[Two and a half months later…]

Sam

[Sam's progression: Level 10 → Level 12]

[Level-up rewards: 2 Toughness, 2 Strength, 2 Presence, Inventory]

[Attributes: Toughness (14+++++), Strength (16+++), Dexterity (6++), Senses (0), Appeal (4++), Presence (6++)]

[Skills: N/A]

[Passives: Healing Factor 2, Measured, Tenacious, Shock Absorption 2, Stoneskin, Dental Enhancement, True Bond, Inventory]

[Divine vow (paraphrased): To never use a skill in exchange for double attribute point gain]

Things were not okay. They were far, far from okay.

Another fist-sized rock caught her right in the forehead. It didn't hurt much, but it stung her pride well enough. All around was a crush of screaming, shoving bodies. The stinging smell of firesmoke hung heavy in the air. In the constantly shifting lines of men and women it was sometimes hard to tell which side was hers, even though the militiamen all wore bands of Lord Buck's green around their arms or necks or foreheads.

This one was worse than usual. It was getting worse every day. People were joining the Workers' Union in droves, and who could blame them? There was no food left in the city. They chose to believe that Buck was hoarding stockpiles to himself because they had no alternative other than to sit down and starve and wait to die, or turn cannibal like the Rippers.

The worst part was, Buck was keeping food back. He needed it to feed his militia. It was the only thing that kept them from deserting, and if they deserted the city would be in complete chaos.

The protests in Topside were almost constant, only quieting when folk got too exhausted to shout anymore and when the Rippers came out in the small hours of the night. About once a day, the protests flared up into full-on riots along one street or another, hundreds of Union people trying to push past the militia and into the keep through sheer weight of numbers.

The rioters never had much success. Even with more than half the militia dismissed to Timbryhall to lessen supply strain, the garrison that remained consisted almost entirely of Laborers, and could probably hold back ten times their number in regular citizenry if needed. But doing it day in and day out would get exhausting for anyone, even a Laborer, especially as Buck had given out strict rules of engagement not to kill or excessively harm any rioter. Additionally, the city had no proper lock-up or jail, meaning anyone they detained would soon have to be released; dropped right back into the mix.

This one had been going on for maybe an hour.The militia held a line spanning the width of the main street, intending to simply repel the rioters until they got fed up with throwing themselves against a stone wall and dispersed.

Sam could hear Lieutenant Pell, the captain's right-hand man, shouting orders somewhere in the din, but couldn't see him even though she was at least half a head taller than most.

A woman pushed through the crowd and came at her screaming. Sam caught her in a headlock, then hauled her swiftly to the side to keep her getting hit with friendly fire as a man swung an old table leg. Sam took the overhead swing off the top of her head, the table leg bouncing off her with a hollow thunk that set her teeth rattling. She retaliated with a boot to the man's stomach that was more push than kick, bowling over him and the three men behind.

"Fucking… let go of me!" shouted the woman under Sam's armpit, pounding her palms off Sam's stomach and side. She was not very strong.

"If I do, will you go home?" Sam shouted back.

"Fuck you!"

"Yeah, didn't think so."

By the time the rioters finally dispersed a good while later, Sam had been splattered with clumps of mud and stale feces, and she was throbbing all over where she had been struck with improvised weapons and projectiles. Not badly hurt; just exhausted.

They'd detained a few handfuls of Union members who had been seated on the ground in uneven rows, hands tied. She recognized more than a few of those people—former slaves who'd sung her praises just a few short months ago. Now they looked at her like she'd sprouted horns and a tail.

Tempers were boiling over among the militiamen. One soldier dropped his shield and started kicking the shit out of a rioter over some insult or another. Sam had to haul the man away bodily, lifting him up like a child and setting him down in front of his sergeant so the officer could deal with him.

Rather than express any form of gratitude, the now freely bleeding young man transitioned to cussing out Sam instead, calling her all sorts of colorful names such as the wonderfully creative 'Direshart'. That would almost have been funny, if she hadn't already heard that particular nickname about a thousand times already, and she really did smell like shit at the moment, and she really wasn't in the mood to be defecated upon anymore, verbally or otherwise. When he started making fun of her appearance, saying she was more ogre than woman and probably had hair on her tits, Sam simply turned and walked away before she became the one needing to get dragged off.

Letting the soldiers deal with all that mess, she returned to the keep ahead of the others. She wasn't technically part of the militia after all, only helping out with the riots on a volunteer-basis, so they couldn't really give her orders. At the keep, she scrubbed herself raw to get out the stink of smoke and sweat and human excrement, then put on a change of clothes—she always kept one in her Inventory these days.

Jawara and Buck and Dawn were in the great hall, talking over a map of the city rolled out on a table. Everyone was in a terrible mood. The lord, who'd normally have kept her in conversation for half an age babbling about nothing much, barely gave her a grunt of acknowledgement when she passed by. That suited her just as well.

Sam left the keep to begin her commute back home. Taking side streets rather than any of the main thoroughfares, she wasn't held up by any protestors on the way. Aside from the distant sounds of voices hurled in anger, the city was eerily quiet. Shadows stirred in alleys and behind darkened shutters, but hardly anyone showed their faces. Those that did clustered in small groups, halting their conversations as soon as they saw Sam and staring daggers at her until she was gone. She might not have been an official part of the militia, but everyone sure treated her that way.

Some symbol of hope she was turning into. Everybody wanted her dead.

At least there were no corpses in the street. They had the Rippers to thank for that.

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The farmland surrounding the city lay barren. With the merchants' guild fleeing the city, most of the land had been sold off and consolidated under one man—some sort of new kingpin they called 'the Gentleman'. He'd reorganized the inefficient land partitioning and farming conventions used when there had been many owners, and had hired on extra Farmers to utilize every bit of square footage more optimally. The harvest had still been pitiful, with most of the fields gone up in the Burning. Even utilizing Farmer skills to boost production, it was too late in the year to get in another harvest before winter. The Gentleman had since shifted to hydroponic facilities inside the city limits that would theoretically be able to produce all year around. Those places only gave a trickle of usable foodstuffs—these spongy fungus bricks that tasted like straight-up dick and balls—but was at least enough to supplement the militia's rations; keep them lasting just a little longer.

Whoever this Gentleman was, he seemed to be the only person in the city with proper means these days. He had stockpiled enough food prior to the blockade that he'd been able to use it as currency once the value of actual money collapsed. At least he was cooperating with Buck in exchange for the lord's protection inside the safe zone maintained by the militia, the unofficial new district that folk were calling 'Hillside'. As long as he was helping, Sam was happy to not look a gift horse in the mouth and let the man's identity remain a mystery.

The road to the farm had been widened significantly and made into a proper dirt path to facilitate the iron shipments going out of Sheerhome and those carrying food and medicine back in. Buck had fought hard to get both Will and ADAM to move their operations to Hillside, since the supply wagons were tempting targets for looters and highway robbers, but had been firmly denied—not least by Sam, who had threatened to rescind her support with the riots if Buck didn't let up. They'd set it up so all the supplies brought in from the farm were donated directly to the citizens, which at least gave them some incentive not to interfere with the wagons.

Everything was such a mess. Will badly needed this rest away from it all—going back into the hellhole that was Sheerhome these days would undo all the progress he'd made over the last few months.

The farm itself had changed significantly, too. Several new structures had been added in and around the main cluster, and there was a bustle of activity going on even as she arrived at evening's approach. There were two bunkhouses, a mess hall, a watch tower, a second well, a requisition office with a workshop in the back, and a foundry. The place was almost like a little village of its own now.

Will had been steadily hiring on former slaves, most of whom were Explorers, to do the farm work for him. He had also been teaching them bushcraft with the help of Griff and Francine so they could hunt and forage and work to quell the out-of-control monster infestation. There were maybe two dozen new faces now, so many that she could barely remember half their names.

Despite all the people running around, the place was still missing some of its most important residents. Mongrel had vanished along with Nyx and most of his chimps, leaving only Number One behind to oversee farm work and construction. Though she could communicate with the old ape after a fashion by making him write down his responses, whenever she asked him about his father, he'd just say something along the lines of 'go away secret mission' and flash her a toothy grin. Considering that Will also refused to talk about it, it was definitely some kind of fuckery of his design.

Serene, too, had gone up in smoke several weeks ago, only telling Sam that she'd 'be gone for a while'. She hadn't been heard from since.

Lastly, Gug had been sent to apprentice with Fletcher over at the library. That part of Topside was Ripper territory these days, including the greater part of the Academy, but none of them dared to encroach on the library. Several Ripper scavs had died violent deaths to what the librarian called his 'mousetraps' before the rest learned that particular lesson.

It was a little sad not having her friends around, but it was all part of some scheme Will was cooking up, and he knew best, so she'd decided not to make a fuss about it.

Despite the autumn chill, the man himself was out on the porch of the main house when she arrived, a table set up in front of him where he managed the cutting and grinding and rolling of herbs into a new batch of those cigarettes he loved so much. Oatmeal was there helping him, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else. The two of them did not get along at all, she'd come to understand. Will had the better end of that deal, as he clearly enjoyed bossing the pimply-faced young Explorer around whenever possible.

[Will's progression: Level 17 → Level 20]

[Level-up rewards: 2 Processing, 4 attribute points unassigned, 2nd specialization in Explorer, Conceal, 2 ranks of True Bond, 1 rank of [REDACTED] gained outside normal level progression, [REDACTED] attribute gained outside normal level progression]

[Attributes: Senses (3+), Awareness (6+++), Processing (8++), Dexterity (6++), Empathy (0), Haste (6+++) [REDACTED] (0+++)]

[Skills: Prepare, Detect*, Identify*, Message, Amplify*, Repel*, Cancel, Dash*, Pulse*]

[Passives: Orienteering, Extension of Self, Soulbind, Inventory, Light Touch, True Bond 3, [REDACTED]]

[Soulbound item—Anathema, saber: Slotted with Cancel, 2x Reinforce, 2x Refine, 3x Accelerate, 2x Absorb, Inject, Devour, and has 1 free slot]

[Divine vow (paraphrased): To never open his left eye in exchange for doubling the range of his abilities]

[Semblance art—Forget Me Not, symmetrical field type: Slotted with Cancel, Pulse, and Detect]

[Wesley's progression: Level 5 → Level 6]

[Level-up rewards: Soul Summoning]

[Attributes: Dexterity (5) Awareness (3+), Senses (4), Processing (0)]

[Skills: Detect, Dash]

[Passives: Orienteering, Cold Resistance, Low Maintenance, Poison Resistance, Soulbind, Soul Summoning]

[Soulbound item—Justice, revolver: Slotted with Imbue, Attract, Repel, [REDACTED]; added Barrier]

Sam shed the last of the day's trials at the sight of her man posted up like a little grandpa with a blanket over his legs, and she found a genuine smile creep onto her face for the first time since she'd left for the city that morning.

"Hey, fellas," she said as she wandered over, making a tidy leap onto the raised porch. Her weight coming down set the floor rattling, and Will gave her the stink eye over his shades while holding the table in place to keep any of his precious herbs from running away.

"Welcome home," he said, and his expression softened when she leaned down to kiss him. She let her hand remain on his shoulder when she straightened.

"Heya, Sam," Oatmeal said with a small nod, obviously glad to be given an excuse to put down his task for a moment.

"Good day at work?" Will asked.

"Yeah, it was fine. They needed help with some troublemakers again, but we handled it."

At least ostensibly, she was meant to be working at the keep as a CQC guest instructor. The militia guys were better with sword and shield and halberd than they were with their fists, and wrestling seemed an entirely alien concept to most, so there were plenty of holes in their competence for her to help shore up. Though the soldiers were a bit coarse, she actually enjoyed teaching them, so it was a shame that most days, Buck had her running around putting out his fires instead.

Will looked at her for a long moment. Blind as it was, his one dark eye still cut through her like a diamond-tipped drill bit. "Is there anything you'd like help with over there? You know I'd be happy to lend my expertise in any way I can."

"Nope! Like I said, we got it covered. Besides, you'd just cramp my style, you big dorkus."

"If you say so," Will replied with a fond smile, and his hands began moving at their task again. "Give me five minutes to finish up here, then I'll come inside and make dinner. Sunny got impatient, so she's already eaten."

"'Kaaaaay." With nothing better to do, Sam pulled up a chair for herself and had a seat by Will. She let the back of her head rest against the wall and her eyes fall halfway shut, lulled by the quiet swishing of bundled leaves and whispery grinding of mortar and pestle and swift tapping of Will's knife working.

Every few days, he asked that same question. If she needed help with anything. Every time, she told him no. Not because she didn't need his help—things in the city were well and truly fucked—but because she couldn't let him get caught up in all that. This extended vacation at the farm had been good for him. She could tell through their Bond that he was happier and more relaxed. His injuries were bothering him less, and he was having fewer seizures. With all the free time he'd been able to devote toward cooking and alchemy, he'd even been able to level up a bunch.

She knew if she just asked, he'd come in a heartbeat to work on cleaning up the city. And in the process, he'd throw away all the progress he'd made by working himself to the bone like always.

Of course, busybody that he was, Will probably had at least a decent idea of what was going on in the city, and it wasn't like he could avoid noticing her stress coming through the Bond every day. So she didn't lie about what she was doing, she just chose to… downplay it a little. The way he smiled whenever she declined his help made it seem like he knew she wasn't giving him the full picture.

Still, he didn't pry. That was one thing to be thankful for.

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