Firstborn of the Frontier

Like so many things in life, fighting is simple.

Boils down to one thing really. Survive. Whether that means getting gone or killing before you’re killed, the process itself ain’t all that complicated. When the Bolts start flying, then all you gotta do is pick your target, take your shot, and repeat as necessary. That’s all there is to it for the most part, but like always, the Devil is in the details.

The planning and prep for a fight can take hours, days, or even weeks sometimes. Then you get stuck in and the plan goes tits up, but that don’t complicate things. Maybe you gotta move, maybe you gotta run, but so long as you shoot without getting shot, then most times the fight is over and done with in a matter of minutes. If that, because with Aetherarms and Magi roaming around, it’s a whole lot easier to kill than it is to stay alive and survive. All you gotta do is pull a trigger or point a finger and blam. Your target is dead, and you’re left feeling like you done run a whole marathon in a matter of minutes. There are exceptions of course, like the fight I took in the desert on the way over, or the siege of New Hope which went on and off for the better part of a day. Course, those long, drawn-out battles are few and far between, and they still adhere to the same principles as a short fight. You just stuck in it for a bit, so you gotta hope your luck holds a little longer than usual.

It’s those stretches of time between fights that are difficult, the rest of life as it were. I already said my piece on social niceties and how complicated they be, but that’s just the tip of the iceberg when it comes to not just staying alive, but thriving here on the Frontier. Learned that firsthand from watching Uncle Teddy, who started as a Captain and is now the Marshal. Now, he earned the rank in part because he’s one of the best Spellslingers and gunfighters around, but the title is a different story. Lot of other Rangers can shoot and sling almost as good as he does, and some might even be better, but he’s the Marshal for reasons besides his skills. We call him that because whenever folks are talking about a Marshal, they’re almost always talking about him, because he’s the one with his hand on the pulse of New Hope and the driving force behind the Bulwark going up to contain the Proggies of the badlands and maybe one day even throw them back into the Divide.

A dream that’ll take a lot of shooting and slinging before it’s done, but that part is handled easily enough. All you need are bodies, bullets, and Bolts, and with enough of all three, you could clear the Divide in a day. The tricksy part is getting all those things in place and ready to go, which Uncle Teddy knew well. The badlands represented a threat to everyone this side of the Divide, and if left unchecked, would eventually spill over to the other side. High Command didn’t care to listen though, thought they had bigger issues to deal with, like drawing lines on maps to parcel out lands they got no right to claim for a nation on a whole other world. Easy enough to ignore the badlands when you living downriver along the Wayfarer, or far west along the coast with the deadlands looming overhead. Those were fights that anyone could take, but Uncle Teddy knew the badlands would be the death of us all if they weren’t contained, because left unchecked, them Abby would strip these forests bare and drain the lakes and rivers dry to feed their insatiable Proggies. This wasn’t just about a fight, or even a war. This was an undertaking of epic proportions, one too big for any man to take on alone, and Uncle Teddy was smart enough not to even try to make a go at it solo.

His first step was something out of pocket, something that didn’t have much to do with fighting at all. Rather than put out a call for guns and Spellslingers, he set to taking care of anyone and everyone he came across, which he did by building them a town right on the border of the badlands. He knew that if he wanted soldiers to come fight alongside him, he needed to make sure their families were safe while they fought, which would make his soldiers fight that much harder because now they had something to fight for. That how New Hope came about, starting as a supply camp he built up over the course of a week in prep for his first scouting trip into the badlands, before growing into the crown jewel of the Eastern Front that it is today. Didn’t happen overnight, and they had to overcome a whole lot of growing pains to get there, most of which had nothing to do with shooting or slinging.

Sure, guns and Spells made sure the people had enough meat to fill their bellies and safety from Abby and bandits alike, but they weren’t of much help anywhere else. Can’t shoot the blight out of your crops or threaten the cold to leave you well enough alone, nor can you Spell the clouds to bring rain or the trees to get up and move out the way. Or maybe there is a Spell that could fix all that ails us, and we just haven’t found it yet, but that don’t make a lick of difference to us in the here and now. That’s the thing about magic. It's always been around, but humans have only had widespread access to it for the better part of five-hundred years. Or wider spread, I suppose, since even in the old world, you still gotta have means and money to pay for all that fancy schooling Spellslingers need, which I got for free thanks to Uncle Teddy. What I’m getting at though is that for most of human history, the majority didn’t have nothing to do with magic at all, so they got right clever about finding solutions without it.

Solutions Uncle Teddy led the good folks of New Hope to finding. I don’t mean he held their hands and guided them to the answers. No, he asked people what their problems were, then set them all to work together to fix them, all the while playing the arbiter while keeping folks from tearing each other apart. Or worse, climbing all over one another and getting nowhere for it, like crabs in a bucket or so I’ve head. That’s the difference between Uncle Teddy and the Ronald Jacksons of this world, the would-be tyrants and self-titled kings who take advantage of others to better their own lives. Miss Laura is the same way, because she don’t love her town the way I love mine. She loves Pleasant Dunes because of what it provides her, the safety and security she missed out on for all those years. Thing is, now that she’s got hers, she’s pulling the ladder up behind her, putting girls like Noora to work because of some twisted survivor’s mentality. Miss Laura had to suffer to get where she is today, so it’s only right everyone else ought to suffer too, even if they don’t have to.

She ain’t alone in her thinking. Fact is, most are just like her, even if they claim otherwise. Without laws or governments to hold them accountable, most settlers became almost feral in those first few years, fighting over scraps amidst a world full of riches. Uncle Teddy rose above all that, saw to it that everyone contributed and more importantly, everyone benefitted, which is a damn sight better than what most did in those early days. Hard to pinpoint one thing he did that made him stand out, because he gave the town his all day in and day out, and it showed in the way he conducted himself. Never demanded a bigger share or saved the choice bits for himself, and more often than not went without so others wouldn’t have to. Whenever the opportunity presented itself, he moved Heaven and earth to improve the lives and livelihoods of his people.

Food, shelter, and safety was only a start, and once that was settled, he set to reclaiming what they gave up by leaving the old world. Hot water for one, piped right into your home rather than pumped from a well and heated in a personal water tank. Dyed clothing for another, so we wouldn’t all be dressed in the same boring, off-white or milky brown of natural loomshrub linens. Water and windmills to cut timber and grind grains. Cans and jars to preserve tastier foods. Paper and ink to support a newspaper industry that shared news from hundreds of kilometres away. Schools and teachers to watch over children while people were off at work. Churches, synagogues, and mosques for any denomination that wanted them, even those with only a handful of believers. All this and more, the Marshal made happen one step at a time, taking on the role of protector and provider both as he funded it all with profits from Abby hunts, profits he shared because it was the right thing to do.

And now we got six more towns standing alongside New Hope, with three more breaking soil this summer to make a full ten. Ten border towns turned fortresses to hold back the badlands, a feat most thought impossible, but one Uncle Teddy made happen through sheer force of personality.

Didn’t do it alone though, and he’ll be the first to say it. Was always happy to take advice from anyone who cared to share it, and quick to put someone in charge of a whole project as soon as they showed themselves capable, regardless of their background. Just look at Mr. Kalthoff, a Danish national in charge of the Federal Aetherarms Manufacturing because Uncle Teddy trusted the man to do his best work without anyone looking over his shoulder. Or Quartermaster Lacey, a Frenchman heading up the treasury. Or my daddy, a Qin who rode point in more Ranger delves than anyone besides Drex Durden.

Yea, New Hope is full of pioneers and trailblazers who’ve worked wonders for the rest of us. Take Uncle Art for example. Man spent the early years collecting fruits, plants, bark, and all other sorts of odds and ends before testing them for medicinal effects. Mostly on himself, because he don’t trust volunteers to tell the truth, since he says everyone lies to their doctor. Add in how he’d go out for months at a time to observe animals, plants, and other natural phenomenon, and he’s discovered more on the Frontier than anyone else I can think of. Most will remember him as the man who identified the local flavours of tobacco, both wacky and sane, but he’s also the reason why every household this side of the Divide keeps a stock of dried frost-thorns.

Story goes was that he slipped and fell into a bush, which pricked him real good, a minor event in anyone else’s life that they’d soon forget. Not Uncle Art though, who noticed none of his minor scrapes had turned red over the course of their healing. Usually shows up really well on his pale, white skin, so he went back to collect more samples and tested them thoroughly to discover they got a waxy substance on them that reduces inflammation. Anyone else might’ve stopped there, but he went right on studying to discover that when the thorns were brewed into a bitter tea, they helped reduce fevers and aches too. Took a bit more studying, but eventually he concluded that that them frost-thorns produced Salicin, the active ingredient for something called Aspirin. Sounds simple really, but most folks could’ve gone through that exact same experience and come out with nothing but a bad memory. Uncle Art though? He took it and ran with it, and Lord knows how many lives he’s indirectly saved with that one discovery, and he’s saved a whole lot more directly too.

Uncle Raleigh helped too. The Marshal was the figurehead, and Uncle Art the medico, but Uncle Raleigh was the heart and soul of New Hope in those early years. While others were worrying about the weather, the harvest, or Aberration attacks, Uncle Raleigh spent his idle hours putting together instruments of all sorts. Banjos, pan flutes, and maracas at first, drums, harps, and harmonicas soon after, and eventually guitars, pianos, and pipe organs for the churches. He’s the man who taught me the magic of music, how a song and a dance can do more than any Spellslinger ever could. Wasn’t no worrying when those notes hit just right, because wasn’t no one who could be unhappy while dancing the night away. A touch of whimsy he called it, and it’s one that’s sorely missed, because in this world full of darkness, his smile was much needed beacon of light.

Music wasn’t the only legacy Uncle Raleigh left behind. His fancy house was another, as it showed everyone in New Hope that it was possible to reclaim a slice of the old world and made everyone aspire to do the same. Man wasn’t no priest or rabbi, barely a man of faith if you could even call him one, but he was New Hope’s Spiritual Leader for sure, a role that’s sat empty since his funeral because couldn’t no one claim it, not for everyone in town.

Tim’s another man who contributed to New Hope, and not just by hunting game and bandits. Grew up in a rural mining town and knew more than a little bit, so every time he went out, he brought himself a sifting pan and a rock pick and would spend his time searching for deposits of iron, copper, coal, and whatever else our town might need. Easy for anyone to say that Mount Rime might hold a treasure trove of materials just waiting to be claimed. Was Tim who proved it when no one else dared to, because they was too afraid to put in the work and come home empty-handed. Not Tim though, who spent weeks or even months looking before returning with the good news, kickstarting off New Hope’s economy and cementing the town’s place as a central hub for all travellers looking to trade on the eastern Emerald Plains.

Yea, I harp on about how my mama made good bricks out of clay, wove loomshrubs into soft linens, and rendered grass into paper, but plenty of folks have made great contributions to life here on the Frontier, and most don’t get the recognition they deserve. Like Danny’s daddy, Mr. Berner. Man was a brilliant artificer who built most of the power-tools Mr. Kalthoff needed to make his guns during that first year, including the dremmel he used to make my daddy’s Rattlesnake sitting on my hip. Was held together by glue and twine it was, a right sorry sight of a tool, but it did the job and got the Rangers armed right proper once my daddy finished translating my mama’s notes on Metamagic Etching.

Then there’s sad, sullen Trevor, who sourced everything needed to tan and cure leather from the forests right outside the gates of New Hope and shared his knowledge freely. Calls himself a cobbler and spends more time drinking now than anything else, but I remember a time when he was always in his shop working hard into the dead of night making sure everyone had three sets of boots at a minimum. One for daily use, one for hard, messy work, and one for special occasions, like the dances and festivals Uncle Raleigh arranged where he met his late wife, and he shared the Mending Cantrip with everyone who cared to learn it so they wouldn’t have to pay him to fix them down the line.

Could go on and on about what folks have done for New Hope and the Frontier in general. Like the person who figured out breadroot can be dried and ground up into flour, but remains unknown even to this day. Or the genius who caught a fangfish in his net and thought, ‘That’ll taste good’. It did, but doesn’t change the fact that it’s ugly as all sin. Course, I’d be doing Aunty Ray a disservice if I didn’t mention her, as she was one of the first to tame the local, feral horses, and also semi-tamed marties so they’d leave our crops alone and take care of our rodent problems, much like cats did in the old world. She also does her best to fill the shoes Uncle Raleigh left behind, organizing social activities and mediating minor disputes around New Hope, but it’s a lot more work now that the town’s grown to size.

Granted, everything’s harder these days, and not just because there are more people around. Back in the early days, the Marshal had a lot of good people working with him, most of whom moved on by now. Art Harding, Tim Hayes, and Rachel Bradshaw are the ones still around, big names one and all, but most have passed like Uncle Raleigh, or were from other nations like my daddy. Unlike my daddy though, many of those other ‘foreigners’ only worked with the Marshal because their own governments had yet to establish themselves on the Frontier and send out a call to gather settlers to their cause. Folks like Sam Horne, who’s a big name in the Pathfinders these days, their own Marshal of the Emerald Plains who’s been pushing me to join up. There’s also Aaron Bailey of the Protectorate, who acts as Mr. Elten’s handler over on the west coast by the deadlands. Can’t forget the Australian Preacher James Rigsby, who by and large is responsible for my distaste of religion given how he hated all my questions, but ain’t no denying he the one who baptized me in the badlands. He runs Redeemer’s Keep these days and has a real hatred for Abby that burns right hot, which was why I never outright suggested arranging an introduction for Errol. Man does good work though, and was a staunch proponent of all the Marshal’s plans to help the common people, because James Rigsby is an altruist through and through, a Catholic Templar who talks the talk and walks the walk, unlike so many other religious types.

All of whom were there that fateful day when my daddy stumbled into their camp in the badlands with a day old me in tow. The only one missing from the list is Marcus Clay, a good, god-fearing man who was larger than life and had the heart to match. Took my daddy under his wing he did, alongside Tim, Uncle Raleigh, and the other younger settlers who were barely more than kids themselves. The Marshal was the kindly boss who looked after them all, but Marcus was the father figure, the guy everyone went to when they were having troubles that didn’t have nothing to do with work. Didn’t know how to fix an axle, or sharpen a blade? Marcus got you. Having troubles with the wife or kids? Marcus knew someone to talk to. Feeling alone and without any friends? Marcus would come by with a couple friends, bottles, and cigars and bring you into the fold with them.

Yea, the Marshal is the top dog round these parts, everyone knows that, but up until a few years ago, Marcus was his number two man, his second-in-command out on the battlefield and his proxy back in New Hope. A man who lost his way the day his son Darren died and had a falling out with the Marshal because of it, but had recently found his way back into the light. Took Marcus a few years, but after my daddy passed, I noticed he wasn’t as angry around me anymore, and it’s only now that I put two and two together. He didn’t want me ending up like him, so he worked harder to change himself for the better.

And now he’s dead, lying in a cheap balsam box at my feet with a flimsy Freeze Sigil Etched inside so his corpse won’t spoil before we bring it back home for Simone.

That thought alone is almost enough to break me, but what really burns me is how no one in town seems to care. Marcus died protecting them, for no reason besides it was the right thing to do. Didn’t have no stake in Pleasant Dunes or personal attachment to the people here. Nah, he rode out on my say so because I told him a baby Proggie was sniffing around and getting ready to make the town its new nest, and he couldn’t sit around on his hands while so many lives were at risk. Might be he also tagged along to look after me and Tina, and that’s my cross to bear, but not one of these townies seem to care. A good man died to keep them safe, and they couldn’t care less.

Took us two hours and change to get out of the cavern, and another two hours to climb out of the tunnel, seal up the Proggie corpse in a lead-lined box, and make our way back to town. By then, the fighting here was all but done and there was nothing for me to shoot, with the clean-up crews sifting through the corpses for stragglers while half the boots were cooking and the other half fast asleep after a full day of fighting. That’s the only upside of arriving too late for the fight. Glad Tina and the others are all alive and well, but I don’t rightly know how to tell her the bad news. Marcus was a part of her life, same as mine, and she was right bright and cheery to see him again after so many years. Or how I’m gonna tell Simone. Or how I’m supposed to live with this guilt, knowing he was only there because he believed in me, and I wasn’t up to snuff.

Like I said. Fighting is simple. It’s the rest of life that’s complex, and I’ve no idea how to go about it.

That’s why I’m always spoiling for a fight. Everything’s easier when it comes down to fists and bullets. Something I know and understand, something I’m damned good at if I do say so myself, but I ain’t so good at other things. Like keeping my temper from boiling over as I stand and stare at the coffin before me while the townies laugh, cheer, and dance in the streets. Ain’t right for them to be all happy and jolly while the man who saved them is lying dead at my feet, and there’s nothing I’d like more than to set them all straight. Should march out there and put two Bolts through the speakers I bought them, silence their revelry good and well, then gun down anyone who has a problem with it. Burn down the buildings they left standing while I’m at it, because if not for Marcus, they’d have lost those and a good many more lives to boot.

So seeing how they don’t care, then why shouldn’t I take it all back? They don’t deserve to be happy, not when a good man died to keep them safe.

Most probably don’t even know a Proggie’s to blame for this mess, just think it’s bad luck they got mixed up in all this. That’s how dumb they are, indulging in their ignorance while thinking they saved themselves. Or worse, that Ronald fucking Jackson is the hero of the day, the man with a plan who turned the tides against the Abby horde and scared the strength right out of them with his chemical explosives. The townies must’ve all known about them, because they’ve been mining with them since the town went up. Explains the extensive complex they’ve dug out over the last two years, and why they weren’t all that grateful to have the Rangers around. These townies see us as a nuisance, busybodies who got in the way when they could’ve quietly cleared away the Abby horde themselves using their illegal explosives without anyone being the wiser. Idiots and ingrates one and all, painting the Rangers as fools and the Company as their saviours while ignoring the grave peril they’re placing the rest of the Frontier by producing and utilizing those banned substances.

Ain’t just because Abby can set off a whole stockpile with a Spell, as could any Spellslinger or errant Aether fluctuation. Townies probably think they’re clever and taking all the necessary precautions, and are ignoring or forgetting the hard learned lessons history taught us. It’s not the threat them explosives pose directly, but the possibility of Proggies getting their fangs and tentacles around enough of them to figure out how to produce them themselves.

Intelligent. That’s the word we use for Proggies. Driven by urge and instinct yea, but intelligent all the same, with smarts enough to reverse engineer how them explosives are made and either develop a biological process to do it themselves or set their gobbos to doing it manually for them. Either way, it spells disaster for humanity, because even though we call them intelligent, they’re still closer to beasts than humans in mentality. They won’t sit down to develop tech for themselves. No, everything gobbos make has been done by people first, and they just copy how its done. Sleds, weapons, armour, and clothing, they do it because they see us doing it, and don’t entirely grasp the nuances behind it. Might appreciate the differences, but they won’t bother experimenting with different methods to make glue or think about smelting ore into iron and then steel until they come across a working facility and have it all laid out for them.

Which is why they don’t make explosives for themselves, or Aetherarms for that matter, not just yet. It also has to do with the fact that they’re bottom of the barrel Abby, meaning brains is about the last thing their Proggies cared about when spawning them en masse. So most figure it’s no big deal, because even if they do get their hands on guns and explosives, it’ll take ‘em ages to work out how to use them, which is a problem for someone else down the line. All true, assuming you’re working in small quantities, but the battle they just fought showed that Ron has gone all in on explosives manufacturing and has the big booms to spare.

As if exploding Abby weren’t enough of a problem here on the Frontier. Badlands got a variety of roly-poly bugs with glowing bellies full of Alchemical Acid, Impact Oil, Frost Fluid, and Fulminating Brew that they spew out from a good distance away, but they’ve been known to charge right up to the gates of New Hope and explode themselves in hopes of bringing them down. South of New Sonora got a plague of Mephits, smaller, uglier harpies that lob Fire Bolts and explode into Igniting flames on death, which makes it real hard to build a town when the only material around is wood. Then there’s the Deadlands, with them rotting birds flitting around, corpses ridden by Abby Spectres that’ll dive bomb travellers and cover them in rotting flesh, hoping to sicken them and make it possible for them Spectres to overtake a human host.

All things you can’t really defend against save for shooting them when they still a ways away, which is pretty much standard operating procedure when it comes to Abby. The only saving grace is that all them Abby I listed are few and far between, because they cost a fortune in resources and effort for Proggies to produce. Not so for chemical explosives, even if the Proggies produce it biologically themselves, as it only takes a matter of weeks for them to build up an entire army of gobbos, orcs, and bugbears that’ll explode on death and bring down anyone in the area with them. That’s what happened in the old world. A Proggie got into a munitions factory, worked things out, and shared the information with its local hive or whatever. Within a matter of weeks, they sent out a force numbering in the thousands to overtake a nearby town, only for the horde to be taken out by a scouting patrol who took a potshot on their way out and set off a chain reaction that shook the literal earth.

Was the mother of all explosions, or so I’ve heard, one to rival the Aetheric bombs dropped on Nippon to close out the Second World War. Took the big brains of the old world weeks to figure out what happened, because they was all focused on the possibility of a new Immortal Monarch who’d come out to strut his or her stuff. By the time they understood the real threat, it was already too late, because the Proggies had learned from their mistake and came back with a whole new army for round two, one where only a third of the greenies exploded and were suitably separated from the rest.

Ended about three weeks later with the old world governments uniting to glass all of Australia from on high, because they couldn’t see any way to hold the continent. Not when any errant Abby could be packing enough punch to take out a tank and the power-armoured soldiers sitting inside. A single, lone gobbo becomes a threat greater than ever before, because all it takes is for one to blow up in the right place to reap tens of thousands of human lives. Here on the Frontier, anyone not in the general vicinity ought to be safe, as there’s only so far a fire can spread. In the old world though? With so many power stations, condenser arrays, crystal distilleries, and other explosive technologies that are perfectly safe until something explodes around a critical piece of infrastructure? Taking a hundred steps back, most automobiles run on liquid Aether, with newer ones running on gaseous Aether, both of which are highly susceptible to exploding in the presence of explosions, meaning any target was a good target to an exploding Abby.

A good thing them Australian Proggies were feuding with the aquatic and mainland Proggies, meaning they never shared their knowhow, so it ended then and there. The continent was glassed, the offending Proggies killed, but new ones swarmed in and overtook the landmass, and wasn’t no country keen on offering the displaced Australians any real help in taking their homes back. Instead, the United Nations then condemned the manufacturing of any and all chemical explosives and banned their use in warfare. Happened back in the late seventies, about a decade and change before the Advent, but these fools here in Pleasant Dunes have forgotten all about it, or don’t care so long as their paycheck clears. I ought to set out and find their stockpile myself, set it off and watch their whole town go up in a cloud of dust alongside everyone still in it. Wouldn’t solve the problem though, because this ain’t where they produce them. Least I don’t think it is, because Vanguard National don’t stick around Pleasant Dunes. Make sense, because you don’t want your explosive manufacturing anywhere close to where normal people live, not while they slinging Spells for daily use. Gotta do all your work in a lead-lined box, meaning walls, floor, and ceiling all encased in panels three inches thick at least, else you risk ambient Aetheric fluctuations fucking everything up and really ruining your day.

Worst part is? I should’ve at least guessed that something like this was in Ron’s wheelhouse. The Marshal probably did, which is why he pushed for this op, and he all but told me outright himself. Said Ronald Jackson served in Lebanon, where he survived two civilian suicide bombings, bombings which would’ve involved chemical explosives since those are a whole lot easier to make than the Aetheric alternatives. Chemistry is just mixing shit together and not getting blown up in the process, which any idiot can do so long as someone teaches them the process. Alchemy is the same, but with the added requirement of soul and Aetheric components, which really ramps up the difficulty. Especially since not anyone can just up and become an alchemist. Gotta be able to cast Second Order Spells first, which ain’t all that high a bar of entry, though I suppose it would’ve been higher in the old world considering the faster flows of Aether and whatnot.

Which don’t change the facts none. The clues were right there in front of me. I just never considered the angle, because I didn’t think to. Know yourself, and know your enemy, but I don’t know much about either right now.

“Howie.” A hand comes down on my shoulder, and I jerk away on instinct while going for my gun, but Tim’s stony, impassive features stop me dead in my tracks. Not because he’s someone I know. No, I stop because he sees the dark storm of intensity and violence inside me all ready to bubble over and burst, and he’s ready for it. If I draw, he’ll be faster, and I’ll be dead for it. Then we’ll both be screwed, me because I done got shot for poking the bear, and him because he’ll have to live with the guilt of gunning me down on instinct. With emotions high as they are, we were both a hair’s breadth away from disaster, and we both take a long moment to wind down in the aftermath, our eyes locked and guards up despite having known each other for so long.

It's the Devil in me it is, and the Revenant in Tim, two birds of a feather that don’t flock together at all.

“Sorry,” I say, breaking the silence as soon as I’m able to relax my guard and move my hand away from my Model 10. “Caught me off guard and not in my right mind.”

Tim don’t say anything to acknowledge it, and don’t make no apologies either, but that’s because it’s who he is. He takes a good long look at me though, because maybe for the first time, he’s seeing who I am too. “Won’t happen again,” he says, and he means it. He’ll call out from further away, give me the time and space another killer needs, because he recognizes me as one now and won’t soon forget it. His gaze softens just a bit as he takes out a cigarette he got stashed behind his ear and holds it out for a light. He don’t smoke though, so his actions catch me by surprise, and he reads it in my expression. “For Marcus,” he says, and I break a little inside while doing my best not to show it. Grabbing the forgotten cigar Marcus tucked into my breast pocket before setting out on our delve, I fumble around with my knife to cut the end and make a real mess of it, but Tim don’t rush me. Just stands in silence and waits with cigarette in hand while I finish up with the unfamiliar task and touch the flintstone in my component’s pouch.

A snap and a word, that’s all the Ignite Cantrip takes, and it takes me on a long trip down memory lane. Tim lights his cigarette, and I light my cigar, and when I take my first puff, it brings tears to my eyes. There was a time when I dreamed of standing alongside the older folks and being a part of their group, because I was the Firstborn, and everyone younger than me was too much of a kid to get along with. I was responsible for those younger than me, a burden which aged me before my years and one I resented at times, but I carried it all the same since it was the right thing to do. With the adults though, I was no different from any other kid, and it was there I could be young again, so I yearned to be a part of their group where I wasn’t the Firstborn, but just another kid to look after.

Would’ve been nice if we was sitting out on Aunty Ray’s porch, with Marcus, Uncle Raleigh, Uncle Teddy, and my daddy here with us, but I’m glad Tim’s still here with me. Maybe Noora’s right, and I’m broken inside, but Tim’s broken too, and he’s made something of himself, so might be there’s still hope for me just yet.

The cigar smoke tastes bitter, its aroma pungent and intense, but otherwise, it’s got a smooth, sort of toasty flavour. Don’t love it, but don’t hate it either, though I can’t imagine finishing the whole cigar in one go. Might take a whole hour of puffing, but now that I don’t got nothing to fight or kill, the only thing keeping me on my feet is rage and hatred, while all the sadness and guilt weighs heavily upon me. Tim’s cigarette burns up much quicker though, so that might be more my speed, but he ain’t here to indulge an addiction. He’s here for me, because he knows it’s what Marcus would’ve done. Knows he can’t fill those shoes, but tries anyways, and that’s what matters most, the fact that he cares enough to give it a go.

“Thanks Tim,” I say, and he smiles, nods, and quietly pats the back of my head over my Stetson. Traded my helmet for it soon as I got back, because I feel safer hidden under its brim, as it hides my tears so long as I keep my chin down.

“He was right you know,” Tim says. “You did good back there, and what happened wasn’t your fault.” His gaze goes soft for a moment as he lays his eyes on the coffin, but then it hardens again to seal off all emotions. “Soldiers die. That’s war. There’s no one to blame but the enemy.” Turning to face me, he waits until I meet his steely gaze to continue. “So don’t go blaming yourself, and don’t go blaming these townies.”

Which only goes to show Tim knows me better than most, even better than Marcus, Uncle Teddy, and Aunty Ray.

“Ten-Four,” I say, and he gives me a small smile and a nod before handing me a little metal tube to store the cigar in when I’m done.

“Sack time,” he says, giving me a look that says I should lie down and rest too. Adrenaline does a real number on a body, especially after a long, drawn-out conflict like what we experienced under dark. The body gets used to being on high alert, so much so that minor things like a friendly hand on your shoulder can set you off. If I’m being honest, I’ve been like that for awhile now, and don’t rightly know how to decompress, but I give him a nod all the same that doesn’t really commit to taking his advice without disregarding it outright. Earns me another look, but he’s said his piece and trusts me to handle myself well enough, so he heads off to find a place to rest where won’t no one stumble across and surprise him.

Not for his sake, but for the unfortunate soul who wakes him. Birds of a feather we are, except he’s bigger, scarier, and far more dangerous. I’ll get there eventually. All I need is time and experience.

For the next little bit, I stick around Marcus’ coffin out of sheer stubbornness and puff away at the cigar, not so much enjoying it as using it to reminisce and ward off the anger and resentment. Ain’t no sleep for me tonight, not with the townies celebrating for all their worth, singing, shouting, and popping off shots like they are. Fact is, given what I know of stereotypical Americans, Pleasant Dunes seems more American than New Hope. Which ain’t a compliment to Americans or the people of Pleasant Dunes, because New Hope took the best the Federation had to offer and worked hard to rid themselves of the worst, whereas Pleasant Dunes seems to have gone in the complete opposite direction.

Should’ve kept my mouth shut. Ron wouldn’t have died, but his town would’ve been overrun and his breadbasket lost, setting him back some. These mining operations probably supply him with what materials he needs, either directly from the mines themselves or by paying for it using money saved from skimping on his employees’ basic needs. So what if these townies died? Their lives ain’t worth shit next to Marcus’, not even all added up together. This is what they mean when they say no good deed goes unpunished, and I’ve no idea how the Marshal can stay above it all, not with all the shit he’s seen.

A rude awakening is what this trip has been, one that’s put me good and well in my place. Thought I was doing fine after my daddy passed, was keeping up and on my way to being Ranger ready ahead of the rest, but I was wrong. I’m barely ahead of the pack, and they’ve only had three months of basic training, so what are they gonna be like after six months? Or after a year on the job, learning the ins and outs of Ranger life? Far ahead of me, that’s where, because despite all the dangers I’ve faced and sacrifices I’ve made, I’m only a step or two ahead of where I was at fourteen and change.

And I got no one to blame but myself. Had all the answers laid out for me in my daddy’s training, but instead of keeping up with it, I moved on to newer and more interesting things that I thought were more important. Like learning my Big Spell and pushing my limits so I could sling more of them each day, but a Spellcaster’s greatest strength ain’t in the Spells they sling. It’s in the utility those Spells offer them, a lesson my daddy drilled into my head for as long as I can remember, and one I disregarded because I thought I knew better. The same way I disregarded his rules for the road, and though I paid dearly for it, I didn’t learn from it. If I did, I’d have reflected on his other lessons too, and gone back to mastering the Spells already in my wheelhouse, like the Detection Spells and Find Magical Traps to really push my Portent ability along, or Levitate and Mind Spike to add more utility to my toolbelt. That last one would’ve clued me in to the Proggie playing dead if I’d thrown it out alongside their Lances, which would’ve been the next best thing to a fifth Lance added into the mix.

In short? I didn’t do great. I did better than they expected, but I fell far short of my daddy’s expectations. If he’s up there in Heaven looking down on me, then he must be damn disappointed, because I’ve done taken every advantage I’ve been given and squandered it all away, including the head start my mama died for.

The cigar is about halfway done, and I still ain’t finished beating myself up inside, but another presence comes along to disturb my vigil. One noisier than Tim, so I turn to see Wayne striding over with a cautious look in his eyes. Caught by surprise by my alertness, he blinks for a good long second before finding his voice. “Need to talk,” he says, holding his hands up palms out to show he don’t mean any harm, but I gotta fight the urge to shoot him dead where he stands just out of pique.

An errant thought which sends a pang of guilt through me, especially given what Marcus said while on his literal deathbed. Fact is, if I shot Wayne, I wouldn’t be like Marcus. I’d be worse, because even though he spent years in a hate-fuelled rage, Marcus used that anger to scour the Bulwark clean of drug dealers and suppliers alike. Never once killed an innocent man either far as I know, not by my definition at least. Don’t matter if you just a salesman or a drug mule; if you profit from the crime, then you ought to pay the price, and Marcus made them all pay dearly.

But Wayne… Wayne is more or less a victim himself. One who turned to crime to fix what ails his wife, so I suppose I shouldn’t blame him too much. Like I said, I’d do worse for Chrissy, Tina, and Aunty Ray, so who am I to judge Wayne so harshly? “You can have my share of the Mage Armour Core,” I say, which catches him by surprise. “Write something up and I’ll sign it over to you. If you need more, I’ll see what I can do, but don’t expect a full twenty before year’s end. I’m good, but not that good, and I got six months of Basic ahead.”

Rather than smile or jump for joy like expected, Wayne blinks and shows an expression that is difficult to read. Something like guilt and regret, but it disappears in a flash as he finds his resolve and hits back with a shake of his head. “Too late Howie,” he says, and for once, he don’t got his stupid smile on. Running a hand over his face, he heaves a big sigh and steps closer while gesturing for me to lean in close too. “Too little, too late. Damage is already done. Told you it was your last chance, and you told me to do what I gotta do. Well, that’s what I did, so now it’s your turn to face the music.”

Leaning in real close, Wayne whispers, “I know you killed that merchant Howie, and I even know how. You used a Primal Savagery Cantrip and…” Stopping as if to read off an invisible piece of paper, Wayne repeats what I told Noora almost word for word. “Bit right down on his meaty neck and delivered a nice big dose of Acid right into his bloodstream.”

My stomach drops, then somersaults a few times over as I look over at my wagon where Noora ought to be sleeping. The smooth, wooden grip of my snub-nosed Model Ten feels cold to the touch, but I’m burning with anger enough to set it aflame. “Ah, ah, ah,” Wayne says, his 1911 already out and pointed at me from the hip. “Hand off your gun,” he says, and I begrudgingly comply, glaring daggers at him and my wagon both while hating myself for being weak and stupid. “Good.” Nodding as he carefully puts his pistol away, Wayne grins and says, “So now that we’re on the same page, you and me are gonna go explain how you’re gonna settle up on your debt. You play ball, and nothing bad happens. You don’t?” Wayne shrugs and moves as if he’s glancing around the quiet camp without taking his eyes off of me. “Then things get ugly when I signal to my friends in Vanguard National to come grab you and part you out so they can sell your organs to the highest bidder.”

The pieces all fall into place to reveal a picture more complete than I imagined, one that I never even considered possible. “You’re working for Ron,” I say, and Wayne flinches to hear it. “You’re his inside man.” The one who warned him about Captain Jung, but failed to pass on word of Marcus and Tim too, and was supposedly in talks with Ron to handle them for the Khaganate. “Bad enough you got that rat-face, but you gotta go and be a double-dealing rat too?”

“Shut your fucking mouth.” There’s a cold warning in Wayne’s heated outburst, and he eases off immediately to flash an insincere smile while looking around to make sure no one’s watching. “Wouldn’t have ever gotten so bad if Marcus didn’t press me for my connect,” he says, making excuses over the body of the man he was ready to betray. “Said I’d be out on my ass if I didn’t give it up, and then left me and Tamara holding the bag when all was said and done. Wasn’t anyone willing to sell to me anymore, and the withdrawal would’ve killed her for good, but Marcus didn’t care. He lost his son, so I gotta lose my wife? That make sense to you?”

“About as much as a black Ranger gettin’ in bed with a slave dealer,” I say, and again, Wayne winces to hear it.

“The fuck do you know?” Glaring for all he’s worth to shut me up, he says, “Come along now, and no one gets hurt.”

“No one besides the boots and Rangers you just threatened to kill,” I say, and before I can think better of it, add, “And were going to kill on your way out of the desert.” Stupid is what that is, because he didn’t know I knew, but now he most certainly does. “Don’t look so surprised,” I add, mostly to cover it up. “Makes you look dumber than you already do. Any fool could’ve guessed Ron wasn’t gonna let us walk away, not with all our guns, Cores, and Aberrtin.” Carefully keeping my hand away from my guns, I square up so the rest of me is ready to draw and make no effort to hide it. “So why should I leave with you when you already got us all earmarked for death? Better I kill you now or go down swinging and let everyone know you for the traitor you are.”

Doesn’t matter what story Wayne spins to cover up my murder. Tim will kill him dead, because Marcus told him and Captain Jung everything I passed along about Ron’s plans, and neither one of them have a soft spot for Wayne blinding them to the truth. Wayne sees the logic, so he narrows his eyes and shakes his head. “You got it all wrong,” he says, hand on his pistol and ready to do away with all pretenses the second I move. “They were planning to take you out, but plans have changed. They showed their hand with their explosives, so they’re going down a different avenue.” Because Ron will have trouble enough keeping his head attached now that every nation will be calling for it, putting a bounty out that’ll make the Stagecoach Killers look like chump change.

Now there’s a thought to put a smile on my face. Might even try and collect that bounty myself if it didn’t mean giving Ron a stay of execution while waiting for the various governments to get their asses into gear. Seeing his words have an effect, Wayne says, “Look, they’re not gonna kill you. They’re all about profit, and there’s no profit in killing someone who owes them a debt. Conner told you right? I didn’t want to see you get jammed up, but you left me no choice.” A hint of pleading creeps into his voice as he stares at me in both threat and appeal, a man at the end of his rope and nowhere to run. “No one else has to die,” Wayne says, and damn me if I don’t believe him, because I see the hurt and ache in his eyes when he glances at Marcus. “We’re just gonna talk, then we’ll come back and all leave this shit hole of a town behind. All together, all alive. All right?”

Taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, I force out the all the grief and tension because I can’t afford it. Wayne’s probably right anyways. Ron’s got bigger problems to worry about, but if I push him too far, then he might well just go for broke and kill us all on his doorstep regardless. Then, all he has to deal with are the Feds until his secret gets out, and it will get out. Won’t help us much if we already dead, so I suppose I ought to play nice and go along with Wayne’s plan. Even if he means to double cross us, then at least their deaths won’t be on my hands.

And truth be told? I’m almost hoping Wayne’s lying and walking me into a trap. I don’t mind taking a fight on Ron’s terms, not tonight. Odds might be stacked against me, but whatever he’s got planned can’t be worse than sitting here and mourning Marcus’ death.

Like I said. Fighting is simple. Kill or be killed, that’s all there is to it. It’s all those moments in between fights that are difficult, so given the option, I might as well stick with what I know. “Alright,” I say, cutting off the lit portion of my cigar before stuffing it into the metal tube to keep in my breast pocket for later. “Lead the way.”

And God help us all if this is a double cross, because the Yellow Devil won’t be so forgiving.