Ship: Gideon Nav/Harrowhark Nonagesimus, The Locked Tomb Words: 240 Notes: These River bubble AUs are getting more and more dire. Oh dear.
——
The street is empty and the sun is high. Harrow stands alone in the dust.
“She’s a good shot,” Marta tells her from her seat on the shaded boardwalk. “If you don’t outdraw her, you’re dead.”
“Good, I’ll just have to do that,” Harrow responds, too high on fear and adrenaline for anything more coherent.
“You could still call this off, you know,” Dulcinea adds from the opposite side, leaning on her cane. “Take your horse, ride off into the sunset before she gets here and all that. You’d never get to show your face around here again, of course, but you can’t do that if you’re dead either.”
“I’m not leaving,” Harrow says. “If I die, I die.”
“Gallant as always,” Dulcinea responds. “I don’t know if I should admire you or fear for you. Both in equal measure, perhaps?”
“All depends on who wins,” counters Marta. “If you live, you’re a hero. If you die, you’re a fool. There’s going to be one hero and one fool on this street, we just don’t know who’s who yet.”
On the far side of town, a rider dismounts from her horse. She’s shrouded in black, a red bandana across her face, red hair above it. She twirls her pistols, holsters them, and approaches slowly.
From Marta: “Shoot her dead.”
From Dulcinea: “Don’t make a choice you’ll regret.”
And from Abigail: “This had bloody well better not be how it happens.”
FILL: Team Webcomics/Webtoons
Words: 240
Notes: These River bubble AUs are getting more and more dire. Oh dear.
——
The street is empty and the sun is high. Harrow stands alone in the dust.
“She’s a good shot,” Marta tells her from her seat on the shaded boardwalk. “If you don’t outdraw her, you’re dead.”
“Good, I’ll just have to do that,” Harrow responds, too high on fear and adrenaline for anything more coherent.
“You could still call this off, you know,” Dulcinea adds from the opposite side, leaning on her cane. “Take your horse, ride off into the sunset before she gets here and all that. You’d never get to show your face around here again, of course, but you can’t do that if you’re dead either.”
“I’m not leaving,” Harrow says. “If I die, I die.”
“Gallant as always,” Dulcinea responds. “I don’t know if I should admire you or fear for you. Both in equal measure, perhaps?”
“All depends on who wins,” counters Marta. “If you live, you’re a hero. If you die, you’re a fool. There’s going to be one hero and one fool on this street, we just don’t know who’s who yet.”
On the far side of town, a rider dismounts from her horse. She’s shrouded in black, a red bandana across her face, red hair above it. She twirls her pistols, holsters them, and approaches slowly.
From Marta: “Shoot her dead.”
From Dulcinea: “Don’t make a choice you’ll regret.”
And from Abigail: “This had bloody well better not be how it happens.”