A single black spire driven deep into the earth, ancient machinery artisan manufactured in a foundry eons away. Burrowed into the ley lines of the desert, the leyline tower was the center of the entire township of Old Springs; energy, sustenance, power.
Evidence of some divine far below, the central source of all life in the wasteland buried a mile beneath the sand and bedrock; tapped into by raw human ingenuity.
Wires protrude from the squat monolith placed at the town’s square, leading outward to buildings residential and commercial. Carved scars from machinery and additional plates of material scatter along its surface, hardware modifications to systems long misunderstood by man. Springs of water drain into pressurized pipes, and a single arcane console awaits orders from operators unknown.
Placing the injured girl onto the ground the Gunslinger stares at the artifact. Memories and ritual return, an open hand reaching towards it as words of power are spoken.
Language and motions forgotten to time eternal, the cyclical movement triggers the entry point for ancient software. Passed through the generations, the ordered machine complies as a sphere of nothing formulates in front of the pair of mortals. Darkness from the beyond, recalled for one purpose only.
The gateway deposits the requested item onto the dust; a single roll of white bandages that bounce slightly on impact. Utterly mundane in appearance, spare for the green cross aligned across its packaging.
“Open your mouth.” The young man orders as he reaches into his waist belt, removing a handheld canister. From within a single red capsule is produced, and carefully placed upon an extended tongue. “Clee, even if the pain is gone, don’t move your arm ok? If you do, it will hurt even more.”
The girl nods, and the Gunslinger unwraps the bandaging from within its thin, plastic packaging. Medical attention from memories of actions, augmented by the printed, comic based instructions upon the bandages themselves. Broken arm carefully maneuvered into place, the sling wrapped around the thin frame.
“This will hurt… a lot. But you’ll be able to use your arm again after tonight.” Alto warns. “Don’t move.”
Air contacts the bone white material, soft fabric hardening into rigid structure in seconds. Like solid concrete the form forces inward, clothing warming as the reaction produces forth a pang of near uncomfortable heat.
A minute passes as Clee grits her teeth, arcane systems automatically diagnosing the injury and presenting a brutally efficient solution.
Without warning needles burst forth from bandaging. Together, the forms carve through thick clothing and skin, matter injected into the cavities of flesh. A mute screech, Clee seizing in agony as nerve endings burn. Ten seconds of blinding pain surges through the girl before ice cold relief in relativity, the soul nearly passing out at the final edge of automated treatment.
Retching out bile the form tries to catch breath in shock, the Gunslinger holding Clee’s shoulder as he attempts to calm her. “Take a deep breath, slowly.”
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The half word is signed, signal of pain incomplete as she sobs tearless cries. A deep breath is taken, shock eased as dry air enters the body.
Three pairs of footsteps approach, the Gunslinger turning to face them. Old Joe, and trailing behind him two more forms. An age difference obvious in visible stature, the younger man holding heavy the metal case adorned with a familiar green cross walks alongside the hunched over frame of the old woman draped with sterile white clothing.
Old Joe is the first to sprint over, kneeling over the girl. “Clee?!”
Deep breaths, the attempt to stave off shock barely motioned by only one operable hand.
The younger of the other two sets his medical case onto the ground in preparation, pausing as he notes the already treated patient. Taking a moment to diagnose, he turns to face the Gunslinger. “Did you already…”
“I tried my best. Not sure if I did it right though.”
“You did it right, at least in your way.” The Old Woman croaks behind them with a scoff. “Northlanders, and your ‘treatments.’ Rather do it quick and painful than slow and careful. Clee’s gonna be fine.”
Letting loose held tension the Old Man motions between the arrived pair. Collected thoughts returning, an attempted greeting pulling from ancient charisma as he moves to soften the revelation of the guest. “Alto, this is Doctor Omen and her grandson Daniel Omen. You two, this is Alto Carrin, the… man I spoke about.”
The name only triggers for the younger of the two.
Reaching a hand out towards the Gunslinger, Daniel suddenly stops as he stares with wide eyes at the form. A realization of power, of gods and mortals in a world of prophecy and hope. “Holy… Savior below it’s really you… By the Five it’s actually you!”
“He a famous healer or something?!” Doctor Omen asks as she narrows her ancient eyes. “I don’t recognize ‘em.”
“Ma he’s THE VIGIL like… remember that bandit who blew up Salius Tower up in Resolution like two years ago?”
“I barely remember what I ate for breakfast.”
Daniel points the Gunslinger out. “He’s the guy who took him down.”
“I did?” Alto blinks as he reaches back into memory, the images of gunfights and duels blending into a scattering of confusion. The self proclaimed titles of pirate lords forgettable against a slate of dozens like them.
“The Auditor of District 14 as well!” Daniel continues, then stops. Bowing slightly to the Gunslinger, he tries to hide his own excitement. “By the Five we’re saved. When those bandits get back… ”
“Geez you can’t just ignore your patient.” Doctor Omen dismisses as she carefully reaches out to the girl. A few prods to the site of injury without reaction, the old woman speaks up. “Damn northland scum.”
An offense taken on behalf of the guest, the Daniel scowls. “Ma you can’t just…”
“Hey not my place to judge considering you north people have to deal with whatever those beasts are every day.” The Old Woman continues. “I’ll be honest it’s all impressive but relying on magic for this just doesn’t sit well with me.”
Joe speaks up with concern. “But Clee…”
“She’ll probably be back and running tomorrow morning. Though I want to take a look so bring her to the clinic.” The old woman waves off as she reaches into her pocket. A brown cylinder of plasteel found and activated, lungs filled as she puffs out a cloud of addictive smoke. “Alright Joe carry her up.”
“R-right.”
“And you.” She points at Alto. “You’re coming with.”
“Me?” The Gunslinger blinks.
“Well who else is here?” The old woman scoffs as she bites down on the cigar. “I ain’t in the business of magic, but you are obviously. So since you treated her I don’t want any unexpected side effects. You’re coming with us… now.”