I'm sentimental
So I walk in the rain
I've got some habits
Even I can't explain
Go to the corner,
I end up in Spain.
Why try to change me now?
So let people wonder
Let 'em laugh, let 'em frown
You know I'll love you
Till the moon's upside down
Don't you remember?
I was always your clown
Why try to change me now?
Fiona Apple
Rane, John and Sadie stood before the shack at the top of Mount Hagen, all filthy and out of breath, all with weapons drawn. The silence around them was deafening. The shots of their assailants from past the summit had finally subsided, whether by death or cowardice, and now it was only the little rickshaw shack before them in which their quarry hid, and nothing else aside from the white winter sky over them. The snow fell around them relentlessly, gentle and steady, heedless of the tension beneath. The three of them were side by side on the mountainside, terribly reminiscent of how they had been three years prior; John with his legs staggered and his cold gaze on the shack, his scarred face fierce beneath Arthur's hat, Sadie bent a little at the waist with both guns drawn and her blond hair wavering across her face, Rane at the fore with her sword held in both hands before her, eyes dark and dangerous beneath her brows as she stared over her blade, her breath coming in hot white puffs.
By all accounts, they were alone. Rane's challenging shout hung in the air, and for several seconds nothing at all happened. John stepped forward, mouth drawn down, muscles tense and back straight. In that moment, suddenly, he was once more the formidable gunslinger he had always been beneath all his attempts to adopt a more peaceable life, and every year that had dulled his polish since the end of the Van Der Linde gang fell away without fanfare. He gestured with his gun, his face twisted with rage.
"COME ON OUTTA YOUR HOLE, MICAH!" John bellowed, his breath puffing out in front of his face. "I KNOW YOU'RE IN THERE!"
There was a moment of silence as the three of them stood there together, weapons drawn and aimed. After a moment the door of the little shack they were facing swung open, creaking, and Micah Bell strode out slowly, both guns in his hands, watching them warily. He looked older, grayer, and the set of his shoulders was lean and a little scant, as if the passage of time had begun to thin him out, but it was Micah, nonetheless.
At the sight of him, Rane felt a surge of insurmountable, almost wild fury rise within her. It was incredibly powerful, growing from the bottom up like a pot of boiling water, surprising her with its intensity. She had imagined this moment plenty of times - hell, hardly a night lost - and in her head she'd always been cool, collected, getting after it without a hitch. Now that he was in front of her, she realized with a touch of alarm that she had lost more of her self control than she'd realized, and Athur Morgan's face swam before her, lifelike in its potency, gone from this world because of the man standing before her. Someone she had loved more than she loved the life in her chest, for the little while that she'd known him. Another future snatched away from her with impunity, by some hateful outsider who couldn't just leave her alone, leaving her in darkness and uncertainty. It was only Sadie, who was perceptive as well as quick, that stopped her from rushing forward. She snatched Rane's shirt, yanking her backward, forceful.
"Wait, Rane. Wait."
"Oh, you son of a bitch," Rane moaned, glaring at Micah, her voice rough with grief and rage. She had not expected this visceral reaction, and in that moment she realized how profoundly she had wished to find him, something she had spoken aloud to almost no one besides Sadie and John the night before. She could feel the sting of furious tears in her eyes as she glared at him. "You son of a bitch, what you did. . ."
"Well, would you look at what fell outta the dog's ass!" Micah was crowing, looking highly amused. He strolled before the little cabin, smiling broadly, eyeing the three of them, arms held out. "I believe I spy three folks I mighta recognized a few years ago, don't I? Let's see here . . ." He aimed a finger. "Sadie Adler . . . John Marston . . ."
Micah laughed heartily, his eyes falling on Rane, who was watching him motionlessly, her eyes fixed on him beneath her brows, breathing quickly.
"And Rane fuckin' goddamned Roth, as I live and breathe! And her fancy sword! Last time I saw you, you was shot through the belly and actin' all outta sorts, rollin' around and cussin' and acting a damn fool in the snow!"
Rane said nothing, only glared at him silently. Micah saw the expression on her face and cast her a mournful look, frowning beneath his mustache.
"You still mad at me about your old boyfriend or somethin'?"
Rane stared at him, very still. "My old boyfriend."
"Well, it's been a couple years, ain't it? Surely you found a new one? Hell, he wasn't special, that big ol' grumpy, ugly son of a bitch with his scrawny little -"
"Oh, honey." Rane shook her head gently, her voice very soft. "Oh, you be careful, what you say next. You be real, real careful."
Micah spread his arms, looking amused. "Oh, well I didn't mean to cause you any grief when I knocked that cranky old bastard on his ass up there on that mountain, but even you gotta admit, he was a dead man walkin' long before I came around, I just sorta helped him out the door! Hell, you oughta thank me, really, they call that euthanasia some places -!"
"ASSHOLE!" Rane shouted, starting forward. Sadie and John both snatched at her shirt, yanking her backwards. Micah was laughing, slapping his knee.
"Oh, boy, she always was a livewire, wasn't she?" Micah was leering at John, still grinning. "How's that, uh, whore of yours, Scarface?"
John stilled, watching him with an expression so predatory that Sadie wouldn't have been surprised if he'd lit out on the man right then and there. "She's fine. Real good. Didn't reckon I should waste my time killin' ya."
"So you found two more to decide you different, I guess."
"You shut your fucking mouth, Micah Bell," said Rane, slowly and clearly, enunciating each word.
"Please, girl, you're all washed up." Micah waved a dismissive hand at Rane, scoffing. "I heard about you runnin' around takin' bounties in Ambarino like some common criminal, you don't scare me none -"
"OH, YOU HEARD ABOUT ME TAKING BOUNTIES, HUH?" Rane shouted, glaring at him. "WELL THEN I GUESS YOU MUST HAVE HEARD WHAT I DO WITH MY BOUNTIES WHEN THEY GET SMART WITH ME, THEN, HAVEN'T YOU -?"
She had taken two steps forward, her sword aimed at Micah, and for all his bombast his posture tightened as he fixed a sharp, wary gaze on her.
"Now, don't you do nothin' foolish," said Micah, training both his guns on her, his eyes cold. "Because I don't mind killin' you, not even a bit, and I believe got an itchy trigger finger this morning."
"I seem to remember your aim wasn't so great the last time you tried."
Micah laughed loudly. "Oh, you pretty little idiot. I guess we misremember each other since we ain't seen each other in a little while, huh?"
"Not for lack of trying." Rane was still eyeing him, her long hair wavering around her face. "You want another crack? Come on. Have at it. I'm happy to see you down."
"You ain't seein' nothin' except my ass when I'm walking away, and that's gonna be the last thing you see," said Micah, and then his guns were in his hands and all hell broke loose.
JOHN, Sadie and Rane dove backwards out of the line of fire at once, and not a moment too soon. Rane, slowed by anger and alcohol, was not quick enough to evade Micah, and for the second time in their tenure, his bullet hit its mark where many others had not; the shot ripped through her high in her chest, and she staggered backwards, clutching her shirt, sucking her teeth. Blood smattered the snow at her feet, shockingly bright, red against white.
"Oh, god fuckin' dammit, Rane!" Sadie hissed. Micah was firing on them with impunity now, lunging in and out of cover behind the scant shed beyond. "John told you to quit boozin', girl -!"
"I'm fine," Rane snapped. And looking at her, one might even have believed this; she was ducking behind the pile of ancient crates beside Sadie and John, spry and deft as a cricket, her face long with concentration and terribly lovely in the low light, both hands gripping the helm of her sword with tight acuity. Only the steady patter of blood dropping from her chest and staining her shirt was indicative of her injury. "He just winged me, stay on him. STAY on him, Mister Marston, don't you let this fucker get away on my account!" she added sharply as John made as if to protest, casting him a dire look. He shut his mouth, scowling.
"You're shot!"
"And you're a hippy. Cut your hair." Rane lifted her voice, turning from him. "Micah, come on out here nice and polite, we don't need to be -!"
She was interrupted by a bullet striking near her shoulder, spraying shards of wood hither and yon. Micah was laughing.
"Come on out!"
"Quit shooting a second and I might! We want to make this a fair fight, don't we? Or are you scared?"
"What's the matter? You gettin' skittish in your old age? I never knew you to be the hidin' sort! You musta spent too long around ol' Black Lung for your own damn good, gettin' all low and hiding when trouble turns up - !"
Rane rose at this, her sword flying before her, eyes bright and cold beneath her brows, and Micah began to fire on her at once. John grasped at her shirt, but his fingers skated over the slippery fabric of her shirt, and later, he wondered if things might have been different if he'd gotten his hands on her in that moment.
And in the end, it was a moot point. She was out of his reach, her sword flying before her, sending his shots away from her, but she was moving strangely, almost apathetically, and as she approached him she was sending his gunfire away from her stolidly, not taking particular care, and a few of Micah's bullets missed her blade and stuck her. She was hit in the shoulder, and then the hip, in quick succession as she approached him, and though her face cramped a little, she gave no other indication that she had been struck. Now, as John watched her with his brow furrowed, he realized why she had been so easy about the bullet that had gone through her chest; she simply didn't care, not anymore, and her focus was simply on Micah Bell, and nothing else. Woe unto him, if he thought she feared for her own hide, he thought. Woe unto him.
"You think that gun can help you?" Rane asked him as she drew near, her sword hung before here, and with her free hand knocked the leftmost one from Micah's hand. It landed with a clatter in the snow. "You better think again, you -"
She backhanded him, hard, landing him in the snow, and then aimed her sword at his throat, straddling him. Micah took his remaining gun in both hands and aimed it at her, thumbing back the hammer, breathing harshly through his nose.
"You don't dare," he breathed, eyeing her. "You put that down."
"HEY!"
Rane, Micah, John and Sadie all turned, surprised. Dutch Van Der Linde stood at the entrance to their little shack, guns drawn, looking around them. He was older, more worn, and his fancy, fastidiously maintained chinstrap had been traded in for a full one, but it was him, no question. He was looking at John, his mouth turned down, panting.
"Dutch?" said John, sounding quite shocked.
"Hello, son. Hello, Missus Adler." Dutch nodded at Sadie. He met Rane's eyes. "Hello, Rane."
Rane eyed him over Micah, her eyes cold. She was bleeding steadily from several places, and the snow around her was red with it. Her eyes were red, her mouth downturned, her breath quick.
"I've been better," she whispered, her voice wavering a little. "Are you here to help your buddy here to keep on trucking?"
"Oh, honey, I didn't miss your questions," Dutch muttered, smirking a little.
"What are you here for?" John asked loudly, jerking his gun at Dutch.
Dutch shrugged. "Same as you, I suppose."
"Dutch and I are teaming up once more," Micah cried from where he was lying beneath Rane, hands up. "We got money . . . we got dreams."
A moment of silence passed between them; Rane, lingering over Micah with her sword aimed at his chest, Micah aiming his gun at her, Dutch training both his weapons at Rane and John, Sadie in semi-cover, guns on both Micah and Dutch. The wind was cold and whistling around them.
"Dutch . . ." John was looking at him, his face cramping, becoming a little childlike. In that moment he was the boy he had been when Dutch had come across him, innocent and unaffected. "Come on now, Dutch . . ."
John hesitated, looking between them. Rane threw a glance back at him, her eyes hard.
"John, Arthur saved you and me both, a lot of times . . ."
"Arthur's been dead a long time -"
"THANKS TO YOU!" Rane shouted, jerking her sword at Micah.
"Girl, you were always too SOFT!" Micah shouted at her, the cords in his neck standing out. "Always soft with the way you FELT! That man didn't care NOTHIN' FOR YOU, LET ALONE JOHN!"
Rane knelt, placing the edge of her blade against Micah's throat, and leaned in close, letting their faces grow so near she could smell the sour tang of his breath. She met his eyes with her own, her mouth relaxed, her hair hanging around his face, trembling a little in her fury.
"Oh, Micah fuckin' Bell," she sad softly, her mouth hanging just in front of his own, smiling a little. "Oh, you're about to meet your maker, so I think you might should mind your manners -"
"I DON'T MIND NO HALF-BREED BITCH!" Micah shouted into her face, spittle flying from his mouth, cheeks reddening. "YOU HEAR ME? I HOPE YOUR SHIT-STAINED SQUEEZE BURNS IN HELL!"
Rane rose from him, flinging her sword around her wrist once, and with an expression of almost clinical poise plunged her blade into Micah's chest. He gasped, coughing out a mouthful of blood, staring up at her with wide eyes.
"ARTHUR MORGAN!" she shouted, meeting his eyes. "HIS NAME WAS ARTHUR MORGAN!"
As he did so Dutch pulled both his guns and fired on her. She was fast, but not fast enough; she parried one of the bullets with her sword, almost offhandedly - it flew wayward, striking a tree nearby in a spray of splinters - but the other one went into her right chest. She had been shot some six times now, but she wasn't out of strength yet; she twirled her sword around her arm one more time, sending it into the air, and catching it by the blade she threw it, letting it fly at Dutch, the edge cutting her palm and sending down a sheet of red blood.
It went, whistling, and took him high in the throat, and he clutched at it and then fell over backwards, arms flailing, and fell down dead, blood flowing from his neck.
This done, Rane stood where she was for a moment, looking at his body in silence, staggering a little, blood running from the multiple wounds in her torso, then with an awkward little pinwheel of her hands she fell down into the snow, clutching at her chest. John and Sadie both broke cover at once, making for her.
"Hey, hey, Rane, oh Jesus Christ -!"
John skidded to a stop at her side, snow and dirt flying, and grasped her shirt, meeting her gaze. She looked up at him, her eyes skating over his, brows descended, looking terribly beautiful in the low light as the snow continued to light upon them. "Hey, Rane, now, hang on, you're okay -"
"Hey, take it easy," said Rane softly, grasping one of his hands gently in her own. Her touch was soft, weak and cool. "Dutch and Micah -"
"They're dead, Rane, you killed 'em both dead."
"Oh fuck." Rane laughed softly, shaking her head. "Oh man, really? That's three . . . that's three years gone now I've wanted . . . I've wanted to . . ."
Her breath was slowing now, and Sadie stood behind John's shoulder, both guns still drawn, breathing hard and watching this, her brows knitted. John shook her a little, kneeling closer to her.
"Hey, where you goin'?" he asked her, his mouth turning up a little, but his eyes were running with tears and his breath was hitching as he looked down at her. She was shot up badly, and the snow around her was red with her blood. And she didn't have her wand, not anymore. "You got some work to do yet."
"Aww." Rane reached up with one trembling hand and touched John's cheek, offering him a wan smile. "Look at you, Wyatt Earp. You're alright."
"I told ya, I don't know who that is."
"I know you don't," said Rane softly, meeting his eyes. Her breath was slowing. "You take it easy for me, John Marston, okay? You . . . you just . . . just take it easy. Don't make me come back down . . . down here."
"Rane, please don't say shit like that to me," said John softly, and now he was crying openly. "I can't do this, I surely can't."
Rane smiled. Her eyes were lidded now. "Yeah, you can."
John was weeping openly now, his mouth turned down. "I love you."
Rane laughed, meeting his eyes, then they slipped closed, and her hand fell away from his cheek.
"Go home, John Marston" she murmured. "You're gonna be okay now, I think."
And then she was silent, and her chest stilled as the snow continued to fall over her, lighting on her eyelashes gently in the cold.
