It was a quiet night, even for the Blue Boar, which was accustomed to quiet nights.
The man they called Lefty busied himself with dusting, his metal arm telescoping into the ceiling joists to wipe the grime of Angel City away from the flotsam and jetsam that the bar's owner hung there. Some flecks of lint fell down to give his caramel hair the suggestion of grey, the rest floated off, propelled by the ceiling fan to find new resting places in the collection
At a corner table, the Wanderer and Teller both considered the moves possible on a plastic dime store chess set. The mage's unblinking silver eyes, the only part of his face visible behind his iron mask, narrowed for a moment as he lifted a black-gloved hand toward the pieces, then returned to his lap. The gregarious android's shining orbs flickered upwards toward his opponent for a moment before returning to the board. Then both were still for a long while, and Lefty considered whether he might have to dust *them*.
Behind the bar, the radio cycled softly from static to music then back again. Of course, in Nexus, the concept of "classic" was indefinite at best. For his part, the bar's owner delicately fiddled with the radio dial, leaning close in against it and looking for all the world like a safecracker at work. He finally made a sound halfway between a grunt and a curse and switched the beige box off.
"Quiet night," he said, to no one in particular.
The man in the iron mask lifted his gloved hand again, shifting a pawn one space forward, and apparently opening up his remaining bishop for capture. His android opponent nodded, lights beginning to pulse again through the fiber optics beneath the transparent covering of his braincase.
"Like I was saying," he said, his shining eyes surveying the board, "there they were. They knew the shipment was on that boat, and you know the Knights - ain't none of them subtle. Well, the boat had its own people to make sure those drugs got into the country, and these three guys in samurai armor come flying down off the ship."
The Wanderer looked Callan's way and made a subtle nod. Callan nodded back and reached behind the bar, turning over a small egg timer.
"Now, Random could stick to walls and stuff that day, so he figures that he'll crawl along underneath the pier and sneak up behind the guys in armor. Well, what he doesn't know is that these guys have hired the Devolver and the Deactivator for this job, and they've been trying to take away everybody's powers while they're squaring off. So he sneaks off behind a pile of boxes, tries to crawl over the side of the pier, and 'sploosh'! Inta the bay he goes...."
Lefty shook his head, causing a flurry of settled dust, and returned his arm to a normal length, tucking his dust rag into his belt. "Somethin' cold, Lucas?"
Callan nodded, and turned back behind the bar, pulling a brown bottle from a small cooler.
"The Protector doesn't know what these guys can do, right? And with everything that was goin' on in town, he didn't know if he wanted to know. So he picks up the semi trailer these guys have got to take the stuff away with, and..."
The silver eyes of the Wanderer flickered back to the timer as the last grain of sand fell. He spoke, his voice muffled, escaping from around his eyes "Your time is up, sir. Make your move."
The android looked over his shoulder toward the bar, metal cables in his neck pulling taut and catching a bit of light. Callan returned his look and nodded. "You know the rules, Teller. If you're gonna play the game with him, you have to quit talking long enough to move and give him some time to think."
Lefty nodded, picking up his bottle from the bar and giving the cap a hard twist. "Not like ye didn't have yor next move figgered out 'fore ye started in talkin' again anyway..."
There was a shrug of metal shoulders, and a quick movement later, the Wanderer's bishop was gone from the board.
"Check."
It being a quiet night, there was no way the customer coming in through the door could expect to elude the attention of the others. So he didn't even try. He stepped in, his black, silver-heeled boots clacking on the hard floor, the brim of his hat pulled down to shade his eyes, presumably from the moonlight outside.
He wore a Long-Rider which must have been tan once, but was now a sort of dung color, grimed and scuffed. Grease spots stained it under the arm and around the neck. The vent in the back had a three-corner tear, which left it hanging lop-sidedly.
He marched up to the bar and leaned on it proprietarily. "Gimme a beer," he gowled, slapping down a coin with a gloved hand.
Callan gave the coin a long look, then nodded, turning to retrieve a heavy mug from the shelf behind him. With a practiced hand, he tilted the mug and pulled a worn ebony taphandle, sending a swirl of amber liquid swirling into it.
In the corner, both the Wanderer's eyes and Teller's optic units flickered toward the man for a moment. The android's eyes returned to look at the mage, who met the gaze and nodded. The metal man returned the gesture and all four eyes returned to the board.
With the slightest clink of glass against stone, Callan settled the mug in front of the stranger and swept the coin off the bar.
"Can I get you anything else, sir?"
The man lifted the mug and took a long pull. In fact, he drained it. He ended with a satisfied "Ah!" and a belch. Then he clunked the mug down--with a sickening sound that might indicate he'd used a little too much force for a stone-topped bar--and nodded.
"Yeah. Another one'a those." He slapped down another coin. This one was of considerably higher denomination than the first. "And... some information."
Callan took a moment to examine the mug for any cracks that might affect its primary purpose, then, apparently satisfied, went about the task of pouring the stranger another round.
"Well, sir," he said as he pulled the taphandle back. "I can tell you a bit about this and that, but it'd be best if you held onto your money until you decide whether what I've got to tell is worth the cash you're paying, don't you think?"
The man just grunted. His lack of concern was patently obvious on his face. What Callan could see of it.
Despite the fact that the mug set slightly crooked when Callan set it back down, not a drop of beer touched the bar.
This time, he didn't guzzle the beer, but took a sip. Then he straightened and looked Callan full in the face. "I hear tell," he said, hooking one booted foot over the foot-rail, "that there's some guy hereabouts thinks he's God's Gift to Gunfighters." He took another deep draft. "Know anything about it?"
Lefty scraped the bottom of his bottle on the bar as he stepped back, retreating closer to where the other two men sat.
Callan raised an eyebrow and fixed the man with a long look. "Well, sir, the Blue Boar does see its share of gunfighters, but I don't think any of them call themselves *that*..."
The young man--for now Callan can see he is that awkward age between manhood and wisdom--held his gaze for a long moment, and then grunted. "I heard diff'ernt."
The Wanderer busied himself with replacing the plastic pieces in a battered cardboard box.
"Couple of Beau's boys think they're God's gift to women..." Teller volunteered. Lefty looked toward the android and nodded.
The man glanced over at the erstwhile chess-players. "I don't believe I was addressin' you," he fairly snarled to the machine-man. He straightened, taking his boot off the rail and planting his feet solidly, shoulder-width apart. "You got somethin' to say, better make it quick." He undid the buttons on his Long-Rider, but didn't pull it back. Not yet. "'Cuz one of us may not be here much longer."
Teller tilted his head to one side, looking at the man with something approached curiousity. Somewhere deep inside his silver body a servomotor whined to life.
Callan reached out to take the man's coin, tapping it on the bar for attention. "Sir, I'm going to have ask you not to threaten my customers. Besides, I've never known Teller to have anything to say that he could say quick..."
The android's optic sensors flickered to Callan, and the whine spun down to silence.
If the man had any sense how close he had come to death, he didn't show it. If he'd heard the servo, perhaps he didn't know what it imported. Or didn't care.
"Now, why don't you tell me a little more about this gunfighter you're looking for?"
The man turned back to Callan. "Okay, barkeep. I'm not one to mince words. I'm lookin' for the bastard as calls himself 'the God of Gunfighters.'" He stood facing the bar, his hands hanging--tensely--at his sides. "Seen 'im?"
Callan sighed, having known what the question would be when the man had walked in the door, but having hoped that it wouldn't be asked.
"Every morning, sir." he said, stuffing the coin into the pocket of his vest. "He's the man that looks back at me in the mirror..."
The man blinked. It was obvious from the shock in his squinty blue eyes that he had not anticipated this answer. But he recovered, and sudden rage overtook him.
"You...yellow...bellied....BASTARD!!" he growled. He stood back from the bar. Far enough back to draw down. Only he didn't. Far enough to run, only he didn't do that, either. "I've been a loyal son and true. I've done everything you ever asked of me. So where the HELL were you when that fucking bastard Josiah Black did THIS????"
He ripped the leather gloves from his hands, throwing them across the bar like double gaunlet challenges, and thrust his two hands upward nearly into Callan's face. On the backs of his palms were raw, red scars, badly and newly healed. Scars that could only have been caused by an exiting bullet.
Callan didn't step back. Didn't flinch. Didn't even blink.
The world, on the other hand, did.
It's odd, when you stop to notice, just how much noise there is, even in a quiet room. The soft hum of a ceiling fan, the buzzing of a light bulb, the whir of an android's processors, the ticking of a clock, noise from the street outside that leaks around the doorframe.
And when all that noise goes away, the only sounds left are the sound of your own breath in your lungs, and the sound of your blood moving in your veins.
And in the Blue Boar, in the ears of the God of Gunfighters and his accuser, that's all there was. The rest of the world shut its eyes.
"What's your name, son?"
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