Firstborn of the Frontier

The blissful sound of metal clinking against metal is accompanied by a rush of pleasure, one derived from the simple absence of agony.

Don't get it twisted. I still got a list of aches and pains a mile long, but all told, they ain't much compared to having someone poking and prodding inside you. Heaving a long and tired sigh, I unclamp my jaws from the leather strap in my mouth and let it fall to the wayside as I turn to look at what done come out of me. "Doesn't look like much, does it?" Uncle Art says, tilting the bloodied metal saucer so I can see it better. "Just the tip of a knife, maybe a hair more than a half inch long, but if you'd've stretched the wrong way with that stuck in your humerus, it could've cut a vein or artery and you'd've bled out without even noticing."

"Ironic that," I quip with a good-natured grimace. "A blade stuck in my humerus, when there ain't nothing humourous about this." Cocking my head, I ask, "Is that irony? Or is it just wordplay?"

"What's ironic is you asking if something is ironic," Uncle Art retorts, before heaving a big sigh. "You don't seem to appreciate just how close a call you had, Howie. From what I hear, the Rangers pulled your biscuits out the fire right in the nick of time, but if this blade hadn't hit you in the perfect, non-lethal spot, you might well have bled out before they reached you, or been permanently injured by it. Even then, if they wasn't there when they was, you wasn't getting away from them Abby. I know you had a Potion of Gaseous Form on you, so you think you would've been home free either way, but you gotta understand something here. If you'd've drank that potion and turned into mist, this little bit of blade would've gone along for the ride, same as the clothes you were wearing. Then, it would've rematerialized alongside you once the Spell effect ended, but the problem is, if your shoulder was positioned in any other angle than the one you started out in, then it could very well have solidified inside a different bit of bone or tissue and cut you up even worse."

And that is the exact reason I will tell anyone who asks why I didn't use the potion to get away from the Feral horde. Truth is, I kinda forgot about it in the heat of the moment, and I didn't much care to leave anyone for Abby, not even a Republic bootlicker who done drunk the cool aid and tried to kill me and mine no less than three times. "Good thing I didn't then," is all I say, because I already know how close I came to dying, and won't nothing be gained from ruminating on it.

Seeing how his message ain't getting through, Uncle Art motions for me to hush as he gets to stitching me back up. With needle and thread mind you, rather than the painless First Order Abjuration Spell Staunch Wound. Would do the exact same thing, if not better considering Uncle Art's less than delicate touch, and I wouldn't have to come back to have my stitches removed either. Granted, the Spell only lasts an hour, and a cut as deep as mine will probably take more than an hour to mend even with help from Minor Regeneration, so needle and thread is probably best.

Least I didn't suffer no damage to my tendons. If I had, then it'd be all she wrote more or less. Contrary to the name, Minor Regeneration can't do nothing the body can't do on its own. All it does is speed things along, but won't do nothing for an injury that won't heal. I might survive a severed vein or artery, especially with Uncle Art here to patch me up, and I'd be back on my feet in a matter of weeks. I sever a tendon though? Then my left arm might well be rendered useless, unable to lift its own weight and leaving me with the one real hand and no actual way to use it.

"There we go," Uncle Art declares, after poking me far too many times with his needle and thread. "A baker's dozen. Add in the thirty keeping your guts in place and you've hit a new record high for number of stitches at any one time."

My wince ain't just for the new record, but also the fact that I'm charged for each and every single stitch. Even with the friends and family discount, medical care don't come cheap, but Uncle Art puts every dollar he earns back into his practice so he can help those who can't afford his fees. Means it's only right I pay what's owed, because it's not like I can't afford it. All's I'm saying is that medical bills makes getting beat up that much worse, because not only is recovery a miserable affair, you gotta pay for the pleasure to boot.

2008 has only just begun and I'm already operating at a deficit. Spent plenty of brass and supplies getting out of the badlands, as them cards from the Deck of Illusions don't come cheap despite Aunty Ray drawing them up herself. Didn't even get to collect any corpses aside from what we hunted on the way in and the three Razorscythes we killed while we was there. If only the Rangers had shown up a few hours earlier, while Aunty Ray's Phantasmal Force infused cards from the Deck of Illusions were still in full swing, then we could've avoided a whole lot of hurt and heartache from everything that happened after the fact. Not only would the Ranger presence been enough to take down the horde for a pretty profit, they might well have scared off the Qin and saved me from having to hear a kid screaming for his mama because I done shot him in the gut.

Unlucky that, for his suffering and me having to hear it. Never did find out the kid's name, but those screams will haunt me for some time yet. Same as Conner's eyes, which I never actually saw as I shot him dead, but I can imagine them staring in shock and accusation all the same.

That said, Uncle Art ain't wrong. I was plenty lucky to get out like I did, what with the Rangers showing up when they did. Only happened because a Ranger working up in the watchtowers by the name of Goodwin spotted what he believed were Qin signal lights off in the distance earlier in the night, which is some sort of military code the Qin use to communicate at long distances. As such, he reported it right quick because he was worried about a Republic raid on the Watchtowers to steal the gear and tech inside them. What he was actually seeing was Ao Tian and his people setting up shop for that first Abby ambush we so luckily side-stepped. Soon as Uncle Teddy heard the news though, he set out with a full Company of Rangers to investigate the sightings, and double timed it when Ranger Goodwin sent in another report of Abby activity and massed Aetherarm fire about 12 hours later.

As well as a Fireball off in the distance, which is an unmistakable sight in the dead of night. That's the one I unleashed to take out them Silverfish, and soon as Ranger Goodwin passed along the news, Uncle Teddy knew we was in big trouble and broke camp to come save us.

Better lucky than good, but my luck won't hold forever, and I get the feeling I'll need plenty of it moving forward. That's a problem for another day though. Today's problem is my mounting medical bills, because while I might be Aether rich thanks to the Condenser in the mesa, I'm cash poor with no prospects for earning in sight until Spring. Every Grain of Aether that Condenser has ever made is still sitting up on the mesa, because it'll hold value better than almost any other material seeing how the government keeps a firm boot on the price. It won't turn into a fortune overnight, but it'll also never lose value to inflation like cash will, and people will ask questions if I keep packing ammo without ever buying Aether, so best to hoard as much as I can until I absolutely have to sell it.

Which might well be soon, but in for a penny, in for a pound. As long as I'm here, I might as well get fully checked out, so I hold up my stump for inspection and ask, "You see anything wrong with this?"

Being the consummate professional he is, Uncle Art puts on his glasses to inspect my stump, which begs the question as to why he wasn't wearing them to stitch me up. After a minute of study, he looks up and meet my eyes with a deadpan expression. "Why yes Howie. I do believe you're missing a hand. Don't know what more I can do for you though. It healed up pretty well as these things go, with some mighty fine stitchwork to see that it healed up good and well." Seeing my lack of amusement, he suppresses his smile and asks, "Why you ask?"

"This stays between you and me?"

"So long as it's health related, then yes. That's how doctor-patient confidentiality works." So I tell Uncle Art all about my Wildshaped Hand Ability and how it's been hurting something fierce ever since I grabbed that bayonet blade. Besides the family and Carter's folk, Uncle Art's the only one who really knows about it now, and he looks mighty impressed. "Transmutation is tricksy business," he muses, studying my stump once more, which is really saying something considering he a bonafide Magus Transmuter good enough to be a Grandmagus once the Frontier can support it, and the best Alchemist west of the Divide. "So you still feel the hand hurtin' even when it's gone?"

"Been that way since it was lopped off, but it got worse after my prosthetic took a hit this last little scuffle," I reply, starting a shrug which ends abruptly when my body reminds me I just came out of surgery without anesthetic and only Power Word: Endure to help mitigate the pain. All the medical knowledge in the world don't help when the local flora is world's apart from what you familiar with, so modern medicine is pretty much at a standstill. Anyone with the knowhow to actually do something about that is too busy stitching folks like myself up, and while Uncle Art was lucky enough to realize dried frost-thorns contained Salicin, the active ingredient for Aspirin, ain't no one in a position to work out how to mass produce and purify that Salicin into something stronger.

There are other opiates and painkillers I could've used, but given how this was a relatively minor surgery, I opted to go without. All them drugs are untested and highly addictive, so I'd rather not risk it. I seen what addiction can do to a person, and it ain't pretty. With how tough things are out on the Frontier, escapism is a hole that's all too easy to dig and fall into, but much harder crawl back out of. Besides, my daddy never went for them drugs either, with one of Uncle Art's favourite stories being how he done cauterized a Bolt wound just under my daddy's ribs without anesthetic and he didn't so much as utter a grunt.

I've failed to measure up to my daddy in all manner of ways, but that don't mean I'm ready to stop trying, even if my non-existent right hand feels like it's been set on fire.

"Have you conjured it up since the injury that dismissed the Ability?" Uncle Art asks.

"No," I admit, and when he gestures for me to go with it, I nod at my things sitting off to the side and add, "I need the prosthetic."

"Ah. As a Totem," Uncle Art replies as he shuffles over to grab it. Shows that he knows more than he lets on, which shouldn't come as a surprise considering he's probably the most educated man I know. "Have at it," he says, handing me the carved wooden hand I used in the Ritual that connected me to the Spirit of my lost hand in the first place.

Which sounds simple enough, but now he's got me wondering if I can. I never did ask what happens to a Wildshaper who's been injured in animal form, and like Uncle Art said, Transmutation Spells do be tricksy. Could be I Conjure up a Hand that's good as new, or might be it shows up cleft in twain, and I would really not like to go through that experience a third time around. The first and second time still hurts something fierce, but now it hurts even worse, so ain't nothing for it but to give it the good old college try.

Taking a deep breath, I hold the wooden prosthetic up to my stump and activate the Ability. The Aether twists from within and without, solidifying around the prosthetic and my arm both to form a fleshy human hand, one that's whole and healthy as can be. Still hurts something fierce though, and I can trace the freshest lines of pain as I poke and prod along where Ao Tian sliced it up. Which I tell Uncle Art as he puts me through a series of tests involving me moving my hand and fingers all about, as well as reflex tests and blind touch tests to see how much sensation I got in them.

"Sounds like phantom pain," Uncle Art declares, after a thorough inspection that yields little to nothing besides pain. "Even though the physical hand is gone, your brain still thinks it's there. A condition made worse by the fact that there sometimes is really is when you Conjure it up. You were injured, but there wasn't no way for your hand to signal to your brain that all is well seeing, so all of your pains and aches are just compounding on top of one another."

"You saying the pain is all in my head?" I ask, sounding more than a little defensive. "That I'm just imagining all of this misery?"

"No Howie." Giving me a look, Uncle Art shakes his head. "I'm sayin' it's psychosomatic. Best I can tell, you control your Conjured Hand using the same nerves and pathways as before, and it ain't a one-way street. Seeing how it's hooked into your sense of touch, this means the Spell is capable of sending information to your brain, which is complicated because it's a Spell and not a real flesh and blood organ. So when the Conjured Ectoplasm of the fake hand is cut, the Spell dissipates, but not before telling your brain that it was cut. What it doesn't do before dissipating into the ether is tell your brain that all is well, that there's nothing wrong and no reason to panic. So now your tiny brain is working overtime telling you to do something about your hand, because it still thinks its hurt and bleeding, and hasn't heard otherwise."

"…Still sounds like you sayin' it's all in my head."

"…Because it kinda is," Uncle Art admits. "But that don't mean you're imagining it. It's like you got some wires crossed, so you feeling real pain where there shouldn't be none."

"So what's the fix?"

"Beats me." Not a line you want to hear from your doctor, but Uncle Art says it like it is. Gesturing at my Conjured Hand, he says, "Keep it out and push through the pain while using it as much as you can. Might be that'll uncross the wires so to speak, with your brain figuring out there's nothing to be concerned about." Seeing my disgruntled appearance, I think it finally clicks that my hand hurts a fair bit more than 'some', which is all I really said, but he remembers I ain't ever been one to complain. Barely even grunted while he removed the shard of metal from my shoulder and stitched me up, but while my hand don't hurt more, it do hurt all the time and is grinding away at my resolve. "Maybe try asking whoever taught you to Wildshape," he adds, giving me a reassuring pat on the cheek as his gruff demeanour softens just a bit. "Like I said, Transmutation is tricksy business. Using magic to alter your physical self introduces all sorts of complications, and we barely know how the human brain works as is."

"Yeah, that might work," I say, though I don't really want to bother Carter any more than I already have. Man was right for worrying about his daughter hanging around me, and he's still good enough to help out whenever I ask.

I leave it at that, and Uncle Art breaks off to get back to cleaning up after himself. "So if there's nothin' else?" he asks, implying he'd like to move on with my aftercare, which is pretty much telling me to keep the wound clean, change my bandages often, and to come back the second I feel feverish or suspect infection. I give him a shake of my head and tells me exactly what I was expecting, ending with, "So no more blocking blades with your bones now, you hear?"

Which is a dismissal as sure as any, meaning I should head out and see his wife Rita for the bill. It's a minor thing, but there was a time he'd keep me around for as long as I'd care to stay just to talk and banter. A few weeks ago, I wouldn't have thought nothing of it, but what Uncle Rigsby said about me using the Acid Uncle Art sold me for nefarious purposes has been stuck in my craw, and I can't help but feel all guilty about it. Not for what I done, but for never even considering how it might make Uncle Art feel, a man who done dedicated his life to helping others for next to nothing on his part. He's a good man, same as the Marshal, with the caveat being that Uncle Art saves lives without raising his hand in anger.

Against other people at least. He's been known to throw down against Abby when the occasion calls for it, and he can hold his own better than most seeing how he trained and saw action as an army medic and doctor both. Don't know what sort of action he saw, but I do know how strongly he feels about the taking of human life, and that he don't agree with the death penalty even though he understands the necessity. Can't rightly be taking care of criminals for their whole entire lives when most are struggling to feed and house themselves, but just because both options are bad doesn't mean you gotta settle for one or the other. That's Uncle Art's stance on the matter, as he don't agree with the death penalty or prison camps, but don't got a working alternative to offer.

All said, I can't imagine he was thrilled to learn that I'd taken the vials of Acid he sold me and used them to melt two men alive. I don't regret the act itself, because if anyone deserved it, it was them mafiosos who'd grown fat off the labour and suffering of others over so very many years. What I regret is openly revealing what I'd done without any care for the consequences. I wanted folks to see what would happen if you fucked with the Yellow Devil, but I didn't consider how that would affect the people I care about and change how they see me.

Might be that Uncle Art don't see the boy he helped save all those years ago in the badlands anymore, one who grew up aspiring to be the Firstborn and all that the title entailed. Might be that all he sees is a bloodthirsty killer who'll inflict all manner of pain and suffering upon those who have wronged him. A monster in human flesh, or in other words, my true self, and I'm thinking he don't like much of what he sees.

Neither do I, but I thought that's who I had to be to make it out on the Frontier. Not just because of Ronald Jackson and the Puglianos. No, I came to that decision years ago, just shortly after my daddy passed and I struck out on my own. Why? Because all these years, I've been fighting scared. I made a few mistakes starting out, and decided I needed a rep as a big bad gunfighter and Spellslinger to keep them unscrupulous outlaws from seeing me as an easy mark. Quick to anger became quick to kill, and I carved a bloody swathe through every neer-do-well'er I met to become the Firstborn I thought I needed to be. Someone who wouldn't take no shit from no body without repaying them tenfold in kind.

I thought of myself as a fair and honest man, just one who wouldn't hesitate to kill so long as I had good reason. Justification as it were, and in my mind, it made perfect sense. You mess with the bull, and you gonna get the horns, that's how I saw it, and I figured everyone would see it that way too.

Problem is, that adage only works because most of the time, the bull is minding his own damn business, not poking his nose into everybody else's. From everyone else's perspective, I was showing up in town and leaving dead bodies behind, which is gonna ruffle some feathers no matter how justified my actions might be. Even if they got no reason to be afraid, I can't rightly blame honest, law-abiding, God-fearing folk from being nervous around me, not with the rep I made for myself, because from a certain angle, it do look like I go out in search of trouble. Problem is, I didn't see it like that until recently, so when all them strangers treated me the same way they'd treat any other possible threat, I took that personally and decided their overabundance of caution was a slight against me.

Can't lie and say I didn't resent having to do a whole dog and pony show with arms out and palms forward while grinning like a fool just so some stranger don't take me for a raider and shoot me dead on the approach, but in retrospect, I now realize it wasn't about me, not really. It was about people protecting themselves out on the Frontier, where life can turn dark right quick. I know I wasn't out for blood, but how could them strangers know that? Even if they didn't know anything about me, I was still an armed stranger showing up inside their otherwise safe refuge, so how could I blame them for being cautious?

Easily it turns out, because I've been wearing a chip on my shoulder about it for all these years, upset that they didn't welcome me with open arms in spite of all my efforts to announce my good intentions. Thing is, I done forgot they treated my daddy the same way, but he didn't pay it much mind. He just did what he did and went about his way, dealing with whatever may come as it came. He didn't have to kill swathes of strangers to do it either, because more often than not, he'd either talk his way out of a tense situation or get out of dodge before anything went down, which wasn't so much running from a fight as avoiding one that didn't matter. Me, I'll dance around Abby to avoid them when necessary, but for some reason, when it comes to dealing with other people, I tend to dig in my heels and welcome the violence just to show I ain't afraid.

If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

That's the thing that separates me from my daddy and folks like Uncle Teddy or even Marcus. They all do what they did because they believed it was the right thing to do, even if Marcus stepped over the line more than a fair bit. I do what I do because I don't know any other way to live. Live by the sword, die by the sword, which is a proverb I always took as a statement of fact, not the warning it was supposed to be. It ain't just about giving what you get. It's a warning to seek out peaceful solutions wherever you can, because even if you carry a sword or gun for protection, that don't mean you gotta use it at every given opportunity. Better to never draw your gun and come to a peaceful solution, than risk getting got while you defend yourself, and while I been all gung-ho about pro-active self defense, I've also been putting myself in situations I could easily have avoided by trying for a peaceful solution first.

Because I was afraid of what might happen if the peaceful solution fell through, and while I thought I was facing my fears, I was just exacerbating the situation and making things worse. By reacting poorly to what I perceived as a personal slight from every Tom, Dick, and Jerry who didn't welcome me with open arms, I got into a fair few more scrapes than I otherwise should've. Built me a rep for making trouble, and went out looking for more until trouble done come find me, and eventually my sweet Josie paid dearly for it. So did Connor, and Deputy Corey Macintyre, alongside who knows how many countless strangers I've killed or have had loved ones killed by me.

I paid for it too, and am still paying to this day, but now I see I done reaped what I sowed. Am still reaping in fact, because I've only now just realized how much I have truly lost. Uncle Art is acting warm and friendly as can be, but no friendlier than with any other person who comes through his hospital. Well, that's not true, but I can sense a distance between us, an unspoken barrier which neither one of us cares to breech because we know each other well enough. He don't ask about how I been, and I'm too afraid to ask him in return for fear of overstepping our unspoken boundaries, so I dunno how to mend fences. Assuming they can even be mended, because there are some things that can't never be fixed, but Uncle Art's family which means I gotta at least try.

"Talked to Uncle Rigsby before we left for the mesa," I begin, and kind man that he is, Uncle Art lets me say my piece instead of sending me away. "He uh… said something that made me think, about how you might feel about folks using what you sell them in a less than morally upstanding manner." It's a real roundabout way to broach the subject, but doctor-patient confidentiality only applies to medical stuff, not an admission of guilt in a crime unrelated to my medical treatment. Doctors are required by law to report all gunshot wounds, and if they suspect their patients were injured while committing a crime, they gotta report that too. Not that I think Uncle Art would, but I'd rather not put him in a position to have to make that decision, so I gotta be circumspect about what I say.

So it takes me some time to come up with the right words, and it's got nothing to do with how scared I am of hearing his response. "It got me to thinking," I finally say, which ain't much. "About you know… things I done and how I present myself, and I just wanna say… I'm sorry for disappointin' you, and I'll try to never do nothin' like that ever again." Ain't much else to be said, because it's not like I can lie and say I wish I hadn't done it. I just wish I'd've kept him out of it, however tangential his involvement might've been.

And Uncle Art gets it, which is why he hits back with, "Won't do nothin' like torture a man, or you just talkin' about how you won't use Acid I gave you to do it?" The latter of course, though it's not like I'm all eager beaver to put the screws to someone just for the fun of it. I don't say nothing, because I ain't about to admit to anything that Uncle Art could be compelled to testify about in court, and I guess he knows it too, so after a long and awkward silence, he heaves a sigh and says, "Let me tell you somethin'. I signed on to the Frontier because I thought it'd be the best way to make a difference in life. Wasn't many doctors lining up to go harin' off to a new world without any guarantee of safety, but that only meant my efforts would be that much more helpful. I wanted to help people, and this seemed like the best way to do it. I chose to come here, and even though it cost me plenty, I don't regret the decision more than I am happy for it. You understand?"

I nod, even though I don't really, not in the grand scheme of things. I don't ask nothing though, because I get the sense he's got something he's gotta get off his chest, and it's best to let him figure out how to do it. "That said," he continues, with that far off look everyone gets when they remember those first few weeks, months, or even years after the Advent, "It wasn't easy, and I saw a whole lot more hurt than I could heal. Folks were dying of malnutrition or the common cold and there wasn't a thing I could do about it, because every treatment I knew required something from the old world that we didn't have access to."

Falling into the rhythm of a story he's probably told himself a thousand times before, Uncle Art rocks back on his heels and says, "You gotta remember, it wasn't supposed to be like this. We came through the Gate with bundles of seeds that'd gone through hundreds of years of selective breeding followed by at least a decade of research to ensure the plants that sprouted from those seeds would have high yields in almost any climate while being resistant to all manner of bugs and diseases and providing everything a healthy body needs. Granted, they'd be facing new bugs and new diseases here on the Frontier, but some would adapt and we'd cultivate those to get strong, hardy food and medicinal crops that would've seen us all well provided for."

Except that every seed passing through the Gate was rendered infertile due to some quirk of magic no one noticed until it was much too late to do anything about it. I know the story well enough, of how they had these wonder crops all lined up that would grow so fast and yield so much with minimal effort, enough so that a single man could grow enough to feed a family of four with just a bit of evening and weekend gardening. No need for commercial farms with dozens of labourers doing back breaking work to plant and harvest all the livelong day, freeing up plenty of hands to do other sorts of work. More importantly, crops like that would mean folks could be mostly self-sustaining, instead of needing to live close to others in case they ever need a helping hand.

Didn't work out though, which set the First Wave pretty far behind. Add in the heavy presence of Abby when there wasn't supposed to be any means most have been struggling to keep their bodies warm and bellies full, to say nothing of all the walls and weapons which needed to be built and leaving little to no time for the finer things in life. Like good food, medicine, or technological progress, because while the Bible says idle hands be the workshop of the Devil, some of the greatest minds in history were merely idlers who found something productive to do with all their free time.

"Those were some hard and uncertain times," Uncle Art concludes, summing up what must have been a horrific start to his journey here on the Frontier with a simple understatement. "Then Ming showed up with you in his arms, and after a bit of a big scare, I got to hold you." Showing me the palm of his admittedly large hand, he points and says, "You fit right in there, because you were at least a month early and just tiny in general, but once you'd drunk your fill, you was ruddy as a beet and happy as a clam. The Firstborn of the Frontier, the first of many children to be born here, someone who'd lead the next generation to settle these lands, and to me, that was hope. Hope for a better future which I'd almost lost sight of in my despair, and a memory I often draw upon when times are tough."

Now it's a memory I done ruined by failing to live up to expectations. It don't need to be said, because the message comes through loud and clear, and I can't meet his eyes no more. He makes me do it anyways, keeping silent until I'm ready to look up at him again, and when I do, I see a side of him I ain't ever seen, one he keeps hidden behind his rough and gruff exterior. It's all the hurt and sorrow he keeps hidden away, the side that he drowns with drink to keep him going throughout the day, and it hurts to know I'm at least in part responsible for all that. "Now, you ain't the only child I ever treated," he says. "I delivered Josie myself, and she was a bright and shining beacon here in town, a sweet girl who always had a smile for anyone who needed one. I don't condone what happened up in Brightpick, but I know something needed doing, because they killed Josie and the Feds couldn't care less about it. I just wish things had gone down in a different way is all."

I do too, but again, I can't rightly admit to nothing, and Uncle Art gets it. Putting his hand on my uninjured shoulder, he towers above me and looks older than I remember, with more lines and wrinkles that seem to appear out of the shadows. "I ain't sayin' you disappointed me," Uncle Art says, and despite his calm and even tones, I still flinch to hear it. "Nor should you care if you did. Those expectations I laid on you, that your daddy and the Marshal laid on you, that's too much for anyone to bear, much less someone who only just turned 18. I don't need you to be the Firstborn. I just need to know that the baby I helped save, the first new life on this hellscape of a Frontier, is at least trying to be a good man. Can you do that Howie? Not for me, the Marshal, your daddy, or even the Frontier. You do it because it's the right thing to do, and a proper man don't need any real reason besides that."

I want to say I've been trying, but that'd be a lie. I ain't been trying to be good. I been adhering to the letter of the law, which ain't the same thing. Plenty of law-abiding assholes out there, and I've been running headlong towards becoming one myself, with no concern about right or wrong so long as I felt my actions were justified. Instead of lying to Uncle Art though, I just nod, and when I find my voice, I say, "I'll try my best. Thought I already was, but I made too many mistakes to list."

Uncle Art nods back, and wraps me in a big bear hug that hurts something fierce, but not as much as pulling away would. "Good that you know," he whispers, patting the back of my head like I'm still a kid, and I suppose in his eyes, I still am. "That's all I needed to hear. I know it's not easy, but nothin' worth havin' ever is."

A succinct summation of what I realized myself during this trip up to the mesa. That my daddy did things the hard way because that was the right way, and people at least respected him for that, even if they was deathly afraid of him. Me, I think it's because he was Qin, and not white, because if he was, then he'd would've been praised the same as Uncle Teddy, but that's just a fact of life I gotta deal with. Folks are afraid of strangers to begin with, and strangers that look more different are even scarier because we fear that which we don't understand. That's why my daddy held me up to such a high standard, because he knew I was working with a handicap from the start by being a minority, which might well be something I kinda forgot.

Either way, all my corner cutting was only chipping away at all the goodwill I'd built up over the years until more than half the town didn't want me around. Not that I blame them, seeing how Josie done already paid the ultimate price for my sins, and who knows who I'll piss off next? A fact which comes back to bite me in the ass after we dry our eyes and head back out into the waiting room, where Chrissy, Tinay, and Aunty Ray are all sat waiting while the Sheriff stands at relative ease looking all relaxed while somehow still giving the impression of viper ready to strike.

"Howie," he says by way of greeting, before dismissing me to address Uncle Art instead. "Doctor Harding. How long before your patient is fit for travel?"

A question he's well within his rights to ask, seeing how he's Sheriff of a town that done Exiled me last summer. If it wasn't for my life-threatening injuries, the guards might well have turned me away from the gates, and to hear Aunty Ray tell it, they almost did. I wasn't awake for it, because Ao Tian hurt me worse than I thought with that slash of his. 30 stitches to my stomach, that's what Uncle Art said, which makes for a right gnarly wound across my midsection that I almost hope leaves a scar. Even with all them bibles and Darksteel plates, Ao Tian still managed to cut me real good, not deep enough to spill my guts out in the badlands, but bad enough to result in a whole lot of blood loss seeing how no one noticed until an hour after the fact.

Not the Rangers fault really, because they were busy running away from the Feral horde that the Qin had set upon us. Even with a full Company of Rangers and the best Aetherarms available on the Frontier, there wasn't no winning against a horde of that size. Uncle Teddy and his lot gave them a bloody nose, but it took 6 more hours and two half Company patrols showing up to help out to send them Ferals scurrying back to their hidey holes. Then and only then could they spare the time to see my wounds tended to properly, as before that I had to settle for a quick and dirty Staunch Wounds every hour on the hour and a haphazard Minor Regeneration to tide me over. As such, I didn't wake up until I was on the operating table, which is how the tip of the knife got broken off, but that was two days ago and Uncle Art decided I was finally strong enough to survive the removal.

And now he's gotta tell the Sheriff how much longer it'll be until they can send me on my way, as I've been here for almost 3 full days now, which is 3 days longer than I'm allowed. Uncle Art still bristles to hear it though, and growls something fierce at the Gujarati native who could probably twist him into a pretzel without even trying. "My patient's got more stitches than brain cells and just underwent a risky and invasive surgery. He needs bedrest and observation, the latter of which he won't get back home, as he's got no one looking out for him. An infection could easily take hold overnight and leave him too weak to even stand in the morning, or he could tear his stitches mounting up and bleed out on the ride home. That means he stays in town for at least a week, with daily appointments to make sure he's keeping his bandages fresh and wounds clean, or so help me God I'll have him admitted and keep him here for a whole damn month."

Sheriff Patel is a calm and patient sort, and he don't so much as raise a brow over how Uncle Art speaks to him. Instead, the Sheriff turns to me and takes a deep breath, which is about the most conflicted I've ever seen him. "You must understand," he begins, with the faintest hint of a grimace. "Tensions are high. Qin bandits raided the settlements down south only two days after Christmas. They killed several guards and stole or burned the bulk of the supplies, both food and construction. The people there, they were left cold, hungry, and in mourning in a time of what should be celebration, and now many wonder where the Qin bandits will strike next."

And everyone and their mothers know that 'Qin bandits' is just code for 'Vanguard working undercover', and the Vanguard only strike where the Republic tells them to. I hear there's been plenty of talk about retaliation even, or at the very least a show of force to dissuade future raids, though don't no one have any specifics to share. People just want the Feds to do something to make them feel safe, but there ain't no safety to be had.

Either way, the Qin got nothing to do with me, and I say as much. "In case you didn't notice," I drawl, gesturing at my wounded shoulder and abdomen both. Only then do I realize I shouldn't be showing off my Wildshaped Hand, but the Sheriff just looks at it, notes it's existence, and files that away for future reference. With nothing else to be done, I continue, "Was a Qin who done this to me, so it ain't like me and the Republic are in good standing."

"There is the truth," the Sheriff replies, "And then there is what people believe. There is talk of the prisoners being an advanced scouting party brought into the walls by their 'sleeper agent'." The Sheriff's expression speaks volumes to his thoughts on that idiotic line of reasoning, but much like how there ain't no curing stupid, you can't argue with it either. A stupid person will just drag you down to their level then win by virtue of experience, or convince themselves they've won because you can't be bothered to argue their idiotic statements any longer. "I am simply asking for your understanding, and to see if there is anything that can be done."

Gotta say, even though I've been Exiled for a good half year or more now, it still stings to be reminded of it. Fortunately for all parties involved, I've been working on keeping a lid on my anger, which buys Aunty Ray time enough to chime in. "If they don't want him here, then he don't need to stay." Standing up in a huff, she scurries over to my side and throws an arm around my shoulder in a show of support and actual support because standing is getting real tiring. "We'll have ourselves a little family outing," she says, speaking to me, Chrissy, and Tina too. "Camp outside the gates and come back in for doctor's appointments, so long as the guards are notified to open up in case of any emergencies." Giving the Sheriff a glare that says in no uncertain terms what she'll do if they refuse, Aunty Ray has herself a standoff against one of the most formidable men in New Hope and easily comes out on top, a fact that still inspires wonder despite having seen what she can do when she really cuts loose.

"No need," the Sheriff says, with a shake of his head and a stifled sigh. "The good doctor says he requires his patient to remain in town for at least a week, and as such, you will remain. Even Exiles cannot be denied medical treatment." Giving me a tired look and the barest hint of a smile as he adds, "The law is the law. Though you may find it restricting at times, so long as you abide by it, you are afforded its protections as well."

Which also means he'll have a whole lot of upset townies to soothe, and his refusal to give me the boot might well cost him votes during the next election. Strange that Sheriff is an elected role, but the folks who decide the laws the Sheriff's Office enforces is held by a bunch of people who were given the job by a President a world away who ain't been in office for more than a decade by now. "Thank you kindly Sheriff," I reply, doffing my hat which I ain't wearing because Uncle Art would have a conniption if I tried to keep it on during surgery. "I won't stay longer than necessary, and I'll try not to make a habit of this." Aunty Ray chimes in too, thanking the Sheriff before taking Uncle Art aside to ask him about my injuries and what she should watch for. Leaves me a moment alone with the Sheriff, who gives me a look like he's studying some foreign creature he ain't ever seen before.

"I was told you risked your life to save one of the Qin," he says, adding, "The same Qin who injured you so gravely." Tilting his head, he asks, "Why?"

"Worried I might be in cahoots with the Republic?" I ask, mostly as a joke, but it only makes me sad to realize that might well be the actual reason. "You talk to him?"

"Yes." Nodding in thought, the Sheriff says, "The young man Ao Tian was most forthcoming. He said you killed his father, and so he gathered up a group of his friends in a bid for revenge. Claims it was a personal vendetta rather than a Republic sanctioned operation, and has refused his right to trial by the Accords."

That last bit comes as a surprise, because that means Ao Tian is gonna be judged by Federal Law without any Republic influence to help tilt the scales of justice in his favour. "Why would he do that?" I ask.

Mostly rhetorically, but the Sheriff answers all the same. "From what I can glean from the other prisoners, it is because he intends to take all responsibility for the matter so as to save face for the Republic." Sheriff Patel scoffs, which again, is more emotion than I'm used to seeing from the man, and a reminder that the Bharathi have no lost love for the Qin. They're pretty much neighbours in the Old World, and Old Tian Zi was responsible for the death of the Bharathi Immortal Monarch. "One child's life is worth nothing compared to the honour of their Republic," the Sheriff says, and his disgust is clear. "So they will throw this Ao Tian to the wolves and say that their conscience is clean." Giving me a look and seeing my concern, he presses his lips together and says, "You still have not answered my question."

"…Because he's me if things were different," I say, admitting a truth I ain't said out loud just yet. "His daddy killed my daddy, so I killed him, and now Ao Tian's after my head. If our roles were reversed, I'd go after his head, but there's more to it than that. They call him Third Brother, because he was born only a few days after me, with one older girlie in between. So he's the oldest male on the Qin side, and they put a lot of emphasis on seniority, the same sorta expectations my daddy put on me." And more if my mama survived and they stuck to the plan of meeting up with their own people. Could be I would've been the Firstborn, only on the Republic's side, raised to praise a nation I ain't ever set foot in the same way I been praising America without really meaning to, but lately, more and more cracks have been showing through.

I gotta be a better man, but how do I go about doing that while the Ronald Jacksons and Puglianos are all running about out there? They needed killing, and I don't regret doing it, only how I went about it. Problem is, this means I got no idea how to move forward from this, and I can't even ask Uncle Teddy because I done burned that bridge good and well.

He showed me where the line was and all but begged me not to step over it, but I didn't listen and broke his heart by doing just that. Then, to make matters worse, I showed no remorse over my actions when I rightly should, leaving him no choice but to cut ties with me both personally and professionally. He didn't abandon me, or even give up, not really. I simply showed him I wasn't willing to learn, so why should he waste his precious time trying to teach me?

That there is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. I been calling him the Marshal all these months and acting like he let me down, when it's actually the reverse that's true. It wasn't that he wasn't willing to help me with the Puglianos, but rather he was helping me the best he could, and I didn't care to wait for the gears of justice to turn. I bet he already knew about Deputy Corey's efforts to bring down the Sheriff of Brightpick, who might well have turned on the Mafia soon as the Rangers brought him in. Or maybe he'd've clammed up and the Puglianos would've just put another puppet into office, after cleaning up the rat inside their house of course. The latter is more likely, but I never even gave it a chance, and while he can overlook a bit of Frontier Justice when absolutely necessary, he ain't one for lawless vigilantism.

Because he knows that when something goes wrong, it's usually the innocents who suffer, innocents like Deputy Corey Macintrye. Marcus even tried to warn me, told me not to be like him and let anger consume me. Said it with his dying breath how revenge wouldn't change a damn thing, but I didn't listen to him, now did I? That's my problem. I gotta make my own mistakes instead of learning from folks who know better, and try as I might, I can't shake the habit. It's a pride thing, because I always think I know better, when I don't know shit. My daddy wasn't like that though. He was humble and always willing to learn, whether it be taking lessons from Tim about how to shoot, or listening to Joe Nobody teach him the best way to lay brick.

And look where my hubris has brought me. Back to the doorstep of the town I once called home and a place I'm no longer welcome, with Uncle Teddy continuing his patrol and not even seeing me back safe because he don't want folks to think I'm back in his good graces. While the second fact hangs heavy over my head, the first is painfully reinforced as I step out of the hospital and come face to face with a portly stranger. "Howie Zhu?" he asks, and I reply with a wordless nod that confirms the question and asks what the fuck he wants. Lucky for him, I ain't armed, because as he reaches into his jacket, my first reaction is to shoot him. The Sheriff reacts the same, drawing his gun but holding his shot as he steps forward to defend me, both with his body and a Force Barrier that shimmers into existence in the blink of an eye.

All while the possible threat of a portly stranger freezes up to see it. "I-I'm an a-a-agent of the c-court!" he squeaks, trembling from head to toe with his hand stuck in his jacket. "A p-p-p-process server! I-it's just an e-envelope, I s-swear!" Only after the Sheriff confirms the facts for himself does he step aside, because the process server is just doing his job to keep the gears of justice slowly turning and crushing everything underfoot. "Y-you've b-been s-served," the portly fella stutters, all but throwing the envelope at me which I fail to catch, but I don't hold it against him since he seems ready to piss his pants. Instead, I Conjure up a set of Mage Hands to pick it up, then pass it over to Aunty Ray because her eyes look wide enough to pop out in demand of who she should direct her rage to.

"I'm guessing it's Dave," I say, and while Aunty Ray tears the envelop open to confirm my suspicions, I do my best to keep her from worrying too too much. "Probably suing me for medical expenses, lost income, pain and suffering, and emotional distress, as well as anything else his two-bit lawyer thinks might stick. It's the Blast method of lawsuits, throwing everything at the court and hoping a Judge don't throw it all out."

"Howie!" Aunty Ray exclaims, looking up at me in worry before glancing back at the documents in front of her. "He's asking for ten-thousand dollars!"

"He can ask all he likes. He ain't gettin' one red cent outta me," I reply, wishing I could pat her shoulder with a real hand instead of a Conjured Cantrip. "I'll explain it all in a bit, but you don't need to worry about a thing." No, that's for me to do, but not about paying Dave. No, I gotta worry about paying my lawyer's expensive fees, because even though he believes he can get the court to throw out Dave's case and counter-sue for legal fees, Mr. Tillman don't work on contingency, and his fees ain't cheap. You get what you pay for, and he's one of the most expensive lawyers around, though I gotta wonder if he bumped his fees just to make up for all the revenue he lost after I handled the Puglianos.

Either way, even if I get paid back after the fact, which ain't likely seeing how Dave ain't worth shit, I still gotta pay out of pocket until the courts see fit to reimburse me for my troubles. At which point they'll go after Dave for the money, which is deserved, but still unsavory to consider. Say what you will about outlaws, but at least they got some qualms about kicking a man while he's down. Lawyers though? Soon as they scent blood in the waters, they'll strike without remorse and tear you to financial shreds while laughing all the way to the bank.

None of which I say here and now, because I don't want no one running off to warn Dave. Also makes a man really consider if mercy is ever the right option, because it might've been better for the both of us if I'd've killed him clean. Not even the over-eager District Attorney could've done anything about it. I was well within my rights to react to lethal force in kind, especially since we wasn't in town governed by Federal Law, but rather on the docks which is Accorded Neutral Territory. Either way, my forbearance has come back to bite me in the ass, and I can't help but suspect sparing Ao Tian and his ilk won't end well either. That's the price of being a good man though, and I fear I lack the strength to live up to expectations, even the reduced ones Uncle Art just told me about.

Easy to say to do the right thing, but doing the right thing is rarely ever easy. One thing's for certain though. If I'm gonna try my hand at being a good man, then I'm gonna need much better armour and weapons than what I got now. Like they say, walk soft and carry a big stick, and history shows that I need a much bigger one to scare off all the crazies.

So armour and weapons goes right onto the list, a long one that's growing even longer as I consider the path before me, the path of a good man I am all but determined to walk, or at the very least stick to when there are people watching. Can't no one talk about my cut corners if don't no one see me do it, or at the very least survive the experience. It's a bumpy road ahead, one I ain't so sure about how to walk, but I suppose I'll do like I always do and figure it out as I go.

So this here is a new year with a new Howie. A kinder, more merciful Howie, who most certainly don't regret letting Dave live to cause me all this headache. No sir-ree, because a good man wouldn't feel that way, and for better or for worse, I gotta strive to be a good man.

Even if I ain't entirely sure as to what that entails…