“By the dirt under my feet, I had only heard of this mark,” Rick remarked, his voice tinged with astonishment.

“Marks are commonplace among machines. Is Amelia a machine?” Roy asked, poking curiously at the side of Amelia’s neck.

“When the royal triplet babes are born, they’re given this bugaboo weirdo tattoo with ancient writin’,” Rick explained, leaning in to closely examine the intricate swirls, sharp curves, and the subtly pulsating glow of the tattoo. “This mark—this tattoo—is more like an oath. It’s supposed to eat yer’ body whole after only four years old, like a parasite grown from a deal with Yerro,” Rick continued, his gaze narrowing. “A deal for power.”

“Rick?” Roy asked, his finger inching toward Rick’s throat.

“What’s that finger hurlin’ towards me for?” Rick shot back.

“You have no mark. No tattoo. It’s not the same. WE are not part of her deal?” Roy asked innocently. “Yerro did not grant me your soul. I must ask again—who did?”

“Doesn’t matter. They're gone,” Rick replied, his voice trailing off as he turned away from Amelia. “What’s going on with us… it’s different… I’ve gone and made a one-sided deal. Lucky it’s the side that matters,” he muttered, gently pushing Roy’s finger away and redirecting his attention back to Amelia.

“This tattoo… best believe it lives and breathes with Amelia—at least, that’s the rumor among the Quadrants. If it’s here, she’s fine.”

Amelia could feel the distant thuds and thumps as Rick and Roy paced around her, their voices growing muffled as her focus wavered. No matter how far she drifted in her mind, a strange warmth around her feet kept her anchored to the voices around her.

“… what’s the extent of that mark, Amelia? Can’t just be liftin’ heavy boulders,” Rick wondered aloud, though his voice seemed to drift further away from her.

“Yerro: A Colossus or Great Spirit responsible for creating the City of New Dwarden upon its death. Like many colossi millennia ago, they are gifts from—” Roy began to explain, his voice trailing off as Rick cut him short.

“Break that crank, Roy! Don’t need that kind of information right now,” Rick scolded. “Look at the girl.”

“Don’t need it?” Roy asked, his head lowering in confusion as the light in his eyes dimmed to a softer white.

“Best understand you’re not just some hodgepodge conveyor belt robot. And best get used to it! You have blood, thoughts, and maybe even some more emotion than me. Don’t act like a block of metal,” Rick corrected. “Just gander the damn rock—”

“LOCKET. The locket—as it would appear—carries within it a picture of the royal family, an embedded blue gem, and a crinkled piece of paper,” Roy explained, it’s eyes returning to its usual yellow glow.

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“The gem, Roy. What’s the expensive rock about?” Rick pressed.

“This gem indeed carries a piece of Yerro’s heart. Its glow is faint; however, this is what King Woltwork warned us about,” Roy explained, carefully extracting the locket from within Amelia’s boot.

Roy delicately picked up the locket, his metallic fingers maneuvering the delicate item with precision. He scrutinized the inscriptions, tiny cogs, and the faded picture of Amelia at its center before turning his attention to the gem. Inside, Roy observed a small piece of shining metal wrapped in tiny moving vines and a pulsating light. Satisfied with the examination, he began to tuck it away, but Rick’s hand swiftly stopped him.

“Best not be handlin’ that longer than ya’ have to, Roy,” Rick cautioned, his voice carrying a note of solemnity. “That’s a precious thing for them. Crownies… they’re different beasts. Among the three, Amelia is said to be the nicer Woltwork. Best leave it until she wants to show us, or until we have to take it—should it come to that. She may not be our King Woltwork, but she’s got some sense of law, if our emergencies become… more emergent,” Rick explained, gently guiding the locket back into Amelia’s boot.

“Shall I continue my DIRECTIVE?” Roy inquired, his metallic voice resonating.

“Well now that we know that death ain’t hollerin’ her name we can finish scannin’ her,” Rick ordered. “I’ll wake her the way my momma used to—with an iron grip.”

“Command recognized: scan Amelia Woltwork,” Roy responded, refocusing on the task at hand.

“Amelia Woltwork!” Rick cheered theatrically. “Younger sister of King Michael and older sister to Bolton. Our royal trio! It is now your turn to feed the hand of the Iron Grip!”

Amelia could feel the heat radiating from the man crouched over her. The scent of oil and freshly baked goods drifted into her nostrils, playful yet stinging. Slowly, she began to stir, feeling the world around her come back to life with faint sensations—gentle pinches, soft prods, and the distant hum of machinery—all working to draw her back into consciousness.

“You forced my hand, Crowny,” Rick taunted, his voice hovering ominously above her.

Before Amelia could utter a sound, she sensed the man drawing closer. Through a narrow slit of her vision, she caught a blurred image of Rick’s fingers inching toward her nose with mischievous intent.

“The trick to a good dream,” Rick proclaimed, “is that it must be a story worth telling. And a good story always begins with… a dream and a TWIST!” He emphasized his point with a purposeful flick and twist of his wrist.

“Assault!” yelped Amelia, jolting awake. “Mugger! Thief! I—I… monster?”

Amelia suddenly sprang to her feet, wobbling as she propelled herself upwards, only to immediately fall back into a sitting position.

“Where’s the monster? That thing? Why was it trying to eat me?” Amelia blurted, her voice smooth and angelic compared to Rick’s gruff tone. “It was just here…” she panicked, scanning her surroundings before her voice trailed off into exhaustion.

“Calm down, Crowny! We saved ya! No creatures here,” Rick assured her. “We’re the closest thing to a doctor you have right now, and I got my certification at a junkyard.”

“What…” Amelia muttered, her head spinning from the rush of sensations.

Rick’s “IRON CLAW” grip remained as painful as ever, and Amelia groaned loudly as she fully regained consciousness, the sensation of pain flooding back. Slowly, she blinked her eyes open, the world appearing dim and hazy as she struggled to comprehend her surroundings.

“Tell me Crowny. Did ya’ always wear a birthmark on your right cheek? How about them green eyes? A tiny bend in the nose? A distinct yet modest jawline?” Rick examined her closely, moving at an uncomfortable speed. “Do ya’ prefer the clothing of a Yardrat? Or have you spent your royalties… elsewhere? Moreso, was it necessary to work in those mines all those years? AAAAAAND what happened after your eighteenth birthday? The Greisha Crown Ceremony. Go on, I’ll wait.”