Sam

Serene and Hacksaw tried to sit her down so she could receive care, but she waved them off. Things were starting to go foggy on her, but she still had work to do.

The Physician named Venture ambled over to finish off the pit boss. Sam put a stop to that as well. "No one dies today," she said. "I've decided."

The white-haired woman looked to Captain Jawara, who was not well-pleased, but acquiesced with a shrug. "Keeping him alive seems an awful risk, but then again, I suppose the girl's earned the right to make some unreasonable demands."

Rather than kill him outright, Venture instead immobilized the big man by placing nerve blocks on his arms and legs using a skill called Stimulate. At least, that was how Hacksaw explained it. There was a certain admiration in his voice as he detailed her methods.

Moving along, Sam got Griff to take over for Serene as she hobbled her way up the road, eventually crossing the broken gates into the mining village. It was a disordered mess of wood and stone; residential buildings, warehouses, foundries, and barracks. The settlement sloped downward into the gaping black maw in distant foothills that served as the entrance to Wurmhole East proper.

The militia was busy rounding up taskmasters and freeing their victims, with the collars removed from the slaves and going right back onto the slavers. Only a few fought back. Those that did were beaten badly.

Trouble flared up again when the newly liberated slaves, though weak and emaciated and disfigured by repeated cruelties, at once picked up whatever mining tools or fallen weapons lay handy. Hatred long left smoldering under the weight of quiet apathy now flared to life and spread like wildfire through the rag-clad unfortunates. They wanted a blood payment for their suffering, and it was clear that even the militia would not be able to hold them back from getting it for long without turning to violence.

The former slaves bucked and strained against hastily formed protective lines of soldiery. Though weakened from their toil, the militiamen were half-hearted at best in their efforts to defuse the situation. Most likely, they didn't care much one way or the other what happened to the taskmasters.

Sam, for her part, could not claim much in the way of sympathy for those dark-hearted bastards. The sharpened crooks and steel-studded whips and spiked clubs they had wielded spoke volumes of just how eager they were to inflict suffering on others. They deserved a little of their own medicine. More than a little.

But then, she had decided…

"Stop!" she hollered, paying no mind to Griff's muttered curses at her side. "Everyone, put your weapons down!"

There was an awkward lull in the struggle as some former slaves broke off to attend her words while others kept on wrestling against their liberators. Some small few even followed her order to the letter, ejecting their improvised weapons as though scalded at their touch.

Sam felt her jaws click and her sinuses swell and her cheekbones slide out of place as she drew in a deep breath. "I said STOP!"

That did the trick.

Most were shaken from their fury. They stepped back, and pulled those stubbornly clinging to the idea of retribution along with them. "It's her," someone said. "She's the one who saved us."

"That's right!" Sam replied. "And I say no one dies today. You've suffered enough, all of you—let someone else deal with these scumbags."

A bit of general grumbling followed, but despite their coarse words the freemen soon deferred to her, capitulating their arms, and the taskmasters murmured relieved prayers on their knees.

"Who are you?" called one of the freemen over the crowd of battered, unwashed bodies quickly forming around her. "Who are you, to have fought so fiercely on our behalf?"

Sam pushed off of Griff with a groan of effort to stand on her own, the shifting bones in her bad leg constantly sword fighting one another to remind her of their presence. "Well, that's easy! I'm Sheerhome's very own hero! From today on, you can call me the—"

"Fireheart!"

Sam frowned. "What? No, that's not…"

But more people had already joined in. "Fireheart! It's Fireheart!"

Who the fuck is Fireheart, and why's she taking credit for my stunt?

No one in her group knew who she was, but Francine piped up for maybe the first time that day to admit that she had heard the name before, but couldn't recall when or where, exactly.

She tried multiple times to set the record straight by introducing herself as the Peaceful Fist, but the freemen were all in on the Fireheart train, and would not entertain anything else. Still, the way they cheered her on felt pretty nice, and as far as superhero names went, she couldn't say that Fireheart was a bad one, so she let it slide. She was too tired to argue much at this point anyway.

Jawara let the freemen be held for a short while, then had her soldiers step in to break up the commotion and begin getting the poor souls into some of the nearby buildings to provide food and medical attention.

After most everyone had dispersed, a man approached. He was a withered Explorer with a gaping scarred-over hole where his right eye should have been, and had a deferent, almost fearful demeanor.

"Lady Fireheart," he said with some hesitation, not quite meeting her eye. "Most of the others are still down the hole, and there's more of the masters down there with them. Will you save them as well? Will you go to them?"

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

Sam wanted very badly to say yes. These people deserved all the help they could get. But the fog was descending thicker over her senses, obscuring what little of her vision remained, almost strangling, and the effort of keeping all her weight on one leg left her wobbly, ready to topple over if not for Griff occasionally hauling her upright by her shirt.

Luckily, Hacksaw saved her from having to make such an unheroic statement. Wearing that unnerving used car salesman smile of his, he stepped forward and said: "Sorry pal, this one's out of commission—doctor's orders. Not to worry though, you've got the captain over there looking out for you, and the lord himself should be checking in shortly."

The Explorer threw Sam another pleading look. She was unable to produce anything reassuring on account of the fact that she was busy throwing up in her mouth and trying to swallow it back down again without being too obvious. The man eventually nodded and wandered off to join a small group of freemen making conversation with Jawara.

No longer the center of attention, Sam let her smile slip, her cheeks aching with the effort of holding it for so long, and trusted someone to catch her as the world was rug-pulled out from under her and she went tumbling into cottony oblivion.

* * *

Sam

She awoke to the smell of herbs and cigarette smoke. She was in a room. Lying down. Soft bedding underneath her. It was dark, but her vision gradually adjusted until she found the flickering candlelight that traced the smooth walls sufficient. The swelling in her face must have gone down, because she could see a bit out of both eyes.

"You're awake. Good."

Sam nearly jumped out of her own skin at the sound of Will's, and ended up letting out an embarrassing little squeak.

He was seated in a chair beside her bed, an open book in one hand, the other idly tugging one of the pages back and forth. His dark glasses shone off the candle on the nightstand. "How are you feeling?" he asked. His tone was perfectly neutral, but his emotions were anything but.

He was absolutely, royally pissed off.

"L-look…" Sam stammered out. "So, uh, funny thing…"

"How are you feeling?" Will repeated with exactly the same dull inflection.

"Bad." What use would there be in lying? He'd be able to sense how much pain she was in through their bond anyway. "Where am I?" The room wasn't familiar, and it didn't look like any of the ones in the keep, either.

Will snapped his book shut with a sharp whump and set it aside on the floor. "You're still in Wurmhole East. Not the best place to receive the kind of medical care you needed, but I judged it was probably best not to move you very far in your condition, and luckily two of the city's most competent Physicians were already on-site to fix you up."

"They did surgery on me?"

"Mostly on your leg, to get things properly aligned. Venture did some scans of your brain. You've got a bad concussion and a handful of facial fractures, but she thinks you'll be all right with your improved Healing Factor if you just take some time to rest. You've been out for most of today—it's night now—so you should be making progress on your recovery already."

Sam nodded slowly and chewed her lip. "I do feel a little better." She glanced at Will, then up into the ceiling. "Did I make you come all the way out here to look after me?"

"Well, yeah."

"I'm sorry." She could tell his leg and his stomach were both bothering him, even though he was trying not to let it show.

"Maybe think about that next time. Your antics don't just affect you, Sam."

She shrank into herself, pulled her covers higher. "I know. I'm sorry."

Will folded his glasses and set them on top of the book, then leaned forward in his chair and rubbed tiredly at his eyelids. "But that's a conversation for another time, I suppose. For now, just focus on getting better."

"I really wasn't going to do anything, I swear. It's just people were getting hurt and I didn't want anyone to die so I figured if I did it myself I could save everyone and before I could really think it over I'd already, y'know…"

"Later, Sam. Later."

Moving on, he walked her through the day's events that she'd missed out on. The mines were confirmed to be fully cleared and evacuated as of a few hours ago, with the militia forces at Wurmhole East and Wurmhole West delving into the underground networks guided by experienced Explorer freemen and meeting where the sprawling mine complexes connected in the middle. Buck had been somewhat miffed when he showed up with the cavalry, ready to save the day, only to find out that someone else had already taken that honor.

"He's planning to pin some kind of medal on you, I hear," Will said.

"Ooooh, I love medals!" She'd had loads back on Earth from various sporting events. The thought of starting a new collection on the Frontier was enough to get her excited. She sobered up quickly though, asking: "What about the people? Were there any casualties?"

"Not in the East, from what I understand. There were some in the West, and in the city also."

I'll… count that as a win, I think.

With a sigh that spoke of great reluctance, Will said: "To be fair… aside from the fact that you broke a pinky-dinky promise, which is despicable and immoral, what you did here was…" He cracked his neck uncomfortably. "...impressive. Objectively speaking, that is. You took down a Level 15 combat expert solo, and you kept the situation from devolving into chaos. That's, you know… good work."

Sam cracked a wry little smirk. "Any chance I'll be getting a medal from you too?"

He snorted. "Keep dreaming."

Allowing herself to doze for a while, she awoke with one of Venture's assistants poking at her. Once the young woman was finished, Will stepped in to give Sam a cup of water. She swept it, and he filled the cup with some bitter medicine that went down like a fistful of stinging nettles, then he filled it with more water and made her drink that, too.

"There's something that's been on my mind," she mused once they were alone again. "Back there, everyone kept calling me Fireheart for some reason. What the hell's that mean? Do you know?"

"So I heard. It's a curious thing. Fireheart is the name of a long-dead Level 30—a paragon, as they were called in those days—who was alive around the time of the Deicide. She wanted to keep order and civility alive even after Era's passing, so she founded an alliance of nations between several octants known as the Coalition.

"Her dream was short-lived though, because Crow came over and murdered her just as the Coalition was gaining traction, and that pretty much killed the movement along with her. I guess Crow must've thought peace and stability would have spoiled her fun.

"Her death marked the start of the War of Strife. Either way, some say Fireheart died a martyr, and credit her as a major inspiration for the resurrectionist faith. Something of a patron saint, if you will. She was a big name at the time, but not many people remember it now except in resurrectionist circles, which makes it surprising that someone would dig it up and give it to you."

Sam grappled for a good answer to that conundrum. "Umm, are the miners like, super religious or something?"

Will shook his head. "I looked into it, but no, it seems not. Rather, it turns out it was one person who started it, and the rest joined in because they just thought that was your name."

"How do you know that?"

"Because I tracked him down and spoke with him. He's right there in the other room, actually. Been wanting to see you. To thank you, I suppose. Now, the stubborn old bastard refuses to leave before he gets to have a look at you, so if you don't feel too tired, maybe I could let him in for a few minutes, and he can explain himself while he's at it?"

She thought that sounded fair enough, and told him as much.

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