[ In most ages -- not just the modern one -- money is power, and the man in black is fresh out of both.
So this is a bank robbery.
The robber has spared everyone the theatrics of announcing as much, of course -- one security guard out cold on the floor and the other with his hands up at gunpoint. Old Billy has a bowie knife near long as his forearm hooked in against someone’s neck with his other hand -- maybe it’s yours -- watching from behind while the teller fumbles cash into a bag. ]
Pick up the pace, sweetheart. [ His voice is like cracked leather through the bandanna he has knotted behind his ears, old lines seamed in deep around blue eyes squinting over the top of it. Black paisley matches the pitch of his cowboy hat, his gloves, his suit. It isn’t much of a disguise, but he doesn’t seem worried. Truth all told, he isn’t paying all that close attention to his hostage, either. ] My knife’s catchin’ a draft.
[ The edge of the blade nicks in when he shifts his weight, razor sharp. ]
Here to help:
[ He half turns when the door opens behind him a beat later, thumb cocked back over the hammer of his revolver. The mechanism clicks like a set of mouthparts in the sudden quiet of the lobby -- even the teller has frozen.
Man in Black | Westworld | SPOILER in white text
Wrong place wrong time:
[ In most ages -- not just the modern one -- money is power, and the man in black is fresh out of both.
So this is a bank robbery.
The robber has spared everyone the theatrics of announcing as much, of course -- one security guard out cold on the floor and the other with his hands up at gunpoint. Old Billy has a bowie knife near long as his forearm hooked in against someone’s neck with his other hand -- maybe it’s yours -- watching from behind while the teller fumbles cash into a bag. ]
Pick up the pace, sweetheart. [ His voice is like cracked leather through the bandanna he has knotted behind his ears, old lines seamed in deep around blue eyes squinting over the top of it. Black paisley matches the pitch of his cowboy hat, his gloves, his suit. It isn’t much of a disguise, but he doesn’t seem worried. Truth all told, he isn’t paying all that close attention to his hostage, either. ] My knife’s catchin’ a draft.
[ The edge of the blade nicks in when he shifts his weight, razor sharp. ]
Here to help:
[ He half turns when the door opens behind him a beat later, thumb cocked back over the hammer of his revolver. The mechanism clicks like a set of mouthparts in the sudden quiet of the lobby -- even the teller has frozen.
Awkward. ]
Deposit or withdrawal, [ he hazards, at length. ]