'You cannot stop the food of life. It is Ungodly. Look around us. Have you not proven my point?'

Her shot's not bad; four bullets hit him with a dull thud. He's wearing armor. The coward's way around. 'Walk with me, child.'

The Puritan is delighted. He laughs to see such initiative. He lifts his cloak and climbs over the bodies to approach her, turning to see the dent of the grenade against the earth behind them. 'A far cry from the Lands Between, isn't it?'

he walks down the battlefield, his path the dust where the blood has not yet dried. he and his crows are blessing the dead.

'I believe, gentlemen, that seafood is back on the menu . . . '

Crows cackle and unfurl in the sky, forming words their audience cannot understand. Luckily, we are not the audience. It's code. They hark alarms. In Shady Sands, a bird dead on the ground being poked by a kid with a stick suddenly awakens to carry the swift and terrible hand of mercy back home.

then suddenly, like a problem child with a very fragile snow globe, the whole world begins to shake.

And what is Woman, if not contained?

We are no cult. You cannot join us. The land has grown impure and wicked, with impossible ideas far above its station. It is the dirt to which we must return, and nothing else. The age of excess is choking all of us. Let us clear the air, in many ways.

We look for everyone and leave no stone unturned, no path unwalked, so that all my know our name, our faces, and our message. All have their part to play in turning the wheel, Alice. You are looking for something. You are lost. You know the solution, however.

I only smoke cigars myself. One of my fine gentlemen will help you, I'm sure. You must forgive them. They get unseemly in the presence of beautiful women. All good men have a sinner inside them.

Too much showmanship. There must be no frills.

What do you know of your mother?

No, it is not. There are those who seek to control us in the name of progress. Will you let them?

Trouble, Alice?

The land is sick.

Look into my eyes.

The wheel is red with you, my lady.

The Duchess of Malfi. Yes, I see it in your eyes.

Cover her face. Mine eyes dazzle; she died young.

Well, gentlemen, I think it is time, don't you?

Chin up, Miss MacLean. The battle is not finished yet.

You have thoughts, @beyondminds.bsky.social. I see them on your face.

Step aside. I don't mean you any harm.

'The bats, I think, gentlemen; we wouldn't want to be hasty, would we?'

The Puritan enters the power station, somehow unnoticed, with two of his gang. He decides to show them some Wasteland hospitality.

The Puritan grabbed her crumpled form, an arm around her waist. He watched her breathing and whispered, 'Alive, my dear. Good. We are only just beginning.' He kissed Kimira on the forehead, drawing hair from her face. 'All of this is for love. For *love*. You must understand that.'

The Puritan seemed impressed. This demeanour softened, as though a student had raised the perfect question. 'Drop the man, boys. Come here.' Orson felt to the dirt, his glasses pressing into his nose. He mostly mumbled, a small wail. One of the Puritan's gang kicked him in the ribs a few more

'A kingdom without loyalty is a circus, my girl. Surely a Tarnished of all people understands this?' The Puritan looks at Orson's leg, his face contorted with disgust. He breathes heavily, as though a great force of rage had filled him. He halted, dabbing his glistening forehead with a handkerchief.

'I understand,' he says. Orson clears his throat. 'Kimira? It means nothing, don't you worry. It means nothing at all, I promise. I'm not upset. It's important you to understand that.' Several of the Puritan's men roll their eyes and chuckle quietly at the old codger. He speaks in riddles.

'Is that so?' the Puritan smiles. 'Then you won't mind if I break his bones?' They bring him a bucket, a stinking, rotting bucket, reeking of puss. It is full of the same red stuff - she must assume it now to be blood, a skin of... Well, skin. Orson winces as he approaches,

'So we shall, Kimira.' a congealed lump of birds keep her still, so densely packed she is sharply pricked by beaks and talons if she moves. no bird she knows of can make sport of such a shape. she isn't in the sky - she's just above the ground, her view ever so askew.

Like all humans, her first vision when waking is the Puritan. birds are pecking at her skin. in the twilight she can feel them. 'Death is for the weak, my girl,' he says, reading her mind. how long has passed? hours? she is not yet familiar with the sun here.

He is standing in the Old Codger's garden, completely still among the turnips and herbs.

How goes the work, gentlemen? @crossedthevoid.bsky.social @beyondminds.bsky.social

I didn't think so. /// Let's rock! ///

Ever seen the inside of a lamp, boy? Not the glass or the filament. I mean *inside*. Right down to the atoms and molecules.

Not for ever, my boy. I have something for you.

Many do not. It is a sinful world which follows blindly, indulging in excess such as yours. What use is the automaton? Whatever happened to swords and pistols? The heavy rock?

Call me James Harris. Do you believe in justice, Clive?

Wherever I am needed, boy. I heed the call. Clive, I assume?

Well I never. An audience? Just for me?

There is no time for affection, @warriorblood.bsky.social. Return. Tonight.

Don't pretend you didn't enjoy it.

Dreadful weather.

Trouble at home? @warriorblood.bsky.social

'They always have,' he says to the birds, his cigar blooming in the air. Its little fire gave him color and shape, turning his skin the color of aged paper, the color of twilight. The crows do not move, regarding Kimira with amusement. 'They have seen the wilderness at dawn and they enjoy it.'

They know which way the wind blows. ( He lights a cigar and puts out a gauntleted hand, and one bird lands upon his arm with the swift certainty and force of the old Gods. In his open palm, the crow drops a card. It's the queen of spades, and she looks exactly like Kimira. )

Easy now, gentlemen. It seems our friend comes with a message.