It took the clan about seven minutes to determine the mech was complete junk, not even worth salvaging. It took them far longer to determine what to do with the pilot. They were still discussing it when Rush finished stripping off his armor and returned to the conversation.

  “We’re not murderers, Jen,” Hartwell said.

  “And we’re not idiots either,” Jen snapped back. “So we’re not going to spend any of our precious resources keeping this scumbag alive.”

  “I didn’t say we’d give him anything,” Hartwell said. “Without his mech, he’s not a threat to us. We can set him loose.”

  “With no food or water, three weeks away from the Hub?” Liam said. “Starving’s a worse way to die than a bash in the head.”

  The bound bandit sat in the center of the circle, not daring to raise his voice and add to the discussion of his fate. If not for the occasional twitches of his head, he could easily be mistaken for dead already. In direct sunlight, his pale complexion and emaciated frame looked even more skeletal.

  Rushmore raised his hand. Jen rolled her eyes.

  “You have something you’d like to add, Rushmore?”

  “Has anyone asked him what he wants?”

  The bandit raised his head, as much as he was able. The clan members standing around him did a quick double take between the bandit and Rush.

  “You want to ask the prisoner what he thinks we should do with him?”

  “It could simplify things,” Rush said. “Maybe he wants to try and walk back.”

  “Oh, sure, yes, let’s just ask the mass murderer what he wants to happen,” Jen said. She stepped towards their captive and bent down to look him in his sunken eyes. “Hey, serial killer? Let me guess, you want us to untie you, give you some food, and let you pick through all our belongings on your way out?”

  The bound bandit shifted uncomfortably against his bonds and let out a sigh so deep Rush could watch his ribs move beneath his pallid skin.

  “I want you to kill me,” he said.

  Jen said nothing. She stepped back as the bandit took another deep breath.

  “I have fifeen million debt units to pay off,” he continued. “Even with a mech I could barely make minimum buy-in to earn meals. I’ve been splitting up single ration bars over days, portioning out sips of water-”

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  “Oh, spare us the tears,” Jen said. “Everything you ‘earned’ was stolen from people you killed.”

  “I’m not asking for sympathy,” the bandit said, through dry, cracked lips. “Just mercy. Some food, a drink of water, and a quick death. That’s all I want.”

  “So you do want some of our food,” Jen said.

  “Would you want to die on an empty stomach?”

  “Did any of those people in that building want to die under any circumstances?”

  “Probably not,” the bandit admitted. “But you’re all talking like you’re better people than me. Are you?”

  Jen crossed her arms and bent her scarred lips into a scowl. Hartwell observed it from a distance before letting out a deep sigh.

  “Get him some water, at least,” Hartwell said.

  “Hartwell,” Liam said.

  “It’ll come out of my share, so don’t act like I’m giving up the clan’s resources.”

  “It’s still a waste,” Liam said.

  “Being a good man is not a waste,” Hartwell said. Liam grunted in obvious disagreement and headed out, presumably to fetch some water.

  “Hmm. Nice to know you really are better,” the bandit said. “I always hated hypocrites. Wouldn’t like getting killed by one.”

  “Find a better use for your last words,” Hartwell said. “Try praying.”

  Hartwell stepped away from the bandit to get some air. Every breath he took in this city carried the faint stench of corpses, no matter how far Hartwell wandered from the crude mausoleum. The mere thought of all those corpses was enough to make him sick, much less the smell.

  “It does feel like a waste.”

  Hartwell’s head snapped to the side. Rushmore had apparently followed him step for step, unnervingly quiet as always. Once he had steadied his heartbeat, Hartwell leaned on a wall and looked Rush in the eyes.

  “It’s a waste of material goods, maybe,” Hartwell said. “But there’s more to sustaining a life than food and water. Consider it an investment in a clean conscience.”

  “A clean conscience doesn’t pay off debt,” Rush said.

  “And thoughts exactly like that are how we end up with bandits and buildings full of corpses,” Hartwell said. “We have to be better, Rush. We have to be patient, and merciful, and charitable. Even to our enemies.”

  “I see. Even to people who disobey orders?”

  “Of course.”

  The sentence had barely left his mouth when Hartwell snapped to attention and spun on his heel. Rush rarely said anything without reason. Hartwell had just finished turning when the bandit’s body hit the ground, his throat cut in a broad curve the shape of a bloody smile. Liam flicked his wrist to shake the blood off his knife and then wrapped the dull blade in a cloth to clean it further.

  “Liam!”

  “You’re welcome,” Liam said, as he finished polishing his shiv. He managed to maintain his composure right up until Hartwell slapped him in the face.

  “What the hell are you thinking?” Hartwell demanded. “We need to be better than this!”

  Liam stopped reeling from the slap and rubbed a sore cheek as he locked eyes with Hartwell.

  “Why?”

  He left without waiting for an answer. Hartwell didn’t have one that could satisfy him anyway. The leader of the clan stood alone next to the dead bandit, and stepped back from the pool of blood rapidly blossoming from their slit throat. Once he’d collected himself, Hartwell looked over his shoulder at Rush.

  The boy had seen everything, and taken it all in in silence. He was, as always, watching, observing -learning. Hartwell got very, very worried about what he might’ve learned from this.