Pickle on the Nightmare Wall - Part 7

Can You Breathe

The air lay heavy with anticipation, the high sun casting shadows in sharp relief on the edge of the treeline. Pickle could easily pick out the twisted shape impaled with the javelin she had shot moments before. The corpse was bubbling and fuming with acrid black smoke. Now it appeared to be melting around the shaft, sliding down slowly. The screams had lasted less than a second, though they had seemed to hang in the air for longer. The corpse had twitched for a short while. The smoke now was just continuing to grow in intensity, the corpse long since stilled.

Gunther had taken in the situation and was now giving clipped orders in a calm collected tone. Not barking or shouting, and frankly, the rooftop watchtower was now quiet as a church. A silent wake. He told the Ball twins to spin down the turrets and everyone to go dark but stay ready. For a moment, she wondered if red and ready were related. Gas, tension and chem weapons were brought out and checked. The spin weapons could be turned on relatively quickly, though the seconds for them to spin up could be their death. Right now, this was about managing the emissions, hoping the ripples would calm and deescalate back to the still pond of the routine she had grown used to.

This all registered dimly in Pickle's mind as her memories drifted into darker places. She watched the burning baby dragon corpse smoke with billows of black smoke. The guts and internals of the creature seemed to react with the ironclad javelin. Not a mild peanut allergy. More like a violent chemical reaction, the closest point of reference that Pickle's mind could conjure was the expensive cocktails, some chemical, others magic, occasionally served in the club. The stylishly dressed server dropping an overpriced cube of ice or magic charm into the beverage producing smoke, rainbow colour changes or full illusions to spring up from the liquid on contact. Though in truth, the foul black smoke reminded her of burning rubber. Her mind flashed to a darker and earlier memory.

The smoke stuck to the trees and stained them with a heaviness, making leaves limp. How could smoke, air, be heavy and still float up? Black particulate staining the world. Her mind searched for a connection. These days grav vehicles dominate the southern continent, with the main arteries of travel being rail. The efficiency of rail and the power of the metal tracks in this world of magic and low taxation were the easier to maintain options, typically over roads. Almost all wheeled vehicles were electric or drawn by magical beasts. Liquid fueling stations were speciality depos far and few between, not roadside repetitions. Anyone who wished to maintain the archaic and dangerous chem engines did so as prestige items. Still, you did see wheeled vehicles on occasion. High-end corporate variants might have articulating smart wheels or some other modern alternative. Rubber tires were still used in places and common in scrap heaps.

Looking at the smoking corpse, her mind flashed back to that day that Jack Jack and the boys had necklaced a rival gang leader. The practice was cruel and old involving flammable liquid, wearing a tire as a necklace and usually staking the person down. It had been popular in this part of the world once with freedom fighters and terrorists alike. Jack Jack boys had just used long sticks, spears almost, in a circle to keep the rival leader pinned in as he screamed and howled, it had been for much longer than the beasts' short shrieks, but they were now in her head again. The globules of melting black burning flesh on contact. The smell and clinging black smoke that stained the landscape came back into her mind as she saw the smoke billow.

Rough hands shook her. The world rocked, and then a slap ran out. Pain rising in her cheek. This was not a light tap on the cheek with a loose wrist but a forceful wallop literally knocking sense back in her. Pickle felt her brain rattle as she looked around and saw Gunther's eyes locked with hers.

"You good?" His question was urgent.
She nodded on reflex, feeling the memories retreat.

Sarah was now at the ballista in Pickle's place. Pickle was sitting on the floor of the watchtower, dazed. The Ball twins had spun down the turrets, as ordered, and now were sighting down two gas rifles, both single-shot long-range weapons. Gunther looked at Pickle intently, evaluating some hidden math from which he did not like the sum.

"You did good, the Wyvern is dead. It needed killing fast. Hopefully, we can deal with the fallout without this going hot. Every minute we can avoid killing or making a fuss, we are more likely to survive. Go join Leon and Ka on roof walk. Can't have too many on the tower."

With that, Gunther directed her to the wooden steps leading down to the roof. She grabbed her spin rifle and checked her gas revolver. She walked down the steps and watched Gunther joining Sarah by the ballista, mounting his large chem rifle on the railing. Walking down the steps, she saw Ka on the east side and Leon on the west side of the tower. Both were walking back and forth on the roof edge taking stock of the area down below. Not knowing exactly where to go, she went to Leon. He raised a friendly hand in greeting.

"Nice shot Pickle, it was a clean kill."
"Thanks. Where do you want me?"
"Walk with me for a bit. You can use your cap gun to support me until we go hot. Then spin up your rifle."

She briefly swung the rifle off her back and checked it once over before securing it on her back again. No spin rifles yet. She quickly checked her gas revolver and spun the barrel to inspect the caps. Thinking how little it would do to the baby Wyvern. The large dog-sized creature had thick scales. She was pretty confident it would kill a Wisp Cat or maybe even a Six Stalk.

"Don't worry, Wyvern don't normally stay close to their parents at that age." Leon seemed to mistake the point of Pickle's worried gun inspection. He pointed his rifle over the tree line. "Truth be told, that don't normally come this close to the line."

The smoke was now dying down from the corpse as everyone started to feel a bit more relaxed. Gone from billowing to a smouldering wisp. Maybe a minute after the first creatures they sighted were Pebbles. She had seen the little scavengers before and had been instructed not to shoot. Little bits of stone or wood crawled over the corpse. The climbing movement of the Pebbles was somewhere between the smooth motions of spiders and the linear scuttling of crabs. It depended on the little hermit creatures tiny white bodies and how they fit into their unique shell. Now they scrambled over the sight, picking at it.

They were carrion.

"Lekker, the little buggers will clean up the mess and leave the javelin well alone." Leon laughed.
"Leon why..." her question went unasked as a rough roar came from the nearby tree cover. More bark than roar. Leon dropped smoothly to a knee, taking aim. She followed him down with less grace using his aim to pinpoint the source.

"White Cats," Leon said in a severe low voice. "Only take the shot if you are certain. Body never head, not with that pea shooter."

Before she could ask for more, she saw the Pebbles had scattered from the sound. Washed away almost instantly into hiding. Though stationary, they were practically impossible to see. From the edge of the tree line, three shapes emerged. They were on all fours, cat-like, with long swishing tails. These tails were solid matter, thankfully, with maroon fur covering the body. Most disturbing was the dark brown, almost black bone growing out of their face. It was like their skulls had bubbled out. The bare white bones stained dark. Their eyes were set forward, the eyes of a hunter, small sunken dots in bone bowls. The bone flared on the edges, whiskers of bone matted together.

Not three shapes, five big cats. She couldn't believe she had almost missed the two larger animals as one jumped down from a tree branch. The dark bone had hidden it in the shadows proving a ballistic frontal shield as well as camouflage. They circled the corpse before sniffing the air. Leon adjusted his sight. Pickle pulled out her revolver. She wasn't confident at this distance on a moving target. She would wait.

Just as the creature seemed to catch a scent of something it liked and lowered its head to roar, its head exploded. Then all hell broke loose. Another cat flew to the side as its side exploded in a bloody fountain. Large javelin bolt narrowly dodged by the third cat. Some smaller bolts hit a fourth, wounding but not killing it. The fifth cat, one of two she had failed to see at first, was now charging towards them.

"Yours." Leon calmly ordered while keeping his aim on the charging cat.

Pickle fired. The first shot pinged off the creature's skull, staggering the cat but not stopping it. The creature had about 70 meters to cover, and at the rate it was running, it would be on them in under ten seconds. Her second shot missed, shooting high. Standing up, she aimed her third shot just over the skull, aiming for its rear. The bullet hit. The cat stumbled and fell forward into the dirt just shy of the red line. She quickly fired two more shots into the exposed chest of the creature. It jerked in pain at the first shot but fell still with the second.

"Reload."

Leon hadn't even looked up at her as he quietly gave the order to reload. She popped the drum, dropped the five spent caps onto the floor to collect later while holding her thumb over the unspent three left. Not wanting to touch the hot caps. They didn't get nearly as hot as chem rounds, but you could singe yourself on spent caps.

Pickle reached into her pouch to retrieve a few unspent caps and thumbed them into the empty chambers. She looked at Leon and then the horizon before asking the obvious question.

"What were those things?"
"White Cats, travel in packs. Hunters, so unless we get fokken unlucky, then sure, they are the last. Most things this far south will travel a far distance to keep out the way of White Cats. Just need to keep things quiet until the coast is clear. Not attract anything more."

Waiting for the other shoe to drop. Pickled looked over everything, evaluating the battlefield, the corpses of the five white cats. She was sure that the first exploded after being executed with a chem round from Gunther's rifle. None would have pre-empted his command except maybe Malcolm. Sarah had fired the Javelin, which had been dodged, but she saw now the corpse had bullet holes. She hadn't heard another gunshot from a chem rifle, so she assumed the Ball twins had finished that one with their cap rifles. Gas made noise, but it was easy to miss in the chaos. Then the bolts from Ka'Shek's crossbox had made short work of the fourth. Finally leaving her to kill, she wondered at what point Leon would have taken the shot. Before or after the creature had crossed into the minefield?
Flicking the gas revolver, so the drum locked back into place, she checked its action before looking over to Leon, who seemed transfixed with his arm hairs. Now standing on end. He looked at her, mouthing a single word. Spin. Leon looked up at the tower and shouted it.

"Spin!"

Moments later, the turrets started spinning up, and Gunther called back down, asking for a direction. Leon had his scope back up to his eye searching, responding he had no idea. All the while, she swung the spin rifle off her back and spun it up. She felt the tug as the spin drive engaged the flywheel drums inside, and the gun grew sticky in its motion. Like moving a large stick in water, the rifle pulled as she tried to focus on what Leon was looking at. Ka was the first to spot it. Bolts flew from his crossbox in a flurry as he emptied the entire box in one volley. They watched as some of the wooden bolts missed and pegged deep into the dry ground. While others shattered on the tan brown scales of a giant serpent.

The beast was a fat snake with overlapping tan scales. Perhaps it was as thick as one of the high-pressure cylinders or Ka'Sheks beefy thighs though it was as long as maybe ten meters in length. The creatures hadn't fully emerged from the treeline. Its slithering motion was the oscillating creature pushing up little ripples in the ground. Its head is a flattish triangle.

The wall erupted as everyone let loose the full power of spin turrets and rifles backed by two loud gunshots from chem rifles and the large javelin. It was madness to watch all aiming for slightly different marks. The explosion of misses was at first confusing. Unlike Ka's bolts which had mostly found their mark but had been too weak to break through, none of the ironclad or tipped bolts hit their mark. The effect was underlined by the only wound being from the large javelin, which seemed to have only been deflected slightly due to its size, and it grazed the beast. Some scales flew off, and a nasty gash appeared on the serpent's side. A significant and sizable flesh wound, nothing more.

Dismissing her revolver out of hand, she immediately set to dropping in new bolts into the spin rifle. The turret continued firing for a moment before stopping, leaving a small garden of iron bolts sticking up from the ground around the snake. It only seemed to speed up the monster as it used the new poles to push off from. Seeing this, the turrets stopped. Then she saw Leon shoot not the snake but a landmine a few meters in the front of it off from the side of its travel. Since the Wisp Cat incident, she had learned that they were indeed mines but tuned for a heavy load, so posed little risk to humans or light beasts. The mine exploded in a plume of dirt and rock. Showering some back onto the roof. The snake paused momentarily, stunned by the explosion. This was their chance.

Leon swore out loud, protecting his rifle from the debris before reaching into a chest pocket searching something out. Distracted from her immediate task of reloading, she saw him pull out three shining rounds. As he slotted one into the rifle, she noted the sheen of gold. Before Leon could bring his rifle back up to his eye, a third gunshot clapped out. This time the snake's head splatted a bloody fountain into the air.

This was not the end of it as the creature thrashed about. Though it no longer moved with the sense of purpose it had before. Blood and dirt flew as it tore up the mown turf. Another volley of bolts from Ka's crossbox flew down, but they mostly found their mark, and when they did, they pierced the serpent.

The dust started to settle as the long snake lay there stationary but for blood seeping into the exposed dirt. Mixing into a dark clay.

---

They stood like that at the ready for minutes. The wind blew, the whirring sound of rapidly spinning wheels went quiet. She could almost hear the sound of everything breathing. Before long, Leon stood up and walked along the roof. The crunch of roof gravel under his feet as he ushered her to follow. They met a tired Ka'Shek at the bottom of the tower. No words were exchanged, but he looked ragged, having been pulled up from bed straight into combat. They walked up the wooden steps. Their feet are heavy on the boards.

Once they reached the top, they found a similar sight of everyone extremely weary. The Ball twins she noticed for the first time were topless. Sarah looked worried, but mostly Gunther just looked angry. Once again, she wondered where Malcolm was in all this? Had Ka woken up while Malcolm slept? That wasn't right. She had seen him awake this morning before coming on shift. Gunther nodded, acknowledging their arrival before turning to the console and dialling them back down to yellow status.

"Right, I think we can stand down for now. Ka and the Twins go down there and gather up what you can. Ka can you set the flame?"

This seemed a serious and notable question. Ka solemnly placed both his hands on his shoulders. Left hand on the left shoulder, fingers spread wide like a pauldron before bowing his head in a solemn gesture. The twins looked nervous. Brad twitched, seeming to remember the Wisp Cat. He seemed to be about to object when Brian elbowed him hard. They left their rifles, and Ka left his crossbox. They opened the hatch and went down the Tube shaft before emerging moments later from the front gate.

The entire squad watched with weapons at the ready, watching the process. They had collected bags from the entryway with the airlock ironclad doors which protected the entryway. The rope system Brad had used on her first day was preferred when one or maybe two people needed to head out. For larger excursions, especially with an Orc, the front door was the only sensible way. Though it put the base at slightly more risk, it was a much more practical route for a firing retreat.

Under the watchful eyes of the squad, they collected any metal they could. Both the twins wearing thick leather gloves. They left the shattered wooden bolts. Brian had a small but powerful magnet. He ran over the ground picking up bolt heads and bits of broken metal. It was risky but better than leaving worked metal on the ground. When they got to the serpent, they took some photos with a small film camera.

Pickle sympathised with them. She had felt exposed every time she had been sent out to check the mines, trim the grass and one time to document and dispose of the small creatures. The procedure was either to record or retrieve, then document before disposal. She supposed the snake was far too large to shoot out of the pult like its smaller cousin Leon had killed days earlier. It felt strange calling that tree trunk of a monster a snake. The word was too small for it. She watched them photograph its smashed triangle head. The single bullet wound had travelled through it, not cleanly but as a wrecking ball.

"Why couldn't we hit it?" Pickle asked.

Leon and Gunther looked nervous. It was not a look that suited either of the stoic men. Though her mentor Leon spoke first. "Shield, though I've not seen one at the wall in years. Usually only in the deeps, on some real nasty buggers. Kinda like a super magnet but different. You know the metal rhyme?"

Pickle thought for a moment back to the children's rhyme. Knowledge everyone had though she didn't really understand it.

"Wood to weave, Iron to bind, Copper to carry, Silver to shine, and Gold to Trust."
"Yeah, well," Leon ruffled his head. "Knew a different one, but the point is magic don't like iron, it blocks and burns. Two-way street verstaan? Magic doesn't touch gold much so those kind of barrier just don't crack it."

This thought confused her for a moment. She was certain she had seen mages wear iron and gold before. Though she knew the gold standard was on egg timers made with gold. They didn't get time drift. She knew there was gold in some of their tools. She had nicked some magic bits back when. The fence had commented on the gold inlay. Pushing it from her mind and resolving to make some gold rounds.

Watching Ka heft the White Cat she had shot from near the wall towards the pile of death that was being accumulated, she wondered what they would do with the bodies. They couldn't pult them and yeet them into the distance like they had the others. Bury them deep? That would take ages to dig.

It was then that Malcolm emerged from the Tube. Neither Leon nor Gunther seemed surprised. Sarah was studiously watching the work below with the ballista at the ready. Malcolm walked up next to Gunther, not even adding a smart arse comment. Maybe he was finally eating crow, and she would see him grovel and apologise. She pretended to be watching the work below, but really she was just waiting to see what would happen to the smug mage. Finally, Leon broke the silence.

"Bad business. Fred say anything?"
"No," Gunther answered. "I want to call a company meeting once they are done down there. He was still looking into some things for me."
"Malcolm, anything on your side?" asked Leon.
Malcolm shrugged, "Last thing I want to do is summon a spirit or daemon to ask. You know what they are like on the wall. But there was definitely something. What's with the big sausage?"
"Wyrm," Gunther answered. "Not seen, it's like in quite some time. Never seen this sort before. Maybe discovery bonus?"

The three old men watched the work below. Their conversation such as it was slow in pace, unhurried. The death and carnage below them another Tuesday. In truth, she had lost track of the days of the week. She took a moment to count the days back. She had ripped off Queenie after Saturday night takings, so Sunday was the day she had got on the train. Twelve days rotation meant today was Friday. Not that the weekday meant much here. She looked back at the Captain and his left and right-hand men before surveying the work below.

The twins had rags wrapped around their faces, probably due to the rank scent. She could smell it from here. They were standing back as Ka was circling the pile of corpses, shoeing away the Pebbles that were starting to get interested in the feast. It would take them days to pick that pile clean. Ka was singing in a low tone, throwing what looked like salt from a small cloth pouch. After encircling the mound three times, he stood back and finished his song with a mighty clap of the hands.

The pile burst into flame. Not a bright hot roaring red flame but a dead cold, an almost transparent purple-black flame which seemed to cast no light or issue smoke. The little smoke it gave off was more akin to white steam with flecks of colour. Though the bonfire raged, its strange optics allowed her to see the pile still. She looked through a hand scope picking out the details of the creatures now aflame. Their flesh coiled and burnt as usual from flame. It was like watching some grotesque timelapse without the obfuscation of heat haze. Some sort of magical cremation. She had no idea Ka could perform magic.

"Won't that fire draw more attention?" She asked.
"A small bit kitten," Malcolm answered, "though much less than death and decay had we left it. Necrotic flame is a rather elegant spell using the remaining life energy to burn away the corpse. I've tried replicating it though mine has a tendency to explode. Which releases the necrotic energy in a large burst. Not ideal."
Both Leon and Gunther winced at this description. She didn't want to think about the events which caused those expressions.

With the fire set, the twins and Ka walked back to the base. Entering without issue. They watched the flames burn as the Pebbles watched from nearby. Once the flames died down, the Pebbles moved in and claimed the bleached bones. Within an hour, the pile was being slowly disassembled piece by piece. She noticed a few of the little creatures trying to use some vertebrae and small bones as new homes. Though most were unsuccessful.

---

Usually, Ka and Malcolm would have the following shift, but instead, the twins and Ka took the shift as everyone else was called into the lounge at Gunther's orders. The swing shift would be picked up later, and they would sort it all out. For now, Pickle found herself sitting on a ragged bean bag chair, checking over her revolver. Doc had tried to save her a seat on the sofa, but she hadn't taken it. She was still a bit sore on her, no matter Fred had wandered in with a pile of notepaper, a worried expression on his face.

Leon and Malcolm had taken seats from the dinner table, and Gunther stood in the middle of the room waiting. Meanwhile, the Geek, Virgil, was by the kitchen sitting on a barstool intently interested with a notebook in hand. Everyone awkwardly shuffled as they waited for Fred, the last to arrive to get settled.

"Alright, Fred, you are here. What did you find?" Gunther asked.
"Diddly do. Not a thing. Temps were well within margin. I did not even have the vault spinners online or anything running hot. No strange gases or radio waves, and our neighbours hadn't been naughty from what I can tell?"
"Fotsak! No Wyvern comes to the wall, especially not a baby. I've not seen a White Cat within a mile of the wall for over a decade. Hell's bells a Wyrm by the Zambezi river I could go for but here. Fok that."
Fred shrugged, "I went through all the systems and meters. I checked the exotic supplies and gases, no leaks. If the cause is from our base, it is not technological."

All eyes turned to Malcolm, he lifted his hand's palm up in a comically exaggerated shrug smirking with amusement. "Don't look at me. I was just working on my journals. Haven't even got a potion on the boil. First I heard was Gunther's stay-put order. Though I did feel the aura of menace when I got the message. Sorry snacks?"
"What about Ka'Shek?" asked Fred.
Doc answered, "No dad, Ka was sleeping, and he has his catches for nightmares."

A prolonged silence drifted over the room. Leon looks agitated before glaring across the room at the Geek. "What about him?"

"I assure you Mr. Viljoen while you were on watch, I was merely compiling my notes. I have done nothing other than observe."
"Says you," Leon muttered.
Gunther made a calming gesture, "We have been over this Leon. The Geek, sorry, Virgil is our guest. Our contract gives him access to all areas save the vault and personal spaces."
"Besides, his sort, do magic? Please cookie. Be reasonable." Malcolm answered with derision dripping off every syllable.

The dry clerical voice interrupted Leon glaring at Malcolm. "Eh hum. Am I to understand you encountered a Cantio Lutum Viperia is my guess from what you have said. Florentia Spinus Felix, and I'm sorry to say Sagitta Scala Manga Vermis is a rare but documented genus, so there is no discovery bonus there. While the Wyrm and Wyvern have much in common, they share little with White Cats as you call them, except they all have a preferred food."

Leon, Malcolm and Gunther looked abashed, not wanting to acknowledge the contribution. Fred was disinterested, and Sarah was confused. Pickle looked around before she felt her curiosity burst out. "Well, what do they all eat?"

"Magic, kitten." came the quiet response from Malcolm.
Nodding, Gunther added, "I knew that about the Wyvern hence why I ordered Malcolm to hunker down. I assumed it was his magics which had drawn the beast."
"I had done nothing, and I had been off shift for a while. Ka knows better."

They all looked worried. She looked at Sarah only to see her look down. Suddenly she realised no one was meeting her eyes. She struggled, standing up from the bean bag.

"Wait, you all think me? I've got no magic. HE said it himself," she pointed at Malcolm in rage. "Human standard."
"Close enough, kitten, I said close enough."

She felt her world spin as her helmet grew hot. She felt light-headed. She didn't know what to say. She felt her heart swell, the air thick. More now than when she faced down that charging cat, more than that unstoppable serpent, she felt the reassuring weight of the revolver in her hand. Heavy. Her vision narrowed so she could feel her heartbeat in her ears. Not enough air. Breathe. She couldn't breathe. The gun was hot in her hand, her helmet too. The world was on fire.

Big hands grabbed her shoulder. She felt the gun drop as her wrist was twisted. Before she could register, she felt herself sit down on the floor, with big hands supporting her, rubbing her back. The room slowly came back into focus before swimming again. Colours vivid.

Malcolm was uttering something, swinging his hands through the air. The fucker was casting a spell on her. They were going to try to kill her. She reached for her holster. The revolver was gone. She had it in her hand. No. Where was her gun? She couldn't breathe, was he sucking out the air. She didn't think mages could do magic on you unless you were cut or mostly ware. Did that fucker with the third nipple lie. Wait, she had sliced him with her knife.

She reached for her thigh only to feel cotton. Wait, what happened to her fancy pants? Oh, right, they were going to kill her. Pickle sees red in front of her. Red hair. That fucker all in black waving his arms. Red hair going for her throat, heavy hands holding her. Fuck Jack Jack. She kicks out, back. Right in the coin purse. Foot back sprinters start and come up punching. Red flies. Two down. Moving. Exit. No need to stop the mage. Shoulder charge as she leaps. For a moment, she sees pupils through those goggles wide-eyed cat's eyes. Fear. The moment is frozen when Thwack.

She doesn't feel the shoulder connect but instead, her ribs hurt like a freight train hit her. The landing is softer than expected. She recovers, ready to jump up, when suddenly a large fist rushes into her face. She feels her nose crack. The world explodes in pain.

After a few moments, her thoughts return to her. She feels searing pain in her face and tastes blood on her lips. Her vision returns along with her breathing. Pickle looks about the room. Malcolm is standing watching her with his goggled eyes. His stance was ready, and his fingers in a strange configuration. She can feel a sense of something from him.

Sarah is on the floor out cold, Fred leaning over her in worry. Gunther is watching with an angry face, redder than she has ever seen it. She is on the sofa. Where is Leon? She tries turning around only to find her hands restrained. She feels her wrists bound. She is dead. Wait, why haven't they killed her? Gunther approaches his hands up in a calming gesture.

"Easy girl. Stay still."

Panicking, she glances around the room, trying to take it all in to get a sense of things. Few times in her life before had she ever failed to escape but never before in a life or death struggle. She had to beg, sacrifice much, but she had lived. She could do it again. He had said girl, she hated it but well, if that was the card to play. She started crying.

"Please, Captain, don't kill me. I'll go. I didn't know. You said it yourself I'm not cut out for this."

A light but firm palm tapped the back of her head. Some blood and spittle flew forward.
"None of that kak." Leon said from behind her.
"Malcolm, is it contained?" Gunther asked.
"For now, but I should get her in my workshop or the vault."
"Nevermind that for now, Fred, is Sarah okay?"
"I'm okay," Sarah's voice came through. "Just didn't expect to uppercut by a patient."
"Patient?" Pickle gaped, looking around the room. "You ain't killing me?"

This strangely seemed to relax Gunther. Though Fred still looked upset, Sarah was laughing. Gunther took a deep breath. "We just need to control your magic, is all."
"I don't have any magic."

The quiet paper voice came from behind, "Actually, the girl might…"
"Shut it." Gunther cut off the Geek. "This is company business you can observe, but I will not have you interfering with my family." He paused, waiting to see the acknowledgement on Virgil's face. Pickle couldn't see it restrained on the sofa, but she could see Gunther relax.
"Malcolm said you weren't likely to be a risk for a while. So I didn't want to jump straight into it, but he did say you would need testing and maybe training at some point."

She glared daggers at the mage. So they all knew. Her deepest secret and they had all been laughing behind her back. Fuckers. Malcolm shrugged.

"So you all know I'm not human? Well, I might not be, but I don't have magic. Even a mage said so." It was true a mage at Queenie's claimed to know how much magic a girl had. He had been very drunk, but he was down from Europe for the conference. He had read her palm and said she was enchanting but without craft.

"Some foreign idiot, no doubt." Malcolm scoffed. "I'm guessing you don't take off that helmet much. Regardless, you have a web woven tight around yourself. Not every metahuman has magic, but almost all who turn do. Though yours is buried deep. You have been soaking it into that helmet most of your life, is my guess. Though I wouldn't be surprised to discover you had some other sinks. So much so I doubt you will ever fully turn. Something got your emotions running high today, didn't it?"

Sarah, now standing shyly, said, "My fault, I am afraid. I was pestering her about her physical. Which in hindsight, I now understand why she was avoiding."
"You knew?" Pickle could feel real tears rolling up her throat now. "You all knew?"

Gunther looked solemn, "I knew the moment you walked up to the table. Been on the wall all my life. Didn't know what I knew, but I knew. That is why I got Malcolm to check you out. Malcolm obviously knew."
"Scraps told me," Sarah added, "I do not think she knew it was a secret. Her nose knows."
Gunther nodded, "Told Leon to watch out for signs. He was your trainer. No one else knows to my knowledge. Virgil is under NDA, and I didn't see any reason to tell Fred. Not his department. The other's aren't company."

She thought about Brad's horrible jokes at Ka. "Please, can we not? Not tell them."
"Sure girl, but you need to tell me what happened?"
"Sarah was right, I was upset. I just couldn't think about how to avoid the physical and I didn't do great at training this morning. Guess I was running a little hot. Didn't think about it because that's when the dragon showed up."

Gunther breathed out a heavy sigh resting his forehead between thumb and forefinger. Rubbing and pinching the skin, trying to work out the heady thoughts.

"Right. I have to go file paperwork, let the Tower Watch know why we went red. Let's get this cleaned up. Going to need to draft new schedules. We are going to need to make some changes. Leon, take Ka. Malcolm, you're with the girl, make her safe, and handle it if she flares. Meeting dismissed."

Everyone had a purpose and set off. Leon let go of her as Malcolm collapsed onto the sofa next to her in a lazy way. Throwing his arm over her shoulder. She wanted to pull away, but her hands were still retrained, and her nose was running bloody. He leaned over and whispered in her ear, "You're magic kitten."

Afterword

This is an ongoing web novel updated every Thursday. I really hope you enjoy it, this is my first attempt but I've spent a lot of time in this world, over two decades. Running roleplaying campaigns, writing comics and creating stories so it feels really natural to tell a story in this world.

Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6
Part 7

Pickle on the Nightmare Wall - Part 6

New Routine

Over the next two weeks, Pickle started to enjoy life on watch. For the first time in her life, she had a routine. While her control was limited, she felt empowered and knew what tomorrow would bring. It was strangely peaceful. Gone were the endless days of darkness, crawling to find nuggets to extend her life, running from place to place, constantly on alert or surrendering to the whims of the clientele and the mood of the night.

Stretching in her bunk, she felt her blanket pull off her as she stretched out a full-body yawn waking her up. Tussling her hair with one hand, she lay in bed staring up at the concrete ceiling with its expansive glass skylights running the length of the dorm. It was a sunny day, and while she knew the winter chill would be on the air in her warm blankets, she didn't feel the bite of it.

She turned her head to see the small hourglass filled with gold dust still had a few minutes in it. She reached over and tilted the finely made but robust device, effectively snoozing it as she stretched. Her internal body clock was good, but running on gold standard time was pretty much required to keep things running. She had a few minutes to wake up. Sitting up in bed, she looked at the brown curtains still pulled tight around her bed.

The tower operated on a pretty strict five and dime shift rotation with three teams. Naturally, the Ball twins were on a shift team because they were brothers, and frankly, everyone found them low key annoying. Though outside of that incident on the first day when Brad was drunk, they were nice enough. They were class clown types keeping the mood light. The Balls did their job well when not showing off.

Still she kept her curtains pulled each night. Sarah told her in all seriousness that if anyone intentionally messed with another person's rest period, then Gunther came down on them like a ton of bricks. The barracks dorm was actually the safest place she had ever slept, but old habits die hard. She kept the curtains pulled and clipped. Pickle also slept with her gas gun under her pillow. Though, to be fair, Leon had advised she always keep her personal weapon close. Her spin rifle was up in the locker.

Leon was assigned to show her the ropes, though everyone helped, which meant they were on shift together. She couldn't hear him moving, but he might already be up. The man slept the least of any of them. His bunk was just opposite hers, but she knew he would be in the kitchen. This left Malcolm and Ka on the third shift. She had been told the shift teams occasionally switched it up, but they had stuck to those patterns so far.

With the curtains pulled, she had no idea where the meter was, but she was confident there would be heat to spare from making breakfast. She grabbed her shower gear and a change of clothes. The girls had done her a solid when buying her equipment, getting only natural fabrics and not ones she would have picked. There were six days change with a mix of outfits in what they had bought her. All-natural fabrics. They also thoughtfully bought two sets of silk pyjamas, an extravagance she would have never purchased herself but a welcome one.

She had packed clothes in her bag before signing up, but more than half had synthetics, which meant they were mostly tossed into storage. Thankfully, Sarah told her to keep the bras and panties as the amount of fabric compared to the benefit was just too great. She also learned that not all synth fabrics were as bad as others. Anything wired with smarts, synthed or meta was a strict no. So bye-bye fancy pants. Apparently, plastics gave off a smell that upsets Wild beasts but only up close though it could rub onto your skin, but it wasn't like a strict no, more of a to be avoided. So she mostly stuck them away not to be worn, though items like her rain jacket and undergarments were too helpful not to wear.

Picking up her helmet from the side table and checked her ears were tucked in. She checked her gas gun safety and the rounds in the revolving chambers before getting up out of bed. Pulling the curtains aside and clipping them open, holding her change of clothes and shower gear. She hadn't needed the top curtain as she had slept natural hours. Today was a dime day.

The rota was four five hour shifts followed by the shorter shift, which was four hours, called the dime shift. The dime was from ten till two, and those days were her preferred shift as you got a nice bedtime and ten hours before next duty. Dime day was followed by hell day, which was on a shift from two in the morning until breakfast. Sleeping the day or not, if things were busy, then doing another shift five till late. She hated hell days, mostly because she needed to do firearms training on her first hell day, and Leon wouldn't let her sleep more than a few hours around lunch.

Finally, you only had a morning shift from seven in the morning till lunch on break days. In theory, these could be the best days, but you had to use the afternoon to do assigned work orders in practice.

The Balls were on watch currently, so their bunks were open and a mess as per usual. After stacking both beds, they had more space than anyone else in the dorm, but their crap spread like a messy invasion throughout the room. Dirty jockstraps, ammunition and magazines spread out. The occasional stray sock drifting out into no man's land. They knew never to intrude on Leon's area with his small rock collection and neatly made bed. Leon's bunk was clear. He had gone running already.

Her neighbour was Ka'Shek, and he kept inside his space like a champ which was impressive considering his bulk and the amount of stuff he had. The bed had been replaced by a wider and taller one from storage now draped with animal skins with his finely embroidered protection charms. Fetish and chimes hung in his space, dancing silently in the still air of the dorm. Ka had lugged up a wooden chest from storage, finely carved which he had carved on a previous visit which now kept all his stuff in. The large orc was currently sleeping with the curtains wide open. He never closed them off, even sleeping through the daylight without them.

Gently tiptoeing on the cold concrete floor, she eyed the last bed by the door on her side. Neatly made with no personality, the trim space of the Geek. Everyone called him that now, even to his face. Virgil Northcott was not a personable character, and it's hard to like someone who isn't working when everyone else is.

Walking into the lounge, she felt a bit more comfortable. Malcolm should be asleep in his room, and the Balls were on duty. Sure enough, Sarah was in the kitchen making breakfast. It smelled like eggs. She smiled and waved as she cut through, noticing Sarah turning rice on the wok after throwing in some chopped veg.

Glancing up at the heat meter opposite the dorm door hanging on the lounge wall, she noticed the base was running a little hot. This was normal for this time of day, especially with a hot breakfast. Controlling tower temp was essential but what it meant right now was she could have a warm shower. She didn't understand all the base systems yet, but Fred explained that some stuff generates heat and others use heat. Though most things made heat and most the bleed off was ambient into the ground and air. Taking the right turn into the corridor to the rear apartment, she noticed both the dorm showers were free, so she nipped into the second one. It was morning chilly in here, but the tiles were dry.

The tower had four washrooms side by side. Two for the dormitory barracks, but everyone used them, the officer's washroom then a final one in the apartments. More correctly called the commander's apartments, but Gunther didn't use them, instead of taking one of the two officer's rooms. The apartments were used by Sarah and her dad, Fred, the chief engineer. The design was uniform, but the cleanliness and accoutrements were not. She looked around the few broken and cracked tiles mixed in with the mismatched replacements. Leading up to the strange coral white band that rang around the top of each wall where it reached the ceiling.

The washroom had a sink, shower, and toilet interconnected into a communal greywater system to minimise waste and strain on the recycling systems. The sink water was drinkable, and the shower water less so. Locking the door then undressing, Pickle popped her clothes onto the shelves by the door. Pistol on top. A pull-out glass separator kept the water primarily to one side of the room, which was a meter by two, and changed. Whether or not you could run the shower warm depends on the base temp. Typically, the base ran hotter than ambient in the mornings, trading heat off during the day and finally running a bit cold at the night's start.

The base was never warm enough, and she had been told it was always a bit too warm in the summer. Likewise, the shower wasn't a hot shower that she so desperately wanted but instead a comfortable, warm shower. The cool air just left her a little bit too cold to enjoy the wet. Thinking through the drills Leon had been running her through, she wondered what she needed to get done today.

Every second break day, Captain would take a shift with Fred or Sarah to give you a rest day. So they were on the morning shift every second day as cover. Those sixth days were a thing of beauty and the best day of the six-day week. You were never assigned any work orders on those days, and barring a yellow flag, you didn't even need to be on alert. Securing a few stolen days of peace between risky gigs or travelling from place to place, she had never had the concept of a rest day. The base ran on a twelve-day cycle, at which point the rota would fully loop again. Today was the last of her first cycle. After the second would be a resupply day, which was off rota. That was called a month or session, and when she would next see Scraps.

Other bases had pretty frequent communications out, but Gunther's tower ran dark mostly. He had a tower captain's call every week, but Leon says it's mostly a broadcast. Captain listens in, and he can transmit to speak on the call, but he rarely, if ever, does. He mostly files his paperwork with Scraps on resupplies. The tower is effectively out of contact from the world for about a month at a time. The tower would receive news, weather and little data dumps. People could send through data, but the tower policy was not to transmit.

Lathering up the shampoo in her hair, she tilted her head back to wash her face. She still had some makeup on, smiling, she rubbed some of it off. Sarah had got her dad to take the break shift yesterday so Pickle and her could spend time together. She had some training with Leon in the morning, but she mostly spent the day helping Sarah with the greenhouse and outdoor gardens. Though the gardens were bearing their last harvests for the year before the cold snaps, they still had plenty to give.

After gardening, they had cleaned up made lunch, then Sarah showed Pickle her favourite spot on the kopje at the back of the base. It was a tiny outcrop that looked south, not north. Sarah had a small easel stand set up for painting. Though she wasn't painting landscapes but instead repainting images from holofics, magazines and books. Famed adventurer Vindaloo Vu exploring the depths of temples or wearing a tuxedo to a famous ball. World-renowned grav biker racer Udeksan Nutineen with her flaming red hair a mirror of Sarah’s. King Charlemagne touring visiting his cousin in Windsor. The floating markets of New Hope and one of the seven grand rings of Heaven, suspended in the stars.

Pickle smiled as she turned off the water and reached for her towel. Her mind was all kinds of distracted today. She needed to get to the range and see if she could hit Leon's targets. She needed to pass his weapon assessment before the resupply, or so Gunther had said last week. Leon had set a few different live-fire training exercises, but she couldn't practice long. Leon allowed her only one live-fire training session a day, assuming the flag was blue that day.

Pulling on some olive green cargo pants she had picked out, she pulled the belt strap tight. Securing the gas revolver to her waist, it slotted easily into the quick release holster. She checked herself in the mirror. Resolving to trim her hair the next free day, she pulled and twisted the ends. Grabbing a bit of scented soap, she styled it to stay out of her face. Sarah had told her it was fine. Apparently, the Wild would smell emissions from tech, magic and smell the death or trapped death of plastic over long distances but perfume not so much. Oh, Leon claimed they would smell and track it like any other animal, some better and other's worse, but it was a mundane thing. Not some irritant that would drive the Wild to hunt down the source.

Finishing up with some moisturiser, she glanced at her toothbrush. Remembering the delicious smell of breakfast from moments earlier, she decided to forgo the morning brush in order not to spoil the flavour. Wiping down the washroom with the washrag, she squeezed it out and washed her hands, doing one last check of her helmet before stepping out.

"There is my model. Want me to give me a hand wrapping these breakfast burritos?" Sarah's voice asked from the kitchen as Pickle walked past.
Pickle shifted her clothes bundle under her right arm before giving a thumbs up with her left. "Sure, let me just drop off this and pop on some shoes."

She grabbed some shoes and quickly helped roll the burritos with Sarah. The coffee clicked to warming just as they were finishing up. They nibbled at their burritos, chatting about the day before. The Geek stood up from his note-taking to claim his burrito and a small glass of water before returning to the lounge table.

"Can I borrow that magazine," Pickle asked between mouthfuls. She drank down some water. It was surprisingly better here than the municipal city supply. "The one with Felina?"
"Sure, I will grab it in a second. We should get the boys their breakfast."
"Mind doing top side. It's too early for Balls."
"Yeah, I can do them and Pa. He is down in the vault. You mind doing Malcolm and Captain?"

Pickle had learnt the base layout since arriving and was surprised to discover how much was below ground. They spent almost all their time on the first floor sleeping or relaxing or on the roof watching. The first floor was built around the lounge and kitchen area. The building was somewhere between a plus symbol or capital T in shape. The west room off of the lounge was the bunk room she slept in. The officers quarters were opposite. Then down the south or shaft of the T were the shower rooms and the captains quarters used by Sarah and her dad. The little north tip was a small staging room with the Tube as they called it and some shooting windows.

Neither the bunk room nor officers rooms could look directly outside. The outer shell of the first floor was a narrow corridor built for defence. The surprising part was the armoury being the only room on the ground floor beside the kill room. Then below that, the train station was flanked by two massive warehouses which stored supplies. Enough dry rations, ammunition and supplies for the base to run for quite a while. Months would be her guess. This was also where the waste recycling was located.

Finally, at the deepest level below even the train station was a deeply sunk metal tube. The vault could only be accessed from the Tube, and it was entirely shielded by metal. It contained the base Spin Generators and any high-risk elements like her small box with the fancy pants. It was also Fred's workshop and their last resort. Though it would be an extremely tight space for them to all climb into. It was their own brass burrito coffin buried more than ten meters below ground. Though maybe only two or three meters below the train station.

Shuddering at the thought, she placed the breakfast burritos on a tray with a hot cup of black coffee and a green tea. Grabbing the tray, she walked down the corridor. She came to Malcolm's door first. Holding the tray carefully, she gently knocked on his door first. Maybe she would be lucky, and he would be asleep like Ka.

"Enter kitten."

Drat. Pushing the handle down and opening the door wide to carry in the tray with both her hands. The room should be furnished with strange occult symbols or demonic evil things she felt, but instead, it was rather plain she felt. His bed was the same as hers, but the bedding was expensive and exquisitely chosen to match the furnishing, and he even had some little throw pillows on the bed. She had never seen him in it, or it even creased. The room was bathed in the warm morning sun from the skylights. The floor was layered with rugs of all colours and designs. A modest desk on the left wall was flanked by bookshelves with a tall dresser in the corner. All were made from fine wood and show fine joinery and detailing, emphasising their crafted nature. A master carpenter had made them as a set probably to order. As always, Malcolm was seated at the desk, reading a book.

"Breakfast burrito and some tea, Sir." Pickle said in her flattest voice. She gently placed the plate and tea on his desk off to the side.
"Ah, how delightfully robust. Thank you for the tea kitten." He gently tapped the cup with a gloved finger.

She nodded, turning out of the room. That man still gave her the creeps all the time she was there. She had not seen him sleep, eat or even remove his wrappings. She had once joked with Sarah about it, and she had just shut down the conversation. Since then, she had been too afraid to ask anyone else about it. What was he? He hadn't performed any great works of magic since the train ride. He sometimes did a short cleansing spell though it was always a brief thing with no visible effect.

Her head still lost in thought, she knocked on the Captain's door.

"Enter."

Gunther's room was something else entirely. The bed was trim and military with no furnishing and the same blankets she had on her bed when she arrived. The Captain sat at his much larger desk immediately to the right of the door. The desk was always a mess of official documents, war books, maps and reports. The floor mainly was unadorned except for a small rug. The rug was under the desk and chair, placed more to protect the floor from wear than any sense of decor. He quickly made some space for her to set down the plate and coffee.

"Wonderful, grab a seat, will you. I have some questions for you."
"Of course, sir."

She grabbed the wooden chair against the wall. It was next to a glass cabinet that ran the length of the wall. Inside were various photo frames, small trinkets and ornaments. Medals and memories from conflicts, along with a few old guns and weapons. Gunther's large chem rifle from the train hung on the wall just above an enormous looking gatling gun. It was THE gun of legend from which the company drew its name. The weapon which the legend had held back the night with for four days alone on the wall.

The Captain sipped his coffee and looked up at the ceiling for a moment. The twin skylight which ran the length of the roof showed the bright morning sky outside. He looked lost in the clouds. Pickle started worrying, could this be bad news? Was she not learning fast enough? Had she broken some rule? Unconsciously she felt her right foot bouncing slightly.

"Today, you finish your first cycle."
"Yes, sir."
"You haven't had to kill anything yet, correct?"

There hadn't been anything to kill. The tower was barely attacked, a few critters had come inspecting, but there were only a handful of incidents other than the Wisp Cat attack. Most were harmless wildlife that would move on. The few actual Wild creatures that came to investigate could often be deterred by wounding rather than killing. Leon had spotted a snake on their watch once and without preamble had shot it dead, kill shot. Leon told her to raise the alert, and once Ka was there to cover, he had gone down to collect the kill. They had launched it from the catapult, more akin to a flat ballista than the medieval sort she thought of typically with the word. It was strange, Mars tower was attacked almost daily, and the Medpoll tower was assaulted three out of five days.

Gunther cleared his throat, and she was immediately pulled out of her retrospection.

"Not yet, sir."
"Leon said you are coming along okay. Your weapons training needs to continue. Your accuracy is below what I would like with a Spin Rifle. I'm tempted to send you off base for intensive training with Leon. Can't spare you, though. I want to see your numbers up."
"Yes, sir."
"You feel like you got the hang of a routine."
"Mostly, sir."

With one hand, he dug through some papers to retrieve the one he wanted. Reading it over before asking another question. "How do you feel things are coming along? Can you do this for the long haul?"

She paused, knowing the Captain preferred a well thought out answer.
"If this cycle is typical, then yes, sir, I think I can do this job."
"Duty, not job. I'm not your employer, I give the orders out of the mutual agreement, but you are a stakeholder, not a freelancer. You have invested in this tower, and we have in you." Looking down at the page he had picked up, he continued. "Leon has good things to say, mostly."

She waited for the Captain to continue as he stared directly at her. She tried to hold her calm.

"Says you a below average shot but take orders well and the training seriously. You don't let your mind drift on watch and are attentive. He does worry you're a bit too distant and says he worries about how you will do under pressure. Do you agree?"
"Agree he is worried, sir?"
"Can you deal with the crush?"
"Think so, sir."

The Wisp Cat had frightened her, almost as much as that Six Stalk on the way here, but if those were the great horrors of the Wild, she was confident she could handle it. She had taken worse in the city.

"Well, I hope it is a long time before we find out. Any nightmares?"
"None, sir."

That was a lie but those she had brought with her. Old memories and fading pain. In truth, they had been getting better since she got here. She found herself anxiously rubbing the metal plate which signalled her membership to the company. Gunther noticed and smiled.

"Well good, and nothing strange or unexplained? Leon told you the moment you see something even a little weird. Don't doubt your eyes or ears. Tell us immediately."
"Yes, sir."

"Okay, I'm keeping you on your own time. Report to Doc. You are overdue for a full physical. Should have been done week one, but she said that she wanted to wait till you had settled in."
"Today, sir?"
"Yeah, today, before your duty. Dismissed."

She nodded and got up to leave. She felt awkward without a salute. The company was pretty informal in many ways, but the Captain ran a tight ship. He was grabbing his burrito as she closed the door behind her.

Bugger that Doctor's appointment with Sarah was going to eat into her free time. Not that she could complain much since she had her day off yesterday. Walking into the lounge, she heard the shower. Leon was back from his morning run. He tended to run out back behind the base. Said he needed the grass for it to feel like a real run.

In the kitchen, Malcolm was wiping down his plate and putting it away in the cupboard. She excused herself, gently sliding the tray back into place before turning to face the Geek.
"Geek, have you seen Sarah come back?"
"I believe she is down below with her Fred."
"Drat, want a quick game?"
"Sure."

With that, the small man shut his book with both hands as she grabbed the folded go board from the shelf in the lounge. It mainly was board games and a few books, but this old go set had seen a lot of use since the Geek had arrived. He had asked the Captain to a game. The Captain had lost, but it was clear from watching even her novice understanding of the game that they were both excellent players. So she had started to learn the game from Virgil whenever she had a moment.

She was still playing with all nine handicap stones and losing every time. Though she felt like she was learning and with the full handicap, she had taken a game off Ka when they played. She felt a natural affinity for a game where you needed to watch all parts of the board and forever be aware of your liberties. You attempted to forward your goals always while monitoring your escape, only capturing when you had control and the ability to escape. Partway through the game, Leon returned from the dorm fully dressed.

"You gonna take much longer, Pick?" he asked in that thick Afrikaans accent.
Without pause, the Geek piped up, "This game is done."
Sighing, Pickle stood up, "Yeah, you got me again. Thanks. Mind grabbing the board?"

With that, she got up and went to the iron door by the kitchen. Two iron doors were just by the kitchen. The right one led to the kill corridor surrounding the dorm but the left one led outside. Stepping around the lift down to the station, they came to the second door with its big metal bar. Lifting it out, they were in the open air behind the base.

The back of the base was butted up against a kopje. The mix of large boulders and dirt formed the petite mountain like a handbuilt diorama. The formation was unnaturally trimmed with large boulders pushed down or broken up in places to avoid providing easy access to the roof. They were technically behind the wooden fence and firing lines. Still, the system was designed with that being breached in a heavy assault.

The train tracks were not visible for about a hundred metres till they broke out of the underground tunnel and onto the surface. Even then, after the tracks surfaced, raised dirt on either side ran for about a kilometre. Making the tracks hidden from sight unless you had a birds-eye view providing a stealth approach or a covered line of retreat.

Towards the back of the plateau, Leon had set up a few sandbags and some shooting positions. It seems he had already brought out her spin rifle and a few of the other weapons. They both slipped in the small ear protectors. Unlike the sophisticated digital versions used by Bruno back at the club, these weren't radio linked smart headphones she was used to. They were crude miniature wooden carvings that fit snuggled in your ears. They had some magical runes inscribed, which Malcolm assured her wouldn't upset a Wild bee. Though it was hard to hear anything with them in as they quickly dampened sound, the effect, while quick to start, was slow to wear off, which meant you often missed anything said after a loud sound.

"Gunther wants me to give you a score on all the weapons. You want spin first or last?"

She eyed the weapons he had laid out on the blanket. On the left-most was her spin rifle. He had encouraged her to mark it and make it her own. In curly red letters, she had written Get Fucked. Next to her weapon of choice was a chem rifle, gas launcher and a crossbow. Not every type of weapon the tower stocked, even ignoring the mounted turrets but most of them.
"Last, please."

He nodded, "Personal C"

Without pause, she drew the revolver from the quick draw holster. Sighted downrange at the stone target, it was marked a red circled letter C. Breathing for a moment, she steadied before firing a single shot. The pistol was surprisingly quiet but had a hefty kick. She quickly managed and sighted down the weapon again, confirming her hit. It wasn't the centre, but it was inside the circle. She held that stance for a moment before Leon acknowledged the success.

The gas revolver had eight rounds, and so the cylinder was oversized for the weapon. All eight chambers were loaded at all times as the safety mechanism was reliable. The gun didn't take chemical rounds, which were ejected, instead the entire cylinder was replaced to reload the weapon. It made partial reload impractical. Each chamber had its own pressurised reaction gas, which would expand rapidly when slammed firing pin. In truth, it was a combination of compression and a small explosion of cold gas. Meaning unlike the chem rifles, the gun didn't run hot and was relatively quiet. Even if it was a pain to reload and had lower velocities, it was a solid choice on the wall. Unlike her needle gun, which was truly whisper quiet, this was a muffled whomp with each shot.

Holding his hand scope to his eye, Leon examined her hit. He was less than impressed but not upset. He rattled off seven more target letters. Sometimes pausing between them and other times chaining a few. The targets were all down range but set up high, low, and to either side of the train tracks. Some targets were small. Some large. They were all red circles with letter markings painted on stone.

He had driven home day one that hitting inside the circle was all that mattered. She should try to have margin, but he wanted the quickest shots that didn't miss. More interested in her reaction time and adequate accuracy. It was tough to balance the speed required the confidence of hitting the target. Given enough time, she could hit almost any target with any gun, bar a few outliers like the distant targets with her gas revolver. Though if she took too long, he would declare a miss.

After the revolver, they did a more extended crossbow session. Thankfully training with wooden training shafts, so Pickle didn't need to retrieve them from the range. Leon preferred training on the crossbow and gas guns because they were low risk. Honestly, Pickle had selected the gas revolver as her personal weapon because it was most similar to her needle gun. Still, the low emission of the weapon was a strong motivator. She was a decent shot with the crossbow, though, and if it was more compact or had a powered winder, she could see herself using it.

The gas launcher and its cousin, the gas canon, were beasts of weapons. They both required bracing on the ground or a mounting point. The launcher slung a projectile, typically explosive or chemical in nature, though they used differently weighted wooden balls for training. Leon threw random balls at her before calling out the target. She was expected to judge the weight and adjust. The weapon had two dials for weight and pressure. A simple looking glass tube was filled with a two colour solution. By dialling the weight, it changed how much fluid was in the Tube. Then based on the angle of the weapon, you could see minor markings on the Tube, which would indicate approximate launch distance. You could then tweak the pressure to dial in the range. It wasn't perfect, but it let her get much closer than she would without it. Temperature and wind were the most prominent things the simple glass computer couldn't account for with its coloured fluid. The gas canon was somewhere between a sniper rifle and the cannon of a ship. It was truly terrifying, but like all the gas weapons, reloading was a pain making them a great opener that wouldn't escalate the Wild too much. Still, they didn't have the staying power.

Her performance with the launcher wasn't fabulous. She just didn't have a feel for the calculations involved.

Next was the chem rifle. Checking her ear protectors, she saw Leon pulling out coloured tokens. The protectors worked a bit too well after a loud shot. Unlike Gunther's unique rifle, this chem rifle didn't have nearly as many compensators. She had since learned that Gunther's rifle was an ongoing project of Fred's to improve the stealth nature of it. The rifle she now used had a much earlier version of the design and was still way more efficient than a traditional chem rifle, softer too. Unlike the versions she saw in the city, there were no spent cartridges expelled from the weapon. Instead they dropped into a well, built for the purpose.

Leon threw down the first token, J. She aimed and fired, feeling the power of the explosion as the round tore into the target. He quickly threw down three more letter tokens before tapping her on the shoulder. So not the entire cartridge. She was grateful for more than just an escape from the loudness. She wasn't as fond of the chem rifle, and worse, you were expected to load your own rounds. Leon had said it was to do with magic. Though she still hadn't heard a decent explanation, it frustrated her.

She was not going to ask Malcolm. Two weeks and he still called her kitten. At least Gunther had stopped calling her girl.

Finally, she picked up the spin rifle, the weapon of choice in the tower. She clicked it onto idle. Checking the gun. The spin rifle had three modes of operation: dead, idle and hot. Dead was basically just its active-duty state despite the name. When you pushed it into idle, the spin drive got the wheels turning, and it started to pull a vacuum. A slow whirr built up in pitch and volume before the pitching continued to go up. It became quieter as the complex mechanism created a near-vacuum, dampening the sounds coming from the weapon.

Idle speeds were still manageable. You could move the gun around easily enough. Flicking it into hot, the whir grew in intensity, but it was still dampened. The weapon could run like this for a few minutes before needing cooling off or switching back down to idle, but the real issue was the sticky effect. Fred had tried explaining it to her. The drums spun so fast that the gun didn't want to move. You could easily make minor adjustments, but you were constantly fighting the weapon's desire to stay.

Leon quickly listed off-targets. She had practice bolts loaded, wooden shafts with no core or head, and they quickly shattered on impact with the stone targets. You could dial up and down the speed of the rifle. It allowed you to fire with greater power and distance but shortened the life of the weapon. She was expected to hit every circle three times with the rapid-fire rifle. It required her to refill the gravity feeder with new bolts twice, an easy and fast process that support in a pinch could do.

It was exhausting, and this, more than anything, was why she picked it as her last. By the end of the training, she put the gun back into idle. Feeling the warm glow coming from the drums of the weapon. Checking the spin drive which powered the gun. According to Leon, the rifle was complex, but it was the most refined version of this weapon design. The original version had been developed by Fred on the army RnD budget. After the military dissolved, he had spent his life refining the design among another low emission tech.

Not only did you need to manage the heat, stick and ensure it could pull a vacuum. You needed to spin up the weapon to a state of readiness, and it was powered by a spin drive that needed recharging. The spin drive drum could be hot-swapped with a new one, but for the same reason as making her own ammunition, she was told to keep using the same two drums as much as possible.

"How did I do, boss?" She asked in her cheeriest voice, trying to mask her anxiety.
"So so, Shumba. You need to exercise your arms more. The spin got you wobbling at the end there. Also, your launches were sloppy. You're good with gas but not enough strength for me to assign you a cannon. Chem okay. You sure you don't want to switch to crossbow?"
"You got an auto winder?"
"Eh, talk to Fred. He likes a challenge."
"What you going to tell the big boss?"
"So so we not feed her to Dark Dogs." He smiled at the last, showing his teeth to reassure her of his dark humour.
"Footsack, schellum."

Laughing, they packed up the weapons. Pickle went down the range to retrieve the launcher balls. Thankfully all the bolts today were practice shafts which mainly had shattered. Pulling out the metal javelins was a pain, never mind resharpening or heading them. Going back inside, they went through the lounge and out the front door into the kill room. Concrete stairs lead down to the main front exit but also the only door into the armoury.

There were weapons in other places, small lockers and the like. But the bulk of the weapons and ammunition were stored in the room below the dorm. It included a few work tables for repairing weapons or reloading shells. Though all the powered tools and spin rechargers were down in the vault shielded from the outside.

Placing the weapons back into the proper cages, Leon oversaw her reloading some chem rounds. The required stretching, to remove the little metal footplate of the round. The plate contained most of the hot gases from the chemical explosion. Then cleaning and drying before she used her own personally assigned powders to mix new propellant, which she poured into the round. She then took a bullet, thankfully shared, which she seated on the same footplate before settling it into the cartridge and pressing it back closed. Too much pressure, and the round would stick and explode in the barrel. Too little pressure and the floor plate would fly out or buckle. Which could ruin the cartridge or, worse, jam up the gun. It was a much more complicated system than the chem guns she had seen before, which fired their bullet then ejected the shell.

"Leon, why can't I just make a bunch of these? And why do I have to make every one of them?" In truth, she had a small box of ammunition she had prepared herself but only about 30 rounds.
"They go bad."
"Huh?"
"Did you never think why most people use plasma guns in cities?"
"Not really, aren't they just better?"
"In some ways, yes, they are, but they are expensive and complicated. Much simpler to use gunpowder."
"What?"
"Chemical guns."
"But why do I have to make them."
"You make your own stuff to give it protection."
"Protection?"
"Ask Malcolm."

She made a face to which Leon just shook his head.

Leon continued, "Look, I don't like the guy, but he is reliable. Gunther trusts him, and he is the only mage I've seen survive by the Wild. Not including Wild tribes."

As they cleaned up, she tried shifting the conversation to Leon's scouting missions into the Wild. He had spent days and sometimes even weeks in the deep Wild on scouting missions. Sarah had said he was one of the most experienced rangers on the wall. He looked at most in his late thirties, but she knew he had been alive much longer in standard time. Sometimes Leon let things slip that just seemed too bizarre. He was evasive when talking about the Wild, trying to focus on the dangers and downplay all the things he saw. Still, he downright shut down if you asked him personal questions.

Heading onto the roof, they checked on the Ball twins. Brad and Brian were always on watch before them, so they had gotten used to it. The boys were nice enough when they weren't being arseholes. They hadn't tried to impress her again since the Wisp Cat incident with any acts of bravado. Still, they constantly told stories about their previous jobs and campaigns. Boasting of huge payouts and successes.

To hear them tell it. The Balls had operated in all the Free Cities of North America, worked with European royalty and even dropped in with New Hope strike squads. They weren't brash enough to have claimed to pierce the veil in Asia, but oh yeah, they had been deep into the Wild on corp missions. Seeing strange beasts the size of houses and entire fields of waving black tentacles. Never mind, no corp team would take on mercs except as cannon fodder.

They switched watch and settled into their quiet watch. Leon didn't like to talk much on the watch, which suited her. The first few days, she had been distant with the crew, but that first day had cracked open her shell a bit, and over the last two weeks, she felt a bit more comfortable around them all. Leon's quiet watches with no questions or enquiries and just time with her thoughts were a big part of that. They were relaxing. Even here waiting on the border to the dangerous Wild, she couldn't help feel at peace.

True, the nights were cold, and the darkness was often terror-inducing. The moon had been approaching full, which gave her more comfort. She always liked the moon. Today's watch was lunch to early evening, so no moon watch. Though out here, the moon seemed ten times bigger nestled among the stars, she never knew the sky was so detailed. Always a muffled black in the city with the moon a hazy haunted sight.

About an hour into watch, Sarah came up from the stairs. Generally, they tried to avoid opening the Tube top when they could let out too much from the vault despite being sealed in stages. So the lounge ladder was the usual way up. She dropped down a container with some fruit and buttered flatbread. Sarah looked a bit upset.

"Pickle, you were meant to report for a medical inspection. I was waiting for you."
Pickle's response was sheepish, "Oh sorry, forgot, Leon had me training."
"Do not give me that. Did she tell you Leon? Captain ordered a full inspection."

Leon quietly raised his eyebrow before going back to looking at the tree line through his hand scope. Sarah took this as confirmation for her point.

"You are coming down straight after shift to have a full inspection. Got it?"
"Yeeeees, doctooor," Pickle answered, elongating her words with compliant sarcasm.

Satisfied, Sarah climbed back down and went back into the base. Pickle couldn’t but help smile as she left. She felt in many ways Sarah was her best friend. She had friends and allies in the club or with Jack Jack's boys, but almost everyone had an angle. You worked with people because goals aligned. Sarah was so obvious in her moods and without guile. Her friendly attention seemed genuine, and while Pickle was still on guard around everyone, she felt like she could at least lessen it around Sarah.

Nibbling the fruit as they watched, she saw Sarah had slipped the magazine she had asked for under the fruit container. Staying attentive for five hours straight without some pretty extreme exhaustion is almost impossible. So when on blue status, or all clear no fear as Leon sometimes joked, they took turns. They both watched, but one person would really watch eyeballs on and scanning the treeline until they tapped out and the other person switched in. There was no fixed time for this, and they just felt it out. Her first few watches she had tried to show she could do it for long stretches. Leon relieved her without asking, and even then, she was exhausted from stretching herself.

She hadn't mentioned to Gunther, but that snake that Leon had killed had been on her watch. She had missed it until he had spotted it. Still, a point of shame for her as she was meant to be the one eyes on. Now she was more willing to tap out sooner and stay more alert when she was on.

The magazine was an interesting gossip rag mostly. The guys and gals and the club were always slinging them around and joking about bedding princes or trust fund kids with their private shuttles. The fantasy for most back then had been a wealthy patron, in her experience, that was a trap. Still, the fun what-ifs and celeb gossip flew through the changing rooms.

From the Madame to Vindaloo or even the darker characters like Winston Surrey, the bad boy of British royalty, gossip and speculation were always hot commodities. She didn't know any sim heads, but one of the club girls had gotten wired for some stim porn work. She said all the celebs had finely tuned and edited sims, but the real sim heads hunted leak master recordings. Unedited stims. Illegal as hell, of course.

Felina was supposed to be different. She doubted the famed singer with her cat-like features and tail would be releasing raw stims, but her whole brand was about being authentic. Sarah was obsessed with this stuff. Having grown up mainly on the wall, even every day sounded fantastical to her at times. Pickle laughed at some of the strange ideas that lady had. It was adorable.

The thing that had really caught her eye when they were flicking through them yesterday was the interview with Felina. Apparently, she had just done a concert with PsyCow, and that was an underground name. No one knew their true ident because they always appeared at shows in holosuits, but the rumours were rampant. She had been obsessed with this shape-shifting DJ musician and his crazy shows. She had attended a virtual as one of the flesh dancers when she was much younger, young enough for a particular crowd. The job was awful, but it was her way into the club and to escape Jack Jack. That night she had gotten lost in the music.

She had since listened to all of his electronic heavy metal psychedelic mixes but never again had she quite captured the energy of that night with the live performance. The interview, unfortunately, was not much about PsyCow. The interviewer was going after the meta-human angle. Full-on fluff piece talking about meta-human rights and her story of growing up as a shifting meta and not part of a tribe.

The interview followed the same boring tropes of self-discovery, changing body and empowerment that riddled these puff pieces. Pickle found it disgusting to read. She had known a few shifters growing up, and they were all dead or gone now as far as she knew. Sure she had met a few tribals in the club, but she could count on one hand the number of adult shifters she had met. They all had dark tales. Even if they didn't share them, you could see them in their eyes.

Annoyed, she closed the magazine and stood up. She tapped Leon to let him know she would take watch. She started pacing between the two spin turrets on either side of the tower. She didn't like sitting in them, especially after relieving the balls as they spent their entire shifts mostly in those chairs, and the stink from their fat arses just grossed her out. She grabbed the central ballista and swivelled it, scanning the treeline.

Those damn journalists and paparazzi. What did they know about anything, writing their little glam pieces? Printing their edited photos and sim all clean and pure. God forbid they talk about the agonising pain of bones cracking or the looks from strangers. Sure, most people shifted a little. Eyes, or marking or strange hair colour or skin. But no one talked about the day or sometimes week blind and the strangeness of the world afterwards as your sense of colour or light shifted. No mention of wanting to rip your skin off as it itched night and after night. The horrid nightmares of ripping out your own body. Fucking arse holes.

She wished she could drive a ballista bolt right through them. Bloody airheads like Sarah just going, isn't it so exotic. Fucking no clue.

Just as her rant started spiralling into a maddened fury of disjointed rage, her train of thought was derailed. She saw a few trees shake. From behind a trunk emerged a strange dark grey shape. It lumbered not on all fours like a cat or dog but with a peculiar gait. It looked about the size of a large child or small adult. Walking with a crouch but using the nubs folded wings. Not leathery or feather but scaled and interwoven. Its head on the end of a long snaking neck sniffed the air, forked tongue flickering out to taste it.

"Leon, one O’ clock ground. Small and alone."

Leon jumped up and sighted the creature. Barely pausing before saying in a steady voice, "Center mass. Kill shot now."

Feeling the rage wash away from her, she breathed out and refined her aim of the oversized crossbow. The ballista was narrow in design but powerful. She wouldn't need to account for wind or much drop at this distance. Putting the sight slightly above its centre mass, she fired. The large iron clay javelin flew fast and true. Spearing the creature through its centre.

The large shaft pinned it to the earth, and it writhed and screamed for a second, burning smoke emitted from the wound. It looked foul and toxic, like it was staining the air.

Leon confirmed the kill, but before it was done writhing, he flicked the tower to red status and tapped out a message on the keyboard. Sending before returning to watch and sitting in the right turret seat.

"Reload and watch."

She quickly complied. The ballista used a small auto winder powered by a spin drive to pull back tension. She pulled off another ironclad javelin and placed it in the firing position as she heard Leon bring the turret up to idle, then hot. The first time the turret had run hot since she arrived.

Before she was back in position Gunther was climbing out of the Tube with his gatling gun. Followed by the Ball twins, one of who quickly moved to relieve Leon so he could pick up his rifle. Ka emerged onto the roof with Sarah. Only Fred, the Geek and Malcolm were missing. Wait, Malcolm was combat. Why was he missing when even Sarah was on deck?

The Ball twins were swearing under their breath as Gunther clicked his gun into a mounting point and ready it. It was then she noticed that while Gunther and Leon were scanning the ground like she was. The Ball twins were watching the sky.

"What did I just kill?" Pickle asked with her voice shaking slightly.
"Adolescent Wyvern," Leon answered in a calm tone.

Then in a much quieter voice dripping with fear and frustration but not quite enough, Brian muttered under his breath, "Baby fucking dragon."

Afterword

This is an ongoing web novel updated every Thursday. I really hope you enjoy it, this is my first attempt but I've spent a lot of time in this world, over two decades. Running roleplaying campaigns, writing comics and creating stories so it feels really natural to tell a story in this world.

Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6
Part 7

Pickle on the Nightmare Wall - Part 5

The Ball Twins

"Lock it and stock it." Gunther's voice brought her back into the moment as Pickle looked around the echoing underground train platform. The room was just long enough to accommodate the open train on rails with a small walkway upfront with a glittering bronze shaft perhaps two meters across running from floor to ceiling. The ceiling almost ten meters high above them, hard to tell with the low lighting.

The room was clad in poured concrete reinforced with dark iron ribbing and I-beams. The thick metal beams ran the length of the ceiling. To either side was a hard polished wood flooring covering the train platforms. The odd mixture of materials made her pause. The wood wasn't elaborate though it wasn't cheap exposed timber. Some dark heavy grain had been finely jointed and stained but was now dusty and well worn. Functional.

A large fluid tank of some sort squatted in the right back corner with piping run off into the ceiling. Two pairs of large doors on either side into other underground rooms. To her left was the console now being operated by a middle-aged man with dark black hair curly and thick in contrast to his weathered face and scrawny build. He wore a faded blue coverall with tools and pockets attached to every flat piece of fabric or obvious mounting point. As he pulled with both hands on a large level with a pressure handle grip, she heard the clunk and whoosh of mechanical systems. Slowly with less noise than expected, the large metal enforced started swinging shut to close in the room.

Walking over from the console with a friendly gait was the tall hunter who had greeted them. Smiling, he swapped greetings with Gunther pulling him up and in a hug. "Good trip, old man?"

"Good enough," Gunther answered with a warm smile that seemed out of place on the gruff man. Gunther stepped up onto the platform, surveying the train for a second. The tall, toned man next to Gunther was clearly an outdoors type. He had a silly soft hat with a wide brim folded in half stuck in a strap on his shoulder. His outfit was well made but worn, made from tan browns of subtle shades. The yellows and browns of a dry veld went well with his caramel skin. It was hard to tell how much of his colour was sun-kissed vs natural tone. He had a friendly smile like a big warm cat welcoming home its family but licking his lips at dinner as his eyes wandered over the train. She watched their conversation fascinated as the hunter's eyes returned to Gunther with a question.

"Trouble?"
"Maybe, Frank got Scraps' call about the Stalker," Gunther paused for a second to see the Hunter nod before continuing. "Well, the glider is back as well."
"God damn rip off," the old man threw into the conversation, pausing to sip from a mug. "Bastards trying to copy my idea without understanding it. Going to rile up the neighbours."
All men nodded sagely, the wise old men complaining about the antics of children. Gunther looked back at the train and started issuing orders.

"Ka, Scraps and Doc help Frank get the stock away, and the crane fitted. Scraps scoop on the way back. Girl, come here." Gunther waved Pickle over. She rushed over to the men, giving a rough salute which she had seen corp troopers and some mercenaries give. The old man lifted his cup, and the hunter gave a sharp parody of a salute. They all gave each other a look before chuckling. She lowered her eyes. Feeling the energy drain out of her.

"Now now, don't make fun of my kitten." She felt Malcolm's metal-tipped glove fingers rest on her shoulders. Firm and unwelcome. She was unsure if they were holding her down or up, but she knew he would be smiling. Gunther grunted, "Pickle here bought a stake. She is company now."

That changed the mood of the two men. They paused to really take her in. Both seemed to perform different calculus in their head as they inspected her. Before they could pronounce, the summation of their mental weighing Gunther continued. "Pickle, this is Frank, chief engineer. He runs this tower more than I do, and that there is Leon. Best point man on the wall. Leon, take the girl up top and keep watch while we unload. Get a gun in her hands, would you."

The old man had given a modest who me at Gunther's compliment. While Leon simply nodded his head at Gunther's assessment of his abilities. Leon gave a quick last hug and welcome Gunther before glaring past her shoulder and turning towards a large metal ladder. It was sunk into a concrete column running all the way to the ceiling. Just by the wall between the console and the ladder was a big flat open freight elevator. Just as Leon's boots touched the ladder, she felt Malcolm's hands give her a nudge forward to the ladder, his silk voice directed at Leon. "Take care of my new apprentice cookie."

Following after Leon, she started to climb up the ladder. The rungs were worn and cold but had worn grip tape, which showed signs of being replaced frequently. The ceiling was higher in the centre. The wall to ceiling height was much less, but the ladder didn't end at the ceiling. Instead, it extended up a cold concrete shaft next to the elevator until it reached about the same height she guessed as the peak of the arch. The dark cold shaft was unfamiliar to her. In an age where monsters wandered the dark and the wild was not just a tale of children but an existential threat, most spaces were well-lit. Even poor houses were well lit with cheap LEDs. Though as she climbed near the dim lamps, which illuminated the shaft with warm yellow light, she noticed a flicker to them.

They were dimmer than any light she had seen before, faint enough to see the led inside. She was used to bright lights, but these dim lights flickered like a fireplace or the candles from the nunnery. She found herself fascinated by them, only to have her inspection interrupted by a screech of metal as a trap door was opened by Leon above her. Realising she was lagging behind, she climbed up the last few rungs quickly to catch up.

As she stepped into the corridor, he closed the trapdoor behind her. Quickly opening a small door to his right. The door was reinforced metal again with a sense of weight which was not visible when it was opened. They walked out into a small open plan kitchen. It was well organised but used, strewn with reusable containers and labelled cupboards or containers. It immediately gave the sense of being an office kitchen, or at least that was her closest point of reference. She could see the labels and the passive-aggressive questions about who ate what just echoed in its labelled containers.

Leon didn't slow down for her or explain as they walked through a lounge area. Old chairs around a wooden table, bean bags and a small shelf of books. The light in this room all coming through long glass skylights set into the ceiling. The ground was covered in layers of shaggy rugs and worn carpet. Doors leading off in a bunch of directions the layout of the room pointed at one key point. A small ladder leading to a trapdoor between the two long skylights. Leon climbed up and lifted it open, letting more sunlight pour in as he climbed onto the roof. She quickly followed.

After the darkness of the underground train platform and then the lightning quick cut through the building, she was momentarily stunned by the bright sunlight. The ladder roof access was actually covered by a canvas roof pulled tight between some poles but the small shield gave little reprieve from the midday sun. Taking a moment to adjust she saw Leon stretch like he was finally comfortable. Pushing his hands into the small of his back and stretching out.

The roof was concrete but looked extremely lived in. Small patches of stretched canvas provided covered shade in various spots. A small table with four chairs, a stretch of fake grass carpet, a well used putting practice pitch. Small garden boxes dominated the roof, with a small greenhouse towards the back of the roof. The layout of the room was a squat capital T or a plus symbol without its top. Wider than tall, the wide face was presented out towards the front. The back section ran between rocks lifted up, a small kopje provided natural cover to the building. The back was home to the large rooftop greenhouse as well as a tall water tank.

Finally, the largest element on the front was a tall wooden watchtower atop metal beams. The weathered metal beams looked of the same sort which reinforced the train platform below. They seemed overlarge for the wooden watchtower with its wrapped wooden steps leading up. The strangest element was the bronze tube, two meters across, which she saw in the train platform below. It extended all the way up and to the top of the watchtower.

"What gun's you fired before Pickle?"
"Um a bunch, though most familiar with punch and needle guns."
"Small arms, high tech." Leon was unimpressed by the roster. "Anything larger?"
"Fired mag and plasma but not much. Just to try."
Raising an eyebrow Leon appeared to be adding a mental notch. "Well, spin rifles are our bread and butter though you need something to complement it. We can worry about that later. For now, use this until we train you on spin rifles."

Leon pulled out a small crossbow and a large rifle, he handed the crossbow to her. It had a rack of small bolts strapped to the side. She turned over the weapon which was well used. The tension pull was a wheel with a strange mounting she wasn't familiar with. She gave the wheel a few turns, slotting in one of the metal bolts and checking the safety was engaged. She slung the shoulder strap over her head looking to Leon for a cue. He was nodding.

"Lekker, maybe you do alright. Now let's check up on the balls." He was walking towards the tower before the sentence was finished. Climbing the wide winding wooden steps. They were comfortably wide and at a push, she could see two people crossing mid-climb without danger, though it might be tight. As they were climbing Leon added, "The balls are mercs, good ones but don't let them rib you too hard." He suddenly shouted up, "Ja kaks, all clear to climb?"

Two boyish voices answered from above, "Blue skies."
"Who is the girl, shore leave?" Chuckles from above punctuated the sentence with lewdness she was all too familiar with. Leon shook his head while finishing the last bit of the climb. She followed up after.

The thatch roof covered the heavy stained wood with a small railing around the edge which extended out from the base. The centre was dominated by a strange metal hatch into the metal tube which seemed to run through the building. Fat cables ran out from the tube. A small control console just to the side of the tube was decorated with physical buttons and switches. The other tubes ran out to either side to two large mounted weapons by the railing edge. The guns were on a swivel and the high tech nature of them seemed out of place. Oversized, these guns shared the bulky coverings she had seen on Gunther's rifle. Their long barrels and bulk appeared to be finely balanced. The umbilicals leading into the depths of the base.

The large weapons were offset by two short young men, they looked boyish and impish. Both wore baseball caps with a large letter B machine embroidered on the front. One of them wore a faded t-shirt with a complex gothic script forming a faded logo of some metal band. Copper Cow. She had never heard of them but they sounded foreign. The other boy wore a shirt of a cartoon head with robot red eyes and in place of hair a toaster had been drawn with two burnt pieces of toast popping out the head. Without blinking she knew the back would read, Heartbeat Required, Ghost Busters or No Robots. Some similar slogans from the anti-Phantom brigade. They both also wore silly grins of children, though both were in their early twenties.

"Who is the chick?" The left one asked.
"Brad and Brian this is Pick. She is company," Leon answered.
"Ooh fancy, and here I thought she was the entertainment."
"Don't mind my bro Pick. Always good to see another human on the wall."

She breathed in, feeling like her voice was unused to everyone speaking to and around her. Running her tongue around her mouth she answered. "Um thanks, actually my name is Pickle."
"What like the food?" Brian asked.
She nodded.
"Well, fuck ain't that strange."

Leon was glancing through the scope of his rifle, looking over the edge searching. Leon's voice was quieter with the weapon raised. "Anything?"
"Nah," Brad responded, spitting over the edge. "Not a peep."
"Captain wants us to go to green. Glider is back."
"Fuuuuuck."

They both went to their guns and started searching the treeline. Pickle walked up to the railing and got her first real view of the wild. Her first thought was how beautiful it all was. The unbroken forest and veld mixed into the clear distance. Blue skies stretched across the horizon and it looked peaceful. She could see birds in the distance but no other wildlife.

The ground around the base was mown grass. It was kept trim and clear for perhaps seventy meters until the treeline started. The undergrowth and thick trees cloaked darkness which in the afternoon sun was hard to make out. The afternoon autumn sun hung lower in the sky glaring in their eyes. The wall faced north towards the equator so the shadows looked like fingers stretching out trying to touch them and pull them into the dark shadows of the trees.

On either side of the base, a woven wooden wall stretching three meters high stretched off into the distance to the left and right. She was tracking it with her eyes into the distance when Leon's quiet voice asked, "Can you see the demons?"

"What, demons. No, just trees and some birds."
"Look at those birds again," he handed over a small pair of binoculars. They were simple glass in a carved wooden frame with small pieces of leather. She held them up to her eyes. There were no digital readout or controls she could see. She squinted, trying to get them in place. Searching the sky for the birds, looking past to get her bearings and slowly panning to find the flock. Her breath paused, in her throat a hard lump.

They weren't birds, and they were a lot further away than she thought. Leather wings flapped, not entirely there, with an edge of shadow. The seven birds were each the size of a large car, and not a feather was among them. Long stretched beaks crudely extended from their body and small tails protruded out. Large talons looked oversized on the creatures. She thought their faces looked stretched from screams. It was then she realised that she could see their faces. The lump dropped from her throat into her stomach, heavy as a boulder. They were flying in their general direction.

Looking out from the zoomed view, she looked at Leon. He shook his head, heading to the console, he pulled out a keyboard. Typing out a message and then slammed a button. The boys were glancing over their shoulders over at Leon. He looked back at them, "I don't think so. I think MedPoll will pull them. Keep sharp we stay Green."
This satisfied the boys as they returned to scanning the treeline. Pickle confused, asked, "Green?"

Leon pointed at the console pushing the keyboard back into the console. On the top panel, a small dial dominated with a colour wheel. Blue, Green, Yellow, Red and Black. A small keyhole was next to the dial. Various toggles and switches took up the rest of the console. The dial was currently set to Green.

"We are here for the long haul. Can't be on our toes all the time. So we have alert levels. Blue is nothing sighted, all clear. We have two people on watch at all times but on Blue only one person needs to be eyes on at a time. We are Blue most of the time. Green is danger sighted." He pointed at the birds. "Don't be afraid to take us to Green. It means both eyes on, and a third person will come up to check in. Also, you should send a notice down on what you saw as soon as you can."

Leon pulled out a mechanical keyboard with wooden keys from the console. There were also fewer keys than she associated with a keyboard. Only letters and numbers with a space and return key. There was no screen or readout she could see. There was a small laminated label with some codes printed on it.

SOS - Send help
MDC - Wounded
TCK - Tech Broke

The list went on to list about 15 shortcodes. Then handwritten in sharpie were a few others much less formal.

AMM - Bring Bullets
FUD - Feed me
PIS - Rain
POO - Bucket run

Pushing the keyboard back in Leon continued in his explanation. "Yellow is engagement likely or engaged. For when the fighting is about to start or going on. On yellow everyone is up and alert unless on rest shift. We operate four shifts, can explain that later but on Yellow you need to know where your gun is even if you're not up top and unless you have a reason not to be we want you up top. Finally, Red is full attack, restrictions are lifted and everyone must be up top to fight." He pointed out towards the sky. "We are yellow because those demons will likely hit Medpoll, our neighbour. They could turn at any moment so stay alert."

With that Leon returned to the railing, inspecting the flock closing in. A gentle breeze blew in the cold air counter to the warm sunlight. She watched the large beasts flap their wings and draw in closer. When she realised something, "You never said what Black was?"
Brad quipped from over the barrel of his mounted gun. "We are fucked."
"Black is bad," Brian repeated.

In a calm voice, Leon clarified, "Black is bunker down or retreat as we call for aid. Only the Captain or Malcolm can call Black. If we go black, the tower is dead, and our neighbours or Heaven step in to seal the breach."

The tower went silent then as they watched the creatures approach the MedPoll tower. Its white tictac tower loomed on the horizon, waiting for combat. When the flock was still far beyond the treeline, suddenly two of them got yanked back into the sky up high then suddenly plummeted, the ragdoll form twirly and tumbling, breaking the parabolic course into more of a downward scramble. The remaining flying demons sped up to maybe twice their previous speed pin pointing on the white tower.

Thud, thud. Two more fell out of the sky. Pickle searched for a puff of smoke or the crack of a gun but there was nothing, just sudden destruction of the approaching threat. One missed as a bird demon dodged, tearing up its wing instead of the centre mass. The blood-soaked projectile which ripped the wing off was now clearly visible in its tumble. Whatever it was, it was solid and heavy with a ton of force behind it as the tumbling viscera flew off. The wounded beast flapped its one remaining wing, losing height to the tree line, before vanishing below and into the dark.

Suddenly the last remnants of the flock swooped down towards the tower. This time met with a rapid-fire, smaller fire ripping into them. Before they fell to the turf, black nightmares no more. Defeated and crushed on the wall. Pickle was impressed by the sheer efficiency of the weapons.

"Foking domkops. Kak. Shielded or no, that mag rail is going to get us surged one day." Leon cursed.
Brad added, "Well it saved their butt, though it was prob robots who fired it."
"Nah prob Toasters," quipped back Brian.
Leon cut them off. "Doesn't matter, we stay green. Half a mind to go yell."

This cut the mood and the boys focused in on the treeline. Scanning for incoming threats. The minutes stretched as they searched the treeline. Pickle sighted down her crossbow. She saw some rabbits grazing the long grass near the trees, a squirrel running along the branches. The forest wasn't still but constantly dancing in the wind and alive with small motions. It would have been dull but much less anxiety-inducing to watch a bare patch of ground instead of trying to pick out the danger from the chaos.

Following the motion of a bush, she saw a bush shake a little. Then she saw a set of twisted horns poking out from the wood. Before she could say anything the head popped up and a large kudu eye stared directly at her with its face side on. She watched as the creature chewed. A noise from the forest made the kudu raise its head and suddenly, a blast of air was felt to her left. As she registered it she saw a bolt the size of a small javelin stick into the tree beside the buck as it suddenly leapt out onto the grass and tore away to the right before jumping back into the tree line further down.

"Fucking Kak for brains, why did you shoot at a kudu?" asked Leon his voice shaking with rage.
"Sorry man I saw the horns and it was moving fast so I thought it was a threat," Brad answered.
"And you, shit for brain monkey missed?"
"It was moving fast, bloody thing is on the tree line. That's a long shot cold."
"Stupid and incompetent. You are retrieving that bolt."
"No way Leon, it's just one javelin."
"One javelin your stupid arse fired at a bloody buck. Fetch."

Grumbling, he stepped back from his gun, flipping on a safety.
"Pickle go with Brad. He needs someone to clamp the wire."

Brad picked up a rifle with two strange drums a larger one below the barrel and another smaller one just above the barrel further down. Slinging it over his shoulder. Heading down to the rooftop with Brad cursing the entire time as Leon took over his sentry post, they climbed down the wooden steps. The rooftop was surrounded by a small outcropping and low wall that stopped things rolling off, but she supposed it also stopped climbing critters. Brad took her to a section where he unclamped it and folded it onto the roof like a trapdoor opening towards the open air. Now leaving a gap in the outcropping defence ring. Brad picked up a black rope on a pulley system with a yellow handle on the end. The rope rang down into a drum along with two other similar arrangements. Brad explained.

"Now I'm going to be climbing down with this under tension. There is a little hook at the bottom, so I can latch it. The cord is tight," he tugged on the cord, showing it pulling back hard. "Now I can pull it but easier if you just pull the clutch here to free it. Let me climb down and hook then I will tug for you to push the lever back so the cord is tight. Got it?"

Pickle nodded, "I think so."
"Bloody better." Pulling on what looked like a whammy rod on a guitar mounted on the stock of the strange rifle. She could hear a quiet whirring noise as something sped up a little bit. Before nodding, he pressed the lever back and the sound ceased. He started descending, gun slung over his shoulder, down the wall for the two floors down to the ground. Securing the hook as mentioned before tugging it. She pulled the level feeling the cord pull tight. Curious, she went to the edge under the tower's shadow to watch his progress. He walked with his gun up, the rifle pulled strangely, as he turned to look around. Steady but fast. Not running but proceeding at pace.

As he walked forward, she noticed small red circles of laser light projected down from the tower. The laser light hadn't been on early and it painted the small red circles, all of which Brad seemed to avoid. Until finally, he reached the tree line where his large bolt was sunk into the tree trunk. Pulling out a small tool it looked like pliers but with a pair of doughnuts with a gap. He slipped the tool over the javelin sized bolt.

Closing the tool, it pressed against the trunk while clamping and pulling on the bolt. It yanked out the bolt out with a loud crack. Putting the tool back on his belt Brad held the bolt up like a trophy looking back at the tower. Walking back to the tower with the bolt he started playing around with the bolt and making fun with it. Hamming it up for the watching audience. Suddenly a tiny black cat bolted out of the tree line darting for Brad. Pickle yelled out a warning waving her hands. Brad blanched, turning around to see the kitten sized creature charging at him. He dropped the bolt reaching for his weapon, rushing to ready it. Slamming it in frustration.

The cat was a bit larger than a house cat, but the tail wasn't solid. Rather, it was a smoke wisp-like a tail swishing invisibly but leaving a smoke trail in the air where it was moments ago. Claws out, it landed on Brad's chest as he screamed and flailed with his gun. Pickle drew up her crossbow, trying to take the shot. Before she could bring it to her eye she heard a muffled gunshot from above. Moments later the creature's head exploded.

Brad stood there screaming with the hanging headless corpse hanging limply on his chest. After a moment of screaming, he reached onto his chest and ripped off the remains throwing them to the ground. He started stumbling towards the base. After moments the stumble turned into a run. Pickle watched with horror as his stumbling run stepped on a red circle, she held her breath, as he continued running. Nothing happened.

Brad slammed against the wall, pulling the handle off the hook, letting the tight cord drag him up the wall, over the edge and onto the ceiling. As Pickle pulled up the cursing and swearing man she saw blood smear his chest and his face was speckled with black muck. The smell was intense, burning and sickly sweet.

"Fucking cat," Brad's voice was broken and harsh. He started pulling off his shirt over his head. Wiping the muck with the crumpled bundle. Small scratches welled up red on his upper chest and some by his stomach. The wounds looked surprisingly shallow but were angry and welting.

Before Pickle could fully register the scene, Sarah was there. She was pressing Brad down, reassuring him. "Brad, count off to five." She pressed his head down so he was looking up. "Pickle his head, hold it." She grabbed his head, it felt warm.
"Fuck. Five, Four..."
Sarah was pouring water on the wound. The water touching the wound instantly steamed. Brad screamed his head pulling up against her hold, she pressed him down. Sarah wet a cloth, "It is okay, just need to clean the goo. Going to patch you up." She went to clean off all the dark material and blood. Reaching into her pockets, she pulled out a thick square. She pulled it apart and then slapped the thicker half onto Brad's chest with a brutal force. The moist slapping noise was accompanied by a heavy grunt from Brad as all his muscles tensed.

Pickle saw the veins around the patch swell as chemicals sunk into Brad's body. Sarah was now pulling out wadding and bandages, things familiar to her as she went to tend the wounds. Brad went a bit looser as the painkillers in the patch started their work. The work blurred until Brad was lying on the roof, topless surrounded by discarded single-use wrappers and medical debris. Sarah handed Pickle a wet wipe.

"Here pumpkin, clean up any of that goop. Not good to leave on your skin." Sarah quickly followed her own advice wiping herself down. Pickle washed her face and hands, seeing the wipe come away with a mix of blacks and reds. The smell of that sweet sickness was on the air. Looking down she saw Brad was unconscious.

"I knocked him out pumpkin, he did not need to stay awake. We are yellow."
"Will he be okay?"
"Yeah, big baby. Just a wisp cat scratches but you can never be too careful. Wild wounds tend to fester if you do not clean them right away. I should not call him a baby, they hurt to high heaven."

Pickle looked out to the brightly light scenery with a new horror in her belly. She thought back to the holos and fics about the wall with their great beasts and brave combat. The epic combat and action scenes. Nothing had prepared her for this brutal truth, it was the street writ large but she didn't know the rules. She felt that thick ball of anxiety in her stomach dissolving into writhing anxiety rising through her body. She felt her skin start vibrating as a high pitched whine built in her brain.

"Pumpkin," Sarah rested a hand on her shoulder. "You okay?"

Looking up she saw Sarah face swimming in red hair. Her freckles and green eyes looking at Pickle. She couldn't meet them, looking down at the ground. She pulled in her strength as Doc lifted her up to her feet.

"Come Pumpkin let's get you lying down."

---

She woke up looking at an unfamiliar ceiling. Her head was thick with fog. She hadn't been drinking, had she? The openness of her position sent a jolt of panic through her body. Still paralysed by sleep her normal instant alertness slipped out of her fingers. As her eyes darted around the ceiling, she noted the concrete ceiling broken by two thick slits of glass making long skylights. The glass was mattress thick and reflecting dusk or dawn light. Small lights in the room dimmed against the flooding sunlight. Her bed was in the corner far from the entrance.

Looking around, she was lying on a small bed with white sheets and a brown cotton blanket tightly wrapping the bed but she was lying on top of it. She was still fully dressed but her shoes were missing. Reaching up she touched her helmet, it was still there. She didn't see anyone else in the room. She sat up on the bed. Seeing her shoes with socks on the floor made her feel better. Her bag lay at the end of the bed, with the familiar small folded packet. The clothes the girls had bought for her before leaving.

The last day swam in her mind. Less than twenty-four hours ago she had pulled off the biggest robbery of her life, enough to start a new life. Buying a stake in a defence company working the wall, run by the man, the legend, Gunther the Gun. She had travelled to the edge and seen the wild. A small ball of emotion raised up in her throat. She swallowed it down with the memory. It didn't feel real.

Looking around the room she saw it was a large dormitory. The corner across from her was decorated sparsely with small tokens from beasts. The space was neat and organised with the most noticeable thing being a small glass fishbowl filled with smooth rocks. A multitude of colours. There are no precious stones, just regular pebbles like one would find in a river but a rich mix of colours and shapes.

The corner on the other side by the entrance was the most standout. It was a mess of tossed clothing, posters and some dirty plates and mugs. The beds were stacked on top of each other, making the only bunk bed in the dorm.

The other beds were made up like hers with no distinguishing marks other than some belongings and bags stacked at the end of the bed. She could tell from the bags who had claimed which bed. Seeing her immediate and only neighbour had been taken by Ka'Shek. His large duffel bag with its tribal patches was immediately noticeable. The next bed over had the small neat travel case on the end, the geek's bed then. The door itself wasn't a door, but layered material cut into strips in a thick design. Muffling light and sound from the outside. It was an impenetrable barrier to light and sound.

Pulling her shoes back on she noticed a locking trunk at the base of her bed. Thinking back to what was in the bag and her pockets. She didn't know who had a key to it, other than the key in the lock so she didn't trust it. She didn't want to put people on edge by appearing too private. She resolved to leave her bag on the bed, like the others had. Heading to the door she pushed the curtain aside.

Sitting on the sofa she saw Northcott, he was writing away in a small notebook. Busily scrawling away in his strange handwriting.
"They are on the roof," he pointed to the ladder to the roof. Quickly returning to his scribbles. She took in the room, this time she wasn't being rushed through the building. The bookshelf had a range of books on it but she also saw some boxes with colourful titles on them. To her right was the open plan kitchen, several dirty plates were stacked in the sink. The left wall had thick glass viewing windows showing a concrete stairwell with the bronze tube running through it and a thick metal reinforced door.

Turning around she saw it was the same type of door as the one that had led in here from the train platform. Looking back at that door on the same wall as the bedroom she noticed another reinforced door. She also saw that across from the dorm were two corridors. One led off away from the dorm, while the other led off along the kitchen. She saw several doors. It could all wait. She eyed the ladder up to the roof and climbed up pushing up the trapdoor.

She was immediately greeted by happy sounds as she stuck her head up, a cheer went up as she emerged. Happy laughter filled the air. The moment she was up and out a happy shirtless Brad came over to hug her.
"Pickle. You're alive."
"Um yeah, you were the one attacked."
"Oh. It was a pussy tat. He went scritchy scratch on my chest." The tipsy man stumbled back, pointing at his bandaged chest. The layered bandages looked like a noughts and crosses board on his scrawny chest. Surprisingly she smelled no alcohol on his breath. Brian came over and took his brother by the shoulders. "Come on Brad, let leave the nice lady alone."

Looking around the roof she saw a set of folding chairs set up around in a small circle. Brad being led back to them by Brian. Frank, Leon and Sarah were all chatting in a circle sitting in them while Ka sat cross-legged with tight animal skin and a bone needle stitching a design into the stretched hide. She walked up to greet them all. As she approached, Sarah grabbed a small tupperware and handed it to her.

"Feeling okay Pumpkin, getting knocked out twice in one day. Quite the start."
"Yeah, you could say that," she admitted.

The tupperware had a small wooden fork strapped to the top. It held a bunch of lukewarm curry and veg. Popping the lid the warm smell of onions and tomatoes filled her nose. Stirring it she let the conversation and laughter wash over her. Brad laughing much louder than the rest. She glanced over worried at him. Sarah caught her eye and winked, leaning over.
"He is still enjoying the pain killers I gave him."
"Ah, is he going to be okay?"
"Yeah. Mist cats are mostly harmless but they claw through almost anything. But they are mostly solitary. Still, the goop is dangerous. He will be fine."
"Is it okay for us to be up here making noise?"
"Yeah we are back in Blue. Besides Gun and Mal are on watch we could not be safer."

Looking over at Ka'shek she looked at him working a complex design into the stretch hide. Ka was pulling a bone needle through working a shiny silver thread into a complex design of sharp symbols she couldn't understand. She quietly ate her curry listening to the twins joking about as she watched the needle pull and poke. Slowly the design layering onto itself, growing in complexity. Watching the complex pattern grow she gently asked, "Ka what are you making?"

"I am weaving a ward of protection and hearth into the hide of this Wildebeest. It will protect my dreams and guard off evil spirits as I sleep. One cannot weave powerful hearth protection when travelling." Ka paused as he knotted a thread and clipped it. Pulling out another slightly different colour thread holding it up to the light as he rethreaded the needle. Pickle watched fascinated in the process as he tied off the length of the thread.
"Ka?" she waited for him to register her question, he gently hummed his acknowledgement. "So is it a thing you wear?"

Before Ka could answer Brad stumbled over, "It's his blankie, the big green giant is scared his brothers are going to come fuck him in the night."
A chill silence ran through the group. As Brian grabbed his brother, "Hey let's go grab a drink?"
"Don't give me this shit, why are we protecting people from monsters with fucking monsters."

Pickle watched everyone eye each other. Ka ignored the barrage continuing with his needlework. Sarah and Frank looked angrily at Brad while Brian looked around worried at all the faces. Brian tried pulling his brother away to the ladder. "Come on bro, you need a drink."

Brian pulled him away towards the ladder, carefully helping him down the ladder into the lounge. Frank looked the most awkward of all of them remaining.

"Sorry you had to deal with that Ka, he normally is better at holding his tongue." Frank was fiddling with his mug nursing the coffee looking worried at Ka'Shek. The orc continued working his needle leaving a silence in the air until he poked a new stitch then looked up at Frank and in his kinda melodic deep tones answered.

"We do not entertain fear or its weakened cousin of hate. Many slings have been fired at my people as the nightmares of the world have turned cowards to throw their stones at those who stand tall in this age. Many of the tribes worry and let their own fear exclude them but I choose to wander into the world to collect the good and bad. Even little men and their moods."

Sarah seethed at Ka's gentle and thoughtful response. "That is complete bullshit Ka. You should not have to nurse their feelings or my father's. You have a right to be angry at those idiots. Why Gunther hires them on I will never know."

Frank looked even more embarrassed as he responded, "Well it's hard to hire. The tower needs men." He paused awkwardly looking at this daughter and Pickle. "And women of course. But it's dangerous. Most sign up with the bigger towers. Not many free agents who are prepared to go low emission."
Sarah looked mildly less upset, "Still it is wrong. Plain wrong. I am glad they are not company."
"Wait company?" Pickle asked, "Someone said that earlier. I thought everyone on the tower was company?"

Frank shook his head, "No most on the towers are hired hands. Some like Ka have tribal associations which means they can't join. Others don't have the credit or trust. You are the first new company stakeholder we have had in seven years." Sarah was nodding enthusiastically as her father went on, "Sarah was born into it. Gunther and Malcolm hired me on to retrofit the tower. At the time I was one of the designers on the original wall project. This is one of the last remaining towers. I joined the company not long after with my wife. Leon and Willy a decade or so later."

"So why did Gunther let me just buy stake?" Pickle asked a little bit angry at her complete lack of understanding. Sarah and Frank looked at each other awkwardly. Frank looked back at her, paused then took a sip from his mug before staring into the mug considering. He slowly answered.
"Well, I can't speak for the Captain. He has his reasons but he must have seen something in you."
Her mind reeling at this response her brain popped a fact up from the depths, "Wait you said Gunther, Malcolm, Leon, Sarah and you... what about Scraps?"
"Oh no she has her own recovery and artefact business. She just runs our front office and does transit. But she is family."

Pickle looked up at the tower where Gunther and Malcolm both stood watch, wondering what was going through their minds. This little girl, as Gunther put it, showed up not to their office but the platform. Money in hand requesting assignment to one of the most dangerous places in the world. What an idiot she was, but she was here. She looked down at the empty tupperware and then at Ka quietly working on his blanket. Finally, she looked back at Gunther and Malcolm on the tower. The creepy tall mage made her reach up and touch her helmet self-consciously.

Boom. BOOM!

Flashes of light off in the distance east lit up the darkening sky. More booms continued off in the distance and flashes of gunfire as munitions were deployed en masse. Frank smiled, pulling his chair around so he had a view of the Mars tower. The big black needle in the sky. It's sharp pointy relief a knife-edge in the sky lit up by explosions in the distance. Frank laughed, "Our own fireworks show."

They watched the fireworks explode in the dark sunset sky. Watching the sky darken as the battle raged on. It seemed to grow in intensity over time. After a while, Brian joined them to watch the distant battle. Eventually, as it grew quiet and the sun hints of warmth drained from the day they saw the night sky fill with stars. Looking up at the bright night sky.

Living in the city she was used to seeing a dark grey blanket with a coin of white for the moon. Here the sky was a dark blanket with blues and swirls, deep colours she had never seen in the deep black. Crisp starlight painted the sky though no moon was to be seen in the dark sky. It was a stunning sight she felt like she could reach out and scoop a handful of stars. They were bright and solid without the gravity wakes and haze of the city.

Maybe she hadn't made the worst mistake.

Afterword

This is an ongoing web novel updated every Thursday. I really hope you enjoy it, this is my first attempt but I've spent a lot of time in this world, over two decades. Running roleplaying campaigns, writing comics and creating stories so it feels really natural to tell a story in this world.

Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6
Part 7

Pickle on the Nightmare Wall - Part 4

Echoes of Sin

Watching Malcolm's long dark frame sagging, all the threatening strength rushing out. A mountain of power collapsing in on itself. Falling to his knees, vibrant colours flowing away from him and washing over Pickle. The last echos of powerful magical work.

Lost in amazement, as she let the coating of magic flow over her skin, Pickle felt at peace. A wake of rainbow glycerine flecks sparkled off her fingertips, leaving multicoloured eddies as she played with the breeze, scattering across the landscape. Fascinated at the iridescent course of glittering magic, the first thing her brain thought of was flight.

Gravity wakes were tears across the sky, a churning motorboat kicking up three-dimensional eddies in the sky. Her extremities were little fishes in the clear pond, not breaking the water like the powerful engine but flowing through the rainbow currents, touching the spell.

The sky was iridescent blue in its purity, the air smelled clean. She wrapped her fingers around the multicoloured dust closing her hand to feel it shift into nothingness. She felt freezing, noticing the thin blanket of warmth her body kept up against the wind had been stipped back, leaving her naked to the fresh dry winter air blowing over her skin and through her new clothes.

She heard the chunk chunk chunk of the train interrupt thoughts, and then she a loud clunking noise. The moment popped like a soap bubble blasting her mind.

"Incoming, eleven o'clock. Doc get Malcolm, and the girl is gone. Ka Front."

Her mind reeled back from the edge. It was a sudden and sharp feeling of loss. She felt a strange sensation in her skin as it tingled. Trying to shut down the self-examination to look around. She found herself naturally crouching, ready to run. Was there anywhere to run to? It was then she noticed Doc rush past her.

Doc passed her. She noticed that Ka had also gotten off his spin bike. The orc was grabbing his crossbox from the cargo pile. Ka turned the weapon over, slotting in bolts to the feed tray and checking the mechanism. Scraps frantically worked on the Spin drive, pulling leavers and adjusting controls. Northcott was writing down something with almost clerical disinterest in the unfolding situation, flipping a page in his small notebook. Whirling fully around back to the front, she eyed Doc helping Malcolm.

The mage seemed somehow diminished, less scary, as Doc put his arm around her shoulders. It slid under that fire red hair as she held his weight, strength in her pose, gentle concern and professional evaluation on her face. She was talking to the tired mage while checking over him, leading him to the back of the train.

"Move, please."

The doctor's sudden request, delivered in no-nonsense professional tones, unstuck Pickle's feet as she felt herself clearing the path. Hearing Scraps yell a question forward.

"Boss, Spin?"
"Stay free," Gunther shouted back, not looking up from his work.

Gunther stood at the front of the train with the most oversized rifle she had ever seen. He was securing the weapon to the front railing with a small mounting clamp. Working quickly, shifting the weight with his iron claw on the left, and his dexterous right hand making the fine adjustments. She thought the gun might be a chem rifle, but not with that huge cannon of a barrel. The whole gun was comically large, inflated with tons of fans and bits she had never seen before.

Moments later, Ka'Shek joined Gunther upfront with his crossbox in hand. The tall orc stood with his feet wide, making no move to secure his large weapon. Ka stood slightly back and to the left of Gunther, offering support to the captain but not encroaching on his setup, which despite its complexity, was lightning fast.

Pickle was familiar with guns, mainly from the club, but this setup was totally alien to her experience. This wasn't the kind of weapon the Billy Boys or Jack Jack run, nor was it the sort you saw mercs or corps swagger into the club with. The door girls would relieve them quickly with Bruno's help. As the chalkboard sign proudly declared, "Your coat, your keys, and any weapons please."

Plasma powered weapons were sleek and deadly, the preferred choice for most. The mighty little plasma batteries and instability of magic had shifted most away from the more traditional chem guns. You saw chem guns, statement pieces almost always personal weapons, never issued to standard forces, corps or that ilk they were used by mercs and in exceptional cases.

Chem weapons always made people nervous their crude designs were likely to explode without notice at the first flare of magic. Though she had never seen it happen. The things were blasted loud, ringing out loud enough to deafen you. When fired, they made a statement. Besides, the ammo was pretty dumb.

Plasma weapons came in countless varieties, the core power drawing from the powerful little batteries but deployed in an endless range, from short-range concussive thumpers, which mall cops and social security used when they weren't using sticks or stunners. Most carried mag guns which could propel a variety of smart or dumb ammo. Needle guns like hers and the other variants were used by the more discrete, less military sorts. Though she had seen some other strange high tech weapons when the corps were in town to party.

The tribals tended to favour a variety of more medieval weapons, though to call them that was insulting. Refined by modern engineering and, in some cases, magic. Tribal weapons tended to share one trait they were powered by the person. Hand-cranked or fueled by personal magics. The most common and popular type was the crossbox. It was to the crossbow what the modern multi rocket artillery was to the catapult.

Designs vary, but Ka seemed to be wielding a more traditional model. It had five barrels in a long wooden block carved and polished. There was a feeder tray holding a few bolts ready to be gravity fed into place. Ka had a traditional wheel winder to tension and reload the weapon. The wooden bar was the length of the block with two polished and well-worn handles on each side. She watched as he gave it a few turns to tension the weapon.

She had seen a variety of designs and materials all working around the same principle. Really the inventiveness of weaponry sometimes felt without limit. Outcasts sometimes modding weapons to tension plasma fueled motor or compressed gas. Mages working magic into the weapons or replacing pieces with inscriptions. Not even including the whips, psi-blades, personal defence and cyber that came down to fight on the wall. They fascinated her.

Watching Gunther now sighting down the rifle barrel, she noticed the monster weapon did not have a smart scope or holo but rather an old fashioned glass tube scope. Like a pirate's telescope mounted on top with brass fittings holding glass atop the bloated receiver. Looking at the massive barrel and what she assumed was the magazine, the bullets must be gigantic. Though she couldn't see a breach anywhere, every chem gun she had seen outside of revolvers had those waste ejectors.

The gruff captain looked through the pirate scope atop his rifle, drawing a bead on something moving up ahead and to the left.

Dust trail headed by a miniature black spec off in the distance. It was hard to pick out from the background terrain. It was running out from the tall veld grass, tearing up its path.

The first thing she noticed was how it was jerking forward in its motion. Never slowing down, but it seemed to be leaping forward like someone running in low gravity. The second thing she noticed about the creature is it wasn't running towards them.

It was easy to miss at first, but the creature was running to a point a few minutes ahead of them on the track. It was chasing where they would be, not where they were. That superior calculation of a hunter sent a shudder down her already chilled spine. They were being hunted.

She thought Gunther would take the shot any moment, but the seconds drew long as his rifle continued to track the creature waiting for some silent signal. The black spec formed into a pony-sized black cat. The light played on its form strangely. Her mind tried to process what she was seeing.

Six legs. The creature wasn't leaping forward but galloping like a horse with all the limbs leaving the ground as it did progressive speeding leaps ahead. The strange lurch was due to the six legs prolonging the launch time, extending the air time and then repeating. Even that didn't seem to account for its strange gait like it was wearing a grav belt. The creature galloped faster than any vehicle would drive inside city limits.

The was no set definition of Wild vs animal. It was as an old English judge once said regards porn, "We shall know it when we see it." This monster was Wild. She now saw it had soft black feathers, not sleek fur. The eyes were dark red, illuminated by some infernal internal energy. Staring into the eyes, leaping closer to her with each step, she felt something.

BANG

It wasn't the ear-shattering gunshot she expected, but the rifle rang out loud. Quickly followed by the creature faltering in its stride, a flash of feathers flew up into the air. She heard the pull and slide of metal clanking as Gunther loaded another round into the chamber. The sound of a single metal token dropping into an old arcade machine tinkling next to her.

Another loud shot, expected this time, belting out moments later. This time the beast's head yanked back. It collapsed under its own momentum rolling then sliding to a dusty demise not far off the train tracks ahead. She heard the gun reload again. They were closing in on the point of convergence.

The corpse lay still, examined through scope by Gunther and tracked by Ka's bow. Before she could register the details of its twisted form or the dust had fully settled from its ungainly end, the train was already passing it. Moving from threat to vanquished in moments.

Gunther was checking his weapon. The most insignificant amount of smoke seemed to expel from the end of the barrel. A mere wisp. Ka lowered his weapon then pulled the bar in the counter direction releasing the tension from the crossbox. Simultaneously everyone relaxed, breathing out.

The train was more silent than she recalled, realising that since just before the magic, the engine had stopped making any noise and the only sound was wind and the gentle chunk chunk of the rail beneath her feet.

Gunther's turned to Scraps while he worked on his weapon. "We rang the dinner bell. See if the line is connected and tell them we are coming in a bit warm."
"Yes, boss," was Scraps' immediate answer, as she started fiddling with a more complex box of wires beneath a floor panel. Gunther continued on.
"Ka, I want you to keep watch. Hopefully, nothing, but we should be coasting in soon."

Pickle couldn't help but ask, "What do you mean, the Dinner Bell? Sir."
Gunther looked up from his weapon, almost surprised to see her. Ka quickly interjected, looking out at the golden scenery turning green. The noonday sun left almost no shadow as his deep voice cut clearly through the wind.

"We are a tower of little notice. Passing beneath the giants, we guard our wall without song. We hope to stay in balance, escaping magic or technology, drawing no undue audience to dance the deadly footsteps beneath our watch. Death, however, rings louder than any song of magic or symphony electronica."

The tall orc hand resting on his crossbow, staring out at the rushing scenery scanning for danger, was lost in words.

"Magic will draw attention as Malcolm has just shown you. Anything hotter or colder than expected will draw some attention. Magnetics, plasma, radiation, live wires or worst of all grav gel will draw them. I've heard they chomp Phantoms those brain boxes like candy, delicious little cyborgs. Though nothing draws the Wild more than death. You must have heard we eat no meat on the wall?"

Remembering her last warm meal of mushrooms, cheese and root veg. A fond recollection of flavour sitting cold in her stomach, the last slice of the ordinary she recalled. She had heard it was bad luck to eat meat. Ka did not wait on her response, continuing his monologue.

"Well, the killing of livestock or the decay of life draws attention. I hear some organisations use synth meat or just shield their canteens, but most old towers have no murder on them. No one dies on the wall, not truly. Burial and cremation have both drawn too much attention in the past. No death or killing. Bar that in defence of the wall. Even then, wounding or driving away is preferable. Though the captain had to put down that Six Stalk fast, it being south of the wall. He could have put it out of commission without death if he had the option."

Gunther cut in, "Dunno, tough to kill. Thought first shot would do." He shrugged unconcernedly at the encounter. It was then that Scraps approached with an ancient-looking telephone on a wire leading into the floor near the engine.
"Lines scratchy boss, but I got Leon on the other end." Scraps handed over the phone before rushing off to return to work on the engine. As Gunther had a gruff, short conversation over the phone, the Doc joined them upfront. Gunther paused for a moment, making eye contact with her, and she gave a slight nod and smile. Gunther continued on the phone.

"What is that about?" Pickle asked, turning to Doc. Doc seemed to cast off her professional concern and adopt her relaxed tone from early.
"Oh nothing, Pumpkin. The old captain just wanted to know our resident mage was fine and dandy, which he is."
"I thought comms were a problem on the wall?"
"Oh no, papa hooked this up on the line. Well, the last bit of track, at least. Sets off an automated alarm letting the tower know something is coming on the track and provides a line to piggyback on. Scraps will be dumping some power into the line from the braking system as we come in."

Pickle nodded, not entirely following Gunther's conversation but desperate for information. She asked, "We arriving soon then?" making to peer forward, looking for the end of the tracks.
"Oh yes. Pumpkin, come on up top. Let me show you before we pull in."

Doc grabbed Pickle's hand in both of hers and pulled her back towards the large pile of cargo stacked in the middle of the train. Securely fastened. The Doc led her upwards, showing the obvious handholds though Pickle did not need the help. She had climbed and fallen off this particular pile once already. Thank you very much. This was old hat.

They both reach the top of the pile to sit down. Wind blasting in their faces. Harsh noon sun with barely any shadow in any direction left the terrain sharply lit. Behind them, from where they came, the terrain was dust and golden grass with spindly trees dotting the landscape in tiny clusters. Small Kopje dotting the horizon but no sign of the civilisation they left behind bar the train tracks. The discarded wild body, a black speck now fading into the horizon.

The terrain ahead of them was lush with patches of green trees, and the grass was washed with more green than gold. The ground was much less visible between low bushes and growth. Trees more plentiful but younger in their growth. Less old baobabs and more mopane and marula trees. Their big bushy green spheres and umbrella of green.

It was comforting to see all the life. Off to the left, past the tree line, she could see a white tower stretching into the sky. It was maybe as tall as a seven-storey building, hard to tell with the trees. She thought it was less than thirty meters into the sky but definitely more than twenty. What was strange was its shape. It glistened white with a rounded top. The sun reflecting off glass windows and solar panels.

It looked like a giant's tictac dropped onto the horizon like some comical joke. A train line was similar to the one they were on now cut through the landscape not far to the west. Leading to the tower. She guessed it branched off the line they were previously on.

"Medpoll research and development tower. We don't talk to them much outside the captain's call once a week. They are arseholes, but they shield pretty well. See that white paint apparently, it is a new shielding tech of some sort. Still, they get more beasties than us."

Pickle looked at the Doc, her red hair blowing in the wind, the braids flapping. She noticed the black ribbons holding them, her gaze distracted and fixating on them. The Doc didn't seem to notice, instead turning to look to her right as if Pickle was looking past her.

It was then she noticed the sleek black needle tower. Not an actual needle but rather a black triangle with its tallest edge facing out to the wild. The building bristled with equipment and gun emplacements. At about the halfway point, there was a small landing pad of sorts. The needlepoint must have been ninety or so meters from the ground. It was almost lost in the sun glinting high above, though she expected it cast a long shadow south most times of the day. The low winter sun high but slightly to the north put the southern side in shadowed relief.

Doc wrapped her arms around herself, holding her shoulders as if she had just noticed the cold from the wind. "Mars Weapons System Tower. You know them big weapons manufacturer. Used to be old Keeplan's tower before the swarm twelve years back. The company sold their plot after then. Old man Keeplan lost the will aftermost his company was slaughtered. We tried to help. They were low emission like us. Used to be dozens on the wall. Mars makes a lot of noise. They like killing beasties to test new weapons out."

"I can't see our tower," Pickle was peering as hard as she could to the gap ahead. All green trees and some of the stone hill Kopje.
"Well, that is the point, silly Pumpkin. Low profile and low emissions." Doc pointed her finger ahead, tracing one particular outcrop. "See that one there."

Looking ahead through the crisp, clear air with the wind directly blowing into her eyes, drying them out, she could just about make out the shape.

"That is our home. You will see the metal once we are close, but dad likes the rock on the south end to hide some bits. Need to keep the tower clean, so nothing can climb up easy."

Home. Without knowing it, Pickle found herself rolling the word over her tongue. She hadn't really thought of the club as home. Queenie had given her a small room docking rent from her wage. Nothing much more than a bedsit. Small single bed with a tiny desk and a few drawers under the bed. There was a slimline closet in which she could hang a few dresses but not much else. Maybe a square meter of floor to stand-in. Lock on the door, but of course, Queenie had the override code. Better than a cap bunk.

Those small honeycombed capsule hotels were filled with little coffins. Many mercs or travelling freelancers hired those out for the few nights they were in town. Though those with a bit of cash splurged on a hotel room. The brave or foolish stayed in the hostels, though unless you were a squad or hooked up with the local gang, that was silly and a surefire way to end up poorer in the morning. If you woke up.

She knew of some tribal plots, corporate campuses, or embassy grounds which all had on-site housing. A few wealthier folks, merchants or free agents had genuine homes, but the urban sprawl was much tighter these days. People didn't like suburbs spilling out into the countryside.

If you live outside the city, you were in a walled community with private security or on a farm complex much the same. She thought back to the mining barracks, her earliest bunk. The little sleep she got was in whichever cot was empty. Any privacy she had was contained in a small locker with a combination lock on. The lock was a joke which could be kicked open. No one kept anything of value in there. A place for some bedding and a spare rag or two. You kept anything of value on you always.

No, she had never had anywhere she would call home. She had a few favoured street spots she knew you could get a good kip in. Where the cold or rain wouldn't get, others where the heat or wind wouldn't. Never both. Each hideaway comes with its own perils. Even the soup kitchen old Ghilli ran was more a stopover. The nuns had been lovely, but beds had been few, and once she was better, it was best to move on. Home.

"Well, I have never known any place else. Mum had me on the wall in this tower. Pa says not a single creature attacked that week. Like I was blessed."

Pickle was pulled out of her memories by Sarah's words. She was still huddled up against the cold wind. Though now, instead of her arms wrapped around herself, they were tight against her chest as she felt a small golden locket around her neck. The shallow oval gleamed. It was the sort that held a photo. Pickle didn't need telling. She put her arm over Sarah's shoulder.

"Don't think I've ever called a place home," admitted Pickle. The was silence for a while, then a tiny sniffle from Sarah. Feeling the awkward silence pull the words out of her, she continued. "Well, I moved around a lot from place to place. Had a warm bed the last few years, but that wasn't always true. Been lucky the last few years." Pickle noticed Sarah rubbing the locket.

The silence stretched on. She wasn't sure if Sarah was listening or lost in dark memories. She could feel the sadness and didn't want to leave her drowning. "Home." She rounded her lips around the sound. She didn't want to think about her childhood either.

Not that there was much to say. Her mother was a distant memory lost to dust or whatever the old-timey high was of the time. She didn't blame her. She was human, or at least some of the guards seemed to remember her as such. That made her think about the day her ears started to point. She squeezed Sarah tight. These were dark thoughts indeed.

They lingered there for a while with the wind and cold.

While watching the greenery envelop them and the veld vanish, they spotted a large white bird in the sky. Sarah pointed up at it, adding, "That glider is back. We should go tell the boys in case they have not spotted it yet."

Rubbing her eyes, Sarah tucked the locket away and stood up. Bending down before leaving and placing a small kiss atop Pickle's head. "Thanks, Pumpkin. We will be home soon."

Smiling awkwardly, Pickle waved Doc off and watched the glider as Doc clambered down the pile. As Doc descended down the cargo pile, the glider descended in the sky. Doc in a mostly straight line going from handhold to handhold the glider in a spiralling down towards the white tictac tower. Closer now, she could see the red cross in a circle. Emblem of Medpoll bright red on the white wings of the glider.

The glider was unlike any shuttle or transport she had seen before. Her closest point of reference was a street merchant in Harare who sold toy planes for kids to throw. Made of balsa wood, they included a propeller with elastic you could wind up. Throwing them, you would see the little prop spin and pull them forward into flight. She had fixed a broken one once, discarded on the side of the road. It had only needed some tape. Amazing what tape could fix. She had played with that discarded plane for hours.

It had nothing on the mech drones with their noisy engines and small power cells. Flying at high speeds, flipping and turning on a dime. A toy plane like this glider needed a long time to wheel around. Formal lady in white gently dancing across the sky. No bending of wing or whirr of the engine, just a gentle twirl of motion and momentum.

She thought back to all the larger grav craft. Anything she could think of which was big enough to carry a human was equipped with grav gel. The distortion wake left everywhere by the gel was the sign of civilisation. The saying went city folk looked straight ahead round the next corner. She had always heard that remark from tribals talking about how tricky city folk were. Or from corp serfs talking about how city people tended to think in circles. Though most who lived it knew with pride that danger and opportunity were always hiding in the side alley.

Though in a thick enough wake, you could see the light bend around a corner. She had heard some of the kingdoms had strict limits on grav in city limits, but, well, most places the distortion wakes were like the smell of progress. Though if the trail was thick enough, you could sometimes smell or taste it. To her, it was always a sharp tin smell of burnt metal. Tangy on the tongue with a slick after taste which made her want to drink something warm.

Breathing in the fresh clean air, she could smell new growth and dry dirt on the wind. The low humidity and cool air dried out her skin and made her hair feel like thatch. She noticed the glider was dropping something a recess on the bottom of its hull. The small white box fell and was caught in a net almost invisible attached to the side of the tower. The glider continued to spiral downwards. Pulling tighter and tighter.

She could see the entire craft clearly now. The small pilot was using sharp turns to descend at speed. She had no idea how the glider would land on the round top. Watching with fascination, expecting a smoking wreck any minute. Suddenly the glider pulled out of its spiral. Widening its approach, it just clipped the top of the tower. Flying maybe a meter above, it snagged a small case onto a hook suspended beneath it. The small package flapped in the wind like the Doc's braid.

The glider then pulled up all the energy going into a climb. Moments later, the sound of the motor spinning up reached her, the craft pulling itself forward like the toy used to. Deeper in pitch than the toy. Infinitely louder than the silent grav gel but softer than the chem rockets she had seen. It was a new sound, so the propellers must have just turned on to aid the climb.

With the airshow over and cold in the rushing wind, she decided to climb down the leeward side of the cargo pile. Escaping the wind briefly. At the bottom, she found Malcolm snoozing in his preferred spot among the cargo and the little clerical man making some notes in a notebook with a pencil.

"It seems strange, doesn't it, Ms Pickle." He tapped the pencil on the page then secured it, closing the notebook to look at her.
"What?" Once again, feeling the little geek's academic look, she felt like she needed to make a better showing of her education. Such as what it is. "Strange how Northkit."
"Northcott madam if you please. Virgil, if you find that too formal." He paused, allowing his correction to stand clear before continuing onto his preferred subject.

"Why the glider, of course. Though plane would be more accurate as it seemed to leave under power. Why go to all the trouble and expense of building an ancient plane to avoid grav gel only to equip it with an engine. Do you suppose they used plasma cells or chemical fuel?"
"Chemical fuel?" Pickle asked, confused how guns applied here.
"Oh, a few drill heads are still run occasionally though they are risky operations. You can still get old-style fossil fuels though most oil goes to other manufacturing. Solar, thermal or even drawn down from gravity harvests are cheaper. Though I'm told, chemical fuel draws less attention. I must ask Gunther. I wonder if the northern tribes have any fuel sources they use."

Pickled had heard about the head hunters, cannibals and other inhuman tribes which lived among the monsters. "I thought they were all devolved?"
"Oh no, propaganda mostly. They are different. Though of course, we know many countries and almost a billion souls were lost on this continent during the wilding all those years back. Of course, some would find a way to continue. Other's it said are so far from human well..."
"I never got that. Why didn't we hold onto more?"
"We tried, oh we tried very hard, but in the end, this beachhead of Azania and some isolated areas up north were all we could hold. It happened too fast, and we had too much going on at home to care. People never really cared for Africa, even before magic. It was just a convenient place to hide our crimes, Europeans that is and of course Asia in older and more recent times. The cradle of our birth, how we must hate our mother."

What a strange little man, she thought. She was reminded again of how pleasant his voice was when not being rude. It was calm, with every word carefully picked out, not a wasted breath in a sentence. There is no doubt about the exact tone and meaning behind each word like there would be a test later. Not flowery like Ka'Shek or slithering like Malcolm. Just polished. He continued on, switching the topic on her again.

"Have you spent much time in the outdoors?"
"Travelling place to place, not much."

The little clerk adjusting his round glasses on the bridge of his nose looked directly at her.

"Well, you will be spending a great deal of it soon. I confess that's my first time on the wall or in the true Wilderness. The Free Republic doesn't count, I'm told since the council reclaimed it."
"Are you with the government?"
"Oh heavens no," he smiled, amused at the question. "I worked for a small consultancy company, Thunder Limited. My employer hired Mr Gunther for a limited service. So I might spend some time in his tower observing his rather unique stratagem."
"What kind of research would someone want to do on the wall?" she asked, genuinely curious.
"Plenty. Many of the towers are mostly funded by research. Such as the Medpoll tower we were just observing. This is the edge of beyond. The frontier with as much to be discovered here as any frontier. In truth, my enquiries are much milder focused on this company and its methods. Low emission towers are exceedingly rare, and this is one of the longest still standing."
"This tower is special?"
"Partly, all towers practice waste reduction except those who thrive on kill count or weapons testing. Such as our dark neighbours to the east."

The little man cleaned his glasses with a cloth and then pointed at the tall black needle tower. He placed them back and continued on. "To a greater or lesser extent. Though almost all use plasma as their primary power source with other methods as fallback or complement. None other depend on Gunther's methods. Not anymore. Yup, Gunther's section hasn't breached in decades."

This news came as a shock to Pickles, "The wall has been breached?"
"Oh, of course, think back to our little roadside attraction we had. It is not actually a wall in most places, but a range of sentry towers, some large, other's small. A virtual wall of firepower holding back the Wilderness. There have been slip-ups and even large scale ones. News doesn't cover it much."

"Surely people would want to know?" She asked, incredulous at the deception. Bloody corps hide everything.

The little man shrugged. "Those interested enough to ask, know."

She was confused by the different approaches to the towers, expecting a more uniform design. Though in truth, her watching of the companies and train station had only ever shown an eclectic mix of society, she supposed she was naive to think it wouldn't be like that at the wall as well.

"It is ultimately a business like any other Ms Pickle. Hence your shares, or stake as I believe you people call it. You bought registered voting shares which entitle you to seasonal payout of profits as per the company charter, did you not?"

She glanced down at her wrist, the small metal plate still fresh and new to her. Strange but sunk into her flesh. All signs of the binding cord now gone, dissolved into her flesh. You would need to cut her up to remove it now.

"Well anyway, the tower earns a fixed commission for defending a section of the wall. A fixed agreed fee is adjusted on an annual basis by the Azania government. This stipend is the primary source of income for Gunther's Guns. There are, of course, payments for kill count and some bounties. Surge fees and the like. Though in truth, most towers make their money through research, testing or some other mix of money making methods. Such as staging areas for incursions."

This was all news to her, though not entirely new information. She still had the image from the holos burnt in her mind. Brave soldiers fighting on the wall defending humanity from the roiling hordes of the Wild. Waiting for any moment when society could be wiped off the continent by a break in the wall. Storylines and films were always about some brave hero saving or evil villain endangering the sanctity of the defence.

The hole is always being plugged at the last moment. No creature ever breaks through the brave heroes and flawed anti-heroes bravely defending with whatever blend of romance, comedy or mystery your particular sub-genre mixed into the tale. This cynical bean counter and imperfect view of the ultimate human defensive line was just... well, real. She supposed.

She cursed herself for being a naive kid. Thinking back to the dead monster along the side of the train tracks. This was reality. Not the show on the boards with makeup and lighting hiding all the imperfections while the music and dazzle drew out for every dream. This was backstage with the grit, cussing and piss soaked leggings as dancers worked blisters and tried to get the stench off with wipes as the shower cubicle was broken again. Drain clogged with hair and glitter.

She had once heard all of life was a stage, but in her experience, a small portion of it was in the spotlight. Most of her experience was in the messy backstage with crying, underpaid performers and sweaty customers paying for the filthy disappointing reality of their dreams. Backstage where the world was dark, nothing made sense, and you heard the distant clapping and saw the lights flooding into the wings. Hinting at another better world if only you could reach it.

It was at that moment, lost in the dark thoughts, that the sun vanished. The canopy of trees quickly enveloped the sky. It was at that moment she realised that for the last while she had been feeling a gentle feeling drawing her to the front of the train now become a sharp breaking motion. No instant jerk but more instant as the speed was bled off the train.

It dipped and sunk beneath the ground as they pulled into a covered trainyard. The wind gone, the train finally came to a halt. The tunnel was wider than she expected but still relatively narrow. Illuminated by small red lights, the darkness was held back by a wash of red now colouring everything in sight. A looming set of metal doors stood in their way, blocking any hope of travelling forward.

Pickle stepped away from the little clerk and towards the front on the other side of the cargo pile. Sarah and Ka starting to unclip cargo holding lines. Working at a fast but unhurried pace, efficient. Gunther was still holding his rifle, looking about the place with an air of inspection. Scraps running around at speed tending to her engine, working through some complex docking process.

It was at this point she noticed the doors swinging closed behind them. They moved without sound, smoothly closing inwards. She noticed there was a tiny gap between the doors where they met the track. Big enough, a small child could crawl through on their belly.

The doors gave a loud clunk of closing with some locking mechanism engaging. It was perhaps not as loud as she thought, but the enclosed space enlarged the sound. Hearing the sound continue in front, like a stereo dial yanking from ear to ear. She saw the doors ahead open up towards them. She noticed with approval that this set of doors seemed to have a gap blocker where the previous one did not. A small seam was present, but no child would crawl through these metal doors with strong rivets.

Once the doors were halfway open, the train again had a small puff of speed, drawing it into berth. The end of the line was just big enough for the train. Not more than a meter of space was left as the train gently tapped against the cushioned rubber end stops. The doors now closing behind them.

The arched ceiling of brick enclosed two platforms on either side. Awash in red light, her eyes were immediately drawn to a weathered figure sitting on a wooden box smoking a pipe and an old man in overalls working a control console next to him. The smoker pulled on his pipe and blew out a small cloud of smoke in a large ring which he then shot a dart of smoke through as an idle afterthought. In thickly accented tones, the man greeted them all.

"Welkom home, shamwari."

Afterword

This is an ongoing web novel updated every Thursday. I really hope you enjoy it, this is my first attempt but I've spent a lot of time in this world, over two decades. Running roleplaying campaigns, writing comics and creating stories so it feels really natural to tell a story in this world.

Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6
Part 7

Pickle on the Nightmare Wall - Part 3

Journey to the Edge

"Easy there. You have quite the nasty knock there, Pumpkin."

Stirring from her dazed state and looking through powder mist as her brain cleared of powered frost and fog. She said the first thing which came to her mind, "For saying name's Pickle, not Pumpkin."

"Well, whatever it is, you still took quite a fine tumble onto our resident grump. I want you to be careful there. Sit up slowly okay? You seem mostly fine. But well, always got to be careful with a head injury."

Slowly the icy mist cleared from her brain as the sensation of cold wood underneath her sunk in. A chilling autumnal breeze on her face as she sat up washed away the last vestiges of the fog clearing from her mind. She looked around through eyes still blurred and swimming. A flash of red moved across her vision. The girl, no, the lady who had been running with Scraps along the platform. Moments before she fell then jumped and fell on top of Malcolm.

Pickle groaned internally, "What a fucking arsehole. Sorry, not you. Who you?" The question came out in stutters. Instead of responding, the lady leant forward, putting the back of her hand on Pickle's forehead, holding it there and then moving it to her cheek without ceremony. Pausing the motion both times till the strange lady was satisfied in her inspection.

"You can call me Doc."

"Oh hi Doc, I'm Pickle."

"We covered that."

Pickle found her embarrassment refreshed, wondering if her concussion had driven her into fatal foolhood. Blushing, she never blushed. Looking down at the floor she found herself running her hand into the back of her neck, ruffling her hair and looking down at her lap. Feeling for a bump and searching for the words, her hand ruffled the top of her hair... her dusty dirty brown hair. Dusty hair?

WHERE WAS HER HELMET!

Quickly covering her ear with her hand feeling its pointed tip, she firmly held her hand in place. Where was her helmet? Her vision was still foggy. Glancing around for it, she decided to try to play it cool. "We arse helmet?" Damn it.

"Oh, just here," small hands holding it out towards her, "I had to remove it to check your scalp. No bleeding but you can never be too safe."

"Thanks," she quickly grabbed the helmet and secured it on her head and pulled the chin strap tight. With it back on, she felt her senses returning to her.

"Truth be told, it probably saved you from a serious injury."

"Yeah, that's why I was wearing it." She lied through gritted teeth.

"My name is Sarah, by the way. I am the doctor of this company. But yeah, most people call me Doc."

"Thanks, Sarah. Much appreciated. Is Malcolm okay?"

"That old cat. You could not drop a building on him if you tried, and a few have tried. Even then, I am not sure you would kill the little shit."

"Yeah, I got that impression," Pickle froze the words out of her mouth before she realised. "I should still apologise to him."

"No, hun. Never apologise to that old fool. He was napping, but he still managed to get out of the way quickly enough. Truth, he could have caught you."

Pickle's vision slowly coming into focus, she saw the countryside over Sarah's shoulder whooshing past in a blur of motion. The gentle click-clack of the tracks as the train made a gentle swaying motion as it flowed along metal stock towards the true Wilderness. She used the awkward pause in the conversation to look around and take in her surroundings.

Scraps and Ka were near the front of the train, tending to the Spin Drive. The engine now purring at full speed. Scraps were secured by waistline to the drive, checking dials, twisting knobs and tapping readings. While Ka was on one of those strange bicycles sunk into the floor having a gentle cycle, the strange sight made it look like he was moving the entire world with his slow pedalling. Disjointed from the speed of the train pulling itself along at high speed. Truly an absurd sight of she picture the strange orc going for a cycle through the countryside.

Shaking the vision out of her head, she noticed that Gunther and the small clerk, North something was his name what a rude little man, were both leaning on the railing talking to each other. She still couldn't quite get the little man's rude introduction to her and to be talking to a legend like Gunther with no regard. Speaking of rude...

Pulling her vision back, she looked behind her, then to Sarah, who just had a single finger pointing up. She tilted her head back for a moment, feeling it swim to see Malcolm perched. The strange man was sitting in a strange, near birdlike pose, knees akimbo, looking down at her, his long heavy coat being gently pushed by the wind. The heavy armoured plates sewn into the fabric fighting the fierce wind. He was looking down at her pointy hat tilted, wrapped fabric flailing in the wind and dark goggles hiding any semblance of human eyes.

He seemed to be judging or inspecting her from on high. It was hard to tell with no skin showing or eyes to judge. He didn't move a single muscle like a grotesque scarecrow or gargoyle waiting for the sun to set. She knew this was his fault. She wasn't certain how but she was certain of it. Unable to continue looking at the grim spectre, uncomfortable with the stillness of form, she looked away to her left.

A greater contrast could not have been struck. While Malcolm could be made carved from an old trunk, cast in iron or hewn from stone, the sight to her side could only be expressed in thick oils flowing with life on canvas.

Sarah was framed and highlighted by thick shoulder-length red hair. The curls bounced and swam in the windy open air of the train. A loose hair tie holding it roughly in form as the wind blew it as a banner for all the world to see in its vibrancy and life. She was kneeling on both knees next to her but currently scowling up at Malcolm with an angry pout on her face which somehow was the funniest thing. She had such a serious and educated manner but behaved like an angry older sister to the man.

The dichotomy was carried to her clothes as she wore faded black cotton pants, splattered with paint. At least she hoped it was paint. It was too colourful to be fluids, and its accidental nature made it look natural. The printed fabrics or pre-distressed fashion she sometimes saw in the club manufactured European bourgeoisie fashionista piece always got it wrong. Artistic randomness and natural randomness are easily spotted.

The true chaos of life looked planned out and patterned like someone handing out karma tokens or enacting a pre-planned tragic comedy by which you would be screwed. Dice didn't roll equally on all sides. Coin flips didn't have to work out even. True chaos was all cows and shit, never predictable, always messy and underfoot.

This extended to her entire outfit, not thrown together out of no care like Scraps maniac fashion sense which seemed to strive for noise but instead a mishmash and jumble. Her red hair and paint splat black pants were offset by a white blouse with neat little frills white buttons, except for one turquoise one which had been replaced, the hand sewing a little less neat. Black suspenders held it in check, firmly secured to the pants. The denim fabric was spotted with buttons and colourful badges of no apparent pattern. A printed silk scarf around her neck of an Asian inspired design was a mess of colours, mostly red and gold.

Sarah's freckled skin was delightfully framed by the shock of red hair. Curls tumbling down past her shoulders. Her eyes, forest green, intently scowling at Malcolm. Attached to her face off centre was a large monocular device. Perched near her left eye, it appeared to be several lenses of different focal, prismatic and coloured arrangements. A truly strange and maniacal contraption more akin to magical equipment than science.

In place of a traditional magnifying arrangement of progressive lenses were a mishmash. Mixed focal length, circles with squares, fresnel with bifocal and clear glass with coloured crystal. She even saw a prismatic bug-eye looking one in the mix, all impossible close and on individual arms. Strangely compact for the large size. A truly absurd sight now she focused on it. Pickle cleared her throat to break the doctor's intense scrutiny of the dark mage.

Sarah seemed taken back, looking back towards her. She noticed that Sarah wore dangling mismatched earings, which swung one a small vile of fluid of some kind. The other was a discarded fuse, burned out, crafted with wire into an earpiece. She also noticed a few small rings of metal running up her ears.

"Sorry, that man just riles me up. You are the patient, though you are looking much more healthy if a bit flush. Too cold?"

Pickle rubbed her hands together to get a bit more warmth in them, playing into the excuse. Though truth, she was freezing her tits. The wind of the open train was crisp in the autumn cold, even with it near high noon. "I like your style Sarah." She saw Sarah smile, what a wonderful smile.

"Now, now then, you don't want my papa running you off first thing Pumpkin." Sarah grinned with a wicked smile, comfortable pursuing the joke.

"Oh no, wouldn't want him chasing me into dangerous Wilds. I might get eaten."

"Now really, that would be bad for the tower. He would probably just shoot you out of his new cannon into the forest. He has been looking for a human tester."

Pickle found herself doing a double-take on the earnest tone and sentence.

"Wait, your dad's in the company?"

"Yeah. Chief engineer, you'll meet him and the Ball twins. Assuming he is not on one of his ranges, then Leon should be there too. They are currently holding down the fort. While we came into town course, a few of the gang are off on rotation, and well, Willy cashed out but yeah, still good to meet everyone soon."

"Delighted, I'm sure." She had no real desire to meet everyone soon. Enough trails and broken hearts had made her cautious through the years. You only had your life savings stolen once before you slept with half an eye open, and that wasn't the only thing they could try come steal. But she also knew that being openly hostile towards people was not a good tactic. People having their friendly advances rebuffed could lead to worse things than theft. So she smiled and looked at the naïve doctor.

"Yeah, sure. That sounds lovely, Doc. You know, we'll all be working together."

"That's the spirit. Well, let's see if we can get all grumpy face to apologise to you at that."

Doc stood up and looked up at Malcolm still perched. She shouted up without holding back, "Come down here and apologise, you old meanie!"

Malcolm tilted his head to the side, furthering his bird impressing. Just sort of looking at her with his dead-eye stare. How can I tell that? He's wearing fucking goggles? Doc continued her tirade.

"Come on, old cat. This instant. You come down here, and you apologise to Pumpkin. If she had fallen just a little bit differently, she could have been dead. Your lazy ass didn't even think to catch her."

Malcolm's head turned to her robotic and then tilted back in the most peculiar expression. Then in the most human display she had seen from him so far, he shrugged, resigned to his fate.

Not wanting the mage's apology or his attention. Pickle tried to think about how to get out of the situation.

"It's okay. Doc, you know I fell on him. It's kind of my fault."

"No, it's Gunther's fault. Silly old fool did not tell you to strap in and think to check you were secure." She seemed riled up and quite upset now before deflating a bit. "But that, to be fair, is somewhat my fault. Sorry I kept Scraps. I was shopping, and I got a little bit distracted. Should have kept an eye on the clock, but when she said you needed clothes well... So I suppose if anyone should be apologising to you Pumpkin. It's me."

"That's that's fine. It was really my fault. I should have been holding on."

"No, no, no allow me to get you back to the tower. And then. We will give you a proper good apology tonight. I can cook even."

That last word seemed to send a bolt of action into Malcolm as he dived down as he dived, down off the pile of boxes. Gracefully rolling and landing on the moving platform before standing up in one smooth movement. Malcolm laid his hands on Doc's shoulders as if he had been there the whole time.

His salutary voice cut through, "Now, Now. We don't need that. I'm sure we can think of some other wonderful apology that you could give to our newest little kitten."

Doc seemed insistent, "No, I went shopping. I got fresh ingredients and everything. Got a new recipe. I want to try."

"Well, if it's that special, then shouldn't you need more than one chance to get it right?"

The Doc seemed thoughtful before putting a thoughtful finger and thumb to her chin. It was then Pickle noticed that Doc's nails were done in a strange, metallic paint with an opalescent finish. The Doc seemed to think for a moment before rolling her eyes and giving in with a sigh.

"Well, tell you what, Pumpkin. I'll make one small dish for you and you only. But first, I'll get Malcolm to taste test the first attempt. You can get my second perfected dish. I don't want my apology to be anything other than perfect."

Malcolm's shoulders sagged, utterly defeated by this news. Sighing deeply before grumbling, "I wonder if Leon needs assistance again."

Seeking a way to break out of this interaction, Malcolm looked down at Pickle.
"You okay, kid? I'm pretty sure you are. You seem tough sort, but, well, I'm sorry. I didn't catch you."
"See, was that so hard?" The Doc beamed with satisfaction at Malcolm. "Now I have my stuff to pack up."

The two shared a small laugh. Doc laughed with genuine joy. Not a body shaking belly laugh but a warm chuckle that just seemed to animate her entire form and bring a sense of warmth and life to her aura. While Malcolm's laugh seemed more of a snicker like a cartoon villain cackling under his breath. His head bobbing with delight in another evil plan fulfilled. But, they appeared friendly, genuinely friendly with each other. She wouldn't think Malcolm was capable of it.

The tableau was unfamiliar and uncomfortable to her, so Pickle thought about how she could redirect the conversation. She had done as much research as she could before coming on this trip, but double-checking your facts and gaining information on the ground, kept you alive. So she turned to the informative doctor who, outside of Scraps, has been the most talkative so far. And a lot more articulate.
"You mentioned your dad and such. Is this the full complement?"
"Mmm. Yeah. Just about. Gunther is our Captain, you know that you signed up with him, big old war hero that he be and Malcolm here is his right-hand monster." Doc seemed to glance smirking at Malcolm, who shrugged before she continued, "Well, monster friend or fiend. We will go with friend. Malcolm here oversees the magical side of things. We try to keep magic and tech to a minimum. We are what is called a low emissions tower. But you are not interested in that. You were asking after people. Yeah, so Captain Gunther and his right-hand monster Malcolm."

Doc held up two fingers, counting everyone off.
"Then you got my old Papa. He's kind of the mechanic engineering. Pretty much keeps everything running. You can call them Fred."
"Or little Fred if you want to get on his good side," Malcolm interjected.
"Now, now. Do not be giving her terrible advice like that. Papa got a sense of humour, but Malcolm's humour is a bit sharp. Papa keeps the place repaired and upkeep and does any upgrades. Of course, tinker with anything and upgrade anyone. We don't really do cyber even Gunther will not let me do much with his arm, but yeah, if the tower breaks, dad will fix it. And if you break, I will fix you."

Four fingers up, the Doc played with her thumb for a bit, "Course Scraps doesn't actually work the tower. She does train supply runs and staffs the office back in the city."
"You have an office?" This was news to Pickle, who had only watched the train hub. Never seeing Gunther go to an office.
"Oh, sure, Pumpkin. That's actually where most people sign up or do business. Most people don't come up to the platform and just sign up as we're loading up. He is so disorganised I am surprised Gunther let you on. I was told you went to the station to sign up? Never heard of the like. No, I suppose you used to back in the day when things were a bit more hectic. These days we have an office. I don't think Scraps is there every day, but it's a small rental downtown. You know PO box paperwork and the like."
Doc had settled into a lecturing tone while Malcolm, bored, started loosely braiding the doctor's red hair with his gloved hands, displaying more dexterity than she expected. Doc continued on before concluding and deciding to keep the thumb up.
"And, of course, you know, we have to do the regular, business paperwork stuff. Scraps is a liaison and pretty much our lifeline back to the civilised world."

Starting her count on her other hand, thumb out, "Then Ka. Not always with us," her voice went theatrical for a moment. "But mighty Ka'shek Patoresh the warrior-poet join us on his quest." She calmly continued, "Oh, about a season a year. Sometimes two if we're short-handed. Handy orc and a tough cookie but a real sweetheart."

Lifting two more fingers, she brought the count up to eight. "The Ball twins, well again freelance with us most seasons lately, but they come and go. Got a few other regulars none on the wall at the moment."

Lifting the ninth finger and sticking her tongue out a bit, Doc seemed to think for a moment. "Oh, then there is Leon, of course. Ranger fellow lives on the wall. Leon's been at the tower since I was little. Does not come to the city, strange fellow quiet but nice. No playing cards with him for anything other than fun."

The doctor stared down at her nine fingers intently as Malcolm seemed to come to the end of his braiding project, producing two black ribbons tying Doc's braids. Then Doc held out all ten fingers towards her in glee, "And then there is you, Pumpkin. Did you sign up for the season or a company contract? Welcome aboard. It is a small group of us, but we are family."

Pickle couldn't help suppress a small involuntary shudder. Doc didn't seem to notice and converted her ten-finger count into a high ten waiting in the air. Faking enthusiasm, Pickle returned her high ten. Only ten, well, eleven people, including the Doc. She thought there would be dozens.

"I thought there would be more? I thought towers were huge forts on the wall. I mean, I knew this was a smaller tower but..." Pickle was unable to frame her question. It was Malcolm who answered the unasked question in his cold tones.
"Listen, kitten, the wall is a dangerous place we have had more and rarely fewer. People die, people leave. Few sign on. But ultimately, we are, as Sarah said, a low emission tower with not much room."
"Papa or Scraps could explain it best. Ask them." Doc piped in with enthusiasm. Malcolm gave her a pained expression at the interruption before continuing in his patient tones. No humour or mocking in his words now.

"You must know the basics. Pretty much everyone does. Magic and technology can upset things, especially in the Wilderness. So we try to keep both to a minimum."

At that moment, a shadow fell over her eyes. A gruff voice interrupted before she could ask her next question. Looking to her right, she saw Gunther standing there, arms crossed, looking down at her.

"That means I keep it to a minimum. You ok, girl?"

He looked down at her without any sense of concern in his eyes, but his face wasn't unkind. Just business, she liked business. Professionalism, she could deal with that.

"Sir, yes, sir."
"You own stake, but obey orders. I like people to understand the why when there is time. Short answer. Low emissions keep us alive. Long answer well..."

Gunther seemed to pause for a second, his iron claw once again scratching the underside of his short beard. The man of legend was not given to long speeches in the flesh. His behaviour was different from the hero on the holos or talk shows from decades ago. He seemed conflicted and uncomfortable, he continued.

"It's about money. Towers are paid seasonal based on distance and length of wall protected. Bonus kill and research commissions sweeten the pot. Some towers work different to ours. Scout towers, slaughter boxes, RnD bunkers and the like. But I found the safest way to keep everyone alive and paid. Guard the wall, stay quiet, and we don't see much action. Don't poke the bear. Keep everyone south safe. Mostly."

Pickle ran the strategy through her head. It made perfect sense to her the tower operated much the same way she had stayed alive in the mines, on the streets, hell even in the club. What did it matter if you took risks for that big shiny? Chances are you would die getting it, or someone would kill you for it later. No much better to scrap what you could and steal a small bit of sparkle now and then. She liked it, but a voice in the back of her mind nagged at her.

But what about the waves of violent monsters crashing against the wall. Does this keep the monsters away? Is everyone truly safe? Even keeping a low profile, she still had to fight off the occasional street creep.

"What if you have to fight?"
"We'll get a few stragglers and smaller incidents. And for those, we have a range of weapons. We use mostly pneumatics, hydro sprung and some chem. Pretty much anything old Fred can come up with that can kill and doesn't flare too big."

Gunther's eyes seemed to take a mental inventory of the canisters, crates and cargo. Glancing at the Spin Drive, his eyes flicked towards the small clerk still leaning on the railing. With a note of bitterness in his voice, he concluded, "Worst case scenario, we got some plasma in reserve. Nightmare sitrep, we can always call down the light of Heaven. Expensive as hell and wipes out several seasons profit. Course cheaper than a breach penalty, and well lives come first."

She knew from holos and fic that the giant orbital defence assist was a port of last resort, and there were actually a few other options that could be called for. Assuming those slick action fics, Dark Defensive one through twelve hadn't lied to her. Though she was fairly certain no one on the wall had ever ridden a dragon in defence of humanity. So maybe some actual questions would be good.

"What about Drop Squads? Sir," she asked cautiously, belatedly adding the sir onto the end. She had always loved the image of the brave heroes dropping in on grav shot arriving at the last moment to save the day. Gunther grunted.

"Those flyboys? Mostly private. Corp or insurance. When they come, they enter hot and heavy. If they come in. They call doom drop, then they have no obligation to drop. You call, cowards cluck, and then you're holding the bag." Bitter tones entered his voice. Gunther paused for a full second before continuing on. "Then you are calling for Heaven's help regardless. Besides, they cost a lot of money, almost a season's taking for us. Money will do us no good if we are dead, so we have options. But well..."

The gruff man shrugged his shoulders. Not a full shrug loaded with uncertainty of youth but a little confident acknowledgement of the fates and the cruelty of life. Nod to fate. Barely enough to notice. Doc's voice, now a little sad, cut into the conversation.

"The wall is run pretty thin these days, Papa says. Even the big corp towers are battling to hold their own some days. And of course, if we surge." Doc paused briefly, shutting her eyes and shaking away a bad thought. Her braids swinging side to side in the cold wind. "You are not to worry about that Pumpkin? The surge has not happened in our section for ages. Not since we stopped poking the bear." Doc's voice shook at the last word.

Gunther grunted, and Malcolm put his hands on Doc's shoulders again in a light hug. There was a conversation here, and Pickle wasn't part of it. An awkward moment of silence stretched for what felt like ages, though it was probably only moments. Time was funny, real or standard.

"That's the reason I came back here," Gunther interrupted the moment. "Malcolm ritual time, and girl, I need you to take off your pants."

Doc shocked spluttered with outrage, "Now see here, you may have Captain's total writ, but that's just not right. Asking a lady to..."
Malcolm's snickers cut Doc short. Pickle hated that man so much. Malcolm was on the edge of a full evil cackle, and Doc was wordlessly indignant as the stoic Gunther looked on non-plussed. The Captain's clause meant he could do anything, right up to and, including killing her for the safety of the wall. Still, she hadn't expected this.

Doc glared furiously at Malcolm, who now collapsed to the floor in a full laughing fit. Doc was more concerned for her than she seemed to be. Well, worse things happened at sea, resigning herself. She started removing her top when suddenly Gunther's voice came out quickly, embarrassed though more frustrated than flustered.

"Nothing like that girl. God, you are child! No Scraps told me your pants smelled." At this Malcolm was wheezing on the floor. Gunther continued more calmly, "She got you some new ones."
Her fancy pants didn't smell! They were the most modern meta-material synth. Self-cleaning with irradiance and sculpted print. Hell, these were the height of fashion in New Hope City. She had been assured as much while getting the previous owner out of them. Why only thing better was true meta-material or smart fab... she groaned internally and facepalmed.

Meta-material was tech! Or magic, to be honest, she wasn't a hundred percent certain not having bought them herself. Scraps had said they would need to be swapped. For the second time today, she felt her cheeks flushing red with embarrassment. She never blushed and now twice in one day. It wasn't helped that Malcolm noticing her facepalm, was now coughing on the floor between wheezing laughs. She joined in with Doc's angry glares at the mage before they both made eye contact and started laughing a bit themselves.

Shortly after, a small parcel was produced. A set of new clothes all from natural fabrics wrapped in a length of cloth. The package was sealed with a small blob of wax with a shop crest pressed in. They all looked handmade rather than machine cut. That is to say, they were sewn by a machine but lacked the straight edge line of a textile factory and instead had the slight, almost imperceptible wobble of a person guiding a sewing machine. You learned to tell machine lines from human, or at least living hands, she thought, thinking back to old Lady Bloom, the pixie who did costumes for Queenie.

It seemed lacking her input Doc and Scraps had opted for fairly neutral choices, and she was impressed Scraps had eyed her measurements so well in their brief conversation. Wrapping a length of cloth around her like a large towel to give her a moment of privacy to change. She changed into the new pants at the back of the train.

Immediately she felt the cold chill of the wind, and the fabric was scratchy. Nothing like her fancy pants. Now changed into appropriate attire, she came forward, pants in hand, turning to Gunther and asking, "What is the ritual?"
"Well, kitten, " Malcolm's oily voice interjected, "It's not THE ritual, but a particular magical ritual. As you know, the mage school... or may not being from the sticks. I suppose I have taken you on as my apprentice. Well, this is not the time to explain all the complexities, but the School of Magic I follow is ritualistic and formulaic."

She found herself drawn into the explanation as Malcolm's creepiness faded away, and he got a bit more human in his motion explaining his craft.

"Rituals, of course, being the most powerful format. This particular ritual, the crew lovingly calls the scrub and clean, but really it's a balancing ritual. You see, whenever magic is moved about a place, peoples auras mix, or you just pump a ton of heat, radiation or directed energy flow like electric well, it leaves a mark. Fingerprints or gradients like how you can make a metal magnetic using coiled powered wire or something left in the sun grows warm. Fingerprints."

Malcolm pulled out a few small rods of metal. About the thickness of a chopstick but a third the length. Spreading the shiny rods on his palm, fingering each as he continued.

"We all know iron stops, silver streams, gold eternal, copper carries, and tin taints. Well, truth be told, most materials have alchemic reactions, but metals, in particular, pure heavy metals are notorious for holding or blocking fingerprints. Wood can be tough, too, depending. Though alchemical alignment class, this is not."

His fingers danced in the air before tapping her helmet, then pinging his gloves metal tips on the rim of her mining helmet. Making a ringing sound. The long-drawn tone seemed to ring unnaturally long in her ears.

"Metal magical, magnetic or well-exposed will sing to anything with the ears for it. And the ritual is to calm and quiet and things down. We like to do it. Not too close to the wall because the ritual makes magical noise itself and draws attention, but there's no point doing it while we're still in the station. Because well, the full Spin and the emissions from the city. Taking a shower before swimming in sewage. Not to mention the city doesn't like large-scale magic performed inside of it."

Malcolm completing his lecture, sighed and placed the rods back into a small pocket before inspecting the glistening fabric of her folded pants. Rubbing the material between his fingers. "Well, better get this stowed. Cleansing rituals can ruin batteries, tech, weaker magic and the like. Or worse, react. We don't want to make your day even more interesting kitten."

She was beginning to loathe that nickname, but the information was interesting. She'd never really talk to a mage about magic. Magic was magic. The magic users she had all met, present company included, all creeps revealing in their mystery. They were more interested in showing off or discussing their greatness and how they could make the tequila sparkle. It never tasted the same. Once Queenie had lured in a whole bunch of them from some magical conference in town. The club was enchanted all week, booze tasted funny, and bottles exploded randomly for a month. Not to mention all the breakage or pranks. Oh, and of course, how they could make any night magical. Several workers had caught the nasty case of regrets. Queenie had to get in a hedge witch. Fucking creeps.

Gunther interrupted, "Get that stowed. Malcolm, get prepped." With that order, Malcolm walked to the back of the train pulling out a large book from a bag. Gunther went to the front with Doc. Doc climbed onto the bike next to Ka and started peddling, saying something to Scraps, who unclipped her safety line grabbed something and made a beeline for Pickle.

Scraps came over with a little metal case with a combination lock in hand. Spring in her step as she walked with the motion of the train. It was battered but looked newer than most things on the train.
"So soz bout the depart. No time to flog the stuff you gave me, but Gun said it would be good in a case. Grabbed dis one for ya. You can shove your shiny shorts in it. Codes 1234, but you can switch it."
Scraps held out the case and popped it open. The inside was lined with shiny red fabric on which her pad, needle gun and stun ring lay. She placed the folded pants on, topped concealing the contents and closed the case making a mental note to change the code later.

"Keep it private. No one steal from you, but bit of private portant when living in tin can." Scraps smiled, "I take pad battery out and disconnect comms so no soft call home."
"Thanks, Scraps, I appreciate this," and strangely, she found she meant it. She had taken a liking to the crazy multicoloured grease monkey with her honest face and simple manner.
"I go now make the engine free. Malcolm make it all go wobble wobble. If Spin not free well wobble wobble bang crash and no go."

All around her, everyone seemed to be making preparations. Malcolm had a heavy metal bound tomb on his lap tracing words with his finger and writing down things on a spare piece of paper. Though it wasn't a crisp white printer or notebook paper, she was used to but rather brown and thicker with a limp quality.

Gunther was fussing with a screwdriver on his arm. Using an oil rag to make the process go smoother. Ka was reading a small book, well in truth, a regular-sized book, but it looked tiny in his hand while pedaling on the cycle next to Doc. Finally, she noticed the one figure still in all the commotion, the clerk or guest leaning on the railing at the front of the train looking in the direction of travel.

Thinking back, she didn't recall Doc mentioning his place in the company. Was he new like her? She hoped not. She remembered how rude the silly man was. Northcoast or something was his name. Virgin Northland or some such. She walked up to him, the cold June air crisp with the promise of winter rushing all around as she moved to the exposed front. No boxes or cargo cutting the wind. The train was really just an open platform on the rails, exposed to the sky. She leaned on the cold rail next to him, taking in the scenery.

The signs of winter were all around. She saw the tan countryside. Sand and brush with low veld stretched out in all directions. Even now, the trees green were tall and thin, bare-bones skeletons puffed with green clustered to give a sense of flourishing life. She had seen forests in paintings, holos or fic, but they always looked wrong to her. Too verdant and lush like a garden, not like the wild, she knew of hot sun and sand with grass being a patchy thing in places and tall where it grew. When the big cats and lumbering creatures roamed.

She picked out an old baobab tree with its thick trunk and umbrella leaves. The old ugogo of the bush or ambuya, as some locals around here, called the trees. They were ancient. Some she was told were over 2000 years old. Everyone knew they were places of old magic.

Off in the distance, she saw the stack of stones indicating an old Kopje. The mix of natural formation and ancient construction were considered places of power as well. She knew to avoid them, and she thought she saw some great beasts sunning themselves on the stone in the noon sun. These castles of stone, most small stone outcrops some ancient castles were not known by one name collectively in the old tongues, but Kopje was the word used in the city to describe them. Though in the bright noonday sun with the cold air rushing in her face, she saw only the beauty of such places. It was hard to link them to dark stories and dire warnings told in soldiers bars and whore houses. Places to give grown warriors night terrors and make them fear the dark.

Looking down at the twin rails of steel below them laid on top of broken and patchwork tarmac. The old road was barely visibly echoing a time long gone, the rails a statement of purpose lonely in their slimline cut through the relatively tame outdoors, not the true Wilderness yet but echos of it were present. She didn't know anyone who was truly comfortable in the countryside. It's not that people had widespread agoraphobia. Some people did like a quiet life. It's just isolation now came with time slip. The mind played tricks on itself. Then, of course, monsters stalked the wide-open spaces.

She glanced at the little man wanting to ask so many questions. Where did he fit into all of this? She decided to come out and ask. She was about to just ask when the man pressed up to his gold-rimmed spectacles and straightened up. He pulled on his jacket and dealt with any creases before turning to her and saying, "Well, it looks like Mr Malcini is ready to perform. I must attend to my equipment, good day Ms Pickles."

Doffing his hat, he left her there as Malcolm walked forward and took his place. Book no longer in hand, he held the piece of paper and a slim rod of tin tall as he was. He placed himself firmly in front of the train dead centre. Turning to her, he said in a cold voice, "Run along now kitten, you don't want to be too close."

Glancing briefly at the page, which looked to be more algebraic formula. Doodles and short passages of numbers and words with strange symbols scribbled in the spaces to form what looked to be a demonic cheat sheet. She rushed back towards Scraps and Doc, now drinking quickly from warm cups of tea. Scraps wordlessly handed her one. It was warm to the touch, and the gentle heat was comforting.

Malcolm stretched out his arms wide and began trailing his fingers in the air. She recognised some of the patterns from the piece of paper. The motion was fluid but precise down to the exact dancing of his fingers as his voice incanted in a melody of tombstone timbre. Forming a harmonic with itself in the most unnatural way. The air folded and glistened. She could feel the folds in space more than see them directly. There was a prickle as she sensed the magic flowing, the sensation even stronger now than the cold wind blowing over her.

Finally, Malcolm flung his arms wide, stretching the complex web of folded space trailing furious energy. The wires of power took a new shape, a performer revealing it was the three hearts all along. The flush of power travelled on the wind, and she felt a shiver journey through her. She knew then on some subconscious level this was not the end but merely the start as the spell in place Malcolm now poured his personal power into the contraption to power the mechanism he had set.

The wind washed over the train, and wherever air hit resistance, tumbling and twisting around things, there was a halo or glisten of rainbow space. Not the broken frayed edges and knots of a shuttle soaring into orbit. Or even the grav lines left by heavy traffic in the cities or the murky clouds of drop troops falling into the soup. The streets swimming in ankle high distortions from grav trolleys and float cars. They all felt dirty, like seeing sewage in the air. This felt like water flowing crystal clear in a mountain stream. The purity was so crisp the only sight of it was the subtle bending of light as eddies formed in the current.

Prismatic rainbows danced more strongly on the metal. The large spin drive, still humming and purring but not roaring as before, shone brightly with flares of colour on all sides. She saw Doc trailing flame and Scraps leave rainbow smoke. Her own hand appeared to be swimming in currents of jade. To describe any of the trails with a single hue was to describe a painting with a single line. It was a dance in space, every moment different as it danced over her goose-bumped flesh.

It was then she noticed the cold of earlier was seeping into her bones. Like the wind was cutting harshly across her skin, stealing any semblance of heat. She felt her soul push out against it, the warmth of the tea spreading out along her arms. Just when she thought she would freeze to death, the streamers of prismatic colour broke and sparkled into glittered dust scattering on the wind and into the landscape carried away from them.

The glitter did not fly with the wind but was carried by another force and spread out behind them in an even fan flying high and wide, leaving a backscatter of sparkle. She let out the breath she had been holding to see not a hint of warmth in the air. Everything felt balanced.

The silence was suddenly broken by the sudden return of wind and the clunk clunk of the rails beneath them. She felt at peace with the land in perfect harmony with the train and everyone on it. For the first time, she felt like she was in the right place.

Gunther pressed past her with the largest rifle she had even seen announcing in his booming voice.

"Incoming!"

Afterword

This is an ongoing web novel updated every Thursday. I really hope you enjoy it, this is my first attempt but I've spent a lot of time in this world, over two decades. Running roleplaying campaigns, writing comics and creating stories so it feels really natural to tell a story in this world.

Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6
Part 7

Pickle on the Nightmare Wall - Part 2

Leave it all Behind

Pickle approached Platform 13 with a smile and a confident step only to find a great deal of motion had ensued in her minutes in the office of the scribe. She paused to see Gunther locked in a shouting match with a small man who was wielding a stack of papers like a furious baton of authority. Meanwhile, a flurry of activity was happening on the platform behind them, the folding metal table now packed away.

Pausing to take in the tableau of sudden change, she halted in her step only to feel the cold black air of Malcolm sauntering past her into the chaos. He nodded at Gunther ruffling his hair with one hand before leaping up to the train catching the hand railing and pulling himself up. Malcolm vanished behind some crates out of her line of sight. With the mysterious dark figure gone from her vision her mind cleared and she was able to once again focus on the farcical scene before her.

A small figure and a large one were handing off crates and boxes to each other onto the train. While a third figure moved around checking boxes. It seemed fast but organised.

Gunther stood tall his tan khaki jacket unbuttoned and hanging loose on his frame still dusty from travel. His combat shorts were adorned with pockets and attachments. His tall socks and well worn laced boots giving the air of authority of one who spent little time among civilisation or hot showers. His left arm ending in a crude metal pincer of his prosthetic waving madly as he argued down towards the smaller man.

The man was of average hat wearing a suit and pants. Not formal black-tie like she sometimes saw in the clubs or fancy tailored attire. This was a plain but well-made cotton jacket of power blue over a white collard shirt buttoned to the top complete with a small dark blue bowtie with white polka dots. The immaculate white pants with their freshly pressed creases had barely a dusting of dirt. The round-faced man with his small wireframe glasses sitting on his nose as two circles of gold-rimmed glass emphasised the clean-shaven moisturised skin and immaculate self-care routine. The dark hair styled and cut in a short practical fashion but with enough length to show the shine of expensive and perfumed products. Matching the dark gloss of freshly cared for pointed shoes. The man had the manicured tones of Queen's English she rarely heard in this part of the world.

"Captain, if you consult our agreement, my employer clearly stated that I would be bringing equipment necessary for my survey of the wall."
Gunther's brow creased as he fired back, "We are a low emission tower, zero if I could manage it. I will not have you killing my men."
"I assure you the equipment is perfectly shielded and of the highest calibre."
"No, you are not bringing anything on that train Scraps or Fred ain't cleared. If Scraps can smell it, so can they."
"I was merely checking the equipment before deployment. I assure you it will not require a satellite link in normal operation. The contract clearly outlines the technical specifications of your engineer..."

It was at that point that Pickle lost interest in the conversation. She knew some about beasties and plasma. None in the south didn't know the night stories told to children.

Night night child take a candle to bed
Blow out all flame before resting your dead
Turn off put out and wrap it all in lead

For most of her short life, she had been under the city lights. Sure she had travelled from place to place. You were safer south of the wall, but all knew a tale of a horror or two getting through the net. Or some homegrown nightmare stalking the alleys and sewers mixed in with the monsters on two legs, calling themselves civilised most of the time.

Looking at the chaos round back, the arguing pair now dissecting clauses and terms, she walked past them. She wondered where Malcolm had gone?

"Hey Pickle, over here!" The eager hail came from a pile of boxes in a voice too energetic and feminine for the tall miscreant. Moments later, a colourful teenage girl stood up from behind a crate lifting up a small toolbox.

The girl's hair was a disaster zone of colour swirled rainbow pixie cut that didn't look like it had been dyed but assaulted by a clown car of paintball gun-wielding hairdressers with eclectic tastes. She wore a loose-fitting white shirt stained with dirt and grease. Tall block lettering picked out in a brutish font.

ROCK SMASH LOVE

The shirt was tucked into black cargo pants with a large carabiner hanging off a cloth belt weighed down with more keys and tools than Pickle could make out. The loud jangle and clash of her movement with the bright colours was a shocking and immediate contrast to the practical crates and canvas all around. The girl gleefully extended her hand past the toolbox now resting on the crate.

"Name's Sam. Though you can call me Scraps, the rest of the crew does. Gunther mentioned you were signing up with old tall, dark and sleepy. Welcome to the Gun Show best tower on the wall."

Momentarily stunned by the barrage of joyous cheer from this young girl she found herself without a response. Falling back on acknowledgement, she nodded. This seemed to be enough for the girl to launch full steam back into her routine. Scraps grabbed her hand and shook it with vigour.

"Hear, let me take that bag of yours. I'm cargo master, or mistress, well cargo queen, let's call it. Nothing goes on the train without me checking it over, and I run supplies over to you all every lunar cycle, bout once a month. Bossman likes to move with moon when we can or close as schedule allows. Oooh, nice pants, they metamaterial? Going to have to leave em here. I'm sad to say too much backwash from the weave. Smells funny to me. We try to go only for natural fabrics, now I'm not say strip here, but you got another pair o pants?"

Pickle confused for a moment, shook her head, she had other pairs but none good for the wall. She had some dresses for the club, but she had left them along with her rags behind. These pants were kinda the bee's knees of fashion with all their self-cleaning and all she thought they would be perfect. Did she have time to go buy pants? Weren't they shipping out soon? "Um, I thought these would be okay?"

"Oh for most towers, sure but the old man just don't like risk. Like I said they smell funny to me. No benefit to bringing em so he will want you out of them. No worries he mentioned you had shinies on I yanked some threads from the locker. You are about my size might be a bit short in the leg but should fit ya. Now I got to see the bag."

Slinging the small khaki pack onto the crate lid, she loosened the drawstring on the top of the bag pulling it open wide. Together they went through her personal items, not that there were many. The changes of clothes were broadly acceptable through a few of her more excellent pieces got put aside. Some garments for containing wearable tech, others for synthetic fabrics. Nothing crazy Hitech but the deoder pads or the micro AC units were all no go. Her bathroom bag was another matter. The nail box, electric toothbrush, sonic sponge, buzzer and even hairbrush were deemed too high tech to take. The brush just had an anti-frizz module, but even that low power usage was too much for Scraps.

"Don't worry I can give you dumb alts for most of that stuff no bother. He won't question this lot or me and the Doc would kill him." Scraps winked at her moving some personal items back into the bag. "Now these though we will need more of a talk."

Left on the box top were her personal pad, folding knife, a small needle pistol and stun ring. The pistol was large for her but not overly so. The handle could hold around 300 needles which could be fired at varying velocities. The gun could, in theory, sort the needles into 5 distinct chambers for different loads but she had only ever used the cheapest lead load. A small plasma cell powered the weapon and charged the magnets, which catapulted the needles in a silent flurry. It was without question a killing weapon for someone who didn't want to be noticed. She had used it, more recently than she would like to admit to.

She had heard needle guns weren't legal in most places, but no one batted an eye at anything short of a tank in Anzania. It was a place of dangerous game, and well, the wall protected everything the mining consortiums kept a strict hold. She had heard nowhere outside a secure base would you find a denser concentration of military force as you would in the streets she grew up on.

The stun ring was a more everyday affair, sized for her index finger on either hand. It could deliver a concussive or electrical force depending on if you used the inner or outer nib. Practically this made it a punching or slapping weapon. Safe enough that even a child could use them, and they did. It was the preferred tool of club girls and delivery rats who could afford them. The small ring had a plasma cell that could hold maybe three charges on a good day though it should have kept closer to ten. She had got it off one of the gents at the club on her first week. The first time she had to slap a saucy clubgoer, she was surprised at how quickly he had fallen limp. The man had been a creep and a drunk not much meat, or she never would have the courage to try it though she was encouraged by its effectiveness. She had never used the ring to punch a person, but Bruno had encouraged her to try it on a melon one time. Queenie had made them both mop up the kitchen and clean the ceiling.

"Look, Pickles, the gun is just no go. Wouldn't be much use 'gainst most of what you will see on the wall. And it's plasma. Complete no-go in personal stock. Cap carries some but only for the most dire oh shit we going to die need. So likewise, I need to nix the ring. Can put both in lockup with a receipt for you or sell em. You call?"
She paused, thinking it over, "Won't I need some weapon on the wall?"
"Feck yeah, but boss man train you up on the clankers and whizzers. Big and small give you the whole run through when you get there. You ever fire an air cannon? Weee those things pack punch like a bull on bass. Not 'ike these squirt guns."
"Yeah. Sell em both," the sooner she was rid of that particular needle gun, the better. "What about my pad?"
"Keep it. I'll yank the plasma cell later, but you can plug it into the mains in the bunker to use it. No comms mind. I will dc the ribbon so ware don't glitch. Course cutter be no bother, everyone carries a blade. Just be sure to report any cuts. No blood on air, speaking of which I should grab you some clothes to replace what we pulled out. Be right back. In meantime help Ka out with the loading." She turned round yelling at the large Orc lifting a crate onto the flatbed. "Ka, show Pickle the stack. I'm going to go nip to the lock."

And without a further word, the little girl wrapped her gun, pad and ring up in the synth clothes and dropped them in a small cardboard box before skipping away. Yup, she literally skipped and sung a happy tune to a small set of stairs leading to the underground discretely out of the way of the concourse set between platforms 13 and 14. Pickle found herself looking up and seeing the tall Orc figure with its pale green skin.

The seven-foot-tall figure was triangular in build, his broad shoulders spreading the leather waistcoat over a bulging chest coloured in tribal tattoos. Detailed tattoo sleeve work showed an ink depiction of a kudu leaping from a bush fire towards a sun golden on the back of his right hand. Horns twisting to the tips on either side of the wrist. The tattoo flames covered his shoulder and part of his chest. On his waist, hanging from a heavy belt, was a silver knife the length of her forearm, looking normal sized to the brute's bulk. The pants also from hide looked crudely made at first until she realised the savage beauty in presenting a garment with as few cuts as possibles preserving the buck's pattern as close as cured leather could. Slim silver lines glinted as complex embroidery of metal cord picked out water symbols down the leg. To the soft wrapped feet, not in shoes but instead the four toe feet had a shoe-like item she had seen Orcs were before, though only tribal. The corp or civies tended to go for human-style shoes. This tribal warrior wore the more traditional wrapping style. Rawhide wrapping around the arch and ankle, leaving toe and heel bare. Similar to a soft leather boot or a fancy metamaterial parkour slipper but bare in front and heel letting the toes grip and heel feel out the ground. The goal was clear, direct contact with the terrain without the sole barrier between skin and turf. She wondered what they did about broken bottles and discarded needles, tough it out or were their feet already that tough.

She was still taken aback by her strange encounters. She found her eyes travelling back to the Orc's deep-set dark eyes, pausing at his mid rift. A slight glint of metal showed bolts in a pouch in the small of his back. Metal tips reflected sharp edges of light, calling them out crossbox bolts. Finding herself loose jawed in realisation, she looked up again at the Orc's face gaping as she glared at the grinning warrior. This was the knuckle-dragging idiot with the duffel bag and crossbox this morning who had almost run over her. Did she confront him, or...

"You remember me, little one? I expected a dancer's grace and light step from thee. The sunrise found your feet slow and stuck in the flow of humanity this morning. I apologise for my rudeness. I must admit to being something of a cloud head myself this daybreak." His voice was musical with a beating rhythm. Like every other syllable was seeking a drumbeat or a harmonic cadence. Nothing like the crude street patter she heard from city brutes like her friend Bruno. It was more akin to stage performer or bard.
"Huh, I know you?"
"Perhaps not, but I recognise your delicate form and sharp features, and not just from our bump this morning though I did not think of it till after our paths crossed briefly in the flow of souls in and out of this dispatch."
Wary, she glanced to her side, wishing she still had her weapons. Or just company. Crude brutes she could deal with and slimy rats with silver tongues but never before had she met a bruiser who let words dance as a street shine boy aiming for your pocket. Gunther was still loudly discussing matters behind her. She must be safe. She asked cautiously, "Where do you know me from?"
"Why, your dancing, of course. I thought that was clear in my speech. Maybe a week ago turned back at night haunt called Queenies. Never expected a dancing girl equipped for war on the wall? Silly, I know from one of my line, mayhaps I should say I never expected a dancing warrior from a human girl. Are you hoping to dance with the nightmare horrors, little lady?"
"You must be mistaken. I don't dance. My name is Pickle. I paid my stake." She defiantly flashed her metal on the wrist.

Hands upraised in a calming gesture, the imposing figure said in his soft booming tones, "Easy warrior, I meant no offence. I'm usually good at telling the soft features of humans apart. In this case, I beg you forgive the eyes of one long worn down by candlelight and night watch awash in the Lethe waters of entertainment this small hamlet offers to such as us who wish to dangle our fates on the edge. I was with friends in fine spirits, mourning the passing of a brave soul. Allow me to introduce myself," taking a slow bow, he placed his sun blazoned right hand over the middle of his chest with his left arm pulled back and outstretched to the sky. The bow almost completely folded him at ninety degrees before straightening back up to his impressive seven-foot height. His left arm coming to rest in the small of his back, with his right fist still centre between his two hearts in a formal pose. She had seen the vids of it but never witnessed a formal Tapola in real life, let alone been the honoured recipient. His voice rolled out in a formal march.
"I welcome you sister with my blood. I am Ka'Shek Patoresh of Keras bonded to Gunther's Guns. I welcome your drum."

Unsure how to respond to the fancy greeting so out of place from the rough street slang or slick shine of night talk in which she was fluent. Aggression, slang or sarcasm all seemed useless here. She reached for her most respectful voice used for honoured guests at Queenies. "Your attention shames my humble presentation, sir." Her tongue twisted on the next line realising she may have sunk her previous denials. "Um thanks, I guess. Scraps mentioned you needed help to move stuff?"

"Oh yes, delightful Samantha is always practical in her concerns. Forthwith let us transport the freight from the platform up to the boards of the train. We can stack and organise as we go. The load must be secured and fastened. Be not afraid to ask for help." He pointed to several small boxes and tarps as they organised their efforts. She saw most of the supplies were perishables. Foodstuffs, some medical supplies and the like. There were some chemical rounds and other munitions, but there still seemed to be less ammo than she saw on most platforms.

Also lacking from their platform was a grav trolley or simple lifter. Typically the helpful tools would have made moving the heavy objects a breeze. Instead, there was a crude mechanical loading crane for the heavier objects when Ka was too occupied. Thankfully it was electric. It made the work light and fast. In truth, Ka could lift most things, and much of her time was spent lashing and stacking.

Most of the cargo didn't make sense to her as Ka directed her to load up many barrels, flasks and canisters of strange fluids and compressed gas. How would they fight the nightmares of the wilderness with these? Surely, they would need bullets, explosives munitions or plasma power cannons.

These questions and more ran through her mind as Ka directed her to load with a musical rhythm. She found herself moving to an invisible beat as they hefted heavy and strange cargo aboard the train. Commands and grunts became a baseline beat with hands slapping and crates clanking on the counter beat. She even heard Ka humming a clear melody under his breath as he worked.

There were many large metal drums wrapped in cloth and padding. Not tall metal barrels instead, rather squat short cylinders about an arm's length across and hand's width deep. It was strange to see something so extremely heavy and study in construction be treated like fragile glass. Ka gave extra attention and care to them.

Finally, as they began strapping things down and securing the top load with a tarpaulin thrown across the load to keep dust and wind off. They tied the wrap with tight flat bands cranked tight. The argument between Gunther and the strange man appeared to have reached a conclusion. Neither seemed too happy, but she would wager from the smug grin the suited stranger had gotten the better half of it.

Gunther circled the train inspecting it from all angles before jumping up and grabbing the railing. His inspection covered the buckles and fastenings, but he paid careful attention to the canisters and drums. Gunther seemed, if not happy, at least satisfied with the job. He gave Ka a small smile before approaching him and thumping the centre of his broad chest with his right hand. Reaching up to hug the tall Orc. In the happiest voice Pickle had heard him use so far, he greeted the Orc.

"Brother Ka, good to see you. Apologies I couldn't greet you properly earlier. Inkwell ran dry?"
"There are still words on my quill, but I heard from our embattled brethren you were short-handed this rotation. I thought an early season to my liking."
"Glad to hear it. Scraps?"
"Off to get the girl new garments, I believe, though she should be back by now."
"Agg bloody hell. Minutes left. Give me a hand with the drive?"
"Sure, Captain. It would be an honour to speed our journey on steel wings."

Pickle was taken back by the exchange but, feeling thoroughly ignored and useless. She offered up her help, "Can I do anything, sir?"
"You know Spin Drives or have engineering girl?" Gunther's reply was brisk and without humour.
"No sir."
"Then stay out the way."

As the two burly figures went to work around the large drum and two bicycles without wheels, she glanced over at the other end of the loaded train to see Malcolm snoring while draped over some crates in the shadow of the loaded cargo of which he moved not a gram. Repelled from both ends, she sat in the middle looking up at the station clock suspended in the middle of the dome. It's one side facing them. Clearly showing only a quarter-hour standard before they needed to be clear of the platform. She leant on the railing, looking out across at the next platform. A busy squad was bustling, pushing trolleys and the like.

"Eh hem, a hand, please." A small and quiet voice came from below.
Looking over the railing, she saw the small clerk-like man holding up a small travel suitcase with tiny wheels. She had seen the sort by the fancy hotels or shuttle ports but it was such an absurd carry all with wheels so small only the smooth surfaces of hotels and ports could give any aid. She hefted up the bag surprised how light it was after the heavy cargo. It was made of fine leather with brass trim and zips. Delicate brass letters picked out the initials VN on the case.

After loading up the bag, she saw the man reach up a manicured and moistured hand while holding a metal briefcase in his left. She noticed his face was rather pinched while at the same time rounded. She wagered he never missed a meal nor a hot shower often. Judging by his clothes and manner, he was from England or some similar posh royal holding. Silver spoon, privilege and everything she despised and admired in one package. She offered up her hand and pulled the man up onto the train.

"Good day Ms Pickles. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Mr Northcott Esquire. Thank you for your assistance. Now, if you pardon me, madam. I must make myself ready to travel."

Without waiting for her response or acknowledgement, he shuffled off near Malcolm. He seemed momentarily baffled by the lack of seating. Holding his briefcase to his chest, he glanced at the mage, boxes and canisters. Deeming the area insufficient for his needs, he moved back a bit further, trying to move some cargo to make a seat. Though it was all securely fastened, Ka had been fastidious in his instructions to her, making certain everything was down tight. The little man made a seat of his travel bag against a crate and used his briefcase to make a laptop desk. He then started working on a small pad.

Little twit. She eyed the train seeing the massive pile near the centre. She climbed up atop the cargo pile, making a perch on the highest point. Looking out at the station from her lookout now out of the way. It was nearing midday, the commotion in the station was gearing up. Near noon was a popular departure time at the station. She knew that from watching trains but in truth, there was a trickle most of the day. She looked across at the station clock and saw the minute hand dropping down to half past the hour, only minutes left till their departure.

She saw a long sleek five carriage affair, all aerodynamic and manufactured, starting to pull out of platform 11. It was a creation from a corporate design team that had been stress tested in sims and then fabbed with the latest parts maybe in Europe, the Free Cities or almost certainly some chip fabs in orbit. Assembled in a clean room and then sent via connecting tracks to the station. It had barely any mileage on it, the smooth shape cleanly coated with corporate colour and logo hiding the nature of the materials or any seams in the creation.

The smiling anime chibi-style characters of the Power Solutions smiling, holding up a cartoon blue plasma cell radiating golden power lines. The blue gold emblem centred on that cell, a capital P with a stylised sun in the negative space of the letter. The company's main and most profitable product in the design with the gold lines radiating and wrapping the entire train. She watched as the train silently glided out on well-oiled wheels. Not even one of the arrogant big seven would send men to the wall on grav. Everyone went on rails. She heard some towers restocked by glider or emergy halo, and of course, the vid fics always had brave drop troopers landing in on exploding clouds of gel bravely to firing as the rescued and overwhelmed tower.

Watching one of the most powerful entities in the world send men to the wall on the same old metal path as her small company would be using gave her a sense of satisfaction she couldn't quite contain. Tic tac, always, it was tinged with that tiny tic tac spider of creeping horror in the back of her mind that even the mighty walk small to the wall. What had she got herself into?

From her perch, she could see a division of polished church armour division receiving a smoky blessing. Tribal drums beat a rhythm as dancers spun a circle around splashed blood. Were they crazy? Some smaller but more organised contractors board their multi carriage trains. Most electric with plasma batteries or steam, none she could see had spin drives, though she knew there were others she had heard them before.

That moment her watch was broken by the sight of a running Scraps hauling ass across the centre of the concourse with a strange-looking young redhead. The bouncing flaming curls drew most her attention but she noticed the two were laughing their heads off with joy as they ran towards the platform. They were shouting and waving towards the train. Gunther leaned out over the rail seeing the two running. Pickle, staring out to get a better look, perched on the edge. Who was Scraps bringing along with her? A loud roar from below made her jump, almost falling off her perch as Gunther yelled from below.

"MOVE IT, YOU DAMN BRATS!"

Gunther's bellow was loud and without apparent anger but left no room for doubt. They laughed even harder before both jumping up onto the back of the train and waving to him. Pulling themselves up the back of the train as Gunther blasted out instructions to Ka in the front, who was now standing firm holding a large lever.

"SPIN IT!"

Curious, she watched Ka pull on the lever, gripping tight the handle, which had a large clasp on it like an upright bike grip with a brake. The large lever made a clunking sound as it was drawn. Then she noticed that besides the firm stance, Ka was also secured by a belt and carabiner to a small rope leading to mounting rail along the rim of the protruding large vertical drum, which was half exposed at the front of the train.

It was during this moment of clarity she realised she was perched atop the cargo with no handhold. The train lurched with a loud screech and scream of metal as an explosive force like a pinball spring let loose unfolded from the drive. She slipped and scrabbled for a handhold finding none on the tarp held down tight by wide straps smoothly holding the load. Assisted by the platform release, the small train pulled itself out, screaming from the station. The unnerving scream of a spin drive in full release.

She found herself falling between the gap of the middle pile and the back pile. She had a choice between landing on a collection of secured metal canisters with metal nozzles and high-pressure contents or a sleeping mage unperturbed by his bed accelerating noisily out of the station. Kicking off the box, she directed her fall towards the softer and perhaps less deadly mage.

Moments later, she felt a hard impact hit the back of her head as she collided with something square. A flare of pain shooting up her leg before darkness and screaming took away the last moment of consciousness as she headed off on her bold adventure.

Yay adventure.

Afterword

This is an ongoing web novel updated every Thursday. I really hope you enjoy it, this is my first attempt but I've spent a lot of time in this world, over two decades. Running roleplaying campaigns, writing comics and creating stories so it feels really natural to tell a story in this world.

Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6
Part 7

Pickle on the Nightmare Wall - Part 1

Platform 13

She pulled the helmet tight, checking the clasp once more in front of the big metal dome as the cold morning air washed over her. Trains rumbled in and out of the station. Looking up towards the pink dust sky torn by gravity trails travelling south. She knew what lay south. It wasn't hope. She saw a single knotted rope of distortion tearing to the heavens, its frayed bottom torn wide, showing the ascent in the gravitational wake.

The morning shuttle had left. She didn't know when it had gone, but she clearly had missed it. Maybe when she was down in the hole getting the last of her supplies before leaving this place behind.

East-1 was the principal station on this side of the country. Harare served as the deployment point towards the wall and maybe her bridge towards the future. Checking over herself once more before walking through and mixing into the crowd. She felt a duffel bag knock into her back, stumbling forward as she caught herself staring back in anger, crouched, ready to fight.

She saw a gruff figure seven-foot-tall orc shuffle past her with a large duffel bag slung over its shoulder. The orc appeared to pay no attention to her as he wandered into the building. Crossbox secured on his back at a casual slant. The large beastly weapon was probably a pistol to him, but to her, she would have had to hold it with both her hands and brace herself, least the recoil send her small frame flying across the room. In the small of his back, he wore a small bundle of bolts, horizontal in their configuration. They looked small and diminished against this large frame. They were the length of her forearm and the thickness of her thumb. She looked around to see if anyone had noticed a moment of embarrassment before hiking up her bag and continuing. Going forward into the building.

She was good at blending into a crowd, even with her short figure and her mix of unusual clothing. In this audience, she didn't stand out walking just a bit slower behind a group of corporate marines with their fast march and corporate gear. They're all of similar figure and build, uniform in their equipment. Shiny and new. There were a few scuff marks of use and professionalism, but they look like they had all come off the same assembly line. Roughly the same build and figure, all standard human. They marched three by weight in a tight formation, clearing a path in the crowd. She stepped in their wake, lost in the tide.

The domed metal of the train station hub East-1 was noticeable in its construction. Unusual among the oldest style buildings squat brick and tall concrete or the newer prefabs printed shapes. It was a statement piece. Probably one of the last great constructions in the area. A testament to the wall project bent iron bars of unthinkable length bending and forming a gridded dome bubbling from the earth. To her eye, it created a cocoon around the hub. Crystal panes sat in the grid squares directing light. It must have been marvellous with its white stone floor reflecting light. Sharp shadows cast by the ring of pillars dividing the central concourse from the outer wall ringed with shop facades, platforms and ticket booths. Imposing metal frame and clear crystal causing light to refract and reflect brightly off the white stone. An impressive monument to what mankind can achieve.

It was constructed maybe a hundred standard ago though it had experienced something like 300 years real. Dust stains and grime on the crystal barely let the light with a patina of bird shit and caked dust blocking out large sections. The sunlight which hit the white stone showed stained and worn cracked slabs. Replaced haphazardly with off white prefab worn from countless people, walking through the smoked, polluted city. Just uncared for, like most things in this part of the world.

The layout was elegant and functional in its simplicity. The north was a series of train platforms jutting just past the pillars. Fingering out towards danger and adventure. It was a metal web spreading out the hub as tree roots would overlap as switching lines crossed over, and the trains exited. Always going towards the north. At each platform stood the various officers or dockmen prepping their trains for departure or offloading various goods. As custom drones and workers inspected each person or item returned from the wild wall. Too many lessons had been learnt to slack in their scans.

In the oval centre of light and grime stood military companies and friends. Some had just rotated out and were expressing the joy of being alive with their tribe. New tattoos and drinking stories would be shared by the firelight or in neon bars. Corp regs not yet ranked to the officer lounge hung about with an air of superiority polishing their equipment rated to just a fraction of more value than their employer valued them. Paladins systemically beat on a begging pixie beggar boy unlucky enough to get close to the holy wrath. They did it with a joyless ritual which made her sure they were due to ship out, scared for their lives if their faith would hold the line once more. The pixie boy had a shattered wing, not cheap to fix that, but was now crawling away sufficiently beaten. Lucky to escape with his life, maybe the Paladins didn't want littering on their bill or perhaps they were just tired.

The south wall of the building was for commerce and connection. Well, for many, it was safety. For her, it was no future. She knew what was made to the south. She had spent some time there, really there was no hope, and she needed to go towards the danger towards hope after all these years. Maybe she had enough. Wow, had she planned well? She knew she had enough. As long as she passed without issue. Moving along the south side of the hall past the shop entrances avoiding drawing attention to herself.

When the alcoves were built between the white columns, they were occupied by shuttle connections, scribes stations, weapon shops, and high commerce. Now the broken columns showed the years through grime and their rebar bare in places. The rim was blocked off corporate barracks, tribal offices, and delivery services. Occasional betting shops highlighted the lack of drink, outlawed now in the hub after too many pitched battles. The two original frontages still polished white of the original construction were the Scribes under Heaven office and the shuttle station where the wealthy and expensed travelled.

Coverings in the archways, you could see shiny corporate officers and warehouse depot, drop off points, where various deliveries and organisations, very little commerce occurred in the hub. This was a place of business, this was a staging zone, a place of functionality. Her stomach growled in hunger and nerves, her muscles tensing in anticipation, she needed to calm down. Looking around for relief.

She immediately spotted two small food carts. A pie store appeared to be run by a gnomish figure. God knows what's in those, but almost certainly meat. She wasn't superstitious, but she knew that eating meat before your first deployment onto the wall was a clear sign that you just didn't think. Staring at the other stand, she proceeded forward to it. The small cart with three heater plates and an old grey-haired lady, human standard, wearing apron and smile, sat behind it on a small stole. Sizzling on the hot plates, were a mixture of mostly mushroom, chopped root veg and some beans.

A shelf of unlabeled well used herbs and spices were accompanied by regularly squeeze sauces more identified by colour than label. As she walked up, the tiny tannie stepped off the stool and stood up, just smiling towards her.
"I'll have whatever you're selling," waving her hand over the hot plates.
"Good dear. I only have one thing on the menu. Mushroom chow. 37 credits"

It was a bit dear for street food, but this was a port, she reached into her bag for the cred stick. Watching the old lady, with minimal fuss, pull out a cold flatbread and throw it on the heat plates next to the mushrooms, pressing down with an old metal spatula. The searing. Plating hot mushrooms and burnt veg onto the bread she mixed in some cheese. Without asking she reached for a blackened sauce jar previously unseen and dolloped a large black spoonful of darkness and onion onto the bread. Smiling like a hedge witch over a brew or an alleyway spell slinger over dice she grinned a secret smile showing gapped teeth, "Pickles from my own store just for you."

Oh, thank demons and praise luck an Omen. A good one which she needed this day. For her name or at least the only one she matched the fates. The old lady folds and flicks over the flatbread with the spatula in a practised motion. Pushing it into the heater, caking bits of brown and burn, and a million meals before this, the flare dents brown-black against the white bread, leaving a fingerprint of time.

It makes a sealed warm meal.

Glancing at her stick she sees 508,011 credits. Spotting the slot, she thumbs over 37C for the meal, grabbing the hot wrap with hunger and viciously devouring it. The warm mushrooms ooze between chunks of cheese only interrupted by crunchy burnt veg. The blast of pickle offsetting the soft creamy flavours with a tart bite of memory. Sealing her mouth around the warm flavours. Within moments she is sucking vegetable juices off her dusty fingertips, smiling.

The old lady was impressed at the speed at which it disappeared into her patron's gullet. Rough living and jobs learnt her the ways of eating fast. She hadn't eaten a hot meal in a week. Her tummy had been tied in knots by the nerves, and this was the only way she knew to calm it at the moment, and for a change, she had the creds to make it happen, this time at least.

Licking her fingers and looking over the station. She made idle chatter with the old lady. Trying to examine the various groups and the mood of the crowd. You always needed to know the mood lest you end up in the wrong eddy like that pixie boy. Sure an organised regiment of corporate troops march through without a care. The crowd parting like the sea leaving a churned wake of bruised egos and careful mutters but most moved like fish in the currents. Watching she could see tribal groups form, organised squads coming off rotation, companies drinking and playing cards and swapping stories, and everyone in their own clique and group.

There was a mix of almost all backgrounds. Formalised by everyone wearing combat gear and a sense of shared purpose. Sure there was no one of her slight build or dancer frame.

Knocking on her helmet and hiking her bag up. She waved farewell to the old lady and carefully plotted her path forward. Taking a moment to consult her pad. She had stolen it from a euro tourist several years back. It had taken most of her credits at the time to wipe it and reclaim the device for herself with a local fix monkey. A few adjustments have been made over the years. The most expensive repair was substituting a blown fuel cell that exploded in a surge. It was perhaps the second most precious thing she owned. Irreplaceable with her budget and resources. It was a good trade, expensive and dangerous, but a good trade.

Pulling up the live schedule from the local net she saw the platform schedules.

    GUNTHER'S GUNS       PLATFORM 13      0930 - 1130

Checking the net standard time, it was 0947 on last sync, she had plenty of time. Approaching as nonchalantly as possible but along the edge of the concourse, avoiding any large groups. She carefully eyed the blue lights. Signage for each platform were boxes illuminated bright blue with white painted numbers on. The blue boxes picking out the various platforms with their beastly machines and organised regiments waiting to board. Until eventually, she came to platform 13.

It was not the first time seeing the crew. Still, with a fresh set of eyes the hunking beast that lay on the platform was actually one of the smallest trains in the station, a single carriage, but unlike the streamlined multi-carriages parked on corporate lines, all the various creative but ritualistic messes of the tribal trains.

This was a functional beast, nothing covered it. It was a flatbed. Perhaps eighty paces long and four pieces wide. Wood and metal flooring open to the environment with a simple metal frame. Wasit high railing around it. The cargo was lashed and tied down. Least it fly off but fully exposed to the elements with a few items shyly hiding under the smallest piece of tarpaulin. Towards the front and the centre of the wooden platform, there was the spin drive squatting confidence in it's mass and power. This metal beast's heart of tension and torque just waiting to be released. The wheels removed and sunk into the platform to either side and just behind the spin drive appeared to be two metal bicycles. She knew they must be connected to the gearing somehow and in some fashion, but at this distance and from this angle she couldn't tell how.

Most of the equipment and cargo did not yet appear to be loaded onto the train. The diverse assortment of boxes and loose items piled next to the train in a disorderly fashion separated from the crowd by a fold-out metal table at the front. The first thing to catch her eye as she looked to the table was a tall man wrapped in black, sleeping underneath the table, snoring loudly. He had a silly-looking wide brim hat, a dark trench coat with armoured iron plates, clearly visible in their creases and folds. Thick buckled boots with toecaps covered his feet. The gloved hand she saw was entirely covered with fingertips bulging in some strange fashion. His face was wrapped in a black sating scarf and goggles. Shaded black. She could not pull her eyes from the peculiar figure snoring beneath the table. Until moments later, a rough voice interrupted her fascinated stare.

"Can I help you, girl?"
"Gunther," her tongue tripping over itself, "Gunther, sir! I've come to buy my stake."

She pulled herself upright to her full height of five foot nothing as the tall man rolled over and continued to snore. Her eyes quickly flying to a point just a hand's breadth the man's forehead. He was no man but a figure of legend calmly sitting behind the small folding metal table doing paperwork... ye gods on actual physical paper.

She knew of this man, the Captain of this bunch. Captain Gunther or the Gun of the Wall as some of the older folks called him. The middle-aged man was tall but not lanky shy of six feet. He was built sturdy with no spare height or bulk. His shoulders were reasonably broad under the khaki jacket worn but well cared for. He was looking her over, scratching the stubble with a strong start towards a full beard. His dark hair was full and slightly curved, all his grooming pointing towards a man who favoured a splash of water and minimum fuss while maintaining basic hygiene. The hand doing the scratching wasn't a hand at all but an iron claw crude in design no magic runes or cybernetics here. Missing was the famous gun prosthetic and she could not see the arm she knew from town tales to be chewed off above the elbow.

His cold grey eyes took in her new boots, well thoroughly used but these had no holes. She was rather proud of these fancy pants. Well smart trousers she had stolen, well borrowed okay more procured for services rendered from a club patron nights before. Heck, the corp girl should be grateful, cheap really for the night, waterproof and self-cleaning the shimmering grey fabric was well above her usual. To the faded denim jacket over the loose cotton black tank top with the small khaki pack on her back. His eyes lingering on her face, her purple eyes and sharp features, before smirking at the rusted miner's helmet strapped tight on her roughly cut hair which was dusty black at the moment.

Gunther's inspection done, he looked her dead in the eyes and asked, "You're sure you are in the right place girl?"
"Yes sir, I wish to sign up. I have my share."
"Very well I assume you know our charter and all the standard stuff?"
"Been told it all, Captain."
"Well, you are bound to have some accursed stupid thoughts, but I'll leave you to discover those. There are official questions that need asking. Name?"
"Pickle." She hadn't paused, but she waiting for the expected reaction, he had none calmly writing it down, but she was sure she had heard a chuckle from the table.
"Family name?"
"No family."
"Title or membership under Heaven?"
"None"
"Are you currently or have you in the last year been a subject, tribal member, corporate citizen, serf, indentured, summoned or otherwise engaged under quest, geas or formal obligation under Heaven?"
"Free scum sir."

Sure, Queenie would lay some claim but nothing any outside town would care to back. The club didn't know where she was and wouldn't know where she had gone. She could be wired or bewitched and dusted to the winds or gobbled by bits for all they knew. Jack Jack's boys hadn't known where she was for years, and she knows they didn't consider her valuable enough to ink.

"What about the helmet girl?"
"Miner's helmet."
"I can see that, but where did you get it."
"Found it, sir"

"Very well if you say so. Girl, they will know once they run you, so remember to be honest on these. Are you currently under any debts registered to heaven?"
"None," or rather none that the mighty cared for. Small scrip owed to friends and favours owed and owned the cultural currency of the town in which she was rich and poor.

"Race?"
"Human"
He looked up again into her purple eyes, "If you lie to me it's Gods trouble for us all."
Unable to make direct eye contact, she responded with all the confidence she could muster. "No sir, human standard sir."

He paused, kicking the man under the table. She realised the snoring had been stopped for a while. Gunther's voice was monotone, "Malcolm, check out the girl."

The sleeping figure yawned and stretched in the most peculiar fashion. It wasn't a true yawn, but more like an oil slick noisily, expanding beneath the table. Flowing more than rolling or underneath the table, he extended up, lifting his shoulders too well about six feet. It wasn't like he had stood up but rather as if invisible strings had pulled him to his full height like a marionette. The strange wide-brimmed hat atop his head appeared to have a soft fabric cone collapsing in a lazy lean of folds. The hat's tip was actually adding to his imposing height. With all the dark fabric wrapping his form, he looked more mummy than man. All in black, not an inch of skin, hair or person showing.

His stretching yawn, arms akimbo, appeared to distort the space as his back bent straight and the room wobbled. No signed of muscles or bone that she could tell. He could almost be drawn into real life, like some crazed imagining. It was disturbing to look at his silent movements. Putting a foot towards her he stepped, pulling the room closer to him. Looking deeply into her eyes, purple reflecting in the goggles He stepped forward and looked deeply into purple eyes and then back at Gunther. Malcolm's voice was silk on silk sibilance with brass resonance. "You want to know what, the girls numbers?"
"No," the gruff man responded. "Is she safe?"
"Is it ever safe to bring riff-raff off the street?"
"Malcolm, can I put down human standard?"

She still hadn't exhaled watching this demon pantomime play out before her. She could pass. Without warning, gloved hands flew behind her, she tensed, expecting them to grab. The foul hands just floated over her buttocks and slowly went up her back without touching. It was somehow more intrusive and defiling. She could feel the tingle as his hand moved. She could not see it, but she could tell exactly where each fingertip was at any given moment.

Then just as she thought him done at the nape of her neck she exhaled. His fingers went into her hair between helmet and scalp, his fingers flew to her ears. No to her tips, the pointer tips of her ears. Thumb and trigger finger gently pinched both and withdrew all in a flash without and visible pause as his hands went back into his pockets.

That moment was the most intimate touch she had ever felt. She felt violated with her clothes on. Instant and total violation, she thought she would pass. She thought she'd be okay. The breath stuck in her throat. She couldn't finish breathing it out as her chest closed tight. Every muscle pulling in and pain flashing through her body as it tried to pull in on itself and disappear. To erase her from this world.

Most people didn't notice. Yeah, sure. The eyes, but everyone, okay maybe not everyone, mostly everyone, maybe even half of everyone, but more people than most had something. Eyes were common. Nice. Hell she didn't bother hiding them usually. For day to day she was generally able to tuck her tips in a hat. Hell even tucked into a bandana or even just her hair if she was careful.

If she was lucky, it was good enough. The helmet was surefire. The helmet was sure. The helmet was iron. Oh, what is she's gonna do. She had enough of share, but she didn't have enough for certification. She didn't have enough for insurance. She was done. She was doomed. Shouldn't have come. Back to the club, she went.

Oh, God. If this man had tried this at the club, he wouldn't last a moment. Bruno would have bounced him into the alleyway? She didn't care if he had any bones left. No Bruno would bounce him off the alley wall anyway. Bones or not they would have crunched and cracked, and he would have bounced and rolled, and it would have been the most hilarious thing in the world. Just sick twisted de... demon of a man would not exist before her.

She had wandered through the filth and dirt of this city and other others. The club was vile, but at least in the club, even though there wasn't a classic uniform, she and the other staff wore a uniform attitude. She was other. She was apart. She... she was safe. There were rules. Never before had someone so instantly, torn apart any shred of confidence, spent so long building, to come to this point and see it all fall.

"She's standard sir, well standard enough," Malcolm's voice flowed like a knife through her mind, he knew. Her train of thought derailed. She stood shocked and shaken to her core. She couldn't form a sentence in her mind, let alone on her lips. As she watched the silent exchange between the gruff man and the tall demon.

Silently she cheered on her hero, come on, oh Legendary Gun of the Wall. Gunther the Great will slay this vile demon and free her from this paralysis. Captain to one of the last free companies, guardian of humanity. The man before the nightmare army, please free me from this horror.

He seemed to shrug as if it was nothing.
"Well, that's the paperwork filled out. You know the share is currently 500,000 right?"
"Yes," her voice squeaked in shame as her hand shook. Her rage welled and pooled in her eyes, threatening. All that uncertain energy rushing into flight or fight. Unable to fight, being pushed into some pathetic moment. She would not break. Falling back onto formality, she barked. "Sir 500,000 credits for company share ready to stake."
"Okay, well, we've got the birth until eleven-thirty standard but I expect you to be back by eleven and inspected by scraps. Malcolm. Take her to the office of the scribe and get the paperwork registered. Sign it girl."

The form was now completely filled out. He pushed the form and a pencil in front of her. Signing her name in lead she eyed the top of the pencil with its sharp blade. Running her thumb over it, she pressed the small cut over her name. Blood and lead mixing name and print. Pushing the form back to Ganther.

Gunther takes it signing his own before reaching for a wax stick glittering next to him. He takes the wax stick, the mark of scribes and captains pushing it on the heater then paper. Pressing his thumbprint into the wax. Captains, didn't cut themselves. The saying went, "Captains had no more blood to spill and scribes have none to give". Gunther folded the form and handed it to Malcolm, who took it with a flourish.

"Make sure there aren't any problems, Malcolm," Gunther's eyes underlined the sentence. She couldn't see Malcolm's reaction as Gunther continued, "I'll wait for the geek and Russel. Get back sharpish. This is the last stray we sign today." With that Gunther seemed to start clearing the table.

"Come on, kitten," Malcolm's voice cooed behind her, "We'll be late."
Without shame the son of satan slithered his way to the south side where the scribe's office stood. She marched ahead, determined not to follow after the arrogant fool, let him be her shadow.

"Now now, kitten you will leave me behind," his voice came on her heels as he lazily followed.
She slowed her step. Grabbing the blade in her wrist cuff, she swung around as fast as she could and closed into him. Pressed the cold silvered blade into his stomach. She found the kink between two iron plates and rested the sharp tip against his skin with light pressure. She was confident she could drive it in with a moment's notice.

Looking up, staring into this tall fiends eyes as he slinked and curved. She just perceived darkness, dark goggles, dark cloth, looking down from the shadows of that ridiculous wide-brimmed hat. With the most venomous voice she could summon born in the dark pits, sharpened by the street and polished in the clubs, she said, "Address me like that again or touch me and I will have your guts on the floor. I don't care what Gunther says, you are a foul creature."

She could not see his smile through the wrapped fabrics but she could feel it. The mirth dripping onto his tone as his melodic response, "Of course kitty. Play nice now Pickle, or you will make daddy Gunther sad."

Pulling the blade back, she stalked off with a new purpose. Malcolm had called her bluff without hesitation or fear. Feeling the tall shadow follow her she decided then. She would not give him the satisfaction of guarding herself. She would show him the disdain of dismissing him as a threat and allow herself to be blind to his theatrics.

Walking into the office of the scribe was like stepping back in time. It was almost enough to forget the foul encounter. Grime and neglect painted the rest of the train station but here the white stone was clean and the crystal shone brightly. Crisp air sharp with polish and the smell of clean aged carpet as green felt carefully traced a civilised line of approach, lest the floor be marked by time.

Thick black knotted cord ran crystal poles waist-high separating the lines of carpet. Organised to lead a queue to three fine windows carved out of white stone with a heavy wood door discretely off to the side. The countertop was white and worn but clean. The windows weren't anything as brash as crystal, glass or bulletproof synthetics. Instead finely hammered iron formed complex patterns of leaves and flowers all polished black. The delicacy of the smith's work could make one forget the sheer stopping power of a thick iron grill that let sound, air and the barest light through.

They seem fragile but brutish at the same time. She had never quite seen such delicate artistry performed. The fact that the metal was kept clean of rust or mildew or artifice made them feel otherworldly. Rare to find anything in this part of the world that wasn't covered in grit and grime, dust and neglect, forgotten and left behind by humanity as they ravaged this corner of the world.

Only one counter was occupied. You could just barely make out the silhouette of someone knitting patiently unhurried. Confidently, she walked up to the scribe counter suddenly conscious of the ringing sounds of her boots on the stone just as the carpet swallowed them up. Her stride faltered for a moment before approaching and declaring, "I'm here to buy my share."

"Oh darling," came a kindly voice from behind the window. "One second as I put down my needles. Now, what company?"

Before she could answer, Malcolm reached over her shoulder and slid the folded paper form through a purpose-made gap in the ironwork. She had overlooked the flowers parting there, and a large leaf presented a slight lip. It was a subtle effect, but it was easy to spot once you knew it was there. She could hear the paper being unfolded, the keyboard clacking away. The scribe's motherly voice was punctuated by her key presses as she talked and worked.

"Gunther's Guns, my my an unusual first posting for someone so young. You sure you want to join such a group of scoundrels first time out? Join them if you must but many a fine corporation, guild organised tower. Maybe an academy tenure or one of the church towers. Free Towers are rough places for a girl of your age and the corporations or church both have long prospects?"
"Thanks mam," she interrupted the scribes' advice. "I prefer my freedom."
"Very well, I know better to try talk a lassie out of loony. I myself, oh well. They come with no backing and their tower is a rickety one. Gunther's men mostly come back it is true. He does run a tight ship, oh but if you could see him back when. Ah well the sky was brighter. You will have to deal with his crew..."

At this last statement her voice lost some of its sweetness and she appeared to look at Malcolm. He was currently examining his bulging glove tips as if they were painted nails fresh from the salon.

She tried to ignore the exchange, "That's okay I have confidence in the captain."
"Oh well let's get you in the system. Currently seven registered stakes this season, excluding the Captain of course. Charter is even stake so that means you'll get an eighth share, less the Captain and wall dues. Unless anyone else is signed up today?"
The scribe had pointedly directed her question upwards at Malcolm. His oily voice purred out flowing over her like waves of slick. "None so far."

The scribe continued, speaking to her once more. "Right well deary the stake will come to 500,000 credits this season per the Gun's Charter. Do you have that dear?"
"Yes."
"You have any debts, contracts or outstanding gravity debts under heaven?"
"No ma'am."
"Right, oh dear it looks like the ident number on here is blank. Have you not dealt under heaven before?"
"No ma'am. Gunther's Charter covers free agent registration."
"Unusual for one buying a stake," an air of question flaked her voice. "So registering you before heaven as well. The Charter does indeed cover that in your stake, but it is unusual. We have a blood signature and I see the Captain has filled out Geo Neutral Aligned Type."
That stun, she was technically a gnat. Few would hurl that insult in the city knowing its vile consequence but she knew it was a technical term. Besides at the end of this conversation she no longer would be. Without pause the scribe had continued on, picking up the thread again she heard her continue.
"Check can take a while but you will be in the system immediately. Oh dear, one moment we have a fracture. They tend to clear fast. You know we used to have to wait for the gap between, and there it is back again. Oh darling you know you can change your name under heaven correct? No fee if you're registering now."
Pickle blushing, she knew people laughed but it was her name. She hadn't used it in the club and not many in Jack Jack's knew it. Though everyone she ever considered a friend knew her by that name. It was hers, given in love.
"Pickle's fine ma'am."
"No family, clan or last name? Many people take an approved free name."
"Company name only ma'am."
"Pickle of Gunther's Gun. Very well next of kin or beneficiary is named?"
"None known."

Their rally of questions was interrupted by Malcolm leaning onto the counter and looking directly at her, "Pardon me. Just don't child. You must name a blood benefit. We could kill you and the share would revert to the company. It is just too much temptation. Name someone, it doesn't matter who."
The scribe added, "Many name a charity or local establishment in repayment for kindness."

Kindness, she thought, remembering clawing her way from the depths to the limelight to where she was today. No charity. That wasn't technically true. There were those nuns in that Pretoria hospital the winter she had gotten sick. Oh, and Ghilli soup kitchen. Ghilli was safe and nice. Their wife Jenny was a friendly face for an urchin who needed a cheap meal. She softly ventured, "Ghilli soup kitchen in Mutare." She could hear that click-clack of keys. "I'm not sure of the business name."
"Well dear, I can find no soup kitchens registered in Mutare. I cannot list a benefit without a formal ident. We could send a letter of note?"
Malcolm shook his head, "No girl. Scraps could take it after our run, but nothing stops us saying we delivered it when we did not. Pick someone, anyone."
She tried again, "There is a hospital in Pretoria by the hill run by nuns. For sick children."
"Found it, yes I know it. Saint Angus on Mountain View. Yes there it is."

She had forgotten the name. It had been so long, she never would forget the pink fluid they gargled or the smell of the halls. The winter had been long and her leg was infected badly. The cold and pain had cleared and she had seen purple. She still loved that shade of purple flower.

"Yes ma'am. That's them, they were nice."
"Okay. Almost done, any magic to declare."
"No ma'am."
"You have that certified dear?"
Before she could react, Malcolm put his hand on the counter, clacking his fingers one at a time. Punctuating his words, "Human standard, dormant. Certified apprentice of Malcolm the Magnificent. Magus Academy." His finger's paused before he quietly added for her ears. "Apprenticeship has no fee girl."

She wanted an object, apprenticeship to this creature. Never never ever, but she couldn't afford the certification on top of the registration. She wasn't sure she would pass an official certification and a street cert good enough to pass register would cost almost as much if not more. Hundreds of thoughts passed through her mind and she tried to plot a way out of this new hell. Her hope is now tainted by the black stain. The sooner she spoke and washed off this stain from her new clean identity the better. Her voice sticking. Hope tainted. She couldn't.

Was he helping? He was helping, she thought. He had offered the advice and Gunther had sent him. No way would this fiend be helping, indeed he was was toying with her. Her mental exploration of her companion's motives were interrupted by the scribe.

"Okay? I have you registered. You have the stake in credits?"
"Yes." Breaking out of her drowning mind she pulled out her stick and slotted in the small illuminated slot in the counter. She thumbed over the 500,000 credits. The stick vibrated against the large amount. She quickly keyed her complete sequence. The small stick was only rated for a million tops. Its crude needle pin pieced her trigger as she keyed pulling the last piece of confirmation. Her fortune gone, the stick felt light. She felt the world swim in a moment of uncertainty.

"Give me a sec dearie, it takes a while to communicate with heaven. That orbital tore a fracture larger than most this morning. The pilot dropped like a stone. Ah there it is."

Apparently it's an eternity to heaven but a moment to us. Never mind when times slip a curse to hears the old printer file. A fire or fire up. The click and clack as paper moves and the receipt slowly rolled out. For a moment, it paused, then a slim metal plate the size of her thumb but thin as a fingernail clinked onto the large leaf which formed the letter slot in the grate. It was, of course, iron but in the elegant shining letter of gold written by the scribes practised hand was her name.

Pickle + Gunther's Gun

Lifting up the plate in shaking fingers she pulled out a small cord from a fine pouch in her pocket. Threading the expensive cord through two small holes in the nameplate, she wrapped it around her wrist. The cord slowly tightened and pulled as it felt the warmth of her skin. Slowly she watched the cord melt into her skin, drawing the plate into her right wrist. Embedded into her skin her identity forged in iron strengthened by blood. The letters of immutable gold holding her name and company.

Her name was written in the stars of heaven, she existed forever. No longer was she a mine rat in the darkness. No longer a street gnatt running. No longer a club girl in the bright lights. She existed. Yeah, Jack Jack's boys might find her. Yeah. Queenie, might wonder where she went off to. They didn't know if she was wired up or dusted out. Let them think her lots to bits or blown on the winds.

A registered standard human with a free company and capital stake, she had a future. She believed in the moment. Striding out into the hall with confidence, walking to the platform to catch her train. Arms stretched out, she hooted at the top of her voice, a guttural cry of triumph wordless in its joy. Shameless in its volume. For she was heaven wrought!

Unnoticed behind her, a black shadow stalked behind, a vertical oil slick flowing after. As she stopped by the platform, she paused once more, hearing that soft voice.

"Welcome to Gunther's Gun. Please die slowly."

Afterword

This is an ongoing web novel updated every Thursday. I really hope you enjoy it, this is my first attempt but I've spent a lot of time in this world, over two decades. Running roleplaying campaigns, writing comics and creating stories so it feels really natural to tell a story in this world.

Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6
Part 7