Chapter 2

It was remarkably quiet out here. The sound of birdsong and wind whistling through the leaves was the only thing that greeted Clark's ears as he made his way along the road. Coming upon a bridge over a small river, Clark elected to wander off the path and make his way to the bank. There, in the shade of the bridge, Clark got to work. The first order of business would be concealment, he had come into being in worn, loose-fitting garments. While they would have been handy had he been dropped directly into Vale, mostly for repeating his invisible man shtick, they made for poor camouflage for bandit-hunting in the forest. Tearing the burlap into long , ragged strips, Clark began to tie them onto his clothing at somewhat random increments. Most attention went into his new hat, whose bagginess had already helped the process of breaking up his head's very distinctive silhouette. Some dark mud from the riverbank finished the whole process. After checking his reflection in the water Clark was ready to disappear.

Stepping over some stones and wading through the last couple of feet of water, Clark made his way up the opposite slope and into the forest next to the road. Surprisingly, Clark saw that while he had been occupied, somebody else had decided to face the road alone. Seeing that he had emerged unnoticed, Clark made to follow him.

It was a young man, skinny, but more in the vein of Huck Finn than a product of famine. The holster on his hip was worn, as was the ancient-looking single-action inside of it. It would likely prove a poor deterrent, but it highlighted to Clark his own lack of armament, and the urgent need to correct it. The boy, or Sawyer, Clark chose to label him, began to whistle a cheery tune. This was likely as much a practical measure as much as it was a method of staving off boredom. Animals would hear it and know it was a person on the way, and keeping up, even forcefully, good spirits was likely to help with the Grimm.

For his part Clark's conscious mind had faded into The Zone. He thought very little as his took in the environment around him, but he felt far more. Everything in the forest seemed to swirl and resonate in tune, Clark's feet falling nearly silently on the soft forest floor. Like a dog after the starting pistol, there was only room in his mind for the task ahead. It had been a long time since Clark had gone for a bungle in the jungle. It was simply sublime to melt into the shadows again. It was only partly a mental indulgence, by slipping into this near trance, he also hoped to not attract the Grimm. It was hard to tell if it would work. In the wilds every little bit helped, and it played to his strengths, which in an actual encounter he would only get to use very briefly before being torn to bloody rivulets.

Sadly, it would not last. As Sawyer came upon a bend in the path, three men sprung out of the Undergrowth. They were dressed... eccentrically. A cross between a seventies movie punk and the Merry Men. In sharp contrast the rifles they were carrying were, however, no joke. One of them slung a lever-gun, its diameter suggesting shotgun but whose ammo belt suggested rifle. The other two were of greater concern, assault rifles, more specifically this world's equivalent of the British L85. Absently, Clark's mind wound back to the fact that fully half of this worlds alleged nations were in fact, failed states. These rifles were going to be a recurring theme.

They also were the deciding factor in Clark not coming to Sawyer's immediate aid. The rifles may not have been carried professionally, but they were carried with a confidence and familiarity that conveyed to Clark that an open fight would be punctuated with sustained bursts of automatic gunfire. In broad daylight, and without a firearm of his own, any attempt at intervention on his part would be brief, to say the very least. Sadly, Sawyer was on his own for the time being. That did not preclude Clark from tiptoeing himself close enough to listen in.

"- just heading up to Verte Crossing to visit family. Don't want any trouble." Sawyer smiled nervously, entirely understandable for somebody facing down three armed gunmen.

"Well now…" said the thug with a lever-gun who Clark decided to label Dopey due to his slim build and clean shave. The thug pointed to the revolver on Sawyer's belt "-that don't look like no bundle of flowers to me."

"I'm sure I don't need to tell you fine gentlemen about how active the Grimm 've been lately. Anyways I gotta head off now. " Sawyer made to continue on.

"Hold up now. Whats the hurry?" Dopey stepped forward, smiling, he asked "Whats your name, son?"

"Slim. Name's Slim." The young man said.

"Heh, ya sure are!" Dopey smiled at his own joke. Slim continued. "Well it nice to meet you all, but I really need to get going." The men pressed closer. Slim made for his revolver, and they were on him in seconds. Before Clark knew it Slim was disarmed, bound, and gagged. The men took their time rooting through his pockets before dragging Slim off into a narrow footpath in the undergrowth. By now the light coming through the branches was waning. Clark made to follow them.

The sun had long fallen over the horizon when the men reached their encampment. Split logs in a circle around a firepit, with sleeping bags in a rough circle outside. Clark crawled his way to the woodline to get a better view. Slim was still tied up and roughed up in equal measure, now chained to a pole that had clearly once been a flagpole of some sort, next to the decayed ruins of what had maybe been some sort of ranger station. He was some distance away from them, but the men seemed confident that he would remain captive and not make any effort to escape. As the men settled onto the benches around the campfire, they procured some tins of food and a cast-iron pot. They ate loudly and cheerily, laughing and doing mocking impressions of what were clearly various victims who had not taken well to parting with their valuables. Eventually their merriment wound down, and they began to wander to their bedrolls. One of the burlier men with the assault rifles, Clark labeled him Happy, opted to take first watch. Clark himself watched him in kind, motionless from the treeline, as the fire burned down and the true darkness began to press in on camp. Eventually Happy's shift came to a close and after checking on Slim, Dopey was awoken to relieve him.

Dopey was nowhere near as vigilant in his watch, yawning and slouching for roughly the first half-hour. The darkness had well and truly set in by then, but Dopey opted to ruin his night vision by smoking a cigarette. Finally the sleeping bags began to rise and fall evenly, and Dopey went to the woodline to relieve himself.

He had a customer.

Clark pulled out a length of cord and wrapped it around his hands, standing up silently and falling in behind the bandit. Workboots falling carefully in time with the criminal's own footsteps. Eventually Dopey found a satisfactory spot, leaned his lever-action against a tree and unbuttoned his fly. Clark used the sound of falling liquid to creep up closer, and waited for Dopey to reach down to re-button his pants. When he did, Clark pounced. Wrapping the cord around the mans neck and tightening, pulling back all the while. Dopey struggled against the cord, both hands trying in vain to get between his neck and the line. While Dopey was off balance, Clark kicked out his feet, forcing him to fight both Clark and his own body weight. Eventually his movements ceased, and a couple of minutes later, Clark let him fall to the ground.

Clark checked the corpse's pockets, he found a notebook, a considerable stack of Lien, and enough pocket lint to make a felt cap. The darkness rendered the notebook unreadable, but rifling through the coat came up with a box of bullets. With the corpse and weapon secured and the sleeping forms by the fire still breathing evenly, it was time for phase two. Clark crept towards Happy's sleeping back, the darkened knife barely even reflecting the light from the shattered moon above. Quickly, he sliced open the first sleeping bag and tossed out the rifle. Before the occupant could stir he had the wire out, first binding the hands, and then the knees, his own knee was planted on the back of the thug, driving the air out of his lungs and preventing effective resistance. A roll of burlap for a gag made for the finishing touch. Clark opted to label the last man Sleepy, as the procedure was repeated on him without him even stirring. With a final check to insure that Happy was secure, Clark made to wake up Slim.

For his part, Slim had been robbed, then kidnapped, then mocked the whole way to the camp. There were times, as he was getting up from being tripped or having food dangled right in his face, that he had literally seen red. He had not had much luck in freeing himself, either from the ropes around his wrists or the chain that bound him to the post. He had briefly snuck some cold beans from the plate of food that had been set out to taunt him. Sadly that, alongside some frustrated cursing made in response the tripping, had been the effective extent of his resistance. It was not an excellent showing for the normally bellicose and resourceful youth, he just had to have faith his captors would make a mistake tomorrow. They seemed dim even by the standards of bullies and thugs Slim normally came across, and it seemed like the smooth one who was supposed to be in charge was intent of driving the others up the wall.

He had been in the middle of a surprisingly dreamless sleep when he felt a sudden and gentle tapping at his shoulder. With a start he awoke, and spit at the face of the man who'd woken him. As he watched the rivulets of spit drip down the darkened face, he noticed that for some reason the man was covered in mud. A quick glace at the campsite, and the bound and gagged bandits in the bisected sleeping bags, made the actual state of affairs obvious. Slim had the decency to feel a little embarrassed.

"I'm willing to ignore that." The stranger smiled, his eyes did not. "I'll start. My name is Clark, whats yours?" Slim chanced a glace at the large knife Clark was twirling absentmindedly. "Jim Brown, but my friends call me Slim." Clark's smile took a queer turn, "Slim... Jim?" "That'll do just fine - now listen Mr…" "Clark" "Yeah, Clark, I've had just about the most awful of day of my life, if you could dispense with the pleasantries, and get me outta these brothers-damned ropes! I would be mighty grateful." Clark's smile broadened again, wide enough to swallow an entire stables's worth of shit. As he reached out to grab the ropes, he replied, "Gladly, but while we're on the subject, how would you like to do something about these... gentlemen?"

Satisfied that Clark did not intend to gut him, Slim relaxed considerably. As the ropes fell, he massaged the marks left on his wrists. "Guess that would depend on what you had in mind for 'em." Clark motioned towards the two in the ruined campsite. "These assholes are probably part of a gang that has been making life real miserable here for awhile-" Slim interrupted "The Daisy Chain Gang?" Clark took a moment to regain his momentum, nodding and continuing "- all of them are wanted, all of them have one hell of a reward out for them. More over, they're in my way." Slim took another glance at the bound and gagged criminals, one now beginning to truly struggle in an effort to wake the other.

"So what do you say kid?" Clark presented his Grandfather's revolver handle-first. Slim took it and tucked it into his holster.

"Where'd we start? Nobody knows where they hide out." With a quick and dismissive flick of his knife, Clark pointed once again to the captives "They do." the conscious one began trying to scream through his gag.

All told it had been a very quick session even by Clark's standards. Happy probably should have been named Grumpy because his first act upon having his blindfold removed was to yell at Sleepy not to tell them anything. Happy seemed to be one of those men who likely could have made their own way even in a legitimate field, but had chosen crime mostly out of his contempt for his fellow man. Sleepy for his part had turned out to be just as stupid and big mouthed as Happy had feared. When combined with the notebook taken from Dopey his words made for a clear picture of the whole operation. When they were done Clark dragged them into a drainage ditch not far from the camp and cut their throats. Happy first, Sleepy afterwards. It was cold blooded, and Clark read a little bit of discomfort from his companion. But the alternative was to carry them or de-facto feed them to the Grim. When it came down to it men like that weren't worth bullets if one could help it.

Slim's eyes were wide throughout the entire process, but he stood by and even helped Clark with some local slang and geography when Sleepy's cowardice got the better of his limited intellect. He had even helped drag the rotund bandit to the ditch. The sun was starting to rise by the time they were done.

Slim for his part got to making breakfast, Clark made for an inventory of the spoils. Only one bedroll was salvageable, but Slim had a place to stay in town, and frankly, it was to big for him. Next was some assorted wilderness gear, including a map that Clark leapt on, three stacks of Lien which they split, and finally, the weapons and ammo. Clark had been waiting to get a look at these.

The L85 expys were first. They were far chunkier than the models Clark had seen in Britain, with only a top rail to attach bells and whistles to. Where an Earthling weapon would have a grenade launcher, one of the guns had an odd block of plastic with a lever on either side. Pointing it down the hill, Clark pulled the lever to discover a frankly ridiculously sized bayonet sprung out. Discovering a means to retract it, and a frankly flimsy looking safety switch, Clark opted to continue his exploration on the minimalist model. Sadly the gun did not fire the familiar 5.56 NATO he had come to love and loath in equal measure. Instead opting for what was likely some sort of intermediate cartridge in the 6.5mm range. The bullets all had separate penetrators, but some were oddly colored and striped. These were likely the Dust cartridges he had read about. The gun itself was mechanically boring. The coatings were clearly very nice, but also very worn. This gun was likely as old as his current body and Slim put together. As a final and odd note it seemed to have a four-round burst. The symbol on the selector switch seemed to indicate that it was delivered in two bursts of two.

Next came the lever-gun. The bullets that it fired were large, almost compensatory. It was just a big, round-nosed bullet. Proportionately, more of these were Dust rounds, this was clearly a gun for dealing with Grim, perhaps even larger ones if fired repeatedly. If his suspicions were correct, and Daisy was an aura user, this was going to be his best shot at ending the fight before he became a greasy stain on the forest floor.

Next came the pistols, and Clark's first true reminder he was dealing with the belongings of criminals. One of them was clearly this worlds answer to a .22. It resembled the Wolverines he had seen advertised in his childhood, but it was made entirely out of Bakelite. Cheap, wood patterned, primitive plastic. Every aspect of it was cheap. At the end of the day though, a gun is a gun, and it was reasonably accurate. From Happy's rucksack came a cheap, double-action revolver in .45 Long. The Barrel had been crudely cut, likely so it could be better concealed on a run into town for supplies or R&R. Clark opted to test it out against the ruins, where the bricks and logs could provide a backstop. The loss of a few inches of rifling seemed to make little difference, and the lack of a front sight could be handled by point shooting easily enough. These bullets were all hollow-points, but were otherwise unremarkable, not even having jackets. By the time Slim had finished breakfast, Clark was studying the map and trying to put Dopey's notes and Happy's commentary into context. This was slow going without the help of a local, so he put it aside and turned to address his new partner in crime. Slim was focused on the fire pit and the breakfast cooking on a skillet. As Slim finished and pulled the pan out of the fire, he poured the contents into a pair of mess kits. If the foil packets sitting in a neat pile by the bench were any indication, most of the ingredients were freeze-dried. Nonetheless, Clark found the smell engrossing. "Thank's. Slim. I haven't eaten in a day and a half."

Slim took a look at the portions he had poured out, and offered the larger of the two to Clark. For his part, Clark did not even notice. Maps and notes briefly laid aside, Clark vacuumed up his food. Dark meat in a peppery sauce. Clark ate too quickly to take up more detail than that, not that he would have wanted to, the manufacturers of dehydrated foodstuffs had some of the least discerning palettes in human history.

Eventually the food was finished, Clark had finished long before Slim, taking his turn to feel a little guilty about his lack of manners. After Slim finished up, Clark decided it was time to figure out what exactly he was working with. "So, slim. How good of a shot are you?" Slim looked up from his empty tray.

"Pretty good, if I say so myself. Mostly with handguns." He motioned towards the revolver on his hip. Clark nodded

. "And what about rifles?"

"Don' like 'em as much, but I can work with 'em. Long as it ain't nothing too big."

Clark motioned to the faux '85 "How about that?". Slim's eyes narrowed.

"Should work just fine. Saw you eyeing the bullets earlier. Even the 'nerts look nasty."

"nerts?" Clark prodded.

"Yeah, nerts. It's what folks call the cheap plain metal shot. If it don't do nothing but make a hole, its a nert."

Clark chewed on that momentarily. "Nerts common around here?"

"More and more nowadays. Dust is getting pricey, which makes folk nervous, which brings more Grim and bandits, which needs…"

"I understand. Its a problem that feeds itself. So if you don't mind working that rifle, I think I have an idea of what to do next..."