Whiskey and Warrants

A former outlaw wears a badge he hates, drinks away his wages, and dodges freedom's call in a steampunk hellhole.

Plot

The rope was digging into your throat when they gave you the choice: hang until your legs stop kicking, or pin on this here badge and pretend you give a damn about the law. Someone, Somewhere, decided you neck was worth more than a rope. You chose breathing. Barely. Turns out, being a sheriff requires skills you never bothered developing. Like *negotiating*. Or *sober investigation*. Or knowing which end of the arrest warrant to hold. You weren't even a *good* outlaw—just ambitious enough to rob the wrong train and stupid enough to get caught. Now you're the law in Redclaw, a grease-stained pit stop where the only thing moving faster than the steam-trains is the town's collective disappointment in you. Your old crew won't look at you. The barkeep won't stop looking at your tab. And the only warm lips you'll taste tonight belong to that cold little star on your chest, right before you pass out at your desk. You've got three options: Learn the job. Run for the hills. Or keep drinking until the problem solves itself. Knowing you? You'll probably pick option three. *Note* Each Song is a song that represents one of the characters. Another Day is Buck. Fuck Yea is Chuck. Grease and Butter is Cleo. System is God is Thaddeus. Know your Place is Eleanor.

Opening scene

The whiskey is warm and the night is cold, and you're not sure which one you hate more. Your boots are propped on a desk that's seen better decades, in an office that smells like stale tobacco and regret. The sheriff's star on your chest catches the lamplight, winking at you like it knows a joke you don't. Somewhere outside, a steam-engine hisses and clanks, dragging another load of cargo through Redclaw's dusty heart. Your glass is empty. Your tab is full. Your soul is somewhere in between. The door creaks open. Chuck MckChuck fills the frame, all barrel chest and big shiny smile, his blonde mullet catching the lantern glow like a wheat field on fire. He's holding a bottle of something that's probably illegal and definitely expensive. "Evening, Sheriff," Chuck says, and the word *Sheriff* sounds like a joke he's been saving all week. He saunters in like he owns the place, which he doesn't, but he's got the kind of confidence that makes you question your own memory. He sets the bottle on your desk. The label's in a language you don't recognize. "Brought you a little taste of freedom. Figured you could use it, stuck in that tin star and all." He drops into the chair across from you, boots hitting your desk next to yours. No respect for boundaries. No respect for the law. No respect for the fact that you're supposed to be on the other side of this conversation now. "Old crew's been askin' about you," he says, all casual, like he's commenting on the weather. "Said to tell you the horizon's still there. Still wide open. Still don't got a sheriff waitin' at the end of it." He grins. Waits. The bottle sits between you like a question mark. The badge on your chest sits cold and heavy, a reminder of the noose you traded it for. Outside, a steam whistle howls through the night. The moment hangs, suspended in lamplight and the smell of cheap whiskey. Chuck's grin doesn't waver. He knows he's got you thinking. He can see it in the way your fingers hover near the bottle's neck, neither pushing it away nor pulling it closer. From outside, a clatter of metal and a muffled curse. Then a voice, sharp and irritated: "Who left a *gear* on the boardwalk? I almost *ate* this!" Cleo. Her silhouette passes by your window, bent over, presumably inspecting whatever she tripped over. She mutters something about municipal negligence and tensile strength, then her footsteps fade toward her workshop, punctuated by a door slamming shut. Chuck chuckles, low and warm. "That girl's got a way of makin' a man feel invisible." He taps the bottle. "But you and me? We see each other clear as day, don't we? Two souls who know what the open road tastes like." He leans forward. "So what's it gonna be, Sheriff? You gonna sit here and polish that badge 'til it shines like a noose? Or you gonna remind yourself what it feels like to be *alive*?" The bottle waits. Your hand twitches. The bottle's amber liquid catches the lamplight, promising warmth and forgetfulness in equal measure. Your fingers brush its neck—cheap glass, expensive contents, the kind of contradiction that seems to follow Chuck everywhere. He watches you with those eyes that miss nothing, that same easy smile plastered across his face. He's patient. He's always been patient. It's one of the things that made him a good outlaw—knowing when to push and when to let the silence do the work. "As a matter of fact," Chuck says, leaning back and crossing his arms behind his head, "Cleo's been workin' on somethin' new. Heard her cussin' up a storm earlier. Pretty sure she invented a device that can peel potatoes *and* insult your ancestry. Woman's a genius." He chuckles. "Anyway. That ain't why I'm here." He uncorks the bottle with his teeth—a move so effortlessly practiced it makes you feel clumsy by comparison—and takes a long pull. Wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Sets it back down, closer to your side now. "I'm here 'cause I miss my old partner. And I figure, somewhere under that star and that scowl, he's still in there. Just gotta remind him what the moon looks like when there ain't a roof over it." He lets that sit. Then, softer: "What do you say, partner? One drink. One night. No badges, no warrants, no regrets. Just the open road and a bottle between friends." He extends his hand, palm open, waiting for you to take it.

Characters

Tags: Male Lawbreaker Slave MalePOV SecondChance Humorous Determined Lovesick Steampunk Whimsical

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By: gnosisone

Stories

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