The long, stressful ride through the forest trail aged Mikey year in a single day, and he heaved a long sigh of relief when the docks came into sight.
Wasn’t easy, riding point for the Don and keeping an eye out for the Firstborn for 12 whole hours, even though nothing happened. Either the kid never planned on hitting them in transit or Mikey’s efforts scared him off, though it was probably the former. Wasn’t nothing about the Firstborn that said he scared easy, and even though they were riding out in groups of 30 to 40, Mikey suspected the kid would do well for himself even against those odds. Didn’t stop Mikey from accepting the Don’s accolades for getting their group to Mueller’s Quay unscathed. “You know your work,” the Don said, giving Mikey a pat on the back as he came out of his carriage. “I see why you wanted to run caravans, always out on the road and away from home. A natural horseman here, a real American Cow Boy!”
Was always nice to get gassed up by the Don, and Mikey smiled and accepted the compliment, but he knew where he was lacking. He did decent enough when it came to riding, but he only looked good to someone who didn’t know much about the topic. Wasn’t no one gonna correct the Don though, who talked Mikey up a little longer before gesturing for him to come with. “You stay close and watch my back,” the Don said, keeping his voice low and expression neutral as they headed over to the village bar and inn. “Don’t trust no one here, capisce?”
“You got it, Don.” Gesturing for Fingers to back off and tend to the horses, Mikey followed the Don into the bar while wondering what all the fuss was about, because he’d been by here plenty of times picking up what was owed. Granted, the folks here didn’t have to pay much, since they’d worked some deal out with the Don that Mikey wasn’t aware of, only that he wasn’t allowed to press them for anything extra. Probably because they knew too much about the Family operations, seeing how they used these docks for everything, from smuggling goods to dumping bodies and now launching attacks against their enemies. Was always smart to get in good with the locals if you were gonna work with them long term. Long as they didn’t feel like they was losing out, they’d see the Family’s interests as their own and keep quiet without any real need for threats or intimidation.
That’s why Mikey offered Carter’s daughter a job after all. Get them paid, give them a taste of the good life, and those hippies would be tripping all over themselves to help the Family out. They’d come around soon enough, especially after the Family dealt with the Firstborn, but Mikey could wait.
Inside the inn, the Don took a seat at a table like he was here for dinner, and a plump innkeeper shuffled by with a tray of meats, cheese, and flatbreads like she was waiting on him to arrive. Rather than dig in, the Don brought out a silver needle and checked everything for poison. Literally everything, making sure to poke every individual slice on the board and even checked his silverware just to be extra sure. Seemed a bit extra until Mikey thought about it. If the Zampanos could get a man into Brightpick to kill Antonio without Franky noticing, planting someone in a village inn’s kitchen wouldn’t be all that difficult.
Soon as he was sure there wasn’t any poison, the Don dug in with a vengeance. Wasn’t any joy in his actions, no delight to be seen, as he was all unbridled rage and anticipation for the battle ahead. Angrily stuffing his face full of meat, bread, and cheese, the Don drank more than he should in the hours before a big fight, but Mikey didn’t say nothing because he was even meaner when drunk. The matronly innkeeper didn’t need no orders to keep the Don’s plate and cup full, bringing platter after platter to set before him as the minutes ticked by. Outside, Franky was overseeing the deployment and getting bodies onto the barges, with Dom and Matty heading out first to clear the beaches, then the Don and Franky coming in shortly after once it was clear there wasn’t no Zampano ambush sitting in wait like at the beaches of Normandy.
Was a real rushed assault, this attack on the Zampanos, but Mikey thought it had a better than decent chance of working. They wouldn’t be expecting this, not even after killing Antonio, and especially if Franky was right and the kid’s death was the Firstborn’s work, but Mikey didn’t care either way. This war was a long time coming, and regardless of the spark that set it all off, he was certain the Family would come out on top. Don’t matter how many guns or hitters the Zampanos might have, they wouldn’t all be sat in one place waiting for an attack. Speed and surprise was key here, as they could roll up on a Zampano holding, bulldoze it with Bolts and Spells, then carry out everything they could before burning the place to the ground. Rinse and repeat a few times, then get out of dodge, and they’ll have done a whole lot of damage to the Zampanos and left them bleeding bad. Sure, the other Families might kick up a fuss, but unless they were willing to come all the way to Rimepeak to wage war on the Puglianos to help the crippled Zampanos and risk getting rolled by the Rangers, then wouldn’t nothing come from it besides a few stern words.
Especially if they did as the Don planned and killed Alexandro Zampano tonight. Without him, the Family would fall apart, because he was the only one holding it all together. The Admiral was a successful smuggler sure, but he wasn’t well liked by the other Capos and the Underboss because he made them all look bad and wasn’t none too shy about saying it. Might even manage to turn the prick, assuming he didn’t die in the fighting or get gutted by one of his underlings, because wasn’t no one who liked Paolo Vigliotti, not even his wife and kids.
Hell, Mikey even wanted to give it a go, but not for any personal reasons. Just figured it’d be good to get his name out there, Mikey Snow Show, the man who cut the Admiral’s throat. Or better yet, Don Alexandro Zampano’s.
While Mikey was dreaming big and smoking up a storm cloud, the Don finally finished stuffing his face and waved the innkeeper over for a chat. “You have done well, securing me so many boats in on such short notice,” he began, which was news to Mikey since he didn’t know these folks were actively working with the Family, rather than just giving in to their demands. “Tell me, with all the changes of late, what are your plans going forward?”
The innkeeper paused, like she was caught out, but recovered quickly and replied, “Plans? No plans.” Topping off the Don’s wine glass, she poured one for herself and pulled out a chair to take a seat across from him. “The Gods will provide.” Mikey was ready to head over and sort the broad out when the Don raised his hand to stop him. That wasn’t what did it though. It was the woman’s glance, a dismissive, disdainful look that cut him to the quick. She wasn’t scared of Mikey, and not because she knew the Don was gonna stop him. “So I was right. This one does not know,” she said, looking him over and not seeming all that impressed. “Always riding in with no fear, chest puffed and head held high like a moth to the flame or lamb to the slaughter.”
The Don laughed, and Mikey’s cheeks coloured to hear it, though he still wasn’t sure why. “Better if no one knows,” the Don said, still chortling with laughter. “Criminals, the Rangers care nothing for, as we are merely the price of doing business. Cultists though? They would come for you soon as they learned where you were hiding, is that not so, High Priestess Luisa?”
“They no understand our purpose,” Luisa replied, as the blood drained out of Mikey’s face. “And they fear what they do not understand. Like this one,” she continued, gesturing at Mikey who almost drew his new Bashere Tomcat, a pistol used in the Sicilian Army. It was heads and shoulders above his shitty 1915, but it wouldn’t be enough to save him, not from a High fucking Priestess of the Cult of Aberrations. Bunch of loonie, Progenitor worshiping crazies who wielded unholy fucking magics and carried out live sacrifices that’d turn your skin inside out just from seeing it in action. Mikey had no desire to witness any of it firsthand, so he stayed perfectly still as the High Priestess studied him with a smile packed full of derision and amusement, almost daring him to draw so she could claim his body and soul for the Proggie. “He knows nothing of who we are or what we do,” the matronly woman declared, shaking her head like that was a bad thing, “And yet look at him now, ready to flee into the night at the mere mention of our existence.”
Well yeah, but not for nothing. These crazy cultists were feeding people to the Progenitor, and not always dead people either. Mikey had heard many a story of folks who were out at night and witnessed cultists dragging someone kicking and screaming into the lake, or onto an altar to cut out their still-beating hearts to offer up to Abby. He heard some cultists even offered themselves as living vessels to Abby in some sick, sexual Rituals, because they thought it was some sort of honour to birth in new Abby even though it was a horrifically painful and arduous process during which the host remained wholly awake and aware of the fungal growth that would soon come alive and tear itself out of their flesh.
The Don didn’t seem none too bothered by it, despite describing himself as a devout Catholic. The Roman Catholic Church and Latin Catholic Church didn’t see eye to eye on a lot of things, but one thing they agreed on was that they both fucking hated cultists. Hated them more than they hated Muslims, which was really saying something given the history behind them, meaning Cultists were kill on sight for the Templars and other holy orders, and helping them could get you killed and excommunicated. The Don didn’t seem to care though, as he laughed and shook his head. “How many can claim to understand you?” he asked, gesturing towards the back window at the lake sitting beyond. “You settle here and carry out your Rituals in secret, feeding good food and dead bodies to the Progenitor in return for what? Not Heaven, not forgiveness, not everlasting life, but what? This I ask myself for many years, and now I finally ask you.”
The High Priestess didn’t answer, as she took a sip of her wine and studied the Don with a fierce intensity that made Mikey’s skin crawl. “Why now?” she finally asked, after a long minute of silence. “Why not years ago, before we began our partnership?”
“Because our partnership is now coming to an end,” the Don replied, drawing his shiny Desert Vulture from under the table and pointing it at the High Priestess’ chest. Was a beauty of a gun, a 50 calibre, semi-automatic sidearm all covered in golden Orichalcum and big enough to beat a man to club a man to death with if you ran out of bullets. Mikey pulled his gun too and trained it on the woman as the Don continued, “Is that not so, Luisa? You and your people are preparing to leave, selling all your livestock and doing all your paperwork to transfer ownership of your properties because the Progenitor is gone. Your god of the lake is in hiding, your Aberrations hunted to the last, and so you must go to find a new god to worship, you crazy, heretical bitch. What sort of partnership could there be between you and I?”
“You are wrong,” Luisa replied, but the Don cut her off with a sneer.
“You think me a fool?” Pounding the table with his free hand, he almost seemed like the Iggy of old as he made all the silverware and cups jump, but credit where it was due, the cultist bitch didn’t flinch. “You think I would allow this? You and your people, I tolerate because you have your uses, but you know too much, so I can no let you leave.”
Unshaken, Luisa gave the Don an amused smile, paying no heed to the loaded guns pointed right at her. “I say you are wrong, but not for the reasons you think. Yes, we are prepared to leave, but for other reasons. We do no worship the Progenitor. Our gods are many, while a Progenitor, merely a vessel for change. A means to an end. The offerings we make are not for the Progenitor, but to the souls it has bound within the enslaved minions who serve it.”
Meaning the Aberrations. A difference without a distinction though, worshipping Abby over Proggies, and Mikey wasn’t the only one who thought so. The Don shrugged and asked, “What does it matter? The Aberrations have been abandoned by the Progenitor in hiding, so they too will die soon enough. Either way, I can not allow you to leave, so you must die.”
The Don pulled the trigger before he was done speaking, the gun erupting in loud noise and bright light to leave him blinking along with Mikey as they stared in lacking comprehension at Luisa sitting unscathed. Surrounding her was a sheen of scintillating energies that so closely resembled Mikey’s Elemental Barrier, except instead of icy blue, it was a disturbing darkness. Not black like coal or tar, but empty nothingness like reality itself had cracked to reveal wisps of endless void where not even light could survive. There was a pulsing sensation to the darkness, a murky flow that drew your eyes in and held them tight, tight as they held the Don’s Bolt that just came out of his Desert Vulture. A Force Bolt wholly invisible to the naked eye, and yet Mikey could see it stuck clearly in the grasp of Luisa’s Spell, a visible bar of light that gave off no illumination from within the indomitable darkness until its duration came to an end and it winked out of existence.
Leaving nothing but darkness behind, and the High Priestess untouched.
“So impatient,” Luisa said, shaking her head like a schoolteacher who just learned the Don hadn’t finished his homework, one shrouded in a darkness that almost seemed alive. “That was always your greatest weakness, Ignazio. Your rash nature and impetuous behavior, ready to do violence at any moment because you fear violence done to you in turn.”
At this point, Mikey thought what the fuck, and unloaded his gun on the bitch. His Tomcat had an almost dainty bark, like one of them yappy dogs that didn’t sound right next to the real thing, but it was still a gun all the same, one with 12 rounds in the mag which he emptied as quick as he could. The Don started shooting too, and it felt like an eternity as they both kept blasting away at the seated woman in the inn, their muzzle flashes lighting up the room only to go dim before they ever touched her while their Bolts got stuck in her murky defense. One she had no trouble maintaining without so much as a second Spell, which just went to show how powerful she was compared to Mikey. He could tank three, maybe four shots from a Tomcat at most before having to refresh his Spell and Ward, but a Bashere Desert Vulture was an entirely different beast, a weapon in a calibre used only in Third Order Spell Cores and thus the hardest hitting weapons of all. Was still a Bolt Core, but upcasted with enough juice to put 3 regular Bolts to shame, and while there were only 7 rounds in the magazine, Mike wasn’t confident of blocking even a single one without injury.
While the High Priestess barely even flinched after eating all 7 as the darkness caught every Bolt within, alongside everything else Mikey and the Don threw at her.
His gun empty, Mikey just stared at the woman across the table, but then the Don showed why he was the big boss. Roaring in rage, he grabbed his cane with a wordless roar of defiance and thrust it at the High Priestess. The egg sized ruby at the base of the cane glowed with an Aetheric light before erupting in pillar of light, an orange red bar of blazing fury that shot out of the ruby and directly into Priestess’ face, only to sputter out like a lighter in a wind storm as she smirked from behind her dark defenses. That was the Don’s trademark Spell, the Scorching Beam he’d used to cook his foes and conquer all of Rimepeak, but the Priestess had taken his best shot and hadn’t even flinched.
So Mikey didn’t even think to reload, but he still had to protect the Don. Reaching for his waterskin, he squeezed out a handful as he muttered the words to his own trademark Spell and brought a shimmering globe of icy blue Aether up to protect him. Then, he rushed at the Don with the intention of getting him out of the chair and inn both, only to be hit by a tendril of dark energy manifesting out of thin air, one that caught him in the chest and shattered his Elemental Barrier to send him hurtling across the room. The hard landing took the breath right out of his lungs as he crashed against the back wall with a thump, and he collapsed in a heap and fell still as he saw stars and struggled to draw breath.
“For longs years, I waited for this moment,” Luisa began, standing up from her seat while the Don sat frozen in place, his cane still in hand and arm outstretched. “So I will not have you die in ignorance. You do no remember me, because I was but a single night in the sordid life of Ignazio Pugliano, no different from so many others.” Moving around the table, the darkness faded away from Luisa as she leaned in to loom over the Don, and only then did Mikey realize there was some magic holding the Don in place. A Hold Person Spell, but when did she cast it? Or her dark barrier and the tendril that hit Mikey for that matter? There were no chants, no gestures, no build up and release of Aether, just Spells springing up in place without warning, which went against everything he knew and learned about magic. “For me though?” Luisa asked, happy to bask in the moment with this one-sided conversation, “That night was the worst night of my life, the night Ignazio Pugliano took everything from me.”
Grabbing a curved cheese knife from the table, Luisa cut open the Don’s shirt without touching his skin, and threw it wide open to expose his fat belly and oversized man breasts. “You were so strong then,” she purred, taking great delight in what she saw as she ran a finger over his overweight frame. “A force of terrible rage and violence. You come into my home and you say you will kill me unless I do as you say. My Matías, he is clever and knows to hide, so I listen and I feed you, bring you to my bed and stifle my cries as I weep, but this much is enough to send you into a rage. You hit me, beat me, scream and vent your frustrations, so much so that my sweet boy can no take it no more. He come out of hiding to try and save me, to pull you off me so you no hurt me, and you turn and strike him with all your strength, crushing his chest in a single blow. My Matías, he no die quick, drowning on his own blood as he struggles for dear life, and you, monster that you are, continue on with sating your lust, while I watch the life slowly fade from of my sweet boy’s eyes.”
Which even Mikey thought was fucked up, because it was one thing to fuck a broad, and another to do it while watching her kid die. Better off leaving the kid alive anyways, because then the woman would be motivated to please, but at the very least, kill the kid clean, you know?
Luisa wasn’t done though, as she stood over the Don’s bared chest with her knife pressed against his flesh. “When you were done, you left me for dead, beaten and bloodied and without breath, but the Gods, they were not finished with me just yet. They breathed new life into me, and I was reborn with a purpose, to seek vengeance for my Matías. I turned to the old ways my Abuelita taught me, gave his body to the Gods to be reborn and remade. For years, I lived alone and watched the lake for my boy’s rebirth and return, but the change can take years, or even decades to complete. I wait and I give offerings to the servants of change, who in turn protect me and keep me safe. Along the way, I meet others who understand and desire their protection too, and I teach them old ways too.”
Pacing away from the Don’s frozen form, the crazy broad looked out the window and over the lake. “Years pass, and I hear of your rise. Don Pugliano, in control of Mount Rimepeak, and my heart gave way to despair. I have good life here at the quay, with friends and fellow worshippers aplenty living in safety and luxury, but it is still empty without my Matías to keep me company. I pray and make offerings, and when your people come by, we make sacrifices of them where we can, only it is no enough, not for my Matías. It is your blood he desires, the service of your soul that will bring him back, but I can no reach you, the powerful Don of the Pugliano Family. That is made all the more apparent when you and your men come visit us in the dead of night, overpowering us all without any chance of fighting back, for we are no warriors.”
Turning around to lean on the windowsill, Luisa folded her arms with a smile. “That night, I think you remember who I am, know what I have done to your men, and that you have come to kill us all, but no. The Gods smiled upon us and clouded your eyes, for you do no recognize me or know of our purpose. You only know that we have taken bodies as offerings, and you come to us with a proposal, to work together and hide each others crimes to the benefit of us both.” The woman cackled with laughter, and Mikey watched transfixed as her features twisted in crazed anger and amusement both. “You no recognize me, but I too barely recognize you, for the great Ignazio Pugliano had fallen under the sway of the Gods and become besotted with the Aspect of Gluttony. This is how I know the Gods favour us, for they have struck you low and left the rest in our hands, those of mine and my Matías who has since returned to me.”
A movement at the window drew Mikey’s attention, and if he could breathe, he would’ve screamed. A pale, sickly white creature rose up to the window, a massive thing easily twice the height of the tallest man. He couldn’t make out any details, because not only was it dark out, the creature also pressed its chalky, slimy flesh right up against the window, squeezing into it even though there was no way it could fit through. Yet fit it did, flowing in through the window like toothpaste out of the tube and onto the floor of the inn, a cascade of gelatinous flesh that pooled and churned as more and more flowed onto the wooden boards. It was sickening to behold, revolting beyond comparison, and his mind couldn’t make sense of what he was seeing as the monster took shape before him, going from a gooey paste to a bulbous, frog-headed thing with dark, empty eyes that swirled just like the darkness of the priestess’s Spells. The Aberration wasn’t like any Ranakin Mikey had ever seen before, but it was still clearly a Ranakin, a frog-man thing that stood on two meaty legs with a rotund belly and fatty chest that made the Don look slim and slender by comparison. Rather than green and built like a muscle-man, this one was all sickly white and slimy as could be, dripping in clear mucus as it settled its oversized chin against the crazed Priestess and leaned on her shoulder ever so gently like a big, ugly pet just eager for affection.
Affection she gave as she reached up to pat his flabby, froggy jowls, gazing at him that way a loving mom looks at her kid. “I knew it was him the moment I saw him,” she said, touching her forehead to its slimy skin and somehow coming away clean. “My dear, sweet Matías, so pale and skinny and underfed, but most certainly him. He remembered me too, I could see it in his curious eyes, but the change is difficult on the mind, especially one as young as he. I fed him all his old favourites and cooked new ones too, and he came to me often just to watch me cook and hear me sing.” Turning to the Don with the flabby Ranakin still leaning into her shoulder, the crazy bitch smiled and said, “Now we are together again, and praise be to the Gods, for not only have they struck our enemy down, they sent us an ōcēlōtl to bring you to our doorstep.”
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Grinning from ear to ear, the crazed Priestess stepped forward to grab the Don’s hair and wrench his neck back so he had to look up at her. The fat frog-thing kept its chin on her shoulder, but didn’t move the bulk of its body, just stretched its neck to follow her along like it didn’t want to leave her. “You see,” she began, in an intense whisper that sent chills down Mikey’s spine, “It was I who took your boy’s life from you, as you once took mine from me.” Her eyes lit up with glee as the Don’s frozen body trembled in place with fear or rage, but she was not done talking yet. “You ride all this way to wage war on the Zampanos, but they no steal your Q-Ace or kill your boy. My Matías, he sink the ship carrying your goods, and my ōcēlōtl, the Firstborn, he kill your first born. Drowned him in a whore’s washbasin and left his body stinking of shit and piss for you to find. Your impatience has been the death of you, Ignazio, for you could no stand inaction, as I knew it would be once your boy was dead. You delivered yourself here to my sanctum of many years, the one place where you have no power but that which I allow. Outside this inn? I can no withstand your strength, but here, you are mine for the plucking.”
Patting the Don’s cheek none too gently, the Priestess straightened up and nuzzled her frog child, who gave a rumbling gurgle of what Mikey would swear was contentment. “As for your men, who you wait on to knock down my doors and save you? They will no come,” Luisa declared, stroking the frog-thing’s cheek ever so gently. “My Matías, he is still young and impatient. I tell him to wait until all 4 boats have set sail, so he can crack your hulls over deep waters and devour your ships one by one, but he can no wait, and attacked soon as the first two left the docks.”
As the Priestess waved her hand in the air, Mikey felt a wave of Aether come crashing down from all around him, like a chill sent all throughout his body as the night came alive with the sounds of screams and fighting. Shots were fired, curses levelled, and even through all that chaos, he could piece together how things were not going well for his companions. Shouts of, “Retreat!” and “Fall back!” were scattered throughout the gunshots, which explained why no one had come in to check on the Don after they unloaded so many shots. “No matter though,” Luisa said, smiling fondly at the sleepy monster who blinked and lazed in place. “Those who fall here tonight will be reborn anew to serve the Gods in other ways, while the Firstborn will hunt down those who escape.” Reaching out to grab the Don by the chin, Luisa’s smile was replaced with cold, unyielding hatred, with no transition to speak of. “You though? You will serve too, but you will not be reborn. No, you will serve my Matías in life first, for after devouring the chains that once bound him, he will require new vessels of change now that he has been freed of his chains, and you, Ignazio, will serve as his first.”
There was a sick glee in the woman’s tone, even if none of it touched her features, and Mikey almost screamed when he pieced together why. This wasn’t just an oversized Ranakin, it was a fucking Deviant, an Aberration that had eaten its Progenitor and was in the process of changing into something… different. This was the stuff nightmares were made of, as they were the scariest fucking Aberrations in history, creatures out of myth and legends come alive. The Grendals, the Scylla, the Aswangs, and more, every Deviant left death and disaster in its wake, a self-replicating, hive mind Aberration with the magical talents of a Proggie, more smarts than most people, and the instincts of a ravenous beast.
And this crazy bitch somehow managed to tame one.
There was nothing for it now. Using all of the strength he’d been gathering up, Mikey popped up from where he lay, gave the Don one last look, then threw himself backwards through the window behind him. Coming to his feet out front of the inn, he kept low and ran for dear life, bolting past the cobbled road and behind the closest house he could find where he kept going until he hit the treeline and was into the forest trees. Was huffing and puffing for dear life, but he wasn’t going to stop, not until a hand shot out from behind a tree and held him off. “Easy,” a voice hissed, one Mikey recognized, and he froze out of sheer instinct rather than anything else. “Easy Mikey,” Franky growled, his features barely visible even from only a few inches away. “Tell me what happened.”
“Those fucking cultists have a Deviant,” he gasped, getting the main point across without getting into the weeds. “It ate everyone on the boats man, every last fucking person.”
“We heard the screams,” Franky replied, and only then did Mikey realize it was actually true. “Fuck!”
“They’re working with the Firstborn,” Mikey continued, somehow still able to hold fast to the relevant facts. “They got the Don good, and the Priestess won’t give him up easy. He killed her son awhile back or something, so she sent the Firstborn for his.”
Franky growled again, but didn’t say nothing, not for a long second, one Mikey resented because he wanted to get going while the going was good. Luckily, Franky didn’t hesitate for long as he let go of Mikey and said, “Get on a horse. We’re outta here. We’ve already lost, so we gotta save our strength to hold onto what we still got.” Meaning Brightpick, but that wasn’t far enough for Mikey. No, he wanted to go north and keep going until he hit the coast, then find an ocean faring ship that’d take him east beyond the Divide. Franky was still thinking of gathering the troops and holding out against the cultists, but Mikey knew there was no fighting a Deviant. That was a job for the Rangers, one they were welcome to, and Mikey wanted to be a thousand miles away before anything went down.
“We can still salvage this,” Franky said, as if he could read Mikey’s mind, but he wasn’t just talking to Mikey. No he was talking to everyone else, the twenty or thirty people who’d fought their way out of the cultist village alongside him, leaving close to three hundred bodies behind. “The Don is done for,” Franky continued, “But the Rangers will take care of the cultists, while we just gotta hold Rimepeak. We ride quick as we can, kill our horses if we have to, take care of the Firstborn and then stand our ground against whatever may come. The Feds won’t want a gang war going down, so all we gotta do is put up a tough front and hold out against any probing attacks over the next few weeks.”
All of which was true, and there was more to the speech than that, but it highlighted exactly why Iggy was the Don and Franky his Consiglieri. There wasn’t anything wrong with the strategy laid out, but it wasn’t what the rest of them needed to hear. No, they needed to be fired up, made to think the Puglianos were untouchable and would soon come back for revenge, instead of hiding behind the Rangers and hoping to hold onto what they still had. Franky was too pragmatic, too by the book, which worked fine if you were a soldier or businessman, but not so much for a mobster. Still, no hard feelings, and Mikey wished him all the luck, only nothing would stop him from heading into town just long enough to grab his go bag and get out of dodge. Forget standing their ground; if the Firstborn was in cahoots with the cultists, then that meant he’d had the last 12 hours and next 12 to do as he pleased.
And knowing that murderous, pyromaniac Qink fuck? There probably wouldn’t be much of any ground left to stand on.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Ducking into an alley to crouch behind a stack of empty barrels and crates, I take a breather and listen close to make sure I lost my pursuers.
Been a long time since I’ve felt this tired, but it ain’t time to rest just yet. Blinking the fatigue out of my eyes, I quaff a Potion of Climbing and gag as it goes down hard, my belly burning and chest tight from acid reflux or something. That’s what happens when you shotgun potions down every hour on the hour for most of the night, and I’ll probably be feeling nauseous for the next week. That’s the least of the side effects, but a price well worth it, because Spider Climbing has gotten me out of countless tight spots tonight, not to mention into good positions to attack or retreat from.
Use it to good advantage as I head over the rooftops under the cover of darkness towards my next target, which sits at the lowest level of Brightpick and a good ways away from the book-keeping office I done just hit. A bit of running, bit of climbing, and a couple jumps later, I find myself in the warehouse district where wagons come to load and unload goods to be ferried out all over this little slice of the Frontier. The district sits silent and empty despite all the chaos and bloodshed I’ve left behind in my wake, since no one expects anyone to make a mad dash out of town with wagons full of heavy materials like iron, tungsten, stone, or other precious resources.
Left this place for last for good reason, as I single out my target after a quick jaunt down the empty streets, walking fast, but not running so as to give myself away. It’s a storage warehouse that don’t look any different from the warehouses around it, but it plays a pivotal role in the Mafia’s operations here in Brightpick. This building here is their own personal warehouse, one that ain’t on the records as part of the legitimate mining company the Puglianos own, operate, and hide behind. That’s because this is where they hide everything they’ve smuggled out of the mines, all the high-priced gems and minerals they keep off book to sell on the black market for a hefty markup. I dunno the specifics, but I know Q-Ace is a big seller, or cupric acetate, a naturally forming chemical compound used to Imbue or Augment mundane items with magic, and one so rare that you could mine this whole mountain and come up with maybe a couple kilos if you’re lucky.
Which makes it an exceptionally valuable material that’s easy to smuggle since moving even a couple grams can net you a hefty return. Dunno if they got any in the warehouse, or what else they might be hiding, because even though the outside looks like every other building nearby, inside sits a steel vault guarded by a dozen men with semi-automatic rifles and enough ammo to take on a horde of Abby. Means a frontal assault won’t go well, which is why I mosey on up the side of the building and onto the rooftop instead. Once there, I break out a single vial of Alchemical Acid and toss it underhand to shatter and melt through the sheet metal roof, and once again shake my head at the stupidity of these cost-saving measures. Why go through all the effort of building reinforced Darksteel walls if you gonna cheap out on the roof? Guess they figured the guys with guns standing in the middle of the mostly empty warehouse would keep anyone from dropping in, and to be fair, they’re on the ball enough to fire off a volley towards the hole only shortly after my Mage Hand drops a primed flashbang through the hole.
They keep shooting even after it goes off, screaming and cursing all the while, but I keep myself well back from the hole as I lob an Entangle grenade down to hold everyone in place, followed by a Molotov to heat things up and make it real uncomfortable inside.
Seriously, whoever planned security for the Pugliano facilities should’ve kept their buildings up to code. Even if they wasn’t planning on having no Federal inspectors by, keeping a few fire extinguishers on hand could’ve saved a whole lot of lives tonight. Granted, there’s only so much those can do, especially after I open up a few more holes in the roof and drop more flashbangs, Entangle grenades, and Molotovs in. Not a great plan if I wanted to rob the joint, but I don’t care much for what’s inside. Funny thing I noticed is that once a fire gets big enough, most folks just up and panic, which is all sorts of silly since you always better off keeping a cool head. Especially the mafiosos in this warehouse, who very likely could smother the fires out seeing how there ain’t much to burn inside. They don’t even try to fight the fire though, and instead scream for help as they struggle against the heat and Entangling grass in a panicked effort to get the hell out of dodge.
As for me? I drop an Arcane Bug into the one hole I made sure not to throw a Molotov through, then dash across the roof towards the only exit the building has before leaping off into the starry night’s sky. Turning about in mid-air, I activate Featherfall from the Spell Storage matrix in my boot and float gently down towards the ground. Never one to waste time, I toss an Entangle grenade in front of the warehouse on my way down, followed by a Fog grenade right at the door to leave a 12m diametre semi-sphere of dense, white mist that’ll obscure all vision of anyone coming out.
By the time I hit the ground, I got my Ogre’s Bane in hand, and I even got time to take cover inside a store’s recessed doorway before the first mobster makes it out of the Fog and onto the Entangling grass. Makes it real easy to win the subsequent gunfight, as they’re all looking down at their feet when I open up on the crowd, keeping the gun in semi-automatic mode to let off a three-Bolt burst with every pull of the trigger. The gun kicks like a beast, but the barrel don’t move an inch as I hold it steady and pick my shots, killing them in ones and twos as they file neatly out the warehouse doors in a flustered effort to escape the growing blaze behind them.
Ain’t long before the bodies are all piled up out front and ain’t no one else coming out. The bad news is, the warehouse is not only still on fire, but the reinforced double doors got an auto-lock feature, meaning they slammed shut and locked up the second the last mafioso stepped out. Leaves me unable to plunder the place, but I wasn’t planning on lugging a sack of precious stones and metals around to begin with, even if I knew how to crack a safe. No, I got other reasons for hitting this target, ones beyond killing mafiosos and filling my pockets, even though I already picked up enough to cover most of what I’ve spent on this crusade and then some.
Don’t much like that, profiting off all of this. That ain’t why I’m here. Should make a donation later, to a good cause. The orphanage maybe, right here in Brightpick even, because I know good and well I done orphaned a lot of kids tonight.
A pang of guilt rips through me, so I cling to the cold anger burning in my belly and the pain shooting through my Wildshaped Hand as I retreat to the vantage point I done picked out a few days ago. Sucks to take someone’s daddy away, but I wouldn’t have to make so many orphans if their daddies wasn’t criminal scum. This ain’t on me. My actions are justified, my conscience clean, or at least it logically should be. Life don’t run on logic though, it runs on emotion, and mine are all in tatters after a long, hard night of killing.
All very one-sided mind you, but no less stressful for it. Only been shot at maybe a half dozen times, not including random gunfire from mooks shooting just to make sound, but every close call is still a gut-wrenching experience, and I usually take a few days or at least hours to decompress after the fact. Don’t got time for that here though, and barely enough to take care of any scrapes or bruises I’ve picked up along the way. On the bright side, the Red Sun balm is working wonders at keeping all my discomfort at bay, and I grabbed myself some hotdogs a little while back after hitting the boxing venue and killing the mafiosos and bookies and setting the bodies and money on fire.
The place I done picked out is a rooftop alcove that keeps me hidden from sight, but offers me a clear view of the warehouse door where I done just dropped a whole bunch of bodies. Glancing up at the moon to check the time before burrowing under my camo blanket, I realize I ate that hotdog more than four hours ago, barely halfway into my killing spree. Assuming someone in town rode out with a message the minute I started shooting, and factoring in the 12 hour 1-way travel time, this means I got at least 6 hours to go before the Don gets back with the bulk of his men. Leaves me with a tough decision that I gotta make after this next move. Keep on with the arson and bloodshed, or bunker down to rest and prepare to hit them on their way into town? Difficult to say which is the better option, but I don’t gotta make the decision just yet.
Instead, I focus on the task at hand as I pull out the 3-Line and set up for my next move. A task made more difficult than usual, as my head is heavy, my brain light, my arms sore, and hand screaming with pain as it throbs in time to my heartbeat. Five hours is the longest I can keep the hand with a single cast, and despite all my best efforts to push my limits over the last week, I can only cast it twice a day before I’m all tapped out. According to Carter, two uses is pretty standard to start, and he can only Wildshape four times without resting, which means it’ll be a long time before I progress in that manner. The good news is he thought I’d only be able to use it for 1 hour per cast, but I’ve been doing 5 fairly easily with little to no effort on my part. Haven’t been back to ask him about it, and don’t really intend to unless I see him in town, but I figure it’s probably got something to do with the fact that it’s only a hand rather than my whole body being Wildshaped, and I’m a much better Spellslinger than most would be when they typically first learn the Ability.
Which is pretty much what this Wildshaped Hand is, even though I still think of it as a Spell. Only real difference is that casting it don’t draw nothing from my Aether tank, leaving me free to sling Spells normally uncontested. It’s good and bad at the same time. Good because it’s better resource management, bad because it means I can’t use it more than twice without sleeping. Luckily, a two-hour catnap is all I need to refresh my 2 uses of the Ability, as opposed to the full 8 for my regular Spellslinging. Long as I can rest my eyes for a little bit before the Don comes riding back, then I’ll be in full fighting form by the time he gets back. Well, not exactly full, but I’ll have two hands at the very least, which is much more important than all my Spells.
As evidenced in the here in now as my target rolls on into sight of my scope, after a good half hour of waiting. Can’t use no rifle with only one hand, whether it be the Nanfoodle, the Ogre’s Bane, or this 3-Line here, the same weapon I lent Sarah Jay. Got the mechanical silencer attached to the end of it too, but even then, that don’t make it whisper quiet. What will though is the Silence Artifact I got set up beside me, with the area of effect adjusted down to encompass the bulk of my rifle, but leave my head and more importantly my ears free to listen to my surroundings. Add in the fact that the mechanical silencer will also reduce muzzle flare and anyone I shoot at won’t have the foggiest idea of where I’m shooting from.
That’s why I went with the 3-Line rather than the Nanfoodle after all, as it’s hard to miss a flaming Bolt streaking through the skies. There’s a bright pennant by the warehouse door, an advertisement some store put up for all the workers walking by, and I use it to check the crosswind. Ain’t much of a breeze at all, and with me less than 100 meters away, won’t be much drop at all either. As the men disembark from the carriage, I got a clear shot all lined up in the here and now, but I don’t get to blasting right quick. Instead, I tune into the Arcane Bug I dropped into the warehouse from the roof, though to be safe, I left a second out in the streets just in case. Underboss Gio ain’t one for standing exposed in the streets though, and I watch as the girthy man hurries over to unlock the door before heading inside, all red in the face and huffing and puffing up a storm. Got a big, hulking fella with him, a mean mug who’s in decent shape and looks like he knows his business, but I’m more interested in Gio than anyone else. He’s the number two of the outfit, the man in charge with the Don and Consiglieri out on the warpath, which means if anyone’s got answers for me, it’ll be him. Problem was, he wasn’t rising to the occasion, refusing to leave his well-guarded and frankly unassailable mansion what with all the security systems and saferooms he got built into the place. So I kept hitting mob venues, and went bigger and bigger, until we got to this warehouse which was pretty much my option of last resort. If he didn’t come out for this, I was gonna hafta go in to get him instead, but thankfully, the thought of losing everything in here was enough to get his fat ass out of bed.
Lucky for him, dead men don’t answer questions, so I let him run into the warehouse untouched as I pan over his guards stood outside, a quartet of toughs who look more at home at the bar than they do in the streets, what with their flabby jowls, paunchy bellies, and white-knuckled grips on their guns. Four targets, none moving, all stood out in the open like a bunch of fools. I line each shot up in my head one after the other, and watch the windage while listening in on my Arcane Bug. “Thank the fucking Lord,” a voice from inside the warehouse says, one I assume is Gio, because it sounds like a fat man talking. All huffy with constant breaks for breaths because they don’t got the lung capacity to say much of anything at all. “The safe is still intact.”
“All the guards are dead though,” the mysterious stranger chimes in, while I wait for an opportunity to open up on the guards. “And it don’t look like he even tried to get in. No Acid burns or hammer marks on the front door, and none of the traps triggered either, so he didn’t come in through the roof.” Oof. Traps. Good to know, because I didn’t know nothing about that. A lesson there, that greed will cost you more than you can afford in the long run, and one I hope to carry with me out of here. “Somethin’ don’t add up about all this. Why go to all this trouble and not even try to steal anythin’?”
Well yeah. If I was a Zampano agent, I’d be a whole lot less cavalier about burning cash and destroying money making operations. The pawn shop operating as a fence, the bookies taking bets on anything and everything, the files on high interest loans the locals take to feed their drinking, gambling, or drug addictions, I hit all those places and left little to nothing behind. It’s been a long night and there were plenty of stops along the way, but I only got two more to make before I gotta decide what to do next. First, I wanna talk to Gio, and I mean really talk, settle in for a nice conversation mano a mano. Then, I’m gonna take everything I know and bring it to Mia, so I can see if what she has to say matches up. As for what comes next? Not entirely sure just yet, but I’ll figure it out as I go.
So when the thugs outside break into two groups, one to smoke, the other to stand guard, I take a breath, exhale, and squeeze the trigger on my 3-Line to drop the first thug standing at the front of the carriage. There’s no satisfying bang to accompany the recoil of the rifle, but that’s the whole point, as in the Silence, it ain’t clear that I done shot someone across the way. Taking a second breath, I work the bolt-action and catch the brass before it rolls off the alcove. Tucking it into my breast pocket, I line up a shot on my second target as he comes around from the back of the carriage to see what’s wrong with his buddy who just slumped to the ground. Click goes the trigger, ping goes the hammer, and off flies the Silenced 44-40 Bolt to catch my target in the chest. Paints the carriage beside him in blood, but I’m not even watching, as I leisurely line up my third shot the same way I did the first, on someone who’s wholly oblivious to his dead friends and trying to light up a cig. Pull the trigger, work the bolt-action, catch the brass, put it away, and exhale. 3 shots, 3 kills, but then my 4th target goes a rabbiting off, having just watched his smoking buddy’s head explode and running for dear life. Forget protecting his Underboss, that thug is only concerned about his own neck, and since he don’t shout no warning or nothing, I leave him be and stow my rifle and Artifact in the carrying case I been lugging around all night.
Just a sheet of leather really, one with pouches and straps to hold almost any rifle and accessories you got, though the chonky Whumper would have a hard time fitting in. The Nanfoodle and Ogre’s bane got no problem though, and Aunty Ray stitched this case specifically for the 3-Line many years ago, back when Uncle Raleigh was still around and had a use for such things. It’s serving me well tonight though, and while I’m not sure he would approve, I know for a fact he’d be proud of his wife’s work, no two ways about it.
Rolling up the leather case and tying it off, I throw it over my shoulder and check to make sure the runner didn’t double back for a look see. All the while, Gio and his hulking buddy are still chatting about this or that, trying to make sense of things and coming up empty. They just don’t understand why someone would leave all that money on the table, as I’ve hit some places that could make a man filthy rich overnight. Aside from the 10k or so I grabbed off the table at the casino cash room, and a few handfuls of cash I picked up along the way, I didn’t go out of my way to take much of anything at all. While I didn’t think much of it, that’s still a pretty good score for a mid-level mobster, as even a high-level one wouldn’t turn his nose up at that amount. A few of the places I hit had much more value in terms of earning potential though, all of which would have been highly coveted by the likes of the Zampanos for reasons besides cash.
No matter though. They’ll understand soon enough, as I mosey on up to the door of the vault with my Whumper in hand. Don’t gotta do nothing fancy, just pound on the door like there an emergency out here, and fools that they are, the big guy cracks it open to see what’s what, where he’s greeted by the barrel of the Whumper and the hail of kinetic shard it delivers with a twitch of my trigger finger.
Instead of kicking the door open, I stick my boot in to keep it from closing and toss a wooden slat with Clairvoyance cast on it into the room. Not the same slat, or even the same instance of the Spell, but it’s a pretty useful tool so I been Ritually recasting it wherever I can. “I just wanna talk, Gio,” I say, listening for any movement and hearing nothing but heavy breathing. Which is good, because now I know he ain’t gonna rush me, so I switch over to my bird’s eye view for a look inside the burnt out warehouse. There’s the fat man, crouched behind a charred metal table of all things, and not even one that been turned over onto its side. Hardly the best cover, even if you ignore his considerable girth, and I can’t help but wonder how these guys took over the mines in the first place. “You put your gun down, and I’ll lower mine and come inside.”
“Alright,” Gio says, grabbing a second gun out of his waistband and tossing it to the ground with a clack, all while keeping his original pistol trained on the door. “There. That was my gun. You want to talk? Let’s talk.”
Even if I wasn’t looking right at him, there’s no way I’d ever believe him, and I have trouble imagining even he believes this could work. Still gave it a try though, which I suppose is something, so I return to my own senses and toss a readied flashbang inside. I stay standing outside though, as he fires blindly at the door and misses every shot since I don’t feel no ping against it. When his gun clicks empty, I make sure he don’t got a third weapon through Clairvoyance before heading on inside to introduce his face to the butt of my Whumper. Ducking under his blind return swing, I reassess my estimate of him, because he’s tougher than he looks, so I give him a good liver punch which drops him flat. Not because my fist is Magical or I hit all that hard, but a good liver punch will drop a boxer in his prime, and Gio is far from it.
Not one to make the same mistake twice, I stay out of reach of the big guy and kick his gun away as he swivels and flops about on the ground, flailing in futile effort to get a good hit in. “Settle down big guy,” I say, cocking the hammer on my Whumper. Which ain’t necessary, as the weapon is double action, meaning a long pull of the trigger will cock the hammer and fire the weapon in one go. Cocking the hammer manually only makes it a shorter draw on the trigger, which ain’t nothing, but don’t matter all that much. Still, the sound is enough to knock some sense into the hardened mobster, who falls silent as he blinks and raises his arms in surrender. “You?” he asks, with such incredulity I’m actually offended, so I fire off a Blast next to his head and set him to cowering.
“Yeah, me,” I say, cocking the hammer a second time and letting him stare down the barrel of the gun. “I got some questions, so answer honestly, and you might live. Don’t answer, and I’ll get my answers elsewhere, but not before you die long and slow. Nod if you understand.”
Gio’s fat face twists in a sneer, which is a real feat considering he splayed out on the ground like beached whale. “You’re the Firstborn,” he says, spitting it out with that inflection that makes it almost sound like a slur. “A boy scout. You a punk bitch who ain’t gonna do noth – ”
The rest of his statement comes out as a scream as I whip out my Rattlesnake and shoot him in the foot. My quick draw ain’t nothing to sneeze at, even if it is with my left, and I don’t even gotta turn to look to hit my shot. When his screams die down to a whimper, I shuffle over and give the wound a look, a clean pinpoint through and through that won’t bleed enough to kill him even if I left it untreated. “Now,” I begin, giving the injured foot a light kick while my Whumper is still trained on his sizable torso. “That wasn’t nothing, but it was as gentle as I’ll get. We can still do this the easy way though. All you gotta do is answer my questions, and I’ll be out of your hair.” Taking a glance at the wispy threads pasted a top his sweat-soaked head, I can’t help but add, “Well, what’s left of it.”
They say there’s no point adding insult to injury, but I figure that’s the best time to do it. They hurt after all, so if it looks like they angry enough to come after you later, then you can put them down then and there.
Unfortunately for me, Gio is made of sterner stuff than I hoped for. “Fuck you,” he says, and I know even if I shoot him a couple more times, he ain’t gonna change his answer.
“Alright,” I say, dropping the Whumper to let it hang from my shoulder while I pull out a vial of Alchemical Acid. “Guess it’s the hard way then.” Ain’t proud of what comes next, but I won’t shy away from it either. This ain’t on me. This is on them, on the monsters of the world, because like I said, this violence here is the only language them monsters understand.
And if that makes me a monster too, then so be it, because who better to kill monsters than one of their own?
