Firstborn of the Frontier

“Uh… I plead the fifth?”

The stern and sombre faces arranged all about the room grow even more dour and austere, a feat I didn’t think possible until I seen it happen. Can’t help but squirm when they all hit me with that look. Different one from each, though all conveying much the same message in varying different tones; quit playing the fool and take this serious. Problem is, I am being serious, and I thought pleading the fifth was a great response to the question asked of me, but they all think I’m throwing it out there for a lark.

Seems my reputation for sass is doing me an injustice here, and I only got myself to blame. I’d be the first to admit I got my issues with authority, but in my defense, I got good reason for it. See, my daddy was a strict man who liked everything done his way. The right way, he’d call it, because it usually was, and whenever it wasn’t, he’d always correct himself soon as he noticed. That’s why I still do a lot of things his way, as Sergeant Begaye pointed out, because it is indeed the right way to go about it. Ain’t always easy, convenient, or comfortable, but doing things right makes perfect sense and gives me an edge over everyone else, so it’d be stupid not to. That’s why I never had any issues with my daddy when it came to matters of authority, because far as I’m concerned, he learned things the hard way and was teaching me how to avoid those hardships because he didn’t want to see me suffer.

So you can’t really blame him for my rebellious ways, not directly at least. My problems with authority stem from the authority figures themselves. Experience has shown that there are a lot of folks out there who are about as sharp as a bowling ball and twice as dense, yet somehow find themselves in positions of authority. Usually because the smarter people know wrangling idiots is more work than it’s worth, so the job get’s left to the smartest idiot out there. So when some fool who can’t find his own ass with both hands and a map tries to tell me my business like he knows better than me or my daddy, then I can’t stop myself from mouthing off. It’s disrespectful sure, but respect is earned, and I can’t be bothered to play nice with every self-important bigwig who expects me to listen just because they got a fancy title and a decade or two of years over on me. With age does not come wisdom. Experience is what does it, though there are some folks who’ll never learn no matter how many times they go through the wringer. No idea why God, in His infinite wisdom, decided to give some folks less sense than He gave a goose, and it’s one of the first questions I’d ask if given the chance.

All of which is to say that if I’m being flippant, the other party is usually deserving of it. Got none of my usual sass here today though, because the line-up arranged against me is a formidable one to be sure, a who’s who of big names from round these parts. There’s the Marshal of course, Uncle Teddy all dressed to the nines in full Ranger regalia and looking sharp and clean shaven as ever. Got his cream-coloured collared button-up alongside a simple, single colour tie and dark pants to round it out, with three pins sitting in a row over his left breast pocket which identify his Spell specialities. A medieval shield for Abjuration, a sun for Evocation, and a war horn for Conjuration, which combined with the silver hexagon pins on his collar tell a story for anyone who knows how to read it. It says that this modest, soft-spoken, salt-and-peppered man is a Grandmagus in three different disciplines, which just so happen to be the ones most suited to warfare. Means he can take a hit, deal one out, and keep on punching long after most Spellslingers have expended all their Spells, the backbone of the team and the star of the show.

All them pins are a bit extra if you ask me, as you typically don’t want your enemies knowing what you can do. If I’d shown up to Pleasant Dunes with a pair of bronze triangle Magus pins on my collar and a sun on my chest, Ron might well have put a Bolt through the back of my head as soon as he saw me, because playing games with a bonafide Magus Evoker is a sure way to get got. Course, I haven’t really earned those pins yet, seeing how I can only really cast the one Third Order Spell, but I’ll get there soon enough.

Thing is, the Rangers wear those pins to tell other Rangers and soldiers what they’re capable of, and they don’t gotta worry about their enemies catching on because Rangers are the tip of the spear in the war against Abby. Even then, most don’t bother with all that outside of official events, because they wearing more than one hat out here on the Frontier. Now the Marshal, he ain’t afraid of others knowing what he can do, and still shows up to work in full uniform each and every day despite lacking any immediate superiors to keep him in line. Don’t insist on his people doing the same, because he understands their reasons and knows it’s a bit extra, but he feels the work demands that tiny bit of respect and maintains the standard for himself.

That’s all good and well for your average day in New Hope, but today, the Marshal has gone a step even further and donned a starched military jacket, one he’s left unbuttoned due to the comfortable spring weather. A single-breasted light grey blazer with shiny brass buttons and all the patches you could think of, a bunch of stripes and stars to denote his rank and specialties in ways I don’t know how to read. Even has the various medals of honour he’s earned since arriving on the Frontier all pinned to the front, with far too many of them to list. Ain’t a single mock up of an old world medal to be seen neither. No, every star, cross, and heart on his blazer today was earned right here on the Frontier.

This here is a man my daddy saw as a father figure, and one I respect and revere with all my heart, but he ain’t here as Uncle Teddy today. No, he’s here as the Marshal and nothing else, one deeply concerned by the operation in Pleasant Dunes and on a mission to find out what’s what. His glower is one of disapproval, delivered from across the table and to my left as he sits with his back ramrod straight, fingers steepled, and slate grey eyes full of thunder and fury. He ain’t one to stomach incompetence, an attitude which in part is reason why he ain’t been tapped to work in Ranger HQ, because he’d make enemies of half the higher ups in their first meeting and the set the other half to task for failing to make sure their peers and superiors measured up. Nor does he have any patience for tomfoolery, which is what he thinks I’m up to, cracking a joke to lighten the mood in what should rightly be a grave and serious discussion.

Strict and severe though the Marshal might be, he’s the least of my worries here today. I know him well enough to know that he’ll buy the story I laid out without too much fuss, professionally at least. The Rangers are an organization, and sometimes in organizations, the less you know, the better, but that won’t hold true in our private relationship. There’s no avoiding it now, as I’ve disappointed him greatly, and I’ll have to live with that hanging over my head for the rest of my life.

Ain’t immediately relevant though, because business comes first, and the slim, swarthy man sitting across and to the right is all business. Man’s fitting me for cuffs and jumpsuit as he studies me with an unblinking stare, one that makes the whites of his eyes really pop against his toffee skin. Visually, he ain’t much to look at, all of 5’6 with a bantam build and a general slovenly look about him aside from his hawk-like stare. Got a red plaid shirt that’s unironed, untucked, and unbuttoned all the way down to show off the white wife-beater he got underneath, with plenty of body hair sticking out from every nook and cranny. Got no pins or patches to show off, but not because he ain’t earned them, as he’s deserving of a Purple Heart, a Silver Start, and a Distinguished Service Cross at the very least. Only reason he ain’t got them is because he ain’t a soldier, or even American, but that don’t change the facts none. This is a man who’s been through the wringer and then some, and because of his valiant efforts and unshakable morals, he’s been elected by the good people of New Hope to bring law and order to its streets, a job Sherrif Dharani Dhar Patel takes dead serious.

And right now, he’s wondering if I’ve graduated from local nuisance to major threat and what to do about it, as he sits there with one bare foot propped up against his chair, his arm slung across its back, and six-pointed star of a badge sitting on the table in front of him. This is not a man to mess around with, as many a bandit, outlaw, and criminal has found out firsthand, a bonafide Bharathi national hailing from one of the nastiest hotspots in the old world, the war-torn state of Gujarat sitting on the coast of the Aberration Sea. Now Aunty Ray said that for most settlers, coming to the Frontier was a rude awakening as they left safety and security far behind. For Dharani Dhar Patel, it might well have been an upgrade. A massive, impoverished nation surrounded by water on three sides, Bharath has been under siege from aquatic Abby for centuries now, and its people fight tooth and nail to keep it free and clear of all threats. Not with fancy Aetherarms or modern mechanized armour, but mostly with spears, swords, slings, and Cantrips same as the settlers did during the early years on the Frontier, which is why Sheriff Patel found his footing so easily here. Fact is, most Bharathi nationals are seen as a welcome addition to any town, but given their nation’s long and storied history plagued by European imperialists, Asian pirates, Soviet defectors, and Nazi Arcanists all flocking to their troubled borders over the years, they’ve also earned a reputation for being notoriously xenophobic.

I heard it said in less than reputable circles that the only thing a Bharathi hates more than foreigners is another Bharathi from a neighbouring state. Got themselves a caste system see, one put in place by their Immortal Monarch for whom their nation was named, but has since been twisted to oppress the ‘lesser’ ranks after his untimely death during the Second World War. Don’t know all the details, only the general gist, in that the landlocked states are primarily responsible for food and manufacturing, while the coastal states are in charge of defenses. Time was, they all worked together to hold back the Aberration threat, but without an Immortal Monarch to oversee them, the landlocked states have taken to withholding funds and getting fat off the blood of their neighbours, leading to an inner conflict that can’t easily be resolved by an outside party.

A sad state of affairs it is, which goes to show the old world ain’t all that more civilized than the Frontier. It’s only dressed up to appear like it is, an illusion so many are desperate to believe in again just so they don’t have to worry at night. Heads in the sand is what that is, and ain’t much more needs to be said about that.

All in all, this means Sherrif Patel got no tolerance for lawbreakers. Not just the Ronald Jacksons of the world, but also the Howie Zhu’s who might’ve taken the law into his own hands and enacted some Frontier Justice on his way out of Pleasant Dunes. No maybe about it, only I ain’t about to admit it, as that there would buy me a one-way ticket to a prison labour camp, where I’ll mine ores, farm crops, or build roads for pennies on the dollar as penance for my crimes. The good news is that the Sherrif ain’t ever held my Qin ancestry against me, on account of how the Qin Immortal Monarch was indirectly responsible for the Barathi Immortal Monarch’s death by intentionally showing up late to a fight against a dozen Nazi Archmagi fleeing from the Allied push into Prussia. The bad news is that just means Sherrif Patel hates me as much as he hates everyone else. A real charmer he is, but despite his brusque manner and slovenly appearance, he is a man who knows how to uphold the important laws, let the silly ones slide, and bring the hammer down on anyone who tries otherwise. That’s why he keeps getting elected Sherrif, though there’s also the fact that he’s a Grandmagus Abjurer who can throw up a nine-by-nine-meter Force Barrier in a pinch and maintains most the personal wards in town to boot. Not the ones on the walls and towers, those belong to the Rangers. I’m talking about the ones on the doors and windows to most houses and shops, because him and his boys do the job right, and they do it quick.

And if he ever finds out I had any part in the death of two Rangers, then he’ll string me up in the town square without so much as blinking an eye. Nothing personal. Just his job is all.

Formidable as the Marshal and the Sherrif might be, it’s the third man who’s got the lion’s share of my attention today. One who ain’t even got a gun on his hip, much less a badge or medal on his breast. Don’t look all that imposing either, a dowdy older gent with a paunch of a belly which he tries to hide with a frumpy loose shirt and a bald spot combed over so thinly he might as well paint the hairs on. Still, the fact that he’s sitting in the central seat says a lot about the power he wields, because even the Marshal and Sherrif are side characters once he appears. Judge Samuel McKean is his name, a circuit court Judge who makes the rounds along the Blue Shield and the various Federal settlements nearby to preside over cases and sentence criminals to due punishment.

Today, he’s here to decide my fate, whether I go home a free man or get locked up and shipped off to do hard time for what I done in Pleasant Dunes, and he’s none too pleased to hear me plead the fifth.

“Son,” he begins, and I can’t help but scowl at how he ain’t earned the right to call me that. “Do you understand what’s happenin’ here?”

“Y’all here to sit in judgement of what I done in Pleasant Dunes,” I reply.

“No son,” he says, with a slow shake of his head, one that sets his saggy jowls to quivering. “Sherrif Patel has not charged you with any crime, so I’m not here to pass judgment. If this were a trial, we’d be in open court and you’d have a lawyer and guardian sittin’ with you. Still could, as is your right as a minor and a freeholding resident of the United Federation of American States.” Glancing at the Marshal, Judge McKean says, “I was under the impression that the boy was made aware of his rights. Was I mistaken?”

“No,” I reply, because I don’t like seeing Uncle Teddy take flak for something I done, even tangentially like this. “Was told this was a voluntary discussion, and that I could have a lawyer and guardian present. Waived my rights and everythin’ in writin’ before we started.” Didn’t really want Aunty Ray hearing all the nitty gritty details, which makes me glad she bought my lie about them wanting to talk to me alone. She’s sitting outside in the greeting area of the Sherrif’s office with Chrissy and Tina right now, no doubt fretting about this or that and worried to no end, but that’s better than in here with us and seeing me sweat. She’d read me in an instant and know that I’d done wrong, unlike the Marshal who only suspects even after coming this far.

“Alright then son,” Judge McKean says, giving me a look I usual reserve for fools who don’t know better. Man thinks I’m making a mistake here, but I just want this all over and done with. Besides, going to a lawyer means coming clean with everything that happened, and I ain’t about to make the same mistake twice. A secret is only a secret if you keep it to yourself, so come hell or highwater, I ain’t about to share shit. “Let me be clear regardless if only for the sake of my conscience.” Dabbing at his forehead with a kerchief that comes away damp, the Judge adjusts his collar as if unused to the stifling air here in the enclosed room. “We are not here to determine if a crime was committed in Pleasant Dunes. I myself have looked over the reports and recordings, and while I found them most troubling, I have determined that you have broken no Accords for which we can charge you with.” Pausing to hit me with a look, he makes it clear in no uncertain terms where he stands. “And believe you me, I looked long and hard for cause.”

The silence is deafening in the wake of his statement, but I don’t let it shake me none. Or at least I try not to show it, as I sit there with my one hand resting on the forearm of my dismembered stump, one I ain’t shy about showing. I’m the victim here, one who was extorted, beaten, and mutilated on recording before retaliating, so I know damn well that I’m clear by way of the Accords. Maybe not by Federal law, which is a whole different kettle of fish, but Pleasant Dunes is Independent and therefore not under Federal jurisdiction. That’s the umbrella I been counting on to keep me clean and free of trouble, but one that offers scant protection from a Federally appointed Judge or public opinion. Outside of this room, I reckon the only people who know most of the story is Tim and Captain Jung, because I had to tell them most of it to keep them from handing me over to the angry townies of Pleasant Dunes.

I don’t say a word here and now though, just sit, stare, and give as good as I get while the Judge waits for me to crack, but he’ll be waiting a long time if he wants to commit. Man realizes it soon enough too, and to his credit, doesn’t stick to his guns out of stubbornness and changes tact instead. Heaving a sigh, Judge McKean slumps down in his seat and says, “What we’re here to determine is if you represent a threat to this fine community, and others like it under the protection of the Federal Government. A seventeen-year-old Magus with Fireball in his Spell book is not somethin’ you see every day, even if we were to overlook your unlawful possession of the Spell.”

“Unlawful under Federal Law, not the Accords,” I retort, having had two weeks to line all my ducks up in a row and Tim to help coach me on. “Means I was well within my rights to have it prepped in Pleasant Dunes. Ain’t ever used it within Federal borders, much less in any other town, Federal or otherwise, only against Abby out in the badlands and desert.”

“I know the law son.” There’s no heat in his reply, only resignation as he tries to make me understand what he’s going on about. “But like I told you, we’re not here to determine if any laws were broken, or even to charge you with a crime.”

“Nah, you just worried I’ll commit one in the future, so you want to nip this problem in the bud before it starts.” I can’t help but scoff at the logic, because it seems so silly and arbitrary. “I got a gun, but that don’t mean I’ll use it to shoot up the town. Don’t see why having a Spell is any different.”

“It is a matter of scale.” Though the Marshal seems none too pleased by my attitude, Sheriff Patel takes it in without batting an eye as he says in his lilting Bharathi accent. “Your gun. It kills one, two people at a time. Your Fireball? Eighty-seven men, women, and children.” The Sherrif snaps his fingers. “All dead, like this.”

Eighty-seven? That’s less than I expected. Ran the numbers a couple times in my head on the way home, and learned that a twelve metre diametre circle is a whole lot of space, much less a sphere where you could have targets stacked in three-dimensional space. That’s 116.77 square meters of flat real estate to stand on, and if you assume each person only needs about 1/3 of a square metre to stand comfortably, you could pack about 315 people into the area of effect of a single Fireball. Granted, the ones at the edges would only get clipped around the shins, but they’d be close enough to the heat to burn something fierce all the same. Now, even though them Vanguard National thugs wasn’t all packed in tight like books on a shelf, they was crowded in close together after the fight, so I figured my body count would be closer to two hundred than one.

Eighty-seven. Shit. Didn’t even break three digits.

Which I suppose ain’t the right thing to focus on here and now. Don’t know what to say though, so I shrug instead, and soon as I do, I know it was the wrong move. In for a penny, in for a pound, so I open my fool mouth and say, “They deserved it. Wasn’t no innocents in that crowd, or that town for the matter of fact. They was all calling for blood when Jacob was beating me, then joined in when I won the fight. Not to mention how they all cheered and laughed when big Franky took my hand and future both. Those women? Complicit in the crimes their men committed, at the very least accomplices after the fact. Them kids? All wannabe outlaws, prospects hopin’ to patch in to Vanguard National and become the next generation of slave drivin’, drug dealin’, explosives manufacturin’ criminal scum.”

“True,” the Sherrif says, catching me off-guard as he nods in agreement, before hitting me with a glare that’s got me feeling real small. “But it was not your place to pass judgement on them Howie.”

Nor will he allow any extra-judicial actions here in town. That’s the part he leaves unsaid, a warning to keep me in check now that he knows I’m here for the long haul. Man was usually happy to wave off my brawls as hot-blooded youth, especially when the worst injury was a bruised ego, but things are different now that he knows what I can do. Stupid is what that is, because like I said, I walk around every day with a gun on my hip and ain’t used it on anyone undeserving just yet.

…is that still true though? Did Conner really deserve to die how he did? Shot in the back of the head and left to burn on the ground. No coffin to lay in, no plot to be buried, no gravestone to mark his passing. Just blood and ashes, because I wanted Wayne dead right then and there.

Thankfully, my lapse in determination goes unnoticed as the Judge fakes a cough to take control of the discussion once more. “Justified though your actions might have been under the Accords,” he begins, shooting the Sherrif a look before turning back to me, “You still killed close to a hundred souls with a single Spell.” Thirteen shy ain’t close, and the fact that he thinks it is makes me suspect of his ability to judge impartially. Don’t say as much as he looks me up and down and says, “So given the facts, along with your history of violence, you understand why we’re wary of letting you walk away from this free and clear.”

“Not really,” I reply, because it’s the truth. “They caused me grievous bodily harm. I retaliated. End of story.”

“By way of the Accords, yes,” Judge McKean replies, looking all too pleased as he hammers home the point I just unwittingly set up for him. “Under Federal Law though? You would have been charged with voluntary manslaughter at the very least, and I myself would have pushed for murder two, if not one. Add in assault with a deadly Spell, reckless endangerment, criminal negligence, and destruction of property, and I would be well within the bounds of the law to sentence you hung by the neck until dead.”

“Then it’s a good thing it didn’t happen under Federal jurisdiction then.” Soon as I say it, I regret letting the words leave my mouth, as all three men hit me with yet another glare, but I hold my ground and give as good as I get. “What you expect from me then? You think they was done then and there? You watch the whole thing? They wanted me to pay ten grand a month. Seventy grand in total to start, with interest still running weekly. How am I supposed to pay that, even with two hands to earn with?” Not to mention a crooked Ranger to make sure I paid, but I leave that out for Uncle Teddy’s sake. They all saw and heard it, so no sense rubbing salt into the wound and pointing out that a crooked Ranger was at the heart of all this.

Truth is, I still can’t believe Wayne was in so deep with a criminal like Ron. Skimming Cores and Aberrtin is one thing, but it sounds like Wayne was moving contraband for Vanguard National and letting Ron’s wagons check in at Meadowbrook for clean papers, which they’d then bring along with them as they move along the Highway and maybe even down the Wayfarer River all the way out west. Was probably drugs all things considered, something high value and low weight that dealers could cut and sell one teenth at a time for a ridiculous mark-up, but I can’t help but wonder if it was something else. Not explosives for sure. Ron wasn’t even committed on selling those before everything that went down, had his hand forced so to speak. Spell Cores maybe, but Ron could’ve sold those legit so long as he was willing to pay taxes, which seems like a real waste of a crooked Ranger.

And there’s no doubt Wayne was crooked. The video I took makes that clear as day, and Tim stayed over in Meadowbrook to oversee the investigation into Wayne’s actions and gather proof of his crimes. Not to mention take over in Marcus’ absence until the higher ups decide who they want to replace him. None of the Rangers in Meadowbrook, that’s for sure, because every Ranger there is tainted by association with Wayne now, a poor legacy for Marcus to leave behind. The worst part is, I couldn’t even stay behind after the funeral and keep Simone company for a day or two, because the Rangers wanted me back in New Hope for questioning here and now.

Which might have something to do with my sour disposition regarding the whole proceedings. That and the fact that Ronald Fucking Jackson took my hand and they all acting like I’m the God-damned criminal here. Ain’t right is all I’m saying. Ain’t right in the least, especially since the law and the Accords both say I’m in the clear.

“There’s no changing the past,” the Marshal says, as if he can read my mind and knows exactly why I’m so steamed up. “So we must look to the future and ensure the same mistakes are not made twice, but far as I can tell, you don’t feel like you’ve made any mistakes at all.”

That does it. “Oh I made mistakes alright,” I say, resisting the urge to slam my hand into the desk. Mostly because I would’ve done it with my right and hurt myself something fierce banging the tender stump like that, one which aches with strain as I clench a fist that ain’t even there. “Like trusting a Ranger at his word. Wayne comes to me and threatens the whole camp to get me to go along with his game, says they’re not gonna kill me because dead men pay no debts. Well, they didn’t kill me, but they might as well have, leaving me crippled and worthless like I am.” Breaking away from Uncle Teddy’s pained gaze, I turn to Judge McKean and say, “Or not killing Ronald Jackson the first time I rolled into his town. That’s another mistake I done made. You watch my first run in with the man? How he set his dog to scare me and asked what Mr. Kalthoff might do if they mailed him a box with my finger in it? Would’ve been justified to kill him then and there under the Accords, was prepared to do it even if necessary, but I didn’t.”

“I did watch that recording, yes, and yes, you would have been justified.” Tilting his head ever so slightly, his comb-over finally gives up and stops sticking to his scalp. Undeterred by his undignified appearance, Judge McKean asks, “So why didn’t you?”

Which wasn’t a question I was expect to get asked, so I take a moment to think my answer through before opening my mouth. Learned more than just how to keep secrets in Pleasant Dunes, no two ways about it. Only wish the lessons weren’t so costly. “Lots of reasons,” I eventually say, mostly to cover all my bases. “Mostly because I was there for a job, not to start trouble. Or end it, when trouble start something with me.” Unable to help myself, I glance over at Uncle Teddy who’s still hiding behind his mantle of the Marshal, all stoic and poised as he sits there without so much as a twitch. “And because even though I had reason and justification to act, that ain’t enough to kill a man in cold blood.”

Not by the Marshal’s strict standards at least, standards he expected me to hold to and ones I upheld as best I could. Only ever covered up the one killing before, the merchant and them guards that got me into this whole mess, but I did that to protect Cowie and ain’t ever gonna come clean about it. I mean, look at how they putting me through the wringer and treating me like a threat to be wary of even though I had all the right reasons to act. Silly and undignified though Judge McKean might be, I doubt the man would blink twice before ordering Cowie’s death. Not because my best buddy had done anything wrong, but because he got the potential to cause future harm, which is just a backwards way to go about it.

“Good.” Flashing a proud and grandfatherly smile, the Judge nods in approval I don’t care for but thinks I crave all the same. “Good. See, now we’re getting somewhere son. Having a discussion. Getting to understand how you think and why you do what you do. When you clam up and plead the Fifth, which is a viable legal defense, all it does here is make us wonder what you have to hide.” Bullshit is what that is, but I let it go unchallenged as he reaches over to fumble with the Major Illusion Artifact and rewinds the video just a bit. Only a few seconds, not enough to see the people go up in flames, see their faces turn twisted as the fat boils beneath their skin now that I know to look for it. Only the aftermath, the clouds of ashes and piles of charred bones settling in now that the life in them has been snuffed out, from an angle all too different from the one I saw firsthand. Over to the right, and narrower in perspective, which really lets you focus in on the details of what you can see when the picture ain’t all fuzzy with static. Due to the lead and Aberrtin laced into the mortar of the walls no doubt, which also made the dialogue cut in and out too. Not so bad that they couldn’t get the full gist of what was said, but nowhere near as clear as I would like.

“What did you do Howie?” Conner asks from beyond the grave, and then the recording cuts out as my bloodied left hand covers the screen and makes contact with the medallion, making it all too clear that I was the one whodunnit.

“So let me ask you again,” Judge McKean begins, studying my expression like a hawk and leaving me feeling naked and bare. What did he see in my eyes while I was watching that? Pride and satisfaction? Guilt and regret? Apathy and indifference? Can’t rightly say for sure, as I wasn’t expecting to have to see my work or hear Conner’s voice again. “Why did you stop recording there?”

Got my answer all lined up and ready, but I pled the fifth to start with because things given too easily aren’t so easily trusted. More of Aunty Ray’s teachings, though applied in a way she most certainly wouldn’t approve. What she don’t know can’t hurt her, so I press on with what I had prepared. “Honestly?” I shrug. “No idea. Barely even remember starting the recording, or what I done after the delve.” An eighteen-hour operation under dark where a Captain and friend lost his life. Feels like a cheap way to use Marcus’ death, so I brush over it quick as can be. “Remember talking to Wayne, and going along with his threats because the alternative was all out war with Vanguard National while half the Rangers and boots were fast asleep, and the other half damn close to it. Then I get down there and they throw me into a fistfight after saddling me with a debt I can’t ever hope to pay. Didn’t mean to lose my temper and fight back, but couldn’t help it, so that’s on me.”

Losing my hand though? That’s on them, every last one of those screaming faces I caught on video. Don’t matter how horrible it looked or how pitiful they might seem. That’s the price for the Firstborn’s future, one they paid for in blood, and one I’ll pay for in tears.

Waving at the illusion, which is paused on the scene of my bloody hand covering up the ashy aftermath, I say, “After slinging that Spell, I was all tapped out there, with almost nothing left in the tank, physically, mentally, or Aetherically. That’s why I pled the fifth. I don’t know why I turned it off there. Not sure if I meant to, or just thought things were over and done with, or if it was just habit or accidental while picking it up. I don’t got an answer for you, because I don’t know myself.”

The Judge looks me in the eyes for long seconds, and I make no effort to hide how I’m beyond caring anymore. He wants to throw the book at me, then go right ahead. Prison would be bad, exile worse, but I’ll survive. Or I won’t. Either way, I’ll face what tomorrow might bring when it comes. Today has only just started, and I’m already done with it, ready to hide my head under the blankets and sleep away the pain, even if it’s in a prison cell instead of my bed in the house that ain’t ever been a home. Can’t be the Firstborn, won’t make much of a Yellow Devil either, so might as well embrace whatever title they throw at me. Criminal. Murderer. Psychopath. Whatever they got, I’ll wear it proudly, because I know I done no wrong, only righted the ones done to me.

Except for Conner. Still can’t make up my mind about him, because for all his faults and mine too, he was still someone I considered a friend. Man was caught between loyalties and tried to play peacemaker between friends, and what did it get him? Dead is what, because he betrayed me, and the fact that he tried to fix his mistake don’t change the facts none.

“Okay then,” Judge McKean says, before sitting back and moving on with the questions. Some about what happened after the video ends, which I answer with mostly the truth sprinkled with lies to sell the story better. Other Vanguard Nationals come out of the surrounding tunnels to gun Wayne and Conner down, then I beat a hasty retreat into Ron’s office fixing to take the man down with me in a blaze of glory. Ain’t no Ron there, only an open door to an escape tunnel leading upstairs. Basement explodes, I get into a firefight Ron and his people, win using my flashbangs, Acid vials, and the grenades I took from Ron’s desk, and bing bang boom, I go out the window after collecting their guns and land softly on the sand below.

All of which sounds mighty suspect considering I just claimed to be a man on his last legs, but don’t no one blink twice about it. Well, the Judge looks like he can’t believe it, but the Marshal and the Sherrif ain’t fazed in the least, because they both know what I can do when I really cut loose. The Marshal because he’s seen it first hand; the Sherrif because he’s read the very detailed reports I’ve made in various Sherrif offices over the last two years. Pleasant Dunes was my biggest body count and tightest spot, but I’ve been in a pinch or three and gotten out clean enough for the Sherrif to have a handle on my skills.

When the first round of questions are over and done with, the Judge sits back lets the Sherrif take over, who runs me through a similar set of questions, only in a different order with some curveballs thrown in. Like how he got a stack of mugshots for me to look at and wants me to pick out everyone I saw in the room. Ron don’t have one, and neither do Franky or Jacob, but Greaseball does, and same for Tank and a few others I never bothered naming. I pick out a few, mull over a couple others, and skip over a couple I’m certain I never saw in town proper, only underground in the bunker. All the better to sell my story of not remembering the whole thing, and though it prickles my conscience to do so, I’ve long since learned to look after myself, because the government don’t always got my best interests in mind.

By the time the Sherrif has gotten around to asking me the same question three times in different ways and demanding I answer using different words, it’s well past lunch time with not a sandwich in sight. Luckily Aunty Ray cooked me up a big breakfast and I ate like a man starved on the off chance it was my last meal with family for a good long while. Then it comes time for the Marshal’s turn, which he begins by way of a long silence, like he don’t want to know the answer but has to ask anyways. Placing a crystal on the table, he asks, “You know what’s on here?”

I nod. “The general gist, yea. Wayne read me the highlights before we went down into that bunker to convince me to play along.”

“And you went with him.” Even now, he can’t bring himself to ask outright, because he’s afraid of what I might say. “Why?”

“Because if I didn’t, he said he’d give the signal for Vanguard National to open up on camp,” I reply, without so much as missing a beat. Don’t let my heartrate spike either or the pit in my belly touch my mind, because I know they all got the Detect Heartbeat Cantrip going and probably an Empathy Spell to gauge my general mood. Thankfully, there’s no Spell to Detect Falsehoods or compel a man to speak truth, because then I’d really be in hot water. That said, the world would probably be a better place if there were such a Spell, since at the very least we could hold politicians accountable for the things they say and do. “Wayne said he made the recordin’ to convince Ronald Jackson, because he didn’t want to be on the hook for his own mess. Was convinced I had to have somethin’ to do with that missin’ merchant and guards who had whatever contraband they was carryin’, all because I was in the area at the time. Like I said, he been bothering me about it for a whole year now, and it’s why he threw hands at me on our way over to Pleasant Dunes.” All of which is fact, so there ain’t no reason to panic.

“When that other thug, Jacob, brings it up,” the Marshal begins, not ready to give it up just yet. “You said something along the lines of how you ‘won that game’. Why?”

“Wayne’s version of events certainly made it sound like I did,” I reply with a shrug. “Can’t show weakness in front of those types. Gotta stand strong, else they’ll walk all over you. Didn’t even recognize the man’s name if I’m bein’ honest.”

That’s all the questions the Marshal has for me, because anything more ain’t in his wheelhouse, while Sherrif Patel ain’t all that concerned about a crime that might’ve been committed outside his jurisdiction, with the only proof being a conversation that could have been recorded, but also might well have been faked since the crystal was pulled out of Wayne’s head, rather than recorded using a proper Artifact that could be properly verified and authenticated. Not to mention how everything I said made it sound like the man deserved what he got and that I’d have good reason for hiding it. Don’t love that, them thinking I covered up killing that merchant out of shame, but it’s better than the truth, so I keep mum and sit pretty while the three of them leave the room to discuss my fate.

Not for too long thankfully, as they return after leaving me to stew for less than a quarter hour and retake their seats once more. “I’m going to be honest with you son,” Judge McKean begins, heaving a sigh and mopping his brow that started sweating the second he stepped foot back inside the room. “You scare the livin’ daylights out of me, and I’m not afraid to admit it. Been a Judge for going on eight years now, presided over some horrific cases and seen more than my fair share of ugly, but you? You take the cake.” Waving dismissively at the recording, he continues, “Not because of what you’ve done. Concerning as it might be, you were clearly pushed beyond your limits and left with little to no recourse, especially with two Rangers standing idly by and doing nothing to stop it.”

More flak thrown the Marshal’s way, and I bristle to hear it, which gets the Judge beaming bright. “Well, will you look at that? See how he rears up ready to defend you? Even after all that’s happened, he’s still loyal to the Rangers, like he’s one of you himself.” Fixing me with a look, he continues, “Astounding is what that is, and it shows the quality of your morals, which is why I struck down the Sherrif’s request to have you remanded into juvenile detention. Largely because we don’t have any such program in place, though I suppose we’ll have to rethink that after today.” Waving a hand to clear the air, the Judge gets back on track with another sigh. “No, you scare me boy because of your complete and total lack of remorse. In your eyes, you were justified, and that’s enough. Even most soldiers feel conflicted after taking a human life in wartime, but you only need a reason.” Gone is his smile and slatternly air, and in its place is a man determined to uphold the rule of law with a conviction that burns as hot as the rage in my heart. “That,” he says, fixing me with a steely gaze to match the best I’ve ever seen, “Is not justice. You believe it to be so, because that is the world in which you’ve grown up in. To strike back when struck, to kill or be killed, but we settlers of the first wave came here to colonize the Frontier, to tame and civilize it, not adopt the wild ways it thrusts upon us.”

“He who fights with monsters should be careful,” I quote, having heard this spiel before, only in different words from different folks.

“Lest he thereby becomes a monster. Good.” Nodding in approval once again, the Judge says, “So you understand this much at least, yet still you allow yourself to sink to the same level as the criminals and outlaws you so despise. A fault many have fallen victim to, more than I care to count, but I’m here to tell you that that there is a slippery slope young man. All it takes is one mistake for you to become a criminal yourself, as lies beget more lies until what was once a good man is no longer recognizable as such anymore, a death by a thousand cuts that leaves only a monster behind. You saw the results yourself after all, for I believe Lieutenant Wayne Marlon was once a good man too, and might well have still believed himself as such before his untimely end.”

There’s no hint of suspicion there, only facts as the Judge waxes on about the duality of man and how we civilized men must uphold the morals of the old world rather than succumb to the evils of this one. It’s a long-winded lecture that’s almost poetic and entirely boring while I struggle to hid my disdain. To think, the Judge is an optimist, a man who sees things through the rose-tinted goggles of the old world rather than the clear lens of the Frontier. Well too bad, because sometimes, a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do, and what you gotta do ain’t always pretty.

When he finally runs out of steam, the Judge wraps it all up with, “Which is why it pains me to see the fabled Firstborn fall so low. You stand at the forefront of a new generation, and if you succumb to the savage air of lawlessness, then it sets a precedent for all those who come after, and bodes poorly for the future of the Frontier.” Done with his one-man rant, the Judge hits me with a stern look that I don’t like much. “So while I have found no legal recourse with which to discipline you, I am inclined to allow the Marshal to treat you as if you were a soldier in Pleasant Dunes, rather than a civilian, even though there is nothing to prove that you there in any official capacity.” Giving Uncle Teddy another look, the Judge silently rebukes him for the lacking paperwork before turning back to me. “As an aside, I would like to add that you would do well to enlist. An encouragement, not a requirement, and there will be no repercussions should you chose to ignore this. That said, the Frontier could use a Ranger like you son, and from what I’ve seen on that recording, you could use the Rangers too.”

Yea, true enough, but had a better Ranger, a man who moved Heaven and Earth to fulfill his duties to the letter and spirit both, and they and disavowed him after his death without so much as blinking an eye. So thanks, but no thanks, because use is the operative word there. The government will happily take me on, train me up, and squeeze me for all I’m worth in return for a pittance of pay before tossing me aside the second it becomes inconvenient to keep me. Learned that lesson second-hand once before, and ain’t keen on repeating it myself, but I don’t say as much and look to the Marshal to see what the butcher’s bill is gonna be.

“Four-hundred and eighty hours of hard labour for conduct unbecoming of a soldier,” the Marshal says, which is a little on the high end, but about what I expected. “In addition, you are to hand over any and all copies of illegal Spell Formulas and strike any such prepared Spells from memory. For the next year, the Sherrif’s office will conduct random examinations and inspections to ensure you have no illegal Spells prepared or Formulas hidden away at any given time. If you are found in violation, then you will be punished to the maximum extent of the law, which includes fines and jail time.”

There’s more to it, like a mark on my record should I ever try to enlist and consequences if I skip out on community service, as well as a general gag order over what happened, but I let it all wash over me as I sit there in silence. When he’s done, the Judge, the Sherrif, and the Marshal all trade looks before the first two get up and leave, while the Marshal stays behind. Taking a deep breath, he closes his eyes for a second, then opens them again and it’s no longer the Marshal looking out at me. It’s Uncle Teddy, with a gaze so full of love, pain, and disappointment I can’t bear to look at it for more than a moment. This is the moment I been dreading, not the legal proceedings which I knew I was probably safe from, but the consequences of disappointing someone I respect with all my heart, and someone who’s always held me in high esteem.

“Howie,” Uncle Teddy begins, and I cringe to hear it, because I know he’s gonna ask about the merchant I done killed and I don’t know if I got it in me to lie anymore. I hate lying to him, hate having to sit here and pretend I’m someone better than who I am, someone who lives up to the potential he sees in me rather than the failure I really am. “Took your hand and your future?” He asks, and I have no earthly idea what he’s going on about. “Might as well have killed you? Crippled and worthless? That really how you feel?” Takes me a moment to register that he’s only parroting back what I said in this very room, and I got no answer for him besides a shrug. “Losing a hand is tough,” he says, reaching out to take my one good hand that remains, “But never let yourself believe you are less of a person because of it. I’ve known plenty of soldiers who’ve lost limbs or worse who’ve picked themselves back up and moved on, and I know you’ve got it in you to do the same.”

“Getting back up ain’t a problem,” I say, and I don’t even have to lie. It’s the truth. I’m already back on my feet and ready to move forward, but I also know the truth that he won’t admit. “Just a tough pill to swallow is all, knowing I’ll never be the Firstborn you and my daddy wanted me to be.”

“Son,” Uncle Teddy says, and his tone compels me to look him in the eyes, eyes which are firm and unwavering despite all the doubts I’ve given him cause to have. “If this is all it takes to stop you, then you never had it in you to begin with. Maybe I saw wrong, but I don’t believe that for a second.” Nodding as if everything’s already decided, he pats my hand, stands up, and says, “Hard labour isn’t the end of it. I expect to see you for two hours every Sunday after church. Same as before. We’ll start with Eldritch Palm, studying what I can remember of the formula and structure unless you have other ideas you want to go with.”

And just like that, he strides out the door, ready to pick up our weekly lessons where we left off some three years back and leaving me no recourse to refuse. My pride prickles to want it, my conscience demands I reject it, but I can’t help but cry in relief to know Uncle Teddy doesn’t hate me for what I’ve done. That’s mostly why I went along with Wayne’s hare-brained scheme to begin with, because I didn’t want Uncle Teddy to learn the truth and think less of me, but now I know I was a fool to ever fear that in the first place. Aunty Ray, Tina, and Chrissy are my family, but not my whole family, as I forgot I had Uncle Teddy too, a man who saw my daddy as the son he never had and all that that entails.

Guess I been away from New Hope for too long, so long I forgot what family I got. It’s good to be reminded though, and frankly, good to be home too.