Alright, kid. You saw it on the last hunt I took you along for, I'm getting too slow for this. Mantle's finally passing down to you.
Hell, I couldn't get outta the way of that big pincer. Good job, holding down the tourniquet while bawling your eyes out. I woulda done both at your age, but the useful bit - holding the bandages - that's McCormick blood in you. Swallow your fear, watchin' your uncle lose a leg, and doing what you gotta do. Good.
You like that pump action, that's fine. Never seen a scrawny girl pump a shotgun that fast, crawling away from the rotten children down in Gansett. You get all the equipment, a couple of surplus grenades, the eggs, and that promise from the Creek Outfit to borrow their acrylic frame when you really need it. I crossed out seven of the uses in all my years as a Warder; you got three left. Wear every trinket I do; some of your ancestors have gotten killed with 'em on, most are good luck. Maybe. Can't tell 'em apart, so wear 'em all and hope Lady Luck sorts you out.
I keep the truck.
The eggs?
Not gonna ask where I got the grenades from?
Well, shame. It's a hell of a story. Morris lost a leg from that years before that overgrown mine spider took mine.
Eggs come from the old world, kid. Land of our ancestors. You think an American would bother with that gilding work? Well, none that the McCormicks would associate with. They're insurance. I was hoping to leave this for last, but yellin' at you over your trigger discipline during the last hunt can wait.
Yeah, I lost a leg. What about it? Doesn't mean you pointed that goddamn barrel at me and the boys 'bout a couple dozen times.
Right, the eggs. Three of them left. McCormick curse, you know? You don't know.
Native beast, maybe a god, body with a deer and mashing blades like a John Deer. I bet an AR coulda put it down, but Eddie McCormick only had a Kentucky rifle. Impaled on twenty red-hot eldritch blades, 'till he crushed his grandfather's egg. Then he was ashes, curling and dancin' in the wind for hours, till the sun set. Mighta been dancing for hours more, his outfit skedaddled.
John McCormick. Laywer, tried to get out of the huntin' business, sent down to the South durin' the war. Egg damned a whole Rebel redoubt. Saw the souls speed down the hell.
Billy McCormick. Took revenge on a drunk driver, killed his sweetheart. Got him alright, but got dragged down by a spectre a couple years after. These eggs ain't for personal grudges. Too nasty.
This one has your name on it, made hundreds of years ago. I've still to use mine. Means I've got at least one hunt left. All that blood on yours? Your blood, had it tested.
You're gonna have a hell of a story, Lils.
Good luck, kid.