<hr/><div class="floatleft">(https://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/a/ac/600full-kenneth-branagh.jpg)</div><br/><strong>Name:</strong>Tommy Flanagan (https://elliquiy.com/forums/index.php?topic=200832.msg9819558#msg9819558)<br/><strong>Faction:</strong>None<br/><strong>Date:</strong>25 December, 1875<br/><strong>Time of Day:</strong>afternoon<br/><strong>Location:</strong>Babel's Tower, Backstage<br/><strong>Tagged:</strong>Nell Robinson, Closed<br/><hr/><br/><br/>The cigarette had burned down to a nub that was becoming painful to hold. Tommy considered lighting another off of the ember he still held, realizing that he was only delaying the return to a cold, empty boarding house room. The bottle beneath his coat was a temptation as well as a solace, and the demons he wrestled with weren't always placated by a strong hand of cards. He was still trying to make up his mind, waiting until the last second when the pain in his fingertips would make the decision for him, when he heard the scream.<br/><br/>It was short and sharp, cut off by something, and definitely a woman's voice. With the wind carrying sounds through the maze of clapboard streets he couldn't be sure that any ears other than his own had heard the cry. He only hesitated a moment. Likely it was none of his business, but on Christmas Day with no one in this godforsaken town to care about he could make an exception. The sound had come from down the street, away from the main thoroughfare, heading toward the edge of the mesa. He jogged, his boots making prints in the thin snow, until he saw motion from a dark alcove to his right.<br/><br/>A man and a woman, as common a sight in Gomorra as a spittoon in need of emptying. He'd seen enough such pairs, though, to know this one had not been a mutual decision. The woman's pale face was obscured by the man's meaty hand pressed over her mouth, nearly engulfing the lower half of her face but leaving her wide, frightened eyes clearly visible. The man was at least a foot taller than Tommy, dressed like a miner, his feet wrapped in rags rather than proper boots. The hand that didn't have the lady's head pinned to the wall was actively engaged in removing the obstacles that lay between him and his prize.<br/><br/>Laying a violent hand on a woman in Tommy's presence was not a wise idea. Not that Tommy always ended up on the winning side, but at least it sure wasn't going to pass without notice.<br/><br/>"You're gonna want to step back and unhand that lady, or things are gonna get real unpleasant real quick."<br/><br/>The big man turned in irritation at the interruption and sized up Tommy with one glance. The gambler could almost hear him figuring his odds. "Fuck off, runt. Getcher own whore." As the man turned toward him Tommy immediately noticed two things, his sharp eye having a knack for picking up details honed by years at the poker table. First, the man's cock was out, erect, and ready for business. Second, the man had somehow produced a pistol that looked banged up but serviceable, and equally poised to go off. Both offending instruments were pointed in Tommy's direction. He was rather more concerned about the latter one, and a tiny bit disturbed that he'd noticed the former one first.<br/><br/>It was just the way things happened in the serials. With the grin of a professional cardshark Tommy quickly drew his own gun and fired. At least that was what would have happened, if he hadn't been wearing his gunbelt under a long coat buttoned up against the cold. With impressive speed he filled his gun hand with a whole lot of nothing.<br/><br/>"Well shit," Tommy remarked.<br/><br/><br/>