Life wasn’t easy at Gunsmith Mountain. Maybe it was the alpaca blood covering the floors that did it. Maybe it was cowering in fear after being viciously rebuffed when trying to tame a wild emu. Perhaps it was lying awake at night listening to the rain, in pain from the sensory mechanites her and Bowman picked up just after crash landing. For whatever reason, Kit, de facto founder of the community here called Salvation (she had named them after all) found herself sharing cramped quarters with James and a tribesman barely clinging to life. All three were prisoners.
The tribesman had been gunned down, taking half a dozen heavy submachinegun rounds at point blank range. Against all odds the tribesman had lived; Salvation had used the last of their best medicine while he teetered within hours of death. Now he slept, unconscious; the road to recovery from massive blood loss would no doubt be a long one. Herbs would have to suffice along the way.
James was a fragile soul, suffering more than one psychotic break. The first time he had been wandering all afternoon out in the fields under the hot sun armed with a dangerous incendiary launcher. Bowman had gone to arrest him. He hadn’t come quietly. Bowman’s lover, Jogelli, had come within seconds of using his plasteel knife before Bowman put out James’ lights with the butt of her LMG. A few bruised bones were all the damage done that day and James wasn’t allowed near the incendiary launcher after that.
Kit may have been part of the cause this most recent time, but she couldn’t be sure. She should have been the one administering medicine to the tribesman. Instead she was shut away in her room, refusing to eat. James had joined her. Both of them were nearing starvation when the order finally came to arrest them. This time there was no struggle.
Now they were fed, and had no responsibilities other than to watch the sleeping tribesperson who had tried to murder them all cling to life, wondering when they would be allowed to rejoin society.