ESTABLISHING CONNECTION
Jasper's cheek pressed against the worn leather strap of her father's holster as he carried her, slung across his shoulders. The jungle around them wept with dancing shadows as the flames near by roared, every breath of wind heavy with the taste of sulfur…& blood.
"I know you're pretty beat up, Jaz—but damn, how'd you let 'em get the jump on you? Thought I taught you better." He tried to laugh, but it broke into a ragged cough, the sound scraping his chest raw.
"As I remember, I told you you weren't cut out for mercenary work. Too gentle a soul for it. But you're just like your old man—you'll only learn by doing." His tone carried a rough pride, even as his boots pressed through broken branches and slick pools of blood. Scattered corpses and severed limbs lay across the path, yet he tried to keep his words light.
"Did you know, back in the homeland, I was a courier? Yeeeaah—one of the fastest in the land. When I was working, most the time I was practicing my gunplay." He patted the holster at his waist, a lopsided grin crossing his face.
"You'd have loved it. I rode through all the Nine, every stretch of it. Before the Snowveil, I got myself into more trouble than I could count—showdowns with outlaws, races against the time. Always some fool trying to rob me, and always me getting through it." His voice warmed.
He turned his head, catching his daughter's gaze over his shoulder, eyes steady despite the strain. "Figured with how good you fight, you'd take after me. Would've spared me the trouble of showing up just to save you from these chumps, hah! But that's alright. Every scrape makes you stronger. Makes you independent. That's what I want for you."
He readjusted her on his shoulder, his voice softening. "The world out here—it isn't kind to our people. They're not even kind to themselves. Look at how they treat the Ohmway. It could feed villages, light the dark, heal the sick. But no—they chain it to metal and make their weapons...these Mechanicas. I've been preparing you to brave this world because I love you & I want you to survive in this world of killers & gunmen."
He scoffed, then staggered, clutching his gut. Blood leaked hot between his fingers as his hand drifted down to rest on the holster at his side. "Can't say I'm much different… but who better to teach you how to beat a gunman than a gunman… and to kill a killer than a killer."
"Jasper, this land's already changed me, the other families barely regard me as one of them and that's alright. I'm no longer the same person I came here as, I'm actually somebody alive now instead of a pawn."
He swallowed hard, the weight of his next words pressing his spirit into the dirt. "I've already told your mother, but now i'm telling you… I'll be leaving soon, Jasper."
"The Godhand won't stop hunting me. And I can't keep putting you all at risk. Sweetheart… your older brother, he's too hot-blooded. Got too much of me in him. But you—" His voice cracked with pride. "You've got the best of me. The best of your mom. Soon enough, you'll be the head of this family."
His hand tightened weakly on her side. "You'll have to provide when I'm gone. Honest work, Jasper. Don't go rustling bison and robbing trains. That's not how we do things in this family. We do honest work."
She had known this moment would come, but the knowing did nothing to stop the tears burning her eyes as they spilled free.
His breath hitched. "Look up, little one."
With swollen eyes, she obeyed, lifting her gaze skyward. The stars stared back—cold, endless, unblinking. In their glow, her crimson eyes glimmered.
His voice grew low, reverent. "I was never one for past traditions. But our ancestors… they'd say the Ohmway lives in those lights. Flowing between them. Surrounding us. The Ohmway is everything: the river, the sky, the stone and it is the thing that connects me to you, So I will always be there."
He dug a trembling hand into his holster and drew the revolver free. The metal caught the thin starlight. "And if you need reminding you'll have this with you, if you look at it you'll always know the right thing to do."
His breath came ragged. He paused, grief and fatigue carving deep hollows in his face. "I'm sorry I had to bring you here. But you and your siblings weren't meant to be caged in the north. And the north… it can't prepare you for what's coming."
Sweat and grief tracked down his cheek as he forced a thin smile. "Don't let them chain your spirit. Don't be a slave to a fate you didn't choose. Live, Jasper. Live proudly. And if you must, die proudly."
As he looked up into the cold dark he said "I just wish I could sing this song with you again." He hummed a low, old song of their people, the words curling like smoke in the night. His voice carried steady, even as he walked on into the dark with his prized daughter slung across his shoulders—each step leaving a bead of red on the road behind him.
When her gaze drifted down, she saw the trail he carved—blood scattered like beads from a broken necklace, each drop marking the weight of his sacrifice. The crimson path stretched forward, winding ever upward, until it met the mountain ahead… where a vast, burning hole gaped in its side, so wide the night itself seemed to pour through it.
CONNECTION ESTABLISHED
Jasper's eyes snapped open, breath hitching as the world steadied around her. The booth was tight and hot, wood-paneled walls closing her in. Brightfall light bled through the slats of the shuttered window, sharp and searing even in here.
She slumped against the side wall, fingers brushing rough seastone mortar where it met the timber frame. The surface scraped her skin, brittle, grounding. It was always like this every call—one of the reasons she hated the damned memory-locks.
Her GlyphGlass pulsed on the counter before her, projection light burning to life and washing across her face in the booth's cramped glow.
A middle-aged woman with a badge reading Newgate courier representative flickered into view, framed by floating dossiers and stacks of delivery logs.
"Ah, well if it isn't our busy little work horse, Jasper." the rep said with a practiced smile. Then her eyes narrowed, catching the courier's dazed sway and the hand unconsciously resting on her revolver.
"Still not used to it, are you? The memory-locks always hit heavy. But they're the most secure. What better proof of identity," her voice softened, "than reliving your own trauma?"
Her tone softened. "Go on. Breathe. Then we can figure out how to get you out of this mess you're in."