William Silvaro's Story

The Posse wanted something on the mid-day train when it arrived at Fort Travis, which meant that they would need someone in the town, watching for anything suspicious that might be going on there, any unusual characters who might want to fill the outlaws with lead. The problem was, of course, that the group of men were all outlaws, in one way or another, and should any of them be recognized they'd be shot, or worse, thrown in jail and questioned. However, this was not the case with one of the newest members of the group, Doc Silver.

William had been sent on ahead of the train a few days earlier. He hadn't killed anyone yet, no one of any importance who would be missed anyway, and they had yet to put his picture on any wanted posters. He had kept a low profile, which was part of his plan. Keep a low profile, stay around with the outlaws only as long as you need to, find the man who ruined your life, and end his. A simple enough plan, but it was more complicated than that. For instance, now he sat in a saloon in the walled off town of Fort Travis, keeping an eye out for anyone who might but a damper on the Posse's plans, which meant look for anyone with a badge or a gun. It seemed like most people here carried a gun, which was a common sight anywhere, and to him, they all looked suspicious. Even the lady who sat at the bar now, drinking whiskey, waiting or something. She had come in some time earlier and watched a game of cards before she had set to drinking. Watching her down the alcohol hit a nerve with William, made his throat dry, but he knew that fire water was the last thing he needed, especially today.

But then, a man he marked as very dangerous entered the saloon. He was an odd one, wearing black robes in this head, and a hood to hide his face. The man took a seat in a dark corner, and seemed to not longer exist to the others after a few moments, which William figured to be his plan. Sit in the dark, blend into the shadows, draw as little suspicion as possible, then wait. The question was, what was he waiting on?

A short time after this, William got his answer. A rather normal looking man, with a layer of dust on his clothes from walking the streets of Fort Travis, came into the saloon and took a seat at the bar before ordering a drink. The dark figure approached him, and the two set off for the darkness to talk. After watching them talk for a bit, unable to hear anything the man in black said, William stands, finishes his drink, and lays his money on the table before walking out and back into the sunshine.

It took only a few long minutes for William to make his way over to the train station, where the train was just pulling in to stop for a time. by the time he got to the ancient platform people were moving in and out of the machine, making the doctor think of some monstrous blood transfusion. The old blood being the people, some of them flooding out of the train as if from a wound, the new blood moving into the vain that was the train through but one or two entrances. Looking around, he could see a few other people he felt should have notes taken about them. There was a man atop a horse near the tracks, who looked as though he might be the law around this town, and as he makes his way over to a bench to sit and wait, his knee starting to pain him, noticed a woman on the railing, looking as if she crawled out from the gutters, watching everything about the train and the people closely. Obviously, she was looking for something in particular, not that William was worried. Instead, he takes out his silver pocket watch and checks the time as he waits.

"Fort Travis Junction!"

The shout carried down the center of Dalton's car, and roused him from his slumber. The heat of the desert they had been crossing for the last several hours had carried him off into the ether, granting him a brief reprieve from the uncomfortably hazy, bone-dry air. Jacob realized that his mouth was incredibly dry, and his suit - even made of the lightest material he could afford - was uncomfortably warm. He exhaled a dry breath and realized, suddenly, that he was not only hot and sleepy, but incredibly hungry and thirsty. His seat-mate had already up and left, and even now people were departing the train. Porters were moving towards the freight cars towards the rear; although Dalton did not notice the mercenaries standing guard nearby. He was too busy standing, as if in a trance, and slumping down the center aisle, heading towards the steps and the town of Fort Travis Junction.

Slumping onto the platform, Jacob realized that it may actually have been cooler outside than in - perhaps it was his mind, or perhaps it was the fact that the train was more efficient at baking things than a godforsaken oven - but either way he was grateful for the reprieve. He moved silently off the platform and cast his eyes about for the bar, eventually settling on a building that looked altogether like a saloon straight out of another dime novel; batwing doors and player piano and everything. Jacob smiled a bit, and adjusted his hat, working to keep the sun from his eyes. He quickly strode down the main street and into the bar.

He immediately regretted his decision. The room didn't turn and stare at him like in so many cliche western movies - rather, the air carried tension, foreboding. A man passed him on the way in, checking a silver watch. Jacob quickly stepped out of his way, his overly large steamer trunk bumping into a chair nearby. The loud noise didn't interrupt any of the conversations around him, but Jacob felt no less at ease.

He'd taken no more than three steps when he came across a disheartening sight - two men, one of them completely unremarkable, sat in a corner. As mentioned, one of them was dressed in the same dusty clothes he'd seen everyone outside wearing, but the other - well, as his father would have said, 'He was an object.' He was dressed in all black from head to toe and the very air around him seemed to shimmer with some sort of malicious aura.

Jacob suddenly didn't feel so thirsty. He hastily backed up and batted the batwing doors aside, and made his way back into the street. Along the way he passed a vendor selling some cheap food and drink, and passed a couple dollars along to him for some food and a bottle of water. His face looked ashen as he made his way to a bench nearby and sat down. He took no note of the woman standing on an upper balcony across the street from him.

James Doolin had been watching the train ever since it pulled in. The antiqued machine needed to be lubricated at multiple stops on its way to the other side of the Mississippi; it was the process of a time before them, like an echo reappearing long after one has spoken. Indeed, James had always enjoyed seeing trains; they were the most complicated and interesting amalgamations of steel and fire that had ever graced his little farming community of Abilene, Kansas. Their whistles could be heard from over the largest hill he'd seen until he was 16, from what seemed like miles away; as soon as it was confirmed, he'd race to meet it with his brothers and sisters, waving the conductor on as the shipment of coal or food or people passed away from them like a dream at dawn. Those were the good days, filled with simple sunsets and pretty neighbor girls. As Leos' voice buzzed in his ear, he decided that it was all worth the work he was doing so far away from home.

"Ganger to tha Ghost, we's got a straight. Be ready to cash, please."

The plan was simple enough. The real question was if it would go right. He hadn't tried anything like they were about to, but after riding with the Kansas Rangers during the Bloodletting, he hadn't done much of anything more than twice. It was the lifestyle, the idea of adaptation inside the frame of their capabilities, which was more than they'd figure a lot of the time. Either way, it was time to sing old Willy and Val their cues; he had taken to singing old folk songs learned on the trail in Kansas as a way of confirming to his 'Posse' that he saw elements of their heists ready to be executed.

"Ah been with Sally, ah been with Sue, ah been with Cindy and 'er sister, too." He huffed up a breath. "Now ahm tryna settle down, start a family with that cute lil Kim," James paused a moment to take note of the plume of smoke coming up from the great steam engine on the train, hissing with energy. "But now that ah tasted blood, now this wine tastes too thin."

He realized most of the townsfolk seemed ugly. Really ugly. Royal Territory Of California ugly. These weren't farmers, surely; these were folk who made their living in the fort. Self-sustenance inside 'civilized' areas always resulted in the worst mish-mash of genetic code that could be combined. A blender of the bullshit; only the weakest members of the species lived in towns like this. James bent his head down to spit in the dirt, more out of contempt than necessity. One out of every five women who passed him were even worth glancing back at; out in the farmland, a farmboy NEVER gave the neighbor girls less than two looks. Maybe it was the water that made them so pretty; he had to admit, the water source of Fort Travis Junction seemed tepid, likely infected with some ungodly parasite. Perhaps this was God's own way of telling James that this state was cursed and needed to be robbed of their treasures, such as the one on the train he had caught wind about. Either way, all he kept thinking about was the sweetness of little Jolene Hutchinson.

"Ah got a needle, don' be alarmed, it shoots streams o' lovely things into my arm. Well ah'd sell my own mother for that sweet heroin." He tipped his hat to an older woman who looked back at him, somewhat disgusted or horrified at the lyrics. "Oh, now that I've tasted blood, now this wine seems too thin."

He began strolling toward the saloon. Maybe they didn't call it a saloon, or it wasn't titled the saloon, but Goddammit, it was a saloon. They served beer and pussy, and where he came from, that was called a saloon. Regardless, he didn't see much of a fighting presence there; no military or peacekeepers in uniform, for sure. If there were, they'd be served copper-coated candy if they decided to put up a fight once the gang rose into action.

"Sometimes the white coats, they hide black hearts, we learna to sugar coat the same black guards." The last part of this stanza was one of his favorites, surely one lyric he'd take to his grave; the Kansas Mounted Rangers sang the song often, and they'd get the loudest when the last stanza came about. "Well, ah turn lead into gold, ah'll cure original sin. Oh, now that ah tasted blood, now this wine seems too thin."

He stopped and looked out. He hadn't seen Willy or Val anywhere. Maybe he wasn't looking hard enough; maybe he didn't WANT to see them. At the very least, he didn't want to give their position away by constantly eyeing them as they moved, so he stood in place, leaning against one of the posts outside the saloon doors, staying out of the way as he reached into his coat and found a ratty cigar, which promptly went between his lips as he lit up a large flame from several matches at one time. He puffed the smoke out, enjoying the flavor as he took one last look around before breaking radio silence; nobody was talking. If they didn't acknowledge him, he'd have to improvise, and that would be too much fun.

"Willy, how's the rest of the song go, ah?"

"Ganger to tha Ghost, we's got a straight. Be ready to cash, please."

The commlink buzzed to life, something that had felt like an eternity and it was exactly the thing that Leos was waiting for. He reached overhead in the cockpit, flipping a couple switches here, turning a couple dials there, then punched a small red button labeled Ignition.

As he pushed it in, the external fans built into the wings started spinning, generating enough lift to push the craft from the ground it was perched. The Insurgence was alive...

"This is Ghost. Little blue bird is in the air, I repeat, blue bird is in the air."

Finishing those words, with his left hand, Leos set his little radio on loop, playing his little "pump music".

The blue metal beast roared to life, its nose shifting into a climb, quickly hovering away from its perch. It thrusted forwards, maintaining altitude as well as gaining speed, its nose now slightly leaning towards the ground. Leo check his altometer...

10 meters and rising...

15 meters and rising...

He looked out through the cockpit's windshield, pulling back on the throttles. People outside didn't know if this guy had a deathwish, appearing as if he wasn't going to make it over the station.

25 meters and rising... And Leo had made it over the station's topmost exterior paneling. Veering off away from the town's fortifications, the Insurgence appeared to be heading straight into a dust storm.

"Ghost to gang, my little birdie goes tweet tweet tweet..."