The third and final Federal build site is the furthest along in terms of construction, but also the one I like the least.

  Got nothing to do with the aesthetics, as I kinda like what they’ve done with the place. While we ain’t nowhere near south enough for permanent summers, it do be balmy enough for most the group to shed their coats, as they ain’t all Imbued with Endure Elements like my duster. Feels like summer’s already in full effect even though it’s still May, but I suppose they just have milder winters round these parts seeing how so much of their buildings are made out of paper. That’s not a knock on cheap materials either, as they’ve used literal paper in a lot of places like doors and windows. I imagine the waste pulp also went into the walls which are made from some sort of composite spread over a lattice wood frame of pillars and planks. Throw on a thatch roof and you get something that ain’t all that pretty when you get in close, but from a distance, all that texture gives the buildings a rather quaint and unique look that you don’t get with stone or timber. Simple and not all that insulating, but it was good enough to get them through the winter which is plenty good enough.

  Probably because they went with communal housing instead of individual, with a good number of L shaped buildings making up a whole bunch of squares with a shared inner courtyard for mingling or whatnot. Which is nice, as you can’t just cram a bunch of people together and expect them to get along swimmingly. Gotta encourage that sort of thing, and shared spaces is great for that. Take me for example. I was all bent out of shape because Sasha kept intruding on my me time while I worked, studied, and trained, but after many, many, many weeks, I am now able to tolerate his presence without feeling too too resentful. Might not sound like much, but I’m an extreme case when it comes to being anti-social, one who’s been stressed because all my new neighbours keep trying to make nice so I’m less likely to shoot them in a rage.

  Can’t really blame them considering my history and all the stories in the paper, but having everyone walk on eggshells around me do grate on the nerves quite a bit. Then again, I can’t even say I ain’t ever shot no one who didn’t deserve it, only that I didn’t shoot anyone I didn’t think deserved it at the time of the shooting, which ain’t reassuring in the least.

  Here at the southernmost build site though, I’m treated with a different kind of caution, the kind you reserve for hostiles in a neutral setting. As I roll on through, folks on both sides stop what they’re doing, with women ushering their children away and men standing with hands close to the weapons on their belts. Some Aetherarms, but mostly swords of the curved variety. Some short, some long, all decidedly Nipponese as they match the general aesthetic of Kacey’s swords, with the wrapped hilts and fancy sheathes. Everyone’s got one, even the men who most certainly ain’t Nipponese, and it ain’t without reason. Hear tell the Nipponese are damn good metalworkers on account of their island country having shit for iron reserves, so they’ve made do for hundreds of years hammering pig-iron of dubious quality and Imbuing it with magic to create some of the finest steel you done ever seen.

  Not all that interested in testing that theory firsthand, though a fair few folks seem ready to knife me on sight. Mostly Nipponese, but not all, as I spot a fair few folks of varying shades of skin giving me all sorts of murderous looks. Probably because they’ve come under attack from the Qin more often than most, and I still look Qin to anyone with eyes. That don’t bother me much, but I keep my Mage Hands on the Judges and my own hand close to my new revolver, one I’m itching to put to use as I didn’t get a chance to bring it out against the Glassmaws. Not because it wouldn’t have done work, as even without Armour Penetrating, I’ve been told my new everyday carry is a jack of all trades that can handle any job I put it to task, but the Nagas did it so much better and I love having an excuse to break those out. Here in town though, the combination of Siege and Armour Penetrating would make for a nightmare when it comes to controlling collateral damage, so I got no choice but to trust the gun Mr. Kalthoff endorsed so highly to handle whatever may come.

  And I trust him, I do, but seeing the looks thrown my way got me yearning to break out the big guns and give them a real reason to hate me. Time was, I’d put on a smile and nod or wave right back at them glares, but I’m done acting the friendly fool and ready to take on the mantle of the Yellow Devil in truth. Don’t help that half the glares are being directed at Chrissy beside me, or Tina riding up front and I imagine Aunty Ray behind us too. Glare at me all you like, as that don’t bother me, but Chrissy being more present in the real world means she’s picked up on the hostile vibes and is right proper spooked for it. Even though I want to keep both hands close to my guns in case things get ugly, I can’t stop myself from slipping my right hand into hers, as she’s trembling something fierce underneath the barrage of angry glares thrown our way even with her big sunglasses to shield her from it.

  It’s almost enough to make me turn around and spend the night outside of the build site, but considering the sheer number of armed guards patrolling the half-finished wall while it’s still broad daylight, I get the feeling that’d be a terrible idea. Got a lot of bandits roaming round these parts, and even more Abby, as that Glassmaw passage was only a four-hour ride from here, or one if you ain’t concerned about your horse having to walk all the livelong day. With all the hills and valleys smoothing out now that we’re so close to the Flatlands, I can’t imagine it’s easy finding all them burrow entrances, as there could be one a couple dozen feet away you just don’t got the right angle to spot it. The other contributing factor to the prevalence of Abby is the lack of a sizable military presence along the southern border of the Badlands, one that separates it from the Fuchsia Flatlands. The Mexican Government got their hands full keeping New Sonora safe and don’t really patrol a wide area, while the Feds are stretched thin along the Blue Bulwark as it is and adding another 200-kilometre stretch of land to defend ain’t helping matters much.

  As for the Qin? They got the areas by the Knife’s Edge Mountains locked up tight, but their borders end about 400 klicks east of New Sonora. There ain’t no one in between either, leaving Abby free to spread south into the Fuchsia Flatlands unchecked to forage for all the biomass they might need.

  The only upside to all this is the fact that it encourages competition among Proggie Nests looking to stake out new territory. The Glassmaws and Cliffstriders are from two separate Proggie colonies and will fight when they come across one another, and there are six more confirmed to operate in the area. No one knows which of them nests are buried in the Badlands proper and which are hiding in them there hills. Either way, Abby fight each other more than they fight humans, because there are just so many more of them hanging about. Or at least there were until this build site went up and gave them an easy target of opportunity. The folks here from the start have spent the last year or two steeped in violence and bloodshed, and they look more than ready for more so long as me or mine give them an excuse.

  Having a Ranger escort helps some, but not enough to put my mind at ease. Nor do we warrant a bunkhouse when it comes time to settle us in, and instead we get placed in a lot alongside the prisoner’s camp which ain’t exactly welcoming. There ain’t no proper walls or fences keeping them in, only a couple posts hammered into the soil with rope to section them off. More of a suggestion than actual barrier, and I can’t imagine that’d stop anyone from doing anything at all, which is why I break out the Dragunov rifles and hand one to Aunty Ray and Clayton for the night. Really shows how bad it is when Aunty Ray don’t frown or pout about how I’m overreacting and gets to checking the weapon like I taught her, as the mood be heavy and oppressive as we settle in for the night.

  Don’t help things none when the prisoners catch sight of the womenfolk and get to catcalling them from afar. The guards don’t seem none too concerned about stopping it either as the prisoners line up along the rope barrier not ten feet away from our camp, and even though I’ve parked both wagons to act as a wall, that ain’t enough to hide everyone away. Burns me to have to listen to them criminals yelling filth I ain’t about to repeat, and after about ten minutes of nonstop verbal diarrhea, I’ve just about had enough. Don’t draw my weapons, don’t ready up the big gun, I just move to stand between the wagons and the prisoners while giving them a dark glare. They don’t seem none too impressed, as they either jeer and tell me to get lost or ignore me completely, right up until I raise my left hand to the skies and grab me a fistful of fading sunlight.

  “Incendo,” I drawl, speaking loud and clear so my voice carries overtop all them catcalls, and a good third stop short to see what’s what. The others continue in ignorance as I bring my arm down like I’m pulling that sunlight to me, a motion accompanied by the next word in the chant. “Magna,” I continue, and most the prisoners go quiet, with more than half trying to look tough and unafraid while making ready to bolt at a moment’s notice. That ain’t good enough though, as I’m ready to kill, and I hold the chant off long enough to lock eyes with every prisoner and guard to show it.

  “Invoko.” And with that, my hand shoots out to point dead centre of the crowd as I force the Spell through a bead of my Metamagic bracelet. Normally, I go for Widen or Maximize to go for maximum coverage or power, but today, I’m aiming for maximum impact. As such, I use a Metamagic I ain’t all that familiar with, and one I struggle to delineate, but I ain’t all that bothered if it don’t work out as my Fireball emerges into reality overtop the crowd’s head. Most them prisoners got time enough before it hits to really understand how they done fucked up, but only just as the Spell takes effect. The superheated air crackles and roars as a blossoming inferno emerges in midair, one that surges downwards in the blink of an eye to be greeted by a chorus of screams from prisoners and guards alike. Half run for the hills, and the other half freeze in place, but the flames stop just shy of cooking anyone in truth, though still come close enough to leave them sweating and screaming something fierce.

  That’s the Sculpt Metamagic at work there, which allows you to create pockets of relative safety inside the area of effect of your Spells. Ain’t the same as dropping a Fireball overhead, as the area of effect is a big old sphere, meaning only those directly under the Spell would feel the heat wash over them. This way, I can redden some skin and singe the dust overhead to really let them smell the burning ozone and Aether and know just how close to death they came. A simple effort of will one way or another, and I could’ve bypassed the Sculpt Metamagic bead in favour of any other, or not using one at all to burn the bulk of them prisoners to a crisp.

  I’m done hiding what I can do, and done putting up with this blatant disrespect. By this time next week, most folks along the Highway will hear about how the Firstborn is a Third Order Spellslinger with Fireball in his back pocket, and I won’t be loved for it, but here and now, these guards and prisoners know I can use the Spell two more times at the very least. That’s the bare minimum after all, as you can’t cast a Spell of a higher Order until you got enough Aether in the tank to cast it at least thrice over. Got a lot of threes when it comes to magic, but this is the most relevant one, being that if a man lobs a Fireball at you, then you gotta assume he’s good for at least two more just to be safe.

  Was planning on revealing myself as a Magus soon enough, and truth be told, I haven’t exactly been subtle about having Fireball at my beck and call. This here is the first time I’ve used it in front of civilian strangers without killing all the witnesses though, while military types are likely to keep rumours in house. Still, word would’ve gotten out eventually, but while rumors are one thing, seeing is believing, and these guards and prisoners both seen enough to know I’ll cook them right up without so much as batting an eye. Don’t nothing else need to be said as I glare at the silent crowd. Some be laid out on the ground, others taking cover behind whatever or whoever they can, but all in all, most all just staring right back at me in complete and utter disbelief as I turn and head back to my camp while ignoring Aunty Ray’s disapproving frown and Sergeant Rowan’s outright murderous glare.

  Don’t either of them say nothing though, nor does anyone come to kick me out of town, though Sergeant Rowan do disappear for a bit to check in with her superiors. Comes back looking dark as a thundercloud, but I don’t say nothing, because I ain’t about to apologize for putting a bunch of criminals in their place. When it comes time to sleep, I do so with a Dragunov in hand and my back to the wagon so as not to be surprised, while doubling up on guard duty with help from Clayton and the Wildshapers who seem ambivalent about my reckless display of Magical strength. Clayton looks like he already guessed as much, as there have been rumours going about that I’ve been a Magus since before I even earned my pins last summer, while the Wildshapers are entirely nonplussed as I done used Fireball during the fight around their docks.

  Don’t seem put off by my show of strength either, not like the rest. Might be because they’re more in touch with their primitive side and know good and well that sometimes you gotta bare your fangs a bit to get everyone in line, or could be they just ain’t all that impressed because they’re heavy hitters in their own right.

  Either way, it makes for a tense night and early morning as we move to put the build site in our six. While we make our way out of the Nipponese build site, I spot more armed folks than I did the previous night, with plenty carrying rifles and full-blown swords in addition to their knives and pistols. Fine by me, as I ain’t looking to make friends, but I do wish I could’ve done something to reassure Chrissy more as she’s right proper scared. Tina don’t look none too pleased either, but she ain’t said nothing either as she’s not sure if I done right or wrong. Me neither if I’m being honest, but if I was doing that, I’d be forced to admit that I came pretty damn close to just killing them prisoners dead and seeing how far my Letter of Safe Conduct gets me.

  Not sure if that was the Mimic (or Mimics) stuck in my head, or just plain old Howie embracing the Yellow Devil. It’s a crapshoot really, as I could see it going either way, and it concerns me greatly that that’s the case. Been trying to be a good man, but that goes out the window whenever my temper gets the best of me, and while I ain’t exactly gone and crossed many lines just yet, I can feel myself slipping closer and closer with each passing day. Thing is, how am I supposed to draw the line between black and white when the world is all shades of grey?

  By not threatening imprisoned catcallers with Fireball for a start. Seems kinda obvious in hindsight, but that’s what happens when you got a temper like mine. Doesn’t help when Sergeant Rowan assigns Zeke to follow me around on my scouting trips, as she ain’t about to let me play the ‘broken Radio’ card a second time around. Even though I actually broke my hand-held radio mind you, and had to get Sasha to fix it because I wasn’t about to blow my second and final use of Wildshape for the day just to tinker around with. Annoying that, which is why I’ve been working so hard on getting my Scripts up to snuff so I can do more with the prosthetic. It’s progressing by leaps and bounds, as I’ve almost ironed out all the kinks from a Script I think will let me play guitar. Instead of manually sending set finger and hand movements, the Script reads my brain patterns when making those movements and responds accordingly to send the correct Invocation to the Prosthetic.

  That’s the idea at least, and while I’m round about 90% of the way there, that last 10% is a real doozy. Reason being that I don’t got the hardware needed for a proper brain pattern scan, meaning the only thing I can do is keep playing the guitar with my Mage Hands while moving my real hands alongside it, all while running a Script that records my brain patterns. Later on, I then match those patterns to what I want my fingers to do by referencing the music and using that to figure out what’s what. It’s a complex undertaking that is slow going, but six months ago, I wouldn’t have known where to even start on something like this. Still don’t if I’m being honest, but I’ve been working at it and things have been falling into place, so I’m optimistic that something will come of this soon enough.

  And then, I take that guitar playing Script and expand it to include things for everyday life, until I hopefully got a prosthetic I can control with a thought and is only a little worse off than an actual hand. My Wildshaped Hand will still come in real handy for fights and whatnot, as it do be freakishly strong and great at managing recoil, crushing rocks, or punching people in the face, but if I can get by with just the prosthetic for all my daily work, then I can save the Ability for emergencies like a big firefight.

  Mostly because I seem to have hit some limit with the Ability and can’t go past 5 hours a use, or two uses before I need to sleep. No idea why and I can’t ask Carter on account of having delivered his darling daughter into the Métis army and wanting to keep my head attached to my neck. Thing is, useful as the Ability might be, I don’t understand it none, or at least even less than I understand Scripts and Invocations. That at least got some logic to it, as opposed to getting in tune with my the dearly departed Spirit of my hand or whatever, so I figure it’s best to stick with what I know than spread myself even more thin than I already am.

  Ain’t no time for Scripting or studying though, not on the way to New Sonora, as the Mexican town sits a hundred klicks from the third build site, or two days of hard riding. I do what I can to scout ahead, first with Zeke and then with Armando the next day who is so much worse, as he tends to get distracted and forget that he’s supposed to be following me around and not the other way. Nor does he seem all that concerned about keeping up appearances as he keeps lighting up his stanky cigars stuffed with wacky tobacky that leaves him stoned out of his gourd most hours of the day. Disgraceful is what it is, and while I’m still thankful for the escort and impressed by his familiarity with Floating Disc, I got no warm and fuzzies for the Hispanic hippy who ain’t said more than two words the whole trip.

  At least Zeke was open to making conversation, mostly about Abby and shop talk, trading stories about fights we been in and crazy things we seen. Armando barely even responds with an affirmative grunt when I ask if he speaks Espa?ol, and only shrugs when asked if his duties include translating for me, as I barely speak English and can’t be expected to communicate anything in Espa?ol. Nor am I all that great at understanding it aside from a few words and phrases, and while Aunty Ray knows enough to get by and have basic conversations, I’m a little concerned that these talks will require a bit more than that.

  Not that it matters, as my plan is to derail these talks until they realize they’re better off without me. Hopefully that gets me sent home early, or forces the Qin Republic’s hand if they only brung me down here to have me killed. Either way, I’ve long since shared my concerns with everyone in my party, and made no effort to hide them from Sergeant Rowan and her Remedial Rangers, though I’m pretty sure it don’t matter. The Sergeant is pretty by the book when it comes to everything besides disciplining her people, while Zeke don’t care about anything except getting stuck in with Abby. As for Armando, I don’t think much of him at all, and I’m pretty sure he don’t think about much of anything besides his drugs. Kairi is still a mystery, as she’s been putting Tina through the proverbial wringer getting her up to snuff, and while the woman could stand to be a little nicer about it, I’d rather she went too hard as opposed to not hard enough.

  Coal needs pressure to turn into diamonds after all, and constant pressure at that. If Tina can’t take the heat, then it’s best she get out of the fire sooner rather than later. Don’t think it’ll come to that though, as I’m betting Tina can take anything Kairi dishes out and then some, to say nothing of the fact that I’m confident Sergeant Rowan wouldn’t let Kairi do anything too wild or crazy. Especially since Tina says that this has all been par for the course, with the only difference being that we’ve been helping her with the general camp chores like tending the horses and cooking meals. Don’t love that they’ve got Tina doing all their busywork, but that’s how it is when you low man on the totem pole, and it makes me glad I passed on Ranger training since I’m pretty sure I’d’ve lost it by now.

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  Still sometimes think about how life would be better if I was a Ranger, but seeing what I’m missing out on is really taking the sting out of it.

  Unlike the three Federal build sites however, New Sonora is the one and only Mexican fortress town sitting on the border of the Badlands, and given the close proximity to so many Proggie nests and international interests in the area, the Mexican Government got a keen interest in keeping hold of what they’ve built. By the time lunch time rolls around, I seen enough armed patrols of Custodios moving about to feel safe enough to ride with the rest of the group. That’s short for Los Custodios de la Palabra, or Custodians of the Word, which is not as cool as it sounds in Espa?ol. They’re the Mexican equivalent of the Rangers, but unlike the Federation, the Mexican government saw fit to have a second military branch sent to the Frontier, instead of leaving one branch to do it all.

  Probably because Los Custodios are more about the mission than the execution of it all. They mean well, but their training standards ain’t exactly up to snuff when they put so much weight on the religion of it all. They’re a lot like the Catholic Templars in that regard, though they ain’t funded by the Latin Catholic Church. There are just a whole lot of Catholics in Mexico and South America, so much that it seeps into every facet of their lives whether it be government, military, office, or home.

  So many that when they disagreed with the Roman Catholics on one too many things, they splintered off into their own denomination. I think it was when the Pope said homosexuality wasn’t enough to consign a soul to eternal damnation, or that Santa Muerte wasn’t an actual Saint since there wasn’t any records of any actual person to raise to sainthood, since she was merely a personification of death. Wildly controversial I know, but it is what it is, and the Latin Catholics decided they’d break off and elect their own Pope. So yeah, even though Mexico supposedly got separation of church and state, Los Custodios don’t take on anyone who ain’t Catholic. Not sure how that works out, legally speaking, but while it ain’t exactly a requirement, it’s also a dealbreaker if you don’t got it.

  Not ideal for an elite military unit specializing in anti-Aberration actions, but it is what it is. Not only is education lacking in Mexico as a whole, meaning they rely more on Faith-based Intuitive casters as opposed to Orthodox, and outright abhor Innates, it’s also necessary to lean heavily on faith because of all the corruption. How else can you ensure your soldiers and generals will do their jobs in spite of pressure from politicians, cartels, and cultists? Why protect the people for free when you can charge them for protection instead? Because it’s God’s mission, that’s why, as Los Custodios see the war against Abby as their holy calling, same as the Knights Templar.

  Problem is, even though their hearts are in the right place, they got a tendency to bite off more than they can chew. During my last trip up to the mesa, I was almost convinced it was Los Custodios making all that ruckus and stirring Abby up in the Badlands, because that’s par for the course when you dealing with those kinds of fanatics. They’re all about the mission, but light on the means to get there, and while most of us are focused on the endgame of eliminating Proggies root and stem, your average Custodios is more keen on dying in glorious combat and ascending to their rightful place as a hero in Heaven.

  Or something like that. Luckily, Mexico also got their regular military, but they’re also pretty Catholic as a whole. I dunno much about Latin Catholics and how it differs from the Catholicism I know, but when it comes to Mexicans and South Americans, even those who ain’t all that religious are at least somewhat religious. Like Vicente, who wears a crucifix around his neck and invokes Santa Muerte whenever he has a close call. Fact is, I probably should’ve asked him to come along, as it would’ve been nice to have an inside perspective on the Mexican mindset seeing how they’re playing host to these talks, but I didn’t want to impose seeing how much he loves his wife and kids. Or how concerned he was about his house having been tainted by Nahuatl Cultists, so much so he went into New Hope to talk to a priest who assured him that the Roman Catholic Church had gone in and scoured away any and all magical filth left behind by the previous residents. Still went and bought a blessed plaque from some vendor who claimed it would protect his household from Nahuatl magics, a piece of cheap copper plated garbage that don’t got a lick of magic to it.

  Didn’t say as much to the man, because faith be a tricksy thing, but I don’t much care for any huckster who squeezes the faithful like that.

  Now, so far I’ve painted a pretty bleak picture of the Mexican government as a whole, but truth be told, it’s almost all hearsay. While I don’t know a lot, the few Mexicans I have met are pretty decent, hardworking folk, with most happy to share what little they had once they was sure I wasn’t about to chop their feet off. Which only goes to show that stereotypes go both ways, and I find myself pleasantly surprised when the walls of New Sonora come into view and look nothing like what I remember. Was maybe ten years old the last time I seen them, and the town in my memory was a squat and square settlement made of pale, clay-brick walls and reddish-brown mortar surrounded by fields of reddish dirt and unfamiliar plant life. Made for a patchwork construction, what with how the colours varied from brick to brick, but the walls looked tall, sturdy, and imposing enough to a child my age. Looking back on it now, I’d say they were about seven meters high and better built than the wooden palisades of Riverrun, but only just barely. Even as a kid, I could spot the patchwork repairs where Abby done broke through, while I remember asking my daddy why they didn’t have more slots for the big guns we had back in New Hope.

  Because the Mexican Government didn’t have that many big guns to spare, but they’ve picked up a fair few more since.

  In the eight years since I’ve visited, New Sonora hasn’t expanded. In fact, I’d say it’s done the opposite, as it ain’t any smaller, but much tighter in build and appearance. Gone are the clay bricks, or perhaps they’ve merely been hidden behind an angled jacket of some shimmering, glazed material that’s held in place by massive ribs of darksteel bands that run up and across the entirety of the walls. Whereas the walls were straight up and down before, they now slant down to a thick base to form something of a ramp, albeit one steep enough I imagine even Cliffstriders will struggle to climb it with any speed. At the top of the battlements, they got all manner of big guns poking out from the crenellations, while there are plenty of murder holes on the way up for more to fire out from. There’s also a gutter of all things, because that’s what it looks like, one made from the same glossy, ceramic like material that the rest of the walls are coated in. The gutter runs all around the walls as far as I can see, and I’ve no idea why they need it, but I imagine it’s for more than collecting leaves and directing runoff.

  The town has the same footprint as I remember, so long as you overlook the farms situated outside, all of which still got the same reddish dirt but are growing crops I’m more familiar with. The town has also built upwards, as while their walls are still at the same height as before, there are plenty of new towers soaring up into the skies to dwarf the walls below, with room for guns up top to support the defenders and fortified positions to serve as fall-back shelters should Abby get up top of the walls. Walls that don’t just shimmer in the late afternoon light, but are aglow with magic visible even from over a klick away as the telltale marks of empowered Wards and imbued Magics emanate off town like heat lines in a desert. Lines I can only see because I keep Detect Magic up as often as I can, and while Chrissy can see it too, I’ve no earthly idea how her mind interprets what she’s seeing, only to know that she’s fascinated by it. Soon as the walls come into view, she leans forward all interested like, then turns to look at me and point at the city in the distance to make sure I can see it too. With the addition of her big floppy hat and the sunglasses hiding her gorgeous, but unexpressive eyes, it’s an adorable sight to behold that warms my heart. This is about as present and animated as I’ve ever seen her before, so I fire off a message in ASL while speaking it at the same time.

  “That’s New Sonora,” I say, mostly because I ain’t sure if she even knows that’s where we was headed. “We’ll be holding the talks there, but I’ll make sure to set some time aside to walk around and sightsee.”

  Chrissy claps her hands in response then goes back to staring at the walls, and I can tell she’s excited by the way she smooths her dress again and again. That’s her version of fidgeting, which mean’s she’s wholly in the present, and I snap off a quick Photo with only the one hand, then a few more just in case Aunty Ray don’t like how the first turns out. Tina is entranced too, and though I try to pick her mind on what she’s seeing while snapping candids of her too, the best she can do is say it’s a kaleidoscope of Aetheric flows, except it ain’t just colours that’re shifting. Chrissy is probably the same, while Aunty Ray has so much trouble explaining it I got no earthly idea how she perceives magic.

  How does a wall look multifaceted when it’s just one straight section of smoothed over ceramic? I don’t get it, but Tina and Chrissy both nod along, while I’m just sat here seeing the colours of magic. Then again, it’s hard to explain something that only you yourself can perceive. We can all sense the Magic there, whether it be through Innate perception or Spell-granted awareness, but how we interpret what we sense is typically unique to the person. That’s because your brain is making sense of a sense you’re not supposed to have, so it’s gotta bridge a few connections to make it work. Some see magic as lights and colours like me, while others smell it in the air, and still more get some sort of auditory or even temperature gradients, like they feel a chill when they close to it without actually getting cold. I know a fella whose chest gets tight when he uses Detect Magic, and another who can feel it in the air like moving your hand through water.

  Me, I’m mostly visual with a dash of intuition that I can’t rightly explain. Like when I see a magic, there ain’t a colour associated with the type, but I can usually gauge what kinda magic it be by how the colours… separate. Like a rainbow on water, except the colours ain’t always in the same order, except its not the colours that matter per se, but how thick or thin the banding be and how close in shade the colours be, with a dash of interpretive logic that don’t make sense to anyone besides me. Like how red and yellow sorta clash but not really, so that usually means qualities primarily associated with two different Schools of Magic working together in one Spell.

  Sorta. Like I said, it’s difficult to explain. Also difficult to tell any of that with the walls so far off in the distance, but it don’t take a genius to guess that it’s some sort of protective Abjuration. That’s about all I can glean from this distance, which ain’t much more than anyone with half a lick of sense. Sometimes, I wish I could see in colour coded magic, like if I could just organize it all and just know what’s coming, with a rainbow of colours for each School and maybe a lightshow of some sort or a Sigil popping up for specific Spells even. Humans are mostly visual creatures after all, so it’d be real nice if Detect Magic would work out like that. Ain’t how the Spell works though, as you just gotta learn to read what the Spell gives you in the manner your brain chooses to interpret it, and there ain’t nothing else that can be done about it.

  …

  Or is there?

  I’ve already written a Script to read my brain patterns, or rather modelled one after a Script I found in a textbook on Automaton Invocations that I thought could come in handy. Couldn’t I modify that Script to take what input Detect Magic gives me and organize it however I please? Like building a dictionary to a language I don’t understand one word at a time, and while it might not be 100% accurate, it’ll be better than relying on my gut feeling and memories of a general gist the last time I experienced something like that.

  Fact is, I could take that idea so much further. First I’d start small, using it to record what I get from the Rangefinder Cantrip compared to known distances, so that the next time I use the Cantrip at that same distance, the Script can just spit out an actual value as opposed to relying on my memory of how 100 meters feels. Which will be tricksy, as you never want the Script inputting anything into your head, only taking something from it. Means I’d need to link the output to an Automaton, but luckily I’ll almost always have my Prosthetic Hand. Wouldn’t even need to use all that many values, as I could have it round to the nearest 50 meters up to say a click, because when is it ever gonna matter for higher values?

  When I’m shooting super long distances, but I don’t do that often enough to really worry about it just yet. Plus, there are actual Rangefinder Artifacts I could look into to see how it really works, but that’s research that’ll need doing some other time. For now, I should just get to cataloguing everything I get from my Divination Spells so I have something to work with when it comes time to translating that feedback into cold, hard, static values. Uncle Teddy’s said it before and I’m here to say it again; the true value of a Diviner lies not in how well or often they sling their Spells, but how the caster interprets the results of the Spells they use. I’ve done pretty well with Detect Abby, but that’s because I use it so often and have gotten real good at interpreting what I get. If I can put it all into cold, hard numbers though? I could wave my hand, scan some Abby, and know exactly how many and what kinds are out there, instead of a vague notion of maybe some sort of Bugs, or definitely Greenies but no idea what kind.

  Which is some real food for thought, and I’ll have to pick some brains regarding how to access the output that doesn’t involve installing a screen on my prosthetic to look at every time I use a Divination Spell. The idea is so enthralling, I barely pay any mind to anything else as we approach the busy town and fall in line with all the caravans and travellers looking to get in before the gates close for the night. Which ain’t a huge deal, as it’s much safer camping outside of New Sonora compared to camping around the build sites we done just left behind. Not as safe as camping outside of New Hope or the surroundings, but safe enough that I’m willing to risk it. There’s no need though, as the guards here are much easier to deal with than the ones in New Hope. Alls I gotta do is let Sergeant Rowan show them our papers, then slip them a few fives while shaking their hands and we’re hurried through the process quick as a blink.

  The best part? That ain’t even my money, as I intend to expense the Feds for every last dollar I spend on this trip, including the brass and Aether I used up against all them Abby.

  Once inside, I turn to Sergeant Rowan to ask what her plans are and if she got any suggestions for the rest of us, only to stop short when I spot a ruddy-cheeked Evan Pike heading over to greet us. “Bossman figured you’d be coming in tonight,” the mercenary says, taking one final drag of his cigarette before putting it out underfoot. Which I never liked, people throwing their cigarettes on the floor like they’ll just disappear on the morrow, but that’s common practice all the same. “Got lodgings all sorted, so if you’ll follow me?”

  He don’t seem none too pleased to be on door-duty, but that only reinforces my belief that he’s low man on the totem pole and weak link in the chain of Caleb Finch’s crew. I know they’re supposed to be on my side, but that don’t mean you don’t watch for weaknesses, because your enemies sure will be. I don’t say nothing to him outright, as I figure I already know how he’d react to a condemnation of him drinking on the job. With pique and outrage, because he’s a hard bitten merc and I’m just some fresh-faced kid, and then I’ll have to prove him wrong. So I skip the theatrics and make a note to talk to Mr. Tillman himself, and if he wants to bring it up with Caleb, that’s on him.

  Instead, I turn to Sergeant Rowan and pick up where I left off before I was interrupted. “Y’all sorted, or you staying on the whole trip?”

  The gruff Sergeant nods and says, “Orders are to escort you here and back again, so we’ll be sticking close.” Which is good, if only because it means we can keep Tina with us and make this a real family trip. Assuming there’s time in between all the diplomacy and murder attempts, but that’s neither here nor there. Got my head on a swivel as we move through the bustle, Mexican fortress town, one that’s nothing like New Hope. It got the same flurry of activity all about it, but the energy is completely different, as instead of polite calm and businesslike haste, New Sonora got a livelier, more chaotic vibe to it as the crowd jostles in and around the streets while moving goods, hawking wares, playing games, and everything in between.

  Lot of sombreros and ponchos to go around, as both do help to beat the heat even if it do add extra layers. More in your face is the explosion of colour, because even the men like to fancy up their hats and outfits. Embroidery is big, with red, blue, green, and yellow accents to white, tan, black, and brown hats, while the women are big of floral patterns. Gives the town a livelier feel, or at least more exciting than the seas of blacks, blues, and greys back home.

  The differences are more than skin deep too. While there’s the odd army or Custodios patrol moving about on horseback, the beast of burden of choice around these parts be the chivro, an armoured donkey with big old goat horns and a shiny and reflective hide that reflects sunlight to keep it cool in the summer heat. They got big, veiny ears too, one’s they flap to stir up a breeze, and big old buck teeth they ain’t shy about snapping at you with. A few stretch out to snap at Cowie as they pass, but my partner gives as good as he gets and has them hinnies squawking something fierce.

  Don’t none of the people leading them chivros so much as bat an eye, as the beasts got foul tempers but won’t actually harm anything bigger than a marty on account of their lacking jaw strength. Don’t much care for carrying things like a rider or saddlebags, but they can haul carts and wagons as good as a horse twice their size for a quarter of the feed and even less water. Means they’re everywhere in New Sonora, which is just the worst because while they don’t pee often to conserve water, what does come out is thick, syrupy, and stinks to high heaven.

  Takes some getting used to, but for now, I pull up my bandana to cover my nose and fix one around Chrissy’s face too, making her look like the fanciest bandit you done ever did see. Don’t no one bat an eye though, because between the stink and the dust clouds from all the dry dirt roads, most everyone got their face covered out here.

  That’s the worst of it, but there’s beauty to the town too. Rather than a stately Ranger HQ and bank sitting front and centre, New Sonora got a church as the focal point instead, a massive cathedral that somehow looks down to earth while bearing all the trappings of religion that you’d expect. Statues of Jesus and a bunch of Saints encircle the cathedral so you gotta pass a bunch no matter which way you travelling as you make your way around it, with plenty of peddlers and merchants hawking their wares around the roundabout. Ain’t none too shy about getting right up in your face to try and sell you something either, but Cowie swings at the first to approach to push him off and warns all the others off with a glare.

  Glancing back to make sure Aunty Ray’s doing okay, I notice that she don’t got to do nothing to keep her wagon clear. Ain’t Sasha’s sour puss scaring everyone off either, but rather Aunty Ray’s prominent Innate Brand as well as the aura of confidence and competence she emanates just sitting there in the wagon with her nose and mouth covered by a cloth. Most tend to forget that she’s one hell of a Spellslinger, a woman who Uncle Teddy himself said was qualified to be a Ranger after a few weeks of roughing it together on the Frontier. Granted, it wasn’t like he was spoiled for choice, but he wouldn’t have recruited a young woman of twenty if he didn’t think she had the chops for it, and time has proven him right. While most will be watching me or the Rangers, I’d put Aunty Ray as the top threat in our group when it comes to a stand-up fight, as she can single-handedly turn the tides of battle with a half dozen Spells at the very least.

  Course, these peddlers don’t know that. They just stay away because they’re not big on Innates. With Chrissy, they’re willing to approach because I’m clearly the money man, but ain’t no one expect Sasha to have a dollar to his name. Not with his scruffy hat and hand me down clothes, whereas anyone with eyes can see the quality of my Stetson and duster, to say nothing of the many, many guns on my person. Then again, I’ve been paying Sasha for his work, enough so that he could make his first monthly payment and still have enough cash to spare, so I make a note to watch how he spends to get a better grasp on who he is. It’s easy to scrimp and save when you got no money to spend, but a whole lot harder when that cash be burning a hole in your pocket.

  Only then do I notice Aunty Ray don’t got her big smile on, and in fact is wearing a frown. One hidden under her face cloth and not directed at me, but rather at our general surroundings. Glancing around to see what’s what, I don’t spot anything out of the ordinary, not at first, just peddlers hawking wares and bystanders gawking as the Qink and three Innates roll on by. With the Rangers to clear the way and Evan Pike’s suspicious glare darting this way and that, our path forward is more or less left unobstructed as we weave through traffic and move deeper into the city. Takes a few more seconds before I realize what’s got Aunty Ray’s head on a swivel, because I don’t got her instincts. There are plenty of people watching us as we pass, which is normal since we’re something of a novelty. I’ve seen a man crash his wagon because he was too busy staring at me and trying to make sense of what he sees, as it ain’t everyday you get to see a Qink in a cowboy outfit mosey on by. As such, I’ve mostly grown numb to the stares, but what I should’ve noticed here is the many, many folks who’re watching me roll on past, but trying their damnedest to look like they ain’t watching.

  Now some might think this is a social thing and them folks just being polite, but that ain’t what’s happening here. There a man sipping coffee at a table and watching us pass, another sitting at the side of the road and keeping tabs on us all, while a third leans against the wall while sending a fourth off to do something or the other, and it’s that fourth man I track because he looks right proper nervous. Goes through a door about five buildings down, and I instantly look up to the balcony on the second floor, one that we’ll pass right under. Course, there’re plenty other balconies overlooking the main road, but they’re all occupied or cluttered with something or the other. Chairs, tables, drying laundry, and the like, with neighbours having a chat from window to window, children watching the traffic go by, or fellas bellowing out what they’re selling on the first floor. Only the balcony of the building that suspicious fella went into is empty and unused, prime real estate on the main thoroughfare, so you’d think they’d make use of it.

  Which is why I already got my hand on my new revolver when the man pops out onto the balcony with a wild look in his eyes and a rifle in hand as he brings his weapon to bear while shouting, “Muerte a los dioses de sangre!”

  Only to take a Bolt in the chest and drop-down dead before he even halfway there as I beat him to the punch by a metric mile.

  My new gun got a silken ting to it when it shoots, a dainty, flat chime that sends shivers down my spine on account of how off key it sounds, but I’ve grown to love it in the short time we’ve had together. The body drops and silence falls over the bustling streets as the bystanders take a beat to process what they seen and heard, only for one fella to ruin it all by shouting something or the other to shatter the veil of silent stillness. In the ensuing chaos, I stand in front of Chrissy to keep her safe with my gun in hand and watch the crowd for threats while trusting Cowie, the Rangers, and even Evan Pike to bring us away to safety, all the while ready to shoot anyone and everyone who might get in our way.

  All in all, not a great start to these supposed peace talks, as my Spanish be fairly rusty, but I know enough Latin to figure out what that fella shouted before I shot him. “Muerte a los dioses de la sangre,” might sound like gobbledegook to me, but when you break it down, I actually know most of those words. Muerte, being death, like Santa Muerte, or Holy Death. Dios is God, while sangre is most certainly blood, as it comes from the Latin root sanguis. Put it all together, and I’m pretty sure he just said, “Death to the Gods of Blood”, which is another name for the Nahuatl Lords of the Night, Native American and South American Spellslingers who bonded themselves to some Soulless Deviants to become akin to Immortal Monarchs and used their power to take over Mexico and most of South America while sacrificing millions of lives to their Deviant Aspects year after year.

  So yeah. Guess there be some fanatics out there who’ve pegged me as a Nahuatl sympathizer, which is just… great. Fantastic really. Not only do I have two prospective threats to watch for, instead of just one from the Qin, this second threat could be coming from any person of South American descent, because even hundreds of years after the fall of the Nahuatl Empire, the hatred for them still runs deep, and even deeper for those still affected by them Proggie feeding Cultists.

  Well… I guess that rules out sightseeing then. I’ll have to apologize to the family, because all in all, this is shaping up to be a terrible first family trip