His head pounding with every step, Lew took quick, precise steps trailing Zecora. The native woman moved fast, last night’s drunken celebration seeming to have hardly fazed her. To be fair, Lew reasoned, he hadn’t expected the honey-ish tasting concoction she gave him to have such a massive kick.

Still, he was on the tail end of his hangover at last. It was becoming easier to keep pace, though he had to hold his stride in some. The smaller, shorter strides of Zecora were making it a little tougher on him--plus, they had entered into jungle whose terrain was half jagged stone and boulders. That meant they weren’t too far from the shoreline, Zecora mentioned.

He saw she had stopped at the top of a small rise. He doubled timed it, slowing as he approached to take a crouch next to her.

They’d been climbing up the sloped side of a small cliff. In front lay a sheer drop, cracks and gripping trees marking the fall below. But it was the base of the cliff that mattered far more.

They’d found a pirate camp.

“Tell me, are you ready for a fight? Or are you still struggling from last night?” Zecora asked with a sly smile as she squatted low, peeking over the rise.

He rolled his eyes and loosened the sword at his belt, then checked the rounds in his pistol. As he did so, he said, “Didn’t you have enough laughs then?” He scanned the camp. Offhand, he saw six or seven men. The rocky coast was probably a hundred yards or so away from the base of the cliff; a small, sleek vessel--designed for speed, not assault--was anchored to a low point. “From what I can see and the size of that ship, I’m going to put it at a dozen men. Maybe a few more.” He gave her a measured look. “Think you can deal with that?”

Her expression hardened. “Child’s play for a knight and me. The cowards will fall--wait and see.”

“Mmm,” he said, pulling out a pair of binoculars from his carrier bag. The camp was small and poorly put together, tents placed haphazardly with no real direction or thought to defense. Along its western side the terrain turned very rough, with jagged, spike-like rocks jutting in all directions. He pointed as he said, “There’s our best approach if we don’t want to be seen. Plenty of cover, though questionable footing. Maneuverability might be limited.”

Remembering who he was talking to, he added, “Or at least for me, it might be. If you think you can keep yourself safe, I’d suggest you distract them from that side.” He gestured to the other side of the camp, which led into the jungle. But only after about thirty yards of clearing the pirates had made. “I’ll come from that end, sniping targets as they try and hit you. They’ll figure out they’re taking fire, then take cover against me. Giving you an opening to charge and push to melee.”

Standing, he tucked away his binoculars. “Between the confusion that will generate and you pushing them out of the open for me to pick off, should be an easy enough operation.”

Zecora nodded earnestly, drawing the spear from behind her back. “A plan like that works for me. It’s a talent of mine--not being seen.”

Setting down his bag, Lew pulled his headdress up, wrapping his face tightly till nothing but his eyes could be seen. He unslung his rifle, chambered a round and said, “To battle we go, with Elondrie’s guidance we’ll come out whole. Good luck, Zecora.”

“Same to you, little Lew.” With an adjustment of the cloak she wore, Zecora was off--crouched low and using her hand as a balance, she snuck her way across the terrain with an enviable grace.

Heading off in the opposite direction, Lew dashed as fast through the trees as he could. He’d seen where the land sloped down and around, leading to the base of the cliff. It was a little childish, but he sprinted as fast as he could, hoping to beat Zecora getting into position.

The tribal woman ducked into the rocky field, hiding behind one of the many large rocks nearby the camp. She laid her spear to the side and cupped her palms. She blew sharply into her hands and adjusted her fingers as she did, producing a call similar to a toucan's cry.

Cursing, Lew came up to his spot just a moment afterwards. He hadn’t thought to make any signal. Nothing came to his mind--he certainly didn’t think he could make the sound of a toucan. Hoping she’d just realize he was in place, he found a good spot, crouched, and sighted through his scope. He could see about three pirates, but what was better, he could see the other side to the rocks where Zecora was lurking.

He watched, and waited.

Zecora listened briefly, getting a feel for what was behind her hiding spot. She heard two footsteps approaching, and the shuffling of another man a ways back. Deciding to gather them near her, she picked up a palm sized rock and threw it at her feet. The clacking noise echoed across the camp as she leaned back against her cover and waited.

There were a few utterances of confusion between the patrolling guards at the noise. They cautiously crept towards the rocky field, slowly sweeping behind the rocks with their battered and worn Kalashnikov’s.

Zecora held her breath and waited for them to come closer, her keen ears telling her exactly where they were at on the gravelly terrain. When they were mere feet from her hiding spot, she sprung, turning and lunging her spear forward, embedding it deep into the closer guard’s chest. He stared down in confusion at the object piercing his heart and briefly moved his hand to the shaft, before giving up the ghost and going limp.

The other guard turned at the noise and, with an alarmed yell, fired. Zecora crouched down behind cover just as the bullet ripped, sparks flew as it skidded across the sharp and pointed rock. With a blur of motion she rose, reaching across the chest-high rock and grabbing the man’s shoulders. The tribal woman yelled, pulling the bandit across the rock and dropping to her knees. The sharp crag pierced through his gut and out his back as she pulled his body down towards the ground.

A shot from across the way hit the splayed out body, briefly misting the air with red. Zecora reacted, leaping toward another rock as another bullet ripped across the camp.

It seemed like the others were finally awake. Zecora grimly frowned as she unsheathed her knife, hoping Lew would get a few shots off before they assaulted her cover.

The captain had watched it all through the clarity of his scope, a beautiful but deadly dance that had lasted mere moments. Everything after that exploded at once, with the entire camp waking to the death cries and grabbing their weapons to avenge their comrades. A couple charge, weapons raised in hope to violently send Zecora to her doom. The rest held back, guns up and flashing, spilling bullets all over the field of rock.

He grinned. It was too easy, really. Drawing and holding in a deep breath, he sighted at the shooter closest to his ally, lining up his shot right at the base of the neck. The pirate was waving his rifle right and left, but left his vulnerable head quite stationary. It didn’t remain that way for long.

Almost mechanically he pulled the trigger, felt the slam of the riflebutt in his shoulder, then moved right along to the next target. While he’d seen plenty in the past, this time he didn’t even register the unseen hammer of force that knocked his first victim forward and down, a wide cloud of red spraying from the spot where his head had once been.

He did it a second time, a third, a fourth--by then the pirates had realized they’d been caught in a pincer. His fifth shot would’ve found its mark, but for another pirate knocking his friend to the ground. Lew cursed, taking his eye from the scope to get a wider view of the camp. The pirates now knew about him and were taking cover from the sniper in the jungle.

Zecora readied her blade and sprinted over to another large rock, one closer to the camp. She saw a man in cover from Lew’s shots, clearly distracted by the rifle shots. With a toss of her knife, she struck his skull, dropping him instantly. The tribal woman ran over to his still-warm corpse and stole the poorly maintained rifle in his hands. Zecora took to shooting it, her aim poor and inexperienced, but still managing to graze a few behind their cover. When the clip ran dry, she hid behind cover, pulling her knife free and wiping it against her sarong. She tensed, waiting for Lew to distract them one more time.

The pirates were disoriented, their morale quickly fading. Lew almost felt bad for them. They’d really never stood a chance. He took down another pair as they leapt away from Zecora’s poor marksmanship. Lew was going to have to talk to her--she could’ve hurt herself, being so inexperienced.

Nine, he thought. Three, four left, tops.

But in their desperation, the remaining pirates had managed something of a perfect position. Between them and Lew stood a tall pile of logs, the trees they had cleared, cut down and awaiting to be thrown in a fire. Despite the power of his shots, Lew knew he’d never pierce the obstacle. Able to ignore his sniping, they could focus all their firepower on Zecora; all that stood between her and them were the pirates’ tents. They couldn’t see her, but they didn’t necessarily have to. Lew lowered his rifle, reshaping his plan before something went terribly, terribly wrong.

Zecora knew beasts. She had spent years hunting and gathering all manners of creatures for her people. She knew their mating calls. She knew their roars of aggression.

She knew fear.

She could smell the panic on the pirates. Could envision their shaking hands and labored breaths.

She did what any predator did to weak, pitiable prey.

She charged.

She charged across the sands and the rocky terrain, all trace of subtlety gone. As she ran across the camp, she bellowed a call in a tongue Lew had no comprehension of. Bullets rained down on her, yet she seemed invincible, never altering her course amid the chaos. She finally could see enough of the survivors to notice the panic and raw, abject terror in their eyes.
Zecora let out a primal roar and pounced, landing on the chest of the closest pirate. Without even stopping to check on him, the woman pressed on, throwing a knife at one of the few men who still had a trace of wits about him. It struck his throat. His finger spastically twitched in his death throw, spraying the area with random, wild bullets, striking one man through the kidney, and nicking Zecora across the dark skin of her neck. She pressed on to the last man, who was all but a blubbering mess. With a deft slap, she knocked his gun away and took to throttling him, hoisting him up with her hands and began slowly strangling his life away.

Meanwhile, Lew had ran from his jungle cover, hoping to make a target of himself for the pirates--he’d found his little outfit made him a hard target, if he moved fast enough--but realized he was already too late as he rounded the logs. Looking dumbfounded at the panting Zecora, blood splattered and dripping down her body, he pulled out his pistol and finished off the few who weren’t quite dead.

A couple minutes later, he holstered the gun and looked at the carnage around him. Taking in another deep breath, he let it out slowly. Again, he told himself they were most likely all murderers, rapists, the worst kind of scum. This was his duty. This was justice.

It didn’t settle the ache in his chest much, but made it more bearable. Through tight lips, he said, “It’s over. We did it.”

Zecora took a breath and nodded, visibly weary as she held a hand over her bleeding neck. She moved over to a corpse, pulling her knife from his body and taking to feeling through his pockets.

“You have proven you’re no runt. You did well upon this hunt.”

“Thanks. You’re no slouch yourself. I know Royal Guardsmen who don’t have half your skill,” he said, lowering his headdress. His hair was matted with sweat and messy. The cool breeze wafting in from the ocean felt amazing. But, as he had always found in the Rim, the scent of it was off. Not the salty tang of your typical ocean, it instead held a more organic odor, not unlike rotting vegetation.

He shivered then looked over their victory again. “A small camp, probably no-namers. But still. They’ll have ammo, food, maybe other supplies--like something to bandage your neck.” The young captain started searching through bodies and tents. Beyond a mess of cheap canned foods and more bottles of beer than many bars could boast to having, he found little of use. But finally, it the largest tent, he found a standard medical kit.

Taking some disinfectant and gauze bandage, Lew approached Zecora. “You’re lucky they didn’t hit your carotid. Charging like that was...” he trailed off, not quite wanting to finish his sentence.

She gave a shrug, removing a hand from her neck and brushing her white hair away from the wound. “They were frightened, running scared. I knew their aim would be impaired.”

Giving a neutral grunt in return, Lew went to quick work, cleaning and dressing the wound. His hands were a little clumsy for such precise work, but he’d been practicing field medicine enough in the past few weeks that he quickly had the wound patched. “Well, I’m no medic but that should be alright, won’t get infected at least.”

Zecora gave a nod, smiling slightly at the action. “I appreciate the aid. Though you look quite unlike a nursemaid.”

“They teach you all sorts of things at the Academy,” he said, smoothing one last piece of medical tape. “Ok, you’re good. I think we should get some rest, then take what supplies we can carry back to my people’s camp.” He crossed his arms, watching her. “If you want to, that is.”

“Meeting them would be a delight. I want to speak with the Princess of night.”

Nodding, Lew replied, “She’ll want to meet you, too. I’m sure of it. Alright, let’s pile what we can, pack it, then relax. I dunno about you, but I’m always beat after a fight.”

“A rest is needed to keep healthy and fit.” Zecora then paused, glanced at her bloodstained clothing. “And a wash, while we’re at it.”

“Right,” Lew replied, heading back to the leader’s tent to see what he might take. It had been risky, but with weapons and ammo--provided he could get it back to camp, after all--for his men, they might just stand a chance at taking back their ship.

With Elondrie’s guidance, he prayed hard they would make it home after all.

Macintosh briskly walked through the crowded streets of Gaingridge’s main road, looking frantically in every direction, hoping, praying, that he’d spot her. He had had no luck so far, but he was far from giving up yet. The port town was fairly large, chances were good he might have just missed her. Still, the day was drawing to a close and the incoming darkness would only make his search harder. He doubted that she could’ve ever managed to find a boat. After all, who’d be willing to take a kid that was by herself out to the ocean?

His complexion paled. There were some people willing to take a kid by herself out on the water...

“No,” he said to himself, clenching his fists tightly at his side. He couldn’t think like that, not this early. Not until he ran through every other possibility. His feet took him towards the docks as his mind wandered through every agonizing possibility of what could’ve happened to Alice.

“Hey. Tall guy. Look down ‘ere for a sec,” came the whiny voice of a short, stout man. “Yer blockin’ the stairs to the boats. Go ahead and move would ya?”

The giant of a man stepped to the side. An idea came to him. “You a dock worker?”

“Yeah. And you look like a tourist. No idea where ya goin’.” The man sighed, shaking his head and muttering something as he began to make his way down the steps.

“Wait,” Macintosh said, his voice leaving very little room for argument.

The dock worker stopped, lazily turning around. “What?” he replied bluntly.

“I’m lookin’ fer a girl. Red hair, tanned like me. ‘Bout five-five. I think she mighta been tryin’ ta get a boat. Ring a bell?”

The man scratched his head. “I see a lot of kids runnin’ around here...but none of that type.” He looked around the dock, making a grunt of approval once he spotted someone approaching the two. “Might want to talk to Ol’ Hans. He’s been fishing all day,” he explained, pointing at the guy in question. Hans noticed the point, raising a brow and adjusting the cooler he had in hand.

“Good evening, boys. Were you needing me for something?” the dark-skinned man asked, shifting his easy gaze from the dock worker to Mac.

“This big fella’s been lookin’ fer a girl. Might be related ‘cause she’s got a similiar tan to his, apparently. Much shorter though--this guy says about five-five. Also she’s got red hair,” the dock worker said, coughing after giving his spiel.

“Red hair...” Hans snapped his fingers. “I remember a girl like that. She said her folks were over at Misemo.”

“Our folks are dead,” Mac bluntly said.

“And she was a bad liar.” Hans slightly smiled. “That’s gotta be your girl.”

“Where is she, old timer?” The giant put his hands to his waist.

“Misemo,” he stated, looking at Mac.

Macintosh broke away from the two without another word, heading down towards the docks proper.

“Where you going, son?” Hans called out.

“Gettin’ a boat. Goin’ ta Misemo,” he answered.

“I hope you don’t mind pirates.” The dockworker scoffed, folding his arms.

Macintosh froze. He turned to stare hard at the dockworker. “Don’t care,” he replied. “I’m gettin’ my sister back.”

“Well good luck with that,” the man replied, turning away to get back to his work. But before he left, he stopped in his tracks and simply uttered, “Though considerin’ where she’s at, she might need it more than you.” He then left the two, not even sparing them a glance.

“How do I get there?” Macintosh asked, staring hard at Hans. The old man sighed, looking over the giant farmer. After a beat, he tilted his chin towards the docks.

“I’ll take you.”

The ocean rocked Hans’s small fishing boat in what felt like a million different directions to Macintosh. He spent most of the long, hour-filled ride hunched over the side of the raft, throwing up what little he had ate. He had never been on a boat before--the rocking made him completely nauseous. Hans had laughed it off at first, but as they came closer and closer to the black, barely lit island on the star-filled horizon, the old man’s attitude had gotten progressively more and more grim.

“Are you sure you’ll be alright?” Hans asked. Mac weakly looked up from his position over port bow.

“A... as soon as I hit land.” Mac wiped at his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt and rose, wobbling a little from the boat’s movement.

“Won’t be much longer then, young’un. Almost there.”

“Thank God,” the giant said under his breath, wiping at his sweat-coated brow.

They traveled the rest of the way in silence, Hans made his way to the fueling station, and pointed Mac towards a dirt covered path that led into the forest.

“Stay on the trail. There’s not much here, save for a bar.” He paused, then added, “At least, not much else civilized. Stay safe, son.”

“Thank ya,” Macintosh replied, climbing down from the boat and onto the concrete dockline. He could almost kiss it--hell, he could almost kiss anything that wasn’t a damn boat right now. He gave a small wave to Hans and began his trek up the dimly lit path.

He traveled along it for several minutes, the torches lining the walkway few and far between. He debated taking out his flashlight from his pack, but decided against stopping. Mac wasn’t sure how friendly the locals were, but he guessed from what the dockworker said about them being pirates, he didn’t want to test their hospitality.

Macintosh trekked uphill until he came to a fenced in shantytown. Three buildings were sealed inside the fence line. The one on his left seemed to be the liveliest. Music played inside, practically wafting through the wooden structure like a scent. He followed the fence until he came to the other side of the structure, where a rusty gate opened the way for him. Cautiously, he entered then approached what he guessed was the bar. Opening the door, he caught the middle of a conversation between two men that sat at the counter of the nearly deserted bar.

“Fuck me, man...” came the hoarse voice of a man. “She beat the shit outta us!”

“Quit your fuckin’ bitchin’. We’re still standin’. Beaten, but standin’. If she had the balls, she would’ve finished us off,” said another.

“Easy for you to say! You didn’t get hit in the fuckin’ balls!”

“No, I didn’t. I just got knocked out cold, you shit for brains!”

“In front of a kid too...gah!” The bandana wearing man slammed a fist on the bar table.

Mac’s ears perked at that. It wasn’t like there were many kids around pirate towns. He ambled on over and slid into a seat next to the men. The barkeep briefly poked his head out of the backroom.

“Whiskey. Straight,” Mac grunted, raising a single finger. The barkeep nodded, pouring out the farmer’s drink and sliding it to the man. Knocking the shot back, he barely showed any reflex as the alcohol dug into his gut. He finally glanced over at the two men occupying the seats next to him. “Was the kid a girl? Red hair?”

The bandana man leant over the bar table, getting a better view of Mac. “Yeah, she was. What about it?”

“Where is she?” he asked, ignoring the other’s question.

The greasy man gave his friend a sharp glance before answering Mac. “Some pirate captain took her. She was screamin’ an’ everythin’. Fuckin’ terrible. That’s why we both look like shit.”

“God...” Mac trailed off under his breath, looked forward once more. He put a jaw to his chin, troubled by the info. “She’s out there...” The Apple returned his gaze to the two. “Where the pirate take her?”

“With her crew. I don’t really know ‘em. Not from around here I think,” the greasebucket of a pirate answered. He pointed towards the barkeep. “He’ll probably know.”

“I’m a barkeep, not an informant. I keep my ear out of that--keeps me alive,” he argued.

“The dock workers,” Mac suddenly deduced. “They might know somethin’.”

“Probably,” the greasy man replied. “If you’re goin’ after her though...give her hell. She’s the worst kinda scum.”

Mac mulled it over. “I’ve got over one thousand dollars on person. I’ll give you each five hundred ta find where she went, an’ get me to that bitch.”

Both pirates flashed a grin. “Consider it done!” the bandana pirate exclaimed, both jumping up from their seats.

“We’ll be back shortly. For now, heh, enjoy the booze. That’s some good poison,” the bandana man said, gesturing for the other to follow him. The two swiftly exited the bar, grinning fiendishly.

The farmer was a simple man. Simple, but not stupid. He knew cutthroats when he saw ‘em. Those boys took him for a sap. Odds were, they would take him out to the water. They’d take him, then kill him. Probably dump his body into the water. Spend the night counting his bills. He felt in his bag, finally grasping the reassuring weight of his gun. He transferred it to his pocket and returned his attention to his drink. His mind turned toward not only to the little girl he was after, but the little girl at home.

He sighed. She ain’t a little girl neither, no more, he thought. It was true. He wasn’t that much older than Jack, but there were times when he sure as hell felt like it. The girl going out there and getting shot up while he waited at home hoping for the best? It didn’t set right with Mac, never had and never would.

“At least now yer doin’ somethin’ ‘bout it,” he said under his breath. He rose, tossing a twenty on the bar. He looked down the hallway the bartender disappeared to. “Left my money on the counter,” Mac called, already heading for the door.

The farmer stepped outside, taking just a moment to feel the air running through his rough blond hair. The giant felt once again for the weight of his gun, breathing a sigh of relief when he confirmed it. He took off through the ramshackle town, glancing towards the few buildings that occupied the fenced-in area. Each one seemed as worn as he felt right now--like a stiff breeze could collapse them. He left the gated community and headed towards the docks. The tropical trees once again felt claustrophobic as his boots crunched on the dirt pathway leading downward. He heard a noise to his left. Mac tensed up, almost waiting for something to happen, waiting for someone to try and ambush him from the treeline.

When it didn’t happen, he visibly slumped. Damn nerves, he thought, continuing down the path.

Mac made it through the thick woods and started down the slope leading to the docks. He scanned through the small group of people still wandering the fueling station and didn’t notice the two men he spoke to in the bar. Mac sighed in irritation, but didn’t lose hope yet, they could just be somewhere he wasn’t seeing.

“‘Ey!” came a voice from behind him. It was his ‘informats’. “We got whatcha need,” proclaimed the greasy pirate.

“She’s fucked off with her crew on her ship: The Bloodied Talon,” the bandana guy grimaced, “Weird name if ya ask me. Couple of the dockworkers said she’s heading to the Ghost Rim. Apparently that’s a normal thing for her.”

“We spoke to a couple good men, y’know, connections and managed to get you a boat there.” The sinister grin on the grease bucket’s smile plainly told Mac that it was more than just ‘speaking’ that they did. “It ain’t pretty, but it’ll do.”

The two gestured for the farmer to follow them, and they took him to their vessel. It wasn’t much: a mere fishing boat. Small, rusted, worn, but serviceable. A few workers were onboard, seemingly a bit too occupied with their duties.

“Step aboard, mate.” The cleaner man (in comparison to his friend) gave Mac a light shove towards the boat.

“After you two,” Mac instantly replied, turning to stare at both of them.

They shrugged and casually strided on board. “Fine, if you’re offerin’,” the greasy man said.

Macintosh followed after them, keeping a close eye on everyone present. He felt again for the heat at his side. His companions barked orders to the workers and they hurried about. It wasn’t long before the boat was set in motion.

Don’t worry, Alice. I’m comin’ ta save ya. Mac looked up at the stars, wondering if his little sister was doing the same.