[IC] The Dust: Begin Again

[Antediluvixen]

A woman, neither young, nor old, sits alone in a booth made of glass and plywood. Light pours in over her features, reflecting a rich vermillion off a discolored eye, granting voluptuous black hair the quality of ink, it gave her sleeveless dress, an exotic pattern of creamy orange and silver, an almost otherworldly aura. She is completely radiant, and, from the looks of it, bored.

Her legs are crossed, although one may not have been able to tell with the length of her dress. Her hands are crossed on her lap, only occasionally leaving their position to wipe an errant ball of sweat away. Her eyes are closed, only occasionally flashing open to glare at the wires lining the clear and beige walls of the booth.

She’s beautiful. But she isn’t serene, she isn’t here to commune with the spirits, or meditate with the desert sun. How she shifts her weight on the bench makes it clear she is uncomfortable here.

She’s only here to wait for... something.

Her only companions in the booth are the wires and small contraption it houses. Outside, unseen, a Fire Dancer, a Wind Caller, and a Mute Guardian patrol the desert.

A light sand storm churns waves of amber grain past the sides of the recently constructed rectangular cell. Already the elements, the glistening sands, appear to be consuming this structure, and the regal looking woman sitting comfortably inside. She knows this isn’t the case, she isn’t a native to this area of Dust, but even with her one good eye she can see that she and the sand share an eye of gold, and in the whipping desert sand’s case, it’s gleaming golden eye is larger than its stomach.

The wind too erratic, the sand too indecisive to cause any real structural damage. This isn’t nature planning a reclamation of the woman’s lone booth, or the tiny town of Dead-End. This is the desert throwing a tantrum. From a distance, all that can be seen are dunes weakly changing position around the woman and her booth, while it continues to stand firm.

Inside, she continues to wait firm.

After a moment, which to her must have felt akin to an eternity, the radio sparked to life. Without wasting any time, the woman reached over to answer, wincing slightly at the movement in her arms. More sparks as she picked up the speaker and receiver.

<*bzzt* Hello? Vladimira?>

---

Vladimira for her part, did not have any guards. She was on a hill that had been chosen as both a radio broadcast location, and a sniper’s nest due to its height giving it clear air all around and a commanding view of the land for kilometers, even reaching out to the sea.

She felt more than a bit exposed sitting up here fiddling with the aging shortwave.

Some of the wiring was uninsulated and some of it frayed, all of them old, but the radio worked and that’s what mattered. She glanced around some, making sure nobody was sneaking up on her before turning the dials to the correct frequency.

“He-o? Vladi-ra?”

It was clearly Lucania’s voice coming through the radio, but not exactly clear. “Hold on a sec, just gotta… okay there we go, should work now.” She waited for a moment before clearing her throat, “So, hello.”

---

The radio wave bounce from one island to another. Carrying the almsot giddy chatter of the two women, joined by a combined investment in Wintergold. A woman by the name of Lucania, former mafioso, current Prime Minister, sits in the outskirts of Dead-End. Her call had been sent out, and eventually, it came back to her, invisible frequencies weaving around amber sands.

“Hello, Vladimira!” Instantly, her features changed, and Lucania found herself speaking into the radio with gaiety, “Are you well? Anything to report? Consider me mystified they managed to get you set up with a radio booth this fast, it took Dead-End’s sheriff nearly 3 weeks to organize the construction of this makeshift center… call me crass, but it looks like an outhouse! I’m honestly beginning to wonder whether purchasing this town is even a good idea anymore, they are such inefficient workers.”

---

Ineffectually holding back a snicker, Vladimira continued fiddling with the dial on the radio, “Well it can’t really look like an outhouse, or you wouldn’t be sitting in it. I’d bet it’s closer to a sedan chair without the handles.” The haphazard generator she’d scraped together a few days back began to shudder and clank, to which she responded with an offhand kick.

“And I’d guess your mystification is justified, I had to put this thing together myself. More attacks from New Syracuse mean Stinger’s got nobody free to help establish such luxuries as electricity or radio communication. Luckily they did have an old shortwave. Honestly it’s like the Old West here, all we’re missing are the… whatever they were called, Apaches, Comanches, Injuns? They’ve actually got a saloon with a cheesy name and watered down whiskey, still don’t know where they’re getting it from. The door to the place even has bullet holes from shootouts that weren’t quite at high noon but close enough. If you find any leather chaps on the mainland send them over on the next ship so I can complete things.”

---

Lucania gave a slight nod, knowingly unseen, she was aware it meant nothing to Vladimira. “Of course…” Lucania pulled a notepad from a purse, “Production in Harlem has been rather slow as of late, I’m afraid. They’ve been facing the fire on both fronts, Motum Diversum has laid claim to half the city, and Forsaken death squads seem to be targeting the farms, which makes making leather less of a priority for a lot of ranchers, who need to sell half their herd just to pay for protection…”

A knock came from the glass. Lucania, not quite startled, trailed off to turn to mute Englishwoman standing outside of the glass. ‘Five minutes,’ Carmela held up a calloused, caramel, hand. Lucania only had five minutes-- she didn’t know what was coming, but something had found her-- a Forsaken assassin squad? Hollow stampede?-- it didn’t quite matter to her. She knew the time she had, she’d use it effectively. Lucania turned to speak into the mic.

“Can you think of anything else you may need?”

---

Vladimira paused, whipping her head around at the feeling she was being watched. Seeing nothing, she turned back around, but kept one side of her head away from the radio to better hear anything that might be trying to sneak up on her. “Well, if you could clone fifty veteran Rangers and send them over here with magic wands. Failing that- ammunition, food, water, spare parts, diesel… oh, and sandbags.”

She had a great feeling of unease, like someone was…

She ducked, at the same time something whizzed by overhead, but there was no crack of a gunshot. Not wasting breath on swearing, Vladimira grasped for her pistols- she hadn’t bothered to bring a rifle, the heat was clearly getting to her- and pulled them from their holsters. The two guns were so heavily modified at this point that they couldn’t really be called TT-33’s anymore, more like Frankenpistols.

Flicking off the safeties, she advanced slowly, crawling in the dirt as she watched for any sign of her assailant.

Shuffling forward, she sheltered behind a piece of metal sticking up from the ground. She couldn’t see her assailant, but she did know which direction they were shooting from. A vicious grin came to her face as the trenches dug during several months of fighting came into her view. Those would do nicely, a long rifle wouldn’t be much use in those, and chances where the foolhardy sniper was in them as well.

What concerned her was that it had come from their side, not that of New Syracuse.

Putting her guns away for a second to don her mask in order to muffle her breathing, she stopped in her tracks. Somebody was around the corner, they’d shifted and the distinct sound of a bolt being racked met her ears. She pulled one of the Tokarevs out, her left hand flexing as her pockets flew open and their contents concentrated around her hand, forming into a wickedly pointed stabbing-arm-thing. This would be fun.

The bottom of the trenches was littered in dropped weapons, ammunition, and even a grenade with a pin that had never been pulled. She scooped that up, yanking the pin out and tossing it around the corner, reflexively sheltering behind a crate even though there was at least a meter of dirt between her and the explosion.

Giving whoever was on the other side no chance to recover, she dashed around the corner and opened fire, before her eyes widened as at least five well armed men wearing the insignia of mercenaries from New Syracuse who’d somehow remained unscathed responded in kind. Miraculously, she wasn’t hit and wasn’t in the mood for pressing that miracle any further, and dove behind the cover of the dirt wall.

Heart jackhammering in her chest, she frantically looked around for something to turn the tide. They would almost certainly be- a grenade landed at her feet, its pin prominently missing. Her first instinct was to run, but that would’ve just killed her a bit more painfully -from blood loss, and probably gang rape knowing how things worked in the shithole of a city they apparently came from-. Instead, she grabbed the chunk of metal and lobbed it back as quickly as she could, ducking down all the same as it exploded in mid air above the heads of the mercenaries. Resuming her frantic searching, her eyes alighted on a particular weapon and flashed in giddy excitement, despite the circumstances.

She slid over and grabbed the PKM, giving it a rapid check to make sure it wouldn’t explode if she started shooting, and dashed over to the wall. She paused for a moment and listened- moaning, and heavy breathing. One voice whispered a bit too loudly about pulling back and leaving her alone.

It was adorable really, did they think she would fall for that?

Suckers.

Shouldering the machine gun, she rounded the corner with a malicious smile painted on her face. The men -there were three standing, one lying still, and one moaning on the ground, who the others had circled and begun what looked like first aid- looked up and scrambled for their weapons. “This is what we do to mean people in the trenches,” she began, but before she could finish her statement she was already shooting. Firing in short bursts, the weapon tore holes in the first man’s chest, to say nothing of what came out the back, and he crumpled without a sound; the next went down just as quickly, a slightly longer burst riddling him with bullets. The third however, had his submachine gun up and aimed directly at her. They opened fire at the same time, the 7.62x54R rounds of the PKM tearing straight through whatever armor he might’ve had, while the much weaker rounds of his own weapon slammed ineffectually into her DIY plate- with the exception of two that slammed home into the fleshy part of her thigh.

Both of them dropped to the ground, albeit Vladimira’s was considerably more controlled. She was confident she wouldn’t die of blood loss, the bullets hadn’t seemed to hit anything major, just some of the extra curve she’d put on her thighs in the months she’d lived in considerable comfort in Russelgrad. Regardless, she tore a strip of bandage and wrapped it tightly around the wound, she’d have Pinprick take a look at it later. For now…

Two of the men were still moving, the last one to go down, and his comrade wounded just prior by the grenade she’d thrown back. Neither seemed long for the world though, but she was determined to get what she could from them.

“Name, and who hired you?” Growling at people was fun, she would admit, and the effect it usually had when coupled with serious injuries and stories of how she would make them talk usually had most people genuinely shaking in fear. This guy however, scoffed, “You can’t do anything, bitch. Five minutes at most and I’ll be dead. Not telling you shit.”

She spoke sweetly, “Is that so?”

Hurling the man into the wall of the trench, she grabbed him by his collar and hoisted him aloft, he was considerably taller than she was, and to get his feet off the ground she had to reach fairly far, but she managed it. “I may not be able to keep you alive for months and slowly extract what I need, but I can make those five minutes a lot more painful, so why don’t we make things easier on everyone?”

He spat, landing a glob of blood and a tooth square on her cheek. “Fine, bitch, the name’s Wyatt, and someone wants you alive, for, y’know…” the man -Wyatt- grinned a bloody grin, missing a few teeth now, and reached down to grope her chest.

Catching the offended hand in her own, Vladimira gathered some scrap around it and slowly began squeezing. “Wrong. Move.” As she crushed his hand to a pulp, she brought him closer, hissing into his face, “Who?”

Wyatt smirked again, and then went limp. She looked at him -or rather, his corpse- and dropped it. Maybe the other woul-

“Dead was an option if we had to, and right now…” she heard a faint mumbling, a whirled around to see Wyatt pointing a pistol at her with a crazed look in his eyes, “me.” She didn’t have enough time to react, she could’ve just ripped the pistol out of his hand from afar, but she had been caught off guard. It was so stupid really, she should’ve expected someone would play dead.

The man fired, the crack of the pistol going off only once before she’d pulled it from his hand, but she still felt the bullet hit her ear. It was numb really, things tended not to hurt until a few seconds after, when one’s body finally realized part of it had been shot, or cut, or stabbed, or whatever.

All she really cared about at that moment was that a few centimeters to the right, and she’d be dead.

She crammed it all in the back of her mind, letting spur of the moment reflexes take over. She pulled her own pistol, putting a bullet into Wyatt’s head, then the heads of the other bodies laying around, and the other wounded man, she wouldn’t take any chances. Just in case though…

Her arms were coated in blood not her own by the time she’d made it back to the radio. “Vladimira here, if you’re still present. I need you to see who in New Syracuse might have the resources to send bounty hunters after me- me in particular. They wanted me alive for someone who apparently wants to do some things to me that I’d rather not think about, tried hitting me with a tranquilizer rifle before I started hitting them with bullets.” She paused, “And maybe a helmet with some hearing amplification, I just took a bullet in my left ear and I can barely hear shit out of it.”

---

One second, Lucania was speaking with Vladimira, the next, all she could hear were the explosions and gunshots coming from Vladimira’s end. Crossing her legs and resting her hands upon her knees, Lucania waited patiently for the conflict to end.

This was becoming a regular occurrence.

By the time Vladimira has dispatched her problem, Lucania found herself humming the tune of Blue Velvet in her booth. Snapping herself out of the trance as Vladimira finished, she felt an odd mixture of anticipation and concern answering again with little more than an audible nod. The more she considered Vladimira’s words, the more anxiety she found herself filled with.

Lucania sighed and signed off, telling Vladimira that she’d look into it as soon as she could. The truth of the matter was she had been putting off disturbing the hornet’s nest that was the traitor owned Hedon territory until now. She knew she’d have to eventually, the two forces were too great, too conflicting in ideologies to not eventually come to bear open arms against each other. It wasn’t like Paolo hadn’t been sending his spies and assassins after her from the get go-- he could afford to, he had all the bargaining chips-- he had the power, he had the Forsaken alliance, and he had her sister.

In terms of possible actions, she felt paralyzed. The man was tumor she couldn’t do anything about…

...not directly, at least...

The door to the booth opened, Lucania took the hand of her sworn guardian, the evermute Carmela, and found herself being led to a heavily armored limo by an Immortal entourage. Taking a seat in the back, her mind began to wonder, towards how she could deal with Forsaken, towards how she could cement an alliance with the Aqueous, towards the growing threat of the Sanguinous Papacy, towards…

In a bit of a daze, Lucania looked towards the window, and the passing horizon, to see the threat she was narrowly avoiding. An approaching black mass on the horizon-- a hollow swarm. She smirked.

Called it.

[Lightning Fast]

An Artist's Interpretation of the Meeting

Exhausted, Archie practically fell of of his now-damaged motorcycle when he got back to Sentinel sheriff’s office. He couldn’t remember exactly what caused it, but his engine had begun sputtering, and his top speed had drastically decreased. It was late at night, and he hadn’t had a chance to sleep much the previous day. His shirt had its sleeves torn off to use as impromptu bandages, his pants and boots were dirtied and sandy, his eyes had massive bags under them, and even the stubble on his face had started to grow back. Three days he’d spent tracking the nefarious Long John McClive, one of the most nefarious bandits on Ash, and all he had to show for it now was a few new cuts on his legs and face... and of course, the severed head of Long John McClive himself in a brown, burlap sack. Archie wasn’t one to come back empty-handed, but this last job had taken a lot out of him. It didn’t matter now, though; the bounty on McClive was enough to keep him fed and housed for the foreseeable future.

Archie had to chuckle. Actually finding McClive had been difficult, but even after Archie revealed himself and offered to take Long John alive, Long John couldn’t even get his gun out of his holster before Archie shot him dead. Why John thought it would be a good idea to draw against someone with a gun pointed at them, Archie would never know. After the initial shot, John was reeling and could be easily decapitated with the Bastard’s Bastard Sword.

As he entered the sheriff’s office with his burlap sack, the clerk behind a counter perked up, startled. “You’re back...” There were two night guards on duty, though they didn’t seem to be paying much attention to what was going on.

“Yep,” Archie replied, approaching him, “And I brought you a present.” He casually dumped the contents of his bag in front of the clerk, allowing the head to fall on the desk. “I’ll be collecting the bounty on Long John McClive.”

Somewhat speechless, the clerk crouched down to open a safe behind the counter and pulled out several solid gold coins marked with the symbol of the Wintergold Conglomerate. He counted the right amount out in his head and stuffed them all inside a smaller bag. “Here.”

“Really?” Archie sighed. “Can you pay me in bullets? I can’t use these outside of Wintergold territory.”

The clerk sighed and gave Archie an exasperated look. “We’re short on bullets, and the boss insists we use these instead.” The clerk then passed Archie a small waver as proof of completion for the task. Some bullshit, pre-written message was printed on it about how thankful the Prime Minister was for helping keep the settlements safe.

Reluctantly, Archie snatched up the bag of coins. He had no love for the Conglomerate, but wasn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth (unless he felt the horse in question would try to bite him). “Eh, money’s money I suppose. Give me a copy of your latest wanted list, please.” After receiving the list he wanted and dropping the rest of his things at his place, Archie was free to do whatever he liked for the rest of the night.

Rather than immediately go home to sleep, Archie’s second stop was the local saloon, the horribly-named Hoochie’s Hooch. He wasn’t a drinker, but they knew his name there, and felt in the mood for some shameless praise; perhaps even a bit of bragging. It was probably around 11PM if Archie had to guess, so there would probably still be people there drinking.

====

Roberta looked around the bar sullenly. She’d gone over a week without seeing so much as a single coin come into her possession, losing out bounties to more established bounty hunters, contracts for making or fixing something to more established contractors, and even a job as a caravan guard to a woman with more connections. Sometimes she had to wonder what on earth had possessed her to come all the way out to an island that had only been accessible for a matter of months at most. So now she sat in a rinky dink bar nursing a watered down glass of… something, the bartender had called it whiskey but she was confident whiskey was supposed to be closer to turpentine than water.

She huffed, gulping down the offending glass and standing up, making her way to the bar. “Another, please.” She grumbled, seating herself just as a man with a rather unusually tidy goatee entered. She quirked her eyebrow for a moment then dismissed him, shrugging and accepting the drink, to which she rolled a small coin edged in gold onto the table. She didn’t touch the drink for a little while, content to sit and stare daggers at the bartender when he wasn’t looking.

As Archie walked through the doors, he confirmed his suspicions, though nobody noticed his presence until he sat at the bar. “What’ll ya have, Arch?” the bartender asked, polishing a glass up idly with a wet rag.

“Just some water, thanks.” He laid a gold coin down on the table, receiving several smaller, gold-edged ones back as change. He exchanged idle chit-chat with the man behind the bar, occasionally stopping to take a sip from his drink and glance around the saloon. “Who wants to hear how I tracked down ‘Ol Long John...?”

The goatee’d man who had entered spoke, and she raised her head from the table looking over at him. ’Ol Long John…? she thought, Wasn’t that the… damn, that bounty. She examined him closer, he didn’t exactly seem like a burly bruiser, which was mildly surprising. Many bounty hunters she’d had the displeasure of meeting were usually built like small tanks and had an attitude to match. She watched him for a few moments longer, before clearing her throat and addressing him, “What of it?” Her voice was unusually smooth and generally pleasant, not what you’d expect from someone with her appearance.

By that point, one or two patrons had sat down near Archie, hoping to hear some epic tale of adventure from him. When he turned around to meet the gaze of the robotic woman, he was quite honestly shocked. Her voice was surprisingly sweet, which caught him off guard even more. “Er...” He stayed calm though: he had a reputation to uphold, and couldn’t lose his cool in front of potential patrons. He coughed lightly, then replied in kind: “Well, while Long John had a few kills under his belt, they were all people who didn’t really have the ability to fight back: rich old guys, mostly. His crimes, more often than not, involved grand or petty theft,” he said to the mysterious woman across from him, “You look like someone who’s been around a bit, so I probably don’t need to tell you this, but the thing about thieves is they’re usually very hard to track, but pushovers in a gunfight. Long John was no exception.” He leaned back against the bar so he could face as many people as possible as he told his story. “You guys know how much I hate coming back empty-handed, so I tracked this fucker for three whole days, carrying most of what I owned on my back.” Try as he might, he couldn’t prevent himself from sneaking a few glances at this strange, mechanized woman. What the fuck happened to her...?

“So yeah, anyways,” Archie continued, taking a sip of his water, “After a particularly big heist, a lot of thieves like to try and make a break for New Syracuse. The Hedons don’t have much in the way of law-enforcement, so the criminals can pretty much do whatever the fuck they like here and hide there until people like me stop looking for them, or they just hop on the quickest boat to Dust.” He gave a serious, dramatic look at his audience. “I knew if I didn’t catch him before he got to Hedon territory, I wasn’t likely to catch him at all...”

The rest of the story, while true-sounding enough, was told in a highly dramatic way, complete with silly voices for all the different people who helped or hindered Long John’s eventual capture. In the end, he’d cut ahead of Long John and waited for him at one of the smaller but key towns along the route to New Syracuse, and intercepted him when he went to resupply. “... and this, my friends, is when Long John McClive, supposedly the smartest, most cunning bandit on Ash, pulls his weapon after I’ve already got my gun on him.” A few of the listeners started laughing at the sheer anticlimax of his story, while a cocky smirk spread across the bounty hunter’s face. “And that, my friends, is how I, Archie, the Bladed Devil, caught Long John McClive.”

Roberta listened patiently through the man’s rambling spiel, her eyebrow raised the entire time.

Once he had finished, she gingerly placed her drink on the bar and turned to face him, leaning against the edge, “So what you’re telling me is, you bravely killed a man who at that point had no chance of fighting back? Well done! Your gonads are truly of planetary proportions, I am in awe of your courage, you can pull a trigger at point blank!”

She leaned forward, “Have you actually filled any bounties that required, oh I don’t know, danger?”

Archie smiled at the woman calmly, in a rather condescending fashion. “Long John killed two people, and stole hundreds of thousands of bullets worth of property. He didn’t give any chance for those poor bastards to fight back, did he? But I suppose you’re right: it would’ve been better if, after giving him the chance to come quietly, I let him engage me in some sort of shoot-off at high-noon, eh?” Archie finished his water. “The trip itself was pretty fuckin’ dangerous if I do say so myself. A lot of people die of thirst in the desert, and I had to rush to get ahead of him.”

“Tell me, you ever heard of Ronnie the Butcher?” Archie continued, “Murdered nine people, three of them trained soldiers, and ate their corpses. Real fucked up guy, batshit crazy, but deadly with a cleaver. When I found his hideout, fucker tried to chop my head off. I got his first.” He gently patted the sword that hung on his waist. “Mad Clyde? Raped six women and killed four of them with that gang of his? When I went to his favourite saloon, four thugs jumped me, and I had to fight my way out. I didn’t earn my reputation by shooting petty thieves while they weren’t looking. Even if I had, Long John was an armed man resisting arrest.” Oddly enough, throughout this whole exchange, he never stopped smiling his calm little smile, speaking as though he was telling a story. “What are you grilling me for, anyways?”

A slightly amused smirk tried to force its way onto Roberta’s face. She ignored it and continued looking at him. “You were boasting, in my experience the boastful usually die first. That’s all.” She relaxed, leaning back against the bar again, “Though a shootout at high noon might’ve been a bit more dramatic I will admit, unless there’s money for him alive, just walk up to him from behind and put a bullet in the base of his skull? Or better yet, shoot him from afar.”

She shrugged, “But whatever, at least you actually do have something to boast about, so I withdraw my objection.”

“Shooting him from afar would’ve taken even less ‘balls’,” Archie replied, “Long John was a crook, but he wasn’t evil. Or at least, not as evil as some of the other assholes I talked about. I wanted to give him a chance to come quietly. Nothing more to it.” The smile had faded from his face after this cyborg had started speaking again. Quite truthfully, this woman was starting to annoy him, and her robot parts were rather unsettling. She wasn’t half-bad looking where organic matter remained, and her eyes were rather nice... though she wasn’t trying particularly hard to hide her immortal nature.

“So, what’s your superpower?” Archie asked quite bluntly, no longer looking quite so smug with himself, “Rudeness?”

She snickered slightly at that, “No, but that would be interesting would it not? Wonder how that’d work?”

“I’ll introduce you to my brother and you can find out.”

She gave a short giggle, taking a sip of the watered down “whiskey” before she waved a hand at his drink, before frowning and leaning over to touch the glass, before she leaned back. “Pour that on something, watch what happens. Just don’t pour it on anything you’re particularly attached to, or the bar.”

Archie took out a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket and dunked it into the liquid. It began to dissolve almost immediately, prompting Archie to quickly wrench his hand away, startled. “Well shit, that’s terrifying. All you’d have to do to collect on a bounty was spike someone’s drink.” Best stay on this one’s good side, Archie thought. “I’ve decided I’m not thirsty anymore.” He was starting to genuinely feel afraid of this woman, but had learned to hide such feelings in the arena.

She smirked, “I have collected bounties that way, hauled ‘em in with their throats missing. Bullets are one thing, but I’ve yet to meet someone who can survive pouring something with a pH of 14 down their throat. Leaves the glass nice and clean too.” Waving at the bartender, she rolled another coin on the table and slid the resulting drink over to Archie, “It’s just water, not going to melt anything unless that something is salt.”

“Again, you should meet my brother. Hardy motherfucker, he is. I usually just take the head, though; saves a lot of space.” He looked down at the crisp, clear liquid. It seemed innocent enough, but Archie couldn’t quite bring himself to trust it. “... I’m good.” he grumbled. “Eh, if you guys could stop eavesdropping...” he turned to the people he had been telling his story to, “That’d be nice.” The crowd quickly dispersed. “So... what’s your name, miss?”

Roberta raised an eyebrow, grabbing the glass pulling out a scrap piece of paper from her own pocket and dipping it in the drink, then a small scrap of aluminum from a can. “It’s water.” she sighed, shrugging. Standing up to move closer to him so she could avoid shouting, she had to stoop slightly to avoid hitting her head on the low ceiling.

“Roberta, Roberta Lee S. Jackson.” She said simply as she sat down next to him, “And yourself?”

Archie raised his eyebrows in mild surprise as he realized just how tall this woman was. He’d technically fought taller in the arena, though, so it wasn’t quite so jarring as everything else about her. If he wasn’t so uncomfortable, he might’ve made some sort of quip. At that point it dawned on him that he was being somewhat impolite by not partaking in Roberta’s gift, so he had a sip to show his gratitude. “Archibaldo, but I prefer Archie. ‘The Bladed Devil’ was my old stage-name, but it still fit when I made the career change, so I kept it. Thank you for the drink.”

Roberta nodded in acknowledgement, “Something tells me that probably has to do with the small arsenal of sharp things you seem to be packing.” She snarked, “But I must ask, do you have horns to go with them? Little bit of demonic flair?”

Eyeing the weapons, she couldn’t help but ask, “Where do you even get stuff like that? I would think most people had just gone to shooting each other or knives.”

“Playing dress-up on the job isn’t exactly practical,” Archie rebuttled, a more relaxed smile returning to his face, “Though I admit, I did use to wear horns when I performed. The swords?” Archie pulled a long, thin rapier halfway out of his sheathe. “This one’s my favourite. I found it in an old museum, if you can believe it: was just lying in a pile of rubble.” He slid it back into its sheathe. “This big one?” he continued, pulling his bastard sword ever so slightly out of the sheathe on his back. “Bit of a long story.” Not one I’m ready to tell a woman I’ve just met... “I’ll admit, guns are usually more practical, but I save a lot on ammo, and having a bit of a gimmick doesn’t hurt your reputation. Now, might I ask where you got that monstrosity from?” he said, pointing at what appeared to be a futuristic railgun.

Roberta glanced down at the barrel of the weapon he was pointing to. “What? This? I built it when I was seventeen.” She shot him a baleful glare.

“Though it ain’t a monstrosity, s’a work of beauty more like. Graphene coated rails of an alloy I’m not at liberty to divulge the makeup of, fed with 125 grain tungsten saboted slugs,” she rummaged around in a pocket, pulling out a loose one and showing him, “and powered with these supercapacitor/cold fusion power cells. Can give about ten to fifteen shots at about the power of a 7.62x39mm round and more than capable of punching through several centimeters of homogenized carbon steel at max power.” Poking him in the chest, she continued, “It’s not a monstrosity, it’s a work of engineering art, the pinnacle of portable electrically powered kinetic energy ordnance.”

“You’re clearly very passionate about your work,” Archie said, leaning back slightly. His heart rate began to accelerate as Roberta's finger made contact with his kevlar vest. Shit, I’ve pissed off the Terminator... I’d be even more frightened if I knew what the fuck she was saying... “That’s... quite impressive, actually. I didn’t even know cold fusion had been invented yet. Or what ‘saboted’ means.”

“A sabot is something that goes on the outside of the projectile that holds it in place in the barrel, in the case of this the sabot serves the purpose of an electrical armature a-” she looked at him and frowned, “You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?”

“You got me,” Archie admitted, smiling, “But you’re fascinating to learn from, and I doubt you’d know what I meant if I started talking about pommels and hilts and sword techniques from a thousand years ago. I prefer a gun with a little less kick, but to each their own I suppose.” He pulled out his silenced 9mm pistol. “Small, but it gets the job done, and I can fire it one-handed.”

Raising an eyebrow, Roberta sipped at the bland drink in her glass, making a face at the watery taste. “You’re saying that to be nice, it’s fine. Most people on this island or on the mainland don’t know what I’m talking about and don’t care, so I’m used to it.”

She sipped again, then sighed and downed the entire thing. “You can fire pretty much anything one handed if you know what you’re doing, the problem is actually hitting what you’re aiming at. That being said…” she fumbled at her side, pulling out her own pistol, “I prefer a bit more oomph in my guns, ergo 10mm Auto. Just in case I need to go hunting things on two or four legs. If I need subtlety…” she tapped her drinking glass, giving Archie a mischievous wink.

“Oh, I definitely don’t know what you’re talking about, but I do care,” Archie said, smiling. “I try and learn something from every new person I meet.” He watched her tap the glass, then raised an eyebrow. “... right now, I’m learning that if I ever get a price put on my head, I’ll need to find a new drinking buddy.” He hoped she wouldn’t bring up the fact that he hadn’t actually ordered anything alcoholic. Roberta seemed friendly enough to Archie, and she had a specific set of skills that were quite useful to him at this time. “I don’t suppose you’re looking for work? I need my motorcycle fixed. And maybe suggestions for some new guns.”

“Work- yes, I could do with that. I’m not a mechanic though, I’ve got a theoretical knowledge of many things, but all my actual experience is with stuff like this.” She gestured to the rail gun strapped to her back, “But I could try. As to guns… I’m probably not the best person to ask, and honestly if that works for you, keep it. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it, after all.”

Archie scratched his goatee pensively. Perhaps he wasn’t realizing this until now, but there was a certain stubbornness associated with using swords when the most advanced weapons known to man were readily available to him. “Now, say I wanted to... oh, I don’t know, get a custom-made, medium-to-long range rifle, something with enough firepower to punch through modern body armour... do you know anyone I could go to for that?”

She smirked, “Are you saying something? I could build you a railgun like this that’d go through several people wearing modern ballistic plating, but unfortunately I don’t exactly have access to the necessary materials. If you’re just looking for a powerful rifle, there are shops in the town.” She leaned against the bar, rolling yet another coin onto the table and signaling for water, “Now, if you have any bounty hunting jobs or the like, those I could definitely help with.”

Archie shrugged, seeming somewhat disappointed. “I’m gonna be frank, I need something that can kill a Hollow. One of those fuckers is worth at least six of Long John, and I’d really rather not get closer to one of them than I need to.” He pulled a sheet of paper out of his other pocket, the one he’d previously received from the clerk working at the law enforcement office. It had a long list of names of convicts along with their photographs, lists of their crimes, places they frequent, and places they were last seen. “But if you’re looking for a good bounty, you’ve found the right guy... one second, this hasn’t been updated.” Archie took out a red pen and crossed out a few of the pictures. “No, they weren’t all me; I’m not that good.” He drew a large question mark on one of them, and drew a happy face on another. “Anyone not marked here is a good target, but considering we’re two people, we might wanna consider something a bit more challenging...”

Roberta gave it a once over, pursing her lips. “Well honestly, as long as bringing them in dead won’t adversely affect anything, I can make most of these a lot easier. As I’ve said, not many people can survive drinking a superbase.”

She paused, “But if you’re looking to go Hollow hunting, well, just what kind of Hollow are we talking here?”

“Well...” Archie took another piece of paper out of his pocket. Several fell out onto the floor, and he silently lamented about needing to sort through them as he picked them up off the ground, finally uncovering the one he was looking for. He unfolded it, revealing a picture of what looked like a massive, black worm sticking out of the sand. It had the same scales which were characteristic of Hollows, a segmented body, and a massive set of white teeth that seemed to be holding a large animal in their grasp. “Lesse here... about fifty meters long, four meters in diameter, comes out of the ground and swallows people whole. Class two or three, I think... but there’s two catches. First, it keeps getting bigger, and this report is from a month ago. Normally I wouldn’t even consider fighting this thing, but if the problem is left alone, it’s just gonna keep growing. Nobody’s suicidal enough to actually help me, though; most people just steer clear of it... east of Fort Spire, that’s where it’s usually spotted.” Archie took a sip of his water. “And the second catch? It regenerates from leftover body segments the same way an actual worm does. Slowly, sure, but it’s not like we can wound it and walk away. Think you’re up to the task?”

Roberta shrugged, tapping the glass once more, and then gesturing to the railgun strapped on her back. “I think I am, juuuust maybe. Not like I have anything else to do anyway. Unless you count sitting around grumbling about jobs being taken. Though honestly…” she glanced at the picture again, “you don’t happen to know some way I could transport bulk liquids inland? Or maybe get the fucker close to the sea? Would be easy then, drown the thing in acids and bases.”

“You’re really nonchalant about something that’ll probably get us both killed, yannow?” Archie said frankly, “But that’s the kind of person I want helping me on this. My motorcycle is certainly out of the question...” Archie scratched his chin once again. “Do you know where we could find a firetruck?” He was only half-joking; a firetruck combined with Roberta’s powers could’ve made this a breeze.

“Alas, I do not. There might be some sort of water tank we could find though, big enough for me to take most of the danger out of it. The main problem is actually moving it…” she paused, scratching her chin, “We might be able to rent a truck or something from someone around here, Sentinel’s built off the ruins of an old port so maybe a delivery truck or two might be lying around. Hell, maybe even an oil truck, that’d have enough space.”

Archie sighed, then placed a palm on his forehead and proclaimed: “Christ, I’m a fucking moron... we’re in the desert. Of course there’s water trucks around here. The hard part is getting one.”

“We just have to…” Roberta grabbed another coin, twirling it between her fingers before dropping it in an empty glass that she then tapped her fingers on, “ask nicely.”

Archie leaned in towards Roberta and whispered. “... If you’re suggesting what I think you’re suggesting... how ‘bout we get out of here and discuss this somewhere a little more private, hmm?”

Roberta nodded, standing up and downing the last bit of her water. “You have a place around here? All I’ve got is a room in an inn nearby, which isn’t exactly the most secluded place.”

“A small one,” Archie said, nodding, “It’s on the edge of town, so nobody’s gonna bother us.”

Archie didn’t realize how much subtext that conversation contained until they were already out the door.

[Antediluvixen]

“Well, here we are,” Archie said, “Home sweet home.” From the outside, it looked to be a simple, ordinary wooden structure. It was completely square, with a thatched, triangular roof extending from the top. A small section of the roof overhung a porch that was held up by pillars on either side, with a few wooden steps leading up to the entrance. It was made oddly homely by an out-of-place flowerbed of red roses to the left of the door, and a wooden rocking chair to the right of it. Though Archie’s house was fairly small and simple, at least the ceilings would be tall enough to accommodate the cybernetic giantess who accompanied him. He pulled a keyring out of his front pocket and unlocked the entrance, stepping aside to hold the door open for her. “Mi casa es su casa.”

The inside was slightly more interesting. A table with four chairs sat in the middle of the room, with what looked like a small kitchen area on the left side. Given that there wasn’t anything in the way of electricity, though, it was more like a small counter with some forks and knives on it. There was a bookshelf on the right that seemed oddly absent of books, with the top two shelves instead featuring various knick-knacks such as hats and rings, but also knives and revolvers. On top of the bookshelf, there was even a fancy-looking hunting rifle in a glass case. A brutal-looking spiked whip also hung there, nailed to the back of the bookcase. Archie walked over to it and placed a necklace that Long John McClive had worn on one of the shelves, a silver-tipped bullet on a thin metal chain.

Striding in, Roberta looked around the house in curiosity. “Interesting…” she mused to herself, then louder, “Little trophy collection, I take it?” She continued walking, eventually going to stand in the corner awkwardly, “So, what’s the plan?”

“Yep,” Archie said perhaps a little too proudly, “A little something from each of the sick fucks I’ve killed.”

The swordsman pulled a large sheet of paper out from behind his shelf and laid it flat on the table. “... I mean, I thought when we were in the bar, you were suggesting that we steal a water truck,” Archie admitted. With a black sharpie, he drew a picture of the water truck in question. “Did I misunderstand you?”

Stifling an amused snort, Roberta shook her head, “No, no, I’m well aware of the potential double meaning. I was curious to see if you’d notice. While normally I might not be opposed, I suggest we keep the matter of a giant angry Hollow the priority.” She looked down at the drawing, “And yes, though I prefer to think of it as ‘borrowing for the public good’ don’t you?”

Archie nodded. “I think it’s for the greater good, but other people might not. Water’s a precious resource out here, and we’re gonna need a damned good reason to just go and take it.” Before continuing, Archie glanced up and looked Roberta dead in the eye. “And before we discuss anything else, I need to know you’re committed to this. I don’t invite just any stranger at the bar over to plot. I’ve been involved in a lot of partnerships that didn’t work out. It’s not that I don’t trust you, I just don’t want to have to go through that shit again.”

“Water’s a precious resource, true, but how useful is it if it can’t get to people? I’m not suggesting we steal a loaded water truck, but an empty one and fill that up with seawater.” She continued, “And yeah I’m committed, I’m bored and I need money, and you seem like you’re not going to try and put a bullet in my back the moment I look away, so yes.” Then she smirked, “Just so long as you’re okay with random innuendos about pretty much everything.”

“Good. Trust is very important in a relationship like this.” Archie smirked back. He was either completely unaware of the innuendo, or intentionally playing it up. “Yeah, I was thinking more-or-less the same thing... in truth, getting the water truck isn’t going to be that hard if they know what we’re going to be using it for, but one issue remains...” Archie quickly scribbled out a picture of a massive worm on his paper. “Actually killing the thing. Now, there’s lots of ways to go about doing this: we could either spray the thing with a hose, or try to get him to take a bite out of the truck--”

Roberta interrupted him, “I can control liquid I change the pH of as well.” She pulled a small jar out of her backpack, “Just a little thing of seawater.” Touching a finger to the contents, she then fished out another scrap of paper and dropped it in, letting it dissolve almost immediately. Right after, she flexed her hand and the liquid left the jar, orbiting her hand until she flung it at a bare patch of floor, catching it just before it impacted. “We don’t need to waste a water truck.”

Archie nearly had a heart attack as the acid almost landed on his hardwood floor. “I just had that--... phew... That’s a detail I wish you’d told me earlier; it basically makes every part of the plan completely pointless. Just lure the Sandsnake out, give ‘em a little lye-bath, and collect a small fortune.” As he spoke, he idly doodled on his paper, creating two stick-figures standing on a large pile of money; one was mustachioed and holding a sword, the other particularly tall with two unusually thick limbs. “I’m sure I can convince the right people that loaning us a truck would be for a good cause...” He started writing down a list of names of people who might have access to such a vehicle.

Roberta flinched slightly when Archie mentioned lye, but recovered quickly. “Yes. Get the truck, I can’t transport that much over a long distance, but I can definitely use it once we’ve moved it. Then I’ll dissolve his insides and we can go swimming in coin.” She looked down at the drawing in some amusement, “Truly your artistic skill knows no bounds.”

Archie chuckled. “It might not look like it, but I used to be quite the artist. Drawing was something I liked to do a lot when I was younger. Of course, I didn’t have a whole lot of time for it.” He removed his bulletproof vest and placed it on a coat-rack near his bookshelf. “Jeez, I’m fucking exhausted...”

Roberta nodded, “It is rather late, isn’t it?” She looked around, there wasn’t really much in the way of furniture. She considered taking off her own coat to cool off -cybernetics ran rather warmly, and she wasn’t built for hot climates as it was, and the house and surrounding landscape still clung to the midday heat- but wasn’t sure considering the subtext that’d preceded their arrival at his house. “Er… is there somewhere to sleep? I’m pretty sure they won’t let me back into my room at the inn unless I pay and I’m poor enough that I can’t afford it.”

“Well, a queen-sized bed, but gimme one second and I’ll see if I have anything else.” He opened the door to his bedroom and ducked inside, closing it behind him. Only the moonlight coming from the window gave the room any sort of illumination, but one could make out most of the furniture alright. It was certainly the most luxurious-looking part of his house, complete with a nice carpet and more windows than the main area. In the dead centre of the opposite wall there was a large, queen-size bed, and wooden dresser with an open window above it. On top of the dresser was a fake glass vase full of wilted, red roses, which Archie silently noted would need replacing. A wine cooler stand sat at the foot of the bed with nothing in it, though Archie kept wondering why he had it, since keeping liquid of any kind cold was impractical without a proper refrigerator and freezer system. Candles were scattered everywhere, given they were his only option for light until the local authorities extended the power grid to the edges of the town, though the moon made it possible for him to pick out most of his furniture and avoid stepping on anything as he walked over to his dresser. He felt around the top for a box of matches, and then lit a few of the candles to give him some illumination. There was a full-body mirror hanging on the back of the door, and several hooks for coats on the back wall.

First and foremost, though, his sweaty clothes needed to be changed, considering he hadn’t done so for three days. He took off his shirt, revealing several long, thin scars on his back, and tossed the sweaty garment into a small wardrobe leaning up against the left wall. Why did it have to be so goddamned hot tonight? He pulled a new undershirt out of the dresser, but as he did so, a strong gust of wind blew through the window, knocking the vase over and scattering dried rose petals all over the bed. “Fuck!” he swore, “Not again with this shit... I really need to move that thing...” At last, he spotted an armchair in the corner, complete with reclining capabilities and extra cushions. “That should do nicely... though it might be a little small for her.” Archie pressed his face against the door and called to Roberta: “Just a minute, please!” Then he began to frantically clean up the petals and shoved the wine cooler away, accidentally knocking it over in the process. “Damn it!” he swore again, picking it up off the ground and setting it aside. As if that wasn’t bad enough, he then stubbed his toe hard on the bed frame, prompting him to let out a loud “SHIT!” He lay down on his bed to examine his injury.

Roberta for her part, had removed her jacket and tied it around her waist, letting the accumulated sweat from the day evaporate off of her. Leaning against the wall, she examined the room, it was not unexpectedly plain, just the table, bookcase, and not a whole lot else. “Kind of dull, really.” she remarked to herself, surveying the room and not finding much to interest her.

Huffing in boredom, she pulled out a book and began flipping through it idly, stopping at the various dog ears and then flipping on. She’d read the damn thing probably eighteen times now, there wasn’t much to be gained reading it another. Still, it was something to pass the time, and judging by how long Archie was taking doing… whatever, passing the ti-

She started as she heard him call through the door, quirking an eyebrow and pushing herself off the wall. As she started for the door, she heard a crash, then muttered swearing, another sound that sounded like something soft hitting something hard, and less than muttered cursing. Hurrying over to the door, she paused uncertainly, eventually knocking softly on the door, “Is everything alright?”

“Uh... yeah, just uhm...” Archie muttered a few more curses, finished changing into his sleepwear (which was really just a sleeveless undershirt and some grey flannel pajama bottoms) and opened the door. It was starting to become abundantly clear how long it’d been since Archie had last slept. “Sorry, stubbed my toe. Would an armchair be okay? I don’t exactly have room back here for a guest bed.”

She peered into the room, it looked like a small hurricane had gone around and messed everything up. The armchair itself looked fine, if maybe a bit small, as usual her height making everything inconvenient. “Yeah, that’ll be fi- are those roses and candles?” She raised her eyebrow, looking back at Archie and just barely managing to stifle a howl of laughter, which instead came out as choked snorts. “Oh that’s, oh my god.” She leaned against the wall and slid to the floor shaking with suppressed laughter.

“It’s not what it looks like, I swear!” Archie pleaded.

Roberta’s attempt to contain her amusement failed, and she burst out howling. She managed to choke out a few words, “Th-that’s what they always say!” Before succumbing to the giggles once more, slumped against the wall with her palm to her face. “The most cliche excuse and that’s what you go with, my god I might just die right here and now.”

As Roberta sat on the floor and laughed, Archie said nothing. Instead, he returned to his room (without bothering to close the door this time) and began to, somewhat shamefully, pick the rose petals off of his bed spread and deposit them in a small wastepaper basket. He picked up the vase off of the ground, then went to lean inside of the door frame until Roberta stopped laughing. “It’s not that funny, Roberta...” he grumbled, “The wind knocked over some flowers... see?” he said, holding up the empty vase, “And I have no electricity out here.”

“Riiiiight.” She snorted, finally composing herself and standing back up. “I’ll take your word for it.” Looking back into the room, she turned to Archie, “Should I just move that out here for the night, then?”

“If it fits through the door,” Archie said, shrugging, “Also, if I had been doing what I think you thought I was doing, the laughter would’ve really hurt my self-esteem.” As he took a step forward, he noticed something underfoot: a small, black remote. As if to heighten the sheer stupidity of the situation, soft music began to play from a radio located in Archie’s room. “... Okay, last time I’ll humiliate myself tonight, I swear,” he said, joining in on the laughter a bit too late. After composing himself and turning the music off, he lifted the chair up off the ground and began to coax it through the doorway. “Are you sure you’re gonna be comfortable in this? It might be a little... small for you.”

“Better than the floor.” She shrugged. “Do you need any help with that?”

“Just help guide it a bit...” Archie said, his arm muscles tensing up a bit, “It’s almost through.” He wondered if he had been slacking on his strength training as of late, or if he was just tired, but did his best to pretend the chair wasn’t heavy for him.

Roberta grabbed a hold of the chair as well, taking care to grab relatively lightly with her cybernetic one, and gave it a firm tug. The chair didn’t budge, though it creaked somewhat, “I don’t think it’s going to fit through that door. How did you even get it in here in the first place?”

“I built it inside...” Archie grumbled, placing it back in the corner, “I can’t think straight right now,” he said, rubbing his temples. As he fell back into the chair, an audible crack could be heard as the seat gave way and the entire thing practically fell apart. “¡MIERDA!” he screamed in Spanish. “Cheap piece of shit...”

“Well then.” Roberta muttered to herself, “So… what’s the plan now?” She walked into the room, examining the pieces. They’d actually broken, not fallen apart, so she couldn’t just reassemble it somewhere. “You actually broke the thing, can’t be fixed.” She grumbled under her breath, this situation just kept getting worse and worse. And more embarrassing and awkward by the second.

“... I’ll just sleep on the floor or something,” Archie mumbled, making himself comfortable on the cushioned remains of the recliner, “First thing I’m doing tomorrow morning is buying a fucking air-mattress...”

Roberta nodded, “I don’t really want to kick you out of your bed… and I doubt it’d even fit me anyway, let me see the cushion- I’ll make something work.” She looked off to the wall, muttering darkly under her breath, “Maybe kill something and make a hammock out of the hide.”

Archie rolled his eyes. “Do you wanna just share the bed?” he asked, standing up. There was no proper way to ask this question, so he tried to be as nonchalant about it as possible.

She gave him a suspicious look, and walked over to the bed, drawing a line down it, gesturing to the larger half and cautiously sitting on the smaller one. “Nothing crosses the line, deal?”

“Deal,” Archie confirmed. He began to walk around the room, blowing out what few candles remained. “Goodnight, Roberta.” The less he said at this point, the better. Hopefully he wouldn’t have any nightmares or need to get up to take a piss.

[RedDusk]

He was at the wheel of the semi-truck again, despite the fact that it wasn’t his turn to drive. He didn’t mind though. Raiders had blasted a hole in the windshield when they were passing through Tas, and since it hadn’t been repaired, he would have an excuse to keep his glasses on for the whole time without seeming weird or suspicious. Besides, the occupant of the passenger seat was quiet. Well, it wasn’t like he could speak, or do anything anymore. Mostly because he was dead. It happened yesterday, after a trap went off and launched steel rods at them. He ducked just in time, but his co-driver wasn’t so fortunate. So now the man was just there rotting with a steel rod in his chest. They did try to get him out, but the door on that side was stuck after the explosion, and the steel rod actually went all the way through the seat.

In the end, he got the truck all to himself. No one wanted to drive sitting next to a corpse, apparently. Probably because of the stench. Ron wasn’t good company anyway, not even when he was alive. Guy always asked too many questions.

As he readjusted his scarf to cover the lower half of his face, silhouettes of broken and vines-covered buildings came into view amiss the endless sand. Fairbury. So they had arrived at last. The town itself was a peaceful place, not too many troubles to deal with. It was getting pass the mutated flora and fauna in the ruins that worried him. Joe, his current employer and the owner of this caravan, was, for the lack of better word, a cheap prick. He didn’t hire an armed escort, like the sensible folks did, but instead settled for a gang of thugs hired back in Tas. There were actually 14 of them in total, but after yesterday bandit raid, eight had gone to meet their maker, along with Ron the driver. The men Joe hired was half bad in a fight, but they were far too undisciplined. They reminded him of the slavers his father used to work with, the ones Alrik always told him to keep an eye on. Their loyalty was just as fickle as their whims, impossible to guarantee no matter how many bullets you throw, or shoot, their way.

But of course, Joe hired him to be a body guard, not a counsellor. If the man wanted his opinion, he would have asked for it.

The jeep ahead of him pulled to halt just before they reached the ruins. Noticing his cue, he stopped the truck as well, but remained behind the wheel. A short, stocky man in his late thirties stepped out, his emerald eyes narrowed underneath the messy bang of his red hair. He had a walkie-talkie sort-of device in his hand, but as he lifted it to his ear, he waved at the truck driver.

“Krieg!! Come ‘ere for a bit.”

Krieg instinctively touched the glasses resting on his nose bridge, before exiting the truck through the broken windshield. Yes, for some reason, Ron had welded the door on this side shut. No wonder no one liked that guy. As he came closer, Krieg could here bits of Joe’s conversation with whomever on the other side.

“Yeah…Yeah…We got the bullets…Just be there on time…Alright.”- The red head muttered, his shaggy brows knitted together. As he noticed Krieg standing in front of him, Joe quickly ended his conversation and tossed the device to the younger man. –“Fucking blood suckers. I swear, they are ruining me.”

As Joe began his rambling, he turned and started walking back to the reinforced Jeep. Krieg fell into steps beside his employer, looming over the much shorter man’s shoulder.

“I thought you weren’t going to hire an escort?”

“Of fucking course. Do I look like I have anything left to spare? You and those meatheads used half of my bullet stash yesterday fighting the raiders, and what happened? They burnt two bikes and killed Ron. Sure, one less mouth to feed, but you have no idea how hard it is to find a competent driver around these parts.”-Rage was rolling off of the redhead in waves, his voice strained as he tried to keep from shouting.

Like usual, Krieg didn’t give any indication that he was listening, since he wasn’t. He simply leant against the jeep, eyes downcast and face blank, not that Joe could tell, with the sunglasses hiding his eyes and all. Of course, Joe paid him no mind and kept on talking about something along the line of ‘debt’ and ‘selling organs’. It was then a blond joined them, his bright hair covered up with a green beret. The man didn’t look a day over thirty, but he had the hardened eyes of a killer, something in common with many other residents of this harsh land.

“Heya boss.”-The newcomer smiled, a lit cigarette hanging from his lips.-“Krieg.”

“What is it now, Dan?”-Joe narrowed his eyes. The man really, really hated it when people interrupted his rage speeches. –“Ran out of fuel for those bikes of yours?”

“Yeah, that…”-The smile widened into a grin, all teeth and ill humor.-“And just wondering when our escort will arrive. No way me and my boys will trudge through Fairbury ruins like this.”

Joe did realize the shift in the mercenary’s attitude, but maybe he was too mad, or too dumb, to care. He grabbed Dan’s collar in a sudden movement, pulling the much taller man’s face down to the same level as his.

“Now listen up you shithead, if you think you can back out after taking most of your payment and then some…”-As the redhead began, Dan reached for his gun.

But Krieg was faster.

He grabbed Dan’s hand before it touched the gun, and with his gauntleted left fist, delivered a crushing blow to the mercenary’s head. Dan crumpled into a heap on the ground, but it didn’t go unnoticed. Krieg heard the shouting from the distance, and he only had enough time to duck before bullets began whizzing through the air.

Dan’s men weren’t too happy with how things turn out, apparently.

Krieg ended up crouching next to the jeep, halberd in hand, while Joe cussed loudly and returned fire with Dan’s pistol. Of all the time he left his gun in the car, the mercenaries had to choose now to attack? Krieg wasn’t any good with a gun, sure, but he would still feel safer with one right now. Only an idiot brought knife to a gunfight. Or in his case, halberd and machete.

Still, he had one more weapon left. Not something he would’ve wanted to use, but it seemed he didn’t have a choice now. Two against five, with only one pistol on his side? The odds just weren’t in his favor.

Time to tip the scale.

Heat flared from his fingertips as he took a deep breath. Besides him, Dan had begun to wake up, groaning as he pushed himself up from the ground. Krieg didn’t give him the chance. He grabbed the mercenary by his collar and slammed the man against the jeep, rendering him unconscious again after a wet crunch.

“Krieg!!”-Joe almost roared as he reached for another clip of ammo.-“They are boxing us in.”

Krieg grabbed his halberd and took a quick glance over the hood of the vehicle where they were taking shelter. He barely had enough time to duck as bullets bounce off the metal surface. They were closer than he had originally thought.

Fools.

Somewhere to his left, combat boots hit the rough sand. He counted the steps. One, two, three, then silence. He charged.

The first man came into view was holding a pistol in his right hand, but he hesitated. Krieg swept his halberd upward, slicing into his gun hand. Blood spurted, and the mercenary dropped his weapon, but behind him, his comrade raised his. Krieg lunged, his shoulder collided with the wounded man’s chest just moments before the gun went off. Pain bloomed in his left shoulder, but wounded mercenary soaked up most of the bullets. With a hard shove, the wounded man went reeling right into his friend. Before the gunman could recover, Krieg slashed his unprotected side with a swift movement. Both men collapsed, their blood had barely soaked the sand when Krieg sprinted into cover behind the semi-truck parked nearby.

His shoulder ached, and when he touched it, his fingers came back warm and bloody. He flexed his arm experimentally and it felt fine though, so the bullets must have just grazed him. Beginers’ luck, Johann would have said. He could use more of those. Wiping the blood on his trousers, Krieg readied himself for the next attack. One of the mercenaries had gone down on the other side, blood was pooling around him. Joe’s kill. The redhead was a better shoot than he let on. However, the remaining three still stayed in cover behind their bikes, far out his reach. He couldn’t just charge out there, their guns would turn him into Swiss cheese in a blink.

He needed a gun. Maybe he wasn’t the best shot out there, but wasn’t suppressive fire a thing?

A pistol was lying nearby, still partially in the grip of a dead man. He reached out with his halberd, with a flick, pulled it closer. It was an old glock 43, with five bullets left. Not what he would’ve wanted, but it would do.

But then the shooting suddenly stopped.

Krieg narrowed his eyes. He glanced at Joe. The man had this stunned look on his face, which slowly twisted into one of absolute, scorching rage. Somehow, he even looked angrier than normal, and that was saying something.

Sneaking a look at where the rest of their turn coat mercenaries were taking cover, he saw why. They had a girl at gunpoint, one guy was standing right behind her, his meaty arm around her neck. He recognized her, the red hair and emerald eyes. A carbon copy of Joe.

What is his daughter doing over there?
Last he saw her, she was in the back of the truck, doing whatever Joe told her to. He brought her along just to keep track of all the goods they had back there, after all. She was supposed to stay put during a firefight, since the truck was reinforced with an absurd number of steel plates.

Unless…

Krieg looked down at the bodies lying just a few feet away from him. Right, distraction.

He frowned, cursing his own incompetent. She wasn’t his priority, but still, he had ignored the possibilities that she might be used as leverage against Joe. Krieg released a breath he didn’t even know he was holding, his white knuckle grip on the halberd loosened. No matter now. Hesitation would only contribute to his death, and right now, he didn’t feel like dying. Gently placing his halberd down, he gingerly held the pistol with both hands, one finger on the trigger.

“I will fucking blow her brain ou-“

But Joe beat him to it. The man rose out of his cover and emptied the clip at the general direction of the mercenaries, ending his statement prematurely. Krieg heard yelps of pain and the unmistakable sound of soft bodies hitting the sand.

“Joe?”-He stood up slowly when the older man didn’t crouch back into cover. Was it over? He got all of them just like that? The redhead didn’t answer. He didn’t even move. Something was wrong. Krieg rose from his cover and jogged toward the bikes, where the ground was littered with bodies. One of them was Joe’s daughter.

Oh.

He crouched next to the young woman, examining her body. She was alive. Well, somewhat. There was a bullet in her guts, and from the look of it, she would bleed to death in a few minutes. Instinctively, he pressed a hand against the wound in an effort to stop the bleeding. Blood seeped between his fingers, but that got him thinking. Why was she shot in the stomach, while he had clearly seen the mercenary put a gun to her temper?

“Did you sh-“-He cranked his neck to look at Joe, who was now standing right behind him.

“Yes.”- Came the curt answer.

Krieg said nothing more. He turned back to the wounded woman, his eyes searching for something to stem the bleeding.

“Leave us.”- Joe said again, his voice barely a whisper-“And give me the gun.”

Krieg tossed the gun at his feet, then stood up to leave. Even with his back turned to the scene, he still couldn’t help grimacing when the crack of gun cut through the air. It shouldn’t, but in the end, her death bothered him. He didn’t even know her name. He did not ask then, as he didn’t care to. After all, this was just going to be another job for him. A favor, to be exact. He only had time to care about the well-being of his client, namely Joe, and no one else. It was the same thing he had done so many times before. Maybe because this time, her death wasn’t necessary. He knew he could’ve resolved that situation. They could’ve feigned submission, and once they got closer, he could turn on his Immortal power and roast anyone within range.

But it was Joe’s choice. Not his. It shouldn’t bother him. But it did anyway.

A few minutes later, Joe joined him inside their second jeep, since the first one was riddled with bullet holes and no longer had any functioning tires. He gave Krieg the key, caked thick in blood and gore, and told him to drive. He did just that, but two minutes into the journey, he couldn’t help speaking up.

“But why?”-His tone came out more accusing than he would’ve liked. However, Joe didn’t seem to notice, or care, for that matter. He just had this tired, resigned look on his face as he searched through the glove compartment.

“We killed half of them already. They would shoot me the second I poke my head up.”-He paused, then added-“For what it’s worth, I didn’t mean to shoot her. But I had to. I can’t die. There are people depending on me back home.”

But you could’ve at least waited a few minutes…
Krieg didn’t voice his thought, but instead kept his eyes on the road. With that blank look in his eyes, Joe was far more scarier than when he was seething with rage –“Then why did you leave the truck? The goods inside can feed you for months.”

“It isn’t enough. Honestly, this trip was just a farce, to throw the hounds off my trail. I’m only looking to sell this.”-Joe took out a small velvet box, something far out of place inside a middle-class travelling merchant’s car.-“Just one, and everything will be taken care of.”

Inside was a shiny, beautiful, genuine Wolfwater watch.

This thing is going to get him killed.

“What now, then?”

“Had a client in Fairbury, but since that’s impossible now, the Hedons is our best bet.”

“They are more likely to shoot you and take it.”

“Then do your fucking job, Krieg.”
_____________________________________________________________________________________

How Joe managed to get his paws on a Wolfwater watch, Krieg wouldn’t know. Honestly, he didn’t want to. Probably killed some rich dude and stole it? He wouldn’t put it above Joe. Despite identifying as a merchant, the man had more in common with a wasteland raider.

But of course, Krieg never abandoned a job. He couldn't, even if sometimes he wanted to.

[Syben]

“They're coming again...-”

Alex craned her neck upwards, her vision mildly obscured by the strands of platinum white bangs that dangled and danced before her face. In front of her stood a shadowy form with a wide brimmed rice hat. He was a familiar face, and she was not unhappy to see him, despite the curt frown on her face. She stood, rolling her stiff shoulders back as she pulled away from the paperwork before her–Supply manifests, patrol rosters, and all the other boring settlement stuff she hated doing. In fact, she nearly smiled at the thought of combat, the adrenaline, the intensity of it. She frowned because this was the third attack this week, because it was a risk to the people–Her people. She pursed her lips, her mind formulating the basis of a question considering the attackers number, but Godden knew her too well.

“-A single unit, fifty to seventy of them.” Godden reported, looking at her passively with his muddy, watercolor eyes; a mixture of browns, grays, and blacks, all swirling together like a pool of water.

“That's a handful more than last time, where are they getting all these body's?” Alex questioned, though she didn't really expect an answer.

“They appear to be slave soldiers, probably from the pits or the mines. They're driven by a whip-master and a smaller force of what must be actual Forsaken; a few of them were wearing animal skulls rather than rags and scraps.”

“You never cease to amaze me Godden,” Alex complimented as she neatly straightened her stacks of paperwork and set them aside to be done later–maybe. He was her information officer, and held a standing of Jarl within the Seditian Society, so such was expected. Yet, the compliment was not wasted. He gave her the flicker of a smile, just a tiny fluttering glimmer of white teeth nestled between a thin mustache and a crisp beard that ran along his jawline.

“I want you, Tah'li, Camp B, and this time I'll be joining you,” Alex spoke as she looked up at him, due to her height she could easily see his face and the small tug of a frown at the corner of his lips. He opened his mouth to speak but she laid a gentle hand on his chest.

“It's time Godden, we've waited long enough and many have gathered.”

He quirked an eyebrow at her, a suggestive ”Hmm” escaping his throat and still sounding like a direct question. “Bored?” He teased quietly.

“They've move to the footholds of our plateau and they keep intercepting our trade wagons,” She explained, though he continued to give her the same curious look. “...And I'm out of soap.” That brought a soft, genuine laugh out of him, something Alex hardly got to see anymore. She looked up at him, her hand lingering just a little too long and the sadness just a little to evident in her eyes, her face just a little to expressionless. She jerked her hand away and walked outside, Godden silently followed her.

In other life, or another time, she would have loved that man to the fullest, and he would have loved her back. Despite Godden being the grizzled, hardened wasteland veteran only a few years shy of his forties, it was Alex who was too haunted, too broken to put herself in that position again. She could see it in his eyes, nearly everyday, the love that sparkled behind them. There only thing between them were a few nights of passion, albeit usually influenced by alcohol. He never pressed the subject, nor did he read to deeply into her actions or skew his interpretations of her mood and words. He understood her, if not fully, then enough, and somehow that made it worse. Still, the tall, toned man next to her was one of her most loyal subjects. His dedication to her and her cause only rivaled by his deadliness in combat. She snuck a glance at him, easily reading the definition of muscle beneath his well-fit tan shirt. He wore a long black coat which, when button, hid his two kami katana well, which were belted to his opal colored jeans at the waist.

Godden tipped his hat lower as they stepped outside into the glaring sun and Alex joined him in shielding her eyes by pulling her tinted goggles down. She flicked the red hood up to her head just as her feet met the flat, worn dirt track that navigated foot traffic through the small settlement. Outside people milled about, some of whom made it a point to turn and nod at her respectfully. It was Godden who had taught her the basics of a social structure from an old tribe of people, older than Dust and the world that came before it. She wanted to be strong, and Godden taught her how. Now she ran a society where only the strong reigned, but respectfully. She wasn't so savage as the Forsaken, despite the similarities between the two structured governments. She had her honor challenged several times to the position of Konung, King, of the Seditio. She hadn't killed any of her challengers, and neither had she badly wounded them. The duels could technically be fought to the death, but she had instilled a sense of honor and respect into them as they wandered in slowly throughout the year.

To either side of her she could see the watchtowers looming up over a field of bright green tents fluttering in the arid desert breeze. She had never expected so many Immortals to show up, but the standards were doing a good job of driving them to her. Even the territory wars were doing a good job helping to build her ranks, despite the new opportunities for mercenary work. She had nearly a hundred Immortals pledged to her, spread between four camps around the town. Camp B was on the north-eastern edge of town, the direction Godden headed towards. Alex continued to stride down the track through town, the dirt had been churned and mixed with wet clay before being flattened back out. It was almost like a little road in its own right, though not as smooth or nicely textured.

Alex whistled sharply, catching the attention of a woman walking out of the town's bank, also known as The Vault. The place had been set up not to long ago, ran by a pointy eared rat of a man who seemed to know what he was talking about, half from knowledge and the because he wore half-moon spectacles over his crooked, pointy nose. The woman who walked out however, was like flipping a coin when compared to Alex. She was nearly the same height, but Tah'li was tan and had a well toned everything. From her hands to her toes and her bust to her butt, she looked like something Alex had seen in a very old magazine once, just with more clothes on; and that was saying something. A strip of cloth wrapped around her chest, though Tah'li had said it was a tube top or something or other. Alex was pretty sure her underwear were made from more fabric. The legs of her jeans had been cut in half to form shorts, and then cut in half again. If Alex looked hard enough she swore she could make out the beginning curve of Tah'li's ass. The woman was hardly modest, and flaunted her body around usually to manipulate men–and some women too. Godden had snickered when he met her, said she was a walking stereotype, referencing something Alex hadn't understood and didn't care to remember.

Tah'li sauntered over to Alex, popping one hip to the side and resting the matching hand on it. She almost looked like she was striking a pose for a picture, if not for the two glimmering silver pistols poking from the askew gun belt at her waist and a full bandoleer she wore more for style than functionality. The other hand brushed back a flowing waterfall of chestnut brown hair aware from her eyes in a swooping, and slightly dramatic flip. “What's crackin' hun?”

Alex's eye twitched, ever so slightly as she turned to the slightly taller woman, “We're talking 'B' out.”

“Oh my, some more baddies struttin up here huh?”

Alex nodded in reply, and towards the direction of the old road that led into town. “Ah'ite, Ya'll sure know how to treat a lady.” Tah'li said thickly. Alex had never been able to place her accent, though she knew little of the previous world. Godden had merely chuckled when Alex asked him about it.

The two of them had barely gone a few paces down the road when a small mob of people came streaming around the north-eastern end of town. That turned the heads of everyone on the street, and it took only a moment for everybody to catch on. Godden led the herd of people into formation behind the three of them, roughly twenty Immortals fell into stride, each of them grinning widely. Those milling about on the street let out hoots and hollers, before a soft rumble of a chant rose up, quickly turning into a dull roar and accompanied by a percussion of stomping boots and weapons banging loudly against wood. A wild cacophony of wolf-esque calls and howls rose up into the air. Nearly every man and woman in the settlement yearned, thirsted for battle. To die in battle was to obtain the highest glory, and to be excepted into the folds of the warrior kingdom of Valhalla after death. Where they would live on as a fighting spirit forever encompassed within the thrill of battle.

The shrill cries echoed across the flat plateau, spreading for over a mile in every direction, sending chills up the spine of their enemies. Enemies that were not fully aware of them enemy they were to face. Each attack had failed, and there had never been any survivors to report back on the enemy. Even now as they marched the burned, broken, maimed, and partially dissolved bodies of their brethren lied strewn about the field around them. At least fifty men in all, from the previous two attacks. What bothered the whip-master the most, were the larger boulders that were cracked and split, and blasted with a permanent coat of ash. Some of the ash patterns looked like a person screaming, but perhaps that was just his nerves. The whip-master grit his teeth and cracked his tool in the air, driving his soldiers on.

Alex stood on top of a sizable boulder, her warriors crouched behind her. She had been studying, and one of the things she learned was that a dramatic moment could off-put an enemy, giving you a slight advantage that would steadily increase as the shock and awe hit. The forsaken stopped perhaps a hundred yards from her. There was always the chance of a stray arrow hitting her, but another teaching had told her that when facing the unexpected a smart tactician would asses the situation, which is what seemed to be happening now. The forsaken army shifted around in anticipation, waiting for the call to attack, but also the nervousness of the unknown.

Suddenly Alex let out a shrill battle cry, throwing her head back and letting out her wolf call, “Ou-Ou-OOOU!” She screeched, as her small battalion of soldiers spilled out from the rocks and shadows behind her, mimicking her call not will a shrill cry, but with a stampeding roar of battlelust.

Godden charged ahead with the pack, his arm making a grandeur over head sweep as he lifted Alex's boulder into the air with a violent jerk. Alex crouched, keeping her purchase on the rough surface of the rock as it lurched forward into the air, her twin daggers connected into a bladed staff and held out to one side for balance. A moment later the boulder smashed into the front lines of the Forsaken soldiers, their snapping of their bones barely audible over the road of her warriors–A roar so loud and terrible that she could visibly see the Forsaken slave soldiers shaking, driven only by the fear of the way the Forsaken punished cowardice. Each of those elements worked into Alex's favor, a shattered morale and a fear to turn back meant no survivors, no reports of who or what she was, nothing connecting Isolone to the white-eyed demon.
Alex launched herself from the boulder, over the broken bodies of the Forsaken beneath the rock in a graceful spin which landed he behind a pair of soldiers gaping open-mouthed at her as she soared overhead. They were too slow to turn around and Alex's staffed whipped around her, slicing through the air in a blur as she cut deep into the back of their knees, dropping them to the ground with high pitched screams of pain. She used the force of the swing to spin around, her eyes quickly assigning a target. The Forsaken woman feel back as Alex whipped the tail end of her staff across the slave soldier's throat, leaving it in a ruined mess and causing a spray of blood to fan out into the air, blinding an adjacent soldier dressed in rags. The staff reversed direction again, a flash of metal burying itself into the man's chest. A loud cry issued from directly behind her and she turned just in time to see a fist sized rock smash into the Forsaken warrior's skull, a chunky pulp of blood and bone bursting from their skull.

Godden rushed up next to her, a blur of black cloth and tempered steel as his katanas flashed in and out of bodies in a fluid dance of death. The earth split and churned beneath Godden's enemies, and she could see his hands working, Godden had the ability to move earth, but she could already see a fatigue of sweat dotting his brow as he excessively used his power. He was more practice in the blade, but less in his power than Alex. Father down the line of battle a woman of Indian heritage and tanned skin was dodging and weaving through the battle firing chrome plated pistols with more than average skill. Tah'li moved like the unnatural thing she was, one moment she was there and the next she was a loose gust made of smoke snaking between bodies, positioning, and firing. She didn't have exceptional powers, but she could turn herself into a thick black smoke and move rapidly. She wasn't immune to damage in that state, but she was difficult and confusing to attack, with the addition of not exactly being slow either.

A man charged at her with a savage cry of desperation, two crudely made axes raised in the air. The benefit of fighting slave soldiers was that they were poorly trained and didn't have a warrior's spirit. They were broken, and merely fodder for the more able bodied Forsaken warriors to cleave through their enemies. Alex struck out low with her staff and slice up in a control arc, opening the slave's flesh from groin to neck. He stumbled forward before collapsing to the ground with a wail of pain and terror. Alex moved through the fray with vicious intent, there was no honor among the Forsaken, and she did not treat them as such. She struck down every enemy in her path without pause, and even those engaged with somebody else fell to her, stabbed in the back or severed at the knee tendons.

A layer of sweat clung to her body as she drew deep ragged breaths. Her eyes were pure maliciousness beneath her goggles as she spotted the whip-master. He stunned those charging at him with expert use of his whip, the steel tip of his weapon slicing deep gouges in her warriors. She saw one fall and was there before the whip-master could plunge his sword down into the chest of her ally. Her weapon sliced through his whip easily, and she whirled it around her hand in a blow aiming for his neck. He parried and stumbled back with surprise. He quickly regained his wit as Alex came at him again, they dodged and parried but neither of them were able to land a blow. Alex leaped backwards, hefting her staff up over her shoulder and flinging it like a spear. The Forsaken's mouth split in a grin as he saw the fatal, desperate attempt at his life, which he batted away effortlessly. That smile was still on his face as the acrid smoke rose up to meet his nostrils, his body knocked off its feet and rapidly falling towards the earth. The electricity still buzzed beneath Alex's skin as she fired off a second round, the powerful arc smashing into the side of the man and sending him rolling across the ground in a smoking heap.

The echoing crack of her power was loud enough to stun the slave soldier's closest to her, as they gazed at her in confusion and fear they were met only with her wide, toothy grin. Lightning burst from her hands, smashing into the Forsaken and knocking them backwards. None of them were able, or willing, to get close to her as her hands flashed with blast after blast. A woman scream and charged at Alex, a rusty, pitted sword raised high in the air. Alex hit her directly in the mouth with an arc powerful enough to blow out the back of the woman's skull. And just like that, the battle was over.

Alex looked around her, triumphant. Battle always ended so suddenly, so anti-climatically. Godden strode across the field towards her, with Tah'li in tow. The rest of the warriors gathered towards her as well, forming a circle around her. Godden had scooped up her weapon somewhere in between, and handed it to her without pause. She took it, holding still as she looked at the faces around her. Haughty, dignified, mirthful faces. She raised her spear in the air in a triumphant and let out a triumphant scream–Her soldiers howled in unison.

This was only the beginning. They would not stop here.

[Jinxer]

"Never thought I'd be back here."

From where he stood, all Julius could see were the semi-collapsed ruins of Dresden's slums. There were a few sheets of cloth and mismatched pieces of studier material roughly attached to one another in some areas, making some of the ruined buildings habitable but only just. He was still far away enough that no one would be paying him much attention and he was a loan traveller; their lookouts would be more concerned with larger groups of people. Raiders often came here, taking what little these people had and then disappearing along with several of the populace destined to be slaves.

Julius knew that beyond the ruins stood the ordered, well maintained buildings of the upper-classes; the scientists and the other more respectable profession holders lived there under the protection of hired guards. He had always suspected that the guards were just as much to keep the poor out of that part of the town as well as to discourage raiders and slavers from coming too close. They weren't so concerned about what happened in the poorer districts, however, hence why the slums here were such a popular target for criminals. Once, he had belonged in those neatly rowed houses and had no idea about what went on in the workers' district and the slums beyond it. Even now, if he mentioned his father's name he was sure a position could be found for him and he could live in relative comfort.

But he was an Immortal. Now they would keep him out of scientific interest and that would be destined not to end well for him. That was why he had left. That, and for years the thought of returning here had resurfaced memories long buried of his father standing at the lip of a cave with his flesh flayed from his bones by a sand storm. Subconsciously the young man touched a hand to his leg, the one he still limped on even though it was fully healed; he knew that the limp was now caused by his psychosis but that knowledge had not helped cure him, it merely made it more frustrating.

Shaking his head to clear it of long-gone times, he pressed on towards the slums. They were not safe but at least the people here would not bother to report an Immortal to well-armed guards. The guards were more likely just to shoot them before they could get a word out so now the most dangerous part of his former home was the safest for him, the discrimination against the residents in the slums now his greatest protection.

"What's yer business here?" Someone called out as he neared the boundary that separated the town from the wasteland. Julius had to pull back the hood of his coat a little so that he could search for whoever had addressed him. The man in question was quite a stereotype: tall, muscled and heavily scarred with what looked like a club with a nail through it balanced casually across one shoulder. It seemed the people in the slums were too poor to afford even the most basic of weaponry.

"Just a traveller." Julius answered with a calm smile, not being afraid helped in these situations. His strength as Immortal meant he could slice this man into pieces so he had no fear of him, whether he had the intention to or not, and over time he had found the absence of fear and a degree of confidence gave him access to the less welcoming settlements of the world. "Actually, I'm a teacher but I'm not one for staying in one place for long, I get the itch to travel. I can offer my services in return for shelter and sustenance." He considered revealing the handgun holstered at his side, like a free pass for entry to some places, but decided it was best to appear less dangerous for now.

There was silence between them for a moment, the man chewing the inside of his cheek thoughtfully before stepping to the side a little to allow him passage. Julius nodded his thanks, plodding his way forwards but with a tight grip on his staff, just in case.

"Yer a teacher, y'said?" The burly guard asked, looking at Julius' bedraggled clothing with scepticism thick in his voice. The white-haired young man nodded, watching the guard thought. He was chewing his lip and was staring up at the sky, clearly on the cusp of saying something. In Julius' experience, no one wanted to admit to being uneducated, even in places like this, and so he said nothing so that the man could get to his point in his own time. "There's a few kids who could use yer help. You'll hear their place before you see it."

Julius nodded with a smile as he continued on, calling back to the guard without turning around before he was out of earshot. "Adults are welcome too."

[Darcs]

"Good morning, Dust, Ash and the whole known world! How's it feel to make it to another day alive? I'm your host, 'Lolo' Amarillo! And you..."

"Well..."

"You're someone, aren't you? Perhaps a thief, or a lowly iron worker, maybe a renowned leader? A quiet bum? I couldn't know, because I don't know you. Not personally... but I do know, that for however long you decide to stay tuned, you're also a listener. Whether you've tuned in at No-Name or in King's Retreat-- when you listen to WTJR, our friendly desert radio community, where the light is blinding, most of the music is 3 centuries old, and we all trudge through the day, pretending that this is okay, that it will all pay off somehow... to avoid screaming, to avoid crying, to avoid going crazy, to avoid just ending it all... You can take solace in knowing that you aren't alone."

"I appreciate you dropping in on our little radio family, whether you're a first time listener, or a long time fan.... I hope you're all doing exceptionally well..."

"...and good morning!"

"So! That was Bruce Springsteen reminding us why we don't look directly into the scorching Dust sun with 'Blinded by the Light.' Music really is amazing, over 300 years later and that message is truer than ever. Parent; remind your children that looking into the sun is not a good way to be like our Prime Minister, Lucania. Golden eyes might look charming, but their eyes would be much better suited to gazing into the infinite abyss of a book than the burning, unfeeling sun!"

"Umm, hmm, what's next? Oh! Some news!"

*the sounds of papers shuffling can be heard, followed by a period of silence*

"Awww damn, really?"

*silence*

"Alright..."

*sigh*

"Fresh from the grapevine here, as in-- we just heard this. Many of you Wintergolders probably knew Long John as a kind of selfish Robin Hood-- stole from the rich, mostly gave back to himself-- his fans will be sad to learn that he's met his end on this mortal coil. Apparently the price on his head by his rivals caught up to him, and a bounty hunter offed him earlier today... some guy called the Bladed Devil..."

"Hope the gold was worth it, guy..."

*silence*

"Man, I need to go wake and bake. This next one goes out to Long John's friends and family-- y'all keep on fighting."

---

'Medicine...'

Heavy bass traveled lazily through the blown out speaker of a radio that would have been considered antique in the old world into the living space of a small apartment in a hastily built, sunburnt pueblo, somewhere within the fringes of Wintergold territory on Ash. This living space, about the size of an Old World economy car in area, and about double that in height, was filled with various artifacts and trinkets of the world before the Old World. Some functional, like the radio, but most seemed to strewn about, placed on tables and hung on walls or placed on shoddily crafted shelves, photographs of brown men and women, some were serious, dressed in suits and standing before a flag-- most appeared fierce and happy, in various states of undress, with tattoos and face paint-- erstwhile, clay figurines, carved stones and old journals populated all manner of scrap metal three-legged wobbly tables and chairs.

In the center of this living space, there was a rug that may well have been newspapers gathered into a rough circle. In the center of this rug, sat a boy, whose body was closer to that of a man, however despite his age of 15, he had the mind of a child. He resembled the brown warriors in the paintings, with wild hair held back in two large braids. He was dressed in a loose red tank-top, and rainbow striped shorts, despite his age, he rippled with wiry muscle. He played with an old toy firetruck and an ancient, priceless rock with a man carved into it's face, lined with amethyst and lapis lazuli. He played with his toys quietly, for the most part. Occasionally he would interject into a conversation between the other occupants of the apartment, or make a "pffftftphttthth" sound whilst playing. But for the most part, he was quiet.

The boy sat facing the outer wall of the apartment, toward a large square window with no glass mired in it's hardened mud square into the outside. A woman, sitting on a stool stolen from a local bar, leaned out, blowing smoke into the the desert air. Like the boy, she resembled one of those brown warriors from the Old Old World, she had the tattoos, but not the face paint. Each breath she took tied her to a tribes whose name was all but forgotten, and she had the scowling glare of someone who didn't care. The world, her life, her smoking-- had given some age to her round face-- bags and crows feet were beginning to plague her almond shaped eyes, her nose was bent, ever so slightly, and a permanent diagonal scar ran it's length, she nursed a recently scabbed over wound on her bottom lip, more likely from a club than a punch. In spite of discolorations and scars dotting her body, she possessed an enduring, almost exotic beauty that many would refuse to deny. Her beauty had served her very little.

She gazed out of the window tired, despite the day just having begun. The woman well built, possibly even moreso than the boy; a lifetime of bad decisions endowing her with a body of enviable hip and muscle. She wore a dusty, faded black and white poncho, that may have had more stitches than the original fabric itself, underneath was a long sleeved black shirt. On her legs were worn black skinny jeans, rolled up to her calves to allow her to hear shin hugging, golden cowboy boots. Very clearly stolen.

Then again, everything this woman wore was stolen.

Well, everything except the scarf she wore on her head and held her hair, a long black mess of curls, straight hair, and unfinished braids, back in a pony tail like a gypsy. That was a gift from the boy to her. Combined with loop earrings and her propensity for stealing only colorful jewelry, she looked like a mesh between a pirate and a cowboy. She had the ability to out drink both, combined.

To her left was a mess of fabric bunched in the corner of the apartment that would become her hammock when she needed to sleep, to her right was backpack, shoved into the corner opposite, containing all her personal items, ranging from hygiene products to sentimental items. To the boy's left, was a table made out of a re-purposed cabinet where the antique radio sat, to his right was a couch twice as old as him, that wasn't originally brown, where he slept when the need arose. Behind the both of them, boy and woman, was a small bed, where an older woman currently slept, a wood stove, and two coolers, on top of which lay a stale bucket of water and a neatly organized, but meager collection of plates, bowls, glasses, and silverware.

And of course, behind the boy and the woman, and to the immediate left of the old woman in the bed, was the door. The convenient exit out of the second story apartment, leading to a courtyard that all the pueblo apartments led to. Intended to be used as a meeting place for all the residents to gather and talk, the courtyard was never used. The courtyard was the portal one took to enter into the sands of Ash another day, or the pool one hoped into to escape it for the comfort of one's home. There was a lawnchair where the landlord usually sat fanning herself, appraising those who come and go-- but she wasn't there at this moment.

The old woman in the bed was there, though!

There, laying in her bed.

In her apartment.

She looked like a she-wolf with the gray mane of a lion, her physique was one of a fragile china doll, harsh wrinkles snaked her tiny, shrunken body. She usually looked like the type of old woman who would greet anyone with a smile and offer them a bowl of subpar salamander soup and cookies.

Usually.

Today, she looked as though she might break every trinket, bauble, and artifact in the room. As the song continued on, she sat up in the bed, practically growing the word 'malparido'--'bastard' in her language, to herself, she gripped her covers tightly. And as the song came to a close, and looped into another round of dreary, ethereal 'don't be, what you want to--'s. The only woman, clearly exasperated, could take no more and walked over to the coolers.

Blowing out another stream of woody smoke, the woman at the window rounded on her barstool and jeered, "What'ch gettin,' Abuela?"

The Grandmother paused just before the cooler, robes sliced the dust in the air as she turned. "Algo para beber..." Her voice was devoid of emotion, and a tad shrill, "¿Qué tenemos?"

The woman bobbed her head to the beat of 'medicine' and took another slow pull of her dying cigarette, treating it as a medication all onto its own, "Tequila y vodka." Another two types of medicine the women had been conditioned to need.

"Vodka?" The boy perked up, bright and happy, smiling between the two, "Don't you mean lick... lick... liqui... uh, don't you mean water Russians?"

The Grandmother narrowed her eyes, "¿Qué? ¿De dónde sacó eso?" she shot a glare to the woman, "¿Qué significa eso, Daniella?"

Almost immediately, Daniella whined under the accusation, "I don't knoooooow," with the 'ooo's her eyes rolled, from her grandmother back toward the radio, "It's just a thing the kids repeat to each other now, abuela.." She stood to stretch, "Es estúpido."

"No, auntie! I heard it from Milo downstairs, he's from Laguna and he said he heard it in a church!"

Daniella gestured toward her grandmother, as if to say 'well there you go.'

The old woman shook her head and sighed, raising an eyebrow as she saw Daniella rise, "¿A donde vas?"

Daniella grabbed her bag, and flicked the butt of the cigarette out the window with long, calloused fingers. It landed on the roof of an outhouse and she found herself praying to all types of gods that the dry wooden structure didn't catch fire. She couldn't deal with a month of this place smelling like burning shit and having to deal with her landlord bitch about it, and then of course she'd mention how their rent was late, again...

Knowing her luck, exactly that was going to happen. She needed to get out of here...

Giving a shrug as she walked to the door, she bent down to speak to her grandmother at eye level, "Long Johnny was a snake... But he kept his word to us, and Christ knows Jolyne loved him, for whatever reason." At the mention of the name 'Jolyne, both women bowed their heads and made crosses across their chests, "She was... the smart one. She'd have wanted us to all go pay our respects," an aloof smile appeared on her face, "Besides, I hear there's some horrible bladed devil out to get anyone with a mark on her head, I'll be safer with an old lady and a kid to look more family like... maybe we can pay the devil a visit? Y'know, really give him our thanks!"

"Bastard." Was all the Grandmother could say.

"Haha," The boy chuckled, "Bastard. I see what you did there, calling him bastard. That's funny."

The Grandmother turned slowly to the young boy, a look of disbelief and and an all too regular feeling of anger apparent on her wrinkled face. Behind her eyes was contempt enough to fill 1,000 novels, but she only spat out one word in response to what the boy had said; "¿Qué?"

"Well, you called him a bastard!" The boy flailed his arms about, with all the strength of a bull, and all the speed of a Wolfwater wolf, "Because he's a bastard!" He smiled a wide, ignorant grin, "Like, he's a bad man, but also because he was born without a dad, and he uses a sword named bastard! It's like, being a bastard is his thing or something! That's so funny! You're really funny grandma!!"

The Grandmother gripped the bridge of her nose, "Jesús, ¿podría por favor cállate la boca, Danny? Los adultos están hablando aquí." Without showing the slightest indication of being hurt, Danny went back to playing with his truck. Daniella smirked and laughed.

"Aww, abuela!!" Daniella stopped down to where Danny was playing and hugged him tightly, "He's just as important to me as the best ladrón this side of Mount Edor, don't make me choose between you two!" The Grandmother sucked in air between her teeth. Daniella smiled like a maniac, wiped a bead of sweat from her forehead, eyes without irises gleamed mischievous, "Besides, my gift works best on half-wits! He'll be my number 2 in case we need to punch something." Daniella slapped Danny on the back of his head, "Come on, stinky, we're going into town."

"Oh yay!" He jumped up, "Am I gonna get to be a brave action hero again!?"

"Maybe," Daniella held the door open for the other two, "We're going to go see the guy who killed your father."

---

*microphones can be heard squealing as papers are sent flying as someone out of breath reaches the recording booth*

*heavy breathing*

"Haha... haha..."

*a deep breath*

"You guys... I am sooo sorry we kept that track on loop for almost two hours!"

*stifled laughter*

"Like, Beth an I were were carving out an muttfruit right? You know, muttfruit bongs? A Dust classic-- so anyway, this new intern comes up to us and he's all 'Oh, you guys are so 2200's, you guys need to try this new bong, it extracts all the THC from the Gaen green's lifetime to really give you a high quality high. So then Beth..."

*more stifled laughter*

"So then Beth is like 'Gravity bongs are for 14 year old's, Trevor.'-- I totally high fived her for that. Classic Beth. Okay, but then Trevor goes on to tell us how gravity bongs are so 21st century. He says we're thinking about things too temporally right, and that we need to expand our consciousness beyond our dimension, and then he introduced us to this 5D bong and like..."

"Like..."

"I can't like... Like... this thing is straight outta Dresden and it's like..."

"Like hot-boxing your face, man. Like you go full on biblical and you've got a burning bush in your fucking lungs getting you high. Like you just think it's a gas mask or whatever and then you actually start burning the lime green and..."

"Man..."

*silence*

"So yeah, that's where I was! Getting some "medicine," I guess it was apropros I had that beat on loop, huh? Anyway, let's get toooo..."

"Oh shit! The morning news! It's almost noon, I totally blanked-- sorry about that folks. Okay, so we'll continue the rest of our morning news with some other bounties, some obituaries, some local happenings and events... but first, I'm obliged to bring you to--"

"The weather."

[Arcanaut]

Heat fractured the air causing the mixture of of sand and blood to congeal into static bubbles of red glass, terraforming the ground into a macabre beauty that starkly contrasted with the litter of broken bodies, livestock and crates. Malik slowly made his way across the dune, his hands fleetingly grabbing at anything heavy enough to pull him forward. Every bone, every muscle, every fiber of his being screamed at him to lay down and die. And yet he continued. He went on and on until he made it to the shade of what was formerly a covered wagon. Pulling himself up, he used his tattered scarf to wipe away the blood in his eyes several times before he realized that there was a large gash that ran across his dark forehead. Applying pressure to it he leaned backwards with a wince, the movement agitating the large piece of shrapnel that was embedded in his side. What had happened?Who were these men? Where did they get the technology that they possessed? It was farther than any he had heard of, let alone seen by quite a large margin. And even more concerning, was the fact that they had known WHERE they were. It seemed that the brotherhood had been compromi-

"Where have they gone?"

Malik lifted his then drooping head. If he had any energy left, he would have jumped at the sudden appearance of this stranger. A tower of a man stood above him, his face obscured by the blazing light that came down from the midday sun. Was this man with the others who had attacked his convoy? If that were the case wouldn't he know where they would rendezvous?
"W-why..." Malik tried to ask, but the words were soon drowned out by fits of coughing that seemed to drive the shrapnel further in. The figure cocked their head inquisitively before crouching down to meet Malik at eye level, mere inches from his face.At such a distance even Malik could not mistake that this wasn't just a man, but a demon. An immortal. The creature's wolf-like no, cat-like eyes seemed to go through his own brown ones and straight into his soul. A chill colder than the moonless nights crept through his chest as Malik realized, This is it. This demon is going to drag me to hell for my sins. For doubting the brotherhood! I will not go silently into the night, I will fight with every last breath!
With what little strength he had, Malik grabbed onto the nearest shard of metal with his left hand and with all his might attempted to stab the abomination right in the throat, but it was in vain. Without even breaking eye-contact it had grabbed his wrist mid swing. It didn't squeeze, it didn't attempt to wrench the metal away it simply continued to stare, while its other hand was busy unfastening...a canteen? The immortal proffered it to Malik and despite his mind protesting him to stay away from anything this beast would offer, he couldn't help but reach out for it, dropping his makeshift weapon as he guzzled down the water, hold its container like a babe with its bottle. Finally breaking free of it so that he could get some air, Malik handed back the nearly drained canteen to the immortal, his assuaged throat making him forget about his wounds. At least for the moment. "Why do you help me, demon?" The cat-eyed man gave a wry but not unkind smile and replied, his voice deep and languid. "Well, to be honest, I'm not too sure myself. I reckon' it stems from my belief that a man should be as comfortable as possible as he passes on."

For a long time the two were silent, the only sound being that of shifting sands and crackling flames. It was an uncomfortable truth, one that brought tears to Malik's eyes. Despite his vows to greet death not with enthusiasm or with fear, to move from one state of nature to the next. He knew from the teachings that there must be equality in all, a balance that had now been offset. And so he clamped down on his fears, he pushed down his uncertainty and against all instinct made his request. "Before I pass, I must ask- no beg one last request."

"Name it."

"The ones who did this. They took something important. Important to my people. I want you to retrieve it and bring it back to my abbey. It is of no worth to anyone else."

"I'd be quite the sunabitch to turn down a dyin' man but seein' as I'm one man and what I'll due could not so erroneously be considered suicide there will be a price."

Malik swallowed. He knew that such a creature couldn't truly be altruistic. No one in this land was. And that's why we must exist, thought Malik to drive back the darkness of this world, 'to bring light to the moonless nights' to allow for everyone to have a chance at frothy happiness, even at the cost of the self. "Name it."

The demon smile was a sinister one as he asked the dying man, "Answer me this. What is best in life?"

Malik's eyes widened as he realized who it was that had happened upon him. No wonder his last moments would be so bizaare. It seemed fitting in its own way, really. The master would not be surprised that this is who he'd meet at death's door. "That is easy, Waishishi. To share a drink with a friend."

The demon nodded sagely. "That's nice. I like that. We'll have to talk more about that when I get back. In the mean time, hold onto this bottle of whiskey for me. I need the room in my pack." Standing up, the demon pulled back the hood revealing hair that seemingly to have been spun from ash and air. With his feature obscured by the sun that formed a halo behind his head Malik's last thoughts as The Waishishi left were, Oh, how unlike an angel is he.

************

It was dusk by the time Roland had found them. With how late to the scene he had been most tracks were destroyed by the wind and local animals, but in time he had found those who had ambushed the convoy. Hidden in a cave system to the north it wasn't too hard to see how they had been able to cause such destruction. Whether they got it from an outpost or a former city, the war party had crates upon crates of Motum Diversium weaponry. While Roland had been nowhere near Russel City when The Fall had happened, even he had felt the repercussions of it. Ironically enough, it was in the form of his life being better- well akin to what it was before. With the chaos left in the faction's nigh destruction and the roads being that much more dangerous, people needed protection- and were often desperate enough to hire a desperado such as himself, as well as those who had been in the caves. That is until Roland had showed up.

There was hardly a scream as Roland made his way through their camp. In the twilight of dusk they had only started turning on generators to light the area, and with his particular type of eyes Roland was able to easily see them clearly while he worked his way through them. Some would call what he did a reaping, removing the chaff of life and while he would certainly protest it, Roland did find a certain thrill in striking in causing fear in his prey, in watching them cry out in rage and fear as he picked them off one by one. If he had more time he would perhaps even step out of the shadows and let them try shooting at him for all it would do them, but he had restrained himself, (or perhaps it was Uriel's doing) and spent the majority of the time he was there absentmindedly picking up rounds until he found tossed in a corner his true quarry; a simple puzzle box. Burning time by fiddling with the confounded thing, Roland was able to unlock it with equal parts luck and skill to make quite the discovery. The monk it had seemed, lied to Roland. Not only could this be important to everyone, the contents of the box could save all that walked this land for generations to come. Resealing the box, Roland couldn't help but smile.

************

It was hard to say when Roland had finally made it back to the monks remains. His head lolled forward and the half-drunk bottle of whiskey stuck in his grasp Roland was able to discern that he had died while Roland as still searching for the bandits. For a long moment Roland stood there, arms folded as he listened to the flies buzz about the body before finally deciding to wave them away and pick up the remains, being careful not to spill any of the whiskey that the corpse still held onto. Putting him down about fifty yards away Roland took a nearby piece of shrapnel and -tying it to an extended Longinus- made an impromptu shovel where he started to dig a grave the only sound his voice as he sang a tune he couldn't quite recall where he had picked up.

I set my sail
fly the wind it will take me
back to my home, sweet home

Lie on my back
clouds are making way for me
I'm coming home, sweet home

I see your star you left it burning for me
Mother, I'm here

The job had been surprisingly laborious in the sandy surroundings, large in part to it collapse while he still dug. Still, the demon pressed on, never using his powers despite how much easier to would make the process; perhaps because of it. And so by the time he was done it was late enough where the beginning of a hollow swarm was awakening near the horizon yet he did not let it deter him as he drove a marker down at the head of the grave where with his Bowie knife carved, Here lies a holy man who knew what was best in life was to share a drink with a friend.

With his job completed Roland brushed off his hands, and began to walk again.

************

Roland was still walking when the sun finally rose, its light warming the expanse of sand that he continued to cross, and several leagues away, a hollow swarm continued to follow. He was tired. He was sore. He was almost regretting his generosity. He was experiencing another average day. While he didn't like the thought of it, he knew he had enough rounds to get himself a room in the town that he should be near, but eversince he lost sight of the stars he was having trouble navigating the endless wastes in his sleep-addled mind even without the sand being kicked up by the wind. Wiping the sweat from his brow, Roland stopped to drink from his canteen when out from the sand that obscured his sight came roaring a monolithic black car. Operating on pure reflex, Roland jumped straight into the air and landed on the roof, rolling as it passed underneath him before he dug his fingers into the metal as he was jerked along with the car that showed no signs of slowing down. Well shit, thought Roland, sons o' bitches made me spill my water.

************

Moments earlier, a politician and her most trusted secretary discuss matters of the utmost importance.

A professional looking, black-haired Japanese woman, one of the few people living to be both in her 30's and shorter than Lucania blushed. "I-I'm not a bad kisser..." She looked away from Lucania, who was cradling one of the woman's hands between her own.

"I don't recall using the exact word 'bad' to describe it, Nui..." With a gentle smile, Lucania brushed away the bangs blocking Nui's eyes from the light, revealing a white eye-patch, "I believe, that while you might not be the most technically skilled... you have this.... energy, and inexperience that make you incredibly endearing..." Lucania's hand lingered near Nui's cheek, with several fingers lightly touching the skin near her lips.

Nui's eye chanced a nervous gaze into Lucanias, she gave a gentle sigh, before breaking out into a full smile and lightly hitting Lucania on the chest. "You're such a fucking politician! Gosh!"

Feigning an injury to the heart, Lucania dramatically collapsed on the leather seat of the limo, her head falling gently on Nui's lap. "You wound me, Miss Miller... I have a disease! Each day I descend further and further into the never ending purgatory of Dust's 'political landscape.'" She hissed 'political landscape' and if the words themselves hurt her.

"Ohhh," Nui gave a faux concerned expression, "I know honey, you just want to rule it all. We'll get you there one day."

"I'm not so crass as to desire rule! I think history's already shown us what becomes of crazed despots. I just want to ensure we've got competent people in positions of power!"

"Mhmm."

"And of course those people should listen to my counsel."

"Of course, honey."

"People can handle themselves when they're from a healthy culture," Lucania ranted, with Nui mimicking her words silently, "crime is but a tool for advancement in any given society. Those in power shouldn't deal with doling out moral compasses, that is the culture's responsibility. Those who govern should only be handling gold and maintaining that culture in whatever way possible. That is their responsibility." Lucania's eyes wondered as she thought, "With properly handled gold..."

"...and tradition, it'd be like the Family in it's prime--" Nui finished Lucania's thought, "Something like that right?" She leaned down to kiss her goldeneyed paramour as she crossed her arms, "I love it when you talk about the future, Lucia, but honestly, I'd also like to spend a little time focusing on the things we need to get done today." She pulled out a pen and a pad, "Like, for instance, did Vladimira have anything useful to report?"

Lucania sighed as she sat up, "All work and no thought makes Nui a dull girl."

Nui grinned, "I thought the idiom was talking about 'play'?"

Lucania met Nui's grin with her own, "Actually, it's a proverb."

Before more pretentious banter or smug laughter could be held between the two, a rough thud shook the entire limo. Adrenal began pulsing through their bodies as the women looked toward it's source, and seeing the horrifying sight of two hands gripping the black reinforced metal of the roof. Lucania's mind immediately shot back to her first near-fatal assassination attempt. The laughter of the man-- how she had stepped toward him, scared even though she'd fought him easily the night before. That momentary fear of death. The voice that was not her own telling her to do something as she fell to the ground.

The voice was not here now. Vladimira wasn't here now. Her Windcaller... her Fire Dancer... her Sworn Guardian were up front. Too far away. The only thing here was Nui, who she needed to protect.

Fear.

Panic.

Pain pulsed from the left side of her face, swirling like hurricane of metallic fire around her eye, a migraine froze the left hemisphere of her brain, and her left arm felt the bullet wound anew. Without thinking, in spite of the pain, she clasped open her purse and within second she was firing her snubby toward... whatever... had come for her on the roof.

Nui's eyes widened as she realized what Lucania was doing, but all she could get out was a "No, Luc--" before the five explosions deafened her ears in the echo-chamber that was the sound-proof limo. Of course, Lucania would be unphased by it, but knowing what would follow the shots, Nui tackled her employer and lover into the seat and shielded her with her body.

The five bullets ricocheted around the metal cabin, against the bullet-proof windows.

Nui pressed her body against Lucania's, holding her down with strength one may not have gleamed from her appearance as Lucania seemed to shake with a post-traumatic experience.

After what seemed like an eternity's father, but was probably only about 30 seconds, the 'pangs' of bouncing bullets stopped, and the limo screeched to a halt. The migraine remained, but the pain and panic seemed to be dissipating, she realized then that the fear she felt would always be with her. The pair opened their eyes, to quickly discover that each shot had apparently horribly missed the mark of the gripping hands on the roof. Even stranger, each of the five bullets had finally come to rest in the leather of the seats, each just inches away from their limbs and heads.

Nui laughed in disbelief, "You know, if your friend Vladimira was here I think she'd say we just rolled a 20!"

Lucania couldn't even bring herself to fake a smile, and instead simply looked up at Nui, silent tears streaming down her face. She couldn't stop herself from shaking, Nui's smile softened as she leaned down to embrace the only woman who cried tears of honey from an eye of gold.

The pair were exchanging a soft kiss on the seat, as a knock came on the window, summoning their full attention, there stood a man leaning one arm against the window frame, his other hand on his hip as he waited for them to roll down the window.
tap tap tap came the noise again as the man gestured with his free hand to roll down the window.

"Uhh," Lucania wiped any stray tears away as she glanced at Nui and was met with a confused shrug, "Just a second." She said, sliding over to the door, realizing as she began to roll down the bullet damaged window that the limo was soundproof. Lucania rolled down the window just low enough to expose her would-be assasin's eyes.

He was very casual for someone that had supposedly been sent to kill her. She observed the rugged man warily,scanning for any indication of who he may be working for. Meeting his eyes with her own, she spoke, "Hello?"

"Afternoon, ma'am." Replied the stranger in a surprisingly curteous manner. "I'd hate to stop you as you evacuate the premises, but in the process of hitting my with your car you happened to spill my drink." He said slowly, "In the process of being afixed to the roof of this vehicle and further inspection upon this meeting I have surmised that there were bullets fired upon me." Looking towards the far off hollow swarm the man brushed his nose absent mindedly before turning back to her. "Now what you do in your own property on your own time is your perogative but when I have bullets fired upon me, I tend to take offense." Scratching his chin the man continued, "Now I don't want my words being misconstrued. I'm just informing you of this as in the process of being hit I may have done some damage to this mighty fine limosine you have and hope that we both walk away, even steven like. Sound good?"

Lucania looked inside the limo; Nui was still shrugging, and the separator had been rolled down and now Carmela, Octavia, and Cullen could see the exchange, and all three shrugged with equal intensity. Lucania turned back to the man, manufacturing a polite smile to greet the stranger with, "You have my sincerest apologies, sir on the behalf of myself," She shot a glare to her incompetent drivers three seated in the front of the limo, "and of my drivers, I may need to find more competent ones soon..."

The purple woman lurched forward to defend herself, "I HAVEN'T DRIVEN A DAY IN MY LIFE! I THINK IT'S AMAZING THIS CAR IS STILL INTACT!" Octavia yelled, flapping her arms for exaggeration.

"Yes, indeed, thank you for that, Octavia..." Lucania turned her attention back to the man, "As I said, I'm fully responsible for their actions," She raised her voice "And whomever they choose to drive, for what are supposed to be professional, low-key trips."

Cullen, The Old Windcaller shrugged, "Thought goin' in turns might be a good idea, boss..."

"And clearly it wasn't." By Nui's expression Lucania realized she may be beginning to damage their ears, she turned again to the stranger, straining to maintain a kind demeanor. "As you can see, I'm a... Well, I'm rather on edge. Someone lands on the roof of my limo, with the strength to tear it open... I suppose I leaped to the conclusion you might be trying to kill me!"

Rolling down the window completely, she continued, "That was my lapse in judgement, and again, I apologize. I would like for us both to depart this dreadful encounter on terms that are... as you put it, 'even steven like.'" Poking her head out of the car, she observed the hollow swarm's rapid approach, "Were you headed anywhere in particular?"

"Just away from that." The man replied not taking his eyes off of her, indicating the obvious cataclysm with a point of his thumb."But whether or not I get inside this car of yours depends on one thing." The man said, his voice suddenly solemn.

Lucania leaned forward, intrigued, "And what, sir, might that one thing be?"

"Tell me. What is best in life?"

[Darcs]

"Okay so that wasn't actually the weather."

"Like, I heard about that on some old recording, and apparently some towns in the Old World used to do that? Like, apparently they used to just play music instead of saying what the actual weather was? I know, it sounds crazy. But I've been listening to loads of these old recordings of community radio reports for a while now, and when the guy first said, in his deep, smooth, chocolaty voice,"

*the sound of someone clearing their throat can be heard*

" 'And now; The Weather.' "

*the word 'weather' is immediately followed by a coughing fit, as Amarillo's kind of shrill, non-gendered voice returns*

"First I was all 'whaaaaaa,' y'know? But after a while it started to grow on me... I guess.... I guess I just figured I'd try it out, y'know? I'd see how it felt to tell all the people I was about to report on the weather and then not do that and just play some choice tunes instead, for whatever reason."

*there is a short pause*

"Listeners, I think if there's anything to be learned today, it's that you should always try new things! Even if they turn out to be god awful. Like, you'll find in life most things are god awful, whether you try them or not. In faaaact some things-- most things actually, life included, just happen to us, without us even getting to consciously try them! God awful things happening to people is especially prevalent on Dust-- but listen! Instead of just letting those god awful things happen to you, you can also actively influence the god awful things that happen to you. By taking charge of your existence, by making calls like I did to emulate the over three-hundred year old radio host of a small community radio station in some irrelevant desert town-- I tried something new. You've got to jump into the unknown, damn it!"

"Because, yes, sure, statistically speaking that new thing you try will almost certainly be god awful... But..."

*another short pause*

"Did you catch that? I said almost certainly. Believe me when I say, there will be times where you try something new, and it turns out to be okay!"

"--Or or or!"

"If you're particularly lucky maybe it'll even be better than okay!"

"So jump into the unknown, Dust. Boldly try new things, because it isn't the fact that life is so god awful that keeps us going... that makes all this so damn worthwhile... it's the fact that every now and again, something, somewhere, for someone-- all works out and... and... and that is what makes this life we've got so damn precious."

"You've got to be willing to embrace the unknown to find it, but it's fucking there... you know it is. That little god damn glimmer of hope..."

*another pause, a tiny bit longer than the last two*

"So clearly, for me-- copying that weather thing was god awful-- but that's okay. Now we've all learned a valuable lesson."

*muffled yelling in the background comes from a more feminine voice*

_{"Wait shit-- it's that late already?"}

*more yelling*

_{"Alright, alright! Calm down, okay? I got it."}

*heavy steps leave the room*

_{"Someone needs a good dicking..."}

*A slight sequel comes from the microphone, it sounds as though it's being adjusted*

"Aaaand we're back, listeners! Sorry for that brief and uncalled for interruption. You're tuned into WTJR 191-- Tumbleweed's Journal Radio! We can guarantee we're any tumbleweed's favorite radio station. We're also the only radio station. If you'd like to come murder us all and change that, we're based out of the Okaga radio tower, in year old Russlegrad! I'm your host for this hour, and last hour, and all hours before or after this moment until one of you psychos actually does come and kill us all."

"Anyway, tumbleweeds, talk-slash-music-slash-news radio is a very tricky business, especially when you really don't have any standards to go by. I mean, except recordings from some guy who thinks that clouds and sandstorms sound like music, which..."

"Huh... You know I didn't actually..."

"Huh..."

"I didn't think of it like that before."

"..."

"Jesus, tumbleweeds, that's a really beautiful way to view the world."

"It's also indicative of a person who's never actually experienced a sandstorm before. Sandstorms, like most things, are god awful. But I don't have to tell y'all that, do I?"

"Damn it-- I'm getting away from the point again. Okay, tumbleweeds, here's the skinny; management says I spent too much time on the talk and music parts of the broadcast, while almost completely neglecting this morning's news cycle. So, I tells them that 'I'll handle it,' and they're like 'How' and I'm just like 'I don't know, man, you're kind of putting me on the spot here, Jesus, I don't know, I guess I'll just give people the bullet points all rapid fire?' and she screams in response, 'Yeah, okay.' "

"Gosh, she's fucking unbearable, right?"

"Alright, let's do this! Rocket round time, here are your abbreviated morning's headlines; An interview with The Professor, apparently they're doing something totally not sinister in that location literally named Tombstone? That's cool I guess, umm, what else do you guys need to know?"

*papers shuffling*

"Oh shit! Is this real? A Talking Cat?!? They have a talking cat in No-Name! This can't be real, listeners, y'all need to go confirm this. Apparently cats in No-Name are starting to speak now-- or is it just the one? Duuude we really need to get someone up there,"

*chuckling*

"Haha, holy shit. That's just wild."

*papers shuffling*

"Oh, this is... I guess this is alright. For those of you out there who know what the word 'BASEBALL' means, this sports highlight might be right up your alley. Today, to commemorate the fall of Motum Diversum, and the beginning of the baseball season, the standing president as well as the last two presidents are going to appear to commemorate the game-- whoah! They got Mark the 9th to come out of retirement for this? I mean, Mark X and Mark XI I can believe, but I figured Mark IX had retired! Wow, every important political figure and business figure, in an already dwarfed faction, completely exposed in a stadium for remembrance of an event that will clearly depress all the important figures there and lower moral? As they're completely exposed, vulnerable and already weak after having been essentially driven from relevance by a basically one large criminal organization, with a power split?"

"Hey, Dust bowlers, I might not be a huge fan of baseball, but it sounds like this is going to be a really interesting game! So head on down to Parkland Stadium if you're in the area, prices are listed as 'If you have to ask, you can't afford it.' "

*there is a short mixture of static and silence*

"Hmm..."

"Hey tumbleweeds, don't tell my boss, but Roro's gonna sneak in a short music break while I organize some of these other reports. We'll be right back!"

[TheMadAsshatter]

The midday sun shone through the window, partially illuminating the hotel room in which a man was still sleeping. It was apparent that his sleep was being disrupted somewhat by some sort of nightmare, causing him to stir in the bed. Every now and then he would even quietly mumble a few words, though they would have barely been intelligible, even to his own highly sensitive and sharp ears.

Eventually, the violence that was playing in his mind came to a head, and he shot awake in a cold sweat and began breathing heavily. The suddenness with which he returned to consciousness forced him to stay there for a moment, adjusting himself to his increasingly familiar surroundings. His breathing slowed, and as he returned to an idle state he leaned himself forward. His head fell into his palms, his long black hair forming a curtain around his face that reached halfway to his elbow.

"This is getting fucking ridiculous," James murmured. The nightmares weren't constant, but it seemed like any time he did dream anymore was a trial of mental and emotional fortitude. James spent an extra couple of minutes building his composure before peeling his head away from his hands, revealing a fairly handsome face and two slitted viridian green eyes. He drew in a deep breath and let out a long, final sigh before pulling the sheets off of him and throwing his legs over the side of the bed.

The room wasn't particularly big, only just large enough for a bed, a small closet, a nightstand, and a bit of breathing room. James didn't mind the lack of volume, and he was trying to conserve on money anyways. Not that it mattered much at this point, seeing as he was leaving Russelgrad today. Up until today, he had made a habit of moving around a lot, though he rarely saw past the same five or six towns in Wintergold territory. It seemed that, for being headed by she who was essentially a crime lord, it was run surprisingly well. The idea of a standardized form of currency had some merit to it, though James thought it was problematic to use something as a representation of value as opposed to something that actually had value.

He stood up, yawning and stretching his arms over his head as he wandered over to the closet. He opened it, taking the canvas backpack out and, in turn, a pair of jeans and a shirt out of the backpack. He slid into the jeans first, though it occurred to him that it might not be a bad idea to get some clean clothes, or at least clean the ones he had. He tried to keep his hygienic standards relatively high, but sometimes the living accommodations didn't include laundry, or even showers. Not even cold ones. Even still, he managed to keep himself from looking or smelling bad.

As he pulled the shirt over his head, he began to wonder where he should search for some work. The relatively new lands of Ash, while desolate, seemed like an inviting prospect for growth. No doubt there was plenty of work to be done, and likely not enough people to do it. He had, of course, heard that things could get hectic, it being outside of any reasonable government influence. With the exception of some local law enforcement, it was essentially lawless. Not that James couldn't hold his own in such a case that someone wanted to fight him, legally or not.

He slipped on his combat boots next, pulling his pant legs over them after tying them up. As he reached for his jacket, he noted that some of his clothes could not only use a cleaning, but probably also some patching up. Still, he liked his jacket. It had seen more than a few gunfights at this point, and over time it had gained something of a personality in James' mind. It was an old, dark green military jacket. On one shoulder was a patch reading "Polizei", and on the other shoulder was a flag of Germany; black, red, and yellow. The history of the jacket had become an item of some interest to James. So much so that he had started trying to learn German from those who would teach it.

He cracked a small smile and threw the jacket over his shoulders, followed by his messenger bag, backpack, and AK-74, in that order. The rifle was empty, however, as per the rules of the hotel, and most places in Russelgrad. The last thing James strapped to himself was his holster, which he then promptly secured his CZ-75 into. He then took one last look around the room, making sure he hadn't missed anything, then walked over to the door, turned the knob, and pulled it open.

---

The streets of Russelgrad weren't particularly busy today. James figured that a lot of people were remembering the fall of Russel City. One year ago today, that had occurred. James couldn't help but feel somewhat guilty, having left less than three hours before it happened. Still, he knew it was outside of his control. James let out a sigh, continuing down the mostly empty road to a bar. He didn't plan on drinking, but one of the people who worked there was a fairly dependable contact for information.

James rounded a corner and pushed through the first door on the left. The Drunken Sailor; host to many of the denizens of Russelgrad. It was an odd name for a bar in the city that was probably farthest from any coastline in Dust, but that wasn't for James to worry about. The bar was mildly more crowded than usual, and a live band was entertaining the lot. James realized that it would seem odd to wear goggles indoors, so he removed them, expecting that his long hair would be enough to conceal his eyes. He figured that even if that didn't work, he would still seem like just some guy as long as no one looked hard enough. God knew there were plenty of people who blamed the immortals for what happened in Russel City, despite how much those who were there at the time had done to help. Ignorance and hatred seemed to know no bounds.

The bar's rules were a step higher in terms of weapons restrictions. James walked over to the various safes first, depositing his weapons into an empty one and taking it's respective key, thereby locking it until he returned it on his way out. He then turned and walked straight to the bar at the opposite end of the room, keeping his head low until he found a vacant stool to sit in. He was about to take a look around to make sure no one saw his eyes, but realized that would probably be counterintuitive. Instead, he simply tilted his head back up and waved towards his man.

"Hey, hey, if it isn't Jamie-boy. What'll it be for you today?" Ricky said whilst cleaning out a shot glass.

"Oh just the usual bit of information. You hear anything through the grapevine?"

Ricky shrugged his shoulders. "I dunno man. Memory's a bit fuzzy, but it's possible that-"

"Yeah, yeah, a few bullets will jog your memory, I know the drill," James replied, fishing out a box of ammo from his messenger bag. He dug through it, finding all of his best-condition ammo, with the exception of his 5.45mm rounds. "There you go. I'm thinking this might be the point at which I pursue a more permanent means of employment. Figured you could use something extra, as a sort of parting gift."

"You, looking to finally stop and settle down? What is the world coming to?" Ricky said jokingly. Besides that, he seemed satisfied at the offer. "Well then, don't let me stop you. Anything specific you had in mind?"

"Well, maybe," James said, somewhat uncertain of himself, as it seemed. "I'm actually more thinking of catching a ride to Ash. I figure there's got to be plenty of things there that need doing."

"Ash?" Ricky replied with some amount of surprise. "You serious? I've heard some shit about that place. Some say that it's even more lawless than Forsaken territory."

"Well, at least it hasn't been touched by the Forsaken yet, so I'm willing to take that risk. Lucania has some stake in that place, right? I've done work for her before, so maybe that'll grant me some added security, if I meet the right people," James replied with confidence.

Ricky scoffed slightly. "Well, don't say I didn't warn you. If you want a ride, you should probably head over to Laguna, or maybe Dead-End. I would say Harlem, but there's been some shit going on over there and it's not exactly safe. I'll see about sending word about you, maybe you can talk to the Prime Minister yourself."

James nodded at that. "I appreciate the help, man."

"Well don't thank me, you did pay me for it." He paused for a moment as he was counting the bullets. "Speaking of which, I'd say this might even be a bit much. You want a drink to cover the rest?"

"Nah, I'll be fine. Take care of yourself, Ricky."

James pushed away from the bar and began heading for the door, but was stopped by a rogue hand landing on his shoulder. "Where you think you're going?"

Somewhere in the back of his mind, James scolded himself for having not tried to be sure no one noticed him. "Well, I was planning on going on my way."

"Really now? Well, change of plans then." James turned and found himself face to face with a somewhat larger fellow with a pretty muscular build and a seemingly poor temper to match. "If I do remember right, it was your type who helped destroy Russel City back in the day. And now you're here, a year later, to rub it in. Am I right?" he said, threateningly.

James pondered what to say for a moment, the man's toxic breath doing nothing to help. "Well, see, I wasn't even there at the time, but while you..." He stopped and took stock of how many others had taken to trying to intimidate him. "While you're all staring me down like you are, and you all can probably see what I am, I want you to think really hard, harder than you're probably used to, on what exactly facing a guy like me entails, and then I implore you to ask yourselves, 'Do I really want to do this?' because I'm not sure that you do."

"You know what?" one of them said, pushing his way towards James. Time seemed to slow for him as the man made his approach, his motions becoming even more predictable. "I think you need the shit kicked out of you." The man pulled back, preparing to make a hard right hook, which James leaned back and dodged effortlessly, whilst simultaneously placing his foot such that he would trip. The man lost his balance and fell face first onto the wood floor.

"Anyone else want to try?" he asked, righting himself as he did so. The act only seemed to anger them even more. "Oh, fuck you!" one of them said, charging towards James, likely going for a tackle. Without missing a beat, James lowered himself under the man's chest, pulling down on his shirt with one arm and pushing his leg up with the other, flipping him over his back. James watched as the man tried to grab for something before landing on his back with a heavy thud.

"Is now a good time to note that I don't even know martial arts?" James said with a sardonic grin. At this point a couple of them began to show signs of worry. Still, most of them were hardly deterred. One man who was closer to him tried to sucker punch him, but James caught his arm, pulling him face-first into the edge of a table. He heard the first man trying to rush him from behind, to which James responded by turning around, slapping his clenched fist away, then using his other hand to grab the man's face and thrust him into the floor.

"Isn't this the point that two of you try to rush me at once?" he asked, mockingly. At that, three of them began to approach him. One of them pulled out a knife. "Woah, hey, didn't mom ever tell you those are dangerous?" James quipped. "Shut up, punk!" he said, going for multiple slashes, all of which James managed to dodge. One of the others then tried to uppercut him, which he also dodged. He then put a leg behind his foot and shoved him onto his back while his balance was off. The third guy then managed to grapple James from behind and tried to hold him for the guy with the knife, who seemed to be going for a stab. James reacted by kneeling down and throwing the man into the guy with the knife, which was received by what sounded like the blade penetrating flesh and a yelp of pain immediately following.

"I told you those were dangerous," James said. Most of the others started backing off at this point. "I think you guys can see where this is going, so how about we stop this while some of you are ahead? Despite what you may think, I really don't like hurting people," he said, his tone becoming completely sincere. For a moment, there was total silence in the bar, and it looked like all eyes were on him. He glanced around at his downed assailants. Most of whom would probably recover in a day or two. The one who got stabbed was lucky in that it missed anything important, but unlucky in that he still got stabbed.

"Here," James said, fishing out another box of ammo, filled with some mid-grade 9mm rounds. "Get yourself patched up," he said, dropping the box in front of him. Those who were still standing had withdrawn and headed back to their tables, although James could easily hear them say a few choice words under their breath. The minutes filtered back into seconds for James, and he found himself feeling somewhat accomplished. He walked back to the bar to find Ricky had been watching more or less with no intent other than to enjoy the show. "On second thought, I think I'll have that drink."

[Raptorman]

The great city of Asirgrad, home of the one true conduit between heaven and earth, home of the greatest concentration of the chosen, capital of the Sanguinous Papacy, and a fortress city in it's own right, was seemingly barren. A handful of guards patrolled the outer walls in the darkness but otherwise the city seemed nearly deserted. There were never displays of light in the city, not when the chosen saw in night as clearly as the day but the silence was unsettling even so. Eyes might however be drawn from the seemingly deserted city of the chosen, to the Sanctum itself, where the remnants of an old world airbase, now converted into a fortress of the twisted faith loomed.

There were guards there, many of them patrolling the walls and remaining ever vigilant against any incursion that could fight its way through the hollows and reach them. And from within the Sanctum came the sounds of life. Cheers and cries of exultation and anticipation echoed from within the metal and concrete wall that surrounded the great complex.

And the sight within the walls would be quite a spectacle. The Sanctum teamed with people, thousands crowding around within the walls, thousands of people who did not seem to be quite human. Perhaps it was the incredible pallor of the men, women, and children, perhaps it was the predatory manner in which even the youngest carried themselves, perhaps it was the smell of blood that wafted from them all, regardless the teaming masses that had gathered were quite intimidating. Still it was clear that this was no mere gathering of savages, in many places families were clustered together with children held aloft so that they would be able to witness what was coming. Many knelt or otherwise bowed their heads in prayer as they waited.

At the edges of the crowd closest to the inner buildings of the Sanctum were others, other clad in robes of the deepest black that veiled their features and warded off the light that the day would later bring. They all carried weapons and carried themselves in a way that spoke to years of training and fanatical devotion.

The clamor from the crowd had been constant since the gathering had begun but the endless commotion and noise suddenly cut off as a figure in a distinct set of ornate crimson robes, with a crown upon his head and a scepter in his hand walked forth from within the tower of the Grand Cathedral. He stood upon a balcony and thousands of eyes were fixed upon him as he strode forward and lifted up his arms in a dramatic fashion.

"Chosen of the Lord above, bearers of the blessed blood, salvation is yours through me." Though the man had nothing to aid his voice it nonetheless was powerful and audible to all gathered there. "The world before was wicked and corrupt. And the Lord above sent forth destruction through earth and fire to cleanse the world." The words were those of ritual, always spoken in such addresses. "But the wicked survived with the righteous and the Lord on high sent me back with the sacred gift of the blood. I am the bringer of salvation and by my holy blood you are saved. Let us feast upon the wicked and give praise to the Lord above."

There was a brief pause in the speech as the Pope upon his balcony gestured with his scepter. A pair of chosen soldiers, in ornate robes of black lined with crimson to signal their own high rank emerged onto the balcony dragging a struggling slave between them. The man was bound and gagged but still tried to struggle against the inhuman strength of the chosen. They pushed the man to the edge of the balcony as the Pope began to speak again.

"I bless the flesh and blood, let all who eat of the flesh and drink of the blood know that their souls rise higher in the heavens above." The two chosen positioned the slave properly and the Pope turned slightly, his hand reach up to rip the man's throat out effortlessly. Blood sprayed forth from the man, splattering those below who were close enough to the balcony, people who raised their faces up and opened their mouths to receive the blessing. And the Pope himself took the flesh in his hand and consumed it.

It did not take long for the man to die and when his heart had beat it's last and the spurting of blood had ceased the two soldiers hurled the body off the balcony to the waiting crowd below. For a moment there was a bit of a frenzy as those in the area where the body had fallen showed a ferocious side as they ripped and tore at it to take pieces of the flesh blessed by the Pope himself.

"You are my chosen, granted the holy blood by my will and lifted up to the heavens above by my hands. We have grown strong in this land brimming with wickedness and depravity, in this land that hates the salvation that it cannot have. And this land has tried to destroy us. The false idols of the world are legion and they send their forces against us." The Pope's words once more boomed out as he moved on from the rituals.

"But before our righteous might their legions are so much wheat before a scythe and tonight my chosen a new era begins! The Motum Diversum, worshipers of the false idol Mark shall be the first to fall. Upon this very night our armies ride forth for their land to strike at the heart of their false faith. We shall slay their incarnations, we shall take Parkland, and we shall feast upon the wicked!" The man's voice was rising in pitch and fervor as he continued, whipping up a frenzy once more.

"And this I promise. To all who fall in this holy struggle, in this crusade, I myself will lift their souls up to the highest reaches of heaven!" With those last words the Pope turned away and what had remained of order within the great crowd of thousands faded very quickly. Thunderous cheers and cries resounded as the Pope retired into the Grand Cathedral's tower.

___________________________________________________________________________________

It was within the hour that the great war machine of the Papacy, a war machine that had long sat idle save for minor raids necessary to keep the nation alive sprang into terrifying life. From the Sanctum came a great series of rumbling roars as engines fired up and the gates swung open. A fleet of vehicles poured out through the gates, most of them similar in appearance and produced by the old factory within the city proper. But all had been altered from the original heavy duty if luxury design. Added layers of metal plating coated the vehicles, mounted machine guns bristled from them, and perhaps most terrify was the simple fact that there were fifty of them, fifty armored vehicles brimming with weaponry and tools of destruction, stuffed full of the superhuman chosen.

As the cacophony of sound heralded the departure of the armada of vehicles the land around Asirgrad, brimming with hollows as it was seemed to be undergoing fits. Even hollows could be spooked and as the great storm of vehicles pushed outwards a ripple effect began, hollows moving away from the army, pushing others before them, and building up to a wave travelling before the army, a wave of crazed creatures being herded towards Parkland as the army followed.

And in the sky above, likely the very first warning that the citizens of Parkland would have that something terrible was coming, there came a shrieking sound as a pair of aircraft raced across the skies.

[Darcs]

"What is best in life?" The query rang, odd to request such a thing of someone offering a ride, and yet Lucania felt she should know the answer to his riddle...

Is he quoting Conan the Barbarian?

Was this man Forsaken? Lucania's mind immediately went to the quote from the Old World movie she had seen as a child, the one that reminded her today of the culture of the black flagged barbarians. The man before her appeared far too serious to be referencing some 300 year old piece of fiction, and if he really was Forsaken he'd have already killed her; but as Lucania wracked her brain, she couldn't think of a better answer. But maybe that was the point? That there was no set answer? Or maybe...

Lucania asked herself what she found to be best in life, and to her surprise, or perhaps her horror, that she really couldn't answer the question. Lucania knew what she wanted... but what was... best? The opposite of what was worst?

What is worst in life, then?

That was easier for her to answer, she was feeling it right now, pulsing fresh through her veins-- she had felt it all year, ever since Salem got killed, ever since her mother left her. The worst thing in life, was to be alone.

So then was what was best to not be alone? It would seem so-- when the fear forced her into firing her gun, she hadn't lashed out because of some desire for self-preservation, she fired because she didn't want to lose someone else. She hadn't lied when she told Vladimira that she didn't fear death-- death would be easy when it came for her. What she feared, was being alone.

The man was still standing there, waiting patiently. Despite the horde of death that approached.

"I don't..." Lucania cleared her throat, "I'm not sure of the answer you're looking for, sir, but for me, the best thing in life is to not be alone, to have someone you care about..." She trailed off as Nui whispered in her ear, eyes widening in realization, "Oh! And to share a drink with that person, that you care about."

The man's furrowed face broke into an almost grandfatherly smile. "Well that's okay ma'am, I don't know the answer neither, and maybe you're right about it being someone you care about. Either way I reckon' we'll find somethin akin to the truth by the time we get away from this swarm." Putting his hand to the door, the man unlocked the car and pulled opened the door. Climbing in past the woman he left the scent of worked leather, oak and some sort of musk as he half-lumbered through the deceptively spacious interior until he was opposite of the two ladies. Putting his pack to the side, the man said, "It is only at this time that I realize that I have not revealed my identity to you, despite your hospitable inclinations. Allow me to introduce m'self. My name is Roland Chambers. And you are?"

"Lucania Castalia, very pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Chambers." She extended a dainty hand to his, the timing of the gesture had become a well rehearsed formality by now, but one she tried to keep personal, still. "And this--"

"Prime Minister Castalia." Nui interjected.

"Yes..." Lucania placed an arm around the woman, "This is Nui Miller, my meticulous secretary, certain to never forget any detail other might think it best to keep silent about!" She gestured to the black separator, "And those three in front, are some of my employees who were apparently unable to see you despite being hired for vigilance and professionalism. They might not remain employees of mine for very long..."

"I'd appreciate it if you didn't hold it against them too much, miss Castalia. As you can see by my attire, I tend to blend in with the local country side, let alone in weather like this." replied Roland as he shook her hand firmly, his own covered hand still covered in bits of sand.

Lucania closed her eyes and took in a deep breath. Right-- she needed to calm down-- find her center and all that Aqueon meditation nonsense. Or rather, sense. She needed to remember to breathe. It wasn't their fault she overrated. "You're absolutely right, Mr. Chambers... I'm afraid I just find myself distraught over this whole incident. I should be thankful it didn't turn out much worse than it did!" Two eyes, both gold in dissonant way, glittered with interest as they flicked from the well-built, sandy man to the warped metal he had been able pierce through in the ceiling of her limo, with only his hands.

Both the man and the disfigured claw marks were artifacts out of place in the company of the polished ebony, sliver laced midnight leather and ornate glass bottles of the once silent, now whistling limo. "Although, I suppose it should be said that you owe your thanks entirely to your own abilities. Not everyone can jump over a speeding car an You certainly seem capable of taking care of yourself, Roland." This piqued Lucania, it seemed she had stumbled upon a man, Immortal, and completely out of place.

While Lucania spoke, Nui busied herself with preparing drinks for the group. Remembering that it is, in fact, the best thing in life to share a drink with a friend. The beverages, housed in exquisite glasses-- apparently a gift from the mayor of Dead-End-- were a blend of classical green tea, absinthe, honey, and cream. They were green, warm, tinged an almost lime green, and deceptively sweet. Whereas Lucania only seemed to be interest in the man's ability to survive, Nui found herself more suspicious of why he was out here surviving.

As she passed a glass to Roland, the demure woman spoke up; "Yes, Mr. Chambers-- I hate to be the one to pry, but it does beg the question; What drives a man who can rip metal like tissue all the way out here? Seemingly wandering aimlessly in solitude?"

Roland took the glass with a slight nod as he replied smoothly, "Well to be frank, miss Miller, I have a history of poor decision making and through the process have found that there are many who are inclined to do me in." Sipping the drink, the nomad nearly choked on the stuff. His main diet these last couple of weeks was cactus water and scorpion meat, it seemed that in the process of dulling his palate it had left him vulnerable to things that were less bitter than dirt. And so, he turned his near grimace into a surprisingly intact smile. It was at this time Roland couldn't help but reflect on select individuals in his past; the kind who would question why he would take a drink from someone so vehemently against him; against people who had already been willing to shoot at him. If those people were still alive he'd inform them that when the world wants you dead, you'll be dead be it a hallow, desperado or even a fruity drink.

In reality when the woman cracked the window Roland had got a good look at her gleaming gold eye, and a wiff of the gunpowder that still clung to her. Seeing the dents in the ceilings where the bullets ricocheted into the cushions Roland decided that these women were prideful; prideful enough where they wouldn't slip some poison into his drink after such an asinine display of firearm safety. But then again, anyone with a ride this schway was bound to have Machiavellian machinations. Well if it was poisoned at least he would have the taste of desert roach out of his mouth when he kicked the bucket.

Roland leaned forward and shifted his attention to Luciana. "As for my high survivability rate, I must admit that goes beyond my own status as an immortal something that just about everyone in this car can understand- and could very easily be chalked up to dumb luck- or even a god of some sort. Tell me. Are either of you ladies the religious type?" It was no point denying the hollow in the room, nearly all of them -possibly even the secratary- were Immortal. Roland wasn't concerned though. It wasn't that he was so confident that he could kill them all if need be, he just believed that there may be some sense of fellowship between fellow lepers, and even if that panned out, he knew he could always tear the lid of this ponced up tin can and get away if it really came down to it. Not that he had wanted it to; between the sweet drink and reclining back on something other than a pile of sand, Roland had very nearly reached Nirvana. Well, at the very least he was at the Arhat.

"Shengriantist-Atheist, born and raised." Nui spoke on the topic with little enthusiasm, as she raised her glass to take another sip of her beverage she gestured to Lucania, "She's the religious one-- if I've ever seen one!"

Lucania giggled as she blew away steam from her drink, "I don't claim to be the most pious, nor am I fool enough to believe I know what God is doing, or if he is even concerned with human affairs after the rapture..." She took a sip of the warm beverage, and with the alcohol hitting her system, she found her nerves being slowly eased, "But to answer your question, yes; I've been a New World Catholic before I could speak. I'm actually one of the principle donors at the First Church of Laguna and I've been attending services since I was young... Which," She sighed, "Was probably a fair bit more than I can make it there now..."

Nui chirped in, "She being modest!" The absinthe in what was probably her third glass was beginning to wear on her ability to regulate her volume, "She drags me to Mass every Wednesday!"

"It's not every Wednesday," Lucania retorted, going a little red in the cheeks, "And even if it was, it's important to maintain the tradition!"

The divider rolled own behind Roland's head, "She's right!!" Octavia chimed in voice of a small child, "You do go to confession a bunch, Missus Lucania!"

Roland winced at the volume that came squeaking out behind him. It was funny how he wouldn't bat an eye at a hail of gunfire, yet this jubilant girl had nearly sent him reeling. Perhaps this drink was stronger than he thought. His knee-jerk reaction was to punch a hole through her face. The Other reminded him that wasn't how he was anymore. "I reckon' tradition has its parts in this world of ours, but do you go out of obligation or is it out of belief?"

"Both." She answered without hesitation, "Belief comes first, but with that belief... that faith, you become obliged to immerse yourself in tradition. That tradition, whatever it may be, can be something that provides you with strength when you have nothing left, I think." Lucania looked in the glass as the green water swirled about, "If I wanted to frame it in a faux-philosophical manner-- and apparently I do-- I'd just say that belief is an obligation." In the silence that followed, Lucania found herself looking back at her guest, head quirked, "Why do you ask? Are you very religious, Mr. Chambers?"

Roland raised a hand in a placating manner, staving off her question. " I'll answer that soon enough if it isn't answered already, but I'm a simple man, and as such have trouble with framing my question in the proper manner, although I have learned something new already. For the purposes of this conversation, lets try n' and stay in the empirical world. Do you believe, because of those before you that told you to believe? Or did you read in the book and upon reflection, found that it eased that burden that you carry on your shoulders? Do you believe due to another's choice or your own?"

With this question, Lucania had to think for a moment. It didn't go so far as to make her question her faith, but it did make her question something she hadn't given much thought prior to the question that Roland-- as he put it 'the simple man'-- posed to her. She had felt God's presence, the entire world had in the rapture 300 years ago, and she continued to find truth in his teachings where those before her-- those of the Old World-- had not.

Nui's eye shot nervously between the pair. She'd seen Lucania lost in thought before, the woman loved being absorbed in a good thought. She knew that long ago as a Wintergold employee, and she'd learned it even more in becoming her boss' significant other. What was giving Nui cause to worry was how...

... She averted her eyes from the pair toward the ground...

... Intense it all seemed. Sure, they were but a few questions, but there seemed to be some greater mental sparring going on here that was flying straight over Nui's head. She had known Lucania was an intelligent woman, probably smarter than she'd ever be. But this whole encounter... picking up this guy in the desert, he was just... just wandering the desert... not 5 miles away from a swarm of horrid black devils... and he can grip through reinforced steel and jump... and then he just starts asking questions!? He asked Lucania a question before he'd even get in the limo!

Nui chanced a sidelong glance at the man. What was his deal anyway? He's in the Dead-End outback because he's got enemies? What kind of enemies? Nui's eye narrowed as she looked back down. She just didn't get it. The small woman found herself sinking into the abyss of the leather seat stained with bullet holes, she kind of wanted to disappear.

This conversation was weird and for some reason, made Nui feel scarred-- or rather, incredibly unnerved. She'd have shared her feelings with Lucania, but in her years of knowing the woman, she knew never to interrupt her when she was doing the weird thing where she closed her eyes and kind of smirked as she thought. Interrupting Lucania as she went into that trance was a surefire way to lose your eardrums. Instead, Nui meekly sat by, and downed another green-tea/absinthe-bomb, she'd picked the concoction up during her time interning in Gate's Pass before the who place got locked down.

A phantom of a grin stretched across her face as the warmth of the beverage hit her system. She really loved the name of this concoction; the Sea-sick Asian Artist. An apt name, if a bit of a mouthful-- given her propensity for car sickness whenever she found herself offroad amidst the sand seas of Dust.

It's abbreviation was even more apropos, since after a few cups 'Ssaaa' would be all you could say. Yui looked into her one eyed reflection in the glass and simultaneously burped, hiccuped, and leered.

Lucania opened her eyes with a breath. "I will say that; While I do believe of my own volition...." She remembered in brief the instances where she would go to church with her mother and father-- that Judas of a man-- but he was the one to introduce her to the faith. He may have betrayed her as a father, but as a Shepard, he had led her to the flock. "... I was guided into the faith by family and tradition, but through that guidance from tradition I found God on my own terms." She cracked a smirk, "As cliche as that may sound."

"Cliches have to come from somethin." Roland noted. "But New World Christianity leaves me feelin'....itchy. I don't mean to be disrespectin yer religion, it's just that I remember this line about how when the rapture comes the meek will inherit the Earth, which don't seem to the situation we're in. Unless..." Roland answered himself, "Unless we consider that power is not the same thing as strength. But I think for the time being, my curiosity has been sated."

"I wouldn't mind indulging your curiosity again, should it's satiation prove itself a temporary lull, Mr. Chambers." She beamed at the man, "Very rarely do I find the opportunity to discuss these matters with anyone outside the church."

"Hey! My parents were like, super religious mills! I'm great at talking about the meek!" Octavia squaked again, "You could always talk to me, boss!!"

"Could she?--"

"Could I?" Lucania and Carmela deadpanned to the excited purple girl at the same time. And as a silence was shared between the three, Octavia's purple grin dimmed slightly, as the dividor between the back and front of the limo silently went up.

Lucania downed the rest of her glass of Ssaa, muttering to no one in particular, _{"She's just like my sister."} Looking down in the glass, she realized there was no distorted reflection to remind her that the smirk she'd perfected in faking had become a frown.

She was left with that strange, whistling silence.

[Antediluvixen]

This Post Begins Day Two

---

Archie was the first to rise from the queen-sized bed where he and Roberta had laid their heads the previous night. Despite his exhaustion from the mission, it seemed that his habitual early-rising would win the day. He had dreamt of the Arena that night, though whether it was a pleasant dream or a nightmare, he couldn’t decide. Groggily, he got up and changed into a new set of clothes, hopeful that Roberta would remain asleep throughout the ordeal.

His movements, even now, were subtle and slight as he tiptoed towards the door, stopping to take a look at himself in the full-body mirror. He frowned slightly, then quietly stepped through the door, shutting it behind him. He sat down at his “dining room” table, the massive paper with the drawing from the previous night still sitting there. Archie tore a piece off of the corner and began to create a rather unusual shopping list.

Six Eggs
A litre of milk
Matches
Hedge trimmer
Beard trimmer
Medium-range semi-automatic weapon
Water truck (?)
Large explosive device
Shaving cream

He sighed. Getting half of this stuff would be impossible. Eggs were in short supply on Ash, but without a balanced breakfast, how could Archie and Roberta hope to defeat a class two hollow?

… Oh, and obviously there were other issues too.

Trying to find or build a bomb large enough to blow up a worm of this size might get him branded as a state terrorist. The bomb was an idea he’d had as he was drifting to sleep, and hadn’t yet mentioned to Roberta. If they could trick the worm into eating an explosive device, they’d hardly have to do any fighting: just detonate the thing and have Roberta dissolve whatever was left over to ensure that it didn’t regenerate.

The empty water truck would be hardest of all to get, though, since the Wintergold Government managed water transport. While there was no government law enforcement in Ash (or Dust, for that matter), Archie might be what you could call a ‘civil servant’. As much as he disliked the way Wintergold was managed, the local authorities were generally amiable towards whoever made their jobs easier. This included those who captured and killed wanted criminals. He was going to have to rely on the goodwill that the people held towards him, their friendly neighbourhood Bladed Devil.

And so, the lean-muscled man-of-action began his morning routine. He put on his Kevlar vest and hiking boots, and began to sing quietly to himself.

“When I wake up, well I know I’m gonna be, I’m gonna be the man who wakes up next to you…”

He grabbed his shaving kit and mirror from underneath his kitchen counter, as well as a glass of stale water, and began expertly shaping his facial hair, using his razor with the same skill that he used his rapier.

“When I go out… yeah, I know I’m gonna be, I’m gonna be the man who goes along with you…”

By the time he was finished, it would be impossible to tell that he just spent several days tracking an outlaw through the desert. Good thing, too: his facial hair was as iconic as his swords, and he wanted to make especially sure that people recognized him today. Speaking of swords, he affixed Pen to his waist and the Bastard’s Bastard to his back, and tucked Spider Bite away into a sheathe affixed to his lower back.

“If I get drunk, well I know I’m gonna be, I’m gonna be the man who gets drunk next to you…”

Last but not least, he grabbed the large bag of coins that had been given to him as Long John’s bounty and tucked it into a large backpack, which he wore over the Bastard’s Bastard.

“And if I haver, yeah I know I’m gonna be, I’m gonna be the man who’s haverin’ to you…”

And with that, Archie triumphantly exited his house, and began to belt out the chorus of the same song he sang when he woke up every morning.

[i]“But I would walk five-hundred miles and I would walk five-hundred more
Just to be the man who walks a thou-sand miles to fall down at your door!”[i]

He began to pick up speed, briskly jogging along his usual route as he belted out powerful note after note. He was a good singer, though it was a song better done as a duet, but he hadn’t met anyone who knew the damned song since Cyrus and he had gone their separate ways. Thinking of his brother wasn’t enough to throw off his singing, though: he continued through the various verses, his heart rate steadily climbing as he reached the song’s climax…

And when I come home
Yes, I know I’m gonna be, I’m gonna be the man who comes back home with you
I’m gonna be the man who’s coming home with you.

At this point, he broke into a full sprint until the end of the song. A testament to his endurance, he managed to keep singing for the entire remaining minute and a half of the song, even as he ran towards the center of Sentinel. His ballad had long-finished by the time he reached his destination, but there was still a grin plastered to his face, hopeful and optimistic for the day ahead. “Mornin’, Stanley!” Archie exclaimed as he entered the general store. It was usually empty this early on in the day, and today was no exception. Small as it was, there was one thing which differentiated it from the other stores in the area; a refrigerated section. That was incredibly rare in these uncertain times, even more so in Ash. After his last bounty, Archie could finally afford some damned protein. Of course, everything was still behind the counter, which was sealed off from the rest of the store by a large, metal grate. Stanley didn’t trust the lawless denizens of Ash to actually bring what they wanted to buy up to the register and pay for it like civilized people. A mercenary guard leaned up against the left wall, wiping some dirt off an old assault rifle he was using. The radio was playing off in the background, and the peculiar radio host caught Archie’s ear. “Ah, I love this station.”

“Really?” Stanley chuckled, “You been hearin’ what they’re saying about you?” Stanley was a man in his early-60s, with a stained white undershirt and a grey comb-over. He’d seen his fair share of war back in the day, though he didn’t often talk about it.

“About me?” Archie was quite flattered that he was being recognized for his hard work my Dust’s only major media outlet, and turned up the radio’s volume to hear better...

[i]*as the song ends, a voice comes from the radio-- you can’t quite tell if it comes from a man or a woman, but it seems to draw you in*

“Welcome back, tumbleweeds! You’re listening to WTJR! Tumbleweed 191--”

*in a sing-song voice*

“Oooo-kaaa-gaaa!”

*in a much, much, deeper voice*

“Playing only your number one hits…”

*in normal voice*

“Good morning listeners! Did you make it through the day yesterday? Do you wish you hadn’t? Is the toil of a constant, seemingly endless repetitive dala of harsh existence beginning to wear on you? What about your family-- they’d miss you if you went right? Do you know that? Would anyone really miss you if you hadn’t made it to this morning? And if they did, how long would they miss you? What lasting effect would you have on existence that wouldn’t disappear as soon as they met their end?”

*there is a short silence*

“I’m starting heavy and black like my coffee this morning, tumbleweeds! Let’s get it all out in open air;”

“You are alone.”

“You may suffer.”

“And you may die.”

*a longer silence*

“But dude, have you ever gotten your dick and-slash-or clit sucked? Sorry if this isn’t family friendly y’all, but you know what else isn’t family friendly?

*there is a short pause for the rhetorical question*

“EXISTENCE.”

“All I’m saying here is, and this is just my theory, I’m just throwing this out there to be tried against the fire that is the scientific method. But I feel like good head might be the best thing ever? Like, I hate to say it, but I know a lot of you out there haven’t gotten any of that good head. “

“Like, y’all think you got some of that good head, and maybe it was good-- but it wasn’t good-- like real, all-natural, no-additives really fucking good head. Like, they... like lick the taint and go for the rimjob and shit, good. Like they do crazy voodoo with their hands and tongue and keep sucking after you climax... Like… Like… your eyes roll in the back of your head and you have an out of body experience. You meet your past lives during this session of oral sex-- Like some good head.”

“I know what you’re asking yourselves, listeners. ‘Why’s Roro talking about all this head? When is it going to stop?’ “

“Well, listen up-- this is my theory, but I think that the opposite of death might not be life, but may in fact be very, very good head? Like, head that gives you a religious experience. Like…”

“Okay, like, think of it like this-- think of like, the Adam and Eve and Garden of Eden--”

*Amarillo whispers into the mic*

“For those of you who aren’t Christian; it’s basically the story of a magic devil snake who tricked a man named Adam and his female rib-clone, made entirely for the purpose of companionship, servitude to the man, and incestuopus sex, she was named Eve. They were apparently the first people ever. Anyway the devil snake tricked Eve into eating an apple, and that made God mad so he made pregnancy hurt and death a thing-- even though he’s described as all knowing so he totally saw it coming.”

*Amarillo’s normal voice returns*

“Okay so like, what if it’s all a metaphor! What if Eve isn’t taking a bite out of an ordinary apple at the suggestion of a snake, but like… a snake really wanted her to suck on Adam’s apple. If you catch my drift.”

“My drift is that, like, the devil snake is Adam’s penis when he’s horny, right? And Eve eating an apple of knowledge is a euphemism for sucking him off. In case that went over your heads.”

*Amarillo sighs, takes a sip of a beverage, and shuffles some papers*

“Well! Speaking of death and heads, let’s get to some news, fresh off the presses here, y’all-- apparently the death of Long John seems to have been some kind of final grain-esque crop on the metaphorical desert-pack mammal’s back-- we’ve been getting pretty much steady reports since we reported on his death yesterday. It seems that while the general sentiment is an anti-Long John outlook on the issue based on a survey some intern took this morning in the office--”

*whispering can be heard*

“Oh,”

*more whispering*

“No wait-- “

“New survey here, tumbleweeds! The resounding sentiment by a landslide, with an 85% margin is ‘Who the hell is Long John?’ followed distantly by a Pro-Long John at 12% of our office…”

*a breath*

“For those of you that can’t do math, that means 3% of the people in our office are anti-Long John.”

“Perhaps more interesting, however, is that within that pro-Long John camp, there seem to be a few people so moved that they themselves are hunting the bounty hunter! Which is… like kind of ironic, if you think about it!”

*Amarillo chuckles*

“What do you even call that? Bounty hunter hunters? Anti-bounty hunters? Haha, Dust… you never leave a person bored, I’ll say that much.”

“Independent of the hunters, Long John’s family is offering 250 gold lira-- that’s 300 bullets-- for the return of Long John’s head. Since I guess they want to bury him with his head...”

“Okay, then!”

“In other news; Area King’s Retreat, Hedon Woman shoots down off-course Sanguine Papacy Surveillance 'Shrieker.' ”

“ ‘Bitch jus’ fuckin’ no-scoped that whirly-berd!!’ reports witness.”

---

Archie stood in silence as the music played for a minute or so, meeting eyes with Stanley a few times, before exclaiming briefly yet poignantly: “... What the fuck?”

“Did you not hear their earlier coverage of this? They think Long John McClive was some kinda Robin Hood character. The people’re pretty pissed at you, actually.” Stanley leaned forward on his counter. “So, what’ll ya have?”

“He--... wait, what?!” Archie glanced behind him to make sure nobody had followed him in, then lowered his voice to a whisper. “Stanley, there are people trying to kill me, all because I collected the bounty their favourite murderer-thief. What should I do?”

“The news likes to exaggerate things, Arch,” Stanley said casually, running his fingers through his grey comb-over, “Just lay low for a bit. Think you can manage that? Or are you gonna go brag about how your skills are so wondrous, you had to valiantly fight a band of THUGS, hired by the family of Long John McClive?!”

“Are you making fun of me?”

Stanley laughed heartily. “Fuck yeah I am. Now are you gonna buy something?”

“... A litre of milk and a half-dozen eggs, please. And a can of shaving cream.” As Stanley bagged his groceries, Archie nervously tapped on the counter and glanced over at the mercenary guard.

“Don’t look at me,” the mercenary said, “I’m glad Long John’s dead! He robbed my cousin!”

“Was he rich?” Stanley asked.

“He was a carpenter, so no, not really,” the mercenary replied.

“Can we please focus more on the fact that there are people who want to murder me?”

“You’ve got to learn to deal with not being the centre of attention all the time, Archie,” Stanley said, bagging up Archie’s order. “That’ll be twenty gold lira. Shit’s expensive, what with the fact that we’re in the goddamned desert. Really, are you that desperate for breakfast?”

“You know, at first you were getting on my nerves, but you making cracks at my expense is taking my mind off the mob that may-or-may-not be gathering somewhere.” Archie took the required twenty lira out of his bag to pay for his overpriced goods and went on his merry way.

Of course, as he went from store to store completing his shopping list, he noticed things getting less and less “merry”. He was able to obtain a hedge trimmer, matches and beard trimmer without issue, though he received several dirty looks at Hank’s Hardware. Thankfully, Hank himself wasn’t reluctant to serve him, though he did receive dirty looks from some of the other patrons.

Several of them followed him out when he left with yet another bag full of various useful things. He tried not to pay them much mind, but the continued to follow him as he turned down various streets and even alleyways in an attempt to lose them without outright running away. Finally, after reaching the space outside the gunshop, he stopped. “Can I help you people?” he said, turning around with grocery bags still in hand, “I’m busy...”

__________________________________

Roberta grumbled, stirring faintly in the strange twilight between sleep and wakefulness. The mattress was much more comfortable than she was used to, and it didn’t smell of things she’d rather not think of.

She blinked once, and sunlight streamed into her eye, momentarily disorienting her and shattering the remnants of her not-so-peaceful slumber. Same dream, as usual. At this point she was so used to it and the nightly pain it brought that she’d become desensitized. Not a whole lot made her feel pain anymore, after the kind of pain she’d been through. Funny that, pain being an anesthetic down the road. Bullets, knives, teeth, poison, none of them pained her anymore. She could register damage to her body, but it didn’t hurt. Drowning in a sea of sensory silence.

“Fuck.” She said simply, turning onto her back and staring at the ceiling- perhaps it might reveal the solution to… something. She’d already registered Archie’s absence, and contemplated following him to make sure he didn’t get himself killed. After all, she needed him to find the Hollow.

Sighing, she pulled a small handheld radio out of her pocket, dialing in to the frequency of that DJ who’d sprung up recently. It was decent listening at least.

“Perhaps more interesting, however, is that within that pro-Long John camp, there seem to be a few people so moved that they themselves are hunting the bounty hunter! Which is… like kind of ironic, if you think about it!”

*Amarillo chuckles*

“What do you even call that? Bounty hunter hunters? Anti-bounty hunters? Haha, Dust… you never leave a person bored, I’ll say that much.”

“Independent of the hunters, Long John’s family is offering 250 gold lira-- that’s 300 bullets-- for the return of Long John’s head. Since I guess they want to bury him with his head...”

Roberta bolted upright. That… wasn’t good. From her brief experience with the man, he’d be quite happy to boast of his recent kill to anyone willing to listen, and apparently, there were plenty of people who would be willing to listen, and more.

Most everything of hers was in a neat pile and she quickly scooped it up, throwing her backpack around her shoulders and grabbing her various weapons as she sprinted from the house. There was too much money at stake to sit around.
__________________________________

“Now, ladies and gentlemen...” Archie said, setting down his groceries beside him, “I’d advise you to kindly get the hell away from me, or I’ll have to do something drastic...”

One of the men who was holding a broken bottle waved it around as he spoke. “Like you did somet’n drastic ‘ta Long John, right?!”

“Yeah, I did do something drastic,” Archie retorted, raising his open hands in front of him, “Because he was stupid and ignored my warning, and tried to kill me. I wanted to take him alive. Now let’s all calm down, before someo--”

“DID YA TELL LONG JOHN THE SAME THING?!” a woman holding a pool-cue screamed, “Before you SHOT him?!”

Archie thought back to his fateful encounter with the murderer-thief. “Actually, yes... and I got interrupted, too, because he reached for a gun and tried to shoot me in the face.”

Roberta watched from around a corner, a good liter or two of seawater converted into a superbase floating next to her as she watched the exchange. She could just shoot them if they tried anything, but melting faces and throats tended to be even more discouraging -and terrifying- than simple bullets.

But again, that all depended on what happened next.

“You know,” One of the mob members said, reaching into his coat pocket, “They say history repeats itself...”

“It does,” Archie said, realizing that he didn’t actually have his gun with him, “Now if you’ll please drop the gun. I don’t want anyone to die today.”

Roberta tensed as one of the group reached into his coat. She let the seawater slide back into the plastic container she’d found for it, she could use it later. In its place, she pulled her shotgun off her backpack, checking to make sure a slug was chambered before aiming down the sight, cranial hardware syncing with the weapon and calculating windage and other ballistic data for her- even if that was unnecessary at this range. Regardless, whoever tried anything would receive a 12 gauge slug to the chest before they managed much.

The man didn’t even fully pull out his gun before he started laughing. “You don’t even have any guns!”

Without another word, Archie lunged forward at the man, covering half the distance between them before he could even blink. Though he struggled to pull the firearm from his coat, he took a wild haymaker punch to the right side of his jaw before he was able to get a shot off. Archie looked down at the man and flexed his arm muscles. “What about THESE gu--?”

A concussive blast sounded from behind a building off to the right. The man under Archie’s chest took the hit, the slug passing all the way through and essentially removing his heart and part of his lungs. A second blast followed in short succession, with a second gang member collapsing to the ground clutching his chest.

“God FUCKING damn it!” Archie screamed, looking around to see who could’ve fired the shot. The gang members stood frozen in place as well, not wanting to meet a similar fate, with several of them dropping their weapons immediately and running away.

Another blast sounded from the buildings to the right, and a third gang member wildly waving a pistol around also collapsed like a sack of bricks. Another blast, but this time none of the remaining gang members were shot, instead buckshot pellets slammed into the ground near the feet of one of them, and she nearly dropped her own weapon, turning and running on the spot. (Actually I was thinking him rounding a corner and swinging on reflex because person with a big shotgun. It also gives his skills a bit of credibility or whatever with her just barely managing to dodge and probably losing some hair.) (that or skimming some metal)

“WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON!?” Archie yelled, following the sound of the gunfire. He pulled out his sword and dove behind a large barrel, then began rushing through an alleyway to get behind this mysterious shotgunner. As he swiftly ran the building’s perimeter, he gripped his bastard sword with both hands, coming around the bend with a powerful, almost reflexive upward swing. Only halfway through the motion did he realize who was on the receiving end of it. (I’ll let you decide how it hits her)

Roberta registered someone behind her relatively quickly, running through possible options in the split second it took for her to turn around an- the fuck was Archie swinging that thing at her for?! Yelping in surprise she tried to push off the wall and out of harm’s way, but the swordsman was fast and he’d caught her off guard, the sword came down and sheared off a lock of her hair, smashing into her armored forearm as she attempted to ward off the blow.

Quickly grabbing the sword and twisting it out of Archie’s hands, she pinned the man to the wall, “The fuck was that for?”

Archie had ceased continued attempts at hostilities when he realized who it was, but was similarly caught off guard by the sheer strength of her robot arm. “The fuck was THAT for?! That was a 12-guage shotgun! You could’ve shot me with that thing! How was I supposed to know that’s not what you were trying to do!?” Archie pulled at the robot arm which was keeping him pinned in place. “Jeez, what the fuck?! Get offa me!”

“Perhaps you shouldn’t try killing me.” Roberta grunted, stepping back and walking over to her dropped shotgun, picking the weapon up and slinging it over her shoulder. “Besides, those were slugs and the gun was synced to my brain eyes, the chance of missing what I aimed at was a tenth of a percentage point.”

“Brain-eyes? What the--...?” Archie picked up his sword and grunted. “For the record, if I didn’t see it was you, you would’ve never been able to disarm me...” he grumbled, his pride slightly wounded. The gang had stopped shooting at them. “I hope you’re happy. Three people are dead now, and now we’ve pretty much established that ‘shoot-on-sight’ is fair game. God fucking damn it, Roberta!”

Roberta shrugged, “And if I hadn’t shot they would’ve likely opened fire and killed you for killing some son of a bitch who stole and killed and was for some reason loved by the masses. You may be fast, but you aren’t faster than a bullet last I checked.”

“Roberta,” Archie replied, taking a deep breath, “He was the only one with a gun drawn. I could’ve talked him down from that. Notice how none of ‘em started firing until you did. Hell, most started running away! Those aren’t criminals, those are just random assholes! This isn’t a ‘let’s beat him up and take him to the McClive Family’ fight anymore, this is now a ‘kill or be killed’ fight.” He took another deep breath, placing a hand on his forehead. Calm, Archie... be calm...

Archie turned to Roberta. “Thank you. I’m just... I’m being stupid. Don’t think I don’t have a reason to avoid killing people when I can, though! What if their families form another counter-bounty-hunting mob? It took a long time to build up my good reputation, and I’d rather keep it that way. On the bright side...” Archie pulled the map marked with the location of the hollow, “I’ve got a way to fix it. You’ll get your money, I’ll get my good name back, and hopefully, nobody will mention that slimy fuck Long John McClive ever again. Anyone stupid enough to join in on this counter-bounty bullshit’ll forget all about this when we take that worm down.” He sheathed the Bastard’s Bastard. “Apparently the first report was even worse. They called Long John ‘a selfish Robin Hood’. Can you believe that shit?”

“I’ve tried talking people down before. I got a full suite of cybernetics because of it.” Roberta glared at Archie, “Honestly if it’s kill or be killed, I don’t care. Walk away if you want. I have nothing to lose.” She started walking, towards the scene of the fight, idly kicking a rock at one of the corpses. “At least they died fast.” She turned back around, “People will look for a hero if they can find one. It doesn’t matter who, or what, they really are. They want an idol to gather around and support. If that idol is a thief and murderer and they choose to see him through rose tinted glasses as a man taking from the rich and doing whatever with it, they will. If people want to think something, they will.”

Archie said very little afterwards. “I’m sorry. I just like it better when I’m the hero.”

“The only stories with heroes are the ones mothers read to their children. If you’re really expecting to stay on top of the moral dog heap, you’re living on the wrong planet. Anything can happen, the people you trust most can turn around and shoot you, the people who you expect to shoot you instead turn out to be looking for something important.” She hissed, continuing to walk to the scene of the fight. “An-”

“Oh, give it a rest!” Archie said, cutting her off, “Don’t try to educate me. I’ve been through as much shit as you have!”

“Have you now?” Roberta whirled around, “Yeah sure, you had a shitty childhood we got that part. Guess what? Everybody on this shithole of an island or the mainland had a shitty childhood. Yours was just a bit shittier than normal. You know who doesn’t care? People with guns whose idol you killed.”

“My childhood was--” Archie stopped himself, refusing to become angry for no reason again. “I know that. Of course I fucking know that. I had to fucking kill someone with my bare hands when I was twelve, you think I don’t know that?” His voice seemed shakier than normal, as a few memories of the arena began flooding back to him. He couldn’t have been more than ten... he was so small, and I just... He snapped out of it. “But life isn’t worth living without people who love and respect you, even if heroism really is bullshit. Let’s just go. I have a few more things to pick up.” He entered the gun shop, feeling sick to his stomach, and knowing all-too-well the meaning of Roberta’s words.

---

Daniella stretched like a cat from her perch on the roof. The night had been a long one, and as she woke, the infinite waves of consciousness returned to her, as static on radio, her mind distorted with the dreams of all those around her. Daniella, long limbs reaching for the sun, bathed in dawn’s orange glow. She and Danny had slept on the roof of a small pavela near the hive of the Bastard, her Abuela had long since gone home, after scouting the home out during the night.

Apparently, to celebrate his bounty the bastard had decided to bring home… some… kind of automaton? A weird Gaen sexdoll? That was where the life of a man went-- it wasn’t was perfect life. But Daniella couldn’t help but feel the Long John’s existence was worth a little more than half-made real doll.

She wasn’t one to question fetishes, but god damn this was becoming more fucked by the minute. As Daniella probed around, she could feel the things presence, but whatever mind it had was off limits to Daniella. She wasn’t human--perhaps not even living as far as Daniella could tell that. Her mind was a black hole to her.

Archibald had been easy, Daniella and he woke up around the same time, and she very easily pinpointed where his consciousness was. The two inhabited a similar brainspace for a time-- the cornball sung to himself and then went to go buy groceries-- and Daniella waited patiently as her ward slept to her side, to see if the robot would do… anything.

If she was to be completely honest with herself-- the fucking sex doll was kind of a wrench in her plans-- and it would of fucking ruined them, too. If it hadn’t been for the stroke of luck, in that the thing did eventually get up and leave. For oil or whatever.

Daniella didn’t care, that wasn’t the point.

The point was, she could expand her mind. And in one moment, she closed two eyes from her perch on the roof, still exposed to the gleam of the morning star as it reflected off her-- their bronze skin. She closed two eyes, and opened four. She and Danny moved as a single person stretched over two bodies, and snuck into the home, in sync.

---

Archie exited the gun store in a far better mood than he’d walked in, carrying a shiny new rifle in his arms, and several magazines full of ammo in his backpack. He’d spent a large part of Long John’s bounty on the Roberta had helped him choose a weapon to suit his needs: an old but popular Russian killing machine. “Honestly, I would’ve never known the difference between an AKM and an AK-47 on my own,” he mused, examining his new AKM carefully, “Can this really punch through a brick wall? I feel you’d need something heavier for that.” He had purchased a small scope and bayonet as well, though he wondered if he’d actually end up needing them. Of course, the more blades the Bladed Devil carried the better, and the scope would be good on the off chance he actually needed to hit something from far away.

Truth be told, Roberta’s “helping” could be more accurately translated as, “Shouting at him until she got through his skull and he chose something remotely useful for his skill with boomsticks and what he actually intended to do with the weapon.”, but she was willing to let it slide.

Glancing down at the man, she stopped and sighed, “The 7.62x39mm round is an excellent high velocity anti-personnel round and barrier penetrator, usually with a steel core it will easily penetrate a half centimeter thick mild steel plate and continue on. So yes, if somebody hides behind a brick wall, or cinderblock, or wood, or a car, they’ll be very dead. Just don’t expect to shoot through a particularly thick one with any ease.”

She started walking again, scanning the surrounding area for more potential assailants, “I have the ballistic data of well over 100 various cartridges readily accessible. Trust me when I say hiding behind things -within reason- won’t save somebody. If you need to get someone hiding behind a solid wall of concrete, that’s when you bring out the anti material rifles, which that is not.” Looking back at the man, she couldn’t help but ask, “What did you even want a rifle for anyway? I thought your thing was close range?”

“An old Mexican proverb, my friend,” Archie replied, putting on a heavy, stereotypical accent as he said: “Don’t bring a knife to a gunfight, you idiot!” He paused, continuing to examine the device. He’d managed to ignore Roberta’s judgements and screaming as he shopped, though he’d be lying if he said the cyborg wasn’t starting to bother him. She spoke as if everything she knew was inherently obvious, shat on Archie’s quite-frankly bare-minimum moral code, and that she fairly clearly would’ve preferred to pursue the bounty on her own. That said, her expertise was useful to him, even if she did deliver it quite harshly. “And honestly, just showing that you have a gun is enough to deter most crooks. My reputation used to help with that, but... well, you know what happened there.”

“The crooks had guns and were angry at you for killing their idol.”

“Eeeeexactly.” Archie replied, “I hope you like scrambled eggs, because that’s what’s for breakfast.”

Roberta raised an eyebrow, digging around in one of her pockets and fishing out a pill roughly the size of a 20 gauge shotshell. Crumbling it in her cybernetic hand she poured the powder into a small container of water, about the size of a shot glass, gulping the mixture down. “There. Breakfast.”

Archie raised an eyebrow. “C’mon, you’ve gotta still be hungry after that... was that a multivitamin or something? I like my eggs as much as the next guy, but I’m not gonna eat six of ‘em, I don’t have a fridge, and you need your calories. ‘Healthy body, healthy mind’, as my dad used to say. He’s seventy-one and still going strong, so I’d listen to his advice.”

She shrugged again, rummaging around in her backpack, reaching in and at one point placing it on the ground as she looked through. “Hold on a second…” she muttered, leaning inside the bag and almost disappearing up to her legs. Faint echoes sounded from within as she cursed, searching around in the bag’s depths before popping back out, now holding a large hunk of what looked to be part of a large animal. “I’ve got my own food. And spices too.”

“What the--...?” Archie glanced furtively at the bag. “How is that even--...?” Archie placed a palm on his forehead. “I know you’re the scientist and all, but you’re definitely breaking a lot of laws of physics and biology right now... I’ve got a cookfire and a picnic table out back. I’ll make us some omelettes with... uh... what kinda meat is that?”

Roberta shrugged, “Don’t actually know. It’s edible though. Surprisingly tender too, when you beat it with a hammer long enough.” She heaved her backpack up, smirking, “And I found this in a rusty treasure chest off the coast of Ash. I’m pretty sure a dungeoneer lost their bag of holding. Had a weird suit of armor and a big sword in it when I found it. Some gold coins too. Kept the armor and the axe, put the coins in Wolfwater, since they tend to know what to do with gold.”

“... Bag of holding? I'm fairly certain those aren't real," Archie said, letting his gun swing down to his side as he scratched the back of his head, "Mind if I see the sword? I've actually got experience with those kinda things."

“I guess? I’m not giving it to you though.” Roberta warned him, clambering back into her bag, disappearing into it entirely this time as she looked around the inside for the aforementioned sword. Amid the clutter, she finally found it sitting forlorn in a glass case in the corner, next to the suit of armor in a similar container. She’d swung it once or twice when she first found the bag, but she hadn’t really done much. She knew it was a longsword and made of something called ‘ebony’, though why one would name a metal after a kind of wood she didn’t know. Regardless, it was a beautiful blade. Gingerly, she picked it up from its case and carried it over to the shimmering portal of the real world.

“Right, got it.” She called over to Archie as she stepped back into reality. Warning him with a quick, “No touching.” as she slowly pulled the blade from its sheathe, she then stood there for a little while, letting the sun reflect off the blade. “This is going right back into the bag afterwards, just so you know.”

Archie glanced at the beautiful blade, silently musing about how sharp it must be. “Are you even planning on using that thing?” Knowing Roberta, the answer was probably no: she’d rather wave it around in his face and tell him he couldn’t have it.

“Eventually, maybe, perhaps.” She replied, smirking, “It’s mine, and no, you can’t have it. I’ve never seen anything like it and I’m not risking it now, even if you really do love swords that much.” She sheathed the blade, disappearing into her bag and quickly stowing the weapon in its case before clambering out again, this time waving a small baggie, “Spices.”

Archie rolled his eyes. “After letting you sleep in my bed and offering to split a bounty that’s more than I make in a year, and make you breakfast, you’re still rude as ever. At least let me teach you how to use it properly,” Archie pleaded, pulling out his own more common-looking sword and giving it a few casual yet expert-like swings as he walked, “The thought of such a fine blade rotting at the bottom of a magic bag makes me want to vomit.” The two had finally reached Archie’s house and walked around to the back where his cooking station was. The table and grill were located on a raised platform made of mostly-intact patio stones.

“It’s not ‘rotting’!” Roberta protested, “It’s sitting in an untouched velvet lined case. I take very good care of it, thank you.” She began strutting towards the grill, “Maybe at some point you can show me how to use the thing if you really want to.”

“I’d rather buy it off you, to be frank,” he retorted, “Why would someone like you need a sword?”

“Because I found it and it’s mine.” Roberta replied smugly, “I’m not selling. I’ll pay for lessons, sure. But that thing’s unique, nice to look at, and I found it. So I’m keeping it.” She paused, “Besides, a lady doesn’t need a reason, now does she?”

“I suppose not,” Archie said. He would be glad to have this woman out of his hair, though he couldn’t exactly ditch her before the bounty was up. For now, he paid her what courtesies he felt she deserved, hoping she’d eventually stop being so... curt. He grew quieter now, though, silently picking up his ammo and shaving supplies and returning to the front door, “I’ve gotta get a mixing bowl and an egg beater.”

“Alright then. I’ll just wait here. Admiring the dirt. Such lovely dirt, see the fascinating patterns these pebbles form?” She leaned against the grill, “It’s almost as if… it’s dirt.”

I swear, I am going to kill this woman... Archie thought.

Walking over to the meat she’d pulled out of the bag - time didn’t pass there like it did in the normal world, so it was still as fresh as when she’d killed it - she pulled the bag of spices open, fishing out a few pinches of dry rub and sprinkling them over the slab of flesh. She felt slightly guilty about antagonizing Archie, but only slightly. She was bored, damnit! Something exciting needed to happen.

[Arcanaut]

Yui looked between Roland and Lucania again, taking note of Lucania's empty glass-- and trouble expression-- she moved to top her off, and as she did so, she figured she ought to fill the silence.

She, for one, was incredibly uncomfortable with all this silence and introspection with strangers, nonsense. She didn't work well with all this mystical subtext-- Yui was a woman of numbers.

Yui giggled, "Waiit..." She gestured to Roland with the glass, spilling some green liquid onto the floor in the process. Fuck, she thought in brief, she was tipsy... She sighed, and focused on speaking without that damn slur, "I'm sorry, but what you just said bothers me..."

Excellent. Still, she could speak"Power isn't the same thing as strength. If it was there wouldn't be a soul on Dust or Ash that hated an Immortal. Power is something people can respect-- it can exist esoterically, theoretically, it's something intangible, like a concept, and so people can appreciate it. But strength is something physical. You can't ignore strength, and you'll know what it is when you see it, because it's a physical, tangible thing. Those without strength will fear it, that's human nature."

She put her glass down, "In fact, I'd go so far as to say it's a coincidence that people with power also tend to posses strength. Immortals have strength unimaginable to most people-- even themselves-- but, at the same time, I can count on one hand the Immortals in our world with any real power."

Roland put his drink to the side, resting his chin on his steepled fingers as he observed the Prime Minister's major domo. Well, if there's one way to understanded a fella, it's by the company they keep. I'd reckon it's about time I find out just who exactly this lil' lady is...understanded? I better lay off the hootch for a bit in case this all goes tits up...

"I do suppose that I am possessing of the proclivity of agreein' with ya miss Miller, but I think we'll run into a Wittgensteinian style limit o' language if we don't stop these concepts from flyin' too high; While I'm sure you could use this as a means of thinkin' circles round me and my sun-addled noggin' I'd rather learn from this than be left confused when I'm eventually thrown out of this lovely vehicle of yours. To begin with, we should probably determine the difference between strength and power- at least to the degree where our tongues don't get tied up every five seconds. So I think that for the purposes of this conversation, we should use 'power' for the word that we use when talking about the material things whether it's bullets by the drum, or having a limo full of immortals at your beck and call. I ask that we use this word instead of strength, on account of the word strong also being used as induring in the vernacular of the land, somethin' that I have a feelin' is already creepin' up in this discussion of ours. Does that sound fine to you?"

While he had tried to hide it, the wondering vagabond couldn't help but feel a thrill at the idea of having discourse with others. In the few and farbetween spots of civilization that Roland would frequent more often than not he'd be assaulted, let alone have a conversation about...whatever this conversation was about.

"Uhhuh..." Nui could only articulate the bare acknowledgment and nod along, she found herself too enamored inconsidering the full state of a man, particulalry this man. This man had, in the same sentence; used the term Wittgensteinian accurately, and then proceded to label himself as possesing a 'sun-addled noggin'.' The juxtaposition took a moment to process, no thanks to her now numbed cognitive processes, but she was able to recognize after an extra moment of analysis that she didn't completely agree with his defintion of power.

"I'm right on board with you, in that, if we're going to do anything besides argue linguistics we should have clear definitions for what we mean when we say 'power' or 'strength'-- but therin lies the whole argument, right? Unless I'm hearing what you said wrong, you only considered power being different than strength, which implies without such a consideration you'd see them as one and the same. Whereas I'm approaching it from an inherently dualistic perspective." Nui paused to take a breath.

"I don't think power can be defined that simply, nor do I trust a colloquial understanding of strength to fully sum up what it can be as well as what it represents. I might be thinking of it all in terms of presonal preference, but I do believe that practically, the two concepts are separate, and that one-- strength-- is more easily understood universally, it deals more in the realm of the physical, although I think even outside of that it relates to a fortitude of any kind... An example..." Nui glanced around with her eye before settling on Roland, or more accurately, Roland's body, "You! I don't think anyone here would hesitate to say that based off appearance alone, you are certainly much physically stronger than I am. And they'd be absolutely right to think so, you literally just survived an experience I could never have, especially with the same ease you did. I'm also sure there are areas, perhaps less physical, where I eclipse you instrength-- that tends to be how humans function,"

"But... are you more powerful than I am? Could you overpower me?" She let the question hang in the still air of the limo.

"There's something that relates power to the psyche and the abstract in human nature, I think. It doesn't just ask that you sum up all the various strengths available to you, but that you also know how to use those combined strengths-- that power-- and use them effectively and efficiently in a way that dominates my person completely." Fuck it, Nui thought. She picked back up her drink,

"To go back to your... um... purely metaphorical examples, I'd argue merely having a gun doesn't give one any power-- strength in a way, yes-- but a gun has absolutely no power unless one has people to use that gun on, or threaten with that gun. Power is psychological. That's why having a... as you put it... a 'limo full of Immortals at your beck and call--' W-well! Not mine, my employer's!-- but you get the point, don't you...? Having that resource, the power comes from the cerebral element of having the Immortals under your command, not only their strength."

"But isn't the gun and the immortal the same thing in this instance?" Roland queried. "You're refering to 'cerebral' elements of having an immortal under your command, but the way I see it, the difference between the two is putting the gun to the back of a person's head, or the front. Sure it has the possibility of deterence like what the old world did with nukes, but even if you aren't blowin' their brains out you've still neutralized or 'dominated' them; just without pulling the trigger." Roland shook his head. "No, I do not believe that has differentiated itself from power, though I believe we are getting closer to our end goal. No...I think we can do better than that."

"Yes, but you're not acknowledging..."

The voices of the gruff wasteland explorer and her shrill lover faded into the background, similar to the hollow horde fading, from individual shapes into a black line on the horizon.

Lucania's eyes returned to the passing landscape as the pair argued. For a woman who dealt with numbers and prided herself on perfering strict realism over theoretical abstractions, Nui certainly had a tendency to argue linguistics to absurdity. The difference between power and strength didn't matter to her, she knew she possesed both-- she'd let history decide what the proper name for it would be.

Her present concerns were as follows; finalizing the purchase of Dead-End, seeing Lucy again, continuing the Forsaken-Laguna Stalemate, ensuring Vladimira didn't wind up dead-- or perhaps worse, (primarily due to the fact that Andrei would put all his military might behind ending whomever had caused her death, secondarily because she did feel an attachment to her former bodyguard), procuring more military support from the abandoned Aqueon regions, ending the ongoing civil strife in Harlem, seeing Aiai again in Harlem.

Of mild interest to her was the hollow swarm, whom the limo was now traveling parallel to. She had wondered why the trip to Dead-End had taken this long, and apparently it as because Carmela... or perhaps Octavia...? She mildly wondered who was driving her limo, she mildy wondered if the Gaens had horses, she mildly wondered if this Roland Chambers could be of use to her... Lucania mildly wondered many things.

Why was this morning taking so long?

She began to hum. Quietly-- it wasn't the hum of someone annoyed trying to end a heated discussion between a wasteland scholar and the closest thing he may have had to an Old World contemporary in the form of Nui. She was bored with it, but she was glad they were talking about something. No, this was the hum of a musician, a singer with a well-practiced skill that had long gone of unused. This was the athelete's twitch of muscle memory, her voice only barely escaping into the no-longer-silent cab. A the very slight melody of lukewarm wandernce of the busy mind.

Lucania sighed internally, perhaps of mild relief as the black line that was the hollow swarm began to dissapear. They'd be in Dead-End soon enough now.

The hum returned.

Lucania mildly wondered what was on the radio..

---

"On the off chance any of you wasteland flowers were wondering, even if only mildly, what song we're gonna play next, here you go. A treat for a long day's journey only barely begun;"

[kapuchu]

The roaring of a motorcycle stopped a short distance from the city limits of Russelgrad, known as Russell City the last time its rider had visited. The rider shut off the engine and stepped off, eyes covered by tinted riding goggles gazing up at the tall buildings. Though nothing like the hundred metre buildings she’d read existed before The Fall, but still enough to inspire awe in the her.

The rider was a young woman, by the looks of it, wearing a set of tight jeans and t-shirts which did little to hide her envious figure. Her hair was the colour of fire and held in a high ponytail, cascading down to her waist; past her posterior if she let it simply hand.

She exhaled a sigh and readjusted the bag she carried, tightening one strap before she started pulling her vehicle into the city proper, heading for whatever place was nearest where she could let her motorcycle be. Luckily it was only a short five minutes before she found something akin to a stables. A light eyebrow as red as her hair rose behind her goggles, displaying her surprise at finding someone who profited from people letting their vehicles stay.

Guess I shouldn’t be surprised. World of travellers like me… Gotta need a place to let our stuff be. She shrugged and pulled the bike closer, catching the eye of a thickset man in flowing garments meant to keep the sun out, but keep him cool; the kind of clothes just about everyone should be wearing in the desert-like sun. That is, except for people like the Rider. Evidently the man noticed that too, as his eyebrows rose in confusion and surprise when he noticed her lack of sleeves once his initial leer had run its cause up and down her body.

“Ye’re scantily clad for this weather, aren’t ya, girl?” He asked, placing his fists on his hips, pushing his chest—and round belly—out.

She cocked her head, then glanced down at her exposed arms as if surprised. When she looked up again she bore a wry smile on her lips. “It seems like that, doesn’t it?” She shook her head, and said, “I just need to have my bike stationed here for a while. How much is it for a day?”

The stablehand shrugged at her mock-innocent answer, opting to ignore it in favour of the prospect of business. “1 coins for twenty four hours, 2 for forty eight, and 2½ for seventy two hours. How long’ll it be, miss?”

Though the way he said ‘miss’ was the kind of laid-back, respectless way of saying it, the Rider took it as a legitimate honorific regardless. “Let’s say three days for now.” She dug into her backpack, fishing out a small handful of golden coins with a well-known face on it, and handed them to the Stablehand. “This should do, and an extra one for the certainty that my equipment is well taken care of, and secured?” She flashed him a smile, letting her lips part just enough to reveal her elongated canines, betraying a small bit of her identity.

The Stablehand gaped at her teeth, pointing a finger at her as he started to stammer. She grasped her goggles, lifted them enough to reveal her otherworldly green, and slitted, eyes, all the while bringing a finger to her lips. “Sssh. It’s our little secret, right?” She slid her goggles over her eyes again, shooting him a sweet smile. “Just keep my stuff safe, alright? That’s all I ask.”

He swallowed hard and nodded, some remnants of shock and fear remaining in his eyes even as she handed over her bike to him, and walked off waving at him over her shoulder.

She stretched her arms over her head, smiling widely. It had been a year since she’d last visited this place. A year since she had been separated from one of the first friends she’d made in a very long time, and it was time she found her again.

Evelina Quinn: Immortal, Wanderer, and Healer—had returned to Russell City, now Russelgrad.

[Antediluvixen]

Vladimira walked along the streets of Russelgrad, throwing cautious looks over her shoulder periodically. She didn’t expect to find another hit squad lurking in the heart of Wintergold territory, but it was a bustling city, hiding would be all too easy.

She made her way to a familiar bar that now served a double purpose as an information hub for the network of spies she’d set up beneath Lucania’s and her brother’s own. Those two could focus on the big Forsaken cities and Sicilian mansions, she was more interested in hearing what the local nerds up north were up to. If there was anyone who’d be in a position to offer things that would make a numerical inferiority irrelevant, it’d the the Gaens.

Or Wolfwater but sometimes you just had to have plasma rifles and power armor and she was tired of waiting for Stinger’s newly discovered science lab to dig something up.

Pushing her way into the Bitch’s Brew, her nose was greeted by the familiar stench of alcohol mixing with sweat and sex. Boozed up, sweaty sex in a bar run by the Mafia. She shook her head, at the very least people bothered to bathe on Ash, probably because of all the seawater and functioning showers in the old military bases, but the point still stood.

“Bartender!” She called above the din, making her way to the bar, the “new” bartender was a far cry from the old one, and had repeatedly tried to get a peek as payment before she’d gotten fed up and nailed him to the wall for 48 hours and smirked as the Castalia guards did nothing, she far outranked them after all. “Any news from little birds or grapevines?”

He started at her sudden entry, rushing over to pour a small glass of water and hurriedly answer, “Ah- no. Apologies. The Gaens still haven’t resolved power management issues and are still not ready to discuss pricing with your contacts. I’m sure if-” he stopped as she raised a hand.

“So, nothing’s changed, even after I sold them the supercapacitor schematics we found in Stinger? I might just have to go there myself, yeah.” She sighed, “Anything else? Anyone interesting stop by?”

He racked his brain, for a moment, giving Vladimira the impression she often got that the cogs might need a bit of oil, “Well, this one chick stopped by, seemed like your type. Nice hair, really red and stuff, not bad looking, seemed pretty nice, and smart.”

Raising an eyebrow, Vladimira nodded, downing the water and flipping a small coin onto the table, “Try not to sexually harass more people, mm’kay?”

She stood, striding briskly to the door, cloak catching the air and billowing out behind her - she’d had it modified to do that, it never got old. Standing in the doorway she looked right, then left, then right again, and left, before catching sight of a flaming red mass of hair on a woman who seemed rather underdressed. She seemed familiar, but…

From in front of the redhaired woman came another person, a rather burly man who didn’t seem to care much about who he passed by, or even who he bumped into. One such person he bumped into was the red haired woman, prompting her to turn around and silently glare at his back, receiving neither apology nor even a second glance.

That face. She knew that face.

Vladimira stared at the back of the woman, who she clearly remembered carting across the wasteland. It wasn’t even a case of a lookalike, she could tell. Somehow she was alive.

Relief washed over her, accompanied by a few tears streaking their way down her cheeks. She’d been haunted by that failure for a year, and yet right there down the street was proof that, whatever her name was, she was alive!

Brushing aside any traces of restraint she bolted after the woman, dodging pedestrians and vaulting over a wheelbarrow. Tomorrow she’d look back and nearly die of embarrassment she was sure, but right now she didn’t exactly care. “You’re alive!” She shouted as she neared her, actually jumping into the air and landing on the woman with a hug.

It was all the woman—Evelina—could do to not fall on her ass as a supposed stranger came bolting towards her, tackling her in a powerful embrace. She had only just managed to turn around before the ashen haired stranger barrelled into her, and awkwardly returned the embrace even as the other buried her face in her neck.

She hesitantly stroked the other woman’s back, not quite sure how to react to it all. “Of course I’m ali—” Something clicked, a memory from a year ago. Hair the colour of metal and ash, made of fine threads that seemed more metal in texture than actual hair. The muscular body underneath the clothes also did nothing to hide the identity of the stranger. “It’s you,” she whispered. “The one from… back then.” She smiled, fully committing to the embrace now, and wrapped both arms fully around her. “Yes, I’m alive. You don’t have to worry anymore,” she whispered, shutting out the world outside. Any and all onlookers didn’t matter right now.

Vladimira withdrew slightly, staring at Evelina for a second. “B-but. You were…” She broke off, poking Evelina in the unusually… squishy breastbone, “You don’t seem to be an android. How are you alive? I carried your bod- well, you, for hours after that fight and you didn’t do a whole lot but look really dead.”

Evelina smiled, gently squeezing Vladimira before she drew away, taking Vladimira’s hands in her own. “Let’s find a place to sit, I’ll explain everything to you. It’s not quite a long story, but there’s enough.” She looks around, trying to spot some place that would offer a bit of shade—not that the sun actually bothered her—and would allow them to sit down. The result of her survey was her gently pulling Vladimira towards a small restaurant, and the few tables situated outside, under the shade of a linen overhang.

Vladimira quirked an eyebrow, “A year’s gone by and you sound like an eighty year old retired adventurer taking the young whippersnapper aside to recount her escapades.” She snarked, nonetheless taking a seat as she shielded her eyes from the sun. “So, what’ve you been up to this past year? And why are you only back now? Wintergold’s set up a miniature empire of its own after the fall and/or capture of Russel. Surely it didn’t take you a year to wake up?”

Evelina sat down, brushing a stray lock of fiery hair out of her face, smiling gently at her once-savior. “Not quite. You see… I was wounded, seriously. Wherever you left me, an old couple, both of whom were doctors, found me and took me in. They had noticed I was still alive, and so decided that they would try to help me. Or rather, their—and my—oath compelled them to.” She tilted her head, looking quizzically at the ashen haired woman. “In case you don’t know, we doctors take an oath to help whoever is in need… So basically, they take me in and patch me up, doing everything in their power to keep me alive.” An almost nostalgic look passes over her face, disappearing just as quickly.

She reached for her shirt and pulled it up, revealing a long line of pale skin stretching from her navel to her hip, as well as exposing her toned belly and slightly visible abs. “This is the remains of the wound. It’s surprising that it healed up as well as it did.” She tucked her shirt back in, covering her abdomen and scar. “It took me about two months for it to heal well enough that they were certain it wouldn’t open up again, and that’s when I started my rehabilitation training.” She smiled then, gesturing at herself. “The results are as you see. A fair bit more lean than I was before. That took me a good month or so, before I could walk normally and such. After that, I was off to Parkland and to my parents. As you said, things were happening, and Motum Diversum were in a, pardon the language, pile of shit.” She grimaced. “I had to get my parents out. We relocated to Laguna where they currently live, and have for the past nine months. So about a month ago, when I deemed that my parents were in a good position, I went out on my own... “ Her cheeks flush at this point, her unusually pale skin—for the people on Dust—going pink with embarrassment. “I had someone I needed to find, which is why I’m here.”

Vladimira nodded, taking in the story before replying, “Lucania Castalia, head of the part of the Castalia family co-running Wintergold. To my knowledge, she’s not here right now.”

Evelina’s face is a mix of surprise and, if one noticed, a hint of sadness. “How’d you know she was the one I was looking for?” She blurts out before being able to stop herself. “I mean… Just… how?”

Vladimira raised an eyebrow at what seemed slight sadness, but put it aside for the moment, “There were three options as far as I saw it. One, just hope that the prospective girlfriend of one of the most powerful people on Dust suddenly disappearing wouldn’t end poorly. Tell her that said girlfriend had been killed by some Immortal turned Hollow or something, and hope that didn’t end even more poorly. Or tell her that said girlfriend had gone on a journey of some sort, and left her this as a memento while she was gone. Exact words I told her were, ‘something about not really needing it but hoping it’d help keep you safe’, she wasn’t exactly happy.” Vladimira fished around in her pockets for a moment before she landed upon the 10mm SIG Lucania had let drop to the floor a year ago, “I tried.” She sighed, flipping the gun in her hand so she was holding the barrel with the grip extended towards Evelina, “I kept it as a memento for myself, but now that you’re, well, okay you weren’t dead but you know what I mean.” She stumbled over her speech some more, “Fuck English. Just take it please before I make things awkward.”

“So that’s where it went,” she mused, gently grasping the handle of the gun, rolling the familiar weight in her hands. Almost by reflex she checked the magazine, finding it full, and shut it back in with a satisfying click. She let it rest in her lap, then, focusing on Vladimira once more. “So Lucania thinks that I left her?” She cringed. “I think I have an idea how that turned out… But maybe.” She glanced down at the gun. “Maybe she’ll believe me… I guess? If I tell her the truth, that is.” She blew air through her nose, still-bespeckled eyes going skywards. “You said she’s not here? When’ll she be back?”

“She should be back fairly soon actually, maybe even this time tomorrow. I was going to meet her myself to discuss matters pertaining to the Hedons, but as it turns out I have business with the nerds up north, apparently selling them supercapacitor schematics isn’t enough for a certain project, and I was wondering if you could keep an eye on her for a while? It’ll give you a little while to figure out how she’s changed and how to approach things. I’m hesitant to leave her unguarded because my little birds are telling me someone’s going to try something again after the recent purchase, and you’re just as capable of stopping that as I am. Not to mention if you do want to reunite with her, it’d be excellent context, you could tell her the gun was for protecting her after all and everything.”

As hopelessly romantic, and stupid, as the idea sounded, it was one that Evelina liked. She chuckled at it, covering her mouth with a surprisingly dainty hand. “I will admit, it’s a nice idea.” She smiled, tapping the gun with a nail. “I’ll take your advice. It’s… a nice sentiment, if nothing else.”