[b]Ranch House[/b]

The Night shift had always been a traditionally Montana vocation. While his twilight vigil was often shared by another Wanderer, if one did happen to fall asleep on their watch, they could rest easy knowing there was a sleepless pair of eyes endlessly staring into the rolling plains of the ash. Experienced eyes, that noticed the shift in shadows as clearly as one noticed the sun dancing off of a measure of glass. Lately however, his time had been occupied, his attention, had been redirected to suit his latest purpose. He had left the midnight hours to the Wanderers alone, to tend to one Oren Kovalenko, The Erubescian Alchemist. His endless stare had now settled on her, intent on extracting whatever information she had on Helena, and the curious intent of her requisition by the military power. 

The failed attack, would not have been too suspicious, if not paired with yet another attempt after the mother had relinquished her care into the hands of some of the Kingdoms most wanted. The Ash was not ideal for most, Montana knew that well enough. He understood that Helena's mother knew that well, yet despite this, he preferred her daughter in their care.

Kora's simple action spoke volumes to the regenrator. 

Oren's refusal to fill in the redacted, black barred sections of these volumes lent an interesting subtext, but did not give the clarification he needed.

Through sheer force of will, a gift influenced failsafe or both she had revealed nothing to him. Their time together showed him that she would simply never break, and more vicious torture would just serve as a release of frustration. Something he did not need. 

The other, Larke, had been akin to Mina's pet-name once the right buttons pushed, the right threats made once Oren's lack of communication had been made known, along with sending Spire in to interrogate her if he didn't cooperate. A proper songbird. 

People like that would often mix in what the interrogator wanted to hear, to appease them. He was wary of this too.

One had helped, one had not, and instead offered him something different from her lips. Obscenities and spit.  

Which is why he had decided that on this day, he'd kill her. Not out of anger, but because she represented a danger that should perish. Perhaps he'd take her to a hill to watch the sunrise if he was feeling uncharacteristically altruistic.  


Montana descended the stairs, but made little to no sound. He moved silently out of habit, since survival was rarely a motivator for him. In his right hand, an offering. A full plate of food, hot from the gas stove. A variety of canned meats and vegetables, with a side of some signature Soren baked goods. 

His left was empty, for it offered nothing save her death.

The older male knelt beside her, and undid one of her hands, so she could eat. A utensil was left by the the plate. 

He stood, and said nothing. Watching her with those unblinking coal black eyes.