A small town clinic, stocked with the barest of supplies. Frontier living pushing the very limitations of the world; reliance on ingenuity, desperation, and luck for good health.

The examination room was merely an extension of the rest of the building, a central space among storage shelves and patient recovery beds. The two onlookers currently cramped within the room remain in silence as they watch the procedure, the girl sitting still against the pair of clinic staff.

“Are you sure you’re cut out for this?” Old Joe asks Daniel with immense agitation.

“He’s taken three years at March Central University with one more under Carie.” Doctor Omen comments as she watches her grandson like a vulture. “Plus, he ain’t got the shaky fingers like me.”

Nervous, yet well trained hands hold instruments against the young patient, the trainee carefully taking measurements with the pressure monitor attached to the thin arm.

“Heart rate slowed to 68, blood pressure lower than usual… uncommon for post-shock states.” Daniel comments as he removes the stethoscope from his ears, turning back to his grandmother. “Should we put her on an oxygen synthesizer?”

“Well should we?” The old woman asks.

Taking a pause the doctor-in-training thinks. “I’d rather get a mag-image of her arm first. U-unless you know what’s going on Alto.”

The Gunslinger blinks awake at the mention of his name. “I’m sorry I’m not very sure what’s going on medically.”

“That’s the problem with magic.” Doctor Omen slyly comments.

Daniel stands, moving to one of the storage shelves as he retrieves a scanner in his left hand. Stained white, the handgun shaped device was covered in scratches and scars from ancient centuries of use. The trainee-doctor stands back as he aims the thing directly at the girl. “Aright Clee don’t move. I promise this won’t hurt.”

A single beep sounds, the holographic interface arriving as it projects forth a three dimensional scan of the injury site towards the user. Academic knowledge recalled, Daniel speaks up. “A transverse break from the looks of it. You said one of the bandits broke it?”

“Yeah threw her arm against a wall.” Old Joe gives a concerned glance as Clee nods in agreement. “Is she going to be ok?”

“This happened within the last hour, correct?” Daniel asks.

“Yes.”

“Then this doesn’t make sense.” The young man notes with confusion, pointing out the injury. “It looks like the bone’s already been reconstructed.”

Doctor Omen raises a thin objection. “Check the two dimensional image.”

A swipe along the machine’s interface reveals its cause. Flesh penetrated by hundreds of points of impact, the bone itself forcibly reset as strands of matter surround the break.

“Northlanders.” The Doctor explains cryptically. 

Daniel blinks. “It’s magic.”

“The bandages must have some sort of mechanism to reset the injury site.” Doctor Omen continues, pointing out the visible strands of material within Clee’s arm. “It automatically injects bone-gel as well if you look closely at the tissue, though all in one package. Northlandic folk, simply put.”

“And you used the synthesis tower to get this?” Daniel asks the Gunslinger.

“Yes.” The man answers honestly. “But it seems that I’m one of the few people who can actually summon it. And even then, maybe once per day?”

“Prioritied synthesis then.” The Doctor notes. “Useless to us.”

Joe speaks up anxiously. “So Clee’s going to be fine?”

“Is she?” The Old Woman asks her grandson.

“As far as I can tell, she just needs bed rest and monitoring.” Daniel notes with hesitation. “And as many spare calories as possible given there’s a magical element involved in the recovery process. We don’t want to take any risks of malnourishing her, especially now.”

“Also attempt to keep her imobile.” Doctor Omen adds, approaching the little girl. “Clee, if you move around too much you can really get hurt. Do you understand?”

The girl nods, and the Doctor turns to Joe. “Alright she’s good. Just let her rest up and if anything happens just come by and knock.”

Carefully lifting her back to her feet, Old Joe turns to the Gunslinger. “Alto, since you don’t have a place to stay, just come around. I’ll keep a room open for you.”

“Thank you.” Alto nods.

Watching as the old man leads the girl out of the clinic the Gunslinger turns back to the pair. “I’m sorry about… well treating Clee without you two present.”

“Ah you’re fine.” The Doctor cackles.

Daniel laughs alongside the words, voice turning nervous as he tries not to stare at the Gunslinger. “Yeah… I mean I’d shoot someone to get a chance to look at those bandages. Like, I’ve heard stories about Northlanders and their magic. You people are living at the frontier of the Frontier. Gods above… well I mean you’re obviously not living on the Frontier anymore cause like you’re here but… wow. You’re really Alto Carrin?” 

“It’s a common question today.” The Gunslinger answers hesitantly.

“Oh what are you so worried about?” Doctor Omen scoffs at her grandson as she stands from her chair. “It’s not like he’s a monster or anything.”

“Are you kidding me Ma?” Daniel blinks as he points over to the man. “Have you not heard of something called the news?! This is ALTO CARRIN, he’s slain hundreds across both the Federated Cities and the Armin Collective. He’s got a piece of the GOD GUN. THE GOD GUN.”

The usual stoic, sarcastic expression of the Doctor is broken only slightly at the mention of the divine, ancient eyes turning to her progeny. “Don’t use that name in vain. And there’s hundreds of fragment copies now. Some of them are near perfect copies from what I’ve heard.”

Daniel ignores her and continues starting at the form before him. “You do have it, don’t you?” 

Alto blinks, exchanging glances with doubters and believers, hand carefully reaching for his weapon. “I’m not sure of it myself.”

“Hey hey.” The Old Woman begins to back up at the sight of ordinance. “Don’t touch that.”

“No, watch.” Daniel insists as he leans forward on the chair. “Draw it… if you want?”

Taking a deep, calming breath the Gunslinger draws his weapon. 

No motion, merely an exchange of positions. Incomprehensible speed and accuracy, the revolver is pointed towards an empty wall at the far side of the diagnosis room.

The Old Woman blinks as eyes remain doubtful at the presence of the insane action. “Do that again.”

Returned to its holster with similar speed, the Gunslinger allows for a moment of human comprehension before again drawing it.

Not even the vibrations of reality with magical weapons, the action simply done in the in-between frames of space and time.

“Wielded by a hero that wanders the deserts, whose movements shadow the divine… “ The Old Doctor recalls the prophecy from memory. “In his hand the grip of gods…”

Swinging the weapon around the Gunslinger takes hold of the barrel, the meshed black grip of his revolver revealed against the thin ceiling lamps. Consuming souls, minds tear towards the artifact like moths drawn to deadly flames.

Extended outward in invitation, for observation or otherwise.