Never Again

Killjoy trailed on the wooden platform, walking through the hordes of people passing by, cramping the narrow space of the train station. 

Not only did his thicker layers of cotton do little to keep the bitter cold from piercing his skin, but wafting steam coursed through the crowds and himself, like in an oven with the door open. It was suffocating, and humid, yet chilling at the same time. This would be a particularly frosty winter.

"This way, this way! The MKT line is departing on this train!" A conductor yelled out from one of the doors, waving his hands in the air to direct the waves of pedestrians. 

Bingo. Killjoy walked ahead, carrying his luggage and guns strapped to his back as he went. He got through to a clearing amidst the crowded space in front of the swing doors. 

Some people naturally formed a front line to board the steel cabin, but the bounty hunter had little in the way of time. 

He marched forward once more, nudging aside a man as he did. The well-dressed folk were surprised, and one man was about to say something until his gaze landed on the many-inches-long bag on Killjoy's back. It concealed a cylindrical object that stretched from neck to hip, and various other apparatuses stuck to the bounty hunter's otherwise formal clothes…The passenger kept quiet, to say the least.

"Oy, partner, you'd best wait your turn first; common courtesy," scolded the aged conductor, whose attitude was quite spry for his age.

"Sorry, I just want to offload my luggage as soon as possible," Killjoy simply replied.

"We only allow pre-planned luggage in this station," the conductor refuted, "You should've asked for a 'luggage in advance' form from the porters to have your things stored ahead of time."

"My…" Killjoy nodded to the concealed equipment he carried that, while covered, were clearly weapons, "...cargo isn't fit to be handled by civilian personnel…" He answered more modestly.

"I still have to check it."

Killjoy sighed and swiped his hand into his pockets with haste as the train's steam blared out, eventually pulling out an object. He raised it into the air and the conductor saw a small, thin, leather case, the front bearing the emblem of a pair of wings. 

The conductor snatched it and opened the content. "Civilian Service Wing, the M.D…" He read aloud.

Killjoy nodded.

"So you're part of the Wing, huh?" The conductor asked with a scoff as he tossed it back, Killjoy catching the case with ease. "Most of the time they're dressed like ruffians and working stiffs." He nodded, his grey eyes on Killjoy's three-piece ditto suit. 

"Well, as you can see, sometimes it pays well."

"You can enter; the first-class carriages will be to my right. Just ask a steward to guide you. Be sure to not let those guns go loose…"

"Thank you," the Bounty Hunter promptly said as he walked up the short stairs into the steam locomotive. 

The sound of the steam whistled loudly, faint through the window as the cabin began to move. Killjoy slightly rocked in his seat as the train jolted forward. He glanced to his side through the glass pane as the locomotive sped past the station, then the countless number of buildings, and eventually rolling through the meadows of prairies and patches of dense forests, painted under the snowfall of the dusk sky.

He looked away and leaned back against his padded sofa, which wrapped around the corner of his room inside the cabin. It was quite a small space since the first-class cabin was divided into these smaller units, but they furnished it well and he could keep his luggage in the ceiling compartments, so there was little need to complain. 

Killjoy sunk against the cotton padding, holding him tight like a cub with their mother, and let out a sigh as he squeezed his eyes shut. 

There were rarely any opportunities to rest like this in his years, so each time he often forgot how simple, yet sweet, being able to simply sit back was. 

If this was what retirement was like, then perhaps he wouldn't mind it much; why did he put it off for so long? He could've done it long ago. Must have been for the money…had to have been about it.

He still had a week or two or so to kill, to do something, anything. The bounty hunter leaned forward and grabbed his various cases and folded leather bags, pulling apart the seams to unpack his items, one by one. 

First, his wood-framed rifle, a Mauser 1895, shortened rifle, the 21-inch weapon being his preferred gun. Setting the thick gun next to his thigh, it was then Killjoy's second, a small black pistol with a box-like magazine; the gunsmith called it a 'broom handle' or whatever, but it was still of German variety.

Killjoy held the bolt-action rifle close to his body, the barrel facing away from him as he tested the bolt lever. Pulling it up and pushing it back several times, the metal made a consistent clashing noise with each rotation—the sounds more than satisfying than the last—until the hunter found no faults. And with his pistol, he twisted it to the side with his left hand and pushed the little switch tab on the flat side forward. Pressing the cock back and letting it spring forward, a little rattle sounded out from inside the oaken handle, like a snake; music to his ears.

With many more tools and babies to check, Killjoy wasted no time bending over to his bag to check more of his weapons; you could never be too safe, after all. Perhaps he'd inspect his beautiful blades next. 

His fingers scoured inside the dark pit of his bag and felt something chilling and hard to kiss his fingerprints. The hunter grabbed it, raised it outside the bag, and noticed it was her harmonica. Not his; Killjoy always made sure to make that distinction.

He never was one for music, that's for sure, but Adeline still gave it to him as a present on one of his many—yet still few— trips back home. Before that, she would only give treats to eat on the way, some photo journals, and the like. But this was different…it was a 'forever gift', as she said.

The hunter stared down at the side of the harmonica, reading the engraved letters of her name and his together. The shine of the sapphic gem in between was bright, like the sun underneath the cabin's chandelier. 

Killjoy thought Adeline was merely joking when she called it that, like all the times before. But her warm eyes were a kind of comfort that he only last remembered from that of his mother before she passed, like the mellowness of wearing fur amid the snow. 

Adeline always showed him this affection, this love. Killjoy gripped the silver harmonica, his fingers covering only his engraved name on the instrument, knowing he didn't deserve it. If the hunter were to be honest, truly honest, his work always came first; Adeline merely barged herself into his life, and he didn't know why. Killjoy continued with his work, leaving for almost months at a time, figuring out that sooner or later the lass would let go, but she didn't, she never did. 

"Fuck," Killjoy muttered, slightly biting his teeth.

Whether it was when she asked him out, or when they got married, or they had their first child: he never directly wanted it, but he still accepted it, something to retreat to on the occasions he does return to town…not good enough.

Never again, Killjoy made that promise to himself as he stuffed the instrument back inside his bag, not wanting to look at it any longer. When this mission was all done and over, he would go back and never leave again.

This much, at least, he owed.