I've always known when I'm stuck in a dream or a nightmare, and yet somehow, knowing never changes a damn thing.

That awareness is present in the back of my head as I watch this dreamscape unfold before me, and same as always, I tell myself to quit dreaming and just sleep or wake up. I never do though. My brain always lets the dream play out. Maybe because it's half asleep and can't just wake on a dime, or maybe because deep down, I want to see where it goes or just indulge in the dream a little bit. Especially the happy fun time dreams, though those are few and far between these day. Any harmless bit of imaginary fun with a girl I know always ends the same way. With guilt, longing, and loneliness as I wonder why I don't dream of Josie no more, as she only ever features in my nightmares.

Can't decide which label today's showing fits under, as I watch myself trek through the fetid, stinking swamp and take on a horde of ramblin', shamblin' Zombies. I got my trusty new axe on me, which is technically a poleaxe, albeit a short one that's exactly 85.7 cm long from tip to tail. Thing is, in reality, I know that length because I've measured it, but also because I can sense it through the Appraisal Cantrip, one I've used so often I can now gauge the general dimensions of an object without even having to cast it. Course, it's more a feeling, as the first time I laid hands on it, the dimensions didn't just pop into my head. If someone blindfolds me and hands me a wood or steel rod round about the same size though, I'll know from my first touch, because it'll feel the same length as my poleaxe, even if all I do is rest a single finger atop it.

It's a difficult concept to describe because it's not really a quantifiable sensation. More was more of a general idea of how far I can reach while holding it in hand, one that just comes natural. Like touching your nose without having to find it, or knowing how far to step when you going up and down stairs you've walked a thousand times before. Knowing without knowing, or muscle memory even, except this ain't so much a memory as it is new information.

This nebulous certainty is available even in my dreams, as I grasp the specifics of the weapon in my hand, my right hand of flesh and blood as opposed to wood, brass, and Ectoplasm. It just feels different, not only my hand, but the weapon itself, one that looks like the weapon I wield in reality but is as different as night and day. The axe sings as I swing at a Zombie that's much too far away to hit, yet there's no doubt in my mind that my attack will reach. And reach it does as the steel handle of the axe elongates and stretches, pulled along by the weight of the head like they're connected by a coiled spring as opposed to solid metal.

It's a novel sensation, this weapon of my dreams, one that's not exactly rigid, but not as elastic as the steel cable either. It's like… semi-solid rubber. Stretchy, bendable, yet also solid and hard at the same time. It shouldn't work, not according to the laws of physics, but here in my mindscape, it functions… well, like a dream, as the honed edge lops off the head of my target and stretches just a bit further before snapping back into place like it was solid steel the whole time. The physicality of it is all there, the weightlessness as the head goes hurtling off into the distance, the sensation of the edge hacking through flesh and bone, the heft of the recoil as the weapon snaps back into place, and the weight of it all as I as I bring the weapon up and around for another big, elongated swing.

Something between an axe and a whip, a weapon that would never work in reality, not if it was made of pure steel. And yet, as I hold the weapon between my hands, my magically honed senses tell me this is not a construct of cold steel like my weapon in reality, but rather one of Ectoplasm masquerading as steel, yet is also wholly responsive to my thoughts.

There's no need for the Living Whip Cantrip as I wield my Conjured Weapon against these imagined foes, a weapon which responds to my focused will no differently from my hands and feet. Or maybe my Mage Hands would be a better comparison, as this Conjured Ectoplasm feels like a part of me as it blazes fresh neural pathways into my brain solely meant to control this new part of my body. It's a curious sensation, controlling this dream axe of mine, one that's similar to directing a Spiritual Weapon, but different, yet still familiar in some ways.

Before I can even think about where I've experienced this before, my dream shifts to present me the answer. Over top the heads of the Zombies comes a flock of screeching Harpies, and the wing Ferals are cut down by my axe with ease. A Shield even pops up, because this is how I briefly fought them Harpies a few weeks back in New Hope, with Spiritual Weapon in one hand and my Shield anchored to the other. It felt so natural, so right, so smooth and simple, the weapon in hand and also alive at the same time, with our two parts becoming more than the sum, and yet I never really thought about it after the fact. Mostly because I didn't much care for the overall experience of going toe to toe with Abby, but I gotta say, when it works, it really works.

This is what Edward was talking about when he said Spiritual Weapon was more for reference than anything else. Conjure Weapon provides a superior foundation compared to Spiritual, because all that independent action takes up so much juice that the Spell duration goes from one hour to one minute despite also going from First Order to Second Order. This tells me it's more efficient to learn how to manually control the weapon as opposed to letting it float about on its own, and this dream is showing me how. Sorta. The idea is there, and the knowledge so tantalizingly close, because even though I'm doing it here in a dream, it's still… dreamlike. Happening without my knowledge really, like I'm a spectator to my own actions as opposed to there in control of it all. Thing is, I feel like if I work a little harder and think just a little more, I'll know how to do it in reality. That this ain't really a dream, but a real possibility, inspiration come calling while I sleep.

One I been thinking about for a long time. I still remember how Sarah Jay described Sergeant Begaye's prowess on the battlefield, how he swung his tomahawk only the once, then set it to Echo and swing several times more all on its lonesome to clear out the whole entire bunker. Been trying to Echo my swings while chopping wood, but never could get the trick, and now I can't impress Sarah Jay with how quickly I pick things up.

And all of a sudden, the Zombies and Harpies are no more as I find myself wrapped in the tall, dark-haired beauty's powerful embrace, one so full of need and longing that it cuts me to the quick. It all comes rushing back to me then and there, Sarah Jay's hunger and desire as she wraps her arms around me and grinds the full weight of her heathy body against mine. The warmth of her skin, the taste of her lips, the supple firmness of her breasts, it all comes rushing back to me alongside my fervent desire to do more, even though I don't really love her like a man should, like how she deserves.

Don't love Elodie in the same way either, but I also don't got that same yearning, though I'd be lying if I said I didn't feel something for her. The girl on my lap transforms without transition, and there the green-haired girlie be, smiling all sweet and innocent while looking at me like I'm the apple of her eye. She ain't as tall as Sarah Jay, or as broad of shoulder and chest, as she's more of a supple athletic sort compared to the former's nordic Viking farmgirl build. Elodie ain't exactly dainty, but she got a way of putting her weight on me that don't feel heavy at all, more like a weighted blanket that just sort of sinks in all around and makes me feel all warm and safe. Especially when she gets to nuzzling, and while there ain't nothing erotic about it, it do stir the embers of desire all the same. Now that she's gone and left, my mind wonders about what might have been, and how her lips might have tasted or body might have felt had I allowed myself to try.

And my dream imagines that it'd be mighty fine, mighty fine indeed, but maybe not as fine as petite Astrid. There's something alluring about her whole brainy brat sort of vibe, one that pairs well with her slender, delicate, and tidy aesthetic. I've always loved her hair style, long, silken locks with the straight, cheek-length side fringes and perfectly even bangs out front, like one of them expensive dollies they got in stores around New Hope with dresses and bonnets and houses to boot. Dark and silky is how Astrid's hair looks, and I imagine that's how it'd feel too, as I run my dream fingers through her dream hair and take in her smitten stare. While she might not be as infatuated as she was before we started this trip, she's still enamoured by what I represent, a life completely different from the one she knows which makes it all the more appealing to her young and impressionable mind. She a clever girl, so clever she makes me feel dumb at times, which I suppose might well be part of why I try not to engage. I know how she sees me and what she might think, and I like the adoration more than a little bit.

I also worry that she'll see through it all a realize I ain't all that and a bag of chips. Might be I could teach her something else though, take a hold of her mind and heart both while she still young and impressionable. Lovely as can be too, in a picturesque sort of way, different from the Sarah Jay's strong, seductive beauty, or Elodie's natural charms, as Astrid possesses more of a quiet, classic beauty, with her perfectly framed symmetrical features and flawless, ruby red skin. To say nothing of her lovely nails, all black, glossy, and filed to neat little points like she had them done in a salon, while the ones on her lovely toes curl just a little bit add a touch of elegance to them. I ain't one for feet, but that don't mean I can't appreciate the beauty in them, and Astrid's exquisite footsies do be tastefully pleasing to the eyes.

But again, there's no love there, only lust and plenty of it. Course, don't none of those girls appeal to my logical half as much as one girlie in particular. A calm, capable Qin beauty who don't just know how to look after herself, but could probably take care of me too. Not in the maternal nurturing sense, but in the protective, guardian sense, as Jinfeng is tough as nails and deadly as can be, a soldier who can kick ass and take names with the best of them. Them other girlies be competent in their own ways, but I still can't shake that protective feeling I get around most people my age or younger, that need to coddle and care for them because I'm the Firstborn of the Frontier.

With Jinfeng though? She wouldn't be a burden, but a partner, one far more deserving of the title of Firstborn, or at least of all the hefty expectations that come with. Mostly because she wants to live up to that notion of Noblesse Oblige, the idea that those who can, do. That someone who is capable of defending others should dedicate their lives to it. Edward is big on that, and so was my daddy, while Uncle Teddy all but embodies it in body, mind, and spirit. Me though? I couldn't care less about doing the right thing, not unless the problem is right there before me and something I feel I can fix. If it were up to me, I'd pick up everyone I love and care about and move far away from the Divide. Not because I think there's no defending against it, but because I think it's too much of a hassle to even try. Got better things to do than build walls for folks who can't take care of themselves, but I'll have to do it eventually I suppose, and I will. I just won't enjoy it much is all.

Jinfeng ain't like that. If it were her people in New Hope, then she'd be ready and willing to bleed for them, to die even if need be, and I see in her the person my daddy would want me to be. Not necessarily one who lives and breathes Republic propaganda, but one who loves her people, because much as I hate to admit it, the Qin do be my people in some ways. So too are Americans, even if they won't have me, but that's the rub ain't it? Hard to love something that don't love you back, so you do what you can to forget that love as best you can.

I ain't in love with Jinfeng. Not even a little bit. I'm in love with the idea of her though, of pairing up with a woman who is my equal or even superior in some ways. To have a real partner at my side, someone who can give as good as she gets so I don't gotta spend every other second wondering if she's up to snuff. Much as I live and breathe the whole older brother schtick, it do be exhausting to keep up, so it'd be nice to have at least one person in my life who's close to my age and wouldn't need to be babied all the live long day.

Plus she's got them gorgeous, shapely legs that I can't stop dreaming about, and those big, brown eyes that I could lose myself in. And her nape, so shapely, slender, and on full display when she wears her brown hair back in them long, twin braids which she wraps together into a sort of bun that I can't get right no matter how many times I try with Chrissy's hair. Got a pretty face too, all lovely and intense, with a cool, aloof sort of arrogance that is both off-putting and alluring at the same time. The competitive bastard in me also wants to strip away that hubris of hers, to show her that I'm better than she is in every which way that I can. To humble her even, because her frightening competence makes me question my own, so I got no choice but to prove it both in and outside of the bedroom.

Then there's Tina, sweet, beautiful, familiar Tina with her angelic, innocent face atop a sinful body. Fruit of the poisonous tree too, which makes her that much more tempting, to say nothing of all our years spent together. I love her in a way I could never love another woman, different even from my love for Chrissy. Tina isn't just my little sister, she's also the partner I thought I'd spend the rest of my life with, albeit not in the carnal sense. Was supposed to be me and her against the Frontier, two peas in a pod who'd join the Rangers and conquer this world together, which makes me want her even more because of what she represents. The life that I've always dreamed of, the one I still yearn for to this day, the young American Ranger and maybe even hero who I will never be.

Partly because I ain't good enough to be that man, but also partly because I ain't white enough for it either. Can't hardly be the poster child for the American Rangers if I don't look American, no can I? That more than anything stings the most, the realization that the dreams I once aspired to were and always will be out of reach, simply because I just don't look the part. Heartbreaking is what that is, a realization that came to me round about the time the Feds disavowed my daddy. That letter said my Daddy wasn't American, and no matter how much he did for America, it still wasn't good enough, so what hope was there for me?

And now, Tina has become a symbol of that dream, that life that I could have had if I was just like her, so I romanticize that relationship even though she's my sister in every which way besides blood. That and I'm a randy goat who can't help but sexualize almost every woman I come across, as evidenced by the myriad of pretty faces that appear before me here in my dreams. Scowling Kacey with her petulant pout, striking Gabriella with her smouldering stares, elegant, blue-haired Who Dieh with her deadly movements and piercing stare, all them girls make an effort to tempt me in my dreams, and so many more, like flirty Miss Dawson with her sugary Chicago confectionaries, or Aunty Ray in all her beauty and motherly ways, but ain't a single one of them the person I'm truly yearning for.

Namely Noora, who appears before me without a smile or even any light behind her eyes, as it's more of an image than an imagined reality. She's gorgeous as ever, with her smoky, almond shaped, half-lidded eyes, full lips that quirked into a devious half-smile, smooth, caramel skin, and sharp, confident features. I want nothing more than to see her again, to hold her in my arms and feel the warmth of her skin, to taste her lips and hear her laugh while drawing me in for a passionate embrace. I don't dare even dream of it though, because that's not what she wants, and that right there is enough to cool the flames of my ardour forevermore. She don't want to be my wifey, or the mother to my children. She don't want the white picket fence and two-story house, or to play homemaker for our two and a half kids while I'm away at work before cooking me dinner when I come back home. If she did, she wouldn't have left, would've stayed with me instead of setting out to stand on her own two feet.

And I admire her for it, love her even more because of it, while also hating her so very much for breaking my heart like she did.

That's the real reason I was hoping to see her while heading downriver towards the Deadlands. So I could take measure of how she's doing and bask in the knowledge that she would've been better off with me. It's a hard life, running security for trade ships, because even the Wayfarer ain't all that safe and sound. Sure, me and my catamaran didn't run afoul of no pirates, but mostly because there are far more tempting targets on the water. Why go after a small, fast ship when you can hit a slow, lumbering freight hauler instead, one carrying plenty of precious cargo that could sell for half its market value and still bring in a good fair bit. I wanted to see her struggling in her new career and show her that she still had better options, that she could still come back to me if she so desired it.

Which ain't fair or even realistic, because Noora done made her choice and is someone who'll stick with it, like she did when she paid Aunty Ray back every dollar I ever spent on her and then some. Which ain't nothing, as it wasn't like the Ramirez house would have sold for all that much, leaving precious little for Noora to start her new life with.

And just like that, my heart sinks in my chest as Josie pops into my dreams and arms both, sitting pretty in my lap with her bright, beautiful smile as she leans in against me. I lean in against her too, and close my eyes, wishing with all my heart that this was real, or that I could go back and do it all over again. Not just to save her life, but to treat her right. This woman was gonna be the mother of my child, the wife of my dreams, and even then, I couldn't bring myself to give up my nomadic life for her. I remember thinking how terrible it'd be to work behind a desk, and how I'd rather convince her to live with a husband who'd be away for weeks at a time while never really knowing if he was dead or alive until he showed his face again. How selfish is that? This sweet, loving angel of mine was ready to give everything to me, was even willing to share me with another woman, and I couldn't bring myself to find a regular job in town. Barely even considered it really, and if things hadn't end the way they did, I might well be in the Coral Desert round about now, out hunting Abby instead of staying home with my wife and newborn child.

I know how hard it was growing up with my daddy away all the time, and here I was ready to do the same to Josie and our baby. What sort of man does that make me?

So I sit there in my dream, touching my forehead to Josie's and crying all the while about all the things I never could've given her. Can feel not only the warmth of her skin, but smell the floral soap she'd always use, and though I would give anything to lose myself in those memories, the ever-present knowledge of this dreamscape prevent me from succumbing to my deep desires. Josie is gone, now and forever more, and I will not profane her memory like this.

"What's so profane about this, guapo?"

Josie doesn't say it, but I hear her voice all the same, her playful yet challenging tone that was provoking and humble at the same time as she runs her hands over my chest. That's what was so amazing about her, how ready she was to make fun and unconcerned by my rep, because she fell in love with just plain old Howie. Yeah, being the Firstborn probably helped, but she cared more for the man underneath it all, the awkward guy who asked if she could teach him how to braid his sister's hair. There was never that underlying awe or respect that other people had, even Noora who saw me as the big, bad bravado who swooped into town and gunned down the people who done her wrong. To Josie, I was just a guy, one she was head over heels in love with and wanted to spend the rest of her life with.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

And yet, there's something off about all this, not just Josie's voice spoken directly into my mind, but this whole dreamscape. We went from fighting Abby to fighting my demons as I resist the temptation to indulge in fantasy with all the women who attract me. I mean, it's just a dream right, so where's the harm? Ain't like it hasn't happened before, and some of this stuff is based on actual memory, but even then, it all feels oh so very wrong. Not just because sex is a sin to my quasi-Catholic mindset, but just wrong in general, as in something ain't right.

The world's not right. That's the problem. Why can't an ethnically Qinese man like me represent the American Rangers? Isn't that what America's all about? A cornucopia of different races coming together as one nation, indivisible with liberty and justice to all? There isn't anything about being white written in there, so why can't an American be yellow, black, red, or brown? Some of the best Americans I know ain't white, and I ain't saying that to take away from those who are, but why is white Christian the default for all things American?

It's not fair. I should be allowed to be the Firstborn I'd always dreamed of, and I can. I just need to prove my strength and ability, to be the soldier I'd always dreamed of, to… serve. Serve in the Federal Armed Forces. As a Ranger like my daddy. And one day be disavowed just like him.

Forget the Firstborn. I should just accept love and lust wherever I find it. Sarah Jay. Elodie. Astrid. Even Tina. I'm sure they'd all be open to a carnal relationship, even one where I get to have them all. Why shouldn't they want me? I'm the best there is and the best there'll ever be, as there ain't no one who ever gonna top me, so why shouldn't I have as many women as my heart desires? Lost Josie and lost Noora too, but I'm young, healthy, and ready to move on and… and have another kid?

No, I should focus on my career, on being strong as I can be. A little bit more effort, a little bit of help, that's all I need to figure out how to use Conjure Weapon the way it should be, the way I felt it working before my libido got carried away. I'm a powerful and brilliant Magus who's way ahead of the curve, one who's only being held back by the lack of a proper teacher. If the Marshal won't teach me, then I'll look elsewhere for guidance, and soon I'll be stronger than ever and earning money hand over fist, money I'll… put back into training and gear so I can earn more… so I can train even harder and buy shiny new toys for earning even more.

The whiplash of thoughts and emotions sets a blaze in my belly as I recognize this for what it is, and I tear myself out of the dream to step back from what I see. "Beat thy drum and get thee gone," I snarl, taking hold of that anger and directing it at the dreamscape, one that is neither dream or nightmare, not really. I knew it from the start, because I couldn't tell if it was one or the other, but didn't consider that there might be a third option out there. This here is an Illusion, an Enchantment, one meant to tempt me by showing me what it thinks I want, the power, women, and money that so many people desire. Me, I want all that too, but not for the same reasons as most.

Yeah, I want power, but only enough so I can protect what's mine, which is a fallacy because there ain't no way I can guard against every eventuality. I just gotta keep on keeping on and hope for the best while doing what I can to prepare for the worst.

Sure, having a whole gaggle of women would be nice, and for a time there, I really thought I could make me, Josie, and Noora work, but only because I truly loved them both. Still do if I'm being honest, and that broken-hearted love is keeping me from even considering a relationship with anyone else, carnal or otherwise. If all I wanted was sex, I could well have it, for only a few dollars to the right gal, but that ain't the sort of thing I care for. I want love, the same love I had for Josie and Noora, except one is gone and the other will never love me the way I want her to.

Not saying I'm never gonna love again, only that I ain't ready to try, not even in my dreams.

As for money? That's always been a means to an end. I pursue wealth so I can spend it right quick on things I need, like guns, ammo, defenses, and all that. I got no use for fancy watches, tailored silk suits, or gem-studded contrivances that them fat cats value so dearly. I need cash to keep up and get ahead, but so long as me and mine are fed and healthy, then I can get by with next to no money at all.

All of which ain't normal, or at least ain't what the Mimic expects. Knowing the gig is up, it gives up on the Spell and tries to tempt me with logic and reasoning instead, reiterating once again all the things it can give me. The things it thinks I want, but gets it all so very wrong wherever it counts. It ain't making no promises either, no more than a worm on a hook is a promise of a meal, because one you nibble on that juicy critter, you gonna get yanked out of the water before you got time to chew or swallow. It's bait is what this is, a ruse to get me to open the doors to my psyche and slide on into my head, but I ain't just guarded; I'm downright anti-social, so much so the Mimic done been stopped at the threshold of my psyche and ain't been able to do more than whisper through the cracks.

There's a dark malevolence about me, one that looms thick in the air, and I can almost taste its dissatisfaction as it whispers sweet nothings in a last-ditch effort to reel me in, but I stand firm and reject it for I have seen its ugliness and want nothing to do with it. I turn my mind to my magics and Cast Detect Aberration in my dreams, a Spell Structure I always have prepared but use more often as a Ritual to save the Aether. I'll spare no expense here however, as I quickly hone in on the Mimic's presence and raise my hand to the skies and make a fist in a grasping motion. "Incendo – Magna – Invoko!" I Intone, pumping my arm and shooting it back out like I'm spearing the Mimic with two fingers, and a sphere of superheated air emerges centred around its presence. The flames of destruction are brief but scorching, except when the smoke clears, the Mimic stands untouched.

Its presence is still there, unchanged and untouched, but no longer does it whisper sweet temptations. Instead, it turns hateful and fiery in an instant, with promises of pain and suffering when it achieves its goal, a promise made not in words or concepts, but imagined sensations that send a chill down my spine. It will inflict untold suffering upon me, that's the gist of its threat, and I can't help but smile to hear it. Empty threats, because it won't ever get a hold of me, not today, not tomorrow, not ever, even if it do manage to take me alive some day.

Because I know who I am, and I know the measure of my worth. I won't ever willingly work for Abby, and you can take that to the bank.

For shits and giggles, I tag the Mimic with a Hunter's Mark, and am rewarded with a ripple of alarm. Rather than throw out another Fireball though, my gut goes with a different Spell, one I seen my daddy use a fair few times, but one I never learned to Prepare. That's okay though, because I haven't been Slinging Spell here in my head. I've only been remembering them, reimagining them the same way I've been imagining those memories with all them girlies. A kernel of truth surrounded by a web of … not lies, but not realities either. Memory, pretty much, and I've few memories more powerful than the memories of my daddy.

There's only a Verbal Component to the Spell, one my daddy didn't know the meaning of, but one that's come to represent an explosion of power and hurt for whoever's caught in its wake. "Sphoṭa," I Intone, pointing at the Mimic as it flees from my sight, but here in my dream, I call the shots. It darts away, but stays fixed in place, like running on a treadmill stood right before me as I unleash a destructive wave of Mental energies designed to incapacitate sentient targets by hitting them in the hindbrain. For a creature of Spirit and Intellect however, the Mimic is almost all hindbrain, and it screeches in primal fury as the Psionic Blast rends it to pieces.

Pieces that dissipate into nothingness, save for a sliver of a sliver that remains, one that whispers of retribution once more before slipping away. There is nothing left then, nothing but the sweet, blissful nothingness of restful sleep, one that lasts for all of a blink before I open my eyes again.

To soft skin and floral scents, but not the right floral scents. It ain't Josie here with me, but Chrissy, who's got her arms wrapped around me like I'm the little spoon stuck in her embrace. As for me, I thankfully got my arms wrapped around myself, as opposed to her waist or any other part of her, because I shudder to think what my hands might have done in the midst of those fever dreams. No, not a fever dream, or not entirely one, because I didn't imagine that clash with the Mimic. It was real, a cognitive conflict in which I was pitted against my dark desires and came out… alright. Still can't shake my loneliness and the idea that a romp in the sack with a willing and enthusiastic partner might set me straight, but can't really bring myself to even try and go through with it.

Probably because I self-identify as a repressed Catholic, which means I'm happy being miserable like I am. We love suffering, we Catholics do, as it makes us feel closer to God I guess. Or maybe I'm just broken like that. Stupid Mimic. Should've promised me pain and suffering from the get go, and I might well have welcomed it in with open arms.

On that cheery note, I heave and long and tired sigh before sitting upright. At least, I try to, but Chrissy's slim and slender arms got a real tight grip, and I can't break free of it without hurting her. So I don't even try and sink back against her, and smile as she leans her head in to rest against mine. "Hi Chrissy," I whisper, watching the swamp pass us by as someone drags the both of us along for the ride atop an invisible Floating Disc.

"Hi Howie," she replies, resting her chin on my shoulder and tightening her arms around me for fear of me getting free. "Bad dream?"

"Little bit, yeah," I say, reaching up to place my good hand over hers and give it three quick squeezes. "I'm alright now though." I hope. How would I know if I done let a Mimic into my subconscious if it didn't want me to know? What if it made me forget that I let it in, then put together that whole dream sequence just to trick me into thinking I done sent it away? What if it's in my head here and now, whispering dark thoughts to get me to… I dunno. Eat raw flesh and murder babies in their cribs I guess? I should avoid that best I can, but otherwise, who knows what I'm supposed to watch for? There ain't no way to tell if someone got a Mimic riding shotgun in their head, which is the whole reason they got the whole quarantine zone out here in the Deadlands. So their people can observe anyone and everyone who done been through the area for signs of mental instability or whatever it is you look for in a Mimic infested mind.

Course, it's not like every mind touched by a Mimic will immediately start frothing at the mouth. Fact is, there was a famous and horribly inhumane study done by the Nazis and the Thule Society during World War Two. Had them a concentration camp where they exposed the inhabitants to a powerful Mimic, one who experienced a ninety-five percent failure rate when it came to winning people over. Only one in twenty prisoners succumbed to its wiles, which speaks volumes to the strength of human willpower even in the worst possible conditions. Of course, when you scale it up to a large enough crowd, one in twenty is still a whole lot of Ghouls, so after about a month of prepping its new puppets with new Spells and strength, the Mimic went ahead and slaughtered everyone else to raise a massive army of the undead.

Which was summarily put down by the unafflicted guards with armed with plenty of Flamerthrowers that burnt the bodies to a crisp and left nothing for the Mimic to reanimate, so yeah. Even though there are only records of the one incident, lotta folks believe that this was not, in fact, their first rodeo with a Soulless Mimic in a concentration camp. Ghastly stuff that, and it's barely a footnote in the horrible things the Nazis and Thule Society got up to in their time.

Either way, you still don't want to risk exposure to a Mimic, because while five percent might not seem like much, it's still more than you'd like when it comes to half-dead, flesh-eating Aberrations that are still somewhat human in the end. Guess that's why they got so many waystations out here in the Deadlands, so folks can sleep behind a Protection from Abby Ward that'll keep Mimics from dropping in on their dreams unexpected, like one just done to me while I was napping here on this Floating Disk. Ain't no helping it though, because even though I slept most of yesterday and today, aside from a brief period of activity in which I shot six men and packed our things, I'm still dead tired and weak as a day old marty. Said it'd take a day or two to shake it off, and maybe one more to recover back to full health, so hopefully I'll be right as rain by end of day tomorrow. As for today? Well, it's almost over judging by how low in the honey-coloured skies the red sun be getting, so I lean back and enjoy the ride while doing my best not to fall asleep again.

Soon enough, we arrive at our destination for the night, a waystation larger than any we've stopped at before. Fact is, it's more of an outpost, a bonafide fortification complete with soldiers standing guard at their posts atop the tall walls and even taller watchtowers, with heavy weapons bristling from so very many different angles. None that I really recognize, as the Blackstaff Assault Rifle is a little too new for the Brits to source out here in the Deadlands. Even if the Americans were selling them, they'd likely go to buyers closer to the factory producing them in Riverrun, and I ain't all that familiar with other fully-automatic offerings, because won't no one sell them to a civilian like me.

Don't got time to appreciate the military hardware though, as the folks at the gates only do a cursory inspection when they see Edward at the helm, and even then it's only because he'd insist that they stick to protocol. It's the duality of nobility, pretending they are treated no differently from the rest while all but demanding it, but Edward is a soldier first and foremost, so he abides by all the rules that he believes he must.

Rules I also tend to skirt around, and in this case, am tempted to give a wide berth altogether. See, common decorum dictates I report my bout with the Mimic, because even if I did manage to win by T.K.O and send it packing from the ring, there's still the possibility that I was being played. As such, it's best to let my companions know so they can keep an eye on me in case I should turn later on down the line. Which is totally the right thing to do, and I should, but that sort of thing sticks with you. Since there's no way to prove if someone's got a Mimic in their head, there's also no way to disprove it, so if I ever come under suspicion of being influenced by a Mimic, then that'll follow me around for the rest of my days. There ain't no public watchlist of the possessed or nothing, but a military report of persons of interest would pretty much sound the death knell for my already rotting reputation.

Still though, when you get right down to the meat and potates of it, I done been touched by a Mimic. I didn't like it, and I got no desire to sign on for the Enemy team and start running around naked with a ravenous hunger for warm flesh, but I doubt any of those Ghouls I seen really understood what they was signing up for either. As such, I wait until we're inside our own private cabin even before breaking out the Silence Artifact I done had Chrissy carry all this while, just in case I wanted to go loud without going real loud if you know what I mean. Using the Artifact also gives me the added benefit of having this conversation with Edward, Aaron, and Luther without letting the Askefjords know too, because the last thing I need is to alienate my neighbours.

Once it's all set up and ready, I take a deep breath and look the Protectorate Knights in the eye, because here and now, I ain't looking at my old uncles, but folks who've sworn an oath to protect Queen and Country. "Had me a bit of an encounter on our way over," I begin, before detailing most of what happened in the dreamscape that wasn't a dream or nightmare. It's a little embarrassing talking about how I done been tempted with so many girlies, and even the woman who done raised me like her own, but I keep mum about the most embarrassing bits while covering most of what I believe relevant. "So yeah," I conclude with a sigh. "I don't think it got to me, but if it did, I doubt I'd even know. Best y'all keep an eye on me, and if I start looking leery, I'd sooner y'all err on the side of caution if you know what I mean."

The three of them trade looks, with Edward looking proud and haughty as can be, while Aaron and Luther both reach for their wallets and pull out a tenner to hand over to me. "What's this?" I ask, taking the bills to inspect for some kind of marking or whatever. They just look like regular bills to me, with reddish ink depicting a picture of the Queen with her trademark curly crop hair and tasteful pearl earrings on one side, and Charles Dickens in a vignette from the Pickwick Papers on the other.

"I'm afraid I've wagered against you once more," Aaron replies with a shake of his head. "Didn't think you'd come clean without any prompting, as you've been… less than forthcoming about a great deal of things." Luther don't even say anything, just looks all contrite and shamefaced for betting against me, but I don't hold it against them. I have been playing things close to the vest, to the point where I didn't even tell them about my Fireball Spell even after Edward figured out I had one on hand.

"Whereas I," Edward begins, all smug and sure of himself like always, "Know Howard is a man of good conscience and steady principle, one who would sooner fall upon his sword than allow his loved ones to come to harm." Reaching over to carefully pinch my cheek, he smiles and says, "Though you are not of noble blood, you Howard, are a man of noble spirit, one no doubt inherited from your good father Ming. Now there was a man who understood duty and the burdens of greatness. Had I known the Americans would treat him so poorly, I would have insisted he leave New Hope alongside us and given him a place in my household. My Sergeant-at-Arms perhaps, as he would have made for a terrible Seneschal."

I laugh to hear it, and Aaron and Luther laugh too, getting us past this awkward moment of mistrust. Unfortunately, there's no tiptoeing around this topic, so I bring us back on track to see what can be done. "So what now? I got anti-magic manacles in my pack. Nicked 'em from a Sheriff in Silver Summit. I could throw those on and give one of y'all the key, though I dunno how effective it'd be seeing how I learned how to pick the lock. Should I be sleeping in a different room too? I'm guessing a place like this got a jail cell, though chances are the sheets'll be damp with mildew."

Cutting me off with a wave of his hand, Edward says, "Don't be silly Howard. There's no need to go to such lengths after a mere visit from a Mimic. You can hardly go two weeks in the Deadlands without attracting their attentions, and even people in the most dire of circumstances hardly ever give in. It's a significant matter, handing over your entire well-being to an alien and frankly hostile entity, so most resist the urge on sheer instinct. While Parliament and other governments would have us report each and every encounter, we've found it best to keep mum about it all."

"Aye," Luther adds, sounding bitter as can be. "Else you end up with a record so black they don't dare send ye anywhere else."

Which explains why they've been stuck here for so many years now. Silly is what that is, because if you can't trust them to do their duty, why would you trust them to fight off the Soulless here in the Deadlands? Course, there's also the fact that Edward's never really been what you'd call mentally stable, so it would be pretty tough to spot any signs of Mimic influence. Especially if he's still burning down government buildings and flaying Outlaws whenever he finds them, though I'd call that a public service.

"The lesson to be learned here," Aaron says, chiming in with his two pence, "Is to keep your head down, your mouth shut, and your sleeping hours guarded behind sturdy Wards whenever you can." Gesturing all around us he adds, "Especially here in the central regions of the Deadlands. Even the Wards can't guarantee safety, as the Progenitor has done something to these lands, tainted it with its foul magics which empowers its Mimics and puppets alike. Unhallowed Ground, as it were, which among other things makes it rather difficult for Priests and Paladins to Turn Aberrations, as well as blunting the effect of Radiant damage in general."

Sounds like a pretty big deal, and might well even have something to do with the viability of them plants Astrid and her family be looking into. Doesn't look great if that's the case though, because a big work of magic like this Unhallowed Ground would need a pretty heavy-duty Ritual to replicate, something similar to the rites Catholic Priests, Native American Shamans, and other various groups use to Consecrate their churches and burial grounds.

To keep the dead from rising up, or at least that might well have been the case for the latter. Damn, that's rough. Imagine living in a time before Radio and having to figure out how to keep your dead in the ground, and then realizing you gotta do it every ten days like the Catholics. A real nightmare is what that is, and I don't envy them for having gone through it.

"Does seem a touch worrisome though," Luther mutters, still looking sheepish but needing to get this off of his chest. "For a Mimic to go through all the trouble of punching through a Mental Fortress just to tempt the laddie a wee bit. Chrissy's Spell looked right proper solid it did, so that wasn't the problem."

"No doubt the Mimic sees young Howard as a worthwhile investment," Edward replies, which ain't as reassuring as he thinks it is. "Pish-posh," he continues, waving the rest of the discussion aside. "There's no need for any of you to concern yourselves. Not only are you all men of the highest moral fibre, you are also all under my protection. Just know that should any of you should ever succumb to temptation, then I will be there to exact the King's vengeance upon you for breaking your most sacred of oaths. Or rather Queen's vengeance I should say."

He ain't ever been alive in a time with a King, and he still gets it wrong most of the time. Goes to show how deep the indoctrination goes, so he should be well insulated against attempts to subvert him at least. Still, he been here for almost nine years and is still the same Edward I remember, so I ain't about to second guess him. Or Aaron and Luther for that matter, who I rope into a game of Texas Hold 'Em with the goal of losing their money back to them. Unfortunately, they're both much too sharp to let me lose it all that easily, and with Gunnar sitting in as our fourth, we gotta be careful not to lose it all to him either. It's a fun time all around with a fresh spin on an old game, and we have ourselves a lot of laughs before it comes time to hit the hay, leaving me to lie there in the darkness and think about all the things that Mimic tried to tempt me with.

Mostly the magic, but my mind do drift to the ladies every now and then, especially Josie who's nearest and dearest to my heart. Got me a burning desire to head out and slaughter ever Zombie and Ghoul I come across as vengeance for that Mimic daring to take on her form. Unfortunately, when blissful sleep passes and morning comes, I find out Edward has decided to stick around for the day, as him, Aaron, and Luther do need a break after a full week without a proper rest day. One day of rest for every two days of marching, that's the government standard out here, and while we can all handle more than our fair share, there ain't no dire need to push our limits just yet.

Doubly so since this outpost got a bunch of researchers working on their own theories about them plants, researchers who are more than happy to talk shop with the Askefjords. With the Knights off doing their own thing to decompress, that leaves me and Chrissy to wander the outpost with Cowie and the kiccaws keeping us company. Not only am I feeling like I'm back on the mend, Frowny's spirits are brighter ever since I started dancing with him in the mornings. Least he doesn't demand to sit atop my head, which I think he only did with Elodie because she liked putting him there as opposed to her shoulder where he blocked most of her peripheral vision.

I do miss the girlie something fierce, but not for any lecherous reasons. I just liked having her around, especially when she could keep Chrissy company while I buy myself and hour or three to do some training. Since we snug as a bug in a rug with all these soldiers to guard us, I figure there ain't no harm in spending some Aether Conjuring up a flexible axe like the one the Mimic showed me, though it's tricksy to get the sensation right. When Conjuring up a Weapon, it's less about raw numbers and values and more about the feel of it, how the weapon feels in hand and how it responds when you move it. While I got no earthly idea how I would forge a flexible weapon like the axe I'm imagining, I know perfectly well how it feels, or at least I did for a few minutes there while slaughtering Abby in that dreamscape.

A sensation I do my best to replicate, though my first few attempts go awry. Either the axe shaft is too flexible or not flexible enough, but I'm in no rush to figure it out right quick. If it works, then great, that's one more tool in my arsenal to use in a pinch. If not, then I suppose I'll just have to go back to using guns and cry about it a bunch. Or not, because I do love me my guns. Hell, if the Mimic had promised me unlimited access to heavy weaponry, I might well have considered a job offer, or at the very least thought about trying to scam my way into its good graces before making out like a bandit with all the hardware I can carry.

I mean sure, I do be a man of good conscience and steady principle, but end of the day, we all got our price, now don't we?

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