The sun was hotter than it used to be. The crowds busier, the general store more expensive, and, if last night was any indication, the booze a hell of a lot stronger, too. He'd been back for around a month but only recently had his body started following his commands again.
The first few weeks were a blur, drifting in and out of consciousness in his cot. He'd managed to find lodgings on the docks above the fishmonger. Not exactly ideal, but neither was his new salary, and the dockmaster had offered reduced rent due to what he described as the "overwhelming stench." Eli didn't mind; the room was larger than the barracks, and he could watch the sun dance over the gulf from his cot, but his nose hadn't started functioning again.
Laborers unloaded sacks of goods from vessels larger than Eli had thought possible, which merchants would then eagerly drag across the worn road to waiting townsfolk.
He weaved through the throng of merchants, barely avoiding a collision with a frantic man who bellowed, "CALDERS LANDINGS FRESHEST TOBACCO!" Townsfolk flocked to him, drawn by the promise of freshly picked leaves.
"PICKED STRAIGHT FROM THE FIELD AS EARLY AS THIS MORNING!"
A more considerable flurry of townsfolk immediately surrounded the now jovial merchant. Simultaneously the others began singing a symphony of similarly bullshit claims about the quality of where they sourced their own goods.
"COFFEE FROM THE HILLS OF GUATEMALA, TEA FROM THE GARDENS OF CEYLON! COFFEE FROM THE HILLS OF-"
"WHISKEY, RUM, BEER, WINE. YOU FANCY A SPIRIT WE'RE CARRYING!"
Despite the dubious validity of the merchants' claims, the townsfolk flocked to each new vendor like pigeons to an old man's hand. It was another busy morning—every morning seemed busy now. Fishermen depart before the last drunks fall out of the saloon, and the brothels open so early that they make sure to snag the poor bastard before he can even think about stumbling home.
It wasn't hard to see why the Bureau of Frontier Justice decided to build their new headquarters here. Walking this very same path all but forty years prior would've shown all the sights of a single dirt road with a saloon and a whore shack, the first two establishments that sprout out the ground of every developing settlement.
The docks eventually ceased, and with them, the last bastion of ferocity the town had left. In front of him sat the main street of Calders Landing; by god, was it beautiful. All a man could need in this world was separated only by one pristine brick road. Of course, there was the general store, although this one had multiple stories. The gunsmith, because land can be tamed but people never truly can be. Saloon, apothecary, butcher shop, post office, hell, they even had frivolities like the "nickelodeon" which The Director assures him shows real moving pictures, some even accompanied by sound!
This was destiny in all its promised glory. The spread of Law, order, and justice to the furthest reaches of the savage wilderness right before his eyes. This was the land of opportunity realized. These people had the luxury of variety; they could choose what meal they were going to eat that night, and they could choose to travel anywhere in the state in less than a day. They would never know the pain of the virgin frontier nor the sacrifices he made to ensure that.
The sounds of carriages on cobblestone faded along with the bustling main street crowd. Eli was surprised his legs had carried him this far, but after much walking, he finally arrived at his new workplace.
His yellowing eyes couldn't help but widen as they settled on the edifice before him. The "Bureau of Frontier Justice" proclaimed a gold plaque hung on the front entrance, gleaming in the blistering sun like a beacon of modernity amidst the rustic charm of Calders Landing. Unlike the quaint, wooden structures that lined the main street, this building was imposing, made of an authoritative brick and stone, designed with a stern elegance that spoke of permanence.
Its architecture was a stark departure from the local, it boasted clean lines, large, symmetrical windows that reflected the bright midday sun, and an imposing set of double doors at the entrance that suggested welcome and warning. A newly paved path, free of the town's typical dust, led to the steps that climbed towards the gaping maw of an entrance.
Above them, mounted between two grand columns, the name "Bureau of Frontier Justice" etched deeply into a solid stone lintel, its letters painted in an unmissable shade of black. Even the windows, with their clear glass and sturdy frames, hinted at a level of investment foreign to this part of the West.
A crowd gathered in front of the structure in what Eli could only assume was mass township awe. As he approached, even his adjusting ears could make out the rhythmic pulse of what sounded like protest.
"LOCAL LAWS, NOT FEDERAL FLAWS!"
"LOCAL LAWS, NOT FEDERAL FLAWS!"
"LOCAL LAWS, NOT FEDERAL FLAWS!"
Using what little dexterity his body had left, he snaked his way through the growing crowd and was met with the sorriest excuse for a mob since the Mexican activos.
They marched together with less coordination than the rawest recruits, shuffling about like ducklings with no mother hen to guide them. They held sloppily painted signs with witty slogans such as Sheriff Colt, who's your boss? Reject the bureau; we're not lost! and No bureau, no spies, keep our town free of lies! Hastily scrawled on. Seems it wasn't just the wild thats been tamed.
Once enough of an audience had amassed, the leader of the bunch ceased her awkward march, lowered her sign, and stepped aboard a carefully placed soapbox. She unfurled a comically thick pamphlet and, without glancing at it once, began a recitation that, likely, had been performed in her washroom mirror earlier that morning.
"G-GOOD MORNIN' NEIGHBORS! WOULD ANY OF YOU FINE FOLK HAPPEN TO KNOW WHY CALDERS LANDING IS IN MORTAL PERIL!"
For the first time since he woke, Calders Landing was silent. The girl barely awaited a response before picking up where she left off.
"THE FEDERAL GOVERNMENT HAS OFFICIALLY OVERREACHED!"
"OVERREACHED!"…" OVERREACHED!" A third response never came. The tallest protester jabbed at his portly friend with the sharp end of his sign, "O-OVERREACHED!"
"THEY'VE MISLED US, FRIENDS! THEY CLAIM TAKIN' OVER OUR LAW WILL HELP US, THAT BUILDIN' THEIR FANCY NEW BUILDING IN OUR TOWN WILL KEEP THE OUTLAWS AT BAY! THAT EVERYTHING IS FOR US!"
The girl looked around wildly as if her short speech, delivered in the blistering sun, was the epiphany that would rally the townsfolk against their protectors.
"They bringin' us lots of work," a man in heavy canvas coveralls chimed in, "and not one month ago did Hangman's Hollow lose their sheriff in a shootout with another of those outlaw gangs."
A murmur of agreement washed over the crowd as, to Eli's great relief, it seemed the sensible still outnumbered the panicked. The girl's allies didn't even seem radicalized and instead began to fan themselves with their protest banners. The tall boy shoved the girl off the now crumbling soapbox and attempted to mount it himself, taking one confident step in the center before the box had enough abuse and burst, sending him violently stumbling forward.
"YOU LOT DON'T FUCKING GET IT!" specks of sweat flicked from his forehead, quickly evaporating by the blistering sun. "THEY'RE PAYIN' SHERIFF COLT—our elected protector!" the boy shouted, his voice cracking. "He's turnin' a blind eye and lettin' this... this monstrosity set root in our town!" His fists clenched so tight his knuckles turned snow white. "It ain't just about keeping outlaws at bay, it's-it's control!" A similar silence followed the boy's outburst; this time, even the birds had stopped chirping in wait.
"You're mad because… they're paying the Sheriff?" Eli croaked, unable to keep the disbelief out of his voice.
A raucous laughter filled the crowd, one man finding it so humorous that he doubled over, gasping for air. Eli hadn't meant to be funny—hell, he didn't even mean to speak. It was a miracle his body was listening to him for this long, and this time, his mouth simply couldn't contain his thoughts after hearing such an imbecilic conspiracy.
The boy's face turned bright pink, whether from the blistering sun or the humiliation of being laughed off the stage by the town he thought he was saving. His cheeks puffed, and his fists clenched hard to his sides again. Before another tantrum could be had, his much wiser and better-prepared friend quickly whisked him away with her merry band following close behind.
The audience, too, quickly dispersed. Some were disappointed that the show amounted to nothing more than public humiliation, and others were relieved it just wasn't a shootout. He had dealt with his fair share of military criticism from the North, but these kids were simply making up tall tales to be worked up about. Another luxury the new generations have is to strike the shield that protects you.
The birds started chirping again, the people went back to the bustle of their daily lives, and Eli stood alone in front of the Bureau of Frontier Justice. The scalding sun reflected off the plaque at the entrance, illuminating the words "Order to the Wilderness, Light in the Shadows."
He stepped forward, a spark of life lighting his gaze as he took in the BFJ's grand facade. In a bid to look the part, he reached to straighten his hat, only to find his arm uncooperative, hanging by his side like a corpse. A rueful grin tugged at the corner of his mouth—it seemed he'd be making his introduction with his hat askew.
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If the outside of the Bureau felt out of place amongst the wooden buildings of the main street, the inside felt as if he were transported even further into the future than he had been. Rows of desks formed a suffocating maze of operatives. Stark in the center of the room sat a massive insignia woven into the carpet, two massive eagle talons intersected around a rattlesnake, the snake furiously biting into the unflinching talons to no avail. The Bureau bore no resemblance to the stern, regimented academy barracks he had trained in. When the fighting is done, you have more time to worry about how things look rather than how they're used.
He walked through the long rows like a farmer inspecting his crop. Some operatives would look up before quickly averting their attention while others were too engrossed in whatever detectivery they were up to that they didn't even acknowledge his presence. To tame this land, they used sweet words and, of course, the dollar. To tame the lawless, you need a command, and this was no agency; this was an army.
On a wooden platform, Raised, slightly above the rest of the agent's desks was the only office room in the entire building. The door had a singular window with thick, blocky letters embossed into the frosted glass.
DIRECTOR
Eli stepped up from the carpeted floor of the everyman, up onto the polished wood staging of the top brass. Before he could even fight with his arm to reach for the gilded handle, the young man stationed out front mustered what little authority he had in him. "Sorry, sir, Director Rikers meetin' with the field agents today."
The boy stood as straight as a bayou cypress and with as much strength as a starving prairie dog. This boy has never seen struggle, never felt the weight of a rucksack march under a scorching sun, nor the tension of a silent night watch. He's never clenched his fists around iron with the knowledge that the only way to survive was to be quicker, sharper, more ruthless than the man aiming back at you. This boy has never tasted the dust of a hard ride nor felt the biting cold of the desert night that follows.
"Reckon he's expecting me, soldier"
To the greenhorn's credit, the boy did not budge. "Listen, sir, if you think you got a meeting... ya don't. And if you're a citizen and you're here to complain, fill out a form, and we'll be sure The Director sees it, OK?"
Eli was stunned; how can one be so brave without ever facing hardship? Did he even know the bravery required to tell him that? Without uttering a word, Eli reached for the knot, holding the black neckerchief in front of his face, and untied it with precision he hadn't known this body was capable of. The inky neckerchief fell to the ground as the boy's eyes widened, eyebrows raised, mouth agape. That, that is the first bit of primal fear this boy's ever felt.
"Mr.Quinn! I didn't recognize you, sir!" If the boy was as gangly as a cypress, he now stood with the rigidity of a railroad spike. "Director Riker has been waiting. Please head inside!" he thrust the door open, interrupting whatever niceties were taking place.
"Pleasure." Eli tipped the large, already drooping rim of his hat and securely tightened the knot at the back of the handkerchief before entering.
The Director's office had no plush carpet, no polished mahogany desks, just a spartan space with a solid, unadorned desk and a few plain chairs. The only concession to personal taste was a small, metal serpent, coiled and poised as if to strike, placed somewhat intentionally to face the door.
The Director stood behind his desk with hands folded neatly behind his back; he wore a well-fitted suit and sported a beard so meticulously groomed it looked as if he simply threatened the white hairs to coexist with the black. Fanned-out chairs that looked suspiciously smaller than the plush leather throne he refused to christen sat Eli's newest unit. Eli scanned his eyes over the motley bunch; an old man with a dusty white handlebar slouched lazily over the tiny chair. He smirked an aged white smile and adjusted his leather vest so that the needlessly large "SHERIFF" badge caught the sun. A girl, barely out of her teens, frantically scrawled notes into a small leather notebook. She looked up at Eli with the big, frightened eyes of a doe, anxiously awaiting her following transcription. The last and final operative didn't look up as he entered. The weasely-looking man sat with handcuffed wrists gently placed upon his lap, shrouded from head to toe in layers of worn, mismatched garments. A frayed scarf obscured his face, and a tattered hood cast shadows over any discernible features. He stared out the window behind The Director, attention seemingly fixed on a world far beyond the confines of an office room.
"Ah, and here your Field Director is, ladies and gentlemen. Only……” The Director turned to look out the massive window behind him, beams of harsh light illuminating the deep lines on his grandfatherly face. "Forty minutes late to the first team meeting!"
"Apologies, Director, got caught up in the little demonstration…" Eli attempted to gesture with his hands, but they only spasmed like a man left behind. The word was hanging awkwardly in the air. With a wry smile, he conceded, "Well, you'll just have to imagine the emphasis there.
"Can imagine a hell of a lot more than that!" The old man puffed his cheeks out and scratched the back of his thinning hair with a leathery hand. "Those damn fools wouldn't know security if it bit 'em' in the ass!"
"I take it you must be the famed Sheriff Colt," Eli returned.
The old man peered at Eli from the corner of his eye, a smirk growing wider as the girl beside him feverishly recorded the mundane niceties as if they were gospel. "In the flesh, Mr.Field Director, sir! Now tell me, what were those damn brats hollerin' about today hm? That crime is almost non-existent in their town? Perhaps that our streets are paved with gold by mornin'?"
Gold localized entirely in his own pocket, to be sure. However, it's better not to agitate the dimwitted on the first meeting. Harder to get them on your side when the iron gets drawn. "No, no mention of any heroics. The crowd did mention the lack of crime; however, it seems the gangs got everyone worked up."
"Sensible people, and exactly the reason I've gathered you fine folks here" The Director wrestled control back of his meeting. He braced himself with both arms against the dark wooden desk, sun shining so bright behind him his massive figure blot out the last vestiges of sunlight escaping into the office. "Special Investigation Unit, meet your field director. The Elijah Quinn." He pointed with his entire arm towards Eli.
The young girl shot up from the chair, sending an audible squeak across the polished wood floor. Eli had a feeling she'd regret not transcribing the next interaction.
"THE Elijah Quinn?!" she cupped her hands to her mouth; the sun from outside seemed to illuminate her specifically, and the metal pen clattered to the ground. "I've heard so many stories about you. It's hard to believe you're standing here!" Her voice was filled with awe. "Meeting you is...I never imagined."
"In the flesh" or what was left of it, anyway. Eli attempted a welcoming smile, the very same that used to make the ladies swoon. Doesn't seem to have the same effect anymore, though.
A singular eyebrow rose as she grabbed on tight to the hem of her pants. She looked down at her shoes, letting her gaze slowly return to Eli with her head down like a scared child. "Pardon if I'm being too forward, sir, but……….. Ain't you supposed to be dead?"
"Dead to you, yes." The Director's authoritative baritone had to cut in for the second time. "Dead to his family, dead to his friends, and most importantly, dead to his country." He bowed his head towards Eli, lips pursed into a solemn line.
He spoke with all the gravitas of a sideshow theater actor, and yet, if you say anything with enough confidence and have more medals pinned to your jacket, you'll make the raw recruits feel wrong for ever doubting you.
"You were…… hidin'?" She spoke directly to Eli, brows furrowed, somehow ignoring The Director's imposing presence.
"Hiding is, certainly, a way to……."
"Field Director Quinn was NOT hiding." He spoke like his voice was the only one that mattered. After the Monterrey raid, Field Director Quinn gained many powerful enemies. Both he and the federal government thought it best if he disappeared for a while." He said it so assuredly that even Eli was fooled.
"But….but what about your unit? Lieutenant Callahan, Corporal Barett, y'all gave your lives to this country!" The girl was outright… betrayed? Astonished? He had a hard time telling which. She did not waver nor face the room's superior a single time. She stood dauntless in front of Eli, mouth agape, eyebrows raised.
Eli looked to The Director. Raw recruits might speak out of turn, but any real soldier knows authority flows like a river. His superior gave a sigh hearty enough to shake even the rag-clad boy, whom Eli had forgotten was not simply modern room decor, and shrugged.
"What's your name, girl?" He hated the sounds that came from him now. The soft velvet cadence that used to sing on his every note was all but gone. A rattly, skeletal tone was all that remained.
"I'm Elenoar! Um, Elenoar Booker, actually! But you can call me Nell." She looked both scared and reassured at the same time, her hands white knuckle clinging to the hem of her pants, drawing breaths the lung size of a field mouse.
"My Pa' was a military man like yourself. Settled down after the war and had me, ma, and 25 acres to lose his brain over." The girl's unease unraveled as she spoke of home. She stared out the window, a slow, syrupy smile spreading through her pink cheeks. "He always admired you, Mr. Quinn. Talked about your bravery, your pride." Did he, too, talk about the betrayals I orchestrated, the innocent lives I sacrificed for intel? Perhaps he failed to mention the night raids that left villages in ruins.
"Are you familiar with War Stories Elenoar?" Eli replied
"Which one?! When you and Lieutenant Barrett single-handedly took Fort Esperanza? Or what about the one where you sabotaged supply lines at the Battle of San Jacinto?"
"No, not one in particular. I'm talking about the concept. The very idea of a war story." His voice had a bitterness that he had not intended to convey.
"Uhmmmm," The girl pondered, slowly descending back to her seat. The Sheriff returned her pen and notebook while simultaneously unscrewing the cap off his flask with yellowed teeth.
"War stories are great! Everyone loves a good one! Boys singing about glory, freedom, and the tall tales we'll leave behind when it's all over. You tell me, Elenoar, whats a better tale to tell a crowd of tired young boys; the special forces unit nobly infiltrated the Monterrey fortress, barely evading detection before nobly sacrificing themselves so no other soldiers would have to die," He adjusted the thick bandanna, realizing it wasn't his clothing that made it hard to speak. "or the special forces unit got caught only mere moments into entry, all tortured so bad their mothers wouldn't recognize them before getting ransomed back home a mere four months after the conflict had already ended."
"……tortured?" the ragged boy stirred. When all else fails, the grotesque is truly the great uniter.
Eli curled what used to be his lips under the thick bandanna and performed his newest party trick: slowly unraveling the thick knot from the back of his rotted scalp. He had intended to be slow and dramatic but quickly found his appendages' maximum speed left much to be desired if he had whipped it off as quick as he used to draw iron. The shadowy neckerchief made no sound as it wisped through the air and fell gently onto the carpeted office floor.
"' Horrifically disfigured, I believe, is what the doctors called it." Not a soul in the room so much as chuckled; hell, they probably didn't even know he was joking. Elenoar looked outright queasy, like revealing his face released a stench so foul she had to physically hold back from vomiting. Hell, maybe it did; his nose still had no signs of life, and he didn't imagine a corpse baking in thick black linen did much for his aroma.
The aged sneer of the Sheriff was replaced with a scowl of confusion. One snow-white brow raised high enough on his sun-baked head to replace the aging hairline. The ragged boy was still mostly concealed, only visible part being the two floating eyes beneath the hood, now trained directly at Eli's self.
"How did they achieve………that?" the ragged boy sounded more curious than concerned.
"By cutting and hacking and sawing and ripping until there weren't any bits left to remove." With no handkerchief, his voice sounded even more skeletal. Teeth clattering against teeth with only patches of flesh for reprieve.
"THANKFULLY," The Director interjected for a third and, what sounded like the final time. "Field Director Quinn here has agreed to return to his life in the field due to the *abundance* of outlaws infesting our free nation." He rose from his lean, slowly slithered from his desk, and placed the bear claw of a fist firmly on Eli's shoulder; Eli hardly felt it. "I suggest you hasten the introductions, Field Director. Every moment deliberated is another gang formed." Any joviality he had originally was stripped from his voice altogether. He lifted his palm, and the neckerchief lay neatly folded on his shoulder.
The Director gazed through the frosted pane window of the office door towards the army of agents ready to fight on his behalf. He stood in the doorway, now half ajar, and addressed only the field director. "Find me when you're finished; I am not the only one you keep in wait." The door closed with a soft click, and the tension in the room seemed to dissipate instantaneously.
"Good first impression, I reckon," The Sheriff said
This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
The room remained silent for a tick before Eli let out a sound that seemed to rattle from the depths of an ancient crypt. A dry, chittering echo, more akin to the clacking of bones than any mirthful chuckle. The room caught on and before long The Director's office was filled with hearty chuckles from the whole special investigation unit. Even the rags seemed to ripple with subdued laughter.
"So, Sheriff Colt, Elenoar Booker, and……" He let the words hang as he looked towards the rag-clad youth. The boy made no indication he had heard Eli, let alone would answer his inquiry.
"Great! You'll all receive correspondence regarding our first job. This outlaw problem might seem impossible, but I have faith that we will succeed. Thank you, everyone." He unfolded and refastened the black handkerchief, concealing his true self yet again.
Better not keep The Director again, after all. If he had the power to bring him back to this world, he surely had enough to take him back out.
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Sheriff Colt seemed a drunk, corrupt lawman. Elenoar Booker an overzealous, under-practiced child, but at least they knew how to follow orders. Since the meeting adjourned, The nameless, rag-clad boy had managed to follow just slightly behind Eli. Passing a blacksmith hammering away at a glowing horseshoe, a bakery releasing the sweet aroma of fresh bread, and children playing a game of marbles on the dusty street. The town was alive with activity, a stark contrast to the desolate wilderness Eli remembered from his time.
The stables on the outskirts of the newly renovated Calders Landing seemed untouched by the government's modernization efforts. The thatched roof had more gaps than shingles, allowing spears of sunlight to pierce through and highlight the debris-filled air. The smell of hay mixed with the tang of horse sweat and old leather was evident to even Eli's hardly functional nose.
The inhabitants didn't seem bothered by the conditions. Four stallions of various sizes idly munched on fresh feed through time-worn rusty troughs. The only human occupant was The Director, rigidly brushing the mane of a massive, shadow-black stallion. Its coat shimmered like wet ink under the volatile light, muscles rippling beneath like they had a mind of their own. The horse's eyes gleamed an icy blue, meticulously tracking Eli's every move with the awareness of a predator.
"I trust the walk across town sufficed as punishment for my tardiness," Eli quipped, hoping to lighten the mood.
"I quite enjoy strolls around town; they remind us who we're working for." The Director didn't turn his attention, carefully stroking the stark white mane of the beast.
"Oh yes, the protesters outside of the Bureau really put my love for public service into perspective." The humor was lost on The Director, but one of the horses released a short neigh as it fished the remaining hay from its trough. Probably the closest he would get to a laugh in this place.
"We do what we do not for their approval but for their safety. Whether or not they see it as such is no concern of ours." He carefully hung the brand-new brush onto an ancient hook, drooping on rotted wood. Aligning a rigid tan stetson over his silver-peppered cropped hair. "The team, though, what do you think?"
"An old sheriff, a raw recruit who thinks she can make a change and-" Eli gave an overdrawn look behind him, "a nameless shadow. Yeah, that should be enough to quell the roving gangs of cut-throat outlaws."
The Director flashed a row of perfectly uniform, flawless teeth. "C'mere boy"
Before Eli could even will his feet to move, the rag-clad boy navigated the stable with the swiftness of a prairie wind. He seemed to float effortlessly across; even the hay beneath his feet was undisturbed.
The Director produced a small, weathered pouch from his jacket pocket. It was a miracle he didn't simply crush the aged bundle with his massive fist. Holding the blood red pouch up to a slit in the roofing and squinting through, one eye closed so tight the wrinkles made him resemble his age.
"Hm," he mused
Two sizable fingers pried the lips of the bag open, much to the audible dismay of the pouch itself. From the same pocket, he plucked what looked to be a fragmented bone, pure-white and sun-bleached, harshly pulverizing it between his colossal grasp. The powder fell like soft winter snow into the yawning mouth of the pouch. Cinching the thin string that barely held the bag closed, he muttered something quietly enough that Eli's struggling ears couldn't pick up; the debris in the air seemed to completely stop around his lips. He placed the bag gently in the boy's upturned palms, slowly curling the boy's grasp closed with a much larger grip.
"Give it to your new warden."
"I much prefer Field Director; I'm no keeper," said Eli
"Ah," chuckled The Director. "Wait until you hear what you are keeping."
The rag-clad boy tread back in the exact footsteps he made originally, keeping both his arms outstretched from his body, grasp firmly clasping over the red pouch like it was a great struggle to contain an ancient bag of white powder.
"Here," the boy spoke like a mouse hiding from a barn cat. His grip was starting to tremble ever so slightly at the pouch's containment.
"……what is this, Director" Eli didn't reach to assist the boy. Partly because whatever The Director had planned was plainly dangerous and partly because he'd slowly been losing the feeling in his arms again and didn't know if he had the strength to actually grab the damn thing.
"You're right, Elijah, The Sheriff; he is old. The recruit is the most ambitious. And this boy here." The Director furrowed his brow and brought the same hand that crushed bone to powder up to his blocky chin to think, "Well, he is indeed a shadow."
"Because he's a good follower?" Eli watched as the boy quivered
"Because by the time you realize he's even there, you only see a shadow leaving your sight." The Directors watched the rag-clad boy shake, his once perfect smile now the unsightly sneer of a hyena, ready to eat.
"Tell him, boy, Tell him why—"
"TAKE IT, TAKE IT!" The rag-clad boy shrieked. His tremble now a full body tremor.
The Horses shrieked and thrashed, throwing hay and mud throughout the cramped stable. Eli frantically grasped the bag with whatever might he had left, sending a puff of white powder out the top, joining the dust permanently floating in the air.
"Perfect!" Said The Director, Who had resumed brushing the hellbeast he was pampering, also the only creature not frightened. "I don't believe you'll face insubordination with him any longer, Field Director."
Eli looked over to the boy, who had resumed his status as a motionless statue. Strangely reminiscent of himself, rotting away in a cot above the fishmonger. No one to turn to, nowhere to go.
"What are you?" Eli questioned
The boy's eyes flicked over to meet his massive white orbs with no color, no iris. He peeled down his hood, revealing an image more ghastly than his own. An emaciated boy couldn't even have been out of his teens. His face bore the marks of torture – uneven scars crisscrossed his skin, some fresh, others healed into grotesque, intentional patterns. His mouth was altered so the corners slashed upward in a grotesque mimicry of an eternal smile.
"Silas," his eyes were just as wide. Milky spheres with nothing to latch on to.
"Silas?" Eli questioned his voice a mix of surprise and skepticism.
"Silas Mccord," The Director interjected, "Sixteen-year-old orphan boy, found and indoctrinated into the gang of "Baron Criminel." He stepped out of the beast's stable and walked down the thin path of the stable. As he walked, the horses began to calm themselves as if his very presence was one of overwhelming safety. "We worked out a little deal for him and me. He helps us with our little outlaw problem, and in return, he offered full legal amnesty."
"And…… this?" Eli held the bag up to The Directors eyeline, straining his entire arm to reach it.
"Reassurance"
"Reassurance?"
"I'll answer all your questions on the way." The Director reached over a stable, loudly unbolting a rusty lock from the inside and gently holding the faded-blue stable door.
He motioned to the stallion, "Get on; there is one more person you need to meet."
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The further they rode, the more familiar the landscape became. Rolling hills unfurled under a pastel blue sky, dotted with luscious green trees swaying gently in the rolling breeze. The air was filled with the melodies of singing birds, each note floating off somewhere far, beyond a place you can see.
The Director rode in front, massive steed stomping near craters in the soft dirt path with each passing step. Eli may have been out of commission for a good while, but you never forget how to ride, only now his thighs couldn't grip the saddle nearly as hard. Hands could hardly steer the reigns, hard to control a creature if it thinks your weaker, impossible when it knows.
This was the furthest he'd been from his grave in decades. Closing his eyes, he could still picture it. Bordered by wrought-iron fencing, ornate and blackened with time. The space around meticulously tended a carpet of perennial flowers that bloomed in vibrant bursts, a perpetual tribute to a hero's resting place. Tombstone of shining polished granite, glistening under the unrelenting sun. His name inscribed in bold, elegant lettering, underscored by an epitaph reading
"Captain Elijah Quinn: Fallen in valor, silent in rest.
Silence was a belittlement; there was nothing. No air to fill your lungs, no hunger to feel deep in your stomach. Not even the deranged thoughts that eventually would have filled your mind to pass the time. Purely nothing.
"How'd you get caught anyway?" Eli said, desperately filling the silence so his own thoughts wouldn't first.
Again, The rag-clad boy…….Silas McCord refused a response. Hood hanging well over his scarred face, even his mount slouched as it trotted along.
"He was sent to murder me," The Director said, his voice trailing from the front of the pack. "At least, that's my suspicion; whatever holds his tongue now is stronger than the bond I've sealed upon him."
Eli clenched the powdery pouch in his pocket; his digits could hardly feel anything beyond an item of vague size and texture, or perhaps it was his brain, unable to receive the message his hand was giving it.
"This 'bond' has something to do with the pouch you've given me?"
The Director peered behind him, the typical grandfatherly features consumed by the inky shadow his stetson projected. "Yes, Elijah-"the same perfect row of teeth flashed again. "Remind me again, what was the name of the military academy you attended?"
"Four years at West Point, sir, commissioned directly into active duty as a Captain due to my performance," and my family name.
"Four years at the most prestigious military institution this country has to offer and what did they teach you? Paltry tactics thought up by men who have never been within ten miles of a battlefield." The Director gently tugged at the leather belt-sized reigns of his steed, forcing the cavalcade to an abrupt stop. "There exists an entire world, unknowable, unforgiving, right behind every man's eyes. Those with the strength to harness it, they will dictate tomorrow."
The Director clicked his tongue without another word, spurring his horse and continuing down the forest path. Had an old commander lectured him about the secret power of 'Voodoo,' he would've laughed so hard they'd have him scrubbing every latrine with a toothbrush. The same phony worship of the Riverkin, yet here he was, shuffling among the living with a heart that no longer beats. It was hard to wholly dismiss what had brought him back to the land of the living, yet how could he ever trust it.
"What about you, Director? I must admit, West Point did not offer classes on fish worship." The undersized saddle was beginning to chafe his cadaverous legs.
"'Fish worship,'" The Director chuckled. "In my youth I was a U.S. Marshall, spent years desperately trying to uphold what little order we had in these parts. A relentless pursuit of justice across deserts, through boomtowns. That's where you learn the hard truth – lessons that eventually led me to form the Bureau."
"Can't say I've met a Marshall so keen on using the very same dogma they were tasked with dispatching." Eli's horse began nibbling on some hanging shrubbery; even after a firm spurring, the beast refused to cooperate until The Director stopped himself. Clicking his tongue and willing Eli's mount with it.
"Extremely quickly, we learned that even when physically moved the Riverkin ideas would seldom do the same." With two great fingers The Director wiped the sweat forming on his perfectly pruned horseshoe mustache. "Force out the fish, and the people start drawing veves in the swamps."
"I'm sure your Chief Marshall was real pleased with this revelation."
"I was the Chief Marshall". For the first time since leaving, Silas made what sounded like a short chuckle. "And I would not describe anyone as pleased. The District Marshall called me a savage, but even he couldn't argue with the results. In the first two months our unit was in action, we relocated over two hundred Riverkin, clearing swathes of their ancestral lands for the settlements around you."
"The U.S Marshalls used fish magic?" Eli said, his tone threading the very thin line between mockery and genuine curiosity.
Without turning, The Director's grip on the reins tightened, the muscles in his forearms visible beneath his perfectly pressed jacket. He let out a slow, controlled breath, audible even over the sounds of the wild. "No, not in any official capacity. The Directors were scared and uncertain even when faced with its effectiveness. After the Riverkin relocation order had proven enough of a success, any practices were immediately disavowed in the service." His words were deliberate, his focus returning to the path ahead as if to close off the conversation.
"Use their power to take their land and slaughter them. Indeed, it's Baffling. No one could see your genius, Riker, "Came Silas, low and guttural from the back of the formation.
The Director looked over at the boy from his shoulder. The sheer height at which he sat upon his horse made it seem like he was looking down at them both. "At the time, perhaps not. But look what happens when a job needs done—they look away, write you blank checks, and send whatever hands are necessary to finish the work." They might have been up against impossible odds, but The Director rode like they had already won.
"Even supposing you're right, what does this swamp sorcery even change for us? There were fifty-three reported murders down in the delta last month alone. That's not even counting the ones swallowed by the marsh, pockets turned out, lost without a trace." He knew, of course, how strong Voodoo could be. Although it was much easier to deny its ability than to confront why he was able to have this very conversation.
"Elijah, Why do you think these outlaws are so elusive?" The Director didn't wait for a response: "Our society shut the Riverkin out, where we rejected their savage beliefs. Those unfortunate enough to live alongside them listened. They performed rituals, left out veves and were rewarded with more than money and social status."
"Hold up, now you think the outlaws are using fish magic too?" Eli said, the line tipping very dangerously towards mockery.
The Director released his reigns, The massive warhorse continued to trot slowly on the path. In one fluid motion, he flipped his body over in the saddle to face Eli and, this time, most assuredly looking down at him. The Directors attention was solely focused on him, the entire world surrounding them ceasing to exist. The birds stopped chirping, the grass stopped rustling in the crisp wind. The only thing he could hear was The Directors rhythmic breathing, and the deafening lack of his own.
"Yes, Elijah, they use the very magic that wove breath back into your lungs," he said, his voice low and resonant with a carefully measured strength. " It's unwise to mock what has given you this second chance, especially when addressing the man who permitted it." The stetson shrouded his features, engulfing his face into an unknowable shadow. Even though he couldn't see it, Eli knew his eyes were trained directly at him.
"Point taken, sir," Eli managed, the effort evident in his voice. A sly smile twitched at the corners of his mouth, more a spasm than an expression as he struggled to control his decaying body. "I'm still adjusting to this second chance, both body and mind." Meeting The Director's gaze squarely, he showed as much respect as command has always demanded. "Thank you for the reminder—and for pulling me back. I'll endeavor to keep my skepticism in check." Mild groveling and light submission always satiate the powerful.
The Director took a final look at his subordinates before turning back around and continuing down the forest path. Eli welcomed the silence, preferring the rhythmic sound of hooves and the whisper of the wind through the pines over another lecture on the societal horrors he was now bound to confront and contracted to fix.
The three rode until the sun dipped half below the hills, a soft orange glow radiated off the dirt path, and the horse's coats glistened in the soft light. The lush greenery of the hills gave way to a landscape far more sinister. Trees grew gnarled and twisted, roots sprawling like twisted veins into stagnant, murky waters that bordered the now mud path. The air thickened, heavy with the smell of decay and the faintest hints of brackish water.
Ahead, the makeshift skyline of the reservation emerged—a hodgepodge of dilapidated shacks and rickety platforms that seemed to float on top of the swamp with precarious defiance. Dim lights flickered from windows patched with old newspapers and scraps of cloth, casting an otherworldly glow on the mist that danced off the water. The scene was right out of an adventure tale, where the boundary between reality and nightmare blurred, every shadow whispered of hidden fears. What was left of Eli's heart sank; this was no place for life, yet it thumped with a desperate, pulsating rhythm, those with nowhere else to go.
"She's here".The Director slowly dismounted, tying the thick leather reins off on a nearby branch that, with minimal effort, the beast could have easily torn from it'sits trunk.
"Why couldn't she come to the Bureau like the rest of us?" Eli said, his feet tangled in the stirrups.
The Director was already walking, his boots somehow untouched by the soupy mud path.
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Eli cautiously navigated the precarious floating platforms of the Riverkin Reservation, each step creaking ominously under even his skeletal weight. The wooden planks, saturated and rotting, bobbed slightly on the murky bayou waters, making every movement a gamble against the swamp's dark embrace. A heavy mist hung in the air, weaving through the ramshackle shacks that floated like driftwood tied together by fate and necessity. Flickering lanterns hung from makeshift poles and porches, their lights diffusing softly into the mist, casting ghostly glows that barely pierced the enveloping gloom. The entire settlement seemed to sway gently with the rhythm of the water, a floating world tethered loosely to the reality of the land around it.
The Director stepped confidently aboard a floating platform; the boards groaned as the entire raft began tilting. He lifted his boot from the rotting raft and turned back. "Seems there's little maintenance around here."
"Or men the size of buffalo," Silas said, moving swiftly across the raft with no objections from the ground itself.
"Speaking of, where are our fishy friends?" Eli kept his voice low enough that it barely penetrated the thick mist encompassing them.
"All around you, Field Director." Silas's bright eyes motioned from the void in his hood up to candle-lit windows of the dilapidated shacks. Shadows flickered against paper-thin curtains, and every so often, a pair of reflective eyes caught the candlelight, vanishing as quickly as they appeared. Below the creaking planks, occasional bubbles broke the glass-still surface of the water, unseen watchers keeping pace with their every step. Not a Riverkin in sight, and yet, Eli couldn't help but feel the whole world was watching him.
"We should find our girl quick, Director. Seems the swamp has eyes." Eli steadied the platform in front of him with one gangly foot. It was tied to another section of raft with rope frayed so severely it was a wonder the entire thing didn't float off.
"I suspect our inability is very much intentional." Said The Director. "How long are you going to make us wait, Sybil?"
A ripple of laughter echoed through the mist, mirthful yet unnervingly disembodied. "Not much longer," Sybil's voice carried across the water, as fluid and elusive as the fog itself. "All of ya' are just so... tense." The laughter rose again, mingling with the creaks of the swaying platforms and the soft lapping of water against wood.
"And who's this?!" A Riverkin girl broke through the mist and appeared directly before Silas. "Didn't tell me nothin' bout bringin' a damn Kriminel with ya!"
She peered up at Silas as the rag-clad boy stood staring back, motionless. Large, bulbous eyes gleamed with curiosity and caution, reflecting a dim light from the floating lanterns. A set of slender whiskers twitched with each word she spoke. Her skin was slick and glistening, with the sheen of a wet river stone. She looked almost a part of the bayou itself.
"That there is Silas, my new Deputy. Seems I'll be your Field Director, Mrs. Sybil." Eli removed his hat as a sign of respect, only to have the swamp's damp air instantly cling to his bare scalp. The humid mist seemed to seep into every pore while a swarm of gnats, drawn to the lingering scent of decay, began to swirl in a noticeable cloud above his head.
Sybil's attention snapped to Eli, and as quickly as she appeared, she melted back into the mist, leaving no trace of her presence.
"That ain't no 'Deputy' deadman." Her voice seemed to jump, from one word to the next, echoing in all directions around him — behind, where she had been with Silas, and even below him, bubbling up from the murky deep. "a caged beast always that, a beast. Maybe you can force him into a collar but the only thing they'll be thinking is how to get out."
"Silas was present and attentive at our first meeting. I reckon it's more 'beastly' to drag us, your superiors, out to this swamp instead of granting us a proper introduction at the Bureau."
Sybil's laughter echoed again, rich and unsettling. She materialized on the edge of the floating platform, sitting casually with her scaled legs treading playfully in the green-grey water, "Says the corpse palmin' his gris-gris bag!" she stopped kicking and laid flat on her back, globular eyes peering directly into Eli's soul. "That boy'd slit your throats and feast on the spill if he could! A true child of the Baron Kriminel, as merciless as the Loa himself."
Eli walked to Sybil's corner, planting both feet firmly on either side of her head and staring directly down at her. "Only a beast judges a man before seeing him act."
The mist thickened, engulfing Sybil until only her smile remained, floating eerily in the gloom. Laughter, again from behind, when he turned to meet her, he found both The Director and Silas absent from their previous positions on the platform.
In fact, everything had vanished. The neglected shacks and puzzle-like bridges of the floating reservation evaporated into the mist, leaving Eli alone on the platform. Gazing off into the endless green-grey water.
Director! He willed himself to shout, but only a short, wet note wheedled from his throat instead. The mist was closing into the platform, the spindly cypress engulfed by unknowable haze.
"You should not exist, Elijah." Her voice lost any hint of joviality. It had a deep unknown in it this time; sounded like a choir group all singing through one person. "Do you even know what it takes to bring someone back over the crossroads? Why all the trouble for some glorified corpse. " she materialized in front of him, looking at him upside-down, floating through the mist.
"You-" Sybil pointed at him so that her finger was only inches from where his nose used to be "should not exist."
Eli gently raised her arm so it was back at her side. "Men who were much larger and much more powerful than a swamp witch have willed the same."
"And what!? They won!" She performed an exaggerated backstroke-like motion, propelling herself through the fog as her laughing returned.
"Insubordination and flippant disrespect of a superior, I'm sure The Director will be delighted to hear about our meeting."
"Insubordination!" The Riverkin girl snorted a laugh before quickly composing herself. "You might think you're steering the ship, but you don't control the river's flow."
"True, I don't direct the river, but I can certainly spot a fish trying to swim upstream." Eli ran his fingers through his thick brown hair and…….. What?
He pawed at his features with the ferocity of a mountain lion. Smooth, supple skin covering his entire face. A strong nose that felt as if it were chiseled from stone right where it should be. Inhaling a hefty breath of swamp air, he puffed out his cheeks, and sure enough, there they were.
Sybil watched upside-down so that her ferocious grin resembled a frown of profound sadness. Her legs were crossed, and her perpetually damp hair hung down like the roots of a plant. Despite Eli never seeing her enter the water, droplets of thick bayou liquid dripped off her and pooled around.
"……What did you do?" Eli croaked
"You used to be quite the looker!" She doubled over with another bout of mucousy laughter, convulsing in the air like a fish desperately trying to break a fisherman's line.
Eli gripped his hair and frantically looked around. "Where is the Director?!" running with the speed and coordination that only live legs could, and he found himself at the opposite end of the floating platform.
"Silas!" He yelled with a heroic baritone, airy rattle buried deep under the command of a man in his prime. His voice echoed through the nothingness, reverberating off the endless bayou.
"Relaaaaaax, drywalker, your master will be here soon enough" Sybil responded, both her and her voice dripping with condescension. "I just need to find out…. Why."
"Oh, almost forgot". She plunged into her pouch and revealed a small glass vial housing an unknown white powder. Unceremoniously, she popped off the cap and began pouring the powder in careful lines at the center of the waterlogged raft. After a good bit of etching, her piece seemed to be done, resembling a complex intersection of lines and curves. At the center, a crossroads emerged, with intricate patterns branching off like roads.
"Ready?!" She asked, moist skin sparkling in the lantern light.
There was a time when Eli may have laughed off this fishy spiritual trash, but there was also a time when he didn't need to concentrate to feel the warmth of his own skin. "The Director signed off on this?"
"He need to?" The damp whiskers on her face curled as she smirked.
Instantly, the platform was plunged into darkness. Every floating lantern extinguished before Eli could even register how. The space around him ceased to exist, the only visible objects being Sybil's floating bulbous eyes, dancing around above him like stars in the vast prairie sky.
Panic began to fill him, he recognized this place. Didn't know how or why but he had been here before. Had he been tricked? The Director was fine with the fish sorceress but maybe he'd been deceived too?
Sybil began a melodic hum that slowly started traveling upwards, higher than even the tall trees canopying the bayou. So high it eventually fades altogether, only an ethereal hiss heard in its place. Eli started to move away, wasn't sure where, not like there was an exit off the floating raft, but something deep inside told him he should no longer be here.
"Sybil!" he bellowed. "End this right now!"
The hissing grew louder and louder, so loud it began penetrating his own thoughts. Eli reached up to cover his ears and found a thin red wire embedded deep through both of his wrists. He screeched, yet no sound echoed back. He began clawing at the otherworldly twine until an overwhelming force ripped his arms apart, holding them out in front of him.
"WHAT IS THIS SYBIL? WHAT DO YOU WANT!" He needed to run, to scream, to fight but no matter how hard he willed it to happen his body remained still and at attention.
The hissing ceased, and Eli's head was forced upwards. Mist parted far above him, revealing a massive serpent head. Its eyes were deep and questioning, piercing through the fog like a lighthouse guiding a lost sailor home. Towering above him, the snake's massive arms, unnaturally human yet grotesquely elongated. Held large paddles forming a jungle of red twine connecting all throughout his pristine body.
Eli's heart pounded in his chest, or at least he imagined it did. The cold grip of fear tightened around him. Memories of his past life, his death, and his unnatural return flooded his mind, each one a dagger of doubt and pain. He willed his mouth to scream, and yet it remained shut. The snake's massive forked tongue fluttered out of its mouth, and the red twine at the corner of Eli's lips began contracting, forcing his face into a grotesque smile.
The serpent's massive head moved closer to him, parting the fog like a ship through the sea. "Please, Sybil, stop this!" He pleaded, his eyes wrenched shut beneath the force of the twine as he held his head down away from the beast.
The twine began to compress, pulling taut against his skin. Force intensifying, the red wires slicing through his flesh like hot knives through butter. His skin peeled back, layers of muscle and sinew exposed to the cold, misty air. Blood streamed down his body, pooling at his feet. The serpent's eyes remained fixed on him, unblinking as if feeding off his agony.
His mind screamed, but his mouth was still frozen in that hideous grin. The twine continued to tighten, now wrapping around his torso and legs, tearing through muscle, snapping bones with ruthless efficiency. His vision blurred with pain, and the hissing grew louder, echoing in his skull.
Eli felt his insides twisting, his organs shifting as the wires penetrated deeper, rearranging him from the inside out. The serpent's tongue flicked out again, tasting his fear, savoring his torment.
Just as he thought he couldn't endure another second, everything stopped. The twine released him, his body collapsing into a heap on the platform, skin hanging in shreds, blood soaking the wood beneath him.
His eyes shot open, and Sybil sat looking up at him from the floor. He stood and felt the familiar sense of decay from his legs once more. The Director looked on from exactly where he had been, brows furrowed into amused surprise.
Slowly, the floating shacks reappeared, the mist retreating to unknown realms. The eerie stillness of the bayou returned, grounding Eli back in the unsettling reality of the swamp.
He fumbled with his holster, hands slow and terrified. He jolted forward and grabbed the girl, shakily muttering through gritted teeth, "What in the fuck did you just do?".
Sybil remained still, unmoving. He shook her with enough force to move cattle. "HEY!" her head snapped back, tears streaking down her already moist face, leaving puddles that seemed to follow her every move. She looked Eli dead in the eyes before slowly freeing her hand. Gently tracing his cheekbone, leading down to the chasm where his cheeks used to be.
"Oh."