Snake Eyes: Prologue.

         In the middle of a storm, everything around Cobb turned into a horrible blur. After running out of the saloon, he raced across the road, barely even checking for passing traffic before planting himself in the middle of the street, standing behind the man he’d been trying to catch up with.

         The rain had already soaked through all of his clothing, and his hat had been left on the table back in the saloon, so his hair was plastered onto his forehead like glue. The heavy wind slammed against his face, but he maintained his stance without stumbling from the channel.

         Even if he could hear anything over the rain, he doubted that the other man would give him the time of day. He noticed the knife in his hand, placed down by his hip, the flash of light crossing Cobb’s gaze as the man’s wrist twitched.

         And Cobb didn’t even know what he would say. Nothing seemed to accurately describe how conflicted he was, how the swirling in his stomach had only grown worse as they had traveled down this horrid path.

         The light around them seemed to be swept away, the heavy rainfall drowning out the sounds of hooves smacking against the pavement, mist wading around the streets as the storm continued on. Wind howled in the man’s ears as he wiped water from his forehead, though the action was futile as the rain continued to pour. His glasses fell to the ground, the sound of the glass shattering shadowed by the storm.

         The combination of the heavy rain and the absence of his glasses made it more than hard to navigate. He recognized the tall, thin blur of a figure standing just a few feet in front of him, and saw the flash of metal he held in his hands. He didn’t need to see the man’s face clearly to know what he was thinking, or what he was feeling. He was thinking so dangerously, his mind a storm worse than the one they were standing in. He had to be overthinking everything, and he knew that it would take very little for him to snap.

         And Cobb could do little to change his mind at this point, he knew, because he was so far into this delusion that no reassurance would break him out of his trance.

         But if words wouldn’t knock him out, Cobb didn’t see a lot of other options. His pistol suddenly felt terribly heavy on his belt, the lump in his throat becoming suffocating as he took a meager step forward. He would be justified in using violence, after all, he had become dangerous ever since his delusion took control. He would be a liability if Cobb didn’t handle him now.

         But even so, Cobb couldn’t bring himself to hurt him, not if he didn’t know if he had to.

         But he knew the longer that he questioned himself, the longer he went back and forth mentally, and the longer he tried to stall the inevitable, the easier it would be for the criminal to get away.

         The wind seemed to howl even louder with his lack of resignation, pressure against his back telling him, almost daring him, to go on and do it. His head had begun to pound just as hard as the rain against the ground, and with rain soaked, shaky hands, he reached down for his pistol, keeping a close eye on that blurry figure in front of him. He didn’t seem at all surprised that Cobb would use this method, and he didn’t seem to mind it, either. It almost seemed like he was giving up.

         Cobb suddenly regretted ditching his glasses, though he knew they would be no help in the storm. He just had to pray that his shot was as good in the rain as it was in fair weather.

         He raised his gun to point at the midnight haired man in front of him, who didn’t try to flee, or even fight the shot that fired from his weapon only seconds later.