Manifesto of the People's Free Republic of Ben

Delia's recommendation, and the various merits of WordPress, have resulted in a migration.

http://bensmanifesto.wordpress.com

Will be the Manifesto of the People's Free Republic of Ben 2nd Edition.

Still putting things in order thought it looks like the posts and comments have migrated successfully. Pay No Attention To The Man Behind The Screen and The Adventures of the Colt Apollo will be updated from here. Other things too in the future.

Don't know if I'll do anything with the LiveJournal yet.

Insert your joke here.

To those whose friends lists I'm inconveniencing with the length of my posts let me start by saying, I apologise.

Be aware though, I don't see myself remembering to add lj-cuts and I don't imagine that you'd miss anything if you didn't read my posts.

So if you do find it a nuisance, feel free to remove me from your LiveJournal Friends Lists.

That is all.

If you ask any professional athlete what the hardest thing to do in sports is, they'll all say "Hit a baseball". But a coach once told me that the hardest thing to do in sports is to walk into your Super Bowl locker room at half-time and change the strategy that got you there cause it's no longer working

The West Wing, Red Mass.

A lot of what I wrote previously about death in roleplay, aligns itself to that which most fortune tellers will tell you when the card comes up-- Death means change. They say this as if it's comforting...

Change of any kind, particularly when your characters have bought the premise that lured them into the game in the first place, is a dicey thing. It comes about in one of two ways:

1: The game has taken a life of its own, courtesy of the players' interaction with your game and, in doing so, has become different to what you thought.

2: You've used all your ideas for the first six adventures.

The first one is optimal as it represents a sharing of ideas that culminates in the ownership of a tale being shared between player and GM. Ideally, it also means that your players are doing most of the thinking for you, as far as story ideas go.

Obviously the second is the bad one. But don't necessarily be fooled into categorising them just yet...

John Rogers called attention to this. TV networks get pitches for shows every year. And one of the things they are looking for is what kind of mileage do you have for your series? What engines of conflict exist? Because conflict is the heart of each story and the risks that you run, be it writing for TV or running a game, is resolving the conflict too soon.

You can also grind a conflict, like a player's last nerve, just as easily.

Since we're talking about TV, lets take a look at my current viewing material. I'm watching Alias, and I'm up to Season 3. Season 1 had so many several engines of conflict that the whole thing appears somewhat steampunk-like in my head: To review:

Sydney Bristow lost her fiance to the secret spy organisation and her employer, SD6. She hates them, but even more so because...

...They're not really a black-ops CIA group. They are, in fact, terrorists.

Sydney also learns that her father has been lying to her for decades, first by not telling her that he's a spy. Then by not telling her that she works for terrorists. Then by not telling her that he's really a double-agent with the CIA. Then by not telling her that her mother was KGB, and so on...

Sydney goes to the CIA and becomes a double-agent.

She also has all this conflict going on that she has to hide from her best friends, Will and Francie.

She's in love with her CIA handler, Michael Vaughn, but has lost her fiancee, can't tell anyone about him in she compromises her mission and endangers his life.

She wants to be a teacher, so she's also doing tertiary education.

And all the good and bad guys are after artifacts that could spell the doom of the world, designed by a prophet 500 years ago.

So yeah, a lot of different points to enter an hour-long story or map out a 22 episode-long season. The great machine gets even more complex as other characters start to firm up. Jack Bristow tries to form a relationship with his daughter but lacks the basic skillset of interacting with someone outside of espionage parameters. Arvin Sloan is losing his wife to Limphoma. Francie has her fiance cheat on her and buys a restaurant. Will investigates SD6 and becomes a pawn more than a few times.

The machine is glorious in sheer size and ability now. Writers are able to call upon it for exciting hour-long adventures and the machine dutifully spits it out. It hums and glows so it remains a continual source of surprise to me that the creator, JJ Abrahmms, sledge-hammers a spanner into the gears and watches it crumble apart without mercy.

A few pieces are salvaged but the machine has changed as two essential conflicting components have been sheared apart and abandoned. The output episodes are different and the change is better and here is why.

Suddenly things are no longer formulaic. You can't predict the outcome of the episodes outside of the basest assumptions. A fact made more apparent with the death of one of the show's stars. The episodes serve to welcome a new audience but rewards those who have watched since the beginning.

What has this to do with roleplaying, I hear me ask. And it takes a while to answer but it is this...

It is far from unusual to have the adventures of a roleplay game continue for years. In point of fact, I'm involved in three: Jason's Shadowrun game, Rhys's Deus game and Tim's Exalted game. I'm also reading the accounts of another game called Team Grandeur and have had games run for anywhere between a year to two years.

And unlike an TV series, these episodes are usually more than 1 hour long, have anywhere between 3 to 6 stars and may have 26 to 52 to even more adventures per year.

Running a game like this means that change is an absolute necessity.

More to follow

Marshals, Pinkertons and the miners gathered around the strand of gorilla hair clenched between thumb and forefinger of Hans Octavius Wilhem. The revelation left them stunned.

"You mean to say," Caine said, voice echoing in the mine, "that the thing responsible for all this monkey business--"

"Iz something much larger zhan a monkey," Wilhem finished. He pocketed the strand and turned to face the Mountain Marshal.

"I had zhe experience of seeing vone in captivity in ze old country. I remember it as being a powerful und dangerous creature."

"But not armed," Jack Lightning interjected. "Strikes me that ain't the kinda thing one finds in the jungle."

"Hardly," Wilhem said.

"Was there anything like that in the circus?" James Lovelace asked the miners while scanning the crime scene under the light of new and most confusing information.

"Hang on," Boxer said, eyes rolling up as he tried to remember. "There was somethin' about a civilised gorilla. Could make tea and count and dress himself. And yeah... I think it could fire a gun."

"Did you actually see it?" Wilhem asked.

"No, sir. Somethin' about it not feelin' up to performin'. Plenty more stuff goin' on that nobody seemed to mind."

"Not even ze Chinese workers?"

"Not a lot of them turned up. A lotta things get said about the Chinee, but it ain't that they're lazy."

Finishing up with the room, the three Marshals and the Pinkerton Detective returned to the bucket and pulley system. Lightning got the miner to locate the other two miners who usually stayed in the victim's company, while considering the possibility of whether an armed gorilla could scale the rope or the cave walls. It seemed a moot point though. A gorilla wasn't going to lurk about unnoticed, particulary if the miners feared for their lives.

Still, it didn't explain why a savage animal would sneak into the mine, ignore a whole bunch of folk, shoot one guy and sneak back out again.

The footsteps of John Henry Anderson and Bill Boxer echoed back through the tunnels. They were travelling with nothing more than a disappointed and sour expression on their faces.

"I assume zhen zhat ze late Xuanzang's companions von't be joining us?"

"I'm sorry, marshal," The looming foreman looked halfway between stunned and ready to yell the cave down around them. "Apparently they'd already left."

"Possibly to track down ze circus and avenge zheir fallen comrade," Wilhem mused.

"Best catch up to it then," Jack said. Investigating was fine and all but it was not the way to uphold the law. The Lightning Clan were very clear on what it took to keep the peace and Jack was wearing both of them at her hips.

Leaving the mine and returning to the steam tank, Wilhem stoked the boiler once more and it chugged to life, carrying them across the desert. Despite a fortnight's delay, Caine was able to follow the caravan tracks and it wasn't long before they came upon the circus...

...Slashed, burned and long dead to a man. Longer, by well over a week, than the miner they'd just left.

TO BE CONTINUED IN THE ADVENTURES OF THE COLT APOLLO: 2ND ROUND 2ND SALVO

The room itself was spartan, though the bullet holes lent a more modern and macabre decor.

Hewn from one of the tunnels, the marks from shovels and pickaxes could still be identified in the room's construction. It would have taken a lot of work from a lot of people, it being spacious enough to house three miners or god only knew how many Chinese people.

That one Chinaman had taken the room for himself spoke of high regard of respect or fear. But was it worth killing over?

The marshals Caine, Wilhem and Lightning entered, with Pinkerton Detective Lovelace close behind. John Henry Anderson, the mine's foreman and his friend, Bill Boxer, hovered by the entrance along with the guards who had preserved the scene.

This was something Wilhem was grateful for. That and the cool conditions of the iron mine had done some minor thing for preserving the body itself. Still, it was vile odour that each lawman breathed and it may have been as much as for the smell as a sense of justice that had kept anyone from entering.

Wilhem began inspecting the body, a medical kit revealed in one of his chest components inside the iron armour. Lovelace watched in fascination, glancing away only to observe Caine checking for tracks or to listen to Lightning continue interrogating the foreman.

"Did the deceased have any friends?" Jack asked. "Anyone he hung around with?"

Anderson looked over at Boxer. The miner was boss of a mining crew, one of several bosses, and probably had seen more than the Foreman was allowed.

"Lotta people left him to himself. Did see two others that kept pretty close to him though."

Wilhem was only paying half attention, his focus on the corpse. The body of Xuanzang was an impressive speciman. Very little fat on him and corded muscle that pulled tight with rigor mortis. Expected, Wilhem supposed, given the work, but it seemed that there had been more than back and shoulders at work.

"I zink ze victim vas a fighter. Profecient too" Wilhem announced

"Nimble fella, that's for sure," Caine replied. "That's a whole lotta bullets just to get one guy."

Lovelace looked at the walls and had to agree. There had to be a dozen holes littered in the room. "How many in the body?"

Wilhem continued his examination, muttering to himself as he made some notes. Finally he stood up.

"Four," he announced. "Und only two of zhem vhere fatal. Ze others vould likely have slowed him down though."

Jack turned from the miners. "That's a whole lot of messy shootin' for just one guy."

"Agreed," Wilhem responded. "Und ze bullets are from ze same calibre of gun, as vell."

"He missed, reloaded and kept shooting?" Caine asked, his incredulity echoing about the stone room.

"Ain't weren't a break in the shootin' marshal," Boxer volunteered. "I told ya, it was like an army had opened up on him."

"Agreed," Wilhem replied. "Und it seems, given ze different scoring on ze bullets retrieved from ze late XuanZang, zhat zhere vere three different revolvers used."

"Given the grouping of the bullets, it seemed the shooters had their work cut out for them, trying to aim," Lovelace noted.

"Zhere is something else," Wilhem added. "He vas in possession of zis!"

The Iron Marshal used one of his mechanical arms to offer a small bronze medallion. The writings on it's octagon shape weren't legible to anyone else in the room, so Wilhem translated.

"It is an icon ov religious significance. I suspect it may be Buddhism."

The blank stares weren't going away. Wilhem took advantage of the silence to ask another question.

"Herr Boxer, ze men in ze victim's acquaintence. Vhere zhey built as hardy? Had there been displays of fighting from zhem?"

Boxer sucked in his breath in thought, and then coughed it out as the smell of the desceased hit his sinuses. "They looked pretty tough, marshal. I think I heard somethin' about a couple of the boys givin' them some trouble and then stoppin' real sudden-like."

"Indeed. I imagine zhen zhat zhey vere members of a fraternity or school. Perhaps in ze arts of fighting. I have heard of such places vhere oriental martial arts are practiced in conjunction vith religious scripture."

"I've left plenty of people prayin after I hit em," Caine said. "But I reckon we got a bead on one o' the murderers. He was a midget!"

Blank stares where the only response he got. The Mountain Marshal continued.

"See them bullets," he pointed to a grouping in the wall that, upon closer inspection, was lower than the other holes.

Jack spoke up. "Didn't you say there was a circus that came a'callin?"

Anderson nodded. "Yes, but that was two weeks ago and surely you would have seen them when they arrived in Ascension?"

Jack shook her head. "Ain't had no circus come by ou way."

The Pinkerton Detective Agency had a rule for times like this. If the clues tell more than one story, it meant that there was still more to find. Lovelace found himself agreeing with it.

"We might need to keep looking," he offered. The marshals agreed and each spread out in the room to see what more could be found. Aside from the odd mumbling or a grunt out of Caine, the investigation continued in silence. Then...

"It vas only one gunman," Wilhem said while standing at the room's entrance.

The others waited for the Iron Marshal to continue. He did not disappoint.

"All ze shots, regardless of height," he said, glancing at Caine. "Are on a trajectory from zis very spot. The murderer used three guns to take the victim down."

Lovelace interrupted. "Three guns? How?"

Jack replied before Wilhem could. "Mechanical arm," she said. "Seen somethin' like before."

The other marshals nodded, remembering Harry Winsom's hidden arm with gun attached.

Lovelace accepted it. "It would have to be attached around his waist," the Pinkerton suggested.

"Did the circus-folk have anyone like that?" Caine asked. "Or a midget?"

"Plenty of midgets, some other strange things but nothin' about an extra arm, mechanical or otherwise," Anderson replied.

The marshals searched both room and minds for anything else that could offer a solution to this crime. Lovelace, though, zeroed in on something near the entrance where Wilhem had stood. Bending over, he retrieved something small and fine from the rock.

"The miner don't keep pets, do they?" he asked.

"We only have the horses and they don't come down here," Anderson said, eyes squinting to try and see what Lovelace had between thumb and forefinger.

It was a coarse black strand of hair that didn't have any place being on a human.

Each marshal took a turn trying to identify it, but even Wendell Caine, who had either fought, eaten or tamed every critter in the States couldn't place it. Wilhem, last to examine it, did so under the gaze of a motley collection of magnifying lenses that sprouted from his armour.

"I believe," he said slowly, "That it belongs to a gorilla."

TO BE CONCLUDED IN PART 6

Chairs skidded on the floor as the marshals jumped up from the table. James Lovelace, and Bill Boxer, could only watch the shorthand conversation taking place.

"Mine's more than a day away."

"Ze tank should see us zhere sooner."

"Thunder and I will meet you on the road."

Jack Lightning and Wendell Caine left out the back of the Ignit-Inn. Hans Octavius Wilhem turned to Ascension's latest vistors.

"Zhere is room enough for you, Herr Boxer und I zink ze journey vill be quicker if you tell us the details en-route."

Boxer swallowed and nodded, it was obvious to both Wilhem and Lovelace that the miner hadn't spared the whip getting himself to the marshals and, weary as he looked, each were impressed that he stood up and made ready to follow the Iron Marshal out the door. Wilhem's gaze shifted to the Pinkerton Detective.

"Zhere is room for you as vell, Herr Lovelace," he offered.

"I appreciate the courtesy, but I really should turn my attention to my own work and leave such matters to the professionals," Lovelace replied, not eager to embark on another lengthy, and less comfortable journey.

"Your quarry iz not in Ascension and zhere is little chance ve haven't noticed him in either camp. You vould have to visit ze mine eventually."

Lovelace stood and brushed the dust of his finely tailored suit. "Your logic, and generosity are boundless, Marshal," he replied and then paused. "If you're all making ready to leave, who will govern Ascension? Your absent fourth lawman?"

At that Wendell Caine returned through the backdoor astride the 'fourth lawman'. Lovelace prided himself on keeping a calm and presentable demeanour regardless of the circumstances. Still, the huge hairy marshal astride and even huger and hairier bear did take some effort. Between the rapid blinking - the only sign that the Pinkerton Detective was peturbed - Lovelace spied a small barrell fixed to the collar around the grizzly, like the brandy that St Bernards would carry for rescue means in frozen wastes. Attached to the barrel was a crudely shaped tin badge.

"Ze barrel is only to hold ze badge. After a vhile it vas pointless refilling it."

The only other person in the place that seemed to take it in stride was the man behind the bar, who stepped out behind it to retrieve the bucket from outside. Boxer had the fortune, when he collapsed, of having a chair beneath him. Wilhem helped him back up.

"Qvuickly, comrades," he called, following Caine and Smokey out of the saloon.

The cloud of dust in the distance was Jack Lightning atop Thunder, already eating the miles between Ascension and the mine. Smokey and Caine gambolled after her. Wilhem instructed the two to wait outside and disappeared into the office. It wasn't long before the loud whistle of steam echoed from around back and, chugging into the main street, a massive iron contraption, mounted on treads and with enough space to accomodate the marshals, their mounts and guests parked in front of them.

Wilhem too had changed, his body encased in what appeared to be a heavily modified iron bell diving suit, and a harness on his shoulders where four mechanical arms were pulling levers and twisting dials. He lowered a metal gangplank and before long, the steam-powered conveyance was jogging across the desert.

The half tank didn't have the speed that Thunder, or even Smokey, had over short distances but it's endurance was as hard as the iron it was forged from and before long, a larger gangplank was lowered and the marshals were rejoined once more.

"Explain," was all Jack said.

"About two days ago, one of the miners was found dead. He was in his room, located within the mine itself. Foreman Anderson sent me to get you guys out there."

"He let you go?" Jack said warily. "He must trust you a lot."

"I was the only one, ma'am. John Henry and I go way back and I ain't known a friend truer. He refused to let anyone else leave and doubled the guards around the mines to make sure of it."

"Smart," Octavius commented, turning his attention fully to the conversation while the arms kept the tank on course. "But ve are still vithout detail."

Boxer scratched the back of his head, clearly not comfortable being the centre of attention, let alone one whose audience consisted of a bear. "The man who got killed... He was Chinee."

The marshals said nothing, considering it and waiting for more. "John Henry got word of what you marshals did for them poor injun folk some weeks back. He hoped you might take the matter serious-like."

"A crime is a crime, regardless of vhere he is from or who he is," Wilhem stated. "Continue."

"You gotta understand we ain't had nothin' like this happen. Sure, you hear stories of what goes on at the camps or in town. Uh, no offense marshals but before you got brought in, we were just as happy staying out of town and out of trouble."

The marshals simply nodded in response. For Lovelace, it served to quickly bring him up to speed on just who he was travelling with. Though it wouldn't take a Pinkerton to deduce that trouble became relative when a Lightning came to town. In a professional capacity, this wasn't what he was paid for, but James Lovelace didn't simply do the job to get paid. This time it was he urged Boxer to continue.

"Anyways, in case o' trouble, we got guards stationed at the entrance to the mine. They ain't seen no one comin' or goin' about the time that poor fella got shot."

"He was shot, then?" Jack asked.

"Hell yes, marshal. Like a whole posse had come on into his room and shot the place up!" Boxer said, his eyes becoming wild as he remembered the storm of gunfire. Three or four guns opened up on him. Then they all vanished without a trace!"

"Was there no other means of accessing the mine?" Lovelace asked, beating Wilhem to the question.

"Only one other way we know about. There's a bucket and pulley system on the roof of the mine," Boxer explained, describing the mine as cave that led underground. "But there ain't no way anyone's usin' that. The roof's high up and the only way to climb is down the rope on the pulley. And we keep that baby good and greased up to get water to all us folk."

"You'd be surprised what some people can do," assured Jack Lightning. Boxer didn't look convinced.

"And there was no sign of anyone intruding. No strangers or new workers?" Lovelace continued after a moment.

"Nobody I didn't know," Boxer replied. Lovelace had more questions and he and Boxer kept up the conversation. Caine tended to Smokey. Jack went over to Wilhem.

"Whaddya think?" Jack muttered.

"I don't believe our guide is ze culprit," Wilhem offered. "Ze crime-scene and ze body vill be able to tell us more, but vith ze time it took for him to get here, and for us to get zhere, ve may not learn much."

"More of Spokey's crew?"

"Hard to say. If so, zhen Spokey Sampson is in possession of some skilled assassins."

The Lightning Marshal's face turned grim at the thought and the journey continued on in silence as the day passed and night arose.

True to Wilhem's word, and his sleepless efforts in piloting the tank through the night, the marshals made record time, arriving at the iron mine. A cave burrowed into rock, leading deep underground, its entrance flanked by four stout men brandishing rifles. With a groan of gears, the tank shuddered to a stop and its passengers disembarked. Boxer announced the marshals and one of the guards took off down the mine to retrieve Foreman John Henry Anderson.

"Smokey and I are gonna sniff 'round up top. See if we can find some tracks." Jack and Wilhem nodded and the marshals split up with Lovelace following along into the mine. About half-way down, they made the acquaintance of the foreman.

John Henry Anderson had come to the United States as a slave. Forced into mines much like this, that which most would considered back-breaking, had instead built the towering fellow until he looked hewn out of onyx. What slave labour hadn't done, and likely fighting for his freedeom during the Civil War had, was replace both the foreman's arms at the shoulder with powerful mechanical appendages. Heavy and huge, it was clear that they were not meant for anything more delicate than swinging a hammer into stone, crushing it to powder to get at the iron vein. John Henry Anderson would have stood half a head taller than Wendell Caine and looked to be just as broad.

"Marshals," he boomed in a sonnerous voice that the mine amplified, echoed and deepened. "It is good to see you."

Jack stepped up to the man that looked as if he could snap her into with his mechanical fingers. She was far from worried. "Mr Boxer has filled us in on some of the details. Let's walk and talk."

Anderson nodded and led them down one of the shafts. On the way they passed underneath the bucket and pulley contraption where the marshals and Lovelace inspected it. With no handholds at the roof of the cave that any man could scale, and the grease coating the rope, it would be a task verging on the impossible to climb it.

Outside, and by the hole of the roof, Wendell Caine and Smokey scanned the area for tracks. Unfortunately, it being a busy hive of activity, there were plenty of tracks to choose from. Atop the boulder that housed the cave, the Mountain Marshal was afforded a view of the surrounding landscape, as well as a collection of tents that made up a small shanty town of miners who were watching Caine behind the patrolling gaze of yet more guards. Smokey gave a growl and Caine shrugged, jumping down from the boulder and heading back to the cave entrance to catch up.

"Did ze deceased have any enemies?" Wilhem asked they continued their journey.

"I don't believe so," Anderson replied as he stooped under one of the lower stalegtites. "Mr Xuanzang was a respected man amongst his people."

"Und nobody outside his people who vould vish him harm?" Wilhem asked, being no stranger to racism and was sure that Anderson was even more familiar.

"Uh, not after the demonstration, marshal," Boxer interjected. He looked up at Anderson who, with a whirring of gears, gestured for him to continue.

"Some folks got it in their heads to make trouble where John Henry wouldn't see 'em," he continued. "That Chinee fella, well he just took them insults like they was nothin'. Then, he picked up a rock as big as your head, placed it in front of them and smashed it to bits with one punch. One punch! And he didn't have anything like what John Henry's got."

"Guess that means it weren't rocks that done it," Caine said, catching up with the rest. Smokey had been left outside with the tank with the instructions of 'Don't eat no-one innocent'.

Anderson looked like he was about to say something unkind but Wilhem beat him with a question. "Have you had any vistors lately,"

Anderson thought about it. "No, nobody much came out these parts." He paused then and added, "Except for the circus, of course."

That got everyone's attention. "Circus?" Wilhem replied.

"That's right. Lugwrench's Caravan of Mechanical Marvels," Anderson said, his expression slowly changing to match the confused one planted on Wilhem's face. "Stopped by about a fortnight ago. Said they were heading onto Ascenion."

No circus had been in town and there weren't a lot of places close by where travelling performers could earn a living, but questions about it would have to wait.

The marshals and Lovelace arrived at the room of the deceased.

TO BE CONTINUED IN PART 5

A swinging saloon door was the only thing that kept the silence at bay. Each of the marshals and the Pinkerton looked on after the retreating would-be assassin, who had realised just how close he was to death.

Jack Lightning turned toward James Lovelace. "Mind tellin' me what was that about?"

The Pinkerton Detective met the gaze of the Lightning Marshal and couldn't say for certain whether the lawman had known about the worker's murderous intent or not. One thing he could say for certain was that she didn't care.

"The man," James began, "was planning to do something untoward to you."

Jack's expression didn't change until Caine summed it up. "His hand was driftin' gunward."

"Ah," Jack said.

"I thought it best that we eliminate any nefarious intentions in a peaceful manner," the Pinkerton man continued and shuffled aside to accomodate Octavius Wilhem at the table. "Also I thought it would serve as the best way to introduce myself to the local constabulary. Lovelace, James Lovelace."

"'Preciate you makin' the effort," Jack drawled. "Name's Lightning, Jack Lightning."

If there was one force in America - and more than a few other places abroad - as well known, respected and more effective than the Pinkerton Detective Agency - who had been charged with the security and protection of various heads of state as well as uncovering machiavellion plots against the government for years - It was the Lightning family.

"A pleaure to make your acquaintence," Lovelace replied, extending a hand and not making any sudden movements.

"Hans Octavius Wilhem, at your service," the German Marshal offered, standing and clicking his heels together as he did.

"Wendell Caine," was all the mountain marshal said.

"Unusual..." Lovelace said, eyes scanning the Ignit-Inn. "Your housekeeper made mention that there were four of you in Ascension.

"He's out back," Caine replied. "He ain't allowed to have lunch indoors."

There was the sound of a metal pail rattling out the back of the saloon and a loud growling burp. Lovelace decided to focus on the task at hand.

"I've come with the intention of locating this chap," he said as he produced a photo of man who had appeared to, judging by his dour expression, been manhandled into a three-piece suit and ordered to stay still in front of the camera. "His name is William Tapping. Junior."

"Wanted?" Jack asked as she took the photo.

"Not at all. His father passed on and it's my duty to inform him of that, as well as what was bequeathed to him.

Jack passed the photo on. "Ain't seen him." Wilhem and Caine agreed, having become aware of the collection of workers from Colt and Ithaca over the weeks, in one way or another.

"That's a shame," Lovelace said, returning the photo to the folder. "I'll have to visit the Colt and Ithaca camps."

As the marshals were warning Lovelace of the kind of reception Camp Ithaca would provide, the doors of the Ignit-Inn were flung open and a man coated in grime, sweat and dust stumbled inside. His eyes roamed the tables until they locked with the badges seated together.

"Thank God I found you, Marshals!" he croaked while trying to clear the dust from his throat. Wilhem left his chair and steered the man into it while Lightning ordered another shot of whiskey. The man nodded both frantically and gratefully, knocking it back at a speed that Jack respected.

"Vhat is zee problem?" Wilhem asked after he was sure the man wasn't about to expire on the table.

"My name's Bill Boxer. John Henry Anderson down at the mine sent me to find you." He gulped the air as desperately as he had the whiskey. "There's been a murder."

TO BE CONTINUED IN PART 4

The airship Chancellor owned the skies as six powerful propellors heaved its luxurious bulk toward Ascension. It was a high-class airship equalled only by the vessels of state employed by the Senate and the President.

It was also the standard to which the Pinkerton Detective Agency kept their employees accustomed.

Idly reviewing the folder packed with sheaves of briefing notes and photos the British-born, though American-at-heart detective, James Lovelace glanced outside the comforts of the airship to the dusty wastes of the desert plains of Arizona below. It was standards, such as they were, that he would have to become accustomed as well; the clients of wealth and influence that made use of the Pinkertons did so specifically to avoid locations that Lovelace would soon become acquainted with.

James's client, however, was languishing in a far worse state-- namely death. Wealthy businessman, William Tapping, had shuffled the mortal coil and, being possessed of only one heir, had bequeathed his fortune and enterprises to William Tapping Junior. A problem had arisen though as Junior, far from willing to be chained to the weighty stone of fiscal responsibility, had left home to seek his fortune away from the disapproving gaze of his father. Regardless, Tapping Senior had willed his estate to his wayward son and James Lovelace had been charged with the duty of notifying Junior of his inheritance.

Not willinging to allow his son to roam unfettered, the Pinkerton Detective Agency had kept one eye upon the roving Tapping heir. Unfortunately his vagabond lifestyle had left little clues for the agency to follow and the trail was all but cold when Junior had arrived at Ascension. Either employed at the Space Gun camps, or at the iron mine situated further from the town, Lovelace had hoped that he had remained at the approaching small prospector-like town, to make his job easier, or had moved on to somewhere more pleasant.

Docking at one of the tabeltop plateaus, a common feature to the landscape, Lovelace disembarked the Chancellor and laid eyes upon Ascension. A motely collection of buildings, some fashioned for permanence and the comfort it affords, others errected as temporary places either to stake a claim to the land or to abandon it with minimal expense, Ascension existed only for the purpose of providing each gunsmithing camp a place to relax and spend their wages.

One of the camps, the one belonging to Colt, could be seen on the horizon. A giant six-barrelled revolver pointed toward the heavens, had been studied with a mixture of awe and stark disbelief by the Pinkerton Detective. The structure was impressive though who was to say whether it would actually work. Based on the contents of his folder, Ithaca's camp lay hidden in a gulch over a deposit of gas. Both were curiousities though neither affected Lovelace insofar as it applied to the case. One of the local children loitering near the docks, had offered to carry his luggage to the town for a nickel. It was a bargain Lovelace was quick to seize.

Climbing down the steps of the airship docking port, there was one other bit of information included from the agency. Another Pinkerton had been hired recently to act as bodyguard to Samuel Colt. Apparently there had been a couple of attempts on his life and the inventor/businessman was taking them seriously. Lovelace had also heard rumours that Ithaca's proprietors had made similar dealings with the Pinkertons to secure protection, but there wasn't any time left to dwell on rumours as the climb had ended and the child already had his hand out, having already steered him toward a luxurious bordello house named Etheric Delights.

It was remarkable, given the rudimentry layout of Ascension, that any level of comfort could be found, much less the level afforded by Etheric Delights. And yet the interior was lavishly decorated, the bar was well stocked and the women present and ready to make him feel welcome were clean and attractive. The owner, Madame Wilhemina Ether, had been only too happy to provide comfortable rooms and the promise of comfortable company. She was also only too happy to provide vodka or any other spirit he would desire. However, for the second time this day, James Lovelace would forego luxury and venture into the frontier-- this time in search of the local constabulary.

Said constabulary, as informed by Bethany Cartwright, while she swept the front porch of what appeared to be a newly constructed office, was to be found at saloon called the Ignit-Inn taking lunch. Tipping his hat, the Pinkerton crossed the road toward the cylindrical cone-shaped three-floored structure, dust and dirt crunching under boots long accustomed to the paved walkways of New York. Ascension itself appeared to be remarkably quiet. The Ignit-Inn was no different.

Walking through the swinging doors, Lovelace believed he could inventory the rest of Ascension's businessmen at first glance. A sturdy fellow and a wiry compatriot, both bearing the grease and grime of cog-wranglers, were ordering whiskey to accompany their meal. A man of learned appearance, and quizzical demeaner, peered over his spectacles as if diagnosing the Pinkerton like he had walked into a surgery. Two fellows, not local to the town but, judging again by the grime, likely worked at one of the camps, were losing at poker to a wiry woman in a duster coat and a wide hat, sporting two large pistols at her hips. Seated nearby was a hulking hairy brute in overalls, who was demolishing a bucket of chilli. Also close by was another man, mid-forties, learned and accomplished with a monacle and handlebar moustache. Each of them sported the tin badges with 'U.S. Marshal' stamped across it.

Never one to pass up any kind of game of chance, James Lovelace took the seat of one of the workers and was dealt in. It was clear that the one who had abandoned the game was hoping to salvage some of his earnings for a journey back to civilisation. The one still at the table believed that there was some hope he could win his money back and more besides. What was most surprising though was as Lovelace sat, so did the monacled marshal who, it appeared, had been previously been more interested with analysing his lunch than the game.

Lovelace, though rich by circumstances too lengthy to detail, had made a not inconsiderable amount of money on the gambling tables across America. In Ascension though it appeared that it was more than luck that ran this table. With the German marshal - judging by the accent - being dealt in, the worker experienced a windfall of cards that soon saw his earnings, and his cheerful disposition, restored. The woman marshal wasn't even the least bit perturbed, or had a poker face that could have seen her swimming in coin from any game along the Mississipi. The hairy fellow, identified as a marshal too, once Lovelace had seen through the tangled knots of hair that could be charitably called 'a beard', didn't seem interested in the proceedings though. Instead, his gaze was fixed on the now-lucky worker who appeared to be fidgeting with his belt somewhat.

Bowing out of the game, the German Lawman returned to the study of his lunch while Lovelace found that his eyes too had been paying attention to the worker's gunbelt and the fingers that hovered nearby. The furtive glances over his cards, the small beads of sweat, irrespective of the Arizona heat, the quickening of his breath as he glanced from the woman, to her cards, and then back to the woman, spoke of a murderous intent. The large marshal in the overalls had picked up on this as well and shifted his muscled bulk behind the worker's chair, keeping him within the reach of his massive arms. The woman appeared oblivious, focusing only on her cards. James Lovelace, eager to make a first impression, and not eager to sit at a table where gunplay would ensue, decided to up the ante.

"It's problem enough," the clipped British tones wresting the worker's eyes from the woman and toward the badge Lovelace had planted on top of the poker chips, "When a man thinks he can get a drop on a Marshal."

The worker's eyes danced between the badge, Lovelace and the woman. A looming shadow that eclipsed the collection of winning was a grim reminder of the large marshal's presence. He had hoped before he quit this town and its foolhardy projects that he could take the marshal's money, as well as the bounty on her head. Right now, under the gaze of the Pinkerton, the larger marshal and the German marshal who had overheard the conversation, he realised that the only foolhardy project in Arizona was thinking he could get away with this.

I... uh... think I'll quit while I'm ahead," his hands scooping money as he banged his knees on the table in his haste to get up. Not willing to stay any longer, he shuffled out of the chair and around the marshal behind him. Worried that he might be shot in the back, he glanced back at the table as his feet propelled him toward the door...

...and into the cold electric blue gaze of Jack Lightning who hadn't moved, hadn't spoken but conveyed the message that if stayed any longer than it took to blink, he'd never open his eyes again.

Several coins spilled to the floor as the worker ran for his life.

TO BE CONTINUED.

In the aftermath of two wars, fought within its borders and waged through destructive steam-powered engines, America was propositioned with the grand notion of placing a man on the moon.

The man with the plan was Samuel Colt. The means was the gigantic launcher dubbed The Colt Apollo.

Sensing an opportunity to overthrow Colt's reputation in the field of gunsmithing, William Henry Baker and Leroy Smith, proprietors of the Ithaca Rifle Company, made the same offer with the promise of succeeding where the elderly, and likely senile, Colt would fail.

Congress turned it into a contest. The first of the two companies to successfully accomplish lunar travel would receive government funding for installations of space guns across America.

Competition has often descended into acts of sabotage by both companies and, with each project nearing completion, required a group of lawmen that would ensure business was conducted fairly and that the assets of each gunsmith would be protected from threats foreign and domestic.

The group of lawmen was veteran marshal, scholar and inventor-- Hans Octavius Wilhem; the barely civilised scourge of lawlessness-- Wendell Caine, and prodigy of the most dangerous family of gunslingers in the west-- Jacqueline Lightning.

The marshals make their home in the small frontier town of Ascension, nestled between the testing grounds of both gunsmithing companies, and have proven themselves a deterrant to lawlessnes and a body concerned only with fairness and justice.

(Their previous adventures can be found under the tag 'colt apollo' in the journal)

Their tale continues...

Ascension was gifted with a time of peace over the next fortnight. A peace that was only disturbed by the sounds of hammers banging on nails or, at the marshal's office, the sound of a repeating nail gun, as the office and local bordello, Etheric Delights, were being repaired or upgraded.

Etheric Delights, being the scene of an attempt on Samuel Colt's life as well as a shootout between the marshals and agents of elusive crime-boss 'Spokey' Sampson, had suffered from a room being exploded and, feeling responsible for the damage, Colt had asked for volunteers from the Space Gun project to assist. There was no shortage of able-bodied men willing to help.

The Sheriff's office had been a small affair, housing only one lawman before the marshals came to Ascension. The Iron Marshal, Hans Octavius Wilhem, had been drawing up plans for extensions and upgrades suitable to their needs. As a result, the office now had a second floor with a third being scaffolded to house Wilhem's laboratory equipment and workshop. A number of extra cells had been built, two of them being reinforced to contain mechanically enhanced outlaws. Mountain Marshal, Wendell Caine, manhandled the stout lengths of timber into place while Wilhem explained the notion of a 'nail gun' to the Lightning Marshal, Jack Lightning.

"It iz designed to hammer in ze nails more effeciently," the German-born lawman explained as Jack explored the gun dubiously. "Ze idea is to attach the board to ze scaffold."

Jack Lightning, having grasped the basics and, having been shown her target, turned her lethal skills with weapons to the plank held in place by Caine. A cacophony split the peace of Ascension with a resounding salvo that saw the board affixed with nothing less than 20 nails, many of them between splayed fingers of Wendell Caine.

"...Yes, yes, but it only needs to be shot here," the Iron Marshal indicated where the plank met the scaffold, his other hand massaging his brow to soothe the emerging headache. "Und here, und zhere."

"Ah," was all Jack said and while she might have ventured more her neck hairs raised like an arched cat. A lifetime of training and reflex made a nailgun as effective as the Lightning Coil Throwers at her hips and she spun, letting fly another fussilade of roofing nails into the mechanical arm of an cowardly snake trying to get drop on her from behind. The arm, fashioned from brass and a collection of cogs and gears, was designed with nothing more complex than the purpose of drawing a gun as fast as its springs and hydraulics allowed, as well as pulling the trigger just as quickly. A rudimentary bio-mechanical addition, though expensive, was nonethless reduced to a sparking ruined lump to the surprise of the outlaw attached to it.

Caine, still in possession of one of the planks, slammed it and the outlaw back against a freshly nailed wall of the marshal's office. Pinned and powerless, Jack was only interested in one question.

"Why?"

"I ain't tellin' you nothin'," the response muffled by the length of pine over his face.

The wall creaked a little as Caine leant against the board, keeping the outlaw's skull firmly trapped between the wood. "Hey Jack?" The Mountain Marshal called, "You gonna be nailing this board anytime soon?"

"I'll tell you everything!" came the panicked shout, his flesh and blood hand waving frantically as if hoping to blindly catch the salvo of nails. Jack Lightning and Octavius Wilhem stepped closer to hear him. Caine kept up the pressure.

"Ain't nothin' personal," the outlaw started and his predicament was a blessing only in that he couldn't see the dread gaze of the Lightning Marshal. "Spokey Sampson has put out a bounty. The man who kills you, gets Winsom's job!"

"Und did you zee zhis "Spokey" Sampson?" Wilhem asked, still uncertain if such a figure had even existed.

"...Ah, no, Marshal. Sir." came the reply from behind the plank. "But the word's out and they're a lot of people that want to be in Wilhem's boots.

"Not right now they don't," Jack replied and as her words punched through the plank, Caine could feel a slight tremble beneath it.

Having been provided a volunteer to try out the newly constructed cells, the marshals detained the outlaw and continued their work.

The days turned to weeks as construction continued. There were no new volunteers for Winsom's position and word of his death had carried the message to the visiting workers of Colt and Ithaca come Pay Day-- these were lawmen with whom you did not fuck. As such, policing Ascension had become a quiet affair.

Not content to take his meals away from the office at Etheric Delights and, not willing to subject himself to night after night Jack's special, and only, recipe of bacon and beans, Wilhem had managed to employ a housekeeper named Bethany Cartwright. An aging woman who had journeyed out with her sons when they sought employment at Camps Colt and Ithaca, she was only too happy to maintain the office and prepare the meals, if only to afford her some company during the day. She ws also, to Wilhem's delight, not wholly proficient but knowledgable regarding the tools of steamcraft and cog-wrangling.

"Mister Cartwright, rest his soul, did like to talk about his work," she answered after sorting out the Iron Marshal's vast collection of wrenches.

The week of peace became two and it seemed like the marshals had done a good job of keeping order in both the town and the camps. But an ill wind was blowing it and it bore a newcomer to Ascension by way of the luxury airship 'Chancellor'.

TO BE CONTINUED

Death...

It's the 13th installment, it's a couple of days after fencing at Abbey-- where not only did I get a lot of opportunities to practice dying but would look upon the idea with some favour, given the bruising; and the universe appears to be focusing its energies through me to talk about this sombre event in role-play...

Also it seems that next Sunday's game could result in player death as well, so best to get this off my chest.

Before commencing, a little about the 'universe's energies' and the meaning behind it. Jerry Holkins (Tycho Brahe) of Penny Arcade, discussed the notion of player threat and death as per his experiences with Dungeons & Dragons. PVPonline, while somewhat less effusive, portrays the popular stereotype of the Games Master being a totalitarian authority whose players' lives are sustained by whim alone.

I myself haven't sat in on a game of such draconian design before, though I imagine anyone reading this has or, like me, is familiar with legends and exploits of such games. So I can't offer what might be called a 'balanced and fair' account as to the reasons outside of what I write. To those reading this feeling misjudged to the extent that I would wish not to be one of your players, EVEN MORE than I would now; all I can offer is your money back.

Waaaaaiit...

In case I don't remember to add the hyperlinks to Penny Arcade and PVPonline, a quick summation: Jerry Holkins, upon hearing that a group of new players under the storytelling auspices of PA cohort, Mike Krahulik (Gabriel), don't get the sense of being threatened, turns his mind toward the notion of running a game of Lovecraftian or Poe-like misery. He also highlights something that runs, at first glance, contrary to philosophy of players being the most important thing in your game:

Players have nothing to fear from a world that literally exists at their whim, or for their entertainment.

As much as a GM tries to leave open avenues, or plan for, the actions of players, there are also situations be it by virtue of dice rolls, or a threat miscalculated, or an ill-fated action, that results in the death of a player-character that you (GM) have invested time weaving him/her into your story.

Seeing that many plot arcs and character relationships disappear, the hardship of introducing a new character, both to the group and to the story, not to mention any hue and cry levied at you by the player may seem like too high a price just because the dice came up with nothing higher than a 3. And frankly, this is a noble idea and likely things will flow along a lot easier between you and your players...

...right up to the point where it happens again. And woe betide you if it happens to another player who raises the point that you spared the other character, so why not his/her's...

The popular phrase I've heard is that "I want the character's death to mean something". Whether it adds to the story or you don't want to tarnish the legend of the character by having it end with the ignobility of falling on his own sword, the 'good death' is about putting the player first.

If you mean it.

In the amount of years spent roleplaying, I've suffered the deaths of two prized characters. One, by virtue of underwhelming dice rolls against overwhelming dice rolls, the other executed on a matter of character (and player) principle. In the case of the former, the GM obeyed the results of the dice, though not the time at which they were rolled and, through judicious divine intervention, weaved the tale that the character's life had been extended just long enough to serve a higher purpose before being laid to eternal rest. I give the GM huge props for this - not just because it was my character - because firstly, he altered our story enough to make it work ver well, and secondly, he followed through with the character's death at the dramatically opportune moment.

The second instance was when a different GM (same group though) engineered a scenario that clashed against my character's zealotous principles. Prior to this his game - supposedly a meatgrinder of a mission - had suffered because he was new to GMing and didn't really want to break friendships or the story by killing characters. In the end, it wasn't the GM who killed my character, it was the other players (one being the other GM mentioned above)-- thought this did not stop him from being somewhat angry at me.

I explained the character's motivations that led to his grisly fate and then explained that his meatgrinder of a mission needed a death. That it would add an element of risk for the other players and would lead to the excitement that he was hoping to achieve...

I think we're still, some years afterward, at the position of agreeing to disagree.

But that is what it comes down to. I'm all for character death meaning something, but it can't be used as a crutch to give your players eternal life, simply because each fatal instance lacks operatic gravitas. The first rule is to put your players first. To entertain them. But part of that entertainment, that is often overlooked, is not always giving them what they want. It's giving them what they need. And what is needed for excitement to take place, is risk.

The universe turns its purpose upon the axis of me this morning as I shuffle randomly through the music playlist and come across something I hadn't listened to in a while. Last year I attended a lecture by Matthew Reilly - whose literary work I cannot recommend enough if you're looking for a fast-paced action thriller novel - and, having the presence of mind to record it for future dissection, come across the explanation he offered as to why he killed a much beloved character and co-star of a story, much to the chagrin of the multitude of fans of said character.

Boiled down, it is this. Thrillers keep you guessing. Action should as well. And neither exist to make you feel safe. Excitement is risk's reward, but like most things you enjoy, it extolls from you a price. And that price is that in order to make you feel good, there is a chance that you could end up feeling bad.

It's a gamble. Any game is a gamble and this - despite everything else written here or previous about the notions of storytelling or character - is a role-play GAME.

Joss Whedon offered similar explanations about events that took place in Serenity and, as Whedon goes; so goes my nation...

Already rather weighty, this dialogue of death, it cannot conclude without something else being addressed. The GM not only has to be in the frame of mind to offer risk to his/her players, not only to be in the frame of mind to take something from his/her players that represents immeasurable amounts of time and care, but must also understand that this applies to the Non-Player Characters in his/her stable.

Those who follow The Adventures of the Colt Apollo will be aware that a parcticular nemesis/nuisance was killed by the players. He'd been around since the third or so game, had a great riffing relationship with the player of Jack Lightning, had a history, needs and wants. In short, he was a decent character.

I agonized right up to the point when he burst into the room, guns blazing, whether I wanted to put him here in a situation where the players would likely kill him.

Now some of the players will say that the only reason I decided to bring him into the battle was because I was challenged, nay veritably slapped in the face and accused various indecent things because it looked I wasn't going to. And while I was looking around for some kind of excuse to leave him alone, I knew that when it comes to an adventure arc, there needs to be a payoff. Not putting this villain into the mix would have seen the adventure end with a number of henchmen dead or incarcerated. Throwing him into the mix after a series of battles at a moment where Jack Lightning wasn't able to use her guns as lethally as normal, was that risk that made the last game sing.

The trap that a lot of GM's fall into is the one where they've created a character as cool as the players and want to keep that player for ever and ever and play along just as if he/she is a player-character too. This isn't always a villain, sometimes it's ally, sometimes it's a mentor. It ties back to 'Why do I give a shit' (about this character) and the risk is you can give a diahaorretic tsunami of a bowel movement that leaves the characters with a foul taste in their mouth whenever this pretender-player-character arrives on-scene.

Now I'm not necessarily prescribing death for these characters in every instance, the example I have provided is just one case however where death, used as closure, can enhance the story to the satisifcation of the players. The risk averted was the non-player character being resented because he was just too cool for the players-- that he could do things way better and look better while doing them.

Don't forget who you're here to entertain.

Little bit of Comics fandom to have with your RPG nerd...

Way back when in the days of Marvel Comics where Frank Miller was writing Daredevil, he introduced the character 'Electra', whose purpose was to establish in the mind of the reader that she was kick-ass enought to take Daredevil on, but also form a bond with the reader through her and DD's romantic entanglement that would serve two functions: Establish how much more kick-ass Bullseye was when he killed her, and to develop pathos in Daredevil's fight for revenge. After this was done, Miller responded to the fans expectations/requests, simply saying that she wasn't intended to live, but thanks anyway.

Then Marvel executives noticed the attention she received. And pretty much said that Miller could write a new story in which she comes back to life, or they'd get another writer to do it. Miller, hoping to preserve his character in some form, opted to write the reserrecution in an attempt to his story justice...

Nowadays Electra has been resurrected more times than Jesus and Elvis and hasn't held a straight 15 issues of quality since her return.

There is one last thing to make mention of here, and it's how a character's death is handled by the players. GM's, if you're lucky, this will be the roughest thing you'll ever have to do to a friend, and yet it doesn't make them any easier to be around for the next 15 to 30 minutes. I've had players lose characters in my games before and only once, I think, it actually went well *. Every other time has been a short play on the Seven Steps of Loss and its a show that repeats itself regardless of player or location. The best things I've learnt is:

Check the rules. Have your players forgotten something that might save them? Nine times out of ten, the player will throw the character sheet in your face before thinking about opening the game book.

Give them a break. In fact, pause the game to bring things back to a less tense moment.

Try to discourage other players from throwing in their own two cents unless it's something that
would actually save the character, at least until things have settled down.

Ask the player if it's okay to return to the game when things have settled. Make sure you ask them if they want to stick around. Usually this character death is what the players are going to use as inspiration for some feat of daring do and it's good that the character still has some influence in the game.

Don't ask, or necessarily accept, a new character during the same game if you can help it.

And finally, for the players who are GM's, don't give your current GM too much shit. Of all people, you should understand that player death cuts both ways and it's not like it's a barrel of laughs for us.

Unless you're one of those despotic GM's mentioned earlier.

And in that case, you can eat my entire arse.


*One situation in which a parcticularly annoying player, with a particularly annoying character, managed to get the rest of the party into such trouble that a bounty was called upon them. Said character was also a Munchkin, so it came as a surprise to us all when the weakest party member managed to sneak up behind him and blow the back of his head off.

What made it even better is the annoying player, busy throwing a tantrum and tearing up his character sheet, was frantically asked by the murdering player not to do that.

Because he wanted to see what kind of loot was left on the body. 

Those of us I remain in contact with remember this as the Halcyon Days of roleplaying.

Blue arcs of lightning swarmed across Harry Winsome's wiry body like ants, drawn to the device affixed to his belt buckle that protected the gunslinger from harm. He stepped past the burning, though no longer screaming, body of one of his fellow outlaws, the last distraction between him and Jack Lightning.

The Lightning Marshal was thinking fast. What the hell was Winsome doing here? Why now when her guns were at a fraction of their power? Had he been watching her use them on the disorderly workers? Did he decide to kill her now? Was this about the 'plans' or was it too good an opportunity to waste?

It was too good an opportunity, regardless of any other thoughts that might be crawling inside Winsome's head. But that was only if he underestimated her. Jack Lightning was still the fastest 'round these parts, and anything even resembling a weapon in her hands would make her no less deadly...

...such as the gun Samuel Colt had built into his cane!

Abandoned while its owner was being treated by Hans Octavius Wilhem, the gun-cane was but a diving roll away. All Jack needed was for Winsome to think he had the upper hand, underestimate her and it wouldn't take a second to get the gun, and shoot the grin off his face.

The grin that crept around the barrel of the Hellfire pistol aimed square at her. She could see the molten core of the barrel primed, saw his finger apply pressure to the trigger. He hadn't underestimated her at all.

And now only a force from on high could save Jacqueline Lightning.

The ceiling above them both shattered, wood and dust flying as a hairy fist ripped it apart from the third floor. Wendell Caine had heard all manner of goings on downstairs and he didn't waste time with no fancy acrobatics or, for that matter, stairs. He just fixed a line between him and whatever need hitting and woe betide anything in the way.

One of the things in the way, now shattered from its coupling, was a brass pipe that ran along between the floor and ceiling. As Caine landed on the second floor gas, that would normally be pumped through the pipe to heat baths, was now being pumped into room...

And Harry Winsome, too fast for his own good, lit the match!

The fireball swelled to double, and then triple its size before Jack Lightning pulled her eyes away and turned to the window. The force of the explosion washed her in fire, ripped her off her feet and threw her out the window toward the street below. Even aflame, the Lightning brand of reflexes reached out and grabbed onto the railings, propelling her into the second floor verandah and wrenching her shoulder into twisting agongy. Still, she was spared further damage.

Harry Winsome had been blown out the front door and into the hall, wicked burns up his hands and arms and scored across his face. Wendell Caine had dived into Colt's sturdy bathtub, mildy singed for his troubles. Picking himself up, the Mountain Marshal stormed toward Winsome who, without success, was trying to get bring his guns up. Abandoning the Hellfire Pistols, he inched his fingers toward his bowler hat instead as Caine reached down and hefted the gunslinger. Flipping a switch within it's brim, a piece of the hatband flew off and revealed a ticking timer. Winsome's trademark grin had turned manic, but Caine didn't care about the rictus grin or whatever was going on with his hat. With one granite fist crushing the device on his belt buckle and the other secured to the lapel, Caine coiled his muscles and threw Winsome out the same window Jack Lightning had been flung through.

Jack, coat still on fire, could only watch as Harry Winsome sailed over her head and, not possessing any fortunate handholds within reach, crunched in a bodily heap on the main street of Ascension to the wide eyes and slack jaws of all who had suffered under him. Only now did Jack spare a thought for her own wellfare and, as luck would have it, the water trough she'd used previously to scale Etheric Delights was right below her. All she needed to do was simply to let go. So she did.

Oblivious to the splash outside, Wendell Caine was ready to leap out the window himself to finish things with Winsome when a ticking noise at his feet alerted him to the bowler hat at his feet. Intended to make the Mountain Marshal dive for cover and, prior to being thrown through the window, effect an escape to his waiting horse, Winsome was surprised that Wendell had gone with a third option and simply sent the bowler hat sailing out after it's owner. Staggering to his feet, the gunslinger snaked a hand upward, plucked the hat from the sky and returned it to his head, tipping it in gratitude. The timer ended but it only signalled that the hat was a diversion and even though he was lurching awkwardly with each step maybe, Winsome thought, he might be able to make it to that horse yet.

A fountain of water splashed upward as a now-extinguished Jack Lightning leapt from the trough. Her feet landed on the edges and, despite being caught in the backdraft of the fireball, looked barely singed and naught the worse for wear. Producing both Lightning Coil Guns and, having the presence of mind to keep the wooden trough between her and the ground, she slammed both pistols together and unleashed a combined bolt that thundered across the main street and tore into Harry Winsome as easily as it tore the air between them. Electricity washed down the duster coat as Jack Lightning remained balanced across the trough, the crowd unaware that it was only the finely distributed balance of her position that prevented her from collapsing in a heap. As her vision swum, she could see the citizens of Ascension warily stepping out onto the street, approach Winsome and lightly kick him to see if he was breathing. He wasn't, and so the kicks became more vigorous as one could never be sure if he was faking...

Wilhem and and Caine emerged from Etheric Delights and were swept up in the cheer as workers from Colt and Ithaca threw their hats to the heavens, shook hands and were bound by the joy of a shared fear laying dead in the dirt. Wilhem, after checking that Jack wasn't about to die as well, went to find Madame Ether who, along with her girls, had taken refuge in a heavily reinforced room on the ground floor. Assuring them that all was safe, he directed two of the girls to fetch a stretcher and get Colt to Dr Gasket as quickly and as quietly as possible. Caine and Smokey rounded up the remaining outlaws along with Winsome's body - to the dismay of the scavengers sizing up his boots and clothes - and carted the lot to the Marshal's office where they were all shoved into the middle cell between Colt and Ithaca. The insults hurled between each company's workers froze as Winsome's corpse was stretched out between them. The Marshal's reputation in Ascension was made.

After Jack recovered and the town winded down from the excitement of the day, Wilhem, Caine and Lightning set about interrogating the living outlaws who had the unpleasant experience of sharing a cell with their former boss, as well as having neighbours from Colt and Ithaca who had been informed of their crimes of murdering the engineers as deduced by Wilhem by matching their boots to the prints at the crime scene. After a fearful night, they were only too happy to volunteer what information they could about what they had planned tonight, and their dealings with Winsome and the elusive Sam 'Spokey'Sampson. Unfortunately, Spokey had only ever trusted Winsome with his identity and that secret died with him. However a search of his belongings revealed a mirror that may have been used a signal device for communicating between Winsome and Spokey.

Releasing the brawlers of Colt and Ithaca, on condition that if they were ever found to be causing trouble again that they'd be fined, sentenced or worse, and fining the Ithacan worker his wages for using a knife, the cells were emptied of all but the outlaws as the Marshals rode out to Harry Winsome's house located on the outskirts of Ascension. A life of luxury awaited them inside, as well as a considerable amount of money in the floorboards as well as fifteen gunbelts of those who had challenged Winsome to a showdown. But no further clues as to Spokey's identity or whereabouts. Pleased that the tropheys did not include any from the Lightning family, Jack and Caine returned to Ascension for a well-earned rest.

Wilhem was not yet ready to sleep though. Taking a telescope up one of the neighbouring cliffs, the Iron Marshal scanned the horizon for any sign of Spokey Sampson's airship, the signal mirror close to hand. The horizon, however, remained empty save only for Wilhem's whispered words:

"A storm is coming, Sampson..."


A NEW ADVENTURE BEGINS IN THE CONTINUING TALES OF THE COLT APOLLO: 2ND ROUND, FIRST SALVO!

Gravity and shock from the bullet conspired to send Brendan Windlass crashing to the roof of the Ignit-Inn. Jack Lightning beat them both though as she tackeled the Colt foreman to the ground, just as a second shot rang out and a spark kicked up where they both had stood. The Lightning Marshal, distracted by the blood gurgling out of Windlass's lungs, as well as making sure that neither of them was no longer a target, was unable to identify the position of the shooter.

Wendell Caine, however, was not so encumbered. The first shot snapped his head toward Etheric Delights and, as he charged toward the building, the second shot zeroed the location on a room on the third floor. Not one to make plans, seek cover, or even zig-zag his path, The Mountain Marshal stormed across the street in a direct line for the gunman.

Hans Octavius Wilhem had positioned himself so that he, in his 12 gauge thick iron armour, protected as many of the assembled Colt and Ithaca workers as possible. The Iron Marshal was about to follow Caine across the street until Jack Lightning appeared beside him with the still bleeding Brendan Windlass over her shoulder-- the Lightning Marshal having left the roof, descended three floors and joining Wilhem before Caine had reached the shadow of Etheric Delights. Taking Windlass from her, Wilhem moved him behind the walls of the Ignit-Inn to diagnose the extent of his injuries. Concentrating soley on keeping the foreman alive, the Iron Marshal barely noticed Lightning taking off after Caine.

As the Mountain Marshal reached the foot of Etheric Delights, a hand as tough as worn stone clutching onto the railing of the first floor verandah. Hard muscle did the rest as Caine powered up the building. It may not have been as pretty as Jack Lightning, but he wasn't leaving the gunman any time to fire a third shot either. With even less regard for style, Caine's bear, Smokey, charged through the front door of the whorehouse and gambolled up the stairs, customers pouring out the door in his wake.

Landing on the third floor balcony, Caine saw the barrel of a rifle protruding from a window. It was partly closed and the curtains drawn, serving to mask the gunman at long range it was now to the detriment of the rifleman who was forced to employ the long-ranged weapon into close-range purpose. Caine simply wound his fist back and sent it crashing through the window, his knuckles finding the familiar feel of fragile flesh and crushing it to the ground. The rest of the Mountain Marshal followed through the window, glass shattering around him as he leapt into the room.

The gunman was laid out on the floor, the rifle poking upward like a flagpole on account of a large green-lensed telescope which was both fastened to the rifle and to the gunman's eyesocket. The rest of the room was all shadows save for the moonlight that streamed through the broken window and reflected off the edge of razor-sharp metal. An accomplice shared the room with one other, hiding himself behind one of the scantily clad women who, no doubt, worked here. One arm was wrapped around her corsetted waist, the other holding the glinting knife to her throat. The consequences of closing the distance between marshal and outlaw were clear and Caine, knowing he couldn't reach him quick enough to stop him, slowly moved his calloused hands toward the rifle strapped behind his shoulders instead. He didn't have a chance.

One booted foot landed on the water trough outside Etheric Delights. The second landed on the hitching post next to it and, leaping from floor to floor, Jack Lightning dove through the broken window, rolled to her feet, drew one of her Lightning Coil Throwers, and fired, all before her duster coat brushed her spurred heels. The normally lethal electric gun would have killed both outlaw and hostage but, thanks to Wilhem's modifications, the reduced charged simply stunned them both, sending them crashing to the floor. The worse thing the woman would feel was a pounding headache. For the outlaw, it would be the least of his troubles. Behind the collapsed pair, the door exploded inward and Smokey lumbered into the room, a third outlaw dangling by his britches between the jaws of the giant bear.

Meanwhile, Hans Octavius Wilhem bent both his skill and the four mechanical arms mounted on his armour to the task of preventing Windlass from drowning in his own blood. The Iron Marshal was the first to admit that his knowledge of the inner working of machines far outstripped his knowledge of the inner workings of men and, as he put it, his skills were limited to 'First-Aid'. Fortunately in the wild frontier, First-Aid included a surgeon's ability to treat bullet wounds and, having removed the bullet and suturing what he could with the resources available, he ensured that Colt would retain their foreman after a considerable amount of bedrest. Tasking two of the workers from the mob of onlookers, he ordered them to find a stretcher and get Windlass to Dr Richard Garrett. Rising to his feet, the Iron Marshal stormed toward Etheric Delights, certain that what limited skills in medicine he had would be needed within.

Despite his feet barely brushing the ground and powerful teeth and claws mere inches from rending him apart, the outlaw had one last card to play.

"You're too late! My partner's got Colt hostage!" the rest of the threat lost to another gunshot that echoed a floor below them. Colt's room, Jack realised! Despite the chill that rushed down her spine, the marshal's face was as hard and cold as granite. Her body though flowed like liquid as she sped toward the broken window, jumped over the balcony, sent one hand out to grasp onto the railing and swung herself down through the window of Samuel Colt's room.

Inside, the eldery Colt was propped between floor and wall, blood pouring out of his shoulder. The Lightning Marshal couldn't determine whether it had perforated the lung and, for the moment, didn't care for the millisecond it took to deal with the outlaw with the smoking gun. Jack had only needed one hand to effect her entry to the room, the other still brandishing the Lighting Coil Thrower which discharged again into the chest of the gunman. He crashed to the floor in a convulsing heap as Octavius Wilhem stomped onto the second floor.

Upstairs, Caine detained the third outlaw captured by Smokey by punching him until he stopped moving. Downstairs the Iron Marshal was hoping that Colt would still be able to move. The elderly industrialist's breathing was ragged and, sparing no time at all in a charge that would have made the marshal one floor above proud, plowed a straight line toward Samuel Colt, casting furniture, glassware and crockery aside with each step. Cradling Samuel Colt, Wilhem stormed out, commandeering one the rooms down the hall, evicting its occupants who had thought to keep their heads low and hide until the shooting and smashing stopped. But there was still one more outlaw left.

Strolling into the second floor room, his feet a measured pace and in stark contrast to the blur his hands made, Harry Winsome drew his guns. Each hand was filled with the elemental fury of a Hellfire pistol as it disgorged a ball of napalm. The first shot struck the still twitching criminal, consuming in a raging conflaguration that, undoubtedly, matched the deaths of the Colt engineers. The second round flew toward Jack Lightning, who was already rolling to the side as the fireball shot past her, while drawing the second Lightning Coil Thrower. Smoothly rising to her feet, reflexes for which the Lightning Clan was notorious the world over, send two bolts of electricity dead centre into Winsome's chest.

And he stood there, still grinning as the sparks washed over him before being swallowed by a device fastened on his belt.

TO BE CONTINUED IN PART 4

Note: LiveJournal swallowed the first draft of this post, which I didn't realise until I posted Part 4. I'm sad, pissed off and it's 1:14am. Apologies to those reading it as I feel this is of poorer quality to the original draft and the rest of the entries, but it will have to do until I get the chance to edit it after some sleep.

With nothing left to do but wait and trade on the gullibility of criminals, the three marshals turned their attention to PayDay. Three marshals against the arrayed workforce of Colt Industries and Ithaca Rifling Company...

"A big fuckin' bear in front of the Ignit-Inn has a way of stopping trouble."

They weren't concerned.

Making use of the woefully small Marshal's office, the lawmen assigned the three cells; one for Colt, one for Ithaca and one for any grasping hands or swinging fists inbetween. The rest of the town was making preparations as well. Brasshorn's Tavern and the Ignit-Inn didn't get a lot of business as most folk were resting up for the next day, so they closed early to do the same. Dr Richard Gasket laid out the bandages and splints in readiness. The Widow Garrett got the week's orders prepared. The women of Etheric Delights turned down the beds with clean sheets. Ascension depended on the next two days to survive so comfort was paramount.

The marshals recognized this as well.

"By altering your guns, ve could generate a lower capacity of shock that would stun ze victim," Octavius Wilhem explained to the bewildered Jack Lightning.

"Not... kill them..." Jack said, trying each word as if something would break under her thinking.

"You vould be able to generate a lethal pulse by joining ze guns together," Wilhem explained slowly.

Jack turned the idea over as Wilhem expounded that while they wanted to send a message to the workers about the law, it wouldn't be heard if the listener was dead.

Jack smiled "I can live with that. And so can the townsfolk," It wasn't so much that Jack Lightning was bloodthirsty, just that Lightning clan wasn't big on second chances.

Wendell Caine had a different message in mind for occasions like this. He had 'The Speech'. And if things were going to go the way the Lawmen expected, there would be plenty of audiences that would get to hear it.

After retiring early with a full night of peace-keeping in mind, the lawmen set about patrolling as the first truckload of workers mustered into town. Aside from the noise, there wasn't much to charge folk with but each watched the workers closely with Wilhem patrolling near Etheric Delights, Lightning near the Ignit-Inn and Caine near Brasshorn's.

First sign of trouble started at Brasshorn's when a Ithaca worker found an excuse to shove a knife into the shoulder of a Colt worker. Caine moved between the two at a speed that was less about grace and more about shoving people out of the way.

"Damn Colt bastard's tryin' to cheat me out of my pay," the Ithacan protested. Inside the saloon, an overturned table with cards and chips strewn across the floor completed the scene.

"Don't care," Caine stated, grasping the Ithacan with vice-like cordiality and stripping the knife from his hand. "We don't tolerate no weapons in arguements."

"I hearda you lot!" The Ithacan protested as his knifing arm went numb. "You a bunch a Colt lovers!"

"I'm what you call 'impartial'," Caine stated. There was a growl from over the Ithacan's other shoulder. "So's the bear."

Smokey's calming influence stopped further protests and the Ithacan allowed himself to be hauled off to the Marshal's office.

Word slowly began to spread as a couple more brawls were broken up throughout the afternoon. So far, nothing serious had errupted but it was clear to all of the Lawmen and citizens of Ascension that back-breaking straw had yet to fall. Still, it was a testament to the marshal's effectiveness and Jack Lightning's reputation that it wasn't until early evening that it did.

A fight started in the Ignit-Inn and spilled out on the streets. Like oil on fire, it spread out, consuming each Colt and Ithacan worker in a rage that saw them lash out, just as they were struck. All three lawmen stepped into the middle of the brawl and as knuckled skinned against Wilhem's iron armour, jaws bruised near breaking under Caine's rocky fists or uncontrolled spasms took them in a haze of blue from Lightning's guns, the fight slowed enough that Caine began 'The Speech'.

"Workers of Colt and Ithaca, LISTEN UP!" Everyone did.

Anyone starts somethin', get's their fuckin' head kicked in!"

"Anyone instigating to start somethin', gets their fuckin' head kicked in!"

"Anyone who looks at me or the bear funny... GET'S THEIR FUCKIN' HEAD KICKED IN! Good evenin'."

It was all Wilhem and Lightning could do not to say 'Amen' as the crowd silently moved back into the Ignit-Inn and headed for the bar.

With a quick break for dinner, the lawmen of Ascension returned to keeping the peace. 'The Speech' had travelled beyond the Ignit-Inn since then and it was doing the job. The night was young but it seemed like the message had finally settled into the workers. The cells had a couple of men from either camp in them, but not as many as it expected.

But even 'The Speech' couldn't quite settle the workers down over the Ithcan deaths sustained from the Indians or whatever had incinerated the Colt engineers

Atop the third story of the Ignit-Inn, crying down from the roof like a grease-stained prophet from on high, the call for mob justice was being led by Colt foreman, Brendan Windlass.

"Two engineers, friends of ours, DEAD!" he shouted. The words carried straight through the ears and into hearts of the assembled audience of Colt workers.

"Them two, tried to rip us off!" came the loud retort. The Ithacan crowd made way for Ned Trunnion, foreman of Ithaca. "And we damn well lost five men to them savages and you don't hear us crying about it!"

Windlass didn't even hear the retort except for the words 'rip', 'us', 'off'. "You called that down on yer own head, Trunnion! And if it weren't for that, we wouldn't be rebuildin' the mansion!"

"Cry me a fuckin' river, Windlass! Ain't nobody can predict what fuckin' thing goes on in the mind o'those savage bastards!" Trunnion said. And then he stopped as the immovable iron clad form of Octavius Wilhem towered over him. Caine and Smokey were staring down the crowd of some forty Colt Workers. And winning.

Jack Lightning went straight for the roof of the Ignit-Inn, striding up the side of the building as if there were a gilded staircase under her feet. The Lightning Marshal had Brendan Windlass by the shoulder before he could gather breath to keep shouting.

"You're disturbin' the peace," Lightning said as ice frosted over her words before cold realisation, of just how much trouble he was in, reached Windlass's ears.

"There needs to be... justice," the word sticking in his throat as he met Jack Lightning's eyes. 'Arguments over' was all he saw that left room for him being able to walk from this arguement. Or at all.

Her reputation speaking volumes, Jack Lightning made ready to haul the foreman down and into the cells for a night of appreciating the depths of fortune that he still drew breath.

And then fortune left him as a bullet teared through the centre of Windlass's chest...

TO BE CONTINUED IN PART 3

Roasted horseflesh competed with a blizzard of flies and high noon temperatures as the second thing angering Marshals Jack Lightning, Hans Octavius Wilhem and Wendell Caine today. First and foremost was the murder of two engineers belonging to Samuel Colt, whose only crime was crossing notorious gunslinger Harry Winsome. Of Winsome though, his crimes stood numerous, the murders of the engineers simply being the latest, but they happened in stark defiance of the Marshals' authority and the lack of clues present at the crime scene was the most annoying thing of all.

Despite the evidence being as barren as the surrounding desert, Marshal Wilhem had an eagle's eye when it came to details. Already deducing the murderers had effected an escape by way of airship rendeavouz, the Iron Marshal had committed the boots of the criminals to mind for future comparison with people in the town of Ascension-- specifically those of Winsome. Otherwise, there was little that could be found here and the Marshals saddled up and made ready to return to the town.

Wendell Caine may not have possessed the eye for detail that Wilhem had, but he did have a cunning mind won by years of hunting in the bear country of West Virginia.

"We should also make sure that the backup plans Colt had made are safe," he said after a while.

The years of working together had formed a rapport such that Jack Lightning and Octavius Wilhem merely nodded agreement. Each knew in that there wouldn't have been time for copies to be drawn up but that didn't mean that others did.

The small town of Ascension welcomed its lawmen back with quiet indifference. Things were typically slow, the latest adventures notwithstanding, for five days a week. However on 'Payday', the workers from Camps Colt and Ithaca would avail themselves of Ascension's businesses. Already expecting a busy night, the fact that men had been murdered was sure to add a savagery to the proceedings that would tax each of the lawmen's faculties. And with one day left, the marshals wasted no time heading to Etheric Delights, where Samuel Colt had set up temporary residence and was making good use of the whorehouse's bar.

The inventor of the revolving chamber, entrepeneaur of a mass-produced pistol and developer of underwater telegraph lines had turned his attention to a bottle of scotch as he awaited the news. Watching over him, Wilhemina Ether, propietor and madame of Etheric Delights was rehearsing how she was going to convince the elderly Colt to sleep it off without having to resort to the usual tricks of the trade. Her relief was visible as the marshals joined Colt at his table and while it was obvious that the news was not good, that they were able to drag Colt back up to his room meant she didn't have to. There was a part of her more than a little interested why, in the midst of whispered conversation, that the impressively large Marshal, Caine, had boomed something about obtaining a copy of some plans, but the Mountain Marshal was not known for subtlety of any stripe.

In Colt's room, the Marshals informed the gunsmith of the plan.

"Vhat we need of you iz to send vord of a telegram announcing your possession of zhese 'plans' in a manner zhat will get back to those responsible for your loss," Wilhem explained.

"In the meantime," Jack Lightning drawled, "We'll take possession of these 'plans' for 'safekeeping'," gesturing at the empty documents folder she had tucked under her duster coat.

"Hopefully zhey will vant to be thorough," Wilhem finished. Colt had said little but he was not so far drunk that he couldn't follow the plan. With their roles understood, the marshals left, with Colt following some time later to make his telegram.

Returning to the streets, the Marshal's headed back to their office when they were interrupted by an overly cheerful good morning. Winsome was taking coffee on the porch of Brasshorn's Saloon.

"I got word of some more activity of them loathsome savages, sneaking about last night," Winsome said as they neared.

"Ze natives are not here anymore," Wilhem replied, keeping his tone neutral and to the point. "Zhey have said that zhey are moving camp."

"Ah, but who can trust the word of such creatures," Winsome said as he stretched out and propped his boots on the porch. Wilhem already compared the soles to the shape of those found at the crime scene. That they didn't match simply meant that Winsome owned more than one pair.

"If you have any information, I expect that you'll tell us," Jack said. Her poise and manner completely ofuscated the building need to settle this in the traditional Lightning manner. Her hands stayed relaxed and by her sides.

"Of course. One must be ever vigilant against those with no respect for civility," Winsome replied while turning his attention back to the cup of black coffee he was nursing. He hadn't made it obvious but Jack was certain that he'd seen the 'plans' poking out from under her coat as well as spying Colt making his way to the General Store to send his telegram.

Caine had already grown tired of the conversation and had made way to the Marshal's office. The other two caught up. The trap had been set, now all they had to do was prevent Ascension from being caught up in any violence resulting from tomorrow's 'PayDay'.

TO BE CONTINUED IN PART 2

Yep, still testing, both the mobile manifesto as well as Chilli Hot Chocolate from the coffee place I can't see the name of but is located on the 3rd floor of the David Jones Building.

Results:

If you're reading this, then it worked.

Also, I want another Chilli Hot Chocolate!

For those of you who care of such things, Pocket Brain 2.0, the Nokia N95, has been traded for a Nokia N97, likely Pocket Brain 3! Not having much to say yet about the next Behind the Screen and still gathering notes of the previous Adventures of the Colt Apollo, let's turn attention to what's on the DVD shelf.

Saturday was spent watching State of Play, the TV series. Hadn't heard of the movie adaptation until I studied the front cover a bit more closely. I was distracted by David Morrissey, John Simms and Bill Nighy! Can't say I'd pursue the movie anyway, likely attributed to the fact that it possesses none of the aforementioned actors.

A quick word about Bill Nighy. I strongly suspect my abiding love and respect for him as an actor may well be akin to the exuberance one feels if you like Sean Connery and are female (although I know some males who share this). More so than how he portrays a character though, I think it's the ethic of the man that enchants me so. He will play ANYTHING up to and including the same vampire elder in three movies that, frankly, didn't deserve the notion of sequels. Whether it's Love Actually or Pirates of the Caribean or Valkyrie and regardless of the quality of the screenplay, I always get to see a great performance out of him. State of Play is no difference.

Aside from Nighy, it's a cast of thousands from the aforementioned Morrissey and Simms, to Phillip Glenister (who, I'm convinced, was given the direction for Gene Hunt to "Play it like Bell, only louder"), James Mackavoy, who suits this much better than Wanted, Marc Warren (See above only replace Gene Hunt for Danny Blue) and the lovely Polly Walker who it was great to watch in something other than Rome. It is recommended.

Sometime tonight after fencing, I'm either going to finally watch the fifth season of Alias or I'll start from Season 1.

Alias has often put me at odds with friends whenever we swap TV series, and I can understand their reasons why, but there are things that draw me to this series and what got me to buy, now, all five seasons. The first rule is you cannot, despite, all attempts to the contrary, treat it like an action spy series.

People watch spy series to see someone competent outwit, outfight or outspy their opponents. Sydney Bristow does not do this; at least not often enough to have her meet the above criteria. Typically she's flying by the seat of her pants on improvisation and no small amount of luck, or help from those who have a vested interest in keeping her alive.

It does, however, play well as a pulp action, get the treasure, find the X on the map affair and it's how JJ Abrahms operates as a showrunner. Changing the expecations improves this series somewhat.

I'm also impressed that the dynamic of the show changed from season to season. Most TV up to that point found their rut and dug in quite happily. Alias went and changed it up in Season 2, and had the balls not to do it as a finale affair. A not inconsiderable amount of balls required for this considering that 'Reality' TV had been marching its way along the broken bodies of scripted TV series. Alias had its audience and a formula that could have vomited enough storylines to turn it into a wasted ruin of a premise and yet it Abrahms was only willing to hold it's hair back for so long. Taking something already winning and changing it mid 2nd season still impresses me.

Granted things kinda fell apart regardless and they could have wrapped up the Rambaldi line about third season in, but I am curious to see how, if at all, this concludes. I am, however, expecting some disappointment, not least of which is having to shift down from from the standards of BBC writing to American fare (Dexter and Burn Notice notwithstanding).

Now to hit post and see how this works.

Who wants what?
Why can't they have it?
Why do I give a shit?

Any narrative worth its salt, regardless of genre or medium, needs to address these three questions. The bastardry an author has to apply in order to cut through the complexity of his/her tale to provide these answers is gut-wrenching, but ultimately necessary though; as all stories are conflict and the good ones are those that make the narrative into the reader's conflict.

This would make the application of these questions into a medium in which it literally is the reader's (or player, rather) conflict, something of a simpler chore? Perhaps, but not without its own challenges.

Before we get too sidetracked, lets look at each question:

Who wants what: Ah the joy of divided labour. Players are the stars of the story and, as such, can manufacture their own needs and wants. And ideally this is true. Most often, there is a larger goal behind a player-character (PC) that motivates them through the story. This can be broad (Find the six-fingered man and kill him for murdering my father) and can be the basis of story development or player decision at whim. For complex characters and better players, there may be smaller goals that lead into bigger ones (Hire capable yet dense henchmen to kidnap a prospective queen, kill her in a manner that casts blame upon a richer or better positioned kingdom, get paid and continue to use vast intellect to manipulate the noble class in ways they cannot begin to fathom because I'm compensating for any chance of finding someone who'd love me for who I am, nor being able to compete in anything other than a meaningful, educated or "civilised" way).

Ahem

And as the Storyteller of the group, your challenge becomes weaving this character motivation, or want, into your story and doing it in such a way that it ties into the story elements that you want your players to reach (That six-fingered man could be an advisor to the nefarious noble looking to start a war with his neighbour). The ideal outcome is to place a character's wants into your story, as well as take the story's goals and make them something that the player wants to achieve. And so the circle is complete.

Conflict is what you're hoping to manufacture with your games, and here is what your power-gamer or 'Munchkin' fails to grasp. It's not about steamrolling through obstacles (unless it involves hoards of disposable henchmen), it's the rocky road of actually confronting and overcoming these obstacle that makes for enjoyment. It's all in the journey.

Which leads into 'Why Can't They Have It?' but there are other angles to consider when answering this question. You want conflict, but you don't want to make it unassailable. You want to use it as a carrot, but you don't want the player to confuse it for the stick. This is particularly important as your player will come to resent what the character wants because it's become a continuing source of trouble. Other players might feel this way too. This diminshes enjoyment in the character and it can diminish the respect for the Storyteller. As well it should because if the Storyteller can't care enough to work this broad idea of yours into his/her story, then what chance exists for any spontantaeity or innovation or ROLEPLAY in the game?

So, for the Storytellers, here's that song again: This is a collaborative medium, your players are there to have fun, you're there to ensure you give them fun through the pleasure of storytelling and if your narrative can't support independent action, then work on it by yourself and let me know when I can buy the book or see the movie.

Which brings us to 'Why do I give a shit?' and for this question, most of all, it cuts both ways.

The non-player characters in the story, be they evil overlords, wizend mentors or overprotective parents all WANT something too. And while the focus should remain on the PC's, it enhances the character that those they hate, love or simply interact with, present a complexity of character based off what they desire. Overprotective Parent more or less answers itself. Wizened Mentor may be one of the parents, or may have an agenda of his/her own (Such as ending a wedding that will result in humiliation for the Prince that fired him). The villain may have more than self-aggrandizement in mind, or perhaps justifies his actions in a way that makes a peverse sense. (Such as declaring war with a neighbouring kingdom to increase the wealth and land for his people).

One of the best examples of the latter is Baron Wulfenbach from the comic Girl Genius, who ruled with the best of intentions, while his heroic and perhaps better-suited friends were missing. But because he was not as clever, or perhaps too clever, he believed that tyranny was the only effective way to keep the peace. It is stunning characterisation and recommended reading in general for those looking to add an extra dimension to their non-player characters.

The thing to take away is; the richer and more detailed your story, the more opportunities exist for your players to pursue or interact with. From that interaction, new wants may surface.

As much as a Storyteller must try to work in the wierd and wonderful reasons that player-characters do what they do, there are some characters that may be at odds to the story in the whole. And while I champion the idea of working your characters into the story, if your story hasn't started, then there is opportunity to discuss with your player your concerns and compare your ideas with his/her's. Take the time to ask questions, listen to the answers and don't be afraid to ask for changes that both of you can accept. 'Mutually benefical' is the watchword and if you think it means giving up things, then rethink why you want to run game in the first place.

Make no mistake, you have to want to tell a story and, given how much your players enjoy it, you may end up telling this story for years. Literally years! So part of gaining this insight into players and ensuring that they have fun AS MUCH AS YOU DO means that you have to give a shit most of all.

And your players will as well.

Ew.

Harry Winsom's lanky form had eased itself against the side of the building - neighbouring the Marshal's office as well as the prototype bullet and affording him a comfortable view of both - lazy like a rubber band attached to counterweight that was waiting for the signal to snap taught.

Marshal Hans Octavius Wilhem was not garbed in his familiar and secure iron armour, but the lawman's education had not been limited to universities abroad. A life of bringing justice to the wild frontier required a selection of armour and the chainmail lining his jacket - The Impermeable - would stop most bullets.

Assuming that the gambler and reputed gunslinger's ammunition was limited to bullets.

"Eventful afternoon, don't you agree?" Winsom continued, filling the gap in conversation between the two.

"Ja," Wilhem agreed and, retrieving the dusty ball of opium retrieved from the water-powered piano at the Ignit-Inn, added "I believe zhis is yours."

Inclined to outlast, rather than outdraw his opponents, the ball of opium flicked out his hands and at Winsom at speeds that wouldn't give Jack Lightning pause. But the question about the criminal gunslinger was not not necessarily how fast he was, but what technological advantage he might use to obtain his reputation.

The fact that he was able to pluck the opium of the air as if it were hanging suspended, confirmed his skills were not manufactured.

Not waiting to see what denials or stories Winsom might concoct, Wilhem took his findings and went into the office to change into something more secure. Jack Lightning could deal with this when she arrived. In the meantime, the Iron Marshal had to build an extra couple of rooms to the woefully small office and the outdoors work would ensure that he could keep an eye on Winsom.

Wilhem had fastened the last gauntlet in place when Jack Lightning and Wendell Caine returned. Informing the Lightning Marshal of their neighbour, Wilhem press-ganged Caine into helping him with the renovations. Lightning left the office quietly, rounded the building on Winsom's blindside and appeared next to him. Winsom did not appear surprised.

"Marshal?"

"Mind if I ask what you're doin' here?" Jack said, relaxing against the same wall but keeping her Lightning Coil Guns at casual, but ready reach.

"Gainfully employed, Miss Lightning," Winsom smiled around his words as he shifted to look Jack in the eye as well as ready himself for any sudden movements.

"Oh really?" Jack returned the smile.

"Indeed. The fine proprietors of Ithaca Rifling Company hired me to ensure that their property was protected while they returned with the price Mr Colt set."

"And how," Jack drawled, "Do you intend to protect their property?"

"Normally I just ask folks and they tend to make themselves agreeable to my thinkin'," the drawl just barely covering the menance behind his words.

"So long as it's kept to words," Jack replied. "The bullet is in our care until Ithaca and Colt conclude their business." Her piece said, Jack walked back to the office.

"I'm not anticipating any problems." she heard as she went inside. In the meantime, Wilhem and Caine were measuring plans and errecting posts out back. The afternoon continued in a tense peace until the engineers from Colt Industries arrived.

"Mind if I ask your business here?" Winsom called as Wilhem allowed the two to examine the bullet under the tarp.

The engineers looked warily at his approach. Wilhem responded for them.

"Until ze price has been met, this bullet remains ze property of Mr Colt."

"My understandin' was that you were hangin' onto that bullet to keep peace and ensure that patent rights weren't violated," Winsom said, his eyes not leaving the nervous engineers.

Caine and his bear, Smokey, had placed themselves close to Winsom. Jack Lightning, having heard the discussion, was positioned by a window inside the office. Wilhem placed his armoured form between the engineers and Winsom.

"It is a matter for a judge to decide und Ithaca haz ze right to pursue ze matter in court," he stated with no small pleasure. "Until zhen, ze bullet falls under scavenger rights und Mr Colt is within zhem to have his engineers examine it."

"Unless you want to force the issue," Caine grinned, the mountain marshal still hefted a stout oak pole that would either find itself embedded in the ground, or through the gambler/gunslinger.

Time stretched as Winsom regarded the situation. Then, looking down at the ground, he shrugged and said "I guess Ithaca is gonna have to get used to disappointment." And with that, he turned on his heel and left.

Jack Lightning emerged from her vantage point and joined her companions as they resumed planting the oak poles.

"That seemed to go well," she observed.

"Ja, though I think I have dug us enough holes," Wilhem said as the final pole sank into the earth.

The building continued while Colt's engineers sketched out some plans for the bullet. It was late afternoon when all was finished and the engineers returned to Colt's room at Etheric Delights.

As the sky turned purple with twilight's approach, the familiar sound of the engine carrying William Henry Baker and Leroy Smith grew louder as their car arrived in Ascension and parked outside Etheric Delights. After a couple of minutes, the two emerged with Samuel Colt in tow to reclaim their property. Another engine, as loud as the truck that had brought the bullet into Ascension, rumbled around the Marshal's office and Ithaca's workers set about moving the bullet onto their truck.

"I appreciate the precautions you took, Marshals," Baker said, impressed at Wilhem's barrier and Jack's covering.

Knowing that there would be trouble anyway when Harry Winsom briefed them, Wilhem informed the Ithaca proprietors of Colt's Engineers. Baker's rare moment of manners was quickly abandoned.

"This is outrageous behaviour for lawmen not long to this area!" he swore. For his part the slender Leroy Smith, engineer and chief looked gutted that his property had been treated as such and turned his full attention to guiding the bullet onto the transport, leaving Baker to rail against Colt, the Marshals, Winsom or anyone else who had the slightest connection to their problems. Both the marshals and Colt were without sympathy and, after numerous threats of lawsuit, Baker and Smith charged into their automobile and tore away from Ascension with the bullet in tow.

Enforcing the law was hungry work and, happy to put this behind them, hte marshals opted to eat in at the office; Caine and Jack eating Jack's best, and only known recipe; bacon and beans. Wilhem received a plate from Etheric Delights but took the meal with them as they discussed future plans. With payday for Colt and Ithaca approaching in two days time, things would end up being rowdy again and Wilhem hoped to have the extensions far enough along that a couple more cells would be ready.

Taking advantage of a peaceful night, the marshals got some hard-earned sleep.

The next morning as the Marshals were settling in and drinking coffee on the porch of their office, Samuel Colt approached them and offered his most sincere thanks for their help the previous day. Jack was quick to brush off the thanks, stating only that it was their job and that peace in Ascension was its own reward. Unfortunately it was a reward that would have to wait as Colt asked the marshals to check on his engineers who had journeyed back to the camp in the late afternoon and hadn't been seen since. A chill went through each lawman as they remembered how agreeable Harry Winsom had been and the three set out, following the tracks left by the engineers. They did not have long to travel.

A couple of hours outside of Ascension, the remains of the engineers had been left in the desert sands, their bodies burned to a crisp. Both of their horses had been taken and while the engineers' attackers had taken effort to conceal their own horses, the extra mounts had left a trail that Caine could follow. Readying their mounts, Caine led the way over miles of dirt and rock until they arrived at the second charred remains of that morning. Five horses were smoking ruins and while there were easily visible tracks of three men, none of them appeared to have left the scene.

Wilhem looked skyward and muttered "Ve have an airship to ground."

THE ADVENTURE CONTINUES IN COLT APOLLO: RELOAD

The peace had briefly returned to the town of Ascension but it had also brought curiosity along for the ride. The idling truck containing the test bullet had brought crowds out from their businesses and while no one was inclined to get close to it, not least because it may explode, the fact was that it wasn't just Colt that wanted to get a look.

Unwilling to negotiate the nightmare of a patent infringement suit, Hans Octavius Wilhem directed the bullet-bearing truck to drive to the marshal's office but as he made to follow, he felt Samuel Colt's withered hand across his shoulder.

"I appreciate your help in this matter, marshal," he said warily as if testing the next sentence to see if it would hold. "I assume that I'll see you later on to get a closer look at my property?"

"I don't think zat is vise, Mr Colt," the German marshal responded, bracing himself for further tirades. "If zhere is a case for patent infringement, Ithaca vill be sure to follow it, if just to stall your project."

Expecting a furious response, Wilhem was taken aback by the flood of sadness that pratically bent the old man over with years of woe.

"I don't care about that," Colt's voice cracking as he spoke. "Them bastards actions have cost me more than lab equipment as the safety of this town. They've cost me time!"

Wilhem saw clearly, in each weathered line, the deadline that Colt was trying to keep. "As you vish," he said, walking off to the truck. "Send your engineers to me vhen zhey arrive."

Jack Lightning and Wendel, Caine already at the truck, were once more trying to stretch their somewhat limited education around the idea of travelling to the moon.

"...I'm just saying it's a pretty small target to hit," Jack drawled.

"I still don't get why we're even tryin'," Caine responded. "Wilhem telled me it's not made of cheese, it's all covered in dust and there ain't no air up there!"

"Iz all about ze journey,"Wilhem sighed as he neared the bullet. "Iz ze exploration that's important."

Caine eyed the ruined bullet, disdain smuggled under years of mattered facial hair. "Not for the fools inside," he declared.

The conversation continued as Wilhem tried, yet again, to answer the salvo of questions and ill-formed opinions of Jack and Caine while they guided the truck to the Marshal's office. Once the bullet was unloaded, Wilhem retrieved his steam train and circled it around the remains to act as a barrier.

"That won't keep prying eyes away," Jack said. True enough, Cole Buchanan sprinted out of the Ignit-Inn in a dead straight line toward the bullet.

"Oh my god, is that it?" he exclaimed, not even waiting for an answer or for oxygen. "The first ever moon rocket?"

"Didn't quite get that far, Buckshot" Caine growled. Buckshot Buchannan ignored him, still getting closer to the bullet as if pulled by some magnetic force.

"It's really happening isn't it?" he breathed.

"Yep, we are one step closer to the lifeless, airless ball of dust called The Moon. Woooeee." Caine's voice was as flat as the surrounding plateaus.

"Buckshot, I don't suppose you have something we could use to cover this up?" Jack asked while carefully placing herself between him and the bullet.

Buckshot was still lost until Jack asked him again. As if waking up, the bartender responded.

"I suppose... I did have some a couple of lengths of tarp to extend the bar..." Buckshot trailed off for a moment, gaze returning to the bullet.

"Can we borrow it?" Jack asked, once again having to return Buckshot back to the real world.

"It's not enough to cover it completely... Unless we sewed all the pieces together, but then I wouldn't have much use for it..." he said, more thinking out loud than answering.

"Tell you what, give us the tarp and help us sew it up and you can get an even closer look at man's first vessel to the moon," Jack smiled.

"Sure thing, marshal!" Cole shouted. "I got it back at the bar," He took off in a run toward the Ignit-Inn, slowing only to make sure that Jack Lightning was keeping up.

After a couple of hours of sewing, made faster by one of Wilhem's inventions, and some judicious preparations to ensure the bullet was completely obscured from prying eyes; though not from Buckshot who would frequently be distracted with each new discovery and a bevvy of questions, the bullet was covered up and the marshals retired to the Ignit-Inn where Buckshot declared that they'd be drinking free all day.

"I've been thinkin'," Caine said between shots of scotch and during mouthfuls of chilli, "Fella's goin to the moon need themselves a special name..."

"Zis is true," Wilhem mused. "Ve have pilots, sailors... Voidnaughts, Astro-Pilots..."

"You have any ideas?" Jack asked.

"Yeah," Caine replied. "I was thinkin' 'Luna-Tic'..."

Buckshot Buchannan brought the next round over after tending to the water-powered self-playing piano. Wilhem appraised the musical machinery.

"Iz nice design, Mr Buchannan. Vell maintained."

"It's been in the family for years, marshal. It's a 'Leopold'!" he stated proudly.

"Perhaps I might look closer?" Wilhem asked.

"Sure thing, marshal. Between yourself and Harry Winsom, this beauty's been getting some attention."

All the marshals paused at this though Wilhem was first to break the silence. "Mr Winsom enjoys the piano?"

"Very much so, yes," Buckshot replied. "Many a night he comes in and just lingers around it while it's playing. Wouldn't expect him to be a music lover, but there you go."

Wilhem didn't respond but did open up the piano's casing and started taking more than a cursory glance.

"What's got you so interested in the bullet, Buckshot?" Jack asked, partly out of interest, partly to distract the bartender while Wilhem investigated the piano.

"Aw, you'd just laugh," Buckshot muttered.

"Try us?" Jack smiled.

"Well... what with history bein' made right here with goin' into space and landin' on the moon, I'd hoped... I'd hoped that I might get a chance to go up there..."

All three marshals paused at this point.

"Yeah, I know. Dumb ain't it?"

Jack managed to beat Caine's answer. "Nah, it don't sound that dumb at all. Mind you, I'd wait till they got it working right..." she said as she glanced at the covered ruins of test bullet.

Wilhem's head poked up from inside the piano and, ensuring that Buckshot couldn't see it, produced a dust-covered ball of opium.

"Vell, I'd best be back to zee office," Wilhem said, giving Caine and Jack a glance. Both saw the abandoned ball of drugs in his hand "Colt's engineers vill be by soon, I think."

"We'll finish up here and meet you shortly," Jack replied, her voice barely keeping the menace out. Another part of the gunslinger's business uncovered meant that the time where she and Winsom were going to have to 'settle up' was getting closer.

Wilhem strode out of the Ignit-Inn and made his way to the Marshal's office. The bullet remained covered and it appeared that everyone had gone about their business. Unfortunately it seemed one person's business included leaning against a neighbouring building in the shade to watch over the covered bullet.

"Afternoon, marshal," came the drawl of Harry Winsom.

To be continued in Part 3.

The Men of Ithaca Rifle Company entered into the bordello of Etheric Delights in wildly different fashion. Leroy Smith pushed his head down until it rested on his bony shoulders, even with the door frame clearing his crown by half a ruler's length; his comfort with the location or the meeting to come both likely reasons.

William Henry Baker, as clear from his girth, didn't make a move unless it was absolutely necessary, which was clear as he almost barrelled his partner aside as Smith floated around the hall. Smith looked stretched and taut, Baker looked like he was hoping to yell at something.

The three marshals, Jack Lightning, Hans Octavius Wilhem and Wendel Caine were reflections of each other as they leaned forward and strode toward the whorehouse. They flooded into the bar to hear the sounds of Baker testing the boards of the staircase he was climbing with each step and found Wilhemina Ether, Madame and Proprietor behind the bar, gazing wryly at the volume of business this early in the day.

"Something I can offer you," she remarked behind something that was not quite smile and not quite smirk."

"Ah, Ms Ether," Wilhem started, his eyes revolving from the staircase to the bar like they were mounted spotlights. "I thought it time to introduce my companions."

"They look like they'd be challenging customers," Madame Ether mused as she placed a bottle of vodka, Wilhem's favourite, as well as scotch that looked it had travelled to Ascension at great expense. "But we cater for all types." she said as she poured.

"It's not business," Jack Lightning drawled as she lead the Marshals to the bar.

Despite herself the Madame's eyes flickered up a floor before they met Lightning's gaze. "No?"

Wilhem cut in "Just vanting to be social and ensure that everything remains as such," noticing the glance.

Three glasses - two scotches and one vodka - appeared from behind the bar and atop the counter as Caine sat down. Wilhemina stopped herself from sighing as the law got comfortable. It didn't look like they wanted to get into Samuel Colt's room for the meeting, just be near for when things broke down into shouting. This was good as a reputation for the law just walking into rooms as they pleased would not do well for business.

"How can I be of service?" she asked, her eyes taking the time to examine each of the new lawmen and, curiously, lingering on the sturdy and hairy Wendel Caine.

Caine didn't notice the look, nor the quality of the scotch he was throwing back, though both Jack and Wilhem were left perplexed. Jack recovered first. "We were hoping you could answer some questions about Spokey Sampson."

Jack caught the sideways glance, the moment of doubt where a war over talking or lying was waged. Talking won out. "Figured he'd come to your attention."

The marshals waited. Madame Ether refreshed their drinks as she talked.

"He's been around for a long time, has interests in just about everything making money in this town. He gets things for the workers; drugs, somtimes women..." her voice trailing off at this.

"Protection rackets?" Jack asked.

"That many men with money and alcohol and only one lawman before you arrived, it's his biggest profit," she replied, her voice getting lower with each sentence. "Harry Winsom tends to and enforces that side of the business." she ended in a whisper.

"Not surprisin'," Jack responded, her voice cold at the mention of his name.

"The Widow Garrett, over at the general store, pays him for protection. I'm pretty sure one or both saloons as well," Ether offered, worry creasing her face. Once again she glanced toward the towering Mountain Marshal. Once again, Caine didn't notice.

Not wanting to disturb Madame Ether further and not wanting to leave the bordello before Ithaca's owners did, Wilhem changed topics.

"I imagine Colt and Ithaca are talking about ze Indian attacks," he said. Wilhemina Ether started down this conversation like she'd just stepped into the sun.

"I can't imagine it's civil," she said, despite the fact that the meeting upstairs clearly hadn't reached shouting volume. "It hasn't been since they started their space guns."

"Still don't know what they're gonna do when they get to the moon," Caine grumbled before finishing the next round. The other two, well acquainted with Caine's misgivings, didn't press further.

"Wasn't always a two-horse race," Ether said after the conversation had lain dead for a few seconds. "Colt originally had the idea, but Ithaca got wind of it," The marshals focused on her at that. "Colt went to Congress for money and Ithaca got more than a few men elected. Ithaca claimed that Colt was getting old and might not have been the man for the job," she paused, making sure that the men in question upstairs were staying there. "Not a hard claim to back up given Colt's new opinion on weapons."

The marshals, already aware of Samuel Colt's opinions, and volume thereof, of his former profession, gave a slow nod as one. The conversation lulled again.

"But here I am telling you all about this and I barely know anything about you," Madame Ether ventured brightly. And it was true, with the recent changes and attacks, the marshals hadn't had time to introduce themselves fully to those they'd be protecting. "What made you decide to become marshals?"

Jack went first, not surprising given her reputation. "I'm a Lightning, ma'am," she drawled. "It's a family thing." Madame Ether smiled knowingly at this. There was barely a part of the United States that wasn't patrolled by one of the Lightning clan.

"I don't like people pickin' on the little guy," Caine said when Madame Ether's attention came to him. Once again, her gaze found home amongst the giant. Once again, it didn't escape either Jack or Wilhem's notice.

"And where do you come from, Wendel?" Ether prompted.

"West Virginia, ma'am," Caine said. "Up in the mountains. Bear country."

Ether had heard of the Mountain Marshal's even hairier partner and needed no further explanation. This time the gap in conversation was plugged by Octavius Wilhem.

"I hail from ze Old Country," he said as he sipped his vodka, the taste taking him back. "I too come from a large family, vone blessed by good fortune and vealth. I only possess 1/32nd of the family fortune, but it allows me education and time to invent."

The tastes and manners of Wilhem spoke as to the quality of his education and breeding. His iron armour a testament to genius. But nothing was clear about why he would work the thankless task of a Marshal. Madame Ether asked just that.

"I too share Vendell Caine's distaste for people picking on ze 'little guy'," he answered.

The warmth of burgeoning friendship was stopped dead as William Henry Baker's voiced blasted through floorboads above.

"God Damn you, Colt!"

Any rejoinders or further epithats were lost under the sound of rumbling machinery. The marshals went to the door and things became clear as to what was waiting out in the street.

Idling in the thoroughfair, steamclouds pushed into the sky by powerful hydraulic pistons was one of the largest trucks in the fleet of Colt's vehicles. It carried on its back the remains of something all too familiar to the marshals: The remains of Ithaca's 'bullet' that had wiped out half the Indian tribe. Baker, Smith and Colt joined the marshals down at the foyer, Baker was choking purple across his face, Smith was livid white. Colt's smile was wide enough that it hurt to look at it.

"Those are my terms, Baker," Colt's gravelled serious tones behind the grin. "Pay me for the damages those savages inflicted because of your bullet or that thing stays with me."

Baker was still trying to find enough air to fuel the curses he was readying against Colt. Smith bought him some time.

"That's my property and my designs!" he very nearly wailed.

"You didn't care where your bullet ended up so I don't see why you'd care now. But I'm big enough to let you buy it off me," Colt paused for his words to sink in before continuing. "Course I'd want to see the money up front before I turned it back over to you, so you'd best hurry back to your hole and raid your matress."

Baker zeroed in on the marshals who were doing their best to keep their faces as neutral as possible. "Marshals!" he started. "I demand you have Colt return our property!"

Caine and Jack both exclaimed "Demand?" before Wilhem stepped in.

"I'm afraid ze laws ov salvage are in effect, Mr Baker," Wilhem stated. "Ze bullet was abandoned for veeks and Mr Colt's possession is quite legal."

The muscles around Colt's grin practically creaked as the smile grew impossibly wider.

"That is Ithacan technology, patent-pending, Marshal," Baker responded.

Wilhem's mind whirled through years of academia. Colt would face a lot of trouble if it was believed that Ithaca's ideas were incorporated into the Colt Apollo. Moreso, the peace the marshals were hoping to keep was getting more unlikely.

"Zen ve shall keep ze bullet at our office on neutral ground," Wilhem declared. Colt's smile got swallowed by the decision.

"Hardly neutral when you told Colt about where our bullet was and not us," Baker started. Jack Lightning cut off any complaints.

"We are neutral and we were a mite busy cleaning up your mess. We've made our decision!"

"If you don't like it, ve can let Mr Colt do vhatever he likes with ze bullet," Wilhem offered.

Baker growled the offer down. "Very well. We'll be back with the money."

Colt called after Baker and Smith as they rushed for their automobile. "Best hurry, lads. I'm getting all sorts of ideas from this thing." Any response got lost over the engine roaring into life before the car launched itself away from Ascension.

To be continued in Part 2



"But that is my property, Marshal