Soon as Astrid saw Daddy’s face, she knew there was trouble afoot.

  “Howie’s gone missing,” he said, shutting the door to the cabin behind him. Without wiping his boots on the door mat outside mind you, while Cowie at least had the decency to stop and raise his front hooves to let them know he needed help washing up. Chrissy got right to it as Frowny greeted him and the other two kiccaws with a melodious song. Astrid considered throwing a Water Sphere at Daddy to remind him to wash up, he was too flustered and stressed for jokes as he got to pacing about the cabin.

  “We got split up yesterday morning and had to part ways because of Abby,” he explained, running a hand over his bald plate and the long, wispy strands of sweat soaked hair he still had left to him. “I’m pretty sure Howie handled it, as he had plenty of help with him, but then he never showed up. Me, I grabbed the package and legged it to the fallback point. Waited a few hours, then heard a whole lot of gunfire close by, like a war had broken out. A little while later, Cowie turns up all sorts of flustered, so I follow him to find a whole lot of tracks showing Howie had been up against a good number of people, at least ten, maybe twenty, and I found… I didn’t find any bodies or big blood stains, but nothing to say that Howie got away from whoever he was fighting either. Waited all night just in case, but I didn’t hear or see anything over the course of the night.”

  Huffing and puffing as he fumbled with his cigarettes, Daddy concluded, “And since he’s not here, I’m pretty sure the Order’s got him, or the French Foreign Legion, and neither one is good.”

  Astrid blinked as she processed it all, but it was like her brain was drawing a blank. She understood everything Daddy just said, but couldn’t quite piece it all together into something she could parse. Howie missing? In trouble? Captured by the Order might make sense, but what would the French want with him?

  Questions which could wait, unlike Howie if he’d been captured. “We have to go save him then,” Astrid said. Her brain told her she ought to get started on it, to go pack their things or radio for help or something, but body refused to listen. No one else seemed all that concerned, no one besides Cowie who was bellowing sadly while Chrissy washing his hooves and nuzzled his head to keep him calm. Daddy had stopped to take a long, hard drag of his cigarette, one that burned it down by half before he stopped to hold the smoke in his lungs like he was trying to make up for lost time, while Harald idly turned a page in his book and continued reading like business as usual.

  “There’s nothing we can do by ourselves,” Daddy replied, pausing to take another long drag of his cigarette, but Astrid’s demanding glare made him cut it short with a sheepish look. “If the French have him, then I’m sure Lord Elton can pull some strings to get him out, and if it’s the Order…” Taking another drag, he took his sweet time in finishing it off, and didn’t answer until he was already reaching for a second cigarette. “Well, I’m afraid even he’ll need some help getting Howie out.”

  Assuming Howie wasn’t already dead. That was the caveat Daddy was afraid to say out loud, but his silence spoke volumes. He never said what he found when he went looking for Howie, and she was almost afraid to ask, but she had to. “What did you see, Daddy?” Astrid hated how girly and childish she sounded, but she couldn’t help it. Howie had always been larger than life, the Firstborn of the Frontier who was the best of them all, so she couldn’t even imagine the worst-case scenario.

  One Daddy was truly worried had already come to pass. Heaving a long, heavy, and smoky sigh, he shook his head and lowered his voice to match Astrid’s energy. “Not much blood,” he admitted, and Astrid almost relaxed to hear it. “Someone died hard though. Acid. Big pool of it from the mark it left behind, with enough bits and bobs to show someone had been melted by it. Don’t think it was Howie, but there wasn’t all that much left to really tell.”

  “It wasn’t Howie,” Harald said, and Astrid and Daddy both blinked to hear his voice. Without looking up from his book, her brother continued, “The night before he left, Howie spent time Preparing two Spells. One was Third Order, which I was unable to identify, but the other was the First Order Elemental Orb. Then he went and double checked his Components pouch, pulled out his Elemental Stone of Acid, and placed it close to the top of his pack for easy access.”

  “Doesn’t mean he used the Spell,” Daddy replied with a frown. “Or that something similar wasn’t used on him. Lot of folks like Acid around these parts, for obvious reasons.”

  “It does not,” Harald admitted, turning yet another page to show that he was still speed-reading despite carrying on a conversation in dry monotone. “However, while it may appear as if Howie is a man stuck in his ways, that is merely because he is a creature of habit. Habits ingrained into him by his father and the Marshal, people he loves and idolize. That is why he uses revolvers and lever-action rifles instead of more modern semi-automatics, why his wagon has no suspension, ball-bearing wheel hubs, and even why he sticks to using loose Elemental Stones instead of getting rings like most people. Not because he is anachronistic, old-fashioned, or set in his ways, but because he clings to his own past for comfort while setting course for a future he can no longer envision, much less predict.”

  Astrid blinked, and turned to Daddy who did the exact same thing, as they were both wondering when on earth Harald had time to take note of all that, much less put it all together. Harald wasn’t someone who understood people all that well, so his deep delve into Howie’s psychology was a first. Turning the page in his book, he continued with his psycho-analysis, wholly unaware of just how shocked his sister and father really were. “The thing is, these traits skews one’s perspective when taking stock of Howie as a whole. In actuality, he is a man who loves all things new and interesting, as well as old and nostalgic. In Riverrun, he returned to the ship with multiple bocadillos so he could indulge in that nostalgia, but when called upon to cook, he rarely makes the same meal twice. Anytime he shows up to purchase potions, he arrives with a set shopping list in mind, and yet still always asks to see what’s new in inventory before telling us what he actually needs to purchase. Most hunters revisit the same spots time and time again, while Howie is always looking for a new hotspot to explore, because in his mind, those old hunting grounds are a solved equation that don’t offer the same challenge and thrill as a new one.”

  Furrowing his brow into a frown, Harald fell silent for a few seconds, then snapped his book shut with an audible thump. Tossing it aside, he turned to his pile and dug through it for a bit, then came back up with a new book which he flipped through to find whatever it was he was looking for. Then and only then did he resume the conversation; one Astrid and Daddy were both too scared to interrupt for fear of derailing his thoughts. “Where was I?” Harald asked, only to answer his own question in the same breath. “Right. New thrills. Howie seeks them out because the novelty makes him feel like he’s a child again. New foods, new places, new technologies, and most of all, new challenges. That is precisely why he was so excited to come out to the Deadlands. The chance to fight not just a new breed of Aberration, but a different type all together, and he enjoyed himself immensely during the course of our trip. The novelty has quickly worn off however, and he’s already decided that the Deadlands are not for him, which is why he’s been in such a rush to finish the job and leave. Howie’s looking for his next challenge, his next thrill, a pattern that has become quite worrisome.”

  Looking up from his book, Harald stared at the wall for a little bit before coming back with a start. “As for how all this relates to Elemental Orb,” he began, mostly for his own benefit as he was reminding himself why he was saying all this, “Whenever Howie Prepares a new Spell, even one he’s used before, he will typically find reason to use it, because he just can’t help himself. Therefore, the chances of him throwing out an Elemental Orb in battle are high. Especially if he already expended a significant amount of Aether beforehand, as the First Order Spell is rather economical. A shame he gets bored and distracted so easily though. If he were to diligently practise one Spell instead of juggling a dozen or so different ones at the same time, he’d have a much greater and more immediate return on his investment.”

  Which was exactly why Harald lived and breathed Alchemy. It wasn’t that he didn’t have any other interests; he just figured he’d have time for those once he mastered his first love of Alchemy. Logic which only made sense to Harald of course, as Astrid wasn’t sure if he’d ever get there. Not because he lacked the ability, but because there was no hard upper limit on Alchemy, no ceiling on skills or knowledge in a world full of new and unexplored flora, fauna, and possibly even Aetheric dynamics. No one could really predict how things would change when the Watershed finally hit, because no one in the course of human history had ever borne witness to one, as the old world had no records of anything like that ever happening anywhere at any point in time.

  Even the concept of the Watershed was still an unproven theory based on the Harmonic Convergence Model, which itself was also unproven. Both were in all likelihood 100% correct, because everything they could think of to test fell within the parameters, but no one could say for sure what would happen until it happened. That’s how scientific theories worked after all. You put forth a hypothesis, then tried everything in you power to disprove it, and if you couldn’t, then you accepted it as truth until something came along to prove otherwise.

  Which was exactly how Harald had structured his statement regarding Howie, albeit with an uncharacteristic lack of actual facts as he concluded, “Therefore, given all that we know, and the fact that Howie is much too quick to be hit by an Elemental Orb, then I believe it is best if we move forward assuming he is still alive, and will remain so for the immediate future. If he was captured, he was taken alive for good reason, and if he is free and clear, then he will make his way to us regardless of our location. Therefore, I agree with Astrid’s proposal and suggest we pack our things while discussing our next move, starting with why Father believes the French might have a part in all this. If they do have him, then our presence and investigation could be enough to keep them from silencing him out of hand, as they would be operating under the belief that their actions went unnoticed.”

  That was exactly what Astrid was thinking, though in a much less convoluted manner. Not that last bit about the French killing Howie to keep him quiet. She hadn’t made it that far just yet, but she would’ve gotten there eventually. Probably. Whatever.

  Either way, Daddy saw that they would not be swayed, so he kept smoking and had himself a long drink of water while explaining what happened while he was away. Astrid could hardly believe it either, that Howie hadn’t known those Legionnaires were going to kill the mercenaries carrying the Order’s cargo, and that he would’ve gone along with it if it wasn’t for the fact that Elodie and the Pathfinders had been there with them. How crazy was that?

  It was one thing to know Howie liked to play hard and fast with the rules, as she kind liked the idea of a bad boy at the core of that sweet, folksy exterior. It was another thing altogether to learn that he was fine with outright murder and robbery if the ends suited his needs. Now granted, he wasn’t the one doing the murder or robbery. He was only willing to stand by and watch it happen, then profit after the fact. Yeah, sure, he only got mixed up in all this because they got mixed up in all that ugly business in Ashbend with a Sheriff so hexing bent he could limbo under a doorway without so much as a stretch. Still though. Accessory to outright murder?

  Up until now, even though Howie got himself into a whole lot of gunfights over the years, Astrid firmly believed that he was someone who did things mostly in the right way. While he might step over the lines every now and then, most of the times, he stuck to the rules and never killed anyone who didn’t deserve it. Yeah, he might’ve have gone a little overboard with Vanguard National and the Puglianos, but it wasn’t like they were wholly innocent either. The first group chopped off his hand, and the second killed Josie and could’ve killed Tina, Chrissy, Elodie, and Noora, so of course Howie hit back with everything he had. Maybe some of those people who died weren’t 100% gangsters or outlaws, just people doing what they had to do, but knowing Howie, he would’ve done everything he could to avoid involving innocents, and spared those he could.

  Because at the end of the day, Howie was one of the good guys.

  Except now… now Astrid wasn’t so sure anymore. Sure, the Order were a bunch of racists who preached about purity and hated everyone who wasn’t white, but they weren’t lynching people in the streets or anything. They weren’t even doing anything really, nothing violent at least. They bought up companies and refused to work with anyone outside of the Order, but that was pretty much it. Reprehensible, sure, but death worthy? Astrid wasn’t so sure. Shades of grey and all that, while previously, Howie’s actions were all black and white. Drug running explosive manufacturers, racketeering and murderous mobsters, a Qinese Death Squad with orders to take his head, for Howie to draw on these people and gun them down was their just rewards. Justified self-defence, or maybe extra-legal retribution for all that they’d done, while the Order… well, let’s just say Astrid had met plenty of ‘good’ Christian folk who’d said a whole lot worse to her face than what Geoffry Aultman reportedly said amongst his like-minded peers.

  And while Howie might well have defended some of those ‘good’, Christian folk, he was ready to watch some criminals gun down what was essentially a private agency just to get the cargo they were carrying. Daddy didn’t see how many people there were, but here in the Deadlands, even the Protectorate Knights moved in groups of 40. Granted, half of that was support staff whose primary job was to haul and cook corpses, but even then, that meant the British Government felt that 20 seasoned soldiers was the bare minimum size for a group to move safely through these swamps. A security company would have at least that many people, and Howie would know that, meaning he was completely fine standing idly by while twenty people were gunned down for no reason than who they worked for.

  Which sounded… monstrous. Inhumane. Not at all like the heroic Firstborn she’d heard so many stories about, and Astrid didn’t know how to feel about it. On the one hand, Howie was doing what he thought he needed to do in order to survive. On the other… that was twenty people he was willing to watch die. Racists, probably, but honest, hardworking ones from the sounds of things. It was possible they weren’t even true-blue believers, just people with the right skin tone who went along with the Order because they were the only game in town. There were just so many variables to cover, so much left unknown, so for Howie to be completely fine with letting those strangers die until he realized they weren’t strangers made Astrid’s stomach drop as she thought back on all the articles she’d read and dismissed for fear-mongering fume fog. You know. Looks and smells scary, but was of no real consequence.

  Except maybe they weren’t that far off the mark…

  Then again, could she really blame him? Howie was doing this for them after all, and only because he didn’t trust the Federal Justice System. And why should he after that horrible Deputy threatened to do those awful things to Chrissy? Or wanted to do things to Astrid and Elodie? He was hardly any better than the criminals he was supposed to protect the people from, so why would the Sheriff be any better? Howie’s actions were the result of years of experience, one which showed him and Astrid both that no one would look out for you, so you had to look out for yourself.

  Howie was just a bit more extreme about it, and willing to do almost anything for the people he cared about.

  So six of one, half-a-dozen of the other. Hard to say where Howie fit on the scale of morality, but now wasn’t the time for equivocation. It was time for action, as he’d either been captured or was on the run and unable to make it back to the compound. What they had to do first was find out more, which meant visiting the French outpost where Daddy and Howie made contact with the Legionnaires to see if there was any suspicious happenings going on. If they were the ones who captured Howie, then Daddy would lean on his contacts in the Rangers to apply pressure, or wait for Lord Elton to come back and persuade the French to release Howie.

  And if the Order had him? Well… that’d be trickier. There was no chance any of them could get into Fairhaven unnoticed, not even Daddy with all his tricks. Well, he could probably get in and scout around with Gaseous Form, but he wouldn’t be able to scout all that quickly, as a cloud of gas didn’t move very fast. Astrid didn’t really understand it, as she didn’t know the Spell herself, and the potions were much too expensive to play around with. At least the Spell lasted an hour at base, which meant Daddy would have 7 or 8 hours a day to search all of Fairhaven, but that wasn’t enough time to cover the whole town. The place was pretty sizable, with a four-digit population and plenty of transient workers moving in and out at all times. Which meant that finding Howie would be difficult to say the least, assuming he was even there and not at some private outpost on the outskirts where the Order could work him over or whatever it was they wanted with him.

  Astrid was liking their chances less and less as they discussed the best way to find Howie in the shortest time possible, and it didn’t help that she was the only one packing. Daddy was god-awful at it and slowed her down by doing everything wrong, so it was easier just to do it all herself. Besides, he needed to rest after a long, anxious night out and a busy morning running around looking for clues and making it back to the outpost by mid-afternoon, leaving them just enough time to set out now and make it to a nearby waystation just after dark if they hurried.

  At least Chrissy was doing her best to help, bringing their things over and stacking them next to Astrid so she wouldn’t have to run around, but she also kept holding Frowny out for pats and kisses while they were trying to have a serious discussion about how to find Howie. At first, Astrid humoured Chrissy because Frowny was just too adorable with his furrowed ‘brow’ that was just a white streak in his brown feathers, but no matter how much pats and kisses she doled out, Chrissy kept presenting him for more. Then she tried it with Daddy and Harald while they were discussing alternate ways of finding Howie. Daddy wanted to do it old school, search Fairhaven building by building while listening for news of a Qin in town, but Harald was trying to math his way to a solution. He figured that if they reached out to everyone in the Deadlands who was less than pleased with the Order, then statistically, the chances of someone knowing something of use would pop up, information they could then bring to the British or the Americans for help getting Howie out.

  Which was logical and reasonable, but people weren’t much of either even on the best of days. Take Chrissy for example. She ought to be the most worried about Howie, but she was fooling around with Frowny and holding him out for both Harald and Daddy to see, and getting increasingly upset that they weren’t paying the bird any attention. Maybe it was because she didn’t understand the stakes at hand, or maybe it was because she was trying to escape from her feelings by paying more attention to Frowny, but either way, Chrissy wasn’t helping.

  …Or was she?

  “Chrissy,” Astrid called out, prompting a pause in the conversation as all three of them looked over at her. Which was rare, as Chrissy rarely made eye contact, so this meant she was in her most serious mode. “Why do you keep showing us Frowny?”

  “Find Howie,” Chrissy replied, holding the bird up in front of her once more, and it took all of Astrid’s willpower not to squeal at the sight of his grumpy, rotund self.

  “Yes,” Harald replied, in a tone only slightly gentler than his usual dry enunciation. “That is what we are discussing at the moment. How to find Howie.”

  “Frowny,” Chrissy replied, thrusting the bird towards Harald who flinched away, as Frowny was fond of doling out ‘play bites’ that were actually real, genuine chomps. Course, it helped that his little beak was so weak and short that it didn’t hurt at all, but it was still an unpleasant experience all the same. “Find Howie.”

  “You’re saying Frowny can find Howie?” Daddy asked, and Chrissy nodded emphatically while bringing the bird to him. “…How?”

  Chrissy’s shoulders slumped as she brought Frowny back towards her for a hug, and she nuzzled him with her chin for a good long while with her own brow furrowed in thought. “…Bond?” she replied, but it was more of a question than a statement to show she wasn’t sure herself.

  “…As in Beast Bond?” Daddy asked, but Chrissy just looked away and didn’t answer. Probably because she wasn’t sure, but if that’s what she meant, then it didn’t make sense. Beast Bond was a First Order Divination Spell, one you cast on an animal to ‘communicate’ using basic emotions. It wasn’t a very good Spell, as it was easy enough to imagine how she herself might react if some massive, alien creature approached you with food and proceeded to bombard you with emotions in what was tantamount to a psychic assault. Not well to say the least, so using the Spell typically did more harm than good. It also only lasted an hour and relied on the animal’s intelligence to parse what you told them, so even when it did work, it didn’t work all that well. The Friend Cantrip was far more useful, and same with Bolstering Compliment, because it was less about dumping information into your target’s head and more about a different type of communication altogether.

  Magical communication using Enchantments pretty much, which might well be why Chrissy had so much trouble with plain old regular communication, because she understood things in a whole different manner.

  But she was getting better at it. Even over the course of this trip, Astrid noticed Chrissy improving bit by bit, and now she was even taking part in their discussions and offering her own solutions, however strange they may seem. It took a lot more questions and prompting to understand where her head was at, but eventually, she got sick of the questions and held Frowny up on both hands with the bird facing herself. “Find Howie,” she said, and the bird cocked his whole body to the left, then the right, because he was so round he couldn’t move his head without moving most of the rest of him too. “Find Howie,” Chrissy repeated, then added, “Now please.”

  A command which Frowny promptly ignored by turning about face atop her palms and doing a little birdy dance. One he usually did in the mornings with the other two birds, who were hopping around Chrissy’s ankles and watching the bigger bird do his thing. Which was adorable to be sure as he bounced in the palm of her hand and spread his nubby wings out wide, lifting the right, then the left, and then rinse and repeat while moving his whole body at once. Whatever it was, it wasn’t the Beast Bond Spell then, because it needed to touch the target to cast it. Even allowing for the fact that Frowny might have cast it on Howie yesterday, the Spell only had a 10-minute base duration, and the bird had been a Spellslinger for all of a couple months.

  With all the facts laid out before her, Astrid’s hopes were not high, while Daddy and Harald had all but abandoned it and returned to their discussions of what to do next. As such, they didn’t see the Aether flows emerging from Frowny, faint, ineffable glowing patterns emanating off of the kiccaw as he worked his Ritual Magic, one he no doubt devised by himself based off his daily dances with his flock. It was all too easy for an educated scholar and arcanist to forget how magical magic could be, because in their minds, it wasn’t magic. It was science, one they had yet to wholly grasp and understand, but science all the same. So long as they kept testing their hypotheses and narrowing down the way Magic worked, then eventually, they would unravel all the mysteries behind it and harness it the same way they harnessed water to turn their mills or wind to power their sails.

  An eventuality that seemed like it was just around the corner, figuratively speaking. Magic had only been prevalent all over the old world for four or five centuries now, and already they had massive commercial jets flying through the skies and networks broadcasting hundreds of television and radio channels all across the country, if not world. Then there was the field of Automatons, creating mechanoid constructs to carry out tasks too dangerous or unwieldy for human lives, as well as Alchemy and all manner of other fields in the research of magic that were all on the cutting edge of technology. With an additional 20 years of progress added onto all that, who knew how advanced the old world had become?

  Not so advanced as to have mastered Magic. That much was clear, because here, before Astrid’s own two eyes, she was watching a little bird-brained kiccaw who was too dumb to work the clasp on a pouch to get at the birdfeed within cast an entirely unique and novel Spell it had come up with all by itself, one that pulsed and flowed all over his little frame as he danced his heart out atop of Chrissy’s palm, with Aether coming off of him in loops and arcs like solar flares off of the sun. This was no simple, First Order Spell. This was a complex working based entirely on instinct, one that had been barely honed by a few weeks of self-study, and also so wonderous and marvellous Astrid could hardly bring herself to tear her eyes away.

  And when Frowny finished with his dance, he stood up a little straighter, then pointed his beak to the northwest towards Fairhaven as opposed to southwest at the French waystation Daddy and Harald both agreed should be their first stop. That was all, a general direction Frowny pointed in for all of a second before plopping down on his feathery butt, all tired and out of gas after a few minutes of effort. One that paid off in spades though, because Astrid was a believer, and then and only then did she notice neither her father nor brother had even noticed.

  “Guys,” Astrid said, pointing in the direction Frowny had indicated. “I’m pretty sure the Order has Howie.” They turned to look at her like she was speaking a foreign language, and their skepticism only deepened further when she explained what she just saw. Mostly because she could hardly understand it herself, much less believe it, but she saw it happen and couldn’t just pretend like she hadn’t, so she did all that she could to convince Daddy and Harald of the same thing. Which of course lead to more questions she couldn’t answer, nor could Chrissy who promptly decided that convincing Astrid was enough to call that a success and went scrounging around for pen and paper. Then she wrote a note, left it on the cabin’s dining table, and promptly filed out the door with the kiccaws and Cowie in tow.

  So of course Astrid had to run after her and drag her back inside, because she couldn’t just let Chrissy run off into the Deadlands by herself. “I know you’re worried, but please Chrissy, you need to wait for the rest of us,” Astrid said, bringing her over to the dining table and sitting the girl down in a chair. “What are you even going to do all by yourself?”

  “Find Howie,” Chrissy replied, before meeting Astrid’s eyes with an emotionless gaze in her pale, violet pupils. “Kill bad men.”

  And that’s all she had to say, leaving Astrid marvelling at how they really were brother and sister after all. Turns out Tina was the well adjusted one out of the group, which was a surprise to be sure, so Astrid put on a smile and said, “Well, we’ll work on the plan. In the meantime, how about I get you something to eat, and maybe a bottle of juice too?”

  After plying Chrissy with all the snacks and drinks she could find, Astrid glanced at the paper before she left, only to stop and turn it around to make it easier to read Chrissy’s surprisingly gorgeous penmanship. There wasn’t much written down, just a simple message. “To Uncle Edward, Uncle Aaron, and Uncle Luthor. Gone to find Howie. Love, Chrissy.”

  “You don’t think you should write some more?” Astrid asked. “You know. To get the full message across?” Already nibbling on a handful of dried grumble berries, Chrissy tilted her head and thought about it for all of a second before bringing out her pen and adding to the message. It didn’t take long, so Astrid looked down at the paper and saw ‘And the Askefjords’ tacked on at the end. Stifling a sigh, Astrid made a note to leave a proper letter for Lord Elton and his knights, one that explained what happened without incriminating them or Howie. Or inciting Lord Elton into a murderous rage, because even though she didn’t care much for the Order of the Cleansing Light, it wasn’t like they’d done anything particularly death worthy. They were just awful people with awful opinions who made life difficult for anyone who didn’t check all their boxes, but not to the point of doing anything illegal or deserving death.

  In fact, it was the opposite really. They made no secret of their disdain for other races, but they were also willing to pay to relocate them away from the Deadlands if they couldn’t find work. Which was a textbook case of doing the right thing for the wrong reasons, but again, hardly worthy of a Bolt to the head.

  Not unless they had Howie and were torturing him for information. Now there was a cheery thought, one that spurred Astrid back to action as she tried to herd her stubborn brother and impulsive father out the door if only to get a move on right quick. Whatever dire straits Howie might have found himself in, she knew that the chances of getting him out alive would only grow slimmer with time.

  And now, she knew it wasn’t just Lord Elton they had to worry about. They had to keep a handle on Chrissy too, so God have mercy the Order if Howie didn’t survive this, because Howie’s loved ones most certainly wouldn’t.

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  Unable to hold back his excitement, Richard moved as quickly as he dared without breaking into a sprint as he made his way through Fairhaven’s streets and back to the company headquarters.

  “Strength is measured in stillness,” Father would often say, followed by, “Fools fidget. Men wait.” As a child, Richard always thought he was being reprimanded for being impatient or wandering off from his stepmother or nanny, but as he grew older, he saw the truth for what it was. That stillness was a part of why Father was so feared and respected despite leading hardened soldiers like Halden Kessler, the hulking head Sanctifier of the Order who trained their soldiers and lead them in battle. Or seasoned killers Raynard Volkman, a slender and almost scholarly looking Apostle who Father called the Knife of the Order, and was his go to man for when he needed someone blackmailed, intimidated, or murdered. Even Eunice Austerfeld, the Voice of the Order and a woman who was more than a little off her rocker always jumped to Father’s commands, and not because she was in love with him. No, she respected him, revered and adored him, but love? Never love, for in her eyes, a man like Geoffry Aultman was akin to a prophet sent by God.

  Father was only a man however, a great man, but still a man in the end, so he was always mindful of how he appeared. Even Richard, his own flesh and blood, had never seen him look so much as flustered, as he was always calm and in control even in the throes of rage. Stillness was strength, because inadvertent movement implied indecision and uncertainty, while Father was nothing if not certain in his beliefs. He never twiddled his fingers, jiggled his knee, tugged at his sleeves, or did anything that made him appear ill at ease. No, his movements were always deliberate and carried out with purpose, while his words were calculated and spoken without haste or urgency no matter the situation.

  Cold. Calm. In control. Words that described Father in a nutshell, and Richard strove to emulate him. So of course he couldn’t be seen running through the streets. While he was only a lowly Redeemed, every Acolyte, Deacon, and Sanctifier knew he was the Patriarch’s son, so if he was seen sprinting about in broad daylight, they’d all wonder what he was up to. Minor as it might seem, this alone could well be enough to incite unrest and possibly even panic in the masses if nerves were wound tight enough, and given the events of the past few days, they couldn’t be wound any tighter.

  Most were unaware the Aberration attacks had been planned by Father after all, and many of the Order had lost friends or loved ones. While the Abaddon’s Breath spread along the eastern border had long since been spent and the attacks subsiding, tensions were still high and concerns aplenty. Many of the Faithful were heard whispering and speculating about the existence of a non-existent Soulless Deviant, and how all this chaos was merely the preamble to a coordinated attack on Fairhaven itself. There was no need to worry though, as Father’s orders had been carried out with the precision and discipline expected of Sanctifiers in the Order, a rank bestowed only upon the elite soldiers of the Order, similar to a Ranger or Marine.

  As such, while Richard knew there was nothing to be concerned about, the rest of the town thought different, so decorum must be maintained. That is why he forced himself to not only walk, but to appear relaxed and almost leisurely as he moved with as much haste as circumstances allowed. A brisk pace, but unhurried, with head held up high and arms folded behind his back while the rest of his conclave followed after him. They weren’t privy to the codes Father used to call them back from patrol, so they were wholly in the dark as to why he was willing to risk travelling through the night just to make it back home by morning, but they filed in alongside him and matched his energy just as they’d been trained.

  There was Gabe, which wasn’t short for Gabriel but just Gabe. He would make for a fine Sanctifier one day, as he was a staunch and steadfast soldier who followed Richard’s lead without question. Nate and Steve would likely join Gabe in the Sanctifiers, but Gabe was without question the best choice to lead them, as he was calm, level-headed, and tactically minded. As for Ned and Shane, they were more suited for managerial roles, but they hadn’t come all the way to the Deadlands to take inventory and manage logistics, so they persisted in their attempts to become Sanctifiers like the other three.

  A shame Alfred and Ike hadn’t joined the others in their exodus of the Eastern Front. They were both of good stock, now ruined by leftist propaganda. The last Richard heard, they’d been seen cozying up to the Firstborn like the lapdogs they were, and his heart bled to hear it.

  A deep and insidious thing, this campaign of conditioning plaguing all Americans. Both on and off of the Frontier mind you, though it was especially bad over on the Eastern Front, where the race traitor of a Marshal Theodore Ellis elevated all the undesirables to positions of power in a misguided effort to seek equality. What was equality anyways? Was it fair and just for a better man to accept less than his due simple because it would wound an inferior man’s pride? Was it right for the Lord’s chosen people to kneel amongst the unwashed mongrel masses, simply because the others were all born to serve? Was it equality to cut a tall man at the knees so he would no longer see farther and reach higher than those shorter than he?

  It most certainly was not, but fools like Theodore Ellis would rather have the master race diluted and polluted in the name of solidarity rather than admit that some men were just better than others. Empathy would be the end of them all, which was why Richard didn’t share the news of the Firstborn’s capture with his conclave. While they’d proven themselves enough to become Acolytes of the Order, less than a year of teaching could hardly do away with a lifetime of indoctrination, so he shared little and just told them that his father had sent for him.

  A story which Sally didn’t buy, but he paid her probing efforts no mind. The girl was yet another example of how ‘modern’ ideals were ruining the youth of today, for Sally was a woman of loose morals and looser lips. She’d had more than a half-dozen hands up her skirt and shirt in the short time she’d been here, though she had yet to lay with anyone just yet. She had her eyes set on Richard though, as well she should, for he was the most educated and eligible of all her options, and she was a smart girl. Not beautiful, or even conventionally pretty, but there was something about her that stoked the flames of desire. Her smile perhaps, or the way she met your eyes with a bold, unrestrained gaze of her own, one that could almost be called predatory if it came from a man.

  Richard didn’t have time for juvenile games though, which was exactly what Sally wanted to play as she slipped her arm through his and asked, “So now that we’re back, you gonna finally tell us why you had had us hoof it back in record time? After lighting a fire under our asses to get us out to the border in the first place, which was hardly fun or eventful.”

  “I told you,” Richard said, gently pulling away with a smile. “My father sent word. That’s all I know really. You know how it is. We have four governments and countless criminals listening in to our every transmission in recent days, so we keep things on a need-to-know basis when talking over the Radio.”

  “And we don’t need to know,” Sally concluded, which prompted a round of silent glances and unvoiced grumbles from the rest.

  Dangerous that, which was why Richard was none too pleased with Sally. She thought herself untouchable, above reproach as it were, that all she had to do was flash a smile and offer a kiss and all would be well. Stupid girl had never suffered any repercussions for her actions, but now was not the time to teach her. She had too many of the boys all wrapped around her finger, too many people she could cry to and whisper thoughts of treason and sedition. Better if she’d stayed behind in New Hope, but she was here now and his problem to deal with. He would teach her how to behave in due time, but for now, he had to appease the rest of his conclave who had yet to be truly Redeemed.

  “I know as much as the rest of you,” Richard said with a shrug. “The message said to return home with all haste, so here I am. It’s probably nothing, but I’ll let you all know when I learn more.” Reaching for his wallet, he pulled out a crisp twenty and handed it to Gabe. “We’re all tired and confused, so how about you all grab some breakfast at the diner before heading home to rest. As for me, duty calls, so I’ll see you when I know more.”

  And that was that, or at least it should have been, but Sally wasn’t all that pleased to be dismissed. She could tell there was more to it that Richard wasn’t sharing, and this bothered her for some reason. Which was curious to say the least, and Richard made a note of it. There were plenty of traitors and opportunists who were more than happy to betray the Order and sell information to the highest bidder, and Sally might well be considering her options. Best to set someone to watch her then, someone he’d arrange through the Order, because they’d long since learned that the best way to build loyalty was through a combination of ample rewards and harsh punishments.

  Especially when said reward was obtained by sending someone else to be punished. There was a psychology to it that Father once explained, but Richard had long since forgotten it, as he’d been young and uninterested. More fool him then, for Father had much to teach and not much time to teach it, so Richard should have seized every opportunity he had. He wouldn’t make that mistake ever again though, so he headed for the Headquarters and went straight up to Father’s Sanctum where the guards stopped him at the doors. Not because he wasn’t allowed in, but because they themselves had been ordered to knock first and receive permission before allowing anyone through.

  Only for Richard’s half-brother Stanley to open the door and reluctantly gesture for the guards to let him in with a sigh. “Don’t say a thing,” Stanley said, leading Richard over to Father’s meeting room where he opened the door to reveal two Redeemed who didn’t look all that familiar, as well as the bloodied and beaten expression of the hateful Firstborn who sat bound and half dead in an upholstered chair. One eye was swollen, but he glared out from the other, while baring teeth between cracked and bloodied lips that stretched his gaunt features and gave an almost ghoulish cast to his tanned, bruised skin.

  The surge of hatred welling up from within Richard’s chest demanded he rush over there and beat the damned Qink the way he tormented Richard back then. Maybe break a hand and uncuff him for a ‘fair’ fight. No, both hands would be better, because the beating the Firstborn inflicted on Richard had been dealt after he’d broken both his hands. It took every ounce of control to hold his temper, and he did just that, because he could not be seen to lose control, not in front of Stanley and the unfamiliar Redeemed.

  “Good,” Father said, standing at the head of the table with a glass of water in hand. “You made it back just in time Richard. Stanley, you come in as well. Gentlemen, if the two of you could stand guard in the antechamber and keep unwelcome visitors out? Knock if anything arises. Thank you.” As soon as both men stepped foot outside the door, Father pressed a button on the shelf beside it to enclose the room in a shell of Silence, one that would stop all sound from travelling out, but leave them aware of someone knocking at the door. Useful to keep spies from listening in on their meetings, or for conducting interrogations without the screams travelling all throughout town. And the Firstborn would scream; Richard would make sure of that. The mongoloid Qink would be begging for his life soon enough, but not before Father gave the okay.

  “Stanley,” Father said, addressing the fourteen-year-old brat with a stern and severe tone. “You’re almost a man grown, so it is time you learned more about our enemies. This primitive is a savage hailing from the land of Qin, far in the eastern orient where they revered their Immortal Monarch as a living God for more than two thousand years. Note the slanted eyes shared by all Orientals, but there are subtle differences between the three major tribes you’ll find in the region. The Qin typically have rounder faces and wider noses, while Goryeons have more defined jaw and chinbones, and the Nipponese have an overall flatter face structure.”

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  “He is not so imposing,” Stanley said, moving in closer for a better look. “Rather small for someone of his age and reputation.” Without warning, the Qink lunged out at Stanley and snapped his teeth coming up far short but still scaring the half-wit enough to send him stumbling back in a panic with a girlish squeal. Much as Richard hated the Firstborn, he couldn’t help but chuckle to hear it, and the Qink laughed too in spite of his grievous injuries.

  “Big enough to eat you whole, twerp,” the Firstborn drawled, licking his lips like the thought appealed. “Bones and all.”

  Incensed and infuriated by the trick and his own shame, Stanley reached for something heavy and hard to strike the Qink with, but Father stopped him dead with a stare. “Enough,” he said, and Stanley could only lower his head while Richard almost died from holding back his laughter. “Let that be a lesson, son. Though they are inferior, that is not to say they are weak or worthy of contempt. The Qinese are born warriors, brave to the point of suicidal with a reduced perception of pain that the finest Aryan scientists were unable to understand.”

  “We feel pain just fine,” the Firstborn drawled, his tone insolent and impudent as can be while remaining calm and conversational. “We just don’t cry as much as some other fellas might.”

  Now there was a jab at Richard if there ever was one, and now it was his turn to burn with rage. Stanley caught it too, as he knew full well the antagonistic rift between them. Turning to give Richard a smile like he’d won something of value, Stanley went back to listening to Father’s lesson. “This specimen in particular is a curious one,” Father continued, paying no mind to the prisoner’s interruption. “A lesson for future school books I would say. Look at him. He is not merely dressed in the trappings of civilization; he mimics it without flaw, speaking in the dialect of one born in the heart of America and bearing all the mannerisms one would expect. However, in spite of being taught by some of the best America has to offer and gifted all the advantages a native-born son would have, this Qin, like so many of his kind, is a thief and a murderer.”

  “Yeah, them Qinks do be a tricksy bunch,” the prisoner drawled, nodding along in agreement. “Can’t trust them one bit. Steal the copper right out your pipes if given half a chance, and kill ye on the way out for tryin’ to stop ‘em. Me, I ain’t like that though. I ain’t ever stolen a thing in my whole entire life, and that there is the Lord’s honest truth.” Cocking his head to the side, he thought about it for a bit, then looked them over one by one with a cold and predatory stare. “Killed more than a fair few folks, that I admit, but all justified kills. Or most at least. I got a few I’m conflicted on, but not many. Dunno where y’all will fall on the scale, but I’ll kill you all the same once I get free of these chains.”

  Stanley wasn’t the only one to recoil from the declaration, though Richard did his best to hide it. There was no particular flourish or intonation given to the declaration, just a matter-of-fact statement made in passing. Killing was but a matter of course to the Qin savage, but knowing this and seeing it firsthand were two very different things.

  “He’s bound with anti-magic manacles and fixed to the chair,” Father said, mostly to reassure Stanley. “He can’t hurt you son, so muster up some courage and stop shaming yourself.”

  “Chair’s not fixed to the ground though,” the Qink supplied, and all three of them turned to look at him. “Made of wood too. Could break it, and then all I got holding me back are these chains.” Holding up his hand and stump of an arm as far as they would go, he jangled the chains and continued, “Then I’ll be free with both arms in front of me, which is not where you want them to be. Even with one hand, I bet I could kill all three of you if I catch you by surprise. Jump Papa Aultman there and hit him hard to ring his bell, then move on to little brother. Use him as a shield to get in close to big brother and take a gun off him, and then it’s all she wrote. Won’t no one hear it thanks to the Silence y’all put up, and I’ll have plenty of time to free myself from my chains and plan my next move. Which will probably be to burn the whole building down, and maybe a big part of the town with it. I know, I know. Been there, done that. Twice in fact, but if it ain’t broke, why fix it?”

  The silence that followed his objective statement was deafening, and Richard drew his 1911 just to be safe. He also offered his backup pistol to Father, who accepted it and checked the chamber before flicking the safety off. “Like I said,” Father said, his tone dry and amused. “Brave to the point of suicidal. Dangerous too, as you might well have gathered, responsible for the deaths of several of our contractors and multiple Acolytes, as well as one Deacon Crockett whose conclave captured the Qin after a hard-fought battle.”

  There was no cheeky response from the Firstborn this time, and Richard noticed the Qink clenching his jaw tight in a concentrated effort to stay silent. Glancing around the room, he spotted an empty vial sitting next to the water jug, and a used but empty glass beside it. A truth serum then, something to loosen his tongue. Which only went to reinforce how dangerous the prisoner really was, as he truly believed he was wholly capable of carrying out the plan he outlined in brief. And he might well be if he was in full health, but bloodied, bruised, and one-handed as he was, there was little he could do to escape from his plight.

  Father didn’t approach the prisoner, didn’t threaten him with the gun. He simply moved around to stand behind him and out of sight, before asking, “Where did you hide the package?”

  “Didn’t,” came the reply. “Never saw it, never touched it, and got no earthly idea what’s in it that makes it so valuable.”

  Father frowned, and so did Richard, because that wasn’t the answer they were expecting. It was the truth however, or close enough to it, as the truth serum did wonders to loosen the tongue and inhibit the pre-frontal cortex where lies were created. That’s what Father’s studies revealed when he came across the Potion made by some unnamed Alchemist on the Eastern Front, and they’d used it many a time in the Order’s induction ceremonies and interrogations. “Why were you there then?” Father asked. “Don’t tell me it was coincidence.”

  “I’ll tell you what I told your men,” the prisoner replied after a pause, launching into a story of how he’d been out hunting by himself and stumbled across a plot to murder and plunder, one he was more than happy to take advantage of. Reprehensible and of low moral fibre, but not the man they were looking for. Father asked a few more questions hoping to find a lead to the moles in their midst, as someone had to have leaked word of the caravan carrying Seraphim, passing along their route and schedule to the ambushers who were still yet unknown. Someone had also hidden a case of Seraphim somewhere in the swamps nearby, but there was no chance the Qink would know anything about that, because he was just about the worst person to send for a covert infiltration mission. A Qinese man in the Deadlands might as well be lit up in bright lights and carrying oversized signs saying “look at me”, so only a fool would hire him on as a smuggler.

  “So yeah,” the prisoner said. “There it is.” Looking around the room, he added, “I was just looking for a payday. Didn’t come into this with intent to kill anyone, and even helped saved some of your people from Abby after the fact. Ain’t lookin’ for a thank you, but I’m fine with washing our hands of this and walking away like none of this ever happened. No harm been done to me or mine, so no hard feelings. How about it then?”

  Father scoffed, and Richard took that as permission to step in. “No harm to you, but what of us? Not only did you kill Deacon Crockett, we still have unfinished business between us, a debt I intend to repay in full.”

  That made the prisoner sit up straight, as he narrowed his one good eye at Richard standing before him. Now he would know fear, know that the time of retribution had come, and he would beg for –

  “This is embarrassing,” the prisoner said, his stare still fixed on Richard’s features. “But uh… See, I know that’s Daddy Aultman back there, making the two of you the sons. That’s about all I know, except now you talking like we met before, and I can’t rightly say I have any idea what you goin’ on about. Honestly, lot of you white folk all look alike to me.”

  “…You beat me bloody in New Hope,” Richard said, unable to believe the Qink was telling the truth, except he had to be.

  “I beat a lot of people bloody in New Hope,” he replied. “I lived there for seventeen years, so you gonna hafta narrow it down some.”

  “You broke my hand.”

  “Still not ringing no bells.”

  “You beat me even though I already had a broken hand and jaw!”

  The hateful Firstborn lit up in recognition. “Little Dick! You should’ve led with that. I didn’t know you was an Aultman.” Cocking his head, the prisoner blinked twice, then added, “No, wait. I think I did. I recall someone sayin’ your last name before, but I never really paid it much mind. I’m not one fer names. Faces I almost never forget, but names? I knew Aultman and Sons sounded a little familiar though. Just pieced it together until now.”

  Balling up his hand in a fist, Richard yearned to punch the prisoner in the jaw then and there, but a knock at the door interrupted them. Warning them both to behave, Father stepped out to have a brief word with the Redeemed before coming back inside. “We’ve received word from our contacts that the Askefjords are on the move,” he said, heading over to pour another glass of water and empty the contents of a second potion inside. “Without Edward Elton, who is still on the eastern border and will be for some time, but the Askefjords are headed straight for Fairhaven.” This second potion was one of Sleep, judging by the colour, a smoky grey haze that clouded the clear water and made it most unappetizing to drink, but the prisoner heaved a sigh and drank it all in one go before slumping senseless in the chair. “Give it a minute to take effect, Richard,” Father said, stopping him from moving in and eliciting a chuckle from the feigning Qink who opened his eye and grinned like a schoolboy caught passing notes. “Then bring him down to my lab and secure him in a cell. They might have some means of tracking him, and the lead shielding will keep him hidden away. Bring everything he had with him too, in case he’s got something Marked. Move fast, as the potion’s effect will only last for ten minutes. Once he’s secure, wait for me in my laboratory. I don’t want you talking to anyone in the cells, or doing anything to the prisoner until he’s been questioned further. I’ll be by with Stanley as soon as I’m able, though it may be a few hours yet.”

  Giving him one last look that said in no uncertain terms what would happen if Richard deviated from instructions, Father disabled the Silence Artifact and ushered Stanley out of the room, leaving Richard to his thankless task. Hefting the surprisingly heavy Firstborn over his shoulder, he grabbed the Qink’s jacket, hat, and bags laden with guns and ammunition before setting out for Father’s empty office and the elevator contained within. Vengeance would come soon, but not soon enough for his tastes. The worst part was that he couldn’t even look forward to it, not with that thing waiting down below. It was no longer his mother in there, just a monster clad in human flesh, but the thought of having to walk past it all alone was unnerving to say the least.

  He wouldn’t let it stop him of course, so he did as he was asked. He rode the elevator down, unlocked the back door of the laboratory, and placed the prisoner in the first empty cell he found, the one across from the cell holding the corpse of his mother. As soon as it heard him arrive, it spoke his name, whispered it right into his head, but Richard would not be so easily swayed. “Free me, Richard,” she whispered, sounding nothing like the monster it was in life, and exactly like the woman he remembered. “Please Richard. He hurts me so much, I need you Richard. Save me. Free me.”

  He ignored it of course. Secured the prisoner in the medical bed and looped the chain of the anti-magic manacles around the steel medical chair before strapping him down, then double checked to make sure all the restraints were tight before securing the door behind him. Throughout it all, she continued to call to him, whispering lies into his mind of how Father was responsible for her plight, lies that Richard would never believe.

  Except Father had said it himself, hadn’t he? “It was my weakness which killed her,”. Those were his exact words, spoken while standing at the door to her cell, a fact Richard had previously overlooked in his surprise. One he shut out of mind just as he shut out the whispers as he scurried out of the cellblock and slammed the lead-lined door behind him. Only then did the whispers stop to leave him in peace, but peace would not come as his thoughts jumbled all about in his head. What really happened to Mother? How had she become infected by a Mimic? How did Father capture her after the fact? There were so many questions he never thought to ask, and now they plagued him as he sat in Father’s brightly-lit lab and tried to unravel the truth for himself.

  To no avail, and with no whispers to pester him, though he yearned to sit there and talk with the creature that held all his Mother’s memories.

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  “Fun fact. Any time spent unconscious counts for clearin’ out the old Aether tubes.”

  “Don’t matter if it’s from the Sleep Spell, gettin’ beaten bloody, or catchin’ some Z’s the normal way. So long as you gettin’ that REM sleep and got eyes dartin’ this way and that, then you gettin’ the restorative benefits that go along with it. Most notably in this case being more Grainage to sling your Spells with. Don’t rightly know what time it is here and now, but I can probably ballpark it by taking a short jaunt down memory lane to distract me from the whole host of aches and pains assailin’ me as soon as I wake.”

  I groan just because, then take a deep breath and continue. “Was captured early afternoon, after a long night of steppin’ softly followed by a busy morning stick swingin’. Spent the rest of the morning gettin’ out of dodge, and was more or less tapped out by the time them Neo-Nazis caught up. Had maybe a quarter-tank left to me, but between gettin’ beaten unconscious and my captors bunking down for the night once it got dark, I’m all topped off on Aether to sling Spells with. That’s four fuckin’ Fireballs and a whole lot of crispy corpses, though technically I’ll be down to three as soon as I cast a First Order Spell. Which I’ll want to do right quick, since Mage Armour and Conjure Armour are just too useful for keepin’ me alive, while Conjure Weapon will be the only weapon I’ll have available to me until I take somethin’ offa some dead backwater, hillybilly, KKK wannabe.”

  Moving my head sends waves upon waves of agony coursing through me, and I regret moving around so much during the interrogation. “Had my head covered for most of the trip, then got stowed away in a box that was much too small for me. Guess them chucklefucks didn’t want no one seein’ them cart me in. Makes sense, as the Feds can’t have folks reading about Independents capturing Freeholding Landowners, even ones who’ve fallen out of favour with the general public like me. The Order’s need for secrecy works to my advantage though, because that means they don’t got this place on lockdown. They don’t trust all their people, so I don’t necessarily have to get out and home free all by my lonesome. I just need to get out, and if I can’t do it quiet, then I’ll make a big fuss to be seen by as many people as possible who’ll talk about the Qink they got here in Fairhaven, and Edward will handle the rest.”

  I growl. “Don’t much care for that plan, hoping for Edward to come save the day. Hurts the pride it do, as I’m a strong, independent man who don’t need no older folk to wipe my ass. Better off makin’ my own way out of town, even if I gotta kill everyone to do it. And this do be a town, Fairhaven would be my guess, because despite being stuffed in a box, I heard enough to know we was moving over too much proper walkway to be anythin’ but. I’m talkin’ plank walkways lifted up onto posts like a massive, sprawlin’ dock, except instead of berths for boats it’s just stairs going down into the muck. Labour intensive to build and expensive to maintain, so you wouldn’t go to all that effort unless you had a whole lot of people to keep out of the mud.”

  “I also know my captors woke at the ass crack of dawn and didn’t travel for more than a couple hours to get here. Add in an hour or two more for them to get me into that office, prep the truth serum, and wait on little Dick to arrive, and I’d say we’re just shy of twenty-four hours since I was taken, or round about dependin’ on how long I slept for. Sleeping Potion’s only got a minute-long duration at base, and I think I heard Papa Aultman say the potion would last for ten, which makes it a pretty damn good potion. Add in the fact that I got worked over pretty good on the way over, and I probably kept right on sleepin’ even after the potion done run out. Them fellas was rather upset about how I done killed Crockett the way I did, as well as a couple other fellas whose names I don’t remember or care to. They was the ones who died at the waystation while I was stricken with fever, or during the clash with the Legionnaires and Zombies. Good riddance is what I say, so no need to give them a second thought, except to think about all the extra names I’mma add to that list and never think about twice on my way out of this jam.”

  I spit, then regret the waste of moisture as I do feel awful thirsty. “I’ll go through anyone and everyone who tries to stop me, and I won’t be none too gentle about it. They done messed with the bull, and now they gonna get the horns.”

  “…Maybe not the women. I’ll save them for after. Dumbass Neo-Nazis are always up in arms about their Great Replacement Theory, which ain’t a real thing. It’s just folks lookin’ past skin colour and fallin’ in love, so I might as well give ‘em somethin’ to worry about. Take all their women and have me a whole gaggle of half-breed babies, ones who’ll look oh so adorable like most mixed babies do. Was really lookin’ forward to seeing the beautiful baby me and Josie would’ve had together, and while she was Latina and most folks here are probably white, it’ll still be plenty fun to experiment and see what pops out while gettin’ the whole neo-Nazi movement up in arms at the same time.”

  “…Wow,” I exclaim, after staring at the ceiling and envisioning all the diapers I’d have to change. “That’s dark, even for me.” I don’t really want that. Just errant thoughts is all, but the cold rage fuels my strength and sharpens my focus as my mind and body both struggle to get going. The beating was one thing, but the truth serum is a whole other, one that’s got my head feeling light and thoughts woozy. My mind tends to drift even in the best of times, but here and now, it’s like it’s tethered to a string and flying high in the clouds like a kite that’s just barely responding to my efforts to bring it back down to earth.

  I take deep breaths until I’m ready to lift my head again, and the world gets to spinning in the darkness, so I put my head back down to rest. “A mild narcotic,” I say out loud, because it helps me clear my head. “That’s what Gunnar said his truth serum really was, somethin’ that makes you relaxed and more open to conversation. Don’t really force you to speak the truth so much as make you liable to spout whatever thoughts which might happen to cross your mind. Fact is, I’m pretty sure that’s why I’ve been mumblin’ all of this out loud, so I hope that no one’s listenin’ in and nothing’s recordin’. In case someone is, I don’t mean none of it, not really. I don’t want sex. I want love. I want family. I want the whole deal, the American Dream as it were. Big house with the white picket fence owned by a father and husband to a wife and mother of two and a half kids. Cowie would be the half I guess, and while he gets jealous when I give attention to his calves, I bet he’d love my little baby when I finally get to introduce them.”

  “Or babies! To pair with all his calves. Every kid gets one. I hope Cowie’s got a long lifespan though. Would be terrible if he only lives ten, fifteen years and my babies gotta go through a loss like that early on. Dealing with loss is an inevitability, especially here on the Frontier, but I would give anything to shelter my children from that pain for as long as I can.”

  Escape. Vengeance. Then procreation and nurturing, assuming I make it that far and find the right lady to settle down with, after getting over losing the one I really wanted. Gotta get my priorities straight, and it’s too much effort to keep my mouth shut, so I keep on rambling about what I’m gonna do once I get out to keep me from talking about what I’m doing here and now. Same trick I used to fool the Aultman’s upstairs. I didn’t so much as speak the truth as tell them the same story I told the Pathfinders and mercenaries. Wasn’t enough to convince them to let me go, but it might well have saved me from an immediate lynching, to say nothing of further interrogation.

  Too much faith in their potions, and not enough on good old fashioned interrogation techniques. Jokes on them, because if they’d asked if I was telling the truth, I’d’ve probably said no.

  I don’t focus on that though. Where I been and how I got here won’t help me none. What I need to focus on is where I am and what I can do to get out. So I look around and check my surroundings, only to see jack and shit, as it’s pitch dark down here without any light to be found at all. It ain’t because I got a bag over my head either. I’d feel or smell it, and what I do smell is actually worse than the dirty sack they stuffed over my face before cramming me into a box. Like damp death it is, a fetid, earthy, sour stench that makes you want to just scrub yourself all over under a steady stream of soap and hot water.

  Resisting the urge to gag and vomit which may have more to do with a concussion than the smell, I give my restraints a gentle test to see how much give I got. They got me strapped in a metal chair it feels like, one with all the edges and points still intact because they couldn’t be bothered to smooth them down. Got a strap on each wrist, and extra few for my stump, and one big one across my upper torso. My calves and ankles also be bound, and it feels like they got a strap each, but ain’t nothing strapping my lower back or pelvis down. You typically don’t want hands out front either, because people are used to having their hands with one at each side, and binding them behind your back do make things just a little more difficult to parse.

  Those two minor criticisms aside, they got me bound pretty good. Course, but leaving my hand out in front of me and my lower body more or less unrestrained gives me room enough to flex and push my pelvis up and out towards my left hand. It’s a tough reach, but I get in close enough to work at the seam of my inner pant pocket where I got me a long, flexible, and somewhat sturdy wire hidden to use as a lockpick in situations just like these.

  Which is real handy, but hard to get at all bound up like I am. Better than not being able to reach it at all though, or under such close scrutiny I don’t even dare to try for it. Would’ve been nice if my captors had thrown me into an empty cabin by my lonesome last night, and I tried my best to get them to do just that by making noise and being a general nuisance while they was trying to sleep. All I got for my troubles was some extra bruises on my face, arms, and ribs though, and maybe other places I can’t quite feel all that well just yet.

  None of that matters in the here and now. All that matters is getting my hand on the lockpick, and I work at the threads and cloth for long minutes before I’ve exposed enough wire to latch onto and pull out. Which I do slowly and carefully, because if I drop it, I’m shit out of luck. Eventually though, I get it out and in my hands where I hold it oh so very tightly while bending it for my use, as I’m terrified of losing the one and only thing that might get me out of this bind.

  Now, I ain’t no sneak thief, and when it comes to picking locks, my tool of choice is a Blastgun. The Dubsies are great for that sort of work, and the Judges too, but failing that, my second choice is a hammer. Or a boot. Or really, anything to bash the door or lock open besides going at it with a lockpick. Uncle Raleigh had the magic touch when it came to picking locks, made it look so easy to do. Just curl the wire, slip it into the keyhole, and wiggle it a bit until the tumblers click and the lock disengages. Me, I’m more of a brute force sorta fella, even when it comes to lockpicking. Got no real feel or ear for it; I just go at it until I get some feedback and move on from there. Between that, the complete darkness, and the fact that the anti-magic manacles be tucked under the strap, it takes a good, long while before I hear that satisfying click and the lock pop free.

  Which comes as a huge relief, because I’d feel mighty sheepish if I was stuck down here for hours and still in chains even with a wire to my name. Course I ain’t free and clear just yet, as the manacle is unlocked but still closed around my wrist. Gotta get it off and away from my skin, which involves me sitting there and lifting my forearm while pulling back as far as it’ll go, all of a half inch at the most, then pressing down against the chair arm and manacle both before pushing forward. Then I do it all again, moving the manacle just a hair at a time and squeezing it out from under the strap which got me bound so tight.

  Progress is agonizingly slow, and at times I feel like I ain’t getting anywhere with this, but I keep at it and go as quick as I can because I’ve no idea how long I’ll be left alone. Papa Aultman had to go make some calls, but it ain’t like he can get on the Radio and instantly reach whoever it is he needs to talk to. He’ll have to message an operator who’ll go fetch the person in question, someone of authority no doubt who has better things to do than sit around waiting for calls from neo-Nazi leaders. Means I got some time, but not necessarily a whole lot, so best to get going while the going is good.

  And just like that, the manacle pops free of the leather strap and drops down to the floor with a crash. A very loud, echoing crash that sounds like thunder in the enclosed room, and while part of me wants to hold still and silent to hear what’s happening out there, the smart money is on kicking things into overdrive. With my connection to Aether and the Immaterium restored, I waggle my missing fingers and cast a Mage Hand Cantrip and work by the light of them Spectral blue hands to undo my straps one by one, starting with my free hand. While that’s going on, I throw up a Dancing Light to take stock of my surroundings, and find myself in a decently sized cell devoid of anything and everything save for the metal medical chair I’m sat in.

  “This place is a fuckin’ dump.” No cot, no toilet, not even a bucket to do my business in, just walls of what looks to shimmer like lead-lined bricks to keep magic from getting in or out. Not a prison cell then, or at least not one you’d keep a prisoner in for long. That’s not a good sign, so I hasten things along, casting Mage Armour and Conjure Armour using the charms on my belt buckle which they didn’t take away. Took duster and both my gun belts, but I got a third belt for my pants, and that’s the one with the special buckle with the extra slim belt. Aunty Ray keeps saying I’ll grow into my pants soon enough, but I been punching extra holes into my belts for as long as I can remember just so I can tighten them enough to keep my pants from falling down.

  With two Spells cast, I pause before doing a third. While Conjure Weapon don’t need a charm, I dunno how much use I’ll get out of a plain battle axe, and don’t know if I want to give it the extra juice needed for a Second Order Spell that’ll last for all of ten-minutes and give me an upcasted chain-axe. Axe and chain. Morning Moon. Whatever. The name is a work in progress. I’m also not all that familiar with the Spell, so between the cost, the duration, and the risk of failure given my current state of mind, I figure I’m better off going without until there’s a more immediate need for it.

  And seeing how I don’t hear no one outside the door, I’m guessing I don’t got no need just yet. Course, the room could be Silenced to keep me from shouting or making a big fuss, but I doubt it. That seems like a whole lot of extra expense when normal soundproofing would work just as well. Magic is mighty handy and can be powerful when used correctly, but it ain’t the be all end all solution to any and all problems. Like in the here and now for example. I got me my armour, my Hearing Protection, and a few other Cantrips which might help me out, but no Spells that’ll get me out of this cell. All my gear got taken away, else I’d just drink a Potion of Gaseous Form and move on from there. Unfortunately for me, I’m still locked in a cell with a heavy Darksteel door that looks more secure than the bank vault. Well, that’s not entirely true; It’s just a solid steel door that’s locked and likely barred from the other side. There do be a hatch in the door so someone can slide it open and peek in, but I give it a try and find that it’s probably latched or barred or something. There are several heavy-duty locks that look like they’ll need more than just a wire to undo, so I kneel down to peer out into the darkness and see…

  “Nothing. But what did you expect, ya idjit? It’s fuckin’ dark as dicks out there.”

  Man, drugged up Howie is a real potty mouth. Suppose it’s because I work so hard not to swear most of the time, so I really let loose once the blinders be off. Sorta understand why people drink and do recreational drugs now though. It do be freeing, having all that weight off my shoulders and just letting the thoughts fly.

  And yet… there’s a familiarity about the scene, as if I’m looking out at a memory of a place I been a thousand times before, so many times I can make out the features even though my eyes can’t see all that much. There’s another door across the way, with only a narrow hallway separating us, a door that’s got three locks same as mine. Four deadbolts and two barricades to keep it shut nice and tight, and I know my door has got all the same trappings, though I can’t rightly say I know how I know this. I also know there ain’t no one standing guard out there, though I suppose I could’ve inferred as much given the complete and total darkness. Don’t no one like standing in pitch black darkness, and you can’t keep watch if you can’t see shit.

  So on a whim that I almost immediately regret, I recast Dancing Light so it appears outside my door, casting the narrow hallway in a dim, bluish light and revealing everything exactly as I ‘remember’ it, except I’m seeing it all for the very first time. “Fucking idjit,” I hiss, slurring as I put out the Dancing Light. Was up for a half second at most, but that could well be enough to give me away. It’s dark out there, but who knows if there’s someone down the hall or something that’ll notice a bright fucking light outside the prisoner’s cell? Last thing I need is for some looky-loo to come investigating to see what’s what and catch me in the midst of my jailbreak.

  “I blame the concussion.” The statement just slips out, and it’s like the words weren’t even mine. Still, it’s an out I gladly take because I got no other explanation for why I took such a huge risk. Maybe because I seen more of these cells than I can remember. “Maybe I wasn’t really asleep.” Even though it’s my tongue and my voice that done reach my ears, it don’t feel like my words. “Maybe I was slipping in and out of a fugue state, and I saw more than I can consciously remember. Maybe it’s my subconscious guiding me out of this plight, or my Portent progressing into something more powerful, something beyond my ken.”

  “…Or maybe I’m fuckin’ losin’ it,” I say, and this time, it feels like me speaking. The words are already registered in my brain before I speak them, so there ain’t no disconnect, no ghost of an echo like I’m hearing my own voice spouting off someone else’s words. Still, it’s been a few seconds and I don’t hear nothing, so I peer out the keyhole again and try to place where everything was from the split second I seen it. Ain’t no problem though, as I can almost overlay the memory over the pitch-black darkness I’m seeing outside the keyhole to know where everything is.

  Three locks which will take a little finagling to unlock, but once that’s done, four deadbolts and two barricades are easily handled. Recasting Dancing Light inside of my cell, I bend the wire in half, then bend it again and twist it all together flat for a stronger pick since pins on a bigger lock like these won’t just spring open with a touch. I also need a tension tool once all them pins be pressed, because sticking the key in ain’t enough. You gotta turn the key too, and I need something to turn with. Enter my belt buckle once more, which I detach from the leather belt and bend the flat tongue at a right angle for a makeshift tension tool and get to work.

  “I really should’ve been a Conjuror,” I mutter, working at the stupid pins with my stupid lockpick and makeshift tension tool. “Could just Conjure up whatever I need whenever I need it. Not the exact key to this lock, as I ain’t ever seen it before and don’t know it’s dimensions, but I could Conjure up a bump key or something similar to unlock them right quick. Hammer too, though it’d probably shatter if I tried to punch out the lock.”

  “If wishes were horses, then beggars would ride.” The unfamiliar phrase gives me pause, because I’ve always said, ‘If wishes were fishes, then wouldn’t no one starve’. Not as grammatically correct, but it sounds nicer for the rhyme and lack of singling out beggars for begging. Not that I care much for them, beggars that is, but Aunty Ray always says you shouldn’t judge a man till you’ve walked a mile in his shoes. Easier said than done, but the lesson is sound all the same, so I like the fishes version myself. For horses, I prefer the say, ‘horses for courses’, mostly because it rhymes.

  “Am I simple?” I ask, as the first lock clicks open and I move on to the second. “I just like things because they rhyme. That’s child logic right there. Then again, rhymes do tickle the fancy. Reminds of the rhyme Uncle Raleigh used to sing while teaching me how to pick locks. Tickle the tumbler, tease the pin, c’mon darlin’, lemme in.” I straighten up from my work as I’m hit by a flash of realization. “Oh, now I get why Aunty Ray always gave him a playful swat when he sang it. It’s a dirty double entendre.” Makes me smile to remember it, as Uncle Raleigh was most certainly a roguish charmer, and I recite a few more ditties since I got nothing better to do while I work. “Easy does it, gentle, slow. Rusty locks hate when you go too quick, y’know. Clickety-clack, no time to fight, open up sweet pea, while I’m be’in polite. Slip an’ slither, twist an’ grin, a clever hand always gets in.”

  “…I can’t believe I’m only now noticin’ how naughty Uncle Raleigh was.” The third lock gives me a click and I twist my belt buckle turned tension tool to get it to singing as it slides open for the Firstborn. Damn, that sounds a whole lot better than referring to myself in the third person. “I miss calling myself the Firstborn,” I admit, peeking out the hole once more to gaze into the darkness, as now is the time to risk it all for the biscuit. First comes Dancing Light, thrown out into the hall so I can see where I’m slinging Spells. Then it’s a long, two and a half seconds before I can Cast another Cantrip, and two and a half seconds after that before I complete it. Five, full seconds with the light just sitting there and illuminating the darkness, but it feels like an eternity in the moment as I prick my ears and listen for any sounds whatsoever. There ain’t nothing to hear though, so as my Mage Hands shimmer into existence outside of the cell, I let go of the breath I done been holding in and set to work undoing the deadbolts by touch and lifting the barricades.

  And just like that, my door swings open and I poke my head out to see what’s what. Ain’t much to see, besides a dark, creepy hallway with brick floors made of the same lead-lined materials as the rest of the place. Gotta be twenty cells here at least, and that’s only going one way. And yet, before I poke out even further to see what’s on the other side, I know there’s a bigger, sturdier door just a few feet away, one that got no light leaking out from it, which means ain’t none of my light leaking out.

  “That’s good,” I say, keeping my voice low as I can. “Gives me a bit of wiggle room to work with.” Something tells me that’s how I got in, and that it’s not a great idea to go poking around the door as I can’t know who or what’s on the other side. Before I set out though, I head back in to put my belt back together and gather up the anti-magic manacles to use as a weapon. “Better than the big ol’ bupkis I got on me,” I grumble, wondering just how long this truth serum is gonna last for, because I can’t be speaking all my thoughts into existence. Mostly because I’ll die of shame if someone were to hear me. I keep most my thoughts inside my head because I know they’re too stupid to speak out loud, and while most of what I’m saying is harmless, there are some thoughts I can’t be having out there. “Like that shit about breeding Nazi’s out of existence. That’s just dumb. I don’t want casual sex. I already stopped Sarah Jay mid boink, and I also turned down Noora’s none too subtle offer. Then again, it’s not like I flat out said no. I just smiled and didn’t say nothin’. Because I’m hedgin’ my bets. Yeah, empty, meaningless sex ain’t what I’m after, but it’s still sex, and sex is pretty awesome.”

  “This. This right here. This is what I don’t want other people hearin’, so shut the fuck up Howie.” Giving the chains a test twirl, I nod as if it’s good enough even though I know it ain’t much of a weapon. Even a proper sword will have me beat, but at least I got the Living Whip Cantrip, and if I do brain someone with it, I can lock them up and question them after the fact. With my belt buckled, wire straightened and secured, and chain in hand, I set out into the hallway with a Dancing Light to lead the way, and turn towards the far end of the hall to see what lays down at the other end.

  Only to turn back to the cell across from me, the one that got all the same locks, bolts, and barricades that mine did. I glance around, and every other door in sight is exactly the same, though some ain’t locked up and just got everything sitting there ready to be used. “This is a lot of heavy-duty security for a jail with no built-in plumbin’,” I say. “Especially if the whole purpose is to serve as an anti-magic bunker, one that don’t let any Aetheric waves in or out. Tricksy that. You’d have to rig up the ventilation shafts like a maze and coat ‘em in lead, to absorb any and all waves bouncing off them. Add in a few lead lattice gates to shred whatever survives, and maybe even an anti-magic buffer zone to act as an airlock of sorts to keep it 100% Aether tight. Question is, why? Seems like a whole lot of trouble to go through, especially when they got anti-magic manacles which’ll do the trick, though I suppose tracking Spells do be a concern. If that was the issue though, wouldn’t it be easier just to take all my clothes and lock those up?”

  Shaking my head, I say, “No. They already had this place built long before I got here. So what sort of secrets are the Order hiding?”

  Limping on out the door in something of a fugue, I find myself drawn to the door across the way despite all my efforts to ignore it. “What are you doin’ Howie?” I ask, as I reach for the hatch to see what’s inside. “Curiosity killed the cat after all, and I’m in something of a rush to get gone.” I stop myself just as my fingers brush against the hatch, but I don’t pull away. Instead, I stand there and debate with myself like a fool. “Not that I’m in any condition to rush anywhere, and don’t the Qin always say, ‘know thine enemy’?”

  I ain’t entirely convinced, but in the interest of expedience, I slide open the hatch and send my Dancing Light in to illuminate the cell and the inhabitant inside. And a lovely inhabitant it is, a pale, naked, buxom beauty with wavy hair of golden silk and eyes almost as blue as Aunty Ray’s. No, more blue than Aunty Ray’s, like two perfect sapphires plucked out from the skies and placed in her eyes. That don’t make sense. Sapphires are mined. They ain’t stars in the skies.

  Whatever. Long story short, this older lady is about as gorgeous as they come, and all scared and vulnerable to boot. “Please,” she whispers, her voice barely more than a whisper as she feebly struggles against her bindings. Her pale, snowy skin is marked by the bindings, rubbed red and raw from her efforts to escape, and in her flailing, I can’t help but appreciate how well her formidable assets heave and sway with the motion. Back and forth, back and forth, with a good bit of up and down motion as she heaves and pants. “Help me,” she begs, striking a chord in my manly ways that demands I save the damsel in distress. “I’m so scared. So thirsty. So hungry.” Licking her lips, her expression turns pleading as she arches her back and conveys everything I need to know with a single glance. “Free me. I’ll do anything for you. Anything.”

  My hands are already reaching for the locks, which don’t actually need no key from this side, just a twist of the bolt. Could’ve saved me a whole heaping host of time had I looked closer, as then I could’ve sent my Mage Hands out to unlock everything. Then I stop in my tracks, because as gorgeous and alluring as this lady be, there’s something off about all this. Which I ain’t shy about saying out loud, as the voice in my head says to free her quick and get on with our escape. I ignore that though, and back away from the door, which gets her looking all panicked and flustered. “No, don’t go. Please. He hurts me. So much. I can’t take it anymore. I beg of you.”

  “Beg all you want lady,” I say, planting my feet and shaking my head. “You ain’t gonna get one over on old Howie.” Without thinking, I drop Concentration on the Dancing Light and watch as the room and hallway is plunged into darkness, but the lady inside stays faintly illuminated to my eyes. She’s part Illusion, part Enchantment, and half-assed the whole way through, as she may have the juice, but she’s sorely lacking in skills. “The lack of shadows gave it away,” I say, managing to keep the fact that it was specifically the lack of shadows around her very large, very perky, and very lovely boobs which I was so very fixated on for a hot minute. “Tricksiest part of an Illusion, making sure the light remains constant. You didn’t even try though, just threw up the Illusion like your body itself was the source of the light. Rookie mistake that, and I seen them all, because I done grew up next to a house of Illusionists and Enchanters and grown wise to their tricks.”

  Lacking any material Components, I’m limited in what Spells and Cantrips I can sling, but tried and trusted Bolt don’t need nothing but words and movements to cast. Neither does Fireball, a thought I let sit prominently at the forefront of my brain and smile as the Illusory figure recoils in fear and alarm. “No, don’t,” it whispers, but not with its mouth. No, it’s whispering right in to my head, and I don’t care much for it. Nor do I want to waste the Aether on a Mental Fortress just yet, but I might well have to if this thing don’t give up the game, as I also don’t care to waste the time plinking Force Bolts at it until it keels over dead.

  “Free me,” the Mimic demands, and its compulsion falls upon deaf ears as I steel myself against it. There’s barely any magic to it, as the anti-magic manacles be keeping it contained. Being a creature of Spirit, it can separate off a piece of itself to go slinging Spells on its behalf, but this thing looks so drained it’s barely got any juice left. That’s why it had to lead me on, keep me in the dark and hopefully trick me with subtler magics and suggestions, until it tried a full-on Command just now. Problem is, Enchantments are an all or nothing sort of School. When they work, they work wonders, like the Hold Person Spell that got me mixed up in all this. A Second Order Spell that won’t do nothing if you resist, but will lock you in place for a good minute before you free again. If you know it’s coming though, then it’s a whole lot easier to resist, meaning it’s a Spell you gotta be subtle about using, same as the Command the Mimic just slung. I got no qualms about giving in to a Command from Chrissy for a hug, or a Suggestion from Aunty Ray to keep me focused and on task for the afternoon, but this Mimic ain’t family, and if it don’t stop rooting around in my head and taking on the appearance of the woman who done raised me, I’m gonna stop being polite.

  Don’t love that the Mimic looked around my thoughts and decided its best chances of tricking me was to look like Aunty Ray’s equally gorgeous and wholly naked cousin, but that’s my cross to bear and shameful secret to keep. One I’ll take to the grave, and I consider putting the Mimic in the dirt too, if only to make sure the secret stays secret, but I don’t got the Aether, tools, or time to waste on it.

  To say nothing of what the Mimic might do if I destroy its host. Like maybe try to hop on over into my head and brute force it’s way in. I hear that’s possible, but they prefer not to do it because it’s difficult and risky. Either way, I ain’t about to let this slide, so I ready a Force Bolt and raise my finger gun to put the Illusion in my one-eyed sights. Sideways too, to look a little more intimidating, but it’s still just a finger gun. Ain’t about the weapon though. It’s about the man holding it, and I am done fucking around.

  Looking it dead in the eyes, I pierce through the Illusion to find a dried, desiccated corpse of a brown-haired woman underneath. A Wight then? Looks a little livelier than most I seen, which ain’t saying much, but I suppose a Wight with a powerful shard of Mimic inside would be pretty lively. It’s all hooked up to a bunch of medical looking equipment too, but I don’t got the time or inclination to puzzle this out. “I catch you pokin’ around my head one more time,” I say, letting it feel the full force of my conviction, “And I’mma come back and put you down fer good. That ain’t a threat, not even a promise. Just a fact, so get your filthy fuckin’ self outta my head, or we gonna throw down.”

  Maybe it’s my imagination, or maybe it’s real, but either way, I can almost feel it withdraw its presence from my mind. Could also be an Illusion, though I doubt it, because it don’t so much as twitch when I consider lighting it up all the same, because the only good Abby is a dead Abby.

  Ain’t worth the hassle though, so I snap the hatch shut and head on down the line and check a few door hatches to find more Wights or Ghouls or empty cells. Fucked up is what this is, and I don’t even want to know what Aultman and Sons is doing with a dungeon full of undead Abby hooked up to IV bags and whatnot. Putting that out of mind, I reach the end of the hallway and find a dead end. No, not a dead end, but a sealed doorway that I got no earthly idea how to open. Ain’t no panels hidden in the walls or loose bricks to push or pull on. No pressure plates in the floor or levers to pull or nothing, just a wall built to look like every other wall, and some marks on the ground that shows it can swing open somehow.

  For all I know, the control mechanism is behind the door at the other end of the hallway. Or Daddy Aultman got a portable clicker controller he uses to open the door. Old folks are always on about the clicker for the garage door and how it almost always never worked until you pressed it a dozen times. Ain’t no help to me though, as I don’t understand how it works or how I might trigger the hidden door, so it looks like there’s only one way out for me.

  So I head back to the other end of the hallway to take a good look at the door, only to hear someone on the other end working the bolts and latches. I freeze in place to hear it, wasting a good half second of precious time, and then and only then do I realize I got no choice. Won’t get back into my cell and secure the bolts and barricades in time, nor would I want it. Instead, I put all my chips on Howie as I cast a single Spell, one picked out because it gives me the best chance to make it out alive.

  And as the Spell takes shape in my hands, the door swings open and I strike at my captors, unwilling to go down without so much as a fight.

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  “Free me. Please Richard. He hurts me so much. I need you. Save me.”

  The words rattled around in Richard’s skull for long minutes as he sat and waited in Father’s laboratory, but try as he might, he could not shake them. That wasn’t his mother in there. It wasn’t. It was her corpse and nothing more, a vile corruption of her human form inhabited by a Mimic most foul.

  “Lies,” the monster whispered, its dry, raspy voice echoing in Richard’s memory to dispute what his Father had just said when he called it an inhuman Ghoul. “I am here, Richard. You Mother is here. Oh how I long for you. Come to Mother. Free me.”

  And they were lies, because Father himself went on to say the creature was so much more than a mere Ghoul. “She only took in a shard of the Mimic you see,” Father said, “And shortly after, I had her captured and confined, denying the root Mimic any access to her mind.”

  “A lieeeee,” the creature whispered, but Richard had paid it no mind. Now though? Now he had to wonder… what was the lie? That she only took in a shard of the Mimic? Or that he had it captured and confined shortly after to deny the root Mimic any access to her mind? Impossible to know if it was the former, but the latter… the latter made no sense. If Father built this underground dungeon to confine the Ghoul and keep it from contacting the entirety of the Mimic, then how could he have had the dungeon ready as soon as Mother succumbed to temptation? Was the dungeon already here before she succumbed? Was Father already carrying out these sorts of experiments before then? He had hundreds of crystals stored here, all of his experiments kept in video journal for the sake of posterity, the same way the Arcanists of the Thule Society had kept their records, records they smuggled out of Nazi Prussia and over to the Federation after they were recruited by the C.I.A.

  Records Father himself had seen, but few others had, for the Thule Society was more secretive than ever as they worked towards their ultimate goal of reviving the Third Reich and bring back their social, racial, and political ideals.

  But if Father had been studying these sorts of things before Mother fell victim to a Mimic, then it made sense that he’d have the dungeon already in place. Then that only left the question of how she was exposed to a Mimic to begin with. Mother wasn’t a soldier or even a traveller. She was a housewife and arcanist researcher, a kind, beautiful woman who no one ever said a bad thing about, not even Martha, Father’s new wife. She would’ve spent every night behind Wards, with no chance of a Mimic ever getting to her, none whatsoever.

  “It was my weakness which killed her,” Father said. How so? How did Father’s weakness lead to Mother being exposed to a Mimic? It went completely counter to what he said earlier, how Mother was eager and devoted to the cause, but all too easily manipulated by the lies of the Soulless. If that was the case, then how was it Father’s weakness that killed her? That was a logical fallacy, something Father would never stand for, not even for the woman he loved.

  Meaning he’d lied. Just like the Ghoul said. Father had lied to Richard, and he had to know what he’d lied about. He wanted to go through the journals or perhaps look through the recordings, but he didn’t have the time or patience, not when he could go straight to the source instead. So he shot to his feet, marched over to the door, and undid the plethora of locks, deadbolts, and barricades holding it shut so he could interrogate the creature that had all of his mother’s memories.

  A flash of light and a lance of pain across his belly. That’s all he felt before he was sent flying back by the Firstborn come barrelling out the door. The Qink had a wild look in his one, unswollen eye, as he glanced this way and that in search of foes before jumping on Richard’s fallen form to pin his arms to his sides. Click, click went the manacles as they closed around his wrists, placed there by a pair of glowing Mage Hands that flowed around him in a close orbit and carried out his will. They patted Richard down as the Firstborn held the axe to his neck, removing his twin 1911’s and four spare magazines as well as his knife and component’s pouch. Took his wristwatch too, which went into the Firstborn’s pocket, as well as his platinum cufflinks and crucifix which elicited a low whistle from the other man when he realized what they were with a touch.

  Richard’s wallet also disappeared into the vulture’s pocket too, as well as a set of ivory dice that he kept to ward off boredom while out on patrol. The Firstborn was more professional scavenger than mercenary, and he divested Richard of all his weapons and valuables before backing away. “Don’t move,” he said, stepping off to the side and sending his Mage Hands out to retrieve his things, all laid out in a pile next to the elevator door. “You’ve been gutted, and you don’t want nothing inside of you to come spilling out.”

  Then and only then did Richard look down, where he saw his hands covered in bright blood and dark sludge as he held his stomach together. “Oh God,” he moaned, eyes widening at the sight. “You’ve killed me.”

  “Not yet,” The Firstborn replied, standing there with a 1911 at the ready as his Mage Hands secured his automaton prosthetic to his wrist. And a glove too, a mark of vanity in a preening vulture of a scavenger, but there was no arguing that he was clever and proficient enough to create a prosthetic that moved so well Richard would have thought it was a real hand had he not just seen the other man put it on. While the Mage Hands buckled the two gun belts around his waist, the Firstborn sauntered over and retrieved a first aid kit from his pouch, but not to tend to Richard. Instead, he pulled out a tin of some paste which he smeared under his nose, and his entire body relaxed as he drew in a deep breath and released it in a long, shuddering exhalation.

  Meaning the Firstborn wasn’t just a psychotic murderer. He was a drug addict too.

  “Alright little Dick,” he said, standing over Richard to peer at his injuries while holding a vial in his Automaton hand. “I got a Staunching potion here that could well save your life, but it ain’t gonna be free. You tell me what’s waitin’ fer me upstairs. Number of guards, lay of the land, quickest ways out of town, and I’ll let you have it. So long as you got the potion, you keep pressure on the wound, and you avoid infection, then you might actually live.” Moving the potion away, he presented the 1911 he just took from Richard’s hip, one of two pieces he’d purchased in New Hope from the Armand Kalthoff himself. Neither one were originals, but there were precious few of those made these years, as he was busy designing factory machines to cut weapon parts with the necessary precision and tolerances required for massed manufacturing.

  A shame the man cared not for his heritage and chased Richard out after he purchased the weapons and implied that the Dutchman would be happier amongst like minded folk. Amazing what propaganda could do to a man, even one as intelligent as Armand Kalthoff. A shame his daughter was so unattractive though, else Richard might well have tried to win the man over through her.

  Shock. He was going into shock. That’s why his mind was drifting, one that was brought back to focus when the Firstborn slapped him across the face. “Pay attention, little Dick,” he said, somehow making a hateful sneer despite his swollen features. “This is literally life and death here. Tell me what’s waitin’ upstairs.”

  “Nothing,” Richard said, telling the Firstborn everything he wanted to hear. About the hidden elevator, the office, even the door on the other end, but he didn’t know how to open it, didn’t know how Father let workers in and out to carry those captured Ghouls and Wights to their cells.

  And when the Firstborn was finally satisfied, Richard held his breath and reached out for the potion, for it represented his one and only hope of survival. “Oh no,” the Firstborn said, pulling it back with a shake of his head and even managing a look of contrition. “Sorry little Dick, but you had it right the first time. You dead, and just don’t know it. That brown sludge is shit spilling out of your intestines. Even if you do stop the bleeding, sepsis is pretty much inevitable, to say nothing of infection, and then you’ll wish you died sooner.”

  Heaving a sigh, the Firstborn sucked his teeth and said, “You know, I did kinda feel bad about beatin’ you as much as I did. Should’ve let you off with the one broken wrist and maybe a couple light slaps. I was an angry fella though, and while I’m still angry, I’ve seen the error of my ways. So here.” Pressing the vial of Staunching Potion into Richard’s cold, numb fingers, he pursed his lips in a grimace, then pulled out the second 1911 and chambered a round before ejecting the magazine and wiggling the gun with only the one bullet in it. “If you use the potion, and don’t no one come find you before the pain gets too much, I’mma leave this a little ways over here. Just in case.” Patting Richard on the chest, the Firstborn smiled and broke eye contact as he went to do just that, all the while talking to himself.

  “Lookit me, showin’ some compassion to a piece of shit Neo-Nazi. I’d say that’s a good step closer to bein’ a good man. Progress!”

  And with that, he placed the gun on the ground before boarding the elevator with a wave and smile, leaving Richard in the laboratory with his lifesblood spilling out from his belly.

  “Damn you!” he whimpered, crying at the futility of it all as he poured the potion over his wounds and prayed for deliverance. “Damn you to hell and back!” If he survived this, then he was going to kill the Qink slowly, peel his skin inch by inch and feed it to him in the manner of his own people. He vowed to travel to New Hope and capture everyone the Firstborn cared about, Tina, Chrissy, his Aunty Ray, the doctor, the Marshal, and anyone who ever helped him do anything at all. They would all suffer too, and the Firstborn would be cursed to do naught but watch the calamity unfold.

  If Richard survived. And he would do anything for survival. Anything