Once, when Pity was young, a man on the commune took a fall from his motorcycle while out hunting alone. For two days he walked back on a badly injured leg, and that was the only reason she knew what infected flesh smelled like.

It was one of the first things she noticed as they entered the makeshift camp, set up in a sprawling graveled lot between buildings. Unlike the Reformationists’ settlement outside the city’s gates, here there were no orderly rows and pristine tents. People appeared to have set up where they fell; tarps strung between battered vehicles were the closest things to shelter that Pity saw. Exhausted eyes watched them as they passed, and everywhere she looked she saw bruises, burns, and blood.

“Mama!” Ari ran to a woman hunched over a boiling pot of bandages.

“Where have you been?” The woman stood and embraced him. “I told you to stay close.”

“I’m okay,” he said, his face half buried in her shoulder. “I took a wrong turn. They helped me back.”

With a wary look at the Tin Men with them, she released her son. “Thank you.”

“Happy to help,” Max said, though he sounded anything but. He scanned the camp, his face grim. “Who did this to you?”

“Who do you think?” Dr. Starr appeared from beneath one of the tarp lean-tos, medical bag in hand. His sleeves were rolled to the elbow, and there were specks of crimson on his forearms.

Max swore.

“Soldiers in black trucks came to our town a few days ago,” Ari’s mother said. “They told us to be gone by morning. When we didn’t listen…” She spat angrily. “CONA bastards. Anyone who won’t swear allegiance they still treat like enemies. We only want to live in peace. Is that so much to ask?”

Pity felt the blood drain from her face. “CONA did this?”

“It’s not the first time.” Without prompting, Starr took Ari’s injured arm and began unwrapping the bandage. “Doubt it will be the last.”

“But why?”

“They’ve been expanding west for years,” Max explained. “Slowly but consistently. And when they come to a dissident town or settlement they want gone… well, this is the result.”

Revulsion coursed through Pity, part of her still disbelieving despite what she saw with her own eyes. It’s not like they’d feature this sort of thing on the broadcasts, though, would they? Between the displaced dissidents and the hanged men at Last Stop, she wondered what else those broadcasts didn’t show.

Max thought for a moment. “You said they were in black trucks?”

Ari nodded. “With gold markings on the side.”

Confusion replaced Pity’s disgust. “That’s not CONA military, it’s—”

“Drakos-Pryce,” Max finished. “CONA hires them. Their killers have even fewer scruples than the military. And in return for the dirty work, they get their choice of government contracts, resources—whatever they want.” The undisguised vehemence in his voice—a stark contrast to his usual demeanor—took Pity aback. “Does Miss Selene know about this?” he said to Starr.

“Yes.” The doctor dabbed some ointment on Ari’s arm. “The other medics and I have seen to the worst of the injuries, and there should be a legion of porters arriving any minute with a hot meal.”

“Can you stay, too?” Max asked the Tin Men. “Make sure the gangs don’t harass anyone else.”

One of them lifted his rifle. “We’ll keep them in line.”

“Thank you again,” said Ari’s mother. “At least there are some kind folks still in this world.”

A smile fluttered and failed on Max’s lips as he waved good-bye to Ari and guided Pity away from the camp. Sometime during the exchange, Tye had disappeared again, though she guessed that wasn’t what was distressing Max. He moved with a taut, frustrated gait, as if ready to break into a run.

“What will happen to them?” She quickened her pace to keep up. “Will they be okay?”

“Maybe.”

“Max, wait!” She grabbed his arm. “Are you okay?”

He slowed to a stop. For a moment, his eyes burned with glassy anger, but when they focused on her, his features softened. “Yes, I’m fine. Just… tired of seeing that.”

“We could have stayed and helped.”

“Selene will send food and medical supplies. We’d only be in the way.” He sighed. “Like Starr said, this is nothing new. Most likely they’ll patch themselves up, find a new spot to settle, and pray for a quiet year or two before CONA shows up again.”

Despite the assurances, Pity ached to do something. If only because the experience of having the world ripped from beneath her feet was familiar now and still too fresh. Thinking of Finn, she glanced back toward the camp and wondered how many people from the dissident town hadn’t made it to Cessation.

But he was right. Starr and the Tin Men were there, and more help was on the way. “Which way to Casimir, then? These streets are a maze.”

“We’re not going back yet.”

“What?”

Max brightened a little, hints of his usual persona returning. “I told you there was more to Cessation than Casimir, and that wasn’t it. You should see something good today, too.”

The camp had left Pity with a sour feeling in her chest, one that would be easier to contemplate behind safe walls. But moments ago Max had looked nearly despondent and now…

If it will cheer him up. “Fine. I guess I still have plenty of ammo if we run into more trouble.”

They made their way back to the main streets, soon arriving at a large square building with rows of narrow windows across its front side. Above the entrance, a hand-painted sign read BLACKMARK, flanked by large black Xs. People were coming and going at a steady pace, and Pity was heartened to see more Tin Men. Their presence alleviated some of her worry as she and Max pushed their way through the front doors.

Inside was an electric bedlam that rivaled even that of the Gallery. It was a single open space, the ceiling five stories above their heads. Sunlight streamed through the windows onto a twisted maze of booths and stalls.

“Watch for pickpockets,” said Max.

“I’ve got nothing for them to steal,” Pity said, “unless they want a handful of bullets.”

“Boots!” the vendors called. “Circuit boards! Vaccines! Spices!”

Though Pity couldn’t quite put the battered dissidents out of her mind, BlackMark succeeded in garnering the lion’s share of her attention. Compared to the commune’s commissaries, it was a cornucopia. She saw dried meats and beans, grains, and fruits of all kinds. There were guns and knives, too, mostly old war-issue stock that had seen better days. As they moved closer to the middle, the booths grew nicer, filled with silks and perfumes, and clothing that reminded Pity of what Flossie’s lot preferred.

“See anything you like?” Max picked through a bin of paint cans. He chose one and paid the vendor.

“There’s so much! Even if I had any money, this is like looking through a haystack to find a needle I don’t need.” And it hardly felt right, ogling the endless goods after coming from a group of people who’d lost almost everything.

But, she thought, maybe once her wages from the Theatre started, it would be fun to come back and browse.

“I didn’t bring you all the way here only to let you leave empty-handed. Here, do you like scarves? This one would—”

“Make me look ridiculous?” Pity laughed and turned to another stall. There, among a selection of leather items, a black gun belt with silver buckles caught her eye. Unable to resist, she caught the vendor’s attention and pointed. “Can I see that, please?”

The vendor gave her a dubious look until he spotted the revolvers at her hips. He turned all smiles. “Of course, miss, here you are. The very best leather!”

Pity ran her fingertips over the tooled designs. They were expertly done.

“Try it on,” urged Max.

“It’s too nice.” She began to give it back.

Max stopped her. “Pity, try that belt on. You’re getting something while we’re here, and I swear it will be that scarf unless you—”

“Okay, okay!” She unhooked her old belt—her father’s old belt, she reminded herself—and handed it to Max. Then she strapped the black one around her waist and slipped the guns into the holsters. It fit like it had been made for her.

“How much?” asked Max.

The vendor quoted a figure. Max threw back a much lower one. They haggled back and forth, but Pity barely heard a word. Grinning ear to ear, she admired the sheen of the leather, the smoothness of the finish. It was the finest gun belt she had ever seen.

And Max was buying it for her.

Finally, the price was settled and Max handed over the money. “You want to keep this?” he asked of the old belt.

She stared at it, one of the few remaining pieces of her past. “No, I do not.”

Max tossed it to the vendor. “Don’t let me catch you charging an arm and a leg for this one, too.”

Her face felt like it might split from smiling. “I’ll pay you back, I promise, just as soon as I—”

“It’s a gift.”

“No. It’s too much.”

“It’s not,” he insisted. “I don’t like having too much money in my pocket anyway. Keeps me honest.” He paused. “And after all, we can’t have you doing your act looking like a beat-up old drifter.”

“I wasn’t aware that I looked like a beat-up old drifter.”

“Hmm, I suppose I should hush up,” he said with a smile, “before you decide to test out that thing.”

During their return to Casimir, Pity walked a little taller, her spirits lifted by the new gun belt. At first, she thought Max’s mood had improved as well. But he seemed to withdraw again as they strolled, a troubled, distant look in his eyes, as if he were seeing somewhere else entirely.