[DRB]: Bad Omen
Who was Filly Maddison?
It was a question that followed her endlessly, ingrained into her story from the moment she’d first woken up. A question with too many answers, and yet none at all.
Amnesiac. Captive. Criminal. And now, a runaway.
If only for a time.
It was happenstance that she stumbled upon a friendly face not far from the home she’d fled. A welcome release to drink with her until the ground and the sky bled into each other. Unexpected to get a key to her house, to be welcomed in as a guest for as long as she needed it.
Preciously, it felt like a do-over. No violence. No shooting. A new friend who understood her. Cackling laughter at successful subterfuge and satchels haphazardly packed with more eggs than anyone had any right to be carrying.
Still, the skull bandana stayed on, pulled up over her nose whenever she was in public— an exercise in autonomy rather than anonymity. What stranger had any right to know her face if she didn’t want them to?
On some level she’d hoped that their influence might pull her further from the life she’d led before, that she might start again anew. That she might stay a runaway. There could be more innocent answers to that ever-present question, couldn’t there?
Who was she? A vandal. A farmer. A sweetheart.
A kid.
…The reprieve was painfully short-lived. In her exodus, she found only reasons to return.
Telegrams found their way to her, a mess unfolding back home to the tune of outrage and underhanded law. Cowardice in the place of integrity.
This alone may not have been enough to pull her back. But even from her new friend, she heard a tale of death, betrayal, and cruelty — a tale of a lie. Falsehoods spoken by people she thought were her friends, people that had turned to the badge and used her trust in them against her. An injustice still tragically unresolved all this time later.
They didn’t want to do it, she claimed in their defense. It hurt them just as much as it hurt her.
“It was just their job,” she offered quietly, but both women knew that wasn’t enough to justify it.
It was a thought that plagued Filly, thinking back on all the interactions she’d had with law before. They’d seemed nice. Swore they had her best interest at heart, that they wanted to help. She’d wanted to believe them. At the time, she had. Could she bear to make that mistake?
For all her hope that she might leave for good, the mask stayed on.
Filly returned once again to the arms of her gang, her father, and the life she’d wanted to leave behind.
Returned once again to the muddy streets of Strawberry, her gang all around her and a pack of law ahead. Oliver had taken a step forward — started small talking them. It was a song and dance at best.
He had a warrant. It was only a matter of time before they tried to collect, and they all knew it. Conflict was imminent.
A few of the lawmen standing across from her were familiar — maybe painfully so. Part of her wondered if they knew who was beneath the mask. Maybe they did. Maybe they didn’t.
The truth was… it didn’t matter. Regardless of if they were nice, if they had believed her about her situation, if they genuinely thought they knew what was best for her, if they knew it was her under the mask— it didn’t matter.
After all, this was their job.
Their people had preached integrity and shown her anything but. They had already exploited the trust of people that had once been their friends, enacted cruelty to bring about “justice”. Who was she to think they’d have any qualms about doing the same to her? To anyone else she cared about?
It could’ve been anyone that died that day in Rhodes. That was their job.
The longer she’d thought about it, the more it had festered.
What right did anyone have to claim they knew what was best for her, while holding daggers and chains behind their backs?
An officer called out for an imminent arrest. The tension broke.
The chase began in an instant, with gunfire quick to follow. Officers sprinted past her as if she wasn’t even there, weapons drawn.
Even if it didn’t matter, she couldn’t help but wonder if they’d guessed who was behind the mask. If they knew she’d never shot a lawman before. If they knew the countless times she’d held onto that fact as a lifeline back to a better life.
Rushing down the street, Filly began to count, attempting to steady her breathing just as she had many times before.
Five.
Those familiar questions haunted her, entangled in every move she made and every inch of her visage, still hidden behind the skull faced bandana—
Who was she if she couldn’t pull the trigger?
…Who was she if she could?
Four.
Her hands came up, training a shotgun squarely at an unsuspecting officer’s back.
Three.
No smile graced her lips beneath the mask, her brows and eyes deeply etched with concentration. This was not a question of good or bad, not of thrill or bloodthirst or mercy.
Two.
It was one of necessity. For the sake of her friends, her family. To ensure they didn’t lose another one.
…One.
She breathed.
In. Out.
After everything that had happened to her, who was Miss Filly Maddison?
Her finger constricted on the trigger, issuing her answer in a spray of light, fire, and blood:
Who was she?
Her father’s daughter. A runaway returned.
And nothing but a Bad Omen.