Bane

May 25, 1980

Cassus Finley relaxed his sore bones in his rocking chair, listenin to the faint news station just audible below the loud hiss and crackle of static on his radio. "In the wake of the Mount Saint Helens eruption, search and rescue continue to search for survivors, with fifty-seven claimed already by the volcano. Cleanup crews, and volunteers estimate two-hundred-fifty homes destroyed, and the county has confirmed forty-seven bridges, fifteen miles of railroad, and one-hundred-eighty-five miles of road completely destroyed by the violent force of the mountain..."

"Weren't right what happened to them poor bastards." Cassus Finley squinted, staring into the shadow of the great Juniper in the center of the crossroads. "Funny seein' you there, considerin'a last time I seen you, yer head were rollin' round my boots."

Bane steps out from behind the Juniper, overgrown in his clothes; tatters clinging weakly by straining, and split seams. His eyes narrowed at Cassus Finley. "You."

"Who else'dya expect?"

Bane drew a police revolver on Cassus, who laughed his dry, papery laugh. "Oh, sure. That's just a little'un ain't it?" Cassus Finley reached for his shotgun, cocked it in a single hand, and trained it on Bane.

Bane feigned left, and then right, but Cassus Finley's reflexes were too fast, even after the last ninety-two years in exile.

"Now, I know this here sweet piece o'wood'n'iron ain't goina much do ya harm, but yer another thing comin' iffin ya think I'll lay down an' die. Kilt yer sorry hide once. Thinkin', well, 'kin prolly do it again."

Bane smiled. Before he could move, the old (they're called cowboys) cowboy moved impossibly fast, flickering out of his seat, onto his feet, firing a round of buckshot.
The shot tore through Bane's ruined shirt, disintegrating the fabric, and lodging in the bloodstained kevlar vest beneath. The force from the shotgun threw Bane onto his back, but to his satisfaction, did no true damage. He say straight up to see the old cowboy flicker from his place on the porch, and through the shabby screen door of his tinderbox of a cabin.

Bane retrieved his police revolver, and climbed to his feet. He ran for the door, when the second blast sent it splintering out at him, knocking him onto his back. "C'mon in iffin you can, you sunnova bitch!"

Bane say up, and pulled the splinters, and shards of dry wood from his body. He shook his was sharply. That urgency that came in his previous encounters did not come with the old man.

The cowboy. (The outlaw - he's an outlaw) "Shut up."

Bane was on his feet, running for the door again, and he saw a bright flash of light as the butt of Cassus Finley's shotgun connected between his eyes. Bane collapsed, dropping his police revolver, covering his face with his gloved hands, the leather splitting over his enormous fingers. He heard the metal clatter of his police revolver as Cassus kicked it away. "Won't be needin' that, ya stupid git."

Bane groaned, feeling warm blood flowing from the split skin between his eyes even as it healed shut, leaving a scar across the bridge of the healing bone in his nose. He smelled coppery blood in his nostrils, and pulled his hands down over his face, smearing the blood down to the bottom of his chin. He stared up at the outlaw, and past him, on the mantle of the old man's hearth, two very familiar weapons, and something else, set over the twin pistols.

Bane's eyes widened, and his expression turned to rage. Cassus Finley grinned, glancing over his shoulder. "Oh! Ya like that, dontcha? Took me a souvenir from our last encounter. Y'know. The one you lost."