Trains.
It was always trains.
The rhythmic, almost soothing 'rhudd-rhudd-rhudd' of the locomotive resounded throughout its relatively few cabins, accompanied by the stifled, staccatoed tones of hushed voices, incessant dining-cabin babble turning to a watery, thrumming murmur. The pitch of night surrounded the train, wrapping it in its leathery, opaque folds. The moon hung like a great hole in the sky, a violent, stinging white light at the end of the tunnel. Midnight rains toned in tinny symphony, smearing moonlight paint across the windows. The train car itself left much to be desired, as did its occupants; a portly fellow sat squarely in Bryn's view, which, given the lack of one eye, was twice the irritant it should be. She'd spent most of the day observing the occupants and the bottom of a cocktail glass. Her breath reeked of sugary cola and that ineffable rummy undertone, tongue adhering to the back of her throat. The alcohol had done something to soothe her general discontent, leaving her a touch giggly and a few shades of randy.
A drunken breath oozed out of Bryn's mouth, burning the tip of her tongue with the last dregs of booze. Her leg had been irritating her more than usual, lately, which meant everything irritated her more than usual. Snips and quips fell like the outdoor raindrops in her mind, and the length of the train ride did not help keep the acid between her teeth. Her weapons were locked up with her luggage; they didn't even allow her to keep her prosthesis, meaning she had to switch to her peg. This caused her some irritation, given that the peg cared little for her comfort; the only thing separating her stump from the wooden stick was a thin layer of padding, which still gave with every footfall, causing the pegleg to poke her directly beneath her kneecap. Already having run up a tab she never intended to pay back, Bryn kept to the seat assigned to her, wishing she'd shelled out the extra money for a personal room. She spent the next hour nose-deep in a trashy romance novel, struggling with the pretentious, ill-suited vocabulary of the struggling author.
"Fuckin'--'She gesticulated wildly, his throbbing mass 'twixt her nethers!?' What is this horseshit?" Punctuating her irritated statement, Bryn threw the novel across the cabin, landing squarely in one of the trashcans that littered the aisle. The resounding 'whudd' startled the portly male across from her to wakedness, doing nothing for Bryn's mood.
"Wh...What's wrong, there, Br--" He began, words slurred by grogginess.
"Shut the fuck up, Jimothy."
It was sunrise by the time the train pulled into 'station.' Bryn's stop was more precaution than installment, as stopping in the town itself would be a deathwish. With a yawn, she and a few other bounty hunters like her stepped out of their respective doorways, all of their luggage tossed surreptitiously out the back before the train departed once more. Staggering over to her duffel bag, Bryn pulled out her very favorite prosthesis, Crowsfoot. Its immaculate, well-polished surface hooked nicely beneath her stump, the padding made for suction so that it wouldn't come off unless she wanted it to.
Helter and Skelter sat in their holsters, waiting to be used, with Bryn's favorite among all her belongings: Jersey, the glowing skull. Strange that they allowed her to keep his wing, but not the skull itself, but Bryn never mused about the small consolations.
When all was said and done, she stepped out into the badlands, which reeked of cinder and flesh. The ravaged town lay in the near distance, only a couple of miles away. Bile scratched at her throat, she was a little thirsty, and had only eaten a piece of toast and an egg...
...But at this moment, Bryn couldn't be more excited. Trudging past the tiny puddles, not minding the muddy trail, she set out, ready for whatever might come.
It was always trains.
The rhythmic, almost soothing 'rhudd-rhudd-rhudd' of the locomotive resounded throughout its relatively few cabins, accompanied by the stifled, staccatoed tones of hushed voices, incessant dining-cabin babble turning to a watery, thrumming murmur. The pitch of night surrounded the train, wrapping it in its leathery, opaque folds. The moon hung like a great hole in the sky, a violent, stinging white light at the end of the tunnel. Midnight rains toned in tinny symphony, smearing moonlight paint across the windows. The train car itself left much to be desired, as did its occupants; a portly fellow sat squarely in Bryn's view, which, given the lack of one eye, was twice the irritant it should be. She'd spent most of the day observing the occupants and the bottom of a cocktail glass. Her breath reeked of sugary cola and that ineffable rummy undertone, tongue adhering to the back of her throat. The alcohol had done something to soothe her general discontent, leaving her a touch giggly and a few shades of randy.
A drunken breath oozed out of Bryn's mouth, burning the tip of her tongue with the last dregs of booze. Her leg had been irritating her more than usual, lately, which meant everything irritated her more than usual. Snips and quips fell like the outdoor raindrops in her mind, and the length of the train ride did not help keep the acid between her teeth. Her weapons were locked up with her luggage; they didn't even allow her to keep her prosthesis, meaning she had to switch to her peg. This caused her some irritation, given that the peg cared little for her comfort; the only thing separating her stump from the wooden stick was a thin layer of padding, which still gave with every footfall, causing the pegleg to poke her directly beneath her kneecap. Already having run up a tab she never intended to pay back, Bryn kept to the seat assigned to her, wishing she'd shelled out the extra money for a personal room. She spent the next hour nose-deep in a trashy romance novel, struggling with the pretentious, ill-suited vocabulary of the struggling author.
"Fuckin'--'She gesticulated wildly, his throbbing mass 'twixt her nethers!?' What is this horseshit?" Punctuating her irritated statement, Bryn threw the novel across the cabin, landing squarely in one of the trashcans that littered the aisle. The resounding 'whudd' startled the portly male across from her to wakedness, doing nothing for Bryn's mood.
"Wh...What's wrong, there, Br--" He began, words slurred by grogginess.
"Shut the fuck up, Jimothy."
It was sunrise by the time the train pulled into 'station.' Bryn's stop was more precaution than installment, as stopping in the town itself would be a deathwish. With a yawn, she and a few other bounty hunters like her stepped out of their respective doorways, all of their luggage tossed surreptitiously out the back before the train departed once more. Staggering over to her duffel bag, Bryn pulled out her very favorite prosthesis, Crowsfoot. Its immaculate, well-polished surface hooked nicely beneath her stump, the padding made for suction so that it wouldn't come off unless she wanted it to.
Helter and Skelter sat in their holsters, waiting to be used, with Bryn's favorite among all her belongings: Jersey, the glowing skull. Strange that they allowed her to keep his wing, but not the skull itself, but Bryn never mused about the small consolations.
When all was said and done, she stepped out into the badlands, which reeked of cinder and flesh. The ravaged town lay in the near distance, only a couple of miles away. Bile scratched at her throat, she was a little thirsty, and had only eaten a piece of toast and an egg...
...But at this moment, Bryn couldn't be more excited. Trudging past the tiny puddles, not minding the muddy trail, she set out, ready for whatever might come.