Monster Hunter: The Second Bullet, Part 1
This story was made using the solo RPG: Monster Hunter, by La esquina del rol.
Vic woke with a start, gasping for air in the dark of the cave. Her heart was pounding in her ears. The air was cool, but sweat was pouring down her face. On reflex, her hand grabbed for the hatchet resting at her side, ready to strike at anything nearby.
The cave was quiet. The dawn light outside was leaking gently into the room. Vic exhaled. It had been a dream. She had been running…no, she had been still but the world was running around her…but weren’t her legs moving? And there was a…shape…
Vic took another deep breath. The dream was gone already, and she wasn’t interested in bringing it back to mind. Dreams were for seers and shamen, and she wasn’t either. She had a long way to travel, and wasting time with dreams wouldn’t help her find the next bullet. She stood up from her roll and stretched the kinks out of her muscles.
Her eye lit on her father’s revolver as she dressed. For six months straight she had been hunting the Borderlands for the bullets, and now the first bullet was in her hands. It didn’t feel real.
No, it almost felt too real. The Legendary Bullets had always been just that; a legend. Now that she had held one in her hand, the legend was worryingly real. How could anything real hope to put a stop to Old Splitfoot? Why was she even bothering?
Vic strapped the gunbelt onto her hip. Because she believed in the legend. Because it was something to do. Because even a foolish hope was better than none. Because she would believe anything if it meant she could wipe the smile of Old Splitfoot’s face. Any of those could be right.
Once she was dressed, she checked all her equipment. She was running low on water and had no food. Her first job was to get more supplies before she headed off into the horizon again. Thankfully, the mountains were good places to get food.
Sure enough, a day of foraging got her a mess of sweet berries, a few rabbits, and even a couple of bird’s eggs she found in a nest half-way up a tree. A small stream refilled her waterskin and a lucky find got her a sizable pouch of useful herbs. After drying the meat, she could last at least a few weeks before needing to hunt again.
That evening, while the rest of the rabbit meat was drying out, Vic studied her father’s map. It wasn’t a particularly good map, made mostly of half-remembered scrawls and vague descriptions. Not that it was particularly easy to map the Borderlands; it was a large and twisted place, full of dangers even for the prepared. Some Hunters even said the land shifted around, moving mountains and forests to its own whims.
Big as it was, the other Legendary Bullets were hidden in it somewhere, and her parents had only known the location of two of them; the map showed the way to both. Even with the map, Vic had lucked into the first bullet and she wasn’t about to trust her luck again, not when the cold scabs on her back were still throbbing.
To the south of the mountain range was a stretch of desert, and beyond that a plantation. The map marked the plantation with the Sign of the Hunter, a signal that this was a place for rest and resupply. Vic could probably reach it in a few weeks, and hopefully find some information on where to look next.
She grit her teeth. The desert wasn’t the most hospitable place in the Borderlands, but she didn’t have much option. She could try going around, but that could lengthen her trip by a week or more. Besides, her mother had taught her about the desert; there was a good chance she’d make it through. By the time the rabbit meat had dried, she was resolved; tomorrow she would brave the dangers of the desert.
The one blessing of the desert was that the monsters of the Borderlands mostly avoided the burning sun as well. There were basilisks, of course, and the walking dead, but a keen eye and steady pace could see the careful through without too much trouble. Vic had been lucky; with all the food and water she had, she could afford to move slower, checking behind rocks and avoiding the shambling bones.
The fae wisps of the desert were unavoidable, however. Images of people, half remembered and ethereal, drifted in and out of sight. Voices from long ago floated through the air, tugging on old memories. The city-folk called them ghosts, but the Hunters had known better.
Vic kept her eyes forward, ignoring the faces and voices that begged for her attention. Around her neck, a charm woven from wolfsbane and sage gently tapped her chest as she walked.
“Victoria?”
Vic stopped. “Ma?” It was out of her mouth before she realized it.
“My girl, how you’ve grown.”
Vic didn’t answer. She didn’t turn to look. She tried to keep walking, but something in her body refused to move. She reached up to her charm and held it tightly in her fist. How dare they! If she had the time and enough iron, she’d…
“Vic, I’m sorry I never finished your training. I know I promised, but there wasn’t enough time.”
Vic closed her eyes. Deep in her heart, a fury burned brighter than the sun above. Some of it was reserved for the fae wisps, but the most was saved for the beast who had taken that time away. “It’s alright, ma.” she said at last. “I know it weren’t your fault.” Taking a deep breath, Vic started to walk again, leaving the playful wisps behind.
They left her alone for the rest of her journey. Perhaps they felt her rage at their familiarity, or perhaps they had just decided she wasn’t much fun. Either way, she only saw the walking bones teetering about in the distance, and twice a basilisk darting behind a rock.
Three weeks after setting out, she reached the southern edge of the desert. Her supplies were finished, and her bones ached with exhaustion. Her charm had crumpled to dust several days ago, but it had done its job; the desert dead had left her alone.
The plantation was near enough that resting a moment didn’t enter into Vic’s mind. If she stopped moving now, she’d never stand up again. Ignoring her protesting legs, she pushed forward, struggling to reach the farmhouse oasis.
As she got closer her heart began to sink. She had visited many safehouses with her parents before and they always looked nondescript; easily mistaken for an average tavern or a humble cottage. One was even underground, hidden beneath an old tree stump. This plantation, on the other hand, looked abandoned. The paint had long since begun to scrape away, leaving old and weathered wood winking in the sunlight. Several windows were broken, and the fields were barren and dry.
She should have guessed; with all the Hunters slain, why keep up the safehouses? Nevertheless, her legs kept carrying her forward; with luck she could find some leftover supplies. If not, she’d at least have a place worth sleeping in while she decided where to go next.
The plantation door was in no better state than the rest of the farmhouse. A gentle push was all it took to set the old wood swinging inward on rusty hinges. The inside of the farmhouse was covered in dust and cobwebs. There was a faint musk in the air, a scent of dried flowers and death. Vic knew the smell well.
The sound of her boots on the creaky floorboards echoed through the still house as she stepped into the main foyer. A half-rotten side-table groaned in protest as her saddlebag landed heavily on its surface. The sounds of old wood creaked and snapped around her. The building was tired, and the wind was doing its level best to bring it down. She crept slowly through the lower floors, checking the celings and corners before taking every step.
Were those footsteps, or just the house settling? As smooth as a mountain lion, Vic unshouldered her rifle. With luck it wouldn’t be needed, but precaution was always necessary in the Borderlands. She continued to search, listening carefully for the sound of footsteps that were not her own.
In the ebb of the wind, a clicking sound froze her blood.
“Who are you?” It was a man’s voice.
Vic’s blood thawed. Slowly, she let go of her rifle’s stock and raised her right hand towards the ceiling. “The name’s Vic Duncan.”
“That so?” The man was speaking from the room next to the stairs, a dining room Vic had already cleared. Had he been hiding, or just one step behind her? “Turn around, slow like!”
Vic turned, the hand that was still gripping her rifle’s barrel lifting it to her shoulders. The man was small, skinny, and poorly kept. His scraggly beard and mussed hair gave him a wild look, and his clothing wasn’t particularly clean. His double-barrel was clean as anything, though, and it was pointed directly at Vic’s chest.
His eyes narrowed. “Been ten years since one o’ the Duncans came down this way. Twenty since I saw their baby girl. You could be her.”
“I am,” Vic’s hands started to lower. The click of the shotgun stopped their descent. The man’s grip was wavering, his eyes were blurred. He looked exhausted, which made him dangerous.
“Now, there’s no need for that,” Vic murmered, slowly shifting her weight.
The floorboard under her foot creaked.
It all happened in a heartbeat. The man’s eyes jumped to her legs, then back up to her face…but it was too late. She launched herself like a wolf, twisting her body through the air.
The man flinched as he fired, the shotgun slug cutting through the back of her jacket instead of where she actually was. Vic gripped the shotgun in one hand, swinging her rifle like a club in the other.
The man dropped like a sack of potatoes. Vic tossed the shotgun aside, checking to make sure she hadn’t hit the man too hard. She sighed in relief and sank to the floor when she felt his neck flutter. Stupid! She could have spent time talking to this man, and now she’d have to wait to find out where he came from and what he was doing in an old Monster Hunter safehouse.
She stood up again and moved to the windows. Not to mention the fact that he had fired a gun; the shot had been loud and the monsters of the Borderlands could be as curious as anything. They’d be lucky if no monsters showed up within the hour.
Well, she’d have to hide them both somewhere until the danger was past. Slinging her rifle over her shoulder, she picked up the man by his shoulders and dragged him towards the drawing room.