Things move slow here in Mueller’s Quay, and far as I can tell, they like it this way.

  In the minute or so it takes to put my bags aside and change my clothes, all Mr. Mueller’s done is set the kettle on the stove. “That was quick!” he exclaims, as he turns to see me standing in the kitchen doorway. “Come on in and take a load off. Coffee or tea?”

  I’d rather get to working so I can put a dent in my 250 hours, but it’s hard to be rude to someone so cheery and bright. “Coffee would be great,” I say, taking the proffered seat, one Mr. Mueller pulls out and holds like I’m some dame on a date. “Thank you.”

  “Does the body good, this chicory coffee,” Mr. Mueller says, going on and on about how it’s a digestive aid and diuretic and whatnot while pitter patting about the kitchen fiddling with this or that. Gives me time to get a good look around at the surprisingly modern kitchen. Not in style, as it’s got the same rustic vibe most brick houses I’ve seen, with the hardwood floors and exposed walls covered in hand-tooled shelves and cabinets. What makes it modern is the black granite countertops, all polished to a shine and smooth as silk, as well as all the Artifact appliances they got scattered about. Like the stove Mr. Mueller set his kettle on, which burns Aether instead of wood to produce flames and heat, making it fairly costly to run in comparison. Nothing that’ll break the bank, maybe a fiver a month if you cook everyday, but it’s not like it’ll boil water any quicker.

  The range hood over the stove. The hanging Aether light fixtures. Mounted ceiling fan. Six-foot tall Freeze-box with 2 separate compartments for cold and colder. Water heating and purification elements built right into the house. A whole slew of other doodads and gadgets they got dotted about which I can’t identify at a glance, all of which this tells me the Mueller’s spend at least 30 to 50 dollars worth of Aether every month depending on run-time and efficiency of their appliances. $360 worth of Aether a year is more than a quarter of your basic man’s working salary, so the Mueller’s are living large out here in the boonies.

  Which I suppose I already knew, but it’s another thing to see it in action. Convenience is king for Mr. Mueller and his lovely family, and it’s clear they’re a happy bunch. Man introduces his heavyset wife Martha as his better half, and she still blushes to hear it, while his portly pre-teen daughter Hailey clings to her mama’s apron and helps out around the kitchen. As for big Kevin, we already met, but this time he greets me with a hug that neither one of us really want. Done with the pleasantries, he takes a seat at the table to wait for lunch and listens in as Hailey badgers me for stories of the Frontier. I oblige of course, because Mr. Mueller ain’t just the bossman moving forward, he also been nothing but kind to me thus far, so don’t see no harm in being friendly.

  All the while, I’m ready raring to get to work right quick. That’s just how I am, built to put my nose to the grindstone and happiest at a hectic pace, since won’t nothing ever get done in New Hope if I didn’t. Gotta plan your day around the things you wanna do, because you can’t just pop into the bakery, the butcher’s, or the bank at any old time. You go when you know there won’t be a crowd, so you can be in and out without having to waste half the day waiting in lines, freeing you up to do even more. Out here in the sticks though? Don’t nothing get done quick, as Mr. Mueller don’t seem like he in any rush to get working as he sips at his coffee and reads last Thursday’s paper, which he probably only got over the weekend. Got no boats going after all, so delivery is likely spotty judging by the stack of old news he got sitting neat and pretty off to the side. He’s a man who goes at his own pace though, which is slow and steady as can be. Two cups of too sweet coffee and a bathroom break later, a whole hour has come and gone with Kevin, Hailey, and Mrs. Mueller all sitting down to eat before Mr. Mueller sees fit to bring me out to start my workday at 11:30 in the a.m.

  Or not so much, as it turns out everyone else is having lunch at the same time, so he’s just bringing me around to see the village. With the warm summer weather, lots of folks taking their meals outside in their front yards, which means lots of stopping for cheery introductions or all too friendly ‘reunions’, with hugs, back slaps, shoulder claps, and cheek kisses aplenty. All of which I could do without, but the people are so lively and pleasant it’s hard not to go along with the flow. There’s still that same general air of skittish nervousness, with folks trading glances with Mr. Mueller whenever they think I ain’t looking, and I chalk it up to the Mindspire and the Madness. I’d be nervous about armed strangers too in their shoes, especially seeing how well they weathered the storm and all the horror stories in the papers about people killing other people in a Spell induced rage.

  Don’t no one come out and confront me about my weapons though, which is great because I can’t really lie and tell them they’re safe. I almost drew on Noora and Josie after all, so there won’t be no honest guarantees coming out of me, especially if everyone keeps stopping me for a quick hug every time I walk past. Course, the hugs always come with an offer of food, drink, or dessert even, as everyone seems to have their own specialities that they do so love to share. I’ve already tried the best sourdough bread, caddishes, and beef stew, but in the span of a half hour, I’m pressed into trying the best star-melon cobbler, pulled pork, cabbage rolls, alabaster nut pie, cheddar cheese, and a few other choice delicacies which got me watering at the mouth, with promises to try even more dishes sometime later on down the line. It all sounds so good I don’t even mind all the comments about my skinny frame, or at least not so much that I’d hold it against anyone.

  And yea, I’m starting to understand why the people are so fat here. Though I do wonder how they decide who does the best what. Can’t hardly have competitions for it all, now can they, but everyone seems to know who does it best with no arguments about it whatsoever. Tight-knit, that’s Mueller’s Quay in a nutshell, and that ain’t a poke at how they all bursting at the seams. No, there’s a real sense of close community here, so much so that most folks are sitting idle at home, while a small subsection of people are off watching the cattle and hoggidillas as they graze. They also got a school, where all the kids gather after coming back from lunch, though Kevin and a few older ones have been conscripted into the work force alongside myself and six other men including Mr. Mueller.

  Two hours I been here, and only now do I arrive at the worksite. Not because it’s a long or difficult trek. No, it’s a short jaunt down a cobbled path to get to where the massive warehouse is to be built, right on the northern outskirts of town. On the east side of the only path like every other building here, as they don’t build nothing west of the cobblestone path. Nothing besides the docks at least, leaving clean sightlines to shore and the lake beyond for everyone living in this fair village. Makes for a great view and decent killing ground should Abby come straight out of the water, though I ain’t seen no Alarm Wards or noise traps about. If a horde like the one that attacked Carter’s compound were to show up here, I fear for what might happen to the jolly, oversized, poorly armed residents of Mueller’s Quay and their massive herds of cattle and hoggis.

  Which once again begs the question: why haven’t Abby attacked this place? There’s gotta be a good reason. Protection From Aberration Wards out on the Quay maybe, or some non-magical form of deterrent out in the waters. I hear the old world had floating buoys that broadcasted a sort of scrambling signal, one that made aquatic Abby think there was no more water ahead which kept them away from shore, and I’m sure there are plenty of other methods I don’t know about. Truth is, land Abby was mostly a solved issue on the old world, so much so that there were some areas where governments tried to contain the Aberration threat, rather than eliminate it entirely. An Abby sanctuary of sorts, so they could periodically be harvested for Cores, Aberrtin, crystal Aether, and other rare magical materials that are only found in Aether rich environments like the ones Proggies love so dearly.

  That’s what Ronald Jackson was hoping to do, but it never ended well, not according to Uncle Teddy. Proggies are a crafty bunch, and they don’t much like being treated like livestock. They always find a way to break containment, whether it be by burrowing their way out unnoticed, making allies with other nearby Proggies, or saving up to spawn a Synapse Abby so the Proggie can take direct control of its Aberrations and stage a break out. Something about a Synapse’s biology makes every nearby Abby go from savage and cunning beast-like monsters to meat puppets, each one dancing to strings pulled by its hyper-intelligent, Spellslinging Proggie like a thousand minds all synched together as one. Gobbos are scary smart enough as they are, but imagine if they could coordinate a guerrilla attack in perfect harmony, with Spells cast through them by their Proggie in sync to take out every sentry at once, or utilizing Divination and Enchantment to extract much needed information so they know where to hit for maximum effectiveness.

  That’s why New Hope ain’t getting all that much support from Ranger HQ. A Mindspire is troublesome sure, but it’s a static defense that only directly affects the immediate area around Last Chance Lake. A Synapse though? That’s a threat that will only grow stronger with time as the Synapse and its fellow Abby get bigger, stronger, and smarter until they’re a cut above the rest even without direct control. That’s why it’s all hands on deck in the Deadlands right now as the Rangers, Pathfinders, Protectorate, Roman Catholics, and Chevaliers work round the clock in an effort to confirm or refute the rumours of a Soulless Synapse lurking about, which is just all sorts of nightmares I don’t care to think about.

  Soulless are bad enough, what with how they’re incorporeal, parasitic Abby that’ll take over a host and turn them into something out of a horror movie. Fact is, modern science claims all the folklore about zombies, ghouls, vampires, and other sorts of undead are all actually based on Soulless Abby inhabiting human corpses rather than any sort of Necromancy, though it sounded like the Padre and the church think different. Either way, Soulless can take a real beating and keep on coming, because their flesh ain’t nothing more than a meat suit they wearing, one they can switch out on the fly if need be. Makes them hard to put down, as you need special Aetherarms and Spells that deal Radiant Damage to impact their non-corporeal forms, which is why I’d much rather fight Ferals or Greenies any day of the week. Add in the risk of your neighbours or loved ones turning into Soulless puppets, and you understand why the five most powerful factions this side of the Divide are all working together to contain and eventually clear out the Deadlands.

  “Alright,” Mr. Mueller says, clapping his hands for everyone’s attention, including mine. “Now you’ve all been introduced to Howie, so I want you all to make sure he feels welcome here.”

  “Welcome Howie,” the group chimes in unison, children and adults alike, which makes me feel anything but. They got big smiles and wide-eyed stares too, which is real unnerving when it’s all focused on me, so I eke out a smile and give them a wave while wishing I were anywhere but here.

  “Happy to be here,” I lie, but don’t no one call me out on it.

  “And we’re happy to have you.” Throwing his arm over my shoulders for another quick hug, Mr. Mueller grins and gestures at the crowd. “Now these guys and gals can’t hold a candle to the Firstborn, but they’re all Spellslingers who’re keen to learn. I was hoping you could show them how to effectively use Mould Earth to dig out the foundation.” Blinking a few times as a worrying thought arises, Mr. Mueller turns to me and adds, “If it’s not too much of an imposition of course. If it’s some sort of trade secret or intellectual property you don’t feel like sharing, then you go right ahead and say so.”

  “Nah, no trade secret,” I say, grinning from ear to ear to see his embarrassment, as he only done thought of this now. “It’s mostly just a matter of practice, though I got a tip or three to make things easier.” Giving my students a once over, I continue, “Still takes time to pick up the knack though, and constant use of Cantrips can be mentally exhausting if you ain’t used to it, so maybe having a couple shovels handy wouldn’t be a bad idea. We’ll need buckets, wheelbarrows, and gloves too. Handy as the Cantrip is, tools still make things easier. Also, y’all might want to get yourselves some hats so you don’t burn up under the sun.”

  So of course everyone goes off to grab just that, with Mr. Mueller shaking his head at himself for not having it all ready. Sets us back another twenty minutes, because the people here don’t do nothing fast. Least they all know the Cantrip already, as Mr. Mueller already taught them, and he’s right down in the dirt with us as we get to breaking ground shortly after noon. There ain’t much for me to teach really, just a few thought and breathing exercises to keep them in the groove as they shift dirt from the ground into their wheelbarrows in a slow and steady stream. They ain’t bad for beginners, because even if they working with base parameters, it’s not all that much slower than actually using a shovel. Might even be faster for these particular folks, seeing how they’re all sweating and breathless within minutes despite the exertion being 95% mental. The rest is just waving your hand in small circles and flicking your wrist, like you a conductor guiding the flowing dirt along an invisible Aetheric track.

  Despite the fairly low-exertion work, Mr. Mueller calls for a break after about an hour’s worth of toil, which is hardly enough time for me to get warmed up. “Whew,” he says, wiping his forehead with a kerchief while flashing a big grin on his face as he trundles off to grab a drink. “Harder than it looks, isn’t it?”

  “Always is,” I say, smiling back just to be polite while wondering if anyone would take offense if I kept at it while they rested. Anything to avoid socializing, though truth be told, I’ve grown rather fond of digging these last few weeks. I’ve gotten it down to an art, as once I got a trench deep enough to stand in, I do one quick pass to loosen the dirt, then go back along the same track and spray the dirt into the waiting bucket like water coming out of a hose. It’s just so satisfying to watch that bucket or wheelbarrow fill up all in one go, and I been training my Mage Hands at the same time by pushing their limits until they either come apart at the seams or their duration runs out. It’s good practice, because now I’m pretty sure I could dig into a hillside and build me a fortified fighting position in less than a quarter hour. Could come in useful for hiding, and I could even use it to make a getaway in a pinch by digging my way out of trouble.

  While Mr. Mueller shuffles off to procure refreshments, I head over to have that chat with Kevin I been meaning to have. “So I hear you got eyes for the girlies,” I say, keeping my tone cordial and smile friendly. The big guy turns red to hear it, and I clap him on the shoulder to show I don’t mean nothing by it. “Nothing wrong with wanting to look,” I say, and he heaves a sigh to hear it. “Some even dress up hoping to get looked at, but you gotta remember one thing Kevin.”

  “What’s that?” he asks, so eager to learn he leans in to loom over me.

  “There’s a subtle difference between lookin’ and gawkin’,” I say, striving to sound worldly and wise. “A glance here and there, a good pointed look and a smile when you meet their eyes, even an appreciative stare can work to your advantage, let them girlies know you like what you see. Stare too hard though, and that makes things uncomfortable.”

  “Sorry.” Cringing at the memory of his past self, Kevin shrinks down until he’s almost my height, which is quite the feat for a man who towers head and shoulders above me. “This is about your sister Tina right? Da told me you were family, but not until after. It’s just… she’s so pretty, beautiful even, like someone out of a painting, you know? And her magic… she had so much of it, not just within, but all around her too, like the flows were gravitating towards her…”

  I should really get working in Detect Magic, because it almost sounds like Kevin can see what Chrissy sees, which sounds like it could come in real handy. Course I gotta assume there’s some reason my daddy and Uncle Teddy never had me practice it, but I can’t think of any good ones. Keeping that tidbit in the back of my head, I do what I can to commiserate with Kevin while simultaneously hammering home how gawking at women ain’t earning him any points. Poor kid don’t mean nothing by it, so while I get why Tina felt discomforted, I also get why Kevin was so entranced. Doubly so considering how the locals are all overfed and poorly dressed, though they got reason for both.

  Not good reason, but reason enough, I suppose.

  By the time Mr. Mueller returns with a barrel of bapple cider, another 20 minutes has passed us by. It’s a full 30 before we’re back to work, and that’s being generous with the rounding. Another solid hour of work later, we take another break, and the pattern continues until late afternoon, when Mr. Mueller calls it a day before the clock strikes 6. “Whoo wee,” he says, fanning his sweat-soaked beige shirt while limping over to the refreshment stand, a table which holds not only the barrel of cider, but also a massive bowl of sweet tea, a pitcher of sweetened iced coffee, a case of fizzy sarsaparilla, and an assortment of fruit, baked goods, fried snacks, and other treats that are most tempting indeed. All brought here by well-meaning residents, with far more than all of us could ever finish. Or so I thought, as I watch the food disappear right quick. Small wonder everyone here is overweight if this is how they eat, as I’m still full from lunch and the samples I tried thereafter.

  While the others hover around the drinks and snacks, I stay down in my ditch and keep digging a little longer until Mr. Mueller catches on to what I’m doing. “C’mon Howie,” he says, grinning from ear to ear as he hoists a mug of ice coffee. “It’s quittin’ time.”

  “Y’all go on ahead,” I say with a smile. “I’d like to stick around a couple hours more to keep the numbers nice and even. If that’s alright,” I add, belatedly realizing I might be putting him in a tight spot, since I’m supposed to work under supervision as per the terms of my work agreement.

  “Far as I’m concerned, you’ve done your ten for the day and then some.” Waving me up, Mr. Mueller puts some steel into his gravelly voice to show that there still some soldier in there underneath it all. “Now up and out, Firstborn. That there is an order.”

  “Sir yes sir,” I reply, firing off a mock salute before pulling myself up.

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  “Oh I’m no officer,” he retorts without missing a beat, his grin so wide it almost reaches his ears. “I work for a living.” Throwing his arm around my shoulder again, he walks me over to get a drink. “I know what you’re gonna say,” he continues, keeping up the gruff, no-nonsense approach since he’s seen that it works. “You’re gonna say you don’t deserve the full ten, or maybe you weren’t gonna say it at all. Maybe you would’ve just changed the numbers yourself once all was said and done.” Man caught me fair and square, and I don’t really know what to say, so I help myself to a cup of coffee, which is still too sweet, but not as sweet as the sweet tea or cider. “Well Howie, I’m not just gonna tell you why deserve the full ten, I’m going to prove it. You ready for this?”

  “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

  “What time you leave the house this morning?”

  “Seven a.m.”

  “Bullshit you did.” There’s no heat in the rebuke, more amusement than anything else as Mr. Mueller says, “Seven is when the gates open, and I’m betting you was sat there ready and waiting to leave.” He caught me, but to be fair, I don’t really know what time I left Josie’s. Was still too dark to tell, and I didn’t look at the clock until after I finished feeding the animals and letting the horses out to stretch their legs. “But let’s go with seven then,” he continues, still wholly confident he’s got this in the bag. “You got here a little after ten, so let’s call it three hours of travel time. Then we had an early lunch at Mervyn’s which lasted an hour or so, after which we got you settled in and headed out to work. Sound about right?”

  “That it does.”

  “So tell me this. By your count, how many hours did you work today?”

  “Six,” I reply, though in truth, it’d be more like 4 and a half what with all the breaks we took. Maybe even just 4 seeing how it’s still 10 to 6 according to Mr. Mueller’s pocket watch. “Broke ground at noon, and worked until now.”

  “That’s one way to look at it,” Mr. Mueller replies. Out of nowhere, he asks, “How many times have you been attacked by Abby these last two months?”

  “Uhh… Three.” Twice at Carters, and once on the way back from Gunnar’s village.”

  “All while working, correct?”

  “Yea more or less.”

  “So,” Mr. Mueller drawls, giving me a look that’s halfway between concern and pity. “Three attacks, all whilst performing hard labour imposed upon you by the Federal Government. Now you, you’re used to this sort of thing, yeah? Getting attacked by Abby while you’re roaming about, so maybe you haven’t noticed, but most folks would’ve stopped travelling about by our lonesome by now, especially if we only had the one hand.”

  It’s not what he says, but the way he says it that hits me hard. Like he trying to be delicate about it without hurting my feelings, even though I don’t know why he’d think the facts would hurt me. That said, I have no idea why I feel the need to defend myself, because it’s not like he’s verbally attacked me. Still gets me on the defensive as I mutter, “I mean, I had the deputies with me for the first attack, and I think Carter and his people were about five seconds from jumping in.” Only reason they didn’t is because they didn’t want anyone knowing they could Wildshape, which is fair. Would’ve been nice if they threw down an Entangle or Fire Cloud or something, but now that I think about it, the people working with Carter that day were all the heavy-hitting Wildshapers. Could very well be that none of them had those Spells prepared, and even if they did, they would’ve needed materials to cast them anyways.

  “Exactly,” Mr. Mueller says, and I got so lost in my own thoughts it takes me a second to get back on track. “You had the deputies with you that first time, meaning your safety was their responsibility while you travelled. Would make sense to deduct time spent travelling from hours worked then, but not today. Today, you rode here by yourself, with your safety in your own hands.” Blinking as he glances at my stump, he falters for a little bit while I feign horror and surprise. “Hand.” I let him stew for a second more before breaking out in a grin, and he gives me a good-natured grimace, because I bet he milked his missing foot for a good long while after he first lost it. “Rascal. What I’m getting at is,” he continues, recovering with only a tinge of red at his ears, “Is that your travel time ought to count as work, because the Sherrif’s office sure isn’t taking care of you.”

  “Okay,” I reply, thinking it over and finding no way to discredit the statement. “Still only nine hours though.”

  “Federal Law dictates that anyone working an 8-hour shift or longer is entitled to a 30-minute lunch and two 15-minute breaks,” Mr. Mueller retorts, having this one locked, loaded, and ready to go. “Paid mind you, so I don’t see why that shouldn’t apply to hard labour too. What’s more, I recall signing some papers that say I’m the boss, so if I felt like giving you a paid, 3-hour break, then I’d be entitled to do so, now wouldn’t I?”

  I really can’t see any argument, even if it still don’t feel right, and Mr. Mueller sees that I still ain’t a hundred percent on board. Heaving a sigh, he claps me on the shoulder and says, “You’re a good kid Howie, a hard worker who gives a hundred and ten percent in every endeavour you undertake, but I’m going to let you in on a secret. They say hard work is its own reward, but that’s bullshit. The only reward for hard work is more work, because there is always work to be done. Think about it. You built Carter a dock in record time. Heard he had a dozen labourers up there the first go around, and still didn’t finish the job on time, but you came back and finished it all by your lonesome. For the next few weeks, you did the work of three men paving paths, building water towers, and a whole dock, but did you get more hours for it? No, you got less, because you finished faster than expected. Now, you’re forced to ride an extra hour through hostile territory and work late into the night just so you can mark down a full ten hours for the day. Almost like you being punished for working hard. That seem fair to you?”

  Though he started off calm and steady, Mr. Mueller’s picked up a whole lot of steam along the way, and the other workers are all smiling and nodding along as they listen in. “In fact, when I first heard you were sentenced to four-hundred and eighty hours of hard labour, I was outraged. Ask anyone here and they’ll tell you, I said that it ain’t right. A boy of seventeen gets his hand chopped off by criminal scum, strikes back to wipe them of the face of the Frontier, and the Government’s response is to punish him? They should’ve pinned a medal to your chest for ridding us all of those drug smuggling, gun running, slave driving criminal reprobates, and you can’t tell me otherwise. A drain on society is what they are, using their strength not for the good of mankind, but to suppress their fellow people.”

  While I agree wholeheartedly with Mr. Mueller’s opinion, it irks me to know almost everyone knew about Vanguard National besides me. Then again, given their location, he likely sees more than his fair share of mafiosos and outlaws. This port here makes for an optimal place to load your illegal goods onto a boat. Got no customs officials looking over your shoulder, and once your stuff is packed in tight into the hold of a ship, ain’t no one gonna go digging too deep to look for illicit goods, not until it’s time to unload again. I wonder if Mikey comes by every season to pick up an envelop of cash, but that ain’t the sort of thing you ask on your first day of work.

  Still, it’s nice to know Mr. Mueller thinks I got a bum deal, though he don’t know the whole of it. Then again, Uncle Teddy didn’t either, but I didn’t say nothing because I felt I deserved worse. Not just for Conner, but Marcus too, seeing how he’d still be alive if it wasn’t for me. 480 hours of hard labour won’t bring him back though, nor will 10,000 or more, because gone is gone and there ain’t no changing that fact. Still, it’s my cross to bear, so I need to work my 480 hours, atone for my mistakes, because only then can I feel I’ve earned this second chance I’ve gotten with Uncle Teddy again.

  There’s no changing Mr. Mueller’s mind though, as he’s determined to mark me down for the full 10 hours today. “Nothing wrong with working hard,” he continues, after going off rails a bit about how we all have our parts to play in society and how there ain’t no place for criminals who don’t contribute. “But you should work to live, Howie, not live to work. Mervyn grows the biggest caddishes because gardening is his passion, while Donna bakes the best sourdough bread because that’s hers. Becca didn’t catch that massive fish just so he could eat. No he did it because he loves to fish, which is why he was out there on the waters before the sun even touched the horizon. That’s what your daddy taught me about life Howie, what I shared with the rest of the people here, to adapt and thrive.”

  “Adapt and thrive,” the crowd chants, and it throws me for a loop at how practiced it sounds.

  Mr. Mueller acts like he don’t even notice as he presses on. “The keyword there is thrive,” he says. “Not just to survive, barely scraping by as the days go past, but to flourish and prosper out here on the Frontier so that we can make the most out of our fleeting lives.” Smiling as he gazes fondly at his son across the way, Mr. Mueller says, “I might not have the best work ethic, and I know I indulge more than I should when it comes to eating, but this here?” Patting his big belly with a grin, he continues, “This here is proof I’m thriving.” Reaching over to pat my belly and withdrawing his hand when I shy away, he adds, “As for you? You’re deathly thin Howie, and I’m not joking. They say it takes three days for a man to starve to death, but you look like you’ll drop dead after three missed meals, if not less.”

  “Can’t help it,” I say with a shrug. “I eat, and I eat, and I eat, but I got no earthly idea where it all goes.”

  “Well, good news is Luisa’s made it her mission to fatten you up. I’ve been told to send you on over soon as your work is done for the day, and I don’t dare cross her, so off with you now.” Mr. Mueller’s eyes light up when he sees me straighten up, because delicious as that stew and sourdough bread might’ve been, I’m a fiend for steamed bristle grains like what she served last time I was here. “Hope you’ve worked up a hunger,” he adds, as he sends me off to the bar, where sweet, matronly Luisa greets me at the door with a smile, a hug, and a kiss on each cheek like I’m her long-lost boy come home for the holidays. Cooks like it too, with more steamed bristle grains ready and waiting for me to eat, with plenty of fixings on top and a big glass of creamy and delicious Avena Colombiana to wash it all down. I of course praise her to high heaven, as do plenty of other folks who stopped in for dinner or just to drop off something for me to eat.

  I don’t normally care for people commenting about my weight, but you bring me a whole grumble berry cheesecake and you can say whatever you like.

  Course I don’t polish off the whole thing and share with the group, even saving four slices to bring back to the Mueller’s once dinner is done. Ain’t many activities out here once the sun starts to set, and as I head on back to the Mueller household, it strikes me how quiet it is. Eerily quiet even, considering how many cattle and hoggidillas they got hunkering down nearby. They ain’t exactly what you’d call quiet animals, especially the hoggis who like to snort and oink all the livelong day just to let others know they’re there. Not these ones though, as they’ve all gone quiet and still, not the slack stillness of sleep so early in the evening, but the tense lull of the calm before the storm. Can see it in how they all gathered up together, the hoggis in a circle and the cattle in a big herd, the former with their armoured butts facing outwards and the latter with their horned heads doing the same.

  Defensive positions pretty much, which means they’re on their guard against something. Could be the Mindspire, and if it is, then it’s business as usual out here, but just in case, I bring it up soon as I’m inside, though I make sure only Mr. Mueller can hear me say, “I think something’s got the animals spooked.”

  “Tuskwulves,” he says after I lay it all out, nodding in admiration of my observant nature. “Got a big pack that spends their summers round these parts to raise their pups, and they been known to come looking for an easy meal.” Giving my goggles a tap while they hang from my neck, Mr. Mueller adds, “We don’t got Darkvision out here, so come nightfall, it’s best you stay inside. We got sentries stationed all about, but they’re just regular folks who spook easy if you know what I mean.”

  All too well sadly, because when scared folk get spooked, they don’t think. They just shoot, and that’d be a bad way to get got no matter how you slice it.

  With nothing else to do, I spend a bit of time chit chatting with the Muellers before heading up to take a shower and retiring to my room to study and sling Spells. With no new Third Order Spell to learn for the first time in weeks, I dedicate a full hour to just Mage Hands in hopes of making it better, faster, and stronger than before. It’s been two months and I’ve made next to no progress, but I do feel like I’m starting understand the Cantrip better now. Astrid was right about the strict limits to Mage Hand and how it’s strange the Spell can’t be upcasted, and I think I even know why. The Cantrip isn’t just a stripped-down version of the Fifth Order Spell Ethereal Palm, it’s highly optimized too. That’s the only way to get so much utility out of a mere Cantrip, because while most Cantrips do one thing really well, or a certain number of things in a very specific fashion, there’s really no limit to what a Mage Hand can do if you ignore speed and strength.

  Think about it. I listed all those different ways a hand can hold a pencil, and a Mage Hand can do the same with only a little practice. It’s a highly complex precision tool that took millions of years of evolution to get right, and might well be the only reason why our predecessors didn’t go the way of the dodo before our brains kicked into high gear. Everything I’m trying to accomplish right now with my automaton prosthetic was accounted for in the Mage Hand Cantrip Formula, one so complex and multifaceted those strict limits on speed, strength, and distance are necessary to keep it as a Cantrip rather than a First Order Spell.

  Meaning that if I can strip away some of those limitations, or at the very least bypass them manually while casting the Cantrip, then maybe I could also upcast it and see some results.

  Which of course is easier said than done. Even though my mama and Astrid have both mapped out a good portion of the Structure and determined what a lot of it does, there’s still a whole lot of uncharted territory to go through. Not to mention how there’s more than one modification you can make to a flow after all, so while twisting it one way might make it split one hand into two, that doesn’t mean you can’t twist that same flow in other ways for different results.

  There’s a moment of clarity where a random thought just pops into my head, and I can’t help but fixate on it. When I split the Mage Hand into two, it divides the strength of the singular hand amongst the resulting pair. A single Mage Hand can carry 10lbs, but two Mage Hands can only carry 5lbs each. If that’s the case, wherein the strength can be divided, then it stands to reason strength can be added too, right? It seems reasonable, but ain’t exactly as easy as applying more force to open a door. Maybe I can figure out how to squeeze more juice out of the Mage Hand Cantrip, while simultaneously pumping more power into the Spell Structure to upcast it at a higher level. Preferably First Order, but the jump from Cantrip to First Order won’t exactly be adding a lot of power to the Spell, so I might end up having to upcast it even higher before I have Mage Hands capable of using an Aetherarm without coming apart at the seams.

  If. Maybe. Might. It’s all so uncertain, making my efforts feel aimless and futile. Can’t help but grow frustrated as the night goes on, until I can’t keep going any longer. Stifling a growl as I run my hand through my hair, I heave a long sigh before swatting a Mage Hand out of existence in a fit of pique. Doesn’t take much to tear it apart, dissipating like a poof of smoke or a Floating Disk that’s pushed too far beyond its speed limits, which is a funny thing to see so long as it ain’t your Floating Disc. It just sort of melts away beneath your feet like smoke in the wind, which is never what you want when you snowboarding in fresh powder. I should start planning a trip come winter, maybe bring Tina, Chrissy, Josie, and Noora out to hit up the hills. Which reminds me, I need to teach those last two the Spell. Tina already knows it and has been practicing whenever she can, while Chrissy can ride with me, because there’s no way I’m gonna let her snowboard unsupervised. She won’t have any trouble holding the Spell together at high speeds, but I’m worried she’ll be so focused on maintaining Concentration that she won’t look at where she’s going and crash straight into a tree.

  …

  … …

  Hang on a tick. Floating Disc has a strict limit on carry weight and speed. What did that brainy brown fella say? The Spell destabilizes and comes apart when moving at high speeds, and I told him you could counteract that by maintaining Concentration. ‘It’s a simple matter of drawing Aether from the Immaterium to keep the Spell stable’. That’s what I said, word for word, so what happens if I apply that same concept to Mage Hand? Not necessarily the speed thing, but the conjured appendage most certainly comes apart when struck, so what if I could maintain its shape with Concentration? Keep it from going wispy like smoke and maintain cohesion even under stress?

  All too excited about the Cantrip for the first time in weeks, I flick my fingers in a ‘come hither’ motion and Intone, “Per – Auxilium – Manus,” to conjure up a new Mage Hand. A helping hand, just like the chant says, just the one this time, but one is all I need as I focus on the Spell Structure and the glowing blue hand in front of me and give it my utmost attention. Maintain the flows not just within my mind, but within the construct itself, that’s what I tell myself in a dozen different ways before I finally feel ready to strike. And strike I do, lashing out at the blue hand in an effort to physically smack it out of existence while I mentally strive to hold it together. The Mage Hand unravels apart and the ecto dissipates into nothingness, but my hopes are not extinguished alongside it.

  Because for a brief, almost imperceptible moment, a fleeting fraction of a fraction of a second, my Mage Hand held itself together before coming apart at the seams.

  Just to make sure I didn’t imagine it, I try the same experiment again, but this time, there is no moment of resistance. Probably because I was in too much of a rush, wasn’t in my right mind and had too many thoughts racing through my head to concentrate properly. The next time around, I’m more prepared, and again, I catch a brief moment of resistance as the Mage Hand struggles to hold itself together after being struck by my real hand, and I’m all but certain it ain’t imagined. Or if it is, I’m deluding myself, so I start recording and show myself slapping a Mage Hand without Concentration, then again with, narrating my thoughts as I go so I can show Uncle Teddy and Aunty Ray and hear their thoughts. It’s an exciting development, one that might not lead to anything of value seeing how a Spell unravelling at the seams from pushing beyond it’s limits is not the same as a Spell getting smashed apart. Still, it’s some progress, minor though it might be, and any progress is better than no progress at all.

  Since it’s almost time for bed, I cast Detect Magic before resuming my Mage Hand smashing exercises, which sounds all sorts of wrong once I think it. Regardless, the Detect Magic Spell don’t really give me all that much, as it’s clear from the get go that the glowing blue spectral hand is magical by nature. I don’t see no ambient flows of Aether, and no other magic about the room outside the heating vent, mantle clock, and Aether light fixture hanging overhead. To keep things interesting, I Conjure up a hatchet too just to inspect it, only to find nothing out of the ordinary. Yeah, it’s definately a magical hatchet, but didn’t see no flows go into it or move around it. Either way, I do double duty on training and use my Conjured Weapon to smack Mage Hands out of existence while trying to create an Echo too and have the hatchet swing on its own, all while idly wondering how much of a beating the magical weapon can take. A test I’ll conduct some other time, since the guest room hardly seems like an appropriate place, especially with everyone else in the house getting ready for bed too.

  A decent bunch, the people of Mueller’s Quay, and the good eats more than makes up for all the hugs and smiles. Seems like a strange thing to criticize folks for, being too friendly and cheerful, but I’m starting to understand why my big smiles never worked all that well for me. It’s unnerving to see a face so friendly, especially in light of our current situation. What with the Mindspire and the Madness and whatnot, there’s just an oppressive air over New Hope that sucks the cheer and colour right out of the air, while here in Mueller’s Quay, all that colour has been stolen away, but the cheer’s been injected back in, and it don’t feel right is all.

  Nowhere near as comfortable as working for Carter, when I could go the whole day with less than fifty words spoken total, with more than half of those directed at Cowie.

  I sling a few more Spells for practice and save up just enough for Mental Fortress which I throw on myself before putting my guns away and getting ready for bed. Gives me a bit of time to lie in the darkness without the Dissonant Whistle driving me mad, though it turns out to be a terrible idea because the Spell requires Concentration to maintain and falls off just before I nod off to sleep. The jarring return of the Mindspire’s warbling whine rips the fragile cloack of slumber away, leaving me wide awake in bed with a growing headache that I’ve got no way of dealing with.

  Stifling a long and tired groan, I sit up and head over to the window to pop it open and get some air, when I spot a bit of movement out in the darkness. Nothing close, and for a moment, I chalk it up to a hoggi or something shuffling about in the pasture, but there’s something a little off about the way it moves. Grabbing my goggles off of the nightstand, I actuate Darkvision and hold them up to my eyes, only to spot a very pregnant sow hobbling over to the water trough. Figures. That’s why it’s gait was off, because it’s carrying all the extra weight, and I can’t help but chuckly at my overactive imagination.

  Ready to head back to bed, I give the fields a quick scan with the goggles on out of pure reflex, only to spot more movement, and this time it most certainly ain’t no hoggidilla. No, those are four people out there all moving alone, heading through their shared pastures to gather at a pre-set destination, one they can all find in the dark without lights. Which is all sorts of strange, but not enough to raise my suspicions. There’s plenty of reasons for four people to meet up in the dead of night, and not all of them be nefarious. Could be an affair, or I suppose an orgy seeing how it’s four people instead of two. Could be older kids gathering for a smoke or whatever it is kids do these day. Or maybe they got some chore out there that’s gotta be handled at night, like tending to a fungus farm, catching glowhoppers, tagging angry hoggidillas while they sleep, and a whole bunch of other stuff.

  Still... something about the way them people are moving tells me they up to no good, or at the very least don’t want people to know they out and about. Part of me wants to grab my guns and my duster and hop out the window to follow after them in secret, but reason prevails and I just watch a little longer until all four of them disappear into a massive barn, where I assume they’ll do whatever it is they went there to do. My money’s on orgy, because seeing how the people here indulge in their food, it shouldn’t come as any surprise to learn they indulge in other things.

  I miss Josie and Noora. I wonder how they’re faring without me. Probably doing fine, though it occurs to me that Josie might’ve wanted a bit more support. That’s what this morning was about, not warm bodies and passionate kisses, but emotional support which I denied her because I put more value in work than my relationship. Maybe Mr. Mueller’s right. Maybe it’s high time I learned to adapt and thrive, stopped working so hard and started living my life just a bit. I mean, what am I rushing for anyways?

  Ain’t the Firstborn no more, nor am I the Yellow Devil, and I can’t gamble my life away chasing after my daddy’s killer no more, so why am I in such a hurry to get nowhere in particular? Food for thought that, and much like my aimless studies have got me gnawing on my fingernails, my uncertain future leaves me discouraged and disheartened. Adapt and thrive, that’s the key here, except I was already thriving while chasing my dreams, and now I gotta find new dreams that are more reasonable and attainable. Boring dreams like a career to put food on the table and money in the bank, while figuring out where my relationship with Noora and Josie is going.

  That’s all a part of growing up though, I suppose. Already missed out on my teenage years, so I suppose I’ll skip over my young adult ones too. It is what it is, though I’ll say this much; I’d give anything for things to be any other way.