GUN SALAD

Morgan had been here before.

Clouds of steam circulated between tall, grimy walls. Vats of molten metal tipped their contents into molds. And everywhere he looked, conveyor belts were rolling half-finished firearms into the waiting hands of underpaid workers, the only human element visible amongst the morass of cogs, wheels, and gears. 

If their jobs could’ve been done just as easily by some new-fangled contraption, Morgan reckoned that Gunn would’ve jumped at the chance. As it was, though, it seemed he still needed a range-dweller or two in the mix; whether they were soldering or soldiering, he could always find a use for new blood.

“Ain’t it grand?” he rasped from behind a fresh gout of cigar smoke. “Nowadays, an enterprise like this practically runs itself! What a time to be alive.”

Morgan’s fingers tightened around the rusty railing of the catwalk. He’d never been a particular fan of Czar Gunn’s, and the sight of the arms factory’s inner workings hadn’t done much to change his mind. Still, as the only Czar who hadn’t required indoctrination to be brought in line, Gunn was less difficult to manage than the rest. The tour was nothing more than a formality, really; Morgan knew well enough that his abrasive host would serve the organization’s interests whether he was looking over his shoulder or not.

Gunn tilted his square, stubbled chin in his direction. “Hey, Sarada. You’re close to the boss, ain’tcha? Any word on where all this is goin’? Feels odd to pour so many resources into a war I know nothin’ about.”

Morgan rolled his shoulders and stared off across the factory floor. “I’ll have more details for you when the time is right,” he replied. “Until then, just keep doin’ what you do best.”

Gunn nodded slowly. He crossed his arms and stroked at that big, bristly eyesore of a handlebar mustache, his duster fluttering in the gusty heat coming off the smelting apparatus nearby. “That, I can surely do. Business is boomin’ ‘round here, after all–at this rate, Ballistona county’ll be the very last word in firearms exportin’ worldwide.” He paused to take another long, slow drag of his stogie and blew the ensuing fumes in Morgan’s direction this time. “I can see why this outfit is called the ‘Guardians of Prosperity’. My net worth’s grown in leaps’n’bounds since I started playin’ ball.”

It took a good deal of self control for Morgan to hold off on waving away the smoke. Between the steam, the heat, and the acrid fog rolling from Gunn’s big mouth, it took everything he had just to keep his eyes from watering. “This is only the beginnin’,” he assured him. “Keep recruitin’, keep rampin’ up production, and you won’t just get rich–you’ll get your hand on the tiller of global progress.”

“Now that is what I like to hear!” Gunn choked out a laugh, slapping Morgan on the shoulder so hard he nearly pitched right over the guardrail. “You’re alright, Sarada! Much as I’d love to stick around and hear you tell me more about how rich I’m goin’ to get, I’ve got an appointment with a peace-lovin’, rabble rousin’ acquaintance of mine down south. We done here?”

“For now,” Morgan answered. He straightened up and strode toward the open door at the other end of the catwalk, departing without so much as a half-hearted wave in the Czar’s general direction. No love lost there; he knew that Gunn probably hated him every bit as much as he hated Gunn, and Morgan had no qualms about keeping it that way.

He made his way back out into the patchy, smog-filtered sunlight of the Ballistona enclave with stooped shoulders and a heavy heart. Lately, talking up the virtues of the organization had become a chore. It was nothing but a pack of lies he repeated to himself and others–lies that he had earnestly believed once upon a time. Now, though, after years of faithful service to the cause, he’d seen too much. As he plodded through the oil-slicked mud of the central square toward his temporary quarters, he couldn’t help but reflect on all the people he’d seen harmed by the boss’s actions… All the well-meaning folks he’d seen crushed underfoot.

It made him sick to his stomach–sicker than the foul air of the enclave did. These days, Morgan reckoned it was only fear that kept him towing the line. 

…And, as he’d come to realize, fear could push a man a hell of a long way down the road to misery.

He threw open the door to the slanted tenement building he’d been staying in and climbed the crooked steps ahead at a lethargic pace. The meeting with Gunn was over; his business in the enclave was concluded. So why didn’t he feel better about things? He could go home now–back to Trigger City.

But, somehow, even that prospect didn’t excite him anymore.

“I’m home,” he announced as he crossed the threshold into his dump of an apartment. The wallpaper was peeling and the air quality was no better here than elsewhere in the enclave, but it was technically shelter. 

Shelter for him.

Shelter for the people he cared about most.

A blonde-haired beauty poked her head around the corner, gracing him with a smile twice as sweet as he deserved. Her manicured hand rested on the head of a boy less than half her height, who regarded his daddy with two fingers buried deep in his mouth.

“Welcome back, honey,” his wife greeted, sashaying toward him with a spring in her step. “Can we go now?”

Morgan grinned. He draped his arms around her waist and went in for a kiss–

SLAP!

Morgan reeled from the suddenness of the strike, eyes rolling in their sockets until the familiar sight of his cabin came into focus. He sat up in bed with a start, lifting a hand to feel at the reddened flesh of his cheek, and quickly came to realize that he wasn’t alone in the room:

Roulette was there, too, and she did not look happy.

“You’d better warn me before you try somethin’ like that again!” she fumed, standing well back from the overturned chair by his bedside. “Your condition’s no excuse to start gettin’ handsy!”

“My condition…?” Morgan repeated. He cast his bleary-eyed gaze over their surroundings, noting with some confusion that the sky beyond the porthole looked static.

Roulette’s posture instantly relaxed. “Yeah. You were tryin’ to show off and you took a dart to the chest, remember?” she sighed. “I nearly forgot I’d absorbed Turu’s power durin’ that mess in the jungle. Remind me never to humor you for one of your boneheaded ‘lessons’ ever again.”

Morgan groaned and rubbed at his forehead. “That was all a dream, then…? It felt so real…”

“Could have somethin’ to do with the fact that we didn’t bother rousin’ you,” she speculated. “The drug made you keen to jump right off the side of the Skywind at first, so Marka got a hold of you and carried you right here. I’ve been watchin’ over you ever since to make sure you didn’t do anythin’ stupid… Not that me bein’ here made a lick of difference on that front. Could’ve woken you, I guess, but you seemed mostly calm so I let you alone.”

“How long was I out?”

“Four hours or so, give or take.”

Morgan looked up and raised his eyebrows. “You were watchin’ over me all that time?”

Roulette pursed her lips and changed the subject. “We landed while you were down. Finally hit the coast, so we stopped in at the first settlement we came across to refuel.”

“Where’s that?” he asked.

“Toothless. You familiar?”

He shook his head. “Not really.”

“Me neither,” she admitted, glancing out the porthole. “Never been out this far east before–besides Trigger City, that is.”

“I’ve been all over, but I’m sure I missed plenty of one-horse towns along the way.” He cracked his neck and spun to plant his feet on the floor, taking a deep breath before speaking his next words: “Sorry about my little… Indiscretion, there, by the way. I wasn’t in my right mind.”

Roulette blushed a deep shade of red, keeping her eyes firmly locked on the room’s sole window. “Don’t mention it,” she said. “You’re awake now–that’s what counts. Now we can get on the hunt for Gunn.”

“Any idea where to find him?” he asked, rising steadily to his feet.

“I do. Won’t be easy to get there, though. Far as I know he’s based out west in my home county.”

Morgan nodded his head. “Ballistona.”

He immediately regretted speaking up. Roulette looked away from the window and narrowed her eyes in a show of obvious suspicion, her irises boring into his soul. “How’d you know that?”

“E-Everybody knows where Gunn’s stompin’ grounds are,” he sputtered. “The man’s an institution!”

A long moment of tense silence ensued. Then the girl smiled and crossed the room, tugging the cabin door open to admit him. “Gotta say, you’re pretty well-informed for a guy who couldn’t remember what he ate for lunch a week ago,” she observed.

“...So why don’t you lead the way?”