My daddy taught me how to survive, and Uncle Teddy taught me most of what I know about magic, but Aunty Ray’s got a whole lot to teach about surviving on the wrong side of the law.
Don’t get it twisted. She ain’t telling me how to break the law, or even how to flaunt them while not getting arrested. What she’s teaching is how to bend the laws, or at the very least put my actions in a grey zone that leaves everyone wondering if I can be charged with a crime. “In a criminal court of law, the burden of proof is on the prosecution,” she says, to kick off the crash course in criminal malfeasance. “Means it’s on them to prove the critical facts of any case to an appropriate level of certainty. If the Mafia up and disappear, the Feds might look at you real close, but they can’t convict you unless they can prove beyond a reasonable doubt that you the one whodunnit. Your job then is to introduce that doubt, enough so that the jury thinks you ‘may be guilty’ or ‘could be guilty’ or even ‘probably guilty’, but can’t say you ‘most definitely’ guilty. Anything short of that last one means the prosecution failed in their duty to prove beyond a reasonable doubt, which means the jury will be obligated to pronounce you ‘not guilty’.”
Which is a high bar to be honest, because anything short of catching me on camera with my finger on the trigger means I got a good chance of walking away clean. Unfortunately for me, the matter of Exile is different, because it’s a civil matter which only requires a reasonable concern and enough votes to see me gone. Ain’t even Federal Law, but something in the Accords, a legal, non-lethal way to get rid of settlers who don’t break no laws, but don’t contribute to the betterment of the community and drag everyone else down. You got a leech that might could starve to death, but can’t bear to watch him die? Well, instead of being forced by your conscience to provide for the layabout, you can Exile them instead, so they’ll either start fending for themselves or starve to death out of sight.
I get the idea behind it, and I suppose I might even agree, but it all seems rather extra since it don’t really do nothing but make life inconvenient if I ever want to visit New Hope again. Whether I am Exiled or not ain’t my concern though, because it’ll either happen or it won’t, and I couldn’t care less either way. All I can do is prep for it, and thanks to Aunty Ray, I know exactly what I gotta do. It’ll all work out one way or another, or least that’s what I tell myself as I limp on down the thoroughfare to pick up supplies. Nothing too incriminating, like guns, ammo, or even gear like Flashbangs or armour. No, instead, I pick up innocuous things that you can get anywhere, so none of it points back to me if later found at the scene of a crime.
You know. Normal stuff, like travel rations, camo nets, a second long-range optic for my Nanfoodle, extra notebooks, a bunch of rope, a grappling hook, and medical supplies. So very many medical supplies, like splints, bandages, antiseptics, and Staunching Potions, which of course raises eyebrows with Uncle Art, but he don’t say nothing. He just packs everything I ask for, adds a couple things I don’t think of, and goes over the finer details of how it all works, before giving me a price I pay without haggling. When it comes time to hand over the goods though, Uncle Art don’t give it up easy, holding fast to the basket and not letting go until I meet his hardened stare. “I delivered Josie myself,” he begins, looking older and more haggard than I ever seen him. “Wasn’t an easy birth, and we almost lost Amy, but she pulled through for little Josie. The last fifteen years, I watched that smiling girl blossom into a wonderful young woman, one who brought plenty of good cheer into everyone’s lives, mine and yours included.” Heaving a sigh, Uncle Art lets go of the package and waves me away. “You do whatever it is you feel you need to, Howie. Those bastards took her from us, and they need to pay. All I ask is that you make it back in one piece, because my old heart can’t take much more of this.”
Neither can mine, but I can’t promise him anything. Instead, I give him a big hug before I go, and he hugs me so hard I can barely breathe. Can’t trust myself to say anything either, because I don’t want to make him an accessory after the fact, since Aunty Ray coming on as an accomplice is already more than I can bear. For the same reason, when I arrive at Danny’s, I don’t ask if he got any flashbangs for sale, or any other complete items I could really use. Instead, I hand over a list of materials which include everything I need to make Flashbangs myself, as well as some other handy dandy doodads I been planning on crafting up for awhile now.
Danny don’t even look at the list though, just gives me a hangdog look full of grief and concern. Doesn’t say anything either, or know what to do as we face off in his store. Eventually, he mutters, “I’m sorry for your loss,” before helping me gather up everything on my list, and I simply nod and wait for him to finish. He knows how much I’m hurting, and I know how much he wants to help, but I ain’t about to ask him for anything more than this. Only because I know he’d do anything I asked of him, up to and including coming out to back me up. Don’t matter that he lacks the training or know how to do anything besides get in the way. If I ask for his help, I’d have it, which is why I won’t ask. While he ain’t got the training, he got plenty of know-how, and could probably build all manner of bombs, traps, and weapons if need be. Man’s far more dangerous than he knows, but this ain’t his fight. It’s mine, so I ain’t about to drag anyone in, no matter how willing they might be.
“Danny, could you be a dear and – ” I got time enough to freeze in place and fix my expression before Danny’s ma makes it downstairs and sees me, and boy do her eyes go wide. “What are you doing here?” she demands, which is a far cry from the warm smiles she used to greet me with, and she got no intentions of hearing my answer. “Get out! Bad enough you got poor Josie killed, but now you trying to get my Danny killed too?! Out! Out!”
Her words hit hard, and I got no defense against them, so rather than stand my ground and argue, I step outside and wait. Pay no mind to the looky loos while I do, all them folks trying not to look but can’t help glancing as they pass. It’s the hot topic of the day, the Firstborn’s war with the Mafia, and they all wondering what I’m gonna do next. Seems like most want me gone before any more collateral damage is done, and I’ll be more than happy to leave soon as I got everything I need. Don’t entirely blame them either. No one wants to get caught up in a fight, but I wasn’t the one who started it. Folks don’t care though. All they know is that I’m a target, and a danger to anyone around me, so the rest don’t matter much. They’ll say and do anything to get me away from them, because all they’re concerned about is their own safety, and it’s easier to tell me to get gone than to take a stand against the Mafia.
Because they all wrapped up in their old-world mindset, wholly reliant on someone else to protect them from all the big bad wulves of the world instead of taking matters into their own hands. Can’t even blame them, because I done just made that same mistake, so I do what I can to channel all my anger, outrage, and indignance elsewhere.
Ain’t easy though. Puts me in mind of what happened to my daddy, and how all the good he done for the people didn’t matter one bit once it became inconvenient to acknowledge him. That’s all it took. Wasn’t no one stringing people up or calling you names if you said the Rangers done Ming dirty, or argued that he deserved better. Even then, no one said much of anything at all, or if they did, they kept it quiet and personal. This ain’t exactly the same, as I done made my mistakes, but it seems like no matter how much I try to help, it don’t matter none. Wasn’t no one here in town patting my back when I tracked down Clayton’s people, or fought off them Abby attacking Carter’s place, no one besides those directly involved.
Fact is, when I gunned down them mafioso’s in the Sherrif’s Office, I got more flak for it than anything else. Was all about how I got no business interfering directly like that, and how I lack the training to succeed. Should’ve said something or gone to someone or done something different, never mind how the decision got made the moment that goon reached for his gun. I imagine it’s much the same with Josie, that I done reaped what I sowed and should’ve known better, and even the thought of someone saying as much has got me all fired up. Fact is, even though Carter talked me up about how I’m the Firstborn because I help folks, standing outside of Danny’s shop and seeing all the silent glances and dour frowns has got me wonder why I even bother with any of it?
They won’t thank me for anything I done, and don’t even want me around, so why should I do anything to help them and theirs? Forget being the Firstborn. Juice ain’t worth the squeeze, not for a bunch of ingrates like these.
The shop door opens and Danny slips out with an armful of supplies, and I quickly help him stack it up on my Floating Disc sled. All while ignoring what Danny’s ma is shouting inside, things I refuse to hold against him. We just sort my purchases and I pay him what I owe before giving him another nod in thanks. “Sorry about my ma,” he adds, because he a kind fella who feels awful that his ma would say such things, but it’s no skin off my back. “She don’t mean it.”
“Sure she does, Danny,” I reply, knuckling his shoulder to show I ain’t none too bothered. “Might even be right. I am a danger to those around me. Just ask Josie.” Tried to be matter of fact about it, but I can’t, because all I see is Josie’s big, round eyes all scared and surprised because she’s dead and don’t know it yet. Hurts to know that’s probably the last thought she had, wondering what just happened only to topple over and fall. It was quick, so there’s that, but while that’s a small mercy, it don’t mean much to those she left behind.
Danny don’t got nothing to say, so I bid him a silent farewell and continue on my shopping spree. Soon as I’ve got everything I need, I head back to Aunty Ray’s and get to waiting until the time is right. Which is a hassle sure, but I keep myself busy putting some stuff together and refining my plan for what I’ll do when I get to Rimepeak, though I’m pretty much making it up as I go. Eventually, Aunty Ray convinces me to sit down for a meal, which I barely taste, and afterwards, I settle in on the couch with Chrissy and Noora while counting down the minutes until midnight. It’s almost unreal, having to go about my daily life eating meals and washing dishes after losing Josie like we did, and I curse myself for being so unhelpful to Josie after she lost her parents. I should’ve put everything off to be with her, but I figured she’d be fine and could do without. Wasn’t about how she’d fare, but how much better she’d feel with people around her, which is just another way I done failed her.
Ain’t no amount of distraction can take my mind off the facts, and I find myself yearning to be out and about with something to do instead of sitting here wondering what might have been if I’d done this or that. So by the time midnight rolls around, I’m ready and raring to go, wearing a dark outfit and covering half my face with a kerchief before sneaking out over to the walls. Moving over the roofs with a Levitate Spell no less, while hauling my Floating Disc sled and all my gear over top my head. Ain’t as difficult as it sounds, since the sled itself don’t weigh more than a few pounds and everything atop it is being lifted up by the Spell. Don’t know how the physics works, only that it does, so all I gotta do is keep the sled balanced, because if it tips one way or another then that weight will slide, and the Spell takes a moment to adjust to the change. That’ll leave me holding onto the full weight of what I got stacked for a brief moment, which is more than I can carry with only the one hand, but I manage it well enough.
Getting to the walls unseen is the most difficult part, as getting over is easy as pie. All I gotta do is Levitate up onto the parapets of an unguarded section, then spend a couple minutes minute studying the Ward etched into the crenellated stones. Though massive in scale, the Ward is pretty much just a simple Alarm set to trigger under certain conditions, ones I can’t outright read from the Etch themselves, but can guess at easily enough. Probably looking for anything over a certain mass passing over or under the Ward, which’ll cover all the bases as far as jumping, flying, or tunnelling is concerned. Might have more triggers if they were feeling fancy, like looking for Invisibility or cloaking Spells, or even the presence of Abby nearby. Should the Alarm be triggered, it’ll alert the guards and they’ll come looking to see what’s what, meaning there ain’t nothing really stopping me from passing through the Ward here and now on my way out.
Or least that’s what the Ward designers wanted you to think. There’s more to it, stuff I never would’ve known about if Aunty Ray hadn’t warned me in advance, but even knowing what to look for isn’t enough to reveal all the Ward’s secrets. Always figured it wouldn’t matter much if I triggered the Ward on my way out. The guards are more concerned with someone or something getting into town, not out, since ain’t no one ordered a lockdown just yet. Thought that meant I could hop over the wall and be long gone before anyone comes looking to see what’s what, though it would make getting back inside on the same night difficult to say the least. I was wrong for many reasons, but thankfully, Aunty Ray knew exactly how to get around all the tricks built into the Ward, though only the what and not the how. Soon as she explained it though, I was able to fill in the blanks, and got right to working on all the tools I’d need.
Namely a pair of three-foot lengths of silver wire with a connection pin Etched by yours truly fixed on either end, and a tiny wad of conduit clay to temporarily hold everything in place. See, a Ward is the same as any Etch, in that it’s a channel where Aether flows from one end to the other. There are some sections where the flow will double back or loop around a few times for some reason or the other, but regardless of whatever twists and turns it makes along the way, that Aether still gotta go from start to finish. What that means is that so long as I find the right junctions in the Ward and connect my silver wires to the Ward using conduit clay, I can divert that flowing Aether through the wires to bypass a section of the wall, turning them unpowered Etches into nothing but squiggles on stone that don’t do nothing to nobody. Gives me just enough space to get myself and my Floating Disc Sled over the wall undetected, and from there, all it takes is a gentle tug to bring my wires away with me and return the Ward to its normal operations as I float on down to Levitation’s maximum height. Leaves a little bit of conduit clay stuck to the wall, but ain’t no one gonna look twice, even if they do care to get down on all fours to inspect the parapets at foot level.
A tricksy woman, Aunty Ray, all full of surprises. In fact, now that I think about it, convincing me to wait until nighttime to sneak my stuff out at midnight and leave in the morning bought her time enough to make sure I’m fed and rested. I went along with it too, without even having to think, because it all sounded so reasonable, now didn’t it? Plus, she seemed like she knew what she was talking about, which raises the question of how she knows so much about avoiding incrimination. Now that I think about it though, she always been more than familiar with the extralegal side of the law, especially the terminology. Stool pigeons, coyotes, marks, and more, she a lady with a colourful vocabulary that ain’t everyone familiar with, not to mention how most of what I know about Mafia ranks and such, I learned from her. My daddy never bothered telling me much of anything about lawbreakers, just told me that a criminal is a criminal, and to treat each one on individual basis so as to avoid making wrong assumptions. Aunty Ray though? She’s always been a font of tales about this or that, and most had to do with lawbreakers or folks who went up against them.
My favourite stories were always the ones about the Spellslinger from Chicago, a man alone who took on the mob with his signature sawn-off, double-barrel Forzares. That’s why I got them same guns after all, you know, aside from the practical reasons of how my Mage Hands can safely use them too.
Never thought much of it, but now I’m wondering if Aunty Ray’s got a past I don’t know about. One of these days, I’ll have to sit her down and ask how she knows all that she does. Came in real handy though, because if it wasn’t for her, I’d have marched right out the gates with all my gear in plain sight. Not just because I didn’t care much about being arrested after the fact, but also because I wanted to send a message. Let the Mafia know that Howie Zhu is on the warpath and coming straight for them, if only to make them sweat a bit. This though? Sneaking out is much smarter, because disappearing into the forest without so much as a peep is much scarier than making a bee-line straight for Mount Rimepeak.
It's the dagger you don’t see that causes the most concern, because that’s usually the one that gets you.
Also keeps me from outright breaking the law, since bypassing a Ward ain’t exactly illegal. Doing so in service of a crime most certainly is, but I ain’t committed no crime just yet. I ain’t smuggling anything out, because I own everything I’m carrying and got no intention to sell it. Breaking a Ward though? That’s vandalism at the very least, and might well have been what I would’ve had to do to get back inside. Which would’ve been bad, because Aunty Ray told me the Wards will magically tag anyone who passes through them illegally, or outside of any official entryways, marking them with something to lead the Sherrif right to me unless I got a Dispel handy. Which I don’t, because that ain’t a Spell so much as a whole damn profession, one I don’t know the first thing about.
There’s a lot of work that goes into being a criminal, which makes me wonder how the likes of Michael and Joseph got away with it for so long. Either way, it doesn’t take long to find a place in the forest to stow my gear, a natural perch in the boughs of a tall whitewood. A pair of climbing spurs on my boots and grappling hook on a rope is all I need to make my way up into the treetops, where I lash my Floating Disc Sled to a big branch thicker than I am, along with all my important gear and materials. Once that’s done, I head on back into town and pick a different section of wall to bypass on my way in, since sneaking into town is most certainly a crime, albeit one that won’t get me anything more than a slap on the wrist if caught.
But I’m not caught, and even manage to catch a couple z’s on Aunty Ray’s couch after I make it back inside unnoticed. I tell myself I’m there just in case the Mafia takes another run at my loved ones, but the truth is, I can’t stomach the thought of going back home to be alone. Or to Josie’s place for that matter, because I got too many memories over there, all of which will only remind me of her final moments again. An argument could be made to go up to see how Noora is doing, but my shame and embarrassment keep me from even trying. Don’t want Tina or Aunty Ray learning about our sordid relationship, and even though Josie never minded, it feels like disrespecting her memory to go find Noora tonight, which only goes to show how they both deserved better than what little I could give them.
Course, sitting on the couch with my pistol in hand don’t change things much, as the moment I close my eyes, I see Josie’s wide-eyed stare again. That’s what burns me the most, not necessarily just losing her, but losing her in a way that poisons all other memories of her. It was just so ugly and unexpected. One moment she was alive and vibrant as can be, and the next, she was gone in a moment of violence and pain.
Don’t get much sleep, much less a full 8 hours, but I make do with what I get and slip out as the sun rises. Leave my bull’s head medallion behind, as well as any distinctive accessories behind, like pins, belt buckles, and even the kerchief Josie stitched for me that says HZ & JR, which is just about the only thing I got to remember her by besides the all too few Pictures we done took together. Much as I want to carry the kerchief with me, it’d be all too easy for someone to track with the Locate Object Spell, especially the Marshal who done seen and touched it himself. Same goes for Tina’s kiccaw necklace, as well as a thousand other things I could be wearing. Not my boots, duster, and hat though, as they all too generic to be picked up by the Spell, since they don’t stand out from any other boots, duster, or hat that anyone else could be wearing.
Once I’m sure I got nothing on me that’ll give me away, I head on out towards the gate with Cowie in tow. No sense checking in to see if anyone’s awake, as I done already said my goodbyes and can’t bear to do it again. Mostly because a part of me understands just how selfish this is. Yeah, I’m hurting after losing Josie and our child, but I ain’t the only one in pain, and now I’m forcing my loved ones to come to terms with the possibility of losing me too. Didn’t even say goodbye to Uncle Teddy, but I can’t bear to look him in the eyes right now. I got all this anger and outrage inside and don’t want to throw none of it his way. He’s just doing what he does, being the Marshal that we all need, but his priorities will forever be with the people of the Frontier, while I’m starting to realize that I ain’t that guy. I ain’t ever gonna be the Firstborn he hoped I would be, because I don’t care enough about the people to do what he does for them. For eighteen years, Theodore Ellis has given his life to the Rangers and never once asked for anything in return, a thankless task that few would care to take up and even fewer capable of carrying.
Me? I got neither the inclination nor the ability to do what he does, and it’s high time I moved past it. Was a childish dream, one that was never my own, because I only ever wanted to be the Firstborn so my daddy and Uncle Teddy would be proud of me. I enjoyed the work, sure, but not for the same reasons. They do what they do because they see it as their duty, their calling, their lot in life. Me? I enjoy the thrill of the hunt, but more to the point, I can’t stand to see evil prevail. That’s why I do what I do. Because good people have it hard enough out here, and anyone who sets out to make things harder for those people, to take advantage of their good nature and grow fat off their labour? They don’t deserve the dignity of a long drop and a short stop. A cigarette and a Bolt to the back of the head is too good for them, and can’t no one tell me different.
Won’t stop me from delivering that Bolt, or even allowing that cigarette if I feel like it, but I’d much rather they see it coming. Only then will they have time to despair and regret, and die knowing they was the architect of their own destruction.
The guards give me a thorough once over on my way out the gates, but they don’t hassle me none when they see I ain’t carry much more than usual. Rations and medical supplies mostly, as everything else already been smuggled out, even my armoured plate carrier and extra plates. Wouldn’t have thought twice about the guards taking inventory if not for Aunty Ray, and once I’m out the gates, I continue to follow her advice after retrieving my gear. Rather than heading straight for Rimepeak, I head over to Gunnar’s village to pay the Alchemist a visit. There are plenty of things I can make myself, but full-on Alchemical concoctions are beyond me, and while New Hope got plenty of stores carrying everything I could ever need, Gunnar’s the only Alchemist I know who won’t ask too many questions. Might still give me up to the Rangers if they apply enough pressure, but he won’t snitch without good reason, because wouldn’t no one buy from him if he did. Not at his prices anyways, which I get to see for myself the first time once all the niceties are out of the way.
Prices I’m more than willing to pay, since I got good use for it all. I still got five vials of Alchemical Acid from Pleasant Dunes, but I pick up a few more because you never know when you might need to melt through some solid steel in a jiffy. I also buy a dozen Fog Bombs, which throw up a 12m diametre cloud of fog as per the Spell. Doesn’t last a full hour like the Spell would, only a minute, but it also don’t require Concentration neither. Good for making cover where there ain’t none without hurting no one, and I stock up on a couple Entangle Grenades too for much the same reason. It’s not all that useful a Spell when going up against people, because most will have guns they can still use to shoot, but it’s great for herding civilians in another direction, since no one in their right mind will want to walk through a patch of twisty, grabbing vines.
There’s also a whole host of consumable Potions that will come in handy for a man on a mission, like Mage Armour and Barkskin potions to provide protection without a Spell or Concentration. I grab a good number of the latter, since even my poor aptitude for Abjuration means I can cast a better version of Mage Armour than the potion can give me. Barkskin though? Not only do I not know the Second Order Spell, it can stack with Mage Armour and my make skin hard enough to crack and shatter when hit by Bolts. Not ideal, but much better than the alternative of getting holes punched through flesh and bone, so even though they ain’t even remotely cheap and only last 15 minutes as opposed to a full hour, I grab two dozen and consider it a damn good investment.
Potions of Climbing are pretty good too, allowing you to walk up walls and sheer surfaces for the next hour, so I grab 6 since it beats climbing spurs and a grappling hook. A Potion of Gaseous Form makes for a sure-fire escape plan if you get trapped in a room, but given the price tag on the Third Order Potion, I only buy one. For the same reason, I opt out of buying any Potions of Flying, Haste, or Phasing, as they don’t offer enough of an advantage to justify the cost. I do let Gunnar talk me into buying two Potions of Melding, which is pretty much the Meld into Stone Spell in a vial. Hardly seems worthwhile considering there’s a Ritual for the Spell, but Marcus ain’t around no more to teach me it. I don’t buy the potions because of anything Gunnar says though. I just figure I could make good use of them, and not to get out of dodge.
Gunnar’s a great salesman though, I gotta give him that, and my dour mood and dark expression don’t throw him off his game either. At most, he gives a nervous little chuckle once we get to the end of his catalogue and I don’t make any move to settle up, because he knows what I’m really here for and is doing his damnedest to avoid it. Two days ago, I would’ve given him an out, maybe mentioned that if he don’t got anything else to sell, then it’s time to haggle over price. Leave the decision in his seven-fingered hands, as it were, but today, I ain’t feeling so generous, so I go at it with all the subtlety and nuance of a sock filled with nickels. “How much Impact Oil you got?” I ask, stifling the part of my brain that feels bad for Gunnar as he blanches white in fear. Instead, I flash my stack of cash and say, “I’m good for it.”
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“Howie,” Gunnar begins, brushing his long, wispy hair to one side and glancing at my gun, even though I ain’t laid a finger on it since coming into his shop. “I can’t.” I don’t say nothing, just narrow my eyes a bit, and Gunnar quickly explains, “You know how it is man. I sell a little Impact Oil here and there, but never enough to do any real damage. A couple vials every now and then is one thing, but if I arm you to the gills with enough grenades to bring a house down, the Rangers will have me in chains the next day.”
“Gonna need more than that,” I say, ignoring his unwillingness to sell. “I’m fixin’ to bring down somethin’ much bigger than a house.”
Gunnar hates to hear it, and I hate to see him cringe, because somehow he’s gotten the impression that I ain’t about to accept ‘no’ for an answer. I haven’t said as much, and truth is, I probably won’t, not without good reason, but it’s not like I done threatened him.
“Then I definitely can’t,” Gunnar replies, moving aside to look through his catalogue again like he wants to suggest something else, but I notice it puts his counter between me and him, and I gotta imagine he’s got some sort of security system in place. I don’t sweat it none though, because I ain’t stupid enough to threaten a man in his line of work at his place of business. Gunnar’s made it this long as an independent Alchemist, and I imagine there plenty of illegal outfits out there that would be happy to have him working for him, regardless of whether he’s willing or not. I’m sure his fellow villagers, many of whom are powerful Innates, got something to do with his continued freedom, but I’d be a fool to underestimate this grubby little alchemist just because he don’t look like much.
“You can and you will,” I say, making sure not to move. Not in a tense, fearful sort of way, but a confident, unwavering manner, which has the added advantage of not spooking him into Actuating whatever Artifact he reach for behind the counter. “Won’t no one know you sold anything to me. Promise.”
“C’mon Howie.” Giving me a sympathetic look, Gunnar hesitates, then blows out a sigh and says, “Look, I’m real sorry to hear what happened to your girl, I am, but we both know what you’re planning to do. The Marshal might be willing to let some things slide, but Impact Oil is a military grade resource, meaning it’s highly restricted and extra illegal to produce without a government contract, much less sell. The second he hears about it being used in a street war against gangsters, he’ll march his Rangers right up to my doorstep and tear my home and workshop apart. Even if he doesn’t find anything, he’ll know it was me who sold it to you, because I’m the only supplier around. I could beat the allegations and walk away clean, but he’ll have me on a watchlist for the rest of my life, sending undercover buyers to try and bust me in the act or offering deals to anyone that’ll roll on me. He’ll make it his life’s mission to jam me up, and if not, someone else will, meaning I’ll have no choice but to move south into contested territory and beyond the reach of the Rangers.”
All true, but I still ain’t ready to accept no for an answer. “No one will ever know about the Impact Oil. You have my word.”
Gunnar winces again, and again, I feel a pang of guilt for forcing his hand like this. “No offense Howie, but I’ll need a little more assurance than that. Talk is cheap after all, you know what I mean?”
So I give him a look that says I’m trusting him here, and another that promises unholy retribution should he double cross me. No idea what that looks like in the mirror, but it’s enough to turn Gunnar’s swarthy complexion to a pasty shade of pale. Then I tell him what I need the Impact Oil for, and he goes ghostly white. Muttering a long string of imaginative curses under his breath, he strokes his wispy beard with his three-fingered hand for a full minute before heaving a sigh. “I can’t sell you Impact Oil,” he declares, all tense while he readies to do whatever he’s prepped behind the counter. I don’t do anything besides stand there and wait, because he sounds like he’s still got more to say. When it’s clear I ain’t about to draw and shoot him, he relaxes just a tiny bit and says, “I can sell you something else though, and I guarantee it’ll do exactly what you need. Better even, because I gotta be honest Howie, your idea is terrible.”
Credit where it’s due, he ain’t wrong, and he makes a good case for what he’s selling. Though I’m none too pleased to pivot, his offered alternative is both cheaper and safer than what I had in mind. Since it don’t sound like I got much of a choice, I go with what he’s offering and pay without haggling, which catches him off guard. “Damn it Howie,” he grumbles, looking at the stack of cash I done placed on the counter like it’s something unpleasant Cowie left behind. “You take all the fun out of haggling if you don’t haggle.” Handing back a full third of the stack, he says, “There. That’s a fair price.” Instantly regretting the decision, he grabs a couple bills off the top and stuffs them in his pocket, a little extra for his time, effort, and honesty I suppose, so I don’t begrudge him the tip. I just grab the remainder and put it away without caring one whit about how my vengeance is gonna cost me almost all my liquid assets.
I mean look on the bright side. Might well just die and not have to worry about money anymore, so there’s that.
No, I can’t think like that, not even as a joke, because that there is defeatist thinking. With that in mind, I focus on the goal of getting home alive and bid Gunnar goodbye, only to double back when I remember Aunty Ray’s advice. “You know anyone up in Rimepeak?” I ask, because if anyone has got an in with the criminal element, it’d be Gunnar. “Ideally folks who got a grudge with the people in charge and might well be swayed to help out with a regime change?”
“No one I trust enough to make the introduction,” Gunnar replies, after thinking about it for a hot minute. “They might not like the Puglianos, but they’ll turn on you in a heartbeat if the price is right. Even the Zampano Family would hand you over for a big enough prize, and they’ve been looking to oust the Puglianos for years now. That’s how it is with them mob types. The Family first, then the Families, then everyone else, you know?”
I don’t, but I trust Gunnar knows what he’s talking about, so I say thanks and head on out to add my new supplies to the mix. Where little Astrid is waiting to ambush me with a hug, one that’s only successful because Cowie is too friendly with the girl and failed to warn me in advance. “I’m sorry to hear about Josie,” she says, hugging me for all she’s worth while getting all teary eyed and sad, and wholly ignorant of how I almost drew on her. “She was so sweet and kind. Said she loved the colour of my skin, that it was vibrant and striking as can be.”
Which says a lot about Josie, seeing how most who see Astrid’s ruby red skin and curved, black horns tend to automatically associate her with the Devil. It’s a striking look, especially when you add in the golden glow of her blood vessels shining through her skin, not to mention the piercing golden eyes and silken black hair, but Josie was never one to judge by appearance, nor was she content to go with the flow and think the same as everyone else. That’s why she liked me after all, because much like her, I went against convention, and I don’t know if I’ll ever find someone who’ll love me like she did.
And much as it pains me to see Astrid feeling down in the dumps about Josie’s passing, I don’t got it in me to offer much comfort. “She wasn’t wrong,” I say, getting all choked up about it only for my words to come out as a growl. “Always saw the best in people. That’s Josie.”
My Josie, who the Puglianos took from me, which is why they gotta pay.
“Can’t stay and chat,” I say, before I get stuck reminiscing of better times. “Got things to do, places to be.” People to kill too, but I don’t say as much. Astrid senses my mood though, because she’s lived a hard life out here on the Frontier. Don’t think she’s ever been to New Hope, but her mama Alice has, and the last time she was there, a whole mob came out to greet her. Or rather threaten to burn her at the stake, which ain’t no way to welcome your guests, but looking like the very picture of a Devil don’t do much to endear you to small-minded religious nuts.
I mean hell, there are folks who still think we ought to lynch anyone who ain’t the same colour they are, so it shouldn’t come as any surprise to know that Astrid’s ruby red skin gets a lotta folks all up in arms. Sad, but true, so I give her a pat on the head and go about my way. Or at least that’s what I intend to do, until I remember the modernized Mage Hand Cantrip me, Kevin, and Mr. Mueller worked out. Seeing how Astrid is probably just as familiar with the Cantrip as I am, I hand over the notes and tell her to make a copy, because Lord knows I ain’t got the time to study it. Would be a real shame if it disappeared after the fact, or at least remained unknown until Kevin or Mr. Mueller remember to share it, which they didn’t seem all too keen on to begin with. Takes some explaining to get Astrid to understand what I’m handing over, but once she does, she hops to right quick and copies it down for herself with a keen interest. Has plenty of questions, but I don’t got many answers, nothing besides a list of books that I done read about the subject and a half-hearted promise to talk some more the next time I see her.
“Hang on.” Spurred by the reminder of what I’m planning to do, Astrid pushes past her papa and into his shop, before re-emerging with flat, orange tin of what looks like hardened bacon grease. “We call it Red Sun balm,” she explains, after opening it up to show me the ointment inside that stinks something fierce of herbs and chemicals. “It’s an analgesic. A painkiller,” she clarifies, when she sees the look I give her, because I never was one for fancy terms even when I know what’s what. “Take a small dab and spread it under your nostrils. The medicines in the smell, which will be absorbed through your nasal cavity and greatly dull your sense of pain for about five to ten minutes.”
Having learned my lesson the hard way more than once, I take Astrid at her word but also try the balm for myself. Soon as I spread a tiny bit under my nose, the sharp, angry smell hits me like a two-tonne hammer, no less harsh than smelling salts to start and easing off just a tiny bit. Does make the pain in my knee go down a fair bit, and while my other aches and scrapes ain’t worth mentioning, they ain’t bothering me no more either. “Good stuff,” I say, nodding in thanks as I accept the bright orange tin. “What’s the downside?”
Because you know there gotta be one, since Uncle Art didn’t sell me none, just gave me frost-thorn powder like normal. Which works, but not half as well as this stuff, so there’s gotta be something wrong with it. “External use only,” Astrid says, pursing her lips in a pout over some imagined affront. “If you eat any, it won’t kill you, but it’ll numb your mouth so much you’ll be drooling all over the place. Not for long, unless you eat a handful or something, but at that high a dosage, it could stop your heart.”
“Ah. Got it,” I say, Conjuring up a Water Sphere to wash my finger clean of the residue while reminding myself not to let Cowie give me any kisses with that stuff on.
“Also, it can be mildly addictive,” she adds in a rush, but she ain’t done just yet. “And stop using it if it causes a rash. Don’t get any into your bloodstream either, because that won’t end well. You’ll get really hungry and thirsty too if you use it more than a few times a day, so only for emergencies okay?” Stopping to think for a bit, Astrid nods and almost takes out my eye with her pointed, curved horn and says, “That should be everything.”
…Should be? I don’t give voice to the question, and Astrid don’t shy away from it neither, so I shrug and ask, “How much I owe you?”
“First taste is free,” she says, grinning like a bandit before remembering I’m in no mood to smile. Course, that reminds her of why, and brings her down again, so I pat her head and bid her farewell before her mama and brother drop in too. Gunnar don’t make any effort to keep me either, not like he normally would, and I make my way out of his sprawling yet productive little village and onwards to my next destination.
Which is Clayton’s quaint yet serviceable village, where I intentionally trip one of his Wards on my way in and take my time showing up at the village proper. Gives him time to get settled in and squared away so they ain’t so nervous when I appear, which is good because they greet me with weapons in hand. And smiles on their faces once they see who it is, but hang onto their guns all the same. They’ve heard the news too, so once we’re past all the niceties, I jump straight into it once more. “How much for the Ogre’s Bane?” I ask, and Clayton winces to hear it. “Or any other fully-automatic weapon you might have?”
“Only got the one,” he says, heaving a long sigh and signalling for me to wait as he heads inside to grab it. Takes him a couple minutes, but not so much that he’d have to dig it out of the ground, meaning he’s made some changes since the last time I visited. “Here,” he says, coming out with the modified rifle in hand and a bandolier full of packed mags and loose ammo. “There’s 8 full mags, and about twice that in loose ammo.” 500 rounds total, give or take, which sounds like a lot until you see how fast the thing shoots.
“What do I owe you?”
“Nothing. On the house.” Clapping me on the shoulder, Clayton gives me a knowing look, one laced with a little guilt because he wishes he had the courage to join me. “Next time though, I’m charging you full price.”
I ain’t in any position to be bargaining, but at the very least, I can return what I owe. “I’ll bring it back in good condition,” I say, only for Clayton to grimace and shake his head.
“Better if you lose it once you’re done,” he explains, and it takes me a moment to understand. Can’t rightly be showing up with a fully-automatic rifle like the one used in what will most certainly be a crime. Shame to throw away a beautiful weapon like the Ogre’s Bane, but them’s the breaks of working on the wrong side of the law.
“About that,” I drawl, not exactly sure how to go about asking this. “You think you or any of your boys feel like going on a hunting trip with me? Say starting tomorrow until, oh, I dunno, when all this blows over? Two weeks at most, though it probably won’t take that long.”
Clayton catches on right quick and nods without even thinking. “That’s the best way to clear your head,” he says with a nod and firm clap of my shoulder. “We’ll head out first thing tomorrow morning and won’t come back until you’re sorted. Gimme your hat, jacket, and boots. Too recognizable. Your papers too. They can track the Mark made on them, and could even be bugged. Can’t trust nothing the Feds give you, nothing.”
We talk shop for a bit, mostly about where we’ll go, what we’ll hunt, and how I’ll get in touch once I can. He also mentions some of the guns he could get if he had a week or three, but I ain’t all that patient so I decline his goodwill and bid him farewell. Creasy and the kids pop out to say goodbye too, and it’s nice to see something I done right while keen to do what I know is objectively wrong. Morally grey at best, but my mind is made up and ain’t no changing it anymore. From Clayton’s place, I head on over to Mueller’s Quay where once again everyone has heard what happened and pops over to offer their condolences. Even though I’ve got little patience left in me and no smiles at all, I still suffer through the greetings and accept what hugs they want to give. Ain’t their fault I’m in such a mood, and they ain’t been nothing but kind, welcoming, and generous to boot, so I shouldn’t take none of my anger out on them.
Luckily, Mr. Mueller hears of my arrival and rushes over to save me from my predicament, waving off everyone who come to greet me on my way into the village. Rather than his house however, he brings me over to Luisa’s pub, who for once ain’t cooking up a storm as she welcomes me in with a hug. “What do you need?” she asks, jumping right to it soon as it’s just me, her, and Mr. Mueller. “How can we help? We are no ōcēlōtl, Cuāuhtli, or soldiers, but should you sound the horns of battle, we shall answer your call.”
Touched by her forthright offer to help out, I’m at a loss for words, because this dumpy, matronly woman has more steel and courage than 10 average townies. “This is my fight,” I say with a shake of my head, as this here is the same reason why I ain’t asked any of the boots to come along, or even reached out to my daddy’s old friends. “I can’t ask you and yours to bleed and die for me. Thank you though. I won’t forget this.”
Firmly grabbing my face with both hands, Luisa meets my eyes with a crazed intensity I only seen in massed murderers before, a palpable rage that was once hidden deep but has surfaced again anew. “When I tell you of my Matías,” she growls, “You asked me for a name. I tell you the same, that it was my fight, not yours, but this is no longer true.” Baring her teeth in fury and anguish both, Luisa declares, “It is our fight, yours and mine, for the name of our enemy is Ignazio Pugliano.”
The sheer hatred packed into her utterance tells me everything I need to know, that Luisa would die happy so long as she could drive a knife through his black heart first. Me, not so much, because I’m fixing to survive what comes next, meaning Luisa’s hatred supersedes even mine. A powerful emotion, hatred, and I can’t say I blame her, not when she’s been nursing this grudge for nigh on a decade. The man killed her son, or was responsible for the kid’s death, so to refuse her aid in this matter won’t earn me no gratitude, and might well earn me her wrath instead.
“Okay,” I say with a nod, because if there’s one thing I know and trust, it’s a desire for vengeance. “I wasn’t planning on asking for anything besides a place to stow my gear for a bit, but we’ll talk and work on a plan.” Eying Mr. Mueller to see where he stands in all this, he gives me a grim smile and nods his head.
“We’ll figure something out together,” he says. “We got plenty of connections up in Rimepeak and Brightpick proper, so we could get you in unseen and keep you hidden for a good, long time. Also hear talk of you getting Exiled from New Hope, and though it might not seem like much, we can help you with the paperwork and getting prepared. If that’s not enough, well…” Giving a grunt as good as any soldier ever could, he speaks with a gravity that brooks no doubt. “Been a whole lot of years since I was a soldier, but I still got that fight in me.” Patting his prodigious belly with a grin, he adds, “So long as I don’t gotta run to get there.” Still smiling that fixed, strained smile, he continues, “Make no mistake. Luisa’s not the only one who’s suffered under the Puglianos, and the whole village is with us on this. If you need a hand, we’re offering ours, and to hell with the consequences.”
“Well, I’m thinking we do our best to avoid those consequences all the same.” Wondering how I got saddled as the voice of reason, I add, “But if not, then I’m right there with you.”
Leaving most of my gear to the people of Mueller’s Quay, I set off with Cowie to my last stop for the day, or night as it were with sundown approaching. Doesn’t take long to get to Carter’s place, where the man himself greets me at the door with a neutral expression. “I ain’t here to ask you to fight,” I begin, knowing that’s probably what he’s worried about. Was a time when I didn’t understand why he wouldn’t stand up for himself, but I get it now. It’s not because he’s afraid. It’s because he’s not willing to risk losing what he has. A subtle difference, and some might call it fear all the same, but I get it now. Those ‘protection’ fees are a small price to pay to ensure his people’s safety, and knowing what I know now, I would’ve happily given everything I had to the Mafia to ensure they wouldn’t come after me and mine.
Not because I’m afraid of the fight. No, I’m ready for it, eager even, and damn well going to win it. Thing is, I’d pay any price to hold Josie in my arms again, to see her smile and hear her voice and just bask in her presence one last time.
Can’t no one give me that though, meaning all I got left is vengeance.
In answer to Carter’s unasked question, I say, “Got two favours to ask for, but I’ll understand if you say no. First, I need a place to stow Cowie for a bit, or you could bring him back to New Hope if you don’t want him here.” Can’t rightly bring him with me up to Mount Rimepeak since he’d be a dead giveaway of my presence, and it won’t really matter if I send him home since it’s not like I have to bring him hunting. “Second, I was hoping we could try the ceremony again. Last time, I promise. I’ll leave once it’s done and won’t ever darken your doorstep uninvited again.” Because he was right, as my very presence is enough to endanger Elodie, and I don’t want her blood weighing heavy on my conscience too.
I don’t know what it is Carter is thinking, as I never could get a proper read on him. All I know is that he takes a long time to think before stepping aside. “Come in, Howie,” he says, patting me on the shoulder as I pass by. “You are always welcome in our home, as is Cowie.” Shrinking down to baby sized, Cowie runs a few circles around Carter’s legs before darting off to find Elodie, as he’s had enough of my dour mood for the day. He just a bull, so he don’t understand what happened, and I can’t rightly hold it against him for wanting to play either. Unfortunately, Elodie ain’t in much of a playing mood either, as she shows up in Diamondclaw form and cuddles him close while looking sad as can be. Aside from a nod though, I don’t say much else to her, because I still ain’t all that sure as to where Carter stands and don’t want to overstep.
Miss Amelie shows up soon after and comforts her daughter with a hug, but more surprising is how she greets me the same way. “Grief is pain,” she whispers, squeezing me tight. “Embrace it. Accept it. Cherish it even, for the greater the grief, the greater the love you had, and that is a beautiful thing.” Pulling away, she holds me by the shoulders and looks me in the eyes with a solemn dignity that leaves me feeling ashamed of my rage. “Anger too is natural, but this you cannot embrace. Control it, else you will be controlled by it, and in doing so bring grief and pain to those you hold most dear.”
Great advice, and if I was smart, I’d think twice about my decisions and what I intend to do next, but I ain’t ever claimed to be smart. “I got it under control,” I say, and I even believe it, because I am. Under control. Some folks get angry and lash out, get to yelling, breaking things, or acting out, but that ain’t me. Me, I done swallowed my anger and pushed it down into my belly. The fires of rage are still burning, only it ain’t a conflagration. No, it’s a smouldering heat, a billowing haze of fury that will fuel the rampage of violence and bloodshed I am about to embark on, one that will leave naught but death and suffering in my wake.
A thought I cling to as I settle in for the ceremony, but not inside the walls of Carter’s compound. Instead, I ask if we can have the ceremony closer to the docks, off in the clearing where I climbed the big whitewood and cooked a whole slew of Abby with Fireball. This is my home, the battlefield of the Frontier, here where I spilled blood and blood spilled from me. There is no music to set the mood, because music calms the beast, but the calm is not what I seek. For the same reason, I ask that Elodie and Cowie don’t come with, or Old Tux for that matter who’s living his best life here at Carter’s compound. There’s that at least, and I already left Cowie to Elodie in the updated will I done wrote up before I left, because she’ll spoil him rotten the way he deserves. Tucked that will into the bible on my bookshelf, where Uncle Teddy knows to look should I ever pass away, and won’t ever look unless I have. That’s me prepping for the worst, but here’s me hoping for the best as I settle in on the ground I scorched clean beneath a tree that bears my blood, somewhere on its trunk up there.
For smell, I go with burning Aether, which I get by firing off all six shots of my Rattlesnake into the air. Then I take apart the gun, empty brass and all, and place it down on my cleaning mat that I brung along with. Everything I need to clean and maintain my weapons is laid out too, gun oil, rags, bristle brushes, and more, all placed in their relevant positions so I could do everything with my eyes closed if need be. Six rounds of loose ammo are lined up at the top left corner of the mat, and I look down at my disassembled weapon and think back to the lessons my daddy taught me all about it.
“This is not a toy,” he said, the first time he sat me down in front of it, with everything laid out just like this. “This is a weapon, a tool of war, and in untrained hands, as dangerous to the user as it is to their foes.” Giving me a look I remember well, but didn’t really understand until many years later, my daddy said, “Those who live by the gun, die by the gun. Is this still the path you seek?”
I didn’t answer, I just nodded, all eager and excited as can be. In the here and now, I close my eyes and also nod, signalling Carter to start the Ceremony of Connection with his same reminder as always. “Empty your thoughts. Find your Self. Define it. Envision it. Understand it.”
I ain’t that eager and excited kid anymore. I ain’t the dreamer who wanted to be just like his daddy either, or the gung ho gunslinger yearning to live up to heavy expectations, ones placed there by my daddy and Uncle Teddy both. I ain’t no Ranger and won’t ever be one, nor will I ever be the Firstborn, not the way so many others envisioned. There was a time when I was all those people and more, and another time when I yearned to be a husband, a father, and a provider. That’s who I was, who I used to be, or who I wanted to be, complex notions of a person I still can’t entirely explain, but it ain’t who I am anymore.
Who am I then? I’m Howie Zhu. Some might call me the Firstborn, and soon, I suspect more will call me the Yellow Devil, but what folks call me don’t matter, not even what I call myself. Why? Because a man is defined by what he does, and what I intend to do is unleash a storm of violence fuelled by rage and wrath to wash away the Pugliano stain upon our society. If the laws of man refuse to set things right, then I reject them in their entirety and will take matters into my own hands, all four of which will be needed for the work ahead.
That’s who I am. Don’t fit in a nutshell, but it’s about as brief as I can get. Soon as I’ve found my Self, Carter senses it and moves on with the Ceremony, repeating the same advice as before. “Call to your Spirit and offer it respite within. Hold fast to hózhó, the balance and harmony between all living things.”
Yeah, no. All due respect to Carter and his beliefs, but fuck hózhó. I have a vessel. I need my right hand. Get to it, or I’ll find some other way to make myself whole again. Right now, a metal clamp strapped to my forearm would be more useful than my phantom fingers, so this here is your last chance. You want in on this? To hurt the people who took my Josie away? Then you answer the fucking call right here and right now, because there’s bloody work to be done and I got no time to waste.
Bloody is right. There in the throes of the magic, I realize what must be done, what’s missing from my Ceremony to bridge that connection. Without opening my eyes, I cast a Spell and Conjure up my hatchet before bringing it down without hesitation. The pain is immediate, but nothing compared to the pain within my heart, and the metallic tang of fresh blood reminds me of who I really am. A concept I cannot define, but is most certainly written in blood, because like Luisa said, there is no gain without cost, no progress without sacrifice, and no reward without risk. This is the right path, one that differs from what Carter’s Ceremony of Connection is about, but one that I understand, so I pay no mind to his gasp as I carry on with my work. The answer comes all too naturally once I’ve laid out what’s on the line, blood and vengeance and my pound of flesh, all things I understand all too well. The Spirit of my hand answers the call, and though no Spell Structure appears within my mind, I sense it pulsing in the near-distant nothingness, a humming presence within the Immaterium that I can pinpoint as easily as finding due North.
I’m not done yet though, because I still have more Connections to make, as I bring to mind the Structure of my Mage Hand Cantrip. Though it looks the same as always, I can see more of it than usual, the shimmering lights that put me in mind of a grasping hand as the trails pulse from one end to the other, then back again to repeat the cycle without end. I take it all in, not just the sight of it, but the sensations and memories that come with. How many times have I cast this Cantrip? Far too many to count, as it was the first Cantrip I ever learned and easily my most practiced one too. It started off as a single Mage Hand that couldn’t pick up a grumbleberry without squashing it, but nowadays, I can use them to eat with chopsticks, write with proper penmanship, play cat’s cradle without having to think, and so much more.
And yet, that is not enough. I need them to be better, stronger, faster, and more, so I erase the Structure from memory and breathe in the smell of blood and Aether once more before making the Call again. Though I lost my right hand when it was severed in Pleasant Dunes, it is not the only Spirit I am connected to. I was born with my right hand, but my Mage Hands were crafted, nurtured and created over countless hours of dedicated practice. They are as much a part of me as my missing hand was, so now it is time they too answered the call, because I ain’t go no use for slackers who can’t carry their own weight.
And driven by that need, that desire, that compulsion within me, I find the answers that have eluded me for so long as a new Spell Structure comes together in my mind’s eye. One that comes together without numbers and calculations, no Formulas to solve or tricks to follow, and no reason to believe this will work, but it does as I draw upon my memories and familiarity to put the Structure together anew. Not as the Cantrip I remember and have always known, but rather the tried-and-true Spell I know it can be. When it’s all said and done, it still feels like that grasping hand, and I can’t quite explain how it’s changed. It just feels different, and that’s enough for me to know it worked, as the Spell Structure pulses in synch to a distant rhythm that mirrors its appearance somewhere in the Immaterium. No, not a Spell Structure, for this is not something I can remove, not a fixture in memory placed there to mimic the motions of a greater structure in the Immaterium. No, rather than a model, this here is part and parcel of the original, a mirror image rather than a recreation crafted by my mind and mine alone.
For when I made my call, the true Structure within the Immaterium responded and forged a connection between us, just like how Luisa said they did in the old ways.
Then and only then do I open my eyes, where I find Carter gazing at me in wide-eyed apprehension. “What did you do?” he asks, full of curious wonder and uncertain dread both as he struggles to make sense of it all. “You chopped off a section of your stump and fixed the wooden hand directly to it. That should have killed you, or at the very least introduced Contagion into the wound as you made a direct connection with Aether, but the flesh around your wrist is still healthy instead of rotting away from the inside out.”
I have no answers for him though, none that will clear things up at least, because I simply gave myself over to the magic and let it guide me to what I needed. Holding up my right hand, I see that he’s correct and that it’s hale and healthy as I remember it, with no visible line where I know my wrist now ends and the Conjured Hand begins. My five fleshy fingers are wrapped tightly around the grip of my reassembled and reloaded Rattlesnake, with index finger outside the guard and thumb ready to work the hammer. Even though the hand looks like flesh and blood, I know it isn’t, as I can feel the pulsing Aether within the construct counting down the cycles until the Spell must be cast anew. As for the mat and cleaning supplies, my Mage Hands are busy putting all the bottles and brushes back in their rightful place, and doing it without any of their customary lack of haste. In fact, they’re moving about as fast as my real hands normally would, not exactly lightning quick, but enough so that I wouldn’t notice any drop in speed while eating or writing. In appearance, they seem maybe ever so slightly more solid than before, though I’d be hard pressed to say for certain, as they could very well be as blue and spectral as always, and I’m only imagining the solidity I see and sense.
No, I’m not imagining it at all. I know this in my heart without knowing how I know it, but that ain’t all that important.
So in answer to Carter’s question, I say, “Got no real answers for you. I called, and they answered.” Got no time to enjoy the moment either, to bask in the wonder of this magical accomplishment or raise hypotheticals about it, so I get on with business as quick as I can. “Thank you Carter,” I say, putting my gun away with a cold smile that got no cheer at all. “I gotta go now.”
Because there’s bloody work to be done, and now that I’m back at 100%, the Puglianos won’t know what hit them.
