They are the strangest of creatures crowned with top-hats and worn overcoats, umbras of doom falling out their pockets. They leave tracks of vast charcoal and mark territory with the scent of pungent gunpowder. The drool from their muzzles glisten like diamonds falling on cobalt sands carving craters of glass. They flock in shapes of fleeting violence and thrill at the sight of carrion bleeding petrol. They speak in tongues, secret and callous. Their sigils, old as death and twice as bold, rest in hollow locks nestled in gilded ribcages. They conspire under steampunk monoliths, siege engines above, pumping the noise of free enterprise, flanked by an army of Strangelove automatons sired by Moloch. They ache for home, a far away world of grim iron orbiting a hollow shell uncharted by the science of learned men. They are Khan Men. They are legion. And they're gunning for the Kingdom of Mars.