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oom: outside of new york city
It's a small town, on the outskirts of the state, he's not quite sure where he's at but he's not quite sure of anything at the moment because he's too far gone, mentally and physically, to give a damn.
The bar's noisy and that's what he wants, slipping inside and blending in with the crowd, even if the dark coat isn't quite normal dress code, but he doesn't care. He wants a drink and a door back to Milliways.
"You've gotta check your guns," the bartender says, as he's pouring the first shot of brandy.
"I'd rather not," Doc comments, as he reaches for the glass and downs it in a single swallow.
"Rules, partner."
"I said I'd rather not," he slams the glass back down and glares at the man. "I'm not going to start shit with you, just pour the damn booze already."
"You gonna pay for this?"
Doc reaches into his coat and slams a wad of cash down on the bar. "Course I'm gonna pay for it."
The bartender picks up a few bills and then reaches again for the brandy bottle, and pours another shot. Doc doesn't hesitate to drink the liquor down in a single swallow, glass thudding lightly against the wooden bartop, nodding.
The bartender pours again, and nods.
_______________________________
By the time he stumbles out into the street, it's raining, lightly, but the ground is dusty and it quickly turns to mud underneath his boots, so he finds shelter underneath the balcony of the saloon and stands on the wooden walkway, smoking a cigarette and leaning carefully against the wall.
There's a few drops hitting him from between the slats in the roof, but he ignores them for the fresh air and acid smoke filling his lungs.
He's drunk, and he knows it, but he doesn't care.
Why should he care?
"Improvise! Always works for me."
He tosses the cigarette into the mud and closes his eyes, listening to the raindrops hit the roof and the ground, and ignores the few that drop down on his skin.
give me skies of black and blue, the way you make me feel
give me skies of green and red, cold winds that make it real
storms are brewin' deep within of hurt, and loss, and pride
it's good to see the world in pain when i take a walk outside
She's gone. She's with someone else and she's gone and it's all his fault. If he hadn't been so careless with his own name in New York City, maybe they'd still be together in that tiny little apartment. If he hadn't been such a fargin' idiot...
No.
She moved on.
Doc thinks back to the night by the inlet and the conversation he'd had with his ghosts. Yen was a fragile woman but she was also a smart woman, and people had always given them second looks walking down the street. And a young, beautiful Chinese girl with a little baby boy and no husband...looked bad, no matter how you looked at it.
She moved on.
He stares out at the street and the mud filling with puddles of water, then realizes he should probably move his horse out of the rain before all the leather gets wet, so he turns to walk around the building.
It's two men who bump into him as he passes, and the contact makes him stumble a little with the alcohol running through his veins.
"Gentlemen."
"Hey, hold up a minute,"
Doc keeps walking.
"I said hold up," the other calls, and he feels a heavy hand on his shoulder and he turns quickly, almost too quickly, and his head spins a bit with the effort.
"Ain't you that Scur--"
A thousand things happen in the next half-heartbeat, and one broken fragment runs through his mind as everything suddenly snaps, he's not sure why or what it means.
"If it be not now, yet it will come. The readiness is all."
The man doesn't get the chance to finish the end of his sentence (or even the rest of the word, for that matter) before he's got a bullet in the space between his eyes.
"The readiness is all."
when it rains, i don't mind bein' lonely
i cry right along with the sky
The blood hits him in the face and Doc closes his eyes on instinct.
"You little shit!"
The other man draws his own gun but Doc turns and pulls the trigger first, lead slamming into the other man's torso, once, twice, the body hits the ground, three, four, five.
(If your hands aren't fast you'll end up dead.)
when it rains, i don't pretend to be happy
i don't even have to try
His Colt is empty and Doc just stands there, a half second, then another heartbeat, two.
They're lying on the boardwalk in two heaps, and the one with the bullet in his skull is leaving a pool of blood, dark red running with the water and mixing with the dirt. He pulls in a deep breath, then shoves his gun back in his holster and then turns around, and walks on.
Ain't you that Scurlock fella?
Josiah Gordon Scurlock? Don't you move.
By the time he's mounted up on his horse and heading along the road, he's running again. Nobody's chasing him, but he's riding hard and fast, trying to get away from the shadows. Billy's laughing at him. Of course he's laughing at him. He was right. You can't ever get out.
The sky is getting dark as the sun sets, even behind the cloud cover, and Doc nudges the horse on, following the railroad spur that runs along the road, towards a tunnel. The tunnel will be dry and he needs to change the wraps on his arm, reload his gun, stop running.
"You were right, you son of a bitch."
"Course I was, Doc."
Doc laughs and after a minute, he's crying again, and he's so tired that he lets the horse travel on without really looking ahead to where he's going. His body is warm, hot from the liquor and the adrenaline, but his bones are freezing. He can't stop laughing and he's not sure why. It's not funny. This isn't funny.
start out depressed
everything comes as a pleasant surprise
"She's gone, Billy."
"They killed you, Doc. The bastard killed you."
"You killed me you son of a bitch!"
"You can't blame me." Billy's standing in front of him in the tunnel, right on the tracks. "You can't blame me for this, Doc. You knew deep down you would never make it back to Ol' Mexico and you shouldn't have ever made it back to New York City. You think of that? You weren't supposed to make it back to see her with him."
"You ain't no judge and you ain't no goddamn executioner, it ain't your right."
Billy grins at him and shrugs. "Don't matter now, Doc."
"You son of a bitch!"
Doc reaches for the gun at his hip and levels it at Billy, and he pulls the trigger.
His eyes close on instinct, and when he opens them again, Billy's gone. The gun is cold in his hand, empty, and even though he never fired a single shot, the gunfire is ringing in his ears. Just like those hammers being cocked back. Just like those bullets slamming into his chest...
Doc reaches down to touch his chest, and he can feel the weight of the kevlar, heavy, so damn heavy (he's so damn tired) underneath his shirt. He hadn't left it behind, of course, because he didn't want to risk leaving an object from the future lying in the dirt or in that whorehouse for just anyone to find. The vest had stopped those bullets. One had just gotten a little too low.
He's alive.
He shouldn't be but he is.
Doc closes his eyes and lets his head fall forward, chin brushing his chest as he holsters the pistol at his hip.
"You were right."
"Course I was. You're not a half bad outlaw, y'know, Doc? I mean it. We're pals, remember?"
"Pals."
"Pals. You ain't half bad."
"Ain't half bad." Doc barks out a laugh and feels a sharp pain in his stomach, one that makes him double over and grab for the horn of the saddle to keep from falling off the horse. He's too damn tired. "Hell Kid, I killed half the men you got credit for!"
The words echo in the dark and when he realizes the rain's been stopped for some time, he lifts his head and stares at the black, listening as sound bounces back that isn't his voice.
there's a bright light coming at him
The bar's noisy and that's what he wants, slipping inside and blending in with the crowd, even if the dark coat isn't quite normal dress code, but he doesn't care. He wants a drink and a door back to Milliways.
"You've gotta check your guns," the bartender says, as he's pouring the first shot of brandy.
"I'd rather not," Doc comments, as he reaches for the glass and downs it in a single swallow.
"Rules, partner."
"I said I'd rather not," he slams the glass back down and glares at the man. "I'm not going to start shit with you, just pour the damn booze already."
"You gonna pay for this?"
Doc reaches into his coat and slams a wad of cash down on the bar. "Course I'm gonna pay for it."
The bartender picks up a few bills and then reaches again for the brandy bottle, and pours another shot. Doc doesn't hesitate to drink the liquor down in a single swallow, glass thudding lightly against the wooden bartop, nodding.
The bartender pours again, and nods.
By the time he stumbles out into the street, it's raining, lightly, but the ground is dusty and it quickly turns to mud underneath his boots, so he finds shelter underneath the balcony of the saloon and stands on the wooden walkway, smoking a cigarette and leaning carefully against the wall.
There's a few drops hitting him from between the slats in the roof, but he ignores them for the fresh air and acid smoke filling his lungs.
He's drunk, and he knows it, but he doesn't care.
Why should he care?
"Improvise! Always works for me."
He tosses the cigarette into the mud and closes his eyes, listening to the raindrops hit the roof and the ground, and ignores the few that drop down on his skin.
give me skies of black and blue, the way you make me feel
give me skies of green and red, cold winds that make it real
storms are brewin' deep within of hurt, and loss, and pride
it's good to see the world in pain when i take a walk outside
She's gone. She's with someone else and she's gone and it's all his fault. If he hadn't been so careless with his own name in New York City, maybe they'd still be together in that tiny little apartment. If he hadn't been such a fargin' idiot...
No.
She moved on.
Doc thinks back to the night by the inlet and the conversation he'd had with his ghosts. Yen was a fragile woman but she was also a smart woman, and people had always given them second looks walking down the street. And a young, beautiful Chinese girl with a little baby boy and no husband...looked bad, no matter how you looked at it.
She moved on.
He stares out at the street and the mud filling with puddles of water, then realizes he should probably move his horse out of the rain before all the leather gets wet, so he turns to walk around the building.
It's two men who bump into him as he passes, and the contact makes him stumble a little with the alcohol running through his veins.
"Gentlemen."
"Hey, hold up a minute,"
Doc keeps walking.
"I said hold up," the other calls, and he feels a heavy hand on his shoulder and he turns quickly, almost too quickly, and his head spins a bit with the effort.
"Ain't you that Scur--"
A thousand things happen in the next half-heartbeat, and one broken fragment runs through his mind as everything suddenly snaps, he's not sure why or what it means.
"If it be not now, yet it will come. The readiness is all."
The man doesn't get the chance to finish the end of his sentence (or even the rest of the word, for that matter) before he's got a bullet in the space between his eyes.
"The readiness is all."
when it rains, i don't mind bein' lonely
i cry right along with the sky
The blood hits him in the face and Doc closes his eyes on instinct.
One second he's standing there, Billy's shaking his hand.
The next second he's got a hole in his head.
Brains and blood and gore all over his face, in his eyes.
McKloskey hits the water in the river facedown.
He's gone.
It's all gone to hell.
"You little shit!"
The other man draws his own gun but Doc turns and pulls the trigger first, lead slamming into the other man's torso, once, twice, the body hits the ground, three, four, five.
(If your hands aren't fast you'll end up dead.)
when it rains, i don't pretend to be happy
i don't even have to try
His Colt is empty and Doc just stands there, a half second, then another heartbeat, two.
They're lying on the boardwalk in two heaps, and the one with the bullet in his skull is leaving a pool of blood, dark red running with the water and mixing with the dirt. He pulls in a deep breath, then shoves his gun back in his holster and then turns around, and walks on.
Ain't you that Scurlock fella?
Josiah Gordon Scurlock? Don't you move.
By the time he's mounted up on his horse and heading along the road, he's running again. Nobody's chasing him, but he's riding hard and fast, trying to get away from the shadows. Billy's laughing at him. Of course he's laughing at him. He was right. You can't ever get out.
The sky is getting dark as the sun sets, even behind the cloud cover, and Doc nudges the horse on, following the railroad spur that runs along the road, towards a tunnel. The tunnel will be dry and he needs to change the wraps on his arm, reload his gun, stop running.
"You were right, you son of a bitch."
"Course I was, Doc."
Doc laughs and after a minute, he's crying again, and he's so tired that he lets the horse travel on without really looking ahead to where he's going. His body is warm, hot from the liquor and the adrenaline, but his bones are freezing. He can't stop laughing and he's not sure why. It's not funny. This isn't funny.
start out depressed
everything comes as a pleasant surprise
"She's gone, Billy."
"They killed you, Doc. The bastard killed you."
"You killed me you son of a bitch!"
"You can't blame me." Billy's standing in front of him in the tunnel, right on the tracks. "You can't blame me for this, Doc. You knew deep down you would never make it back to Ol' Mexico and you shouldn't have ever made it back to New York City. You think of that? You weren't supposed to make it back to see her with him."
"You ain't no judge and you ain't no goddamn executioner, it ain't your right."
Billy grins at him and shrugs. "Don't matter now, Doc."
"You son of a bitch!"
Doc reaches for the gun at his hip and levels it at Billy, and he pulls the trigger.
bang.
bang.
bang.
bang.
bang.
bang.
His eyes close on instinct, and when he opens them again, Billy's gone. The gun is cold in his hand, empty, and even though he never fired a single shot, the gunfire is ringing in his ears. Just like those hammers being cocked back. Just like those bullets slamming into his chest...
Doc reaches down to touch his chest, and he can feel the weight of the kevlar, heavy, so damn heavy (he's so damn tired) underneath his shirt. He hadn't left it behind, of course, because he didn't want to risk leaving an object from the future lying in the dirt or in that whorehouse for just anyone to find. The vest had stopped those bullets. One had just gotten a little too low.
He's alive.
He shouldn't be but he is.
Doc closes his eyes and lets his head fall forward, chin brushing his chest as he holsters the pistol at his hip.
"You were right."
"Course I was. You're not a half bad outlaw, y'know, Doc? I mean it. We're pals, remember?"
"Pals."
"Pals. You ain't half bad."
"Ain't half bad." Doc barks out a laugh and feels a sharp pain in his stomach, one that makes him double over and grab for the horn of the saddle to keep from falling off the horse. He's too damn tired. "Hell Kid, I killed half the men you got credit for!"
The words echo in the dark and when he realizes the rain's been stopped for some time, he lifts his head and stares at the black, listening as sound bounces back that isn't his voice.
(If he wasn't so tired, he'd laugh, because deep down he's hoping it's a train.)