Patrons trickle out.

Fear at the presence of absolute authority; of a one man jury and executioner within their midst. Worker groups scatter into the cold night, the remaining two souls alone in an empty bar with the sole tender.

A clock at the far end doles out time in the slow continuation of gears and pendulums, the cyclical ten hour day reaching a closure from sleeping gods above. The sound of vehicles outside passes in the slow groan of biofuel motors, snippets of passing conversations and announcements from demagogue street priests bridging the silence.

The food arrives in due time, a single small serving of unidentifiable brownish fried matter scooped into a plastic disk. Covered in grayish liquid flavoring, the thing was a meal by the barest of human definitions.

“Food’s becoming more and more expensive.” The young man next to the Judge comments through his own dish. “It’s almost a dollar for a basic rational meal now, so most people just drink their way through their calories.”

The food mass stares back at Judge Murphy, an unwavering resultant of ley line organic material and human factory production inconsolably inedible.

The Gunslinger continues. “Ley lines are burning out in the city. Some of the clerics believe it’s the end times, they say the Savior’s very close to coming.”

An investigative instinct triggered, the old Judge speaking up. “What individuals are part of this?”

“Most of the high clerics. Out of the twelve congregations, eight or nine of them are leaning towards the different CATACLYSMUS sects and the Temple of the Savior. The rest are trying to not get caught in the crossfire.”

The Judge nods at the notion, a mental casebook begun as he presses on the question. “And what religious sect are you son?”

The Gunslinger blinks at the following question, an answer given reflexively. “New Salvation, Northlandic Third Order.”

A confirmation of geographic origin from a religious belief, Judge Murphy fills in the mentalized suspect profile accordingly. “Do you have any relationships with the orders here in March?”

“The only New Salvation Cleric just died two weeks ago.” The young man answers tragically, leaning back on the bar stool as he stares into the distance.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

“So you’re from the Northlands?” The Judge specifies.

“I am.” The Gunslinger answers honestly.

The Old Man nods, a cold observation spoken into the empty establishment. “You’re very far away from home son.”

There’s a long silence before the answer, food remaining untouched. “We all are sir.”

Judge Murphy attempts to make the connection within ancient minds, something inconsolably familiar within the young man’s face triggering an instinct of justice.

Of a body wanted for actions years ago, posters no longer displayed in a culture revering gods and prophecies over law and order.

The Gunslinger asks the first question towards the Judge. “Do you believe in anything Judge?”

A strangeness to the tone, foreign north accent clouding the intent behind his words as Murphy answers with the defaulted reply. “I believe in the law.”

“Mar’s will is a powerful force in the Federation.” The Gunslinger admits with a smile. “And in the end, he did find his salvation through the law, so maybe there is something to it.”

The words are spoken with immense faith, the Lawman continuing his own side of the argument. “It is the only way to bring order to this world.”

“Perhaps.” The Gunslinger answers, a strange brimming enthusiasm arriving upon his form. “There are many ways of finding salvation in this world. Many paths to walk.”

The processing of the word, the single universial concept among every cult, every church. He stops as he makes the realized connection.

He asks the question, a cold calmness washing over him as he speaks. For the sake of the world, of law and order. “What’s your name, son?”

The Gunslinger pauses, a silence emanating before he opens his mouth. “Al…”

Static reaching out into the world, justice interrupting the conversation as the broadcast is sent at the highest level of authorities. From Judge Murphy’s shoulder the arcane radio jumps to life, the dark yellow circle igniting blue in the reception of a transmission from a lesser device. Voice held under gunfire, panic evident through the fearful tone in the midst of a firefight. “Code red, all units we have a 10-65 at the Palace Complex! Repeat, 10-65 at the Palace Complex. Requesting backup!”

Instinct sends the Judge into motion, standing as he leaves the food behind.

“Judge.” Stopped at the words of the Gunslinger, calm voice in the placement of knowledge and wisdom from beyond the frontiers of the Federation. Advice, simplistic yet critical for survival in a world of rage. “This is a land of prophecy, ruled by gods. The law of humanity has no power here.”

Silence at the notion, the young soul continuing towards the old Judge. “Watch your back. If even the old gods can be corrupted, the judges are not safe either.”

Something about the face, the soul, breeds safety; the Judge responds with a single line. “I know.”

Into the world, into darkness.