The bunker shifts with a different sort of energy. Whispers bounce from wall to wall. For the most part, the others don't seem to care too much, but killing a merchant isn't a passive crime. We do have unspoken codes, the primary rules being these: never leave a dead child unburied, never kill or steal from a merchant....and never call me by the wrong name. An offense earns exile to the Wastes. But I am the primary executioner, and I reserve the right to play the part however I see fit.

The woman covers her mouth to hold back her sick, breath rushing through grimy palms. "Wh-what do you mean..." she swallows. "Ultimatum?"

Lettuce splits between my teeth to spill water on my tongue. The delicate taste distracts me. I point to the room in between bites "You can dig through that medicine cabinet. It's all yours."

She sniffs. Her trembling fingers lead her around the edge of the table, her bare feet struggling to carry her thin frame.

"But you'll be wasting your time," I say.

Her heels catch the rough floorboards when she stops in her tracks, knees shaking. She asks me what I mean with her sunken, silver eyes.

"He wasn't lying," I answer. "There's no medicine back there. No one's had it for months, but blame Graves for that, not me."

"And you shot him?" she shouts.

"He disrespected me."

"Ah," her breath hitches. "Wh-What do I do?"

"Well, you can raid the supplies and be on your way, then keep your kid comfortable until she dies. Or mutates. That would be the more efficient option, then at least you could sell and make a profit off of her."

Her hungry eyes narrow. "What the fuck is your problem?"

"Or..." I pick up a slice of turkey and peel it into slits, then roll them into dainty packages and put them between my teeth. Like how Eli used to eat. "You can make a deal with me."

The others meander to the storeroom, too high to have the energy to make it an exciting raid, as they struggle to lift even the cans off the shelves. But the fights will break out soon; I take advantage of what little time I have.

She eyes the other Ancients, then the merchant's body again. Her daughter shivers in the corner. "What deal?" she asks.

The meat is exotic. Good fowl is rare, with wild turkeys prone to infection. Every bite is an absolute delicacy. I chew and make her wait until it's gone.

"You ever heard of Zoar?" I say, wiping the juice from my lips onto my sleeve.

"Yes."

"I want you to go there."

She glares. "Zoar is where Ancients go to die."

"People who believe in those old wives' tales are too stupid to survive," I say. "Empress is my ally. Take your daughter to the Temple and demand an audience with her. Tell her I sent you, and she'll treat you well."

The mother glances at her daughter in the corner, who pulls the blanket over her shoulder and rests her head on the ground, curling around her stomach. Thief's meal was too large, she'll vomit soon.

"Go get her and bring her over here," I say. "I won't hurt her, but the others might."

She doesn't argue this time, but watching her limp to her kid is pathetic. The red-haired girl whimpers as her mother picks her up, cooing in her ear to calm her down. I drag Thief's stool around the bar table and help her sit. The red-haired girl curls up under her mother's chin and breathes into her sticky bangs, small brown eyes fixed on me.

"I ain't nobody to be afraid of," I tell the little girl. "You feel sick?"

She hides her eyes in her mother's chest, who pulls her close and rubs her back.

"Yeah, I'm sure you do. Empress will make you feel better."

"How's that possible?" the mother asks.

"Don't ask questions," I say. "Empress will want payment when you get there, so sell her the Merchant once he Corrupts."

"You want me to do what?"

"It's easy, just wait about an hour and then bash him in the head. I'm out of light bullets, but you can have my pipe." I nudge the bent metal with my knee. "You ain't never killed a Corrupted before?"

She shakes her head no.

"How'd you get a name, then?"

"I don't have one."

"You're a slave," I say.

She nods.

"Who are you running from?"

"Monarch," she says.

That bastard with his coal mines. They operate on indentured servants, homeless wretches cast out from their own Tribes for weakness or illness. Despite his claims, no one gets paid and few survive. I trade with him because I have to, but I'll be damned if I don't put a bullet in his head before I die.

"Makes sense." I slice the apple with my knife and offer a piece to the girl. She shakes her head. I tuck it inside the tiny crook in her arm and refuse to look at her again--that's the secret to shy kids, you can't acknowledge them until they acknowledge you. Sure enough, it works. She leans over and sticks out her tongue, licks the apple, and watches me with her emaciated eyes.

"But I haven't in...a long time." The mother wipes her tears. "We were living with some others in an unclaimed region, but now we're the only ones left."

"I didn't ask for the whole story," I say. Shouts echo from the storage room. Boxes crash and canned food splits open across the laminate. The red-haired girl darts away from her mother's breast, mouth open with her feverish breath.

"It's alright, love," the mother says. She brings her daughter back to her embrace. "What do you want in return?" she asks me.

"I need you to deliver a message," I say. "Can you write?"

"Yes, I can write."

"Interesting. Who taught you?"

"Elite Missionaries."

I suck on my teeth. "Nice."

She digs in her pocket and pulls out a warped pad of paper and a pen. Every page is dense with notes, lines and lines of words crowding one another. She finds one blank piece at the very back, her hand shaking as her makeshift pen drips paint from a sharpened tip, the rest made of bamboo and twine. A precious possession, I can tell from the way she holds it, despite the way the pen leaks ink over her hands.

The other Ancients filter past us with arms brimming with supplies, some bearing fresh wounds that heal through the tears in their clothes, and shouts continue to rise from the dead boiler room in the back. If I had time I would watch them kill each other over old bandages and moldy green-beans; but my son is light-years away, and my stomach is still empty.

"What do you want it to say?" she asks.

I point to the paper with my pinkie. "Eli's gone," I say. "You know how to spell that?"

"Yeah."

"Good, I don't remember."

She takes her time with every letter, etching into the paper as if she's not sure where the lines are supposed to go. She lifts her head when she's finished."What's next?"

"Write 'Seven is active,'" I say. And when I do, my heart drops into my stomach. I focus on the scratch of her pen, the scuffle of the Ancients arguing in the back, unwilling to think about the words and their gravity. I lean over her shoulder to watch and distract myself. "Can I see that?"

When she doesn't respond, I snatch it from her cold fingers and shove it in the face of a passing traveler, who balances boxes of apples in one hand and smokes a cigarette with the other. "What's this say?" I ask him.

He takes out his cigarette and spits on the floor. "Can't read."

"Damn, guess I'll have to trust you then." The pages crush inside my fingers when I hand it back to her. She uncurls the edge of the pad and puts it back together, careful to slip it in the pocket of her dress.

"You think you can do that for me?" I say.

"Y-yes," she says. "I can."

"Good." I give them the rest of my food and walk to the other side of the bar. The mother waits until my back is turned, then digs her hands into the bread and meat I left behind, shoving it in her mouth until spit gathers at the corners. Starvation is disgusting even when it's relieved.

The merchant doesn't twitch despite the yellow boils consuming his skin, but there can't be much time left. His jaw disappears inside his bloated neck, forehead speckled with blood. Somehow his odor cuts through the carnage. I hold my breath and shove my hand in the damp pocket of his pants; there I find my black bag of opium and a large silver case. When I open it up and find hundreds of pills, I'm not surprised in the least.

"Don't take the tunnels, they're too dangerous." I hide the pills in my own pocket, shoving the black bag behind them. "Oh, and if Empress doesn't take your payment, demand that she does. If she offers you to pay her in labor, tell her no."

The mother rocks the red-haired girl back and forth, trying to feed her my last cherry tomato, which she refuses. What a fucking waste.

"And tell her she'll be seeing me soon," I say. "I need a new combat suit."

Whether the mother listens to me or not, I don't care to know. The fighting in the storeroom comes to an uproar. Light guns shake the tables, the fluorescent bulbs bounce on their rusted springs, the tiny weapons powerful enough to emulate missiles from centuries past. Shouts follow my footsteps, people demanding that I save their lives, but I ignore every single one.

Thief sleeps outside the doorway with her back pressed to the concrete wall, rain pouring on her worn-out boots, her shins soaked from sticking out under the curved awning. The rest of her cigarette lies on her chest, the end still lit and spreading ashes on her suit. I kick her in the leg.

"Hey!" She starts and reaches for a weapon she doesn't have, then squints at me with swollen eyes. "King? The hell is wrong with you?" Screams barrel from the cracks around the iron doors, interrupting whatever else she had to say. "What did you do?"

"Doesn't matter. Is Pharaoh home?"

"Should be."

"Good, I need to see him."

"We're leaving now?"

"Yeah. Sun's coming up."

The door rattles with the impact of some poor soul thrown against it. A stench of rot and blood seeps through the holes in the metal, accompanied by sounds of muffled curses and the tearing of skin.

Thief and I leave as if the bunker is still silent. We steal more fuel from the other bikes and chase down the sunrise, the sky pink around the edges of gray clouds and dark mountain peaks.

Hours later, the Aurelian greets us in silence.

Thief and I wheel our empty bike through abandoned streets, our fuel exhausted miles ago. The cool summer sunrise gives no aid in drying our clothes, now sticky with humidity and dew. My toes ache with blisters rubbing against soggy soles. Thief hides her hands inside her pockets, tall stature sacrificed for a tired slouch.

No one accompanies us. The tall buildings might as well be dead. Oak trees devour cracked windows and missing pieces, and above the endless walls of the crater, our city is nothing more than a forest of crumbling steel. Eerie and cold the city awakens, too afraid to walk the streets.

Still, vibrancy remains. My people hide behind every door, ears pressed to the peeling paint, eyes glittering between the cracks. They whisper to one another in disbelief; yes, that is King Eden. Thief brought her back.

But they don't come out to ask me their questions, and the vibrations through the ground tell why. Vines shake against the window panes. Broken glass ripples across the boarded-up shops. There's a rumbling in the distance, then a rumbling in the sky, like distant thunder only this time, there's no rain.

Even the bugs run to their holes, dogs retreat to their hiding spaces, and rats escape to the gutters. We drag our bodies through the alleyways regardless, unafraid of what's to come--the trees will hide us anyway.

Starships darken the horizon, so dense they resemble waves of cicadas. Their wings touch one another in their tight formation, silver cabins with stomach painted black, bombs held between cannons charged with light. My people shrink away from their doors, hide their children in their underground shelters; the scuffle from the doorways we pass tells me everything I need to know.

Craters filled with trees surround our own, only ours hides the buildings underneath. Titan hasn't found us yet, but everyday she tries, and everyday we hold our breath.

We don't acknowledge the sky. Thief punches a switch on the side of an old train station, arches hidden behind wisteria and muscadines. A make-shift garage door struggles to open on rusty chains, dust falling from the edges as the Martians draw close.

Thief's shop waits inside, scattered mechanical pieces draped along old discarded tires and stolen Martian tools. An ancient metro sleeps in the center, long strings of kudzu covering its windows like curtains. A high dome makes up the ceiling where sunlight falls through holes in the glass. Tree branches cover the others, their leaves stuffed through the fissures to keep out the rain.

She leaves her bike in a line of several, most of them stolen from the people she's killed. The vines swing back and forth from the rafters, the glass shaking like the panes in the shop windows outside. She wipes her hands with a dirty cloth and disappears inside the old subway, where the floor is replaced with her mattress, the locomotive replaced with a make-shift kitchen, and the rest an extension of her workshop. I lean against a metal work table and watch the pebbles bounce between the red train tracks.

She returns with fresh cotton clothes, water, fruit, and strips of dried meat. She sets it all down on the table beside me. I stare at the old metro walls, mind empty other than an annoying reminder to take care of my body. But perhaps it isn't that. Perhaps the ache in my center isn't exhaustion or starvation. Perhaps it's a different sort of emptiness, the kind that eats you away.

Thief distracts me, though. Dirt and blood cake our faces and by god, we smell, after bathing in sweat and carnage for two days. But that doesn't matter. She wraps her arms around me and I let her. Her heart beats against my ear, her touch gentle against the scars and bandages on my spine. It's that special kind of embrace, the kind you wait three years for, the kind that makes everything go away, even when everything sucks.

"I fucking missed you, you bastard," she says. The glass above us reflects the blue starship engines. Our forgotten train station shakes around us, but for now, Titan may as well not exist.

I smile against the ripped straps of her bullet-proof vest. When she pulls away she takes my hands, the red tattoos on our hands touching, both faded but never forgotten. "It'll be alright," she says. "We'll find him, okay?"

My gaze meets the ground. I nod at our calloused hands, hers cracked, blistered, and forever lined in oil. "Yeah."

She looks behind her shoulder at the train. "I gotta sleep," she says.

"That's fine."

"You should too, at least a few hours. Talk to Pharaoh before you leave."

"I will."

"But eat something first. You're skinny, I hate it."

"Alright."

I wait a few moments when she leaves. She skips the shower, undresses to her underclothes, and passes out on her mattress, boots still on and sticking out the train window. The earthquake, the rattling workshop, the tree branches, the roar up above, none of it disturbs her from her sleep.

Beside the worktable sits a plywood cabinet, doors held together by a feeble latch. Hoses, work blankets, empty oil canisters, gloves, and toolboxes hide it away; I sift through the mess and cram it open.

"Ah, yes," I say. "You never change."

Jars of moonshine line the bent shelves. Where she hides her still I'll never know since I'm probably the reason why she hides it, but as long as the shelves are stocked, I'll never ask.

I take the smallest jar to be polite. Despite the hole in my stomach, my appetite is no good. I neglect the food and grab the clothes, steal a lighter from the table, and a silver tin. Balancing it all over the tracks is a challenge but worth the risk. I cross to the vine-covered archway on the other side, a poorly designed exit jammed up against the fire escape of the neighboring skyscraper. In the minutes it takes to climb every single step I think about nothing. The ships echo overhead.

Moss makes the stairs disappear and a brick wall slathered in spray paint watches me climb. The steps take me to the canopy where the skyscraper's head peeks through thick branches of oak leaves. Some are cleared away, a perfect lookout, still concealed but with an open view. Laundry lines billow in the hot breeze. Small roof-top gardens hide under foliage beside old and quiet fans. A shame, the cherry tomatoes are still green.

The crater walls shadow me as I sit and open the jar of moonshine, the alcohol so strong it overwhelms the lingering smell of starship fuel. I overlook my city below. The buildings follow crooked streets interrupted by the great roots of the centuries-old oak trees, some alleyways obscured by vines and bamboo. Soon after the war, our ancestors built this place to preserve their culture; the crater and the skyscrapers protected libraries and museums from long ago. The winter killed their makers, turned them into beasts, and so the trees claimed it instead. Now it all belongs to me.

One long street cuts through the center of it all, the rest blocked out like a typical Ancient metropolis. At the end of it rises my capital and the infirmary. I wouldn't say that it towers, with its leaning Grecian pillars and rooftop still blackened from a fire started by a warlord I never met. Vines swallow it up as well. An old statue of a white man I don't care about sits outside, arms broken, one leg missing, defaced and covered in paint, underclothes, and old light cannon shells. Moss and roots replace grass in the yard where many of us train. Javelins, spears, guns, bows, chains, and swords litter the lawn. Without my soldiers the grounds are quiet, and they will be until the starships pass.

I open Thief's tin and find just what I expected; rolling paper and weed. Mixed with moonshine it's the perfect breakfast. I smoke and drink until the skyscrapers are fuzzy and my thoughts come in a different language. The sun rises through the trees but the morning is far from peaceful. Bombs shake the air. Somewhere beyond the horizon, past the borders of my district, the Martians find someone else to kill.

WC: 3289