Firstborn of the Frontier

No one ever talks about how exhausting recovery do be.

Not exhausting like humping a 60-kilo pack through 20 klicks of rough terrain, but a different sort of exhausting that is no less draining. You wake up tired and stiff, and just sitting up is a whole ordeal because everything already hurts and you know it's only gonna get worse from there. Then there's the frustration that comes doing all the things that used to take no effort at all, but have since become a whole chore. Like getting dressed with no hands available to use, on account of how my shoulder hurts too much to really move it all that much, or brushing your teeth for the same reasons.

Least I've gotten real good at doing buttons with my Mage Hands. Can do most every other task too, like wash my face, wipe my ass, and put food in my mouth too, but that don't mean it' s effortless. Good as I am with the Mage Hands, it still takes time and repetition to bake these movements into my brain and make them second nature, which comes with its own set of problems. Most times, you practice a movement enough it just feels natural, because you no longer have to really think to do it. You don't think about breathing, or walking, or jumping really. You just do it and it works. Wasn't always like that though, and you see it in babies who gotta look down at the floor and consider where to put their next foot forward, until it all clicks and they get to zooming about.

That 'second nature' stage there? That's your brain offloading the task to habit and reflex. The movements are carved into what folks in the brain business call a neural pathway, which I've talked about before. That's the physical connection your brain builds to carry information, like trails in a forest that form when you walk them often enough. The more you walk the path, the wider and flatter the trail becomes, until you no longer gotta pay attention to the trail to walk it. That's why they say repetition is king when it comes to learning. You're not really building up muscle memory, in that information is stored in your body. You're widening the trail of your neural pathways until the action becomes automatic. That's how you learn to move smoothly under pressure or react faster when faced with a familiar threat. It's not your body being physically faster, but the fact that you require less conscious thought to execute the task.

Now, learning in and of itself is exhausting enough, but when you're learning to do new things with a Spell like Mage Hands, then that complicates matters even further. When it comes to controlling your flesh and blood body, you got plenty of neural pathways already laid out. Might not all be wide, flat trails like the ones for walking and breathing or whatever, but they're still there. Even if you've never tied a knot, you still know how to use your hands, so it's not like you're starting from scratch. With Mage Hands, that's almost exactly what it is. Anytime I do something new with the Mage Hands, that's trailblazing new neural pathways in my brain, and I'm also pushing my Spellslinging limits in terms of total Spell Structures and Aetheric Grainage to blaze even more of them. Doing too much of that in too short a time frame results in a massive migraine like no other, one that persists long into the night and resumes pounding on my skull from behind my eyes as soon as I wake in the morning.

Feels like something's trying to forge my skull the same way a blacksmith beats steel with his hammer, and it's almost enough to send me back to blissful sleep. Unfortunately, even as exhausted as I am, I got this aversion to laying about when I could be doing literally anything else. There's also the fact that I ain't in my room, or what's now the spare bedroom at the top of the stairs of Aunty Ray's house. Instead, I'm laid out on the living room floor with Chrissy nestled up beside me, because she heard her Mama mention camping and would not be denied, nor does she care to sleep alone so long as I'm here in town. At least she's content to camp out in front of the fireplace instead of outside the gates. I'm not one to complain about rough living, but in my current condition, I'd much rather have a roof overhead and walls to block out the biting chill.

To say nothing of the smell of pancakes and a pot of fresh coffee wafting over from the kitchen, where Aunty Ray is already up and at 'em fixing up a hearty breakfast. A good thing too, because the constant Minor Regenerations I've been keeping up have my grumbling tummy protesting how I haven't eaten in hours, even though I scarfed down half a cake before falling asleep last night. Literally half, as Aunty Ray had just baked it, but considering how I done starved my sweet tooth for all of three weeks, I couldn't stop at just one slice.

Or two. Only stopped at three because the third was a full quarter of the cake, and might well have gone for more if there was anything left. Aunty Ray was happy to see it of course, because she do so love to see her babies eat, and I am more than happy to oblige. After getting dressed and ready of course, and helping Chrissy do the same. Hits me hard to sit her down and brush her hair, because this might be the last time I get to do this for a good long while. My stay here in town is coming to an end soon, as Uncle Art bought me a week's worth of recovery time, but today's the 7th day since then, which means the Sheriff might well run me out of town after my 10-o'clock doctor's appointment.

Don't begrudge him for it. He done already stuck his neck out to get me this last week here in town, and now that my stitches are all ready to come out, there ain't no real reason for me to stay. No acceptable legal reason at least, and for the first time since my Exile, I'm hit with a wave of regret over letting things get so far. Might be I should've fought it harder, or gone with Mr. Tillman's suggestion of legal avenues to consider, but truth is, it ain't the town I care about. It's the people, namely Tina, Chrissy, and Aunty Ray. My friends too, but most have been too busy to drop by for long. They're all on their last week of training, or in Danny and Noora's case, Basic. The boots and recruits have taken to calling it Hell Week, but it don't compare to the real deal. Ain't no one told them to stop though, because truth is, they're going through it, though I still think the sergeants are going far too easy on them.

The Frontier won't treat them kindly, so training ought to prepare them for it. None of this marching and drilling nonsense, even if they push until they drop. Ought to bring them out on a real operation and have them hunt Abby for 7 days straight instead. Granted, it's the dead of winter and we done cleared out a whole lot of burrows on our way back, so it'll be hard to draw them hibernating Ferals out now that they don't got the numbers in strength. Could've gone elsewhere though, like up to the Coral Desert which is also cold this time of year, but mostly free of snow, or maybe far enough down south in the Fuschia Flatlands where it's summer all year round, with Abby and bandits a plenty to pick and choose from.

I don't say as much of course, because Tina's got it hard enough and needs all the confidence she's got to push through until the end of the week, so I help her out by brushing her hair too. She's so tired, she don't notice that I gave her twin tails until it's over and done with, and even though she makes a bit of a fuss about how she ain't 12 no more, I notice she don't ask me to change it either. It's not my best work, as Tina's hair is barely shoulder length and much too short for proper twin tails, to the point where they almost stick out sideways, but I gave them a good curl at the ends which makes her look adorable as can be.

Puts a real spring in her step as she bounds down the staircase two steps at a time, while I follow along behind. Course, I take it slow and steady with Chrissy to help support me. Don't really need the help anymore, but I almost slipped and fell our second day back, and she ain't let me take the stairs solo ever since. She's got a hairstyle to match her sister's, or rather the other way around since I did her hair first, and she looks darling with two pink ribbons holding up the base of her silver twin tails, and two big pink bows at the ends to keep things neat and tidy.

Gets Aunty Ray to cooing when she sees it, and I can't help but smile to hear her praises. Could also be the food, conversation, or company that's got me in such a great mood, though the fact that I'll be losing it all soon enough puts a damper on my spirits. Forgot how it's all the little things that make life better, like enjoying a hot cup of coffee while talking about how I plan to spend my day, or hearing about Tina's misadventures in training as she hurriedly scarfs down her food and runs off to get an early start to a long day. Aunty Ray won't let me do the dishes, because doing things for others is her love language. Well, that and lots of hugs and kisses, which I don't even mind so much after a dearth of both this last half year. This week here and the trip up to the mesa before it reminded me of just how much I'm missing out on living up at the quay by myself, but thems the breaks. I done the crime, so I can't say I don't deserve my Exile and possibly even worse all things considered, but I ain't about to turn myself in.

Got too much to live for to go to prison for manslaughter, or worse, hang for murder. Yeah, I killed a lot of bad men when I took out the Puglianos, but I also killed at least one good one who was only doing what was right, and had the misfortune of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Deputy Corey Macintyre is a name I won't ever forget, and I don't rightly know what I'd do if his wife or kids came looking for revenge. Not lay down and die for it, but similar to how I can't hate Ao Tian, I can't really blame the Macintyre's if they tried for my head.

That's my cross to bear, and I do so in stoic silence, because a secret is only a secret when one person knows it. Anymore than that and it's just plain old information, and you can no long control how it's spread. Not that I'm worried my family might rat me out, or any other trusted person I talk to, but I don't want to burden them with my sins either. I'll manage somehow, do better from here on our and try to make up for past mistakes. If they eventually catch up to me in the future, then I'll deal with that when it comes, even if I've no earthly idea as to how.

That's for another day though. Today, I got some chores to do and errands to run before I'm forced to leave town. To start with, I prep the wagon and animals for travel while Chrissy helps out. Mostly by cuddling with Cowie and feeding treats to the horses, but it's help all the same and I thank her for it. Aunty Ray won't let me do anything more labour intensive, as I still got stitches to remove that she don't want torn, so I supress the urge to add to the dwindling woodpile and head on out to the main thoroughfare. Got Chrissy on my left arm, Cowie on my heels, and a hatchet strapped to my right hip, but no Wildshape Hand all ready and Conjured. Even though Uncle Art told me to keep it out so it'll acclimate and stop hurting, I can't be having the whole town know for certain I got working right hand. So far, the only thing keeping the District Attorney from filing charges against me for what went down in Brightpick is the fact that I got plausible deniability. The lone shooter who terrorized the town clearly had two working hands, whereas I only got the one, and didn't really get a prosthetic working until just a few weeks back.

So yeah, wearing a glove over my hand won't do enough to hide the fact that it works. Mostly because I can't be bothered to keep it still all the livelong day, especially considering how much it hurts. Don't like that much, and like heading out so defenseless even less. The current climate ain't exactly hostile, but I get a fair few looks on my trek into town, and not a single one of them friendly. Said it before and I'll say it again, but them Qin attacks on the southern settlements got nothing to do with me, except folks think that just because I look like the Qin, I gotta be all buddy buddy with them.

Don't make no goddamned sense. What's the colour of my skin got to do with anything? I was born and raised here in this town like every other kid, so why would I feel inclined to root for the Qin Republic over the Federation? Besides, it's not like white, black, red, or brown folks like everyone that's the same color as them either. Was a time not too long ago when Celts and Sicilians weren't considered white, even though they pasty as any, or ruddy as it were if they spent enough time out under the sun. I know there are Native American tribes who got beef with one another, and not just in a North vs South America sort of way, but even neighbours who hold grudges against one another because of some scuffle their great, great, great, great, great grandpappies got into.

So why is it that everyone here in town is looking at me like I'm making ready to kill the guards and open the gates to let a Qin Kill Team in? I got no connection to the Qin besides my mother's brother, and it ain't like that's been broadcast for everyone to hear. I don't tell no one that I'm the nephew of the guy who's commanding the Qin Vanguard round these parts, and even if I did, it's not like that can be verified. Pretty sure my daddy shared the news with Uncle Teddy after our first run in all those years ago, but up until now, there ain't no proof that anyone named Zhu Yuanzhang is commanding anyone to do anything over in the Republic.

Goes to show how close to the vest the Qin play their cards. Doesn't help how they don't let no one who ain't Qin into Fuyuan, their own little slice of paradise here on the Frontier. Sits far to the south backed against the Knife's Edge Mountains, and much like the North and West got the Blue Bulwark to defend against Abby from the Divide, Fuyuan is bordered by a ring of fortress towns to protect it as well. That border is as far as any non-Qin are allowed, and even then, you gotta jump through hoops to be let in, though I've no earthly idea why anyone would want to deal with the Qin since all I ever hear about are negative experiences. The Qin will lie, cheat, and steal from one another because they see life as a competition, so if you ain't cheating, then you ain't trying hard enough.

Thing is, even if they cheat, they still got scruples enough not to ruin one another, or go so far as to get someone mad enough to kill. With foreigners though? There ain't no rules there, because their word for foreigners literally translates to 'coloured devils'. White devils, black devils, brown devils, and red devils, that's how they see the world outside the Republic, while folks who look like them but ain't Qin are simply seen as lesser humans. The only exception to the rule is the Nipponese, who've garnered themselves so much hatred and hostility that they're referred to as proper 'Nipponese devils'. Not an imaginary lot, the Qinese as a whole, but I suppose it probably has something to do with spending the better part of 2,200 years under the rule of a xenophobic Immortal Monarch who styled himself as a Heavenly being leading a holy war against the underworld or whatever.

So what I'm saying is the Qin don't make for great trading partners, which begs the question as to why anyone would even try. Boundless optimism I suppose, and maybe a naïve outlook regarding the kindness of strangers. Ain't no kindness directed my way either, as if I'm the whipping boy for everything the Qin have done wrong. Wasn't like I was raiding them settlements down south, but this do make it easier to decide what to do come spring. Was considering sticking it out around these parts and heading south to see them new settlements and sell them some wares. Don't seem smart anymore, not with tensions so high, to say nothing of the likelihood I'll be shot out of hand after being mistaken for a raider.

Fact is, I'm seeing folks who I've known for years make that same mistake. They know me, have seen me around and maybe even watched me grow up, and yet they're still watching me close like I'm in cahoots with a hostile nation. That's why I got the hatchet, because it's about the biggest weapon I'm allowed to carry around here in town. Can't even legally carry Ao Tian's sword around, not that I know how to use it, but it's the principle of the matter that irks me so. Yeah, a sword is a weapon, one expressly listed in the law stating what I cannot carry, but how many people could I possibly kill with a hunk of sharp steel when almost everyone in town be walking around strapped?

Which is a change to be sure. Wasn't like guns were a rare sight in years past, but hardly anyone walked around with more than a pistol on their hip. Not unless you were a Ranger, as even the guards didn't carry rifles around on their rounds. Now though? Not only are the guards locked and loaded for bear, the citizens are too, with plenty strapped with hunting rifles or sport Blastguns while they go about their day, to say nothing of having more pistols than is comfortable to carry. And I would know; I typically walk around with 6, which is 4 over the line, and truth is, even carrying 2 kinda gets in the way. Today however, I don't even got the 1, which makes me feel naked as a jaybird given all the hard stares coming my way.

Stares I've come to expect over the last week and change, which is why my Spell list is tailored for defense. Largely because of how jumpy the Sheriff was outside of Uncle Art's practice. If he thinks some rando might draw down on me right here in town, then that means things are real bad, so I've responded appropriately. Got my Mage Armour going strong, alongside Shield and Absorb Force ready and waiting to block any and all errant Bolts or punches coming my way. I've also Prepped Force Barrier in case things should get real hairy, Warding Wind for mobile protection, and even went against the grain to Prep Aegis just in case.

Or I supposed it'd be going with the grain, seeing how it's on the Ranger Standard Spell list. I just don't see how 5 seconds of fairly decent but hardly infallible protection is worth a Spell Slot, much less the 4 Grainage required to cast it. Still got it though, and I might even remember to use it if the Bolts start flying all about. Not like I had a whole lotta options to fill in the blanks anyways. Can't Prep Fireball or Spike Growth and got no need for Detect Abby, Pass Without Trace, or Settle in Shadows here in town. Also switched out Spiked Growth for Web, which is normal here in New Hope where we get the occasional Harpy attack, but only rarely in the dead of winter. Still good for blocking paths with minimal risk of injuring any bystanders caught in the Spell, which is why it's a better option than Entangle.

Now not for nothing, as that's a decent few options which can help keep my hide mostly intact. Rounding out the list, we got Misty Step for getting out of dodge and Detect Magic to keep an eye out for Charm traps, Illusory or Conjured currency, and maybe looking at whatever it is that's got Chrissy entranced. Leaves me with 3 Spell slots to play with, and while defensive Spells are great and all, I'm a big proponent of the old adage that the best defense is an overwhelming offense. Problem is, the offensive Spells available to me here in town are lacklustre at best, because I'll be arrested for prepping anything more powerful than a Bolt Cantrip.

Which you'd think is unconstitutional, expecting me to come into town with no weapons or Spells to defend myself with, but I guess the Constitution don't apply to non-citizen Exiles. Means I gotta get creative when it comes to what Spells I Prepare for offense, and my first choice is an oldie but a goldie. The First Order Conjuration Spell Grease don't read like an offensive Spell, but that's how I use it. On the tin, it drops a magical puddle of lubrication fluid on the ground in a 3-meter radius around the target area. Anyone standing in said puddle or moving into it has a good chance of slipping and falling prone, but someone quick on their feet might be able to steady themselves and skate through despite the near frictionless surface. Works great for big, lumbering Abby, and I seen some folks make real fools of themselves when stuck in a Grease puddle, but the real Magic in the Spell is the fact that said magical puddle of lubrication is also flammable.

The key word there being magical. Set a puddle of Grease on fire, and you got yourself some magical flames. Should those magical flames spread to some mundane wooden walls or cloth curtains, then you got yourself a magical fire, one that will propagate wherever possible before winking out of existence the second the Grease Spell's one minute base duration comes to an end. Anything that was burnt will remain burnt, but you won't need to worry too too much about starting a massive, uncontrolled blaze, not unless the initial Grease fire gets so big and hot that the heat combusts something nearby and starts an actual factual fire.

So you can see why I consider it an offensive Spell, what with my love of molotovs and Fireballs. The best part is, Grease don't require Concentration and will last a full minute at base, so you could theoretically spend 15 seconds throwing down 3 Widened puddles of Grease at the edges of a 12-metre radius circle, then hit the centre of said circle with a Widened Fireball to add three extra 6-metre radius circles of burning Grease to your Big Spell. Granted, that eats into the already short duration of the Spell, so it really works best with multiple casters, but the destructive potential of this First Order offering is surprising high, with the added benefit of limiting the amount of collateral damage.

Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

I know I got a reputation for being a reckless, feckless, trigger-happy, kill-crazy pyromaniac, but every now and then, I do consider the consequences of my actions before acting. Not often, but it happens.

My next offensive choice is one I'm still not entirely sold on, namely Hunter's Mark. Alls it does is magically mark a visible target and make it easier to hit them. The Spell will also activate if something hurts the target and hurt them even more with a Mental jab, and it'll happen whether the target is hit with a fist, a Spell, or even a Bolt from an Aetherarm. Don't matter who attacks them, so long as they're attacked, though considering Bolts alone are typically enough to kill a man, I don't see any real benefit of that. Lastly, the target knows it's been marked, which is the real reason why I've got it Prepped, as I see it as a way to let someone know I'm making ready to hurt them without having to draw a weapon. It's not like a Video recording will pick up the Hunter's Mark, so if I cast it on a fool who draws in response, it'll still look like they were the aggressor no matter what they claim after the fact. Not a trick I've used before, but it's one I've come up with in recent days of wracking my brain as to how I can use Hunter's Mark more effectively.

Don't think my daddy ever used it that way, but the Spell is so subtle and easily overlooked that I can't honestly claim I've ever seen him use it. He used it a lot though, so much he turned it into a Spell-like Ability and didn't need to Prep the Spell no more, so there's gotta be something to it. Might be good against tough Armoured Abby who're too big to take down even with Penetrating Aetherarms, but I've yet to meet anything the Nagas don't make short work of. Maybe the rumoured Doomspitter will be big enough to tank a few shots, but I doubt I'll ever run into one in the wild, and I ain't one for sitting on a wall to defend it. Like I said, I'm more of a hit first, hit second, and hit them some more until they can't hit back sorta guy.

For my twelfth and final Spell slot, I've thrown Spiritual Weapon into the mix. Mostly to chop wood with, because that's really all it's good for. That and familiarizing myself with the Spell so I can translate the independent movement over to Conjure Weapon and get me a hatchet that will swing itself. Or maybe a sword, since I got Ao Tian's weapon which is sharp as sin, though I'm a little worried I might chop my own foot off while waving it about. I do want to learn how to fight in melee combat though, because our bout in the badlands showed just how much I'm lacking on that front. What's more, seeing Qian and Yihan hold the flank with nothing more than a bayonet and a sabre of pure Fire was an eye-opening experience. While I'd still prefer to plop down a Flaming Cloud or Spike Growth as a fire and forget area denial Spell, the Second Order Elemental Weapon allowed Yihan to fight on the move and do so very effectively against Abby.

If only I could combine Spiritual Weapon and Elemental Weapon, then I'd have the best of both worlds. A long lasting, Abby Igniting, autonomous weapon that'll protect me from blades, fangs, and talons while I shoot to my heart's content. Would come in real handy down under dark, and I could finagle Elemental Weapon to switch over to Acid, Frost, or Electric when the situation calls for it. As it stands though, Spiritual Weapon is kinda lacklustre against people, because unlike Abby, most people are probably smart enough to just beat the Spiritual Weapon into oblivion or give it the run around once they see how slowly it moves to chase. Besides, even an independently acting floaty melee weapon won't help me much against all the pistols, rifles, and Blastguns carried by the less than friendly looking townies giving me the stink eye as I go about my business in town.

Starts with buying groceries from Anita, who is gruff and humourless as always, but gives Chrissy a free cup of juice to drink as I browse and slips a couple extra bapples into my bag before I leave. Next is a stop at the tailor for more Enchanted leather, as Aunty Ray done used all the extra I'd bought Mending up my duster and hat. Did a right fine job of it too, and it ain't her fault I keep getting into scrapes that require some very expensive materials to Mend after the fact. Mr. Wideheim ain't as warm as Anita, but he don't run me out or overcharge me either, so I make my purchases quick as a bunny and get out of his receding hairline right quick. Lastly, I make a stop off at Mr. Kalthoff's gun store like I have been every day for the last week, because he's a hard man to get a hold of what with how busy he is.

Thankfully, my persistence pays off and I spot him bustling behind the counter and wiping down display cases like he ain't one of the wealthiest men in town. Or maybe he isn't, as I ain't ever seen him sporting no expensive suits or watches like them other wealthy business owners, but he can't be doing too bad for himself all things considered. Folks come from all the way over on the West Coast to buy a gun from this store, and they'll pay top dollar for a Kalthoff original made by the famed Dutchman's own hands. Like the silver Rattlesnake he made for my daddy some seventeen years ago, the same one I hand over in several pieces to see if there's anything he can do about it.

Mr. Kalthoff ain't the oldest man in town, but he looks older than most on account of his salt and peppered hair that's more salt than pepper these days. Keeps it short and neat alongside his cleanshaven chin, which combined with his lanky build, rawbone features, and humourless demeanour gives him an air of octogenarian wisdom that few can match. Upon seeing my daddy's gun rendered to scrap, his thin lips purse in disgruntled indignation, most of which is directed towards me for letting something happen to his creations. "How-vee," he says, with a disapproving shake of his head. "Vhat is it you expect me to do vith these? I am no puzzle maker or miracle vorker."

"So there's no hope to be had then?" I ask, disheartened to hear it even though I expected as much.

"If it is a gun you vant, then I can rebuild it," he replies, waving away the scraps I've placed upon his counter like garbage destined for the landfill. "But zhese, I vill not need. Zhe metal is sound, but zee Etches, zhey are broken beyond repair. I cannot simply Mend it, because zhe Etch, it exist in more than zhe physical. It is a work of magic, you know this. Better to rebuild vith a fresh frame, cylinder, and barrel." Gingerly picking through the broken pieces with a finger, he adds, "The trigger and grip ve can keep, but vhen finished, it vill not be your father's gun."

Which is the whole crux of the issue here. The Rattlesnake wasn't just a weapon. It was my daddy's gun, the only keepsake he could pass down to me. I don't got nothing else to remember him by anymore, nothing that ain't been tainted since. His Ranger badge he took such pride in has become a mockery of everything he sacrificed only to be disavowed by the Feds after his death, and I ain't allowed to live in the house he built either. As for the Metamagic bead bracelet I wear on my wrist, while it's true that it belonged to him, I always saw it as a keepsake from my mama more than anything else, because that's how he saw it, as her gift to him.

And now, the gun he carried for more than a decade has been ruined in less than a handful of years in my care, and I got nothing left to remember him by.

Mr. Kalthoff understands as much, which is why he says it wouldn't be my daddy's gun no more if he put it all back together. It's like the Ship of Thesus, the answer to which always seemed simple to me. So long as Thesus owns and operates the ship, it is his no matter how many changes he makes. Once it's out of his hands though? Then any change means it's no longer the same ship, and the same applies to my daddy's gun.

"He had it for more than a decade," I say, staring down at the broken pieces of all that remains of my daddy's legacy. "I've had it for less than four years and I've already broken it." Giving a short huff that's something between a laugh and a sigh, I shake my head at yet another way in which I've failed to live up to his example and get to collecting the pieces. "Well, sorry for taking up your time, Mr. Kalthoff. Thanks anyways."

"Already you are leaving?" Waving me back over, Mr. Kalthoff reaches under his counter and pulls out a tray of revolvers from the display case, a tray I was trying very hard not to look at. "Come, come. Look, look. Zee Model Ten my Marijke sell you, very good Aetherarm, small but fierce. Not so good for everyday carry though. The Penetrating, that make it dangerous, and the noise is too loud for vork out in the badlands. You need something Silenced, something light and quick to draw like zee Rattlesnake but better and more modern."

"Mr. Kalthoff," I begin, same time as Marijke steps forward to say, "Papa."

"Do not Papa me." Giving his daughter, the apple of his eye, a scathing glower, Mr. Kalthoff goes from gruff to straight up angry. "I remember vhat you told me. The boy has been Exiled and has no license, because zhe fools of this town forget so easily. They forget how his father fought and bled for this town, how zhis boy has fought and bled too. The stones we tread upon to come to zhis shop have drank of his blood, sweat, and tears, so I vill not send him away from this town unarmed! Zhe law says I cannot sell him anything but hunting rifles, but zhe law also says I am free to gift Aetherarms to whomever I please!" Turning to me with a visible effort to remain calm, Mr. Kalthoff gestures at the pistols before him and says, "Pick one, How-vee. My Marijke, she vill bring it back to the house for you. A gift from an old friend of your father."

A touching gesture, and tempting too, but ain't a gift I deserve. Plus, even though the whole gift thing is a way to sidestep gun laws, it could still land Mr. Kalthoff in hot water if someone takes issue. Especially considering I got this all on Recording, as I Record everything when I'm here in town. "Thank you Mr. Kalthoff," I say with a shake of my head while my Mage Hands gesture at the bull's head medallion atop my hat from out of frame. "I can't let you do that though. The thought means everything though, and rest assured, I got me a backup ready and waiting for my everyday carry." Namely Aunty Ray's Sturm and Kitiara Shortsword, a double-action six-core six-shooter with all the same Metamagics as the Rattlesnake, but lacking the gaps overtop the barrel that allow gas to escape and give it that distinctive 'tsst-tsst-tsst'.

I let Mr. Kalthoff know of course, and we talk shop a bit about the difference between the two guns, most of which is in the weight. The Shortshort got a shorter barrel and thinner frame to make it come in 2 ounces lighter, which is a big advantage when it comes to the quickdraw. The Shortsword handles 22 calibre Bolts with minimal recoil, albeit a touch more than the Rattlesnake, and its machine cut instead of handcrafted which means it's got some minor build defects. A heavier, junkier trigger mechanism for starters, and terrible ironsights that can't be adjusted and shoots left, and he lets me know exactly how to best fix it.

Thems the breaks when you go from custom crafted to factory pressed. I already noticed the jank trigger and a hitch in the cylinder too, but Mr. Kalthoff knows the Shortsword inside and out so he got a lot of insight to offer. "The Rattlesnake is better," he concludes, and gestures at the tray of revolvers beside him. "Many of zhese are too." I give it a glance now that he's given up on trying to gift me one, and I can't help but regret my restraint. There's a beautiful, modern piece with a rectangular frame instead of just the rounded barrel, like it's the lovechild of a revolver and a semi-automatic handgun. Even got a hexagonal cylinder instead of rounded, and it's beautiful to behold. Can't help but wonder what all that extra frame is for, and learn all the ins and outs, but I can't accept a gift like that. "If you vill not take one, then Shortsword vill do. Solid and serviceable."

But nothing fancy, no bells or whistles. Still hits hard as any 22-calibre revolver can, though it do seem like everyone and their mothers are all moving on up to 44 calibre sidearms. I ain't no position to be shopping for new guns though, so I chat with Mr. Kalthoff a little more before bidding him farewell, and he walks me to the door to see me off with a pat on the back. "One more thing," he says, pulling out a notebook the same size as my pocket Spellbook. "Zee rifles you brought in to be registered? Zee Sheriff has zee papervork. My apologies for taking too long, but zhe Dragonov is a blueprint I have yet to study." Tucking the notebook into my inner duster pocket, he adds, "Some instruction on care and maintenance of your new weapons. Read them well."

The look in his eye tells me there's more to it than maintenance, perhaps even instructions on how to modify the very legal, semi-automatic rifles into something… less legal. "I will Mr. Kalthoff," I say, doffing my head in thanks, and he smiles to see that I got the message.

"You take care now boy. Zhe Frontier, it is dangerous, but you know zhis, yes?"

I do, and I know he does too, because I can see it in the way he glances back at Marijke before giving me a knowing look. It ain't much, but it's something, because he's telling me that he gets it, that if it'd been his girl who died back in July, then he would have stopped at nothing to see that the persons responsible paid. And folks would have jumped at the chance to help him out, not just mercs and vagabonds like yours truly, but foreign governments and Independent factions too. Anything for a chance to win the favour of the premier gunsmith west of the Divide, and maybe even further off if I'm being honest. He also knows that the day he dies, then his wife and daughter's status here in New Hope and American Territory in general will be thrown up in the air, because he's seen what the Feds done to my daddy and knows it could happen to him too.

Granted, I don't think the Dutch government has the same pull as the Republic, nor are they all that upset about Mr. Kalthoff's decision to work for an allied nation. Truth is, the Dutch ain't much of a global power here on the Frontier, or in the old world if I'm being honest, so it's apples and oranges really, but he knows full well the folly of putting his faith in the Federal government.

Wish my daddy knew it too, but then again, maybe he did. That's why he was always telling me to toe the line, expecting me to follow all the rules even when no one was looking because he knew folks would judge me harsher for it. I wouldn't just be a lawbreaker; I'd be a foreign lawbreaker, which I suppose is somehow scarier than a homegrown one. Won't say that's the whole reason I was Exiled, but something tells me that if I looked like All-American Alfred or Michael, then maybe that vote would have come in under 50%.

Food for thought as I head on back for my doctor's appointment. Before we make it off the main thoroughfare though, me and Chrissy mosey on past a group of vagrants, because what else do you call a trio of half-drunk layabouts standing about the streets on a random Wednesday? They got a whole bunch of dark stares for me, which I ignore for the most part after making sure they all bark and no bite. Irks me when they spit on the ground in front of me though, and even more when they wait until I've walked past to holler, "Your kind ain't welcome here!"

To which I should keep walking, but instead, I stop in my tracks to glance back and give them a look. That's all I do though, and while they look mighty spooked to begin with, they find courage in numbers as they approach with sneers and grimaces aplenty. "I said," the leader utters, sticking his thumbs in his belt and parting his jacket just enough to show off the big iron on his hip. "Your kind ain't welcome here."

A Shield. That's the Spell I ready, because while a Force Barrier is generally sturdier, a Shield is specifically designed to counter Bolts, albeit basic ones that ain't Metamagicked up to the gills. Easy to forget that base Cantrips ain't nowhere near as effective as they are when they got 10 Grainage of Metamagic tacked on after the fact, so the Shield won't do much against a proper Aetherarm. It'll still crack a man's nose if you slam it in his face hard enough, which is impossible to do with a Force Barrier unless he run into it himself. A bull rush, then I get to stomping on feet and knees. You kick a man's knee hard enough and it'd bend backwards with a big crack, and he won't be getting up again. Once they on the ground, that's when you get to kicking teeth, and maybe a bit of kneeling on throats to really get your message across, one that says in no uncertain terms that if we wasn't in town, I'd've killed them dead for talking to me like that.

Or maybe my message comes across loud and clear, because the three of them are starting to look little green around the gills even though I haven't said or done anything yet. All I've done is stand my ground and stare, yet they're already withering away like shrinking violets in the hot summer sun. Beside me, Cowie's got his rumbling growl going, which I usually find adorable when it comes from a sweet baby calf, but then again, he's never actually directed that sort of energy towards me. Them vagabonds don't like it much, nor are they liking the look in my eyes, but they also ain't smart enough to just walk away. Not from a crippled kid less than half their age with only a hatchet on his belt, while they all carrying sidearms which their hands inch ever closer to, but have yet to actually take hold. Soon as they do, I'll be justified in retaliating, even if they don't mean to actually draw and gun me down.

"Howie," Chrissy says, knowing good and well to stay clear of my arm, but giving me a light poke to remind me that she's here. "No fighting."

"Ain't his choice," one of the vagrant's retorts, only for Chrissy's gaze to snap onto him like a marty spotting a chitterrat. Ain't nothin' I ever seen like it before, and it puts me in mind of my concerns as to why Chrissy ain't even been allowed to use her Big Spells willy nilly, as it's a bad habit to get into.

"Right you are Princess," I say, moving to stand between her and the vagrants while staring down the three idiots to let them know they lucky I ain't in a fighting mood. Then again, isn't this why I'm getting sued to begin with? Why get so worked up about what a bunch of know nothing layabouts say? Sure, there's more of them than good folks like Mr. Kalthoff, but so long as there are any good people around, I'll continue to do what I can for them. As for these worthless shits? If they were on fire, I wouldn't care enough to cross the street and piss on them. Instead, I give them a look that says I ain't impressed, and just turn to walk away before Cowie gets angry enough to do something about it. The hecklers don't got courage enough to follow, or say anything as we leave, and I call that progress. Can't be picking fights with anyone and everyone who crosses my path no more, especially now that I'm a bonafide adult. Does put me in a dark mood though, because like Mr. Kalthoff said, I done bled, sweat, and cried for these streets, but now I ain't even allowed to walk them in peace.

Hurts when something you love don't love you back, but that one-sided love can only last so long. Time was, seeing the walls of New Hope off in the distance would never fail to put a spring in my step, but those days are long behind me. Now all I get are cold feet, because even though the people I love most still call this place home, the only thing besides them waiting for me here are dark memories. Ones I embrace and indulge as I make a quick stop at the church after sending Chrissy and Cowie home, where I mosey on over to the foot of Josie's grave with a fistful of red, yellow, and white ribbons tied to look like flowers clutched in my Mage Hands. "Hey there, beautiful. Couldn't get flowers seeing how it's winter, so I made these for you," I say arranging them into a nice little bouquet in front of her gravestone. "Your hair ribbon was always red, but you often paired it with that white and yellow sundress. I loved that outfit you know? Don't think I ever said it, but it was a lovely touch of elegance without spilling over into fancy."

The memory brings tears to my eyes and fills my chest with hollow misery, because the last time I saw her in that dress, she greeted me with her snaggle tooth smile and sidled in for a hug like it was the most natural thing in the world. And it was, because having her in my arms just felt right, like a ray of sunshine by my side to help me get through the day. Ain't none of that no more, not here in New Hope at least. Time was, everyone was close knit and worked hard to make it work, back in the early years when Mr. Kalthoff was still making guns by hand and folks like my daddy and Uncle Raleigh went out on patrol each and every day to keep the surroundings safe. Nowadays? The town's full of folks like them vagrants who only see this place as four walls to keep them safe. They all done run off when the Mindspire went up, didn't they? Left these streets ghostly empty they did, but came back just in time to vote me gone after the fact.

Yeah, looking back on it now, I think that what little love I still had for this town died alongside Josie. Which is another thing I can't get past, the fact that her blood is also a part of these streets, one I haven't been able to bring myself to walk past again.

I don't say none of that though. I talk about what I been up to, which ain't much. I make no mention of Noora either, because I don't know what to say, so I say nothing of any substance. Right up until it's almost time to leave, which is when I jump right into it. "I been thinking," I begin, reaching out to touch the gravestone only to remember my hand is merely a prosthetic. Not that I'd feel anything but cold stone anyways, but it still hurts just a little bit more. "Our baby's gonna need a name. Dunno how it works up there, but we comin' up on nine months, yeah? Been trying to think of a name that'd work for a boy or girl, but I haven't been able to come up with anything I like. I'll keep thinking, but if you got a name in mind, you should go ahead and use that. Don't wait for me to come up with something, because I ain't good with names."

Heaving a sigh, I stand up and pat my pants to dust them off even though it won't do nothing to clean them. "Sorry it took so long to say anything," I conclude, adding, "Don't know when I'll be back. Got food enough for weeks, and no good reason to come into town besides that until Spring. Might head west then, see the Deadlands as it were, though I should probably write a letter asking if I'm welcome first." Shrugging, I heave another sigh and say, "You'll probably get sick of my bellyaching soon enough anyways, but I just… I don't know what to do without you. Last year, it all seemed so clear. Get a crew, train up until we Ranger ready, then go delving for Proggies and whatnot. Then I lost my hand and fell in love with you, and things changed. I was ready for a life with you and the baby, to get back on track to earn a living again. Now though? Now I don't got much reason for doin' anything at all. More houses than I need with no one to live in them, and hands to shoot guns with but no purpose to shoot them."

I trail off there, because the next bit don't need to be said. I could keep killing Abby I suppose. Become a full on merc and maybe find work of that nature, while working hard to be a good man, whatever that means. Don't really know, except to follow by example, because it ain't like I can ask the one truly Good Man I know. It won't make me rich, I know that for sure, not working solo like I do, and I still gotta consider what Uncle Rigsby said about donating my windfall regarding the quay to earn some goodwill with the locals.

Goodwill which I don't really care to have if I'm being honest. Ain't like I'm planning a trip west because I can't stand it here. I'm just eager to see the sights for lack of anything better to do, and the fact that heading south is probably a death sentence for a fella like me. If the Qin don't get me, the locals might, and I've no desire to go out like that.

Not even if it means seeing some people I miss so very much.

Which brings me back to what brought me here in the first place. "I miss you," I say, for the first time ever out loud. "I wish you was here. Wish I could've married you. Built us a house to live in while we was making ready to raise our baby together. I know you was worried, but you would've made a great mama, sweet and caring as you are." Heaving a sigh I imagine the sweet life that could have been. Not just with Josie, but everything. Me running my own crew with some good friends. Or being a bonafide Ranger running missions with my daddy and Uncle Raleigh. All that and more has been denied me, and no matter how much I pretend otherwise, it hurts to know it'll never come to pass.

Don't say none of that out loud. Instead, I say, "You know how it is though. If wishes were fishes, then wouldn't no one starve." Fighting back tears as I run my left hand over the inscription on her headstone and remember our last dance together, I whisper, "Love you Josie."

And on that note, I bid my beloved Josie goodbye, wishing her all the best where she is and believing in my heart of hearts that she ain't listening. Not because she don't care, but because she can't, as she's dead and gone forever more. Hard to have faith in happily ever after when all you got to cling to is a hope and a prayer, especially when I ain't ever been one for prayer. Truth is, I probably spent my last few minutes talking to a stone and my own imagination, but even if that's the case, I still feel better for having said it. Ain't nothing left to do but face the music now, because soon as Uncle Art gets the last of my stitches out and gives me a clean bill of health, then I'm homebound for the quay where nothing and no one awaits.

It's looking like a long and lonely winter ahead, with no real change slated to come until spring. No change unless I make it of course, because any Diviner worth their salt will tell you that no one can predict the future. Alls we can do is use the present to make the best decisions moving forward, and bring our past along with us for the ride. The life of a father and husband have been denied be, and I done forfeited a future as the Firstborn too, so whatever my come, I'll have to make do with what I've got, and move forward into a future of my own design.