TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 8TH, 1615 PR

EVAN. TIME FOR… PRAISE?

After a short pause, Chris said, “Oh! Angie is sorry, by the way.”

“What now?” Evan said not following the change of subject at all.

“I guess Angie summoned some sort of storm owl to save you from being killed by a Beast,” Chris said as the train started again. Evan blinked at him. “By hitting you with blasts of wind to knock you out of the way. She wanted you to die slowly instead of quickly, I think. We want this next one, yeah?”

“Yeah.” Evan blinked, then burst out laughing. “Nah! Not Ange. Angie did her best with what she had.” He paused for a sec, and said, “That explains that then. I’m glad she did it, but it was weird to experience.”

“Man, I saw it happen!” Chris said, shaking his head. “Fuck but I was confused! It was a relief when she told me, when I called them to let them know I’d found you.”

“Damn though,” Evan said, nodding his head as the train slowed to their stop. “She called up that storm owl. Yeah, seems like she’d be asleep after that.” He checked his phone, felt chagrined. “Especially since it’s twelve nineteen. Dang. Sorry.”

Chris shrugged. “This isn’t that bad. A little later than I’d usually be out, since I’d probably aim to be in bed by now, but you know. You usually need to spend a few hours out in the dark to grab a Beast’s attention, and even with the sword I’m not pulling down a Beast every time I go out.”

He fell silent for a moment, then gave Evan a look that Evan couldn’t parse. “Honestly, I thought it was pretty weird that you, with no flame to draw it in, just happened to run across one so early in the night. Such a dangerous one, too. Surprised the shit out of me. I came around the corner right when you started shooting at it, and had to duck back because I was in your line of fire.”

Evan stared out of the window into the darkness of the night, the flames of the regular gaslights casting a flickering orange glow over the avenue the train traveled down. The lamps reflected in the windows of the buildings they passed, bright compared to the starlight. “I suppose. Mostly unlucky for whoever that thing got first.”

Chris’s voice grew grim. “Yeah. Bad fortune indeed. She probably had closed up like that hundreds of times and never had a problem.” Evan glanced back at him in time to see him shaking his head. “Shouldn’t have had a problem.” He paused, looking at Evan. “You saw to it that she was avenged.”

A wave of despair crashed without warning over Evan, forcing tears to his eyes; he hadn’t cried for a year and a half. “I didn’t do anything!” he spat. He let his head drop, squeezing his eyes closed. “That thing didn’t give two shits about me unloading two full fucking cylinders into it! Would have been better off with salt rounds!”

To Evan’s surprise, Chris let loose with a hearty laugh. Evan found himself staring at Chris before he’d even realized he was reacting. “What? Are you kidding me?” Chris said looking at Evan, eyes sparkling again. “That was the easiest kill I’ve ever made! And I saw your second volley, the one I wasn’t in the line of fire for. That was amazing shooting! You’re like a gods blessed gunslinger!”

Evan, taken aback, said, “What? Um? Not really. I missed the last shot with the eleven-nine and the first shot with the ten-eight. My leg wound threw me off on the second volley.” The train started to slow. He shifted his weight a little, bracing himself better as they slowed to a stop again.

“Guy,” Chris said, rising to his feet, “You sounded like you were firing a machine gun, not a revolver, and you still landed nearly every goddamn shot. You say you missed two rounds? So you took off seven of its legs and put six holes in its torso, with ten shots?”

“Eleven shots. The eleven-nine is a seven round cylinder.”

Chris shook his head. “Whatever. That’s not just good, that’s unreal. That's the sort of shooting you see from experienced dungeon raiders, not a fifteen-year-old, and maybe not even then.”

“It… it wasn’t that hard to line up a shot on those spider-like legs, and they, apparently, weren’t substantial enough to slow the bullet enough that it couldn’t go through two of the legs,” Evan said, feeling heat creep into his cheeks and looking down at the ground as he followed Chris to the doors, considering the other boy’s words.

“You’re in a deep, dark hole if you think that’s anything other than extraordinary,” Chris said over his shoulder as the train lurched to a stop; he let the momentum carry him forward and caught himself with one hand on a central pole. “That thing was a Menace-class Stalker, guy. It was fast,” he said as he spun around the pole and up to the door. “I would have come out of a fight with that thing worse for wear if you hadn’t already hammered it into mush. Instead I just sort of sauntered up and stabbed it.” The doors slid open as he finished speaking.

Chris turned and looked at Evan, his face growing more somber as they stepped through the doors and back out into the night. “That said, you were also very lucky. Many Beasts are smart enough to recognize guns as threats and actively evade.” Evan resisted saying ‘No shit.’ “That one probably didn’t expect you to be able to hurt it so badly and was committed to the attack by the time it realized its mistake. Your shooting was remarkable, but I don’t know if you would have had the same success rate if it hadn’t been rushing headlong at you.”

Evan would probably have been better off, actually, but it didn’t seem like the time to quibble. The fastest route between two places is a straight line, and if the Beast had evaded he would have just had more time to shoot it. Evan knew how to lead something that fast. He’d run Gauntlets before.

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Chris started leading the way toward the trolley line they needed—the Link stop was between two cross lanes, taking up the bulk of the block, extra brightly lit by a multitude of gas lights throughout the area people would be waiting for a train.

As Chris led and talked, Evan glanced at the watch tower. The militia man inside seemed to have just snapped out of a daze, frowning down at one of the screens lighting up his face. Presumably at them.

“Further, that was a fragile Beast, particularly for a Menace-class,” Chris continued. “It relied on speed and stealth to bring its prey down, like most Stalkers. There are Beasts out there that would have treated those bullets like rain.” Again, Evan resisted saying ‘No shit.’

Chris looked at Evan, drawing Evan’s attention back to him, and locked his gaze with Evan’s, slowing his pace a touch. “Don’t do this again. That thing still would have killed you without Angie knocking you out of the way. And your bell got rang pretty good when she did that, so it probably would have killed you without me being there, too.” He paused. “I mean, maybe not. It did really seem worse for the wear.”

Evan looked down, more heat rising in his face. He knew all this very well. He shouldn’t have needed the lecture. This whole escapade seemed extremely foolish, in hindsight.

Chris started watching where he was going again, and gave a small chuckle. “Of course, with shooting like that, you’re welcome to come out with me anytime. We’ll be strolling around on Easy Street—with your shooting and my sword and the average threat level of what Beasts manage to get into cities, we’ll barely break a sweat.” He was smiling, apparently enjoying the thought.

“Hey!” a man’s voice called just before they were really out of the Link stop proper. They both looked at the militia guard emerging from the base of his watchtower and moving in their direction. “Hold on a second, you two. I need to see your licenses for being out this long after curfew,” the man continued. He probably wasn’t older than twenty, which made sense—City-interior-watchtower duty tended to fall to people fresh out of boot camp. His uniform was crisp, the teal portions muted in the flickering orange of the gaslight, the white portions cast orange. He carried a shotgun slung over one shoulder, and from his belt hung a standard issue salted blade.

“No problem, my man!” Chris responded, reaching under his warding mantle, his hand emerging a few moments later holding a pair of laminated cards; his ID and his hunting license. Evan noted the blue and silver border on Chris’s license, indicating a Light Bearer’s license, and felt an irrational surge of envy as he pulled out his own cards.

“Oh my spirits,” the young militiaman said to Chris when he got a good look at Chris’s license, his brown face growing visibly ruddier, even in the light of the gas lamps. “I, um, you know, I’m sorry, I didn’t recognize you, ser,” he continued as he inserted the cards into some sort of card reader. “I mostly know the Bearers around here who work this late. I didn’t see your lanterns on low so I didn’t realize you were a Bearer.” He shook his head, and muttered, “Dumb,” under his breath.

“No need for the ‘ser,’” Chris said, smiling with all sincerity. “I’m fifteen. And I’m new around here, and besides that, wouldn’t have been out this late if we hadn’t gotten held up with a small injury. We want to sleep in our own beds, so we’re just moseying along home.”

“Oh, sure,” the militiaman said, barely glancing at Evan’s cards as he scanned them. “Nice to meet you, Mst. Gramyre. Private Padsalgikar, at your service.” He scratched at his ear, expression embarrassed. “Ah, the sergeants just call me Private Pads, mostly.”

“Please, I’m fifteen,” Chris said, laughter creeping around under the surface of his tone. “You can call me Chris, Private.”

Private Padsalgikar smiled, maybe too broadly, and said, “S-sure thing, Chris! Uh, I guess I shouldn’t keep you much longer, you probably have school tomorrow.”

“Indeed we do, Private,” Chris said, nodding. “And we’re definitely getting tired.”

“Of course you are,” the private said, nodding a little too enthusiastically. “Take care, Chris.”

“You too, Private,” Chris replied. “May your watch be quiet and your aim true if it’s not. I’ll see you around.” And with that he started walking in the direction of the trolley line they still needed. Private Padsalgikar stared after him.

“Ok, where were we?” Chris asked as the militia guard walked back to his tower and they resumed their journey around the block to the trolley stop they needed. He had clasped his hands and put them behind his head, looking up at the stars.

Evan, his tone a little sour despite himself, replied, “You were telling me I should come out with you hunting, which was a little confusing, because I was under the impression that ‘Gramyres hunt alone.’”

Chris looked back over at him, mild surprise on his features. “What, that? Fuck, guy, I’m just trying to keep the sword on the DL. It’s one thing for people to see a glowing sword in the window in passing, another to see a flame-wreathed blade in action. And you just asked about gunners, not about you, yourself, specifically. I mean, I should have figured, but if you’d been clear, I would have asked to see you shoot and considered it. At least once I thought I could trust you to not blab about the sword.” He shook his head. “Now you know about the sword and I’ve seen you shoot.” He paused, looked at Evan with a solemn expression. “Seriously though, don’t go blabbing to anyone about the sword.”

“‘Two can keep a secret if one of them is dead,’” Evan quoted the old canard.

Chris cocked his head and said, “Really, man? You can’t keep this under your hat?”

Evan rolled his eyes. “Come on dude. You need to—“ He stopped, gave Chris an up and down. Chris wore two hip lanterns and that was it. Evan couldn’t believe he hadn’t realized there was no Dyrnwyn in sight before this point. “Where the fuck is the sword!?” If he sounded alarmed, it’s because he was. They were out in the black heart of night and Chris didn’t have his magic sword at hand. So, for some reason, it slipped out. “Interrobang?!”

Chris tipped back his head and really laughed. After twenty seconds or so, he said, “Ah, Evan, you guys are the fucking best!” Still chuckling, he went on. “I put the sword away. I’m not trying to attract Beasts right now.” He wiped the corner of his eye. “Interrobang! Fuck, I love that shit!”

Evan eyed Chris all sour like. “Okay. Whatever the eff ‘put it away’ means. I don’t see it at all.”

“Oh, that,” Chris said, still stifling chuckles. “Here.” He reached his left hand up and out in front of his face, mimed taking the handle of some sort of object, mimed pulling backward. Except he pulled an actual glowing sword out of thin fucking air, star-silver flames flaring at the point in the air where the blade was appearing.

Evan had stopped, staring, his mouth agape. Chris realized this five or so steps up and stopped, looking over his shoulder, once again silhouetted by the shining of the sword’s blade. Evan’s own face was lit clearly—he felt almost… physically lighter, less weighty, in the glow of that blade.