Firstborn of the Frontier

“Stables need mucking, boy. Get to it.”

Ain’t the words that register as I wake. It’s the bed shifting underneath me, which ain’t pleasant in the least. By the time my head’s got a handle on the situation, I already got my Rattlesnake out and finger sitting pretty on the trigger while pointed at the shadowy figure looming over the foot of my bed. Deputy Juan, judging by the raspy voice and slim profile before me, and as my eyes adjust to the early morning gloom of the unlit bunkhouse, I can just barely make out his wide-eyed expression as he stares down the barrel of my gun.

Which I keep trained on him a moment longer to make sure Deputy Walt ain’t got a bead on me from somewhere else, because I’d hate to get got the second I stand down. Homebound peacekeepers like deputies tend to be the sort who dream of action yet lack the discipline, dedication, and maybe even courage to go outside of their safe zones. Not to mention how their training is barebones at best, so you never know how they might react in a tense situation. Shows in how Deputy Juan reacts here, all bug-eyed and slack-jawed like he can’t believe a sleeping man might draw on him after so rude an awakening. More fool him then, so I put up my gun while keeping it in hand just in case he goes for his. “Then best you go muck them,” I growl, barely able to restrain the rage at both him and myself. Him for not knowing any better, and me for not being more alert to his presence standing so close to me as I slept. “I’m here to work, but not for you.”

Takes him a moment to find his words, or courage enough to speak them, and when he finally gets there, his voice is full of false bravado and genuine anger. “You just pointed a loaded Aetherarm at a Federal Officer of the Law,” he says with a snarl, putting a whole lot of extra weight into that last word there. Puffs up his chest too, and squares his shoulders as if making ready to draw, so I give him a casual raised eyebrow that says I like my odds. Puts a damper on his temper it does, enough to keep him from touching his gun, but ain’t enough to still his fool tongue. “That’s a criminal offense, boy.”

There it is, that harsh uptick at the end which makes the word ugly and hateful. Flashing a smile that’s all tooth and no cheer, I shake my head at his sheer stupidity. Threatening a man who got him dead to rights, that there is asking for a Bolt to the head, especially when the law ain’t actually on his side. “Inside a Federal Settlement, sure,” I say, radiating anger enough to cook an egg, “But in case you haven’t noticed, we ain’t in one. Sure, this bunkhouse sits on Federal land inside officially recognized Federal borders. Unsecure borders though, meaning you can’t say for certain that everyone you run into is a Federal citizen. That’s why the Accords take precedent over Federal Law out here, which don’t see you as no deputy, only a fool who done woke a man you knew was armed in the dumbest and rudest way possible. That’s how I’ll argue my case in court if you choose to push the issue, and there ain’t a judge or jury in the land that’ll convict me for exercising my right to defend myself.” Giving him a look meant to convey just how close a call it was, I add, “Not even if I shot you dead.”

Now, I ain’t said a single word of falsehood, but the truth is all it takes to bring Juan’s temper to a boil and expose his true colours. “And you think they’ll take the word of an offender doing hard labour over the testimony of a sworn officer of the law? This goes how I say it’ll go, boy, so best you show some proper respect.”

“Well,” I drawl, standing to face him head on and holstering my gun to make this fair. Move my hand to over my belly too, rather than hovering over the weapon like Juan’s, because a craven cur like this trembling shit stain needs at least that much of an advantage to act. “In that case, with all due respect Deputy Juan, you can go fuck yourself.”

Ain’t eager to kill a man so early in the morning, but there ain’t nothing that stick in my craw more than a bent lawman. He don’t bite right away, which shows he got at least some sense in him. The gears get to turning inside his head as he does the math, and after a long bit of hard thinking, he comes up with odds in his favour. I know as much because he flexes his fingers with that glint in his eyes, the one that says he’s working up the courage to draw and shoot. Hyping himself up, when he really ought to be relaxing, because being all tense and tight will slow you down. Me, I’m cool as a cucumber, having already seen how this plays out in my head. He gonna draw, I’m gonna shoot, and he’s gonna die here and now because he’s too stupid to know any better.

Ain’t pleased I gotta kill a man first thing in the morning, but I ain’t in no mood to back down before a two-bit bully with a badge like Juan here.

“Is bad idea.” There’s a hint of whimsy in Otis’ Slavic accent, one that can’t be blamed on the alcohol considering the sun ain’t even up yet. Fool that he is, Juan’s eyes dart over to see who’s talking, which might as well be an open invitation to kill him dead. I don’t take it of course, because then I wouldn’t be in the clear, but Juan panics when he realizes his mistakes and almost draws without thinking. His hand goes for his gun, and mine does the same, but then he thinks better of it and freezes in place. Again, his hand already on his weapon, which is justification enough under the Accords, but even though I got him dead to rights, I’ll be in for a real headache if I shoot a deputy whose gun is still in the holster. Annoying is what that is, his lack of courage to follow through, because now I gotta let him live for no reason beside the badge he disgraces with his behaviour and actions.

“You see?” Otis asks with a chuckle. “No fear in Firstborn, not of you or your Federal law. In Soviet Russia, we have saying. Don’t wake doom while it sleeps quiet.”

“Doom eh?” Can’t help but smile at that, though I keep my hand on my weapon and eyes trained on Juan. “That how you see me, Otis? Gotta say, I like it. A sure step up from a sleepin’ dog.” Earns me a laugh it does, and not just from Otis, as the other offenders snicker from their beds while watching the show. Burns Juan something fierce, losing face like this in front of his charges, and I’m guessing he thinks it a fate worse than death. Hardly surprising, being the puffed-up scaredy cat he is, a coward who hides behind his badge and the authority it represents. Man’s sworn to uphold the law, but openly flaunts it when it suits him, all but admitting he’s willing to perjure himself just because I didn’t smile and hop to the second he said jump. Well, if that’s how it’s gonna be, I got no qualms about helping Sherrif Patel clean house, even if I’ll take a lot of heat for it, because public opinion don’t mean much to me.

My reputation’s already in the gutter, and it’s not like my daddy’s helped him much after the fact. Spent over a decade working tirelessly for the Rangers, and when he wasn’t working, he was helping out in other ways. Donated his time and money to helping raise churches and fortify the shops along the main thoroughfare, on top of bringing in big game and barrels of mead to share at every festival and celebration. Was always happy to listen to someone’s troubles and either do something about it or find someone who could, while never saying nothing bad about no one. Wasted Lord knows how much time teaching people to forage, hunt, and survive out on their lonesome, and often went back to check in or help out on his own dime. Then he dies and some big wig politician upriver says he was never a Ranger, so how do all those people he helped react? They nod and accept it as fact. Even though he embodied everything an American Ranger ought to be, he wasn’t American, and apparently that’s enough to not give a shit.

Well fuck them, and fuck public opinion, because it don’t take much to turn against you. As for my actions scaring folks into petitioning to have me exiled? If them pearl-clutching townies want to raise a fuss and have me 86’ed from New Hope, the place I’ve been living in before there was even a town here to call home? Well, then they best be ready for a real fight, because I ain’t one to go quick or quiet. They all afraid of what I might do and don’t want me living next door, but they ain’t stopped to consider what I will do if they try and take my home from me.

“We got a problem here?” Bored and sleepy. That’s how Deputy Walt sounds as he pokes his head in through the door, but judging by the way he got one hand behind his back and how his holster sits empty, it’s obvious he got his gun ready and waiting to start Blasting. Or Bolting, I suppose, which don’t sound as nice, since the word got different connotations. Shows he knows his business though, and I can respect that, more than I respect his partner’s posturing.

“Not from me,” I say, letting go of my Rattlesnake and all too happy to put this behind us, because either way, I ain’t gonna be the one to die today. Juan’s got a 1911, same as Tina, which means no Maximize or Penetrate Metamagics. As for me, I got my Shield bracer Primed and ready, so even if he gets a shot off before I put him down, chances of punching through in one go are slim to none. At worst, might make me bleed a bit, but won’t put me down, and I can’t say the same about him.

Juan ain’t figured it out yet, that he outclassed and outmatched in every which way. I know this because it takes him a good few seconds before taking the lifeline he been thrown. Rest of us all knew there was no other way this would go, but he gotta posture a bit before finally taking his gun off his hand. “Nah,” he drawls, still acting as if I’m the one who lucked out. “Kid’s got a lip on him is all.”

“And you thinkin’ you gonna put him in his place?” Sounding amused as all hell, Deputy Walt straightens up and holsters his pistol in plain view, though the fact that he leaves his left hand out of sight leads me to suspect he got another weapon readied. “Better men than you have tried and failed,” Deputy Walt says. “Women too, so best you do like Otis says and leave him be.”

Ain’t it the truth, but Juan don’t much like to hear it, giving me a glare as he saunters out the room like he done came out on top. As for me, I give Otis a nod of thanks for speaking up when he did, because I’m pretty sure Juan forgot there were other people here in the room the second he saw red. In retrospect, seems like a silly thing to take a stand on, since mucking stables ain’t no big thing, but you give a bully like Juan a single inch, and he’ll take a mile right quick, so it’s best to show folks like him where we both stand from the get go.

Otis don’t share the same sentiment it seems, as he gives me a look devoid of all humour. “Should know better,” he says, with a slow shake of his head. “Pick your battles.”

I get the sentiment, I really do, but wasn’t like I had much of choice from the get go. Juan was the fool who came in to mess with the bull, so ain’t nothing I could do besides show him the horns. Hate to admit it, but I was a split second away from pulling the trigger before I registered what was happening. Been feeling a bit high strung of late, and figured idle hands and lack of direction were what done it to me. That’s why I came out here after all, to work off my energy and hours both, instead of sitting around at home going over everything I could’ve done different. Not just in Pleasant Dunes itself, but down under dark with Marcus and the others, with me running circles round inside my head until I was too dizzy to even stand.

Been over it all before, and several times since in my nightmares, so no sense getting into it again. Long story short? I failed Marcus, and he died for it, then I threw a tantrum which cost me a hand. Them’s the facts, and there’s no denying it no matter how much I wish it were otherwise, which means I ain’t aiming to recover and be just as good as I was; I need to be better, faster, stronger, and smarter if I want to make it out here, to be the Firstborn at the head of the Frontier Born who’ll make a mark on the Frontier.

So I ain’t about to let no bent cop on a power trip walk all over me and mine, no sir-ree. If Juan thinks he can push me around just because he got a shiny, six-pointed star on his chest, then he’s got another thing coming.

I don’t say as much though, just give Otis a sheepish little nod, because he ain’t entirely wrong either. Could’ve handled it better, but it is what it is, so I move on without a second thought. Grabbing my hat off the windowsill, I stop the recording which I started last night. It would’ve conveniently caught Juan’s bold-faced claims about how this was gonna go and everything after too, but that’s not why I set it up. No, I recorded myself sleeping in case Carter’s folk had ill-intent, but caught a lucky break now, didn’t I? I ain’t no snitch though, so the recording won’t ever see the light of day so long as Juan don’t make no trouble, mostly because there’s no upside and a whole lot of downside to doing anything unprompted. Just to be safe, I switch out the crystal with a fresh one while I’m in the jakes so I don’t accidentally record over it. Goes right into my warded gun case it does, dropped in with no one being the wiser as I take out my Doorknockers for the day. Part of me wonders if I ought to warn Juan off, or let Deputy Walt know what I got so he can rein his partner in, but the rest of me isn’t feeling so generous towards bent lawmen as of late.

One thing I’ve learned from Pleasant Dunes is that playing by the rules means taking on all the risks. I make one wrong move, one bad decision, and it’s over for me, but Juan there wouldn’t get nothing more than a slap on the wrist if I presented the recording as is. While Sherrif Patel ain’t one to tolerate malfeasance from his deputies, he also ain’t exactly spoilt for choice when it comes to the help, and I know firsthand how good help is hard to find. Juan’s baseless claims might warrant a stern talking to and keeping a close eye on for the next little bit, but weren’t no laws broken there, so nothing to fire Juan for, much less arrest him.

Backwards way of going about it, giving more leeway to the men and women hired to uphold the law than the civilians them laws are supposed to protect. Just look at how I was treated after coming home from Pleasant Dunes, like a criminal, and for what? Exercising my right to defend myself, that’s what. The language in the Accords is about as clear as mud, but the justifications of self-defence boil down to three steps. Step one. There was a force or threat of force unjustly used against you. Check. Back in Pleasant Dunes, I was thrown into a fight, then beaten bloody by the crowd and mutilated when I won, which I would say goes beyond a force or threat of force used against me. Step two. You acted for the purpose of defending yourself or others against said force or threat of force. Check Check. I eliminated the entire group of aggressors in a single, decisive alpha strike, which is in full accordance with Ranger standard operating procedure. And lastly, step three, the action or actions taken to defend yourself are reasonable considering the circumstances.

Which is where things get iffy. Ain’t no proper definition for what constitutes ‘reasonable’, but seeing how the crowd I killed was all cheering while big Franky held up my freshly severed hand, I like my chances with a jury should it ever make it that far.

And yet despite catching all of that on verified, authentic, and untampered video, Judge McKean and Sherrif Patel wanted to throw the book at me just because they didn’t like what I did. Were it a Ranger who done it, like Wayne or Conner, they wouldn’t blink twice, because a soldier fighting back is just another Tuesday. God forbid a civilian do the same though, in the exact same circumstances, because somehow, that’s an entirely different kettle of fish. Bullshit is what that is, treating me like I’m some criminal by default just because I don’t got a badge on my chest. If anything, we ought to put more scrutiny on our Sheriffs, soldiers, and law enforcement officials, because if we did, then maybe wouldn’t more than half of them be bent no more.

Bad way to start the day, with a belly full of fire and a thin, millet gruel. Porridge they calls it, but I know gruel when I sees it, even if they throw the odd grumble berries and bapple slices in for a bit of sweetness and serve plenty of coffee to wash it all down with. To make matters worse, Cowie’s none too pleased at having been relegated to the stables for the night, so I spend most of breakfast making it up to him with cuddles and chin scratches in spite of my foul mood. Ain’t polite to let your bull sleep on another man’s bed, even if that bull be house-trained and that bed be in a bunkhouse. Since, Carter’s been nothing but polite from the get go, I been putting my best foot forward so far, though Cowie been doing his own thing the whole while.

You get what you give, that’s how it is with me, and Juan could stand to learn a thing or three about good manners. Shows in how he rallies back after downing his breakfast with a beer and a cigarette, all fired up and on a mission to make my day miserable without overstepping his bounds. “You’re here to work, convict,” he says, giving me a glare that’s all bark and no bite seeing how he keeps his thumbs tucked in his belt loops like he do. “Not sit around and play with your pet all day. Get to it.”

Rather than answer, I continue petting Cowie while leaning back and looking up at Juan. Meeting the man’s eyes, I give him a stare while a Mage Hand brings my mug to my lips for a long, unhurried sip of coffee. Then I break eye contact and grimace at the taste, staring down at my cup to inspect what’s it in. Coffee, but over steeped, though I suppose there ain’t no helping it when you making it in a bonafide cauldron over a campfire. Pot was probably started by the fellas from Carter’s compound who went out on the boats, the one’s that done came back last night with three Reds, two Browns (from different continents, one South American and the other East Asian), and one Euro white I couldn’t place. A real melting pot, this community is, mostly Reds but with a good mix of almost everything else.

Which is less common than you’d think considering every last settler who passed through the Gate was dumped in a random location. Personally, I’d say that’s how we all ought to live, all mixed in together instead of making our own little districts all across the Frontier, or even inside of towns sometimes. Sure, all that diversity might make for more conflict in the short term, but ain’t no one like feuding with the neighbours, so I figure we’d eventually learn to play nice.

Or kill one another until only one group is left. That’s usually how it goes, one of two ways, and can’t rightly predict which it’ll be.

“You deaf or something? I said get to it!”

“I hear you,” I say, before taking another, shorter sip of coffee while Juan tries for intimidating and comes off as huffy. “Just don’t see no point in listening. Said it before and I’ll say it again, Juan. I’m here to work, but not for you. Can bark all the livelong day and it won’t change the facts none. You here to guard, not manage, and seeing how we all still free citizens here of our own volition, that means watching for beasts, bandits, and Abby more than anything else.”

Rather than face the facts as they are, Juan doubles down on flexing his non-existent authority and snarls, “You trying to tell me my job, boy?”

“No try about it,” I say with a grin, one that’s slightly strained from have to hold Cowie in place, because he ready to throw down and got a whole lot of muscle on him even when he baby sized. No idea how the physics of it all works, but shrinking down and shedding weight don’t affect his actual strength as much as you’d think it would. He might look all cute and cuddly, with his silly little face and curly white coat, and weigh one eighth of what he should, but he only slightly weaker as a baby compared to his full-sized self. Seen him pull a fully loaded wagon while tiny because he felt like being small that day, and it makes for a sight to be sure. Course, I don’t much let him do it too often because I’d much rather folks focus on the cute and cuddly aspects of his baby calf form, rather than his innate strength and the inherent danger he might present.

While Juan glares and glowers for all he’s worth, Carter moseys on out of the compound with his three helpers in tow, all ready to start the day. A different bunch from yesterday, but I recognize them from the glimpse I caught of them coming back from the boat. As for Carter, he gives us a look, sees the tension between me and Juan, then decides he don’t want to get involved, which I’d say is the right way to go about it. “New day, new start,” he says, and I take that as my cue to stand, which Juan don’t like much. See, if I was as stubborn with Carter as I am with him, then Juan could write it off as me being me, but his pride can’t stand to see me heed another man, one he think he’s better than. More fool him then, because seeing how Carter is willing to travel by his lonesome five hours one way to cart a dozen convicts back for hard labour, I figure he knows how to handle himself. Travelled all that way without so much as a sidearm, much less a rifle hanging off his shoulder, so either he’s the bravest and luckiest fool I done ever seen, or he’s got confidence enough in his skills and Spellslinging to see his way through whatever he comes across.

Or a mix of both in reality. Even if I had Fireball prepped, I wouldn’t care to wander through these woods without so much as a pistol on my hip. Ain’t many bandits to be wary of this close to New Hope, but Abby are always a clear and present threat, what with the Proggie hiding somewhere beneath the waters of Last Chance Lake. Granted, the Rangers keep the Abby population well in check, so there won’t be no hundred-strong hordes of scavenging fodder or packs of hunting Ferals roaming about in broad daylight. That said, Proggies are nothing if not adaptable, and this particular one is even craftier than most. Favours quality over quantity when spawning its Abby, many of which come out of the meat sack even bigger, stronger, and tougher than your average armoured bugbear. With smarts enough to learn right quick to be sneaky and stealthy mind you, so as to avoid the many patrols circling all about the lakeside. To make matters worse, those Abby who survive long enough to recoup the losses from birthing them tend to come back equipped with Spell Cores more often than not, so even though you’re unlikely to come across more than ten to twenty Abby at a time, each one will likely be a veteran of multiple conflicts and powerhouses in their own right.

Ain’t like the Coral Desert, where there was one brainy hobgoblin commanding thousands of dumb orcs and Lord knows how many gibbering gobbos across the sands. The local Proggie hiding under Last Chance Lake is suspected to have dozens of evolved Abby just like the hobgoblin, only all them started off a whole lot scarier than a measly little goblin.

I wonder if the hobgoblin Illusionist survive the shitshow in Pleasant Dunes… I hope so, because then I’ll have good reason to revisit the desert besides a whimsical desire to see the sights and hunt down the remnants of Ron’s now defunct company. As for Gunin’s crew… Well, we’ll call it square since I done killed him and took his rifle after he said all those nice things about me and my daddy.

Since folks tend to get antsy when you start chanting incantations and waggling fingers unannounced, I wait until I’m back at the section of ditch I done started digging yesterday to throw on my suite of daily Spells. Deodorant, Umbrella, Protection from Insects come first like always, then Prestidigitation to clear out the grains stuck between my teeth. From there, I throw on some Hearing Protection and a Mage Armour too, because better safe than sorry after all. Cowie also gets his daily Bolstering Compliment, which is just an excuse to rub his cheeks and call him cute, followed by a Console which earns me a quick nuzzle before he runs off to play.

Probably found some bicorn bunnies to nuzzle, or a choice patch of bapple bushes that’ve already borne fruit. Ain’t too concerned about his safety, as most things in this forest ought to be afraid of Cowie more than anything else.

Then I get to work, same as yesterday, save for the occasional visit from Juan looking to make my job miserable, but aside from the odd cigarette butt tossed into my ditch, I don’t let his words or deeds shake me none. Man’s doing his best to get a rise out of me so he got reason to put me in my place, but I ain’t so easy to bait once I’m good and well awake. I simply pay him no mind and do my work one cast of the Cantrip at a time. Keep my medallion recording the whole while too, just in case, and thank my past self for packing extra storage crystals for an occasion just like this. Each one is good for about eight hours, but only because they gotta be small to fit behind the medallion. I hear the old world was on the cusp of cracking some sort of compression tech to let you fit even more data into them gems. No idea how it all works, save to say that the Record Video Spell Core doesn’t actually store a copy of everything it sees onto the crystal, not directly at least.

Was a time when I thought that if you got good enough with Eagle Eye, you might even be able to look into them crystals and see the scenes play out inside. A child’s fancy is what that was, and the technical details are far more confusing, as the Spell Core uses light to embed tiny Aetheric patterns into the crystals that form a sort of visual language, one the Major Illusion Spell Core can read and translate into a moving image in real time. Same with Record Audio, which makes about as much sense as the tech alternatives with their magnetic strips on their VHS and Betamax.

Which again, goes to show how much there is about magic that I don’t really understand. Fact is, Record Video and Record Audio are both Divination Spells, Second Order ones I can cast well enough, but only got a passing knowledge of how they function. It’s different when cast manually, because there ain’t no need to do any translation, since we storing information directly into our brains which are already equipped to do that. Same with the Photograph Cantrip which I use to snap pictures of wildlife for Chrissy to look at, and it feels more natural that way. Thing is, I been warned not to store too much Aetheric information up in my noggin, as that can have bad side effects over long periods of time and lead to stuff like dementia, amnesia, bipolar disorder, and more because of how the Aether waves interfere with the electromagnetic pulses of your mind.

More stuff I don’t rightly understand. Even magnets seem like magic at times, because even though I understand the science behind them, I still don’t really get how it all comes together to work how it do. Strange that, how you can look at something so normal and get your head all twisted in knots trying to figure it all out, and that’s how I been feeling these days with my quest to upgrade or improve Mage Hand. Keep trying to use it all manner of different ways and figure out the reasons behind the limitations, because if can understand the flaws, then I can focus on how to fix them, or at the very least shore them up enough to create a Mage Hand strong and durable enough to fire a gun without coming apart at the seams. That’s the goal here, to make up for my missing right hand anyway I can, while anything extra is gravy. To that end, I find myself bashing my Mage Hands into the dirt and using them to dig like a marty, scooping out fistfuls of soil wherever I can and pushing them to their very limits until the Cantrip falls apart and I gotta recast it again.

Slows me down some, taking a beat to slowly recast Mage Hands so often and interrupting my continuous use of Mould Earth, a fact that don’t escape Juan’s notice. After the third time he drops by telling me to quit faffing about and is promptly ignored, he finally loses his temper and tosses a shovel into my ditch, clocking me in the head with the handle none too gently on the way down. That gets my blood boiling as I give him a glare, and he grins in response. “Enough of your games with all your little Spells, boy,” he says with a hateful sneer. “Pick that shovel up and put your back into it. You here to work, and by God I’ll see that you do.”

Turn the other cheek. That’s the thing to do here, to ignore him and not engage or escalate. So I do the smart thing and leave the shovel where it is instead of throwing it blade first at the man’s face. Instead, I cast the Mould Earth Cantrip again, swirling my finger in the dirt and stirring up the soil until a good chunk of it shakes loose and streams into the waiting buckets by my feet. Once it’s full, I stop casting and squat down to haul the bucket up and out of the ditch. Gotta do that myself, because at about 5-gallons a bucket, each one weighs a good 20 kilos when full, which is too much for my Simple Servant or Mage Hands. Ain’t a lot of weight to be sure, but with only one hand, it gets tiring right quick, especially when I gotta do five in quick succession to fill the wheelbarrow, which I then gotta cart off to add to the pile. Add in how the others can take turns digging, lifting, and hauling, and I’d say I’m putting more effort into the work than any two of the others combined, while doing the work of at least three.

Course, Juan don’t care about the facts as he stands over me in my pit like a marty over a mouse to watch me while I work. “You must be deaf,” he says with a shake of his head and an ugly grin stretched across his face, while he rests his hand on his pistol like he has been all day like the idiot he is. “I told you to pick that shovel up and work, boy. You here for hard labour, and last I checked, that don’t mean slinging Spells to avoid breaking a sweat.”

Never mind that Carter already cleared me to work with Spells, or the fact that I can’t work a shovel one-handed. Then there’s the fact that I work non-stop digging, hauling, and carting stuff away, while the others can work in shifts since they dig fast enough to need dedicated haulers and carters. None of that matters to Juan though, because he’s doing all this just to be petty. Got no real power over me, but I got no real recourse to put him in his place without enduring a world of frustration. Won’t matter if he deserves the thrashing I’d give him if he didn’t have that badge on his chest. All the townies would know is that Howie Zhu done assaulted a Deputy, and that’s that. If I ain’t arrested, it’ll be because the Marshal bailed me out, and if I am and get off in court, it’ll be the same, so I continue to ignore Juan and go about my work, because like Otis said, it’s better to pick your battles.

I have my limits though, and Juan hits the limit right quick when he kicks on the bucket I just done hauled up and topples it back down into the ditch. My furious glare only makes his grin grow wider as he looks down on me from above, all smug and self-righteous as can be. “What’s the matter, boy?” he asks, as his smile turns into a sneer. “You thinking of putting a Bolt in old Juan here? That why you reaching for a gun that ain’t there with a hand you don’t got?”

Didn’t even notice my right arm had moved until he pointed it out, and it burns me to know I done lost control so easily. Flexing my phantom hand that still burns when I remember it, I grit my teeth and curse myself for a fool. Part of it is because I stopped being so concerned with my right arm and started focusing more on my left to get into the habit of keeping it free and clear of my gun, but like my daddy used to say, good habits are hard to make, and bad habits hard to break. Could get me in trouble later on down the line, so I straighten up and take a deep breath before turning back to my work. Juan don’t say nothing, just stands there and gloats in silence, right up until I haul the bucket back up, at which point he moves to tip it back down again.

And I let him, then get right back to filling it up again, because I’m still doing the work all the same, and it’s his fault ain’t no progress being made. All on recording too, so let him dig his own grave. Given the speed with which I work and how often I make the trip back, it don’t take more than half an hour before someone takes notice, and Juan wanders off to play innocent when Carter comes by to see what’s what. I don’t say a peep, don’t even meet the man’s eyes, because I’m too full of fury to do anything besides grit my teeth and work. Carter don’t say nothing either, just leaves me be, and without Juan getting in the way, I fall back into the rhythm of digging and hauling the day away, only to have it interrupted every so often when he drops by to make life just a bit more miserable for me. It’s a long half day before we break for lunch, and I eat mine in silent solitude, as even Cowie has caught onto my dark mood and don’t come find me to play. After lunch, I continue my work until I come across a network of roots from a tree growing some twenty meters to the left, and after checking in with Carter to make the call, I alternate between digging and hacking apart them roots with a Conjured Hatchet in hand.

More to the point, Juan don’t come anywhere near me while I got the blade going, and it might have something to do with the look I give him the moment I Conjure it up. Man don’t deserve to die for what he done, but I wouldn’t lose sleep over killing him, which is a failing of mine to be sure. Gotta have limits and rules to abide by though, else I’m no better than the outlaws, that’s what my daddy used to say. The laws ain’t perfect, but they must be followed, because only then can society function, which is a completely different outlook from the American mindset of freedom and independence above all else, even the very laws their own government sets down. So long as you aren’t affecting anyone else, then you ought to be able to do whatever it is you please, whether it be safely jaywalking across the thoroughfare, growing few plots of wacky tobaccy for personal consumption, or fudging a few facts when you kill a man in justified self defense so it looks like more of an open and shut case, rather than questionable as one-sided fights tend to be.

That’s the American way, and in this, I’m as American as any.

Tiresome having to jump through all those hoops, ones set up to make sure us citizens are abiding by all the laws while those in charge got no oversight to keep them honest. That’s the worst part of it really, how I’m here paying for my sins and taking all the heat for what went down in the public eye, while Wayne gets off scot-free despite being a double-dealing rat who was crooked as a corkscrew. Even gets his full pension to boot, which his druggie whore of a wife will snort up her nose to forget all about him, while my daddy got stiffed out of his. Unfair is what that is, and no matter how hard I try to let go of the anger and focus on the work in front of me, it keeps coming back stronger than ever every time Juan shows his stupid, hateful face.

So after a long, hard day, I’m about a hair’s breadth away from committing murder outright, which is why I take my food to go and post up in the stables with Cowie instead. Which ain’t been mucked, but ain’t all that bad either, because there are only two horses stabled inside. The deputies’ horses, meaning Carter’s people moved their horses to their stables inside at some point. Makes sense considering how expensive them horsies be, just surprising because I never saw it happen and figured I would’ve caught it. Guess I gotta work on that perception of mine, so I don’t give it much thought beyond that as I throw myself into my studies, working until my mind and body are both too tired to stay awake any longer. With Deodorant and Gust to keep the hayloft smelling fresh, a night spent snuggled up with Cowie does wonders for my mood, so much so that even Juan’s attempts to rile me up the next morning don’t bear any fruit. Don’t matter what he says, I pay him no mind while holding Cowie back and studying the lay of the land.

This is a nice place, with a decent community in a beautiful place. Lots of wildlife roaming about, not just marties, chitter rats, and bunnies, but also ducks in the water and gryphikins in the treetops, as well as a whole host of bugs that I could do without. Carter don’t talk much, and neither do any of his people, mostly communicating in a series of nods and grunts, which means they my sort of people to boot. They lead a decent life out here. Food could be better, but they do well enough, and they’re committed to improving too. Haven’t seen many of them out and about though, not during the day at least. Just the three who work with Carter, and today it’s a new bunch I never seen before. Guess the other six are out on the lake, because three boats are gone same as yesterday. Gotta get up early to catch them fish, or at least so I’m told. No idea why, as I ain’t much of a fisherman.

…Now that I think about it, what are Carter’s people doing out on them boats? Certainly not fishing like I assumed, because I didn’t see them carry in no catch now did I? They don’t got no nets or poles in them boats either, no spears or traps to speak of, nor did I spy any Aetherarms or diving gear laying about. So if they ain’t fishing, trapping, hunting, or diving, then what are they doing out on the water all the live-long day? Avoiding the digging work, seems like, though they don’t look the sort who are adverse to hard work. Each and every man in this community is hale and healthy as can be, a robust and able-bodied bunch considering they’re all in their forties at the very least. In comparison, the work crew from New Hope are far more lacking in strength, stamina, and determination to boot, having to take constant water and smoke breaks to keep themselves from toppling over in exhaustion while yapping away about all sorts of nonsense that I don’t care to engage in.

And yet Juan don’t give any one else a second look while we work the next day, just hovers over me with his snide remarks and impotent demands as I work harder than anyone else from sun up to sun down. By the end of the third day, I’m about ready to drag Juan off into the forest and teach him a lesson real quick and quiet, show him there are consequences to his actions that his badge don’t protect against, but I rein it in and endure as best I can, because I only got a few more days left. Fifty hours, this job is supposed to give, and I’ll be damned if I go home with even a single one less. The upside is that when it comes time to sleep, I discover that someone mucked the stables, though I got no idea who. Wasn’t Juan or Walt, and none of the other workers had the time to spare, meaning it had to have been someone from Carter’s community. A shame they had to clean up after their guests, and makes me feel mighty sheepish for being so stubborn, but it’s the principle of the matter.

Thursday comes and goes same as the days before, and by the time Friday afternoon rolls around, I consider putting my name in the hat for Catholic Sainthood for putting up with Juan’s shit and leaving him none the worse for wear. Man’s still got ten fingers and ten toes, with not a single one broken or dislocated at all, and as many teeth as he left town with, which is less than a full set. A miracle is what that is, considering all of the bullshit I’ve had to put up with because of him. Never stopped his needling, kept at it like a marty with a bone he just refused to let go of. As for me, I handled it well enough, mostly by sticking within earshot of the rest of the crew instead of working further out and making them hopscotch around me more often whenever they catch up, or vice versa. Mildly inconvenient for everyone involved, but Carter’s presence alone was enough to keep Juan from getting in the way of my work. Don’t stop the whiny shit-stain from harping on the same damn opinion all the livelong day about how I’m getting off easy using Spells to do the bulk of my work. The words fall on deaf ears, but he’s kept at it, and even though didn’t no one say nothing, I’m pretty sure Carter and his people are all less than pleased.

Didn’t no one speak up for me, nor do I expect them to, because end of the day, Juan is still a deputy, and he can easily make life miserable for everyone present if he felt so inclined to. Carter included, considering he’s gotta work through the Sherrif’s office if he wants another crew out here again. Looks like he will too, because even though we still got the rest of today and a half day tomorrow, that’s barely enough time to finish digging out the whole ditch, while laying pipe will take at least two more days. Might’ve finished the whole job if all ten men I seen from the community helped out from the very start, but every day without fail, six of them are gone by the time I wake and don’t come back until just before dinner after doing Lord knows what out on the lake all day.

No point saying as much though, as this is Carter’s gig, and I’m just a pair of hands here to work. After the all that digging, the lakeshore is finally in sight, and I take a moment to stretch my body and senses both by the shore as I peer out over the waters. Inside the forest, the Detect Aberration Spell don’t give much of anything at all, since all them trees and tangled growths do a fair job of absorbing all the Aetheric signals I send out. That changes once we push past the treeline however, and I relish the feeling of being able to reach out as far as the eye can see. It’s the difference between stumbling around in the dark with your hands outstretched before you, and moseying on through with the sun shining overhead, one that’s more mental than anything else considering I ain’t sensed any Abby all week, but a welcome change nonetheless.

Because even if there ain’t nothing to see, it’s a world of difference from not seeing anything at all.

Contrary to how I’m feeling, the rest of the crew grows wary at the sight of open waters, and not without reason I suppose. To them, the dark waters is where Abby spring forth from, so they want nothing to do with it so long as they can avoid it. Me, I used to go swimming in these waters when the Proggie was more active and spawned wave after wave of tiny, tender little mudkippers that’d die to a good whack with an oar. They’d come up about once a season to try and plunder New Hope and the surrounding areas for biomass to bring home, but the Rangers gave them what for and exterminated droves of Abby every time they emerged. Then the raids started coming less and less often, and these days, you’d could go a whole year without spotting a single mudkipper even if you travelled to and from Riverrun five days a week.

Course, your average townie had best hope they don’t spot any bigger, scarier Abby than mudkippers, because by they time they do, it tends to be much too late.

Once again, Juan proves himself a fool as he saunters on over to give me a glower, standing front and centre before me with his back to the waters without so much as a glance to look for danger. “Why is it,” he begins, looming over me with a sneer, “That every time I look your way, I see you slacking off?” Credit where it’s due, I haven’t answered the man in days, and he keeps on trying. Persistent he is, so I exhale slowly and get back to digging, starting about a foot back from the waterline and working inland so the others can stay further away from the shore. “That’s right, boy,” he says, grinning like he just won a big pot and got an armload of cash to spend. “Won’t be no slacking while I’m here, and I’ll make sure to join in on your next little excursion too. Keep you honest and hardworking, because a boy like you needs watching. Poor upbringing is your problem, and a lack of good breeding.”

My breath catches in my throat as it closes in rage, and I can’t help but turn and meet Juan’s eyes. He’s delighted to see it, straightens up and puffs his chest as he moves his hands to his hips and closer to his gun. “It’s that mangy Qin blood of yours if what does it,” he says, delighting in having found my last nerve, but he’s mistaken in the source. Don’t give a shit about being Qin, only the aspersions he cast on my daddy, not to mention Aunty Ray, Uncle Raleigh, Uncle Teddy, Marcus, and everyone else who played a part in raising me.

Conner included. Man taught me how to spot a loose spoke and tighten it to keep the wagon from wobbling, and fix the axle alignment should it ever tilt uneven. Taught me a lot more too, like how to play poker, then how not to play when I realized how bad he was at the game. Good memories those, all ruined by the fact that he done betrayed me to Wayne, and how I shot him in the back because I didn’t have the courage, decency, or determination to do it while looking him in the eye.

“-all angry and bloodthirsty like a rabid attack dog,” Juan continues, utterly unaware of my complete disinterest in my heritage and the disdain I have for my people. My anger over Conner bubbles to the surface though, and Juan mistakes it for his own success. “That’s what all them Qin Vanguard are, remorseless killers raised and bred to kill and conquer, a bunch of feral savages unfit to live in decent human society. Them others, they don’t see it, but I see you for what you are, boy, a barbaric Qink no different from the rest of them murderous, slant-eyed fucks.”

There’s more to his rant, but I tune it out as my jimmies get to rustling down beneath my belly. Ain’t just that either, and I turn to look out over the waters for no reason I can put word to, none besides an inkling in the back of my head that that’s where I ought to look. Not back behind me at the rest of the crew, or to either side along the edge of the water. Don’t see nothing until I reach the middle of the lake, where a line of boats are making the trip to and from Riverrun while birds fly about overhead, and nothing but clear waters beyond until they reach out over the horizon where I know the other shore lies, but cannot be seen.

Nearby though? There ain’t a thing moving within a few hundred metres, not a sign of life to be seen, so I don’t know what it is that’s got my jimmies all jangling while Juan rants and raves in my ear.

Then it hits me. Ain’t a sign of life to be seen. That ain’t normal, not in a vibrant forest on the edge of a bustling lake like this. Got no bright birds singing their songs, no blind chitter rats making their way through the underbrush, no bunnies hopping, froggies croaking, fishies bubbling, or even insects buzzing about, and there’s only one reason why that’d be.

See, trees ain’t the only thing that block Aetheric signals. Water does too, even better than trees, on account of how dense water is compared to air. 830 times denser as it were, meaning my Detect Aberration Spell, which has a range of five-hundred metres, don’t penetrate more sixty centimetres beneath the water’s surface. A number certain crafty, cagey Abby have picked up on, and as such, know to stay below such a depth until they’ve no other choice, like when they moving over the uneven shallows under the community’s makeshift floating dock.

Without thinking, I step back and my hand goes for the Rattlesnake even as I open my mouth to shout a warning, but Juan was ready and waiting for just such an opportunity. His gun comes up before mine does, his eyes wild and full of murderous excitement at the thought of killing me dead, and there ain’t much I can do except throw up my Shield and eat the shots. His body leans back to give him that extra half-inch of clearance so his draw is that much faster, and I can appreciate the time and effort that went into making it look so smooth and easy. Man’s put his hours in down at the range, but his lack of real life experience proves to be his downfall, as he leans right back into the open maw of the voracious ranakin that comes diving out of the water behind him faster than you can blink.

One moment, I’m watching my life flash before my eyes as I await the Bolt that’ll end my life, and the next, there’s only half of Juan left, his blood spraying all about and upper torso chomped away by the fanged-frog Abby with bulging eyes, giant arms and a muscular frame covered in slime and armoured plate. “Abby!” I call, and I can’t help but smile as I unload a fistful of Bolts into my saviour while backing away, a smile that turns into a howl of laughter as I take it all in. Better to be lucky than good, and better still to be both, which means it’s a great day to be me, and a terrible one for Juan.

Farewell, Deputy. You shant be missed, though fondly remembered for this moment, if not for anything else.