Annes Eyes Widen Slightly In Panic, But Shes Quick To Cover That By The Time Hes All The Way Turned Round.

Anne’s eyes widen slightly in panic, but she’s quick to cover that by the time he’s all the way turned ‘round. She’d meant the shot to skate over, not through, the bastard! She gets her shit back together when his gun comes out. In her costume of twice-stolen raider valor, she’d hoped no one would be dumb enough to fuck with someone flying the Jolly Roger on their back, but she’d have to be naive to be caught unprepared for that.

And Anne isn’t fucking naive.

“It’s for none of yer fucking business. My own fuckin job.” He’s got a point: she’s got no more time than he does to dawdle. Maybe she could grab it off him. Probably she’d end up bit and worse, since a knife would be of no use in persuasion if a bullet wasn’t one at all. She licks chapped lips and considers her options. If this wasn’t such a personal fucking matter, she might’ve left it at just that. (Sorry, ghoul got yer package. I know, sad. ‘S’why I make everyone sign the contract relieving me of liability if the cost of retrieval is not commiserate with the payout of the job. Next!) As things stand….

“I got two thousand caps in a sack and know where t’find more.” She does and she doesn’t. “It’s a sentimental sort a’ payout, ye know how it goes.”

@hollywoodbountyman | ⚓️

The warning shot sails just over the ghoul’s right shoulder, less than a foot from his head.

Those chem-chugging fucks might not have taught Anne much in the scheme of things, but they did teach her one thing: theatrics go a long way in the Wasteland. If you act like a crazy fucking lunatic who’ll do anything to get what you want, most people would you let get whatever it is you’re after a lot easier.

She can only hope that ghouls are people, too. Otherwise she’s just wasted a bullet. Anne cocks the hammer of the gun again but doesn’t take her eyes off the ghoul who had his back to her.

“Sorry, ugly. That just so happens to be my property you’ve got there,” it isn’t, but it is what she’s come all this way to get, and in that way it is her property, “and I won’t be letting you get any further with it than that.”

@starlightintheirwake ⚓️

Anne sat with her back to the damp rock wall of the grotto, her boots pressed against a different, smaller rock lodged in place at the edge of the water. The grotto smelled of wet and wood, a sort of mildew not entirely unpleasant to smell but certainly not a place to spend hours in, like she was now. Lost. Looking through the water not to its dark depths but to a time long past. The bottle she nursed has long since slipped through her fingers, much emptier now than when it had entered the grotto.

She didn’t stir even when her privacy was intruded upon, though she heard the rattle of the bottle moving on their entrance. (If she laid down here and died, would anyone even notice?)

“Fuck off, I’m busy.”

@babydxhl sorry not sorry 🤷

Even in a city full of psychopaths, Anne somehow manages to stand out. At least right now there’s a fair reason for it: no one sits or idles at her booth, despite the place being jam-packed. And it’s not because of the blood or the broken glass, but because of the way Anne had calmly reached up and smashed a man’s face into the table, causing the blood and the broken glass. His weak moans have long since faded, having been dragged out halfway to unconsciousness by the security Anne’s surprised to learn is actually here.

The problem with standing out is that she isn’t supposed to do that yet. Her job was to work her way inside of the Iceberg Lounge, scope the place out, and find a new friend for Jack. Someone suitable to their cause—tough, unfucked with, and looking to raise a little hell. Jack’s exact words had been to find “the craziest, best-known psycho in town” and arrange a meeting for him. Anne…was reconsidering things now. Quite a lot of things. Including Jack.

She’s knows the feeling of eyes on her because they so seldom are. Even when she’d been dolling out the what-for for the fuck-nut who’d copped a feel, people hadn’t looked; acts of violence were common here, even if the woman engaging in them was not. (Truthfully, she had been mistaken for another femme fatale altogether from the back, and so most people looked pointedly anywhere else to avoid the ire of the woman she wasn’t.)

Anne looks up and meets those eyes head-on, her expression dispassionate and uninterested, though her look becomes somewhat pinched at the brow as she takes a look—a real look—at the person staring back her.

Christ Almighty, but Gotham takes ‘em young! She takes another swig directly from the whisky bottle before thumping it back down on the table.

“I’d offer ye a glass, but half of it’s stuck in some arsehole’s face. Aren’t ye a bit young t’be fuckin about in a place like this?”

Pirates are dogs. They’re pack animals who growl and snarl and snap. They’re vicious, even ruthless, and highly territorial. Pirates are dogs, and Anne Bonny’s the worst bitch of the bunch, and this man isn’t one she owes loyalty to—but she’s a pack animal. And even if he worked as a lettered turncoat (a fact she’s ignorant to, at least for the time being), he’s one of the pack now.

And even if he wasn’t, what pirate worth their salt walks away from a fight they’ve been pulled into? Anne doesn’t consider for even a moment that August really means to send her free to go to the gallows like a puppy on a leash.

❝ Walkin free don’t do us no good without a firearm, ❞ she says distractedly, clearing thinking out loud as she scans the holding cells. ❝ Prefer swords myself honestly, but firearms do better crowd control, and I don’ imagine yer Holecraft travels alone. Not based on what he sent t’the tavern. ❞

Damn. There isn’t even a trunk to indicate where Anne’s armaments might by found, never mind August’s. (She grimaces a bit at that, too; she’s doesn’t refer to most by their Christian name and doesn’t like the familiarity it immediately suggests.) Her signature coat and hat have been taken, as has her flintlock, her saber, her pocketknife, her boot-knife, and her—oh. No, that’s still present. Anne grins and runs her tongue along her bottom lip, pulling just past the hem of her trousers to produce a porcelain-handled jackknife. It’s been more for fashion than for form since before the day she picked it up, dull and thin, more useless than a butter knife for the stabbing, slicing, slashing, and piercing of things. But there are functions hereto unconsidered at which it might serve.

Anne slips around to the gate of her cell, carefully working the blade into the crevice. Aye, it’ll fit—but lockpocking is a two-tool job. opposite.

❝ I can get us out, ❞ she announces, looking up from her task, ❝ if ye can find us another tool. The rest a’ the plan can wait ‘til we’re sprung. ❞

Anne blinks in surprise, only to startle even herself with another unexpected half-laugh, half-cough. It was at least as jarring as it was embarrassing, prompting Anne to set aside the better part of her skepticism. Whatever this poor bastard did or didn’t do, they were in like straits together—and four hands are better than two. She pushes her way up to her feet, dusting offer her trousers.

Anne Bonny is a tall woman—both by her private definition and by the accepted public one. At just over six feet tall, Anne is usually more even-handed in her dealings, handling everyone with caution and disdain (and deciding against it for the sake of survival, never you doubt). Even with her shirt on and no hat covering her wild red hair, she actually looks quite a lot like the wood cutting on her wanted posters, though she’s often argued that without a pistol she could be almost any other “lady pirate” on these seas. Eyes as colorless and as biting as pale sea glass shards twinkle with new interest when Anne looks over again, intent on studying all she can in him in the short silence that follows his questions and her standing.

❝ Anne, ❞ she replies. Honorifics don’t interest her anymore, not really—except for Captain, sometimes. (Somehow always her downfall.) She’d rather not go through all the sordid business of her surname. ❝ Those fuckers…owe me money, mind,, ❞ she pants, squinting around the cellblock. There should be guards, other prisoners—shouldn’t there? What in the fuck has she just got involved with?

❝ What in the fuck have I just got involved with? Or are ye going t’plead innocence? I en’t sinless, but I en’t who they were after there. ❞ Of that much. Anne was certain: her own scuffle had started shortly after his, when a cry of hunters! hunters! went up at the tavern just as he went down. She would know. Her sucker punch came after she tripped one of the four surprised assailants, sending her flying back to hit her head and miss the rest of the fight.

@hollywoodbountyman | ⚓️

The warning shot sails just over the ghoul’s right shoulder, less than a foot from his head.

Those chem-chugging fucks might not have taught Anne much in the scheme of things, but they did teach her one thing: theatrics go a long way in the Wasteland. If you act like a crazy fucking lunatic who’ll do anything to get what you want, most people would you let get whatever it is you’re after a lot easier.

She can only hope that ghouls are people, too. Otherwise she’s just wasted a bullet. Anne cocks the hammer of the gun again but doesn’t take her eyes off the ghoul who had his back to her.

“Sorry, ugly. That just so happens to be my property you’ve got there,” it isn’t, but it is what she’s come all this way to get, and in that way it is her property, “and I won’t be letting you get any further with it than that.”

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