…
A pen, yes. Just what I need, just what I need... Sea horror ink should be good. My veins are far too tired to be writing in blood today.
Some paper… Parchment? Whatever. Not like the smugglers would mind anyway. They'd push a dead body past border security's noses if paid enough.
… Too bad I can only afford a piece of paper.
What do I… How do I even start? What do they want me to say? "Everything's dandy, I'll be back home for Weihnachten with the wife and kid"? Probably.
Probably.
…
…
… Fuck, they're getting impatient outside. Sarkaz scum. Pay them an arm and a leg and they still have the audacity to order me around… Okay Henri, write. Just write.
…
"Dearest Frau Ziegler, I'm wr-..."
… No, what the hell? Frau Ziegler…? Way to estrange the only person who still gives a single shit about me. No.
Scratch it all.
"Ida, I'd like to start off b-..." by what? Ida? That's still awful. Who the hell addresses their own mother by her first name? Just…
…
Yes! Yes, I hear you, you Sarkaz dogs! Go play fetch or something, I'm busy! Gods…
…
Okay. In and out, Henri.
"... Dear mother.
Firstly, I'd like to apologize for the late letter. Things have been quite rocky these past few weeks, but that doesn't mean we're doing unwell, not at all. The land is bumpy and full of hollow depths - navigating it all poses a challenge that sometimes instills a certain sense of dread within all of us, but we manage to pull through every single time.
That being said, I still apologize for the late reply. I know you'll understand, though.
I've read your letters through and through, believe me. The fact that Anselm decided to show his ugly mug at the estate fills me with an unimaginably unquenchable thirst for violence, the absolute audacity of that man, who the gods high above bestowed the title of being my brother upon. Of course, I jest. The next time you see him, please let him know I'm fine and that I miss him dearly, no matter how much of an idiot he might be.
I miss everything, Mom…-" Mom? Mom, Mother?... Scheiße, let's just go with "Mom", whatever. "... I miss everything, Mom. The house, the houndbeasts, the garden, my violins and guitar. The only thing I don't miss is the man I refuse to call my father just as much as he refuses to call me his son. You can tell him that I'm unfortunately still alive, my "whore wife" as well, along with our "bastard son." And add that I wish him an eternity in Gehenna or whatever hell he prefers. I'd spit on this piece of paper, but alas it is quite fragile so I have to make my hatred towards him known in a different way. I apologize.
Lastly, I'd like to address you, Mom. The mere thought of you feeling well enough to respond and write me letters ignites a homely warmth in my heart and I wish for it to be the beginning of your journey to full recovery. I promise, I will come back a rich man. Rich enough to topple that bastard's empire and provide you with the care you deserve. No more war stained blood money, I promise. Leithanien's already full, all oozing with it, all of it circulating around like crimson through my veins. Running clean logistics in Kazdel was the way for me, and I am beyond glad that you can understand. Beyond hopeful.
That's unfortunately all for now. I can't spoil much, but I've been expanding my business ventures as of late. Far horizons, further than ever. We've established a mighty trade union dead set on uniting the country under one ruler so that cash can flow freely through each crevice of this beautiful land. Far less bloodstained than our home, believe it or not.
Anyway. Frederick and Leni send their warmest regards, as always. They are in great health, as always. No need to worry about either, as always.
I'll be back as soon as I can. I promise.
Your son, always and forever."
… Alright, a signature… and done.
…
…
… Lying to my own mother. Running from blood money just to fall into a pit where blood money's all you can get. Even dirtier than the one Leithanien's buried underneath… How low can one fall? Not like I'd know. Not in this company. I'm coming! I said I'm coming, you devil scum…
A pair of tarp curtains swung wide open, revealing the weary face of a middle aged man clad from head to toe in dusty rags - once the regalia of power, but completely useless beyond the border of Leithanien. The dim sunlight dared break through a carpet of prickly needles hanging high above just to strike him in the eyes, passing like a hot knife through butter past his thick, round glasses. Surrounded by a mismatched company of misery made of various devils with more muscles than brains, the ex-noble stepped out onto the forest clearing to the mercenaries' annoyed delight.
"... Fucking finally, man. How long do you need to get dressed?" Some unsavory gentleman with a sword near twice his size swung over his shoulder voiced his frustrations while shooting him a glare. "We're riding through a forest, not a damn fashion show."
"I understand, yes. Apologies, but the situation called for me to…" Henri began, only to be cut off by a higher pitched, near squeaky voice from behind.
"What's it to you, merc? Aren't you being paid for waiting? Each minute spent here is a shekel thrown into your greedy hands, you should be hopping around like a pup, not sulking." The voice of reason of the camp spoke up. The beam of light in Henri's rather pathetic life, the wave that crashed upon the shores of darkness and despair and held his sanity together like a healthy dousing of glue or tree sap. Leni. His dear Leni. A bit mouse-y in terms of looks, definitely a bit strung out by the overall nature of their surroundings and job, but otherwise supportive and loving. And so very assertive, whenever he couldn't be. Such a perfect person.
The hairless merc sized her up, lazily sliding his gaze all over her noble-y clothes turned survival attire. No matter when, no matter where, she had something that Henri didn't. From the very tips of her rosewood horns to the mud-riddled shoes on her feet, she demanded authority like a whip ready to be cracked atop the unruly necks beneath her command.
"... Yup. What she said." The Sarkaz summed up and shrugged. "You're paying extra, old man."
Before Henri got a word out, he turned on his heel and left to join his people who were busy packing up a mighty sledge - almost ready to be pushed across this treacherous cathedral of trees and noises of branches breaking and crossbow bolts being loaded. Where arts buzzed behind each bark and bush, they ventured. "... We don't really have much to pay them with." He uttered under his breath, just for his wife to hear.
"... I know. We'll get them something, though. Sell the stuff in Kalinovka, buy the bare essentials…" She sighed, looking back at their makeshift tent being dismantled by a few grunting fiends, their tails dancing around the air and swatting away flies like cattle. "We'll figure something out. We always do, alright?"
"Alright." Henri managed to murmur out after a little sigh. He couldn't ever shake off the feeling of impending doom creeping up right behind the corner each and every day, but her presence helped sway the odds of surviving the inevitable encounter in their favor, no matter what. She was his muse in a way. The inspiration to go on. His everything and then some more. He didn't even notice when her hands crawled up his back and started gently massaging his shoulders, each movement of her fingers bringing about a waterfall of pure and divine peace. Whatever soothing arts the gods have bestowed upon her, he sure was lucky. "... And Freddie? Where's that rascal off to?"
"Mmm… Should be around somewhere." She let go and rolled her hands up into a makeshift tube-screamer. "Frederick?! FREDDIE?! FR-... Oh, there you are. Look at you-... Hey! HEY!" Her voice turned stern at the sight of the brown-haired boy trotting over with a long, blackened object swinging from his arms. Two tubes slung around a shoulder, the rest disappeared somewhere in the fuzzy confinements of his oversized sweater, as he barely managed to keep it up. "HEY! WHERE'D YOU GET THAT FROM?"
"Leni…" Henri reached out to grab her wrist and felt the energized air loosening up almost immediately. She deflated back into his touch, but never set her eyes off the boy. "It's alright. I unloaded it yesterday, it's empty."
"... Empty, yeah." Tap, tap, tap. Her eyes dragged along the boy, as he ran up towards his parents, all huffing and puffing beneath the weight of a crudely put together makeshift double barrel coach gun. What separated it from most was the interesting placement of the barrels - instead of the usual horizontal approach, some absolute genius decided it'd fit him better if the tubes were stuck on top of one another, creating a disfigured monstrosity of a rifle. A beautiful finish lined the exquisite stock carved from the toughest of Kazdelian black walnuts, a real treat for sore eyes. Not that one would get to feast on the sight for too long, mind you, as the twelve gauge bores spared barely any living being they got to aim their hungry little sights at. Huffing and puffing some more, the boy reached his parents and nearly collapsed into Henri's legs.
"Huff… D-... Puff… Dad, I got you your… your gun!" He exclaimed happily, eager to serve as a squire for his brave and lawful father. Henri took the rifle from his hands and gently ruffled his hair, still under the unamused glare of Leni, who kept shaking her head in a disapproving fashion. "Greaaat work… Wunderbar..." He summed up, feeling a little warmer on the cheeks under his wife's eye. With a quick cough, he cleared his throat and decided to abide to her unsaid commands. "B-But, but… Freddie, no more taking dad's gun without permission, alright?"
"Oh? But I thought…" The rascal started in a whiny voice, only to be cut off.
"Hey, no "but's". No is no, okay? You can really hurt yourself with something like this."
"... But I can't even use it properly…"
"And that's good! There's no need for you to." Leni stepped in, latching onto the kid's shoulders. "You just focus on polishing your maths and languages up, mmm? Not gunning like a maniac." With a scowl shot towards her husband, she started dragging Freddie away towards the sled. Waves of underlying guilt hit his conscience like a towering wave crashing against a lighthouse's walls, but he ultimately knew she meant well. Wouldn't be here if she didn't after all.
Through all of this, she always decided to stay. To stick around and help.
"But I wanna learn shooting…" Freddie whined some more, jumping around to get a few pleading looks towards his father in. Henri shrugged and forced an apologetic smile. "Look, we'll… We'll practice shooting after we get out of this forest, ja?"
"We WON'T." Leni ostentatiously finished their little back and forth.
"We will." Henri mouthed without uttering a word and shot the kid a wink. All that mattered was that he left with a hopeful smile sprawled all across his tiny face, all eager to help his mother pack up her stuff onto the sled, surrounded by mercs and crooks.
What a life.
What an absolutely pathetic life.
Dragging two innocent people into a venture which started out as something of equally neutral nature, but which quickly delved into… into whatever this was supposed to be.
Dust. Dust swam, dust flew. Dust ran through his fingers, turned to heavy paper slips at the end of the day and disappeared into more dust. Dust was all he knew, all he ever wanted to see at this point. Once, something disgusting, something rotten and sacred in a sick, twisted way. After all, what was dust if not human remains? Chewed through by the illness that rampaged each Kazdelian soul's body, Oripathy spewed out nothing but a mindless corpse strung up on strings puppeteered by no one. And then what?
Death. Final destination, not just a period of never ending rest for the brain but full rigor mortis. When each little artery gets clogged up far beyond saving, filled with tiny rocks and crystals to the point of transmitting ori juice instead of blood, that's when the process begins.
Muscle turns to dust. Dust turns to bullets. Bullets turn to money. Money turns to means of getting more dust, so on and so on…
The very definition of the pain monopoly. Misery for everyone involved. Shame gnawing on one's sides, submerging its sharp teeth deep into the flesh that bites and bathes in the smoothly glowing dust that grows like mushrooms after a heavy downpour. In a way, it was sort of like picking mushrooms, a classic Leithanien pastime activity. Taking the family out to a nearby forest, having the kids run around searching for king boletes and chanterelles, while you and the wife could sit back and relax, have a few minutes to yourself. Living in this perfect bubble that never really existed, this warped reality where each brownish mushroom cap happened to not be a cap at all, but the nose-scrunching stench of a decomposing body turning to precious dust. Where you lived amongst goons and common criminals just to survive, where their only reason for not slitting your throat and running off with all your goods and chattels was the meek glimmer of hope that the payment you promised might be a bit higher than the actual worth of all your second hand belongings. That, and being scared of the barking double barrel that was always eager to sling a steel slug into the brain of any unruly creature and turn them to dust.
Sigh.
Henri found himself slouched over a pair of reins loosely wrapped around a duet of overly hairy burdenbeasts dragging forward the overloaded sled. With the tents set up right behind like a real ori-sheik's loungy chariot, he felt somewhat at peace. Somewhat like he should, like royalty from an era long forgotten. There, on his dusty royal rags laid an even dustier leather coat, all torn and messily patched up time and time again by Leni's thoughtful fingers. Tiny pellet holes peppered the chest and flaps that lazily dragged behind as he sat there all on his own, a shepherd to a herd of devils who begrudgingly draggled along. The serenity and calmness the sequoia forest instilled within really did play a number on his mind. The weary brain could finally take a deep, unbothered breath and wash away the feelings of reluctance to the current state of affairs that never quite left despite being asked to multiple times. He closed his eyes.
…
…
The sound of hooves splatting around mud and earth and the grinding of metal against grass gave way for a new noise. Heavy boots against wood. Then, an equally heavy voice.
"... Aye, boss. Mind if I ride shotgun for a while?"
Henri lifted his lids and flicked his head sideways. One of the merc devils he had hired laid sprawled comfortably across the "passenger's" seat, which was just a half cut bench. Leni and Freddie remained in the back tents anyway, so he didn't really mind the forced company. A shake of his head followed.
"Swell. Ya smoke?" The devil wasted no time in pulling out an unbranded pack of what could only be cigarettes entrapped in a papyrus shell. He flicked it open and caught one of the nicotine sticks with his teeth, before sprinkling some ori dust from another pack onto his fingers and snapping them together. A little flame arose between his thumb and index, its only purpose to light the cigarette and disappear into nothingness just as quick as it was born. Henri watched the whole ordeal with some amusement hiding under his stone cold expression. "... I don't."
"Ya don't? Ah, well. Hope ya don't mind me doin' it, though." He shrugged and took a deep dosage of smoke into his lungs, pleasure clear on his wrinkled and scarred face. Strands of hair fell into his eyes, which he quickly brushed away behind his horns and stretched. "... Say, mister Dust Farmer,-"
"Mister Ziegler. Or Herr Ziegler, please." He corrected his employee, flinching a little at the used moniker.
"... Sure. Say, Mister Ziegler, how long d'ya think it's gon' take ya to squash all that dust into ammo and get us our checks, ah?"
"Checks…? Surely you mean-..."
"Yeah, paper, shekels, whatever." He took a quick break between sentences to puff on his cigarette. "... Y'know what I mean. When're we gettin' paid for real?"
"Soon. As soon as we get these shipments into Kalinovka and reload a new batch." Henri triumphally patted one of his many chest pockets, where a few signed contracts rested under his watchful eye and the fortress that was his leather carapace. "We've already got all the buyers figured out, all the formalities. Just need to deliver and that's it."
"Mhm." The merc sounded a little skeptical, but eventually just shrugged it off. "Alright, seems fair 'ta me. I gotta say, Dust Farmer, this-..."
"Mr Ziegler…"
"I gotta say, Mr Ziegler, this was prolly one of the more fun type 'a jobs I been taken on. Ya know how it is with us mercs usually, right? Nah-ah, don't gimme those befuddled kitty eyes, I know ya must've heard at least a heap of stereotypes 'bout us devils, ah? Well, most of 'em are true anyway, so…" He ashed his cigarette off somewhere off to the side before continuing. "We like fightin'. Some of us, at 'a very least. I know I do, heh. But really, Mr ZIEGLER, we are a happy bunch. We are happy as long as there's fresh meat to chew on and blood to spill, ya know? And ya provide us with both! Hell, more than both, ha! Ya provide us with a good fight and pay us for it!" Ignoring any sorts of work ethics and the handling of employee-employer relations, the nameless merc patted Henri on the back while grinning from ear to ear. "Yer a real good guy Ziegler. And tha's comin' from me, which means yer the worst scum of Terra, just like 'a rest of us."
Henri blinked. His ears pricked up a little, almost beyond his majestic horns, just in case he misheard.
"Excuse me…?"
"Yeah, yer excused in me eyes, Ziegler. Not in most's eyes though. Look at ya. Fancypants Leithanien royal bastard lookin' for adventure in Kazdel, ah? What, watchin' 'a Witch King gettin' ripped apart live ain't enough for ya? Gotta step out and sightsee in the Land 'o Old, huh?" Puff after puff, his nostrils oozed cigarette smoke. "Ain't for me to judge. I mean, look at me." He gestured down to his own clothes, the tunic and pants, all torn in places unimaginable, splattered with blood. "That ain't me blood, Ziegler. Ya best believe it ain't. That's yer blood. The blood ya put in me own hands, yeah? The devils ya killed, the lives ya took. Ya know Ziegler, why are ya so against me callin' ya yer real name, ah? Dust Farmer? Bullet Reaper? Which one d'ya like more?"
"You… Du teufel…" The poor man whispered in shock. His grip loosened and the reins fell right out of his hands to slide along the muddy ground. Nudge, nudge - his steel-tipped boots accidentally nudged the coach gun's stock.
"Uh-huh. Call me a devil, ya uppity bastard." The merc chuckled. It was more of a croak than anything else, void of any melodic valor or warmth. "But at the end of 'a day, YER the Dust Farmer. The human buzzard. Or are ya not human anymore, ah? Are ya human? Or are ya like us, ah? 'Cause what human brings their own family along for a ride as wild as this one, ah?"
Flick. Down the side went his cigarette butt, squashed under the weight of another mercenary's mindless march. The culprit atop the sled stretched and took a deep yawn.
"Or I might be just talkin' out me ass. Don't take it seriously, Ziegler."
He clicked his tongue and winked, before grabbing his makeshift cigarette pack and gently sliding it into Henri's chest pocket.
"'Ere ya go. Yer gon' need it more than me at the end of it all, believe me. Ya better start gettin' used to the flavor already, though. Fuckers kick like a Kjeragian freight train."
Pat, pat. The nameless devil made his exit, accompanied by a cacophony of cold cackling. Henri could only stare, stare ahead as the wooden bench once again turned empty. Absolutely empty.
Utterly shallow.
How low can one fall?
Light glimmered past the sequoia branches, barely passing on through the carpets of needles. It was almost dark in the entire forest at this point. Not like it mattered, the road remained perfectly straight. Perfectly leveled. Perfectly even. So perfect, but so empty. Henri took out the cigarettes. Nothing written on them, nothing written anywhere. Just an empty packaging, a toy to be twirled around his calloused fingers.
Maybe his father was right. Maybe he was right from the very beginning. The second this idea sprouted within his brain. Maybe he should've grabbed the tiny sapling and torn it off, along with all its poisonous roots.
Maybe he should've.
"... Hey? Freddie's sleeping."
Leni slithered out from the makeshift room behind and made her way over to the bench, taking a seat next to her husband, whose hands somehow found their way around the reins once more. Her rough tones and defiance-hating commands from earlier were nowhere to be seen, as she leaned a little into his side with gentle hints of worry underlining her weak expression. "... Never thought I'd manage to put that kid to sleep today, had to read him twenty pages of "The Maple Meadows". Got really excited with the shooting idea, a bit TOO excited." Her voice turned warmer, as her head landed on the man's shoulder. "... Henri…?"
He blinked. Just now the overwhelming darkness of the forest had finally hit him. Did it matter, though?
"... Yeah, I'm here. Sorry."
"It's alright. We're all tired, you know…? Just that not all of us can just hop into a bedroll and sleep it off." She closed her eyes and smiled, snuggling close against him. "... I can feel you trembling. More and more each and every day. I'm not sure if it's the infection getting worse, or if it's actually you just falling apart, but…"
"I'm fine, Leni…"
"You're not." She cut him off short. "You're a mess. I'm sorry it took me getting Oripathy of all things to notice, but I now know. And you can't even hide it now." Despite the heavy topic, she couldn't help but tease him a little. "See how great it is? Being infected…?"
"Oh, quiet…" Henri tried but ultimately failed to stop a smirk from invading his face as well. "... How can you even joke about that? That's like poking fun at… at someone without limbs."
"Is it, though? Or is it like BEING without limbs and poking fun at the fact I don't have neither arms or legs? It doesn't hurt anyone but me, so it's fine." She murmured against his shoulder and allowed the embrace of his cold leather duster to envelop her whole. "... Does this help?"
"Does what help?"
"Me. Me, being close."
"..." Henri twitched a little to glance at her storm of fuzzy wine-red hair. How he'd love to bury his face deep in this sea of wine-y strands and forget about every little thing worrying him at the moment… But not with all these strangers watching. These hounds of war.
People. People who were just like him.
"It does. More than anything else, to be honest." Was all his vocal cords could purr out.
"Mmm. Good." Leni shifted a little to make herself stay comfortably glued to his side. "... I'm not going anywhere anytime soon, so enjoy your little therapy session. I won't ask."
Of course she wouldn't. She knew no answers would come of it, anyway.
"Don't tell me you aren't getting anything out of it."
"Am I?" She narrowed her eyes and propped her chin up on his shoulder. "... Maybe if you called me, you know…"
"What? Mein fräulein?"
"Mhm. Exactly that." A sweet giggle bubbled from her lips, making Henri overflow with warmth for a moment or two. "... Makes me feel fifteen years younger."
"Does it, now?" With mock skepticism splattered all over his face, Henri raised an eyebrow.
"Of course. Brings me back to the days when you'd sneak out your estate to serenade me with classical guitar pieces. Or violin… But I always preferred the guitar. Something, somehow… You just always put your entire heart to it. But the violin? Nah, too robotic. Too perfect."
"Well, sorry for hitting the right notes…"
"Hey!" With playful offense, she gently slapped his arm. "It's not that you hit your notes, it's that you hit them like a machine. Like someone was forcing you to do so. But the guitar?"
With her eyes closed, she trailed her hand along the leather duster's sleeve, down to his hand, where her fingers enveloped his in a gentle embrace.
"It just flew… and flew… flown like a river. A tiny creek. Straight from here."
Tap, tap.
Her other hand found its way over his heart. A drum beating just for her.
Their eyes met in quiet unison, bouncing sunrays that glimmered through the needle carpets just for them and no one else. Not a single devil in their procession could bask in their light but just the two of them. Them, and a certain wax creation approaching ever so closer, hanging loosely off a branch their sled would pass underneath soon.
Tap, tap…
Tap…? Tap?
Her eyes narrowed at the strange sensation her fingers met. Something soft and hard at the same time.
She reached into the pocket over his heart and pulled out the merc's cigarettes.
"..."
Their eyes lingered on the yellow-ish paper soaking in the sun's gaze.
"..."
His cheeks went red.
"... Leni, I can expl-..."
"Henri, for fuck's sake." A calm voice left her lips. "Henri, if I open this pack and find cigarettes inside, I'll tie you to the back of this sled and drag you the rest of the way, I SWEAR."
"B-But they're not mine! I swear, they're not mine, this… this devil sat by me and gave me the pack, I've never smoked a single…"
"So you think the right time to start is now? Seriously?"
"No! No, Leni, I swear…"
"I'm opening the pack."
"Wait-..."
"I'm opening this-... Oh, gods, what a smell… How can you even smoke something like this…?"
"I don't!"
"... It's like… like something crawled in here and died…"
"Leni…"
"Like I'm about to pass out. Gods, take it. Take it away from me."
"..." Henri did just that, hiding the pack back in his pocket. Unwillingly, his hands pulled gently on the reins, making the worried burdenbeasts slow down a bit, just enough for the buzzing from high above to grow a little louder - the buzzing of an originium infused beehive. He took a deep breath.
"... Look, I mean it. They're not mine."
"Yeah, yeah, of course they're not. You just… HAPPEN to have them hidden in your pocket, yeah?"
"Leni, he just slid them in…"
"Oh, so that's how an employee should act? Just slide cigarettes into his employer's coat? And you, just willingly accepting? Am I supposed to believe that?"
"Leni…"
"What's next? A million shekels in cash falling from the sky? Better yet, a THUNDERSTORM? A lightning bolt splitting the sky-...?"
BANG.
Whoosh.
Something hissed past the sled, following an ear-shattering sound. A sound that could only be replicated by the coach gun resting beneath Henri's legs.
A gunshot.
All devils in their hellish cortege freezed in place, their tails shooting way up into the air. It took them around a second or two to assess the situation as professionally as they could.
"Ambush." First, a whisper.
"Ambush." Then, a word. A few exchanged glances.
"Ambush!"
Then, hell let loose.
"AMBUSH! AMBUSH!"
"WE'RE GETTIN' AMBUSHED! FUCKIN' AMBUSH!"
"AMBUSH! GO! GO, GO, GO!"
"DUST FARMER, HIT THE REINS!"
"GO! JUST GO!"
All Henri could do was exchange a single, terrified glance with Leni. In all the years they've faced danger together he's never seen her this genuinely petrified. Face pale, eyes wide with fear… And then it was gone. In a moment's notice.
She forcibly took the reins from his hands and whipped them as hard as she could.
"HIYA!"
Burdenbeasts whined.
Hooves slapped fiercely against the ground.
And off they went. The entire company of misery, away from the gunshot.
Away from the unseen ori-hive.
…
…
…
…
…
…
…
…
…
Somewhere far. Far, far away, in a little clearing amidst lush vegetation and bushes, the faint smell of originium powder arose high up into the air, the sound of a shell clattering against the ground - its inseparable friend.
Glued to a pair of binoculars, a pair of dim, shattered wings watched the gathered procession rapidly escaping from beneath a buzzing ori-hive, carefully placed and cared for hours ago. His hands were shaking. Her hands were shaking. Lips quivered, for just a moment.
"... Fuck." W whispered in disbelief, watching her "easy target" escaping their ambush zone. She dropped the rifle and got off the ground in amok.
"You missed. You… How? HOW?" Andy threw the binocs away, turning to grab the girl's collar and give her a good shaking, but Ines got to her first. With her head still turned towards the boy, her golden eyes betrayed nothing but shock and disbelief, slowly mixing with more and more droplets of anger.
"She WHAT?"
"She missed!"
"YOU MISSED?" Her hands gripped her collar tight and gave her a thorough shake.
"Hey! Hey, miss n-negative, hands off! Hedley, get your broad off m-..."
"Ines, let go." The booming voice of reason spoke, as his hand gently landed on the woman's shoulder. Their eyes met - stoic stillness clashing against her genuine disbelief.
"Wh-... No! She missed! She missed a still target, she… Botched it all! She-... She…" Her heavy breaths eventually overtook all reason, as her grasp grew lighter and lighter. W fell to her feet and dusted herself off almost immediately, eyes searching for Andy, who just gave her an outlandishly shocked look and shook his head.
"She did… But it can be salvaged." Hedley summed up, wasting no time. "... W, go after them. Now."
"What?" Her antennae perked up like a hound's pair of ears after hearing the word "outside" or "treat".
"Go after them." He articulated again, this time letting just the slightest hint of anger into his words. "... Now."
"..." She ran her gaze across all three of them, searching for solace anywhere, but…
"Seriously?"
"W, go, or I'll behead you and bring you in for that measly bounty of yours."
"Tch."
That was all the motivation she needed. That, and latching tightly onto Andy's wrist.
"You're up, Lawdog."
"Wh-...?"
And before he knew it, she was already dragging him behind, rushing through the sequoia forest at full speed, with her other hands twirling around a grenade belt like a lasso high above her head.
"Why me?!" He managed to inquire, very audibly.
"Why?!" She yelled back,
"... 'Cause I know you won't let me die."