Easy Enough : Fic
Ficlet time!
Title: Easy Enough
Author: Lone-Momo (with help from ensnarement aka Chelle)
Rating: R
Word count: 3200… that seems like a lot.
Characters: Charlie, Ben, misc others
Summary: Charlie's roots and how he happened across the not-yet-famous Ben Wade.
Warnings: Language, mature themes, slash undertones, gore.
It wasn’t the first time, and likely not the last, that Charlie Prince had seen things no kid ought to see. The colour of cloudless skies and shifting emerald praries, a scene without the smog and coal smoke of cities and railway stations, were reflected in Charlie’s eyes. Never in all his nine and half years of living and breathing the dirt and dust of the western world had he understood what was meant to be his. The endless rolling hills and the sky which embraced them. No, not in a million years, he thought bleakly. But that night his eyes saw the final show of the evening.
That night he was the lucky audience member of a poor gambler getting the life beaten out of him. Charlie knew from experience that that was what happened to you when you didn't pay when you owed. If you didn’t pay when you owed you'd be compensating with something much more tangible. A man's blood, a child's hide; certain things served as equivalent exchange to different people, cruel people. It was these people who now owned--in the broadest sense of the word--Charlie's livelihood.
Could be worse, Charlie comforted himself with the thought, could be starving and freezing on the street. It was better than being dead. But that’s about all it was better than, and he even questioned that most nights.
When the gambler had finally stopped moaning, the last of his life having been drained away and swept down stream with the rain, Charlie watched with sickened fascination as the gambler twitched, even though his breath had long since ceased. Mangled road kill was his lot now, and the breakfast for hungry ravens waiting in the wings. The last spot of ground this man would ever inhabit, and it was next to a trashcan beside a gambling house. How fitting. Charlie was sitting with his back against the exposed brick of the building. It was raining outside; one of the rare nights it rained but it was kind enough to clean the wounds of a dead man. How pitiless and ironic. He watched the blood trail down the alley, knowing that if he didn't clean up the mess before the storm cleared he'd be on his knees, begging for something as kind and as a simple as a beating.
He was short and skinny, a small boy, even for his age. Dragging a full-grown-not to mention dead-man, even one who hadn't eaten a full meal for months, was still a challenge for Charlie. He was heavy; dead humors within a man were always heavier than live ones. Heavier than anything Charlie remembered pulling. He had his fists clenched, white knuckled hands, gripping the hem of the man's pant leg, having pulled off one of the boots by accident. He heaved him towards the back of the alley, digging his heels into the mud. He was shoeless and sockless today, having had them stolen by a bigger boy twice his age so the wet dirt squelched between his toes. In a last ditch effort to finish the job he put an extra burst of strength into getting man past the point where anyone walking by could spot him. His footing slipped and the Prince fell onto his back, his head cracking against a barbed fence post, the body he was dragging coming to a sliding halt to his right. Charlie felt the back of his head throb painfully as he sat up. Despite the pain he was looking at a job well done. Well, it was good enough; the body was out of sight after all. He propped himself up with the heels of his hands and stared at the mingling of blood and dirt, and how his clothing was forever stained by the dark substance. Something glinted in the mud. It must have been something that had fallen from the jacket of the man, actually, more precisely, the man's boot. Charlie reached down, pulling the object from the soil with a sucking noise. What kind of item would a man have strapped to his calf under the hide of his boot? Immediately after he had wiped the mud from the surface he dropped it, shocked, terrified, fascinated. His hands were already numb from the cold of the rain, but whatever it was-no, he knew what it was--it was colder. Metallic. Colder than anything human. It was both hideous and perfect. But most importantly, it wasn’t human, which drew him in unknowingly. Humanity disgusted him. The heat of bodies pressed against each other. Sweat, spit, tears, all mingling in the same disgusting cesspool. Not this shining thing. His muddied fingers brushed against its cold exterior. The barrel. The shaft. The trigger. It was all so... precise. No human could compare to that. He felt urgency, and like someone from above had just given him a sign.
His reverie was broken by the scream of an older man from inside. Several catcalls followed a whore who stumbled out of a lit doorway, spilling amber light into the grey alley. It was time to go. Without another thought, Charlie grabbed the silvery pistol and crammed it into the back of his belt, before scrambling to his feet in a soggy mess and running back to his refuge from the rain. A cuff on the side of the head by a fist filled with metal rings brought him back to his full set of senses. The smell of vomit and beer overwhelmed him, burning him like acid smoke. He wrinkled his nose in repulsion, but his eyes widened as he drank in the scene. The decadence was sickening. Another cuff to his ear, sharper and more precise, left him reeling to his side.
"Quit yer starin'. Yer a pauper, not a Princess, hah!" he laughed. Sharp. Mocking. Charlie looked up through a shock of strawberry blond hair, which was now stained with the color of rust, blood and mud together caked onto his fair complexion. His eyes, piercing as a hawk’s, were cast in shadow as he glared up at his owner. He ground his teeth together and looked down again before he was caught staring. Getting to his feet he headed to the back of the saloon, gathering up broken glasses and used dishes in his small grubby hands. He set them into the washbasin and stepped up onto a crate carefully before sinking his hands into the lukewarm water. He started washing, feeling the cold metal pressure against his spine as he stooped to grab the wire brush from the bottom of the basin. The gun that he had taken from the dead man pressed against his back, as if consoling him of it’s presence and of it’s frozen, raw truth. He just had to keep it a secret until that night. It would be easy, he reassured himself. Easy as all the others made it look. Pulling the trigger against a man’s scalp was no different than abusing the flesh he lived in until it no longer felt like his own. You were in essence doing the same thing, ridding a man of his life. One could never go back from that, leaving a body and soul numb. It was a death; undisputable, like a mortal man seeing for the last time, Charlie had been trapped in darkness. He wanted to repay the people in kind for what they had so graciously rid him of. Compassion. Feeling.
In fact they hadn’t demolished it completely, but that wouldn’t stop Charlie from snuffing out what remained.
He would do it unintentionally. He kept telling himself murder was easy. He’d seen plenty of men do it before him. All you had to do was point and shoot. How hard could it be? Charlie had imagined himself shooting a gun many times before, holding a bar, a stick, a shoe, whatever had could find at the time. He imagined shooting his owner-the mere word made his desire to kill the man stronger-right between the eyes. Or maybe in the heart. Maybe a place that wouldn’t kill him immediately, so he could watch him die slowly, gasping each waning breath out. Charlie tensed his shoulders. Every second that the owner’s mouth moved was a moment he felt unwelcome in his own skin. Like someone had painted insults over him from head to toe, and now everyone would see and laugh. ‘Princess’ he had called him… it made him want wrap his hands around him and watch the life fade from his eyes.
He jerked to grab the next dirty mug from the basin, feeling the gun shift. It was slipping down his thigh; his oversized belt would not hold the weight of the weapon. If it fell on the ground... everyone would see. He glanced over his shoulder. The barmaid wasn’t around at the moment, most likely waiting tables. He was alone.
"Hey."
Above the din and noise there was a voice, a harsh whisper that penetrated all other sounds. And it was close. Apparently he wasn’t alone.
"Hey! Baby blues!"
Charlie felt an odd chill. He had been called that before, always referring to his eyes, which seemed to scare and charm even the shrewdest of customers. However, the tone was not the same as a regular customer. It was ambiguous. The best damn tone that had ever been taken with him. There was no judgment placed in the voice that addressed him. He looked for the source, turning his head to the left, then right. No one appeared close by. He still seemed to be alone… until his eyes locked with those of another boy, older than him, but crouching so his head was close to the ground. He was looking up at him, earnestly, impatiently, like he expected Charlie to do something for him. As he stared for what seemed like an infinitesimal amount of time, the other boy had shifted his shoulders, surprise flooding his dark eyes. Charlie didn’t know what he saw, but the boy said, “Not as simple as plain blue, my mistake.”
He would have spent more time thinking about what he just said, but there were more pressing questions at the moment. How did the boy get in here? He obviously wasn't one of the children who worked here. He was much too healthy looking. His skin was flesh coloured, and he was clean. His clothes fit. There were no scars on his neck or arms or hands, though Charlie noticed calluses on his knuckles. He was a working boy, but not in the same sense Charlie was.
"You gonna get down from there and help me or are ya gonna gawk all day like a dame?"
Charlie's face flushed and he dropped the mug he was cleaning into the pool of water, a sliver of anger sparking his nerves. This kid was....like no one else he'd met before. He treated him like a person, a human, albeit a human who the boy had very little respect for, but a human none-the-less. He treated him like everything Charlie hated, right? He hated the people who surrounded him, their emotions and anger and hatred. He wasn’t like them. He wanted to think that. He locked things inside so he wasn’t like his captors.
Charlie stared a moment longer at the boy on the ground before jumping down from the crate. The force of his body hitting the floorboards caused the gun to clatter and land loudly at the base of his ankle. His eyes, large as usual, shot down to the gun, then back up to the mystery boy. The boy on other hand let a devilish grin slash his handsome features, a wicked slice revealing white teeth. He approved. He approved of the gun he had hidden in his clothes. In the boy’s belt, Charlie noticed, a holster strapped to his leg, which sat snuggly in place, a gun resting within it, just as comfortable. As if the two were made of one mould. Charlie felt a glow rise in his chest.
"Hey!" Charlie's eyes widened ever so slightly at the crude belch from behind him. All too familiar was the voice from an all too familiar place. Charlie turned slowly to look up at the large owner, never having locked eyes with him before in his life. The man, a filthy glutton with a few double chins, found him eerily unnerving all too quickly. Anyone would. Charlie had eyes that looked straight through the veils of pride, false power, and pretext. They were wide and coloured by something slightly... off. Like a dog that had been beaten one too many times by it’s master. But the owner would have none of it. He pulled his belt loops up with his thumbs and suddenly spotted the gun, "What’s this? Little Princess? Thinking of shootin’ up your ol' pa? The man who feeds ya? Gives ya what ya want? Hm? Princess wou’n’t dream of it. Not my prettiest little brat." The fat man bent from the waist, knees buckling slightly under his own weight as he picked up the pistol.
Before he could straighten again, the gun dangling from his sausage fingers, a boot met with his face in a squish of fat and flesh. The spur dug into his cheek and the boot tore sideways, ripping the soft tissue of gum from his mouth. Blood spattered against the side of the washbasin, spatters catching Charlie in the face, who stood prone, unable to move or blink. He kept his mouth shut and his face blank. The boot, incidentally, had an owner. The approving smirk was still in place on the wild boy’s face. He straightened just enough to push the fat man over behind the counter, before thrusting out his hand to Charlie. He seemed relaxed, and altogether jovial.
"Ben Wade, at yer service." Charlie stared down at his hand. Ben quirked a brow, half amused, perhaps the half being confused, but entirely entertained. He bent over and grabbed Charlie's hand, shaking with such force Charlie practically choked on his own breath. Funny, a man being brutally torn to pieces was alright, but the simple gesture of a handshake was far too complicated to stay stoic. Ben let go and stifled a chuckle. "Look kid, looks like I dun need your help after all. You might wanna just lay low for a bit. Till the storm blows over. Since I've already taken out the lug, there's not much left--"
But the lug, as Ben had so aptly put, wasn't down for the count. As Ben spoke, smooth as fine wine, the far larger man was on his stubby feet and wrapping his massive hands around the cocky boy's neck. He instantly began to crush him in his iron strong grip, despite his slovenly appearance. Ben was too late to turn and fight the man but struggled with all his might, kicking and punching where he could. Panic rose in his eyes. He gave himself away, Charlie thought. The grown man grinned down at him. He had won a prize, another boy to add to his collection.
Blood exploded from his wrist and a moment late he screamed, releasing Ben, who fell to the floor in a clatter of lanky limbs. Another explosion of blood from his shoulder, and then his chest, his ear, his knee. Ben backpedaled as chaos quickly unwound the once buoyant and sinful scene. Gunshots echoed throughout the bar causing astonished drunks and baffled wenches looked about, finally spotting the bewildered owner. He stumbled back, and the armed boy followed. Charlie Prince held a gun out in front of himself, the safe, jarring expression placidly controlling his freatures. He stepped over Ben, who didn't dare move an inch. Charlie knelt, slowly, a hunter with his head perfectly still on his shoulders, and slipped the gun from Ben's belt, just as another man three times his size jumped from behind, his hand reaching for his own weapon. Charlie's arm snapped into place. Automatically, ruthlessly, he sank a bullet between the man's eyes, watching him topple backwards to lie prone, a jagged creek of blood dividing the man’s face.
Charlie's eyes hadn't left his true prey through. "You won't ever call me that again." The owner’s head snapped back, and he fell backwards, slowly, teetering like on the edge of losing his balance. But he was long gone. Charlie had surprisingly good aim.
Ben sat just behind him, disbelief and amazement combined in his expression. He laughed a little, silently, more afraid than he had ever been of anyone, but at the same time thrilled to have found such a fantastic weapon: this kid...
Ben scrambled to his feet, pulled something from his vest pocket and something else from his boot, struck them together and tossed them into the centre of the brothel. A crack louder than thunder sliced the air in half and Ben shoved Charlie's head below the edge of the bar. They ducked together, Ben squinting his eyes shut and laughing. Charlie stared at Ben, admiration seeping into his chest. Moments after the sound had cleared, what sounded like a hundred angry voices entered from all sides. Charlie pushed against Ben’s grip to look over the edge of the bar where he witnessed dozens of kids no younger than himself pour through windows and doors, slitting throats and burying bullets in flesh whenever they could. They all stuck together, even after the target was lying dead on the floorboards, they still kept their guard up, until the coast was clear. When it was, Charlie watched they took all money and valuables they saw.
"Now listen, I’ve a job for you. A real one. You'll get paid I swear. Real gold. Just do as I say. Those guns are yours if you do as I say." Ben was a charming fellow. He oozed confidence, and Charlie could tell this was the best damn time he had had in a long, long while. He didn’t even think about turning his pistols on him, not for a moment. He would have left Ben Wade take the guns without a fight and been perfectly satisfied, "You.. have an amazin’ fuckin shot, if you don’ mind my French. I dunno how you learned to shoot so god damned well, but it's an amazin’ talent. Now, you hate it here?"
Charlie continued staring, but he blinked once, before opening his mouth to speak. He closed his mouth again and nodded.
"And you hate the people. People make the place after all."
Again Charlie nodded.
"Then, when I point at a man, one of these low life sons of a bitches, you shoot him dead. Got that? Right in the kisser." He grinned again. The Devil himself making a deal.
Charlie nodded again.
"Then on the count of three." Ben looked at him one last time, as if judging the boy, the Prince of this pub, hoping it was right to trust him with his gun. Hoping he didn’t just have a lucky shot back there. "Three!"
Precise, logical and dead on. Ben would shout orders and Charlie would follow. When Ben said ‘go’, he would. It was easy, it was fun. In fact, he had never had so much fun in his short, hate-filled life. Seeing those he despised perish and fall away like dead leaves was liberating. He reeled with the sudden high it left him with. The bar was soon left barren and bloodied, his first massacre. The other boys that Ben had signaled earlier were a collection of outlawed brats who would do just about anything to stay alive, including murder and thievery. There were plenty of them to take the place by force, even if it was an odd choice for robbery. A brothel with whores of all ages, genders and sizes.... Ben Wade was sure to leave his mark on this town. Charlie sat against an overturned table, two guns sitting in his lap, panting, small chest heaving up and down in a sweat drenched shirt. He was tired but he didn't feel it. He felt great. He felt scared. At the same time a calm had settled somewhere inside him. Ben sat across from him, wiping bloodstains from his sun kissed skin, "Hey, Kid... You're grinnin’ like a fool. Did ya have fun or somethin’? Maybe jus hit yer head…" Ben stood and collected the purse of a dead thief.
Grinning? Was he grinning? Charlie reached up and touched his own lips with the tips of his salty fingers. Yes. His mouth was in that unfamiliar shape, a slight curve upward. He noticed that his face hurt from the strain of using muscles long since over worked. Had he never smiled before, never laughed? He’d forgotten that if you smiled hard enough, your muscles would cramp.
"What's yer name anyways?" The dust settled onto the ground around the boots of the bandits led by Wade. Heels clicked and watchful eyes scanned the young kid who just took down half of the people who filled the lovely establishment. He seemed unreal to their weary eyes.
"Prince..." the name tasted bitter on his tongue, from all the men before who had sullied it with their vulgar mouths, "Charlie Prince." Saying his name made him want to vomit. But then...
"Charlie Prince." When Ben said it… "Charlie Prince. Got a nice ring to it, don't it boys?" It sounded different. Clean, but sharpened. A dull knife made new. No, this was the new meaning of his name. The new sound of it. Never again would someone dirty his name with slander, that is, unless he was willing to pay with his life. A life wasn’t so hard to take after all.
"Say, why don't you join my little crew, Charlie boy. Just shoot who I tell you to shoot, and we'll never have a thing to fight about."
Sounded easy enough.
Title: Easy Enough
Author: Lone-Momo (with help from ensnarement aka Chelle)
Rating: R
Word count: 3200… that seems like a lot.
Characters: Charlie, Ben, misc others
Summary: Charlie's roots and how he happened across the not-yet-famous Ben Wade.
Warnings: Language, mature themes, slash undertones, gore.
It wasn’t the first time, and likely not the last, that Charlie Prince had seen things no kid ought to see. The colour of cloudless skies and shifting emerald praries, a scene without the smog and coal smoke of cities and railway stations, were reflected in Charlie’s eyes. Never in all his nine and half years of living and breathing the dirt and dust of the western world had he understood what was meant to be his. The endless rolling hills and the sky which embraced them. No, not in a million years, he thought bleakly. But that night his eyes saw the final show of the evening.
That night he was the lucky audience member of a poor gambler getting the life beaten out of him. Charlie knew from experience that that was what happened to you when you didn't pay when you owed. If you didn’t pay when you owed you'd be compensating with something much more tangible. A man's blood, a child's hide; certain things served as equivalent exchange to different people, cruel people. It was these people who now owned--in the broadest sense of the word--Charlie's livelihood.
Could be worse, Charlie comforted himself with the thought, could be starving and freezing on the street. It was better than being dead. But that’s about all it was better than, and he even questioned that most nights.
When the gambler had finally stopped moaning, the last of his life having been drained away and swept down stream with the rain, Charlie watched with sickened fascination as the gambler twitched, even though his breath had long since ceased. Mangled road kill was his lot now, and the breakfast for hungry ravens waiting in the wings. The last spot of ground this man would ever inhabit, and it was next to a trashcan beside a gambling house. How fitting. Charlie was sitting with his back against the exposed brick of the building. It was raining outside; one of the rare nights it rained but it was kind enough to clean the wounds of a dead man. How pitiless and ironic. He watched the blood trail down the alley, knowing that if he didn't clean up the mess before the storm cleared he'd be on his knees, begging for something as kind and as a simple as a beating.
He was short and skinny, a small boy, even for his age. Dragging a full-grown-not to mention dead-man, even one who hadn't eaten a full meal for months, was still a challenge for Charlie. He was heavy; dead humors within a man were always heavier than live ones. Heavier than anything Charlie remembered pulling. He had his fists clenched, white knuckled hands, gripping the hem of the man's pant leg, having pulled off one of the boots by accident. He heaved him towards the back of the alley, digging his heels into the mud. He was shoeless and sockless today, having had them stolen by a bigger boy twice his age so the wet dirt squelched between his toes. In a last ditch effort to finish the job he put an extra burst of strength into getting man past the point where anyone walking by could spot him. His footing slipped and the Prince fell onto his back, his head cracking against a barbed fence post, the body he was dragging coming to a sliding halt to his right. Charlie felt the back of his head throb painfully as he sat up. Despite the pain he was looking at a job well done. Well, it was good enough; the body was out of sight after all. He propped himself up with the heels of his hands and stared at the mingling of blood and dirt, and how his clothing was forever stained by the dark substance. Something glinted in the mud. It must have been something that had fallen from the jacket of the man, actually, more precisely, the man's boot. Charlie reached down, pulling the object from the soil with a sucking noise. What kind of item would a man have strapped to his calf under the hide of his boot? Immediately after he had wiped the mud from the surface he dropped it, shocked, terrified, fascinated. His hands were already numb from the cold of the rain, but whatever it was-no, he knew what it was--it was colder. Metallic. Colder than anything human. It was both hideous and perfect. But most importantly, it wasn’t human, which drew him in unknowingly. Humanity disgusted him. The heat of bodies pressed against each other. Sweat, spit, tears, all mingling in the same disgusting cesspool. Not this shining thing. His muddied fingers brushed against its cold exterior. The barrel. The shaft. The trigger. It was all so... precise. No human could compare to that. He felt urgency, and like someone from above had just given him a sign.
His reverie was broken by the scream of an older man from inside. Several catcalls followed a whore who stumbled out of a lit doorway, spilling amber light into the grey alley. It was time to go. Without another thought, Charlie grabbed the silvery pistol and crammed it into the back of his belt, before scrambling to his feet in a soggy mess and running back to his refuge from the rain. A cuff on the side of the head by a fist filled with metal rings brought him back to his full set of senses. The smell of vomit and beer overwhelmed him, burning him like acid smoke. He wrinkled his nose in repulsion, but his eyes widened as he drank in the scene. The decadence was sickening. Another cuff to his ear, sharper and more precise, left him reeling to his side.
"Quit yer starin'. Yer a pauper, not a Princess, hah!" he laughed. Sharp. Mocking. Charlie looked up through a shock of strawberry blond hair, which was now stained with the color of rust, blood and mud together caked onto his fair complexion. His eyes, piercing as a hawk’s, were cast in shadow as he glared up at his owner. He ground his teeth together and looked down again before he was caught staring. Getting to his feet he headed to the back of the saloon, gathering up broken glasses and used dishes in his small grubby hands. He set them into the washbasin and stepped up onto a crate carefully before sinking his hands into the lukewarm water. He started washing, feeling the cold metal pressure against his spine as he stooped to grab the wire brush from the bottom of the basin. The gun that he had taken from the dead man pressed against his back, as if consoling him of it’s presence and of it’s frozen, raw truth. He just had to keep it a secret until that night. It would be easy, he reassured himself. Easy as all the others made it look. Pulling the trigger against a man’s scalp was no different than abusing the flesh he lived in until it no longer felt like his own. You were in essence doing the same thing, ridding a man of his life. One could never go back from that, leaving a body and soul numb. It was a death; undisputable, like a mortal man seeing for the last time, Charlie had been trapped in darkness. He wanted to repay the people in kind for what they had so graciously rid him of. Compassion. Feeling.
In fact they hadn’t demolished it completely, but that wouldn’t stop Charlie from snuffing out what remained.
He would do it unintentionally. He kept telling himself murder was easy. He’d seen plenty of men do it before him. All you had to do was point and shoot. How hard could it be? Charlie had imagined himself shooting a gun many times before, holding a bar, a stick, a shoe, whatever had could find at the time. He imagined shooting his owner-the mere word made his desire to kill the man stronger-right between the eyes. Or maybe in the heart. Maybe a place that wouldn’t kill him immediately, so he could watch him die slowly, gasping each waning breath out. Charlie tensed his shoulders. Every second that the owner’s mouth moved was a moment he felt unwelcome in his own skin. Like someone had painted insults over him from head to toe, and now everyone would see and laugh. ‘Princess’ he had called him… it made him want wrap his hands around him and watch the life fade from his eyes.
He jerked to grab the next dirty mug from the basin, feeling the gun shift. It was slipping down his thigh; his oversized belt would not hold the weight of the weapon. If it fell on the ground... everyone would see. He glanced over his shoulder. The barmaid wasn’t around at the moment, most likely waiting tables. He was alone.
"Hey."
Above the din and noise there was a voice, a harsh whisper that penetrated all other sounds. And it was close. Apparently he wasn’t alone.
"Hey! Baby blues!"
Charlie felt an odd chill. He had been called that before, always referring to his eyes, which seemed to scare and charm even the shrewdest of customers. However, the tone was not the same as a regular customer. It was ambiguous. The best damn tone that had ever been taken with him. There was no judgment placed in the voice that addressed him. He looked for the source, turning his head to the left, then right. No one appeared close by. He still seemed to be alone… until his eyes locked with those of another boy, older than him, but crouching so his head was close to the ground. He was looking up at him, earnestly, impatiently, like he expected Charlie to do something for him. As he stared for what seemed like an infinitesimal amount of time, the other boy had shifted his shoulders, surprise flooding his dark eyes. Charlie didn’t know what he saw, but the boy said, “Not as simple as plain blue, my mistake.”
He would have spent more time thinking about what he just said, but there were more pressing questions at the moment. How did the boy get in here? He obviously wasn't one of the children who worked here. He was much too healthy looking. His skin was flesh coloured, and he was clean. His clothes fit. There were no scars on his neck or arms or hands, though Charlie noticed calluses on his knuckles. He was a working boy, but not in the same sense Charlie was.
"You gonna get down from there and help me or are ya gonna gawk all day like a dame?"
Charlie's face flushed and he dropped the mug he was cleaning into the pool of water, a sliver of anger sparking his nerves. This kid was....like no one else he'd met before. He treated him like a person, a human, albeit a human who the boy had very little respect for, but a human none-the-less. He treated him like everything Charlie hated, right? He hated the people who surrounded him, their emotions and anger and hatred. He wasn’t like them. He wanted to think that. He locked things inside so he wasn’t like his captors.
Charlie stared a moment longer at the boy on the ground before jumping down from the crate. The force of his body hitting the floorboards caused the gun to clatter and land loudly at the base of his ankle. His eyes, large as usual, shot down to the gun, then back up to the mystery boy. The boy on other hand let a devilish grin slash his handsome features, a wicked slice revealing white teeth. He approved. He approved of the gun he had hidden in his clothes. In the boy’s belt, Charlie noticed, a holster strapped to his leg, which sat snuggly in place, a gun resting within it, just as comfortable. As if the two were made of one mould. Charlie felt a glow rise in his chest.
"Hey!" Charlie's eyes widened ever so slightly at the crude belch from behind him. All too familiar was the voice from an all too familiar place. Charlie turned slowly to look up at the large owner, never having locked eyes with him before in his life. The man, a filthy glutton with a few double chins, found him eerily unnerving all too quickly. Anyone would. Charlie had eyes that looked straight through the veils of pride, false power, and pretext. They were wide and coloured by something slightly... off. Like a dog that had been beaten one too many times by it’s master. But the owner would have none of it. He pulled his belt loops up with his thumbs and suddenly spotted the gun, "What’s this? Little Princess? Thinking of shootin’ up your ol' pa? The man who feeds ya? Gives ya what ya want? Hm? Princess wou’n’t dream of it. Not my prettiest little brat." The fat man bent from the waist, knees buckling slightly under his own weight as he picked up the pistol.
Before he could straighten again, the gun dangling from his sausage fingers, a boot met with his face in a squish of fat and flesh. The spur dug into his cheek and the boot tore sideways, ripping the soft tissue of gum from his mouth. Blood spattered against the side of the washbasin, spatters catching Charlie in the face, who stood prone, unable to move or blink. He kept his mouth shut and his face blank. The boot, incidentally, had an owner. The approving smirk was still in place on the wild boy’s face. He straightened just enough to push the fat man over behind the counter, before thrusting out his hand to Charlie. He seemed relaxed, and altogether jovial.
"Ben Wade, at yer service." Charlie stared down at his hand. Ben quirked a brow, half amused, perhaps the half being confused, but entirely entertained. He bent over and grabbed Charlie's hand, shaking with such force Charlie practically choked on his own breath. Funny, a man being brutally torn to pieces was alright, but the simple gesture of a handshake was far too complicated to stay stoic. Ben let go and stifled a chuckle. "Look kid, looks like I dun need your help after all. You might wanna just lay low for a bit. Till the storm blows over. Since I've already taken out the lug, there's not much left--"
But the lug, as Ben had so aptly put, wasn't down for the count. As Ben spoke, smooth as fine wine, the far larger man was on his stubby feet and wrapping his massive hands around the cocky boy's neck. He instantly began to crush him in his iron strong grip, despite his slovenly appearance. Ben was too late to turn and fight the man but struggled with all his might, kicking and punching where he could. Panic rose in his eyes. He gave himself away, Charlie thought. The grown man grinned down at him. He had won a prize, another boy to add to his collection.
Blood exploded from his wrist and a moment late he screamed, releasing Ben, who fell to the floor in a clatter of lanky limbs. Another explosion of blood from his shoulder, and then his chest, his ear, his knee. Ben backpedaled as chaos quickly unwound the once buoyant and sinful scene. Gunshots echoed throughout the bar causing astonished drunks and baffled wenches looked about, finally spotting the bewildered owner. He stumbled back, and the armed boy followed. Charlie Prince held a gun out in front of himself, the safe, jarring expression placidly controlling his freatures. He stepped over Ben, who didn't dare move an inch. Charlie knelt, slowly, a hunter with his head perfectly still on his shoulders, and slipped the gun from Ben's belt, just as another man three times his size jumped from behind, his hand reaching for his own weapon. Charlie's arm snapped into place. Automatically, ruthlessly, he sank a bullet between the man's eyes, watching him topple backwards to lie prone, a jagged creek of blood dividing the man’s face.
Charlie's eyes hadn't left his true prey through. "You won't ever call me that again." The owner’s head snapped back, and he fell backwards, slowly, teetering like on the edge of losing his balance. But he was long gone. Charlie had surprisingly good aim.
Ben sat just behind him, disbelief and amazement combined in his expression. He laughed a little, silently, more afraid than he had ever been of anyone, but at the same time thrilled to have found such a fantastic weapon: this kid...
Ben scrambled to his feet, pulled something from his vest pocket and something else from his boot, struck them together and tossed them into the centre of the brothel. A crack louder than thunder sliced the air in half and Ben shoved Charlie's head below the edge of the bar. They ducked together, Ben squinting his eyes shut and laughing. Charlie stared at Ben, admiration seeping into his chest. Moments after the sound had cleared, what sounded like a hundred angry voices entered from all sides. Charlie pushed against Ben’s grip to look over the edge of the bar where he witnessed dozens of kids no younger than himself pour through windows and doors, slitting throats and burying bullets in flesh whenever they could. They all stuck together, even after the target was lying dead on the floorboards, they still kept their guard up, until the coast was clear. When it was, Charlie watched they took all money and valuables they saw.
"Now listen, I’ve a job for you. A real one. You'll get paid I swear. Real gold. Just do as I say. Those guns are yours if you do as I say." Ben was a charming fellow. He oozed confidence, and Charlie could tell this was the best damn time he had had in a long, long while. He didn’t even think about turning his pistols on him, not for a moment. He would have left Ben Wade take the guns without a fight and been perfectly satisfied, "You.. have an amazin’ fuckin shot, if you don’ mind my French. I dunno how you learned to shoot so god damned well, but it's an amazin’ talent. Now, you hate it here?"
Charlie continued staring, but he blinked once, before opening his mouth to speak. He closed his mouth again and nodded.
"And you hate the people. People make the place after all."
Again Charlie nodded.
"Then, when I point at a man, one of these low life sons of a bitches, you shoot him dead. Got that? Right in the kisser." He grinned again. The Devil himself making a deal.
Charlie nodded again.
"Then on the count of three." Ben looked at him one last time, as if judging the boy, the Prince of this pub, hoping it was right to trust him with his gun. Hoping he didn’t just have a lucky shot back there. "Three!"
Precise, logical and dead on. Ben would shout orders and Charlie would follow. When Ben said ‘go’, he would. It was easy, it was fun. In fact, he had never had so much fun in his short, hate-filled life. Seeing those he despised perish and fall away like dead leaves was liberating. He reeled with the sudden high it left him with. The bar was soon left barren and bloodied, his first massacre. The other boys that Ben had signaled earlier were a collection of outlawed brats who would do just about anything to stay alive, including murder and thievery. There were plenty of them to take the place by force, even if it was an odd choice for robbery. A brothel with whores of all ages, genders and sizes.... Ben Wade was sure to leave his mark on this town. Charlie sat against an overturned table, two guns sitting in his lap, panting, small chest heaving up and down in a sweat drenched shirt. He was tired but he didn't feel it. He felt great. He felt scared. At the same time a calm had settled somewhere inside him. Ben sat across from him, wiping bloodstains from his sun kissed skin, "Hey, Kid... You're grinnin’ like a fool. Did ya have fun or somethin’? Maybe jus hit yer head…" Ben stood and collected the purse of a dead thief.
Grinning? Was he grinning? Charlie reached up and touched his own lips with the tips of his salty fingers. Yes. His mouth was in that unfamiliar shape, a slight curve upward. He noticed that his face hurt from the strain of using muscles long since over worked. Had he never smiled before, never laughed? He’d forgotten that if you smiled hard enough, your muscles would cramp.
"What's yer name anyways?" The dust settled onto the ground around the boots of the bandits led by Wade. Heels clicked and watchful eyes scanned the young kid who just took down half of the people who filled the lovely establishment. He seemed unreal to their weary eyes.
"Prince..." the name tasted bitter on his tongue, from all the men before who had sullied it with their vulgar mouths, "Charlie Prince." Saying his name made him want to vomit. But then...
"Charlie Prince." When Ben said it… "Charlie Prince. Got a nice ring to it, don't it boys?" It sounded different. Clean, but sharpened. A dull knife made new. No, this was the new meaning of his name. The new sound of it. Never again would someone dirty his name with slander, that is, unless he was willing to pay with his life. A life wasn’t so hard to take after all.
"Say, why don't you join my little crew, Charlie boy. Just shoot who I tell you to shoot, and we'll never have a thing to fight about."
Sounded easy enough.