Whiskey walked through the lobby of the apartment building, with blood still trickling down her arm. The transport had dropped her on the edge of the city, and she'd made her way to one of her Wilkes-Vines contacts to report the bounty hunters disrupting her work. Careful not to implicate Miss Greaves, of course. It'd been said man who had pointed out the blood coming from her shoulder. Still riding the adrenaline of battle, she hadn't noticed it. Now she could feel the bullet in there. It was a small round, judging by the wound. Probably from an SMG, and it hadn't gone deep. Just far enough to stick. She was glad she hadn't been wearing her jacket when it'd happened. She treasured that jacket.
The elevator opened and she opened the door to her penthouse. And dropped her key in shock. Reclining in her desk chair was Payton Wilkes-Vines. His white stetson was pulled low, and he was smoking a long stemmed pipe with silver fittings.
"Whiskey, darlin'. It's good to see ya," he drawled. "I'd ask how you've been, but apparently you got the rough end this last job. Don't suppose ya have a first aid kit anywhere?"
"Bottom right drawer," she replied faintly, all but falling into the simple wooden chair visitors normally sat in at her desk. Payton took out the medical kit, and opened it. He was deft in his work, taking the bullet out with a pair of long tweezers, dabbing on medicinal alcohol and bandaging the wound gently but firmly. Whiskey was too numb to feel it. "Will this wound disrupt your work?"
Whiskey shook her head. "Good," he said. "Now, I have something for you." He took seat behind her desk again, and picked something up from behind it. A bottle of very good scotch, and two glasses. He poured wordlessly, and slid one across to her. "Now, darlin', I do quite well recall sending you a very important letter. I don't suppose it was... lost in the mail, now?"
Whiskey shook her head. Payton sipped his scotch. "mmmm... good stuff. And I'm glad to hear. Did you forget to read it?" She shook her head again. "So, you read it, and yet... no response. No 'yes sir, awaiting orders, sir'. Quite rude, Whiskey, quite rude. Speaking of rudeness, drink up, girl. That's very good scotch you're wasting."
Whiskey knocked it back in one. Anything to numb the ice in her heart. Payton had never, ever visited her personally before. She knew she had fair closeness to the man, he had saved her as an infant after all, but... this wasn't good.
"Now, this letter, as you and I both know, concerned the late Eddie Canton. Or perhaps not so late after all. Given the fact we now have confirmation as to his new identity as the bounty hunter, Metal. And as his former lover, you my dear are our best chance to bring him in... cleanly. That is to say, bring him in alive."
Whiskey didn't answer, but merely sipped at her scotch. She couldn't remember topping up her glass. Payton, having paused for her response, carried on speaking. "Don't tell me your feelings for that turncoat... that... traitor... are impeding your ability to carry out your duty?"
"I don't fucking care what you do to me, count me the fuck out," Whiskey snapped. Her courage, perhaps fortified by the liquor, had come back. Payton laughed, "oh, don't I know it? Still. It's not you you need concern yourself with." Reaching into a jacket pocket, he removed a photograph, and slid it across the table. The picture showed a hunched over asian lady, her features heavily lined with years and worry, pottering down a street. The picture had a high angle, clearly taken from a rooftop.
"As I mentioned quite long ago, after I took you into my care at her begging, I was quite touched with the generosity so as to see she herself lived comfortably. You maintained professionalism by not involving yourself in her life. As have I, beyond paying her way. However, should you not do as you are told, Miss Fifer, I assure you that will change."
Whiskey stared at her lap. "I'll..." her voice tailed into a grumble, but Payton got the gist. "Good. You needn't do anything for the moment, my dear. It appears Eddie's gone to ground somewhere. We'd be a shade worried, but we have someone reliable with their eye on him. Furthermore, he's in the employ of our dear friend Dio, so for now, I'm content to let him go about his work. But the time will come, my dear. Don't forget it. Now, onto other matters."
They discussed various important topics, as usual, for an hour straight. Whiskey offered tactical insight whenever it was asked, and in turn was able to absorb as much potentially vital information about political and criminal goings on as she could want. After a few minutes, she attained a semblance of normality, able to put Eddie behind her for the time being. Finally, the end of the conversation came.
"Apparently the Sheriff of Feroxi has given word that I am to be dealt with lethally should I be found in the city."
"Are you going to respond harshly, then?"
He laughed, finishing his second or third scotch. His gaze was still as clear as ever, however. "No, my dear. I would never dream of killing someone for merely showing me the respect someone of my position deserves. If they deigned to attempt to take me prisoner... why, then I would be duly offended, and they would be duly harrowed by the consequences. Still, until such a time as the attempt on my life is made, if it is made, the Sheriff's department of Feroxi will remain intact. And I believe that is all for now, my dear. A pleasure, as always."
With that, he got up curtly, and left, leaving Whiskey alone with the half full bottle. The bottle didn't last long.
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"Follow me, the safe-house ain't too far from here!"
Ruffles ran after Bennie. "It ain't gonna be a safe-house for long if it's really all that close," he replied. Rifling through his bag, he produced a few of his homemade smoke bombs, throwing them and dropping them at random vectors. Soon, the alley was all but consumed wall to wall by an expanding cloud of thick grey smoke that they were racing to stay ahead of. It was thick enough that nobody would be able to see where they went from the alley onward.
