Chapter Text
The unmistakeable click of metal gently locking into place, a trigger being thumbed into position, it was a noise that had become distressingly familiar to Manjoume in recent months.
He sighed and remembered exactly what Fubuki had told him.
~
"Thunder, relax, this will be the most simple job in the world. Literally nothing can go wrong."
Manjoume arched his brow skeptically.
"I mean it! Don't give me that look." Fubuki protested as he spread the pages and pages of typed telegram communications over the desk. Manjoume could make nothing of them.
"Something can always go wrong." He said quietly, shaking his head.
"Not true! We've had plenty of flawless jobs in the past."
"Name one."
"Raising that barn last summer." Fubuki folded his arms and grinned triumphantly.
"I fell through a window"
Fubuki waved his hand dismissively. "That window needed replacing anyway. Alright fine, the cattle drive up to Del Juegos."
"A storm blew in and we nearly lost the herd!"
"Ah ah ah," Fubuki raised a finger. "Key word. Nearly." He saw that Manjoume was evidently not swayed. "Hmph, well there was- Oh! Those bandits we faced up on Mesa Roja. Where I dressed up as one of them and-"
"You got shot!" Manjoume shouted.
"A little!"
The two stood in silence, an optimistic smile creeping over Fubuki's features. The grin threatened to grow and grow entirely unchecked until finally Manjoume let out a defeated sigh.
"Fine, just tell me what we're needed to do."
Fubuki excitedly trotted to the desk, picking up one of the telegrams.
"This time tomorrow," he announced, "a train out from California will pass through town, carrying a number of wealthy businessmen on their journey east." He pointed to a map on the wall, tracing his fingertip along the marked out railway tracks. "Two stops later, the train will pick up three men of questionable character. Once aboard these men will bide their time until they decide to strike!" He pounded his hand against the map before turning to look at Manjoume with a wild look of glee on his face.
For his part, Manjoume simply looked confused. "And by strike you mean..."
"I mean they're going to rob the aforementioned businessmen, Thunder."
"And you want us to be on that train to stop the robbery?"
Fubuki chuckled, "oh absolutely not, Thunder. Perish the thought."
"Then-"
"We're going to lie in wait ourselves, aboard that very train. Then, when the robbery is complete and the thieves are about to make their getaway, we strike!" He slapped the map again, a few loose pins dropping to the floorboards.
"And strike in this instance means..." Manjoume looked puzzled, "we rob the robbers?"
"Yes!" Fubuki pointed at him, nodding furiously.
"And then we give the stolen wealth back to the businessmen."
"No!" Fubuki pointed with his other hand.
Manjoume frowned, his eyes darting to and fro to see if there was anything in the room that might give him an insight into what exactly his companion was planning.
"And we... Keep the stolen wealth?"
"Thunder I am shocked and appalled." Fubuki clasped his hand to his chest in feigned horror. "We're not thieves. We're simple duellists-slash-ranchers-slash-troubleshooters-slash-entrepreneurs."
"Then what are we doing with the-"
"We're giving it back to its rightful owners." Fubuki planted his hands on his hips and beamed.
Manjoume blinked a few times, trying his best to piece together just what exactly was being said.
"Are the businessmen not the rightful owners?"
Fubuki tutted and shook his head, advancing on the younger duellist and wrapping an arm around his shoulder.
"Thunder, you have a very city-centric mindset. These men on the train, uh, the rob-ees not the the robb-ers, they run a number of industries out west that all have one thing in common. Human misery. The mines, the railroads, the mills. Everyone on that train getting robbed is, I promise you, a top-tier, genuine, prime-grade no-gooder."
"So we'd be giving the money to-"
"To those exploited by those aforementioned no-gooders. In the confusion of the heist going wrong, we escape out of the train and trek a mile or so to this stop here." He wheeled about, nearly making Manjoume stumble, before planting the tip of his middle finger against a small town east of them. "We arrive here with roughly two minutes to spare before another train comes in the other direction. We catch that, we head right back home. We're back in time for supper."
"Wait," Manjoume froze. "You said there were going to be three robbers. And there's only the two of us."
"Ah yes, but-" Fubuki scratched his chin thoughtfully, "we will have the element of surprise. Plus." He reached for a rolled-up leather satchel, spinning it across the desk so that it unfurled, knocking most of the telegram pages to the floor. The satchel opened to reveal two perfectly polished revolvers. "We happen to be the best duelists on the face of the earth."
Manjoume arched his brow again.
"Well, best duelists in the country at least."
Manjoume didn't respond.
"Regardless, we'll be the best duelists on that train, Manjoume." He gave his partner a playful jab on the arm and began to collect up his scattered paper. "Now go rest up, I need to work on our transport papers. We'll need an airtight cover story just in case so remember, we're newly weds headed out to New York."
Manjoume sputtered, feeling heat rise in his face, dizziness building in him. He barely registered Fubuki's laughter.
"I jest, I jest. Don't worry Thunder," he said, "I've got this all under control. Nothing can go wrong."
~
Manjoume drew his gun and placed the barrel between the shoulder blades of the bandit who had foolishly walked past him.
"Wrong train, friend." He whispered as he nudged the man forwards so that he could get to his feet and step away from his seat. Ahead of him, past the train robber, he could see Fubuki had his own two revolvers trained on the other thieves, both of whom were surrendering quite readily.
It had, Manjoume had to admit, gone exactly as Fubuki had described. Behind him, a sound broke through the calm satisfaction.
The unmistakeable click of metal gently locking into place, a trigger being thumbed into position, it was a noise that had become distressingly familiar to Manjoume in recent months.
A pistol was pressed against the back of Manjoume's head and a heavy, scarred voice with an odd accent grunted.
"U.S. Marshal. Put it down, son."