The bandits flinched, staring at the lens as Jasper flipped to the photo. A faint smile touched her lips. She walked forward and stepped past them, calm, silent, her revolver not holstered until she reached the door.
As it swung shut behind her, one bandit hissed to the other, "Shoot her in the back."
A throat cleared in the corner.
A local undertaker sat at a table by the wall, hat tipped low, pipe smoke curling lazily upward. He didn't even glance at the bandits as he spoke.
"What's your names?" he asked flatly.
The bandits turned toward him. "What was that again, Undertaker?"
"I said—what's your names." He took a long drag, smoke spilling from his lips. "Need to record it proper."
One of them snorted. "What the hell you going on about, old man?"
"I seen that courier when she first rode into town—chased by bandits. She led 'em into a narrow alley. Four shots later, she walked out alone. Luckily, I was there to note their names before they cycled."
He puffed again, slow and deliberate. "Normally I'd call the sheriff, let him handle her. But Since he caught a bullet, same as the Vipers, Ain't no law left in Tyla. Now, I'm not wasting liquor on those bastards, Vipers brought nothing but grief since they occupied Tereliva. However, I'm not sure they're any worse than our current host, and to think this used to be such a respectable mining town."
One of the bandits leaned to the other "I did hear about a travelling courier with some wicked gunplay. Said she rides a pale horse and kills with one bullet."
The other replied "You don't think it's her do you? It can't be the–"
The undertaker finally lifted his metallic eyes, steel glinting beneath the brim of his hat interrupting them.
"Come on. Do you really think you can outshoot a red-eye?" He shrugged "Try it if you want—take her. But if you fail, don't expect mercy. I'll write your names down and keep them on record… for whoever comes asking."
Silence settled over the room. The bandits slowly holstered their revolvers as Jasper's footsteps faded into the street.
Jasper slipped into Tyla's alleyways. Her camera clicked as she passed scenes most folks ignored—Worthorses, their armored backs sagging under sacks of ore; miners trudging into narrow holes dug into the mountainside walls at each tier of the town; and at the highest level, a new tunnel scarred into the rockface, ringed with scaffolds and warning signs. Markers scrawled in red warned the stone was too hard, but still the digging had begun.
If not for the triple-digit heat, the day might have even looked good.
Emerging into the main road, she froze.
Far off in the distance there it was.
Tereliva.
The city shimmered on the horizon like an opal mirage—glassy aqueducts weaving between pearl-colored towers, glowing bright against the rust-red sands. At its base, the Aquatran ascended into the upper city: a dense sprawl of tents, scaffolds, and stacked stone carved into Tyla's foundation.
She raised her camera and captured the skyline.
It was said the great Mechanica that powered Tereliva was so vast it had to be buried in the river itself, the city drinking from its current like a living vein. That constant power had kept Tereliva independent since the First Aesir War.
The river fed them clean fish. The caves behind its waterfall brimmed with metals and minerals. A city that wanted for nothing. A city of freedom.
Jasper envied it. She had always dreamed of going there. And with the city's anniversary falling today, she planned to deliver her package—then finally enjoy the jewel of the south.
She lowered the camera. The shot was soft, the lens straining at this distance.
Jasper adjusted the focus, frowning. The housing had taken a knock when she'd bolted from her security detail—one more scar from running for her life.
A few bitter eyes lingered on her too long. She lifted her tinted glasses higher on her nose, chin dipped low, hiding the red gleam of her stare as she scanned the plaza.
She needed a better vantage point. And someone who could fix the camera before it died completely.
From across the square, a voice rose above the noise—a ragged cry, cracked and raw. She heard him before she saw him: a wild-eyed vagrant shoving through the crowd, his words like rusted iron scraping bone.
"Fear the devil Ohgun!" he shrieked. "The Godhand is right! We must fear him!"
Heads turned but none paid attention long but she did, enough to make his words crawl under her skin. Even through her dark lenses she felt the man's stare pin her, sharp as a nail. His arm shot out, finger trembling, aimed straight at her like a curse.
"Fear the devil Ohgun! Destroyer of homes! Wager of wars! Demon of iron—FEAR THE DEVIL!"
The crowd pressed in tighter, whispers crackling like dry grass around her.
She didn't see them until she collided—two rough figures, shadows with stitched armor, blocking her path. Her glasses clattered to stone as they loomed over her. One shoved a GlyphGlass projection inches from her face, its cold light flaring against her bare eyes.
"Hey, lady. You seen this guy?"
The hologram flickered:
Hired Gun: Dwarven the Grave Digger.
Bounty: 400,000 Krits.
He was dark-skinned. Dreadlocks. A scowl like stone beneath gold-tinted circular glasses.
Jasper looked back to the homeless man to see he had vanished, gone, when she looked back in front of her, her gaze moved from the projection… through it… and up into the bandit's eyes.
More bandits.
Jasper read them in a glance—their patched armor and scavenged gear. Scourges of the Nine. Since becoming a Courier she'd run into more of them than she cared to count. Grouped or alone, who knew the danger they could pose.
She shrugged. Whoever this "Grave Digger" was, she didn't know him.
The bandit shoved the projection closer.
"Are you sure?"
Jasper leaned back, shaking her head.
"Hey! Say something!" His voice cracked with irritation.
The second bandit—a tall, slender woman masked in desert cloth—smacked his arm.
"Moron. Look at her eyes, She's a 'jin. Most don't talk outside of their country."
The man frowned. "Why not?"
"Fuck if I know. Something about the war up north."
As Jasper bent to pick up her fallen glasses, the woman's boot swung out, swatting her camera from her hand. A second later, the boot ground down on the glasses, grinding them into the stone.
She crouched low, voice sharp as glass.
"The south might tolerate you. But don't get confused—we haven't forgotten. The hurt your kind caused. Red-eyes don't get forgiven."
Jasper's gaze flicked to her ruined camera, then to the Revolver in the woman's grip. Her crimson eyes lifted, burning into the bandit's mask as her fingers brushed her own holster.
The woman's head tilted as she seen Jasper's own revolver
"That's no Revolver I've ever seen. Go on, draw it. Make my day." Her eyes lingered on the strange grooves and edges of the revolver, curiosity mixing with threat.
The male bandit muttered, uneasy, "Wait. Wasn't there something… about a red-eye with a strange revolver in this list?"
The woman snapped her head toward him. "What?"
"Yeah something spooky. Messenger of pain or something." He fumbled with his GlyphGlass, flicking through projections of wanted faces. One after another until—
The glow stopped on horribly rough sketch of Jasper's likeness.
Newgate Courier: Courier of Death
Bounty: 600,000 Krits.
The masked woman's breath hitched. Her revolver snapped up, sights locking on Jasper—though her eyes darted toward her partner.
"…That her?" the female bandit look skeptically
The projection glowed between them.
"Six hundred thousand. That'd change our lives."
The masked bandit pressed her revolver close, barrel leveled at Jasper's face. The alley was narrow and dim, lantern light bleeding down the walls in streaks. The traffic down the alley began to disperse and flee due to the commotion.
Her partner squinted at the wanted sketch glowing from the GlyphGlass. "No way. Can't be her. Look at this sketch, it's shit. How'd they even get this sketch? Courier of Death never shows her face. Anyone who sees it dies? That's the story. Skietch don't even have her pale horse."
"You want the sketch to have a horse in it?"
"Why not? I heard the horse is just as dangerous."
The female bandit snorted. "You idiot, but your right look at her. Don't got the eyes of a killer. Courier's supposed to be ice cold. This one just looks… ordinary. Fragile, even. Hell."
"True, True, hard to imagine we would be the ones to catch."
"Kevin, the hell is that supposed to mean?"
"Well, I mean her bounty's only ever gone up once. Last time it got pulled 'cause she was too much trouble to chase. You remember that story in the Tems. Said she took out 40 of the Sage's men with 10 bullets, thats a bullet for 4 men." he nodded towards Jasper "She don't even look like she can pull that revolver."
The masked woman's grip faltered, her revolver slipping into her holster as she turned to her partner. "Then what the hell did she do this time to get posted again?"
Jasper didn't move. She just watched the two of them closely as she picked up her camera.
"I'm not sure but they must want her real bad." The bandit holding the GlyphGlass sneered, —then froze. The device pulsed in his hand, an urgent chime cutting the tension. A fresh projection burst to life, shimmering over their heads.
The view jolted and blurred—the shaky perspective of a merc's visor cam. Trees crowded close, branches snapping under boots. Harsh breaths and shouted orders cut through the static: "Target in the trees! Surround her!"
Gunfire ripped through the forest.
Something flickered between the trunks—too fast to track. Muzzle flashes cracked, bullets sparking off bark and stone. But the echoes were wrong. Shot vanished into the forest—but were retaliated, bullets screamed from impossible angles. Steel pinged, snapped, and curved through the trees.
One merc went down shrieking, a round punching into his thigh from behind. Another dropped an instant later, his helmet bursting as if bullet struck through.
A revolver barked in the distance—slow, steady, deliberate. Each squeeze of the trigger echoed like judgment, every shot finding its mark whether direct or deflected.
"Saints above!" the cam operator shouted, swinging wildly as shadows closed in.
Then the visor caught a glimpse through the blur: a figure breaking cover. Hat low. Purple hair flashing from beneath it. The tilt of a cropped jacket. Nothing else clear, nothing but her shape—and the way the revolver gleamed as it swung toward him.
The last sound was a sharp crack.
The feed didn't cut clean to static. It froze, the final frame locked on the blurred outline. Clothes, backwards hat, the streak of purple hair. Unmistakable to anyone who might have seen Jasper and possible to link her to The Courier of Death.