The Dustjaw Tavern was half-lit and half-silent, the kind of afternoon lull where even the regulars kept their voices low and their fingers near their triggers. Wang stepped inside, scanning quickly—habit now. He kept his scarf tight around his neck, robotic arm tucked under a long sleeve. His boots clacked across the wooden floor as he made his way to the bar.
Kruger, the half-deaf barkeep, gave him a nod.
"Whiskey," Wang said.
"Usual?" Kruger muttered.
Wang nodded and slid into a booth tucked near the back. His legs were sore from patrol duty, and he was ready to nurse a drink and disappear for a few hours. But something on the far wall made him freeze.
A fresh bounty poster.
WANTED ALIVE
WANG-YANG — $10,000
Mugshots. Frontal and side. The "M" brand plainly visible on his neck.
"Fuck..." Wang muttered under his breath. His heart kicked up as he turned sharply and pulled his scarf tighter. He kept his face low and slunk deeper into the booth's shadows.
He didn't see her walk in.
But he heard her boots. Confident. Heavy. The kind of gait that meant the owner was strapped and didn't give a shit who knew.
A blonde woman in her late 20s slid into the booth across from him, tossing her cowhide duster back to reveal two pearl-handled revolvers on her hips. Her long wavy blonde hair was pulled into a thick braid slung over one shoulder, and her leather vest strained against her huge melons, pressed tight under a worn grey tank top.
Dust and sweat clung to her skin like warpaint. Her jeans were faded and caked with red sand, and she wore fingerless gloves, scuffed and frayed at the seams.
She set her shades on the table and ordered without glancing away from him.
"Barkeep. Bourbon. The real shit, not that lizard piss you served me last week."
Kruger grunted something unintelligible and shuffled away.
Wang tried to look disinterested. Neutral. Normal.
But then she reached into her jacket, pulled out a folded paper, and slid it onto the table between them.
"Is this you, handsome?" she asked, voice smooth as gravel.
Wang looked down. There he was. Full-frontal mugshot. His real name. Ten thousand credits hanging off his face.
He blinked, jaw tightening. "Nah. Not me."
A beat of silence.
Then he felt it.
The cold, deliberate press of steel against his temple.
She'd drawn one of her pistols under the table without a sound.
"I swear to God," she said, voice low, laced with venom, "if you fuckin' lie to me one more time, I'ma blow your goddamn head off and order another drink while the bartender mops your brains off the floor."
Wang didn't move.
His breath caught in his throat.
The revolver's barrel was rock-steady.
He finally looked up—really looked—and saw her eyes. Sharp, narrowed, feral. The kind of eyes you only got after years of killing people who gave you a reason. Her lips curled slightly in amusement, like she already knew he was gonna say something dumb.
Wang opened his mouth.
Then closed it.
He swallowed.
Hard.
The muzzle didn't move.
They stared at each other.
Everything in the tavern faded. No clinking glasses. No footsteps. No background voices. Just the two of them. Locked. Motionless.
The woman tilted her head just a little, eyebrow raised.
"Well?" she asked.
Wang's throat was dry. His hands twitched slightly above the table.
But he didn't answer.
Not yet.
The pistol stayed against his forehead.
And they waited.
Wang stared up at the barrel of the revolver. Sweat slid down the side of his face, his breathing shallow.
The woman didn't blink.
"Well?" she growled.
"...Yeah," Wang said finally, voice barely audible. "It's me."
The bar went dead silent.
Then every single motherfucker in that room pulled their iron.
Chairs scraped. Bottles clinked. Dozens of hammers were cocked back like a goddamn symphony of violence.
Her pistol pistol didn't flinch.
Kruger, the bartender, had a double-barrel pointed over the counter. A native trader by the door had a sawed-off aimed square at her head. Even the old bastard missing an eye had a rusty revolver in his shaking hand.
"Drop the gun, lady," someone snarled.
"You don't fuckin' own him," barked another.
She just smiled.
With her off-hand, she grabbed Wang by the front of his shirt and yanked him to his feet. He stumbled forward, the revolver now jammed into the underside of his jaw.
"One more step," she called out to the room, voice slicing through the tension like a whip, "and I turn his brain into meat jam!"
The guns didn't lower.
But nobody fired.
Wang gritted his teeth. "Really?" he hissed.
"Shut up," she muttered.
Keeping her grip tight, she backed toward the saloon door, dragging Wang with her. Her duster swayed behind her, revealing the other pistol holstered tight against her hip.
The silence was suffocating.
One wrong twitch and the whole goddamn bar would erupt.
She hit the door with her back and pushed it open slowly. Heat and dust slapped them in the face.
Her motorcycle waited ten meters away, engine already primed.
A beast of a machine—black frame, sidecar rigged for cargo, twin exhaust pipes snarling like fanged serpents.
As soon as they cleared the threshold, Cassandra moved.
She slammed her revolver across Wang's temple.
CRACK.
He dropped like a sack of bricks—out cold.
Before anyone inside could react, she grabbed him under the arms, hauled his unconscious ass into the sidecar, slammed the cover hatch shut, and drew her other pistol.
BANG-BANG-BANG!
She fired three shots back toward the saloon. Windows shattered. Patrons ducked for cover. Someone screamed.
She leapt onto the bike, revved the engine with a roar that made the ground tremble, then peeled out in a spray of red dust and gravel.
Bullets chased her down the road.
CRACK-CRACK! BANG!
A round grazed the handlebar.
Another pinged off the tailpipe.
But she didn't stop. Didn't look back.
She just gunned it, roaring past the outer ridge, dirt flying in her wake, scarf whipping in the wind, duster flaring out like wings of vengeance.
The village faded behind her—just another stop on the map.
The sun dipped low, casting her silhouette long across the sand.
And as the howling wind drowned out the gunfire behind her, she grinned, eyes on the horizon.
"Ten thousand fucking dollars," she whispered to herself.
And she rode off into the distance.
Q: Do you know how to do an Aussie accent?