Chapter Text
How unforgiving was the heat of the desert.
Any wanderer who dares cross its dunes would have many obstacles provided for them. From rolling hills as far as the eye could see, to the complete lack of edible vegetation. The desert left no respite to any who tried to traverse it. Yet, the worst challenge that it dealt was the heat. It was the type of heat that seemed inescapable. Even in the late hours of the night, the air held within it a type of humidity that was just hot enough to be a hindrance, yet it was still plausible to reside in.
In fact, to some, it became almost comfortable. Albeit, it may be due to nostalgia, but some of the more permanent residents of the desert basked in its warmth as if it were the embrace of an old friend.
The outlaw was not one of those people.
She seemed to share the opinion with those who visited. To her, the heat was unbearably uncomfortable. While she may have resided there for an extensive amount of time, she could never settle into the constant feeling of sweat dripping down her forehead, or the headaches induced by a lack of convenient water, or her ever-present thirst.
Unfortunately, she didn't have time to be bothered by the dryness in her throat. She had a job to do, after all. Her target was low-picking fruit; a bratty runaway daughter of an aristocrat. The bounty, wanted alive, was being offered at a price far more than the actual job needed. Hell, it was enough for her to retire at twenty-five.
The outlaw snickered to herself. The worn-out parchment paper that sketched the girl showed why her parents had attempted to marry her off. She looked like a porcelain doll. Her heart-shaped face was framed by soft, ruby princess curls. Her pale skin showed how she never once had to slave away in the farms; a clear reference to her status.
This job should be easy. With no need to spill blood, and with a target that certainly wasn't trained at hiding, she could practically feel the gold in her palms.
That's what brings her to this shitty, run-down bar. It was in the middle of an equally rundown, sleepy town that had nothing but scumbags who were trying to outrun the law. She almost pitied her. After four days, the outlaw tracked the girl down to a pub filled with nothing but criminals. For a girl so uneducated on how to survive in the real world, she certainly knew where to hide.
The outlaw walked in with as much nonchalance as she could muster. Getting her target to come "willing" would be easier if she didn't make a scene. The bar had little to no patrons, which made everything better.
It wasn't very hard to spot who she came here for. The posh girl was speaking to the bartender in hushed whispers. She stuck out like a sore thumb. Amongst the gruff and gnarly patrons, she was as timid as a mouse. She knew where to hide, but not how to blend in.
The outlaw walked up to the girl and tapped her on the shoulder.
"'Scuse me, little lady, 'mind?"
The girl stiffened, like struck by lightning, and turned around. "OH! I'm so sorry for my…um..my-"
"I'd like to order, hun. Some of us gotta drown our woes in booze."
The girl awkwardly shuffled to the side; out of the way. The outlaw was surprised someone like her made it this far at all.
"Alright, then," the outlaw directed her attention to the bartender, "Whisky. On the rocks."
The bartender, a man with pale eyes and graying hair, looked up from shining his glass. "7, ma'am."
She slammed her hand on the table. "Seven! That's a damn scam if I've ever seen one. If hell I'm paying that," the outlaw huffed. "You have anything cheaper?"
"Well, we have cheap ale-"
"That'll do."
The bartender put down his glass and walked into the back. Perfect.
She turned her attention back to her target, who had her eyes on her shoes. She wasn't paying attention and in a place like this…
The outlaw slowly reached for her holster.
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How unforgiving were those pompous bastards.
Any person who has exchanged pleasantries with the opulent class, knows what will come of it. From the gossip and degrading whispered between maids, from the complete lack of empathy inside the hearts of her own family. Yet, the worst challenge of all was the pretending. It was the type of pretending that would gnaw you. Even with your own parents, you have to lie and pretend and bluff and fool. Yet to some, it was plausible to fake it.
In fact, to some, it was almost comfortable. Albeit, it may be due to habit, some preferred to keep up the facade.
Charlotte was not one of those people.
She shared the opinion of any commoner looking in. As if they were looking in through a glass cage, because the posh had the savagery of animals, and they would see the horrors lying beneath the surface. She could never settle into the lying, the backstabbing, and young girls being married off to men in their 50s.
Fortunately, she found a way out. A convenient unlocked window, plus a few linen sheets tied not-so-expertly with knots, gave her the opening she needed. She grabbed some of the most priceless pieces of jewelry; gifts from her to-be-groom, and ran. She ran and ran until her lungs burned and her legs caved. She sold her jewels and wandered for days.
Charlotte sobbed to herself. She had to claw tooth and nail for her life if she wanted to scrape by. She looked down at her hands. They were soft, with no callouses, showing what little work she had to do in her life. Eventually, she needed to ask for directions if she didn't want to stumble into the hands of her father, who needed her as a key in a business transaction.
That's what brings her to this shitty, run-down bar. In the middle of this small town, in the middle of the unbearably hot desert, she would hopefully find some sense of direction. She walked in, with her shoulders hunched and head down. Her mother would have beaten her if she had seen her walk without a perfect poster, but there was no need to walk like a socialite amongst criminals.
She approached the bartender, with apprehension, and tentatively asked "Excuse me, sir, if I may ask, would you please give me directions to somewhere quiet."
The bartender, with an aged face and tired eyes, laughed at her tone. "Miss, there ain't no need to be so polite in a place like this. You make yourself seem like the target to rob."
"Ah," Charlotte breathed, disheartened. "I understand. Do you know any sleepy town or…" She trailed off.
"You trying to hide?" he questioned. She felt her heart sink; she felt like a rat, having to hide between the cracks, yet she nodded.
The man was kind, something which she wasn't used to. He gave her directions to the perfect town northwest of the one they resided in. They made some small talk before Charlotte was tapped on the shoulder.
"'Scuse me, little lady, 'mind?"
Charlotte stiffened. She knew her family was after her, and her anxiety was through the roof. Seeing her own face plastered on bulletin boards will do that to you. She slowly turned around and looked at who'd tapped her.
She was tall, easily a head over her. Her hair was held back with a red bandana, and she was dressed in clothes made with the intent of bracing the weather of the desert. She looked nothing like Charlotte. Her skin was sun-kissed, and her hands calloused. She was what Charlotte wished she was. A woman who stood tall and proud, who walked wherever she wanted and wore what she want.
"OH! I'm so sorry for my…um..my-"
"I'd like to order, hun. Some of us gotta drown our woes in booze."
The brunette turned to the bartender. "Alright, then. Whisky. On the rocks."
Maybe she should order a drink too, to help numb her. It's not like she never had alcohol. She's tasted fragrant wines and sparkling ciders, but never something as barbaric as whiskey.
She was in her head, but she managed to make out the bartender and the women arguing about prices. Eventually, the old man walked into the back.
She needed to calm down. It was fine. Her parents wouldn't ever find her here, hiding among criminals like a mouse hiding from prey-
Huh, that was odd. Charlotte felt something cold pressed into her.
Cold.
On her back.
She felt cold steel on her back.
When she was younger, she used to imagine what she'd do in situations like this. Oftentimes, when she was trapped in the confines of her pastel room, she dreamed about fighting villains and thieves and whatnot. She'd imagine that she'd fight, and she'd win, and her parents would be proud of her for using something other than manners.
Instead, like the small, weak coward she was, she stood still.
The bounty hunter pressed closer, her gun in the small of Charlotte's back, and leaned over her shoulder.
"Listen, little lady. I'm not a monster,” the outlaw's voice was unnervingly calm. “They need you alive, and I'm not one to use violence if I don't need to."
The gun pressed in further, even the heat of the desert wasn't enough to fight off the feeling of the cold steel barrel.
Charlotte couldn't breathe. She felt that if she did, the bullet would fire.
"So for your safety and health," the Outlaw spoke, "I'd suggest you'd walk."