Finally, Lopez raises his glass one last time. "To new beginnings and the future of the Bandidos!" he toasts, his voice a tad slurred from the alcohol. The gang echoes his sentiment, and the glasses clink together before everyone takes a final swig. The room falls silent as the last echoes of the toast fade away. You look around at the faces of your comrades, now flushed with drink and merriment, and feel a warmth spread through you. You've come a long way from being the new recruit, and the trust they've placed in you is both humbling and exhilarating.
As the party winds down, the gang members become increasingly inebriated. The once-lively conversation turns into slurred speech and occasional bursts of laughter. Some start to stumble as they try to stand, while others lean heavily on the bar or their companions for support. The saloon, once a bastion of excitement and anticipation, now feels warm and comfortable, the flickering candlelight casting a gentle glow across the sleepy faces of your friends. You notice that the yellow of your new poncho is slightly askew, a testament to the night's festivities. A few townsfolk peek in from the street, smiling at the sight of the band of yellow-clad riders enjoying their victory. Despite the merriment, there is an underlying sense of the responsibilities that come with your new rank. The weight of your new role sits heavily on your shoulders, even amidst the camaraderie. The night is still young.
You make your way to the second floor of the Hotel de Tumbleweed, the stairs creaking slightly under the weight of your boots. You find a small balcony overlooking the quiet town, the night air crisp and refreshing against your flushed cheeks. You light up a cigarette, inhaling deeply and letting the smoke curl around you like a comforting shroud. The sound of your boots scraping against the wooden floorboards echoes through the otherwise silent corridor, a stark contrast to the lively saloon below. As you lean against the railing, you can't help but feel a sense of accomplishment and belonging. The yellow poncho around your shoulders is a badge of honor, a symbol of the trust and respect your fellow gang members have bestowed upon you. The quiet solitude up here allows you to process the evening's events, from your promotion to Astrona's acceptance into the gang. You hear distant hoots and hollers from the saloon, the sound of good-natured banter and the occasional clank of a bottle. The moon casts a silvery light over the rooftops, painting the town in a serene glow that seems at odds with the chaos of your world.
The cigarette in your hand burns slowly, the red ember casting an eerie glow against the darkened sky. The smoke wafts upwards, mingling with the cool night air, and you take a moment to let the quietness of the balcony soothe your nerves. The occasional shout from the saloon reaches you, reminding you of the festivities continuing below. A light breeze picks up, carrying with it the faint scent of horses and the distant howl of a coyote, grounding you in the reality of the Wild West. The yellow poncho flutters gently around you, a stark reminder of your new responsibilities as a soldier in the Bandidos gang. The balcony creaks slightly as you shift your weight, and you become aware of the quiet footsteps approaching from the corridor behind you.
Sully emerges from the shadows of the corridor, his broad frame silhouetted against the moonlight. He carries a rolled cigarette in his mouth, a match in hand. He strikes it against the wooden wall, the sparks briefly illuminating his stern yet kind face. "Mind if I join ya?" he asks, his voice a low rumble. He strides over to the balcony, his heavy boots thumping against the floorboards, and leans on the railing beside you. The tip of his cigarette flares to life, and he takes a deep drag. For a few moments, the two of you stand in companionable silence, the only sound the distant noise from the saloon and the occasional snicker of the wind.
Sully nods in your direction, acknowledging your presence. He takes a deep draw from his cigarette and exhales a plume of smoke that mingles with the cool night air. "The calm before the storm," he murmurs, his gaze fixed on the horizon. "Life in the gang is like that, ain't it? One minute we're all laughin' and drinkin', the next we're runnin' from the law or fightin' for our lives." He pauses, his eyes flicking towards the yellow poncho you're wearing. "But that's what makes it worth livin'." He chuckles, a low rumble that seems to resonate with the very boards beneath your feet. "And with you as one of us, I reckon we've got a hell of a storm brewin'." He takes another drag and glances back at the saloon doors. "Best enjoy the quiet while we can. Who knows when we'll get another night like this?" His words hang in the air, a mix of camaraderie and a sobering reminder of the tumultuous life ahead of you as a soldier in the Bandidos.
You nod in agreement, the gravity of your situation weighing heavily on your mind. "Yeah, you're right," you reply, the words coming out more solemn than you intend. "But I'm ready for whatever comes our way." You look over at Sully, his strong profile lit by the flickering light of the moon.
Sully takes another long drag on his cigarette, his gaze never leaving the horizon. He turns to you, his eyes meeting yours. "No one's ever truly ready for what's out there, kid. But that's what makes us Bandidos." He taps his chest with his thumb, a gesture that seems to encompass both of you in the gang's identity. "We stick together, and we face whatever comes our way." His voice is a blend of gruffness and sincerity. He takes one last puff and flicks the butt into the night, the ember arcing through the air before disappearing into the shadows below. The silence that follows is filled with a newfound respect between you.
Sully claps you on the shoulder, his grip firm but friendly. "That's the spirit, kid," he says before turning back towards the saloon doors. "But remember, even the strongest storms need a breather." He nods towards the open door, the light and noise of the saloon beckoning. "Get some rest. We've got a big day tomorrow, and I'm sure Lopez has plans for us." He starts to make his way back to the stairs, his heavy boots thudding against the wooden floorboards.
You stand there for a moment longer, the cool night breeze playing with the fringes of your new poncho. The weight of the night's events settles heavily upon you as you watch Sully's retreating back. You take one final drag on your cigarette, savoring the taste of the tobacco and the quietude of the night. The distant sound of the coyote's howl reaches your ears once more, a reminder of the vast and unpredictable world that awaits outside the safety of Tumbleweed's walls. With a sigh, you flick the cigarette into the night, the ember disappearing into the darkness.
Making your way back downstairs, you find the saloon has grown quieter. Some of the gang members have already called it a night, their snores echoing faintly from the adjoining hotel rooms. Others are engaged in hushed conversations, the candles on the tables casting flickering shadows across their faces. The air is thick with the scent of tobacco and spilled whiskey, a potent mix that fills your nostrils as you navigate through the tables.
You spot shelley leaning against the bar, a half-empty bottle of whiskey in front of him. his eyes, usually sharp and focused, are slightly glazed,he notices you and raises his glass in a silent toast. You can't help but smile back; his fiery spirit, even in a moment of relaxation, is undeniable. he motions for you to come closer.
"So, Raven," he says, his voice a little softer than usual, "how does it feel to be a soldier now?"
You approach the bar, the floorboards creaking under your boots. "Surreal," you admit, taking a seat next to him. "But I'm ready to do what it takes for the gang."
Shelley's eyes harden as he speaks, and the room seems to grow tense. his words hang in the air, a declaration of vengeance and a call to arms. he slams his fist on the bar, rattling the bottles and glasses. "We're going to get back Juan and Pure, and then we're riding straight to Saint Denis to settle the score with that sadistic son of a bitch who laid a hand on me," he growls
Shelley nods solemnly, his gaze unwavering as he hears your words. "We'll need a solid plan and the right people for the job," he says, stroking his chin thoughtfully. He looks around the room, his eyes lingering on the various faces of the gang. "Hawk, Rommy, and Marie... yes, they're all skilled fighters." He pours himself another drink, the amber liquid glinting in the candlelight. "But we can't be hasty. We need to gather intel, stock up" He takes a swig, his expression grim. "We're dealing with a dangerous enemy, one who knows how to manipulate and torture. We go in blind, we're as good as dead." He leans closer to you, his voice dropping to a whisper. "But when we do go, we'll make sure he pays for everything he's done" The room falls silent for a moment, the gravity of the situation settling in.
Hawk emerges from the shadows, her ginger hair a fiery halo around her head. She crosses her arms over her yellow-trimmed jacket, a look of determination etched on her features. "Count me in," she says firmly, her voice cutting through the quiet like a knife. "I've had enough of these games. We find Juan and Pure, then we deal with this scum."
Rommy, who had been nursing a drink at a nearby table, stands up and saunters over, her axe slung casually over her shoulder. She smiles, though it doesn't quite reach her eyes. "I'm always ready for a good fight," she says with a wink.
Hawk's command breaks the tension in the room, and the gang members nod in agreement, understanding the gravity of the situation. The saloon's atmosphere shifts slightly as the reality of the impending mission sinks in. One by one, they finish their drinks and make their way to their rooms, the mood sobered but resolved. You feel the weight of the upcoming tasks pressing down on your shoulders, but there's a sense of unity and purpose that fills you with a strange comfort. The night's celebration has come to an end, and the Bandidos are now focused on the job at hand: bring back Juan and Pure, then take on the evil that awaits in Saint Denis.
As you prepare to head to your room, you catch a glimpse of Marie in the corner, her eyes meeting yours briefly before she looks away. There's a hint of something unspoken in her gaze, a flicker of emotion that you can't quite place. You approach her, curiosity piqued by the enigma she presents. "Hey, Marie," you say, your voice soft so as not to startle her. She looks up, her eyes narrowing slightly.
"What is it, Raven?" she asks, her tone a blend of wariness and curiosity.
You hesitate for a moment, unsure of how to approach the topic that's been plaguing your thoughts since Shelley's outburst. "Look, I just wanted to... check in," you say finally. "You've been pretty quiet tonight."
Marie looks up at you with a coy smile, a touch of rouge on her cheeks and her hair neatly tied back. "Oh, I was just fixing my makeup," she says sweetly, her British accent a soothing melody in the otherwise tense air of the saloon. "Don't I look pretty?" Her eyes sparkle with mischief, and she twirls a lock of her hair around her finger. Despite the seriousness of the situation, she maintains an air of light-heartedness. She seems to be in high spirits, which is somewhat surprising given the gravity of the conversation about the upcoming mission. Her question hangs in the air, inviting a response from you.
as you are lost in thought Her smile turns into a grin as she notices your silence. In a flash, Marie pulls out a knife and places it gently against your neck, her eyes dancing with playful menace. "Am I not pretty, Raven?" she asks again, her grip firm but not cutting.
Your heart races as the cold steel of Marie's knife presses against your neck. You force a smile, trying to ease the tension. "Of course you are, Marie," you reply, your voice steady despite the fear creeping in. "You always look lovely." The room seems to hold its breath for a moment, and then, just as quickly as it came, the tension dissipates. She laughs, a sound that is both relieving and eerie, and pulls the knife away, flipping it back into its sheath with a flourish.
"Good," she says, patting your cheek lightly. "you wouldn't want to me to kill you in such a nice place, would you?" Her smile widens, showing a hint of mischief. You rub the spot where the knife had been, your smile more genuine now that the immediate threat has passed.
You cautiously retreat from Marie, her unpredictable nature leaving you on edge. She simply laughs at your reaction and returns to her chair, sipping her drink. You make your way back to your room, the encounter with Marie still fresh in your mind. Upon reaching your room, you close the door behind you, the sound of the latch echoing in the quiet hallway. The moonlight filters in through the window, casting a pale glow across the simple furnishings: a bed, a chair, and a dresser. You lay down on the bed, the mattress squeaking slightly under your weight. Despite the weariness of the day's events, your mind races with thoughts about Marie's behavior and the impending mission. The silence of the night is broken only by the distant sounds of the saloon's die-hard revelers and the occasional footstep outside your door.