Firstborn of the Frontier

Palms forward and arms out to the sides.

That’s how I like to approach a town the first time.

Not at my sides, mind you. Puts my hands close to where most keep their guns. Also puts them out of sight from anyone standing on the ground, and some folk get mighty nervous when strangers ride up looking ready to draw weapon or sling Spell. I get it. I do. Ain’t got nothing to do with me personally. I’m a right friendly looking fella, with a big smile and winning personality as Aunty Ray would say. No, it’s the Aetherarms they’re worried about, the rifle hanging behind me which they can see, and the three sidearms strapped to my belt which they can’t. The man riding up is just a finger for the trigger, which is why I keep my palms facing forwards and arms out to the sides. Tells everyone who’s watching that I ain’t lookin’ to shoot or sling.

Not just yet, and certainly not at any townie guards. Not unless I have to, but that ain’t for me to decide.

Was a time when I’d put my hands up instead. That almost never worked out well, and it took a lot of thinking to figure out why. Sends the wrong message, see, one most folk don’t take kindly to. You show up with hands reaching for the skies, and it says, “Hi there. All y’all fine folk look like you fixing to murder me, so I’d appreciate it if ye don’t.” Downright prejudice is what it is, assuming someone’s gonna kill you just from how they look, even if there do be folk who look and be that way sometimes. Long as no Bolts are flying, then the least you can do is ask. If the answer is yes, and they do in fact intend to murder you, then you can reach for the skies or go for your guns. Dealer’s choice.

It’s just good manners, I’d say, and Aunty Ray raised me right.

Course, hands in the air also says, “I’m scared and helpless”, which even if you are, ain’t the right message to send. Especially if you walking up to someone fixing to murder you, which happens to me more often than I’d like. Again, that ain’t on me. You kick over enough vipers’ nests, then you bound to get bit every now and then. I do admit I’ve kicked more than my fair share of nests in my time, but not always because I go looking for them. Sometimes a nest don’t look like a nest. Sometimes, it look like a town and turns out to be a vipers’ nest, hidden in plain sight all sneaky like. That’s why I approach new towns how I do, palms forward and arms out to the sides. Best way I’ve found to go about it really. Makes it sorta look like you asking for a hug, all friendly and welcoming. Puts people at ease, as much as you can when you ride up in an armoured wagon, strapped and loaded for Abby. Can’t blame a man for riding heavy though, not out here on the wild Frontier. There’s danger in them black hills and under these coral sands, and out on the white grassy plains beyond. The forests and mountains too, and don’t even get me started on what’s hiding in the lakes and oceans.

In a word: Aberrations. You best believe there be Abby everywhere, except most times, they ain’t even half as dangerous as some folk can be. Nah, the Frontier ain’t a friendly place, which is why I’m rolling up to the town of Pleasant Dunes at a slow and steady rate, with my guns holstered and hands in plain sight. A lovely looking fortified settlement with curvy stone walls, tall towers, and a flimsy swing gate, guarded by at least four heavily armed chain-smoking townies. A surly-looking, suspicious bunch, peeking out from behind cover like they do. Course, all their efforts to hide is given away by the clouds of smoke they huffin’ and puffin’. Least they ain’t peeking down the barrel of their rifles or priming their heavy, static guns, though all this caution still feels a mite rude. I got my palms out and arms to the sides, so why they acting like I came charging in full throttle and popping off Bolts along the way?

Course, I keep my ire hidden behind a big, toothy smile as my wagon comes to a creaking stop in front of the heavy gate doors. Cowie, he don’t gotta hide nothing, so he drags a hoof through the sand, huffing and puffing because he wants in. Could get in, if he were of a mind to, punch right through these unanchored, swinging steel gate doors and keep right on going. A big, burly mass of bovine muscle he is, a mighty impressive beast even without the horns on. Ain’t much out there that can stop him, but lucky for him, he also cute and fluffy, with a pure white coat accented by his black ears, socks, and snoot which all give him a bit of extra character. A mighty fine bull he is, and most folk think Cowie looks downright friendly, which he is. Polite too, as Aunty Ray taught him his manners just like she taught me, so he knows as well as I do that these folk just scared. He also know scared folk happen to be the scariest folk, because when armed, scared folk get spooked, they don’t think. They just shoot, and me and Cowie ain’t in no mood to get shot.

So once again, from the top, just to make sure I ain’t left nothing out that could get me got. Arms out, and to the sides. Palms forward, fingers spread. Doorknockers lifted in their holsters and ready to draw, if necessary. Metamagic bracelet sitting pretty on my left wrist, next to my mithril bracer with it’s Shield Spell primed and ready to activate at a thought. Last, but certainly not least, my brown Stetson atop my head, for looking good and looking sharp with my bull’s head medallion at the front. That as they say, is that, the whole kitten kaboodle, so now all I gots to do is sit still as can be and keep a big toothy smile stretched across my face while waiting for someone to step out and greet me.

All this whoopla just to show these surly, scared townies that they ain’t got nothing to be scared of. From me, at least. Plenty to be scared of in general. Gibbering goblins, hideous harpies, and behemoth bugs all feature prominently on that list, but it’s a long one that keeps getting longer as the years go by.

Frontier ain’t a friendly place, nor does it make for friendly people, but I try to be friendly wherever I can.

Won’t lie and say keeping a smile on is easy, not with so many Aetherarms about, even if none of them are technically pointed directly at me. Smile’s important though, so I work extra hard to maintain it. Course, they can’t really see it on account of my kerchief being in the way. Need that to keep the grit outta my mouth when Cowie gets moving, and my goggles to do the same for my eyes, but a smile is more teeth and eyes, as Aunty Ray likes to say. I ain’t saying she wrong, but I’m pretty sure she ain’t entirely right, at least not in so far as it applies to me. Now, her smiles are most certainly more than teeth and eyes. She got that smooth, milky skin and corn-silk hair to help sell the image, not to mention the other parts of her a man might take the time to appreciate. Don’t get me wrong, Aunty Ray’s been more than like a mother to me, treats me as if I were one of her own, and I’ll fight anyone who dare disrespect her. That said, I cannot deny the fact that she’s the very picture of an all-American southern belle, and a blonde, beautiful, buxom one at that, which is why her smiles go a long sight farther than mine ever will.

For example, if she were sitting here in my place, I’m sure as shooting the gates would already be open and the men of Pleasant Dunes fighting to fetch her a drink. That’s before she starts flashing her pearly whites and batting them big blue eyes, mind you, or using any of her other charms, mundane or otherwise. Meanwhile, I’ve been sitting out here under the burning red sun for a hot minute, and ain’t no one made so much as a peep. No ‘how do you do’s or ‘what’s your business’es, not even a ‘we don’t take kindly to your type’. Just silent, suspicious stares while keeping their rifles at the ready, but no instructions to do nothing or go nowhere.

Considering I’m an unfamiliar visitor to their fair town of Pleasant Dunes, it ain’t wrong to let them townie guards have the first word. Sets the mood for our conversation, whether it be friendly, professional, or downright hostile, and lets me know how to best approach this. Thing is, these townies’ve had plenty of time to tell me to turn away while I was approaching, and they didn’t. Now that I’m here though, they don’t look ready to welcome me in. This tells me they ain’t exactly against my presence here in town. They just waiting on someone to make the decision to let me in and take responsibility for it. Now, Aunty Ray would say that patience is the key in this here scenario. It’s only polite to give people a chance to get all their ducks in a row before hurrying them along, and the longer you look safe, the safer others will feel. Much as I’d like to wait it out however, it’s getting mighty hot out here under the ruby red sun, and I got coral sand stuffed into nooks and crannies I don’t much like being made aware of. Five and a half days of riding through the desert will do that to a man, and I’m of a mind to be free of all this grit.

So I very slowly and deliberately lower my goggles and kerchief to hang around my neck, before using the same hand to doff my Stetson in greeting. “Howdy, y’all.” Their surprised expressions are expected, and same with the anger and suspicion that follows, so I pay it no mind. “Name’s Howie Zhu, out of New Hope.” A bit of whispering goes on, too quiet to hear, but the narrowed eyes and curled lips ain’t reassuring. Could be because they think I’m too young to be travelling about on my own, though they don’t look or sound concerned for my safety. Both Doorknockers come out an extra half-inch without anyone noticing, on account of them sitting behind my back and under my duster, but I only intend to use them if the townies start shooting first. To ease the mood a bit, I put my arms back out and to the sides, with hat still in hand as I nod at my furry white bull of a partner. “This here is my driver, Cowie.” At the sound of his name, he bobs his snowy head to say hello, then opens his clear grey eyes and parts his black lips to give a big old moo. That usually gets a smile outta most folk, seeing how cute our rapport is. No smiles here today though, only hard stares and angry scowls. “How all y’all gentlemen doing this fine day?”

“Move along, Qink.” Finally, a man speaks. To throw out a racist slur, which ain’t promising, so the Doorknockers come out another half-inch. Still, an open dialogue is better than nothing, and I turn my smile to the man in question as he steps out from behind his cover to stare me down. A weathered and scarred settler of many years, with a poorly rolled, half-smoked cigarette poking out between his lips and no hat to cover his head. He’s gotta be forty-five at least, a white man with brown skin so leathery and pockmarked you could probably grate cheese on it. Close to two decades of constant sunburn topped by a sprinkle of Acid damage will do that to a man, which begs the question of why he never saw fit to wear no hat. “We don’t take kindly to your type around here,” Pockmark’s says, gripping his rifle tight, the intricate Metamagic Etchings on the metal glowing bright purple to show it’s primed and ready to fire, though thankfully, he don’t quite point it at me just yet.

“Now hold your horses a minute,” I say, keeping my grin big and bright as always while meeting his eyes. “Not need to get nasty. I’m here on business.” Turning my whole upper body to point towards the U.F.P.S flag flying from the side of my wagon, I add, “United Federation Postal Service business.”

That gets them to really muttering for a bit, until Pockmark shushes them quiet. “You think we’re some kinda stupid?” Well, yea, but it’d be rude to say, so I keep mum, play dumb, and wait for him to explain. “We just supposed to believe some snot-nosed Qink is working for the Postal Service just cause you flying their flag? I got drawers older than you boy, and they’d still last longer out there than you would.”

“Good thing I got the papers to prove it then.” Offering a small shrug, I point at my left breast and ask, “May I?”

“Slowly.” Pockmark hefts his glowing rifle to reinforce the point, a loud and nasty Snapdragon, so I give him the respect the gun deserves. First things first, I put my Stetson back on, which gives me time to hide my Doorknockers behind my back before I go and open up the left side of my duster. Gotta show these townies that the pocket I’m reaching for ain’t actually a holstered gun. Any guard worth his water would already know that, but these ones do be suspect. Then, using two fingers from my right hand, I reach in and slowly pull out my passport and employment contract. Even so, they all tense up as the papers come out, like they expecting a derringer or grenade or something. Once Pockmark sees that my papers are in fact papers, he motions me over and says, “Alright now, get down here Qink. No funny business.”

There’s a set of hinged stairs I could lower to climb down from the wagon, but I get the feeling that I shouldn’t go reaching for things these townies can’t see. Not a problem though, as I hop off the side Pockmark’s closest to. The metallic clink of my guns as my boots hit the sand reminds the old man that I’m still armed and dangerous, but its too late to tell me to put aside my weapons. I just stride on over like I ain’t got a care in the world and poke my papers halfway through the bars. Not all the way through, as a man with his hand or arm stuck through a gate is real easy to grab and hold in place. Only had to make that mistake once to never try it again, and from the looks of things, Pockmark gets it.

To make things easier for him, I look away and give Cowie a reassuring pat on the neck, which he takes as permission to come in close for a cuddle. Real glad he don’t got the horns on now, because he fierce with his affections. This ain’t the place for hugs and kisses though, so he gotta settle for a pat and scratch, which he do because he understanding like that. From here on out, it’s a waiting game while I pretend not to notice Pockmark doing his little dance. It’s the same shuffle all men lacking confidence do when put in a similar position, the one where he tries not to look scared except he obviously is. He puffs his chest and straightens up to look tough while working his cig from one side of his mouth to the other, then ruins it by leaning back as he stretches his arm forward to take my papers. He wants to keep his distance, because he’s worried I’ll grab his rifle and try something, though I don’t see why I would. Even if I take hold of his Snapdragon, he’s still got two revolvers he could shoot me with, a pair of serviceable TEC-LS revolvers judging by the odd shape of the grip and small size of the gun, not to mention three friends with plenty more guns too. That’s scared folk for you though, never thinking clearly, so you never know what they gonna do until they do it. That’s why I keep still and silent, my smile never wavering or mocking, because again, scared folk be scary.

Course, I ain’t one to depend entirely on goodwill neither. Trust is good and all, but caution better, and their abundance of leads me to take more. While Pockmark and his buddies watch the papers in my right hand like hawks, they miss seeing that I got my left hand hidden between Cowie and me. This lets me waggle my fingers and draw Aether through a single bead on my bracelet with no one being the wiser. At first glance, all everyone sees is a simple glass bead bracelet, eighteen translucent spheres no bigger than a fingertip with some dark sand suspended inside to make for some unique patterns. A pretty enough accessory, and I tell people it’s a Qin charm for luck and prosperity my mama made for me, which is mostly true enough. Keeps folks from looking closer and maybe wondering why the patterns in the dark, suspended sand look so similar to Metamagic Runes, like the stuff you’d find Etched into any decent Aetherarm. The reason being is that they pretty much serve the same purpose, as each and every single bead is capable of modifying a manually casted Spell in its own unique way. The Metamagic I’m using now is simply named the Silent Metamagic, enabling me to eschew Vocal components on a Spell so dangerous and recognizable that they’d shoot me dead without a second thought if they caught me chanting.

Not a Spell I intend to sling mind you, not any more than shoot my guns, but again, it ain’t for me to decide.

Once finished casting, I hold and ready the Spell like an arrow nocked and ready. Ain’t easy, nor pleasant, since it’s a bit like holding a hot stone in a pair of shoddy oven mitts. Keeps the heat at bay well enough for now, but you feel it leeching through, and can’t help but wonder how long you can last before it burns through your gloves and hurts you real bad. Makes Pockmark’s whole song and dance a bit tedious to sit through, but at some point, he finally finds the courage to close his fingers around my papers. Course, that brings on the intrusive thoughts, mostly of how fun it’d be to toy with him a bit, pull back the papers and laugh a little at his expense, or hold tight and make him work for it. Would be downright stupid too, so I let him have his prize and step back to put both arms out to the sides, while I focus on not unleashing my big Spell unless I really have to.

All I gotta do is point and think, and all hell will break loose, but I’m betting it won’t be needed. These townie guards care enough to actually look at my papers, which means they’re likely to respect the Accords, and in turn the legitimacy of the institutions that granted me said papers, namely the Rangers and the United Federation of American States behind them. It’s a government of the old world, a world we won’t be seeing for decades to come, but Pockmark was definitely an American before he passed through the Gate, and I put good money on most of his friends being American too.

I mean c’mon. They’re white, loud, opinionated, and they love guns. That just screams ‘America’. Not saying all Americans are like that, nor is it a criticism of those who are or aren’t. Most the people I love are white and American, and I love guns too. I’m just telling it how it is, and there ain’t nothing wrong with that.

Looking as cordial as can be, I stand and wait while Pockmark flips through my papers, then choke down a sigh as he steps out of the shadows for a better look. Man knows his paperwork, I’ll give him that, angling my documents around in the light to check if they real, an illusion, or a conjuration. They’re real and legit, but Pockmark don’t wanna believe it, so he squints his eyes, puffs his cig, mutters a little chant, and waggles his fingers over them to reveal the Affiliation Mark. An illusory bronze, five-pointed Ranger Star reveals itself, projected just over the papers, and its essence signature will tell Pockmark that it was magicked there by Theodore Ellis himself. On the passport and employee documentation both, mind you. Not everyone gets their personal papers Marked by the Marshal. I did cause he’s my Uncle Teddy. Taught me most everything I know about slinging Spells, and more than I can list about life to boot. Also comes over for dinner at Aunty Ray’s ever other week or so, but none that personal stuff written on my papers. If it was though, it’d impress these guards something fierce. There ain’t nobody on this corner of the Frontier who don’t know the Rangers’ leading man west of the Divide, and not a single one would dare disrespect him.

Cause if someone did, then I’d find ‘em and kill ‘em dead. Or someone else would, since I’d be competing for the honour against every Ranger who ever served under the Marshal. Good men are in short supply here on the Frontier, and Theodore Ellis stands among the best of them.

“Nah, this is some bullshit.” There are a couple extra l’s stuffed in there, but not enough to take offense. Pockmark is just in denial is all. Can’t fathom why it’s the Marshal’s got his Mark on my papers, but doesn’t bring it up because he don’t want to cast aspersions on the man’s honour. “Says here you was born in December of ’89. Bull-fucking-shit. Every man here knows that the Advent was April 29th of that same year. That’s only eight months to December, and it’s a fact that every pregnant woman who passed through the Gate had a miscarriage. Even the seeds we carried through didn’t sprout.”

The mutters have turned to grumbles as Pockmark’s friends do the math for themselves, but I let my smile grow wider as I nod along. “You right. You absolutely right, and I’m glad you brung it up, because I love telling this story.” My arms come down, because you need your hands to tell a story properly, and the townies don’t think nothing of it. “So picture this: it’s the day of the Advent, right? April 29th, just like you said. My daddy, he was a Son of the Qin Republic then, and like you fine folk, he got himself a spot in the first wave of settlers.” Gesturing at each man in turn to include them, I continue, “You was all there, but me? I can’t even imagine it. Marching through the streets of the Forbidden City on your way to the Gate alongside millions others just like you. Each and every one of you ready to give up everything the old world had to offer. The motorized cars, the aero-planes, the shopping malls filled with stores that stock anything and everything a man could ever need or want. All that and more, just poof! Gone, to start a new life on a new world with nothing but the knowledge in your heads, and no hope of ever going back or even communicating with the people you left behind.” Shaking my head in admiration, I heave a sigh and sad, “Don’t know where y’all found the courage for it, if I’m being honest, because I could never.”

That earns me a few smiles, since flattery will get you everywhere. More of Aunty Ray’s sage advice that works better for her than me, but it still works good enough.

“So my daddy,” I say, puffing up with a big of pride, because I do love my daddy, “He walks through the Gate, nekkid as the day he born. Ends up a little north and west of here actually, right where the plains, desert, and mountains meet.” More smiles and a bit of chatter takes place as they discuss where that is. They know the area, they just don’t got a name for it, even know exactly how far it is. It's a true too. That is where the Gate spat my daddy out onto the Frontier. Usually, I lie about the actual location, make it somewhere local so it resonates with whoever listening. Again, Aunty Ray’s advice, which works pretty good, as the townie guards are all chatting and smoking instead clutching their rifles.

I wait until discussion dies down and I have their attention again before I continue my story. “My daddy’s dizzy and nauseous from his one-way trip to another world, but he finds his bearings right quick. Fixes himself up a grass skirt and a rope sling, then sets off to explore the Frontier with naught but couple rocks in hand. Wouldn’t you know it, he finds himself the greatest treasure of all on the very first day: my beautiful mama herself.” Now even Pockmark’s got a smile and commenting about their luck, because every man here remembers how hard their first day was, dropped onto a new world all by their lonesome, with little more than their wits to go on. “They fall in love as people do, and set to building their new life together. Then, a few weeks later, they find out they got a baby on the way. Me. Celebrations all around, because they starting a family, so they work extra hard to make things ready. It ain’t easy, but it is what it is.”

Pausing a beat to let my audience reflect on their own arrivals, I take a deep breath before continuing. “Months go by, and it’s almost New Year, but then my mama’s belly starts hurting something fierce.” My smile slips away, and it ain’t even a part of the act. “Complications leading to premature birth. That all we know. Didn’t have no fancy diagnostics you all had back in the old world. Don’t even know how premature I was, only that it was at least four weeks early, if not more, and it cost my mama her life.” I cost my mama her life. They hear the guilt in my voice, and they know it’s the truth, even if they don’t believe she would’ve seen it that way. They’re all quiet now, and I have more than their attention. I have their sympathy, because there’s not a man here who hasn’t lost someone themselves.

It's not a guess, or a read. Just common sense. This here is the Frontier; everyone’s lost someone at least once, unless they never had no one to lose.

After taking a moment to swallow the lump in my throat, I rally with a sad, but proud smile. “My mama lived long enough to hold me, say my name, kiss me on the forehead, and tell me she loved me before she passed. That’s what my daddy said, and he wouldn’t lie about that.” Now is the perfect moment for me to take another deep breath, because it’s always good to leave your audience wanting more. Once they’ve waited long enough, with a few even lighting up new cigarettes, I ask, “But then y’all see the problem right? My daddy got himself a son, but no milk to feed me. It was just the two of them back then, my mama and daddy alone on the Frontier with no one to rely on. They never planned for what might happen if my mama didn’t make it, didn’t expect the issue to come up. They just plain didn’t know any better.”

“Cause they was kids,” one of the guards says, and the heat in his words and quiver in his voice is telling. “Damned Qin Republic sent a buncha damn kids through the Gate to die like damned dogs.”

The others chime in with their agreement, and I nod along with, because I do agree wholeheartedly. “You right. The Qin Republic is downright deplorable for what they did, and you won’t hear different from me.” Fact is, they might hear a whole lot worse, because familiarity do breed contempt, especially when you familiar with a bunch of dirty, low-down, rotten scoundrels with no regard for a human life.

This is why I love telling the story. Nothing brings people together like empathy and mutual hate.

Using the anger, I pour it into my story. “My parents, they was told they’d be heroes. First generation of a new world, but they wasn’t even seventeen, younger than I am now. Imagine it. Sixteen years and change, and overnight, you become a father and a widower both. That’s how it was for my daddy, the love of his life dead, her body not yet cold, while his son living on borrowed time. Can’t stop to grieve or give mama a proper burial. No, my daddy knows what he gotta do and does it. He packs what he can, wraps me up real tight, and marches out in the dead of night. He don’t know where he going, only that there was a big plume of smoke to the south earlier that day, so he’s hoping against all hope that he’ll find someone able and willing to help. Didn’t have no horse or wagon, no radio or nothing, just little baby me in one arm, and a single-shot Bolt musket in the other, one he’s gotta reload by pouring a paper packet of Aether down the barrel and jamming a stick in to prime it.”

Meeting the eyes of my now captive audience, I give them that look, the knowing look you give another man to show you know that they know how bad it is without crossing over into pity. “Y’all know these lands better than me, so you know it’s chock full of Abby. Is now and was then too, but somehow, someway, my daddy made it.” Probably because he didn’t have no musket, but a breach-loaded rifle and pistol. Still single shot, but don’t take thirty seconds to reload. Only three to five, but musket makes for better story telling. “Took him ten hours to track down the people who made that smoke. Arrived just before sunrise and walked right into a camp full of American Rangers, bloodied and exhausted after an Abby attack but alive. Wouldn’t you know it, they had a pregnant woman with them, my Aunty Ray, to whom I owe my life. You know who else was there?”

Rather than say it out loud, I give Pockmark a knowing look, who looks back until I glance at my papers in his hands. “No,” he says, his eyes going wide, and his friends follow suit when he asks, “Marshal Ellis?”

“Exactly.” Grinning for all I’m worth, I let them all glance at my papers to confirm before continuing. “Though it was Captain Ellis back in those days. Leading a group of Rangers to escort a bunch of civilians south to the settlement he founded, New Hope.” This part’s not entirely true, just mostly. The truth is that all this took place about five-hundred klicks south of where we stand, in a Ranger camp deep in the badlands right next to the Divide. That’s the only part I changed, because the whole story of how my parents got there would’ve taken too long to tell, and frankly, these townies probably wouldn’t believe it. “That smoke my daddy saw which led him to them? Ranger cooking fires set to render Abby corpses after an attack that morning. They was fixing to leave before that, but then the Marshal decided they could use a day of rest. If the Rangers hadn’t come under attack, they’d have never set those cook fires and my daddy never would’ve known they were there, so he never would’ve found my Aunty Ray, and I never would’ve made it past my first day.” The guards join me for a chuckle over the long odds of all that, though in reality, the odds were a tiny bit longer.

With the best part behind us, I rush through the rest of the story. “As you can probably guess, we followed the Marshal back to New Hope. We was the nineteenth family to join them there, but that ain’t why the Marshal Marked my passport himself. Said he wanted the honour of vouching for the firstborn son of the Frontier, his words, not mine.” Allowing myself to puff up a bit, I smile and present myself for inspection, arms out at my sides again, except this time it’s less ‘gimme a hug’ and more ‘here I am’. “Likely true too. Ain’t met no one local born who’s older than me, and doubt I will ever will. Was born on the last day of the year, or maybe the day before it, we ain’t entirely sure, but it does mean I’m probably the only child born on the Frontier in ’89. That’s why it’s my callsign, Firstborn.” Stepping back with just the hint of a theatrical bow, I wrap the story up with a fresh start. “So allow me to introduce myself again. I’m Howie Zhu, Frontier born and Federation educated. Grew up in New Hope, where last week, I started my trial as a courier for the U.F.P.S, which is why I’ve come to Pleasant Dunes to stand before you fine gentlemen today.”

“Well shit,” Pockmark says, now grinning from ear to ear, as are the rest of the guards. “Ain’t that a story? Name’s Carl. Good to meet ya Howie.”

“Likewise, Carl.” I match their smiles and ask the others their names, exchanging pleasantries now that we’re no longer strangers. When we’re all familiar, I meet Carl’s eyes and give him my best toothy smile. The trick is to not care if your teeth are touching. Just smile and let your face figure out where everything go. “So… y’all gonna let the Firstborn in to deliver your mail, or you gonna leave me out here to bake?”

They all have a good laugh before opening the gate. Which is great, because now I can get a cold drink, a hot meal, wash off all the sand from them nooks and crannies, and then maybe see about killing a man or five, so long as I find the right men.

See, I didn’t just come to deliver the mail. That’s a side gig, way to pick up a little extra scratch. The main reason why I came out this way was to find me a viper’s nest, kick it over, then get out without getting bit. Or in other words, find the outlaws hiding in Pleasant Dunes, kill as many of them as I can, then leave without getting shot myself so I can collect the bounty on their heads.

It’s nothing personal really. Just another day on the Frontier. What can I say? Bounty hunting ain’t much, but it’s honest work.