NationStates Jolt Archive

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Introduction
The world is thinning...
Everyone knows it. You can feel it in the air. You can hear it on the wind. You can see it in the way the sun seems to set just off kilter. Not even the old timers can say why the sun seems off when it sets, they just know that it is. The Golden Age has come and gone, and now the world is thinning... Time seems to stretch and compress, days become weeks, hours become minutes. It is happening everywhere. Most people accept it. The old timers talk of the Golden Age and the wonders and marvels they beheld, but now... Derelict cities long forgotten stand on the horizon, marvelous spires reaching to the heavens and beyond, ignored and unseen by the common man. Ancient items of great power lie hidden in plain sight, carried by the hands of common thieves. Children are raped and sacrificed to imaginary deities at the word of false prophets in the hopes that their blessing will seed the dying land. Wanderers, as they are called, are seen at increasing intervals, people out of time and place, from the far future or past, simply appearing as though they had always been there, sometimes vanishing again in the same manner.

Even in Gilead, once the center of civility and honor, the ties that bind have begun to fray and snap, one by one. The King is assassinated by the court magician. The Queen is imprisoned for his murder without trial, thrown into the deepest dungeons of the castle were dwell the most vile of murderers and miscreants the once fair land has to offer. The sole remaining heir, Azrael Leon, rightful crown prince, is sent away in disgrace after failing his manhood ritual, said failure being ensured by the court magician prior to his hasty departure. Azrael took his murdered father's pistols and sword. He may have failed his trial, he may be considered an irredeemable child by law and custom, but he was a man in his heart. He may have taken the heirlooms rightfully owed him like a thief in the night, but he was Gunslinger born. He may be outcast in a world outcast from the central spire of reality, but he had justice hanging at one hip and vengeance on the other, with truth sheathed against his back. Azrael Leon was barely old enough to know a woman's touch, but he was a man possessed.

Story
The world is thinning...
These words echoed through Azrael's mind as he fitfully slumbered. Inevitably, those words sparked his memory, his dreaming mind shifting from an incoherent blur of unimaginative haze to show the first time he had heard those words. His father, King Gabriel Leon, had spoken them at court. Azrael had been fifteen years of age at that time, nearly a man and more than old enough to take part in, or at least observe, the duties that would one day be his to perform.

"The world is thinning, my son," his father had solemnly intoned. "It has happened before, in the great and long history of our nation, and it will no doubt happen again. Thinning has given rise to great heroes, such as Arthur of the Round. It has also given rise to great evil, such as the sorceress Morgana the Fay. Your reign will no doubt be plagued with trials beyond measure, and perhaps my own will soon be as well, but you must remain strong. You must remember the face of your father and look what comes dead in the eye. Remember, young Gunslinger. Bravery and courage are not the absence of fear, but rather they are doing what you know is right and just in the face of fear. Son, you must-"

His speech was cut off by a racking cough, blood mingling with the spittle that flew from his lips despite the hand covering them. Marvin, the court magician, was instantly at the king's side. He whispered in the king's ear and slowly helped him rise. He glanced back as he was leading the worsening man away, attempting to give the young Azrael a reassuring smile. Azrael thought he needed practice at such things. The way the magician's think, bloodless lips curled reminded the boy more of a serpent than anything. The green, never-blinking eyes and small, flat nose with its upturned tip did not help. Every time Marvin leaned in to whisper to his father, Azrael expected those lips to open wide, revealing poisoned fangs which he would then sink into the king's neck. It was not far from the truth, as time revealed.

The dream shifted again, the last time he had seen his father. Blood. Azrael had been unaware that one man could hold so much. It pooled in the upturned mouth of the dead king, seeping from the corners to stain the bedsheets beneath his head, twin rivulets flowing from his nostrils. His hands were raised towards the heavens, frozen into twisted claws. His expression was what troubled Azrael most. His eyes were turned to the left, as though he had seen someone in his final moments whom he recognized standing beside his bed, and his face displayed not the expected fear nor even anger but sorrow.

"Poison!" Marvin cried, his shrill voice snapping Azrael's mind away from his father. "King Gabriel knew the one did this! And so do I!"

With that the magician had run from the king's bedchambers with Azrael in close pursuit, sprinting down the hall to burst into the queen's personal chambers. She startled from her weeping, her maids aghast at the audacity of the magician. Marvin began tearing through her vanity chest, tossing her beauty vials over his shoulder one by one. Azrael saw something in the magician's hand for a few seconds before the man finally gave a triumphant crow. He lifted high a heavily bejeweled vial, some blood red liquid contained within.

"This! This is the cause of King Gabriel's death! And it was the queen herself who poisoned him! Guards! Guards! Take her! Throw her into the deepest, darkest dungeons! Let the murderers and rapists have their fill of her treacherous body and break her spirit so that she may never again kill a man so noble as our king!"

The guards had reacted almost instantly, seizing his mother, even before Azrael's shout of protest. "No! Marvin is the culprit! He had the vial in his hand the whole time!"

"The boy is delusional! Take him to his chambers until I can speak with him, keep him under guard so that he cannot harm himself. I fear for his mental state after this morning's shock and the revelation of this most intimate betrayal. I act as Royal Regent, being the king's most trusted advisor, and with none of age within the royal family to take their rightful place upon the throne. Obey me!"

And the guards had done so. Azrael's last sight of his mother had been her horrified, screaming face as he was dragged from her room.

He jolted awake, a cry upon his lips, withheld only by sheer force of will and long habit. He glanced around quickly, noticing that his hands had fallen automatically to his pistols. Both had been cocked and were half drawn. Gently, he lowered the hammers. Mina was looking at him from across the fire. His eyes could not help but wander across the odd pattern that trailed up her exposed arms before meeting her eyes. He gave her a nod and sat fully, crossing his legs and facing away from the fire. He heard the rustle as she lay down on her bedroll and prepared to sleep, or hoped for it. Her phamarco-something had been acting up lately, keeping her hyped up on adrenaline. It seemed that that it was functioning properly, for now, since her breathing eventually became slow and regular.

They rarely spoke to one another, had barely exchanged more words than were necessary for daily living since their first meeting a month or so back. Why she had decided to follow him, he had no idea, but follow him she had, and after a week of being trailed across the desolate plains, he had thought it better to travel together rather than separate. Safer. These plains were home to vicious, otherworldly creatures in this time of thinning. Perhaps she had simply been traveling in this direction and he had mistaken her motives. No matter, either way. There was a loneliness in him that was slowly fading as he became accustomed to her presence, much faster than he had expected. He had not even realized there was such a void within him.

As he sat listening to the violent sounds of the night, his mind wandered back across the years and miles, drifting towards companions long past, to days when his face showed his years true. By his own, admittedly shoddy, time keeping, he was twenty one years of age, though he appeared half again that old. His hair was long, a few strands of grey giving his raven tresses unwanted highlights. Wrinkles were beginning to form around his gunmetal eyes and at the corners of his lips. His face was worn and toughened by sun and strife. His eyes, though, were what struck most. He had been told they belonged in a man long into his elder years. They had seen much, those two steely orbs, more than most men ever hoped, more than most men ever wanted.

He broke momentarily from his reverie as his ears picked up the snuffling of some predatory beast just outside the ring light cast by the fire. He focused on the sound, pinpointing it, but it soon moved off. And so the night went, the stars revolving slowly over head. The moon never rose on these desolate plains, not since he had first set foot in them. It was yet another oddity in a list that grew daily. The sun took longer than usual to kiss the horizon, two watches worth, but he let Mina sleep. She needed it after the past few nights with no rest. Silently, he went about breaking camp, gathering up their gear and packing it with the ease of long familiarity. As the brilliant orb finally broke the horizon, he called her name, rousing her, then settled his pack, waiting until she was ready before setting off along the road once more. They passed tough jerky between them, eating as they walked. It was easier and attracted the predators less.

A new day, another stretch of his journey to complete, a few steps closer to the confrontation that could end only in death.

I never minded sitting guard. I’d never needed much sleep -normally the Cadre's various implants - augmentations and nanopacks -had taken care of that. Though here, in this Reality, where I was much a stranger in a very strange land, I needed more. But not only because my Pharmacope was on down-check almost constantly. Well, what remained of it after it's transformation during the gate, trap, rift ? that brought me here.

Here was no where I'd ever learned of, here was no place I'd ever expected to be. Here was not home. Home… even if I had been an outcast at least it had been home. Here wasn't.

And more than just my pharmacope had been altered. I'd undergone many a surgery during my training as Cadre, to implant the various augmentations. One of the most basic was the framework and nanite bundles to grow the Dermaweave that lay just subcutaneous- just beneath the largest organ of the body - the skin. It had somehow fused with my genetically mocha hued skin giving it a distinct metallic gold over layer and the faintest pattern of millions of minute hexagons. The Dermaweave was internal armor, and it still performed that function, but it certainly drew me second looks. And a very noticeable shying a ways from by most people.

Azrael was having another of his nightmares. I’d learned to let him wake on his own. I’d not pried, and appreciated his return of the favor. I doubt if he would have understood half of what I could have told him. Nor did I have the words to tell him why I traveled with him. Yes I have been traveling the same way, but I had known – some how but don’t ask me how – the instant of our first accidental meeting that we shared the same destination, and had been fated…We had never needed to talk much, or at least not yet.

Oh how I hated Fate. Fate had cost me everything I knew more times that I cared to think about and I wondered when it would cost me this one whom I intended to keep a stranger. Though I had to snort at that - my intentions generally did not get accorded one instant of interest by Fate.

Sleep claimed me and put off my musings for a few hours more.

My dreams were probably no more troubled than his, but at least I while I wrestled with my own dream monsters, I didn’t wake from it.

“Mina” He had a nice voice - strong without being harsh and somehow suiting him, just as his eyes did.

I awoke clear headed and instantly alert. He’d let me sleep long, or maybe the weirding flow of time had granted me that. Time’s fluctuations may have been the root of the problem with my pharmacope, but there was nothing I could do about either.

I repacked the few things I’d taken from my pack the night before and we set out once again. The jerky was tough but well flavored, and its saltiness made sure I drank enough water.

“Is there any thing civilized out here?

He gave a derisive snort at the word. Civilization. Did such a thing exist any more? Then with a long suffering sigh, he pulled a pair of items from the inside pocket of his long riding coat. The first were opened and placed upon his long nose with a self-conscious glance at Mina and a lowering of his duster to keep the sun from reflecting off the lenses as the second was unfolded and scanned. The map was almost as ancient as the reading glasses, but it had served as a rough guide since the beginning of his journey. A finger traced over the surface of the crinkled paper as his feet followed the road of their own accord.

"There's supposed to a small town near the borderlands. Hm..." He traced his finger back the way it had come, guesstimating their current position. "Normally, we would've reached it about a week ago. Now? Could be another day, could be another month. Can't be sure. Judging by landmarks though, I'd say maybe three more days, if things hold out the way they've been going."

He carefully refolded the map and returned it to its place before removing the glasses. They were an irritation he could do without, but his long sight came at a price. Just as carefully, he folded them, and they quickly joined the map. He hefted his rucksack and sped up slightly. As much as he dreaded what may be found in that little stopover up ahead, he was almost aching to find someone worth his salt, someone who deserved to be living, instead of yet another bundles of flesh and bone taking up space, wandering about their daily business like mindless sheep waiting for the slaughter. Besides, they were beginning to run low on supplies.

His feet stopped dead as they topped a rise. In the near distance, he could see what amounted to a dark smudge against the swaying golden grasses. He blinked a few times, squinting, and it began to resolve into a semblance of buildings through the heat haze wavering against the horizon.

"Or... it could be a minute..." he trailed off, sighing again.

One of the more constant annoyances he had come across was the strange way both geography and distance had seemed to twist and turn along with everything else. What once was a well traveled and well mapped road from point A to point B now generally lead from point X to point Q and might just touch either A or B if you were lucky, and only both if you were a destined child of the Almighty. He had begun to wonder if the road didn't simply travel in a vast circle.

With a shake of his head, he set off once more, steady and sure, gathering his wits and resolve as he headed towards almost sure trouble. Everywhere was trouble these days.

Mina ignored both the reading glasses, though they were something that had been left behind long years ago back home, and the tattered rag of a map, something else that had been left long behind by all save those that liked the primitive - or the military. Though she well knew that there were those who would declare adamantly that any military was a primitive anachronism.

She snorted herself at that thought. No, matter how advanced humankind seemed to become, they had never been able to reach the status of "We ain't going to practice war no more, we monkey boys and girls are just too damned good at it." ..No it wasn't that they hadn't been good enough, it was just that were too many races that thought They were. And had to make us prove them oh so ever wrong.

"There's supposed to a small town near the borderlands. Hm…Normally, we would've reached it about a week ago. Now? Could be another day, could be another month. Can't be sure. Judging by landmarks though, I'd say maybe three more days, if things hold out the way they've been going
She’d simply nodded, unspeaking. Mina found herself mildly astonished at so many words from Azrael at one time – more than in the entire last week together. She measured her pace to his as they struck off again. His pace was comfortable to her, though he was taller than she by just a little.

"Or... it could be a minute..."

Stopping beside him at the top of the rise Mina looked with one eyebrow cocked at the shimmering, almost mirage of a town that lay but a mile or so before them. She started to say something but refrained, merely shaking her head. Setting off in their customary ground eating pace she wondered what she might find in the town. Horses hopefully. She had no problem walking but riding – even if she was only averagely skilled at such – made for better time. And a horse was an extra set of senses to look out for dangers of the critter kind. Whether two legged or four.

Wesley Harlow shuffled along the dusty trail, his eyes glazed over. The snake bite was still throbbing in his calf, but in this state, he could hardly feel it. In the back of his mind, beyond the clouds that swirled there, he knew that if he didn't get some help he was going to die out here in this harsh, unforgiving place.

As he was near collapsing, he reckoned he saw the outline of a building. His spirit rushed through his body and he broke out in a something like a cross between limp and run. In his haste, he missed the large rock at his feet, and promptly fell. As well as his breath, all the previous energy whooshed out of him when he hit the ground. If his tear ducts had worked, he might have cried.

"Damn. I knew it was just a mirage." he mumbled, (or did he?) not willing to raise his head.

He laid down to sleep in the dirt, exactly 400 feet away from the small town of Blackwood, which Azrael and Mina were approaching right that minute.

He found himself dreaming of the last township he'd been in. The one with the Charlton gang. Six people, six shots. He's never even had to reload. The mayor had thanked him and offered any kind of assistance he could get. Wes asked for 3 things only.

"Show me the bar, the whorehouse, and the fastest horse you have here."


A few hours later, he was piss drunk and laying in bed next to some women he had never met in his life. The next morning, he would be gone, on the fastest way into trouble. His life had been in this cycle for the past 5 such years. A casual observer might have found it to be a very sad story, but in his brash (relative) youth, Wes was more than eager to inflict pain on the kind of people who'd brutally cut short the life of his dad. His thirst for death was still unquenched though, because he knew he'd never find the man responsible. So he travelled from town to town, killing people, getting wasted, and having sex. He was a drifter. Difference between him and other drifters, he thought, was that he'd killed over 300 people in 5 years, and used just over 325 bullets. He was a dangerous man, with a wild spirit inside him, and a lot of hot lead outside him.

The wind was blowing hard, its impact making a loud prattle on the roof of the inn. The bar and sitting area was full of farmers, traders, and ruffians. An old man with a bent back and who kept bobbing his head carried a tray of alcohol around, refilling a beer stein here and a shot glass there. A group of gunmen, ruffian types in the back were especially adept at keeping their cups empty, consuming large amounts of alcohol with each passing hour, along with their level of noise. The old bar owner was unhappy with it, but being a weak old man could do nothing about the loud group of ruffians. At the very least they were paying.

The old man returned to the counter where a young woman sat with a small keg of beer. “Jasmine, fill up these bottles again please,” the old man asked. He set the tray on the counter, and the young woman took each bottle, putting it under the keg and letting more beer run into each. “Those men in the back are being too loud grandfather,” said the young woman. She was wearing a plain yellow dress with a blue sash, along with a blue ribbon in her long, black sable hair; pretty in a homely fashion, but enough to turn the heads of every single man nearby.

“I know dear, I know! But there is little I can do. They’re gunslingers and they protect our town on orders of Mr. Anderson,” replied the old man. He took the tray and went back into the crowd. Another loud burst of drunken laughter came from the back. Jasmine could hardly believe her grandfather. They were little more than armed thugs working for extortion.

Jasmine sighed and turned back to the window where she had been looking out into the mid-day sky. Suddenly the sound of whooshing wind increased as the door of the inn opened. Several patrons swore as card games were momentarily disrupted and a few dusted themselves off. Jasmine turned to see who walked in. She saw a man in a strange gray robe-like thing, a curved sword stuck in the sash around his waste, a large backpack on his shoulders, and a conical-shaped straw hat hiding his face and protecting him from the sun.

Jasmine got up from her seat and went to the doorway, she did a small curtsy to the stranger, “Welcome to the Empty Bottle Inn stranger,” she said. She looked up and saw that the man had put down his pack and taken off his hat. His hair was cut in a strange fashion, long but with a pony-tail tide up so that is sat atop his head, almost like a top-knot; his face was long, his cheeks ragged with unshaven hair. He was just so different from any man she’d seen before. His eyes were smaller, more intense. His skin was a mellow coffee-like color. Jasmine would have immediately classified him as a first-rate bum until she notice the proud look in those small dark eyes.

“Arigato goseimas,” the strange man said, bowing slightly. He put his things next to the door, then took off his dirty sandals and stepped up into the bar area. “I would like a small table if it’s not too much trouble,” he said smiling to Jasmine. Jasmine simply nodded and led him to one of the only vacant tables, near the loud group of gunslingers. For some reason it just seemed like she couldn’t refuse him service, even if he did look poor as the dirt outside the door.

Jasmine’s grandfather stepped forward. “Ah, young man, what may I offer you? And I hope you will be able to pay the bill.” The old man had not missed the state of the younger man’s clothes. The strange man simply smiled and nodded to the old man.

“To answer both, hot tea and yes,” the man said. He laid down two silver coins, which the old man hurriedly collected and scurried off to get the young man’s order. Jasmine set a cup and tray on the table in front of the stranger and then backed away to the center of the room to look on, still thinking about him and pondering just how strange his appearance was. A few minutes later the old barkeep came back with a small tea pot that had a long stream of steam coming out of it. “Here you are sir,” he said, he pored a little of the brown liquid into the cup then set the tea pot on the table. “May I get you anything else?”

“Hai, a bowl of rice please if you have some,” said the stranger, he took his cup and drank deeply from it. He sighed as he brought it down. He raised an eyebrow when he noticed the old man still standing there with a small grin on his face. The stranger took out another silver coin and gave them to the old man. The old man smiled then left to fetch the food. The stranger began quietly sipping his tea and observing the other customers. Many of the farmers or workers who had been seated had left. Those left were throwing hard looks at either the rowdy gunslingers or at the stranger. Jasmine just sat and paid close attention to the man. She was getting extremely curious about him.

“Hey! Girl! Why do you stare at a filthy no good bastard, when you could have a real man!?” one of the gunslingers asked aloud, he was tall with dark browned skin from sun exposure and a full black beard. He stood up and drunkenly walked over Jasmine. The smell of alcohol reeked from his mouth as he bent down and put his face next to Jasmine’s. Yellow teeth grinned big at her.

“Please sir, I was not staring and please go back to your table,” she said, trying her best to sound persuasive to the huge man. The gunslinger turned to the stranger in anger. “What is it with you filthy bum types?! Trying to steal a meal?! Drinking that filthy crap they call tea?! I should kill you for just being here! Yea!” he shouted at the stranger. Several of his friends cheered him on and waved their bottles of whiskey around. Jasmine kept her head turned away, looking for an exit. The stranger continued to sip his tea as if not noticing the extremely loud, blathering idiot standing there before him. This seemed to make the ruffian even angrier. Jasmine’s grandfather came back bearing a tray with the stranger’s bowl of rice on it. He began to set the tray down onto the table when suddenly the drunken man knocked the tray of food to the floor and the old man along with it. Rice flew all over the poor old man and the ceramic bowl crashed to pieces. The gunslinger glared down at the stranger.

“What’s this!? Trying to steal food? That’s a crime around here you know? Isn’t that right?” The man asked and turned to his friends. They all nodded and raised their bottles of alcohol.

“Yea!”

“Course it is!”

“Kill him! He’s a thief!”

The stranger sipped his tea once more then set his cup down. He looked up at the ruffian for the first time. “Why are you being a rude baka in front of the young lady?” he asked in a calm voice. The ruffian shouted at him.

“It’s you who are being rude, not showing respect to a real man of the law and trying to steal food!”

The stranger shook his head. “You have no honor, and are a fool, you should go home,” said the stranger. He stood and turned his back on the ruffian, heading for the door. The ruffian, enraged that this tiny outsider would turn his back on him, drew one of his pistols. The other customers in the inn shouted and screamed, seeing a fight about to take place. Just as suddenly the stranger turned.

No one in the inn remembered the stranger having drawn his sword, but within a heartbeat the stranger was standing with arm and sword outstretched. The drunken ruffian simply stood there, a blank look on his face. Everyone held their breath. The ruffian fell backwards. When he hit the floor his head rolled off and blood began to slowly seep from the body.

A hushed silence sat over the inn. The stranger stood erect and swiped his sword to the side, flinging the blood off and making it clean once again. In one smooth motion he sheathed it and turned to the old man who was holding Jasmine protective. He bowed low to the old man. “I am sorry for having disturbed your inn sir, but this man caused his own death, I gave him fair warning but he drew his weapon first.” The stranger stood and then walked back to the door way. He slipped into his sandals and put the backpack on his back, then set his straw hat on his head. Bowing once more to the people, who remained motionless, he turned and stepped outside, disappearing down the lane.

--------------------------------------------

As he walked down the trodden road that went through the middle of the small town Sojiro cursed himself. Why had that idiot tried to pick a fight? Barely three years out of my home village and I still run into such fools.

Sojiro sighed to himself and walked past the last of the buildings. It was time to move on to the next town, to continue his search. He was just about to tie the rope that held his backpack together a bit tighter when his foot suddenly stumped into something. The wind was blowing dust in great clouds again so it took a moment before he could see. When it finally cleared a saw that a man was lying there, seemingly unconscious. Sojiro bent down and poked the man in the side of the head. He seemed to react a little.

Sojiro fished his canteen out of his pack and poured some water onto the side of the man’s mouth. It seemed to awaken him a bit. Sojiro picked him up a bit and slapped him a few times. “Oi, wake up. What’s wrong with-.” Sojiro finally noticed the bloody mess that was the man’s thigh. He ripped the torn part of the pants open, revealing to the puncture wounds of a snake. Cursing his luck yet again Sojiro poured water over the wound, cleaning it. He reached around and pulled out a small knife. With a quick stroke he cut a line between the holes, connecting them. Without hesitation he bent down and began sucking the blood and poison out. Every few seconds he’d rise and spit out a wad of blood. After a dozen minutes or so he stopped and cleaned his mouth out with water. Taking a bit of rope out of his pack he tied it around the top of the man’s leg where it connected to his waist. Using it and a stick he wrapped it around and tightened it, cutting off or at least slowing the flow of blood between the wound and the man’s heart. He glanced at the man who seemed to be doing better.

“What’s your name?” Sojiro asked.

Azrael entered the tavern shortly after Sojiro's exit. He noted the body on the floor, blood seeping forth to stain the wood a darker shade. He glanced at the shocked bartender, then again at the headless corpse. With a grunt, he bent down and grabbed the ankles then dragged it outside, tossing it into the street. He reentered dusting his hands and gave the disembodied head a kick to send it out the door. With a brow quirked at the bartender, he purposefully pulled out a chair and took a seat, offering a seat to Mina. He was aware of the grumbling from the gunmen in the back, and took careful note of it. Then aged barkeep eventually woke from his shell-shocked stupor and brought over a pitcher, just as one of the "lawmen" decided to approach Azrael's table.He was a man o' tha law,

"It ain' right, you tossin 'im out like that," the man growled, placing a hand on the table as he leaned over Azrael. His breath was stale and smelled heavily of cheap whiskey. "We're law around here. An' you done disrespected the law. So, there's two ways we cin deal with this." The ruffian's yellowed eyes wandered over Mina's form, a leer forming on his lips. "You cin pay a hefty li'l fine... or ya cin give me 'n tha boys a bit o' time with yonder li'l lady."

Without looking at the man, he replied, "I'd let her answer for herself, but it isn't worth the trouble. To put it simply, no. Now leave us be. You may call yourself law but you have nothing about you that speaks true to the profession."

There was a gentle click and the touch of cold metal tingled at Azrael's neck. He sighed again, and glanced to Mina. "I believe this gentleman would like a word with you."

Wes spat the rough, dry dirt out of his parched mouth. He looked up into the face of what was possibly the strangest person he'd ever seen. His (Was it a he? He was so discombobulated.) eyes seemed to be slanted inward and he was squinting. Well, Wes noticed that his leg was pretty much numb, which was a great improvement from blinding, pass-out pain, as it had been earlier. Wes reached for the canteen at his waist and his fingers brushed up against his revolver. He considered pulling it out, but he was in no position to take a shot anyway. He brought the canteen to his lips and drank the rest of the canteen. About 3 drops. His throat felt like he had followed a bowl of barber's razors. He felt the darkness coming again, so he quickly scratched out,

"Water. Snake Bite...Saloon..." And his face met the dirt again

Drifting. Somewhere, Somewhen.

Is anything real?

Hard to say.

"This is the worse trip...I've ever been on."

He set one foot in front of the other, his arms swinging at his sides to counterbalance his stride. Though, being fair with himself, it was more from a need to do something with his hands than anything else...

It seemed like just yesterday that he'd been drinking the most wonderful scotch with a slender female perched on either knee. Of course, it hadn't been yesterday. It just seemed like that because it was the last meaningful memory he had -- random violence wasn't worth much anymore.

He lowered the length of black silk he wore over his mouth and nose against the elements and wet his lips with his tongue, producing a slender hip flask from an interior pocket of his duster and taking a pull -- it was water, not liquor. He wasn't really much for liquor outside of very specific conditions.

The flask returned to the pocket -- he'd need to refill soon, though it was less soon than one would expect, considering the slim profile of the flask. It was a trick. Just like everything else. He grinned that wicked grin of his, then pulled the silk bandana back up into place, adjusted his hat, and kept moving.

He was a tall man, a few inches over six foot, and muscular. Marked him as much a stranger as anything -- this dusty hellball, they were all dusty hellballs in the end, wasn't conducive much to the development of those particular traits. Not enough food, not enough of the right food. His hair, getting a little longer than he liked it, was black and tied back with a length of string.

His name was John, but the only people who'd called him that were long since dead. They, that all-encompassing they, called him Santiago.

When he needed a last name, it was Diaz. Santiago Diaz. Which was, yes, Santiago, son of Diego. Not that his father's name was Diego -- rather, he had no father. His own son. Or something. They hadn't asked him, and he hadn't cared.

They said a lot of things about him that he didn't care about. They said things about the number of men he'd killed, and all the numbers were as likely -- he didn't count. What was the point? There wasn't any contest, he didn't take any particular pleasure from the act, and it wasn't the sort of thing that a man should be proud of.

He much preferred the stories where he walked into a brothel one night and walked out the next morning, having gone through every whore in the place, getting to the madame just before sunrise. They weren't true, he didn't think -- he wasn't much for indiscriminate sex, either, but as far as stories went, they were better ones than the 'and he wiped out an entire platoon of soldiers before they could so much as fire a single shot' tales.

Though that particularly story was true, he thought. Generally, though, the storyteller neglected to mention that this was because the soldiers in question had all been asleep. It had been a matter of stealth and knifework.

Then again, maybe that wasn't the occasion that the story referred to.

It hardly mattered.

He brought a hand up to shade his eyes -- hazel-gray. Couldn't say for sure, but he thought he saw buildings. Just dots, but...seemed as good a direction as any.

Mina had leant again the polished but aged wood of the bar while watching Azrael deal with the body. She'd unslung the pack - that had anyone tried to heft it would have discovered - that weighed as much as she did. Mina may have looked it but after enduring Cadre augmentation and nanopacks she was no longer simply homo sapiens sapiens. The gene mods alone would have made her effectively homo sapiens invictus, and that was the least of it...

When he'd offered her a seat she'd slid into it, her pack on the third of the four seats that were grouped about the table.. Her hearing had let her hear the words of those in the back quite clearly but outwardly she'd paid no attention. Outwardly...

"I believe this gentleman would like a word with you."

Mina waited until the barkeep beat a hasty retreat - taking the pitcher with him. That was all to the good though she wasn’t much of a beer drinker, a full pitcher shouldn't be wasted.

A mind like a steel trap...or a combat tactical net ... too in the information that her eyes passed to it as she stood and did a slow three sixty sweep of the interior of the room...noting every ones position and expressions. Most looked uneasy and ashamed. No one - other than the so called 'law' looked at all inclined to get involved. The slow step away from the table and the equally slow turn, pulling her shoulders back the better to display…left hand coming up to

She met Azrael's eyes, her voice almost gentle "How badly do you want to see what’s been walking next to you?" Though it really wasn't a question because before he could answer...you see Tick wasn't really adrenalin, but her body had been making since the cross over wasn't really Tick either, but close enough.... but she’d pay double for it later…the adrenalin the pharmacope had been making just kept her jittery and awake. The Tick would do worse, but…

Tick slowed everything to a crawl, expanding ones time sense incredibly, allowing a trained user – and Mina was very well trained -to see the slightest ‘tell’ and out react it. Mina's reaction time was normally past human ‘norm’ – her decades of training and the tick just took it to something the human eye couldn’t follow..

To any one properly trained the dance-like, almost unnatural gracefulness would have bee a tip off, but no one here knew.

One…

She was still turning, but powerful leg muscles turned it into something combat fast … and her off hand flashed.

Result - The hand that held the gun at Azrael’s neck went flying, still clutching the revolver, the nerves not triggering to tighten the finger on the trigger. Yes the down stroke had targeted the wrist, but she’d chosen that as it would impede her motions less. Blood began to fountain forth from the artery and he drew breath in a harsh whoop…he’d scream when he got the chance…

Two..
The heel of her boot, with all the momentum of her spin behind it, took the now one handed man in the temple crushing the thin skull bone in deeply, lethally.

Result - He followed the pretty much same trajectory that his hand had. Though, as he was heavier, he just didn’t go as far. His scream died in a slack jawed gurgle. Crushing his temple had him dead before he bounced on the scarred wood of the bars floor.

Three…

The sword went back into its sheath as the Desert Eagle that had appeared in her right hand as if by magic , thundered.

Result - The first round exploded against the chest of the center one of the group. Either by pure bad luck or simply faster reactions his had had been starting downwards to where a holster might had sat on an thigh. The tables and all had blocked line of sight on that but as I mentioned earlier Mina had heard ever word that had been spoken back there. She was judge, jury and executioner.

The left hand, now free, flashed down to the left thigh holster and drew the right ones partner.

Result - The hand cannon in her left hand fired as it cleared the holster, the bullet leaving a red crater in the center of another’s forehead. He had no time to even think of reacting to his death.

The eye blink of time this all had taken …

There were a pair left should Azrael care to join in the action, if not - they’d be dead in no more time than it took to stroke each trigger a second time

Sojiro pulled the stopper out of his gourd canteen, with a quick jerk he pulled the man's head up and poured more water into his mouth. He'd noticed the man's momentary hesitation as his hand had moved across the butt of the pistol attached to his hip. For that alone Sojiro thought he should have just stuck his knife into the side of the man's skull, since what use was it to kill one ruffian just to save another. Evil's continuous cycle could happen like that. However than man hadn't tried anything and merely collapsed again. Sojiro was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt.

After a few gulps of water Sojiro put the stopper back in and replaced the gourd back into his backpack. He took out a small square packaged. It was a box wrapped in wire and silk. Inside was a powder medicine that Sojiro had brought with him so very long ago from home. It was meant to cure poisons administered by enemies, but then snake venom wasn't that different, so it should still work. He took a pinch of it and turned to the man. He was still unconscious. He opened the man's mouth and let the powder fall on the man's tongue. He didn't swallow right away. Sojiro held onto his nose for a minute, causing him to swallow it quickly.

Sojiro hiked his sleeves up and tied his sword more tightly into his sash. He leaned down and with a quick huff and a pull, dragged the man up to his feet. He wasn't able to entirely stand, so Sojiro kept the man's arm around his shoulder and carried him back into town. He came up to the front of the inn/bar he'd left a bit earlier and was in time to see a spectacular bit of action.

The ruffians had obviously targeted some other people after Sojiro had left. However they'd just as obviously picked the wrong people to mess with. The man didn't move, content it seemed to let his female partner do all the fighting. Which was just as well since she didn't need it. Sojiro instinctively kept himself from blinking as the woman became a blur. He concentrated and watched as she moved with envious speed. The force of her blows was enough to dis-arm and un-hand the ruffian who'd been pointing a gun at her partner's skull, then do a flying round-house kick that crushed his skull and sent him flying. With just as quick reflexes she drew a pistol and shot up another of the ruffians and drew a second. All within the matter of a few seconds. Faster than the last two could even have time to draw their own weapons.

Sojiro entered the bar. Ignoring what was happening he took the snake-bitten man over to the bar and deposited him into a chair. He held him up until the man had a good grip of the bar. Sojiro saw the old barkeep huddled behind the bar. "Oi, old man, get this man a glass of some strong alcohol. That's what I think he wants." He deposited a few small copper coins onto the bar and then turned to watch the last bit of the fight. The girl was still holding her pistols aimed at the two ruffians. It would be interesting to watch. He put his arms inside the wrap of his kimono and leaned back against the bar, all settled in like a man about to watch a play or moving picture.

Wes's eyes shot open and his senses spiked into action. He looked into the face of the same strange man from earlier, who had most possibly saved his life. Whiskey poured down his bloody throat, filling him, quite literally, with life as it went. He put up his hand, signalling for the man to stop. Understanding him, the flow of whiskey stopped, and the man went to talk to a very strange looking man and woman stooped at the bar.

Wes sat up on one knee and winced at the pain. It was bad, but not unbearable as it had been earlier. He knew he could stand up, but preferred to gather his thoughts at this point. He was quite clearly in a saloon or inn, and as he looked around, the wood was mostly scarred and eaten away, suggesting age and wear.

His eyes scanned the room, looking for something interesting. Apparently, he'd missed some serious action. He bit into his lip. Damnit. he thought. There were something like 4 dead bodies in the room (his mind was still too cloudy for anything other than simple observations). There was also a large bloodpool, streaked to the door, as if someone in one hell of a bad way had been dragged outside. Most of them were taken by gunshots. The wounds seemed a lot prettier than his. He'd need to talk to the 'slinger about lessons. One of them was on the ground by the bar, a gigantic, ugly bruise on his temple, missing a hand. Wes grimaced involuntarily.

He decided to break the hushed silence and shouted out,

"Would one of you kindly tell me what the hell happened here?"

Mina caught a glimpse of Azrael watching her from her peripheral vision. He hadn’t moved, and looked completely unconcerned, his eyes locked on her coolly evaluating. And so her fingers had tightened on the triggers of the big guns and the last two fell.

Time from start to finish – with awareness that someone one new had entered the saloon two point five seconds…Damn that was slow!... and oh gnus! After what seemed a frozen eternity in which no one protested her actions She nodded as if to acknowledge her actions then almost doubled up as she felt the built- in after effects of the Tick begin to take hold. Mina’d always been able to ride it out before, but she had never come down so quickly, This isn’t right…Carefully she holstered the Desert Eagles and slid back into her seat. Unaware that her face had gone utterly white – an interesting effect under her normal dark caramel hue with its gold overlay - and her pupils were extremely dilated.

"Would one of you kindly tell me what the hell happened here?"

Mina winced at the way the sound roared and echoed in her ears as if the speaker was amplified.

She thought she was shouting but it came out as scarce more than a whisper “Áz, I think I have a problem”

Mina just hoped the violent nausea held off long enough to find some privacy. The fortunately brief bout of violent nausea was part of the deliberately designed reaction - deterrence to becoming addicted to the combat drug. Tick’s high was glorious, but no addictive personality or physicality ever became a Cadre.

But this was worse than even her first reaction to Tick, decades ago.

Azrael was calmly and deeply impressed. He had never seen anyone, human or otherwise, move as quickly as she had. All of them, dead before they could even think of drawing a weapon. He nodded slightly to himself, knowing now what it was he had sensed about this strange female. She was a Gunslinger, born true. This was a certainty now. He was also beginning to feel that cold, sinking sensation in his guts that suggested part of his mind had caught onto something it was not yet willing to divulge to the rest and that the rest would most likely not take kindly to the information.

He took note of the two entering the inn as Mina downed the two remaining "lawmen", his keen eyes noting their armaments before anything else about the two. The sword hanging at the shorter one's hip flicked a switch somewhere in his far back memory, but again, one part of his mind was most decidedly being closemouthed. The other appeared to have suffered a rather nasty bite, snake more than likely, judging from the appearance and swelling. That sword, he figured, was probably the cause of the headless hooligan he had dragged out. His eyes returned to Mina as two very final sounding shots thundered in his ears.

He opened his mouth to speak, though what he had meant to say was lost as she slumped rather hastily into her chair. Her eyes were wrong, like she'd sniffed a some angel's dust and her carmine skin had gone as pale as powder. He ignored the question of the snake bite victim as he slowly rose from his seat, glancing after the innkeeper.

“Áz, I think I have a problem”

Her whisper confirmed his evaluation. Perhaps he had misjudged her. Perhaps her stomach was weak when it came to killing, though he would not fault her. He had seen worse from others after they had taken a life. This seemed different, however. He was rather certain that this was an entirely unexpected and unusual outcome for her. His musing were wasting time, though, and Mina was in obvious discomfort.

"How much for a room?" he inquired, his voice soft but carrying.

The barkeep startled, stuttering before the girl guarding the keg answered for him, "It'll be five silver for tha night."

The way she said night, naaht, drawing out the vowel, sparked yet another memory, but he gave it no thought. He placed a gold coin upon the table and swept off his duster as he gave a deep bow to his companion, courtly manners looking as out of place on him as a hat on a horse and even more so in this place after what had just happened, but she deserved it.

"M'lady, would you care to accompany me upstairs?" he asked, straightening and offering her an arm in gentlemanly fashion.

She took it with a tense smile, holding herself rigidly erect. He had offered the arm more in support than anything, and he could tell by her painfully tight grip that she needed it. He made a stately walk to the stairs and up them, the innkeeper hastily handing him a numbered key as he ascended. The upstairs hallway was tight, barely wide enough for the both of them to walk side by side, but after a quick glance at her face, he maintained his position. He opened the door to the room and quietly closed it behind them, waiting for her to either collapse or explain. Should she fall, he would catch her. If she was well enough to explain, he would listen. If she did neither, he would stand there until she felt the need to move. Patience was a virtue he had in spades.

Wes saw the girl at the bar go a deathly pale, and she winced when he yelled. She looked like she'd just inhaled a nice whiff of cow pie. He saw the dude next to her exchange a few quick words with the barkeep, and the dude perched her on his shoulder and led her up the stairs. Wes placed his hand on his good leg for support and stood up. It hurt, but he'd be ok he supposed.

He limped the short distance to the bar and plopped down on the barstool. He called the waitress over to see if he could make heads or tails of this whole godforsaken mess. She was a beautiful girl, almost as much so as the one at the bar a minute ago.

"What happened here? Looks like something serious went down." He questioned her.

"Well, we've had a busy day to say the least. First, this wierd guy comes in in what looks like a dress, carrying a long ol' sword. Butch, the one outside in the dirt, comes up and calls the guy a thief, right? So he pulls out his sword and chops Butch's head clean off! So he leaves, then those two," She thumbs to the stairs, "Come in, and the dude drags Butch's body into the front of our saloon. Reddy doesn't think this is real polite, right? So he asks for some time with the girl, and sticks the gun at the dude's neck. Then the girl kicks 'im in the head, and he falls over, and shoots everyone else, then you come in with that guy again! All that's left of the law in Blackwood is the sheriff. And when he finds out, trust me, there's gonna be hell."

Wes shook his head, clearing out all the cobwebs. He was sure he had a really stupid look on his face, but he was too dumbfounded by the story

"Well goddamn! I need some whiskey. Then maybe this'll make some sense."

"M'lady, would you care to accompany me upstairs?"

She answered him with equal manners, “Without hesitation m’lord.” And her words too held the tinge of recent unfamiliarity with such courtliness.

Mina was deeply impressed by Azrael’s instinctive understanding and kindness. She cared not one whit what others, strangers, thought of her, but looking weak, looking ill - in public- was as much anathema to her as it would be to a cat. He also knew how to get her up the stairs without it looking like he was. That alone, some would say, made him a man worth appreciating.

Her consciousness kept slipping in and out of focus and the room whirled precipitously, or so it seemed to. There was only one bed, but she paid it no attention. The large ceramic basin, white with large cabbage roses and deep green ivy decorations painted on it were all she could focus on. She moved with a graceless convulsive jerk and a breathy but heartfelt “Thank you” and made it to the basin barely in time. Her pack she’d dropped just inside the door, ignored.

She heaved convulsively, helplessly for longer than seemed safe, the dry heaves tearing painfully at her. Then episode seemed to be ending but her senses still were flooded with too much input - light blindingly bright, all sounds tearing at her ears, the feel of her clothes burningly abrasive, but quickly her vision went dark around the edges. Choosing to not pass out did not seem to be an option. Biting down savagely on her lower lip, drawing blood, Mina managed to keep herself aware the next few seconds. And while her voice was little more than a gasp, the tone managed to carry an impressive formality to it…
“Comes” The fact that she had used the ancient term ( http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Comes) startled even her, but she did her best to hide it “Mea culpa, I can not share watch tonight.” And she was gone, completely, limply unconscious. Minutes later her temperature spiked and small convulsions racked her body for some time.

As she sagged against the basin, he was at her side, gingerly supporting her. There was most definitely something amiss here, but she would tell him in her own time or not at all. It was not his way to pry, at least among those he dared label friend. That was perhaps too strong a term as of yet, but he could not deny a sense of kinship with this incredible Gunslinger.

“Comes... Mea culpa, I can not share watch tonight.”

"There is no fault where there is no wrong," he replied, though he was uncertain she heard him.

She was much heavier than he expected. She had been mostly holding herself before she fell unconscious. The pack, he decided, had to go first. He lowered her into a sitting position, holding her up while he slipped it off of her shoulders, letting it thump to the floor. After that, it was much easier. Years on the long road hardened a man beyond what would normally be expected, much as farming and herding tended to. He slipped an arm beneath her legs and behind her shoulders then lay her gently on the bed.

He stood there, watching her forced, fitful unconsciousness, brows squinched together, forming a line between them his mother would have called ugly and his father would have deemed thoughtful. Gunmetal wandered over golden caramel features, settling particularly upon her closed eyes. His own widened as the first seizure began and he quickly moved to hold her down. As soon as it was over, he grabbed the first reasonably soft yet sturdy item he could think of, his belt, and slipped it between her teeth, making sure to get her tongue under it. He was ready for the next one, when it came.

Patiently he held her, keeping her from injuring herself during this sudden illness, pondering her symptoms and attempting to determine if he knew of anything that might hasten her recovery.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Meanwhile, the sheriff came aknockin'. The saloon doors creaked open and a hush fell over the room as all eyes turned towards the glint of silver that fell from the man's chest. He was tall and lanky, though most of him was hidden by a dark coat that fell to his ankles. That damning star, however, was prominently displayed upon the chest of his blood red blouse. His face was hidden by the shadow of his midnight duster, a brilliant red feather tucked into the band. All that could be seen was the goatee upon his chin and the glint of his eyes beneath the brim. As he stalked between the doors, a weaselish man peered around his dark-clad legs before dashing back outside. The sheriff strode towards the bar, the clumping of his heels against he wooden floor the only sound.

"Now... I heard there was some sorta ruckus goin on." His lips smiled, but his voice dripped poison. "I was told one o' mah boys done lost 'is head with some stranger in a dress what come waltzin in here like 'e owned tha place."

He paused in front of the bar, turning on his heel to look at the pair of strangers. Though they were hidden from sight, his eyes could be felt upon them, like insects crawling over their skin. His faux-friendly smile became a lopsided smirk.

"Now, you boys wouldn't know nothin 'bout all that, would ya?" He intentionally stressed the word "boys", making it sound both intimate and derisive, familiar and crude. "Cause if'n so, I might hafta be upset, 'specially considrin..." He glanced back at the still strewn bodies. "Seems more'n one done lost 'is head. I don' s'pose you two kind sirs would care ta elighten me on events?"

A savage grin curled his lips and a finger wandered up to caress the patch of hair that decorated his chin. It was hard to tell if he even cared that his men were dead.

"Speak of the devil." Jasmine said, an ironic smirk crossing her striking features. She looked over over Wesley's shoulder.

Wes turned from Jasmine to see the sheriff waltz in, star promenintly displayed on his chest. His voice just dripped with self-satisfaction and hate. Wes had seen this countless times. Instead of the town electing a marshall that was interested in upholding the law, they just picked the biggest thug to take care of all the other ones. This guy was obviously a little too used to running everyone. Wes had a feeling today was gonna end that small streak.

He spun around in the stool, his voice cold and hard.

"Well, as I reckon, sir, your boys were drunk and starting trouble. Now, I'll assume that they usually do this, but apparently today they messed with all the wrong strangers. First, my friend over here,"

He motioned with a tip of his hat to Sojiro, sitting solemnly at the bar next to him.

"Comes in, and your men accuse him of stealing something. Then the unlucky varmint you passed over on the way in here pulled his gun on 'im, and got his empty head chopped off. Now, way I see it, he had it comin'. So, the rest got to drinkin' some more when a couple strangers come in, a dude and a girl. The dude pulls out the body, and some more of your boys got mad. They asked for some 'time' with the girl. After that, nobody's really sure what happened, but from what I can gather, she cut off that guy's hand,"

Another motion, this time with his finger, "Then let 'im have it in the side of the head. Then she shot the others." Then she got all sick and they went upstairs."

He fingered the handle of his pa's revolver, and noted the bulging vein in the sheriff's forehead, and his reddened features.

"Try not to pop something." Wes chuckled maliciously.

The sheriff tried to draw his gun. Wes was ten times quicker. At the last minute, he made sure not to kill the guy, in case the dude wanted to talk to him, so he aimed for the forearm.

In an explosion of blood and bone, the sheriff slumped to the ground and screamed a bloodcurdling scream. Wes might've pitied the guy, if he wasn't such scum. He reloaded one bullet into his chamber and put the gun back in his holster. He sat at the bar and asked for a whiskey. He started whistling tunelessly to himself and waited for the next event in this doozy of a day

The anger was for show, letting this unschooled stranger see what he wanted. Inside, the sheriff was coolly collected, waiting for the moment he knew would soon come. And indeed, it did. He noticed the stranger pawing at his pistol and allowed his hand to twitch. The boy was fast, the sheriff had to give him that. His left hand came up to grip his shoulder as he fell back with a cry. He watched the stranger reload and order another round, trying to contain the laughter that bubbled up within him.

He was unable to do so for long, and a sinister chuckle was heard as the sheriff tossed a smashed tomato at the self-satisfied Wes. The "explosion of blood and gore" had also been mere show. Rising to his feet, the black and red clad man drew a pistol from his holster. At least, a pistol was the closest item it resembled. A long barrel, a short grip, and an unguarded trigger were all that composed the single-piece weapon. There seemed no place to insert ammunition nor a hammer to fire said ammunition even if it were somehow inserted. Nevertheless, the sheriff held it as though it were a weapon.

He leaned forward, resting an elbow on the top of the bar as he lifted the brim of his Stetson ever so slightly, his voice ripe with malicious merriment. "Well, now, boy, we don' take kindly ta that kinda talk round here, nor do we take kindly ta y'all's kinda dealins." His eyes lit momentarily on Jasmine before returning to Wes, and she scurried away into the kitchen. "Seein as I ain' in much of a killin mood just yet, I'm gonna hafta ask you two boys ta come on down ta my office 'n sit a spell. I got a nice pair o' cells that'll make y'all mighty comftable. 'Least til tamorrah, when ya swing from that gallows."

His lips split into a grin, displaying remarkably fine teeth. Yes, they were stained with tobacco, a bit of chew caught between a pair, but they were straight and fine, not a hole nor gap to be seen in his shark's smile. The hand holding the pistol lazily pointed towards Wes, some ten feet away down the bar.

"Be glad I'm in a good mood, else y'all'd already be dead, particalarly after that stunt ya just pulled. That tamater was goin inta my lunch."

Mina’s mind had put her deliberately in the coma while it sought to sort out what had happened, this new problem with the pharmacope. She had been trained to do that to her self – or rather her core training had been modified so that the original orders – to self-destruct if the pharmacope, or her self, was tampered with any way- no longer would automatically activate. At least it had no evidence that its operation had been deliberately interfered with.

She’d ease out of it into normal sleep soon enough. And her body had managed to keep the seizures within the parameters of petit mal rather than the potentially life threatening grand mal variety. Though she was hotter than might seem beneficial and fine beads of sweat pearled along her hair line. Normally she kept her mass of long dark hair – long enough to sit on easily - done in an elaborate braid, sort of what might have once been called a ‘French braid’. That kept it away from her face and was not easily disturbed. But her convulsions had brought it tumbling loose and tendrils of fine ebon hair clung to her damp face and neck.

As her body dealt with and acclimated itself to the new substance her body was producing in place of the Tick that it had been programmed – when it was part technological implant part biological addition, and part nanotechnology – and now was not exactly either of the three, nor performing as standard; her mind used the time to let it’s subconscious assimilate all that it hadn’t been able to since finding itself stranded here…wherever here was…

Mina had been here nearly a year, though given the way this Reality mutilated the flow of time she wasn’t absolutely certain. But what she had been certain of was this would go down as the roughest year of her life. Even the time immediately after the first loss…, years lost in a alcohol, drug and name your toxin of choice induced haze had not been like this…

The strength and grace to accept that which could not be changed... It hadn't been easy and she'd spent far longer seeking oblivion than herself respect liked to admit to. But her core personality would never accept suicide, and so she had slapped herself in the face and made a new life for herself. She been at it for nearly twenty years now, and while it had been a mostly lonely life, it had had it's pleasures to.

She liked, indeed needed at least a minor bit of orderliness to her world, and this one was loosing its semblance of such, and had been for years before she arrived as best she could tell….The alienness of this reality grated on her, all but imperceptibly - true - but constantly, an unremitting subconscious niggling … save for the last month. And she was perceptive enough to know it was Azraels’ presence that had changed things. And she resented that.

She had been lost, even worse than when she had lost her past the first time. She’d survived that sundering of all she had been from her future, and managed to make a new life. Mostly lonely but …here though…did she have the right? She’d had a life full of family and friends, and she’d lost them.

Then she had a new life with very, very few friends, - but one or two none the less – Gegori, Rabine, …and Val.

And now? Val sat in a case in her pack, Mina was afraid to bring the CS to full power, she’d quickly learned that technology was funny here, and she refused to kill a friend just so she could have some companionship…and she’d not found any sign of the taciturn sniper or the irrepressible ex Vulpine Marine furball. She hoped for their sakes they’d gone some place safe, or had died instantly, painlessly.

She didn’t want the comfort that she found in Azrael's presence. She didn’t want to be friends, it wasn’t safe for him or her.

Sojiro had ordered another cup of tea from the Lady Jasmine and had been sipping it quite contentedly while the man he had saved had flushed down several shots of thick alcohol. While the tea he was tasting was incredibly poor compared to the tea he once enjoyed back at home, he had added a small dab of cinnamon from a small pouch he kept in his pocket. It made a world of difference for the taste for his tea-refined tasted buds.

When the supposed Sheriff walked in, Sojiro's senses had spiked. His eyes turned and watched as the man, who if he remembered right one of the ruffians referred to as "Mr. Anderson," stepped forward and began speaking to Sojiro and his snake-bitten companion.

"Now... I heard there was some sorta ruckus goin on." He said. "I was told one o' mah boys done lost 'is head with some stranger in a dress what come waltzin in here like 'e owned tha place." That invariably was Sojiro, though he never remembered making any claims to 'waltzin in here as he owned the place.'

The sheriff, Mr. Anderson, paused in front of the bar, turning on his heel to look at the pair of them. Sojiro felt the man's eyes and his senses spiked even more. Mr. Anderson's faux-friendly smile turn smirk had an evil twinge to it.

"Now, you boys wouldn't know nothin 'bout all that, would ya? Cause if'n so, I might hafta be upset, 'specially considrin..." The sheriff glanced back at the still strewn bodies. "Seems more'n one done lost 'is head. I don' s'pose you two kind sirs would care ta elighten me on events?" Sojiro was slightly offended at being called boy, but let it go. It wouldn't do to become emotional or mis-balanced. Now if he could just... Then the man Sojiro had rescued spoke up.

"Well, as I reckon, sir, your boys were drunk and starting trouble. Now, I'll assume that they usually do this, but apparently today they messed with all the wrong strangers. First, my friend over here," the snake-bitten man motioned towards Sojiro. "Comes in, and your men accuse him of stealing something. Then the unlucky varmint you passed over on the way in here pulled his gun on 'im, and got his empty head chopped off. Now, way I see it, he had it comin'. So, the rest got to drinkin' some more when...,"

Sojiro blocked out the annoying voice of the snike-bitten man to focus on his other senses. The more he observed this Mr. Anderson, the more he was becoming unsettled. There was a dangerous aura about the man, one that Sojiro had felt around a few others before in the past. A malicious intent that could never be sated by anything than more evil and infliction of pain upon others. Sojiro brought his hearing back into focus.

"...not to pop something," The snake-bitten man chuckled maliciously.

Then both men began moving. Sojiro stayed still as if frozen, watching. It was fairly interesting. Neither men moved with the speed that he'd seen the woman upstairs make, but it was without doubt that his snake-bitten companion was outclassed at the moment, his wound most likely affecting him. He was fast, that was sure, but the sheriff was even quicker. The man didn't even draw a gun. Instead he'd pulled some sort of fruit or vegetable from a side pocket near his gun holster, bringing it up in line with the eye-barrel of his snake bitten companion's pistol. With a single shot ringing out Sojiro watched as the bullet impacted and splattered the red fruit everywhere, looking a lot like blood.

His companion obviously thought he'd won because after firing his gun he'd returned his pistol to its holster and turned back to the bar for another drink. The second big mistake as far as Sojiro was thinking. His first had been to not aim for the sheriff's vitals. Sojiro had always been taught that if you were going to use a weapon, then use it. The sheriff's 'act' was pretty shabby, but it was enough to fool his idiot of a companion.

Sojiro watched as the man stood erect again and pulled out his weapon, a strange looking pistol, and aimed it at his companion.

"Well, now, boy, we don' take kindly ta that kinda talk round here, nor do we take kindly ta y'all's kinda dealins. Seein as I ain' in much of a killin mood just yet, I'm gonna hafta ask you two boys ta come on down ta my office 'n sit a spell. I got a nice pair o' cells that'll make y'all mighty comftable. 'Least til tamorrah, when ya swing from that gallows." Mr. Anderson smiled. His lips split into a grin, displaying remarkably fine teeth. They were stained with some form of cud, a bit of it was caught between a pair, but they were straight and fine, not a hole nor gap to be seen in his shark's smile. The hand holding the pistol lazily pointed towards Wes, some ten feet away down the bar.

"Be glad I'm in a good mood, else y'all'd already be dead, particalarly after that stunt ya just pulled. That tamater was goin inta my lunch."

Things were bad. But they could be worse as far as Sojiro was concerned. He'd managed to see both his companion and the sheriff in action, allowing him to measure them. His companion was obviously not at a 100%, but the sheriff was. But then again, so was Sojiro. Sighing to himself he took a last sip of tea and put the cup down. He undid the straps on his backpack and set it down next to his bar stool. His straw hat followed it. Everything but his sword.

Sojiro stood slowly and then stepped away from the bar to stand facing the sheriff. He bowed formally. "If you think that I deserve a death sentence for killing a man who was about to kill me after falsely accusing me, then your laws must be very strange. I ask that you simply let me leave and I can promise you will never see my face again."

Wes froze in place at the icy twang of the sheriff's voice behind him, perfectly clear.

Well, now, boy, we don' take kindly ta that kinda talk round here, nor do we take kindly ta y'all's kinda dealins." "Seein as I ain' in much of a killin mood just yet, I'm gonna hafta ask you two boys ta come on down ta my office 'n sit a spell. I got a nice pair o' cells that'll make y'all mighty comftable. 'Least til tamorrah, when ya swing from that gallows.

Be glad I'm in a good mood, else y'all'd already be dead, particalarly after that stunt ya just pulled. That tamater was goin inta my lunch.

Wes's alcohol-addled mind was surely to blame. Now, his brain rang, clear as a bell. He should have shot to kill, as he always had. Plus, he never should have turned on the man. But Wes knew in the end that he couldn't blame the whiskey. He was being stupid, far more brash than usual. That damn snake had really ruined his day.

He turned around as his partner pretty much presented his case, asking for free passage due to self defense. Apparently, he hadn't been around these parts long, because almost nobody goes off scot-free with a sheriff like this.

Wes's cheeks burned with embarassment and fury, but he assured himself for both their sakes that he stay quiet and stay calm. He wondered if the people upstairs had any idea what was going on.

He was running out of heroes, and today wasn't even half over.

"If you think that I deserve a death sentence for killing a man who was about to kill me after falsely accusing me, then your laws must be very strange. I ask that you simply let me leave and I can promise you will never see my face again."

"I'm sorry, friend, I truly am, but I cain' do that," the sheriff replied, his grin never faltering. "Y'all done me a favor, right true, them boys was gettin a mite to big fer their britches, but ya still done kilt a man, 'n that's agin' any law I ever heard of. Now, y'all cin come on down ta tha lockup nice 'n quiet like 'n let ole Judge Anderson sort everythin out, or..."

The barrel of his weapon move fractionally. His finger squeezed the trigger for a bare instant. There was no sound save perhaps a gentle sizzle heard only by the keenest of ears. There was no flash of gunpowder. Were it not for the sudden shattering of Wes's claimed wiskey bottle as its contents turned instantly to vapor and the small hole burned into the far wall, one might think that the weapon had done nothing at all.

"Le's just say, my mood might change. I ain' unreasonable now. I'll promise y'all I won' shoot y'all in tha back on tha way." His grin widened slightly, as though his words were part of some inside joke. "But I ain' very patient. So drop that li'l ole pigsticker off yer back, 'n anythin else y'all might have on ya sides that ole six shooter, 'n we'll be off."

Trouble at the local watering hole, the locals said -- gunfire and who knew what else, and the Sheriff had gone down there, and that was bad news right there. People talked around him, and he listened. It was a knack.

He sighed as he stooped down and palmed a pair of rocks, rubbing them together in his hand as he made his way towards the indicated locale. Normally, he didn't much care about 'trouble,' tended to prefer avoiding it whenever possible, but he was in relatively dire need of a drink, and his options for that weren't terrifically diverse.

Any potential trouble, therefore, would just have to find some other place to be troublesome. He wasn't in the mood, after his long, lengthy walk. Needed to get off his feet, have something cool and liquid place in his hand, and maybe catch a show or something of that nature. As he walked, he began to juggle the rocks he'd picked up one-handed, a simple toss-catch-toss loop.

He found the described location, pushed his way inside, and stopped in place. His hand darted out to snatch the one rock he'd had in the air up, shrugged his shoulders slightly, and cut a wide arc around the sheriff-looking fellow and the pair he was menacing. Taking a seat at the bar, he pulled an appropriate coin from his coin pouch and placed it down one edge at a time, so that it sounded twice.

Hopefully, things would resolve themselves without his becoming involved. That would be just about ideal -- he was tired, and therefore cranky. He got mean when he was cranky.

The sheriff gestured for one of the remaining patrons to relieve the two of their weapons. Neither was overly willing to part with their heirlooms, but the threat of the odd pistol trained on them was more than enough incentive to cooperate. Once they had been given a reasonably thorough search, the sheriff gestured them out the door, following behind, taking Wes's revolver in his left hand and keeping a gun trained on them both. He directed them to turn left as they exited the inn. He walked them down the center of the main street, watching them carefully. He had no more deputies, so if one of them ran now, he would be forced to fire on them. Fortunately, neither was stupid enough to do so. They reached the lockup with little incident, and he locked them into separate cells. Their weapons were hung on hooks across from their cells, behind his desk. The man who had followed him with their weapons received a temporary deputizing, and the Sheriff left him in charge of watching the prisoners as he left the office.

As the sheriff headed back down the central street, he wiped a hand over his face, grumbling to himself. Things were slipping, and he knew it. He had no choice in any of this. No doubt the Judge would have wanted them killed immediately. The sheriff was getting tired of killing, but there was no denying what had happened at the inn. There had been plenty of eyewitnesses to give testimony against the two. At least he would not have to deal with those drunken hooligans any longer. Yes, he was barely more than a thug himself these days, but he at least had the common courtesy not to destroy the town and harass the townsfolk. He reentered the inn deep in thought, noting only peripherally that the bodies of his deputies had finally been removed.

"Graham," the sheriff sighed. "I need ta talk ta that Gunslinger. What room's he in?"

The innkeeper, gave him the number then went back to cleaning up the mess that had been made. The sheriff removed his hat as he headed upstairs. He ran a hand along his receding hairline with a grimace, his pocked features scrunching. His weathered face was deeply tanned, the skin like leather, his eyes small and dark. He was beginning to hate seeing it in the mirror every morning. He gave only a cursory knock before entering the room. He plopped down onto a chair, ignoring the venomous glare Azrael directed his way. Kicking the chair back on two legs to lean against the wall, he dropped his hat over his eyes, locked his hands behind his head, and dozed off.

Some hours later, as Mina was finally beginning to recover and the sun ceded the sky to the whirling stars, the sheriff rocked the chair back down onto all four legs and stretched. He found Azrael sitting directly in front of him, watching his every move. The Gunslinger sat with his hands on his knees, back straight, as he had been taught. Those cold, grey eyes locked onto the sheriff's much darker ones.

"Ramon, you are not welcome in my presence," Azrael stated, quietly, calmly, with not a trace of malice, "and you have already overstayed any kindness I might have offered."

"Hile, Gunslinger, might be a more appropriate greeting, old friend," came the reply with that signature shit-eating grin. "How ya been, Az? Heard ya failed yer manhood ritual. Heard ya stole yer pa's guns 'n sword. Then again, I hear a lotta things. Ain' all of 'em true."

"Why are you here, Ramon?"

The sheriff crossed his legs, making himself comfortable. "Direct as usual, I see. Never one ta catch up on old times, were ya?" Azrael made no reply. Ramon shrugged and continued. "Well, ya may recall a pair o' buckaroos downstairs. One snakebit 'n drunk, one wearin some kinda nightgown." Azrael nodded. "Well, I got 'em down ta tha lockup waitin on Judge Anderson ta hang 'em fer killin my deputies downstairs. Now, I know kimono bob did tha first one, 'n I know yonder li'l lady done tha rest. Fortunately fer you, tha Judge ain' willin ta mess with a Gunslinger born true. Unfortunately for them two down at lockup, he ain' got no problem hangin strangers passin through."

"And what would you have me do, Ramon? What would a Gunslinger of Gilead, born true and raised in the old ways, want of me that he could not do for himself? What would a traitor to his blood and his king want of the king's son?"

The sheriff grimaced again. "Y'always gotta bring that up, don'cha?" He met those hard, steely orbs. "Looka here, Azrael Leon, Gunslinger of Gilead, Crown Prince and should be King... I didn't come here ta lay blame or bring up old grudges."

Azrael smirked, the first time he had smiled in a long while. "You're the one who wanted to talk about old times."

"Fine, fine. You wanna play that way, I don' give a damn. That's how you always was. Not everyone can play by your rules. But unless you want them two ta hang fer droppin a few buckaroos what needed droppin, you better listen 'n listen good. Only one thing gonna stop tha Judge from lettin those two boys swing by tha neck until dead, 'n that's you."

Azrael sat contemplating the sheriff, the gears ticking over in his mind. "And why do you care? What do you get out of saving those two from the gallows?"

Ramon's expression turned somber. "Y'ever think that maybe people change, Az? Y'ever think that maybe, after all this time, I might get tired o' all tha killin? I know I ain' gonna save my soul, 'n I know I'll never regain my place among the Lineage. But I cin at least try 'n set a few things right while I still can. At least, that's what I tell myself. If'n you ain' gonna help me, 'cause I sure as shootin cain' do this alone, then... well, I guess I'll just go back to bizness as usual. Judge Anderson holds all tha cards here. Even I cain' beat 'im."

Azrael nodded his understanding. "Well, Ramon. I'll give you my answer in the morning. Come back then. If I don't put a bullet between your eyes, like I should have the second you walked in the door, then you'll have my answer."

The sheriff settled his stetson back on his head, pulling it low to hide his eyes, and left without another word. The sleep had done him good at least. It was the first time in a good while that he hadn't had to worry about waking up dead. He headed back to the lockup, snagging a pair of bottles from the innkeeper before leaving. Once there, he shooed out the man he had left, giving him a few coins for his time. Leaning against his desk, he popped the cork on one of the bottles and took a long swig.

Glancing between the two men, he inquired, "So, what's y'all's story? Might as well tell me, since it don' look like y'all gonna have many other folks ta talk to."

Wes sat in the cell, staring at the dust on the floor. To be completely honest, he was ashamed. His behaviour was probably why him and the guy who'd most likely saved his life were in this hellhole.

The sheriff frightened him though. There was something about this guy, something like raw power, and the experience to use it. And that gun...that was strange, and it scared the bejeezus out of him. It had just vaporized that whiskey.

What a waste of good whiskey. He thought to himself dryly.

The guy who took their weapons stood leaning on the sheriff's old desk, watching them with nervous eyes. Wes felt bad for him. He doubted the poor guy wanted anything to do with thugs like Wes.

It was a shame, anyway, that the sheriff had the foresight to seperate Wes and the mysterious man. That was another thing that scared him, the guy's obvious intelligence.

Oh well, might as well make the best of it. Nothing I can do now. Wes said to himself.

He pushed his hat down and leaned against the wall, trying to fall asleep.

Mina's seizures ended and the coma faded into deep, dreamless sleep...and if she had been aware of it she would have been moritfied...for as sleep let her body free of the bonds of it torments, she turned to curl comfortably into the arms that held her. Some part of her accepted.

However she had known when he rose, though she couldn't waken completely and drifted down deeper once he'd resettled himself in the chair across from the stranger asleep in their room. Part of her mourned his going.

Their conversatioon had brought her instantly awake, though her breathing did not change nor did she alter her position.

"Well, Ramon. I'll give you my answer in the morning. Come back then. If I don't put a bullet between your eyes, like I should have the second you walked in the door, then you'll have my answer."

Once Ramon had left she let herself stretch and commented softly as she sat up on the bed, large dark eyes contemplating him." I think we both have a lot to explain to each to the other....and thank you" Sometimes her sentence stucture gave her away, for what they were speaking was not her native language.

"I think we both have a lot to explain to each to the other... and thank you."

He shifted in the chair to sit opposite, folding his arms and resting them atop the back. "Well, then, Mina, if we must, we must." He smirked. "We've spoken more in the last day than we have in the last two months." He heaved a sigh, his expression falling. "A sign of things to come, I suppose. Shall we tit for tat, or would you prefer to pass the torch?"

Tit for tat was obvious, a question for a question. Mina had been there long enough, he figured, to know the second one as well. Around a story circle, the torch was passed to indicate the speaker. So long as one held the torch, none could interrupt.

"Either way, first thing I'd like to know is what in the nine hells happened down there?"

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Downstairs, things had finally settled down. The floor was as clean of blood as it would ever get, tables had been righted, chairs reset. Graham and Jasmine finally had the time to notice yet another stranger in their midst.

"Oh, by the devils and saints," the old man muttered, tapping the first two fingers of his right hand to his forehead then to his sternum. He approached the newcomer warily. "I'm sorry for the wait, good sir, we've been kinda busy as ya may have noticed. Anythin I cin get for ya, stranger? We got a few rooms still available upstairs, if'n ya plan on stayin tha night."

Jasmine, every the practical one, slid behind the bar and topped up a mug, setting it before the man. "One on the house, sir, since we took so long. If'n you're after somethin stronger, the saloon's across the way."

"Y'ain' gonna cause no trouble, are ya?" Graham inquired, a quiver to his voice. He was an old man, after all. He had been through enough excitement for one day.

"Grampa!" Jasmine slapped the aged innkeeper with a rag. "Shoo! Get back in the kitchen afore ya insult someone else."

Exasperated by her impudence, he nevertheless did as he was told.

"Now... Anythin else I can get ya?"

Unlike his snake-bitten companion who sat sulking on one of the beds inside the cell they were inside, Sojiro had taken up a seat in the middle of the floor, his legs crossed and hands held together in his lap. He had not intended to be caught, but his drunk, snake-bitten companion had complicated things, not to mention that Sojiro was still not certain about the sheriff and just how much of a threat he could be. One thing was for sure though, he had to get out of the jail and get his sword back.

He looked up through the bars where his sword hung from a pair of nails, resting over the head of another 'lawman' who sat drinking something with his legs propped up on a desk. He was glad that none of the ruffians had tried unsheathing it. While the sheath was bruised and showed numerous cracks in its lacquered length, the hilt and handle purposefully tarnished to hide the silver it was made of, the blade itself was undiminished from the time it had been forged millenia ago. A sword that was forged by the Gods of Sojiro's people and given to his bloodline to protect the people. For anyone but a member of Takahata Family to wield it would be a disgrace and keep the sword from being seen as anything but a sword. Only a Takahata could use it properly, or so his father and grandfather had taught him.

Sojiro sighed a bit but then started a slow breathing pattern for concentration. He hadn't summoned his sword's spirit in years, hadn't the need, but he would need to in order to get out of the iron bars and thick walls of his cell. A low humming note slid from Sojiro's throat like a thief in the night. He shut off his hearing and closed his eyes, concentrating on his inner being. Ancient words and mantras filled his head. He began to chant under his breath.

"Kanjizai-bosatsu. Gyoujin hannya haram-ittaji." A cold air blew around Sojiro, entirely isolating him from the outside world. He had entered. In his mind's eye he walked through a large post and lintel, known to his people as a Torii; usually built near temples to signify the entrance to a sacred place. The torii he passed through however was unlike any made by man. It was one hundred feet tall and fifty wide, made entirely of green jade. It pulsated with light and energy as he passed under it.

"Undo issai kuyaku. Sharishi. Shiki-ishii. Shikiso-kuzekuu. Kuuso-kuzeshiki. Jusougyoushikize." White steps of pearl appeared before Sojiro, whiter than snow. With each step he took the sound of a thunder clap would sound in the distance. Statues of all shapes and beings stared at him as he passed, images of ancient guardians who watched over Sojiro's people. Their hostility was prevalent, almost overbearing. If he were to wander from the stair he walked on, his life would be forfeit. However he knew the right path and the correct words for gaining entrance. His chanting pace quickened.

"Sharishi. Zeshohoukuusou. Fushou fumetsu. Fuku fujou. Fuzou fugen. Zeko kuuchuu. Mushiki mujuu sougyoushiki. Mugen ni bi zesshin'i. Mushiki shoukoumi sokuhou, MUGENKAI NAISHI!"

As soon as he'd finished the last word his body disappeared from the stairs and he found himself standing in front of a small temple shrine. Thirty feet in all directions around him a thick mist covered the land and he could not see through it. The sound of thunder had disappeared, as had the spirit pressure of the guardians. He had reached his destination.

The shrine itself was just like any other he would have seen in his homeland. Except that this one was made of red lacquered wood and a gold tile roof. A silver bell hung from a ringing rope in front of the alter atop which sat a pair of statues of the twin gods: Raiju and Raijin. Each held a sword and faced each other in frozen combat, forever looking like warriors posed for battle.

"So you've come finally," said a voice. Sojiro turned and saw a woman of surpassing beauty walking around the side of the shrine. Beauty and an aura of such untapped ferocity and power that Sojiro fell to his knees. He bowed his head to the stone steps of the ground.

"Okami-dono," Sojiro managed to say. He heard a trickling of delightful laughter, like so many birds singing together on a bright spring day.

"You never cease to amuse me, Takahata Sojiro of the line of Takahata Ashinazuchi," the woman said. As she walked closer he felt heat radiating out from her body and warming him. He knew with but a thought that heat could burn him to ashes. "Please stand before me Takahata Sojiro, it ill befits a warrior like yourself to scrape his head against the ground."

"I dare not," said Sojiro, fear blossoming in his heart.

"I said stand." The words reverberated around the clearing and the ground shook. Without another thought of protest Sojiro got to his feet and stood before the woman, who was now seated on the steps of the shrine, just in front of the alter. A red fan with a golden image of a dragon was in her hand, waving back in forth.

"You entered here for a reason, a request." It wasn't a question. Sojiro simply nodded his head, looking away and not daring to meet her eyes. He felt tendrils of heat curve around him and he felt Her annoyance. He finally looked up and was trapped by those brilliant golden eyes. If ever a pair of eyes could have held the depths of ten thousand oceans or lived for ten hundred thousand lives, those eyes held even more. A timeless sense of knowledge and understanding that was enough to make a sane man crazy just by trying to understand.

"Y-Yes, Okami-dono," stuttered Sojiro. "I am trapped in a prison with my sword out of reach and facing a man who has some power."

"Indeed. The prison is nothing to you. Your sword will return to you. But yes...the man you face is indeed a strong opponent. He is, in his lands, known as a Gunslinger, a man of surpassing abilities with the weapons he bears," said the woman, her eyes seemed to glaze over almost as if in a trance. "He is evil in his core, a betrayer of friends, and of the most vile of the race of Man. Without my aid you and he are equal."

"I could take-"

"YOU COULD NOT!" again the land trembled and the shrine shook. Sojiro nearly fell to the ground again, but Her eyes held him in place.

"Do not overestimate your abilities, however formidable they are, Takahata Sojiro of the line of Takahata Ashinazuchi. Hubris will be your downfall, as it was your father's, if you are not careful," she said.

Sojiro bit his tongue and felt shame. Images of his past swept through his mind like a raging river. Faces of family and friends, burning in fires and shadows of swords slashing flesh, blood flying and soaking into the ground. Images that he had tried to forget. The woman's eyes knew his thoughts.

"Because you are haunted by your past you will never be a true wielder of Ama-no-Murakumo-no-Tsurugi, not like your grandsire. But for this once I will aid you. When in battle, call my name and the sword you bear will aid you. Now be gone." A sudden jerking force picked Sojiro up and he was thrown into the air. The shrine and mist-enshrouded clearing disappeared. He watched as the pearl steps he had walked up flashed past and he was hurled through the jade torii.



Sojiro's eyes popped open. His breathing was ragged and he felt exhausted. Almost as if he'd been running for hours on end. He looked around and noticed that the lawman sitting outside their cell was still talking to someone else, like himself, almost the same sentence that Sojiro had heard when he first began chanting. What had felt like hours had only passed by in minutes. He smiled and looked over to his sword. It was time to get out of jail.

"Either way, first thing I'd like to know is what in the nine hells happened down there?"

"Azrael, how old do I look?" The question seemed totally at odds with his, but she had a purpose. She met his eyes, her voice flat and factual

"Azrael, I am close a hundred and fifty years old. Once I was part of the best, of the best, of the best, and cube it.. Only one in a hundred thousand would even qualify, less than one in a thousand of those would pass final muster, be able to tolerate the alterations done to us. Alterations necessary to survive war the way it is fought in my home universe. And one of those was the addition to the body of the Pharmacope I mentioned last week."

Mina closed her eyes for a moment then locked hers with his again. "One of the drugs that it makes and stores is called Tick, and I am accustomed to its effects, I know how to deal with them. But the changes that happened when I was flung here, apparently has changed the drug, make it...shorter lasting, and more powerful in its anti addictive properties. Normally the Tick would have lasted, for the dose my subconscious ordered, maybe half an hour with some headache and nausea at the end. Not less than five minutes and knocking me out ...I had convulsions didn't I?'

He nodded and she continued "My body will adapt to a great degree, and I'll have to use it sparingly but I will use it when I need to. And yes." Here she blushed and dropped her eyes from his for a moment "And no I didn't need to down there. I was showing off. And that shames me."

"But Azrael, I may have lost the life I had twice now, but I can't change the core of who I am. Those men were going to rape me, then kill us both and nothing would have made me do other than what I did.”

“ I...protect people from scum like that, I don't, can't, tolerate ...I'm a guard Hexpuma and I won’t lose any sleep over expending those carrion corpses." Does he understand, I think he does…I feel so comfortable next to him. I’m telling him more than I’ve told anyone since I've come here, more than I told Gregori or Rabin in two years…but as good a friend as they became they didn’t make me feel like this wandering Prince, this Gunslinger, this man does

“ I...protect people from scum like that, I don't, can't, tolerate ...I'm a guard Hexpuma and I won’t lose any sleep over expending those carrion corpses."

He was silent for a moment, thinking over her words before replying in a tone barely above a whisper, "Then I name you, Wilhelmina, determined protector." He raised his voice again, speaking as though nothing had presaged his current words. "Believe me, I've no qualms with your actions. I, too, must admit to some shame in this manner, unfortunately. I was more than capable of dealing with it myself, but I felt the need to test you. I'm certain you've felt the oppressive weight that's been building since we first met. I hate that feeling. It usually means someone's gonna end up dead. I had to see if it was because of you. Now I know."

He heaved a sigh, wiping a weathered hand across his prematurely aged face. "I hate fate. It's bitten me on tha ass more times than a badly trained mutt with a sour temper. And I'm guessin you're not the only one." He made a gesture over his shoulder towards the door. "Ramon Valentino. An echo from a past I'd almost forgotten. It was fate when I came across him last time, and I'm sure it's not coincidence this time. I'd bet those two downstairs have something to do with it as well. The road wandered just right to bring us here at nearly the same time. Even with the world thinning and time running crooked, fate has a way of fixing things so to happen in certain ways."

Another sigh escaped his lips, the weight of long years showing. "I'll leave it to you whether or not we follow the path set before us. I'm getting tired of deciding who lives and dies." He gave a soft chuckle. "Seems a lot of people are getting tired of a lot of things, these days. These are tiring times. I still owe you a few answers though, I suppose. You've given me one, so it's your turn to ask a question. The way the nights have been stretching, I'd say we've got quite a while to talk."

You've given me one, so it's your turn to ask a question. The way the nights have been stretching, I'd say we've got quite a while to talk."

"How about we get some dinner first? I think that jerky we had hours ago has worn off" She looked him over not liking the underlying shadows, the loss of structure that spoke of long stretches of inadequate nutrition. And knowing things were beginning to tell on her and that she'd done wrong by ignoring them. No longer! He looks so tired, and he watched over me, guarded me...oh am I damned? She had the strongest impulse to reach out and cup his face in her palms.

"Trust Me Azrael, I'm willing to shoulder that burden."It was about the only gift she had to offer him. " Take no joy in it, but "Divine, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; the courage to change that which I can; and the wisdom to hide the bodies of the people I had to kill because they pissed me off." She tried to lighten the mood with the last - for she could only and ever hope for the wisdom to know the difference, for the learning had been hard - for there were things she could not change.

"Divine, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; the courage to change that which I can; and the wisdom to hide the bodies of the people I had to kill because they pissed me off."

A ghost of a smile momentarily lit his features. "I like that last part. Of course, I would word it, 'to hide the bodies of those who tried to stop me'. Then again, I have a lot of bodies." He paused, blinked, pondered, spoke. "A Gunslinger as fast and sharp as yourself, as long lived as yourself, I've probably only a fraction of yours, though its nothing to be proud of, for either of us, I'm certain. It will take some getting used to, this knowledge." A trace of humor entered his voice and he actually smiled, showing his almost perfect teeth, the only flaw a chip missing from the upper right incisor. "You don't look like my granddam."

He rose suddenly, offering her another deep bow. "Well then, my most venerable lady, shall we away to our sup? Would you prefer I carried you to spare your brittle bones the hazard of stairs?"

The smile stuck, even after her scathing retort. It was odd. He actually could not remember the last time he had made a genuine smile. He could not remember the last time he had laughed either, but that had no doubt been much further in the past. His offer of support, however, was no joking matter. He stood beside her as she gathered her strength, lending his own. When she was ready, he walked with her to the stairs, giving her another moment before facing such a task in her weakened state. She no doubt rankled at his overly cautious consideration, but he played it as a continuation of his earlier joking.

As they made their way downwards and the dining room came into view, the smile left his face like a fox discovered in the hen house. There was a new stranger. He cursed under his breath. The tall, dark man was speaking with Jasmine. Or rather, the girl was speaking to him. The man was not speaking at the moment. A shadow darkened Azrael's expression as he led Mina to a table and waited for their order to be taken.

"Five," he grumbled. "Counting myself, that's five. Now I know it's fate..." He shook his head, running a hand down his face. "Saints, demons, gods, and devils, but I'm beginnin ta hate this town."

He refrained from further comment as the innkeeper approached from the kitchen, took their orders, and toddled off, leaving them with a pair of glasses and a pitcher of water. With another sigh, and a glance at the stranger at the bar, he focused his attention on Mina, awaiting her question.

John shook him...

No.

Santiago. His name was Santiago. The thought -- the knowledge -- was depressing. It was always depressing...and it was true.

He shook his head lightly, clearing his head, then drew his hand away from the coin he'd set on the bar, slowly, and took up the mug that had been placed before him. He brought it towards his lips, but did not drink...not before his nostrils flared...

The cold, analytical part of his brain attacked the scent with a certain predatory glee, picking it apart -- he couldn't pick out every toxin that way, but he a good sniff generally told him if he'd get sick off the stuff...

He drank, then set the mug down and smiled at the girl behind the bar...though it wasn't much of a smile, as far as smiles went. It was just all the smile he had in him at the moment, "No, that'll be all for now. Thank you. And I didn't mind the wait -- circumstances outside of your control and all that."

He studiously ignored the couple at the table, though a trained eye could detect the sort of casual wariness that came about from vast experience with the grimmer parts of existence. An expert eye...an expert could tell that Santiago was fully aware of everything going on in around him, even if he showed no indication of it, and his stance -- both hands in plain view -- would not impede him in the slightest were action necessary.

Oh, certainly, he'd have been disadvantage were he to go for a gun in a waist holster, but he wasn't carrying a gun anywhere on his person. The only weapon he had about him was the folding knife clipped to the inside of his pants pocket...

If his lack of weaponry inconvenienced him in the slightest, Santiago Diaz, who's name was spoken only in hushed whispers less he appear, summoned, like some sort of demon...wasn't showing it. Beneath the act, he really didn't care -- right now, he was tired and thirsty...though not really physically tired. He just wanted to sit a spell and drink a drink...and then move on before anybody got wind of who he was, which inevitably brought out a few of the local hotshots...and he had enough blood on his hands for several lifetimes.

He pulled the brim of his hat down tighter to shade his eyes and took another mouthful of liquid.

Sojiro stood up inside his cell and looked over at the sitting deputy outside his cell. He was reading something and sipping on a cup of alcohol. The bottle stood accusingly next to him, its caramel brown color sluggish and half empty. The man was chuckling to himself as he took another sip. Above his head was Sojiro's sword and his companion's gun. He needed to distract the guard. He looked through the metal bars at his companion.

"Are you always this stupid when it comes to these things?" Sojiro asked his snake bitten companion, throwing as much contempt as he could into his voice.

"What you say?" he growled

"I said are you always this stupid?"

"That's tough talk coming from a man in a dress!" he spat back.

"So you are stupid."

"You trying to pick a fight?" His snake bitten companion had stood up and was holding onto the bars that separated the cells. He had his teeth barred and looked ever so slightly pissed. Sojiro smiled, a sarcastic smirk spreading across his features.

"You wouldn't be worth my time stupid, even that sheriff got you," Sojiro said, turning his head away as if Wes didn't exist.

"I didn't see you try anything!"

"That's because I wanted to see what the man could do, instead of being an idiot and brashly making a stupid move like you did...idiot."

Wes started yelling something and tried reaching his arm through the bars. His finger tips were a good foot away from Sojiro who just leaned forward slightly out of reach and laughed mockingly. "Trying to find a banana idiot-monkey boy?"

"That tears it!" Wes started trying to bend the bars, breathing deeply and straining. The deputy, who had been watching with a bit of amusement finally got up and walked over to the cells. He poked through Wes' cell with a stick and prod him a few times. "Hey thar boy, step on back and sit're down." While Wes started grabbing for the deputy's stick Sojiro had closed his eyes and concentrated on his sword. In his mind he yelled out it's name, calling it.

The sword shook slightly on the pegs. It went unnoticed as the deputy and Wes were having a tug-o-war match over the stick. Suddenly the sword rattled so loudly that both men stopped to turn and watch as it flew off the pegs and towards them. The deputy was too surprised to do anything. The sheath smacked him right in the head, knocking him down. The sword flew through the bars and Sojiro caught it smoothly in his hand. Wes grabbed the deputy through the bars and put him in a head lock. "Got any fancy ideas now dress-man? Or are you gonna pick the lock with that bang-up piece of metal. Would'a been better if you'd just gotten them keys yonder to fly to you."

"I don't need keys," said Sojiro. With blinding speed Sojiro drew his sword and slaced through five of the bars at head height, then bent down and did the same at knee height. Smooth cuts each, with little more than a resounding click of metal on metal. The bars themselves however clanged to the floor.

Sojiro stepped through the hole he had made and walked over to his possessions. He took back his hat and backpack. As an afterthought he took Wes' gun and belt off the wall and threw them over to the man, sitting them beside the bars. Wes glared up at him. "Keys?" Sojiro smiled and threw them through the bars to the back of Wes' cell. Without another word Sojiro turned and searched the room. He found a side window that looked into the wall of the next building, a small alley way. He unlatched it and opened, with a quick hop and a shove he was through and standing in the shadow filled alley. He closed the window behind him and then ran further into the alley, determined to find a good spot to rest until he could be ready.

She was glad to sink into the seat, and let her gratitude - well felt despite her sharp tongue moments earlier - show in her eyes. Every muscle felt like it'd just gone a few rounds with Master Naga. He'd have handed me my pretty pink multiple times for how lax I've gotten. An' I would have deserved every 'ouch' of soreness. However she pulled a sharp smile and sharper retort "The only thing I have to worry about is that you know where I sleep" Her eyes flew wide at that, it had just zipped out, meant to zing, not...Mina blushed pinkly and then more as she realized that she was blushing.Oh damn, big mouth Willa' me girl...and do you?... It took all her determination, and a specific breathing pattern to take the flush off of her cheeks. Cataloging those present also provided something else to distract her traitorous thoughts.

Much easier to listen to Azrael...

Saints, demons, gods, and devils, but I'm beginnin ta hate this town."

"Five's a' Hand, a Star of Battle, but one shy a' Comities..." whispered were those words, Mina had been looking too deep into the past this night, and fell back into it too easily. Until she shook herself hard, breaking free of the parade of faces, closer than family, close as self inside your own skin, five each one yet One. The neural net linking, syncing, gone now and never again. Part of her howled in never ending mourning.

Mina shook her head and re next words were as low spoken as the first "Don't Azrael...hate what’s gone wrong here."

His eyes, those level, cool shades of a gun's metal caught and held hers, and a gentle smile tugged up the corners of her lips. "This is a question that even a child of this world know the answer to, but as I'm not... What exactly is a Gunslinger?"

She’d heard bits and pieces, some true, some seemingly obviously false, and she’d drawn conclusions, but knowledge from the horse’s mouth…

As Sojiro rounded the corner, he found that oddly shaped pistol mere centimeters from his forehead. Before he could draw, the sheriff's hand shot out, gripping the saya of Sojiro's blade just above the sageo, his thumb landing atop the tsuba, his grip firm and tight. He pushed forward, shoving the surprised swordsman back against the wall, pressing his advantage, holding the barrel of his pistol pressed tight against Sojiro's forehead.

"You are seriously testin my patience, boy," the sheriff grunted through gritted teeth. "One twitch and I'll save myself time and trouble by burnin a hole in yer head, ya slant-eyed bastard! Now... we're gonna move nice 'n slow like and put you back bahind bars, and then we're gonna have a li'l chat."

Slowly, he pulled back, keeping the gun centered on Sojiro's forehead, giving a sharp jerk at the katana, hoping to disarm the errant samurai.

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"This is a question that even a child of this world know the answer to, but as I'm not... What exactly is a Gunslinger?"

Had it been anyone else, he might have laughed. If he did not feel so unbearably tired, he might have smiled regardless. As it was, he simply answered her.

"That is a complicated question. A Gunslinger is many things. He is Law, and a law unto himself. He is Judge, Jury, and Executioner. He is a man of uncommon strength, both physically and mentally. He is both Right and Might, Power and Control. He knows the way of his weapons and knows himself. He is Death to those who oppose him and inviolate sanctuary to those he grants his protection." He paused, the deep-seated pain of long buried memory crossing his rugged features.

"In Gilead and in every province of the United Kingdoms, every child both male and female is Tested at eight years of age by a Tamer. If they pass the Test, then they are trained. The training is long, hard, and brutal. Many fail. Some few die. Failure is not a shame, though many carry it as such. To be a Gunslinger requires sharpness of mind, sturdiness of body, and strength of character that many simply do not have. Training last for ten years. On the day each child passes into adulthood, they must pass their Trial. Every child must pass. If they fail at that point, they have only themselves to blame and this is a shame, one that is carried for the rest of their lives. Those who pass become Gunslingers and are given the ancient weapons of our calling. The sword represents our will to cut our own path in the world. The pistols represent the judgment we pass on all who cross us."

He paused once more, pulling free a heretofore hidden stiletto. It hung on a tarnished silver chain around his neck. It was six inches in length, three blade, three grip, with no guard betwixt the two, the blade hidden within the handle until he depressed the ruby, extending it with a soft "shick". A small ruby adorned the pommel. "And this represents the struggle each and every one of us go through. We are given this to remind us of our vows and to use in case we fail to uphold them."

He pressed the dagger to the tip of his finger, the needle-like point slipping easily through his skin until it hit bone. He continued his pressure on the hilt and the blade slid back in, blood flowing freely from his finger. He sucked on the tip for a few moments until the bleeding stopped. "It is called a Heartblade. You place it against your chest and..." He mimed pressing the ruby. "That is what a Gunslinger's vow means to him, or should." His eyes closed and his voice took on the tone of recitation.

"A Gunslinger bows to no man, not even the King himself nor the gods above. A Gunslinger fears no man, neither he who gave us life nor he who gives us death. A Gunslinger remembers always the face of his father, knowing the right and true path he must tread. A Gunslinger gives peace to those who ask and death to those who are deserving. A Gunslinger lives by his word, never giving his oath with intention to break it. A Gunslinger does not act with haste nor does he kill with haste."

He opened his eyes, meeting her own. "There are many others, but those are chief among them. It is a code both ancient and sacred. Any more than this is hard to explain. There is much that goes unsaid and much that lies within the heart of each Gunslinger. You yourself are a Gunslinger born true. I can see it in your eyes, in the way you carry yourself, in the way you speak. You may not have been trained as I nor have been instilled with the same codes, but you are a Gunslinger born true nevertheless. I would venture a wager that the stranger by the bar is one as well, though I know him not.

"Not all Gunslingers are of Gilead, after all. We are not so arrogant as to think so. We simply train them true and give them roam of the world, hoping that we have shown them a path of virtue to tread and praying that they follow it. Gunslingers are born and each has his, or her, own destiny to follow. Atimes, that blasted interfering harpy Fate decides to throw a few of us together. Fate, in the old tongue, is called Ka, though Ka is much more than simple Fate. A group formed by the pull of Ka is called a ka-tet. We are ka-tet, you and I, I know that now. I fear our ka-tet will soon grow."

His tongue stilled as the innkeeper brought their food then scurried off. "I will not ask of your struggles or your past. You will tell me of that in your own time, when you are ready. I can see it still pains you greatly. I would ask to know of any other... phamar... things, or whatever you call it, that may give trouble in a time of need. The knowledge may save both our lives."

Finally, he picked up the knife and fork left by Graham with their meal and cut off a slice of the thick, juicy steak on his plate. He chewed thoughtfully, awaiting Mina's answer and her next question.

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"No, that'll be all for now. Thank you. And I didn't mind the wait -- circumstances outside of your control and all that."

Jasmine nodded and gave him her most charming smile as she wiped down the bar with a rag. There was a dangerous air about this man that she found attractive. It was not quite the same as the Gunslinger and his companion, nor was it the same as the ruffian deputies. Whatever it was about him, she felt drawn to the man in a way she had never felt before, despite the numerous courtiers she had picked up over the years.

"If y'all need anything, give a holler, sugah," she offered with a wink. "I'll be right here."

A blush colored her cheeks as she realized how shamelessly she flirted. She swiftly realized that she could care less, if only it would catch this stranger's notice.

Mina listened in silence then buried her head in her hands and groaned to herself, closing her eyes...Comes , Comitis, Comitatus ..We who are one…

“Ah hate fate” she whispered not looking up. For a long second she was silent, then she looked up with a wry smile. “And Fate doesn’t seem to care.” She too cut into her steak, savoring the first bite letting the juices delight her taste buds. “You and I have gone too long on too lean a ration. We’re both suffering for it. And that I will not allow.”

“I think that is the only thing that is going to trouble me. When I came here the parts of me that were enhanced by technogical means either went completely dead or were some how mutated into biological equivallents. The pharmacope was both organic and non and I think it’s that’s the reason it’s acting so funny…I think it’s slowly becoming fully organic, attempting to adapt to this universe. I think the adrenialain over production was it trying to make Tick out of what my body can produce naturally. I may have to wake Val up and ask her.” She took a few more bites before continuing.

“Long long ago the Cadre was just a military organization, the very best of the ‘Special Forces’, with no special code beyond that of any honest and hornorably guided military. But as time passed a need was seen for something more. And the Cadre was already the directly ordered forces of the Emperor or Empress, and as they were the ‘font of honor’ for the Empire, the Cadre became more. And so the oaths changed and grew and the Cadre was more akin to the Knighthoods of eld. And over the centuries we began to be used for more than just purely military action, we were more than just elite of the elite soldiers.” She took a bite of buttered potato and savored it. “But not even the whole of the Cadre could be what was needed, though we are drawn soley from within the Cadre.

“You don’t come to such an honored status earily or quickly. You aren’t even allowed to test for the Cadre until one is in ones early twenties, basic and advance schooling passed, the body has to be able to stand the rigors, but more so the psyche needs to be solid, and well grounded. Testing takes almost two years, the training takes seven years to become fully operational, but some of that is recovery time from the surgerys and the growing of the dermalweave.” She touched her face lightly “Normally it can’t be seen, but in coming here mine has apparently bonded to my skin instead of just lieing between skin and muscle.”

Her mouth quirked down. She had been beaustiful once and with enough feminie vanity to enjoy that “Which is okay I guess if one doesn’t mind looking like part Draconic” She avoided looking in to mirrors of late.. “But once one is Cadre, one is still tested and observed, though it is subtle, never open. And when they have identified five…or six… who are worthy those are taken aside and asked if they are willing to become …more. And thus begins a new training…Not a loss of ones old life, but a fuller life where five, or six, can be One”

Closer than family, all but self, a meld such that one couldn’t tell where one ended and another began without deliberation, but with no loss of your ‘self’ in that union.. That she didn’t even dare think on, those were doors that could never be reopened But she knew that some day she’d tell him.

"But some how I don't think it is a Destiny" And the D was definitely capitolized "to clean up a small town in the mostly middle of nowhere. Where are we headed?"

"But some how I don't think it is a Destiny to clean up a small town in the mostly middle of nowhere. Where are we headed?"

His brow lifted as she compared her skin to the hide of a dragon. No Wanderer he had ever come across had made mention of such beasts. Then again, none other had been given reason to. Perhaps the ancient, enigmatic creatures passed through other worlds in some manner. He chewed thoughtfully on a morsel, obviously savoring the flavor of fresh and freshly cooked meat. He swallowed and took another bite, accompanied by some spiced potatoes and corn. Once he had finished that, he answered as truthfully as he could.

"Ka will guide us. Ka is Fate and Destiny and Circumstance and a whole bushel of other Big Mojo rolled up into one, and not to be treated lightly. It could be that it has thrown us together for just that purpose, or it could be something far more complex. The quest I follow is to find my father's murderer and bring him to justice. One would suspect that you, like most Wanderers, are after a means home." His eyes glanced towards the man at the bar. "He, I would suspect, wishes simply to be left alone. He seems familiar to me, now that I think on it, though I'm not sure why just yet. The kensei and the other are probably just travelers. I sense the pull of Ka in them as well, unfortunately.

"What brings us all to this small borderlands town, what reason is behind Fate's machinations, I can't begin to guess. I know only what I know, and I don't know enough in this case. I could hope that you have been thrown in my path as aids in my personal vendetta, but that would be arrogant. One man, no matter his purpose, is not the concern of Fate. This lies deeper, I fear, much deeper." He gave a heavy sigh, then reiterated, "Ka will guide us."

He raised another bite to his lips then paused before inserting it to ask, "Who is Val?"

"Who is Val?"

Mina rubbed her left forearm, as if a normal weight was not where it should be. Then on the underside of her wrist - just above the wrist joint - pulled the skin taunt. So that Azrael could see a small -less than a quarter of an inch on a side - rectangularity under the gold, heaxgonly imprinted skin

"Cyber Link, or whats left as one of my secondaries. Val is my friend, but she's not human. She's a Cybernetic Sentience. She was in Suspension when I got brought here, and I've been afraid to let her wake up, seeing how much of me has been..." She released the tight pulled skin and rubbed angrily at the faint patterning "altered." No she didn't like that change one bit, then got angry at herself for a moment over what couldn't be helped.

Eventually she looked up, shrugged and went back to chasing down the last niblet of corn. Though she had the feeling that she was annoyed more for feeling like a woman for the first time in a long time than anything else...and that had her paying more attention the the last bite of steak than even it's deliciousness deserved.

And she was still hungry. She waved Graham over and ordered another steak with a completely unapologetic air.

Azrael smirked slightly at order and added in a second order of his own, offering a completely emptied plate to the old gentleman.

"I have to admit to my ignorance in this instance. I've no idea what any of that means save Cybernetic Sentience. One ran the castle back home."

The innkeeper swiftly returned, accompanied by his granddaughter. He carried the plates, she a pair of wine stems, a dusty bottle, and a candle. Graham set the plates in front of the two companions while Jasmine poured the wine and lit the candle. He gave Azrael a wink before returning to the kitchen. Azrael, for his part, was somewhat torn. The food had been delicious after months of tough, flavorless trail rations and the wine was welcome, but the presentation gave the wrong impression. He tapped his fingers on the table a few times, contemplating his plate before looking back up at Mina.

"Would you, um... care to finish this in our room?"

"Would you, um... care to finish this in our room?"

She looked at the modified table setting and a even bigger blush bloomed on her cheeks. She lowered her eyelashed, looking demurely off to the side, blotting the corners of her lips ever so delicately. Then a wicked twinkle bloomed in her eyes.

Her voice, while not raised, carried well and was sadly sweet ...and the look in those dangerous golden eyes... ? "But Azrael, are you saying you're ashamed to be seen in public with me? You said all those things to me, and I came all this way with you...And now I'm not, we're not..." She let her voice trail off in delicate injured silence.

"But Azrael, are you saying you're ashamed to be seen in public with me? You said all those things to me, and I came all this way with you...And now I'm not, we're not..."

After just starting to get used to talking again, Azrael found himself speechless. He could swear he saw the twinkle of a tear in the corner of her eye. He imitated a fish for a few moments before he managed to get his jaw under control. Inwardly, he smiled. The little vixen. He deserved it, he supposed. It still caught him off guard, and for that he would applaud her. Later. In private. Once he had gotten back at her. Of course, first he had to figure out how. And for that he needed his brain to kick back into gear. He blinked at himself. If she had shot him, he would be dead. A Gunslinger indeed.

With nothing he could think of to say, he shrugged and simply dug into his food. Eating in silence, eyes on the swiftly disappearing steak. Once he was finished, he wiped his mouth on his napkin, pushed back his chair, walked over to stand beside Mina, and calmly threw her over his shoulder. At her complaint, he grabbed her plate and silverware as well. Without another word, he carried her upstairs. He quirked a brow at her after dropping on the bed, asking silently if she was happy with this turn of events. He withheld her plate, however.

He did not, generally, like being referred to in the third person, as if he wasn't actually present -- his hearing was far, far too acute to miss the conversation going on at the table to his rear, no matter how he tried to ignored it. Bit of a pain, that -- no way around it, though. It was said that he could hear a mouse sneeze from four miles away. There were membranes in his outer ear that would seal shut incredibly quickly to save his hearing, as necessary, but he had no conscious control over them.

He closed his eyes for a moment and forced his hand to withdraw from gripping the mug before he dented it -- he knew his own strength entirely all too well, and knew that sometimes it got away from him. He waited out the spike of anger -- not derived from anything in particular, but rather resulting from frustration with the entirety of the situation -- he didn't much like this particular existence, though it wasn't all that much worse than any other existence...

The moment passed, and he took the mug up again, drinking to clear the bitter taste from his mouth. He brought his hand up, waved over the server -- the girl or the innkeeper, he didn't much care.

"Meat, bread, drink without alcohol. Fruit, if you've got any. And a room for the night."

He fished several coins from his purse and lay them down on the bar next to the first one he'd put down, in the same manner, one edge then the other, so they sounded twice.

He was smiling, his face shaded by his hat.

"Meat, bread, drink without alcohol. Fruit, if you've got any. And a room for the night."

Jasmine scurried into the kitchen and returns quickly with a steak, a pair of rolls, and a glass of water. "Here ya go, sugar. Third door on tha right's yours." She slips a key from the pocket on her apron and slides it on to the bar. "And if you want anything later tonight..." She winks before going back to cleaning the bar.

He took a breath and exhaled slowly over the food and the drink, and you could read into that as much you liked, because he wasn't going to explain what the real purpose of the action was -- rituals were rituals, though sometimes they performed quite useful functions...

He ate quickly, though very neatly, mopping up the remnant juices with scraps of roll. That done, he lay another coin upon the plate and rose, taking the key. He tipped his hat up slightly, a flash of too-blue eyes and strong bone-structures.

"And maybe I'll take you up on the last part...good night, miss."

And then he was gone, soft footfalls fading into utter silence the instant he was out of sight...and could stop forcing himself to make sounds where he stepped.

Wes was pissed, to put it simply. His companion was one hell of a cheeky varmint. But, he had to admit, that the guy'd gotten him out of 2 tight squeezes today. As he bent down to pick up the keys, he heard a commotion outside. Figured he might as well see what was going on.

He engraved it into his mind that he would not do anything stupid, and prove the dress guy wrong. So he sorted through the small collection of keys and jammed one into the cell door. It opened.

Wes walked over to where his gun was hanging, and holstered it. He jumped out the window that Sojiro went out of, a feat made much more difficult with cowboy boots, and froze when he saw that damned sheriff holding Sojiro at gunpoint.

I've gotta remain calm he thought to himself.

So he turned, hands held high, and said, "Sir, I reckon we need to sit down and have a quick talk. Me, you, my friend here, and those two strangers at the saloon."

Mina looked at Azrael in utter unastonishment. She'd deliberately provoked him and if she didn't like the result well she could live with it. But he had taken it with aplomb and perfect response....It had been all she could do to keep from giggling while he climbed the stairs.

Fighting Fate was all but useless and she was tired of that, had been doing that too long.. She’d let Fate take care of tomorrow. Tonight was different. But then again could it be charged to Fate’s account for putting her around just the sort of man – and he was a man, a fully adult male, despite what the other, Ramon, had alluded to rumors of. Azrael was no child, adulthood rituals bedamned – his owns words equally so – she knew too many ways to rig even the supposedly fool proof. In her experience ‘fool proof’ was an impossibility and the more it was claims as being the less likely it was in reality.

She let herself simply bounce on the bed and smile smugly up at him. Slowly she sat up , undoing her sensible boots, toeing them off then standing and advanced on the warily watching Gunslinger, noting that he moved the plate holding the rest of her steak a little bit further out of guessed at range. He was not near close enough to being out of range but she wasn’t going to enlighten him at the moment.

That brought out rarely seen dimples as her smile widened into something purely feminine. There’s a way a woman can move, a stance they can fall into as easily as breathing. It has noting to do with artifice and everything to do with their chosen...target.
With her boots off, he was just taller than she and that was a perfect height for sliding into his arms. She was watching him like a hawk however as well as with other, equally acute senses.

Her sensory enhancements had all been genetic mods and organic enhancements. They had gone overboard the first couple of months she'd been in this Reality, but they had recovered to something close to what she had long been accustomed to. Mina had the olfactory acuteness of a Xa, able to smell pheromone changes should she chose to do so - a weakness in some situations, but it would also let her know if she truly was trespassing, just as her hearings acuteness would let her know if his heartbeat went off.

She wanted to kiss him, but ultimately whether she did or not depended on him.

Her sudden shift in attitude caught him off guard nearly as much as her comment downstairs. He really had lost his touch in dealing with people. It had obviously been too long since he had been around a decent human being (or otherwise) worth talking to. He could still, however, tell when someone was after him. That was more from knowing how to read people, understanding their intentions. And Mina was aiming right at him. Every line and curve of her body said as much. Her eyes met his as he held the plate tantalizingly out of reach. That was as it should be; the eyes reveal more of a man's intentions than his body. But she locked his gaze for more reason than simply gauging his intentions. At least, his intentions for her plate. Damn this little vixen. He was actually beginning to enjoy himself.

He held the plate towards her as he backed a few paces more, the corner of his lips lifted in a playful, taunting smirk, mirth dancing in his eyes. His free hand rested against the small of his back, pulling a strip of well tanned rawhide from the pouch on the back of his belt. He knew it would not hold her for long, but perhaps long enough for him to escape. It would be an amusing chase, he was sure. She was a hell of a lot faster than him and a hell of a lot stronger than him, but... she was also a woman. It would all come down to what type of woman whether or not he would be allowed to escape and continue the game.

Mina rested the palms of both hands lightly on his chest, not putting any of her weight on him, and kissed him. Nothing more, but definitely nothing less. It wasn't some brisk peck, nor was it in any way devouring. But it was most definitely a kiss, unhurried, thorough and sweet. It offered, not demanded; it lingered, but only as his response gave liberty for.

Then it was ending, as Mina took half a step back, eyes half closed, her expression soft. The offer had been made, it was up to him to accept it or not. She turned away, part of her aghast at what she had done, but she didn't regret it in the least.

Wow... The steak had been the last thing on her mind and was now rather farther away than that.

This female was full of surprises. The plate fell from his hand as their lips met. His eyes closed, and he simply experienced the unexpected pleasure of feminine flesh pressed against him. His hands hovered just above her hips, so close to touching, but refraining, shifting first higher then lower, uncertain birds fluttering about in search of a roost. And just as he was about to simply drop them against her and leave it to fate where they fell, she pulled away.

He was left grasping at the air where her hips had been, mouth agape. His lips tingled, his cheeks flushed. If Mina had not been certain before, the reactions of his body now would remove any question of his feelings in this matter. Even had they not, the grip he took on her arm to spin her around, pulling her into his arms and resuming their connection. He was rougher than she had been, surer. His hands traversed her form, keeping her close against him. It was Ka, he told himself. It was just for a night, he told himself. But still, Fate, that wicked, cruel, merciless monster would have its say and time would tell.

Mina fell into his arms as he spun her back around, eyes wide now and locked once again with his. A dreamy lassitude over took her as their kiss continued, deepened. His hands, hard from years of training, roamed surely over her leaving her hot and aching...and she couldn't have stopped what was to be even had she wanted to. And she didn't want to.

Because some part of her knew that while Fate might be laughing it's fool head off, it wasn't for just a night.

He held her close even as he moved to blow out the lamp. It was but a momentary parting of their lips, but it seemed much longer. He guided her to the bed, falling back on it with her atop himself. There as no more talking now, and no more questions. Only the feeling of two needful bodies pressed and pressing against one another. The moonless night drew on, the stars spinning overhead as fates intertwined below. Fates that were soon to be inseparable.

"Sir, I reckon we need to sit down and have a quick talk. Me, you, my friend here, and those two strangers at the saloon."

The sheriff was not in a mood for compromise. He planted a boot on Sojiro's chest and gave another jerk to the katana in his grasp, effectively disarming and winding the warrior. Keeping the blade trained on the gasping swordsman, he glanced at Wes.

"Son... I know y'all ain' tha brightest apple what fell off tha cart, but please pay close attention here. If'n you don' hop back through that window, drop yer weapons on my desk, and lock yerself back in yer cell... I'm gonna put a new hole in yer friend's head, 'n then I'm gonna put one in yours."

There was no anger in his voice, only cold, hard, uncompromising steel.

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Jasmine quietly slipped from the room she shared with her grandfather and brother. It doubled as the storeroom and was attached to the kitchen. It was easy enough to avoid the few squeaky boards, and she knew the layout of the kitchen like the back of her hand. The hard part was getting around her brother. He was older than she by four years and worked at the stable from noon until ten of the clock in the afternoon. Past that, he tended bar overnight in case new arrivals came in. Luckily for Jasmine, he had nodded off, his head resting against the bar counter.

Thanking whatever god or goddess had given her this bit of luck, she hurried up the stairs. She knew which room the dark stranger's was, since she had given him the key herself. Opening the door was also simple, given the master key she had brought with her. She slipped inside, closing it quietly behind her. Her heart was racing. Fingers traced slowly up her body to the straps of the thin nightgown she wore. The straps slipped from her shoulders, allowing the garment to fall from her body into a pile around her feet. She wore nothing underneath. That done, she moved through the darkened room towards the bed. She knelt beside it, stretching out one hand to caress the cheek of the man she had come to see, hoping to wake him gently.

"Son... I know y'all ain' tha brightest apple what fell off tha cart, but please pay close attention here. If'n you don' hop back through that window, drop yer weapons on my desk, and lock yerself back in yer cell... I'm gonna put a new hole in yer friend's head, 'n then I'm gonna put one in yours."

Wes was scared by the cold, businesslike tone to this weasel's voice. But, he was kind of put off by the strange gun, too. A small flurry of anger welled up inside him, but he forced it back down his throat before it could reach his lips.

"Ok. You win. I'll go back inside." Wes muttered, biting his lip as he did so.

He climbed up through the window, placed his gun where it was before, and took a seat in the cell. He pulled his hat down once again, but kept his eyes vigilant, waiting for the first oppurtunity to get out of here.

The bed was empty. It appeared to have been slept in, then neatly re-made to exacting, almost military, specifications -- the sheets were sufficiently tight around the mattress to bounce a nickel off of...in theory.

Santiago had not required more than a few hours of sleep a night since he was a mere lad, legacy of...things he'd rather not think about. He had been sitting quietly in a corner of the room, which was as dark as he could make it, and thumbing through a well-worn book. It seemed silly to read in the dark, but it didn't seem to overly inconvenience him. When the door had opened, he had frozen, then watched with some amusement as the serving girl made her entrance and disrobed.

Rising on quiet feet, he was barefoot and stripped to the waist, his duster and hat hanging off one of the bedposts and his shirt and boots neatly folded and set aside. Had it been bright enough to see, his muscular torso would have been quite a sight, marked as it was by the scars of a lifetime of violence. It was part of the reason why he liked it dark -- he was able to pretend that he wasn't the person that his body revealed him to be.

He moved up behind the serving girl, stealthily as you could like -- his skills had been refined in the hardest of concievable schools, where being detected meant becoming very swiftly dead and the people doing the detecting were very, very good at what they did. That he was still alive was a testament to his skill at stealth.

He wrapped an arm around her waist while his hand came up to cover her mouth, stifling the inevitable scream. A whispered 'Shush' in her ear served to identify him -- his voice was distinctive enough.

"You're a brave girl, sneaking into my room like this. "

"Ok. You win. I'll go back inside."

The sheriff grunted, watching as Wes hopped back inside, then slammed the butt of his weapon into Sojiro's temple, rendering the swordsman unconscious. He hefted the man over his shoulder and carried him around into the building. With a disgusted expression, he dropped the man in the spare cell, locking it firmly, and making sure to place the sword firmly out of both reach and sight inside a closet. He retrieved the keys from Wes's cell, jabbing a silently accusing finger in the younger man's direction before securing the cell door.

"Now... Since yer bein cooperative, finally..." The sheriff sighed heavily, running a hand through his raven hair. "Tell me yer tale. Just start talkin, I'll tell ya when ta shut up. I just wanna know why in tha nine hells y'all decided ta show up on my doorstep just now, since it's lookin like y'all gonna hang regardless."

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Jasmine gasped as the hand went around her waist, the hand over her mouth muffling the scream that followed. Her hands attempted to peel his away before he spoke.

"Shush... You're a brave girl, sneaking into my room like this. "

She relaxed against him with what would have been a sigh of relief were her mouth free for sighing. She pressed her back against his chest, wiggling suggestively as her hands moved to stroke along his thighs. She supposed it must be quite obvious why she was here, but it never helped to ensure the point was taken.

He let his hand drop from her mouth to find a more opportune perch. His other hand didn't move -- it was in a decent enough location. She smelled clean, and there were none of the signs of the three known sexually transmitted diseases to which he was succeptible. Not surprising, considering said diseases had mutated from tailored bio-weapons. He'd yet to encounter anything on this world that was capable of challenging his immune system, and experience leaned towards things continuing in that vein.

That in mind, there was no reason for him to refrain -- he'd never been a religious man, though he had been a priest, once, and there was no chance of the girl getting pregnant unless he intended for such things to occur. He had decidedly few guilty pleasures -- he did not drink in excess, or, generally, at all, did not smoke, and tried to maintain a 'healthy' diet, though what was healthy for him was not necessarily healthy for other people.

The only real vice he allowed himself was women, and seldom indulged even then. He was not a man given to holding an extensive personal law of morality, had long since pared his morals down to the bone -- more than a few dealt with women. He had no interest in unwilling women, or whores -- his interest was more mental and spiritual than physical, anyway. Normally, he would not have been so quick to allow someone into his bed without checking for strings -- not that he minded strings, to be honest, he longed for strings -- but rather, because he recognized that dream as an impossible one. His curse was too strong, his sins too great, for that most pure of human endeavors.

He dropped his hands to her waist and lifted her gently off of her feet, dropping his shoulder onto the bed and rolling onto it, bringing her with him so that she ended up atop him. He was not smiling, though whether she could have seen him had he been doing so was questionable. His face tended towards utter impassiveness when he was not playing a part, and the entire purpose of liaisons such as this was to pare away the falsehoods, to allow himself, for a moment, to not be Santiago. To engage a simple act with no alternate motives, with no need to worry about the future, and no need to be actively contemplating the deaths of everyone in the vicinity.

He kissed her lips, allowing his tongue to flick through. His skill in this area was yet another part of his legend -- it was said that, as a young man, he had won the favor of a Malnir Courtesan who had taken it upon herself to instruct him in the ways of her art. This was truth, though he had been very young at the time. He sometimes wondered what she would think of him, if she were to see him as he was now. He generally gave it 80/20 in favor of her being disgusted -- she had said that what had attracted her to him was his innocence, his purity of belief. No one would ever say such things of Santiago.

Though he seldom bothered with any of the Thirty-One Unions, there was far, far more to the Courtesan's art than mere positioning -- it was as much a philosophy as a skillset, the mark of a master Courtesan was not to be found in technique, but in manner -- attentiveness, responsiveness, and above all else, perfect ease. He let his fingers work, tracing lazy spirals when not engaged in manipulation of surgical precision -- the same sort of precision that he did, in fact, display with a knife in his hand.

He did not bother to remove his pants -- that would come later, when the time was right. Such undertakings as this were not to be rushed unnecessarily -- if it wasn't worth doing right, it wasn't worth doing in the first place.

Then there was no more time for intricate thinking, only action and reaction, allowing things to come as they would. It was a luxury made all the more attractive by its rarity.

When they finally did break their kiss Mina straddled him, feeling his obvious arousal and smiling down at his glaze eyed countenance. Her tone was low, but serious, with a formal look about her...

“Azrael Leon, I swear true that no child shall come of this night or here after, until we both agree that the time is meet and proper. I further swear that I am clean of all infection, and disease.” Her body would not ovulate until she required it to, and her nanites kept her disease free. And she’d been with no one since she’d been here and for some time - a very long time - before.

Then she leaned forward and claimed his lips again with rising hunger, her weight light on him, the teasing sway of her body against his testifying as to her desires.. Then she sat upright and began unbuttoning her shirt, slipping it down over her shoulders to reveal that she wore some sort of all but transparent unitard undergarment.

He could see her skin though it, it seemed to cling to her body like a second skin, even following the contours of her aroused nipples. Then in one fluid move Mina was standing next to the bed, and tossing her shirt over the back of the chair that filled one corner. Her hands moved to her jeans. She undid the top button and paused for a moment, watching him watch her… then she was kicking them from around her ankles.

One finger traced down along the left side of her torso, and the odd undergarment fell apart, sliding off down her body like a skin being shed. Her tauntened breasts bobbed ever so slightly, but they had no sag, obviously needing no support.

Her breath caught in her throat, the look on his face was as a potent and heady drug to her, his avid, naked desire shining forth with no inhibition. Then he was sitting up, trying with trembling hands to tear his clothes off without taking his eyes off her. He couldn’t get his shirt unbuttoned, and with a low growl of frustration Azrael began to just rip his shirt open. Firm but not rough hands stilled him, soothed him

“How long has it been?” A hint of gentle laughter in her voice, a look of pleased feminity lighting her eyes.

“Never”

That produced a stilling of Mina’s hands and a soft “oh”

And every thing shifted.

Mina went from equally hungry partner to careful, thorough teacher, though she was no professional.

Letting him savor the acts, the sensual pleasures. The sharing of pure unadulterated joy that two people could gift one another with. Giving and receiving, in equal measure. The heights a man can take a woman – and none of her responses were faked much less hidden… and she in return led him down a dizzying path that had him wondering if his sanity would survive., but he wouldn’t, couldn’t stop her. There was not a part of his body that Mina didn’t bring pleasure to, and in turn she allowed him to explore hers with equal intensity and thoroughness.

But more than that,

She helped him learn how to make love..

As Wes sat there, a second later, he heard a dull thud and a rustle of clothing. He'd done it enough himself to know the thud meant Sojiro just got clubbed with the butt of that...whatever it was. The rustle meant that it had worked.

There was another slight noise, and the sound of receding, heavy footsteps. A minute later, the sheriff came in with Sojiro slung over his shoulder, unconscious. The sheriff, quite literally, dropped him into a smaller cell, probably a spare or something. The sheriff meaningfully jammed the key into the lock and turned it, a slight twist to his lips. The scowl remained in place as he took Sojiro's sword to a closet, and also locked that.

After that affair, he came to the cell where Wes reside and snatched the keys from Wes's outstretched hand, stopping to point a wary finger at him.

The sheriff went over to the desk, put the keys down, and leaned against the side of it, a weary expression on his face. He ran his hand through his black hair (which was strange, because he clearly appeared old) and said, with a tinge of ironic humour,


"Now... Since yer bein cooperative, finally..."

"Tell me yer tale. Just start talkin, I'll tell ya when ta shut up. I just wanna know why in tha nine hells y'all decided ta show up on my doorstep just now, since it's lookin like y'all gonna hang regardless."


Wes winced involuntarily, mostly because it seemed the sheriff was right. Chances were, him and Sojiro were gonna be decorations above the gallows by tomorrow. He sighed.

Well, might as well tell my story to somebody before I die.

"Well, hope yer ready for it. Like you, I'll assume," he raised an inquisitive eyebrow towards the sheriff, who replied with a blank, listening stare, "My story's a bit hard to foller, and more than a bit of a doozy."

The sheriff nodded permissively.

Wes huffed and continued, "Well, I was born in a town a far way offa here, goes by tha name of Brimstone, ir at least it used to. My pappy was a blacksmith, one of the best in the land, and we earned an honest living, me helpin him in tha shop, him sellin our goods to anyone who he reckoned wasn't trying to rip him off. My momma, accordin ta my pappy, was an injun, born and raised. But she left a few years ago. Never heard from her, never cared to. One day, these damn bandits came up in our town and blew the whole place to hell for no reason."

Wes fought back tears. He'd never told this story.

"My pappy sent me ta the attic and gave me his old gun," Wes motioned to the beat up old relic behind the sheriff, "He told me ta hide, and shoot someun only if I had ta. Soon as he went outside ta get a shotgun, the bandits done and shot him. The leader. He laughed and called my dad a chickenshit, and I heard it all in that attic. You know somethin? I never even cried. Damn me, I haven't been able to since. Anyway, I told myself that if I ever saw someone like that, I'd kill em stone cold dead. And so I made this dummy out of wheat from someun's farm, and made this dummy. Paintet the bullseyes with my daddys blood. It focused me, made me mad. Every day, 12 hours long, at least til the years later, when they got all shorter, I'd take ma pa's gun and fill that dummy full of lead. I'd start to take steps back, make it harder. Then I made it move with this old pulley of ma pappy's. I spent 20 years doin' that, and I reckon I'm the best shooter on this planet, short of that girl back at the saloon. Then I took this,"

Wes pulled his shirt open, revealing the polished, dented plate that fit form to his body, and rapped it a couple times. The sheriff's eyes raised a little, and Wes could have sworn that a smile bounced around in the guy's dark eyes.

"And left. Went town ta town and shot dead anybody doin wrong that I could find. Got drunk, got laid, moved on."

"I've done that for 9 years, but I had no idea it'd be endin' today. Got bit by a snake back on the road, started headin here, then that guy over there found me passed out about 100 feet away. He took me to the inn, and, well, you know the rest."

Wes wiped the tears from his face and buttoned up his shirt, then looked up at the sheriff.

Mina nestled close to Azrael, deliciously exhausted, but loving every touch, every moment of passion they had spent locked together. She was practically purring, a sensuous lassitude enveloping her "Though I have to admit I never did figure out what was one supposed to talk about now. " She knew that battle tactics, and assault plans weren’t the usual run of lover’s conversations but it had been normal for her and hers. Mina put the past aside, looking at her future.

"You're supposed to talk afterwards?" Azrael inquired, tenderly pushing a stray lock away from her face. "One would think most would simply sleep. I'm certainly tired enough, though it's a very good tired. Akin to what comes from a long, hard day doing something you love doing."

"One should love making love.” Minas face glowed and a soft laugh shook her, but then she was more serious. “Though yes, this is the time when lovers let their truest feeling show, and often they plan their hopes and dreams together...and those besotted or played for a fool tell those they shouldn't all the things they shouldn't." Her hands stroked gently over him, learning each scar, wincing as she found and carefully examining the lash marks. Her face went deadly still as she made him turn on his side so she could see them more fully. "Is the one who did this still alive?" She asked in a tone far too casual.

"He wanders with the winds, and I follow his scent," Came the quick reply, his tone just as casual.
The light that blazed in her eyes was a deadly one, and if he had - for even the barest instant doubted that she was a much a killer as he was - then the look on her face informed him that he had been badly mistaken. "Azrael Leon, my life is yours. Trust me with what you will, or will not, it matters not. I hunt by your side and he is as much my quarry as he is yours.” The words and tone carried a ferocity that allowed no room for doubt of her intent.

He continued on after a slow acknowledging nod "Are there any hopes or dreams we should plan? I've none to speak of, unfortunately. Only the one, truly. Or am I besotted and played the fool?" His lips curled in a playful smirk. "Should I tell you things I shouldn't? Or was it to be the other way around?"

Mina voice still held its fire but different now- a charge directed as much to her as at he “My dreams were shattered long ago but one can not live on shattered dreams - or no dreams. We each must mend and make dreams for ourselves again."

His smirk spread to reveal his near-perfect teeth, dingy but straight and well kept. A true smile, revealing the emotive, charismatic face that so many had followed before and so many would in the future, the man who was meant to be king of the center of human civilization turned to a wandering vigilante by cruel Fate. "You are a Gunslinger born true, dear Wilhelmina," he said, his voice holding both awe and praise. "I would not pledge myself so readily were I you, but I commend your noble spirit and agree with your intentions. It is not for me to accept, as of yet, however. If you pledge your life to this quest I follow, you may not see its end. Nor may it even have an end. I may be destined to forever trail the man who robbed me of my life. Either way, I would not see you thrown to the same winds that carry me. You are far more than I, far more experienced, far wiser, and far more worthy of something greater than my simple vengeance. However the die falls, wherever Fate casts us, so long as you follow me, I WILL protect you, whether you like it or not."

"More experienced, yes, wiser?” Mina accepted her years and training had given her a breath of life experiences that far surpassed his, but that did not lessen or diminish him in any way “Maybe, maybe not, more worthy? That I most sincerely doubt...and " She sighed -for what he had spoken of last would be the hardest for her to accept, so she made a counter offer "How about we protect one another? The thought of you taking harm to shield me" She let him see the fear on her face, and she reached out a trembling hand to lightly caress his face "please,..." She shook her head unsure for once of what she was asking for, but knowing now, that losing him would undo her.

"That fast, aye?" It was not a question so much as an observation. He had no doubt she understood what he meant. She could see her own inner feelings mirrored in his eyes. "You realize we'll be parted, don't you? By death or Fate or wild chance, one way or another, we'll be parted. It's the way of the world and the path I walk..."

"We walk" She corrected fiercely “and fate can be fought and won. Isn't easy, isn't often, but it can be. I have to believe that." She went to her knees, on the bed, leaning over and opening her pack where it sat on the floor next to what had become 'her' side of the bed. What she wanted was at the bottom, of course, and she had to lay an impressive amount of stuff out and about, much of it in hard and soft sided cases for easy packing- there was a reason it weighted as much as she did. But eventually she pulled forth a small leather bifold, and flipped it open.

"Yes, it can," he agreed, shifting to sit, looking curiously at the small case she pulled forth, his eyes cataloging the other items she piled to the side but asking no questions for the time being. "That is as rare a feat as finding a two-headed serpent though."

Within lay a silver roundel, a circle with a star within etched, but the etching so old that it had all but worn away, a coin from a long dead nation, carved equally long ago ... "I am Ranger Captain Willamina Aurielle Freyasdottir . I am of the House of Walker, a House built not of blood, but of bone, not of lineage but of unity of purpose. For among my people it has never been who, or what, or where one was born, but what one becomes. I was once part of a Comitatus, a 'perfect plus one' and I should have died with them, but they thrust me out of the meld and sent me to safety. “
She stopped for a moment, looking into the past "I always believed that it was my fault, some failure of me, within me that kept me alive when all I loved died.
But maybe Fate had a reason; maybe I needed forging in another crucible."

He nodded, accepting the explanation. "Fate is both fickle and cruel, beyond the ken of ordinary mortals. That medallion you carry. It is very similar to those carried by sherriffs of old. Were you a holder of trust and law at one time?"

"What you call a Gunslinger, Azrael, my people call a Ranger.“ And her tone became one of ritual, of history, long and well learned – never by rote - coming alive as she spoke “Our House was formed when our new formed nation called for those who ranged the wild lands to saddle up, to protect and defend. We stayed with them when they made the first of the Terrible Mistakes, and were loyal though the Second and when the Standing came we stood with them and helped our people come their own nation again. When those to the south smote us, and invaded us, we struck back with fists of nuclear fury. Hard though the doing was and sore the price paid; it gained us the freedom to become the power it had been intended for us to be. When the Leaving came we sent some of ours with them so that our House would continue and prosper, lending Aid, Defense, and Protection where it was needed. We went to the stars, always remembering our origins and our purpose. From Texas of Old Earth to the Empire of Tanar - we are, and always will be, Rangers.” The Rangers of her time and place had always only ever come from the Cadre, and the Cadre from those who valued their nation enough to volunteer to defend her… Mina looked down at the ancient star, carved from a silver five peso piece, the ‘coin notches’ along it’s edges all but worn flat over the handling of centuries. It was History, given into her keeping, and she had wondered why the House had allowed her to keep such priceless heritage when they had set her aside. She had not been able to bring herself to ask.

"The tales of the eld tell of those who traveled among the stars... I had thought it mere fancy and myth. I suppose I should have listened more carefully to the old timers. It does seem as though we were made ka-tet for a reason. I may eventually dare to hope that it lasts." His expression was somber indeed, reflecting on times past, no doubt. "I do know of the nuclear fury you speak of. It is said to be what caused the Cataclysm, or perhaps it was something worse. There are places that contain weapons of immense power, weapons to destroy the very earth we live on that burn brighter than the sun itself. I have seen them for myself, and seen in moving pictures the power they hold. It is a fearsome weapon indeed, and a hard choice to make, I doubt not."

"Yes there are far more powerful weapons than old fashioned nukes." She hesitated a second and went on, not to impress him, but in honesty admitting "And I've called down a rain of them. Their power… left a world no more than glowing green glass, no life left upon it, scoured down to bedrock. It held the Plague" And the look on her face made him feel she wasn't simply speaking of a disease.

"Perhaps we should speak no more of old times and trials," he suggested. "There are some memories that should remain as such." Azrael patted the bed beside him. "I would much prefer to speak of other things."

Mina gladly curled up in his arms, content to share gentler thoughts. Though inside she smiled. That quick? She had walked beside him for over sixty days now. and we didn’t just stumble across one another. I watched you for close to two months prior to making sure we ‘accidentally ‘met. Actions speak louder than words.

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The sheriff wiped his face once more, finally doffing his stetson and setting it on his desk. This complicated matters. He actually felt sorry for the guy. Wrong place, wrong time, could've happened to anyone. Just too bad. If Azrael would only come down off his bloody old high horse and give up the courtly nonsense for a few minutes... Well, dawn would see the sun rise and dusk would see it fall, and anything that happened in between would happen.

"I'd say you best get some sleep, boy," the sheriff suggested. "Gonna be up bright 'n early. Mayhaps, tha Winds of Fate'll spirit y'all off when it comes time. Prolly not, but I reckon y'all better have yer runnin boots on all tha same."

With that, he dropped into his chair, crossed his arms over his chest, and kicked his boots up on the desk. It would be another long, sleepless night.

She sniffed her under arms, and frowned. The skin suite ‘ate’ her sweat and helped keep her cool, but she was sadly in need of a thorough scrub. And she had noted that the room had a cast iron, claw footed bathtub in a nitch behind a curtain, though she well guessed that at this time of night the water from the spigots might be cold. “I’m going to wake Val up, have her run a sensor over you. My medkit is appallingly limited, but you need a good dose of basic nanos” Mina sat up cross legged and began sorting though the various cases, setting several on the bed.

The first seemed to be a metal forearm cuff, or bracer that looked as if it would reach from wrist to nearly her elbow. It looked as if had started out life as a Yautja wristcomp and had been added to by a mad jeweler, encrusting it with gold and faintly glowing gems of various hues. It had once been exactly what it looked like but now it also carried five zettabytes worth of computer memory and was home to her C.S. partner, Valkyrie, though she preferred to be called Val.

Mina still didn't understand why the Cybernetic Sentience, fully a citizen with all the rights, responsibilities, and privileges back in the Empire had agreed to go into exile with her. She had been afraid to ask before her long period of semi suicide, and ashamed to ask afterwards. But she accepted the companionship, a link with her past, with a quiet gratefulness the two never discussed.

“Val can do a full medical sweep on you and we can adjust for any problems she finds. It will take a couple of hours after she scans, I don’t have a full medical pod to hook her up to so it will be slower computing. I have to be careful though. Back home I’d just hook her or her auxiliary up to a recharger, but I didn’t have one with me when I got jumped. I haven’t seen any place with compatible energy packs.” Mina frowned unhappily; worried that something about this reality might drain Val faster than normal as well. But Val might have some information they could use as well. Weighted together she felt it was worth the risks to bring the CS aware.


In a series of taps so long ingrained her fingers danced though them without conscious thought she woke Val up “Hey sister. It’s strange, we’re not where we were or where we were going “ She said with careful cheerfulness, trying to keep any undue stressors out of her voice, though she knew that was futile. Val was almost present about such. Neither she, nor any one she had ever known, had ever been able to keep the CS from knowing when something was wrong. ‘’Val took a whole second to answer, a life time for a being that lived at light speed, and when she finally spoke it was a simple but ominous “I see”

“Valkyrie, this is Gunslinger, His Royal Highness, Crown Prince Azrael Leon of Gilead.” Mina put the most important, in her mind, title first as was proper. She had not spent a few years as part of the Imperial Security Forces – always drawn from the Cadre and commanded by the Rangers - watching the Empress and her family sleep with out learning court protocol and how to move through those stratospheric heights of society.

She was careful to make sure that Val’s optical – and other sensors- were ‘looking’ in The Gunslingers direction.

“Just Azrael, please, or Gunslinger Azrael Leon, if you must,” he interjected. “I’m no prince, not any longer.” He knew she would contradict him on that, but his tone was one of finality.

“I am honored to meet you Gunslinger Azrael” Came the C.S.’s reply. The voice didn’t sound at all metallic or synthesized. The speaker was minute, but of the highest tech and quality that had been available in the Tanaran Empire.

Mina could hear frequencies that Azrael couldn’t and she could hear what Val had embedded in those few words. She wanted a link meeting as soon as possible. The C.S. was not one to demand, so this had Mina’s instant attention. “Could I have a complete medical scan, Es’varin?”

"Certainly. Would you stand up and turn in place slowly please, Azrael"

Azrael complied with the disembodied voice identified as Val. He rose to his feet, raised his arms to the horizontal and completed a full turn, lowering his arms only once he was facing Mina again.

He could see in her eyes that Mina was taking this chance to give him a very thorough look-over - as if she hadn't already - and enjoying what she saw. She laughed silently and twitched her eyebrows at him.

"Thank you Azrael that is sufficient" Valkyrie commented, her tone slightly absentminded.

"Why don't you take the first bath" Mina offered, as she moved back over to the other cases and opened one emblazoned with a red cross on a white roundel. She pulled out a set of oddly shaped items, some seemingly glass and pasted with printed labels, others short but thick metal cylinders. In her hands they came to life, tiny lights glowing in patterns that shifted then stilled after a second.

"My personal preference would have us bathing together," he replied with a lopsided smirk. "But as you wish." He moved to the tub, examining the faucets that pushed out of the wall to hang over one rim. They were little more than pipes with turn handles atop, one marked "C" the other marked "H". Amazingly, they both worked flawlessly when he turned them, and he allowed them to partially fill the claw-footed basin, adjusting the temperature as necessary.

Mina's eyes half drooped closed at his words, to hide the desire filling them and her voice had a breathy tone that undermined the firmness "Clean first, un play later." She came to stand beside him and was unable to resist claiming a kiss from him. And he could her soft moan as they parted.

He made the kiss last as long as he could, but when she pulled away, he did not resist. He let the tub fill to within a few inches of the rim, and then gingerly stepped into it, hissing slightly at the heat and slowly lowering himself into it. The water almost instantly darkened, turning silt grey as the dust of months seeped from his skin. He eyed the water with concern and disgust, then shrugged and slipped down to submerse his entire body, hands moving beneath the nearly opaque surface as he scrubbed himself. He nodded his understanding as he surfaced, accepting the loofa and soap. He gave the hypospray a wary glance before nodding again. "A strange device, to be sure," he observed, "but for the benefits you describe, do what you must."

"It uses highly compressed air to penetrate the skin, bringing the nanos into the muscle where your body’s natural circulation of fluids will disperse them" She placed it against his bicep and triggered it. There was no real pain but a brief intense cold that vanished relatively quickly. She returned it to its case, but saved the now empty vial-it might be good for something later. Then she picked up the bracer and placed it on her left forearm, long habit making her moves quick and graceful, the secondary cyber links came in to contact and Mina reached forth for Val, in the privacy of their mind link

Azrael accepted the spray with no comment then opened the vial and allowed two drops to fall onto the loofa. After a moment of thought, he added a third, then recapped it. Setting it on the floor beside the tub, he ducked back beneath the surface, which began to churn with his rough cleansing.

As Mina activated her secondary cyberlinks, she could tell something was wrong. Everything seemed perfectly normal for all of a split second, and then an absolute deluge of information began to pour into her mind. Flashes and snatches sparked against her consciousness, illuminating nothing.

She was unaware that she had fallen to the ground, palms clasped against her temples, fingers digging into her scalp, mouth opened in a silent scream as she curled into a fetal position. Her entire body burned every nerve fiber, every muscle, every centimeter of skin, even her hair. She could feel her hair, every single individual strand, and it was like acid had been poured onto each of them. Only the intense training she had been subjected to during her life in the Cadre kept her conscious through it all. Even when she didn’t want to be, for she was in no way a lover of pain.

Her body spasmed, back arching, teeth clenching hard enough to crack a few of them, every muscle in her body tightening all at once, causing tendons and joints to pop painfully, nearly dislocating. The seizure lasted for mere moments, but was swiftly followed by a second, then a third. She was blind, deaf, and mute, and could feel nothing but the pain. She could not even cry out to Azrael for help, for what comfort he could provide, even though she knew he could do nothing to stop whatever was happening.

It seemed to last an eternity, endless waves of pure, unadulterated agony washing over her, through her, soaking into every cell in her body. And then, slowly, slowly, it began to fade, lessening by degrees. Her hearing returned first. It took a few moments to realize that the low, weak whimpers were her own. She heard heavy breathing, short, pained pants, and her name, almost whispered but laden with concern. She turned her eyes towards the sound as her vision cleared and saw Azrael standing by the tub, seemingly frozen, his face a mask of confusion. But the breathing...

There was a second set of harsh breaths, not her own. Her eyes once again sought the source of the sound and she found herself staring at the back of her own head. Her eyes widened in shock, and she attempted to rise, but a wave of weariness almost robbed her of consciousness. She was exhausted in a way she had not felt since before she entered the Cadre, energy seemingly leeched from the very There was a second set of harsh breaths, not her own. Her eyes once again sought the source of the sound and she found herself staring at the back of her own face. Her eyes widened in shock, and she attempted to rise, but a wave of weariness almost robbed her of consciousness. She was exhausted in a way she had not felt since before she entered the Cadre, energy seemingly leeched from the very core of her being.

Mina whimpered again, and knew she was not hallucinating as her- ....doppelganger?...Her mind fought with the concept- did not; and somehow also noticed that their breathing - both harsh and pain wracked - was not synchronized either. Slowly she looked back at Azrael, certain that her pained disbelief and confusion exceeded his. Her voice was a bare rattle, a husk of it's former self..."Azrael, what has happened?" That was all she managed before her body’s weakened condition over took her and swept her into unconsciousness. She hadn't looked down the length of her body or she would have been frightened, for every rib showed clearly, every bone and joint. She looked as if she were the survivor of a famine.

Her voice startled him into action, though what action he was hard pressed to decide. He had just watched as his newfound lover became two of herself. This was irrational at best, but rationality seemed to have left the world long ago. Despite the things he had seen in his years of travel, the wonders and horrors he had witnessed and taken part in, this one was up at the top of the list.

Eventually, he moved, gently picking up one, then the other, and placing them in the bed. It was barely big enough for two and would never hold three, so he simply pushed them together and wrapped them in the blanket. Pulling one of the hard, wooden chairs back over beside the bed, he sat; contemplating this odd twist Ka had thrown their way.

Neither...woman...was unconscious long - both awoke nearly simultaneously, and both were ravenous, as the growing of their stomachs heralded seconds before they came conscious. Weakly, though Mina would long wonder where she found the coherency to remember where she was, much less speak "Azrael, in the pack...' And she managed to describe for him the packet containing concentrated rations.

Swiftly, he dug through her belonging to find the proper item. Extracting two, he studied them for a moment before ripping them open and offering them to Mina and... Mina. He watched as the two tore into them with the ferocity of famished wolves and decided it best to have another pair ready in case they turned on each other, as wolves were wont to do in similar situations.

Val still had not spoken, there was an odd glassiness to her eyes, but she was able to feed herself. And between them two women they managed to devour nearly a years worth of incredibly nutrition dense cake, almost two pounds apiece.

Azrael sat watching them, the second pair ready in his hands. Waiting. Always waiting. Warily watchful in case some other machination of destiny decided to intercede.

Then they both slumped back on to the bed, eyes closed, as their bodies began to with incredible rapidity fill back out, their bodies absorbing the nutrients at an astonishing unnatural rate.

It was invisible beneath the blanket, but he could see the cover rising over their reforming curves. Ka indeed. Bloody, interfering, manipulating Ka. Whatever it had planned this time, he was completely ignorant.


“I am going to find Fate and I am going to kill it.” Mina’s voice was still husky

A wry grin tugged at the corner of his lips but failed to form properly. "I think she'd have something to say about that," came the equally wry reply.

"I'm not supposed to have a frail, feeble organic body" Valkyrie whispered, not addressing any one in particular

Azrael lifted an eyebrow but remained silent.

"Azrael" Mina began, unsure how to word it but certain of the sensations she felt "Could you be so kind as to go get us a pitcher of milk and some sort of soft food from the kitchen. I'm pretty sure I felt ...me...Val biting her...mine ...our inner cheeks as she chewed. She doesn't have a lot of experience at doing a lot of things that organics do automatically." It would also give her a chance to see how much of the C.S.'s protocols had remained, transferred, how much of her friends knowledge she, Mina, had gotten. She had gotten some that she was sure of but her mind was too awhirl, to angry and she needed to focus so badly...and she so badly wanted to be in his arms, trembling. This was nothing she had ever experienced, or even expected to experience and it… it wasn't good, she wasn’t happy, and she had not the faintest idea of how to handle this.

He nodded and stood, went to the door, the looked down at himself with a frown. Shrugging, he grabbed his duster and wrapped it around himself like a bath robe, still dripping, and exited the room. He slipped down the stairs and woke the night tender, asking him for the requirements Mina had requested.

Less than a second after Azrael had left the room Mina was intertwing hers and Vals hands, so that their cyberware interfaces in their wrists met. Nothing happened at first, then she became faintly aware of a connection of sorts. She didn't try to sort it out, or to strengthen it though, for she had no idea of what might happen.

"Val, Valkyrie, I had no idea this would happen. I kept you powered down, asleep, this place, this Reality is weird, almost as bad in it's own way as the Shadow Realm. Things are going wrong here, on a basic level...Val, look at me, please, look at me.." She pled trying to get through to her friend, and alarmed at the others non responsiveness. Telling her every thing that had happened, asking for forgivness, guilt filled and near tears.

It took long minutes, and then coherency and quick intellegence gleamed in Val's eyes.

Mina drew her into a hug "I...I sorry. You know I'd never do any to hurt you. Goddess I wish this hadn't happened, and you must be so scared and lost" She whispered softly, stroking Vals hair, so totally identical to hers. Both dirty and matted.

Val nodded, still not having spoken, but Mian could see she understood. However Mina slowly released Val and slipped from the bed. Every movement hurt but she ignored it and went to the bath tub, draining the water left by Azrael.

"Come on, you've walked my body before, even fought in it. Don't think! Just come here and I'm going to scrub you clean, then bathe myself." She urged as she started the water running

With equally painfull slowness, so very obvious in her carefull movements - Mina ached for her, but kept her exression firm - Valkyrie came over to the bath -an unease expression on her face, but stepped in, quickly sinking into the warm wather filling the tub.

Mina kept up the flow of talk as she began scrubbing Val into cleanliness, adding bits and pieces of observatsion about the Reality she had spent the last year adapting to.

It was several minutes before Azrael returned with a pitcher of milk and a loaf of bread. He slipped in unobtrusively and sat himself once more in the chair he was beginning to think of as the trouble chair. He simply sat and waited once more, saying nothing, the hundreds of questions that ran through his mind locked behind sealed lips. This was yet another thing that would come in time. Patience was something he had learned long ago.

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Jasmine was everything most men wanted in a girl: young but not completely inexperienced, firm but soft in all the right places and ways, ready, willing, wanting, and able. She was quite certain this dark, handsome stranger was no different in that regard. He surprised her when he rolled the two of them onto the bed, leaving her to settle astride his waist. She could feel the hardness pressing against his pants beneath her, and made good use of this fact, grinding her hips against him, teasing. His kiss was met with a gentle yet firey passion, spirit enough to match his own, perhaps, if not the skill he possessed. And those hands, those wandering hands. She moaned softly, though he had barely touched her. It was like electricity shooting through her.

She smiled down at him, her hands following his own, a promise of things to come. And many things did come. She had learned a new trick from every passing stranger that caught her eye. That night she added several more to her growing repertoire. On they went, until she struggled to match his pace, but she refused to quit, to lose this moment, this everlasting night, until sleep claimed her despite her wishes. And the night wore on, and the dawn drew closer, and destiny rode over the horizon towards the small borderlands town.

Mina finished scrubbing Val, and made sure she rinse thoroughly. Bundling a towel about her she set about brushing out her friend’s long hair, being very careful to not pull or tear at it. She had the guess that Valkyrie might be hypersensitive to physical stimulus for a time. Once that was done and her hair was reasonably dry, she put fresh sheets on the bed, happy to have found some in the same clothes cupboard that held the towels.

She snuggled the sheets around Val and held her hand till the others slowed breathing told her she slept. Giving Azrael a smile as she drew a fresh tub of water for herself, she bathed, washed her own hair and stood to dry herself off.

And Azrael was there with a fresh towel…and the strain of a day that had been almost too much caught up with her and she ended up in his lap sobbing silently against his neck. He held her gently, murmuring soft words of compassion, until finally she fell asleep in his arms. Once he was sure she was thoroughly asleep he laid her on the bed, but she came awake enough to reach for him and softly call his name before sleep reclaimed her.

She awoke before Val and looked for Azrael. He was asleep on the floor having unfurled his bedroll. Mina eased out of the bed and joined him, sliding into his arms without waking him. “I’ve fallen thoroughly in love with you Azrael Leon” She whispered in his ear” even if it does damn me”

Wes was actually kind of touched, in a wierd kind of way, by the sheriff's hospitality.

Wow. Guy has a soul after all.

He guessed the years in this backwoods hell must have changed the guy. And something else, but he couldn't put his finger on it.

There wasn't anything he could right do now, so Wes leaned against the wall for the third time today, and fall asleep. Praying to anyone that someone come save him.

Santiago allowed his arm to rest upon the girl's chest, feeling the steady pulse of the blood through her veins, hearing, quite acutely, the not-rhythm of her sleeping breaths. He longed to join her, but knew that he could not -- and would not. He had no wish to trouble this girl with his dreams, and in times like this, they had a tendency to wander.

The urge for sleep that followed intercourse passed in a matter of minutes -- he had already slept that night, and would not sleep again. Nor could he have, had he at all wished too, for he could no longer use the girl to drown out the things inside his head, clamoring for attention.

He allowed his eyes to close, his mind to clear, and then he began to scratch a series of mental itches, and when his eyes opened, he Knew things that he had not known mere minutes prior. He had neither wish nor reason to Immerse fully -- he was in no great hurry, in fact, had time to kill, and the only advantage of a full Immersion was speed.

Slowly, carefully, he began to extract himself from the girl's embrace -- he made no drastic moves, easing himself out of bed, acting in such a manner so as to not awaken Jasmine from her slumber. It was nearly ten minutes before his feet finally eased onto the ground and he gently stood. Finding the room's bathroom, he checked for running water -- not expected, but surprisingly found. He wet his hands with a few dribbles, then dampened his face.

He drew out his knife, flicking the blade out one-handed, an exact, practiced motion that engaged the locking system without issue. He shaved quickly but precisely -- his knife did not perform as well as a straight razor of equivalent quality would have, but he did not possess a straight razor of equivalent quality, nor the means to acquire such a thing -- his blade was not of steel, as it appeared, but of an advanced precisely engineered alloy generally referred to as 'orbital steel.' 'Orbital' because it was crafted in orbital foundries, and 'steel' because it had the same applications as actual steels.

It was the only relic of his past the he carried with him, a tool more than a weapon. When he had finished shaving, he cleaned his blade on a towel, gently, lovingly, then reversed the towel and wiped his face. Finished, gave the blade a few strokes on the small strop he carried in his pocket, more out of tradition than anything else -- he did not bother with fresh abrasive, for example.

He closed the knife gently, then clipped it back into place and returned to his book, though without much in the way of enthusiasm -- he had much to think over, and the appearance of reading was more acceptable than staring blankly off into the distance, or pacing.

It might have been hours, it might have been years, it might have been only a few seconds. It was hard to tell, these days, but the sun eventually kissed the horizon. As it did so, several men approached the lockup, entering without so much as a knock. The sheriff was waiting for them. He stood, fully dressed and ready, his Stetson pulled low to hide his eyes in shadow, a distasteful sneer curling his lip. He pulled a short baton from its loop, opposite his strange pistol, and ran it over the cell bars.

"Rise 'n shine boys!" he called, his tone cheerful, though his expression remained dour. "Rope's awaitin!"

He held out his free hand, and one of the four new arrivals dropped two sets of handcuffs into it. Thus equipped, he stepped in front of Wes's cell and banged his baton on the bars a few more times to wake him up.

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Azrael woke before the dawn. A good bit before. He was used to sleeping perhaps six hours a night at most. He felt rested, so he was rather certain he had gotten at least that much, but it was still dark out. He was content to simply lie beside Mina for a bit, but when the sun began to brighten the horizon, he slipped free of her arms. He allowed himself a kiss to her forehead before dressing. This was becoming more complicated than he cared for. He needed backup. He probably could do this alone, or with Ramon, but he could not count on that blood traitor, and he was unsure of the odds that would be against him. He slipped from the room as quietly as he could, trying not to wake his sleeping beauty.

A few steps down the hallway led him to the door of the dark stranger from last night. He had seemed so familiar, but Azrael could not place a name to the face. He hesitated but a moment before knocking, again gently. He waited for an answer.

"Pain is inevitable. Suffering is optional.”

We always wanted to kill Sensei Naga, and he accepted this with a cheerfulness that was down right scary. But he was right, when you accept pain, understand it and let it pass on - water over the rock, you can still do what you need to do.

And I hurt. I have never hurt like this before, never felt this weak. Every cell of my body was letting me know that each one and every one of them, and all of me, had been through too damn much. And you can call me weak for laying there, dousing but not really asleep, while Azrael slid out from our warm, and oh so comforting entanglement, kissed me on the forehead, dressed and slipped on cat quiet feet out of the room. I only mourned the loss of him next to me.

Once he had, I forced myself unsteadily to my feet, and slowly set about limbering up - which sent my muscles into screaming spasms, and I had to bite my lower lip to keep from making those screams audible. Working the tension and stiffness out felt like trying to make hard, unmalleable clay into stretchy plastacine, and I didn’t feel successful in the least in accomplishing the transformation.

The sheriff pulled open the door to Wes's cell and roughly pulled the half-awake man to his feet. He jerked the prisoner's hands behind his back, and Wes felt the cold steel of the cuffs against his wrists, accompanied by the ratchet click of them locking. Then he felt something small and metal pressed into his hand by the sheriff while something long and heavy was slipped into the back of his pants, beneath his coat. Then he was roughly shoved from the cell, stumbling into the hands of the waiting goons. They gave him another shove, towards the wall, one holding him against it by the scruff. Sojiro was similarly cuffed and dragged out of his cell.

The two were led out into the rising sun by the sheriff. The four goons followed behind the prisoners, giving them prods and shoves if their steps wavered. They walked east for several minutes, past the outlying shops at the edge of town, and a few residential houses, coming to a long drive that led to a palatial mansion. Two stories, a wide, well kempt lawn. Upon the lawn, half way between the house and the road, a large platform stood. Ten feet tall, with a set of steps leading up to it. Three large, thick logs pushed upwards from the top, one longer one lying atop the other two. From this log depended several noosed ropes. There were trap-doors below each rope, with a lever near the steps to work them. These were the gallows.

It was still early. No one else had yet arrived to watch as Wes and Sojiro were led up to stand beneath the ropes. And there they stood, waiting for the Judge to emerge from his seat of power, standing in the burning sun as it slowly lifted above the horizon to take its rightful place as lord of the skies.

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Azrael knocked again, louder. Time was running short. He could only wait so long before he would have to strike out alone. He glanced back at the door to his room, giving a soft sigh. He was sorry for Mina. He knew she would die a little inside, having him gone when she awoke and not being able to follow. He would trust her to not follow. She was too weak now. She would be an impediment more than an aid. He hated to think it, but it was true. And he knew he would do all in his power to protect her if she did come after him. He sighed again, turning back to the door closed before him, willing the occupant to wake and open it.

The only way I knew I was crying was the dampness on my cheeks, as I strove to make my body limber agan. A body whose joints acted as if they had been in Suspend for decades. My muscles trembled and wanted to cramp, reacting as if they were over worked and suffering from a massive lactic build up.

When I opened my eyes it was to see my face just a foot away, as Val mirrored my moves. For a moment I hated her...then looked into her desolate eyes and wanted to scream, cursing this Reality's particularlly heavy handed Fate. Some day I would find a way, some day.....

She stumbled then and I caught her, holding her as she shook with her own silent sobs. I guided her back to the bed, andf held her as she struggled to get free of me, though it was no serious attempt on her part. Finally she stopped - and I was glad. For as feeble as her struggles were, they were almost too much for me.

Wes stood at the gallows, the ropes above his head like poisonous snakes, ready to snap at his throat at any moment.

Well, yer gonna get a taste soon enough... Wes thought resignedly.

The sheriff stood, hands crossed behind his back, off to the side. He had this look of anxiousness about him, looking around, sweating a lot. Or maybe it was just the rising sun doing that.

Wasn't that sun a little more to the east about a weeke ago? Wes said thoughtfully to himself.

Suddenly the sheriff gave him a meaningful look, and Wes returned it with a questioning shrug, raising and dropping his shoulders quickly. He had a decision to make, and he had to make it quick.

Wes bit his lip until he felt tasted , and felt it running down his face. He wiped it off and flicked it onto the abused wooden log upon which he stood. Instantly, some of it seeped into the wood, staining it an even darker brown. The rest sat in a small bubble, and eventually absorbed in as well, creating a very obvious stain.

The gun in his pocket felt like it weighed a ton, and the key felt like it was drawing from his palm. Maybe it actually was, considering the grip he had on it. His knuckles stood out against his tanned hand, a ly, starved white, and he felt the same was probably true of his face.

Wes decided. He turned around and looked at the sheriff.

"Sir, it's blazin' hot, I need some water. Or, even better yet, whiskey. Please grant me one wish forrin' I kick the bucket."

He shuffled the key in his hand, hoping to Brimstone for an oppurtunity. And some help.

Santiago had been aware of the initial knock, had, in fact, been rising to answer it...but had done so quietly, so as not to wake the girl. Thus, mere seconds after Azrael knocked the second time, the door opened and Santiago stepped out into the hallway, closing the door gently behind him.

He turned to face the other man, a questioning look in his eye.

"What can I do for you?"

"What can I do for you?"

Azrael showed no hint of whatever feelings he held about the situation he found himself in as he faced the dark-haired renegade.

"I need your help. There are two men set to die who need not do so. I intend to free them, but I do not feel that I can do so alone. My companion has fallen ill, and so I beg your assistance."

He could hear the soft sounds of Mina's sobs from the other room and it nearly broke his heart. Cruel, cruel Fate. But that was for later, for now there were other things that needed be foremost in his mind.

"If you require compensation for your time and gun, name it. I can offer no other incentive save the freeing of two men who do not deserve the sentence placed upon them."

Val...

By the Light and the Life I could not endure this, not again.

I had never spoken to Mina of my past, and she, blessed be her lethal, patient and accepting soul, had never pressed. It had been enough that I had been a Justicar long before she had even been born. I had never had to reveal to her that I had once been as ...human... as she, though that part of my past had been far different than hers.

And to go back to the abysmal limitedness of being human after having to come to grips with becoming so much vastly more...

There is an enormous array of most excellent reasons that the Valthusian Entechly Matrix was proscribed for all but the rarest of the rare situations. Biologicals and Cybernetics are just too immensely alien to one another. In the ten thousand years since the Xa perfected the process, I know of less than a thousand successful transfers. And all but a hundred of them were species with far greater capacity to multitask and compartmentalize than Homo Sapiens Sapiens. And even then some thirty percent had lost their hold on reality and ability to function in their new state. Dangerously so, and for all’s safety they had had to be destroyed. I was ‘long term survivor’ number seven hundred eighty one. One of sixty five human to cyber transfers and one of thirty seven currently alive. I had never met any of the others.

Yes, I had managed to survive and even flourish, but as technically what I had become was utterly illegal – save when authorized at the highest levels of the Empire and kept secret from even such trusted officers as Mina.

This was just too ironic by half, and part of me wanted nothing more than to help Mina hunt down this damnable thing they called Ka, and administer a very thorough lesson in why you don’t mess with a Ranger…or me.

And now once again I was back in a human body. I closed my eyes and gritted my teeth, trying to rein in my sobs…and remembering to breathe. Self suffocation by simply forgetting to breathe would not do Mina’s mental state any good.

Santiago allowed an eyebrow to quirk slightly, a subtle motion, but the only one that really fit the situation. It wasn't that he didn't understand -- he 'got' the man's words fully, there was little room for confusion in the request itself. The problem, as always, was in the details.

First, the mention of a companion -- thinking back, he recalled that the man before him had been eating when he'd entered the lobby, and had had a female with him. He hadn't look at the pair of them more than once, had, by all appearances, deemed them beneath his concern -- but he hadn't lived by agreeing with appearances.

For example, the man had assumed that he carried a gun, because he looked like the kind of person who would carry a gun. This was not true -- the only 'weapon' he had on him at present was his folding knife, and that was more tool than weapon. It was certainly not a proper fighting knife.

The faint sobs detectable from the man's room, belonging to the female companion, matched to the scraps of conversation he'd overheard, were another issue. He did not, generally, those who abused women...but the inexplicable qualities that accompanied any spoken word did not hint at such a thing -- either the man was a sociopath, or the female truly was ill.

He did not have the eyes of a sociopath.

The issue, then, was that Santiago Did Not interfere with every little wrong in the universe -- that was a futile undertaking if ever there was one. He had his little issues, the aforementioned wife-beaters, for example, but otherwise tended to leave things alone unless they made themselves into problems that he had no choice but to deal with.

This was not such an occasion -- he had no personal interest in this matter. But neither was he willing to turn this strange man down, though he did not wish to contemplate the why of that -- the reasons dwelled in a place inside him that he preferred to ignore, came from a part of him that scared him more than anything else.

So, he nodded, once, his eyebrow lowering to rest, "Very well. A moment, if you please..."

A minute or so after had re-entered the room, Santiago emerged, fully dressed, pulling his hat into place as he exited and closed the door softly behind him. His left hand was in the pocket of his duster, cradling the pair of rocks that he had picked up the day before.

"After you, Mister...."

He let the word drag out, obviously searching for a name.

"After you, Mister...."

"Azrael Leon of Gilead," the Gunslinger replied, speaking as he headed for the stairs. "I'd ask the pleasure of your name, but I doubt me it'd be a pleasure. Your face nags at my memory. It's like there's a cork in the dam holding back the flood. Eventually, it'll burst, but for now it holds fast."

The main room was quiet, empty save for the snoozing older brother of the young lady who had spent her night upstairs. That was good.

"I'll hope you didn't grow attached to that young filly because I also doubt very much that any of us will be welcome in this town after we're done here."

The streets were also relatively empty: only a few early risers heading east down the main boulevard, carrying blankets or baskets of food. As with anywhere that had public punishments, such affairs became something of a celebration. Shops were closed, children dressed in their Sunday best, and entire families came out to watch the show. Azrael turned towards the rising sun and began walking. The two reached the gallows in short order. Azrael's gaze met the sheriff's as he took a place near the platform, standing with arms crossed and expression stern.

Ramon Valentine, Gunslinger of Gilead, or formerly both depending on your view, was equally stern, though less internally composed. His stomach pained him something fierce, and he knew if he vomited right now, like he sometimes did when his stomach felt like this, there would be blood included in his bile. He knew he should have brought some of the numbing weed he had procured from that odd witch. The only display of his pain was the sweat beading on his forehead and neck, cutting clean lines through the dust that gathered there.

His mind was also in turmoil. He had lived for the past seven years as a puppet of the law. It had been a pretty decent life, all things considered. The Judge was a demon in disguise, make no mistake, but he treated fairly with those he considered under his thumb. Ramon Valentine was most definitely under Judge Anderson's thumb. His eyes flicked between Azrael and the two men that would soon hang by the neck until dead, then to the balcony that fronted the Judge's mansion. The old man was no fool. He never set foot outside of his estate if there was not extreme need. On that balcony he would appear when the mood struck him, hear the charges, give the sentence, and then be gone, same as always. This time though, things might be different.

The sheriff removed his stetson momentarily, wiping the sweat from his brow with the brim before seating it once more. This time things might be different... He had asked for Azrael's help, but he was far from certain if he truly wanted it, had not been sure when he had done the asking. It was chance, pure and simple, that had brought the younger man knocking on his doorstep. He had gone to his former compatriot with no hopes whatsoever. He was amazed, in fact, that the Gunslinger had shown up. There was no love between the two of them, and he much doubted that either of the two prisoners meant anything to Azrael either. Yet there he stood.

The sheriff glanced at the sun, shielding his eyes as he judged the time. Soon, it would be. Soon. Then things would change. Maybe. If Ramon Valentine, formerly of Gilead, finally worked up the nerve to reclaim his title and role. Seven years that slimy bastard had worn the sword of a Gunslinger. Seven years a heartblade hung around the neck of an imposter. Ramon felt his gorge rising, and with it a long dormant anger. Yes, things would change.

Once I heard Azrael and the one he'd had to ask for help head down the stairs I drew back and backhanded Valkyrie. My voice was savage with anger and part of me knew that later I'd be ashamed. "Stop it now!" Part of me was dieing for being worse than merely useless to Azrael. I might be in no condition to fight but there were other things that needed doing...

The crack of my hand crossing her face whipped her head to the side and echoed through the second floor. Her eyes were beyond startled as the print of my hand bloomed on her face, and her mouth worked soundlessly for a good thirty seconds.

I was up and out of her range, my body resisting every motion, and I'd bitten hard enough to draw blood from the inside of my cheek, again. I ignored her glare, moving as quickly as I could over to my pack.

The clothes I had stripped off last night weren't fit to be worn and I had but one change of outer wear in the pack. Fortunately socks and skin suits folded up tight, I had extras of those. I tossed sets to Val and got dressed - it was slow and painful but not that long later I was putting on my boots. "Val get the guns ready. I'm going to go find you some clothes and get horses for us. I don't think walking out of this town is going to be a safe option."

The Manurhin PP went into it's usual pancake holster in the small of my back. Knives went in the usual spots, but I declined to carry the sword. I'd been carrying it again for only the last five years or so and I knew that right now I did not have the suppleness, or speed, needed to be truly effective with it.

Descending the stairs was another painful effort but I was actually moving a little better by the end. We’d passed stables on the way in and I’d seen a general store. The small pouch of assorted coinage of this world went into my belt pouch. The store first – I caught the shopkeeper just as she was closing up – but the glint of gold had her reopening ‘for just a moment’. She looked down her equine nose at me, and muttered under her breath – but gold made up for many sins.

Santiago laughed, a single harsh bark.

"No, Azrael Leon of Gilead, I don't get 'attached' to people easily. And as for my name...most people call me Santiago. I suppose you might as well do the same."

He did not speak his thoughts concerning the idea of no longer being welcome in town, because they weren't worth sharing...not that he'd have shared them, had they been more than pure apathy. It was, probably, not 'good' that he didn't care what the Mob thought, but it was understandable. Most times, the idea of somehow constraining Santiago's freedom of movement was utterly laughable.

After all, empires had fallen for lesser insults to his personage, or so it was said. Then again, a lot of things were said, and not all of those things were true. Truth being somewhat subjective, after all...

The sun was nearing the zenith. Most of the town was gathered around the platform. Families lounged on blankets, picnic baskets emptied and spread about. Children played beneath the large weeping willows that cast shade over part of the lawn. The sun beat down all who stood beneath its glare, the heat only partially mitigated by a light breeze. And still Azrael stood, looking up at the platform. Ramon had left for nearly an hour a while back and had returned looking a bit green around the gills, but the Gunslinger judged him fit enough for what was to come. He would have to be, or it would all be for nothing.

The townsfolk were starting to become agitated when the balcony doors finally burst open. A tall, lanky man with salt and pepper hair strode out to grip the rail. He wore vestments long lost to most of the world: a well-pressed white button-up pinstriped with blue, a similarly striped black vest, a pair of slacks, and well shined shoes. He made a great show of pulling an aged watch from his pocket and checking the time before carefully replacing it and raising his arms to gather attention.

"Good people of Desolation Valley! We gather here today to hear the crimes of two strangers who come amongst us and sentence them as necessary. They stand accused of murder most vile of several of the town's deputies! Do any stand to speak in their favor?"

At this, Azrael finally moved. "I do," he declared. "I will speak for these two who stand falsely accused."

The Judge narrowed his eyes, glaring down at yet another stranger. "And who, may I ask, are you that you speak with such authority?"

Azrael turned and ascended the gallows, moving to stand center stage where all could see him. "I am Azrael Leon, Gunslinger of Gilead." He pulled free the sword that hung on his back, holding it high. "I claim right of sanctuary for these two men. I demand you set them free and give them over to my authority."

The Judge stood thoughtful, arms crossed, before he replied. "No. I deny you. I find you in contempt of law and negligent in your duties. Sheriff, place him under arrest. There are enough ropes for him to join those he wishes to save."

Azrael glanced over his shoulder as Ramon reluctantly drew his strange pistol. The two locked gazes. There was a silent exchange, words that needed to be said, words that never had been, words that never would be. As one, they turned, kicking the two nearest bailiffs from the platform. The men gave startled cries as they fell, cut off by the impact of back and ground, winding them. It had begun.

The general store was surprisingly well stocked and I went though it like a whirlwind. A slow and crippled whirl wind, but the decision making helped take my mind to more productive places. And then I blinked in surprise. A bottle of aspirin. unbuffered, uncoated, but aspirin. I half sobbed as I reached for it. There were three bottles. I took them all in one swoop.

Then I was turning to clothes and travel rations. The shopkeep sniffed at my clothes and at those I chose. I guess women wearing pants wasn't popular around here - but you know I didn't give a tinkers damn. But the pile of goods kept growing and I could see the light of profit in her beady near colorless eyes.

Aspirin, the primitive medical supplies available, ammo for Azrael’s revolvers, clean clothes for him, and Val, range coats and broad brimmed outbackers for both of us. Tooth paste and waxed cheeses, wasna, trailbread and a bedroll kit for Val, saddle bags and saddle blankets, and a selection of hard candies – I had a sweet tooth that had gone too long untreated, A shotgun and boxes of shells.

Then I saw it. Hanging high on the wall. An long barreled Sharps, a fifty cal buffalo gun. Octagonal barrel and all. I stared hard at it for a long moment.

Then I slung my chin towards it "That and all the ammo you have for it."

"It's not..."

"yes it is. Now" I put every bit of command into my voice and with a reluctant look away she sent the skivvy lad who had ben acting as her assistant scampered up a rough hewen ladder and pulled it down.

Once it was in my hands I discovered my error. It wasn't a centuries old original but a modern reproduction. But it felt solid and reliable in my hands. And the bullets weren't back power either but again more modern. I took the long rifle and all the rounds she had. Less than a dozen of them.

She charged me way too much, but I let her - I really wasn't sure of the pricing and I felt I owed her for making her miss her days entertainment. Though the though of that had me curling my lip as I headed towrds the stables. The rifle came with me as did a bandolier of stuffed full of rounds. The rest would be delivered directly to my room - and she charged for that.

Santiago's left hand emerged from his pocket, the pair of rocks resting his palm. He slid one forward to rest between his index and thumb, and his arm cocked slightly.

He didn't throw, mind. Didn't even appear to be aiming at anything in particular. Looked a bit like a joke, to be frank -- guns were already out, and here was a guy with a rock? Of course, if you'd seen him in action before...you'd probably already be running away. He was at least as deadly with nothing but a pair of rocks in his hand as another man would be with a lot of gun.

Of course, he'd rather not have to reveal that particular quality of his at this moment in time. He wasn't broadcasting his movements extensively, his left arm wasn't cocked back enough to be visible at any sort of distance...and he'd be perfectly happy if this Leon chap could take this one through...

He hadn't even had his coffee yet, damnit.

Not that he actually drank coffee.

The stable was filled with odors and sounds. The clank of a hammer on somthing braced against a anvil, the rustle of horses moving in their stalls, the shrill cry of a mouse as the barn cat caught it's morning meal.

Not all the stalls were full, but there were also a remuda milling in a round pen out back. I figured that those in stalls were probably locals boarding there and not likely for sale. I went out to the pen and propped one foot against the lowest bar and my arms across the top and began taking a good look at the double hand full within.

They looked likely enough - in need of a good grooming but sound- none lame, with open wounds, or cracked hooves.

After a few minutes the smith came to stand by me.

"I'd like the pair of bay mares, that grey gelding, the black gelding, the buckskin mare...plus how much for the mule?" It was lop eared and sour faced, but I knew that it would carry all our supplies and out endure all the horses put together. Though I'd never packed a mule, I had seen it done - and could only hope that and a good bluff would be enough to keep said lunk head in line.

We'd need the extra water and grain he would carry though. Az's map showed desert just a long day out.

"Twenty silver" He said crossing his over muscled arms.

"Nope. Though I'd go that for five of the bloods up in the stalls. Eight for the five and the mule and their tack."

"Those in the stalls are privately owned and only one's for sale, that palomino, and he's twenty by himself. I'll throw in tack, but for no less than eighteen."

We dickered back and forth, and I wore him down to thirteen, and that incuded tack, and a pack harness for the mule as well as extra water skins and a fair amount of grain. He'd have them groomed, tacked up and in front of the inn in less than an half hour...

I paid him and staggered back to the inn, wanting some asprin more than anything else. Save for food. I was starving.

"Good people of Desolation Valley! We gather here today to hear the crimes of two strangers who come amongst us and sentence them as necessary. They stand accused of murder most vile of several of the town's deputies! Do any stand to speak in their favor?"

Oh boy. This is gonna be hard. Damned if I can do this alone.

And, as if by the grace of god, a voice spoke up, calm and collected.

"I do. I will speak for these two who stand falsely accused

Wes whipped his head around to see the guy from the inn.

Well it seems wherever trouble is, he and I follow.

Wes turned to the Judge in time to see him narrow his eyes condescendingly at the stranger.

"And who, may I ask, are you that you speak with such authority?"


The guy decided to make this a show, and he strode slowly to stand proudly between Wes and Sojiro, where everyone watching, including Wes himself, nervously.

"I am Azrael Leon, Gunslinger of Gilead."

He proceeded to pull a royal-looking longsword from his back, and held it straight in the air. With his other arm at his side, he looked somewhat like a clock. Wes remembered now the stories spun by his father when he was a boy, laying down to sleep. He told of the mystical Gunslingers, knights of this day and age, and how few and far between they were. Wes stood in awe, putting the key into the handcuff's primitive lock. He had a feeling things were about to go south real fast.

"I claim right of sanctuary for these two men. I demand you set them free and give them over to my authority."

The Judge crossed his arms and stood for all of about a minute, head quirked slightly in deep thought.


"No. I deny you. I find you in contempt of law and negligent in your duties. Sheriff, place him under arrest. There are enough ropes for him to join those he wishes to save."

The rest seemed to happen in slow motion. Azrael looked around at the sheriff, who drew that godforsaken pistol of his. The both nodded, a gesture probably not noticed by anyone. Wes had always had a very sharp perception of things. They both turned at the same time, kicking the guards off the gallows. They shouted in vain and crashed into the dirt, cutting their cries short roughly.

Wes ripped his handcuffs off, not caring how much they dug into his wrists, and in one fluid motion pulled the pistol out of his back pocket. It was time to get out of this damned town once and for all, bodybag or not. He got between Azrael and the sheriff and exchanged quick glances at both of them.

A shot cracked out from the direction of the manor house. One single shot, well aimed, a rifle by the sound. It was followed by a surprised inhalation. Not a scream, not really even a gasp, just the soft intake of breath. It was a moment that seemed frozen in time. Sojiro wobbled for a moment, a trail of blood leaking down between his eyes from the hole that pierced the center of his forehead. He fell to his knees, then toppled to his side, giving a soft, almost peaceful sigh as the air left his lungs.

Azrael gave a shout, turning towards the sound to find the Judge with a rifle planted against his shoulder aiming now at the second condemned man. Two cracks sounded, almost indistinguishable from one another, nearly simultaneous. Fortunately for Wes, one came before the other and not vice versa or his fate would have been similar to the unfortunate swordmaster. The Judge's rifle jerked from his hands, the barrel shooting skywards. Wes could feel the air as the round with his name on it passed by his ear. The Sheriff, meanwhile, had calmly leveled his strange pistol at the two guards that remained atop the platform. Both now lay crumpled, holes betwixt their eyes, similar to Sojiro's save for the cauterized edges and lack of bleeding.

Of course, nothing could be so simple. The doors to the manor burst open and a dozen men poured out, half leveling rifles at the platform as the remainder drew pistols. The first dropped to a knee as the others ran past. Those with pistols opened fire immediately. Those with rifles waited but a few short heartbeats to allow their compatriots time to escape their firing arc before letting loose a volley. Azrael and Ramon hit the deck, carrying Wes with them. The high ground was the only thing saving them, at the moment, and all could feel the platform shudder under the hail of slugs that peppered the underside.

"Never easy, is it?" Ramon inquired, his voice almost jubilant, an incongruous smirk upon his lips.

There were screams from the gathered citizens. They paniced and ran, dragging their children along with them. The Judge had disappeared from his balcony. The now-useless rifle thrown down onto the lawn.

Wes shifted around at the sound, an unmuffled, yet small explosion, meaning only a rifle shot. Sojiro gasped, although Wes half-doubted that he had any idea what had happened. A small hole left precisely halfway between his slanted eyes indicated a small calibre, but Sojiro was just as stone-cold dead as if a .45 had fired it. He sank to his knees slowly, then tilted over with a soft thud onto his side; and the floor, exhaling one last sigh.

Wes followed the line of the bullet, and came to see the end of a rifle. Specifically, the rifle that The Judge held placed expertly against his shoulder. Wes got to his knees, and heard an ear-ringing crack next to his head, then almost instantaneously afterward, a quieter, more drawn out one. The wind flew by his ear, reminding Wes for years afterward how close his death had been. He owed this Gunslinger his life, but then again, Wes was never one to allow a debt unpaid for long.

Wes heard a strange sound seconds after, and whirled around to see the sheriff had taken care of the two guards still upon the platform. Now they lay still on the platform. They had strange holes right between their eyes, unbleeding and burnt at the edges. That pistol sure got the job done, it seemed.

Then, as if to continue the chain of loud noises in this firefight, the manor door was practically broken down by what were presumably the Judge's bodyguards. There were about a dozen of them, divided by half into riflemen and pistoliers. Suddenly, as if reading his mind, he was pulled down by the sheriff at his left and Azrael at his right. The platform shook and shook under the barrage.

Next to him the sheriff seemed to chuckle to himself,

"Never easy, is it?"

The people who were gathered to see me die Wes thought resentfully, screamed and ran, trying to escape this new violence. The irony was so thick you could cut it with a knife.

Wes turned and crawled to the first point he could get a shot off. He had to hurry, because he knew, by principle, that if he could shoot them, they could shoot him. He primed his pistol, and steadied his shooting arm with his other hand around his wrist firmly, quieting any shaking. His pa'd taught him that when he was little. Although Wes's aiming was almost perfect one-handed, this was no time for gambles, because all he had to put up at the moment was his own soul, and as yet he wasn't willing to part with that old friend of his.

Two people were currently in his line of sight, one of them a pistolier, another a rifleman. Both were looking at him. He was astounded at how slowly things began to move. It was almost inhuman, because he swore until his dying day that he saw his bullets spinning into each of their heads. They both crumpled, and Wes knew he needed to get back out of range before he got caught in the open, naked as a newborn pig. He shuffled backwards to the sheriff and Azrael and began reloading.

"I got two. That leaves us with about ten. Any ideas?"

Santiago did not have a slow reaction time -- quite the opposite. As a result, his decision to not respond when the Judge had appeared with the rifle -- people pointing firearms in his direction seldom escaped his notice -- was not due to an inability to act. Beyond that...

He sighed in annoyance and his left hand flicked twice, running a full arc for maximum velocity when he released the rock. He put more power behind the rocks than he normally would have, but the rocks weren't the scary-sharp throwing wedges that he preferred. Humble rocks were still plenty deadly when one combined the speed they were moving at and the accuracy with which he threw.

Two gunmen would fall back as blood blossomed from their left eye-socket -- that wound alone tended to be crippling, but there was a chance that the rock could penetrate further. It wasn't very likely, though -- it was a thrown rock, not a bullet.

Unfortunately, his actions caught the attention of at least one of the remaining gunmen. He'd been expecting this -- he didn't have the advantage of the gallows platform for cover, and felt a sharp spike of pain in his left arm as he was hit...

He didn't stop to check, just made for the nearest cover -- which, in this case, was several feet above him, being the gallows platform. He hurled himself upwards, catching the rim of the platform with both hands -- ignoring the pain in his left arm, then swung himself up in a movement that any gymnast would envy, primarily for its seeming impossibility.

He came up near one of the guards that the Sheriff had killed, and his right hand dropped down to retrieve that guard's pistol and ammunition pouch. He snapped the cylinder out, noted the five cartridges in place, with the chamber under the hammer empty, then snapped the cylinder close and cocked back the hammer.

He took a few moments, then, to check on his left arm -- no penetration, as he'd suspected. The leather around the impact had been torn away, revealing the edges of a pitch black material around the lead-splatter. It'd bruise like a bastard, though.

Rising quickly to his feet, he turned his body so as to offer the smallest possible target to the gunmen below. The pistol to just below eye level, and he fired five times. The need to cock the hammer manually was a drag in a fight like this, where there was little cover and the greater accuracy of a single-action revolver wasn't worth the slower rate of fire.

Santiago didn't trust the sights, so he point-shot the targets. He didn't bother trying for headshots, just put five slugs into five torsos, then dropped down, spinning the cylinder out and shaking the brass free. He reloaded quickly, quicker than he thought he'd managed -- he hadn't reloaded a revolver manually for quite some time, and only two or three times in a combat situation.

He snapped the cylinder shut and exhaled.

Val

By the time Mina got back I had the whole breathing without thinking about it back down. She had a damn good body, a doppelganger of which was now mine, but still it was surprising how fast I fell back into the habit. Habit hell, absolute necessity. I guess I liked living, even back in a limited biological body, too much.

But her slap had been the best thing, it broke the chain that I had been unable to. Once she had left and I had slid into the under clothes I turned to the DE's. Mina had been smart to give me a task like this, it made me search memories and yet exercise memory muscle as I stripped each one down, reloading the mags, and giving them a cleaning.

I still seemed to have all the knowledge I had as a Cybernetic - the problem lay, as I suspected it would,- in accessing and sorting through it. I had sat unmoving for over two minutes sorting though all that related to primitive gun care and maintenance. I had to get faster, letting the data overwhelm me just was not an option.

Once that was done and I was beginning to get concerned that Mina was taking so long, clunking foot steps sounded on the stairs and a second later a knock came at the door.

"Yes" I moved quietly over to the door, listening harder.

"Your purchases" Came the voice of a teenaged boy, one young enough to be in that 'high one moment man deep the next' stage.

"Leave them there." I called and waited till I heard his footsteps retreating down the stairs. It wasn't body modesty, but simple caution. One up, one down. I opened the door to find a sizeable set of parcels topped by a long soft leather case. A rifle case. Good we didn't have a long range weapon and there was always a need for one.

Two men fell, bloody holes torn though their skull by the impact of high velocity lead. Five others fall back with a grunt and a curse, coughing before the rise once more to continue firing. There is a slight fall off in the fury of the incoming hail as half the remaining men reloaded. Azrael took this time to crawl towards the edge, aiming carefully, imitating Wes's grip as he let of a pair of rounds, watching them impact against the chest of two of the riflemen before rolling back to cover. He counted the shots as they were fired, then peeked back up long enough to count the men firing. The two he had shot were standing once more.

"Oh, did I mention?" the Sheriff inquired. He rolled onto his back and slammed his fist against his chest, causing a muffle wuff rather than the expected thump. "Chest armor. Right lovely stuff, this. Aim fer tha head."

So saying, he arched his back, lifting his legs into the air and kicking out, the momentum traveling like a wave down his body as it left the wooden platform, twisting his feet beneath him as he landed. His strange pistol found a mark, once, twice, beeeeep. Beep? He dropped back down, staring at it. He gave the trigger another squeeze. The low, negative tone sounded again. Cursing he threw it, watching it spin and twist in the air, his last advantage gone.

"Guess it's time ta get back ta basics," he grumbled, reaching behind his back, beneath his coat, and drawing out a pair of six-shooters even more ancient than those weilded by Azrael. "Guess it's fittin."

"Santiago!" Azrael called. "Watch our flanks. There may be more trying to come in behind us. And for your father's sake all of you, aim for the head!"

Mina nodded when she saw that Val had started sorting the purchases in to packs, though the other woman was moving slower that she was- as painful as it had been the climb back up the stairs had limbered her still more. And the breakfast tray, toast, bacon and hard boiled eggs was all that had been left but it would do

Val had the three bottles of aspirin and was beginning to tuck one into Mina's pack

"Hold up." Mina shook them out a hand full for each of them. "good old cadet candy."

"Void! but we tried everything to incapacitate you all, but they'd never let us tamper with the acetylsalicylic acid. Said it went into cruel and unusual, and that was reserved for fifth year and up." Val giggled, then both of them were doubled over whooping, laughing, still fragile and on edge, but the shared memories eased them both a bit.

It was close to noon when between them they got every thing ready to go, and Mina was pacing like a caged cat. Muttering about how long it took to stop a hanging. Mina's guilt gnawed at her, her failure that had Azrael out there with a stranger, some one he didn't know but had been forced to trust because of her and her weakness.

"Didn't hangings traditionally take place at 'high' noon?" She wondered on her twenty seventh lap of the room, still stiff legged and aching but the over load of aspirin had helped, as had the breakfast. And the non stop movement. She couldn't sit still, not the crisp, nay frozen posture of Val in the hard backed chair.

Val sat silent lost in communing with the piles of data for nearly a minute, while Mina spun about to watch her with concerned eyes. "No, I believe that was gun fights, as popularized by penny ante serial novels of the time. Supposedly the sun being at zenith mean that neither had an advantage."

Their horses were below, hitched to the railing, and Mina had already gone back down and inspected their tack up and brought down the heaviest packs and securing them to the mule's pack saddle- a slow aching process that had taken nearly an hour. The inn had been eerily empty, not even the wizened owner about as far as she could tell.

Lap forty five, reversed in direction from the previous one, brought the first distant boom of gun play, rifles sounding strongly, revolvers fainter, but still to both of theirs augmented hearing clearly audible. Evern the screams of the frightend towns folk as they fled the battle were picked up, noted and essentially ignored.

“Move” Mina commanded as she grabbed up hers and Azrael’s personal packs, Val jerking to her feet and taking her smaller pack and the Sharps.

Santiago frowned, turning part of his attention to the rear areas of the platform, and below. He was keenly aware of the decided lack of actual cover present, and quite annoyed by the whole thing, staying crouched down meant that his coat covered him from the rear and much of the sides. His head was still vulnerable, though the coat's collar protected his neck, but he'd never planned on living forever. That had been a complete surprise...

The revolver's action was a bit loose for his liking, felt like it hadn't been well maintained, and wasn't very well made in the first place. He'd have to treat it carefully until he could get a replacement -- he'd decided that it wouldn't be a brilliant idea to be without a gun here. For a given value of 'here.'

What he wouldn't give for his old Service auto and a few grenades. He smiled at that, though it wasn't a very happy smile.

He didn't like the idea of having to play with marksmanship at this distance, and in this environment...but he'd manage, he supposed. He always did.

Whatever goddess of luck was watching out for Santiago was paying special attention that day. He heard the soft whine of a round cutting the air before his hat flew backwards off of his head. It landed on the platform beside him, a perfect hole passing from front to back, just above the level of his cranium. Azrael gave the Sheriff a nod, and they rolled to opposite sides, popping up on a knee to drop another pair before falling back. Two more downed, eight more to go. At least in front of the mansion. That whizzing round had come from a small stand of trees some twenty yards east of the platform. Santiago could see at least five men over there, all with rifles. Things were beginning to get tricky.

Wes dropped the last bullet on the wood below them, now seeming more unstable than ever, but it continued to hold against the barrage of lead raining on them. He cursed loudly and got it between his two fingers. With a grim satisfaction, he jammed it in angrily and clicked the barrel back into its original place.

That's when the barrage became halfhearted, if only before a moment. Before Wes could react, and he was better than most at that, Azrael was on his stomach, near the edge of the platform. Wes bemusedly noted that Azrael was aiming in the same way as he himself had moments ago. Or was it hours? It sure as hell seemed like it. In a time of less importance or danger, Wes might've thought something along the lines of:

Guess he's just learnin from the best.

But, the events of the past 3 days had humbled him somewhat. First, he'd been bitten by a snake, nearly ending his life. Then, he'd encountered a murderer who'd saved his life. On top of that, he'd missed when he shot at the sheriff.

Snapping back to reality, Wes observed something strange. As Azrael popped off a quick 2 shots, Wes was able to hear the sounds they made, even over the commotion. They weren't what they were supposed to be. Azrael crawled up a little again, and poked his head up about two inches. He blinked, as if somewhat shocked. As if on cue, the sheriff caught both of their attention with,

"Oh, did I mention?" as he rolled over and punched his chest. It rang out with a dull metallic thud, not the meaty, hollow thump it would have made had it been flesh and bone

"Chest armor. Right lovely stuff, this. Aim fer tha head."


Mystically, Wes touched his own armor plate. The thing'd saved him countless times. And that meant headshots were the only things bound to work. This was going to be difficult.

Wes turned away from the two, and all concentration was on the new guy, Santiago. Wes was suspicious, but he kept it to himself. Lord knew they needed all the help they could get, suspicious or otherwise.

Wes turned, because something extremely peculiar happened. The words divine intervention came up in later discussions of it. A rifle round came blazing at Santiago, and went straight through his hat, leaving a goodish sized hole and sending it flying onto the platform. Wes turned to follow the angle of the bullet, as compared to Santiago's now white head.

It lead to a small patch of trees Hooww convienent, Wes thought morosely. He pulled his gun to eye level, which was another strange habit for people around these parts, and again something that his pa'd taught him.

He figured they were around twenty yards off. Hell, the dummy was 100.

It was about that moment that the platform decided it could take no more abuse. The wood creaked and groaned. There was enough time for the Sheriff to let out a loud curse before it gave. They fell. Again, luck was on their side, a large chunk of the platform falling with them, shielding them from the hail. The large crossbar that had supported the ropes fell to the side. The corpses slid to lay against the ground, faces turned to the dirt.

"Ta hell with all this!" the Sheriff cried.

Standing, the deposed Gunslinger took hold of one side of the fallen platform, gesturing for the others to help him. Azrael took the other side, and between them, they managed to lift it enough that they could walk with it. Together, they charged the remaining gunmen in front of the Judge's mansion. There was a cry of outrage as the men scattered, only to be cut down as they came around for a clear shot. That dealt with, the two former friends turned the wooden barrier to face the other shooters, who lay in the stand of trees.

"We'll hold them off," Azrael stated. He flinched as wood chips from a ricochet sprayed across his face, then lobbed a few slugs back through the trapdoor hole. "Go take your honor back."

The Sheriff nodded and ducked into the house. He would enjoy this.

Mina held up a hand, fingers moving in a flashing sign for pause, silence- the force of long habit - and something she knew she'd have to teach Azrael soon. But for the moment stealthy sounds from the base of the stairs occupied her attention - that and whispers that were meant to compliment the muted russles but that she and Val could hear clearly.

Setting an ambush were they? Not if she had anything to say about it, and she did as she was now the one with the element of surprize. Standing silent with Val just steps behind her she listened intently placing the movements and hushed talk against what she remembered of the downstairs layout.

Five minutes later it was over including the shouting, and the shooting.

"I broke a nail...no two"

"Those things happen when one goes impromptu." Mina shrugged with a small amused smile on her lips as Val finished applying a minute smear of protective derma- seal along the length of the shallow gash that ran most the length Mina's left arm. The heavy bladed bowie knife had gone no deeper than skin, her integral armor had stopped the massive slashing blow, but it had bled like crazy. "Like damaged clothes, and the black eye you're going to be sporting."

She chuffed at Vals sudden realization that her face did hurt some what more than the rest of her. "They can now tell us apart. I've got the fat lip and you the shiner." Val returned the unamused look, and just sat down, looking over the thirteen unconscious men. The public room was pretty much a shambles, as were the would be ambushers - though none of them were dead. They were just severely unconscious.

It had been hard not falling back on decades old training and triggering the Tick in their pharmacopes, but last nights memories were fresh and potent. For Val it had been especially hard. She'd fought Mina's body but that had been in combat situations - far different than here and hers were all in far worse shape that those Mina had taken on. Yes, not killing had come hard.

Ramon Valentine was surprised with himself. It had been... years since he had properly danced with Death, but he fell into the motions with ease. It was like slipping on a pair of old, well-worn boots. His feet followed the proper path, his body bent this way and that, and his guns thundered in his ears. There had been seven men waiting for him inside. Now they all lay crumpled against the ground. He reloaded his emptied revolver, and replaced the single round missing from the other. He was rather impressed with himself. Not a round wasted. Of course, he was a bit rusty. One had grazed his leg. He would live, but it hurt like a bitch.

"JUUUUDGE!" he roared. "I'm callin you out, Judge Anderson!"

Guns at the ready, he stepped from the entrance hall into what he could only call the stairs room. There seemed no other reason for the entire room other than to accommodate the wide, large staircase. He wasn't surprised to see the men that stood to either side of the doorway. They were rather surprised to find holes in their head before they could even think to pull their triggers. Two men to either side of the stairs. Four men atop, aiming over the railing to either side. Ramon noted their numbers and positions as he spun back into cover in the doorway. Bullets hammered into the frame. He used his momentum to carry him into a jump, launching himself at the wall and putting as much force as he could into the rebound. His body arched over the doorway, hidden from those within the other room, though barely. He rolled as he hit the other side, glad for the thick carpet that softened and muffled his landing.

Now that he once again had the advantage of surprise, it was time to get rid of those pests. He dove through the doorway, sliding across the waxed wooden floor of the stairs room, slipping beneath the concentrated rain that hit the door frame and wall. Two shots, taking out the knees of one of the gunmen on his side of the stairs, and then he was flipping to his feet, catching the other in his shoulders with a second pair. He slung a third pair upwards, catching the two on the balcony, one through the neck, the other getting half his face ripped off. Out of practice... Ramon grumbled within the confines of his own head.

He ducked behind the back of the stairs and leapt upwards, moving his body to the horizontal, spreading his legs, feet bracing against either wall. He let out a surprised grunt at the pain in his groin, but held his position, right hand adding support against the wall as he leaned forwards, round the back of the stairs with his left, well above the level the remaining gunmen expected. They fell. Ramon allowed himself to drop, catching himself on all fours, then pressing himself against the wall for cover.

As he reloaded yet again, he called out, "It don' hafta be this way. I'm sure y'all enjoy livin as much as tha next man. Why don'ch'all just toss yer guns down here, 'n I'll let ya walk?"

There was a momentary pause, while he prayed they would listen, then the twin clatter of revolvers hitting the floor to his right and the clump of feet running. With a relieved sigh, Ramon stepped from beneath the balcony and walked up the stairs. All the acrobatics were taking their toll on him. He was just glad his aim wasn't too far off. He had not needed to shoot on the run for far too long.

"Actually that little fray seemed to help." Val noted as she stood and stretched, listening to the hubbub outside, as more of the townspeople filled the streets. Most were loudly wondering what was going to happen next. Apparently the local hanging judge had intended on fulfilling his self assigned role, but had been, or was still being, thwarted by the villainous strangers. Some were noisily advocating arming themselves and returning to aid the judge.

Mina and Val shared a look and walked out the inn side by side., each with an unconscious body in each hand. They tossed them in the middle of the dusty street. Then as Mina stood impassively by the first four Val went back in for the rest. The growing pile stopped the talk short, as jaws dropped. The silence when the count reached thirteen was profound.

Mina's voice was cool and laced with authority. The big semi autos on her hips and the sword across her back helped with the image - she caught the whispers of 'gunslinger', - a couple of the bolder youths calling it out -and though she would not confirm it, wouldn't deny it either - it helped her get the job done.

"Now ladies and gentlemen, none of these are dead, though they might wish they were. And none of you want to be added to that pile I'd very reasonably guess. So once " She picked out thirteen of the strongest looking townsmen "these helpful gentlemen place these bushwhackers in the city jail, I suggest y'all go home. And stay home until this is all sorted out."

She let them piss and moan as they each hoisted one and followed them over to the jail. Rummaging around she found the spare keys and had then locked up, divided evenly in the cells, in little time. Then she headed back to the inn. She still had business to finish.

As she and Val had discussed Val took post on the inn's porch, one of the lever action carbines from the would be ambushers over her arm. The Sharps would be over kill here.

The shooters from the stand were moving in, trying to circle. With the group separated, the men were trying to pick off the remainder. Azrael was about done messing around. With Wes and Santiago apparently out of the fight, seemingly knocked unconscious by the fall, it fell to him to handle things. He hated to treat such a good hat like nothing more than a piece of garbage, so he grabbed one from the head of a nearby corpse and tossed it out. While the trigger-happy riflemen took potshots at the flying head cover, he dove through the hole he had been shooting from. He was back on his feet in less than a second, carrying himself low, almost moving on all fours, zigging and zagging like his life depended on it. Which it did.

He managed to get a shot off before he was in the midst of them, clipping the hand of one of the riflemen. The man dropped his long-barrel, wringing his hand like he had been stung. And then Azrael was among them. As a barrel swung towards his head, he caught it, pushed, continued the motion, jerked. That itchy trigger finger never let go. The shot went straight through the chest of one of his companions. And then the man was going down, his legs swept. Another barrel leveled at him, pushed to the side with the rifle now held in Azrael's hands. A second shot threw up dirt as it passed through the cranium of the downed man. Azrael jerked the second man in front of himself as a third shot was fired. Azrael felt it graze his side as it passed through the previous shooter's midsection. And then the last man was down, the one he had winged simply standing there in shock for a moment before taking off like the devil himself was giving chase.

Azrael dropped the rifle and pressed a hand to his side, taking a careful look around. There didn't seem to be any more, but he took no chances, scuttling over to the downed platform to tend to Wes and Santiago.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ramon eased over the top of the stairs, glancing first one way then the other down the hall. Clear, so far as he could tell, but he was not trusting the Judge not to have a few more surprises stowed away.

"JUDGE!" he shouted. "I'm callin you out! Ya hear?" There was a laugh in answer. "By tha laws you claim to uphold and by the right of my forefathers, I'm callin you out! Do you accept tha challenge?"

"You can't call nothin out, Ramon! By rights, you're not even a man anymore. I as good as castrated you when I took your sword."

Ramon smirked, silent as a cat as he crept down the hallway. He just needed a little more and he would know exactly where to place the bullet. He turned his head to face the other way as he shouted once more.

"Either ya accept or ya don't! Don' matter much ta me, 'cept one I get my stuff back right proper."

"I accept," the Judge said, stepping out of a doorway right in front of where the Sheriff was crouched.

There was a look of complete surprise on his wrinked face right before it caved in, exploding out of the back of his head. Ramon sighed and slumped against the wall, looking at the corpse. Finally, it was done.

Val

I found my earlier pains returning quickly as the natural adrenalin high of my combat faded. And standing really truly hurt once it had. It was too clichéd for words but I took the option offered by the broad porch, a handy chair and the hitching rail. Move chair sit, tilt back, boot heel on top of rail, tilt outbacker down to shade eyes, carbine across lap, Mina’s spare pair of shades to block the glare. Just the right touch of anachronism to a scene out of every old sterrie western ever filmed.

I’ll admit to whimpering a little until I got comfortable and dry swallowed some more aspirin. I’d had the foresight to tuck a double handful into the pocket of the demin vest I wore, and I’d seen Mina do the same. I was very happy that the receptors in Mina’s body – and now mine- had been tweaked to get the optimum effects from the ancient drug. I growled under my breath at having to resort to it though. Mina had been behind on her nano packs ever since she had donated them to Grimm, and she - and thus now me – had ended up here without any on- board pain killers save what the pharmacope made and that malfunction had both of us wary.

Now looking like something out of Old West Recreation days I settled in to wait. I could hear Mina moving inside easily. In my lap I had one of her two little ‘travel talkies’ small short range radios. That way I could keep her discretely apprised, without her having to keep concentrated listening for Azrael’s return. That weakness I shook my head at.

Santiago dusted himself off, cursing softly to himself in an obscure dialect of Trkla, which was a pretty damned obscure language in and of itself. Hes scooped his hat up off the ground , stuck his finger through the hole, then snarled, spat something with far too few vowels to be proper language, and discarded the hat.

Then he spun out his acquired revolver's cylinder and dropped the brass onto the ground, loading carefully from the cartridge belt he'd taken, and taking his damned time about it, too. When all six chambers were full, he spun the cylinder closed, checked that the hammer wasn't anywhere it shouldn't be, and dropped the revolver into the holster attached to the cartridge belt. The rig wasn't what he was used to, but he didn't exactly have time to play with it just yet, and he wasn't really in the mood, either way.

He hadn't exactly been knocked unconcious, just caught by a fragment of support when he'd jumped clear -- his reflexes were, on occasion, a little too good. It had taken him a bit to get unstuck, especially when the rest of the damned platform came down, making the whole thing quite complicated. Nothing that a bit of leverage and couldn't solve, but it had taken time to get said leverage.

When he'd finally gotten free, the whole damned thing was over, which, to be fair, suited him just fine. He wasn't in the sort of mood that was conducive to good fighting. He was in the sort of mood that was conducive to merciless killing, not that he was a particularly merciful person when pressed at the best of times...but the worst of times were significantly...worse.

His movements had become sharp and economical, abbreviated, almost, with none of the fluidity that normally defined him -- he moved faster than he had up to now, true, but it as almost as if every movement that he made was designed specifically so that it didn't commit him to anything -- he was an instant away from changing course. He was tense, still riding a low-level adrenaline high -- his heart rate hadn't topped a hundred beats per minute yet today, though that wasn't necessarily a good thing. It wasn't surprising, either.

He stooped to relieve a corpse of its rifle and cartridges -- the dead man certainly wouldn't be needing them. The lever-action carbine wasn't exactly his thing, he vastly preferred semi-automatic pistols, but it'd do for the time being. And if worse came to worse, it'd make a decent club -- not the swordstaff that he'd made into something of his trademark, perhaps, but good enough...and swordstaves didn't travel well. Laws.

Ramon exited the Judge's manor whistling a happy tune. He had take the time not only to retrieve that which was his, but to make a trophy of the late Judge Anderson. The mangled head hung by it's hair from his right fist as he strolled across the lawn towards Azrael and his comrades.

"Looky what I got!" the Sheriff called out, holding his trophy high.

"I see you have your sword," was Azrael's reply.

The Gunslinger finished pulling Wes from the wreckage of the platform and hefted the man across a shoulder, grunting with the effort. It was not that Wes was heavy, just dead weight was always unwieldy. With that, he gave a nod to Santiago, and set back towards town. His free hand never strayed far from his holster, just in case. He had no doubt that there were more men about, though they seemed smart enough to stay hidden. The Sheriff walked beside him. Ramon had dropped the head and was kicking it along, dribbling it like a football. The sadistic grin on his face as he punted the gory "ball" across the ground was disturbing.

"Would ya have some respect fer tha dead, ya slimy bastard?" Azrael inquired.

With a long-suffering sigh, the Sheriff retrieved the head and carried it as before, replying, "Ya never did know how ta have fun, Az."

It was not long before they came in sight of the crowd that milled about in front of the Inn. Mina or Val sat on the porch, Azrael could not tell which. It mattered little, at the moment, since Ramon chose the moment they were first noticed to give the head a drop kick, sending it sailing into the crowd. There were a few gasps and a woman's scream before the Sheriff raised his voice over them.

"Judge Anderson's dead 'n gone by my hand!" he declared. "I've reclaimed my right and title. And now, I'm claimin this here town in his stead. I know y'all ain' liked me too much, but I'll have y'all know right now, I ain' brookin no complaints. Y'all got problems with how I handle things 'round here, y'all can bring it up at tha town meetin tanight. I'll be there. We're gonna be makin some changes 'round these parts. Y'all get on home now, ain' nothin more ta see."

Azrael simply shook his head, dumping Wes into one of the chairs on the porch and taking a seat himself. He fished around inside of his coat and pulled out a silvered case. Inside lay several home rolled cigarettes. Extracting one, he lit it with a wooden match and puffed contentedly. He deserved this. Ramon simply remained standing in the center of the street as the crowd dispersed, that shit-eating grin still mangling an otherwise handsome face.

Val

I waited until the sheriff - Mina had described him thoroughly- had had his say. Though he might be making promises he might not be alive to keep. I had an idea of what Mina planed. And disapproved heartily.

The carbine I had been holding lazily had never lost track on him. Discretely, but he was still my target. From the moment they had come into range I had activated the vox and had been quietly passing all my observations along. Once I'd made sure Mina had heard the declaration I slid the tiny travel commo in to another of the vests pockets, then tilted the hat back and used one finger to pull the shades down my nose nose. Eye contact made, I let him get a good look at my face. The shiner would be gone by morning, there were enough nanos in my system for that, but for now it was eye catching. Mina had gone still inside.

Waiting

Then I swung her head round so that Azrael could see it for just a flash of a second. Yes it was evil of but, it was the least he deserved.

“Sheriff” I could not make my tone other than coolly remote, and it carried not one whit of respect. Disrespect for the dead what not something I found amusing.

“I would suggest, that before you celebrate, you step in to the inn. There is more you have not dealt with.”

And the look that I swept Azrael with warned him to silence.

And the stranger from down the hall? My glance over him, as I caught his eyes…it too carried the weight of warning - to do the smart thing and wait - just a bit, but wait..

Azrael remained silent, a frown tugging at the corners of his lips and creasing his brow. Partly it was from concern for her injuries, partly it was confusion. Mina was acting oddly. He reasoned, therefore, that it was not Mina but Val. Why Val would be waiting to greet them he had no idea. Why she had been tracking the Sheriff with her repeater rifle since they had come into sight was also a mystery, though the fact had escaped neither of them. He was lacking the information he needed to solve this particular puzzle, so instead he left it be, taking a long drag on his home-rolled.

The Sheriff turned immediately serious as his eyes met those of Azrael's companion. A flick of his fingers knocked his hat back, lifting the brim and removing the shadow normally cast upon the upper half of his face, his other hand straying near the six-gun holstered at his side.

"Now then, missy, what might I be fergettin? I'd expect someone Az decided had a stick as far up their ass as he's got wouldn't be after shootin a man in tha back, so I'll take y'all at yer word so far's just inside the door. I'm sure y'all seen 'im work though, 'n I'll tell ya, I'm better'n him."

With that, he stepped forward, clomping up the steps, his eyes remaining on the female as he passed her. He paused just inside the doors, letting his eyes adjust to the darker lighting.

Wes awoke to a place that was a lot like purgatory. He was seeing only white, and his body hurt somethin' fierce.

What happened? he thought angrily. That was Wes. If all else fails, get mad.

As his vision slowly returned, along with a halfway sane state of mind, he found he was in a chair. He looked around and saw that Azrael was next to him, smoking a cigarette. To be honest, Wes had never really cared for the things. They left you smelling ten times worse even that a long night hitting the bottle. And he was an expert in that department.

Wes shook his head to the left, and there sat the girl Azrael had entered the inn with. An odd expression sat on her face, along with an ugly shiner in its early stages. It seemed as if something was wrong.

Swiveling his neck (painfully) again, he saw the sheriff eyeing her with a strange mix of suspicion and confusion. With the hand not occupied (the one floating over his revolver) he flicked his hat back on his head and said,

"Now then, missy, what might I be fergettin? I'd expect someone Az decided had a stick as far up their ass as he's got wouldn't be after shootin a man in tha back, so I'll take y'all at yer word so far's just inside the door. I'm sure y'all seen 'im work though, 'n I'll tell ya, I'm better'n him."

Wes decided then that he'd apparently missed something in his brief stay in purgatory, so he decided to get to the bottom of it and then act. Another lesson from the recent days.

Forcing himself to turn away, he looked to Azrael. A tight frown accented all of his features, chin to forehead. He looked extremely frazzled, and Wes supposed it was with good reason. He'd saved Wes's life, killed a lot of people, and now this.

He leaned over discreetly and softly projected his words at Azrael's ear.

"What's going on?"

Mina had passed the time forming a strange mosaic on one of the few still useable tables. It's round top held an elaborate mandala formed of the rounds she'd taken from the ambusher's assorted weaponry. All save the lovely little 410 Snake Charmer she'd appropriated for herself. It was the only piece in the lot fit to use in her estimation, and she'd wondered how it had ended up in the back of nowhere. The guns, a variety of revolvers, carbines and cut down shotguns were lined up along the bar.

Mina herself had hopped up to sit on the bar.

"I'm sure y'all seen 'im work though, 'n I'll tell ya, I'm better'n him."

She let him pause to orient himself before speaking and drawing his attention.

Mina's shooting glasses, in the traditional bastard amber, were in her shirt pocket, her hat on the bar beside her. Her spit and puffed lip, the injury a shocking violation of it’s softly feminine fullness, was clearly visible, as was the long slash down the smooth skin of her arm.. Her hair fell free in a tumbling mass of waves to well below her shoulders.

"I seriously doubt that " Her cool voice, oh so similar yet different in a way that raised the hackles, answered the sheriffs question. Her tone held no challenge, just absolute the absolute assurance of one who knew full well the measure of her skill. "You've dealt with the results of my work, but you didn't see me do it.” Her large, doe soft eyes held the same serene certainty as her tone as they caught and held his, something like amusement lurking in their depths.

The Snake Charmer lay across her lap, but not pointed toward the sheriff. The big 50's were on her thighs and her sword across her back and she was fully aware of the dichotomy inherent. But then again no man should ever forget that the female of the species is more deadly than the male Mina quipped to herself.

She started to say something more then just shook her head ever so slightly “I’m too flat out hurting and pissed to pussy foot around. I killed four men yesterday, and while my homeland, I am the law with the responsibility at times to be judge, jury and executioner, I am not so here. How are we going to settle this? You just proclaimed yourself the law around here.”

Here her eyes changed, for all the universe like a pair of leveled laser batteries bringing him under their targeting reticules.

Outside

Val


"What's going on?"

“Why ask one that has no more idea than you do?” I snorted in unamusement, then directed my next question, one not rhetorical, to Azrael “Did we lose one in the rescue op and who is wounded ? I am the medic for the nonce.”

My eyes took in the numerous small spall wounds decorating Azrael’s face and leaving small blood stains on his shirt, then went on to look the other two over. Both looked a little worse for wear but no one was openly wearing serious wounds.

But then something said in passing came to mind and I gave the youngster a sharp look “Young Gun, did I hear that you had been snake bit yesterday?”

"What's going on?"

Azrael shrugged. "As she said, I'm as much in the dark as yourself." He took another drag, glancing at Val. "You had a bit of a dust-up, I see. Care for a smoke? I've only a few left, but after what you and Mina have been through, I'd say you deserve one."

He pulled out the case and flipped it open, offering them to her.


"How are we going to settle this? You just proclaimed yourself the law around here.”

"So I did, little lady, so I did," he replied. His finger caught in the guard of his shooting iron, pulling it from the holster and twirling it in lively fashion before the rest of his fingers brought it to a stop pointed towards the ceiling. "As fer settlin things, I don' see there's much ta settle. S' far's I cin see, y'all done me a favor. Them rowdy boys was tha biggest o' tha troublemakers what tha late judge recruited to 'is personal army. I'da had ta get rid of 'em eventually. So, if'n y'all don' mind puttin away that small arsenal y'all got, we'll call it even 'n have a nice day."

Another casual spin brought the revolver back down to its holster. He pulled his jacket around to hide it, putting cloth between his hand and his weapon, showing his good faith.

"If'n y'all insist on it, though, give challenge 'n shout it loud, 'n we'll see who walks away. I'd most dearly prefer not, though."

"If'n y'all insist on it, though, give challenge 'n shout it loud, 'n we'll see who walks away. I'd most dearly prefer not, though."

Mina snorted "I don't play challenge games. If you want to file the killings under garbage disposal go right ahead. However you're going to find your jail full." She flicked a hand at the line of weapons and the mosaic on the lone standing table "I'm going to hold on to some of this, call it a fixer's fee."

She eased down off the bar and burried a groan under a growl "And having a nice day went out the window some hours ago. You have'nt seen a Ka creeping around here of late have you? I have some bones to pick with that wretched creeper."

Val

what you and Mina have been through, I'd say you deserve one."

I gave Azrael a look and closed my eyes for a moment "I am still having to remember to breath now and again. No thanks" Snagging the med kit up from the porch I tossed him an antiseptic wipe.

"Someone thought they would be smart and set up an ambush" I shrugged, "The jail is rather over crowded."

I looked inside and raised my voice as her hearing picked up Mina's comment about Ka "I am first on the list" Just to let her know how I felt, and that I had been keeping track of what was happening inside. Enhanced hearing can be a useful pain in the posterior.

"I am first on the list!"

Azrael snorted as he flipped his case closed and returned it to its pocket. "Get in line. It's a long one, I'd say. And yes, we lost one."

Ramon stepped back into the light of day, pulling his hat down to hide his eyes in shadow once more.

"Well, now, I'd say y'all should skeedaddle right quick," he observed. "There's gonna be more 'n a few what don' like what I have ta say, 'n I'm sure a number of 'em 'd be willin ta shed yer blood same as mine. I'll be havin m' hands full just keepin m' own skin in one piece, much less y'all's." He smirked. "I'd give y'all a bit o' coin fer helpin out, but yon filly decided she'd much rather help 'erself ta tha arsenal them varmints left when they was put in tha pokey. That'll do y'all good, I s'pose."

The Sheriff glanced upwards to the sun, then down at the badge that still lay upon his chest. A rueful smile lifted the corners of his lips.

"Never thought this old thing'd actually mean somethin one day. I was all ready 'n set ta die wearin it with a knife in my back 'n a drink in my hand. Azrael, ma'am, I'll say thankee sai 'n good day to ya. Now get tha hell on bafore I gotta bust any more heads. My damn hip's actin up 'n I think I pulled a few muscles. I ain' in much shape fer more action taday."

Azrael nodded, then glanced to Wes. "I think he includes you in that. You're welcome to travel with us, if you'd like, though I'll not ask you to take up my quest. You've the makings of a gunslinger proper, I think, and I'd be honored to help you find your path."

Santiago, being Santiago, had made a beeline for the bar immediately upon entering the hotel-thing, dusted himself off a glass, and poured himself a generous measure of whatever non-alcoholic liquid he could find. He raised the glass upwards and his lips moved, though he didn't speak. When he had finished his silent salute, he knocked the drink back, then left a solitary coin to rattle around in the bottom of the glass.

He ran a hand through his hair -- long, nearly to his shoulders and a brown so dark that it was nearly black, often worn in a pony-tail of sorts, but not today. He was a little unsettled about the hat -- it wasn't the brush with death, that'd happened before, and it'd keep on happening until it happened no more. But he'd liked that hat. Damnit.

He turned his attention to Azrael, then, and there was a question in his eyes, though he did not give voice to it. He wasn't in a terrifically vocal mood...

Azrael was not in a terribly vocal mood either as he picked over the small armory Val and Mina had acquired from their would-be ambushers. The weapons were in reasonable condition, considering their previous owners, decently maintained, in good working order, with a pile of shells and bullets to fuel them if need be. He nodded to himself as he checked over one of the rifles, sighting along its barrel. It felt good to have a long gun in his hands again.

"We'd best pack these," he observed to Mina, then to Santiago, "You're welcome to come along as well, if you've nothing else to do. I'd sooner see you beside me on the road than swinging from the gallows somewhere else. Which I've little doubt you would be if caught by someone who could recall where they'd seen your face before. I'll not ask about your past, nor inquire deeply into your motives. I'll simply ask that you wait on my mark if we come across a hostile situation. The word of a Gunslinger can alleviate many problems, though some still require a dosing of lead."

With that he stepped back outside, looking over the horses tethered there, finding his pack adorning the back of a bay mare. He hefted himself up onto its back with a sigh. It had been quite some time since he had ridden, and was much less familiar with horses than his own two feet. He knew the rudiments, but had never quite grown used to the creatures. This might be a rather eventful ride if the beast decided to have its own way.

Wes groggily wandered to the horse to the left of Azrael. With practiced ease, he hopped onto the saddle. He checked to see that there were no bags. That was really all he needed. The canteen at his hip, and the revolver on the other side. He looked at Azrael's face and said seriously.

"I'd be happy to accompany you. Be warned though, I don't deal well with bad laws and rules, and I've got a quest of my own that comes before anyone and anything."

He shrugged, then, though it was a relatively accepting shrug. He wasn't the sort who tied himself to anything or anyone with ease, but he certainly didn't appear to have as much of a handle on this place as he probably should -- he'd only been here, what, a week or so, subjective? Hardly long enough for his reputation to spread enough to counteract the unease that he tended to cause in 'common people.' Nothing wrong with him, you understand -- it was the job.

Unfortunately, there wasn't a damn thing he could do about that, and Azrael did have something of a point, though perhaps not the one that the other man had made...so Santiago had retrieved the decidedly miniscule amount of his kit that he didn't have on his person -- a small brown leather 'attache case' of sorts -- and appropriated himself a horse. Or perhaps the horse was waiting for him -- perhaps he'd seen to it's acquisition earlier, or perhaps it had been acquired with the other horses.

He swung himself up onto the gray Arabian mare with an ease that one would normally associate with considerable practice, settling himself and his equipment -- there was a saddle holster for the carbine he'd appropriated, for one, which was quite nice. He spent a moment to tie his hair back into a pony-tail, while his thoughts drifted elsewhere, as they often did in times like this...

He recalled 'flying' across a gray plain, bringing an arrow from the saddle quiver to his string, turning in place, carefully judging the angle, then pushing and letting fly, while about him a hundred yellow-skinned warriors with crooked smiles performed the same action.

He recalled bracing himself and the lance that he carried while the immensely powerful animal upon which he sat hurled itself -- and the armor it wore, and its rider, and the armor that he wore -- at the foe.

He recalled many things. And he smiled.

Mina shared a long silent look with Val, shrugged and headed out to the horses.

"Don't think about it, just let the body do it." Mina advised quietly and Val let out a long slow breath.

"Right" Chocolate eyes met their identical duplicates and with a jerk Val spun and mounted - with far more grace than she thought she'd possess given that mounting a horse is not necessarily one of the more graceful functions the body can be asked to do. "So where is the input jack on this equine?"

Mina let out a whisper of a chuckle and handed Val the reins and then the long Sharps to slide into the saddle boot. "Just watch me". She’d already laid claim to the big buckskin gelding, and now took a moment to double check the girth. She then smoothly stepped up and settled herself comfortably, the little Snake Charmer going into her own saddle’s gun sheath.

Unfolding the shooting glasses she set them on her nose and twisted to look at Azrael. Val had already resettled hers, and tugged lightly on the brim of the stetson firming it down as well.

"Fortune favor, Sheriff."

"As I said, I neither expect nor want you to take up my personal quest," Azrael responded to Wes. "There's a reason it's called a personal quest."

He looked over his small entourage. Ka, that merciless bitch, was building something. He could feel it. Five of them, there were now. Five. The second number of power. Two female, three male. Two true Gunslingers, one that might be, one that could be, one that should be. There was something building here, and he was not sure he liked it. Then his eyes met Mina's, and he realized that he did not care at the moment. For now, he was content simply to chase the tail of the demon as it fled before him, following across whatever desolate expanse lay ahead.

He gave a click of his tongue, tugging on the reins to get the horse to turn, then squeezed lightly with his knees to urge it forwards. He was rather surprised to find both that the horse was trained as his had been as a lad and that he remembered the proper commands. Ka indeed. Perhaps he would even give it a name, should it survive long enough at his side. Slowly, he rode along the main street, heading east, always east, the town fading around him as his eyes scanned the horizon. Too much time had been wasted here, and too much time had been wasted today. They would have to make camp in only a few short hours. He gave a soft grunt. Well, they could make some decent time while the sun still shone at least.

Had to add this Classic Music to exit by (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h7r7gjsXqH8)

Mina met his glance with her own - on that showed not only how she felt about him, but that she was content to ride by his side. And she didn't mind who saw it.

Once they'd cleared the town it was only natural to fall into a ground eating, but easy lope. They could alternate that with slower spells at a walk, and average what they would at a road trot - which would have left the men... unhappy.

Out of the corner of her eye she kept watch on Val, knowing that by nightfall she'd be beyond sore - she wasn't falling off but was fighting the insticnts of her body - leaving her tense and tight muscled.

It was somewhat strange, but the feel of the powerful beneath him -- though muffled by the saddle blanket, which was a remarkably beautiful thing with a white and black diamond patterning framing a deep red expanse. as well as the saddle -- had him smiling within a few minutes. He didn't bother with reins, wouldn't have used them had they been present -- he was used to requiring both hands for immediate and supremely important tasks when on horseback, thus preventing or at least severely limiting the use of reins.

It took him a few minutes to get properly comfortable with the Arabian, let her get used to his voice -- and to the commands that he used, which weren't in any language ever spoken around these parts. Tone, yeah? Probably. He wasn't anything recognizable as a "horse person," didn't know much in the way of terminology or theory, but he'd learned the practical stuff from the very best.

He shook his head idly and drew out his revolver, emptying the cylinder into his pocket before servicing it as best he could. The carbine was treated similarly. And he was smiling.

Val

"We didn't catch your name" I commented as I dropped back to ride next to the man on the arab mare. "You ride like some one trained in the Dar al-Harb" I noted further.

When one lives as nothing more than a voice from thin air one gets used to drawing people out with a jolt. And it would take my mind off fighting my body. Mina had been giving me enough sideways glances that I knew that I was - or so I had eventually figured out. And I'd already run through the one hundred and one thousand inventive things to do to Ka when we found her, him, or it. I was betting on it. It was far past mere bitch or bastard.

Santiago blinked and scraped for the reference, or, rather, to fit the reference in a manner that made sense to him, which was a little difficult.

"Santiago. My name is Santiago. And if I understand you right, you're saying that I ride like...a person from a locale not subject to Islamic Theocracy? That isn't entirely correct, but is close enough. I am, at the least, not of that faith myself."

His personal faith was not a suitable topic of discussion.

Wes rode alongside Santiago and kind of listened in to the conversation. He was, contrary to his personality, excited to have these people with him. He felt an odd feeling of fellowship, like these 4 were meant to be together, do something important. He tossed the thought as a whimsical notion and continued to ride with them.

Val

I snorted, "Please we left the religious nonsense behind." Then I caught myself.

"My apologies. We left our homeworld in great part due to religion. It's just the name we- the Phoenix Empire of Tanara - chose, nothing religiously motivated."

Mina dropped back and added "She's paying you a compliment actually. The Dar al- Harb, The House of War is our ...it's not 'just' a military academy. We send our best there to take them beyond war being merely a profession. Not even all the Cadre qualify." She knew that she was most certainly saying things they had no reference for.

I looked over at Santiago "War is at times, serially or even simultaneously, so necessary that there can be nothing else, and the last possible, unthinkable option. Glorious, showing the best poor tattered humanity can aspire to - the wholly sacred - the spirit that the Divine must have meant us to have - and the most debased, profane and insult to the face of the universe that we have within us."

"And the Dar al-Harb takes our best and hones them, striving to fit them for that unbearable dichotomy, that greatness and those depths. And part of that is mastery of one's self. And to do that" I shrugged, for there too was an inherent dichotomy. To master any other one must master one's self, but one could not learn mastery of one’s self until others had truly been put into ones care. And thus horses...

"All who become one with war must become one with the tools of war, become partner with them - and while we no longer fight in partnership with living mounts, horses teach us something no mechanical one can. "

"That little Arab weights at best… nine fifty” I looked over at Mina who nodded in agreement “And yes she could take - or save - your life in an instant and wholly unpredictably. But however close your partnership is you must be the leader, the senior partner, for she has not only not the mentality to discern, but instincts to over come. She must trust you implicitly.” I closed my eyes for a moment. I had not meant to wander off into the depths of philosophy.

“I merely meant that you ride like you understand the partnership” I found my faced heated and realized that I was blushing…and that fumbled my tongue, had me falling silent.

I managed to think up an additional thousand and one inventive things to do to Ka. I looked up and saw myself vaguely reflected in Mina’s shades. I was immensely glad that she’d given me her main pair. My eyes would have shown my misery too clearly at this moment.

Mina

She was glad that Val had found something to take her mind off of [i]What? What can I liken it to. Rape? This is worse than rape. She's never chose to wear an avatar for any extended period of time. And now stuck in a thoroughly biological body..What am I going to have to do if she becomes unsane. I know only the basic information about CS psychology. What are the chances I am going to have to put my best friend down like a mad dog?" Mina was glad beyond belief that the shooting glasses hid her eyes and the immense worry she knew must be evident in them. She urged the burly buckskin gelding back up beside Azrael, the lop eared mule dallied off on the saddle horm moving just reluctantly enough to make his presence felt.

Azrael was silent for his part, content to let his mount eat up the miles as the sun headed towards the horizon. He was slightly amused by Val's attempt at conversation, but more concerned. She would have much to learn about living in a body. Particularly tomorrow morning. Then again, he himself would be feeling the ache as well. He made a mental note to see if there were a less... jostling type of mount along the way, perhaps one of the strange creatures that had sprung up. It might require training, but it would be better than feeling his family jewels being slowly ground to pulp by the constant up and down motion as he rose and fell in the saddle.

He pulled them in early, setting camp to the side of the road in the short grass of the plains. There were many weapons to be cleaned, after all, and he would trust his own maintenance to that of the thugs they had been lifted from. Before that, though... He shouldered one of the long guns, checking the sights and the action of the trigger before loading it and stalking out a ways. It was perhaps half an hour before he came in sight of his prey. It was a mule-deer, small but plump, and male, though its stomach seemed unusually round and it seemed not to notice him even though he had come upon it from upwind. A single shot to the base of its skull laid it low, and he slung it across his shoulders to walk it back to camp. A nearby tree became his slaughter house as he strung it up from a low branch by one leg.

The promise of fresh meat was a lie, however. As he slit open the stomach, the stench of death and rot poured forth, though what caused him to vomit was the small, feebly kicking fawn the fell out to struggle against the hostile outside world. The poor creature was mottled white and black, patches of fur barely grown in, black eyes bulging from their sockets. Its head was misshapen, bulging from one side, its lower jaw only half as long as it should have been, leaving its tongue to loll out against the ground. A fifth leg hung from its stomach as it attempted to stand, dangling useless. Its midsection was clear, the skin translucent, showing its vital organs. While it wobbled uncertainly, learning to stand, Azrael recovered enough to plant a round in its brain. Even at such close range, a single bullet traveling through the malformed infant's skull should not have produced the spectacular explosion of gore that followed. Azrael found himself once more clutching his knees as the remainder of his stomach contents emptied themselves upon the ground.

Once he had regained his composure, he wiped his mouth with a shaky hand and asked Mina to move camp a mile further down the road. He remained behind. The deer was cut down, and piled with dry grass and twigs, with branches following. He made sure to clear a wide patch around it, turning the earth with a shovel to ensure the fire would not spread. He lit the two pyres ablaze before heading down the road to rejoin his companions. His hands were still shaking. He plopped down onto his still rolled bedroll, hanging his head between his knees as he fumbled to pull out a cigarette. He smoked them only infrequently, but felt he needed one after that atrocity against nature. He did not raise his head until after he had stubbed out the butt against the bottom of his boot.

"So, who's cookin?" he inquired with false cheer. "And who wants first watch?"

On the long hours of the ride they'd eventually turned to Wesley - and both had laughed, Mina telling Wesley of the historical figure behind his name -

And introducing but not explaining themselves. If Santiago or Westly had any questions as to why there were now two where there had been one, their manner was enough to effectively quell them for the time being.

Mina and Val had well settled camp - they'd simply handed chores Santiago and Wesley without enquirry as to their feelings on the subject..

The reek of decay that had sprung from the deer had them both turning from the last of their set up and heading that way to investigate. The second shot sounded just as they arrived. Quietly but firmly Mina stopped Val from questions that most likely couldn't be answered, then held Azrael as he purged himself. She'd given him a long, searching look, satisfying herself that he was okay before nodding in agreement that the camp needed to be moved.

By the time Azrael returned, it was past full dark and the new camp had been settled - Horses groomed, watered and fed, a pot of beans and pan of cornbread started.

"So, who's cookin? And who wants first watch?"

Mina didn't answer at first, pulling out the flask she'd slipped into her kit.

"Here" Her tone brooked no arguement. A hand coming up to gently stroke a stray lock of hair from his face. Her eyes concerned and asking him silently how he fared.

"Dinner will be ready shortly, and Vals taking first, I'm second, and you gentlemen can divvy up the rest between you."

"Well I reckon I'll take over after the two misses here. You both need your rest, and I think I'll be ok. Thank you, by the way miss...?"

He took a quick swig from the flask, swishing the caustic liquid around to get the vomit taste from his mouth before swallowing. He handed it back with a grateful nod and a half-hearted smile.

"Dinner will be ready shortly, and Vals taking first, I'm second, and you gentlemen can divvy up the rest between you."

"Well I reckon I'll take over after the two misses here. You both need your rest, and I think I'll be ok. Thank you, by the way miss...?"

"Mina is her name," Azrael supplied. "The one with the shiner is Val. I'll take last watch."

With nothing more he felt needed be said, he finally broke down the long gun he had taken to hunt and began to clean it, disassembling it with the ease of one long familiar with firearms of all kinds, laying the pieces upon his lap as he cleaned each with an oiled rag produced from his kit.

"Mina is her name. The one with the shiner is Val. I'll take last watch."

"Thank you. Also, a little later, I'd like ta speak with you Azrael. Privately."

With that, Wes sat down and left his hat right next to him. He checked his gun for ammunition, saw it was full, and put it on the ground next to his hand, pointing it away from everyone. He was tired, but he couldn't seem to get a wink of sleep. The old nightmares were coming back.

Santiago had nodded lightly at the explanation, to show that he had understood.

"I...a long time ago, yes...though, I am obviously not of your Empire. I was...trained...at something similar, though that is not where I learned to ride. Too many mountains, too much ocean, not enough flat land. We learned to sail small boats and lead rope teams. I learned to ride...I learned to ride from people who knew no other way, where if a child couldn't ride before he was five, that child was dead."

He had smiled lightly, "But, yes, I thank you for the compliment. Stirrups make things easy, mind..."

--

(That Night...)

Santiago lay awake, though from any sort of distance one would assume him asleep. Until he moved, that was, which he did, bringing his hands to his face, though not touching it. He looked at his hands, and he remembered...and his left hand dropped to rub at the spot on his shoulder where, to this day, he still bore the brand. The Star. Forever identifying him...though few enough knew what it identified him as, anymore.

He gathered his coat about him and rolled over onto his left side -- he was wearing his revolver on his right hip, and long, long experience meant that he never rolled onto his right side if he could at all help it. He closed his eyes, but knew that sleep would continue to elude him for some time -- his thoughts slowed, but he never quite broke the barrier into sleep. It was an old problem.

In the darkness, his lips moved, though he did not speak...his lips formed the old words, the Seeker's Oath, though he formed them in English, and not in their native tongue...

Upon my Life, I have sworn
to seek out that which will do them harm
and to bring harm to it until it is no threat
and to do so until I find death.

And then his lips stilled, and his eyes closed tighter, and his breathing slowed, and by all indication he fell asleep, and perhaps he did, but inside...he remembered.

Val

I'd snorted in annoyance that Wes hadn't bothered to remember mine and Mina's names from earlier introductions. And her flat look showed clearly that Mina didn't either.

I covertly watched Mina give Azrael a massage, liberal with liniment she'd bought at the general store back at that crossroads. The smell astringently herbal, but soothing in it's own way.

"Val" Mina's voice jolted me out of my nowhere welter of thoughts, and she beckoned me over.

“You caught an elbow you shouldn’t have” She commented in heltöng, the polyglot of the Cadre.

“I did not kill anyone. You did say not to.”

“That I did, but we were both sloppy. Sparring time.”

I nodded. Uncle Fang would have clocked both of us for our slipshoddiness of getting hurt.. Though we did keep from killing any of them. I stripped down to undershirt and jeans – neither was optimal for fighting but one fought in what one wore and the Cadre never trained any differently.

Mina and I stepped a short distance away from the camp and began with a few warm up katas. The first ones they taught a cyber partner so they could walk an organic out of a situation. The problem being that the cyber partner was taught only one thing- a full out kill and destroy, to do whatever was necessary to get the body they wore out alive.

Cadre used protective gear when they sparred, light but efficient, and they had the best medical tech available. Broken bones were healed in hours, and even near death took but overnight in a regen tube. But none of that was available here.

Fortunately I had all the muscle memory that Mina had. I just had to keep myself from thinking about it .That is far easier said than done. Mina found the whole thing far funnier than I did. I am glad something amused her.

Azrael beckoned Wes a short distance away as the two females moved off to spar. He stayed within shouting distance, the small fire lighting a bright hemisphere in the moonless night. Even though he had grown used to it, it still bothered him. Mina's massage had done wonders for him. His muscles were much less sore, though the morning would see just how much that brute had damaged him. Working on a second rifle, he watched the ladies work, taking a keen interest in their martial arts style. It was much different in form than that which he himself had been taught, though basis seemed the same. Disabling strikes, killing blows, glancing blocks, simple redirection of force... It was not one of the "light" arts he had seen, where blows seemed soft and movements flowed like water through glass tubing.

"So, you wanted to talk?" he inquired of Wes, his eyes on the two women as his hands worked to dismantle and clean the long gun.

He had little doubt that all three of their companions could still hear them perfectly, but he was also certain that each would respect the privacy that had been requested.

Wes saw Azrael's beckoning, and he put on his hat, stood up, and, sending dust puffing up into the air, walked to him. Wes noticed that he was still (or again) cleaning, and giving a rifle its maintenance. He seemed an expert at it. He seemed an expert at everything, actually. Wes reached him and eased down gently, favoring his injured leg, and his sore bottom.

"So, you wanted to talk?" He asked, eyeing Mina and Val, who seemed to be sparring. They were deadly, no doubt about that.

"Yessir I did. I want to know a little more about the Gunslingers. About you. I have a sneaking suspicion that...well, you tell me first."

When Val let my...her... body take over she had been trained superbly - Mina knew she had been -She'd watched her training holo's often enough - and was as good as she was supposed to be- which is just another way of saying death on two feet. At the moment Mina was better though, and she managed to keep both of them alive and relatively uninjured - seriously injured that is - our nanos would be working overtime tonight so to speak.

The Cadre had long ago adopted the Rihannsu name for it Llaekh-ae'rl - laughing murder. Whatever worked; what ever was needed, and as individual as each Cadre, but it leaned heavily to the fast and aggressive, combining and distilling hundreds of different martial art styles and forms into something so ingrained in the Carde that no thought was needed, the body responding with what was best for the situation.

They both came out of it bruised, contused and pleasantly exhausted. However just stopping wasn't an option, so they cooled down with some mirror dance kata, lovely flowing stuff that let the two close their eyes and meditate as they moved. Val managed better than Mina had hoped, synching well with her, letting her unconscious respond to the pattern. Mina wondered if she and Azrael would move as well, it was a favorite pasttime among married groups and lovers.

Azrael was content to watch the pair and made a mental note to ask Mina to teach him some of her style. It would be a fair trade, as he was certain she would pick up his quite easily.

"What would you like to know," he inquired of Wes. "There's a lot to know about Gunslingers. What we are, what we do, where we come from... You'll have to be more specific."

His eyes were still upon Mina and Val as he reassembled the rifle and set it aside. Another quickly fell to pieces in his capable hands.

"Well I'd like to know it all, but that'd probably be a hell of a story. So...what are you? What do you do?"

Wes was speaking, but looking at Mina and Val. The "dance" you could call it was hypnotic.

Some time, roughly four hours, later, Santiago 'awoke.' Not that he had exactly been asleep, really -- real sleep was a luxury that he only rarely indulged in, by and large relying on the restorative sleep-like 'trance,' which had most of the physical benefits of sleep but was something from which he could emerge essentially instantly.

He sat upright, then hauled himself upright with a sort of casual quiet -- his movements weren't silent, just muffled enough that they wouldn't carry. There was an old adage about the stupidity of sneaking up on your own side, and it was a reasonable concern as it was still quite dark out.

He stretched quietly, taking half of a nutient tab from his bag and chewing on it while he worked the stiffness out of his limbs that came with spending too long in one position. The soreness in his muscles told him that he needed to go beyond just stretching, though. So he found whoever had the watch and let them know that he was going to be about a hundred meters away, and on what bearing that was, for a bit.

Once he'd distanced himself sufficiently from the others, he exhaled and let his mind still, stretching his arms out, fingers splayed. He'd left his coat behind, though he'd retained his gunbelt -- now modified with a thigh tie-down at the bottom of the holster. Didn't look particularly sharp, but it'd keep it from doing any annoying flapping about.

Then he ran through a quick series of unarmed drills, starting slow and getting progressively quicker until he was moving at a proper speed, twisting in variations and additional elements until his muscles were on fire. Which was, of course, the entire point.

He pitched himself forward, taking his weight onto his hands and the tips of his boots, then kicked off the ground and into a handstand. He held that position for a time, then took one of his hands off the ground, tucking it behind his back, and held that for a minute or so, then switched hands. Then he placed both hands down and pushed up, arching out of the position and back onto his feet.

Things continued in this vein for nearly twenty minutes longer, then he finally headed back to the camp location, using the short walk to dampen his slow his breathing and heart-rate to their normal level. He decided on the way that he felt a little better, which was to the good.

Val

I didn't wake Mina, it would have been useless for me to even try to sleep. So I let my hands go on automatic, cleaning weapons that had Mina had set aside to keep her hands busy during her watch. My mind had too much thinking, too much readjusting still to do.

"What a sodding awefull mess" I murmured to myself torn between wrath and utter despair. I had volunteered for the VEM proceedure because I had been dieing and it was some minute chance at continuing what I had sworn to do. Protect. Hell so few survived, much less survived it sane but I had, and it had been an utterly fascinating new life. To be a cybernetic was so intensely different that words can not convey but it not as easy to adapt to as one might believe - but I had - and as such I was much much more. I became one of the minute handful that were the 'go to' for training C.S.'s to interface with humans beyond their 'born' knowledge of such. I'd be doing it still if I hadn't thrown a hissy fit to go back into my old job - though since I wasn't human any longer I couldn't but I could be come the equal, a Justicar, the Cyber version of a Walker, a Ranger.

And now. I shuddered, and tried to find something, anything, good about this.

I looked up as Santigo came back into camp. "So, How did you end up here, or are you a native to this world?" Probably the second oldest conversational saw in the universe, but...

"So...what are you? What do you do?"

"It's hard to sum up a Gunslinger in few words. You're the only of us who seems to be at least from around these parts. Don't ask what gives me that impression." Azrael's eyes followed Santiago. Again, he had to admire the skill with which the actions were performed. "Gunslingers are essentially men and women trained in the art and profession of killing. What we do is maintain the balance on the side of law and order. Some of us fall from that calling. Some of us never truly follow it. Some of us take it to its logical extreme. Myself... I see the rule of law falling everywhere I pass, the natural order of the world turning to chaos. I've a feeling the demon I'm after isn't helping the process. I'll catch him, eventually, and the death of my father and mother will be avenged. But before I send him to meet whatever fate awaits his spirit in the afterlife, I'll find out what I need to. I do what I can to help stem the tide of chaos, but... I'm only one man. That may be why Ka has brought us together, the five of us. For you to help me by putting your finger in the dyke hole. Enough fingers... Well, maybe the dam will hold long enough for the repairmen to come with mud and stones."

During his speech he had finished the rifle and moved on through a pair of pistols. Setting each aside as he worked. The carbines he would leave alone, for Mina and Val. He knew well enough how to use one, but its cleaning and maintenance were beyond him. Of course, he would never admit this allowed, but he expected she would catch it.

Santiago couldn't help but smile as he considered -that- question. He stripped off his shirt, folding it neatly and placing it in one of his saddlebags. Provided one's eyesight was good enough, it would be possible to see the Brand on his right shoulder -- the eight-pointed Guardian Temple Ascended Star.

Then he took one of his spare shirts from his bag and pulled it on, covering the mark up again. It wasn't a part of his past that he was terrifically fond of discussing.

"No, I'm not from around here. I'm from Corley, originally. Though I haven't been back there for...ages."

Questions of time tended to be questions that he had trouble answering -- he honestly didn't know how old he was, for example.

"As for how I got here, you'd have to ask your preferred supreme entity about that. Maybe you'll get lucky."

His tone wasn't at all sarcastic, which seemed odd considering the actual words that he said. But there was no doubting the matter-of-fact tone he used.

"As for how I got here, you'd have to ask your preferred supreme entity about that. Maybe you'll get lucky."

That brought a sardonic snort from me. Not risking after asking any one, not now. "Given the events of the last twenty four hours I am going to refrain. See as how I have aparently been seconded over to something resembling a very nasty version of Fate, Kharma, or what ever you want to term it. It apparently likes me not one bit and the favor is fully returned."

She'd noticed the brand, but if he wanted to talk about it he would, she wouldn't pry.

"Now Corley? That's not a place name I recognise, though I'd doubt you'de recognise those familiar to me."

He shrugged, "It's been a dead planet for several t...err...a long time. Wasn't much when it was prime, though, to be honest, so I can't really say that I'm surprised that you've never heard of it. I'd never have heard of it if I hadn't been born there..."

He sighed, stretching the kinks out of his arms, then checking his revolver hadn't gotten caught up in its holster -- the restraining strap seemed to be doing it's job, though the entire rig wasn't up to his standards by any stretch of the imagination...

"Your turn. Where're you from?"

"Your turn. Where're you from?"

"Phoenix Empire of Tanara, well out from the Milky Way Galaxy by about six hundred million light years" I grinned "Ancestors wanted well away from everyone. And it looks like their luck followed Mina and I" half snickered half growled at the oddity of luck and the omniverse.

"They came out of other space and found not only had they not ended up where they were supposed to be but in a whole nother dimension. And this looks to be what happened to us. I had no idea until Mina activated me." That stopped me short for a second and my voice went flat. "And when she did last night, there was suddenly two of her, only I was in one of us."

I knew exactly how unbelievable that sounded, I wouldn't have believed it save it happened to her, me, us. But I didn't really care if he believed or not.

"It's hard to sum up a Gunslinger in few words. You're the only of us who seems to be at least from around these parts. Don't ask what gives me that impression. Gunslingers are essentially men and women trained in the art and profession of killing. What we do is maintain the balance on the side of law and order. Some of us fall from that calling. Some of us never truly follow it. Some of us take it to its logical extreme. Myself... I see the rule of law falling everywhere I pass, the natural order of the world turning to chaos. I've a feeling the demon I'm after isn't helping the process. I'll catch him, eventually, and the death of my father and mother will be avenged. But before I send him to meet whatever fate awaits his spirit in the afterlife, I'll find out what I need to. I do what I can to help stem the tide of chaos, but... I'm only one man. That may be why Ka has brought us together, the five of us. For you to help me by putting your finger in the dyke hole. Enough fingers... Well, maybe the dam will hold long enough for the repairmen to come with mud and stones."

Wes contemplated this for a minute, delving back into his mind, and the questions came. he chose to take them one at a time.

"So, some Gunslingers have dropped out from their responsibility? Become criminals?" he said, phrasing it carefully.

Santiago blinked, "Ah. That is, um, interesting."

The concept of 'other dimensions' was, to Santiago, only moderately laughable. It wasn't that he disbelieved, exactly, the concept of alternate...levels...of reality, it was just that 'dimension' wasn't a word that he'd ever use to describe such things...

Then he processed the entirety of what she'd said.

"Activated, you say?"

"Activated, you say?"

Mina had her eyes closed, body limp, breathing regular, but she wasn't asleep, that was merely meditation, and she knew that Val knew, when Val called her

"Willamina" Oh yes use of her full name brought her out instantly, not as refreshed as sleep but lucid and ready to act....

Mina deserved to know the full truth, and if we ever got back home, I would - we would -deal with the consequences then. But given how Mina felt about Azrael, she was not looking for a way home any longer, or not without him along side her.

I fished the bracer out of the pack I rested against, holding it lightly were Santiago could see it. “Yes activated. You see, until last night I lived here…or in part - as in the cyberverse I could live any where it spanned. However before that, a long time ago I was…” I broke off as Mina’s voice broken in, stunned by what she was saying. She shouldn’t have, couldn’t have known

"Valeria di’ Asturias, the only civilian to ever be awarded the Lion, the one who penetrated Suizira Ontongard and brought down the Koh’marrian High Command thus ending the Tanaran – Koh’marrian war, going on to become Tenerista Tanara for over one hundred and eighty years. Under went the illegal Valthusian Entechly Matrix procedure at the behest of the then current Xa Cz’inni Mother of Memory instead of dieing. And I’ve known since they threw me out of the Meld. Myritiss knew from her stint in O’ Corps.” Mina’s voice was even, bearing no weight of condemnation. Though there was more than a bit of mirth at being the one in the know.

And I let out the breath I did not even know I was holding. O’ Corps, Oracle Corps, the only ones outside the highest reaches of the government that could have known. “And became Valkyrie, a Cybernetic Sentience to all outward knowing. And in time a Justicar, the cybernetic universes equivalent to a Ranger.” I frowned at Mina, she had not needed to add the extraneous facts. “And all in all just another life”

Santiago...frowned. There was a distinct lag before the frown formed, as if he was uncertain as to what expression he wanted to take on. Organics becoming synthetics becoming organics, again -- and Val was, as far as he understood it, organic -- was enough to drive a self-respecting Watchman out of his poor mind.

Not that Santiago was a Watchman any longer. Hadn't been, since people started calling him Santiago. Just hadn't worked out, and he'd ended up on his own again -- not that he'd ever, really, not been on his own.

Firmly, he pushed the memories away -- now was not the time, nor was there ever likely to be a time. The universe was unjust, and there wasn't a damned thing that he -- or anyone -- could do about it. It was an old wound, and though still quite painful, was not unfamiliar. One could grow accustomed to a great many things.

Rarely is this a good thing.

Wes contemplated this for a minute, delving back into his mind, and the questions came. he chose to take them one at a time.

"So, some Gunslingers have dropped out from their responsibility? Become criminals?" he said, phrasing it carefully.

"Yes, there have been some few. The most notable are William the Younger and Doctor Holiday."

"Does anyone know their real names? And what happened to them?"

"Most of them, no." Azrael let out a soft sigh, reassembling the revolver. "The majority are listed as dead within the Archives. Only those few who were recognized upon their true death are known, though the rest were recognized as Gunslingers by their weapons and their skill."

"Have any just...disappeared out of the map? Never found?"
Wes was running his mind at a mile a minute

"A few have. Those who disappear for too long are named dead in the Archives and given their funeral rights. That's generally after about twenty years with no news of them." He folded his hands in his laps, heaving a soft sigh. "It's not often that Gunslingers simply vanish from the face of the earth, nor is it easy for one to do so. We're a recognizable breed, whether we carry the implements of our profession or not."

Wes looked over Azrael for a moment, scanning for anything that would stand out. He couldn't find anyting, maybe the way he carried himself.

"Are you only recognizable by each other so easily? Because in my hometown, Gunslingers were just a myth my pa used to put me to sleep at night."

He paused to think a moment. "Well, I suppose we would be best recognizable to each other, if the one is hiding his nature. We know best what to look for. It's..." He paused again. "Well... it's hard to describe... Think though. Look between myself, Mina, Val, and Santiago. Compare what you see and feel from us to everyone else you've ever met. Think on it."

The Gunslinger rose, dusting off his lap and rear. "The food smells ready. I'll get some for myself then turn in. I'll need some sleep before my watch."

One of his field plates was produced from his pack, along with the accompanying silverware and his portion was supped out. He ate with his usual silence before kicking off his boots. His hat was set aside, and his coat rolled into an improvised pillow. By all appearances, he was asleep the moment his head hit his coat.

Mina laid a comforting hand on Val's shoulder for a long moment, then returned to her bedroll, next to where her lover now lay. And with but a breath was asleep.

Val

I looked over at Santiago's slow forming frown and chuckled wryly "Yeah it's always way too complicated....but you did ask." My shrug turned into a loose limbed stretch. "But what ever it takes to get the job done"