Aims woke up in a tangle of damp sheets.
Alone.
His latest lady friend was gone.
Teachers had to get up early for the whole educating children thing.
He was mildly hopeful about this one.
She got him.
Specifically, his nightmares.
Plus, she understood the lifestyle.
Like him, she had lived in the world before the spires, survived through the early years and was still standing decades after. Like him, she carried a train of dead loved ones in her wake.
Yup.
She was a keeper.
He wasn’t planning to screw it up.
Warm orange light peeked through his blinds.
Not yet dawn.
He couldn’t quite remember the flavor of last night’s nightmare.
Blessed.
He rolled out of bed and started push ups.
5 minutes of that and he switched to burpees.
Another 5 minutes and he was in the bathroom taking care of morning ablutions.
He had a couple of hours before he had to go into Ranger HQ for training of the newest generation of gunslingers and adjacent class types.
He eyed the huge flatscreen up on his living room wall and the vintage Playstation.
The young people favored total immersion gaming.
He preferred being reminded of his younger days when fighting monsters was done from the safety of a couch with a controller in hand.
The revival of one of his favorite shooters from when he was a kid had been out for a few months. He had downloaded and installed it day one, but things kept getting in the way.
From Quests to his daily tasks to any number of excuses kept popping up.
But, perhaps it was fear that kept him from playing.
The idea that it wouldn’t be as good in the present as it was in his memories terrified him.
“Halcyon days, man.” He sighed.
It was a crutch.
He knew this intellectually.
Therapist talks made him acknowledge that.
Super-charged nostalgia.
Hard to blame him when the past had a before and after an actual apocalypse.
He sat down and picked up the controller.
Cold plastic.
“It wouldn’t be fair anyways.”
First person shooters with enhanced hand eye coordination and perceptions were too easy and that was with just his passives.
PVE or PVP.
It didn’t matter.
Not even kids with gamer-type classes could give him a challenge.
Did he want to ruin the memories of his favorite ever game for an experience that wasn’t likely to prove worth it?
His therapist seemed to think it was a good idea.
Moving on from the elements of the past that weighed on him or something like that.
“Destiny,” he muttered.
Probably.
Maybe if he tried to view it as just another challenge. Just another crucible to overcome.
He didn’t allow himself to think further.
He tapped the button like he drew his revolvers, without conscious thought.
Game on.
Logged on.
Match on.
The round started well.
His team quickly whittled the other team down to one last.
The little punk must’ve had good gaming Skills.
Hopping around like a rabbit on alchemical stims while popping off head shots.
He actually had to activate a Skill to stay alive.
His opponent activated a super and turned his handcannon into a shining, golden one.
“Oh shi—”
Aims flinched his head to one side.
The golden bullet streaked past, scorching the side of his head and taking an ear off.
He dived for his revolvers on the side table and came up firing.
Too slow.
The character on the screen stared at him with eyes the color of the gun from behind an oddly-shaped helmet. Bulbous, insect-like.
An inexorable gravity pulled Aims’ gaze down to his own chest.
Smoke carried the acrid tang into his nose.
He reached into the fist-sized hole—
Aims woke up in a tangle of drenched sheets.
Not all of it was from he and his lady friend’s exertions from the night before.
It was his sweat.
From the nightmare.
Nothing else.
He groaned.
Nightmare-ceptions were the worst.
He thought he had done all the work, but he was going to have to do it again.
So, he did.
This time, he left the game console off and went to Ranger HQ early instead.
“Fucking handcannons…” he muttered.
The over-sized, over-designed monstrosities might’ve be cool and fun in a game, but they were awful in real life.
He rubbed his eyes.
“They’re too heavy to wear in a waist holster like God intended.”
“Sir?”
“Hand travel.”
“Um…”
“Holster on your leg is farther from your hand than one on your waist. This was covered at the beginning.”
“But it’s too big to wear there.”
Hence the whole point he was constantly trying to make about classic, normal-sized revolvers being superior to the ridiculous handcannons.
The kid’s smile had steadily fallen.
Went from excited to concerned.
“Alright, let me see your quick draw.”
The kid did it.
“0.65 secs slower than with a normal revolver.” Aims pushed through the kid’s downcast gaze. “To be expected with the increase in size and weight. You’ll just have to work harder to shave that time down. May I take a look?”
The kid spun the handcannon with a flourish and presented it grip first.
“Not bad.”
Walnut grip.
Black steel with gold etchings and inlays.
Gold top rail and hammer.
He tried not to remember the nightmare.
“This a Del Campo Arms?”
“Yes, sir. Early birthday present from my parents.”
Not the original Del Campo.
Tomas had gone to the Threnosh world with most of Sacramento.
Even then the old man had to be over 80, maybe even 90 years old.
He probably wasn’t making guns by hand much anymore.
Everything coming out of the local branch of Del Campo Arms was being done by his old apprentices and his apprentices’ apprentices.
He examined the weapon with a discerning eye.
Tell tale marks of an artisan’s hands rather than automated machinery were evidenced all over the piece.
“It’s a work of art,” he said honestly.
He felt the hint of enchantments.
“What perks did you go with?”
“Hip-fire sights. Extended range in the barrel. Quick trigger. Extra strength cylinder and frame so it can handle pretty much every enchanted and irregular round we have in the armory, sir!”
“No recoil mitigations?”
“That was the most they could fit, sir. My plan was to let the weight help a lot with that for now and I’m planning on picking up Skills as soon as I can. I figured, like you said, I should get Skills that’ll apply to any gun I put in my hand.”
“Feels good in your hand?”
“Yes, sir!”
“Alright, that’s what matters the most for a gunslinger. I’ll let that be my last word on your choice of gun.”
----------------------------------------
“Sharp of eye and quick of hands.”
“Me?” Aims stared at the 5 on his white card. “Are we not going to address the missing 3 and 4?”
“Apparently not,” Mouthy mumbled.
The witch of portents’ shining eyes bored into Aims.
“Okay, so I’m next after Hardhat or Creepy comes out?”
“Fate cannot be avoided and it can only be delayed for a time… your time is now.”
“They literally just went in… there…” he eyed the black abyss.
He still couldn’t penetrate it.
Granted he hadn’t gone all out with his best vision Skill on account of not wanting to mess up the whole hospitality thing.
One never knew what sort of dire consequences messing around with witch hospitality could lead to.
Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.
Actually, that wasn’t true.
They knew of documented cases where violators paid rather steep prices for exactly that.
He sent a hand sign to Captain Butcher.
If she gave him the order he’d do it.
Negative. Maintain course.
Copy that.
He sighed.
“They haven’t been in there long enough to finish?” He tried.
“It is your time,” the witch intoned.
“Less than a minute since Creepy went in,” Spiritwalker said.
“Time?” Captain Butcher said. “I have 46 seconds and counting.”
“50,” Mouthy said.
“41,” Spiritwalker said.
“55.”
Aims shrugged.
He wanted to call shenanigans.
Would’ve done it had he not been so rattled by the nightmares in recent weeks on top of the current witch experience.
“I just walk into that?”
The witch tipped her hat.
“Try to not accidentally play grab ass with Hardhat and Creepy,” Mouthy said.
“You better not accidentally land face first in my ass when it’s your turn.”
“No promises.”
Aims stood and tipped his cowboy hat to the witch.
“Well, ma’am, this cowboy reckons it’s past time he moseyed along down to the old, uh, fortune telling well.” He sauntered his best saunter to honor the costume. Boots thumped and spurs jingled.
The black void swallowed him like the maw of some giant monster like fate was wont to chew him up and spit him out.
Right into almost high noon in a dusty, desert town.
One street.
A saloon on one side and a sheriff’s on the other.
Down the way stood a small figure shrouded in the deepest shadow.
“The fuck is this…” he muttered.
The little witch, the girl, grinned pearly whites from beneath the wide brim of her pointy hat.
Couldn’t quite make out her eyes.
“Sometimes the craft works out differently for different people. For one it might be that they’re tied to the past. To a single moment. Defining, traumatizing. While another might only hold the present in their hearts and minds. The here, the now.”
“Reckon I thought this was about the future?” He glanced at the looming clock tower. The long hand ticked closer to noon. “How’s this gonna work?”
“Sometimes the future can only be glimpsed through blood.”
“Now, hold on right there, little missy! I ain’t about to put no holes in a kid! The impropriety!”
The dazzling white grin grew wider than it should’ve been possible on a human mouth.
“Don’t worry, ranger captain… you won’t.”
“I ain’t gonna draw on you!”
“You best or I reckon I’ll be sending you on the first train to meet your maker.” She giggled.
He eyed his revolvers.
They looked like his real ones.
“Ah… sh— oot.”
There was no way the witch of portents would let her little apprentice get hurt for real.
It had to be a game.
The bell tolled.
He drew.
No actives, just passives and natural skill.
A single bang rang out.
He stared across the sun bleached distance.
At the smoking wand in the little witch’s hand.
Wet red gushed out his chest with every rapid beat of his heart.
“So much, so fast.”
It had already spread out into a pool at his boots.
He glanced at the sky and the harsh golden orb berating him for his failure.
“I tip my hat to you. Even though you cheated. There was at least 10 seconds left before noon on that clock.” He glared at the offending tower. Naturally, it was stuck at noon.
The little witch returned the gesture.
“A witch plays by the rules even if sometimes she’s the only one that knows them all.”
The revolver in his hand felt heavy, so he let it slip.
Then standing seemed too hard, so he let that go and fell to his knees.
The little witch stood in front of him now.
She knelt in front of his growing pool of blood.
“What do you see in my future?” He thought he could see scenes playing out in crimson, but that might have been his blurring vision. “Cause I reckon I cain’t see much.”
She giggled.
“That funny, huh?”
“Sorry. It’s fun pretending to be someone else. I mean— I reckon I can see a little bit of what’s waiting for you at the station, pardner.”
He couldn’t stay that angry with a giggling little girl.
As long as one of them was having a good time.
Aims slumped on his knees while his vision darkened.
The little witch moved around the spreading pool.
He got the vague impression that she was… painting?
She hummed as she appeared to swish and flourish a short stick in her hand.
“Well, darlin’, don’t keep me waitin’. I ain’t got much time left, goin’ by how much is leakin’.”
“Hmm… it’s clear. Sometimes it won’t matter how quick on the draw you are or how good your aim is,” she pronounced. “Your turn!”
----------------------------------------
The scene shifted… for Aims.
One moment he was bleeding out on dusty dirt road, the next he sat on a barstool inside the saloon with a few fingers of whisky in a glass of questionable provenance.
He almost signaled the bartender for a clean-ish one when he realized said bartender wasn’t more than a hazy figure.
The old man— and that was just a guess— looked like Aims was looking at him through a frosted shower glass wall and out of the corner of both his eyes.
The rest of the saloon was just as dream-like for a lack of a better word.
He could sort of hear organ music. The automatic kind that sort of reminded him of those ancient movies he had watched with his grandpa back before the spires.
He coughed at the cigar smoke. Even if it, like the music, was muted.
Someone sidled up to the bar next to him.
“Bar… man? I will have an ale?” The little witch had to climb the tall barstool.
“I may be many things, but I ain’t the type of fella to serve no liquor to no children.”
She sighed. “It’s not even really real,” she muttered. “Fine, I will have a juice.”
“Ain’t got no juice. Whisky, beer and water. And I’d only recommend two of those.”
“Forget it.” She waved the bartender away.
Aims took a sip.
“You’re not missing anything. It doesn’t taste like real whisky. More like watered down, but worse. This your teacher’s spell or Skill or a combo?”
“Mmmm…”
“It’s alright. Secrets. I get that.” He regarded the little witch.
Yup… still clad in black robes and hidden by the shadow of her pointy hat.
“So, about my future? You going to add some details? Be a bit more specific. It sounded a little bad for me and I’d like a better reading so I can make it, how do I say this? Less bad?”
“I’m really sorry, Mister Cowboy, but I really can’t.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“That was a one time thing for you, for now, for this moment of time. What I saw, I don’t have in my head anymore. I mean, I know I saw something. Just not what exactly it was.”
“You think your teacher can?”
The little witch shook her head.
“This place is for just you and me.”
He let the muted noises of the saloon carry on while he chewed on that for awhile.
Time wasn’t working properly.
“I guess I owe you a story.”
“One moment, please.” She reached to her side and pulled out a plastic cup with a straw.
Aside from the two of them it was the only other real thing in the saloon so Aims couldn’t help but zero in on it with his enhanced perceptions.
“Strawberry milk tea?” He raised a brow and eyed his fake watery whisky. “You wouldn’t have another, would you?”
She pulled out another and passed it to him before abruptly pulling it back.
“Oops, sorry.” She cleared her throat. “Freely given, I expect nothing in return for this sustenance and lightening of the soul.”
She tried to slide the plastic cup on the bar top but it wasn’t a good sliding cup on the account of the lack of weight and solidness.
Disaster would’ve struck if it wasn’t for a gunslinger’s reflexes.
Aims brought the extra wide straw to his lips and pulled a satisfying amount into his parched mouth.
He chewed a bit.
“Boba and those tiny square jelly things.” He toasted the little witch. “Tastes like real strawberries and milk.”
“Why wouldn’t it?”
“Dunno, reckon I might’ve been expecting some kind of faerie fruit and faerie dairy.”
The little witch giggled.
“Hey! Reckon I ain’t so bad about the rhyming,” he grinned. “Now, bout that story time…”
…
Rayna’s Rangers Squad 68 hunted a murderer.
Not a normal kind.
Once a woman, now a monster.
A specialized variant of the flesheater class.
“You guys think that thing had anything to do with her whole… deal?” Atelier pointed her tactical wand at the fountain. “It’s pretty spot on.”
Aims had done the research, knew a bit of the fountain’s history.
Dating back to 16th Century the colorful stone sculpture depicted a grotesque scene of a fat, ogre-looking man in the process of devouring a baby head first. More kids were arrayed around the man. A few were hanging out of his bag. Another was in the crook of his arm, while one was tied to his back by a green cloth.
Dainty brandished his two-handed mace-ax. “You want me to break it, captain? Just in case it comes to life.”
“No.”
The sculpture was just a sculpture.
“I thought that evil Santa Claus monster was more of a naked, skinny old man… except for the weird proportions with being a 7 footer?” Quokka Prince said.
The eponymous animal on her shoulder chittered in agreement.
“Found her lair, captain.”
“Well… shit… so did we.”
“Jokes on your weirdos, for it was us who have found her lair.”
Chatter erupted over the comms.
“Sounds like she’s a multiple home owner.” Quokka Prince shrugged, which was mirrored by her bonded animal.
“Which one’s… ugh… the freshest?” Atelier said.
“Bones. Mostly dry. Blood smells older. I’d guess a week or more. Definitely less than a month.”
“Same where we’re at…”
“Uh, I guess that means we’re the winners.”
“High alert. Pull back. Everyone else converges.”
Aims rushed.
The Baby Eater, as she had been dubbed by the locals, wasn’t nearby.
His enhanced perceptions, as well as Skills, like danger sense, of his squad led them to reasonably believe that they weren’t under an imminent risk of attack.
Granted, invading her lairs would be something that could change that.
The lair was an old home.
A row of them.
Whrack slithered out of a shadow on the wall and Bali appeared in a puff of white smoke in place of a log that had been leaning against an overgrown sidewalk tree.
The former spoke in a low whisper.
“I didn’t want to say it over the comms, but… yeah… I think we found the baby.”
The latter spat.
“We don’t know that for sure.”
“There’s only one missing baby in the area. Who else could it be?”
Bali shrugged.
“Might be from farther away.”
“Dead?”
A question that Aims already knew the answer to.
“Better show you, captain,” Whrack said.
“Alright, squad. Set up a defensive perimeter, but keep a small corridor open.”
With luck the Baby Eater would take offense at the home invasion and have a go at him.
A couple of bullets to her brain and heart would put an end to the local people’s nightmare.
He followed his scouts into an abattoir.
Tiny bones everywhere.
Stains in many colors.
Red, brown and black for blood.
Yellow, brown and green for other things.
“This way,” Whrack beckoned.
The bedroom had an old, tattered bed covered in stains and exposed springs sticking out of tears in the fabric with what he was fairly certain were pieces of torn human flesh.
“We figure she just, uh, tosses them on there and they get torn up by the springs,” Bali said.
“Your nose pick up her trail from here?”
Whrack shook her head.
He hadn’t expected it.
Just from looking at the place he knew that the stench must’ve been overwhelming.
Once again he gave thanks to a helmet with filtration and an internal oxygen supply in case the former wasn’t enough.
He regarded the tiny body on the bed.
It looked more like something he’d find at a butcher shop rather than in the arms of a happy mother gathered with a happy family around the warmth of a fireplace.
“Some Christmas,” he muttered.
“See what I meant? There’s no way to tell if it’s him,” Bali said.
“Traces of his clothing? The blanket?”
“I couldn’t find any, but someone else is welcome to try,” Whrack said.
“If you can’t, then I doubt someone else will be able to, but we’ll leave it up to the locals.”
“Captain, I don’t think it’s a good idea to let them see this,” Bali said. “Whether it’s the baby we’re looking for or not, it’s a knife in my gut to leave him or her laying there like that.”
Aims forced himself to look.
He was an old hand at horrific sights, sounds and smells, but this had his stomach churning and heart breaking.
The image of a happy baby shifted with the limbless torso and ruined face.
His imagination betrayed him as he saw the Baby Eater tearing into the face to slurp up the meat and brain as if she was eating clam chowder in a bread bowl.
“Hair?”
“Baby was bald, captain.”
“Oh, that’s right, thanks, Whrack.” He turned and forced himself to walk out of the room.
The squad gathered around him outside the house.
“We’ll try to pick up the trail from here. And I’ll call the mayor’s office. Let them know what we found here. I’ll leave it up to them from there.”
…
“Anyways, that’s why that was the worst experience of my life.”
The little witch blinked.
“What happened to the Baby Eater?”
She almost pitched right off the barstool as she leaned toward him.
“Tracked her to some mountains outside the city. Fought a bit, herded her into a narrow canyon. And, uh, rocks fell, she died.”