annie, get your gun

Anna Lynn "Rabbit" "Shotgun" Clyde. 36. she/they Why did love put a gun in my hand? Was it for redemption? Was it for r e v e n g e?

[shctgun]

𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐨.

—

Old Halo had been in Jack Odyssey’s gang a few months now, and she was slowly but surely settling in. She had ingratiated herself to Jack Odyssey, at the least. Some of the others were (much) more reluctant to trust her, but as she understood it, Jack and Courier were the important ones to impress. Everyone else, she would figure out in time.

One of those members who hadn’t come around to her yet was Shotgun, so Old Halo was surprised to say the least when they sat right down beside her like they were old buddies. More than a little nervous, too. She glanced away, then back at Shotgun, with the distinct feeling that she was being hunted. Their words did nothing to dismiss that feeling.

“I…” Old Halo couldn’t help her laugh, nervous as it was. Shotgun was straight to the point. She figured she owed them the courtesy of being the same. She nodded. “Alright. First of all, where do you think I would go if I did that? Jack’s the only person who’s been willing to let me stay. Probably the only person on the whole continent. Everyone in Bounty knows that I’m a traitor who wants to see the Faith burn, and no one opposed to the Faith trusts me either, considering that I used to be one of them. I have no illusions about my reputation, Shotgun.”

She sighed. “Second of all, why do you think I’d still be here if my aim was to get Jack Odyssey killed? I’ve been here months already, and I’ve had plenty of opportunity. If that was my goal, I’d be long gone by now. Third,” and here she leveled her gaze at Shotgun, “I don’t make a habit of putting holes in people’s heads. I’m categorically opposed to it, actually. I was under the impression that that was more your thing.”

︻┳═一

“That was more’n ten seconds,” they retort, more so to buy themself sometime than to give an actual criticism. As much as Shotgun would like to have a leg up in the situation, they spent more time tending to animals growing up than they ever did with their nose buried in a book. And while they’d like to believe they’re the smartest person within a thirty foot radius in any given location, it’s a far cry from the truth. Especially when the person sitting across from them is a polished product of The Faith, mind full of a knowledge cultivated and kept within Bounty’s walls and Bounty’s alone.

Still, Shotgun isn’t convinced by the performance, especially not when the first thing Halo has to lean on is survival. While life may not be as cushy as this great “prophet” is used to, she could certainly get by on her own. She’s sharp, and that gets you far, even when working alone. Not to mention all the bandits who would be more than willing to throw caution to the wind and take Halo in on account of her wits and sweet talk alone.

They snort at the implication, though it’s a dry and humorless sort of sound as they stare back, the pair’s eyes now warring shades of brown. 

“It’s very much my thing,” Shotgun says easily, brow raising, head held up the least bit higher. “Which is all the more reason I have to keep a finger close to the trigger when someone like you comes in here and climbs the ladder as fast as you have without slippin’... I’ll humor ya, though. If you ain’t here to put Jack down, what do you want exactly?”

[shctgun]

date: feb. 8th 2349  time: 6:17 pm location: raven’s rest — eel, fool’s prospect status: closed to @widowcr

Shotgun doesn’t take Widower as an idiot and never has. Which is why Widower’s decision to climb to the highest point of the Wheel with Cain weaves an ache of confusion around Shotgun’s skull. Even more so because Shotgun had been convinced Cain’s unique brand of charisma is one she thought only she would find... well, charismatic.

But maybe that rush of adrenaline, the buzz of life in your veins had been exactly what Widow had been after. Shotgun’s no stranger to being knocked flat on their ass, roughed up to the point recovery is just as necessary as it is restless, perturbing. And given how many injuries Widower had sustained on that train, it’s no surprise they might be trying to find ways to take their lost power back, shine up and wax off the unsightly nicks left on their ego.

But if they aren’t going to look after themself, someone else will have to take on the job. And while Shotgun may not be the most charitable of the group, she knows how valuable Widower is. Shotgun doesn’t waste things of value, especially not when they’ve got a shot so clean it rivals her own.

They approach Widower with two bowls in hand, beef stew and biscuits that Jack had provided plenty of during their stay here thus far. Maybe even a little too much, Shotgun could argue; they were getting a little sick of it.

“Widower,” they say, all smooth metal and sweet nectar, “may I ask you to eat with me? Don’t tell me you ain’t hopin’ for a good meal lookin’ like you just crawled outta Hell.”

[shctgun]

date: Feb. 6th 2349  time: 4:35pm location: the wheel — eel, fool’s prospect status: closed to @eastcfeden​

Most of their venom had been wasted on Lark. Initially, at least— there was plenty to be said for an overconfident, unarmed fool with only a smirk at the ready. It wasn’t so much bringing a knife to a gunfight so much as it was bringing a feather to a massacre.

Thankfully, Raven’s Rest provides a quaint enough backdrop for a few nights of restful sleep, and with enough time to recuperate and replenish, Shotgun manages to slick up their tongue with enough acid to spew in Cain’s direction.

Shotgun’s patience is a learned thing, one steeped in years of stepping back, letting Cain and his ruthless brutality step forward until she’s given a cue to step in and finish the job, a stone-faced soldier beside their bloodthirsty cohort. Despite all the lessons, not all that’s practiced can overcome what lies beneath the surface. When she’s stripped bare and only instinct remains, it’s that impulse which drives her rage and leaves no room for clemency.

Shotgun isn’t the blazing, untamable inferno that is Cain. They’re a storm cloud, blackened and cruel, rolling in to cover the sky. They strike with lightening, roar with thunder, cut into the night to leave a village sleepless and watchful.

When they find Cain, Shotgun doesn’t have the graciousness to wait to be acknowledged. Their hand straps hard over Cain’s shoulder, quickly finding a point of pressure and steering him around to face the fierceness in their eyes boring a hole back into Cain’s.

“What the fuck is wrong with you, Cain? The engineman!? Were you hellbent on getting everyone on that fucking train killed!?” They take a pause just to let the blood in their veins simmer. “You have gotta get it together. It ain’t just your life on the line when you pull shit like this!”

[shctgun]

date: Feb. 4th 2349 time:  9:04 PM location: common area in raven’s rest status: closed to @wtnssd​

Shotgun’s become a master of swallowing her own rage. It’s come with her five years in the gang, learning how to quiet herself to go unnoticed in more places and keep the shirt on her back clean of blood. And while it often scrapes around her throat like razor blades and leaves a burning alcohol-and-gunpowder taste on her tongue, it’s a craft she’s perfected despite the fact it's not a particularly pleasant one. Which is why she finds it all the more amusing to watch Witness choke on her anger. The kid’s still scrappy, lively, not quite worn nor weathered with the battle scars that make a soldier. 

It isn’t with a sly smile that Shotgun finds the young inductee’s side. Their long strides come to a pause, thumbs hanging on the belt loops of their pants in a lackadaisical but cocksure stance, hands held out broadly on each of their thighs. 

They don’t necessarily enjoy pestering the kid, though the stifled smirk that often eases over their face when talking to her might argue to the contrary. Witness is amusing, after all, what with that deep set in her brow that reminds Shotgun of a sheepdog crouching, trying to force a herd into line despite how utterly dopey it looks.

“I’ll do you a favor here, Wit; I’m feelin’ generous. This time ‘round, how ‘bout I only take up ten,” and with this, they hold up ten of their fingers, “percent of your share... Figure you might wanna spend some time in Silver Living while we’re here.”

[shctgun]

date: FLASHBACK — Oct. 2344 time: 12:03 AM location: jack odyssey gang’s campgrounds status: closed to @oldhalo

Shotgun hasn’t made a habit of setting down roots. They’d abandoned the idea along with everything but their Daddy’s revolver in the dust-ridden shack sitting on too-open land that they’d called home all those years ago. Jack Odyssey isn’t so much a root but a seed riding on the wind, refusing to settle, taunting the soil below every time he’s whisked away. And therefore, he’s worthy of Shotgun’s respect. And therefore, he’s someone to be protected. Or at least watched. 

And this bastard Old Halo is obscuring Shotgun’s view.

Politics in the Jack Odyssey Gang are a rugged thing— hardly anything isn’t. Words are spoken gruffly around pints of watered down booze and through slick mouths juiced up with tobacco. So it’s a wonder how the oh-so-pristine Old Halo has found herself on a throne beside Jack so quickly. Granted, she’s a shiny thing, and Jack seems to throw caution to the constantly-stirring wind when it comes to shiny new things, at least from what Shotgun’s gathered.

They wait until the table’s clear, many of the Gang’s members having dismissed themselves to their tents after one too many swigs of whiskey. Now, Old Halo sits alone, and Shotgun sidles right up to them, sitting down against the harsh support of a log. The dying fire campfire still holds a dim glow, painting Shotgun in an eerie amber light.

She takes a breath, lets her eyes scan Halo once like she’s sizing up game to shoot down. “Jack’s taken a liking to ya,” she points out, and somehow the simple observation rings more like an accusation from her mouth. “And I’m not gonna beat around the bush here, Halo; I think he’s foolish for it. So I’m givin’ you ten seconds to make your pitch: give me three good reasons I should believe for more’n a second that you won’t add another hole to his head.”

[shctgun]

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[shctgun]

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