The Rifleman - Ch.49

Chapter Forty-Nine

The Trouble with Feeling Safe.

Wesley sat and ate a cold pie while Malia fussed over the haircut she was giving Joy. It was the final step in making her ‘safe,’ or rather the closest to it you could get in this world.  

A haircut, a change of clothes—and absolutely no one touching her tail—was all she needed now. At least, all she needed that they could do for her. 

The Keeper class was still going to be a problem. Keepers were a special class, unique to the Keepers of the Outposts. It had now been almost a week since they fled the tower, and the clock was ticking. They had, at best, two days left before her class was gone for good. 

That was the deal. Keepers were very powerful within their own Outpost, but they couldn’t be without one for more than a week, or the class vanished like smoke. They would keep their Tier, but that was it. All associated skills and abilities would vanish like smoke. So far, they had all carefully avoided talking about the problem. In normal cases, the one who had lost their Outpost was moved to an empty one; they were scattered about all over, after all, but in order to do that, Joy would have to return to the Keeper’s Guild and explain what had happened. 

The moment she did that, someone would snatch her up, Keeper or not, just to find out more details. 

If the Player Factions didn’t get her, the Guild itself might. Any information they could get might save another Keeper or Outpost from the same fate.

None of it would be personal, but she’d be just as dead at the end of it.

“All done!” Malia pronounced, spinning her dagger in one hand. “What do you think?”

Joy hesitantly looked over the fountain's edge, examining her reflection in the water as if it might leap out and drag her in. Slowly, she seemed to decide she liked it, and began to smile. 

The cut was very different, but that was kind of the point. Hair shaved on the sides of the head and around the ears, while the length it had was gone. Twin plaits down the sides of her head met a ponytail at the back, which Malia had made resemble a tail. 

Completely different, and yet it suited her. 

“I love it!” Joy said excitedly, then sat down on her haunches and began to sniffle quietly.

“What’s wrong,” Malia asked anxiously. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No, I love it,” Joy said between sobs. “But what am I supposed to do now?”

Malia looked at Wesley, then shrugged. 

“What do you want to do?” Wesley asked. 

“I want to….” Joy broke down into sniffles. “I don’t know!”

Malia hugged the squirrel-kin, rocking her gently back and forth like a child.

“Do you still want to be a Keeper?” Wesley asked. 

“No!” Joy spat. “I never want to be alone in some tower in the middle of nowhere while I wait to see if anyone will come along and kill me. Never again!”

“So, a fresh start,” Wesley said gently. “That could be fun.”

Malia shot him a look. “Losing everything is not fun.”

“Look who you’re telling,” Wesley snapped back. “I’ve just done that a few months ago, remember?”

“You did?” Joy looked around. 

“Yeah, I was drafted very recently,” Wesley admitted. “It sucks.”

“You seem okay,” Joy said, sniffling slightly. 

“I’m not,” Wesley smiled, “At all. But I try to be.”

“Was it scary?” Joy asked. “Being drafted?”

“Weren’t you?” Malia asked.

“No! I was born here,” Joy pulled at her ear absently. “I’ve always been in this world.”

“Ah,” Wesley sat down next to Malia and her. “This probably sucks even worse for you then.”

“Why?” Joy asked.

“It’s your first time losing everything?” Wesley checked.

Joy nodded.

“It always hurts badly the first time,” Wesley admitted. “Hopefully, it will be the only time.”

“So, I just start again?” Joy asked, pulling away from Malia. “All alone?” She looked panicked. 

“Not if you don’t want to,” Wesley replied. “You can travel with us if you like. It will probably be dangerous, though.” That was no empty warning. Everything here seemed dangerous. Even a night at home could end in invasion, sundering, or a zone change. 

“I can’t fight,” Joy said, “I’m not a violent person.”

“We can do the fighting,” Malia said with a smile. “Every group needs someone to help with everything else.” She looked over at Wesley for confirmation, and he nodded. “You find what makes you happy, and do that. All we ask is some help with things like sorting loot or whatever.”

After a moment, Wesley added, “We might ask you to learn to fight, just a little, in case you are attacked when we are doing something else.”

Joy nibbled her bottom lip for a while before nodding and wiping her eyes. 

“Okay, I can do that. Just a little bit of fighting. I can do that much.” She looked anxious and excited at the same time. “Just to defend, right?”

“Right,” Malia nodded. “For now, all that matters is that we are safe.”

“Completely safe,” Wesley nodded, “Oh, bollocks.”

Tier 6 (146%)

Tempering threshold reached!

Tempering…

Wesley gasped as pain swept through his body again, feeling himself collapse to the stone floor of the safe room as Joy screamed in shock.

Tempering x11

+60% Vitality

+55% Toughness

+ 30% All stats

+15% Agility

+15% Control

+10% Strength

+5% Perception

Skill Selection proceeding…

Choose one:

Charged Up:

Add an extra charge to each of your skills, excluding healing or buff skills.

Healer’s Call:

Add an extra charge to each of your healing skills.

Simulacrum’s Gift:

Add an extra charge to each of your simulacrum’s skills.

Wesley stared at the words, using them to push the pain of tempering away. There were three options, each one gold. 

Shit.

Charged Up seemed like a complete gift. Improved Flare, Jolt, Armor Piercing Round, My Shield, My Domain, Reload all of them would get an extra charge. In the case of the A.P. Round, it would be a fifty percent increase in charges. 

The extra clip in Reload would certainly help; the invasion had taught him that much.

Healer’s Call was narrower; only Emergency Heal and Lesser Regenerate would get an extra charge, only two charges instead of seven. On the surface, it was an easy decision except, of course, for the fact that those two charges could save a life, while the seven others could only help him kill.

Initially, Wesley dismissed the Simulacrum’s gift. It was entirely dependent on the summons. If they were destroyed, the charges would be useless. It took him a moment to figure out what it meant if they weren’t destroyed. An extra charge of each lesser version of his skills, times two. 

That was the real choice. 

Charged Up, or Healer’s Call, would be a small but sizable increase in his own abilities. Simulacrum’s Gift would almost double the amount of impact his sims could have. 

Sure, and extra Emergency Heal would save one life. But with the sims, he could save two. 

It would also give both his sims another A.P. shot to work with.

That was it, really. The choice was simple when you looked at it in terms of the calculus of lives.  

He’d take an extra chance to save someone over a personal power increase any day of the week.

He chose Simulacrum’s Gift.

Tier 7 attained!

Tier 7 (12%)

Influence 5000

Influence maximum for your level reached. 

Choose where to divert extra Influence:

Never Forgotten (40%)

My Domain (74%)

Wesley chose immediately. Never Forgotten getting an upgrade was a significant force multiplier for him. If it came from an extra simulacrum or an extra summon, it didn’t matter.  

Personally, he didn’t think it would change the speed of upgrading the skill much, but it was something, and anything could matter in the end. Even a day sooner could mean the difference between life and death.

Report Overdue:

Improved Flare (93%)

Emergency Heal (45%)

Jolt (35%)

Lesser Regenerate (25%)

Armor Piercing Rounds (7%)

My Domain (74%)

My Shield (89%)

Firsts: 

Dodge this!:

Hit an enemy with something larger than five times its body weight.

Eastbound:

Move east through at least 3 zones in under a week.

Bugg-ed:

Kill a corrupted character.

Sucker for Punishment:

Temper more than ten times.

Slow learner:

Fail to upgrade a skill for at least three tiers.

Expendables:

Allow a summon you control to die twice in under 3 hours.

“Sarcastic fucking system,” Wesley groaned as he tried to sit up. 

Malia came over and helped him into a chair. 

“What happened?” Malia asked. 

“Sorry, that really hurts,” Wesley sighed as he cast Lesser Regenerate through his body, allowing it to soothe the aching muscles. “Somehow, I never seem to manage to skip the Tempering.”

“Tempering is the worst!” Joy commiserated. “I hate it.”

“Wait, you both have Tempered?” Malia looked stunned.

“Of course,” Joy nodded. “All beast-kin temper.”

“Ouch, from when you are teenagers?” Wesley said, horrified at the idea.

“Yes,” Joy’s face held a shadow of remembered pain.

“I temper because of the accident that gave me a totem,” Wesley confirmed. “I haven’t managed to tier without doing it at least once.”

“At least once?” Joy asked. “How many times have you done it?”

“That was my eleventh time,” Wesley winced. “I just have the worst luck, I swear.”

“ELEVEN!” Malia almost yelped. “What is wrong with you?”

“Lots, probably,” Wesley smiled weakly. “It is not an experience I seek out.”

/////////////////

The next week was spent right there, in a saferoom hidden in the side of a cliff, deep in a forested zone. There was a lot to do, and besides, they needed time to pass while they ‘tracked down the caravan’ and met a ‘wandering stranger’ who would go on to join their team. 

It was a whole thing. 

Not that they were bored, with lots of things to do in the meantime. For a start, they had to start training Joy. Malia handled all the combat training, with Wesley wincing from the sidelines along the way, while Wesley handled the more basic stuff related to becoming someone else.

It wasn’t groundbreaking stuff. Just a few faked mannerisms that people would think were unconscious gestures and remember if anyone came asking or learning to stand upright rather than huddle slightly. They held a small ceremony for her when she lost her Keeper class and spent time talking about what class she might want to take next.

It turned out to be easier for her than any of them expected. The system gave her a list of truly horrible options, which she read out to them. Joy saw one she liked right away. 

Travelling Cook:

No matter where you go or who you meet, everyone is always happy to have a good cook around. 

Malia tried to argue for something a little more general, like a warrior. Joy gave her a look and swiftly moved on to choosing the Cook.

Malia sighed but, other than going a little tougher in training later in the day, seemed to accept it with something at least approaching good grace. It took them almost three days to decide whether to tell Joy about the discovery of the NPC repair material crafting system, but in the end, it turned out to be less of a big deal to her than it was to Malia or Wes. 

She shrugged, said it would come in handy, and went back to cooking after promising not to mention it to anyone. 

With the week over, the three headed out for a new Outpost. Joy fidgeted constantly in her gear, a random collection of things Malia had that she could do without. Some old leather leggings that were slightly too long for the squirrel-kin, a spare breastplate that was more iron than steel, a belt, and the hooded robe that Wesley was happy to let her have—even a pair of old armguards. Wesley had also given her the iron skillet he had been gifted back in Safeholme; she carried it proudly on her back while a small knife sat in a sheath on her hip. 

Wesley had to admit that she looked nothing like the Joy they had first met, which was quite amazing considering how little time had passed.

Traumatic events were like that, however. They changed you more in minutes than years of normal life could ever do. 

They spent a quiet few days moving steadily south, passing through a barrier that left them in a strange zone that was more water than land. Narrow bridges of land connected a series of islands, with water lapping all around.

It creeped Wesley out immensely. 

A brief look over the side of one of the bridges showed the water was DEEP. Way deeper than it could possibly be in any non-game world. Still, at least they had crossed within sight of an Outpost. 

Every second, they crossed the narrow strip of sand and rock connecting the edge of the zone to the small, rocky island housing the tower of the Outpost. Wesley had his rifle ready to fire. 

He expected to see tentacles reaching for him from the deep with every step.

Finally, getting onto the actual island was an immense relief. 

Malia led the group into the Outpost, which was shaped like a small dock, complete with a fishing shack at the base of the tower.

“Oh, bloody hell,” The Keeper was deeply tanned and flustered looking. “More of you off to war? Well, you best hurry along!” 

“Wait,” Malia held up a hand. “What war?”

The man stood there in his open shirt, cut-off linen trousers, and what Wesley thought looked suspiciously like flip-flops and gaped at them.

“You don’t know?” The man gaped again, looking a lot like the fish stuffed and mounted on the wall behind them. “The Player Factions are tearing back and forth, beating seven shades of shit out of each other.” He leaned over the counter conspiratorily. “Some have even combined forces!”

“No way!” Wesley added in what he hoped was a suitably surprised voice.

“Way!” The man nodded. “If you lot aren’t hired by one of their lot, I’d find somewhere nice to hide if I were you.”

“We’ll consider it,” Malia nodded stiffly. Do you have any messages for us? Malia Kerr and Wes Lancaster, Errant Rangers.”

“Let's have a butcher’s, shall we?” the Keeper said as he pulled what looked more like a notebook out of his pocket. He flipped through it carefully, then glanced at them a couple of times.

“Wow,” he wiped his forehead with the book. “So, this is kinda tough.”

“What?” Malia asked. 

“Well, it’s three messages, really.” He looked back and forth. “You lot know not to kill the messenger, right?”

“Yes,” Wesley nodded.

“Okay, strewth,” he swallowed. “First message: Main Branch hired to fight alongside Player Faction alliance. All members avoid attacking Plainsrunner, Seaborne, or neutral forces.”

“Shit, those idiots,” Malia swore. “What were they thinking?”

“Don’t be too mad at ‘em,” the Keeper said, “You ain’t heard the rest.”

“Go on,” Malia grumbled. 

“Second message: Report, Main Branch wiped out in battle against alliance known as Necro-Metallics. All independent operators remaining, Flee. We repeat. Flee.” The Keeper swallowed hard and looked at them again.

Malia was as still as a statue. 

“Necro-Metallics?” Wesley asked quietly.

“There is a big group of three Player Factions. Word went out a week and a half ago, but it was too late. By the time someone read it, there were reports from all over the show. Some think they are trying to win the game at last.” he said in awe, “All the central hexes are being torn apart as they fight over ‘em.”

“Fuck,” Wesley hissed.

“Yeah.” The keeper nodded his head. “Those poor bastards between the cliffs called for–”

“Third message,” Malia hissed. “Please.”

“Oh, right. Third Message: Delver’s Guild to all Outposts. Note only two known survivors of the Errant Rangers died last night. Anyone else reports in, have them test their badges immediately.” The man held out his hand, and Wesley and Malia handed their badges over. When the Keeper pressed them to the notebook, they flashed green three times, then shifted to glow silver on his and gold on Malia’s. 

“Fuck,” Malia collapsed into a rickety chair. “We’re the last ones left.”

“I’m so sorry,” Wesley said, putting his hand on her shoulder. She squeezed it hard.