Posten still had headaches. Debilitating headaches on cold, damp nights like this one.

The girl had drugged him and dented his skull with the base of a lamp. They found him sprawled on the couch in the antechamber sporting a swollen egg on his temple. Only half-conscious, he was held him under his arms during his impromptu court martial where he learned that the girl had escaped less than 48 hours after her recovery. He was denied a defense. They stripped him of his MPD citizenship and strapped him to a chair. One guardsman told him he was lucky they hadn't shot him for gross incompetence.

A good shooting would have been more welcome than the branding, with its sizzling smell of burning flesh and the acrid rag with which they gagged him to muffle his screams.

They covered his head with a sack and escorted him west of the Juneau. Then they released him into the Reaches, with no weapon or provisions.

His hand strayed to his forehead, above his left eye where he absently fingered the circular wound, a blistered O forever inscribed in his flesh. Outlaw? Outcast? Outsider? Or perhaps it stood for zero, nothing, nada. He knew it meant one thing for sure---that he'd be shot on sight by the MPD if he set foot east of the river. Perhaps the O functioned as a target.

After weighing his options, Posten he did the only sensible thing: he crossed back over the river. He knew nothing about the Western Reaches and would blunder into some deadly situation sooner or later. He knew the east side of Rivertown well in contrast and besides, he'd seen one or two branded men skulking the backstreets of and neither he nor any of his colleagues saw fit to open fire. Why waste a bullet?

Colleagues. What a laugh. The same colleagues who blindfolded him, branded him, and dumped him. Colleagues who were unwilling to disobey an immoral order and give him—their friend, who would have stood by them—a break. Posten knew he had exercised poor judgment in being conned by the girl, falling for her charms like a schoolboy. But his punishment did not fit the crime.

Once he was alone he wasted no time in crafting a shiv from a piece of rusted steel. He made his first mark before nightfall. The old man, weak and slow, was picking through a rubbish pile and didn't see his attacker coming until the instant Posten knocked him senseless with the shiv's butt in one blow. The old man's down coat leaked feathers at the armpits but it was better than Posten's tattered outer shell, which he draped over the unconscious man like a shroud.

Posten fell far in the week since his excommunication, regressing from civilized guardsman to a beast driven by cold and hunger. He clung to the shadows, using his training to strike quickly and silently, careful never to leave himself exposed. He accumulated and hid excess food and supplies. He was enraged to find his temporary hovel ransacked and looted while he was away hunting, but it taught him to better mask his hiding place. He cursed his stupidity with each time hunger jabbed his stomach like a shiv as he lay awake that night.

After much deliberation, he had decided to test his luck at the fringes of the Grudow. The MPD looked the other way when it came to scavengers at that end of the settlement, where the poorest of its citizens were identical to the refuse on the other side of the fence. Posten had seen scavengers trade rundown and other contraband with the guards throught the fence. And so he was fingering a half-dozen pills as he milled outside the Grudow, waiting for his opportunity to sidle up to the acne-pocked guard who might trade up for some food when he felt something hard stick his side and a firm grip clamp onto his elbow. Before he could jerk away a voice said, "I seen you're marked, friend. Don't turn around. Walk with me and you don't get hurt. Yet."

The few scavengers idling around avoided eye contact as he was ushered off. He thought about shouting or pulling away, but to what purpose? The guards would just as likely open fire at the sight of a commotion. If he played it cool, he might be able to stall long enough to find an escape or disarm his captor. Or maybe he might buy it, shot in the head in some back alley. Which, in the big picture, that might not be the worst fate.

His assailant shoved him against a brick wall and said, "Face the wall, keep your eyes on the ground. Answer my questions quickly and this could be your lucky day. How'd you get your brand?"

"It's a long story."

"Give me the short version," the man said.

"A prisoner escaped during my watch. They dropped the hammer."

The man chuckled. "Typical. One minute you're an honest soldier, the next you're trash. You feel like hitting back?"

Posten held his breath. The man continued. "We're looking for a few good men. Men with training who can follow orders and fire a gun. Men on the outside looking in."

"Who's we?"

The man sniffed. "Minor details that don't concern you. Let's just say someone who wants to see a change of management in this town."

"What's in it for me?" Posten asked.

"Quite a lot considering you've got nothing to lose. A weapon that's yours once the job is done. Some food. Whatever else you can strip off the dead. And some revenge of course. If you're good, we might even hire you on full-time. Hell, you might even find yourself back on the inside if you play your cards right. Want to hear more?"

"Yeah," Posten said, nodding as he slowly raised his head. "Keep talking."