Miles Jebediah Dyson's Story

The sound of heavy boots treading the path before Star, Roger and Miles himself. The more they walked forwards, the closer it came to them. The silhouette of an old two-pronged hat that folded out along the sides. The clank of the two heavy revolvers at his side became strikingly clear. By the way his feet fell, this man was no drunkard, no simpleton. After all the gunfire--he obviously was either not scared, insane, or knew what was going on. Perhaps it was all three. But the outline of a six foot two man dressed in simple worn denim garments; the rustle of his old duster ruffling in the wind also became apparent. The man's gruff appearance would give most the assumption "bounty hunter" from the light weight of his attire and general overall look--that was until one looked at the tarnished badge on his head that screamed "official".

The two highly detailed revolvers at either hip meant that this man wasn't just some dumb shit ready to get himself shot up. His demeanor would hold an intimidating factor to it. It told anyone that if they underestimated him, undermined him, would pay most dearly for it. Marshal held, betwixt his gloved fingers a cigar. Pre-lit one would find an aroma of cedar, barnyard, and a subtle fruit taste that reminds one of cognac--if they had ever had the chance. The cigar was firm to the touch and the wrapper had only a few small veins. The construction was equally impressive. As Marshal lit up the cigar in-front of them to find a full-flavored smoke with earth, subtle spice, and plenty of cedar. The draw was firm and the solid gray ash was sturdy.

"I hear you been causing a lot of trouble, Miss Starlett. I'll get back to you on my watch I know you stole from me. My acquaintance is with the gentleman beside you there, the one in the suit." Marshal took another, nonchalant drag off his cigar. Surprisingly, he wasn't coming on conceited or condescending with his body posture or even his southern vernacular. "We got rules in this town gentleman. One of those rules: No killing a man cold blood and no bullying. People come and they go to places like this to escape that infernal desolate hellhole outside them gates. The minute your foot touches the city limits--you are in my territory." He placed emphasis on the word 'my'. "I don't own the folks around here, but if we start bringing the world that's out there in here, once we got no rules--we got a problem. I'm supposed to protect and serve, I can't protect and serve the dead. Now I don't care about two-bit thieves and who's cheated who. I'll leave that up to the gentlemen or women to decide. But if the shit hits the fan and there's gotta be a death. There's one plain ole easy as pie rule: You. Don't. Do. It. In. Town--are we clear? I don't care if the drunkard spat on your mommas necklace, you club him and move on. Next time someone mentions a guy in a suit shot a man dead--I'll be around. " He tipped his hat. "Glad I could have a minute of your time." He then glanced at Starlet with an accommodating grin. "Miss, would really appreciate that watch."

Marshal carried on casually sauntering past the trio, gratifyingly smoking his cigar.

Miles trudged along, ignoring the little speech that Star had given him. He did ignore it, but didn't quite let it off is mind. However, what was really on his mind was Roarek. Yes, that lying scumbag that Miles had made a deal with just hours earlier. Part of him wanted to go up to his little hiding spot and unload all of the lead he could carry, but he knew better than that. The man was powerful, Miles already knew that. Perhaps a bit too powerful? For all he knew, there could be spied everywhere. Miles kept a close eye on his surroundings. The clouds had parted from the full moon, and a halo of moonlight descended upon the town. Miles lit another cigarette while keeping track of the footsteps, windows, just about anywhere a potential spy could be lurking.

Meanwhile, Roger was following close behind, carrying on his conversation with Star. "Ass is an understatement," Star said to him earlier. Roger could tell that she didn't like him very much, and he didn't blame her. First time he met Miles, he pretty much hated the guy. A man with a lot of money and pride can rub people the wrong way. Roger had noticed that Star briefly studied him before asking him the big question. "How can you work for a guy like him?..." Suddenly, a wave of information had come flowing back to him. He was reminded of the day, the day that he and Miles met. She proceeded, "You owe him or something? I can't imagine the two of you being the best of friends. You don't strike me as a type like him."

"You're right," Roger said, "we are nothing alike. To tell you the truth, I hated Miles when we first met. He rubbed me the same impression he did you. A haughty, selfish man who likes to flaunt his money around. With that in mind, I wonder why he even brought us under his wing. See, before Miles found me and the rest of the the bodyguards you're seeing, we were just a tribe of wandering nomads. We dressed and lived in a way that made the mutant tribes to the east seem like high class. We lived miserable lives, going about each day just to find sustenance so that we can see the sun another day. Then, he came along. He brought us all in, giving us food, clothes, shelter, basically everything that we needed in exchange for our loyalty. This is why he and us henchmen seem to have a mutual understanding. Even though you could find more experienced henchmen for hire at New Antetum, Miles took an interest in us. As I got to know him more, he seemed to show a softer side. Really, it seemed like what he really wanted was companionship. Guns for hire can be pretty handy, but they only want money. They don't usually show the same loyalty or mutual understanding that we do. I think Miles took us in because he wanted soldiers that he could trust, soldiers that weren't just in it for the money. For me, he can be a good person when he wants to, but he doesn't usually show it."

Up ahead, Miles walked in silence. As they were walking, Star spoke him. She gave him directions to the hotel they were at before, and Miles nodded. "I got your memo," he said. They took a few more steps before Miles spoke to her again. He spoke in a more pensive tone than he had before. "Okay, I guess I should probably say this now. I know that we haven't been getting along. Hell, we may end up hating each other by the time this is over. The thing is, though, we're after a guy we both want dead, and we both need each other's help to do it. That's why we should just treat this like business if it keeps going on like this. After we're done, we can both go our separate ways, how's that sound?"

Suddenly, Miles was distracted by his talk with Star. He could hear the thud of heavy leather boots walking towards them. Thud. Thud. Thud. They could hear the footsteps get closer until they were standing before a man with an old, worn duster. Miles took one look at his badge and knew what this man wanted. He could see in his eyes that this man had a strict sense of justice, and the will to carry it out without fail. He stared at the man with a cold stare as he was laying down the law. After the man had finished, Miles responded with an emotionless response. "Don't you worry, marshal. No one in this town will be harmed." The marshal casually strolled past the group, but not before mentioning something to star about a pocket watch. The group continued onwards, with Miles letting Star lead them to the hotel.

Star walked beside Roger and listened to his story. It softened her a bit because she felt like she could relate to him and his story. In fact, it wasn't long ago before she herself was out on her own without a place to rest. If she hadn't eventually found her way into Roram and gotten help from some people, she probably wouldn't be alive today. So she tried to imagine Miles as something more that a rich nob with nothing but a suit to make him approachable, but it was hard. Maybe if she squinted real hard and turned her head the right way...

Miles turned around and spoke to her. It convicted her at her own rashness, but in her defense he did chase her throughout town. Not really the best way to win a girls confidences. She knew not to let emotion get in the way of negotiations, she had one too many bad nights to count for because she let emotion get the best of her. She looked from Roger to Miles and then to the small group around them. "Alright, I can put differences aside for the time being, but also understand this: I got enough friends in this place that if you doublescross me, they can make things miserable for you." She needed to make sure he was clear on that fact. She may only be one girl, but there were powers higher than her to worry about here.

She was about to respond with more when she too was distracted by the sound of footsteps. Looking in that direction she took in the sight of the marshal before them. Oh no, she knew this guy. He always appeared as a non-violent threat to her, not yet at least. She never did get a long with the law, and this guy was always a stickler for it. She listened to his talk and made sure to keep a straight face when he mentioned her. He began to walk away and she listened while Miles responded.

"Yeah and I don't know what pocket watch you're talking about!" She called after him. Of course she probably did. She did give Trip a pocket watch for his last birthday, but who remembers where she got it from.

She turned back to Miles and beckoned him to follow her. Things were quiet and most vendors were shut down. You could hear the far off clamber of the whore houses and underground casinos, but for the most part only the murmurs for the saloons behind the closed door could be heard. She led them back to the inn they had found her at and motioned for them to wait behind. She sauntered over to the bar and casually leaned against it. Trip was manning the bar and had his back to her, but once he saw her reflection he quickly spun around and reached out to hold her face in his hands.

"Star! You're alright. I was so worried, what happened?!" He searches her face for injury and she slowly removed his hands from her face.

"I'm alright, just a misunderstanding." By this time Trips gaze had found the group behind her and his eyes narrows in suspicion and confusion. Star kept his hands in hers and she tried to steer his eyes back on her. "Trip, I'm gonna need a favor."

"What have you gotten yourself into this time? Why are they here?" He pointed an accusing finger in their direction.

"Trip, I'm going to need a few rooms." She tried to speak softly but she was getting a little irritated. There was no need to get Trip involved in this. He didn't need to know details.

His eyes roamed over to the group as he hesitated. "I don't like this..." he continued to hold his glare but moved into an office behind the bar to grab a few keys.

She quickly took the keys from his hands and pushed up on her tiptoes to be able to kiss his cheek. "Thank you, we'll be gone soon, I promise."

She made her way back to Miles and set a couple pairs of keys in his hands. "We can stay here without anyone questioning us. It's small, but the people in here are loyal and won't ask too many questions. We can get started when you guys are settle in."

Out of the wastes of the world outside the gates into Roram, a figure on the searing hot face of the landscape emerged. A lone figure appeared. Bulky in appearance, the heat waves rising from the ground reflected the image as it tread towards the small makeshift town like an approaching plague. Its faceless façade was cloaked by a veil of thick cloth, black goggles and a combat helmet. He looked like a walking tank with the armament that tirelessly toted with him; assault rifles clanking against each other, the duffel bag strapped to his armored backside as was his shotgun. However, as he encroached further and further inland--it became clear that weapons were not the only thing he was carrying.

The town of Roram came to life; a whirlwind of voices--whispered concerns, threats to which he acknowledged none, and those that were curious to see this vagabond. To know if he was the one. The Albino Man, supposedly a hybrid that massacred two towns already. What were they to do? He probably had more guns strapped to him, than the whole town itself. And what was that in his right hand? The two guards outside saw what it was first and were taken back and awe struck. They were afraid, they were terrified and he hadn't even had to do anything--yet. Yes, he held the head of one of the town's very own 'elite'. It was clasped tightly in a gloved hand by the scalp. The face was, desiccated from the extreme temperature of the midday sun. The flesh had a leathery texture to its appearance and as one might have the clear notion--was putrefied. The rotten flesh just barely able to cling to the bleached bone beneath. His face had been chewed on but not completely gone. There were some features.

One grabbed his Colt revolver, the hammer cocking back with the assistance of the man's thumb. To the audible 'clicking' action, Cain simply turned his blanketed face towards the man giving him a subtle reminder. You see, his left hand still had the tomahawk out and the skin textured leather gloves he wore--let out a soft squeal of their own as his fingers tightened around the lever-action handle as if to say ' you pull yours, I'll pull mine' without the utterance of a single word between them. The large, round black eyes of Cain's goggles stared emotionless into the face of a panic stricken man who then tried to lift, aim, and fire at Cain.

However, Cain's eyes watched carefully now. In the brevity of the moment the man took to gain his sights, Cain firmly and swiftly came in arc starting from below and traveling upwards at angle until the hatchet burrowed into, and past the man's temple with a sickening 'crack' as bone splintered. The more sickening thing was, was the man was still alive. Lobotomized, but still breathing. There came a harsh, quick yelp from the second sentry as he fumbled for his gun. His hands were shaking, he had backed up quickly to try and put distance between him and Cain.

Cain reeled, pivoting in a 360 degree manner, tearing away the hatchet and sending the body of the man's partner towards him. They both collapsed, backs to stomach. The man's hand still had a hold of his side arm but as soon as he drew it, his wrist bent inwards. There was a second sickening 'pop'. In the micro second that his wrist bent to withdraw, Cain had stomped on the bent compilation of cartilage and bone. The force of which, was an even more grisly sight as the resonating tremors that vibrated through his bone structure from the tour de force blow had, in effect, blown out the bone causing it to crumple and the flesh be perforated in many angles and ways. This man screamed, yet it was on deaf ears when it came to Cain. The city, however, heard this man's wail like a banshee cry.

"But if there is harm, then you shall pay life for life, eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot, burn for burn, wound for wound, stripe for stripe." Cain uttered, it was from the book of Exodus. Taking his tomahawk, he turned back to the gates, walking away with the man's mangled arm causing considerable an irreconcilable pain. He brought his boot up, he kicked the doors ajar, and readily moved into town. A great many people fled in terror when they saw the rotten, half eaten head of a man they had formally known. Cain, carried it to the arms dealer that employed him to begin with. With a baffled look of why everyone was running and this lone man was simply...walking. It too made them very nervous, but it was only the beginning of their horror. Cain simply lifted his hand carrying the disembodied head of their field agents. One threw up immediately, the other backed away very quickly. Cain dropped the head on the counter, letting the ten pounds of flesh and bone bounce and roll towards them before carrying the gear that he had gotten onto Commando Capacity.

Marshal was in the midst of lighting yet another cigar, his other had long since burned away to ashes, when he heard peppered fire and turned his head in calm composure. His black gloved hand flicked the lit match, blanking out the flame that had burned the soft leaves and filler between the wrapper and produced a soft amber glow. He was back on watch duty. Not only that, it seemed 'The Judge' was apparently going to have to lay the law down pat for some folks. He placed the cigar precariously between his lips, letting it simply hang from slightly puckered lips. Inhaling the intoxicating and aromatic flavors, he cause the cigar to burn brighter and illuminate his otherwise dark face. Upon exhaling, he vented the gathered smoke and blew it of the other corner of his mouth like a freight train blowing steam into the air.

"Well, fuck. Guess that means I'm back on duty." He said to himself, throwing the match stick away to the side before his hand slid to the ornate revolver on his right hip. It was black, highly polished and held a beautiful design on the metal; lavishly covered with American style scrollwork and acanthus designs. Near the end of the barrel, which protruded past the holster and followed the seam of his denim pants--was inscribed the two singular words: The Judge. He patted the holster in quiet temptation. He then headed towards the rough-and-tumble conflict that was occurring, slowly gripping the handle of his pistol. It was a deadly resolve that ran through him. Once drawn, his side arms could not be simply put down until the matter was resolved.

However, he always sought other ways than simply a means of violence to obtain his ends. Usually violence worked best, nevertheless, there was always hope right? Coming upon the siege, he watched carefully--Miles was across the way, firing blindly. Starlett had just shot a man point blank after slashing his throat open. This needed to stop, and now. He looked around further, nothing that the collective menagerie of bandits, outlaws and raiders were in close proximity. A single handgun wouldn't do the job quickly when it needed to be done so--naturally he improvised. He turned around, this time hastily, duck and weaving in between buildings. He kicked the front door in of the general goods storage with the elderly man standing near it looking out the window.

"Sorry old man, I'm borrowing a couple things." He said without stopping. He stepped into the back, and began digging and digging. Finally he came upon two blue colored bottles. Walking back out of the room he lifted the bottles up to the old man as he walked on by. "I'm taking these, put'em on my tab." He calmly strolled out, but he did so with haste still quickening his his steps. He entered through the back door of the house that the marauders were near. Bullets came flying past him, one buzzing through his chocolate brown hair, shaving an inch or so as he made his way to the front door and then suddenly--would veer to his left. He ambled up a set of stairs, marched around the bannister and then barged through the on the summit of the house. He had unscrewed the tops of the blue bottles before he came out in the open and as soon as he had--he poured one bottle on one side and the other bottle to the other side.

The men were drenched in would--at first appear like simply water. Drawing his pistol, he let the hand cannon speak for itself. A resounding 'crack' like there was suddenly a thunderstorm rolling in. If being splashed and wet hadn't gotten everyone's attention--his gun surely would have.

"I don't know what in the hell possessed you all to think you could come into MY town and start popping off rounds- In here, I am God, so it ain't happening no more. I'll give ya'll one chance--one chance only to lay your guns down and to get your asses out of Roram. Or so help me I will burn your world to the ground." He took his cigar from his lips with one hand, holding it between his fingers and held his revolver in the other. His voice was fully convicted, he meant what he had said--even if the marauders hadn't yet realized they had been soaked in an extremely combustible and flammable liquid called Kerosene.

The bandits fired relentlessly; their shots reverberating in Miles's ears. Miles ducked behind the corner as the bullets flew by and hastily pulled out some ammo. He opened up his revolver and quickly put the bullets in one by one. Miles knelt down to the ground; his eyes closed as each bullet ate away at the brick and cement. He finally turned around the corner and fired. One of the bullets hit a bandit in the knee, sending him toppling over onto the cold, hard concrete. Another bullet hit a bandit in the armor, causing it to ricochet into an upstairs window of the hotel. Miles finally aimed more discreetly; hitting a bandit right between the eyes. The bandit slammed into the ground with blood gushing from his wound.

Miles finally ducked behind the corner again to reload his revolver. He dug around in his pocket only to find that he had run out ammo. Shit! Now what am I supposed to do?. He was at his wits end. He could just run up to the bandits and slit their throats with his pocket knife, but that would be too risky. He could run back across the street, but that could also put some holes in him. Miles truly was out of options. He looked out onto the battlefield. The bandits had two dead and one incapacitated. Roger was alright, but one of his men was shot dead. Miles was tempted cross the street, but he feared that a bullet would hit him. He finally decided to go against his better judgment and run across. For the most part, he was alright, except for a bullet that grazed his arm. He jumped into the doorway, making it into the hotel in relative safety. He searched his henchman and pulled out some extra rounds. He loaded them into his revolver and joined Roger in the gunfight.

Suddenly, everything became quiet. As they were all shooting, Miles could hear the sound of liquid being poured, then a gun firing into the air. Miles looked up; only to find that the marshal they encountered earlier had joined the fray. His face was stern and his posture had authority. He stood there like a judge in a courtroom, examining all that was before him. "I don't know what in the hell possessed you all to think you could come into MY town and stars popping off rounds- in here, I am God..." He laid down the law with authority and conviction. The bandits all put down their weapons and raised their hands up; each of them with a look of fear in their eyes.

Miles looked down to see that the bandits were all drenched in a strange liquid. He came to the conclusion that it was the marshal's doing, and that the liquid was likely to be flammable. Miles stood up while casually placing his revolver back in its holder. He pulled out his lighter and lit a smoke. He walked out of the store and slowly clapped in a condescending manner. "Well done boys, you sure made it far, trying to kill me and all." He looked at the bandits with a presumptuous smile as he let his cigarette light up; showing his smug look. "Now then," he said as he slowly walked up to them, "why don't you tell me all about your boss's plan to send me to the grave?" He felt confident asking this, knowing that the bandits were in total submission now. "I don't know if you realize this, but that liquid you all are soaked in is highly flammable. I'm sure you all would hate it if I 'accidentally' dropped my cigarette."

"Take him..." That was all Miles needed to hear from the man. The marshal gave Miles a scolding the same way an upset father would scold a child. He gave him a warning, then went on his way. Miles nodded to the marshal as he went on his way, then turned his attention to the bandit that lay before him. He was trembling on the ground, probably a mix of the cold night and the intense fear he was experiencing. Miles looked at him with a cold, unforgiving stare, and his eyes were wide with hatred. Walking up to the bandit, Miles crabbed his collar, then punched him in the face. "Tell me what Roarek's plans are", Miles said in a bitter voice. The bandit only shook his head, saying, "I don't know, I don't know!"

"Tsk tsk tsk," Miles said, shaking his head scornfully, "what are we gonna do with you?" He let go of the bandit's collar, but kicked him square in the face before he could hit the ground. The bandit flew through the air momentarily before crashing back down to earth several feet from where he just was. Miles coolly walked towards him. The bandit tried crawling away, but Miles yanked him back by the collar. He threw the bandit to the ground then put his foot on his chest. "I'll ask again, what are Roarek's plans?," he said in an aggravated voice. Miles was getting impatient with this guy, something that definitely wouldn't help the bandit's survival. Again, he said, "I don't know!"

At this point, Miles was plain pissed off. He got down and put his hand on the bandit's throat, with his cigarette in the other hand. "Damn it, I've about had it up to here with you! You better tell what the hell your boss's plans are before I shove this cigarette in your eye and let the kerosene do the rest!" The bandit's heart was pounding, now. He looked into Miles's eyes and could see that he wasn't screwing around. The bandit finally got to talking, his voice much weaker than before. "Alright... alright... I'll tell you. Besides us, he was going to send someone else to kill you. He was also going to send his posse on you, if you go back to his camp. There, I told you everything I know!"

"Who else was he going to send after me?," Miles said in a harsh tone.

"I don't know, he never said! Please let me go, I don't know anything els-"

Miles shot the bandit, point blank in the forehead. "Fucking useless," he muttered to himself. He stood up and rejoined the others. As he made his back to the broken doorway, Roger came to join him. "So, boss, what did our guy say?"

Miles shrugged nonchalantly. "He didn't say much. Just that Roarek was sending someone else after us and that he would ambush us if we go after him."

"Did he say who else Roarek sent after us?"

"Not really. He said he didn't know."

Everyone was silent for a moment. In the silence, a cold wind gently howled in the night, giving it a sort of ominous presence. It was as if the very air itself was conveying a message. Perhaps of a prophesy or a long, lost tale. Maybe it was a foreboding of things to come-- a calm before the storm. The wind began to howl louder and louder, and no one uttered a word. And then, in an instant, it died down. It gave an ominous chill in the air, and it made Miles's skin crawl.

Miles finally interrupted the long silence. "It's pretty cold out here. Let's head back in and get some rest. I'm tired."

He stepped through the open doorway to see, to no surprise, that everyone was highly distressed. Most of the people had just now come out of hiding from under the tables, and Trip was peeking over the counter. "Rest easy, everyone, the fight's over," Miles said. Everyone slowly came out of hiding before awkwardly heading to their rooms. Miles dropped his cigarette on the floor, crushed it, then called for his men to come to their room. It had been a long day, and everyone was ready to finally settle down.