There's nothing like vomiting in a dirty bar bathroom to pull a monarch from her throne.

I heave the rest of last night's bad decisions until it's all saliva and air. Terrible punk music plays over distorted speakers in the black and neon stalls. I'd like to blame my sickness on the alcohol and whatever was in that syringe someone gave me, but the way my yellow sores spread over my shoulders, the insects underneath my skin...

"No," I say, out of breath. "No, I didn't. I didn't go too far."

The broken stall door catches me as I stumble to the sink and wash out my mouth. Brown water trickles from the tap and smells like sulfur. I wash the blood off my knuckles from a fight I don't remember--must've been recent though, it's still fresh.

Two sunken eyes meet me in the cracked mirror--that can't be me. My skin is healthy enough, rich and black with my hair in springy coils around my shoulders, but my collar bones still show through my shirt. Thirty days of constant battle and starvation will do this to you, King, Thief's voice says in my head. You're a walking corpse. People are going to see you and think that you're sick.

"But I'm not," I tell the creature in the mirror. "I'm not Corrupted, and Eli's still alive."

I take hold of the stitches in my arms and rip them out. Small streams of blood drip over my fingernails into the basin, but the cuts close right away. The procedure worked; burns, wounds, bruises, all damage from Colossus erased.

Someone shouts an unwelcome string of curses outside the locked door. I rety the string around my waist and drag my undone boots beneath me, fumbling for my knife. The walls shake as they punch the plywood. "Get the fuck out of there or I'll drag you out myself!" A female voice, gruff but young. The door slams into the wall when I yank it open; there stands some poor man's wench. Beneath a mop of messy brown hair and runny mascara she's attractive, with her ripped fish-net tights lining sculpted legs, and holsters against her thighs strapped with two light pistols. Her silver eyes widen and she stutters and stumbles in her red high heels.

"M-my mistake." She smiles wide, lipstick blotched at the corners. "R-really, I-I didn't mean--"

She freezes, too afraid to draw her weapons. I shove her against the wall, her shoulder blades colliding with neon lights and protruding screws, her heartbeat loud in my ears. She lifts her hands in surrender.

"Hey," she says. "Look..."

I find her toothpick waist, the divots in the sides of her stomach sharp, her skin tough and grimy. The smell of her perfume floods my nostrils, spice and eucalyptus, not my favorite combination. She stops, silver eyes wide as she reaches for her holsters, but my lips meet hers before she grabs her gun.

She relaxes, her breath hot against mine, and she smiles around our kiss. Her fingers tangle through my hair; she leans in and explores my spine through the thin fabric of my shirt.

"What's your name?" I say around her lips.

"Does it matter?" she smiles, eyes half-closed, satisfied.

"No, I guess not." I take my knife and run her through the stomach.

She gasps, bubbles of spit smearing the drippy lipstick down her chin. Warm blood covers my hand, I twist the knife and pull it back so that it hooks her insides, then release her to bleed against the wall. Her hands fly to the wound, she stares up at me below her brow, and coughs ink onto the floor.

"Clean up," I say, and wipe my knife on the shoulder of her shirt. "The bathroom's free if you need it." The halls echo with her heels, she flounders to the stall and falls across the threshold, her blood soaking into the graffitied wooden floor as if the artists painted it there themselves.

Jawbone Hill is filthy and so are its people, the bar is no exception. I leave her to wallow behind my back and make my way to the open room. Steel walls covered with shitty artwork melt around the residents, everyone with a different story to tell, hunters, barbarians, travelers, fishermen, farmers, merchants, warriors, tribesmen...all of us Ancients, all of us out for somebody's blood.

Hot breeze whistles through the doorway, which overlooks the town below, nestled between green mountain hills. Rusty shacks clamber on top of one another in a toothy semi-circle shape, earning the town its name. The residents here, although hardened, are happy enough, safe on the edge of my District. Despite the rugged look the town is a prize, containing one of the cleanest water reservoirs, a precious mountain lake I stole from Legion occupation years ago. As a traveler's village the people still manage to live in squalor, dragging in their dirt from other places, but I don't care. The streetfights are active, the booze is strong, the water is clean, and no one cares about who you are.

Thief rests at the bar sound asleep, her long brown ponytail swimming in what's left of her morning cocktail. I expected her to show up last night at some point to check on me and she didn't disappoint. We fought, made up, drank and smoked until dawn, picking more fights with the residents and beating the living hell out of all those that challenged us. We were legends at three in the morning, best friends with our challengers by four, then strangers again by five, as it should be. But the sun is rising over the hazy mountain peaks, the night has faded, Eli is miles and miles away, and my pockets are emptier than before.

A man in a wide-brimmed hat leans on the counter a seat away from Thief, his head bent as if staring at me, but his eyes hide behind a thick black wrap. He dangles a broken leg over the chair and smokes a cigarette. I take the seat beside him and rub Thief's back, focused on the bartender, but the man's covered gaze still lingers.

No one speaks. Two old men play cards in the corner, a group of hunters count their credits from a recent deal, and a young couple pleasures each other at the one red booth, the music loud enough to give them their privacy. The bartender cleans his glasses with an oily leather rag. A short fat man, he drips sweat into the drinks he serves and produces an odor that sticks in your nostrils for days. He never talks, he doesn't have a name, he puts drinks in my hands when I ask and takes my credits. He is my best friend.

"You alright, Thief?" I say. She shakes her head 'no' against the counter. Her combat suit shows tears from last night's brawl, and she wears a machete at her hip with blood dried on its blade. I run my fingers through her sweaty hair and massage her head. The Minister chatters in the corner, a small green hologram set over a box that serves as a register, his voice like a knife scraping the insides of my ears.

"Passage to Mars is a right, not a privilege, and we have worked tirelessly to make Gateway costs affordable." His face is younger than the last skin he wore, with dark hair and a tall stature, a contrast to the balding, wrinkled hermit he was months ago. With strange in-vitro bodies he grows for himself and inhabits using a downloaded consciousness, his method of immortality is no secret.

"A thousand years looks good on you, Minister," I say aloud under my breath. "But it'd look better with that pretty head twisted off your shoulders." Thief breathes a little laugh against the table.

"Border passes may be purchased at our base before the Gateway," the hologram replies. "The Onyx City, where we will facilitate your safe passage. Three-thousand credits is a small price to pay for sanctuary, but we have systems in place to assist anyone who needs it."

A skinny hunter leaves his group and heads for the hallway in the back, I follow him out of the side of my eye. He rounds the corner and opens the stall door, shoves his hands in his pockets, and returns to his seat as if he saw nothing.

"Time is payment enough," the Minister continues. I fold my arms across my chest and focus on breathing through my headache. "We offer opportunities for all those who are willing to provide community services, building and strengthening their own homes within the growing districts in our biodome cities, in exchange for passage. Like I said, the Gateway is a right, not a privilege, and there are methods and systems in place for all to join us, all who are willing."

"He's still pushing those labor camps?" Thief mumbles around a yawn.

"Yeah." I motion to the bartender to shut down the recording. He waves his hand through the hologram, the footage fades. Thief tucks her face into her elbow and forgets her question.

The man in the hat tilts his head to me and smiles too wide, his teeth pointed, lips curling to his temples; a symptom of burgeoning mutation. He wears a black tattered coat and many pendants around his neck, each one a bounty-hunting chip, all waiting to be cashed in at Legion outposts.

"What do you want?" he asks around his cigarette.

"A Prairie Oyster," I say. "You found your eyes yet, Crow?"

He gestures to the bartender and puts two credits on the table. "Titan still has 'em. You're supposed to be dead." The wrapping around his brow sinks into his sockets, his eyes gouged out by Legion soldiers, punishment for stealing from the Elite.

"Not yet. I'll let you know when that happens."

We watch the bartender in silence for a moment, Crow smokes, Thief sleeps. The bartender cracks a greenish egg into a glass, waters it down with gin so strong the smell cancels out the room's musk. He dumps half a jar of Worcestershire sauce into the glass, crushes a ghost pepper to sprinkle as garnish, licks his fingers and hands the drink to me.

"Your leg is broken," I say to Crow, and down the drink in one shot. Fire crawls up my throat; I bang my fist against the table and squeeze tears from my eyes, swallowing the slimy hot egg whole. But it works, my headache lifts and my nausea fades. I slam my glass on the counter. The bartender doesn't hesitate, he pours a couple shots of gin into the bottom, then leaves us alone to clean his glasses.

Crow waits until I finish chasing down the egg with what should be water instead of more alcohol, if I knew what was good for me. "Yep," he says. "I ain't healing though, been a while since a dose."

"You getting one?" I ask.

"No, I'm at my limit." He pulls down the front of his shirt where yellow sores dot his collar bones. "So." He lets it go and flicks his cigarette on the floor. "Where've you been?"

"Training with my boy."

He leans on the counter and sucks on something black between his teeth. "Nothing wrong with that."

"You still hunting?" I say. "Or are you back to being a petty thief?"

"Hunting."

"Bounties or Corrupted?"

"Bounties."

"So you're a Martian bootlicker, eh?

"Corrupted ain't worth much these days, unless you got a Creeper," he says. "You can't trust merchants. At least the Martians pay."

I lean over and spit tiny chunks of ghost pepper onto the floor. "You got an active chip?"

"I got one alright." He pulls off one of his necklaces and drops it on the table--a black hologram disc the size of a coin. I pick it up and run my thumb over its center. Blue lights hover at the rim displaying tiny numbers, I squint and take far too long to make them out.

"Wha--" I almost drop the thing. "Two million credits? For who?"

He crosses his arms over his chest. "You've never seen that chip before? We all got 'em."

I set the chip down where the lights rotate, reflecting on the counter. "I've been gone. What's the target?"

He dips his hat and smiles a little wider, his voice low. "Why, Number Seven of course."

"Seven is a myth."

"That chip's from the Legion, straight." He points to it with a black gloved finger. "The Minister's after it. People've been seein' it out in the Wastes."

"People see a lot of funny things out in the Wastes."

"But this is different," he says. "The older units? They've been activated. One, Three, Six, all shiny and nice in their silver armor, burning down the outskirts, searching for their missing piece."

"Seven isn't real," I say again. "It's another one of the Minister's traps. Keep the chip though, you can swallow it and choke when the Legion comes to collect their bounty, and you don't have it."

He slips the piece back in his pocket and stuffs the string until it tangles. "Two million credits though, I'd start believing if I were you."

"Huh, damn," I say around the rim of my glass. "Two million for a missing robot? I'm offended. What am I, a couple thousand?"

"You're still up there," he says. "About a hundred-fifty thousand."

"Shit, I might as well turn myself in." I take my last sip of gin and slide the cup to the bartender, who fills it and slides it back. "Damn. Two million fucking credits for something that doesn't exist."

"Nah, it has to," Crow says.

I swirl the gin in my glass. "Prove it."

He shifts around his broken leg and lights another cigarette, sets his forearms across the table and breathes the smoke into my face. "Three weeks ago." He inhales, the cigarette glows red. "A settlement of Elite colonizers, all with their borrowed skins. Out in the ruins of the Western District." He exhales, then gives the rest of his cigarette to me. I oblige and put it between my teeth.

"How many?" I ask.

"Hundreds the day they came. None by nightfall."

"Don't be stupid. Corruption killed them."

"Not that fast." He shakes his head. "It was a Beast. Monarch's scouts? They saw it. Huge, they said, unnatural, so big that it blocked out the sky. They called it a god."

"So, an Ink Creeper."

"No, no, it wasn't anything like that. They said it was smart, that it knew what it was doing. That it spoke."

"Corrupted don't speak."

"But Seven does," he says. "The Night Wanderer, that's what they've been calling its Corrupted form. It can shift in and out when it wants to, just like it's siblings. They're like snakes sheddin' their skins."

"Now, that's a new part to the story," I say.

"Ain't just a story. It killed those settlers, every single one of them. Scouts said they couldn't even watch."

I click my tongue. "Hm. That so."

"That's what it does," he leans forward, his wide brimmed hat inches from my brows. "Every unexplained town, village, camp, from the Martian Colonies to the Ancient Cities, all the ones that went missing? That's Number Seven."

"Right, yes."

"It lurks in the shadows until it grows hungry, then strikes, Legion and Tribesmen alike, searching for vengeance against the Minister and the ones that created it."

"Ah."

"Don't you laugh at me." He grins a little wider.

"Too late."

"This thing is active and it's out there, believe me. The Minister wants it back, something's got him scared and it all has to do with Number Seven."

"Oh, something's got him scared alright," I say, clenching the glass between my fingers. "But it ain't Seven." Thief catches my wrist when I reach to the bartender. She cracks open her silver eye.

"You've had enough," she says.

I flip the glass upside down and set it on the table, then rub her back again, searching for the deep knots in her muscles. My headache returns, Crow's outline is a little fuzzy but there is no buzz, just a cotton mouth and an empty stomach. "What are you gonna do with all that money?" I ask.

"I'm going to buy me some new eyes."

I take a long drag of the cigarette, watching the smoke curl through the dim sunlight. "I like you, Crow," I say. "You're simple. I hope you find your Night Wanderer."

"I appreciate that."

"And I hope that when it kills you, it doesn't hurt too bad."

He raises his glass of whiskey to me in a toast.

Thief draws in a dramatic inhale and lifts from the bar table, rubbing the dents left in the side of her face from the divots in the wood. She presses her palms to her eyes and shakes her hair from its ponytail, where it cascades around her shoulders.

"Hey, wrap it up with your friend there," she says. "We need to go."

"But I haven't gotten what I came here for."

"Yes you have," she says. "You had your fun. You've coped. Now, we have a mission to complete."

The same argument from last night.

"I'm working on it."

"I really doubt that," she says. "Come on, we'll contact the Minister, make negotiations so no one gets hurt."

"There's no way in hell I'm talking to him," I say.

"King..."

"No."

"Then we better gather forces."

"No, I need all my units here."

"Then what are you going to do? Stay here and drink?"

"I said, I'm working on it."

Two shadows interrupt us, covering the dim sunlight at the doorway. They cast themselves across the dirty floor, one burly, the other misshapen. Thief and I both struggle not to stare, and a heaviness settles over the bar.

The first walks inside, slender in frame, a young warrior carrying a familiar brand; swallows on his arms. He wields a crossbow and wears a dark mask over his mouth and nose, his eyes gleaming silver. Regent's men, a tribe to the East that controls the oil fields, an ally of mine and everyone's because they have to be. His men walk the Earth as if it belongs to them; I've been waiting for the opportunity to show Regent that it doesn't.

The other warrior follows close behind and demands an audience. A bulging mutation devours the right side of his body, barely contained under his skin. His right arm hangs too low with the fabric of his suit straining against it. Yellow sores pepper his face, his head shaved as traditional for his people, and his silver eyes drip water into his mask.

Crow's smile disappears. He shifts in his seat and stares at his glass, his sweaty fingers leaving marks on the rim. "Ah, them," he says.

I raise an eyebrow. "They after you?"

"Should be, yep."

"What'd you do?"

"I needed a bike."

I take my glass and flip it over. Thief does the same with hers. The bartender fills them both with whiskey this time, and leaves.

I stare at the bottom of the glass, where the whiskey sits and ripples, and reflections pass around the edges. Thief folds her arms across the bar table and keeps her gaze low. We say nothing when they drag Crow off his chair, and we say nothing when they shoot him in the head.

WC: 3327