The police officer takes pause as he silently reiterates the events within his mind again, disbelief suspended as he stares at the four individuals cuffed together to the far wall. A gang decimated by law, the officer taking a deep breath before answering; avoiding eye contact with the watching Judge. “A-All due respect sir, I thought all the stories about you were crazy… but this…”

A perimeter set up surrounding the crime scene, gold plastic string strung between sidewalks and alleyways. Strobing police lights bring forth orange color into the world, the shadows of a gathering crowd dancing across the dirty walls of the old city.

The doctor interrupts the budding conversation, a pale white coat stained with tarnishes of blood and viscera as he steps forward from a covered body. “That’s the second one.”

“The one with the sliced neck?”

“The one who caught his buddy’s own bullet.”

“Thank you Doctor Omen.” The officer blinks as he stares down at the reporting form held within his left hand, pen meeting paper as he adds to the empty lines. Speaking out towards the processed lineup he hides gritted teeth. “Gods… you idiots didn’t think it was a Judge you were robbing did you?!”

Silence as the forms stand against the cold wall, hands locked to their backs and tied together like livestock to a slaughterhouse.

From the sidewalk another officer strides over from the parked vehicle, her uniformed shadow stopping at the circle’s edge. A standing of attention, the present Judge dismissing her with a wave of the hand. She speaks towards her partner. “It’s done.”

The pair turn towards Judge Murphy, a moment of silence as they watch the old man breathe through an ignited cigarette. Ancient gaze pointed towards the now pair of plastic covered bodies upon the ground, a third enveloped in the midst of medical triage from a small group of paramedics. The officer speaks, his voice nearly lost to the whispers of the crowd beyond the policing perimeter. A slight unsteadiness to the voice, calling towards a near untouchable being. “Judge M-Murphy… about the….”

“Felony violation under penal code two hundred seventy seven as judged by Judge John Murphy at nine-fourty-seven local. All suspects guilty, sentence made under federal jurisdiction: life in prison without parole.” The Judge interrupts, the words burning embers within the cylinder of dried smokeleaf. “Are there any objections from the witnessing enforcement officials?”

“No sir.” The pair immediately respond as they straighten their stances.

Cold wind is left to sit, Judge Murphy taking a long draw of the cigarette before turning back to the present officers. “Court is adjourned.”

Leaving behind the police lines, the Lawman strolls into the crowd of faceless citizens.

A dark uniform blending with the night of a world beneath five darkened suns, a universe of dusty air picked up by tired senses. The seven gold bars of the federation unilluminated in darkness, gazes transferred between groups of individuals within the old city skipping the killer within their midst.

Deep in the lawless wasteland of urban development, the ruined structures of slums housing within them the forgotten souls of the lost and damned. Citizenry left behind by the ravages of decay and time, victims of a war long come to pass.

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The Judge holds a hand close to his sidearm as a small group of armed priests pass by him, the knowledge of watching eyes bringing forth an instinct of conflict; a request for a place of safety within the city.

He sees it: situated along the borderlands of the city precincts the small saloon was squashed in its own little world. Neon lighting broken from eons of use, a signage perhaps pre-dating the empires of the modern world. A barely visible wording through the flickering greens and blues, the Judge watching it with a dead expression: Actus’ Cantina.

The pang of hunger echoes through the mind at the sight.

A meal and respite from the world and its obligations, the double hinged doors spilling light into the darkened streets awaiting entry.

Memories of gunfights in close quarters, a thought train broken as instinct pulls the soul towards the building.

No prayers to gods as the old man steps in.

A rough and tumble existence expressed through poorly maintained architecture; bullet holes scattered across stained walls and floorboards creaking with every step. Across tables and bars, the unwashed mass of humanity intermixes with itself.

The quietness of an exhausted population; of day’s work in the smitheries and refineries. Subtle conversation silenced at the entry of an unidentified foreign creature, sightlines avoided against holstered guns and armor plating.

Judge Murphy makes his assessment immediately; fourteen visible firearms currently held within the possessions of citizens. Held as defensive measures against criminal elements only, their owners tense yet inexperienced in the application of lethal force. With the exception of one.

A corner space at the bar was left open in the evening’s lull, the location’s field of fire overwatching the entire structure.

Occupied currently by one soul.

The exception maintains a presence within it; the seated stance of a Gunslinger at the tiered edge of the bar currently engrossed within a plate of steaming food.

Tall male; dark hair, green eyes, thin build. Distinct northland heritage brought with the vibrant eye color, the black streak within folicles of hair holding within it a possible armin-midland mixture in dead ancestors.

Salvaged aspects of low grade ceramic plating mismatch themselves across travel worn clothing, a chrome revolver within his waist holster hiding an unperceivable power.

Insight reached; a facade of calmness hiding within it the soul of a killer. A barely recognizable form implacable against the travelers of a world of dust and sand, the Judge’s identification of faces unfound in hunger.

A point of safety against the world confirmed as the old man takes the seat, a plastic stool coated with cracked laminate hard against flesh.

The bartender, an old woman as ancient as the city itself, approaches with a wounded gaunt. Apron stained with a sheet of dried grease, cleanliness a concept foreign to thin profit margins. “What can I get you?”

The Judge does not respond, placing a single handgun round onto the table in silence.

An implication of conflict, of warfare approaching too quickly among souls.

“Mash fry.” The Gunslinger next to the old man speaks up hurriedly, interrupting the standoff. “He wants the mash fry.”

The woman snarls at the order, the cold stare of the law and the guns to back it up enough to tame a hidden rebellion. Behind curtains she disappears, the entire establishment holding upon itself a tense existence.

The young man speaks as he turns to face the Lawman, rising above his own plate of food and towards a selfless observation of the soul. “I don’t think you’re from around here, Judge.”

Judge Murphy remains still at the notion, waiting as the young man takes a light hearted smile, continuing the one sided conversation. “These people aren’t too friendly with Federation Officials like yourself… but not to say they would try and cheat someone such as you, sir.”

The frankness of the voice catches the old man off guard, an authority skirted by a genuine soul. A response composed as the Judge speaks with measured care. “Thank you son.”

“No problem sir.” The young man answers without pause, returning to his own food.