The horizon beyond Kiva Noon was lit orange with the turn of the day. Little black figures danced along the dunes, eager for their tribute. As the sun lowered beneath the sands, they moved like a dotted line of ants towards the city of rust.

  “This is all your fault!” Krav said. He was pulling the chains around his arms until they felt like they would snap from the pillar he was shackled to.

  “My fault? You picked a fight with the drunkest guy in the bar!” Mac tried to kick him, but the chains on her ankles prevented her from straying too far from her own pillar.

  Kiva Noon’s dungeon was only accessible through a grate in the floorboards beneath a small wooden jailhouse. The large room was lit by firelight, and all around them, half dead prisoners wailed for food and water. Each was tied to their own wooden post by chains and manacles. The most defeated amongst them sunk into the sandy floor and waited for death. But even those were stirred back to life by the incessant bickering of the newcomers.

  “I didn’t start that fight! You were pounding on the table like a mad woman and getting everyone all riled up!” Krav looked around and realized that the large stranger with the golden skull pendant was missing.

  The small army of guards outside the bar had captured them with ease. They tried explaining to the woman with the red eyes and imperious great cloak that they were friends of the warlord, and it was all a misunderstanding. For whatever reason, she didn’t recognize the name Albert Ibram Ao Dominus-Greenblatt, and she gave the order to apprehend them. Without any fight left in him, Krav was the first to surrender. Mac took a glancing blow to the face and dropped like a sack of sand. She stared at Krav now through a black eye, and she spat a thick glob of saliva at him before winding up another projectile of mucus.

  “Knock it off!” Krav said. He snorted and formed a ball of snot in his own throat and spat it towards her. Before long they were spitting back and forth at each other. Every other prisoner in the dungeon stopped their moaning and weeping to watch the two of them. They were a pair of clowns dropped into hell, and the suffering souls were caught off guard by their behavior.

  Neither of them noticed the grate above them creak open. The other prisoners who had cowered against the pillars and avoided eye contact with whatever was about to drop down. A long stick came down and jabbed Krav in his stitched neck. He cried out in pain.

  “What the hell was that for?”

  Mac was laughing at him when the stick came back and whacked her in the head. Then it was her turn to complain. She shouted at the stick as it returned back into the jailhouse above.

  “Both of you shut up. Why don’t you try begging for mercy like everyone else?” There was a man leaning over the hole staring down at them. He wore the long cloak the rest of them had. Krav was beginning to recognize it as the uniform of the local law enforcement. With a loud crash, he dropped the grate, sending flecks of dust to float down into the dungeon.

  Officer Donis returned to his desk above the prisoners and shook his head as he poured over his paperwork. It was hard enough to get anything done with the wailing, but after an hour or so he could tune even that out. It was their constant fighting that was beginning to split his skull. He was currently tasked with taking stock of the prisoners and transferring any if needed. The dungeon was at half capacity with only twelve prisoners occupying its chained pillars. The organ dens required one prisoner to harvest. Their request said something about a wealthy merchant soliciting a new pair of eyes for himself. Then there was the gate guards’ invoice for two new lobotomites. The two loud ones would serve the city well if they were rendered silent and attached to the wall’s security detail. He was about to stamp his approval when another officer burst into the jailhouse.

  “Donis! They’re here early and we don’t have enough tribute. How many do we have down there?”

  “A dozen. How many do you need?”

  The other officer stood over the grate in the floor. Krav and Mac could be heard screaming at each other. He peered inside and shook his head. “That’s not enough.”

  Greenblatt stroked Stienstra’s thin hand and kissed it. Her skin tasted like embalming fluid, but he pressed his lips to her again and avoided the urge to spit. The beautiful woman he had left in charge of the clan was barely a shell of herself. She was withering to a point that a corpse would have blushed.

  “When I left, I truly thought I could find a cure. I’ve heard tales of various medications being brewed across the wasteland, but they were all dead ends. I doubt now that there is a cure to wasting.”

  Sinestra smiled up at him with split lips and missing teeth. She looked like a ghost haunting the machine she was entombed in. “Albert. Is it really you?”

  It was the third time she asked that. She was the longest living soul he had ever witnessed with wasting disease. A year into a diagnosis, most subjects were expected to have lost their minds. He had seen packs of blind wasters roaming the wasteland attacking anything in their way, even each other. Perhaps even with the techno-medical expertise of the engineers of Kiva Noon, she was still lost to the madness that ate away at her. Greenblatt caressed one sunken cheek. He could feel the teeth beneath like small stones held in tissue paper. With great effort, she turned her face to his fingers and tried to bite him. Her weak jaw felt like the playful nibbling of a puppy, but he knew what she was doing. If she had the strength within her, Sinestra Mode would have bitten the fingers off of the man she had loved with all her heart. And she would have laughed as she did so.

  The sack in her chest rose and fell with excitement. The way she writhed in her sarcophagus reminded Greenblatt of the way she looked when they had made love a decade ago. She took her hand back from him and weakly grasped his wrist. She was trying to force his hand deeper into her mouth.

  Greenblatt laid his head against the threshold of her tomb and watched her. His lover was long gone, but he continued to speak to her. Tears welled in his eyes.

  “I’ve been to the farthest points of every cardinal direction. I’ve seen towns and cities the likes of which you would have loved. Everywhere I went they spoke of a place where miracles could be performed. They called it the Emerald Expanse. Apparently, the people from there are born with a strange power, a sixth sense. Some can see the future, others can kill you with their minds. They’re some of the rarest breed in the valley. In all my travels I’ve only encountered two, and both are dead now… Both of them were wasting.”

  He ran a finger over the rim of her red monocles. They were covering the black growth that had blinded her. When he touched where metal met skin, she released his hand from her jaw and moaned like she had been aroused. Greenblatt recoiled, and she went back to slobbering on his hand.

  “I did find a more of it. More of that cursed substance. The people in the wasteland familiar with it call it the shale.”

  From his pocket, he produced the strange resource. It was wrapped in a cloth and packed away for protection. He took back his hand from her mouth, and she tracked it like an infant trying to find its mother’s breast after an unfinished feeding. He unwrapped his package and held it in front of her face. Inside the cloth, the shale looked like grey clay with a green shimmer. It was a clumpy, nasty smelling element that drew Sinestra’s attention.

  “Our calculations were right; it’s the greatest fuel source in the valley. The man I purchased this from said he once used an ounce of it to power his shack for a week. I think we can use it to create the machinery necessary to… Sinestra!”

  A gnarled hand dug into the shale. Sinestra ate it with the haphazard joy of a toddler eating a birthday cake with their hands. Her dry tongue scraped it off her fingers and she smacked her lips as she sucked them clean. She reached for another bite and Greenblatt pulled away. The creature within the tomb began to sob and arch her back as she attempted to rise from the device. The little strength she had reserved was being burned up now as her stumps thrashed fruitlessly. Her one hand slipped as she tried to lift herself from the sarcophagus.

  "Albert,” she whined. “Albert.”

  She continued to croak his name, the childish whine in her voice like nails on a chalkboard. The tubes and piping keeping her alive was beginning to agitate and come loose the more she thrashed. Her thin lips were squared in agonized desire as she continued to reach and beg for the shale.

  “Albert… Albert…”

  Chipped nails like splintered boards raked Greenblatt’s leather mask. He tried to remember what she had looked like all those years ago. Back when she was young and beautiful, when he still had hope. He couldn’t recall her hair color. The smile he once kissed with so much passion wasn’t even a memory anymore. All he could see was the monster she had become. He would only ever remember her now as Sinestra Mode, the carrion queen of Kiva Noon.

  “Albert.”

  The hoses in her body hissed as their seals broke. There was a loud gurgling as one of the vacuum tubes chugged and sucked something out of her body. He stroked the ghostly strands of hair that still remained on her head. A knife was tucked away in a sheath in his boot, and even as he pulled it from its scabbard, he still tried to remember the woman she was. The longer he looked at her, the harder it was to secure a single good memory. All his karma, all the good deeds he had racked up in hopes that fate and fortune would favor kindness, it was all a lie. There was no amount of charity in the world he could perform to save the love of his life. He pressed the knife to her neck, and the paper-thin skin broke without any pressure.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  “Albert?” she said, some intelligence returning. “I’ve had this dream so many times.”

  Greenblatt swiped the knife across her throat quickly. Sinestra Mode gasped in her mechanical tomb. There wasn’t much blood, most of it stuck in the filtration systems that kept her alive, but what little remained within her came out thick and dark. It bubbled up from her gasping throat and leaked like tree sap down her neck. As she drew her last breaths, Greenblatt crawled into the coffin next to her. He held her until the sack in her chest failed to rise, and he watched it deflate until it was a pathetic empty bag in her chest cavity. He squeezed her tight and wept.

  It was some time before he was interrupted from his mourning. He didn’t know how long, but he had stopped crying and sat holding the corpse of his love in the cold silence of the palace. The hum of the sarcophagus and the flatline ring of her heart monitor concealed the intruder's movements until he was close enough to stand over the open coffin and gasp at the scene inside.

  “Lady Sinestra!” cried the robed man. He had little augmentations implanted in his youthful face, and he collapsed at the side of the sarcophagus. At first, he ignored Greenblatt, but when the reality of the dead warlord settled, he turned his gaze up to the other body in the machine. “Who sent you? Guards!”

  Greenblatt snatched the intruder and rose from the tomb. He removed his mask. Even if this man wasn’t a lobotomite, a member of the court with the authority to approach Sinestra Mode must know what the master code looked like. “I am Albert Ibram Ao Dominus-Greenblatt, the Iron Baron. Warlord of the Black Thumb clan and master of Kiva Noon a decade gone and now returned. Speak your business or prepare for a fate worse than death. A fate worse than that imposed upon the woman I loved.”

  The robed young man squirmed in his grip. An army of lobotomized guards filled the throne room, immediately halting when they laid their eyes on the master code tattoo.

  "Guards! He’s an assassin! He’s killed the warlord! Seize him!”

  The guards again failed to react to his words. An entire throne room full of the lobotomized infantry stared motionless and silent. Sweat began to trickle from his forehead, and he shook like a cornered dog without any fight in him.

  “Speak!” Greenblatt commanded.

  The young man looked at him, beginning to be convinced at his authority. His voice shook as he relayed the report he had been charged to deliver to the warlord. “E-enemies at the gate, sir. It’s the Bone Eater clan.”

  Greenblatt narrowed his eyes behind the goggles. “You will fill me in on the situation while we walk. Let’s go.”

  Greenblatt marched to the gates of Kiva Noon with an army of lobotomites in tow. 001 and 002 flanked him in the positions of an honor guard while the robed young man hobbled behind and recited the last decade of hardships that had befallen the city. Some time after the warlord had departed, the Black Thumb clan had fallen upon hard times. Their expertise in the field of bio-machinery was becoming unprofitable as techniques were perfected, prices rose, and only a handful of wealthy wastelanders patronized the major trade of their economy. Some metallurgists had felt the winds begin to change, and they shifted production away from prosthetics to weaponry. As the new market boomed, news of their craftsmanship spread in their part of the valley, and that fame had brought its own trouble.

  It had only been a few years before that the first bits of conflict arrived at the city. Defiled bodies of their best customers were being dumped at the gates like shark attack victims washing up on a beach. Unbeknownst to the weaponsmiths, their goods were being purchased in mass quantities by a small army aiming to take on the Bone Eater clan in some bid for revenge. The first corpses to grace the town were those belonging to the vanguard forces. Within months of those harbingers arriving, the full force of the Bone Eaters was at the gates of Kiva Noon, the small army of their best customers crucified to their military banners like agonized heraldry.

  “Now we must pay tribute,” the robed young man said. “Lady Sinestra Mode drafted the terms of our surrender.”

  “Do not speak her name. Why weren’t the lobotomites mobilized?”

  “It wasn’t up to anyone but Lady… you know who. In her infinite wisdom, she chose peace over war.”

  Infinite wisdom. Greenblatt had witnessed that infinite wisdom firsthand, and it wasn’t what he would exactly call good judgement. Madness was a more apt word for it. In his lover’s unfathomably weakened state, she gave into the demands of desert scum. He never should have left.

  “What is this tribute?”

  The young man squirmed his way closer to the warlord and leaned in to whisper. “A flesh tribute, sir.”

  How the mighty had fallen. The pride of his clan of artists and scientists had long since evaporated in the wasteland heat. Now they had stooped to being slavers. Greenblatt nearly stopped to smack the man, but he allowed him to continue.

  “Everyone who comes in only does so with the donation of a living person. The Bone Eaters demand a claim of forty live bodies per month; the same amount of their soldiers that died in the war we armed. They’re early this month. Lady Sinestra would have-”

  “I said keep her name out of your mouth. As a matter of fact, be silent for the remainder of this interaction.”

  The robed man did so. He pressed ahead of Greenblatt and led the way to the gate.

  There was a crowd gathering to see what had arrived so late to town. Along the ramparts of the groaning walls, guards ran and conveyed intelligence like a hurried game of telephone. They were shouting, pointing, awaiting orders from anyone willing to issue them. A woman with a double set of red eye lenses turned at the approach of Greenblatt with his entourage of lobotomites. They marched in an organized phalanx, operating with one mind to please one master. The woman focused on Greenblatt and said, “Who the hell is this and why is every palace guard following him?”

  “I am the warlord of the Black Thumb clan and master of Kiva Noon. Your palace no longer needs to be guarded.”

  It was the second time she had heard that name in her life, but it was also the second time that day. Those two from the bar had also said that name. The red eyed woman was beginning to believe there was something to the claim that he was the warlord, especially with how the palace guards followed him with utter obedience. "Our warlord is Sinestra Mode."

  “Not anymore. What’s the situation here?”

  It didn't put the woman at ease, but she was at least glad someone with authority was willing to face the Bone Eaters. She looked over Greenblatt for a long while, then said, “Come see for yourself.”

  Atop the rampart, Greenblatt stared down at a platoon of Bone Eaters with disgust. They were an army of degenerate psychopaths judging by their garb alone. Chapped black leather hung about them in fraying ponchos. Some stood red and naked, decorated in bone white greasepaint and multicolored beads. All their heads had a similar quality of hair, wiry and chaotic, knit with various animal hairs and braided so long that it dragged in the sands behind them. Beneath the green glow of the twin suns, they looked like impish demons that had escaped hell to wreak havoc in a way only devils can. There was a handful that crawled on all fours and snapped at the officer that was acting as an ambassador. He jumped at their threatening bites as he discussed something with what must have been their leader. The raider lieutenant had the facial bones of another person pressed into his skin and grafted onto his own face. It was impossible to read him by his jittering body language and grim reaper face.

  The army of Bone Eaters was swaying like sleepwalkers. They leaned on their weapons like drunks holding themselves aloft from bar stools. It was a mockery of the town of Kiva Noon that they would send such belligerent soldiers to collect their toll. The Bone Eater clan must have become complacent with the town’s compliance. This was a simple pick up for them. He would be sure they learned from their mistake. Turning to the woman, he requested she open the gate for him.

  As the shifting gate doors swung open and Greenblatt led his army out of the city, he counted the tribute being offered. They were each covered by a sack hood and counted at less than half that of the demands of the Bone Eater clan. He shook his head as he approached the negotiations being made on behalf of his city.

  “Please,” the ambassador guard said. “You’re early this month. We haven’t been able to procure enough.”

  The skull-faced creature took a step forward and threw a finger up towards the sky. “Do you see that! That’s a full moon! We come every full moon, remember? You’ve got eighteen here, and we won’t leave without forty. I suggest you go back inside and find…” he stopped to count on his fingers momentarily. “twenty-two more mother fuckers to throw a sack over, or me and the boys are coming in and taking our pick!”

  The guard quivered as he looked up, not wanting to take his eyes off of the fiendish man who shared breath with him. The moon was not full. In fact, it was still on its waning descent towards a new moon. He dared not mention that they were at least weeks off of their estimations. When he turned back to the awful grin, it was inches from his face.

  “Please… we can throw in their belongings. We gathered them up for you. Here.” The ambassador motioned to a large sack that placed in front of the prisoners.

  “Don’t touch my shit, scab head!” one of the sack hoods muffled.

  The raider lieutenant approached the voice and kicked the prisoner in the ribs. “It looks like it’s my shit now! And so are you, for that matter.” He snatched the bag and pulled at the thin drawstring. The bag opened, and the raider’s eyes lit up. Inside were shiny trinkets and baubles, as well as a slew of weapons. There was even a freshly unearthed femur that still had the warm smell of sunbaked sands cooked into it. The raider reached inside and pulled it out, grunting like an excited animal. He dragged his tongue up its length, tasting the dusty death that still remained on it. “You’ve got yourself a deal!”

  “Not so fast,” Greenblatt said. He marched with his lobotomites behind him, lank creatures that whirred and clicked as they moved in unison. They outnumbered the raiders three to one, but that was no guarantee they had the advantage. Depending on what these devils had ingested, it was possible they could overpower even a force this size. There was only one way to overcome this enemy, and as usual, it was with a bit of wit. “Who told you we only had eighteen prisoners?”

  “My eyes, stupid! Count them. One, two, three-”

  “There’s an entire town behind me. You think we couldn’t let go of a few residents if it means meeting our end of the bargain?”

  The guard winced at the mention of more tribute. He didn’t even know who this stranger was, and here he was offering up the entire town on a silver platter. “This man doesn’t speak for us.”

  “Shut up,” the raider said. He looked past Greenblatt and into the open gate. There indeed was a horde of treasures to pick from. “I want more, but none of those metal ones. We don’t like the way they taste.”

  Vile creatures, Greenblatt thought. He narrowed his eyes. “You enjoy a stockier choice of dinner, I assume?”

  “Sure, whatever,” the skull face said. He licked his lips “I like them with a lot of meat.”

  Greenblatt rubbed his chin and stepped around the sack hoods like a gardener searching his plants for the perfect vegetable to pick. He leaned in, pulling on clothing, poking at wiry frames. With a frown, he said, “These may not do. From my experience, these people will be tough and without flavor. What do you think?”

  “I think they look good,” the raider shrugged, but even he came closer to inspect the stock. It was still hard to read him, but Greenblatt could tell he was starting to question it as well. The raider pulled on the sunburned skin of a girl, and she whimpered beneath his grip. He looked at one of the sack hoods as if he had just emerged. The man beneath it was huge, his golden horned skull stolen and placed in the bag of spoils. “What about him?”

  “Oh, of course he would taste good. This is a fine bull of a specimen.” Greenblatt patted one shoulder and the man growled and bucked. “Even has some fight in him.”

  “I like that,” the raider said. He got close and poked the stranger’s bulging muscles. The man flexed against his restraints, nearly snapping them loose.

  “You know,” Greenblatt said, leaning in, “he seems like he has too much fight in him. You might have to do something about that. Let him get his energy out a little bit.”

  The Bone Eater smiled and said, "Untie him," then back towards his men, "Bring me my weapon!"

  There was a cheer through the crowd of raiders as they hefted a giant femur bone. It had to belong to one of the megafauna. Beads and rings decorated it like a holy symbol, and they presented it to him like a knight awaiting his sword.

  Greenblatt bent and began to undo the restraints on the large man. Everything was going to plan.