RuffWriter
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Chapter 3
🕑 Added 2023-09-30 17:28:13 +0000 UTCGonna take the rest of today and maybe tomorrow to touch up the chapters I got. Do a bit more of foreshadowing in all three. Theres more stuff I want to hint at besides whats revealed here, like Howie's hat, plus leave a better trail so what he does here doesn't feel like as much of an asspull. Anywho, I'd love to know your thoughts please, here or on discord, or comments on the gdrive too. Thanks and enjoy!
https://docs.google.com/document/d/1mRz73AG8ZZXpHU6RscbNTBadfLvZ26vb7tXZBXlp40c/edit?usp=sharing
Now, most my magic, I learned from Marshal Ellis, but my daddy was the one who taught me how to survive.
He was real good at it too. Says a lot about a man when he can run point through a maze of narrow Abby tunnels without getting got, especially if he do it for fourteen years. Finest Scout the Rangers ever had, that’s my daddy, and I been learning at his side since I was seven. He never took me through no Abby burrow, but he made sure I knew how to approach any potentially dangerous situation.
First step, is preparation, most of which I already handled, including inching my Chicago Doorknockers outta their holsters.
Second step is threat assessment.
Most would see Carl’s friends and focus on Jumbo. It’s natural instinct. Size is strength, and strength is feared or respected, as is the case with our tall, dark, brawny, bald, and bearded friend. Don’t matter that he’s likely forty, seeing how the youngest non-Qin settlers were twenty at the Advent and that was almost eighteen years ago. Jumbo is a hulking menace of muscle and he know it. That’s why he tore off the sleeves from his nice cotton button-up, to better show off his beefy arms crossed over his hairy barrel chest, left on display with an open shirt. Got a real thick neck too, which is likely why he leave his collar unbuttoned, though that don’t excuse leaving it wrinkled, unfolded, and unstarched. Would do wonders to hide the throbbing veins in his neck, since he really working at looking big, flexing and straining for all he’s worth while pretending he ain’t. This only makes it clear that them bulky biceps ain’t home-grown. They got that lumpy, irregular look about them, the one that screams Transmutation magic. Maybe False Brawn, a First Order Spell that only make him thick with Ecto padding without bestowing any actual strength. Then again, maybe he got some real skills and cast himself a Second-Order Enhance Physique. Bull’s Strength, if we going by the old vernacular, though ain’t no way Jumbo ever gonna be a match for Cowie, pound for pound. Sure could rip me in half though. Pluck my arms right out them sockets if he really mean to, and I bet that’d be his first instinct instead of reaching for whatever gun he got hidden behind the bar.
Which would be a mistake. See, we ain’t barbarians bashing each other over the head no more. We civilized folk, ones who’ve elevated violence into a refined, genteel pastime in which we shoot each other instead. Jumbo ain’t got that memo yet, thinks we still in the stone age and his bulging thews give him the advantage. That’s why if it comes down to a fight, I’ll beat him on the draw, and his muscles, magic or otherwise, won’t do nothing to stop me from putting a Bolt through his chest or head.
The next obvious choice to focus on is lean and lanky on the right. Puts me in mind of a hobgoblin, all rangy and angular, with the addition of greasy unkempt hair and a face full of stubble. His too large and too long t-shirt don’t help his appearance none, not with the dark fabric showing sweat stains that tell me he usually wear a vest overtop it all. Hobb is the only one on my side of the bar, leaning back on one elbow while his right hand flicks his butterfly knife around. It sure do look impressive, but looks is all it is. Anyone who ever held one them knives knows it don’t take much skill to do them showy spins, just gotta wave it about and let the knife do the rest. Hobb’s more casual about it than Jumbo, but he also trying to intimidate and done missed the mark. Sure, knives can be dangerous, but guns are more dangerous, and he got two of ‘em on his belt which he can’t use on account of the knife in one hand and his weight on the other. If it comes to a fight, he’ll stick me with his knife while I pump him full of Bolts, and I’ll take them odds any day of the week.
Nah, the most dangerous of the bunch is the most unassuming of them all. The man behind the bar, though Jumbo back there too. While the latter postures and flexes, the bossman stands slouched and leaning with arms folded over the bar. No mistaking him for anything else, as his ain’t a tired or lazy lean. It’s a looming lean, a predatory lean, a power lean, like a man up high looking down on his kingdom, wondering who he gonna kill for his next snack. This his turf we in. The bossman knows it, I know it, everyone else knows it too, and he basks in that knowledge in like a cool breeze. This a man who’s in control and likes it that way, as one can tell by his handsome, well-groomed appearance. Got strong features and piercing blue eyes under his long dark-blonde locks, all pulled back into a neat and tidy ponytail. Supporting all that is a trimmed and brushed beard that come to a rounded point which don’t quite reach his chest, the hair so straight and fine I’m of a mind to ask him what product he use.
Not cause I got a need for it myself; my black hair is naturally straight, as is with most from the Qin Republic. Got no facial hair to care for neither, or at least none worth mentioning. Nah, what I need hair product for is Cowie’s curlycues. His shaggy white coat got a real tousled look that no amount of brushing can fix. Makes him look cute and all, but he a grown bull now, so it’s time he updated his look.
As for the bossman, his neat appearance is only accentuated by the simplicity of his clothes. A dark, navy-blue shirt with crisp pearl buttons done up all the way to his starched collar, and shirttails tucked in tight. Even the man’s cuffs are buttoned up, with little silver links to boot, which I only ever seen on Marshal Ellis’ Sunday best. Ain’t nothing fancy, but the King wear it all with a regal pride, one accentuated by his silver belt buckle holding up two shiny, expensive Aetherarms. Can’t say the exact model names, seeing as both his pistols still in their holsters, side from the fact that they both big, reliable revolvers.
Composed. Methodical. Domineering. That’s the bossman in a nutshell, and those traits mark him as a dangerous fellow, more so than the impression of impending violence he exudes so casually while watching my approach. Jumbo and Hobb lost interest the moment they laid eyes on me, because all they see is a skinny kid. A well-armed kid, but a kid nonetheless, wearing a goofy smile, his daddy’s oversized coat, and a cowboy hat like I’m dressed up for a costume party. That’s why they’ll die third and second. The disdain stings the pride a bit, but I get it, so I’ll overlook it. Prefer it even, compared to the bossman’s studied interest. He sees something that holds his eye, but I can’t quite tell what it is or how that make him feel, nor can I say what it means. Nonetheless, ain’t nothing left to do except step 3, engage.
Raising a hand to touch the forward-facing medallion of my Stetson and hoping it look casual, I keep my pearly whites on full display and mosey on over to the bar. Soon as I’m there, I stick my hand out for a shake and say, “Howdy folks. Name’s Howie Zhu. Good to meet you.”
Neither Jumbo nor Hobb makes a move to reciprocate, because my handshake is for the bossman. The other two just furniture, which he notes with a smirk, looking me up and down as you do. A moment passes in silence before he gives a dry chuckle, just a little ha as he slaps his hand into mine and clamps down tight. “Ronald Jackson.” The bossman’s voice is deep and gravelly, his accent crisp and neat, while his blue eyes are full of cheerless mirth and his grip crushing without overwhelming. “President and C.E.O of Vanguard National.”
Already figured they’d be company men, seeing how this a company saloon and they all sporting V.N embroidered on their dark coloured shirts. Didn’t figure on meeting the head honcho himself though, which could be bad or good. Either way, one thing’s for sure: if all hell breaks loose, then I’mma shoot Ron first.
Nothing to do but play along with his game. He expecting least a wince before he intends to let go, and there’s no need to put on an act. I ain’t the smallest feller around, but Ron got at least twenty years and a hundred pounds on me. No need to fret, as I ain’t done growing just yet. “Good to meetcha Mr. Jackson,” I reply, still smiling after he loose my hand and I give it a good flapping to make sure it still work. Little joke there, which he appreciate, and he gestures for me to take the seat across from him at the bar. One at the end that puts Jumbo to my right and Hobb to my left. Ain’t the worst spot to start a gunfight, so I hop up onto the stool, wince as the sharp corners dig into my wranglers, and settle in with both hands laid flat atop the bar once we ready to get underway.
Ron’s eyes flick to my hands and he offer me a little nod, a thank you for my polite notice of a lack of intent to draw guns or waggle fingers. A proper professional then, unlike Carl and his boys. Speaking of Carl, he gives me a nod and a smile after knuckling his head for the bossman, and I nod back wondering how he can be so ignorant of what’s in front of him. He just plain don’t sense the tension and thinks everything hunky dory as he leaves to go about his day. Well, better than him thinking he walked me into a shoot-out and is feeling mighty fine about it. Like I said, Carl ain’t a bad sort, but he greener than green and dumb as a bag of bricks. Thems townies for you though, too scared of the bad to set out and see all the good that the Frontier has to offer.
More bad than good these days, feels like, but it is what it is.
Ron on the other hand, well, he been around the block and knows more than a little bit, still wearing his little smirk as he bobs his head up and down, not quite nodding but giving the impression of approval while he looks me over. “Firm grip. A good start, boy.” Hate it when people call me boy, but at least he don’t got that sharp inflection towards the end that turn it ugly. “You brought me a fine bottle of mead, so I say it’s only fair I treat you to a drink as well.”
Out comes the glasses and bottle with a clunk, but it ain’t Ron who doing the clunking. No, that’s Jumbo, and the way he stuff his fat fingers into the glasses make me think bartending ain’t his real job. The smell hits me before the drink even hit the glass, sharp and pungent as can be. “That’s some strong shine.” Least that’ll sanitize whatever Jumbo’s fingers left in them glasses. Can’t fathom how anyone can enjoy drinking shine, but then again, I ain’t one for alcohol or any drugs in general. Seen what it can do to a man and don’t much care for it. “Thank you kindly, but ‘fraid I’ll have to take a rain check on the drink, least for a hot minute. Need a clear head for work if I’m fixing to keep the job, and I am.”
“No need to worry son.” Ron leans in close with a twinkle in his eye, like we friends whispering over secrets. Picked up on how I didn’t like being called boy too. Sharp man. “You’re only seventeen, and it’s illegal to serve drinks to minors. That glass could get me in some real hot water, but if you don’t tell, and I don’t tell, then what do we have to worry about?”
Bet he’s a real charmer, and I ain’t just talking about with the ladies. There something about Ron that make a man want to befriend him, impress him, be useful to him. Ain’t magic, far as I can tell, just natural charisma, him knowing how to talk to a stranger and make you feel like best friends. “Well, I’ll drink to that.” Acting all eager like I was just waiting for the excuse, I hoist my glass and clink it against his before we both take a pull. Mine’s not too big, because a half-glass of this shine might well have me slipping off my seat, but enough to make it look like I’m an excited, stupid kid who don’t know how deep he dug in. “Wooow!” I exclaim, coughing and patting my chest. “That’ll get your Cores primed.”
“You handle it well, son. Shine has a real bite which takes some getting used to.” Holding up the half-empty bottle of mead I asked Carl to bring in, Ron gives it a good, appreciative look as he continues, “Not like the mead you brought me. Smooth, light, and dry. Good flavour profile too. How long you let it sit?”
“Six weeks to ferment, six months to settle. Got my daddy’s special blend of herbs to go along with it, give it that nice smoky aftertaste.”
Ron nods along then frowns and shakes his head. “A steal at $2 a bottle, son. You’re selling yourself short. I’ll give you $4 a bottle for the sixty you got, and the same price if you bring me more.” This is not how I expected this meeting to go, so I’m a little caught off guard by the generous offer. Not because of the amount, just having trouble keeping up with what’s going on. Good thing Ron reads my confusion as shock, or maybe he thinks I’m tipsy. “It’s worth every dollar, but we’ll settle up after you have a bite to eat. Laura sweetheart?” The last is directed to the waitress, a lovely dark-skinned belle with curled ringlets dressed a little more conservatively than the gals outside, but not by much. She also looks completely done with all this, her pretty features locked in pursed lips and a frigid gaze as she slowly saunters over. Totally lacking all the social graces that one might expect from someone in hospitality services, she stops a few steps short and looks at Ron with hand on hip and waits. Sassy and real fetching, so not even the fact that she at least than twice my age is going to stop me from appreciating the view. “Be a dear and fetch our friend here a plate of steak and potatoes.”
“That sounds mighty fine, thank you.” Still don’t understand what’s happening, but I could eat, and it’s hard not to stare at miss Laura as she struts away through the heavy kitchen doors, all the way over at the other end of the bar. Because I’m hungry. And maybe other reasons too, but not ones I mean to act on. “Rangers do a lot of things well, but making travel rations ain’t one.”
That earns me another dry chuckle, all too brief again. “Some things never change. Army chow is not made for the taste.”
“Made to get you where you’re going.” Something Marshal Ellis always says, meaning Ron’s got some army training in him too. They the same age? Hard to tell with white folk sometimes. I seen fifteen-year-olds who look thirty-five, and forty-year-olds who look twenty. Ron here is the latter. “You serve?”
“Signed up and did four years in Lebanon up until ‘84. A real Charlie Foxtrot.” Another term I’ve heard from the Marshal, but he won’t tell me what it means. Ron just assumes I know, so I nod sagely along despite never having heard of Lebanon or about what happened in ’84 neither. “After we pulled out, I signed on for the Frontier. Figured I survived that hellhole, so how much worse could it get?” Shaking his head with a sigh, Ron adds, “Turns out, much worse. At least we had equipment in Lebanon.”
And just like that, all the pieces fall into place. How disappointing. So disappointing I can’t help but sigh and slump down. I blame the shine, because otherwise, I would’ve hid it better and played along, but it’s too late now. Ron gives me a questioning look, and there’s no sense trying to get back into the game, nor have I any desire to. “Yea, sorry.” Scratching my head for the best way to frame my words, I settle on being frank and forthright. “It ain’t nothin’ you said or did, see? I was just mistaken regardin’ the intentions behind this meetin’, and the penny just dropped. Hence my disappointment. Not aimed at you, but me, for not seein’ it sooner.”
The wheels are turning, but Ron still don’t get it, but only because he don’t got all the piece in play. Not his fault, really, plus the drink making me really lean into my accent. “And what did you think this meeting was about? A few cases of mead?” Ron’s decided friendly is no longer working, so now he trying derision, like I’m gonna fall over myself to win his approval.
Won’t work though. I got more than my fair share of approval growing up from men much better than him. “Nah. Honestly?” With a shrug and a smile, I figure I might as well tell the truth, because I ain’t got any other reasonable excuse. “I thought y’all might be fixin’ to rob an’ kill me. Was hopin’ for it really.” Course, now Ron’s really confused, but I don’t wanna get into it. Ain’t nothing to be gained from saying I thought he might be a thieving, murdering rapist, or that he might be consorting with them. Could still be, truth told. Just cause I don’t think Ron is my outlaw don’t mean he ain’t cozy up to them. Man like him who run this town the way he do, he probably welcome the help of monstrous animals like the ones I’m hunting down.
“Look, why don’t I save us all some time?” Drumming a bit on the bar top while I gather my thoughts, I rattle off everything I just put together. “I’m thinkin’ you and your boys got a problem. An Abby problem, to be precise. An armoured Abby problem would be my best guess, on account of all the Tec-LS’s and Snapdragons I seen outside. Any gunsmith who can make those should have the chops and know-how to pump out the Tec-L and Tass98, both of which are easier, cheaper and flat out better. Unless you shooting something armoured, of course. How am I doing so far, Ron?”
A knife slams into the bar with a bang, the steel quivering between my thumb and index finger while Hobb leans in real close. “That’s Mister. Jackson. Boy.”
There’s the sharp inflection at the end, which turn the word ugly. Unimpressed by Hobb’s actions, proximity, or odour, I fix him with a blank look. “Ye missed.”
“…What?”
Ugh, that stench. I get it, we in a desert and water is scarce, but ain’t Hobb ever heard of a Cantrip called Deodorant? “My hand. Ye missed.” Slowing down my speech to make sure he understands what I’m saying, I explain, “I get it. Ye wanted to take initiative, get us back on track. Put a little scare into the boy so he more liable to do whatcha want. Thing is, if ye wanna intimidate someone, it work better if ye stab them, not the bar, even if you trying to show how precise you can be.” Flicking the flat of the knife’s blade with my left hand, I pick up the pace and continue, “Besides, ye slammed it down so ‘ard the darn thing’s prolly wedged tighter than a Templar’s drawers. Makes for a sorry sight, ye strugglin’ to pull it back out. Not to mention now ye up close and personal, so ye can’t keep track of what’s happening around ye.” Hobb’s confusion is clear, and his hesitation even more so. This ain’t the reaction he expected, but he seen enough to know it ain’t an act neither. I got no fear or concern for him, and he don’t know why. Then his eyes widen as he feels the answer poke him between the legs, and backs up a few steps when he sees it.
“Jacob?” Ron finds his lack of control over the situation aggravating to the extreme, especially since he’s not sure how he lost it.
“Fucking Qi – he got a Blastgun pointed at my balls.” Pressed right up against them in fact, and angled so the spray will shoot clean through his spine. That right there is how you make a threat. Credit to him, Hobb’s voice only pitches and quivers a bit while his eyes are fixed on my gun. “Got another one pointed at Franky too, through the bar.”
That’d be Jumbo, but I’mma keep their nicknames. “No, no, no, don’t be castin’ aspersions on my actions now.” Shaking my head in denial, I turn to Ron and say, “I ain’t pointing a Blastgun at yer man. Well, okay, it is currently pointed towards his nether regions, but only cause he stepped so close while I was bringing out a real beaut of an armour penetrating Aetherarm fer y’all to admire.” Having made my point clear, I wait while holding Ron’s stare, his eyes just brimming with questions. Considering he sees both my hands still flat atop the bar, I can understand his confusion regarding how I’m holding not one, but two Blastguns to his men. I ain’t ready to show and tell just yet though. “Is it alright, Mr. Jackson? If I bring my Blastgun up for a look-see? Or is your skittish boy here gonna be a problem?”
Though displeased regarding what’s transpired, I’d say most of Ron’s ire is directed towards Hobb, who jumped the gun, so to speak. We was just talking about their problems, and I ain’t had a chance to say my full piece, but now I got my guns out and hold the upper hand. Hands, in fact. “Jacob,” Ron begins, and to his credit, Hobb finds it in himself to pull his eyes away from the gun pressed up against his dangly bits. “Quit looming over our friend here and come around to this side of the bar. The long way, with your hands where he can see them.”
“Thank you for your understanding, Mr. Jackson,” I say, and I mean it too, though I keep my guns trained on Hobb and Jumbo for now. Don’t get me wrong, I’ll paint the walls with Hobb’s blood and everyone else’s too if I have to, but we ain’t that far gone just yet. That’s why I’m putting so much effort into enunciating my words now. Sound more proper like. “And I apologize, for getting overly familiar earlier and calling you by your first name. Bit of it is the shine, but most of the fault lies with me, for letting it get to me. Won’t happen again.”
“Nonsense.” Ron’s smile don’t reach his eyes, same as ever before, but this time those baby blues hold a promise that run contrary to what his lips be saying. “You can call me Ron anytime you like, boy.”
This low-down, spongin’ son of a… “Appreciate it, Mr. Jackson.” Now that we know where we stand, I turn a bit in my seat so I can face all three from across the bar, and keep an eye on the patrons and anyone else who might be coming in. Helps that it puts my back to the wall too, but I don’t think the drinking folk even notice anything amiss. They all still sitting quiet and working on their drinks, doing their best to down their sorrows in a shallow puddle. While I scan the crowd, Jumbo tries to be all sneaky like and move, but I snap back to him like a harpy who done spotted a lone child. “You keep your hands where they are Franky, because if you reach for that weapon again, I’m of a mind to start Blasting.”
And Jumbo believes it. Hobb and Ron too, because when I say I’m liable to start shooting, I let it show. That same air of violence that all men of our nature possess, a primed readiness to inflict brutal and savage harm upon one another. The only difference is, I show mine with a smile. It ain’t because I enjoy it, or even because I want it, but about the necessity.
If there’s killing that’s needing to be done, then I’m more than happy to do it. Make the Frontier a better place, one Bolt or Blast at a time.
Once I’m sure Hobb and Jumbo are going to behave, I turn back to focus on Ron, who gives a little whistle as my Blastguns float on up to settle on the bar. Carried there by my Mage Hands, two transparent, almost spectral constructs made entirely of Ectoplasm. They start with a wrist and end at the tips of five fingers, with dimensions all the same as mine. They do most things I can do with nothing more than a thought, though they clumsier about it. Just a silly little Cantrip I used to play with all the time, on account of all the stories my daddy told me about my mama. She was an industrious sort, always crafting or writing, and the Mage Hands helped her do even more. Work on knitting both socks at once or making dumplings while she write, little things to speed matters along and make sure everything ready before I arrived.
That’s why Mage Hand was the first Cantrip I ever learned, which make it one of my more practiced Spells to boot.
“Never seen someone Conjure two Mage Hands at once.” Because my mama figured the trick out, and I’m the only one who’s picked it up so far, but I can see Ron’s mind working. He wondering if I got a hidden friend helping me out, and I ain’t about to ease his worries. “Impressive technique too.” On account of how he didn’t see me waggling no fingers or hear me muttering no chants. The Mage Hand Cantrip typically requires both, and while I could use my Metamagic bracelet to eschew one of those vital components, I usually don’t bother. I just cast it when no one looking or listening, like after my horse bath outside, and typically go about my business with the extra hands hidden under my duster, holding the handles of my Blastguns as it were. Takes a bit of effort to keep them around for more than ten minutes, but don’t take much to recast, and I like having them ready when I can. That’s why I didn’t mind dismissing them before my horse bath, and recasting them after, so as not to show my hands before they needed.
Because a surprise is only a surprise if no one see it coming.
“Impressive weapons too,” Ron remarks, nodding at my Blastguns resting on the bar top, next to the Mage Hands which are laid out flat too. Only seems polite now that everyone knows they there, but it's alright. I still got more cards to play.
That being said, I can’t resist talking tech when it relates to Aetherarms, so I allow myself to puff up at the compliment. “These babies are custom jobs,” I begin, silently asking for permission to handle them, which Ron allows without hesitation. “Modelled after the Dresden Forzare and hand-tooled by Armand Kalthoff himself,” I proclaim, holding one of my babies to show off the all the purple squiggly Metamagics etched into the shiny steel barrel and hardwood frame. Not in a proper grip, just two fingers a hand, though Jumbo and Hobb still flinch. Not Ron though, because he understand the game we playing, and he play it just as well as the first. Difference is that I’m the one in control now. He don’t like that much, but he get it, so no harm in allowing him the appearance of control, if only for the sake of saving face.
A complicated thing, the games of power among men. Be a lot simpler if we just started shooting, but I still got a job to attend to.
“Now it don’t look like much,” I say, after giving them a moment to drink in the view, “But this sawn-off double barrel Blastgun packs a real punch. Breech loaded and takes two 12-gauge shells packing 40 Grain of Aether a piece, the Forzare is built around a pair of First-Order Blast Spell Cores which each deliver a spray of pure kinetic Force in a cone-like pattern. Nicknamed the Chicago Doorknocker, on account of how a Spellslinger for hire got famous for using his Forzare to bust down doors to Chicago mafia enterprises.” Got a real kick outta those campfire stories, though I ain’t sure how much truth there is to them. “This one can fire one or both barrels with a single pull of the trigger, just gotta cock the hammers. The base Spell itself got a 45-degree arc and only go up to 5 meters, but the Metamagics narrow and stretch that to be about 20-degrees and 10 meters. Not a lot of range, I know, but the base model, well that’s a 20’ long single-barrel pump-action that’s got even better coverage and range. That’s the gun you really want for armoured Abby. Pack ‘em in tight and I bet you kill ten, maybe twelve armoured Orcs in a single Blast. Anything that ain’t killed liable to get knocked off clean off its feet by the impact, so you ain’t gotta worry too much about them barreling through.”
My babies will also leave them concussed, which don’t come standard. Pays to be the Firstborn sometimes; means some of the older folk treat me special, including our town’s resident Dutch gunsmith. “The Forzare comes in all flavours of damage types too; Fire is a favourite, but you might want to consider Acid too, depending on what you up against. Something real big and armoured gonna take more than single Blast, but you hit it with Acid, and that armour will melt right off, leaving it vulnerable to regular Aetherarms which ain’t armour penetrating.”
“Very impressive.” Ron squints his eyes in silent question, and I glance at my other Blastgun on the bar. Picking up my sweet little dubsie, looking so cute with its short, etched barrels sitting side by side, he looks it over with an expert eye. While pointed away from me and down the bar mind you, since I still got mine in hand, and he ain’t in no mood to gamble his life on which one of us gonna be first to shoot. Especially since we standing so close. Even if he kills me first, my finger could still pull the trigger, which will likely kill him too. That’s why these Blastguns are perfect for using with the Mage Hand Cantrip. Although I can control the spectral hands with a thought, aiming is still tricky, and they got no hope of ever controlling recoil at all. Add in the fact that they can only hold up to 5lbs each, while moving and accelerating far too slowly to be of any use with a knife, it means Mage Hands ain’t good for much else in a fight. With a dubsie though, I just gotta get them pointed in the general direction of what I mean to kill, and a touch of the trigger will handle the rest.
My darlings Doorknockers have saved my bacon more times than I can count. Sure, there’s only four shots between the two of them, but if I ever get myself into a mess that take more than four shots from a Dresden Forzare Blastgun to buy me time to breathe, then I done gone and made a real mess of things. I could clear up this problem right now with just one, maybe two shots at most, though I’ll need a whole lot more to get outta dodge if we heading down that direction. I’m thinking they won’t though, as Ron ain’t looking for a gunfight, especially not one where right in the thick of it. He still hoping I’ll get him guns, which is why he still playing along, but I’m afraid that’s all about to change.
“Incredible craftsmanship. Beautifully put together.” Placing my Blastgun back down with a little shake of his head, Ron posts back up against the bar with his predatory lean and a knowing look. “Only… I’m afraid I was looking for something a little more… robust. Something similar to what you have mounted on the roof of your wagon outside.”
It’s at this point that miss Laura has the unfortunate timing to pop out from the kitchen with my steak and taters. The thump of the double doors takes us all by surprise. Jumbo starts in place and turns to look, but Hobb is quicker on the draw, his hands darting down to the guns on his belt and leaving me with a decision to make right quick.
Do I only kill Hobb and give Ron another chance, or should I just kill all three and call it a day?
Dagnabbit. And here I was hoping I’d still have a chance to bag my outlaws, but now I might not even get to deliver the mail.
Marshal Ellis ain’t gonna like that.
Comments
Haha, yea. I initially wanted to go with a more dresden style story focus, investigation and murders and all that, but I couldn't even get a working outline of something that matched the Jim Butcher style. Makes me appreciate the books that much more.
Chad L.
Wizard for hire - I have missed you…..
