The Train Bandits
Written for The Yu-Gi-Oh! Fanfiction Contest Forum, Round 2: Citronshipping
A/N: Please imagine everyone in this fic with truly tremendous 1800's facial hair.
o.O.o.O.o
Malik pressed the barrel of his Colt softly against the thief's skull and cocked it. "I'd put down that match if I were you."
He'd been eyeing the Indian since he'd boarded the Overland Flyer in Winnemucca, a young man gone gray much too early, dressed in a red duster. It was only now, up close, that Malik could also see the extent of the scarring on his right eye, the tell-tale identification of the man who called himself Thief King of Promontory. Since this "Thief King" had mostly occupied himself with robbing New Millennium Line payroll, Malik could almost say that he was rooting for him, but the moment the outlaw had broken into the express car and dropped a stick of dynamite at the base of his safe, he'd stopped being a fan.
The outlaw had gasped initially at the click of the gun's hammer, but now he smirked, letting the match burn to his fingertips before letting it drop to the floor of the car dangerously close to the dynamite's fuse.
"How you doin', Mister Expressman? Thought I took care of you before we left."
"Oh, I'm not the expressman," said Malik. Rishid appeared right on cue to put the outlaw in a headlock, snatching his gun from its holster and throwing it out the express car's window. "Just another man with a vested interest in making sure that the contents of this safe make it to their final destination." This particular safe contained a pair of paintings of Egyptian dieties by an old master. He and his posse were collectors, as they called themselves – and the knowledge Malik had gained of the U.S. banking system before New Millennium bankrupted his family in Egypt made him especially adept at collecting things that weren't exactly his.
The outlaw struggled in Rishid's grip, but Rishid towered over him and he got nowhere. "I won't be taken down by Millennium assholes like you," he hissed.
The accusation hit like a horse's kick, and Malik saw red for a moment. "I don't work for the King of Railroads. I wouldn't work for him in a thousand years, after what he did to my father," he spat.
"Really now…?" said the thief. He stopped struggling and held his hands up at chest height. "Then I do believe there has been a misunderstanding, and I'm in the wrong car."
Malik laughed. "Clearly," he said. He didn't have time for men to try to talk themselves out of trouble. "Then let's just settle for a warning. Feel free to steal as much as you want from the King. I don't care. Hell, I'd invite you. But if you touch a single cent from me again, you're going to wish I'd shot you dead today. Does that sound reasonable?"
"Perfectly," said the thief, without a trace of fear in his voice. He'd not once lost the self-confident glint from his eye. "I assume you have no trouble with me finding the safe I was really after. It has some of the prized possessions of a dearly-departed train magnate in it. How does the saying go? 'The enemy of my enemy…?'"
"Is also my enemy, if they have nothing to offer me. We're on a time table. Rishid?"
Rishid released his hold on the outlaw and Malik pistol whipped him across that god-awful eye scar. The outlaw grunted and hit the side of the car, unconscious. Malik rolled the door of the express car open. But just as Rishid was manhandling the outlaw, Malik spotted the ring on his finger, one engraved with a very familiar eye. Before he could stop Rishid, he'd tossed the outlaw out of the train and he was rolling away from them at 25 miles per hour.