Shackles.

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 bold in spirit. His features are dark and sharp.

Sinews of tension weave their way through the fog. You are sieged there, in anemic sleep. They sew their way into the blisses of your visions, and quiver the space where your head was slumped.

Wake!

String your bow in silence.

The lad. His eyes flamboyant 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 occasionally steps outside of the younger's perimeter, in an apparent effort to fetch some fresh air.

There is an obvious apprehension between Kit, the leader, 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 known for breaking through the official border between New Morocco and the salt flat lands surrounding it's jurisdiction. They are retrieving supplies needed for the nomadic clans languishing amongst the enclaves of 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 dronings, 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 on 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 Genesian alive.

And thus, in West Genesis, mercy killing became a standard practice.

When 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 shoot 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 taking care of themselves.

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, disobedient, and unorganized. Others argue that is a superficial explanation for a motive that requires such a drastic waste of weapons. Those arguers believe that the New Morocco Authority is simply obeying the dictates of a higher authority that 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 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.

"another day Finn-" the voice of the leader is sandy and cracks, "we can wait."

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

"All I do is wait."

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. Weariness tugs at their eyes.

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 the second ever NMA capture of a rogue Genesian group, Selah forgot to live. Finley forgave his mother her paramnesia, buried her body in the Eastern cliffs.

He says 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. Kit wishes to continue speaking, but he has lost 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.

Finn cannot speak anymore.

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

It is almost time now. From here in the shade, the grief is melting your muscles. What must you do? Fortuna, what does it require of you? what is the course of action? Must you convince the man to stay in this world? 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 grasps it. He hands it to Adom.

"Second pocket."

The pistol is unfair largeness in Adom's boyish hands, almost as if it shouldn't belong. He racks the slide. There, now we are ready.

Finn folds to his knees.

There, melting across the horizon is the West Genesis sun. It is only right that a man should face his killer, he thinks. Twenty years with the sky burning the whitest light, but it is a black hole, this place. Only moments now.

Adom raises the pistol. The black of the metal swallows the reflection of the sunset.

Now! You leap from the shadows. You release your bowstring. Your arrow, with its pink and purple fletching, sings above his head. It pierces the salt in front of his body. A miss! A sin! Crouched in desperation now, your hand fumbles the quiver for another arrow. This one will surely-

An explosion of noise.

Finn is dead.

His head is resting in the salt, where your arrow struck. His forehead crowned in a halo of red.

Kit releases an ungodly groan. He collapses into the sand as if he has too been struck.

Curse this assignment. Certainly, fates doomed you from the onset, Parcae. You were never a saving cherub. And surely, if you had struck him, he would have lived. Oh, why did you miss? Rage beats the curtains of your eyes, as a drunk ruffian might lash on the door of a tavern. In the last moments of the light, the locket which decorated your chest for infinity before, bites into your skin. It's heart-shape silhouette calls out like a monster from a cave. It carries a weight you cannot thwart.

You tear it from your neck.

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