Gunfighter Jane X
Feb 25th, 2002, 06:15:44 AM
Jane stood in front of the mirror in her hotel room. She didn't look for the sake of vanity; if that was the case she would've been satisfied. She was still beautiful, still in her prime years. But inside? She felt old, callous, and most of all, tired. The past two years of her life had cost her money, respect, and her fiancee'. Nobody knew who killed him, even though he was shot in high noon. The tired and cliched excuses only served to weigh her down.
Tav was of low station, and on a planet like Carida, that meant he was doomed to a life of menial existence. Jane was the daughter of an Imperialist tibanna baron, and a social debutante. If her father had his way, she would've married the son of his rival, and cemented a profitable business merger. It wasn't what Jane had in mind. They all said that Tav seduced her, and made her think the way she did. But Jane knew that you couldn't reign-in a wild horse. She knew the feelings she felt for Tav were hers, and hers alone. Her father was outraged, and yet with all his fury, could do little to control her. Jane left the family and the family fortune, running to Tav, with enough money to secure a trip off-planet and a life out from under her family's shadow.
But it wasn't meant to be. A shot rang out at the spaceport. Tav was dead before he hit the ground. Out of the hundreds there, nobody saw the gunman. Tav was no choirboy, and he was a good gunslinger. Jane knew that his killer was a professional. But she never had a name, never had a face, and never had the identity of the one who put the hit out. It was her eternal curse. Every day, she woke up, made herself marginally presentable, and clipped on Tav's holster, with Tav's blaster. It was the one thing that belonged to him that she didn't bury him with. When they put him in the ground, she gave up her namesake. Until she put Tav fully to rest, she'd simply be "Jane X".
So now she stared back at herself. At a face that radiated beauty, but eyes that were far too hard for the rest of her features. She'd come full circle from the aristocratic girl she used to be. Life away from her family with nearly no money dwindled her options to a few bad ones. She had enough dignity to never become a prostitute, but she had neither the connections or the luck to land a decent job. All she had was a seething hatred for her Tav's murderer, and Tav's gun. She learned her slain fiancee's art, and learned it well. Pacing off and plinking soda cans at 100, 200, then 300 yards, her hands became springloaded death traps, ready to snatch up her piece and send home a killing bolt. But killing for hire wasn't a glory job, and even tougher for somebody with a moral compass. Often, the kill was point-blanc, and even if it was truly one of the bad guys, it didn't stop them from crying for their mothers as they bled dark blood from their stomachs in a downward spiral to the afterlife. Seeing it once cut your soul deep like a razor's edge. Seeing it every time only cemented an ugly scar inside that would never heal. Then there came a time where Jane simply lost count. Every poor bastard she sent to Hell simply made getting to Heaven that much more of a lost cause.
Jane drew back from her inner speculation, returning her thoughts back to more mundane things. She made a passing attempt to fix her hair, and slid on some practical clothing. Everything was to fit a purpose, and she did little nowadays for frills. It had even been half a year since she'd touched a makeup set. With a last glancing-over, she left for the Bar & Grill.
* * *
She arrived shortly thereafter, exiting her hovercab and walking in. Immediately she was met by a doorman, one of the local guards. He asked her to turn her sidearm in before she entered. Her hand slowly went down to her pistol's grip, then froze as Jane hesitated, her eyes going distant as she wandered into her thoughts.
Tav was of low station, and on a planet like Carida, that meant he was doomed to a life of menial existence. Jane was the daughter of an Imperialist tibanna baron, and a social debutante. If her father had his way, she would've married the son of his rival, and cemented a profitable business merger. It wasn't what Jane had in mind. They all said that Tav seduced her, and made her think the way she did. But Jane knew that you couldn't reign-in a wild horse. She knew the feelings she felt for Tav were hers, and hers alone. Her father was outraged, and yet with all his fury, could do little to control her. Jane left the family and the family fortune, running to Tav, with enough money to secure a trip off-planet and a life out from under her family's shadow.
But it wasn't meant to be. A shot rang out at the spaceport. Tav was dead before he hit the ground. Out of the hundreds there, nobody saw the gunman. Tav was no choirboy, and he was a good gunslinger. Jane knew that his killer was a professional. But she never had a name, never had a face, and never had the identity of the one who put the hit out. It was her eternal curse. Every day, she woke up, made herself marginally presentable, and clipped on Tav's holster, with Tav's blaster. It was the one thing that belonged to him that she didn't bury him with. When they put him in the ground, she gave up her namesake. Until she put Tav fully to rest, she'd simply be "Jane X".
So now she stared back at herself. At a face that radiated beauty, but eyes that were far too hard for the rest of her features. She'd come full circle from the aristocratic girl she used to be. Life away from her family with nearly no money dwindled her options to a few bad ones. She had enough dignity to never become a prostitute, but she had neither the connections or the luck to land a decent job. All she had was a seething hatred for her Tav's murderer, and Tav's gun. She learned her slain fiancee's art, and learned it well. Pacing off and plinking soda cans at 100, 200, then 300 yards, her hands became springloaded death traps, ready to snatch up her piece and send home a killing bolt. But killing for hire wasn't a glory job, and even tougher for somebody with a moral compass. Often, the kill was point-blanc, and even if it was truly one of the bad guys, it didn't stop them from crying for their mothers as they bled dark blood from their stomachs in a downward spiral to the afterlife. Seeing it once cut your soul deep like a razor's edge. Seeing it every time only cemented an ugly scar inside that would never heal. Then there came a time where Jane simply lost count. Every poor bastard she sent to Hell simply made getting to Heaven that much more of a lost cause.
Jane drew back from her inner speculation, returning her thoughts back to more mundane things. She made a passing attempt to fix her hair, and slid on some practical clothing. Everything was to fit a purpose, and she did little nowadays for frills. It had even been half a year since she'd touched a makeup set. With a last glancing-over, she left for the Bar & Grill.
* * *
She arrived shortly thereafter, exiting her hovercab and walking in. Immediately she was met by a doorman, one of the local guards. He asked her to turn her sidearm in before she entered. Her hand slowly went down to her pistol's grip, then froze as Jane hesitated, her eyes going distant as she wandered into her thoughts.