Fic: The Gunslinger's Fate
Title: The Gunslinger’s Fate
Rating: TV-15 I think
Word Count: 2,183
Characters: Linkara, the Gunslinger, Margaret
Disclaimer: I own nothing, except my socks.
Warnings: Pretty sure this could be called psychological torture of a captured enemy. Also, some of this was written between 3am-5am, so reader discretion is strongly advised.
Spoilers: For the Gun and Sorcery plotline on Atop the Fourth Wall, up through the All-Star Batman #5 review.
Summary: How you deal with your enemies really shows what kind of person you are.
A/N: I know this is gonna be rendered non-canon very soon, but whatever, this idea just wouldn’t leave my head. Who knows, maybe the Gunslinger deserves a different fate. I wanted to do some character exploration for some reason all of the sudden. Then I started writing it at 3am … 4am … then it was 5am and everything was very, very strange all of the sudden and I don’t know if this is good or really bad but please tell me so I know for sure.
It was a good fight.
The Gunslinger tries to find comfort in that, at least. His last fight, and he didn’t fall a coward, or a weakling.
Two figures approach each other on a dusty path, guns at their sides, blue sun blazing high above their heads.
They stop.
They stare each other down.
They draw, they fire and … one goes down.
One is left standing.
He’s fought in many a duel, always coming out the winner. He knew that one day he wouldn’t, one day the other man … or woman, or beastkind, or alien, or robot even, would be victorious instead. The Gunslinger just thought that after all this time, he might manage to live to see his hair turn white, pass on his knowledge to some younger wanderers, maybe even find someone to mourn his passing, someone to make sure he was properly buried in the eyes of his Goddess.
There’s a bag over his head. The Gunslinger thinks it might be a pillowcase, he can see some light through the fabric, shadows of shapes if he concentrates. His hands are bound behind his back with rope, knots expertly tied. He can’t wriggle free of them, not unless he’s got a couple hours to rub his wrists raw and bloody enough to slip through the ropes. The Gunslinger knows he doesn’t have a couple hours. He probably doesn’t have more than a couple minutes.
Linkara. A random human. A comic book geek. This is the man who has brought the Gunslinger low.
… but Linkara is no ordinary person, no mere mortal. This is the man who took down Lord Vyce, Lord Vyce.
Goddess knows what Linkara has planned for him.
The Gunslinger can tell that he’s been here for a while already, can see that the sun has moved about an hour’s distance. He passed out when Linkara shot him - an energy blast, knocking him down - had an instant to be surprised and regretful that this was how he was going to die … then he’d woken up bound, bag over his head, slumped on the ground. He’d moved carefully up onto his knees, but gone no higher. He didn’t dare try and run, wouldn’t dare go to the Goddess with a bullet in his back and the feet of a coward. She would see it, and forgive him, but he will not bear that shame in the afterlife.
“Good morning,” Linkara says brightly, somewhere close behind the Gunslinger.
The Gunslinger doesn’t jump, doesn’t flinch. He straightens his back slowly, ready for what he hopes will be his swift execution. He fought Linkara and the man won, fair and square. He knows what kind of fate awaits a defeated enemy in battle, has seen it countless times, done it himself to dozens of his own enemies.
Bullet to the brain.
He hopes it’s that, though he caught sight of swords in Linkara’s home on his few occasional visits there. Will Linkara hack off his head, keep it as a trophy? He certainly does like to collect things, the walls of his home attest to that. The Gunslinger hopes that his body will be left relatively whole, so his soul can join the Goddess in her realm complete, not tattered and ragged. He does not want to enter the afterlife as a mess of peeling skin and broken bones, with a jagged scar across his throat and a dull ache reminding him of his defiled corpse
He hears the sound of a gun being drawn from a holster, but not just any gun, this is Linkara’s gun.
“Do you have any questions?” Linkara asks, tone pleasant and friendly, as if they’re friends sitting in a saloon, not a man with a gun pointed at the head of a bound and blind man kneeling at his feet.
The Gunslinger coughs an attempt at a laugh, trying to put up a show of bravado to mask his fear. “Somethin’ I was always curious about … what did you do to Lord Vyce?”
There’s a pause.
“You knew him?”
“Everyone knew about Lord Vyce. So, what did you do to the fascist bastard?” he honestly does want to know, not just to satisfy his curiosity, but to know something of what lies in store for his body after Linkara has riddled it full of holes.
Another pause, shorter this time.
“First, I exiled him. Then he came back for revenge, and I … blasted him away.”
The Gunslinger whistles. “Impressive.”
“He taught me something important. Letting your enemies live only brings you grief in the end.”
The gun clicks. The Gunslinger stiffens.
Goddess, I am unworthy of your shelter but please accept my soul into your peaceful realm …
“But then I had a thought after we defeated you. Sure, you screwed me over a bit, but you know who you really scared, who you really pissed off?”
The Gunslinger shakes his head, sweat trickling down the back of his neck. More than anything, he wants to make it through his death without showing cowardice or fear. If Linkara wants to draw this out, so be it.
“Margaret. So she’s going to come out now, and decide what to do with you.”
Margaret?
A rush of power and warmth somewhere behind his right shoulder spells it out for him: the spirit in the gun. The girl he stole. The girl he said was “ripe for the picking.”
The Gunslinger has seen what vengeful spirits can do to people. It’s never pretty, or quick.
His body begins to betray him, shaking slightly in fear.
A small hand tugs the bag from his head, and he cringes, staring down at plain sneakers with pink laces, mismatched socks, tan pants with embroidered designs curling down from her knees.
“Please …” he chokes out. “Please …” he’s not sure what he’s begging for. Not mercy, he doesn’t dare ask for that from this being. A swift death? As little pain as possible? Something he can bear for a few hours at least?
She crouches down in front of him. Her hair is long, reddish, straight; her eyes are wide and piercing. There are little flower barrettes in her hair, and the glint of braces on her teeth. She’s wearing a jacket over a white shirt with hearts on it. In the Gunslinger’s experience, the cuter and more innocent they look, the more sadistic they tend to be.
She reaches forward and his courage snaps like a twig. He falls over, tears springing from his eyes, breath desperate and frantic.
“Please, please, please no, please I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry please don’t make it hurt, please not for days on end please -”
She tilts her head to the side and he’s seen that motion before, from other spirits, before they rip a man’s skin off for a laugh, turn it inside out and reattach it with nimble fingers.
She reaches down and he knows it’s the beginning of his end, closes his eyes to shield himself from seeing his ultimate fate. He knows that she’ll probably rip his eyelids off soon anyways but so long as he can, he won’t look at her.
He feels her hand on his forehead and moans with fear. Please Goddess please please please take me now before she …
There’s another presence in his mind. Tentative at first, then more forceful. He lets her in, puts up no walls, no resistance. So this is how it will be, her tearing him apart from the inside out. It seems fitting, he did take her from her hero’s side, steal her after shooting him in the back. He should have expected it from her, retribution for such a terrible crime, in her eyes, in Linkara’s eyes.
You’re so scared …
The Gunslinger is crying, but he feels it distantly, his body far away now, a thing that shudders and wants to scream but stays silent.
What are you going to do to me?
So many fears … he feels her inside, drifting through doors and curtains and crates of memories. It doesn’t take her long to find the ones he’s shoved far to the back of his mind. She pulls them out, one by one, airs them out, brushes out the creases.
Will you make me relive them? he asks, unable to hold the thought back.
You’re afraid of me … she drifts over to him, holding up a coat fashioned from his worst memories and experiences. And these … you’re afraid of these. Will you wear this coat, Mr. Gunslinger?
You want me to put it on myself? the walls of his mind are shaking now, just as much as his physical body. You want me to … do this … to myself … I …
You don’t have to do anything. Will you wear this coat … or will you wear something else?
What else is there? he hears his body whimper, distantly, feels more tears. If you think it’s what I deserve, then I guess I deserve it.
They’ve made you who you are but … you don’t have to wear something that makes you hurt. I had a sweater that made me sneeze, so I stopped wearing it.
He laughs while his body cries. It’s not that simple.
But it could be. I don’t think you’re like Vyce or Mechakara. You’re not like the Entity, I know that. Your mind isn’t rotten, your memories aren’t twisted.
The Gunslinger opens his eyes, stares at the ground, then the girl’s shoes. He isn’t sure what any of that was, but he doesn’t dare hope that it was anything but a ploy to make him hope for mercy. She’ll start killing him now, he’s certain of it.
But she doesn’t. She goes back to Linkara, wraps her arms around his waist and hugs him. Linkara puts his hand on her head, ruffles her hair slightly. It’s such a normal gesture, so achingly real and genuine that the Gunslinger manages to calm down just a little bit.
“I think he’s punished himself enough, don’t you?” she asks, staring up at the man with the hat.
Linkara looks uncertain. “Margaret, what if he comes back?”
“Then we’ll be ready for him.”
“What if he tries to hurt you again?!” Linkara clings to the girl tightly, glaring at the Gunslinger.
“Then I’ll rip him apart.” Margaret stares at the Gunslinger, who flinches away and whimpers.
Linkara looks like he wants to argue, but Margaret looks up at him, eyebrows raised, and he nods slowly.
The Gunslinger watches Linkara approach him, still barely comprehending what’s happening.
“You don’t deserve this, you scumbag,” Linkara growls at the Gunslinger, crouching down and untying his hands. He tosses the Gunslinger’s watch down at him. “If I ever see you again, I will kill you. You took my little girl. I don’t care what she saw in your head, you stay far away from me, my family, and this dimension. You got it?”
The Gunslinger nods and shakily stands up. He sees his hat a few feet away and picks it up, putting it back on his head. It’s odd how something so small can make the Gunslinger feel more like himself.
“Please tell me you have a way of getting yourself out of here. I’m not taking you anywhere in my spaceship.” Linkara crosses his arms.
The Gunslinger twirls his watch. “Sierra? Teleport still operational?”
“Indeed.”
Thank you Goddess. The Gunslinger smiles weakly. At least that’s something.
“Get out of here!” Linkara snaps.
The Gunslinger bows to him, bows much lower to the girl, and then holds down the button on his watch. “I owe both of you my life. If either of you ever want to come and collect, you know how to find me.”
Before they can answer, Sierra teleports the Gunslinger back home.
“Is that the last we’ll be seeing of those people, sir?” Sierra asks.
“I sure hope so, Sierra,” the Gunslinger sighs, sinking into the nearest chair and hugging himself to fend off a panic attack. “But if they do come calling, I won’t run from them. They had me dead to rights, shoulda killed me, but they let me go. That’s not the kind of debt a man can just shrug off.”
“Would now be an inappropriate time to remind you that I did express my concern over confronting that man, considering what he did to Lord Vyce?”
“No, Sierra, now is not the time,” the Gunslinger sighs. “Pump some sleep drugs through the vents, would you? I need some shut-eye … some dreamless shut-eye. My brain’s all jumbled from her being upstairs,” he taps his head for emphasis, winces.
Will you wear this coat … or will you wear something else?
Sierra does as instructed. The Gunslinger relaxes as best he can in the chair, closes his eyes - he still has his eyelids, something he didn’t think possible a mere fifteen or twenty minutes ago - and murmurs two prayers.
The first is to the Goddess.
The second is to Margaret.