[NB] Darkwatch Tower

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Karl Jak

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Face to Face
Assassination Attempt!

The cowboy decloaked at the foot of the tower and tilted his hat up to the fellas workin’ the guns. Like the good ole boys they were, they moved to get a bead on ‘im, but they was too slow – like their boots was stuck in molasses or theys wagon wheels had struck thick, soupy mud on the banks of the Missouri River.

Knives glittered up in the gun windows of the tower as Arthur Morgan’s desperados cast off their cloaks of concealment and did the dirty work that was needed of them on this day.

“Good ole Southern work,” Arthur spoke. “Only… without the systemic racism, poverty, lack of investment in education, and all that other stuff.”

“Wouldn’t ‘Arthur Morgan’ be more traditionally associated with tropes of the American West?” Karl UnJak replied as he stumbled out from the tower, a hand still clenched against a stab wound on his waist. “Cowboys and buffalos and fantasies of imperialism?”

“Well, pardner,” Arthur Morgan laughed behind his mask. “Now you makin’ guesstimations that would rely on my second-generation narrator understandin’ a darn tootin’ thing about where I’m from. You and I both know he ain’t know a lick about it. Hell, that boy ain’t even played the Witcher yet.”

“Let’s cut to the chase, Mr. Wilson,” Karl UnJak replied. “We know what you’re here for.”

“Truth be told, Fella, no one quite knows why any of us are here,” the cowboy seemed to be gesturing to a gold shoulder pad he wore as an accent piece. “I reckon it’s because this here ‘e-vent’ is just some kind of ‘off the rails’ social experiment, and the people who was s’posed to be successful opted to… not do that. Hence why I’m in gold and y’all weren’t destroyed by a glorious wave of blue and red fellas. Reckon?”

Karl UnJak chuckled. “Well, Wade, you and I both know that competition can bring out the ugliest in characters.”

At that, both men paused to toss some salt over their shoulders.

“The island changes, the cast changes, and the gimmick changes, but the fact remains the same.” Karl tapped the side of his head.

“Never trust someone with a sou—”

“No.”

“Fuck the po—”

“No.”

“… fuck the Br—”

“No.”

“Something about Jason Voorhees?”

“You know, what?” Karl UnJak sighed. “How about we just get this over with.”

Arthur Morgan smiled as he hovered his hand over his holstered revolver. “Say when.”

Karl groaned. “She won’t get your references; she was born after that film came out.”

“Say when.” Arthur repeated, as if the villainous desperado had said nothing.

In silence, the two locked eyes on one another as their hands drifted to their weapons.

The unmade producer closed his hands around his gun.

Arthur drew.

Bang.

Bang.


Karl UnJak, teeth clenched and blood dribbling down his chin, looked down at the hole in his chest. With a wheezing sigh, he collapsed.

A few feet away, Arthur Morgan grimaced at the graze to his left arm, but his attention shifted back to the dead man.

“You’re no daisy at all,” the cowboy muttered as he crouched over the body. “Your poor soul was just too highstrung.”

The detachment of remaining assassins flooded around their leader. One of them paused at his side and looked down at the body for a lingering moment, prompting a snicker from Arthur.

“I am afraid the strain was more than he could bear,” the cowboy deadpanned before departing with his squad, leaving behind a building in disarray.

As the Babylonians vanished from view, a bleeding corpse laying in front of Darkwatch Tower let out a terrible gasp as it sat up from the ground.

35 Babylonian Assassins have been killed
Deadpool suffers a Minor Injury

65 Unmade Carnaval soldiers have been destroyed.
Karl UnJak suffers a Major Injury (shot through the heart and wades to blame, something something love a bad name?)
 
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