Assignment For the Wrong God

June 6, 2110. The skeleton of a decaying jeep limps past a withered green sign. "West Genesis, F.S., Jurisdiction: Krishna, New Morocco." The jeep seems tired. It stops. Five men exit it's carcass, and step onto the West Genesis salt plains.

"The second bundle is in the back."

A gritty male voice permeates the atmosphere. His role as a leader is immediately apparent, for the accompanying bodies leap to action with a hunger at his voice. They rummage in the trunk of the vehicle.

"Kit, my bag is in the front."

A younger man speaks to the leader. He is dark and bold.

Sinews of tension weave their way through the fog. You are sieged there, in anemic sleep, quivering even the space where your head was slumped.

Wake!

String your bow in secrecy.

The lad. His eyes bombastic brown, golden against the divergence of the sand galloping into perpetuity behind him. He holds his head in such a way, that you ponder for just a moment where he might have attained this premature confidence. He is sharp, yes, but his teeth are bad. As he opens his mouth to speak, you notice dark pits have dug into the foundations of his gums. There must be a sinful stench that accompanies this symptom, for the group leader, Kit, occasionally steps outside of the younger's perimeter in an apparent effort to fetch some fresh air.

There is an obvious apprehension between Kit, and his younger follower.

If you just had the nerve to inch closer, you could make out the details of the scene.

The jeep. The group. Stains on the hands. Wiping of knives. Cocking of pistols. The generic body posture of a man who's mind has been wrung thin by the thrashing of thirst.

This must be a coordinated enterprise, perhaps another fragment of a group within West Genesis. These groups are infamous for breaking through the official border between New Morocco and the salt flat lands surrounding it's jurisdiction. In fact, this may be all they are known for, these days. They are retrieving supplies needed for the nomadic clans languishing amongst the enclaves neighboring New Morocco. One of these enclaves is West Genesis.

In the last year, breakthroughs have taken place more frequently, nearing a numerical fervent pitch. One reason is; food has become absent in the flats of West Genesis, for nothing grows in the salt. Those that are lucky enough to live near a desalination pod struggle to find access to seeds. If they have seeds, they must strive to place the pod in a location that will not easily be spotted by the eyes New Moroccan Authority Recon (NMA). One must place the pods close to water, which is only on the northern coast, by the sea. But the northern coast is flat, and offers no geological protection. On the most eastern shores of the West Genesis enclave, there are a series of rocky cliffs that collect sand dunes between them when the wind pounces. They have the potential to offer protection. When the Genesians set up their growing pods in the embrace of the Eastern cliffs, they were subject to routine drone drops by New Morocco, destroying the pods, and those who carry with them any traditional knowledge of horticulture.

Women.

Without the women, the clans in West Genesis were cursed to dwindle, and they did. The women that did not die in the drone bombings, shriveled up in thirst. Without a consistent source of food, the men organized themselves into groups and began to break through the New Moroccan border in search of cities within it's reach. Robbery would retrieve anything that could be of use to life in West Genesis.

On three occasions, groups of Genesians were seized by the NMA upon breaking the line, and executed upon capture. The New Moroccan forces dismembered the bodies of the Genesians, and strung their entrails on the electric fence to cook in the heat. This whirled the hearts of the Genesians, after which they avowed that New Morocco would never capture any one Genesian alive.

And thus, in West Genesis, mercy killing became the norm.

Here, under the homicidal sun, if one man decides he can no longer starve, he approaches a companion in his group. He says what they all say. He tells his friend where his bag of belongings might be. In there, he assures, you can find a pistol. Yes, he says, there is one round in the chamber. In this moment, his companion knows, and the glimmers of bittersweet nostalgia bubble forward. The friend will say, let's talk a while, like our mothers used to. And don't you miss your father? Yes, but I have my mother's eyes. I loved a woman once, perhaps you did too? I would have loved to love more. And yes, I would have loved to live. Then, in the silence, the two will embrace, they will say goodbye. The companion will cock his pistol and kill his friend.

When New Morocco discovered the Genesians had developed mercy killing measures, they relaxed security on the eastern side of the border. Perhaps this was a coaxing mechanism. Perhaps they felt they could diverge resources elsewhere now that the Genesians were killing themselves off.

The motive for New Morocco's flagrant use of resources against the west Genesians is speculative. Some say it is because the New Moroccan's possess a lingering disgust for the rebellious nature of the Genesians after the War of 2073, which saw the continent of Africa renamed "The Maisuk" and overtaken by citizens of a western continent. They say that the New Moroccans find the Genesians dirty, uncouth, and unorganized. Others argue that this is a superficial explanation for a motive that requires a far more drastic waste of weapons. Those arguers believe that the New Morocco Authority is simply obeying the dictates of a higher authority which operates behind the spectacles of political circusry.

Either way, it's likely the group will never know the answers to these ruminations. Indeed, you also may never know. It is a fantastic achievement to be concerned with the marionettes and puppeteers of political theatre when one is thirsty and on the run. When a man is thirsty, he knows no other concerns, for even the sand becomes a potential quench for his throat.

And you. You remain rigid in your hunkered position, your tongue pasted to the roof of your mouth in the fever of this controversy. What is expected of you, in this Godforsaken task. You arrows are not fashioned for this. You curse the fates. Still, you must try.

"another day Finn-" the voice of the leader is sandy and cracks, "there is nothing more we can do but wait."

Finn shrugs. His eyes are transfixed on the salt beneath his shoes.

"I said what I said."

Of the others, all of whom have all thus far been silent, one speaks. This one has a voice of smooth tones, his hair is caramel, his jaw is square from grinding his teeth in the anxieties of his sleep. If women lived here still, every one would have undoubtedly awarded themselves to him. The others call him Adom. He must clear his throat of the dust that lingers from the drive.

"Than I will finish this."

A tremendous lament of silence works it's way from soul to soul. Each droops their head, and shoulders sag under the gravity of conscience.

"Let's talk a while, like before" Adom says. The group nods wearily. The ritual begins.

Kit speaks for Finn in his presence, he says Finn was born Finley to a woman named Selah who wanted a daughter. Finn's father's name was David. He says that he remembers when Finn was a boy, he loved the smell of plants on the Northern Shores, and would run into the waves when the tide rose. Kit says Finn looks just like his father, and after his father executed in a NMA capture, Selah forgot to live. Finley's first robbery was in Krishna, at the age of fourteen. He stole carrots at gun point from three naked women at a brothel. The group smiles sluggishly. Kit wishes to continue speaking, but he has lost the words. He would say he has known Finn since he was a baby boy. He would say Finley could catch fish right out of the sea. He would say he has his mother's eyes. He would say he knew his father well. But Finn cannot speak.

He crouches in front of Finn, his hands clutch Finn's shoulders. They nod at each other.

It is almost time now. From here in the shade, the grief is melting your muscles. Finn mustn't die. Tears burn in your eye. Your bowstring remains taught. It is almost time.

The fourth man, stocky with milky skin, shuffles Finn's bag forward.

"Your bag, Finn" he nods slightly.

Finn clutches it, and hands it to Adom.

"Second pocket."

The pistol is wickedly large in Adom's boyish hands. He racks the slide. Yes, there is one in the chamber.

Finn folds to his knees.

There, smiling across the horizon is the contemptable West Genesis sun. It is only right that a man should face his killer, he thinks. It is a black hole, this place, this free place, regardless of the light. His tongue is glued to the roof of his mouth. Only moments now.

Adom raises the pistol. The black of its metal absorbs the sunset in it's shade.

Now! You spring from the shadows, you release your bowstring. Your arrow flies true and straight. You watch as it's pink and purple fletching misses his heart, slices the air, and pierces the passenger seat.

A sin. A sin! You've missed. You crouch in desperation, your hand fumbles the quiver for another arrow. This one will surely-

An explosion of noise.

Finn is dead.

Finn is dead.

His head is already resting in the salt. His hair is a halo of red.

An ungodly groan emerges from Kit's mouth. He lies down beside Finn.

You curse your assignment. This is no task for your abilities. You were never a cherub that could rescue a soul. This was a false assignment! Your tears beat the curtains of your eyes, as a drunken ruffian might pound the door of a tavern. The necklace given to you for this assignment, the locket coated in gold from a celestial place, it's heart contour that decorated your chest begins to choke you with the weight of death. You tear it from your skin.

And so it lays with Finn, in the West Genesis sun.