Chapter 3: Chapter 2: Reduce Reuse Recycle

Day 2 - Morning

“Gigi!”

*BOOM*

The smell of hot metal washes over me. Joining the strong odor of burnt wood.

You know, if my hand cannon punches big holes through tough as nails and old leather orcs? Not nearly as sturdy goblins don’t stand a snowball's chance in hell. Case in point, the little green turd, who tried to ambush me, suddenly missing a sizable chunk of its scrawny chest. And his no longer attached right arm spinning away across the room.

Gob’s own flight, courtesy of fifty caliber airways, ends with a meaty smack against a burned black partially still standing tavern wall. Then flopping bonelessly to the floor. Bleeding demised.

“Kaka gigi!” “Bobo!”

*pak* *fwip* *chak*

And like the last dozen times these shits ambushed me. A hail of stones, javelins and arrows come sailing over more distant piles of torched rubble as the gobbos beat a hasty retreat. Again.

Sigh.

*KABOOM*

More gobs, and parts thereof, fly the friendly skies after the grenade I tossed goes off. Really it's just a rock with a fireball circle carved and charged. But it works great to keep the cockroaches of the fantasy world running.

Wish I had thought of this yesterday. Would never have needed the revolver in the first place. Oh well, spilt milk and all.

Took my time walking into town once the sun came up. Filling my new ring with weapons, armor and bodies along the way. That my micro minions then broke down into their base molecules and compounds. Yes, it's gross, but necessary.

Bit of trivia. Nanomachines are measured in nanometers. Billionths of a meter. And what else is around the nanometer range?

Molecules.

Oh, and by the by? A single grain of sand can have quintillions of molecules in it.

So, yeah, really tiny shit.

This means my mini me’s are good at handling molecules. Very good. Taking them apart from other molecules. Putting them together with other molecules. But not as good at handling individual atoms.

So I’ve got lots of water, proteins, fats, carbohydrates, on top of iron, carbon, etc, etc…

Have enough now that I could start making stuff like guncotton. Have “regular” propellant cartridges. But, do I really want to? It's a pretty involved process and "magefire," patent pending, cartridges are a lot simpler. Plus these work well enough. Perhaps better than the cased ammo from home or caseless stuff from cyberland.

Maybe if I set up an actual workshop. Hmm… Let's just put a pin in it for later.

Nanos finished patching me up before sunrise and started the upgrades. Meaning I'm slowly getting stronger, tougher and faster. Senses are improving too. Nothing like my [Super Senses] cheat letting me see through walls. But a big jump for Jesper. This body’s former owner.

Having dealt with yet another unasked for intrusion. I return to the miraculously surviving table in the center of this collapsed and exposed to the sky establishment. Sitting on a still usable chair, the source of my attention lies on top of the blackened surface.

It’s about five feet long. Made of both metal and wood. A metal tube stretches almost four feet of the five. Behind the tube is a cock and pan over a trigger that looks a lot like a flintlock. Past that, the wood widens into what’s plainly a stock.

Yeah the thing is pretty banged up, torched, and I certainly wouldn’t try using it. But the evidence is clear.

"Son of a bitch."

This is a musket.

That revelation causes me to reevaluate several assumptions I had made. And reexamine Jesper’s remaining memories. Which raises several points.

Number one, Mr Butcherson was, shockingly, a butcher's son. He wasn't named Adventurerson or Soldierson. So did not travel in weaponry obsessed social circles.

Number two, Jesper was poor. Desperately trying to scrounge the money to solve his class bottleneck. So the possibility of even being offered a gun was very unlikely.

Number three, he was shortsighted. Hey now, I'm talking about his eyesight. Not terribly so but his memories get fuzzy beyond a few feet. Possibly never seeing a firearm clearly enough to even wonder what it is.

Jesper’s vision was one of the first things my micro minions fixed.

The explosions he always assumed were spells. Were they actually muskets? Long smoothbores, which this is, were only accurate to a couple hundred paces. And could only shoot about once a minute. So stabby stuff was still quite viable. And here is the ass end of civilization. So “modern” hardware could be in limited supply.

This would answer a niggling question I have been ignoring. Why were so many weapons left behind? Aren't swords expensive? Had been dead for most of a day, probably two, already. What if the real prize, any muskets, had been taken first? Maybe that orc cleanup crew was to pick through whatever was left?

I did get that first poor grade storage ring off the champion after all.

Combine this with the other hardware I've been finding. Like a busted pocket watch. And I might be off on my century rating. Instead of the 14th or 15th century. This region may be closer to the 17th or even 18th. Earthwise.

If guns are already a thing then that could make life easier for me. Will need a ton of super rare materials to create the ritual again. If I can make oodles of cash selling guns? Might jumpstart the process, by a lot.

Will have to relocate to a much richer area first though.

No, I'm not going to start pooping twelve pounder cannon. It's not chili night. But my nanos will help make the machines that can crap firepower.

Quite the chore to keep making bullets. So a bullet press is a priority.

Plus I've got them steadily working on another 50cal revolver. On top of buffing me and disassembling my finds? Those countless tiny craftbots may soon threaten to unionize.

And like wally world, I would rather close the store than let that happen. Imagine trying to coordinate maternity leaves for billions and trillions of itty bitties.

*shudder*

If the musket wasn't a big enough clue. Then the clothes should have been. Long coats, short coats, shirts and trousers? Some embroidered. Some plain. Buttons instead of string? Boots and shoes?

Sure as shit should have caught on. Cyberpunk world must have thrown me off.

"Huh."

*scrabble*

"Gigi!"

*BOOM*

"Kaka bobo!"

*KABOOM*

Sigh.

"Reduce, reuse, recycle."

Reduce them to a pulp. Reuse their stuff. Recycle it into ammo that turns more of them into pulp.

I wait for a while as the nanos chew up the musket. Looking at the fixed and now wound pocket watch. They use a twelve hour scale for time here too. Isn't that weird? Three worlds now with the same number of hours. Ipra was eight.

Is it some sort of divine law? Sixty seconds too. Though they seem a bit slower.

Three only had one moon too. But Ipra had two. Hmm… Maybe I'm just assuming patterns that aren't really there.

The ruins of this town are overrun with goblins. Monster nature's cockroaches. Anything edible, including corpses, is long gone. Already filling some gob's gullet. They've stripped anything that looked remotely valuable too.

But there's still some stuff they missed. Buried under burnt rubble or hidden in secret caches.

"Sweep the City" dinged complete a while ago. So I've been busily collecting another small room's worth in my new ring.

Carefully step out of the saloon's wreckage. Gobbos love to set traps. And I really don't want to ruin my new duds.

Feel kind of Clint Eastwoody with this floppy wide brimmed leather hat, thick dark wool long coat, matching short coat, gray button long-sleeve shirt and dark trousers. Got a leather belt lined with cartridge loops plus holster too. Then rugged leather boots and gloves. Mustn't forget the pocket watch either.

Or maybe it's Indiana Jonesy? 

Don't have a whip though. No spurs either. Huh, think I really need spurs. Oh, and a harmonica!

Though with this outfit I look more like Lee Van Cleef from that flick.

Just say “no,” to ponchos.

I sense multitudes of itty bitties suddenly rolling their eyes.

Found this fashion statement in the wreckage of an upper class home. Place even had a garden. Some tailoring by the mini's and shazam! I'm bringing sexy back.

Have a leather scabbard for my new sword too. A rapier the nano me’s altered to look like Sanctity. Silver and blue steel with a swept basket hilt. Even put a lightning magic circle in it. The zap is back too, bitches.

Height wise? Settled on just shy of six feet. Giving me an inch or two on most of the male corpses I've seen. Muscle wise? Jacked again. More than ripped. Less than swole.

Face wise I've decided on Burt Reynolds. Short dark brown hair, stache, and eyes. Can't quite get the smile right yet but it'll get there. Let this face be a reminder.

"The best way not to fail again is to be absolutely positive that when you do it this time, you're going to do it right."

Yep, this time I'm getting home. No matter what.

Start walking west towards the docks. This is main street, so it’s wider and harder to ambush me. Yes, this town has a port. A lot of logs and furs go through here. Was about its entire economy. Also happens to be as far upstream as most river boats can go. Might be something still afloat, or fixable.

Horses are all dead or fled and I really don’t feel like walking for days. Especially not with goblins on my tail. So a ship is my best choice.

Sigh.

These hundreds of burnt down homes once sheltered thousands. Now their blackened remains look more like oversized stick grave markers. It's become a cemetery city.

I try not to think of how many women and kids died here while being a gob's plaything. Yes, the orcs took the town. But their weaker shittier kin would have charged in right after them. Grabbing whatever they could get away from the orcs with.

"Gigi?"

One pokes its head out on the right. Green skin, beady eyes, pointy ears, sharp teeth and long schnoz.

Hesitate to blast it's face off. The noise will attract more. Besides, sun is starting to drop and I better be gone by dark. Been here over half the day and scrounged plenty the orcs and goblins missed.

Including a fair bit of coin, gold and silver. Enough to get a small shop somewhere, maybe.

"Gigi?"

Another too big head for its little body pops out around another ruin. No, two, uh, three.

You are reading story By Iron and Mana at novel35.com

Shit.

*woosh*

Boldly sweep my long coat back on both sides. Tucking the right behind the holster. Left behind the scabbard. 

"Kaka!"

The now dozen green meanies on both sides of the street, disappear. Last thing I should show is fear. So resume a confident stride towards the river.

Hear them moving about. Stealthily, but easy for these suped up ears to detect.

Be cool, stay calm. Never let them see you sweat.

*tach* *tach* *tach*

But this would sound so much cooler with spurs.

Every block, there are more following. Still can't see them, but I can hear them.

Another block.

More.

Another block.

And more.

Another block.

Fuck, okay, I'm sweating. Happy now?

Rest my right on the revolver's grip while palming three “firenades,” also patent pending, in my left from the storage rings. And keep on rollin'.

"Thank god," I whisper as I come around a curve and finally see the docks up ahead.

There's a couple of sunken fishing boats moored to what's left of the docks. And the ferry! … On the other side of the river.

Goddammit.

My now better than perfect vision sees people, humans, on it and the far shore. Hundreds armed and ready for anything. Lots of women and kids too. Maybe it's my imagination but I think I even see Sally among them.

Feel a strangely strong sense of relief. Must be from whatever's left of Jesper.

"Good, glad she made it."

"Gigi?"

Would love to join her but there's at least a dozen gobs in my way.

I've stopped in the center of the oversized town square next to the river. Roads leave it going north, south and east.

"Gigi?" "Bobo?" "Hehe!" "Gigi?"

Each street has dozens of goblins blocking it. A mess of spears, knives and arrows are pointed my way.

Do a slow three-sixty. Giving each group a steady glare. No need to panic. If these shits are anything like Ipran gobs? Then they gotta outnumber you a hundred to one before their balls show up. Let's see…

"One, two, five, three, thirty, fifty, eighty… huh."

Yeah, these greenies must be feeling as brave as Scottish Mel Gibson right now.

Okay, gotta plan this out. I'm a dozen paces from each group. Use firenades for the streets. Bullets for the dock. Dive in and pray I don't get turned into a pin cushion. And that there's nothing big enough, in the water, to eat me.

"Kaka? Haha. You kaka pinky?"

Shit. Shit. Shit!

Pivot to see a bigger greenskin comes out of the ruins of town hall to the east. Much bigger than the scrawny malnourished looking middle school hooligans. Ipran goblins range in size from three to five feet. And these look the same.

Boss over yonder though is at least six. And while the features are similar to the little shits? He has more even proportions, body wise. Which can only mean…

"A fucking hob."

That is, without a doubt, a hobgoblin. You see, everybody hates goblins. Even goblins hate goblins. In fact, some goblins hated goblins so much. That they decided to breed the goblin, out of goblins.

One selective breeding program, that would make even Adolf Hitler proud, later. And the hobgoblin was born.

They are tougher, smarter and all kinds of meaner. Plus, this one's carrying a musket. And unless my eyes are going batshit crazy? That's a revolver tucked into his belt.

Looks like I need to change the century rating again, thanks to his arrogant ass.

But right now he's not looking cocky. He's looking suspicious. Squinting. Like he doesn't understand me.

Maybe they're not called "hobs'' in this world?

"Hmph!"

Boss harrumps and starts raising his musket. I tense up, prepared to leap. Might be able to dodge. And I've got a dozen firenades ready to go. From this range the musket is accurate, but slow. My nano boosted reflexes should be able to handle it.

I'll turn this plaza into an inferno and unload all six shots into him.

Wait for it…

Wait for it…

*foom* *whrrrrr*

Eh? Artillery?

*SPABOOM*

A bunch of gobs, next to the hob, disappear. Where they stood is suddenly a crater. While they, and the dirt, fountain up into the air. In much smaller pieces than they started.

"Gigi! Gigi!"

*BOOM* *BOOM* *KABOOM* *KABOOM*

Hobbie caught enough of the blast to rip off part of his left arm. But the tough fucker is still moving. Pointing his remaining hand my way and yelling orders.

Not to look a gift horse in the mouth. I send bullets his way. And firenades towards the groups of gobbos.

The slippery bastard dives behind some goblins. Turning them into his bullet sponges.

*SPABOOM* *SPABOOM*

More shells come in. Bracketing the square. Accurately pulverizing every group of gobs. Whoever's aiming those guns is good.

*krakow* *krakow* 

Distant musket fire sounds from the west. That's way to distant for smoothbores to hit-

"Ka-"

The chest of a goblin behind me explodes. Then the head of another to my right. Then another.

"Kaka!" "Kaka!"

Pure pandemonium across the plaza. Gobs run every which way. Dropping their weapons and fleeing as fast as their little legs can carry them.

*SPABOOM*

Artillery is landing further from the square now. Chasing the fleeing packs. More too accurate shots take out green shits here and there. But for shots like that? Rifles. You need rifling and minnie balls.

So… 19th century?

*chuff* *chuff* *chuff*

The shooting stops. Silence mostly returns. Craters surround the square. Dozens of little green bodies are littered about. Gore and dirt sprinkled all over the plaza.

*ptuh*

Including all over me.

Take my hat off and try to whack it clean against my knee.

"Ahoy there!"

A loud masculine voice shouts from the west behind me. So I turn around to thank the gunboat that just saved my ass.

?

But there's nothing on the river.

"Ahoy there!"

*chuff* *chuff* *chuff*

Raise my head and use a hand to partially block the sun. Revealing a boat shaped hull dozens of feet above me. Held aloft by a large cigar shaped lift bag. There's propellers. And the unmistakable sound of a steam engine.

"Could you, good sir, perhaps need a lift?!"

The outline of a man on the deck shouts at me again. While all I can manage is to mumble.

"Fuck me. This isn't medieval. It's steampunk. Great…"

You can find story with these keywords: By Iron and Mana, Read By Iron and Mana, By Iron and Mana novel, By Iron and Mana book, By Iron and Mana story, By Iron and Mana full, By Iron and Mana Latest Chapter