[Abandoned] [Episode] Ya don't gotta stand up ta shoot.

Quest Information:

”Watch it, kid! I said wat--” A sharp creak and a teeth-grinding racket was a terrific welcome to a new town.

”Shoulda warned me sooner, ol' man!” The youngster’s reprimanding tone was met with little tolerance. ”It’s your fault you don’t know how to sail your own damn boat, you no-good brat!”

The youngster frowned and resisted the devilish urge to whack the brawny old man with the oar. His clutch nearly squeezed the shaft like a spoiled banana. But, after drawing a deep and calming breath—as he was taught to do when dealing with ungrateful bastards—he simply sighed and mumbled. ”Ya only paid me to ferry ya to port. I ain’t gotta deal with yer tired mouth anymore. I’m leavin’.”

The old man halted him with a palm on his shoulder and a nudge back towards his rickety (but faithful) sailboat. ”Take better care of your boat, you fool. You hurt her when you tried to dock.” The youngster’s voice failed to exit his quivering lips, and a stream of sweat rolled down his flushed, brown cheeks. ”FUCK! Little Castle! This is all yer fault, ya geezer!” The youngster, in his panic, groveled and slammed the bottoms of his fists onto the wooden platform, staring helplessly at the hideous crack that seemed to nearly split the boat in two.

The old man groaned in protest and turned the other way, walking a few steps before pausing. ”C’mon, you no-good punk. Let’s find the local shipwright. He’s a friend from another life. I’ll introduce you. Consider it a bonus for getting me through that storm alive.”

The lad’s angry gaze mellowed as he stood, adjusting the tattered and dirty white cloak wrapped over his shoulders. He then followed after a brief reluctant pause.

”Ya say that, but it weren’t me who sailed us through that ploughin’ sea-tantrum. Ya did all the work while I flailed around tryin’ ta furl the sail,” The younger man admitted.

A sly smile warped the sinewy man’s stoic face into an awkward doodle. He really shouldn’t try ta smile, it's creepy, the lad thought.

The docks of Beach Hope were unsurprisingly popular, what with the town being the center of trade amongst the neighbouring islands. The scattered crowd shifted almost as if it were a single beast, alive and angry—though the almost rhythmic and practiced shouting and quarreling of the many sailors might’ve been responsible for much of that.

The youngster identified many caravels, a few galleons, and even a colossal windjammer anchored nearby. And then there was Little Castle at this far-eastern dock, a baby compared to the rest; a very ugly baby too, but her owner would resent that observation and deny it like a mother would the hideousness of her child.

With the cuffs of his pants still wet from the shallow pool of water which refused to part from Little Castle, annoying clumps of sand clung to him like leeches when they crossed the beach towards the shipyard. Their modest destination was close and also decorated with a convenient anchor and wheel.

The de facto leader of the two-man parade walked awkwardly in the sand, his subtle limp more apparent now. With an uncharacteristic bout of curiosity, the youngster inquired with no particular conspicuous interest. ”Ya never did tell me why ya wanted ta come ta this sunny-sunshine town.” Without turning his head, the former passenger replied monotonously. ”No-good rascals shouldn't poke their noses where they don't belong.”

The juvenile held back a scowl and murmured an insensible complaint. It would’ve been counter-productive to argue now; he needed the mocking bastard on his side to negotiate a much-needed discount on the repairs. But, the day wasn’t done spilling milk.

The entrance was battered, a very subtle trail of blood following the wooden path leading into town. The old man was overcome with worry and near-despair, prompting him to shuffle through the hanging splinters and rush into the receptional. The youngster followed without hesitation only to walk into a gruesome scene.

The place was a complete mess; overturned tables, broken counter, scattered tools and accessories, and blood—a shit-ton of blood. The cloaked no-good sailor looked towards his senior with concern he’d never admit to, only to find a face frozen in horror. Chasing the target of his horrified gaze, there was only a message to be found, painted on the wall in the crimson shade of blood. Thank you for the payment.

The crippled old man hastily approached the expertly illustrated carnage. The implied victim of the crime scene was nowhere to be found. The youngster’s look of concern was still more on behalf of the living than the dead, for the old man’s pulsating veins were on the verge of bursting. Without a word of instruction, the older man set to tearing the place apart in his distraught investigation.

The junior of the duo already had his theories as to what might have transpired; not a one ended pretty for the victim. He busied himself searching through various rooms, clutching at his two holsters all the while, expecting to walk into trouble not particularly hungry for a sudden meal of lead.

Of the three rooms he searched, the first two seemed to be inconsequential—used simply for storage of lumber and metal. The last was an untidy office. Half the room was decorated with scattered paper and the other half with dishevelled cabinets and drawers. The square desk against the wall was overturned, and ink still trailed down from the spilled inkpot, tracing the shallow cracks of the wooden floor.


A thick metal safe sat open and empty in the far corner of the office, with no hint of what treasures may have been its previous occupants. This ain’t my business. I ain’t gettin’ paid for this. These were the first thoughts to cross his mind. And yet, his body failed to acknowledge the sensible argument and dared on to do its own thing.

Sifting through the hundreds of scattered, crumpled documents, the detective-of-circumstance came upon an open ledger. The book was well-kept, despite its bindings being improvised with two leather squares and some twine. He skimmed through the written pages of the book only to stop near halfway through. A smudged streak of blue had crossed out a name beyond readability, leaving the entry of that account essentially erased. Whichever fella’s name’s crossed out here’s gotta be the bastard who did ‘im in. Didn’t seem to be a far-fetched leap, for a gentle wipe across the ink left a faint smear on his fingertips. Fresh.

A few turns of the pages led to the exact same set of entries, with one of them crossed out once more. And again every few pages. With no other obvious items of interest left to scour further, the pseudo-sleuth returned to the main foyer, calling out conspicuously to his partner. ”Oiii, ol' man! Get over here! I got somethin’ ta show ya.”

A moment of unsettling silence passed before he heard the steps of his lame former passenger descending the ladder leading to the attic. His frown was no less pronounced, despite the victim’s body still gone with the wind. As they say - “No body, no crime”.

”What is it?! Did you find him?! Where’s the body?” The short young man rolled his eyes, holding up the ledger and slapping it with the back of his hand. ”Calm the fuck down, ol' man. Ya ain’t even told me who it is we’re lookin’ for. And I ain’t found nothin’ that flashy. But, I reckoned I might be able ta guess what’s goin’ on after seein’ this.”

The old man impatiently plucked the accounts out of his carefree grip and scanned through them, taking note of the very same unbelonging markings. ”Bad debt? But, it’s impossible to tell who this was owed to.”

The junior clicked his tongue and let slip a snide chuckle. ”Yer a fool, just like the fools who’d done in this frienda yers. They didn’t bother ta erase the dates and the amount. As ya might notice if ya look with them half-blind peepers harder, it’s the same few people yer chum traded with on those days. The others oughta have some idea who this fella might be.”

The old man seemed mildly impressed, his grey hues sparkling with vengeful determination. ”You might be a no good loafer, but at least you can use that head of yours when it counts. We should get out of here before the authorities show up. I don’t trust the lawmakers enough to get involved with them.” Despite his grievances over using his hard-to-come-by deductions for free, he had no arguments against leaving this disturbing scene.  

But, before they could turn to escape the unamusing enterprise, a startling ruckus triggered the black-haired delinquent. In a split second, the barrels of his twin revolvers peered back at the entrance in all their steely ferocity, a bloodthirsty gaze glowering from behind them. ”Don’tcha fuckin’ move, Deadhead and Wheelie, or I’ll fill ya fulla gutless holes.”

Butch's testy digits needed little cause to cock the firm hammer back and squeeze the smooth metal curve of the trigger. But, contrary to appearances, the cloaked gunslinger had a respectable amount of self-control. And so, he held his stance when the panicked blond boy scattered around the adamant young lady—who glared back at them with matching intensity.

It was preposterous to think that either of those two new intruders had any part to play in this incidental massacre. More likely they happened to be just another two visitors like themselves who happened to find the shop in this deplorable state. And yet, that sinister stare and those weapons trained towards him ticked him off.

Just as he was about to threaten the newcomers again—ignoring the raven-haired girl’s warning—the youngest of them all spoke in the first wave’s defense. Grandpa? It seemed his guess wasn’t too far off. The wimp maybe had the right to be disturbed by this scene more than all of them. And when the suspicious girl lowered her well-kept weapons, the black-haired youngster sighed and holstered his also.

Still keeping the fussy entrants within his peripheral vision, his eyes momentarily tracked the old man. It seemed the limping bastard had been readier than him to retaliate against any ill-wishing trespassers. Why didn’t I hear the glass shatter? The man was gripping a broken whiskey bottle with a hawkish bearing, at least until he had a chance to come to his senses. And when he did, his furrowed brows parted and melted in sympathy.

A featherbrained comment about “returning tomorrow”, and the two turned to leave already. But the old fart stepped forward into the light before the two left the view of the door frame, calling out to the little punk with an amiable voice. ”Wait!” He tossed the half-bottle aside, holding up his palms meekly to show peaceful intentions.

”Are you little Yoon? Don’t you remember me? My name is Basileus! I used to visit you and your grandfather all the time when you were a child!” If the two young ones would stop and turn, he would go on to explain himself further, approaching the entrance gradually so as to not set off the volatile wheelchaired woman.

”It’s a horrible shame we had to meet again like this. I was bringing this No-Good Butch here to get his boat repaired, but we walked into a crime scene with your grandpa missing. The building was empty when we got here. That young lady there looks like she’s got some firepower with her. Do you know who did this? Or did you walk--” “No-Good” Butch had strolled up close behind him, and with a heavy “tch” he interrupted the suddenly talkative croaker.

”Ya gonna keep talkin’ or ya gonna let 'em talk back? That Whirly-Eyes looks like she might shoot ya for yammerin’.” Butch eyed the ghostly pale woman, his sharp brown features, wild grey eyes, and snarky white grin now lit up by the almost-divine beam falling through the skylight. The brown jacket he wore under the dusty cloth for a cloak fluttered along from a soft breeze peeking through the gaps in the door, dragging in grains of sand to sloppily disguise the blood trails.

The girl’s fuck-you demeanour suggested she’d dealt with useless scum too much. He might’ve mistaken her for a pampered rich kid if it were not for her vacant stare and the swiftness of her draw. No spoiled princess could’ve looked down the barrel of a gun with such determination. Regardless of what her reasons were, Butch’s tolerance of belligerence was never something to write home about. Imagine if he ever had to deal with himself.

TRACKERS:

With a nose of wax and a mind as stable as a penny standing on its side, Butch had often been vitriolic with strangers in an attempt to disguise his own insecurities; so much so that his acerbic nature had become him more than anything else. And every little roll of the girl's whirly eyes or contemptuous twitch of her pale lips prodded him to foist her into a world of woe. Fortunately for him, his former patron was ruled by calmer thoughts, despite his superior right to be indignant.

The unfashionable codger approached the little squirrel and his guard dog cautiously, squinting as if to study his features. Not keen on witnessing a “heartfelt” reunion, the no-good dawdler crossed his arms, almost turning sallow with impatience. ”Oh poor boy. I’m so sorry for what’s happened. I’m pleased you remember me. You were so little when I last saw you.” He expected Whirly-Eyes to hurry them again, but the interference came from somewhere else entirely.

A sharp screech and a small, cushioned thud rung into the foyer. Quicker than a jackrabbit chased by a prairie fire, the twin revolvers were drawn and cocked. The distant origin of the sound could not be mistaken for anything other than a gunshot, and yet he had never quite heard that exact sound before—despite his extensive experience testing out a plethora of firearms. ”Get the fuck inside, ya brats! Them’s gotta be the fuckheads who did bunny-boy’s gaffer in.”

A nerve-wracking half-grin-half-frown quivered on the old man’s face, prompting Butch to whistle sharply to get his attention. ”The fuck’s wrong wittcha, ol' man?!” The man stood frozen for a moment before he snapped out of it and turned his bloodshot glare towards the others. A rivulet of red wended down the old man’s left arm… ”How the fuck did they hit ya?!”

The man coughed shortly and then spoke, flitting clear of the entrance. ”Listen to me carefully, because I’ll only say this once. The shooter - I recognize the sound of his gun. He’s got nothing to do with the incident here. I’d know if he had. Butch; you trust me, yes?” The blackguard snorted and shook his head decisively. ”Yer outta yer mind if ya think I trust ya cause we sailed ta an island together.”

The old man smiled as if he were half-expecting such a response. ”Money then. You trust money, that much I know.” He removed two of the three gold rings he wore on his fingers and tossed one towards the grey-eyed gunslinger and the other towards Whirly-Eyes. Butch caught the one offered to him, a hypnotizing sapphire beset on its crown. ”Please help Yoon. Leave this shooter to me. I’m sorry for bailing on you like this, Yoon. I promise I’ll return to check on you another day. Take care.”

With not another word of explanation or justification, the old man launched himself through the door with a deafening boom. ”Oi, oi, oi, oi, oi. Don’t fuck with me! This sounds like the plot ta a shitty penny dreadful! I’m shooting that buffer the next time I see ‘im.” And just like that, the cast of this penny dreadful had been reduced to three.

”Fine then,” he said, standing back up nonchalantly and holstering the Twin Sparrows, in spite of his claim of not trusting that basilisk. ”I dunno about Whirly-Eyes, but I like ta finish a job I got paid for. I’ve a list ‘ere ya might wanna look at.” Saying so, he presented the list of accounts between which the name of the suspect was crossed out beyond readability. He hoped the brat might recognize some of the business-doers in the list which they could then interrogate.

OOC Commentary:

TRACKERS:

The pale whirly-eyed girl had talents Butch didn’t even know existed - riding a chair with wheels being one of them and reading through text obscured with ink being another.

“Ohhhhh! Ya gotta teach me how ta do that some time. That’s some real nice detective work ya did there, miss.” He made no attempts to mask how impressed he was, though his lack of tact surely made him come off as sarcastic. His words were often genuine, but his unrefined and churlish manners never made them seem that way.

He snatched up the repaired ledger first chance he could for further inspection. “Les Malfaiteurs” indeed. This was his maiden visit to Beach Hope; as such, the name meant nothing to him. Luckily, the sparkly-eyed boy knew exactly where to go.

They marched (and rolled) through the streets with a purpose - or at least so one would’ve hoped. With no supervision, Butch was about as rushed as a sloth on a hot day. The younger male hurried him every time he started to fall behind, prompting a mumble and groan out of the trailer in response.

En route to Les Malfaiteurs, the local lad’s inquisitive nature got the better of him despite the armed young man’s obvious disinterest. “Where are you from? What brought you to Baterilla? What do you do? How old are you?” None of these questions were interesting enough to warrant answers, but at the lack of responses from the rolling girl, Butch opted to humour the annoying pup hoping it would sate his curiosity and cage his tongue.

“Flevance. Job. Bounty hunting. Nunna yer fuckin’ business.” The gunslinger’s terse reply muted the boy and allowed their walk to be completed in silence.

The flamboyant lighting and pretty windows of Les Malfaiteurs were likely an attraction for most potential customers. Butch, however, was a man of simple tastes. His audible cringe at the sight of the entrance turned a few heads passing by. Nevertheless, their mission demanded entry into this gaudy restaurant, and so they entered, the flustered boy holding the door for Butch after the girl surged in.

The bored bounty hunter wasted no time in seeking out a seat. He moved and spun a chair on one leg with his foot, simultaneously finding him a foot rest and clearing a parking spot for Frown-on-Wheels. He scanned the room with a lazy gaze, eyeing “Sweet” the sweetest blondie without meaning to. The restaurant’s present clientele seemed not to appreciate the presence of the newly-entered disheveled troop, but when did No-Good Butch ever give a fuck?

The delinquent stretched his scruff to peek into the kitchen, immediately turning his head away when his eyes accidentally fell upon the massive creature at the stove. He forced himself to ogle the lovely Sweet for a moment again in a failed attempt at erasing that unwelcome sight.

“Coffee for me. Black.” Butch replied with an uncharacteristic kind smile. His attraction to her was not diminished in the least after hearing her speak. He made sure to face her directly too when speaking, figuring she was likely a practiced lip-reader - a thought that dumb cunt of a kid did not seem clever enough to divine. A good rule of thumb Butch had come to live by through his time at Spider Miles: Don’t underestimate cripples, bastards, and broken things.

Butch idly consulted a menu, same as the wheeled lady, the “Royale avec Cheese” catching his eye. While the testy reprobate didn’t appreciate being referred to as “No-Good” (At least call me No-Good Butch), he thought better of making a scene before they had a chance to investigate the case of the missing geezer. He turned to face the raven-haired girl, scheming in a half-whisper. “I ain’t seein’ anythin’ outta the ordinary here. Meanin’, if these folks are involved, they’re more subtle than they look.”

Through an earlier survey of the room he had spotted a well-dressed, clean-shaven fat man sitting at a corner table with a second man standing next to him at attention. The man had strangely little presence despite his taste in outfits. He sported an expensive suit with vertical white and blue stripes stretching from shoulders to ankles. A navy blue fedora rested on his sweaty head, no doubt hiding balding, greying hair. A red kerchief was folded in his breast pocket and a golden chain hanging from a button indicated he carried a timepiece.

The man ate with discipline almost akin to a soldier’s, and yet with an entitlement one might see more among royalty. Whenever he would clear his throat—which was too fucking often—the suit waiting on him would refill his ornamented glass, which he would then drink out of.

His quiet scheming continued. “Check out the fat man over there in the suit. I noticed the pissants here have been goin’ outta their way to not look at ‘im. I’d bet mah left nut that man’s a mafioso with a bounty on his head somewhere.” He paused to sip on the hot (and delicious) coffee which had been delivered by the lovely waitress during a break in his whispering.

“Looks talk a lot, and looks say that chair in the corner is accustomed to that elephant's fat ass.” Yoon confirmed the pseudo-sleuth’s hypothesis. “I’ve seen him--” Butch hushed him to a lower volume. “I’ve seen him here before. The Malfaiteurs treat him like a special guest. I don’t know much else though.”

Butch nodded knowingly and continued. “I reckon we could foller ‘im and see what hole the balloon fits into.” He paused to think. “Or, ya know, we could just shake the tree here and see what comes loose.”

TRACKERS:

Damned was the man who fucked with a frenzied, crippled woman. That nutty chick! She's fuckin' amazin'! Butch was forced to swallow his thrill, lest a shit-eating grin warped his lips and ruined the crazy lady's improvised stage act. It had been a while since he'd run into a brat as wild as himself.

A minute or two ago...

One might have mistaken Butch to be cross-eyed or the like by how his glances bounced between the suited pair and the costumed attendant. Upon her taunt at the "hideous" patrons, he turned his attention to Miss Grump-on-Gears with an indolent twist in his seat.

He was tempted to deride her comment with a "Does that include yer own ugly mug too?" It would've been a lie. Before he loosened his tongue, he caught a glimpse of that distorted smirk on her lips. The kind of smirk that would prompt repulsion from most. The kind of smirk that sent chills down Butch's spine in waves - the good kind of chills, if there ever was such a thing. He was smitten for a brief moment before her sobering frown brought him back to reality.

The haughty challenge placed upon his intelligence by Wheelie had little effect on him. He was never disillusioned about his "act-first-think-way-too-fucking-late" philosophy. Countless avoidable violent incidents in the past were sparked by his tactlessness and his forthright mannerisms. Another one of these incidents was about to happen, but this time, he could not be held responsible.

Butch had a habit of fiddling with the hammers of his pistols when idling. This helpful practice aided his reaction to what hit the rest of the folk in the building like a goddamned train. His tumble backwards upon the pale woman's rampage turned into a comical roll. Yet he managed to turn his fumble into a speedy (though clumsy) draw.

Within the second, his guns were out and ready to aim at...

Right fucking now...

The ghostly girl had gone feral. Butch hadn't a clue what her plan was, but he played along as best he could. "Yer fuckin' dead,  ya cunt! I told ya Johne Tracy got lifted by some cocksucking loser." A wayward peek at the round mobster had their eyes meet, and that's when Butch realised this insane plan could very well prompt action from their target.

A few discreet words were traded between the human bowling ball and his bowling pin of a lackey amid the chaos arbitrated by the raven-haired furiosa. There was little opportunity for Butch to stage another scene in this melodrama (lucky for him, considering his utter lack of talent in theatrical arts).

A single twitch from the mobster is all it took for the young gunslinger to shout out "Hit the dirt!" Butch kicked their dining table onto its side, flinging his lukewarm black coffee at the wild-eyed woman and freeing Yoony-boy in the process. If only he could've predicted his error.

Had Yoon remained in the clutches of his faux-kidnapper, he might have been omitted from the ensuing volley. The mafioso went out of his way to avoid shooting at the author of this madness, aiming simply at Butch and the dancing (more like fumbling to make a getaway) kid.

The unexpected machinegun fire encouraged the majority of the guests not targeted by the mobster to flee. When the gunfire lulled, Butch—who had taken cover behind the sturdy table and had luckily remained unharmed—glanced side-to-side in search for Yoon. He located him only by a weak whimper.

The kid had hidden behind the high swinging doors of the kitchen. It took a few quiet seconds for Butch to comprehend how the boy had survived after being inadvertently placed in the line of fire. Streams of crimson trailed down the fair visage of the one and only waitress of Les Malfaiteurs. She sat flat beside Yoon, her chest rising and falling unevenly from short breaths. The young lad nearly chewed through his nails hovering over the heroic injured lady.

Butch's brows collapsed outwards into an expression spawned from guilt and rage. True to his character, he wasted no time thinking. While firing a few wide shots at the son-of-a-bitch who shot Sweet, he darted towards the whimpering pair. Without a word, he ducked next to Sweet and hoisted her over his shoulder. The poor girl offered no protest.

The boy in his care required no bidding to follow. They rushed to the backdoor, keeping their backs against the wall as near as they could. The two delinquents and the innocent victim of their shenanigans poured out into the rear garden where the whale of a chef and the gaunt-as-a-rail owner cowered behind a shed. Butch didn't blame them one bit for hiding from danger.

Upon seeing the copious amounts of blood and the pale and sweaty face of her daughter, mother whale cried a song of the sea and came swimming to her spawn. If circumstances weren't so grave (what with his latest target of affection being shot and all) he might have made a ruckus laughing at the chef's attempt at a dash. He almost regretted not witnessing her escape from the shooting. But, circumstances were indeed grave. He couldn't fault the mother for any of her desperate measures to ensure the security of her child.

"Yer girl is a hero. She saved this little brat from getting shot ta shit." He poked the quailing boy with the mouth of his right-handed pistol, Fly, with one eye on the back door and another at the corner of the restaurant; caution against their assailants following after them.

He had not failed to notice how the blue-and-white blob had skipped shooting at the wheelchaired woman. He hoped that the man sought to use her in some way which might allow her to investigate the disappearing of the troublesome "Johne Tracy". Regardless of that development, he knew Yoon and himself had to make like a tree and leave.

The curly-moustached restaurant manager inched closer with wary steps. "You dastardly delinquents! How dare you cause so much trouble?! You've driven away all of my customers!"

Butch's grey-green pupils dilated in a deranged fury and his lips transmuted into a grimace. He marched towards the squirrelly business-owner with heavy steps and, with no hesitation, served the coward a knuckle-sandwich free-of-charge. The owner's nose crunched and collapsed like paper under the hammer that was Butch's fist. All it took was a single punch to knock the scrawny fellow into the grass.

The grimace had not left the young gunslinger when he raged. "Ya spineless cuck! Yer sweet-as-syrup daughter's bleedin' over here and yer more worried about yer shady-ass business? It ain't our fault ya pay yer dues ta scum like that gangster. Go get a fuckin' doctor right now, ya piece of shit!" It took another furious "NOW!" for the piece of shit to be moved to action.

Butch returned to the wailing mother's side and kneeled. "I'm real sorry this happened, misses. I ain't got any moneh, but, I'll come back later and help y'all fix the place up." He delivered the apology with his lips clear in Sweet's view and then turned to Yoon. "Let's get the fuck outta here before we bring more misery."

With a worried frown, the bounty hunter took the leave of Sweet and her mother whale, tugging Yoon along by his hair.

The soles of their boots clip-clopped in a narrow cobblestone alley as they raced away from the scene. He peered up at his elder with tears streaking down his cheeks. "Sweet... S-she.. she saved me."

Butch's gaze remained fixed forward. "I know, ya idiot. She's a fool for throwin' herself in the way like that to save yer sorry ass. A fool, but a kind one."

The only sensible course of action for them was to find a place to lie low. The worst had yet to come.

TRACKERS:

Butch colour: #fcc16a
Friendly NPC colour: #82ff82

The quiet sobs and whimpers from Yoon did not end until his adult-of-circumstance companion delivered a sharp, man-the-fuck-up smack to the back of his head. To Butch's measured delight, a deep frown supplanted the boy's lamenting.

The gunslinger had not failed to look over his shoulders for longer than a dog's breath. Despite his confidence in their unnoticed escape, his instincts advised him towards caution.

The two ruffians exited their stumble through dark, winding alleys into a river of late-night shoppers. The crowd of Beach Hope's night market relieved Butch from his vigilance, though not before he'd fetched the hood of his cloak over his scruffy head.

Streams of lights hanging from two infinitely long cables outlined the edges of the street. The welcoming glow of the blue and pink bulbs summoned a brief pause in Yoon's sulking. But, the cacophony of cheerfulness in this dazzling locale was no place for the cranky crack shot.

"This way! I know a place where we could sit down for a minute." Butch waded through the mass of bodies behind his juvenile companion, who led them to a fenced courtyard. Yoon vaulted over the high fence with a practised leap and confidence he had not shown until then. Butch followed close behind.

The yard was dark and devoid of movement. The pink light bleeding from the street traced faint shadows of distorted figures. Intrigued by the lifelike shapes of one or two of these figures, Butch attempted to examine the sources of the shadows by stepping closer. He let out an inaudible gasp and stumbled backwards when a wailing woman's face peered back at him from the abyss.

A sneering giggle sounded from where Yoon's steps had ended. "Hehehehe~ It might be dark, but don't think I didn't notice that."

The boy shuffled over to Butch as he leaned over for a second glance at the mute woman. "It's a figurehead."

Butch heard the distinct click and flare of an oil burner. The smirking kid had lit a lantern. He brought the light closer to allow Butch a thorough inspection of the wooden figurine. The shapely lady clutched the end of her stiff dress against her breasts, with her uncarved free hand reaching for some unreachable thing in the sky. The lack of paint on the statue only accentuated her forlorn nature.

The boy somberly commentated while Butch regarded the work of art with some respect. "I made that with my parents." A hint of sadness fell upon his voice, and the light held against his face highlighted a mournful smile.

"We used to live here until my parents died two years ago." He pointed at the outline of an unassuming rear entrance of a single-storey building guarding one side of the courtyard.

The boy forced the kerosene lamp upon Butch before dragging him to the wooden trellis framed against his former home. Yellow and green vines snaked around the crisscrossed wooden beams, reaching up to the gabled roof. They climbed up the makeshift ladder and onto the roof. Butch hooked the lantern to an open end of one of the trellis' beams before lying down next to his relaxed junior.

The stars in the night sky could not outshine the bright market street that stretched quite a long ways towards the docks to the south. Yoon's old place wasn't exactly the most intelligent hideout after their bloody encounter, but it would do for a brief respite.

Butch yawned lazily, infecting Yoon with a yawn almost as loud. "How'd yer folks die?" Yoon was not offended by Butch's tactlessness.

"There was an accident in the work yard below. They were carving a huge statue, but it somehow toppled and..." He paused, surely wondering the same thing that Butch was.

"That don't sound like a fucking accident." Butch never claimed to be a therapist, nor had he advertised himself as a polite individual. Luckily, Yoon had already accepted Butch's inability to express sympathy.

"My grandpa disappeared for a few weeks when my parents died too... He took me in when he came back, but he never talks about what happened. He kept insisting that it was an accident, but--"

"I want a soda."

The interrupting comment took the sorry lad aback. The boy was at a loss for words.

Silence overtook them for a long moment before the younger idler sighed and cast a lazy finger towards a modest convenience store across the street. "They sell soda there..." The glint in his eye betrayed a speck of optimism. ...and ice cream too."

Without wasting a breath, Butch grabbed the boy by his collar and leapt off the roof. He landed in a street clearing as gracefully as a man his height could carrying half a person behind them like a sack of flour. That is to say - he fell flat on his face with Yoon crashing on his back.

The tired gunslinger stood up with a loud groan, entirely ignoring the concerned (and a few flabbergasted) stares from the bystanders. He dusted himself off and wiped the scratch on his forehead coolly, crossing the street without deigning to check on his human baggage.

Butch entered "Rainy Symond's" with a subtle limp in his step. His follower had caught up by now, grumbling all the while.

A satisfying hiss from the codd-neck bottle marked Butch's reception of a lemon cream soda. Butch paid with a fistful of spare change. Yoon looked up at the soda-lover expectantly with a strawberry-walnut ice cream cone in his hand before remembering better.

The boy dug into his deep cargo-pant pocket, retrieving a few wrinkled bills for payment. A crumpled ball of paper spilt out of the pocket in his impatient search.

The familiar cream colour of the paper prompted the carefree gunslinger to pick it up. He took a long sip from the bottle, unwrapping the mysterious page one-handed on the store's counter.

"I knew it! That sneaky bitch is good!" The exclamation almost knocked the dessert out of Yoon's hands.

Butch turned to the boy with a wildcat grin. "Let's go kid! We've got a bounty to hunt!"

The violent winds tried their best to force the mouths of the two delinquents shut - to little success. The grungy gunslinger and his barely tolerated companion were as chatty as they'd ever been, despite needing to elevate their volumes to outshout the roaring gales they faced.

"I fuckin' knew it! I knew I'd get ta fuckin' fly one day!" Butch would've proudly flourished his twin revolvers, 'Fly' and 'One Day', if he were not holding on to the spine of the rickety glider for dear life. The boy straddled in front of him didn't seem quite as thrilled about having his feet hundreds of feet off solid ground.

"I don't think this thing was ready to fly yet!"

"Don't be a sour puss! Man up fer once!"

The boy huffed, clutching at the rusted metal frame of the lifeless bird streaking across the blue-grey dawn sky.

Their lips fluttered, and their cheeks rippled from the wild gusts blowing at them, exposing their pearly whites (a misnomer; visits to the dentist were long overdue for both) and rosy gums.

Less than an hour ago...

Two feeble groans followed the first three from a helpless soul. "Stop it, Butch! I don't think he knows anything!" Butch couldn't help but throw one more punch for effect before releasing the scruff of the swindler's neck.

"Quit yer bitchin'. This sunnuva cunt-bucket had this beatin' comin' no matter what shit he knows. Didya not see him con that nice ol' lady?"

The spectators of this street justice looked on with horror, hurrying away only when Butch returned their stares with frenzied eyes. The "merchant of mirrors" sobbed and sniffed, crimson droplets leaking from the cuts on his swollen cheeks. The man's mutated-tomato-looking-face was writ with a kind of terror that one might see in a rabbit about to be devoured by a fox.

"I-I swear on me granny's tangerines! I dunno no Mateus!" Another mousy squeal followed a satisfying thump. "Shut the fuck up, ya coward!" Butch flailed his sore fist and blew soothing exhales on his purpling knuckles.

Shrieking whistles sounded out through the dispersing crowd - a comforting sound for victims of crime. "In the name of the law, stop right there!" Fuckin' idiots announce themselves from so far away. It's like they want me ta run away.

Panic overtook Yoon, his head ping-ponging between the incoming popo and his master-in-crime. "We've already asked most of the shops here. We should go!" For once, Butch agreed.

They weaved dextrously through the transient mass of shoppers interrupted only by a sharp whistle and a hoarse voice calling out "Tracy!" A frail man—bearded and balding—waved them over from a narrow gulley between a hostess club and a milliner's shop.

Whistles screeched from both ends of the thoroughfare, driving the daring duo to throw caution to the wind and enter the shady stranger's embrace.

"How did you know my name?" Asked Yoon, hastening after their limping rescuer. The coppers seemed not to have noticed their escape into the shallow canal.

"I was a friend of your grandpa's, a long time ago." The boy halted for a moment until Butch shoved him forward.
"I'm sorry, mister, but I don't remember you."

The man turned his head halfway with a sad smile. "That's not your fault. Your grandpa and I hadn't talked in years. But, that's not important right now. What's important is that I know where you can find the man you're looking for!"

Butch thought the scraggly old man's claim to be a suspiciously convenient coincidence, but after the wasted few hours in search of leads for Mateus the Monolith, he was at his wit's end. "How the hell do ya know who we're lookin' fer?"

Their dubious new ally was now leading them out of the city's limits. A lonesome, rundown hovel awaited them across a few flaxen fields.

"Mateus the Monolith and his gang of cruel bastards make much of their money through usury and protection rackets. Mateus takes particular interest in plying his trade on artisans." The man's sombre tone was convincing enough.

Butch swatted a few crops brushing his lips while they drudged through the field. "And yer one of da many craftsmen who borrowed from 'im?" A nod from the cornball confirmed Butch's assumption.

"Johne Tracy builds things that sail. I build things that fly." Yoon's eyes sparkled with sudden interest. "You're Wilbur Orville! My grandpa talks about you all the time! He said that you and him built a flying ship together once!"

Butch coughed, choked, and then exploded into a rude guffaw. His laugh carried across the meadow like a monkey's hoots. "Grow the fuck up, ya pea-brained pringle! There ain't no such thing as a flyin' ship!" His laugh was sliced short by an unamused comment.

"Ah yes! The Adrestia, we called it! We built it together during our time in the New World. It was for Basileus' crew - you might have heard of him." Yoon's ears perked up at the mention of the old codger, but his enthusiasm couldn't compete with the mindfuck Butch was struggling through.

"Oi, oi, oi, oi, oi! Hang the fuck on! New World?! Basileus' crew?! Why are y'all yappin' like yer serious?!" Butch's inquisition was met with sobering silence.

He stumbled a few steps back in his attempt to digest these discoveries. A thing that he believed to be outside the realms of possibility was, in fact, very much real. A flyin' fuckin' ship!!! I neeeeed iiiiiiiiiiiiiiittt!!! He unwittingly caressed Fly's grip, fiddling with its hammer.

Butch drew deep soothing breaths before his childish excitement got the better of him. "Yer gonna have ta show me some proof if ya really are the craftsman ya claim ta be."

With a confident glimmer in his eye, Wilbur hurried them to the back of his derelict workshop. A large wicker basket sat on the grass, countless ropes tying it to a massive piece of cloth spread on the ground. Butch kneeled to feel the material in the dark. Its slippery and tight texture was something he'd never touched before.

"It's a hot air balloon," Wilbur declared, attaching an unnaturally red seashell to a gadget that each one of the thick ropes passed through. The engineer pressed the centre of the seashell, lighting a bright and powerful flame that blew into the cloth.

It was no surprise for the younger of Wilbur's guests to be observing with keen interest; but, even Butch was thoroughly engaged. The respectable inventor (Butch was quick to change his opinion of him) invited them to step into the basket with him.

The wicker hamper was roomy, albeit littered with junk that made it seem less so. Butch and Yoon were too busy gawking at the inflating balloon to ask any intelligent questions. They gasped in unison when a flap of the stretched cloth signalled the balloon reaching its capacity for hot air.

"Ohhhhh. Are we going ta fly like this?!" Butch's voice had lost its brash tone, instead replaced by a youthful timbre.

Wilbur shook his head and pointed at a folded contraption sitting in the corner of the basket. "The best part has yet to come." Waves of thrill buzzed down the spines of the two starry-eyed passengers.

The hot air balloon ascended the soft darkness, reaching for the stars undetained by gloomy clouds. The boys shivered where they stood. Butch selfishly bundled himself in his cloak without offering Yoon a share of the warmth. Thousands of orange, red, green, and gold lights of Beach Hope formed together like a swarm of fireflies. The rest of the island was bathed in darkness, only a few 'fireflies' glowing along the far coasts. The ocean engulfing the dark edges of the coast shimmered as if covered by a million jewels.

Wilbur pointed to a small grouping of lights while pulling on the thick cord that powered this small wonder of the world. "Those lights you see near the edge of the island... that's Mateus' mansion. You'll likely find him there at this time. It would take you hours to get there by any other means. You're going to ride the Alfine Swift there." He motioned towards the mysterious contraption again.

"That thing don't look like it can fly," noted Butch with an acidic tone. Orville replied with an expressionless retort, "Neither do you, young man. But fly, you shall!" Yoon chuckled, his arms hugging his chest in defence against the chilly breeze. Butch was compelled to believe the old balloonist, if only by his own hopes.

After reaching an uncomfortable height, Orville scratched his crooked nose and clicked his tongue. "Alright, now listen carefully. You two are going to saddle up on these seats here and hold onto the rail." He lifted the Alfine Swift with Butch's help, hoisting it near the edge of the basket. The device looked like a bicycle with no wheels and a folded canopy planted on it.

The two riders followed the instructions provided. "When I say 'go', you will pull this here string hard. Once you do, use these two handles to pivot the Alfine. It'll feel natural when you're in the air." With that dangerously brief lesson delivered, Wilbur unhooked a latch, dropping a portion of the wicker basket's wall before kicking Alfine's rear.

A sinking feeling enveloped the pit of their stomachs as the Alfine Swift fell with its two mounties. They clung to the frame like leeches, desperate screams tearing their vocal cords. And yet somehow, even through their distress, a shout reached them.

"Goooo!"

OOC:

Fran uses MT (Bite of the Red Hot Chilli) on Sidyard
Fran uses LT (Frenzy Eyes) on self.
Fran uses LT (Dethrone the King) on Sidyard.
Fran uses UT on Sidyard.

Sidyard uses MT on Fran.
Sidyard uses LT on Fran.
Sidyard uses LT on Fran.
Sidyard uses UT on Fran.

The member 'Frenzy' has done the following action : Dice Roll

---

#1 'Reflex Check' : 16, 18, 7

--------------------------------

#2 'Reflex Check' : 16, 15, 14, 17

Butch uses AoE on Mateus and Co. (DoT - Sun Dance!)
Butch users UT on Mateus and Co.

Mateus and Co. use LT on Butch.
Mateus and Co. use LT on Butch.
Mateus and Co. use UT on Butch.

Note for Alice:

The member 'Butch Castle' has done the following action : Dice Roll

---

#1 'Reflex Check' : 18, 14

--------------------------------

#2 'Reflex Check' : 16, 7, 3

"Buuuuuuuuuuutch! How the hell do we get dooooowwwnnnn?!" Yoon squealed as the Alfine Swift soared through the early morning mist. The pair of troublemakers were fast approaching the garish estate lumbering atop a solitary cliff.

"I don't fuckin' know!" Butch shrilled back, his voice cracking with panic. "'It'll feel natural' my left asscheek! That kooky hagé is gonna get us killed!" The impending sense of doom had fully eclipsed Butch's thrill for the flight.

The bounty hunter tugged the left handle and then the right to test the glider's reaction. The Alfine responded to the physical commands by rolling in the intended directions smooth as a swallow.

They were almost upon the ostentatious home of Mateus the Monolith. Yoon could barely make out the tall tinted windows of the ominous rats' nest. Mateus' villa was a structure straight out of a children's mystery novel. A foreboding stone wall, a sinister garden with an expensive marble fountain, a gloomy willow tree - it's as if the architect were checking boxes off of a list of stereotypes. Yoon could even swear the strange stone figures sitting atop the gate's pillars looked like gargoyles, though the boy's imagination was known to run wild at times.

The inevitability of a crash landing settled in the wavering hearts of the flying fellows. Exhausting all other ideas, Butch was determined to make their loud entrance count. "Ya better hold on tight, ya brat, or yer gonna be scraping yerself off the pavement!" Butch pushed forward on the handles, pitching the glider forward until the nose was pointed at a wide bay window on the topmost floor.

The pair of party crashers screamed as they smashed through the glass and clipped the wings of the Alfine Swift against the limestone wall. They landed into a gloomy foyer with little more than the Alfine's bicycle-like frame. The dead metal bird came to a screeching halt, somehow failing to buck its passengers off.

Butch and Yoon gawked at each other, dumbfounded by their lack of injuries. An alarmed voice stole their attention.

"What the hell just happened?!"

"It came from upstairs!"

"Let's go!"

Butch dismounted the Alfine with a full sweep of his leg, kicking Yoon off in doing so. Yoon was quick to get back up on his feet, perhaps thanks to the adrenaline.

While making their grand and non-covert entrance, the dynamic duo had knocked over a few candelabra which had set some curtains alight. Only now did they realise that the flames were spreading. [ AoE DoT - "Didn't mama teach ya not ta play wit' fire?!" ]

Butch drew his Twin Sparrows, and at the end of that single coordinated motion, he fired both pistols, gutshooting two mafioso suits rushing up a broad, carpeted staircase.

Frantic shouts came from the floors below. Butch hurried to one of the injured goons and clutched his collar, lifting his head and shoulders half a foot off the stairs. The victim of Butch's lucky shots groaned in pain. "Where do ya keep yer pris'ners?!" He howled.

Too weak to put up a physical defence, the thug only resisted with a caged tongue. Butch did not repeat his query a second time without escalating his threat. He poked the smoking gunmetal barrel of One Day between the gangster's lips and thrust the weapon forward until half the length of the barrel violated the inside of his mouth.

Cocking the revolver's hammer, Butch probed again with a colder voice. His pupils shrank and quivered like a predator's. "Where... do ya keep... YER FUCKIN' PRIS'NERS?!"

Trails of sweat leaked from the helpless villain's temples as he tasted hot steel. The man let out muffled groans before speaking gibberish.

"Huuuuuuhhhh?! I don't understand ya!" Butch curled a finger around the trigger and raised the rear end of the gun, exacerbating his interviewee's panicked breaths.

"Maybe you'll understand him if you remove your gun from his throat." Yoon murmured.

Butch snorted and obliged, pressing the tip of One Day against the hooligan's forehead instead.

"T-the dungeons are underground! Y-you have to take the lift on the east end of the castle... It's that way..." The small fry pointed towards the end of a gold and purple corridor.

The expanding blaze they'd ignited was now roasting the upper floor like a stone oven. The balcony's railing had started to collapse. Angry warcries neared, forcing the two intruders to act upon the intel they'd acquired.

The metal cage housing the cola-powered lift was easy enough to find. The monstrosity was a direct contradiction to the mansion's classy decor. Butch heard loud cranking noises that sluggishly moved a metal box up to their floor.

As the lift's gate slid open, Butch felt as if he were opening Pandora's box. He had fallen upon the target of his hunt. It was Mateus and his lanky lackey!

Before the fat crook could pull his weapon, Butch sprang forward and delivered a strong uppercut to the Monolith's jaw. The man's eyes nearly rolled up into his head, and he foamed at the mouth before slumping to the floor, unconscious. [ UT ]

Before his attendant could react, Butch already had a revolver pointed right at him. "Fuckin' hell! That was way easier than I thought it'd be! Yer boss didn't deserve that bounty they put on 'im if this is all it took ta knock the daylights outta 'im."

Mateus' companion placed his hands behind his head in complacence, stepping out of the elevator as instructed by a wave of one of Butch's guns.  

"Look through the fattie's pockets, boy-o. See if ya can find anythin' useful." Yoon complied with cautious pats on Mateus' suit pockets.

"I suppose the time had come for darker things to come back to light," confided the thin butler. A slow crescent smirk decorated his face as he resumed. "You meddling ruffians should've minded your own business. It was a mistake bringing this child here. Now he'll die because of you."

Before Butch even had the chance to be surprised, a blade flew at him and pierced his shoulder. [ LT ] He ventured to raise his gun, but the manservant poser was too fleet on his feet. He rushed at Butch and pressed a foot against his chest while unsheathing a bloody knife from his shoulder. "Ciao." A powerful kick pushed Butch straight through a glass window, condemning him to a fall six or seven floors down that would no doubt end in blood and broken bones.

In a rare moment of lucidity, Yoon had succeeded in locking the lift's gate and directing it to the lowest floor. With the certainty of Butch's demise, his only hope was to find an ally to aid his escape.

COMBAT TRACKERS:

Roll 1A -> Butch uses "It's high noon" (Flat HT) on Mateus & Co.
Roll 1B -> Butch uses "Can ya not stand still fer a minute?" (Flat LT) on Mateus & Co.
Roll 1C -> Butch uses UT on Mateus & Co.

Roll 2A -> Mateus & Co. use LT on Butch.
Roll 2B -> Mateus & Co. use LT on Butch.
Roll 2C -> Mateus & Co. use UT on Butch.

The member 'Butch Castle' has done the following action : Dice Roll

---

#1 'Reflex Check' : 3, 3, 6

--------------------------------

#2 'Reflex Check' : 1, 17, 6

The fall - it brings the world to a halt. A few short seconds morph into a suspension of time long enough to relive an entirety of one's life. "My life flashed before my eyes", they say.

Hogwash.

Butch experienced no such romantic trip through his past. The instant felt just as it was - brief. Some might have appreciated the purple dawn sky being the last thing they see. Butch was not so poetic in his final moments. What a shitty fuckin' way to die. The truth is, this would be his thought no matter how he was about to die.

When his back was meant to break against the hard stone courtyard, it instead struck a surface far less lethal - if at all so. The gazebo they'd spotted earlier rescued the ground from becoming a canvas to Butch's unplanned attempt at abstract bloody art. The fabric ripped after cushioning the sky diver's fall to a healthy degree and allowed him to drop the rest of the way to a less deadly stop.

The wounded gunslinger groaned as he rose up with his hands cast to his aching back and bruised head. He might have been more relieved to be alive if every inch of his body didn't hurt like death. His shoulder throbbed and heat concentrated around the planted knife. Ahhh, I wanna run away. What a chore. Why'd that senile fuck have ta hire me for such an annoyin' job? Why can't anything ever be easy?

The blaze spawned by their bombastic entrance earlier had now propagated to a few floors below. Butch could barely make out screams and angry howls over the crackles and roar of the fire and the pulsing in his ears. A petty smirk crept up on his lips at the realisation that these flames had grown wild beyond taming. It would be a small mercy if all of his suffering at the very least amounted to burning the ugly hive of villainy to a pile of rubble and ashes.

"Over there! That must be the intruder!" An alarmed voice noted from the courtyard. Two silhouetted figures hurried towards him. Butch's instincts summoned his hands to his holsters only for him to remember how the cuntler butler had stripped him of his beloved partners.

The same voice from before demanded his surrender. In response, Butch unsheathed the blade sticking out of him and threw it at one of the goons with whatever flair he could muster. The two guards paused and watched the knife awkwardly fly by two or three feet off its mark. [ HT - It's High Noon: MISS] They turned their heads to him and then to each other before breaking out into laughter.

The gunslinger's cheeks flushed as red as they could with his blood mostly diverted to leaking out of the gaping slit in his shoulder. [ LT - Bleeding like a stuck pig: HIT ] He buried his face in his palm only to have it painted crimson by the dirtied hand. Ahhh, fuck. At this rate, I'll never be as cool as that silver-haired bounty hunter. Even that crippled grump looked cooler than meh.

He spared a brief thought to wonder if the crank-on-crutches had succeeded in whatever plan she'd cooked up. The presence of Mateus and his boss-playing-bootlicker did not serve as a clear indicator of her fate one way or the other. He could only hope her success was less measured than his. The cocking of a rifle hijacked this train of thought before it could reach its final stop.

One of the flunkeys shot at Butch while the other charged at him from the right, sword in hand. The moody bounty hunter pre-emptively hopped out of the musket ball's trajectory, escaping the shade of the torn gazebo roof.

Butch bull-rushed the suited swordsman needling towards him with a boisterous bark. Butch tackled him to the ground with a grab below the waist, knocking the man's sabre away in the process. They rolled like two quarrelling dogs for a bit, both their eyes bloodshot with a desperate need to survive. The gunslinger grabbed the sides of the grunt's head and bashed it against the ground only to be kicked in the balls in return by the victim of his violence.

Butch moaned and stumbled off of his opponent, who then arrested him by twisting his injured arm behind his back. "Hold him down; I'll shoot him!" Cried the rifleman. Butch wriggled and writhed like a helpless insect would when lifted off the ground - to no avail.

A loud bang from the second minion's rifle preceded the end of Butch's constriction. [ LT - Can ya not stand still fer a minute?!: HIT ] The bully holding him down fell to his side, bleating like a slaughtered goat. Is it better to be lucky or good?

"Ya fuckin' idjit. Ya shoulda come closer before shooting. Don'tcha know how shitty yer aim is with muskets? My revolving babies are so much better! Kahahaha!" With a menacing grin and a haunting cackle, he lifted the sabre off the ground and dashed at the remaining enemy, who could only wail "Shit! Shit! Shit!" before being slashed across his unguarded chest.

Sword in hand, Butch used his adrenaline to force himself back into the mansion through a window before his reason would caution him against it. A frantic gunsel met him with an immediate challenge upon his re-entry. "It was yo--" Before he could deliver the tedious drivel, a flaming beam dropped on him, crushing him under its weight without allowing him even a squeak of pain. [ AoE DoT - Sun Dance!: DMG CARRIED ]

Butch couldn't help free a defeated chuckle while watching the fire spread to the thug's crushed corpse.

It's better to be lucky than good after all.

COMBAT TRACKERS: