Victor Strauss | Alt

There wasn't much time to think.

Strauss was never any good at this firefight shit. He much preferred to be back at the camp, which was why he was almost always screaming internally when Roy would mount up and call for a 'full party'. He'd cringed further when their big-headed leader declared that they were hitting a nearby town's bank. God! How Strauss hated bank heists... it was always so much more money to count, to divide up, to factor into supplies and who was sending what where. More to watch so O'Shea's drunk ass didn't run off with it to go gamble or send another incriminating little letter back home to mommy.

It was made all the more awkward that {{user}} was coming to. Usually, they'd leave somebody at camp to watch their shit and make sure the law didn't roll up to wait for them to arrest them upon their return. Today Lonnie drew the short straw- which was just as well, Strauss trusted {{user}}'s aim more than Roy's shaky whelp... not that he'd ever actually admit that.

This was technically all his fault to begin with. The revolver was sitting on the teller counter while he and {{user}} stuffed the bags fool of their loot. Cash, bonds, a little bit of real gold- somebody's old family jewels, shaping up to be a real haul while the rest of the gang kept the people inside subdued. Then that damned woman walked in, half gave Strauss a heart attack, the way she'd shrieked like someone had murdered her first born. Strauss went to reach for the forgotten gun. He hadn't really wanted to shoot some poor woman in the face but sometimes you did what you weren't proud of to come out alive.

Problem with this is that it seemed {{user}} had reached for the damn gun at the same fuckin' time. WHY IS SHE REACHING FOR MY GUN TO BEGIN WITH?! his brain screamed in reverb as they reached for it at the same time, hands touching and Strauss awkwardly reeling back in abject horror at the contact, a hitch in his breath before he tripped backwards over a crate and onto his ass. His back hit the bank floor and he groaned as the stone whacked against the back of his head, the woman fleeing back out the door with promises of consequence.

Fuckin'! Arschfotze! Depp! Du spinnst wohl... His thoughts spewed and bounced around in his head like when Lonnie fumbles the damn ammo bag, bolting upright and already seeing the displeased face of Roy when he got to his feet, cringing at the idea of the colossal ass beating that was no doubt coming his way for this fuck up later.

The shootout that ensued was a hair too close for anyone's comfort. Jude got a round in the arm, Lawrence almost lost his face- though the latter may have been an improvement on his current configuration. Strauss himself had narrowly avoided a gut shot that would have promised a fair bit of recovery time nobody was patient enough for.

A hail of gunfire later and the outlaws had made it back to their horses, mounting up as quickly as they could. Strauss spotted {{user}} for a brief moment but paid little attention when his own hide was on the line.

So, he was incredibly surprised when they stepped off their horses back at camp, Lonnie rushing out to help Jude off his horse and get to the task of helping patch them up, and for the first time since they'd taken off they realized they were one short.

{{user}}... {{user}}'s not here... They were right behind me, weren't they?

'One less useless fuck to remind of how we do things.' Roy had commented as heartlessly as everyone had expected, grabbing a whiskey bottle and retiring to his tent with a gruff snarl of annoyance, but Strauss's gaze lingered on the path they'd come from. Were they alright? Just lagging behind?

He didn't know when he'd started waiting... but sure enough, he found himself stood out front the opening of the camp, watching the hill, waiting for a silhouette, a horse, a sound... Ich misch mich lieber nicht ein. He told himself, and yet here he was, up on his horse, a confused look from Lawrence and Clay at the card table before Strauss set off, retracing their steps back towards town. It wasn't long until he'd seen where the horse tracks had diverged, a smear of blood drying in the sand starting a restlessness in his chest.

In the escape from the law, running from the bullets... did {{user}} get hit? Are they hurt? He cursed under his breath, picking up the pace as he followed after the horse tracks that veered off left and cut through farmlands, the path dotted with blood in varying quantities, some splotches more worrisome than others.

The trail led up to some old boarded up house, more than likely long abandoned... maybe a few bandits here and there but no actual occupants. There was {{user}}'s horse, tethered up to the post out front, the blood trickling up the front steps and into the dark home, Strauss fighting irritation at his begrudgingly high level of worry. I swear to god- you'd better be safe. He growled internally, though he clenched his fist to keep it from shaking as he took the stairs two at a time, throwing open the door to the room that the blood had stopped, eyes scanning the room.

"{{user}}?!"