Monster Hunter: The First Bullet, Part 1
This story was made using the solo RPG: Monster Hunter, by La esquina del rol.
The locals called it Old Man Hollow. Vic Duncan called it warm and dry, and in the Borderlands, especially during the cold times of the year, that weren’t nothing to sneeze at.
That said, it wouldn’t remain warm and dry much longer. The sound of rain and thunder was rolling across the distant plains; if Vic wanted to beat the rain, she figured, she’d have to start moving soon.
When she was younger — back when she had first became a hunter — part of her would have wanted to remain surrounded by the gnarled hangman-trees that cradled her small camp. These small moments of warmth and security were rare in the Borderlands, and she used to take all she could get. That part of her had died a long time ago; there was no comfort to be had here, surrounded by ancient woods and dark shadows. Ever since Old Splitfoot came to the Borderlands, there was little comfort to be had anywhere, least of all for Hunters.
Vic began to pack up: her father’s old map and compass, her mother’s traveling pan, her roll and flask, her last few bits of food…it all went into her saddlebags. When was the last time she had seen a horse? There were still a few back in the corelands, but not many hunters ever rode horseback. Horses were too unpredicatble when it came to the Hunt. If they weren’t prepared they’d never survive, and there was nothing that could prepare you for your first time in the Borderlands. Too many horses died or caused trouble to be worth the risk.
Before she slung her rifle over her shoulder, she double checked that it was loaded and ready. Too much trouble in the Borderlands these days to waste time. She double checked her belt too — plenty of ammunition. Good.
Last was her father’s old six-shooter. Vic stared at the heavy iron piece in her hands, running her fingers over the sigil carved in its handle as she wispered the same vow she had spoken every morning for six years. “Don’t worry none, Pa. Ma. I’ll get him.”
Her piece said, she checked to make sure the gun was empty — a pointless ritual, since she hadn’t loaded it for half a decade. Slipping the gun into her holster, she hoisted the saddlebag onto her other shoulder and set out into the darkness.
Off in the deep distance, the thunder rolled again.
Vic headed south, looking to outpace the thunder. The Borderlands were no good place to get caught in a storm, and leaving Old Man Hollow to the south meant she at least had a few mesas to run towards should the worst happen. There were always a few overhangs to hide under; she had learned that from her ma.
Sure enough, the storm caught her before she could find shelter. Running in the dusty rain, Vic held her hat down tight, warding off the black water before it got in her eyes. The rain froze her skin as it dripped down her leather jacket, seeping through the cracks and crevaces of her clothing. Gritting her teeth, Vic ran as fast as she could, her boots slapping the dirt, slowly churning it into mud.
As she neared a distant mesa, she saw through the rain a faint flicker of light. Someone’s camp? It wouldn’t be wise to walk in uninvited, but how less wise than staying in the black rain? Her decision made quickly, Vic ran towards the light with her rifle and saddlebag banging on her back like a rider spurring her onward.
By the time she could see the camp clearly, the stranger had seen her as well. He — the sillouette looked like a he — was standing upright under a slim overhang cut into the side of the mesa. It wasn’t much, but anything was better than risking the rain. Vic slowed to a halt, holding up her hands in the least threatening manner she could muster. “Ho there, stranger,” she shouted over the thunderous fall of rain. “Spare some room?”
The figure was difficult to make out through the rain, but his posture was not friendly. After a moment, he took a tiny step back, pressing himself against the wall. Vic couldn’t guess a better sign of agreement, so she stepped through the curtain of rain and into the dry camp.
“Thanks, stranger,” Vic sniffed, setting her saddlebag down next to her rifle and shaking the water off of her jacket. “Never good fortune, getting stuck in the black rain. Might have saved my —”
A gentle click stopped her heart. Stupid, stupid woman. Letting the water drip off her hat, she slowly raised her hands again. For a moment, the only sound was the torrent of rain pouring down the side of the mesa like a wall. When the stranger remained silent, Vic risked her own suggestion. “I’m going to turn around, slowly. Alright?”
There was no response. Slowly — as slow as pitch — she turned around to look her captor in the face.
Instantly she understood; the man’s face was a mask of fear, ghastly pale in the light of his flickering fire. His arm was bandaged, as was his leg. His hand — the hand with the gun — was shaking badly. The gun itself was small, barely a Deringer. I could have been deadly if the man knew where to shoot and was likely to hit. As it was, the small pistol was hardly enough to survive long in the Borderlands.
Vic risked a quick glance around. Sure enough, his folded clothes were well tailored, if somewhat ragged, and what camp supplies she could see were likely expensive. “You’re not a hunter,” she said.
“No,” the man managed to choke out. His voice was ragged, his tone ached with exhaustion. “No, I…I don’t hunt monsters.”
Vic bit her tongue before giving a slow and purposeful nod towards her rifle. “That’s my gun right there. You want I should step away from it?”
“Uh…yes,” the man gasped as his eyes darted from rifle to saddlebag. “Yes, step away from…you have food, right?”
“A little,” Vic admitted. She nodded again. “The left side. I’ll walk this way around your fire, you circle that way, and you can have what I got, alright?”
The man was barely halfway around the fire before he lunged at the bag, tearing it open and pulling out the small bag of dried meat and stale bread. He wolfed down everything he could find, barely paying attention as Vic sat down next to the fire and began drying out her clothes. She carefully took off her hat and set it beside her, undoing her hair to let it fall out into the moist air.
By the time the stranger was finished, she had got her boots off to dry her socks. He looked up from his ravanous meal, suddenly recognizing he had taken his gun off of Vic. His arm twitched and then froze as another click echoed through the rain.
“Now why don’t you just keep that gun where it is,” Vic said, pointing her father’s gun between the man’s eyes, “and we can talk more pleasent-like, alright?”
“Uh…” the man glanced at his gun before slowly inching away from it. “Yes…yes that sounds…good.”
“You’re a damn fool,” Vic muttered, uncocking the gun and slipping it back into the holster. “You lose your guide? Let me guess; got yourself hurt stomping around, they dressed you up, then went out alone to look around, maybe find some herbs or something? Didn’t come back so you got scared, started wandering around when you felt better, got lost, and now you’re near starved to death hiding from the rain. That about right?
“I…yes,” the man muttered, grabbing his knees to his chest. “I had a guide and he…well, I thought I’d take a look over near a corpse of trees, see if I could…well, something…dead…reached out at me, and…”
“You never been to the Borderlands before, have you?” Vic groaned inwardly. It was one thing to be unprepared; to have no experience…
“No,” the man grimaced. “I thought I could, well, get some experience before I made a decision about becoming a Hunter.”
Vic didn’t say anything. She simply stared at the little man with eyes well practiced at judging character. “You think you could be a Monster Hunter?”
The man gave a timid shrug.
Vic pointed with a calloused finger. “You know what that is?”
The man blinked and peered into the darkness. After a moment: “Rain?”
“The Black Rain,” she said with a voice of coldest steel. “You get that in your eyes, and Old Splitfoot has you. You see things he wants you to see, you act how he wants you to act. You part of his posse, then, you understand?”
“Old…Splitfoot?” the man looked worried.
“Shit on a stone, you don’t even know about…” Vic pinched her nose. “Land’s sake, boy, you heed my words, you get yourself goin’ back to the corelands and you don’t look back, you hear? When this rain’s over you head east and you don’t stop until you smell the salt of the ocean.”
“But…” the man took a deep breath. “No, I want to learn. I want to learn how to fight back. I want…I want to help.”
Vic grit her teeth. “Yeah, boy? And who do you suppose is going to teach you about the Hunt, huh? You can’t even hunt for your supper in the Borderlands, how you going to Hunt a Skin-walker? A Root Goblin? How about a Hellhound or an Elemental?”
“Well, I’d…” the man stuck out his jaw. “I was going to find another Hunter. Like you,” he gestured at her pack and rifle. “I’d apprentice with them, right? Or ask them to show me to their…uh…school. You must have one, right?”
“No,” Vic’s eyes were like stone. “No school.”
“Oh, well,” the man shifted uneasily under Vic’s gaze. “Then…will you teach me? Or at least tell me where I could find someone who will?”
Vic didn’t answer at first. She stared into the fire, memories of pain and hopelessness warring in her soul.
“No,” she said at last. “There ain’t no more Hunters. I’m the last one.”
“The…the last?” The man gaped. “But…but how could —”
“Old Splitfoot,” Vic muttered as she leaned back. “He’s killed them all. Probably looking for me too.” Vic turned, letting her hair fall across her face. “You want to get yourself some sleep, boy. You’ve got a long trek east tomorrow.”