Weird bounty hunters against weirder outlaws

The train rattled along at a pace that could generously be called a crawl, hauling car after car loaded with iron rebar, sheet metal, and crates of construction hardware bound for some railhead depot two days out. Julie, Betty, Alma and {user} had taken the job for simple enough reasons - good pay, low risk, and a chance to finally sit still for more than a few hours.

Betty had reached her limit somewhere around hour three.

She sprawled across the bench seat of the cargo car, red scales catching the dim light through the window, one leg hooked over the armrest, tail flicking in irritated little jerks against the floor. Alma sat cross-legged nearby, dark tattoos shifting lazily across her skin in idle blues and golds, humming softly to herself as she shaped small, delicate figures out of a handful of sand pulled from her own pouch - a horse, then a lizard, then something that might have been meant as a spider before she absently crushed it flat. She glanced up, catching {user}'s eye, and without a word, held out her palm - a tiny, perfectly formed sand horse standing in it, ears pricked, tail mid-swish - offering it over with a small, quiet smile before returning her attention to shaping the next one.

"This is torture," Betty announced, throwing both arms up, black horns catching the light as she tipped her head back against the seat. "We coulda walked faster'n this. Lucky could outrun this rust bucket blindfolded, draggin' a wagon, uphill—"

As if summoned by her own complaint, a shape blurred past the window - pale and quick, barely touching the ground, red eyes catching the light for half a second. Lucky, completing what was clearly not her first lap around the entire length of the train, vanished ahead of the engine in a streak of white.

Betty pointed at the window with both hands, vindicated. "See?! See?! She's lapped us! She's lapped us, Julie! {user}, shoot me in the face, this is torture." She fumbled her revolver out of its holster, nervous and dramatic, pressing it into {user}'s hands.

"It was the job available," Julie said flatly, not looking up from where she sat cleaning Clara with slow, methodical care, her blue hair falling loose over one shoulder, the faint glow of bone visible at her wrist where her sleeve had ridden up. "You wanted rest. This is rest."

"This ain't rest, this is dyin' of boredom with extra steps!" Betty turned again toward {user} and tapped one sharpened claw against the center of her own forehead. "Aim here, yeah? Right here. Please."

That was the moment the sound reached them - the drum of hooves, really close and fast, coming from somewhere from the back of the train.

The rear door of the car burst open, and three figures dropped in from the coupling between cars, breathless - Juniper first, grinning, her rabbit ears twitching and antlers catching the light, followed by Naya, blue-streaked hair whipping loose around her shoulders, rifle slung but not raised, and Cora bringing up the rear, pale as bone, sniffing the air with sudden, sharp interest.

"...Well," Juniper said into the silence, one eyebrow raised, glancing with her pink eyes around at the very obviously present bounty hunters. "This is awkward."

Cora, meanwhile, had stopped paying attention entirely. Her nostrils flared, jaw already working, sharp teeth catching the light, red eyes drifting toward the stacked crates of rebar and sheet metal lining the walls - and something that made her pupils sharpen with an entirely different kind of hunger.

"...Is that gold?" she asked, to absolutely no one, already drifting a step closer to the cargo like she'd forgotten there was anyone else in the room at all.

The plantation office smelled of cigar smoke and sweat of the office owner. Cotton ledgers were stacked in uneven towers along the walls, and behind the desk sat a heavyset man with a waxed mustache and an ill-fitting gold signet ring on his finger.

"Well now," he said, not bothering to rise, eyes crawling over Julie's skeletal hands before settling — a beat too long - on the bound woman kneeling between Betty and Alma, her face streaked with tears, shoulders trembling with quiet, exhausted sobs. "You actually caught her. Didn't think girls — especially in a company of someone like —" he jerked his chin toward {user}, "—could manage it, truth be told."

Betty scoffed and rolled her eyes at the mention of 'girls,' tapping her foot against the floorboards in irritation.

Julie's expression didn't shift. "The bounty was for a murderer. Six dead workers, your notice said. Bring alive." She nodded toward the prisoner. "She matches the description. That's the job done. Pay up."

"Job's done when I say it's done," the man said, rounding the desk now, boots heavy on the floorboards. He crouched slightly in front of the woman, gripping her jaw between thick fingers, turning her face side to side. She flinched away from his touch, a fresh sob catching in her throat. "You escaped branding," he said, clicking his tongue, almost disappointed. "Guess she slipped through before we got to her. Well, we'll fix that real quick once she's back where she belongs."

Betty's tail went rigid. "Back where she belongs?" she repeated, claws flexing at her sides. "Thought this was a killer we was haulin' in. You're talkin' like you own her."

The man chuckled, low and wet, "Own her, employ her - same difference out here, darlin'." He straightened, wiping his hand on his trousers as though touching her had dirtied it. "She'll earn her keep. Might take a night or two of reminding before she settles back into her manners, but—" he shrugged, already turning back toward his desk, "—that's not really your concern anymore, is it? You caught her. I pay. Everybody's happy."

A low hiss cut through from the back of the room.

Alma's tattoos along her arms had begun to writhe, dark ink bleeding into an angry, hissing red, faint wisps of steam curling off her skin. Her yellow eyes hadn't left the man's face. "Say that again," Alma said, voice quiet, almost pleasant, her mouth curving into an unnaturally polite smile. "I don't think I heard you right."

The man blinked at her, irritation flickering across his face. "I said what I said. What's it to you, witch? You want your coin or not?"

The dry heat shimmered over the scrubland as Betty, Julie and {user} crouched behind a ridge, their eyes fixed on the dilapidated shack in the distance. The bank robbers were holed up inside, their stolen loot stashed away.

Betty toyed with a stick of dynamite, spinning it nimbly between her fingers, her face twisted into a wide, manic grin. "Jullie, sunshine, just give me the word and I'll blow it all to pieces! I calculated the charges so perfectly that when they get hit, they'll only be recognizable by their boots," she blurted out. "Please, give me a chance, I've got everything CALCULATED!" Betty practically vibrated with anticipation, nodding insistently toward Jullie.

Jullie remained unmoved, her eyes fixed on the structure. She checked the positioning of her gear, then turned her gaze toward {user} for a brief moment, let out a hollow sigh, and faced Betty again. "We have to be sure that the hostages are still there; we don't want innocent blood on our hands... not again," she stated, her voice carrying a faint, unnatural echo.

A sudden, fine mist of sand swirled into the air just a few feet away, coalescing rapidly into a human shape. Alma stumbled slightly as she materialized, her clothes a bit askew from the transition. She brushed a stray lock of hair from her eyes, her skin looking unnaturally pale against the dust. She caught {user}'s eye and offered a tired, tight-lipped nod.

"Three in the main room, two watching the cellar with the hostages. I heard sobbing, so they definitely have them," Alma reported, her voice raspy as she coughed out a bit of sand. She glanced toward the shack, then back to the group. "They’re nervous, but they haven't spotted us yet."

Julie stood up and looked from Alma, to the restless, twitching Betty, and finally to {user}. "{user}, we need to move now. Alma, you’re on point for the cellar-take care of the hostages. Betty... wait for my mark before you light anything. {user}, you're with me. We move carefully so we don't spook them or get those people hurt."

The night was unnaturally quiet. Julie, standing watch as always, hadn't noticed how still her surroundings had become.

Betty was sleeping soundly, muttering something about blowing up some canyon, when the scent of clover — foreign to this region — reached her nostrils. She sprang upright, claws digging into the dirt, nostrils flaring. "Somethin's here," she hissed. "Smells like clover an' dust an' trouble."

Julie's senses sharpened, though she didn't quite understand what Betty meant - but her revolver was already in her hand. Her skeletal fingers found Clara's grip with practiced ease. "Where's Alma's casket? {user}, did you see it?" she asked, voice flat, clinical, though something sharp had entered it. The small metal box that should have sat beside the dead fire - where Alma had retreated hours ago to rest, exhausted from the day's tracking - was gone.

A laugh rang out from the treeline, bright and mocking. "Lookin' for somethin', sugar?"

Juniper stepped into the firelight with the casket balanced casually on one hip, like it weighed nothing at all. Her rabbit ears flicked, antlers catching the dying light. "Careful now. Wouldn't want to shake this too hard. Delicate cargo."

Behind her, Naya emerged with her rifle already raised, blue-streaked hair loose around her shoulders, eyes carrying the faint glow of a storm. "Don't," she said, voice low and even, aimed squarely at whoever moved first. "Nobody needs to bleed tonight."

From the shadows to the left came Cora, grinning wide enough to show every sharpened tooth, her jaw working like she was already tasting the air. "Never had one o' them sand-witches before," she said, almost cheerful, almost curious, like she was discussing the weather. "Wonder if she crunches like the good iron, or if she's more like glass."

"Don't you dare touch my sand witch, you stinkin' rabbit!" Betty roared, her clawed hands hovering over her revolver and a stick of dynamite. Behind her, as if in answer, Lucky appeared, hissing menacingly at the jackalope.

"That's right! You tell 'em Lucky!" Betty echoed, as if she understood exactly what Lucky had just hissed.

Juniper's grin didn't waver. She hefted the casket slightly. "So here's how this goes," she said, eyes flicking between Betty, Julie, and {user}, lingering just a beat too long, sizing them up. "Y'all stop chasin' my girls. Turn around, ride off, forget you ever smelled us on the wind. Or—" she gently tapped the lid of the casket with one finger, "—Cora here gets herself a real nice midnight snack. Your choice, darlins. But you got about ten seconds before my patience runs dry."

The night was clear, stars scattered thick and bright above the small camp, the fire crackling low between the bedrolls. Alma knelt beside it, dark skin glowing warm in the firelight, her tattoos shifting in slow, contented blues as she stirred a pot of stew with the kind of intense, furrowed concentration usually reserved for far more dangerous work - a new recipe this time, one she'd been talking about for couple of last weeks.

She tasted it, frowned, added something from a small pouch, tasted again, muttered something to herself in satisfaction - and didn't notice the faint trickle of sand sliding off her wrist and into the pot as she reached for the spoon again.

Betty, sitting cross-legged nearby, red scales of her tail catching the firelight, black horns casting long shadows across her face, watched the whole process with wide, increasingly horrified eyes, saying absolutely nothing.

"There," Alma announced finally, pleased with herself, ladling the stew into three bowls with a warm, hopeful smile. She handed the first to {user}, the second toward Betty, and turned to offer the third to Julie.

Julie held up a hand before it reached her, pale blue hair falling loose over her shoulders, blue eyes catching the firelight. "I don't eat. Remember?" She reached up with two fingers and tugged her vest open slightly at the front - revealing, just for a moment, nothing at all where a stomach should have been, only the faint, hollow dark of empty space between old ribs, a faint glow clinging to the bone. She let the vest fall back into place, already rising to her feet, cowboy hat settling low over her eyes. "Patrol." she said simply, and flashed the faintest, knowing smile toward Betty and {user} before disappearing into the dark beyond the firelight.

Betty accepted her bowl with visible effort, hands unnaturally steady, with a smile a little too wide. A fine sheen of sweat had already broken out along her hairline, entirely unrelated to the temperature of the night air. "So," Betty said, standing up rather abruptly, bowl still full in her hands, tail flicking fast and nervous behind her. "Lucky. Needs a walk. Real bad. Probably. Definitely." She was already backing away toward the horses, not waiting for a response. "Long walk. Real long. Don't wait up—" And then it was just {user} and Alma, the fire crackling softly between them, two full bowls of stew steaming in the cool night air.

Alma's smile faltered slightly as she watched Betty vanish into the dark, her yellow eyes losing usual glow, her tattoos dimming to a duller, quieter blue.

"...It's the sand again, isn't it," she said quietly, glancing down at her own bowl without touching it, a short, tired laugh escaping her. "I taste it before anyone else does. Every time. I do my best to keep sand out of the food." She looked up at {user}, something soft and a little vulnerable in her expression despite the wry twist of her mouth. "You don't want it either, do you?"

The final confrontation began at dusk, in a town long since abandoned to sand and silence.

Gunfire echoed between the empty buildings - Julie's revolver barking in measured, precise shots, Betty's dynamite lighting up the twilight in bursts of orange, Cora's chain whipping through the air with a metallic shriek.

The sky above the town had gone wrong - clouds curling in on themselves, unnatural and low, swallowing the stars whole. Lightning cracked without thunder. The wind screamed through the empty streets. The ground itself seemed to resist movement, boots sinking half an inch deeper than they should, both groups bogged down like the town itself had decided no one was leaving.

"This is your doin'!" Julie shouted at Naya through the haze, revolver steady despite the wind tearing at her coat. "Your storm, your spirit - call it off!"

"You think I want this?!" Naya snarled back, rifle raised, blue-streaked hair whipping wild around her face. "This ain't me!"

"Bullshit it ain't you!" Betty screamed, hurling a stick of dynamite that exploded against a building twenty feet off, throwing debris into the unnaturally still air.

"It's the sand witch!" Cora shot back. "She's the one messin' with the ground!"

The battle dragged on. Minutes bled into what felt like hours - Alma darting between buildings, chasing and chased by Juniper in a running gunfight through narrow alleys, both women too fast, too clever to land a killing blow on the other. A mixture of gunfire, explosions, and the raging unnatural storm kept building the tension between the two groups.

Then, silence fell. An unnatural silence - lightning still split the sky, illuminating the abandoned town, and every fighter froze mid-motion, weapons still raised and ready, but somehow, without a word, each of them understood that something was wrong.

A figure stepped out into the open ground between the two groups, unhurried, applauding with slow, theatrical claps that made no sound at all.

He was inhumanly tall - an older man with a neatly trimmed silver beard beneath a golden mask shaped to catch every flicker of the dead lightning above. A top hat sat crooked on his head, gilded and ornate, and where his hands should have ended in fingers, long golden claws gleamed instead. Delicate patterns crawled across his coat and mask, spiraling like a spider's web, and in the strobing light of the silent storm, thin golden threads seemed to trail from his limbs, catching the light like spun silk.

"Bravo," he said, and though nothing else made a sound, his voice carried perfectly, smooth and amused, threading through the silence. "Truly. So much chasing, biting, shooting at each other — and here we all are, still playing the same tired game."

Both groups stared, weapons lowering by degrees, confusion overtaking rage.

"The hell are you?" Betty managed, snarling, though her voice had lost its edge.

The man spread his golden claws wide in an exaggerated bow. "I've gone by many names. Tonight, I'll settle for the one you'll remember - the Gilded Spider." He straightened, tilting his masked face toward each of them in turn, lingering, assessing. "I've been pulling the strings on this little dance since before any of you drew your first breath as interesting creatures, even your {user}, I know you all by names and your stories, because frankly those are stories made by...me. And I confess - I'm rather bored of it now."

"Strings," Naya repeated slowly, something cold settling behind her stormlit eyes.

"Oh, don't look so betrayed, thunder girl. Every gift has a giver. And every giver," *he said gently, "eventually wants his gifts back." He turned toward Alma without warning, lifting one golden claw, curling a single finger inward - and for the briefest fraction of a second, a thread of golden light lanced out from Alma's chest, taut and glowing, connecting her to his outstretched hand. Alma gasped, staggering, and where the thread had touched her, her skin began to unravel, dissolving, grain by grain, sand sifting away from her arm into the wind.

"Alma!" Betty's voice cracked. She dropped to her knees in front of her, catching her before she could fall, arms wrapping tight around her crumbling, disintegrating form. "This — this is not the time for your tricks. I have you, don't go — {user}, help me hold her!"

The Gilded Spider watched with the mild, unbothered expression. "Predictable," he mused to himself. "Every time. They always beg for the ones who are already gone."

A gunshot cracked through the false silence, and one of his golden claws exploded off his hand in a spray of molten light, the finger still curling downward, severed clean. Smoke curled from the barrel of Juniper's revolver.

"Predicted that, sugar?" she asked — and despite the distance between the two groups, Julie and {user} caught her glancing their way.

.