The rain came down in large, nearly painful drops. He was thankful it was at least warm. It seemed to vary by the hour, almost. Rain came all but daily, but it could be uncomfortably wet and humid or biting cold at a moment’s notice. The Ghost Rim’s reputation as a sailor’s worst nightmare was more than just rock and reef, with sudden thundersnow storms and gale force, mast-breaking winds unpredictably common.

The rainfall, combined with the thick, overgrown foliage, made it nearly impossible to see more than a few feet. The keyword being ‘nearly’.

He was trained for ‘nearly impossible’. Trained to make it possible, at a moment’s notice. Raising the rifle sights to his eye, he moved slowly, scanning left to right. It wasn’t finding the enemy, no, that wasn’t the real trick. There was only the enemy and himself. So all he had to watch for was movement.

There, he thought, noticing a dark splotch in the distance as he pulled the trigger, aiming at the relative spot of a human’s head.

The retort was muffled by the sound of the rain, but his eyes stung with the flash as the gun fired. He was rewarded by the falling of the splotch. Unmoving, he watched carefully--his target didn’t rise.

Breathing out, he lowered his rifle, chambering a new round. There had been only the one hostile. Now that it was neutralized, he could relax and go on back to camp.

Yet, his shoulders itched. It was a silly superstition, but he’d not been wrong quite yet... Raising the rifle again, he repeated his sweep. This was their shield, their armor. If the perimeter had even one weak spot, it could mean the end of them all. And he wasn’t prepared to let that go for anything, not even the Rim’s vengeful weather.

It wasn’t on the first, or even fifth, sweep, but he caught more movement. What were these pirates thinking? They’d been here for just a few months, and not once had the enemy managed to mount a successful assault. Again, he held his breath for a second as he pulled the trigger, dispatching the second scout.

“Aegis, copy,” came a broken voice from the radio at his shoulder. “Hearth here, Aegis, please copy.”

Letting out the breath in a tired sigh, he put a hand to the radio in his ear in an attempt to cover the noise of the rain.

“Aegis copies,” he replied, mentally scoffing at the name. “Go ahead, Hearth.”

“You’re late coming in, the Lady wants a report.”

“I’m done here, but there were two scouts, not one. I’m going to do a few more sweeps, reset the traps, then I’ll return. Aegis out.” That last he growled out, turning off the radio as he did. He slung his rifle across his back and leapt from the raised platform they had built in the tree.

It had become such a routine now. One shift in the morning, one shift in the evening, alternating with the eight hard points surrounding their camp. He had lost track of how many pirates he had dispatched. More than he cared for.

Something had to change. Though they scavenged what they could off the dead, supplies were at a premium for his men. They’d lucked out in finding their current shelter--it was decently defendable, with clean water and fish. That nearly turned his stomach; he hated fish.

Reaching the first corpse, he saw his shot had landed in the throat. The man’s hands were bloody--he had clawed at the wound in his death throes. Dismissing it, he did a quick rifling through the man’s clothes. His find was typical: an old pistol, this one he recognized as an old Walther TP, with a couple spare clips but predictably no gloves to soften usage, and an unrecognizable short-barrelled shotgun that was clearly custom made. He threw it all in his carrier bag, then went to find the next corpse.

He was thoroughly soaked at this point--the stand having something of a canopy to lessen the rain--so he double timed it. The next had fallen in the foliage, so he grabbed the man’s belt and heaved him back easily enough. Almost immediately, he drew his own pistol and began scanning around him. What he saw he hadn’t expected at all.

His shot was clear--it had merely taken the man in the shoulder. Potentially debilitating considering the rounds fired by his Lee-Enfield, but hardly lethal. But the man was dead, his throat cut cleanly. Any weapons or ammunition he had had on him had already been stripped.

Whoever had done it had done it quickly. He estimated it had only taken him about three minutes to loot the other pirate and find this body. They would still be nearby.

His shoulders itched. Gripping the pistol, he turned quickly, calling out, “Stop!”

There was nothing, not at first. But he kept on, never wavering. Waiting, watching. For anything, for everything.

A small rustle of the brush, just to his right. He turned his gun and almost fired. But he paused.

Blue. Blue, blue eyes watched him through the green. They shone, shadowed under the brow of a heavy leather hood, observing his every action. He did not fire, he stared back. Stared at eyes that showed no malice or vengeance, but holding him in curious, indifferent regard, reminding him of a cat’s eyes.

The spell was broken by a loud cry of, “Captain!” from behind him in the distance. Despite himself, he turned. Cursing, he turned back. The trees and the brush were all that met his gaze.

He lowered the pistol, his thoughts a rush. Had it been another pirate? Though some of the smarter ones had been working together to try and capture the princess, most had no qualms about slaughtering each other just as quickly as they would he and his men.

But the cut to the throat had been clean, quick and painless. That didn’t sound like any pirates he knew.

“Blue Eyes... Who are you?” he asked, holstering his weapon.

“Captain! Captain!” came the cry again, closer. It was a different voice. They had sent a search party.

He sighed and started back. Luna was furious with him, if she sent out men to find him.

Crossing into the perimeter beyond his stand, two of his men broke through the brush--one, a shorter, stockier fellow, falling to the ground in the process. The other, a tall, lanky young man, stopped and gave a crisp salute. Noticing his comrade, he said, “Get up, stupid--it’s the Captain!”

The other soldier tried to scramble to his feet, but he slipped in the mud and fell again.

“At ease, men,” he said, holding up a hand to placate them. “She sent you, I take it?”

Nodding enthusiastically, causing his teal hair to bob up and down with him, the man still on his feet replied, “Yes, Captain. She, uh, didn’t exactly like your report.”

He’d moved to help the other man get up. Giving the worried looking grunt a pat on the shoulder, he asked, offhandedly, “What was it this time? Spit and roasted alive? Tied up to three different trees by my fingers alone?”

Swallowing, the shorter said, “Replacing the quartermaster’s broken anvil for a week.”

He laughed. “Oh good, she’s not that mad, boys.” It was true, the pair were barely old enough to join. He hated that this had ended up their first ‘assignment’, worse the fact it had been him who had allowed their joining. He clapped an arm around both of them, saying, “Let’s get back out of the wet. The men will enjoy the lashing I get, and I’m interested in seeing what Marls did with those spindly, little squid things we found yesterday.”

“But, Captain--” started the taller man.

“What’d I say? Just call me Lew, OK?” His expression turned glum as he took in their surroundings. The rain was finally showing signs of letting up. Would tomorrow bring snow? He hoped for good weather, at least long enough to dry his clothes. “Little need for decorum out here, I think.”

As they headed back, he quickly turned the conversation to the usual soldier’s fare, ridiculous, overly masculine stories, the call for good food, the hope for pleasant, soft company. Lew was worried--not only were the pirates beginning to send out more scouts at once, but they had a mysterious assassin in their midsts. But a good captain kept his men at ease, no matter how ill his own was beginning to turn.

Though he had wanted something, anything, to change for several weeks, he was beginning to worry he might just get it.

Macintosh checked her usual haunts along with the others; the sweets shop, the school, the library. Nothing. Girl up and vanished like a ghost. His stomach hurt--had ever since he and the girls had agreed to look through the town. He walked across the gravel parking lot to his pickup truck after checking the movie-rental shop and adding another failure to his resume. He got in the rusting piece of work, slamming the door shut. His bulky frame took a moment to adjust to the cramped interior. Once it did, he leaned his head back and scrunched his eyes tight.

Mac couldn’t believe this. The baby of the family was gone. In between him and six other girls looking through the sleepy town, there had been no stone unchecked. Hell, he had a feeling Dash had probably even looked in the sewer system and, still, nothing.

He looked over his phone. No messages or calls. Girls came up dry too, he bet. Alice had skipped town already--it was too little too late on their search. Mac shook his head with disgust and reached over to the worn and torn passenger's seat, and the note he had tossed over there before everyone had shot out of the house. He looked at Alice’s uneven, sprawling handwriting, running a finger over a few of the words as he pondered his options.

Hell, there were no options, save for one. He wouldn’t be able to sleep right again if he didn’t do what he had to. With that in mind, Mac fired up the ignition and headed home to get ready.

Macintosh drove home as fast as his beat up truck could handle. As he pulled up the dirt driveway and walked past the young persimmon tree out front, he could hear a voice all the way from outside.

“You... Goddamn... bitch!”

Mac froze briefly. Sounded like Jack was in one of her moods again. They didn’t come often and they died in pretty short order, but you were dumber than a sack of hammers if you stood in between the tornado and the barn it was heading for. A part of him briefly did an about-face, intending to head back to town until she cooled off. He was snapped out when another voice pierced through where he stood.

“Fuckin’ hit me then!” Isabelle shouted from inside. “I know you wanna, so do it! Take the Goddamn swing!”

That got Mac’s feet moving. Jack might shout you deaf when she was pissed, but she’d never hurt a fly--Isabelle had proven that time and time again; the girls were great at pushing one-another’s buttons. With that in mind, Mac made a brisk walk to the door, just as Dash cried out “Do it!”

He made his way through the kitchen and stopped at the archway leading into the living room. There, alongside her friends, was Jack, weeping openly alongside Isabelle.

Twila gave a small, nervous swallow at the scene, then glanced the blond man’s way. “Hi, Mac.”

Mac might not have been a well-educated fellow, but he knew the root of this problem without even so much of a thought, and what he had to do to fix it; to fix all of it. He swallowed his emotions and said in his taciturn, mellow way: “I’ll find her. Don’t y’all worry.”

“Mac...” Isabelle trailed off, looking behind her at the giant of a man.

“Izzy. Take care of my sister,” he said, turning to head down the hall. “I’m gonna go pack.”

“Pack? Mac, for all we know, Alice is actually on her way to the Ghost Rim! Do you know what that means?” asked Twila.

Macintosh shrugged indifferently. “It means I’ll need some money fer a train ride.”

“But you-- It’s dan--” Twila sputtered from the other room. Mac heard the sound of quick footsteps crossing the living room and coming into the dining area. He felt a tug at his shirt and turned, looking at the scholarly woman and the desperate gaze she held. “...My brother is down there, Mac. If...if you make it that far... Could you...?” She trailed off, her silence saying everything.

“I’m hopin’ nobody’s that damn foolish; lettin’ a girl like Alice near a place like that. But if she is there...” He put a strong, calloused hand on her shoulder and slowly nodded once in agreement. “God willin’, I’ll find him fer ya.”

She smiled, tears welling in her eyes. Raising up on tiptoes, she tried to kiss him on the cheek, but managed more of his lower jaw. “You’re too tall for your own good.”

“Heard that since I was ‘bout fourteen.” He gently smiled at the woman. Hell, just about his entire family on his dad’s side was too tall--even Alice was a bit of a bean sprout compared to the girls she spent most of her time with.

She laughed. “You haven’t met Lew. You’ll get along, I think.” Mac noticed Twila’s quick look over to Jack. Her voice changed to a whisper, “You better talk to her some more, Mac. You know how she’s feeling as well as I do.”

Macintosh blanched. “I...” He scratched at the back of his head in thought. “I know. Jus’... I ain’t good at that. Normally I let her come ta me if she needs ta...”

“I know,” Twila said. “But right now she needs you, Mac. Her big brother.” She gave a nod, then went back into the living room, checking up on Chylene.

Mac made a small grunt of acknowledgement. He was the man of the household, and sometimes a man had to do shit he didn’t like. He turned and peaked into the room. “Come here, Jack.”

Jack choked out a sob and complacently walked across the room, weakly joining the man out in the hallway. He guided her upstairs to his room. The man sat Jack down at the foot of his bed, then joined her, his elbows resting on his knees as he slouched forward, waiting for his sister to open up.

Jack focused on a stain above her, where water damage from a leaky roof left a brown halo in the off-white ceiling. The woman sniffed hard. “Mac... she stabbed me in the back.” Jack scowled. “She stabbed all of us in the back.”

Mac glanced toward his sister, then returned his gaze straight ahead. “Come on now. Ya don’t really think that.”

“Well what else would you call this?! She wanted ta leave Alice behind!”

He shrugged his broad shoulders. “I’d call it havin’ ta make a hard choice--she’s gotta look at the big picture on this.” He sighed, adjusting himself on the creaking bed. “Ain’t much point of savin’ the girl if ya don’t save where the girl lives, ya know?”

Jack scowled. “Yer on her side too?! Goddamnit, Mac! I--”

“This ain’t about takin’ sides, Jack. This is about a girl we all love goin’ missin’, and none of ya able ta look for her.” He pointed a thumb at his chest. “I’m here, so I’m lookin’ fer ya. ‘Bout time I do somethin’ while yer stickin’ yer neck out on the choppin’ block.”

The woman’s anger briefly sputtered out. “Mac, ya do plenty. Don’t think any other way.”

“Plenty? Like watch my sister risk her life, an’ not even have the balls ta hear the whole story on what y’all are doin’ out there?” he bluntly asked, then raised his hand to silence his sister’s protest. “Nah. It’s the truth.” Macintosh wrung his hands, then briefly glanced Jack’s way. “I should be doin’ this stuff, not you, Jack. That bullet wound says it all.”

He rose, putting a hand on Jack’s shoulder. “Let me do the dangerous job this time. I’ll get her back. You can count on me.” The man adjusted his button-up shirt. “Jus’ get some rest, ok? I’mma pack an’ swap Izzy’s GPS fer a sec;’ get an idea on where I need ta go.”

Jack swallowed. “Y-yeah.”

Macintosh turned to walk out the door.

“Mac?”

He stopped.

“...Be careful. I ain’t sure what I’d do if...”

He nodded. “Same ta you, Jack, alright?”

The head of the Apple clan wandered the house for a few precious moments, loading a satchel with a spare set of clothes fresh from the wash, some canned goods, a few bottles of water, and a roll of warped and crinkled twenties from the hidden safe in the living room. He fleetingly frowned at the thought of touching the blood money, but let it pass like vapor in the air. Once he hid the safe behind a picture of his dad, he went to Jack and Dash’s room to find the athlete's GPS.

He wasn’t surprised Isabelle wasn’t in their room--girl tended to run off after spats, after all.

He searched the table by the bedside where Dash kept some of her things and finally saw a small flat screen. The farmer muttered, looking along the sides for a power button. Finding it, he pressed the switch on. The tablet sparked to life, showing a backdrop picture of Jack that Macintosh would rather forget. He looked over the small icons once they loaded, finally selecting one simply called ‘maps.’

There wasn’t much information on the Ghost Rim--he doubted there would be. Rather, he looked for anything north of them. Islands, oil refineries, boat docks. The man made a note of them, deciding to look at what would have been Alice’s first leg of the journey.

Well, he could eliminate any destination involving driving. So that left the trainway. It had been years since Mac had rode the trackways, but he remembered that there was a route to Gaingridge--one of the more southern port towns. Maybe she...

He tapped a finger at the town, then traced an imaginary line south. His finger crossed a small island that he had noticed during the first part of his investigation.

“Misemo,” the blonde said. It was his best chance--it was the closest island to the mainland, and, despite it being small, it was apparently a popular haunt for seafarers. Was she hoping someone would take her south? “Hold on, Al. I’m comin’.” He turned off the power to the tablet and grabbed his satchel. Mac didn’t say goodbye to Jack on the way out--would be easier this way.

Tossing the supplies into his truck, he started the motor. Just as he prepared to leave, a thought struck him.

Down south was dangerous. Very dangerous. He wasn’t keen on fighting, but he wasn’t no fool either. He kept the truck running as he made his way down to the Hub.

Dash sat at one of the tables reassembling a handgun. She eyed the sights, mute and thoughtful as she took a level nearby and made sure everything was aligned.

Mac didn’t say a word to her; he went to one of the boxes stuffed with guns on the lower levels and started to look through it. He set his sights on a fifty caliber handgun. Macintosh hoisted it up and looked it over. All clear. He went to another crate and opened it up, only briefly looking at the note taped to the top showcasing what ammunition caliber was where.

He grabbed four magazines for the semi-auto, feeding one into the gun and pocketing the rest. The giant of a man double checked that its safety was on, then tucked the thing into his jeans pocket.

Mac went upstairs, brushing past Dash, then paused. He knew that the woman must be feeling lower than a snake in a wagon rut right about now.

“Izzy,” he addressed. She looked up from her work. “If yer gonna take pictures of my sister in her undergarments, please don’t put ‘em as yer background.”

The athlete grinned, rubbing at her nose. “Heh. Think of it this way: you saw my tamest one. I got a ton of ‘em tucked away on that thing that--”

“I don’t even wanna know,” Macintosh replied. “Look,” he started. “Don’t get too pissed about Jack, alright? She, uh...”

Dash somberly nodded, her joking demeanor disappearing as quick as Mac’s did. “She’s got a temper and shit hit the fan. No big.” The two heard the sound of a toilet flush. Chylene entered, quietly shutting the door behind her.

“M-Mac?” the pink-haired girl said. “Are you r-really going to get Alice?”

“I’m the only one that can.”

Dash let out a breath and crossed her arms. “Goddamnit...” she said under her breath.

Mac adjusted his plaid shirt. “Jus’... jus’ take care of Jack. If somethin’ happens ta me...”

“Shut the fuck up, Mac,” Dash dismissed, returning to her gun. “We both know nothing’s gonna happen. You’re gonna bring the girl back.” She ran a delicate finger over her multi-hued hair and glanced over at Chylene. ”Swear, between you and that sister of yours, you’re all gonna fuckin’ worrywart me to death.” She wiped down the silencer of her pistol then started working on the trigger. “Now go get her.”

“G-good luck, Mac,” Chylene said quietly, looking down. “And come back to m--us, soon.”

He nodded, giving a small wave to the two as he left the Hub and started his journey.