#people are so quick to brush sylas off as just this

[diveyne]

just wrote a ted talk about sylas and sylas/morgana thank you for listening

[that-house]

The Thief and the Gun: Prologue part 1

The Thief and the Gun is going to be a pretty lengthy work if it’s ever finished. This is the first quarter or so of the prologue. Enjoy!

The front gate was too heavily guarded, so they’d elected to blast through the wall instead. In hindsight, it wasn’t the greatest plan, and would have doomed the mission if it weren’t for Virgil. Of course, Virgil doomed the mission himself shortly afterwards, but, to be fair, the gun had been quite persuasive.

A few weeks before the now-infamous Redwater Job, Virgil Hayes had just ducked into a saloon to avoid the gaze of a lawman across the road when a man at the bar caught his eye and beckoned him over. The man was wearing a fine suit which did very little to conceal the gun under his coat. Virgil pointed at himself and gave the man his best “you’ve got the wrong guy” face (a raised eyebrow, a friendly-but-awkward half-smile, and a head shake). The man patted the stool next to him. If it weren’t for the warrant on his head and the lawman in the street, Virgil would have made a run for it, but at least he could get a drink while this stranger said whatever horseshit he was about to spew.

Virgil took a seat. “Look, I don’t know who you’re looking for, but I ain’t him.” Hopefully.

The man pulled out a wanted poster. “This you?” Virgil gave it a quick once-over. It was unmistakably him. A very good likeness. He leaned forward to examine it better. By all the demons in the West, it was like looking in the mirror.

“Nope. Never seen him in my life. Good luck on your search!” Virgil turned away from the man to face the barkeeper with a grin. “I’ll have a whiskey.” From the look of the saloon, it wouldn’t be any good. The floorboards were rough, the paint on the walls was peeling, and the room couldn’t be any darker if the lone gas lamp were to stop guttering and finally go out. It looked like a place that had never seen money or happiness, let alone a good drink.

The air in the saloon was stagnant and reeked of cheap alcohol and sweat. A little evening sunlight found its way in through the door but only served to illuminate the dust gently drifting through the air in the wake of drunk patrons stumbling back to their homes or inns. Like everything in Dry Creek, the saloon felt ancient but impermanent. It may have stood here for decades, but if the mines ran out it would be gone and forgotten in a matter of days. Virgil suspected no one would miss it.

The man cleared his throat. “I’m not here to arrest you, Mr. Hayes. I have a proposition for you.”

“I have a whiskey to drink. I never feel like I can get my money’s worth out of a drink with some asshole talking my ear off. Maybe if you paid for it I’d be inclined to listen to you.” This was, of course, a lie. Virgil would enjoy the whiskey, shitty as it was, regardless of the man next to him. He just wanted a free drink.

“My employer can make you a rich man, Mr. Hayes. Rich enough that you’d be able to afford to pay for your own drinks and finally finish drinking yourself to death.” The man brushed some nonexistent dust off of his jacket in an attempt to demonstrate the benefits of working for whoever paid his salary. All of his clothes were obnoxiously fine, perfectly tailored and spotlessly clean. His perfectly polished boots reflected the dim glow of the lamp like a fine mirror. He looked like the sort of man who woke up with perfect hair, or, failing that, spent three hours marshalling every strand into place. The man’s gun was mostly hidden by his coat, but Virgil thought he saw flashes of gold inlaid into the grip. The overall impression was that of a fairly wealthy man doing his best to look even richer.

“I’m listening.” Remarkably, he actually was. As the West grew more and more established, Virgil’s lifestyle of good, honest banditry was looking less and less profitable.

“I’m going to assume you’ve heard the name Sylas Clayton?” 

Like everyone else, Virgil knew the name, but he wasn’t going to make this easy for the man. “Can’t say I have.”

“Clayton Transportation? The richest man in the West?”

“Doesn’t ring a bell, no.”

“There’s a statue of him in the center of town!”

“Thought that was an outhouse.”

“The trains, the towns, the lighthouses, they all exist through the benevolence of Mr. Clayton! Show some fucking respect.” He was angry, defensive of Clayton. Virgil had met people like him before, defining themselves by their proximity to a powerful individual. Anything to distract themselves from the fact that they didn’t matter.

“Why should I care about some rich bastard?”

“The question you should be asking is why Mr. Clayton cares about some broke outlaw like you.”

“Well, mister, why does Mr. Clayton care about some broke outlaw like me?”

“You’re a morally bankrupt rat who’s never made an honest dollar in his life. Your only skills are murder and robbery. You’ve made a name for yourself by being a slippery good-for-nothing thief.”

“Aw, thanks. That’s the sweetest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

“While I’d sooner shoot my fingers off than work with you, Mr. Clayton has a job that needs doing, and you’re one of his prime candidates.”

“I have to work with you? I’ll pass.”

“Ten thousand dollars upon completion of the job. You’ll be set for life.”

“Ten thousand?”

“Ten thousand, and I’ll pay for your drink.”

With a sigh, Virgil stuck out his hand. The man looked at it with some distaste, eyeing the grime under Virgil’s nails and the pistol grip calluses as if they might be infectious. Finally, letting out a similarly dissatisfied sigh, he took Virgil’s hand and shook it as quickly as he could. Virgil did his best to draw the handshake out, relishing the man’s discomfort. “Never caught your name.”

The man’s reply was curt. “Vernon. Vernon Poole.” Now that he’d gotten Virgil’s cooperation, Vernon seemed to have lost any desire to continue pretending to enjoy Virgil’s company.

“Well, Vernon Poole, I think this is the start of a truly wonderful friendship.” It wasn’t, and they both knew it. Virgil had had his hand near his gun from the moment the man beckoned him over, and, while Vernon wasn’t quite so obvious, his hand had been floating by his side ever since Virgil had compared the Clayton statue to an outhouse. To be honest, Virgil didn’t see the both of them walking away from this job alive. He’d pushed his luck a little too far irritating the man. “So, when do I meet this Mr. Clayton fellow?”

“We’re taking the morning train to Coalstead.”

“I don’t know if you remember that poster you’ve got, but I’m a wanted man. The wrong eyes fall on me and I go right to the pyre.”

“Mr. Clayton owns that train and everyone on it. You won’t be facing justice just yet.”

“If you get me killed I have every intention of haunting you.”

“I could say the same to you, Mr. Hayes.”

“Fair ‘nough. Any chance I could convince you to buy me another drink?”

“I’d reckon the odds are about the same as you taking up farming.”

“Ah well, figured I’d try.”

[rebelmagic]

@demacianmage from x.

It’s funny, somehow. That despite his condition, Sylas waits outside her door for permission to enter. Even bruised, bleeding, and holding his side, there’s still no doubt that he could have just let himself in, but for some reason (for some people) manners are just that hard to relinquish.

Hunched over in her doorway is not the way he expected to see her again. But it is an improvement from how they first met.

“Don’t sound so happy to see me.” He breathes out a hollow chuckle, only stepping forward when she’s moved back. The hand at his side reaches out to her shoulder, as if to brush all of this off with a simple pat. The weight of it all. The edge in her voice. The thing that sits unaddressed between them. It only stops short when he remembers the source of that ire, a practiced step with the leg beneath it sweeping his chains out of the way before they swing into her. The quick change in direction causes him to stumble into the door frame, and the sigh he hisses after is more from the annoyance at his slip in behavior than it is of his feet, or his pain.

It is all so simple to him. It isn’t to her. He wishes she could let it go.

“My apologies, Little Light. It’s a little hard to get into town all of a sudden. Have any idea why?” Of course, he’s being facetious, eyeing the room for a chair sturdy enough to drop into.