Wells Town - The Sheriff's Burden

Thankfully, I didn't catch a bullet. I'd just wrung out every last drop of my internal energy, leaving me flat broke on that front, so it was a real touch-and-go moment. Even without qi, a gun's a straight-line shooter—I might've dodged a shot or two—but I had zero ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠interest in testing that theory. Dodged a bullet there, literally.

"Anyway."

Right now, I was in the back seat, handcuffed, saying, "Isn't the misunderstanding between us cleared up now?"

She hadn't pulled the trigger, but she hadn't uncuffed me either. And next to me—bound by cold steel chains that stripped away my freedom—was Pria, completely unrestrained.

Through the rearview mirror, past the partition dividing front and back seats, a pair of black eyes glared at me briefly before flicking over Pria and snapping forward again. She clearly wasn't in the mood to chat.

No choice but to turn to the kind-hearted priestess who was at least willing to talk to me. Our eyes met—she'd been staring right at me. Her gaze was somehow listless, vacant, but fixed on me all the same.

"……."

She looked like she wanted to ask something, but in the end, said nothing.

We locked eyes for a moment before I raised my hand—only to meet those eyes in the mirror, watching my every move. To signal I wasn't up to anything shady, I splayed out my eight handcuffed fingers wide, then placed my right hand on Pria's forehead.

Still burning up. She was putting on a brave front—whether out of wariness toward the sheriff or just hating to show weakness—but my palm felt the heat of a serious fever.

I'd half-expected it from her dazed, weird responses earlier. Teaching her the hand seals and forcing circulation through her energy meridians via breath control wasn't to cure her outright; it was just to buy her a few more days. This wasn't some bullshit miracle that'd remake her bones and shed her marrow. One breathing session wouldn't fix a damn thing.

"Fever's bad. She needs a hospital. Any towns nearby?"

I pulled my hand away and asked the sheriff up front. If her "sheriff" gig worked like I knew it, there had to be a settlement close by.

"…There's a town."

Her voice came back half-buried in the engine rumble.

"No hospital?"

"……."

"How far to Raze City?"

Instead of answering, she let out a small sigh and clamped a cigarette between her lips. Click, click! The lighter's flint sounded almost anxious, grating more than annoyed.

"Heading into Raze City? …With your look, you got no ID. Easier for a wanted crook to slip in. A rootless nobody like you? Forget it."

"Crooks get in easier? Why?"

"…How the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠hell'd a clueless idiot like you end up wandering the wasteland?"

"……"

I'd just asked out of curiosity, but this treatment? I glanced sadly at Pria, but she'd already closed her eyes. Sweat beaded on her pale, exhausted ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠face—was she asleep?

The sheriff, spotting it in the mirror, went quiet for a beat before continuing with a long sigh laced with smoke.

"…Word is, things got messy in the city lately. Checkpoints into the city's tightened up hardcore. That girl might squeak by, but a naturalist like you? No shot."

"What's this 'naturalist' crap mean, anyway?"

"…What rock you crawl out from? Some backwoods hole?"

"Uh…."

I glanced at Pria, then stared back at those black eyes in the mirror.

"Beats me. Got some memory issues."

"Ah~."

I tapped my head to signal amnesia, and she nodded like it tracked. Felt like my intent got lost in translation, so I stared hard, but she ignored me.

"Anyway, she looks critical, so I'm giving you a lift…. Nah, we'll talk the rest when we get there…."

Tick. She flicked the smoked butt out the window, her voice dropping low.

An hour later, we finally spotted the town.

The car passed a rust-eaten sign barely legible and pulled into a workshop just off the town entrance. A middle-aged guy who'd left the door open like he was waiting slammed the shutter as we rolled in and approached.

"Lena."

"…No trouble?"

"Quiet. …How'd the job go?"

His whisper had an odd edge. Our eyes met mid-stride—his held clear suspicion.

"Those bastard sons of…."

The sheriff started hot under the collar, glanced our way, clicked her tongue, and clammed up.

Not welcoming my stare either, I checked Pria. Her eyes were shut, face slack; faint light from a dingy bulb off the window made sweat glisten on her forehead.

Bang! Talk over quick—Lena came back, popped the back door.

"Follow."

Pria stirred at the sound, eyes fluttering open as she climbed out; I followed.

Lena headed to an office tacked onto the workshop's rear. Inside sat a bald guy ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠with a brown beard.

Brown-bearded bald Walter….

"Walter White, by any chance…?"

The look screamed someone familiar; I blurted it out. He cocked his head.

"Brown, not White…. We met before?"

"Just felt like it'd be that name."

I glanced aside—two women stared at me like I was an idiot. Embarrassed, I went to scratch my cheek, but the cuffs rattled.

"Why's he cuffed?"

"…Shady fucker."

Walter—not a drug-lord type—nodded like it made sense.

"Only me?"

"……."

"……."

Per her words, yeah, I was the only shady one here cuffed. No answer.

"Miss, have a seat there."

Walter—not a chemist either—ignored me, addressing Pria. Left me to stew in rejection.

"Breathe deep for me."

He pulled a monocular scanner from his bag, fitted it, and ran checks on Pria. Medical gear, looked like. After a scan, he hummed—grave or not, hard to tell.

"Lungs fine, no implant issues…. Viral infection, probably. Can't do much here. Fever's sky-high; my antipyretics or antibiotics won't cut it. Sorry."

Doc Walter ditched the scanner, fished out pill bottles, dosed some for Pria.

Meantime, I eyed the office fridge corner—smart move, grab water.

"That's antifreeze. Drink it, you're dead."

"……."

Grabbed a clear plastic bottle; Walter—not sure if criminal—trashed me instantly.

"Misunderstanding."

Pria's eyes iced over too. I protested innocence quick.

She sighed faintly at that, dumped the pills in her mouth, swallowed dry.

Gonna choke…. As I fretted, trash-talker Walter packed up and stood.

"I'll head out. Be careful."

"……."

She nodded quietly at his shoulder pat—worlds from the fancy curses she'd flung my way earlier. Our eyes met; her lips twitched—I bolted to Pria.

"Who the fuck stocks antifreeze in a fridge?"

"…Freezer compartment."

"…Back home, bottom was fridge."

A weak chuckle cracked her lips.

Bald Walter gone; Lena took his seat.

"……."

"……"

"……."

Weird silence hung heavy. Me, veteran of death-lines and mind games, clocked Lena brooding; Pria zoned from fever.

"…You look troubled. Spit it out clean?"

"……."

She winced like I was poison. Probably hated me reading her and my junkyard triple-threat arm/leg/cuffs.

(For the record, I still hated the last two.)

"Haa…."

"…Don't sigh at my face—use words?"

For a sec, I thought some buried Confucian steel slipped my lips unbidden. But the voice was higher, thinner—from the right.

I turned: Pria, stone-faced, glaring at Lena.

"…Yeah, fair."

Expected fireworks; Lena conceded easy. No apology, but that daytime powder-keg vibe had cooled some.

Come to think: she'd griped about bad vibes.

"Town feels off— that why?"

"…Yeah."

Reluctant, voice barely above whisper.

"Months back, uproar in the city. Not unusual. But then the Missionaries went nuts, stirring up the gangs."

Missionaries—slang for some heavy-hitter crew with enough muscle to rattle syndicates. Filed it away.

"Chaos erupted; beaten gangs' remnants fled the city."

Obvious from there. Past life had plenty: shattered dark sects holing up in backwaters, stirring shit.

Town wasn't far from Raze; escapee gangs crashing here, trouble brewing.

"Local broker kids got tangled with 'em—started real problems."

"Ignored townies at first, then showed teeth, huh."

"…Confronted 'em; they threatened massacring villagers if I pushed. Clashes ramped up; demands followed. Tensions boiled…."

She trailed off, emotion surging. Flickers of that unstable rage danced in cybernetic eyes—pure machine, yet human fire.

"…Kid died yesterday. Not their kill, they said—just a lesson. Can't let it stand; called in favors. Couple pros could've wiped those rabble fucks. But those pricks…."

Deep breath, simmer down.

"So you helped us for that?"

"……."

Lena shut down at Pria's flat question. Choosing words? Or none left?

Weak voice finally: "…Some calculus, yeah. Her, maybe…."

Lena eyed Pria steady. I eyed Pria too. Something I was missing.

"But your shape? Useless. Beat it before trouble. Luck holds, you'll hit the city."

Figure the rest. Gloomy send-off, hand wave. Eviction notice.

"Lena."

"…Sheriff."

"Sheriff Lena."

"Title only, drop the name."

"Sheriff."

"…Haa…."

She bristled, then sighed irritably my way.

"Sounds like you've got a way into Raze. Right?"

"…If I do?"

"We deal."

"With who?"

"Me."

"Like that?"

Blank on "that"—glanced down. Left arm. Right leg. Cuffs. Too many suspects.

"Hear me out."

"……."

Not much said, so I dropped my pitch.

"Gotta face 'em anyway, yeah?"

"……."

"Die like bitches or fighting—same diff. But you wanna minimize villager body count. Right?"

"…Skip questions, get to point."

"I handle 'em; you get us to the city."

"…You? With what? Junk arm and peg leg?"

I shook my head firm at her scoff.

"No."

With true martial prowess.