B09-6: The Duster

Somewhere warm, not too long ago:

“Hey! Slow down, trailblazer!” A young voice rattled out from the rear of the caravan. “Dont’cha reckon we ought to take ‘er easy in this heat? For the horse’s sake?” The slow, sticky caravanner taking up the rear of the group dug his spurs into his mustang and shot forward.
The caravan included one heavy, four-axle covered wagon, two horsecarts, and 10 mounted caravan guards of varying experience. Specific to this particular train were 8 additional guards.
Dust devils snaked in and out between the tight formation of the caravan, but the air remained arid and heavy. The particulate turned up by desert fauna migrations and windstorms stuck to the throat and lungs, making exertion increasingly difficult.
“I don’t know how you mercenary folks do it” he continued as he tailed the other men.
“Do what, Murph?” A young man in fresh riding leathers said. He sat on a horsecart on the southern edge of the group facing backwards, his crossbow rested unloaded on his thigh.
“Trek out here, day after day, under the sun like this” he said to no one in particular “Me? I’d take stormin’ a castle under arrowfire before I’d make this my daily vocation”
“The girls’ll be fine, and keep yer voice down” A voice shot back at him from the front of the wagon train like a bullet. A flat, wide-brimmed leather hat obscured much of the speaker, the rest by an oversized faded poncho and wide riding pants. The other guards noticed the acoustic nature of his voice shift and change directions towards the different quadrants of the caravan, but the duster’s shoulders never changed position underneath his hat. This was the caravan’s only hired Duster.
“For what reason? There ain’t nothin’ between a basilisk ’n a bugbear for leagues out here.” Murph’s voice croaked, barely reaching the tip of the caravan over the raucous trotting of hooves and creaking wooden machinery. Those sitting atop their horses and sheltered in their wagons waited with bated breath in anticipation of what the shrouded Duster might do next. Low ranking caravanners never questioned the authority of a Duster in this way. Another moment passed with no response.

“Don’t pay him any mind. Just another one of those drifter types. He talks a big game and attempts to command respect by way of intimidation and mystery” Django Reinhardt said with a caustic grin. His voice posh with a fabricated sensibility. He wore riding leathers, underlaid with strips of velvet and cotton to reduce chafing. He was heavyset with sticky rolls of flesh escaping betwixt his attire. Atop his sweaty head sat a feathered ranching hat with a beige, wind-burnt pseudodragon curled around its highest point. “But they’re all the same, my friends!” He spoke out to the caravanners. “Truth of the matter is, my poxed nan could command more respect than this salted lizard.”
A murmur rippled throughout the train, this time silencing even the vehicles themselves. The men coughed from the dust-filled breeze.
“It would appear that your oversized dinner plate has no doubt obstructed your cochlea, sir? Is that right?” He continued, vying for dominance of the caravan train.
“Ah shucks leave him alone would ya?” Murph butted in, caught up in the man’s mystery. “He’s the feller wh’done fought back those desert folk from Tombspear couple years back. E’ryone knows that from the big hat, see?”
“You know I can’t stand liars, Murphical. You know full well that was the work of Orlanian knights and the brave townsfolk, not one cowa-“
“Do y’know what we are transporting today, Reinhardt?” the Duster cut him off. At this unprecedented interruption, Django suddenly felt a red anger wash over him like wind kicking up dry earth. His status in the train at stake, he lost composure: “Why, I am the lieutenant of this wagon train, and, as such, I’d like to think I know a thing or two about its cargo.” he spat his retort.
“And do you know where it’s goin’? Does anyone one of you know why they’re out here in the hot sun? Y’see, as a Duster I am privileged to some confidential intelligence, as is customary.” The Duster’s words reverberated out through the riders, infecting them with doubt. Suddenly, the focus of the group turned to the largest covered wagon at the center of the train. Its wheel hubs were braced with iron, as well as the chassis itself. The tan hide flap that typically provided a makeshift shelter was a thick leather padding with wool on the interior lining. A murmur grew quickly grew into a palpable tension among most of the guards as the Duster and Reinhardt glared at each other; their horses riding parallel now on either side of the wagon.

“No need to worry, folks. Our big-hatted colleague here possesses his own allegiances. An allegiance that our employers were not made aware of. Isn’t that right, bounty hunter?” Reinhardt prodded.
“None of yer business, birdcage” the Duster nodded to Reinhardt’s pet. “I am quite perceptive of you and your odd sticks hangin’ back on those beautiful bangtail’s back there. Not only that, I know who’s payin’ you for a job such as this, what with such valuable cargo.” The riders looked on, leaning into the conversation to understand what few muffled words came out from behind his poncho. “Hell, so long as I get my pay just like the rest of these fine fellers, I can’t imagine I’d have to put a halt to yer...ah hell, what are they callin’ it these days...profiteerin’?” Underneath his poncho, he had already set a revolver’s sights on Reinhardt with a subtlety that had been practiced thousands of times before. He rode slowly ahead to the front of the train.
Reinhardt shifted his gaze from the Duster towards the 8 riders behind the main wagon. All dressed in clean, washed leather and yellow gold cloaks that reflected the harsh sunlight
“Wot’s he mean, profiteerin’?” A thick cockney bleat came from one of the riders masked in cloth to assuage the dust-induced coughing.
“Yah, George’s correct! I’m not gonna protect no weapons of mass destruction without proper consent, right? Me pa’s dead what due to those Reavers” another voice rattled out.
The cloaked riders, silent until now, began slowly drawing their notched scimitars underneath their crimson cloaks. Silently, the riders began trotting towards the Duster to encircle him from behind. They shared glances between each other, them fixed on the Duster.
“I’ve helmed 65 caravans over these parts to New Fathom and back to Ickabar.” The Duster started abruptly. “Hell, I’ve even been to Cypher on occasion when it pays well enough. I tell you; the sands rough up my joints fierce-like,” The Duster continued calmly, silently and motionlessly retrieving another revolver from his holster to join the first. “This one time, my compatriot Gashade snagged a job escorting some artsy ace-high fellers ‘cross the plains to the foot of the Plateau. Tells me this guy told him he’s ‘destined for the grave’. Suffice to say I was a bit at-sea with that one. He was a twiggy fella, came up near to my chest, I reckon. He and his band was headed to play some music for the good folks of the desert. They had a name... Heartbreak Braggards, I think” the Duster fiddled underneath his oversized poncho for more ammunition “Anyway, the first day of travel came ‘round and we was crestin’ up on Altonas Valley, that big thing. One of the clients, an orc, said something to the scrawny kid: ‘what do you think happens when we die?’. Y’know what he said in response? ‘If you’re all dead, then I don’t think I’ll have any use for this body then, will I Izad?’. Personally, I don’t really give a curly-haired, yellow-beard, double-dog damn what one chooses to do with their body, but I knew right then ‘n there that I needed to sit out this bad-box. Somethin’ about these kids gave me the creeps. The next mornin’, just before sunup, I took my mustang and left that job to their private detail. I reckoned they could make their way without me.”

Reinhardt subtly flicked his fat fingers, staying the men momentarily from pouncing on him with their unsheathed scimitars. The Duster’s story had put the rest of the caravan to sleep, or at least close to it, some almost nodding off their horses completely.

“Spit it out dust-bucket, we’re nearing the valley and we won’t have time for this idle chitchat. You should know what manner of creature resides in there.” Reinhardt said. The sides of his potbelly turning red and blistering against his leather chest piece turned scalding hot in the midday sun.
“All’s this to say” the Duster concluded, “in this line of work, you gotta know when to hold ‘em, and when to fold ‘em”. A deafening crack came from the Duster’s two revolvers concealed underneath his clothes, causing the air that would normally release into the air around the gunman to travel down from his poncho to conjure the dust around him into a cloud. For a moment, nothing happened.
“Hah...it’s about time you took that brim out of your eyes and honed that aim of yours, mercenary.” Reinhardt laughed, as he motioned for the mounted men to charge forth at the Duster.

“Oh, my peepers are workin’ fine” the Duster quietly grumbled and looked ahead. The twin bullets had hit their mark to a tee. The shots travelled between two carefully-scouted wooden beams at the front of the wagon above the hitch and entered its interior. He knew four-axel wagons of this type never had heavy defenses at the front; that’s what the Duster was there for. The shots travelled into the wagon, striking its cargo.

“N’Djuna!” The cloaked guards hissed like a sandstorm. Just then, a thunderous, metallic explosion ripped out from the armored wagon, knocking everyone off of their mustangs and into the dry, arid dirt. Some of the destructive power of the blast was contained by the wagon’s reinforcements, sparing the more junior caravanners from immediate immolation. The rest of the train, however, was evaporated almost instantly along with the horses.
Django Reinhardt awoke about 20 yards west of the wagon, his clothes charred and torn. He looked down and saw the state of his body. From the chest down and along his backside were deep, crimson gashes that oozed blood. He forced his neck to peer further down to see his exposed shinbones splintered and caked in dirt. The pseudodragon that was once atop his hat now gnawed on his flesh and bone. Dog eat dog.
He rolled onto his back to stare at the sky, the sun now a few degrees further west. Slowly, raggedly, the sound of spurs slowly approached him from the east. The Duster limped into view, poncho and riding leathers burnt and full of holes. Reinhardt saw the Duster’s body, composite and metallic, reflecting no light due to the buildup of rust. Interlocking sections of petrified wood and old scrap metal, clearly added as refurbishment, jostled and grinded against each other as the Duster wheezed out a sigh. He saw his face was mostly steel with wooden inlays around his eyes which burned with a deep, dim golden light that flickered out with every step.
“The name’s Bo” he said. “And I cannot permit you and that sonorite to arrive at its terminus, no matter what you give me in return.” He planted his heavy, spurred boot next to Django’s head, kicking up dust and ash into his mouth.
“We had a deal, you lunatic!” Reinhardt said, spitting out bits of teeth and rock. “You know what this means, do you not? They’ll never stop coming for you, and if you thought you were getting any closer to finding your blemished kind, rest assured that question dies here.”
Behind Bo crept six of the henchmen, swords drawn and covered in ash and blood. With a flash and whirl of poncho that smacked Django across the face, Bo spun 180 degrees, retrieving a third firearm fastened to his lower back. With the same motion he grabbed a bulky drum from a bandolier across his chest and slammed the two together with a rusty snap.
“Don’t fail me now, Cherry” he thought to himself while quickly inspecting the operating mechanism of the drum. The old metal had taken a few bits of shrapnel in the blast, and he noticed there were a few crucial pieces missing.
“He’s got another!!” one of the men screamed as they all pounced forth on their heels. Bo closed his eyes, took a sharp inhale, and pulled the heavy, awkward trigger.
The drum began to creak and spin like an old roulette wheel as bullet after bullet fell into the greased chamber and leapt at the men. They fell quickly, screaming and trying their best, but failing, to block or dodge the torrent of .38 caliber metal. After the first two fell, and with 20 feet still to go until they reached Bo, the remaining men turned on their heels and began to flee only to be cut down and fall facedown with a mouthful of dust.
“You’re just like any other Duster, you filth. Entertaining only the highest bid until it’s inconvenient for your fickle sense of morality. I paid you a generous sum upfront, and look how you’ve repaid me. You’re not even human, you halfbreed scum.” Bo turned around, Cherry in tow, pointed the barrel flush to Reinhardt’s beading forehead, and pulled the trigger. What followed was a loud pop, followed by the crunching and scraping of metal inside the firearm. The gun rattled and released thick, black smoke smelling of saltpeter and sulfur. Bo was no stranger to misfires, but this was something more serious. He separated the drum magazine from the firearm to prevent any unwanted ignitions, and stowed the pieces in his satchel.
Reinhardt glanced at the satchel, then back at Bo’s expressionless eyes. “Well now that that business is done, why don’t you make yourself useful and take me to Fesmyr” he said with a shaky voice.
“I don’t care much fer where ya go, Django, but I sure as high hell ain’t taken yer sorry behind.” Bo spat. “and if I see your sorry excuse fer a face ‘round these parts again, I won’t be so kind. Y’see, the truth is I’ve got a lotta guns and I make ‘em all tick.”
Bo surveyed the explosion site and winced from the dislodged pneumatic device that powered his left arm; he never got used to that feeling no matter how many times it happened. While he was not designed to feel pain, it forced an immense amount of pressure in his joints which culminated in a pulsing sensation behind his eyes and blurred his vision. All the horses had long since fled into the plains, and there was no sign of Murph or the junior caravanners. He dusted himself off, stretched, and set off west in the direction of the valley in search of shade and water to soak his chassis.

He occasionally skipped this crucial part of his morning, but would always be reminded by the seizing joints and cracking wood that soon followed. He stumbled along until the sun began to recede behind the horizon and the flora began to thicken and green.

The path began to show signs of wear and gradually became a demarcated road as it snaked into the forested hills. Bo saw a smoldering blockage in the roadway ahead. As he drew closer, he made out a carriage on its side with no sign of horse nor driver, bookended by a sharp rock face too tall for Bo to lift his head to see.

“Ain’t no way to climb that in my state” he though, “and too tired to double back”. Looking around, he found a particularly comfortable looking treeside a few paces from the road and slumped over with a metallic thud and unloaded his gear onto the grass. He kicked himself for not combing the caravan site for materials as all he carried with him was his dwindling powder kit and some epoxy for his body which was now in disrepair.

As the light slowly faded from the sky, so did the light in his eyes. Eventually, only a pinhole of light remained in his vision, and he was soon to become derelict. He mustered some ancient, arcane energy in his core to shake the feeling away. “I’ll be no use as a pile of junk by the road. Gotta keep movin’ if I wanna find the others. Don’t much know how many more are left here, and how many fled the continent. Slow hand is a dead hand...slow hand is a dead hand...” he repeated to himself in his mind as he slowly began to shut down.