Work Text:
Since the fire and the subsequent investigation, nobody’s been around to clean up the remains of English’s mansion. It doesn’t belong to anyone, nobody wants it, and nobody lives close enough to care about what an eyesore it is. The property has stood, untouched, for months.
Your name is Snooping Scout, and you are standing in the burned-out ruin where Peccant Scofflaw died. It still stinks of ink. You’re careful not to disturb the scene, walking over pre-existing footprints, following the path the Scoundrels took when they pulled Scofflaw’s scorched body from the ashes and dragged him who-knows-where. This isn’t your first time coming here, and it probably won’t be the last.
Deadeye says you’re in denial, and that you can’t accept the death of your longtime rival. Maybe that’s part of it, but you have your reasons for coming here. You’ve heard stories about people coming back from the dead. You’ve heard about people playing a game with Death and coming back, healthy and whole like nothing ever happened. In fact, word on the street is that Innovator’s done this at least once. You’re sure Scofflaw would have challenged Death, and you’re especially sure Scofflaw would cheat.
If he comes back, he’ll come back here.
You hear footsteps behind you, tentative and light. You turn to see Nefarious Bawd carrying a bouquet of daffodils. She doesn’t look surprised to see you, but she pauses before approaching. She stops a few steps away, keeping a safe distance. You’re not sure if she’s doing it for her sake, or for yours.
“I was just, uh.” You trail off, trying to think of excuses. You settle on your usual. “A case. ‘m on a case.”
“I’m sure,” she says.
You shoot her a glare, which she doesn’t react to. Then you ask, “What about you?”
She looks away, then looks at the flowers. “It’s his birthday.”
You don’t say anything. You didn’t know that. You don’t know much about him at all, really, besides the things he wanted you to know. You know he was a malicious asshole, that he had terrible taste in ties, and that he liked to sing Johnny Cash at inappropriate times. You didn’t know his birthday, or where he was from, or even how old he was.
You take a few steps back, and she nods in thanks and steps forward. She kneels, puts the flowers on the ground and bows her head for a respectful amount of time. Then she stands and looks at you.
“You don’t actually believe he’s dead,” she says.
You shake your head. “I believe it all right.” You were there. You saw him burn. “It’s the stayin’ dead thing I got problems with.”
She hums and brushes ash off of her dress.
“It’s too late,” she says. Her voice is just as quiet and level as it always is, but it sounds sadder now. “If he were going to come back, he would have by now. He’s gone.”
“You say that like he does anythin’ by the books,” you say.
“Some laws can’t be broken,” she says.
“He always finds a way.”
She hesitates, then walks up to you. She takes your hat and pets your hair.
“You need to move on,” she says.
You growl at her. As gentle as she’s being, she is a dangerous criminal and one of your worst enemies. You don’t need her sympathy, and you don’t need her advice.
“You ain’t moved on,” you hiss.
She puts your hat back on your head and gives you a polite smile.
“It should be easier for you,” she says, picking lint from the brim.
You smack her hand away. Fuck her. Maybe you don’t know anything about Scofflaw, but Bawd sure as hell doesn’t know anything about you. You’ve been chasing Scofflaw for years. Your entire career has been dedicated to putting him behind bars, from the day Scofflaw framed you for some dumbass petty crime and you met Deadeye on his way out of the police. Scofflaw took your eye, and you dedicated your life to taking his power from him.
You couldn’t do it. You didn’t have the time. You never got your revenge, because the dumbass got sick and burned himself to death. Now you’re here and he’s gone and you have never felt so deprived, so divested, so helpless.
So you keep coming here, staring at the ash and dust on the ground, praying that one day you’ll find new footprints, or eldritch runes, or a crater or something.
Something to tell you he’s back. Something to tell you that you can finally get back what he took from you.
“Speak for yourself,” you spit before stomping away.
You nearly step on the flowers. You glare down at them before walking around, storming out of the ruins.
She stays behind, watching you leave. The wind blows through the old mansion, kicking up ash and dust. Eventually she sighs and disappears in a puff of smoke, leaving behind only a bouquet of daffodils on the closest thing that Scofflaw has to a grave.