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It all happened so fast. A loud bang, the overwhelming scent of iron, and now 4x4 ran, farther than he ever had before in his life— certainly faster, absolutely harder, trying not to choke on the dirt he kicked up. He ran in the clumsy way that a man not used to running did, always looking like he was just about to trip, but he never quite hit the ground as he pulled himself back up and kept going, farther more. His revolver was warm in his hand. He tasted metal in his mouth. His heart beat against the caged walls of his chest like it was going to break loose. And it seemed, in that moment, he might die; his life began to flash before his eyes.
4x4 didn’t really remember where he came from: the faces of his parents were vague, and he felt he’d been out in the west for as long as he remembered. He had that gun in his hand for as long as he remembered too, the thing made of gold rather than iron, intricately designed and supposedly belonging to his father, a sharpshooter known for his tricks and flourishes. He didn’t know how his parents died, just that they did, and nobody bothered to take him in. It was just him and the gun, for as much as he was concerned. Just 4x4 and his gun.
He never used it to kill anyone before, he was sure of that. He always kept it with him and it was certainly always loaded, but he never drew it at another person. He took up odd jobs instead, took whatever payment they gave him— money, often, but sometimes food and shelter for a little bit of time, every once in a while something of value that he usually pawned off. He saved most of his cash, beyond what he spent on daily needs and his bullets. He never shot a man, but he still shot something, usually targets he set farther and farther, then tied to ropes and swung off trees to test his moving accuracy, made smaller even then, testing his talent, then testing his skill. It was all he did in his free time. He ran through bullets faster than some men ran through whiskey.
Not that he remembered how, but he knew he started shooting tricks at some point. At first, it was a little bar stunt— sure, you weren’t supposed to drink as young as he was, but with no caretakers in the picture nobody was going to stop him as long as he paid— shooting bottles, glasses out of people’s hands, then coins and at one point, even another man’s bullet. What held one man’s attention soon held three, then a dozen, then a whole bar, and it was then that he started to make a name for himself— but every performer needed a stagename, and by then, the town had heard of an outlaw, one by the name of 1x1x1x1. Not many places knew of him, given that he was the type to always get away with it, but that gang— the Admins— had come looking for him one night, and no citizen forgot that kind of name in a town as small as this one.
So, 1x1 was the inspiration behind “4x4.” He bought himself the same hat 1x1 was described as having, the same bandana, then started charging money for little shows where he’d show off all his tricks, all his skills, then let the audience dare him into doing things that would test his abilities. He only missed a handful of bullets, but those that saw were called liars. Some came to see the show, others came to see someone who so closely resembled this “1x1” the Admins had been looking for, some even conspired 4x4 to be the same man. 4x4 didn’t care why people came, just that they did, and that they paid good money for the shows too. It was more than what he’d been making from those odd jobs, and soon, he had enough to start dreaming, dreaming of where a man could go when he had enough money— most thought about farms and ranches, living off the land, but he thought about going east. East, where all the good schools were, where he could get an education and become a thinker instead of a fighter.
Except, he had no way of getting the money there. He had no way of getting himself there, either. He decided, off-hand one night, to send in an application to one of those schools— he was rejected more or less instantly. It just took a while for the letter to come back, and for a while, 4x4 was angry: he drank his frustration down, shot things that moved in the forest, stole from a few unfortunate men that the authorities wouldn’t believe. But a fire with nowhere to go burns itself up fast, and 4x4 never had anywhere else to go. He just went back to shooting tricks while people still bothered to come see him, while the money still came, while he could still be the highlight of people’s days.
And yet none of it, none of it answered how 4x4 got here, running because he'd just shot a man in the head. He didn't— couldn't— figure out where it all went wrong. Maybe it was when he started stealing from people just for the thrill of it, so that he became quick and impulsive; maybe it was when he started shooting at living things in the forest, so that he no longer feared putting a bullet in a breathing thing; maybe it was when he started drinking, so that he was comfortable letting his cognition off to the way side and worried more about himself; maybe, just maybe, it was when he started shooting to begin with, so that he knew the feeling of a gun in his hand more than anything else, so that he could fire it quick and he could fire it fast, so that he could shoot a man dead between the eyes before he could even think about what he was doing.
His legs started to hurt, and so did his sides, definitely his throat. He couldn’t run for much longer. What did it matter, anyways? He was a dead man. He’d killed a man, and he’d done it with his own gun, his own bullets— he signed each and every one with his name, because then his audiences would retrieve them from the stage and bring home a souvenir. Now, there was a corpse dead in the middle of town with one of those bullets engrained in its skull. People saw it, too. They knew it was him— there was no way they couldn’t have. The authorities may have arrived too late to catch where he went and chase him, but they’ll know it was him, and soon, there will be a wanted poster with his face on it. There will be a noose waiting for him if he ever dared come back. He lived a performer, and he was going to die one too if they don’t tie that thing properly.
The darkness of the forest had enveloped him, not that he knew when it happened, and all he could do now was tumble into fallen leaves, into the dirt that would soon reclaim him. For once, it felt comforting out here, so far away from the town— birds chirped, insects crawled, everything moved so gently, so calmly while he fought to catch his breath. He’d be content if he died out here, in the welcoming arms of nature, and for just a split second he considered turning his gun on himself so he could die with that sort of grace. But, he remembered why he even shot that man in the first place. It was so he could live, because he was that terrified of death, of what laid ahead of him after his eyes closed for good. He had to keep fighting.
Except now, with his body against cool dirt, as he tried to catch his breath again, he could feel his consciousness slipping. It was the kind of sleep that came heavy, weighed down your body in a way that couldn’t be fought, that bled out from the bone-deep wounds of being left alone with one's thoughts. 4x4 knew he wasn’t going to be able to sleep again, so he let it grow, let out one last exasperated exhale before looking up towards the sky. It was clear and blue, an insult to what had been done, but maybe what he did was an insult to it instead— how dare he steal from nature, from life, from God? He already took the shot, though. It was already done. The image of that man’s wide, lifeless eyes was branded behind his own. He was never going to forget the way that the blood calmly flowed, a deep, venous velvet, almost elegant in its hue in spite of the hellish nature of what he’d done.
“ Fuck, ” he muttered, quiet under his breath. It didn’t do it justice, but that’s all he could pull out of his desert-dry throat. He took a flask from his belt, something he used to fill with water, but now filled with whatever cheap liquor he could get away with— he couldn’t care which at this point. He didn’t have a life to live anymore. He unscrewed the lid, put it up to his lips, and let the warm liquid down into his throat, savoring the burn as the one thing that felt real right now. What was left wasn’t even remotely enough to get drunk, but it didn’t matter, not anymore— it was enough to wet his throat, take the edge off his shaking hands and his tense shoulders, make him feel a little alive again.
The flask slipped out of 4x4’s hand and into the grass, laid right beside him like somewhat of a partner. That’s the thing, too. He never had a partner, never had a companion, no friend and certainly no woman— he never understood it when people told him about their love lives. He was never close with women, never felt anything towards them, couldn’t even find it in himself to search. Maybe it was just him. Maybe there was something in him that wanted something other than a woman— not that he knew what. It definitely didn’t matter now; he could kiss a man onstage and it wouldn’t change anything. He was already set to be hanged, and he was already set to go to Hell right afterwards, so what would it matter? If he got the opportunity out here, he just might try it.
Slowly, he pushed himself onto his side, curled up in on himself, and closed his eyes. His body got heavier with every breath, the forest’s ambience fading away with every passing moment. It wouldn’t be the worst place he slept in— worse was likely yet to come. The ground was cool, soft, and the world seemed as if it wanted to lull him to sleep like a mother singing to a young child, something he wasn’t sure he ever really got. He appreciated it. He knew the Earth was just cradling a thing that would soon be reclaimed by it, but it was a comfort to him now, knowing that at least the land loved him. Maybe he’d learn to love it back within the next… however long he had left. He hoped it would forgive him.
Sleep soon took him, gently in her arms, running her fingers through his hair and down his back. She eased his shakes, relaxed his muscles, let his head down to rest on the soft pillow that the Earth had provided. She let him rest peacefully, let him be, just for a little bit, free from the weight of his sins; he would be weightless as long as he was in her hold. Lord knows, he needed the rest. He needed it more than anything.
—
4x4 woke to a voice. It was low, deep, one he only vaguely recognized from a time that was years ago, and it was right behind him, mumbling, mumbling something. It was only as he opened his eyes to figure out what did he realize what the man was doing: tying his wrists, tight, with rope too thick to just break out of.
“Keep still,” the voice said, blunt and tired, “keep still if ya don’t want a bullet in your head.” It was then that 4x4 finally turned his head and looked at the man— big, tall, a set of bull horns attached to his hat, his hair slightly overgrown, scars from a life of this work littering his face. It was clear that this was routine for him, with the tiredness in his eyes, the efficiency with which his hands moved. 4x4 recognized him too— it was one of the Admins, and under sunset’s glow, he looked like an angel, a halo of sun while birds chirped and a river ran not too far away from where they were.
“Ya say as if it matters,” 4x4 muttered, quiet, both staring at the man and somewhere else. “I’ll be hanged if ya take me in.”
“Sure will be. Ya killed a man in broad daylight.”
“ Don’t remind me.”
It seemed the man’s hands hesitated for a moment, before he gave the rope a final tug to make sure the knot was secure. 4x4 was half-expecting him to grab him by his collar and drag him all the way back to town like a sack of potatoes, but what he definitely didn’t expect was for the man to take a seat on the grass next to him and stare at him, a contemplative look on his face.
“Gotta say, you’re an awfully terrible outlaw. Only took me a few hours to find ya. How’d ya even get here, anyways? Wanted for murder, I mean.”
4x4 groaned and closed his eyes. “Just take me the hell in at this point.”
“No. I wanna know.”
The words came slow, got caught on his throat on the way up, but they came out with enough effort. “I tried t’ pickpocket ‘im, just to see if I could get away with it. Nobody would believe ‘im anyways, but he saw me— or felt me, hell if I know— and, well, I saw iron in his hand. I shot first.”
The Admin leaned back a little, looking up in the sky as if moving the words in his head like a marble, testing its weight. “Gotta say, ‘preciate the honesty. Most men come up with an excuse. Even more don’t even admit to it, cry ‘bout how they’re innocent.”
“Everyone saw it. I sign my bullets, too.”
“Don’t matter.”
4x4 let out a sigh and shifted, just a bit to get more comfortable. He knew he just looked like a sad, depressed dog, pathetic like one too, but it was better than letting himself shiver and cry like a child, or a coward— he wasn’t either of them. He dearly hoped he wasn’t.
“...What’s ya name?” he eventually asked, looking up at the hunter.
“Most call me Mr. Doombringer. Just Doom’s fine, though.” He looked back down to 4x4. “Ya can sit up, y’know. Ya ain’t dead yet.”
4x4 only grunted in response, slowly making his way onto his knees, then sitting back, testing the rope just a bit. It certainly wasn’t going anywhere, not unless he had a knife, but even if he did, he’d just get shot the moment he broke free.
“What’s the point in just sittin’ here?” he asked with another pull. This one brought a burn on his skin.
“Ya seem in an awful hurry to die over there.” Doom raised an eyebrow, looking 4x4 up and down. As if it was an order, he stopped struggling.
“...I’m not, just— I don’t know what’s goin’ through your head-”
“Why’d ya wanna know?”
4x4 looked down and didn’t answer. Doom reached out and grabbed the flask that’d settled in the grass, looked inside, gave it a sniff— then looked back over at 4x4.
“Ya an alcoholic?”
“Nah.”
“Why ya got cheap booze instead of water, then?”
“It helps.”
“Helps what?”
“Why do ya care?” 4x4 spat.
Doom shrugged. “It helps.”
“ Oh fuck, fuck you.”
“Not unless ya want another reason to be hanged. So, be honest with me. What does drinkin’ help with?”
4x4 rolled his eyes. “Gives life to things, I guess. Lord knows I don’t got anywhere else to go, nothin’ to do. Everyone’s movin’ west because the east don’t got nothin’ left.”
“Ya from the east?”
“Nah. Born not that far from here, spent my whole life in these parts. Don’t mean I haven’t tried goin’ back east, though.”
“Let me guess. Ya don’t got nothin’ to your name that ya didn’t make yourself, huh?”
“Nothin’ other than the gun.”
“I get it.”
“Do ya now?”
Doom cocked his head to the side, smirked a little. “Do ya really think ya just ‘become’ an Admin one day? All of us have been in it since we were young, I’m no different. Tell me though, why 1x1? Why’s he your muse?”
“Gets more people at my shows.”
“That ain’t the full answer, is it?”
4x4’s eyes finally rose from the dirt where Doom sat, up to his face now, finally meeting his shadowed eyes, that god damn smirk that made something twist in his chest that he couldn’t quite make sense of. The man sat there, casually, one knee up, one knee down, arm lazily draped over the raised one, swirling the cheap booze around in the flask like some sort of tease, as if he was considering drinking it, pouring it out, or offering it back. He was a man who knew that the fate of the man before him lay in his palm, and yet, he preferred to toy with the thing before quite deciding what to do with it.
“I guess I was just… in love, I guess, with the idea of it. Leavin’ an entire life behind, even if it meant gettin’ blood on your hands” is the answer that 4x4 settled on. It came soft, quiet, drew his gaze back down to the ground where he felt it belonged. “I know it ain’t right, but it made me feel like I could dream.”
Doom’s eyes wandered back up to the sky as he lifted the flask to his mouth and took a drink of what was inside, let it go down his throat with a face solid as steel. 4x4 looked up and watched it, the way the front of his neck moved when he swallowed, the way he didn’t even hesitate to put his lips on another man’s flask— it almost looked like he was trying to savor it, but 4x4 knew there really wasn’t much to savor in that booze. The only good thing about it was the way it burned.
The Admin eventually lowered the flask and stood up, walking behind 4x4. At first, he’d thought he’d finally done it and said the thing that would make Doom either bring him in or shoot him here, but he felt the undoing of knots, the gentle tug of someone who didn’t want him to get hurt as the ropes went more and more slack with every passing moment, until 4x4 could freely move his wrists again. He brought his hands in front of himself, looked at them, then turned to look up at his captor-turned-savior, how the setting sun framed his head.
“You’re a fighter. I can see it in the way ya carry yourself. But let it be known, sometimes fightin’ don’t get ya nowhere. Sometimes ya just gotta run.” He extended his hand, large and calloused, but with a gentleness that couldn’t just be killed. 4x4 took it and let him pull him to his feet. “We’ll meet again, sooner or later, but for now— focus on gettin’ out of here. Go far, where they won’t know your face. If ya gotta die, die standin’.”
4x4 only nodded in response, staring at Doom’s figure as he gathered the rope into a loop he could clip onto his belt, humming quietly as if it was routine. That’s how he always acted, like nothing was a big deal, and in a way, it probably wasn’t— this was just one outlaw of many. Except, 4x4 could tell by the way his hands faltered that letting one go wasn’t an everyday thing. He kept glancing over his shoulder, kept hesitating as he moved, his hand never leaving where his gun was holstered. As he walked away, he walked like he didn’t know where he was going or what he was doing, his eyebrows furrowed, and he didn’t dare look back. It didn’t take long for him to disappear into the trees.
Finally, that held breath was released, and 4x4 looked up into the sky, pink and orange from dusk with only slivers of blue daylight left, like weakened fingers that simply couldn’t hold on anymore. The sky was clear tonight besides a few stray cotton wisps, and stars slowly began to show their faces, one by one like quiet beacons of hope. 4x4’s hands slipped into his pockets; he paid no mind to the fact that his flask was missing. The air was clear and cool, blew in gentle puffs through his hair, allowed his breathing to come easy and effortless, even if it was heavy on his chest; he knew he ought to get moving, and slowly, he put one foot before the other, bringing his gaze down forward.
It was a good thing he never minded the chill of the night.