier has an awkwardness about him that puts Witness both on edge and at ease. What she sees is a man wrestling with kindness like one might wrestle to put a too-tight shirt on. It’ll never quite fit; reality bursts from the seams: Maybe he isn’t kind. But then, what is kindness?

Witness has found it in the small acts, yet even those come with a price on their head. And so she’s concluded that kindness is a mirage, wobbling in the distance on a very hot day. Unreachable. Unknowable.

It doesn’t matter if she might find some of it in the clarity of Farrier’s words, the patience with which he concocts and writes them. What he’s written isn’t kind. If anything, it’s perplexing.

Beneath a quirked brow, Witness’ gaze snaps up to meet the man’s. She pauses, waits for him to crack a smile and lightly thwack the top of her head with the notepad, just so he can reveal that it was all a joke, of course he isn’t going to take her with him, of all people. He doesn’t.

date: Feb. 4th 2349 time:  9:04 PM location: common area in raven’s rest status: closed to @wtnssd·

Shotgun’s become a master of swallowing her own rage. It’s come with her five years in the gang, learning how to quiet herself to go unnoticed in more places and keep the shirt on her back clean of blood. And while it often scrapes around her throat like razor blades and leaves a burning alcohol-and-gunpowder taste on her tongue, it’s a craft she’s perfected despite the fact it’s not a particularly pleasant one. Which is why she finds it all the more amusing to watch Witness choke on her anger. The kid’s still scrappy, lively, not quite worn nor weathered with the battle scars that make a soldier. 

It isn’t with a sly smile that Shotgun finds the young inductee’s side. Their long strides come to a pause, thumbs hanging on the belt loops of their pants in a lackadaisical but cocksure stance, hands held out broadly on each of their thighs. 

They don’t necessarily enjoy pestering the kid, though the stifled smirk that often eases over their face when talking to her might argue to the contrary. Witness is amusing, after all, what with that deep set in her brow that reminds Shotgun of a sheepdog crouching, trying to force a herd into line despite how utterly dopey it looks.

“I’ll do you a favor here, Wit; I’m feelin’ generous. This time ‘round, how ‘bout I only take up ten,” and with this, they hold up ten of their fingers, “percent of your share… Figure you might wanna spend some time in Silver Living while we’re here.”

‣↷

Moments like these are reserved for boredom. Little can be done aside from gambling or people-watching. Witness needs to keep a close eye on her minute share, and, well, folks just aren’t all that interesting around Eel. Not even the one-eyed, noseless old man, whose three teeth jut out whenever a cackle scrapes out of his hoarse and weathered throat. When she’d first spotted the way he’d tossed his head back, how his eye had crinkled shut and his mouth had gaped wide open, Witness had wondered what his voice might sound like, if his cadence is excitable despite his skeletal demeanour, or if it’s as clunky as his gait, which more often than not sends him shambling along the dirt until he can collapse into someplace fit for rest.

Close to five minutes of wondering and imagining left her with a bitter taste on her tongue, acid and resentment. She’ll never know, after all. All she can do is piece the noise together, conjure up the sound from her imagination. Imagination born from memory. Which begs the question: What if she forgets what the world had sounded like?

When Shotgun finds her, she’s scraping flecks of wood off a fresh block to whittle, her fingers deft and firm as they feel out the potential of a shape with her knife. The floorboards are unstable enough for Witness to feel the other’s footsteps approach and halt, the vibrations of that arrogant step rattling her very bones. When Witness looks up, it’s with venom in her gaze. She keeps whittling.

Ten percent. It’s a mockery: Shotgun is anything but magnanimous.

—

“Oh.” Old Halo looked from the paper to Witness, a hint of embarrassment coloring her expression. She’d been trying to enunciate, but perhaps she’d been talking a little too fast. She made sure to overemphasize when she said, “Sorry, dear.”

To the pencil and paper she went. She kept a journal, so she had several pens of her own. Perhaps she should lend one to Witness, so that they didn’t have to rely on the little pencil that looked as if it were on its last leg. But they were all back in her room. She would have to remember to bring it up later.

She wrote in neat, looping handwriting, careful to keep it perfectly legible. “Are you okay?” she wrote first. Then, “Is there anything you need? Do you have any injuries that Gull should attend to? I’ve been checking on everyone. I want to make sure we are all in good shape by the time we leave Eel. 🙂”

With that, she slid the pencil and paper back toward Witness.

‣↷

As much as she knows she doesn’t mean anything by it, Witness can’t help finding that small, vacant smile drawn on the page obnoxious and condescending. She supposes that Old Halo’s pedestal, tall and close to Jack’s ear, might make her believe it’s within her right to baby those around her, but Witness isn’t the type to turn the other cheek. Not unless it’s slapped aside.

Her gaze remains unimpressed when it snaps up from Halo’s words. It doesn’t meet hers, rather settles on the plate of slop Poseidon’s set before her. Reluctant as she is to part with what little coin her debt leaves her, Witness hands over the divinity and drags the meal towards her. She swirls it around with the spoon Poseidon provided, watching the steam rise from the questionable colours and textures sitting before her.

“I’ll go after this,” Witness says. She looks over at Halo, “I’m sure Jack’ll have his lapdogs all patched up for when we leave. Or are you doubting Gull’s skill?” It’s obvious that that isn’t Old Halo’s intent, but Witness can’t resist prodding.

FEBRUARY 9th, 2349. THE WHEEL. CLOSED TO @wtnssd.

He squints up at the metal contraption as he takes a long, leisurely drag of his cigarette. 

He firstly wonders what this Old World eyesore was used for in its heyday. 

He secondly wonders if Witness she thinks she’s slick, which he reckons she can’t possibly, because he can hear her footfall a mile away, and her stealth, if you can call it that, is reminiscent of Old World bulls in Old World china shops. It confounds him, frankly, because he’s seen her hunt, so he can testify to the expert skill with which she camouflages herself among her surroundings. It’s uncanny, the way she does it—and a far cry from whatever the fuck she’s trying at now. 

She’s been tailing him for the past half hour, from what he can gather, and he’s been less than patiently waiting for her to make her move on him. He hasn’t the faintest idea what she’s waiting for, because he’s been idling here for ten minutes, at least. 

Perhaps not so skilled a thief as you are a hunter, are you, kid?

He knows she’s going to strike because he can hear the rustle of brush behind him, a quiet sound perhaps only distinguishable from the wind to the trained ear of a thief proper. By the time she reaches him, quick hands no doubt angling for the pocket of his coat, he’s already swiveling away from her, putting the heel of his boot in her path instead of his person. She’s either not expecting it or not quick enough to do anything about it, both of which are errors in judgment that will no doubt get her killed. This particular error in judgment doesn’t cost Witness her life, but it does cost her her balance, and it costs Hellion his cigarette, which falls from his mouth in the midst of the small commotion.

Hellion makes a sound of grief at the squandered cigarette, gone before its time. Rest in peace, beloved. He looks down at her with a scowl, arms crossed over his chest. “You’re far better at the hiding part of this game than the seeking part,” he says flatly. He levels her with an unimpressed grimace that, in this light, makes him look a little like his father did on the rare occasion he was sober enough to reprehend his children. “And you owe me a cigarette.”

‣↷

While the Wind has brought her comfort during days gone by, today it carries the voices of the ghosts that haunt her.

You’re not ready for this, kid. Never have been, never will be. What the fuck have you ever done to help? Nesta screwed up. Again. Try and fuckin’ keep up, Wind’s Mercy...

They swirl around her head like impatient vultures, beaks eager to snap at dying prey.

Amity. Nesta. Witness. It doesn’t matter how many versions of herself she wears, the futility of her very existence remains the same. Ever-present, ever-mocking.

A desperate attempt to prove those ghosts otherwise yanks her forwards, and the clumsy swipe sends her sprawling onto the dusty ground. Dirt jumps into a cloud around her, soon to settle on her clothes and skin. The drying sweat on the back of her neck was already itchy, and the added layer does little to quell the troubling sensation. It’s distracting, though not enough to bear the blame for her failure. Not when she seems to embody the word.

Tracking an animal is easier than tracking a person. As often as she’s thought of Hellion as the prior, he doesn’t have a tell. Not like elk or buffalo. They tense up, nostrils flared. Some even bark out a warning. Hellion, on the other hand, only seems to relax. Then again, predators have little to fear.

Witness glares up at Hellion’s moving mouth, no doubt spewing some sort of snark. One word blasts out from among the rest: owe. It’s a word Witness is more familiar with than she’d like. She knows it well, the jagged shape of it, spoken like glass sliding down her throat.

Still, Hellion’s helping her, and even though Witness knows it isn’t out of the kindness of his (absent, most likely) heart, she has to take what she can get. He’s skilled, and if he’s willing to dig his own grave and teach the gang’s very own grim reaper a trick or two, who’s she to question it?

Witness pushes herself to her feet with a grunt, defiance in her unblinking gaze as she fixes it on Hellion’s unimpressed one. She dusts off her top, her arms.

—

Old Halo was lingering in the Atlantis, too, though she didn’t have much of an appetite. Instead, she was on the lookout for members of the Jack Odyssey Gang, doing her best to make sure that they were all spending their time since they’d got to Eel safely. When she spotted Witness, she headed over.

Only, she’d forgotten that she had a tendency to be light on her feet, and that Witness was a bit hard of hearing, so perhaps she accidentally startled her by standing too close. She raised her eyebrows at Witness’s rather rude greeting. Though it wasn’t like she was all that unused to it, seeing as she wasn’t the most popular member of the Jack Odyssey Gang. She raised both hands innocently and took a seat in the stool beside Witness.

“Why, yes, I’m having a fine day, thank you for asking. And how are you, Witness?” Her tone was dry, though it was obvious she was amusing herself, based on the little smile on her lips. She sighed, almost wistful. “I wasn’t trying to scare you, dear. Am I not allowed to look for a little conversation? Don’t answer that. It’s fine.”

She glanced around the Atlantis, then back to Witness. “I’ve just been going around, checking in on everyone, that’s all. Everything’s going well for you, you have everything you need? Has Gull looked you over? Remember, even little cuts can get infected.”

.

Halo looks unimpressed, and Witness makes sure to mirror the look: eyebrows raised; lips, pursed; gaze, deadpan. But then she’s taking a seat rather than the bait, and Witness feels irritation flare up like an old pain, the ghost of a rotten tooth provoking an ache in her gums. She turns to face the bar. At least with Halo by her side Witness needn’t be too alert.

Old Halo’s halfway through her jest when Witness glances back at her. It’s only then that she realises she’s talking. It’s too late to try and figure out what Halo’s saying, and Witness doesn’t quite care enough to ask if that smile is meant as an olive branch or a red hot poker. She’s had enough of being mocked, after all.

And then Halo’s speaking again, and it’s all so fucking much. Witness catches the shape of a few words (everything, over, infected…), but it isn’t enough to make out what Old Halo’s saying. So she pulls out her crumpled pad and knobbly pencil, and lets the prior land on the bar between them with an indignant slap.

There’d been a lot of blood. Bodies, too. Some of which Witness had used as a shield against the bullets. She can still smell the coppery, sweaty stench of lead and flesh that had quickly filled the compartment she, Lark and Widower had been charged with taking care of.

It had been a complicated job. Witness is no stranger to violent outcomes, but she doubts she’ll ever be prepared for them to the degree the rest of the gang seems to be. And she hates it. She hates that she can’t be cold like Hellion, or lead with the same brutal assertion as Shotgun’s when dealing with foes. It’s why her hands are shaking still, hours after the train has screeched to a halt in Eel, hours after the cuts and bruises should have stopped stinging, or at least dulled down enough to become background noise.

But there’d been so much blood.

Some of it’s her own, and she wipes at her busted lip with the back of her mucky sleeve as she nudges the door to Gull’s medical station open.

Witness used to be a heavy sleeper. These days, she wonders if she even sleeps at all. Hours blend into one great big mass of fugue, light enough to fade with the slightest shift in the air, never deep enough to be deemed a restful slumber. It’s why she’d startled awake when Paragon had nudged one of the wooden legs supporting her too-thin mattress– not that she ought to complain: it’s usually a dusty night sack on a lumpy, hard floor. She’d pulled her pocket knife on him, until his familiar features had pulled properly into focus.

Now, the two are hunching their shoulders up against the night’s cool nip. Even the earth seems to shiver, eager for the sun. Not long now.

It’s by the third time that Witness’ eyes sneak shut that she finally gives into her frustration, and she yanks her gaze over from the main road slicing across Eel to where Paragon is.