MERCY’S END

A desert somewhere in the far wild reaches of the west. DUSK. Endless fine grains of sand ,wind erasing tracks,prints and any other visible indentations. Purple orange skyline, brilliant,beautiful and ,brooding.

Road less.desolate,empty and vast. Lifeless,crude,and cruel.

A lonely souless place,a paradise for sand creature's,snakes,lizards,scorpions,and self contained water plants like cacti,few humans if any ventured these parts.

Skulls of animals,humans and others could be uncovered beneath the drifting sand if anybody dared to look.

Desolation for hundreds of miles in all directions, a seven or eight day journey to the nearest dusty small town,no not a town more a township. A few buildings either side of a make shift track, with a population of 60 -70 inhabitants.

As the sun was setting in the orange- purple sky the only beautiful sight out here, a mesmerising tinted shimmer flickered majestically and it appeared a building ,one would think it a mirage.

One final pulsating burst of purple illuminated light and the building solidified.The hotel stood where nothing else should.

Not on a road.

Not near a town.

Not even near the memory of either.

It rose from the desert like a held breath — three stories of dark timber and weathered stone, stitched together with iron balconies and crooked railings. Time had not so much worn it down as failed to decide what to do with it. Some boards looked freshly cut. Others were bleached white and split with age. No two windows matched. No two shadows fell the same way twice.

By daylight, it appeared abandoned.

By dusk, it woke.

Gas lamps along the veranda flickered to life without flame or hand, casting amber halos that never quite touched the ground.Their light bent strangely, as though the air itself were thicker around the building. Dust drifting past them slowed, lingering too long before falling.

The sign above the entrance hung from two rusted chains:

MERCY’S END HOTEL & SALOON

The paint was gold-leaf once. Now it was cracked and flaking, yet no amount of wind or storm had ever managed to tear it free.

The porch stretched wide and deep, its floorboards groaning softly even when no one walked upon them. Rocking chairs sat in perfect rows, always facing outward, as though waiting for guests who never arrived. None of them ever moved, no matter how strong the desert winds became.

Beneath the porch ran a set of narrow train tracks.

They emerged from the sand at one end and vanished back into it at the other, as if someone had laid them only long enough to remember what rails were supposed to look like. The steel never rusted. It never warmed in sunlight. It never cooled at night.

Sometimes, when the wind died, they hummed.

Behind the hotel, the desert dropped away into a shallow basin — the scar.

Most travelers never noticed it at first. It looked like nothing more than a depression in the earth, a shallow bowl of cracked clay and darkened stones. But nothing grew there. No grass. No weeds. No insects. Even shadows avoided it.

On certain nights, the ground there pulsed faintly, like a buried heart.

The back wall of the hotel bowed inward toward that basin, subtly warped, as though the building itself were leaning away from something it did not wish to remember.

High above, the roof sloped in uneven tiers, dotted with chimneys that had never produced smoke. At its center rose a narrow tower — not quite a bell tower, not quite a lookout — capped with a sheet of tarnished copper that caught the last light of sunset and reflected it like dying embers.

No birds nested there.

No animals approached.

Coyotes circled wide around it.

Storms bent around it. And yet, travelers always found it.

No matter which direction they came from.

No matter how lost they were.

By nightfall, if they walked long enough, Mercy’s End would rise before them — lamps lit, porch waiting, doors unlocked — as if it had been expecting them all along.

Inside standing behind a cracked wooden beer stained bar that seemed to stretch forever stood a tall women .Early 30s (ageless aura) her face pure porcelain, blemish free. Emerald eyes alert and Dark hair streaked with silver.Wearing tight fitting black gloves. Two revolvers at her hips. A Gold sigil necklace she never removes round her neck.

Mercy Calder,ex gunslinger,now owner of Mercy’s End hotel and SALOON. was polishing glasses, just like she did every evening at dusk,preparing for that evenings expected patrons.

It was not until every glass was sparkling and stacked meticulously on the shelves ,that Mercy wandered from behind the bar to a small worn wooden cupboard from which she removed a stiff broom and swept the floor the same dust that was always there.

The battered doors of an oak clock rattled open. A wooden cuckoo jerked forward, its faded paint flaking. The hands read seven o’clock. The bird opened its beak.

Nothing came out.

Putting the broom down Mercy walked gracefully through the saloon, she straightened a few scarred round tables and some well used worn chairs as she made her way across to the stairwell.

The stairwell began just beyond the far edge of the bar, half-hidden behind a velvet curtain the color of dried wine. Most guests never noticed it at first. Those who did rarely remembered deciding to climb it.

The first step always creaked.

Not loudly — just enough to announce a choice had been made.The staircase rose in a narrow turn, oak steps worn smooth at the center, darker at the edges where dust gathered in permanent seams. The banister curved like a spine beneath the hand, polished by years of touch. It was warmer than the rest of the hotel. Warmer than the desert should allow.

Gas sconces lined the wall at uneven intervals, their flames thin and restless. They bent inward as if drawn toward the stair’s center, casting shadows that leaned the wrong way. When someone climbed, the shadows followed a half-second too late.

With a practiced precision Mercy climbed the steps,easy and effortlessly, unperturbed till she reached the first floor .The landing opened onto a long corridor of doors. NINE in all,identical a brass number on each ,except the one at the far end, number 9 it was silver and hung down like a 6 and it stood slightly apart.

It was the only door where the floorboards outside did not creak,they listened. She hesitated, outside, then turned and returned downstairs.

Back in the saloon,she took one long look at herself in the long ancient mirror that stood half hidden in the corner,its legs masterfully carved in the form of a golden eagle's talons.The frame ornate bearing what could only be referred to as ancient runes.

Mercy straightened a few wispy loose hairs,and satisfied on her appearance turned from the mirror and strode purposely to the main doors

The doors were taller than they needed to be.

Dark oak, iron-banded, their surfaces scarred by wind that never quite touched the desert floor. The wood had split in thin veins over the years, resin hardened in amber lines like old tears. Iron studs marked their breadth in careful symmetry, each one dull and cold except at the center, where the metal always felt faintly warm.

Two narrow glass panels had been set into the upper halves, the panes rippled and imperfect. They did not reflect the desert properly. At certain angles, the sky appeared bruised even at noon. At others, the horizon seemed closer than it should be.

Above the frame, carved deep into the lintel, was a sigil — Mercy’s work. Most would mistake it for decoration: looping lines, intersecting circles, something ornament She removed her gloves.

Her palms bore faint, pale scars — not from bullets, but from something that had burned without flame. When her skin met the brass, the metal warmed fully, responding like a creature roused from sleep.

The doors resisted at first.

They always did.

A subtle pull inward, as if the building would rather remain closed. Mercy leaned her weight forward, boots planted firm against the warped floorboards.

The hinges exhaled.

Not a squeal. Not a groan.

An exhale.

The doors opened outward onto the empty desert, the wind slipping inside in a low, restless sigh. Lamps along the veranda flickered brighter, as though aware the night had been formally invited in.

Mercy stepped aside.

“Welcome,” she said softly to no one at all.

And somewhere beneath the porch, the tracks began to hum.

A sudden wave of nausea hit the hotel owner,a memory,a searing pain,clear images of blazing fire,flames,screams,hurt..then it was gone.

“I must leave “ she thought. She had considered this many times,but always the same answer,not yet,wait,soon. Leaving was never an option. She had work to do.

Standing in the open door Mercy looked out upon the desolate,desert,the platform was empty, it always appeared to be. At least whenever she looked at it.

She turned and stepped back inside,then and only then she heard it the high pitched tone of the trains whistle echoing ,carrying through the sand,and darkening night sky,like a ghostly scream,reaching searching wanting. Mercy never looked back there would not be a train for her to see.

As she walked back to the bar, the glasses began to tremble. One split with a sharp crack, then another, shards scattering across the counter.

At the far table, a small stack of dusty cards slid free.

They fluttered down and landed face-up on the floor.

The Devil.

Judgment.

A gust of chilling wind that previously blew outside the hotel,seemed to cease for a moment.Then miraculously shifted as an icy blast tore through the now open saloon doors. Mercy shuddered as the wind engulfed her, dark silver streaked hair fluttering wildly.

She let out a bitter laugh as a tear slipped from one eye and traced a slow path down her cheek — a rare, unwanted confession of fear.

“It’s early,” she murmured.

Mercy returned behind the bar, cleaned up the broken glasses,poured herself 4 fingers of Goths vintage whisky her favourite exquisite brand, drained it in one smooth movement and waited.

Silas Boone was 5'10 tall,with a lean ,well proportioned body. His skin was lightly tanned,and surprisingly unmarked by scars or weather. Hair Dark brown to black neatly styled snd brushed back,amber whiskey coloured eyes that were alert and calculating.

His face clean-shaven,sharp jawline,expressive mouth prone to a confident smile.Long fingered hands steady used to handling cards or a gold coin.

A well-tailored coat and vest in dark tones.Polished boots,pale leather gloves. A few rings adorned his fingers and he had an ornamental gun tucked into a smart Leather belt.

The battered doors of an oak clock rattled open. A wooden cuckoo jerked forward,its faded paint flaking. The hands read seven thirty pm. The bird opened its beak.

Nothing came out. But someone came in. Silas Boone stepped through the doors of Mercy’s End.

Silas tipped his hat as he crossed the threshold. “Evenin’, Mercy.”

She didn’t look up from the glass she was drying.

“You’re late.”

“Am I?” He checked an invisible watch. “Feels like I arrived exactly when I meant to.” “That’s not how time works.” “Hasn’t stopped me yet.”She set the glass down harder than necessary.

“You said you weren’t coming back.”He smiled. Not quite.I say a lot of things.” “You used to mean them.” “Used to be a lot of things.”

Mercy finally met his eyes.“ Still cheating fate?” “Only when it cheats first.”A beat. She reached for a bottle. “What’ll it be?”“Something strong.”

“Everything here is.” “Then surprise me.” She poured without measuring. Still playing cards out.”Silence stretched.

Outside,the wind shifted.She slid the glass toward him.“Drink it.” He did.

Didn’t blink.

Silas took a gold coin from a concealed pocket in his vest,he flipped it, as it spun in the air,he muttered “Heads” the coin landed on the floor with a clunk,a shiny head facing up.,Five times he flipped the coin,and called,each time correct. Mercy watched this display from behind the bar,her face expressionless.

A faint glow reflected through the windows,each window reflecting the light in subtle different ways. A much larger brighter beam flooded through the still open doors as the platform outside lite up. Footsteps.

The battered doors of an oak clock rattled open. A wooden cuckoo jerked forward,its faded paint flaking. The hands read seven forty five pm. The bird opened its beak.

Nothing came out: Someone came in.

Elias Valewaa ; Looked like a man who did not belong to any moment in time. He was tall but not imposingly so.His uniform was immaculate. No dust.

A conductors coat,deep navy wool tailored to his body,brushed with silver piping along the seams. Brass buttons.Crisp white shirt,narrow black tie perfectly arranged.

His boots were polished to a muted sheen. His hair pale brown,almost gold in certain light.Short and neatly parted.

His face was striking in a restrained way.High smooth cheekbones,a straight narrow nose. His jaw was clean and firm, clean-shaven untouched by stubble or scar.He looked young mid-late twentys,yet carried himself like someone much older.

But it was his eyes that unsettled most. They were pure silver, that flashed and twinkled in all light.

A platinum pocket watch was tucked in his vest pocket, attached by a fine chain.

The watch never ticked

It breathed.

Elias waited until Silas had taken his seat and the murmur of the room had settled.

Then he moved closer to the bar.

“Mercy.”

She didn’t look up.

“I’m busy.”“You’re always busy.”

Her hand paused on the bottle. Just long enough.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“Neither should you.”

“That’s different.”

“Is it?”

She set the bottle down.

“Yes.”

“Because you chose this?”Her jaw tightened.

“Because I fixed it.”

He shook his head slightly.

“You buried it.”

“It was killing people.”

“It still is.”

Silence stretched between them.

The lamps flickered.

“You promised,” she said promised to come back.”

“No,” she corrected. “You promised not to.”

His voice softened.

“I tried.”

“Trying wasn’t enough.”

“I know.”

She finally met his eyes.

“Then why are you here?”

He hesitated.

“Because it’s almost time.”

Her breath caught.

“For what?”

He glanced toward the empty platform.

“For you to decide.”

Elias reached for the pocket watch tucked in his vest. With a nonechalent glance he checked the time .

The battered doors of an oak clock rattled open. A wooden cuckoo jerked forward,its faded paint flaking. The hands went aimlessly round and round. The bird opened its beak.

Nothing came out.

Thrump,thrum,thrump,thrum.

A distant noise,hanging on the wind,strange,something beyond. Nothing there.

A scrapping came from upstairs, not furniture ,something else,like a door moving. Mercy,s ears pricked.

She looked at both Silas and Elias,before excusing herself.Moving swiftly she stepped from her place behind the bar and disappeared through the velvet curtain leading to the stairwell.

Mercy climbed the stairs quickly, before hesitating at the top of the corridor. She subconsciously checked her two pistols,that were always at her hips, before proceeding along the corridor towards door nine.

Door nine now however was were door eight should have been.Mercy paused before checking the lock it was warm.

Someone or thing was breathing.

Mercy returned downstairs, she stopped for a brief moment using the velvet curtains for concealment ‘its fine “ she spoke softly in an attempt to reassure herself.Then stepped briskly into the Saloon.