Make my Day {tom}

Cornered.

Rule Number 1 of Being an Outlaw: Don't get cornered.

Nowhere to run in this alley way, if his heart could stop beating a hundred miles per an hour, that'd be fantastic. It was not his fault that this prick of a peacekeeper noticed him. A normal day for him, keeping his distance from the center of town, but things had swiftly changed as soon as this peacekeeper noticed him on his way to Jim's to steal some fresh bread right under the guy's nose. Black hat blocking the sun's rays as he marched towards Jim's with a silent step, blending in with the shoppers of Ten, but no, the wind just had to pick up and exposed his face ever so slightly. Enough to show the fucker with a gun who he was.

Running had been the best option for getting out of this situation. Alone, out of sight, and in the safety of a safe house. Except, things don't go the way he expected them to. This asshole decided to follow him, despite all of the tricks Montana had up his sleeve. Obviously, something that he hadn't been expecting to happen when he first sprinted for it. That's how he got here, a wrong turn over the confusion of why a peacekeeper would not give up on getting him. Sure, he had terrorized Ten for too long, but it's not like he had harmed them too much. Only helped kill a gang and find the revenge of his mistakes, a sigh from his throat.

A man of glass was not meant to live as an outlaw.

"Did you think you could outrun the law forever, Montana?"

The annoyance in Montana's skin comes to life as he rolls his eyes. The same words every time. Outrunning the law was what he did. Hell, he's been doing it for fucking years. All because he trusted the wrong person. Eyes glance to the walls again as he looks for any escape. A window. A door. Hell a fucking vent would be fine right about now. Instead, he spots nothing, but brick walls and dirt covered ground. A few cans that he can knock over for cover if needed, but nothing else. Talk about a fucking horrible decision. Annoying steps closer.

"Don’t do anything stupid, kid. Or do. Make my day,"

He knew what that meant.

Make my day.

He's heard it countless times from his gun fights long ago. Been awhile since he's heard that. Only a year or so, but a year was a long fucking time for an outlaw. Hidden behind one of the cans, he can feel the weight on his own hip. The pristine shine of metal and the softness of a wooden handle. Fingers almost dare to slid over it an end this quick, but he's told himself that he's done doing that.

Eyes glance from his hiding spot as he can see the guy's hand dancing by the holster of his own gun. A deep breath as anxiousness fills his system. It's just like before. Death around the corner. Flames burning a home down. Glass shattering around him. Guns firing in his direction. He's done this dance before. A deep breath to calm himself. Pulling his own gun out, he hears white.

"Are ya feeling lucky punk? Well are ya?"

Luck. As if luck was what he needed.

The peacekeeper goes for the gun and Montana breaths heavily before exposing himself into the open air, gun pointed at the guy's holster.

"Ya ain't need luck for a gun fight, partner."

Rule Number Two of Being an Outlaw: Don't be afraid to kill.

Finger taps the trigger as the sound of gunpowder fills his ears.

Boom.