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Hours earlier...
On the outskirts of Devil's Sunset, there was an old, supposedly abandoned building, three stories tall, looking run-down on the outside, but quite well-kept on the inside... If one could even make it inside, that is. For, you see, this place was, in fact, the hideout of a dangerous group of outlaws, who just so happened to have some connections with the local law enforcement, which ensured that they could do as they pleased, within reason, without facing the consequences, and in exchange, if the lawkeepers needed something shady done to any political enemies and such, the outlaws would carry out the job ruthlessly. It was quite the agreement, a win-win situation so to speak. The other unlawful groups nearby let them be on the grounds that they usually stayed out of each other's way, not to mention that they had the law backing them, and last, but not least, it would be a foolish endeavor to try to take them down in their home turf.
But, it just so happened that these outlaws had stolen something from a certain keeper of a saloon inside the town of Devil's Sunset, something that the man was willing to pay a hefty ammount to get back, though, due to many factors including those mentioned above, the sad truth was that no one was willing to undertake this endeavor and get back the man's possession.
None except the craziest of them all.
And this is how Harlan Sheridan Redwing, former soldier of the Grand Unified Dominion of the Triangulum, trained entertainer, daring outlaw and leader of a band, found himself being pursued through the graffiti-stained silvery gray halls of the Granger hideout by no less than a dozen dangerously armed men, the leader of them a dark-skinned, scarred bald man with tattoos lining his muscular arms and his naked chest. And yet, somehow the figure that they were chasing through the hallways, clad in an archaic, ornamental black and gold uniform from a distant land, still managed to tower over every single one of them. Men born in Calico, such as the Grangers, they were not very tall. Oh, but the men of Tangent? The men of Tangent were something to behold. Called 'charge leaders' by their dubious overlords and 'walking targets' by their headwear enthusiast enemies, they were, indeed, rather easy to shoot, on account of their height. Of course, this was purely poetic, as they were not tall to the point of being inhuman, but the point got across, that much was certain.
It was in part this that made his escapades during his time as a soldier all the more impressive. How do you hide a walking tower?
As it turned out, the Grangers were about to find out.
Reaching the third floor of the building, Harlan turned a corner, only to find himself faced with a dead end, the only possible method of escape being a window nearby, though a quick glance showed that there wasn't a lot of cover nearby in that direction, and he did not like the odds of survival offered by that option, which involved a dozen men firing at him as he tried to run away.
Of course, the idea of getting shot by a dozen men at point blank range was not very appealing either, a thought that immediately popped up in the mind of the man of Tangent as he turned around only to see the Grangers standing there, their guns all trained on him. Letting out a defeated sigh and smiling a rueful smile, Harlan raised his hands.
But this was not an act of submission.
From his sleeves, playing cards began to fly out and fall in front of him with such frequency that they soon formed a barrier, blocking the Grangers' line of sight. Of course, they could always shoot, and odds were they'd get him, but delivering him dead wouldn't get him as much cash as delivering him alive, after all, which they had been planning on doing once they caught him.
Regardless, they didn't have a lot of time to react, either, as suddenly something passed through the veil of cards. It was a small, cylindrical stick-like object, an object that the men of Calico had learned to fear. Explosives in the area had for some reason evolved to take that kind of shape, some even painting them red, perhaps as a way to leave it clear that these were no toys. This one, however, was a gray one, but it was something to be feared nonetheless.
"Explosive!" Someone shouted, the only other sound in the room being that of something breaking the window. It didn't take the Grangers long to put two and two together, but before chasing their target, they all took cover behind the furniture around the room. These explosives were not usually very powerful, not because they couldn't be, but because some people preferred to avoid too much collateral damage.
But instead of exploding, the cylinder merely began expeding smoke very quickly. It filled the chamber within seconds, and the second and third floor within minutes, despite the open window. Inside the hideout, chaos ensued with great swiftness.
Not long after that, Harlan calmly walked out the front door while whistling a tune to himself and toying around with his deck of playing cards, his footsteps making not a sound, a useful skill he had learned during his youth. He walked up to a vehicle in front of the building, boarding it swiftly, putting his deck away and swiping a keycard on its panel, a neat little thing he had scooped up on his way out. It had not been particularly difficult to do, with the Grangers so confused. Really, they should have expected this, but for all their cunning while dealing with the unlawful world, they really had thick heads for facing cheap tricks based on smoke and mirrors. Regardless, the vehicle was all his now, another count of vehicle theft, perhaps, but he didn't really care, and instead of worrying about such trivial matters, he began singing an old, very old song.
"There's a man goin' 'round takin' names.
An' he decides who to free and who to blame."
And so the man drove off, away from that place, his work there done. A quick glance at his pocket clock indicated that it was almost time for him to meet his crew. He had asked them to meet him in a certain place that day, wanting to share something with them. A message he had received not too long ago.
"...When the man comes around."
Now...
Sunset Cross. A fitting name indeed for one of the most popular watering holes in Devil's Sunset, and one that happened to be near the center of the city. Of course, that wasn't on Trenton Cliff I's mind when he established the local. In fact, he was a very religious man, the echoes of monotheistic religions from the ancient world of Earth following him to Calico all the way from Andromeda. The town's name was something revolting for him, so he wanted to build something that would give travelers some respite from the atmosphere summoned by such a thing, but he was well aware that a church would not be very welcome this far from home, so he settled for what was, in his mind, the next best thing.
The knowledge of this foolish symbolism had for the most part faded away. Even the irony was lost by now.
From outside, the locale was fairly unassuming. An edification made of the same metal used to build every other locale nearby, painted with the same wood theme that seemed to be oh so popular around these places. A small porch of the same material and colors stood between the streets and the doors of the building, a sign hanging from it, the words "Sunset Cross" visible on it.
From the streets, a man in a black and gold uniform approached walking, having pawned off the vehicle for a little extra cash before heading there. He did not particularly need it at the moment, but letting the Grangers track it down to Sunset Cross was going to cause problems, he could tell. But that was no longer his concern, so, still whistling merrily, the man from Tangent walked through the porch, past the doors and into the saloon, casually ripping off a wanted sign with his face on it on his way in. The sign gave a small summary of his abilities and his (known) crimes, though of course it said nothing about his origins or his status as a renegade. Nope. Not at all. Why would it? No one knew about that here, as far as the Central Government of Calico was concerned.
"Harlan, stop ripping off the signs! They pay me to let them put them there!" Chided a man behind the counter, a good deal older than Redwing. He was dressed in a plain white shirt with a black vest over it, thin gray hair neatly combed back and an equally gray moustache gracing his face.
"In which case you should thank me, Cliff. They'll keep paying you this way." Harlan said nonchalantly, looking at the sign as he pulled out a red marker from one of his pockets, taking a seat at the bar, leaning on it and facing the door. He began scribbling on the sign with his red marker while Trenton Cliff the Third mused on his words. It was true, actually, and who would blame good old Cliff for not trying to stop a man who was about twice his height?
"So, what about that thing I asked you to do, eh, Redwing?" The keeper asked, grabbing a glass... glass from under the counter, and beginning to clean it up with a piece of cloth. Strictly speaking, that was unnecessary, given that the space under the counter cleaned the glasses automatically, but old habits were hard to let go.
"Hmm? Oh, yes, of course." Harlan said, putting a now fully vandalized wanted poster on the counter and grabbing something from one of his many pockets. It was a small card, which he tossed at Cliff. "Here's your deeds. Hide them better next time." The former soldier advised with a small nod, before glancing at the doors. No one there yet.
"Wonderful! Here, take this. It's on the house." Trenton repllied, grabbing a small hose from a larger contraption mounted on the wall and pressing a few buttons on said machine. The glass he had been cleaning, now filled with a reddish liquid, was handed to Harlan, who graciously accepted it and tasted it, nodding appreciatively. "You sure have learned my tastes by now." He stated.
Afterwards, he placed the drink on the counter and checked his pocket clock once again. The contraption showed him the local time, and also had a handy counter which showed him how much time was left until the next scheduled event. It was not a function he used very often, but he had chosen to use it for this meeting, and a quick glance confirmed his suspicions: He was a few minutes early. Shrugging, he placed the artifact back in its respective pocket and leaned back on the counter once again, crossing one leg over the other and waiting for his fellow outlaws to arrive.
