006:

»«○»«○»«

SWORDS INTO PLOUGHSHARES

It finishes off like it always seems to, with three things; an explosion, a miscalculation, and, more importantly, the simple declaration of further war.

It finishes off with Daniel flat on his back, his handgun inches away from the tips of his fingers were he can't reach, a heavy, persistent ringing in his ears and the harsh, far too familiar stench of blood clogging his nostrils and restricting his breathing. Only this time, it isn't his stomach. It's his neck.

Neck-wounds. They... bleed a lot.

Daniel tries to gasp out, but it's practically impossible, for two reasons.

There's always going to be one you miss. A bullet with your name on it. A bad day. One day.

The first one, is simple; he's bleeding out. Horrifically. Breathing, especially through a massive tear in one's neck, is not an exactly an easy affair.

It wasn't even a knife. Or a gun. Just a rebound. Piece of shrapnel. Bouncing. Off the canyon wall, into his neck.

The second is a lot more complicated, though not in a medically diagnostic way. The second reason is because he wasn't alone when he collapsed. Daniel is grateful. He really is.

He can't die now.

Daniel didn't even notice it at first. Nor did Joshua. They finished off the last of them, checked the perimeter. Then he fell down.

"Daniel!" Joshua snaps. "Keep your eyes open."

Daniel grunts in the way of reply. Or, at least, he thinks he does. He might have. He's not too sure.

He's got the shakes. Everything's rattling, his bones and flesh feel like a tin can full of pebbles. Daniel can hear these strangled, gasping noises, but they can't be coming from him. Because doesn't feel anything.

Daniel can hear Joshua, but he thinks that the former Legate is quite far away. Then again, Daniel can feel his fingers on... no ... in his neck. So he's got to be nearby. Daniel doesn't know. His eyes are open but he's not really seeing anything.

"Daniel! I told you to stay awake."

There's this tinny ringing sound. Like a kettle boiling. Like a pending explosion. He doesn't like that.

Daniel hates explosions.

"I'm going to be okay." He says thickly, the words swirling languidly in his mouth, sounding thin and weak and too close, too close "M'not going to die." He can't. Daniel is not sure if he's talking to Joshua or he is talking to himself.

He really, really, hates explosions.

He tries to swallow. His mouth is dry. The pain is excruciating. It is. But he can't scream. He can't even open his mouth anymore. The vein in his neck, his jugular, is guttering. Joshua's bandaged fingers are hot with it, soaked.

This, all of this, ended with three things – but it also started with three things, too.

Everything had sped up. Now it's slowing down. Daniel's body slowly uncoils and sinks flush against cold ground below him. Toes. Heels. Calves. Thighs. Back. Shoulders. Arms. Fingers. His head can't though. Joshua's got a hand in his hair and he's clenching so hard Daniel can feel it tearing away from his scalp. That should hurt. But it doesn't.

Both good and bad come in threes, he guesses. Three things started this.

Three things; A compass, a set of walkie-talkies, and, infuriatingly, a spare set of surgical tools.

»«○»VI«○»«

SIX DAYS AGO

A bullet hammers into the wall of rock, loudly, spraying reddend dust in impact, narrowly missing Anthony's face by a few mere inches.

He stops. Instinctively calculating the distance between him and them, the direction of the latter, he turns the approximate set degrees from his position. Snarls. And, bending his knees, he leans backwards to get the required angle that would shoot his attacker dead-in-one with the twitch of a trigger finger.

The said attacker, per to expectation, drops dead with a bullet clean through the head, straight between the eyes, and Anthony makes to tromp back off to Zion Canyon when he notices, idly, that his supposed foe looked a lot more different then it was supposed to be doing.

Red. Not the blood. But, red. Uniform. A red uniform. Anthony stands over the body and blinks, looking up and then around, as if to gauge where they had come from. He can't quite piece it together.

Legion?

He looks back down again. Then he notes the cut, the lack of trousers; the dependency on spears and machetes. He tries to order together the stories, the rumours. He inhales sharply.

Legion.

He turns again, the coat tails of his military coat fluttering after him, knowing for sure.

If the Legion is this far into Ogden it won't be much longer until they are in Zion.

»«○»VI«○»«

Jessica returns to the camp with Cass at her heels and Miller not too far behind. Follows-Chalk has taken a real liking to the latter, but Miller is a man of few friends and fewer words; he's ignored the young tribal steadily up until now. It's not the tribal's fault, nor is it Miller's, but Jessica is not sure if this is something that Follows-Chalk will understand.

Joshua did; he recognized almost instantly. Now, Jessica is hoping, slightly, that they might have something to help.

Regardless. Miller is getting tired and he's getting angry. When they get to the entrance of the Sorrow's camp, he slams to a halt, gritting his teeth and shaking his head so abruptly that a lock of hair comes flying from the top to flop over his forehead.

Jessica doesn't stop. Neither does Cass. With a scowl, the former caravanner sends a hand out behind her to firmly to grab Miller, her fingers deftly snagging him by one of his coat lapels, dragging him along with a hefty tug.

"You're like a switchblade stuck on flick, you know that?" She hisses back towards him, and Miller's scowl blows up into something a little more hostile. Jessica looks over her shoulder.

"Guys-"

Miller lets out a noise and turns his head away, ripping her hand off of his jacket. He does, however, keep on walking.

"He's doing it again, Jessie. And I can't say his constant irritation is making me less irritated."

Feeling a headache throbbing along her temples, she glances back at Follows-Chalk, flashes him a look of apology, and turns back towards the trail in front of her. Just a few more seconds of walking and she can give this compass to Daniel for it to be fixed and then she can just relax. Hopefully.

Though with Miller getting pensive and Cass getting pensive because her significant other is getting pensive, and Follows-Chalk getting riled up despite himself because he doesn't understand the sheer... connection them too have, as well as the constant aggression, Jessica is starting to think taking it easy might not be as forthcoming as she would like.

"Guys, just... keep an eye out, okay?" She calls back, hopelessly.

"Why? You expecting a fight?" Cass asks, and Jessica frowns.

"Not exactly, but these tribals here, they aren't equipped for a fight or anything... just, be on your guard. I don't know my way around all that much."

She doesn't look back, but she can hear the smile in Cass' voice. "Guess peace and quiet was the one thing you didn't get here, huh?"

Jessica actually laughs.

She couldn't agree more.

They climb up the winding pathway towards the ledge that Daniel usually frequents, and she feels a sense of what could only be shock when she sees that it's currently uninhabited.

Jessica looks around, frowning. She's been around Daniel long enough to know his ticks, his habits; he's usually out here by now.

And, suddenly, she's surprised by a set of broad shoulders, dark hair and blue eyes. But it isn't Daniel. Anthony looks almost as surprised as Jessica is, sudden appearance and all, and she is willing to swear here, the man nearly shrieks in his apparent alarm. Normally Jessica would respond cordially, perhaps with amusement, but she can't- she's not alone, and because Miller is a product of some of the most terrible elements of Boneyard life brought together, he perceives Anthony as a threat before anything else. The two men impact hard, both of them with their weapons drawn.

She can't get to Anthony in time. After all, the two men here are both, in a way, soldiers.

And soldiers are known for only a few things.

»«○»VI«○»«

Anthony couldn't help himself. He yanked his arm away, but that wasn't enough. He lashed out with his right leg and kicked the taller man in the shin. Then shoved him backward. Elbowing him straight in the face with the pristine precision of a fully-trained missionary. A boy trained from the simple youthful age of thirteen to do many things, but one before all others.

Missionaries, while they might not want to admit it, and may never actually advertise it, are proficient in the many and varied arts of killing another human being.

The man fell against the wall, then to the floor. He looked helpless. Anthony was so filled with rage at him that he couldn't contain it. It was all the weeks of isolation. It was all his fear for his family. It was the anger at the White Legs. And for some reason, with all of this rage and fear, Anthony threw himself down on the male and pummelled him in the chest and stomach.

"Stop it!" cried Jessica, trying to pull Anthony away from him. "What do you think you're doing?"

Anthony threw himself up and away, and stopped and looked at his own hands. Then, he looked at the man's body, lying there helpless. The very helplessness of him, his wormlike, foetal pose, infuriated Anthony. He knew what this was. It was bloodlust. It was the animal fever that took a warrior over and made him strong beyond his strength. The smaller body, helpless, complete subject to his will. It filled a certain kind of man with rage that had to tear into its prey. That had to inflict pain, break the skin, and draw blood and tears and screaming from the victim. It was something dark and evil. If anything was from Satan, this was.

"I thought you were a pacifist," said Jessica softly.

Anthony could hear Mordecai going on and on about peace, how the servants of God did not go to war. But then, he also remembers the man talking to Daniel about keeping your firearm in good check, about making sure that your aim was true, and, about ensuring that whomever you shot at deserved the true wrath of God's vengeance.

And suddenly, he straightens, and he felt that very same supremacy and weight fall over him in waves, and for the first time in months, he spoke the same way he did back in New Canaan. Not as Anthony out in the Wasteland, but as the second-oldest son of Daniel Ryker, Sr. and second Godson of Bishop Malcolm Mordecai. A man that ought to be respected and who in turn respected others without a second thought. He inhales, and looks at Jessica calmly. The kind of man Daniel is on most days.

"Beat your swords into ploughshares," murmured Anthony, echoing Mordecai quoting Micah and Isaiah, as he did all the time. Anthony didn't want to hit him. Or rather, he wanted to hit him, but not more than he wanted not to hit him. "But no, I am not a pacifist. Think not that I am come to send peace on earth: I came not to send peace, but a sword."

"I know what I just saw," said Jessica. "That rage. You weren't pulling your punches. That looked like it hurt."

"Sorry," said Anthony. "I truly am. If you hadn't caught me off guard, I would have liked to be more respectful, ma'am. But this is Zion, and true enemies are everywhere. I would recommend that your friends, understood that. Attacking another man without due cause- though, it looked like this man here, had one -is a good way to get yourself killed. Nobody, least of all me, would have expected someone out at this time." The way he was speaking, with one hand upwards as if advising, had Jessica re-evaluate the situation at hand. A look of consideration flashed over her features. "See, it's prayer time for the Sorrows; Daniel isn't heading it, he's asleep. I wasn't expecting anyone here. Again, you caught me off guard."

He looks down towards Miller, where Cass was slowly helping the beaten man up.

"I hope you have learnt now, young man. That even the most nonbelligerent of missionaries have exemplary aim."

Jessica looks at him steadily. She opens her mouth to speak. "You said Daniel was asleep?"

Anthony turned to regard her for a moment. It was not a simple question for further acknowledgement. She knows, he understands, and suddenly he closes his eyes. He thinks of Sam, and Mordecai and Johanna, and that woman, Sarah Kingston.

Suddenly, very suddenly, Anthony looks back at her and smirks.

Yeah, he thinks. Daniel is lucky to have this one.

»«○»VI«○»«

"He needs this. It will be good for him," Twenty nine-year-old Daniel Ryker said with all the confidence he could possibly muster as he fiddled with the sharp end of a small toothpick, jamming it into the broken insides of a .45 automatic machine gun. His body was possessed by a nervous energy that he had trying quite valiantly to hide from his sister. Unfortunately, it wasn't working too well. But then, simultaneously tearing through a kitchen, somehow managing to fix at least ten different things at once did not exactly establish an aura of calm.

Johanna didn't respond, but that was because every inch of space that she normally used for talking was currently full of some kind of delicious, fluffy pastry that some respective old family member had made especially for her. With her hair cut short into what could barely only be a half-inch fuzz, she regarded her brother with a subtle frown and a quirk of the eyebrow when Daniel ripped the rifle upwards and, with almost desperate enthusiasm, pulled it apart into small sections, which he then rapidly assorted into piles and examined frantically.

"Because, you know, it's been over, what? Twenty years. Not like many people will remember him. Not that it matters anyway- This will be good. Great, really."

Johanna still did not respond, elbows leaning on what was the only clear space on the huge expanse of kitchen counter. The rest was covered with nearly every single firearm in New Cannan, and nearly every one of them was in the process of being fixed, or maintained. She shoved an entire sweetroll in her mouth at once, frowning at her older brother across the room with a degree of placid annoyance only she could ever muster.

"Not that it will be easy. I couldn't get Joshua talk about it for almost three weeks. But, he missed home even then, y'know? I mean, home doesn't just go away like tha–"

"Daniel?" Johanna interrupted in a sweet voice.

"Yeah?"

"Shut up."

He did.

Without the distraction of talking, the pitch of his frenzied mechanical workings steadily increased. Johanna leisurely picked up her own .45 automatic and considered what her brother had done with it. The silencer was on too tight, in her opinion, but she didn't say anything. They were silent for a long time.

"Do you trust him?" she asked, still reigning, God knows how many years later, as lady and mistress of the elephant in the room, even at the simple age of twenty three.

The small metal toothpick Daniel had been using snapped with the sudden pressure, the bottom end of it flying upwards and flying into his face. He shouted, grabbed his face where it left an angry, red mark and pushed the rifle off of his knees. Johanna snapped her head around, frowned, and, gauging the situation with the same simple yet profound intelligence Daniel himself is known for, and rolls her eyes. He meanwhile closed his, and grabbed onto the counter top until his knuckles were white. After a few seconds of this, he relaxed a bit, and took a deep breath.

"Which one?"

"Joshua, you idiot."

"Yes. Completely. Totally. More than anyone else in the world." he rubbed the abused spot on his face, asking in a much smaller voice, "Do you trust him?"

Johanna didn't answer right away.

"Yeah." she gently looked at him, and nodded. "To be trusted is a greater compliment than being loved, neh?"

"Eh. There we go, Johanna the Wise." he gave her a hopeful smile, and then glared down at the rifle he was having trouble with.

She stood up straight. "That doesn't exactly make this pleasant, though."

"Nope."

"Least you can get drunk." she shrugged, and then, giving him an evil eye, grinned.

He scoffed, "Johanna, I'll just pretend I never even heard you speak those words, in that order, and mean it honestly."

"I only do it to annoy Mordecai anyhow. I think he's given up on me. It's sad."

He shrugged, "Better you then me."

Johanna snorted, jumped up on the countertop, and folded her legs. "So what are we going to do to soothe our irrational paranoia until they get back?" she asked. He chuckled and shook his head. "Let's see then... we could tie some knots, or better yet, pace the floor over and over again in circles! A tried and true classic of the mentally deranged."

"I think I've paced enough rooms for fourteen lifetimes."

Suddenly annoyed, she slumped back down against the wall. "I don't know, Daniel! What do you do when you're stressed?"

"I'm already doing it. Or did you think I needed to strip, clean and reassemble every sodding rifle in New Canaan?"

"And as much as I and the rest of God's dear children appreciate the limits you will go to in order to keep us all safe, I need something to do before I go crazy. This," she pointed downwards, towards the stitches in her stomach, "means that I can't swing a punch for the next six months. Might tear something, or some kind of nonsense. Blegh, humans are so disgustingly fragile. It's sickening."

"Do remember that the Lord made us that way for a reason, hm?"

"God, I recall, has a sick sense of humour."

"Watch your mouth." Daniel chided, gently, and Johanna waved him off. "You could go wake up Anthony. He went to bed relatively early so Joshua could talk to him. I'm pretty certain I heard him making up for it around two in the afternoon, though. I'm sure it'd be quite gratifying for you."

"Just the concept of Anthony and Anthony's cologne makes me sick. What are you doing to me?" she yelled at her stomach, then turned to Daniel again. "Why'd he need to talk to him anyway? Couldn't Joshua just talk to you?"

"He was mad at me."

Johanna shook with laughter, "Why?"

"Because I told him that I thought it was really important he talk to Mordecai and get himself sorted out with the community and all, y'know, considering how everyone in this town is armed, weary of all Legion, and the former second-in-command of such is currently living under my roof. He needs to be back home, properly, not just tolerated within its boundaries... and, come on, I need that spare room back. Sharing a bed with Adam is getting... tedious, for the both of us."

The laugh died on her lips.

"Stop being so good to people, Daniel."

"I'll take it under advisement," he said distractedly, concentrating on setting the spring back inside the SMG.

He paused to look up and add something, but as he did, he found himself in the possession of an entire faceful of flour.

After a stunned moment, he lifted the tail of his shirt and calmly wiped the flour out of his eyes, mouth, and nose. "Are you sure you want to do this, Johanna?" he asked when he could speak again. "As a seasoned veteran of some very epic flour battles, I can tell you that you don't stand a chance."

She grabbed one of the bowls and ducked behind the island. "As the winner of many of those epic flour battles, buddy-boy, I can tell you to bring it-the-heck on."

»«○»VI«○»«

He woke up with a jolt.

Flinging his head up from where it was resting awkwardly, Daniel choked back a stifling bark of alarm and straightened up. He panicked as his hand flew out for his handgun, grasping nothing but thin air - not because he was in any danger per say, but more because he simply couldn't see it in his general vicinity. When he scans the space around the chair he was at in, and doesn't find it, he can feel the entire scenario causing him more stress as a New Canaanite- and, a generally stressed out human male of his particular temperament -in particular than he cared to actually illustrate. He huffed out in subtle, yet equally profound annoyance, and blinked against the developing dawn light.

He found it, further along the table, and grabbed it with a particularly nasty expression, passing the other hand over his face and around the back of his neck with an uncomfortable groan. He shouldn't sleep like this. He's getting to old to just brush the strain off.

Daniel glanced down at his inner wrist, where the face of his watch sat gloomily, luminescent green hands ticking onward dutifully. Twenty five past seven in the evening.

Fifteen minutes.

The missionary groans, stands, stretches his arms out and scowls again. Then he notices that he's lost his hat, and he runs a hand through his hair, noting the developing length, unpleased, as he slips his handgun into his waistband, since he can't find his holster anywhere, either.

He can't acutely remember what he was doing fifteen minutes ago, but whatever it was, he makes a mind to never do it again. Daniel looks downwards at his attire. He's a right mess.

Before he could start looking for either the hat or his holster, a powerful noise reverberated over the nearby canon as efficiently as a thunder clap. Daniel heaved his head up and peered upwards at the cave ceiling for a few seconds, a darker look forming over his features as he froze, head tucking downwards again as he spun around on his heels, considering that particular sound.

He knows that. Somewhere. He's defiantly heard that noise before.

He takes the pair of the binoculars from his pack and runs up towards the higher end of Angel Cave.

»«○»VI«○»«

Joshua Graham did, of course, know what that noise was and as he rises over the crest of the canyon towards his intended location, he did so to find the other New Canaanite, Daniel Ryker, stood towards the very edge of the incline, holding up a pair of old, pre-war military binoculars and looking across the expanse of the valley. With the sun behind them both, it results in the man looking like a broad, dark silhouette, and the rest of the canyon stretches wide across before them both, captivating in its magnificence. Joshua steps forwards so he is right by the other man's side, but Daniel doesn't say anything. Not yet.

Fear. It is a matter that holds no true form, yet it weaves into the hearts of all. A formless matter trapped in a cage made of thin wood, bathed in blood and pure adrenaline.

When Daniel lowers the binoculars and passes them over with one mute, sharp movement, Joshua snaps his head around to see that it is written all over the younger man's face. He personally believes that fear is an illusion, but not an amusing one brought about by a conjuring trick; like Daniel does with the children, an easy, little trick meant for innocent minds. Fear locks onto what you love most and makes you terrified to the core, and when Joshua looks through, towards the spot where Daniel was looking beforehand, he finally knows why. His bandages hands tense over the heavy alloy body.

"They blew up the rock formation over there, Three Marys... judging by the dust cloud, they've... they've done it to block off that particular section of valley from the north side, see the, uh, landslide to the left there...?" Daniel points forwards and across lightly. Joshua adjusts his position to look where he is indicating. "It'll only be accessible from two, rather than three, forks. That is if it's had the desired effect. It's hard to tell from here, but whomever did it, if it worked, they've made themselves a very defensible position. Sounded like plastic explosive. That's why I..." He inhales, sharply and looks at Joshua, if only for a second. The former Legate nods. Of course, a missionary, even an untrained one, will have lived in New Canaan long enough to know the different sounds of explosives, just like both of them can tell the type of round when fired. Daniel knows what this is because he's both used, and got on the wrong side of, plastic explosive before.

And, he knows who wouldn't be doing usually.

"Kerosene and gasoline, fair enough, any idiot can use that... but that kind of equipment... Composition C-4? I've never, even in Salt Lake, not once, ever seen White Legs carrying it. It's too technical. A tribe that can't even hunt for itself shouldn't be able to even understand the concept of, let alone use, a PETN-based detonating cord. Heck, it took us long enough." He says, and then, folds his arms abruptly, biting his lower lip. "White Legs don't use plastic explosive."

"No." Joshua replies, gravely and lowers the binoculars. They both know who is on the other side of that valley, and this time, Daniel has a very good reason to be afraid. Joshua cannot fault him at all. Not that he ever could, of course, but... Joshua inhales the evening air and dreads what is to come. "No they do not." He hands the binoculars back and bunches his hands into painful fists. "Nor do they wear crimson."

They both know who is on that other end of the valley, and it's unlikely that they will be staying there for long.

»«○»VI«○»«

Mordecai knew, as soon as he managed to get into the boy's home, that he had not been lying. Apparently, he had indeed been baking. The small collection of sweetrolls over towards one side of the counter was more then enough evidence.

The rest of the kitchen was a different story.

There was flour everywhere.

There had to be almost twenty pounds of it spilled across the entire kitchen. It was on the ceiling. In between the tiles on the wall. On the clean dishes in the doorless cabinet. And, most of all, it lay in huge piles on the floor. Some of it had gotten wet and was now congealing into a disgusting paste. Johanna's arms and hands were now completely white. Daniel's entire right side from the neck down was uniformly covered.

Joshua Graham opened his mouth, and started to ask, but couldn't really form a coherent sentence.

Daniel and Johanna looked at each other for a moment, and although Daniel was composed enough not to do so himself, Johanna burst out laughing. Daniel meanwhile looked chagrined, and he slowly approached his stunned godfather.

"We got bored."

"Very bored." Johanna agreed, and she started thundering up the stairs to get to the bathroom first. "Daniel is a bad in-flu-ence!" She sing-songs.

Daniel splutters in poorly constrained fury. "I'm the-!"

Johanna didn't reply, but instead brought her index finger up to her lips, running up backwards the rest of the way.