Chapter 2: The Edge of Faith


    The organ roared to life, its pipes trembling as steam hissed and sputtered from their joints. A nun with augmented hands played with eerie precision, each note hammering through the cavernous mission.


    The congregation shifted uneasily in the pews, their faces pale and glistening with sweat.


    A mother clutched her crying child tightly, whispering hurried prayers into her hair. A young man in the front row sat rigid, his wide eyes locked on the pulpit as his hands twisted. Toward the back, an older man slumped forward, his body limp from the overwhelming heat, as a neighbor fanned him weakly.


    Dr. Ashbourne ascended to the pulpit, his black coat swaying like a shadow. He gripped the edges of the lectern, his gaunt face taut with fervor as his mechanical eye swept over the congregation.


    "My children, do you feel it?... The heat clawing at your skin? The weight pressing on your chest? That is the breath of God Himself, reminding us of His holy vapor. The vapor that purifies. The vapor that burns clean the sins of man."


    He paused, the hiss of the pipes filling the silence like a serpent’s whisper.


    "This is no ordinary room. No, my brothers and sisters—this is the crucible of faith! Here, in the heat of His divine forge, He tests us. Shapes us. Do you feel the holy fire within you?!"


    The congregation stirred, their murmurs of desperate faith followed by the faint sobbing of a child. Ashbourne’s voice rose, cutting through the noise.


    "Do not flinch from it! The faithful endure! The faithful rise! For it is through suffering that we ascend!"


    He began to pace, his words quickening, his tone both poetic and biting.


    "Once, we were scattered like dust, groveling in the dirt—mere flesh and bone, ruled by chaos and ignorance. But the Lord, in His infinite wisdom, blessed us with Vaporguard. Through steam and steel, we were lifted from squalor and forged into His chosen people!"


    He stopped, his eye zooming in on a trembling young man in the front row. His voice dropped to a venomous whisper.


    "But we were not without enemies. The pagans, the heretics, the unbelievers—they refused His grace. They wielded their sins... their tools of chaos and rebellion. Defying the sanctified might of Vaporguard!"


    Ashbourne slammed his fist on the lectern.


    "And what did their blasphemous powder achieve?! NOTHING! Their wicked iron shattered before the righteous power of steam and steel!"


    The organ swelled behind him, the music pounding like a war drum. He leaned forward, his skeletal fingers trembling.


    "Firearms—those crude, godless tools—are the devil’s work! To wield such chaos is to spit in the face of the Creator!"


    Suddenly, his voice softened, his tone almost mournful.


    "And yet, the war is not over. Even now... in the year of our Lord, 1822. Even now! We remain defiled by heretics. Native heathens. Clinging to their false gods, their vile Earthsong magic, their defiance of His divine order. Do not be fooled! For they are not victims; they are rebels—enemies of the Almighty. And like Joshua before the walls of Jericho, it is our sacred duty to drive them out and claim this land in His name!"


    He raised a hand, gesturing to the steaming pipes above them.


    "Do you hear it? The hiss of His breath? That is His call to arms! This is not conquest—it is salvation! The west must be cleansed, its false magics silenced, its people brought to heel. This is His will. This is our mission!"


    The congregation sat frozen, sweat dripping from their brows. Ashbourne’s mechanical eye whirred as he surveyed them, his lips curling into a thin, predatory smile.


    "But do not think yourselves safe from judgment. There are whispers among you. Whispers of doubt. Of weakness. To falter now is to betray Him. To show mercy to the heretic is to invite His wrath upon us all."


    He gestured toward the towering icon of the Virgin Maria Machina at the back of the room—a gilded figure of a woman, half-human and half-machine, her outstretched hands cradling gears and a faintly glowing sphere of steam, the Pneuma Core.


    "Yet there is hope. Through the grace of the Virgin Maria Machina, your sins can be forgiven. Come forward now, my children. Confess your doubts, your fears, your failures. Let the breath of Christ purge your soul, and let the Virgin guide your hands toward righteousness."


    The organ thundered once more as the congregation began to rise. Ashbourne extended his arms over them, his voice booming above the noise.


    "Come, my children. Relinquish your burdens. Confess your sins. And march onward in His name!"


    The pipes groaned, releasing a fresh blast of scalding steam as the penitents formed a line, their faces streaked with sweat and fear. Ashbourne’s grin widened as he watched them approach, his final words echoing through the suffocating air.


    "For the Lord’s work is never done!"


    ----


    The final chords of the organ faded in to a hiss, leaving behind an uneasy silence. From the balcony, Ingrid watched the last penitents shuffle out, her sharp eyes narrowing in disdain.


    "False believers. They fear what they should embrace."


    "Even faith born from fear is still faith, my child."


    Emerging from the shadows of the confessional booth, Dr. Ashbourne brushed invisible dust from his robes. He paused, his lips curling into the faintest smile.


    "Not all are capable of venerating the Lord with the same... fervor, as you. Faith is a fragile bloom; but it takes root even in the soil of terror."


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    His mechanical eye, glowing faintly green, flickered to a sharper red as it locked on her.


    "Tell me, Ingrid—have you come to unburden your sins?"


    Her spine stiffened, a bead of sweat forming at her temple.


    ''He’s mad.''


    Swallowing hard, she straightened and began her descent down the narrow stairwell.


    Once before him, she didn''t hesitate before lowering herself to one knee, bowing her head.


    "Your grace, I have sinned. Subject 231 has escaped. His exact whereabouts remain unknown, we lost his trail in the desert—approximately twenty miles into native territory."


    Her head dipped lower, her tone taking on a strange edge of longing as she continued.


    "Punish me as you see fit."


    Dr. Ashbourne placed a skeletal hand on her head, the cool touch of his metallic fingers sending a shiver down her spine.


    "Your devotion to the pleasures of the flesh blinds you, my child. If absolution is what you seek, then there is but one path to redemption."


    His grip on her head tightened ever so slightly as his gaze bore into her.


    "Reclaim my prototype. I will not allow my chance at perfection to wander in the desert like a common beast."


    Ingrid lifted her head slowly, her eyes shining with a mix of reverence and pleasure as they locked onto Dr. Ashbourne’s gaunt face. The faint glow of his mechanical eye reflected in hers, and a trembling smile touched her lips.


    "It will be done, Herr Doctor. The boy will not escape me. I have already set a bounty on his head—he will be found, dead or alive. This I swear, in service to you and to the will of the Lord."


    Dr. Ashbourne said nothing, his skeletal fingers lingering for a moment before he turned away, his robes trailing behind him.


    Ingrid remained kneeling, her hand tightening around her braid as she stared after him, her smile growing wider.


    The hunt had already begun.


    ----


    The sun dipped low over the Red River Frontier, casting long, golden streaks across the endless expanse of New Britain. This wild, untamed land was the Empire’s great gamble, a place where faith and industry marched side by side to tame what lay beyond the edge of the map.


    Back east, across the ocean, the British Empire reigned supreme. From the high-tech streets of London to the far-flung reaches of China, the world bowed under its banner, vapor and steel binding every corner in an iron grip.


    But the Old World wasn’t enough. Greed and ambition inevitably drove the Empire westward, to lands untouched by its sanctified tech and unbowed by its faith.


    New Britain was more than a colony—it was a promise, a place to carve out God’s will with Vaporguard doctrine and unrelenting grit.


    Eight territories stretched wide, each with their own character and purpose. From the sprawling plantations of St. Edmund’s Hold to the misty, coal-choked peaks of the Smoky Hills, settlers scraped out a living against unforgiving terrain and the ever-present shadow of pagan natives.


    And at the furthest reaches? The lawless edges of the primal frontier? Laid the Red River, a jagged scar cutting through arid plains and red-baked mesas.


    This was where the map blurred, where control ended, and survival truly began.


    The Red River Frontier was no place for the faint of heart—it was a proving ground for ranchers, traders, bounty hunters, and soldiers alike. Every breath carried dust, every mile was hard-fought, and every step was shadowed by death.


    Smack in the middle of this harsh land was Denton, a city as mean as the desert sun and as stubborn as the prairie winds. Built along the west bank of the Red River, Denton served as the last stop for cattle drives heading north to Fort Redstone, and the first for anyone foolish enough to head further west into native-controlled lands.


    Denton wasn’t much to look at—dusty streets lined with weather-beaten buildings, the cathedrals spire rising high like a finger pointing to heaven. The Red River Saloon stood at the heart of it all, its raucous noise spilling into the street, while the stockyards on the outskirts rang with the clatter of hooves and the shouts of cowboys herding restless cattle.


    The Cathedral of St. Ignatius towered over it all, its bell tolling at dawn and dusk, reminding folks of their faith—or the price of forgetting it.


    Yet even amidst the grit and lawlessness of the frontier, some horrors were too much for the Empire to stomach. In the shadows of the west’s unchecked chaos, rogue scientists known as Stitchers, had turned the frontier into their playground, conducting unsanctioned experiments far from the prying eyes of the Church.


    Using natives, the poor, and the desperate, these scientists ignored the moral bounds of Vaporguard technology. The results were often grotesque. For every augmentation that worked, a dozen left their victims shattered in body or mind.


    Some were reduced to little more than hollow shells, their broken bodies forgotten in shallow graves. Others, warped by the pain and the strain of their enhancements, turned violent. These were the ones the New World feared most—the ones called Wasters.


    The Wasters were hunted like rabid animals, their very existence a blight on the sanctity of the church. To them, they were a grim reminder, a shame against their holy empire, and to settlers, they were monsters lurking in the night. For the Wasters themselves, there was no redemption—only survival or death.


    Life in Denton was rough enough, but the fear of these tragic folk added another layer to the town’s tension. People whispered about sightings in the wilderness, about drifters with glowing eyes or twisted limbs. No one wanted to believe the stories, but no one could afford to ignore them, either.


    On the edge of town, away from the saloons and stockyards, stood a weathered building that many passed without a second glance. It served as an orphanage for the unwanted and forgotten, but its keepers were far from ordinary.


    The man in charge and his closest friend were not only caretakers—they were bounty hunters, seasoned veterans of the frontier.


    Inside, the two men sat at a small, rickety table, the room lit by a single flickering lamp. Between them lay a fresh bounty notice, its edges curling in the heat.


    "Ever had one of them days? Where your luck’s so bad, it’s rainin’ pussy an'' you still end up gettin’ a damn pecker?"


    A bald man leaned back in his chair, dragging a greased cloth across his Vaporguard arm.


    "Well Edmond, we’ve been stuck in one of them stretches for a while now. How long you reckon them kids gotta choke down that slop before you pick somethin''?"


    Across the table from the bald man, Edmond sat with his elbows planted. His head was buried in his hands like he was trying to push the weariness out.


    "Just say it, Rufus."


    Leaning forward, Rufus’s chair creaked as his energy shifted. His one good eye lit up, the other hidden under the black patch strapped across his bald head. Tossing the cloth onto the table, he wiped his black goatee with the back of his hand and held up a wrinkled poster.


    "Oh, you’re gonna like this one."


    Edmond lifted his head slow and deliberate, his broad shoulders shifting beneath his worn coat. His silver-gray hair and the scar on his cheek gave his weathered face a hard edge, the kind earned through years of fighting. Hazel eyes, sharp but tired, flicked from Rufus to the bounty notice.


    With a steady hand, he reached for the poster, like a man who’d seen trouble plenty of times before and knew it was coming again.


    "He’s just a kid. You know we don’t take bounties on kids."


    "Hold your britches and look again."


    Rufus tapped a finger on the paper.


    "That boy ain’t no child. And leavin’ a Waster to wander’s like leavin’ a fox in the henhouse. ’Sides, the bounty’s worth twice as much if we bring him in without a scratch, so we take him nice and easy."


    "Nice and easy..."


    Edmond glanced back at the poster. His brows lifted as he read the list of offenses.


    "Theft and murder."


    His gaze shifted to the open door, where the dry yard stretched out, filled with the sound of children playing.


    Sensing his advantage, Rufus leaned in.


    "Clearwater ain’t but half a day’s trip by foot. C’mon, Edmond, let’s make some silver and keep these kids fed another winter."


    He wasn’t wrong, and Edmond knew it.


    Bounties this straightforward didn’t come around often, and with a lead straight from the sheriff''s office, arguing seemed pointless.


    Still, something about it gnawed at him.


    "Tell Carter we’ll take it."


    He agreed at last, pushing back his chair and standing.


    "But we eat breakfast first."


    Starting toward the kitchen, the floorboards groaned under his steps.


    "’Bout damn time!"


    Rufus grabbed the bounty and leapt from his seat, heading for the door.


    "Hey, pipsqueaks! Get to clappin’—He said yes! No more slop!"


    As cheers erupted from outside, Edmond shook his head and turned back to the stove. His shoulders were tense, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t focus on the food.


    ''Wasters... They’re getting younger.''