As expected, the first leg of our journey south goes off without a hitch.
Ain’t much to be wary of here in the heart of Federal Territory, which I suppose is a point in favour of big government. Problem is, they tend to be results oriented, meaning that even though violent crime and Abby incursions are lower in these populated areas, that really only pushes the problem outwards towards the borders of civilization. Saw it up around Meadowbrook where Federal territory borders on Métis and Independent ground, but I ain’t all that sure what to expect around Redeemer’s Keep considering we got three new settlements going up south of it, all of which is Federal Territory without any real contenders close by.
Mostly because no one wants to be on the front line in the war against Abby right next to the Divide. Before these three new settlements broke ground, there was growing concern that the Fed’s plan was to funnel Abby south towards the Fuchsia Flatlands instead of containing them in the Badlands. Might well have been, according to some pencil pushing fat cats out west, but the Marshal never would have stood for it, and if they tried to force the issue, he might well have resigned and struck out to defend this area himself.
That’s just the sort of man he is. He ain’t one to consider the big picture, the economic feasibility, or the sheer odds stacked against him. No, his job is to protect people from Abby, and he’ll see it done even if he’s gotta kill every last one of them by himself.
He’d never be allowed to go at it alone though. If things ever got that far, he’d find an army of volunteers ready to follow him to wherever he might lead, and I’d be among them. So would plenty of Rangers, and I bet you’d find Pathfinders, Protectorate, Chevaliers, Templars, and people of all creeds, colours, and nationalities to boot. He’d never ask for the help, but he’d get it all the same, so much of it that it might pull too many people to his side and leave other areas lacking in military personnel. It ain’t his force of personality that draws you to his side, or his ability in battle, but rather the sheer focus and determination that drove him to take an outpost next to a lake and turn it into the crown jewel of the Eastern Front in spite of the threat of the Badlands and the Divide looming right over them.
This is a man who set out to protect people from Abby, worked without rest or reward for 19 years in service to that goal, and is more dedicated to his mission than ever. If he leaves the Rangers, then everyone west of the Divide will know it’s because he thinks he can do more as a civilian, and people from all walks of life will flock over to help him the way he helped them or their friends. That’s how it is when you live by the golden rule like the Marshal does, not to mention going above and beyond the call of duty to keep folks safe from Abby. Guess someone higher up in the Rangers knows that too, which is why the Marshal got his funding for these three new towns instead of the political bootlicks telling him to kick rocks.
Course, being new, unfinished towns means they likely ain’t all that secure, so I err on the side of caution and treat Redeemer’s Keep like the border it’s always been. Spent the last five camping out beneath the stars despite plenty of accommodation to be found in Summerbloom and Hollow Hills. I opted to avoid them for a few reasons. One, I didn’t want to go through all the rigamarole of locking down all my illegal guns, because not even Mr. Tillman knew how that would go down. While a Federal Sheriff or town guard would be well within their rights to confiscate any and all illegal weapons found during a custom’s inspection, my status as an Independent diplomat should afford me a lot of leeway with regards to personal effects. Problem is, neither I nor my party have been given any papers regarding our diplomatic status, and while there is precedent regarding Independents acting as neutral facilitators and carrying illegal weaponry, that typically only happens when Feds are operating in Independent territory.
So we’re breaking new ground here, as I’m the first Independent third party who’s been asked to weigh in on a matter outside of Independent Territory. Luckily for me, the talks are happening in New Sonora, which is Mexican territory as opposed to Federal, and Mexicans are a lot less uptight about what weapons their people can carry. Mostly because the cartels won’t obey the laws anyways, so ensuring their regular folk are similarly armed does a fair bit to keep the Mexican government from being completely overrun by outlaws.
While also keeping corrupt or blackmailed officials from doing whatever the Cartels want, since law-abiding Mexicans are armed and unwilling to just roll over while getting screwed over. Not to say they got it better, as crime and corruption do still be issues, but at least their government officials will step softly knowing any Juan, Diego, and Pedro could end them with a fully automatic or full powered rifle. It’s silly really, because for all their talk of Second Amendment rights, Americans seem awful willing to roll over for any and all stupid laws the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives comes up with.
Which is a wild combination, and the whole reason why I gotta toe the line regarding my illegal modifications. Hence why I ain’t all that keen on stopping into town while strapped and loaded for bear. Feel bad for Aunty Ray, who I know was looking forward to seeing what the neighbouring towns were like, while Chrissy and Tina are always keen to do a little shopping, but I assure all three that they ain’t missing out on much. Summerbloom is all about farming and animal husbandry, with plenty of fruit orchards, vineyards, vegetable oil crops, and livestock. Might sound lovely to folk who don’t know anything about farming and animal husbandry, but ain’t all that pleasant to be around. You can smell Summerbloom from half a day away, and I ain’t even exaggerating. Conditions at the farms themselves are less than ideal because Federal bigwigs ain’t all that concerned about animal cruelty so long as the people got enough to eat, and a fair few ranchers end up treating their animals in a less than humane fashion seeing how they only breeding them to eat.
I’m talking cattle kept in pens too small for them to turn around in or hogs packed in so tight they start stacking on top of one another. Disgusting and disgraceful is what that is, so I ain’t about to bring the family by to really ruin their day. There’s good reason why I only buy from Anita and Hamish, as they’re sure to source their meat from proper farms who take care of the animals right, and I feel like that sort of thing ought to be rewarded. Course, I can afford to have principles, so I don’t really hold it against folks who’re barely scraping by and just buying up whatever’s cheapest. No, the onus is on the Feds who don’t hold their people to higher standards, yet are so eager to come down hard on a fella who wants a fully-automatic rifle to defend against Abby.
Course, don’t no one ever mention the stench and horrific animal conditions when they talk about Summerbloom. Instead, they focus on the hillside terrace farming, the seasonal harvest festivals, and most popular of all, the semi-annual seed exchanges which is a bit of a double entendre. Yeah, them farmers all get together to trade seed crops and farm animals in an effort to cross breed their crops and animals, but them festivals be doing double duty to get them farmers and farm hands hitched. Only so much one person can do on a farm, so getting married doubles your initial workforce while sowing the seeds for a new crop of farmhands that’ll be ready to help out after a few years.
Don’t think the first generation of Frontier born are ready to settle down and start having kids themselves, but I’m pretty sure the Federal Government wants to get them on that right quick. Hear tell of younger girls getting married to older men, not just sixteen-year-olds who are technically legal but morally reprehensible when paired with a man approaching forty, but girls as young as twelve and thirteen. Not sure how much truth there be to all that as I ain’t ever come across any married women my age or younger, but rural and religious types do be a different breed, and the Feds act like they got more important matters on their plate as opposed to animal rights and child brides.
As for Hollow Hills, there’s even less reason to stop off there, as they’re all about clay, charcoal, and coke. They got a thriving pottery market that Aunty Ray wanted to see, but otherwise, there ain’t no other reason to make a pit stop at a town that wouldn’t exist if it wasn’t sitting on the Highway. Everything in Hollow Hills came about in order to provide for the garrison defending the Blue Bulwark against Abby incursions, as opposed to something like New Hope which arose naturally due to the prime location and many resources nearby.
Doesn’t stop Aunty Ray from extracting a promise to stop there on our way back, as she really wants some new cups that she won’t ever use because they’re too nice to bring out, but that ain’t for me to bring up. That said, I get the feeling that if I keep this up, I’m gonna be relegated to running after the wagons instead of riding up front, as even Chrissy is a little upset over my refusal to stop in town and chose to sit with Sasha instead. Which I don’t love, because I ain’t a fan of leaving some kid alone with Chrissy and Pebbles, but Clayton’s there to keep an eye on them and duel some banjos with Chrissy to keep us all entertained. I don’t mind the noise as we got me and the Rangers watching out for trouble. Ain’t like we gotta keep quiet or stealthy, not here on the Highway where folks can see us coming from miles away.
The good news is that I’ve been pushing us a little farther and farther each day, all in preparation for today. When we spot the stately stone walls of Redeemer’s Keep rising up in the distance, the red sun is still shining high in the sky, meaning we’ll have most of the afternoon and all evening to explore the town. One that’s nestled into the base of Mount Calvariae as it were, which is the Latin name for Golgotha, a pilgrimage site in old world Jerusalem. Somehow, sharing the same name makes Mount Calvariae a pilgrimage site too, though I don’t really know how that works on a canonical level. It’s not like Jesus was crucified here on the Frontier, nor do I really understand why you’d want to visit the site of your lord and saviour’s death to begin with. Seems a little macabre and depressing is all, but I suppose that’s just par for the course when it comes to Catholicism.
That said, with the mountains at their back, Redeemer’s Keep makes for a highly defensible location from which the Rangers and Knights Templars can sally forth and do battle against Abby. Ain’t much reason for Abby to attack them huge numbers, as it do be on a far corner of the Badlands, but they got other flavours of local Abby to contend with. Ferals for the most part, ones adapted for the steep terrain and spread all throughout and under the mountain. That’s partially why development of the mines here have been going so slowly, because the local Proggies had time enough to dig in and spread out while simultaneously making progress with their custom-made creatures, ones that have been built for quality over quantity who favour solitary ambush attacks over large, coordinated raids.
You got your Stonemaws, who make up the basic unit of this particular Proggie. Only thing is that unlike Goblins, Drones, Mudkippers, or Swarmlings, Stonemaws can do it all. They can dig, build, hunt, and transport, and contrary to expectation, they’re damn good at what they do. Not the best fighters though, which is why they never fight fair despite being larger than a hoggidilla and coming in at a good 250 pounds a piece. Got a squat, quadrupedal figure and hunched, armoured back, with most old worlders equating them to a badger with an armadillo’s shell and crocodilian face they use to crunch up stone. Hence the name, and when you add in a dextrous pair of front claws that can dig for days and put together basic support structures, you get yourself a pretty strong, tough, and useful drone that can do it all for Proggie.
Including lay in wait for days after burrowing into the dirt, only to emerge when it senses solitary footfalls overhead and chomp through flesh and bone in one big bite. The only saving grace is the fact that Stonemaws are neither neat nor tidy, so when people go missing, the Rangers and Templars will usually find signs of how they went, with the answer being in a quick and brutal fashion.
And thems the basic Abby around these parts, with plenty of stealthy, camouflaging, or invisible varieties to contend with. Hence why I’ve had my head on a swivel all day looking for patches of overturned dirt or stone while riding Old Tux out and about. Made sure to spend the morning sitting and chatting with Aunty Ray though, because she’d pout if I left her by her lonesome the one day she gets to sit with me. It’s easy to see where Tina and Chrissy get their thin skin from, as Aunty Ray is every bit as demanding when it comes to matters of familial affection, all too happy to link arms and rest her head against mine while talking about nothing in particular and trying to get me to do the same. I don’t mind it, and honestly, I wish I could spare more time just to chit chat the day away with her. All too often, folks be coming to her with an agenda, like single or not so single men looking for love, or annoyed citizens expecting her to solve all their problems for them. Not many people just drop for the pleasure of her company, and even though she thrives on being a lynchpin of the community, she still deserves a break from all that every once in a while.
And seeing how this here is her first vacation in 19 years, I figure I ought to work harder on keeping her entertained.
That’s why I pushed for extra time on our pit stop in Redeemer’s Keep, and at first glance, it don’t disappoint. Where New Hope’s stone walls are tall, flat, and boring, the Knights Templar and Catholic Church decided they wanted the town to have the air of a giant cathedral chiselled into the side of the mountain. That’s not to say it’s all carved statues and bas-reliefs as far as the eye can see. Far from it in fact, as the walls and towers are pretty plain and ascetic, with no real external decorations to be found aside from the cross shaped arrow slits and gun embankments situated all over the place. All built out of a pale limestone that got a natural yellow ochre look to it, but these walls done been whitewashed to look even whiter than white. Much like most Catholic structures, the lines are strict and severe, with simple blocky merlons and sturdy, serviceable towers interspersed at natural intervals. That said, they got their own flavour of flourish that can’t be seen until you right up close to the walls, as they done carved all manner of biblical inscriptions and the names of fallen martyrs, Templars, clergy, and even potential candidates for Sainthood, though there ain’t no way for the Catholic Church to sanctify anyone on the Frontier.
The main gatehouse is a massive beast of a structure, six wagons wide at the very least. Two chunky towers sit on either side, with a staffed chapel sitting directly overhead so every entrant to the town passes beneath prayer. Inside the gates sits a wide-open killing ground designed not only to funnel attacking Abby into various chokepoints, but to deny them the ability to hide in plain sight thanks to the mosaic, multicoloured cobbled floors that break up the monotonous landscape and make it easier to spot burrowed, invisible, or camouflaging Abby.
All of which we get through without so much as an inspection, and I can’t tell whether it’s because the Knights Templar ain’t concerned about taxes or because we’re travelling with a Ranger Strike Team. Being a Catholic town, it’s a little different from the towns I’m more used to, as most Americans tend to be Protestant or just identify as Christian without really concerning themselves about real Christian values. You know, stuff like feeding the hungry and helping the poor, because that’s communism or whatever, but I don’t get the argument. Otis the baker used to give bread away for free to anyone who needed it, and folks acted like he was crazy and would go broke soon enough, but he made good money on his artisanal breads and baked goods, to say nothing of the loyal customers who always came back to spend when they had the money to spare because they knew he was a good man and a pillar of the community.
Hear tell the new baker ain’t nowhere near as generous, and even complained to Aunty Ray about all the beggars coming in and asking for handouts. Sad to hear it, and just goes to show how rare a breed Otis was, as we done lost a good man to the Mindspire last year in May.
Still feels crazy to think that was just under a year ago, with the anniversary of the event still a week and a half away. Same goes for the anniversary of Josie’s death which will come soon after, and the Catholic trappings of Redeemer’s Keep reminds me a lot of her. They got a lot of statues and such, nothing all that fancy like marble or whatnot, nor are they always done with the best hands, but you can see the faith and devotion those statues invoke in the people who pass by each and every day. Lot of folks stopping to genuflect and make the sign of the cross, or even just taking off their hats or bowing in passing if they’re in a rush, while the walls got prayers carved or painted on them so anyone can read and reflect on the words within.
They also got mess halls where anyone can stop in for a meal, with long stone tables and bench seating that ain’t exactly cozy or comfortable, but makes for good coverage when times are busy. That’s where we stop for a meal, minus Raja, Bodvar, and Nhiall who opted to camp outside by their lonesome in spite of my warnings regarding the dangerous Abby lurking round these parts. While I’m not entirely sure how much was lost in translation, I think the three of them understood what I was getting at, but they didn’t seem all too concerned about it. Then again, I wouldn’t be all that concerned either if I could Wildshape into an armoured rhino, a six-hundred-pound bear, or stealthy murder machine disguised as a black panther, ones that apparently can take a real beating before Wildshaping back into a human whose all-hunky dory as can be.
Makes sense when you think about it. Their Wildshaped forms are pure Ecto, magic masquerading as flesh, while their real bodies get stored away in the Immaterium where they can’t be hurt. Any damage done to the Wildshaped form is therefore damage to Ecto, so when the Spell ends, their real body pops back into reality none the worse for wear. Real handy Spell that, but I much prefer having hands to shoot guns with.
With the Wildshapers’ departure, that leaves me with only Sasha and Clayton to attend to, but the latter heads off to the busiest bar in search of a stiff drink and a card game. Much as I’d like to join him, I figure I ought to stick with the family to keep them safe, while Sasha makes like a burr stuck fast to my jacket and refuses to go his own way. Not that I’d really want him to, as the last thing I need is to bail him out after he’s caught shoplifting or something, but do make for a wrinkle in my plans for a fun family outing. One that starts off with a free meal in the mess hall, because it’s pretty much expected that most travellers will partake in at least one, followed by a totally voluntary but socially mandatory donation for those of us more affluent visitors. Maybe it’s my Catholic guilt egging me on for skipping Sunday Church for the last year or so, but I drop fifty bucks into the box and feel a little relieved that the priest spotted the stack of bills and makes the sign of the cross over my head as I pass.
Lot of money for bread and meatless stew, but it’s for a good cause so I tell myself it ain’t all that bad. My daddy loved religion, because they don’t really have it over in the Qin Republic, or at least they wasn’t free to worship any god they like. They had to worship their Son of Heaven after all, Tian Zi who descended down to this world to save them all from the father of all Proggies, the Great Devourer from beyond. Which is cool and all, but kinda a massive downer all things considered. If their dead Immortal Monarch was supposed to deliver them from Abby, what’s there to look forward to then? Ain’t no prophecies of him rising from the grave, and it’s been way more than three days after the fact.
Then again, it’s not like Christianity is any brighter, as they do tend to focus on the fire and brimstone aspects a bit too much. Especially Catholics, but personally, I almost see the Knights Templar as a completely different organization from the Roman Catholic Orthodoxy. Yeah, the Templars technically get their marching orders from the Pope, and yeah, they’re on the payroll too, but most Templars take oaths of poverty and only accept what they need to get by. Hence why Redeemer’s Keep embodies so many of the best virtues of being Catholic. Free food, free shelter, plenty of work and cooperative efforts to make for a real tight-knit community that looks out for their own.
And most importantly, they don’t tolerate any discrimination against Innates. Probably because they employ so many of them, as Innates do make for a fearsome fighting force. In contrast, the Roman Catholic Church is less stringent about the message they sending. Sure, the Pope himself declared that being gay or Innate ain’t a sin, but a lot of folks like to pick and choose what lessons they follow, and religion has been used as an excuse to hate on your fellow man for as long as religion has existed. That said, I don’t gotta worry about Aunty Ray and my sorta sisters, as even if people do got ugly opinions of them, they’ll likely keep them to themselves here in Redeemer’s Keep.
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That’s the best thing about the Knights Templar. They don’t just talk the talk. They walk the walk, with plenty living in barracks and bunkhouses, including Uncle Rigsby who don’t really got a permanent address here in Redeemer’s Keep. Does make it difficult to find him and meet up, as I can’t just drop by his house seeing how he could be sleeping in any one of a dozen bunkhouses. Had to ask a passing Knight Templar if he knew where his Knight Captain might be, only to be told that he wasn’t in town as he’d been called off to a mission somewhere. Don’t know if that’s mission in the religious sense of the word, as he’s got a calling to answer or a church to build, or a military mission like some Abby to hunt, but thems the breaks. Only got to hear as much as I did because it’s well known that the Preacher of the Flames baptized the Firstborn, so the Knights Templar know I’m an old family friend of their boss.
Was able to pass along a message to what amounts to Templar High Command at least, one that will make it to Uncle Rigsby at some point to let him know we dropped by, will drop by again on our way back, and will be in New Sonora for the interim in case he pass by that way. Does put a damper on our plans to see how he faring here in Redeemer’s Keep, but considering how much he’s accomplished in the years since he left New Hope, I’d say he’s doing great. In terms of infrastructure and community building at least, though from the sound of things, he wasn’t doing so hot in terms of industry. Ain’t just Abby slowing down their efforts to open up the mines of Mount Calvariae, but also the Knight Templars’ crusade against hoarding wealth and profiteering in general. As far as I understand it, the Order or the Knights Templar owns the rights to the mines, not any individual Knight themselves, and they as a whole are refusing to sell to anyone unwilling to abide by their edicts.
Namely to enact a just price doctrine, wherein the price of goods are set by cost of labour, materials, maintenance, and a fixed, modest surplus for luxuries and other such largess. Sounds pretty good in theory, but in practice, ain’t all that and a bag of chips, because much like any institution, the Order is slow to adapt to the times. With inflation being what it is on the Frontier and things rising in price by ten to twenty percent a year, that fixed modest surplus won’t be buying no luxuries, and might not even be enough to see their people housed and fed in any other town. Now that ain’t a huge deal here in Redeemer’s Keep, but who in their right mind would want to take on all that risk and do all that work just to earn a little more than the guys working for you?
The big dog up top eats best. That’s how it is in the animal kingdom and how it ought to be in the real world. The Federation’s issue is that the top dogs eat much too well while those at the bottom are just barely scraping by, but the Knights Templars’ solution to put everyone down in the bottom bracket together ain’t exactly palatable either. Like how Uncle Rigsby wanted me to give away all the houses up in the quay, which is just silly, because it ain’t like I’m hoarding all the wealth I done accumulated. A lot of that money was necessary to keep things running, as I been paying for almost everything that’s needed in the interim. Not just startup and material costs, but things like guns to defend themselves with or new appliances to fix the stuff that’s broken. General repair fees for clogged or burst pipes, boats for fishermen to get out and fish, and payment for labour helping mend fences, clear land, and other everyday things.
Also got plans to pay for reinforcing the underground cavern and turning it into a proper bunker for everyone and anyone living at the quay, to say nothing of a wall that I don’t got the manpower to build even if I could afford all the materials. That money ain’t just burning a hole in my pocket; it’s going back into the community, one that would have suffered a whole lot more if I didn’t accept a penny for them houses. Granted, all the money came from loans given by Levi and his people, but it’s still money all the same, money backed by a fiscal asset that has come in handy solving almost every problem we’ve come up against.
The Knights Templar are a stubborn bunch though, and few more stubborn than James Rigsby. It all circles back to how they view labour as dignified, taking the old idiom of idle hands being the tool of the Devil a touch too far. They’re not big on usury either, as any banks operating here can only loan out money with a flat service fee and no interest whatsoever, which accounts for why the Order is having trouble securing loans to really kick start their mining operations. It’s all very silly, but so far they’ve stuck to their guns, and I can respect that much at least. More than I respect the Roman Catholic Church who preach many of the same values while building cathedrals with marble statues, stained glass windows, and silver candleholders funded by their faithful adherents who’re are largely living hand to mouth and could use some of that socialism the Templars preach. Even worse are the random preachers and faith healers who bilk their constituents out of their money for little more than a promise of hope.
A promise that almost always falls flat on its face and never has anything to do with religion when it don’t.
Course, I shouldn’t point fingers, as I ain’t nowhere near charitable enough to criticize what the Templars are doing here. My daddy might well have listened to Uncle Rigsby and given away all them houses, but then again, he wouldn’t have had to be all that concerned about his new neighbours seeing how he never would’ve been Exiled from New Hope. Even if he did want a change in venue, he wouldn’t have cared who he lived next to, as he didn’t spend that much time at home anyways. More ways I’m falling short of his legacy, and the sheer shame of it puts a damper on our afternoon spent seeing the sights and shopping here in Redeemer’s keep. So much so that after dinner, I send them off to their women’s only bunkhouse to settle in for the night. Rather than make ready for bed in the bunkhouse next door, my boots bring me out and about to a chapel long after evening Mass has concluded and the priest has clocked out and gone home.
Which is perfect seeing how I didn’t come here to talk. Or pray, if I’m being honest. I ain’t much of a Catholic or Christian myself. Don’t really care for church either, but I love the concept of it. Getting together with the community once a week to listen to someone talk about the virtues we all should embody and uphold, then gather for chitchat and snacks afterwards before heading on home for a family lunch. That’s how it was growing up, and I miss it all so dearly, to say nothing of how church reminds me of Josie because she was dyed in the wool Catholic and visited her parents’ gravestone almost every other day after they passed.
Whereas me? I can count on two hands how many times I’ve dropped by her grave for a visit, and not just because I done been Exiled from town.
The chapel is one of many scattered all over Redeemer’s Keep, and on the smaller side to boot. Picked it out because it’s close to the bunkhouse we’re staying in, one that separates men and women so I don’t gotta worry too much about the girls while I’m gone. Sasha didn’t seem none too happy about being left by his lonesome though, so he followed me out to the chapel, but I don’t think he’s ever been to church seeing how he reacts. He got that looky-loo special going on as he rubbernecks all about, and I give him a swat across the chest before gesturing at his hat up top. “Hat’s off in the house of God,” I whisper, already cradling mine in my prosthetic hand. Though he scowls to hear it, he follows suit, removing his orn-hide ridge top hat to reveal his long, dark, and frazzled locks that fall in to frame either side of his face.
Girly name and girl hair. I know Sasha is short for ‘Alexander’ in Russian, which don’t make no sense, but if he’d gone to school in New Hope, I bet he would’ve been bullied something fierce for his name and his looks. Granted, I wouldn’t know much about schoolyard bullying. Danny had a bit of an issue with it until I found out and put a stop to it, but I didn’t do nothing for anyone else. Nor did I ever bully anyone, not really, though I did get into a fair few fights for no real reason at all. Nothing I can remember at least, not like that fight against Richard and his crew, as most times I’d just show up and start swinging without saying much of anything at all.
Like when I beat up Kacey’s fourteen-year-old brother who was impossibly tall for his age. Swear he had facial hair too, and a mean glare to match my own. Tried to be polite, or at least I think I did, though in retrospect, I might’ve just glared right back and asked “What’chu lookin’ at?”
To which he responded by telling me to turn my slant-eyed stare away before he teach me a lesson. So of course I goaded him into taking the first swing, but I would’ve been gentler about it if I’d’ve known he was fourteen. Or that his sister was a gorgeous beauty with a cold, deadly stare that sometimes features prominently in my dreams.
I’ve learned from my mistakes though, as evidenced by how I ain’t tuned Sasha up in spite of all his dark glares and general lack of gratitude. Leaving the girly boy to take in the sights, I head over to take a seat in the pews and soak in the ambiance of the silent, candlelit chapel. Don’t know what it is about churches that makes me feel so at peace. Not the ostentatious churches that make me sick to my stomach thinking about how much good that money could’ve done instead of buying marble statues and stained-glass windows depicting suffering saints. I’m talking about the simple, almost rustic churches and chapels I grew up with, all cut from the same mould pretty much.
It’s almost always a hardwood floor, with rows of wooden pews of varying quality. Underneath them pews sit the cushioned kneelers you pull out when it comes time to pray. Scatter in some simple churchly trappings, like wooden crosses, rosaries, candles, and green garlands with fake cloth flowers to brighten the place up. At the sides, you got your alcoves with side tables to display even more religious iconography, and while most of it does tend to be depressing, the Padre opted for less blood and suffering for the church back home, and the same goes for the chapel here. Got a couple wooden carvings of praying ladies, a painting of Jesus giving a blessing, a little nativity scene with a painted clay Mary, Joseph, and the three wise men all waiting for the Savior’s birth, and other such stuffs scattered all about.
Then there’s the altar, which always has the biggest and fanciest backdrop. This chapel went for simplicity, just a big wooden cross with no one on it, which I’d say is more tasteful and iconic. The alter itself has two little flower vases with white wildflowers that Cowie loves to eat, and two candleholders that ain’t lit. The white hemp tablecloth is pressed and pristine, while an off-white canvas stole sits folded atop it, with two red Templar’s crosses embroidered into it sitting front and centre so everyone can see it. No marble, silver, gold, silk, or any other such fancy trappings, just a simple chapel where people can come in and sit with their thoughts in silence.
Which is exactly what I need after so many weeks surrounded by so many people. Don’t get it twisted, I love Aunty Ray, Tina, and Chrissy to bits, but after my daddy died, I got used to living by my lonesome, and even more used to it after I moved out to the quay. Now it seems like Aunty Ray and Chrissy have pretty much moved into the big house with me, instead of dropping by every now and then like Tina does, and it’s taking a bit of getting used to. Then there’s all the new neighbours, most of whom I like well enough, but not as much as I love my solitude. There’s been precious little of that lately, so getting away from it all to find some peace and isolation is welcome to be sure.
That said, I came here to pray and talk to Josie as well as some other people I’ve lost, but I can’t bring myself to put my hands together and just do it. Out of practice I guess, so I sit there and soak in the ambiance while reflecting on how I got here and not liking much of it at all. Started off innocent enough, with a trip up north selling goods where I got bamboozled by some huckster pedophile rapist who drugged me real good and died for it. All went downhill from there, or maybe it started even earlier, when I failed to alert my daddy to the fact that there was three armed Qinks lying in wait up on the mesa where it should’ve been safe.
Because I was scared and weak, and while I thought I’d gotten braver and stronger since, I don’t really think that’s the case anymore.
An intrusive thought that’s difficult to shake off because I can’t be sure if it’s the Mimic whispering doubt into my head or if I really believe it. The trip to the Deadlands showed me I got a long ways to go before I’m really ready to take on all comers, as there are things I’ve always taken for granted out on the Eastern Front. Like the lack of Spiritual Abby who slip into your head and refuse to leave, or easy mobility and clear sightlines which you don’t really get in a swamp or thick forest, but is still heaps better than the Deadlands. Easy camping too, as you can park your butt in a tree or the side of a dune and more or less expect to be relatively safe for the night. In contrast, I fell into a fever dream on the trek from a waystation to a British Outpost and I’ve been paying for it ever since, while I’m pretty sure that damned Wight that tried to trick me into setting it free from the dungeon in Fairhaven also snuck a bit of Mimic into my head while I was snoozing from the Sleep Spell.
Two Mimics for the price of one, leaving me second guessing all my thoughts and decisions.
I’ve done some research on the subject and figure that I ain’t exactly infectious just yet. The process of slipping into a host’s head is pretty gruelling and tends to wear the shard of Mimic down, so it’ll take a good bit of time for it to grow enough to spread. How much time, no one really knows, but the general consensus is that if you ain’t showing signs of infection after a year, then you should be clear. What’s more, Edward and the others hinted that they had shards of their own, and they didn’t caution me to do anything in particular about keeping it from spreading. Mostly because it ain’t that easy for the Mimic to plunder what it needs from your mind, body, and spirit. It’s gotta fight you for it, and before it’ll even try, it’ll dig in deep and be ready for it, so I might well have a long and arduous battle ahead of me.
Mostly because it won’t come at me with fangs bared. That’d be too easy to fight off. No, it’ll show up with whispered promises and enticing temptations. Like how it was with the inspiration for my chain-axe Conjuration. It gave me the idea, and I partook of it, which would’ve been enough to get it what it wanted from me. Don’t know how it works, but I suppose you could see it as me trading a bit of my spirit for the know how, like inviting the devil in for tea. Now granted, there are some who say the spirit or Soul is an infinite or renewable resource, as you spend it when working on magical stuff like Etches or Alchemy or whatever. So long as you don’t overdraft and damage yourself Spiritually speaking, then your spirit or Soul will replenish itself after a good night’s sleep, so there might be more to the Mimics than what we know.
Which ain’t much, as this is all theory since no one ever managed to fully study a Mimic infestation, not without succumbing themselves. Nor do we really know how quickly them shards can grow and recover. I’ve also never found anything about two shards of Mimics inhabiting one head, as apparently Mimics do be territorial, so I’m hoping that if I do have two shards, then they’re too busy duking it out between themselves and don’t got nothing to spare for me. That said, I’ve told Aunty Ray of my affliction, which might well be the reason why she’s been staying in the Quay so often, but she hasn’t shown any sign of trepidation over leaving me alone with Chrissy.
She got more faith in me than I got in myself, and I am grateful for it, but I only hope that her faith ain’t misplaced. Suppose that’s another reason why I’m here in this chapel, to pray that things work out. I’ve used Protection from Aberration to test the waters countless times over the last few months, but so far, I haven’t felt the slightest difference. Stepping onto consecrated ground don’t cause me no troubles either, but that’s hardly all that surprising. Mimics stuck in a host’s head are pretty insulated from the magic, and only really get hindered when they’re sitting in the driver’s seat. Read a theory on how Mimic’s don’t actually wear bodies like a meat suit, but rather move them like puppets on Aetheric strings. Even Ghouls who’re mostly in control of their own actions, or at least think they are, allowing them to perform superhuman feats of strength and agility even before their bodies been modified by feeding on Goop.
Meaning the lack of clarity sitting here in this protected chapel don’t mean much of anything at all, and won’t until it’s far too late to really do anything about it.
A thought that scares me something fierce, a fear that comes straight from my own heart. Last year was a difficult one, but it also showed me I got so much more left to lose. I failed Marcus and got him killed. Couldn’t protect Josie and watched her die along with our unborn baby in her belly. Disappointed Uncle Teddy, Uncle Rigsby, and probably everyone else who watched me grow up into the shadow of the man I was supposed to be. Edward hid it well, but I could tell he was worried, and same goes for Aaron and Luther. Only reason they didn’t sit me down for a talk is because they’re much too British for direct confrontation, and instead waited for me to bring the matter up, which I never did.
Even their letters are polite and distant, though I reckon it’s probably because all their mail is monitored, which is how everyone knew I was heading for the Deadlands even though I only told a select few.
Yeah, it’s been a hard few years without my daddy, and I no longer believe I weathered them well. Got everyone and anyone telling me how there’s something wrong with me, that I’m some sort of monster for killing Outlaws and gangsters without so much as batting an eye, and while most days I put that all out of mind, you hear it often enough and you get to thinking it might be true.
Because even though I miss Marcus and Josie something fierce, I’ve more or less gotten over their deaths. It happened, I’m to blame, and there ain’t nothing I can do about it, so might as well accept it and move on. That’s how I feel a year after their deaths, so how will I feel about it this time next year? Will I even care enough to stop off in church for a prayer? I dunno, and that right there, more than anything else, scares me something fierce. Makes me miss the pain and grief, emotions that have dulled to an empty ache when I think about them, and that’s not good enough, not anymore. I’ve always thought I was just made of sterner stuff. Tougher than your average person and able to handle more, which is why I never blinked about killing or almost getting killed. What if that’s not true? What if the papers are right? Maybe I am just broken inside. Some sort of psycho who don’t give a shit about human life because I’m missing something that makes me… normal?
Another reason for all my doubts is the fact that justification is no longer the be all end all of it. Learned that firsthand I did, but the thing is, that hasn’t changed a thing, which means I would’ve been fine with the killing regardless. Justification was just an excuse, though I should’ve figured as much seeing how I’ve barely blinked after killing Conner and Deputy Corey Macintyre, or that Qin kid I shot in the gut and spent a good chuck of time crying for his mama. It bothers me yeah, but most of the time, I don’t pay it no mind, not until my subconscious drags it up like a reminder to be more human.
Same goes for Ao Tian. Most days, I don’t give him a second thought, but every now and then, I’m reminded of how he’ll be spending the next 25 years at the very least in a prison labour camp, which ain’t no way to go. Sure, he tried to kill me, but to be fair, I killed his daddy. For killing mine, yeah, but the man didn’t resist when I killed him, just stared down the barrel of my gun without seeing a thing. Probably because he was thinking about the son he was about to leave behind, one who’s met a bad end. If I’d’ve killed Ao Tian, I wouldn’t be so conflicted, but 25 to life in a prison camp might well be worse than death, especially since the other inmates won’t exactly be kind to a young Qin kid in their midst.
Really thought the Republic would get him out of a pinch, but he went and chose to take the full blame for them instead. Stupid that, but growing up, I dreamed of doing equally stupid things for the Federation, so can’t really blame him for that.
There’s a part of me that just wants to be done with all the doubt and guilt. To say ‘Fuck it all’ and embrace my darker nature. Then I remember Uncle Art’s face when he was asking me to at least try to be a good man, and I can’t help but be ashamed of the man that I’ve become.
Don’t know what I can do about it though, because feeling guilty for not feeling guilty or depressed is a real conundrum to be sure. There’s more to it though, because now I’m terrified of losing anyone else, and not just because I don’t want to lose them. That’s part of it yeah, but I learned early on that people die. It happens. You just gotta accept that, but people dying because of me is a whole different kettle of fish. What if I get Aunty Ray, Tina, or Chrissy killed on this trip here? I’d say I can’t imagine what it’d be like, but that’s not exactly true, now is it? I know exactly how it’ll go. I’ll grieve for a year, and then that will fade, and I’ll be hunky dory again.
Which ain’t right. They’re family, the people I love the most in this world, and yet all it’ll take is a year to get over the loss? That ain’t good enough, not for them, not for Josie, and not for Marcus or anyone else, but that’s how it is, ain’t it?
The worst part of all this is how my doubts got me all twisted up inside. How many widows and orphans have I created over the years? How many husbands, wives, sons, and daughters have I put into the ground myself? Why haven’t I ever spared a second thought for most of them, and only barely considered the widow and children of the one man who really didn’t deserve it?
I don’t know. I don’t think the papers are right, that I’m some sort of psychopath who don’t value human life. I care. I just don’t care all that much apparently, and that’s says something about me. How can a year be enough time to get over the death of the woman carrying our baby? Or a man who was like family and died because of my mistake? It shouldn’t be that easy, but that grief and misery which used to accompany any thoughts of Marcus and Josie has dulled and faded away, only to be replaced by…
By nothing. Not warm, fuzzy memories of our time together, or dreams of what might have been, but just nothing. Out of sight, out of mind, which feels like a grave injustice for people who meant so very much to me, so much so I almost yearn for the pain again. Makes me all the more terrified of losing what little I have left. Not just because I don’t want to lose them, but because I’m terrified that I’ll discover a year after the fact that apparently they weren’t all that important to me.
Would be so much easier if I had nothing left to lose, if I was a true lone wulf in every sense of the word. Problem is I’m moving in the opposite direction, as I’ve gone and built myself a whole new pack to protect. I got people counting on me to keep them safe and sound, not just on this here trip, but back at the quay which is growing into a new home now. I scoffed at the people who asked how I intended to protect them, but everyone living there expects it all the same, and I do what I can to provide it because… because why? Not because I want to, or because it’s the right thing to do. I just do it because it’s what my daddy would’ve done, what Marcus would’ve done, what Uncle Raleigh would’ve done, and like it or not, that’s the sort of man I still aspire to be.
Course, that’s bought me a world of trouble I’ve no idea how to deal with. Were it just me, I’d’ve told Milton to fuck off with his threats and gone from there. What do I care if the Feds want to ‘re-evaluate the legal repercussions’ or whatever? I don’t, but I can’t disappoint the people who moved in because of me. Folks from Pleasant Dunes, or closer to home like New Hope and Rimepeak, they all moved in not because of my rep, but in spite of it, as they don’t believe what they’ve read in the papers and think better of me.
Which they probably shouldn’t seeing how I’ve been considering abandoning the quay this whole damn trip. Now that I’ve got my bag, I got the money and skills to make a life for myself almost anywhere on the Frontier. While that might mean having to part ways with the only family I got left to ensure the quay is largely left alone, at least I’ll know I’ll be leaving them alive and well instead of leading them straight into the lion’s den.
Which is what’s happening here and now, and I’m helpless to stop it. I ain’t one to run from a challenge, and I got no quit in me, but if God forbid something does go wrong and I lose someone near and dear to my heart, who do I direct my ire to? Whoever done it is the obvious answer, but Milton is a close second, and that more than anything concerns me. If push comes to shove, I’ll go to war with the Federation in a heartbeat, but it means I’ll eventually have to go up against some close friends and family.
Like Uncle Teddy, who won’t look the other way if I cross swords with the Feds and will stop at nothing to turn me in if he gets tapped for the job.
Don’t blame the man, because that’s just who he is. Duty above all else, and I’d feel terrible if he compromised that for me. Wish I could do something to keep that from happening, but I didn’t start this fight. I’ll be sure to end it though, one way or another. Would be best to avoid a fight altogether, except I got no idea what I’m walking into so I don’t know how to prepare. I’m wading deep into political waters here, a conflict without guns, knives or bloodshed, and a contest of words and wits for which I fear I am sorely under-equipped.
Don’t know what else I can do, so I finally put my hands together and pray. I pray for help from the Lord above, pray that I’m not broken or if I am, that I can be fixed to love people the way I’m supposed to. Then I have a word with Josie to tell her I love and miss her, while updating her on how Noora’s faring. Next comes a chat with Marcus to promise I’ll check in on Simone soon enough, and apologize once more for screwing the pooch on our one and only delve together. Getting into the groove of this prayer session, I have a word with Uncle Raleigh to apologize for not visiting his grave this year and thank him for all the guitar lessons that I still remember like they was yesterday. Lastly, I say a word to my daddy and my mama, making sure to include them both because I went far too long without talking to my mama and need to get into the habit of doing it more.
All the while feeling silly as a goose, because deep down, I know I ain’t doing nothing besides talking to myself. Can’t help how I feel, but I always like to hedge my bets. Even though I’ve never gone wrong betting on myself, I got a whole lot more on the line here and now, so I figure there ain’t no harm in putting a side bet on the Almighty while I’m at it.
Might come in handy if the main bet falls through, and even if it doesn’t, there’ll come a time eventually when I meet my maker. I keep going at it like I have been and that’ll be sooner rather than later, but it is what it is and there ain’t no changing the facts.
