Lott ran, sliding and skidding next to Graylock on his knees. The Colonel had landed on his back on the rocky ground. His eyes were shut. It was hard to tell if he was breathing.

Lott opened the flap of Graylock's jacket so he could check his heartbeat. As he ran his hand along the front of the vest, his thumb nudged a flat, hard bulge in the vest pocket.

He froze, something occurring to him. Struck with a potential revelation was so striking that it distracted him from the danger the Colonel might be in.

Might. But probably not.

He reached a finger inside the lip of the vest pocket until he had a grip on what was inside. He pulled. And out the contents came, spilling onto and across Graylock's chest.

Playing cards. A good dozen of them.

No...

"You didn't," Lott said, just under his breath.

He almost didn't need to reach over and feel Graylock's inner breast pocket. But he did, anyway. And even through the fabric, he could tell that there were at least several tarns in there.

And some of them are already broken, aren't they?

He looked up from his findings and saw Graylock squinting at him. Giving him a sly wink.

Lott fumed, wrapping his hands into fists. Caught between his fury at Graylock's immorality and lack of decorum, and his own near-constant compulsion for control. For self-control.

"You're not even drunk, are you?" He said.

"Shhhh," Graylock said, subtly covering the cards with the flaps of his jacket, eyes still closed. "Of course, I am. I'm always drunk. Now, get me out of here, guardian angel. Quick. On the double."

Then his head lolled, again.

Getting a little dramatic there, Colonel. Your acting might need some work.

Then again, what had it taken to get one of the card players to challenge him to a shootoff? Surely not just the arguments on economics, or insulting the man's intellect. He must have made a point of bragging about being a good shot at least once before. It wasn't just that the miner had wanted his money back. He had wanted to humiliate the man who had repeatedly humiliated him.

And somehow, by some degree of foreknowledge, and a splash of manipulation(and perhaps more than a little luck), Graylock had managed to orchestrate the whole thing.

Lott glanced up. The onlookers continued to watch from a distance, tentative and a little concerned.

Heck, even Elias had this strange, uncertain look on his face. Like maybe, just maybe, he might have done something wrong. Like maybe something had happened to a Federation Colonel, and it might be his fault. That perhaps these witnesses, including Lott himself, might see it that way.

Still, he maintained what must have felt to him like a safe distance. Which was a bit ironic. If he'd stood even just a little closer, he might have seen the truth.

Lott leaned down next to Graylock's ear. "If you think I'm going to save you from this," he hissed, "You're in for a big surprise."

Graylock only gave a slight shrug, his eyes still closed. He really was counting on Lott to save him in this moment. To help him win.

Normally, the losing man (a man like Elias)would have asked questions. Would have demanded Graylock empty his pockets, for a start. But not after this. He had urged a decorated Federation Colonel to down the rest of his strong drink. Dozens of witnesses had watched it happen. And now that same Colonel had collapsed.

Of course, at this point, Lott had to wonder if the ‘alcohol’ in Graylock’s drink had been alcohol at all, let alone ‘a hundred proof’.

“Is he okay?” A woman in the crowd said as she approached. A few more of the onlookers followed her lead. They looked curious, but also like they wanted to help.

In that moment, Lott made a snap decision. Or at least the beginning of one.

His father, a university professor, and a stuffy academic type in all the cliched ways—with his mustache, monocle, a gut practically protruding out from under a silk vest, and a 'study' that perpetually smelled of pipe-smoke—had used to say that decisions weren’t made with the conscious mind, but somewhere within the dark depths of the subconscious. They were sent out, like orders from Federation Command. It was the job of the conscious mind to justify and compartmentalize those orders, like a General assuring his men of victory.

And maybe that was what was happening, now.

Lott held up a hand toward the the approaching witnesses. "Wait."

****

Wait.

Risla hadn't lost consciousness. Not entirely. It was more like a wave of exhaustion had passed over and through her body. Robbing her of control.

She had a faint recognition, in her body, of the fact that she'd hit the ground, and that she was lying on her side. Though she could still see, it was as if she was looking through a gray filter. A grey landscape, on which a dark shadow moved, rushing toward her.

Wix.

Wait. No. Not him.

She couldn't speak. The thoughts were isolated. Encapsulated echoes in her mind.

No. Not yet. Don't let him touch me.

Not yet...

But the shadow grew, until it loomed close. Until it blocked out her vision entirely.

And then she knew that he was picking her up. Not because she could feel it. Not physically. But because of what she saw.

It was Wix. A different Wix. Taller. Still skinny, but more rugged in the face. With a black hat, and a black duster, coattails flapping wildly in the wind. Eyes aglow with the power of Shattercryst.

He was standing on a battlefield. A strewn and ragged land, pocked with craters and the wreckage of places where people used to live.

He stood alone. Moved alone. On a battlefield where hundreds, if not thousands, were sided against him, seeking to kill him. What cover there was, he used industrially, as he weaved in and out of view. Not in a rush, but in steady, calculated steps.

Bullets whizzed past him. Hitting the ground near his boots. Cutting holes in his coat, here and there. Passing so close to his face as to ruffle his hair under the hat. But none seemed to bother him. His face was a mask of grim, unfazed determination. He stepped out from behind a cluster of wreckage, the shiny spurs on his boots clicking with every slow step.

He had two Wulthers. One at either hip. He drew them at the same time. And he fired them at the same time. And the bullets that left each chamber were not normal. Even by Deadeye standards they weren’t. They twinkled as they shot through the air. And then there was the flash of Afterburn ignition. And then they split apart. Each bullet becoming five smaller shards, each swerving through the air at select angles, leaving trails of red Afterburn as they found their marks. Puncturing holes in chests and heads. Ten enemies dropping in the second it took to pull each trigger, making crimson ribbons of blood which arced in the air, slick and shiny in the rusty orange light of the setting sun.

It was unlike any technology Risla had ever seen. But it had to exist. Or at least, it was going to exist, one day. Because she was seeing it.

At some point, Wix began to move faster. His form, his movements, began to take on a sort of quiet urgency. He bobbed and weaved, avoiding fire. Returned fire. And it seemed as if the opposing was retreating. Or at least falling back. Climbing and scrambling back over the lines of cover, the ditches and packed mounds, they had created, entrenching themselves during their advance. As Wix followed them, he passed hundreds of bodies, strewn among the wreckage, trampled in the dirt. With a resounding spur-click, he stepped over the head of one of those bodies. The eyes were open, staring lifelessly into the steadily darkening sky. Eyes with irises that were rings of brilliant, intense blue.

Darovenians. And he was killing them. By the hundreds.

She'd known it would be like this. That she might have to see it. But knowledge and experience were two different things. She'd waited for it to happen. Had known it would happen. And now it had.

The Darovenians were fleeing. Running away from him. And still, he wouldn't stop. They--

A new darkness Risla. Something beyond the grey filter of her exhaustion. A black veil. Dropping. Smothering her.

She considered fighting it. But it would be too late. Besides, this new darkness--this...unconscious, she knew--would save her from this. It would spare her from having to see this vision.

And it did. The light winked out. Like a giant hand seizing the orange sun of this place, wrapping it in a fist. But just before it did, Risla had one last glimpse of Wix. A sudden gust of wind snatched at the tails of his long duster, making them flail behind his back like spreading tendrils of black. His face spread in a fierce grin, teeth marked with drops Darovenian blood.

And that was all.

Or was it?

Like light dawning suddenly--a sword of light cutting grey clouds on a dismal day--a new vision began to impose itself. Unlike the first--and unlike all the others she'd had before--there was no way of knowing what she would see, or how to prepare for it.

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Time was strange, like that. Having access to the slivers, to the micro-events, was not the same as having a full picture of what was to come. Each sliver could be deceiving. Like some small piece of a person's conversation, taken out of context. But sometimes, it illuminated, too. Like a small, but crucial piece to a mosaic tapestry, bringing it all together. Altering it in ways she couldn't possibly have suspected.

What she saw now was a lot like that. A shift in an ever-altering paradigm. Part of the rush of the twisting, churning stream that was time itself. Pulling Risla in.

****

As much as Lott wanted to count to ten, he wasn't sure he had time.

It wasn't just that he was frustrated. It was that he needed time to think.

Really? Still going over this? You already know what you're going to do. And you know why.

Did he?

He took a deep breath. He was bent over Graylock, pretending to observe his vital signs. He still had one hand in the air, keeping people at bay.

Telling these people the truth would mean siding with the townsfolk, and against Graylock, with his deceptive, immature scheme. But if he did, there was no telling what would happen. There was nothing so destructive as the truth--except lies, perhaps. If Elias knew the truth, he might hurt Graylock. Or even kill him. If not work up a few of the other miners. Round up a posse. Light some of the local military property on fire.

Similar things had happened before. Some people just don't understand their place in society. Didn't know how to get in line. The types of people that ended up overseeing mining labor at the west edge of the continent.

The point was that it wasn't just about truth and non-truth. It was about predictability.

You mean 'control'.

Maybe. What of it?

With his free hand, he reached under the flap of Graylock's jacket and began to gather up all the cards, shoving them back into the vest pocket. Once they were hidden away, secure, he stood. He went from ushering people back to waving them over. "Can I get some help over here?"

He was surprised to see Elias next to his shoulder, leaning to help lift the Colonel. He, Lott, and a few of the townsfolk worked together to carry him back inside the saloon. On the way, they passed the squat and heavyset Sherrif Anders, seated on his horse, watching them go. Perhaps wondering just what all the fuss had been about. Though he didn't bother to ask.

****

It surprised Wix just how light the girl was. Even when she was limp, draped over his arms like a rolled length of linen.

He didn't want her to die. That was a more than reasonable feeling, wasn't it? A human feeling. No need to justify or explain it. The girl seemed hurt. Like maybe she might not be okay. And in a very sudden and visceral way, he wanted her to be okay. Needed her to be okay.

He knew she wasn't quite dead, yet. In a brief moment of panicked worry, he had reached inside her uniform to feel her heart. He'd felt it beating under her chest. Faintly, but beating all the same. And then he'd felt silly, and ashamed.

Idiot.

He knew from his studies that doctors checked pulses by pressing their fingers against the top of the neck, just under the chin. He hadn't needed to feel for her actual heartbeat.

But, you know, feeling her up works, too. A real nice thing to do to someone you just met. Way to go.

Swallowing his embarrassment, hoping no one had seen(especially Kedrik, please not Kedrik), Wix spun in a circle, looking and hoping expectantly for someone, anyone, to rush over and help. Mostly he was met with the dull-eyed stares of the Darovenians, encumbered by their chains and looking rather uninterested in helping besides.

"Sunsickness," said a voice, from behind him.

Wix spun.

It was one of the guards. A rifle hung from his shoulder by the strap.

"She'll be okay," he said. "Just needs to get out of the sun."

Another guard joined them. They both put out their arms, urging Wix to hand her over so they could get her into the shade.

Right. It wasn't Wix's problem. It was theirs. They'd take care of it.

He adjusted the girl in his arms, moving to relocate her. She was in a halfway standing position, with one of Wix's arms looping around and holding her by the waist. When suddenly, her eyes flicked open. She stared up at Wix, her head cradled in the crook of his elbow. Her eyes were wide, and her breath came in sharp gasps, chest heaving.

For a second, it seemed to Wix as if she might have gone blind. She was looking toward him, but not at him. She was seeing something else. If anything at all.

As Wix watched, her expression shifted, morphing from a look of bewilderment into sheer terror. Her brows clenched together. Her mouth opened wide in a silent scream. She began to writhe in his grip, arms and legs flailing. When that happened Wix couldn't help but hold on tighter. He didn't want her to hurt herself. He didn't want her to fall and hit the ground, again. At the same time, he found himself wondering if perhaps this was his doing, somehow. Had he injured her? Though he couldn't imagine how.

Just when he was sure that he should rid himself of this situation, that he should either drop her in the arms of the guards or lower her safely onto the ground, her eyes closed, and she stopped thrashing. She went limp. Not unconscious, but limp. She let out a sigh, a long breath that seemed to draw all of the tension our of her body with it. And when she opened her eyes, it was like she was a completely different person. Peering up at him with that same look she'd given him when she was standing on the platform.

"Hey," she said, again.

"Hey," Wix said, unable to think of anything else. Anything that seemed appropriate, anyway.

A third guard had rushed over, this one holding a canteen. He opened the stopper and handed it to Wix. It was cold to the touch, filled recently with brisk well-water.

Wix carefully lowered the girl onto the ground, propping her torso on his legs, while the three guards hovered over him. They watched with a level of trepidation he didn't really understand, but he didn't care to pay attention to it. His focus was on the girl.

There was something about this girl. Something about her.

It wasn't just that she was cute. Although, that was true. But normally, attractive girls put him off. He found them intimidating. Hard to approach.

This was different. It wasn't just that she'd initiated contact first, with that knowing wave. Or that she was different. Or unattainable. It was something else. Some factor he was missing, or lacked the thoughts to articulate. It was just out of reach.

Connection. That was the word. It was what they had. A connection. Thought what exactly connected them, Wix couldn't say. It was a feeling, more than anything. But real, all the same. As tangible as the sandy motes of dust that hovered and fell, displaced by the treads of Wix's boots as he'd knelt to the ground.

There was something else. Something about being here, holding her. He suddenly felt responsible for her, if only for this brief moment in time. Setting her down and walking away, or handing her over to someone else, felt too much like abandoning that responsibility.

He brought the canteen toward her face.

She shook her head. "I don't need it."

"Not according to them," nudging his head in the direction of the guards. "They say you're sunsick."

The girl smirked. "Sunsick. That's funny."

"I don't see how that's funny," Wix said.

"It's a private joke," she said. "You had to be there."

Wix shrugged. "I'm told I have terrible sense of humor, anyway. 'Course, that's mostly coming from my pa. And what does he know?"

"What indeed," the girl said. But there was a strange, knowing look in her eyes as she said it. If Wix was honest with himself, it made him a little uncomfortable.

"We should probably move you into the shade," he said. He looked around. Possibly just to avoid her gaze for a moment. After all, it wasn't like he needed to find the shade. Shade was everywhere on the east side of the canyon. He just needed to move her there.

He held the canteen toward her again. "You should probably drink some of this, first." She probably did need the water. And he wasn't sure if the guard would take kindly to him walking away with his canteen.

Two of the three guards had already walked away. Lost interest. She was conscious, which probably meant she was fine. Or at least, in no immediate danger. Not their problem, anymore. They no longer feared that Kalana Kaine--or one of her underlings--was going to chew them out for letting her 'property' waste away and die while they were supposedly on the job.

"Alright," she said. "I'll do it. For you."

Normally, Wix would have a comeback for that. Such a strange thing to say to someone you just met. But he was disarmed by her genuineness in the way she said. She meant it.

Her hands were trembling, but her grip on the canteen was fine.

She tilted her head back and drank. As she did, though, her eyes were on Wix the whole time.

After a few seconds, he had to look away. The contact was too intense. And besides, he was beginning to feel self-conscious about this whole thing. Not about the fact that he was helping someone. Not even the fact that she was Darovenian.

It was that mystery element to the situation. The thing he couldn't quite put his finger on.

Besides, Kedrik was going to give him hell if he caught him doing this, regardless of the circumstances. That was just Kedrik.

When the girl was finished, she put the stopper back on the canteen. Wix held it out to the guard, who snatched it up, and was off to put out some other fire as soon as he had it.

Wix got up on one knee, cradling the girl at the small of her back and under her knees. He was surprised to feel her reaching up and around him, interlocking her fingers behind the back of his neck. Her skin was smooth, and soft, and warm, despite how pale she looked, as if tiny shards of ice flowed inside her blue veins.

She nodded to him, as if to say, 'Okay, then'.

Again, he was surprised at how light she felt when he lifted her. And perhaps it was even easier, with the way she braced herself against him.

Though he kept his eyes ahead, and on the ground, he could feel her gaze on him. It was hard to squash the suspicion that she was staring up at him the whole time. Studying him? Examining his features?

Wix had never thought of himself as particularly handsome. Though, with how this interaction was going, it was maybe time to reconsider that assessment.

Though, weren't standards of beauty different from place to place? Could it be that an Alveranderan six was a Darovenian ten? Or was he just being silly?

Was it right to assume that the warmth she exhibited toward him had anything to do with that? Can't people ever just be nice to each other?

No. I mean, let's be realistic, here. Unless there's a way to account for cultural differences, somehow.

Ah. And then it came back to him. The words of his own pa, not a few days ago. How had he forgotten?

"That girl knows what to do. How to behave. She's been told by the others."

And what words had he used to describe Wix?

"Young. Naive. Easily tempted."

Well. Maybe he'd been right.

That took the swing out of Wix’s step, a little. There was no way to know if Kedrik was right. Perhaps it said more about Wix that he was so willing to believe it, as opposed to the alternative. But he did.

It was twenty or so paces to the steadily-decreasing line of shade which hugged the eastern incline. There was an angle of packed shoal, next to a cluster of big rocks. Wix set the girl there, seated upright, her back against one of the rocks.

As soon as she was out of his arms and on the ground, a weight seemed to lift in his mind. He'd done what he needed to do. And as much as he hated what was happening to this girl, and to these people, this was all he could do, for now.

He stood. He wasn't sure if Kedrik had called him, yet. Perhaps his father had even lost sight of him and simply left him behind. Unlikely, since he'd claimed he needed his help with the crystal, but not impossible.

"Wix?" the girl said.

Wix froze, mid-turn.

The girl was holding one feeble, somewhat shaky hand over her forehead like a visor, shielding her eyes from the bright sky.

"Forgive me if I'm wrong," Wix said, "But I don't remember telling you my name."

"You haven't," she said. "But you will."

That made about as much sense as a gun without a chamber. If she already knew his name, why would he need to tell her? And if he hadn't told her yet, how did she know?

"You been asking around about me?" Wix said, facing her. Crouching down in front of her.

"No," the girl said, simply.

"Well, now I'm even more confused," Wix said.

"It can be like that with me," she said. She gave him a wry, sad smile. "I should apologize for that, in advance."

"Sure," Wix said. "Whatever." He stood. "You probably should drink more water. And avoid the heat as much as you can, at least for a while."

He paused. "I'm sorry. And...I hope things get better for you. I really do."

He started moving north.

"Risla," the girl said, behind him. "That's my name. I thought I should tell you, even though I know you're going to forget."

...what?

"Oh," the girl called Risla said. "And later, don't worry. I forgive you."

That stopped Wix in his tracks, for some reason. He looked over his shoulder. "Forgive me? For what?"

"The girl," Risla said, matter-of-fact.

Right. Sure.

Wix shook his head and kept moving.

Sunsick indeed.