Caldwell Pax Trueshot
CALDWELL PAX TRUESHOT. (See also, CALDWELL PAX) After becoming a staple among US lawmen, the Caldwell Pax s popularity saw it fall into more nefarious hands. To keep pace with outlaws, sheriffs and marshals began to strike unofficial deals for the expensive "Trueshot " variant of their service weapons, reducing stability in exchange for a more powerful shot. Though named to distinguish it as the one true vessel of peace, the mighty revolver was servant to a great many ends.
The Papers of Hayden Collins
Filed under: Lynch
Story draft?
November 1909
Beneath a shadowed cypress tree, a cloaked figure waited. Unmoving, she gazed upon three women at a distance, who all waded through filthy waist-high waters to reach her. Each of the wading women wore the coats of law marshals with matching firearms, and each looked prepared to kill. As they arrived, Lynch for it was Lynch under the cypress smiled shrewdly at how malleable the human mind remained. She gave a nod.
A moment and five gunshots later, one marshal remained, standing above the two corpses of her companions. She was battle-scarred and graceful. Lynch rose and cast off her cloak, now singed by two bullets.
Fac quod faciendum est, said the survivor, breathless. Lynch caressed her snarling face, and the survivor's expression softened.
Close your eyes, my paragon, and I will mold you anew against your creator's wishes, remade in your own image.
The survivor hesitated, but ultimately obeyed. The sway Lynch held was potent, and it arrested the survivor with enough faith for Lynch to pull her cloak from the earth. Thereby she revealed to no watching eyes: a metal bucket, rusty stakes, two scalpels, a filled syringe, salt, and a silver dagger. She reminisced at the thrill of forcing the stakes through men's hands, yet her hair nearly glowed with eager anticipation for the improved concoction one which flowed from a willing sacrifice, and one which held her very own blood.
Serenity was upon the survivor's face as salt was spread around her feet. It remained as Lynch injected her forearm. It even remained as the scalpel was traced slowly across the flesh of her chest. As Lynch drove the stakes through her feet into the sodden dirt, however, her eyes snapped open, and her hand twitched to her holster. But it was too late, for Lynch was already aiming the survivor's own pistol into her left eye. Screams echoed across the bayou as Lynch worked. Gasps rustled through the leaves as an ethereal deity devoured the euphoric survivor.
A sigh struck hell as Lynch brewed her finest inoculation yet a toxin for herself that you will be powerless against. Tremble, twisted Beira. Lynch is hunting still.
