Ain’t no two ways about it. The odds are stacked against me.
A thought which strikes me as I hunker down behind the bar to organize my thoughts and get my tools ready. Ain’t hiding, just keeping out of sight just in case anyone comes down the stairs or stumbles in from any one of the doors or hallways leading in. Can’t rest too long either, no matter how much I want to, because chances are I’ll fall asleep and might never wake up again. There’s no running from this, not anymore, so my only choice is to fight my way out, kill Ron and miss Laura, and be the only soul left alive to tell this tale so I can spin it in my favour.
That’s all for later though, questions to answer once my work is done. For now, the plan is simple enough. Kill Ron and get out alive, but the chances of success are slim to none, especially given my current state and dearth of options. I got my revolvers, my Doorknockers, and two 1911’s taken from Wayne and Conner. Neither one of them were armed for bear, with only three clips a piece, and no flashbangs, Impact Oil, or useful Artifacts to borrow, only knives and entrenching tools which ain’t of much use. I got no Spells left either, Big or otherwise, only a fistful of Rituals and a whole slew of Cantrips which are of limited effectiveness.
If only I’d’ve gotten Ron with the Fireball too. Then all this would be done and dusted, leaving me free and clear to head back to the Ranger camp and spin a yarn about what happened. Or better yet, I’d gone with my gut and blasted him the first time we met, instead of playing along and holding back out of good manners. Seems so long ago when we had our little chat at the saloon bar. Had him dead to rights the second miss Laura walked out of the kitchen with my steak and potates and spooked Jacob into going for his guns. Could’ve killed them then and there and gotten away clean, legally speaking, a justified use of lethal force no matter how you spin it, all caught on recording nice and neat leaving me free to move on with my life.
Just goes to show how tricksy Diviners really are. If Ron were any other kind of Spellslinger, he’d have died then and there without even knowing why. Instead, he kept things from boiling over and as a Diviner myself, I didn’t even notice how. That’s the tricksiest part of Diviners, how our magic don’t even look like magic. Just luck or intelligence, but that’s the thing. Knowing things might not sound like much of a power, but knowledge is power in a way that money and violence can never match.
Just look at Wayne and Conner. If they had an inkling of what I was gonna do, they’d’ve put up much more of a fight, and likely would’ve come out on top without breaking a sweat. Instead, I got the drop on them while they were still reeling with shock, and put them down hard and fast with two Bolts apiece. A short, truncated rattle, and two battle-trained Rangers are dead and out. One a rat-faced cuck of a traitor sure, but the other was a man I once thought of as a friend. A man who taught me a few tricks when it comes to wagon maintenance and showed me the trick to keeping all the tool shapes and sizes in mind. Told Conner to leave this well enough alone, let me and Wayne sort it out ourselves, but he just had to stick his nose into it. Doubt he would’ve kept quiet about me killing Wayne, and I do want that kept quiet, because traitor or not, man was still a Ranger, and I don’t need that sort of heat. Best thing to do is to lay this all at Ron’s feet, and two dead Rangers will sell the story better than one, but in order for that to happen, I gotta silence the last two witnesses who knew I’d be alone with the two of them after taking care of the crowd.
Won’t make that mistake again. A secret shared ain’t a secret, so I can’t trust no one anymore, especially lovely young ladies with heart-wrenching tales of woe and weakness.
Closing my eyes in an effort to banish the image of Conner lying dead on the floor on the other side of the bar, I can't help but imagine what his expression might've been, one I was spared from seeing because I shot him while he was looking the other way. Eyes wide open in horror and disbelief no doubt, as he stood there with hands hanging loosely at his sides while gawking at Wayne's dead body. Man wasn't even remotely prepared to shoot me dead, and the guilt weighs heavy on my heart, robbing me of much needed strength and resolve. A choked sob slips out as I lean my head against the bar, and it hurts to hold it in and keep the tears from flowing out. Ain’t much that don’t hurt in the here and now, my heart torn to shreds by loss and my body one giant bruise after the beating I took. My right hand feels like its on fire, even though it ain’t there no more, and its absence is jarring every time I look at the patch of meat and bone that’s still raw and oozing despite the tourniquet Conner applied.
Right before I killed him. Conner’s dead now, killed by my own hand. Marcus is gone too, because I wasn’t good enough to measure up. I just want to leave this god-forsaken town and go home, to sleep and cry and scream over everything I’ve lost. No cigars on the porch with Marcus, or hoisting a drink with him like the boots did. No talking shop with Conner, or card games when I stop in for the night in Meadowbrook. No Firstborn’s Frontier-born neither, or finding vengeance for my daddy, because how am I supposed to soldier with only one hand? Hell, I might not even be able to look after Chrissy and Aunty Ray anymore, not as I am. Who’s gonna hire a one-handed kid without any education or qualifications to speak of?
Especially one who can sling Third Order Spells and killed a whole crowd of men, women, and children on recording. Can’t hide that. Need it as evidence, else I won’t be able to explain away Wayne and Conner’s deaths. Need the recording to show that Wayne’s dirty, Conner is his accomplice, and I’m the victim here, one who was well within my rights to strike back at the crowd who just watched me be dismembered. That’s the word for it, ain’t it? Dismembered. Usually means losing a limb, but I don’t know if there’s a specific term for losing a hand.
Focus.
Tempting as it is to give up, to go up, get out, and let others handle the rest, I can’t afford to leave things to chance. Sitting back upright, I wipe my eyes and get back to working on organizing my things and my thoughts both, because there’s no turning back now. Kill Ron and miss Laura. That’s the goal. The rest is simple. Still annoys me how he got away. My fault really, because while he was leery of the Spell I had readied the first time we talked, I doubt he pegged me for a Fireball slinging Magus back then. A seventeen-year-old Third Order Spellcaster is pretty much unheard of by old world standards, and most have yet to adjust to the fact that the rules are different here on the Frontier. Chrissy has been a Magus for almost a year now, having Awakened to the Spell Catnap, which lets her rest for ten minutes and gain the benefits of a two-hour nap. Would be right useful in the here and now, help me unclog the brain tubes and let me sling a First Order Spell or Two, but she ain’t around and we don’t like people knowing what she can do. Folks already look at her funny because they’re worried she’ll Spell Madness into their minds, so no sense getting them all worked up about the Beguile, Mortify, Fear, or Major Illusion Spells she can also use.
In contrast? I’ve only been able to cast Third Order Spells for about six months now, fixing Fireball’s Spell Structure into memory just before Halloween and working on familiarizing myself with it over the winter. Wasn’t easy to learn, especially without anyone to help me. There’s a qualitative leap in difficulty when moving up in Spell Orders, one that’s easy enough to explain. Imagine an orb of light. Doesn’t matter the size or colour, just hold it in mind, sitting there all still and spherical. That’s your primary orb. Then add a secondary, smaller orb of light to orbit the first, leaving a trail that looks like a ring around the middle. Add in two more secondaries on the y and z axis, all moving in sync, and that’s about the difficulty of visualizing a Cantrip. For a First Order Spell, you take those same four orbs and envision them again, only this time, the primary orb is moving too, so you gotta track the movements of the smaller orbs while the primary orb zigs and zags about a pre-determined circuit. With Second Order Spells, you add two more primary orbs, each with their own pattern of secondary orbiting bodies, which is difficult sure, but still similar enough that it’s manageable with a bit more practice.
Things change drastically when you hit Third Order though. Not only are there more primary orbs to manage, you add an extra layer of complexity wherein your secondary orbs have tertiary orbs orbiting around them too, exponentially increasing the number of moving objects and patterns you have to fix into memory at once.
All this and more means Fireball is the only Third Order Spell I can prep in less an hour’s worth of time. I played around with three or four others that my mama wrote the formulas for in her notes, and browsed through the copy of my daddy’s Spellbook I made and squirrelled away after he passed, but they all take about three to five hours of quiet work to solve the Formulas and visualize the Structures, if I can even manage it at all. Fireball is pretty much the only one I can reliably count on out in the field, and it’s a real doozy. Pleased as punch to see it in action too, though I suppose there’s no hiding my skills anymore. Don’t like advertising what I can do, because folks treat you different when they know you can clear a room in two and a half seconds at most. Showed off a bit in the desert to clue in Errol and Sarah Jay, but I don’t think he noticed, and she was clever enough not to share.
Gunin must’ve figured it out though. Don’t take much in the way of brains to look at a twenty-four metre diametre circle of glassed sand and figure out what done it. Must’ve passed word along to Ron, because there ain’t a Second Order Spell I can think of that would get him running how he did. If not for that, I doubt he would’ve seen the signs and gotten clear in time even with his Portent to warn him. The same way my rustling jimmies are telling me to pack it in and head home, but that ain’t an option anymore. Ended when I pulled the trigger on Wayne and then did it again to Conner, because the only way my story will stick is if I’m the only one alive to tell it.
So go big or go home. That’s the name of the game here, one I been playing for awhile now. Once again, home ain’t New Hope, but rather a cold hole in the ground next to my parents which I’m more than happy to go to, especially crippled as I am. Don’t want to die, but I’ve made my peace with it, because living as a public sinner who killed two Rangers in cold blood would be a whole lot harder. It’s not the consequences I’m afraid of; no, it’s the fact that my actions will tarnish what little is left of my daddy’s good name, who was a better man than I could ever be and didn’t deserve the title of the Yellow Devil. No, that title is mine to bear, and one I would wear proudly if not for his teachings, because I would sooner die than see his legacy go down in flames.
My preparations are simple, but necessary. Three rituals in total, two of which I knock out in less than a minute each. Simple Servant to start, who will act as an extra set of hands in the fight, ones that can’t shoot no guns, but can reload and carry the molotovs we make from bottles of moonshine and washrags hanging behind the bar. The second Ritual gives me a Floating Disc to carry the Simple Servant and our bucket of molotovs around, as well as a few other choice items I took from Ron’s office and am eager to return. As for the last Ritual, it’s much harder than the others, and will take me a bit longer to get through, so I take a beat to remind myself that slow is smooth and smooth is fast.
Won’t take much longer than the other Rituals, three to five minutes at most, but I’m thinking I’ll have the time to spare. Ron won’t want word of this to get out, and doubly so now that I’ve taken out a good chunk of his crew. He’ll want to handle this in house, hide it even from Gunin maybe, because he ain’t friends with the Khaganate, only equal opportunists. No, Ron won’t be in any rush to act, especially since he still thinks Wayne on his side. He’ll be busy locking this underground complex down tight and making ready to take out the Rangers and boots in camp if need be, then he’ll sit pretty to wait and see what happens next.
Unfortunately for him, he doesn’t know I done already rolled the dice and the only thing left to do is see how they fall. Wayne and Conner are dead, so there’s only one way out for me now, with Ron and Laura’s death so I can spin my yarn without any chance for them to tell their side. That’s why I feel confident enough to take my time, and truth is, I need it. Repeated castings of Power Word: Endure don’t help me much, but my first aid kit has got a tin of powdered frost-thorn which ought to help take the edge off a bit. Keeping proper dosage in mind, I drop a candy in the powder and get it all coated up before popping it in my mouth, where the fruit-infused honey helps cover up the bitter taste of the pain-numbing powder. Take two Aspirin and call him in the morning, a line Uncle Art’s wife Rita would use on his patients to get a little laugh outta them, though I wish I could use something much stronger than Aspirin.
Next, I double check the binding on my severed stump of a hand, because the last thing I need is to bleed out in a fight. Some fools think taking a hot iron to the wound will seal it up and keep you from dying quick, and it will, but usually in exchange for a long, slow, and lingering death by way of infection. Alcohol is the key, and I done already did that, so I wrap the stump in gauze and a clean cloth and call it a day. As for my gear, I got that all loaded and ready, with my gun belt slung over my right shoulder and resting on my left hip like a bandolier. Already rearranged the gun holsters to sit front and centre across my chest, with both revolvers and my Doorknockers readied for a left hand draw. Got Wayne and Conner’s 1911’s too, one in my hand and the other in a Mage Hand, and no clips to speak of. Ain’t used to reloading them, so no sense learning under pressure. Better off sticking to what I know.
Besides, I can’t lay the blame for Wayne and Conner’s death at Vanguard National’s feet if they find them bodies stripped of gear and their guns in my hand.
With all my ducks in a row, I take a deep breath and close my eyes to run through the Ritual in my mind. There’s a warm comfort that comes with focusing on the magic, a familiarity and understanding that I can’t put into words. Don’t rightly know enough about the ritual to explain it, but it makes sense enough that I never questioned it. Got my copper lid full of water and a stick of lit incense to represent air, as well as my wand held awkwardly in my left hand and feeling mighty out of place there. A pinch of powdered pearl goes into the lid, followed by a strip of dried seaweed, a drop of Holy Water, and ashes from the incense, one after the other in ceremonial fashion to the beat of a chant that don’t mean much in the way of words, but damn near everything in terms of memory. Whenever my daddy was home for the weekend and the weather warm and sunny, he’d bring us down to the Lake with Aunty Ray to have ourselves a swim. We’d splash and play and laugh the day away while he’d go diving deep into the depths in search of signs of Abby, and he’d go through this very same Ritual each and every time.
Water Breathing, that’s the Spell that belongs to this here Ritual, a Third Order Transmutation Spell does exactly what it says on the tin. Let’s the target of the Spell breathe through water for a full 24 hours without getting any risk of getting water, ecto, or Contagion into their body. A man-made Spell at that, because Abby that need to live underwater are spawned with what they need by their Proggies. Much cheaper to give them the biological functions rather than empower each one with a Third Order Spell that would be costly and restrictive. It’s a Ritual my daddy made use of often while searching for the Proggie hidden under Last Chance Lake, and one I worked hard to learn for many reasons, but one stands out above all others.
Wanted to remove the one black mark on my daddy’s record, the only Proggie he couldn’t eradicate within twenty-five klicks of New Hope. Started off as a dream, but after he passed, it became a goal, a mission, a milestone even, something I could do to prove to everyone and to myself that I had it in me to be as great as my daddy was. Maybe even better, but we’ll never know anymore, not with my future looking bleak as it does. Least all my hard work studying the Ritual wasn’t in vain, as it’ll still come in handy here today during what might well be my swansong. Either I come out a victim and survivor, or go down swinging and hide enough to keep my name free and clear, a win-win situation no matter how you look at it.
Because in combination with a Shape Water Cantrip, a Transmutation trick which lets me work with water the same way Mould Earth lets me work with dirt and sand, Water Breathing lets me breathe through all the smoke and filter out the stench as I set the basement ablaze. The Cantrip is a little finicky as I use it hold a bowlful of water around my nose and mouth, because I can’t fix the water in place to my face. No, I gotta float it where my nose and mouth will be, and move it along with my head as I walk about tossing plumes of Conjured Flame about. Another Cantrip, Conjure Flame creates a flickering flame in the palm of your hand, one that provides a good amount of light and a comfortable warmth, but one that can’t Ignite anything, not even a cigarette. Can hurt a man if hurl it, but is less effective at killing than a plain old Bolt, because there’s no kinetic force to the Spell and leaves your target burned, but rarely dead or incapacitated. Infection might kill them a few weeks later, but that don’t help you in the here and now, which is why it ain’t used all that often in a quick and dirty gunfight.
Mix it in with an Ignite Metamagic focus though, like one of the beads on my bracelet? Well, then you got an arsonist’s wet dream, and a right useful tool for making sure a fire will most certainly persist.
Wayne and Conner are the first two targets, soaked thoroughly in moonshine before hand, and they go up in a blaze that will destroy all evidence of what happened here. I throw some more around at anything flammable I can find, be it the couches, pool tables, meeting tables, and more. While I make the rounds and set the fires, I keep a keen eye out for any recording devices with help from my Detect Magic Spell which I still got going, and have a few minutes longer before I gotta Concentrate to hold it. Don’t know if I will, because I’d rather leave that open for other Cantrips and eventually my Mage Hands if the fight takes long enough.
Hoping it won’t. Quick and dirty, that’s how this needs to go, in and out before the Rangers can rush over and stop me from killing Ron, Laura, and anyone else who stands in my way.
That’s the one thing I got going for me though. The complete and utter disregard for collateral damage, which is why I sacrifice a costly vial of Alchemical Acid to cut my way through the locked cage. Melts through the Darksteel like butter, which is great because I never considered what I’d do if it didn’t. Even if I were willing to dig through the pile of burnt bones in search of a key, the whole room is aflame already, and while there are plenty of doors and corridors to choose from, I’d rather not go wandering about in search of an exit. Would much rather not be moving at all, as my injuries make trudging up the stairs a trial indeed, even all full of Aspirin as I am. Doesn’t help that I got my Simple Servant hovering next to me, sitting atop the Floating Disc metaphysically anchored to my frame. Could’ve anchored it to the blobby fellow instead, and let him mosey up these stairs in my stead, but it don’t do anything fast, and I’d rather not be a literal sitting target.
At least there’s a bend in the stairs, a necessary one given the layout up top. The stairs down and up sit on the west side of the building, and I’m guess the exit in Ron’s office leads up to the second floor which I clocked as his private digs. Lets him stay a good distance from the buildings next door in case anyone tries to fix a Shatter charge or Tube to his walls, since it’s a lot harder to hide that on the east side. No more buildings and wide-open views for Ron in his home, since staring out at mass of huddled miners splayed out on the sand is hardly scenic. Doubly so if you the reason those masses are all huddled out in the open rather than comfortably sheltered in a home, which is just cruel when you add in the fact that this underground bunker could house all of Pleasant Dunes and then some as far as I can tell.
Unconscionable is what it is, but I doubt a man like Ronald Jackson is all too bothered by his conscience.
If only I could say the same, a thought I reflect on as I pause at the stair landing before making my way around the corner. Part of me wants to give a warning, tell the souls waiting upstairs none too quietly with their likely guns aimed at the door that this is between me, Ron, and God. Give them a chance to walk away as it were, scare a few off and get the others right nervous and twitchy to give myself some better odds. The Firstborn would’ve done it, but that ain’t me anymore. This here is the Yellow Devil, one who can’t be bothered by things like morals and principals, because there’s no winning against outlaws like Ronald Jackson without getting dirty. Not just in the physical sense, because the stain of darkness on your soul will last, like the stain I’ll carry for the rest of my days over Conner ‘Tinker’ Bell’s death. A clean death, a necessary one even, but a dark deed I cannot deny, not to myself in this moment of choice.
So I embrace the Devil, and become that which others accused my daddy of. Why not? They’ll pin the name on me either way once all this gets out, so like I told Conner, if I gotta wear the title, then I might as well earn it good and proper.
That’s why there’s no warning given before my flashbang goes out, one that sails up the stairs and out the door to land in the room proper. The thugs watching the staircase were smart not to stand in the doorway, since they’d’ve been backlit and staring down into darkness, but that means they were all watching real close when my flashbang flew out, leaving them blinded and dazed. A chorus of shouts ring out as the flashbang goes off, and I pop my head up and use my readied True Strike Cantrip to toss a lit Molotov at the front door. Accepting a second molly from my Simple Servant, I light it using the candle in his other hand while my Mage Hands use the Doorknockers to cover the staircase. Helpful little guy that he is, he’s already reaching for another unlit molly as I pop my head up again and toss the flaming bottle at the back wall, blocking off the windows and locking everyone on the first floor here inside with me.
Because everyone in this building has to die. Everyone. Can’t let anyone escape to tell tales of what happened. Best to let the ones outside speculate, but given the number of smokers, drinkers, and druggies, I doubt anyone will suspect foul play so quickly, though that’ll change soon enough.
Though my time is limited, I’m careful not to rush in guns blazing as I duck back down into the staircase to light a Third molly and cast the True Strike Cantrip again. Normally wouldn’t bother with it, but I’m a righty through and through, so throwing with my left without the Cantrip is awkward as all heck without the magic to guide my aim true. Same goes for doing almost anything else though, so I gotta take more care than usual, approach this op cold and calm as can be despite the blazing flames of fury burning me up from within. That’s why the third molly goes out towards the biggest group in the room, a quartet of thugs still shaking off the effects of the flashbang who get to screaming real good and loud.
That warms my cold heart a bit, and buys me time enough to draw the unfamiliar 1911 while trying not to think about whether it belonged to Wayne or Conner. Having already clocked where all my targets were, I come up the stairs shooting and take my targets out one at a time, an easy enough task while they all panicked and fighting the fires that have quickly taken over the bunkhouse.
My first target is a man with a blanket striving to put the flames out on another screaming thug. Hit him in the throat with my first shot, while the second misses and hits the wall, so I remind myself to aim small and miss small. Next up is a gunner squaring up with his rifle, taking up the stance he gave up in his panic at the sight of fire. He takes two to the chest and slumps down in place, dead before his head hits the ground. The third is a runner, someone who only just found his bearings and the nerve to make a dash through the fire and dive for the window, only to stumble and fall as my Bolts take him in the shoulder and chest. From there on out, it’s only helpless targets who are still blinded and disoriented, thugs who were standing closer to the door and took the full brunt of the flashbang. The 1911 barks again and again, a Silenced, metallic snap that has volume enough to sound over the screams of the dying as they stumble into the flames or take Bolts to the chest. The gun clicks empty and I toss it back down behind me into the staircase before drawing the second 1911, one belonging to the other dead Ranger that I killed.
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Growling in fury at my own weakness, I clean up the rest of the first floor quick as I can without stepping out of the staircase. All the defensive aspects were built to keep Abby out of the bunker downstairs, meaning it’s meant to guard against things going down, not people coming up. Got me a near perfect vantage point to shoot from so long as no one standing directly in front of the door, which would’ve been a bad idea for reasons I already went through. Don’t matter where they hide, I can hit them with a molly or a Bolt all the same, and I toss a few Ignited Conjured Flames around to really spice things up.
The fight lasts for less than thirty seconds, start to finish, with every body on the ground and me standing tall and untouched. Retreating back down into the corridor, I kick the first 1911 further down into the basement, while the second follows shortly after. Now I got a choice, a tough one to be sure. Start off with my daddy’s pride and joy the Rattlesnake, or my new favourite starter, the Model 10?
Taking a moment to crack my neck, I finagle about with the water around my mouth and the goggles over my eyes in an attempt to get more comfortable. The heat is rising quick and the air thick with smoke, but the door upstairs is right next to the basement stairs, so I ain’t all that bothered about time just yet. I can afford a second or two here, so I use it to refocus and plan my next moves, only to stop in my tracks when I sense a trail of magic coming out of the lime mortar laced with lead and Aberrtin. Hard to see it in the stone staircase, but the top of the stairs is a wood panelled wall, making the magic look clear as day. Goes back down the staircase it does, and I bet I know why too, so I figure a few seconds more to play off my hunch can’t hurt.
Drawing on an old favourite, I chant the words to the Arcane Bond Cantrip and aim it at the base of where the magic comes out. Reaching down into the bucket I grabbed from Ron’s office, which is now sitting on my Floating Disc, I pull out one of the three grenades he kept locked in his drawer, which is three more than I would want so close to my crotch while sitting at my desk. Then again, I get the feeling that Ron loves him some explosives the same way I love me my Aetherarms, so I can see why he does it. Using my Mage Hand to lift the potato masher grenade up over the doorway, I press it firmly against the magical glue and hold it in place, while the other Mage Hand takes a firm hold of the base. In exchange, I put my Rattlesnake away again and hold onto a Doorknocker instead, while the other one goes back into my belt turned bandolier.
Because with my Mage Hands occupied, it falls to me to do what the Dresden Forzares do best. I square up about three meters from the door upstairs and point the gun at the knob, not even bothering to try the handle because it glows with the light of a magical trap. Carefully uncocking one hammer, I take aim and shoot the Doorknocker with a smile while remember all those campfire stories of the Spellslinger and Gunfighter from Chicago who took on the mob all by his lonesome and gave these weapons their name. With a big bang and a bigger kick, the Blastgun sprays a hail of kinetic projectiles which shred the door, handle, and frame all around it, ripping apart the Spell keyed into it along the way. A burst of electricity is all it is, same as the ones I got home, which goes to show that this here is Ron’s front door. You never want a Big Spell keyed to a door you use daily. They’re reliable enough, but you don’t want to risk a one in ten thousand chance of getting blown up every time you enter or leave your house.
Is how I figured it before shooting out the lock, but I could’ve been wrong. Better lucky than good though, and with how things have gone so far, Lady Luck owes me more than a little but.
Taking note of how much it hurts to shoot the dubsie one handed and how high my hand flings up when I do, I wince at my own weakness while reloading a new shell into the Blastgun. No sense going upstairs anything less than fully prepped, so soon as I’m ready, I kick the door open the rest of the way and take a quick glance.
Only to fall back just in time to avoid getting shot by the man parked up top of the stairs.
Rather than waste my last flashbang, I stand by the door with my Rattlesnake in hand and repurpose a Mage Hand over to take my dubsie. Floating it up to the ceiling and pointing it at where the shooter was standing, I let the Mage Hand give him both barrels through the wooden interior wall. A big bang and a strangled cry later, I poke my head through the door again and shoot the dying man in the chest as he stumbles down the stairs, thankful the building’s setup lets me lean through the door left side first while facing upstairs, else this would’ve been a whole lot more awkward. Conjuring up a new set of Mage Hands to reload my Rattlesnake, retrieve my fallen Doorknocker and take hold of the grenade stuck over the door to the basement staircase, I head on up the stairs as quick and quiet as I can, which ain’t all that quick or quiet at all. Lot of limping and leaning, and no small amount of huffing either, as I’m tired, hurting, and near spent. Only things driving me now are fury and desperation, but I’ve been in worse spots.
…Then again, maybe not. On the bright side, if I do make it out, then I’ve set a new personal best.
Stepping over the corpse on the stairs, I clock his weapons as standard Pleasant Dunes garbage just like the rest. Weren’t any choice guns on the bodies downstair either, or down in the basement, meaning Ron keeps all the fancy toys for himself. At the top of the stairs sits another dead angle to the door, and having learned from my lesson coming up the stairs, this time, I fake a peek using a Minor Illusion Cantrip. I ain’t much of an artist, but a shadowy, vaguely human shaped figure is usually enough to get a nervous shooter to bite. The Bolts fly through the open doorway, past my illusion, and into the wall on the other side, one so close to my face I can feel it sizzle as it passes. A Firebolt of all things, a finger thick nub of bright-orange flame, which is something different from what I’ve see in all of Pleasant Dunes.
But not in the Coral Desert.
“Gunin?!” I call, only to have to move the water out from around my mouth and try a second time. “Gunin??” A smile stretches across my face as I act as familiar as can be and remember the tall dirty blonde scav leader with the fancy, extra-long rifle with its pretty peach-wood stock. “That you in there loosin’ Firebolts at me? Gotta be you, because ain’t no one in town got a gun like yours.”
There’s a long pause as I back away and ready my last flashbang while waiting for an answer, and I can just imagine the confusion the other man is feeling right now. Why’s the Firstborn know his name and recognize his rifle? That’s the scariest thing about going against a Diviner. Got no idea how much they really know, so if I act all chummy and cheery, it won’t just be Gunin wracking his brain to figure out what’s going on. Ron will be pondering too, wondering if he let the fox into the henhouse and if me and Gunin have been working together all along. The Khaganate are supposed to be a third party here, the unknown variable and ace in the hole, so why am I acting so familiar? Don’t matter what answer they come up with, it can only benefit me, because while they distracted thinking about things, I’m lobbing a flashbang into the room and laughing all the while.
“No Gunin here,” comes the heavily accented reply, one that’s cut off midway through and draws a cackle from my lips, because what the hell was he expecting that to accomplish? The flashbang goes off, but knowing I’m up against a Diviner myself, I don’t run right in. Instead, I use Minor Illusion again, but this time to create the sound of boots running on wood. A lot of boots, not just two, and the panicked shooting in response shows I was right to. They were prepped for flashbangs, better prepared than those poor fools downstairs, but you gotta work harder if you want to get one over on the Firstborn.
No, not the Firstborn. The Yellow Devil. Gotta get into the habit of calling myself that, even if I don’t like the sound of it much. My natural skin colour is almost as pale as Aunty Ray, not quite milky white but pale enough to make me wary of going shirtless and showing off my farmer’s tan.
Not the time or place, I remind myself, and wonder if I overdid it on the frost-thorn powder. Shouldn’t make me loopy, but I ain’t got a whole lot of experience with drugs either way, not medical or recreational. Least I didn’t take a swig of moonshine to ease off the pain, a thought I complete just as I toss the first grenade through the open door, while everyone is still shooting at shadows. Five, four, three, two, one, and boom goes the grenade, a deafening blast that blows a cloud of smoke out and down the staircase along with a puff of superheated air. Course, the air and smoke coming up the staircase ain’t exactly cold neither, so I remind myself that I’m on a timer as I lob out the second grenade despite all the groans and screams sounding out from within.
There’s a scramble of boots on wood, someone running for the grenade in hopes of tossing it back maybe, but I primed this one two seconds after throwing the first, meaning there ain’t much time left on its fuse.
It’s a night of big booms it appears, and there are no screams or groans in the wake of this one, so I poke my head out from behind my Shield and take in my handiwork with a grin. Bodies lay strewn about the foyer at the top of the stairs, an open area to hang your coat and get frisked by guards before heading further inside. Door ain’t right across from the stairs either, but rather off to the left and right, allowing for two shooters to stand on either side and blast the opening as they please, along with a squad of goons who were lined up against the opposite wall with a pair of overturned tables to hunker down behind. Would’ve saved them from the flash, but not the disorienting bang, so they was right frazzled when they unloaded all those Bolts at nothing. Glad they all aimed at the open doorway rather than the wall right next to it, because a through and through might well have tagged me and really ruined my night.
Day? No, it’s still early yet. Pre-dusk probably. I think.
Bad sign that, all those distracted thoughts, so I finish off the few mangled bodies who are still twitching despite all the burns and metal fragments embedded into their skin. Gotta say, I can see why Ron likes his explosives so much, because I can’t hate them. Three was all I had though, and none of these bodies got any more hanging off their belts. Makes sense, as this here is Ron’s home and castle, so he’d hardly want his boys blowing the place up.
Don’t spot not dirty blonde with a fancy rifle though, which means I need to tread lightly. Don’t got no respect for scavs because of what they do, but the Aetherarms in their hands are deadly as any other. “Oh Gunin,” I call, careful not to shout too loudly so as to be heard outside. “You still there? Got an offer for you, one time and one time only. Want to hear it?”
“No Gunin!” comes the heavily accented reply, and I gotta respect the man for sticking to his story.
“So what do I call you then? Boris? Ivan? Dragovic?” That last one is a right proper name, though I think it’s a family name rather than a given one. Dragovic Zhu. Now there’s a name to inspire fear in the masses, though I wouldn’t name my boy that. Assuming I ever have one, but that’s neither here nor there. “Know what? I’ll just stick with Gunin, and you make sure what I gotta say gets back to him, okay?”
“…What is offer then?”
Reaching up to touch the bull’s head medallion again, I say, “Well Gunin, you know what Ron’s plan was.” If I want this recording admitted in a court of law, I gotta be careful with what I say, else I might be accused to coaxing Gunin to lie for me. “You know who he was working with.” Not sure if he does, but here’s hoping he can read the room once we out of here. “I’m guessing you also know all about his whole illegal operation and have considered taking it for yourself.” Or maybe he’s sane and didn’t dare consider it, because I wouldn’t want to be responsible for managing a factory that makes explosives.
“…If Gunin knows all this, what then?”
Grinning as I peer through a door and find no one on the other side, I study the layout and find another tight corner. Means Gunin could be right on the other side of this wall, and maybe has a port to shoot out of. A sliding panel would suffice, so I keep an eye on the wall and an ear on the hall while continuing our conversation. “Well, if you knew all that, then you’d make for a very valuable state’s witness should you choose to report on all of Ronald Jackson’s crimes against humanity, one that would be well rewarded for bringing down this heinous criminal whose actions threaten the Frontier.
Gunin horks and spits, a sound that will never fail to send a shiver down my spine because of how disgusting it is. “Become informer to Federal Government?” A slew of Russian follows as the Soviet National lets me know in no uncertain terms how he feels about that.
What a shame. Rather than give him any warning though, I use the Minor Illusion Cantrip to send a set of footsteps scampering down the opposite hall. While the gunshots ring out, I step through the door and spot Gunin’s back as he shoots at real shadows and illusory sounds with his fiery rifle. Even though I like what he said about me and my daddy, I put a Bolt through the back of his head all the same before taking in the rest of the second story walk-up. It’s right fancy enough, and cozy too if it weren’t for all the smoke filtering in. Got a worn leather couch and homey sitting area, a little kitchen with a breakfast nook, a dining area with a proper hardwood table, and the bedrooms at the back, where they’ll have the best view in town short of slogging all the way up one of the towers.
Danny’s place is about the same, only a little nicer because he got all manner of gadgets and gizmos scattered about to make life easier for him and his. Like I said, Ron works real hard breaking laws and stepping all over downtrodden folks just to live a little better than your average family in New Hope. Now who’s lacking perspective?
Reaching up to turn off the recording, I part the water around my mouth again and say, “Oh Ron?!” Throw a bit of singsong lilt in there again, just for good measure. “You back there? Sound out if you are, because I’d hate for this grenade to take you out, sight unseen.” Don’t got another grenade, as the last one is plastered above the basement stairs, but he doesn’t know that.
All the while, my eyes are scanning the room for danger lurking in the shadows, so focused on the darkness that I almost overlook the lights. One light in particular stands out, a light than ain’t actually a light, not in the sense that it gives off illumination visible to the human eye. Fact is, it’s a fancy little mantle clock, one sitting on a counter and glowing with Aetheric flows, which sets my jimmies to rustling and me diving to cover right quick.
Now, I ain’t ever heard a Naga sound off, but it’s love at first song. A single-action revolver, the hammer’s got a real heavy click to it when you thumb it back manually, and after the fact, I realize that’s the sound which set my Portent off. Can’t hear the trigger pull, but the Naga’s got a sharp, explosive crack that almost rivals the grenade in volume, and a booming retort that echoes throughout the cozy little flat. The Bolt it delivers smashes through the wood lined, steel plated bedroom wall and whizzes bare inches past where my head would’ve been if I’d stayed standing a moment longer, only to pierce through the foyer wall which is also reinforced with steel. That’s the Siege Metamagic Etching at work, vastly increasing the damage the weapon does to solid structures, which don’t include flesh, but most certainly includes bones. Don’t ask me how it works, as I got no earthly idea, a fairly niche Metamagic that ain’t used much anymore, but I don’t see why, because its work is a sight to behold indeed.
The next shot hits close to where I’m cowering, behind a well used chair that has seen better days, and I get to moving right quick. A mad dash across the way and over Gunin’s body brings me to another corner, but rather than post up behind it, I keep going and dive into the foyer as the shots ring out close behind me. The dash wasn’t for show, because it gets me into a blind spot where the mantle clock can’t see me, a magical viewing device instilled with what I assume is a Clairvoyance Spell. Probably sits out in the foyer most days, so Ron can see who’s knocking on his door and see how they act while they think he ain’t looking. Sneaky man, and somehow, I doubt this is the first time he’s used those Nagas to shoot someone from behind a wall. His shots are too accurate for off the cuff work, meaning he’s practiced good and well for this.
Even though I’m out of sight, Ron could still shoot blind and flush me out. Won’t take too many tries, as there’s only so much cover here in this nook, so in the interest of staying alive, I mutter a small prayer in hopes that my next move doesn’t bring the whole building down and set my Mage Hands to activate the last potato masher grenade, the one stuck into the suspicious magical emanation leading down into the bunker Ron done dug himself under Pleasant Dunes.
The resulting explosion is almost anticlimactic, just a boom like any other, only further away with a full floor of distance between me and it. The explosion the grenade sets off on the other hand is one of epic proportions as the ground sets to rumbling underfoot. Then it happens again and again, a chain of explosions meant to bring down the stairs I took down and linked to the other exits too, an option of last resort to buy some time should it look like Abby are about to break through, and I gotta admire Ron for his planning. Built himself a right proper bunker he did, an underground fortress hidden right here in town, with what I can only imagine is a rat’s nest of trails leading in and out of the complex and alarms to let him know if Abby or intruders make it in. Shame it’s all buried now, as it’ll take a good amount of effort to dig back out, and I bet his manufacturing depot was connected to it too. How else was he supposed to transport all his grenades and mining explosives without carting them about in broad daylight? That’d make a tempting target for scavs, bandits, and outlaws alike, which is why he had his meeting with Gunin up here rather than down in his bunker.
Meaning I might well have just cut Ron off from his breadbasket, at a time when he stood to profit from it the most.
When the rumbling finally comes to an end, I let out a cackle that sounds out over the concerned shouts and scared screams from outside. “You’ve made a believer out of me, Ron,” I say, giddy with laughter as I lay on my back and look up at the smoke-filled ceiling. “Your explosives are a real top-notch product.”
Since the shots have stopped ringing out, I recast Mage Hands, settle my mask of water back over my mouth, and reload my revolvers before sitting back up with a wince. If I rest any longer, I might not be able to move any more, so best finish this while I can. Rather than try to avoid being seen, I pop up and shoot the clock right quick before diving away, avoiding two booming shots from the guns I mean to claim for myself soon enough. Without any eyes left to him save for his baby blue peepers, I come back up and shoot at the holes in the wall to keep him from glancing. When my Rattlesnake clicks empty, I pull out the Model 10 and keep shooting blind in a slow and steady rhythm, buying my newly conjured Mage Hands time to float over quick as they can with the dubsies in hand.
And soon as they get there, I stuff all four barrels into two different holes and aim to cover as much of the room and floor as I can before unloading all four barrels at the same time. Music to my ears it is, a loud and boisterous bang like a heavy boot on metal, and the resulting agonized groan is too visceral to be faked. Their jobs done, my Doorknockers clatter to the ground without my Mage Hands to hold them up, and I summon a new pair to help me reload both pistols, one after the other. Then, for good measure, I reload the Doorknockers too before approach to the room as low and out of sight as I can, while my Floating Disc and Simple Servant follow on behind me.
“You still alive in there Ron?” I ask, and I get a chuckle in reply.
“Just barely, kid.”
“And how’s miss Laura? She get tagged any?” Let him think I still care, because if he sees hope for her, he might play ball.
“She’s unhurt.” The steel in his tone demands she stay that way, but ain’t nothing in life come free.
“You want her to stay that way, then you hand over your guns to my Simple Servant,” I say, directly the blobby little fella to leave his candle and Molotov behind on the Floating Disc before opening the door and moseying on in. “Two Nagas, and anything else you might have on you, because if I walk in and see steel, then I’mma start shootin’ right quick without much regard for who I hit.”
“Don’t have any other guns,” Ron says, sounding breathless and strained. A few seconds later, my Simple Servant comes back out with two Nagas which I stuff into my empty holsters for now. Just to be extra safe, I send the Mage Hands in with the Doorknockers first and point them around the room as a threat, then peek in through one of the many holes in the wall to make double sure there’s no threat. Don’t see one, so I stride on into the room, the master bedroom as it were with an ensuite bathroom and the biggest damn bed I done ever seen. Propped up against the foot of the bed is Ronald Jackson himself, looking mighty out of sorts with his shredded legs and stomach as he sits there with hands up by his shoulders and palms out. Laura is there too, showing her hands too and glaring at me for all she’s worth, but her sass ain’t so fetching anymore.
With my Rattlesnake pointed at Ron, I redirect the Mage Hands to cover the both of them with the Doorknockers before looking around the rest of the room. Nothing magical stands out to my Detect Magic Spell, so there ain’t no recording devices around. Course, Nondetection is a Third Order Divination Spell meant to cover up magical tracks, but if he went that far as to hide his own recording devices from a possible Diviner wandering around his bedroom, then he deserves to have it recorded. “So here we are,” I say, with a little shake of my head as I lean back against a dresser while my Floating Disc settles in right next to me. “A shame really. Didn’t have to go this way.”
“Your fault, not mine,” Ron says, beaming all bright as he leans back against his bed, and because he looking out of sorts, I gesture with the Rattlesnake to let him know he can put his arms down. He does, but reaches for his breast pocket where he keeps his cigs. Does it slow and careful to show he ain’t no threat, but it’s hard when you bleeding from your gut and a dozen other holes. “Miss Laura,” he says, turning to her with love in his eyes. “If you could be so kind?”
She gives him a glare as she helps him out, one so full of love it makes me envy what they got. Two terrible people who found love together, it’d almost be sweet if I didn’t hate them so much. In contrast to her anger and sass, her actions are as gentle as can be as she gets him a cigarette, but they ain’t got no lighter on account of it being on the dressing table beside me. With only one hand, I ain’t about to reach for the flintstone in my component pouch or the one I stole off his desk downstairs, so I send my Simple Servant over with a candle instead. Ron laughs as he leans in to light his cig, and he takes a big lungful of smoke before blowing it up at the ceiling to join the clouds of blackness hanging overhead. Heaving a sigh as he sees what’s above and guesses at what’s below, Ron gives me a look that’s almost friendly as he shakes his head and says, “I can see why Gunin was so scared of the Firstborn then. Man was ready to take my money and run once he learned you were involved.”
That puts a bit of pep in my step, and I give Ron a smile and nod in thanks. “Funny that,” I say with a shrug. “Can’t rightly say I remember crossin’ any Soviet scavs before the last week, so don’t know how he heard of me.”
Ron chuckles and shakes his head, but doesn’t answer the implied question. Instead, he heaves a sigh and turns to miss Laura, giving her a tender look you wouldn’t expect from a man of his lacking morals. “Should’ve made an honest woman out of you. Everyone knew you were my old lady even if I didn’t marry you, so why bother keeping up appearances?”
“Should’ve done a lot of things,” she replies, tears streaming down her cheeks as she strokes his face. “Like steer clear of the Firstborn like I told you to. Think a man like you would know better. Told me all those stories about how you wasn’t the meanest, toughest, or scariest soldier in your platoon, but the hardest one to kill.”
“Because they always underestimate a Diviner,” Ron replies, flashing a boyish grin that makes me wonder how he became the monster that he is. “Course, I did the same, and look where that left me?” Turning to me, he asks, “How’d you know I was gonna shoot you through the wall? Can’t count the number of times I’ve gotten the jump on my enemies like that, but you? Ducked and danced like you could see me aiming right at you.”
“Detect Magic,” I say, seeing no reason to lie. “Spotted the Spell on your clock and moved accordingly.”
“Damn.” Shaking his head in admiration, he looks at me in a new light, a man who knows it ain’t as simple as I make it sound. “That quick?”
“That quick.”
“The fucking Firstborn.” Heaving a sigh, he adds, “Should’ve come work for me, boy. Got no quit in you, but you’re wasting your talents.”
“Should’ve, could’ve, might’ve,” I say by way of reply, shrugging as I hold up my stump of a hand which still got my Shield out to protect me. “Lot of things we both should’ve done, but here we are.”
“Too true.” Glancing at the door, he asks, “Where’s Wayne?”
I shake my head. “Your boys done him in downstairs,” is what I say, but neither one of us believes it. He knows what I did, because he knows me better than I care to admit. “Conner too.”
The man nods in approval, and I hate that my chest swells with pride to see it. God damn it. If he wasn’t such soulless scum, I could see myself liking the man for what he is. An unapologetic criminal sure, but Ronald Jackson gets things done. “Tell me,” he says, after taking another drag of his cig. “Last time you were in town, when we were talking at the bar. Was it Fireball you had readied?” I nod, and he laughs. “Damn son. More stones than I thought then. How’d you expect to get away clean, sitting right there next to me when your Spell went off?”
“Had that good, solid bar between us,” I say with a shrug. “Throw the Spell at your feet, take cover, and pray. Fireball don’t flood the area with flame and heat. It billows out from the epicentre in a wave. Blink and you’d miss it, but there’s no denying that’s how it works, meaning the bar would’ve born the brunt of the Spell’s damage. Fireball’s great for killing, but it don’t do great against wooden furniture and stone objects for some reason.”
“Because they don’t have reserves of fat underneath the surface to superheat and ignite,” Ron replies, spoken like a man who’s seen it first hand. Thinking back on how it went down in the bunker, I nod in agreement, because that do be how it is. Heaving another sigh, he leans into Laura a little harder as the cigarette in his mouth droops down from his lips. “Sorry darling. Seems this is the end of the road for me then.”
“Fool man,” she says, giving him a kiss, and my stomach twists as I watch their touching little moment. The way they’re going on it’s like I’m the villain here, when they the ones who brung this on themselves. They’re the monsters, and it ain’t fair that they such a fetching couple when they both so ugly on the inside.
So to make the outside match the in, I kick the Molotov my Simple Servant left sitting on my Floating Disc and send it hurtling towards the monstrous couple in a fit of pique. The glass shatters on the bedframe and sends a spray of alcohol out in all directions, one that’s ignited by Ron’s lit cigarette and sets the loving couple ablaze. Neither one of them was expecting it, and their screams are delicious to hear as their skins blacken to a crisp while writhing in agony next to one another. If I had the patience, I’d have asked him more about his chemical explosives and try to figure out where he stores and manufactures them, but I’m tired and hurting and in no mood to hear him plead for her life or her refuse to leave or whatever. Instead, their screams serve as the closing to my journey here in Pleasant Dunes, a sound that will haunt my nightmares for years to come, but for now, I find them soothing as can be as I watch them flail about in futile effort for a few seconds. Then my disgust kicks in and I loathe myself more than I could ever hate either one of them, so I put a Bolt through each of them to end their misery.
Her first, then him, so he has to watch her die. One final slap across the face for taking my hand and my future both.
And just like that, it’s almost over, the job done and my vengeance complete. Marcus was right though. Revenge doesn’t change a damn thing, but I learned that lesson long ago when I gunned down the men who shot my daddy dead. Didn’t make me feel better then, and it doesn’t make me feel better now. Only empty and aimless, with nothing left for me to do except face facts. The fight is over and done with, the battle won and victory complete, but there’s still the matter of getting out of this with my reputation intact without taking too much flak for what went down here today. There will be questions aplenty, and consequences to boot, to say nothing of the fact that even if I come out of this clean, I’m still down a hand and have limited options moving forward.
Which is why I take a minute or two looking around for something to pocket and plunder, but there’s no obvious safe full of cash or box filled with jewels laying about. Don’t have much time for a thorough search though, so I leave the burning room feeling neither better nor worse for having finished things neat and tidy. It’s over, that’s all that matters, and I got myself two fancy new Naga’s for it. Lovely guns, but juice wasn’t worth the squeeze, not even if I add in Gunin’s fancy rifle too. His pistols ain’t nothing special, so I leave those with his corpse which I set aflame too, using up the last of my mollies because why the hell not?
Taking one last look about the blazing inferno, I put the scene out of mind because I never want to remember this moment ever again. As I open the window, a rush of cold air surges into the building and sets the flames to burning even hotter than before, so I hop out right quick and pay for my haste when my back foot catches onto the window frame and sends me tumbling through the air head over heels. Been through this a thousand times before, like when my daddy would drop the Levitation Spell suddenly or tell me to jump off the side of the mesa where he made his home with my mama in the badlands. A focused effort of Will directed down into my boot draws the stored Featherfall Spell out and around me, billowing about to wrap me in a blanket of magical sensation which I drink in with the Detect Magic Spell still active.
This must be what Tina, Chrissy, and Aunty Ray see all the time. It doesn’t change anything about the night’s sky or the stars twinkling up overhead. It enhances it, adds to it, layers an extra set of impressions over everything that I’m suddenly all too aware of and never want to be away from again. That’s magic, and I yearn for it more than almost anything else in this world, because it’s the only thing that’s never let me down. As the Featherfall Spell gently deposits me down in the sand, I cling fast to the tiny spark of hope which just ignited in my chest, a tiny, flickering flame that is nothing compared to the gutted inferno of fury that sputtered out with Ron and Laura’s deaths.
Maybe, just maybe, I can still keep doing what I do, so long as I find the right magic to fix what ails me. Can’t regrow limbs with magic, but a stronger Mage Hand? An arcana-tech prothesis? A hand-golem linked to my brain and no different from a real hand? All within the realm of possibilities. Not today, and probably not before the Watershed either, but there’s still hope to be had.
Hope for the best, and strive for it too, even as I prepare for the worst all the same.
So here’s hoping.
- End of Book One -