The land, originally fertile, was now baked to a crisp. The air shimmered with heat, cracks broken into the dirt, grass shriveled, and mud turned to clay. Through these desolate fields, wagons rolled, the hooves of horses knocked dust asunder, and men dressed in stereotypical Roman armour led the way. The Frumentarii were on one of their expeditions.

The browns and beiges were interrupted by vibrant reds, blacks, whites, yellows. The centurion, curious, moved his horse in the direction of the oasis of colour.

The expedition slowed. As they passed by the imp, who was panting shallowly and gushing from every inch of their body, one of the legionaries, an imp themselves, grimaced. "Barbarus moriens est."

The centurion, his head covered in a helmet with a human-like mask, tilted his head to observe the moribund creature. They were wearing some olive-green webbing vest, caked through with vital fluids, and to their side was a blue and gold book. "…quam prope est tonsor medicus?"

"Dimidium passus."

The leader of the expedition nodded once. "Facite. Si vivit, fac illum eunuchum."

With that command, two of the legionaries dismounted, slipped the vest off the imp, tossing it into the sandy soil. One pointed to the book. "Quid de libro?"

The centurion, lifting his head up, horse restless, paused for a moment. When he did speak, there was no hesitation. "Id quoque." He gestured to the vest, swatting it away from a distance. "Vestes noli accipere. Nihil nobis prodest."

"Fiet." The bleeding imp was lifted and draped over the back of a horse. The book was taken by the other legionary, nestled into one of his arms. The expedition split. Two horses now headed straight for Tumbleweed.

Everyone else headed to one of the villages they had marked down for grain collection.

The barbershop was quiet. Patients were few and far between, haircuts were sparse, and today, the barber sat down on a couch, talking to his apprentice. "Ey, som' day, huh?"

The apprentice chuckled a bit. A short, burly imp, grizzled by the sands. "Thank ya fer lettin' me operate on that guy."

Kriego rose an eyebrow, pursing his lips for a moment and shrugging. "It's 'bout time ya picked that up. Better than when things are busy, lemme tell ya! Did I ever tell ya 'bout my first surgery?"

"A few times, boss."

"…I did? Shit… startin' ta lose it a lil'. Must be this heat, aye?" He undid the cuff on one of his sleeves, rolling it up a bit. "That an' tha bleachin'… ya think I should get it checked out? By, ya kno', a proper doc?"

The burly man squinted a bit with his aged eyes, tilting his head to the side. "Ya brotha' had that, right? Might jus' be late fer ya."

"Ye, but everyone's gettin' it, Joe. Ya heard what they've been sayin'. They're seein' splotches they ain't never seen before. Might be som' fucked up skin condition."

"…what is it ya tol' me… think horses, not zebras?" A little laugh. "It's probably nothin'. Ya might be noticin' it more 'cus you're bleachin' too."

Kriego sighs. "…ye. Ye, maybe you're right. Jus' gotta step away an'… assess it wit' a clear head."

The telltale sound of hooves breaking the dirt, spraying it behind, getting closer and closer. Joe looked over his shoulder. "…shiiit, shouldn't a' said that thin' 'bout horses."

The barber-surgeon rocketed out of his seat. "Aight, don't panic, but I don't got no haircut appointments today. That's either a trauma or a walk-in surgery. Jus'… steel yerself."

Joe nodded. There was no expression on his face, although his deep inhale suggested tension. "…right."

The horses stopped. Two Frumentarii kicked the door open to the barber. In their arms was a man completely drenched in red. Cuts spurted out of their chest and back. All the patient wore was a tattered pair of shorts, their original colour and material unrecognizable. So was the imp, too covered in injury to be immediately identified.

Kriego's eyes widened. His heart thumped in his chest. "Ah shit- right, lay 'im on tha chair here!" He pointed to Joe, snapping his fingers. "Get me tha trauma cart!"

The legionaries plopped him on the barber's chair, and Kriego immediately pressed a lever with his foot to pull the back of the chair down. One spoke up. "…will he live?"

The apprentice wheeled a cart to the side, which was absolutely covered in surgical instruments. "I'll plug tha cauter in."

The master was checking for a pulse on the wrist. Weak, fast. On the neck. Weak, fast. Breathing was shallow, airway was clear. "Right, good, good- look, I'll do my best, but this fuck's real badly injured." He opened the patient's eyelid.

Immediately, he recognised him. The barber's eyes nearly bulged out of his head as he made eye contact with his brother for the first time in years. "…" He looked to the Frumentarii. "Aight, I'm gonna have ta ask y'all ta wait outside."

The legionaries stood silent. "Why?"

"Wha', ya want me ta save 'im or not? I need a clear operatin' theatre ta get to everythin'." Frustration brewed on the imp's face. "Wait… outside." After a few seconds, the legionaries gave in, stepping out of the barbershop to wait on the street.

"Cauter's plugged in!"

Kriego's voice cracked. "Okay, okay, okay, uh, shit… shit shit shit shit…" Tears were now welling in his eyes. The electrocauter, handed over to the barber, burned his twin's flesh, desperately trying to close one of the innumerable, vicious incisions of the skin and muscle. He screamed out. "GET ME A FUCKIN' BLOOD BAG!"

The village. The locals simply called it Ibai Herria. To the Frumentarii, it was just a number, an unnamed district in Sector 17 of the Wrath Ring. As the expedition came to a halt in front of the village, confusion began to germinate within the ranks.

Nobody greeted them.

The centurion took his mask off to reveal a splotched, scarred impish face. His yellowed eyes narrowed. "…latent. Quaere aream!"

Yet as they searched, on horseback, on foot, breaking down every door and checking every hiding spot… there was nobody. Crops had withered and the ground was fallow. Baths were filled and ovens were smouldering. Clotheslines filled to the brim, garments now eaten away by bugs, caked in dust.

Ibai Herria had disappeared. Its works, its buildings, its snapshot of life had remained, but there was nobody to partake. It was in this state that the Frumentarii left. And it was here that the village remained.

The pulse was gone. Monitor was shouting out its alarms, the hitman's heart quivering, throwing out electrical signals without order, without perfusion. The apprentice feverishly sewed together what he could, cauterized what he could. Kriego was pumping on his brother's chest, hands clasped together. The ribcage popped and cracked. Above them was a bag of blood, fluids running wide open, IV in the neck. It was the only vein that hadn't collapsed.

Electrode pads were plastered onto the imp's chest. The first wounds they treated were the ones they had to attach equipment on. The apprentice pressed a few buttons, charging a machine to the side. 360 joules.

The barber-surgeon was exhausted, breath ragged, sweating bullets, gasping out. "Aight… h-hit him wit' the epi."

A pen filled with epinephrine, designed for anaphylaxis, was jabbed into the patient's thigh. The pen ran dry and was chucked aside.

Kriego waited a few moments before his hands lifted off his brother's chest. "Clear."

Joe hit a button. A slight jolt. The monitor peaked. Asystole. A few moments of waiting. The heart restarted. "…V-fib."

"Shhhit. Shit shit, okay, keep goin', give the epi a bit to work." Back to compressions. Kriego grit his teeth, squinting his eyes shut. The words that came out of his mouth were whisper quiet. "…c'mon… c'mon bro… ya've dealt wit' worse… I know ya've dealt wit' worse… jus' hang in there… pull through for me…"

"…boss. You're barely breathin'." The apprentice stopped his master before giving him the electrocauter. "Lemme take over."

The barber sighed, frozen for a moment before nodding. "…okay. Okay." He worked the almost insurmountable task of staunching the bleeding. It had slowed to a trickle. With every pump on the patient's chest, more gushed out, and the surgeon's formal clothing was now completely saturated.

Joe soon grew out of breath. "He's… bleedin' everywhere-"

"It's… it's alright, it's fine, it's… jus' keep doin' what you're doin'…" Kriego had caught his breath, but a shivering sound slipped out of his throat regardless.

Rain pattered on the windowsill, soaking into the dirt. A small bedroom, wooden floors, a ragged bunk bed with beige sheets. A pencil and binder, writing hastily scribbled in. Chipped white paint on the window, the greyish-brown underneath revealed in spots. It was the dark of night. A lantern flickered on the end table.

An impish child sat on the bottom bunk, a radio to their side. They had plugged in a set of cheap headphones, and the voices of the city beamed in. He was staring out the window, taking solace in Wrath's wet season.

Another child, devoid of hair, leaned on the door frame and knocked on the wood. "…ey."

The freckled imp took his headphones off for a moment. "Ey, bro. Ya headin' ta bed soon?"

A small nod. He stepped on in, yawning. "Ye… wanted ta listen to tha radio tho'."

The dial was turned down and the headphones were unplugged. Soon, the mid-atlantic accent of the broadcaster quietly streamed into the room. "Sure… we gotta keep quiet, tho', it's gettin' late…" Kriego scooted further into the bed.

Blitzo sat in the spot that was made. "…thanks." They sat there quietly. The family farm extended past the window, life-giving water drenching its soils, the tapping of drops against the wood outside mixing in with the broadcast.

Kriego threw the electrocauter down onto the trauma cart. "Fuck… fuuuuck… okay, okay, no, no, you're doin' the fuckin' cauterisin'."

"Boss, are ya sure? You're goddamn exhausted-"

"TAKE THA CAUTERISER!" He screamed out, voice hoarse, cracking. Tears now flowed like water from his eyes, and in his anguish, he slammed his fist against the sternum and performed compressions with reckless abandon.

The apprentice did what he was told, but side-eyed Kriego skeptically. "…look, boss, ya gotta-"

"Anotha' epi." The barber was pumping as fast as he could, as hard as he could. His hair had become unkempt, strands now sticking to his sweat-drenched forehead. An expression of fury was plastered on every inch of his face, and he peeked through it to his apprentice. "ANOTHA' FUCKIN' EPI!"

Joe stopped what he was doing, tensing up, before ripping another pen out of its packaging and taking its cap off. Jabbed into the thigh.

"Charge 'im. CHARGE 'IM! FUCKIN' DO IT!" Desperation flew out. The fluid leaking out of his tear ducts splattered onto the bloodied, broken chest below.

The apprentice frantically pushed buttons on the defibrillator. His own hands were shaking. 360 joules. He waited.

The imp muttered something under his breath. A prayer. Anguished. Despairing. Grasping for anything to bring his brother back. Kriego stopped his compressions and lifted his hands off the patient.

"CLEAR!"