text: Two options presented themselves, and yet there was never really an option in the matter. You carry the iron on your hip, accruing a skill set that brings destruction rather than healing. The bard will understand. He seems to sense your intention, perhaps it's displayed on your face, a mix of rage and confusion caused by the internal struggle to wrap your mind around the sudden assassination and your inability to stop it. He did warn you, did he not? In your paranoia you thought it was a set up, a lure to help you move on. He'll understand. Either way, it won't be an issue for too much longer. Mere seconds away.
  
  His hand falls from your shoulder. As you leave, you don't offer an explanation or words of farewell. None are needed. The bard knows your intent. He sees bloodlust, a single focus point grasped onto, one that will result in more death. You sprint from the stage, knocking over a few of the slower tavern patrons along the way. You exchange the tavern light for darkness; the moon hides beneath a cloud layer tonight, the sky continuing its constant drizzle.
  
  The street is abuzz with drunken citizens, some from Stormshelter, others from different watering holes. The news of the assassination is already spreading. They're gathering in the streets like citizens waiting for a parade to march through with no apparent regard for danger, perhaps realizing that a single dagger thrown in the night is the result of a targeted death, not a wide-spread killing spree for God knows why.
  
  Movement. Shadow. You sprint down the street, revolver placed back in its holster, exchanged for speed. Like a moth to the flame, the darkness draws you in. Even if you wanted, which you don't, you doubt you could turn back now. It's not only for the sake of your dying—likely dead now—friend. There's an indescribable allure to the darkness you chase. You desire it, long for it. You don't have to be kept waiting long.
  
  He's waiting for you down an alleyway, a lone silhouette of a man placed against the dark of night, the corner of his hat and poncho sharp. The man in black. You enter the alley. It's a long and narrow corridor, like most alleys are, lined with heaps of trash and reinforced doors that all remain shut and locked. No rat scurries. No crow scavenges. The alley is void of life, save for two gunslingers and the smell of death.
  
  "'slinger," the man in black speaks, remaining twenty paces away. He doesn't acknowledge your full title, and you know the reason for it.
  
  "You? Why?" you utter in a breath ragged from smoke. No further clarification is needed.
  
  The man in black shrugs. "You should be able to figure that out yourself. Father doesn't quite enjoy those who turn their back on the family. A lesson had to be taught. The woman, oh what's her name—Anna... Anne would have followed suit, but judging by your conversation that would have been doing you a favor."
  
  "I'm out. Father disowned me."
  
  The man in black laughs. It's an off-putting tone, the kind of laughter that's born of cruelty. "No one's truly ever out. And the way I hear it, you were never officially disowned. Father was content to put up with your disobedience, but times have changed. Father's calling everyone home."
  
  "You're fucking crazy if you think I'd return. Especially after what you've just done."
  
  "I was hoping you'd say that." Through the shadow, you see a hand appear at his side. The man in black postures for a gunfight.
  
  Your own hand matches. In the distance, a church bell tolls midnight.
  
  > return home
  It's been nearly ten years in the making. Eventually one's past catches up with a man, catching up—in your case—in the form of a gunslinger dressed in black. You were foolish to think that you could avoid it, or perhaps, that you were lucky to outrun it this long. The thought instantly vanishes. The bard would still be alive if not for you; there's no luck at play. Surely, there can't be.
  
  You suddenly nod, shoulders slumping into a posture that admits defeat, realization that there is no choice in the matter. If you shoot the man in black dead, another will take his place. If Father is truly calling all family members home—former or not—then there's no stopping the old sorcerer. Father gets his way. Father knows best. You wonder if she's still there... Your hand moves from its dueling position at your hip, both of them simultaneously. Two empty hands raise in the air at your shoulder height. Defeat. Surrender.
  
  "It's good you came to your senses. The others are eager for your return."
  
  The man in black leads you from the city walls. The streets aren't much populated as you leave. Goldwater knights gather at Stormshelter, drawing a decent-sized group of onlookers. Their investigation into the assassination will go nowhere; the assassin will be long-gone from Westhaven, and overrunning a gunslinger is near impossible for an armored Goldie.
  
  Once outside the city walls, you each utter the words of power. Twin dust clouds pick up on the horizon, a blur of legs galloping towards you. The mustang arrives in a footrace along with the man in black's. On the Westhaven plains, you ride, a constant drizzle of rain upon you. You ride in silence. This is no traveling companion, a pair of gunslingers riding to deal in lead. Your hands may be unshackled, your mouth free from the muzzle, but you feel more of a prisoner here than in Redshire. Your hands hold the reins, yet you do not direct the mustang. A six-shooter rests on your hip, yet you cannot draw. It's the false feeling of freedom—that must be it.
  
  You enter the farmlands. They appear in a slight valley due south of Westhaven, trading the overlooking mountain range for hills of green. Now, however, they appear black, dark shadows towering far above. The road takes you past different plantations of various sizes, some preferring to raise cattle rather than crops. Even in the early hours of the morning, there are farmhands at work; the plantation owners and cattle ranchers of the valley have a reputation for working a man to the bone, a reputation born from reality.
  
  Your destination is a ranch far from "the strip." It's secluded, nestled between two of the large hills; the approach, a single road exposed from all sides. The man in black whistles in the air as you gallop down the road, and off in the distance a similar one is echoed, sounding nothing more than wildlife in the night. You know if the sign wasn't whistled, you'd be shot dead. That much has remained the same since your time. In any case, it's time for your family reunion.
  
  The ranch home itself boasts a large deck that travels the length of the front and winds around the sides, many shuttered windows above it. You quickly estimate there must be ten, maybe twelve rooms, not to mention whatever lies in the back or underground. Father always did like to hide the appearance of things. You wonder if he still carries a two-shot strapped at his forearms, hidden underneath the length of his shirt sleeves. A lantern burns a lonely flame on the deck, allowing you to see the wood is painted a fading white, made orange by the lantern's glow.
  
  Dawn's early light starts to appear over the hills. You take each faded step onto the deck with the heavy stomp of your boots. If it wakes up the inhabitants of the house, it wakes them up. Ruining one's sleep is nothing compared to the circumstance that brought you here, and you'll offer respect once it's earned. You doubt they have a room prepared for you, so instead, you make for a rocking chair on the deck. If you were in any danger, the man in black wouldn't go through the steps in leading you here safely. You lean back in the chair, letting the feeling of weightlessness take over, lower the brim of your hat completely over your face, and try to rest up, making up for a hard night of riding. Sleep does not come easy, nor with it, the absence of dreams.
  
  > Daylight
  "Wake up, wake up." A boot kicks at your own, drawing you from the light slumber you fell into. Click. The revolver appears in your hand. It's not the man in black, although he is currently wearing the color. You suppose he's a man in black, not the man in black. He's a tall and thin man, light dusting of a beard covering the lower half of his face. He doesn't address the pistol. Perhaps he's used to staring down the barrel of a gun. "Arrived in the night, did ya?"
  
  "Early morning, but yes," you answer, holstering the six-shooter.
  
  "Terrible thing Marsten did. I heard about it."
  
  Marsten, the man in black.
  
  "Yeah," is all you respond with.
  
  It's silent for a moment. Small talk has never been your forte. The man breaks the comfort of the morning air with more words. "There's grub inside. Baked beans, bread, coffee. Whiskey, if you're the kinda man that needs a constant drip. Nothing special I'm afraid." He offers a hand in introduction. "They call me Layne." You shake his hand, as firm as a handshake as there ever was, but do not offer your own name. News travels fast in the family. If he doesn't already know, he's not important enough to hear it. You notice that he does not ask for it.
  
  As you scoop yourself a ladle of beans, Layne continues speaking. "Father's called a meeting at sunset tonight. You're free to do whatever until then."
  
  The inside of the home is traditionally decorated. Sturdy wooden furniture. Rugs fashioned from animal fur, most of them with the stuffed head still attached. Maids hustle back and forth in their black and white outfits. None give you a second look, obviously possessing awareness to keep their head down in a house such as this. You take your morning meal outside, this time taking a seat on the deck's staircase. Layne does the same, both of your plates steaming in the morning air. For a ranch, there aren't any sounds of work. No cattlemen shouting or dogs barking.
  
  "Listen, I'll give you your space," Layne starts. "Just wouldn't be right not to warn ya." His voice drops low, and you notice his eyes wandering in search of listening ears. "Some of the others were less than thrilled for your return. There's a hierarchy as you know. Just like from back in your day. Your presence knocks everyone down a rung on the ladder, and those that climbed with grit aren't happy about it."
  
  You turn towards Layne. "And what about you?"
  
  The man shrugs. "Can't get lower than the bottom rung. Marsten's probably the only other one that's ok with it. I've never seen a draw as quick. He welcomes the challenge, ya know. It's the rungs in the middle that I'd be careful with."
  
  You notice that Layne doesn't mention her name. She would be at the top instead of the man in black. You don't care how quick he draws; she is quicker, her Father's daughter. She, who appears in your dreams, the reason why you left the family in the first place. Her name appears at your lips, spoken in a whisper, the sound of it bringing memories of soft skin and happier times.
  
  "Talia, is she still here?"
  
  Layne meets your gaze, his face becoming that of an officer informing a widow of her husband's passing in the line of duty. His voice matches your whisper in soft tones. "She's no longer with us. And I wouldn't speak that name again if I were ya."
  
  He leaves you alone on the steps, her name still hanging in the air. The day is yours. Tonight will belong to another. You figure you have some time to explore the ranch. There's not much else to do, save for finding a decent tree to lean against and bide your time until Father's gathering tonight.
  
  > explore the ranch
  There's nothing else to do. You weren't exactly warned about leaving the property, but you didn't need to be. The whistling on the road was enough. No one gets in or out without permission, and you're sure there are extra eyes on those being brought in. They remain unseen, however, but you can sense their presence.
  
  You take your finished plate to the kitchen where one of the maids, a dark-skinned, tight-lipped woman, takes it without a word. Inside, you decide to familiarize yourself with the house. Ground floor appears to be a common area, kitchen, den, and various living areas. Upstairs is likely where the bedrooms lie. Still no sign of any other gunslingers, and you aren't the type to spend precious hours of the day asleep.
  
  Instead of taking the staircase, you continue wandering through the rooms of the ground floor, finding yourself in a gallery of sorts. Tall windows, spanning from near the floor to ceiling, face the backside of the ranch, affording you full view of the grassy overlooking hills. A large red barn is built in the back, its paint just as faded as the ranch home itself. It's in the back where the ranch can be called as such, various pens of horses neatly arranged by wooden fencing. Some run freely, others rest with all four legs underneath them. Like you, they're given a false sense of freedom, able to wander where they please as long as it's within the perimeters set. You suppose even a jailed prisoner is given freedom to pace in his cage, although the space itself is rather limited.
  
  After gazing outside for a bit, you turn to explore the other rooms. Maybe snag a bottle of something stronger than coffee. That's when it catches your eye, a portrait on the wall. It's Father. His features are sharp, skin pale. A timeless sort of demeanor is shown in his face, skin absent of wrinkles that litter most his age, dark eyes full of life and born of experience. He wears the same top hat as always, a black darker than any night—darker, even than the man in black, the images of Marsten in your mind becoming a cheap imitation of Father in comparison.
  
  And next to Father, hanging on the wall just to the right, is another portrait. This one stops the breath in your lungs, the beat of your heart. It freezes you in place like a man on his first battlefield, thrust into the reality of war and the diminished romantic notions of glory and honor.
  
  It's her.
  
  She looks different from when you last saw her. Dark brown, near black, hair frames her face, held in place by the triangular cowboy on her head. She always did like the ones with a slight point at the front of the brim. Hazel eyes stare forward (at you), always in constant debate whether more brown or green. The artist must have been talented, even capturing the four or five silver strands of hair that like to hide within beautiful dark brown. A small kissable mole rests southeast of her nose, proof of her humanity and not something born of the divine. She looks older, more traveled. You silently wonder what she's thinking about in that moment of capture. It would have been years after you last saw one another. Time hasn't removed her from your mind; you contemplate if it's the same for her.
  
  Then you come from the trance, unsure how long you were caught in the moment. You immediately try to take her from your mind. When the strength of your mind fails, you take to the kitchen and the bottle of whiskey that sits alone on the shelf. There is comfort in shared misery, an unspoken loneliness that is felt rather than voiced. The bottle does its part. It does not speak. It does not question. It's as good a companion as any, and if your mind cannot be silenced, at least it can be numbed.
  
  > wait until night
  The sun hangs low in the sky, then disappears underneath the overlooking hills of green, now becoming black once again. After helping yourself to the bottle of whiskey from the kitchen, you took shelter at the base of a tree, its roots politely staying underground and giving you level ground to sit. A stray cat, although likely not exactly stray in the traditional sense of the word, took a place next to you, softly sleeping to your left, its fur showing golden spots within a chocolate coat. Like the bottle, it gives you space, not so much as a cry for food or prod to be pet. It's simply content to sit in the shade, like you have for the previous hours.
  
  Layne exits the ranch house and strides in your direction. It's time.
  
  "Nice out here, isn't it?" Layne comments as he draws near.
  
  You murmur your agreement and follow the gunslinger. He takes you to the other side of the house, where the red barn sits a looming shadow in the dusk. You notice a pair of cellar doors. One is pulled open, a staircase descending into pure darkness. Your destination. Unlike your friendly exchange earlier, Layne motions for you to enter first. Not by gunpoint, but you imagine your refusal would result in it being drawn. There's no sense in being difficult now. If there were such a time, it would be with the man in black the previous night.
  
  You descend into darkness.
  
  Light appears at the bottom, the red-orange glow of flame. As you near the final step, torchlight greets you, more welcoming than the others. There are almost twenty of them now, double in number from when you were a part of the family. Your presence draws all of their attention, twenty pairs of eyes turning in your direction at the same time, gunslingers wearing iron on their hip, wide-brimmed hats pulled low.
  
  Some wear crossing bandoliers at their chest, repeaters at their shoulders. At long last you've returned, the prodigal son who left the family many years ago. There is no feast in celebration, no Father overjoyed at your return. Simply, contempt and judgment, a family built from rivals despite the teachings of Father.
  
  In the center of it all stands Father, Marsten, the man in black, at his side. Smoke hangs heavy in the air, the result of a gunslinger's affinity towards frontier tobacco. You light up, and add to the gathering cloud, waiting for the meeting to begin. You don't have to wait long.
  
  "It warms the heart to have the family together," Father starts. He's dressed in fine black slacks and shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, tucked in at the waist. His top hat, black as the void, rests casually on his head. You know the man to be well past the typical mid-point of a man's life, yet his complexion is youthful, absent of wrinkles that should accompany one of his years. "A reunion such as this hasn't been called in... oh how many years would you say, Marsten?"
  
  The man in black, without hesitation, answers, "Four years, Father. Almost five."
  
  Father smiles. To most it would appear friendly, the way a man would smile at a child who asks for permission for another helping at supper. You see beyond that, however, seeing something sinister at the edges, the way a native grins at cutting back the scalp of a civilized man. "Almost five years," he says. "Much too long. You're probably wondering why I have brought you all here." You see a few gunslingers nod their heads. "There is a dark power brewing in the west, a separation of the veil between this world and the abyss. Demons, my dear family."
  
  "There are systems in place for such an event," one of the family members speaks. You can't tell which exactly. "Priests, witch hunters, Goldwater Knights, they keep watch for such things."
  
  Father does not appear surprised by the line of questioning. "They all have failed. It falls on us to protect humanity from the creatures of hell."
  
  "They have broken through, then," another says.
  
  "They have," Father answers. "I have received word from the witch hunters guild. They headed their own investigation."
  
  "So let the witch hunters take care of it. That's what they are for, are they not?"
  
  "They cannot stand against an entire legion."
  
  Murmuring ensues among the family. An entire legion. No, it cannot be. There are reports of the occasional demon escaping from the bowels; usually there's a foolish sorcerer involved, tricked, blinded by the allure of power. Such denizens wreak havoc for a while before the guild puts them down, holy men, witch hunters with divine power who smite them back to the pits of hell, Goldwater knights lending their aid in the case of truly powerful beings. An entire legion. Unheard of, a threat against humanity itself, not simply the settlers of the frontier.
  
  "We deal in lead," another gunslinger drawls. "Better suited to put down men than creatures of hell."
  
  "Ahh," Father exclaims, another question leading him to the next point. Everything for Father is orchestrated. He stands above the stage of life, pulling strings as he wishes. "I've uncovered an answer for that... an answer that some of you won't agree with. Marsten, will you do the honors?"
  
  The man in black nods and steps forward. Through the dancing torchlight, his skin appears with the same unmarked complexion of Father, and suddenly you feel something horribly wrong is about to occur. The man in black stands in the center of a crowd of gunslingers, the family. His eyes scan the crowd, finding what he's looking for. At first you think it's you, but it's actually the man next to you.
  
  "Layne, step forward please."
  
  If the man holds a shred of the feeling you do, he doesn't show it. Layne meets the man in black, surrounded by members of the family. All watch without speaking, like you, feeling something wrong, but not willing to voice it. There is a certain respect that must be shown in the presence of a Father. Father knows best, after all.
  
  Layne stands at perfect attention in front of Marsten, the black of his shirt appearing pale in comparison.
  
  "Remove your gunbelt, please."
  
  Unquestioning, loyal, Layne undoes the clasp at his belt buckle and allows the entire thing to fall to the ground. The impact of his holstered gun hitting the floor is a solid thud, the silence that follows is as the final nail hammered into a coffin.
  
  "I am unhindered, brother," Layne speaks, the deed done.
  
  The man in black stands in front of Layne, neither moving or speaking. Then, in a blur of movement, almost quicker than your eye can track, he lunges forward. The sight that flashes next is burned in your mind, and will be for the remainder of your days, however long that ends up being. In the current moment, it feels as if minutes, hours even. Four sharp canines, unnaturally long, flash in the torchlight, pure white dagger-like fangs ready to devour. They find a home at the base of Layne's exposed neck, like the way you rested comfortably against the tree hours before.
  
  Vampirism.
  
  Layne instinctively tries to resist, his arm reaching out to pull Marsten's teeth away from his skin, but something stops him mid-way. The struggle that's displayed on his face disappears, replaced with signs of ecstasy, a pleasure as unnatural as the teeth tasting his blood. His arm falls limp, soon followed by his entire body. Marsten carefully lays the man down on the floor, like tucking a sleeping child into bed. Then he looks to Father, his deed done.
  
  "Not to worry, not to worry," Father calms the family down, some of which who have hands on their iron. "Brother Layne will rise again, like Marsten before him, like I have done before him. I would not have harm befall our family. Rather, I am ensuring our survival—along with humanity's. The legion must be defeated. Our gift along with our iron seals the deal, in which we fulfill in lead."
  
  The others look unsure how to react. Vampirism, a consciousness extended far beyond mortal means, verging on immortality. The payment, one's life in the traditional sense. That's why you didn't come across the others earlier. Sunlight. You scan the gathered family a little closer now, searching for complexions unfitting of their owners. The knowledge you hold on the subject is limited, not knowing much beyond what's common, some of which is likely born from rumor and story.
  
  "Come now, who's next?" Father asks. He holds up two hands, their palms facing upward, emphasizing that he means no harm. Father strides forward with his next words, the room silent but for his boots and voice. All seems to hold still. Father knows best. "You, Johnny? Eliza?" Neither of them outright refuses the man, yet you and all the gunslingers, notice that it's not quite a yes either. Should Layne rise from the dead, then you imagine their decision will change. Finally, Father's eyes land on you.
  
  You remember them to be a cold gray, intelligent and wise. What's in front of you now is different. Red rings line the pupils, the eyes of a hunter. And in that moment one of the rumors of vampirism is verified. The torches, which send shadows dancing on the walls, are for your benefit, not Father's. If they were to be extinguished, he could see just as well...if not better.
  
  "Once upon a time you would have jumped at the opportunity, would you not? It would be you at my side, the both of you."
  
  Behind Father, a sliver of white appears at the base of Marsten's mouth, a cruel crescent-shaped grin thinking that Father just listed him equal with a gunslinger of legend. You know that is not the case, for there is only one other that would stand your equal, a triumvirate of gunslingers who carry iron on their hip. You manage to utter three words. Nothing else fills your mind, the same ritual that occurs before you close your eyes and try to force sleep each night.
  
  "Where is she?"
  
  It's spoken in a raspy voice, each smoke and drink consumed in her absence seeming to make their presence known in three simple words. That's all it takes for her to pour through your mind, sweeping into every thought, word, and image. In the time it takes for you to utter three little words, you're overwhelmed with a sea of memories, some but mere fragments. The way she lay underneath the pine tree. Her ability to match you drink for drink. Pulling the smoke from your mouth without asking to take a drag. Her laugh, childlike and full of wonder. Too good for this broken world; too good for you. She is her Father's daughter. You chose her. She chose the iron on her hip.
  
  The others watch for Father's response. Before he can answer you, Layne's body suddenly sits up. His torso rises completely up like a man waking up in the morning, although not completely the same. His body is stiff, like a board of wood were strapped to his back giving perfect posture. Layne's neck cranes in your direction, a slow, methodical turn. His face now bears the timeless, near flawless complexion, but the eyes: they're dilated and voidlike, a deep red ring along the edges. Whatever humanity Layne possessed is gone, replaced with the undead hunter that sits before you, cold and lifeless.
  
  "See?" Father says smiling. "The gift is mastery over life. They will not know our sacrifice. They will turn on us later down the road—that much I have seen. But we can preserve them, protect them against the creatures of hell that seek to cripple and devour their body and soul. It's our duty as gunslingers."
  
  With Layne's rising, no one else dares anything but outright acceptance. You notice that Marsten's hand, while not gripping his pistol, never strays far from his hip. Father may be presenting it as an option, but you find it very unlikely that there's an actual choice in the matter. You're either leaving here with teeth sunk into your neck or by pulling iron. That's the real choice in the matter.
  
  > pull iron
  The others may agree without question, but you act of your own accord. Never one for small talk, any talk really, you draw on what you're skilled with. It's not speech of convincing fashion, it's not a silver tongue with the ability to win over a crowd. You draw on the one skill you own; you draw on the iron resting at your hip.
  
  The act seals your fate. But that's just it. It's a fate of your own choosing, not allowing the decisions of others to make it for you. Faster than any eye can track, quicker than any gunslinger in a room full of gunslingers, you pull and fire the revolver. Your bullet lands true, snapping Father's head back and sending his top hat floating in the air. It lands to the side of his falling body, a temporary gravestone of sorts.
  
  What happens next is unavoidable.
  
  In a room full of gunslingers, the one who draws is the one who dies. Deep down, you know that Father will rise again, the proof is in Layne's undead body. You knew that before firing. You knew that when the decision was made. You get off two more shots before the others catch up. Each gunslinger draws, each gunslinger puts a bullet in your chest. They're trained well, receiving the very instruction that you did.
  
  Your two shots take out the man in black, the knowledge of his eventual rise also playing in your mind. In your last thoughts, you wonder if circumstances would have played out differently if you decided to put him down in the alley. The crimson ring around his pupils didn't show then; his transformation must have been after you arrived at the ranch. But you had to see for yourself. It could have been your reunion with her. Dropping him in an unmarked Westhaven alley would have ruined the opportunity.
  
  Perhaps this is the way it was meant to be. Perhaps your decision will affect the others from sacrificing their soul. Doubtful. If there was any hesitancy, it is erased with each bullet tearing through your body.
  
  You collapse to the floor, unable to stand on the strength of your two legs. You, with the ability to drop each one single-handedly in a duel, die at the hands of many. There is a lesson to be learned in such an outcome. Unfortunately for you, it's not a lesson that you can learn from, adjusting the choices of all subsequent actions. It's the last choice you will ever make. Your final thought is of her, and if she made the same one. You'll never know.
  
  The End