Juxtaposed Justices

[Deleted]

“Now ain’t that a mockery?” the voice belonged to a stout elder gentlemen, ghostly wisps of white hair brushed back from his scalp protruded from below his Stetson hat. The patter of light rain slowly trickled from his brim and this in itself seemed to be the source of the man’s complaint.

“Sod’s... always the way of it, eh? Well can’t be helped, nor will it help to fret it. But I am frettin’, where are Lockhart’s blasted boys at?”

[/color] The second speaker looked roughly of age with the first and wore a scowl like a cracked whip. It was a sharp and practiced thing, loud too, a look you only ever saw on older gents of a certain grumpy disposition.

“Heck if I know, but a safe wager says it’s where they have no business bein’ at. I swear I miss how it was, but a man makes do... a man makes do.” For a moment the first speaker shuffled awkwardly in his seat, he was positioned outside of an agriculture supplies shop and as such it would not be unreasonable to assume him the proprietor of the building. A moment later he was stood.

“That he does,” the second affirmed with a nod. His hair was short and for the most part un-receded. He straightened up from where he stood, propped against a lamppost. The two exchanged a look that expressed more than just words and then they proceeded indoors, into the dry.

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

To be fair to Lockhart’s boys they had been on their way to the exact place they had business to be, boorish miscreants they were but none could call the gang members inefficient, at least not any who stayed in Lockhart’s employ for any length of time. The group consisted of a dozen mercenaries, dressed well in local attire but clearly hired muscle nonetheless. Thick limbed, scarred and swaggering they strolled down Main Street like they owned it, in toe was the object of their escort; a large cart with the letters ‘L.L.’ engraved across the side. Below it the meaning was made explicit, it read ‘Lockhart’s Landscaping’. The construct took two horses to pull it, and two men sat behind them. Of the other ten it seemed they had little purpose but to stand and look intimidating. Still the locals paid them little heed, some eyes glanced up a little nervously and some averted them entirely, other’s looked on with no clear feelings at all. Indeed the weather seemed much more topical than the minor rackety caravan that wheeled through the grid-like streets.

All the while Oaklan plodded through the same well aligned roads. One might think he’d have walked with a certain trepidation, indeed this was where he had committed the felony of which he’d only recently escaped. However, officially the man that’d killed Marine Captain Scar and the majority of his crew had himself been brought to justice. The swordsmen had died, apparently, at the hands of the Bounty Hunter Beck. The thought itself slightly bruised the ex-slaves ego, but this was not why he walked head down in contemplation. No, this swordsman had lost his sword and work on Stetson Island was as dry as the locals said the crop season had been, the drought the Island had experienced was more than just literal. With no work, he had no money and with no money, no sword and with no sword... well, no sword. Maybe he should locate Beck, for all his shortcomings he did seem to know at least a fair bit about hunting – surely a heads up was the least he was owed. Still Oaklan doubted that fact, he believed that in the drunk’s eyes that night of drinks had settled the feud as much as he ever cared to settle it. And indeed that night they had tolerated each other, but soon after, despite having been forced to come to the same place, they had gone their separate ways. Still the Stetson Islanders lived less lavishly than their Pecos rivals, they worked harder and had less time for leisure. As such there were only two places the swordsmen believed he’d find his acquaintance, they were both saloons.

Eyes down Oaklan turned a corner onto Main Street, still unsure whether he wanted to see Beck again at all. All of a sudden the creaking of wood wheels on stone road, a flustered neighing of a bucking horse and a string of profanity that was best left unrepeated in civilised company sounded in unison. The Shandian pressed on oblivious to his part in it.

“Hey moron, you blind, deaf, dumb or all three? What the heck d’ya think you’re playin’ at? Ya better get to pleading real quick or--”

“Huh?” the sell-sword’s red eyes flickered upward settling disinterestedly on a weasel like man who was staring angrily down his pointed nose, despite being a man of small build his position steering the wagon allowed him to look down on the white haired wanderer. “Oh... yeah, sure?”

Oaklan really wasn’t looking for any more trouble and pressed on again, only to find some hat wearing goon obstructing his path.

“Apologise” it was a gruff, slate like voice and it matched the towering size of the man who possessed it. Oaklan scowled up angrily at him, neither man seemed particularly intimidated. He ignored the instruction.

“You guys seen a dude named Beck? He’s a drunk bastard, greying... like an old looking young guy. Wears a stupid tie... and err--”

“Haha, hey fella’s, I don’t think he knows who we are. We don’t give a flying fuck where your friend is. We’re Lockhart’s associates,” the last word was spoken with a detectable amount of relish. All the while the musician lifted his right arm and began to scratch the box of his head. Whatever information this was supposed to convey was lost on the relatively new arrival. “Now I made that clear, make like a good dog ‘un beg for your life.”

“Yeah, I know who you guys are.”[/b] This seemed to appease the hostile mob, a glare of intimidating bravado flashed across the rodent features of the speaker as he inflated his lungs in an attempt to look intimidating. “You’re the guys who'a pissin’ me off, if you ain’t gonna help then get the hell outta' my way.” [/color]

For a brief moment the rabble of professional thugs was genuinely taken aback, it had been a while since someone had talked to any one of them with such affront. Still it didn’t take long for a macho attitude and group mentality to win out. A chorus of guffaws rang out through the street; the locals in shot of the confrontation had quickly lost interest in the weather and instead stared at the stranger. Some had horror in their eyes, other’s a kind of malice and in a rare few even a glimmer of excitement. None wore the same look that the stranger had though; his eyes were red and flashed with a tempered anger. Oaklan’s sword arm twitched and began to glide casually toward where his sword should have been, hanging across his back. Grasping briefly at air he had to remind himself that he’d lost his blade to the fight with Beck and so instead, scratched his head and let out a sigh.

“Well be my guest,” the large man said mid-chuckle. As he did so he slid aside with a mock graciousness and indicated the path ahead. Oaklan shook his head and brushed passed the man, pressuring him with his shoulder just enough to push him off balance. Seconds later a lead pipe swung toward the back of the lone hunter’s head. He ducked it easily, as if the attack had been the most obvious thing in the world. Off balance and stumbling forward the swinger found himself in the perfect place for a backwards head butt as the unarmed warrior whipped the back of his skull brutally into his face. With a horrible crunching it became obvious at best he’d get away with a broken nose.

Whirring into an elbow another man was sent sprawling as the self-taught fighter flicked the pipe into his hands with a quick flash of his right foot. Then with one startling cleave he tore the centre of the wagon straight through. The horror in his foe’s faces was palpable and turning to face them one by one, he offered them a long challenging stare. When of course, none came to face it he cast aside the pipe with a derisive snort and continued on to the nearest saloon.

“Have a nice day, morons.” Trouble followed Oaklan, it was all he knew. And they were right, he hadn’t known who they were, but he’d learnt to recognise a man of the law, and men of the law they were not. Continuing in the drizzle he cracked a smile as the scene behind him exploded into exclamations and excited chatter. Why it was that he found himself seeking out his own murderer was hard to put into words. In a lot of cases, the people Oaklan respected most were the ones he hated with equal passion. The drunkard hit-man had certainly impressed the swordsmen with his physical fortitude, but to call what he felt toward him to respect would be, miscommunication. No, it was something else – a kind of reluctant intrigue.

He told himself Beck owed him; he told himself that at any given chance he’d pay him back tenfold and never see his goon-like, booze addled features again. For all these excuses, there was some nugget of truth but not the whole truth. Simply put, on some level the swordsman was certain; he could learn something from that man... because who that man was, was the best bounty hunter he’d ever met.[/size]
[/blockquote]

[Terminally Chill]

“Another, barkeep.”

An empty bottle slammed roughly on the table, the contents reduced to nothing but thin air laced with the potent stench of rum. A few Stetson barflies cast surprised glances in the direction of the emptied vessel. Generally when a drink was finished, a common glass was left in the drinker's wake. Whoever this particular patron was certainly had an impressive lust for liquor. The bartender hesitated for a moment, eying the other depleted bottles. However, thirsty customers were what such kept hole-in-the-wall saloons running. Another bottle inevitable was placed in front of the grizzled man in the gray suit.

If Beck the Fighter had a knack for anything, it was finding the nearest watering hole and making it something akin to a second home. By now the bounty hunter had lost count of how many times Sheriff Barclay had kicked him out of Pecos Town; Stetson was the usual place to get a drink afterward. The whole thing was that white-haired swordsman's fault anyway. Although Beck had been content to call off the quarrel over a drink, there was a pesky feeling that the fighter had not felt in a long time. Any time he thought about Oaklan, there was a restlessness in his body that couldn't be shaken by alcohol.

Normally when a job finished and payment was received, the bounty head faded away to join the pile of Beck's forgotten memories. Oaklan had presented the one thing Beck craved deep down: a challenge. The “victory” Beck had pulled off against the wayward sword felt hollow. Oaklan was the strongest opponent Beck had come up against since his fighting days long ago, and even then there were few from his past that could contend with the man. The beri wasn't enough of a reward. There was still the lingering urge to finish what the destructive duo had started. Beck would most likely never be afford that chance; who the hell knew where Oaklan was by now. Another drink would have to suffice in the meantime.

While drinking was Beck's usual past time of choice, he was a bounty hunter by trade. Stetson Island was known for both its agriculture and bounty hunting, but to Beck it was a place to make a quick buck. There was always at least some small time bounty head being advertised that could pay for a bottle or two. However, there had been talk lately of a drought that had dealt a heavy blow to Stetson's agriculture... and the bounty hunting market seemed just as dry. Beck had only been in Stetson for a few days at this point, but there was no sign of any criminal posters. The situation was only made more bizarre by the fact that there were a few familiar hunter faces on the island already.

Beck was keeping an ear out for any helpful information though, and his hearing soon perked up as the latest patrons entered the bar. From the corner of his bloodshot eyes, Beck picked out the distinct sight of Marine uniforms. There wasn't ever much of a Marine presence on Stetson, so even the pair of marines were noteworthy. The two young men certainly looked worse for wear with downtrodden features and dirtied uniforms. They collapsed into chairs at a table with heavy sighs, signaling to the barkeep for drinks. The other drinkers hardly gave them a pleasant reception, shooting icy glances in their direction between conversation.

“That damn Lockhart...”
“Yeah, we can't even touch him.”

The bartender set down glasses in front of the two men, ice clattering lightly.

“Why does a small time smuggler have bodyguards like that...?”
“Yeah... Those guys are ridiculously strong. Any hunters that go after him just end up like us.”
“It doesn't add up that someone with just 10 million on his head has everything locked down so tight.”

[/b]

'10 mil, huh? Not bad...'

“It's not like we can get any dirt on him. HQ isn't gonna send anyone else with how it stands.”
“The townspeople don't seem to have any issues with him though... And it looks like his landscaping company is keeping the economy going even with the drought.”
“I don't know how he's doing it but... Maybe it just isn't worth it.”
“Yeah... What if we're in the wrong here?"

While the two marine rookies contemplated their dilemma, Beck figured he had all of the information he needed for the potential hunt. Slamming a hand full of beri on the counter, Beck heaved himself to a swaying stand. He retrieved his suit coat from the back of the chair it was draped over, throwing his arms through the sleeves before snatching the bottle for the road. After a casual wave to the bartender, Beck turned and headed to the door. As he passed the marines, he flipped a coin onto their table's surface.

“Thanks for the tip, boys.”

They looked bewildered at first, not entirely sure what the drunken bounty hunter was referring to. One of them eventually drew the connection, smirking and taking a drink.

“Good luck,” the marine said with a skeptic scoff as Beck headed out of the door.

The boozing bruiser squinted as he stepped into the blinding sunlight, shielding his eyes as they became accustomed to switching from the dusky Stetson saloon. As his dilated pupils eventually made sense of the blurry mess, a figure directly in his path became gradually more visible. Eventually the soft outline gave way to sharper features... Features that Beck had an unfortunate familiarity with. His bloodshot eyes widened as the identity of the man became clear.

He was the last son of a bitch in the West Blue that Beck wanted to see: Oaklan.

“What the hell are you doing here?”[/size][/blockquote]

[Deleted]

Oaklan’s eyes avoided Beck whilst glancing over the bar behind him. Sidestepping the question he chose instead to answer initially with one of his own.

“Is this all you do?” he spoke gesturing at the establishment behind the established drinker. “That is, when you ain’t trying to kill a guy that you just can’t hack.” A grin flashed across the Shandian’s face, his gaze fell to meet with that of his displeased acquaintance.

“But anyways, you owe me a sword less two drinks, as I see it. But not neither of us is thinkin’ that’s gonna happen.” Having danced around the point for all of a few seconds the discomfort in the rookie hunter’s face was becoming uncomfortably clear. “I err, don’t...” he scratched his head awkwardly as his speech paused, “... there ain’t no work man.”

Having hunted for all of a week or so, Oaklan had no experience of independent hunting out in the field. His career had started promisingly, making consecutive trips between the lawful and lawless halves of Winchester but had as had recently been made explicit, turned sour. Now finally free to pursue his calling again, the swordsmen had found himself at a bit of a loss. The light rain came to an abrupt but gentle halt, as the West’s baking sun once more won through. Sliding his hand from the back of his head to shield his eyes, the would-be hunter found some undeserved assurance.

“Straight up, you’ve been huntin’ for what, a good few decades now? Everythin’s weird as hell here, ‘specially the people. I’m lookin’ for a heads-up, one time and we won’t have to see each other ever again. Wh--” Being generally averse to social interaction and with a bruised pride having sought information from an inebriate, by and largely his good mood had faded. When then a dumpy woman started tugging at his sleeve, this was reflected in the conversation.

“I don’t know what that was back there, but you fella’s don’t wanna mess with Mister Lockhart.” She was of course referring to the ruined wagon that was in the midst of being botched back into function in the not so distant distance, “word to the wise.”

Something in her tone clearly got Oaklan’s back up, he highly doubted that she had any appreciation for his level of wisdom; nevertheless he had some for her. “Word to the short and fat, don’t tell me what I wanna’ be doin’” he rebuked aggressively. The woman’s face if anything lightened from something stern into haughty impassivity; turning away she seemed to have decided she didn’t care what happened to either of the men.

Whirring back to face Beck, Oaklan flung his arms out dismissively. “Who the hell is this Lockhart guy anyway?”

Behind him the scene he’d caused was slowly dissolving, the wagon lurched away like some limping beast and none of the thugs had decided it worth their time to come teach him a lesson.

[Terminally Chill]

Beck looked to the patchwork sky as Oaklan jabbed at his drinking habits, not bothering to indulge the Shandian wildman in an answer. The light drizzle had stopped, prompting the suited slugger to reach inside his jacket and withdraw his pack of cigarettes. The process was an effortless flash, a quick flick of Beck's wrist and the click of his lighter yielding a freshly-lit cigarette propped between his lips. After a deep inhale of the killer smoke, Beck looked through the thick plume back to Oaklan.

“Straight up, you’ve been huntin’ for what, a good few decades now?”

“Bastard... I'm only 27,” Beck growled, a twitch evident in one of his bloodshot eyes as the hopeful hunter took a stab at his silver head of hair. Verbal exchanges aside, the seasoned fighter could tell by the look on Oaklan's face that he was just as lost as Beck had been upon first arriving at Stetson. Considering the snow-haired swordsman was asking the aid of a man who was kicking his face in not too long ago, Oaklan must have been desperate to get back into the bounty hunting game.

“A heads up, huh? How about you go f–”

The drunkard's sentence was also cut short with the appearance of the short woman tugging at Oaklan's sleeve. A steely eyebrow raised as the Stetson citizen spoke as a spark of curiosity flickered into Beck's reddened eyes. Any mention of Lockhart at this point was worthy of Beck's attention. Had Oaklan already made contact with the mysterious man? If he could provide Beck with any information about Lockhart, Beck would be more inclined to help Oaklan out with his similar dilemma. The bounty hunter couldn't help but snort as Oaklan outright spurned the stubby woman and sent her on her way.

“Quite the lady's man, Oak...” Beck muttered, looking over Oaklan's shoulder in an attempt to observe the wreckage that had caught his attention. He was able to put two and two together that the demolished wagon was the “that” the woman had been referring to. “Breakin' shit already.” Beck was certainly one to talk, considering he had caused a majority of the property damage during the brawl in Pecos Town. The rum-guzzling rumbler could have cared less about why Oaklan had been involved in the destruction; all he cared about was the connection it had to Lockhart.

“Who the hell is this Lockhart guy anyway?”

A heavy sigh accented by a thick cloud of smoke escaped Beck's lips. It seemed Oaklan knew just as much, if not less, about Lockhart as Beck had gathered from his stay at the saloon. All Beck knew at this point was that whoever the hell Lockhart was, he was an important figure in Stetson Island.

“Lockhart is the only bastard with a bounty on this island... And I'm bringin' him in.” After a swig from his bottle, Beck stuffed his other hand in the pocket of his slacks and began a swaying walk in the direction the ruined wagon and its company had limped off to. “If you don't know anything, then stay the hell out of my way, rookie,” the lush said gruffly, wild eyes flashing to Oaklan as he pushed past the man he murdered.

[Deleted]

“Late?” the word spoken calmly had more weight to it than a whole sentence seething with anger. The speaker ran his finger along an open book; his eyes scanned the page as his bottom lip protruded just slightly in a moment of deliberation.

“J-just a little Sir, that da--” the sight was almost comical, a tough looking bruiser, massive in size with short shaved hair quivering before a slender, spectacled man with dark hair oiled into a parting. Yet such is a sight not so rare to any eyes these days, in many senses physical strength is the least of the powers. The tall man's breathing was laboured and heavy, but he forced himself not to gasp.

“Yes, yes... just as things had finally seemed to have quietened down too. And with a bar you say?” A large wooden desk, well polished and decorated with various well organised files stack upon it, stood between the two men. Sat behind it was the man whose name was inscribed upon the desk, ‘Mr. M Lockhart.’ Crossing something from what appeared to be some form of diary he glanced back up with dismissive eyes, almost as if he’d forgot his hireling was here at all. “Well the, what are you waiting for? Get outta’ here and call for Ei--”

Bang-b-b-bang bang!

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

Now fully familiar with Beck’s mannerisms it came as no surprise to Oaklan when his tentative request for information was met with such flat aggression. Instinctively his fist clenched into a ball, but in earnest there was little to be annoyed about. He was a self-admitted rookie, hence this gratingly painful social exchange. Still independence was important to the sellsword and his pride was taking a bit of a beating, nevertheless intentionally or not he’d been given what he'd asked for.

“Lockhart’s a bad guy, huh? Figures really, those guys were goons alright...” Once again habit kicked in and Oaklan found his hand ghosting at his back, not finding the assurance that can only come with the grasping of a hilt. He’d lost his metal, it was almost like being half a man – still he’d make do until he found a substitute. That was the great thing about Boss types, there men were always well equipped.

For once though, the brutish ex-slave was engaging the most sophisticated of the muscles. “So this guy has a bounty, but he’s runnin’ wagons through town, carelessly carting into people, as if it’s no big deal? What the hell’s with that?” An observation that was about as insightful as it was ever going to be. Still Beck had made his stance clear, the swordsmen had little information that hadn’t already been given away by the current situation and he sure as hell wouldn’t help his competition out even if he had.

“A’ight, thanks for the h--”

The Shandian’s sentence was cut short as the sound of gunfire rang off in the distance, twisting around his eyes flashed his surroundings keenly but found nothing amiss. He paused for only a moment before starting off in the direction of the sound.

“Well I got my headin’, I hate t’ be the one who takes your cash but like I said, I need a sword. Later, dick.”

[Terminally Chill]

“Yeah, it is pretty weird that he's paradin' around the town so openly. The people don't seem to mind him, either...”

[/color]

Beck had come to a stop to lend an ear to Oaklan's observations. The sellsword was certainly smarter than he looked; Beck hadn't expected him to pick up on such a detail. There was undoubtedly something strange about this Mr. Lockhart, especially considering he operated in open opposition of the Marines. A thin trail of smoke wafted into the rain-laced air as the bounty hunter observed the Stetson people. Despite the hard times, the island seemed to be going about as it usually did. The citizens did not look like those being oppressed by a tyrant. Lockhart was helping the island in some way; the people all looked content despite there being one of the worst droughts in years.

The distinct ring of gunfire also caught Beck's senses, steely-haired head whirring to face the direction the reports had come from. His bloodshot eyes narrowed as he scanned the area. Although the shots hadn't been fired in town, any gun fight on an island with no bounties was surely the spot to be at. That exact thought had seemingly also crossed Oaklan's mind, who had already started out toward the source of the commotion.

“I hate t’ be the one who takes your cash but like I said, I need a sword. Later, dick.”

The bounty hunter growled as the headstrong swordsman defiantly began pursuing what Beck rightfully believed to be his own hunt. A deep drag of calming fumes wasn't enough to take the edge off as Beck began a menacing walk in the direction of Oaklan, a dangerous overtaking look his stubbled features.

“I don't give a shit about your sword...” Beck cocked a single leg back as he neared the snowy-haired swordsman. “I said don't get in my way!”

Beck's foot flashed forward in a blur, a sudden kick connecting with the back of his unsuspecting competitor's knees and sending him toppling backward. The blow wasn't soft by any means, but it wouldn't put someone as durable as Oaklan down for very long. If anything, the strike served to get the message across that Beck meant business. He had at least had enough respect not to cheap shot the Shandian wildman full on. A few Stetson street walkers gasped at the random act of violent, while others snickered at the sight of Oaklan's legs being swept from under him. Beck simply took a long pull from his bottle and continued casually walking past Oaklan.

“The next one won't be a warning shot.”[/blockquote][/size]

[Deleted]

“Eeeeep!” a sudden sensation flashed across the back of the swordsmen’s legs, before it could register however the world was already spinning away from him and the sky rushed into view.

“Umph! Huh—uhhh-RUUUUUUUGH!” Having realised his situation the gruff manslayer attempted to mask the uncharacteristically feeble noise with his usual brutish grunting, which quickly escalated into genuine rage once the words of his rival hunter registered, lately, somewhere in the recesses of his mind. By now Beck was already making steady, albeit arrogantly casual, progress toward the source of the disturbance. Not being a man who suffered even a minor slight without serious thought to retribution, he was already scrambling to his feet.

Moments later he’d closed down on Beck, who was as to be expected strolling cigarette in mouth and bottle in hand – seemingly unafraid of retaliation. There in the background he loomed, hurtling through the air; a roaring mop of white hair, furious red-brown eyes and teeth clenched like daggers. “BAAAASSTTAAAARRRDDD!”

With a flying tackle once again the two feral fighters were at each other, rolling along the street in a flurry of punches and kicks paying little to no heed of the spectacle they were making of themselves. Indeed the passerby had all stopped by now, but strangely the two rough and tumble mercenaries were not the centre of their focus. Most eyes were preoccupied with another, or indeed consciously unoccupied with her. Limping along the street was a blonde haired gunslinger; her long slender legs still impressive despite her limp, the tactically positioned hardened leather clearly had been ineffective in protecting them. Her clothes were typically western, but their scant nature would have marked her for a Pecos girl even if her reputation didn’t precede her – ‘Crosshair’ Chrissy.’ Her fast-twitch fingers held her ribs painfully and her eyes flared a defiant blue as her predicament went ignored by the populace.

“I warned ya’ Chrissy, but ya’ wouldn’t listen’,”

“How the hell was I ‘sposed to know Lockhart had those two? They're a cut above his pay-grade, now sh—Ahh-ffpphh!~” Letting out a yelp of pain through gritted teeth, the huntress started on, if they weren’t gonna’ offer a hand, she weren’t about to beg.

“Lockhart whperugge?” Oaklan’s speech muffled as he twisted violently back toward Beck, the man whose boot was lodged in his cheek. The two began their assaults again before quickly being interrupted by the wounded blonde.

“Son’s-a’ bitches, if you two ain’t at it again!? I heard you smoked this guy, interestin'... are you gettin’ soft now Beck? Hah-urgh...” she trailed off again, clearly pained by laughter but sufficiently amused to try anyhow.

The two fighters came to a stop, at least one of them entirely confused by the situation he now found himself in. Prying the steel sole from his face, Beck’s foot peeled back to reveal his boot-print plastered across the raging face of his enemy. Foot still in hand and feeling he hadn’t quite given as good as he’d got, the savage sell-sword made peace with the situation by chomping down hard on the kicker’s shin. “Phhwucker”.

[Terminally Chill]

“Chrissy's here, huh?” The question came out as a raspy croak, Oaklan having managed to get a firm grasp on Beck's throat as he fended off the rookie hunter with a foot to the face. The flurry of violence soon continued, the loud scuffle erupting in full force once again despite the presence of their injured acquaintance. Beck only managed to fire off a few more blows before Chrissy interrupted the pointless street brawl. The dust settled around the two fighters, Beck having managed to pin Oaklan with a steel sole. Taking a deep drag from his cigarette, the bounty hunter's wild eyes flashed toward Chrissy.

“Hey, as far as I'm concerned this bastard is de–UGH!” Oaklan's fangs chomped down into Beck's shin, cutting his sentence short and drawing an menacing glare from the wasted warrior. Simply attempting to shake off the swordsman was met with little success, so Beck took a rough hold of Oaklan's face and pried him off forcibly before tossing him away. Beck managed to gain his composure, reigning in his heavy breathing with a tall drink of rum and wiping away stray trails of blood from his face. Making sure to keep an eye out for anymore ambushes from his former foe, Beck turned to Chrissy once again as she painfully forced out a chuckle.

“Anyway, I've never really seen you roughed up so bad. You go after Lockhart or somethin'?”

“... Yeah...” Chrissy cast her eyes away from Beck, her pride taking a blow in being seen in such a state in front of a fellow bounty hunter.

“You sure you ain't slippin' up? Who the hell does he got that tough?”

Chrissy's features flashed resentment for a moment, but she'd have to repay Beck for his smart-ass remark when she wasn't clutching potentially broken ribs. After a deep and labored breath, the gunslinger looked to Beck with the start of a sly smile.

“I reckon ya' know 'em alright...”

“Tch... Spit it out, then?!”

“... How 'bout the names Sendo n' Deroix? They ringin' any bells?”

Beck's bloodshot eyes widened for a moment, a trail of smoke left lingering at his lips as his cigarette dropped to the ground. The answer was apparently not what the drunkard was expecting, considering he was rendered speechless if only for a moment.

“Damn... 'Eight Ball' Sendo and 'Double Step' Deroix?” Beck growled under his breath, scratching at his steely hair. “What the hell are they even doing in the West still? And working together...? For some small-time smuggler? Damn it...” A healthy pull of rum slowed the whirring thoughts in Beck's head. The unexpected development and its unanswered questions clearly had him on edge.

“I ain't got a damn clue, but it's them two alright.”

“One thing's for sure...” Beck reached into his gray suit coat, retrieving his pack of cigarettes and replacing the one that had long since burned into smolder ash on the ground. A quick flick of his lighter was all it took to replenish the smoke in his lungs.

“This hunt just got a helluva lot more interesting.”

[Deleted]

Oaklan, having now found his feet was busy brushing off the dust that had settled upon him having brawled on the dry streets of Stetson City. Half his attention was turned to Chrissy and Beck who spoke with a level of familiarity that did not betray the true nature of their relationship, at least to the sellsword. Then he didn’t really care to decipher it anyway. The other half of his focus was put into figuring out what it was that felt so wrong. The locals that hadn’t moved on were still either eyeing them skittishly or outright glowering and something about that wasn’t right. It wasn’t the disdain that he felt was unwarranted; he was more than used to that.

“Hey, are you pukes just gonna’ stare or is someone actually gonna’ help? A city like this has to have a doc right?” It had dawned on him suddenly that despite her injuries the gun slinging huntress was receiving no aid whatsoever. Odder still, even than that, he found himself being the one to mention it. Rare was it that Oaklan was the moral centre of a situation.

Angrily he stared the locals down. It’s an odd thing to behold, watching a single man match a stare with a large crowd but as his scowl switched from face to face he was met with defiance, or avoided guiltily. Finally one, only one of the two dozen or so people that circled the mercenary trio met his gaze with indecision – it was the woman who’d spoken already. She was a short woman who leaned toward the pretty side of plain, she looked to be in her late twenties or possibly her early thirties and her clenched fist visibly shook with the emotion of an inner conflict.

“I’m... pretty much a doctor,” the words came out muttered and without conviction. Then in a suddenness her temper flared; “but god-damn it Chrissy, I told ya’ I wouldn’t help! Not if you did that...”

“Mm, sweetie but we both know ya’ will, won’t ‘cha?” The blonde talked with the arrogant tongue of the Pecos people, as she spoke the crowd hardened to her further. Even in this state she remained defiantly cocky, not a hint of pleading in her voice.

Exasperated the ‘pretty much a’ Doctor flung her arms out in frustration, “alright... you two goons bring her into my house.” Feeling the cold eyes of the town turn to her she reeled to meet them, “and you lot get the hell out of here. She’s been taught her lesson.” With an air of reluctance the crowd dispersed as the interlopers made their way into the small, brown house. The interior was to put it politely, very minimalist. The furniture was functional but in no way extravagant, any spare money this woman had, had clearly gone to one place only. In the room they were lead to, three of the four walls were almost entirely taken up with bookshelves and each was full of tatty looking books. Oaklan felt very much out of his comfort zone.

“Sit her here,” they did so. Unsurely the Shandian looked around; unable to stand still he was already contemplating leaving but first he felt there was something more to know.

“How can ya’ be almost a doc?” he asked the question idly, still trying to piece the strange situation together.

“She’s not technically speakin’ an official practice,” Chrissy interjected but on observing the stranger swordsman’s perplexed features she elaborated for him, “she’s qualified, don’t worry ‘bout that – just not got all the papers, that’s all.”

Bureaucracy meant less than nothing to Oaklan, either you were a doctor or you weren’t – people didn’t need paper to tell them what they were. “Looks like a doc to me” he commented gesturing toward the apparatus on display in a nearby cabinet. “Plus, she’s got all the papers in the world in ‘ere. Anyway, where’s Lockhart at?”

“Hon, he ain’t exactly hard to f—Ow, jeez Steph!”

Stephanie, the unofficial doctor had been cleaning up some of the cuts that marred Chrissy's otherwise unflawed body. On reference to Lockhart she’d dabbed a little too hard with the metal thing clutching cotton wool.

“Hey now are you broken in the head? You stay away from Lockhart, and that goes for all of ya! Understand?” A similarity crossed the features of every hunter in the room, Stephanie would not abide it.

“Look now! Just because Mister Lockhart isn’t a good man, doesn’t mean he’s a bad one. Have you outsiders any idea what’s going on here, at all? Christ. This place used to be the capital of arms manufacturing, the business centre of the entire West Blue. But those blasted marines destroyed Ohara, pirates wouldn’t come within miles of here and without pirates, there’s no need for marines or weapons. Pecos...”

“Ow,”

“Stole all our business, but did we complain – did we give up? No, we pushed on and we made do. We sustained ourselves off the toil of our backs and lived off this arid land as best we could, our means aren’t much but a Stetson Citizen could stand proud. Over time, things got better. Pirates started braving these waters again and with them came your sort.”

Childishly Oaklan could barely mask a grin at being recognised as a hunter; to him it was a luxurious status.

“Some of our younger boys took to that lifestyle, a good bounty can last a person a good while – a few can help sustain a town. Under the two, agriculture and bounty hunting we could sustain ourselves. Under that people like me could chase their dreams, by buying second hand books I became a doctor to help pay back this community that supported me. More hunters came, even some big-shots and it became possible for some of the old smiths to turn their hands back to weapon making – all was going well.”

Suddenly pieces of information began to come together, Oaklan wasn’t particularly impressive intellectually but when a situation was outlined like this it was hard not to start joining the dots. In fact, his mind suddenly flashed back a relevant memory. Last time he’d been here Scar had bought him his sword from an agriculture shop, in some secret downstairs armoury.

“So why hide that, if ya’ wanna’ sell weapons... sell weapons. But that ain’t it is it? You can’t just do that cause you’re sellin’ to pirates too.” A definite judgemental tone laced his words.

“So what? Even in the good days they sold to pirates, everyone sells to pirates – you think it’s any different in Pecos? But no – it isn’t that simple. With all the hunters, quickly pirate’s started to avoid here and once again the marines stopped coming and even a lot of the hunters. There was no one to hunt and no one to sell arms too. But we have our farming to fall back on right? Wrong, the last harvest was bleak but this season was something else entirely. Stetson is in a state of drought, but the people will always make do. Lockhart saved this town. He hires some of the local boys and other mercenaries, who in turn need weapons. He makes it so the merchants can sell their arms, he--”

“Bullshit. He’s jus’ here to make some money. He’s got this whole damn city wrapped around his little finger. Sellin’ to pirates is well and good, I don’t give a shit about the marines and their rules any more than you do. But I know what it means to cross the law too, if you’re gonna’ do it – do it, sell to pirates. But don’t hide behind this middle man. Do your own dirty work.”

“What the hell do you know!? That’s the biggest load of horse-crap, I mean, come on! How are you any different, going around and killing folk for money and just ‘cause the marines say they’re bad? Don’t go preachin’ to me, it’s not ideal but we live in hard times – you should try it sometime.” Breathless from her impassioned speech and from anger at the white-haired stranger's impudence Stephanie turned away and focused instead on Chrissy's wounds.

The look that flashed through the ex-slaves’ eyes was of such intense anger that if looks could kill; Stephanie would have found herself ten feet under. However, it passed as quickly as it came replaced with a dismissive, knowing eye roll.

“You know what? Do what you want, I don’t care. I needn’t get so heated over the likes of you – if you want to go and end up like Chrissy here, or worse... go ahead. You’ve got no chance anyway. But this time, mark my words when I say – I will not be helping you.”

Clearly the two were done talking to each other, Oaklan had began a shuffle towards the door but had stopped first and was focused instead upon his drunken nemesis. His curiosity had peaked; there had been a few references to these so called tough guys, Lockhart’s muscle. In this world he’d learnt that everything was chaos, the only choices you have is what you yourself did with the circumstance that arise. People like Lockhart who tried to manipulate everything around them were delusional. He’d tear his world down, he’d show him the chaos and he’d love every second of it.

“I’m gonna’ get this bastard. I dunno’ what you wanna' do, but I still need a sword – so I guess whatever. I’ll take all three if I need to, after all how tough can two lackeys really be?”

[Terminally Chill]

Beck remained uncharacteristically quiet during Oaklan and Stephanie's exchanges, head resting on his folded hands with a rare, pensive look etched across his rum-reddened features. The drunken destroyer kept an ear out for the key details the makeshift medic was spilling, but his hazy mind was mainly focused on the two names Chrissy had mentioned before. Beck's only movements were the occasional drink as he sat and contemplated. He only snapped out of his thoughtful trance when Oaklan stopped in front of him on the way to the door.

“I’ll take all three if I need to, after all how tough can two lackeys really be?”

“Tch, idiot...” Beck grumbled, hefting himself from the stranger's seat to face his adversary with a hard glare. “Those two lackeys? They're the best bounty hunters in West Blue. As far as how tough they are? Well...” Beck glanced down at his bottle, swishing the contents around a few times. Whatever he had in mind to explain Sendo and Deroix's strength apparently couldn't be accomplished by the remaining amount of rum. Beck searched for the room for a moment, suddenly snatching an unopened body of rubbing alcohol Stephanie had brought to clean Chrissy's wounds.

“H-Hey!”

“I'll try to put in terms even you can understand.” Ignoring the homeowner's protests, Beck ripped the cork from the bottle with his teeth and spit it out. “Sendo and Deroix? They're up here at the top.” The boozing bruiser made sure to tap on the bottle at the top to enforce the image.

“I'm about...” Beck took a hearty chug of the rubbing alcohol, bringing a sickened look to the faces of Chrissy and Stephanie. After the drink, the portion in the narrower part of the bottle had disappeared.

“... Here.”

“I think I'm gonna be sick...”

“Then you, Oak? You're about...” Beck arched his back, a loud “glug” noise coming from his throat as he suddenly began downing the rubbing alcohol. The process didn't take too long for a seasoned drinker, the two women watching attempting not to vomit at the sight.”

“I reckon I can drink, but...”

“... That's 70% alcohol?!”

Beck finally finished the bottle, draining the stinging liquid to the very last drop.

“... You're HERE! RAAAAAH!” With the loud exclamation and vessel emptied to insult Oaklan, the heavy drinker slammed the bottle down to punctuate his alcoholic analogy with the shattering crash.

“W-Why did ya break it?!”

Wiping his mouth with his sleeve, Beck let out a burning belch and swished a swig of rum around in his mouth before answering.

“... Because I hate rubbing alcohol.”

“YOU'VE DRANK IT BEFORE?!”
“YOU'VE DRANK IT BEFORE?!”

“Anyway, usually 10 mil would be too much trouble at this point, but if he's got these guys guardin' him... I got a feeling it will be more than 10 mil when he's brought in.” Beck took a long drag from his cigarette, blowing the smoke discourteously into Oaklan's face. “I ain't gonna act like I can take these two on by myself. I don't know much about Deroix, but I've crossed paths with Sendo before...” The grip tightened on his rum bottle, a brief, angry tremor shaking through his body at the mention of the name.

“I'm gonna... need some... help on this one.” The sentence was frozen in Beck's throat for a moment, a begrudged reluctance lacing his words.

“Since you're so damn intent on gettin' Lockhart too, I'll let you tag along. Just this once, though. As much as I hate to admit it, I know you're better than any of these shitty hunters I've seen around here lately.”

Beck cast his bloodshot eyes to the side, flashing a sheepish expression. Asking his enemy's aid was obviously taking a toll on his pride.

“... We'll split the bounty 80/20.” Despite the ridiculously disproportionate earnings, Beck offered a handshake to Oaklan.

“Whaddya say? Partners?”

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

“Sendo. Hey, Sendo!”

The room was dimly lit, the only source of light a small lamp hanging above a billiards table. A large man stood in the doorway, the bandages wrapped around his body identifying him as one of the unfortunate cronies that Oaklan had smashed up earlier. The Lockhart lackey stepped farther into the room as he was ignored by the other figure in the room. The man was occupied by a pool game that was well underway, firing the cue ball off to sink the last colored ball on the table. All that remained on the table was the eight ball. Standing to his full height to survey the table, the gleam of sunglasses could be seen on his face. His long red-brown hair was drawn back in a ponytail with a few stay bangs arcing from his hairline. A long black trenchcoat shrouded much of his attire. The most distinguishing feature was a small eight-ball earring hanging from his left ear accompanied by three small golden hoops pierced at the ear's edge.

“Hey, Sendo! Are ya listenin'?”

“Get on with it.” The man known as “Eight Ball” Sendo growled, obviously irritated that the big bruiser was speaking while he was lining up his game-winning shot.

“Lockhart says he wants t' see you n' Deroix for somethin' in the office.”

“What the hell does he want now?! Always something with that prick...”

“Ya shouldn't talk 'bout Mr. Lockhart like that, y'know. He –”

The underling's sentence was suddenly cut short, his body smashing violently against the wall. He collapsed to the floor with a groan, barely clinging to consciousness as he opened an eye to make some sense of what had happened. Sendo hadn't moved an inch. A 'clack' sound was audible after the man had been floored, the smoking cue ball being the source of the noise.

“Oi oi, what's with that tone?! Why are you talking to me like we're equals?” Sendo walked around the pool table, stopping the white ball with his foot as it rolled back. “You aren't shit to me, you hear that? Maybe you small fry bounty hunters have some sort of loyalty to Lockhart, but to me? He's just the highest bidder.”

Sendo kicked the ball up to his free hand, slamming it on the table where it had been before. He twirled the pool cue in his hand, stopping it with the tip pointing behind him. A quick motion sent the cue careening into the eight-ball, the slick backward shot finishing the one-man game. The pool cue twirled once again, resting on Sendo's shoulder as he walked out the door.

“There's only the payoff. Any real bounty hunter knows that.”

[Deleted]

“Whaddya say? Partners?”

“I thought I was down 'ere?” He indicated to the floor where the remnants of the rubbing alcohol had been discarded. “Or is it you know the damage a broken bottle can do?”

[/color]

Taken aback, Oaklan eyed the outstretched hand as if it were some strange, alien object. “Man, that stuff must’a been strong.”

A moment of dubious deliberation passed. It wasn’t the percent offered that was giving him trouble, in truth he had barely registered the phrasing at all, to say the least the swordsman was not fiscally aware. Slightly contributing to his hesitance was the fact the offer had come at all. Whilst he’d never admit it, the idea of siding up with Beck was not a purely repugnant one. In spite of this, he’d never have expected the drunkard to be the one to make such a proposal. This far in he’d offered nothing but aggressive distance. Just how strong were these guys?

Still factoring all of this it was something other that had him momentarily stalled but as all things do, the moment passed.

“If these guys are half a’ what ya’ say they are, I’m gonna’ need a sword first.”

Finally in one decisive swing he clasped Beck’s right hand with his own rough, calloused hand and offered a single firm shake. “Partners.”

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

A liver spotted hand clasped the pale, spindly fingers belonging to the rodent featured man. The room was fair by Stetson standards, not large but spacious enough and filled to the brim with all manner of toys and trinkets. It was predominantly an arms shop, but it contained a fair supply of farm gear too, the official wares of the establishment. Besides these a few personal effects, frames with pictures, notes and books scattered the numerous work surfaces. To one side was a small group, a few of Lockhart’s men – just enough to be intimidating. Directly in front of them was an aged man with a full head of defiant silver hair, his face was clean shave and his eyes sharp. Keenly he examined the contents of an open suitcase twisted to face him. A deal was going down.

“It’s all there,” the tone in which he spoke did not disguise his emotion. The world ‘all’ hung in the air, accented with years of bitterness and perfected sarcasm.

“Pfft~ fine... deal.” A second man of the same age but looked older reluctantly conceded. The liver spotted hand was his, but despite clearly aging he was heavyset, built in the way old men who were once very strong young men were.

“Hey now, if ya’ don’t want to sell, all ya’ need to do is say so.” Fully recovered from his earlier encounter with Oaklan, the cart-driver had not been at all humbled by the event and was as always flapping his venomous tongue.

“You know damn well that that’s not how it works. I ain’t got no choice” the seasoned smith all but growled.

“That’s right, ya’ don’t... do ya?” Leaning forward aggressively the Lockhart lackey failed to intimidate the old man, who instead recoiled from the potency of his breathe. Taking that as a sign of submission the cart-driver turned for the door and the handful of men that had come inside followed suit. However as he reached the door the taller and thinner aged gentleman opened his mouth in inquiry.

“Oh yeah, what the hell happened to your cart?”

The man paused, visibly shuddering for a second. “That cart ain’t your concern... stinkin’ geezer” and with that they headed out.

“Fuck you, kid.”

...

For a moment the two men stood, left alone in silence. It didn't take one of them long to break it. “Only two hundred k? They’re really squeezin’ us now ain’t they?”

“Whilst money’s money, yeah... Lockhart himself would fetch fifty times that, a hundred even if the rumours goin’ around have any truth in ‘em.”

Again a silence ensued, the smith who’s shop it was turned his attention to the ground as his mind reflected on something already mentioned. Deeming it worth repeating he decided to ask, “what was wrong with the cart?”

“Ah, the thing was botched back together... like the whole thing had been torn in half.”

“I hope it holds...”

“Part of me hopes it don’t” the silver headed mule cracked a mischievous smile and together the old friends broke into a chorus of laughter.

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

“GET OUUUTTTT!!~”[/b][/color][/size]

Looming in the background Stephanie had been party to the entire conversation between the temporarily allied hunters. With a single terrifying charge and a furious kick that even Beck had to envy, the two hunters were ejected from the would-be Doctor’s house and into the street. Having been caught unawares and awkwardly the Shandian found himself hurtling through the air with zero bearing and completely off balance. Luckily, his face broke his fall. Sliding across half a road before finally coming to a stop he rolled ungraciously onto his backside. “Urgh!”

“That damn-crazy bitch, I’ve pretty much had it with this whole bastard town. I swear, once I-”

“Hey fella's,” the voice was laced with a slight rasp and yet somehow remained sweet, Chrissy’s voice. “You’re gonna’ wanna’ head pretty much due east, you’ll find Lockhart’s compound... you can’t miss it. Like I said, he ain’t tryin’ to hide.”

Oaklan had found his feet but was twisting awkwardly, even un-dazed it would have been a miracle if he’d found due east. Eventually he settled into the idea of letting Beck lead the way. Turning to the blonde who was painfully propped in recently widened house doorway, he offered a brusque; “thanks.”

“If you two idiots can go ten minutes without makin’ too much noise, you’ll find a sword in there I’m sure. Oh and boys... good-luck, you’re gonna’ need it.”[/blockquote][/size]

[Terminally Chill]

“What the hell...”

Beck grunted as he staggered to recovered from the unexpected clobbering Stephanie had inflicted on the duo. Finally pulling himself from the Stetson street, Beck patted the dust off of his suit and made sure attire was in order, paying particular attention to straightening his bright orange tie. Although appearance hardly mattered in Beck's line of face smashing, the drunkard insisted on appearing professional. Acting professional? Well... Not so much. The alcoholic assassin offered a nod and another grunt in agreement with Oaklan; Stetson City was hardly Beck's choice island in the western sea. Even without a destructive drought or shady smuggler threatening their way of life, the citizens were tense to say the least. Stetson felt like a place trapped in the past, harboring an older generation that only served as embittered remnants of the island's glory days as a king in the gun industry. The grudge between Stetson and Pecos only served to define the city, making for a place that held little warmth for outsiders... Especially outsiders like Beck. Needless they say, they were not as forgiving of his antics as Pecos. Despite all of that, people like Stephanie could, albeit reluctantly, find it in themselves to offer aid. The latest beneficiary of such begrudged compassion stepped out to offer the newly-formed duo a piece of useful information and her blessings.

“Oh and boys... Good luck. You’re gonna’ need it.”

In his explosive exit from the Stephanie's house, Beck had managed to lose his cigarette. He rectified the absence, staying silent as he retrieved the pack of cigarettes from his suit pocket. A fresh cigarette was lit once again with a swift flick from his lighter, a deep inhale soon following.

“You're right...”

“Eh?”

Beck removed the cigarette from his lips after the heavy drag, exhaling a thick cloud of smoke that gave a dramatic preface to his next words.

“... I am gonna need a drink.” Beck turned to Oaklan after the anti-climactic response. “We should probably stop at a pub on the way there.”

“WOULD YOU GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE ALREADY?!”

Beck took the fiery femme's advice, wishing to avoid the woman's wrath despite her injured state. He gave her a lax wave that served as a farewell and to signal for Oaklan to follow. The boozing bruiser started his usual casual stroll in the direction Chrissy had pointed them in, free hand stuffed in his pocket.

“The easy thing is that we don't really gotta find Lockhart.” Beck took a pull from his bottle as he continued to address Oaklan. “That's gonna cost him. Must be runnin' a pretty smooth operation to just be hanging out in plain sight with a bounty on his head.”

Part of the hunt's fun had been removed from the equation, but considering funds were tight at the moment and the two best bounty hunters the West Blue had to offer were involved, Beck didn't mind that Lockhart has made himself available.

“Definitely gonna need a sword for this, though... You tryin' to fight without one ain't pretty.” Beck turned to Oaklan, pointing a finger to him with bottle in hand to accompany the jab at unlikely partner's combat prowess. “I'd get you one myself just to make sure you won't be dead weight but... Not exactly rollin' in the beri since I had to bail us out at Pecos.”

The tone did not betray that the bounty hunter still harbored ill feelings about having to spend his entire earnings from “killing” Oaklan in one night. He probably would have anyway on alcohol, but that was beside the point.

“Tch, whatever. You'll probably find one before we gotta go up against those two anyway.”

Beck honestly didn't have much of a plan to bring Lockhart in. The alcoholic wasn't the most subtle person, so in his mind kicking down the doors and raising hell until they found Lockhart was the only way to go about things. Either way, it was only a matter of time until they arrived at Lockhart's compound.

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

“Where's that damn Deroix? I called for him ages ago.”

The bespectacled man placed a few ice cubes in two glasses he had set on the table. A helping of fine bourbon joined the ice, Lockhart passing the glass toward his associate before taking a seat with his own drink.

“No idea. Kind of flaky, that guy.” Sendo picked his glass up from the desk, kicking his dark shoes up and stretching out. “I'd be happy to take over his side of things. For double the pay, of course.”

Lockhart couldn't help but laugh as he took a drink of his liquor.

“No offense, Sendo, but I don't think I'd want someone like you solely running my security.” Lockhart took a moment to carefully push his glasses from his nose bridge. “You're a good businessman and all, but I can't help but trust Deroix more despite his faults. That's an important balance between you two.”

“None taken.” Sendo gave a sly grin as he swirled the ice around in his glass before taking a drink. “So what'd you call me here for?”

“Well, as I'm sure you've noticed yourself, things have gotten a bit... Loud recently. Just in one day that insane Pecos woman attempted to take my life and some barbarian with a pipe attacked our cart.” Lockhart dabbed at his heated forehead with a handkerchief, sipping at his drink to his calm his nerves. “Now I've been informed that the bounty hunter 'Beck' is here. From what I've heard about his unsavory reputation, he doesn't exactly seem like the type of man to conform to our business arrangement.” The slick-haired smuggler put his handkerchief aside, giving Sendo a stern look.

“Is he a threat?”

“Ha! Beck?!” Sendo was wholly amused at the mention of the name, his laughter drawing a curious glance from his employer.

“He ain't nothing to worry about. Haven't seen him in a while. Tried swooping in on one of my bounties when he first started, but he knew where he stood and backed down when I showed up.” Sendo's face was one of satisfaction, reflecting fondly on putting the upstart hunter in his place. The smirk slowly died down before the top mercenary polished off his bourbon.

“If he decides to come here, I'll finish what we started. You can count on that.”

Lockhart gave a nod, standing up from his seat with drink in hand and turning to peer out the window of his office.

“We have a good thing going here, Sendo. Make sure you and Deroix keep it that way.”

“Heh. As long as you keep the beri coming, I'll keep this cushy gig going as long as you want it to.”

Purupurupuru. Purupurupuru.

“Would you be so kind as to answer that, Sendo?”

Sendo reached to the ringing Den Den Mushi, picking up the receiver and putting it to his ear.

“Oi, what is it?”

“Oh, err, hey there Sendo. Just wanted to let Mr. Lockhart know we're back with the shipment from them old geezers.”

“Ah, perfect...”

[Deleted]

“Definitely gonna need a sword for this, though... You tryin' to fight without one ain't pretty.”

Opening his mouth to form a rebuttal Oaklan discovered that no words were finding his tongue. The truth of the sentence rang through. For whilst none could call the swordsman an inept fighter, even unarmed his strength and endurance elevated him far beyond the abilities of your average man – it had been made abundantly clear how poorly he stacked up against Beck. He’d needed his sword to stand a chance and had still come out the worse off. If these men belonged to a higher tier of hunting even than him, then it went without saying that he would need a sword and very possibly a miracle.

All the while rather enviously, save for his shoes, his newfound ally was fully lethal within himself. Or at least that’s what Oaklan had presupposed. Yet, reflecting on his request to stop at a bar, it become suddenly clear that Beck was perhaps using a kind of weapon after all. Then again, it was just as possible that the alcohol was hindering his true potential. Either way, both men had to attend to these factors before they initiated the battle and a saloon was significantly easier to track than a suitable sword. In fact so far on Stetson, of the handful of blades he’d seen, not one was up to the task. There’d been a few cutlasses and a couple more daggers of various kinds, but nothing substantial enough to suit the Shandian’s savage style. Chrissy was right, if he was to find one anywhere it would be within Lockhart’s compound itself – after all it was where all the produce of the Stetson underground weapon’s trade ended up.

Thanks to the organised, linear nature of the streets within Stetson City heading due east had proved exceptionally easy. The two hunters had already made significant headway into their journey and rather quickly both objectives rose into view. On the right of the street hung a sign denoting the position of yet another saloon and to the left ran a large wall, which obscured view of the other side from all but the tallest of men. The saloon was small, like all of those in Stetson. The people here were stern and prudish, especially when contrasted to their Pecos cousins. Nonetheless, there were a fair number of local drinking holes and this one proved itself just as unexceptional as the others.

“I think that may be it,” the newbie hunter indicated towards a large iron gate without a hint of irony. In stylised writing written across it was ‘Lockhart’s Landscaping’ and whilst vaguely recognisable in its likeness to the symbol aside the cart he’d earlier had a run in with, Oaklan was not blessed with the certainty of knowledge the writing could provide. However they’d made their way instead toward the tavern, all the while the ex-slave’s eyes scanned the building they had to infiltrate.

The wall was easily scalable, but from behind it the air was thick with the sound of menial labour and the occasional masculine shouts that were so common in these types of places. The courtyard was far from empty. Asides that the warehouse, that stood so tall that it was indeed visible from the street, was protected at its only entrance by a large, although somewhat flimsy looking steel shutter. However it was reinforced with a secondary metal-mesh that was pulled down to reinforce the shutter. There was no other entrance, save for a far door on the adjacent lower building. Whilst the warehouse was an anomaly, one of the largest buildings in the entire city at the stories tall, the office block attached to it was much smaller and more typical of the city’s modest style.

Propping himself against the wall, Oaklan continued to examine the building in the hopes of discovering some means of entry. All the while waiting for his partner to deal with his seemingly unnecessary pre-battle preparations, he’d just drunk an entire bottle for hell’s sake, how could a man like him even exist? And although without a sword, he too had something that made him deadly within himself. He'd show these hunters just what he was made of.

“Oh, err, hey there Sendo. Just wanted to let Mr. Lockhart know we're back with the shipment from them old geezers.”

Pulled from his internal ponderings the swordsman was suddenly made fully aware of the arrival of the cart. At its head was unfortunately, a familiar face – the same rodent-featured jerk that had proved himself the small man bully type, looking desperately for any kind of recognition for generally being an asshole. Why he hadn’t smashed his face in was hard to say, but given the current circumstances he was glad he hadn’t. The gate swung open, as the lock was released by men from the inside. Now was probably the best chance they were going to get. Oaklan turned his attention to behind him, peering into the gloomy bar.

“Hey Beck, we gotta’ move—like now. C’mon.”

Already the gates had opened and were beginning to close, unable or at least unwilling to miss this opportunity the Shandian was already on the move. With an alarmingly peculiar amount of grace and subtlety he came toward the back of the cart and entered a leaning skid. In one swift movement he found himself latched to the underside of the vehicle he'd not an hour early laid waste to. Funny how things worked out.

[Terminally Chill]

Beck's first shoe stepped out of the dusky doorway, a fresh bottle of rum clutched in his hand while an uncharacteristic second bottle was shoved tightly in his back pocket. The drunken destroyer sported an annoyed look, not appreciating the nagging of his new partner. Just like a swordsman needed to sharpen his blade, Beck prepared for war with booze. Beck fiddled with the cork of the bottle, muttering as he entered into the Stetson sun once again.

“Everyone's pretty on edge in there... More than usual. Wonder what's up–”

The brawler's bloodshot eyes finally noticed that Oaklan had vanished from his post outside of the saloon. Beck scratched his head and raised a confused eyebrow, scanning for some sign of the rookie bounty hunter. Just as the gate to Lockhart's compound closed, Beck managed to catch sight of Oaklan's sneaky entrance beneath the cart. The boozing bruiser's let out a growl, face forming into a scowl as the realization he had been ditched set in. Jamming a hand in his pocket, Beck took a long pull of rum and made a slowly stroll toward the door.

“Couldn't wait for me huh? Gotta be a ninja or some shit?”

Although Beck's grumbling was embittered, there wasn't exactly a reason for him to complain. Oaklan's quick thinking had granted them a man on the inside, a useful asset when infiltrating an enemy's territory. Instead of drawing unneeded attention to themselves, Beck could wait for Oaklan to find a subtler entrance into the compound. After that, it would be a matter of stealthily making their way to Lockhart and–

“RUUUUUUUUUUUH!”

An ear-erupting racket suddenly exploded across the compound. Foregoing any chance of stealth, Beck had launched a monstrous kick into the center of the hefty iron gate. The hinges were ripped from its posts, chunks of debris showering Lockhart's lackeys as the mangled gate gave way with a loud groan and loudly careened across the courtyard. They looked to the thick dust in shock, a panic ensuing among the workers in the face of the unexpected destruction. A glimmering spark and wavering shadow was visible amid the cloud, causing an uncertain murmur to take hold Lockhart's employees. The culprit of the chaos took a swaying step out of the mess, hand jammed in his pocket and bottle of rum held loosely at his side. The mercenaries looked to each other, none of them entirely sure who the man was or what kind of strength he possessed in light of the ruined gate. The weasel-faced cart driver hopped down from his place at the helm of Lockhart's cargo, giving the suited stranger a baffled stare.

“Who even... Who the hell are you?!”

A thick plume of smoke shrouded Beck's stubbled face for a moment as he looked over the interior of the compound, taking the cigarette from his mouth to flick the ashes to the ground.

“This doesn't look like a landscaping company, you bastards.”

“W-why would you even care 'bout that?! You just kicked down our fuckin' door!”

“... I don't like being tricked.”

Mercenaries began to amass around their fellow bounty hunter, any nearby workers putting aside their tasks to join the fighting force. Beck didn't seem intimidated in the least, eyeing the numbers casually as he took another drink.

“Hey Oaklan!” Beck pointed to the cart, irritation lining his words as he blew his partner's cover. “Get the hell out here already! We got work to do.”

The cart driver gave the cart an uneasy glance, unsure of why the drunken stranger was pointing to the wagon. Even more mysterious than the steely-haired soldier's actions were his motives for the abrupt entrance. The rodent-like driver narrowed his eyes at Beck, realization slowly shaping his features.

“Wait a secon'... Yer that piss-drunk bounty hunter I've heard about, ain't ya? Beck the Fighter!”

Beck's stare remained locked on the cart driver, unwavering as Lockhart's enforcers looks to one another upon learning of the unwelcome guest's identity.

“So does that mean...?”

[/color]

“You're damn right.” Beck began tapping the toe of his shoe on the warehouse's floor, a loud clang ringing out from the steel soles.

“Someone better tell me where Lockhart is...” Beck let out of a refreshed sigh as he took another drink. “... And If you lie to me again, like you did with this Lockhart Landscaping shit...?” The tapping ceased as Beck swept a challenging finger across the mercenaries and common factory workers.

“... Things are gonna get ugly.”[/size][/blockquote]

[Deleted]

“What the HELL is wrong with you?”

The angry, bodiless voice of Oaklan radiated from beneath the cart. All the while the entire population of the courtyard had surrounded the position of the intruders and more besides. As far back as the warehouse, workers had dropped what they were doing to investigate the source of the disturbance. Even civilian onlookers on the outside of the compound had come to peer through the gaping hole where moments ago an impressive gate had been. In fact there was a surprising amount of outside attention and the faces looked peculiarly anxious.

“I-I’m sorry Mister-Cart I told ‘em we should’a taken better care of you, I did – but... but he said we couldn’t be late for the B-boss.” Surprised by the sudden outcry one of the Henchman who’d been escorting the carts raised an accusatory finger toward the rodent-esque cart driver.

Slapping away the hand, anger suddenly replaced the residual intimidation from Beck’s threats. “You dolt, that ain’t the damn cart – that’s that crazy fella’ from earlier. What the hell is he doin’ under the cart? You even gonna come out?”

Bizarrely the entire attention of the rabble of black market labourers and leather-skinned mercenaries had fallen on him. Having been complete and utterly sabotaged by his so-called partner, after a short moment of reluctance a light thud emanated from beneath the cart. Not seconds later an embarrassed and still sword-less swordsmen came rolling from his position concealed beneath the cart. Lying prone in front of a surprisingly placid audience, all he could manage was a hissed “... I hate you.”

The clear discord between the unlikely allies had done some job in diffusing the seriousness of the situation. Indeed no one really seemed to know how to react. Letting out a long sigh, a dejected Oaklan found his feet and came to a sulky stand, his shoulders slumped. Beck really had a habit of showing him up.

“God damn it, are ya’ that stupid!?” The anger came to a boil as he rounded on his teammate. “We was supposed to sneak in, get me a sword from the warehouse and then go kill Lockhart!”

[/b] Beck’s utter incompatibility with subtlety, somewhat hypocritically, had seemed to have placed blinkers on the Shandian savage. Disregarding the mob surrounding him he yelled at the drunkard unconcerned, an activity that fast seemed to be becoming his favourite pastime. As he announced their intended plans, a lackey of either higher initiative or a minor senior authority began to signal to the onlookers at the warehouse. They seemed to get the message for no sooner had he stopped, did the cart lurch forward toward the open warehouse. Like a well oiled machine the workers guided it in, their efficiency whether prompted by the situation or not was impressive and moments later they had bolted up the double shutter behind the raggedy wagon. All the while swordsmen continued to rant obliviously, but his tirade was still not over.

“I mean seriously! I bet any second now some kinda’ alarm is gonna go off.” No sooner than he had said it, the man who moments ago had been gesturing wildly suddenly became very still. Quietly he stalked away from the rest of the group, inching toward a tiny box room – some kind of station. Simultaneously the sellsword spotted a rather appealing length of iron railing, half detached from the gate. Bending down he placed his right arm over it, securing the metallic cylinder under his armpit. Then gripping it with both arms he began to yank at it with powerful, twisting wrenches. Seconds later an alarm bell sounded out through the courtyard, alerting any who’d managed to miss the drunkard’s expert entrance to the fact there were intruders present in Lockhart’s compound.

“Ya’ see!? God damn it... so stupid. Why did I even team up with you? Any second Sandy and Derik are gonna show up – Ha!” Oaklan had claimed his prize, tearing the thick bar of metal from its base.

“It’s Sendo and Deroix... idiot. And you’d best scarper whilst you can, both of you’s. Else you may find it ain't the Boss who ends up dead.” Seemingly no longer intimidated by Beck’s threats, the Cart Driver had found courage in the names of the elite mercenaries. Moreover the clear disorganisation of those doing the threatening and Oaklan’s clear idiocy had really dampened the impact of their words. Well, at least for a microsecond. It didn’t take long for the craven to reassess his immediate situation. With the unpredictable, bloodshot glare of the irritable Beck cutting into him and Oaklan testing the weight of a piece of iron about the same size of himself – the weaselling didn’t take long to kick in.

“N-not... that it matters if I did tell ya’, the Boss is where he always is... in the off--”

“SHUTUP RAT FACE!” Clearly irritated by the noise, the swordsman was finding it hard to concentrate. With a gargantuan swing he caught the abnormally annoying lackey square in the chin with a substantial piece of debris. The makeshift sword served its function as the recipient of the blow was sent rocketing into the nearby stonewall of the compound. In a thundering explosion of rock and dust, that at least, was one down.

“God damn... okay, let’s get into the warehouse ‘n then we’ll have to find Lockhart, wherever he is...”

Despite having scored first blood, the violence did not prevent a series of face-palms from their numerous enemies. However, they did not stop to marvel in the sheer spectacle of the ex-slave and the inebriate for long. In that moment Oaklan knew the fighting was about to start.

“Fuck it,” and as often was the case when such words were uttered... chaos broke out. With a single mighty cleave Oaklan floored the half dozen, unfortunate lackeys who had found themselves in his immediate range. It had begun. [/size][/blockquote]