His ears stung with the sound of country rock. The jukebox lay there, playing loud and vibrant in the darkness of the oak in the Lopside Bar. He wasn't there to drink, nor was he there to listen but he was there because his feet had dragged him to wherever. He thought this place would be fit enough. Swiftly, from his belt, he unhooked the journal and the pen and flipped the book open and counted through the 15 written-in pages. He clicked his prosthetic hand on the pen, then he started to write.There was a cold breeze in the room, and the bell of the door rang and someone marched inside. He continued.
He had to gather his thoughts for a second as his eyes dimmed low to the paper. Purposefully blurring his eyes to the point of tearing up an inspiration cut through his prosthetic arm down to its turquoise core.
“Ain’t no rest for the wicked when you exist as a horrible medic who's got a forty-two to five heal to fail ratio. They say you should adopt this goldfish personality regarding it—much like goalkeeping, they say, but I ain't played soccer and I ain't planning to do so. I won't forget. You don't forget.”
He was in the far corner of the bar, sitting near the oakwood jukebox and writing. Those footsteps got closer. Tap, tap, slam, slam. It was as if rain itself had begun to approach him. The chair slid, floor making a loud screeching. He raised his head and watched the wide-brim hatman stare him down without his eyes. A cigar in his mouth, resonating throughout the table. The man, in all his all-white glory, raised the black-tipped leather sombrero and flashed his blackened teeth. He nodded slowly, and Jackson sat in front of him perplexed. "Scruffy hair, check." Said the man, "fisherman's cap. Neat bullet hole from a sweet .22, check. Three scar marks on the left cheek, hazel eyes, often white or black clothing." His head dipped low to look at Jackson's boots. "Steel-toed."Jackson ignored the man's useless comments and brushed him off as what he assumed to be a customer. He was still head down and writing. “Now I feel that there's nothing more for me to do. A question rose up to my noggin with the pressuring inquiry: What the hell’m I doin’ with m’life?” (As you can see he started to rush up his writing). Now, after whatever the hell came up to his head and now disappeared, Jackson stared directly into the eyes of an African American man wearing all white. A camouflage-painted trench coat enveloped him along with a sombrero that nearly shadowed Jackson's fisherman's cap.
“I can only assume you're here for my services.”
“You've got services? Sorry kid I'm a little old for that kinda shit.”
Jackson grew flustered and nearly wanted to six-shooter this man with the .38 Smith and Wesson on his holster. “If you been lookin’ for me then you probably want my medical services.”
“Call me Hartman,” he took his long AWP rifle, green as the dead grass (as the dead grass is now white!) and let it sit beside the rotting wood of the bar. Jackson kept his gaze inattentive and instead stared at the quite beautiful view of dead trees outside. Pigeons were still a thing in 2166, huh? Well, he thought, if humans can persevere after the Great Flash seventy years ago then it's sure to say that measly birds can.
Now this tangent went on until Hartman snapped his fingers. “Hey.”
“Eh?”
“Jackson. What're you doing here?”
“Good question. I ain't.. I ain't got no idea. No.”
“What're you writing in that notebook?”
“My thoughts. Get to your point.”
“I don't have one so far. Want me to get you a drink?”
“Listen, Hartman, whatever or whoever the fuck named you that,” he planted his prosthetic index on the center of the table and the vibration rippled. Now his eyes were fully attentive towards the African-American.
“I'm a man who loves getting to the point. I hate long stories and I always prefer short ones. What is it you got? Ball cancer? Injury? Some stupid shit a gerbil can fix?”
“You're a kid.”
Jackson was about to absolutely fry the man's brain into sludge with a hot bullet but he contemplated the thought of doing such to a fellow with a trench coat. If you're confident that it won't get caught while running away from some robber then you've got two pistols at the ready. Hartman was bulky, no doubt compared to the nearly 10% bodyfat Jackson Williams (his body was wiry and only functionally muscular. No gym for him).
Hartman bought him a drink anyways and he sat down with his legs crossed while keeping an eye on Jackson. “So.”
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“So,” Jackson took a large gulp of the raw milk.
“Are you a medic?”
“Fuck y'all and your questions,” he dug into his pocket and tossed out a half-burnt SRC card, “I wanted to do something on some symbolism bullshit but I realized that my credentials would only be word-of-mouth and barely verifiable.”
The lanyard had lost its gleam a long time ago and Jackson was most certainly in a state of embarrassment. The good thing was, however, his headshot and ID was conveniently not flamed to the point of unrecognition. Hartman took the card and went through it with a certain fervor before smiling and putting it down. “Wow. Sunrise Relief Corp corporal?”
“Yeah. I'd say. I was more of a higher field surgeon who guided the volunteers but I've had my fair share of hustles and rustles.”
“That's interesting,” Now he slid the card back, “I have a question.”
“Go ahead,” Now he was hoping the man wouldn't say a stupidly cliché line like ‘You ever brushed death?’ or something that'd cause a gunfight. He was very strictly against gunfights and despised them at every turn. No matter what, he'd neve-
“Have you ever come across a Chromeskull named Hatchet Lynx?”
And then Jackson leaped up from his seat with a mustache-o’-milk and pressed his .38 at Hartman's chest (as he was never going to be six foot one like him).
And then, also, a C96 was now pressed at his forehead. They were at a standoff.
“Hatchet Lynx is a name a select few people know and I don't think you should dare larp away and act like you know who he is.”
“Jackson Williams I don't think you should be messing around with guns,” they gathered an audience as many people had taken their drinks and gathered a circle to watch, “Isn't it embarrassing when you're being watched by a 10-something-odd gang of people?”
“No.”
“Ok. Fine. Put your gun down,” Hartman followed through as a good example by tucking his C96 into his chestholster.
Jackson cross-holstered the revolver slowly but surely.
“I've been stalking you for around nine days and nine nights. You're a POI to the SRC, Coalition, and the USRF.”
“Fuck’m all. They ain't doing shit with the Voys in Sunrise city.”
“You're special from what I know. Look, Jackson:
I haven't been the only one watching you. Word's gone ‘round and ‘round and I got my,” he lifted his sleeve up, revealing a completely degloved piece of forearm and faulty bandaging. Even Jackson was disgusted at the yellow color, “Shit blown clean off by a Chromie. Ended up spitting on me ‘n sayin’ he's a Hatchet Lynx.”
“Shit…” Now Jackson's eyes darkened with fear and this was acknowledged by everyone in the bar.
“Shit.”
“I'm gonna be leaving this God forsaken place by after-tomorrow. I know he killed your daddy as Keith Williams (dare I mention his name) was one of the best anti-faction men out there. Woulda been ashamed to see his son as a former SRC.”
“Who're you to my dad?”
“None of your business.”
…
Now the silence returned, longer than ever as a drag came. The crowd slowly dispersed save for a man in a navy trench coat, scarred from the forehead down to the chin. A Coalition pin and a Bounty-Hunter pin gleamed brightly. Jackson paid no mind to this anomaly.
“You wanna kill Hatchet?”
“Yeah.”
“Then, well, get to work!”
“Fuck you mean get to work?”
“He's tryin’ to stalk you. Don't go alone. Don't try to act tough. And, finally, don't be like your dad and set up home on top of the Gull Street Museum.”
“Done done and done.”
“I hope your girlfriend's gonna be OK with this.”
“She ain't my girlfr-”
“Totally.”
Now Hartman got up to his feet and lit up a cigarette. “I got places to be and bags to pack and things to do,” he went outside now, Slam, Slam, Tap, Tap. The rain had come back up to the clouds.
Many questions ran through Jackson's mind but most importantly this incomprehensible rage. A man out to finish what he started.
Yet despite the clear objective implanted on him if you don't give a man a starting point they will still be lost.
And Jackson Williams was still lost.
