Chương 23: A Good Man with a Broken Heart - LoVibe (1:59)

THREAD: First Adventure USER: Z3ke Hey everyone, Here's a quick update before I head too far out into the Deadlands. That's right, I took Null's advice and picked up a Tech Slate. Best purchase I've ever made… as long as you all do your part. The slate isn't all that fancy. It kinda looks like a more durable iPad. It lets me access the forum and lets me write a bunch of notes and I was able to download all the maps that you guys sent me of The MIZ.

The best part is that I'm no longer forced to hang around the library if I want to ask a question of the forum. I'm mobile now. Actually getting the slate turned into a whole big thing so I figured that would be my first update to you guys while I'm waiting for the rest of the expedition group to finish eating their lunch.

Someone on the forum - sorry about not scrolling back and checking out who it was - gave me that list of pawn shops out in the Guts that might have a tech slate, so I spent most of yesterday after logging off trekking through the district. Two of the shops that you all told me about were closed and/or out of business, but the third was open and surprisingly well stocked. The Tock & Spanner was run by the young, mousy looking woman.

She had short-cut hair, welding goggles pushed up her head like a headband, and grease patches covering her arms and face. If pressed, I'd put her at around twenty years old. It was kinda hard to tell because, much like everyone else in The MIZ, she looked tired and worn out. When I entered the shop a little bell above the door chimed out but she didn't look my way, too focused on her work to care that she had a customer. She was behind the counter, elbows deep in the guts of some metal contraption.

So while she worked, I browsed the store. It was cluttered to shit. It was packed to the gills with salvage and half-repaired gadgets and towering piles of scrap. Tools hung from the walls and random doodads littered almost every square inch of the store. Along the back wall were a bunch of weapons hanging on shelves. They ranged from machetes to old rifles to odd looking gadgets that were simultaneously futuristic and ancient.

The weapons all looked polished and well-taken care of, which is something slightly at odds with much of what I've seen in The MIZ. I remember that gun range a couple days back where all the guns had been rusty as shit. Seeing shiny weapons, most of them having been modded out with parts that definitely didn't come from the original manufacturer, made me feel pretty good about this shop.

I cleared my throat and did that little awkward half-wave that people do when they're trying to draw attention to themselves but not trying to be a dick about it.

"Uh…hey, sorry. You, uh…have any tech slates for sale?" The woman blinked up at me, startled because I guess she hadn't heard me come into the store. Then she absolutely lit up like I'd just asked her if she wanted free candy. She pushed aside the device she'd been working on, muttered something about "fix it later," and then pulled a box out from behind the counter. She dropped it on the counter with a clunk.

"Oh yea! Got a whole batch that I've refurbished. Take your pick." She tipped the box onto the counter and a small avalanche of tablets spilled out. Some looked okay but most didn't. One was spiderwebbed with cracks and another powered on but shouted an unholy screech at me before dying. The girl winced at that one. I grabbed one of the tablets and as soon as my thumb brushed against the screen it flickered and glitched. It was the same glitch that hit the library computers back in Harbor Glen.

The display hiccuped and colors stuttered and finally a tiny icon popped up in the upper right hand corner of the screen. The girl leaned over to better see the slate and frowned down at it.

"Oh, that one's busted too? I can fix it up for you if you give me an hour." I shook my head and told her it was all good. She gave me a look like she was wondering why I wanted to buy a glitchy piece of tech, but just shrugged it away. We were about to get into the serious business of haggling when the bell over the door chimed again. She looked over my shoulder to see who had come in and her face froze. All the warmth that had been there previously fled.

Her posture tightened and her smile was wiped away and her eyes went distant and flat. I turned, wondering what had caused the sudden change in the woman, only to notice two guys standing near the front door. The first guy was a smarmy looking asshole decked out in a shiny silk shirt and dark purple vest that was stamped with a gold insignia over the breast pocket. It was a crooked figure-eight and I didn't know what it represented.

Everything about the guy screamed "rich prick" and it instantly put me on the back foot. Behind him was a huge slab of a man with massive shoulders, neck thicker than my thighs, a shaved head, and dead eyes. Smarmy asshole flashed the girl a smile that was missing a couple teeth. It put me on edge and I instantly thought fake-friendly.

"Well now," he purred.

"There she is. My favorite little gearhead. Thought I'd stop by and give you a chance to reconsider my offer."

"Answer hasn't changed," she said flatly.

"Oh come on," he sighed, drifting around the shop. He grabbed a gadget off the shelf and looked down at it, whistling appreciatively at the craftsmanship before setting it back down.

"You're wasted in this little cess pit. I'm offering you the world here, sweetheart. Top-tier equipment, pre-Fracture tech, protection, and all the funds you could ever want. I'm offering you an actual future and all you gotta do is stop being so stubborn." I was still at the counter, trying to figure out how to extricate myself from this awkward situation. It wasn't my business and I had no idea what I was supposed to do. Smarmy asshole finally seemed to notice me there and his expression soured.

"Shop's closed. Scram." Now, here's the thing. If this had happened a month ago I might have done the socially acceptable thing that everyone would have done. I'd have given a half shrug, muttered something noncommittal, paid for my tech slate, thanked the woman, and left. It wouldn't have been a total capitulation on my part, more like conflict avoidance. I would have been existing in the least-confrontational way possible. But that was month-ago me. That was me before showing up in this world.

That was me before Asshole tried his macho posturing in an effort to intimidate me off the train. That was me before the Deadlands ripped me to shred and I killed two bandits. Something in me refused to bend this time. I wasn't like Asshole. I didn't puff up my chest and peacock around like I was looking for a fight. Instead, I calmly and firmly said: "No, I'm buying something." That changed something in the room.

The massive guy behind the smarmy asshole shifted as if he was waiting for permission to put me through the wall. Smarmy asshole's smile went dark. The girl behind the counter sucked in a quiet breath. And then, completely uninvited, a memory surfaced. About a year ago I had gotten into this long and strangely philosophical talk with a regular. He was a former prison guard. Big dude with bored eyes who always drank the house whiskey.

Anyway, he had this theory about violence that he shared with anyone and everyone who'd listen. He claimed that he'd been working on it ever since his very first day on the job. According to him, violence is a ladder. Not like the whole "chaos is a ladder" monologue in Game of Thrones which basically boils down to "people get killed and I get a better life." No. That wasn't his theory. Instead, the guy claimed that everyone lives on different rungs of the violence ladder.

Most people in a polite society never step foot on the ladder. They live on the ground floor and have no interest in climbing any rungs. They apologize when someone bumps into them because the idea of committing violence is antithetical to their very being. They bend and fold and compromise and retreat. They just want to live their lives peacefully and never get involved in anything violent. All they want is to go about their day as unobtrusively as possible. One rung up?

That's where the passive-aggressive people hang out. He claimed that passive aggression is merely violence that has been dressed up to fit into everyday life. These people are the kind who weaponize guilt and constantly toss out subtle digs. To the ground-floor people, these guys are assholes and are violent and terrifying and socially unacceptable. Climb another run on the ladder and you meet the screamers and the yellers and the shouters. These are the threat-without-action types.

Their flavor of violence is intimidation. They'll puff themselves up and get in your face and scream at you. When picturing these people, imaging every dude who has ever worn a Tapout shirt. These guys don't actually plan on attacking anyone, but they want to make you think they will. To the passive-aggressive folk, these guys are straight-up monsters being needlessly violent and socially unacceptable. Another rung up and you get to the shovers and grabbers.

These assholes are the ones who make physical contact when they want something. And to the screamers, these people are the real beasts who are socially unacceptable. It keeps going, rung after rung. You get the people willing to fight but will step back as soon as someone breaks up the fight. Then you get the people who want to actually hurt their opponent. Then you get the kind who brings a weapon to the fight.

The higher up you go on the ladder, the more willingness you have to do harm to others until you get to the top where murder is as casual as swatting a fly. The former prison guard said that, whatever run of the ladder you occupy, you see the lower rungs as weak pushovers and the higher rungs as monsters who can't control their violent tendencies. And the most dangerous thing of all is that people always assume that everyone else is standing on the same rung they are. But they aren't.

And misunderstandings like that get people hurt. Standing there in the shop, holding the tech slate in my hands, feeling the weight of the smarmy guy's stare, that entire memory slammed into me. I realized that I wasn't on the ground floor of violence anymore. Not after everything that I'd just survived. I'd climbed up the rungs. Maybe not by choice, but I'd climbed.

Now, while I had more violence in me and had somehow grown a spine, I did realize that the two guys I was trapped in the shop with were definitely on a higher rung than me. A much higher rung. That is when my weirdest and most consistent superpower kicked in: pure stupid luck. The bell over the front door chimed and all four of us turned to see who had accidentally stumbled into an incredibly tense situation. Three men stepped inside the store. They were locals by the look of them.

Each had scuffed boots and threadbare clothes and postures suggesting that they'd seen plenty of violence in their lives. None of the three looked particularly impressive, especially when compared to the massive guy with the smarmy asshole. But there were three of them, and the way they moved said that they knew how to work as a team. Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.

Their leader - or at least, who I assumed to be their leader - squinted at smarmy asshole and his guard. Then he looked past them to the girl behind the counter.

"Hey Riley," he called out.

"Everything all good here?" The smarmy asshole froze and I saw his eyes flicked between the three new arrivals, then to his guard, and finally to the girl behind the counter. He was obviously doing some mental math about the situation. Four against two. No good exit without catching a fist. No easy intimidation win."

"All good here," said the girl.

"The alderman was just leaving." The smarmy asshole smoothed his vest down and offered the girl a thin, stiff grin.

"Seems like you're busy," he said, his voice coming out cold.

"We'll revisit this conversation when you've got more time." He gave me a sharp look before turning around and jerking his chin at his guard. The two of them left the shop without another word. As soon as they were gone I heard the girl let out a little breath. The three guys relaxed a little and the one in front gave me a look. It wasn't filled with hostility or anything. It was more… curiosity. Kind of a " you don't really belong here," look.

The three guys left the shop shortly after and it was just the girl and me. She brushed a hand through her hair and gave me a sheepish smile.

"Sorry about that." I shrugged and set the tech slate down on the counter.

"You don't need to apologize. That guy…what was his deal?" She shot me a puzzled look.

"The alderman? You've never seen him before?" I shook my head and she pursed her lips.

"He runs one of the local syndicates around here. They're not too big, especially compared to most of the groups we've got in the city. But he's been on a recruiting run lately. Been trying to poach me for the past few months. He wants me fixing up some tech for his people. I hear that he's got something big planned and that's why he's hiring anyone who can hold a weapon, but I don't really know about all that. I just don't wanna work for the asshole."

"Is he gonna cause issues for you?"

"Already has," she shrugged.

"But I've got enough friends that he can't push too hard. You, though…I'd suggest that you not wander into his territory for a long while. He's got a memory for people who stand between him and what he wants."

"Noted," I said. She offered me a wry little smile and then tapped the tech slate.

"You sure this is the one you want? I'm sure I got something around here that's a little bit better."

"It's perfect." She didn't argue with that. She just rang me up and gave me a little discount that I didn't ask for before she handed me the slate.

"Stay safe out there…" she paused, suddenly realizing she never caught my name.

"Zeke." She smiled at that.

"Riley Quin. If you ever need something fixed up, find your way back here." With my tech slate safely stored in my dimensional space, I spent the next couple hours picking up a few other necessities. Mushroom suggested that I grab some items that might make surviving in the Deadlands an easier proposition, so that's what I did. I bought a couple days worth of ration bars, a water purifier, and a multitool.

I also picked up some fresh clothes since I've been wearing the same thing ever since getting dropped into this world. I spent almost all my credits on my Pretty Woman shopping spree, so yea… I'm broke again. But I've got gear and a better shot at surviving out in the wilds so I consider it a fair trade. After my supply run I headed back to the Roaring Drake where I met up with Cole, the archaeologist that Patch introduced me to.

Cole is exactly what you'd expect when picturing a grad student on his first real field expedition. He's a recently minted PhD, still carrying around that blend of exhausted optimism and untested confidence that clings to everyone who's just clawed their way into the upper echelons of academia. The guy looks barely old enough to drink, and the way he talks makes it obvious that he spent the past several years buried in a library and dreaming of doing "real" research.

We got to talking and he told me about his academic focus: pre-Fracture magitech. But instead of being interested in the tech itself, he's more fascinated with how magitech spread throughout the land before the Fracture happened. He focused on both the cultural diffusion and societal impact of magitech to post-Fracture societies. I know that that sounds way too pompous and scholarly.

The short of it is that he hopes this expedition can chart how magitech came to be, evolved, and spread through the region before the world fell apart. And he wants to explain how that magitech allowed for pockets of civilization to grow strong in the post-Fracture world. His doctoral dissertation, which he drunkenly attempted to explain to me, was titled something like " The Emergence and Diffusion of Resonant Technoculture in the Proto-Fracture Deadlands." Or at least, I think that's what it was called.

I've got to admit that as soon as he started in on his dissertation, my brain short circuited. I heard words. I recognized those words individually. But when he strung them all together all I heard was a loud buzzing. There was a lot of talk about oral-tradition mapping and artifact lineage. I nodded politely and prayed that I looked like I was following along. One part of the conversation did stick out to me though.

Cole said that there's a valley out in the Deadlands that could be the key to everything he's been researching. He spent months piecing together different records - hearsay, strange energy readings, ancient texts, and rumors - and it all points to a small valley being ground zero for major magitech development in the area before everything went to shit. He said that the expedition he's putting together is heading out into that valley to see what they can find. Honestly? His excitement is contagious.

He keeps going on and on about his research, and that's not all that interesting to me. What do I care about a valley that had a magitech explosion hundreds of years back? But, if what he says is true, there could be hidden artifacts out there. That tickles my inner Indiana Jones fantasy. I think every young guy dreamt of being an archaeologist when they were younger until they realized it wasn't all fighting nazi's and uncovering buried treasure.

When Cole finally wrapped up his hours-long dissertation monologue, I managed to wedge in a few questions about the expedition. I asked if he was still looking to hire extra help and he nodded before saying that he already had a few people but he was open to hiring more. Then he asked the question I was dreading: "So, what are you good at?" There was no way that I could tell him the truth: that my only skill was puzzle intuition and that it was only at level one.

So I did what everyone does during a job interview: I lied my ass off. Better put, I "massaged the truth." I told him that I had experience navigating hostile terrain. That's technically true if you consider the NYC subway system during rush hour a warzone. I also told him that I'd overseen security operations at my old job. Also technically true since I watched the bar bouncers do their thing whenever I accidentally overserved a customer.

Neither of those things impressed him since he already had a scout and security. But when I mentioned my dimensional storage space, that got his attention. His whole face lit up and he became more animated. I demonstrated my skill by quickly pocketing the bar's table and stools into my storage and then walking around a bit. And that was it. Instantly hired. Not even a token attempt at negotiations. It turns out that being a walking pack mule is highly desirable when trekking out into the Deadlands.

The next morning I left the Roaring Drake after thanking Patch, and met up with the rest of the expedition group. We gathered at a checkpoint outside The MIZ. When Cole told me to head to the East Edge in the morning, I'd been picturing a massive staging ground for expeditions. I expected to see dozens of people and a massive convoy laden with heavy equipment. What I found was a single ramshackle building policed by two uninterested guards and a team that could fit around a coffee table.

There were only four people on this expedition besides myself. Cole was the first. I've already described him: youthful, exuberant, bright-eyed, eager, and the command presence of a toddler. I genuinely liked the guy, but trekking out into hostile territory under his command was a daunting task. I was introduced to Pell, a small, jittery guy who is the scout for the expedition. I don't know too much about tech and gear in this world, but just looking at him I could tell he was loaded down with high-end tech.

He had optics and scanners and sensors and a whole bunch of random shit hanging off his pack and belt. When I approached the group he looked me over and spotted my dusty Converse All-Stars and the bargain bin clothing I'd purchased yesterday. It made him wince. He didn't say anything, but then again he didn't really need to. His expression screamed " dead weight." Wren is the security for the expedition. He kinda reminds me of Asshole from the train. Square-jawed, armor, and a wall of muscle.

He's got that "I'm in charge and I'll toss you out a window to prove it" energy. Kinda gives off cop vibes in that way, walking around like he's billy badass. He didn't bother saying hello when I was introduced, just looked at me like I was another useless member on the expedition who he needed to protect. If Pell thought I was garbage because I wasn't geared up, Wren thought I was garbage because I wasn't carrying a visible weapon.

It's the fourth member of our merry band that makes me feel a bit better about our chances out in the Deadlands. Have you ever heard the saying " beware old men in a young man's profession"? Well, that phrase might as well have been invented for Corva. The man reminds me of a mountain. Not in size. It's more that he's weathered and ancient and has been battered by storms but he's still there, like some great unmovable presence.

His most prominent piece of gear is a long duster that's been patched so many times that it's basically more repair than original fabric. And he tops it all off with a wide-brimmed hat that is pulled down so low that it casts his entire face in shadows. You can only catch a glimpse of the man - a strong jawline, the edges of a scar, and one sharp grey eye that seems to pierce whatever he's looking at. Cole is ostensibly the leader for our expedition.

It's his grant that is paying for everything, his gear we're lugging through the Deadlands, his dissertation we're heading out into the wilds to prove. But Corva is the one that everyone quietly gravitates towards. Whenever he speaks it's slow and soft and deliberate, and everyone pays attention. Wren stops his constant grumbling. Pell stops his nervous pacing. Cole goes wide-eyed with admiration and practically vibrates with desperation to impress Corva, like he's a kid hoping for a pat on the head.

Here's the best thing about Corva. He doesn't demand that authority. He doesn't have to. It just sits on him naturally. He radiated competence and authority. When he turns his eyes to you, you don't feel judged. You feel seen. When Pell looked at me, all he saw was the cheap gear I was wearing. When Wren looked at me, all he saw was a soft city kid who'd probably trip and impale himself on a rock. When Cole looked at me, all he saw was a walking dimensional backpack that meant he saved a bit of money on porters.

But Corva saw me as a person. When Cole introduced me to the group by saying that I had a dimensional storage space that could carry everything the expedition needed, Corva called it "incredibly valuable." Then, when the others asked what my class was and I had to tell them I didn't have one, I swear that Corva smiled at that. It sounds odd because who the hell would smile at someone who is classless and a drain on the expedition. But I think that Corva sees me as some kind of project or something.

He told me not to worry about my lack of experience because "everybody starts somewhere." The tone of the entire group changed in that instance. Wren bit back half the disdain he was sending my way. Pell stopped glaring at my shoes like they were a war crime. Even Cole shot me a look of appreciation, almost like hiring me had been a stroke of genius that he'd planned all along instead of a way to cheap out on rented mules. We set out from The MIZ a few hours ago, hiking our way into the Deadlands.

I'm writing this now because we've stopped for lunch and everyone is off doing their own thing. Cole is scribbling in a notebook, Pell is keeping watch, and Wren is cleaning his rifle and complaining under his breath about sand. Corva is whittling a small wooden… thingy. And me? I'm writing all this up so you guys can get the update. Here I am, Zeke the Porter. Hauler of goods and human pack mule on his first expedition out into the Deadlands. 10161066 Wait. Wait wait wait.

How are you just gonna drop Corva into the narrative like it's no big deal? WTF MATE?!? You need to introduce him through a massive action set piece or something. The man deserves that much. Think of all the other introductions he's got in the games. Always comes out of nowhere and rocks some massive creature and is like "sup, I'm a BAMF." Also… didn't the guy die in Syndicate's? Am I remembering that wrong? Like… canonically he's dead. We saw him get folded by that massive beast thing. So what is happening?

Is this a prequel? A reboot? Did Zeke decide to randomly change lore again? I thought we were past that. InnerMarrow You're saying "Corva died!!" like we haven't already seen major NPCs get resurrected in this franchise. Also, Corva is literally the most reused NPC in the series. A different Corva appears in like… all the titles except for Shards. There's a Corva in Frontiers who's like 20 years old. Then in Null Protocol he's old and scarred all to hell. In Emberveil he's middle-aged.

Dude's existence is a continuity nightmare. And it's not all that odd to see him pop up in fanfics. I mean, there's probably a Corva tag in fics. Don't know cause I never wrote a fic before, but still. Also… dood's death in Syndicate's was weird as hell. The camera cut away and we never actually saw the end of the fight which obviously means that something is up. I'm not ruling out that he survived that fight. Lorehound_Lenny No no NO NO NO.

Corva is showing up all young-ish and NOT already missing an eye means this isn't his Frontiers or Syndicate's form. We're mixing eras. We're mixing timelines. NONE OF THIS MAKES SENSE. DustAndThunder Obviously this is 100% Synthesis bait. Zeke is sprinkling in a bunch of randomness in a series taking place out in the Deadlands. He tosses in a Corva cameo. I'm calling it right now, he's trying to tie this fanfic into synthesis.

I know a bunch of people here are probably fans of the theory, but there is no concrete backing for it. Z3ke probably decided to drop that House of Seasons lore to make people think that he's got insider info, and now he's gonna make up a bunch of canon to support the synthesis theory. If this shit turns into a 300 page argument thread about metaphysical continuity… I'm done. VeneratedWitchHunter Or…

Z3ke wrote an OC, realized his fic wasn't getting the audience he wanted and so he dropped in a fan-favorite NPC to grab attention. StoryLeech Let's not all pretend that Corva hasn't ALWAYS been suspicious. Dood shows up in every entry of the franchise. Sometimes he's old. Sometimes he's young. Sometimes he's a mentor. Sometimes he's a wandering drunk. Same name. Same class. Same weird habit of knowing a bunch of shit he shouldn't.

It's been an inside joke for years that he's basically the Cid of the Fracture-verse. So honestly, Zeke including him makes sense. Does it make sense chronologically? No. Does it make sense narratively? Weirdly yes. HardRainsFalling So you're saying that this is Z3ke doing an homage to all the other Corva's? He's basically writing his own game and every game has to have a Corva? I don't really see the big deal. I'm more curious to see which Corva we're gonna get.

From what Z3ke's written so far, it seems like he's going more mentor-Corva. Also… you thinking that he's gonna stick around? Maybe become a permanent cast member? Or is he gonna get yeeted in a few chapters for that emotional damage? Z3ke (Original Poster) Uh… shit. I'll read all that later. Pell just sprinted back to our group and whispered something to Corva and Corva immediately told everyone to get prepped. He marched us back to this rocky outcrop that we passed not too long ago.

When I asked what was happening, Corva said we're about to get ambushed. Practical combat advice would be amazing right now. Someone give me something. Anything. Quick tips. Beginner pointers. Combat for dumbasses. I'll take anything right now.