I fucking hate boats.

  Always have, but never really figured out why until I bought one for myself. On the advice of the salesman, which was my first mistake, I went with a catamaran, a boat I imagine started off as two canoes and a raft until some fella decided to put it all together into one silly looking ship. Now don’t get it twisted; the catamaran checked all the right boxes, measuring in at a cool 12 meters long and 5 meters wide for a right sizable vessel indeed. Two hulls makes it more stable than most, which is great since I got me a delicate stomach, and it’s also ideal for a single operator since you won’t be struggling to keep your balance as much while tending to the single masted sail. Does great out in the deep waters of the lake, and supposedly works well along river rapids too, so long as you stick to the wider ones without any sharp twists or turns. The real draw is its shallow draft, meaning how much of the boat sits beneath the waterline at full load. Not much in this case, allowing it to navigate through the rocky lakeshore shallows with ease which came in clutch these last four and a half months as I got real familiar with my new surroundings after moving out to the recently renamed Ming’s Quay.

  The real big seller for the catamaran though was the extensive cabin and abundance of cargo space. Could live on the thing if I had to, with a cozy little living area complete with a bedroom, sitting area, galley, and washroom all across the bow of the ship, or the front as I still call it. The back area, or the aft if we’re feeling nautical, is where all the storage goes, with room enough to fit my wagon if I’m feeling so inclined. Saves me time and effort if I gotta bring it in for repairs, which I haven’t had to do yet, but shelling out extra for a bigger boat seemed sensible since now I can head west with everything I’ll ever need should the mood ever strike me.

  All in all, the catamaran sounded perfect on paper, and truth be told, my issue ain’t really with the specifics of my boat in particular. It’s a fine vessel, one that’ll get me where I’m going so long as its by water, but here’s the thing. When you go shopping for a sailboat, don’t no one ever tell you what a miserable experience owning a boat really is. Maintaining a wagon ain’t nothing compared to keeping tabs on your boat, because boats are made of wood, and wood tends to rot when left in water for extended periods of time. I figured someone would’ve come up with a way to fix that, seeing how boats are meant to go in water and don’t float so good when they falling apart. Turns out, the fix is to minimize the amount of time your boat spends in the water, which makes sense, but hardly seems ideal. Hauling your boat out of the water whenever you ain’t using it is fine for a raft or canoe, and utterly inconvenient for my bulky beast of a catamaran.

  Getting it out of the water ain’t enough either. You gotta scrape off the mud, algae, and other gunk it picks up too, then check it for cracks and leaks after every single trip. Gotta oil the wood every week to keep it water-resistant, and reapply resin ideally once a month. Should do a full re-seal with wax and turpentine every six months, a deadline that’s coming up soon, so I gotta make an appointment so someone who knows what they’re doing can show me how it’s done.

  Even if you do everything right, that don’t guarantee your ship will sail, which is almost as miserable an experience as maintaining the vessel to begin with. Motion sickness is the least of my worries, albeit one I suffer from all the same despite the catamaran being a smoother ride than most. With the wagon, I leave all the driving to Cowie, and he’s an excellent driver to be sure. Me though? Even if you overlook the fact that I try to make do with only one hand most of the time, I’m a terrible sailor, no two ways about it, always fumbling with knots and forgetting to do this or that, because there’s just so goddamned much to keep track of. Yeah, the big catamaran can technically be manned by a single person, the same way my boot can technically fit up your ass, but what sort of fool would volunteer for that sort of pain?

  The worst part of all? The lack of fine control when it comes to where you going. You got some say in all of it, as you can trim sail, turn the rudder, and change course as you like, but if the winds or currents don’t agree, then you gonna get nowhere fast. Nor can you turn or stop on a dime either, so you always gotta be thinking at least five moves ahead wherever you going, keeping in mind your mass and momentum while watching for traffic from a klick or two away and listening to the static of the Radio in the background. One that’s always gotta be on when you out on the waters, because Last Chance Lake almost always has a thick layer of fog covering it in the early morning, which is when I typically set out for a trip.

  You can’t even stay cozy in the cabin while sailing out and about, not by your lonesome at least. Gotta always be top deck by the sails and rudders, exposed to the cutting bite of the cold winter winds made worse by the freezing spray of mist that inevitably drenches you from head to toe as you sail onwards into the mist. Makes being out on the lake this first of December extra unpleasant, though Cowie is having a ball with his furry white head stuck out over the side of the ship and lapping away at the spray like he chasing snowflakes. Yeah, he loves winter since it means staying home with his girl cows and favourite people, but me, not so much. Fact is, December is easily my least favourite month, even though everyone and their mother seems to love it. I myself never much cared for Christmas or New Years, and my birthday falling in between the two only makes the holiday season that much worse.

  Because the day of my birth is also the anniversary of my mama’s death, and the day before that, my daddy’s.

  Terrible times all around, though its still a few weeks away yet, so I try not to let it drag me down until it gets here. Tough to do when you don’t got much else going for you, and doubly so when you pull up on the town docks and find five guards standing ready and waiting to receive you, all wearing similar scowls and just looking for an excuse to use the semi-automatic rifles they carrying at the ready. I pay them no mind as I drift in alongside the berth I was directed to, mostly because I can’t spare nothing for them since parking my boat is a tricksy thing I’ve yet to get the hang of. Despite my best efforts, the side of my catamaran bangs into the dock instead of floating in right alongside it, and I wince to hear the wood impact against stone. Hoping nothing cracked or broke, I heave a sigh and head over to check the damage, which ain’t nothing more than a bit of a graze. That’s fortunate, because I’d hate to have to spend my whole day fixing my boat instead of going about my business on this rare trip into town, one that looks like it’ll start off same as every other visit I’ve had since I was Exiled.

  With my hands up, palms out, and lips pursed as the supervising guard Dave shouts, “Weapon!” and they all point their rifles at me for the umpteenth time. Ain’t a pleasant experience, having a gun pointed at you, even if I know they ain’t actually gonna shoot. Least I’m pretty sure they won’t, and that uncertainty is where the vast majority of unpleasantness stems from, so I look the man dead in the eyes and show no emotion while waiting for his next command. Dave ain’t in no rush though, because this paunchy, donut devourer lives for this sorta shit, flaunting his flimsy authority to distract him from his receding hairline which ain’t a widow’s peak so much as a widow’s point. That’s why he goes around looking for opportunities to flash his gun, not to mention how he likes watching people squirm. I don’t give him the satisfaction though, just stand there with what I hope is a bored expression while my boat bobs and scrapes against the dock.

  For a good 30 seconds at the very least, though it feels longer while sitting in the hotseat. Or standing as it were, and Cowie don’t like it any more than I do, but he knows the drill by now. Doesn’t stop him from glaring at the men with guns, breathing all loud and heavy like only a two-tonne beast can, which is far less intimidating when it comes from a baby calf. Still gets the guards twitchy though, and should any one of them point their gun at Cowie, then they gonna get shot by yours truly. Warned them all that’s what would happen the first time they tried this, and so far, I’ve yet to make good on the warning because they’ve all toed the line, but relying on the competence of the town guards in New Hope is like house-training a marty.

  They understand they ain’t supposed to shit on the carpet, but every now and then, they’ll still do it just because they can.

  That’s why I’m geared to the gills, wearing my armoured plate carrier under my duster and armed for bear, with my Model 10 on my left hip, my Rattlesnake on the right, two Nagas on a bandolier, and two Judges in the small of my back. Also got my Mage Armour on and a Force Barrier readied to Cast, which seems like a real waste of a Second Order Spell. They probably ain’t gonna shoot, but it’s a price I’m more than happy to pay since I get guns pointed at me every time I dock at New Hope. Gone are they days when I could just show up and mosey on through the gates with a wave and a smile, as ever since I was Exiled, I gotta go through this whole song and dance each and every time I visit.

  All because Dave there wants to feel like a big man for a few minutes so he can brag about how he had the big bad Qink shaking in his boots.

  Exile is a misleading term though. I ain’t exactly banned from town. I just need a visa to get in now. Means informing the town guards in advance what time I intend to arrive, and leaving all my weapons on the boat. Now, some might go through this once or twice and decide they’re better off disarming themselves before arriving the docks, but I’m a man of principles, and I will not be bullied into compliance by a know-nothing, gravy SEAL, human piece of waste like Dave. I know I got the law on my side, and he’s here playing games with his gun like it’s all some big joke, without realizing how close he comes to death each and every time we meet.

  So I stare him down and think murderous thoughts, like how I could kill Dave and two of his friends before the remainder shoot back, meaning I’d only have to tank two rifle shots. Or shots from two rifles more likely, as the guards are all carrying 22-10 El-Ministers, semi-automatic weapons that pack a punch despite lacking Maximize Metamagic in the kit. Same gun the boots learn with, but these days, I’m pretty sure they’re using the 44-40 calibre versions since Abby are getting meaner and tougher by the day. These rifles are probably older army surplus sold to civilian outfits, as that’s the way of the law-enforcement world it seems, but even the town guards don’t got enough El-ministers to arm every single one of their men. No, Dave and his buddies brought these rifles out especially for me, and they got them pointed centre mass because even if they hit armour, it’ll really ruin my week.

  Still better off then them though, since they don’t got any armour to speak of, just the standard grey polo shirt and khaki pants under their heavy winter coats. Even if they did have armour, I’ve been defaulting to the Naga more often of late, for the same reason why the army moved up to 44-40. I skipped over that calibre and jumped to 45-60 instead, because if you gonna go big, you might as well go whole hog. The Naga would make a mess out of Dave even if he had armour and a wall in front of him, but he too stupid to understand he’s playing with fire, doesn’t know I’m one bad day or intrusive thought away from gunning him down on the docks and rolling the dice with the woefully inadequate Federal Justice System.

  Spent more time thinking it through than I care to admit, but in my defense, I’ve had plenty of time to think these last few months making a life out at the quay.

  For starters, Dave ain’t declared himself as port authority just yet. I could shoot him and claim I didn’t know who he was, just saw the guns and reacted. Which is flimsy to be sure, seeing how they all in uniform, but that’s hard to see with their winter gear on, so I can just say I didn’t notice. What’s more, even if he does declare his affiliation, that don’t give him cause to aim down sights. Keeping weapons ready is fine and dandy, but pointing them straight at me before I’ve given cause is counter to rules of engagement and counts as an actionable threat. That second bit don’t hold much water, since it stems from the Accords, and the port at New Hope falls under the jurisdiction of Federal Law. Thing is, my boat is still my boat though, and seeing how I have yet to actually dock or make any move to step onto the docks, it can be argued that I’d still be covered under the Accords. Again, a flimsy justification, and I’d still have to deal with Dave’s fellow guards, not just the ones on the docks, but the ones up in them towers overlooking them too, as well as the whole host of guards at the gates and walls not too far away.

  And yet, it’s almost worth it so long as I get to kill Dave dead, because the man is a festering cesspool of unpleasant interaction, and built like a tactical teapot to boot. Short, stout, and liable to pour his heart out soon as you got any leverage on him, that’s the sort of person Dave is, somehow slouching despite standing with weapon aimed down sights and shifting his weight back and forth like standing is too much for him. Got a scowl that’ll stop a Diamondclaw in its tracks, but only because of the foul breath emanating from it, and a fresh sheen of sweat across his mostly balding forehead despite the frosty winter air blowing across the docks. “Don’t you fucking move,” he growls, even though I ain’t moved in half a minute, “Or I’ll blow a hole clean through you.”

  Doubtful, because while the El-minister ain’t no slouch, it won’t be putting holes cleans through no one even on its best day. Might crater my chest in, but that’s not a hole, which I admit is really getting into semantics. That being the case, I do as I’m told and continue standing there on my boat, while doing my best not to stare at the wavering barrel as Dave struggles to track my movement as I bob up and down on the gentle waves. “Nice and slow now,” he says, slipping his finger inside the trigger guard for good measure, “Remove the bandolier with one hand and place it on the ground beside you.”

  “Sure,” I say, and I begin narrating my actions for the sake of the Video recording I got going on. The bull’s head medallion on my Stetson can’t see my hands, but the hidden camera I installed onto my boat is getting this whole interaction from a different angle, one that will show in no uncertain terms that my hand never goes for my weapon. The second camera is there in case Dave ever ‘accidentally’ shoots me and tries to ruin the crystal, since everyone and their mother knows I run my hat camera to record everything all the time now. Won’t do me much good if I’m dead, but at the very least, Aunty Ray will have enough evidence to put Dave away in a prison camp for a good 20 or so years.

  The bandolier with both Nagas comes off, followed by my gun belt with the Model 10, Rattlesnake, and twin Judges. Next goes the belt with all my pouches and grenades, followed by my hatchet which I keep sheathed in a thigh holster these days. Also got a hunting knife in my boot which Dave forgets to account for, so I kindly remind him after he steps onto the boat to pat me down, and enjoy the look of panic that crosses his ugly face when he thinks I’m making a threat. Satisfying as it is, my actions are not without consequence as his scowl turns even uglier and he says, “Lose the hand too. For my safety.”

  Biting back the urge to say something snippy or borderline threatening, I peel off the poorly fitted glove over my right hand to reveal the wooden hand underneath. It’s the same model I done carved and used during the Ceremony of Connection, as I ain’t gotten around to replacing it just yet, but I have made a few modifications for quality of life. Namely I done sawn it off at the base so the flat wooden base is still nestled in a cavity of flesh which healed around it to hold it snugly in place, then fixed a couple easy release clamps on so I can remove the hand when I sleep. Or when asked to by port authority guards like Dave, which seems all sorts of wrong but ain’t nothing in the laws or Accords against it. The wooden hand goes down onto the pile of guns and gear, and I give Dave a look that promises he will one day pay for all this and more, but he don’t get the message. He just smirks and goes about his business making sure I ain’t carrying any other weapons. Leaves no stone unturned as he goes through my hat, my duster, the insides of my boots, and even makes me take off my socks and unfold my kerchief, all of which is meant to humiliate me in plain view, but I go through it all the same since there ain’t nothing to be done.

  When he’s finally run out of things to check, he gives me a scowl like it’s my fault he done wasted all his time. “Next time, stow all your weapons away before docking,” he says, which is what he says every time we go through this song and dance, and as usual, I pay him no mind. “Hey!” he snaps, displeased with my lacking respect for his paltry authority and taking the affront all too personally. “I’m talking to you boy. You hear me?”

  “I hear you,” I reply, giving him a shrug. “Just ain’t nothin’ worth listenin’ to. I know my rights, and I am well within them to carry while standing on this ship, so I’ll continue to do so until a judge tells me otherwise.” His scowl darkens, and I use my one hand to gesture for him to hurry along, because we done this song and dance before. Them’s the rules, because a gun locked in a safe won’t help me none if Abby or outlaws appear as I pull up to the docks. Which is a long shot to be fair, but I ain’t about to be bullied by some tater-tot looking son of a bitch who thinks he’s tough as nails when he soft as a whisper on a cool spring breeze.

  Plus, who knows? Maybe one day, he’ll step over the line and I’ll shoot him dead. Won’t that be a treat?

  Once Dave feels all safe and sound with me unarmed and his 4 buddies’ rifles pointed at my unarmed self, we go through the whole rigamarole of declaring my goods and inspecting my boat, which he looks over with a fine-tooth comb in hopes of catching me in the act. Got nothing but hides, Cores, and cash in the hold, because ain’t no trading to be done what with winter approaching, but Dave takes a long time clearing me because he don’t know the rules he himself is supposed to enforce. Gets real jammed up on a Lightning Beam Spell Core I brung in to sell, which is admittedly a restricted Spell Core deemed for military use only, but that just means I can’t be building no Aetherarm out of it. Ain’t nothing against selling the Core a la carte, because if there was, that’d be a stupid law that would only ensure no one would ever bring any of those highly coveted restricted Spell Cores into Federal Territory.

  So even though I tell Dave as much, and two of his guard buddies say the same, I still gotta stand here and wait for their supervisor Chester to make the trek all the way out and tell Dave he’s a fucking dumbass. Thankfully, Chester also takes over from there and sends me on my way after administering a blood test to check my prepped Spells and watching me lock up all my guns and ammo in the ship’s safe. I get to keep my hatchet, belt pouches, and hunting knife of course, and he even grimaces when he sees me pick up my wooden hand off the boat’s deck. Not sure if it’s because he thinks Dave overstepped in asking me to remove it, or if Chester’s wondering if the rumours are true and I actually have two hands somehow.

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  To be fair, I do, but ain’t no one got proof of it just yet. They just say as much because everyone wholeheartedly believes I done burned most of Brightpick to the ground after killing almost every member of the Pugliano Family this past July, and the man who done that had two working hands. I don’t go around showing off my Wildshaped Hand though, and in fact have still been working on an Automaton prosthesis to help me out in my day-to-day life. For a lot of reasons really, but mostly because I can only maintain the hand for 10 hours a day, and I’m awake for 16 to 18, so I’d much rather keep it in reserve for when I really need it.

  Granted, wearing three pistols positioned for a right-handed draw isn’t doing much to dispute the rumours, but while I’ve yet to admit to my part in slaughtering the Puglianos, I ain’t all that bothered about denying it either. Like Aunty Ray said, it ain’t about what folks say; it’s about what the Federal Government can prove, and so far, they ain’t found nothing to pin those crimes on me.

  With Chester, Dave, and the rest of the guards all there to escort me, my trip through the gate is a quick one. Feels like Dave wants to keep following me through town, but Chester ain’t about that as he holds the other man back. Maybe to chew him out for being a dumbass, or maybe Chester just don’t want to deal with the paperwork should I ever snap and kill the fool for going too far. Either way, it’s no skin off my back as I mosey on down the main thoroughfare with baby Cowie at my side and a Floating Disc sled at my heels.

  Been a long time since coming into town has put a smile on my face, as all the fond memories of the place have been tainted by my recent Exile. Townfolk didn’t waste no time doing it either. I was out of Brightpick less than 24 hours after firing the first shot, and linked up with Clayton no 24 hours after that. The Rangers found me a half-day later and took me into custody, where they made me ride through the night and most of the day to make it back to New Hope, where they done already convened in my absence and voted on Exiling me with an overwhelming majority less than 72 hours after the party kicked off. Certainly threw me for a loop, seeing bureaucracy speed through the motions so quickly, and while it took a few more days for Judge McKean to ratify the decision, I’d already left town by then. Didn’t even fight the Exile, though my lawyer assures me it was highly possible to win and even contest after the fact. Something about the constitution and indigenous land rights and whatnot, seeing how I’m a local to the Frontier who’d been living in New Hope longer than a town has been here and had yet to even be tried for a crime, much less convicted, but I didn’t feel like arguing the case.

  Ain’t worth the effort. New Hope ain’t home anymore, and won’t never be again, not after so much has happened here. Only reason I still bother coming back is to see family and friends, because I can do all my banking and business in Riverrun with about half the hassle, or even less if I care to make the 2-day ride to Irongate. Would certainly get better prices there, especially since Stan at the military procurement office got some sort of grudge against me, though I don’t much care to find out why. What I do know is that he always lowballs me with the first offer, and the best I’ve ever gotten in 90% market value. Which is bullshit, because those market rates are for your average sized Cores, and the ones I bring in tend to be much bigger than most since I get them from the badlands more often than not. Today, he's feeling extra stubborn as he checks my Cores one by one to make sure they’re labelled correctly inside the lockbox, then scowls as he does the math long hand on a sheet of paper and makes multiple mistakes on the way down to give me an offer that’s frankly insulting.

  “That’s less than forty percent market value,” I say, having long since run the numbers in my head using the same chart he keeps referencing.

  “It’s seventy five percent,” Stan replies.

  “It’s exactly thirty-seven point eight two one four,” I snap, because the man can’t do simple addition to save his fucking life. Pointing out his mistakes on the paper in front of him, I say, “You forgot to carry numbers over here, here, and here.” I leave off the scathing ‘dumbass’ and continue, “Not to mention this market value for a Lightning Beam Core is three years old, and mine is 50% larger than the listed dimensions. I wouldn’t accept the full value, much less a percentage of it, so quit wasting my time and make me a real offer.”

  Stan’s eyes narrow, and his thin lips curl in a sneer. “That’s the only offer you’ll get young man. Take it or leave it, you godless, Aberration loving heathen. You should be grateful we even still allow you in here, much less care to do business.”

  Somehow, the fact that I done killed plenty of Abby to get all these Cores don’t factor into his logic of me being a cultist myself. I don’t argue though, and don’t even gotta think as I say, “Fine.” Waiting a beat for Stan to smile and reach for the box of Cores, I slam the cover shut and just barely miss his fingers. “I’ll leave it. Go fuck yourself, Stan.” His shocked distress at the statement only further fuels my rage, because he’s standing there all scared and offended like he don’t deserve none of my ire. “You think what you do here is a business? You’re a fucking leech, a do-nothing middle man getting fat off the labour of others. You read prices off a chart and short-change folks who bring in Cores so you can turn around to sell them to the military full price. A job made only possible because ain’t no one got the time or patience to go through official channels, and you say I ought to be grateful?”

  Spitting on his floor and resisting the urge to smack him upside the head, I snarl and say, “You a worthless sack of shit Stan. You bring no value to this transaction, have no purpose here on the Frontier, and I’d sooner feed these Cores to stray marties in the street than see you profit off my efforts.”

  My piece said, I march on out of the store and slam the door behind me, then glare at everyone who glances my way as if daring them to make a fuss. Much like Stan is in his shop behind me, having found his voice now that I ain’t standing in front of him and ranting about heretics and reporting me for carrying illegal Spell Cores and whatnot. Another fool who doesn’t know the laws he himself is supposed to enforce, because again, there ain’t nothing illegal about possessing a Lightning Beam Spell Core. Thinks just cause I’m Exiled, he can walk all over me, but I don’t need him to move these Cores. I only brung them along because it’s more convenient this way.

  Just got into town and I’m already in a mood, which is why I walk away from the next three lowball offers for my hides before giving up on doing any sort of business in town. Don’t even care to buy anything, because I’ll get gouged the same way, so I amble towards Aunty Ray’s while moving real slow, as it’s still too early for lunch and I don’t want her or Chrissy to see me all heated like this.

  That’s why they weren’t waiting at the gates after all. They knew I’d be at the docks at 9 sharp, because that’s the earliest I’m allowed into town. Business hours only, except between the standoff with Dave and shakedown from Stan and them other sellers, I’ve wasted a whole hour of my limited day doing dick all. Granted, it’s not like I had a busy day planned, because aside from a meeting with my lawyer set late in the afternoon, I don’t got much else to do here in town. Figured I’d spend the day with Chrissy, then head on home for the weekend with Noora once she finishes up with boot camp. Also been meaning to have a conversation with Aunty Ray, one I know she ain’t gonna be pleased to have, but it’s gotta be done all the same. Knowing I won’t be able to keep it from her for long, I let my footfalls slow as I pass the church, and find myself heading around to the cemetery without ever making the conscious decision to go there.

  Leaving the hides with Cowie at the gates and keeping the case of Cores in hand, I head on in to pay my respects to Josie and her parents. After the whole debacle with the Madness, she’d come here every day just to chat and cry, but I’ve only spoken to her the once. Was right after I got back from Brightpick and learned I done already been Exiled, but I didn’t much care because I’d accomplished most of what I set out to do. Told her as much too, sat right here in front of her tombstone and said, “I did it Josie. Got almost everyone responsible for your death and paid them back in kind. Only one person slipped through the cracks, but I’ll get her soon enough too.”

  I didn’t, which really sticks in my craw. In the days following what the papers called the Pugliano Purge, Mia emptied out the Family vaults and absconded with a supposed fortune in cash, gold, precious stones, and Lord knows what else, and I’ve yet to hear word of her whereabouts since. I’ve put out all sorts of feelers, both legal and extralegal, but if anyone knows where she is, they ain’t talking. Girl’s gone to ground and seems intent on staying that way, but I don’t got no quit in me, and won’t ever stop looking. Could take a year, a decade, or half a fucking century, but soon as she surfaces, you can be damn well sure I’ll be dogging her heels to make her pay for what she’s done.

  With interest to boot, because I ain’t a patient or forgiving man, and this delay only makes me that much angrier.

  Not that killing Mia will make me feel any better. Taking out most of the Pugliano Family didn’t raise my spirits one tick, though I never expected it to. Just couldn’t stand to have them there after what they done, so killing was just a necessary step, a goal to accomplish so I’d have something to focus on besides losing Josie. Which I been doing a lot of lately. Focusing on losing Josie that is. Dreaming of what life would be like if she were still here with me, and it’s bittersweet as can be. Been almost five months now, and some mornings, I still wake up thinking I’ll find her there beside me. You’d think I’d’ve grown numb to the pain now, or at least gotten used to it, but it gets worse with each passing day, because I miss her all the more.

  She’d be 26 weeks along by now, or round thereabouts, almost into the third trimester as it were. I imagine she’d have swelled up like a balloon, carrying all that baby weight in her belly, and I can’t even picture what that’d look like. She’d probably make faces in the mirror at how she looks, because she never thought of herself as beautiful even though she most certainly was, and me being the fool I am, I didn’t work hard enough to convince her of the truth. If she were still here, I would’ve likely finished building most of our house by now, as I would’ve been highly motivated to get it done before the first snow which has yet to fall this year. Good for me and my wallet, since I could’ve saved on labour costs by doing most the work myself. Can’t rightly picture the house though, only me and Josie inside it, sat on a couch by the fireplace while cuddled up together, talking about baby names and baptism and all that sort of stuff.

  Our child would’ve been a March baby, which is a good month. Not too early in the year, but early enough to give them a head start against their peers, and spring is always a cheery time, full of hope and light. Then again, I don’t think there’d be many peers for our kid, since most older women are done birthing children, while most younger ones ain’t reached an acceptable age just yet. So our kid might well have been the Firstborn of their own generation, which I’m a little torn about. Ain’t much benefit to being the oldest, especially if there ain’t no one your age share those experiences with. I would know. I get what the Marshal was trying to say during our last lesson together now, about how my daddy pushed me harder than necessary. A statement I don’t agree with, because if anything, he didn’t push me hard enough, seeing how I damn well forgot almost everything he taught me the second he passed away, and it took me 3 years to get back on track. All I’m saying is that it was a lonely experience. Not just being seen as the Firstborn, but trying to live up to it too, a burden I’ve long since put down and am better off for it.

  Was supposed to become the tip of the spear in the war against Abby, be the shining example for all the Frontier born to look up to. Fuck that though. Why should I bend over backwards and risk my hide for cowards and ingrates like Dave and Stan? They can fend for themselves, and if Abby come up and eat them up, then won’t nothing of value be lost, and the Frontier will be better off for it.

  Either way, I never would’ve wanted my kid to go through that same sort of isolation, giving them no real chance to make friends and experience childhood like they should. It’s become painfully clear I don’t got many friends, and while there was a time when I would’ve said I don’t care much for it, a couple months living alone in the sticks will change your perspective right quick. It’s lonely out there, even with a steady stream of wagons and boats coming and going along the docks all throughout the work week. Don’t got much to do with me though, as the Rangers set up a dockmaster who collects all the fees now, some fella named Doug who’s got one foot in the grave and sails to and from New Hope each and every day. All I gotta do is maintain the properties and deal with the errant squatter who would rather break into a boarded-up house and risk my ire than sleep outside under the stars for a night.

  Haven’t shot anyone over it just yet, but I’ve come damn close and am fast running out of patience.

  Life at the quay is a far cry from what it would’ve been like if I’d done my job and kept Josie safe, and it breaks my frail heart all over again to admit it here and now. Happens almost every time I come here and read the epitaph on her gravestone. ‘Here lies Josie Ramirez. May the music never end so that she might dance with the angels, until such a time when we can dance together again.’ I should’ve danced with her more, should’ve had many more dances to come, but won’t be no dancing till the bell tolls for me, or at least that’s the dream, the only one left to me. That one day, when I finally breathe my last, I’ll open my eyes anew and find Josie waiting there for me, alongside our baby, our parents, and everyone else we’ve lost along the way.

  A dream I gotta work hard to even pretend to believe, but one I cling to all the same, because what else do I got?

  Difficult as it is to bring myself to visit Josie’s grave, walking away is even harder, so I sit there for some time and think about what I’ve lost until I can’t put it off any longer. Reaching out to touch the headstone, the empty cavity in my chest grows when I find no warmth or comfort to be had. Which is only to be expected, because it’s just a cold gravestone, but I still fool myself each and every time. Feeling more lost than ever, I trudge on out the cemetery gates to find the Padre keeping Cowie company while bundled up in a jacket that don’t look warm enough for the weather. It hasn’t snowed yet, but the windchill ain’t nothing to sneeze at, as the Padre would know standing there with no hat, no gloves, and pants so thin they might well be made of cheesecloth.

  Still got that same goofy smile as always, with his shaggy, auburn curls and youthful, clean shaven features making him look twenty-five despite being in his early forties. “Good to see you Howie,” he says, throwing his arms out in offer of a hug, but I hold out a hand to keep him from committing and offer a shake instead. With the wrong hand, but the Padre grabs the wooden prosthetic with both hands in what I imagine is a warm show of support, only to blink and glance down when he notices something feels off. Doesn’t throw him off for long though as he continues, “Miss seeing your face in the crowd when I’m standing at the pulpit. You’ve been a staple of the church longer than most of the pews, so I find myself looking for you every time I’m up there.”

  “Good to see you too Padre,” I reply, and for once, I actually mean it. He’s a good man who never done wrong by me, and I heard from Danny that he spent weeks giving scathing sermons rebuking his flock for Exiling me in the first place. Not that he believes I’ve nothing to do with the Puglianos, or the rumoured cultists who supposedly done them in. No, he knows for a fact I was mixed up in all that, but he’s all about forgiveness and absolution and all that. Can’t repent for your sins if you get kicked out of church, but at least I don’t gotta make excuses for not showing up every Sunday. “Unfortunately, I’m only allowed in town on business only, and church don’t count.”

  “It should,” the Padre retorts, as serious as I ever seen him. “No government should ever be allowed to bar a man from his faith.” I don’t got anything to say, and he don’t push me to continue, since he knows my faith was never all that strong to begin with. Meeting my eyes with that friendly look, he says, “I’ve told you this before, but if you ever need to talk, I am always here for you. Don’t even have to come to church. We could be pen pals, writing letters to one another if you’d like.”

  “Thanks Padre,” I say, repressing a shudder at the genuine offer because even asynchronous communication via the written word is too much socializing for me to endure. Lonely though it might be up at the quay, I’m nowhere near that desperate just yet, and would hope I die long before I even come close. “Much appreciated, but I ain’t never had much to say, much less write.”

  “I know, but not much isn’t nothing.” Giving me a sheepish look like he done been caught stealing candy, the Padre purses his lips and gestures towards the cemetery. “I may or may not have noticed that you never really say anything during your visits. You just sorta sit there and stare.” Straightening up, he hurriedly adds, “Which is perfectly fine and normal. We all grieve in different ways, and silent brooding might well be yours. I’m just saying that maybe you might want to considering trying something different and seeing how that goes. Like talking to her. Doesn’t have to be out loud. You could write a letter and leave it there, or even just pray at home and talk to her then.” Hesitating for a bit, he continues, “You could also try talking to someone else. Like say, Mr. Ellis? I know you two left things off on a harsh note, and you have your disagreements, but that doesn’t mean you gotta let that come between you. When’s the last time the two of you spoke?”

  The day the Rangers dragged me back to town, where he sat me down in the same interrogation room as always with the Sheriff and the Judge, except this time he was sitting front and centre. Didn’t say nothing to start, or have any soft smiles or concerned looks for my accomplishments or injuries alike. Just sat there all grim and foreboding as he pulled out a few Photo printouts for me to look at, pictures taken outside the Pugliano Family’s personal storage warehouse, the one that wasn’t on any records. Showed a bunch of bodies of men I killed, 3 of which were shot with my 3-Line from less than a hundred metres away, and one who got a point-blank Blast to the face.

  Gio’s picture was the hardest to look at though, because even though I was the one who done mangled him like that, it ain’t easy seeing my dark work in the light of day, especially after a few hours have passed and lividity has set in. Bodies got all sorts of gases inside, and they swell up after the fact since corpses don’t breathe, turning a gruesome sight all the more macabre that don’t look better under bright lights. Doubly so when it’s all carved and chopped up like it is, to say nothing of the swathe of ugly Acid burns I inflicted before hand, leaving patches of bubbling, yellowed flesh and stark white exposed bone showing as testament to what Gio went through before he died.

  The other 4 bodies, I don’t pay much mind to, until the Marshal names them off one by one. Turns out, the man who answered the door and got the Whumper to the face is Sheriff Barone, the lawbreaking lawman of Brightpick, while the 3 dead mooks outside were his deputies. Which is no skin off my back, because who cares about a bent Sheriff and his bent deputies right? Least, that’s what I was thinking, until the Marshal listed off the third and final deputy I done shot that night, the one stood in an alley trying to light his cig.

  “Deputy Corey Macintyre,” the Marshal intones, and make no mistake, it’s the Marshal sitting there across from me. Only instead of the calm and neutral cadence he used with the others, there’s a fire in his chest as he adds, “An undercover operative working closely with the Rangers to document the widespread corruption in the Brightpick Sheriff’s office. A good man survived by his wife and three kids, all because some fool vigilante decided his personal revenge was more important than justice.”

  Caught up in the moment, I of course answered without thinking. “Might be that vigilante realized there ain’t no justice to be had, none from the Feds at least.” Unrepentant. That’s the tone I took with him, even though I knew I was in the wrong, and that right there is an unforgivable sin in the Marshal’s eyes.

  Saw it then and there, the light of hope extinguish from his eyes, and I ain’t talked to him since. Might never get to see Uncle Teddy again, though I’ve seen the Marshal once or twice these last few months. Those are two different men, and I’ve disappointed them both, especially considering the circumstances. That undercover deputy was the final kill outside, but there was a fourth deputy present who done gone and rabbited away, one I let go because he wasn’t worth chasing down. If Corey there had decided to stand on the other side of the alley, I would’ve killed the other guy, and maybe he could’ve run free, but that’s just how it goes sometimes. Luck of the dice as it were, and Corey done rolled snake eyes, so he died even though he shouldn’t have.

  While I regret having killed a good man, I still believe the collateral damage is better than leaving the Puglianos to fester up in Brigtpick, because Lord knows how many people they would’ve killed in the months since. Mostly because I set them up for a gang war against a rival Family, but even if I didn’t, they would’ve killed far more than one innocent man while going about their daily business. The Feds don’t care about those lives though, because that’s just the cost of doing business, but God forbid someone take matters into their own hands and disrupt trade and commerce while excising a criminal enterprise from society.

  Gritting my teeth as I come back to the present, I look the Padre in the eyes and say, “It’s been a while since we talked, but the Marshal knows where to find me.” Because I ain’t gonna go to him with hat in hand and pretend like I regret what I done. I feel for Deputy Corey and his family, and it weighs heavy on my conscience to know I killed an innocent man, but it ain’t all on me. I was the finger on the trigger, sure, but I wasn’t the one who let the Puglianos run rampant in Brightpick for the better part of a decade, and if the Marshal don’t see nothing wrong with that, then we don’t got nothing to talk about.

  He's still grappling with the fact that I ain’t ever gonna be the Firstborn he wanted me to be, and I’m still struggling to accept that the Marshal ain’t the hero I thought he was. Until such a time as we can both come to terms with the facts, then perhaps it’s best if we both went our separate ways.

  It’s high time to say goodbye the Padre too, but after bidding him farewell and walking a few steps away, I turn back to ask a question that’s been weighing heavy on my heart. “Hey Padre,” I begin, and the look of hope and excitement he gives me when he turns back around hurts almost as much as seeing it fade away when I ask, “What’s the bible say about babies? You know, ones that never make it to birth?” A lump forms in my throat that makes it hard to talk, but I push on through, hoarse tone and all. “The book says life begins at conception, but it also says you gotta be baptized to make it into Heaven.”

  Hurts even more to watch the good Padre put two and two together and figure out why I might ask something like this, and when he offers a hug a second time, I don’t do nothing to stop him. When he finally finds his words again, he knows better than to offer condolences or ask about feelings, just sticks to the facts so I can know what I’m dealing with. “There’s nothing in the bible explicitly about unborn children,” he begins, and my heart sinks to hear it, but he continues, “However, the purpose of belief and baptism is so that we might repent and be forgiven of our sins, whereas a child who has yet to be born cannot have sinned. As such, it is my belief that Baptism is unnecessary for an unborn child to enter the Kingdom of Heaven, so you can rest easy knowing that any child who is conceived but is never born is wholly innocent, and will be granted rest and reprieve in the loving arms our Father in Heaven.”

  “…That’s good to know,” I say, and though it feels like I should cry, after the last few months, I don’t got no more tears left in me. “Thanks Padre.”

  Still hard to believe, to have faith and hope for the best, but at least that’s one less thing to worry about. If they’re up there, then they’re together, my Josie and our baby both, so there’s that. Ain’t much, but it’s something, and here and now, I’ll take whatever I can get.