Chapter 4: THE GUNSLINGER [PART THREE]

The Bartender narrows his eyes, an attempt at hiding information detected. “Who needs to know?”

“She took my canteen while I wasn’t looking.” The young man admits. “Kinda my fault, I was preoccupied at the moment.”

“Clee!” The old man yells towards the far staircase. “Come down here for a sec!”

The light rush of footsteps from the second floor is barely audible, the Bartender continuing. “You were preoccupied?”

“Ah… well… I wa… ”

The lie of omission is stopped as a familiar form stops at the bottom of the staircase, the timid creature immediately sprinting back up at the sight of the Gunslinger at the bar.

“Hey!” The Barman yells. “Clee come here this instant!!!”

“Her name’s Clee?” Alto asks as his attention is perked. “She your daughter?”

“No, her parents got killed three weeks ago by the Gang. Took her in since they’re old friends.” With a low growl the Old Man struts towards the stairs. “CLEE!!! GET DOWN HERE!”

Alto watches as a scuffle begins, a heavy arm managing to snag a trailing overall strap as the light frame is dragged back down the steps. The sounds of struggle are muffled through broken vocal cords, Alto immediately taking a knee onto the floor as a familiar condition returns to him. “Can she talk?”

“No, she’s mute.”

Two hands raised, Alto begins to speak in silence. Fingers dancing, animated hands in exaggerated movement. 

Hello C-L-E-E.

Eyes in recognition of acted language, the girl immediately ceases her struggle against her Guardian.

“You can sign?!” The Bartender asks with barely hidden surprise.

“I’m out of practice.” Alto admits. “And my accent’s pretty far from here but I think I can piece something together.”

Do you know my name?

The girl nods with fervor, hands moving to reply in broken words. You’re the A-L-T-O. The… hero guy. Person who kills bad people… in paper.

Alto pauses with a bit of shock. I’m in the papers?

The girl signs two words, meaninglessness strung together to hold power. Gun Hero

Slinking back behind the Bartender, her dark eyes gaze with fear at the Gunslinger. Are you going to kill me too?

Alto blinks in surprise, an expression he quickly converts to a calm smile. No, I do not hurt good people.

Even if I stole water container from you?

Alto chuckles as he shakes his head. Stealing is bad. But good people can steal as well. You are a good girl, I can tell.

Her expression brightens, her grip tightening in excitement as she attempts to stop herself from leaping with joy. Alto continues. But stealing is a bad thing. It makes good people hurt, and good people not deserve to be hurt. It is better to add to the world than to take from it.

Her reply comes with a hint of embarrassment. I am sorry.

 I forgive you. Alto nods. “She’s fine.”

The Bartender lets her go, and she quickly runs back up the stairs in excitement. 

“Wasn’t her huh?”

“Oh no, that canteen’s probably better in her hands than mine.”

“So she did steal it!” The Bartender blinks as a flash of disappointment enters his expression. ”She stole…”

“I gave it to her.” Alto corrects as he stops the man. “She’s… been through a lot. A child of the resulitance… the least I could do is give her some water security.”

“Thank you.” The Old Man attempts to contain a smile, turning back to his sole customer.
“By the way I never caught your name… I’m Joe, but people call me Old Joe cause I’ve been livin’ here forever.”

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“I assumed that was the case.” The Wanderer jokes. “My name is Alto.”

“Alto…” Old Joe pauses. “Like… that guy in the papers.”

“Papers?”

Laughter comes to a stop, the Bartender just stares at the young man in confused shock as his mind begins to process the name. “Alto… Carrin?”

“Yes.” Alto snaps at the correct guess, then pauses. “Wait how’d you know my name?”

The jaw drops with disbelief, silence as the human mind refuses to make the connection between photograph and flesh. “No… no no no.”

Keeping his eyes on the young man Old Joe reaches behind the bar, searching for unfound news briefs. “I must’ve misplaced it, hold on.”

“What’s wrong?”

“You’re Alto Carrin.” Joe shakes his head in disbelief as he slams his hands onto the table. “The Vigil? The guy they say has a piece of the god gun? Please if you’re going to lie to me of all people, at least try and be creative.”

Alto glances around the bar with a perplexed look. “I don’t understand…”

Old Joe stops the young man with a heavy raised hand. “Listen son, if you think you can walk into my bar and get free handouts by impersonating some hero fella you’re damn wrong. Pretty sure if others in this town find out you’re a conman they’ll string you up.”

Confused, the Wanderer blinks. “Ok… why do you not think I’m Alto? I swear to the Five I’m…”

“First: the Alto Carrin would never let himself be robbed.” Old Joe informs proudly. “From the stories I’ve heard he’s slaughtered Bandits from Augustine all the way up to the Koloso Ridge. Even brought down the Auditor of District Fourteen with a single bullet. He’s a legend from the northlands, not some random Wanderer getting themselves beat up I mean look at you.”

Glancing down, the Wanderer notes his dirty, unkempt clothing. Poncho torn in several places, a speck of dried blood stains one of the ends. An uncanny reminder of his week marooned in the desert.

“Really?” The young man continues, recalling a handful of memories. “He’s been robbed plenty of times before.”

Old Joe scoffs. “You know you really should try and do some research before you try and impersonate someone.” Strolling down to the end of the bar, the man scoops out a single serving from a simmering pot. “I’m not in the business of helping out conmen or cosplayers, but I could give you some advice.”

A single thinly loaded stainless steel plate is placed onto the bar. Bread, a bit of boiled meat, and a slim cutting of a supplementary dietary block was barely enough to be called a meal.

Comparatively though, against the tooth grinding texture of tower synthesized rations the simple serving might as well have been served to presidents and emperors.

“How much for this?” The Wanderer asks.

Joe waves his hand. “It’s free of charge given that you’re poorer than dust at the moment. Plus, it’s my duty as a humble inn owner to feed the needy, which just happens to be you.”

The young man shakes his head. “It’s generous, but I can pay.”

“With what?”

A single 12.7mm armor piercing round is provided, the Gunslinger balancing the munition onto the slightly misleveled bar. Etched brass barely catching the thin sunlight streaming through the far window, carved into the cartridge a beautifully patterned pentagon with a single dot at the center of it all. Confirmed authentic by the Armin Collective: the sigil of a long dead heresy placed upon a lawless world; now a universal currency of any nation.

Old Joe narrows his eyes. “Where did you…”

“You said there was a Gang in the town?” The Wanderer asks.

“Yeah… they took over a few weeks ago. Killed the Sheriff and his men in a gunfight. Their Leader’s a gods damned mage from the Collective, strung up the Mayor in the town square by herself. They say she literally tore him apart with that magic.” Old Joe carefully takes the bullet, inspecting it with weary eyes. “Though, most’ve ‘em left to search for the so-called “treasure” in the plateau out west. Kept eight of her enforcers here though to keep us under.”

The old man looks up as he taps the bullet on the bar. “How’d you get this thing past them?”

The Wanderer pauses as he stares at his meal, spoon in hand and contemplation in his head. “I just killed two of them… Like, ten minutes ago; shot’em dead.”

The bullet clatters onto the polymer bar. “What?!”

Heaving the pair of looted handguns onto the table, the Gunslinger silently begins to scoop up a small mouthful of synthesized nutrition.

Behind him, the bar door swings open.

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