835 replies to this topic

[Mara=^.^=]

Here's the step-by-step:

 

 

 

 

~*Mara*~ = ^.^ =

[J/C AVA]

Awesome!!

I like how even its its basic drawing stage (which I know is still digital) it's still awesome.

[SweeneyxxTodd]

It looks like at the end you added a filter of some sort to achieve the lighting effect. Is that what you did?

[Mara=^.^=]

It looks like at the end you added a filter of some sort to achieve the lighting effect. Is that what you did?

 

I used "Selective Color" to adjust the levels of of green, red, yellow, and neutral, relative to one another. Then I took the dodge brush and added some bright contrast to the areas of her face and gun where light was hitting, to get that hazy, bright summer sun feeling.

 

 

~*Mara*~ = ^.^ =

[Katia11]

so gorgeous.  

[Mara=^.^=]

Well...this started out as Libby's ballgown, and rapidly turned into all the Retro Valley women (well, all the ones with a speaking role, anyway...) Outfits are not 100% period accurate, obviously. They sort of range in style from the 1875 (when the story is set) to the 1880s and 90s.
 
I can never get Elke to look right
 



~*Mara*~ = ^.^ =

[Katia11]

I can't see it!  

[Mara=^.^=]

Can you see it now?

 

 

~*Mara*~ = ^.^ =

[J/C AVA]

It's not loading for some odd reason. :/

[Mara=^.^=]

F*cking deviantArt .stash

 

Let me try a regular upload:

 

 

 

 

~*Mara*~ = ^.^ =

[J/C AVA]

It works!

I love the design of their dresses and the attention paid to detail: the folds and lines of the cloths. Their hair is drawn nicely, having that Wild West design to them. I like that the woman in the middle has music notes next to her. Is she whistling?

[Mara=^.^=]

I like that the woman in the middle has music notes next to her. Is she whistling?

 

That's Libby in one of those ridiculous church hats women wore in the 1800s (the music notes are cuz she's a singer). If you can't tell, Libby is on the left (again), and then top to bottom on the right is Libby, Elke, Tex, and Betty.

 

~*Mara*~ = ^.^ =

[J/C AVA]

That's Libby in one of those ridiculous church hats women wore in the 1800s (the music notes are cuz she's a singer). If you can't tell, Libby is on the left (again), and then top to bottom on the right is Libby, Elke, Tex, and Betty.
 
~*Mara*~ = ^.^ =

I get 'cha now. Libby's in a solo spot on the left.
 

I can never get Elke to look right

For her being Elke and a basic digital drawing, she looks amazing! I can picture her in color already and she'll look awesome.
 

They sort of range in style from the 1875 (when the story is set)

Nothing too related but I find it coincidental of the timeline. In my Literary History course this semester we had to read a novel by Toni Morrison called Beloved, which takes place in Cincinnati, Ohio in 1873. Same setting (US), same time frame (Post-Civil War/Reconstruction-Era) late 19th century.

[Mara=^.^=]

I get 'cha now. Libby's in a solo spot on the left.

 

Yeah, I drew Libby twice, cause she changes outfits/hairstyles multiple times throughout the fic.

 

~*Mara*~ = ^.^ =

[J/C AVA]

Yeah, I drew Libby twice, cause she changes outfits/hairstyles multiple times throughout the fic.
 
~*Mara*~ = ^.^ =

Your effort was worth it anyways, 'cause her dress looks gorgeous. And it isn't colored in yet. I especially love her hat on the right with the others.

[Katia11]

this is lovely.  

[Katia11]

so, I just love re-reading this and seeing all the little details. yes, mara. I am re-reading.

 

ugh, you torture me so!

 

but damn it hurts so good.

[Thore]

ugh, you torture me so!

 

but damn it hurts so good.

That's Mara for you, making masochists out of all of us with the mere stroke of a pen... or tap on a keyboard.  

[Mara=^.^=]

IT'S FINALLY HERE Sorry for the wait - you guys know how sick I've been.

 

I was originally going to post this chapter all at once, but it got to be like 15 pages long, so I'll be uploading it in segments. Here comes part 1....prepare for Poker, and loads of exposition.

 

*********************************************************************

 

 

He sat up straighter, a triumphant glint in his eye. "High card deals first. Shall we cut?"

 

"Nah," she said, easing back. "There's no need to stand on ceremony. You can start us out."

 

Let's see how you handle yourself, she thought.

 

"Very well."

 

He doled out ten cards – five in front of each of them. He flicked them onto the table, quick and precise, without flourish. Tex observed warily. She preferred opponents who were a bit more theatrical: shuffling one-handed, tossing and flipping the stack, streaming the cards from one hand to the other like a waterfall. She made short work of show-offs like that. But Mr. Neutron? His reserved bearing worried her. There was nothing obvious to latch onto, no weaknesses to exploit.

 

Tex picked up the cards, running her fingertips over them as she strategized. Clean, glossy. The deck was brand new. She held them to her nose and took a deep breath – there was something so invigorating about the smell of a freshly opened pack. The Sheriff raised an eyebrow, but she paid him no mind. It had been a long time since she'd handled cards that didn't reek of booze, cigar smoke, and the threat of imminent violence.

 

"Hit me," she said, tossing him two rejects.

 

He replaced them and took one of his own. She scrutinized the fresh cards.

 

"Two pair," she said, dropping her hand into view. "Jacks and sevens." A solid first round.

 

He smiled. "Three queens. I win."

 

Her eyes widened. Three of a kind on the very first go? Bastard.

 

She tossed her cards down onto the table. They slid every which-way, leaving a messy pile in the middle of their shared space. He didn't seem to notice.

"Interrogation time," he said, hunching forward and steepling his fingers. "Ready?"

 

"Fire away."

 

"All right. Who hired you to kill me?"

 

She stared at him blankly. "We've been over this. There's a non-disclosure clause in my contract, remember? I can't tell you."

 

"I'm well aware of that."

 

It took her a moment to process what was happening, but once she did, Tex wanted to kick herself. He was planning to soften her up, wasn't he – pitch a few questions she couldn't answer, get her just a little bit tipsy, so that she'd be easier to beat. Tex wanted to be angry, but she couldn't summon the vitriol. After all, who was there to blame but herself? She should have laid down some ground rules before agreeing to this ridiculous scheme.

 

Mr. Neutron filled her cup. "Drink up, Vortex."

 

She gazed into the bubbly purple liquid, and her reflection stared back, wiggling and wobbling on the surface. Eh, what the hell, she thought, and tossed it back. A constricting warmth spread through her core, and she wiped her mouth on her sleeve.

 

"You look good when you lose," smirked the lawman, leaning closer. He tugged playfully on the brim of her hat, and she swatted his hand aside.

 

"Paws off, Neutron, or you'll be playing the next round one-handed. Losing the next round, I should say."

 

"Pfft. Promises, promises. Let's see you deliver on one of them."

 

Deliver she did. Tex won the match, king high, and she was quick to give him a taste of his own medicine.

 

"All right, genius. My turn. Tell me: what do you keep hidden in that room beneath your house?"

 

An unanswerable question. He had it coming, and he knew it, so he simply said "well played," and took a swig.

 

Third round: the tie-breaker. The cards landed, and Tex scooped them up with all the fiery ardor of a zealot at the pulpit. It was a rotten hand: a two, a four, a nine, a ten, and a queen, all off-suit. She struggled to keep her frustration in check as she discarded the two and the four, only to get another two and a four in their place.

 

Unsurprisingly, fortune favored the lawman that round.

 

"That murder-for-hire contract your employer signed," he said, "the one you obviously have stashed somewhere – where is it really? I'd love to take a gander at it."

Damn him. "I already told you. I don't have the contract. My client does."

 

"Liar."

 

"Screw you," she said, and threw back another shot.

 

The next hand went out, and the two of them faced off across the table. Tex's temper cooled as she reconsidered her strategy. If they kept going after each other like this, they'd be joining Butch on the floor before the night was out. For all her wrath and willfulness, Tex didn't want that kind of showdown. She took a deep breath. Control your impulses. Steer the game where you want it to go.

 

She won the next round. The Sheriff tensed, expecting another impossible-to-answer question, but it never came. Tex folded her hands on the table; this was her chance to ask him, really ask him, anything she wanted.

 

"Last night, on the porch," she began, "you told me that your parents took your inventions from you...that they did terrible things with them. What did you mean by that?"

 

He harrumphed. "What I meant, Vortex, is that my parents have never once stopped to consider how their actions might impact the world. Their understanding of cause and effect is limited to 'sales equals profits'. It's despicable."

 

He didn't elaborate, but Tex had no intention of letting it go. She gathered up the discard pile, jaw set in determination. Now was the time to put her skills into practice. A little sleight of hand, and she could stack the deck in her favor.

 

She licked her finger for traction. "Ready?"

 

"And willing."

 

Tex won the next round easily, with an all-clubs flush. A bit obvious, perhaps, but what did it matter? Technically speaking, they'd never established a rule against cheating. She returned to her most recent line of inquiry.

 

"Back to your parents. Which inventions did they take? Be specific."

 

He barked out a laugh, but it was devoid of mirth. "The list is expansive. I've been inventing things my whole life: a machine to tie shoes, a burp-inducing carbonated drink, a toy automaton. Silly things, mostly…until they weren't silly anymore. I designed weapons, Vortex, and they sold them. They gave my crank gun schematics to Richard Gatling for further development, and they turned over my rifle to Colt's Manufacturing Company."

 

The outlaw thought back to what Libby had said on Friday: He used to be some sort of genius gunsmith back East. Apparently, that distinction had been bestowed upon him without his consent.

 

"It didn't stop with the guns, either," he went on. "After word got out that the Neutrons had a boy genius under their roof, people started showing up with requests. Politicians, businessmen, friends of my father. 'Build me a machine to rig elections, Jimbo.' Or 'Help put my competitors out of business, sonny Jim.' I hated being treated like that – like an invention-dispensary – but my parents urged me to comply. I can never repair the harm I did, working for those uptown crooks. That's why I'm better off out here. I can build whatever I want, conduct whatever research I want, and it won't hurt anyone. No one stands to profit off it."

 

Tex let his words sink in. His self-imposed exile suddenly made a lot more sense.

 

"The Gatling Gun...the Colt..." she frowned. "What compels a child to design weapons?"

 

His glare was sharp and swift. "No free questions. Next hand."

 

The game continued, but Tex was distracted – at least, that's what she told herself when she lost the next round. She gazed down at her cards, befuddled, as the Sheriff took the subject of parents and turned it on her.

 

"What about your father and mother?" he asked. "Lawyer and a schoolmarm, right? What are they up to these days? They must be proud, knowing that their daughter is a homicidal vagrant."

 

The question stung, but there was no way she was going to give him the satisfaction of another swig. She summarized woodenly. "My father's dead. I'm not sure what happened to my mother."

 

He had the decency to look contrite. "Oh. I'm sorry."

 

"So am I."

 

There was a moment of silence. He cleared his throat. "Ah, well...don't hold back on my account. Have at it."

 

Tex obliged, and three nines mysteriously found their way into her hand. Next turn, she beat him by a landslide.

 

"What compels a child to design weapons?" she repeated. "Something must have happened."

 

He gazed long and hard into his cup. At first she thought he was going to drink; instead, he began to swirl the liquid around in circles.

 

"What do you remember about the war, Vortex?"

 

"The war? Precious little, I fear." She stole a glance at the Ace of Spades – she hadn't forgotten the larger objective. It was still on the table, beckoning. "Our boys fought with the Grays, but Texas as a whole didn't see much action. I never witnessed any battles."

 

"I did."

 

"You did? How? You're not old enough to –"

 

"I was eleven at the time," he interrupted. "We were down in Washington for the week, hobnobbing with a bunch of senators and their families. Word got out that the Union Army was marching to Bull Run to engage the enemy." He shook his head gloomily. "Back then, we thought our boys would trounce the Rebs right then and there: a short, tidy little war. How wrong we were."

 

She glanced at the Ace again. "How wrong indeed."

 

"It was Sunday, and spirits were high," he continued. "Nobody wanted to miss the action. Folks of all stripes hunted up carriages for a trip to the front. People brought field glasses and picnic lunches, like they would for a day at the races – insanity, in retrospect. Congressman Washburne invited my father to accompany him, and for reasons that I will never understand, I was brought along."

 

"You were at First Manassas?"

 

"Along with several hundred other civilians."

 

Tex couldn't keep the excitement out of her voice. "Did you see the Rebels when they broke through the Union flank? Were you injured at all in the retreat?"

 

"It wasn't like that. Most of us were too far away from the fighting to be in any real danger. I remember sitting on the grass with my picnic basket, dripping sweat and swatting away flies. There was this one woman with an opera glass – she was beside herself every time a volley echoed from the battlefield. 'That is splendid!' she'd exclaim. Or 'Oh my! Is that not first-rate?'"

 

"No shortage of rubberneckers in the world."

 

"Indeed. It was only after the battle turned sour that the gawkers packed up and left. Some fled in a panic; others scuttled off later, with their tails between their legs. What I remember is the aftermath. When my father and I returned to Washington, it was as if we'd come back to a different city. The populace was despondent, because they'd finally realized the truth. We were in for a long and costly war."

 

Tex frowned as she tried to reconcile her own recollection of events with the Yankee perspective. The adults in her circle had suspected from the beginning that the war would cost a great deal...they'd just thought they'd be on the winning side of it.

 

He shivered. "When we eventually got back to Boston, the fighting was all anyone talked about. War and death, death and war. I hated it. I couldn't stop thinking about it. It consumed me."

 

"What do you mean?"

 

Mr. Neutron scowled into his glass. After a pause, he picked it up and drained the contents. She opened her mouth to ask him why he was drinking out of turn, but he raised his palm to stop her. "That one was strictly voluntary," he mumbled. "Just give me a second. I'll finish the story."

 

Tex had never seen him so rattled. She looked at the Ace, then back to the Sheriff. This was her chance. Perhaps it was callous to take advantage of his distress, but when it came to winning, Tex had no scruples. She inched her hand toward the card.

 

"Brilliance in a child is a dangerous thing," he said at last, gaze fixed on the empty cup. "In my naiveté, I thought that somehow, I could solve the problem. I locked myself inside the backyard summerhouse, and I drew up plans for weapons. I assumed that, if we had better guns on our side, the war would end faster. I thought that improved firepower would prevent deaths in the long run. But those assumptions, and the designs they inspired…they were just ideas. They weren't finished. They weren't ready to be used."

 

Tex's fingertips made contact with the Spade, and she began to slide it into her sleeve.

 

"I never should have left those schematics lying around," he went on bitterly. "My mother and father knew I was gifted, but they didn't understand what I was capable of. Those weapons killed thousands, Vortex. Those deaths are on my conscience."

 

His grief was plain to see, but she couldn't share it. There was a part of her – the worst part, perhaps – that delighted in his confession. Hypocrite, she exulted. You dare look down on me? You and I are exactly the same. Just a couple of lost souls with blood on our hands. She knew that she shouldn't rejoice in someone else's pain, in the pain of a nation even, but she couldn't help it. Triumph swept over her, fierce and swift and cruel. She longed to taunt him, to remind him of what he truly was: not a high-and-mighty lawman, or even a genius inventor, but a killer, like her.

 

She restrained her impulse. "Your parents are to blame, not you," she soothed. "And besides, if you hadn't invented those things, someone else would have. When people want to kill each other, they find a way to do it."

 

"Maybe. I tell myself that sometimes."

 

There was a long pause.

 

"Thank you," said Tex, as a way to fill the silence. "For the explanation, I mean. You didn't have to divulge as much as you did."

 

"You were honest about your parents. I wanted to return the favor."

 

Gently, he placed his hand over hers. For a second, she thought it was a gesture of solidarity…then he slipped his fingers into her cuff and yanked out the Ace of Spades.

 

"Nice try," he said, "but I'm only two drinks in. You'll have to do better than that."

 

He slapped the card back onto the table, and Tex bristled, outraged. Refusing to be outdone, she poured herself another glass, picked it up, and placed it squarely on top of the Ace. If he wanted to take it, he'd have to push her drink aside. One more impediment to his victory.

 

"Would you look at that," she purred. "The death card makes a mighty fine coaster."

 

"You can't –"

 

"I can put my cup anywhere I want to put my cup, Neutron. There's no rule against it."

 

"I…suppose you're right."

 

"I am right."

 

"And I'm impatient. The deck's almost spent. Deal your last."

 

Tex was all too happy to obey. She passed out the cards, fed him two new ones, tossed one of her own, and then revealed her hand.

 

"Full house," she declared. "Queens over sevens."

 

"Four of a kind," he said, and there was fire in his voice. "I win."

 

Tex couldn't believe her eyes. Four sixes. Was he cheating somehow, or was he just ridiculously lucky? It didn't matter. She'd have to pay up either way. She met his eyes and waited.

 

"Who was the first person you ever killed?" he asked.

 

Tex knew the answer before he'd even finished speaking. It was the kind of thing that was impossible to forget. The whole scene came back to her in a flash: high noon, standing in a dusty street, as bloodthirsty onlookers placed their bets. She heard the jingle of spurs and the clunk of heavy boots as her foe approached, huge, shadowed, faceless. One shot was all she'd get. There was a sudden gust of wind, and her hair was a ribbon, streaming past her face. Now.

 

"His name was Seamus O'Healy," she replied, banishing the memory. "He was a bank robber and a murderer…the leader of the O'Healy gang, if that rings any bells." She tapped the Emerald Ire. "That's where I got this gun. It was his."

 

He looked shocked. "The O'Healy gang. I remember hearing about them, but that was almost ten years ago. You couldn't have been more than what…fourteen? Fifteen?"

 

"I was fifteen when I dueled him. And I won, fair and square. That's how good I am."

 

She shouldn't have given him a free answer, but she had a braggart's heart. The Sheriff needed to know that he wasn't the only prodigy at the table.

 

"So a fifteen year old girl duels a famous outlaw and wins. Interesting. I wonder how something like that comes to pass."

 

Tex didn't like his tone of voice; there was something calculating about it, something detached. It struck her as the sort of tone a surgeon might use, pre-dissection, as he speculated on what he'd find underneath all that skin and bone.

 

He reached for the stack. "My deal," he announced.

 

Suspicion coursed through her. She watched closely as he flipped the cards onto the table, but if he was cheating, she saw no sign of it. Either he was playing fair, or he was every bit the card shark she was.

 

What were you expecting? she chided herself. He never would've challenged you to this game if he thought he couldn't win.

 

And he did win – the next round at least, with an all-diamonds flush. That confirmed it: he was definitely cheating. She just couldn't figure out how he was doing it.

 

"All right," he said, resting his weight on the table, "this I've got to know. How did you wind up in a shootout with Seamus O'Healy?"

 

Tex hesitated. She did not like where this conversation was going.

 

"I needed money," she replied at last. "O'Healy had a bounty on his head. Killing him meant I could collect the reward."

 

"A bounty, huh?" He shook his head. "I should have guessed. Money. The wellspring of all the world's evils."

 

Tex wasn't interested in his disgruntled philosophizing. Apprehension crawled over her skin like a swarm of ants. Seamus's death was her hingepin; her entire life revolved around it. That first kill... It was the story of her triumph and of her undoing: the fall of the O'Healy gang, and the last days of Cindy Vortex.

 

"I've never understood that mentality," he prattled on. "How can you put a dollar value on a man's life? It's barbarism, that's what it is."

 

What would it be like, she wondered, to tell someone her story – to tell him? Outcast to outcast; one killer to another. She scratched at the nape of her neck. The skin-ants were everywhere. She adjusted her hat, then crossed and uncrossed her legs several times. Was he ever going to play the next hand?

 

"Hurry up," she pressed. "You move slower than molasses in January."

 

"So eager to lose again, Vortex?"

 

"Eager for you to shut your mouth, Neutron. Deal the damn cards."

 

They were both silent as he passed out the next set. Tex couldn't focus. If I were a card, which one would I be? she pondered. She gazed at the Ace of Spades. She knew the answer.

 

"Full house," he announced, and she snapped back to attention. Tex swore as she tossed down her losing hand. She dreaded his next question.

 

"Why did you need money?"

 

Five words was all it took. Five words – one for each card – and she was standing at the entrance to a labyrinth. All her memories slumbered within. If she wandered through that open door, would she ever come out again?

 

"Nuh-uh," she said, and grabbed her cup. "Not going there." Another one down the hatch.

 

Relief piggybacked on the warm glow that coursed through her. Three shots wasn't so bad. She could handle that.

 

"An odd question to avoid," the Sheriff observed.

 

"I'll play the game as I see fit."

 

"Very well. So shall I."

 

There was a ruthless gleam in his eye, so she wasn't surprised when he won the next round. His query, on the other hand, did surprise her.

 

"Why did you need money?"

 

It was the exact same thing he'd already asked, repeated verbatim. He couldn't do that. Could he do that?

 

"I already paid up," she objected. "You can't come after me with the same question again."

 

"I can do whatever I please. There's no rule against asking the same question twice. Or three times. Or all night, until you pass out from intoxication, or give me what I want."

 

"You…you're serious, aren't you?"

 

"Dead serious."

 

Tex struggled to formulate a rebuttal, but she couldn't get past his sheer audacity. It flabbergasted her.

 

"You dare strong-arm the woman who holds your very life in her hands?"

 

"You'd be surprised by the things I'd dare to do to you."

 

Her pulse quickened, but whether it was from fury, or fright, or something else, she couldn't tell. It was an arms race now, and they'd just have to see who perished first. She leaned forward, fists clenched.

 

"Ask again." She bit out the words. "I dare you."

 

"Fine. Why did you need money?"

 

There was no fear in his eyes – only defiance. She'd seen that look before; it was the same one he'd worn the night he stood over her and burned $1500.

 

"Again," she repeated. This time, it was a threat.

 

"Tell me what happened to you, Cynthia Aurora Vortex. Or whatever people called you, before you became what you are now."

 

His words stopped her cold.

 

She looked at him, trying to make sense of her own confusion. He was just sitting there, staring at her with those bright eyes of his. A moment ago, she'd been ready to fight to the very last. Now she wasn't so sure. Had he really undermined her resolve so easily? Or had she chipped away at it herself, during her short stay in this strange town?

 

Of one thing, she was certain: there was no force on heaven or earth that could make her reveal why she'd sought that reward money. Nothing could make her admit what had happened after she'd killed O'Healy. She could invent a new story for herself. She could point her gun at him under the table until he picked a more acceptable line of inquiry. She could drink herself into oblivion and stay the night with Libby. She could simply get up, walk out of the Juke Joint, and go anywhere – literally anywhere – so long as it took her away from him.

 

But Tex did none of these things. She remained where she was, watching as ribbons of light danced over the liquid in the pitcher. The sounds of the party seemed impossibly distant; slow, echoing, as though they'd passed through water on their way to her ears. Everything outside the booth had receded. All she had left was alcohol, a pack of cards, and a blue-eyed man asking questions about an old wound that had never quite healed right. If she re-opened that wound and let him work on it, would it worsen? Or might it finally start to mend, once and for all?

 

Foolish girl, came the warning voice in her head. He can't fix you. No one can.

 

But still Tex hesitated. The truth waited, sad and small and expectant, like a caged songbird watching the world from behind a parlor windowpane. Though it might sing, or flutter its tiny wings, or pull out its feathers one by one in lonely agony, it would stay there forever. Safe. Trapped. Apart. Only she could open the door and set it free.

And if she told him her story, then what? What was it that she expected of him? Did she want his understanding? His judgment? To be held accountable for her mistakes, so that her guilt might finally abate?

 

Perhaps it was simpler than that. Maybe, just maybe, all she wanted was for someone, anyone, to know what had happened to her, before she died nameless and storyless on some distant patch of dry earth.

 

He'll be dead by then, too, she thought, and nobody else will ever know. Only the two of us, in all of existence.

 

It was almost poetic. Perhaps heaven would punish or reward them together, these two killers who had stayed up one night in a small Texas town, playing games with the truth about who and what they really were.

 

"I'll ask again," he prompted. "Why did you need the money?"

 

Tex stood atop a precipice, and his words were the wind at her back. It would be so easy to let go – to just lean forward and fall, and accept whatever fate awaited her in the darkness beneath her feet. After all, hadn't the Sheriff already taken that leap? He'd told her his story – all of it, even the ugly bits – and he'd done so willingly. If she reciprocated, they'd be standing eye to eye on the battlefield. Could she defeat an opponent on even ground? Or would he, as an equal, cease to be an opponent altogether? Perhaps, when the time came to pull the trigger, all she'd see was a fellow soldier, so caked in mud that neither could tell what color uniform the other had on underneath.

 

Tick tock. The wind pushed her forward. Uncertainty beckoned beneath her feet.

 

She let go.

 

"We were going to lose everything," she whispered.

 

*********************************************************************

 

 

God daaaaamn it's hard to describe a Poker game in an interesting way Hope it wasn't too boring. Next chapter, they're going to get VERY DRUNK

If you read, kindly review! I put a lot of time and effort into researching this crap, and I want accolades, dammit.

 

HISTORICAL SHIT AND BULLSHIT SHIT

-The First Battle of Bull Run (or First Manasses, as it was known in the South) is famous because a bunch of idiots turned it into a war-time spectacle sport. It happened pretty much exactly how I described it: on July 21, 1861, a group of overly optimistic civilians camped out by the battlefield and watched the bloodshed play out, oohing and awwing like they were at a goddamn fireworks display. Then the rebel forces turned the tide against the Union Army, and everything went to shit. It was a psychological turning point in the war, when both sides finally realized that it was going to be a long, hard slog.

-The woman Jimmy mentions - the gawker with the opera glass who kept saying "splendid" and "first rate" - she was an actual person present at the battle. Her words of enthusiasm come down to us from the annals of history, and I included them verbatim, because she's such a colorful character.

-Congressman Elihu Washburne of Illinois is also a real person. I figured he deserved a cameo, seeing as he was one of the cooler politicians who attended the First Battle of Bull Run. He was responsible for promoting Grant within the Union Army, and after the war he was an advocate of suffrage and civil rights for African Americans.

-In real life, the Gatling Gun was invented by Richard Gatling in 1861, and patented in 1862. Although it required cranking and was therefore not a true automatic weapon, it nonetheless represented a huge leap in military tech. Gatling wrote that he created it to "reduce the size of armies and so reduce the number of deaths by combat and disease, and to show how futile war is." Twelve of the guns were purchased personally by Union commanders; eight others were fitted on gunboats.

-During the mid-to-late 1800s, it was commonly thought that wars could be shortened or even averted if only someone could create weapons that were powerful enough to end the fighting quickly. Great thinkers proposed many ideas: better guns, ironclad boats, aerial bombardment. The notion that military advancement = less death wasn't discredited until WWI. Turns out that weapons of mass destruction cause...well, mass destruction. Too bad 11-year-old Jimmy didn't know that T_T

-Seamus O'Healy's gun, the Emerald Ire, is a play on words. He's Irish, and Ireland is known colloquially as The Emerald Isle. The Irish name for the country is Éire, which sounds the same as ire, meaning anger. Combine the two and you get Emerald Ire. Ta-da!

 

 

~*Mara*~ = ^.^ =

 

NEXT PART -> A Dangerous Thing

[SweeneyxxTodd]

I'm looking forward to reading about Tex and the Sheriff being hella drunk in the next installment.