"Otto! You there?" Curt calls out as he ducks into the alleyway that led to Otto's secret shooting range.

He doesn't hear the telltale sounds of gun shots, glass bottles shattering, or the cocking of a revolver hammer. Curt cautiously rounds the corner, deeming it pretty good odds he won't be inadvertently shot by Otto.

The area is deserted, glass bottles still lined up in a neat row, intact, on the brick wall and old cigarette butts littering the ground. Otto is no where to be seen.

"Otto?" Curt scans the area more thoroughly, checking to see if there's any sign of the man. Otto had been weirdly cagey earlier that day, not even bothering to show up to watch their match in the guild tournament, even though it was a pretty critical one.

Their match against The Greenhouse was a close one, but they were victorious in the end. Curt thought Otto would be happy to hear the news when they got back, but by nightfall, Otto still didn't show up at the guild base.

Usually when Otto went off on whatever scheme he was cooking up, Curt was content to let the man be. Otto wasn't the most honest man Curt had known, not by a long shot, but one thing Curt could count on was Otto being driven and focused on his goals.

Winning this guild tournament had been Otto's dream, something Curt personally witnessed him doing whatever he could to tip the odds in Point Blank's favor, whether that was his spying attempts on their opponents or trying to curry favor with the match judges.

Hell, the man was beaten up by their last opponents for trying to bribe them to lose.

No, the guild tournament is everything to Otto, Curt is pretty sure about that. Otto was there at every match, cheering them on even if he never bothered to participate in the fights himself, even if he tried to buy their victories. It wasn't due to a lack of trust in their ability, not really. Curt understood.

It was just a part of living in the Dusts. You didn't bet on winning or survival unless you loaded the dice first. There, it was just evening the odds.

But he wasn't there for this match. The past week, Otto seemed distracted, oddly unfocused on their upcoming match with The Greenhouse. In retrospect, Curt should have known something was up. He had a bad feeling about this, whatever it was, Otto had been up to. Still has that bad feeling, as he quietly steps around the area, checking for signs that Otto had been there recently.

A thin wisp of smoke rises from a half-burnt cigarette. Otto wasn't one to waste his vices, most of the cigarette butts were burnt to the ends. Curt frowns as he kneels down and watches smoke rise from the barely burning cigarette. Otto was here, and fairly recently. Minutes ago even.

Curt glances around, looking more carefully at the buildings that lined this little clearing in the alley. They are silent, dark, and mostly windowless, except one. One with a broken window.

He squints at it. It's completely dark inside and he can't see anything beyond the window's threshold. The window is too small for him to crawl through, and he doesn't fancy getting his new coat scratched up by old glass shards clambering into some abandoned hovel in the slums.

He's also pretty sure that window was broken by one of Otto's shots going wide.

He takes a few steps to follow the curve of the building, and there. A door hanging from its hinges, but open. Some of the dirt in front of the door is kicked up a bit, almost like someone slipped while trying to run inside.

Curt frowns to himself. His bad feeling isn't going away, if anything, it gets worse as he steps into the building. His revolver is already in his hand, and the click as the gun is cocked sounds all too loud in the darkness. He waits a few beats for his eyes to adjust to the dim lighting, but the room is empty. Some broken chairs litter the floor, but that's it. The place was long looted.

A staircase on the far side of the wall leading up to the second floor catches Curt's eye. It's the only other place to check out. Curt strains his ears for the sound of anything, but hears nothing. It doesn't feel like someone is inside, and if Otto is passed out drunk somewhere in here, he's pretty sure he'd hear the snores.

Something's wrong. Curt is almost sure of it as he tries to quietly make his way up the stairs. The old wooden boards creak like hell though, and halfway up he figures stealth is pointless. Anyone lying in wait would've heard him calling for Otto just a moment ago.

Even though he thinks that, he can't bring himself to hasten up the stairs. Dread encumbers every step like weights chained to his ankles. His instinct for danger is quiet, but his instinct for fleeing is on full alarms. It doesn't make sense, usually those two are in tandem.

But when he steps up the final step and sees the figure slumped in a chair in the moonlight with a single black rose decorating the floor, he wishes he did run away.

At least Otto's shot isn't terrible enough to shoot out the second floor window, Curt thinks to himself. A pathetic attempt to distance himself from the scene in front of him. Morbid humor. It's what bubbled him through most of the Dusts. A familiar friend, resurfacing again for the first time in what feels like years.

Otto's body looks almost relaxed in its pose, like he took a few too many shots of tequila and fell asleep in his chair, but his skin is too pale and his body too still. If that didn't give it away, the telltale bullet hole in his chest, still seeping dark red blood, does.

Otto's dead.

And whoever killed him had a gun, and left very recently. The barely burning cigarette on the ground comes to mind, it was dropped within the hour of Otto dying.

Curt checks the perimeter of the small second floor room. You didn't survive in the Dusts by grieving right away, you saved that for after you checked to make sure you weren't in danger anymore.

But there's no other entries or exits, and no signs of anyone lurking about. Curt didn't hear anyone, or see anyone when he walked in. Whoever killed Otto was long gone, he's pretty sure on this point. How and why though? Curt has no clue.

The time to grieve and get angry can still wait though. Curt kneels beside Otto to examine the wound. He's no ballistics expert, but it was definitely by a gun, nonmagical and a clean shot. Otto likely died instantly. Curt checks Otto's face.

Otto's expression is oddly peaceful, even a hint of a smirk on his lips with his eyes closed. He knew he was going to die.

Curt's eyes trail down to where Otto's fist is clenched, a hint of paper peeking from behind his fingers. A note? Maybe something to finally tell Curt what got Otto into this mess, and whether it will have anything to do with him.

It's harder than he thinks to pull the note out of Otto's stiff, dead fingers, but he manages. It's a scrap of paper, not enough room to adequately explain to Curt what the hell just happened, but it's a start at least.

He unfurls the paper, and reads.

Hey Curt. Hope you find this before my corpse starts to breakdown. Knowing you, you probably will find me still fresh and bleeding.

Well, first off, sorry man. Sorry for leaving you to deal with the guild on your own. I know you can do it though. Take Point Blank all the way to victory. I'm hereby appointing you the new Guild Master of Point Blank. Officially. Or whatever the Order needs to transfer the title.

Don't feel so sorry for me. I had this one coming for a long time now. The past always catches up to you, even in a new world. I knew it would. Just was a matter of time. Wish it was later though. Wish I could have seen a few more victories in the tourney. I already know you guys won today's, no surprise there. You guys are going to win the rest of it after all.

Look, Curt, don't look into my death. Don't mess with them. I'm the only loose end here.

Take care,

Otto

The bastard. Curt crumples the note up and tosses it to the ground. He takes a deep breath. No real hint of whoever murdered Otto. All he knows is they used a gun.

For all he knew, some disgruntled customer of Otto murdered him with his own gun after they failed spectacularly in a time of need. Thinking back to when Otto first bequeathed his pair of revolvers to Curt, it didn't sound so farfetched.

But why now? Otto hadn't sold a gun since hopping on this guild tournament dream, and Otto didn't seem like he sold very many guns to begin with.

Curt stares at the single, black rose lying at Otto's feet. There's nothing particularly striking about it, except for the fact that it was there. A black rose. Something stirs in Curt's memory. There's something familiar about it. But he can't place where he's seen a black rose before. All he knows that it's not from here.

It's from back home. Somewhere up there, someone came down to kill Otto. And Curt feels no closer to the reason.

Practicality dictates Curt checks all of Otto's pockets and his shoes. Other than a pack of cigarettes, a pouch of bullets, and some lint, there's nothing. Curt notes the absence of Otto's revolvers. He never left the base without them, except for this morning.

Curt curses to himself. He noticed, and still let Otto leave.

He pockets the bullets, and takes one of the cigs and with a flick of his fingers, lights the end. He tucks the burning cigarette to Otto's lips.

"See you back home," Curt says. He takes another cigarette and lights it for himself. He takes a deep inhale of the cheap smoke, and lets it out, watching the smoke rise up to the ceiling where it hung, trapped. It's the least he could do for Otto, he thinks.

He leaves the building, not bothering to close the door, and tosses the still burning cigarette inside. With a little bit of focus, he guides the flame, letting it spread over the dry timbers and begin to rise on their own.

He lets himself watch the building burn for a bit, as the fires lick their way up towards the heavens. His eyes water from the sting of the smoke that rises from the flames, reaching all the way back home and carrying Otto's remains with them.