Home is where the heart is, or home is where you hang your hat.

A conflicting pair of sayings to be sure, which goes to show how different folks can be. My daddy believed in the first no doubt, having long since given his heart to my mama and made his home there at her side. That’s why he never put much effort into our house in New Hope, because a house without her could never be home. For him, home was up on a mesa about 300km east southeast from New Hope as the crow flies, and only a stone’s throw away from the cavernous Divide. A right dangerous location to be sure, one they chose out of desperation after a group of nearby settlers realized my parents had taken down a Proggie and had a steady source of crystal Aether to draw on.

Wasn’t exactly hard to figure out either. Back in those early months, most folks were running around with stone spearheads tied to sturdy sticks, while my daddy had himself not one, but two slam-fire Aetherarms my mama put together using clay tubes, tree sap, and twine along with the Spell Cores they got from their successful Proggie hunt on their very first day. Them guns had no Metamagics to speak of, took an ungodly amount of time to load, Prime, and fire, and were only good for a dozen or so shots before falling apart, but they was packing real heat in comparison to the rest. Guns were loud too, so they drew a lot of attention every time they were used, which was often enough to make my parents a target to a band of opportunistic bandits.

Now that I think about it, that was up by the Snake Fang Mountain Range, which borders the Coral Sands and Emerald Plains both. Was a little area with sand on one side, plains on another, and mountains for the backdrop. More importantly, it was only a few days ride northeast of Pleasant Dunes. Might explain how Gunin knew about my daddy then, having heard the tales of two Qin youngsters who fought off a group of ten opportunistic bandits and come out unscathed. Hell, might be Gunin was the one who done raided them, and Gunin’s friends the ones my daddy done killed with his knife in the dark before they even knew he was there. Maybe that was enough to send Gunin running for the hills, so scared that he kept an ear out for all of my daddy’s future accomplishments. Now wouldn’t that be something? Large as the Frontier might be, it’s still a small world out there, so who knows who’s crossed paths with who before?

That being said, my mama was three months pregnant at the time of the attack, and it scared her something fierce. Didn’t feel safe knowing there were others who knew what they had, because even now, some seventeen years later, a Proggie corpse is still worth killing for. An endless supply of crystal, that’s what it represents once you turn that corpse into an Aetheric condenser, all for the low, low cost of supplying it with enough biomass to fuel the process. Don’t take much either. Grass clippings, cooked bones, egg shells, or whatever else you have handy, all you gotta do is load it up into the tank and the condenser will secrete acidic fluids to break that biomass down and turn it into crystal Aether. Free money pretty much, albeit at a god-awful rate unless you got the tech, materials, and know-how to make a proper industrial condenser, as well as the power and resources to maintain it, what with all the heat and gasses and whatnot, so it ain’t as lucrative as you’d think.

Problem is, most old worlders were promised riches and splendour here on the Frontier, most of which came in the form of owning one such condenser, so the fact that my parents had one three months after the Advent made them prime targets for anyone and everyone who knew about it. So, being young and scared, my mama decided their best option was to skedaddle some six-hundred klicks south of where they started, averaging over twenty klicks a day on foot before settling down on a mesa next to Grand Proggie Station. Was a dangerous and inhospitable location to be sure, but one well away from human civilization, or what might’ve passed for it back in those days. Even as a kid, I thought her decision was a touch extreme, but my daddy said it was what they was taught, to fear the ‘foreign devils’ who’d sooner kill them than look at them. As you might tell by their name, the Qin Vanguard came here to wage war, to fight for territory and secure the wealth of the Frontier for the Republic, wealth which should’ve all been theirs to start with. That’s how my mama saw it, the world against the Qin, which was why she was running scared; she thought she was vastly outnumbered and only had one soldier to rely on.

Yea, theirs was a strange dynamic to be sure. My mama called the shots, while my daddy was happy to obey, all because she’d been given a rank by some government official that said she was much more important than him. Never did learn how she earned it, or why her brother is so similarly high ranked, but I imagine there’s some sort of nepotism at work there. My mama was brilliant to be sure, but even if she was put in some super special learning program alongside her brother, most folks don’t teach kids the Spell Formula for Fireball without good reason. That’s how I learned it after all, as it was one of the first things my mama scribbled down onto paper as soon as she figured out how to make it. I’ve looked over those notes so many times they’re ready to fall apart at a touch, and Mended them even more times since, so much so that I don’t dare touch them anymore and had to make copies to pore over instead.

My daddy rarely talked about my mama, not unless I asked him direct, but he didn’t have to say anything at all to know how he felt about her. When I was young, I always hated celebrating my birthday, because my daddy was never around for it. He’d always make a trip back to the mesa to pay his respects at my mama’s grave, and I thought that meant he blamed me for her death and couldn’t stand to see me round that time of year. Had to be it, because even for him, it was a gruelling, seven-day trip through the badlands, and he’d come home more than once with a nasty new scrape or scar to show for his efforts. Never stayed there for long either, as he was usually back within a week of my birthday, meaning he spent less than a day or two out at the mesa, and the rest of the time travelling there and back.

So why else would he go to see her every year instead of staying home to celebrate Christmas, my birthday, and New Years with me and the family?

Childish and selfish is what that is, but it’s how I felt right up until my eight birthday, when my daddy finally brought me out to the mesa for the first time. Was a right frightful journey it was, since I didn’t know much about anything and my daddy had to keep warning me about this or that. Thought he was trying to scare me something fierce so I didn’t pay it any mind until a burrowed borer beetle Feral popped out of the ground while I was making water and tried to make a snack of my giblets. After that, I heeded every word of sage advice my daddy gave me, and a good thing too. Got into three more fights with Abby before we made it to the mesa, and that’s after running away from a fair few more. When he pointed it out in the distance, I was so grateful to be there, because it meant we were one day closer to heading back home and safety behind the walls of New Hope.

My mama’s grave is nothing special. A bare plot in the ground and a rough-hewn tombstone to mark it, with a second plot dug out right next to it. That’s all there was the first time I saw it, so I didn’t really know how to feel. To me, my mama was a stranger no different from any other, the woman who birthed me but one I ain’t ever known. So after running my fingers over the characters ‘Zhu Li Na’, I glanced at my daddy to see if that was enough, and I’ll never forget the look on his face. He wasn’t what you’d call an emotive man, a real calm and quiet sort so different from myself. Wasn’t no big smiles from him, or angry scowls neither, just a cold, stony expression that wasn’t ice-cold like Sarah Jay’s, but wasn’t exactly warm and welcoming neither. Wasn’t much difference between his happy face and angry face, or at least that’s what I thought until I saw the love and longing in his eyes as he stood over my mama’s grave.

Ain’t no describing it, but I reckon we all seen it once or twice before. Uncle Raleigh and Aunty Ray had those eyes for each other, which is how I knew my daddy loved my mama so. They only spent a short nine months together, but I think that if it wasn’t for me, he would’ve lain down in the grave beside her and followed her right into the afterlife. That’s why he kept coming back here year after year, because that rocky little plot of dirt was home to him. Not our house in New Hope, and not the shabby shack he built with my mama up on the mesa, and not wherever he happened to hang his hat. Home was the open plot in the ground next to my mama, one he dug up the same time he dug hers, and one that sat empty for a long fourteen years before I brung him home to rest.

Yea, my daddy loved me dearly and moved heaven and earth to make sure I never wanted for nothing, but his heart died the day I was born, because he’d given it to my mama who took it with her to the grave.

Might be there comes a day when I meet a little lady who makes me feel the same way, though I can’t even imagine it. Attraction I get, as I do got me an eye for the ladies, but love is a mystery to be sure. I’ve met plenty of lovely ladies in my time, and have come to know a fair few in recent days, like Sarah Jay, Kacey, and Noora. Thing is, though they all pretty as a picture to look at, I can barely stand spending the whole day with any one of them. Not because they ain’t good company for the most part, as I’m the problem, not them. I just don’t like being around people much, and even Tina can get on my last nerve after spending too much time together. Only exception I’ve ever known is Chrissy, and I don’t mind having her around because she depends on me, which changes the dynamic.

All this only goes to show that for me, home ain’t this tiny house in New Hope either. Much as I love this town and take pride in the history I got here, if the town were to become uninhabitable for any reason at midnight tonight, I’d be out the gates by 12:15 at the latest without so much as blinking an eye. Would be sad to lose a few things, like the primitive Aetherarms my mama made hanging on the walls or the house Uncle Raleigh built, but so long as the people make it out okay, then we can always rebuild. That’s how I see it, which is why I consider home wherever I hang my hat. It’s the open road that’s got my heart, with the wild Frontier just waiting to be explored and conquered, and there’s nothing I love more than seeing it in all its glory. Once all is said and done, I always figured I’d eventually make my way back to my parents’ side, laid out in the ground right next to them up on the mesa in the badlands. Except now, I gotta rethink my entire life, because I bet big in Pleasant Dunes and came out on top, but not unscathed. Now, the open road is no longer my home, or at least not one I can make it in as I am. A harsh pill to swallow, but them’s the facts, so ain’t nothing to do but keep on carrying on and figure out what to do next.

Can’t bring myself to do it though, not while I blink out the last vestiges of sleep as I lay there in bed, too awake to fall back asleep but in too much pain to get up and go on about my day. Instead, I stare at the wooden supports holding up the brick ceiling, ignore the burning pain in my wrist, and ponder how to turn this house into a home for real, a home in which I will live out the rest of my new life right here in New Hope.

Won’t be all that bad really. Could find a job doing something or another, maybe Etching Artifacts, construction work, or even a factory gig over in Riverrun. I’d work from sundown to sunup earning a wage like any other, only to spend it all on drink and drugs to numb the boredom and drudgery away. Get me a wife maybe, someone easy on the eyes with a heart of mithril and a Darksteel Spine to keep me in check, because Lord knows I need a firm hand. We’d make ourselves a family, with two kids at least, one boy and one girl ideally. I’d be home for all the holidays and never miss a single one of their birthdays, and we could even get a pet or three to help fill out the house. One I’d have to rebuild and remodel from the ground up, because fine as my daddy’s workmanship might’ve been, he wasn’t all that concerned about aesthetics or livability. I’d hafta build us a proper house and home, just like the one Uncle Raleigh built next door, with two stories, four bedrooms at the minimum, and a ranch out back for our wallies, cattle, and horsies to graze and stretch their legs. I’d make mead and sell it to shops in town, while my wifey would bake sweet treats for the kids which I’d steal with a smile, and Aunty Ray would spoil them silly with love and care. Life wouldn’t be perfect, as it rarely ever is, but we’d have each other, one big happy family.

All of which sounds fine on paper, so why’s the mere thought of it bring tears to my eyes?

It’s because I’m the Firstborn of this here Frontier. The frontrunner of an entire generation so vastly separated from the last. The youngest person older than me has got a good sixteen years, while most got twenty at the very least. Means that when it comes to older role models, I’ve only ever had folks from my parents’ generation, whereas some are closer to my grandparents like Uncle Teddy. As for the other kids, they look up to me, so I had to work hard to set the standard for excellence and become a goal for them to aspire to. That’s how my daddy framed it, because the Qin put a lot of stock in seniority, even if it’s only by a few days or weeks. The Federation does too, though not formally and not as much, so folks have always expected more from me on account of my age, and I ain’t ever been one to disappoint. I worked harder than most adults to get as far as I did, gave up on making friends and hanging out like all the other kids my age just so I could put those extra hours to good use, and it shows.

Showed. Because after all of that hard work and sacrifice, what do I got to show for it now? Nothing, that’s what, because this is where I ended up all the same. Right here in New Hope with one hand and a bleak future, to live out the rest of my days as a townie like any other.

Ain’t like I got something against townies, not really. Most are a good enough sort, and the very best of us are probably townies, the folks who’ll lead us forward into the future of the Frontier. Can’t fight Abby without the factories in New Hope churning out guns, ammo, and gear week after week, or brilliant men like Armand Kalthoff to illuminate the way forward into the future. I only mention guns and gear because that’s what I know, but I’m sure there are other shining examples of townies to draw on out there. Folks who find new things like the bricks, linens, and papers my mama crafted, or more advanced stuff like medicines and materials. Can’t live without them, that there is the truth, because they the ones doing all the important stuff, like making sure we all got enough food to make it through the winter and whatnot.

Thing is, for all the vital and important work they do, I never saw myself as a townie. No, I wanted to be a Ranger, one of the brave men and women defending the townies from the dangers of the Frontier. As a kid, I wanted to be like my daddy, delving under dark and clearing Proggies out by the dozens, or Marcus hunting bandits and bringing them to justice, Frontier or otherwise. In recent years, I figured it wouldn’t be all that bad to be like Tim either, someone feared but respected because others knew they could count on him in a pinch. Was a goal I worked towards all my life, and one I almost lost when the Rangers disavowed my daddy. Thought I found my way around it by aiming to work freelance, so I could have all the upsides with none of the down. Came face to face with reality in Pleasant Dunes though, when I saw how much effort the Rangers were putting into their boots, and realized that my dreams of getting trained up the same way was all just a pipe dream that would never come to pass. Why put all that money, time, and effort into training me, if I’m just gonna turn around and charge them once I’m good and ready?

And then, before I could even mourn the loss of my dream much less move on from it, I lost everything all at once when Ronald Fucking Jackson had Franky lop off my hand. Forget being a gunfighter or Spellslinger. As I am now, I’ll have trouble enough just being a townie.

A creak at the door gets me moving right quick, as if the Frontier is keen to show me just how hard life is gonna be. Pain shoots through me as I reach for my weapon safe, only to remember halfway that I don’t have a hand there to open it with. That stops me right quick, and I sink back into bed when I realize there ain’t nothing to be alarmed about, because the Alarm I got inlaid on the doors and windows never went off. Nor does the Shocking Grasp Glyph on the doorknob meant to give intruders a real rude awakening, and it don’t take much in the way of brains to figure out why. Not two seconds later, the door to my room opens and Chrissy pokes her head in to see what’s what, only to find me sitting in bed ready and waiting to greet her.

“Morning Princess,” I say with a smile. Not my biggest or brightest, but the best I can muster. Ain’t had much to smile about lately, and still feel like one giant bruise all over, with all of my muscles tight and sore at best. Little woozy too, from sitting up so fast, but that ain’t on Chrissy, so I muster up what little cheer I got so as not to bring her down. Should’ve known better, because she was never one to let what others do affect her much, paying my greeting and my smile no mind as she waltzes right on in with her slippers still on to kneel at my bedside. Reaching for my right arm, she takes me gently by the forearm and brings it up for a closer look, peering at the bloodied brown bandages with her pale purple eyes likes she’s a Diviner out of the television stories the old worlders put one. They’re always tossing bones or reading tea leaves before muttering something cryptic and ultimately unhelpful, as if they can see the future and can’t be bothered to speak in plain English.

That ain’t how Divination works though. If I could read the future, I’d get in a whole lot less trouble, that’s for sure. Can only read the present though, which is usually too late to avoid said trouble, but enough to get me out of it intact. Not this time though, and while the lessons I learned in Pleasant Dunes didn’t cost me an arm and a leg, I figure a hand and a father figure comes up a fair bit more. Still ain’t wholly settled up on the butcher’s bill just yet either, but ain’t no sense worrying till I see the final figure and the Feds come a calling. Instead, I focus on the here and now, putting up a brave front as Chrissy looks my bandaged stump over for a good long minute, her eyes focused and gaze alert in a rare show of active perception. Ain’t nothing magic about my injury, so there ain’t no magic for her eyes to see, but she stares this way and that all the same as if there’s more to it than missing flesh and bone.

“Hand’s gone,” she says, meeting my eyes with her customary lack of expression. Her sorrow is clear as day though, to those who know how to read her. The slump of her shoulders, the set of her jaw, the glint in her eyes, it all tells me she’s on the verge of tears, and it hurts me more than any beating or mutilation ever could.

“That it is,” I reply, staying easy breezy as can be. “Rest of me is still here though, so don’t you worry about nothing. I’m fine, and things’ll be back to normal in no time.”

Lifting her head for a rare moment of direct eye contact, Chrissy sees right through my bluster. “Liar,” she whispers, without any heat behind the word, only a direct declaration of fact.

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She’s got me there, so I take a breath, purse my lips, and try to frame things in the best way possible. “I’ll be fine,” I say. “Soon enough. Just need some time is all.” She doesn’t say anything, just cradles my stump in her hands and blinks out a few tears, fat, dewy droplets that soon turn into a stream. “Don’t cry, Princess,” I say, casting Mage Hands to grab a clean kerchief and wipe her tears, but they don’t slow down any, not even when I stroke her hair. Ain’t nothing left to do but sit there and comfort her until she’s all cried out, and the strange thing is, it makes me feel better to have her cry for me. Cried for Marcus before he passed, then shed a manly tear at his funeral, but I ain’t cried for myself just yet. Felt like it early on, but then the days went by without much of a change, and I just became numb to the loss. Wasn’t till I got home last night and saw how Chrissy and Aunty Ray reacted that reality hit home again, and before I know it, I’m quietly crying right there alongside Chrissy and mourning the loss of my dreams again.

And when we both all cried out, I wipe both our tears and give her a smile. A small one, not stretched and toothy, just a quirk of the lips is all, but it’s real as can be. “Thanks Chrissy,” I whisper, my throat horse from holding back my sobs, because even though she wouldn’t care one whit, I still got an image to maintain. “Love you lots.” Add in a quick three squeezes to make sure the message get through loud and clear, and she squeezes right back harder than usual as she clenches my left hand tight. Then she does it again, and again, and again, to let me know she’s here for me, and I can almost understand how my daddy felt about his home on the mesa. Wasn’t the bricks that made it home, nor the smoothed stone floor or crude furniture meticulously arranged all about, nor was it my mama’s grave sitting right next to it. No, it was the memories he made there that made it home, and this memory here with Chrissy brings me one step closer to the same.

Because home is where the heart is, and my home is wherever Chrissy, Tina, and Aunty Ray might be. They’re family, not by blood, but by choice, one I’m thankful for each and every day. That’s a large part of why I worked so hard and sacrificed so much. Not just because of my love for the road or to seek vengeance for my daddy. As the only man of the family, it falls on my shoulders to defend it, so I had to sharpen up and get ready for whatever may come. Not saying women are helpless, but there are some things that only a man can do, like ward off the evils of this world without having to fire a shot. Sure, Aunty Ray, Tina, and even Chrissy can take care of themselves, but it ain’t about their competence. It’s about the fact that there are unscrupulous fellows out there who’ll see them as victims first and foremost, meaning they need a reason not to attack them, rather than a reason to.

Yea, I love the Frontier something fierce. It’s the people I could do without.

Course, losing a hand don’t mean my job has changed any, just how I go about it. Can’t keep ahead or even keep up with only one hand, but I don’t gotta be the best of the best to protect and provide for my family. Still gotta work hard, only the type of work has changed now, and I ain’t afraid of hard work. Plus, there’s still a chance there’s some way to make up for the loss of my right hand. There are questions to ask and brains to pick before I come up with a proper plan, but there’s still hope yet. So why am I mourning before I know its all good and lost? Gotta keep my head up and my spirits bright, because half the battle is showing up, and here I am ready to quit when the fight’s barely even begun.

Can’t do that. There are people who love and depend on me, and a whole life yet to be lived, even if I won’t be the Firstborn anymore. Was always about more than just the circumstances of my birth, but also the expectations that come with it. First of a new generation, the first generation of the Frontier, the ground breakers and trailblazers who’d set the trend for everyone who came after them. Can’t be that man anymore, not with only one hand, because in the time it’ll take for me to get back to square one, the others will have overtaken me by then. Some were already damn close, like Tina, Kacey, Michael, and Alfred, while others ain’t all that far behind, meaning I’ll be eating their dust before summer’s end, and left far behind by Christmas.

Ain’t even April yet, so round about eight months till I fall off hard. Don’t seem like much time at all, but Pleasant Dunes was the crucible within which the first group of boots were forged, and most have come out stronger for it. Not to mention the fact that they’ll have six months of on-the-job training by New Years, which’ll sort you out right quick. Ain’t much room for mistakes out there, not for Ranger recruits, so they’ll either shape up or wash out, no two ways about it. Those that stay will have those expectations hoisted upon their shoulders, the stand-out characters of the Frontier’s first generation and the future of the American Rangers.

As for me? I’m just Howie Zhu now. Not the Firstborn, and not much of a Yellow Devil either, though I might not have much say as to whether folks’ll call me the latter. That’s for later me to worry about though, so for now, I send Chrissy out of my bedroom so I can get dressed. Pausing at the door, she turns back, tilts her head, and says, “Mama says, ‘Make sure he puts on somethin’ nice and bright, like his blue button up with his cream-coloured pants. No hat either, so remind him to brush his own hair, ‘kay?”

It’s always a treat when Chrissy repeats something her mama or sister says. For some reason, she don’t got the same twang the rest of us got, but rather speaks in slower and more precise tones like Uncle Teddy or my daddy. Can do voices like no one else though, and Aunty Ray’s southern drawl fits Chrissy to a tee, adding a lively splash of colour to her otherwise monotone voice. Which is why I pretend I didn’t hear her and ask her to say it all again, and it brings another genuine smile to my face. Knowing Aunty Ray’s suggestion was more of a polite demand, I dress up in my Sunday best and curse my past self for not taking Ron’s silver cuff-links. Would’ve look mighty fine on me indeed, though I might’ve gotten some strange looks for wearing jewellery scavenged off a dead man. One who was on fire the last I saw him, so it wasn’t like I could’ve put him out and picked his pockets. Got his guns though, which I collect from my wagon’s gun safe alongside the rest of my Aetherarms before heading over to Aunty Ray’s, with Chrissy clutching my right arm and a shoulder bag of weapons slung over my left.

That’s how I appear when I walk through the door, though I’m not so sure what Aunty Ray sees as she watches me come in. Got a look in her eyes that’s halfway between proud and distraught as she stands at the stove cooking up a feast, all of which she puts aside to greet me with a hug. “Look at you,” she says, and not in a complimentary way, but with a tone full of love and worry. “Like you been chewed up, spit out, and dragged along ten miles of bad road.” Carefully extracting my right arm from Chrissy’s two-armed grasp, Aunty Ray looks the stump over with a disapproving ‘tch’. “Chrissy, be a dear and get the kit,” she says, all sugar and spice before turning up the heat to hit me with a glower. “You ought to know better. Got to change the dressing daily and check for signs of infection and gangrene.”

Shrugging, I can’t help but smile and say, “Worst comes to worst, Uncle Art could always just shave a little more off the top. Not like it’d make much of a difference.”

Giving my head a soft rap with her knuckles, Aunty Ray gets all huffy and indignant. “Shows what you know. Infection could spread or worse, poison your blood and leave you sick as a cat in a room full of rocking chairs.” Which don’t make much sense at all, but I know better than to say as much, because my smart aleck mouth done got her good and riled. Gingerly wrapping me in another big hug, she strokes my hair the way I stroked Chrissy and presses her cheek right up against my temple. “We makin’ big strides and breakin’ new ground every day now,” she says, all choked up and emotional as can be. “Might not have anything to get you back to one-hundred percent, but any improvement is better than none. Even if there ain’t nothin’ to be done, don’t let that get you down. You’ll bounce back from this in no time flat, and go on to do whatever it is you wanna do with your life. Don’t matter what it is, so long as you happy and safe, understood?”

“Got it, Aunty Ray,” I say, resisting the urge to clear my throat of the phantom blockage that’s found its way there, because what I want is to be the Firstborn again and all that the title entails. Ain’t no sense in crying over spilt milk though. Best to move on right quick, so I push past the pain and look to the future instead. There’s no fooling Aunty Ray though, who pulls back out of the hug to shoot me with a suspicious glare, having read me like a book without so much as having to flip through the pages. Doesn’t say anything, just looks at me in question, and I can’t help but explain. “Just hate havin’ let everyone down is all. Know they was expectin’ a lot from the Firstborn, and there ain’t no way for me to measure up anymore.”

“Oh Howie.” Taking me by the cheeks, Aunty Ray forces me to look her in the eyes instead of down at my feet. “It’s true your daddy expected a lot out of you, and maybe the Marshal too, but that’s because of who they are. They saw how you excelled and didn’t want you to waste all that potential, because they knew you had it in you to be great. You still do, but Lord knows I argued about your training with your daddy often enough, fought tooth and nail to keep him from bringing you gallivanting about at the tender age of six, but once Ming got an idea in his head, there wasn’t no one who could talk him down besides Raleigh.”

Seeing I got my hackles up, Aunty Ray stops and smooths my hair with a pout, as if she wasn’t the one who mussed it up to begin with. “You the same way in that regard,” she says, pinching my cheek ever so gently, “So I know there ain’t no changin’ your mind. You, your daddy, and the Marshal, y’all saw a future with you as the Firstborn, some big, bad gunfighter and Spellslinger who’d show Abby and outlaws what’s what, a boy who’d grow into a man fit to lead the next generation of Rangers and conquer the Frontier. That changed some after your daddy’s death, but not by much, and nowhere near enough, because I know how heavy those expectations were weighing on you.”

Shaking her head, she cuts herself off before getting too far off track, because she can sense my guard going up. “You know what I think of when I hear you call yourself the Firstborn?” Her eyes tear up as she looks at me with a smile, only it ain’t me she’s seeing. “I think of that baby boy who came into our lives out of nowhere on the last day of December that first year. A beautiful, darling little thing with the sweetest smile and chubbiest cheeks, so quiet we all thought you were already dead until you scrunched your face up at the cold.” Shaking her head as she comes back to reality, she looks me dead in the eye to keep me from speaking up. “You don’t know how it was back then. We’d come from the old world, with food, shelter, and comfort aplenty. Even the worst off back home lived better than we did in those early days, and we’d been doing it for eight, long gruelling months with no end in sight. Then we marched through the badlands and out to the Divide, and when we saw what we were up against, wasn’t a single one of us who thought we’d come out on top.”

Wiping her cheeks dry, Aunty Ray heaves a soft sigh. “Then you came along, and we all had hope again. Hope for the future, not just ours, but yours too, and it was a beautiful thing. Your daddy, he fell asleep dead on his feet soon as he arrived, but the rest of us were fighting to hold you. Well, not Mr. Elten,” she corrects herself, with a wry purse of her lips. “Aaron wouldn’t let him. Too scared he’d do something wrong, even though Mr. Elten wouldn’t hurt a fly without his say so.” Waving the errant thoughts away, she rallies back with a smile. “That’s what the Firstborn means to me, Howie, and that’s what it meant to Marcus. I know as much because he told me so himself, said seeing you gave him the courage to go home to Simone and start a family, because he had hope again.”

We share a teary little smile in memory of the big man, and I hope Marcus is happy with Darren in Heaven right now. “Thanks Aunty Ray,” I say, giving her another hug because she needs it almost as much as I do. “Needed that little pep talk.”

“Hardly,” she says, kissing my temple ever so lightly before setting me free. “You a smart boy who grew up into a fine man, as well you should seeing how I half raised you myself, so you got no quit in you.”

“More than half,” I say, and wouldn’t you know it, she beams ever so brightly to hear it. Still can’t bring myself to call her ‘mom’, but she’s the closest thing I’ve ever had to it, and done more for me than most mothers would. Family, that’s what I got here in New Hope, that and a home she’s never had to welcome me into because in her eyes, this is my home too. Home is where the heart is for Aunty Ray too, and her heart has always been with her kids, Tina, Chrissy, and me.

Showing she knows more than she lets on, Chrissy strolls on in with the first aid kit in hand, having hidden away in the bathroom so we could have our little heart to heart. Welcoming her over with open arms, Aunty Ray gives Chrissy all the extra affection she knew I’d balk at, including far too many kisses and a hug that’s much too tight and constricting. Chrissy loves it though, melts right into her mama’s arms and delights in the attention while I get to changing my bandages myself at the kitchen table. Ain’t no hiding it from either of them, and the wound underneath is still ugly and raw, the surface scabbed over and broken too many times to count. “Looks worse now than it did when it was fresh,” I say with a smile, hoping to ease the pain in their hearts. “Same’s true for the rest of me too. Never seen an uglier shade of yellow than a bruise that’s almost healed.”

Neither one of them buys it, and their sorrow cuts to the quick, so I tend to my stump as quick as I can without drawing Aunty Ray’s ire. Then I’ve no choice but to sit still while she dabs this or swabs that onto my many scrapes and bruises and resists the urge to ask about what went down, while Chrissy watches on with a doleful air about her, one that’s got both me and Aunty Ray all worked up and worried. Ain’t until Tina comes down to join us that I find a reprieve, because Aunty Ray knows her daughter is an easier nut to crack. While my sorta-sister faces the inquisition, I slip away with my bag in tow and open up the gun room, where I set to putting my weapons away for what feels like will be a good, long time. The Ranger Repeater goes up onto the wall first, the trusty 22-10 carbine I been using for years now, first to hunt big game, and then Abby in the badlands with my daddy. The Model 10 goes next, a new compact and deadly addition to my arsenal that I’ve come to love so dearly, but one too dangerous to use as an everyday carry, so even though our time together was short and bittersweet, I’ll always remember it fondly.

The next few guns are less sentimental, though it hurts to see them all the same. The Squires I lent to Errol and Sarah Jay go back in the drawer, and the 3-Line finds a new place on the wall, one lower than where it used to sit before because I got other ideas for the prize spot in the room. Wasn’t no discussion about my two prospects going back to Basic, because there wasn’t nothing to be discussed. No future to be had riding with a cripple, so they moved on to greener pastures. Can’t blame them for it, especially considering how Errol’s now a crusading paladin capable of smiting Abby into oblivion. Told him he was the talented one, but he didn’t believe it, so at least things worked out for him. As for Sarah Jay, she’ll do great in the Rangers, and will likely be fast tracked to Lieutenant before she turns twenty-five, maybe even Captain before she’s thirty. New talent will be needed in the ranks, both officer and grunt alike, especially in light of recent losses.

Which means they don’t need my guns or my teachings no more. Funny thing is I was ready to call it quits with the both of them, and now I’m bitter they’ve moved on. Sour grapes is all, but it don’t make a bad day any better.

The twin Whumpers go into the cabinet along with their compressors, as the bulky weapons are too fat to sit up on the wall, and I curse my past self for splurging on two, even if they were both sorely needed. Now they’re dead weight unless I care to sell them at a loss, because Tina was never one for using Blastguns and Aunty Ray got her favourites already picked out. Leaves me with nothing to do but pack them away and figure out where to put my new additions, starting with the big irons that once sat on Ronald Jackson’s hips. Two twin Naga’s with their shiny steel barrels and polished redwood grips, each one bigger than my Rattlesnake by more than half. A whole lot of gun is what they are, and I doubt I could’ve used one with my right hand alone, not with how much they liable to kick. Real pretty pieces though, right shiny and prettied up with an embossed frame full of golden patterns that ain’t Etches, only decorations that really make it pop.

Which means they deserve a spot on the wall, so I move a few guns to make room for them underneath what will be the centrepiece of the room, the long-barrelled, bolt-action rifle I took off of Gunin. The peach-wood stock is pale as can be, save for the black rings from the wood which give it some extra pop, and even unprimed, the golden-hued Orichalcum Etchings seem to glow in the light. Got a bit of tarnish on it already, and I resist the urge to break out my polish to rub it away right quick, but there’s no stopping once I’ve started and I don’t got the time to spare. Better to just put it away for now and come back to it later, even if it hurts my heart to leave such a pretty piece be. Asked around a bit and found out the rifle’s based on a blueprint called the Nanfoodle, or more accurately, the 1370 DR Firebolt. Takes an overpacked 44-80 round, meaning it’s a Bolt 1 rifle with twice the Metamagics of my Ranger Repeater, at the cost of added wear and tear on the barrel and receiver. Comes standard with a 10-round magazine, but I didn’t stop to pocket any extras from Gunin. Really goes to show how I wasn’t in my right mind, because them custom mags and overpacked rounds don’t come cheap. It’s an issue of reliability, in that the more expensive the weapon, the more reliable you want it to be, so the variance on parts is lowered and you end up rejecting a lot of pieces that might’ve been fine otherwise.

Either way, it’s the most expensive gun in the room by far, and likely the most powerful too if you measure shot for shot. It’s a silent, long-range killer that’ll light up the skies for miles around, showing any and all looky-loo’s what business you on about. Got the full suite of Intensify, Empower, and Maximize Metamagics, as well as Piercing to get through Spell Resistance, Burning to set your targets aflame, and Ignite to make those fires keep going long after the Spell’s duration is done. The Brits used the 1370DR to great effect in the Second World War, outfitting their commandos and dropping them behind enemy lines to take out fuel and ammo depots with a single shot, and I wish I could’ve gotten my hands on this back when I had both of them to work with.

Unfortunately, I doubt I’ll ever get to fire it proper, and won’t be able to use it or most of the guns in this room. Even with a prosthetic, I’ll have to learn to shoot with my left, since that’ll have to be my dominant hand from here on out. The Nanfoodle and every other rifle here is built for right-handed shooting, and while you technically could still use them left-handed, you’d have to move the weapon more so you weren’t ejecting the brass right out in front of your face every time you shoot. Never really thought about how most guns are fitted for righties, and now that I’m not one anymore, it seems mighty unfair, but that’s the way of the world now. Ain’t nothing to do by grin and bear it, so I set the Nanfoodle on the wall and marvel at the golden Etches across the stainless-steel barrel.

Won’t have much use for any of these guns in the coming months, seeing how I’ll be stuck in town for a good, long bit. Doubt I’ll need the Doorknockers and the Rattlesnake either, but I can’t bring myself to put them away. Time was I only carried the single revolver in town, but seeing how I got the Rattlesnake sitting on my left hip now, I know I won’t be as quick or accurate as I’m used to. Better to walk softly and carry a big stick after all, or two smaller, double-barrelled ones that’ll ruin anyone standing within a five-metre cone in front of them. Besides, the sawn-off Forzare’s have got a special place in my heart, being the first guns I ever commissioned and paid for using my own hard-earned cash.

Granted, Mr. Kalthoff gave me a deep discount on them, another person I’ve no doubt disappointed with my failure, because he too was expecting great things from the Firstborn. Anita the Grocer, Trevor the Cobbler, Quartermaster Lacey, the list of people who’ve helped me out over the years and put their trust in me goes on and on, and I don’t know how to face them now that I’m less than what I was.

I’ll cross those bridges when I get there though, and push on forward one I realize I’ve been waffling for fear of facing facts. There are only two more guns left in my bag, and even taking them out is enough to bring tears to my eyes. Simply calling them revolvers would be doing the guns an injustice, because they’re so much more than just that. For starters, there ain’t no Bolt Cores in these revolvers, but six Blast Cores, meaning everything else had to be sized up to accommodate. Got a grip so thick I can’t touch my fingers with my thumb while my hand is closed around it, and an extra long cylinder that makes the body of the gun look more rectangular than most. Add in a huge rifled barrel you could stick your thumb in with room to spare and all that extra metal lends a real heft to the weapons, which comes in to just over a two kilos a piece when fully loaded. A real heavy sidearm built for power over all else, these Blastguns take a 12’ gauge 40 grain shell and come fully loaded with all the bells and whistles. Not just Intensify, Empower, and Maximize, but Distant and Extend Duration too, allowing you to adjust the cone of fire from each Blast to reach up to 40m in a pinch. Wouldn’t count on hitting anything with much precision at even half that range, but it beats not being able to hit anything at all beyond five metres. To top it all off, the weapon has Penetrating Metamagic too, which is what earned them the nickname ‘The Judge’, because should you ever find yourself measured against one, then you will most certainly be found wanting.

These six-shooter Blastguns are real sweet, but they ain’t exactly popular, because they are a whole lot of gun that most can’t handle. Marcus could though, which is why he used them as his sidearms for as long as I can remember. Now they’re here with me, because Simone didn’t want them. Always hated how folks called Marcus the Judge, because it dredged up bad memories of dark times in both their lives, times they’d moved past in recent days. Rather than be reminded of all that unpleasantness, Simone gave the guns to me. Said they should go to someone who’d appreciate them for what they were, and that maybe someday, I’d make use of them again, once I was back up on my two feet.

An amazing woman, Simone is. Even though she’d just found out she’d lost her husband, she still had it in her to think of me, to whisper a word of encouragement to help me through my dark times while mired in a pit of darkness all her own. Wish I could’ve stayed longer to help her out, but wasn’t my choice to make, so here’s hoping she’s got friends and loved ones to help her in Meadowbrook, because she’ll most certainly need them.

The twin Judges go up on the wall where my Forzares usually hang, looking all big, black, and imposing just like the man who used them. Wasn’t cold like them though, as Marcus was as sweet as could be, making sure to let me know it wasn’t my fault even though I’m the reason he’s dead and buried.

Taking one last longing look at the tools to a trade denied me forevermore, I lock up, put a smile on, and sit down for breakfast. A big, hearty meal with all of my favourites which Aunty Ray cooked special, no doubt eager to make sure I got enough nutrients to make up for what my body’s been burning under the strain of daily Regenerations. Thing is, I told the medicos I could handle the Spell myself, but up until now, I’ve only been casting it once every three days. Not because of the strain it puts on the body, though I do admit it’s got me feeling more tired and worn out than ever, but because I want my wounds fresh and visible for what comes next. Seeing is believing after all, and looking like ten miles of bad road might just buy me sympathy enough to keep me out of hot water after I tell my side of story of what happened in Pleasant Dunes. Ridiculous is what that is. Here I am all beaten up, bloodied, and short a right hand, yet somehow, I gotta prove I ain’t responsible for what went down else I might well be clapped in chains and shipped off to prison.

They say Justice is blind, but there are times when I think the lady be slow and simple too, so here’s hoping her sister Lady Luck is watching real close and feeling magnanimous to boot.