Firstborn of the Frontier

“You shitting me?”

A question to reflect the one I wanted to ask, though I would never be so crude. It’s par for the course for Jacob though, and I catch a flash of annoyance in Ron’s expression as he fixes his gaze on his Sergeant-at-Arms with a warning gaze. One that goes right over Jacob’s head it seems as the tall, gangly, sweat-stain of a thug marches right up Ron’s desk and slams his hand down beside me. I wince to see it, but not because of Jacob. No, it’s the grenade on the table that’s got me all jumpy, and seeing it bounce on the hard wood has my belly doing flip flops all over the place.

No one else blinks an eye though, and Jacob don’t even notice as he leans in and says, “This runty Qin disrespects Big Al, shoots Tank in the leg, beats Junior bloody, and you want to patch him in?”

“Also broke Mullet’s hand and gave Nelly a concussion,” I add, mostly because I kinda agree with Jacob. Seems a little ridiculous after all. “Junior’s keepers,” I add, when they give me a questioning look. “Don’t know their real names.”

Neither do they, and they both would’ve forgotten it if I hadn’t brung it up. Worth it just to see the disbelief on everyone’s faces as they wonder just what my game is. Everyone besides miss Laura of course, who hits me with a frigid gaze all full of sass that says she knows what I’m doing and that I’m better off keeping quiet. Real wordy with her eyes, she is, but this here is a difference of opinion, because I think I’m better off now that Jacob Senior is standing at my side, rather than lurking unseen behind me with his hand on his gun. All I gotta worry about is Franky now, and I got no qualms about using Wayne as a human shield again if things get hot. The rat-faced traitor won’t shoot me outright either, because he’s still hoping for this to all blow over like the fool he is, thinking he can live with one foot in both worlds rather than treading the careful line in between.

Most criminals think they can do it, benefit from the law while flouting it at the same time. Saw it on the way up here with those fools I gunned down on the highway while Errol and Sarah Jay made every mistake in the book. Wayne’s a little different, because he’s taking advantage of the Ranger star on his chest to do whatever he likes, betraying the trust inherent to the Rangers and the mission they uphold. Man’s a disgrace to the badge, blaming his woes on Marcus just because his wife got a problem with addiction. That ain’t on anyone but her, so it’s her cross to bear. Hard drugs are outlawed for good reason, not just because of the harm they do to the person who takes them, but also the hefty toll they take on the society that supports them. Addiction is a hell of a thing, and while I sympathize with addicts, that don’t mean they get a free pass on the crimes they commit in pursuit of those highs. Them drug-addled idiots who shot Darren all those years back are a prime example, so if Tamara wants to snort, shoot, or otherwise imbibe whatever she likes? Go right ahead, but that don’t mean the rest of us gotta enable her.

In short? If Wayne wants to act like an outlaw, then he ought to live like one too, instead of crossing lines whenever he sees fit. Like Ronald Jackson sitting across the desk from me, who wears the outlaw title with pride. Man knows he runs a criminal organization and does so with no regard for authority, flaunting the laws and confident others will come down on his side. Don’t make him less of a monster, but at least he don’t make no excuses, which I can respect. “Howie,” Ron begins, wielding my name like a club to correct his boy and show where he stands, “Would make a fine addition to Vanguard National. Junior said it himself; Howie all but solved the issues we’re having with the gatlings, and could likely acquire the learning materials needed to bring Junior’s skills to the next level.”

Giving me a look to confirm, I lean back in my chair and raise an eyebrow. “You mean his inability to combine Empower and Intensify? Yea, I know how it’s done.” Know a lot more too, like the Etches for Maximize and Quicken my mama left in my notes, though I’ve never Etched them myself. Theoretical knowledge is one thing, actually doing it is another, so it’d probably take me a good year to craft a working Aetherarm with those Metamagics. Twelve long, gruelling months of sitting in front of a workbench and trying to puzzle things out, because there’s no going to Mr. Kalthoff or Marijke for stuff concerning high-level military secrets. Only reason I still have access to the stuff is because my mama’s notes are written in Qinese, so I got to keep the originals, while the translated bits with Uncle Teddy’s explanations are all locked up tight in his weapon’s locker back home.

Nodding in thought, Ron reads more from my expression than I’d like and continues, “Howie is clever, dangerous, and isn’t above skirting around the law when necessary. Most importantly,” he adds, giving Jacob another good, hard look, “This is the same offer I made to you all those years ago, after you tried to cut my throat in my sleep. Why stay enemies when we can make friends instead? I believe Howie will make a fine addition to the club. That’s why I’m personally extending him an invitation to become a prospect. If you can’t let bygones be bygones, then you bring it up when it comes time to discuss whether or not we patch him in.”

A fine way for the bossman to put his underling in his place, but Jacob don’t catch on too quick. “This is bullshit,” he says, missing the warning in Ron’s gaze as he turns his sneer towards me. “Junior don’t need him. There’re plenty of gunmakers who can help Junior along, we just gotta make it worth their while.” Translation, Junior is a vile little shit and don’t no one want to teach him for peanuts. Turning back to Ron, Jacob’s tone turns whiny and belligerent. “I’ve been with you from the start, and after Georgie died, Junior stepped up big time to fill those shoes, putting what he learned to good use and coming up with those gatlings. We’re Vanguard National through and through, and after what this slant-eyed fuck has done to us, you’re just gonna let him slide?”

“Howie was defending his family, same as you are right now,” Ron says, sitting upright to meet Jacob’s challenge of his authority. “And if he agrees to join, then he gets the same clemency we offer all new patches.”

Honestly, I’m a little conflicted seeing him go to bat for me. Still think he’s a terrible human being, but there’s just something about him that’s hard to hate. How many other outlaws would extend an invitation like this? Just look past the animosity and offer to hire me on when he’s got me by the scruff? Shit, there are legit outfits who got a good handle on what I can do and wouldn’t even entertain the thought of taking me on, because they thought it was too much of a hassle to show me the ropes. Never mind the fact that I’ve proven myself capable coming back time and time again with a cargo load full of Abby corpses or information on prime hunting grounds for sale; In their eyes, I’m still just a snot-nosed kid who’ll be nothing but dead weight while they’re out on the road.

Not that I blame them all that much. Ain’t related to them, so why would they want to take on that burden? Even the Rangers won’t train me up unless I enlist, that much is clear. Especially now that Marcus is gone, because he might well have been the only one willing to bend the rules for me. Like he did here in Pleasant Dunes, and paid dearly for it, a lesson that won’t be lost on the others. Then there’s Uncle Teddy, who’d love to have me back for Spellslinging lessons every Sunday after church, but that’d be it. He won’t bring me out on Ranger operations, not if Ranger High Command won’t allow it. Would see it as an abuse of his personal authority, and The Marshal ain’t one to ever do such a thing. We were both short-sighted to think the Rangers would allow it, because there ain’t no benefit for them, and like I mentioned before, the cost of training boots into Ranger ain’t no small potates.

And yet Ron here thinks I’m worth it. A real kick in the gut that is, when your enemies value you more than your allies.

While I brood over lost opportunities, Ron and Jacob play out their silent power struggle and end it as expected, with Jacob scoffing and backing down to lean against the wall and stare at me from my side. Within my peripheral vision no less, showing how he don’t really deserve his place as Ron’s Sergeant-at-Arms. Starting to think Jacob only rose so high because of Junior, and maybe because he’s trustworthy. Same is probably true for Franky back there, who’s all muscle and ain’t all that right in the head. Or maybe it’s part of Ron’s game, putting incapable people in positions of power so they’re too busy holding onto what they got instead of vying for the crown, so to speak. Either way, as enticing as this offer seems, I ain’t all that enthused about signing on with Vanguard National.

“I appreciate the offer,” I say, and to my surprise, I actually mean it. “It’s a generous one, and I’m almost tempted to take it. Thing is, I don’t agree with most of what you do.” Waving at Wayne, then up at the town, I say, “The drugs, the explosives, the wage slavery, the rapists in your employ. None of that sits right with me, so if you don’t mind, I’d rather settle up our debt another way.”

Or you know… agree to do so, then come back when I’m not exhausted and unprepared to shoot Ron in the head and blow his explosive stockpile to kingdom come.

Ronald Jackson ain’t a man accustomed to hearing no, and he’s already riled up about Jacob getting on his last nerve. Gives me a good, hard look over top of his steepled fingers, the king looming over his would-be subject as it were. “Young and idealistic,” he says, shaking his head. “Those are all a means to an end, a goal you don’t got the perspective to understand. Tell me Howie; what do you think our goal is here in Vanguard National?”

“Dunno,” I say with a shrug, because I’ve never given it any thought. “Money and power I suppose.”

“One and the same,” Ron replies. “Money is power Howie, in a very real and direct way. They buy weapons and the men to use them. Not just to fight Abby, but to defend ourselves against others who want to take what’s ours, outlaws and government outfits who think they can step all over us and tell us how to live. Things aren’t perfect here, I’ll be the first to admit it, but you work with what you have.”

“Suppose we’ll have to agree to disagree on that one, Mr. Jackson,” I say, not missing how he keeps using my name to try and make it seem like we friends. Might as well let him, because even though I’m spoiling for a fight, I still don’t like my odds, not with a god-damned grenade sitting on the man’s desk. I’m angry, not suicidal, so even though I’d love nothing more than to start shooting the place up, all my training tells me I ought to keep my head down and live to fight another day. If we was having this conversation on the second floor, I’d have less qualms about fighting it out, because worst comes to worst, I can always jump out the window and leg it for the Ranger camp. Here in this basement though? With one way up that’s kept locked and guarded? Only way to win is to kill everyone here, which will need more than a little luck, so might as well see where this goes first. “I don’t agree with everything in the Accords or what the government does, but there’s a lot I do agree with, and I think they’re doing a fine enough job.”

“You call disavowing your father after fourteen years of service a fine job?” The question hits hard and makes me sit up straight, one hand clenched around the bottle and the other pressed flat against Ron’s desk. Takes everything I got not to throw the bottle at him, and I only succeed because he’s spitting facts. “Politicians are a bunch self-serving parasites without morals or compunctions,” Ron continues, magnanimously overlooking my flaring temper to lay out the facts. “Scummy, double-dealing opportunist who’d sell out their own people for a few extra bucks in their pockets, and will bend over backwards to twists lies into truth. Saw it firsthand in Lebanon, and plenty more back home in Pittsburgh once I was stateside again, and you’ll see it soon as you know what to look for.”

Like how some hot-shot politico downriver got the Rangers to wash out Errol after his dustup with little Dick. Or how Ron sees the ban on explosives as a complete non-issue, so much so that he was surprised when I brung it up. Said it once and I’ll say it again, violence is all folks respond to. Don’t pay your taxes, and the government will put you to work just like Ron does, so the only thing that really separates them is proper justification. An important distinction all the same, and I can’t see a world in which me and Ron team up, not with his outfit being the way it is. “You ain’t wrong,” I say, because he isn’t. “They say if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em, so I suppose that’s your goal then? Become a politico yourself, one representin’ the interests of the Independents?”

“And one willing to stand up to the old world governments even after the Watershed,” Ron says, hitting all the right notes in a song and dance I gotta work hard not to join in on. Ain’t no need to get into it though, because we can see that we both agree on this. The old world governments belong to the old world; the Frontier is ours. No two ways about it, and he sees there’s no sense in preaching to the choir.

Which makes it real hard to stick to my guns, but I’m nothing if not stubborn. “Shame really,” I say, shaking my head. “There’s a part of me that wants to join up, or at least sit down and talk it over a bit more, but I don’t see the point. You make some good points, but you cross a lot of lines best left uncrossed, so unfortunately, I got no choice but to pick option B.”

Ron sits there and stares at me for a good long second, then shakes his head with a smile as he turns to miss Laura. “You were right,” he says, leaning in towards her as she strokes his cheek. “Not a chance he joins up, even though it’d be smarter to lie and pretend to get out of this bind.”

“Thought didn’t even occur to him,” she drawls, and I hate to admit it, but she’s right. I’ll lie when I have to, but it don’t come natural, so I gotta make sure I got all my ducks in a row before committing to one. “A rare breed he is, a killer with principles.”

Heaving a sigh, Ron looks me over and considers making another offer, but he knows there’s no point. There are some things I won’t bend on, and I ain’t worth compromising over. “Fine then,” he says, putting his Ranger Naga away, but leaving the grenade on his desk, because he’s caught on to how it unnerves me. Jerk. “We’ll do things the hard way. Twenty grand was my expected return, and it’s been over a year since then. I’ll be charging you interest for time missed, because you don’t work for me and I have no reason not to. Two and a half points weekly puts your debt at…”

Ron gives me a look while I process what he’s saying, expecting me to do the math for him. “Weekly,” I say, my gaze going dark. “Two point five percent. Retrograde for the last year.” Ron shrugs, looking smug as can be, because he thinks I got no choice but to play ball, but now he’s the one being short-sighted. “That’s 68 grand and change.” Highway robbery, or the closest thing to it. I tap my finger, wishing I had my Big Spell Prepped so I could blow everyone here to kingdom come, but Ron don’t flinch. Knows I don’t have a Spell readied, because he probably instructed Jacob to make sure I didn’t, but then how’d he know I had it readied last time we did this little dance?

“Compound interest is a bitch,” Ron says, enjoying the moment for what it is.

“And if I don’t pay?” I ask, just to make things clear.

“Then we release this to the Rangers.” Pulling out a crystal from his desk drawer, he places it on the desk within reach. “A recording of your conversation with Noora, where you admit to killing my man. After that, we come calling to collect on your debt, and if you’re not around to pay, then we’ll go looking for friends and family to help settle up.” Shrugging, he adds, “Nothing personal. It’s business Howie. I’m a patient man though. You make your payments through Wayne, and come to me directly if you change your mind and want to work something out.”

He's got more to say, but I can’t take my eyes off the crystal, because things don’t add up. I thought Noora talked, and she still might’ve, but how’d they get me on crystal? A recording device like my bull’s head medallion is hard to miss, and Noora came to us in a pair of itsy bitsy shorts and a shirt only a slight bit bigger than my kerchief. Was she bugged then? But how? Can’t just Spell an item to set an Arcane Bug, gotta Etch a Sigil into something firm, like leather, wood, or metal. Cloth can work, but wrinkles tend to ruin it, and Noora’s been wearing a uniform and boots she borrowed off of Kacey, so how could she be bugged?

Unless she wasn’t.

Which means I was.

Hell… I might even know how.

Putting aside my bottle of mead, I lift my hat off of my head and turn it around for a look-see. All it takes is a single finger to pull the medallion forward just a bit and spot the Arcane Bug sitting there plain as day. Just an Etching on a square of leather tucked between the medallion and my hat, one that could’ve only been placed by one person without me noticing before my little heart to heart chat with Noora. Turning to Conner in disbelief, I almost want to deny it, to stop and think how else the bug could’ve gotten there, because there’s no way he’d do me dirty like that. Except he did, and Conner cringes to see the rage in my eyes, tries to frame his betrayal in a way that makes it cut less deep. “I only put it there as a precaution,” he says, looking all apologetic as can be, but that don’t change the facts. “You know, a word of warning in case you went to Marcus with what you knew, so Wayne would have a heads up in case he had to run. Owed him that much at least, so I did like he asked. Didn’t know it went down like that, or that you’d talk and he’d turn it against you.”

So now Conner’s here to make sure I don’t die for his mistakes. And here I thought he came out because he was concerned, but he’s still covering his own ass like always. Thought I was fine burning bridges with Conner, but I also figured time would heal all wounds. Now there’s no going back though, because he done stabbed me in the back and is standing there like he didn’t mean to do it. Trembling with anger and regret, I take a deep breath to keep myself from flying off the handle and face forward again, just in time to catch miss Laura’s eye as she looks away, and another piece falls into place. “So Conner builds the trap,” I say, and the man winces to hear it, “And miss Laura sets the bait. Sends in Noora to bat her eyes and tug at my heartstrings to tell my story, because you saw there was a story to tell.”

Can’t blame them for trying though. Only myself for taking the bait, hook, line, and sinker.

There’s a moment in there, a brief, fleeting split second in which I consider going for my gun and killing everyone in the room. An instant, that’s all, before reality rears its ugly head and forces me to settle down. Wouldn’t make it to my second shot, not with so many targets in the room, and I can’t decide who I want to shoot the most. Ron for being a soulless piece of shit. Miss Laura for exploiting my pain. Wayne for dragging me into his mess. Jacob for being so god-damned ugly. Franky… Got no beef with him, but he’s gotta die all the same. A dream is what that is, one I imagine and discard in the same breath, but the funny thing is, Ron does something I don’t expect. He flinches, startles ever so slightly as I meet his eyes with death in my gaze, and I know it’s not because he scares easy.

“Fuck me,” I say, doing away with the veneer of cordiality. “You’re a fucking Diviner, Ron.”

Man’s got the Portent, same as me. Explains how he knew to be wary of me last time and to be jumpy around me in the here and now. His gut is telling him I’m close to the limit and about to snap, so he wants to ease back a bit and let me come to terms with my new reality. Should’ve seen the signs sooner, or pieced it together back in New Hope. Uncle Teddy said as much, no didn’t he? Told me Ronald Jackson survived two civilian bombings and took part in thwarting who knows how many more. Can’t use magic around most bombs, but the Portent, now that’d come in real handy when disposing of man-made explosives, now wouldn’t it?

My own rustling jimmies get to screaming a warning, too little too late as I spot movement to the side as Jacob grabs me by the back of the head and slams me face first into the desk, bouncing my skull of the hardwood and rattling me a fair bit. “That’s Mister Jackson to you, boy,” Jacob taunts, a repeat performance from our last meeting that he never learned from, and it makes me laugh to see it. Earns me second face to face greeting with the desk it does, and hurts something fierce, but he’s got a good grip on my right wrist so I can’t go for my gun, and I got no proper leverage to slam my bottle in his face.

“Enough,” Ron says, his commanding tone cutting right over my chuckles as I sit helpless in Jacob’s grip. The two of them have themselves another glare off, because they most certainly had themselves a word after my first visit in town, something along the lines of not escalating things when matters are already well in hand.

Too late for that, and to make matters worse, Jacob ain’t repentant in the least. “Mouthy Qink turned down your offer to patch in,” Jacob says in defense of his actions. “So he’s gotta learn his fucking place.”

“And you the one to teach me?” I sneer at the man even though he got me caught good and well. “You miss how he threw out another job offer at the end there? One far less generous than the first, but he still wants to foster cooperation, and blows to the head do exactly the opposite.” Shaking my head with a wince, I ask, “How’d Junior grow up so smart with a dumbass of a dad like you? Ain’t no denying he’s yours, not with a face like that, but damn.”

“You hearing this?” he asks, gripping the back of my hair with a fistful of rage, his eyes wide and jaw clenched as he stares his bossman in the eyes. “Little shit has no respect for the patch or the rank and won’t ever come work for us, so what are we still playing nice for? He’s gotta pay, not just in cash, but in blood for what he did to Junior, Tank, Big Al, and them others.”

“Mullet and Nelly,” I supply, and at this point, even I don’t know why I’m still talking. Wish I could blame it on my bumps to the nogging, but not so sure that’s it.

“Howie,” Conner interjects. “Shut up.”

“Fuck you Conner.” That’s all I got in reply, raw impotent anger as I sit here in the hot seat because of his actions. Mostly mine too, but he ain’t without blame, nor is anyone else in the room. Well, besides Franky I guess. Not much I can do about it though besides stew in my rage as Jacob and Ron have it out between them. Can tell Ron still hopes we can work together, but doesn’t take him more than a minute to decide the juice ain’t worth the squeeze.

“Fine,” he says, heaving a sigh as he puts the grenade away before turning to me with a shake of his head. “You’ve got smarts and stones boy, but no quit. A shame. So much potential, all wasted because you can’t keep your mouth shut.” Reaching into his breast pocket, he takes a cigarette out of a metal box and grabs a polished, rectangular flintstone off his desk to light it with. A snap and a puff, the man makes it look cool and natural as can be as he studies me with a look of genuine regret. “Call it seventy flat for now,” he says, putting his flintstone back where he grabbed it, a little stand built just so he can find it easily. “You said you could pay seven grand when you get back? Make it ten, and I expect another ten minimum every month until we’re square, with the vig still running. You miss a payment and the recording gets released, then I send Wayne with a few of my boys to collect what I’m owed.”

The statement is made all matter-of-fact, so cut and dry it comes as a surprise when Wayne cuts in to complain. “I’m not one of your thugs,” he says, arms crossed in a huff which only shows he ain’t here for a fight. Fucking rat is also a coward, big surprise there. “I got a job to do. Can’t be running off to New Hope every month to pick up his payment neither.”

“Figure it out,” Ron says, without missing a beat. “And be glad I’m hanging it all around his neck instead of yours as I should. Told you not to make that deal, said it was too risky and that I expected to be paid, but you went and did it anyways.” Wants me to turn some of my anger towards Wayne, but I didn’t need any reminders, and Ron sees that it’s a lost cause either way. Stifling a sigh, he looks at me like the regal king he thinks he is and declares, “Jacob is going to rough you up in front of the crew. A little bit of a beat down is all. Take your lumps and then you can be on your way, back home to New Hope to get me my money.” Standing with the cigarette in hand, he offers miss Laura his arm with a smile, and they look picture perfect together as a beautiful, bi-racial couple rather than the monsters that they truly are. As they stride out arm in arm, she glances back over her shoulder to give me a look all full of pity, but without any empathy. Brung this on myself I did, or at least that’s how she feels, because if she didn’t convince herself of that much, then she’d have no way to live with the guilt.

Caught in Jacob’s grip, I’ve no choice but to let go of my bottle and lift my hands up in surrender as the rangy, hob-looking shite straightens me up so Franky can take my gun belt along with all my pouches full of ammo and components. Leaves me my Shield bracer and Metamagic bead bracelet though, on account of it sitting under my duster sleeves and him being none too thorough about his search. Takes my knife and hatchet too, giving the latter a little heft while rifling through my pockets to make sure I got no other weapons on me. I don’t, so once he’s good and satisfied with his search, he frog marches me out into the main room, overlooking how I still got my Mage Hands which snag my hat off the ground, the bottle of mead, and Ron’s flintstone too, because why the hell not?

Owe a man seventy dollars and it’s your problem. Owe him seventy grand and that sounds like his problem. Ron and his thugs can come calling to collect, but you can bet your bottom dollar that I’ll be ready and waiting.

Once outside, I find Ron and miss Laura standing in front of a crowd that’s cleared a space in the middle for the upcoming event, one I set my hat on the bar just outside Ron’s office, on top of the pile of my guns to be sure it catches the whole thing. Spot Junior squeezing his way in for a better view, looking eager as can be, surrounded by similarly aged friends with his face wrapped in bandages and his face all the uglier for it. Mullet and Nelly are there too, though no longer guarding Junior and standing off to the side like pariahs while the little shit boasts to his wannabe thug buddies about how his daddy’s gonna hurt me good. Greaseball, or Big Al I suppose, has got himself a seat front and centre, grinning from ear to ear as he hoists his bottle in my direction and laughs at my predicament with an older woman on his lap. There’s a bit more fanfare as they jibe and cheer, and even their girlies join in on it. Recognize some of them too, ones who were sat out on the porch with Cowie my first time through and gave me all hell for washing in front of them.

Yea, there ain’t a single innocent in this crowd, nor will I find one in town who didn’t ride in with me. Complicit, that’s what they all are, not just miss Laura and Noora, but Carl and Vicente too, all hiding their dirty little secret that could spell disaster for the whole Frontier, just because it makes their lives just a tad bit easier. Not for the first time, I wish I would’ve kept my mouth about Pleasant Dunes and let Abby tear it to the ground, but it’s too late for regrets now.

All I can do is take my lumps and come back later on to collect some interest of my own, interest that’ll make Ron’s terms look generous.

There’s a bit of preamble as Jacob plays it up for the crowd while Franky holds me firm, and when it’s all said and done, the big giant throws me at the other man who starts things off with a rabbit punch to the back of my head. The crowd cheers and pounds their tables, columns, and furniture while closing ranks around us in an impromptu ring, leaving only a meter or two in any direction free for our fight. Fine by me, because I ain’t one to run, and I put my dukes up just in time to block a flurry of big rights. Man was hoping to catch me off guard, which only shows how scare he really is, because the Sergeant-at-Arms can’t afford to look weak in a fight against a kid. Blocking is all I can manage though, because the man’s got a good fifty pounds on me at least, though a good portion of that weight is in his height rather than build. Yea, even the skinniest fellow standing close to six feet tall will weigh a good buck fifty, but I’m a only a hundred and twenty pounds soaking wet.

So I roll with the punches and guard my chin and my head while striving to find my bearings. Ain’t much for close combat, but I been in my fair share of fistfights, so I get to dancing around the ring and counting my steps to get a good read on the distance around me. The other man gets a few good hits in as I bob and weave, but I figure the crowd is a good four meters from edge to edge on either side of me. Could be off by a bit as they push me towards Jacob every time I get too close, and I can’t afford a maybe if I’m going to go big. They all yell slurs and insults while more than one spits or splashes their drinks at me in open derision, all calling for my blood while hopped up on drink and drugs. I don’t let it shake me, because this here is a fight between me and Jacob, one in which the more help the crowd gives, the worse it looks for him, so they won’t do too much out of bounds.

Or so I thought, until someone kicks the back of my knee out from under me and gives Jacob a big opening to punch me clean in the face.

The impact sends my head back in a blossom of pain, but the anger shuts it out in an instant. Was just a jab, so my nose ain’t broken, but I’m done playing along with this game. Rather than retreat as expected, I reverse my momentum and charge forward to duck under his follow-up haymaker, one that shows just how bad of a boxer the man really is. A straight would’ve connected, and I was ready to shake it off, but I ain’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth. Instead, I tackle his midsection and drive him back. Don’t got strength enough to lift him off his feet, so I don’t even try, just pin one of his arm against his side in a clinch. The man struggles something fierce, but not too desperate just yet, because he still got his pride despite having so much help and coming up empty. Me, I got my pride too, and it done well got poked, so I don’t think twice as I press my fingertips into the small of his back and watch the Cantrip’s Spell Structure come alive in my mind.

Two and a half seconds don’t sound like much, but in the moment, it’s damn near an eternity as I focus my feral rage upon my hands and sense the magic flow through me. Don’t nothing change about me physically as Aether takes form in reality, channelled through my mind and out into the world around my nails. To an observer, it might well look like my fingernails grow all razor-sharp and claw-like, but it’s all Ectoplasmic cladding that does the growing. My fingernails are still there under it all unchanged as ever, but it’s a difference without a distinction when I drive my talons through leather and cloth to find Jacob Senior’s tender flesh underneath.

Yea, Primal Savagery got no Vocal component, and barely a Somatic one where you brandish what natural weapons you got. Bare them teeth or flex them fingers, that’s all it takes for the magic to take hold, which is why I thought Cowie might be able to learn it. Used to sit with him and use Minor Illusion to show him the Spell Structure so he could get the timing and memorize it for himself. Never took, but I familiarized myself with the Spell well enough to use it without much thought. If I had, I might’ve done different, but as my claws dig in to deliver a stream of corrosive Acid into Jacob’s bloodstream and elicit a piercing shriek from the man, I can’t stop the grin from stretching across my face.

In for a penny, in for a pound, so I cut loose in mind and body both as Jacob kicks it into high gear to fight free from my clinch. I let him, relishing my freedom from the stench of sour sweat and tangy Acid with a whoop and a cheer. Credit where it’s due, he comes back swinging, his feet braced and knees locked to keep himself from toppling over in pain. Yea, that Acid’ll be eating away at him from inside, but being a Cantrip, won’t leave more than an ugly scar. Gotta hit them with it few more times to really kill them, as I learned myself first hand. Jacob’s got the spirit, but lacking in skill as I give him the run around while building up the magic within me again. The best thing about Primal Savagery is that you can use it to grow your claws and wait for an opportune moment to use them. I don’t hide it either as I dip and duck with talons bared like a beast on the prowl, my eyes locked on my prey without losing sight of my surroundings.

To show I mean business, I dance aside and lash out with my left at a thug trying to shove me from the side, raking his arm with razor-sharp nails and leaving a trail of Acid behind. Quick as a blink, Jacob moves to capitalize on my distraction, knowing my claws are one and done only to find my right fist ready and waiting. Miss Laura ain’t the only one that can bait a trap, and I get him clean in the chin with a straight. Hurts me something fierce to deliver it, but it hurts him more, and that plus the rage inside me drives me to do more. While he staggers back, I circle in to his right and deliver a left to his kidney same as I did for Junior, and my grin grows wider when I see Senior arch back in imitation. Much as I’d like to look the kid in the eye before I beat his daddy down, I don’t let my thoughts distract me as I close in for the kill. Nothing fancy or too technical, just a knee to the groin, because Jacob leaves himself wide open and I can’t help myself from going for it.

It's a compulsion really, to see a weakness and just want to exploit it. Tim get’s it, as it’s the reason why he spends so much time lining up shots whenever he free. It ain’t that he wants to shoot folks down in the street, but should there ever be a need to, then he’ll be ready for it. I’m the same way, though not so focused on longshots, and not so free about sharing my thoughts on weaknesses to go for, since I seen what that’s done for Tim. Don’t change the need to act though, which is why when Jacob doubles over with a groan, I can’t stop myself from grabbing the back of his head and slamming face down into my knee.

Payback is a real bitch, ain’t it? Shouldn’t have slammed my face into the desk. Twice no less. Told him last time how to put the scare in a man, but Hobb don’t learn, now do he?

Chest heaving with rage and exertion, I discover that the crowd has fallen silent. If not for my heavy breathing, you could hear a mouse fart in the room, and as I take in all the angry snarls and drawn weapons that I might’ve done goofed. “What?” I ask, holding my hands out to my sides in a sort of shrug and a show of surrender as I turn to face Ron. “I wasn’t supposed to fight back? Should’ve said as much then.” Then, because I never know when to stop, I look around with a smile and ask, “So who’s next?”

“Told you to take your lumps, boy,” Ron says, his smile gone and jaw clenched, because now he’s in a pinch. He can’t let this insult go unanswered, not when his whole club just watched their Sergeant-at-Arms get bodied by a kid. “Now? Now you’re really gonna pay.”

The crowd sets upon me with a chorus of snarls like tuskwolves on prey, and there’s nothing I can do about it besides activate my Shield Bracer and curl up into a ball. Getting punched in the face is unpleasant sure, but it’s nothing compared to a full-on beat-down doled out by a crowd, one eager for blood and none too picky about how they get it. The rain of blows falls down upon me as I hug my head and hunker down, wishing for once I had Aegis in my pocket if only to protect myself for a few seconds more. Got Barrier, but it won’t do me much good here, not surrounded on all sides as I am, and the next few seconds feel like years as I’m hit again and again and again.

Even the hits through the Shield hurt something fierce, and the others are all the harder for it. Don’t pass out. Take it all and pay it back a thousand times, but only if you stay conscious. Black out and everything you’ve endured goes to waste. They’re all packed in close now, so just clear you mind, reach for the magic, and you’ll be the one to have the last laugh. Three seconds, that’s all you need, slow and smooth and fast.

I grit my teeth and take the beating, use every trick I’ve ever learned to block out the pain and impacts to focus on the Spell Structure in mind, but there’s no use. Every time I feel like I got a hold of the Spell, it’s torn away by a new agony as I crumble beneath an unending flurry of fists and boots slamming into me from all sides. The world goes to black, but only for an instant as I watch the world shift before me in real time. There are no more fists obscuring my vision, and my body aches like it’s all one giant bruise. There’s no strength in me to stand much less resist as the crowd drags me to the bar and throws me up against it like a wet dishrag. A hand presses down on the back of my head and holds me face first against the wood, while another holds my left hand and Shield Bracer firmly behind my back and a third grabs my right from across the bar. For a moment, my heart stops and I fight for all I’m worth, only to redouble my efforts when Franky appears in sight and I fear my worst nightmare has come to pass.

No one reaches for my pants though, and I almost heave a sigh of relief when Ron appears next to Franky, his baby blues ice cold and stormy to behold. Shaking his head, the bossman looks down at me with a scowl and says, “A beating would’ve seen you free and clear just like I told you, but you just can’t help yourself, can you?” There’s no admiration for my stones this time around, no appreciation for the skills I’ve displayed, because I’ve done pushed past his limits and forced his hand. His thoughts, not mine, because while he’s used to others showing him their belly, he ain’t nothing but small potates in the grand scheme of things, a wannabe warlord who thinks he can move up in the world by climbing over everyone in his path.

Well, the Firstborn don’t roll over easy, and he learned that today. The only question is what this lesson is gonna cost me, and from the look of regret in Ron’s eyes, I can tell it’s a whole lot more than I care to pay.

“Do it,” Ron says, and Franky clamps his meaty mitt over my right hand to hold it in place. “Maybe this will teach you to keep a lid on your temper.”

Ron’s words are lost on me when I spot my hatchet come up in Franky’s hand, clenched firm and tight. “No,” I say, more in denial than anything else, but the big guy doesn’t so much as pause. There’s no hesitation in him, as he’s been given an order he means to see done. He brings the hatchet down and the world turns white and red as he cuts clean through the meat and bone with a thump. It’s a surreal experience, pulling my arm away from the bar screaming and leaving a whole hand behind, one I won’t ever forget no matter how hard I try to. The spray of arterial blood pouring out of the stump, and the pink meat and white bone contained within, all so neat and tidy it almost looks like a diagram from one of Uncle Art’s medical books before the rain of blood comes back down and turns it into a gory mess.

No longer pinned in place, I stagger back, then stumble and fall, and all the while I keep screaming, staring at the blood and bone and the empty space where my hand used to be. My right hand. My gunfighting hand. My eating hand. My writing hand. My Etching hand. The hand I use to run a comb through Chrissy’s hair, and these last few days through Tina’s too. Does most of the work tying my shoes, buttoning my shirts, and God knows what else while the left sorta sits there, the hand I rely on the most.

All of which goes through my head as I scream in pain and denial, but it don’t change the facts none.

“Stop struggling.” A firm hand pries my bloodied stump out of the weak and useless fingers I still got left, and the words flip a switch in my brain as I lay there and watch while Conner sets to tying a tourniquet around my wrist. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he mutters, sounding more panicked with each reiteration as he works by memory with no mind at all on the task. “They cut his hand off, L.T. How the fuck are we supposed to explain this away?”

“It’s fine,” Wayne says, though he don’t look any calmer than Conner sounds. “We’ll say he was mugged or something. Got drunk and disappeared. Get Ron to drag someone out to blame and hang them for the crime.”

Even though I’ve stopped screaming, the crowd ain’t all that quiet, laughing and cackling away in the distance, but so far away I can’t even be bothered to look for them. “Chopped my hand off,” I say. As if Conner could miss it, but I feel like it needs to be said. “It’s gone Conner.” Still feels like my fingers are still there, digging into the meat of a palm that ain’t attached to me no more, a fiery, lancing pain that dulls in comparison to the ache inside my chest. “They chopped my hand off.”

And Conner he stood by and watched it happen, wondering how he’s gonna cover his ass after the fact.

“You’re fine,” he says, and neither one of us believe it. “We’ll get it on ice and bring you back to Meadowbrook, where Doc Grigsby will sew it right back on. You’ll see.”

No I won’t. That’s 300 klicks as the crow flies. Six days of travel, three if we kill our horses. A full day of travel with the Fly Spell, which has a base ten-minute duration. Even on ice, there’s no way to make that trip fast enough to reattach my hand. It’s gone. Can’t get it back no more, and it hurts to even think it, but there’s no point crying over spilt milk, now is there. The hurt, the fear, the pain, the rage, all of it goes quiet as I tear my eyes away from the stump where my hand used to be. Conner’s panicked gaze is telling, as is how he avoids meeting my eyes, but I ain’t looking at him. Instead, I scan the crowd of Vanguard National thugs and the people who support them, the cold, empty pain in my chest comes alive with a fiery blaze of rage.

There’s Franky, holding my severed hand up for the crowd to see, and they all laugh, drink, and delight in my misery. Junior’s got a wicked look etched across his face, pointing and cackling for all he’s worth with his buddies while his father stands hunched over beside him with a face full of anger and cheeks flushed with shame. Greaseball has got one hand on his belly and his head raised in laughter, while Mullet and Nelly grin as they meet my eyes and bask in the moment. Each and every one of them will pay, and I don’t think twice about it as I take in the moment and force my mind into focus. Slow is smooth and smooth is fast, so I take a deep breath, then another, as Conner finishes tying off my tourniquet. Tearing my eyes away from the crowd, I confirm the location of my gun belt, still sitting with my hat on the bar I just lost my hand on. I’m out of the medallions line of sight, which is good, so I turn to check if the guards are still at the door. They aren’t, having gathered in with the crowd to catch the show, but the gates are still locked tight.

Good. Good, good.

One last glance around the open room shows that almost everyone present is packed in tight. Children. Women. Thugs. All gathered in close around Jacob, Franky, and Ron to celebrate the momentous occasion of taking the Firstborn’s hand.

A moment I’ll make sure they remember for the rest of their lives.

The Spell Structure comes alive in my mind’s eye as I reach out through the Quicken Metamagic bead on my bracelet, and my left hand shoots up into the air like I’m fixing to grab the sun by the shorthairs. Diviner that he is, Ron senses something’s up as his gaze snaps towards me from across the crowd. Shooting him a grin that’s all teeth, I meet his eyes and pump my fist while chanting quick as can be.

Credit where it’s due, Ron moves quick. As the last word slips out from between my lips, he clears the crowd with miss Laura in his arms and legs it straight into his office, leaving me a choice with a split second to decide. Point at the office to kill him and miss Laura both, or point at the crowd and clear out his entire crew? The decision is easy, because quantity matters, and I point straight at Jacob who’s standing in the centre of them all. The man of the hour as it were even though he got himself beat by the Firstborn. The ugly fuck doesn’t even see death coming, just meets my gaze with hate and rage that turns to panic as the air around him blossoms into the heat of an all-consuming inferno that devours him and everyone around him in a single, red-hot moment of fiery destruction.

All brought about by the words “Incendo – Magna – Invoko.” Or, “I Invoke the Great Fire”, a well-known chant to the most popular Spell of all, and the Big Spell I keep in my back pocket. Fireball.

There’s no explosion, no big booms or burst of flame. A giant sphere of heat that measures 12m across in diametre, one hot enough to ignite the very air they breathe and steal away their dying screams, that’s what the Spell does. Leaves nothing but blackened bones and the stench of cooked flesh behind, nothing recognizable to anyone from Vanguard National or the groupies they kept around. A half-second later, their ammo cooks off and pops as the bonds keeping the Aether crystallized are undone by the heat of the Spell, a crackle of mostly harmless pings as I gaze upon my work. Didn’t miss a single one, not all bunched up together like they were, because a Quickened Spell takes less than a half-second to throw out. Credit where it’s due, Ron’s a survivor, and even managed to save miss Laura too, but now he’s trapped like a rat and has nowhere to run, and it’s time for the Firstborn to have his due.

No, not the Firstborn. He’s dead and gone, his hopes and dreams burnt to ashes along with his right hand that’s somewhere in the pile of bones before me. I’m still alive and well, but I can’t carry the burdens the name comes along with, so best I bury it alongside of Marcus. All I got left now is my anger and rage, a Yellow Devil who’s destined to sputter out and die before the night’s end, leaving only a husk of a one-handed man in its place.

That’s all for tomorrow though, the hard part for future me to worry about. Tonight, there’s still work to be done, so the Yellow Devil can’t rest just yet.

Pushing myself to my feet, I barely feel the lancing pain that shoots through my arm when I forget my hand isn’t there anymore and try to prop myself up. Hurts something fierce, but it’s more of an inkling than anything else, an awareness of pain that gets shunted off to the back of my brain. Staggering over to the bar, I lean heavy against the wooden frame and loop my gun belt around my shoulder while keeping an eye on Ron’s office door so as not to get got.

“What did you do Howie?” Conner asks, and I can’t be bothered to answer, just tap the bull’s head medallion to stop recording, because I don’t want anyone seeing what happens next. “There were women in the crowd there. Kids too.”

“You don’t know what you’ve done,” Wayne says, cradling his head as he stares as the ashes, his 1911 in hand but in no mind to use it. “You’ve fucked everything up. Everything.”

“Nah,” I say, recasting Mage Hands for a fresh set while picking out the cleanest bottle of moonshine I can find. Popping it open with my teeth, I pour a good measure over the open stump and bite clean through the cork before pushing the pain back down into the darkness again. “Took care of most your problems, that’s what I did.” Taking a deep breath to steady my nerves, I draw my Rattlesnake and take an extra quarter second to aim seeing how I ain’t used to shooting with my left. Then I put two rounds through Wayne’s neck, and watch as he pivots on his feet with his hands clamped to his throat and his squinty rat eyes wide open in surprise as he looks at his killer with his last breath. “And that does it for the rest,” I add.

And before Conner can say or do anything, I put two through his head too, because he ain’t without blame either, and I can’t trust him to keep his mouth shut. The shots take him from behind before he can turn to face me, and I thank the Lord for small favours, because I’m still weak enough to worry about having to see the betrayal in Conner’s eyes. Man betrayed me first, and not just once, so this ain’t on me. That’s what I tell myself as his head erupts in a fountain of blood and bone, and I turn to face the office door again. There’s no movement inside, none besides the door swinging idly on its hinges. “Missed your one and only chance Ron,” I say, throwing a bit of a sing-song lilt into my voice, because if this is gonna be my last rodeo, I might as well enjoy it. “Should’ve come out shootin’ the second I opened up. Might’ve gotten out clean if you did, but now you trapped and proper fucked.”

There’s no reply from within, no clever retort or call for a truce, not even the booming shots of gunfire I expect. Only silence, which I hate, so I fall back and hand my Rattlesnake over to my Mage Hands to reload while fumbling about my pouches for a flashbang. Pocket two for easier access, then take a beat to move my Shield Bracer over to my right arm, since I can’t Shield and shoot with one hand anyways. Only then do I Prime the third flashbang, counting a full second before lobbing it into the office. Soon as it’s out of my hand, I draw the Model 10 and duck down behind the bar for cover. The bang goes off and I charge into the office, putting four into the desk when I don’t see anyone there and listen for the telltale sound of a cry.

Nothing.

Growling in pain and frustration, I stalk around the desk and find nobody lying in wait, and no bodies laid out dead or bleeding. The rage bubbles up as I waste the last of my reserves slinging a First Order Spell, one I didn’t use under dark but will come in handy here. Detect Magic as it were, and the room comes alive with the flows of Aether, which are more than just warm glows and shifting textures, but an added dimension to the world around me. Like holding a flame close to words written in invisible ink, except the flames don’t give off light and the walls exude shadows, that’s what it feels like here and now, the effects of my distracted and beleaguered mind combined with the Aetheric dampening effects of the lead in the walls.

Only makes things harder to read though, not impossible, and the facts come together before my eyes as I spot the telltale signs of the magical locking mechanism in the right bookshelf behind Ron’s desk. One keyed to certain individuals like the locks on the doors back home, and somehow I doubt Ron would be so kind as to merely shock his intruders. I ain’t no locksmith, so I got no way to get around it. Could go through maybe, but it looks like solid stone blocks behind the shelf, so it’d be faster to use the stairs. If I move fast, I might be able to catch the gunners on the first floor by surprise, but my training kicks in and I take a beat to think things through. I’m hurt, tired, and plum out of Spells, but the odds have tilted in my favour now that I’ve killed most of Ron’s crew. Can’t hurt to spare a minute or two to scavenge for some extra gear, like the bottles of moonshine sitting pretty behind the bar.

Or, I think, as I lay eyes on his desk drawer, the grenade he just showed me and stowed away tight.

Ron can wait a minute longer, his stay of execution only temporary. Preparation is key after all, and I’d hate to come so far and fall short of the finale. If this is gonna be the Yellow Devil’s debut and swan song both, then I might as well go out with a bang.