#( 𝑪𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒓𝒊𝒃𝒖𝒕𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒐𝒔 ; Atlas (( Sean ))

[sharp-teeth-and-archived]

Love that for them

( ooc ): I love Sean MacGuire. That's all.

[sharp-teeth-and-archived]

( ATLAS )·:

Atlas flaunts a smile, shoulders relaxing under Sean’s coat as he leans towards him on his forearms. “Some figure between six and eight thousand, more towards our old pal lucky number seven by my estimate, eight only if we can find a way to stow and cash the horses and coaches. We’ll be able to grab one, absolutely, once their current owners are disposed of, and maybe have time to draw back around for the second. The third, well.. tch, can’t win ‘em all, or can we?”

“I did some groundwork myself, got a lay of the land, and they’re apparently heading into Saint Denis, all that haphazard bogland and such,” his lip curls in distaste, shaking his head, “-transporting some sum of cash for a little soiree in the making. Whatever the fuck that means, it’s my intentions that they never hit marshland, bigger threats to deal with there, and i’m not talking alligators and jumped-up lawmen. We’ll keep them on the sunny side of Lemoyne if things go to the dogs, as much as we can, like herding sheep.”

Talk of Saint Denis seems to get Atlas’s goat somewhat, and he stands fully from where he’d been leaning before, looming up in the shadow and looking down his nose at the map, like it’d done him some grievous wrong that needed to be amended.

“We’ll need a rifle each, some lockbreakers, i’ve intentions to make this as little of a scene as it needs to be. Soon as they stop, put a bullet through the tongue of the front man, show ‘em we mean business and the rest should falter. A man on the road to stop the caravans in the first place however, would do us a whole lot of good, and though I trust your hands just as well as your nerves, i’m the better actor of us two, and I think you’d agree. Unless..?”

His brow quirks, tension draining away, as he suddenly leans forward, flicking a strand of hair out of Sean’s face with his finger. He’s quiet for a moment, assessing with vivid blue eyes narrowed, fist framed against his chin. 

Then, “Nah, they’d mistake your red-headed, long-haired mug for roadkill sooner than not. Different appeals, rich folk’ve got, compared to you and me. Better if it’s me. Charming, dark-haired stranger, lost in the hot n’ muggy night, I can play the fancy-boy act real well, you’d be real surprised.”

Atlas socks him in the shoulder and rears back with a chuckle, snatching the map up from the table and rolling it up in his hands. “Dirty, now, is it Macguire? Figured, by the people you ride with, you weren’t the kind to get lean and mean anywhere else than the bar and the cowsheds, where there’s no real stakes. But I suppose I should give your tag-alongs more credit, so deeply wanted men as they are, rivals with those dock-robbing O’Driscolls to boot.” 

Atlas shrugs, fixing Sean with a somewhat apologetic look from the corner of his eye.

“I don’t mean to give them grief, honest, it just.. says alot, I think, about morals and knowing where you came from, that you were the only one to get your foot in the door in our little homegrown rebellion. It takes roots. I’m glad to have just you over them, anyhow. Better company, almost makes me homesick, it does.”

* @sharp-teeth-and-wide-grins·!

        𝐒𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐭𝐨 𝐀𝐭𝐥𝐚𝐬’ 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐧, 𝐡𝐢𝐬 ����𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐧𝐨 𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐚𝐬 𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐜𝐮𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐀𝐭𝐥𝐚𝐬 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐬𝐚𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠. When he mentioned the amount and his plan came to a close, a smile appeared on the Irishman’s face. The haul was good, wasn’t anywhere near the city line, and they had a concehsive plan in place. Sean was a good companion to have, loyal to the teeth and willing to pull risky moves if needed. He was good on his feet, it was only when it came to shooting -- Sean didn’t always hit his mark. Bullets would fly and succeed with hitting something, but he was so reckless with his aim that sometimes he would be the opposite of accurate.

        The anger towards the city was evident in his voice, Sean’s attention drawn to his face and the hitch of his voice. He chalked it up to nothing more than a hatred for large cities. Much preferring to the countryside and having a thorn in the side for the rich that resided there. Angelo Bronte ran the place with an iron fist and it was no wonder Atlas would hate a dump like Saint Denis, even with their shining lights and the quality theater performance. 

        Atlas closed in the gap between them and his eyes glanced down to the strand of red hair Atlas was pushing away with such gentleness. For a moment Sean completely forgot what Atlas was talking about, whatever he was chattering away about, and that blur remained until Atlas pushed away and gave out a chuckle. Either the laugh was towards him or what Atlas was trying to tell Sean. For once, Sean was left breathless until his words started to register.

        ❝ I’ll let ya’ know ladies love some fire in their lives. I can be real charming, Atlas, let me tell ya’ -- the damn bastards won’t know what to do with me once I start talking! ❞ As Sean talked and continued his side of the conversation, a grin made its way on his lips. ❝ One time, I was talking to a man, real wealthy fellow he was, and he hardly noticed the watch I loosened from under his sleeve! That’s magic if I ever saw it! ❞ his snorted, his cheeks flushing with a light pink. It took a moment for him to collect his thoughts, put it into a cohesive sentence, and go along with what Atlas was saying. 

        Like running water, Sean treaded hastily against the current, allowing a semi-flirting lien to leave his lips. ❝ Ya’ sure have the looks, Atlas, but ya’ don’t have the spirit! ❞ Like that unheeded action, he paid no mind to how it might appear to Atlas.

        His smile slowly diminished once Atlas started to talk about his crew, talking openly about his low expectations of them. Sure, he expressed his opinion of Sean, thinking he was someone useful to his cause, but it started to soften his features. The mention of O’Driscolls made Sean narrow his eyes slightly, his arms crossed over one another and pressed against his chest. No anger was ignited inside him once Atlas talked and talked about Dutch and the rest of the gang, rather, Sean held more of a curiosity on what made Atlas look so lowly of them in the first place. Shock colored his thoughts, previously assuming Atlas knew about their notoriety, like the botched ferry job in Blackwater. That event alone made them as infamous as they were and was more of a curse than something to enjoy. 

         ❝ You don’t know then, ❞ He started, flat and straight to the point. His stance was relaxed now, but his passion was easy to pinpoint the more he spoke. ❝ I wager we robbed more than most thieves, schemed more than them, too. We’ve been storing money more than what banks and railroad companies have been doing for years now. Nasty stuff all that is, but them O’Driscolls you mentioned -- those bastards, we’ve probably stolen more than them, too. ❞ His brows knitted in thought, trying his utmost to make the gang look more appealing to Atlas. If Atlas already thought of Sean highly, maybe he would be able to see his side. ❝ Dutch, our leader, he- uh, he has some views and acts on them but he’s reliable as they come. We target mostly those who deserve it--well I do anyway--but we’ve fallen on hard times. Now, that don’t mean we’re less capable, but I’m sure I could try to convince Dutch and Hosea if you really were desperate for more men. ❞

        Sean wouldn’t know it, but he just cast a larger net than he could reel in and take control of. Atlas might appear trustworthy now, someone he just started to garner feelings for, but it would slap him across the face later-- most likely by Hosea himself. He could hear it now, that fiery spirit, tugging at his earlobe and demanding he’d listen once it was outed that he was in the middle of a town feud. 

        Hosea said outright that he didn’t trust most movements, or at least the people running them. He said something among the lines of power going to a person’s head and most of them aren’t the saint they paint themselves out to be. Regardless, Sean still held the belief that if they knew about this stagecoach robbery they’re cooking up, they’d want a piece of the meal as well. Dutch would be easier to convince, it was Hosea who had more of a stubborn head on his shoulders.