Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The train from Meyer City to Z Town took thirty hours. Saitama knew because he'd ridden it back and forth twice already for family matters that couldn't be dealt with by wire or local lawyers. And technically the trip took more like thirty-three hours, since the train didn't stop in Z Town, but rather a town grandiosely called Prosperity Wells, three hours away by coach.

All together, round trip, Saitama would have spent sixty-six hours traveling to pick up the new sheriff. In those sixty-six hours he had slept at least sixteen of them, read five novels that cost him a penny each, and avoided conversation with four hair tonic salesmen. That was only on the train too, in the city he'd had to dodge two more.

The numbers added up. Saitama wrote them in columns on the blank pages at the end of the book he'd finished an hour ago, partly to avoid meeting the new sheriff's eyes, and partly to figure out how much he should charge the mayor for it. Sure he was getting reimbursed for his expenses, and Saitama had been meticulous about getting receipts, but if he didn't want to do it that made it work.

He ticked off the hours, as well as the night he'd spent in the city, and gnawed on the end of his pencil. Something was off, he was coming out short, and he didn't know why. The new sheriff was staring out the window at the flat plains rolling by, and Saitama didn't want to risk a conversation about his taste in literature, so instead he leaned across the aisle to the trio of young men in stiff new suits.

"Hey, you guys are bankers, right?"

The tallest and blondest of them looked at Saitama in something like alarm. "We're going to work at the bank in Z Town, we don't have any money with us. Bank tellers don't make a high wage."

Saitama tried not to be offended. "I just wondered if you could check my math? I'm doing something wrong here but I can't tell what."

"Oh," the bank teller relaxed a little, looking younger in the face than he did in body, tall and rather broad for a city boy. "Okay let me see."

His travel companions had newspapers to read, but this blond city kid had gone without, staring off into space for all twenty-eight hours of their trip. Even when the other bankers started up a card game, Blondie had declined. Saitama hadn't so much as seen him sleep, though he hadn't exactly been watching.

So it was no wonder that the kid jumped on something to pass the time, even something as simple as addition.

"No you've done it right," the kid said after a moment. "This is correct."

"Then I'm forgetting something. That's my estimate for this trip, it should be more."

"Oh." The boy frowned and took a short fat pencil from the brim of his bowler hat. "Here's your train tickets. All the way to the end of the line?"

"Right. I'm from Z Town."

Saitama hadn't expected the kid to have heard of it, but his expression lightened in very nearly a smile. "The same place we're going."

"Yep."

The kid turned back to the list. "What's this item?"

"Hourly wage."

The kid nodded. "For all the time on the train, and one day in the city?"

"That's right."

"And this?"

"Night's lodging."

The kid nodded again. "You forgot food. Unless you brought four days worth from home?"

"Oh! You're right! I got receipts for that too, totally forgot to add it in." Saitama took his book back. "Thanks, kid."

"My pleasure, Mister..."

"Saitama," he finished.

"Saitama. My name is Genos. Will you be banking with us?"

"Kid, you just saw how much I make, you think I have savings?"

"Even if you can only put away a few cents a month, Mr Saitama, it adds up."

"I'll think about it," Saitama said, diplomatically, and started digging out his receipts to add together.

It looked like the next couple hours were going to drag on as much as the last twenty-eight, when Saitama heard a murmur of activity at the back of the train car. There was an edge to it, a pitch of fear, and Saitama carefully folded up his papers and tucked them away just as the door burst open.

"I want to see your hands!" The man was dressed to work, basic browns and blues, dust on his knees and patches on his elbows. The bandana tied around his mouth was red, brand new, a novice's attempt at anonymity.

The funny part was, it would have worked if they (and there had to be more than one, or this guy would never have made it up to the cheap cars) hadn't had the bad luck to rob a train with two lawmen on board. He could ditch the bandana and blend into the crowd, just another workman on his way home.

"Everything in the bag! Watches, jewelry, wallets!"

Saitama was almost inclined to let it slide. He didn't have anything valuable on him (or at all), and the robber had a pistol pointed at the ceiling. There was always the chance someone might get caught in crossfire. He glanced at the sheriff for guidance and found the man removing his watch with shaky fingers.

Well that wasn't a good sign.

The robber made his way up the car, gesturing with his gun to speed people up, his other hand holding a leather sack like you might see anywhere. Saitama found his remaining handful of coins and stood up, mentally adding the total to his list of expenses. His badge stayed where it was, tucked in his back pocket, wrapped in a handkerchief. The only reason he'd even brought it was to prove to the sheriff he was who he said he was.

Something across the aisle drew Saitama's eye. The trio of young bankers were following Saitama's lead, taking off their tie pins and watches, one of them an old-fashioned pocket watch on a chain. The two Saitama hadn't spoken to looked frightened but composed, keeping it together to avoid drawing gun-based attention. It was the best you could expect from city boys, really.

But the last one, Genos, though his pocket watch was in his hand in preparation to give it up, was trembling. His fists were clenched so hard Saitama could hear the metal chain grinding, or perhaps that was his teeth since his jaw was just as tight. His eyes were fixed on the robber as he jabbed the bag in a woman's face, and aside from the clenched jaw he showed no emotion at all.

That wasn't a good sign either. You got this type occasionally. Saitama had been this type, when he was a lot younger, the rage tucked away until one little thing pushed him a step too far.

The bag reached Saitama and the new sheriff. They handed over their valuables, such as they were, and the robber didn't question their meager offerings. Saitama saw his eyes light up when he saw the bankers, their neat suits and hands full of ornaments.

"Everything," he ordered. "Wallets too."

The bankers, all three of them, complied. But something about Genos must have rubbed the robber the wrong way, and he started to lower his pistol.

"You. Empty your pockets."

Genos froze.

"Everything. I want that silk handkerchief."

He didn't move, didn't reach for it. The robber let his bag drop, holding it by the strings meant to hold it shut, allowing him to reach out with three fingers to take the corner of silk fabric out of Genos' vest pocket.

Saitama grabbed his arm before Genos could. He'd seen the kid's hand twitch, known he was going for the reaching one instead of the shooting one, an easy mistake to make in anger.

Saitama easily twisted the gun from the robber's grip and knocked it against his train seat, opening the chamber and dumping the bullets on the floor. The robber swung for him, but Saitama caught his fist and squeezed it.

"How many?" he asked.

"Dozens!" the robber snapped.

Saitama squeezed harder. "Wrong. How many?"

"Ah!" His knees failed him, collapsing to the floor. "Four! There's four of us!"

"That's all?" Saitama snorted. He took the leather bag, string wrapped around the luckless robber's fingers, and tossed it to the sheriff. "Make sure everyone gets their things back." He twisted the robber's arm behind his back, turning him into a makeshift shield. "You're with me, let's go."

The train was small, only a half dozen passenger cars. Probably the gang had gotten on at the last stop, an hour ago, and laid low until they were sure everyone's guards were down. The next stop was half an hour off, which meant the gang had to have an escape plan before that. Which meant Saitama had to act fast.

Lucky for him, the gang wasn't so heartless as to shoot their own guy. They threatened to, they'd have been fools not to, but Saitama easily subdued the one in the next car, tying him up with a rope provided by some cattle drivers taking the short way home. The next car held two, already loaded with bags from the wealthy cars at the back, holding off a pair of porters. Saitama didn't even need to bother with the human shield, he dropped the guy, vaulted over him, and took the last two out before they could turn around.

At this point Saitama started flashing his badge. Vigilantism wasn't all that popular, despite the penny dreadfuls, and the porters were as likely to lock him up in the coal car as the thwarted gang.

A deputy, even one out of his jurisdiction, was trusted to stand by the law. So once the badge came out Saitama was thanked, had his hand shaken, and respectfully asked to stand guard in the coal car with the prisoners.

It was the right thing to do. And it was only fifteen minutes left to the next stop. At least, so Saitama thought. After half an hour they stopped, okay slowing down after a scare made sense, but no one came to assist Saitama with the prisoners. After a twenty minute wait, the train started up again, Saitama and the gang apparently completely forgotten.

"What's going on?" the one Saitama pegged as their leader asked. "Where are you taking us?"

"Beats me." Saitama peered through the slats of the car. All he could see was the brown and green expanse of the plains. It all looked the same out here unless you were intimately familiar with the area, and Saitama lived further west and north, so he was as lost as anyone. There was a good reason this area had only been settled by misanthropes before the last couple generations. The farming was only okay, the weather was frigid in winter and boiling in summer, the closest large population center was weeks away by coach. The money simply wasn't there.

Sure you could hunt, you could hunt very well if you were good enough to go after beasts, but otherwise there was no way to support a living. Fishing was covered in the north. Farming in the south. Industry in the east. The west, the Roughs, had nothing to offer but space.

Now, starting in Saitama's grandfather's time according to his drunken rants, space was what people wanted. Technology had gotten to the point where nobody really starved (unless they were particularly poor or stubborn), and necessities like clothes and medicine were easily purchased no matter how small the village. Even Saitama's grandfather, hater of change though he was, had benefited. He spent the last quarter of his life with a cyborg leg. Since his death Saitama had vaguely noticed that technology improving too, but he didn't know much about it.

Saitama moved out to the Roughs after dropping out of university, five years ago. He spent the first two in the copper mines making more mistakes than he'd thought possible, until he got a lucky break and deputized for saving the local rail baron's grandson from a beast. Having a job, having a purpose, gave him something to work for. So Saitama worked, every day, and now...

The robbers were whispering to each other, had been for a while but Saitama was lost in thought and barely noticed it. Now he caught the words "chain gang" and things clicked into place like gears.

"Oh. They're turning you over to the railroad."

The end of the line was in Prosperity Wells, at least for now, though the track stretched miles into the plains further. Until it hit the next decent-sized town, Prosperity Wells was the de facto headquarters of Mr. Agoni and the construction effort.

There was so much money in rail, including in the passengers, that train robbery was more often than not handled by bounty hunters and Pinkertons (who were about the same thing). Usually they got away and had to be hunted down, and Saitama didn't mind letting the bounty hunters handle that. It was what happened after that got to him.

Everybody knew about the chain gangs. The worst of the worst, murderers and rapists, condemned to work on the rail until they could no longer stand. In some cases it was a fitting punishment. Saitama had seen some pretty awful things in his years in the Roughs. But for folks like these train robbers, stupid and greedy rather than downright evil, a lingering death like that was more cruel than the noose.

Saitama cracked his knuckles. "Okay fellas. Who knows how to tie a proper knot? Also, jump off a train."

When they got to Prosperity Wells, over an hour later, Saitama put on a good show of being beaten and indignant. Gave a little rant about being left alone for two hours with four dangerous crooks. The porters bought it at least, and he grabbed his bag and stormed off before anyone higher up could question him.

Once he had his feet on solid ground again, Saitama disappeared into the crowd at the station the way the gang had intended to do. He looked around for the new sheriff but the guy's face had barely stuck in his mind, and all he could think to do was find someone who was looking for him.

He found someone like that, but it was the banker, Genos. He raised his bowler, squeezing it too hard and leaving finger dents in the wool.

"Mr. Saitama, your companion got off at the last stop. I was confused because you said you were coming here, but you spoke to him like you were-"

Saitama swore, and the kid stopped. He wasn't too young to know words like that, but the look on his face was enough that Saitama said, "Sorry. Are you sure though? He got off?"

"Yes. He asked a porter to get his luggage out of the baggage car. So I'm sure he disembarked."

Saitama swore again, harder. "That son of- He made an agreement! He had the check from the mayor!"

"Was the check issued from our bank, Mr. Saitama? We can cancel it."

"Can you?" Saitama said, surprised. It wasn't that Saitama didn't understand banks, he'd put his birthday pennies in a savings account as a kid, and emptied out his inheritance to move to the Roughs. But communication took time out here, and if the deadbeat sheriff ran to the closest bank to cash it, then...

"We have a branch here in Prosperity Wells, Mr. Saitama. It won't take long."

"If you can do that kid, you'll save me a lot of heat."

Genos nodded firmly. "Are you familiar with this town, Mr. Saitama? Can you guide me?"

"More or less. I know where it would be."

Saitama headed for the exit, tossing his bag over his shoulder and picking up two of Genos' without thinking. The young man goggled. "Mr. Saitama, you don't have to- My coworkers are arranging transportation, I can leave these with them, and-"

"Nah, I got it," Saitama said. For somebody moving to a new town for the foreseeable future three bags wasn't much, but Saitama was a little surprised by the weight of them. Not that he had any trouble carrying it, it was just unexpected. "Don't worry about transportation either, that's covered."

Sure enough, Mumen was waiting with the same carriage that brought Saitama here four days ago parked out of the way on the street. He was brushing one of the horses, but waved at Saitama when he approached. Saitama tossed his bag in the back and loaded Genos' with more care.

"Sheriff did a runner. Me and the kid here gotta take care of something and we'll be back."

"Did a runner?" Mumen repeated. "What- Why?"

"Yellow. I'll tell you on the way home, we don't have time."

Ignoring any more sputtered questions, Saitama took off down the street, only looking back to make sure the kid was following. His young face was pulled tight in a frown, thoughtful, and somehow only making him look younger.

"Mr. Saitama, are you... a lawman?"

"Ah, yep. Never told you did I? I'm a deputy." He took his badge out of his pocket again, the handkerchief long since stuffed down in it instead of fulfilling its purpose as an extra layer between the pin and Saitama's skin.

"That's why you were able to stop that robbery so easily," Genos said. His frown deepened. "But you seem competent. Why did your town send for a sheriff from the city instead of promoting you?"

"I did let that gang get away," Saitama said, ignoring the real answer that no one liked him.

"You were left alone with them, they had you outnumbered, and you couldn't take them by surprise the way you did before. I'm sure you did the best you could."

The memory of letting the man he'd used as a human shield tie his hands behind his back rose in Saitama's mind. He'd been grateful enough that he wasn't rough with the ropes. He left them too loose at first, in fact, and Saitama had to coach him through it. "Yeah..."

They found the bank where Saitama had expected, between the haberdasher and the ladies tailor. Prosperity Wells had doubled in size since the railroad came through, and being the end of the line meant every hopeful family or remittance man or runaway had to stop here before moving on further west. This street was wide and clean and full of shops selling things Saitama couldn't afford (or identify, in several cases), meaning it was new. Only carved out and paved and populated in the last nine months since Mr. Agoni moved in. The people with money to spend would be moving on soon, but the bank, at least, would remain. It wouldn't make as much and they'd lay people off, but it would remain.

Genos, confident and square-shouldered, marched through the doors and up to a desk tucked along the side. Saitama trailed along, wondering if he should pin his badge on.

"Mi- Deputy Saitama, what is the name of the mayor of Z Town?"

"Oh. Amai."

"And the coward?"

Saitama felt his lips quirk up in a smile. "Sneck."

With a sharp nod, Genos turned to the baffled clerk. For a few moments they spoke in an indecipherable mix of abbreviations and numbers, and then the clerk jumped up and scurried away behind a sturdy wooden door.

"He's checking for me," Genos said, adding, a little smugly, "All the branches have a wire, so if Sneck hasn't cashed the check already we can put a stop on it."

"Oh, the wire." There was only one telegram office in Z Town, and that had only been there a couple years. It certainly made things easier, but it wasn't cheap. Most people still wrote letters.

They stood in awkward silence for a few minutes. Genos seemed content, looking with unfocused eyes at the clerk's abandoned desk. Saitama didn't mind quiet, far from it, but he felt out of place in this plush lobby full of tellers and clients who dealt with more money in a day than he'd handled in a lifetime.

Finally, Saitama cleared his throat, "So. What makes a strapping young man like yourself come to the Roughs?"

Genos blinked, focused on him slowly, as if coming out of a daydream. It wasn't a long pause, but it was enough that Saitama recognized the look. He'd seen it many times on people who were about to lie to him. "I needed a job, and I don't have any particular attachments back east."

"Still though. Looking like that? And you seem good with numbers and all. I'd think you could get a desk like this anywhere you want."

Genos smiled, tight, false. "It was boring. I'm young, I'm not married. This is my only chance to have an adventure."

"Like it so far?"

The smile this time was closer to real. "There are some good points."

Before Saitama could ask for examples the clerk return with a strip of paper. "The check hasn't been cashed yet," he reported. "But we warned the nearby branches."

"If he's going anywhere it'll be back to Meyer City," Saitama said.

"Don't worry," the clerk had that same faint air of smugness as Genos had. "By the end of the day that check won't be good anywhere."

"Well, how about that."

Saitama had technology on the brain as he and Genos headed back to the train station. Telegrams and trains had made all the trouble today possible, but put a stop to it too. Saitama much preferred problems he could solve with his fists.

Mumen was waiting with the other two bankers, wilting in the afternoon heat. It would be early evening by the time they got to town, but at this time of year it wouldn't cool off until full dark.

"Got answers for me yet?" Mumen asked. The cart and horses were ready to go, so Saitama swung into his usual seat up front.

"I'll tell you on the way." The sounds of the cart would cover at least a little of their conversation.

Mumen sighed but joined him, used to this sort of behavior. "Okay gents, we're off. If you feel sick or need to pee let me know; this isn't my cart and I don't want to clean it."

This leg of the journey was uneventful. The bankers handled the ride well enough, despite the two whose names Saitama never caught looking a little worse for wear after the fear of the robbery and the heat of the plains. They moved fast enough to get a breeze on their faces, and despite Mumen's misgivings the road was smooth from use.

Saitama explained what had happened, leaving out his conspiring with the gang, though he could tell Mumen didn't buy that he'd been overpowered.

"So Sneck got one look at a real situation we have to handle out here and turned yellow?" Mumen huffed. "I thought he was a sheriff already."

"Not in a city, though. He looked jumpy even in Meyer. A town our size back east is a completely different animal, you know?"

Mumen nodded. Like Saitama he'd been born and raised in the city, the same city, in fact, though they'd never known each other back then. Unlike Saitama, Mumen moved to the Roughs when he was still young, and took to it like a duck to water. For some reason the environment out here was a perfect fit for him; determined, kind, and with a sense of justice stronger than steel. Also unlike Saitama, Mumen got along with everybody he met. The townsfolk loved him.

His only flaw was prioritizing justice over his own safety, and he'd been laid up with a broken leg or arm or sprained shoulder for half the time he'd been a deputy, when you added it all together. Despite his talents, despite his popularity, Saitama could understand why the mayor had been reluctant to promote him.

Then there was Fubuki, smart as a whip, powerful, a commanding presence. Headstrong, a little bossy, but you needed to be when you were an unmarried young woman out here. Saitama was sure Amai respected her. But she was a little younger than Saitama and Mumen, who were already considered rather young for the job, and she hadn't even tried to put herself forward as a candidate for sheriff.

It was just the three of them as deputies. There were others, the "posse," that could be called up when more hands were needed. But it was such a small town, and Saitama, Mumen, and Fubuki were all so good at what they did, that a larger organization wasn't necessary.

And for some reason the mayor decided to hire a sheriff away from another town in the east. A little bigger, but when the next town was an hour away instead of three, when there wasn't a daily threat of beasts, when criminals could only run so far instead of disappearing into the foothills, you didn't need nearly so much fortitude.

"What now?" Mumen asked, rhetorically. They both knew the answer. It had been months, and Sneck was the first person the mayor extended the offer to that didn't turn it down flat. Z Town was so small it didn't even have a name, just a letter to slap on the post office. Nobody wanted to leave a halfway decent post to come out here. And if the mayor hired a deputy the three he had would quit in protest. He couldn't have that.

"Keep going how we have been, I guess," Saitama said. "What else?"

"I'm going to suggest you for the job again," Mumen said firmly.

"No."

"You deserve it!"

"I've only got a week seniority on you!"

"You've saved the town single-handed at least a dozen times!"

Saitama felt his ears getting hot, and he wasn't sure if it was embarrassment or Genos staring at him from the back of the cart. "Not the whole town. Maybe half of it."

"I'm gonna," Mumen said, and that was the end of that.

It wouldn't change the mayor's mind anyway.

Z Town, such as it was, rose ahead of them in the shadow of the mountain range that cut them off from the sea. There was decent hunting and trapping up there, but the town itself was planted almost half a day away on the shore of a small lake. In the middle of summer there wasn't much lake to speak of, but the river flowing into it still provided plenty of water for their small population.

The mine Saitama had originally moved here to work in had been closed when they found a vein further south, near the railroad, where the ore could be easily loaded up and sent to be smelted into something useful. Money, as always, trumped convenience. Not many people moved with it though, because east of the mountains were acres and acres of empty plains, and just when things were getting dire, the cattle baron swept in and bought it all up.

Ranching was a lot healthier than mining, and Mr. Kusho had so many animals that he needed a lot of people to wrangle them. So in the end the job market only changed quality, instead of quantity.

There was still evidence of the old mine throughout the town. The cart rolled under a copper sign, stained green with oxidation, the single letter Z punched out of the metal. There were copper caps on hitching posts, and even Saitama and Mumen's badges were copper rather than the cheaper brass.

Mumen pulled the cart next to the station, where Fubuki and the old blacksmith were talking through the low side window. It was meant to provide as more discreet way for townsfolk to report crimes, but more often than not it became a source for gossip.

Fubuki gave them a lazy wave. "Have you heard? The banker ran to the mayor's office in a panic."

"How could we have heard?" Saitama said. "We just got here."

"I figured it was your fault somehow."

"Not really. I mean, I was there, but..."

"Naturally."

Saitama helped unload everyone's luggage. He was briefly stunned to see Genos could indeed carry all his bags by himself, despite their weight. His shoulders were broad and his suit jacket was cut to accommodate thick arms, but that soft boyish face kept throwing him off. The other two juggled trunks and suitcases until Saitama offered to help out of pity.

"I should go and tell the mayor what happened, but the boarding house is on the way there."

Fubuki examined the newcomers with just a bit more glint in her eye than was proper for a lawman. All of them were younger than her, barely twenty, if even, but the attention appeared to be appreciated by the two who weren't Genos.

"I'm assuming none of these little boys are our sheriff?" she said.

"You assume correctly," Saitama lifted a trunk on each shoulder. He heard someone, possibly Genos, exhale in surprise.

It wasn't until they were on the street, cobbled instead of dirt, another benefit of the mines, which needed a solid surface to move heavy loads, that one of the nameless bankers asked, "Why couldn't we ride the cart to the boarding house?"

They hadn't wanted to offend Mumen, but despite Saitama saving their wallets, they didn't care what he thought. It was okay. Saitama was used to it. Though he was pleased when he heard the one who asked mutter "ow" as Genos or the other one kicked him in reproach.

"You saw the old man back there?" Saitama answered. "That was his cart we borrowed. He's the blacksmith."

"Blacksmith," Genos said suddenly. "What's his name? Where is the smithy?"

"Bang, and just across the street from the station. Why? You need a lot of metalwork done?"

"I- it's useful to know."

Saitama didn't press. He was starting to get an idea in his head, and if he was right it really wasn't any of his, or the law's, business.

The boarding house was at the center of town, next to a saloon and across the street from a nearly identical boarding house for women. The one difference was it being a whole floor shorter; though neither the mine nor the ranches cared about gender when it came to hiring, far fewer women liked the idea of picking up and moving to the middle of nowhere.

Take these bankers, for example. By sheer chance they were all young men, snatching up the opportunity to get paid and reinvent themselves.

Saitama wasn't greeted kindly by the bankers' new housemates. He had, after all, arrested most of them. Young men without families or responsibilities to tie them down. The placement of the saloon certainly didn't help, although the barman was uniquely gifted at keeping the peace inside the building.

He was just glad the landlady didn't seem to be around. She and Saitama had an even worse history than he did with her tenants.

"Okay fellas," Saitama said, once the residents had realized he wasn't there to drag one of them off and hopped into action helping with the luggage. "I've done all the good deeds I can stand to today, so I'm heading out. I hope I can count on you to stay out of trouble."

Genos had refused any help, and still had his bags in his arms when he said, "Deputy, should I go with you to see the mayor? I can corroborate your story and explain what we did with the check and the wire."

Saitama was prepared to say no, but Genos had a strong spine for a city boy. Hell, if today was a normal performance for him, he had a strong spine compared to anyone. His testimony could save Saitama the trouble stopping the check hadn't.

"Okay kid, put those away and come with me."

The mayor's office was also his home, as with most businesses in town. In the mayor's case that meant he had the biggest house for a hundred miles, not counting Mr. Kusho. Saitama saw Genos' eyes, behind his round brass glasses, roam over the building, taking in all the windows and balconies and light visible through thin curtains.

"Electric," Genos murmured, and Saitama's eyes widened.

"You can tell from out here?"

The sun was setting, turning the sky orange and pink, but he thought Genos flushed a little. "The- the color of the light is different from gas lamps or candles. More stark."

"Geez kid, you know a lot don't you?"

"I suppose? I've studied many topics."

"What for? Don't you just need the one to be a banker?"

"At least two," Genos said defensively. "And I'm only a banker for now. If I find the opportunity for a better career, I'll take it."

"Two? What two?"

"Mathematics and Economics."

"Isn't economics just... applied math?"

Genos gave Saitama an exasperated look that he could see very clearly thanks to the electric light from the doors of the mayor's office, open to let in the evening breeze. "No."

They walked in and Saitama took his hat off in a rare show of respect, looping the string around his neck so the hat could hang down his back. He was aware of Genos staring at him, at his head, but Saitama didn't acknowledge it.

The assistant positioned in the center of the lobby gave Saitama a flat look that told him he was expected. "Go on through," she said. "Who is that?"

"Witness," Saitama said. "Banker. Mayor will want to see him too."

She shrugged, and Saitama was sure she only allowed it because Amai was already so furious with Saitama that he couldn't do any harm.

Behind the secretary, flanked by massive staircases that led up to the private quarters and library and ballroom that to the best of Saitama's knowledge Amai had never had a chance to use, was a pair of double doors made of white-painted wood with brass frames. Like everything else in the building, they were ostentatious and far bigger than necessary. That, at least, you couldn't blame on Amai. Compared to the last mayor he was downright thrifty.

He was sitting at his desk, fingers threaded through his hair, a copper-etched fountain pen tapping on a sheet of paper. He'd taken off his suit jacket and Saitama saw a sapphire blue strip of ribbon tossed over the back of his chair that had probably been neatly tied around his neck at some point. Behind him the windows were open, the air fragrant from the small garden of native flowers which was his only public indulgence. The flashy house came with the job, the nice clothes were expected of his position.

Mayor Amai was popular, both because of his carefully managed public persona and the fact he'd kept the town running smoothly since his election three years ago. But Mayor Amai was young, even younger than Saitama, and his position was always in danger thanks to that fact. If he slipped up, even once, the town could turn on him and declare him unfit due to his age.

Despite all that, despite the deck being stacked against him, despite his spotless track record, Saitama didn't like him.

"Deputy, you had better have a damn good reason for driving away my new sheriff."

"I didn't drive him away," Saitama said quickly. "Some bandits tried to rob our train and he got scared off."

Amai put the pen down, leaving a splatter of ink on the paper, which looked like a list. "If you had to physically drag him here, you should have done it. You could have done it."

"I was guarding the prisoners in the coal car! He just took off! How was I supposed to know he'd be yellow?"

"Prisoners?" Amai repeated.

"The bandits."

Amai rubbed his hands across his face. "Do not tell me you stopped the robbery."

Saitama said nothing, following instructions.

Finally, the mayor noticed they weren't alone. "Who is this?"

Genos stepped forward, hat in hand, though Saitama could see the stiffness that came from forcing himself into a submissive posture. "Genos, Mr. Mayor. I'm a banker, I was on the train with Deputy Saitama."

"Character witness, huh?" Amai snorted. "Son," (Genos was, at most, four or five years younger than him), "I know the deputy here better than you do. Trouble springs up like clover around him."

"It's not like I start it," Saitama muttered.

"No sir," Genos said. "I came to explain how we stopped the advance check you wrote to the man who betrayed your trust. If my colleague didn't already."

Amai leaned back, eyebrows raised. "I see. That was your idea, was it?"

"Yes sir."

"Thank you, Genos. You did me a favor and I'll remember that." He gestured, languid and unconcerned, at the doors. "You may go."

Genos twitched, but didn't obey. "Mr. Mayor, Deputy Saitama put himself at risk to help the innocent civilians on the train. He did what a lawman should do."

"Life out here isn't like a penny dreadful, son. Playing hero gets you shot. Or eaten."

"So he was supposed to turn over his wallet and sit down?"

"Yes."

Genos' gloved fingers tightened on the brim of the hat, wrinkling it. "Your sheriff was going to do that. Your sheriff was a coward."

"Avoiding danger isn't cowardice, it's good sense." Amai flicked a strand of loose hair off his forehead. "If that fool I hired really did get scared off by the robbery, fine, fair enough, he was too yellow for the job. But if he got intimidated by Saitama here taking down a gang of train robbers single-handed? That's Saitama's fault, not his."

"I'm not going around trying to emasculate anybody," Saitama protested. "I did what I had to at the moment."

"He probably thought all the deputies were as strong as you, and that he wasn't up to snuff."

"Why'd you send me then?"

"To my daily disappointment, you've actually got more sense than either of your coworkers." Amai sighed and leaned forward with his elbows on the desk. His sleeve, a crisp pink pinstripe, was perilously close to the still-wet splatter of ink on his list. "I guess I have no choice."

He reached into a drawer, pulled out something pointy and glinting, and tossed it to Saitama who caught it in one hand. The points pressed into the calluses on his palm. He knew what it was before he looked at it.

A silver star, real silver, freshly minted since the last sheriff had taken his badge with him, so to speak. In small letters it had the name of the town on the top and the territory on the bottom, and in bold capitals dead center it read "SHERIFF."

Saitama had to read it a couple times before he understood what he was holding, and even then he looked at Amai and asked, "Really?"

"Congratulations, you've exhibited a bare minimum of competence." Amai drew an X across the entire list of names. "For now you're only interim sheriff. I'll keep trying for a couple months before I ratify it."

"Sure, okay." To his embarrassment, Saitama fumbled as he tried to fasten the badge to his shirt. He nearly jumped when long white fingers plucked it from his hands, until he looked up into Genos' face, lips pursed in concentration. In two seconds Genos had it pinned, a little higher than Saitama had been trying to put it, and smoothed Saitama's shirt across his chest.

His fingers were hard beneath the bleached and dyed leather.

"Thanks."

Genos smiled, still very close, having only taken one step back. "You're welcome, sheriff."

Amai cleared his throat, reminding Saitama they had an audience. "Interim sheriff."

"I don't have to make people say that, do I?"

"Well it's not the law, but if I do find a better replacement do you want people to think you got demoted? Or do you want them to understand this is temporary right from the start?"

"All right all right." Saitama buffed the badge, unnecessarily, with his sleeve. Belatedly he remembered his manners. "Thank you, Mayor Amai."

Amai said nothing, just waved them toward the door. On the way out Saitama heard him shout his secretary's name, and felt a flash of pity for the woman.

Outside it had gone full dark, the sky purple-black with pinprick stars and half a moon visible behind thin wispy clouds. Saitama put his hat back on, out of habit more than shame, and started strolling back toward the boarding house.

They didn't pass many people. After dark, though nearly everyone had at least gas lamps, it was generally understood that the work day was over and you should get back to whatever home you had. That, and the ever-present danger of beasts.

At the boarding house, lit up with stark white electric light courtesy of a generator in the basement (that courtesy of the dubiously-legal lending business Saitama had pressured out of business in his first year as a deputy), Saitama stopped to see Genos off.

"Thanks for everything today."

"It was nothing," Genos said.

"I mean it. I owe you." He smiled. "First day in town and you've got the mayor and sheriff in your debt. I think you'll do all right for yourself."

"Interim sheriff," Genos corrected, smirking. "That's hardly anything worth bragging about."

Saitama laughed. He stuck out his hand to be shaken. "See you round, kid."

Genos stared at the hand, smile fading, for a moment too long. It was all the confirmation Saitama needed.

"It's okay," he said quietly. "I know."

Genos gripped his hand and shook it. The pressure was right, firm but not aggressive, but the fingers were stiff and unmalleable, with blunt corners where there should have been curves, and his palm felt like holding a metal block wrapped in leather. Which, technically, Saitama was.

"How could you tell?" Genos asked.

"Little things. You're stronger than you look, your bags were heavy, you asked about the blacksmith. And I felt it when you pinned my badge for me."

"Oh." Genos was definitely flushed this time. "You will make a good sheriff. Thank you for being discreet."

"Is it that bad still? I thought people were used to-" Saitama stopped, shook his head. "Sorry, I shouldn't question you like this. If you want to hide it I respect that."

"It's not as bad as it used to be." Genos took off his glove, letting Saitama see fingers made of steel and rubber.

"Top of the line, huh?"

"Yes. I spent a lot on them."

"I hear they're even better than the real thing now. And you put my badge on smoother than I could."

Genos almost smiled again. "Maybe out here people are more used to it. But in the city... it puts folks off. They always assume the worst. There's a few that even believe the more of your body you replace, the more of your soul you lose."

Saitama winced. "I heard that one. My grandfather had a leg like that. Long time ago though, it hardly did anything but let him walk straight."

Almost became a definite smile. "And he still had his soul?"

"I think he sold it long before he lost his leg." Saitama leaned in closer, took Genos' bare hand in his. He ran his thumb across the rubber pads of Genos' fingertips and was rewarded with a shiver. "Are you so terribly concerned about your soul, Genos?" he asked, voice low, an unspoken invitation.

"Not terribly," Genos murmured, which sounded promising. But then he pulled his hand back, tugging the white glove over it. His movements were so ordinary you'd never be able to tell every bit of him wasn't flesh and bone. He certainly got his discomfort across loud and clear.

Saitama took a step back, well out of range of offense. He'd thought, what with the way Genos looked at him, the way he'd touched his chest when he put his badge on for him, that Genos was interested, but...

"I'll uh, I'll see you round, kid."

"Yes, sheriff. Um." Saitama had started to turn, but turned back. "You will come and see me- Come bank with us, won't you?"

Promising. Maybe Saitama had just moved a little fast for him. "Sure kid. If my salary goes up now, I might as well. Have a good night."

"You too."

It had been a long day, and it wasn't even over. When Saitama got back to the station Mumen was putting on a pot of coffee for their evening fuel, and Fubuki was loading the shotguns. She'd packed up extra powder and shells, waiting on the table.

Mumen glanced up as Saitama walked in. "How'd it- Oh my god."

Saitama hadn't actually expected him to notice the badge right away. Mumen almost dropped the coffee pot, wasting a good swallow's worth spilling it on the floor, and hastily pushing the shells aside as he shoved it on the table.

"Careful!" Fubuki snapped. "That's hot!"

She moved the pot to a safer location, not even noticing the way Mumen rushed over to Saitama at the hat rack and grabbed his shirt. "Fubuki look!"

"What?" Finally her eyes fell on the glint of silver. "Oh my god."

They both crowded around him, touching the badge as if to confirm its reality. Saitama had to shoo them off just to have enough room to put his holster on.

"What did you do?" Mumen asked. "How did you convince him?"

"I didn't do anything."

"You must have," Fubuki said, with considerably less confidence. "Why else would he promote you after putting it off for so long?"

"He finally realized I was the best man for the job." The fact that he'd utterly dismissed the other two deputies was unimportant. Saying it out loud would only foster resentment.

"Congratulations, sheriff," Mumen grinned. "You deserve it."

Saitama allowed himself a moment to bask in the last congratulations he would probably get, before correcting, "Interim sheriff, for now. But it's pretty unlikely the mayor will find anybody else."

"That makes more sense," Fubuki said, nodding to herself. "He needs a figurehead right away but he's not giving up yet."

"A figurehead? You think I can't do the job? I've basically been doing it this whole time."

"Hey, I'm just trying to unravel what he was thinking. And you know the cattle drive is coming up. Mr. Kusho always likes to make sure things are clockwork before that."

It was true. Kusho bred both cattle and horses, and in order to sell the fully-grown steer designated for meat, hundreds of them had to be led southeast across the Roughs to the city of Sylvania. That meant a fresh crop of cowboys to do the leading, and a full day of animals and people and supply wagons streaming around and through the town.

Saitama and the rest of the lawmen, deputies and posse alike, would need to be looking out for rustlers, for pickpockets, for beasts. They'd need to make sure the hired guns obeyed the peace inside town, and that the townsfolk obeyed their common sense and didn't go running in front of big dumb dangerous animals.

It was only one day, but the weeks leading up to it were a lot of work. Though Mr. Kusho didn't ask it, and probably wouldn't approve of it, the old sheriff had always checked each newcomer to town against the Wanted posters they had in the office. Saitama had every intention of continuing that unofficial policy.

"How long have we got?" Saitama asked.

"Five weeks."

"Yikes. You're probably right, Fubuki."

She grinned. "Think you can handle it, sheriff?"

"I think I don't have much choice."

"You're right."

They finished their coffee, packed up weapons and lanterns, and headed out for the nightly patrol of their territory. Mumen was riding, as always, his horse Justinia. She was a pretty thing, chestnut brown and dark-maned, and so well-trained that she seemed more like a machine sometimes than an animal. But Mumen was good with horses, always had been, to the point he made extra money by training ones that were deemed unbreakable.

Fubuki had a pony, called Blizzard for his dappled gray coat, who was rather slow but reliable. A calm manner was more important than speed for these nightly rounds.

Saitama was on foot. Partly because most animals didn't like him, and though he could ride he always seemed to increase the chances of the mount getting spooked and running away. Partly because he didn't need to worry about escaping if he ran into trouble.

They split up at first. Each of them made a separate loop around the town, then met up in the middle and split up again. Tonight Fubuki went south, Mumen went east, and Saitama went west.

After a zig-zagging exploration of about three square miles, they all returned and headed north as a group.

Mostly the beasts came from the north and west. West was the mountains, so that made sense, but nobody was really sure why there were so many monsters up north. It wasn't like it was uninhabited up there; Mr. Kusho's territory covered as far as the eye could see. And past that were a couple more towns, farms, and then you hit the ocean and plenty of fishing communities along the coast. But somewhere in that space was a source of beasts, a hive queen or a breeding ground, or however the things reproduced. It was the only answer.

They ran into the first one barely a mile from town. Saitama was in the lead, took it down with his bare hands, and used the oil from his lantern to burn the body. The other two kept going while Saitama watched the fire to make sure it wouldn't spread. He heard shots, but no screams, and soon another fire appeared on the horizon.

They kept moving like that, but luckily found no more on the prowl. Two in one night was odd, especially so close to town so soon, but that was why they did these patrols. As it got colder the beasts too would get sluggish, so they only really needed to worry about evening and dawn.

Most of the time. Beasts were, naturally, unpredictable.

Once the town had been surrounded by a stone wall, as were most of the early settlements and boom towns. Before you'd been in the Roughs for a while it seemed like a good idea; keep the beasts out and your town safe. But beasts weren't that stupid, and many of them could climb. More than one settlement had suddenly fallen out of contact, only for the next visitors (usually a pony express rider in the stories, though the pony express had long since been put out of business by telegrams) to find an intact wall and a town crawling with beasts, perfectly content to live in the houses their dinner had built.

The good news was that beasts took a bullet as badly as anything else. If you could learn to shoot and keep a steady hand in a moment of terror (far harder than it sounded) you'd be okay. Beasts were strong, and numerous, but they were only beasts.

They were closing in on Mr. Kusho's property now. It, all the dozens of miles of it, was surrounded with a low wooden fence. Just tall enough to not be easily climbed, but far too low to actually keep anyone or anything from crossing it, the fence served as more of a warning than a deterrent.

Once, Saitama heard the old sheriff complain about Mr. Kusho's hard tactics when it came to trespassers. Once. The man brought far too much money to the town, and everyone knew it. He was untouchable.

As a deputy Saitama followed the unspoken rule and left Kusho's property to Kusho, but tonight he noticed something he'd never seen before. A part of the fence was broken, downright trampled, by something larger than even one of the breeding bulls. A beast must have broken in, and if it was hungry it could take a serious dent out of his herd.

Saitama was the sheriff now, and that empowered him to take initiative. He waved his lantern above his head until he got a return wave from Fubuki, and moved in.

Usually Saitama had good nerves. He didn't startle easy, he held his ground and never froze up, he never hesitated to take a hit for someone else. He didn't get nervous unless there was a particularly good reason to be so. Which is why, when he stepped onto Mr. Kusho's property and felt a shiver of apprehension, he loosened his pistol in the holster.

Something was wrong here. He could smell it; something foul and sharp among the usual stench of a cow pasture.

Saitama followed what he could of the beast's path across the dirt and grass. It was hard in the dark, and the dirt was too dry to leave clear tracks. The plant life had definitely been flattened, but there were plenty of spots that looked more like a cow had napped there, or a horse had been rolling around on it.

After a while Saitama saw small dark blobs off in the distance that were probably cows. They were motionless, though Saitama could hear soft mooing that let him know they were asleep rather than slaughtered by a rogue beast, and no humans in sight. There was a larger dark spot to one side, like a storage shed, and Saitama headed for that in case a ranch hand was around to ask if they'd seen anything. The cows would be no help.

The shed was larger than it looked from a distance, more like a small barn. With the different gaps and doors on the outside, Saitama could see by lantern light that it was full of barrels. The smell of wrongness was stronger here, reminding Saitama of both beasts and slaughterhouses.

Saitama had his fingers wrapped around the butt of his gun when he saw a flicker of movement. He dimmed his lantern, trying to let his eyes adjust, and this time he clearly saw a figure in a long black coat dart around the corner of the barn.

"Hey!" Saitama chased after them, possibly foolishly, but it was a first human he'd seen since entering the property and he wanted answers. He rounded the building in time to see the figure crawling through a half-open window, and kicked the closest door in to cut them off.

Inadvertently, the door bumped into a stack of barrels, so that when Saitama ran inside the small amount of light he brought showed several dark round things rolling across the floor. One of which groaned.

Saitama set his lantern on the first solid surface he found and jumped on them, knocking aside barrels that smelled like lye and alcohol. The figure fought back, both of them scrambling to find a grip or take aim in the dark. Saitama was shoved into another pile with a kick to the gut that was stronger than anticipated, and though he wasn't winded when he got back on his feet, it was enough of a distraction that the figure grabbed something square – a wooden crate? – and threw it at him.

The crate broke on the wall, glass inside shattering as well, after Saitama's arm flung it aside. He took another leap across the room, dodging barrels and debris, and this time grabbing a handful of the figure's clothing. He tried to flip them around, pin them down, but all he did was shake a few things out of their pockets before the figure tore the fabric from his grasp. They stooped down and appeared to be searching for something, and Saitama used his old dirty fighting experience to kick them, lightly, in the ribs.

Turnabout and fair play and all that. The figure grunted and growled out a swear, but rather than fighting back they took off running, leaping onto a pyramid of crates and climbing out a gap near the roof. Whoever they were, they were better at climbing than Saitama at least.

He hurried outside but wasn't surprised to see they were gone. Even if he could spot which way they'd gone in the dark he wasn't sure he could run them down. It was very rare for Saitama to meet someone as fast as him, stronger than anyone he'd grappled with in a long time... The selfish part of him wanted to find them again just to see if they really could overpower him.

But some questions could be answered by other ways. He went back into the barn, the light of his lantern letting him examine the floor. There'd been meat in those crates, raw flesh and organs preserved in jars or packed in straw. Saitama couldn't understand it, but he didn't know anything about the beef industry.

Feeling around, careful of glass, Saitama found a piece of cloth with something metal inside. He was confused until he checked his own back pocket and discovered the deputy badge he'd never bothered to take out was gone. It must have fallen out during the scuffle.

He stuffed it back where it belonged and kept looking, glad the light was so bright, when it occurred to him that the light shouldn't be so bright. Earlier he hadn't been able to see much at all.

With dawning horror, Saitama turned and saw most of one stall engulfed in flames. The small crate the figure had thrown had knocked the lantern off its perch, and the liquid in the jars inside was alcohol or a similar incredibly flammable preservative.

There was nothing to be done now. Saitama pulled his bandana up over his nose to keep out fumes and ran outside. Before he got far he saw another figure, this one on horseback, and was gearing himself up to lie when they waved a lantern over their head and he recognized Fubuki.

"What did you do?" she demanded, which Saitama thought was unfair.

"Saw someone skulking around. Followed them, fought them. Guess my lantern was a casualty."

"Your lantern and Mr. Kusho's shed. First day on the job and you set the local tycoon's property on fire.”

“I know.” Mayor Amai's words came back to him. “God, trouble really does pop up like clover around me.”

Fubuki squinted against the orange flames. "Looks like it's not spreading."

"Yeah..." Saitama pushed back his hat and rubbed his scalp. Small fire or large fire, this wasn't going to look good.

"Let's just go," Fubuki said softly, barely more than a whisper.

Saitama stared up at her. "You sure?"

"Nobody's around, we don't usually come on Mr. Kusho's land, who's gonna figure it out?"

"That is a terrible attitude for a lawman." Saitama jammed his hat down hard on his head. "Let's do it."

Blizzard was too small to carry both of them, but Saitama could run just as fast as the pony's stubby legs. They reunited with Mumen far south of the ranch border. He'd been checking out the eastern edge and hadn't seen the fire until he got closer.

"Me and Saitama already checked," Fubuki lied smoothly. "Looks contained."

"We should stand guard until it's out," Mumen said, ever responsible.

"Mr. Kusho doesn't like trespassers," Saitama pointed out, the picture of innocence.

"He'll like a wildfire even less."

There was no arguing that, so Saitama and Fubuki, now joined by Mumen, turned around and headed back to the barn.

The fire was dying down but it had been joined by a dozen small points of light, moving around frantically. Saitama identified several humans and horses from a distance, and from the way they were grouped he veered slightly to one side.

Sure enough, the majority of the ranch hands were gathered in a crowd, being shouted at by a man in boots and a dressing gown. Saitama waved when he saw one of them point at him. Less to his expectations, Mr. Kusho left his lecturing to meet the lawmen some distance from the barn.

"Deputies! Good evening."

It took Saitama a second to remember he was officially the leader now, and thus expected to do the talking. For the first time all day he questioned the judgment of Amai in giving him this badge.

"Good evening Mr. Kusho," he said. "Looks like you've had some trouble."

"Just a spot of bad luck," Kusho said. He smiled, showing off the spotless teeth that Saitama was ninety percent sure were dentures.

Kusho was handsome for an older man, with iron gray hair and dark eyes that always stared directly into yours when he spoke to you. He wasn't particularly tall, but he hadn't allowed himself to go to seed the way rich men often did, and Saitama suspected he looked younger than he was. As far as Saitama knew he was merely a good businessman, but if course there were always rumors about anyone with a lot of money who kept to themselves.

Didn't mean those rumors weren't ever true, just that they always existed.

"What happened?" Saitama asked, when Kusho didn't volunteer any more information.

"Seems someone left a lantern in the shed and it blew over." There hadn't been more than a gentle breeze tonight. "But it's quite all right, no real harm done."

He was taking this awfully well for someone who'd just been shouting at a good number of his staff. And he described the barn as a "shed," which could have just been a reference to the fact it was being used for storage, but...

"Anyone hurt?" Saitama asked.

"No, no one was inside." Kusho smiled wider. "Thank you for the concern, deputies, but you needn't have come so far out of your way."

"Wasn't far," Saitama pointed back over his shoulder. "Since I've got you here I should let you know, your fence is broken back there. Smashed."

Something dark flashed across his face. "I see. Thank you for telling me, deputy."

"Sheriff."

Kusho paused, and plastered on a smile once again. "Excuse me?"

Saitama tapped his new badge, no doubt clearly visible in the light of both fire and the lantern Kusho carried. "Sheriff."

"Oh! I beg your pardon. Of course. Sheriff." The smile widened, becoming even less sincere. "If you'll excuse me gentlemen, lady, I do have a lot to see to."

With that he turned and headed back to where the ranch hands hadn't moved. Kusho bent his head to talk to one of them, who glanced at the trio of lawmen before answering.

"Let's go," Saitama decided. "We're not gonna get any more from here."

They took their time though, and it wasn't until they were nearly out of earshot that Saitama heard Kusho start to shout again. And it wasn't until they were off the property that any of them dared to voice their thoughts.

"That was weird," Mumen said. "Like he didn't want us looking around."

"Mm," Saitama muttered.

"And he wasn't surprised his fence got broken."

"Well, there's miles of it," Fubuki said. "And he's got big animals."

Mumen looked down at Saitama, walking between their two mounts. "Saitama, what happened to your lantern?"

"I'll tell you when we get back."

Saitama was as good as his word, telling both of them everything he'd seen – and done – in that little barn. Mumen was, naturally, righteously offended that Saitama had lied about starting the fire, and hidden the intruder from Kusho, but even he had to admit Kusho's reaction was suspicious enough to warrant investigation.

"He's never wanted the law on his property," Fubuki said. "I always thought it was because he preferred administering his own brand of justice."

Three years ago, shortly before Saitama got hired as a deputy and almost immediately after the mines closed, Kusho waltzed into town and bought the cattle ranch north of it, every scrap of open land around that, and a few small farms who were perfectly willing considering the money he was offering. He was friendly enough on his rare visits to the town proper, but in general he was private. The last sheriff had been content to let him deal with trespassers and employee disputes however he saw fit. In the months since the sheriff died, Saitama hadn't even considered changing that policy. There was no need.

"What could he be doing?" Saitama wondered out loud. "Selling jars of cow organs is weird, but not illegal."

"Unless they're not cow," Fubuki made a face. "But there's so few people out here. We notice when anyone goes missing."

"He does have an awful lot of casualties," Saitama said, unconvincing even to himself. "But that's thanks to the beasts. And we have funerals whenever there's something to bury."

"Beast flesh is illegal to sell," Mumen pointed out.

"Yeah because it's toxic. Why would he turn it into an industry?" Saitama shook his head. "It might have been something else in those barrels, I only saw the contents of two crates."

"Maybe it wasn't even the crates," Mumen said. "Maybe he knew he had an intruder and wanted to hide it."

"Maybe. Who knows? We need more information before we start drawing conclusions."

Fubuki stifled a yawn. It was past midnight now, and they'd have to get up in six hours to do the dawn patrol. "Can it wait?"

"Yeah." She was rubbing her eyes, so Saitama offered his handkerchief.

"Thanks." As she took it, something metal fell from the cloth and bounced to the floor. Remembering his old badge, yet again, Saitama stooped over and picked it up. "Where'd you get this, Saitama? I didn't think you had a silk handkerchief."

"Silk?" Saitama repeated, distantly. The badge in his fingers wasn't copper like a deputy's, wasn't silver like the one still pinned to his shirt. It was brass. And worse, Saitama had just remembered his handkerchief was in the bottom of a different pocket.

"Saitama?"

He placed the badge on the table, next to the freshly rinsed coffee pot and mugs in a neat line. "We've got trouble. A whole damn field of clover."

In neat block letters, the shield-shaped badge read "Pinkerton Detective Agency."

Everybody knew about the Pinkertons. Founded by brothers who'd both worked separately as detectives before, achieving fame in their first year by heading off a plot to kill the prime minister, in two decades of business they'd gained a reputation for being the best.

They'd also gained a reputation for ruthlessness. The railroad employed them as practically a private army, they had gone after the family members of gang leaders to draw them out of hiding, they ignored the real lawmen and acted on behalf of their employers alone.

None of which bothered Genos when he applied for the job three years ago. And didn't particularly bother him now, for that matter. Genos had a goal he wanted to accomplish, and the Pinkertons were more likely to get him there than anyone else.

It wasn't like Genos wouldn't turn his back on them the moment he didn't need them any more. He'd become ruthless as well.

He climbed through the ground floor window of his room at the boarding house. It would have been easy for him to scale the walls – they were only wood, and he had retractable spike mechanisms in his fingers for just this reason – but he might be stuck here for as long as five weeks, and he needed to be discreet.

Arranging for a private room on the ground floor wasn't difficult. He'd played the pity card this time, showing his cyborg legs to the landlady and greasing her palm with the promise of a bonus to his rent. Saitama had been right; people in the Roughs weren't bothered by cyborgs at all.

Saitama... might be a problem.

Genos checked that the window was locked (via locks he'd installed himself and would only open to his touch) and the door as well (same) before closing the blackout curtains (also self-installed) and shoving a towel under the door (a low-tech solution but a time-tested one) and switching on the light.

Now he could get a good look at the damage. Whoever that was in the barn, they'd ripped some buttons off his vest and knocked his badge out of his pocket. That was the second time in one day he'd nearly lost the thing.

Back on the train had been a close one. Genos was a second away from punching that idiot robber in the face after he tried to take Genos' handkerchief. It was a petty move to begin with, not helped at all by the fact Genos kept his badge wrapped in it. If he dropped it, if the boys hired along with him saw it, his cover would be blown.

Punching a train robber would have made them wary, but not suspicious. After all, if they were moving to the Roughs too they must have something that kept them from fitting into the city.

But it didn't happen, Saitama moved first, saved Genos' job, though he could never know how grateful Genos was.

The law didn't like the Pinkertons. Genos had been warned about that from the start, when he lied about his age and got hired at sixteen. Lying had been simple; he was taller than most teenagers thanks to his cyborg limbs, and his face had become gaunt and tired thanks to everything that happened in the last year. He passed easily for over twenty. As his situation and his eating habits improved his face filled out again, but by then no one questioned him. In fact Genos' ability to "pass" for a teenager was put to use fairly often.

It wasn't like Genos could tell Saitama who he really was, why he was really here. Especially not now that Saitama was the sheriff. Keeping the law meant keeping everyone's rights intact, and since Genos had every intention of breaking into Kusho's property as many times as he had to, their goals were incompatible.

But Saitama had deduced Genos was a cyborg after only a few hours in his company. Genos was glad he'd been so thorough in his cover; studying banking and applying for the job legitimately instead of bribing his way through. The idea was to get close to Kusho, after all, and the man was a wealthy businessman. Both the wealth and the business parts of that title made the bank the best path to him. A rich man might hoard his riches, but a businessman needed to move that money around to make more of it.

And Genos, without any false modesty, was intelligent and handsome. If anyone had a chance of attracting Kusho's favor, it was Genos. Regardless of sexual orientation, people were quicker to trust someone who was nice to look at.

Which was another reason Saitama was a problem. The man was almost unfairly handsome. Genos was used to being the distracting one, he didn't know what to do when faced with deep dark eyes and muscles barely contained by a cheap cotton shirt that flattered his complexion and-

Genos, alone in his room, shook his head to clear it. Saitama was not the problem right now, Kusho was, along with whichever of his ranch hands had caught Genos snooping around.

He held his coat sleeve up to the light, examined the liquid there, and sniffed it cautiously. Alcohol. Ethanol, most likely, though Genos couldn't tell for sure unless he unpacked more of his things.

It didn't matter. He failed to get a sample but at least he had proof now Kusho was up to something. There was a possibility it wasn't what he was suspected of, but only a very slim one.

Genos emptied his pockets and sat down to write a report. He wrote a short summary of what he did every day he was on a job – and most days he wasn't – including as much detail as he could that wouldn't give the entire thing away if someone snooped through his belongings.

After writing a few lines more than was strictly necessary about local law enforcement, Genos found himself glancing at the badge on the little desk that came with his room. It must have rolled out of the handkerchief when it fell, because Genos barely had time to grab it before he ran from the continued assault. Something was wrong; the shape maybe, or the color. Had it been tarnished by alcohol?

Genos picked it up, and saw the word "DEPUTY" where it should have read "Pinkerton."

This wasn't his badge.

That hadn't been a ranch hand.

Genos had grappled with one of the two deputies in that dark barn, and if he had their badge, it was entirely possible they had his.

Saitama made his first official decision as sheriff that they were not going to worry about the goddamn Pinkerton until they all got some sleep. There was nothing anybody could do about it in the middle of the night, after all, and they'd be sharper in the morning.

The dawn patrol was far less eventful. They found one beast in the south and another to the east, but both were easily dispatched, and then it was back to bed for a couple hours. The townsfolk knew their lawmen followed this odd sleep schedule, so there wasn't any hard feelings about them sleeping in later than most people rose. If it was really an emergency it wasn't like they couldn't be roused. Saitama and Fubuki both stayed in small apartments above the station, and Mumen was only a street away in the house he'd inherited from his grandmother.

Being known as non-morning-people had its downsides. Those who wanted to cause trouble would do it while the deputies were in bed, or patrolling, but that was where the posse came in.

One of them, the blacksmith Bang, was sitting on the porch as Saitama came downstairs to start work. Saitama could tell from his face that it wasn't a social call... and the shotgun on his lap helped too.

"Good morning, sheriff."

For a second Saitama forgot that was him, and glanced around. He'd remembered to pin the badge on this morning, trying to put it in the same place Genos had, where it caught people's attention nicely.

"Morning Bang. What's the gun about?"

Bang smiled. "Aren't you going to ask how I heard about your promotion?"

"I'm really more concerned about the gun."

Technically it was against the law for citizens to openly carry weapons within town property. With the constant danger of beasts there were exceptions, of course, and there weren't any restrictions on hunting, but sitting on a stoop with a shotgun was a pretty clear threat.

"Someone tried to break into your office this morning."

"What?" Again, Saitama glanced around, though it was futile at this point. "Who? When? You saw it?"

"I'm not sure who, I only saw someone in a black duster. It's a good thing I'm an old man and I get up so early."

The smithy was right across the street. Bang didn't live there, but his house wasn't far, and he often came in during the wee hours to light the fires, or work on something before it got too hot.

Saitama rubbed the bridge of his nose, pressure building there like the atmosphere before a thunderstorm. Today would be a headache.

"Come in, tell me everything."

It wasn't much of a story. Fubuki arrived – a few minutes after Saitama since she had hair to take care of – after he'd told it once, and Saitama made coffee while it was repeated. Finally Mumen showed up, normally the most punctual of all of them, but he'd been taking care of Justinia and Blizzard.

"Someone tried to break in," Saitama summarized this time. "Bang caught them jimmying the window open."

"Break in? Why? There's nothing in here." Sure they put all the wanted posters up, but they kept copies. And any evidence of crimes was taken upstairs to Saitama or Fubuki's rooms.

"They wouldn't know that," Bang said. "Have you confiscated much lately?"

Saitama glanced at the other two, who shook their heads. "Nothing while you were out of town," Mumen added. "No more than usual in the last few weeks."

A couple guns from new ranch hands passing through on the way to their jobs. Usually Mr. Kusho got them back by signing a chit and promising he'd set them straight. And to his credit, his ranch hands never caused a ruckus after they'd been working for him for a while.

"Could be kids," Saitama said thoughtfully.

"Could be anything," Bang agreed. "All the same, I thought you should know."

"Yeah, thanks."

As soon as Bang was gone, Saitama took the Pinkerton badge out of his pocket, folded in the silk handkerchief now bearing a smudge of Fubuki's makeup.

"So."

"Could be kids," Mumen echoed Saitama's suggestion.

"Could be. But what are the odds?"

"Low," he admitted. "What do we do?"

"What can we do? It's not illegal for a Pinkerton to be in town. They were trespassing on Mr. Kusho's property, but he's under suspicion too."

"If a Pinkerton was poking around his property, that makes him more suspicious to me," Fubuki said.

"The fact is that we lack facts." Saitama rubbed his nose again. The pressure was moving north and starting to ache.

"And we didn't foster much good will last night," Mumen said. "Arson aside, Saitama, I think you offended him a little by correcting him on your rank."

"Good will." Saitama tapped his fingers on the table. "Good will, good will. Yeah."

"What?"

He jumped to his feet. "I'm the interim sheriff, and I want to make it permanent, right?"

"Do you?" Fubuki asked, face twisted in confusion.

"Well, sort of. I'd love it if someone more qualified showed up, but that's not likely." He shook his head. "No, listen. I go on a good will tour. Formally introduce myself as sheriff to all the major players in town. Kusho won't be suspicious, and it's a good opportunity to ask questions."

"That's a lot of work to go to just to ask questions." Mumen moved from the table to the desk and started writing down names. "There's Kusho, there's the judge, Mr. Zeniru who runs the bank."

"Wait, the judge?"

Mumen gave Saitama a carefully blank look. "The circuit judge."

"He's not due for a month!"

The county only had one judge, traveling on a schedule to all the various towns. Small crimes, like burglary and land disputes, could be settled by the lawmen or the mayor. Certain larger crimes, like assault, were often handled in back alleys. They hadn't had a murder since last year when Mrs. Whitlock brained her husband with a cast iron frying pan. She'd claimed self-defense, but the bloody pillow they found and the life insurance policy she'd taken out told another story. A very old story.

"You have to be seen making an effort." Mumen turned back to his list. "Dr. Genus."

"Right." Naturally the only local doctor was an important figure, even if he was a little creepy.

"Probably Fitzroy too. And that should be everyone."

"Fitzroy? But I see him every day."

Mumen shrugged. "People respect him. They listen to his opinions. If you're presenting yourself as trying to get in good social graces, he's someone you'd see."

"Okay, so," Saitama ticked off on his fingers, "the cattle baron, the judge, the banker, the doctor, and the barman. I guess I know who I'm seeing first."

George Fitzroy, inevitably dubbed "Good King George" and eventually shortened to just "King," had been running the saloon in the center of town since before Saitama moved in. He was a large man, imposing, all the more so after a beast attack a couple years ago left him with scars over his left eye. His saloon wasn't the only game in town, but it was by far the most popular, from what Saitama could tell, for three reasons.

One: it was the oldest. It had been established when Z Town didn't even have a letter, was just a general store and a pony express stop. King took over almost by accident, when his boss dropped dead and there was no family to inherit or anybody jumping up to buy the place. King kept it running, and customers kept coming, and that was that.

Two: the clientele. In the early days the saloon had made extra money by renting rooms upstairs to the few single women who moved there. As the town expanded and things got more civilized more women came, and soon someone had the bright idea to build a proper boarding house. Right next door. The saloon retained its welcome of all genders, while the other two saloons had began with the idea that men wanted a place to unwind without any women around. Whether or not that was true was up for debate, but King's saloon made up for any potential loss of revenue by attracting both women and men who wanted to look at women.

Three: the atmosphere. King was imposing, the previous owner had been imposing, and fights were bad for business. After he took over, King made it a policy that no weapons were allowed inside under any circumstances. Anybody who started trouble wouldn't be served any more, and if they tried to protest they'd be thrown out.

And so, King had found himself as the owner of the most popular business in town, and a leading local figure.

All without desiring any of those things.

It was only late morning when Saitama arrived but the bar was full of people. The saloon served cheap basic food and non-alcoholic drinks along with the standards, and Saitama usually came for lunch and to people-watch.

"Saitama," King greeted him. He was cleaning a glass that didn't need it, as something to do with his hands. "You're back."

"Yeah, got back yesterday afternoon and was busy all day."

"You're early for lunch."

"Nah, this is business." He tilted the badge so King could read it.

"You're the sheriff now?" The frown lines on King's face deepened. "You?"

"Thanks for the vote of confidence." Saitama sighed and rubbed his temple. The impending headache had begun to twinge warning signs at him. "Interim sheriff. I'm going around letting people know, you know? If they need anything, I'm their guy."

"You're trying to schmooze your way into permanent sheriff?"

Saitama smiled. "Something like that. People like you, King. They listen to you."

"You're my friend, Saitama, but I'm not..." He dropped his voice. "You know I'm not good at..."

Saitama was possibly the only person who knew King, who ruled his saloon with an iron fist, was terrified of people in general. He'd only gotten the job when he couldn't find anything else, he'd only taken it over so he didn't have to leave a place he'd grown comfortable, and he only kept the peace so well because nobody guessed a man that big could be so timid.

"Don't worry, I'm not asking you to do anything. Just keep being my friend. Folks will take that as you having my back."

"I guess..."

Somebody called for a refill, and King glared down the bar until they added "Please."

"I'll see you later, King," Saitama said, releasing him from the conversation. "I'll be in for lunch."

The next stop was the doctor, if only to get it out of the way. Dr. Genus had dabbled in just about every form of medicine (Saitama made a mental note that if he saw Genos again he'd let him know the local doctor could handle cyborgs) and was far more skilled than somebody who worked in such a small town ought to be. If he was the caring type, the one who valued helping people over wealth and prestige, it would be easy to understand.

But Dr. Genus spent every moment of spare time writing articles and books about the human body. He seemed to view his neighbors and patients as research material rather than people. Saitama was glad he hadn't had reason to see him in over two years.

"How's it going, doc?"

Genus looked at Saitama over his typewriter and the multiple stacks of books that covered his desk. He was an old man, stooped and balding – though with more hair than Saitama -- and like Bang he was far less frail than he looked. "Dep- sheriff Saitama. I see. Is deputy Mumen hurt again?"

"No," Saitama said. "You noticed the badge! I keep having to point it out to people."

"The devil is in the details, as they say. So what brings you here?"

"The badge. I'm going around letting everyone know I'm interim sheriff." Saitama looked around the office, his lawman's instincts casing the joint automatically. Along with all the bookshelves, the walls were "decorated" with anatomical drawings. There was a window behind him, and a row of jars containing unidentifiable organs. And on a small table in the corner were the scorched bones of a beast.

"You're noticing my new area of study."

Saitama blinked. "I am? I mean. Yeah. Beasts? You're not a veterinarian."

"I've studied animals as well. Humans are, after all, merely the most evolved animals on this planet."

"Right..." he agreed, trying not to show how creepy that sounded.

"It's remarkable how much the anatomy can vary in beasts of similar sizes. And that's not even counting the effects of their remains on ordinary animals."

"You mean death?"

"In most cases, certainly, but in rare circumstances if the flesh has been stripped away and the organs remain-"

Saitama was starting to feel sick. "Doc, this is super interesting? But I have a lot to do today, so I don't want to get you going on a lesson."

"Of course, sheriff. My apologies." He smiled, sharp across his deeply wrinkled face. "Do call again if you're curious. Explaining my research to the uneducated helps me find the right wording for publication."

Saitama decided not to mention his college degree. "My pleasure, doc. See you round."

The smell of alcohol and disinfectant hadn't helped Saitama's headache any, but walking into the bank definitely improved his mood. The first thing he saw was Genos, giving a fake smile that melted into a real one when he recognized Saitama, and Saitama found himself smiling back.

"Sheriff! Are you going to open an account?"

"Well, actually I-" Looking around, the bank manager was nowhere in sight, just Genos and one of the others from yesterday. "You know what? Sure. Why not?"

Genos beamed. Looking at his face was like staring into the sun.

Setting up the account was pretty simple. Saitama, trying not to be offended that Genos was surprised he was already familiar with the process, deposited all the cash he had on him (which wasn't much). It took longer than it definitely should have since they both kept getting distracted and talking about anything that came to mind.

"I was about to go have lunch before you came in," Genos said when the conversation drifted to cooking. "I'm glad I waited."

"If you're allowed to leave for lunch, maybe I could take you out?"

"Oh." He blushed, a pretty shade of pink now that Saitama could see him in daylight. "I can, but I don't have much time."

"That's okay, the saloon is close."

Genos glanced over at his coworker, occupied weighing something in a burlap sack. "You're not upset?" he asked, voice low. "About last night?"

"That you weren't gonna invite me in your first night in a new place? Of course not. But I'd like to keep seeing you. On your terms."

"I'd like that." Genos smiled shyly, sweetly. "I'll go get my wallet."

"It can be my treat!"

"Sheriff, I've seen your bank account. My terms means I'm paying."