The man pauses, leaning against the side of the building to catch his breath, hoping that, this time, he's lost his pursuit, trying to slow his breathing, the loud, pounding rhythm of his blood crashing through his ears, straining to hear over his own body's betrayal. Wild, wide eyes search the alleyway around him as he puts his head down, hoping to get a brief respite, a moment to catch his breath and lose the one chasing him.
He's been on the run for months, and it's draining him, almost pushing him to the point that he wants to quit, to just give in, if for no other reason than he won't have to hear the sound he's dreading.
As his breathing slows, he straightens, listening, straining to hear...
...to find that the sound he is dreading is not there. The only sounds are the small, quiet sounds of the night around him. A long, ragged, shaky breath of relief is drawn in and let go as he leans his head back against the wall, closing his eyes.
Thank God for small favors, he thinks. Jesus, man, all of this for a f*cking hold up job that had only gotten him maybe 200 in silver, at the most...and no one had even gotten hurt!
He should never have let his friend talk him into it, shouldn't have said yes. But his friend had been desperate, had needed the money to pay off a debt to a man much bigger and badder than themselves. And he had agreed to help him.
He sighs, recalling it all as if it were yesterday, rather than months ago. Six long months of hearing those damned bootsteps walking up to his door, a steady, slow, clocking sound as rhythmic as a metronome, almost maddeningly slow and patient, persistent. Those same dark, cold eyes watching him, the small, infuriating smile on the man's face as he watched him run, walking after him with that same slow stride.
Never stopping, always there, until it seemed that, at every moment, he was hearing those steps. Waking up in a cold sweat in the night, unable to sleep, hearing those damnable steps in his sleep, even when they weren't there.
He had become a jittery, paranoid mess, jumping at shadows and the softest of noises, until he had ended up here, leaning back against the wall of a building in some stinking alley, his eyes closed, thankful just not to be hearing those bootsteps.
He opens his eyes, ready to move on, and the motion halts before it's even begun.
Right there, in front of his eyes, is a dark hole, surrounded by steel. The barrel of a pistol, right there, nearly resting against his forehead.
The sight strikes such terror into him that he almost forgets to look past it, at the figure holding it. The same tall figure that had been in his nightmares for six long months, his face cast in shadow under that broad-rimmed hat as he bows his head. A match flaring to life illuminates his features for a moment, revealing those same dark eyes looking at him as the flame is touched to a cigarette, then cast away.
Acrid smoke fills his senses as he stands there, paralyzed by panic, his eyes wide and full of fear as the bounty hunter looks at him. The silence, drawing out for what seems to be a significant portion of eternity, is finally broken as he raises his head and speaks.
"You have one of two choices here, boy. You can try to run, and end up with your brains splattered all over this here wall...or...you can stop running, give up, and keep breathing."
The voice is calm, the words spoken in such a way that they are almost unthreatening. One could almost hear kindness in them, as if he were offering the boy a gift rather than an ultimatum.
They have the desired effect on the boy, young and scared as he is. Without so much as a word, he raises his hands up to either side, closing his eyes again.
Curiously, as the man takes his hands and ties them behind him, the young man feels more relief than anything else, at the realization that, finally, it's over.
Three hours later, the bounty hunter walks out of the office of the Rhy'Din guard, shaking a leather sack which jingles, heavy with coin, a satisfied smile on his face.
On to the next job.
He's been on the run for months, and it's draining him, almost pushing him to the point that he wants to quit, to just give in, if for no other reason than he won't have to hear the sound he's dreading.
As his breathing slows, he straightens, listening, straining to hear...
...to find that the sound he is dreading is not there. The only sounds are the small, quiet sounds of the night around him. A long, ragged, shaky breath of relief is drawn in and let go as he leans his head back against the wall, closing his eyes.
Thank God for small favors, he thinks. Jesus, man, all of this for a f*cking hold up job that had only gotten him maybe 200 in silver, at the most...and no one had even gotten hurt!
He should never have let his friend talk him into it, shouldn't have said yes. But his friend had been desperate, had needed the money to pay off a debt to a man much bigger and badder than themselves. And he had agreed to help him.
He sighs, recalling it all as if it were yesterday, rather than months ago. Six long months of hearing those damned bootsteps walking up to his door, a steady, slow, clocking sound as rhythmic as a metronome, almost maddeningly slow and patient, persistent. Those same dark, cold eyes watching him, the small, infuriating smile on the man's face as he watched him run, walking after him with that same slow stride.
Never stopping, always there, until it seemed that, at every moment, he was hearing those steps. Waking up in a cold sweat in the night, unable to sleep, hearing those damnable steps in his sleep, even when they weren't there.
He had become a jittery, paranoid mess, jumping at shadows and the softest of noises, until he had ended up here, leaning back against the wall of a building in some stinking alley, his eyes closed, thankful just not to be hearing those bootsteps.
He opens his eyes, ready to move on, and the motion halts before it's even begun.
Right there, in front of his eyes, is a dark hole, surrounded by steel. The barrel of a pistol, right there, nearly resting against his forehead.
The sight strikes such terror into him that he almost forgets to look past it, at the figure holding it. The same tall figure that had been in his nightmares for six long months, his face cast in shadow under that broad-rimmed hat as he bows his head. A match flaring to life illuminates his features for a moment, revealing those same dark eyes looking at him as the flame is touched to a cigarette, then cast away.
Acrid smoke fills his senses as he stands there, paralyzed by panic, his eyes wide and full of fear as the bounty hunter looks at him. The silence, drawing out for what seems to be a significant portion of eternity, is finally broken as he raises his head and speaks.
"You have one of two choices here, boy. You can try to run, and end up with your brains splattered all over this here wall...or...you can stop running, give up, and keep breathing."
The voice is calm, the words spoken in such a way that they are almost unthreatening. One could almost hear kindness in them, as if he were offering the boy a gift rather than an ultimatum.
They have the desired effect on the boy, young and scared as he is. Without so much as a word, he raises his hands up to either side, closing his eyes again.
Curiously, as the man takes his hands and ties them behind him, the young man feels more relief than anything else, at the realization that, finally, it's over.
Three hours later, the bounty hunter walks out of the office of the Rhy'Din guard, shaking a leather sack which jingles, heavy with coin, a satisfied smile on his face.
On to the next job.