Firstborn of the Frontier

“The fuck you trying to say?”

Always throws me for a loop when people ask that. Usually it’s for lack of anything else to say, but it makes me wonder if my English ain’t clear. To that end, I speak slowly and clearly while leaning harder into my accent because why not. “What I’m sayin’ is, ye look a lot like a fella, I tossed out a win-dah, and hung by the neck ‘til he dead.” Pausing to make sure he got the message, I make a show of narrowing my eyes to study his face. “Uncanny is what it is, a resemblance so strikin’ you might well be twins. You lose a brother round this time last year?”

Course, I never hung no one that looked like him, but the truth never stopped me from spinning a yarn. “Now don’t get me wrong,” I say, carrying on the conversation myself since he don’t quite get the meaning yet. “I don’t go stringin’ greasy fellas up outta sah-loon windows fer no good reason. Wouldn’t even bother if I didn’t hafta, but believe you me, he was a real piece of work.” Spitting for effect, I inwardly wince when I remember Tina sittin’ right there beside me and pray she don’t tell her mama about none of my bad habits. Be nice if she kept quiet about this whole trip in fact, as there’re things I’d rather Aunty Ray not know so she can sleep better while I’m away. With nothing else for it, I push on and keep talking, because this ain’t an open dialogue we havin’. This is me reading him the riot act, and letting him know what’s what.

“See,” I begin, leaning back in my seat with my left elbow resting on the table and my right hand on my thigh, close to my sidearm but not on it. “The man I strung up had it comin’. Was visitin’ a little town unlike this one, all out of the way and Independent. Hardy folk, but hard pressed, if you know the type, livin’ hand to mouth and always lookin’ for ways to improve their lot in life. So there I was, sittin’ and waitin’ for a meal I ordered. Not unlike today,” I add, just in case anyone still has yet to figure out I’m talking about the here and now.

You gotta be subtle when threatening a man on video. Subtle enough so you can’t be charged with a crime, but not so subtle your target misses the message. Surprising how often it happens really, or maybe I’m just not as clever as I think. Either way, I still ain’t sure if the husky Vanguard National thug next to Noora is getting the message, so I make it real plain and simple. “So while I was sittin’ there,” I say, tapping the table to again emphasize I ain’t telling a tale, “This hefty son-of-a-gun with a face even a mother couldn’t love comes in, much like yourself. No offense.” Holding up a hand and dipping my head like I’m all apologetic, I continue, “Anywho, he gets to hollerin’ about wantin’ company, and picks someone out, then heads up the stairs to do his business. Me, I’m one to mind my own, so I pay it no mind, until I spot the company he picked.” My smile disappears as my gaze flicks over to Noora, then back to the greasy shit-stain beside her.

Now Greaseball’s picking up on what I’m putting down, and it’s got him right proper steamed. Not because he’s ashamed of what he’s doing, or annoyed at being called out. No, what’s got his britches in a bunch is the fact that someone dares challenge his authority in public, and that he will not abide. Before the Rangers rode into town, Vanguard National were the big dogs in charge. Didn’t no one fight them, or if they did, they got beat down quick. That’s the life he knows, one where the strong rule and the weak obey, except now he ain’t the strong one no more. Captain Jung already showed them all that once today, and now I’m fixing to teach him the same lesson again, only I ain’t as gentle.

My daddy always said mercy towards your enemies is cruelty to yourself, and that always resonated with me more than anything written in the Good book. Hell, Star Trek got more insight even, whatever that is.

Angry as he is, Greaseball ain’t ready to draw just yet. Them Vanguard Nationals are a disciplined bunch, or at least more disciplined than the sort of thugs I’m used to dealing with. Doesn’t engage, doesn’t argue, doesn’t reach for his sidearm or start waggling his fingers. He just stands there and stares, trying to warn me off, but I don’t scare easy. I don’t back down neither, so I give as good as I get and let silence speak volumes. The townies have long since sensed which way the wind was blowing, and most have gotten out of harms way, leaving the saloon floor empty and clear save for me, my group, and the bartender getting ready to take cover should the shooting start.

Best keep an eye on him though, as Vanguard National signs his paycheck too.

The heavy thump of the kitchen double doors shatters the silence as miss Laura once again has the unfortunate timing to pop out with my food, but Greaseball ain’t as jumpy as Jumbo and Hobb. Man doesn’t flinch or reach, and his eyes don’t even dart over to see what’s what, relyin’ on his peripherals to do the work for him. Odd that, because if I was Ron, I’d much rather have this guy as my right- or left-hand man, instead of big, dark, and dumb Franky or tall, sweaty, and twitchy Jacob. Hell, from what I seen, this one is even better than the Sasquatch Captain Jung put down this afternoon, because round and oily though he might be, Greaseball stands calm, cool, and collected as miss Laura walks out onto the emptied saloon floor with two plates of sizzling steak and looks us both sideways. “What’s this now?” she asks, directing the question not at me, but at the Vanguard National thug.

He answers right quick, which got me feeling even more suspect about miss Laura’s role in all this. “Yappy little Qink thinks he can lay down the law just because he’s got his gook gash of a mommy sitting next to him.” Man’s got a voice like gravel and talks like he been running hard, characteristics of a lifelong smoker who ain’t keeping up with Minor Regeneration. Got this unflappable, impassive delivery too, but I’m more impressed by his racially accurate slurs. Most can’t tell the difference between Qin, Goreyeon, Nipponese, and the like, or they don’t bother to learn. Truth is, it’s a mighty subtle distinction, and I have troubles myself sometimes. Knowing this, I suspect Greaseball might’ve been military once upon a time, just like Ron, and maybe served over on the Goreyeon peninsula, though I hear that the conflict there is more of a stalemate than open warfare. Least it was back in 1989 before all the settlers passed through the Gate, so who knows what’s happened since.

Ain’t important, but details matter, because while ignorance is bliss, what you don’t know can most certainly hurt you. If Greaseball is former military, then he probably got a couple Spells under his prodigious belt, because even your basic grunt learns enough to make them a force to be reckoned with here on the Frontier.

“This again?” Turning on me with an amount of sass I might’ve once found distracting, miss Laura narrows her eyes and says, “Already told you. Noora’s sixteen and legal.”

“Y’all readin’ too much into things,” I say, before she can get all huffy about how I shot the Sherrif again. Don’t take my eyes off the greasy vet neither, so he don’t get no ideas. “I’m just tellin’ tales of the Frontier is all. Bit of conversation, you know? Believe you me, you’d be surprised too if you saw the man I done strung up out that saloon window. Much like this establishment here in fact. Scary coincidence, that is.” My smile returns all natural as I let the Devil loose and show this shit-stain I mean business, and it surprises him to see it. Guess Ron done already warned his boys about me, else there’s no way Greaseball would’ve reacted the way he did, all calm and careful like. Nah, he’s used to getting his way around here, ruling through fear and conflating that with respect, and it burns him to be disrespected like this. Don’t make no sense why he’d stand there and take it, not unless he was told to step light around the Qink, but some men need to see to believe, and I’m more than happy to show and tell.

“Was the first man I ever hung,” I say, mixing a bit of truth in with the story to sell it better. “Made a real mess of things. Noosed him up and tossed him out the window before I even secured the other end of the rope. Had to grab and hold tight to keep him from hittin’ the ground.” Shaking my head, I hold his gaze without blinking and continue, “Rope burn. Worse for him though, because he didn’t get no quick stop and break his neck. Bad way to go that, hanging from a window with a noose around your neck. Can’t breathe, but that don’t kill you right away. Leaves you kickin’ and fightin’ for air something fierce. Didn’t tie his feet or hands neither, so that gave him a real fightin’ chance. Must’ve taken me a good ten, maybe fifteen seconds to secure the rope and get myself downstairs and outside, and he was still strugglin’ fer dear life. All red-faced and pants covered in shit and piss as he desperate to pull himself up by the rope, hopin’ against all hope to live another second, another minute, or more. Made a good effort too. Eventually got both boots up against the wall and was braced up, standin’ sideways with that rope in both hands while gaspin’ for breath.”

In reality, the man I hung was a skinny, ragged, wretch of a thing all hopped up on Onslaught. Came into my rented room looking to kill and rob me, likely to fund his habit. Fired off a shot as he came in and missed if you can believe it, hit the pillow right next to where I laid my head. Luck and happenstance, though I suspect the drugs had something to do with it, as users tend to get the shakes with Slaught when it floods your body with too much adrenaline too fast. Makes you real jumpy too, which is why smooth is slow and slow is fast. If he’d taken a half-second to line up his shot in the dark, he’d have sent me off to meet my mama and see my daddy again. Instead, I beat him bloody, slipped a noose around his neck, and tossed him out the window in a fit of rage and fear. Rest of the story is true too, and I remember it like yesterday, even though it happened almost two years ago. The look on his face as he stood sideways on the wall, his drug fuelled strength giving him just enough Aether to hold on fast, but not enough to get him back up to the window.

The sweat and desperation as the poor patsy begged me for dear life, apologizing for what he’d done and swearing he’d never do it again, before calling for his mama and crying to the Lord above. The sideways glace at his cronies watching in the dark, unwilling to expose themselves to save him and just watching us both from the shadows, waiting to see what would come next. If I showed strength, they’d melt away into the night and disappear, chalking events up to a bad break, but if I dared showed weakness, then they’d spring forth like wulves on a lame elk.

“So I shot him in the leg,” I say, concluding the story without exaggeration or embellishment, because sometimes, the truth is all you need, “And watched him die slow and hard.”

The greasy vet wasn’t a believer when he walked in, but he sure believes now, and he’s got his brain turning over whatever it is Ron might’ve warned him about. Don’t got him scared, only shook, since he don’t expect to see that savage air of violence he grown so accustomed to seeing in a man as young as me. Helps that I look younger than my seventeen years, so that’s got him rethinking his next move. His unflappable presence turned all flappable now, as his heart gets to racing and hand gets to hovering over his big iron. Me, I don’t stiffen up or reach for my own, I simply sit and watch while leaning back in my seat, ready for whatever may come and eager to get this party started.

“Noora,” miss Laura says, stopping Greaseball just as he about to find his courage to draw. “Kitchen duty. No more clients.” Not while the Rangers are in town at least, but that last bit is implied. Under her stern gaze, Noora does as she’s told and scurries on back into the kitchen, much to Greaseball’s relief. Can tell by the way he relaxes and moves his hand away from his gun, but he gotta put on a show all the same.

“That how it is?” he asks, earning himself miss Laura’s ire in the process. “This little punk Qink says jump, and you ask how high?”

“President Jackson,” miss Laura begins, wielding Ron’s name and title like a weapon, “Don’t want no one making trouble. Pick another girl. On the house.”

“This is bullshit.” Grumbling beneath his breath, the big burly thug waddles back down the stairs and stomps out the saloon, no longer in any mood to get his rocks off now that he been spooked good and proper.

“You take care now,” I say, waving him off as he goes, and he shoots a dark look back as he halfway out the door. Only when he’s gone do I give miss Laura my attention again, gesturing for her to serve Tina and Kacey first. She gives me a look and plonks both plates down on my table instead, more to be contrary than anything else. “Thank you kindly,” I say, because it’s only polite, but rather than leave, miss Laura pops out a hip and crosses her arms like she’d like nothing more than to rip me a new one.

“This how it gonna be then?” Waving me up and down, she hits me with her best glare and getting nothing for it. “Gonna go around threatenin’ to lynch folks who don’t agree with how you run things? Got a word for men like that.”

“Got one for scum like him too.” Meeting her eyes without a hint of regret, I let her see the Devil too, and that gets her rattled a fair bit. “Last time I was here, you told me Ron makes sure his girls don’t get hurt. Also told me not to count on no lawman to keep me safe. Didn’t catch it then, but I see it now. You done already knew what was goin’ on here in your little slice of paradise.” Curling my lip in a snarl to show what I think of her and the town she care so much for, I look her up and down like I’m seeing her for the first time and not much liking what I see. “There also a word for types like you. Complicit. Just because you don’t got blood on your hands, don’t make them clean.”

She got the good graces to look ashamed before anger takes over, and I write her off for good as she stomps on back to the kitchen. Taking a beat to rein in my anger, I give myself an extra ten seconds to calm down before turning to Tina with a sheepish smile. “You want this plate?” I ask, shrugging ever so slightly in apology. “Not sure if I’d trust whatever come out the kitchen after all that.”

She doesn’t answer, just gives me a concerned look, one I don’t look too hard at for fear of what I might see. Horror. Dread. Doubt. Unease. Any one of those would destroy me, because Tina’s family and I’d never hurt her, so the thought that she might not know that scares me something fierce. Thankfully, the doors open up right quick as Noora comes out with a big tray carrying four more plates, meaning there probably wasn’t enough time for miss Laura to spit in or otherwise taint them. Unless she already did, but ignorance, bliss, and all that. Just to be sure, I gesture for everyone to hold off on eating while I pull out a silver needle from my component’s pouch and settle in for a little Ritual Magic.

There’s more than one way to sling a Spell. Muttering chants and waggling fingers is known as Spellcasting. Big surprise, I know, but it’s the same whether you learned by math and memorization, Intuited a Spell Structure you resonated with, or naturally derived one thanks to your bloodline. Another way is to use a Spell Core via an Artifact, which is the most convenient method since anyone can do it, even those without a scrap of magic to themselves. Granted, they require a mechanical trigger to activate the Artifact, like the trigger of an Aetherarm as opposed to the Actuator I built on the Mage Armour Artifact. Not a big deal really, but mechanical arcana-tech is mostly outside my wheelhouse, so I can’t speak much on it.

From my point of view, neither of those Spellslinging methods are particularly difficult or out of reach, but for many, it’s beyond their capabilities. Whether it be for a lack of wealth, education, wealth, drive, or ability, some folks are simply unable to use Spells in the two aforementioned ways. Ritual Magic however, is accessible to pretty much anyone, because all you gotta do is have faith. Not in God, Allah, Brahma, or any higher power necessarily, but faith in the Ritual itself, which I always found odd. All I gotta do is believe as I take this needle, run it through a flame provide by my Ignite Cantrip, and use the heated tip to trace a Sigil through the air, an Etch by yet another name. When it’s done, the First Order Divination Spell Detect Poison will take effect, and this method can be used by anyone, even a child young as five if they got the disposition for learning it. Maybe thirty seconds to a minute tops, that’s all it takes for a practised hand like myself, though beginners might take a good bit longer. At no cost to myself I might add, aside from the time spent and the necessary components, in this case a needle made of pure silver. Even if I was all slung outta Spells, I could still use this nifty little ritual to turn the needle into a poison detecting device just thrumming with arcane energy.

Yet without faith, the Ritual would fail, as I myself experienced time and time again when I first learned the ritual. Wasn’t nothing wrong with my movements or the Sigil I traced out; even if you get parts of it wrong, the Ritual still works if you’re close enough, but only if you have faith. Luckily, faith is rewarded with a discernable result here, else I doubt I’d ever wholly believe. The long and short of it is, for the next ten minutes, the silver needle will turn dark and black if it comes in contact with any toxins, venoms, and even harmful bacteria present in large enough quantities. Real useful little Ritual, and I learn them wherever I can, with the only downsides being the long casting time, the inability to use Metamagics, and the fact that not every Spell got a Ritual to go with it.

Wouldn’t that be nice, if Fireball had a Ritual, or better yet, Bombard. Imagine that, bringing out a bus-load of people to deliver death from above over a hundred meters away…

Touching the needle to Tina’s steak, I check it and see it remains untarnished save for a sheen of oil, then randomly stab a couple roasted potates to be sure. I do the same for the rest of our plates while Noora watches with arms crossed and lips pursed, acting all upset but too interested to keep up the act. So of course I ignore her and cut up my muscari steak, slicing it into thin strips while Captain Jung keeps an eye on the door. Then I turn in my seat to take up the watch while she cuts up her food too, and only when she’s done do I allow myself to meet Noora’s irritable gaze. “As if the shit you pulled this morning wasn’t bad enough,” she begins, and I stifle a wince because the phrasing is a touch ambiguous. Then again, whatever Tina and the gang are imagining can’t be much worse than the truth, and might well even be better. I’d much rather they suspect I got some weird kink than know I was ready to shoot this saloon up and burn it to the ground in a fit of red-hot rage. “How am I supposed to eat if I can’t earn?”

Rather than point out she took thirty dollars from me just this morning, I gesture at my plate in offer and slide it over when her lovely hazel eyes light up. “Could we get another plate?” I ask, directing my request to the bartender since miss Laura went and made herself scarce. “Thank ye kindly.” Hope she’s not the cook, because the Detect Poison Spell won’t warn you about spit or other bodily fluids. No regrets though, because when Noora pulls up a chair and digs in, she takes her first dainty bite and lets out a sound that’ll prime anyone’s Cores, and I suspect she knows it too. To keep myself from goin’ slack-jawed and glassy-eyed, I focus on the bartender and ask, “You got anything non-alcoholic back there?”

“What’s the matter?” Noora asks, her tone teasing and playful now that I’m treating her to a meal. “Firstborn can’t handle his drink?”

“Don’t much like the taste,” I reply, which is true. “Besides, I got enough problems keeping a cool head as is.”

Which only goes to show how angry I still am, as that ain’t proper dinner conversation. Noora pauses her meal with fork half-raised, while Captain Jung lets out a little snort, and everyone else politely ignores the statement instead of outright agreeing. Thankfully, the bartender comes by with bottles of cider for everyone except Captain Jung, which I also test for poison even though I watched him pop the corks right in front of me. Wasn’t no wax seal to break, so better safe than sorry, a lesson I’ve learned and re-learned far too many times these past two years. “You ever need food, you come find me,” I say, addressing Noora’s earlier concerns. “Same goes for protection.” Seeing her doubt, I smile and add, “Don’t worry. Brought a lot of bullets to Pleasant Dunes.”

Meaning I can solve a whole lot of problems. She gets it, and spooked as she is, she goes back to eating with the same relish as before, albeit without the added sound effects. Me, I continue to sit there all calm and casual, but I got an eye and an ear out looking and listening for trouble, so I ain’t much for conversation. Neither are the rest, as the boots take a cue from Captain Jung and eat as quick as they can, no doubt sensing the impending storm that is to come. See, Ronald Jackson might not want trouble, but I’m thinking he ain’t here in town. Meaning calm and disciplined though that big, gravelly, shit-stain might’ve been, Greaseball don’t look the type to take a challenge lying down. Sent him off running scared, because he come in here alone, or alone enough to not feel safe taking me and Captain Jung on. Okay, it was probably mostly Captain Jung, but I contributed too, so I ain’t gonna shortchange myself.

“So what’s your deal?” Noora asks, pointing at me and Tina with her fork. “Not together, but closer than friends.”

“What, you don’t see the family resemblance?” On cue, Me and Tina both tilt our heads and flash our pearly whites in synch, which is a gag we used to do when we was younger. Practiced it until our expressions were damn near mirrored, so even though our features couldn’t be more different, the similarities are undeniable. “This is my sorta-sister,” I say, and Tina giggles beside me at Noora’s bewildered expression, because no one ever expects it. “The sort that ain’t related in any which way. That over there?” I continue, pointing at Kacey, “Is my coulda-cousin, in that she could’ve been my cousin, if our parents were related.”

“This some sort of Alabama thing?” Noora asks, pausing to take a bite of her steak. “Like spicing things up by pretending you’re related?”

That gets a chuckle outta me. “Nah, but that’s a good one.” Shaking my head with a smile, I pan my gaze across the room and out the window to maintain vigilance. “Though you raise an interesting point. Old worlders always crack wise about southerners and their incestuous ways, but whenever they mention a specific place, it’s always Alabama. Not Arkansas, Kentucky, Texas or Tennessee. Always Alabama. Really makes you wonder what they get up to down there.”

Stopping myself before I crack wise about my non-relation to Captain Jung, I sit up a little straighter at the sound of a clop, clop, moo. Nothing too loud or out of the ordinary, but a warning all the same, one Cowie delivers with an innocuous lack of haste. Kacey’s head shoots up too, no doubt warned by Inari keeping watch from outside, so I warn the Captain and take a moment to decide what Spell to ready. If I still had my Big Spell, then it’d be a no brainer, but sadly I must make do without. Not for long, because soon as this is done I’mma drop something less vital like Grease so I can prep it again. Don’t feel right not having it in my wheelhouse, so I put my grievances aside and come up with a plan before turning to meet Captain Jung’s eyes. “I’ll guard my side,” I say, because I ain’t confident enough to protect all six of us, nor am I willing to place that heavy burden on her. The thing about Spellslinging and fighting in general is that it’s a lot easier to kill than it is to stay alive, and the Captain nods to indicate she’ll follow my call, and maybe convey a hint of thanks in the process.

“Ready Aegis. No Penetrating Aetherarms,” she says. More for the benefit of the other boots, but I can’t say I didn’t need the reminder. Been so focused on the quickdraw I forgot there’s good reason Ranger-issue weapons don’t come standard with Penetrate Metamagics. Makes them too dangerous to use around civilians, as any missed shots could punch clean through wood, stone, and even metal to kill someone hiding on the other side. That’s why I love my Doorknockers though. Takes care of the door and anyone behind it at the same time.

“Take your plate back into the kitchen,” I say, directing the statement to Noora. Gets the message immediately and darts away quick as a bunny, without forgetting her plate or cider. Sharp one she is, a survivor to the core, and again, I’m reminded of how she got that way. Using that anger to drive my focus, I reach into my components pouch again and pull out a pinch of powdered gemstone I keep in a paper packet. It’s only Sodalite, a cheap and abundant gemstone that can be picked up off the ground in the right places, but still annoying to source since it’s in such low demand that no one really sells it. Merchants would much rather folks powder more expensive gemstones to make their effort worthwhile, but that’s neither here nor there. Instead of my money-grubbing gripes, I focus on the Spell I only prepared just this morning on Sergeant Begaye’s say so, one I expected would come in handy down under dark. The Structure comes to life in a pattern of shifting trails of light as I palm the powder and chant, “Levate – Fortia – Murus.” Rather than loose the Spell, I push it through the Widen Metamagic bead on my bracelet before clenching it tight in hand, a movement made more for my state of mind rather than any actual physical need. Mentally holding fast to the Spell, I slowly let out a breath and unclench my hand while visualizing where the Spell will go.

Wish I could warn Tina and everyone else off too, send them out back through the kitchen along with Noora. Would send the wrong message and all but guarantee violence though, because bullies can sense weakness from a mile away and hone in on that like hawks.

Cowie’s warning bought me just enough time to finish my prep and look all relaxed and casual as Sasquatch marches through the door, with Greaseball and seven more thugs filing in behind him, all looking mean and mad as can be. Sasquatch looks particularly deranged, what with his nose all Splinted and bandaged up like it is. Got a pair of panda eyes as Aunty Ray would call it, all black and bruised from the impact of Captain Jung’s headbutt earlier today. Guess he’s ready for round two now, and credit where its due, him and his cronies all keep their hands away from their sidearms as far as I can see. They get in nice and close too, not so close they can loom over us, but lining up about two arms length away, so if we both reach out we could touch hands like we about to play ball.

Probably think they can throw hands and keep things from getting too bloody, but as Captain Jung demonstrated once already, Rules of Engagement are for keeping grunts like me in line until Officers like her decide it’s time to go guns free.

“Hear you got a real mouth on you, Qink.” Sasquatch starts off strong, getting all heated and red in the face. Ain’t so imposing when he sound all stuffy and nasal, or when he winces every time he opens his mouth too wide. “But talk is all you got. Bet you wouldn’t last a minute without this gash watching over you.”

“You ought to be more careful,” I reply, my grin wide and genuine as can be. “Because this lady you keep insultin’ is a Captain in the Rangers.”

Spitting at my feet, Sasquatch scowls in regret as pain lances through his face, only to rally with a sneer. “So what?”

“Means she’s sworn to uphold the Accords.” Leaning in with a smile, I let Sasquatch see who he’s dealing with, because much like Greaseball, he needs to see it to believe it. “She ain’t here to protect me,” I whisper, winking at the big guy like this is all some big joke. “She’s here to protect you.”

Because if I had things my way, I’d have killed the whole lot of them this afternoon instead of letting Sasquatch off light with a love-tap. Should’ve done it anyways, as there ain’t no way to fight a battle against Abby while also watching our backs against Vanguard National. The other thugs don’t get it, but Sasquatch and Greaseball understand. They trade a look, and to his credit, Greaseball gives a little ‘I told you so’ shrug to his boss, who’s looking mighty green around the gills. That’s the way it is with your bandits, outlaws, and scavs. They big on killing, but not so big on getting killed, so soon as they sense even a hint of a fair fight, they start looking for outs. Sasquatch came in to goad me into a fist fight, but I ain’t much of a boxer, nor am I a fool. No, I’m a killer, plain and simple, and he seen enough to get the distinction. He can sense my eager excitement, sees the look in my eyes and knows I’m out for blood. If we play, then we play for keeps, and he ain’t ready for that fight just yet.

But he can’t back down. Not after Captain Jung already put him in his place. His boys are already doubting his strength and capabilities, so they’re almost certain to turn on him if he backs down before me, a young kid most don’t got the measure of just yet. Takes a certain level of understanding to see it, that aura of bloodshed men of our nature got, and most of Sasquatch’s cronies don’t got it. They’re outlaws sure, but they ain’t been deep in the thick of it, ain’t looked into the abyss and come out laughing, and no words or explanations will ever bridge that gap of understanding. If you know, you know, and most these fools don’t.

So Sasquatch makes his second mistake of the day, one done in the heat of the moment because he ain’t thinking straight. He puts his ego over his safety and goes for his gun, so I unleash my Spell and Captain Jung does the same beside me. Twin translucent barriers of blue-tinged Force spring up into existence between us and the thugs, covering our sitting group of six from head to knees just as Sasquatch draws his TEC-LS and fires. Aims centre mass like he’s been trained to, holding down the trigger on his single-action gun while working the hammer with his other hand. Doesn’t matter how quick he works it though, because the gun won’t shoot more than once a second, as that’s how long it takes for the Core to cycle and Prime in between shots. Gives me plenty of time to eat the impact on my armoured vest, draw my Rattlesnake, and shoot Sasquatch in the shin. The impact combined with the Toppling Metamagic sends his leg back and his body crashing to the ground, where he slams face first against the floor and starts howling in pain.

But not before his gun goes off a second time, and Sarah Jay lets out a muted groan of pain.

While all this is taking place, I’m busy hopping up onto my seat and huddling down in a crouch. That way, any Bolts coming for me gotta pass through my Barrier first, unless them thugs care to draw and raise their guns up to eye level to shoot over and down. Hearing my prospect take a hit sends a red-hot blaze of rage through me, and I draw a bead on Sasquatch’s head, ready to put out down and out. “Hold fire!” Captain Jung barks, and I do so outta respect more than instinct, as I ain’t in the habit of giving out passes to folks who done taken a shot a me and mine. I keep my smoking gun trained on him all the same and leave my finger on the trigger as I growl in frustration and glare at the thugs through the translucent blue sheen, daring them to make a move, any move, and promising hell to pay in return.

Easy to see they all cut from the same cloth, a disorderly and discordant bunch to whom discipline don’t come natural. Even so, it’s been drilled into their bones by someone who done knew what they were doing, and them thugs respond to Captain Jung’s tone the same way Hobb and Jumbo responded to Ron’s. Hate to admit it, but these Vanguard National types will be difficult to take out if I go at them head on, which only makes it all the more vital to take them out while their leader ain’t around. Resisting the urge to put one through the back of Sasquatch’s head, I call out, “Jay. You bleedin’?”

“She got shot,” Errol unhelpfully supplies, and I spot him out the corner of my eye with his back turned to the bandits while checking Sarah Jay’s leg.

At the same time, she calls out, “I’m fine. Got tagged in the shin, but had my Aegis up.”

Would still hurt a fair bit, as I myself experienced not once, but twice. The Penetrating capabilities of the TEC-LS has gotten one over on me again, but thankfully it hits like a wet noodle. No Intensify and no Maximize, so it only hits about fifty-percent harder than your standard Bolt Cantrip. Still, even after punching through my Second Order Abjuration Spell Force Barrier and hitting my plate carrier, it still hurts something fierce, as it’s humanity and Abby’s go to Spell for good reasons. Despite Errol’s disdain, the base Cantrip is plenty good enough to kill, and he only thinks otherwise because folks don’t talk about the ones that died, only the few who survived.

With Aegis added into the mix, and the fact that Captain Jung’s Force Barrier was bigger and probably stronger than mine, Sarah Jay will likely walk away with little more than bruise. A handy Spell, Aegis is, the inverse of Mage Armour in fact, in that it’ll grant you a whole lot of protection for only a short period of time. Force Barrier’s good too, but that’s assuming you stick to the standard 1x1m square. Even with the Widen Metamagic to double that area, I had to stretch it to cover me, Tina, and Kacey, as well as a table in between them, so it ain’t as hardy as it ought to be, but it did the job well enough. Still feels like someone tried to pound the flat end of a nail into my chest, and that’s with a Force Barrier, Bible, and an armoured plate between me and the Bolt. Bet Errol would change his tune up right quick if he got hit by the Cantrip himself.

Don’t let none of those thoughts show as I stare down Greaseball and the rest of his goons while Sasquatch howls about his leg, and I resist the urge to crack wise about how much worse it could get. I can see them thinking it through, wondering if they can shoot our feet or raise their guns over the barriers before I shoot them, except we all got our guns out and theirs are all still on their hips. Probably because Sasquatch stressed not to draw and shoot, only to go and ignore his own advice. Say what you will about him, but Ron knows how to instill discipline into a man, even ones who are typically opposed to the practice.

Not so great at teaching them how to think on their feet though, as they all paralyzed by indecision while their boss groans on the ground. Deciding a little nudge is in order, I ask, “So y’all leavin’, or y’all dyin’? I’m fine either way, but let’s get this sorted so I can eat.”

Greaseball is the first to move, bending over to help Sasquatch up off the ground, but Captain Jung says, “Leave him.” The thugs don’t like that much, but Captain Jung gives them a steely glare while pointing her shiny, steel, Sturm and Kitiara Longsword at their kneecaps. “This man fired upon and injured two Ranger conscripts serving in an Aberration hot-spot. He is hereby to be remanded into Federal custody, where his injuries will be treated before he is brought to stand trial for his crimes before a Federal judge.”

“That’s bullshit,” Greaseball counters, which to be fair, is a valid point. “This town ain’t under Federal jurisdiction.”

“It is not,” Captain Jung concedes, but the steel in her gaze and her tone don’t waver one bit. “However, he fired upon two Federal soldiers on deployment during a Peacekeeping mission. As such, he has been deemed an unlawful combatant and enemy of the United Federation of American States. Without an officially recognized local government entity to subject him to prosecution, the U.F.A reserves the right to prosecute him under Federal Law.” Breaking character to offer a smile, one that’s all teeth and no sunshine, Captain Jung lays it out plain and simple. “You have two options here. Either I handle this under Federal Law,” she says, then gestures at me and continues, “Or he handles it under Frontier Justice. The choice is yours.”

Ha. Like I said. She ain’t here to protect me.

Never one to miss a cue, I grin, cock the hammer on my Rattlesnake, and bring the Doorknockers out from behind me, their hammers cocked and Mage Hands ready with the trigger. That sends them thugs scurrying out right quick, even Greaseball who holds both hands up as he backs away to show he don’t want nothing to do with Sasquatch no more. Once the last one is out the door, I give it a good count of five before spotting Cowie’s full-sized head giving me a look through the window, bobbing up and down to give the all clear. Only then do I take my finger off the trigger and ease back the hammer on my sidearm. Ain’t no point doing it manual, as pulling the trigger cocks it for me, but that sound always sends a shiver down my spine, so I can only imagine what it does for someone staring down the business end.

“Errol,” Captain Jung begins, still holding her Longsword at the ready. “It’s a bruise. She’ll live. Keep our prisoner from bleeding out instead.”

Barely holding back a smirk, I eye Sasquatch’s injury and shake my head. It ain’t pretty, all blood and broken bone, but it ain’t life threatening neither. Least, not on its own, but there a damn good chance it gets infected and he loses everything under the knee. Especially if we gotta transport him out of Pleasant Dunes and back to Meadowbrook to stand trial. Terrible thing that, amputation, but infection is a real killer out here on the Frontier. Looking around to make sure everyone else if fine, I see Sarah Jay’s war wound and wince, as she been hit just under the knee. Might swell up bad come morning, but could be a lot worse since no skin was broke. “First war wound,” I say, and she gives me a brief smile, a trooper to the core. “I’ll patch up your pants if you need it,” I add, offering a shrug by way of apology. Bad luck of the draw is what it is, getting hit like that, as Sasquatch wasn’t even aiming at the time, but it is what it is. Little steamed over getting shot, Sarah Jay just nods and doesn’t say anything else, no doubt enduring the pain as best she can.

Never one to leave a loaded gun unattended, I hop off my chair and pick up the TEC-LS, empty the stupidly oversized 9mm rounds from the chamber, and tuck it into my belt.

“You can’t keep that,” Captain Jung says, shooting me a dirty glance. “It’s evidence.”

Tch. The TEC-LS is a garbage gun, but I’d still like to add one to my collection. Handing it over with a pout, I turn as the double doors open once more and stop going for my gun once I see miss Laura come out all fire and brimstone in her eyes. She hits me with a look, then looks down at the blood on her floor, then back at me. She don’t say nothing, just stands there and glares, and I can’t stop myself from cracking wise. “So,” I drawl, letting the word hang for a good, long second. “Not to rush you or anything, but how much longer on that last plate of steak and potates?”

“…Get out.”

Knowing better than to laugh, I pull out another thirty to pay for our food and drinks. Could’ve probably gotten away with less, but considering the circumstances, I say its money well spent. As we head outside with Sasquatch on a Floating Disc, I keep my smile bright and cheery while locking eyes with every looky-loo one at a time. None of them can hold my gaze, and while the sight don’t fill me with pride or joy, it’s better than the alternative. Odd as it might sound, I ain’t got nothing against ruling through fear, because truth is, fear is all people will respond to. Whether it be fear of punishment for breaking the law, fear of eternal damnation for a living a life of sin, or fear of the unknown keeping us all huddled together in the night, living creatures all operate based on fear. Life is all about managing those fears, whether it be by facing them head on, laughing them off, or hiding your head in the sand and pretending they don’t exist.

Everyone rules by fear, and for the most part, I’m content to leave them be so long as certain lines ain’t crossed. When that happens, well that’s when you gotta take things into your own hands, because right and legal ain’t always the same. That’s just how it is out here on the Frontier. Ain’t nothing we can do about it. I know it, Captain Jung knows it, and them thugs from Vanguard National know it too. We did what we had to do, and balls in their court now. Question is, are Greaseball and the rest of them scared enough to swallow their grievances, or are they getting ready to hit back the second we look away? That’s why I asked Captain Jung about her earlier Spell choice. Not because I was concerned about her picking Minute Meteor, but because I wanted to know why she didn’t just kill them all outright.

Don’t make no sense leaving a bunch of armed and disgruntled thugs at our backs. Not like we need them to help defend the town, as 20 Rangers are more than enough to clean up a baby Proggie and its borrowed army, even without the townies helping out. Might lose the town and plenty of townies in the process, but ain’t no skin off my back. Guess whatever deal they worked out with Ron includes keeping the walls intact, and I suppose Captain Jung is confident she can keep them thugs in check, but me, I’m not so sure. Don’t get me wrong, Captain Jung’s one of the best of the best, the most dangerous Spellslingers around even, but like Tina said, one Bolt in the right place is all it takes. That’s why sometimes, the best way to move forward is to burn everything to the ground before walking softly over the ashes.

After all, the expression goes ‘walk soft and carry a big stick’. Don’t say nothing about not using it first.