Folks in town are scared of me because I’m a killer.

  Which I won’t deny, but aren’t we all? Killers that is. I’m not talking about predation, killing to eat and survive. I’m talking about the real deal, about murder and warfare, as there ain’t nothing more natural than humans killing humans. We do it so often, we got all sorts of words to describe specific types of killing. Like matricide, the killing of one’s mother, or regicide, wherein you kill a king. An assassination is when you kill a prominent personage for political, religious, or monetary reason, while capital punishment is when the law decides that the punishment befitting the crime is death. Still killing though, even if it is for good reason, and we still got so many more words to go. Homicide, genocide, suicide and more, the lexicon goes on and on, which only goes to show just how ingrained killing is to humanity as a society.

  That’s why I say we all killers, because we all got it in us to kill. It’s easy, especially with the advent of technology. Don’t need no pointy stick, Spell, or even a gun, just a button you press that’ll launch an Aetheric Bomb to level a whole city off the face of the earth from thousands of klicks away. That’s how good we’ve gotten at killing, to the point where even a baby could do it if they got the right tools. And believe you me, we got a whole lot of tools meant for killing. Fact is, there’s a good chance the first tool humanity ever made was meant for killing, because when we really boil down the human condition, all we are is a murderous bunch of hairless apes. We kill to eat sure, but plenty of us kill for pleasure, and still more kill because they think it’s what they need to do. Someone tells us we gotta kill to defend our lands, then we’ll do it, but we’ll also kill to take new land. Sometimes it’s for shelter and resources, but more often it’s because we just don’t like each other all that much. We’ll kill over the dumbest reasons, like the colour of your skin or what god you pray to, and we’ll do it gladly because that minor difference is enough to dehumanize your opponent. They ain’t people anymore. They different. They savages, heretics, dissidents, or just the enemy, a malevolent foe we must kill before they kill us.

  Yeah, we as species are a murderous bunch, no two ways about it. Them townies who want me gone? They know this, because they were all part of the First Wave here on the Frontier. They all had to fight and scrape and yes, kill to survive, but now that they’ve got it good, they’d much rather forget those hard times and pretend they never happened. Just because they feel safe and sound behind their walls, they think the whole world ought to be like them too. ‘Civilized’ and ‘cultured’ types who will never raise a hand in violence again, not unless they was absolutely forced to by circumstance. Lies they tell themselves so they can feel better about what they done, pretend like they ain’t the killers they know they are. That’s why they ain’t comfortable having me around, because I don’t shy away from the truth, and they don’t like being reminded. Would much rather bury their heads in the sand and pretend that the only killers among them wear bright shiny badges and follow all the rules because law-and-order reigns supreme, but there ain’t no defense worth less than relying on the law to protect you and yours out here on the Frontier.

  Was my mistake, trusting a broken system to keep me and mine safe. Now Josie’s gone and I’m sitting in a tree staring down the new optic on my Nanfoodle at a bunch of mafioso thugs. Don’t got my finger on the trigger though, because I ain’t here to kill. Not tonight. Like I said, killing’s easy. Could kill every last man down there by switching over to the Ogre’s Bane and letting her rip. Got a 20-round magazine with each round firing off a 3-Bolt burst for a total of 60 Bolts going down range at twelve mostly stationary, well-lit targets within 150 metres. Could kill half in the initial spray, and get the other half before they get to proper cover, though there’s an element of luck and skill involved too. Still, overall, the difficulty ain’t high, but that ain’t why I’m here.

  I ain’t here to kill mafiosos. I’m here to hunt them.

  Don’t get it twisted. Hunting and killing ain’t the same thing. Already said anyone can kill, but hunting takes a little more skill. It’s the art of killing without being seen, of tracking your target, finding them while their guard is down, and putting a Bolt clean through their skull so they’re dead before they know you even there. That’s the essence of the alpha strike, to hit your enemy hard and fast to kill as many as you can before they’re able to retaliate.

  Killing a dozen low-level mafiosos led by a single made man ain’t worth shit though. I’m here to bring down the whole organization, but to do that, to successfully hunt them down and kill them all, I must first learn how my quarry thinks and acts.

  That’s what a hunter is. Someone who knows their target’s habits. Where they gather. When do they come out. How do they get to where they’re going, and how vigilant they are while on the move. It’s the same whether you hunting wulves or people, and sadly, I don’t know much about mafiosos. Hence why I done spent the last week watching my quarry, gathering information, and learning everything I could about them. The folks in Mueller’s Quay have been a goldmine of information, as they got connections up in Brightpick that can tell me everything I need, on top of helping me pack brass for all the bullets I’m gonna need. I know where the big bosses sleep, where they like to eat, the places they visit and when they usually go as well as what routes they take to get there. Seen it all firsthand too, walked those streets and done some prep after hearing tales of how they fight, what Spells and tactics they like to use, and how they leave bodies with certain markings as a message.

  The Puglianos? They like shooting until the barrel of their gun is red hot, then using that to brand their dead. The Zampanos, they like drowning their victims without making any effort to make it look natural, while the Catteneos are big on piano wire strangulations. It’s all very artsy and macabre to be sure, and goes to show how the Mafia has elevated intimidation to an art form.

  That’s the Mafia on paper though. In practice? Turns out they ain’t nowhere near as impressive.

  Spent a whole lot of time, effort, and money planning this little soiree, only now the Mafia’s actions ain’t matching the image I built up in my head. Went through all the intel folks brought me and picked out a nice and easy target, namely the caravan of Mafia liquor I done just lit ablaze. Was real easy subduing the 12 members of the caravan all by my lonesome, mostly because they didn’t put up any sort of fight. Laid a few shots across their bow and they all but showed their bellies after tossing their guns aside right quick. Gave a couple orders using a Minor Illusion Cantrip to disguise my voice, and had me a dozen prisoners all roped up nice and tight in less than a quarter hour’s time. You get what you pay for out here, and having seen the guns these guards done thrown away, I’d say the Puglianos are paying peanuts at best, which is why none them guards cared to risk their lives defending their employer’s property.

  Once my prisoners were all settled in, I got to arranging the big welcoming bonfire and settled in to wait, but then came the second twist I didn’t see coming. I took the caravan down last night, and the Mafia response time? Almost 24 hours. That’s a long time considering the wagon was supposed to arrive in Brightpick this morning, meaning they waited almost half a day without any news before sending someone out to check up on them, and from the looks of things, they didn’t send their best or brightest.

  Or might be that they did, and their best ain’t all that good. Complacency will do that. Don’t matter if you a gangster, soldier, farmer, or anything in between. Could be the Puglianos got so used to being the big dogs around these parts, they ain’t used to folks going after their stuff. Might change soon enough, but for now, I’m getting a clearer picture of who I’m up against, which is the whole point of this little dry run here. Wanted to see how the Mafia would react to an attack on their goods, and truth be told, I ain’t all that impressed. Not only did they take forever to get here, meaning they don’t got no daily radio checks, the people they sent ain’t got no skills worth shit, because they almost missed the many, many signs I left at the side of the road. To make matters worse, even though they checked the surroundings for ambush, they all proceeded to inspect the abandoned wagons as a group, which is just all sorts of stupid if I was planning to blow them up. Can’t do that though, because killing folks in an explosion might well bring the Rangers down on me right quick, as they all jumpy after that whole fiasco with Ronald Jackson. Man was manufacturing chemical explosives right under everyone’s noses, and didn’t no one find out until he was good and ready to go public and sell in bulk.

  Which made the Feds look mighty foolish, considering they sent a full company of Rangers and the first ever class of boots over to reinforce the bomb stockpile that was once Pleasant Dunes. That’s why I left the message and waited a good while before lighting up the caravan with my looted Nanfoodle. A lovely weapon, and I adore how it handles, as well as the ominous blue glow of the golden Orichalcum Runes etched into the bolt-action Aetherarm. Matches well with the peach-wood stock I polished to a sheen, and there’s something oh so satisfying about the blending light as the rifle’s Runes fade to darkness just as the orange-red glow of the flaming Firebolt shoots out the barrel and off into the night.

  A right gorgeous sight it is, and doubly so when the Firebolt ignites all the alcohol and sets the wagons ablaze. Thing is, a blazing fiery Bolt shooting out of the treetops should’ve clearly given away my position, which is why I was ready to hightail it out of here soon as I shot. I didn’t hear no return fire though, nor any sort of response at all, so I had my new and improved Mage Hands pull me around by my belt while I slowly floated through the treetops with Levitation. There’s some funky physics going on there, because it’s sorta like pulling yourself up by your bootstraps, in that it shouldn’t actually be possible to push myself around considering the Mage Hands are anchored to me. Still works though, and while it ain’t the fastest mode of transportation, or all that reliable, it’s better than nothing. The best part is how I’m much higher up than the Levitation Spell can bring me all on its lonesome, so I start sinking the moment I step off of my perch. Not all that quickly, because the new and improved Mage Hands provide just enough lift to keep me from plummeting down to 6m above ground. Instead, I sorta slowly drift down while floating forward until I get to the next tree, where I promptly walk up the side of the trunk thanks to the Potion of Climbing I drank right before I shot. Then it’s rinse and repeat as I circle around the wagons for a better look at what’s what.

  This ain’t flying, but it’s close enough to it for my purposes, which is pretty nifty if I’m being honest. Can’t enjoy it in the moment though. All I can think of is how much Josie loved Levitating up into the trees, pushing herself to climb ever higher even though she was clearly scared of heights. Wanted to bring her out for another session, but was worried about the baby, so I didn’t want to do it until I had a chance to ask Uncle Art a couple questions.

  Got so many regrets, ones I’ll hold onto until my dying breath, because like my daddy always said, there ain’t no cure for it.

  From my new vantage point, I watch the mafioso’s run about like chickens without their heads on. Ain’t ever seen no chicken, much less a headless one running around, but the evocative idiom paints a picture that’s easy to imagine. Rather than return fire or take cover, they’ve scattered away from the burning wagons in all different directions. Don’t think most even know which direction I shot from, as they all pointing their weapons this way and that like they looking for shooters in the shadows. Almost worried they might shoot one another, which would be real unfortunate considering I’m working hard to avoid bloodshed until I’m good and ready. Soon as the bodies start dropping, I’ll be on a timer, with maybe a day or two at most before I gotta get gone, so if these fools fuck this up for me, I’mma paint the forest red with their blood.

  Predictably, one mafioso gets spooked and fires a shot off into the shadows, which get the rest to shooting too. Some shoot at where I done shot from, while most seemingly pick a random direction and empty their clips at nothing. Three guns even jam in the process, which goes to show how unreliable most hand-crafted semi-automatic weapons can be. Junker Bashere 1915’s for the most part, while a few got bolt-action rifles, but judging by the sound they make, ain’t nothing all that imposing. A rifle with the big trifecta of Maximize, Empower, and Intensify got a booming quality to the Bolt, a resonating echo that you don’t get with only 1 or 2 of the 3. If this is what they arming their people with, then I can afford to tank a couple shots centre mass, so long as they hit my plates. Won’t like it much, but it won’t kill me neither, especially if I’m stuffed to the gills full of protective Spells like I plan to be.

  Hardware aside, these mafiosos lack basic communication skills, which is a must in high stress combat situations. Ain’t no one calling out directions, like they should have right off the bat when they saw where my Bolt had come from and lit me up then and there, with all of their friends following suit. Doesn’t matter if they hit really, though they could’ve gotten lucky with volume of fire. The more important thing to do is to pin me in place with volume of fire, since I can’t shoot back or run away if I’m taking cover.

  That’s a standard response really, shoot at whoever’s shooting at you. Won’t even say nothing about taking turns shooting so they can leapfrog over towards me and maybe encircle my position, but they ain’t even got the first part right. Worst part is, they all shoot until their guns click empty then stop shooting to look around instead of hunkering down to reload. If I were so inclined to shoot back, and unable to because they shooting at me, this would be the perfect time to start popping heads while them mafiosos gape like tourists at the shadows all around them. I thought Joseph and his two goons were bottom of the barrel offerings, but these fellas might well be worse, as not a one has checked on Michael who got thrown from his horse. Man should be fine, as he put up a blue shimmer of a spherical glow around him before he hit the dirt, and seeing how that glow is still there even though he out cold, the only Spell it could be is Elemental Barrier of the Frost variety.

  A strange First Order Spell, that one. A little like Ablative Armour, in that it creates a shell of translucent Ectoplasm around the caster to protect them from physical impacts, though you don’t get to pick what it looks like. That glowing blue sphere is the Barrier part of the Spell, a flimsy one that ain’t all that impressive if I’m being honest, but it got its upsides. For starters, the Elemental portion will burn, chill, shock, or sizzle anything passing through it depending on your Element of choice, so blue means Frost for slow in this instance. Not all that useful since I ain’t about to walk up and punch him, but could come in handy if you wanna go toe to toe with someone.

  The other upside has nothing to do with the Spell itself, but rather the School it comes from. While Ablative Armour is the superior First Order defensive Spell when viewed in a vacuum, due to how you can stack multiple casts of the Spell to create a very powerful Ectoplasmic armour, it’s a Transmutation Spell. Abjurers though? They tend to stick to Abjuration Spells because they learn to feed excess Aether from said Spells into their own personal Ward. It’s similar to how Evokers are capable of intuitively creating pockets of safety inside the Area of Effect of their Evocation Spells, or my Portent that gets my jimmies a rustling whenever I need a little extra intuition, a perk of the School that not everyone gets. What that means is that any time an established Abjurer casts an Abjuration Spell, they can double dip and create a second defensive Barrier to reinforce their Spell, a Barrier whose strength has no real bearing on the Spell the caster used and everything to do with how well they understand Wards.

  The way Uncle Teddy explained it was simple. He gave me a bunch of twigs and twine and told me to build a structure and make it as stable as I could. Didn’t know much about building, so I put together a cube, nothing fancy really. Crumbled when Uncle Teddy put a textbook overtop it, because it couldn’t handle the weight. Then we sat down and used a similar number of twigs and twine to build a second structure together, one that was better supported and capable of holding up several textbooks before it crumbled. That’s the difference between a regular Abjuration Spell, and an Abjurer’s version, because they can do more with the same amount of Aether. Means you can’t underestimate an Abjurer’s defenses, because even though my Elemental Barrier wouldn’t stop me from getting knocked out by a proper punch to the jaw, Michael’s protected him from a pretty nasty fall and still got plenty of juice left in it.

  Guess Michael’s Orichalcum Abjuration badge ain’t entirely underserved, though still a phenomenal waste of money. Besides, even though he didn’t break nothing or get bruised at all, the fall still could’ve given him a concussion. Can’t say for sure, but one thing for certain is that he the brain of this here operation since don’t nothing happen until he gets back on his feet. Doesn’t send his people out to look for me, which is smart since they got no idea where I could be, and instead packs up and moves out to pick up the drivers and guards where I left them. They gonna be hungry, thirsty and probably filthy too, seeing how they done been tied to a tree for almost 24 hours now, but in my defense, I didn’t think it’d take the Puglianos so long to respond. I left them their food and water nearby, just no way to reach it until they were freed, so it wasn’t like I intended to starve or dehydrate them. Soon as their people are squared away, Michael picks out four of the prisoners and has them ride double with some of his people as they head on back towards Mount Rimepeak.

  With me following behind in secret of course, which is easy when you don’t have to see your quarry to follow them. That note I wrote down? Wasn’t just for shits and giggles, though I admit the taunt I scrawled across the back when I saw who’d come looking was a spur of the moment decision. What wasn’t is the Illusory Mark inscribed into the paper, one I made invisible to everyone besides myself. While Illusions ain’t really in my wheelhouse, the Cantrip is so widespread that almost everyone knows it. Ranchers use it to brand their livestock, artists and craftsmen to sign their work, and the Federal Department of the Treasury uses it as the basis of their tech to authenticate their bills in a way that is difficult to forge.

  How? Because an Illusory Mark is more than just an image. It also emits an Aetheric Signature unique to the caster, or in the case of the Department of the Treasury, unique to whatever machine they use to imprint it. Then all you gotta do is put any bills you get under the right type of Light and they’ll show a scintillating holographic image that’s very difficult to replicate. Not impossible, but it’s only one part of a whole slew of anti-counterfeiting measures that I don’t know all that much about.

  The important thing here though is the Aetheric Signature, which can easily be tracked with a Locate Object Spell. Granted, I can only do this because I’m the one who left the Illusory Mark, since I’m intimately familiar with what I done left. Can’t track someone else’s Mark, because I can’t well sense it to know what it’s like, so it’s a trick that not a lot of people know about. Also can take a good amount of time to leave an Illusory Mark if you ain’t familiar with the spell, ten to fifteen minutes depending on how intricate you want it, as its not the sort of Cantrip you just cast and be done with. It’s literally Etching a Mark into the physical world, so it takes a bit of time and effort to do right, but once it’s done, it’s there forever.

  Granted, the chances of me remembering the Aetheric Signature of an Illusory Mark I left a week ago is slim to none unless I been leaving the same Mark for years, but seeing how it’s still fresh in my mind, I can track it for a good while yet. Thing is, I forgot that my papers got a similar sort of Mark, one left there by Uncle Teddy himself who makes his Mark daily when signing official papers and orders. Sure, he’s got a stamp that does it for him, but it also means he might could have tracked my papers using a Locate Object Spell, so even though it’s something of a stretch given the distance and quantity of similar Marks involved, I’m right grateful Clayton knew to take them so as not to give myself away.

  The way Michael gives himself away carrying away my Marked note, which I use to follow him from a safe distance well out of sight, while keeping an eye out for stragglers or lookouts who might be watching for me. Helps to ride through the forest proper instead of the main road, but even though I took the two best horses from the caravan and let the rest run free, the best of a bad bunch still ain’t great. Luckily my quarry got a third of them riding double and have been riding for 6 hours or so already, so they ain’t moving all that fast either. Makes it easy to shadow them the whole way back and even dip onto the road to read their tracks every now and then. At some point, they meet up with a second group, then continue riding onwards towards Brightpick, which is interesting because it looks like Michael was just the first wave of reinforcements, and they met up with a second, larger group a few hours later.

  Why so long a delay? They have to wait for the second group to clock in or something? No, that’d be ridiculous. They sent Michael out to investigate, then send another bigger group some four, five, maybe six hours later? For what reason? Michael didn’t have no Radio to call it in, so maybe he’s got another method of contacting his bosses. Or maybe they figured something out and thought he’d need rescuing himself. Don’t think I was spotted, but you never know, so I call an audible and fall back a little further to avoid getting caught out. By the time Michael’s group makes it back to Brightpick, it’s late into the night around 3 a.m, so I circle around the outskirts and drop down into a crevice which opens up into a tunnel the folks in Mueller’s Quay directed me to.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  Still feel a little leery every time I head in. It’s a dark, narrow, rough-hewn corridor that comes out into the basement of a funeral parlour, the mortuary where they keep dead bodies in cold storage and prep them for the funeral. It’s how I’ve been getting in and out of Brightpick, which is a real risk to be sure, but one I had to take because I couldn’t list out everything to look for since there too many things to list. It’s easier to see things firsthand and make sure the info is good, which is where trust, but verify comes in. Though Mr. Mueller and Luisa both assured me that the funeral parlour is safe and that the director was ‘one of their people’, I never let anyone know when I’m coming and I always arrive with gun in hand. The exit is a macabre one, as you gotta belly crawl through one of them wall drawers on your elbows, and I can’t help but shudder at the prospect of one night showing up to find a corpse in the way, or worse, a bunch of armed mafioso’s waiting in the room for me to come out.

  So for my own safety, I left an Arcane Bug in the room, similar to the one I done carved into my hat and the speakers I gifted to Ronald Jackson. Hid it under one of them trolleys that holds all the tools of the trade, and while the metal door makes it tough to pick up the signal from a ways away, it comes in loud in clear when I’m standing on the other side of the wall. Where I wait a good half-hour just listening to nothing, because you can never be too sure. That said, unless my would-be ambushers got the discipline to sit in complete silence for that long without so much as making one peep, I figure it’s all clear and move on to the next step.

  Reaching into my shoulder bag, I pull out the Silence Artifact I rigged up this last week using the Spell Core I looted from the big Abby attack on Carter’s compound. It don’t look like much, just a Core on a tripod with telescoping legs that folds up to about a half a foot long, which Mr. Mueller helped me make as he real handy with the woodwork. It’s a handy Spell Core to have, Silence that is. I’ve mostly been using it to practice shooting without letting everyone within 20 klicks know that I was gearing up to go to war, but there are plenty of times when Silence can come in handy.

  Like to quietly open the creaky metal door to a wall shelf normally used to store dead bodies. I crack it open to make sure the room ain’t lit, then turn on my Darkvision goggles to do a quick sweep of what little I can see. Then I back out, and use my Nanfoodle to open the door the rest of the way, and sweep every inch of the room that’s visible. From there, I stow my rifle with the rest of my gear, draw my Rattlesnake and Model 10, then dive on through head first before rolling to my feet and clearing my corners with weapons at the ready. Don’t gotta worry about making any noise because my Silence Artifact got Widen Metamagic to cover a full 12m radius, one that won’t go through walls or the ceiling to give the game away, but passes cleanly through the drawer shelf opening and into the room proper.

  In spite of all my caution, there ain’t no one lying in wait. No one alive at least. Got a couple temporary residents sitting tight in their bunks on the wall behind me, but I leave them be as I reach back through the drawer I come out of to grab my Silence Artifact and the rest of my gear. Soon as I move the tripod, the Spell unravels apart and the world comes alive with sound as the deafening lull gives way to the rustle of my clothes and panting of my breath. Always a stressful time, coming into the town, but there are some things I just gotta see for myself. Waste no time doing it either, as I wrap a kerchief around my lower face and throw on a miner’s cap. Not a helmet, as there ain’t no mining going on in Brightpick, not after I done shut them down, using Gunnar’s Potion of Melding to move through solid rock and get all the way down to the main shaft before dropping a dozen other Potions aptly named Fumigation.

  Based on Stinking Cloud according to Gunnar, which’ll poison a man and get him vomiting right quick, but the Potion of Fumigation is much milder. Got no scent to speak of, and won’t do much to a person besides some minor irritation, which them miners won’t ever notice what with how many of them got the black lung. Potions of Fumigations are mostly used for pest control, as it’ll kill bugs right quick, but only drive chitter rats away. Unless of course they stuck in a cage and got no choice but to keep breathing it in until they pass out. Makes them miners think they done run into Fire Damp when their birds and chitter rats go quiet, which is a sign to get out right quick before an errant spark lights the whole place up. Best of all? One treatment lasts a full seven days, because it ain’t all that useful if it drives the rats away and they come back after a day, and being a magical effect, ain’t affected by ventilation, meaning them birds and rats will keep falling asleep until the potion’s effect ends.

  Real useful to slow down traffic in town, and maybe shift miners out of Brightpick over to other locations. Less civilians around means a lower chance of collateral damage, and it hits the Puglianos right in the wallet which is where they’ll notice the most. It’ll put them off their game, distract them from other problems while I learn the ins and outs of their operation, but won’t throw them into high alert and panic like blowing up the mines would’ve done. Which was my initial idea, as that’s what I wanted the Impact Oil for, but this is way better and safer. Not gonna lie, the fact that it’ll irk Ranger High Command too is a bonus I quite like, and I consider using the second potion too just to delay things even further, but that’d risk the Rangers getting someone down there to check things out and uncovering evidence of what been done.

  Either way, I owe Gunnar my thanks for coming up with such a great solution, especially considering I had no idea how I was gonna evacuate the mines before blowing them up. The Fumigation Potions were cheaper too, as one cast of Stinking Cloud gets you a couple dozen Fumigations, alongside whatever materials go into the mix. It’s almost enough to make me wanna learn some Alchemy, but I got too many fingers in too many pies as it is.

  The important thing is that soon as them miners went idle, they all took off their helmets and threw on flatcaps instead. No other kinds of hat, whether it be fedora, cowboy, baseball, or what have you. If you a miner, you wear a cap when you not at work, because them’s the unspoken rules, like some kinda off-duty uniform to take pride in. Makes the folks in Mueller’s Quay seem a little less strange for dressing up in all beige, though I still don’t get why people are so quick to conform.

  Helps me plenty though, because so long as I keep my head down and shoulders slumped though, won’t no one glance at me twice, much less recognize me for me. The kerchief ain’t out of place either, because miners cough a whole lot and can’t always be bothered to cover their mouths. Gotta keep my stolen jacket closed to hide all my guns and pouches, as well as leave my long guns and most of my gear behind in the tunnel, but I’m still armed to the teeth with no less than 8 guns on me, 4 more than my usual everyday carry. A little heavy and uncomfortable, sure, but better to have and not need, instead of the other way around.

  Rather than take the stairs up to the main floor of the funeral parlour, I mosey on over to the industrial sized sink and open up the undercarriage. A panel on the back opens up into another tunnel, which leads to a ladder that brings me up into an alleyway beside the parlour and the Sherrif’s Office next door. Don’t seem like the safest place to make a hideaway, but don’t no one hang out here and there’s a little nook behind the chimney that hides me as I come out. Using a Levitate Spell, I float on up to the rooftop and quietly make my way towards my Illusory Mark under the cover of darkness, avoiding the hustle and bustle of the crowd in this surprisingly busy town even though it’s now the dead of night and the mineshaft is closed. With fewer civies about and all dressed for the part, it makes the mafiosos really stand out, and boy howdy are there a lot of them. At least a dozen at every mob venue I pass, muscle all idling about while folks drink, whore, gamble, and otherwise piss their money away while work is slow. Then there’s the runners, all moving about doing whatever it is mafiosos do, all brazen and unafraid as they strut through their dimly lit streets like they own the place.

  And truth is? They do. Their word is law here in Brightpick, and don’t no one seem to care.

  While following my Illusory Mark, it takes me a bit to figure out where I’m headed, and the answer comes as something of a surprise. I still don’t got my bearings on the town down pat, but as I get in close, I realize that the note I left with Michael ain’t at the Don’s mansion, but at his Consigliere’s. That’d be Mia’s daddy, Francis the Phantom, and a tendril of rage rises up from within urging me to kick down the door and drag that scheming bitch away for interrogation.

  A stupid idea, which is why I squash my anger back down into the pits of my belly. I gotta play smart, and that’s what I been doing so far, biding my time and studying my foe because you gotta know your enemy. Can’t just start killing willy nilly, because tempting as it was to kill Michael and all his boys might’ve been, it wouldn’t have accomplished anything in the long run. Instead, it’d only let everyone know that the Puglianos are stuck in a war with the Firstborn, which starts the countdown to Ranger intervention. Won’t be right away, as a few dead mafioso’s killed outside of town ain’t nothing to concern themselves with, not unless they all get blown up. A gunfight in a Federally protected town though? One situated to service the workers in a very lucrative mine supplying much needed materials to the three new towns going up south of Redeemer’s Keep? Yeah, that’ll put a bee in the Marshal’s bonnet, and that of his bosses too, all of whom will want the bloodshed over and done with right quick.

  And the easiest way to do that? It won’t be taking out the Mafia, I’ll tell you that much. If the Marshal receives orders to bring me in, he won’t shirk from his duty, even if it means seeing me swing from a rope.

  He shouldn’t either. I won’t ask him to compromise his duty, because that’d go against everything he stands for. I told him as much, said he should do whatever it is he gotta do, and I’ll do the same. Which means the second I start dropping bodies in town, it’s only a matter of when the Rangers come looking, not if. I gotta be well away from here by then, linked up with Clayton and his boys who’ll vouch for me when the Rangers track me down, and they will track me down. If I haven’t finished with my business by the time I gotta get gone, then I’ll be putting their Clayton’s life at risk, so I’m prepping to bring my A game and play for keeps, just like Aunty Ray told me to.

  It's the same song and dance as always, just with a different partner is all. I want to hit the Pugliano’s with a big Alpha strike, take out all their top players, then clean up the lower ranks until there ain’t no one left to bring it back. Don’t care if another criminal outfit moves in the day after I’m gone. This ain’t about cleaning up Brightpick or freeing Mount Rimepeak from criminal corruption. Nah, this is about vengeance plain and simple, because they gotta pay for taking my Josie away.

  That’s why I didn’t open fire on Michael, and why I ain’t taken no shots at any mafiosos just yet. I’m not ready to fight just yet, as there’s still more recon to be done. When you come across a group of animals you don’t recognize and might want to eat, you don’t just start blasting. Sure, you’ll probably get a kill and a meal out of it, but then you gotta find them again, and since you don’t know nothing about them beasts, you’ve got nothing to go on except luck. Better to watch them, track them, follow them home to learn their habits and routines, so that you can find them again once they scatter at the sound of the first shot.

  Therein lies the goal to all this. I know where my enemies live and what they do on a normal day, but now I want to see what happens when I put a bit of a scare into them. I want to see how they’ll react, whether they head out in full force to come find me in the forests, or turtle up and hide here in their town. Maybe they cry foul and get the law to handle me, or might be they go after my friends and family in and around New Hope. Whatever they do, I got contingencies in place, ways to make mafioso’s disappear without a trace so that the Rangers never have reason to come looking. It’s the same methods these criminals use to keep the law off their backs, so I say turnabout is fair play, but I gotta see what they do before I know how to respond.

  Right now? Michael’s move is to have a meeting with the Consigliere, which I suppose ain’t all that out of pocket. That’s the man’s job, ain’t it? To handle the day-to-day issues that are too minor for the Don, or at least that’s what I would assume. All my recent info says Don Ignazio has fallen off, as he a real porker of a fatty who makes Mr. Mueller look scrawny, a morbidly obese man who can barely walk five minutes without running out of breath. In contrast, Francis the Phantom is still active in the field by all accounts, personally carrying out hits every now and then despite being a busy and important man. That’s either dedication to the job or an unnatural love for it, both of which are concerning, meaning the most dangerous man I’m up against ain’t the Don himself, but rather his cousin and right-hand man.

  Really makes me wonder about Mia’s appearance in New Hope. If her daddy’s got so much juice, why’s he sending her out to warn me? It could be he don’t got anyone he can trust, except if he’s running the day to day and can’t win anyone over, he wouldn’t be half as effective as he has been these last 8 years. No, something is definitely off about Mia and her daddy, and it ain’t even all that hard to sniff out. I don’t buy that line about how the Family always comes first either. Ain’t no honour among thieves, and no code of conduct a criminal will abide by, else they wouldn’t be criminals now would they? I bet the real reason she showed up was to ask me to reach out before retaliating so we could ‘work something out’.

  Maybe Francis is done playing second fiddle then, wants to use me to get rid of his cousin without getting his hands dirty. Makes sense considering Mia’s story, how the Don is the one who wants me dead and no one else. I might’ve even gone along with it if Josie hadn’t died, because there’s no way I would’ve sat idle knowing there was a threat to their lives, but I wouldn’t have been angry enough to go postal like I’m planning. Unlucky for the both of us then, because regardless of who ordered the hit, they all gonna pay for it. Can’t afford not to, because I need to send a message to the rest of the world telling them my family and loved ones are off limits, a message I’ll write in blood and ash with help from the Puglianos.

  I’ll kill as many as I can, every last one if possible, even the ones who don’t share the name. My daddy always said you gotta pull them weeds out by the roots, and he wasn’t talking about no plants.

  So I settle in for the long haul and keep watch of my quarry for the next day or two, taking shelter in safe rooms or alleyways to catch a few z’s where I can. Mr. Mueller provided a list of safe spaces in town to rest in, but I been avoiding any and all that require direct contact with a living, breathing person. Instead, I stick to rooftop nests and abandoned homes, while picking up food and info through dead drops. Most days I been sleeping outside the town and inside the forest instead. That’s where I’m most comfortable, out in my territory as opposed to the Mafia’s, but they don’t seem willing to come out and find me. After blowing up the caravan, I hear a lot of talk about the Family gearing up for a fight, but don’t spot no warbands leaving town ready and armed for bear. Just more thugs moving around with guns in plain view and glares aplenty at anyone who don’t look like they fit in, because not only did I fire a warning shot, they apparently found a number of dead bodies in town too. A bouncer and a bookkeeper, neither of which were my handiwork, though it makes things more difficult, because in spite of all my best efforts to keep a low-profile and blend in, I still stick out like a sore thumb. It’s the eyes, as that’s hard to change, and my clothes are too nice, not to mention my posture ain’t easy to hide whenever I get surprised. That’s why I stick to the shadows and only come out at night, while Mr. Mueller’s contacts keep me fed and informed of what’s going on in and around Brightpick.

  No idea why he’s got so many connections up here. I assumed it’d be a bunch of wagon drivers or sailors or something, but between the mortuary tunnels, the safe houses, the intel network, and food drops, it’s all proving to be far bigger than I ever could have imagined. Maybe he just a friendly sort, and helped a lot of folks with his old world know-how, but how do you go from that to building a secret escape route out of town in the basement mortuary of a funeral parlour?

  Yeah, I got a fair few questions to ask Mr. Mueller after all this, though I got an inkling I should be asking Luisa instead. Even though he’s the head of the village, everyone defers to her in almost everything, and more than one person has joked about not daring to cross her. Maybe I underestimated the matronly bar owner, and she settled in Mueller’s Quay with a plan, one she been working on for years since she lost her Matías and Ignazio Pugliano grew too powerful for her to take out herself. An underground network of resistance fighters built up to take on the mob, that there sounds like a plot out of one of them network television shows folks love to recreate and put on at festivals.

  Wasn’t counting on Luisa’s promise of help in the big fight, but the more I see of my enemy, the more I realize it won’t be easy taking them all out in one strike. There just too many of them here in town, and they all operate more or less independently in separate crews, meaning they never all in one place at any one time. Lusia shared a plan though, a risky one that’ll pay dividends if it works out, but wasn’t something I intended to go through with because it seemed like a long shot and put her and her people in the hot seat. Got more confidence in her judgement now though, after seeing how all the intel they’ve given me so far has been on the level, and the plan seems more appealing after seeing what I’m up against. As such, I leave word at a dead drop, and get a response a few hours later. From Luisa herself, who writes to say thank you and to tell me to do as I see fit, assuring me that her people will follow through once I’m done. Even says there’ll be people waiting to back me up should things go awry. They have no Warriors like myself, she says, but men and women dedicated to the cause, which I guess is bringing down the Puglianos. Just goes to show how the Feds are failing their people, in that a woman like Luisa has to head up the efforts to fight crime because the whole system is so broken it protects the criminals more than the people they prey on. How many others like us are out there? People who lost lovers, children, and friends to criminals and are just living for revenge? More than I thought considering how extensive her network is, but that should hardly come as a surprise seeing how we all survivors out here.

  Shouldn’t underestimate anyone here on the Frontier, no sir-ree, a lesson the Puglianos are gonna learn soon enough.

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  A late-night emergency meeting was never welcome, but Mia rose to the occasion all the same.

  That was the price of leadership, to always be on call, so she dressed as quickly as she could in an outfit she could sneak around in. A tight pair of black leggings and a v-neck button up shirt with the coat-tails tied up, just like she saw on those girls with the Firstborn. All of Mia’s friends gushed about the fashion, and she loved how daring and provocative it was, as well as all the stares that it drew every time she wore it. Daddy didn’t much like her outfits, but he’d long since given up trying to keep her ‘decent’, because there wasn’t anything fun about dressing like a nun deathly afraid of a chill. For her hair, she kept it simple and tied it up in a high ponytail, which meant she’d have to pay attention to where she stood while invisible. The last thing she needed was for someone to walk into her hair, or worse, to turn and hit someone with it. Risked getting hit or shot out of hand like that, and even if she managed to identify herself before things got bad, Uncle Iggy would never believe she was sneaking into these meetings without her daddy’s help, nor would he forgive them for their transgression.

  Family business was sacred, because you wanted to control information as best you could. Only the worthy could join in, those who’d proven themselves and could be relied on not to snitch. Never mind how Antonio sat in on those meetings, even though he had less business being there than Mia did. At least she understood how the Family business worked, and how no one would respect her if she didn’t make her bones. Antonio seemed to think he was owed everyone’s loyalty just because he was the Don’s son, but that didn’t mean a thing. If Uncle Iggy died tonight, Antonio would join him in death the second he started barking orders, and everyone knew it even the Don himself. That’s why he was pushing so hard for their marriage, because Uncle Iggy knew Daddy would support his son-in-law no matter what, but there was no way Mia was willing to even pretend to like Antonio, or wait for Uncle Iggy to die of natural causes.

  That said, her plans to rope in the Firstborn seemed to have fallen flat. He was out there on the warpath, no doubt patrolling the forest road in search of a target to hit, but the Don had given the word to increase security in caravans and promised death to anyone who surrendered without a fight. A promise he followed through with by killing the leader of the caravan and branding his corpse after the fact. Hardly surprising, as Uncle Iggy never was one to forgive and forget, but Mia thought it was a mistake. All that did was spread the word that one of the Family’s caravans had been hit by the Firstborn in a declaration of war. How they learned that second part was a mystery to be sure, because none of the guards or drivers even knew who’d done it, only that they’d been shot at by a mysterious figure who showed up with his face covered by a bandana and googles, as well as two working hands.

  Which threw Mia off, even though Uncle Mikey swore it was the Firstborn who wrote the note. An accomplice then? Or another Illusion? Wasn’t anything about the Firstborn being a skilled Illusionist, but there wasn’t anyone who really knew what he could do that was talking. All they would say was that he’d been trained by the Yellow Devil Ming, who didn’t really stand out in any way aside from his long record of service and all the bodies he left behind him. The Firstborn was the same way. Not one thing about him stood out besides his Divination skills, but he still accomplished things others could only dream of. Like riding solo through the badlands once a year to visit the graves of his parents, or hunting enough Abby to make him one of the richer people in New Hope. Not obscenely wealthy, but enough to live in luxury if he cared to, though having seen the brick shack that he called home, she didn’t figure him for the type.

  All this combined with the footage from the Sherrif’s Office as well as the security camera footage from last week when he dismembered the young wannabe mobsters painted the Firstborn as a prickly problem without any real weaknesses besides his youth. If you add in what happened in Pleasant Dunes, then you were left with a very dangerous and capable killer harbouring a deep grudge against the Family, and the skills to kill a whole lot of them should he choose to go to war. That’s why Uncle Iggy didn’t send his people to chase after the Firstborn in the forest. It would’ve been a disaster, and might well have been the very response the other man was hoping for. Not only were their people unfamiliar with the forests, while the Firstborn had been born to navigate through them, outside of town, he’d be covered under the Accords as opposed to Federal Law. So long as he denied responsibility for burning the wagons, then he’d be justified in defending himself against armed assailants if ever caught, meaning he could kill dozens of them and walk away clean as a whistle in the eyes of the law.

  There were things they could still do to get to him, like bribe a judge to have him tried in Brightpick for example. Then they’d be free to deal with him once he was here on their turf, except they’d end up butting heads with the Marshal directly, and neither Mia nor Daddy wanted to know just how far they could push the stalwart military man before he snapped.

  So Uncle Iggy decided the best course of action was to let the Firstborn throw his tantrum and shoot up a few caravans, but aside from burning the one shipment of liquor, he didn’t do anything else in the following days. That’s what made Mia suspect this wasn’t the Firstborn at all, but someone trying to make them think it was him so they’d react accordingly. It wasn’t just the fact that the drivers and guards all swore their assailant had two hands, but how nothing besides the note left on the wagon seat pointed at him, and even then, they only had Uncle Mikey’s word to go on, how the last time they parted ways, he’d said ‘see you around’, and the Firstborn replied, ‘not if I see you first’. That phrase scrawled onto the back of the note was the only ‘proof’ that the Firstborn was here, but the bloodless takedown of the caravan made her wonder if this was some ploy to make them let their guard down.

  She had plenty of reasons to suspect she was right, since the dead bodies in Brightpick couldn’t be his work. Daddy himself said it was out of character, which she dismissed at the time, but after thinking it through, she agreed with his assessment. At the very least, if this was the work of the Firstborn, then he had an accomplice here in town, someone feeding him information and had less qualms about spilling innocent blood.

  But if it wasn’t the Firstborn, why spare the drivers and guards? So word would spread back to Brightpick maybe? It was all so very complicated, and Mia was twisting herself in knots, because she just couldn’t get a good read on the Firstborn and didn’t know what he would do next, assuming he was even here at all.

  None of it mattered though, because as she followed Daddy into Uncle Iggy’s house, she almost gave her invisible presence away with a gasp when she spotted Antonio lying there in the foyer, his skin bluish grey and hair and shirt all soaking wet, while the rest of his fat corpse was mostly dry. Yes, his corpse, because Antonio had been drowned and killed, no doubt by forcing his face into a bucket of water where he was held until he died, which was very much the calling card of a Zampano hit.

  “They killed my boy,” Uncle Iggy declared, his face red and eyes hard as he sat there beside the corpse of his son. “The Zampanos lose their shipment of Q-Ace and blame me. I tell that incompetent Admiral to fuck off, say I will no pay for their mistakes, and this is their response. They send their people into the brothel, drown him in sink and leave him there until his guards go up to see why he no coming out.” Clutching Antonio’s dead hand with surprising tenderness, Uncle Iggy trembled with rage and grief both before pushing himself back onto his feet. “Gather the men,” he said, striding out of the foyer with more purpose than Mia had seen from him in years, so much that she had to skitter aside in a rush to get out of his way. “The Zampanos have declared war, and the Puglianos will no rest until every last one is dead and gone.”

  Something wasn’t right, something off about all of this, but what, Mia couldn’t say. Why would the Zampanos escalate so quickly? Were they the ones behind the Firstborn’s supposed actions out in the forest? Or maybe they were working together, with the Firstborn not trusting Mia enough to come to her and striking a deal with the Zampanos instead? It was all a tangle of maybes and what ifs, but there was no time to puzzle through it all.

  Because the first time in almost a decade, Don Ignazio Pugliano was back on the war path again, and there was no stopping him now.