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Not for the first time in his life, Micro finds himself tied up, gagged, and slung over the back of a horse. It definitely won’t be the last, either. The steady gait of the horse rocks him up and down, up and down, and the afternoon sun beats down on him like a headache—or a hangover. Ish, I need a drink. It’s been a long, dry road to reach town, and the only things waiting for him are the sheriff, a dingy cell, and a rope around his neck the next morning. No alcohol in the cards. He writhes, trying to shift his bindings but so far all he gets is jostled by horse’s hindquarters under him as it continues to step ever onwards to Chain Haven. He tries wriggling his knees back and forth, then throwing his weight to seesaw back and forth until he topples off. Nothing. He grunts in frustration.
Prince could stand to hurry up a bit, the sadist. With his head fully turned he can only really see the back of her dusky maroon poncho, patterned with white and yellow. “Shut up back there!” barks Zam, his captor (well, Micro calls her Zam. Or variations on Prince. He doesn’t think she actually has a name. He can’t even remember why he calls her Zam. She also reaches back to rap him on the head with her gloved knuckles. “Quit movin’ or you’re getting dragged into town through the dirt.”
“Mmph! Ow!” During his second indignant outburst his handkerchief gag slips off, falling around his neck and allowing him to rasp out his complaints. “You’re a real piece of work Prince. I’m gonna keel over before you can even turn me in if you don’t give me some damn water.”
“If you hadn’t trapped yourself in your own arson project you wouldn’t have swallowed so much smoke, no?” he can hear her characteristic smile as she scolds him. “Then you would have gotten out in time and I wouldn’t have had to fight Bizzy and KagL for your sorry ass. It’s all your fault, really. As usual.”
He’d swear it isn’t, if anyone would believe him. Micro has an admittedly poor relationship with luck. Most things he does end up falling apart even though he really, honestly tries to think it all through. Like the fire, it should have been simple: set fire to the house, get witnessed, flee the scene, get his bounty upped. Instead, he’d gotten stuck in the hedge on his way out, his accomplice had up and vanished, then by the time he’d managed to get out the owners were hot on his tail instead of being left in his dust. Probably should’ve run in any other direction. Damn it, he only thinks of this stuff once it’s too late. After that, he’d run himself ragged halfway across the prairie by his reckoning until Zam had joined the party and found him with his hands up and two irate homeowners holding him at gunpoint. Two swift ankle shots from Zam to the competition later, his attempt to turn tail had turned into a hard tackle to the ground where the dry brush and grit scraped any bit of skin left exposed by his attempts to buck the blonde drifter off. His body still smarts from the impact, and from the numerous smart raps to the forehead by the butt of her pistol.
“We can’t keep meetin’ like this.” Micro tries to grin as though he’s not trussed up like a hog for slaughter. Zam kicks him in the ribs. “Shut up Micro.”
They pull into Chain Haven as the afternoon begins to lazily wane into the evening. It’s not the nicest sheriff’s office Micro has been dumped like a sack of potatoes in front of, but the setting sun in these parts has a way of giving even the most dull and dusty towns a smidge of charm. A dog barks in the distance as Zam hitches her horse—a perlino tobiano Barrens that she spoils rotten—to the porch. She pulls her red bandana off her face, and starts fussing with some burrs and twigs in its mane as Micro begins raising what little hell he has left in him.
“You’re a goddamn bootlicker, y’know,” he croaks. Zam never bothered to re-tie his gag but he’s still bound hand and foot so all he can do is fling his body against the ground and the porch railing. He hawks up what feels like the last of his spit to clear his mouth of trail dust. “Have fun with your fuckin’ blood money, bastard.”
Zam casts a disparaging glance toward his nasty little spit bubble marking the porch as she stomps up the steps, while Micro continues to thrash ineffectually like a landed fish, each thud causing the horse to idly flick an ear in his direction. He manages to kick out his bound legs far enough to hit her shin as she passes him.
“Ow, oh you little shit!” She whirls around and hoists him up by his collar, the sudden levelling of their faces giving Micro a wildly bad idea.
Ptui. Turns out he had a little spit left in him after all.
The warm evening air seems to freeze around them. Zam’s usually smirk disappears, and her golden irises turn as black as her pupils. Micro has seen that before—what he hasn’t seen before is her face this red, like hot iron about to be struck. Her fingers clench, and she slams him down on the floorboards so swiftly and forcefully he could’ve sworn he heard splinters breaking. The drifter shifts her hands from his shirt collar to around his throat as she leans over him, a thunderous expression clouding her face, then her grip begins to tighten.
“Micro, you’d better count your lucky fuckin’ stars that your cursed bloodline ends tomorrow you wretch, or I’d make darn sure every one of your fickle descendants dies under my bootheel.”
“Why not kill me now huh,” Micro wheezes, twitching and seizing under Zam’s unyielding grip while she tanks his attempts at knee-jabs. He can’t help but let a smug tinge creep into his speech, unaffected by his assailant’s attempts to close his windpipe. “Right, right, you need me alive to get your bounty. Otherwise you wouldn’t hesitate, yeah?” He laughs and the taste of iron fills his mouth—he must have bit his cheek while making close, personal acquaintances with the decking. Zam quickly slaps her hand over his mouth before he can make an all-stars rerun of one of his worst ever moves. Now any attempt to keep grossing her out is met with the taste of leather riding glove; horsey, with notes of gun oil, dirt, and sweat.
Zam scowls as she leans over him, her hair is in disarray with several strands escaping her ponytail to fall down her shoulders and into Micro’s face. There’s some stuck to her face with sweat, and the grime of travel has dulled the blonde from its usual sunrays-at-high-noon appearance. Her hat, with its dumb faux crown of bullet casings adorning the band, has been knocked askew in their struggle and is beginning to slowly slip off her head. The soft thump of it meeting the ground seems to free her from the staring contest they’d subconsciously entered, and she snatches the wild rag from around Micro’s neck with her free hand, stuffing it in his mouth before he has the chance to notice her hand move off. She rises abruptly, leaving Micro to grouse on the ground for the enjoyment of the several passers-by who had stopped to watch their little clown show.
“KaNukei!” Zam storms through the sheriff’s office doorway, pulling a rolled up and significantly crumpled piece of paper out of her back pocket. Micro hears her slam his bounty poster on the desk and sends a mental plea for forgiveness to the sheriff of Chain Haven for the haggling he’s about to experience.
𓃗𓃗𓃗
A long time ago, a child learns that the only way out is through, and that the only way through is to lie, cheat, kill, and steal. A long time later, a girl goes back to the only path that’s ever worked out for her.
She’s laying prone on a hill overlooking the edge of town, where a modest crowd has formed around the Chain Haven gallows. Celestia waits patiently downhill behind her, reins dropped in a ground-tie. Looking down the sights of her rifle, she waits for them to bring out Micro. It’s a longer shot than she’d like, but she’d be way too visible otherwise. A horse-drawn cart clatters down the central town road away from the gallows. She finds herself watching the spokes of the wheels turn round and around until KaNukei comes into view leading a white-blazed horse bearing Micro, jolting her out of her trance. He’s handcuffed and re-gagged—a good call on KaNukei’s part she will admit. That boy can talk your damned ears off. The bay Fourths Horse is in position now, and so is Micro now that the noose is around his neck. KaNukei begins reading out his list of crimes to the gathered townsfolk.
“Scam artistry, theft, unsanctioned sale of drugs and alcohol—in one case to children.” Micro has opinions about that one, which she always tunes out. “Gang activity, assault and battery, one count of manslaughter and multiple counts of murder.”
They’ve done a little bounty-inflating during their adventures, but she’s pretty sure it’s just been one murder. So far. Rookie numbers.
“Bigamy,” Hah, he hates that one. “Identify theft, impersonation of clergy.” She can admit that one’s not really his fault. The identity theft was technically his… twin? Whatever Longdog is, and it was consensual, apparently. Also, can they even be blamed for both being the spitting image of their more priestly cousin?
“And, of course, arson.” KaNukei rolls up the paper he was reading from. She breathes in, blinks slowly. Lets the sun warm her skin like a supporting embrace. A couple resupplying mishaps and some bad luck have left her with only just one shot, then she’s clean out of rifle ammo.
One of the junior lawmen gives the horse a firm smack on the rump, and it bolts. The noose pulls Micro’s chin up and-
Bang
The rope severs. Off he goes, according to the whims of the startled horse. She dashes to mount Celestia, who hasn’t moved an inch despite the shot because she’s an absolute angel. They quickly break into a canter, then gallop as a distant outcry can be heard from the town, followed by hoofbeats. Two riders, and hopefully nothing more. She tries to keep out sight behind the foot of the hill until they’re a little bit further out, then switches to taking the faster paths. As the bay comes into view again, she swears. There’s no Micro, and the pursuing riders shout frantically at each other as they catch up to the slowing horse.
Did he fall off? Of course he did. Why wouldn’t Micro fall off the damn horse after already making more work for her.
She’ll have to double back. The riders yell after her, starting to turn and follow. If there’s one saving grace to this situation, it’s that Micro has a trick that would have at least kept him safe until they saw her galloping this way; if he stays really, really still he fades away, right into thin air. It’s apparently more complicated than that, something involving Longdog and not doing it in quick succession, she’s never quite gotten a good answer out of him. She scans the ground for the tell-tale sign—There. A little pile of clothes marked out by his dull eggplant-coloured ruana, looking for all the world like Micro had laid down and evaporated. A similarly faded eggplant vest, white-ish shirt, grey pants, grey boots—the only thing missing is his hat, which is currently in her possession, along with his revolver. It makes a nice replacement for her own (rest in pieces, gone too soon).
Once they’re coming up next to the Micro pile she slows Celestia as he fades back into corporeality. For whatever reason he only fades back exactly into whatever was already touching him—she knows for a fact he’s tried fading out of handcuffs and failed. This has the disconcerting effect making his clothes appear to inflate before he fully returns, but it’s great for keeping Micro clothed which is certainly preferrable. The now opaque and solid Micro makes a leap, scrabbling for a grip on the saddle cantle, assisted by a firm yank to the belt by hers truly. Celestia whinnies, startled by the shifting weights. He owes her so many sugar cubes after this disaster.
Gunshots whistle past them, accompanied by Micro’s arms tightening around her torso in a panic reflex. Urging Celestia back to a gallop, she prepares to lose their entourage.
When they’re finally in the clear, they make camp under a rocky bluff. The adrenaline has barely drained out of her system when she starts counting out the bounty money while Micro unsuccessfully tries to sweep the dust off the pretty violet bluebells embroidered across his shirt yoke. It’s their usual split: one third for Micro, two thirds for her. It’s a familiar routine, not just with the current personage. One day she’ll get sick of this like she always does. I’ll shoot the rope for the last time. Send him riding off to Ish knows where. Let him go. Just like Baablu.
Micro frowns at the money in his hands, and starts to protest like he always does. “What do I have to do for 50/50, huh?”
“Don’t fuck up.”
He lets out his signature dry laugh, three sharp beats. “C’mon Prince, I think I should get hazard pay for that one. Loosest stirrups in the west.”
“Hazard pay.”
“Yeah.”
She yanks the money out of his hands. “Wh-Zam! What the hell?”
“Get it right at the next town and maybe you’ll earn something.” Micro tilts his head and stills, like he’s considering her response, or like he’s doing the weird head-tilt-and-blink he sometimes does before-Fuck! She makes a grab for his collapsing clothes and misses, then he fades right back in, snatching the full bounty and his pistol.
“Micro.” He’s making towards Celestia, and against all expectations manages to get into the saddle and urge her forward, but not without her pulling off the lasso hitched to saddle. She whirls the loop around her head as he struggles to coax Celestia into anything faster than a trot. He doesn’t make it far out of camp before the rope wraps around his middle, pulling tight and unseating into the dirt. Walking up and looming over Micro, who’s laying on his side—stunned, she determines that he looks scared shitless. Probably because she’s pulling what he calls the ‘wolf smile,’ or the ‘Zam is going to do something evil smile.’ Dunno why. Rolling him onto his back, she secures wrists before releasing his arms and torso from the lasso, then ties his hands in front of him.
Here’s the thing about Micro, sure he’s basically had nine lives but in the grand scheme of things? He’s green. He can try to double-cross her all he wants, but it’s been done before by more skilled players. Over, and over, and over—it truly can’t even hurt her anymore. He doesn’t know what it’s like to get your last hopes beaten out of you. Not that he needs to learn how to give up, no. He needs to learn how face a problem any other way but head on. So I can’t get rid of him yet, not yet. Not until he learns. Like Baablu did.
A long time ago a girl is given a second chance. It doesn’t last long.
“You’re walkin’ to the next town,” she says, fashioning the lasso into a nice, long leash.
𓃗𓃗𓃗
Micro awakens in the ever-familiar state of laying over the croup of Prince’s horse. He must have passed out. They’re in a town, but she isn’t steering the horse to anywhere that looks like a sheriff’s office or jail, instead stopping in front of a weatherbeaten building bearing a sign decorated with large bull skull, denoting the ‘Bonnie Brae Saloon.’ Guess they’re not running the bounty thing again. Once she’s hitched the horse Zam hauls him off and dumps him on his feet, then drags him into the saloon by his wrist bindings, the batwing doors clattering behind them. It’s rather dim inside, with only a few weak light sources to bolster the quickly waning sunlight filtering through the windows to illuminate the dust particles, cobwebs and the unusual number paintings depicting lemon orchards. It’s also empty—save for a dark-haired man in a brown fringe jacket at the bar absentmindedly polishing a glass with a rag. As Zam impatiently pulls him up to the bar, Micro takes in some… familiar details about the barkeep. He’s wearing green scarf over a navy-and-white shield-front shirt, and as they get closer Micro realises that he looks exactly like-
“Jaw?”
“We-ell hey there!” Jaw responds uneasily, ceasing his glass polishing endeavors. “I guess they didn’t getcha after all, huh?”
“Yeah, no thanks to you.” Micro grumbles. “Hey! I had my own hide to take care of,” Jaw retorts, then gestures to Micro’s current predicament. “‘Sides, looks like you would have gotten caught by somebody no matter what I did.”
“Y’all know each other?” Zam interjects, raising an eyebrow at the two of them.
“We met before yeah, he looked like he wanted to get into some trouble, so I clued him in. That house should be easy, he said.” replies Micro, throwing an accusatory glance at Jaw. “Ha!” Zam gives him a cuff to the back of the head as she laughs. “That’s what you get for ropin’ in a stranger.”
“We got customers?” A voice calls out from the kitchens, followed by a young person wearing a navy duster with a blue wild rag pulled over his face slinking into the room and taking a seat behind the bar with Jaw. His pose—leaning against the wall with a Coalition-style kepi hat pulled slightly over his eyes—seems to indicate that he doesn’t plan on helping Jaw all that much.
“Hey ‘Wobb,” Zam greets the youth cheerfully. Micro doesn’t know all that much about Awobb, only that Zam’s been happy to see him the handful of times the three of them have crossed paths, which makes him feel something too fast and wriggly to pin down. Awobb’s kepi and similarly styled shirt and pants are battered and dubiously stained. Is he a deserter, or did he steal them? Micro has never asked.
“Zam, Micro,” Awobb gives them both a smiling nod. “Doin’ good?” Zam shrugs. “So-so, better than the last time we worked together at least. Didn’t have the whole darn town on our heels. I’m real sorry ‘bout that ‘Wobb, honest.”
“Naw, it’s nothin’ Zam. Really.” Awobb responds bashfully, the cap tipping a little further over his eyes.
“Anyhow,” Zam slaps both palms on the bar counter. “I’m gonna need two rooms.” She double checks the prices on the ‘Rooms for Let’ sign behind Jaw. “One room. With a bath, please.” She adds a desperate tone to her bath request, while dropping some money on the counter.
“Sure thing, Prince,” Jaw leafs through the notes. “But baths are extra.”
“Aw, what? It wasn’t last time—and I asked nicely too!”
“Things change.”
“No discount for repeat customer? One with a smile like this?”
“Friend, that’s a killer’s smile and you know it.”
As Jaw and Zam bicker over the price, Awobb seems to pick up Micro’s generally exhausted state. “We do free lemonade,” he says, waving his hand at a little sign on the counter. You’re supposed to have free lunch at saloons, but he’ll take it. He nods weakly and Awobb pours him a glass. The sweet and sour drink will probably make him feel thirstier in the long run, but he chugs it anyway. “Thanks, Awobb,” he says hoarsely.
“You can call me ‘Wobb, it’s cool.”
“Uh, yeah. Sure thing.”
It seems that Zam was convinced by Jaw to fork over a bit more of their dishonourably-earned cash, as Awobb tosses her key that was hanging from one of the pegs behind him and Zam begins pulling him into the hallway.
“Micro-” Jaw starts, then glances at Awobb. “Should we…?”
“You don’t wanna get into it with them man, trust me.”
“Northerners, huh?” Awobb and Jaw continue muttering to each other, fading out of earshot as Micro is hurried up the stairs by Zam.
Their room, as it turns out, is fairly nice for an establishment as cobwebby as the Bonnie Brae. Micro is shoved unceremoniously through the door, which Zam promptly shuts behind him. The key clicks in the lock, and the sounds of Zam’s boots fade out down the hall and then the stairs, leaving Micro to take in his surroundings. The room is currently lit by a single oil lamp set upon a dressing table with a mirror, while an unlit lantern sits on the windowsill. There’s a bed with sheets that at least look clean, a small wardrobe, a wooden chair sitting next to the dresser—and just as Zam had stressed— a wooden tub with a folding screen and washstand next to it. It’s surprisingly large, he had been expecting a sawn-off barrel to stand in while you pour water over yourself, but it looks like a person could sit down in this one.
Micro manages a few exploratory circuits around the room, peering out the single window once or twice, before Zam returns hauling a large pitcher of water, slightly steaming. Jaw follows behind her to set a smaller carafe of water and two glasses on the dressing table. Micro’s throat pangs at the sight of fresh water, there’s slight beading on the outside of the carafe to advertise how cool and refreshing it would be if he could have a sip. Jaw throws Micro a concerned glance before leaving. Despite leaving him the lurch at the house, Micro can’t help but like him a little.
Once again locking the door, Zam gives Micro the pointed, no-running-or-I-shoot look that she’s given him a thousand times over before pulling the folding screen out in front of the tub and starting to undress behind it. This is probably the only chance he’ll get where she can’t see him. He sits down on the floor against a spot on the wall where he’d discovered a nail poking out. He hopes the sounds splashing water as Zam begins to bathe will give him a little cover to start sawing at the bindings around his wrists with the nail. What he can actually do once he’s free is another question entirely. There’s no doubt she’s kept her gun holster in arm’s reach; he wouldn’t even put it past her to be holding the gun in the bath.
“I can hear ya, you know,” Zam says a couple minutes later as she begins getting out. “I know what you’re doing.”
“Fuck off Prince.” Micro bites back, hands now free. He’s sweating something fierce—despite the air beginning to cool with the fall of night. He shrugs out of his jacket, tosses it and his hat aside just as Zam comes out from behind the screen, wearing her spare shirt over her drawers, and aiming the pistol at him. She tosses her black bolero jacket, pants and shotgun chaps on the dressing table while trying to pull a hairbrush through her wet hair, but it looks stuck halfway despite her repeated tugging. “You’re gonna do something for me, kid.”. Zam plants herself down on the chair, watching him in the dresser mirror while she aims over her shoulder.
“What, can’t brush your hair by yourself, Princey?”
“Don’t call me that,” she huffs. “Micro, there’s two kinds of people in this world—those with loaded guns,” she twirls the pistol around her fingers. “And those who brush.” She gives him the sunny smile, the Zam is a winner smile. “You brush.”
Micro steps up to the back of the chair and gingerly extracts the brush from her locks. She slides the gun back into the holster at her waist, resting her hand on the grip. He picks up some of her hair in one hand and starts teasing the brush through the strands with the other. He could do this with his eyes closed. “You gotta start from the ends, then brush from higher and higher up. You know this, Zam, I’ve seen you brush the horse’s mane for Ish’s sake.”
“Doesn’t me hurt if I’m brushing Celestia,” she pouts. “And she’s tougher than me also.”
“Didn’t think there was anyone in the world tougher than you.”
She snorts. “Trust me. There’s plenty.”
He finds that hard to believe. Studying her reflection in the mirror, her tan face and aquiline nose framed by wet strands of golden hair, his eyes fall on the twin beauty marks. One under each eye. There’s a little superstition about them in this country; they call it the Mark of the Resolute. She definitely lives up to it. His cousin Saps has the same thing. He shifts his gaze to his own reflection. He has twin moles too, not as symmetrical as Zam’s and lower, sitting on either side of his mouth. His ones don’t have an auspicious name.
Micro arranges her now-brushed hair into a braid, almost without having to think. It’ll give her the waves that she likes when it’s dry. Looking down to see if the twine she uses for her hair is on the dresser, he notices that her hand has drifted away from the pistol grip and is now fidgeting with the bracelet on her other wrist; a band of heart-shaped paste gems forming a little rainbow. It looks cheap, but Micro knows it’s dear to her. Is her guard down, or is it something else?
“Tie.” She rummages through her pockets then places it in his waiting hand so he can tie off the braid. Her hand doesn’t return to the pistol, but back to tracing the stones of the bracelet.
He grabs the gun. Reaches down and pulls it off her holster like a rattlesnake striking. Points it to her head. “Hands up.”
“Micro.”
“Hands up.”
She complies. “Y’know, Wobb ain’t gonna be pleased if you get blood on his nice floors.”
“Don’t care.” he reaches behind him with his other hand and grabs the pitcher, shakily pouring a glass of water, spilling it over his hand in the process. He gulps it down greedily, wipes his mouth with the back of his free hand. Okay Micro, now what? Threaten her, take the money, leave. How long until she gives chase? Would Jaw and Awobb help her—could you bribe them? The room fades away in his vision until all he can see is the pistol and its barrel resting against a blonde head hair. Where would I go—back on the run? She’d never give up. Fuck it—you should just end this right now. Kill her. Cut the leash. Grab the reins. Let the bullet spray her brains all over this nice room. Go back to the old Micro. Crawl back to Saps and the church and the family and the eyes and the questions-
No. not that far. Back to the arms of Thomas and Longdog. Back to riding alongside train tracks chasing cargo as it shuttles ‘cross the country. Pretend you never left, pretend you’re not the same man who couldn’t stay. The body—hide it from Jaw and Awobb? Would they care? Could you fade long enough to throw them off, would the killing overrule bribery? Fuck. He pours and drains a second glass of water. No, keep running, run until the girl wearing the ram skull appears, pointing to the Ghost Train again.
“You’re supposed to keep the iron steady, no?” Zam’s voice, distant. His hand is shaking—just a little bit, he can still do this. It’s just a little. Come on. The steady kerchunk, kerchunk, kerchunk of the Ghost Train rolling down its spectral tracks starts to drown out his other thoughts, until the only thing that exists in the world is the weight gun in his hand and a long stretch of carriages in front of him. Jump on, exit the carriage on the left, where things like you came from in the old days. Find the truth about you and Longdog. No. Stay on the train until it goes down, down to the place where you can talk to them again. Banana, Neptune, Panzer.
Click.
It’s empty. The pistol is fucking empty.
Click. Click. Click. Nothing.
He hates her, Ish he really hates her. Hates that he’s scared enough of her for empty threats to work. Hates that he’s careless enough not to check the cylinder. Hates that she’s laughing right now and it sounds musical. Hates that he never was going to leave, that he never can.
Zam stands up suddenly, butting the back of her head straight into his face before he can even think. His nose hurts like hell. She whirls around, grabs the chair by the back and throws it across the room. He can’t stop his head from turning towards the sound of it crashing and she snatched the gun from him as it falls. Don’t think ‘Wobb will be happy about that. Holstering the gun, she grabs the front of his shirt then begins shoving him back, back, sideways while he struggles, raining blows at her sides that go ignored. The backs of his knees hit something. She hoists him up by the shirt front and then all but throws him into bathtub. There’s a nasty thunk as the back of his head smacks against the rim, right in the same spot as the other times. Water goes up his nose, and probably everywhere if the accompanying loud splash is any indication.
He blinks the bathwater from his eyes and is greeted by a new Zam smile. It’s a dangerous one, with darkened eyes; a predatory gaze. Maybe it’s not a smile, maybe she’s baring her teeth. Maybe he should lay down in the mountain lion’s jaws and rest. She pours the meagre amount of remaining bathwater over his head.
“Eugh, you smell like burnt hair.” She sniffs as he sputters from the water attack. “Manure too, a bit. Why didn’t ya fall off somewhere nicer?”
Before he can defend himself she begins scrubbing harshly at his face with the provided washcloth, then the rest of his body. At some point soap gets involved, but Zam’s methods include dunking his head under water like he’s a waterboarding victim, so he loses track of things quickly. It’s not the most effective bath he’s ever received considering he’s still clothed from the neck down. She at least tugs his wild rag off, but his clothes sans hat and jacket are now completely soaked through. Oh well, probably the closest they’ll see to a good wash for longer than he wants to dwell on. This shirt wasn’t grey when I got it, right? I swear it was white.
At some point he stops struggling, like a scruffed kitten. Saps once found a flea-covered stray and begged his mother to let them keep it, being bathed at the latter’s insistence. The poor thing wasn’t ready for a shock and kept slipping out of her grasp, causing Saps to misjudge with the pitcher and accidentally pour water over its head. She’d tried to be gentle but firm with the kitten, even as she got increasingly soaked, until she could wrap it in a fluffy towel and gently dry it by the fire. The safe arms of Saps and Micro’s aunt don’t await him after this, though. There’s only Zam.
Zam, who’s brushing through his short hair. “Not much grey left. You’re gonna be all white soon,” she snickers. “Like a grey horse.” A strange quality lingers in her voice and expression, Micro can’t place it.
“No thanks to you.”
She towels off his hair for as long as she can be bothered once she’s satisfied with her work, then finger combs it back to some kind of order. “There, nice ‘n pretty again,” she whispers, picking up a not-quite-dry curl between her fingers before letting it fall back against his cheek. “Right now, it’s like little wisps of mist.”
“Right then,” Zam snaps out whatever that was. She grabs the back of his shirt collar and drags him to a standing position. To her credit she really does try to get him dry, even if it’s another hurricane-esque experience, but the towel has been through one bather and his wet hair already so there’s really no hope. “You couldn’t have asked for two towels?” Micro grumbles, earning a shrug in response. “I think they underestimated my charitable tendencies.”
“Uh-huh.” Micro’s comment earns him a flick to the forehead. “Ow. Can I get out now?”
“Yup,” replies a grinning Zam, walking away to grab her poncho and the yellow shirt she was wearing before bathing. Once found, they’re hurled at him forcefully before she pulls the screen between them. “Look at this. I’m literally being a saint.”
Considering that he tried to kill her a few moments ago, Micro can’t really argue. He thinks about running again, knowing that Zam will need at least a moment to reload the gun. He’s currently pantsless after changing into Zam’s offerings, but he’s run through towns in less clothes before. Do I really want to repeat that experience? He just feels… deflated. Something about Zam’s upturn in mood after his attempt on her life has thrown everything off kilter.
There isn’t really anywhere to dry his wet clothes, so he drapes them over the chair and decides to solve that problem later. Zam frowns at the now occupied and wet chair, then gestures to Micro and then the bed. He sits on the edge, and she kneels on the bed behind him. He hears something click, and glances down to see her holding her trident dagger to his neck. Can’t believe that antique still works. “I’m still more armed than you, Micro?” she says in a low voice next to his ear, then removes the dagger away. “So stay nice and still for me.” He hears her opening a tin behind him, then she smears her fingers over one of his various minor scrapes, this one making a home on his cheek.
Micro hisses. “Oi! That stings!”
“Okay? Then suck it up?” Zam replies, so he does, only making minor complaints during the rest of her ministrations. He looks out the window to watch night fall as Zam finishes up with the salve. He offers to return the favour, but she laughs. “As if, kid. I handled it, now get off the bed.” She gives him a light shove to underscore the demand. Once he gets off the bed she tosses the quilt—lemon-patterned—and a pillow at him. Right, there’s just one bed, a single—and he did try to shoot her. Zam tosses her rather worn travel blanket that she usually keeps rolled up tied to her saddle over the bed sheets, while Micro arranges his quilt and pillow, and after a moment’s thought, his ruana, into something somewhat comfortable. Zam tucks herself in, Micro turns out the light, and then he curls up on the floor in his makeshift bed waiting for Zam to fall asleep.
Micro usually falls asleep after her naturally. He may have a dash of insomnia. There’s motive this time, though (well, other than suspicion). While he was changing, he noticed his bolo tie was gone, and what do you know? She’s wearing it. His metal canteen, decorated on one side with a maple leaf and the drunkenly etched signatures of the cartel on the other, is fine. He never steals her locket, the bracelet, or the plush no matter how bad things get. But the bolo tie…she always does this. He can’t get her to apply unspoken agreement not to mess with each other’s keepsakes no matter how many times he mentions that it was his last gift from Thomas, right before Micro left. He has Longdog, Micro reminds himself. He’s fine. Clever like a fox, and twice as quick.
Zam’s breathing eventually slows, and every now and then she lets out a soft snore. Micro carefully rolls out of his floor cocoon and quietly crawls to the dresser chair to rummage through the pockets of his dark grey pants. He finds it—a bolo slide that he’d pocketed in Chain Haven before he’d started the house fire. Hey, if the sheriff couldn’t find his hidden pocket, then by all rights it’s his, fair and square. It’s gold in colour—probably just plated—set with three stones. There’s two small ones, red and green, on either side of a slightly larger blue one. Where’s his hat—right, still on the floor. He picks it up and cuts off the stampede string with his pocketknife, then approaches the bed as stealthily as he can muster. Micro slowly pulls back Zam’s bedcovers, revealing the bolo tie around her shirt collar. It’s not the most valuable thing in the world, the slide is just an oval of lacquered wood painted with purple paisley with a little ghost face Thomas had painted on the largest, most central teardrop. He first eases the slide off the metal-tipped bola, then carefully pulls it out from the shirt collar. After threading his severed hat string behind her neck he then pulls the ends through the clasps of the tricoloured slide. There, now she has one. He doesn’t trust himself to adjust it further without waking her.
She can deal with that when she wakes up. Micro crawls back to his ‘bed’ as quickly as he can without making noise and goes to sleep.
By the time he red gains consciousness he’s probably slept well into the mid-morning. Late to bed, late to rise. Micro rolls over as he wakes reluctantly, finding that the morning light has thoroughly invaded the room—they forgot to shutter the windows. He stretches, feeling suspiciously comfortable. He blinks sleep from his eyes blearily, and realises he’s on the bed, wrapped in the quilt.
Sitting upright, he scans the room. Zam is nowhere to be seen, however most of her stuff appears to remain in the room. Micro checks his pocket for his retrieved bolo.
It’s still there.