Chapter 6 - Burned Knave

The bottle shattered. A direct hit from Lady Luck fragmented it with ease, each successive bullet of the burst sending cracks spidering through the glass until–finally–it exploded to admit an amber ribbon of liquor.

The result was more dramatic than Roulette could’ve hoped. The previously sputtering fire flared to life in the presence of the alcohol, belching a fresh gout of flame outward and upward as the rum splashed across the edge of the fire pit. Unluckily enough for the bartender, it had also drenched his uniform; the flames lapped at him hungrily, wreathing his thigh and foreleg in an all-consuming blaze. By the time it had climbed to engulf his spirit-stained apron he had already pulled the trigger, setting the Doppelglock’s complex firing process in motion.

He was quick to learn the error of his ways. The flaps at the back of the gun flipped open to reveal its twin vents, which performed their usual task to perfection: sucking in generous portions of air to help propel the gun’s ice pellets toward their intended target. Only, this time, they found nothing but flame. The inferno had spread rapidly to the Gunslinger’s arms and torso, and he could do little more than watch in helpless terror as his firearm critically undermined itself before his eyes.

The ensuing reaction between the heat and the Doppelglock’s ethanol mixture wasn’t pretty. Vapor curled from every crease of the weapon as the alcoholic core of its loaded pellet suddenly ignited, ratcheting up the temperature of the gun’s metal frame to an uncomfortable degree. Its owner could only scream as the flesh of his hand seethed and bubbled against the grip, his pain compounded by the serious burns forming all across his body. If not for the persistent flaring of his nerve endings drowning out all conscious thought, the Gunslinger would surely have resigned himself to death.

He couldn’t have anticipated that, in the very next moment, a cooling splash of water would have shocked him out of his torment. It was quickly followed by another, and then another! He blinked through the droplets running down his face to find his would-be victim with bucket in hand, panting softly in the aftermath of her efforts to save his life.

“W-why?” he croaked, confused. “Why help me?”

“Ain’tn the business of watchin’ men burn t’death.” she replied.

He laughed. A raw, wheezing sound distorted by the fumes wafting from his own half-cooked skin.

“You little fool…” he rasped, scorched fingers tightening around the grip of his still-fuming sidearm. “Now, more than ever, I will stop at nothing to kill you. The only reward for your mercy… is death!”

He pulled the trigger.

“Sorry y’feel that way.” she said, plainly unconcerned by his actions. Only after pulling the trigger a few more times to no effect did he realize why.

When she put out the fire scouring his body, she’d been careful to leave his gun un-doused. Thus its frame was still hot; hot enough to foil the process that had frozen the water within so efficiently in the past. Instead of dispensing ice pellets, each trigger pull now only served to push dollops of watery ethanol from the gun’s tip and every little unsealed crevice that lined its interior.

In fact, the intoxicating fluid had been dribbling down onto his burnt hands for a little while now. But, thanks to the nerve damage, he hadn’t even noticed. The bartender laughed at the sight of it. For the first time in his life, he was drunk–and growing drunker by the second.

Roulette fought to stay on her feet as she watched the man’s last, delirious seconds of consciousness. She had no words left for him; no smug victory speech to deliver. She felt too ill for that. Instead, she watched him slump to the ground with an expression of earnest disappointment on her face. She had hoped–perhaps naively–that, when faced with the prospect of death and defeat, the killer might change his ways.

No such luck.

She shambled over to him after his body had crumpled to the ground, looking down at his unfocused eyes for a moment before sinking carefully to her haunches. She was looking for something. And, after spending some time rifling through his pockets, she found it:

A goldslug–the very same one she’d tossed his way during her departure from the Totin’ Teetotaller. It glittered in the sun, too small to fit in any firearm… And too precious to be wasted on a man like him.

She pocketed the slug and sighed, rising again to her feet (and fighting vertigo every step of the way). Her rainwater binge had staved off the worst effects of dehydration, and had given her the strength to remain standing… Albeit not much more than that. Every part of her wanted to droop to the ground the way the Gunslinger had. But a single glance at the house she’d been fighting behind was enough to remind her of unfinished business: the man lying in the street on the other side of it, who would surely succumb to heat stroke or death at the hands of some passing opportunist without her intervention.

“...Better appreciate this…” she grumbled, dragging her feet on the narrow path between the house and the thick stone fence that encircled it. Before long the man came into view, lying exactly where she’d left him. It looked like he was out cold. Just my luck, she thought, I get to lug a full-grown man through a city I don’t know, on a hot day, while drunker than I’ve ever been.

She smirked, moving over to her new acquaintance with slow, reluctant strides.

If only you could see me now, Daddy…

Even with a firm grip on the man’s hand, the trip up the hill was long and agonizing. The girl had to stop to take frequent breaks, and more often than not she spent them bracing herself against the nearest surface while resisting the urge to vomit. It took her over half an hour to drag him out of the quiet suburb and into the city center, where she assumed she’d find a hotel or two. It would have been easier to drag him downhill, back to the waterfront, but she’d scanned the beachside strip in detail; it had been shockingly light on accommodations for travelers, though she’d seen a few seedy inns around when she’d first come into port. Getting back there, however, would’ve taken a 15-minute walk down the beach under normal circumstances, and much longer with her human cargo in tow.

Upon arriving at the top of the hill, Roulette found herself at the edge of a vibrant town square. Every building nearby was a different color, just as they’d been along the boardwalk, but they were all much grander in size and style. They featured slanted terracotta roofs and eye-catching trim around the windows, and the presence of an ornate metal fountain in the middle of the square contributed further to the air of affluence that pervaded the place.

The girl scarcely had the presence of mind to keep moving, much less appreciate the beauty of her surroundings. She didn’t even notice the stares of the citizens circulating the area, dressed as colorfully as the buildings around them. In that moment, the only thing she saw clearly was the salmon-hued structure to her left, the front of which bore a set of gleaming, gold-plated letters that spelled out the word “HOTEL”.

The shade of the front lobby served as a welcome reprieve for Roulette, who had shed no small amount of sweat on her arduous journey up the road. Heedless of the way the nice, red carpet beneath her feet bunched up beneath her motionless companion, the girl made her way up to the front desk and looked up at the clerk with tired eyes.

He regarded her with a look of mild distaste. She smelled of sweat, and squiggles of runny mascara lined her cheeks. The man leaned to the side pointedly, casting a disapproving stare toward her unconscious friend.

“I am sorry, miss, but I will have to–”

She cut him off abruptly, slapping the recently-recovered goldslug down on the countertop between them.

“Room. Sep’rate beds. Help me get’m upstairs,” she demanded.

The gruffness of her tone brooked no disagreement. The clerk looked at her, then the slug, with an expression of apparent surprise.

“Right away, miss,” he answered, taking the time to deposit her payment in the hotel’s filigreed cash register before rushing around to her side of the desk to assist.

He and Roulette became embroiled in the task of getting her unwitting tagalong up the carpeted steps that led up to the hotel’s second floor–a job that required every ounce of their strength and attention.

…And, as they did, a dark-suited man inhabiting one of the lobby’s plush armchairs tilted the upper half of his newspaper down to provide himself a better view.