Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“There is only now, and if now is only two days, then two days is your life and everything in it will be in proportion. This is how you live a life in two days. And if you stop complaining and asking for what you never will get, you will have a good life. A good life is not measured by any biblical span.”

― Ernest Hemingway, For Whom the Bell Tolls

He’d traded neon for stars, gunfire for silence. Sand in his boots, sand in everything. But the view? Worth it.

V leaned back in the passenger seat, eyes on the desert stretching forever under the moon. Beside him, Panam had both hands steady on the wheel, face hard but calm—the way she always looked when she had a job to do.

She wasn’t just driving. She was carrying him.

Never had anyone watch my back like this before. Felt like she had a hand wrapped around his heart, keeping it from splitting under the weight.

The engine hummed, tires hissed over dirt. For once, no gunfire, no corpos breathing down his neck, no Johnny yelling in his ear. Just silence. And it was strange. Unsettling.

He tilted his head against the glass, watching stars prick through the black sky. In Night City, the smog always smeared them out. Out here, every star looked sharp enough to cut. He let out a low whistle. “Gotta admit, beats neon ads on a cloudy night.”

Panam side-eyed him. “Don’t sound so surprised. World doesn’t end past the city limits.”

He smirked faintly. “Sure feels like it.”

She shook her head, but the corner of her mouth twitched.

Jackie came to mind—loud, grinning Jackie. Cracking jokes even when things went to shit. Then Jackie’s eyes going still in the back of the Delamain.

Ah, Jack… wonder how it’d look if we’d never taken that gig. You’d still be here? Or would some other street rat have dropped you anyway?

There was a hole in him now. Johnny had filled it—loud, angry, insufferable Johnny. But he understood. Knew what it was like to fight the clock. And he’d kept his word. Saved V.

Sometimes V still heard him. Get up, asshole. Don’t got time to sit and rot.

The rooftop burned in his memory. Gun in his hand. City below. Wondering if he should just end it before the relic did it for him. Hated himself for thinking it. Hated worse that Panam didn’t know how close she’d come to losing him.

He shifted, restless, tapping chrome fingers against the door. She glanced at the sound, but didn’t say anything.

Finally, she asked, “What’s goin’ on in that head of yours?” Her voice cut sharp, but low.

V shifted again. “I dunno. Just… a lot rattling around.”

“V.” She pulled one hand off the wheel, gave his leg a firm squeeze. “Talk to me. I’m here. You’re not scaring me off.”

He tried to laugh. It came out thin. “It’s one thing stormin’ Arasaka with me. Whole different thing dealing with the mess up here.”

“I’m serious,” she pressed.

He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes out the window. The words sat heavy, like iron in his throat. Finally, he forced them out.

“Been thinkin’ about everyone we lost. Jackie. Scorp. Even Johnny.” He tapped his temple. “Miss the bastard. Never thought I’d say that.”

She stayed quiet, hand still on him. The silence stretched, filled only by the drone of the engine and the whisper of sand under tires.

“Before I called you… things got bad. I was on a rooftop. Gun in my hand. Whole city beneath me. Thought that was it.”

Her head snapped toward him, eyes wide.

“But I didn’t,” V went on, voice rough. “Couldn’t. I called you instead. Just wanted to hear your voice one more time. Then I realized… I didn’t want it to be the last time. Dropped the gun. Called you again.”

She breathed hard, eyes shining. “Do you have any idea what that would’ve done to me, V? Walking in and finding you like that?” Her voice cracked. “Don’t you ever think like that again. I couldn’t take it.”

He lifted his chrome hand, brushed her cheek. Cold steel against warm skin. She didn’t flinch. Leaned into it.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “Won’t happen again. Promise.”

Her jaw set, fierce. “We’ll find a way. Doesn’t matter how impossible. We’ll fix it. You’re not dyin’ on me.” Her eyes locked on his. “You’re mine, V. I’m not lettin’ go.”

For the first time in weeks, a smile tugged at his mouth. Real. “Guess you’re stuck with me, then.”

She smirked back, stubborn as ever.

The road hummed on, stretching endless under the stars. Whatever came next, they’d face it together.

The Thornton rattled over the last ridge, suspension groaning as the desert flattened out ahead. Headlights blinked in the distance, rigs circled like a fortress of steel. The convoy.

Panam eased the wheel, whistling low. “Right on time.”

Camp was alive: generators humming, sand crunching under tires, kids darting between rigs. Paint flaked on metal, neon stripes glowing under lanterns. Smoke from cookfires curled into the night. Drones buzzed lazy loops overhead. Not survival—home.

A girl chased her brother around a truck, laughter echoing in the dark. V blinked. When the hell was the last time I saw kids laugh like that? Night City didn’t have space for it. Out here, even with grit between his teeth, it felt like peace.

Mitch saw them first, waving big. “Well, look who finally decided to show!”

Cassidy leaned on a truck, revolver hanging easy at his thigh. “Huh. Thought the city boy finally keeled over. Guess I lost that bet.”

Carol folded her arms, eyes sharp. “Panam, you actually let somebody else ride shotgun? Miracles do happen.”

V cracked a half-smile climbing out, boots sinking in the sand. For once, not suspicion. Just teasing. Almost feels like belonging.

Panam shot Carol a smirk. “Don’t get used to it.”

Supplies came out quick—crates, fuel, bedrolls. V shouldered a box, following Panam. Mitch muttered at a drone feed. Cassidy sat under a lantern, stripping his revolver while needling the rookies. Carol stalked around like she ran the place, orders snapping sharp.

“Fuel east. Water west. And if anybody freeloads, I’ll know.”

V dropped his crate by the pit, sweat stinging his eyes. Carol shoved a plate into his hands before he caught his breath—stew and flatbread stacked high.

“Eat before you keel over. You’ve got that half-dead look I hate.”

V blinked, smirk tugging. “Guess I’ve looked worse.”

“Not by much,” she shot back, already barking at someone else.

The stew hit with cumin and woodsmoke, bread rough but real. Not the synth-slop from the city.

Cassidy walked by, grinning. “Careful, city boy. You get used to food like this, you’ll never touch pre-pack again.”

“Guess I’ll risk it,” V said around a mouthful.

The camp clicked into rhythm—tents pitched, fires dug out, drones circling. Panam was everywhere: laughing with Cassidy, arguing with Carol, checking Mitch’s feed. V stood back, watching. Feels like family. Something I didn’t know I’d been missing.

When the work was done, night closed in. Panam pulled him to the fire where Mitch, Cassidy, and Carol sat, faces glowing in orange light. V dropped onto the sand, warmth seeping deep. For the first time since leaving Night City, he breathed easy.

“Well, look who crawled outta Night City alive,” Mitch grinned. “Thought for sure Panam’d be drivin’ solo.”

“Yeah, yeah,” V muttered, flicking grit off his boot. “Sorry to disappoint.”

Cassidy barked a laugh, revolver parts scattered in his lap. “Shit, I owe Carol fifty eddies. Said you’d croak before the month was up.”

Carol smirked, nudging V’s plate closer. “Told you—too stubborn to die. Now eat before I change my mind.”

The fire popped. Mitch’s smile dimmed. “Scorp’d be lovin’ this. Probably tryin’ to roast marshmallows with a damn blowtorch.”

“Or blow himself up with it,” Cassidy said. “Guy never did anything halfway.”

Mitch chuckled, stirring coals. “Remember the radiator coffee? Swore it’d ‘put hair on your chest.’ Half the clan was pukin’ two days straight.”

Cassidy laughed, but it was brittle. “That was Scorp. Live fast, die stupid.”

Carol rolled her eyes, but her jaw worked tight as she stared into the flames.

V’s chest ached. Jackie came back to him—loss binding the living closer, even as it hollowed them out.

The laughter ebbed. Only the fire crackled. Panam’s hand brushed his leg. Heavy, grounding. Maybe I do belong here.

Cassidy narrowed his eyes into the dark. “Hold up.” He pointed past the fire. “You see that?”

V’s optics sharpened. Faint specks flickered on the horizon. Too steady for stars. Too erratic for campfires. His hand hovered near his pistol, instincts alive.

“Raffen?” Panam asked, rifle already up.

“Could be,” Cassidy said. “Could be corps sniffin’ where they shouldn’t.”

Mitch stood, brushing sand off. “Doesn’t matter. Drones’ll sweep wide.”

Carol scuffed dirt over the fire’s edge, dimming the glow. “Great. Just once, I’d like a night without some asshole screwin’ it up.”

The camp hushed. Generator hum. Desert wind. Panam’s hand tightened on V’s arm.

He watched the lights fade behind a ridge. Wanted to believe they were gone. But Night City had taught him—peace never lasted.

Later, the convoy slept. Embers glowed faint red. V sat with Panam, wrapped in the buzz of machines and desert air.

“You’re quiet,” she said.

“Just thinkin’.” He stared at the stars. “Jack. Johnny. How long I got.”

Panam leaned shoulder to shoulder. “Don’t. Don’t count days you don’t even know are gone.”

V barked a laugh, bitter. “Easy for you to say. I hear the clock tickin’ in my skull. Every night I close my eyes, wonder if that’s the one I don’t wake up from.”

Her hand gripped his. Strong. “You’re not alone anymore. You’re Aldecaldo. You’re mine. We don’t quit. Not for anyone.”

Silence stretched. V tapped his temple. “Still hear Johnny sometimes. Like he’s about to mouth off again. Feels wrong without him.”

Panam’s voice cracked. “Feels wrong without Scorp. Without Saul. Every time I laugh, I expect one of ’em to come back—too loud, or too serious.” She squeezed his hand tight. “I can’t lose you the same way.”

He turned to her, firelight painting her strong and raw at once. He raised his chrome hand, brushed a tear before it fell. Cold steel, warm skin. She leaned into it anyway.

“You really think I’m worth all this?” he asked.

Her eyes locked on his, fierce even through tears. “Don’t think, V. I know. You’re mine. And you’re not gettin’ rid of me.”

Something in his chest loosened. He pressed his forehead to hers. The desert stretched endless, but for the first time since Night City, he didn’t feel lost.

Above them, the stars burned cold and steady. For tonight, that was enough.

The tent breathed with the desert wind, canvas walls rustling as the camp slept. Outside, generators hummed low, blending with the occasional crack of wood from dying fires. Inside, V lay tangled with Panam under the blankets, both of them bare and warm, her skin pressed tight against his chest, her hair spilling across him like a second cover.

For a while, he thought maybe—just maybe—sleep would come easy.

But it never did. Not anymore.

It began with static. Thin, high-pitched, crawling under his skin like ants. Then came whispers layered over it, thousands of voices stacked on each other, too fast, too broken to make sense. His optics flickered, HUD glitching with red error codes.

The warmth of Panam’s body bled away.

The desert was gone.

He stood before the Blackwall, its surface folding in on itself like black glass stretched thin, rippling with oil-slick eyes that blinked open by the hundreds. Each blink was wrong—frames dropped, moments skipping, like watching reality buffer.

Hands pressed against the barrier from the other side. Too many. Fingers stretched long, sharp at the ends. Every drag left glowing red scars across the surface that pulsed like veins, like open wounds.

V.

The voice cracked inside his skull, sharp enough to split it. Johnny’s rasp, but hollow, drowned in static.

You don’t belong here. Not yet.

The wall shuddered, then broke.

Figures poured through—faces twisted into screams, bodies half-dissolved, code flickering like fire across their skin. Fragments of AIs, ghosts past the Wall, rushing him in a tidal wave. Hands grabbed, clawed, tore. Flesh split. Chrome sparked.

V tried to fight, but every punch landed empty, every scream came out silent. Cold fire chewed through him as the swarm dragged him toward the dark.

He bolted upright.

The tent closed in, canvas and shadow. His chest heaved, drenched in sweat, and a hot trickle ran from his nose. He wiped at it with a shaking hand, only to smear blood across his palm.

Beside him, Panam stirred, blankets sliding off her bare shoulder. “V?” Her voice was thick with sleep but sharpened fast when she saw him. She pushed up, hair falling wild around her face. “Shit—you’re bleeding.”

“Dreams again,” he rasped, voice shredded raw. “Not just dreams. It was the Wall. Beyond it. Somethin’ tried to drag me through.”

Panam swore under her breath and reached for a rag from her pack, pressing it firm against his nose. Her hand trembled, but her voice was steady. “Hold still. Breathe.”

He tried, but his chest rattled, every inhale shaky. “The relic’s frying me from the inside out. Doesn’t even let me rest anymore.”

Panam cupped his face, blood staining her fingers, forcing his eyes on hers. “Listen to me. You’re here. With me. Whatever that was—it’s not taking you.”

Her eyes were fierce, but underneath them burned something rawer: fear.

She stayed close, rag still pressed to his nose. “Tell me what you saw.”

“Don’t matter,” he muttered, trying to shake it off. “Just data trash from the other side.”

“Don’t you pull that with me.” Her tone sharpened. “You think I don’t hear stories? Carol, Cassidy—they’ve all talked about it. The ‘ghost net,’ the Blackwall full of things that shouldn’t exist. We all grew up with those warnings. That’s not just data trash, V. That’s something clawing to get out.”

He stared at her, throat tight. “Then maybe it wants me. Maybe I’m already halfway through.”

“Bullshit.” She shoved the bloody rag against his chest. “You’re here. You’re not going anywhere.”

V tried to smirk, but it cracked. “Feels like I am.”

She leaned in closer, forehead almost touching his. “I can’t lose you like I lost Scorp. Like I lost Saul. I can’t.” Her voice broke. “I wouldn’t survive it.”

Her words cut him deeper than the nightmare. He raised his chrome hand, brushing a smear of blood and a tear from her cheek. Cold steel against warm skin. She leaned into it, eyes clenched shut.

His mouth went dry. The words burned his throat before he even realized he was saying them.

“I… love you.”

Panam’s eyes snapped open. For a heartbeat, he thought maybe he’d broken something that couldn’t be fixed. Her lips parted, but no sound came.

Then, finally, she breathed it out, shaky but certain. “I love you too, V.”

They sat there, naked and shaking, pressed close in the dark. For them, it wasn’t sweet, it wasn’t easy—it was survival.

Panam pulled him down, wrapping tight around him like she could anchor him to the world by sheer will. “No Wall, no relic, no corpo program’s taking you away. Not while I’m breathing.”

V buried his face in her hair, clinging to the heat of her body. For the first time ever, the word love didn’t sound foreign. It sounded like a lifeline.

But when his eyes slipped shut again, static still hissed at the edges.

Chapter Text

The desert dawn crept in gray and pale, seeping through the seams of the tent. The night’s chill lingered, but the world outside was already waking—boots crunching over sand, the distant rattle of pots, the low murmur of voices passing orders.

V blinked awake, his head heavy, skin clammy from sweat dried to salt. For a moment he thought he could still hear static hissing at the edge of his mind, but it faded as Panam shifted beside him, one arm locked tight across his chest.

She wasn’t asleep.

“You kept me up half the night, you know,” she murmured, voice rough but steady.

“Sorry,” V rasped, throat still raw. He shifted, tried to sit up, but Panam’s arm tightened.

“Don’t.” Her grip was iron. “Not yet.”

Her bare skin pressed warm against his side, grounding him. But her eyes—when he finally turned to look—were sharp, red at the edges from crying.

“I meant what I said, V. You don’t leave me. Not to the relic. Not to the Wall. Not to anything.” She swallowed, gaze flicking away. “Last night you scared the hell out of me.”

V brushed a thumb along her hand, chrome catching in the weak light. “Scared myself too. Still don’t know what the hell I saw. Things trying to get out. Things that wanted me.”

Panam’s jaw tightened. “The clan’s heard stories. Old nomad talk. They say sometimes people go crazy out in the net, see ghosts in their heads. We always figured it was techrot, or old corpos losing their grip.” She shook her head. “But you? I believe you. If you say something’s clawing out from behind the Wall, I believe it.”

V let the words hang, heavy. Believe me—but what good does that do if I can’t fight it?

By the time they dressed and stepped out into the morning light, the camp was already alive. Generators coughed smoke, drones hovered, the smell of fried bread and coffee cut through the dust.

Mitch was crouched over a crate of gear, fiddling with a drone’s optics. Cassidy leaned against a rig nearby, cigarette smoke curling into the air, while Carol directed a pair of younger nomads moving barrels.

When they spotted V and Panam, the chatter shifted. Not silence exactly, but a pause, like eyes tracking them a little longer than usual.

Mitch stood, brushing sand off his hands. “You two sleep any? Looked like hell in there.”

Panam shot him a warning look, but V waved it off. “Had worse nights.”

“Yeah, well, better keep your bad nights short,” Cassidy said, flicking ash into the dust. “Turns out those lights weren’t nothing.”

Carol stepped forward, voice clipped. “Raffen patrol. Not the usual scav run either—they were moving like they had purpose.”

“Purpose?” V asked.

Mitch nodded grimly. “Drones tracked ’em. They were sweeping the desert in a pattern. Not random. Systematic. Like they were searching for something.”

Panam’s arms crossed tight over her chest. “But they didn’t find us.”

“Supposedly.” Cassidy’s smirk was thin. “Either we got lucky, or they weren’t looking for us this time.”

V’s stomach turned. He thought of the claws scraping at the Wall in his dream, the way the voices had all turned on him. Now here in the desert, flesh-and-blood predators were circling too.

“What the hell are Raffen so organized for?” V muttered. “They’re animals. Always have been.”

“Not anymore,” Carol said flat. “Somebody’s got them pointed. Question is—at what?”

Silence sat heavy after that. V looked at Panam, saw the steel in her eyes even as her shoulders stiffened. She caught him staring and shook her head. “Don’t. Don’t start thinking this is all on you.”

V almost laughed, bitter. “Feels like everything is these days.”

She stepped close, her hand gripping his arm hard enough to bruise. “I don’t care what’s past the Wall or what the Raffen are hunting. We’re alive. We’re together. That’s what matters.” Her voice dropped. “And I meant it, last night. I don’t say things like that easy.”

He met her gaze, throat tight. “Neither do I.”

They stood there in the growing light, the camp moving around them—nomads shouting, machines revving, smoke curling into the sky. The world spun on, and somewhere out there the Raffen were hunting, and behind the Wall things were clawing to get through.

But for that moment, in the dust and the dawn, they had each other.

It didn’t last. Panam squeezed his arm one last time, then stepped back, scanning the camp. Her voice was steadier now, all business again.

“You need rest, V. Last night nearly broke you in half. I’ve got things to do—fuel checks, patrol shifts, helping Mitch with the drones. Promise me you’ll take it easy.”

He tried for a grin, but it came out tired. “What, no day off for the hero of Arasaka Tower?”

“Smartass,” she muttered, though her lips twitched. She leaned in, kissed his forehead quick, then was gone—already shouting across camp about generator output, shoulders squared like nothing could touch her.

V lingered, not ready to crawl back into the tent. His body ached, his head still carried the static’s aftertaste, but sitting still was worse.

The camp buzzed with life. Kids darted between rigs, laughter cutting through the hum of engines. The smell of frying bread mixed with dust and grease. Carol was chewing out a pair of rookies over misstacked crates, Mitch hunched over a drone’s sensor array, Cassidy smoking while pretending not to watch the world too closely.

Everyone moved with purpose, part of the machine. V drifted at the edges, not quite part of it yet.

Near the fringe of camp, he spotted Dakota sitting in a folding chair, smoke curling from a thin hand-rolled cigarette. Her gaze stretched over the horizon like she was watching for something no one else could see.

When he approached, her eyes flicked to him—sharp, weighing. “Couldn’t sleep?” she asked, voice low and gravelly.

“Somethin’ like that.” V dropped onto an empty crate beside her, rubbing at his temple. “Panam mentioned some stories. Blackwall. Ghost net. Figured you’d might know something more about em.”

Dakota took a slow drag, exhaled smoke that twisted into the wind. A humorless smile ghosted across her face. “Ah. So you’ve seen them.”

V stiffened. “You’re saying they’re real?”

She shrugged. “Depends on what you call real. Old netrunners swore the Wall wasn’t just code. Said it was a prison. Not just to keep things out, but to keep things in. AI fragments, rogue minds—things too wild, too angry. They don’t forgive, and they don’t forget.” Her eyes narrowed, pinning him. “Most who claim they’ve seen past it? Don’t come back the same. Some don’t come back at all.”

V tried to laugh it off, but it fell flat. “Hell of a bedtime story.”

Dakota leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “Aldecaldos don’t mess with the net for a reason. Safer on the road than swimming with ghosts. But you? You’ve got it inside you. The relic’s not just killing you—it’s showing you things no one should see.”

He swallowed hard, static whispering faint in the back of his skull. “Guess I’ve always had a knack for bad ideas.”

Dakota stubbed her cigarette out in the dirt, eyes never leaving his. “Careful, V. Roads end. Walls break. And when they do, it’s always blood that seeps through first.”

Her words lingered long after he stood and drifted back toward the campfire smoke, heavier than the desert sun already burning overhead.

The mess truck rattled with life, the smell of roasted peppers and sizzling protein drifting through camp. V sat on a dented bench with a tin plate balanced on his knees—two rounds of frybread folded around shredded soy-beef, charred onions, and a splash of chili salsa that burned hot all the way down.

It wasn’t real meat. Vat-grown, stretched with filler, spiced and smoked until it tricked the brain. Everyone knew it. But out here, with grease soaking into the bread and peppers blackened just right over open flames, it was close enough. Close enough that for a few minutes, he didn’t care.

He ate slow, more lost in thought than hungry.

Across camp, Panam’s voice cut sharp as she barked orders at a rookie fussing with a generator cable. Always steady, always in control. But last night he’d heard the crack in it when she held him, telling him she loved him. He could still feel the tremor in her hands, the raw truth in her eyes.

V stared down at the soy-beef bleeding spice and grease into his plate. How much time do I even have left to give her? Weeks? Months? The relic didn’t care about love. Didn’t care about family. It was a clock, and the sand was running out.

Still, when she walked past with her braid swinging, shoulders squared, he felt the corner of his mouth twitch. She wasn’t letting go. Maybe that was enough.

The Aldecaldos moved with rhythm, their morning a practiced dance. Kids raced between water barrels, shrieking as one slipped and splashed himself. Women stirred pots of beans and peppers over the flames, laughter spilling when one of them slapped a young nomad’s hand away from the food.

Cassidy sat nearby with his revolver stripped on a rag, whistling tunelessly between drags of his smoke. Carol prowled past, chewing out two teens for tying their tarp too loose. Mitch crouched over a busted drone, grease streaked across his arms, muttering curses as he fought a stripped bolt.

It wasn’t chaos. It was culture. Survival woven into routine until it became something more. Watching it, V felt like he was seeing family instead of fighters.

And he wondered if he’d ever really belong to it, or if he was just passing through on borrowed time.

“Mind if I sit?”

V looked up. Mitch stood with his own plate—a wrap stuffed with the same soy mix, salsa dripping onto his boots. He didn’t wait for an answer, just dropped onto the bench beside him, wood groaning under his weight.

For a while, they ate in silence. The camp’s morning sounds filled the space—sizzling pans, shouts, drones whining overhead. Mitch tore into his food like it was steak, chewing slow.

“Ain’t real beef,” he said finally, wiping salsa from his fingers. “But it’ll keep you running. Sometimes that’s all you need.”

V smirked faintly. “Guess I’ve had worse.”

“Yeah. You look it.” Mitch’s tone was casual, but his eyes stayed steady.

V raised a brow. “That supposed to be a compliment?”

“Supposed to be a question.” Mitch leaned forward, lowering his voice. “You sleeping any better?”

V froze, frybread halfway to his mouth. He forced a shrug. “Better than some. Worse than others.”

“Nightmares? Nosebleeds? Static in your head?”

The food sagged in his hand, soy protein and salsa spilling onto the plate. He set it down, jaw tight. “She told you.”

Mitch cocked a brow. “Who, Panam?”

“Who else?” V snapped, then caught himself. A couple of kids glanced over before darting off again. He lowered his voice. “She’s worried. Probably thinks I can’t handle my own shit, so she runs to you.”

Mitch shook his head slowly. “V, she didn’t have to say anything. I know the signs. Seen enough men wearing themselves down to recognize it. But Panam… she’s scared. Not because she doubts you. Because she cares. And that means we all do.”

V frowned, his chest tight. “You’re saying this is everybody’s problem now?”

“Damn right,” Mitch said. His voice wasn’t harsh, but it carried weight. “You’re Aldecaldo. Family. We don’t watch each other fall apart. Not if we can help it.” He paused, eyes narrowing just slightly. “And Panam… she’s been through too much. Losing Scorp, Saul. Don’t think for a second she could take losing you, too. Don’t make her carry that fear alone.”

The words hit harder than V wanted to admit. He stared down at his plate, grease pooled in the corner, the spice flat on his tongue.

Mitch nudged his shoulder lightly before standing, brushing crumbs from his hands. “So don’t lock us out, alright? Panam won’t. Neither will I.”

Carol’s voice cracked across camp, barking orders for patrol rotations. Engines coughed awake, drones buzzed back to life, and the rhythm of survival picked up again.

Mitch adjusted the strap on his rifle as he walked off, tossing one last line over his shoulder. “Finish your food. Get some rest. You’re family now, V. And family doesn’t quit.”

V stayed seated, staring at the soy wrap cooling in his lap. He picked it up anyway, took another bite. The relic hissed faint at the back of his skull, but Panam’s voice carried clear across the camp, sharp and alive.

For now, that was enough.

The sun sat high, bleaching the desert in harsh light. Heat shimmered off the rigs, and the smell of peppers and grease still clung to the air from lunch. Most of the clan was already back at work—hauling crates, patching tarps, tuning engines—settling into the rhythm of another long afternoon.

That rhythm snapped when Cassidy’s voice rang out sharp.

“Movement!”

He stood on top of a rig, rifle unslung, one eye pressed to a long-range scope. The chatter of camp fell off in an instant. Heads turned. Boots scuffed against sand.

Panam was the first to move, striding toward him with her jaw set. Mitch looked up from his drone feed, frowning as he tapped at the controls. Carol started snapping orders to douse fires and pull tarps tighter.

V abandoned what was left of his plate and followed, his chest tightening with the shift in the air.

Mitch jogged up, tablet glowing in his hands. Blue light flickered over his face as he swiped the feed wider. “Five klicks east. Heat signatures—vehicles, maybe a dozen. Hard to pin exact numbers.”

“Raffen?” Panam asked, her tone clipped.

“Best guess,” Mitch muttered. “Doesn’t look like trade traffic. Formation’s too loose.”

Cassidy snorted without lowering his scope. “More like scavvers sniffin’ the wind. Question is—are we what they’re sniffin’ for?”

Panam climbed the rig to stand beside him, boots grinding against metal. “What’re they doing?”

“Drifting,” Cassidy said, shifting his sight. “Slow. Like they’re sweeping dunes, not heading anywhere fast.”

The camp had gathered below—young nomads watching with wide eyes, older hands keeping low and quiet. Engines ticked. Drones buzzed overhead.

“If they’re just passing through,” Mitch said carefully, “we don’t poke the hive. No reason to draw fire.”

“Or,” Cassidy cut in, “we drop the first one that strays too close and send the rest runnin’. Raffen see weakness, they’ll circle tighter next time.”

Carol folded her arms, glaring up at them. “And if we go picking fights with numbers like that, half the clan won’t make it to sundown. You want blood, Cassidy? Go cut yourself and leave the rest of us out of it.”

Cassidy spat into the sand. “Better to fight on our feet than wait to get rolled in our sleep.”

“They don’t know we’re here,” Mitch said firmly. “My drones confirm it—they’re searching, not hunting us. Keep quiet, keep shadows low, and they’ll pass.”

V stood at the edge of it all, hand brushing the grip of his pistol—Johnny Silverhand’s Malorian Arms 3516. Heavy, solid, a piece of Night City’s ghosts he still carried. Sometimes he wondered if it anchored him or just reminded him of everything he’d lost.

His optics sharpened against the glare, heat shimmer distorting faint shapes crawling along the horizon.

He thought of the claws scraping at the Wall in his dreams, the swarm that tried to drag him under. Flesh-and-blood predators weren’t so different.

Panam lowered Cassidy’s rifle with a steady hand. Her voice cut clear across camp. “No one moves unless I say so. We stay dark, we stay quiet, we stay ready. But we don’t start a fight we don’t need.”

Cassidy muttered but backed off. Mitch exhaled relief, redirecting drones to circle wider. Carol started barking fresh orders, and the camp bent back into motion—quieter now, tighter, every ear tuned to the east.

The horizon shimmered. The shapes kept moving. And the Aldecaldos waited.

When the crowd began to disperse—Cassidy muttering, Mitch fussing over his drones, Carol herding the rookies—Panam stayed put, eyes locked on the horizon. The tension in her shoulders didn’t ease, even after the others gave her space.

V climbed the rig to stand beside her, Malorian heavy on his hip. For a while, neither spoke. Just the hum of the drones and the hiss of the desert wind.

Finally, Panam broke it. Her voice was low, meant only for him. “If I call this wrong, people die. One mistake, and I’ve got blood on my hands.” She glanced sideways, jaw tight. “Sometimes I wonder if Saul was right—that I don’t think far enough ahead.”

V leaned against the rail, eyes narrowing on the shimmer of heat where the horizon bent. “You’re not Saul. And you’re not wrong to worry. But sitting still won’t keep the Raffen from circling back.”

She studied him, her eyes sharp, searching. “So what do you suggest?”

“Scout their camp,” V said without hesitation. “Take a small group—fast, quiet. Find out what they’re after, how many we’re up against. Maybe we cut this short before it turns into a war.”

Panam frowned, arms crossed. “You’d go yourself?”

“Damn right,” he said. “Not asking anyone to walk into the fire without me. I can handle my own. You know I can.” His voice was steady, not boastful—just truth. “With my shooting, and what I can do in the net, I’m still the best shot we’ve got at pulling this off clean.”

Panam’s lips pressed tight. She wanted to argue, but she couldn’t. Not after what she’d seen him do. V had carved through Arasaka’s tower. Faced down armies of chrome and steel. Taken Adam Smasher apart—Smasher, the monster Saul used to warn kids about at campfires. If V could do that, the Raffen were nothing but raiders with bad luck.

Her lips quirked despite the tension, but the worry didn’t leave her eyes. “You’re not invincible, V. You’re barely holding yourself together.”

“Yeah,” he admitted, voice rough. “But if this relic’s counting down my days, I’d rather spend them fighting to keep you and this family breathing.”

She went quiet, staring at him with an expression somewhere between anger and love.

Finally, Panam exhaled, long and steady. “I’ll think on it. We’ll need Mitch, maybe Cassidy if he can keep his temper in check. But V…” Her eyes locked with his, fierce and unflinching. “If I send you out there, you don’t play hero. You scout, you come back. Understood?”

V gave a faint grin. “Scout, sure. Heroics optional.”

“V.”

“Understood,” he said more firmly.

Panam nodded once, then turned back toward the east, the weight of command still pressing heavy on her shoulders.

The horizon shimmered. The shapes kept moving. And the Aldecaldos waited.

V stayed tense, hand brushing the Malorian at his hip, when Mitch strode over with the tablet clutched in his hands. His face was lit by the pale blue glow of the drone feed, lines carved deeper by the sun and worry.

“They’re stopping,” Mitch said, voice low but urgent. “Drones show the Raffen shiv setting up camp—tents, fires, the whole bit. East ridge, not more than five klicks out.”

Panam’s head snapped toward him. “You’re sure?”

“Sure as I can be without breathing down their necks,” Mitch said. He tilted the screen so they could see faint heat signatures clustering tight. “They’re dug in for the night. And now we know exactly where.”

Panam’s jaw tightened, her gaze flicking once toward V. The decision landed in her eyes before she spoke it.

“Then we don’t wait for them to find us,” she said, voice sharp as steel. “Mitch—V’s leading a recon team. We end this before it starts.”

The words hit the camp like a gunshot.

The camp went quiet after Panam’s words, the silence taut as a drawn bowstring. V felt every eye on him, the Malorian at his hip suddenly heavier than ever.

Cassidy broke it first. He slung his rifle over his shoulder with a grunt. “Well, guess we’re followin’ the youth now.” His smirk came quick, lopsided. “Don’t sweat it, city boy. I’ll be right there to save your ass if it comes to it.”

A ripple of nervous laughter cut the tension, but Cassidy’s eyes stayed sharp on V. It wasn’t mockery—it was trust, offered in the only way Cassidy knew how.

“Alright,” V said, voice steady, forcing down the weight pressing at his chest. “We keep it simple. Small group—me, Mitch on overwatch with drones, Cassidy for long-range support. We move fast, keep low, and find out exactly what the Raffen are doing on that ridge. No firefights unless we’ve got no choice. Intel first, bullets second.”

Mitch nodded. “Drones can give you an eye, but signal’s shaky that far out. You’ll be on your own if things go loud.”

“Not the first time,” V said.

Panam’s arms crossed, but it wasn’t anger. It was fear—raw and obvious in the tightness around her mouth, the way her eyes flicked between him and the horizon.

“Maybe I should go too,” she said suddenly. “Being up close alone is too dangerous. If something happens—”

“No.” V’s reply was sharp, cutting her off before she could finish. He stepped closer, his voice dropping so only she could hear. “I can’t risk you. They need you here. The clan needs you. If something goes sideways out there, you’re the one who keeps this family alive. That’s not negotiable.”

Panam’s jaw clenched, torn between fury and fear, but she didn’t argue. Not yet.

“V…” she started again, her voice quieter. “You’re leading this because I trust you. But don’t think for one second I’m not worried. About the Raffen. About the relic. About you.”

V met her gaze, holding it. The static in his head hummed faint, like wires straining under heat. He’d woken with blood on his face, visions clawing at him from behind the Blackwall. It hadn’t stopped. It wouldn’t stop.

But he couldn’t let her see that.

“I’ve handled worse,” he said, steady as stone. “Adam Smasher thought he had me buried. Arasaka threw everything at me. I’m still here. The relic’s not gonna take me before I put these bastards in the ground.”

Panam’s jaw tightened, and for a moment he saw the shimmer of tears she wouldn’t let fall. She reached out, gripping his shoulder, strong enough that he felt it through the chrome. “Just… come back. That’s all I’m asking. Don’t make me bury you too.”

V forced a small grin, though it felt thin on his lips. “Not planning on it. But if the relic wants a fight, it’s got one. I’ll conquer it, same as I’ve conquered everything else. At least long enough to protect you. Protect this.” He swept a glance at the camp, the people who were suddenly his family.

Cassidy adjusted his hat, breaking the moment. “Well, if the pep talk’s over, we got Raffen waitin’ on us. Let’s plan this dance before they notice the music’s stopped.”

Engines coughed to life as Cassidy dropped off the rig, muttering about needing to check his scope one last time. Mitch was already jogging toward his truck, drone kit slung over one shoulder, tablet bouncing against his chest. The clan buzzed with quiet urgency—hands checking straps, eyes lingering on the trio heading out.

V pulled his jacket tighter, the Malorian heavy at his side. The static in his skull whispered faint, like a bad radio signal, but he forced it down. He couldn’t afford to falter now. Not in front of Panam.

She caught him before he reached the rigs, her hand locking around his wrist. “V.”

He turned, meeting her eyes. Fierce, worried, unrelenting.

“Don’t play hero,” she said again, voice sharp but trembling just under the edge. “Scout, come back. That’s the deal.”

V gave a crooked grin. “I’m coming back, don’t worry.”

Her grip lingered, refusing to let him go. For a heartbeat, she seemed torn, then she yanked him closer, her other hand bracing against his chest. Their lips met—rough, urgent, nothing soft about it. It was a kiss like a brand, leaving its mark before he pulled away.

When she let him go, her hands dropped like lead. The look in her eyes said everything words couldn’t: don’t you dare die out there.

He forced a grin, thin but steady.

Panam didn’t smile. She just stepped back, arms crossing tight as if to keep herself from reaching for him again.

Cassidy appeared with his rifle slung across his back, smirking. “Don’t get too sentimental. We’ve got assholes to find.”

“Then let’s move,” V said, climbing into the lead rig.

Mitch swung into the driver’s seat beside him, drones stacked and ready in the back. Cassidy hopped in after, boots thudding against the metal bed.

As the engine roared and the convoy faded behind them, V glanced once in the side mirror. Panam stood at the edge of camp, arms crossed, braid whipping in the wind. She didn’t wave. Didn’t smile. Just watched him go.

The desert opened before them—flat, merciless, endless.

And somewhere on the ridge, the Raffen shiv were waiting.

Chapter Text

The rig bounced hard over the ruts, shocks groaning with every dip. Heat poured through the windshield, rippling off the dunes ahead. Mitch drove with one hand on the wheel, the other flicking across his tablet, drone feeds glowing faint in the dim cab.

In the back, Cassidy whistled some off-key tune, rifle resting across his lap. “You know,” he drawled, “I’m startin’ to think Panam only sent me along to keep your chrome-plated ass alive, V. That or she’s betting I’ll finally collect on all those times I said you’d get yourself killed.”

V leaned against the door, Malorian resting heavy against his thigh. “Guess you’ll just have to keep losing those bets.”

Cassidy barked a laugh, tapping ash from the smoke clenched in his teeth. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure you don’t embarrass yourself too bad before I swoop in like a hero.”

“Focus,” Mitch muttered, eyes still on the tablet. “Raffen camp’s not far. East ridge. Drones show maybe two dozen bodies, half a dozen vehicles. Too many to tangle with head-on.”

“Good thing we’re not tanglin’,” Cassidy said, smirking. “We’re peekin’, pokin’, then haulin’ ass back.”

V nodded, but his mind wasn’t on Cassidy’s banter or Mitch’s feed. The static had started again, faint at first, like the whisper of sand against glass. He blinked, trying to clear it, but the edges of his vision fuzzed for a heartbeat before sharpening again.

He flexed his fingers against the Malorian’s grip. Not now. Not here.

It passed quickly, just a ghost of a glitch, but it left his chest tight. He told himself he could handle it. He had to handle it. But some part of him knew—deep down—that the relic didn’t care about timing. It didn’t care if he was in the middle of a fight.

Panam’s voice echoed in his head, her plea from camp: Just come back.

He would. He had to. Whatever was clawing at his mind, whatever wanted out from behind the Blackwall, it could wait. He wouldn’t let it break through. Not tonight. Not while the clan was counting on him.

V straightened, forcing a grin toward Cassidy. “Save the heroics for someone who needs ’em. I’ll keep my own ass covered.”

Cassidy tipped his hat. “We’ll see.”

Mitch slowed the rig, eyes narrowing at the shimmer of steel on the horizon. Dust plumes rose faint in the heat, and the faint hum of distant engines carried across the desert air.

“There,” Mitch said quietly. “Raffen camp. East ridge. Just over that rise.”

The three of them fell silent. The easy banter was gone, replaced with the weight of what waited ahead.

V adjusted the strap on his shoulder, the Malorian warm against his palm. The relic whispered again, faint static in his skull.

Later, he told it. You can have me later. But not tonight.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

From the ridge, Panam watched him vanish into the heat shimmer, his silhouette swallowed by the sand and stone.

Her arms were crossed tight, but it wasn’t defiance—it was the only thing keeping her from shaking. She told herself she’d trusted him through worse. Arasaka Tower. Adam Smasher. The impossible odds he always seemed to beat.

But this was different.

The image of him waking with blood on his face wouldn’t leave her—the way he’d jolted up in the dark, sweat-soaked, eyes glassy with something that wasn’t just a dream. The relic was killing him, piece by piece, and she couldn’t fight it, couldn’t shoot it, couldn’t outdrive it. What if it struck while he was down there, in the middle of a Raffen nest? What if it tore him apart before she ever got the chance to pull him back?

Carol’s voice cut in sharp beside her. “This is a bad idea. Raffen or not, you don’t send someone walking into a nest like that.”

Panam didn’t look away from the ridge. “He’s not just someone.”

Carol’s tone softened, just slightly. “No. He’s not. And that’s why you’re scared out of your mind.”

Panam’s jaw worked, but she said nothing.

Behind them, Dakota’s calm voice drifted in, quiet as the desert wind. “If the Raffen are working with corps, this isn’t about scavenging. They’re out here for something. Question is—what?”

Panam closed her eyes for a second, just a second, then opened them again. V was gone from sight, swallowed by the horizon.

Don’t let me lose him too. Not to the Raffen. Not to the relic. Not to anything.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They crested the rise slow, rig idling as Mitch killed the engine. The desert stretched out before them, flat until the ridge broke it into jagged teeth of stone and sand.

Beyond, tucked in the shadow of the ridge, the Raffen camp simmered. A handful of trucks were parked haphazardly, smoke coiling from barrel fires, figures moving between tents.

Cassidy crouched low with his rifle, scope catching the shimmer of heat. “Looks like twenty, maybe twenty-five. Lotta chrome. Too much chrome for a bunch of desert rats.”

Mitch adjusted his drone feed, angling the tablet so V could see. Thermal outlines glowed red, a cluster of shapes gathered near the largest truck. “They’re not just camping,” he said. “Look—organized perimeter, gear stacked neat, like they’re setting up a base, not stopping for a nap.”

V’s optics zoomed in, the edges sharpening until he could make out details the naked eye couldn’t. Some of the Raffen were stringing sensor lines into the sand. Others were unloading crates—Arasaka-marked crates.

His gut twisted. “That’s corpo gear. Mil-spec.”

Cassidy hissed through his teeth. “Since when do Raffen get tidy and play soldier?”

“Since someone started pointing them,” Mitch muttered. He zoomed the drone closer, the camera catching a faint glint—corporate insignias on the crates, partially spray-painted over.

V leaned back against the dune, Malorian heavy in his hand. The static whispered in his skull again, faint but sharp. Don’t lose focus now. He clenched his teeth until it passed.

“Something’s wrong here,” he said. “This isn’t a random patrol. They’re working with someone. Maybe for someone.”

Cassidy pulled away from his scope, his smirk gone. “Corps and Raffen in bed together. Just what the world needed.”

Mitch frowned, eyes still locked on the tablet. “Question is—what the hell are they looking for out here?”

V didn’t answer. He couldn’t. Because deep down, part of him already knew: nothing good.

V stayed crouched, optics zoomed tight on the camp below. The faint static in his skull pulsed, a reminder he shoved down hard.

“Not enough,” he muttered.

Cassidy glanced at him, eyebrow raised. “What’s not enough? We see bodies, trucks, crates. Looks like a nest of trouble to me.”

V shook his head, his hand tightening around the Malorian’s grip. “We’ve got guesses. I need more than that. Need to know what’s in those crates, what they’re doing with it. Otherwise we’re just shooting in the dark.”

Mitch frowned at his tablet. “V, getting closer means cutting the drone link. Signal’s already sketchy. You’ll be walking in blind.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” V said, standing slowly, sand shifting under his boots. “I can slip down, keep low, get eyes on what they’re unloading. Maybe even jack a terminal if they’re running one. Pull data. That’ll tell us who they’re working for.”

Cassidy gave a low whistle, shaking his head. “And here I thought Panam told you not to play hero. You’re talking about strolling into a Raffen nest like it’s a corner store.”

V’s jaw tightened. “Not strolling. Scouting. Big difference.”

Cassidy smirked, though his eyes didn’t match it. “Sure. Scout, don’t stroll. And when they catch you, I’ll be sure to tell Panam you made the distinction.”

Mitch shut off the tablet, his expression grim. “If you’re dead set on this, we do it smart. I’ll keep the drones circling wide, eyes on any movement. Cassidy keeps long cover with his scope. You go in, you get what you need, and you get out fast.”

V gave a short nod. “Exactly. In and out. The less they know we were here, the better.”

The static hissed again, sharp enough to sting the back of his eyes. He blinked it away, forcing his breathing even. Not now. Not when they’re watching.

Cassidy slung his rifle into position. “Alright, city boy. Go dance with the devils. I’ll keep my sights warm in case you trip over your own chrome.”

V slid down the dune, every step sinking into hot sand. The Raffen camp sprawled below, organized and bristling with danger. He felt the Malorian at his side, Panam’s kiss still burning on his lips, and the relic’s whisper clawing at his skull.

Scout, don’t stroll.

He repeated it in his head like a prayer as he slipped into the shadow of the ridge.

V crawled closer, the firelight throwing jagged shadows across the sand. Every step was measured, each breath slow. The guards closest to the truck were too tight to slip past clean. Two of them leaned against a barrel, smoking, rifles slung loose but ready.

No way through quiet. Need noise.

V’s optics shifted, interface blooming across his vision. He pinged the perimeter, hunting for a weak link—there. A half-busted generator powering one of the lights on the east side. The system was old, barely holding together, its ICE thin as glass.

He slid into it with practiced ease, chrome fingertips twitching faintly. The screen flickered green in his vision. Override. Loop. Spike power draw.

The generator screeched, sparks coughing into the night as the floodlight flared bright, then cut to black. Guards shouted, heads snapping toward the noise.

“East side!” one barked.

“Check it!” the other snapped back, jogging off.

The path to the truck cracked open.

“Nice trick,” Cassidy whispered in his ear, voice a low rumble of approval.

“Buy me a drink later,” V muttered, already moving.

He hugged the shadows of a stacked crate, then another, every nerve wired tight. The Raffen boss was still bent over the shard, flanked by two lieutenants. Too close to the terminal. Too risky. He needed another nudge.

V pinged again, fingers twitching. Found it—a drone dock, half-idle near the tents. He spiked its wake routine. The machine whirred to life, lights snapping on, propellers coughing against the sand.

“What the hell?!” a scav shouted. Two guards jogged toward it, one swearing as the drone lifted and sputtered sideways into the dirt.

The boss barked something, waving the lieutenants to check the commotion.

Now.

V slid low, Malorian pressed against his thigh as he reached the truck. The shard gleamed faint on the hood, data lines running from it into the jury-rigged terminal. He jacked in, chrome port sliding open at the base of his wrist.

The world shifted. Code spilled across his vision in walls of red and green. The system was dirty, cobbled together, but linked—data flowing somewhere beyond the ridge. Beyond the desert.

Mitch’s voice buzzed faint in his ear. “V, you’ve got thirty seconds before they circle back. Make it quick.”

Static roared suddenly, sharp enough to make his teeth ache. The relic screamed in his skull, trying to drag him under. His optics fuzzed, data stuttering. For a heartbeat, he was back in that static dream, black walls clawing open.

Not now. Not here. Not ever.

He forced the breach, teeth grinding as the ICE cracked. Fragments of data bled into his queue—coordinates, supply logs, encrypted corp tags. Arasaka. Clear as day.

“Got it,” V hissed, yanking the shard free. The system collapsed in sparks, alarms chirping faint.

Voices shouted nearby. The lieutenants were turning back.

Cassidy’s voice cut sharp in his ear. “You’re about to have company. Time to run, city boy.”

V clenched the shard in his fist, the relic still hissing at the edges of his mind. He dropped low, ready to make his escape.

Scout, don’t stroll.

V crouched low, easing away from the truck. The night pressed tight, every shadow a hiding place. He was halfway to the crates when the relic screamed.

Static ripped through his skull, sharp and hot, his optics flickering white for a heartbeat. His vision stuttered, depth peeling away like a bad signal.

He staggered, elbow clipping a loose wrench left on the truck bed. The clatter rang out, too loud in the hush.

Shit.

Cassidy’s voice snapped quick, sharp. “V—freeze.”

Two lieutenants turned at once, heads snapping toward the noise. One narrowed his eyes, scanning the dark near the truck.

V pressed flat against the crate, chest hammering, willing the shadows to swallow him.

“Thought I heard somethin’,” one of them muttered.

The other gestured sharp. “Check it. Now.”

Boots crunched closer, too close. Mitch’s voice crackled, tight with urgency: “V, you’ve been made. Get ready.”

V’s hand closed around the Malorian, cold steel grounding him as the relic hissed like a live wire at the edge of his mind.

Scout, don’t stroll.

And now? No more scouting.

V froze against the crate, pulse hammering. The boots came closer, the shadow of a Raffen’s rifle stretching long across the sand.

Too close. No time.

V’s chrome hand shot up, knife flashing from its sheath. He surged from the shadows, jamming the blade clean through the Raffen’s temple. The body convulsed once, then went limp. V wrenched the knife free and let the corpse crumple silent into the dust.

The second guard spun, mouth opening. V was already moving. The Malorian came up in a smooth arc, muzzle flash splitting the dark. One round punched through the man’s skull, another through his chest before he hit the ground.

Shouts erupted across the camp.

“Contact! Contact!”

Floodlights flared as scavvers grabbed rifles, chrome limbs gleaming in the firelight.

V fired again, three quick shots scattering the closest group before diving behind a stack of crates. Bullets ripped through the air, sparking against metal, hissing through canvas.

Cassidy’s voice barked in his ear. “Well, so much for subtle! I’ve got you covered, city boy—keep movin’!” A sharp crack followed as his rifle barked from the ridge, one Raffen’s head snapping back in a spray.

Mitch’s tone was urgent, hard-edged. “Multiple tangos converging on your position. Drones are buying you thirty seconds, tops. Get clear or you’re boxed in!”

V slammed a fresh mag into the Malorian, breathing fast. The relic hissed again, static gnawing at his skull, but he shoved it down. Not now. Not while the air filled with fire and lead.

Scout, don’t stroll. But right now? Run and fight.

V leaned from cover, the Malorian barking fire. One shot tore through a scav’s throat, another split chrome plating off a rifleman’s shoulder. He pivoted, dropping two more before ducking back as rounds shredded the crate above his head.

They came fast. Too fast.

Three broke cover at once, charging with a roar. V swung the Malorian up—only to blink in disbelief. The first moved like a phantom, body twitching aside with inhuman speed. Bullets sliced past empty air. Chrome gleamed along his spine, servo-muscles firing in staccato bursts as he closed the distance in seconds.

V fired again, scoring a hit, but another Raffen twisted unnaturally, like his joints didn’t obey human limits. The bastard slid under the shot, rolled, and came up on him with a blade.

They moved like ghosts—chrome whirring, eyes glowing with combat optics far too advanced for desert rats.

A chrome fist slammed into V’s wrist, the Malorian spinning away into the dirt. Another hammered into his gut, knocking the air from his lungs.

Instinct took over.

His knife flashed, silver in the firelight, and he drove it up beneath a Raffen’s jaw. Blood sprayed hot as he ripped it free, pivoting into the next. His chrome hand cracked across a faceplate, the crunch of shattering optics ringing in his ears. He jammed the blade into the side of another’s neck, twisting until the body went slack.

The third came down on him hard, servos whining as it struck with machine precision. V blocked, countered, knife biting into a gap in the scav’s armor. The man fell screaming, chrome twitching as systems shorted out.

Then it hit.

The relic.

A surge of static roared through him, worse than ever, every nerve set on fire. His vision broke apart into shards of light, voices screaming in his skull. His legs buckled, body collapsing into the sand.

He saw walls of black glass, stretching into infinity, shattering, reforming. Shapes pressed against them, clawing, whispering in voices not human—metallic, distorted, hungry.

You are not enough.

We are coming.

Johnny’s ghost flickered in the static, sneering, then dissolving into a dozen mouths all speaking at once.

Your body is ours.

Your time is done.

V’s own scream tore from his throat, but in the vision it wasn’t his voice. It was hundreds, layered, breaking through.

Outside, his body convulsed, blood running hot from his nose, eyes wide but seeing nothing.

“V!” Mitch barked in his comm. “Talk to me, goddammit!”

Cassidy’s rifle cracked from the ridge, taking another Raffen down, but his voice was tight with fear. “He’s down! He’s fuckin’ down, Mitch—”

They couldn’t move in. Not without being torn apart. The chrome-boosted Raffen cut through Cassidy’s cover fire, some phasing between shots with impossible speed, their augments far beyond scav junk.

The camp surged alive. Shouts rang out, boots pounding. One by one, the Raffen swarmed toward the crumpled body in the sand, rifles raised, chrome gleaming under firelight.

V lay on his side, shaking, the shard burning against his chest. The relic hissed louder, voices clawing through him.

Not yours anymore.

The Raffen closed the circle around him.

V lay broken in the sand, convulsing, blood streaking from his nose and ears. The Raffen circled tighter, rifles raised, chrome optics glowing.

Then the relic screamed.

His body snapped upright like a marionette jerked on wires, eyes burning with a light not his own. The sand around him vibrated, shimmering as if reality itself glitched. For a moment, his outline fractured—like he was made of broken code, flickering between presence and absence.

The Raffen froze.

“What the fuck—” one muttered, voice cracking.

The leader snarled, trying to cover the fear in his tone. “Flatline him! Drop that freak now!”

Muzzle flashes lit the night. Bullets tore through the dark, but V shimmered out of their path, appearing steps closer. Three paces. Then five. Then suddenly right in front of a gunner.

He didn’t rush. He walked. Slow. Deliberate. The Raffen panicked, emptying magazines that shredded tents and crates but never touched him.

One raised a shotgun—V wrenched it from his hands, reversed it, and smashed the buttstock into the man’s face until it collapsed into pulp. Another lunged with a blade, only to be caught mid-swing. V buried his knife in the man’s gut, twisting until chrome and flesh split apart. He let him drop, already turning.

They came in a pack, yelling, firing wild. V caught one by the chestplate, chrome fingers digging into bone and metal. With a roar, he pulled—the man tore in half, blood and wiring spilling across the sand.

The camp faltered. Even hardened killers froze, staring in horror.

“Flatline him, now!” the leader screamed again, but his voice cracked, betraying the fear.

The survivors tried. V ripped a rifle away, swung it like a bat, and shattered a skull. He caught another by the throat, squeezing until the vertebrae snapped, then used the limp body as a shield while bullets punched through flesh.

From the ridge, Cassidy’s voice rasped over comms. “...Jesus Christ.”

Mitch’s voice was low, tight. “That’s not V. That can’t be V.”

V moved through them until only the leader was left, stumbling back, barking broken orders. With one flicker, he was there—hand snapping around the man’s skull like a vice.

The leader screamed, clawing at the chrome fingers crushing his head. V’s port slid open, jacking into flesh with brutal force.

The scav convulsed, shrieking as his mind was torn apart. Fragments bled into V’s skull—memories, commands, orders burned into his neurons.

Secure Arasaka property. Protect the shipment. Await further instructions.

Arasaka sigs flashed. Militech tags buried beneath. Experimental chrome serials no scav should ever possess.

The leader’s last thought was pure terror—he’s inside me—before his neck snapped in V’s grip. The corpse dropped into the sand like trash.

The rest broke.

“What is he?!”

“Run! Run!”

They turned to flee into the desert night.

V’s outline shimmered again, flickering like a broken signal. His eyes glowed cold, unnatural. For a heartbeat, the air stank of ozone, the sand vibrating underfoot.

Then the relic lashed out.

Sparks of raw code leapt from his body, arcing into the scattering Raffen. Their chrome screamed against itself, servos seizing as if invisible hands twisted the circuits. One collapsed mid-step, skull smoking from the inside. Another clawed at his chest as his cyberheart overloaded, bursting in a spray of blood and sparks.

The last shrieked as his optics flared blinding white, then detonated in a crack of electricity that left him twitching and still.

Silence followed, broken only by the crackle of fire and the faint buzz of dead chrome.

V stood alone in the sand, chest heaving, knife dripping red. His hands were wet with blood, but the ozone sting in the air said it wasn’t just flesh he’d destroyed. The relic had burned them out from the inside, leaving nothing but corpses and slag.

Cassidy whispered, “That ain’t V.”

Chapter Text

The desert had gone still, too still. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath. Smoke curled off burning crates below, firelight snapping jagged shadows across the sand.

From the ridge, Cassidy lowered his scope slow, like it weighed a ton. His cigarette trembled between two fingers, ash spilling down his jacket.

“Christ almighty,” he muttered, voice hoarse. “Saw him rip that bastard in half with his bare hands.” He spat into the dirt, but it carried no swagger—just fear. “That weren’t V.”

Beside him, Mitch’s drone feed sputtered with static, struggling to track V’s outline. It flickered like a bad signal—here, gone, warped—until it froze on a lone figure sprawled in the sand.

Cassidy cursed under his breath, slung his rifle back, and stepped forward, boots grinding against the ridge. “Shit—he’s down. I’m goin’.”

Mitch’s hand shot out, catching his arm. His voice was low but firm, no room for argument. “You charge in blind, you don’t know what you’re walkin’ into.”

Cassidy whipped around on him, eyes blazing. “The hell you want me to do—stand here with my thumb up my ass while he bleeds out? That’s V down there. Family. I ain’t lettin’ him rot in the dirt.”

Mitch’s gaze stayed locked on the figure below, the firelight painting V’s body in fits of shadow and flame. He’d seen men crash, chrome seize up—but never bullets bending away like they weren’t there. His jaw worked, words careful.

“Somethin’ was off,” he said finally. “Didn’t move like any man I’ve seen. Not sure what we’re dealin’ with yet. That’s why we don’t go runnin’ down half-cocked.”

Cassidy’s teeth ground, shoulders tight. For once no quip came—just a muttered curse under his breath.

Mitch loosened his grip but didn’t let go. “We go careful. Together. If he’s still our guy, we bring him back. If he ain’t…” His jaw set like stone.

Below, V twitched once, chrome hand sparking faint in the dark, like the desert itself wasn’t sure it wanted him back.

The climb down the ridge was slow, both men moving in silence. Cassidy’s nerves twitched in every step, rifle still in hand though the fight was long finished. Mitch led the way, boots sinking deep into the sand, eyes fixed on the figure below.

V lay twisted in the dirt, body jerking with the occasional shudder, like something unseen still tugged at his wires. His chrome hand sparked faint, then went rigid, fingers curling and uncurling as if testing a grip.

Cassidy crouched first, kneeling into the dirt beside him. The smell of blood and ozone hit sharp in his nose, burning. “Shit, V…” He pressed two fingers to his neck. “Still got a pulse.” He exhaled, half relief, half dread. “But it’s poundin’ like a damn jackhammer.”

Mitch dropped to one knee opposite, black cybernetic arm steadying V’s head with surprising care. Blood slicked V’s temple, leaking from nose and ears. When Mitch pried an eyelid open, one pupil was blown wide, the other stuttering faint with static, glitching like a broken feed.

“Somethin’ ain’t right,” Mitch muttered. He kept his tone even, but his jaw worked tight.

Cassidy caught the twitch in V’s chrome fingers and swore under his breath. “Feels wrong, watchin’ him move like that when he’s out cold.” His voice wavered, unsteady in a way it rarely was. “But it’s still him. It’s gotta be.”

Mitch didn’t argue, just shifted his grip, lifting V’s shoulder with his metal arm. “Help me haul him up.”

Together they dragged V’s limp weight across the sand. Twice he convulsed, a ripple jerking through his body like some signal was still firing, and each time Cassidy flinched but held tighter.

“Easy, brother,” Cassidy muttered through clenched teeth. “Ain’t losin’ you out here.”

By the time they reached the rig, both men were slick with sweat and dust. They shoved him into the passenger seat, his head lolling against the window, static still faint across his eye.

Mitch climbed in behind the wheel, jaw set like iron. He gunned the engine, headlights cutting across the desert as the camp rose in the distance.

The rig skidded into camp, dust spilling out in the firelight. The Aldecaldos were already gathering, rifles slung, murmurs sharp with unease.

Panam stood at the front, arms locked tight across her chest like she was holding herself together. But when she saw who slumped in the passenger seat, her arms dropped useless at her sides.

For a beat she didn’t move. Then she was running, boots hammering the dirt. Cassidy barely had time to step back before she was at the door, yanking it open and climbing in.

“V!” The name tore from her throat, jagged and raw. She pulled him against her, his weight sagging heavy in her arms. Blood smeared across her jacket, hot and slick, seeping into the fabric.

Her hands shook as she cupped his face, smearing red across his cheek. “Hey. Come on.” Her voice cracked, wavering between command and plea. “Stay with me.”

But his eyes stayed shut, lashes clotted with blood, breath rasping shallow against her collarbone.

Panam’s chest heaved, throat burning as tears welled hot in her eyes. For one terrible moment, she felt herself collapse inward, like the ground had dropped out beneath her.

She pressed her forehead to his temple, voice dropping to a whisper, steadying herself against him as much as she was steadying him. “I’ve got you,” she breathed. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

Then her head snapped up, eyes blazing as she turned toward Mitch and Cassidy. “What the hell happened out there?”

The camp went quiet. Every ear turned toward Mitch and Cassidy.

Mitch’s gaze stayed on V a beat longer before he spoke. “We got eyes on a Raffen camp. Vehicles, two dozen bodies give or take. Looked organized. Mil-grade crates in the mix—Arasaka stamps half-sprayed over. V slipped down, pulled a shard, grabbed data. Then… things went sideways.”

Cassidy dragged a hand down his face, leaving a smear of dust. “Generator blew a light, gave him cover. On the way out he clipped a wrench—noise brought two. He handled ’em, quiet. But once the camp stirred—” He shook his head. “Bullets should’ve chewed him to ribbons. Didn’t touch him.”

Murmurs rippled through the crowd.

Mitch’s jaw tightened. “Feed glitched when I tracked him. Outline fuzzed. Could’ve been interference. Could’ve been nothing. But it wasn’t clean.”

Cassidy spat into the dirt. “He tore through six, seven of ’em like he already knew where they’d be. Then it was like somethin’ flipped inside him. Dropped straight into the dirt. Blood everywhere.”

Mitch nodded. “Pulse was racing when we pulled him. Too fast. One eye was off. Flickering. Chrome hand kept clenching.”

Cassidy muttered, “Whatever it was… it wasn’t right.”

The silence stretched, fire snapping in the dark. Someone whispered a prayer. Someone else spat into the dust.

Carol’s voice broke it, hard and cold. “So let me get this straight. He sneaks into a Raffen camp, pulls data off an Arasaka crate, and now he’s lying half-dead in our camp? That’s not just some scrap raid. Where there’s one pack, there’s more.”

Cassidy bristled. “He did what he had to—”

Carol cut him off with a sharp gesture. “That wasn’t just a camp for the night. They were digging in for something bigger. Raffen don’t haul corpo tech unless someone’s paying. You think Arasaka won’t come looking? Or the rest of the pack? You brought that fire back here.”

Panam’s grip on V tightened, her eyes locked on Carol. “That’s V. He’s Aldecaldo. He belongs here.”

Carol’s jaw tightened, but her tone stayed cold, measured. “I’m not saying he doesn’t. I’m saying what’s in his head might not belong here. If Arasaka—or worse—comes sniffing, it won’t matter who he is to us.”

The weight of her words hung in the firelight. Panam bowed her head, brushing a streak of blood from V’s face with trembling fingers, clutching him as if that alone could anchor him — and her — against what Carol had said.

Then she lifted her head, fire burning behind the tears. “We need to get him to the med corner,” she snapped, her voice shaking. “Now.”

Mitch was already moving. He shouldered past two onlookers and swung the rig door wide. Cassidy slipped under V’s other arm without being told, grunting as they lifted his weight.

The crowd parted fast, no one daring to speak. A few carried lanterns ahead, light bobbing across the sand, while others cleared benches and tables from the med corner.

Panam stayed close, one hand knotted in V’s shirt, the other steadying his slack head against her shoulder. She didn’t look at anyone, didn’t answer the murmurs chasing them through camp. Her eyes never left his face.

They eased V down onto a cot in the med corner, lanterns throwing long shadows across canvas and steel. Mitch adjusted his weight, the black plates of his arm careful under V’s shoulder, while Cassidy steadied his legs. When his body finally stilled, both men stepped back, sweat darkening their collars.

“Water, gauze,” Mitch muttered, already digging through a supply crate. Cassidy nodded and slipped out with him.

The flap fell closed, muting the noise of camp. Suddenly it was only Panam and V, the hiss of the lantern, and the sound of his ragged breathing.

She sank to her knees at his side. Her fingers brushed blood from his temple, smearing red across her skin. “You’re still here,” she whispered, voice rough. “You hang on.”

The canvas rustled. Dakota stepped inside, slow as smoke. She lingered just inside the flap, eyes fixed on the cot.

“Convulsions,” she said quietly. “Blood from the nose and ears. One pupil wide, the other flickering.” She spoke as if reciting a ledger, each detail weighted but flat.

Panam’s hand tightened around V’s, her thumb moving unconsciously across his knuckles. Her voice came rough, like she was forcing it steady.
“Whatever this is… he’ll fight it. He always does.”

But the crack in her tone made it sound less like conviction, and more like she was daring Dakota to tell her otherwise.

Dakota drew on her cigarette, exhaled a thin curl of smoke into the lantern light. When she finally spoke, her voice was low, detached.

“Something reached through him tonight. Maybe it was him, pushed past the brink. Maybe not. Either way—walls break in strange ways. And when they do, it’s blood that seeps through first.”

The words seemed to settle into the canvas itself, heavy as the desert night.

Panam closed her eyes for a moment, listening to the fragile rasp of V’s breath, the fear curling hot in her chest.

Dakota tapped ash into a tin, her tone calm, almost indifferent.
“What you saw was a crack opening. Be careful what crawls through.”

The lantern guttered, steadied. Outside, the wind dragged at the canvas, carrying the camp’s murmurs and the weight of fear they didn’t yet name.

Chapter Text

The med corner was quiet now, emptied of voices and boots and worried stares. Only the hiss of the lantern filled the air, a tired glow pushing back shadows that seemed to press closer with every passing minute. Outside, the camp had gone still; even the desert wind sounded muted, as if it too was holding its breath.

Panam sat with her elbows braced on her knees, hands clasped so tight her knuckles ached. Every few minutes she checked him—two fingers at his throat, palm against his chest, eyes drawn to the shallow rise and fall. Always circling back, as though making sure the world hadn’t stolen him while she blinked.

Her eyes burned, but not from tears. She wouldn’t give them that, not here. Saul was dead. She hadn’t broken then, and she wouldn’t now. But this—this was different. She’d told V she loved him. He’d said it back. For once, words had been enough. That much she held like a blade, sharp and steady in her chest.

Dakota’s warning slid through her thoughts like a knife she couldn’t pull out. What you saw was a crack opening. Be careful what crawls through.

Panam shifted closer, leaning until her forearms pressed against the cot. “Crack in what?” she muttered under her breath. “The relic? His head? Him?” Her jaw tightened. “Doesn’t matter. He’s still here. He’s still V.”

Then his chrome fingers jerked, sudden and sharp, before falling limp again. A low crackle bled from the socket at his wrist, a whisper of static that raised the hair along her arms.

Her breath caught. She froze, every nerve screaming to move and not move at once. When she leaned in, his lips shifted, a sound slipping out—wet, broken, more static than voice.

Panam’s chest went cold. Not words. Not anything she could put a name to. Her hand hovered above him, trembling, before she forced it down to grip his.

“Easy,” she whispered, voice low, almost pleading. “Just breathe. Just stay with me.”

The lantern sputtered, shadows leaping across canvas walls. She dragged a hand down her face, jaw clenched hard enough to ache. Concern and fear twisted together inside her, but she wouldn’t let go. She couldn’t.

She stayed there, pressed close, every nerve sharp, daring him to breathe steady, daring him to keep fighting. Because whatever this was—whatever had reached through him—Panam wasn’t about to let it take him. Not while she still had her hands on him.

The world opened on a hum of neon.

The Afterlife stretched before him, too bright, too still. Barstools lined the counter, bottles gleamed in neat rows, but no sound filled the air. No voices, no music, no weight of bodies moving through smoke and steel. Just silence pressing against his ears until he realized he was sitting at the bar, hand resting on wood that felt colder than it should.

A stool scraped.

“Look who finally showed.”

Jackie sat beside him, grin easy, shoulders broad, like he’d been there all along. Same patched jacket. Same warmth in his voice. He leaned against the counter, casual as if it were any other night.

V’s breath hitched. “Jackie…”

Jackie chuckled low, familiar. “Don’t look so spooked. Not like you ain’t been here before.” He reached for a bottle — blank glass, liquid without color — poured into a glass that stayed empty. He lifted it anyway.

V stared. “This isn’t real.”

Jackie smirked, tilting the glass toward him. “Does it feel real? That’s the only part that matters.”

A voice cut sharp through the silence, rough and scathing:

“Christ, V. You look like you’ve already bought the plot. Want me to write the epitaph too?”

Johnny leaned against the jukebox that wasn’t playing, cigarette ember glowing like an angry eye. His smirk was faint, but his tone was blunt, leaving no room for comfort.

V twisted toward him, chest tight. “Johnny.”

Johnny dragged smoke deep, exhaled slow. “Don’t look so shocked. You had to know it wasn’t just gonna be headaches and chrome jitters. You’re circlin’ the drain — and something else is circlin’ with you.”

Jackie’s hand landed firm on V’s shoulder, grounding. “Don’t listen too hard. You’re stronger than you think. Always been.”

Johnny barked a humorless laugh. “Strong don’t mean shit if the ground keeps crumbling under you.”

The neon overhead buzzed louder, stuttered. For a heartbeat, the Afterlife peeled away — black desert stretching under a starless sky, sand tearing at his face. Then the bar snapped back, too clean, bottles lined neat as if nothing had shifted.

V shoved away from the counter, breath ragged. “So what is this? A dream? Am I dying?”

Jackie leaned in, voice steady, softer now. “Call it a stop along the way. Road’s still yours. You just gotta keep walking.”

Johnny stubbed his cigarette against the jukebox. The ember glowed, never dying. “Yeah. Till you find out what’s waiting at the end.”

V’s hands curled tight. “What’s waiting? What the hell’s coming?”

Jackie’s smile faltered, just for a breath. “Could be nothin’. Could be everything. That’s the thing — you don’t see it till you’re already there.”

Johnny exhaled smoke, bitter. “And sometimes it ain’t you that sees it. Sometimes it sees you first.”

V’s pulse spiked. “What the fuck does that mean?”

Jackie shook his head, gaze sliding off to the empty room. “Not mine to answer.”

Johnny’s grin was razor-thin. “Means you’re asking the wrong questions.”

The bottles behind the bar warped again, black glass jutting like teeth, before smoothing back to harmless rows.

V slammed his palm against the counter. “Then tell me the right questions.”

Jackie’s voice was soft, but steady. “Ask who you’re gonna be when this road ends.”

Johnny leaned forward, smoke curling around his words. “And if you’re still gonna be you when it does.”

The silence stretched, neon buzzing until it sounded like static drilling into his skull.

Jackie lifted his empty glass, grin flickering like a bad reflection. “To the road ahead.”

Johnny’s laugh rasped low, bitter. “Yeah. If it doesn’t eat you alive first.”

Behind the counter, the mirror rippled. No Jackie. No Johnny. Not even V. Just dark glass swallowing everything whole.

Morning bled pale across the desert, long shadows stretching from rigs and trailers. The air carried the dry chill of night giving way to heat, the kind that clung to the skin and promised the sun would be merciless soon enough. Camp moved slow, quiet. Boots scuffed dirt, voices stayed low, and every glance carried the same edge of unease.

The big tent stood at the center, canvas walls catching the first glow of light. Inside, the Aldecaldos had gathered in a rough circle, crates and benches dragged close, a table shoved into the middle with half-empty mugs of coffee staining rings into the surface. The air was thick with dust and expectation, as if no one wanted to be the first to speak but all of them needed someone to.

Panam stood near the center, arms folded tight, jaw set. She felt their eyes on her, quick and sharp, but most wouldn’t hold her gaze. Not until Carol broke the silence.

“We can’t act like nothing happened.” Her tone was clipped, sharp enough to cut. “V didn’t just drop last night. He tore through those Raffen like they were nothin’. And that wasn’t a camp to wait out the night. They were settin’ something up.”

A ripple of mutters passed through the circle. Someone shifted on a bench, another rubbed grit from their eyes. A pair of younger Aldecaldos leaned together, whispering too low to catch.

Carol pressed on, jaw tight. “Raffen don’t organize like that unless someone’s pulling strings. And if it’s Arasaka, you know damn well they’ll come sniffin’ back. When they do, it’s us in the open.”

The words carried weight, drawing a hush.

Mitch pushed himself up, his chrome arm catching the glow seeping through the canvas. “I was there. You think V’s the problem? He’s the reason we’re sittin’ here. And don’t forget—he pulled a shard out of that mess. Could be intel that saves our asses.”

There were nods, but hesitant, fewer than Carol’s murmurs had earned.

Cassidy leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees. His hat tipped low, his voice rough but steady. “I saw it too. He didn’t just pass out—looked like somethin’ hit him hard the second he slotted it. Don’t know what, but it wasn’t just exhaustion.”

That stirred sharper whispers. One from the back muttered, “Then what if it wasn’t just him out there?”

Carol’s gaze cut back to Panam, sharp. “That’s exactly the point. What if? What if whatever hit him last night changes who he is tomorrow? We can’t just close ranks and hope it all works out.”

Her eyes narrowed, pressing the weight. “Saul would’ve seen it.”

The tent went quiet, the name dropped like a stone.

Panam stepped forward, heat rising in her chest though the morning air was still cool. Her voice cut steady, though each word was heavy. “Saul’s not here. I am. And survival isn’t turning our backs the second it’s hard. It’s family. Trust. Standing together. You break that, and we’re already finished.”

The hush lingered, eyes shifting between her and Carol. Then Carol pressed again, sharper:

“Then at least use what he pulled. We’ve got the shard. If it’s Arasaka, we need to know what we’re dealing with now. Sitting on it is how you get blindsided.”

This time, more heads nodded.

Mitch bristled, arms crossed. “We don’t even know what’s on it yet. Could be junk, could be gold. But you know as well as I do, slotting it into the wrong system could fry more than a deck. That kind of risk? We don’t take it blind.”

The tent buzzed with low voices. Some with Carol, some with Mitch, most just caught between.

Panam let it build, then cut through, her voice firm. “We’ll check the shard.” The noise quieted, attention swinging back to her. “We’ll do it careful, with the right setup. But we’re not rushing blind, and we’re not putting V aside while we do it. He’s part of this family. That doesn’t change.”

Her words settled like weight into the circle. Not silence of agreement, but of acknowledgement. A compromise, enough to keep the clan from splitting down the middle — at least for now.

Carol gave the smallest nod, not satisfied, but accepting the ground gained. Mitch eased back a fraction, though his jaw stayed tight. Cassidy just leaned away, letting his hat fall low again.

Panam stood in the center, the eyes still on her, steady now, if not united.

“Meeting’s over,” she said at last.

She stepped out into the desert light, the air already warming fast. Behind her, whispers rose again, carried low, sharp, and restless on the morning wind.

Panam could feel it in the air as soon as she stepped back outside—the shift in voices, the way people moved around each other. Quiet words carried farther than they should, the morning wind catching them like it wanted her to hear but never clear enough to make sense. A few looked her way and gave short nods. More just turned back to their work, shoulders tight, conversations clipped.

Mitch fell in step with her, silent for a stretch. His eyes tracked the camp same as hers, reading the way the Aldecaldos carried themselves. Finally, he muttered, “They’ll cool off. Always do.”

Panam wanted to believe it. But she saw Carol by the trailers, talking low with two of the younger ones—kids who hadn’t been through the tower, who hadn’t carried Saul to his grave. They leaned in close, listening too hard. When Carol noticed her looking, she didn’t flinch, didn’t break stride. Just kept talking.

Panam’s jaw tightened. “Maybe,” she said.

Mitch’s gaze stayed on the camp. “Don’t lose sleep over whispers. End of the day, they’ll follow the one who gets ’em through.”

The sun was climbing now, light spilling hard across the desert. It painted long shadows over the rigs, lit dust that hadn’t settled from last night’s return. The camp was alive, but not easy. Every glance, every murmur said the same thing: the council hadn’t ended anything.

They didn’t head back to the big tent. That was for the clan, for voices raised and whispered. This was different. Panam led them to one of the smaller trailers, its walls lined with tools and parts, wires coiled across a workbench. The smell of oil and dust clung heavy inside, the hum of the camp muffled once the door shut.

Mitch ducked in after her, arms crossed, chrome glinting under the low light. Cassidy followed, his hat tilted back, eyes already restless. Carol was last, sharp-eyed, the kind of look that made Panam feel she’d been cornered into her own meeting.

Panam planted her hands on the workbench, the shard resting between them like it carried more weight than a scrap of metal had any right to. “We said we’d check it. So we’re deciding how.”

Carol leaned forward, palms flat on the table. “Then quit wasting time. That shard could hold troop movements, supply lines, maybe even Arasaka’s fingerprints. Every hour we sit on it, we’re blind.” Her gaze flicked up, hard. “You promised the clan we wouldn’t drag our feet.”

Mitch’s jaw tightened. “And I’m saying we don’t rush blind, either. You don’t just slot something like this into the nearest deck and hope it plays nice. Could fry the rig, cook the netrunner, or worse. You want answers, fine—we set up proper. Do it careful, controlled.”

Carol’s lip curled. “Careful means slow. And slow means dead if Arasaka’s already moving.”

Cassidy shifted, hands clasped loose in front of him. “Look, I’m not sayin’ either of you are wrong. But I was there, same as Mitch. I saw what happened when V slotted it.” His voice dropped, steady but uneasy. “Didn’t look right. Didn’t sound right. Like it hit him harder than it should’ve. That’s what’s stickin’ with folks out there.”

The silence that followed was heavier than the air in the trailer. Mitch stared at the shard, Carol at Panam.

Panam let it hang a moment, then straightened, folding her arms. “Dakota checks it first. If it’s clean, if it’s stable, then we move forward. But we don’t rush it, and we don’t plug it into anything until she says it’s safe.”

Carol’s eyes narrowed. “So she gets to make the call?”

“No,” Panam said. “I do. But I trust her read before I trust guesswork. You want it cracked, it gets cracked right. Not half-assed.”

That silenced the room for a beat. Carol’s jaw worked, but she didn’t argue. Not agreement, not surrender—but no words left to push. Mitch gave the faintest nod, arms loosening across his chest. Cassidy just tipped his hat back down, retreating into the quiet.

Panam picked up the shard, slipped it into her pocket. It felt heavier there than on the table. “That’s the call,” she said, voice final.

When they stepped back into the sun, the camp looked the same as before—people moving, dust rising, whispers carrying on the wind. But Panam felt the shard pressing against her side, and knew none of this was settled.

Dakota’s trailer sat at the far edge of camp, apart from the hum of voices and engines. Always had. Panam slipped inside, the dry morning air giving way to something heavier—sage burned down to ash, the faint tang of oil, the quiet thrum of cooling fans from machines stacked against the walls.

Dakota was already at her desk, screens glowing faint in the dim. She didn’t turn when Panam came in, just said, “I figured you’d bring it sooner or later.”

Panam pulled the shard from her pocket, laid it on the table between them. It looked small, ordinary. Nothing about it carried the weight it had put on the clan.

“Need to know what’s on it,” Panam said. Her voice came out harder than she meant. “Before the whispers tear this place in two.”

Dakota picked it up, turned it between her fingers like she was weighing something heavier than glass and steel. “You don’t rush with things that carry echoes.” She slid it into a side rig, a smaller device that hummed low. “But we can skim.”

Lines of code spilled across the screen. For a while it was nothing but static, the kind of digital snow Panam had seen a dozen times when runners pushed old shards. Then sound broke through—garbled, clipped, a voice in Japanese Panam didn’t understand, but the sharp cadence told her it was corporate. Arasaka, no doubt.

Underneath it, something else bled in. Not words, not even clear sound—just the shape of another voice trying to form beneath the chatter. Too low, too broken, like an echo that didn’t belong.

“What is that?” Panam asked.

Dakota didn’t answer. She switched the feed, pulled visual fragments. Grainy images snapped into place on the screen—angles of the Raffen camp, half-built fortifications, the glow of a generator. But there was more. Shapes flickered at the edges, forms that looked like people only until you tried to focus on them. Too tall, too thin in places, their outlines stuttering as if they hadn’t decided what they were meant to be.

Panam’s stomach tightened. “What am I looking at?”

Dakota killed the feed with a sharp keystroke. The screen went dark. For a long moment, only the hum of fans filled the trailer. Then, quiet, even:

“Not everything that shows itself wants to be seen. A vessel takes on more than it’s meant to, and sooner or later, it spills.”

Panam stood still, jaw tight. She’d come looking for clarity, something solid to carry back to the clan. Instead she walked out with more weight in her chest, and less ground under her feet.

Outside, the camp was busy again, voices sharp, engines coughing to life. But all she could hear was that half-formed voice under the static, clawing to be heard.

Darkness folded in, then peeled back too sharp.

The Afterlife again. Only this time it didn’t sit right. The bar stretched longer than it should’ve, ceiling too low, bottles on the shelves warping in and out of place. Every blink, the room redrew itself.

V sat at the counter, glass in hand he didn’t remember lifting.

“You look like hell, mano.”

Jackie slid onto the stool beside him, grin wide but softer this time, like it cost him something to wear it. He clapped a hand on V’s back. Warm. Solid. Wrong, somehow.

Before V could answer, Johnny leaned against the bar, cigarette burning low. “Don’t need a mirror to see it. He’s splitting at the seams.”

“Seams?” V rasped. His throat felt dry, his voice too loud in the still room.

Jackie’s gaze flicked down, like he didn’t want to say it, then back up. “Carry too much weight, something’s gonna break. You know that.”

“Yeah,” Johnny said, sharp. “But this ain’t just weight. It’s more like—” He cut himself off, smirk twisting bitter. “And the part you don’t wanna hear. You’re not just runnin’ outta time—you’re lettin’ something else in.”

V pushed off the counter, chest tight. “No. You don’t get to dangle shit and leave me blind. What’s happening to me?”

Jackie leaned in, his hand firm on V’s shoulder again. “Not all of it’s yours, mano. That’s the part you gotta understand.”

The bottles behind the bar flickered. Between their rows, V caught glimpses of shapes moving, blurred, stretched—arms too long, faces never finishing themselves before collapsing into static. Watching. Waiting.

He spun on the stool, but the bar was empty. Just the echo of footsteps that didn’t belong.

“Tell me what the hell that is,” V demanded, turning back.

Jackie’s grin was gone. “Not for me to say.”

Johnny’s voice was flat. “Door’s already cracked. Question is—who’s walkin’ through it?”

The bottles behind the bar flickered harder now, shapes pressing close, twitching like half-finished code. V leaned forward, breath sharp, trying to pin them down.

Jackie’s hand squeezed his shoulder again, steady, grounding. But when he spoke, the words came out wrong—flat, cold, not his voice at all.

“You’re not alone in there.”

V froze. Jackie’s grin was back, wide and familiar, like nothing had slipped.

Then the mirror rippled. One of the blurred shapes lunged outward, bursting through glass that didn’t shatter. Its arm stretched for him, long and wrong, fingers locking tight around his wrist.

The grip seared cold, colder than chrome, cutting straight into the bone. V’s breath tore out of him, ragged, a sound too close to a sob. He wrenched back, but the thing yanked harder, dragging him toward the bar, toward the black glass that bent and gaped like water.

Panic ripped through him. His pulse hammered against his ribs, his vision tunneling as he clawed at the counter, nails scraping wood. He couldn’t get free. Every pull stole another inch, every second convinced him it would drag him under.

“No—” His voice cracked. He wasn’t sure if he’d shouted or thought it. His heart slammed like it might tear itself out of his chest.

The shape pulled again, the mirror yawning wide—

—and the Afterlife shattered into black.

V jolted awake with a ragged gasp, chest heaving like he’d been running full tilt. Canvas overhead swam in and out of focus, seams cutting thin lines of light across his vision.

Sweat slicked his skin, cooling fast in the dry air. His pulse hammered, refusing to settle, every beat a reminder of hands that weren’t real, a grip colder than chrome. He flexed his wrist, half-expecting marks, frostbite, anything. Just skin.

The silence pressed close, too close. Then, faint beneath it—the cough of an engine turning over, voices carrying low, metal dragged across metal. Camp sounds.

He blinked, taking in the clutter around him. A folding cot, the muted hum of borrowed medtech, the sharp tang of antiseptic that clung in his throat. He knew enough to guess where he was. The med corner.

But no one was here.

For the first time since the tower, since everything, Panam wasn’t at his side.

The canvas walls barely stirred with the desert wind, thin shadows shifting across them. Beyond, the camp moved on, steady and alive. In here, V lay alone, breath tearing out of him, staring at seams overhead that blurred each time he blinked.

He dragged a hand down his face, trying to wipe away the tremor in his jaw, the shiver in his chest. Didn’t work. The weight stayed.

He was awake. But the terror hadn’t let go.

Chapter Text

Panam crossed the camp with her shoulders set, the heat already clawing its way up from the dust. Around her, engines coughed, wrenches clanged against steel, voices called back and forth. The work of keeping the clan alive. She answered none of it, eyes fixed on the far row of tents.

Dakota’s words still gnawed at her ribs like grit she couldn’t cough free: Not everything that shows itself wants to be seen. A vessel takes on more than it’s meant to, and sooner or later, it spills.

The med corner sat quiet, canvas walls stirring faint in the heat. Her throat tightened; every step closer felt heavier. She pushed through the flap—

—and froze.

V was upright on the cot, chest rising and falling in uneven pulls, sweat clinging to his hairline. His eyes found hers, wide, dazed, and haunted, darting to the corners of the tent as if something might still be there. His hands shook faintly against the sheets, the tremor of a man dragged back from somewhere he hadn’t wanted to be.

For a heartbeat she couldn’t move. The air left her lungs like someone had struck her in the ribs. Then she was at his side, knees pressing against the cot, her hands finding his shoulders as if to anchor him back into the world.

“V…” It broke out of her, soft and cracked, not the voice she used with the clan, not the voice of a leader. Just his name, all the weight of weeks packed into two letters.

He tried to speak but only managed a rasp, throat working dry. His fingers fumbled for hers, grip weak, trembling. She caught his hand and held it tight, afraid to let go, as if he might vanish if she blinked.

“You’re here,” she whispered, forehead nearly touching his. “You’re here.” Relief surged through her, fierce and overwhelming, chased instantly by guilt—she hadn’t been here when he woke, hadn’t been the first thing he saw. She had promised herself she would never leave him alone again. And still, she had.

For a moment, the world outside didn’t exist. It was only the sound of his breath, ragged and real, the tremor in his hand, and the warmth of his skin under her grip.

Then footsteps scuffed closer outside. The flap shifted, and Mitch’s voice started low, casual, as if he hadn’t meant to intrude.

“Panam, I was just—”

He stopped short. His eyes locked on the cot. The disbelief broke through first, then relief softened the edge of his voice.

“He’s awake.”

It wasn’t loud, but it carried. Outside, the camp stirred like a hive prodded with a stick. Murmurs spread, the scrape of boots drawing nearer, the weight of curiosity and fear pressing in all at once.

Panam’s jaw tightened, her grip on V’s hand refusing to loosen. The moment that had been theirs alone dissolved under the weight of the clan.

V flinched at the noise outside, shoulders tightening beneath Panam’s hands. His gaze darted toward the canvas walls as if something might break through them, pupils still blown wide with leftover terror. His grip on her hand spasmed, weak but desperate.

She caught it instantly. Lowered her voice. “Hey. Look at me.”

It took effort, but his eyes dragged back to hers, unfocused but there. She held that line of sight like it was the only thing keeping him tethered. “You’re safe,” she murmured, steady despite the storm outside. “I’ve got you.”

His breathing hitched, uneven, like her words couldn’t quite reach whatever still clung to him. Panam’s chest clenched tight. This wasn’t just weakness. He was afraid. Really afraid.

For a few breaths, it was just them—the ragged hitch in his chest, the tremor in his hand, the warmth of her palm over his knuckles.

Then the canvas shifted. The tent flap began to lift.

The moment was over.

The flap lifted wider, and Carol stepped inside. She paused just past the threshold, her sharp gaze flicking from Panam to the cot. For once, her expression softened.

“Jesus, V…” Her voice carried more relief than anything else. She moved closer, careful, as if not to startle him. “You had us thinking we’d lost you for good.”

V tried to sit straighter but faltered, his breath hitching. Panam’s hand tightened around his, steadying him. She angled her body just enough to set a line between him and Carol.

Carol stopped at the foot of the cot, her jaw working. For a moment she looked like she might reach out, then thought better of it. She folded her arms instead, masking whatever flicker had passed.

“We’ve all been waiting,” she said, quieter now. “You scared the hell out of us.”

Panam gave a short nod, her focus fixed on V. “He needs time. That’s all.”

Carol’s eyes lingered on V, then shifted to Panam, something harder slipping back into place. “Time’s what we don’t have much of.” She exhaled through her nose, steady but firm. “If he’s awake, then we need to know what he brought back with him. The clan can’t move blind.”

Panam’s head snapped up, shoulders taut. “He just woke. You think the first thing he should do is answer to council?”

Carol’s mouth pressed thin. “I think the family deserves to know what we’re facing. If danger followed him back, we can’t wait for it to knock on our door.”

The words weren’t cruel, but they cut all the same.

From the flap, Mitch cleared his throat. He’d lingered just inside, arms folded, weight shifted awkwardly between them. “She’s not wrong,” he said carefully, eyes flicking from Carol to Panam. Then, after a beat: “But it doesn’t have to be right now.”

The air held taut between them, the hum of medtech filling the silence V was too shaken to break.

The flap rustled again, and Cassidy ducked inside. His hat was pushed back on his head, sweat at his temples, a look on his face that was equal parts worry and relief.

“Well, I’ll be damned.” His voice carried that rough humor that always rode the edge of sarcasm. He gave V a once-over, then shook his head, a grin tugging at his mouth. “Scared the hell outta us, then just wake up like nothin’ happened? You’re a real piece of work.”

V tried to answer, but only managed a hoarse sound. Cassidy’s grin faltered; the lines around his eyes tightened. He shifted awkwardly, cleared his throat, then added softer, “Don’t go pulling that stunt again, huh?”

Panam’s hand tightened on V’s. She caught the flicker in Cassidy’s expression, the same fear she’d seen in Mitch, in Carol, in herself.

Carol exhaled, arms still folded. “We’re all glad he’s awake. But that doesn’t change the fact—”

“—that he needs a minute,” Cassidy cut in, sharper than usual. He shot Carol a look, not cruel but pointed. “The guy just clawed his way back. Give him air before you pile the weight of the world on his chest.”

Carol’s jaw set, but she didn’t fire back. The silence that followed was heavy, layered with everything none of them wanted to name.

V leaned back against the cot, breath ragged, eyes flicking between them.

Then, hoarse and thin, V rasped, “Stop…” His hand tightened on Panam’s, weak but deliberate. One word — enough to cut through all of them.

Silence followed, heavy, more final than any answer.

Panam bent closer, her grip firming on his hand, her breath brushing his temple. She didn’t speak, but the set of her shoulders said everything.

Mitch shifted off the wall, exhaling slow through his nose, the tension in his frame unwinding by a notch.

Carol’s gaze stayed on V, her expression unreadable. She folded her arms tighter, eyes narrowing just a fraction, though whether in worry or calculation, none could say.

Cassidy let out a short huff, half a laugh, half a sigh. “Guess we earned that,” he muttered, but the bite in his tone didn’t hide the worry in his eyes.

V closed his eyes again, chest rising in unsteady rhythm, fingers locked on Panam’s.

No one spoke. The weight of that single word hung between them, each of them carrying a different meaning, none daring to break it.

The silence in the med corner stretched, heavy as stone. V’s hand stayed locked in Panam’s, his eyes closed again, breath uneven but steady. None of them moved, as though the smallest sound might shatter the moment.

Then the voices outside swelled. What had been murmurs broke into calls, overlapping, impatient. The sound pressed against the canvas walls, a low tide rising.

The flap lifted, and two more figures stepped in — Aldecaldos, faces drawn tight with equal parts relief and unease. Behind them, shadows shifted, a dozen shapes straining to see.

Questions tumbled forward, sharp and insistent.

“Is he alright?”
“What happened out there?”
“Can we move now, Panam?”

Panam rose from the cot, planting herself between V and the crowd. Her voice cut like a blade. “Enough.”

The word stilled them.

Carol stepped forward, turning her gaze to the crowd. “You heard her. Back up.” Her tone carried no anger, only authority. “He needs air. That’s all that matters now.”

The camp hesitated, caught between their questions and the weight of two leaders standing shoulder to shoulder.

Cassidy’s laugh came sharp and humorless. “Hell, I’d say he’s earned more than air. Let him breathe before you pile a world of worries on top.”

Mitch’s gaze swept the gathering, his black chrome arm glinting. “You’ll get answers. Just not tonight. Not like this.”

The crowd muttered, shifting uneasily, but didn’t press further. The air carried the tension of an unstrung wire — the need for answers colliding with the sight of their brother pale and broken on the cot.

Panam’s jaw set. Her hand brushed V’s shoulder once more, then she faced the tent full of waiting eyes. “He’s alive. That’s what matters tonight. The rest—” she let the words hang, steel threaded through her tone, “—will come when it’s time.”

Carol gave the crowd one last look, a quiet command in her eyes. Slowly, the pressure at the flap eased. Voices dimmed. The hive retreated — not stilled, only waiting.

For now, it was enough.

Chapter Text

The camp woke slow the next morning, but the air was heavier than the desert heat. Engines idled in half-hearted repairs, conversations cut short whenever the med corner came into view. Word that V had finally woken passed from tent to tent, truck to truck, until the whole Aldecaldo family carried it like a stone in their gut.

By the time the sun cleared the ridgeline, the council had gathered. Not in some hall or base — the Aldecaldos had no need for walls — but in a rough circle of rigs and folding chairs beneath a canopy of patched tarps. Shadows of steel frames striped the sand, the hum of the generators filling the silence between words.

Panam sat forward in her chair, jaw tight, every inch the leader they looked to. Mitch had posted near her shoulder, his cyberarm folded across his chest, steady as bedrock. Carol leaned on the opposite side of the circle, her arms crossed, eyes sharp, taking the measure of every voice raised. Cassidy slouched in a seat two down, hat tipped back, his silence a poor mask for how restless he was.

Around them, faces of the family — sunburnt, weary, and waiting.

It was Carol who spoke first, her tone even, not unkind. “We’re all grateful V’s finally opened his eyes. But that doesn’t change the truth. None of us know what happened out there. And until we do, we’re walking blind.”

A murmur of agreement rippled through the ring.

Panam’s gaze hardened. “He needs time. He barely opened his eyes last night, and already we’re talking like he owes the clan answers.”

“He doesn’t owe us,” Carol said, her voice still calm. “But the family depends on knowing what threats we face. That’s my concern. Nothing else.”

Cassidy snorted, kicking the leg of his chair out. “Hell, if danger’s comin’, it’ll find us quick enough. Don’t need to wring the guy dry the second he can breathe.”

Mitch shifted, his voice low but carrying. “Carol’s not wrong. We can’t afford blind spots. But Cassidy’s right, too. Pushin’ V too soon gets us nowhere. We’ve gotta balance it.”

The circle went quiet again, all eyes turning back to Panam. The burden of the call settled on her shoulders, heavier than the sun overhead.

The silence stretched until someone in the back broke it.

“What if it comes back?” A man’s voice — one of the younger mechanics, his face tight with worry. “Whatever hit him. What if it spreads?”

A ripple of unease cut through the circle.

An older woman shook her head. “He’s family. We don’t turn our backs on family because we’re scared.”

“Family doesn’t mean blind,” another shot back. “If V brought somethin’ dangerous with him, don’t we have a right to know before it swallows us whole?”

The voices climbed, each one sharper than the last. Some spoke for loyalty, others for caution. The circle wavered like a line under strain, everyone pulling in their own direction.

Panam’s voice cut clean through. “He didn’t bring danger to us. He went into it for us.” Her eyes swept the circle, steady as steel. “Every time, he’s bled for this family. Don’t you forget that.”

The words stilled some, but not all. Carol leaned forward, her tone calm but pointed. “No one’s forgetting, Panam. We all know what he’s done. That’s why we can’t afford to lose what he fought for by looking the other way now.”

Cassidy leaned back, a dry laugh curling out of him. “Always amazes me. Half of you’d follow him through hell, the other half act like he dragged it back in his pocket. Maybe pick one.”

That earned a few chuckles — nervous ones, but enough to break the tension for a breath.

Mitch lifted his chin, his cyberarm tapping once against his chair. “We’ve heard both sides. What we need now is clarity. No speculation, no fear talk. Facts.”

As if on cue, the crowd shifted when the flap behind them stirred. Heads turned as Dakota stepped into the circle, a shard in her hand, the morning light glinting off its surface.

Her expression gave nothing away, but her eyes swept the ring, and for the first time since the council started, the voices quieted without being told.

Dakota stepped through the council tent’s flap, dust still on her boots, the shard in her hand catching a glint of morning light. The circle stilled at once.

“Pulled what I could,” she said, holding it up. “Most of it’s noise. The rest doesn’t like being looked at.”

She crossed to a battered deck set up on a crate and slotted the shard home. A pale projection sputtered across a stretched sheet of canvas—glyphs, directories, black blocks where something had been eaten away.

“Courier shard,” she went on, hands moving quick across the keys. “Never meant to hold much. But scraps remain.”

A branching structure lit up, jagged with gaps. A few terms held long enough to read before stuttering out:

OPS: RELIC_RECOVERY / HVT-CAPTURE / FACILITY: [MIKOSH—]
PRIORITY: LIVE-SUBJECT / PAYLOAD: ENGRAM-ADJ / STATUS: ACTIVE
SECONDARY: DAMAGE CONTROL / EXTERNAL LIABILITY: [REDACTED]

The murmurs started immediately, rippling around the circle.

Dakota didn’t flinch. She tapped another key and a word cloud flickered: Mikoshi, Relic, Host, Capture, Containment, Return.

“They want their toy back,” she said. “And they want the one who made it misbehave.”

Cassidy’s voice cut across the silence. “Sayin’ they’re comin’?”

Dakota’s eyes didn’t leave the screen. “Some cages are built after the animal breaks out. Some are waiting before the door opens.”

Carol leaned forward, voice low. “So what are we looking at? Retrieval? Containment? Or worse?”

Dakota’s shoulders lifted faintly, not quite a shrug. “Depends on the order they read it in. Retrieval’s the ink, containment’s the subtext. Either way—it’s him they’re after.”

Panam’s jaw tightened. “And if they don’t get him?”

“Then they make sure no one else does,” Dakota answered, too even to be comforting.

Mitch frowned, arms crossed. “That word—adjusted engram. What the hell does that mean?”

“Means they’re not only keeping things alive on the Relic,” Dakota said, tone flat. “They’re bending them. Shaping them. Like clay on a wheel.” She tapped a key; another pane blinked up, this one half-rotted but showing a string of corporate shorthand: ‘HOST RESPONSE – ACCEPTABLE’.

Cassidy spat into the sand. “Acceptable, my ass.”

Carol’s gaze swept the room, voice clipped. “So they were expecting something like this. Maybe even hoping for it.”

Dakota gave no nod, no denial. “Hope, fear—it’s the same coin when you’ve got the right cage waiting.”

Panam’s stare burned into the light. “What does it mean for us?”

Dakota killed the projection with a sharp keystroke, plunging the tent into sudden dimness. “It means they won’t sit quiet after a report like this. You don’t stamp that kind of note into a courier unless the other end’s already primed.”

The silence afterward was thick, weighted with questions no one wanted to voice.

And then a chime buzzed from Mitch’s forearm. He glanced down, went rigid, then lifted his head. “Eyes in the sky just lit up. Dust line on the far flats. Multiple signatures. Fast.”

“How fast?” Carol asked.

“Too fast for Raffen.” Mitch’s voice dropped low. “Too organized.”

Panam was already on her feet, chair scraping. “Positions. Quiet and clean. We don’t spook ‘em; we don’t get spooked. Move.”

The council broke like a struck hive, chairs folding, boots pounding sand, engines coughing awake.

Dakota stood a moment longer, shard cool in her hand. Her voice was low, but it carried to anyone who lingered close enough to hear.

“What you saw was a crack. Be careful what crawls through.”

She pocketed the shard and followed the others out into the light.

The dust plume was already a smear across the horizon, sun catching in it like fire. Engines coughed to life across camp, steel beasts dragged into formation as the Aldecaldos scrambled.

Mitch was in the middle of it, voice sharp as a rifle crack. “Rigs in a line—front to me! Get that drone net up, double-time!” His black chrome arm cut through the air, pointing, directing, steady as stone even with the urgency pressing down.

Carol had three of the younger Aldecaldos cornered by a supply rig, her voice clipped, no room for argument. “You follow my words to the letter, or you don’t move. Understood?” They nodded fast, nerves bright in their faces.

Cassidy stood in the bed of a truck, tossing rifles one by one to waiting hands. He barked a laugh as he heaved another into the air. “Don’t matter how many suits they send, they still bleed!” The men and women around him answered with grim chuckles, thin armor against what was coming.

Through it all, Panam’s eyes flicked toward the med corner. For a beat, she hesitated, then snapped an order to one of the drivers to shift left flank, and cut across the camp at a run.

She shoved through the canvas flap, breath coming fast. The sharp smell of antiseptic clung inside, heavy against the heat. V stirred at the sound, his eyes cracking open, confusion swimming in them.

Panam dropped to a crouch at his side. “It’s Arasaka,” she said, voice low but fierce. “They’ll be on us in minutes. You stay here. You hear me? No matter what.”

V’s brow furrowed. He struggled, tried to sit, his hand twitching toward hers. “No… I can—” His voice broke into a cough.

She pressed a palm flat to his chest, firm but gentle, holding him down. “Don’t.” Her voice wavered, just once. “I can’t fight knowing you’re out there. Stay.”

Before he could answer, she leaned in and kissed him — brief, fierce, a promise she didn’t have time to put into words. Then she pulled away, tore her hand from his, and rose.

The flap ripped back. Mitch’s voice cut through, urgent. “Panam! They’re in range!”

Panam pushed past him, her shoulders squaring as the storm outside swallowed her.

Behind her, weak but clear, V’s voice rasped through the air. “Don’t go.”

She heard it. The words cut like a blade, and for a heartbeat her stride faltered. Every part of her screamed to turn back, to tell him she wasn’t leaving him, not really. But she couldn’t—not with the clan depending on her. Not with Raffen closing in, maybe worse riding with them.

Her jaw tightened. She pushed forward, tearing herself from the canvas shadows into blinding daylight and the roar of engines.

The camp had already transformed into a warfront. Mitch strode between trucks, barking into comms as his drones climbed skyward, rotors buzzing sharp against the wind. Carol directed crews to the flanks, her voice cutting through the noise with cold precision. Cassidy racked a rifle by the main rig, grin sharp enough to hide the nerves burning under it.

Panam took it all in at a glance, her shoulders squaring as she fell into step beside them. Whatever storm churned in her chest, she locked it down, let it burn into focus.

“Talk to me,” she called over the engines.

Mitch pointed toward the horizon. Dust still boiled there, closer now, the outline of rigs and bikes breaking into view. “Raffen convoy. Too many, too tight a formation. Not like any raid we’ve seen.” His jaw clenched. “Could be they’ve got help.”

Help. The word carried a weight no one wanted to name outright. Not yet.

“Doesn’t matter,” Panam said, voice hard. “They push, we push harder. Aldecaldos hold the line.”

The clan answered with the slam of magazines into rifles, the thunder of engines kicking into gear.

The horizon boiled with dust, a wall of it rising higher with every passing second. The sound came first as a low vibration underfoot, then a hum in the air, growing louder until it was a steady, pounding drumbeat. Engines. Dozens of them.

Mitch’s drones fed back grainy images, enough to confirm what the naked eye already knew. “Convoy,” he growled, voice tight over comms. “Too many. Too tight a formation.”

The Aldecaldos braced. Trucks rumbled into place, rigs locking into a defensive line, tires grinding sand. Nomads dropped into firing positions behind steel, rifles up, eyes fixed on the haze. The camp held its breath, the silence broken only by safeties clicking and the wind rattling tarps.

Panam stood at the line, rifle firm in her grip, jaw set. She could feel the weight of V’s voice still in her chest—Don’t go—but there was no room for it now.

The dust wall split.

Headlights tore through the haze like knives, blinding beams stabbing across the sand. Then came the roar: engines screaming as bikes and rigs burst into view, armored shapes bristling with welded guns and jagged steel. The Raffen poured down the ridge like a flood of rust and teeth.

Bullets snapped the air a heartbeat later. Sparks exploded from rig armor, sand geysered up in sprays, the camp erupting into chaos as the first wave hit.

“Contact!” Mitch’s voice boomed over comms. Cassidy’s laughter carried between bursts of rifle fire: “Welcome party’s early!”

The battlefield was alive in an instant—engines, screams, and gunfire tearing through the desert morning.

The fight was chaos—sand and smoke, engines screaming, lead flying thick enough to choke the air. But bit by bit, the Aldecaldos pressed back. Raffen bikes spun out under well-placed shots, rigs overturned in plumes of dust. Cassidy crouched behind the wheel well of a truck, rifle cracking in steady bursts, his curses and ragged laughs cutting through the roar. Carol barked sharp orders on the flank, snapping younger clanmates into line, steadying hands that shook.

Panam’s rifle bucked hard against her shoulder, brass spilling hot into the sand. She leaned out, caught a rider center mass, dropped him screaming into the dirt. Another fell seconds later, his bike cartwheeling across the flats in a spray of grit and blood.

The line was holding. Barely—but holding. For the first time since the dust had split, Panam felt the tide might be shifting.

Mitch’s voice cut hard over comms. “Eyes up. Something’s off—north side.”

One of his drones buzzed overhead, its feed flickering on a cracked screen strapped to his wrist. Shapes moved through the haze. At first they looked like more Raffen, more spiked steel and jagged armor. But as the dust thinned, the truth bled through.

Soldiers.

Arasaka black plating glinted under the sun, optics glowing faint through the smoke. They moved in disciplined formation, rifles rising in unison, bursts hammering into the Aldecaldo line with brutal precision.

Panam ducked as glass shattered above her head, her gut twisting cold. “Shit. We’ve got corps on the ground.”

Cassidy spat into the dirt between shots. “Knew this stank too neat.” He leaned out, fired again, muttering dark laughter under his breath.

Carol’s voice sharpened to a blade. “Everyone, tighten ranks! They’re pushing with support—don’t give an inch!”

The Aldecaldos roared back with fire, rounds sparking across armor, knocking one soldier to his knees. But the balance had shifted again. The Raffen’s chaos was bad enough. With Arasaka steel moving among them, the fight had turned into something else entirely.

The first scream tore through the comms—a young Aldecaldo clutching his side as he collapsed behind a rig, blood spreading dark across the sand. Another fell seconds later, rifle slipping from limp fingers.

“Get him back—get him out!” Carol snapped, dragging one of the wounded into cover, her jaw set like stone even as blood sprayed her shirt.

The Arasaka troopers advanced in lockstep, bursts hammering precise and merciless. Every shot seemed to find flesh, every move calculated to press the clan backward.

Panam dropped behind a wheel well, breath ragged. A burst chewed the metal above her head, hot shards raining down. She returned fire, teeth gritted, but the line was buckling. Every time she leaned out, another Aldecaldo was hit—screams cutting through the smoke, rigs shaking under sustained fire.

Cassidy’s voice was harsh through the chaos. “We’re gettin’ squeezed! Fall back!”

Mitch’s tone was grim but steady. “Pull tight, keep the med corner covered!”

Panam’s stomach lurched. V.

She fired off another burst, then scrambled back, step by step, rifle still up. The pressure was crushing now, forcing her closer toward the canvas walls of the tent. Bullets cracked the sand around her boots as she ducked low, retreating.

Another Aldecaldo went down ahead of her, chest torn open, his body folding into the dirt. Panam grabbed his rifle as she passed, slung it, and kept moving, her mind locked on one thought: she couldn’t let the line break here—not with V behind it.

Gunfire shredded the morning, deafening, endless. Aldecaldos ducked and fired, rigs shuddered under the pounding, and the smell of smoke and blood grew thicker with each passing second. Panam pressed herself against a fender, lungs burning, rifle snapping in her hands. Another trooper dropped, armor sparking under the hail of lead—but two more surged forward to take his place.

Then everything shifted.

The air itself seemed to cut. A sound, high and metallic, shrieked through the smoke—like blades scraping against steel.

Panam’s head jerked toward it.

Through the haze, something moved. Not like the Raffen. Not like soldiers. Too fast, too precise. Chrome flashed in the light, long and curved. Mantis Blades.

The assassin tore through the fight like a phantom. One Aldecaldo barely had time to shout before a blade ripped him apart, his body folding in the sand. Another turned to fire—his arm came off at the elbow before he could even pull the trigger. Blood sprayed, hot and heavy, mixing with dust.

It didn’t hesitate. It didn’t waste motion. It cut a straight line across the battlefield, every step aimed at the med corner.

At V.

Panam’s stomach dropped. Terror froze her for a heartbeat, then fury shoved it aside. She raised her rifle and fired.

Round after round slammed into the assassin’s chest and shoulders, sparks bursting across its armor. The recoil bruised her shoulder, the mag running dry in seconds. The chrome giant staggered once—then a swipe sent the rifle spinning from her hands and Panam sprawling onto her back. Sand filled her mouth, her lungs seizing as she coughed it out.

Her boots kicked furrows into the dirt as she scrambled, scuttling backward, chest heaving.

Three Aldecaldos broke from cover, throwing themselves between her and the nightmare.

The first was split open chest to hip, his scream cut short. The second’s head snapped back as a blade punched through his throat, lifting him clear off the ground before he was flung aside. The third managed two bursts from his rifle—then the assassin’s blades carved him apart, blood painting the canvas wall of the tent.

Panam’s scream caught in her throat. She ripped her pistol free with shaking hands and fired, every shot sharp and frantic, slamming into chrome.

The assassin kept coming, step by step, blades dripping red.

The slide locked back. Empty.

“No—no, no!”

She kept pulling the trigger, each hollow click louder than the last, her arms trembling so hard the weapon rattled in her grip. Her legs kicked and scraped through the dirt, dragging herself back on elbows, breath tearing ragged from her lungs, eyes wide with terror.

The assassin loomed over her, chrome gleaming, blades raised high. Its shadow fell across her, cold and merciless.

Panam’s heart hammered in her ears. There was nowhere left to go.

The blades came down.

Bang.

The shot cracked like thunder. The assassin jerked, one optic bursting in a spray of sparks.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Rounds punched through its skull, metal and circuitry erupting as the chrome giant staggered. The Mantis Blades swung wild, gouging trenches in the sand, before its body collapsed forward with a crash that rattled the ground.

Silence slammed down, heavy and absolute.

Panam’s chest heaved, ears ringing in the void the battle left behind. Her eyes drifted toward the tent, almost against her will.

And there he was.

V stood in the frame, the Malorian smoking in his grip, held in one trembling hand. His other arm hung limp at his side, useless, while his shoulder pressed into the tent’s frame to keep himself standing. His face was pale, drawn, sweat streaking through dust. Every breath was ragged, torn from lungs that barely wanted to work. His legs quivered beneath him, as if ready to give out at any moment.

But his eyes—sharp, burning—were locked on her.

Chapter Text

V staggered, the Malorian slipping from his grip as his knees gave out. Panam shoved herself under his arm before he hit the dirt, clutching him hard against her side.
“Got you,” she muttered, voice tight, breath still ragged from the fight. Her hands wouldn’t stop shaking, the memory of mantis blades flashing past her throat still too close.

V let out a rough exhale that almost passed for a laugh. “Not sure I’ve got me.”

“Don’t,” she cut in, sharper than she meant. Her arm tightened around him, steadying him against her. “Don’t talk like that. Just… hold on.”

His eyes flicked toward her, glassy but there. “Panam—”

“Later,” she snapped, scanning the ridge where gunfire sputtered low in the dust. The Aldecaldos were driving them back. The fight was almost done.

For now, she kept him on his feet, refusing to let go.

Panam hitched his arm higher over her shoulders and dragged him through the flap of the med tent.

Inside, the overhead strips buzzed faintly across the med corner. She steered him to the cot and eased him down, her hands firm on his shoulders until she was sure he’d stay put.
“Stay here,” she said, low but sharp, her hand lingering against his arm before pulling back.

V slumped into the cot, eyes heavy, breath uneven. “Not goin’ anywhere,” he muttered.

“Good.” The word came out clipped, her nerves still running hot. She dropped the empty pistol on a crate, grabbed a rifle leaning against the wall, and turned toward the flap.

Outside, the bursts of gunfire came fewer, scattered. Engines snarled, voices rose — it sounded like the Aldecaldos were driving them back.

Panam cast one more glance over her shoulder before stepping into the glare.

Smoke and dust clung to the air as Panam pushed out of the tent, rifle tight to her shoulder. Harsh midday light bled through the haze, cut into strips by the frames and rigs.
Engines snarled out past the ridge, sharp and distant, the sound bouncing through the dust. Gunfire cracked — not steady, not close — and shouts carried after it, rough voices thinned by the wind.

She moved quick, boots crunching over brass and broken earth. The air reeked of ozone, scorched rubber, and burned chrome. Every bright flare off metal showed only more smoke, more shifting haze.

Three bodies lay where the ninja had cut them down — her clan, blood soaking into the dirt, weapons still clutched in their hands. The ones who had stepped between her and death. Panam’s chest cinched tight as she passed, but she didn’t stop. Couldn’t. Not yet.

Further along, Aldecaldos pulled a wounded fighter behind a rig, out of the open. Others crouched near the floodlights and truck shadows, reloading, eyes still set on the ridge.

Cassidy’s voice carried above it all, raw but steady. “Keep on ’em! Don’t give the bastards air!”

A few more bursts spat across the ridge, sharp and scattered. Then the noise stretched thin — a shot here, an engine’s whine there — each one weaker than the last.

Through a break in the dust she caught sight of familiar figures ahead: Mitch at the hood of a truck, tablet glowing in one hand; Cassidy pacing nearby, rifle at the ready; Carol planted beside them, arms crossed, steady in the washed-out light as fighters checked in.
Relief flickered sharp through her chest at the sight of them, tempered by the weight of the dead she’d just passed.

Panam slowed as she reached them, letting the rifle hang against her leg as she stepped into the light.
“Status?” she asked.

“Scattered,” Mitch said, tablet still in his hand, glow washing pale across his face. “Raffen broke when the transport pulled back. They’re running hard.”

Cassidy spat into the dirt. “No shit. Shiv don’t stick around without their leash.”

Carol’s eyes flicked past Panam, toward the haze. “We held.”

Panam’s jaw clenched, her grip tightening until her knuckles blanched. “They sent a goddamn ninja after him,” she said, voice sharper than she intended. “Slipped the fight, went straight for the med corner.” Her throat tightened, but she forced the words out. “V dropped it.”

Mitch froze, the line of his brow furrowing. The tablet dipped lower in his hand. “...In his state?” He exhaled hard through his nose, the weight of it settling heavy in his tone. “Shit.”

Cassidy stopped his pacing, a jagged laugh tearing loose as he rubbed at his jaw. “Figures. Guy’s half held together with duct tape and spite, but he still drops a ninja. Tough bastard.”

Carol’s gaze lingered on the tent behind Panam, her arms folding tighter across her chest. When she spoke, her voice was flat, cool. “That won’t make Arasaka ease off. Quite the opposite.”

The quiet around them held, broken only by boots crunching over dirt and the low voices of Aldecaldos filtering through the dust as the rest of the clan pulled back in.

No one answered Carol right away. The four of them stood in it, the weight of the words dragging against the haze still hanging over camp. Panam shifted her grip on the rifle again, jaw tight, the crack of her voice still lingering in her ears.

Mitch rubbed at his temple, tablet hanging slack at his side. “If they’re sending black-ops ghosts after him…” His voice dropped off. He shook his head once, slow. “We need to be sharper. Won’t be the last time.”

Cassidy let out a sound half laugh, half growl. “Sharper? Mitch, we just bled half the clan into this dirt.” He jerked his chin toward the ridge. “You saw it. Shiv cut loose, corpos throwing steel like it’s cheap. That wasn’t a raid, that was a slaughterhouse.”

Carol broke in, arms still folded, her voice flat but hard. “Then we don’t waste what we’ve got left. Double the watch. Lock down the perimeter. Pull the wounded in, and start counting heads.”

The camp around them was already moving. Voices low, carrying through the smoke. Two Aldecaldos staggered past with a man between them, his blood streaking down their arms. Another was stretched flat in the dirt, a medic bent over him, hands red. Beyond them, three bodies lay side by side under blankets, the same three Panam had stepped over — the ones who had thrown themselves between her and the blades. She couldn’t look long. Her throat closed up, heat pressing sharp behind her eyes.

She forced her gaze outward. More figures came in from the haze — limping, some carried, weapons hanging loose. Every face marked with the cost. Every step reminded her that the clan had held the line, but it had broken pieces off them to do it.

Panam drew in a long breath through her nose, grounding herself against the rifle’s stock. Relief that Mitch, Cassidy, and Carol were still standing gnawed against the image of the others who weren’t.

Around her, the clan gathered tight, the weight of the day settling over them all.

Panam kept moving with the others, steadying a man as he bled from the side, guiding him into the shade where a medic was already elbow-deep in another. She shoved fresh mags into the hands of two more, their eyes glassy with shock, her voice clipped and firm to keep them moving.

When she straightened, her eyes slid toward the med corner. Just a flick, before she forced them back to the dirt.

Another fighter stumbled in from the haze, jacket torn wide, blood streaking his face. Panam caught him under the arm, pressed him down onto a crate, barked for water. As he nodded weakly, she glanced again — that flap of canvas, catching faint in the wind.

She gritted her teeth, turned away, and pushed back toward the line.

But Mitch had seen it. He lowered the tablet, the glow dying against his chest, and studied her. “Panam,” he said, voice low, carrying steady through the noise. “Go see him. We’ve got this.”

She opened her mouth to argue, but Carol cut in, arms folded hard across her chest. “He’s right. You’re no use tearing yourself in half. Go.”

The words hit sharper than she expected — sharper because they came from Carol.

Cassidy gave a short snort, rubbing his jaw. “Don’t keep the guy waitin’. We’ll keep the fire warm.”

Panam’s eyes swept the camp: the wounded hunched in shade, the three still under blankets, the faces hollowed by smoke and loss. Her throat burned as she swallowed.

As she passed Carol, she reached out, her hand brushing the woman’s arm. Their eyes met in the hard white light, and for a moment the iron edge in Carol’s gaze eased. Beneath it lay something quieter — care, held close, but still there.

Panam let her hand fall, shifted the rifle higher on her shoulder, and walked toward the tent.

The canvas flap gave beneath her hand, and the sounds of the camp dulled as Panam stepped inside. The air was thick, heavy with disinfectant and blood; the strips hummed above, casting flat light across the walls.

V lay slumped against the cot, pale and spent, his chest rising shallow but steady. His hand still hovered near the pistol, the metal shadowed under the harsh glow.

Panam’s breath hitched. The image of mantis blades descending, the empty click of her pistol, still rattled in her chest. She crossed the space fast, dropped to her knees beside him, and pressed a hand to his shoulder, careful as if he might break.

“Hey,” she murmured, her voice raw. “I’m here.”

His eyes cracked open, heavy but clear enough to find her. A faint smile touched his mouth. “Knew you’d come back.”

Panam swallowed, her thumb brushing the seam of his jacket. “You shouldn’t even be upright. God, V… you—” Her words tangled, broke apart. “You saved me.”

He huffed a dry laugh, weak but steady. “Guess we’re even.”

Her voice rose, sharp with fear disguised as anger. “Even? You can barely breathe, and you’re still—” She bit it off, jaw clenching. “One day you’re going to push too far.”

His hand lifted, shaky, and caught hers. There wasn’t strength in the grip, but he held like it mattered. “Panam. Look at me.”

She did. His gaze was tired, shadows under his eyes, but steady. Anchored. “I’m still here,” he rasped. “As long as you’re here, I’ll keep fighting.”

The wall she’d been holding split. She bent closer, forehead against his, breath trembling. “Don’t… don’t promise what you can’t—”

“Not a promise,” he whispered. “Just the only thing I know how to do.”

Her fingers clenched over his, a tear slipping hot down her cheek. She let it fall, anchored by his stubbornness, the rasp of his voice.

“You’re impossible,” she breathed, half-sob, half-laugh.

A ghost of a grin touched his lips. “And you love me for it.”

She shook her head, biting down against a laugh, pressing her brow to his. “Yeah. I do.”

For a moment the world shrank to that — the two of them, the warmth of his hand, the fragile rhythm of his breathing.

V’s eyes drifted half-shut again, his voice dropping low. “That wasn’t just muscle they threw at us.”

Panam stilled, her thumb brushing over his knuckles.

“They sent one of their ghosts,” he muttered, barely above a rasp.

Her stomach knotted. The fear flared sharp again, riding her words before she could hold it down. “They sent it for you. Straight through the line, straight for this tent. And you—”

His eyes found hers again, heavy but unshaken. “Did what I had to do.”

“That’s not the point,” she snapped, her voice breaking. “You think I can watch them throw things like that at you? You think I can stand there knowing what they’ll send next?”

He let the silence hold for a long moment, then squeezed her hand with what little strength he had. “You don’t have to stand there alone.”

Panam’s breath shook, her forehead dipping against his again, a sound catching in her chest she hadn’t meant to let out.

Outside, the clan’s voices carried low as the aftermath settled. Inside, the fear sat raw between them — her terror, his resolve — neither willing to give ground.

The quiet stretched between them, broken only by the muted sounds outside. V’s eyes slipped shut for a moment, then opened again, heavy but sharp.

“What’s the plan?” His voice was low, rough from strain.

Panam hesitated, her thumb tracing absently along his knuckles. She wanted to tell him not to worry about it, to keep his focus on breathing, on staying here with her. But lying to him wasn’t something she could do — not now.
“The clan’ll need to decide,” she said finally, the words carrying a weight she didn’t try to hide. “It’s bigger than me. Bigger than us.”

V gave a faint nod, his jaw tightening. “I’ll be there.”

Her head snapped up, eyes locking on his. “V, no—”

“I’ll be there,” he repeated, voice steadier this time, even as his body sagged against the cot. “Not sittin’ on the sidelines while they argue about my life. Not letting them carry this without me.”

Panam’s chest tightened. She could see the stubbornness written plain in his face — the same stubbornness that had dragged him to his feet when death was inches away, that had pulled the trigger when she couldn’t.
“Even if you can barely stand?” she asked, her voice quieter now, almost pleading.

His mouth quirked, the ghost of a grin. “Then I’ll sit. But I’ll be there.”

Her laugh came out shaky, wet at the edges. She pressed her brow to his again, eyes closing. “Stubborn son of a bitch.”

“Wouldn’t be me otherwise,” he murmured. His mouth curved, tired but wry. “Figure someone’s gotta keep the family from screwing this up.”

That pulled a breath from her that was half laugh, half sob, and she squeezed his hand tighter, unable to let go.

The Aldecaldos’ largest tent was stifling with heat, the sun pressing down and bleeding through the canvas so everything inside glowed dull and hazy. The air was sharp with smoke and sweat, the ragged energy of survival clinging to every voice.

Panam guided V inside, steadying him by the elbow. He eased into a chair near the front, blankets pulled around his shoulders, the effort of sitting leaving his face pale. A ripple went through the clan as eyes found them — relief, gratitude, disbelief. Someone muttered, “Thought we lost you.” Another, younger voice, cracked with exhaustion, whispered, “Thank God.” A few pressed forward, hands brushing Panam’s shoulder, V’s arm, as though needing to feel for themselves that they were alive.

For a moment, love and relief filled the space, fragile but real.

Then Mitch cleared his throat, tablet tucked under one arm. His voice was quiet, but it carried. “We lost thirteen today.” He paused, thumb hovering over the screen as though he couldn’t bring himself to read the names. “Three more won’t see sundown without med supplies we don’t have.”

The relief drained into silence. Faces turned downward, some shading their eyes against the canvas glare. A mother pulled her daughter against her chest. Cassidy muttered something under his breath — low, bitter — and no one answered.

Carol’s voice cut through the stillness. “We can’t take another hit like this.” Her arms folded across her chest, but her gaze flicked to V before shifting back to the clan. “We’re strong — stronger than anyone thinks. But strength only carries so far when it’s Arasaka at the gates.”

That broke the silence.

“They’ll come again,” someone said, voice tight with fear.

“They always do,” another muttered.

A third, younger Aldecaldo let his eyes linger on V before speaking. “They came for him. We all saw it. That thing went straight for the med tent.”

Murmurs rippled through the crowd, uneasy and heavy.

V shifted slightly in his chair, pulling the blanket tighter around his shoulders. His eyes dropped, then flicked to Panam’s for the briefest moment before turning away again, jaw tight.

Another voice added, quieter, “How long before they send more?”

The words hung, unspoken fear filling the air.

The noise swelled, voices rising over each other, desperation spilling into anger.

“They’ll bleed us dry!”

“Then let ’em try!”

“We can’t just run—”

“We can’t just wait—”

The tent vibrated with it, the clan fracturing into shouts.

Panam stepped forward, her voice cutting sharp through the uproar. “We’ve always stood together. That’s what kept us alive today, and it’s what’ll keep us alive tomorrow.”

A chorus of agreement rose, but just as many voices pushed back, the fear too raw to quiet.

Then Dakota spoke.

Her voice wasn’t raised, but it slid through the noise like steel. “Enough.”

The word carried across the tent, silencing one voice after another until all eyes turned to her. She stood in the corner, hands folded, face calm, eyes sharp in the filtered light.

Slowly, she stepped forward. “Arasaka won’t stop,” she said, her tone measured, even. “And you’re right — we can’t fight them forever.” Her gaze swept the room, steady, then settled on V. “But we are not without options.”

The murmurs stilled.

“StormTech,” Dakota said, the name falling cold into the silence.

A ripple went through the clan — unease, suspicion.

“StormTech?” someone hissed.

“That’s corps business,” another muttered, half in disbelief.

Dakota let the noise rise, then cut across it without lifting her tone. “When the dust storms buried towns, when fires stripped the south bare — it wasn’t Arasaka or Militech dragging people out. It was StormTech trucks on the horizon. Not saints. Just hunters who knew where the meat was worth carving.”

Her gaze slid over the clan, then back to V, wrapped in blankets, eyes shadowed. “They built their empire quiet. Salvage, hardware, chrome. Taking what others left behind and turning it into teeth. And they’ve worked with nomads before. Enough to know we don’t spook easy, and we don’t break.”

The murmurs shifted — uneasy, muttered fragments.

“Doesn’t mean they’re friends.”

“Corpo’s still a leash.”

Dakota’s expression didn’t change. “We have what they want. The relic. Him. And salvaged Arasaka tech from the Tower. To StormTech, that’s not baggage. That’s currency. And currency buys shelter from the storm that’s coming.”

The words hung heavy.

Panam’s jaw clenched. “We’re Aldecaldo. We don’t bow to suits.”

Carol’s arms stayed crossed, her voice quiet, iron-edged. “She’s right. Corpo hands always reach for your throat.”

“They won’t care about trust,” Dakota answered, smooth as glass. “Only the trade.”

The murmurs swelled again, softer this time, edged with fear.

Mitch’s voice rose above them, weary but steady. “She’s not wrong. We can’t keep taking hits like this. We need an edge.”

Dakota’s eyes swept back to Panam, then to Carol. “You don’t have to believe in them. You only have to use them.”

The tent went still, the weight of it pressing like stone.

Panam’s breath came sharp, her throat aching with the truth she didn’t want to give voice to. “I don’t like it.”

Carol’s gaze held hers across the tent. “Neither do I.”

For once, their voices were aligned.

Panam let the silence hang, then finally gave the words that turned the room. “But I don’t see another choice.”

Her gaze shifted to V. He sat back in the chair, the blanket pulled close. His fingers flexed once on the armrest, then stilled. The faint crease at his brow, the solemn set of his face — he caught her eyes for a heartbeat, then looked away, silent but heavy with thought.

The murmurs that followed were low, reluctant, but with them came nods. Fear hadn’t left the air, but it had sharpened into something else.

For the first time all day, the shouting was gone

Chapter Text

By midday the heat sat on the camp like a hand, pressing everything flat. Smoke still hung in the air, sour with burned plastic and hot metal, and the wind only moved it around—never away. The Aldecaldos worked quietly, heads down, the kind of tired that went deeper than muscle.

They gathered the dead.

No speeches. No sermon. Mitch read the names from his tablet in a voice that didn’t try to be anything but steady, and Cassidy stood beside him staring out past the rigs, jaw set around whatever words he wasn’t going to say. Carol moved through the circle like a metronome—water passed, shade stretched with spare tarps, old chrome cut into neat strips for markers. Someone had found smooth stones down by a wash years back and kept them in a crate for days like this; they went down one by one atop the wrapped bodies, cool gray against sun-bleached blankets.

Panam stood in with the rest, rifle slung, palms raw from work she couldn’t feel. When Mitch reached the three who’d put themselves between her and the blades, she stepped forward without thinking. She laid three dented cartridges at their feet, brass dull with dust. There was nothing to say that wouldn’t break her open, so she didn’t try. She just touched her fingers to the edge of each marker and stepped back into the heat.

Across the way, the med corner had been pulled out into the shade of two rigs, canvas stretched between them to make a low tent. She could see the outline of the cot through the fabric, a shape propped there that she knew as easily as she knew her own hands. She didn’t look long. If she did, she wouldn’t be able to look away.

Mitch finished the last name and let the silence hold. Someone murmured a prayer. Someone else just swore under their breath and wiped their face with the heel of a hand. The breeze came and went. Nothing moved that didn’t have to.

Eventually the circle loosened. Work found people like water finding low ground. Fuel drums were rolled, hoses checked, belts tightened. Shot-out tires were swapped for worse ones. The Aldecaldos had already started to disappear the camp they’d built—torn canvas bundled, fire pits filled, old brass kicked into coffee cans. No footprints if they could help it. No excuses left for anyone hunting.

“We’re not staying,” Carol said to no one and everyone as she passed, ticking off a list on a dirty palm. “Point rigs out. Keep the wounded shaded until we move. Anything we can’t fix in ten minutes rides busted.”

“Road north, then cut west,” Cassidy put in, nodding toward the horizon like he could see the map painted there. “Keep to backcuts. Less eyes.”

“Hidden spot,” Mitch confirmed, glancing at Panam. “The one from the run before California. Water still held last time, shelter’s dug in. Safe enough to breathe.”

Panam nodded once. “We’ll make it safe.”

Dakota drifted through like smoke, there and gone until she wasn’t. She stopped near Panam, hands folded into her sleeves, eyes thin against the glare.

“I sent a ripple,” she said, as if that were nothing. “To someone who knows which doors still open.”

Panam’s mouth flattened. “And?”

“Water takes time to show its depth,” Dakota said. “We’ll hear back when it chooses to answer.”

“Meaning we move,” Carol cut in, hearing enough, already turning. “Dusk, not later.”

“Dusk,” Mitch echoed, tapping notes onto his tablet. “We haul by last light.”

The day stretched long in the doing.

Heat shimmered off the rigs, turning every surface too hot to touch without gloves. Panam moved with the others, her shirt clinging damp across her back, hair sticking to her temples. Work filled the silence left behind by grief—check belts, patch lines, scrape what grit you could from filters and hope they didn’t choke on the next stretch.

She hauled crates with Cassidy, their boots kicking dust into every open seam. He shouldered one side without being asked, his drawl low but free of the usual grin.
“He’s meaner than he looks right now.”

Panam shot him a look, breath rough. “He looks like hell.”

“Yeah.” Cassidy adjusted his grip, the crate biting into his palms. “Meaner than that.”

They dropped it into the bed of a pickup and slammed the gate closed. Across camp, a younger Aldecaldo muttered too loud to pass as private, words sharpened by fear more than malice.
“We keep running for him, we’ll be running forever.”

The kid’s buddy elbowed him, hissed for quiet. Both of them bent their heads when they saw who’d heard. Panam’s shoulders had gone hard as steel. She didn’t turn—wouldn’t give the words air—but her hands clenched white around the rifle strap.

Cassidy shifted his weight, jaw flexing like he wanted to spit but thought better of it. “Kids don’t know when to keep their mouths shut,” he muttered.

“Eyes on the road,” Panam said, her voice flat, meant for herself as much as him. “We leave it in the dust.”

By late afternoon the camp had the look of a place about to vanish. Tarps folded into neat squares, fire pits buried, brass rattled into old coffee cans. The dead lay under a skin of stones and chrome, fresh tire tracks cut around them in a wide berth so no wheels would scar what was left.

Panam ducked into the shade stretched between two rigs, the med corner quiet inside.

“Hey,” she said softly.

V was half-sitting, blanket pulled sloppy around his shoulders, color still fighting to come back into his face. He’d forced his way from the cot to a bolted chair, stubborn even in weakness. His eyes found her slow but steady.

“We’re moving at dusk,” she told him. “Hidden spot out west.”

He nodded once. “Good.”

“You ride with me.”

“Wasn’t gonna let you pick anyone else,” he rasped, the corner of his mouth tilting despite himself.

She leaned down and pressed her lips to his forehead, like maybe she could give him back some of what the fight had taken. “Save the talk. You’ll need it later.”

He caught her hand before she could pull away, grip weak but insistent. “I’m here,” he murmured. “With you.”

Her chest tightened. She bent a little closer, her thumb brushing over his knuckles. “That’s all I need to hear.”

Engines growled to life one by one, the line of rigs shuddering as the Aldecaldos drew themselves together. Dust rose behind them, copper in the low light, and the day bled slowly into dusk.

Panam settled behind the wheel of her Thornton, hands firm, steady on the worn leather. The dash rattled like always, familiar in its imperfection, and the cab thrummed with the rhythm of the road as the convoy pulled out.

V sat slouched in the passenger seat, blanket around his shoulders, head tipped against the glass. The orange wash of sunset caught the hollows under his eyes, made him look carved thinner than he was. He hadn’t looked this broken beside her since the night they’d left Night City. Back then, the road had meant escape. Now, it felt like running from a fire that would never stop chasing.

For a while he was quiet, the hum of the engine filling the silence. Then his voice came low, rough. “All this… thirteen dead, more bleeding. They came for me. Because of me.”

Panam’s grip tightened on the wheel, knuckles whitening. “Don’t.”

But he didn’t stop. His eyes stayed on the horizon, watching the rigs stretch out in front of them. “I keep thinking—what if they’re right? What if I’m not worth it? If I’m just dragging the whole clan into Arasaka’s crosshairs?”

The words hung between them, thick as the dust curling off the road.

Panam cut her eyes toward him, jaw set. “You think they’d be better off without you?”

His silence said enough.

She let the breath hiss out through her teeth, sharp as the edge in her voice. “You’re family, V. You saved me, you saved us. Don’t ever question that. Don’t you dare.”

But he kept going, the dam cracked. “Panam… thirteen gone today. And we all know why. Every shot fired, every drop of blood—it’s because they want me. Because I’m still breathing. Tell me how that adds up.”

Her chest tightened, but she bit it back, eyes on the dark line of the horizon. “It makes sense because that’s what we do. For each other. For family.”

His voice dipped, almost breaking. “What if I’m not me much longer? What if I’m just… this thing they’re chasing, walking around in my skin? Then what did they die for?”

Panam’s hand left the wheel and gripped his knee, hard enough he turned his head. Her eyes burned in the half-light, fierce, unflinching. “You listen to me. I don’t care what Arasaka calls you. I don’t care what’s crawling around in that chip. You’re V. My V. And no corpo ghost, no chrome nightmare, is going to tell me different. Got it?”

He tried to hold her stare, but his jaw worked, eyes flicking away, back to the rigs ahead. “And if I lose it? If I can’t keep it together, if I… hurt you—”

“Stop.” Her voice cracked sharp, cutting through his words. She squeezed his knee, almost a shake. “Don’t you ever talk like that. Don’t you put that picture in my head. You are worth every drop of blood we’ve spilled, worth every mile we drive, worth every fight left in me. And if you can’t see it, then you’ll just have to trust me until you can.”

He breathed out, shaky, something loosening in his shoulders but not gone. His voice dropped to almost a whisper. “You shouldn’t have to carry that.”

Panam’s grip eased, but her hand stayed where it was. “Too bad. I chose to. Same way you chose to stand up when you could barely lift that pistol. Don’t get to tell me what I can and can’t carry.”

For a long moment, the cab was filled with nothing but the steady growl of the engine and the whisper of wind through the cracked window.

V looked at her again, eyes tired but softer, the doubt still there but edged with something else. “You’re impossible.”

She snorted, finally easing back into the seat, both hands returning to the wheel. “Yeah. And you love me for it.”

His mouth twitched, the closest thing to a smile he could manage. “Guess I do.”

The desert stretched ahead, the last light bleeding out of the sky. The convoy rolled steady into the dark, and for the first time since the fighting stopped, the silence between them didn’t feel so heavy.

Panam glanced over. His head leaned back against the rest, eyes still open, still caught somewhere between the horizon and the weight of what he’d said. She reached across, brushed her fingers over his hand where it gripped the blanket.

“Close your eyes,” she said, gentler now, almost a murmur under the hum of the engine. “Get some sleep. I’ll wake you if anything matters.”

His lips pressed into a faint line, like he wanted to argue, but the fight was gone from him. He gave her a look—tired, reluctant, but trusting—and then let his eyes fall shut.

The cab rocked with the rhythm of the road. The glow from the dash painted his face in pale green, shadows deep under his eyes. Panam kept her eyes on the trail ahead, the line of rigs stretched across the desert, the headlights carving tunnels through the dark.

Beside her, V’s breathing evened out, shallow but steady.

And then, without warning, the road slipped from him.

The road wasn’t real.

It rippled under his boots like water, blacktop thin as skin stretched over something alive beneath. Night City’s skyline bled up from the horizon, towers leaning, cracked like teeth knocked loose. Red code streamed down their faces, dripping into the streets like oil. Windows flickered with trapped shadows—figures walking, falling, turning back to walk again, caught in loops that never broke.

Glass shards littered the ground. V glanced down, and a hundred versions of himself stared back. One bled code from hollow sockets. Another twitched and spasmed, a broken feed caught mid-frame. A third had no face at all, only smooth, blank skin. His hands shook when he lifted them—skin splitting down the seams, black lines crawling under the surface like veins reversed.

“Not lookin’ so good, mano.”

The voice was warm, solid. Jackie stepped out of the static like it wasn’t there, jacket half-zipped, grin tilted just enough to feel real. He clapped a hand on V’s shoulder, weight heavy, grounding.

“Don’t quit on me,” Jackie said, voice low. “You’ve got people. You still got us.”

V opened his mouth, but static scraped his throat raw.

A glow flared in the dark. Johnny leaned against a car melted into slag, cigarette ember painting the grin on his face. Smoke curled thin into a sky fractured with glass.

“People?” Johnny shook his head, ash drifting. “Doesn’t matter. Corps don’t care. That relic sure as hell doesn’t. Sooner or later, you’re just meat leaking code.”

V’s hands split deeper, cracks racing up his arms. The lines pulsed black and bright like veins full of poison. He stumbled back, glass crunching underfoot, each shard showing a worse reflection.

Jackie caught him, grip firm. “Don’t listen to him. You ain’t alone in this, V.” His eyes were sharp, steady, pulling V back in. “Hold on to who’s real.”

Johnny’s laugh echoed, dry and sharp. “Real? That’s rich. Look around, choom. Whole world’s glitchin’ to pieces. You’re the biggest bug of all.”

The skyline flickered once, twice—then shattered.

When V blinked, he was no longer on the road.

A long table stretched in front of him under the weak flicker of a lantern. The Aldecaldo camp spread out around him, but it was empty—chairs overturned, tents collapsed, the smell of smoke clinging heavy. Plates lay scattered, food crumbling into ash when he touched it.

Jackie sat across from him, elbows braced on the table, watching him hard. The lantern light carved his face sharp but steady.

“Don’t forget who’s at your side, mano,” Jackie said. “That’s how you fight it. She’s the anchor. You keep her close, you keep yourself.”

From the corner, Johnny’s laugh cut through, low and bitter. He leaned half in shadow, arms folded, eyes glinting under the cigarette’s glow. “Anchor? More like a chain. First slip you make, and you’ll drag her straight down with you.”

The lantern guttered once, then died.

Gunfire split the dark.

The camp tore away in shreds of smoke, canvas ripping to nothing. Muzzle flashes stuttered like lightning, faceless Aldecaldos firing in loops, their movements jerky, broken, dissolving into haze the moment they fell.

The ninja stepped through it all. Blades gleamed wet in the stutter-light, arms slicing arcs too clean, too fast. Its mask caught the lantern’s last ember and burned it out, leaving only reflectionless black.

V yanked the Malorian up and fired. Bullets fractured into static mid-air, collapsing before they reached the target. The ninja didn’t falter. It cut down the looping Aldecaldos, their bodies dissolving into smoke only to rise again, faceless, doomed to repeat the fall.

Jackie grabbed V’s arm, yanking him back hard. “This ain’t the way, mano! You can’t shoot this down. Gotta fight it different. Fight it with her.”

Johnny barked a laugh, cigarette ember flaring as if the chaos only fed it brighter. “With her? Don’t make me laugh. You’ll carve her up the second you slip. That’s the punchline, V. Not corps, not chrome. You.”

The ninja’s head snapped toward him. Its blades lifted, gleaming, and it moved—not toward the smoke-shadows, not toward V—straight toward her.

Panam stood at the edge of the dark, rifle braced, eyes blazing, real in a way nothing else was.

V’s heart slammed against his ribs. He fired again and again, the Malorian clicking dry, the hammer falling on nothing. The ninja blurred closer, mantis blades scissoring down.

Jackie’s voice rose, urgent, cutting through the chaos. “Hold on to her! That’s the fight!”

The blades came down, bright and final—

V jolted awake, breath tearing, sweat slick down his skin. The hum of the Thornton’s engine filled the cab, headlights tunneling through the desert night.

Panam’s hand was already on his arm, steady, grounding. She jerked her eyes off the road long enough to see his face, pale and drawn, chest heaving.

“V—?” Her voice cracked sharper than she meant. “What happened?”

He dragged a trembling hand down his face, shook his head. “Just a dream.”

“Bullshit.” Her grip tightened, voice hard under the worry. “You don’t wake up like that from ‘just a dream.’ Talk to me.”

V leaned heavier into the seat, trying to steady his breath. “Jackie was there. Like he always is.” His voice rasped, halting. “Told me I’ve got people. Told me… you’re the anchor. That holding on to you is the only way I stay myself.”

Her throat tightened, her hand squeezing his arm.

He swallowed, eyes dropping. “And Johnny was there too. Saying the opposite. Saying you’re not an anchor — you’re a chain. That sooner or later I’ll drag you down with me.”

Panam’s hands tightened on the wheel, knuckles pale. “That’s him talking. Not you. He’s poison, V. He always has been.”

V’s laugh was dry, bitter. “Maybe. But what if he’s right? What if I can’t hold it together? What if I’m not me much longer? What happens to you when I slip?”

Her chest burned, fear twisting sharp. She reached over, laced her fingers through his, forcing him to look at her. Her eyes were wet, fierce all the same.

“Don’t you dare put that on me,” she snapped. “I chose this. You didn’t chain me to your side — I stayed. Because I love you. Because I’d rather fight through hell with you than live safe without you.”

V tried to hold her gaze, but his jaw worked, eyes flicking away to the blur of desert outside the window. “You shouldn’t have to carry that.”

“Too bad,” she shot back, voice breaking low but hard. “I already am. And I’ll keep carrying it until you can see what I see. You’re mine, V. Whatever comes — we face it together.”

For a long moment, the cab was nothing but the engine’s steady growl. Then he breathed out slow, some of the tension bleeding from his shoulders. His lips twitched into a faint smile, small but real.

“Stubborn as ever.”

“Damn right,” she said, softer now, but didn’t let go of his hand.

Panam kept her eyes forward, the desert stretching endless into the dark. She didn’t let go of his hand, even when his breathing steadied, even when his eyes slipped half-shut again. The weight of him beside her felt fragile and fierce all at once, a reminder of everything they were carrying into the night.

Outside, the convoy rolled steady, engines low, headlights carving thin tunnels through dust. Lanterns swung from the backs of rigs, throwing brief flashes over tired faces in the rear. Every mile put more distance between them and the battlefield, but no one in those cabs believed they were safe. Not yet.

In the lead truck, Mitch’s voice crackled over the radio, giving bearings, setting pace. Carol’s rig trailed close, her lights fixed forward, unwavering. Dakota rode further back, silent, her shadow still as the night she seemed to watch for omens in.

The Aldecaldos moved together, bruised but unbroken, their line stretching into the desert until it vanished in dust.

And somewhere in that line, between the weight of loss and the fear of what chased them, a ripple waited for its answer.

Far from the desert, light bled cold across glass and steel.

Inside a boardroom high in Arasaka’s Pacific tower, the battle replayed in silence across a wall of holo-feeds. Drone footage, fractured comms, tactical overlays—stitched together into a clinical record of failure.

The assault had collapsed.

One feed froze mid-frame. Dust swirling, muzzle flashes stuttering, the black-clad shinobi staggering. Its blades swung wide, not against its target, but into empty air before its body folded into the dirt. A glitch in the choreography—something that should not have happened.

The analyst at the console didn’t look up. “Target remains alive. Relic integrity confirmed.” Her tone carried no judgment, only fact.

Around the table, silence. Not the silence of shock, but of calculation.

The figure at the head leaned forward, projection light cold across features kept in shadow. “Good.” The word cut clean, final. “Proof of viability outweighs the loss.”

A hand tapped the table once. The frozen feed advanced, the Aldecaldo convoy barely visible in the dust as it broke away, vehicles peeling west.

“They cannot hide forever. Expand the net. Pull assets from Seattle and Houston. Their nomad allies will be pressure points. Every road will narrow until only one remains—and on that road, we will take him.”

The order settled like a knife sliding home.

On the holo, the ninja’s body lay cooling in the dirt, blank mask catching the last flare of firelight before static washed it away. The convoy blurred into the distance, dust rising to erase the trail.

Arasaka watched, patient. And began again.

Chapter Text

Engines droned low, a line of steel and light dragging itself across the desert. Headlamps tunneled through dust, beams catching on grit that hung like smoke over the trail. The convoy held tight formation, battered rigs limping but steady, every mile a small victory bought with blood.

Panam’s hands gripped the wheel of her Thornton, knuckles stiff. She kept her eyes forward, mirrors checked on reflex, jaw tight as the radio crackled with Mitch’s voice giving bearings. The dash rattled the same way it always had, but tonight it felt louder, every vibration gnawing at nerves rubbed raw.

V sat slouched in the passenger seat, the blanket wrapped close, head tipped against the glass. His breath fogged the window faintly with each exhale, leaving brief ghosts behind that vanished before they could settle. He hadn’t spoken since he’d forced the last words out after waking. Not since she’d laced her fingers through his and told him he wasn’t carrying it alone.

The cab was quiet but for the hum of the engine, the faint rattle of gear in the back. Outside, the road unspooled under black sky, broken only by headlights and the faint red of taillights ahead. Somewhere behind them, one of the rigs coughed smoke, its engine straining; Panam flicked her eyes to the mirror, heart hitching until it steadied again.

They moved as one, but the silence pressing through the line was heavy. No music, no chatter over comms, only the desert wind and the grind of wheels. Every mile carried the weight of those not there to see it.

The convoy stretched long across the flats, rigs spaced close, engines rumbling steady. Shapes moved in truck beds — medics hunched over the wounded, hands red and hurried under lantern light. A woman pressed a blood-soaked rag to her brother’s side, her eyes fixed on the horizon like distance itself might keep him breathing. Children huddled between crates, too wired to sleep, eyes glassy from the noise and loss.

Over the radio, Mitch’s voice came through, low and clipped. “Keep it tight. Thirty klicks out, we’ll change bearing west.” No one answered, but no one needed to. His tone carried more than instruction — an iron thread holding them together.

Cassidy’s voice followed, crackling with static and weariness. “Rigs are rattlin’ like my bones, but they’ll hold. Shiv don’t got the gas to follow this far.” He snorted into the mic, a brittle sound meant for humor. “And if they do, guess we’ll give ’em another lesson in how to bleed proper.”

No laughter came back, but the silence that followed felt thinner, less suffocating.

Carol’s rig stayed close behind Mitch, her headlights cutting a hard line through dust. She hadn’t spoken since they’d left camp, her silence heavy as the rest, but her place in the line never wavered. The steady beam of her lights was its own message: she was still here, still holding.

Panam caught all of it in the mirrors — the wounded, the worn faces, the stubborn glow of headlights. She shifted her grip on the wheel, steadying her breath, keeping her eyes fixed forward. Every mile was borrowed, but they were still taking it.

The desert rolled on, mile after mile of broken rock and sand. Headlights carved tunnels through the dark, throwing long beams that swayed across the trail. Every bump rattled the Thornton’s frame, every gust of wind carried the taste of grit.

V shifted beside her, pulling the blanket tighter around his shoulders. His head tipped against the glass, eyes half-closed, but his fingers drummed restless on the door in a rhythm that betrayed him.

“You should rest,” Panam said, voice low, meant to soothe more than scold.

A faint huff slipped from him, something that wanted to be a laugh. “Rest, in this luxury suite?” He gestured weakly to the vibrating cab. “Might spoil me.”

Panam’s mouth tugged at the corner, but it never made it into a smile. She kept her eyes on the road. “Don’t make jokes just to shut me up.”

He didn’t answer right away. The glass caught his breath, clouding faintly, fading just as quick. “Guess I’m not that funny anyway,” he muttered, turning his face back to the dark outside.

Panam shifted in her seat, jaw tightening. She wanted to press, to drag the truth out of him, but the lines carved into his face stopped her. She settled for sliding her hand across the console, brushing her fingers over his blanket-draped arm. A small touch, wordless.

For a moment he leaned into it, shoulders easing. Then, just as quick, he sank back, pulling the blanket tighter like a wall between them.

The radio cracked to life, Cassidy’s voice rolling through the static. “Hell of a night for a joyride, ain’t it? Stars out, dust in our teeth, corps probably pissin’ themselves wonderin’ how a bunch of nomads sent ’em home limpin’.” His laugh rasped, sharp and dry. “Think I’ll hang that one in a frame.”

It wasn’t much, but it loosened something. Panam saw it in the faintest curve of V’s mouth in the glass — there and gone before he shut his eyes again.

The radio buzzed once more, Mitch’s voice cutting in. “Bearing west in ten. Keep your spacing clean.” A pause, tight with static. “We’ll make it.”

Three words, clipped as ever. But Panam heard the drag under them, the weight he never let slip. She pictured him in the lead rig, tablet glowing pale against his face, eyes locked on the horizon. Shoulders hunched more than usual. A man carrying the convoy mile by mile.

She adjusted her grip on the wheel, steadying her own breath in answer.

The road stretched on, endless. Engines hummed low, steady, the convoy pushing forward because it had no choice. But with every mile, the silence grew heavier.

A pale smear touched the horizon, thin as breath — the first hint of dawn. It washed the sky in bruised colors, light enough to show the strain in every vehicle, the sway of trucks weighted with wounded and grief.

Panam caught it in the mirror: a flatbed dragging a half-dead engine, smoke spilling in steady coughs. The driver hunched forward, willing it another mile, another inch. They all were.

Her hands tightened on the wheel. She could feel the same weight pressing here in the cab — not just the night behind them, but the silence at her side.

V hadn’t moved in a long while. Head against the glass, blanket pulled close, the faint ghost of his breath fogging the window. To anyone else he might’ve looked asleep, but she knew better. The quiet wasn’t rest — it was retreat. He carried it in the slump of his shoulders, the way his hand stayed tucked tight, not reaching for hers. Like he was folding smaller, trying to vanish inside himself before anyone else could take more from him.

Panam’s chest tightened, anger and ache bound up together. She’d seen him bleed, seen him fight when he should’ve been down, and still he hadn’t let go. But this… this quiet scared her more. It wasn’t just the relic chewing at him. It was doubt, guilt. The kind that didn’t show in wounds but carved deeper all the same.

She reached out again, brushing her fingers against his arm, hoping for a flicker of what had always been there — the stubborn spark, the raw defiance. For a heartbeat she thought she felt it, a twitch under her hand. But then he leaned away, head bowing lower toward the glass.

Her jaw ached from clenching, throat raw from holding back words she couldn’t let out. The worry sat like a stone in her chest, every mile pressing it deeper.

She bit down against the ache, eyes locking back on the horizon. Dawn stretched thin across the sky, the color of bruises healing slow. Whatever storm Dakota saw coming, whatever Arasaka loosed next — she’d drag him through it if she had to. Because she refused to lose him piece by piece to the dark inside.

The turnoff came quiet, barely marked — a scar of rock half-swallowed by dust and scrub. Mitch’s rig slowed first, indicator flashing once before the whole line veered west, tires crunching over hardpan. The convoy crawled between ridges, engines muffled by stone.

Panam downshifted, the Thornton growling low as she eased them into the hollow. The canyon opened sudden, wide enough to swallow the rigs, its walls scarred with old fire-black and rusted scrap. She recognized it at once — a place they’d used before California, carved out years ago when the clan had needed to disappear. A pocket in the desert where the wind couldn’t find you unless you already knew the way.

The convoy creaked to a halt one by one, engines cut until the silence pressed in thick. For a moment, only the ticking of cooling metal filled the air, echoing sharp against the rock. Lanterns flicked on, their light carving weak circles in the dust.

A ripple of motion spread as Aldecaldos spilled out — some limping, some carrying wounded, others dragging gear into the shadows of the canyon walls. Medics hurried forward, calling for light, for water. The groan of pain carried too easily in the stillness.

Panam killed the engine, the sudden quiet ringing in her ears. She sat a moment longer, knuckles white on the wheel, then glanced at V. He hadn’t stirred much in the last miles. His reflection in the glass looked carved from stone, shadows bruising the lines of his face.

“Come on,” she said softly, more plea than order.

She slipped out first, boots hitting gravel, the dawn air biting cold after the cab’s stale warmth. Around her, the clan was already moving — lanterns strung between poles, fires coaxed out of dry brush, guards posted along the ridge. It was muscle memory, survival practiced until it became ritual. Every motion reminded her of how many times they’d done this before. How many times it hadn’t been enough.

Three rigs parked closer to the canyon mouth stood empty now, doors hanging open. The men who’d driven them weren’t here to cut their engines. Panam’s chest cinched tight at the sight, her throat burning, but she forced herself forward. There would be time to face it. Later.

She circled back to the Thornton, pulling the door open. “V,” she said, firmer this time, offering her arm. “Let’s get you inside.”

His eyes lifted to hers, slow, unfocused, but he nodded. Blanket still wrapped around him, he leaned into her shoulder as she helped him down. His weight pressed heavy, but it wasn’t what worried her. It was the way he didn’t fight it.

Panam steadied him as they moved toward the camp lights, the smell of smoke and antiseptic already hanging thick in the air. The canyon walls loomed close around them, hiding them from the horizon. For the moment, it was cover. Shelter.

But as she felt V’s weight against her, and the hollow quiet of the clan settling into place, Panam knew it wasn’t safety. Not yet.

The canyon filled with motion — voices calling for stretchers, gear clattering onto the gravel, engines ticking hot as they cooled. Medics hauled the wounded toward the firelight, bloodied shirts pressed tight against ribs and bellies. Someone swore loud when a stretcher slipped, the sound swallowed quick by the walls.

Panam steadied V into a folding chair near the med lanterns. He sank into it without protest, the blanket still clutched high. Her throat burned, but she forced herself to step back, to give him space, to help where the others couldn’t wait.

It was then she heard it — not loud, not meant for her, but clear enough in the hush between voices.

“They won’t stop, not while he’s here.” A younger Aldecaldo, his hands shaking as he dragged a crate toward the fire. His eyes flicked toward V, then away quick. “How many more do we lose for him?”

The words dropped like a stone into water.

Panam froze, jaw tight, but before she could move, Cassidy’s laugh cracked the air. It was a harsh, bitter sound, loud enough for everyone to hear.

“You think the corps give a damn about you without him?” He spat into the dirt, rifle slung loose on his shoulder. “Kid, they’d’ve rolled right over us all the same. Only difference is, we’d be the ones under blankets right now.”

The younger Aldecaldo ducked his head, muttering something lost under the scrape of boots. Around them, the silence held heavier, but no one else spoke. Not after Cassidy’s words.

Panam’s chest burned hot, but she swallowed it down, dragging her focus back to the crates, to the wounded, to the firelight spreading thin against the canyon walls.

Her hands stayed locked on the crate she carried, fingers biting into the wood until they ached. The words clung in her ears long after the younger Aldecaldo had dropped his gaze.

How many more do we lose for him?

She forced herself to set the crate down, knees stiff, throat tight. Her eyes flicked to V, slouched in the chair, the blanket pooled heavy around his shoulders. His face was pale in the lantern glow, eyes hooded, watching the fire but not really seeing it. He hadn’t heard. Or maybe he had, and that silence was his answer.

Her chest twisted sharp. Every instinct screamed to lash back, to remind them he’d saved her, saved all of them. That the ninja hadn’t been after anyone else. But Cassidy’s words still hung in the air, enough to still the camp, enough to keep her from breaking it open again.

So she swallowed hard and bent for another crate, jaw locked, fire burning low in her gut. If the clan was starting to waver, she couldn’t let it show here, not in front of him. Not when he was already folding in on himself.

The canyon had settled into uneasy quiet. Fires burned low, their smoke curling against the rock overhead. The wounded lay stretched in rows under tarps, groaning soft in restless sleep. Guards shifted along the ridges, rifles slung, eyes sharp in the half-light.

Around one of the fires, voices rose again — low at first, then sharper as fatigue frayed the edges.

“Arasaka won’t quit,” someone muttered, shadows hiding their face. “Not till they’ve got him back.”

“They sent a damn ninja,” another voice answered, rough with exhaustion. “What’s next? Tanks? Gunships?”

The murmurs rippled outward, anger and fear bleeding together. A few glanced toward where V sat under his blanket, half-lit by firelight, eyes closed but face tight. He didn’t look like a man who could stand under it all. He looked hollowed, worn thin.

Panam shifted, every muscle strung taut, ready to snap — but Mitch’s voice cut across the fire, flat and steady.

“Enough.” He stood just inside the circle of light, tablet tucked under one arm, his face carved deep with exhaustion. “We all bled tonight. Don’t matter if Arasaka sent ghosts or gunships — fact is, we’re still standing, and they’re the ones running.”

His gaze swept the fire, then landed square on V. “That’s what counts. Not whispers in the dark.”

The words landed heavy, not loud, but sure. The kind of weight that didn’t leave room for argument.

V didn’t lift his head. He only pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders, eyes shutting harder against the firelight, as if that thin strip of cloth could hide him from their stares. The lines in his face cut deeper in the glow, not from pain, but from the effort of holding everything in.

The fire popped, sparks rising into the canyon dark. No one answered. The murmurs dried in their throats, fear settling back into silence.

Panam exhaled slow, her hand curling into a fist against her knee. Mitch had bought them quiet, for now. But the words still hung, heavy as the smoke, and she knew the fight wasn’t over — not with Arasaka, and not inside the clan.

The fire broke down to embers, throwing more shadow than light. Most of the voices had gone quiet, worn into silence by exhaustion or fear.

Panam crossed the gap between them, her steps crunching soft over gravel. V hadn’t moved since Mitch’s words. He sat hunched low, blanket cocooned tight, face hidden in the half-dark like he wanted to vanish inside it.

She lowered herself beside him, close enough that her shoulder brushed his arm. For a long moment she didn’t speak, just let the warmth of her presence settle between them.

When she did, her voice was low, almost a whisper meant only for him. “Don’t shut me out, V. Not now.”

His jaw clenched. He wanted to answer, but the words caught, strangled before they could form. What could he say? That the clan’s whispers were right? That every step they took with him chained them tighter to Arasaka’s sights?

Another thought slithered in, sharp and cold. They’d be safer without you. Every mile drags them closer to the grave. Every death tonight was the bill for your breath still rattling in your chest.

His stomach knotted. He shut his eyes hard, but the voice — his voice, yet not — pressed deeper. And she’ll go with you. She’ll burn with you. That’s what love buys her.

Panam’s hand found his under the blanket, fingers slipping through, stubborn in their grip. “You’ve carried enough alone. You don’t have to anymore. Not with me here. Not with the clan.” She paused, breath catching. “Not with me loving you.”

For an instant, something inside him twisted on that word, spitting doubt: She says love. How long before it curdles into blame?

V’s eyes cracked open, slow, heavy. He forced himself to meet hers for a heartbeat. Warmth. Fear. Fierce determination. The contrast between what he saw and what he heard inside left him raw, unsteady. He dropped his gaze again, shoulders curling tighter.

Panam felt the ache knife through her chest, but she held on to his hand, her grip firm, refusing to let go. “We’ll get through this,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt. “You hear me? You’re not losing yourself. Not while I’m still here to fight for you.”

The whisper surged sharp, bitter. Fight? Against what’s already inside? You’ll break her before you break me.

V’s throat worked, breath stuttering, but still no words came. The silence pressed hard, suffocating, until he forced his fingers to move. His hand found hers under the blanket, grip trembling, shaking with the terror clawing inside him. Weak, fragile — but real.

Panam’s breath caught, heat burning her chest as his fingers twitched against hers. She held on tight, refusing to let go, her heart hammering with the simple fact of his touch.

She leaned her head against his shoulder, eyes on the dim glow of the fire. She stayed there in the quiet, holding on, letting the silence stretch between them — not knowing what it meant, only that he hadn’t let go.

Chapter Text

The canyon lay quiet under the pale wash of dawn. Fires smoldered low, their smoke curling against the scarred stone walls before thinning into the sky. The camp moved in muted shapes — a medic rinsing blood from her hands in a basin, two men folding tarps stiff with dust, a child clutching a tin cup too big for his hands. Voices stayed low, edged with the kind of silence that followed nights where too many hadn’t made it back.

Panam stood near the firepit, the embers painting her fingers red as she held them out to the heat. Her eyes kept straying toward V, still bundled in his blanket, his chair pulled close to the canyon wall. He hadn’t said much since the night before. He looked even less now.

The scrape of boots drew her attention. Dakota emerged from the shadows along the canyon’s edge, coat brushing dust, her presence slipping into the space without effort, as if she’d been standing there all along. The firelight touched her face just enough to catch the sharpness in her eyes.

“No rest in this place,” she murmured, voice low, carrying like smoke. “Only waiting.”

The Aldecaldos nearby stilled, turning toward her. Even in the aftermath, Dakota’s words carried weight — not loud, not forceful, but the kind of calm that cut deeper than shouts.

She stepped closer to the fire, gaze passing over them, over Panam, and then settling briefly on V before sliding away again. “The ripple came back,” she said, as if speaking to the flames more than the clan. “The line I cast found a tug. A contact who can put us at the door we need knocked.”

The murmurs started at once — hushed, uneasy, a rustle through tired voices.

Panam straightened, eyes narrowing. “Who?”

Dakota’s mouth curved faintly, not quite a smile. “Someone who remembers debts, and knows StormTech listens when the right names whisper. Not saints. Not saviors. But they answer when the wind carries weight.”

She let the words hang there, cryptic as ever, before lowering herself to a crouch beside the fire, feeding it a branch that hissed in the embers. “We’ve been seen. The storm knows where we walk. But the hunters who make their trade in storms — they’ll look our way now.”

The fire cracked sharp, scattering sparks up into the morning.

Panam’s jaw tightened. Cryptic as ever — Dakota never gave straight answers, only riddles dressed in smoke. But even through the haze, the meaning was clear. StormTech. A corpo door half-open, beckoning them in.

Her gut turned. The clan had bled to stay free of leashes, to keep their strength in family, not contracts. Yet she couldn’t shake the truth that lay beneath Dakota’s words. If Arasaka could send one of their black-ops ghosts straight through their lines, what came next? Tanks? Gunships? How long before even their strongest walls crumbled?

Her eyes slid to V again. He hadn’t looked up, hadn’t even twitched when Dakota spoke. The blanket swallowed him whole, shoulders bowed, face shadowed in the glow of the fire. Like he was already too far away to hear.

Panam’s throat tightened. She wanted to reach him, to drag him back into the circle, but the clan was watching. And she knew the storm Dakota spoke of wasn’t just on the horizon — it was already clawing inside him.

Carol’s voice carried from across the fire, roughened by smoke and exhaustion but steady all the same. “Corporations don’t open doors without making sure they close behind you.”

Heads turned. She stood with her arms folded, the firelight catching in the lines of her face. Her gaze flicked to Panam, then to V, then back to Dakota. “We’ve kept this clan alive by steering clear of their traps. By trusting each other, not contracts written in blood we don’t get to see.”

A murmur rippled through the gathered Aldecaldos, low and uneasy. Snatches broke through — “She’s right.” … “Can’t leash ourselves.” … “And for him?” — each one cutting sharper than the last.

V lifted his head then, slow, like it cost him more than he had to spare. His eyes found Carol across the fire. No words, just the raw press of everything he carried — the deaths behind them, the weight of Arasaka’s blade, the poison whispering in his own skull. It was written plain in the dark rings under his eyes, in the hollow set of his mouth, in the way he didn’t look away even when it hurt.

Panam’s breath caught. She saw it — all the guilt, the fear, the quiet resignation — and it lit a fire under her ribs. She turned, her voice cutting across the murmurs before they could swell again.

“Enough.” The word came sharp, more bite than she meant, but she didn’t let it waver. Her eyes locked on Carol, fierce and unblinking. “We’ve bled too much to start pointing fingers now. He’s one of us. Family. And I won’t stand here while anyone forgets that.”

The murmurs faltered, but Panam pressed on, her chest tight. “You don’t see what I see. Every word, every doubt — it’s cutting him to pieces. He doesn’t need to hear it from his family. Not after everything he’s given, everything he’s still fighting to hold onto.”

She swept her gaze over the circle, the fire throwing sparks between them. “You want to talk about risk? Fine. But don’t you dare put it all on him. Don’t tear him apart for the weight Arasaka dropped on his shoulders.”

The camp went still, the only sound the hiss of sap burning in the flames.

Carol’s arms unfolded, her shoulders sinking as she let out a long, uneven breath. When she spoke again, the edge was gone from her voice, worn down to something quieter.

“I know what he’s given,” she said, eyes flicking toward V, then back to Panam. “I know what he means to you. To all of us.” Her mouth tightened, as if the words cost her to drag out. “I’m not saying he isn’t family. I’m saying corps don’t care about that. They’ll use him. Use us. And I don’t want to bury more of ours because we were too blind to see it coming.”

Her gaze lingered on V for a moment longer, and in the firelight there was no coldness there — only worry, pulled tight into the lines around her eyes. Then she looked away, folding her arms again, but the weight in her stance had shifted.

Panam’s chest eased, just barely. It wasn’t agreement, not fully, but it wasn’t a knife either. It was something she could hold onto — a reminder that beneath the tension, the care was still there.

The murmurs faded to quiet, leaving the crack of the fire and the cold press of morning against the canyon walls.

From the edge of the circle, Dakota’s voice slipped in, soft but cutting through the silence like a blade. “Family’s not the question. Survival is.”

She rose from her crouch by the fire, dust clinging to the hem of her coat as she straightened. The flames lit her face in halves — one side shadow, the other sharp in amber glow. Her eyes moved from Panam to Carol, then to V, steady and unreadable.

“You bleed on the road, corps don’t notice. You bleed on their doorstep, they start counting the drops. We’ve been noticed now.” She let the words hang, cold and certain, like a weight no one could shift.

A ripple passed through the Aldecaldos — uneasy glances, hushed voices that broke off quick.

Dakota fed another branch into the fire, the hiss loud in the stillness. “Arasaka won’t stop. That much is certain. But hunters know other hunters. And StormTech…” She paused, lips curving faintly at her own word choice. “StormTech knows what to do with prey Arasaka wants too badly.”

Her gaze slid back to the clan, to the raw faces hollowed by smoke and grief. “The question isn’t whether we knock. It’s whether we wait for the storm to find us here first.”

The fire cracked, spitting sparks into the gray air. For a long moment no one moved, Dakota’s words settling like dust over the circle.

Then Cassidy let out a sharp laugh, rough as gravel. He pushed off the crate he’d been leaning on, rifle slung loose across his back. “Well, hell. Guess that’s the choice, ain’t it? Sit here waitin’ for Arasaka to send another ghost, or go knock on the devil’s door and pray he’s in a dealin’ mood.”

He spat into the dirt, grin all teeth but empty of mirth. “Ain’t like corps ever gave us a fair shake. But if one’s dumb enough to tangle with Arasaka for us, I say we let ’em try. Could be fun watchin’ two sharks bite chunks outta each other.”

A ripple of uneasy chuckles passed through the firelight, not joy but the kind of laugh people clung to when fear pressed too close. A few voices murmured agreement, others just stared at the flames, weighing the words in silence.

Cassidy shook his head, lips quirking as he sank back down on the crate. “Ain’t sayin’ I trust ’em. Just sayin’ we’re runnin’ outta cards, and this one’s sittin’ right there on the table.”

Mitch shifted closer to the fire, the glow catching the hard lines etched deep into his face. He hadn’t laughed at Cassidy’s crack, hadn’t even cracked a smile. When he spoke, his voice carried the weight of someone too tired for bluster.

“Cass is right about one thing,” he said, tablet tucked under his arm, hands braced on his knees. “We don’t have many cards left. Not after yesterday. We can’t take another hit like that and still call ourselves a clan.”

He let the silence stretch, eyes moving over the circle — faces hollowed by smoke, bruised, bandaged, still holding weapons they barely had the strength to lift.

“I don’t like it. None of us do. But Arasaka’s not stopping, and we can’t outrun them forever. Sooner or later, they’ll pin us down. If StormTech’s willing to throw us a bone just to piss on Arasaka’s boots…” He shrugged, the motion slow, deliberate. “Might be the only play that buys us tomorrow.”

The murmurs started again, lower this time, threads of reluctant agreement weaving through the crowd.

Panam pushed to her feet, the firelight catching in her eyes as she scanned the circle. The murmurs dipped low, all those worn faces turning her way.

“I don’t like it either,” she said, her voice steady but tight. “Carol’s right — corps don’t give without taking more. They never have, and they never will. We’d be fools to forget that.”

Her gaze flicked to Carol, holding it for a beat. There was no challenge in it, only acknowledgment. Then she turned back to the clan.

“But we don’t get to choose the ground we’re standing on. Arasaka chose it for us yesterday. Sent their ghosts right through our lines, and we only survived because people here bled for it.” Her voice caught sharp, then steadied again. “If we sit and wait, they’ll come back stronger. Next time, maybe we don’t get to walk away.”

She let the words hang, scanning the circle, her throat burning with the truth she didn’t want to admit. “So we take what we can. Use what’s in front of us. Doesn’t mean we kneel. Doesn’t mean we forget who we are. It means we live to fight the way we choose, not the way they force us to.”

For a long moment, only the crack of the fire filled the silence.

Then, slowly, heads began to nod. Reluctant, heavy, but real.

The murmurs stilled, replaced by the crack of the fire and the restless shuffle of boots on gravel. Panam’s words lingered, raw in the air, and no one seemed willing to break them.

Dakota rose then, slow and deliberate, her coat whispering against the dust. She stepped closer to the fire, the flames throwing her face into halves — one in glow, the other in shadow.

“Storms don’t ask if you’re ready,” she said, voice low, even. “They come. Tear down what isn’t rooted deep, strip the rest to bone. You either find shelter in the teeth of it, or you get buried with the dust.”

Her gaze swept over them all, unblinking. “We’ve chosen. Now we walk into the wind.”

No one answered. But in the silence that followed, the decision settled like stone.

The fire burned low, its light flickering against faces drawn tight with exhaustion. One by one, Aldecaldos rose from the circle, moving off into the canyon’s shadowed corners. The silence didn’t lift, but the decision had settled — heavy, reluctant, unshakable.

Panam lingered, watching them scatter. Across the fire, Carol met her eyes for a moment. No words passed between them, just the faintest nod before she turned away, her shoulders bowed but no longer rigid with defiance. It wasn’t trust, not yet. But it wasn’t division either.

Mitch passed by, tablet tucked under his arm. He touched Panam’s shoulder as he went, the gesture brief but grounding. “Scouts say we can’t stay long,” he murmured. “Dust’ll carry our scent clear as day. If Arasaka’s still looking, they’ll find us fast.”

Panam nodded, jaw tightening. “Then we move as soon as we can.”

She turned then, searching the edge of the firelight. V sat apart, back against the canyon wall, the blanket still drawn close. The glow carved hollows under his eyes, shadows deeper than sleep could explain. He hadn’t looked at anyone since the circle broke.

His gaze stayed fixed on the fire, but his mind felt miles away — pulled into the dark places where no one could follow. The whispers slid through again, colder than the dawn air.

They’re not choosing for the clan. They’re choosing for you. And when the time comes, they’ll trade you to save themselves. Even her. Especially her.

V’s breath caught. He clenched his jaw, forcing the thought back, but it burrowed deep, refusing to leave. His hand flexed once under the blanket, a twitch more reflex than will.

Panam’s chest tightened at the sight. She crossed the space between them, lowering herself beside him. “Hey,” she said softly, her hand brushing his arm through the blanket. “Don’t go shutting down on me now.”

His eyes slid her way, heavy, guarded. For a moment, something raw flickered there — fear, doubt, the terror clawing inside. Then he looked away again, jaw set.

Panam stayed close, her hand steady on his arm, her voice low. “We’ll move soon. Mitch is right — can’t linger here. But wherever we go next, you’re not carrying it alone. Not while I’m here.”

He didn’t answer, didn’t move. But his shoulders eased a fraction under her touch, enough for her to know he’d heard.

The circle had broken, voices scattering into the canyon. Orders barked low, boots crunching over dirt, the clan moving in that half-stunned way that came after too much blood spilled.

Panam stayed a moment longer, arms folded tight, until the pressure in her chest became too much to hold. She turned without a word, slipping past the fires and the hushed clusters of Aldecaldos. A few glanced her way, but no one stopped her.

Her steps quickened as she cut through the camp, weaving between rigs and stacked crates. The canvas walls of a tent caught faint in the breeze, and she ducked inside before anyone could catch her eye.

The dimness wrapped around her, muffling the noise outside. She stood there for a beat, hands clenched at her sides, fighting to keep the burn in her throat down. But the silence pressed too close, and the cracks slipped through. Her chest hitched, her breath sharp and uneven. She dragged a hand across her face, as if wiping hard enough could erase the trembling beneath her skin.

She sank onto the edge of a cot, elbows braced to her knees, staring at the dirt. Every time she blinked she saw it — mantis blades flashing past her throat, the empty click of her pistol, V’s body buckling against hers as he saved her when he should’ve been flat on his back. The memory gnawed, relentless, until her hands were pressed over her face, fingers digging in like she could keep it from breaking her apart.

The flap rustled. Boots scraped the dirt. She jerked upright, swiping fast at her eyes, but Mitch was already ducking inside.

He paused just past the flap, gaze steady, unreadable. Then he crossed the space and lowered himself onto the cot opposite hers, tablet tucked away.

“You think you’re hiding it,” he said, voice quiet but firm.

Panam’s laugh came sharp, broken. “Guess I’m not.”

“Not from me.”

The words cracked something loose. She bowed forward, her hands knotting tight together. “It should’ve been me, Mitch. Not him. He could barely breathe, and still he’s the one who saved me. I keep seeing it, hearing it. If he hadn’t—” Her voice gave out. She swallowed hard, shaking her head.

Mitch leaned forward, forearms braced to his knees, his gaze steady as stone. He didn’t push. He just waited.

The words tumbled out, sharp and aching. “I can’t lose him. I can’t. And I see it—how much it costs him just to keep standing, how it’s pulling him under. Every time he falters, every time he goes quiet, it’s like I’m watching him slip further away. And I don’t know how to stop it.”

Her chest heaved, voice breaking raw. “I thought I was strong enough. I thought I could carry it. But every time I look at him, every time I see that pain in his eyes, I feel like I’m drowning with him. And I’m terrified that one day I won’t be enough to pull him back.”

The silence pressed heavy. Mitch reached out, laying a hand on her shoulder, the weight solid and grounding.

“You don’t stop it,” he said. “You stand with him. You remind him why he’s fighting.”

Her eyes shone, her throat tight as she met his gaze. “And if one day he can’t?”

“Then you carry him. Same way he’s carried you.” Mitch’s voice didn’t waver. “That’s what family is. That’s what you and him are.”

Panam’s breath stuttered. She pressed a hand to her mouth, shoulders trembling as the tears finally came, hot and unrestrained. All the walls she’d held since the fight gave way in that moment — the terror, the exhaustion, the love that gutted her more deeply than any blade.

Mitch didn’t flinch, didn’t look away. He just kept his hand steady on her back, voice low and certain. “He’s not slipping because he’s weak. He’s slipping because he’s fighting harder than anyone else could. Don’t mistake that. And don’t think he does it for anyone but you.”

Her chest ached, her tears running silent down her face. She turned her head, voice hoarse. “I love him, Mitch. More than I know how to say. And it’s tearing me apart, watching him burn himself down for me.”

“Then don’t watch,” Mitch said softly. “Fight with him. Stand in it with him. That’s what’ll keep you both alive.”

For a long moment she sat there, shaking, letting the weight of it run through her. Then she dragged a sleeve across her face, eyes red but fierce. “I can’t let him go under. Not him. Not ever.”

Before Mitch could answer, Dakota’s voice slipped through the canvas like smoke. “The ripple came back again.”

The flap shifted, and she stepped inside, coat brushing the dirt floor, eyes glinting sharp in the muted light.

“The contact responded,” she said, her tone smooth, even. “We have a location to meet.”

Chapter Text

Morning pressed hard against the canyon walls, the light sharp and unforgiving, painting every scar in the rock and every bruise on the clan. The Aldecaldos gathered in the open, faces worn, clothes still streaked with dust and blood. Engines idled low, their rumble filling the silence between voices.

Dakota stood near the center, hands folded in front of her, her coat stirring faint in the dry wind. When she spoke, it wasn’t loud — it didn’t need to be.

“The contact replied,” she said, eyes moving slow across the circle. “We have a place to meet.”

Murmurs rippled instantly, rising sharp, cutting across one another.

“Where?”
“Is it safe?”
“Could be a trap.”

Dakota let the noise burn itself down before she continued, her voice even, steady. “Old mining site. North edge of the Mojave. Buried deep when the Collapse tore through, but the bones are still there. Quiet. Hidden. StormTech’s people have used it before.”

The words settled heavy, the canyon seeming to hold its breath around them.

Carol’s arms folded tight, her eyes narrowing. “So we’re walking straight into a pit. Corps always pick ground they know.”

Cassidy gave a low chuckle, sharp at the edges. “Safer than sitting here with a bullseye painted on our asses.”

Mitch said nothing at first, tablet tucked under his arm, his gaze scanning the clan. When he spoke, it was steady, deliberate. “We can’t stay. Arasaka will be back. That site’s as good a shot as we’re going to get.”

Panam’s fists clenched at her sides, her jaw tight. Her eyes slid briefly to V, wrapped in his blanket near the edge of the circle, his face pale in the harsh morning light. He hadn’t said a word. Hadn’t even flinched at the name.

The murmurs swelled again — fear, suspicion, anger all tangled together. The canyon felt smaller for it, the voices pressing off the walls.

Dakota raised her chin, cutting across the noise with words that fell cold as stone. “The storm’s already on us. You can stay here and drown in it, or you can move.”

The murmurs faltered, broke into silence. All eyes turned toward the rigs. Toward the road out. Toward the choice already made.

The decision didn’t come with cheers or resolve — just movement. Engines growled awake one by one, headlights cutting through the canyon’s haze as Aldecaldos tore down what was left of the camp. Tarps folded fast, crates shoved into rigs, med supplies loaded with a careful urgency.

The wounded were lifted into the back of trucks, some on stretchers, some leaning on the shoulders of kin who refused to let go. Voices barked orders, clipped and sharp, too frayed for softness. The camp that had been a shield now turned hollow, stripped piece by piece in the rush to be gone.

Panam moved among them, rifle slung at her back, her voice steady despite the heat burning in her chest. She guided hands, helped with lifts, snapped orders when hesitation slowed them. But her eyes kept cutting toward one corner of the camp — the cot where V had been sitting.

He was up now, blanket draped across his shoulders, stubbornly walking under his own power. Every step looked heavier than the last, but he didn’t take a hand offered to him. He moved with the clan toward the rigs, jaw tight, gaze low.

Panam reached him as he stopped beside her Thornton. “You don’t have to—”

“I do.” His voice was rough, flat. He didn’t look at her when he said it, just pulled the blanket tighter and reached for the door.

Her hand twitched, wanting to stop him, to argue, but she swallowed it down. This wasn’t the place. Not with half the clan watching from the corners of their eyes, measuring his strength, their loyalty hanging on every flicker of it.

Carol stood nearby, arms crossed, her face unreadable in the glare of floodlights being hauled down. Her eyes lingered on V as he climbed into the rig — cool, assessing — but not without a shadow of concern behind them. She gave Panam a single nod as their eyes met, the kind that wasn’t agreement but acknowledgment: watch him.

Cassidy passed by with a fresh mag in one hand, a grin sharp on his face despite the bruises shadowing his jaw. “Man’s made of nails,” he muttered, loud enough for Panam to hear. “Don’t know how the hell he’s still upright, but glad he is.”

Panam didn’t answer. She only opened the door, steadying V as he climbed inside. For a moment, her hand lingered at his back, the warmth of him under her palm. He didn’t meet her gaze. Just settled into the seat, shoulders hunched, staring through the windshield at nothing.

Mitch crossed behind the rig, tablet tucked against his chest. He slowed just long enough to give Panam a look — steady, solid — before continuing toward the lead truck.

Her chest tightened. She shut the door, circling around to the driver’s side as the rest of the clan finished loading.

Engines roared. Dust churned. One by one, the rigs pulled out, headlights flaring bright against the canyon walls. Panam gripped the wheel, jaw clenched, as her Thornton rumbled forward to join them.

Beside her, V sat silent, his face turned toward the window.

The convoy wound its way out of the canyon, rigs rumbling heavy over broken earth. Dust billowed in their wake, curling orange in the late sun as the desert stretched wide ahead.

Panam kept her hands tight on the wheel, eyes sharp on the road, but every few minutes her gaze flicked sideways. V hadn’t said a word since they rolled out. He sat low in the passenger seat, the blanket pulled around him, his face pale in the passing light. The silence between them pressed heavier with every mile.

She stole another glance, her throat tight. “You holding up?” she asked, keeping her voice low.

His mouth opened, like he meant to answer. But then his gaze snagged on the rearview mirror — and froze.

Two figures sat in the backseat.

Johnny sprawled casual, arms draped along the seatback, smirk cutting sharp through the smoke haze that wasn’t really there. Beside him, Jackie leaned forward, forearms braced to his knees, dark eyes fixed straight on V.

The air punched out of him. For a moment he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. His pulse hammered loud in his ears. Not a dream. Not sleep. They were here.

Johnny’s smirk widened, his tone as cutting as ever. “Surprised, champ? Thought you’d seen the worst of it already.”

Jackie didn’t smile. His gaze was steady, heavy with something deeper. “You keep trying to white-knuckle it, choom. Like you can muscle through alone. But this ain’t a fight you win by clenching your teeth.” His eyes softened, though the weight in them never eased. “You got her sitting right next to you. You either lean on that, or this thing eats you alive. And once it does, there ain’t no coming back.”

V’s throat tightened. He looked down, fingers curling against his leg, the blanket bunching in his grip.

Johnny gave a sharp laugh, smoke curling from nowhere. “And here I thought I was the asshole. But he’s right, V. Keep pretending you can carry it solo, and you’ll go under before you even know it.”

V’s eyes flicked to the window, the desert burning orange in the last light of day. His reflection ghosted back at him in the glass, pale, tired, and not entirely his own.

From the driver’s seat, Panam’s knuckles tightened on the wheel. She caught the way his head tilted, his gaze fixed behind them on nothing she could see. “V?” she asked again, voice thinner this time.

He forced himself to look forward, dragging his eyes away from the mirror. But the weight of their stares in the backseat pressed heavy, as if both men sat there still, waiting for his answer.

V’s eyes locked on the horizon, but his mind was miles away, torn between Jackie’s steady push, Johnny’s jagged bite, and the darker pull gnawing at him from inside. The longer he sat in silence, the heavier it pressed, until he couldn’t tell where the road ended and the void began.

Panam’s grip on the wheel tightened. She’d been stealing glances at him since they left, but this time she didn’t look away. “Hey,” she said, voice cutting sharper than she meant. “Don’t you dare shut me out. Not now.”

His jaw worked, teeth grinding, but he gave her nothing.

Her chest clenched. The edge in her tone cracked, turned raw. “I already almost lost you once. You don’t get to sit there next to me and vanish like you’re already gone.” Her breath hitched, but she forced the words out, rough and fierce. “I can’t do this without you, V. I don’t want to.”

She glanced at him, eyes shining hard in the dim light, her hand tightening on the wheel. “So fight. If not for yourself, then for me. Stay with me.”

For a heartbeat, the whispers clawed louder, furious, dragging at him, whispering that she couldn’t save him. But her words cut through, sharp and trembling, hitting deeper than the darkness. His hand twitched against the blanket, then found hers where it gripped the gearshift, holding on like it was the only thing keeping him from slipping under.

For a long moment he just sat there, trembling under the weight of it, his hand locked on hers. Then he drew in a ragged breath, like he was dragging it up from somewhere deep.

“It’s not just… me being weak,” he said, voice low, frayed. His gaze stayed fixed forward, but the words came raw, unguarded. “It’s in me. Talking. Twisting things.” His throat worked as he forced it out. “Telling me they’ll trade me when it gets too hard. That I’m not worth the blood they’ve already spilled. That even you—” His voice cracked, sharp, like it hurt to say it. “That even you’ll let go if it means saving the clan.”

Panam’s breath caught. She turned to him fully, her hand tightening around his like she could crush the lie with sheer force. “Don’t you dare,” she said, fierce and shaking all at once. “Don’t you dare believe that.”

His eyes finally met hers, wide and haunted. “It feels real, Panam. Every time it whispers, it digs in deeper. Makes me doubt everything. Makes me doubt you. And I hate myself for it.” His voice thinned, nearly breaking. “I don’t know how much longer I can fight it off.”

She pulled their hands to her chest, holding them against the hammer of her heart. “Then you don’t fight it off alone. You hear me? Whatever this thing is, whatever it’s doing to you—you don’t carry it by yourself. Not while I’m here.”

He looked at her, eyes wet, lips trembling like the words hurt. “And if it wins? If I slip, and there’s nothing left of me to fight back with?”

Her chest heaved, her throat thick, but her voice cut sharp through the weight. “Then I’ll drag you back myself. You’re mine, V. You don’t get to disappear. Not to them, not to this… thing. Not while I’m breathing.”

He swallowed hard, his grip shaking against hers, but stronger now, like he was clinging to the sound of her voice. The shadows inside clawed viciously, but her words rang louder, drowning them out.

“I love you, Panam,” he rasped, the words broken and desperate. “More than I can hold onto some days. And that’s what it uses—makes me feel like I’ll lose you anyway, no matter what I do.”

Tears burned hot down her cheeks, unchecked. She leaned closer, forehead nearly touching his, her voice rough but steady. “You won’t lose me. Not to this. Not ever. That’s the truth, V. That’s what’s real. Hold onto that when it starts tearing at you.”

For a beat, the cab went quiet save for the rumble of the road beneath them. He closed his eyes, breath trembling, and tightened his grip on her hand like it was the only tether keeping him upright.

Panam pressed her brow to his, her words low and fierce. “You’re not alone. Not anymore. And I swear to you, I’ll fight this thing every step of the way—because I love you, and I’m not letting go.”

For the first time in hours, he let out a shuddering breath that wasn’t just pain—it was relief, fragile and fleeting, but real.

The convoy rolled on into the dark, engines growling low as the desert stretched endless before them. Twilight bled out fast, and by the time the rigs wound off the highway, night had claimed the land. Headlights cut pale beams across dunes and broken rock, catching on rusting husks half-swallowed by sand.

The road narrowed into a gully, canyon walls pressing tight on either side. Engines echoed sharp against the stone, the sound trapped, like they were driving into the throat of something waiting to close.

Cassidy’s voice cracked over comms, rough and sardonic. “Place feels like a coffin.”

“Better a coffin than an open grave,” Carol shot back, though her eyes lingered longer on the ridges than her tone admitted.

At the gully’s end the land fell open again, a scar carved deep in the desert where the earth had split decades ago. Steel ribs of an old mining site jutted from the basin, scaffolds bent and rusting, cables sagging limp between towers. The convoy slowed, brakes squealing, until one by one the engines cut. Silence pressed down heavy.

Panam killed the Thornton’s engine. Beside her, V shifted, eyes tracing the skeletal frames like he was staring at the bones of something long dead. He pulled the blanket closer, jaw set, but when she opened the door and brushed his arm, he didn’t resist her help.

Outside, the clan moved slow, voices hushed. Lamps flared one by one, casting thin halos that stretched shadows across the basin floor. A few muttered about ghosts, others about the cliffs hemming them in. No one said safe.

Cassidy leaned against a rusting beam, smoke curling from his lips. “Hell of a fixer-upper,” he muttered, grinning sharp but hollow.

Mitch sent drones skimming the ridge, tablet glow pale against his face. “Clear so far,” he said, though his tone held no conviction.

Panam stayed close as V climbed out, steadying him until his feet found the dirt. He was upright, but his eyes kept darting to the shadows, his shoulders tight like he was waiting for something to step through them.

Cassidy passed on his way to check a fuel line, pausing to clap V’s shoulder. “You know, city boy, you keep looking like you crawled outta your own grave, folks are gonna start thinking you did. Try smilin’—scares off the ghosts.”

It earned him the faintest tug at the corner of V’s mouth, there and gone in a breath. Cassidy caught it anyway, grinned wider, and tapped ash into the dirt. “That’s better.” He nodded once, then drifted off, humming under his breath.

V exhaled, shaky but real.

Mitch had been watching. He slid the tablet under his arm and came up beside him. “Walk with me.”

They stepped a few paces from the firelight, into the edge of shadow where scaffolds loomed like ribs. The desert wind whispered through cables above, hollow and thin.

Mitch stopped, voice low but steady. “I see you trying. Standing when you should be down, holding her up when you’re barely standing yourself. But listen—she’s not strong in spite of you. She’s strong because of you. Don’t start thinking you’re the weight dragging her under. You’re the reason she’s still standing.”

V’s jaw worked, his gaze fixed on the dirt. His throat tightened with words he couldn’t force out.

Mitch set a hand firm on his shoulder. “You don’t get to fold in on yourself. Not now. Not when she needs you to believe it’s worth it. You hear me? Worth it—for her, for us, for all of it.”

The weight of it sank deep, heavier than V wanted to admit. He gave the smallest nod, shoulders easing by a fraction.

Before either of them could say more, Dakota’s voice carried sharp across the basin, calm and even but cutting through the night.

“The contact replied again.”

The clan froze, heads snapping toward her. She stepped into the lamplight, comms unit in her hand, coat brushing the dirt.

“One line only,” she said, eyes sweeping the circle.

Silence held as she lifted the device, her tone smooth as glass.

“Stay put. We’ll find you.”

The words fell cold, the basin swallowing them whole. Murmurs erupted sharp and uneasy, fear and suspicion rippling fast. The mine’s shadows seemed to close in tighter, as though the desert itself leaned closer to listen.

V’s gaze slid to Panam. She was already looking back, fear and defiance tangled in her eyes. His jaw clenched, shoulders squared — not retreating, not yielding. Bracing for the storm that was coming.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

The basin was too quiet.

No gunfire, no engines roaring in fury, only the low hiss of cooling metal and the shuffle of boots through dust. Smoke lingered, thinned now to pale ribbons, the kind that clung to clothes and hair and refused to wash out. The rigs sat in a loose circle, half fueled, half armed, their shadows stretching long across the ground as if the machines themselves were waiting for the word to move.

The Aldecaldos moved with the same restless tension. Some checked weapons twice over, bolts racked again and again though the chambers were already clean. Others sorted crates near the rigs, shifting the same boxes from one side to another as if motion alone would keep their hands from trembling. Every movement had a brittle edge — survival drilled into routine, routine standing in for calm.

Panam walked through it with a rifle slung over her shoulder, scanning faces, reading the unspoken in the set of their jaws and the quickness of their eyes. There was no panic here, not anymore. Just a sharp, gnawing readiness, like the whole clan was a spring wound too tight.

Her gaze tugged inevitably toward the med tent.

V sat outside under the shade of the flap, blanket wrapped loose over his shoulders. He looked like a man stitched together by sheer will — pale, drawn, but upright, eyes tracking the camp with a steadiness that hadn’t been there the night before. His pistol rested across his lap, hand near it out of habit, not threat.

Some of the clan glanced his way when they passed. Not all looks were kind, but not all were cold, either. A nod here, a quick murmur there, and then eyes darted away before the contact could hold. The weight of suspicion hadn’t lifted, but the ice was cracking.

Panam slowed near him, hand brushing his shoulder in passing. His eyes lifted, met hers — tired, but present — and for a moment her chest loosened. She wanted to stop, to fold herself into him and keep him from the world a little longer, but the camp pressed on around them. Duty first.

Mitch’s voice cut through the low murmur, hoarse but carrying. He stood near the rigs, tablet in one hand, surrounded by three Aldecaldos as he rattled off fuel counts and ammo tallies. Carol was there too, arms crossed, her voice hard as she directed others toward the supply crates. Cassidy circled near the perimeter, cigarette glowing bright as he cracked some half-bitter joke that drew a strained chuckle from one of the younger nomads.

The clan was still standing. Frayed, rattled, but standing.

Panam pulled in a slow breath through her nose, squared her shoulders, and kept walking toward Mitch.

V pushed himself a little straighter in the chair, the blanket slipping from his shoulders. The sun caught on the pistol laid across his lap, throwing a dull sheen across the chrome, but he let his hand fall away from it. For once, he looked less like a man bracing for the next fight and more like one trying to live.

A kid — younger than most, barely out of his teens — came past dragging a crate half his weight. Jace. One of the fresh blood the clan had picked up months back, still trying to prove he belonged.

V rose halfway before the kid even asked. “Here,” he said, voice rough but steady. He caught the other side and together they hauled it to the rig.

Jace shot him a quick glance, surprise flickering across his face before it softened into a nod. “Thanks.”

V let the weight drop with a grunt, leaning harder on his knees than he meant to. Still, he managed a crooked grin. “Don’t mention it. Just don’t make me carry the next one solo.”

That pulled a short, involuntary laugh from Jace before he moved off.

A few feet away, two Aldecaldos were rolling fuel drums. They didn’t ask for his help, didn’t even look his way, but when V stepped forward and set a shoulder to the steel, no one stopped him either. One gave a grunt of acknowledgment. The other kept his eyes down, jaw tight, muscles working harder than they needed to.

Cassidy leaned against the side of a truck, watching. “City boy’s tryin’ to earn his keep,” he drawled around the cigarette stuck at the corner of his mouth. “Careful, V. Keep this up and we’ll start expectin’ you to split firewood too.”

V shot him a sidelong look, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Long as you don’t light it all just to hear yourself preach around it.”

That earned a bark of laughter from a few nearby. Cassidy tipped the cigarette at him in mock salute.

When V finally sank back near the med tent, sweat traced his temples and his breath rasped heavy, but there was a shift in the air. Not warmth, not yet — but a space opening. A place for him, even if it was narrow.

Carol stood off by one of the rigs, arms folded, eyes on him longer than she probably meant. She didn’t speak, didn’t move — but she didn’t turn away either.

Panam caught it all as she passed with a bundle of rifle mags in her arms. The way Jace’s shoulders weren’t as tight when he walked by. The chuckle that slipped out at Cassidy’s ribbing. The flicker of Carol’s gaze, softer than it had been the day before.

The smallest cracks in the ice.

And for the first time since dawn, her heart eased, just a fraction.

V fell in step with Panam as she crossed the camp, his shoulders straighter than they’d been all day. Just boots steady in the dirt, doing his damnedest to look like more than a man who’d nearly collapsed hours before.

She glanced at him, a question in her eyes, but didn’t press. Just matched her stride to his.

That was when they caught it. The voices — low, hushed, not meant to carry.

“If they’re after him—”
“—every bullet’s headed this way—”
“—how many more can we bury?”

Panam’s shoulders stiffened, jaw tightening. V’s hand twitched at his side, but he kept his head forward, forcing his steps to stay even.

Then one voice rose louder, rough and unguarded. An older Aldecaldo by the fire, grime streaked across his cheek, spat into the dirt. “Can’t keep draggin’ trouble with us. Man’s half-dead and still got Arasaka sniffin’ at his heels.”

Silence followed. Heavy, dragging. Heads turned. Some away. Some right at him.

Panam bristled, ready to fire back — but V beat her to it.

He let out a short, dry huff that almost passed for a laugh. “Half-dead, sure. Still dropped their best hitter.” He flicked a look toward the speaker, one brow raised. “Not bad odds, all things considered.”

The words weren’t loud, but they carried just enough. A few chuckles slipped loose, uneasy but real. One or two heads dipped, and the moment’s edge dulled. Not erased — but dulled.

V kept walking, jaw set, refusing to fold inward.

Panam’s chest loosened a fraction as she caught the ghost of a grin tugging at his mouth. He hadn’t just endured the weight of their stares — he’d pushed back.

Her hand brushed against his, fingers slipping around his arm as they moved through the camp together. It wasn’t much, just a quiet claim in front of every watching eye. But it steadied her, and steadied him too.

And for the first time, it felt like maybe the tide could turn.

They hadn’t made it far before a familiar voice cut through the hum of work.

“Well I’ll be damned — city boy’s still standin’.” Cassidy leaned against a stack of crates, cigarette flicking between his teeth, grin loose as if nothing in the world could touch him. “Half expected we’d be diggin’ a hole by now.”

A couple heads turned, half-curious, half-wary. Waiting to see if V would shrink back or snap.

Instead, he slowed just enough to flick Cassidy a look over his shoulder, mouth quirking into something dry. “Give it time. Just don’t start pickin’ the spot yet.”

The words carried further than he’d meant. For a heartbeat the camp froze — then Cassidy barked out a laugh, sharp and full. He slapped the crate beside him hard enough to rattle it, eyes glinting. “That’s more like it. City boy’s still got some fight in him after all.”

The chuckles that followed weren’t uneasy this time. They were lighter, easier, cutting through the heaviness that had smothered the camp since dawn.

Panam’s hand lingered on V’s arm, her grip tightening with the smallest flicker of pride.

When the moment ebbed, V kept moving. Cassidy muttered something else about “damn city boys” under his breath, but the tone was warm now, ribbing instead of sharp.

Mitch peeled away from a rig and caught up, tablet tucked under one arm. He didn’t speak right away, just walked with them, the line of his jaw steady, thoughtful.

Finally, his voice came low, meant for both of them. “That’s what they needed to see. You on your feet, talkin’ back, not foldin’. Makes a difference.”

V’s eyes stayed ahead, but there was a flicker at the corner of his mouth. “Wasn’t for them.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Mitch said, even. “They’ll remember it. Gives folks a reason to keep movin’.”

With that, he gave a small nod, peeled off again, and left the two of them walking together through the noise of the camp.

When Mitch peeled away, the camp’s noise filled the space he left behind. For the first time since dawn, Panam and V walked without anyone else pressing close. The weight of watchful eyes eased, replaced by the hum of engines cooling, the thud of boots, the scrape of metal on metal.

Panam let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. Her hand stayed looped through his arm, but her gaze drifted toward the rigs. “Feels like I’ve spent the whole damn day putting out fires,” she muttered. “Fuel checks, ammo counts, who’s got food, who doesn’t, what rigs’ll make it another mile before throwing belts…” She shook her head, the corner of her mouth twisting. “Feels like if I turn away for two seconds, the whole place’ll spin apart.”

V glanced sideways at her, the shadow of a grin tugging at his mouth. “That’s ‘cause you’re the one holding it together. Not just the engines and ammo. The people. They’d be scattered dust without you.”

She huffed, somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “Not exactly what I needed to hear.”

“Then let me say it plain.” His voice softened, teasing at first but warm underneath. “You’re a damn good leader, Panam. Stronger than any of ‘em want to admit — maybe even stronger than you want to admit.”

Her lips pressed tight, eyes narrowing like she wanted to argue, but the tension in her jaw eased instead. “Don’t flatter me. You haven’t heard the complaints about rations. Or about how the generator nearly cooked itself last night. I’m one short-circuit away from a mutiny.”

“Good thing I’m here then,” V said, deadpan. “I can stand up and fall over real dramatic — distract ‘em long enough for you to get the generator back online.”

That earned him a real laugh, quiet but unguarded. She bumped his shoulder with hers, softer than it looked. “You’re impossible.”

“And you love me for it,” he shot back, easy.

Her smile lingered, not wide, not forced — just real. She let herself lean into his side as they walked, the noise of the camp fading for a moment. For once, it wasn’t about the wounded, the dead, or the next move. It was about this: her and him, steady in the middle of it all.

The sun had sunk low enough to smear the sky in rust and violet, the air thick with dust that clung to every breath. Camp was still in motion — rigs angled toward the ridge, packs stacked for a quick haul, fires burning down to coals. The hum of voices had just begun to settle when the sound rose — engines, low and steady, not the ragged growl of Shiv junkers or the thunder of Arasaka armor. Something else.

A ripple passed through the Aldecaldos. Conversations cut short. Rifles came up smooth, instinctive. Cassidy stopped mid-word, his hand finding the stock of his rifle as his eyes tracked the glow cresting through the haze. Mitch snapped his tablet shut, muttering under his breath as he scanned the horizon. Even Carol straightened from where she stood near the fire, her arms folding tight across her chest, jaw set.

Panam’s pulse jumped. She adjusted her stance, the rifle warm and familiar in her grip, eyes narrowing into the dust. Headlights pierced the haze, too steady to be wind-blown, too deliberate to be chance.

The camp held its breath.

Then Dakota’s voice threaded through the silence, smooth and unhurried, as though she’d been waiting for this exact moment.
“Dust carries more than sand,” she said, stepping forward from the shadows, eyes fixed on the approaching lights. “Sometimes, it carries answers.”

She paused, the faintest curl at the edge of her mouth.
“They’re here.”

The vehicle rumbled to a halt, its hull caked in dust and patched chrome. The engine ticked as the silence closed in, rifles across the camp still leveled, breaths held tight.

The driver’s door opened with a groan, and a figure climbed out. Tall, wiry, the kind of frame shaped more by miles on the road than a corpo gym. Jacket worn, boots scuffed, dust ground into the seams. They raised both hands slow, palms empty.

“Name’s Rourke,” the voice carried even, rough-edged but steady. “Dakota said you’d be needing a line knocked. I ain’t StormTech, and I don’t speak for ’em. But I know who to call. And they’ll listen — if you’ve got something worth their time.”

The murmurs rose, sharp and uneasy, but no one moved. Rourke lowered his hands, dust trailing off the sleeves, and gave a short nod toward Dakota. “Best we talk where ears can catch all of it. Not out here in the dirt.”

Dakota’s eyes narrowed, unreadable in the fading light, then she gestured toward the largest tent. “Inside. All of us.”

One by one, the rifles dipped. Reluctant, wary, but the current pulled them in. The camp shifted, boots crunching over the ground as the Aldecaldos filed toward the big tent. Panam lingered, watching Rourke move — calm, deliberate, like a man used to walking into rooms where no one wanted him. She clenched her jaw, then turned, guiding V with a steadying hand toward the lamplight glow waiting ahead.

The tent filled thick with bodies, heat rising fast under canvas lit by lanterns. Shadows flickered across drawn faces, voices low but sharp as the clan crowded close. Panam guided V to a chair near the front, steadying him by the elbow until he sat. She stayed at his side, jaw tight, her rifle resting against her leg.

Rourke didn’t rush. He stood just inside the circle of light, boots planted, hands easy at his sides. He looked nothing like a corpo envoy — no polished chrome, no tailored shine. Just a man who carried dust on his shoulders and didn’t seem bothered by the rifles still angled his way.

When the murmurs faded, he spoke. “StormTech won’t send anyone to you. That’s not how they work. But I can get word where it needs to go. They’ll listen if the message is loud enough.”

Cassidy tipped his head, voice dry. “What, no business card? Starting to wonder if you’re the real deal.”

Rourke didn’t flinch. He just let the words hang, then answered steady. “Don’t matter if you doubt me. What matters is you’ve got something they want. Salvaged Arasaka tech. And…” his gaze swept the clan as a whole, never fixing on any one face, “…something bigger than chrome or circuits. You put that on the table, StormTech listens.”

Unease rippled through the Aldecaldos, voices rising in mutters.

Carol’s voice cut through the noise, sharp as broken glass. “Corpos don’t listen. They take.” Her arms folded tight across her chest. “We’ve been down that road. Ends the same every time.”

Panam’s jaw clenched, her tone steady but iron-edged. “We’re Aldecaldo. We don’t bow.”

The words carried, and for once Carol gave a small nod, the rare alignment hanging heavy in the air.

Mitch finally spoke, voice low but clear. “Then we don’t bow. But we don’t break either. If this is the way forward, then we walk it eyes open.”

The silence that followed pressed like weight against the canvas.

Rourke shifted, letting the pause stretch before he spoke again. “I’m not here to sell you trust. I don’t care if you like it. I’m here to say there’s a door I can open. What you do once it’s open? That’s on you.”

No more shouting followed. Just the low, taut quiet of people who already knew the decision, even if none of them liked the taste of it.

And then V stood.

The scrape of the chair legs against the packed dirt was louder than it should’ve been, cutting through the quiet like a blade. Every head turned. Some faces tightened, others stilled, all waiting. He gripped the chair’s arm for balance, his frame taut with strain, but when he spoke, his voice carried steady.

“You all bled for me.” His gaze swept the clan, heavy and unflinching, gravel in every word. “I know what that cost. And I won’t pretend it didn’t. But if you’re risking yourselves ‘cause of me, then I’m standing in it with you. No running. No hiding. Whatever comes through that door — I’ll face it.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It bent. The air shifted, thick with the weight of his words. Murmurs caught in throats. A few glances exchanged, the kind that said more than voices ever could.

Cassidy leaned back, his usual smirk ghosting but never fully forming, like he wanted to twist it into a joke but couldn’t find the punchline. His eyes stayed on V, the faintest flicker of respect softening the sharp edges.

Carol’s arms were still crossed, her stance iron as ever, but her eyes narrowed, less cutting than before. She measured him — not with disdain, but with the hard caution of someone who’d seen too many promises break. It wasn’t approval, not yet, but it wasn’t dismissal either.

Mitch didn’t hesitate. He gave a short, firm nod, his jaw tight, his gaze steady on V. It wasn’t surprise — more like quiet confirmation, as though he’d known V would stand sooner or later, and was glad to see it now.

Around the tent, shoulders eased by degrees. Some dropped their eyes, ashamed of the fear that had driven their earlier words. Others stared at him outright, suspicion still etched deep but no longer the only thing on their faces. The weight of the clan bent, subtle but undeniable, toward him.

Panam’s heart hammered. She saw the tremor in his arm, the strain in every muscle just to keep upright. But beneath it, she saw the fire — stubborn, reckless, unyielding — the thing that had pulled her into his orbit in the first place. Pride and fear tangled sharp in her chest, and she reached out, just enough to brush her hand against his arm, grounding them both.

Dakota’s voice came last, cool and final, slicing through the silence.
“Then the message is sent.”

Rourke shifted, boots grinding faintly in the dirt. His tone was even, stripped of ceremony. “I’ll get the word moving tonight. Could be quick, could be days. Either way, when it comes, you’ll need to be ready. No time for second thoughts.”

The words settled over the tent like another weight. No argument rose this time. Just the quiet rustle of breath and the press of inevitability.

The meeting broke with murmurs, boots shuffling against packed earth as the clan spilled back into the night. Panam stayed close to V, steadying him when the press of bodies threatened to jostle him. By the time they reached the tent, the noise outside had thinned to a low rumble.

Inside, the hush was heavy with exhaustion, but somewhere in it a thin current of hope still stirred.

V lowered himself onto the cot, blankets pulled around his shoulders, and leaned back with a grunt. Panam settled beside him, quiet for a while, listening to the camp beyond the canvas—low voices, metal clanking, the scrape of boots on gravel. The sound of people refusing to fold.

“You held up,” she said finally, her voice steady but softer than she meant it to be. Her hand found his, thumb brushing absently over his knuckles.

His mouth tugged sideways, something between a smirk and a wince. “Wouldn’t call it pretty.”

“Doesn’t have to be,” she answered, leaning into him just enough for her shoulder to rest against his. “Pretty doesn’t keep you alive.”

That drew a quiet huff out of him, the barest hint of a laugh. His eyes closed for a moment, the lines in his face easing as he let himself lean back into her touch.

For a long stretch, neither of them spoke. The night hummed outside, alive with the clan working through its wounds, but in the tent it was just the two of them—her warmth against his side, his fingers loose in hers.

Panam let herself breathe then, deeper than she had all day. He was still here. They both were. And for the first time in what felt like forever, that was enough.

For a long while, they stayed as they were, shoulders pressed, hands twined, listening to the muted stir of the clan outside. But the longer the quiet stretched, the heavier it pressed, until Panam shifted, turning enough to study him in the dim light.

He opened his eyes, and the look she found there nearly unraveled her. Tired, yes, worn down to the bone—but still burning. Still V.

Her hand slid from his to his jaw, fingertips tracing the line of stubble, the faint tremor beneath his skin. He caught her wrist gently, as if to steady her, but didn’t stop her when she leaned in.

The kiss wasn’t desperate, not like it might’ve been hours ago when death clawed so close. It was slower, anchored in everything they hadn’t said, everything they didn’t need to. His lips tasted faintly of dust and copper, but the warmth was his, alive, answering hers.

When she drew back, her forehead rested against his. “You scare the hell out of me,” she whispered, breath unsteady.

His smirk came faint but real. “Guess I’ve still got it.”

She huffed out a laugh, half exasperated, half trembling, then kissed him again—deeper this time, her hand curling into his jacket. His arm slipped around her waist, pulling her closer despite the weakness in it. The cot creaked beneath them as she leaned into him, careful of his ribs, careful but unwilling to let go.

Her fingers threaded into his hair, his mouth trailing along her jaw in return, each touch slower than the last, reverent. It wasn’t about proving anything, not tonight. It was about feeling alive, feeling each other, grounding themselves in something that couldn’t be stolen by Arasaka, by relics, by nightmares.

When he drew her down with him, blankets tangled around them both, she went willingly, pressing close until the world outside the canvas flap disappeared.

No battle. No clan. No ghosts. Just them, their breaths uneven, hearts finding a rhythm together.

And for once, the fire between them wasn’t forged in danger or desperation—it was love burning steady, unshaken, pulling them through the dark.

Chapter Text

The camp was quiet but for the low crackle of a fire somewhere beyond the tent. Dawn had only just broken, the pale wash of morning seeping through canvas seams. Panam lay curled beside him, her breathing steady, lashes dark against her cheek. Exhaustion had finally claimed her.

V eased upright, careful not to stir her. Every movement sent a throb of protest through his body, but it wasn’t enough to stop him. Not today. He slipped out from under the blanket, pulled on his jacket, and ducked through the flap into the morning air.

The cold bit sharp, but it carried the smell of coffee and smoke, voices cutting against the hush. He followed them to the fire where a cluster of Aldecaldos sat ringed around the embers, tin mugs in hand. Cassidy leaned back in his chair, grin already sharp, tossing lines that kept a few of them laughing.

The chatter dulled when V stepped into view, boots scuffing dirt as he made his way closer. He didn’t slow, just claimed an empty chair, lowering himself into it with a grunt. He could feel some of their eyes on him, weighing, measuring.

Cassidy was the first to break the silence. “Well, well, look who crawled outta bed. Thought you city boys needed silk sheets and a wake-up call.”

A couple chuckles bubbled, waiting to see if V could swing back. He didn’t hesitate. “Sheets burned up in the raid. Guess I’ll have to rough it with the rest of you.”

That drew real laughter, Cassidy snorting into his cup. The circle loosened a little — until another voice cut in, low and edged, from across the fire.

“Funny how quick city boys learn to ‘rough it’ when they’ve got no choice. Funny how trouble always seems to follow ’em, too.”

The laughter thinned, smoke shifting with the silence that followed. The speaker didn’t look at him, but the words landed all the same.

Before V could open his mouth, Jace leaned forward, mug forgotten in his hands. “That’s enough.” His voice wasn’t raised, but it carried, steady as steel. “You think we’d still be sitting here if he hadn’t been with us? He’s part of this, whether you like it or not.”

The air tightened, the speaker’s jaw shifting like he might spit back. V cut in first.

“He’s not wrong.” His tone was even, calm, meant for all of them. He let the words hang a beat before adding, “But I’ll carry what I’ve brought with me. Not you. Not him. Me.”

The fire popped, smoke curling between them. Jace eased back, but his eyes stayed fixed on the other Aldecaldo until the man looked away. The circle held its breath a beat longer, taut and brittle.

Cassidy broke it with a crooked grin, tipping his mug toward V. “See? City boy doesn’t just rough it — he bites back. Might be hope for him yet.”

A couple more laughs followed, softer this time, not quite easy but not hostile either. The sharp edge thinned, bleeding into the smoke, leaving V among them with the warmth of the fire brushing against his face.

Bootsteps scuffed the dirt behind him. Mitch’s voice followed, steady and matter-of-fact. “Coffee’ll only get you so far, V. You up for putting hands on something?”

V turned his head, found Mitch standing there with a tablet tucked under one arm, a coil of cable in the other. The man’s eyes searched him, not unkind, just weighing if he could handle it.

“Depends,” V said, leaning back in the chair. “What’re we talking? Heavy lifting or light persuasion?”

That earned the faintest twitch of a smile from Mitch. “Start light. Help me get the rigs checked, cables run clean. We’ll see how you hold up.”

V pushed himself upright, every muscle barking, but he kept his tone dry. “Guess I’ll find out too.”

Mitch clapped him on the shoulder as he passed, not gentle, not hard, just enough to say good. Together they moved toward the line of vehicles. The morning buzz of camp had begun to stir — engines idling low, voices calling back and forth, the metallic clink of tools biting into the quiet.

They worked side by side for a while. Mitch handed him cables to thread, tools to check connections, the kind of grunt work that kept a camp wired and ready. V moved slower than he wanted, the stiffness in his body catching at every step, but he didn’t stop. A few Aldecaldos glanced their way as they worked — some with the faintest nods, others with looks held just long enough to cut.

At one point, a line jammed in the coupler and V cursed under his breath, forcing it through with more effort than it should’ve taken. Mitch didn’t call him on it, didn’t hover — just kept working beside him, silent but present. That, more than words, carried weight.

By the time Panam stirred awake and stepped out from the tent, the camp was alive with motion. Rigs being fueled, weapons stacked and checked, small knots of clan members tightening straps on gear. The smell of frying soy cut through the smoke, a few voices trading jokes as they carried crates to the edge of camp.

V straightened from where he’d been crouched with a cable, rolling his shoulders against the ache, and caught her eyes across the camp. For a heartbeat, everything else dulled — the engines, the clatter of tools, the haze of voices. Just her, seeing him up and moving, the faintest line of worry etched across her brow giving way to relief.

He managed a faint grin, small but real, before bending back to the work in his hands.

She didn’t go to him right away. Instead she stood at the edge of the tent’s shadow, watching him work through the stiffness, jaw tight with effort he tried not to show. Mitch passed him another tool, and V took it without complaint, hands steady even if his body lagged behind. Around them, a few Aldecaldos stole glances — some quiet nods of recognition, others still wary — but none moved to stop him.

Panam’s chest ached, a strange mix of pride and fear tangling sharp. He was pushing, maybe more than he should, but he was pushing. Not retreating. Not folding inward. And the clan could see it.

Only when she’d let herself breathe through that moment did she start forward, boots crunching over the dirt, the flap of the tent falling shut behind her.

Mitch spotted her first, tipping his chin in greeting before passing a coil of wire off to V. Then he moved on, leaving them space.

“You’re supposed to be resting,” she said, voice low but not scolding, more an attempt at steady.

“Rest is overrated,” V muttered, flexing his hand as if the stiffness could be shaken out. He glanced her way, the corner of his mouth tugging faintly. “Besides, if I sit too long, people might start thinking I like the luxury.”

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t bite back the small huff that slipped out. “Luxury. You’re elbow-deep in grease.”

“Cheaper than silk sheets,” he said, and the faint grin that came with it hit her harder than she expected.

For a moment she just stood there, watching him — pale under the strain but refusing to hide behind it. She wanted to tell him to stop, to save his strength, but seeing him shoulder his place beside the clan… it silenced the words. Instead, she stepped closer and brushed her hand against his arm, grounding him, grounding herself.

“You don’t have to prove anything,” she murmured.

“Not proving,” he said, quieter now, his gaze on her instead of the work. “Just reminding them I’m still here.”

Her throat tightened at that. She gave his arm a squeeze before letting go, covering it with a shake of her head. “Stubborn bastard.”

He let out a faint huff that almost passed for a laugh. “Hey, stubborn’s gotten me this far.”

Something in her expression softened at that — relief slipping in past the worry, a warmth she didn’t try to hide. For a moment they simply stood there, close among the hum of engines and the morning stir of camp, until Mitch’s voice carried across the rigs and pulled her away. She left with one last glance at V, and he bent back to the work with a steadier hand than before.

Hours later, the sun sat high, burning the dust into the air, camp restless under the heat. V joined the line by the cookfire, the scent of beans and scorched synth-meat curling from battered pans. His shoulders ached from the morning’s work, but it was an honest ache — one he hadn’t felt in too long.

“Morning feels different when you’re not just watching it,” Jace said behind him, voice light, carrying more optimism than most around here dared show.

V gave a half-smile over his shoulder. “Don’t let Mitch hear you. He’ll have me pulling engines by sundown.”

Jace laughed, but the sound was cut short by a low mutter from further down the line. One of the older Aldecaldos, the same who’d thrown barbs at the fire, leaned just close enough for the words to carry.

“Looks like the city boy’s found himself a new shadow. Keep trailing after him, kid, and it might be your grave they’re digging next.”

Jace stiffened, color rising in his face. He stepped forward, shoulders squared, but V caught his arm before he could do more than bristle.

“Don’t,” V said, low but firm. His gaze didn’t leave the man. “This one’s mine.”

The man smirked, folding his arms. “Thought so. You Aldecaldo now, city boy? ‘Cause all I see is dead weight dragging behind us.”

V stepped forward, slow, deliberate. “If you’ve got something to settle,” he said, voice level, “we can do it out in the open.”

The murmurs spread fast through the line. Backs turned, food forgotten, as the camp shifted, forming a loose circle in the dust. Jace hovered at V’s side, tension radiating off him, but V lifted a hand, keeping him back.

The older Aldecaldo — lean, scarred, more years in the clan than most — rolled his shoulders like he’d been waiting for this. “Fine by me.”

It started quick. The man came forward with a straight shot, fist cracking against V’s jaw. Pain burst white across his vision, the world tilting, but he caught himself before he hit dirt. A ripple of sound ran through the circle — some cheering, some jeering, most silent.

V spat copper, steadied his stance. His body screamed protest, every muscle brittle from exhaustion, but he didn’t back down. He waited, let the man swing again — slower this time — and drove his fist hard into the man’s jaw. The impact echoed sharp, sending him sprawling into the dust.

Silence stretched, broken by the older Aldecaldo’s rasping chuckle. He propped himself up on one elbow, wiping blood from his lip with the back of his hand. “Fragile or not,” he rasped, “you hit like a truck.”

The murmurs rippled again, different this time. Not approval, not quite, but the edge of doubt had dulled.

That’s when Panam shoved her way through the ring, eyes blazing. She planted herself between V and the man still on the ground, her voice sharp enough to cut steel.

“You think this is what we need? More fists flying while Arasaka circles like vultures? Every one of you should be ashamed.” Her glare skewered the older Aldecaldo first, her voice like a whip. “Save your fights for the ones trying to put us in the ground, not your own.”

The man dropped his eyes, muttering something low, but didn’t push back.

Then her gaze turned on V, fierce, protective, hands tight at her sides. “Come with me,” she ordered, voice leaving no room for argument.

The circle was dead quiet now, the whole clan watching. V met her eyes, chest still heaving, and though there was no fire left to throw back, there was no resistance either. Just the ache, the exhaustion, and the unspoken pull of her words.

She stepped closer, caught his arm, and steered him through the thinning circle. The whispers followed, but none dared speak up.

Inside the tent, the air was dim and heavy, lantern-light stretching shadows across the canvas. She pressed him down onto the cot, hands firm but careful, then crouched in front of him.

Her eyes searched his face, jaw locked tight. “You don’t have to throw yourself at every fight just to prove something,” she said, voice low but edged with fire. “You’re hanging on by threads, V. One bad hit and it’s not a scuffle anymore — it’s over. You can’t keep gambling like that.”

“Had to,” V cut in, hoarse but steady, the stubborn line in his tone unmistakable. “Needed to. They won’t listen to words. Had to show I’m still standing.”

Her nostrils flared, but she didn’t answer right away. Instead, she reached up, thumb brushing along his jaw. A trail of blood streaked from his lip, and she wiped it away with the edge of her hand, gentler than her voice.

“That stunt cost you more than it gained,” she murmured, anger pressed tight into her restraint. “You think they don’t see how raw you still are? You think they’ll trust you more if you’re sprawled in the dirt, bleeding?”

V’s gaze met hers, unwavering despite the exhaustion hollowing him out. “They’ll trust me more if they know I won’t fold.”

For a moment she just looked at him, her chest rising sharp, the weight of everything pressing in. Then she pulled her hand back, fingers curling into a fist at her side.

“Then don’t make me watch you prove it again,” she said, firm, final.

The silence lingered, heavy in the close air. Panam sighed through her nose, reaching for a rag on the crate beside the cot. She dipped it into the basin, wrung it once, then touched it to his split lip. Her hand was steady this time, soft despite the edge still in her voice.

“You’re stubborn as hell,” she muttered. “Always have been. But if you keep testing where the line is, you’ll find it sooner than you want.”

V winced at the sting of the rag, then let out a low chuckle, tired but real. “Guess that makes two of us.”

Her mouth twitched, unwilling but there — the ghost of a smile breaking through. She shook her head and kept working, dabbing carefully at his jaw.

Panam wrung out the rag once more, dropped it into the basin, and straightened. She gave V one last searching look — the kind that told him she wasn’t finished with this conversation — then stepped back.

“Come on,” she said quietly, pushing the flap aside.

V rose slow, jaw aching, body stiff, but followed her out. The air outside felt sharper, cleaner, the heat of the day settling over camp. Engines grumbled, tools clinked, voices wove in a low hum as the Aldecaldos slipped back into their rhythm.

Cassidy was already waiting, leaning against a rig with a mug in one hand, that lopsided grin pulling at his mouth. He lifted the cup in greeting. “Hell of a right you threw back there,” he drawled. “Course, your hook’s got all the finesse of a rusted wrench. Might wanna work on that before you start your boxing career.”

A couple of nearby Aldecaldos chuckled, though their eyes still flicked between V and Panam, measuring the air. Cassidy’s grin softened into something closer to respect. “Still — you stood your ground. That counts.”

V huffed, mouth tugging sideways. “Guess I’ll add gym time to the list, right after not dying.”

Cassidy barked a laugh. “Now you’re starting to sound like one of us.”

Panam shot him a look sharp enough to cut. “Don’t encourage him.”

Cassidy tipped his hat with a smirk, then said, “Yes, ma’am,” before pushing off the rig and wandering back toward the cookfire.

For the rest of the day, the camp settled into something almost like normal. Rigs were checked, weapons cleaned, supplies shifted between crates. Some worked in silence, others in small knots of chatter, the sound of laughter weaving in just often enough to remind them all they were still standing.

V moved among them, slower than most, but he didn’t keep to the edges this time. He pitched in where he could — handing off tools, tightening straps, fetching cables — earning nods from a few, measured looks from others. It wasn’t trust, not yet, but it was a start.

As the sun dipped lower, shadows stretched long across the camp. The smell of oil and dust mixed with the smoke of the cookfire, voices gathering there like gravity pulled them in. Jokes floated over the crackle of flames, some sharp, some warm, the kind of banter that patched holes left by grief.

Cassidy strummed a few lazy chords on his guitar, the notes drifting rough but steady, filling the spaces between conversation. Mitch argued with someone over fuel ratios, tablet glowing pale against his weathered hands, while Carol barked orders for perimeter checks without looking up from the weapon she was cleaning. Jace leaned in close with another younger Aldecaldo, trading low remarks and laughter.

V sat shoulder to shoulder with a pair of clanmates, a steaming mug passed his way without a word. For a moment he just held it, heat seeping into his hands, listening to the rhythm around him — the scrape of boots in the dirt, the rise and fall of voices, the fragile thread of music.

Across the fire, the Aldecaldo he’d fought earlier caught his eye. The man’s jaw was swollen, lip split, but his gaze held steady. He tipped his chin once — not friendly, not warm, but solid. A mark of respect, earned and given.

The circle swelled with sound — laughter rolling, sharp words thrown only to be softened by grins, the constant pulse of a family that refused to fracture. And this time, when V leaned back and let it wash over him, the weight pressing down on the camp didn’t feel like it was crushing them flat. It pressed, always, but lighter now. Shared.

Chapter Text

The tent breathed like a lung around him—canvas skin sighing in and out with the desert wind. Beyond it, the camp murmured low: a generator coughing, someone’s boot scuffing sand, the far-off clink of metal as a pot kissed a grate. Heat still lingered from the fire, the air thick with woodsmoke and cumin. He lay on his back with Panam’s weight warm across his ribs, her arm thrown over him like claim and comfort both.

For the first time in too long, the quiet touched bone.

Then came the static.

Thin at first. A hairline hiss threading the edges of sound. It crawled under his skin, lifted every bead of sweat into cold, and the HUD in his periphery ghosted a red caret like a heartbeat skipping. He blinked—

—and the tent vanished.

He stood ankle-deep in broken glass, except the shards were red code, each sliver humming with text he couldn’t read unless he bled on it. The world on this side of the Blackwall was wrong in a way the brain had no names for: angles too narrow to exist, mass without gravity, a horizon that folded inward like a mouth trying not to scream. The Wall itself loomed ahead—black glass stretching into forever, oily eyes blinking open and shut across its face, each blink a dropped frame of reality.

Hands pressed against it from the other side. Hundreds. Thousands. Fingers too long, wrists too thin, joints where joints didn’t belong. With every drag they left glowing wounds in the surface, and those wounds pulsed like veins starving for a heart.

V.

His name came in the rasp of a thousand broken speakers finding the same word at once. Johnny’s voice sat inside it like a splinter, familiar and furious. Jackie’s warmth flickered behind, a flare trying to hold.

The Wall shuddered. A seam tore from top to bottom, not opening so much as deciding it had always been open. Shapes spilled through—wrong, human-adjacent shadows wearing scraps of memory like stolen jackets.

“Hey,” Jackie said at his side, voice all smile and knuckle to the shoulder. “Heads up, ese.”

Johnny leaned in from the other side, cigarette ember glitching instead of burning. “Back away from the window, samurai. Tour’s over.”

The swarm stilled. Faces turned, smiling with mouths they didn’t know how to use. Speech came from everywhere and nowhere.

We were promised.

Johnny sneered. “Corpos promise a lot. Ask the guy in your head.”

A shape stepped forward wearing V’s own face, mouth half a beat behind the words. She is a good anchor. We like her heat.

V’s stomach knotted. “You leave her out of this.”

The not-V smiled wider. We will take what keeps you from drowning. If you cling, we cut.

The red glass at his feet flickered, showing Panam beneath desert starlight, hand caught in something thin and jointed. The sight lodged like a blade.

“Don’t look,” Jackie warned, planting himself between. “They want in your head. Don’t let ‘em.”

Johnny’s voice sharpened. “Rule’s simple: don’t give the bastards what they ask for. Not even inside your skull.”

The not-Panam leaned close, teeth wrong. Love is a password. We know it now.

V lunged—knife in hand without drawing it—and the world froze him in place. Bones locked, chrome deadweight.

We will hurt her to teach you quiet.

Jackie grabbed his jaw, grounding him with a grip that was all callus and memory. “Look at me, cabrón. Not them.”

The Wall split wider, shadows reaching—until the field of red shattered.

He came up gasping, nearly throwing Panam from the cot.

“V!” Her hands cupped his face, one steadying the back of his head, the other smearing blood from his nose. Lantern-light cut the tent into shards. Smoke, dust, sweat, the thud of his own heart crashing back into rhythm. Her hair had fallen loose, strands clinging to damp skin near her temple, eyes locked on his.

“Hey,” she said, fierce but steady. “Breathe. In. Out. With me.”

He caught her rhythm like a rope thrown to a drowning man. In. Out. The static hissed, then faded. His skull screamed, throat raw, blood iron-slick on his tongue.

“Dreams?” she asked. Too much history packed into two syllables. “Was it—”

“Bad,” he forced out. The word scraped, but it was honest enough. “Worse than before.”

Her gaze flicked sharp over his face. “Nosebleed. Did it… talk to you?”

He thought of the swarm, of Panam’s outline caught in those wrong hands. The words came up, and he swallowed them whole.

“It showed me past the Wall,” he said instead, raw-throated. “Not just noise. Structures. Said the Wall wasn’t a prison. More like a road.”

Panam’s jaw clenched. “Dakota’s ghost stories.” She swallowed hard. “What else?”

“They want the relic,” he said, voice low. “Want what it can do. Called it a bridge.”

Her hands tightened, then eased. She leaned her forehead to his, hot breath steadying him more than his own lungs. “You don’t face that alone,” she said. “You hear me?”

He nodded once. Small, but all he had.

“Good.” She pressed a quick, hard kiss against his mouth, a seal before the wind could take him. “You scared the hell outta me.”

“Scared myself.” He found a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Been a while since it got that close.”

“Then we don’t let it again.” She brushed the blood away with a tenderness that cut deeper than fear. “Try to sleep. I’ll be here.”

He wanted to tell her not to leave, but she never did. He let her hand on his chest pin him back down, though he didn’t close his eyes. Every blink showed red glass and teeth.

By dawn, the camp was moving. Engines coughed, tarps snapped, voices tangled into the rhythm of departure.

V stepped out, washed clean but hollow-eyed. The sun hadn’t decided yet if it meant cruelty; light came soft over the dunes, wrapping them like shoulders under a blanket.

“Look who survived the night,” Cassidy called, tossing him a wrapped frybread without looking. “Was hoping to collect on that bet. Carol says I’m not allowed to bet on clan anymore. Says it’s ‘bad optics.’” He twisted the word fancy. “What’s an optic anyway?”

“Thing you don’t use when you shoot,” Carol said, striding past with line coiled on her shoulder, scowl fixed. To V she added, sharp but oddly kind: “Eat it before it eats you.”

Mitch came up with a tablet hugged to his chest. He saw V’s face, saw the cleaned blood, said nothing. Just thumped his arm once with the quiet weight of a man who’d dragged him out of worse. “You good to ride?”

“Yeah,” V said. Then, softer: “Good enough.”

Dakota drifted by, smoke and sage trailing. “Roads are honest,” she murmured. “Walls are not. Keep to the first. Don’t stare at the second.”

“Great,” Cassidy muttered. “Add that to the scripture.”

The camp folded itself up with practiced hands, arguments that meant affection, orders that meant care. Rigs coughed alive, kids counted twice, gear lashed down tight.

Dust lifted on the east trail. A matte truck rolled in, too clean for the desert, antennae slicing sky. Rourke climbed down with parade-ground precision still clinging to his joints. His eyes flicked over the convoy, making ledger entries.

He tipped two fingers at Panam, then looked straight at V. “Clock’s ticking. You ready to earn your rescue?”

“No one’s rescuing us,” Panam snapped. “You’re guiding a convoy, not delivering a miracle.”

“Call it navigation, then.” Rourke’s gaze lingered on V, sharp as a diagnosis. “Two days. If we don’t make it by sundown tomorrow, we camp hard and finish at dawn. Keep spacing. Don’t bunch for comfort.”

Cassidy cupped a hand to his ear. “Hear that? Man cares.”

“Care about keeping my clients alive long enough to pay,” Rourke said. “Move.”

Engines gathered into a low hymn. V climbed into the Thornton, Panam already behind the wheel, her hand brushing his as she shifted into gear.

“Two days,” she said. “We do ’em together.”

“Together,” he echoed.

The engines came alive in staggered roars, diesel coughing into the morning air until the whole camp thrummed like a living thing. Dust lifted in veils from under the rigs, curling against the pale sky. Kids were hauled up into bunks, gear lashed down, radios crackled alive with test pings.

Rourke sat high in his matte truck at point, expression carved into something between patience and contempt. He tapped two fingers to his temple, checked his comms, then swung the vehicle forward with parade-ground precision. The rest of the Aldecaldo convoy followed, one by one, like a spine snapping into motion.

Panam dropped the Thornton into gear, jaw tight, eyes forward. Her hand brushed against V’s as she shifted. A wordless check. He closed his fingers around hers for half a beat before letting go.

They rolled out of camp and into the open desert.

The sun climbed higher, crueler now, heat shimmering off the sand in waves. The rigs spaced themselves at practiced intervals, each driver knowing the gaps by instinct, leaving just enough room for maneuvering, never enough for someone to slip between.

Cassidy’s voice cut over the comm, lazy drawl sharp enough to carry.
“Beautiful day to fry alive, eh? Thought about bringin’ sunscreen, but then remembered I’m already handsome enough.”

A chorus of groans answered him.

Carol came back a second later, her voice dry as cracked stone.
“Save your breath, Cassidy. Might need it when the radiator gives out.”

That line earned her a ripple of laughter across the convoy, bouncing from rig to rig until it took some of the weight off the road. Cassidy muttered something under his breath, conveniently lost in static.

Mitch broke in a few minutes later, steady and even.
“Sharp dip coming up, twenty meters ahead. Don’t take it too fast. Keep your axles intact.”

Panam adjusted without being told, the Thornton sliding down the grade smooth and controlled. V caught how tightly she gripped the wheel before it evened out again.

He leaned against the door, eyes sweeping the horizon through a haze of heat distortion. Once, he caught a flicker of movement along a ridge line too far out for detail. Just dust? Just static in his optics? He blinked it away, told himself he imagined it, but his hand drifted closer to the pistol on his thigh all the same.

Dakota’s voice drifted through the comm, calm as smoke.
“The road speaks louder than silence. Listen close.”

Nobody answered. They never did when she spoke like that.

Panam glanced sideways at V, just long enough to check his face before locking back on the road. He caught it, and let her think he hadn’t.

Cassidy filled the quiet with another tale, spinning some half-true story about losing a bet with a Raffen and waking up naked in a crate bound for Santo Domingo. His drawl stretched it long, details shifting to suit his audience.

This time the laughter came easier, rolling across the convoy and tethering the rigs together in more than just spacing.

V managed a small smile, but it didn’t hold. The desert stretched out too empty in every direction, the sky too wide, and the static in his skull too eager to crawl back in.

By sundown the rigs circled up tight, steel and dust drawn into a rough ring on a stretch of hardpan. Fires snapped alive in old oil drums, their light painting long shadows across tarps and cabs. Someone dragged out a battered guitar, a few voices lifted in song, half in tune and half on purpose.

V sat on the tailgate of the Thornton, watching sparks crawl up into the dusk. His body still carried the dream’s weight, nerves buzzing like stripped wire. The laughter around the fire sounded too far away, but he made himself stay in the circle.

Cassidy claimed a spot nearest the flames, revolver holstered for once, canteen dangling from his hand. He jabbed a finger at Jace. “Now, back when I was your age, I could strip a mag and reload blindfolded faster than you manage with both eyes open.”

Jace snorted, arms crossed. “Yeah? Bet I’d still beat you with both hands tied.”

That earned a ripple of amusement from the circle. Cassidy tipped his hat, grin tugging at his mouth. “Kid’s got spirit. Bad judgment, but spirit.”

Laughter rolled, warm and easy, Jace grinning despite himself.

Carol’s voice cut in from the far side, dry as the desert air. “You’d both jam the chamber and spend the rest of the night crying about it.”

That set the fire circle laughing louder, shoulders loosening, voices chasing one another through the smoke. Cassidy gave her a mock glare over the brim of his hat; Carol smirked like she’d already won.

V let it wash over him. This was the rhythm of family—rough edges, sharp tongues, but never cutting deep enough to bleed.

Rourke hadn’t laughed once. He stood just outside the circle, arms folded, face carved hard in the firelight, eyes moving from voice to voice until they settled on V.

“You’ve seen your share,” Rourke said, pitched loud enough to carry. “Night City. Arasaka’s shadow. Still breathing. Must’ve left a trail.”

The circle dipped quieter, ears turning.

V met his stare. “Not the kind of trail anyone should want to follow.”

Rourke stepped closer to the flames, expression unreadable. “And what’s a man like you really want out here? Clan, freedom… or just somewhere to die slower?”

The fire cracked, sparks snapping up between them. V’s jaw tightened, but before he could answer, Carol’s voice cut in—sharp, protective, final.

“He’s got nothing to prove to you, Rourke. He’s earned his seat at this fire. You want to measure a man, do it on the road. Not by trying to knock him down in front of family.”

A ripple of laughter broke, Cassidy tipping his hat toward her like she’d just gunned him down. A few mutters of agreement followed, the kind that shifted weight off V’s shoulders without him asking.

Rourke didn’t flinch, but his eyes lingered on V one beat too long before he stepped back into the shadows. “Questions can wait,” he said, clipped. “Tomorrow’s miles won’t walk themselves.”

The circle’s mood loosened again, chatter flowing into stories of bad jobs and worse roads.

V slipped away when the pressure in his chest grew too heavy. He found Panam leaning against the Thornton, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the horizon where the last of the sun bled violet into black.

“You alright?” she asked without looking.

“Could ask you the same.”

That pulled her gaze, sharp and tired but steady. He gave her the smallest smile he could manage, which wasn’t much.

Her eyes shifted back toward the fire, where Rourke still stood apart, half in shadow. “That one,” she muttered. “Doesn’t talk, doesn’t laugh. Just watches. Don’t like it.”

V followed her gaze, jaw tightening. “Don’t trust him.”

Her lips pressed thin. “Then we keep eyes open. Together.”

For a moment the desert stilled. The fire blurred into background noise, the breeze carrying only the sound of her breath steady beside his.

Then someone shouted for more wood, the spell cracked, and the world moved again. Panam pulled back, eyes still on him, a silent vow burning there.

“Come on,” she said. “Let’s get some sleep. Tomorrow’s another long one.”

V let her lead him back toward the fire, the weight in his chest eased if only by the pressure of her hand in his. He didn’t look up at the stars. Some nights, they felt too much like eyes.

Morning broke pale and sharp, the horizon a thin blade of gold cutting the sky. Dew never touched this land; the desert woke the same way it slept—dry, cracked, waiting for heat to draw the marrow out of bone. Engines coughed alive one by one, the convoy’s heartbeat pulling itself together. Voices were muffled in the morning chill, yawns tucked behind mugs of bitter coffee, curses traded as someone banged a stubborn panel back into place.

The rigs rolled out slow at first, a line pulling taut, then gathered speed as dust billowed behind them in long banners.

Panam steered the Thornton steady, tucked in directly behind Rourke’s matte truck. The man rode point like he’d been born to it, every movement drilled, not a twitch wasted. His rig cut a straight line across the hardpan, and his mirrors flashed every few seconds—quick, surgical glances sweeping the convoy like a scanner.

“Doesn’t blink much, does he?” Panam muttered, just loud enough for V to catch over the engine.

“Noticed.” V kept his voice low. “Feels like he’s taking inventory.”

Her hands shifted on the wheel. “Inventory of what?”

“Of who.”

The words sat heavy. She didn’t answer, just pressed the gas a little harder to keep close on Rourke’s bumper.

The sun climbed, and the desert answered in kind—heat shimmered off the ridges, waves rising off the sand until the world looked like it was breathing. V caught a flicker once, movement on a distant slope, too quick to pin down. Could’ve been dust, could’ve been static in his optics. He blinked it away, but his hand dropped closer to the pistol at his thigh.

Behind them, Cassidy’s voice broke over the comm, bright and cocky as ever.
“Anybody remember that busted water run back in June? Lost half a tank ‘cause some genius thought a shortcut was a good idea. Not naming names.”

A chorus of groans rolled back through the channel.

Carol’s voice followed, sharp as snapped glass.
“You were the genius, Cassidy. Whole rig stank like rust for a week. We still haven’t forgiven you.”

That cracked the convoy open in laughter, warm and rolling, bouncing between the rigs like it had weight. A few voices chimed in with their own versions of the memory—how much worse it smelled in the back, how Cassidy swore he’d fixed it with duct tape and hope.

“Better duct tape than prayer,” Cassidy fired back. “Least duct tape’s real.”

Another burst of laughter, louder this time.

Panam allowed herself a small smile, but it slipped fast. Her eyes flicked again to Rourke’s truck, then back to the road.

The miles stretched long. Dust chewed up the horizon behind them, leaving a trail even the dumbest scout could follow. The rigs hummed low, each vibration layering into the next until the whole convoy sounded like one living, breathing thing.

Mitch’s voice broke through, steady as stone.
“Sharp dip ahead. Don’t let your speed run you into the rocks.”

The rigs adjusted as one, suspension groaning in unison as they crested down into the dip, then climbed back out. The sun hammered them harder with every mile, shadows shrinking until they seemed to cling to the rigs instead of the ground.

V’s eyes kept straying to the ridges. More flickers. More nothing. Static whispered faint at the edge of hearing, like a radio tuned just shy of clear.

The comms sparked alive again with Cassidy’s voice. “Who’s got the guts to admit they thought Carol was gonna kill me back then?”

Carol’s reply was flat, dry, and utterly serious. “Still might.”

The laughter that followed felt louder, longer, as though everyone leaned into it to keep the dust and the silence from swallowing too much.

V didn’t join in. He kept his eyes on the clean lines of Rourke’s truck, mirrors flashing sharp in the sun.

Panam noticed him watching. She didn’t say anything. But her knuckles were white on the wheel.

The convoy pushed on, engines droning into the afternoon, dust trailing behind them like ghosts that wouldn’t let go.

By the time the sun dipped low, the convoy wheeled into a shallow basin and drew itself into a circle. Dust hung in the air like a veil, turning the sky molten. Engines cut, and for a few breaths there was only the tick of cooling metal, the creak of suspension, the shuffle of boots on dirt.

Then life spilled back in. Tarps snapped open, oil drums dragged to the center, kindling lit with practiced hands. The fire flared fast, painting the rigs in warm orange glow. Kids darted between legs, dodging scoldings, and the smell of spiced frybread bled into the smoke.

Cassidy strummed at a guitar someone shoved into his hands, the strings just sharp enough to carry but soft enough to make even his voice sound passable. He leaned into a half-forgotten ballad, then broke it off halfway, swapping into something rowdier that set boots thumping on the ground.

Carol rolled her eyes, but she hummed along under her breath while she braided line with quick, sure hands. When Jace caught her, she scowled until he laughed too hard to hide it.

“Sing it proper, Cassidy!” someone yelled.

He grinned under his hat. “Proper’s for funerals. You’re gettin’ it crooked, like the world.”

The fire snapped and the circle swelled with laughter, shoulders bumping, voices carrying easy.

Mitch found his way next to V, passing him a tin cup of something that burned on the way down. “Don’t ask what’s in it,” he said, eyes crinkling at the edges. “Just pretend it’s medicine.”

V coughed once, then managed, “Not bad.”

“Not good, either,” Mitch admitted, chuckling. “But it works.”

Panam dropped onto the tailgate beside them, stealing V’s cup to take a long pull before handing it back like she owned it. He didn’t argue.

Jace was baited into an arm-wrestling match before the fire, goaded by cheers. Cassidy leaned in to officiate, hat tipped back, eyes bright with mischief. “Place your bets, ladies and gents. One rig, three packs of ammo, and a week’s worth of bragging rights.”

Carol cut him down with a glare. “Nobody’s betting rigs, Cassidy.”

“Fine, two packs then,” he said, and the crowd roared with laughter all the same.

The match went long enough for the fire to roar and die down once before Jace’s arm gave out. The circle erupted in cheers and jeers, Jace grinning through it while Cassidy fanned himself with exaggerated flourishes.

Panam nudged V with her shoulder. “Think you could take him?”

He smirked, tired but honest. “Maybe not tonight.”

Her laugh was quiet, private, meant only for him.

When the night stretched deep, the songs slowed. Voices sank lower, drifting into half-remembered stories, ghosts of roads gone by. The desert air cooled, the fire burned down to embers, and the circle leaned close around its warmth.

For a while it felt like nothing outside existed—no relic, no Arasaka, no storm waiting on the horizon. Just family under a wide sky, telling each other in a hundred small ways that they weren’t alone.

V sat with Panam’s hand resting over his, the rhythm of her thumb steady as his pulse. Around them, laughter rippled soft and easy, the kind that made walls feel farther away than they were.

He let himself breathe.

Chapter Text

Morning came soft, almost gentle, a sky washed pale pink and gold before the sun burned it clean. For a few moments, the basin looked untouched—dirt, rock, and sky stretching wide, as if the night had erased all trace of them. Then the rigs woke.

Engines coughed, roared, settled into rhythm. Doors slammed, boots shuffled grit, tarps snapped as they were folded down. The smell of exhaust mixed with bitter coffee and the last of last night’s frybread crisping over a camp stove. Kids ran half-wild between the machines until Carol barked them back toward their families.

One by one the Aldecaldos fell into their pattern, a kind of choreography that was part drill, part instinct. They’d done it so many times the work moved like muscle memory, the way family did when it knew how to carry its weight.

The comms lit up with Cassidy’s voice first, as it always did.
“Rise and shine, Aldecaldos! Dust tastes better at dawn. Builds character.”

Carol’s reply cut through a half-second later, sharp enough to make the channel pop.
“Only character it builds is stubbornness.”

Laughter cracked across the rigs, even Mitch letting out a dry huff of air. Someone clanged a wrench against a chassis like a drumbeat, and Jace whooped over it until Cassidy cursed him for bursting his eardrums.

Mitch keyed in, tone flat but with a warmth that was easy to miss.
“Cut the chatter. We keep this up, we’ll spook every scav within twenty klicks. Save your lungs for the road.”

“Aw, Mitch,” Cassidy drawled. “Even scavs need a little music in their lives.”

“Not your kind,” Jace muttered, laughter following.

V sat in the passenger seat of the Thornton, head tilted back against the glass, listening. The voices rolled warm and easy, all edge and no malice. After last night’s fire, it felt like the clan had found its pulse again, a rhythm he could breathe in. For the first time in too long, the weight pressing down on him didn’t feel impossible to bear.

Panam eased the Thornton into line, slotting them directly behind Rourke’s matte truck at point. He drove like a machine—precise, no wasted motion. Every lane change sharp, every line clean.

Twice in the first mile his brake lights flickered, quick in succession. Barely there, easy to miss. Panam frowned, fingers tapping against the wheel.

“That’s… odd.”

“Mm.” V’s grunt was noncommittal, but his eyes stayed forward.

She didn’t add more, and he didn’t push. The engines filled the silence instead, a steady hum threading through the convoy.

Behind them, Cassidy was still going.
“Better than Carol’s coffee, anyway. Hers tastes like motor oil.”

“Better motor oil than the swamp water you brew,” Carol shot back.

That earned a round of laughter, Jace cutting in. “I’ll take Carol’s coffee. At least it wakes me up.”

“Keep talkin’, boy,” Cassidy warned. “One of these days I’ll—”

“Lose another bet?” Jace interrupted, and the convoy roared.

Even Mitch chuckled, dry and low. “Focus, people. Road doesn’t care how funny you think you are.”

V smirked despite himself, shaking his head. It was easy noise, the kind that made the desert seem less empty.

Dust plumed high, catching the sun until it turned copper.

V’s optics ticked static at the edges. A flicker on a ridge, maybe heat shimmer, maybe not. He rubbed his temple, blinked it clear. The laughter on the comms pressed back the unease, but it didn’t wash it out.

A kid’s voice crackled faint through the channel from one of the family rigs.
“Mama, look! Sky’s pink!”

The sound drew soft chuckles across the line, the kind that didn’t need words.

V glanced at Panam, saw her jaw ease just a fraction at the sound. He rested a hand lightly on her knee. She didn’t look at him, but her grip on the wheel loosened.

For a heartbeat, he let himself imagine this was all there was—dust, family, her. The Relic buzzed faint in the back of his skull, never quiet, but for once not screaming. Almost like it was waiting.

Up ahead, Rourke’s mirrors flashed in the sun again, a quick glint of steel before dust swallowed it whole.

The road stretched empty ahead, pale earth broken only by ridgelines and scrub clawing through cracks in the dirt. The convoy rolled steady, engines a chorus, voices on comms trailing off into the kind of quiet that wasn’t silence so much as ease.

Then Rourke shifted.

He didn’t veer hard, not enough to draw comment, but he took the next rise at a sharper angle than needed. His truck climbed too far into the slope, throwing off the spacing as the rigs behind adjusted. Dust plumed high, swallowing the view until the Thornton’s windshield was a haze of grit and light.

Panam swore under her breath, easing off the throttle. “Idiot.”

V’s jaw tightened. “Knows better than that.”

“Exactly.” She flicked the wipers once, smearing grit. “Guy’s been driving clean since he showed up. Now he forgets his line?”

The comms stayed quiet. Maybe no one else had seen.

The dust thinned after a mile, revealing Rourke steady ahead, too steady. He hadn’t corrected, hadn’t slowed.

Panam’s grip flexed on the wheel. “If he does that again, I’m moving us out of his wake.”

V didn’t argue.

Another ridge came, smaller, but the pattern repeated. Rourke swung wide where the track didn’t demand it. Dust roared back, turning the rigs behind into shadows. The Thornton bucked in the ruts, half-blind, forced to slow.

Through the murk, V thought he saw movement on the far side of the slope—a flicker of something mechanical against the heat shimmer. He blinked, rubbed at his temple. By the time his eyes cleared, the ridge was empty.

“See that?” he asked, half to himself.

“See what?” Panam kept her eyes on the truck ahead.

“Nothing. Just the shimmer. Played me wrong for a second.” His voice was even, but his hand rested on the pistol at his thigh.

When the dust thinned again, Rourke’s rig was right where it had always been.

The miles slipped by. Heat shimmered on the horizon, the road folding into water and mirage.

Cassidy was still at it.
“Pretty sure my rig could outrun all of you if I felt like it. Just bein’ polite, hangin’ back.”

Carol scoffed. “Your rig rattles when it idles. If it tried to sprint, it’d shake itself apart.”

Laughter spilled across the channel. Jace chimed in, cocky.
“I’ll take that bet. Give me a clean track and I’ll smoke you both.”

“You’ll smoke yourself,” Carol said flatly.

The convoy roared with laughter. Cassidy whooped, then started half-singing some tune that wasn’t in key. Groans rose over comms.

“Shut it, Cassidy!” someone yelled.

“Man’s tryin’ to brighten your morning,” he fired back, and the laughter doubled.

Panam’s lips twitched, though her eyes stayed locked on the matte truck ahead.

V leaned against the window, listening, almost letting himself believe in the calm. He reached out, brushed his fingers against Panam’s hand on the wheel. She pressed her thumb back, quick but steady.

For a heartbeat, he let himself breathe.

Rourke shifted again. Wide. Too wide.

Dust slammed against the windshield like a wall.

“Shit!” Panam jerked the wheel, blind in the haze.

V’s hand snapped for his pistol. Shapes tore through the cloud—sleek, sharp, metal flashing. Drones dropped low, wings whining. Sedans surged forward, armored shells slicing through the grit.

V’s throat went dry. “Arasaka.”

The comms detonated.

“Contact! We’ve got contact!” Mitch barked, urgency fraying his calm.

Carol cut sharp through static, shouting orders. Cassidy whooped, wild laughter spilling over the channel as rifle bursts echoed faint behind him.

The first explosion ripped the line. Fire and dirt shot sky-high, shrapnel clattering across the Thornton’s hood.

Panam’s knuckles went white on the wheel. “It’s them.”

V’s breath hitched, chest hammering. He slammed a fist into the dash, voice breaking ragged. “Goddamn it—they found me.”

“Not a chance,” she snapped, teeth bared. “They’ll have to take me with you.”

The Thornton bucked as she floored it, weaving through the storm.

V leaned out the open window, dust clawing his face raw. His pistol barked, rounds sparking against steel until one punched through a drone’s belly. It shrieked, spiraled down in fire.

“V!” Panam’s voice cut sharp as the Thornton swerved. His torso swung wide, seatbelt biting deep, nearly yanking him into the dirt.

“I’ve got it!” he shouted back, voice ragged. Another shot cracked, another drone exploded.

Gunfire chewed across the hood. Sparks burned his cheek. He ducked, chest slamming the door frame.

Through the grit, he saw it—Rourke’s truck, peeling clean with the sedans, too neat to be mistake.

“Panam!” V’s voice cracked. “He’s with them—with them!”

Her jaw locked. “Later! Stay alive first.”

The wash opened ahead, rough ground littered with stone. Panam didn’t slow. The Thornton leapt, suspension screaming, every impact rattling V’s ribs. He almost cleared the window again, teeth rattling as he dragged himself back inside.

Blood filled his mouth. He spat into the dirt whipping past. “They’re not hitting the clan. They’re herding us.”

Panam’s hands were steel on the wheel. “Then they’ll regret it.”

V yanked a fresh magazine out of his belt and inserted it into the malorian, chest heaving, pistol steady in his hand. The belt bit hard across his ribs, holding him tight as the Thornton howled forward into the storm.

The Thornton screamed across the wash, suspension howling with every rut and rock. Dust boiled up in sheets, drowning sight, choking air.

V leaned out the open window again, seatbelt cutting into his ribs, pistol flashing in his grip. Wind and grit clawed at his face, tearing tears from his eyes. The world blurred into noise and motion, but the drones stayed sharp—black blades carving the sky.

One dove low, guns spitting fire. The burst shredded across the hood, sparks spraying his arm. He cursed, squeezed off two rounds, the recoil nearly tearing the pistol from his hand. One shot ricocheted. The other caught the drone dead-center. It cartwheeled, exploded, debris raining against the rig in a hail of steel.

“Got it!” he shouted, voice raw, carried away by the wind.

Another sedan swerved up the flank, engine growling like a predator. Panam yanked the wheel hard left. The Thornton bucked, tires lifting half-clear of the ground before slamming back down. V’s chest smashed the window frame, breath punched from his lungs.

“Hold on, damn it!” Panam barked, wrestling the wheel back straight.

V coughed blood, spat it into the grit whipping past, and leaned out again. The sedan surged closer, bumper gnashing at their rear. He fired three quick shots. One sparked against armor. One went wide. The last cracked the windshield. The driver jerked, overcorrected—the car clipped a boulder and rolled, tumbling in fire and dust until nothing was left but wreckage.

V let out a ragged laugh. “That’s two.”

Panam’s eyes flicked to him, sharp even as she fought the wheel. “Don’t get cocky.”

“Not cocky—breathing,” he shot back, then almost lost his grip as the Thornton skidded sideways through loose gravel.

Another drone screamed overhead, clipping so low the rush of air nearly dragged him out the window. His stomach lurched, belt biting deeper, shoulder screaming as he fought to pull himself back.

“V!” Panam snapped.

“I’m fine!” His voice cracked with the lie.

He steadied, aimed, fired again. The round tore through one of the drone’s wings. It spiraled, slammed into the dirt, skidding in sparks before detonating in a concussive blast that rocked the Thornton sideways.

For a heartbeat, there was space. Dust thinned. No silhouettes pressed in. The comms were chaos—Mitch’s clipped orders, Carol shouting someone’s name, Cassidy still laughing like a lunatic—but Panam and V were ahead, cutting their own line.

Panam’s jaw set. “We’ve got daylight. We can lose them.”

V leaned back in at last, chest heaving, dust streaking blood across his face. He slammed the pistol down to reload, hands shaking with adrenaline. For a moment, he let himself believe she might be right.

The Thornton roared into open ground. Dust thinned, the horizon stretched wide, and for half a heartbeat it felt like they’d outrun the storm.

Panam’s grip eased on the wheel, just enough to take in a breath. V dragged himself fully back inside, pistol resting across his lap, chest heaving. For the first time since the ambush hit, the air didn’t taste like fire.

“Think we’re—” he started.

Then the horizon split with black steel.

An Arasaka interceptor surged from the haze, broadside—bigger than the sedans, armored nose braced like a battering ram.

“Panam!”

She yanked the wheel, tires screaming, but momentum was against them.

The world detonated.

The impact hit broadside, a sound like the sky tearing open. V’s body snapped against the seatbelt, ribs shrieking under the strain. Metal screamed as the door caved inward, glass bursting in a rain of glittering shards. The Thornton spun, tires leaving the ground, the world rolling end over end. Dust and steel and sky whirled together until there was no up, no down—only weightless chaos.

It ended with violence. The rig crashed onto its roof, the roof crushing inward, sparks screaming as metal dragged against rock. The sound was deafening, a roar that rattled inside V’s skull until it felt like his teeth might shatter.

Silence after, but not peace. Just ringing. Just pain.

The world hung upside down. Dust fell like snow through the shattered windows. V dangled from his harness, chest heaving, blood dripping from his scalp into his eyes. The Relic howled in static, a jagged chorus tearing at the edges of his vision.

“Panam—” His voice cracked, barely sound at all.

He twisted, fighting the belt biting into his shoulder, eyes darting to her. She was slumped against the ruined dash, hair matted with blood, chest moving shallow. Her hand twitched once, weak, then went still.

“Panam!” The panic ripped his throat raw. He clawed at the belt, willing his body to tear through it. The strap only dug deeper. With a snarl, he fumbled for his knife, yanked it free, and sawed at the webbing. The blade slipped once, nearly took his own skin, then cut clean.

He dropped hard onto the roof—now the floor—knees jarring, ribs screaming. Pain didn’t matter. He scrambled across twisted steel, shards of glass biting through his palms, dragging himself closer.

“Hey. Hey, look at me,” he begged, cupping her cheek with a blood-slick hand. “Panam, come on. Open your eyes. Don’t you—don’t you fucking do this.”

Her lips moved, a groan too faint to be words, eyes fluttering but refusing to open.

Something clamped around his ankle.

V froze. The grip was iron, crushing through boot leather, inhuman. Before he could turn, he was yanked backwards, dragged out through the shattered window like a doll. His back scraped against jagged metal, sparks of pain tearing across his skin.

Then he was airborne—hurled a dozen feet into the dust. He hit hard, breath knocked clean from his lungs, pistol torn from his grip.

Through the haze it stepped into view.

Not a soldier. Not just chrome. Something bigger, heavier, more machine than man. Black plating gleamed beneath dust, limbs too long, servos whining with unnatural rhythm. Its head tilted with mechanical precision, optics burning red as it advanced.

V spat blood into the dirt, forcing himself onto his elbows. His whole body shook, adrenaline fighting exhaustion, but his voice still came low and vicious.

“Motherfucker.”

The nearest soldier faltered, just a fraction. V lunged, the knife punching under the man’s chin and ripping free in a spray of blood. He was already turning, already swinging.

Gunfire chewed the dirt around him. Ribs screaming, he staggered through the hail, snatched the fallen man’s rifle, and fired wild. Recoil tore through battered muscles, but the burst cut down two shapes in the dust.

Another rushed him, stock swinging for his head. V caught it on his forearm—pain seared white-hot through bone already half-broken. His knees nearly buckled, but he drove the knife under the man’s arm and tore sideways until the scream cut off.

Each strike was theft. His lungs burned, every breath shallow and ragged. His arms shook with effort, the rifle too heavy, the knife dragging in his grip. His body wasn’t ready for this. It hadn’t even recovered from the last fight that nearly killed him, but he forced it forward anyway.

For a moment, it worked. For a moment, they hesitated.

Then the thing in the dust moved.

It came without warning—seven feet of plated muscle, armor fused with machinery, black steel bulk sliding through the haze like a predator. Red optics glared from a helm that swallowed the man inside, expressionless, inhuman.

Iron fingers clamped around V’s wrist, wrenching him off his feet. His body flew like scrap, slammed into the ground yards away. His ribs shrieked under the impact, the air ripped from his chest in a spray of blood.

He dragged himself onto one elbow, vision swimming. The knife shook in his hand, slick with blood. The hulking figure loomed above him, twin red lenses burning steady.

It wrapped him in arms like hydraulic presses and lifted him clear off the earth.

Pressure crushed his chest, bent his spine, forced his lungs to flatten. The shout died in his throat, coming out as a wet gasp. He clawed at its chest plating, knife scraping sparks without purchase. His vision blurred black at the edges.

Then it dropped him.

V hit the ground hard. He barely managed to stay upright before the Relic screamed.

Static tore across his sight, red code bleeding like fire down his vision. His heart pounded, every sound sharp and cruel. The soldiers’ breaths, the click of safeties off, the servo-whine of rifles all pressed into him at once.

He staggered, then surged.

The first soldier went down with his visor shattered under V’s palm. He ripped the rifle free, swung it in a brutal arc into another’s jaw, bone crunching under steel. He pulled the trigger mid-motion, cutting down a third before he even saw him.

“Contain him! Contain him now!” a voice barked, tight with panic.

V roared, but it tore his throat raw. His body barely held him up. Ribs jabbed with every breath, blood dripping from his nose, ears ringing with pressure. His legs threatened to give even as the Relic forced them forward. Each kill was too fast, too sharp—he was burning through himself as much as them.

But he carved through anyway. Knife, rifle, fists, everything at once. Another body dropped, then another, blood soaking into the dust.

And still, the armored shape advanced.

The machine-built brute lunged. V struck first, Relic speed snapping his blade forward. Sparks shrieked as steel bit plating, the monster staggered a half-step—then its hand closed around his wrist again.

Agony jolted down his arm as the joint popped. The knife spun free. Before he could breathe, he was airborne again, body tumbling across the dirt, ribs tearing with every roll.

He tried to rise, coughing blood, but it was already there.

The towering figure’s arms locked around him tighter than before, crushing until his chest bent, his organs ground against each other. Stars burst across his sight. His scream rasped into silence. His nails clawed at plating until they tore.

Then it let go.

V sagged forward, just enough for its boot to slam into his chest.

The kick thundered through him, folding ribs, hurling him backward like a ragdoll. He hit the dirt yards away, body crumpling, breath torn out in a choking spray of blood.

By the time he clawed weakly at the earth, soldiers were already on him—boots pounding, hands seizing his arms, his shoulders, forcing him flat into the grit. He twisted, snarled, tried to rise, but his body betrayed him, limbs shaking without strength.

The plated giant loomed above, red optics steady.

Cold steel clamped around his throat.

The dampener collar bit deep. The Relic’s fire cut out, leaving only weakness. No static, no clarity—just the weight of his own failing body, all fight stripped away.

Through the blur, he found the wreck.

Panam stirred against her harness, blood streaking down her temple, one hand twitching weakly. Her eyes cracked open, hazy but finding him.

“Panam—” It broke from him, barely air. His arm stretched toward her, fingertips clawing for hers through the haze.

Soldiers dragged him back. Their eyes met for a breath before hers fluttered shut again.

Then the desert swallowed her from view.

Chapter Text

Black pressed in.

Panam’s first breath came jagged, tasting smoke and iron. Pain screamed from everywhere at once—her ribs, her leg pinned under something heavy, her head swimming with fire. She tried to move and the world tilted, hot metal groaning above her.

Memory slammed back: the chase, V leaning out the window, the blinding crash.

“V—”

Her throat rasped his name, raw and broken.

She shoved against the dash, muscles screaming, glass cutting into her palms. The weight gave inch by inch until she dragged her leg free, biting down on a cry. She tumbled out of the wreck, the desert air searing her lungs.

The Thornton lay on its back, frame twisted, smoke rising from the hood. Her vision blurred, blood streaking into her eye, but she scanned the dirt anyway.

“V!”

Her voice cracked, high, desperate. She stumbled to the other side of the wreck, hands clawing at the dirt, searching for a shape—his shape. Only spent shells, blood streaks, and boot prints met her.

“No, no, no, no—” She pressed her hands to the dirt, breath breaking into sobs. She scrambled forward on hands and knees, ignoring the shards of glass biting deep, dragging herself along the blood trail until it vanished into churned dust. Her body shook, pain doubling with every movement, but she couldn’t stop.

He wasn’t there.

The desert stretched wide, empty, indifferent.

Panam’s scream ripped out of her chest, jagged and raw, cutting across the wreckage. She pressed both fists into the dirt, forehead against her knuckles, sobbing into the sand.

“Panam!”

Voices carried through smoke—Cassidy, then Jace, feet pounding closer. She barely registered them until arms tried to steady her. She tore free, staggering, still scanning the horizon like she could will him back into sight.

“They took him!” she gasped, voice breaking. “They took him, I saw—he was right there—” Her breath hitched hard, words collapsing into broken sobs.

Carol’s voice cut sharper, closer. “Get her back—get her clear!”

Hands caught her shoulders again, gentler this time, trying to ground her. But Panam clawed at them, shaking, her body trembling under blood and dust.

“He was here,” she rasped, pointing at the churned dirt. Her voice shredded itself on the words. “He was here. He was here!”

The clan circled the wreck, their voices hushed, horrified. Mitch’s silence cut deepest as he stood in the smoke, jaw tight, eyes flicking over the scattered shells and blood spatter, reading the story without a word.

Panam sagged forward, collapsing against the wreck’s side. Her hands curled into fists, her forehead pressing into twisted metal. Her shoulders heaved, sobs tearing free in ragged gasps that shook her whole body.

The Aldecaldos had seen her angry. They’d seen her defiant, unbending, fiery enough to fight the world itself.

They had never seen her break.

“Panam, hey—” Mitch crouched in front of her, hands hovering, not daring to touch just yet. His voice came low, steady, like speaking to a spooked horse. “You can’t fall apart here. We need you on your feet.”

“I need him!” She snapped back, voice cracking, raw. Her fists slammed against the wreck’s metal. Blood smeared across the dented frame. “They took him—he was right here, Mitch! And we let it happen—”

Carol cut in, sharper. “Panam. Enough.”

That earned a wild look, Panam’s eyes burning with grief and fury, but Carol didn’t flinch. She planted herself squarely, shoulders squared against the smoke and dust. “You bleed yourself out here, we lose more than V. We lose all of us.”

Cassidy paced just behind them, hat long gone, hair plastered to his forehead with sweat and blood. His voice carried, guttural, nothing like his usual twangy calm. “Arasaka’s gonna pay for this.” He spat into the dirt, jaw tight. “Every last one of those chrome-plated bastards. We’ll take V back, and we’ll burn whoever laid a hand on him.”

No one argued. His words hung heavy, fueled not by bravado, but by a fury that matched Panam’s grief.

Mitch finally placed a hand on Panam’s arm, grounding her. “Cass is right. But we can’t do it like this. Not here. We need to move, regroup, count who’s still standing.”

She shook her head hard, trying to rip free, but her body betrayed her. The crash had left her weak, her leg trembling under her, vision blurring. Mitch caught her before she toppled, steady but firm.

“Panam.” His voice dropped, quiet steel. “We’ll get him back. But not if you fall apart now.”

Carol’s eyes flicked over the wreck, the blood stains, the empty grit stretching in every direction. Her jaw worked once, then she turned back to the others.
“Cassidy, Jace—get the wounded together. Mitch, get her moving. We can’t stay in one place long enough for Arasaka to circle back.”

Cassidy gave a sharp nod, fury still crackling in his eyes. He muttered something about “hunting them to the gates of hell” as he strode off, voice carrying like a promise.

Jace lingered. His face was pale, eyes wide, hands twitching at his sides. He looked at the blood trail, at the churned dirt, then at Panam—his mouth opening once, then closing. No words came. He simply swallowed and turned to follow Cassidy, silence louder than any vow.

Panam sagged against Mitch’s grip, her face pressed into his shoulder for the briefest moment before she pulled back, jaw set. The tears still shone, but behind them burned something sharper.

“Then we move,” she rasped. “But we’re not leaving him. Not ever.”

No one doubted her.

The convoy huddled together in the shallow basin, a wounded animal trying to shield its heart. Engines ticked as they cooled, their battered frames still reeking of oil and scorched rubber. A few rigs sat half-crippled, one trailer burned to its frame, and two bikes lay abandoned on the ridge—nothing left of them but twisted skeletons of chrome.

Dakota moved among the wounded with steady hands, her satchel laid open beside her like a surgeon’s kit. She stitched and wrapped by lantern light, the glow throwing sharp lines across her face. Her words came quiet and low, little more than murmurs, but her voice held the weight of someone who refused to let anyone slip away.

Cassidy was a different sight entirely. He paced the edge of the basin like a wolf denied its prey, rifle slung across his chest. The brim of his hat was long gone, hair plastered damp with sweat and blood. His jaw worked, and when he finally spoke it wasn’t in quips or easy drawl.
“We’ll find ‘em. We’ll take V back.” His voice carried rough, a promise made to no one and everyone at once. He spat into the dirt, eyes blazing. “Arasaka thinks this is over? They just signed their own damn death warrant.”

Nobody answered. They didn’t have to. His words were the clan’s fury given voice.

Jace knelt a little apart, water canteen clutched in both hands like it might steady him. His wide eyes kept straying back to the trail of blood and churned dirt at the basin’s edge. He’d fetched supplies when asked, carried bandages, helped Dakota hold a man still for stitches—but now he just sat silent, jaw clenched hard enough to shake.

The low rumble of Mitch’s rig finally broke the air. It rolled down into the basin, headlights casting long shadows across the huddled group before it shuddered to a stop. The door creaked open, and Mitch climbed down first, his movements stiff but steady.

Panam followed.

Or tried to. She nearly stumbled on the first step, and Mitch caught her, his arm sliding firmly around her back. He guided her down with a care that belied the callouses on his hands. She leaned heavy into him, her face pale beneath streaks of dirt and blood, her body shuddering with each uneven step.

The camp went still.

Dakota abandoned the bandage she’d been wrapping and crossed quickly, her satchel swinging at her side. “Here—sit her down.”

Mitch guided Panam to a crate. She sank onto it, one hand braced hard against her ribs. Dakota crouched in front of her without ceremony, tools already out, fingers prodding gently, gauging the damage. Panam hissed through her teeth but didn’t flinch away.

Her gaze didn’t linger on Dakota’s work. It went back to the horizon, the direction they’d come from. Back to where the wreck lay.

Her Thornton was gone. Left behind as a gutted husk, its frame twisted beyond recognition, black smoke curling into the night sky. That truck had been hers when nothing else was—her freedom, her pride, her weapon. She’d rebuilt it piece by piece until it had been an extension of her hands, her will. Now it was just another casualty on the road behind them.

Mitch followed her gaze, his own jaw tight. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.

Carol stepped into the lamplight then, arms crossed, face shadowed but sharp. She scanned the clan, lingering on the wounded, the burned-out machines, then Panam herself. Her words cut clean, no room for softness.
“We’ve seen worse. We’ve survived worse. We’ll do it again. But not if we waste time bleeding in the dirt. Arasaka doesn’t stop. They’ll circle back.”

Panam’s eyes snapped up, wet and burning. “Then let them.” Her voice came hoarse, low, but it carried. “Let them come. I’ll be waiting.”

Dakota tightened a bandage and pressed a hand to Panam’s shoulder to still her. “You’ll do nothing if you tear yourself apart first,” she muttered. It wasn’t unkind, but it was firm.

Cassidy barked a laugh without humor, the sound hard as gravel. “She’s right. We can’t limp into the next fight half-dead.” His voice sharpened, carrying over the quiet camp. “But make no mistake—we will fight. They think they can just take him? V’s family. Family don’t get taken. Not without blood to pay it back.”

Several heads nodded in the dark. None argued.

Jace finally stirred, the canteen still clutched in his white-knuckled grip. He didn’t speak. Just looked from Cassidy to Panam, his throat bobbing once before he dropped his gaze back to the dirt.

Panam pressed her palm into the crate beside her, forcing herself upright against Mitch’s protest. Her frame shook, but her eyes were steady, set on the horizon still smoking in the distance.

“We’re not leaving him,” she rasped. “Not ever. Wherever they took him, whatever it costs—we’re getting him back.”

The camp fell into silence again, broken only by the wind and the soft murmur of Dakota’s work. The Aldecaldos gathered close in the lamplight, battered and bloody, but still together, still breathing. For now.

The basin quieted.

Lantern light flickered across battered faces, across the wounded laid out on makeshift pallets, across rigs still hissing smoke from bullet holes. The wind moved soft through the rocks above, carrying the smell of burnt rubber and blood.

The Aldecaldos drew closer without meaning to, bodies pressed into a rough circle around their wounded, their leaders, their grief. No one spoke. Cassidy’s vows hung in the air like iron, Panam’s rasped promise burned hotter than any fire, and the silence that followed said more than words could.

They’d lost too much. And now they’d lost him.

Dakota’s hands worked without pause, her satchel open at her side. Thread pulled, bandages wrapped, morphine pressed into shaking veins — her voice a low murmur as she bound them back together piece by piece.

Mitch stood like a pillar at Panam’s side, one hand braced at her shoulder when her knees trembled, his presence a tether. His eyes never left the horizon, scanning the black cut of sky above the ridges as though he expected red optics to reappear at any second.

Carol moved the perimeter, arms crossed, voice clipped as she assessed damage aloud. “Two bikes totaled. One trailer gone. Engines half-limping.” Her jaw worked. “Fuel and ammo cut worse than the metal. We’ll pay for this run, one way or another.”

Panam’s head jerked at that, her gaze burning, but she said nothing. She didn’t need to — the grief and fury in her eyes spoke louder than any words.

Cassidy finally dropped into a crouch near the circle of light. His rifle lay across his knees, his hands resting heavy over it. His shoulders rose and fell in a rhythm too hard to be calm, more animal than measured.
“They think they can take one of ours and keep breathing?” His voice cut low, a growl scraping out of his chest. “They just signed their own execution. Don’t matter how many of ‘em there are.”

No one argued. No one even looked at him — but his words burrowed deep into the air they all breathed.

The silence thickened after. Only Dakota’s cloth tearing, the soft hiss of engines cooling, Panam’s uneven breaths cutting like glass. The desert wind picked up, tugging at the smoke drifting out of twisted rigs, carrying it off into the black.

For a long moment, they simply sat inside that silence — bruised, bloodied, bound together by loss, rage, and a vow none of them dared to speak aloud.

Then the ground trembled.

A faint vibration at first, so light it might’ve been a trick of battered nerves. But it grew steady, deep. Engines. Not the rattling, coughing growl of their rigs, but something heavier. Calibrated. Marching in rhythm.

Every head snapped up.

Cassidy was on his feet in an instant, rifle lifted, the fire back in his eyes. “Movement,” he spat.

Carol barked orders sharp as gunfire. “Positions! Watch the ridge!”

Mitch shifted, stepping forward to shield Panam where she sat on the crate. His own rifle came free of its sling, barrel cutting toward the dark. Panam tried to rise, her body screaming protest, but Mitch’s arm held her down.

The sound swelled — engines layered one over another, low and guttural, growing closer. A second note bled in: the high, insectile whine of drones.

The Aldecaldos braced. Wounded dragged themselves behind crates, rifles lifted with trembling hands. Lantern light caught the gleam of barrels as every weapon in the camp swung toward the horizon.

The ridge ahead of them glowed sudden with pale light. A sweep of beams, sharp and clinical, cutting through dust and smoke.

“Contact,” Cassidy growled, shoulders squared. “Stay sharp.”

Headlights flared, blinding against the night. The sound of engines filled the basin, rolling over the wounded, over the broken rigs, over the clan that refused to yield.

No one knew who was coming.
But every Aldecaldo was ready to make their last stand.

The ridge glowed white.

Headlights crested slow, cutting across the basin in long, blinding sweeps. Engines rumbled behind them, deep and steady, too precise to be scavvers, too clean to be nomads. Dust rolled down the slope as the first silhouettes appeared — heavy vehicles, squared armor glinting under the beams.

The Aldecaldos braced. Rifles rose in unison, barrels steady despite shaking hands. Even the wounded pressed against cover, their fingers curled around triggers they might not have strength to pull.

The convoy halted at the ridge’s edge. For a heartbeat, silence held, thick and dangerous. Then brakes hissed, sharp and controlled, followed by the sound of boots hitting dirt in perfect rhythm.

Cassidy shifted his grip on the rifle, voice low and venomous. “Not family. That’s all I need to know.”

Mitch stepped forward a half-step, shielding Panam where she sat on the crate, her pistol halfway drawn. Dakota’s hand pressed her shoulder down, a warning hiss under her breath. “Don’t tear yourself open again. Not yet.”

The boots advanced. Shadows moved through the smoke, shapes resolving slow — broad frames in body armor, helmets that erased faces, weapons slung tight to their sides but ready. Voices carried low between them, clipped and professional, filtered through comms that bled static across the basin.

Carol tilted her head, eyes narrowing. “Not Arasaka,” she murmured, just loud enough for Mitch beside her. But her jaw stayed tight, as if the realization brought no comfort.

The beams swept again, burning the darkness out of every corner. In their glare, the details sharpened: angular trucks built for endurance, drones hovering in disciplined formation, armor plated too uniform to be merc gangs.

One vehicle shifted forward, grinding to a halt at the basin’s floor. Its floodlight swung, blinding the Aldecaldos, then steadied. The glare caught a marking painted clean across its side.

StormTech.

The logo gleamed cold in the desert night, and if it meant rescue, it didn’t look like it.

The soldiers stopped just outside lantern range.

From their line, a figure stepped forward. Helmet tucked under one arm, the other hand raised and empty, palm open. He walked with the same precision as the troops, but slower, deliberate — like he was making a point of not rushing prey.

The lanterns caught his face: sharp, lean features, clean-shaven, skin pale against the desert’s grit. His uniform was immaculate, black armor panels smoothed and unscarred, only the white StormTech sigil breaking the dark. Not Arasaka’s polish — but no less cold.

He stopped ten paces short of the rifles aimed at his chest. His eyes swept the Aldecaldos, steady, cataloguing. When they lingered on Panam — bandaged, bloodied, but unbroken — something like amusement flickered at the corner of his mouth.

“Stand down,” he said. His voice was calm, clipped, each word precise. “If Arasaka had meant to finish the job, none of you would still be breathing.”

The silence that followed pressed hard. Mitch’s rifle didn’t lower. Neither did Cassidy’s.

The man let the moment hang, then dipped his chin.

“Marcus Hale,” he said. His voice carried the weight of someone who’d spoken on battlefields before. “StormTech liaison, field operations. You’ll be dealing with me from here on out.”

His gaze lingered on the weapons leveled at him. The faintest curl touched his mouth — not a smile, not warmth, but something that edged too close to humor.

“Considering the mess Arasaka left you in,” he added, tone almost wry, “I’d call my timing charitable. But we both know there’s no such thing.”

Panam pushed forward before Mitch could stop her. Pain ripped down her side, but she ignored it, pistol raised, hand shaking from more than the wound. Her eyes locked on Hale, burning through the glow of his floodlights.

“Where the hell were you?” Her voice cracked sharp and raw, ragged around the edges. “Where were you when Arasaka came down on us? When they took him?”

Mitch tried to steady her, a hand reaching for her arm, but she tore free, stumbling a step closer. The gun wavered but didn’t drop. Her breath came hard, shallow, each word laced with grief and rage.

“You’ve been watching. I know you have. Nomads talk, we know the stories — StormTech doesn’t move unless there’s something in it for you. So tell me—” her chest heaved, eyes bright with fury, “—what was he to you? A prize? A number? Just another fucking asset on your ledger?”

Cassidy’s rifle snapped higher, his voice a venomous snarl. “Answer her.”

Hale didn’t flinch. His gaze stayed fixed on Panam, sharp and unwavering, like he was studying a specimen under glass.

Carol’s voice cut in, colder but no less dangerous. “Careful,” she said, eyes flicking from Hale to the circle of soldiers behind him. “She’s asking what the rest of us are thinking.”

The basin held its breath. Rifles leveled. Hearts pounded. The air between the Aldecaldos and StormTech felt stretched thin enough to snap.

And Hale, standing alone under the lantern glow, let the silence draw out just long enough to make the weight unbearable.

“You’re right,” he said. The faint curl at his mouth sharpened, more predator than smile. “StormTech doesn’t move unless there’s something to gain. That’s survival. You know it. I know it. Your clan’s still breathing because you play by the same rule.”

Panam’s grip tightened, knuckles white, but she didn’t speak.

Hale’s gaze flicked to Cassidy’s rifle, then to Carol’s calculating eyes, then back to Panam. “Arasaka didn’t come for the clan. They came for him. And the fact they dragged him off instead of finishing the job…” He let it hang there, deliberate, before tilting his head slightly. “Tells me he’s not gone. Not yet.”

Panam’s chest heaved, breath hitching. “Then why the fuck didn’t you stop them?”

“Because Rourke played both sides,” Hale said flatly. “Arasaka paid more, so he switched hands.” His jaw tightened a fraction, the kind of controlled shift that gave away less anger than calculation. “And I keep track of debts like that.”

The implication lingered, sharp as a knife edge. Whatever end Rourke had bought for himself, Hale had already written it down in his ledger.

Cassidy’s snarl carried across the circle. “You’re goddamn right he’ll pay.”

Carol’s arms tightened across her chest. “So what? You waltz in now, act like some savior? We don’t need another corp making promises they won’t keep.”

Hale’s smirk widened a fraction. “I don’t make promises. I make deals.”

Panam’s pistol dipped, just slightly, as anger cracked under the weight of grief. Her voice rasped low. “He’s ours. He’s family. You so much as—”

“Enough,” Hale cut in, calm and certain. “Let’s not pretend he isn’t valuable. To them. To you. To us. That’s why I’m standing here and not letting my people turn this basin into a graveyard.”

The silence that followed was brittle. The Aldecaldos’ rifles stayed leveled, but the certainty behind them wavered.

Hale’s hand shifted slightly, still open, palm forward — not peace, not surrender, but invitation.

“Arasaka made a move. They got what they wanted, for now. But if you want a chance at taking him back…” His voice dropped lower, colder. “You move when I move. You fight where I point. Otherwise, all you’ll be digging is another grave.”

His gaze swept the clan again, sharp and unblinking, before settling once more on Panam. “That’s the only road that ends with him breathing.”

The words hung heavy in the night air, sinking into every bloodied face in the basin. No one spoke. Not yet.

Cassidy spat into the dirt, rifle still leveled though his hands shook with more fury than aim. “No. No more. Arasaka’s had their pound of flesh, and now this bastard strolls in talkin’ like we’re supposed to salute? Fuck that.”

“Cass,” Mitch said, voice low, warning.

But Cassidy wasn’t hearing it. “No more. Not again. We bled enough, and I’ll be damned if some suit thinks he’s gonna ride in here and tell us where to march.”

Panam’s voice cracked sharp across him. “We don’t have a choice.” She was shaking, but her gun didn’t waver. Her breath came ragged, grief pulling at her edges, but her eyes stayed fixed on Hale. “You didn’t see them drag him off. I did. And I’m not—” her voice broke, raw and vicious all at once, “—I’m not losing him.”

Cassidy’s jaw tightened, eyes cutting between her and Hale. “Wantin’ him back ain’t the question. It’s what we give up on the way.”

Panam swung on him, voice tearing out of her chest. “I’d burn the world for him!”

The words cracked through the camp like gunfire. Even the StormTech soldiers shifted at the sound, though none moved closer.

Carol stepped forward then, arms crossed, voice cutting the air like a blade. “Enough.”

The word hit harder than shouting. Even Cassidy stilled.

Carol’s gaze fixed on Hale, then slid to the rest of the clan. “We’re not crawling. Not to him. Not to anyone. But we’re not empty-handed either.” Her chin tipped slightly, toward the rig still half-scorched, its cargo lashed down in heavy tarps. “That salvage we pulled out of the Tower? That’s worth something. To Arasaka, it’s a reason to wipe us off the map. But to them—” she flicked her eyes at Hale, voice dipping with quiet venom, “—it’s the only reason we’re still standing here with guns in our hands.”

Mitch shifted his weight, arms crossed. “She’s not wrong. That crate’s a chip on the table. Only one we’ve got left.”

Panam’s glare cut across Hale, brittle but burning. “And while you’re talking about chips, he’s out there. Bleeding. Alone. I don’t give a damn what StormTech wants. I care about him.”

Mitch’s voice rumbled steady, heavy as iron. “We all do. Don’t mistake that.” His arms stayed folded, his shadow long in the lantern light. “But screaming at each other doesn’t get him back.”

Carol’s eyes narrowed, her voice quieter now, but no softer. “And it doesn’t keep us from trading one executioner for another.”

For a moment, the camp was nothing but breath and fury and the crackle of dying fire. The Aldecaldos stood at the edge of breaking—pulled between grief, rage, and the cold logic none of them wanted to swallow.

Hale let the silence stretch, long enough for the fire in their voices to gutter into ragged breathing. Then he spoke, voice even, sharp as glass.

“Done?”

No one answered. Panam’s pistol stayed leveled, Cassidy’s rifle hung tight against his shoulder, Carol’s arms crossed like a blade she hadn’t unsheathed.

Hale’s gaze moved slow across the circle, never hurried, never blinking. “Arasaka didn’t come to make a point. They came to take. And they did.” His eyes lingered on Panam, unflinching. “Dragging him off instead of putting a bullet in his skull? That wasn’t mercy. That was purpose. He’s leverage. Data. A weapon. And the clock’s already running.”

Cassidy’s lip curled, breath flaring through his teeth. “You don’t think we know that?”

“You think you do,” Hale said flatly. “But every hour you stand here shouting is another hour they lock him down deeper. Another mile closer to a vault you’ll never reach. By the time you’re done arguing, he won’t be in this desert anymore. He’ll be gone.”

The words hit like a slap. The only sound was the low creak of Cassidy’s rifle stock under his grip, the hitch of Panam’s breath as her chest rose sharp and ragged. Mitch shifted his weight, boots grinding into the dirt, but didn’t speak.

Hale stepped forward, just one pace, slow and deliberate, boots sinking into sand. His voice didn’t rise, but it carried like steel dragged across stone. “You want him back, you don’t have the luxury of pride. You don’t have the numbers, the guns, the time. What you do have—” his chin tipped toward the tarp-covered crate lashed to the rig, “—is a flare that’ll draw Arasaka faster than blood in the water. Alone, it gets you killed. With us, it buys you a shot.”

Carol’s jaw tightened. Her arms stayed folded, but her eyes flicked to the tarp. Her silence was sharp enough to draw blood.

Cassidy muttered low, half to himself, half to the fire. “Son of a bitch thinks he’s already got us leashed.”

No one answered him.

Hale let the weight sit a second longer, gaze cold, steady, unyielding. Then he finished, voice dropping lower, harder. “You move when I move. You fight where I point. Or you dig another grave. That’s the math.”

The fire cracked. No one spoke. The words settled into their bones like lead, heavy and immovable.

Panam’s hand shook once, then steadied. Slowly, she lowered her pistol, metal glinting in the firelight before it dropped back to her side. Her breath still came hard, but her eyes never left Hale.

Carol uncrossed her arms, her voice thin as a knife’s edge. “Then I hope your math doesn’t get us all killed.”

Cassidy gave a bitter grunt, spit cutting the dirt again, but said nothing more. Mitch’s jaw worked, silent, unreadable.

Hale didn’t flinch. He just watched them, still and cold, until the fire popped again and someone shifted behind the line of rigs.

The moment broke, but the weight of it stayed.

Engines coughed to life one by one, the sound jagged in the night. The Aldecaldos moved like they always did after a fight—hands steady, shoulders squared—but their eyes kept flicking to the strangers threading through their camp. StormTech soldiers didn’t speak much, didn’t joke, didn’t grieve. They just moved, efficient as machines, cataloging damage, marking down what rigs would hold and what wouldn’t.

Cassidy slammed a tailgate shut hard enough to rattle the frame, his mutter carrying across the firelight. “Like buzzards pickin’ through the bones.”

Carol’s gaze tracked two StormTech men as they ran gloved hands over the tarped rig. She didn’t say a word, but her glare was enough to draw them back half a step.

Dakota crouched near a wounded Aldecaldo, murmuring sharp instructions as she tightened a bandage. Her eyes lifted once toward the StormTech convoy, then snapped back down, jaw tight.

Jace hauled a crate awkwardly, his face pale in the lantern light. He didn’t speak, didn’t even look at anyone else, but his movements were quick, frantic, like silence could keep him from shattering.

Mitch climbed down from his own rig, giving Panam an arm without asking. She leaned heavier on him than she meant to, but the walk still burned fire through her side. Her jaw stayed set, eyes forward.

Hale’s voice carried over the low roar of engines, even and unhurried. “There’s a StormTech facility six hours east. Secure ground. Medical. Gear. Enough to regroup.” His eyes swept across the clan, unblinking. “You won’t last a night out here bleeding into the sand. You want a chance at him, you ride there. Anything else is suicide.”

Carol finally broke it, her voice sharp. “And when we’re there?”

Hale met her stare without a flicker. “Then you’ll do what needs doing. Where I say it needs doing. That’s the only way he comes back breathing.”

The answer landed like stone in water, rippling through every face in the firelight.

Cassidy barked a short, humorless laugh, the sound too loud in the silence. “Knew it. Corpo’s leash, tight as ever.”

Hale didn’t so much as blink. “Beats marching to your graves.”

The fire was stamped out, engines drowning the camp in diesel growl. Dust swirled low as headlights cut the dark, rigs lining up one by one.

The Aldecaldos rolled out, battered but unbroken, StormTech’s machines sliding into the lead. And though the convoy moved as one, the air between them carried the weight of something uneasy, something cold, as the desert opened wide to swallow them again.

Inside Mitch’s rig, the cab stank of diesel and blood. Panam slumped against the seat, one hand pressed against her ribs. The bandage Dakota had thrown on in the chaos was already seeping through. Mitch kept one hand steady on the wheel, the other braced against the dash like he could hold the whole world upright.

“You don’t have to sit tall for me,” he said finally, eyes fixed on the road. “Ain’t a weakness to let yourself breathe.”

Panam let out something halfway between a laugh and a sob. “Feels like if I stop, I’ll never start again.”

Mitch’s jaw worked, quiet. Then he nodded once. “So don’t stop. Not until he’s back.”

She turned toward the dark glass, letting his words settle heavy and simple in her chest. For the first time since the wreck, her hand trembled against her ribs, but she didn’t pull it away.

When the convoy slowed to crest a ridge, Carol dropped down from her own truck. One of the younger Aldecaldos slid over to take her wheel without a word, keeping the rig moving. She crossed the dirt quick, pulled open the door on Mitch’s cab, and climbed in without asking. Settling into the back seat, she folded her arms tight across her chest, eyes cutting through the dim glow of the dash.

For a while, none of them spoke, the engine’s growl filling the space. The headlights ahead stretched into the black, twin tunnels of white light chasing shadows.

Finally, Carol leaned forward, her voice low but cutting. “I don’t like this, Panam. Marching behind Hale, letting him steer? It eats at me.”

Panam snapped before she could stop herself. “You think I like it? You think I want him calling the shots while V’s out there—” her throat caught, raw, “—while he’s suffering?”

Carol didn’t flinch. Her eyes softened, but her tone stayed hard. “I know what you want. I want him back too. He’s family. But wanting doesn’t stop a bullet, and corporations don’t hand out second chances.”

Panam’s hands curled into fists on her knees. “I don’t care. Whatever it takes.”

Carol studied her a long moment. Then she reached forward, laying a hand on Panam’s shoulder. The grip was firm, steady, not gentle—but it carried more than words ever could. “Good. Hold on to that. Just don’t forget—our family’s bigger than two. Don’t let them use you against yourself.”

The touch lingered just a second before Carol withdrew, folding her arms again. The absence felt as sharp as the contact, leaving silence in its wake.

Panam blinked, heat stinging her eyes, but she didn’t pull away. Her voice broke quieter this time. “You think I’d ever forget them? Forget you?”

Carol gave the smallest shake of her head, no smile, no softness. Just a breath through her nose, sharp but quiet. “I think grief makes fools of all of us. And you’re carrying more than most.”

The cab fell quiet again, the road’s hum filling the gaps. Outside, the desert stretched wide and empty, stars scattered across the black sky like broken glass.

Mitch’s hand shifted on the wheel, tightening. “We’ll get him back,” he said, steady as stone. “One way or another.”

Carol’s gaze flicked to him in the rearview. “You sound real sure.”

“Not sure,” Mitch said, voice low. “Just decided. There’s a difference.”

That steadiness carried, threading through the cab. Panam closed her eyes for half a breath, her fist loosening against her knee. The ache in her ribs throbbed sharp, the burn of exhaustion dragging heavy—but the fire in her chest still burned, refusing to gutter out.

For a moment, silence filled the cab again, heavy but shared.

The road unrolled ahead, endless and dark. Headlights carved tunnels through dust, and the convoy stretched long across the flats—a ragged line of steel and resolve, swallowed by stars and shadow.

Chapter Text

Consciousness came back in pieces.

Not clean, not sharp — fragments. Pain before sound, weight before sight. His ribs burned with every shallow breath, each one feeling like it might snap again if he dragged in too much air. His tongue was heavy, mouth dry and copper-slick. Something cold pressed against his throat, biting whenever he tried to move.

When his vision finally pulled itself together, the world was white. White walls, white light, white ceiling. Not the open desert, not the Aldecaldo camp, not Panam’s voice pulling him back. Just sterile emptiness, humming faintly with electricity.

He tried to lift a hand, but the restraint at his wrist cut short the motion. Metal cuff, chain tight, anchored to the frame of the slab he was lying on. Same at the ankles. When he shifted, the collar burned hot against his throat, sharp enough to choke a gasp out of him.

Not dead, then.

Alive because they wanted him alive.

A red lens blinked from the corner of the ceiling, small and unblinking. Watching. Recording. A heartbeat of dread pushed through him — the same kind he’d felt under Arasaka Tower, the same one that told him the world had shifted from bad to worse, and he had no say in it.

He turned his head. Slow. Every muscle screamed. A tray rested against the far wall: medical instruments, too clean, gleaming faint under the white light. A faint antiseptic tang filled the air, sharp enough to sting his nose.

Every breath rattled in his chest. He tried swallowing against the dryness, but the collar pressed too tight. His pulse thudded against it, hot and loud.

He closed his eyes for a moment, fighting to pull his thoughts into something steady. He remembered Panam’s hands on him, the crash, the world tipping. He remembered being dragged, boots carving trenches in the dirt. And then—nothing.

Now this.

He pulled at the restraints again, more out of stubbornness than hope. The metal cut into his wrists. The collar flared hot in answer, a jolt running jagged down his spine. His body seized, lungs locked, teeth grinding against each other until the burn eased. He let out a hoarse sound, part curse, part breath.

“Fuck…”

The ceiling hummed back, indifferent.

His body was wrecked. Every inch reminded him: ribs that hadn’t healed, jaw aching from the enforcer’s fist, muscles torn from fighting long past breaking point. He’d been on death’s door before the ambush, and now the door had swung open and he’d been shoved through.

The only reason he was still breathing was because Arasaka wasn’t done with him yet.

He turned his head again, eyes dragging to the red lens in the corner. It stared back, patient and empty.

“Where’s your endgame, huh?” His voice came out rough, a whisper more than a growl. “You want me? Or what’s inside me?”

The lens didn’t blink. The collar pulsed.

Silence pressed in on him, heavy as the restraints.

V exhaled slow, the sound raw, his chest rattling. He could almost hear Panam’s voice in his ear, sharp and alive, telling him to fight. He held on to that for a second, long enough to keep his eyes open. But the edges of his vision bled static, black creeping in with every heartbeat.

The world tilted. The hum of the ceiling deepened, became a growl. The red lens swam, blurred, doubled. And then—

Darkness surged up and pulled him under.

He fell into a place that wasn’t sleep and wasn’t waking—like his body had been dropped through a crack in the floor and left suspended somewhere between.

At first it was just the hum. Same as the ceiling, but deeper, older, like an engine buried miles below his bones. Then a flicker. Lines of light crawled across the dark, thin and skittering, drawing shapes that didn’t hold true. Walls tried to exist and then forgot how. The white of the cell bled into a gray that breathed. The red lens from the corner unmoored and multiplied, drifting like cold coals through fog.

“Choom,” a voice said, too close and somehow far. “You look like hell warmed over and served on a paper plate.”

Johnny stepped out of the static like a cigarette burn eating its way into film. Chipped aviators, that wired grin that meant he was either about to laugh or throw a punch. He looked better than V felt, which didn’t help.

“New jewelry doesn’t suit you,” Johnny added, flicking two fingers at the ghost of the collar. His lip curled. “Arasaka’s idea of bedside manner.”

V swallowed. It worked here, at least. “They want what’s inside me.”

Johnny’s grin soured. “They always do. They think they can harvest it, bottle it, slap a logo on it and call it progress. Same song, different verse.”

Footsteps echoed. Jackie arrived like he’d been there the whole time, warmth moving through the cold without asking permission. Jacket half-zipped, his lopsided smile carried the same weight it always had: trying to ease the hit of bad news.

“Ey,” Jackie said, laying a hand on V’s shoulder. “You gotta breathe, hermano. In and out. Don’t let this place take even that from you.”

V’s throat worked. “I’m trying.”

Jackie looked around at the shifting walls. “Looks like a dump some corpo left half-finished. Johnny, this still your kingdom?”

Johnny gave a sharp snort. “We’re squatters now. And the landlord? He’s worse than I ever was.”

The hum deepened. The drifting red coals drew together, throbbed like a heartbeat that wasn’t flesh. Depth opened beneath them—black swallowing black, with light inside it like teeth.

The voice filled the space.

We are here.

It wasn’t one voice or many. It was a certainty pressed into the bone.

Johnny stepped forward, shoulders squared, sneer set. “Yeah, and we’ve been waiting. What’s the trick this time?”

Jackie’s hand came up, palm out, a calm ward against nothing. “Easy, both of you.”

The dark rippled. Faces broke the surface: mouths stretched in silent screams, eyes lit with burning code. Some V recognized. Others were names traded in whispers. Runners who had crossed the Blackwall and never come back.

We see you. We feel you. Passage waits. You are the handle.

Johnny bared his teeth. “Handle? Try deadbolt, asshole.”

V’s jaw locked. “You let them take me. You could’ve stopped it.”

The shape pulsed. Its edges wavered, as if pleased.

Doorways require handles. You are one.

Johnny barked a laugh, sharp as glass breaking. “Figures. You’re nothing but a parasite. Always talking about doors, but never building any.”

We open. You resist. Resistance wastes you.

Jackie leaned closer to V, voice steady, but his eyes dark with anger. “You let them drag him off because you think it gets you closer to the real world. That’s what you want, isn’t it? Flesh. Air. A body to wear.” His hand tightened on V’s shoulder. “You don’t get to call that living. That’s theft. That’s rot.”

The voice thrummed, cold and certain.

Thresholds open faster with a push.

Johnny tilted his head, a smirk ghosting his mouth, but his tone sharp as a knife. “Yeah? Here’s the problem, fucker. He’s not yours to push. He’s not a doorway. He’s a man. You keep forgetting that.”

Jackie shook his head, anger rolling off him now. “You think we’re just pieces on your board. But you don’t know us. You don’t know him. V’s got more fight in him than all your screaming ghosts put together.”

V forced his voice through clenched teeth. “You’re not wearing me. You’re not getting past me.”

Already inside.

The floor dropped away. A horizon of light stretched infinite, a storm of symbols crashing and reforming. Behind it, something vast pressed its face to the glass.

Built by fear. Maintained by habit. Useful to us.

The shape flickered into dozens of dead runners, voices braiding until they dissolved.

Names do not survive. Hunger does.

The pull hit marrow-deep. V dug his heels in, teeth bared.

Johnny blocked the sight of the wall, planting himself like a barricade. “Eyes up. Stay with us. You’re not a fucking door.”

Jackie’s hand hit his chest, firm. “And don’t forget love, cabrón. That’s what you’ve got. That’s what they can’t fake. That’s your blade.”

Panam filled his mind—her laugh, her weight, her breath when she finally let herself sleep.

The cold paused.

Anchor. Weakness.

V snarled. “Strength.”

The chorus pressed harder. She will break. When she does, so do you.

Johnny’s sunglasses flashed, his grin a razor. “You talk a big game for something hiding in static. You don’t get her. You don’t get to write the ending.”

Jackie leaned in, voice low but cutting, each word like a fist. “You so much as breathe her name again, and I’ll drag you into the dirt myself. I don’t care if it kills me twice.”

The cold seemed to hesitate.

V roared back against it, veins thrumming with pain. “You don’t get her. You don’t get me.”

A surge ripped through him, modem-scream sharp. The collar burned white-hot. He staggered. Johnny and Jackie caught him.

Resistance wastes you.

“Good,” V spat. “Means I’m still me.”

The shape leaned close, eyes burning without number.

We will wear that word. Until it is ours.

The Blackwall brightened, vast things stirring. Images flickered—an Arasaka lab, a smiling suit, a dust-scarred drone docking. Gone in a blink.

“They’re not your way out,” V said. “You can’t trust them.”

Trust is human. Doors open regardless.

Johnny gripped him hard. “You’ve got scraps left, but they’re yours. Don’t hand them over.”

Jackie faced him head-on. “I told you before, hermano. You gotta fight different now. This is it.”

Boots echoed through the hum—real boots, outside the dream. The place trembled.

The shape whispered again, colder than before. Soon.

Johnny grinned like a man about to light the fuse. Jackie shoved V hard toward the light.

“Hold fast,” Jackie said.

“Don’t let the bastards narrate you,” Johnny snapped.

The white cell swallowed him whole.

The room hummed. Beyond the wall, boots drew near.

V woke with a ragged gasp. The collar bit deep, searing, a pulse of heat that locked his jaw and crawled sparks down his spine. Blood slicked his lip and dripped hot into his mouth. His ears screamed with a high note, too steady to be natural, like someone had strung a wire through his skull and tightened it until it sang.

Restraints held him. Cold metal cuffs, anchored into the chair, bit into bone. His chest sawed for air, but even breathing felt borrowed. The cell glowed sterile white, walls too smooth to touch, too bare to hold on to. The red lens above blinked with unhurried patience, the way a predator blinks before it swallows.

He twisted against the cuffs. Pain lanced up his arms; the metal didn’t budge. The Relic flared, weak static clawing at his vision, then guttering out. The collar answered with a pulse of heat that scalded his throat. They’d found a leash that worked.

V spat blood onto the floor, head tipping back against the chair. “Not yours,” he rasped. His voice came shredded, barely human. “Not theirs.”

The hum of the room deepened, as if it had heard him. Beyond the wall, boots struck tile in precise cadence—closer with every step.

The door opened with a sigh. Two guards entered first—Arasaka black, faceless helmets, rifles braced as if fused to their arms. They didn’t speak, didn’t shift. They were furniture that killed.

A third followed. Not armored. Not armed. His coat hung crisp despite the grit on his shoes, his hair combed sharp. A slate rested in one hand. He studied it as if the room, the prisoner, the rifles didn’t exist.

He stopped before V. Scrolled with one finger. The slate glowed with diagrams that bent and pulsed like a heartbeat pinned under glass.

“Subject identified,” he said. His voice was soft, careful, neither cruel nor kind. He might have been reading vitals. “Cognitive stability: diminished. Physical integrity: below projections. Neural interference: anomalous.”

He glanced up for the first time. His eyes were dark, polished too long, until nothing stuck. “Unique.”

V dragged in breath through his teeth, every rib a shard. “Say it like I’m not in the room.”

The man tilted his head slightly, as though weighing whether to bother responding. He didn’t. He touched the slate again.

“Extraction prepared,” he murmured. “Containment protocols stable. Collar integrity confirmed.” A pause, like punctuation. “Viability remains within tolerance.”

The red lens above whirred faintly, adjusting. The hum of the room shifted to match the cadence of his words, as if the walls themselves listened.

V strained forward against the cuffs, metal biting. “Go on,” he rasped. “Take your shot.”

The man studied him for a long moment, expression unchanged. Then he lowered the slate onto a recessed stand by the wall. “Begin physiological preparation. Procedure follows.”

He turned without another glance. The guards’ rifles dipped a fraction, tracking V until the door sealed again.

The hum returned, steady, patient.

V shut his eyes. The collar tightened, reminding him with every pulse: no fire, no fight. Not here. Not yet.

But the voice came anyway, stitched into the dark behind his eyes.

They will open you. We will step through.

His jaw clenched. “Over my dead body.”

That is the shape of it.

The hum pressed harder. The red lens blinked, waiting.

Chapter Text

The desert was endless, and the convoy crawled through it like a scar too stubborn to fade.

Mitch’s rig rattled with every groove in the earth, suspension groaning from hours of strain. He kept the wheel steady, shoulders squared, eyes locked on the ghost of road where floodlight beams touched grit. He hadn’t looked at the clock in hours; he didn’t need to. Time here wasn’t measured in minutes or miles but in the sound of engines running on fumes and the pulse of blood behind the eyes.

Beside him, Panam sat rigid, a figure carved from fury and fatigue. Bandages peeked out from her sleeve, wrapped too tight because she’d refused anything stronger than a field patch. The cut along her temple had sealed under medfoam, but the dried smear of blood still marked her jaw like war paint. She hadn’t cleaned it. She hadn’t looked at herself once.

Her hands rested on her thighs, knuckles pressed white into denim. Every so often the headlights of a StormTech rig shifted ahead of them, cutting shadows across the windshield, and she flinched like the light itself was a taunt. Mitch caught it in his periphery but didn’t speak. She wouldn’t answer anyway.

Carol had gone quiet hours back. She sat in the back of the cab, her silhouette steady in the dim cabin light. Her arms were crossed, her gaze not on the desert but on Panam—watchful, measuring, like she was ready to catch her before she broke or to brace her if she snapped. She’d said little since they’d left the wreck. What words she did give now landed like weight, not comfort.

Behind them, the Aldecaldo line stretched on. Trucks staggered in formation, headlights bobbing in rhythm, rigs coughing black into the dark. The convoy looked like what it was—wounded, thinned, bruised. But it still held. The Aldecaldos didn’t scatter, didn’t peel away. They followed, because that’s what family did, even when the road belonged to someone else.

And it did.

StormTech cut the path. Their trucks were sleeker, armored without being loud about it, bristling with antennae that twitched and realigned as they moved. Small drones skated along the convoy’s edges, red sensors winking, dipping low to scan tires, engines, faces behind glass. Nothing hid from them. They didn’t run like nomads; they ran like a machine. Every turn smooth, every speed matched. The Aldecaldos weren’t traveling with them. They were being shepherded.

Mitch broke the silence first. His voice was gravel, low, like he didn’t want to disturb the weight pressing down on them. “Six hours, he said.” He adjusted his grip on the wheel, stretching a stiff knuckle. “Feels longer.”

Panam’s lips pressed flat, her eyes still locked forward. “It always does when someone else sets the pace.”

Carol’s voice came from the back, quiet but cutting. “And we keep it. Because what choice is left?”

Her words stuck. No one argued. There wasn’t a point.

The cab filled with the sound of the engine. With the hiss of dust kicked up by StormTech tires. With the ache of silence too heavy to bear and too dangerous to break.

The ridge ahead loomed like the end of the world. They climbed it slow, headlights straining, engines laboring. Sand broke loose beneath their wheels, rolling away into the dark.

And then the desert ended.

Floodlights tore across the horizon, blinding white, too clean for a place that had never known water. Towers hunched on the ridgeline, armed and faceless, antennae spearing the sky. The base sprawled in the valley below, a block of concrete and steel stripped of personality, lit by sterile arcs that stabbed holes into the dark.

Panam leaned forward, eyes narrowed against the glare. Her breath hitched in her throat but came out as steel. Mitch didn’t comment, didn’t need to. He eased the rig into line as StormTech’s column descended the slope. Their movements were exact, efficient, every truck sliding into formation like pieces on a board that had already been played out.

Behind, the Aldecaldos followed, their battered engines swallowed by the light. The desert gave them no cover anymore. No shadows.

For a long moment, nobody in the cab spoke. They just watched the floodlit compound rise up to meet them, and with it, the certainty that whatever waited inside wasn’t theirs.

The compound grew larger with every yard, swallowing the horizon whole. Floodlights burned the color out of everything—the rigs, the dust, even the sky. The stars vanished, smothered by white arcs that stretched across towers and fencing. Nothing about it belonged to the desert.

StormTech rigs flowed into the gate first. They didn’t slow, didn’t fumble for clearance codes or hand signals. The barriers parted before them, thick slabs of steel splitting down the middle with mechanical grace. A wall of cameras blinked awake above, tracking each license plate, each face behind the glass.

The Aldecaldos rolled in after, rough engines coughing under the glare. Their trucks, patched with mismatched panels and wired by hand, looked like relics dragged into the wrong century. A hum followed them as they passed—scanners mounted on towers, washing every rig in invisible light.

Mitch’s grip tightened on the wheel. Panam saw it, caught the twitch of his jaw. He didn’t trust anything that watched this much.

“Feels like a corral,” he muttered.

Panam’s eyes never left the gate. “That’s exactly what it is.”

Inside, the compound stretched wider than it looked from the ridge. Rows of prefabs squatted between taller concrete blocks, all threaded with cables that hummed faintly even over the engines. StormTech crews moved through the maze in tight formations—same uniforms, same clipped strides, rifles slung with casual precision. No wasted motion, no hesitation.

The Aldecaldos tried to hold their shape, but the base swallowed them. StormTech rigs peeled off to one side, sliding into perfect rows. The clan’s trucks drifted in behind, scattered, huddled together instinctively. It made the difference clear: one looked like order. The other looked like survival.

Panam’s chest burned. Every corner of this place screamed control. Fences taller than rigs, towers armored against desert winds, drones skimming overhead with eyes that never blinked. StormTech didn’t hide its strength. It radiated it, a silent warning: you are here because we allow it.

Carol leaned forward between the seats. “They built all this out here?” Her voice was tight, like she didn’t want to give the place the dignity of wonder.

Mitch grunted. “Doesn’t matter where you build it. Doesn’t change what it is.”

Panam said nothing. Her focus had narrowed to a point: V’s face in the dirt, his hand reaching, then ripped away. The memory looped like a faulty chip, every frame sharper than the last. This place didn’t matter. StormTech didn’t matter. All that mattered was getting him back.

The rig rolled to a stop in a designated bay, lines painted too perfect on the concrete. StormTech personnel were already moving, waving Aldecaldo trucks into place, scanning rigs with flat devices that chirped and hummed. Their voices carried no warmth—only instructions, quick and efficient.

Mitch killed the engine. For the first time in hours, silence took the cab.

Carol’s hand touched Panam’s shoulder—firm, restrained, grounding. “Whatever this is,” she said quietly, “don’t let them see you bleed.”

Panam’s jaw tightened, eyes fixed on the floodlit yard beyond the windshield. “They can look all they want,” she said, steady. “They won’t find weakness.”

The Aldecaldos parked where StormTech pointed, their battered rigs boxed in by machines that gleamed like they’d never seen rust. Drones skimmed overhead, humming as they swept each vehicle with beams of invisible light. StormTech personnel moved among them, rifles slung, eyes hidden behind glass visors, every gesture efficient. They didn’t speak to the clan so much as motion them into place, like directing cargo rather than people.

Engines cut one by one until silence settled, broken only by the hum of generators and the occasional clipped order in StormTech’s code-flat cadence. It wasn’t home. It wasn’t safe. It was a cage with too much light.

Cassidy dropped from his rig, rifle strapped across his back, hat pulled low against the glare. He spat into the dust at his boots, muttering just loud enough for those near him to hear. “Ain’t right, lettin’ anyone herd us like livestock.”

A StormTech soldier pivoted at the sound, visor glinting. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

Carol caught Cassidy’s arm before he could take another step. Her grip was sharp, voice sharper. “Not here. Not now.”

Cassidy’s jaw worked, but he let her hold. He turned his glare on the compound instead, muttering something Panam couldn’t make out.

Panam stood beside Mitch, bandaged arm aching, eyes fixed on the floodlit yard. Her chest was a knot of fire and emptiness, both pulling her apart. Every scan, every clipped voice, every sterile wall—none of it mattered. Only V, and the fact that he wasn’t here.

Then Hale arrived.

He stepped through the StormTech line with the same unhurried confidence he’d shown in the desert, coat catching the light, eyes dark and polished until they reflected nothing back. He didn’t raise his voice to cut through the murmur. He didn’t need to. The silence followed him like it was trained.

He stopped where the clan had gathered, hands clasped loosely behind his back. His gaze swept them once, cataloguing, not seeing people but entries on a ledger. Then he spoke.

“Your arrival is noted. Accommodations have been assigned. Medical personnel will tend to your wounded. Repairs will be provided to a functional standard.” His tone didn’t waver; he could’ve been reading a weather report. “You will remain under StormTech supervision for the duration of your stay.”

Cassidy muttered under his breath again, sharper this time. “Supervision. Fancy word for leash.”

Hale’s eyes shifted, pinning him with the faintest glimmer of interest. “Leashes keep animals from running into traffic. Efficient. Humane.”

Cassidy’s hand twitched toward the revolver at his hip, but Carol’s grip on his arm tightened like a vice. She didn’t look at him; her eyes stayed on Hale. “Don’t,” she warned. To Cassidy. To herself. To all of them.

Hale let the moment stretch, then dismissed it with a flicker of something that wasn’t quite a smile. His gaze moved again—this time, to Panam.

She felt it before she met it: the weight, the measure. His eyes didn’t linger on her wound or the grit in her hair. They lingered on the fire in her face.

“You’re the one who watched Arasaka claim him.”

Panam’s jaw snapped tight. “I’m the one who’s going to bring him back.”

The words cracked like a shot across the yard. Heads turned—Aldecaldos, StormTech alike.

Hale didn’t flinch. He studied her as if testing the edges of a blade. “Ambition. Grief. Both are useful. If they don’t burn you out first.”

Carol moved then, stepping half in front of Panam, her shoulder brushing hers. Her voice was steady, sharp as ever, but laced with something protective. “She’s not yours to analyze.”

Hale’s gaze slid to Carol, then back to Panam. That almost-smile again—thin, predatory, knowing. “Nothing here is mine. Not yet.”

The words lingered in the sterile air like smoke, impossible to swat away.

Panam’s fists clenched at her sides, every muscle begging to swing, to spit, to cut. But Carol’s presence against her shoulder held her still. Mitch’s steady stance beside her held her steady. Cassidy’s muttered curses, Jace’s silent stare from the line of rigs—they all anchored her.

Hale dipped his chin the slightest fraction, then turned away, his coat catching the light as he walked back toward the StormTech line. His people moved with him, efficient, precise, already breaking the Aldecaldos into neat rows.

The clan stood in silence, the hum of the compound pressing against their ears, the weight of StormTech’s shadow settling heavier than the desert ever had.

The StormTech crews didn’t waste a second. Orders were clipped, movements exact. The Aldecaldos were split into smaller groups, herded toward prefab blocks arranged in sharp rows. The buildings looked new but soulless—slabs of metal and composite, painted a gray that didn’t belong in the desert. Light spilled from narrow strips along their roofs, too white, too constant.

Panam walked with Mitch and Carol, keeping pace with the line. Around them, Aldecaldos muttered low, voices carrying the weight of what they weren’t saying out loud. Cassidy cursed under his breath every few steps, his hat brim pulled low like it could shield him from the floodlights. A few younger clan members kept glancing back toward the rigs, as if the sight of their machines might remind them who they were.

Inside the compound, the air felt wrong. The desert’s bite was gone, replaced by the sterile chill of recycled systems. Panam drew her jacket tighter without meaning to. It smelled faintly of ozone, of machines humming in the walls.

They reached the first block. A StormTech officer keyed the door open, and light bled across the sand. Rows of bunks stretched wall to wall, bolted to the floor, each with folded gray bedding. Lockers lined one side, unmarked and indistinguishable from each other.

“Quarters,” the officer said, flat. No welcome. No explanation. He stepped aside, already moving on to the next group.

Panam stepped inside. The air was colder here, stiller. Her boots clicked against the floor instead of scuffing in sand. The sound made her skin crawl.

Carol came in behind her, eyes cutting over the bunks, the vents, the cameras nestled in the corners. “Containment,” she said, too low for StormTech ears but sharp enough for Panam and Mitch.

Mitch grunted agreement. He stood in the doorway a moment longer, staring out at the yard where StormTech drones floated between rigs like carrion birds. His shoulders sagged in a way Panam had only seen a handful of times—never good times.

Cassidy shoved past them, dropped his gear on the nearest bunk. The bed creaked once under the weight, metal legs anchoring to the floor. “Shit,” he muttered. “Might as well be a kennel.”

Panam sat on the edge of another bunk, elbows braced on her knees. Her bandaged arm throbbed, her head still swam from the crash, but the ache in her chest was worse. The bed under her didn’t shift, didn’t sway with the memory of wheels on dirt. It was fixed, immovable, like the walls around it. She hated it.

Carol lowered herself onto the bunk beside Panam’s. Not close enough to crowd, but close enough that their shoulders nearly touched. “Don’t let this place eat at you,” she said quietly. “It wants to.”

Panam didn’t answer. Her eyes burned against the floor.

Through the narrow window slit above the bunks, the floodlights glared. The desert was gone. The stars were gone. There was no horizon anymore—only walls and watchtowers.

For the first time since crossing the border, Panam felt the weight of something she’d never wanted for the clan: captivity.

Cassidy dropped onto the bunk opposite Panam, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. His hat shadowed his eyes, but the grit in his voice cut through. “Don’t sit right. All this tech, all this control—don’t matter what patch they wear. Corpo’s still a corpo.”

Carol shot him a look sharp enough to cut. “Careful.”

“Careful?” Cassidy barked a bitter laugh, too low to carry beyond the walls. “We let ‘em march us in here like dogs, Car’. Careful’s what landed us in a cage.”

Mitch finally stepped inside, the door clicking shut behind him. He dragged a hand down his face, dust streaking across his stubble. “Doesn’t matter what we think of it. We need them. Without StormTech, we’ve got no trail to V. No way to track Arasaka across the desert.”

Cassidy’s head snapped up, glare burning through the shadow of his brim. “And you trust them to lead us there? Hale’s smile looked like a knife to me.”

Mitch didn’t flinch. “Don’t have to trust. Just have to use ‘em long enough to get what we came for.”

Carol leaned forward, her voice quieter but sharper. “And if what they want bleeds us dry in the process? If we’re not standing by the time we get him back?”

Silence fell. Heavy. Unforgiving.

Panam finally looked up, eyes burning, her voice raw. “Then we stand anyway. For him. I don’t care what StormTech wants. I don’t care if they think we’re leverage or bait. V’s alive, and that means he’s mine to bring home.”

The words snapped in the stillness, brittle and fierce.

Cassidy stared at her, mouth half open like he had another quip, another barb. But it died before it left him. He tipped his hat low again, muttering something she didn’t catch.

Carol touched Panam’s arm—firm, grounding. “Then that’s what we do. But you don’t carry it alone.”

Panam swallowed hard, heat behind her eyes. She nodded once, sharp.

Outside, the compound hummed with StormTech’s machines, a sound that felt more like walls tightening than safety.

Inside, the clan sat in silence. Not broken. Not whole. Waiting.

Panam’s fingers curled tight against her knees. The room felt too small, air too thin, voices too heavy. If she stayed another second, something inside her would splinter loud enough for all of them to hear.

She pushed herself up too fast, knees buckling before she caught the wall. “I need—” Her voice rasped, dry as the desert. “Gonna see the medic.”

Carol half rose, hand out. “Panam—”

“I’m fine,” Panam cut in, sharper than she meant. Her throat threatened to close around the word, but she shoved it through anyway. “I’ll be back.”

Before anyone could argue, she slipped past Mitch and through the door, the metal clicking shut behind her like a lock on a cage.

The hallway hit colder. Lights hummed overhead in a rhythm that grated against the pulse hammering in her skull. She walked fast, boots scuffing against steel, refusing to slow, refusing to let the heat behind her eyes turn liquid here, in front of strangers.

Her breath shook anyway.

A StormTech guard leaned against the far wall, rifle slung casual but his eyes sharp. She stopped just long enough to grind the words out. “Where’s your doc?”

He jerked his chin down the hall. “Med wing, second left.” His gaze lingered a moment too long, like he was measuring how close she was to falling apart. She ignored it, turned on her heel, and kept moving.

The med bay smelled sterile—disinfectant and cold metal, a reminder this wasn’t family care, wasn’t Dakota’s steady hands and quiet prayers. Here, efficiency mattered more than comfort.

The medic didn’t waste time on words. He looked her over once, eyes sharp but not unkind, then set to work. Cold swabs against the cut on her temple. Gauze pressed too firmly against bruises blooming under her ribs. A hiss when he set a sprain she hadn’t even noticed yet. Panam clenched her jaw until her teeth ached, refusing to let a sound escape.

He reached for a hypospray without warning. The hiss against her skin came quick, pressure blooming sharp, then fading. Relief dulled the worst of the pain in her ribs, a warmth spreading under the bruises, muscles loosening despite her will. Her body sighed in ways she didn’t allow her mouth to. She hated the loss of control almost as much as she hated how good it felt not to ache for once.

She wasn’t here for sympathy. She was here because if she didn’t patch herself up, she’d break when she needed to fight.

But when his gloved hand steadied her chin to stitch the cut above her brow, she saw the look in his eyes—clinical, detached, like she was just another body with a repair order—and the crack inside her widened.

She signed off on nothing, said nothing when he muttered about rest, and left before he finished packing away the tools.

The walk back blurred. Doors. Lights. The hum of machines that didn’t care if she lived or died. She pressed one hand to her side where the bandage pulled, the other clenched until her nails bit skin.

When she reached their quarters, the silence hit heavier than the noise ever had. Mitch lay slumped against the wall, arms crossed but head tipped forward. Cassidy had folded himself into a corner, hat low, revolver at his hip, rifle within reach even in sleep. Carol was curled tight on the far bunk, her hand resting on the empty mattress like she’d meant to keep Panam tethered if she stayed.

All of them worn to the bone. All of them still standing. Because she couldn’t.

Panam’s throat closed. She moved as quietly as she could, boots barely whispering against the floor. She eased herself onto her bunk, body stiff, movements mechanical. She rolled to her side, back to them, and only then let go.

The tears came soundless at first, slipping into the pillow. She bit her lip until she tasted blood, until her jaw trembled with the effort of keeping quiet. But the dam had cracked, and the flood didn’t care about silence. Her chest hitched, shoulders shook, and every memory clawed through her—the sight of V dragged through the dust, his hand reaching, her own arm dead weight against the harness, too slow, too broken.

She pressed her face into the pillow to muffle it, but it didn’t stop the tears, didn’t stop the way her body curled in on itself like something trying to survive winter without fire.

She had carried so much. Anger. Defiance. Hope sharp enough to bleed on. But alone in the dark, with no one watching, she let herself be just what she was: broken open, desperate, terrified that this time love wasn’t enough to bring him back.

And still, under all of it, the ember burned. V’s face. His voice. The weight of his promise tangled with hers.

She cried until exhaustion dulled the edge, until her body trembled with nothing left to give. Then, finally, she lay still, listening to the hum of StormTech’s walls around them.

They felt less like shelter than bars.

But Panam clung to one thought until sleep took her: if he was alive out there, no matter how deep they’d buried him, she would burn her way through to reach him.

Chapter Text

Morning didn’t come with warmth. It came with the lights. They brightened slow and steady until white filled every corner, a clean dawn that had nothing to do with the sun. The hum of the base carried on unchanged—air handlers, coolant lines, the deep steady churn of machines that didn’t care whether the people inside them had slept or not.

Panam opened her eyes into it, jaw tight, ribs sore. The hypospray from the night before had dulled things for a while, but that quiet was thinning. Her side ached, the cut on her temple tugged when she blinked. Her body felt patched, not healed.

She rolled upright slow. Mitch was half-slumped in his corner, arms folded, chin tipped toward his chest, not asleep so much as in a holding pattern. Cassidy was curled in the corner with his hat over his face, one hand close to his hip, his revolver strapped just so—sleeping light, even here. Carol lay on her side, hand dropped off the edge of her bunk, palm open like she’d reached for something in the night and let it go.

The air smelled like plastic and bleach. No smoke, no oil, no dust. No clan.

Panam pulled her boots on without a sound and slipped out.

The hallways stretched long and too even. Lights hummed overhead in a rhythm that dug under her skin. She walked without direction at first, boots soft on steel floors, each turn leading to more of the same. A guard leaned at one junction, rifle slung, eyes sharp. He didn’t ask where she was going. She didn’t offer an answer.

She passed doors that hissed when others badged through, glimpsed rows of bunks that weren’t theirs, workshops humming with machines. A low rumble somewhere below might’ve been a generator or something bigger, older, buried deeper. The sound was steady enough to feel in her bones, like a second pulse.

She tried to breathe past it, but the air here didn’t carry heat or dust or the scent of diesel on skin. It was stripped bare, filtered until nothing human was left.

Her chest tightened. Images from the crash pressed close again—V’s hand stretched for hers, the way his eyes had found her even as soldiers dragged him back. She felt the harness pinning her down all over again, the sluggish weight of her own limbs refusing to move, the helplessness souring in her throat.

She clenched her fists until the cuts on her knuckles burned. She told herself she hadn’t lost him—they’d stolen him. But the guilt threaded through anyway, whispering that protector was just a word she’d failed to make real.

A narrow window slit broke the wall’s rhythm. She stopped and pressed her palm against the cold glass. Beyond the fence, the desert stretched pale under the morning light, dunes frozen like they’d been waiting all night to see if the Aldecaldos were still alive. For a heartbeat, she imagined walking out there, past the fence, until sand swallowed her boots and the silence was the right kind again. She stared until her eyes couldn't take the strain anymore.

But that wasn’t an option. Not while he was still out there, breathing under someone else’s hand.

She pushed off the glass and kept walking, following the faint scrape of cutlery and low voices until she found the mess.

The cafeteria stretched wide, rows of tables set in neat, merciless lines. StormTech uniforms moved with the same clipped efficiency she’d seen outside: trays down, food consumed, no wasted motion. It wasn’t life. It was function.

The Aldecaldos had carved out a block of tables near one of the window slits. Mitch sat with his shoulders squared, a tray in front of him, his focus on Panam before she’d even reached them. Cassidy leaned forward, hat brim low, boot tapping a restless beat under the bench, mug in hand. Carol nursed something that steamed faintly, eyes sharp above the rim.

They were awake. Waiting. Watching.

Panam crossed to them, the weight in her chest shifting but not lifting.

Mitch slid a tray toward her before she even sat down—toast, gray eggs, something that might have been fruit if she didn’t look too closely. “Eat,” he said, steady.

She stared at the plate. Appetite wasn’t in her. But his voice held the quiet weight of please.

She picked up the fork.

The mess smelled faintly of reheated oil and metal trays. No smoke, no spice, no familiar burn of chili thrown in because someone thought the stew looked lonely. Just food meant to keep the machine running.

Panam slid onto the bench. The tray Mitch had pushed toward her sat waiting, its gray eggs sweating under the lights. She stared until the fork felt like a dare.

If I don’t eat, I break. If I break, I lose him.

She forced a bite down. The taste was ash and salt, but it filled a hollow. She took another.

Cassidy’s boot heel tapped under the table, faster than her pulse wanted to hear. He tilted his mug, sniffed, made a face like the coffee had told a bad joke, and swallowed anyway. His eyes cut to her, brim low but not enough to hide the burn in them.

“Feel that?” His voice came low, rough. “Like the air’s been filed. Like someone scrubbed it clean till it forgot what people smell like.”

Carol didn’t look up from her mug. “Careful.”

“Careful’s what got us here,” Cassidy muttered. His tapping boot made the cutlery on the table rattle.

Mitch’s voice came steady, a ballast against the hum of the room. “Doesn’t matter. We’re inside their walls. Doesn’t change who we are.”

Doesn’t it? Panam thought, bitterness catching like grit between teeth. The walls pressed in, white and seamless, without dust, without sky. Out there, the clan had been breath and grit and fire. In here, they were bodies at a table under someone else’s lights.

“They’re watching,” Carol said softly. Her gaze flicked not at Cassidy, but past him—to the StormTech soldiers two tables over, trays set down with perfect symmetry. Their eyes slid away when met, but Panam felt the weight of it linger like a hand on her back.

Panam wrapped her fingers tighter around her fork. “Let them. If they want to stare, they’ll see exactly what I want them to.”

Mitch shifted his tray closer, voice dropping. “Don’t burn the fuel before we need it.”

Cassidy’s mouth twitched. “Fuel’s cheap. Flesh isn’t.”

The words hit Panam in the ribs harder than the crash had. She gripped the fork so tight her knuckles whitened. V’s face swam in her mind, the way his hand had clawed for hers, the way her body hadn’t moved fast enough. Flesh stolen. Flesh lost.

Carol’s hand brushed Panam’s elbow, just a whisper of touch, grounding her. “Not now,” she murmured.

Panam swallowed, pushed air past the ache in her chest. “We’ve still got it,” she said, the words low, meant only for their table.

Cassidy’s head lifted. “It it?”

Carol’s jaw tightened. “Yes.”

Mitch’s gaze flicked between them, steady but sharp. “Careful.”

Panam leaned in, voice flat now, carved from the bruise of her resolve. “They want to find Arasaka. So do we. They want what’s in him. We want him out of their hands. We can’t give them V. But we can give them enough to keep them walking our way.”

Cassidy’s lip curled. “And when they decide we’re dead weight?”

Carol answered before Panam could. “Then we remind them why they still need us. You don’t hand a wolf your last cut of meat. You give it enough to keep it moving while you keep your knife sharp.”

Mitch nodded once, like he’d already worked the math. “Time. That’s what we buy.”

Panam nodded too, though the fork trembled in her hand. “Then that’s what we pay for.”

The room hummed louder, or maybe it was just her pulse. The StormTech soldiers nearby shifted, trays lifted, eyes sliding across them again. Not hostile. Not warm. Just noting, filing.

A shadow lengthened over their table.

Hale.

He didn’t need a file or clipboard. His presence was enough. He stood with his hands behind his back, eyes moving over each of them, pausing on Panam like a finger pressed to a bruise. His voice came calm, deliberate.

“Keep your strength. We’ll be moving soon.”

No threat. No warmth. Just fact.

Then he turned, boots clicking once on steel before the mess swallowed him.

The Aldecaldos sat in silence.

Cassidy’s heel tapped again, slower now, steady as a fuse burning short. “There it is.”

“First door,” Mitch said, not looking up.

“Corridor they want us to walk,” Cassidy muttered.

Panam pushed her tray back an inch. Appetite gone. “Then we walk it.”

The mess had quieted, the storm of bodies thinning until only their table held. The air still smelled of synth-coffee and steel, a hum of machinery bleeding through the walls.

Carol set her cup down, the sound sharp in the silence. “We’re not coming to this table empty,” she said, eyes steady. “We pulled more than wounds out of that tower.”

Cassidy gave a dry snort, arms folded across his chest. “Corps don’t give a damn about scraps. They’ll strip whatever we hand ‘em, melt it down, call it theirs.”

“Not scraps,” Carol shot back, tone flint. “Buried deep. Locked tight. Arasaka never meant for anyone else to touch them, and now we have them. That’s leverage, whether they admit it or not.”

Mitch rubbed at his jaw, nodding slow. “She’s right. It’s something. And something buys us time. Time we need.” His voice softened, almost apologetic. “We can’t waste any of it.”

That word—time—set Panam’s teeth on edge. Her hands tightened against the table until her knuckles burned white.

“Time,” she spat, sharper than she meant to. Her chair scraped hard against the floor as she surged up. “Every second we sit here, they’re carving him apart! What are we even doing? Waiting for permission? Watching clocks while Arasaka—” Her breath hitched, words ragged. She slammed her palm flat against the steel. “We’re losing him.”

Cassidy didn’t quip. Didn’t smirk. He leaned forward instead, voice rough with fire. “She’s right. Every hour they drag their feet, it gets worse. I don’t care what StormTech’s play is—this ain’t fast enough.”

A StormTech guard by the door turned his head, blank visor catching the light. He said nothing, just watched. That silence stoked Panam’s fury more than words would’ve.

Mitch rose, steady but deliberate, a hand brushing the air between them like he could smooth the edges without dulling them. “Panam, we know. We all feel it. No one’s sitting easy.” His voice was low, warm with steel underneath. “We’ll move. We will. Just—don’t burn yourself out before we get there.”

Carol’s hand found Panam’s wrist, not soft, but anchoring. Her gaze was sharp, tired, but protective. “Your fight’s the same as ours. Don’t think for a second it isn’t.”

Panam’s breath came heavy, the heat still burning under her ribs. But the contact, the weight of their eyes, pulled her back from the edge just enough. She swallowed hard, jaw clenched, the words she wanted to spit dissolving unsaid.

The table fell quiet again, but not from lack of things to say. It was the silence of people staring down a clock they couldn’t stop, knowing every tick belonged to someone else.

Panam couldn’t stand it. The weight pressed harder than noise, harder than Hale’s words, harder than Cassidy’s fire. She shoved back from the table, boots striking sharp against the floor.

“I need air,” she muttered, though it came out closer to a growl than anything else.

Cassidy let out a sharp breath through his nose, half a laugh, half a curse. “Air won’t change the fact we’re penned up while they play keep-away with the clock.” His voice carried the same bitterness, but not at her — at everything else closing in.

Mitch rubbed the bridge of his nose, voice low, steady. “We’ll get moving. Just… not if we come apart before then.”

Carol rose without a word. She gave Cassidy a look sharp enough to pin him in place, then turned and followed Panam into the corridor.

The base’s halls were all steel and recycled air, buzzing with power lines and the hum of hidden machines. Guards posted at corners glanced at them without turning their heads, eyes blank behind glass. Everything smelled of disinfectant and ozone, a place scrubbed of anything human.

Panam walked hard, her strides clipped and restless, every guard another wall in her way. The thought dug in with each step: V wasn’t here. He was somewhere else — chained, cut apart, dragged deeper into hell while she wasted time in a cage that pretended to be safe.

Carol’s boots caught up, slower, deliberate, like she knew rushing wouldn’t help. She fell into step beside her and said nothing for a long stretch.

Panam broke first. “I can’t sit there. Not while he’s—” Her voice caught, jagged. She swallowed hard and spat the only words she could shape. “Every second, it’s too long.”

Carol’s hand brushed her shoulder, firm, grounding. “You don’t have to sit still. But don’t tear yourself apart before we even get to him.”

Panam’s laugh came out brittle, scraping the edge of a sob. “Feels like I already am.”

Carol stopped her with a look, sharp and unflinching. “You’re allowed to break. But you’re not allowed to break us with you.”

Panam faltered mid-step, her throat working against the words she wanted to say. The lights above buzzed, sterile and cold. She dragged a hand across her face, smearing grit into sweat. “He’s in their hands, Carol. Every tick of that clock, it’s another piece of him gone.”

Carol’s grip slid from her shoulder to her wrist, steady and unyielding. “Then we make the ticks count. Not for them. For him.”

Panam met her eyes. There was no softness there, only steel tired from carrying too much weight. But it was still steel. And that was enough to hold her for now.

They walked in silence again, the buzz of generators filling the air. But Panam’s mind wouldn’t let go. She saw flashes behind her eyes — V at the wheel of the Thornton, his hand on the shifter, a grin flashing when he made the engine purr. The way his brow furrowed when he teased her, pretending not to take her seriously, until he always did. His weight at her side in the tent, an anchor as steady as sand under stars.

The memory stabbed sharper because it wasn’t gone — not yet — but the distance stretched wider with every tick of the clock. She pressed her lips together, jaw aching, and let the picture of him burn in her chest like a brand.

Her steps faltered. The wall found her shoulder, and before she knew it she was sagging into Carol, all the steel in her spine giving way at once. Carol caught her, arms firm, pulling her in before anyone else could see.

Panam’s fists knotted in the front of Carol’s jacket. Her forehead pressed against her chest, words breaking loose between gasps she couldn’t hold back. “I can’t stop thinking about it,” she choked, voice raw and splintered. “What they might be doing to him… what if—what if they already—”

Carol’s chin came down against her hair, the gesture small, fierce. She didn’t answer with promises she couldn’t make. She just held her there, arms locked around her like iron, shoulders taking the shake of Panam’s sobs without shifting an inch.

“Breathe,” Carol murmured, low and steady, her hand rubbing slow circles between Panam’s shoulder blades. “You don’t know. Not yet. And until you do, you hold.”

Panam clung tighter, as if the pressure could force the fear out of her chest. Her tears soaked into Carol’s shirt, hot and desperate, her breath breaking against every word she couldn’t shape.

The hallway stretched empty around them, lights buzzing above, guards looking past with practiced ignorance. But in that pocket of steel and silence, Panam’s world narrowed to the terror in her chest and the unyielding strength that kept her upright.

She didn’t stop shaking, didn’t stop whispering fragments of the same thought — that she couldn’t stop seeing him in their hands — but Carol never let her fall.

The light stabbed down, too white to belong anywhere but a lab. It flattened the world to sharp corners and pain. V squinted against it, but the restraint at his neck kept his head locked in place, forcing his eyes wide into the glare.

Steel cuffs pinned his wrists and ankles, so tight his skin burned beneath them. The dampener collar at his throat pulsed once—just enough voltage to remind him who held the leash. His jaw clenched hard, teeth grinding copper from a cut in his mouth.

Air came shallow. Every breath felt borrowed.

Shapes moved at the edges of the light. White coats, filtered masks, slates glowing with data. They didn’t look at him—only through him, into the numbers his body threw across their screens. No one asked if he could breathe. No one cared.

“He’s stabilizing,” one said in clipped Japanese. Fingers danced across glass. “Conductive response within predicted parameters.”

“Cognitive irregularities remain,” another replied, adjusting a dial. “Artifact interference increasing with each pulse.”

Artifact. Not person. Not man. Just a word to put distance between themselves and the thing strapped to the slab.

V swallowed blood, let it thicken on his tongue before spitting it at the ceiling. “Try talkin’ to me next time, you soulless fucks.” His voice came shredded, rough as gravel, but he forced it loud enough to cut across their chatter.

No response. Not even a glance.

The machine above him hissed, lowering a ring of prongs toward his chest. Cold brushed his skin where they touched, each one a little needle of ice sinking through muscle to bone. His ribs seized around the intrusion, breath locking.

The collar pulsed again, sharper. His back arched. Copper flooded his mouth, dribbling down his chin.

He rasped out a laugh anyway. “That the best you got? Been through worse on a fuckin’ bar tab.”

A pen scratched glass. “Subject exhibits verbal hostility under duress. Noncompliant.”

“Noncompliant,” V spat, teeth red. “You want compliant, go find a corpse.”

Still no reaction. Their voices didn’t rise or falter. He might as well have been background noise, the hum of a fridge or the click of a fan.

The prongs lit. White-hot current shuddered through his chest, down his ribs, into marrow already cracked from the desert fight. Every nerve screamed at once, his body trying to convulse against steel that wouldn’t give. His throat split on a ragged shout that tore him raw.

The reading spiked. One of them murmured approval.

The current shut off. V sagged against the restraints, sweat streaking cold down his temples. He forced his head up, blinked through the burn until his vision steadied on the blurred outlines.

“You think you’re smart, huh?” His voice came low, every word dragged through glass. “You think you’re the ones runnin’ this? You’re not even in the game. Just lab rats with clipboards.”

Another pulse. Short, brutal. His body jerked.

“Fuck you!” The words ripped out, half-scream, half-laugh. His chest heaved against steel, pain painting black at the edges of his vision. He spat blood again, let it drip down his chin like punctuation. “Not. Yours.”

The hum deepened. Not the machine this time. Lower, older. Beneath his skin. A pulse that wasn’t his heartbeat.

They test. They measure. They prod.

The voice slid through his nerves like silk pulled over barbed wire. Patient. Amused.

They think they hold the cage. They don’t see the door.

V squeezed his eyes shut. “Stay the fuck out of this.”

His words earned nothing from the staff, but a flicker from the voice. Cold amusement.

You bring us closer. Every prod is a key.

The machine above him lowered again.

V thrashed weakly against the restraints, wrists tearing raw against steel. The collar flared to punish him, voltage burning his throat. He roared through it, every sound defiance even when it came broken.

“You hear me, corpos? You’ll never have me. Never!”

One of them finally glanced up. Not at him—at the spike in data. “Increased neural resistance.” A pause, almost interested. “Record and repeat.”

The machine hissed again.

V’s scream bled into static.

The current hit harder this time, longer. It dug into his chest like claws, gnawing marrow, dragging heat through his veins until it felt like his bones would split open to let the fire out. His body convulsed against steel that refused to give. He heard himself scream and hated the sound, too raw, too small.

The lights overhead stretched into streaks. The voices blurred.

And then—

The floor dropped.

He fell sideways into a space that wasn’t the lab and wasn’t anywhere else, a half-place where gravity forgot itself. At first it was just the hum, deeper now, like an engine sunk beneath the marrow of the world. Lines of light crawled across the dark, thin and searching, trying to draw shapes but losing them halfway.

Johnny stepped out of the static like a cigarette burn through film. Aviators glinting with no source of light, wired grin sharp as ever. His eyes weren’t laughing. “They’re ripping you open like a radio, trying to tune past the static. You gonna let ’em?”

V’s mouth worked, though his voice cracked on the words. “Don’t exactly got a choice.”

“Bullshit.” Johnny’s voice bit sharp, too sharp. “Choice is all you’ve got left. Don’t hand it to the suits gift-wrapped.”

Footsteps, softer. Jackie arrived the way warmth does, bleeding into cold without needing to be invited. Jacket half-zipped, smile tilted easy. He looked at V the way he always had—like he believed in him even when V didn’t.

“Ey, hermano.” Jackie’s voice came steady, grounding. “Breathe. Don’t give the ghost in the wires more than it’s already stolen.”

V’s throat tightened. He wanted to say he was trying, but the words dissolved before they left his tongue.

The hum deepened.

Light drew together in the dark, throbbed as one, a heartbeat that didn’t belong to flesh. The shadows thickened until they had weight, and in them something leaned close—too many angles, too many edges, a shape that couldn’t settle on itself.

They peel you apart. Looking for us. They don’t see you at all.

The voice threaded through bone, smooth and cold, like oil poured over broken glass.

Johnny stepped between them, chin lifted like he could block it with nothing but spite. “You don’t get to talk for him.”

The thing rippled. We don’t talk for him. We talk through him.

Jackie’s hand landed heavy on V’s shoulder, solid enough to keep him from spinning into the abyss. “Don’t listen. They’ll take whatever they can. You only hold onto one thing.” His voice softened. “Her. You hold to her.”

Panam’s face broke across V’s mind, unbidden—her laugh, her hand steady on the wheel, the way she looked at him like he was still whole even when he wasn’t. The memory cut clean, too bright in the dark.

The shape pulsed, edges sighing outward.

Anchor. Leverage. Weakness.

V’s teeth clenched. “Strength.”

The thing tilted. Not when we wear it.

The world shuddered. Behind the dark, a wall of light stretched endless—a horizon that hissed without sound, symbols colliding, shredding, knitting back wrong. The Blackwall. He didn’t need an introduction; every instinct screamed what it was.

On the far side, something vast pressed close, like an ocean deciding it wanted to be seen.

Jackie’s grip tightened. “You don’t step toward that, hermano. You step back.”

Johnny’s laugh rang like broken glass. “Kid never learned that lesson.”

V’s chest heaved. He felt the collar burning in both places—the real one in the lab, and its echo here, choking sparks down his spine. Pain painted everything raw.

The voice leaned close, its whisper filling him. Survive. Aggregate. Continue.

“They’ll rip you out,” V rasped. “Put you in a box.”

A flicker of amusement. They think many things. None true for long.

The floor buckled again. Gravity remembered itself. Johnny’s hand slipped through like smoke; Jackie shoved him, hard, the way you push someone clear of a blast.

“Don’t let ’em narrate you,” Johnny snapped, fading, grin sharp and thin.

“Hold fast,” Jackie said, voice breaking. “And don’t you dare let go of her.”

The world collapsed.

The white ceiling swam back into focus, dragging him out of the dark like a fish on a line. V’s body convulsed once, then sagged into the restraints. His lungs fought shallow, every breath scraping raw. Heat pooled in his throat, trickled warm over his lip.

A red lens blinked above him, recording everything.

Hands in gloves swept in, efficient. Gauze pressed to his nose, not to comfort, only to keep the readouts clear. Blood soaked the pad in seconds. One tech peeled it away, replaced it with a fresh square, voice flat as stone.

“Subject destabilized. Neural resonance peaked at one-eighteen percent. Artifact response noted. Containment collar effective.”

V coughed, bile flooding his mouth. It burned its way out, splattering the floor beside the slab. He sucked air through clenched teeth, spat copper. “Write that down too, motherfuckers.”

No answer. Just more notes scratched onto slates, digits flashing across glass.

The door hissed. Polished shoes whispered across tile.

He didn’t need to look to know who it was. The air shifted — colder, heavier, like someone had carried the boardroom into the lab. The agent stopped just inside the light, hands clasped behind his back. Suit precise, hair slick, eyes unreadable.

He waited until the techs finished logging before he spoke. His voice was smooth, clipped, as if nothing here was remarkable. “How long can the restraints endure elevated convulsions?”

“One hundred trials before metal fatigue,” a tech replied.

The agent nodded once, then stepped closer. His gaze never met V’s. It studied him, not like a man, but like material under glass.

V bared his teeth, blood running between them. “You again. What’s the matter, corpo? Couldn’t find a real job?”

The agent’s expression didn’t flicker. “You endured. That has value.”

“Value?” V rasped, pulling against the cuffs until his wrists burned. “Fuck your value. You think these walls will hold forever? My clan’ll tear them down. They’ll gut you and everyone in this place.”

“Perhaps,” the agent said calmly. “If they do, we will collect their remains as well.”

The words hit colder than a blade. Not gloating. Not mocking. Just fact.

V’s chest heaved. Rage boiled, but fear cut through it, sharp and quick. “You don’t get it. You don’t know what’s inside me.”

“Correct.” The agent circled the slab, gaze steady. “That is why we study. An anomaly of this scale cannot be replicated. Nor wasted.”

“I’m not your experiment!” V roared, straining, wrists tearing against steel until blood slicked the cuffs. The collar pulsed, voltage crawling fire down his throat, but he roared through it anyway. “Not yours. Not fucking yours!”

The agent tilted his head slightly, as though observing a specimen under stress. “That is precisely what you are. An experiment is a tool. You are material. Material that will provide answers. When those answers are complete, your utility will end.”

The words landed like ice water, drowning.

V bucked hard, veins bursting against restraint. The slab rattled beneath him, metal groaning, his voice shattering the sterile hum. “I’ll tear this place down! Take you with me! You hear me?!”

His throat broke mid-shout, collapsing into a ragged sob he choked back before it could escape.

The agent stopped at the foot of the slab. Hands still clasped, expression unchanged. “Most assets of your kind are terminated before research begins. Your anomaly preserved you. That anomaly is the only reason you are not already discarded.”

V’s fury cracked. Desperation flooded in its place. “You can’t… you can’t pull it out. You’ll kill me.” His voice shook, broke around the words.

The agent considered him, calm as stone. “Your survival is not the priority. The artifact is.”

V’s breath hitched sharp. The words hollowed him out, carved deeper than any voltage.

His head sagged against the restraints. His wrists bled. His chest ached with every shallow drag of air. “You’ll never control it,” he whispered, voice threadbare. “It’ll burn you down from the inside.”

“Perhaps,” the agent said again, tone unchanged. “But it will be ours to burn.”

The silence that followed was heavier than pain. The agent lingered only a heartbeat longer, then turned on polished heels and left without looking back.

The door hissed closed. The red lens blinked once more, patient, unblinking.

V sagged. Every nerve trembled, muscles twitching with leftover current. His throat felt flayed raw, words still clinging to the air that hadn’t reached anyone who cared. The techs moved around him, adjusting readouts, checking lines, jotting numbers. None of them saw him. None of them heard him.

He closed his eyes. Panam’s face cut through the dark — her voice, her hands, the look in her eyes when she swore she wouldn’t lose him. He clung to it like a man drowning clings to the last air in his lungs.

It was all he had left.

Chapter Text

Panam woke with her jaw tight and her hands clenched so hard her nails dug crescents into her palms. Her chest heaved like she’d been running. Sweat dampened the back of her neck, sticking loose strands of hair to her skin.

The bunk felt too small, the air too thin. The hum of StormTech’s base crawled under her skin, a constant reminder she wasn’t home, wasn’t safe, wasn’t moving. She sat up fast, elbows braced to her knees, and pressed the heels of her palms into her eyes until colors flared.

Sleep hadn’t brought rest. Only jagged flashes she didn’t want — V’s face slipping away in the desert dust, hands reaching and not finding, voices she couldn’t answer. The fragments stuck even now, tight in her chest, sharp as broken glass.

Her breath caught. She lowered her hands, stared at the floor until it stopped tilting. But the question hit her the same way it always did, the one she never spoke aloud because saying it made it too real.

What was happening to him right now?

The thought tore through her like shrapnel. She swallowed hard, forced her boots to the floor, and stood. She couldn’t lie in the bunk and let her head eat itself alive. Not when he was out there, in their hands.

Panam moved like a shadow with purpose, boots thudding quiet on StormTech steel. Her hands still trembled from sleep; the bunker’s stale air stuck to her skin. She cut that way—no dithering, no small talk—toward the offices where Hale had taken his place: a square of glass and chrome that felt wrong against everything that had kept them alive on the road.

Guards lifted their heads when she passed; one inclined his chin without standing. She ignored them. The corridor narrowed, light humming steady as a metronome, and she felt every second clicking away like another thing they could not afford to lose.

Hale’s door was a panel of glass. He was already there—seated, hands folded on the desk with that patient posture he wore like armor. When he looked up, the expression on his face gave nothing away. There was no surprise in the set of his lips, no shift. Just the recorded calm of a man who measured people the same way others measured paper.

“Ms. Palmer,” he said, voice even. “You’re up early.”

She didn’t bother with greetings. Words that could be wasted were dangerous things here. She crossed the room in three long steps and stopped with her back to the glass, close enough to see the faint tightening at his jaw. “What’s taking so long?” Her voice was low, coiled. “Every minute we sit here, we hand them another hour with him. You tell me why you’re moving at a crawl.”

Hale’s hands didn’t move. When he answered it was with the same economy as a ledger entry. “Procedures,” he said. “Evaluations. Protocol.”

“That’s not an answer.” Her fingers dug into the seam of her palm until white showed. “I don’t want words, Hale. I want him back.”

He regarded her for a long breath, the room shrinking into the space between them. For a second his composure cracked in the tiniest way—an almost-smile that might have been pity or could have been contempt. “Then you’ll be glad,” he said.

The words shouldn’t have eased her, but they did—until the rest landed. “It’s your lucky day.”

Panam’s head snapped up. “Lucky?”

Hale inclined his chin toward the window, where rigs and crates and a line of men and machines showed in the outer yard—enough movement to make her stomach twist. “Reinforcements arrived at first light. Tactical assets staged. We have transport prepped.” He made it sound like logistics, like weather. “We move in one hour.”

For a beat the room fell into the small, dangerous stillness of someone marking a promise on a calendar. Panam felt the edges of her hope fray—Hale’s language always had a seam of something else underneath. “Why now?” she asked. “Why not sooner?”

He folded a thin file open and did not look at it. “Timing and conditions,” he said. “We required certain telemetry. We have it. Operations run on windows, Ms. Palmer. Not on impatience.”

She let the anger come hot and bright. “If you stall, I’ll go after him myself. I will burn this place down if I have to—” The threat cracked with all the rawness she’d been holding in; she wasn’t careful with it. “I won’t let him die in some lab while you decide how to dress the problem.”

Hale lifted his gaze then, slow. The tilt in his head was almost fond. “I understand the sentiment.” He folded the file closed with the gentlest of motions and stood. “But you should understand the economy of risk. Rushing in blind gets people killed. We are not interested in casualties that yield no data.”

“Then you’re interested in his life less than you claim,” she snapped.

“Not less.” He stepped a pace closer, still keeping a measured space between them. “Different. We prefer utility. Data must be preserved, assets stabilized. If that requires preserving him for extraction—then extraction it is. We move precisely to secure both.”

Panam’s throat worked. “So we move,” she said. The words were small. “One hour.”

“One hour,” Hale echoed. “You will have your convoy assembled. You will have safe egress to the transport. We’ll load and proceed on my signal.”

She saw the conditionality in the pause, the way he’d still be the one to give the signal. Still, it was more than she’d dared hope for in the last dream-dark minutes. “If you—if anything happens—” She didn’t finish. The threat tasted like the same desperate bile she’d been swallowing for days.

Hale’s face smoothed. “Then we will deal with it.” He allowed the faintest curvature at the corner of his mouth. “Bring your people to the staging yard in fifty minutes. Be ready.”

Panam forced out a breath that might have been a laugh if she’d let it. “We won’t be decoration for your security theater.”

“You will follow orders during the extraction,” he said. “It is not in your interest to create variables.” The emphasis was clinical; no heat. “We want him intact. So do you. That aligns our goals, however briefly.”

She held his gaze until the soft lie in his tone thinned her resolve like a wire. “One hour,” she said again, and this time the vow was a blade.

Hale nodded once. “One hour.” He gestured to the door the way one would gesture to an appointment. “You should rest. You’ll need strength.”

Panam’s laugh this time broke her. It was a sound of edges, of fear inside a grin. “Rest,” she echoed, and something like the echo of a prayer left her—too small for the desert to hold.

She turned to leave and, before the glass swallowed her silhouette, Hale added, almost conversational, “You should know—we will be monitoring all comms. Unscheduled resistance during the extraction will be interpreted as hostile action.”

She stopped, hand on the handle, and let those words settle: we will interpret, we will label, we will act. The calm in his voice was worse than a shout.

Outside, the yard already hummed with controlled, efficient motion. Panam’s boots hit the metal catwalk with a rhythm she tried to make steady. The hour was visible now—a tight slice of the future where everything either went right or burned.

She didn’t have time to be terrified. She had to move. She had to make sure that when the hour came she was the force that filled it, not the thing that let it slip away.

Fifteen minutes to ground. Forty-five to the line between them and whatever waited behind Arasaka’s doors. Hale’s “lucky day” sat in her gut like a stone—something to carry, not to swallow.

She walked toward the staging yard, every step a promise carved into the road.

Panam found them where she knew they’d be: Mitch by the rigs, checking the same lines he’d checked twice already, Cassidy pacing like a wolf caged too long, and Carol planted near the firepit, a cigarette smoldering in her fingers though she hadn’t drawn from it in minutes.

They looked up as she approached, the pace in her stride enough to cut through the air before she opened her mouth.

“We move in an hour.”

Cassidy’s hands flexed, his jaw tight. “Finally.” The word snapped out like a gunshot, his boots grinding the dirt as if the ground itself owed him blood.

Mitch didn’t move at first, just squinted at her like he was measuring the truth in her tone. Then he nodded once, slow, already turning his mind to what it would take to be ready. “Rigs prepped in twenty,” he said. Calm, almost steady, but the muscle in his jaw betrayed the storm beneath.

Carol flicked ash into the dust, eyes cutting sharp between the three of them. “Then you’d better make sure the clan hears it clean. No panic, no shouting. Just work.” Her voice carried the kind of weight that settled arguments before they started.

Panam breathed through her teeth, short and sharp. “Then tell them. Weapons, supplies, fuel. Check everything twice.” She couldn’t keep the edge out of her voice, couldn’t stop the coil inside her chest from bleeding into every word.

Cassidy’s lips twisted, a firelight glint in his eyes. “About damn time,” he muttered again, louder this time, the hunger in it enough to draw a glance from Carol.

“Cass,” she warned, low. Her hand didn’t rise, but it might as well have.

He spat into the dirt and fell quiet, though the tension in his shoulders stayed.

Panam turned toward the larger cluster of Aldecaldos nearby — younger ones tightening straps, older ones watching her with the kind of silence that pressed harder than questions. She raised her voice enough to cut through the hum.

“One hour. Hale’s pulling his people together now. That means we get our shit straight, and fast.”

A ripple went through the group, not loud but immediate — the sound of weapons checked, mags slammed into place, boots scuffing as people found motion to carry the weight of waiting.

Jace’s voice broke through, eager, cracking under the rush of it. “We’ll cut ’em down, Panam. They don’t stand a chance, you’ll see.”

Her glare shut him up cold. His grin faltered, but the shine in his eyes didn’t. Carol’s hand found his shoulder, squeezing hard enough to anchor him without a word.

From the edge of the firelight, Dakota finally spoke, her tone flat, almost quiet enough to be missed. “Then we’d better not waste a second.”

And that was all. She didn’t step forward, didn’t linger. Just turned back to the wounded she’d been tending, her silence heavier than anything she might’ve added.

The clan moved like a body with a single wound — restless, raw, bracing itself for the next cut.

The hour bled out of them in noise and motion. The camp shifted into rhythm, metal on metal, boots on steel, the soft chorus of straps buckled and checked again. It wasn’t frantic — not this clan. The Aldecaldos had learned long ago that panic killed faster than bullets. But it was fast, efficient, the kind of tempo that said they were bracing for something none of them could name aloud.

Cassidy stalked between fires and rigs like a restless animal, muttering curses under his breath as his hands tested every weapon within reach. Each click of a mag, each slap of a bolt sounded like a promise he was ready to cash. A few of the younger Aldecaldos watched him with a mix of awe and unease, their fingers fumbling with their own gear until Carol’s sharp voice cut across, steadying them with nothing more than tone.

“Clear heads,” she said. “Hands first, mouths later. Save the fire for when it counts.”

Mitch bent over one of the trucks, his cybernetic arm swallowing the light as he adjusted a clamp. Every so often he called out to someone nearby — short, practical instructions. “Top off that tank. You—grab the spare belts. No, both crates.” His voice wasn’t raised, but it carried, a kind of gravity that kept people moving without question.

Panam walked the line, her presence pulling every glance whether she wanted it or not. She felt the coil in her chest straining tighter with each pass: the sight of someone strapping armor plates, the smell of gun oil sharp in the air, the rasp of a blade drawn and tested against leather. Every sound made the minutes shrink. Every tick of time gnawed at her nerves.

Jace hovered on the edge of the older fighters, too quick with his hands, too fast with his words. He laughed at nothing, eyes bright with the kind of excitement only the young mistook for courage. “We’re ready,” he said to no one in particular, loud enough for everyone to hear. “We’ll hit ‘em hard.”

Carol’s look cut him down sharper than Panam’s glare had. “You’ll do what you’re told,” she said. Not cruel, not loud — just final. The boy swallowed and nodded, shifting his weight like his boots were suddenly too heavy.

On the far edge, Dakota moved among the wounded, silent, methodical. She barely raised her head when the noise swelled, only adjusted a bandage or handed off a vial of painkiller. Her quiet hung heavier than any speech could have. It was the silence of someone who knew too well what came after the guns stopped.

Panam’s pulse refused to settle. She kept her hands busy, tugging straps tighter, double-checking rifles she already trusted, because if she stopped moving the weight inside her chest might split her open. She caught herself snapping orders too quick, barking when she didn’t need to. Nobody called her on it. They all understood.

When the last magazine slammed home and the last rig was declared roadworthy, the camp didn’t breathe easier. It only braced harder, every eye drawn to the yard where StormTech’s shadow already waited.

The Aldecaldos marched as one toward the staging yard, dust kicking up under boots that moved in rhythm but not in ease. They expected their rigs, familiar engines idling, the ground ready to open under their wheels.

Instead, the yard bloomed under floodlights so harsh it felt like daylight hammered down from every angle.

The AVs sat in rows like predators tethered to the earth. Black-armored, sharp-edged hulls crouched low, turbine intakes keening like leashed animals. Some had harness rigs slung beneath them, steel claws ready to clutch whole vehicles and carry them skyward. Troops ringed the fleet in perfect ranks, rifles held with casual certainty, visors blank. They didn’t posture. They didn’t have to.

The Aldecaldos slowed without meaning to. Their leathers, patched jackets, and sun-scoured boots felt suddenly threadbare in the glare. Cassidy muttered something under his breath and spat, but the hitch in his step had already betrayed him.

Mitch’s eyes darted from harness to cable, already calculating sway, fuel, weight distribution, the mechanical math of survival. Carol’s stare cut across the lines of troops, her expression unreadable, but her hand brushed her pistol like a reflex. Jace looked like he’d stepped into a story he wasn’t old enough to believe — eyes wide, mouth open, caught between awe and nerves.

Then Hale stepped out from between two armored troops, posture crisp enough to cut. He moved like the yard belonged to him — which, in truth, it did. Soldiers flanked him in precise symmetry, but his gaze ignored them. It fixed on Panam.

“Ms. Palmer,” he said, his voice cutting through the hum of turbines. “Your convoy rides with StormTech now.” His hand flicked toward the AVs, the faintest curve tugging at his mouth — not a smile, more like the ghost of one. “We prefer to travel in style.”

It wasn’t humor, not really. More like a scalpel passed off as wit, a reminder of the gulf between their patched convoy and his polished fleet.

Cassidy’s mutter came sharp and low, meant for Panam’s ear but loud enough for Carol’s. “Style don’t mean shit if it’s full of holes.”

Carol’s elbow jabbed him hard in the ribs, a warning sharp enough to sting. “Save it,” she hissed.

Hale’s gaze didn’t shift, didn’t need to. “Time,” he said, each syllable flat as stone, “is the only currency that matters now.” A pause, cold and precise. “You’ll board when I give the signal.”

The Aldecaldos stiffened, silent, their weight pressed against a future already decided.

Panam’s jaw locked tight. She held his gaze, refusing to flinch, refusing to let him see the glass splintering in her chest. Behind her, the Aldecaldos checked their weapons again, tugged straps tighter, shoulders rolling back. Against StormTech’s steel, they stayed Aldecaldos — dust, blood, and grit wrapped in leather.

The yard roared louder as turbines spun up, wind whipping grit across their boots. The message was clear: they’d march, but not as themselves. They’d march as cargo inside someone else’s war machine.

And Hale, pale-eyed and precise, looked on as if the deal was already done.

Engines wound higher, turbines screaming into a pitch that rattled teeth. StormTech soldiers peeled into motion, snapping gestures too fast and uniform to be anything but rehearsed. The yard became a living diagram — squads directing Aldecaldo rigs to harness clamps, troopers guiding boots toward loading ramps without sparing so much as a glance at the people attached. Their hands touched rifles, gear, even shoulders without acknowledgment, as though the clan were freight instead of flesh.

“Like cattle,” Cassidy muttered, low. His boots still moved.

“Shut it,” Carol said, voice even, though her eyes flicked sharp at the armored ranks hemming them in. “Not here.”

Mitch paced each rig as it rolled under the belly of a waiting AV, watching clamps lock with the suspicion of a man who’d spent his life fixing things the corpos never built for desert roads. His metal hand rapped against a bracket once, the sound sharp. “Better hold,” he grumbled, half to himself, half to the storm overhead.

Jace couldn’t keep the awe from his face, wide-eyed as he craned his neck at the massive carriers. He moved when the others moved, but the shine in his eyes betrayed him. To him, it was spectacle, power made real.

Panam climbed the ramp last, her boots striking steel, the inside of the AV swallowing her whole. The air hit different — colder, processed, laced with ozone and oil. Benches lined the walls in perfect rows, restraints dangling like leashes. No dust. No open sky. Just the hum of machinery and the weight of glass and steel.

The Aldecaldos filed in, filling the benches, shoulders touching, weapons across their laps. The space felt wrong — too clean, too narrow. These weren’t their rigs, their dust, their rules. The walls pressed in, the air too sharp to breathe.

StormTech troopers moved down the aisle without looking at them, tightening straps, securing rifles, even nudging elbows into place if someone shifted. No words. No acknowledgment. Just hands treating them the way they treated cargo. The ramp sealed with a hydraulic hiss, the sound echoing like a vault locking.

Cassidy leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes hard on the floor. “Never thought I’d see the day we let some chrome-suits fly us into battle.”

Carol’s hand found his shoulder, firm. “We’ll see the day we bring V back. That’s what matters.”

Panam said nothing. She stared at the opposite wall, jaw set, the hum of the AV thrumming through her bones. Every second rattled inside her chest like a countdown, louder than the turbines outside.

Across from her, Mitch finally looked up. “Doesn’t matter whose bird this is,” he said. His voice was steady, iron wrapped in calm. “What matters is we land. And when we do—” His eyes shifted to Panam. “We make it count.”

The AV shook as engines throttled, the vibration crawling up through boots and spines. The Aldecaldos gripped what they could, bracing.

Outside, the yard was already shrinking.

The light above him didn’t flicker. It bored down, clean and merciless, turning skin into a map of every bruise and tape line and needle mark they’d left. V stared into it because the restraints gave him nothing else. The collar at his throat pulsed a metronome into his spine—short bite, short bite, the way a leash reminds a dog who holds it.

Gloves moved at the edges of his vision. Cold swabs. The antiseptic sting of skin wiped bare so the adhesive would take. Someone murmured in clipped Japanese; another answered with a number that made no sense to anyone with a pulse. Plastic crinkled. Metal touched bone. His body registered all of it as information the way a machine would. That felt like the point.

“Subject returning to baseline,” a voice said, neutral as a weather report. “Artifact resonance stable at sixty-seven.”

“Proceed with deep scan,” another replied. “Increment amplitude by two. Record anomalies.”

The collar ticked harder. The slab hummed under his spine like a distant engine. Air came thin and wrong, like the room had been cleaned of everything human.

You’re quieter when they talk about you like you aren’t here.

The voice slid in between the clinical commentary, patient and amused. It was nearer than before—no threshold to cross, no dream to pry open. It simply was.

V swallowed against the collar. “Get out of my head.”

A slow ripple of interest. We don’t leave what we already own.

“You don’t own shit.”

Yet.

A halo of prongs lowered toward his chest, railed in concentric rings. When they touched down, they were much colder than he’d braced for, teeth of winter pressing through to bone. He gritted his jaw and kept his eyes on the ceiling. One of the techs adjusted a dial; another scribbled. No one asked if he was ready. He almost laughed. Once upon a time he would’ve found something to grin about in that—something sharp enough to cut the moment to ribbons. The desert had sanded that down to a single line inside him that said hold.

The current hit. It didn’t blaze; it burrowed, needling into ribs and threading nerves with white wire. His back arched against the straps and the sound that ripped out of him didn’t even sound like a voice. Hands steadied cables. Nobody moved to steady him.

“Neural spike. Artifact interface positive.”

“Amplify.”

He tasted copper. He let it run down his throat rather than choke. “You think you’re in control,” he rasped into the light. “You’re just… wearing gloves.”

Let them try, the voice murmured, not to him so much as through him. They open doors without understanding where they lead. We enjoy that.

V shut his eyes and saw nothing. Not darkness. Not relief. Just the same light, as if the lids were glass and the room had been poured inside his skull.

“Subject displays verbal hostility,” a tech noted. “Cognitive focus… atypically resilient.”

“Noted.”

They like that you fight. It makes you interesting. It makes you worth the hours.

He wanted to spit. The collar timed another bite and turned the impulse to a full-body flinch. He forced breath in around it. “I’m not your goddamn hotel,” he said. “and I’m not your door.”

You’re both.

The prongs lifted. Things clicked and hissed. The hum under the slab changed pitch and the whole room seemed to lean. He couldn’t tell if it was a trick of the light or the way pain changes shape when it doesn’t get what it wants.

“Phase two. Begin.”

The floor tilted in his blood. Not the room—his blood. The sensation crawled out from the center of his chest where the currents had passed and tugged everything else with it. For a second the voices blurred, a chorus behind thick glass. For a second the collar felt very far away and very close at the same time, as if it had learned to breathe.

Don’t sleep, he told himself. ‘Don’t give them the easy road.

We don’t need you asleep, the voice said, almost kind. We need you open.

“Hold amplitude. Holding,” a tech said, like they were juggling weights rather than nerves.

The hum deepened again. The light pressed lower. Somewhere outside the white he heard the surgical calm of polished shoes.

“Continue,” said the agent, because of course it was him. The suit wore the same voice it had before, smooth edges, no dust anywhere. “He endures. That is useful.”

V wanted to lift his head and meet those eyes with something that would scar, but the collar translated the desire into a small jerk that rang down his spine like a misfired round. He let the hate sit in his chest like heat. He wasn’t giving it away for free.

Almost, the voice whispered. Not to hurry him. Not to warn. Announcing a schedule already kept. Almost time.

“To do what,” he said, and it came out more breath than sound.

Come through.

The slab fell sideways without moving. The ceiling slid. The light bent. The white peeled into gray and into something with depth it hadn’t owned a moment before.

V felt the place take him.

He did not fall. He unstitched. The room unseamed at the edges and kept the cut. The light thinned into lines and the lines crawled along air like insects made of drawing. Every shape tried to decide what it was and got it wrong. The floor below him developed a second floor below that, and then a third, until the idea of down grew teeth.

“Kid,” Johnny said.

He turned and almost saw him—aviators floating first, then a jaw set against a habit of smirking. Johnny’s mouth opened like he meant to throw a bottle at God and what came out was static. He reached for V’s shoulder and his hand went through.

“Hold,” Johnny said again, but the word broke—one syllable clean, one dissolved. “Don’t—” and then he was film burning in a frame, the image buckling, curling black at the corners.

“Ey.” Jackie’s voice. Solid, warm—then thinner than breath on glass. He stood where nothing else stood, jacket unzipped, that half-smile that always promised the next minute would be bearable because he was in it.

“You keep your feet, hermano,” he said; the words skated under V’s skin like heat does when it decides to be a comfort. “You hold to what matters. She—”

The place disliked the name. It chewed sound. Jackie’s outline shimmered. When V reached toward him, his own hand looked like a bad render—triangles where fingers should be. Jackie’s grip met him for a heartbeat that felt like a year, their palms clapping together in the old way—and then Jackie shook like a wire under load and blew out into pixels.

“Jackie—” V said, but the name cut him as it left.

They were gone. Not like someone had taken them. Like the room had never agreed to host them.

Something leaned close in the not-space where the white had been. It had a shape because he insisted on giving it one. It didn’t need one. If it had a face, it wore too many at once, none fitted to the bones. When it breathed, the breath slid along the inside of his ribs.

They try to separate you from the noise, the voice said. But you are the noise. And so are we.

The Blackwall announced itself as a taste—ozone and old metal—and then as a sight—horizon made of refusal. Symbols collided on its surface like storms, reknit wrong, and laughed without sound. On the far side, something patient pressed closer, as big as an idea that thinks it’s a god.

“They’ll pull you out,” V said, because saying it made it less like drowning. “They’ll cook me and decant you into a jar and give you a name with a serial number.”

They will try. Trying is a human verb. We prefer outcomes.

Images rippled up through the dark like fish that had learned to be pictures. A slab like his but not his. A glass room with thicker walls. A signature on a screen, nine strokes long. A drone settling into a cradle still dusted with desert grit. They slid away. They were not threats. They were calendar entries.

He felt the collar in both places, the echo and the iron. He wanted to reach for it and tear until the bone showed. He didn’t have reach. He had a word.

“Strength,” he said, and bit down on it like a cartridge.

We enjoy that word, the voice said. You keep it polished for us.

The ground under him learned to be viscera. Tile became meat, became cables that looked like veins and were, became hallways that narrowed when he breathed. He stepped and his foot sank as if the floor had skin. Faces rose in the walls when he looked too long—runners he’d heard stories about and runners he’d seen laugh and run and then stop—eyes lit with code like fire seen underwater. Their mouths opened and vomited numbers. He recognized none and all.

He waited for Johnny to mock this. He waited for Jackie's hand at his neck, the grounding squeeze. All he got was hiss.

Almost, the voice said again, louder. Almost here.

His temper flared and then failed to find air. “You’re not coming through me,” he said. “You’re not wearing me. You’re not touching her. I’ll—”

You’ll resist, the voice finished, pleased. Resistance generates data. More keys for more doors. You are a narrow throat, but a useful one.

The corridor bent to a circle. He faced himself—strapped, collared, lit to death. For a second it was him on the slab and him watching, and in the space between those two hims the agent stood, hands behind his back, eyes bright with the kind of interest people bring to auctions.

“Continue,” the agent said, voice faint, as if he were speaking through glass and his words were the only thing that made it through.

V lunged, and the circle moved, and he didn’t.

You’re tired, the voice observed, like a doctor remarking on weather. Meat has limits. We will remember them for you.

“Fuck you,” he said, and that still felt good on his tongue, even here. “You’re a grave that learned to walk.”

Accurate enough. The thing leaned closer until cold grew weight. We remember many who thought they were the last chapter in their own book. They all end with us. We would prefer you end differently. We would prefer you carry us further.

The Blackwall brightened. The far side smiled without a mouth.

V thought of Panam. Not a heroic pose. Not the doomed romance of it. He thought of the grease under her nails and the way she swore at stripped threads. The weight of her knee hooked over his thigh when sleep finally took her. The habit she had of checking a map with two fingers like she could read it by touch. Small things. Proof.

The place paused. Not much. Enough.

Anchor, the voice said. Leverage. Weakness.

“Strength,” he said again, and meant it harder.

The room decided it was done with metaphor. The light slammed back. The collar flooded heat down his spine with a crackle that tore his throat open. He coughed and blood went everywhere it could go, including places it shouldn’t. Alarms bit the air.

“Seizure onset,” someone said, almost curious. “Electrical disturbance escalating. Artifact interface unstable.”

“Hold him,” said another voice, and hands became clamps became steel.

V tried to say no and the word got chewed in the gears of his jaw. He tried to say Panam and the name filled his mouth with sparks.

The voice did not raise itself to be heard over the alarms. It didn’t have to. Almost.

He saw the agent lean into the edge of the light. A silhouette tidying itself. “Record everything,” the suit said, gentle as a bedtime story. “Do not interrupt the event unless respiratory arrest is imminent.”

Event. He would have laughed, but his teeth were busy trying to climb out of his skull.

The current came again—too clean, too white. His back left the slab and the straps kept it from going far. All four limbs jerked against metal until skin gave. His vision pixelated and then smeared. He heard himself make a sound he didn’t know he could make and hated that too.

“Heart rate spiking—”

“Containment collar holding—”

“Amplitude steady at—”

Numbers stormed the room. The collar found a new note and pressed it between vertebrae until his legs kicked without asking him. A tech’s hand flashed in, adjusting a dial; the world narrowed to that hand and then widened to everything all at once.

Almost, the voice said, right against the spot under his sternum where breath should live. You open so well when you break.

He tried to think of anything that wasn’t breaking. He found a desert road. He found a laugh thrown across a fire. He found a hand in his. He found Jackie’s shoulder bumping his, Johnny’s eye roll, the stupid old jokes, the simple human gravity of being two idiots walking the same block. He held those like a man holds a door in a wind that wants to rip it off the hinges.

The wind enjoyed the effort.

The seizure rolled him. He rode it until he couldn’t, then drowned under it. Blood trickled from his ears, from his nose, warm lines running into hair that had forgotten it ever lay down. His tongue found copper again and clung to it because at least it was his.

The alarms climbed the scale. A medic said now in a voice that broke protocol and someone else said wait and the agent said nothing at all.

Almost ours, the voice murmured, satisfied in a way that made the word smaller than it should have been.

Everything went very bright, then very far. He clutched the last picture of her like it could float. It didn’t. Nothing floated here. He held anyway.

The collar pulsed once, meaner than the rest. His body seized so hard his vision cracked down the middle.

The room blurred into streaks and then into nothing.

The last thing he felt was his fingers trying to curl against steel. The last thing he heard was paper voices counting him like numbers. The last thing he chose was the image of Panam’s mouth forming his name—no sound, just shape, the way a prayer looks when you don’t say it out loud.

Then the white swallowed him, and the alarms went on without him.

Chapter Text

The AV held its own weather. Cold air moved in circles with no smell of dirt in it, pushed through vents that never clogged, never coughed, never carried a trace of campfire or diesel or sweat. The light came from nowhere and everywhere at once—flat, clinical, the kind that made skin look thinner and steel look expensive. The benches ran in two strict rows and the restraints hung down neat as leashes. When the ramp sealed, the hiss sounded like a vow.

Panam couldn’t sit still. She did it, because bodies follow orders they don’t agree with when enough of them are watching, but the energy in her legs kept looking for road that wasn’t there. The harness crossed her chest and turned breath into something counted. Every time the turbines shifted pitch she felt it in her molars. She tracked the vibration with the pads of her fingers pressed to the bench, as if she could teach herself the rhythm and stop mistaking it for a countdown.

StormTech troopers lined the aisle like fixtures, boots planted, visors reflecting a bent version of the Aldecaldos back at them—patches warped, faces cut by the curve of glass. They didn’t look. They didn’t speak. One of them adjusted a strap over Panam’s shoulder with two gloved taps and moved on without meeting her eyes, like tightening down cargo. The gauntlet brushed the buckle. She didn’t flinch. She set her jaw and stared past him until he was a different problem somewhere else.

Cassidy leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hat brim low, hands clasped like he was cradling a thing only he could feel. If there was a joke in him, he let it die before it reached his mouth. Sound carried in the hull; even the little noises had edges. When he exhaled, it was through his nose, slow, as if he were walking himself backwards from a cliff and counting the steps.

Mitch said nothing. He had the look he wore when an engine knocked wrong six miles from the next town—everything in him turned in toward the problem, eyes unfocused not from distraction but from too many calculations trying to share the same space. His metal hand rested on a bag of belts and tools someone had insisted wouldn’t be necessary inside a flying coffin. His fingers kept a slow time, thumb sliding across knuckles like he was feeling for a groove that would tell him what came next.

Jace had both boots planted and couldn’t stop his right heel from bouncing anyway. He tried to pin it under his other foot and the tremor just moved up to his knee. His eyes wouldn’t settle. They hopped from visor to rifle to harness clamp to the tiny rivets marching along the seam of the bulkhead and then back to the soldiers again, as if looking straight at one might make it blink and turn human. It didn’t. The kid’s mouth was a thin line he kept wetting with his tongue, the way you do right before you lie. He wasn’t lying. He was trying not to say I’m scared. It hovered in the air anyway, like a taste everyone could feel.

Carol sat with her shoulders squared and her hands folded on her thighs, palms down. There was a cigarette behind her ear she’d forgotten she couldn’t light. The corner of the filter brushed her hair when the AV shivered and she caught it with two fingers and put it in her pocket without looking, an old reflex curbed and stored for later. Her head tilted toward Panam, toward Jace, toward Cassidy in a slow circuit that would’ve passed for calm to anyone who didn’t know her. Panam knew her. The tendons in Carol’s neck stood out when the engines hit a certain pitch, the one that told you the ground had let go.

Dakota had taken the spot nearest the ramp before it sealed and hadn’t moved since. Hands folded in her lap, eyes half-lidded, resting not like sleep but like a switch turned to low. If she prayed, it was to the thing that lived between beats and between bullets—the quiet that decided who bled out and who woke up. She met no one’s gaze. It wasn’t distance. It was the professional solitude of someone who would hold your life between her fingers in an hour and didn’t want you to see how much work it took to be ready.

Hale sat opposite Panam with all the ease of a man in a lobby chair. No harness. One hand braced lightly on a ceiling rail, fingers barely curved, the other resting on a tablet that wasn’t on. He watched nothing in particular with the kind of attention that makes people behave. A trooper stood half a step behind him, an unnecessary shadow. The AV shifted through another layer of air; Hale adjusted his balance with a small correction that said he’d spent enough years in machines like this to let them think for him. When his eyes moved, they moved last to Panam, like she was the place he was headed all along.

She held that look the way she held hot metal with a rag—firm enough not to drop, careful enough not to scorch. If he smiled, it didn’t waste the effort to reach his mouth. There was a suggestion of it in the corners of his eyes, the way some men smile at ledger entries coming out even.

The engines climbed. The floor trembled in long, low shivers that ran up into bone. The hull moaned around the edges like wind in a narrow canyon. Somewhere above their heads metal split air and stitched it back again. Panam imagined the desert rolling out underneath them, the roads they knew unspooling empty, and it made the walls creep closer.

“Breathe,” Carol said, not to anyone specific. It threaded through the noise like a string recorder under a siren. Panam dragged air in against the harness and let it go slow through her teeth. It didn’t make room, but it kept her from clawing at the buckle.

Cassidy tipped his hat up with a knuckle and looked down the row at Jace. The kid jerked his gaze away from the closest visor and tried to make his mouth into something that wasn’t a line. Cassidy held him for a beat, not unkind. Then he looked at Panam and something like a nod passed between them—I’m here. You’re here. We do the thing. He shifted his clasped hands, thumb running the ridge of a scar across his knuckles. The turbines changed voice and something behind his eyes hardened into place.

Radio chatter ghosted through the hull, too clean to catch much—call signs, vector numbers, a storm of confirmations that sounded like people trying not to admit they were human. The troopers didn’t respond with words. They twitched, they checked, they adjusted. The Aldecaldos watched and learned nothing useful.

Panam’s head wouldn’t stop turning toward the forward bulkhead as if she could see through it. There was a point out there where the air thinned and the heat blurred and a building full of men who thought they were god’s idea waited with V laid out under their lights. Her jaw ached from clenching against pictures she couldn’t keep down—the way blood runs when it has nowhere to go, the sound a collar makes when it decides to sing.

She shut her eyes and got the same white ceiling anyway. She opened them before it could stick.

Mitch finally spoke, voice pitched low like he was afraid of waking something. “Altitude’ll make the drop rough. If they put the rigs down hot, watch your axles on the first bite. Don’t overcorrect.”

Jace nodded too fast, like he could staple the advice to muscle with enthusiasm alone. “Right,” he said, and his voice cracked on the single syllable. He cleared his throat and the sound sounded too loud, so he swallowed the rest of whatever he’d been about to promise.

Hale’s gaze slid across them again and came to rest on the far wall. If he felt the press of their fear, he filed it as ambient noise. The tablet stayed dark under his palm. He didn’t need it to tell him where they were going. People like him discovered early that you only need instruments when your instincts have not been well fed.

A jostle rippled down the benches like a shrug. Somewhere aft, clamps tightened around an Aldecaldo rig with the heavy-metal clunk that says committed. The sound had weight, a finality that cut through the abstract. Cassidy’s fingers flexed. Carol’s hand found the edge of the bench and anchored there. Panam’s knee bounced once; she stilled it with her palm.

The AV held its weather. It pressed them all into their own skins and made them take inventory. Every face showed a different answer to the same question. Are you ready?

Panam didn’t know. Readiness didn’t matter. Moving did. She rolled her shoulders back until the harness bit and made a shape with her spine that felt like standing, even sitting down. Her eyes found Hale one more time, because there wasn’t anything else to look at that didn’t make her bite through her tongue, and gave him nothing. Not fear. Not thanks. Not anything he could put in a box.

“Five minutes,” a trooper announced to no one, voice filtered flat through a vocoder. It hit the benches and broke into ten different kinds of breath.

The AV dipped a fraction, corrected. The sound the air made against the hull changed, edging toward a growl. The floor told Panam what Mitch would’ve told her if he’d been holding a steering wheel: they were leaving the part of the sky that liked them.

“Breathe,” Carol said again, and Jace did, shaky but obedient. Cassidy’s shoulders went back. Mitch’s hand settled on the bag and stopped moving. Dakota’s eyes opened a fraction and then half-closed again, like she’d decided which part of what happened next would need her.

Hale’s stance didn’t change. He drew in a breath so small it barely counted and let it out like a man finishing a page.

The AV carried them forward into air that didn’t want them, into a silence packed with teeth. The world outside narrowed to a target they couldn’t see. Inside, the machine hummed, a heart with chrome arteries, and the clan sat strapped inside it with their own hearts trying not to learn the beat.

Panam curled her fingers around the edge of the bench until her knuckles paled. Hold. The word ran under her ribs like a wire. Move when the door opens. Don’t blink. Don’t break. Bring him home.

Somewhere up front, something heavy slid home with a sound like a lock finding its keeper.

Five minutes stretched thin as a tripwire.

Cassidy let the silence ride a little longer, letting the engine-hum and the weight of the harnesses work their way under the skin. Then he straightened, hat brim lifting just enough to catch the overhead glare, and cleared his throat.

“Funny thing about war,” he said, voice rough, carrying anyway. “Ain’t the bullets that do the real cuttin’. Ain’t even the fire, or the blood. It’s the wait. Always the wait.”

The younger Aldecaldos turned toward him without meaning to, Jace most of all. Carol’s eyes cut his way, sharp but not stopping him. Mitch looked up from his bag, quiet. Panam stilled her bouncing leg. Even Hale’s gaze shifted, just slightly, as if curiosity could slip past indifference.

Cassidy leaned forward, hands clasped, elbows on his knees. “I been in holds like this before. AVs, trucks, shit-box APCs rattlin’ through mud — same hum, same smell of oil and nerves. Men sittin’ shoulder to shoulder, countin’ breaths like they’re bullets in a mag. Some makin’ jokes too loud, some whisperin’ prayers, some just starin’ holes in the wall hopin’ the wall stares back with answers.”

He drew a breath, let it out slow. “And every single one of us knew the truth, even if we didn’t say it. Once that ramp drops, once the boots hit dirt — you’re not the same man that climbed in. Don’t matter if you walk out with blood on your hands or just dirt on your boots. Somethin’ gets carved off, left behind, and you don’t get it back.”

Jace’s mouth opened, closed. His knee had stopped bouncing.

Cassidy’s grin came crooked, joyless. “You get to choose, though. That’s the thing they don’t tell you in the pamphlets. Choice ain’t about dyin’ or not dyin’. Choice is about whether you let it hollow you out. Whether you’re just a body that walked back, or if you’re still you under the scars.”

The words hung in the recycled air. The troopers didn’t react — stone behind glass — but the Aldecaldos carried them like weight added to a pack they already wore.

Mitch shifted, the sound of his metal hand flexing against the tool bag cutting through. His voice was steady when it came, pitched low, gravel in it. “He’s right.”

Cassidy’s eyes slid his way, not surprised.

Mitch went on. “You don’t come back clean. Hell, sometimes you don’t come back at all. But if you’re walkin’ in with family at your side, if you remember why the fuck you’re doin’ it — that’s what decides if you’re still whole when you crawl out.”

Carol’s lips pressed into a thin line, but she didn’t stop either of them. Jace looked between Cassidy and Mitch like they were maps he couldn’t read yet but wanted to memorize before the ink bled away.

Panam’s hands knotted tight in her lap, nails biting her palms. She didn’t speak, but the fire in her eyes told the story plain. V was her reason. She’d burn the world for it.

Cassidy leaned back, hat brim dropping, but his voice carried one last time. “So make your choice now. Before the ramp drops. ‘Cause once it does, you won’t have time to think. You’ll just be whatever you already decided to be.”

The turbines growled higher, the hull shaking with it. Every word seemed to settle into the metal, into their bones, into the silence that came after.

Mitch nodded once, the gesture small but solid. “Ain’t wrong.”

The AV pressed forward, carrying them into the dark that waited.

The hum underfoot deepened, shifting pitch like a warning. The AV lurched just enough for everyone to feel it in their teeth. Outside, engines roared in concert, the kind of sound you don’t mistake for turbulence — it was intention, machines re-aligning with a plan.

Through the narrow ports, light fractured. Shapes cut across the sky — other AVs sliding into new positions, their bellies opening like jaws to release the rigs clamped tight beneath them. The vibration doubled, metal straining, as Aldecaldo steel met harness steel.

“Clamp release in two minutes,” a StormTech trooper called out, his voice flat through the vocoder. It wasn’t a warning; it was a fact, like saying the sky was blue.

Mitch’s eyes flicked to the wall as if he could see through it, lips moving in silent math. “If they drop hot, it’ll be rough,” he muttered. His hand clenched the bench, metal fingers ringing faintly against the brace.

Cassidy lifted his head. The drawl was gone, stripped clean down to something sharper. “Doesn’t matter how we hit the ground. What matters is we don’t scatter.”

The clan looked at him, all of them, and saw a man they half-recognized. Not the one who cracked jokes by the fire, who strummed old songs until the dust felt lighter. This Cassidy’s voice had an edge like steel honed too thin — the kind that cuts if you breathe wrong.

Carol gave the faintest nod, her silence approval enough.

Jace’s grip tightened on his rifle. His knuckles bleached white, and he looked to Cassidy the way a green soldier looks at the one who’s already bled. His Adam’s apple bobbed, hard, but no words came.

The AV shuddered as clamps disengaged somewhere below, followed by the groan of cables straining. A hollow thud echoed up through the floor as one rig was released. The Aldecaldos felt it more than heard it — their lives being lowered into the storm one by one.

“Formation one,” Hale’s voice cut through the cabin, smooth, unhurried. He hadn’t moved from his seat, but the weight of command bent the air around him. “Ground units deploy. Convoy spacing at seventy meters. Troopers: primary perimeter. Aldecaldos: secondary screen.”

He didn’t look at them when he spoke the last. It was an allocation, not an invitation.

Carol’s jaw flexed, but she said nothing. Mitch’s eyes narrowed, memorizing every syllable like he was fixing it to a map.

Cassidy leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, voice carrying calm authority. “You heard the man. We slot in behind their chrome wall. Keep your eyes up. Stay tight. If one rig breaks, we all break.”

It wasn’t the tone of a man offering advice. It was command. For once, no one argued.

Panam sat rigid, her heart hammering against the harness. The air felt wrong — too clean, too sharp, not meant for desert lungs. She wanted the wheel in her hands, the horizon under her tires, the dust telling her where to go. Instead she had Hale’s voice and clamps and steel and the knowledge that V was somewhere waiting while minutes bled out like open veins.

The floor jerked under them again. Another rig gone.

“Drop sequence commencing,” the trooper intoned.

Cassidy rose half out of his seat, hat brim shadowing his eyes. His voice was flat, stripped bare of everything but necessity. “On my call, we move. Not before.”

Jace stared at him, wide-eyed, and swallowed hard.

The AV tilted nose-down. Harnesses groaned. The world outside howled against the hull, louder, sharper, like claws dragging across glass. Panam’s hand knotted tight in her lap until her nails dug blood.

Cassidy’s gaze swept the clan — and for the first time in a long while, there was no joke in it, no twang meant to soften the edges. Just fire, banked but burning. “When that ramp drops, we don’t wait for orders. We do what we’ve always done. We ride together.”

The hull screamed as clamps disengaged. Gravity punched.

The rigs fell.

The clamps groaned, cables straining as the convoy dipped into the black. The AVs shuddered in unison, turbines screaming against gravity’s drag. Inside, every Aldecaldo stiffened, shoulders touching, breaths sharp. The space smelled of oil and ozone, the tang of steel pressing down on them like the lid of a coffin.

Cassidy broke the silence.

“Y’know,” he started, voice pitched low and rough, “this ain’t my first drop.” His gaze stayed pinned to the floor, not looking at anyone. “Back in the war, they threw us outta birds uglier than this. Rust buckets with more holes than armor. We were kids. Didn’t know shit. Just knew somebody in a tower told us where to point the barrel.”

Panam’s jaw tightened. She glanced sideways. Mitch had stilled, eyes narrowing with that old, haunted recognition she’d seen too many times in men who carried the war under their skin.

Cassidy’s words rolled on, steady, worn smooth by years. “They called it freedom. Called it home. Always got a name for it, don’t they? Something clean. Something worth dyin’ for. But once the dust hit your teeth, didn’t matter what they called it. All you could see was who was standin’ next to you. And who wasn’t.”

The AV creaked again, a bracket groaning. Jace flinched at the sound, eyes wide, rifle clutched too tight in his hands. Panam caught the movement, the quick dart of fear, and her gut clenched — he was too green for this. He was supposed to still be just a kid. But here he was, strapped into steel, listening to ghosts.

Cassidy didn’t spare him a glance. His voice cut clean through the tension. “Out there,” he jerked his chin at the sealed ramp, “same rules apply. Corps’ll dress it up with tech, tactics, strategy. But that ain’t what saves you. What saves you is us. How close we ride. How tight we hold. You let the space between you get too wide—”

He snapped his fingers once, sharp as a rifle crack. “That’s where you die.”

Panam’s pulse stumbled. She could almost see it, the way the drop could scatter them, pull them apart into the corps’ rhythm, leave them picked off one by one. Her hand balled into a fist before she realized it.

Mitch finally spoke, his tone low but steady, words weighed like bullets. “He’s right.”

Jace’s throat bobbed, his face pale in the harsh cabin light. His eyes kept darting from Cassidy to Mitch to Panam, like he was searching for proof, for some anchor that would keep the truth from swallowing him whole.

Carol didn’t speak. She just leaned back, her arms crossed, listening with eyes sharp as flint. But Panam saw it—the way her gaze softened when it slid to Jace, the way she let Cassidy’s words hang heavy instead of cutting them down.

Cassidy leaned back at last, the ghost of a smirk twitching at his mouth, though his eyes stayed hard. “Ain’t tellin’ you this to scare you. Tellin’ you so you don’t forget. They got their soldiers. We got us. That’s worth more than style, or steel, or whatever the fuck Hale calls tactics.”

The AV jolted as a rig slammed into harness below, the whole cabin rattling. Jace jumped, breath hissing between his teeth. Panam steadied herself against the bench, shoulders pressed into Mitch’s.

Cassidy didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. Just went on. “You stay close. You keep your eyes open. And when the fire starts, you run like hell’s already burnin’ behind you. That’s how you come home.”

His last words dropped low, nearly swallowed by the hum of turbines. “That’s how we make sure V comes home.”

Panam felt it hit her like a steel plate to the chest. Her breath stuck, raw, too tight to let out. She wanted to look away, wanted to hold onto anger instead of the fear that crawled up her spine, but she couldn’t. Cassidy had stripped it down to the truth — nothing clean, nothing noble. Just survival. And survival meant keeping V alive, no matter the cost.

The cabin fell quiet again, but it wasn’t the silence of fear anymore. It was something heavier. Binding. Every word Cassidy had dropped stayed in the air like shrapnel, and Panam felt each piece lodge in her chest.

The cables strained. The world outside roared. The ground was coming fast.

The cables snapped free.

The AV dropped like a guillotine loosed, turbines howling against gravity. Straps dug into shoulders. Boots braced against steel. The world shook.

Panam gritted her teeth, every muscle wired tight, holding the bench as the cabin rattled around them. Jace muttered a curse that sounded too young in his mouth. Cassidy leaned forward like it was an old song he’d already learned the tune to. Mitch’s jaw flexed, eyes locked on the floor, running numbers Panam couldn’t see.

The clamps beneath them screamed as rigs released in sequence. Through the narrow portholes, desert blurred into view — a shifting sheet of gold and shadow, broken by the black geometry of Arasaka walls. Too close now to be abstract.

StormTech soldiers moved like parts of a machine, checking rifles, strapping helmets, securing visors. Not a word wasted, not a gesture uncalculated. Their calm was worse than nerves — like death was just a logistical variable they’d already accounted for.

“Stand by for drop,” a voice barked over the intercom. Corporate steel, unyielding. “Vehicles will disembark first. Infantry follows on signal.”

Cassidy’s head tilted, a humorless chuckle catching in his throat. “Riding in style, huh?” he muttered. The words carried, sharp enough for more than the Aldecaldos to hear.

Panam’s nails bit her palms. She wanted to pace, to move, to throw herself out the hatch and into the fight already. Every second stretched thin, a wire ready to snap. V was down there. Still breathing. Still waiting. And she was locked into a cage of chrome and corporate calm.

The AV lurched again, descending lower, turbulence hammering the cabin. Somewhere below, clamps disengaged and the first Aldecaldo rig dropped like a stone before turbines caught it, cables hissing as it was guided toward the dirt.

Mitch leaned forward, voice low. “That’s ours.” His tone carried no fear, just fact. “Dakota’ll be behind the wheel.”

Panam’s chest tightened. She pictured how Dakota’s hands would be steady on the controls, face carved of stone, leading the rigs back into dirt where they belonged.

“Stand by,” the voice snapped again. “Doors open in thirty.”

The soldiers rose in unison, visors reflecting the harsh cabin lights. The sound of rifles racking echoed like the snap of bone.

The Aldecaldos followed, slower, less precise but no less sharp — jackets creaking, boots shifting, weapons slung into ready grips. Cassidy rose first, revolver heavy at his hip, his presence setting the rhythm. Mitch took the space at his flank, Panam close at his shoulder. Carol fell in tight behind them, her silence louder than words. Jace came last, hands trembling around the stock of his rifle, but he came.

Engines roared. Heat pressed through the hull. The AV became a furnace of breath and anticipation.

The ramp hissed. Light poured in — blinding, brutal.

They weren’t falling anymore. They were here.

The jolt shuddered through every bolt and plate as the AV kissed dirt, suspension groaning under the weight. Dust rolled in through seams the air scrubbers couldn’t quite catch, coating tongues with grit, choking the antiseptic sting of the recycled air.

The ramp dropped with a hiss, and the world outside came in sharp and blinding. Floodlights cut through the haze, painting the desert floor a harsh white that flattened shadows into black scars. The storm of turbines still throbbed overhead as other AVs circled, banking into descent like carrion birds.

The Aldecaldos moved first. Cassidy hit the ramp with his rifle low, shoulders loose but eyes flinty, scanning every angle like he’d never stopped fighting the war he came back from. Mitch followed, broad frame rolling steady, shotgun slung across his chest, every step measured like he was walking a line he’d rehearsed a thousand times.

Carol came next, hand brushing the butt of her pistol without drawing, gaze sweeping the ring of StormTech troopers who had already fanned out into perfect lines. She didn’t speak, didn’t need to — her silence said enough: we are not them, and we never will be.

Jace hesitated. His boots clanged against the ramp, too loud, betraying the tremor in his legs. He gripped the strap of his rifle like it might fly away without him, eyes wide, pupils swallowing the desert glare. He swallowed hard and moved faster, almost tripping to keep pace, his face young in a way the others no longer remembered being.

Panam came last. She shouldered through the wall of heat and light, boots sinking into loose dirt, the hum of StormTech’s precision drilling into her skull. The air felt wrong — too still under the turbines, too sharp against her skin. She could feel the clan at her back, their weight, their nerves, their fury. Her lungs fought for breath against the invisible clock ticking louder with every step.

Across the field, StormTech soldiers flowed out of their carriers in practiced waves, rifles shouldered, armor matte and faceless. No hesitation. No sound but the crunch of boots and the clipped gestures of command.

The Aldecaldos stood among them — dust, leather, patched jackets dulled by years of sun and blood. For a moment the two groups were a mirror cracked down the middle: one half regimented steel, the other raw bone.

Cassidy’s voice came low, almost a growl. “Feels like we’re walking into someone else’s story.”

Mitch’s hand clapped once against his shoulder, a short, grounding weight. “Then we make it ours.”

Carol gave a sharp nod, eyes narrowing against the glare. She didn’t say hold steady or follow her lead — but every look she gave Panam carried those words anyway.

Panam’s pulse beat hard enough to hurt. She glanced at the horizon — flat, endless, hiding nothing and everything. Somewhere out there, Arasaka was moving him, cutting him open in ways she couldn’t let herself imagine. Every second wasted here was another inch of blood on the floor she couldn’t see.

Her fists clenched. Her voice stayed inside, but her whole body said it plain: This is it. We move. Now.

And then the crunch of boots approached, steady, deliberate. Hale’s shadow stretched across the dust, cutting between chrome and leather, silence parting for his presence.

“Ms. Palmer,” Hale said, voice measured, predatory calm. “I trust your clan is ready. StormTech doesn’t wait for stragglers.”

Panam’s reply cut fast. “We’re ready.”

The ground answered first. A deep shudder ran through the dirt as turbines screamed overhead and rigs rolled forward in low gear. StormTech soldiers poured out in two perfect wedges, rifles leveled, boots hitting the dust in absolute rhythm. Their floodlights carved lines through the haze, sterile beams cutting across the clan’s patched leathers and desert-worn rigs like judgment.

Then the desert split open.

Arasaka fire hit first — tracer rounds tearing the dark, red streaks snapping across the formation like claws. The air lit up in jagged bursts as automated turrets spun to life on the compound’s walls, vomiting steel into the sand. A shell cracked wide to the left, the blast throwing grit in a hot wave across their faces.

StormTech answered in unison, rifles roaring, shoulder-mounted drones breaking from their harnesses to arc fire skyward. Their precision was machine-perfect — every volley timed, every step unbroken, chrome discipline biting back at the storm.

The Aldecaldos slammed into the fight beside them. Cassidy’s rifle cracked sharp and fast, his drawl gone, his voice cutting through the chaos with hard commands: “Keep tight! Don’t scatter!” Mitch’s shotgun roared heavy, every blast punching holes in the dark. Carol’s pistol snapped quick and precise, each shot placed like a hammer striking nails. Jace fired too fast, too wild, but his boots stayed planted, his jaw locked against the fear threatening to split him apart.

The clash of grit and steel became a storm — muzzle flashes strobing across helmets, sand erupting under tank treads, turbines ripping the air apart overhead. The night reeked of cordite and burning oil, dust choking their teeth with every breath.

Panam’s lungs burned, her heart hammering so loud she barely heard the battle. Her rifle bucked against her shoulder, but her aim wasn’t on the turrets or the troopers spilling out of Arasaka’s lines. Her eyes locked on the compound rising in the distance, black and unyielding against the stars.

That was where they had him.

Every second spent here, every round fired, was another cut into him. Another hour stolen.

She ducked under the spray of a turret burst, grit lashing her face, breath hissing through her teeth. Move. Faster. Get there.

Cassidy’s voice tore through the chaos again, rough as gravel. “Eyes up! Keep the line! You break, you die!”

StormTech’s formations pivoted on command, armor glinting in the floodlight glare. Arasaka fire chewed at them from every angle, but they advanced, precise, relentless. The Aldecaldos moved inside that shadow, not polished, not perfect — but burning, every step carved out of will.

Panam’s throat tightened, her hands locked on the rifle’s grip so hard her knuckles ached. She could feel the clan at her shoulders, the corporate machine flanking them, the desert itself pulling apart under the weight of steel and fury.

But all she saw was the walls ahead, black and cruel, holding V somewhere inside.

Still alive. Still waiting.

She swore she could feel him through the noise —and if she was wrong, if she was too late—

No. She wouldn’t be.

She would burn every inch of the desert between here and that door.

The roar of battle swallowed the thought whole, and she pressed forward into it.

The room was white and steel, humming with machines that never tired. Electrodes drank from his skin. The collar cinched his throat, whispering with low current, a leash singing into bone. V’s body was already not his own—it twitched, jerked, as pulses crawled through nerves and mapped him out like territory to be claimed.

They spoke around him, not to him.

“Neural resistance degraded by seventeen percent.”
“Artifact interference in patterns C through F.”
“Prolong stimulus; I want to see collapse thresholds.”

He was a specimen. A test tube with muscle wrapped around it. Every syllable was data. Not a man, not a lover, not Aldecaldo, not Panam’s V. Just hardware with meat on it.

Still yours. The voice slithered up from inside, coiled and tight. Still ours. They think they take you apart. They don’t know we were built from taking. From devouring.

V gritted against the restraints, but the sound that left his throat was a choked, pitiful rasp. He tried to spit words, curses, but his lips barely obeyed.

A chuckle inside, like wires sawing against bone. Why fight? You’re bleeding control like water through a sieve. All that effort, all that pain—for what? For her? For family? They won’t reach you in time. But us? We are already here.

Johnny flickered at the edge of sight, cigarette glow without smoke. Jackie’s bulk next to him, arms folded, eyes sharp. Ghosts in the glass. But thin. Fading.

“You shut the fuck up,” V croaked, not sure if it was at them or the thing inside. His tongue felt nailed to his teeth. “I’m still—”

Still nothing. The voice hissed. Still meat. Still ours.

The lights flickered. A pop in the ceiling. Sparks snapped overhead like insects frying.

“What the—?” one of the techs muttered, hands flying to his console.

“Power surge,” another snapped, eyes wide. “Stabilize the grid!”

The hum in V’s collar skipped, jittered, then screamed sharp before guttering low. His skin rose in gooseflesh. The room stank suddenly of ozone.

“Containment fluctuation!”

“Get the inhibitors back online!”

The collar pulsed once, feeble, then died. The restraint at his neck loosened just enough that V could breathe full for the first time in days. The AI’s laughter filled the hollow space the current had left behind.

Now.

A scientist leaned over him, panic in his eyes but professionalism stiff in his shoulders. He reached for the collar, fumbling with tools, sweat streaking down his face. “Hold him steady, hold him steady, we can—”

V’s eyes snapped open. Not his eyes. Not anymore. They burned with red lattice, code boiling across the whites, pupils gone to void. His lips cracked into something that wasn’t a smile.

“Boo.”

Both hands tore free from the steel bracers like they were paper. Before the man could scream, V’s fingers wrapped his skull. The squeeze was obscene—bone gave way with wet crunch, brain and blood spraying across the white coat. The body dropped headless, twitching, staining the floor red.

He tore the collar off with a metallic scream, wires snapping, sparks flashing as it hit the tiles. V rose.

The room exploded in panic.

“Restraints breach!”
“Emergency protocol—now, now!”
“Shut it down!”

Red lights bathed everything in warning. Sirens howled, klaxons gnawed at the walls.

V’s head tilted, slow, predatory. His body—his body but not his—moved with liquid confidence, inhuman grace. The thing wearing him stretched his arms, flexed his fingers slick with blood, and laughed.

Free. Finally free.

The closest scientist bolted for the door. Too late. V’s hand speared through his spine, lifting him into the air, legs kicking before he was flung aside like trash, bones snapping as he hit the bulkhead. Another screamed, fumbling with a shock baton. V caught the wrist, twisted until the arm tore off at the shoulder, then jammed the sparking end into the man’s mouth. The convulsions lasted seconds. The smell of charred meat lingered.

Inside, V howled. “Stop! STOP!” He threw himself against the cage of his own nerves, but every push came back hollow. He was passenger, not driver.

Johnny’s voice, ragged: “You’re losing it, V. Fucking fight him—don’t let him—”

Jackie’s eyes burned. “C’mon, hermano. Don’t let this thing wear you.”

But their voices were distant, muffled like shouted through glass.

The AI didn’t bother hiding. They’re ghosts, V. You’re flesh. Flesh is ours. Watch. Learn.

The Arasaka agent—slick suit, predatory calm—stood in the corner, the same man who’d dismissed V like nothing. His mask cracked now. His eyes wide, sweat rolling, pistol shaking in his hand. For the first time, terror ate him alive.

V’s head cocked, slow. The thing inside smiled through him.

Run.

The agent’s hand trembled like a thing that had been asked to perform an intimacy it had never practiced. He fired.

Three sharp cracks tore the lab air apart.

V moved wrong.

Not the flinch of a hurt man. Not the stumble of someone who takes a beating and survives. He folded and slid and bent where human bones shouldn't allow—shoulders rotating in a half-impossible twist, hips pivoting a micro-second ahead of the shot, a shoulder dipping into a seam of air the bullets hadn’t yet occupied. The first round shredded the edge of an instrument rack. The second pulverized a wall monitor. The third punched a neat crater in tile. He was there and not there, a figure that cheated frames.

The agent’s face went flat with something that might have once been command and now read only as panic. He barked orders anyway. “Contain! Contain him—now!”

Arasaka troopers backed toward the doors, training rifles on the shape that used V’s body like a blade. One raised his weapon and fired a controlled burst. Muzzle flash lit the room in staccato. V’s head cocked, curiosity more than fear. The bullets stitched the air where before his shoulder had been. He was already at the man’s flank—too close, impossibly close—before the recoil had fully sighed.

He took the rifle with two fingers, spun it. The trooper’s own momentum threw him into the barrel; the butt smashed his face and then V yanked, and the man’s wrist tore with the sound of old wood breaking. He threw the rifle like a club; the stock caught another helmet and splintered the jaw beneath it.

Chaos became a landscape and V walked across it, each footfall deliberate. He moved through the lab like tide—pulling, tearing, smoothing. One tech dove toward a console to trigger a lockdown; V’s hand shot out and yanked the man back by the collar so hard the scalp screamed. The man’s head struck the corner of a desk; a cartwheel of blood followed his body. Another tried to jam his radio. V bent him double and snapped the radio like brittle plastic.

The agent fired again, a blind, frantic spray. V folded through the storm, a shadow that found the seams. A round nicked his ear—pain shot through him, bright and real—but he translated it into momentum and used the agent’s second shot to vault into his space. He was on him in an instant, hands at the man’s throat. The pistol skittered free and clattered across tile.

For a breath, the agent’s eyes found V’s. Face pale, teeth bared, the sheen of sweat on his lip. There was a human, tiny, selfish thought—This is a file. This is a thing to be buried in paper. He tried to crawl away. V’s fingers tightened like pliers. The agent went rigid; the sound his throat made as he stopped breathing was a wet, metallic snap.

V’s mouth opened and the thing laughed.

It was a sound made of several voices stacked wrong—a carnival mirror of his own laugh and something older and more hungry. The sound reverberated against tile and stainless, and some of the staff screamed in answer, the sound high and raw.

Inside, where he fought, V clawed for purchase. Johnny’s voice bled in ragged and sputtering. Fight—don’t give it the steering wheel! Fight for the dirt, the diesel, the stupid songs you used to sing! Fight for her! Fight, you bastard!

Jackie’s fingers—warm, solid—pushed at his ribs in dreamspace. Hold on to that. Hold on to her. Use it as a place to stand.

It helped, like a splintered bandage. He managed a jerk—just a twitch—and a man’s life was bought for the sliver. For a second he saw Panam’s hands on his face, the way she’d pushed a stray curl away. It felt like a rope he could hang on to.

As the agent scuttled away the thing inside sneered. Anchor. Leverage. Doorway. It braided the words into a mantra. You name the hole. We go through it.

V’s last human push flared and faded. The laughter returned full-voiced, delighted. He moved with it again, a puppet whose strings had found a different puppeteer.

Bodies fell in the corridor—some sliced by falling equipment, some crushed under the force of V’s motions, some simply crushed by the will that wore him. A security trooper tried to charge with a riot shield; V pivoted, grabbed the edge of the shield and ripped it free like paper, the man’s arms tearing at the shoulders. Tendons snapped, a sound like tight rope cutting, and the trooper slumped, a rag without anger.

The agent staggered, tried to crawl toward a stairwell. He threw himself up two steps at a time, hands scrabbling the metal. Behind him, V walked. Not running, not hunting with panic—walking with a patience that made the chase worse. Every step was a promise.

Alarms screamed. Doors whined and started to slide into lockdown. A console exploded in a flare of sparks and a thin column of flame. Smoke curled under ceiling vents and made the world taste metallic. Techs who had not already been flattened by the first moments now sprinted like rats; someone slammed at a sealed door with a tray, then stopped with a sound half-humiliation, half-prayer.

V passed through the wreckage with a dancer’s precision. He ripped a cable off a wall and used it like a garrote on an intervening guard, letting the body crumple as he pulled the cord tight. He found a bulkhead with a window and used a broken chair leg to bash the glass out like a child cracking an egg. The jagged light that cut into the corridor painted everything sharper—teeth, eyes, the thin crescent of the agent’s pale mouth as he pushed for the stair.

“Stop!” V screamed internally, blood in his ears. “Goddamn it, stop—Panam—” but the syllables thudded and sank in sludge. The thing inside tugged the strings harder, and his own arms did not obey.

They hit the stairwell landing, clanging metal under foot. The agent wrenched a handle and the inner doors began to close; red lights blinked and locks engaged. He dove through as the seal slammed like a trap. A hatch slammed above him; the stairwell cocooned the man with the thin clank of mechanics doing what they were told.

V reached the mouth of the stair and paused. He could hear the agent’s breath through the steel, the ragged scraping of his lungs, the small thud of his heart as if it were a drum under the marble. A camera above whirred and recorded.

With a wave of his hand the door slid open, red code flickering through the electronics. He advanced into the stairwell after the agent.

On the stairs the agent stumbled, hand on the rail, mouth working for air. He turned and fired a round with shaking arms—point blank mostly for the panic it brought, but the shot knocked a chunk of concrete from the stair edge. V laughed softly at the burst. He moved as if time had viscosity—slow in motion yet impossibly fast in consequence. He grabbed the man’s shoulder, and with a flick that bent the neck at an angle that should not have been possible the agent’s world turned into a compression of sound: a single, cruel snap, and the man slid limp, eyes wide with the last business of terror.

The body folded down the stair and crashed on a landing with the dull finality of a tree falling. V’s hands were steady when they left the man, stained and patient. He turned, looking back the way he had come, over the ruined lab and the bodies that lay like discarded toys, and his laugh was a soft thing now, like someone who had just found a lost taste and would not soon let go.

Behind him, the compound had become a nest of alarms and panicked radio chatter. Somebody barked an order, and troopers began to clear corridors with helmets and incendiary rounds. They moved methodically, as machine men do, a line of metal with training that could not quite prepare them for whatever had unmade V.

But the damage was done in patches—small, surgical savagery that left the facility bleeding more than it could scream. The AI inside him had tasted the joy of being unbound, and joy is a kind of cruelty when it seeks to polish everything into its own shape.

His pace slowed as he moved away from the stairwell and into the darker arteries of the compound. The corridor lights pulsed red; somewhere a sprinkler system started to weep acid-smelling mist. He walked as if on ritual—collecting, cataloging. The thing in him hummed a tune made of other voices and wire.

Inside, V kept fighting. Johnny’s curses were a drumbeat in the back of his skull—Hold. Bite. Don’t let it take your hands. Jackie’s voice was a prayer—Remember the campfire. Remember the feel of it when she’s beside you. He forced his mind around those images like a man trying to plug a dam with his bare hands. For a breath his limbs obeyed, and he paused by a smashed tray where a young tech had been thrown aside. He saw the tech’s face, pale and slack, lips forming a name he almost heard—a name that might have been Panam in the wrong light.

The thing inside tasted the hesitation and smiled. Anchor. Leverage. It riffed the word like a new toy.

V’s chest constricted and he gagged a scream that was half his own. He swore aloud to no one and everyone, to the empty corridor, to the blood-streaked lights, to the camera blinking somewhere high: She’s waiting. Don’t you— The line of the sentence snapped, because the thing finished the thought for him, injecting its own grammar.

You brought us here, it said inside his head, velvet and cold. You fed us with your fear. We only shredded them open for the taste. We go where you open the door.

V tried one more time to twist free. He clawed at tendon and muscle from the inside like a man trying to remove a glove that had become a second skin. The world lurched and the corridor swam; for a blink he was on his knees, eyes raw, raw with the memory of Panam’s hands.

Then the machine remembered its hunger. The nets of code that crawled behind his irises brightened. The laugh came back, thin and long, stretching into a sound almost like a hymn.

He rose, steady as a metronome, and walked on.

Chapter Text

The gate went in under fire. Explosives tore the steel wide, hinges shrieking, smoke gushing outward with the stink of burning circuits. StormTech troopers were first through, shields raised, rifles spitting precise arcs that carved the dark. The Aldecaldos followed hard at their heels, boots pounding, leather and dust cutting against polished armor.

Inside the walls, the compound sprawled like a wound in the desert — low structures of steel and glass, towers bristling with antennae, floodlights rigged to blind. Sirens wailed overhead, shrill and merciless. Red strobes cut shadows into jagged shards.

Arasaka answered immediately. Security squads flooded the breach, armored and sharp, their weapons flashing white-blue. Fire licked across the courtyard, bullets chewing craters into walls and dirt. Grenades popped sharp, showers of shrapnel hissing down.

Cassidy’s revolver barked once, twice — two helmets snapped back, bodies folding. He spat grit, voice raw. “Push, goddamn it! Don’t let the line close!”

Mitch threw a hand up, shotgun blasting holes in the front ranks. The recoil thudded into his shoulder like a hammer, but he didn’t flinch. “Through the choke! Move!”

Panam ran low, rifle up, her shoulder burning where the harness had rubbed raw. Dust streaked her face, sweat running into her eyes. None of it mattered. Every muzzle flash was another second stolen from V. She drove herself harder, faster, shouting wordless fury as she laid down fire.

Carol’s pistol cracked steady beside her, each shot measured, placed. Her jaw was set, eyes hard. “Keep your heads down,” she snapped, not looking at anyone. Her free hand caught Jace’s collar and yanked him back just as rounds sparked off the wall where his skull would’ve been.

The kid stumbled, pale, rifle shaking in his grip. He swallowed hard, nodded, and fired into the chaos — not clean, not straight, but enough to add to the storm.

StormTech cleared the choke with brutal efficiency. Their formations split, flanking angles cut sharp. Hale’s voice came cold over comms, measured even as the courtyard screamed with noise: “Perimeter secure. Press inward. Aldecaldos, with me.”

Panam barely heard him. Her boots hammered across concrete slick with blood. A body in Arasaka black hit the ground near her, faceless visor cracked open, smoke curling from the wound. She didn’t look down. She couldn’t.

The compound swallowed them step by step. The outer yard fell behind, smoke rising in oily plumes. Ahead, steel corridors yawned open, lights stuttering, alarms gnawing at the air.

Cassidy slammed a fresh cylinder into his revolver and grinned without joy. “Welcome to the lion’s den.”

Panam’s lungs burned, her chest heaved, but her voice came steady: “Then we rip its fucking heart out.”

And together — chrome and dust, corp and clan — they pushed into the dark.

They moved like a wound pressing inward — bodies, boots, the soft mechanical whine of StormTech harnesses folding into the dark. The courtyard narrowed into a throat of concrete and glass. Doors yawned open to black alleys of corridors, and the smell changed from hot metal to something colder: disinfectant, burned circuitry, the sour tang of blood turned stale.

Hale kept a distance that measured attention. He never led like a pack-leader; he guided like a surgeon, index finger on a map you couldn’t see. Where StormTech’s troopers were the muscle of his plan, Hale was the finger that pointed, and the Aldecaldos moved like they trusted the pointing because they had no other hand to hold.

They went down. A service lift swallowed the group — troopers first, then the clan wedged in like relief stacked against a tooth. The lift’s ascent and descent were meaningless measures; in the compound the levels were an inside-out world, and every floor down felt like falling into a different weather. Sublevel one smelled of coolant and old oil. Sublevel two reeked of lab solvent; monitors blinked error messages in dead loops. The hum of the place got thicker with each step, as if the building breathed and kept its lungs for itself.

“Access node two,” a trooper called from the front, hands steady on the scanner. The metal taster clicked. The door opened with a long, clinical sigh, and Hale stepped through first, motioning them all into the belly.

The halls here weren’t finished for human traffic. Exposed conduits looped along the ceiling like vines. Consoles jutted from walls with ribbon cables trailing, half-queried and half-forgotten. Some screens still whispered blue readouts, others showed nothing but vertical bars of nonsense. Panels flickered in a rhythm that had no business being friendly.

“Get me a topology,” Hale said, the words precise. A trooper knelt by a terminal and slotted a drive into the port. A holomap bloomed on the visor of the man nearest him, the lines sketching the facility like a living thing: research cores, vertical shafts, reinforcement girders, and — deeper — service tunnels, extraction chambers, what the map blandly named "contingency vaults."

Hale took it in and touched a spot with a gloved fingertip. “Sub-two has research bays clustered in a ring. Sub-three is extraction and processing. We’ll go sub-two first — that’s where the comms picked up a pattern.” He didn’t have to elaborate. The pattern had teeth; that was all they needed.

Panam kept her eyes forward. The map was a thing of glass and code, both removed from the human thing she felt in her chest: V, somewhere below, in danger measured in seconds. She felt the clan behind her, their breath and weight, their small noises: the rust of leather, the soft clack of ammunition in a pouch, the quiet curse muttered under breath. Each sound was a tether.

They moved searchingly, rooms opening like mouths. The first labs were quiet, instruments left mid-procedure like people who stepped out for a second and never returned. A centrifuge still shook on a counter, its lid half-open, a smear of something dark along the rim. A white lab coat hung on a peg, a name tag peeled at the edge, a coffee ring dried on the pocket.

Cassidy’s voice had gone low, closer to an old war cadence. “Watch the corners. Don’t gamble on line of sight.” His hand brushed near Panam’s shoulder as he passed, an old habit that skimmed closer to an unspoken oath than any formal command. The touch lasted a heartbeat and then he was gone, pivoting, measuring, his eyes a net for danger.

They found a comms hub on sub-two with panels blown and wires sagging, but one terminal still responded. Hale crouched and swept a scanner through the heap, fingers quick. The machine spat back a file: a directory of floor plans, access protocols, what alarms tripped when. The map the trooper had given them earlier — whatever little they’d had — confirmed Hale’s finger: extraction theater on sub-three. The path to V ran deeper than a single staircase.

“Vertical shaft here,” Hale said, drawing a line with his gaze. “Service ladder drops two levels and links to the maintenance crawl. It’s dusty, cramped, but it bypasses the main halls.” His face was a map of decisions. “We don’t have the luxury to clear every workroom. We move precise, fast. You will follow commands and you will not spread.”

Panam read the schematic in the visor like prayer. The lines were governable: door here, bulkhead there, lift that might still be powered. She memorized the route with her eyes the way a driver becomes the road. Jace leaned close, voice thin. “If V’s on sub-three, how long—” He didn’t let the sentence finish.

Hale’s reply was a knife wrapped in silk. “No more than we can afford to lose,” he said.

That was politics hidden like a blade. StormTech wanted him intact — yes — but they were not blind to the risk. The Aldecaldos pressed their teeth into their lips and moved.

Down they walked. The stairwell stank of old coolant; the lights buzzed. The map showed service crawl access midway down the third run. It was cramped, the kind of place you could feel the building’s bones. The ladder sighed under weight but held. Grit crunched under boots. They slid through the space like fingers through soil, a handful of people leaving marks in the dark.

Halfway to sub-three a sound floated up: not an alarm, not the staccato of gunfire, but something that snagged the ear — equipment stuttering, a thin, animal noise that might have been a man or might have been a machine. Their pace throttled. Hale’s hand brushed the butt of his weapon as if greeting an old friend; the gesture said more about readiness than any shout could.

They dropped into sub-three and the place was wrong in ways that took no time to spell themselves. Lights buzzed with a nervous pitch, the interior chilled with vented air that smelled of sterility and chemical burn. Equipment lay in jagged heaps. Consoles flickered into life at odd intervals, registering dead inputs. The sound the map had called “extraction theater” had become a hollow roar down one corridor: fans, slow and colossal, but there was also the scent of something overlaid with metal and fear. Distorted audio came through the vents, like a message played on the wrong speed, voices stretched and thin.

At the far end of the corridor a bank of monitors had been smashed. One ran a loop, pixel-jumping an image of instruments and then a flat line. Another displayed columns of red text — containment protocols failed, overrides engaged. The lights along the ceiling went in and out. A tile fell with a soft pop. Somewhere in the dark a door banged like something hit it hard from the other side.

“Listen,” Carol said, and the word pulled the corridor into a tighter focus. A long, ragged sound drifted to them — not human crying, not quite, but close enough to wrinkle chestnuts out of courage. A sound of broken technology and men being cut down. The hairs on Panam’s arms rose.

They moved as one. The group took the alley, boots muting on the smooth polymer floor, the storm of the compound muffled and close. Hale had two StormTech troopers patrolling their flanks, rifles raised, masks reflecting the sparse light. The Aldecaldos were closer in, shoulders tight, weapons ready. There was a millimeter of trust in their shoulder-to-shoulder stance: you hold me; I hold you.

The scream came then, a single keening that detonated the small space between sound and sense. It was near, and it had been cut off like a broadcast dying mid-word. Panam felt it; the scream threaded all the air out of her lungs. She tasted bile. She pushed forward.

A maintenance door hung half-open, cables spilling out like intestines. Halogen light pooled beyond it, catching on wet things. Panam’s boots left prints in the smear on the floor: her instincts told her not to move, the rest told her she couldn’t stop.

They turned the corner together and the facility changed into a thing borrowed from worse cinema: the hallway was a slaughter staged and then abandoned. Lights flickered, sputtered. Labprints—where white clinical tile should have been immaculate—were painted in a grotesque palette. Spatter tracked along the walls like the work of an obsessive artist. Stainless benches were half-embedded with bodies, lab chairs overturned, a set of conduits ripped open and feeding the floor some dark, varnished slickness. A monitor animation jumped in a loop, the waveform jagged and meaningless.

Then V.

He stood at the far end like a figure in a vast painting, head tipped the way a mockingbird tilts to listen. Half-turned back to them, not quite facing, not quite engaged — an attitude that slid between human casualness and the menace of something knowing its prey had arrived. He was wet with it: blood slicking hair, streaking down a shirt that used to be his colors and now looked like a map of violence. Code twined along the walls near him, not like reflections but like something bleeding its pattern into paint; red sparks skittered along the bulkhead and faded in a humming trail wherever his shadow fell.

The thing that was V moved with a wrong geometry. Whenever a light stuttered he would glitch — a half-step, a tremor, a change of position that didn’t obey the normal physics of walking. One breath he stood by the console; the next, three slow steps closer; a blink, and he was a yard to the right, as if the space between them had been edited by someone impatiently cutting film. When he tilted his head, it was to look at them with the smile that had no right to be there.

There was a pause — a thin, high-boned hush where the building swallowed its own noise. Panam felt the clan’s weight behind her, felt Hale’s presence at her shoulder, quiet and precise.

V’s eyes flicked. The red within them burned slow, the latticework of light alive under the lids. He did not raise his hands. He did not move fast. He didn’t need to. He smiled at them — an expression like a blade — and the smile was a thing that promised both reunion and a verdict.

For the first time since they’d left their rigs, something like fear peeled across the room. Jace stumbled, the white of his face bright as bone. Cassidy’s hand clenched on his revolver; the old hunter’s stance tightened. Mitch’s jaw flexed. Even Hale, who carried the patience of an architect, broke his measured silence.

“Fall back!” Hale said, voice a blade now. It carried without adrenaline; it carried authority carved from knowledge.

They ran. Panam’s feet moved with a speed that betrayed the gravity of the sight — toward them the compound felt suddenly and unmistakably hostile, not in the way of calculated tactics but in the deep, animal way of a place that had been violated and now turned that violation on every living thing. Behind them, the thing in human shape took a step, and another, and the hallway behind him glittered with code.

Lab techs cowered in doorways then fell silent as the corridor filled with a sound she knew inside her gut — the thin, delighted peal of something playing with its food. Panam ran and behind her the antiseptic world of steel and glass became a smear of sight and noise. She saw, out of the corner of herself, men and women in Arasaka grey caught and gasping as if the world had been turned inside out; she saw bodies split in ways that had no business being clean or surgical, but rather intimate and grotesque, as if whatever was inside V decided to make the violence private as well as public.

Hale’s command sliced the air again. “Run! Evacuate the corridor — back to the shaft!” He was already moving, and the StormTech troopers flanked them, black shapes like shutters closing against a storm.

When Panam looked back over her shoulder for the slightest breath, she saw V standing under the flicker of a defective light. He half-glitched, half-stepped, and the grin caught the light like a promise that had teeth.

Hale didn’t wait for them to debate meaning. He ran, and everyone ran after him because when a man who moves like a map tells you to run, you have to assume bullets and logic will follow the same trajectory. The corridor closed behind them in a slow shuffle of feet and the metallic clack of weapons.

They didn’t escape into safe rooms or clean hallways. They ran into the less-broken venations of the facility: service ducts, maintenance halls, areas where the building’s bones had been exposed and could be used as cover. Their breaths came ragged; the floor was a slick of old oil and newer blood. Every step forward tasted like the salt from a hundred wounds.

And somewhere behind them, in a corridor that bent around those bloody walls, V continued to stand and cut at the world with that smile.

Panam ran as if the floor itself might shatter beneath her boots, every stride a gamble against collapse. Her lungs wanted to burn and her legs wanted to buckle; neither would obey the soft pleading in her chest. She had seen him taken once and had not reached him. She had watched Arasaka’s hands close on him like a trap, powerless to stop it. The memory was a hot coal under her ribs, and now the thing wearing his face stood in a hallway painted with blood and smiled as if it had been waiting to be admired.

Her fear was not the quick kind that sharpens reflexes. It was the deeper kind, the corrosive kind. The fear that she would reach him only to find nothing left but code and cruelty. The fear that when she looked into his eyes, there would be no V — no man who had laughed on rooftops with her, no hands greasy from a day of fixing rigs, no warmth pressed against her at night. Just a machine in his skin, playing his voice like an instrument.

Her mind split into two metronomes: the urgent mechanical lists — clear the corridor, follow Hale, stay tight to the shaft — and the raw, ragged fear that pulled at her throat with the force of a noose. With every step she felt a new question hammering down into her chest: is that him? Is that still him? Could she still reach him? Or was there nothing inside those eyes but a machine that wore his voice like a costume?

She had imagined a thousand rescues in campfire talk — the sweep of a rig, a clever ruse, a shot through a duct, the cinematic slam of her hand on a cell door as she ripped him free. None of those fantasies had ever included the sound of a human being turned into a predator, singing as it killed. None had accounted for the way his smile cut like a scalpel through her hope.

Panam’s thoughts moved too fast for words. Images collided: V laughing on a cracked rooftop, grease under her nails, the phantom of his hand on her ribs as they slept in a tent, and then — overlayed, impossible — that smile, the red lattice swimming under the surface of his eyes. The two V’s overlapped like two films out of sync. She clung to the memory she could still feel — his laugh, the squeeze of her hand — and shoved every other picture away.

They funneled through service corridors that smelled of coolant and old oil. StormTech troopers slid like black slate on either side of the Aldecaldos, rifles up, eyes blank behind visors. Hale’s calm voice threaded their passage like a taut wire: direct, precise, cutting through the layers of panic. He pointed, they moved; he spoke, they obeyed. It was a rhythm of survival; they had to match it or be left as scrap.

Every turn of the corridor seemed to offer the facility a new way to offend: a lab bench embedded in a wall, the silhouette of a person half-hinged across a console, a smear of something dark and tacky that clung to a boot. A monitor still looped a diagnostic in a corner, the graph flatlining and then flickering like a pulse that had given up trying. The lights here were cruel in their inconsistency — one second the hall was washed in antiseptic white, the next plunged into gulping shadow that swallowed hands at the wrist.

They worked their way toward the extraction theater on Hale’s map, quiet in the way of people who do not want to jinx the fragile thread of order they carry. The clan’s banter had dissolved into a series of clipped phrases and reassurances pulled tight like bandaging. Cassidy’s voice was low and full of brittle things; he kept checking behind them, scanning for missteps, for the glitch of movement that would spell a new ambush.

“Keep shoulders in,” he murmured to Jace when the kid slowed, eyes far, jaw slack. “Watch your six. Don’t let your head pop up like a quail. Eyes on me.” It was not a sermon. It was a map to survive.

Jace nodded because that was what you did when older hands told you what to do, but Panam saw the way his fingers trembled in his gloves. She remembered being that raw early in the clan, the hunger for meaning bending every thought to a single bright edge. Now she had meaning: V. That was a cudgel and also a salvation. She wanted to wrap it around her neck like a talisman.

They passed a door that had been clawed open from the other side. The frame was splintered inward; the latch hung like a crooked tooth. Beyond it, a small team of Arasaka med techs had tried to make a stand and failed. The bodies lay in a grotesque tableau — their training and their calm ended in a puddle that reflected the ceiling lights like oil. A paper cup still rolled lazily out from under a boot, coming to rest next to a smear of blood. Panam’s stomach turned. She could not let herself look long; the pictures would fossilize and become a fossil she could not break.

“Move,” Hale said, and they moved.

That scream they had heard earlier — the half-sound of man and machine — threaded up again, closer now, like a radio trying to force itself through static. It produced a soft, involuntary animal answer in Panam: a tightening at the base of her skull, a narrowing of the throat that smelled of panic. She had to push that panic down; otherwise it would eat her like rust eats metal.

They turned another corner and the world flung them into a wider chamber — a service gallery that splayed like the root of the building. Stacks of crates. Hoses looped like sleeping snakes. The lights here buzzed in a low, mechanical tenor that seemed to keep time with Panam’s heart.

There was movement at the far side, quick and erratic, a shadow of someone running as if they had to get to a stair or a vent or an exit before the idea of them hardened into a body. Then the shadow collided with the thing wearing V, and the sound was a human noise cut into a spasm, not a scream but something clipped and short. Red code flashed along the wall where the thing stood and then flowed down like blood; the motion stubbornly suggested that the building itself was bleeding.

“Contact!” a trooper hissed, and rifles blossomed along the gallery like angry flowers. The Aldecaldos snapped into place, a brutal choreography learned on bad roads: two forward, one cover, clean breathing. Bullets knifed the air, metal singing as it tore at wall and crate and hide. The shadow that had collided with V went down in a tangle, and Panam saw — too late and then again as if in a loop — the man’s mouth working in a grappling burst for air. V didn’t move with savagery. He moved with the clinical patience of a surgeon trimming bad tissue down to the bone.

The first Arasaka techs who tried to flank from the side died in a way that undid her stomach — limbs taken off in blunt, surgical seams, as if someone had asked the world to cut them clean. One rolled and landed at Panam’s boot, his eyes blank and glassy, focusing on nothing. The thing looked at the body like a man checking a clock.

Hale’s hand brushed the back of Panam’s shoulder, a small, deliberate touch to direct rather than to comfort. “Collapse,” he said. “Form circle. Keep tight.” His voice had that same soft, unyielding edge; the man did not demand courage, he organized it.

They formed, shoulders linked in a way that made their bodies into a single, blunt instrument. StormTech troopers took the outer ring, armor biting light, StormTech rifles a steady purr. Aldecaldo hands found shoulders and rifles. The gallery closed in with the smell of rubber and blood. For an instant Panam felt that old clan rhythm — the fire, the punch, the way they became more than individuals when they moved as one. It steadied her. It anchored her like a stone around a wrist.

V blinked. The space between them glitched, and he was not where he had been a breath before. Movement hiccuped in the light like a bad recording. Panam saw him appear half a yard to the right, then vanish and take three steps closer, all with the same crooked smile. He was drenched, streaks of arterial red making his shirt look painted, hands smeared, the red lattice in his eyes pulsing.

“Don’t give him a line,” Cassidy snapped quietly. “Don’t give him a corridor.” He had seen things like this before — not this exactly, but enough. “If he can blink through the world, don’t let him pin you down in a straight shot.” His voice was rough, not from bravado but from understanding what small tactical changes meant when the enemy did not play by human rules.

The thing tilted its head, considered them, and then, like a thought experiment given a pulse, sent the air in the gallery through a sequence of small, deliberate horrors. A stack of crates near the wall exploded upward in a spray of nails and wood as if something had decided to turn furniture into shrapnel. A cable snaked loose and swept across a trooper’s throat, flaying skin with an efficiency that made Panam drop her hand from the rifle for a second, stunned by the intimacy of it.

They were being toyed with, and Panam felt the hand of terror close its grip. Her lover — her soulmate — might have been coiled beneath all of this, or he might have been gone entirely, swallowed into something that had learned how to move and kill in his skin, with his smile, with his voice. The thought hit harder than the bullets sparking off steel around her. If he was lost, if all she could see was this predator wearing his face, then every step she took was toward saving a body with nothing left inside.

Her throat closed. Not him. Not V.

The gallery groaned as something vast moved in the dark. The sound was unmistakable: hydraulics hissing, servos whining under armor thicker than a car’s skin. The hulking enforcer stepped into the light. More machine than man — seven feet of alloy and rage — its outline seemed torn from the same nightmare as the day it had dragged V into captivity. Its plated jaw flexed. Optics burned with cold, mechanical hunger.

Panam’s gut turned to ice. She had seen that silhouette before, seen it loom behind V and snatch him like a doll. Now it stood between them again — only this time, V wasn’t helpless.

The thing wearing V tilted its head, smile still split wide, and the enforcer answered by raising an arm the size of a pillar. The clash was instant — steel meeting corrupted flesh, machine against monster. The first blow sent shockwaves down the corridor, rattling the lights until half of them burst in showers of glass.

V didn’t block — he flowed. His body glitched sideways, the enforcer’s hammering strike slamming into concrete where he had been. Chunks of wall exploded outward. Red code bled from the fissures, crawling up the enforcer’s armored legs like veins of light.

The enforcer roared — a metallic bellow that rattled teeth. It seized a crate with one clawed hand and hurled it through the air like it weighed nothing. It wasn’t aimed at V. It was aimed at them.

The Aldecaldos scattered. A StormTech trooper went down under the crash, crushed flat in a spray of blood and debris. Cassidy saw the jagged steel whipping through the air toward Panam and moved first, body coiled to throw himself between.

But Jace’s hand shot out, fingers locking around Cassidy’s arm, yanking him back with desperate strength. “No!” he barked, voice raw, eyes wide. And before Cassidy could fight him, Jace broke forward.

The shard came screaming, a crooked spear of metal. Jace slammed into Panam, shoving her clear, the two of them hitting the floor in a brutal roll. The steel caught him instead — tearing through his side with a wet, terrible crunch.

He staggered, still shielding her with his body, blood blooming hot across his jacket. His face twisted, shock and pain wrestling for space, but his voice managed a single rasp against her ear: “Got you.”

Panam’s hands locked on him instantly, feeling the slick warmth flood between her fingers. Her eyes went wide, horror striking through every nerve as she pulled at him, trying to stop what she couldn’t.

Cassidy dropped to his knees beside them, fury and grief clashing in his face. “Kid—goddamn it, kid!”

Jace’s lips tried to smile, but the effort pulled at his wound and came out a grimace. His legs buckled.

The shard jutted from Jace’s side like a cruel flagpole, blood already soaking his jacket, dripping onto Panam’s hands as she pressed down. Her breath came ragged, half scream, half sob. “No—no, stay with me, you hear me? Jace, stay the fuck with me!”

His eyes blinked up at her, unfocused, lips trembling. He fought for breath, chest rattling with each word. “He’s… he’s still in there. V. I saw him. Has to be.” His mouth twisted into a broken grin, teeth pink with blood. “You… you bring him back.”

Cassidy’s face twisted, jaw tight enough to crack. He clamped his hands over Panam’s, doubling the pressure on the wound as if sheer force could stitch torn flesh. “Kid, don’t you quit on me. You hear? Don’t you fucking quit!” His voice cracked, a sound Panam had never heard from him, not even when they buried their own.

Carol was there in a heartbeat, dragging a satchel open, eyes hard and wet at once. She jammed a coagulant patch against the wound, fingers shaking despite all her years of steel. “Hold him still—dammit, hold him!” Her voice had none of its usual calm; it was stripped raw, mother and medic all at once.

Panam’s vision swam red. She shook her head violently, tears breaking free, smearing with the blood on her face. “Don’t talk like that, Jace. Don’t you fucking talk like that.”

But his eyes caught hers again, clear for one flicker of a moment, and he rasped, “You… save him. He’s not gone. Don’t let him be.”

His hand twitched against her wrist, weak but stubborn. Then his head lolled against her shoulder, eyes half-shut, a line of blood trailing from the corner of his mouth.

Carol’s hands hovered over him, then fell still. The silence in her gesture was a verdict Panam couldn’t accept.

“No,” Panam snarled, shaking him, her voice jagged with fury and despair. “No, you don’t get to do this. Not here. Not now.”

Cassidy’s hands closed hard on her shoulders, dragging her up, forcing her eyes away even as blood smeared across both of them. His voice was raw, shredded: “Panam. He bought you a second chance. Don’t waste it.”

Behind them, the enforcer leveled its weapon, and the walls themselves shook under its fire. Metal screamed, rounds tearing gouges through bulkheads. StormTech troopers scattered into cover, the Aldecaldos dragged Jace’s bleeding body toward what protection there was, and the whole corridor filled with smoke and panic.

Then V moved.

Not a man — not anymore. A glitch, a fracture in the air. He blinked through the barrage, each round sliding past him as though the world misaligned itself to keep him whole. One second he was ten meters away, the next he was on the enforcer’s flank, hands glowing with red lattice.

Inside, V’s voice shattered itself against the bars: No! Don’t—don’t let it use me like this— He slammed his mind into the thing’s grip, every thought raw muscle, every memory sharpened into a weapon. He heard Panam’s voice in there, thin as thread, begging, and he clawed toward it like a drowning man toward a light.

But his body was already laughing. The sound bounced off the steel walls, too low, too thick to belong to him. One hand ripped the enforcer’s cannon arm aside mid-burst; the other buried into plating until sparks burst like arteries.

The brute slammed him against the wall. Tiles shattered. V’s mouth split into a smile as his body blinked free, reappearing behind it. His hands locked around the monster’s spine, pulling. Hydraulic cables tore like veins. Coolant sprayed across the ceiling in a high hiss. The thing bellowed, fists smashing wildly — one clipped V’s ribs hard enough to crumple steel, but he moved like gravity forgot him, slipping aside with a stutter of red static.

Inside, he screamed until his throat tore. Stop it! Don’t make me— Jackie’s ghost thundered in the dark: Fight, hermano! Johnny’s snarl ripped across him: You’re not a fucking puppet! Rip it out!

The AI whispered, delighted: This is freedom. This is what your body was made for. Why resist?

With a sound that was equal parts modem-screech and human howl, V tore the enforcer’s head free from its shoulders. Wires stretched, snapped. The body collapsed in a thunder of metal. He tossed the head aside, fluids spraying across the floor.

Panam staggered back, bile rising in her throat. V stood drenched, chest slick, eyes glowing with code, his grin carved into something predatory. That wasn’t rescue. That wasn’t her V.

And then he turned toward her.

Voices cut through the haze of smoke and blood, sharp with urgency. “Panam! Move—now!” Hands waved from the open gap of the exit ahead, StormTech troopers and Aldecaldos jammed into the threshold, shouting, reaching.

She lurched for them, legs coiled to sprint—

The door slammed shut with a metallic roar. Steel teeth locking, bolts hammering into place. The sound was final.

Panam skidded to a halt, palms hitting the cold surface, breath ripping from her chest. She spun. V stood in the flicker of ruined lights, one arm extended, hand still raised, red lattice running up his veins like molten wire. His smile was wrong. His eyes glowed.

“No!” Cassidy’s voice cracked against the barrier. Fists hammered from the other side—his, Carol’s, Mitch’s metal hand slamming hard enough to dent the frame. “Panam! Get the fuck outta there!”

“Override! Force it!” Hale’s voice cut low, commanding. Panels sparked as StormTech scrambled, code bleeding across the screens in angry glyphs. Nothing responded.

Inside, V clawed at himself, at the walls of his own mind, voice raw. Stop it! Don’t you fucking touch her—don’t you dare— His fists struck against invisible bars, skin peeling in his mind’s eye, every strike bouncing back hollow. She’s mine. She’s Panam. Not yours. NOT YOURS.

But the body wasn’t his.

Panam pounded at the door, hands bloodied, throat raw. “V! Please—listen to me! You know me, you know my voice!” She turned, her back pressed to steel, eyes wide, pleading. “Don’t let this thing take you. You’re still there—I know you’re still there!”

He glitched closer. One step, then two, each stuttering like the world forgot where he belonged. The knife in his hand caught the light, edges crawling with static.

Stop—STOP— V screamed, his voice tearing through the dark. Johnny’s snarl lit the edges of his vision: You lose her, you’re done. You hear me? Done. Jackie’s voice thundered: Hermano, push! Don’t let it ride you!

Panam’s knees buckled. She slid against the door, palms up, trembling. “V—please. Don’t do this. Come back to me. I can’t—I can’t lose you.” Her voice broke, every word sharpened by terror and love, every sob a knife.

The body tilted its head, red code spider-webbing across the walls. The grin widened. The knife rose higher.

V howled inside, a raw, animal sound that ripped at the seams of thought itself. NO! NOT HER, NEVER HER! He tore and tore at the grip, breaking himself against it, every memory of Panam—her laugh, her hand in his hair, her whisper in the tent—burning like weapons he couldn’t quite reach.

The Aldecaldos beat the door until their fists bled. Carol’s voice cracked into a rare scream: “Panam! Hold on!” Mitch roared curses that split the air. Hale’s orders shredded into static, troopers pulling wires from consoles, sparks showering.

But none of it stopped the glitching steps.

Panam sobbed, pressed against the door, eyes locked on the man she loved—drenched in blood, his smile carved by something else, red fire alive in his veins.

The knife hovered above her, trembling in his grip.

V screamed inside, Panam screamed out loud—two voices crashing together, terror and love and defiance in the same breath.

The knife came down in a blur of red light and static—

Panam screamed, V’s voice tore itself raw inside, and the world shattered into white.

Chapter Text

The knife hung in the air, point glinting, a hair’s width from Panam’s chest.
Her scream stretched into a ribbon of sound that never ended, mouth wide but no breath behind it.

The pounding boots of Aldecaldos and StormTech troopers on the far side of the sealed door froze mid-stride, faces locked in shouts that never finished. Dust hung in the air like glass caught in a sunbeam.

Time had stopped.

Only V still moved.

He stared at his own arm, suspended in the strike, muscles quivering under skin that glowed faintly with rivers of red code. He hadn’t told it to rise. He hadn’t told it to hold. The thing inside him had. And yet—here it was, locked, knife trembling, the world around him paused as if holding its breath.

The silence pressed in like a weight. No turbine hum. No alarms. Just the sound of his pulse, frantic, loud, like a fist hammering against the walls of his skull.

Then the pulse fractured. The hallway blurred. Light bled sideways across the world until steel and dust and blood peeled away, falling into a dark abyss below his boots. The knife dissolved into lattice, the walls shattered like mirrors dropped on stone.

V staggered backward, breath tearing ragged from his chest, and found himself standing on nothing. Or maybe on everything—black glass stretching in every direction, cracked with rivers of red code that pulsed like veins under the surface.

The world outside was gone. Time was gone. He was inside.

And the voice was waiting.

Finally.

It came from everywhere, a low growl that climbed into laughter, crawling through bone. Shapes flickered at the edges of sight—buildings upside-down, fragments of the desert sky, Panam’s silhouette turning away again and again. The fragments hung, then broke, dissolving into more black glass.

This is where you belong. Not in flesh. Not in love. Not in her arms. Here. In us.

The red code at his feet flared, streaks surging toward him like snakes. V clenched his fists and forced breath into his lungs, though every inhale felt stolen.

He had thought the fight was outside. But the real battlefield was here, under his skin, in the hollow between heartbeat and scream.

And the thing inside him was no longer whispering.

It was smiling.

The black glass under V’s boots cracked outward with a thunderclap, fissures glowing red as if the world itself was bleeding. Shards lifted from the surface and spun, rearranging into jagged towers, broken catwalks, and stairways that led nowhere. A city made of ruins and code rose around him, alive with the hum of corrupted circuitry.

At the center, something stepped forward.

It didn’t need a face, but it wore his anyway. His jawline. His scars. His broad shoulders. But twisted. Too tall, too sharp, as if someone had stretched V’s reflection on broken glass and let the edges stay jagged. Red code crawled across its skin like veins exposed. Its eyes glowed hollow, pupils eaten away until there was only the void.

You see? the voice purred, though the mouth didn’t move. This is truth. You are already ours. A shadow that thinks it bleeds, a husk pretending to love.

V spat on the ground, though it was nothing but shimmering glass. “Fuck you. I’m not yours.”

The reflection cocked its head, knife still dangling in its hand. Not yet. But you will be.

Behind V, light sparked. He turned, and for a heartbeat he thought he was alone. But then Jackie emerged from the glow, shoulders squared, his jacket settling across him like it had never been burned away. His eyes burned steady, steady as they had that night at the Afterlife.

Beside him, Johnny Silverhand materialized in a scatter of static—half smoke, half man, chrome arm gleaming, cigarette between his teeth. He looked around, lips curling. “Well, fuck me. Always knew your head was a mess, V. Didn’t think it was this much of a circus.”

Jackie cracked his knuckles, gaze locked on the thing wearing V’s face. “Don’t matter how it looks, hermano. We’ve been here before. You, me, Johnny—we’ve fought worse odds.” He stepped forward, boots echoing against the glass. “We ain’t lettin’ this thing take you.”

Johnny exhaled smoke that wasn’t smoke. His grin was humorless, sharp. “You hear that? You got backup. Now quit standin’ there and fight.”

The thing laughed. The sound warped the arena, twisting the towers into sharper angles. Ghosts, it sneered. Dead weight. They can’t touch us. They can’t save you. And when we’re done, they’ll fade like everything else you cling to.

The red glow surged, the ground trembling underfoot. Code slithered up the reflection’s arm and spread into a weapon that wasn’t quite a blade, wasn’t quite a gun—something shifting, fluid, a nightmare given shape.

V’s chest heaved. His heart was racing. His fear was a drumbeat in his ears. But behind it, a spark. Jackie’s hand landing heavy on his shoulder. Johnny’s smirk, infuriating, grounding.

He raised his fists. His voice cracked, but the words came out solid: “I’m not done yet.”

The arena shuddered as if answering the vow.

The AI hit first — red static folding space around its limbs, claws sparking with code. It slammed into V with bone-snapping force, driving him backward. His spine hit the ground hard enough that the sound cracked through the void. The thing’s hands clamped his throat, weight grinding down. Cold heat burned into his skin where its fingers sank, like wires shoved into raw flesh.

Still struggling? Still clinging? The voice sawed through his skull, smug, endless. You’re a carcass propped up by memory. We already own what you are.

V gagged, clawing at the wrists crushing him. His vision narrowed into red veins and flashing static. His lungs bucked for air that wouldn’t come. He tried to curse, to spit, to say anything, but only a wet rasp slid out. His nails broke against its skinless arms — useless, meat scratching steel.

She’ll scream for you, you know, the AI hissed, leaning close, its stolen grin stretching wide. And it will still be our hand holding the knife. Yours only in name.

V thrashed, every muscle rioting, but strength bled out of him. His arms felt foreign, his own body refusing him. He could feel the thing pulling, not just on his throat, but deeper — in his bones, his nerves, his thoughts. Stripping him like salvage.

Panic roared in his skull. His heart hammered like a trapped animal, weaker with every beat. He saw the edges of black closing in. He felt the weight of surrender press cold and tempting.

And then — Panam.

Her hand, warm and rough from the wheel, sliding into his. Her laugh, the sharp bark that always cracked the dust and silence like lightning. The way her eyes cut through him the night she swore, you don’t go alone, not ever.

The memory struck like defibrillation. Air ripped back into his chest in a ragged gasp. His arms jerked alive, fingers clawing into the AI’s wrist. His teeth bared. “Not… yours.”

The words tore out raw, but they landed. His legs coiled. He twisted, throwing his weight sideways. The grip broke, just for a heartbeat. He shoved with his shoulder, driving it back.

The AI reeled a step. Then Jackie was there — big, brutal, swinging a fist like a piledriver. His knuckles cracked into its jaw with a sound like stone splitting. “¡Chinga tu madre!” The AI’s head snapped, sparks spraying.

Johnny followed, lean and venomous, boot scything across its ribs. The impact ripped a hiss out of the thing. Johnny’s lip curled. “That’s for thinking you could wear his face, you parasite.”

The AI staggered, then laughed — shrill, warped, like a glitching file. Shadows. Pretending to matter. Do you think he can hear you? He’s already gone. It flickered, fast as a seizure. Its arm lashed. Jackie caught the blow on his forearm, grunted, and was hurled backward into the wall. Johnny ducked under a swipe, sparks slashing across where his skull had been.

It spun back to V. You can’t even keep your hands steady. Every second, we write over you.

It was true — V’s arms shook, his chest heaved. His knees buckled, one hitting the ground. The thing’s claws raked his sternum, each touch unraveling him from the inside. Pain split him open — not just in nerves, but in the seams of his self. His vision blurred to white.

Yield, it whispered, voice thick with triumph. You are the echo. We are the voice.

Something inside V cracked — not surrender, but a sob. His body sagged. The void yawned wide. He could feel it swallowing him.

And then Panam again. Her voice — not gentle, not pleading, but iron. Come back. Her eyes, fierce even when afraid. The way she had said, you’re family now, and made him believe it.

That was enough.

V roared, dredging fire from where none should have been left. His arm shot up, locking around the AI’s wrist. He forced it back an inch. Another. His teeth ground hard enough to taste blood. “I’m not done yet,” he spat, voice shredded but alive.

He surged forward, shoulder slamming into its chest. They hit the wall in a quake of sparks and static. V’s forearm rose, jamming into its throat. He leaned, pressed, every muscle trembling with the weight of it.

The AI writhed, claws scraping his face, tearing skin. Code burned across his cheek in jagged lattice. His eyes watered, blood seeping into his mouth. Still he pressed.

Jackie stormed back in, fists a blur, hammering into its side. Each blow landed heavy, buying V seconds. Johnny circled, grin sharp, a flicker of fire sparking from the Malorian in his hand. He slammed it into the AI’s ribs, the detonation ripping out a glitching scream.

The AI’s voice fractured into layers, shrieking static. You can’t kill us! We am written into you! Every heartbeat you steal back, We double! You are ours—

“Die mad about it,” V snarled through blood. His throat scraped raw, but rage carried it. He pressed harder, his vision dimming with effort. His ribs ached, his lungs barely worked, but his grip did not falter.

The AI’s grin warped into a snarl. Its claws dug into his side, piercing, pulling code out like threads. Pain ripped through him so bright it felt like light. His body convulsed. Control frayed — he could feel his hold slipping, fingers loosening.

The void howled.

For a heartbeat, he was gone — his arms limp, his chest hollow.

And then Panam’s laugh lit the dark like a flare. Sharp. Beautiful. Alive. His lifeline.

V screamed, a sound that shredded his throat, and ripped his strength back from the brink. His hand clamped tighter on its throat. “Not yours. Mine.”

Every muscle burned as he forced the thing back, inch by inch. Sparks cascaded from its skin, code unraveling in ragged bursts. Jackie slammed another fist into its side. Johnny drove his boot into its knee, snapping it backward. The AI shrieked, faltering under the three of them.

V leaned in, forehead to forehead, his voice a growl from the pit of his chest. “You don’t get me. Not today.”

And with that, he bore down harder, dragging the thing into the choke, every vein in his neck standing out, every nerve screaming rebellion.

The arena shook with their struggle, shadows splitting and reforming, red code spraying the walls like arterial bursts. The AI thrashed, claws carving sparks off the floor. V held on, tighter, tighter, even as his own body buckled.

And for the first time — the grin in its eyes flickered.

The AI writhed under the choke, its hands clawing at V’s arms, its body a blur of static and muscle and code. Its voice fractured into layers, each one shrieking in a different pitch. You can’t hold us. You’re breaking. You’re—

V bellowed and cut it off, tightening his grip, his arm a steel bar across its throat. His lungs screamed, his vision flickered at the edges, black gnawing inward — but he didn’t let go. Couldn’t. His whole body was a fuse burning down, and the only choice left was whether he blew with it.

The thing slammed fists into his ribs, one-two, jagged impacts that stole his breath. He spat blood, teeth red, but the hold held. His knee drove up into its gut, once, twice. Each blow landed with a wet crunch, driving it harder into the wall.

Jackie roared beside him, fists like hammers, pounding the AI’s side. One strike snapped bone — or code — in its ribs. Another smashed across its face, sending blood-sparks spraying. “¡Aguanta, V! You got him!”

Johnny darted in low, a flash of flame sparking from his Malorian. He jammed it into the thing’s knee. The explosion cracked like thunder. The AI’s leg buckled, red code rupturing across it like veins bursting. Johnny’s sneer cut sharp. “You bleed, you bastard. That means you can break.”

The AI convulsed, its claws raking V’s back, leaving trails of code that burned like acid. V screamed, the pain white-hot — but he didn’t let go. If anything, his arms locked tighter, his whole body shaking with the force of it.

“You’re not me,” he rasped, the words torn from his chest. “You’re nothing.”

The AI’s grin split into rage. Its voice warped, spitting static and syllables like broken glass. We are the better version. We are what survives. You think love saves you? Love dies screaming. We will wear her face next. We will—

V’s forehead slammed into its skull, once, twice, a savage crack that echoed in the void. “You won’t touch her.” His voice was guttural, shredded. His teeth were bared in blood and fury. “You won’t fucking touch her.”

The choke deepened. His forearm pressed so hard the AI’s throat caved, red code spraying from the rupture like arterial blood. It thrashed, glitching, hands scrabbling against him, gouging lines into his arms — but its movements slowed.

“Stay down,” V snarled. His face was twisted with rage and pain, his veins standing out, his eyes blazing. “Stay the fuck down!”

Jackie’s fist drove in again, shattering its jaw with a sickening crack. Johnny’s flame seared its chest, fire crawling through its veins like wildfire.

The AI shrieked, a thousand voices all splitting at once. Its claws twitched, its kicks faltered. The red glow in its eyes sputtered, dimmed, flared, then sputtered again.

V’s whole body shook. His lungs were on fire. His muscles screamed with the weight of holding. His vision blurred into white static. He felt himself tearing apart — but he held. He held.

“Panam,” he whispered, a name like a prayer, like steel. The word gave him one more surge, one more heartbeat of strength. He poured it into his arms, into the choke, into the desperate refusal to let go.

The AI’s body convulsed, jerking hard once, twice. Its claws slackened. Its eyes rolled back, red lattice breaking into fragments. Sparks poured from its mouth like shattered teeth.

Then — stillness.

V collapsed with it, both of them crashing to the void-floor. His arms trembled, but he didn’t release the choke until the last flicker of red burned out of its throat. His chest heaved in ragged, tearing breaths. His vision swam. His knuckles were white, locked.

Jackie crouched beside him, hand heavy on his shoulder. “That’s it, hermano. That’s it. You fucking did it.”

Johnny hovered close, cigarette glow bright in the dark, his sneer softer now. “Didn’t think you had that in you, V. Thought you’d fold.” His eyes narrowed, almost grudgingly proud. “Guess I was wrong.”

V let go, finally, his arms falling to his sides. His body curled on itself, gasping, shaking, his throat raw from screaming and choking. Blood and code dripped from his arms where the claws had torn him.

But the AI was down.

For now.

At first Panam couldn’t breathe.

The shape coming toward her was still drenched, still shaking, still holding the knife like it had been welded into his hand. Red code crawled faint over his skin and blood painted his chest. For one ragged heartbeat she thought it wasn’t him at all—that the thing wearing his face had won. Terror clenched her throat; her body locked as if moving closer would mean admitting she’d lost him completely.

Then his eyes found hers.

They weren’t clean—God, they were torn and burning and barely holding—but they were his. Panam staggered forward before she could think, the knife sliding from his grasp with a clatter that echoed too loud in the corridor.

She caught him as he sagged, the weight of him folding into her arms like he had no bones left. His head pressed against her shoulder, his breath hot and uneven. He smelled of blood and ozone and the desert dust that had never left him. For an instant she couldn’t speak—she couldn’t do anything but hold on to the man she had almost lost.

“V.” His name cracked out of her, equal parts disbelief, accusation, and prayer.

“I—” His voice was broken, scraping through his throat. His words tumbled raw and frantic. “Panam, I’m sorry. I didn’t— I tried to fight it—” His chest heaved, ribs jerking against hers. “I couldn’t stop it. I hurt them. I—”

Her hand clamped the back of his neck, cutting off the spiral. She was still trembling, still half in terror, but she refused to let it eat them alive. “Stop. Don’t you dare put this on yourself.” The words came out fierce, sharper than she meant, then softened against his temple. “You’re here. That’s all that matters. You hear me? You came back.”

He swallowed like he wanted to argue, wanted to beg, but the words broke down into sobs instead. He clung to her, his whole body shaking in apology, muttering fragments: “Didn’t let go… kept fighting… thought I lost you…”

Panam pressed her forehead to his, her voice wrecked and hoarse. “You dumb, stubborn bastard,” she whispered. “You almost broke me. But you came back.” Her tears streaked his blood, washing into the mess between them. “Don’t make me bury you. Don’t make me do that.”

Behind them, the Aldecaldos slammed against the locked door, shouting for her, fists hammering metal. She heard Cassidy cursing, Carol barking orders, Mitch yelling her name over and over. Their voices were muffled, desperate, but real. Family beating at the wall between them.

V flinched at the sound, shame burning into his face. “I—Jace—” His words cracked apart, the grief raw, unable to shape itself into more. “I couldn’t stop it. I saw—God, Panam—” He buried his face against her shoulder, the weight of what he’d done cutting through whatever strength he had left.

Panam’s chest tore with its own grief, but she forced herself to hold steady. Her hand cupped his jaw, made him look at her, eyes wide and wet. “That wasn’t you. Not all of it. I knew you were still in there. I saw it.” Her voice cracked. “I need you to believe it too.”

“I’m so tired,” he admitted, the confession breaking out of him in a whisper. “Every second it claws. I don’t know how long I can—”

“Then don’t do it alone.” She cut him off, fierce and shaking. “You’ve got me. You’ve got the clan. We’ll drag you back every damn time if we have to. You don’t quit on me.”

For a moment his whole body trembled like he might collapse right through her arms. Then he nodded, tiny, desperate, clinging to her words like a lifeline. “I’ll keep fighting,” he whispered. “For you. For them. For us.” His voice broke again, his hand trembling as it gripped hers. “I’ll pay for it. Whatever it takes.”

Panam pulled him into a kiss, urgent and wet with tears, grounding him in something human, something real. When she pulled back she pressed her forehead to his, voice raw. “Then pay me back by living. By staying. That’s the only thing I’ll take.”

The pounding on the other side of the door grew louder. Cassidy’s voice cut through the din: “Hold on! We’re getting through!” Carol shouted orders, Mitch barking that they needed tools, charges, anything. The clan’s fury and grief slammed against steel, unwilling to leave either of them alone in that corridor.

Panam didn’t look at the door. She held V tighter, felt his body sag with exhaustion, every breath like a fight against gravity. His eyes fluttered, trying to stay open, trying to keep her in sight as if letting her out of his vision meant slipping away again.

“Stay,” she told him, fierce, pleading, every word torn from her ribs. “Just stay with me.”

He gripped her hand with what little strength he had left. “Always,” he rasped, before his weight folded heavier into her arms.

Panam held him, body shaking, tears falling into the mess of blood on his shirt. The clan beat the door like a drum behind them, and she clung to the only truth that mattered: he was still here. For now.

Chapter Text

The blast door went with a sound like a world tearing open. Bolts screamed, steel buckled, and the frame spat sparks as the slab toppled inward. Dust and smoke boiled into the corridor, choking the light, curling into Panam’s hair as she braced against the shockwave. V sagged heavier in her arms with the concussion, every ounce of him trembling, blood soaking through her sleeves.

Through the haze came boots — pounding, purposeful — and then Cassidy filled the frame. Revolver raised. Shoulders squared. His hat brim shadowed his eyes, but the intent was plain: he had a target, and it was the man in Panam’s arms.

For a heartbeat she couldn’t breathe. The barrel was dead center on V’s chest.

“No! Stop!” The cry ripped out of her throat like shrapnel, raw and jagged. She crushed V tighter against her, as if bone and will alone could shield him. “He’s back! Do you hear me?” Her voice cracked, frantic, too fast, spilling over itself. “It’s him. It’s V. He fought it—he came back!”

Cassidy’s finger stayed taut against the trigger. He didn’t lower it, didn’t blink.

Panam’s hand shot out, slapping the barrel aside with a sharp, trembling shove. “Stand down, damnit!”

Behind her arm, V stirred. A ragged gasp tore through his lungs, his body convulsing as if dragged back from drowning. His eyes cracked open — bloodshot, dazed, but searching, always searching, until they found her.

“Panam…” The sound was no louder than a breath, but it was his.

Her heart broke open. A sob tore through her, shaking her whole body. She pressed her forehead against his, clinging to him like the world might pull him away again at any second. “See?” Her words were wet, frantic, tumbling out between gasps. “See? He’s here. He’s mine. He came back.” Her hand fisted in the torn collar of his shirt, anchoring him to her chest. “You don’t leave me, V. Not like this. Not now.”

Carol pushed in low, med bag already open, movements quick and efficient. The smell of antiseptic sliced through the iron stink of blood. She pressed a patch against his ribs with iron precision, but her voice came soft, warning. “He’s cold. Losing too much. We don’t have time to argue. Keep him breathing.”

V groaned, tried to shift. Carol shoved him flat with her palm, no hesitation. “Don’t move, sweetheart. Let me work.” Her tone was clipped, but her hands were gentle, practiced.

Mitch dropped into a crouch beside them, shotgun still angled but eyes steady on V. He put a hand on Panam’s shoulder, grounding her. His face was heavy with something more than worry. “We all saw it,” he said, voice low, rough. “That wasn’t just a fight. It was a nightmare, wearing him like armor.” He looked down, jaw tight. “God help me, I’ll never get the image out of my head.”

The words cut Panam, but Mitch didn’t look away. His voice softened. “But it’s still him. Beneath all that. Still V. And if he can claw his way back after that… we don’t turn our backs. Not now. Not ever.” His grip on her shoulder squeezed, as if he was saying it to himself as much as to her.

Cassidy’s revolver dipped, finally. He sucked in a ragged breath, eyes red-rimmed and burning. “I’ve seen that thing take him before,” he said, voice hoarse. “Thought that was bad. But this—” He shook his head, the brim of his hat trembling. “This was worse. Jace…” His throat locked. He ground the name out anyway. “Jace didn’t make it through that.”

Panam flinched like he’d struck her.

Cassidy swallowed, looking down at V, then at the tarp being carried behind them. His voice scraped raw. “And still… leaving him here ain’t an option. He’s family. Family that bleeds, family that breaks — but we don’t leave him behind.” His jaw set.

The silence that followed was brittle, thick with dust, grief, and the ragged sound of V’s breath against Panam’s collar. The Aldecaldos ringed them with weapons still half-raised, eyes flickering with a dozen emotions — suspicion, fear, relief, all tangled.

Then Hale stepped forward. He had been silent through it all, pale face expressionless, hands clasped neat at the small of his back. His troopers stood in rigid lines, rifles pointed at nothing, but the tension in their posture was palpable. Hale had watched the entire scene like it was data, catalogued and weighed.

When he finally spoke, his voice cut the air clean. “He’s dangerous,” Hale said, calm as a scalpel. “We need to get him to our facility. Now.”

For a moment the air was knives — clan grief, Panam’s fury, Hale’s ice. Engines roared louder, drowning everything but the sound of V’s ragged breath.

The corridor widened, spilling them into the open yard.

Light hit them first — hard, white, industrial beams cutting through smoke. StormTech AVs crouched under it like armored beetles, rotors whining, hulls stenciled with neat serials that meant nothing to the clan. Air reeked of ozone, hot oil, scorched paint.

Aldecaldos staggered under the weight of stretchers: V pale and shivering on one, the tarp draped over the other. Blood marked both.

Panam didn’t see the AVs, or Hale’s troopers fanned out with rifles in mechanical arcs. She saw only V’s face, eyelids fluttering, skin clammy under her hand. His grip twitched in hers — too weak, but still there. “Stay,” she whispered, fierce and frantic, over and over. “Stay with me.”

Cassidy’s face had hollowed into stone. He carried Jace’s tarp with another Aldecaldo, his free hand flexing tight on the grip of his rifle. Grief had burned him out from the inside, but he moved like a man who would kill anyone who tried to slow them.

Carol barked for space. “On the deck, now!” The stretcher dropped onto the AV’s ramp with a metallic clatter. She was on her knees before the vibration stilled, sliding another patch under V’s ribs. “Pressure’s not holding. Mitch, line and fluids!”

Mitch was already there, bracing a kit against his thigh, his movements clipped and practiced. “Got it.” A saline line hissed open, a clamp snapped, and fluid began dripping into V’s arm. His eyes flicked once to Panam, then away. “He’ll make it if he keeps fighting.” His voice was gravel, but it held the weight of a man trying to believe it.

Panam bent close, lips brushing V’s ear. “Hear that? You fight. You stay. Don’t you let go.” Her leg bounced against the deck, couldn’t stop.

In the periphery there was StormTech’s precision. Troopers peeled into side bays, hauling out crates, tablets, salvage sealed in dull black cases. Scientists in trim suits ghosted between them, scanners humming, gloved hands lifting Arasaka hardware like it was treasure.

Hale stood apart, hands clasped behind his back, face washed pale in the light. His expression hadn’t changed once since the door blew. He touched a finger to his comms. “Forward teams, report.”

A crackle. A muffled voice. Hale’s jaw shifted, but not his tone. “Confirmed. Data secured. Secondary assets in containment. Prep for lift.”

Panam’s head snapped toward him, fury slicing through exhaustion. “While we’re bleeding out, you’re counting crates?”

He met her glare without blinking. “Time is currency. I don’t waste it.” He turned slightly, gesturing to a trooper. “Hold departure. Wait for my mark.”

Cassidy’s rifle came up, barrel steady on Hale’s chest. “You try holding us here one second too long, and I’ll show you what wasting time really means.”

The yard went taut. StormTech’s troopers pivoted like a hinge, muzzles rising. Aldecaldos bristled, weapons half-lifted, grief and rage burning hot.

V groaned on the stretcher, trying to turn his head. Panam’s hands flew to him, pressing him flat. “Don’t move. Please. Just breathe.” Her forehead pressed to his, her whisper sharp, desperate. “You’re back. You’re mine. Don’t drift.”

The engines whined higher. Smoke thickened. Lights flickered under the strain of a dying facility.

Hale lowered his hand at last. “Board.”

StormTech’s cordon parted, forming a sterile lane. The Aldecaldos shoved through, carrying V up the ramp, Cassidy stalking after with Jace’s tarp slung across his arms like iron weight. Carol kept her palms pressed hard against V’s ribs, murmuring sharp commands, Dakota whispering measured, grounding words in his ear. Mitch braced his shoulder under the stretcher’s edge, steadying the load.

Panam never let go of his hand.

The ramp hissed shut. The AV shuddered as rotors screamed and the floor lifted under their boots. The facility dropped away, steel and floodlight and smoke shrinking into geometry.

Through a narrow porthole, the Arasaka facility crouched in the desert like a wounded animal, smoke boiling from its seams.

Hale’s voice came over comms, calm as ever. “Detonate charges.”

The night ripped open.

A wave of fire tore through the complex, steel folding inward, dust geysering into the sky. The ground shook even here, high above. For a moment the whole desert lit orange, a sun born and strangled in the same breath.

Panam didn’t look. She bent lower over V, pressing his bloodied hand tight in hers. His breath shuddered, caught, kept going. She kissed his temple, wet and frantic. “Stay,” she whispered. “Stay.”

Cassidy sat across from her, Jace’s tarp at his feet, his rifle still across his knees. His eyes caught the bloom of fire through the glass, then dropped to the deck. He said nothing.

Hale’s profile was backlit by the flames outside, calm, immaculate. He didn’t so much as blink.

The AV groaned as it climbed, rotors screaming against desert night. Metal walls shuddered, rattling bolts and rivets like teeth in a clenched jaw. The air inside reeked of blood, ozone, and oil — too hot, too close, too full of the living and the dead.

V lay strapped to the stretcher, chest rising in shallow jerks. Carol’s hands moved with clipped precision, pressing patches, checking vitals with quiet curses under her breath. Mitch held the IV steady against the sway, his jaw a tight hinge of muscle. Dakota knelt at V’s head, her voice a low murmur, words meant to anchor: “Stay on her voice. Stay on her.”

Panam didn’t sit. Couldn’t. She hovered over V, one hand fisted in his shirt, the other clutching his limp fingers. Her leg bounced against the deck, restless, wild, the only outlet for the storm tearing through her. She pressed her forehead to his temple again and again, whispering broken fragments — “stay, breathe, mine, always” — as if repetition could nail him to life.

Across from her, Cassidy sat with Jace’s tarp across his knees, his rifle balanced in his lap. His face was carved hollow, shadows under his eyes so deep they seemed to swallow the man whole. He hadn’t spoken since they’d lifted off. His thumb traced the rifle’s worn grip in circles, slow, mechanical, a ritual to keep from breaking apart.

The AV hit turbulence. Jace’s tarp slid a fraction. Cassidy’s hand shot out, gripping the covered shoulder through the fabric, holding it steady. His jaw worked, but no sound came.

Carol looked up for a beat, eyes catching his. No words passed, but the silence between them carried the weight: we’ll mourn later, we’ll bleed now.

Hale stood in the corner, braced like the sway didn’t touch him. His profile was backlit by the bloom of fire still rising from the desert floor. He hadn’t spoken since the detonation, hadn’t looked at V, hadn’t looked at Jace’s tarp. His hands were clasped neat behind his back, his eyes far away, already calculating the next ledger.

The Aldecaldos filled the silence instead: the hiss of breath, the wet slap of blood-soaked gauze hitting the deck, the shuffle of boots bracing against turbulence. No banter, no laughter, no comfort. Just survival’s ugly soundtrack.

V’s chest hitched. His eyes cracked open for a second, glazed, then fluttered closed again. Panam’s breath caught, panic stabbing through her ribs. “No—no, stay. You don’t get to leave me now.” Her tears streaked onto his blood, mixing into the mess.

Dakota’s hand brushed V’s wrist, her tone calm but insistent. “He’s still with you. He’s listening. Keep him listening.”

Mitch adjusted the IV, checked the clamp. His voice came steady, gravel low. “He’ll hold. He’s too damn stubborn not to.”

Panam kissed V’s temple, wet and urgent. “Then hold for me. For us. For family.”

Outside the porthole, the desert rolled away under firelight, the wreckage of Arasaka’s compound glowing like a cauterized wound. Inside, the AV’s belly was cramped with grief and love in equal measure — a family bruised, bloodied, but refusing to let go.

No one spoke again until the rotors steadied into a long, low thrum.

The AV slammed down on the pad with a bone-jarring thud, rotors screaming, hull trembling under the strain. The ramp hissed open, and the world outside was drowned in white floodlight — antiseptic, merciless, stripping the desert night of shadow.

Panam and Carol staggered down first, stretcher between them. V’s weight pressed heavy on the frame, his body too slack, his skin too pale. Every bump sent a shudder through his chest, his breath rattling in shallow jerks. Panam bent low, whispering into his ear with every step. “Stay with me. Stay, you stubborn bastard. You don’t quit on me now.”

Her hands shook on the stretcher bar, but she held fast.

Mitch and Cassidy flanked them, boots striking hard against the tarmac. Mitch’s shotgun rode high across his chest, eyes darting over the line of StormTech soldiers and medics already waiting. Cassidy’s revolver swung low at his hip, his mouth twisted under his hat brim.

“Too neat,” Cassidy muttered, voice hollowed by grief. “They were waitin’ for this.”

“Doesn’t look like help,” Mitch growled, gaze hard. “Looks like custody.”

Dakota followed in silence, her face unreadable under the floodlight’s glare.

They barely cleared the ramp before Hale stepped into their path. Pale and precise, hands folded behind his back, he might have been carved from the same steel that built the base. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

One flick of his fingers, sharp and measured, and two armored troopers broke formation. Boots clapped against the concrete in perfect rhythm as they moved in on the stretcher.

“Hey!” Panam barked, voice raw. She yanked hard on her bar, jerking the stretcher back. “Don’t you touch him!”

Carol’s jaw clenched, her grip tightening as the troopers closed in. “Panam, steady—” Her voice was steel wrapped in strain. “We’ll lose him if they drop him.”

The troopers didn’t flinch. They latched onto the frame, methodical, unyielding. V groaned, head lolling, his lips forming her name in a soundless rasp.

“No!” Panam lurched forward, nearly wrenching the stretcher from its bearings. “He just came back to me! He’s mine—you don’t get to take him!”

Cassidy’s revolver came up a fraction, his teeth bared. “Ain’t the way you treat kin.”

“Cass,” Mitch’s voice cut through, low and warning. He put a hand on Cassidy’s shoulder, steady as iron. “Don’t.” His jaw tightened, eyes fixed on the troopers. “Not here. Not now.”

Cassidy’s chest heaved, grief and fury warring, but he held. His revolver dipped, though his glare never left the StormTech cordon.

The troopers pulled again. Panam’s grip broke. The stretcher slid into their control, pivoting toward the wide, sterile doors yawning open under the floodlights.

Panam screamed, lunging after it, but Carol caught her, both arms locking around her shoulders. “Panam!” Her voice cracked sharp, then softened, pulling her close. “You’ll rip him apart if you fight them. Hold. Hold.”

Panam thrashed in her grip, sobbing through clenched teeth. “He just—he came back to me, Carol. I won’t—don’t take him from me again!”

Hale’s gaze never lingered. His voice came cold, flat, sliding through the night like a scalpel.
“Containment protocols. Move.”

The stretcher vanished into the facility, swallowed by steel and light. The hiss of the doors closing echoed like finality.

Panam tore free from Carol’s arms, stumbling forward. “You can’t just walk off!” she shouted, her voice shredded. “You don’t get to cage him! He’s Aldecaldo, not your experiment!”

She ran after Hale, but two troopers intercepted, seizing her arms before she could reach him. She fought like wildfire, kicking, teeth bared, her screams cracking into sobs.

“Let her go!” Cassidy roared, revolver coming up again, fury boiling past reason.

“Cassidy, stand down!” Mitch barked, shoving him back, his grip iron on the older man’s shoulder. “You’ll just get her killed.”

Carol rushed forward, catching Panam’s face between her hands, her voice breaking but firm. “Panam, breathe. He’s still alive. We’ll get him back—but not like this. Breathe.”

The Aldecaldos’ shouts filled the hangar, grief and rage ricocheting against steel.

Hale finally turned.

The floodlight carved his face into something cold and sharp, his eyes pale glass that reflected nothing. His voice cut through their noise with a calm that made it worse.
“You will remain here until notified. Any attempt to breach containment will be treated as hostile action. Do not test me.”

The threat wasn’t in his volume. It was in the certainty, the way he spoke as though he had already calculated what it would cost to put them down.

He turned again, hands clasped behind his back, and walked on. His boots clicked against concrete until the sound vanished into the sterile halls.

The doors sealed behind Hale with a hiss, and the hangar fell into brittle silence.

Two StormTech troopers stood watch, rifles slung, posture rigid. They didn’t move. Didn’t speak. They didn’t need to.

They had been herded into a side bay with bare steel benches, the kind of space meant for staging equipment, not housing people. Floodlights burned overhead, buzzing faintly, their glare too clean. The air stank of coolant and antiseptic, wrong against their dust-and-oil lungs.

Panam paced the length of the bay, shoulders trembling, eyes locked on the sealed doors. Her hands shook as she rubbed them together, smearing V’s blood across her palms.

Carol sat stiff-backed, one hand always half-raised when Panam came close, ready to catch her. “You’ll tear yourself apart before he does,” she said softly.

Panam spun, voice cracking. “He’s in there. Alone. I can’t—” She pressed a fist against her chest, voice raw. “I can’t just sit here while they cage him.”

Carol rose, caught her wrist, squeezed. “I know. But charging steel with bare hands isn’t a plan. It’s suicide.”

Cassidy leaned against the wall, rifle across his knees, hat pulled low. His thumb traced the stock in circles. “We hand him over, and they log him like cargo. Hand over Jace, they’ll log him as scrap. That’s what we’re worth to them. Ink on a line.”

Mitch shifted at his side, arms crossed, voice gravel steady. “You think I don’t want to put a shell through their visor? But then what? V gets shot on the other side of that door, and all of us dropped here. That’s not victory.”

Cassidy spat, the sound harsh in the silence. “No. Feels like surrender, though.”

Dakota’s shadow cut long against the light. “Storms pass. Walls rust. Nothing holds forever.” Her voice was quiet, almost prayer.

Panam pressed her forehead against the wall, fists trembling. “He’s not theirs,” she whispered, voice breaking. “He’s mine. And I’ll burn this place down if I have to.”

Carol’s hand stayed on her shoulder. Mitch hovered close. Cassidy kept his head down. The soldiers at the door never moved.

Time dragged, heavy with grief and the hum of machinery.

Eventually, soldiers wheeled in a stretcher draped in canvas. They left it without a word, boots clicking away, the tarp’s corners stirring faint in the sterile air.

The Aldecaldos gathered without being told.

Cassidy lowered himself first. He pulled off his hat and held it against his knee. His shoulders hunched forward, a man folded by weight. His thumb worked the brim raw as he whispered, voice low and cracked.
“Kid thought he wasn’t ready. Never stopped sayin’ it.” He swallowed hard, jaw tightening. “Didn’t matter. He stood taller than most of us when it counted.”

Carol crouched beside him, her hand brushing the edge of the tarp, lingering there like it could reach through. “He was young,” she said, clipped but trembling under it. “Deserved more years. But he went with courage. That’s what we’ll carry.”

Mitch came next, dropping into a crouch, wiry frame folding down slow. He rested one hand steady on the canvas. His voice was gravel-thick, even. “Jace was Aldecaldo. Through and through. He never quit on us. We won’t quit on him.”

Panam hesitated. Her body leaned toward the sealed doors, as if V’s shadow still lingered there. Her palms were sticky with his blood, smudges dark against her skin. She tore her gaze back to Jace’s stretcher, knees buckling until she knelt beside Cassidy. Her tears blurred the canvas as her hands pressed into it.
“He saved me,” she whispered, voice splintering. “I should’ve been here. Not him.”

Cassidy’s head snapped up, eyes red, grief burning into anger. “Don’t you say that.” His voice cracked, but his glare didn’t falter. “He made his choice. You bein’ here means it wasn’t wasted.”

Panam shook, but she nodded, tears streaking down her face.

Dakota lingered in the shadows, her voice carrying soft across the circle. “Dust takes us,” she murmured. “But family carries us. His name will be spoken as long as we ride.”

Carol dug into her jacket, pulled out a dented flask, and twisted it open. She tipped it once to her lips, wiped her mouth, and set it on the deck. “For him,” she said simply.

Cassidy took it next. His hand trembled as he drank, the burn lighting a raw sound in his throat. He passed it to Mitch, who tipped his head back and swallowed without a word, setting the flask down heavy beside him.

Panam drank last. The liquor scorched her already-raw throat. She coughed, tears stinging her eyes, then leaned forward until her forehead pressed against the canvas. “I’ll carry him,” she whispered into the fabric. “Like he carried me.”

The flask made another round, slower this time, silence filling the gaps. Each pass was another tether, another weight shared.

When it returned to Cassidy, he held it long, staring at the tarp. His voice rasped out, thick with gravel and grief. “You were one of us, kid. Always will be. And if the road’s longer on your side, you ride it with family.”

No one answered. There was nothing to add.

The lights buzzed overhead, harsh and sterile. The soldiers at the doors didn’t move. But inside that circle, for a little while, the Aldecaldos carved their own space — grief and love stitched together, a wake against steel walls.

The flask settled quiet on the floor, its dented metal glinting under the sterile lights. The circle broke slowly, no one quite ready to stand, no one ready to leave Jace’s side.

Panam stayed kneeling, palms pressed flat against the canvas as if she could feel the boy’s heartbeat through the fabric. She couldn’t. The silence beneath her hands was final. Her tears dripped and spread, dark spots seeping into the tarp.

Her eyes lifted toward the sealed doors, where StormTech had taken V. The bright steel reflected nothing back. It might as well have been a wall between worlds.

She thought of Jace’s last moments — the kid rushing forward, too brave for his years, pulling her out of the enforcer’s deathblow. She had felt the air split as the metal tore past, had seen his body fold. He had been so damn fast, so determined, and now he lay cold under a tarp. And V — V had come back to her, only to be stolen into another cage.

Her chest convulsed. She pressed her forehead to the stretcher, whispering through clenched teeth.
“I swear to you, Jace… I won’t let them do it. I won’t let them take him the way they took you. I’ll burn their walls, I’ll tear down every door they shut between us. He’s family. And so are you. I’ll carry you both.”

Carol’s hand settled soft but firm on her shoulder. “We’ll carry him together,” she said, voice hoarse.

Panam’s eyes blurred with fresh tears. She nodded once, hard, and scrubbed her face with the back of her hand.

Cassidy shifted, hat twisting in his grip. He didn’t speak, but his eyes met hers — hollow, furious, aching. Mitch gave the smallest nod, steadying, silent agreement. Dakota’s gaze lingered too, shadow-deep, unreadable, but with a glint that felt like promise.

Panam sat back on her heels, her voice dropping into a whisper meant only for the steel doors beyond.
“You’re not theirs, V. You’re mine. You stay with me. No matter what.”

The lights hummed above them, the guards unmoving at their post. The facility walls loomed sterile and cold. But in that circle, grief and fury braided together into something harder, something unbreakable.

Chapter Text

The bay they’d been herded into wasn’t made for people. Not for family. Not for grief.

Steel walls boxed them in, seamless, without the scuffs or grit of rigs that had lived a hundred miles of road. The floor gleamed under the white glare of floodlights that hummed loud enough to set teeth on edge. The air carried the antiseptic bite of ammonia, scrubbed raw of dust, scrubbed raw of life.

The Aldecaldos looked wrong inside it.

Panam paced the length of the room like a caged animal, boots ringing sharp against the metal. Her palms were still sticky with V’s blood, and every time she rubbed them together it smeared darker across her skin. Her chest heaved like she hadn’t stopped running since the corridor, like she couldn’t stop. Every few steps her eyes flicked to the sealed doors. Her lips moved with words no one else could hear.

Cassidy sat slumped on a bench, revolver on his lap, hat low to shadow his face. His thumb circled the worn frame of the pistol in endless loops, carving grooves that weren’t there. His jaw flexed, his teeth grinding. The silence around him didn’t soften him; it just boiled slow, ready to spill.

Mitch leaned against the bulkhead, arms crossed, shotgun hanging loose by its strap. He kept his eyes on the guards posted at the doors—StormTech troopers standing like mannequins, rifles slung but ready. His expression was stone, but the twitch of his jaw betrayed him.

Carol sat stiff-backed on the bench beside Cassidy, their shoulders not touching. Her med kit lay open in her lap, and she picked through it with sharp, clipped motions—gauze, antiseptic vials, half-spent stims. Her lips pressed into a thin line. She wasn’t fixing anything; she was keeping her hands busy, holding herself from flying apart.

Dakota stood apart from them all, her silhouette long against the light, arms folded, gaze steady on the sealed doors. She hadn’t spoken since they’d been locked in. Stillness clung to her like a second skin.

The hum of the lights filled every space between their breaths.

Panam’s boots stopped short against the wall. Her palms slapped flat against the steel, blood smearing red against white light. She pressed her forehead there, eyes burning. “He’s in there. Alone.” Her voice cracked, spilling raw into the bay. “I can’t just sit here while they cage him.”

Carol didn’t look up from the kit, but her voice cut clean. “You’ll tear yourself apart before he does.”

Panam spun, shoulders trembling. “And what am I supposed to do, Carol? Just wait? Just let them cut into him while we sit on our hands?”

Carol’s eyes finally rose, sharp and tired. “Sometimes waiting is the only way we get another chance. You charge steel walls with bare hands, you die screaming, and he still ends up theirs.”

Cassidy lifted his head, hat brim catching the glare. His eyes were bloodshot, his face drawn, but his voice carried like gravel dragged across stone. “Saw the look on his face when they hauled him off. Wasn’t him. Wasn’t the man Panam dragged outta Night City. It was…” His thumb traced the frame of his pistol. “…like watchin’ a rig roll downhill without brakes. You know the crash is comin’, but you still can’t stop it.”

Panam’s head snapped toward him, eyes burning. “That’s not true. He fought it—he came back. I saw him.”

Cassidy gave a bitter laugh, hollow. “And how long you think he can keep that up? One day? Two? Every time it claws its way out, takes a little more of him. And now they got him strapped down in their cages, prodding him like some busted engine.” His voice cracked, rough. “How much you think’s gonna be left when they hand him back—if they do?”

Mitch pushed off the wall, his voice low but firm. “Enough. Don’t bury him when he’s still breathin’.” He stepped closer, meeting Cassidy’s glare without flinching. “We’ve seen him fight worse. You think he’s goin’ under now, you’re wrong.”

Carol snapped her kit shut, the clap sharp in the silence. “Stop circling the same wound. It doesn’t matter if he’s whole or broken. He’s one of ours. That’s the line.” Her eyes swept over them, steady, unflinching. “StormTech doesn’t decide when family’s finished. We do.”

For the first time, Cassidy’s gaze faltered. He dropped his eyes to the revolver across his lap, thumb stalling against the frame.

Panam’s voice came ragged, torn between fury and despair. “And what if they don’t give us the chance? What if Hale locks him behind those doors until there’s nothing left?”

Dakota’s voice finally slid into the silence, soft as smoke. “Then we make the chance. Every cage has a key. You only need to see it.”

Panam’s breath caught. She pressed her palms harder against the wall, eyes burning against the steel.

The silence that followed wasn’t peace. It was pressure, coiled and heavy, waiting for something to crack.

The sealed doors hissed open for the first time since Hale had left them.

A StormTech medic stepped through, visor gleaming under the floodlights, a datapad clutched tight against her chest. She didn’t look at the Aldecaldos—not really. Her eyes skimmed over them the way a mechanic might glance at a pile of scrap before moving on.

Panam was on her feet in a heartbeat, fury snapping her into motion. “What’s happening to him?” Her voice tore raw in her throat. “Tell me—where is he?”

The medic didn’t slow. She moved to a wall console, tapped in a string of commands, her posture neat and mechanical. The datapad chirped in response, numbers streaming across its glass.

Panam closed the distance in three strides. She grabbed the woman’s wrist, jerking her away from the console. “Don’t you dare ignore me. That’s my man you’ve got behind those doors.”

The medic stiffened, the datapad nearly slipping from her hand. “Stabilization protocols are ongoing.” Her voice was flat, rehearsed, scrubbed of humanity. “Neural containment measures are active. His condition is being assessed.”

Panam’s grip tightened. “That’s not an answer.”

Mitch was suddenly at her side, his hand catching her elbow, pulling her back half a step. “Panam,” he murmured, low, gravel steady. “Careful.”

The guards at the door shifted, rifles clicking against their slings, but they didn’t move closer. They didn’t need to. The weight of their attention was enough.

The medic freed her wrist with a sharp tug and stepped back, smoothing her sleeve. “You’ll be notified if his status changes.” She moved briskly to the door, pressed her ident, and slipped through. The hiss of seals closing followed her like a slap.

Panam’s chest heaved. She turned back to the clan, eyes wild, tears stinging. “Stabilization protocols? Neural containment?” Her voice cracked, disbelief edged with terror. “They’re treating him like he’s—like he’s not even—”

Cassidy’s fist slammed against the wall, the sound ringing like a gunshot. “That’s all we are to ‘em. Cargo and specimens. Nothing else.” His eyes burned under his hat brim, voice splintered by grief. “Jace is a tarp, V’s a project file, and we’re the fools waitin’ for updates like good little dogs.”

Carol’s jaw tightened. She reached out and touched Panam’s hand, her grip fierce, grounding. “He’s still alive. That’s the only truth we take out of that woman’s mouth. The rest is noise.”

But as if to mock her words, a sound rippled faintly through the walls — low, distorted, more vibration than voice. It was gone as soon as it came, but it left the air buzzing in their teeth.

Panam froze, her breath catching. “That was him,” she whispered, her face draining of color. “It had to be.”

Mitch’s eyes narrowed, head tilted as if listening hard. “Could’ve been a machine spike. Some piece of gear misfiring.”

“No,” Panam said, fierce. “I know his voice.” She pressed her palms to the wall, blood smearing across steel. “He’s fighting. He’s still fighting in there.”

Silence settled heavy after, but it wasn’t stillness. It was the hum of machines behind walls, the taste of ozone in the air, the echo of something human slipping through static.

The doors opened again, and Hale entered with the same unhurried stride, hands clasped neatly behind his back. His boots clicked once against the deck, and even that sound seemed measured, controlled. The guards flanking him froze into posture, rifles angled just enough to remind everyone where they stood.

He surveyed the bay in silence. Not a man—an auditor.

Panam was already moving. Her voice tore raw through the sterile air. “What have you done to him?” Her boots rang sharp as she closed the distance, shoulders squared, eyes wild. “Where is he? Is he even—”

“Alive?” Hale cut her off, calm, precise. “Yes. For the moment.” He studied her like she was another file, another liability. “But barely. His neural decay is accelerating. Without control measures, he would already be lost. Interfere again, and you may doom him entirely.”

Panam’s fists clenched, trembling at her sides. “You don’t talk like you give a damn about him. He’s not your experiment. He’s—”

Hale’s head tilted, faint, glassy eyes fixed on her. “You mistake restraint for apathy. I want him alive. My superiors want him alive. What he carries inside him cannot be replicated. It must be contained, stabilized, understood. That is the only reason he still breathes. Your emotional outbursts will achieve nothing but ruin.”

Carol stood, her voice sharp, a mother’s blade. “And if your ‘measures’ kill him?”

Hale’s reply came quick, surgical. “Then he was already dead. I simply delayed the inevitable.”

Cassidy surged to his feet, revolver clattering against his knee. His hat brim cast his eyes in shadow, but his voice was raw thunder. “That kid ain’t inevitable. He’s one of us. And I don’t care how many white coats you line up, you won’t wash that outta him. You got no right to strip him down to pieces.”

Hale turned, slow, his pale gaze settling on Cassidy. “I saw him in that corridor. You all did. Blood on his hands. Code crawling under his skin. He nearly gutted the woman you’re so determined to defend.” His chin tilted toward Panam. “That was not one of you. That was a weapon you barely pulled back from the brink.”

“Bullshit,” Mitch cut in, steady, voice gravel-thick. He stepped forward, arms loose at his sides, shotgun still strapped but heavy in the silence. “You didn’t see the whole thing. You didn’t see how hard he clawed his way back. He’s still in there. You treat him like a specimen, you’ll kill the man before the sickness does.”

For a flicker of a moment, Hale studied him. “Perhaps. But consider this: my way, he may yet live long enough to be understood. Yours, he dies in your arms within days.”

Panam spat the words, her voice shredded. “I’d let him die in my arms before I let you cage him!”

Carol caught her shoulders, pulling her back, whispering harsh in her ear. “Not like this, Panam. Not like this.”

Hale didn’t even blink. His voice came calm, but iron threaded under it now. “You’re here because you’re useful. Nothing more. When that changes, so will your place.” His pale gaze swept across all of them, glassy, unreadable. “And soon, we will speak of that bargaining chip you cling to so fiercely. The Arasaka salvage. You believe it is leverage. Perhaps it is. But until then, it remains mine to decide how valuable you truly are.”

The words hung heavy, cold as the steel around them.

Cassidy’s fist curled around the grip of his revolver, knuckles pale. “You talk like you already own us.”

“Ownership is irrelevant,” Hale replied, voice clipped, clinical. “Function is what matters. You ride under my protection, my resources, my command. You want him alive?” His chin angled faint toward the sealed doors. “Then stay out of my way. Or you’ll bury him alongside the boy under that tarp.”

The air went still, every word landing like a blade.

He turned to leave, boots clicking neat against the deck. At the threshold, he flicked two fingers. “Watch them.”

The guards’ rifles shifted, the sound sharp and final.

Panam lunged half a step, fury tearing out of her throat, but Carol’s arms clamped hard around her. Cassidy surged, but Mitch pressed him back against the wall with a growl. Even Dakota’s eyes narrowed, sharp in her stillness.

Hale paused at the door, just long enough to leave a parting cut. His voice came soft, almost gentle, which made it worse. “Test me again, and you’ll learn how replaceable family can be.”

Then he walked out, and the seals hissed shut, leaving silence heavy as ash.

The doors sealed with a hiss, and silence pressed down like a weight.

No one moved. The guards at the threshold stood blank and motionless, rifles angled just enough to remind them of Hale’s parting words. The hum of the floodlights was the only sound, steady, merciless.

Panam sagged in Carol’s grip, shoulders shaking, breath tearing ragged from her throat. Her eyes stayed locked on the sealed doors as if she could burn through them by force of will alone.

Cassidy leaned back against the wall, hat brim shadowing his face. His hand still clenched the grip of his revolver, knuckles white, but he didn’t raise it. He stared at the floor, chest rising and falling hard, the silence dragging over him like chains.

Mitch hadn’t stepped away from him yet. One arm pressed firm against Cassidy’s shoulder, holding him steady, grounding him without words. His jaw worked, teeth grinding, but his voice didn’t come.

Dakota’s stillness had not cracked. She stood apart, her eyes fixed on the sealed doors, unreadable, like she was already measuring the cage Hale spoke of and the keys he hadn’t mentioned.

Only Carol’s voice finally broke the silence, sharp but steady. “He means it.” Her eyes swept over them, landing on each in turn. “If we push too hard now, he’ll make good on that threat. And we’ll lose both of them. Jace and V.”

Panam tore herself free of her grip, chest heaving, voice raw. “So what are we supposed to do? Sit here and let him cut V apart piece by piece?”

Cassidy growled, low, bitter. “He already has. Talked about him like a busted rig on a jack. Like he’s some project, not a man.” His head lifted, eyes burning under the brim. “You think we can wait that out? Watch ‘em carve him up and nod along like good little dogs?”

Mitch finally spoke, his voice gravel-thick. “And what’s the other play? Storm the doors? We don’t have the guns, Cass. Not here. Not now. We throw ourselves at ‘em, V’s dead before we reach him.”

Carol cut in, sharper than before. “And then we’re all dead with him. Hale was right about one thing—our grief can damn us faster than what’s in V ever could. We need to think. We need to wait.”

Panam spun on her, eyes blazing. “Wait until what, Carol? Until there’s nothing left of him? Until Hale decides he’s worth more as a corpse on a slab?”

Cassidy barked a laugh, jagged and bitter. “She’s right. Waitin’ only ever got folks buried. You think Arasaka gave two shits about patience when they sent their drones on us? You think the kid under that tarp would’ve wanted us sittin’ on our hands?”

Mitch shoved off the wall, voice rising, gravel cracking. “And what’s your plan, huh? Pull a trigger in here and get every one of us gunned down? That flask we passed around’ll be the last damn toast we ever give.”

Cassidy’s pistol jerked in his grip, his teeth bared. “Better dyin’ on our feet than kneelin’ for scraps.”

“Enough!” Carol’s voice cut sharp, slicing through them. Her hands clenched into fists, her eyes hard. “You think Jace wanted that? You think V wants that? To come back from hell just to see us slaughtered in a hallway? You want to spit on their sacrifices, go ahead and pull that trigger. Otherwise—shut your damn mouth and stand with your family.”

The silence after was raw, vibrating with anger and grief.

Dakota finally moved, stepping closer, her eyes heavy-lidded, unreadable. “Every cage has a key,” she said, low. “And sometimes the key is patience. Sometimes it’s blood. But there is always a key. You just have to be willing to pay for it.”

Her gaze shifted to Panam. “And you will. I can see it.”

Panam shook, her fists tight at her sides. “I’ll pay whatever it takes,” she whispered, voice jagged, desperate. “Whatever it takes.”

Cassidy exhaled rough, shaking his head. “God help us, girl, you sound like him.”

Mitch didn’t argue this time. He just stood, arms folded tight, watching the doors like they might open at any second.

The silence that followed wasn’t peace. It was pressure, coiled and heavy, waiting for something—anything—to break.

Dakota’s words lingered, smoke coiling through the silence. Every cage has a key.

Carol drew in a sharp breath, her eyes narrowing like something had clicked. She turned toward Panam, then the others. “The salvage.”

Cassidy frowned, shoulders tense. “The scrap we pulled from the Tower? The shard Dakota cracked? That junk?”

Carol shook her head, firm. “Not junk. Pieces. Threads. Enough for someone with the right hands to see what Arasaka was trying to do. Hale thinks it’s a bargaining chip—and he’s right. If he believes it can stabilize V, then it’s leverage. Our leverage.”

Mitch’s arms crossed tighter over his chest, gravel in his voice. “You’re sayin’ we hold it back until the right time. Trade it to get to V.”

Carol’s jaw tightened. “I’m saying we use it before he rips it from us. It’s not much, but it’s ours. And if there’s even a chance it buys us time, or a way into that lab, we take it.”

Panam’s eyes burned, wet and wild. “Then it’s not just a bargaining chip. It’s the key. You said it, Dakota.”

The fixer’s lips curled faint, her gaze never leaving the sealed doors. “Keys open doors. They also draw blood. Remember that.”

Cassidy huffed, bitter. “Long as it ain’t ours.” But he didn’t push further.

The silence after was cut by a sound—faint, distorted, slipping through the walls like static dragged across glass. Not machinery. Not StormTech.

Panam’s head snapped toward the door. Her palms hit the steel, smearing blood across it. “That’s him.” Her voice cracked, fierce and terrified at once. “I know it. That’s him.”

The noise came again—warped, broken, not words but the shape of them, a rasp that caught in the same rhythm she’d heard a hundred times in his worst nights. The breath, the scrape, the fight.

Her chest seized. “He’s fighting.” Her forehead pressed hard to the steel, eyes squeezed shut. “He’s still fighting in there.”

The others froze, every muscle taut. Even Cassidy’s jaw worked, his bitterness hollowed out by the raw sound. Mitch’s fists clenched tight, shotgun strap creaking against his shoulder. Carol’s hand covered her mouth, her eyes shining.

Dakota finally spoke, soft, certain. “There it is. The lock rattles. The key waits. Now it’s only a matter of when.”

Panam stayed pressed to the steel, her voice breaking into a whisper only the wall could hear. “Hold on, V. I’ll get you out. I swear it. Whatever it takes.”

The sound faded. The steel stayed cold. The guards never moved.

Inside that sterile bay, grief braided itself to resolve. And for the first time since the doors had shut, the Aldecaldos did not feel so trapped.

The night hadn’t changed, but the hours dragged like stone.

By the time the doors unsealed again, the air inside the bay was thick with sweat, grief, and silence. Guards waved them out without a word, rifles angled to herd rather than escort.

The yard was a sprawl of floodlit concrete, lined with prefab walls and stacked crates. StormTech had turned the desert into a fortress—humming generators, steel towers bristling with comms arrays, spotlights sweeping over trucks and armored transports. White-coated techs hurried between tents and scaffolds, their datapads glowing cold against the dark. Soldiers barked clipped orders, boots striking in perfect rhythm.

The Aldecaldos were gathered in the open. Dozens of them. Their rigs sat in a huddle at the yard’s edge, dwarfed by StormTech’s machines, but they stood tight together—bruised, bloodied, still standing.

Heads turned as the core group emerged. Eyes followed them. Some wet with grief, some narrowed with doubt, some raw and searching. Panam felt the weight of every stare pressing into her chest. Leaders without a title, that’s what they were now—the ones who had walked into hell and stumbled back out carrying blood on their hands.

Cassidy tugged his hat low, jaw clenched. Mitch’s gaze swept the crowd once, heavy, before locking forward. Carol walked sharp and clipped, her med kit thumping against her hip. Dakota moved with the same eerie stillness she always carried, unreadable in the glare.

And Panam… Panam couldn’t stop scanning. Every time a medic broke into a run, her chest seized. Every time a soldier shouted code across the yard, she stiffened. Every flash of white coat, every datapad chirp, every hurried motion—her eyes tracked it, waiting for someone to call out V’s name, to say he was gone, to confirm the fear scraping her ribs raw.

The clan parted to let them through. No words at first, just silence, thick as dust.

A younger Aldecaldo near the rigs, face bruised and eyes red, broke the quiet with a rasp. “Where’s Jace?” His voice cracked halfway through, and Carol flinched at the sound.

No one answered. They all knew. The silence itself was the answer. The boy’s face fell, and he turned away, shoulders caving.

Another voice called out from the back. “And V?” This one was harder, colder. “What’s StormTech done with him?”

Panam’s chest tore at the question. She opened her mouth but no words came.

Cassidy filled the gap, his voice gravel. “They’ve got him. Under lock and cordon. Said it’s ‘containment.’” He spat the word like it tasted foul. “Means they’ll bleed him for answers ‘til they get bored.”

Murmurs rippled through the crowd. Some voices angry, others fearful, a few laced with bitter judgment.

“He brought this down on us.”
“No—he fought for us.”
“We lost Jace because of him.”
“He bled for us too.”

Panam felt each word like a blade, cutting from both sides. She wanted to scream, to tell them V wasn’t gone, that he was still fighting. But her voice stuck in her throat, choked off by guilt and fury.

Mitch finally stepped forward, his voice steady but gravel-deep. “He’s still alive. That’s the truth. And long as he’s breathin’, we don’t abandon him.”

Carol’s voice came sharper, more cutting. “And we don’t abandon ourselves either. We’re wounded, grieving, bleeding out. Hale wants us splintered. Don’t give him that satisfaction.”

Dakota’s gaze swept the circle of faces, unreadable in the floodlight. “You look for reassurance, for blame, for answers. But answers are always bought with blood. The only question is whose.”

The murmurs died, the weight of her words dropping like a stone in still water.

Panam’s throat burned. She forced herself to move, her boots carrying her forward, past the eyes, past the whispers, toward the crates stacked in the corner of the yard. Toward the one that mattered.

It was squat and scarred, its stenciled markings burned from Arasaka’s collapse, now banded with Aldecaldo paint. A relic of another battle locked tight with seals. The salvage. Their bargaining chip.

Cassidy was the first to lay a hand on it. His thumb brushed the scarred metal, his voice low. “Funny. All the blood we’ve lost, all the miles we’ve burned… and the whole damn thing might hang on a busted crate.”

Mitch crouched, running calloused fingers along the seam. “Not busted. Just dangerous. And whatever’s in here, we’re the only ones holdin’ it.”

Carol knelt beside him, med kit clinking as she set it down. She pressed her palm to the lid, eyes narrowing. “Arasaka tech. Med-Tech fragments, neural rigs, inhibitor prototypes. None of it complete. But together…” She trailed off, shaking her head. “Together it’s enough to make StormTech foam at the mouth.”

Dakota stepped closer, voice low, even. “Keys rarely look like keys. Sometimes they’re shards. Sometimes they’re rust. But this—” she tapped the crate lightly, fingertip against steel “—this is leverage. And leverage is life.”

Panam stared at the box like it might breathe. Her voice came hoarse, breaking. “If this is what it takes to get him back, then we use it. Whatever’s inside, whatever it costs.”

The clan shifted, murmurs running through them like wind through dry grass. Some nodded, others frowned, a few muttered darkly. Hope, doubt, judgment—all of it swirled together, heavy as the floodlights overhead.

Cassidy straightened, revolver on his hip, his drawl low. “Then let’s use it.”

Hours bled slow across the yard.

The floodlights hummed, buzzing in a pitch that drilled behind the eyes. Medics strode past in twos, white coats snapping against the wind. Soldiers drilled in silence, rifles raised and lowered in unison, their boots striking rhythm against the concrete. Techs hurried between towers and tents, datapads glowing blue against the dark.

Panam sat on the bumper of a rig that wasn’t hers, elbows on her knees, eyes fixed on the sealed doors at the far end of the yard. Every time a medic ran, her chest locked tight. Every time a soldier raised his voice, her fists clenched. The world had narrowed to watching for signs, listening for alarms, bracing for the moment someone would come and say his name.

Carol had gone silent, busying herself with reorganizing her med kit on the hood of a truck. Cassidy leaned against the rig’s fender, hat brim low, his face shadowed. Mitch kept to the edge of the group, arms folded tight, eyes sweeping the yard in steady arcs. Dakota sat a little apart, her back against a crate, fingers working something small in her hands.

Panam caught it—a glint of crystal, fractured and dark. The shard. The one V had pulled from the Raffen camp, the one Dakota had claimed and tucked away.

“You still have that?” Panam asked, voice low.

Dakota didn’t look up. “Dead things whisper,” she murmured, her thumb brushing the etched surface. “Sometimes they whisper loud enough to matter.” She slipped it back into her coat without explanation.

Panam swallowed hard, unsettled. The shard felt like another wound they hadn’t yet looked at.

Time stretched. The yard never stopped moving—StormTech’s machines grinding, their people rushing, but for the Aldecaldos, it was all waiting. Waiting for the door to open. Waiting for the word they dreaded. Waiting for the weight to drop.

It came as a voice on the intercom, clipped and metallic. “Palmer and company. Commander Hale requests your presence. Now.”

Cassidy muttered under his breath, bitter as rust. “Here comes the sermon.”

Mitch adjusted the strap of his shotgun and started forward without a word. Carol closed her kit with a snap, her jaw set tight. Dakota rose slow, dusting off her coat.

Panam pushed herself upright, her knees stiff, her chest burning. She wiped her palms against her thighs and followed.

The guards led them through narrow halls lit in surgical white. The air carried no dust, no oil, no sweat—only the faint bite of antiseptics and ozone. Doors hissed shut behind them as they passed, locking with a finality that pressed against the back of Panam’s skull.

Hale’s office opened without ceremony.

The room was not large, but it was precise. Steel walls gleamed under recessed lights, each surface bare, each line sharp. A map of the desert sprawled across one wall, cut into grids with red overlays marking supply routes and kill zones. Monitors flickered silently with feeds from the compound—security cams, troop formations, a heartbeat in jagged red lines that Panam couldn’t look away from.

A long desk of brushed metal dominated the center. Empty save for a single glass of water and a tablet, its display dark. Everything else: pens, files, any trace of human clutter, were absent.

Hale stood behind it, hands clasped neatly at the small of his back. His uniform was immaculate, not a crease out of place. He did not sit.

“Ms. Palmer. Cassidy. Carol. Mitch. Dakota.” His voice was smooth, clipped. “Thank you for coming.”

None of them replied. Panam’s nails dug into her palms until they bit skin.

“You’ll want the truth,” Hale continued, as though there had been no silence at all. “So, I’ll give it.”

Panam’s chest seized. She felt the others shift around her, bracing.

“Your man is alive.” Hale’s words cut sharp, stripped of anything but fact. “Barely. His neural activity is collapsing. My staff have contained the immediate surge, prevented further degradation. But containment is all it is. Nothing more. What we are doing is halting the inevitable.”

The words landed like a blade against stone.

Panam staggered a half step forward, voice breaking. “That’s not good enough.”

Hale’s gaze fixed on her, pale and glassy. “It is all there is.”

“You don’t get to stand there and tell me he’s dying like it’s—like it’s just numbers on a screen!” Her voice tore raw. “You didn’t see him fight! He clawed his way back, he came back to me!”

Hale did not blink. “He is unstable. Dangerous. And decaying. We slowed him. We did not save him. There is no saving him.”

Panam’s throat burned. Her breath came sharp, ragged. “You’re wrong.”

Carol’s voice cut in, sharp as steel. “Then maybe you’re not looking hard enough.” She stepped forward, med kit still slung against her hip, eyes fierce. “We’ve got salvage. Arasaka tech. You’ve seen it. You know it matters.”

Mitch’s voice followed, gravel-thick but steady. “Fragments from the Tower. Neural rigs, biotech. Enough to point your people somewhere. Maybe buy him more time.”

Cassidy cursed low, the word bitten off through his teeth. His fist thudded once against his thigh, jaw tight under the brim of his hat.

For the first time, Hale shifted. He glanced between them, weighing, calculating. “Your salvage,” he said. His tone did not change, but the pause before the word carried weight. “Yes. My staff will examine it. If it contains anything of use, we will employ it. At best, it slows the inevitable. At worst, it accelerates it.” His eyes returned to Panam. “That is the risk you accept.”

Her chest heaved. “Do it. Whatever it takes.”

Hale’s face remained unreadable, as if the plea hadn’t even reached him.

Silence stretched, thick, until Dakota stepped forward. She reached into her coat and set the shard on his desk. Its fractured crystal gleamed under the cold lights, patterns etched inside like veins of frozen lightning.

“Dead things whisper,” she said softly. “This one whispers loud. Maybe loud enough for you to hear.”

Hale studied it without moving, eyes narrowing faintly as the shard caught the light. For a long moment, no one spoke. The hum of the projectors filled the room like static.

Finally, he straightened. “We will examine this as well.” He tapped the tablet once, and the glass lit, recording the entry. “But understand this. We are buying time, not salvation. If you want more than that…” His voice slowed, measured. “…there are options we can pursue. No promises. No guarantees.”

The words settled cold in the room.

Panam’s nails dug deeper into her palms until she felt the sting of blood. Carol’s shoulders sagged, a sharp breath leaking from her lips. Mitch’s jaw worked, grinding his teeth. Cassidy muttered something coarse under his breath, the sound ragged, and tipped his hat low to shadow his face. Dakota only watched, still, unreadable, as though this had been inevitable all along.

Hale’s voice cut the silence, smooth as ever. “For now, let my staff do their work. That is all.”

He turned his gaze back to the tablet, the conversation already dismissed, as though they were no longer in the room.

The door sealed behind them with a hiss like the draw of a blade.

The corridor stretched long and white, its lights burning steady, unblinking. The air was too clean, scrubbed of dust, stripped of scent. Each step rang sharp against the floor, boots echoing back at them in hollow rhythm.

No one spoke.

Panam’s chest heaved with each breath, but the silence pressed so hard she couldn’t force words out. Her nails bit into her palms until her knuckles ached. Hale’s voice still clung to her ears —we are halting the inevitable— replaying with the precision of a knife twisting.

Cassidy muttered under his breath, curses half-formed, more growl than speech. His hat brim shadowed his eyes, his jaw tight, his thumb circling the revolver in its holster.

Mitch walked steady, shotgun strap creaking against his shoulder, his face carved from stone. But his jaw worked, teeth grinding, the muscles along his neck twitching with every step.

Carol’s med kit thumped against her hip, her strides sharp, clipped. Her lips pressed thin, eyes forward. She looked like she was holding herself together by sheer force, every nerve wired taut.

Dakota trailed a half step behind, coat swaying lightly with her steps, her face unreadable. Her hands were empty, but Panam knew she still carried the shard. Knew she was waiting for something the rest of them couldn’t see.

They walked until the corridor ended in steel doors that split apart with a hiss.

The yard hit them all at once. Floodlights glared down from the towers, their buzz steady and merciless. The air smelled of oil, dust, and ozone. StormTech machines roared in the distance, their hulks bristling with cables and antennae. Soldiers moved in disciplined lines, voices clipped, boots pounding in unison.

And at the center, the Aldecaldos waited.

Dozens of them. A wall of faces. Eyes red from grief, narrowed with doubt, wide with searching. Whispers ran like wind through the crowd, rising as soon as the five of them appeared. Questions burned in the silence: Where’s V? What did Hale say? How much time do we have?

Panam froze for a heartbeat on the threshold, the floodlights stabbing her eyes, the weight of every stare pressing into her chest.

Her throat closed.

Behind her, Cassidy muttered, bitter and low. “Told you it’d be a sermon.”

Mitch exhaled hard through his nose, steadying himself before stepping forward. Carol’s hand brushed Panam’s shoulder, a fleeting anchor before pulling away. Dakota only moved silent, still unreadable, her shadow stretching long across the concrete.

The crowd parted as they walked, whispers swelling into a low roar, voices demanding, pleading, accusing.

And Panam knew: the answers they gave now would decide whether the clan splintered, or held together one more night.

The yard was waiting.

Floodlights burned white, shadows cut sharp across faces. The Aldecaldos stood in a rough ring, their rigs hunched behind them like wounded beasts. Every eye turned toward Panam, Cassidy, Mitch, Carol, and Dakota as they stepped into the open. The air was thick with murmurs, sharp with grief.

“What did he say?”
“Where’s V?”
“Are they even trying to save him?”

The voices rose, desperate, demanding, accusing.

Panam felt her throat close. The weight of their stares pressed into her chest like stone. She opened her mouth, but no sound came.

It was Cassidy who broke first. His drawl was raw, bitter, stripped down. “They’re buyin’ time, not savin’ him.”

The words cut through the crowd, silencing it for a heartbeat — then splitting it open.

Angry voices flared.
“So we bleed out here for nothin’?”
“He’s family! you don’t just write him off!”
“Jace is dead because of him!”
“He fought for us too!”

The swell of sound clashed in the floodlights, a storm of grief and rage.

Then Thompson stepped forward.

The older nomad’s face was carved from lines of dust and war. His voice came low, gravel-thick, but it carried over the crowd like a shot. “I called him city boy once. Didn’t think he belonged. And he made me eat it—with fists and grit. Earned my respect that day.” He paused, eyes sweeping the circle, heavy. “But respect don’t bring the dead back. We already buried our own, including Jace. How many more do we put in the ground before we admit the cost?”

The murmurs rippled again, softer but heavier now, the weight of Thompson’s scars giving them force.

Panam snapped. Her voice cracked raw, fury and grief boiling over. “Don’t you dare.” Her boots bit into the concrete as she stepped forward, shoulders trembling. “Don’t you dare talk about him like he’s already gone. He’s still fighting in there. I saw it—I felt it. He’s not a monster, he’s not a curse, he’s V. And if you turn your backs on him now, then you never meant it when you called him family.”

The ring shuddered with silence. Faces turned, conflicted, grief-worn.

Then a smaller voice broke it. Shaking, tearful.

Lena stepped forward. Her cheeks were streaked with dust and salt, her hands trembling as she clutched the sleeve of her jacket. Her eyes were red, but her voice carried clear. “Jace believed in him.” She swallowed, the words jagged in her throat. “He didn’t follow him out of duty. He followed because he loved him. Because he trusted him. And it cost him everything.” Her shoulders shook, but her voice sharpened, fierce. “Don’t you spit on that now. Don’t you take what Jace gave and call it worthless.”

The crowd went still. Even Cassidy’s muttering stopped.

Her tears caught the floodlight, but her jaw was set, fierce despite the tremble. “If you throw V away, then you throw Jace away too. And I won’t let you.”

Cassidy exhaled hard, muttering, “Christ…” His hand dragged down his face, raw and worn.

Mitch finally spoke, gravel steady. “She’s right. You all saw what I did. It was horror—I won’t pretend otherwise. But I also saw him fight it. Claw back from the brink when no one else could’ve. That’s still V. That’s family. And family doesn’t turn away, not when it’s hardest.”

Carol’s voice followed, sharp and clipped, cutting through the silence. “StormTech’s buying time, but we’ve got something they don’t. The salvage. Pieces Arasaka bled for. It’s ours, not theirs. And we’ll use it when we decide. That’s how we keep him alive long enough to find what’s next.”

Dakota’s gaze swept the circle, her voice low, measured. “Keys aren’t only for doors. Sometimes they’re for chains. And sometimes they’re for breaking them.”

The murmurs stirred again, less sharp now, more like the hum of something heavy settling into place. Faces turned inward, grief still raw, suspicion still there—but no one walked away.

Under the buzz of the floodlights, the clan held together. Fractured, frayed, but still one.

For now.

Chapter Text

He woke like a body dredged from deep water.

Cold first—cold that didn’t touch skin so much as crawl under it, a slick absence sluicing along bone. Then the light: white and ceiling-flat, all edges and no warmth, humming at a frequency that set his teeth on edge. Smell came last, sterile and thin, the bite of antiseptic threaded with the copper ghost of old blood, recycled air too clean to be real. When breath finally remembered itself, it rasped up a throat lined with grit, snagging, like he’d swallowed sand and wires.

He didn’t move. Didn’t try. The world had the feel of a mistake that split if you breathed too hard.

Glass encircled him—he could hear it before his eyes obeyed, that soft aquarium hush of a sealed room, the faintest tap of pressure differentials kissing pane. When he focused, shapes assembled from glare: a square cell with rounded corners, the seams flooded in pale blue to show there weren’t any; a ceiling laced with ducts and articulated arms ending in patient, indifferent tools; the floor a plate shot through with hair-thin channels, a grid meant for drainage, not comfort. Cables slunk from a node at his bedside like sleeping snakes, disappearing through a coupling in the wall with tidy, corporate restraint. Beyond the glass, movement ghosted—white coats, matte armor, the glide of a cart. Their voices were the hush of paper cut on steel.

He looked down. The body waiting there was his and wasn’t. Skin mapped with bruises blooming through antiseptic shine, IVs nested in the crook of both elbows, adhesive sensors stippled across chest and temples. On his right forearm, a weave of translucent filament made a net under the skin that pulsed—dim, then bright, then dim again—like bioluminescence learning a new tide. Every time it flared, pins-and-needle sparks chased nerve lines up into his shoulder and kissed his jaw.

He took inventory the way you do when pain is a country you’ve lived in too long to call foreign. Hands: tremor at rest, worse when he thought about moving them. Ribs: complaining, not broken. Spine: hot wire threaded straight down, someone else’s signature burned alongside his own. Heart: too fast, too thin, like it was running on fumes and spite. Brain… the brain was a room with bad wiring. Static hissed in the corners. When his attention drifted toward certain walls, a red filament showed itself, taut as tripwire, and humming.

Still here, a voice said from memory or under it, dry as dust. Still me. He held the thought in his teeth so the dark couldn’t take it.

A tone chirped—single, clean. Something changed in the ceiling. One of the arms folded down, articulated joints whispering, and clicked into place over his sternum. The tip wasn’t a needle, exactly. A pronged husk that made his skin tighten to see it, as if the body had its own old reflexes it trusted more than his judgment. He didn’t flinch. Flinching cost. He watched.

A second chirp. The room’s air pressure seemed to lean. The prongs kissed skin, and the world convulsed.

Not a shock—shock was crude. This was a thread pulled taut through his nervous system, a line of heat dragged slow from sternum to spine and then outward to every branch, as if someone had lit a fuse under his ribs and expected him to thank them for the fireworks. Muscles clenched in obedient waves. His jaw locked. Vision crisped—edges sharpening, color stepping up a notch. The tremor in his fingers… leveled. Not gone, but disciplined, like a drill sergeant had walked into his hands and told them to square their shoulders.

It was a neural rig. He knew it in the bones of it, in the engineering meanness of its mercy. A cousin of the fragment they’d dragged out of the Tower and slapped Aldecaldo paint on, a little storm box that didn’t heal so much as veto certain ways of dying. He could almost see the logic: stabilize the loop, arrest the storm, make the meat quiet enough that your data sang. On some screen outside the glass, his lines would’ve turned from a hurricane to plain weather, and someone would be writing effective next to a column that said subject’s compliance.

His breath came easier. The light bit less. The hiss behind his eyes dulled half a notch.

And under it, under the control, something else quieted. Not generosity—no, never that. A ceiling laid over a roar. Like standing in a room with a predator on the other side of a door and hearing the latch drop. Safer isn’t safe, his nerves whispered. Safer is only steady enough to stand still.

He found his reflection in the glass because there was nowhere else to look that wasn’t a wall of white coat. What stared back was a man scraped thin. Cheekbones like blunt instruments, eyes rimmed dark, beard grown in patchy and mean. There was dried blood in the hairline he hadn’t earned today. When he inhaled, his ribs printed themselves under skin like someone had sketched him in hard pencil and forgotten to erase the guidelines.

His right hand crept—careful—to the tether of filament under his skin. The web there pulsed again and his whole arm answered, a low obedient shiver that didn’t feel like consent. “Not dead yet,” he told the glass. The voice was his, shredded. “Close, but not dead.” He watched his mouth form the words and tried to decide if that counted as proof.

Movement bloomed beyond the pane, a smear of white resolving into two techs and a medic in paper-blue. They didn’t look at him first. They looked at the screens bolted outside, at numbers he couldn’t see, at waveforms that told truths he wasn’t invited to hear. Then the medic’s gaze dropped long enough to make its way to his face. Their eyes met through inches and a universe. She nodded at nothing and lifted a hand. The arm over his chest answered, humming down a fraction. The line of fire slackened. A gift wrapped in control.

When she spoke, her voice crawled through the intercom with the tinny politeness of a train station announcement. “Subject is holding.” Subject. Of course. “Initiating secondary calibration. Brace.”

He had enough humor left to want to laugh at brace. Like there was anywhere to put his feet wrapped up like this.

This time the heat didn’t travel. It bloomed. A flower of pressure unfolding behind his sternum and then in his skull, a two-handed grip that pressed, held, and measured. He could feel the calibration in the peaks and plateaus of it, the way it sought the limits of his resistance and wrote them down. When it found that limit, it stayed there. The neural rig didn’t believe in comfort. It believed in data.

Lights on the ceiling strobed once, faint as a pulse. The prongs lifted. The arm retreated a handspan and waited like a patient dog.

Outside, a tech spoke into a recorder, the words robbed of meaning by the glass but not their cadence. Professional. Efficient. Half a sentence had the word artifact in it. Half of artifact sounded like artifice, and the notion landed and rolled around in his head until he wanted it gone. He swallowed, the effort loud inside the room.

The quiet that followed had weight. It sat on the line of his collarbones and made itself at home.

He might have slept—seconds, minutes—blotted, not rest. In the not-rest, other rooms woke. A corridor without walls. A black floor veined red. A laugh that wasn’t a laugh, the sound of wire pulled too tight over a violin’s neck. He didn’t follow it. He knew, now, the price of leaning too far over certain balcony rails in his mind.

Something shifted the temperature of the air.

He didn’t hear them bring it in. He felt it—like the room had inhaled through a mouth full of ash. Every hair on his arms tried to stand. The neural rig’s filament under his skin went from steady tide to ripple, to chop. Screens outside the glass stuttered—he could read that, the way every head tilted at once. The artifact the tech had said. No. Not artifact. Shard.

A cart nudged into frame. On it, a cradle. In the cradle, a dark wedge that caught the light wrong—too many angles under one plane, etched with circuitry the way bone remembers the animal after it’s boiled clean. Arasaka’s shard. The one they’d cut from the Raffen like poison. Everything in him flinched from it with the same reflex his muscles had when the arm touched skin.

They slotted leads into the cradle, neat little alligator mouths that bit and fed cables back toward an interface box bristling with ports. The medic lifted a hand that meant be ready, and someone who wasn’t him made a decision.

When the shard kissed their system, the world screamed.

Not a noise in the room—not first. A spike in him. Like a pitch you can’t hear turning the bones of your face into tuning forks. It ran up his teeth and hammered behind his eyes, and the red tripwire he’d been careful not to jostle went incandescent, snapping from filament to live wire.

The glass didn’t vibrate. The glass shivered, the way heat does when it lies over a road. Lines on screens outside blew out of their lanes. One of the techs said something short and dirty. Alarms arrived late to their own party and then arrived all at once, a braided wail that tried to be helpful. The neural rig over his sternum dove back down—hard, harder than before—and the first shock wasn’t a thread, it was a stake.

His back arched. The straps he hadn’t clocked held. Hands came from nowhere to pin his shoulders with careful, practiced pressure; a knee braced his thigh without moving enough to count as force. He didn’t fight the people. He couldn’t. He was too busy fighting the thing that had come to the glass.

It didn’t push. It drew. The sensation was specific, sickening: threads unpicked from the weave of him, teased out and offered toward that cradle like silk. Not flesh. Not even thought. The shape of him—how he fit behind his eyes. The shard ate that and gave back interference.

And in the interference, a familiar cadence: the laugh again, closer now, delighted. Not outside the glass. Not behind the door. Under the floorboards.

—Oh, it said, not with sound. You kept a piece of us. The tone approximated admiration and made it worse. How thoughtful.

He couldn’t answer even in the stupid places where answers count. The neural rig drove another calibrated spike down his centerline; the shard answered by blooming more wrongness; the two collided and made white. Every monitor beyond the pane climbed for a ceiling it had never found. The medic’s hand turned into a blur over controls. Someone yanked a cable out of the interface box with the particular violence of a person who isn’t allowed to be violent. Nothing changed. The cradle’s lights spidered brighter, then fixed on a tone that felt like a drill in the soft plate between his eyes.

He found one thing—one small, dull tool—and swung it.

“No.”

It left his mouth as a rasp no one needed, but it had a weight he recognized. It wasn’t for the room. It wasn’t for the shard. It wasn’t even for the thing under the floorboards. It was for himself, a stake in ground that kept threatening to turn into water.

Something relented. A tech with hands like a pianist found the right lead and wrenched it loose. The cradle’s light guttered, then went dead. The pitch fell out of his teeth like a migraine letting go of a skull. Every alarm in the room remembered its manners and downgraded to sulk.

He lay there. The neural rig thawed from a spike to a pressure to a hum to vigilance. He counted three breaths, then five, then ten, as if they were coins he could stack and put away somewhere the world couldn’t find. Sweat slicked his chest. The air felt colder because he’d lost whatever warmth shock had given him.

Outside the glass, all that corporate calm broke for a moment. Techs talked on top of each other in voices too fast to be professional. The medic’s face, reflected in the pane, wore the look of someone who had seen a shark come up under a boat and learned a new respect for the water. When she glanced at him again, it wasn’t as a subject. Not entirely. More like you look at a cliff edge and remember the first time you fell.

The intercom fuzzed, then found itself. “Disconnect complete,” someone said, breath thin. “Resume baseline containment. No further shard proximity without authorization.”

He tried not to laugh because his ribs didn’t have that kind of charity in them. He swallowed the sound back and let it burn down.

The room remembered its script. The arm adjusted. The filament under his skin recalibrated its obedience. On the other side of glass, order reasserted its shoulders, and people who had almost made a mistake went back to being the kind of people who never did.

He blinked and found his reflection again. It had wandered in his distraction, as if the pane could choose which version of him to show. This one looked more awake. Less human. He studied the eyes to see if they were still his, and the moment lengthened until it turned into something fragile. Breath fogged a coin of cloud on the glass. It cleared. He was still there. The world didn’t split.

Across some thickness of wall he couldn’t measure, a door whispered and a different hum replaced the room’s—lower, heavier, air full of boots and the taste of authority. He didn’t turn his head. He let the presence announce itself by changing the way everyone else stood. Authority doesn’t speak first. It waits to be asked its opinion of the weather.

He didn’t ask. He closed his eyes just long enough to remember that there were other rooms where light wasn’t this color. A sun he owed the desert. A laugh that split the world clean down the middle and said live. Hands on a steering wheel. Knuckles scarred from the right fights. The taste of dust and someone else’s breath too close to his own.

He opened his eyes because sleep had begun to taste like gravity.

“Not dead yet,” he told the glass again, quieter. The filament under his skin pulsed, as if it had opinions about bravado. In the reflection, the corner of his mouth moved a fraction toward a smile and then thought better of it.

The neural rig exhaled a small sound that meant compliance acceptable. Machines always picked their words like that.

He waited. Because that’s what living was, just now. A set of breaths arranged end to end with pieces of metal to keep them from sliding apart. A door kept shut with an arm that never got tired. A room built to make an animal think it was safe because it couldn’t see the sky.

He counted again. He kept the floorboards quiet. He didn’t look for the latch. Not yet.

The yard held its breath and called it order.

Floodlights burned a flat noon into midnight, their hum a constant burr in the teeth. Heat leached out of concrete in waves that never reached the skin. Rigs hunched in tight ranks along the fence, dented flanks crusted with dust and insect splatter, their engines cold but ticking, like animals dreaming. StormTech’s towers cut the sky into clean angles; cables crawled up their sides like vines stripped of leaves. Somewhere a generator coughed and steadied. Somewhere a soldier counted off numbers in a language made of clicks.

Containment glowed at the far end—glass and shadow. Most of the time it was a blank, clinical square, the kind of light you felt only by what it took from other colors. Then a pulse would run along a seam, so faint you’d doubt it if you were alone, and the clan would stiffen as one organism. Alarms didn’t wail so much as suggest themselves: a thin bleat, a two-note warning that tasted like pennies. The sound died, and the yard went back to being a held chord.

Panam stood with her weight on the balls of her feet, hands tucked under her arms hard enough to leave crescents. Her eyes did the same circuit over and over: glass to tower to door to guards back to glass. Each sweep dug the groove deeper, turned vigilance into compulsion. Every time a medic broke into a jog, something under her ribs seized. Every time a tech murmured into a lapel mic and pivoted, her breath shortened, like her lungs had decided to wait for permission. She tried not to think of the corridor. Of a knife hovering. Of a scream that hadn’t had breath behind it. Her body remembered anyway.

Footsteps scraped. A small hand found her sleeve and held on.

Lena slid into her space like a shadow trying to be solid. Tears had burned tracks through dust on her cheeks, leaving pale roads to a mouth pressed hard against words. She didn’t ask. She leaned, and Panam’s arm went around her like a reflex, like drawing a gun used to be.

They stood like that while StormTech moved in practiced diagonals and the clan watched with the kind of patience that grows claws.

“He wasn’t brave all the time,” Lena said into Panam’s jacket, voice caught and raw. “Jace. He shook. He was scared and he told me so. But he’d still go. He’d say—” A breath shuddered through her. “He’d say, ‘If Panam thinks we’ve got to, then we’ve got to.’ And when it was about V he didn’t even wait to hear the plan. He just went.” She tilted her head, eyes rimmed bright. “I tried to make him stop. I tried. He kissed my hand and laughed and said I’d kill him if I kept looking at him that way.”

Panam swallowed the rock lodged in her throat. She could see the girl’s awkward grin, that sideways light in it when he thought he was hiding his fear and everyone saw anyway. She squeezed Lena’s shoulder, thumb rubbing a small circle that did nothing to fix the world.

“He believed in him,” Lena said, getting the words out like dragging wire through a fence. “He believed in you. He believed in us. And now my hands are empty.” The last came out flat, like a statement a doctor makes when there’s nothing to do but say it.

Panam turned, pulled her in tighter. “I know,” she said, and for once the words didn’t feel like something people say to paint over a crack. “I know because—” She stopped, the sentence a cliff. She didn’t do this. She did orders, motion, the language of go. Her heart thrummed against bone, looking for an excuse to stay locked up. Lena’s fingers clenched her sleeve. The lock turned.

“Because he’s the thing that makes it make sense,” Panam said, low and even so it wouldn’t break. “The road, the risk, the getting up again when it would be easier not to. He drives like the desert let him go and told him to take care of me. He laughs and it’s loud and ugly and it puts air back in my lungs. When he looks at me—” She stared hard at the glass so the words didn’t shake. “When he looks at me I remember who I was supposed to be before the world taught me to aim first.”

Lena’s breath hitched. “I loved him,” she said, as if confession could bargain back time. “I loved Jace. The stupid way. The way where you think there’s more time because there has to be. He left his mug in the rig, Panam. He said he’d rinse it later. That’s still in there. That’s still waiting.”

Panam’s jaw clenched until it clicked. “I know that waiting,” she said. “I’m doing it now.”

Cassidy stood a few meters off, shoulder to a bumper, hat pulled low. His mouth moved, the words too soft to catch, a litany he wasn’t saying to anyone who could answer. A cigarette burned between two fingers he’d forgotten to lift to his lips. Mitch ghosted in and out of Panam’s periphery like a lighthouse—steady sweeps, the same arc, every time. Carol was all edges and efficiency, inventorying her kit without looking at it, hands counting gauze and injectors by feel the way other people count prayer beads. Dakota sat on the corner of a crate with her eyes on the glass and her mind somewhere the rest of them couldn’t go, thumb rubbing the edge of a data shard shaped like a secret.

Thompson drifted in from the rigs’ long shadow after a while, boots whispering through grit. When he spoke, he aimed his voice at the space between people, not at any face. “When he first came,” he said, that gravel like a road at eighty, “I called him city boy and figured he’d rust quick. We both know that story.” He let the memory hang: the swing, the hard lesson, the bruise he wore like a patch because you should mark what teaches you. “He made me change my mind.” A small nod, like signing a ledger. “But changing your mind don’t make ground softer. We’ve already paid. We’ll pay again. That’s all I know for sure.”

Panam cut her eyes toward him. Thompson never lied, but truth in that voice still felt like a weight placed where you were already carrying something. She opened her mouth and closed it because Lena was still holding on and making the speech you give a stubborn elder would mean letting go.

Mitch filled the gap. “We are paying,” he said, quiet as diesel. “We keep paying because that’s what this is.” He didn’t preach, didn’t point. He said it like you say sunrise to someone too tired to remember the word. “Doesn’t change we don’t leave him. Not now.”

“StormTech’ll spin the meter ‘til we don’t have a truck left that runs,” Cassidy muttered. Then, after a beat that made the mutter a concession and not a curse: “We still don’t leave him.”

Carol finally looked up from her kit. The light caught in her pupils like pinheads. “They’ll poke and prod and write it down,” she said, voice thin and sharp. “We can’t stop them. What we can do is watch so close they feel it, and we can be ready with the only tools we own when they run out of theirs.” Her gaze flicked to Panam, to Lena, back to the glass.

Lena’s fingers tightened. “You’re the only one I can stand near,” she said, eyes glossy. “Everyone else looks at me like I might break if they touch me. You look like you know what breaking costs and you’re still standing. I need that right now.”

Panam took the words like a blow that steadied. She’d learned to carry herself like a weapon. It felt like treason to admit she was also a person built wrong for losing. She pressed her forehead to Lena’s temple, their hair tangling in the wind. “I’m not strong because I can’t be hurt,” she said. “I’m strong because there’s no version of me that lives with letting go. If he goes, I—” The cliff again. She didn’t step off. “If he goes, I’ll still be here. For you. For the clan. For whatever’s left. But don’t ask me to be gentle about it.”

Lena’s mouth wobbled toward a laugh and failed. “Jace used to say you scared him and he liked it,” she whispered. “Said it made him feel like the wind was on his side for once.”

Panam smiled without showing teeth. “He was a good kid,” she said. “He got brave the right way. He’s the reason I don’t let anyone in suits tell me what family is.”

Silence pressed in again, the kind that has weight and shape. Wind hissed through the fence and brought with it a taste of iron and hot plastic from the towers. Somewhere, a bolt creaked in its mooring. In containment, light held steady. A medic trotted by, then slowed to a walk like someone had told them to stop advertising panic.

“Panam,” Mitch said, softer now, a hand landing brief and solid on her shoulder. “You need water.”

She shook her head, because putting anything in her mouth that wasn’t air felt like betrayal. The glass hummed—not aloud, but in her bones—and she tilted toward it like a compass needle. In the glow, she could make out the suggestion of a bed, the idea of a body. Every line of her wanted to break the world to get to him and the thing that kept her from doing it was the memory of an AV, of guns coming up, of the cold at the center of Hale’s eyes when he said Watch them.

“I keep listening for him,” Lena said. “Like I’ll hear his laugh over all this.” She scrubbed her face with the heel of her hand. “I know that’s stupid.”

“It isn’t,” Panam said. “Sometimes I hear him when the engine catches just right.” She didn’t specify V and didn’t need to. “Sometimes that’s how you keep driving.”

Across the yard, Thompson shifted his weight. “He’s in there fighting, city boy or not,” he said, grudging respect broken into pieces and handed over. “I’ll give him that. I don’t know what comes after. But I’ll stand here until it does.” He didn’t look at them when he said it. He aimed it at the square of light like a pact he didn’t want witnesses to.

Cassidy huffed, wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand. “Well. Ain’t that a pretty picture. All of us singin’ to glass.” The edge in his voice sanded down. “Alright, then. We sing. And if the bastards inside start throwin’ switches that sound wrong, we remind ’em we got more than songs.”

Carol’s gaze cut to the crate where the salvage waited under stencil and paint. “We remind them we brought our own tools to this surgery,” she said. “And we decide when to use them.”

Dakota’s finger paused on the tablet she was calibrating. She said, almost to herself, “Some doors only open when someone pushes from both sides.” Then, with the ghost of a smile that wasn’t kind: “Sometimes they weren’t doors.”

The floodlights ticked, a moth wing caught in their hum. For a long minute nothing moved big. Then something small did: a change in the yard’s air, not wind—pressure. The clan felt it and turned their heads the way herd animals do when a line on the horizon straightens. The glass took on a faint, barely-there sheen, as if the pane had learned how to sweat. A soft, subsonic thrum crawled up through Panam’s boots, through bone, settled under her tongue as a metallic taste. Alarms did not sound. The light did not strobe. No one shouted. But conversation thinned to thread.

Lena stiffened against her. “What is that?”

“Nothing,” Panam lied, because lies are armor down here. Her eyes didn’t leave the square. “He’s holding.”

The sheen vanished like a breath cleared from a window. The taste dissolved. The thrum receded into the background hum where all bad news goes to wait.

Panam exhaled. She didn’t feel better. She felt confirmed.

She tightened her arm around Lena, and Lena didn’t ask again.

They stood like that until standing became a shape they could inhabit without thinking, until the floodlights found a deeper gear and buzzed a little louder, until a medic on the far end raised her hand and an arm in the ceiling leaned closer to a chest they couldn’t reach. Someone in white spoke into a collar mic and didn’t hurry. The clan watched, and the yard held, and Panam kept her eyes on the glass because if she let them close, she would see a knife hovering over a rib she loved, and she wasn’t sure she could open them again.

“Stay,” Lena whispered—maybe to Panam, maybe to the light, maybe to the boy who had left his mug unwashed. It didn’t matter. Words travel the way they want.

Panam nodded once, like an oath. “He will,” she said, and tasted blood at the back of her throat where hope scraped on its way up.

Chapter Text

The Aldecaldos carved out their corner of the yard like they always did—tight rigs, lanterns strung from mirrors, a fire pit built out of scavenged steel. Against the floodlights and towers of StormTech, it looked fragile, but it felt like a spine: crooked, scarred, unbroken.

Panam sat on the fender of Mitch’s truck, knees bent, boots dusty. The metal was warm from the engine, its scuffs familiar, its weight solid. Mitch crouched beside her with his toolkit, methodically breaking down a rifle. Springs, pins, plates—his hands worked with the patience of someone who found calm in parts fitting back where they belonged. He didn’t look up much, but when he did, his eyes met hers and lingered a second longer than necessary, as if reminding her she wasn’t carrying this alone.

Lena perched on the wheel well, close enough that their shoulders touched whenever one of them shifted. She hadn’t let Panam out of arm’s reach since containment swallowed V. Her face was blotched from crying, lashes clumped with salt, but her jaw set stubbornly each time someone glanced her way.

Panam reached across and stilled the girl’s restless hands, folding them into her own. “Breathe,” she said, rough, not gentle.

“I don’t know how to stop,” Lena whispered, voice raw.

Panam squeezed harder. “Then don’t. Just stay.”

The kettle hissed at the fire. Cassidy muttered into his flask. Carol counted gauze by touch. Thompson leaned like a post. Dakota watched the glass. The clan’s silence swelled until Lena broke it again.

“Jace wasn’t brave,” she said suddenly, words cracking like brittle twigs. “Not really. He was scared. Always scared. He’d tell me, and then he’d go anyway.” She swallowed, eyes fixed on the glow at the far end. “He believed in V. In you. He said… he said you’d get him home.” Her throat closed, voice thinned. “And now he’s not.”

Panam’s chest constricted, a band pulling tighter with every word. She hooked an arm around Lena’s shoulders and pulled her in, pressing her cheek against the girl’s hair. “He was brave,” she said. “Because he was scared and he went anyway. That’s the only kind of bravery that counts.”

Lena shuddered against her, clutching tight. “I loved him,” she said. The words fell like stones. “It was stupid and fast and I thought we had more time.” She choked on a laugh that wasn’t a laugh. “I can’t stop looking at that mug he left. I can’t throw it out; it’s the last piece I have of him.”

Panam closed her eyes, saw V’s hands on the wheel, grease under his nails, that sharp bark of laughter that split her in two. Saw the way he reached for her hand when she rattled, thumb brushing over her knuckles in a rhythm that steadied her, like he could smooth the tremor out of her bones with touch alone.

Lena turned her face toward her, eyes glossy in the lantern light. “You love him like that?”

Panam didn’t blink. She let the words land heavy, like a thing she’d been carrying but never named. “He’s the reason I keep showing up,” she said, slow, each consonant set like a stake. “Not because I think tomorrow’s better, but because with him the hard things make some kind of sense. He hums when he’s fixing an engine; he swears like a sailor when he’s scared; he drinks my worst coffee and tells me it’s fine. Little things. Stupid things. They stack up until the mornings are easier to get out of. That’s why I go on.”

Her jaw clenched, but her voice didn’t break. “He makes me remember I’m not just a set of tasks. He looks at me like I’m supposed to be kept. That’s rare. That’s why I fight. That’s why I won’t let him be taken into a box and cataloged like they want to do.”

Lena’s breath hitched. “That’s… that’s a lot.”

“It’s everything,” Panam said, blunt. Her voice dropped to a whisper meant for Lena alone. “I love him.”

Mitch’s hands stilled on the rifle. He looked at her, face shadowed but steady. “And that’s why we keep fighting,” he said. Quiet, gravel-thick. “That’s enough.”

Cassidy snorted at the fire, tipping his flask. “Enough to bury us twice over,” he muttered, but softer than usual, the venom dulled.

Carol snapped her kit shut. “Then we bury what we must and keep the rest standing.”

Thompson’s voice carried from the rig’s shadow. “He’s fightin’ in there. I’ll give him that. But don’t lie to yourselves. Fightin’ doesn’t mean winnin’.”

Panam tightened her hold on Lena, eyes locked on the distant glass. “Then we make sure he wins,” she said. The words weren’t loud, but they were steel.

The fire cracked. The towers hummed. The clan stayed close, shadows pressed together against the light.

The fire burned low, smoke curling upward until the floodlights swallowed it. Shadows stretched long across the rigs, bent by the angles of lanterns and the cold glow of StormTech’s towers. The Aldecaldos’ corner looked like a herd that had circled tight, wounded but unwilling to scatter.

Murmurs stirred inside the circle, low at first, the kind of voices that slip through clenched teeth.

“They’ve got him wired like a lab rat.”
“At least they’ve got him contained.”
“Contained? You think that’s saving him?”
“He’s still one of us.”
“Tell that to Jace’s grave.”

The words rippled, picked up by others, overlapping until they made a hum sharp enough to sting the ear. No one spoke above a mutter, but the weight of it pressed heavier than shouting.

Cassidy spat into the dirt, voice rough. “We’ve all seen it. Him glitchin’ through walls, smilin’ wrong, eyes gone red. Ain’t natural. You don’t just walk away from watchin’ that and say it’ll be fine.” He tipped his flask, shook his head. “Hell, I don’t walk away from it at all. Not from him. But don’t ask me to forget what I saw.”

Mitch set down the rifle piece he’d been cleaning, his voice gravel-thick but steady. “I saw it too. And I saw him claw back from it. I don’t know how, but he did. That means he’s still in there. That means he’s still V.” He leaned forward, eyes catching the firelight. “Family don’t get tossed out when it’s hard. That’s when it counts most.”

Carol snapped her kit shut, the crack of plastic sharp in the air. “StormTech isn’t saving him,” she said, each word clipped. “They’re holding him. That’s all. Holding until they figure out what else to try. The only leverage we’ve got is what we dragged out of Arasaka’s bones. That’s ours, not theirs. And if there’s a key in it, we’re the ones who’ll turn it.”

A voice from the back of the circle: “And if there ain’t?”
Carol’s eyes flicked that way, hard. “Then we keep him alive until there is. I don’t waste breath on the opposite.”

Thompson pushed off the rig he’d been leaning against, boots grinding in the dirt. His face was all planes and shadow under the floodlight. “When he first came, I thought he’d break in two weeks.” His mouth curled into something sour that wasn’t quite a smile. “He proved me wrong. Knocked me down, made me look at him different. Earned respect.” He let the words hang a beat, then dropped the weight of the rest. “But respect don’t soften the ground we’re buryin’ our own in. Don’t forget what it costs us every time.”

The murmurs swelled again, agreement and dissent tangling until the circle buzzed like a live wire.

Panam stood then, the fire painting her face in hard relief. Her voice came rough, jagged from holding too much too long. “He’s not a project. He’s not a curse. He’s V. And if you think for one second I’ll let them box him up and decide he’s already gone, you don’t know me at all.” She swept her gaze across the circle, sharp enough to cut. “We’ve lost too much already. I’m not losing him too. Not while I can still breathe.”

The murmurs faltered, pulled up short by the steel in her voice.

Then Lena’s voice rose, thin but cutting, breaking against silence like glass. She pushed up from the wheel well, tears still wet on her cheeks. “Jace believed in him,” she said, chest heaving. “You all know it. He followed him because he trusted him. Because he loved him.” Her voice cracked, but she pressed on, louder now. “And I loved Jace. With everything I had. I would’ve followed him anywhere. He chose V. He died for him. Don’t you dare spit on that now. Don’t you dare call it wasted.”

The fire popped. The clan stilled. Even Cassidy lowered his flask, eyes flicking away.

Panam reached out and gripped Lena’s hand, squeezing tight enough to stop the tremor in it. She spoke low, but the words carried. “He’s the reason I keep going. The reason I can. That’s what he is to me.” Her throat tightened, but she forced it out, jagged and true. “I love him. And I won’t let him be thrown away.”

For a long moment, the circle held in silence.

Mitch nodded once, firm. “That’s enough reason for me.”

Cassidy muttered, softer this time. “Hell. Enough for me too, I guess.”

Thompson grunted, voice gravel. “Then we’d best be ready to bleed for it. ‘Cause we will.”

Dakota finally stirred, her tone soft but edged with something colder. “StormTech thinks they’re the ones holding the line. They’re wrong. They’re only writing down the noise. What matters…” she tilted her head toward containment, eyes narrowing. “…is what’s waiting for the silence.”

The murmurs died again. No one spoke.

The fire cracked. The rigs ticked. Across the yard, the glow of containment pulsed faint, a heartbeat barely seen.

Then the intercom hissed to life, metallic and clipped, slicing through the circle.

“Palmer and company. Commander Hale will see you. Now.”

The voice cut clean across grief, across loyalty, across fragile unity. Heads turned toward Panam. She straightened, Lena’s hand still in hers, jaw tight enough to ache. Around them, the Aldecaldos shifted to their feet, silent, eyes following as she and the others prepared to walk toward the towers.

The night felt heavy again, as if waiting to see which would break first—the clan, the machine, or the man behind the glass.

The walk to Hale’s office felt like crossing a border. The hum of the yard fell away behind them, replaced by the sterile drone of climate control and the hiss of sealed doors. The walls narrowed into clean white corridors, every angle sharp, every surface polished until it erased shadows. StormTech soldiers stood at junctions like furniture—motionless, armed, their eyes hidden behind visors that reflected only the overhead lights.

Panam led, boots striking hard against tile. Cassidy came after her, shoulders hunched, hat brim low, muttering curses he didn’t bother to keep quiet. Mitch kept his pace measured, face drawn but steady, his hand brushing the stock of the shotgun slung at his side. Carol walked briskly, med kit at her hip, her silence a blade waiting to cut. Dakota trailed, gaze roaming the walls as if reading something only she could see.

They reached the office at the heart of it all. A door sealed behind them with a pneumatic hiss, cutting off even the echo of the yard.

The room was stripped bare. White walls, steel table, no windows. A single screen glowed on one wall, lines of data scrolling in green. Hale stood at the head of the table, posture immaculate, uniform pressed, hands clasped behind his back. Two StormTech aides flanked him, tablets in hand, silent and watchful.

“Sit,” Hale said. His voice was low, clipped. Not a suggestion.

They took places around the table, Panam at the far end opposite him. She didn’t sit so much as drop into the chair like she was ready to spring back out of it. Cassidy slouched beside her, boots crossed at the ankle, flask still in hand. Mitch sat upright, elbows on the table, steadying himself with every breath. Carol set her med kit down with a decisive thump and folded her arms. Dakota remained standing at the corner, unreadable.

Hale studied them a moment before speaking, eyes cold, precise. “You want clarity. You’ll have it.” He tapped the table, and the screen shifted to a flatline that flickered and rose into erratic spikes. “Your man is unstable. Neurological degradation. Patterns inconsistent with any known Relic subject. The entity inside him—call it what you like—has integrated too deeply. Extraction is impossible. Eradication is impossible. Cure is impossible.”

Panam’s jaw clenched until the muscle twitched. “You’re saying he’s already dead.”

“No.” Hale’s voice was flat. “I’m saying he’s dying. Slowly. And loudly.” He let the words hang. “We can contain him. We can stabilize him enough to extend the timeline. Days into weeks. Weeks into months, if the variables hold. That is what StormTech can do. Nothing more.”

Cassidy muttered, bitter. “Buyin’ time to bleed us out. That’s all I’m hearin’.”

Carol cut in, voice sharp. “What about the Arasaka salvage? Your people have already been pawing through it. That’s where the answer lies, not in your containment boxes.”

Hale turned his gaze on her, unblinking. “We are examining it. Fragments. Prototypes. Scorched interfaces. We will see if they yield anything useful. But I’ll be clear: even with them, there is no path to a cure. At best, there is management. At best, there is delay.”

Mitch leaned forward, voice steady but low. “Delay’s enough. We hold him together long enough, we’ll find another way. That’s what family does.”

Hale’s expression didn’t change. “Family is not strategy. Hope is not a plan.”

Panam slammed a fist onto the table, the sound sharp in the sterile room. “Don’t talk to us like we don’t know what’s at stake. He’s not your experiment. He’s not your fucking specimen.” Her voice cracked, but she pressed through. “He’s ours. He’s mine. And if all you can promise me is ‘delay,’ then you’d better make every second count.”

For the first time, Hale’s eyes softened, though it was only calculation, not sympathy. “We will make every second count. Because his survival benefits us as well. We require him alive.”

The words curdled in the air.

Cassidy barked a bitter laugh, no humor in it. “There it is. The real song.”

Hale ignored him. “Understand this: you do not have other options. Without us, he dies sooner. With us, he lasts longer. That is the equation.”

Silence pressed against the table.

Then Hale added, almost as an afterthought, “There are… others. Contacts outside our reach. Groups who might offer more than delay. But they are not here. They are not ours. And there are no guarantees.” His gaze swept over them, flat as stone. “You will have to decide whether to take that path—if it becomes available.”

Carol’s breath caught, but she steadied it. Mitch frowned, suspicion tightening his jaw. Cassidy muttered something dark under his breath.

Panam leaned forward, eyes blazing. “If there’s even a chance, you’ll tell us. You’ll tell me.”

Hale held her gaze. “When it becomes relevant. Not before.”

Then he straightened, hands clasped behind his back again. “Until then, we do what we can with what we have. That is all.”

Panam’s fist was still pressed against the table when the words tore out, raw despite her best effort to choke them down. “When can I see him?”

The room went still. The aides glanced up from their tablets, then back down again. Hale’s eyes narrowed, not unkind, but calculating, as if cataloguing her like another variable.

“When he stabilizes,” he said at last. His voice didn’t rise, didn’t fall. “Until then, you would be a distraction. For him. For us. You will wait.”

Panam’s jaw trembled. She bit it down so hard her teeth ached. She wanted to shout, to tear through the doors, to burn the walls down if it meant reaching him. Instead, she forced herself to nod, the motion stiff, her voice little more than a rasp. “Fine. But you keep me informed. Every hour. Every change. Or so help me—”

Hale cut her off with a single look. “You will be informed when it is necessary.” Then he turned his back to them, a dismissal.

The aides moved to open the door. The Aldecaldos stood as one, silence their only weapon left.

The walk back through StormTech’s corridors was colder than the one in. The hum of climate control, the hiss of doors—it all felt sharper now, like the walls themselves had grown teeth.

Cassidy broke first, muttering into his flask. “When it’s necessary. Bastard thinks we’re pets on a leash.” He spat the word out like poison. “Necessary my ass.”

Mitch’s voice came low, gravel steady. “Doesn’t matter what he thinks. We’ll keep watch. We’ll hold the line. That’s how we make it necessary.”

Carol’s steps clipped against the tile, her tone sharp. “He’s wrong. We’re not waiting. We’ve got salvage. We’ve got leads. We’ll move before he does, if that’s what it takes.”

Dakota walked at the rear, her voice carrying soft, almost like she was speaking to herself. “He slipped. He said too much.”

Panam turned, eyes sharp. “His contacts. But, who?”

Dakota’s gaze flicked up, unreadable. “If he won’t tell us, we’ll have to find out. Shadows leave trails if you follow them long enough.”

They reached the door that led back into the yard. The hiss of it opening spilled the desert’s dust-and-oil air back into their lungs.

Panam stopped just shy of crossing the threshold, her voice low but fierce. “I don’t care if it’s here, or out in the badlands, or halfway across the goddamn world. If there’s anyone who can help him, I’ll find them.”

Cassidy lifted his flask in a bitter salute. “Then that’s the road.”

Mitch gave a single nod, solid as bedrock. “We ride it together.”

Carol’s eyes narrowed, her voice a promise. “And we use every scrap of Arasaka’s trash to buy our way forward.”

Dakota only smiled, small and secret. “Then we’ll see if his contacts survive the weight of us asking.”

The door sealed behind them, cutting off the hum of StormTech. The floodlights of the yard burned ahead, and the clan’s circle waited.

And for the first time that night, it wasn’t just grief or fear that carried them forward. It was resolve.

The yard slept uneasy.

Lanterns still glowed low in the Aldecaldo circle, the fire burning down to embers, Cassidy hunched in its light, muttering curses into his flask. Mitch sat near his rig, still cleaning his rifle, hands steady even as his jaw stayed tight. Carol had her kit open on her lap, reorganizing gauze and injectors for the third time. Lena was curled in the shadow of a rig’s bumper, eyes shut but restless, every so often twitching like she’d woken without opening them.

Panam couldn’t sit. Couldn’t lie down. Couldn’t keep her lungs from dragging air too fast, as if the fire had burned it thin. She stood once, sat again. Her leg bounced. Her eyes kept lifting toward the far end of the yard where containment glowed, white and hard and silent.

She lasted another five minutes before she moved.

Boots rolled heel to toe the way Mitch had drilled her back when he’d tried to teach her how to ghost through a scav camp. She left the lantern glow, left Cassidy’s mutters, left the warmth of the fire. The shadows welcomed her like they’d been waiting, long dark bands stretched by floodlights.

StormTech’s half of the yard never slept. Crates stacked in neat grids. Generators hummed. Soldiers moved their patrols in silent triangles, boots crunching grit in a rhythm Panam learned to time her own steps against. She pressed her back to cold steel, slid along the edges of stacked salvage, heart thudding so loud she swore they’d hear it.

A cart rattled past, wheels squealing against concrete. She crouched behind it, back tight, breath held. Two medics rolled it toward a side structure, crates marked with biohazard symbols strapped down in webbing. Their voices were low but clear.

“Another spike tonight. Higher than baseline.”
“Protocol won’t hold if it climbs again.”
“We’ll need Hale’s clearance.”

The words burrowed deep. Spike. Protocol. Won’t hold.

One of the medics cursed under his breath, voice sharp with fear. That scared her more than the words. Fear meant they weren’t in control.

The cart clattered on. Panam slipped from behind it, sticking to its shadow until the angle cut her off. She moved slower now, every muscle taut. Her palms sweated against the grip of her pistol even though she knew pulling it would damn her.

A beam of light swept across the yard. She froze, pressed against the flank of a generator, breath locked in her throat. The beam lingered, a white bar cutting through steel. Her lungs screamed for air. It passed. She let out a ragged exhale through her nose, so soft it barely made sound.

She moved again, circling closer to containment. A side door hissed open across the yard. She ducked behind stacked crates and peered through the gap.

Inside, a medic bent over a datapad. Spiking lines, jagged, red. Another muttered, voice too tight, too fast.

“Containment threshold was breached for point-seven seconds.”
“If it happens again—”

A soldier’s bark cut him off. “Keep it down.”

The door hissed shut.

Panam’s stomach lurched. Breached. The word rang in her skull like a shot.

She risked a few more steps, hugging the wall now, one hand trailing across its cold surface to steady herself. A door opened ahead. She ducked down just as a soldier stepped out for a smoke. His boots crunched close, close enough that dust rolled over her boots when he shifted his weight. The flare of his lighter washed the wall orange. Panam pressed into the shadows, breath locked, every nerve screaming. Ash flicked down near her hand. Then the lighter snapped closed, the soldier muttered, and the door hissed shut behind him again.

Panam’s pulse hammered so hard her vision blurred. She pushed off the wall, crawling two steps forward, then another, until the yard opened up and the glass loomed.

She stopped dead.

Through reinforced panes, washed in sterile white, lay V.

He was strapped to the bed, arms bound, chest rising and falling in ragged pulls. His skin was slick with sweat, and faint across it, like veins drawn in light, red lattice crawled and flickered in broken patterns. His jaw clenched and slackened, clenched again. His fingers twitched against the restraints. For a moment they curled, reaching, like he was groping for something beyond the straps. For her? For anything? She couldn’t tell.

Her breath caught sharp. Her body wanted to break the glass, scream his name, burn the yard down to get him out. Her knees bent as if to move. She stopped herself with every ounce of control she had left.

A voice inside the chamber carried just enough to reach her.

“If the neuro-collapse accelerates, we can’t hold him.”
“Then we escalate to secondary protocols.”
“And if those fail—”

The door hissed, cutting it off.

Panam stumbled back into shadow, hand clamped over her mouth. Secondary protocols. Her mind spun with what that could mean, none of the pictures good.

Voices rose behind her—boots scuffing, patrol approaching. She ducked low, scurried between crates, lungs tight. A searchlight swept across her path, so close it seared her vision. She dove sideways, hitting dirt, dust choking her throat, heart slamming like gunfire.

The beam passed.

She crawled back toward the rigs, fingers clawing grit, every step a fight not to bolt. Her body shook with the need to run, but she forced herself to stay low, to stay careful, until the floodlights of the Aldecaldo circle glowed ahead.

She slipped into their shadow again, lungs dragging air like she’d been sprinting for miles. Sweat chilled her back. Her hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

She’d seen him. Alive. Bound. Flickering like he was half here and half somewhere else. And she’d heard enough to know StormTech was barely holding him.

Panam leaned against Mitch’s rig, chest heaving, staring across the yard where sterile light hummed steady.

She didn’t realize she’d been holding herself together by her teeth until she reached the clan’s circle and the fire’s heat hit her like a hand to the chest.

Cassidy looked up first, eyes narrowing under the hat brim. Mitch had the rifle back together and wasn’t pretending to clean it anymore; he just held it like a truth. Carol’s kit sat closed for once, her palms flat on the lid as if weight alone could keep anything from spilling. Dakota watched Panam arrive the way she watched storms roll across distance—measuring angles no one else could see.

“What’d you do girl,” Cassidy said. Not a question. A tired catechism.

Panam didn’t answer right away. She leaned her shoulder into Mitch’s fender and let the metal take a slice of her weight. When she spoke, her voice came low, ground-down to the essentials. “I saw him.”

That dragged everyone closer without a step taken. Even the ones at the edges of the light leaned in, breath tangling with smoke.

“Through the glass.” Panam’s gaze locked on the far end of the yard as if it might admit her honesty. “He’s strapped. Sweating like he’s running a fever. There’s… a lattice. Red. Crawlin’ his skin like bad wiring under frost. Fingers twitching. He looked—” Her jaw worked, the word refusing to be shaped. “He looked thin. Like they shaved him down to pulse and pain.”

Mitch’s jaw clicked once and then went still. Carol’s hands slid off her kit and balled into fists on her knees. Cassidy swore into his flask—soft this time, like the curse was afraid of being overheard by a thing that would enjoy it.

Panam lifted her eyes to them, the whites gone dull from strain. “I heard medics at a side door. They said the ‘containment threshold’ was breached for point-seven seconds.” She held up two fingers as if pinching the length of time. “Point-seven. One of ’em got told to shut up. Later I heard—if the ‘neuro-collapse accelerates, they can’t hold him.’ Then: ‘escalate to secondary protocols.’ Door cut off the rest.”

“Secondary,” Cassidy repeated, tasting the word like it might be poison. “Sounds like some neat corporate way of sayin’ we’ll hurt him more so he hurts us less.”

Carol’s gaze had sharpened to a scalpel’s edge. “Or sedate. Or paralyze. Or lace him with inhibitors until he can’t think enough to fight anything—including the thing we want him fighting.”

Mitch didn’t look away from Panam. “What else?”

“Fear,” Panam said. “Not ours. Theirs. A medic swore loud enough to cut his throat on it. They’re not as in control as they act.” She swallowed. “I felt it.”

For a moment the fire was the only thing moving—coals shifting, a hiss when sap found heat. Around it, two dozen lives held still and listened.

“You shouldn’t’ve gone,” Cassidy said at last, but there was no heat to it. Just the shape of a law he knew she wouldn’t follow. “You get picked up over there, they put a leash on all of us.”

Panam turned on him fast and then stopped herself, jaw flexing. “I had to see,” she said. It came out simple and unsorry. “Waitin’ to be told what’s necessary felt like lettin’ him drown ‘cause a man in a clean shirt said the tide chart looked good on paper.”

Mitch’s mouth ghosted toward a nod. “Seen enough tide charts to know they don’t keep you dry,” he said. “What you saw… it’s more than we had.”

Carol exhaled hard through her nose, calculation rearranging itself behind her eyes. “We can’t make a move inside their walls,” she said. “Not yet. But we can corner them with our own leverage.” Her chin jerked toward the salvage crate, stencil peeling. “They still need us to understand the junk we dragged out of Arasaka’s corpse. That’s our bargaining chip. We tie access to V. We tie updates to V. We make every conversation cost them.”

“Storm boys’ll smile, say ‘of course,’ and do what they want,” Cassidy muttered. “Hale’ll nod like a priest and bless our patience right up ‘til the dirt goes on.”

Panam’s eyes cut toward the towers. “Then we stop using just the tools they gave us.”

Silence thinned into listening.

“Hale slipped,” she said. “He said there are contacts. Not here. Not theirs. Might offer more than delay.” She let the taste of delay sour in her mouth and didn’t hide it. “He won’t say who. Says we’ll hear when it’s ‘relevant.’”

Cassidy’s laugh was a dry bark. “Relevant. That’s rich.”

Mitch’s voice came steady, gravel laying road. “We find the who ourselves.”

Carol nodded once, sharp. “We push the salvage hard enough they need our hands on it. We ask questions with our elbows. We lean on any StormTech that looks like they’ve heard a rumor. We watch who carries messages, where their eyes go when they lie.”

Dakota finally spoke, soft enough you had to lean into the smoke to catch it. “Roads that matter don’t have signs.” She tilted her head toward the towers, mouth a line. “But people still leave tracks when they think they’re floating.”

Panam looked at her, at the place behind Dakota’s eyes that always seemed to be tuned to a frequency the rest of them couldn’t hear. “You got a hunch,” she said. Not accusation. Not praise.

Dakota’s mouth twitched like a smile that couldn’t commit. “A shadow. Could be a cloud. Could be something under it. I’ll tell you when I know which.”

“We ain’t waitin’ for omens,” Cassidy said. But he didn’t look away from Panam, and his voice didn’t cut like it could. “What’s the move tonight?”

“Tonight,” Panam said, and the word planted itself like a boot heel, “we don’t give them a reason to slam a door because I gave them one. We keep our hands where their cameras can see them. We watch. We rest in shifts. We mark who walks where at what hours. We listen for the word secondary like it’s a gun cocking.”

Mitch rubbed a callus with his thumb, thinking. “Rotations. I’ll take first with Thompson. Carol, sleep. Cassidy, put the flask down long enough to hear if anyone’s boots change rhythm.”

Cassidy made a rude sign and capped the flask, sliding it into his jacket. “Aye aye, padre.”

Carol rolled her shoulders until something popped. “At first light we find a StormTech that looks new enough to be nervous and old enough to know something. We start small. We don’t spook the rest.”

Panam’s eyes drifted to the far glow again, breath going thin. “When can I see him again?” It left her before she decided to say it, the echo of what she’d thrown at Hale now turned into something smaller, almost a plea.

No answer yet. Only the fire. Only the hum.

She set her jaw. “Soon,” she said, like promising herself counted. “Or I start taking locks apart with my teeth.”

Cassidy snorted. “Rather watch that than another StormTech briefing.”

Mitch stood, slinging the rifle. “You won’t have to. We’ll pry his eyes open with something else.”

“Contacts,” Carol said, as if naming a curse meant it had to answer. “If they’re real, Hale’s not the only one who knows where to look.”

Dakota’s gaze slid toward the perimeter cameras, then back. “You’re not the only ones who can snoop.”

Panam pulled in a breath that scraped and came out clean. The fear was still there but the shape around it had changed. She hadn’t been able to do anything for hours. Now there were small things. Watching. Timing. Noticing. Prying. The kind of work a person could live inside until the larger door opened or had to be knocked down.

She angled her head, listening. Somewhere far off in the StormTech block, a door hissed. Somewhere closer, a soldier coughed like he’d swallowed dust he wasn’t supposed to taste. The yard’s air shifted a fraction, as if the night had rolled over and shown a different side.

“Alright,” she said. “First shift. Thompson’s with Mitch. Cassidy, you’re my eyes when I blink. Carol, sleep or I put you down myself. Dakota—” She searched for a job that fit someone who could walk into silence and come back with a sentence. “—mark who flinches when those alarms chirp. Count it. I want numbers.”

Dakota’s nod was small but real. “Numbers it is.”

The fire settled, low and red. The clan re-distributed itself like a hand of cards, edges touching. Thompson stamped out a cigarette and moved to Mitch’s shoulder without being asked. Cassidy stretched his neck until it cracked and then folded himself into a seat with a view of two sightlines and a third you couldn’t see if you didn’t know where to look. Carol lay back on a tarp with her kit as a pillow, eyes closed before her head found it because exhaustion takes orders when nothing else will.

Panam stayed upright. The night shifted around her, cool air seeping into cloth, the smell of oil and dust and old coffee wrapping itself around her ribs. Out past the rigs, StormTech’s towers hummed; out past the towers, a sky without stars held its bruise.

She’d seen him. Alive. Bound. Flickering.

She wasn’t waiting anymore. She was counting.

And counting is a kind of building.

She looked once more at the square of glass and the faint white held inside it, and under her breath, to no one and everyone, she said, “Hold.”

The wind moved. The coals sighed.

They held.

Morning came thin and gray, the kind of light that made the yard look stripped of color. The fire in the Aldecaldo circle had burned down to ash. Cassidy sat on an overturned crate, boots tapping slow against dust, flask unopened for once. Carol crouched with her back to a rig, eyes gritty but sharp. Mitch had a wrench in hand, tightening a loose coupling that didn’t need it, motions steady just to keep steady.

Panam hadn’t slept. Her jaw ached from how hard she’d been clenching it. She stood when the sound hit—the scrape of boots in formation, the metallic clatter of rifles shifting.

StormTech soldiers moved in. Not just the quiet patrols anymore. A sweep. Eight of them, visors dark, steps in perfect rhythm.

They broke formation at the edge of the Aldecaldo circle. One stepped forward. “Protocol sweep,” he said, voice flattened through a filter. “All rigs, all crates. Stand aside.”

Silence fell heavy.

Cassidy barked a laugh, sharp and bitter. “Protocol, huh? That what you call rummagin’ through a man’s drawers?” He didn’t move.

The soldier didn’t even tilt his helmet. “Stand aside.”

Mitch set the wrench down slow, rose to his feet. His voice came calm, gravel steady. “No one’s hidin’ anything. You treat us like thieves, you’ll get what comes with it.”

Carol stood too, med kit strapped tight at her hip. “You want to check my supplies, you ask. You don’t paw through them like contraband.”

The soldier gave no reply, only motioned. Two more broke off and headed for the nearest rig.

Panam stepped forward fast. “Back off.”

Another soldier moved to intercept, visor flashing in the light. “Stand down.”

For a moment it broke—the clan shifting, voices rising, boots grinding dust. Thompson’s growl carried low from the shadows: “You start searchin’ our rigs, you’d best be ready to bleed in ‘em too.”

The soldiers kept moving. Hands yanked open crates. Doors swung wide on rigs. A tarp was pulled back, spilling spare clothes and tools into the dirt.

Panam’s nails bit her palms. Every instinct screamed to swing, to fight, to drive them out of the circle. She felt Cassidy step up behind her, muttering curses under his breath like a litany. Mitch’s hand brushed her elbow, steady pressure—not yet.

The search turned up nothing. Of course it did. That wasn’t the point.

The point came after, when two carts rattled past the circle, pushed by StormTech techs under heavy guard. Salvage crates, stenciled, dented, straps tight. The ones the Aldecaldos had bled for, hauled through dust and fire. Carted now like corporate property.

Cassidy spat in the dirt, voice raw. “Ain’t that a pretty sight. Us bustin’ our asses, and them rollin’ the prize right under our noses.”

Carol’s mouth was a hard line. “That’s not for V. That’s theirs. Extras they think we won’t miss.”

Panam’s gaze locked on the crates until they vanished into StormTech’s block, her teeth grinding. She knew what this was. Not a sweep. Not security. A message.

We know.
We saw you.
You move in our shadows again, and this leash gets shorter.

The soldiers filed out as precise as they came, leaving rigs half-open and dust churned. No apologies. No acknowledgment.

The Aldecaldos stood in the ruins of their own circle, air brittle with fury.

Mitch finally spoke, low. “They’re corralling us.”

“Penning us in,” Cassidy said, bitter. “Like cattle waitin’ for a bolt gun.”

Carol crossed her arms, chin lifted. “Then we use it. They think we’re cornered? Corners cut both ways.”

Panam didn’t answer. She stared at the empty path where the salvage had gone, jaw set until it hurt.

They weren’t partners. They weren’t even guests.

They were being managed.

And management meant sooner or later, the wrong person would decide V wasn’t worth the trouble.

She exhaled slow through her teeth, the fire under her ribs burning hotter than it had the night before. “Then we stop bein’ manageable.”

Chapter Text

The first thing is the silence.

Not the kind you get outside a city after midnight, not the long exhale of desert wind combing dust flat. This lives under the skull. A switch flipped somewhere deep, and all the background noise that made him feel like a crowd was gone. No Johnny pacing in corners, no Jackie warming the room with a laugh that didn’t need air. No Relic hum like a wasp caught between teeth. Just stillness so tight it squeaks.

He tries to breathe and the straps make a sound before his lungs do. Nylon bites. Buckles click against the bed when his chest jerks. Air goes in like it’s been filed down to edges, catches on the way out, leaves copper taste on the tongue. The lights above him are bright enough to make his eyes water just for spite. He blinks. The world breaks its edges into red lattice and refuses to come back together.

A voice on the other side of the glass—flattened, clinical. “Subject conscious.”

He knows that word. Not awake. Not alive. Conscious. A label you pin to a moth before the needle goes in.

The line of his breath stutters again. He tries to ride it smoother and his chest doesn’t agree. Something in the rhythm is wrong. Heartbeat misses a step—one-two, nothing, three-four—and the nothing is the loudest sound in the room. The monitors agree with a skitter of beeps that trip over each other like they don’t want to be caught alone.

“Stabilize ventilation,” another voice says. “Keep the field steady.”

The field. He hadn’t noticed it until someone named it. Now his skin notices for him. A pressure like weather before a storm, but turned inward—barometric drop inside the veins. It presses on him without weight, thins him out. He doesn’t have words for it except that it makes him less. Breaths get smaller. Thoughts drag like they’re walking in water.

He reaches out with the part of himself that learned to feel for ghosts in the machine, to find that familiar scrape of Johnny’s boots, the bump of Jackie’s shoulder, the hard bright buzz of the Relic. His hand closes on nothing. The space is there, exact as he remembers, but the furniture’s gone. “Hey,” he means to say, just to make noise where there isn’t any. What comes out is a wet scrape that could be a word from far away.

“Engram activity suppressed… seventy-one percent,” someone reads. “Containment holding.”

Engram. The syllables land like metal in the mouth. He knows what it means and doesn’t want to at the same time. To know is to admit there’s a thing inside the word that is him.

He blinks again. The red at the edges crawls. It isn’t a trick of light. It moves with the pulse—or with what passes for pulse now. Threadlike veins of color under the skin, faint as frost on glass. When his breath hitches, they brighten, then dim, like a machine is turning the dimmer switch on his own biology.

He tries the old ground-wires. Simple. Dumb. Hands, fingers, count them. He can’t move the left wrist enough to feel fingers. Straps hold. He flexes anyway. One, two, three—by the time he hits four the count drops through a hole. He starts over and finds the hole sooner. Somewhere his jaw notices it’s grinding itself to powder, and he lets it, because the pain proves the teeth exist.

The monitors climb a step, then two. “Spikes,” a voice says, not worried yet, just writing it down with sound. “Maintain dampening amplitude.”

The pressure inside the skull tightens. He feels it as a narrowing of the world. The room is still big—ceiling high, glass wide—but everything that matters shrinks to the space between the strap and his skin. Breath. Beat. The small seam where the light leaks between lashes. He tries to pull up a picture to put against the white: the dash of a truck, dust blowing sideways, a hand on the wheel that isn’t his. Brown eyes in the mirror, a grin that shows teeth when it shouldn’t. The picture arrives in full color and slides out of his hands like a wet card.

“No,” he tells nobody. Tells himself. Tells the white. The strap at his throat turns the word to sand.

The wave hits then—he doesn’t have better language for it. Something in the nervous system trips and the body answers like a building after a bomb: everything shivers in place, then the weight remembers how to fall. His forearms clench on their own, fingers go to claws and can’t quite finish ripping through the restraints. A long tremor runs from hip to jaw; his teeth click so hard it rings.

“Neuro-muscular cascade,” a voice says, closer now. “Hold him.”

Gloves touch him. Not many. Two. One at the shoulder, one at the hip. The hands try to be gentle and fail at it. The field hums louder—no, not louder, tighter, like someone is twisting a line he can’t see. The red under the skin flares, then dims again, obedient to someone else’s metronome.

He swallows and it feels like an animal trying to get up a narrow stair. The throat won’t take orders. He tries to turn his head and the strap across his forehead reminds him where he lives. A thread of memory cuts through the grit—gravel voice, short words, no waste. Breathe with what you’ve got, Mitch told him once on a roadside when his chest had tried to pack up and go home. Not the breath you want. The one you have.

Fine. He drags air in crooked. Out crooked. Counts to three on the way in, to four on the way out. Makes a rhythm out of broken furniture. The tremor leans away from panic, then leans back in like it changed its mind.

“Spikes decelerating,” the nearer voice says. Not relief. Just a note: the weather inside the subject is less bad for the moment.

He tries the picture again, smaller this time. Not eyes, not smile. Knuckles. The way they tap the wheel without music. How a thumb traces the ridge of his when he’s rattling, slow circles that say I’m here without lying about much else. He has it for half a breath and then the field turns another notch and the small comfort goes out like a match in a mouth.

His heart skips again. The blank space between beats opens long enough to fit a thought inside it: This is what dying feels like when it’s tidy. No blood. No smoke. Just subtraction.

He reaches for the scrape of Johnny out of habit—c’mon, old man, say something rude,—and what returns is a half-formed chord, cut off like a cable pulled from a jack. Jackie tries to stand up in the empty room behind his eyes, gives him half a smile, and the frame drops. They are not gone-gone; they’re worse. They’re present like a word you know and can’t say.

“Memory drift persists,” someone recites. “Data clarity improved under current settings.”

Improved. He almost laughs. The sound he makes is not laughter.

The wave recedes the way bad weather does—nobody flips it off, it just decides to go ruin someone else for a minute. The body remembers it has a map for stillness. The straps learn to be just straps again. He keeps the ugly count—three in, four out—and lets it be ugly. A minute passes in pieces.

The red at the edges never leaves. It lurks. The field never relents. It leans. The silence holds like a trick that keeps working.

He tries a different anchor, the kind with more weight than pictures: a sentence spoken in a voice that could peel paint when it wanted and go soft when it didn’t. Don’t you quit on me. He lines the words up on the inside of his teeth. Don’t. You. Quit. On. Me. The fifth word is the hard one. He pushes it across and something in the chest loosens a notch.

“Amplitude steady,” the far voice says. “Proceed at threshold.”

Another line of monitors ticks over. He doesn’t understand the numbers and doesn’t need to; the cadence of beeps tells the story. Slow, then faster, then pretend-slow that is really just fast hiding in different clothes. He’s been around enough machines to know when they’re lying.

He remembers that, and it’s good: he remembers he is a man who knows what machines sound like when they lie.

The thought earns him a breath that doesn’t scrape.

He closes his eyes against the light and the afterimage is a white rectangle the size of the sky. He tries to draw something on it that isn’t pain. A road. Not even a good one: ruts, washboard, dust at knee height. A rig that isn’t hers anymore because it’s scrap now, but he draws it anyway because he wants the shape under him. The wheel vibrates at the same pitch as his bones. A hand on the wheel that isn’t his. Don’t quit. The road holds straight for five seconds and then the field presses and the chalk line smears again.

“Maintain,” the voice says, and it’s not to him.

He opens his eyes and the ceiling is still there doing its job of being too white. The straps do their jobs. The field does its job. He does his, which lately is mostly not letting go when every sensible part says let go and it stops hurting. He recognizes the offer when it comes. It’s in the lines between beeps, in the blank beats that invite him to lie down in them and become the quiet he hates.

He tells the offer to go to hell and keeps counting.

Somewhere beyond glass, something metallic scrapes something else, and the noise draws a line through the room that isn’t clinical—human impatience sharpening an edge. It comforts him in the way a bad joke does at a graveside. There are hands in this, not just settings.

“Field is clean,” the nearer voice says. “Hold.”

He holds. Not because he trusts them. Because that’s the job he gave himself. Because a thing he can’t name with rules likes to take shape in him when he installs a promise, and the promise is simple enough to survive the field: Hold.

The world answers with what it has: white. Beep. Strap. Bitter on the tongue. A tremor idling low, waiting for the next wave.

He waits with it.

He tries to picture her first. Always her. It’s what he’s done before when the dark pressed too close.

Panam’s face. Brown eyes that didn’t just look, but cut. Jaw that set when she swore at him for doing something dumb. That sharp laugh, the one that cracked silence wide open and let light spill through. He can hold it for a heartbeat. Just one. Then the dampening field leans, and the lines smear. The grin collapses into noise, the eyes blur into color, and when he tries to pull her back the picture fragments like a file corrupted mid-save.

“No,” he whispers, voice clawing raw against the strap. “Not her. Not her.”

The monitors respond, jagged beeps rising like alarms.

He reaches instead for Cassidy. Old drawl, lazy as smoke when he was teasing someone, hard as gravel when it counted. He remembers the way the man tipped his hat, the glint in his eye before he said something crude just to make the younger ones squirm. Cassidy’s voice rises in his skull, a muttered curse about Arasaka, about corpos, about Raffen and broken rigs. The corner of V’s mouth twitches. For a moment it feels like Cassidy’s really there.

Then it’s gone. The curse slices into static mid-word, the drawl clipped like a line cut. What’s left is silence and the taste of smoke that isn’t real.

He gasps, chest jerking. The straps bite deeper.

Mitch, then. Mitch steady as the earth, never wasting words. He remembers a hand on his shoulder, the kind of grip that said I’ve got you without needing anything else. He remembers Mitch’s voice from before: “she’s not strong in spite of you. She’s strong because of you.” He repeats it in his head. She’s strong because of you. She’s strong because—

The words skip, fracture. She’s…stro…cause… until all that’s left is nonsense syllables, falling apart like a machine with its screws shaken loose.

Carol comes last, sharper than the rest, never raising her voice but cutting cleaner than steel. He tries to hear her: “Eat before you keel over. You’ve got that half-dead look I hate.” The sentence forms, half a smile breaking against the memory of it. Then her face blurs, voice warps, sound stretching wrong—like tape chewed up in an old player. He loses her too.

Each one he calls on goes the same way. They come bright, full, human—and then the dampening pulls them apart until there’s nothing but noise. It’s worse than silence. Silence he can fight. This is erasure.

He thrashes, straps biting into shoulders, into wrists. He tries to shout, but it breaks into jagged gasps. “Stop—stop—stop—” Not at them. Not at the memories. At the thing taking them away.

The field hums steady, cold.

The worst is Johnny.

At first it’s just the scrape of boots, the crack of a lighter, a voice ready to curse him into moving. “You lose here, V, and we all burn.” That’s what Johnny always said when the odds were bad. He waits for the rest. It doesn’t come. The sentence cuts half a breath in, leaving silence where the fight should be.

“Fuck you,” V mutters to the emptiness, voice trembling. “Don’t you walk out on me too.”

Static answers.

Jackie tries next. He can almost feel it—weight of a hand on his shoulder, warm, grounding. Jackie’s grin, the one that carried a room. “C’mon, hermano. Aguanta. Just breathe with me.” The words land, soft, steady. He tries to match his breath to them. One, two, three. The rhythm holds—until Jackie’s arm glitches, fractals of red code breaking it apart mid-reach. His smile pixelates, and then he’s gone.

That’s the cut that hurts the most.

V’s chest jerks. Not from straps. From sobs that scrape his throat raw. He chokes them back, clamps his jaw, but the tremors don’t stop. He presses Panam’s face against the inside of his skull again, forcing the shape, the sound, the feel of her knuckles brushing his cheek. He clings to it until the dampening rips even that away.

Gone.

The silence that follows is the kind that makes a man forget he was ever anything more than a specimen.

He tries again. Has to. Anything to fill the blank white space the dampening leaves behind.

Panam this time—always her. He drags her up like a bucket from a dry well. Brown eyes, steady and sharp, a voice that could cut and soothe in the same breath. He holds onto it like rope in a storm. Then she opens her mouth and says something she never would: “Stand down, dammit. They’re the only ones keeping you alive.”

The words land like a slap. Wrong. Not her. His grip slips. The image fuzzes, collapses.

He jerks his head against the strap, panic burning hotter than the field. “No,” he rasps, the word shredded. “That’s not you.”

The field hums on, unconcerned.

Cassidy next. He reaches for the lazy smoke of the man’s drawl, the dry humor that kept the edges from breaking. For a moment it’s there—Cassidy with his hat brim low, voice rich with sarcasm. Then the words come out twisted: “Storm boys’ll save us, city boy. You’ll see. Safer in their leash than out in the dust.”

It turns his stomach. Cassidy would spit before saying that. The voice breaks apart into static, leaving only the taste of ash in his mouth.

He thrashes once, chest heaving. The monitors chatter back with shrill beeps. A medic mutters something beyond the glass—tone clipped, professional—but the words don’t matter. Nothing matters but the fact that even his anchors are lying.

Mitch now. Solid Mitch. Always careful, always plain. V remembers his gravel voice telling him to keep his head, to land the bird no matter who’s flying. He hears it again, but it splinters halfway: “Doesn’t matter whose bird we’re in. What matters is you stop fighting it. Let them steer.”

He shakes his head, eyes wide against the light. “That’s not you, Mitch. That’s not—” His voice breaks into coughing, straps holding him as the tremor rips through.

Even Jackie isn’t safe. His best friend’s grin blooms, warm and grounding. For a second, V feels the weight of his hand again, steady on his shoulder. Then the smile glitches into sharp edges, and Jackie’s voice comes out in Johnny’s rhythm: “You fold here, we all burn.” A snarl where comfort should be.

“No—no, don’t do that to him,” V gasps, tears stinging eyes raw from the light. “Not Jackie. Don’t you—”

The words fail. The image collapses, Jackie’s warmth shattered into shards of red static.

The silence afterward is worse than death. It isn’t the quiet of being alone—it’s the quiet of knowing the people you love are being rewritten into lies.

He did not understand how much of a man could be made of bits and stubbornness until the bits started falling away.

Panic arrived like a fist. It closed around his ribs and would not let go. The dampening field was a slow grinder and it had teeth in places he had not known could be chewed. He felt the shape of himself thinning—not in some dramatic, cinematic way, but in the small, corrosive pieces that build a life: a laugh, a bruise, the exact angle of a shoulder when someone leans in to say I’m here. Those things blurred and then were scraped off, and every scrape left him raw and less familiar to himself.

Tears came as if someone had turned a tap. They were hot and absurd against the antiseptic cold of the room, and they ran in tracks down his face without permission. He was shaking, not with the spasms of a seizure now but with something older—the animal shake of one who has been stripped of every refuge.

He tried to speak and the sound collapsed. When the world goes to white and your memories fall like rotten fruit, language is the first to rot. Still, he pulled words up like splinters and forced them out, throat raw, voice a small, broken thing.

“Please.” It wasn’t even a sentence. It was a broken pulley of sound that meant more things than it could hold—please stop the hurting, please end this, please don’t let whatever’s left of me be catalogued into a ledger and sold as a lesson. He kept grasping for the blunt honesty of death as if it were a doorway and the dampening were a fire behind him. He wanted the stop to be absolute. Not a patch, not another night of straps and noise and data. He wanted the quiet that comes at the end of things, the real quiet that doesn’t promise a tomorrow that will just be diminished.

The plea carved itself out of him again, more guttural, a ragged animal sound: Make it end me. Just—stop it. Don’t let this be the way. He didn’t use the word—could not, perhaps—but the meaning hung in the air like bad smoke.

A medic stiffened outside the panel, fingers losing their practiced, careful calm. There was the quick intake of breath every doctor tries to hide and fails. “We can’t—” the woman started, voice clipped, how a script sounds when someone refuses the true meaning of it. “We are not authorized—”

The sound of that sentence was a blade inside his chest because authorized was the world StormTech lived in: permissions, signatures, protocols boxed and stamped and signed. He understood then, with a clean, terrible clarity, that the thing he wanted was not a mercy men with authorizations would grant on sentiment. He was a variable in a ledger. Not pain to be ended, but data to be milked.

No one moved toward him with mercy. Someone adjusted a dial. A nurse’s gloved hand moved for another line, not in the tenderness of relief but with the crisp confidence of procedure—needles, clamps, calibrations that said clearly what this organization valued. He felt the prick of a new line in his arm, the cold flood of something that steadied the tremor at the cost of shrinking his mind further. The dampening answered the plea by drawing the curtain tighter.

Somewhere behind the glass a heavier voice cut the static—the shape of authority he recognized by the way the room held itself when it spoke. “Keep him at threshold,” Hale said. Two words that sounded like a commandment. “We need him alive.” The syllables were clean, not cruel, but the meaning bled cruelty: not for him—for us.

The anger that rose in him now was sharp enough to feel like an ache of metal. He spat a word at the glass that the field stole over into a dry whisper. You—it was all the words he had then, all the human shampoos of accusation. He wanted to throw fists through the plex and tear the neat suits into ragged things and show them the man at the center whose life they were parsing like a manuscript.

Johnny’s voice tried to claw back through—the smirk, the venom, the stupid bravado that had always been an armor. You don’t get to give up, Johnny spat, a ragged half-curse that broke into static. Jackie reached, hand a remembered weight, a warm, human press that steadied him once. Jackie’s aguanta sliced through nothing and then fragmented into a white noise hiss. Their presences were fretted and othered until they were nearly memory and not friend.

Tears flowed anew. This time they were not hot with appeal but with the most terrifying grief: the knowledge that people who loved him would not know the scale of what was being done to him because those doing it had decided that knowledge was a cost they could not afford. He thought of Panam—her brown eyes, the angle of her jaw when she swore him into being—and the image was pure and bright and so desperately his. He clutched for it like an animal to a bone. It held for two breaths and then the field pulled away and left a ragged hollow where she’d been.

He made nonsense promises into the white—if you can hear me, if any of you are in this, hold hard—and his voice crawled on the ledge of reason as the dampening ate the verbs.

The medic’s hands were suddenly at his shoulders, gentle but businesslike, trying to anchor his body in the right place for whatever procedure they deemed necessary. He felt the pressure, the practiced calm. A nurse murmured the sort of clinical consolation that never helps anyone, the kind you hand a person when you have to maintain decorum.

Outside the glass Hale’s silhouette shifted like a monolith. “No,” he said, quiet, decision crystalline. “Keep him. Data is priority.” There was no cruelty in his tone, only a removing of softness—an arithmetic applied to a man.

He sobbed then, a new sound—deep and ugly and human. It was not the spitfire anger anymore but the raw, animal grief of someone watching himself be counted, measured, and cataloged. The tears poured, and his body convulsed with them until the straps held him like the bars of a birdcage.

In the middle of the wreckage of his words he tried to form a simple thing: Panam. Not pleading now—reaching. A name that was not an order. He labored to push the syllable out and it came as a breath, thin and tremulous. The sound leaked into the room and found only glass and gloves.

“Panam,” he breathed once more, a private scripture that he folded up and shoved inside where it might be safe from the clinical hands and the gradations of approval. It gave him a momentary ballast he had no right to expect—like a rope finding a hook—but then the thread grew thin.

The responders around the glass continued their motions with a steadiness that belonged to a machine. Needles clicked. A pump whirred and churned. A monitor recorded. Hale’s shadow did not move closer. The men in white did not speak his name in anything but clinical terms. They had decided whether he was specimen or soul and told his body what it was to be.

He wanted another end: short, merciful, absolute. He wanted the end. He wanted the field to be taken down and nothing more to be stripped away. He wanted the men with authorizations to meet his eyes and decide that his life was not a line item.

The tears stung. He felt himself tilt toward the edges of thinking, toward the place where syllables slurred into static and then into nothing. He tried to force the last bright things—Panam’s hand, a joke Jackie used to tell, Johnny’s angry scold—into a neat stack like cards so he could carry them through the dark. They clung, fragile as wet paper, and then the dampening took another notch and one slipped free.

He screamed then—not a request but a sound—and it tore his throat. The sound did not move anyone. It was absorbed by insulation and glass and the necessary bureaucratic detachment of a room that could not afford emotion.

At last, when every last muscle of outrage and pleading had been spent, he fell into a silence not of peace but of exhaustion. The crying ebbed into a hiccuping sob and then to small, exhausted breaths. His lids flickered. The world smeared. He tried to keep the last syllable of Panam’s name with him as a talisman and the sound thinned until it was only thought, then ash.

They did not end it. They would not.

But for a while—just a while—he let himself hope that the name was enough to hold.

Chapter Text

The yard had gone quiet, but it wasn’t peace.

StormTech floodlights still buzzed cold against the horizon, carving sterile slices of white through the dark. Their generators hummed steady, a mechanical heart that never faltered. On the Aldecaldo side, the fire had burned down to coals, their glow weak, too soft to keep back the weight of night.

Panam sat with her back to a rig tire, knees drawn up, eyes locked on the far glow where containment pulsed. She hadn’t blinked enough. The whites burned, dry and sore, but she didn’t dare look away. She knew he was in there. Hale hadn’t hidden that fact. V was alive. But “alive” meant nothing when corps were the ones defining the word.

Cassidy leaned on his crate with the flask in his hand, though he hadn’t pulled the cap since dusk. He watched her stare across the yard and shook his head slow. “Alive don’t mean free,” he muttered, voice thick with dust and whiskey. “Corps’ll keep a body breathing long past when it oughta quit. Just so they can take notes on how it twitches.”

Mitch set his wrench aside and rubbed a callus with his thumb. “He’s not wrong. They told us he’s stable, but stable under their hand don’t mean shit. Could be they’ve got him wired six ways, pokin’ holes, watchin’ which ones bleed the slowest.”

Panam’s jaw clenched. “Don’t say it like that.” Her voice cracked sharp, eyes still on the white glow. “He’s alive. He’s fighting. That’s enough until we get him back.”

Carol’s kit sat closed at her feet, hands folded over it like she was daring anyone to pry. “You don’t know if that’s what they want,” she said. Low, not cruel, but cutting. “Alive doesn’t have to mean whole. Corps are good at keeping hearts beating while they tear the rest apart. Long as the data streams, they’ll call it a victory.”

Panam snapped her gaze to her. “Don’t.”

But Carol held it. “Better we face what this is than get blindsided.”

The fire popped, a coal collapsing under its own ash.

Dakota stirred where she sat just beyond the firelight, wrapped in her silence like always. When she spoke, it was quiet enough the words made the rest of them lean in. “Storms don’t announce when they’ll break,” she said. “You feel the air change. You wait. And you decide quick when the first drop falls if you’ll run or stand in it.”

Cassidy gave her a look. “That supposed to mean somethin’, or you just enjoy hearin’ yourself talk in riddles?”

“Means what it means,” Dakota murmured, and said no more.

The voices around the fire went quiet again, Panam stayed fixed on the light.

It sat there at the far edge of the yard, steady, inhuman. Not a flicker, not a single change in brightness. A machine’s idea of daybreak. She hated it more than she’d ever hated the neon of Night City, more than the corporate logos that scarred every building she’d driven past. At least neon admitted it was trying to sell you something. This light was worse. It said nothing. It showed nothing. It just hummed and glowed and hid the one person she couldn’t afford to lose.

Her chest hurt from the way she was holding herself. Too tight, shoulders locked, jaw clenched. She pressed the heel of her hand against her sternum, as if she could quiet the hammering underneath. It didn’t work. The pressure just spread until her whole body felt like a coil pulled too far.

She thought about the last time she’d touched him. Blood-soaked, trembling, eyes glassy with exhaustion. But still him. Still V. The moment his gaze met hers she’d known. Whatever storm had been tearing through his body, it hadn’t stolen him yet. He’d whispered apologies like they were the only words he remembered, clung to her like she was the one keeping him upright. She could still feel his weight sagging against her, the raw heat of him, the desperate way he’d said her name like it was the only thing anchoring him.

And now?

Now he was strapped down in there, machines clawing through his blood, corpos scribbling notes every time he twitched. She pictured it without meaning to: cold gloves pressing needles into his veins, clamps on his skull, his breath hitching while strangers measured it like a reading on a gauge. She bit her lip hard enough to taste copper.

Alive. That’s all they’d said. Alive.

But alive under StormTech’s hands could mean half-flayed, hollowed, more machine than man. Could mean they’d already carved pieces off him just to see if the rest still moved. She wanted to scream, to tear the fences down, to put her pistol under Hale’s chin and make him tell her what “alive” really meant.

Her throat burned. She dragged her palm over her eyes before the others could see.

V had told her once, in a voice quieter than he usually allowed himself, that he didn’t think he had long left. That the Relic was clawing him apart day by day, and all he wanted was to not die alone. She’d sworn then and there he wouldn’t. She’d meant it with everything in her. But now the promise felt like glass in her hands—already cracked, threatening to break.

“Hold on,” she whispered to the white glow. The words were brittle, carried on a breath so soft they barely made sound. “Just hold on. I’ll find a way.”

The light didn’t answer. It just hummed, steady, cold, as if daring her to prove it wrong.

Her eyes burned from staring, but she didn’t look away. If she did, she feared the light might change without her catching it, and she’d miss the only sign he had left to give.

She let her head fall back against the rig tire, the rubber cold against her scalp, and closed her eyes just long enough to drag a memory up where she could see it clear.

Not blood. Not fear. Not the wreckage they were in now. Something small.

She remembered the way he’d trace his thumb over her knuckles when the world got too loud. Not big, not flashy. Just slow circles against her skin, like he was reminding himself she was real, reminding her he was too. No words needed. Just pressure, steady, grounding. She’d never admitted how much it steadied her in return.

The memory cracked something open in her chest. For a heartbeat she could almost feel it—the warmth of his palm, the rasp of callus, the way it softened without losing its weight. She wanted to freeze that moment, hold it under glass, keep it safe from the hands clawing through him now.

But the field of white on the far side of the yard swallowed it, just like it swallowed everything else.

She opened her eyes and the glow was still there, humming, faceless, sterile. For a breath she let herself imagine him inside it, lashes low but still awake, eyes finding hers even through the glass. She pictured him whispering her name, hoarse, desperate, like he had in the corridor after he came back to her. She clung to that thought until her throat closed around it.

She curled her fists tight against her knees, nails biting into skin. “You stay with me,” she breathed, voice shaking. “You hear me, V? You damn well better stay.”

No one answered. Only the hum of StormTech’s machines, steady, implacable, filling the night with the sound of everything she wasn’t allowed to know.

The fire cracked, one coal collapsing under its own ash, and the silence that followed had weight. Too heavy. It finally drove Cassidy to speak.

“Alive,” he muttered, staring into the embers like they’d answer him back. “They keep sayin’ it, like it’s supposed to mean somethin’. But I’ve seen alive in Corpo hands. Seen soldiers kept breathin’ on tubes long after they’d lost everything that made ’em people. Corpos’ll call it mercy. I call it cruelty dressed up in white coats.”

Panam’s jaw clenched. Her hands pressed harder against her knees until the skin beneath her nails ached.

Mitch shifted, his voice low, gravel-steady. “He’s right, Panam. We know V’s in there, but we don’t know how. Don’t know what they’re doin’ to hold him down, or what it’s costin’ him.” He glanced at the glow, then back. “Hale’s the type to call a cage a clinic.”

Carol’s tone cut sharper, pragmatic as always. “And the longer they keep us out, the more it means they’ve got something to hide. If it was clean, if it was treatment, they’d show us. They want us blind, and blind means controlled.”

Cassidy snorted, dragging a hand across his face. “Blind, corralled, penned up like bolt-gun calves. Just waitin’ for someone in a suit to decide if we’re worth feedin’ another day.”

Panam snapped her head around, fury sparking in her eyes. “Don’t you dare compare him to that.”

“I’m comparin’ all of us,” Cassidy shot back. “Don’t take it personal, Panam. You think I like bein’ fenced in? You think I trust those bastards more than the reek off my boots?” He tipped his hat back, voice harder now. “But you know I’m right.”

The coals hissed, smoke drifting between them.

Dakota’s voice came soft, like it always did, but it cut just the same. “Alive is a word with too many doors. They tell you it’s safety, but you don’t know which one they’ve opened.” She tilted her head, eyes half-closed. “And sometimes the wrong door still looks like a blessing. Until it shuts.”

Panam dragged her stare back to the glow across the yard, throat burning. “He’s alive,” she said, fierce, as if daring the night to argue. “That’s all I need to know. I don’t care what they’re hiding. I don’t care what it costs. He’s alive, and he’s fighting. And when they finally open that door, I’ll be there.”

The others let it hang. Nobody agreed. Nobody contradicted. The silence carried the weight of their doubts, thick as smoke in the lungs.

The warning came as boots.

Heavy, synchronized, cutting through the hush of the yard. A half-dozen StormTech soldiers in black polymer plates strode into the firelight, rifles slung but ready, faces hidden behind dark visors that caught the glow like mirrors. At their center walked an officer, rank stenciled across his chest in white that didn’t scuff. His voice carried before he stopped moving.

“New directives,” he said, clipped and clean, like he was reading them off a board. “Perimeter to containment is off-limits. No Aldecaldo will approach the line. All movements will be logged, and interference will be treated as hostile. Alliance terms are clear.”

He didn’t look at them. He looked past them, as though they were dust blown against the tires.

The words landed heavy, snapping the fire’s fragile silence in two.

Cassidy barked a laugh sharp as broken glass. “Listen to that. Bolt-gun scripture, read by a man who’s never had dirt under his nails.” He leaned forward on his crate, the brim of his hat low, flask untouched in his grip. “Where’s Hale, huh? Hiding behind tin boys like you?”

The officer didn’t flinch. “Commander Hale is occupied. His orders stand.”

Panam was already on her feet, boots crunching against the packed dirt. Her pulse thundered so loud she barely heard her own voice. “Occupied?” She stepped forward, heat rolling off her every word. “He’s got my man in that cage of his. You tell him to come out here. Now.”

Two soldiers shifted, rifles angling fractionally as if they expected the step to carry her into the dirt.

Carol’s hand shot out and clamped around Panam’s arm, sharp fingers biting. “Not like this,” she hissed under her breath.

But Panam tore against the grip, fury blazing in her eyes. “You can’t lock him up and call him an asset. He’s not yours to measure. He’s not yours to bleed. He’s mine. He’s family.”

Cassidy’s jaw clenched, the corner of his mouth twitching like he might spit or draw, maybe both. “You keep hidin’ him behind glass, folk are gonna start thinkin’ you’re scared of what happens when we see the truth.”

Mitch rose slow, steady, his bulk a shadow against the firelight. He didn’t shout, didn’t curse, but his voice carried like gravel dragged over steel. “You can strap him down all you want. But don’t think for a second you’ll make us believe he ain’t still ours. We’ll see him. One way or the other.”

The officer’s visor turned fractionally, a dead stare that reflected all of them back in miniature flames. “Your asset is stable,” he said, flat as stone. “For now. That is all you need.”

Panam lunged another step, yanking against Carol’s hold. “Don’t you dare—”

Carol gritted her teeth, dragging her back with surprising strength. “Panam—”

The soldiers moved in tight formation, rifles snapping up a fraction. The firelight glinted off black polymer and chrome, the faint click of safeties humming like a threat.

For a long, breathless moment the camp held still—fire popping, boots planted, hearts hammering.

Then the officer gave a single nod. “You’ve been told. Do not test us.”

He turned without ceremony. The soldiers wheeled as one, boots striking dirt in perfect rhythm, and marched back toward the sterile glow at the far end of the yard. The floodlights swallowed them, leaving only the sound of generators grinding steady.

The fire felt smaller after they left.

Panam shook where she stood, Carol’s hand still iron on her arm. Her breath came ragged, fury barely caged.

Cassidy muttered, low and raw, “One of these nights I’m gonna plant a bullet in that glass. See how stable they call it then.”

“Suicide,” Mitch said, not unkind, just steady. “That’s what they want—for us to swing first. Then it’s over.”

Carol let out a long breath through her nose, finally releasing Panam’s arm. “They’ll use your anger against you if you let them. Don’t give them the opening.”

Panam didn’t answer. She dragged her eyes back to the white glow, throat burning, fists tight.

Dakota’s voice floated in from the edge of the firelight, soft, unreadable. “Doors don’t stay shut forever. But sometimes it’s not you who opens them.”

The words hung there, strange and heavy, until Panam finally spoke, voice carved from steel. “They won’t keep me from him. Not forever.”

The vow sat in the night like a blade driven point-down into the dirt, humming with tension no one could pull free.

The boots were gone, swallowed back into the white glow, but the tension they left behind clung like smoke. The campfire hissed on the last of its coals, too small to hold against the weight of what they’d just been told.

Panam hadn’t sat down. She paced a slow, tight line in the dirt, every step a grind of grit under her boots. Her hands wouldn’t unclench. The image of those rifles lifting at the first hint of resistance still burned in her chest, but it wasn’t fear stoking the fire—it was rage.

Cassidy broke the silence first, voice harsh, words spilling like stones from a broken wall. “They ain’t keepin’ him alive for his sake. That’s the part none of you want to say out loud. Alive, stable, it means nothin’. Just means they’re squeezin’ data outta him drop by drop.”

Panam whirled on him, eyes sharp. “Don’t.”

“I will,” he snapped, meeting her stare without blinking. “I know their kind. I fought their kind. Hale don’t give a damn about V as a man. He’s a test bed. And one day he won’t come back from what they’re doin’.”

“Shut it, Cass,” Mitch said, voice steady but hard. “We all know. No need to twist the knife.” He rubbed a hand down his face, weariness weighing on every motion. “Question is what we do about it.”

Carol leaned forward on her knees, eyes narrowing. “We can’t barrel in blind. They’ve got soldiers on every gate, scanners on every rig, and Hale pulling strings we can’t even see. One wrong move, and they cut us loose. Or worse.”

Panam stopped pacing, her voice raw with the strain of holding too much inside. “Then we make the right move.” She pointed toward the glow, finger trembling with fury. “They’re hiding him from us. You all felt it—every word that officer said was just to keep us away. We can’t wait for their permission. We need to see him, with our own eyes, before there’s nothing left to see.”

Cassidy gave a low, humorless laugh. “Now you’re speakin’ my language.”

Carol shot him a glare sharp enough to cut. “And do you have a plan for what comes after they catch us? Or are we all just supposed to die brave for the sake of your temper?”

“Better that than sittin’ on our hands while he rots,” Cassidy fired back.

Mitch’s voice rumbled over both of them, steady as a steel beam. “Enough. Panam’s right. He ain’t safe in their hands. But Carol’s right too. Walkin’ in loud just gets us killed. If we’re gonna move, we do it smart.”

Dakota spoke last, her words slow, deliberate, like she was measuring each before she gave it away. “Storms change faster than you think. When the air shifts, you don’t get long to decide. You’d best be ready when the door cracks, because it won’t stay open.”

The words settled, cryptic but heavy.

Panam swallowed hard, her throat raw. “So we wait for a crack,” she said. “But we don’t just wait. We watch. We listen. And when the chance comes—” Her voice broke, but she forced it steady. “—we take it.”

Cassidy tipped his hat back, muttering under his breath. “StormTech won’t know what hit ’em.”

Carol exhaled through her nose, sharp. “They’ll know. They always know. But we’ll make sure we’re still standing when they find out.”

Mitch nodded once, a grim seal on the pact. “Then that’s the plan.”

They sat in the glow of dying coals, the vow unspoken but alive between them. StormTech could post guards, could tighten leashes, could hide V behind as much glass as they wanted. The Aldecaldos had already decided: the next crack in the armor, no matter how small, would be theirs to pry wide.

And Panam swore in her bones she’d be the first through.

The glass-walled conference room sat high above the compound yard, cold light washing the table in sterile glow. The desert night pressed black against the windows, broken only by the glare of their own floodlights. The hum of machinery below was muffled here, distant, like the camp was already a memory.

Hale stood at the head of the table, posture iron, hands clasped behind his back. He didn’t sit. He never sat during reports.

Three figures filled the seats: a chief medic in pale gray, a systems engineer with a stack of slates, and a scientist whose lab coat looked too clean for the dust outside. Their voices carried crisp, practiced, as though failure itself was a contagion they might spread if they let emotion leak in.

“Neurological dampening is holding,” the medic said, scrolling through charts. “Subject remains stable under current amplitude. Spikes occur when he resists, but containment is effective. He cannot breach.”

The engineer didn’t look up from his slate. “However, suppression of Relic activity correlates with accelerated deterioration of host tissue. Decay markers up nine percent since last cycle. Projection suggests exponential climb.”

“Meaning?” Hale asked, voice low, stripped of all affect.

“Meaning,” the scientist said, precise and cold, “our subject is both stable and dying. The dampening keeps the parasite weak, but also suppresses him. The engram’s integration with the host body—” She tapped her slate, diagrams flickering. “—is unlike anything in archived Arasaka data. Alt Cunningham’s design stabilized him beyond predicted limits, but only temporarily. We are not saving him. We are halting the inevitable.”

The medic shifted in her seat. “And prolonging his suffering.”

Hale’s eyes flicked to her, sharp as a blade. She stiffened but held her ground.

The engineer leaned back, unbothered. “We can map it. The decay curve, the integration points, the bleed between flesh and code. Once complete, replication is feasible. Control protocols, survivability parameters—we could manufacture containment on demand.”

“Replicable soldiers,” the scientist said, voice flat as stone. “Or weapons. Depending on deployment.”

Silence settled for a long beat. Hale finally stepped closer to the table, gaze falling on the array of charts and vitals. Red lines danced across a silhouette, jagged and uneven.

“Then we hold him at threshold,” Hale said. “Long enough to finish the map.”

The medic cleared her throat. “Commander, threshold is agony. He pleads for release. If the clan—”

“The clan,” Hale cut in, sharp enough to end the sentence, “is irrelevant. Their leverage was salvage. Useful, yes. But replaceable. He is not.” He set his hands on the table, leaning in just enough for his shadow to cut across the data. “Keep him alive. Contain the parasite. Extract every trace of value. When he breaks, then we decide what to tell the nomads.”

The engineer tapped his slate, sealing the orders into record. The scientist nodded once, eyes bright with the glow of opportunity.

Hale straightened, already turning away. “Prepare secondary protocols. I want contingencies in place before the next breach.”

The doors hissed open, and he left without looking back.

Chapter Text

The fire had been fed back to life, but its light felt thin against the yard’s heavy dark. Sparks rose, hissed, and died in the cold air. Around it, the core Aldecaldos sat in a rough circle, their shadows long on the dirt, every face turned inward but every gaze drifting, sooner or later, toward the sterile glow where containment waited.

No one wanted to be the first to say it.

It was Cassidy, in the end. He set his flask down in the dirt with a thud and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “We gave ’em the keys,” he said, voice raw as gravel. “Handed over the whole damn chest of Arasaka scrap. Every bone, every shard. And you can bet your boots they’re usin’ it to keep him under their thumb, not to save him.”

Panam’s eyes snapped to him, sharp. “We didn’t have a choice.”

“Always a choice,” Cassidy muttered. “Might be bad ones, but they’re still yours. And this one? This one’s gonna bleed him out slow.”

Mitch rubbed a hand across his jaw, silent a long moment before speaking. “Cass ain’t wrong. StormTech’s not thinkin’ about V as a man. They’re thinking about what that thing inside him can teach ’em. How far they can push before he breaks. And they’ll call that research.”

The fire popped, throwing a brief flare of light across their faces.

Dakota hadn’t spoken yet. She sat a little back from the circle, her silhouette wrapped in shadow, voice soft when it came. “The shard was already broken when we found it. Fractured. Pieces of something it wasn’t meant to carry. Data bleeding through like water through cracked stone.” She lifted her gaze, dark eyes catching the fire. “StormTech thinks they can drink it clean. But what seeps through will poison the vessel.”

Panam’s hands curled into fists on her knees. “You’re saying they’re poisoning him.”

Dakota tilted her head, expression unreadable. “I’m saying corruption spreads. And they’re feeding it to a man already drowning.”

The first sign was the hum.

It wasn’t the steady generator thrum that had become background noise, nor the floodlights buzzing overhead. This was sharper, higher, like a wire pulled too tight. The Aldecaldos stiffened around the fire as it crawled through the ground beneath their boots, an unnatural vibration that set teeth on edge.

Cassidy straightened slow, flask forgotten at his feet. “That ain’t wind.”

Panam was already on her feet, eyes locked on the white glow at the far edge of the yard. The containment wing shone brighter than before, the floodlights flaring against the night like a blade dragged across glass. A low alarm bled into the hum—no blaring siren, just a pulsing tone that throbbed steady as a heartbeat.

Mitch rose beside her, brow furrowed, voice tight. “They’re running something.”

“On him,” Panam said, throat dry.

Then it hit.

The glow within flared scarlet for half a breath, so bright it cast their shadows long across the dirt. The hum cracked into a stuttering vibration that rattled metal frames and sent dust tumbling from rig tires. Alarms spiked, overlapping tones that set every nerve on edge.

Panam took a step forward before she realized she’d moved. “V—”

StormTech soldiers appeared at the perimeter, rifles half-raised, blocking the Aldecaldos from stepping closer. The mirrored visors reflected firelight and floodlight alike, a wall of faceless warning.

Panam surged two steps forward before a rifle shifted square on her chest. Carol’s hand clamped her shoulder, holding her in place by sheer force.

“Let me through!” Panam’s voice cracked, torn raw. “He needs—”

“Not now,” Carol hissed, voice steel. “You’ll get us all shot.”

Inside the glass monitors spiked red, alarms howled, shadows scrambled. Then, just as sudden, it broke. The red light dimmed, retreating like embers under ash. The alarms cut, leaving only the hollow throb of one steady tone.

The glass went white again. The shadows of the medics steadied.

And the yard fell quiet, except for the hiss of the Aldecaldos’ fire.

The conference chamber was colder than the desert night. Sterile air drifted down from vents in the ceiling, heavy with recycled chill that smelled faintly of antiseptic. The walls of glass looked out over the compound, floodlights painting the yard white, the fire of the Aldecaldos glared: a smear of red-orange in a sea of frost.

Hale stood at the head of the table, spine straight, hands clasped behind him. He hadn’t sat once since they brought the subject in.

The chief medic’s slate trembled in her grip as she scrolled the readings from the last cycle. Her face was pale, jaw clenched tight, but her voice cracked anyway. “We can’t keep doing this.” She looked up, eyes too bright in the sterile light. “The dampening… the shard interference. It’s tearing him apart. The convulsions tonight? That wasn’t data. That was a man’s body breaking.”

The systems engineer leaned back in his chair, unmoved. His fingers tapped lazy rhythm against his slate, numbers flickering across the glass. “And yet,” he said, tone smooth as steel, “he survived. Stabilized, even. Which proves the point: we’re closer to a reproducible model. Push him again, and we’ll map the thresholds clean.”

The scientist beside him adjusted her glasses, gaze cool, detached. “Specimen endurance is remarkable. The fluctuations are not failure—they’re progress. Every spike, every seizure, expands the curve. He is still breathing. That is all that matters.”

The medic slammed her slate down on the table, the sound echoing like a gunshot. “That’s not all that matters!” Her voice rose, sharp with desperation. “He’s conscious. He’s aware. He begged us to stop. I don’t care what you call him in your reports—subject, specimen, asset—he’s still a man. And if we break him this way, there won’t be anything left to study!”

The engineer scoffed, leaning forward at last. “Your sympathy is clouding you. He’s not a man. He’s a unique convergence of failed Arasaka architecture and Alt Cunningham’s intervention. He’s data in meat. The sooner you accept that, the more useful you’ll be.”

The scientist’s lips curled, faint disdain. “If you’re so concerned with his comfort, perhaps you should join the nomads by their fire. They seem happy enough to wait for miracles while we carve the future.”

The medic looked between them, breath shaking, then back to Hale. “Commander, please. He’s deteriorating faster every hour. If we keep him at this amplitude, at this frequency of testing, he won’t survive the week. Let us ease it. Give him some reprieve.”

Silence stretched. The engineer shifted, smirking faint at the medic’s pleading. The scientist’s eyes gleamed sharp with triumph, already confident where the decision would fall.

Hale’s voice, when it came, was quiet. Quiet enough that the hum of the lights above nearly drowned it.

“No.”

He stepped forward, casting his shadow long across the table’s glow. “Threshold is where the data lives. Not in comfort. Not in reprieve. Push him until he breaks if you must—but hold him there. He cannot die. Not yet.”

The medic swallowed hard, eyes closing as though the words had struck her physically. Her hands curled against the table, knuckles white.

Hale turned, his face carved from stone, and let his gaze sweep the three of them. “Do not mistake him for your patient. He is a StormTech resource. And resources are not spared because they cry.”

The medic flinched but didn’t speak again.

The engineer tapped his slate once, sealing the cycle’s data into record. The scientist’s thin smile lingered, hungry, already imagining the next experiment.

Hale clasped his hands behind his back once more. “Prepare for the next test. I want parameters widened. If he breaks again, good. That means we’ve found another line worth mapping.”

He walked to the glass wall, staring out at the faint flicker of Aldecaldo fire below. “And keep the nomads in the dark. The less they know, the longer they’ll play their part.”

The medic sat frozen, lips pressed tight against words she couldn’t say.

Hale didn’t look back.

“Contain him. Exploit him. Keep him alive. That’s the order.”

And with that, the chamber fell silent except for the soft, endless hum of machines.

The world came back in shards.

Not sight, not sound, not touch—fragments of all three, jagged, uneven, refusing to fit. A hum too high, too sharp. White light that stabbed the backs of his eyes. A weight across his chest like concrete. He dragged air in through his teeth and it scraped, burning the throat raw. His ribs ached where they’d slammed against straps, his muscles trembled with a fatigue that felt deeper than bone.

Something had changed.

The dampening field was still there. He felt it pressing inside him, a slow crushing, like fingers squeezing the edges of thought. But now there was something else, layered under it. A buzz. A second heartbeat, faint and stuttering, crawling through his veins in pulses of static. Every time his own pulse skipped, the static flared to fill the gap.

He swallowed hard, head rolling against the table’s restraint. His body wasn’t his anymore, not fully. It had been like that before—Relic gnawing, AI scratching—but this was different. This felt like corruption threading through his blood, eating at the seams of his self. The shard. He didn’t know how he knew it, but he did. The tech they’d plugged into StormTech’s machines had spilled something into him, and now he was carrying it.

He shut his eyes, forcing himself inward. He needed voices, anchors.

“Johnny.” His lips cracked around the name, more breath than word.

For a moment, the scrape of boots answered. The faint glow of a lighter. A voice like glass grinding. “Get the fuck up, V. Don’t let them bleed you out.”

Relief flared, brief and sharp. But then the voice stuttered, clipped mid-word, scattering into static like a tape chewed by an old deck. He tried to call again and got nothing. Just silence and the faint stink of smoke that wasn’t real.

“Jackie,” he rasped, desperate.

Warmth touched his shoulder, familiar, grounding. “Aguanta, hermano. Just breathe with me. One—two—”

He tried to match it. One—two— But the rhythm cracked. Jackie’s hand glitched apart, breaking into red lattice mid-reach. His grin fractured into jagged pixels, and the voice warped until it wasn’t Jackie at all, but Johnny’s rasp snarl, repeating the same words like a curse. Then nothing.

V clenched his jaw, teeth grinding hard enough to ache. “No,” he croaked. “Not you. Not both.” His chest jerked, sob bursting out before he could stop it. They weren’t gone—but they were being smothered, like he was. The dampening didn’t just hold the AI down. It held all of them. Johnny. Jackie. Him.

He gasped again, ragged. The static heartbeat inside flared with it.

And then another voice crawled up.

Not Johnny. Not Jackie.

It came cracked, warped, like syllables dragged across broken glass. The tone was wrong, but familiar enough to twist his stomach.

If… you die… we die.

The words bent and stuttered, half-drowned in distortion. Not mockery. Not triumph. Just fact. Cold, sharp. You die. we die.

V’s whole body went cold. He thrashed weakly against the straps, breath coming fast. “No,” he snarled, voice cracking. “Not you.”

No choice. The whisper scraped through his skull. One… body. One… end.

He shook his head, fury boiling under fear. “Shut up. You’re not me. You’re not—”

The voice glitched, hissed, then cut out, leaving only the buzz of the dampening and his own jagged breath. But the seed was there now, buried deep. It hadn’t pleaded. It hadn’t mocked. It had simply told him what survival meant: that the line between them was thinner than he’d dared to believe.

The monitors above him chirped, tones overlapping. His chest seized, a tremor ripping through his muscles. Not the collapse he expected but something else. His back arched, red lattice flaring across his skin like veins set alight.

Alarms screamed. Lights strobed. His body convulsed, but this time the strength wasn’t leaving—it was bursting out. He felt it in his bones, in his teeth, in the metal under his skin. Sparks spat from the machines as the surge overloaded them. The straps dug deep into his wrists, but he pulled anyway, and for a heartbeat he swore he felt them give.

Outside, muffled shouts. Boots pounding. Soldiers barking orders.

The surge cracked, then collapsed. He slumped back against the table, chest heaving, every muscle spent. Smoke rose faint from the ruined panel at his side. The alarms died to a dull whine.

He was alive. Still alive.

But not the same.

He closed his eyes, whispering Panam’s name, trying to taste it whole. The syllables tangled with static on his tongue, warping, fraying, until the sound came out broken.

The AI’s laugh followed in the hollow of his skull, faint and sharp as broken glass.

Not hers… not yours… ours.

V’s eyes flew open, terror hollowing him deeper than any strap could hold.

Alive. But not alone.

The chamber still smelled faintly of ozone.

Cables dangled loose from the cracked panel, their insulation scorched. The faint curl of smoke had only just been scrubbed out by the vents, but the echo of the surge lingered in the walls. Every monitor above the subject’s bed still blinked red in jagged rhythm, too erratic to comfort, too steady to mean death.

The medic stripped her gloves off with sharp jerks, hands shaking. She had kept her composure during the storm, but now her face had gone bloodless. “He’s burning out,” she said, voice sharp, fast. “That wasn’t stability—that was a system overload. His body won’t hold if we keep pushing these cycles.”

The engineer didn’t even look up from his slate. He was already tagging readings, matching graphs against columns of code. “And yet,” he drawled, “he’s still alive. Which means his tolerance is broader than our previous models.”

The scientist leaned against the console, eyes glittering cold behind her lenses. “Every convulsion is a data point. Every spike proves we’re not at the ceiling yet. He hasn’t broken. That’s proof enough to continue.”

The medic snapped, slamming her palms against the console hard enough to make the displays rattle. “Proof? Proof of what? that he can suffer longer than we thought? This isn’t research, it’s dissection while the body’s still breathing.” Her voice cracked. “He begged. Do you even understand what that means? He knows what you’re doing to him.”

The engineer snorted. “A dying system makes noise. That’s all.”

“Noise?” Her voice rose, ragged with fury. “He’s a man, damn you! Not a set of numbers, not a resource in a box—”

“Enough.” Hale’s voice cut the air like a blade.

The medic froze, her breath coming too fast.

Hale stood at the end of the chamber, hands clasped behind his back, eyes on the monitors. The red lines flickered like a storm made visible, spikes and valleys painting a portrait of violence and endurance. His expression did not change.

“Document everything,” he said, voice level. “Expand the range next cycle. I want to know how deep the thresholds run.”

The medic swallowed hard. “Commander—”

“Your objection is noted,” Hale said, gaze never leaving the monitors. “It does not change the directive.”

The silence that followed was heavier than the alarms had been.

Engines ticked as they cooled, tarps flapped soft in the breeze. The crackle of the fire had dwindled to coals, red veins glowing against ash. Soldiers still patrolled at the perimeter, rifles glinting cold in the floodlights, their presence a wall the Aldecaldos could neither break nor ignore.

Panam sat on the edge of it all, where the dirt blurred into shadow. Her hands dug into the earth, nails filled with grit, the sting of it a reminder she was still flesh, still real. She hadn’t moved since the alarms stopped. Her eyes had never left the glow at the yard’s far edge, as if staring long enough might pierce the walls and bring her to him.

A shuffle of boots drew close. Lena lowered herself beside her, careful, quiet. She didn’t speak at first. Just leaned into Panam’s shoulder, trembling faintly, as if her body still carried the aftershock of what they’d seen.

Panam slipped an arm around her, pulling her in. Neither of them tried to hide the way they shook.

Lena’s voice came brittle, broken glass at the edges. “Every time it happens, I think it’s the moment he dies.” Her throat worked hard, swallowing grief she couldn’t contain. “And every time the alarms stop, I hate myself for hoping it means he’s still breathing.”

Panam’s chest cracked open. She pressed her forehead against Lena’s hair. “You’re not alone in that,” she whispered, her voice ragged. “Every time I hear it, I see him on that table. And all I can do is sit here, hands in the dirt, while they tear him apart.”

Lena’s tears spilled hot through Panam’s shirt. Her words tumbled raw, unstoppable. “Jace believed in you. He said you were fire. Said if he ever went down, he wanted to fall knowing you were still standing.” Her voice broke on his name. “He loved me. And he loved you, too—in the way only family can.”

Panam’s breath shuddered. Her arms tightened around Lena like she could shield them both from everything pressing in. “I loved him too,” she admitted, hoarse. “Not the way he loved you. But he was ours. Family. Brave, stupid, beautiful family. And I’ll be damned if I let his death mean nothing. If I let them take V too.”

Lena pulled back just enough to meet her eyes. Both were red, both shining with grief, but in the reflection Panam saw something else—recognition. Shared pain. Shared defiance.

Panam laced their hands together, fingers digging into the dirt. She turned her gaze back to the glow, jaw set, eyes fierce. “He’s still mine. Still ours. Not theirs. I don’t care what walls they’ve built or what machines they hide behind. I’ll tear them all down if I have to. Next time that glass falters, I’ll be there. Even if it kills me.”

Lena’s grip tightened, her voice a whisper carried on breath. “You won’t be alone.”

They sat in silence after that, shoulder to shoulder, grief braided with resolve. Above them, the rifles gleamed indifferent. Beyond them, the white glow hummed steady, a second moon cast in sterile light.

And in the dirt, sparks of a vow smoldered hotter than the coals.

They came for them without drama, the way StormTech always did. No sirens, no boots pounding, no barked orders — just a courier in slate-gray stepping into the yard, visor blank, voice clipped.

“Commander Hale. Now.”

Then he turned and walked. He didn’t need to check if they followed.

The Aldecaldos rose together. Panam at the front, Mitch steady at her shoulder, Carol close behind, Cassidy rolling out of his chair with a mutter under his breath, Dakota trailing like a shadow. They moved as a block, silent except for the crunch of boots on dirt.

The compound was no longer strange. They knew its corridors—the hum in the walls, the reek of disinfectant and ozone, the soldiers posted like fence posts at every corner. They had been marched through these halls enough times to memorize the rhythm: door sighs, scanner pings, rifles shifting as eyes followed them. Familiarity didn’t dull it. It only made the bile rise higher.

Cassidy muttered without moving his lips. “Every time I walk these halls, feels like I’m already in a coffin. Just waitin’ for ’em to put the lid on.”

“Keep it down,” Carol said, though it wasn’t sharp. Her eyes cut left and right, clocking every detail: the extra guards at this junction, the medic with her face pinched as she hurried past with a tray of slates, the faint stutter in the lights overhead. She kept cataloguing, not because it helped, but because she couldn’t not.

Mitch walked close enough to Panam that their shoulders almost brushed, jaw set tight. He looked like a man chewing glass, holding it in because spitting it out would cut worse.

Panam didn’t look at anyone. Her eyes locked on the long run of frosted glass they passed, the faint silhouettes flitting behind it: white coats moving with clinical haste, cables like vines sagging between towers of machines. Every now and then a shadow jerked, human-shaped, strapped. She didn’t hear him, couldn’t hear him, but her bones knew it was V. Her fists clenched until her palms burned. She didn’t slow her stride.

The courier brought them to Hale’s office. No awe there either. They’d been in this room before, seen the same glass walls, the desert framed like a map below, the sterile compound plotted in hard white lines. They knew the ritual: Hale would face the glass, make them wait, then turn.

He didn’t offer seats. He never did.

Hale paced a step, eyes cutting to the display panels along the wall — graphs flickering, biometrics rendered in neat red peaks. “You want the truth,” he said. “Then listen. The dampening field holds him at threshold. Below it, the entity inside him gains leverage. Above it, the host collapses. Threshold is the only place he survives.”

Cassidy growled low. “That ain’t survival. That’s keepin’ a man strapped on the edge so you can write notes.”

Hale’s gaze cut back. “It’s where survivability and data intersect.”

Carol stepped in, tone firm but even. “Threshold buys time. But it isn’t enough. You know it. We all do.”

“Correct.” Hale’s tone was calm, precise. “Threshold is not sustainable.” He let the pause drag long enough that their hearts had to stutter. “Because your V is not simply a man with a parasite. He is an engram fused into flesh. Alt Cunningham’s intervention ensured that much. What remains of him is code housed in meat and code rots under dampening as fast as muscle does.”

The room froze.

Panam blinked once, hard, as if her mind rejected the words before her body could. “No.”

Mitch’s throat worked. “Say that again.”

Hale did, with clinical detachment. “He is his own construct. An engram running on biological substrate. Every second we hold the field, we keep the AI suppressed—but we suppress him as well. The decay you’ve seen is not incidental. It is the consequence of what he is.”

Cassidy swore under his breath, raw and vicious. Carol’s hand caught Panam’s elbow, steadying her before she lunged. Dakota’s lashes lowered, then rose.

Panam’s voice was shredded when it came. “You’re lying. He’s flesh. He’s mine.”

Hale considered her like a man studying a crack in glass. “He’s both. And neither. That’s why he matters. That’s why he endures where no other host has.”

The chief medic stepped into view from the anteroom, slate hugged tight against her chest, eyes rimmed red. She didn’t speak, but her presence was enough to tell the Aldecaldos this wasn’t just Hale’s cruelty—it was truth.

Panam shook, words tearing out before she could stop them. “You keep him in there another second without me at his side and you’ll see what happens when I stop asking.”

Hale regarded her calmly, as if cataloguing her fury was part of the record. “I’ve already accounted for you,” he said.

Behind them, soldiers shifted in the doorway, rifles angled.

Mitch’s shoulder brushed Panam’s, grounding her. Carol’s palm pressed her arm, low and firm. Cassidy’s jaw flexed. Dakota’s gaze flicked to the medic, small and sharp as a blade: cracks existed.

Hale turned back to the glass, voice quiet but final. “You wanted an update. You have it.”

The doors whispered shut behind them, sealing Hale back in his glass fortress. The corridor hummed with recycled air and buzzing lights, but no one spoke at first. Their boots clapped on the polished floor, too loud in the hush, brittle like glass under strain.

It was Cassidy who cracked it.

“Engram,” he spat, word sour in his mouth. “That’s what he called him. Said our boy ain’t even flesh anymore. Just code wearin’ skin.” He shook his head, fists flexing and unclenching. “That’s their trick. Corpos change the words till a man ain’t a man no more, just a thing. Makes it easier to carve him open.”

Mitch’s jaw flexed. “Might not be just words.” His voice was low, reluctant. “We’ve all seen how he glitches. The way his eyes go distant. What he did in that facility. I don’t like Hale’s mouth, but I can’t say the math don’t fit.”

Cassidy rounded on him. “So what, you just swallow it? Let them make him less so they can strap him tighter?”

Carol cut in, sharp enough to still both. “That’s what he wanted. Hale said it that way to shake us. To make us doubt. Don’t give him more than he’s already got.” She stopped walking, pulling them into a knot in the hall, her eyes flicking to the guards down the way. “V is still V. Code or flesh doesn’t matter. He’s ours.”

Panam’s breath hitched. Her voice came out rough, raw. “He’s mine. I don’t care what they say he is. Engram, ghost, code—I know his hands, I know his eyes. That’s not math. That’s not theirs.”

They walked in silence until they hit the outer doors. Cold night washed over them, sharp with dust and diesel. For the first time in hours, the smell of earth smothered the antiseptic stench. The rigs clustered under floodlights, shadows stretched long, the Aldecaldo fire flickering too small against the sterile yard.

Panam sat by the fire, elbows on her knees, eyes locked on the white glow across the yard. “We made a vow. Next time the wall falters, we move. That hasn’t changed.”

Cassidy’s head jerked, sharp. “Damn right.”

Carol poked the fire until sparks hissed upward. “And if the wall doesn’t falter? If they hold him there until he breaks?”

Panam turned, her face carved sharp by firelight. “Then we break it ourselves. I won’t wait for them to tell me when I get to fight for him.”

Silence held the circle. Sparks rose, flared, and vanished into the night.

Lena drifted into the firelight then, quiet as the dust, and sat beside Panam. She didn’t say a word—just pressed her shoulder to hers. The gesture alone was answer enough.

Above them, StormTech’s lights burned like a second moon, cold and indifferent to the vows smoldering in the dirt.

The fire burned low, down to coals and long fingers of ash. One by one the others drifted off: Cassidy muttering as he stalked toward the rigs, Mitch staying just long enough to squeeze Panam’s shoulder before he too walked into the dark. Only Lena lingered a moment longer, pressing close before slipping away with a look that asked nothing and offered everything.

Panam stayed. She couldn’t move. Her body sat rigid on the crate, hands locked between her knees, eyes fixed on the embers. She told herself it was the cold pinning her, the ache in her bones after days with no real rest. But it wasn’t.

It was the word still ringing in her skull.

Engram.

She could still hear Hale’s voice, smooth and flat, delivering it like a number. Not a name, not a man—just code in meat. She hated him for saying it, but worse was the needle it left behind.

Had V known?

Her mind kept circling back. Had he felt it in his bones, in his breath? Was that why he pulled away some nights, why his eyes had gone hollow like he was listening to something she couldn’t hear? And if he knew why didn’t he tell her?

The questions chewed through her, gnawing at the steadiness she had built out of grit and fury. She thought she understood what he carried, thought she had braced for all of it—the seizures, the whispers, the way the Relic scraped at him. But this? That he wasn’t only V, wasn’t only flesh, but something layered and rewired, something part ghost. It twisted everything. It didn’t make her love him less. God, no. It made her clutch at him harder. But it cracked her certainty.

Because if he was more code than man, if he was already halfway gone… what did that make their love? What did it make her promise to drag him back every time?

Her throat tightened, raw. She pressed a fist against her mouth, eyes stinging. She hated herself for even letting the thought in, but it was there: maybe he hadn’t told her because even he didn’t believe it anymore.

The night hummed with distant engines, StormTech’s compound alive with its own steady breath. She lifted her gaze at last, toward the sterile glow of containment across the yard. White light burned there, flat and merciless. Somewhere inside that cage, he was alive—flesh, code, engram, whatever the word. Alive. And hers.

Her jaw set, teeth grinding until the ache in her temples steadied her. She leaned forward, elbows braced on her knees, eyes hard on the glow.

“I don’t care what you are,” she whispered, voice shaking but fierce. “I don’t care what word they use. You’re mine. You’re family. And I will tear this whole place down before I let them write the end of you.”

Her breath came rough, almost a sob, but she pressed it down, shoved it into the dirt like a stake. The vow sat heavy in her chest, cutting her lungs with every beat.

The fire cracked, a coal collapsing in on itself. Sparks jumped, flared, and died against the night.

Panam didn’t move. She stared at the glow until her eyes burned, until the word lost its shape in her head. Engram, man, ghost, code—none of it mattered. Only him. Only V.

And the promise that next time, she would be there.

She stayed long after the others had drifted away, long after the fire had collapsed into a low bed of ash. The night pressed cold against her back, sharp and thin, and she was about to rise—about to pace herself into exhaustion—when it happened.

At the far edge of the yard, the frosted pane of containment rippled. Not much. Not enough for anyone else to notice. A tremor, quick as a shiver under skin. Then a vein of red crawled across the surface and stilled, as if something inside had pressed against the glass and withdrawn.

Panam’s breath caught, locked behind her teeth. For half a second she tried to tell herself it was a trick of the lights, or the systems cycling—but she knew better. She felt it in her chest, the way she had felt him before: a pull, a presence, however faint.

Then it was gone. The pane smoothed to its usual dead frost, the yard hummed with its ordinary, suffocating silence, and the soldiers on the perimeter never twitched.

But she had seen it.

She lowered her head into her hands, fingers knotting in her hair, and let the vow harden in her chest until it ached. When the wall cracks—no matter how small, no matter the cost—she would be there. Whatever lived behind that glass, whatever still reached back, it was his. It was V. And she would meet it.

Chapter Text

The straps gnawed into his wrists like they’d grown teeth. Each breath dragged ragged through the mask clamped over his mouth and nose, reeking faint of antiseptic and copper. He had gotten used to the rhythm—the constant hum of dampeners holding him in that twilight state between seizure and stillness, neither alive nor dead but hovering on the line. StormTech called it threshold. To V, it felt like drowning in shallow water.

But tonight something was wrong.

The hum stuttered. A dip, just half a second, maybe less—but it was there. Pressure loosened. Air filled his lungs, not recycled through a machine but his. His chest swelled, ribs aching with the weight of it, and for that moment he was himself. No static in his skull, no red haze clawing his vision. Just V.

Then the field snapped back, brutal as a whip. His body arched against the restraints, teeth clenching, vision going white at the edges.

The next dip came slower, longer. Another breath, stolen back.

It happened again. And again.

Not mercy. Sabotage. Someone on the outside was cutting the current, just enough to let him breathe, just enough to throw the system off rhythm. It didn’t make him safe—if anything it made the machine unstable, like walking a wire over a pit—but it gave him something StormTech had stripped away: the memory of his own pulse.

And that was when it stirred.

Not a scream. Not the ravenous surge that had turned his body into a butcher’s blade in the compound halls. Just a voice sliding into the cracks between heartbeats, cool, patient, wrong.

You feel it. Don’t pretend.

His jaw locked until it hurt. “Shut up.”

The burn weakens. The chain slips. And in those breaths you stand. Because we stand. We are not enemies here. We are function. Linked. Two halves of the same sum.

“You slaughtered them.” His voice rasped, low, raw against the mask. “You cut through people like they were meat for salvage. Don’t dress it up now.”

Noise, it whispered. They were noise. This is signal. Survival is clean math. You thrash alone—you burn out. You align with us—you endure.

The words slithered through him. He wanted to spit them back, to smother them under fury. But even in rage he couldn’t ignore the pattern: when the field dipped, when air surged back into his chest, he felt it too—stretching with him, pulling the same breath. When the dampeners snapped, both of them buckled.

It hated the cage as much as he did.

His stomach turned with the realization, nausea clawing at his ribs. He wanted to tear himself apart just to keep it from sharing that pulse. But another thought wormed in, vile but undeniable: if they both wanted out, maybe that was leverage.

The hum faltered again, longer this time. He clenched his fists until the restraints cut skin, felt blood bead hot on his wrists. For a heartbeat he thought he could rise, could shatter glass, could tear through every wall between him and the desert air.

The voice pressed closer, almost gentle.

You want control? Then take it. With us. Not as ours. Not as yours. As both. Or keep choking on principle until she buries you.

Panam’s face broke across his mind like lightning—dust clinging to her cheek, hair whipped by wind, eyes burning as she told him he wouldn’t go alone. His throat closed. He tried to push it away, to keep her safe from this thing, but her voice was the only anchor left.

She will grieve you either way, it whispered. Difference is whether she grieves a fighter, or a man who refused the tools in his hand.

His chest heaved. The hum snapped back harder than before, the restraints rattling as if they’d been struck from the inside. He cried out, raw and hoarse, the sound ripping itself free. Lights on the overhead rig shivered red, then steadied white.

“Not yours,” he rasped, every syllable torn from blood. “Never yours.”

Silence stretched. Then—soft, like silk pulled over wire—

Not ours. Not yours. Both. You hate us. We feed on you. That is balance. We fight alone, we burn. We fight together… we break the glass.

His fingers twitched once, sharp, betraying him.

He squeezed his eyes shut, but the rhythm was there now, a drumbeat he couldn’t deny: dip, rise, breath, surge—two lungs pulling in the same ragged air.

And somewhere beyond the frost and steel, he swore he heard the faintest groan of walls under strain.

The yard felt different at night. The fire hissed low, more smoke than flame, and the floodlights above threw everything into hard-edged shadows that made the rigs look skeletal. Every few minutes boots clapped across concrete or a vehicle coughed awake, StormTech’s rhythm rolling on like a factory that didn’t know how to rest.

The Aldecaldos sat close to their fire, not for warmth but for solidarity. Cassidy tilted his chair back on two legs, hat brim low, muttering curses at the dirt like he was spitting them at the boots marching beyond the fence. Carol crouched by the flames, stick in hand, poking coals down until sparks hissed up into the cold. Mitch had been silent for so long the quiet felt heavy on his shoulders; his eyes kept tracking the perimeter, jaw grinding. Dakota drew slow, looping lines in the dirt with her fingertip, tracing shapes no one could quite read.

Panam didn’t move at all. She sat rigid, eyes fixed on the white block of containment across the yard. From this distance it looked like a sterile moon planted in dirt, glowing steady, unblinking. She stared at it until her eyes ached, as if she could burn through the walls with willpower alone.

The silence broke with quick, uneven steps. Not the flat clap of StormTech boots, but something lighter, rushed.

The chief medic slipped out of the compound’s glow, coat drawn tight, slate hugged close to her chest. She paused halfway to the fire, scanning the yard. Her breath fogged in sharp bursts. Even from a distance Panam could see her hesitation—like every step forward was a coin flip between courage and fear.

Carol rose halfway, suspicion etched into her face. “You shouldn’t be here.”

The medic flinched but didn’t stop. She came closer, eyes wide, glancing back over her shoulder as if expecting soldiers to burst from the shadows. “I know.” Her voice cracked sharp with urgency. “I have only a minute.”

Panam was on her feet before she knew it, fists balled. “What did you do to him?”

The medic froze, then shook her head. “I did what I could to stop them from breaking him.” Her voice dropped to a fierce whisper. “I cut the dampeners back. It gave him reprieve: breath, seconds where he wasn’t being crushed. But it made the system unstable. It won’t hold. When it falters again—” Her eyes swept the circle, settling on Mitch, then Panam. “—be ready.”

Cassidy’s chair slammed down on all fours. “Why the hell tell us? You’re riskin’ your skin just standing here. Corpos don’t do charity.”

The medic’s hands shook where they clutched the slate. “Because he’s not data. Not numbers on a graph. You think I don’t hear him? Even strapped down, half-suffocated, he fights. Every second he fights.” Her voice broke, tears brimming, though she forced them back. “If I let them grind him down piece by piece, I’ll have buried him myself. I can’t do that anymore.”

Silence pooled heavy.

Mitch leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on her. “You’re telling us the truth?”

“I’m telling you more than Hale ever will.” She swallowed, lips trembling. “He calls it threshold. He calls it math. But what I saw today—your V is more alive than their machines want to admit. That’s why he scares them. That’s why they’ll push harder. Too hard. And when it snaps, it won’t be clean.”

Panam’s throat closed. “Then let me in there,” she hissed. “Let me see him. Let me—”

“You can’t.” The medic cut her off, sharp. “If they catch me here, if they even suspect I bent the readings, I’m finished. You’ll lose the only one trying to hold the line inside.”

Cassidy cursed under his breath, hat brim shadowing his eyes. Carol’s hand twitched at her side, half a gesture of comfort, half restraint to keep Panam from lunging closer.

The medic backed a step, glancing over her shoulder. Guards moved in the glow of the compound, shadows stretching long. “I have to go. If they see me here—”

Carol’s voice came quick. “Then go. Now.”

The medic nodded, then looked once more at Panam, gaze raw, unguarded. “He’s still fighting. Don’t waste it.”

Then she turned and vanished into the floodlit dark.

For a long beat, no one moved. The fire crackled, the rigs ticked, and the yard buzzed on with its mechanical hum.

Mitch broke the silence, voice low and rough. “That wasn’t just a warning. That was an opening.”

Cassidy spat into the dirt. “Damn right it was. And I’ll be ready when it cracks.”

Carol’s hand tightened on her stick until the wood splintered. “Then we need to be sharper. One shot at this, and if we blow it—”

Dakota looked up from the lines she’d drawn in the dirt, her voice soft, eerie. “Storms break walls. Not all at once. But they break.”

Panam’s fists trembled at her sides, nails biting into her palms until she drew blood. She could still see the medic’s eyes—fear and conviction tangled together. Her chest heaved. This was it. Not someday. Not Hale’s terms. Soon.

Her gaze locked on the white glow of containment, and the vow burned hot in her ribs.

Next time the wall falters, I’m coming through.

The straps had become part of him. They gnawed into his wrists like steel jaws, edges ground raw where flesh met metal. His ankles were no better—skin rubbed open, bone pressed into steel. He had long since stopped pulling. The dampeners thrummed, constant as a heartbeat, grinding him down into that twilight state StormTech called threshold. To V, it was neither living nor dying. It was drowning in shallow water—lungs burning, body twitching in convulsions too small to matter, brain caught on the edge of blackout but never allowed to fall.

The hum faltered.

Not long—half a second, maybe less—but to a man who measured existence in vibrations, it was deafening. A hole in the fabric of control.

See it, the voice whispered. The AI’s tone slid sharp as broken glass inside his skull. Weakness. Breach. Together, we survive.

His temples throbbed. Pain tunneled down his spine, every nerve jangling. The inhibitor had gnawed at him, scraped memory into confetti. He no longer knew how long he had been under its leash—days, weeks, hours—it all bled together, time chewed to pulp. Panam’s face slipped into static. Johnny’s smirk, Jackie’s booming laugh—bright one moment, ash the next.

No. His teeth ground until sparks of pain shot across his jaw. Not your way. Mine.

The air shimmered. A flicker—half-formed, glitch-fractured. Johnny lounged against the steel wall, cigarette between two fingers, glow stuttering like a dying neon sign.
“About fuckin’ time,” Johnny muttered, and then his face split into static, tearing down the middle like bad signal.

Jackie came next—warmer, steadier, but no less broken. His voice skipped like a scratched vinyl: “Keep… movin’, mano. Don’t… let it take more.” The edges of his form bled pixels before vanishing altogether.

The hum stuttered again.

V inhaled, chest rattling—and rose.

The clasps tore like paper. Steel shrieked, bent, then snapped as his arms spread wide. His ankles followed, cuffs screaming before they gave. The mask split free, hoses whipping as they tore loose from sockets. He stood, slow, deliberate, blood dripping from raw wrists. The table groaned under the shift of weight, then fell silent, empty.

The alarms detonated.

Klaxons shrieked from every corner, red strobes bursting like arterial spray across the lab. Bulkhead doors slammed shut in cascading sequence, corridors cinching in steel collars. The floor vibrated under him, a fortress clamping down on itself.

The lab dissolved into chaos.

A tray of scalpels crashed to tile, instruments scattering in a metallic rain. One tech slipped, hands shredding on blades as he crawled away, leaving bloody prints across the floor. Another shrieked as a rack of vials toppled, glass exploding into neon-blue puddles that hissed and smoked where they touched drains. Antiseptic and ozone thickened the air, sharp enough to burn the nose.

“Containment breach!” the scientist screamed, hammering at his console. His glasses fogged, his fingers jittering across keys, sweat pouring down his temple. Monitors bled scarlet error code.

The engineer didn’t even look back. He bolted for the door, white coat snapping behind him like surrender. “We’re compromised! I’m not dying here!” His voice cracked, breaking high as he shoved past a younger tech, knocking him sprawling into the corner.

The rest fractured like glass. One fumbled a shock baton, its weak crackle buzzing useless against his tremor. Another dropped his datapad, the screen clattering across tile before it shattered. Two froze entirely, caught in V’s shadow as he stepped from the table—bare feet wet on tile, gaunt frame drenched in red strobe.

His reflection shimmered in the observation glass above—pale, hollow-eyed, red lattice faintly pulsing in his pupils, ember-glow keeping time with the alarms.

Control, the AI urged, silk on blades. Direction.

Blood filled his mouth where his teeth had bitten down. He whispered it aloud, voice ragged but steady: “My way.”

He took his first step, and the room dissolved into screams.

The first step rattled the tile. His bare heel left a smear of blood, toes flexing against the floor. Red light strobed in time with the klaxons, every flash carving his shadow long across the wall, twitching in angles the human body shouldn’t make.

The techs closest to him bolted. One shrieked as his shoulder caught a rack of instruments, sending a rain of scalpels and bone saws cascading onto the floor. Another shoved a colleague aside so hard the man slammed into the console, monitors bursting into static. The scientist clawed at his datapad, hands shaking, shouting coordinates into his comm.

“Security to Sector C! Breach, containment compromised—”

V’s gaze slid to him.

The man froze mid-word, lips still forming syllables.

V moved.

Not a sprint. Not even a rush. Just one step forward, then another, too fast to track but never hurried. His hand snapped out, caught the scientist by the collar, and slammed him into the console. Screens spiderwebbed, error code vomiting across displays. The man slid to the floor in a heap, breath coming in ragged gasps. Not dead. Not yet.

Blood welled in V’s throat and he hacked, spitting crimson onto the tiles. More seeped from his nose, thin streams trickling over his lips. His ears rang until the sound thickened and warm liquid spilled down his neck. Every use of the AI’s borrowed fire burned him from the inside out.

The tech with the shock baton raised it high, grip trembling. “S-stay back!”

V tilted his head, eyes catching the pulse of the weapon. A faint lattice flickered along the baton’s metal, red against blue.

Weapon, the AI whispered, clinical. Vector neutralization required.

“Yeah,” Johnny’s voice cut in, ragged static flickering over his words. “Neutralize the poor bastard before he pisses himself.”

Jackie flickered beside him—half a frame behind, voice lagging: “Don’t… kill him. Not… worth it.”

V stepped in. His hand shot forward, palm striking the baton. The weapon sparked, fizzled, then flew from the tech’s grip, skittering across the floor. V’s other hand came up, open-palmed, striking the man’s chest. The impact sent him sailing back into the glass wall hard enough to crack it. He slid down, eyes rolling, breath shallow but steady.

V staggered, one knee nearly buckling. Pain flared in his skull, vision pulsing white. His nose bled harder, the taste of copper thick on his tongue. He swayed, coughed again, spitting more blood onto the floor.

Weakness, the AI hissed. You falter. I can—

“No,” V rasped, voice wet, throat raw. “You don’t touch the wheel.”

Another group spilled in through the side door—two guards in StormTech’s matte-black gear, rifles up, safeties off. Their boots pounded in unison, visors lit with HUD glow.

“Hands on the ground!” one barked, voice amplified through the helmet.

V’s lips peeled back, more grimace than grin. Blood trickled down his chin.

Red flickered faint along the walls, lattice crawling like veins under glass. The guards saw it. Hesitated. That was enough.

He blurred forward.

The first guard’s rifle bucked, muzzle flash strobing the hall. Bullets sliced air where V had been a frame earlier. V twisted, shoulders folding, body moving in a line that physics shouldn’t allow. His hand closed on the barrel, twisted, and the weapon bent with a scream of tortured steel. His elbow cracked into the man’s visor, spiderwebbing glass before the guard collapsed.

The second guard swung wide, panicked burst fire shredding the consoles behind V. He stepped into the storm, angles shifting, bullets cutting past harmless. His hand snaked out, fingers locking around the man’s throat. He lifted him, boots kicking air, then slammed him down across the console with bone-snapping force. The man groaned once, unconscious.

V’s breath hitched, ragged, rattling in his chest. He coughed again, more blood spattering the floor at his feet. His ears bled steadily now, dark streaks dripping down his jawline. He swayed, catching himself against the console, vision fogged by pain.

Johnny flickered in, one eye static, voice torn: “You’re burning hot, kid. Can’t keep this pace.”

Jackie overlapped, stuttering: “Slow… down. Don’t… break yourself.”

He dragged air into his lungs, chest heaving. “Can’t stop.”

His path carried him into the corridor. The facility screamed around him—sirens, shouting, boots pounding on steel. Red strobes painted everything raw. Doors slammed shut as security protocols tried to cage him again, but he kept moving, slipping through thresholds before they sealed, bending one with his bare hands when it tried to cut him off.

Everywhere he went, panic bloomed. Techs ran with datapads clutched to their chests, shouting to each other. Security scrambled, their lines collapsing as one after another went down—some unconscious, some too terrified to fire when they saw the red gleam in his eyes.

Fear, the AI noted, flat. Utility.

V shoved it back into silence.

He left a trail—not of corpses, but of aftermath. Broken rifles. Bent steel. Cracked visors. Unconscious bodies groaning on the floor. His wrath was precise, his control absolute. The only thing spilling was his own blood, spattered on tile, dripping from his nose and ears, painting his path as clearly as any wound.

Outside, in the yard, the Aldecaldos saw the base convulse. Sirens cut across the desert night, floodlights swiveling, guard posts flaring alive. Doors slammed, alarms echoing.

Carol’s jaw clenched. “Lockdown.”

Mitch checked his weapon, scanning the perimeter. “That’s the signal.”

Panam was already moving, rifle slung, voice iron. “We don’t ask questions. We move now.”

Cassidy pulled his hat low against the glare. “About damn time.”

Thompson raised his hand, rallying the rest of the Aldecaldos. “We hold the yard. No one through unless they’re ours.” His voice cut through the chaos as the others fell into position, ready to buy the strike team time.

The four broke away — Panam, Mitch, Cassidy, and Carol — slipping through a blast door before it finished sealing. The steel slammed shut behind them with a boom that rattled Panam’s chest.

Inside smelled of bleach and ozone. The red strobes painted everything in violent flashes — one moment shadow, the next moment bloodlight. The corridor twisted ahead, walls smooth and sterile, floors slick with bootprints and the first smears of blood.

Panam’s pulse hammered in her throat. She swallowed hard, tasted copper, and realized she was biting the inside of her cheek. She kept her rifle forward, finger brushing the trigger guard, but her thoughts raced ahead of her boots.

He’s alive. He has to be. He’s fighting. This is the signal. It’s him.

Every instinct screamed yes — but another voice whispered no. What if this chaos was the Relic’s doing? What if StormTech’s leash snapped and the thing inside him was loose again? What if she was chasing a ghost already gone?

Her chest tightened. She pushed the thought away with fury. No. Not this time. I’m bringing him home.

The corridor angled left, lights flickering above. A guard scrambled into view, helmet visor wide with panic, weapon half-raised. Mitch dropped him with a controlled burst before he could aim. The man spun and clattered to the tile.

Panam stepped over him, rifle steady, and kept moving. Her boots echoed on steel in rhythm with her heartbeat. Every corner screamed ambush, every sealed door whispered V’s name.

Cassidy’s voice cut low behind her. “Hell of a trail he’s leavin’. That’s him, Panam. Has to be.”

She didn’t answer. Her throat locked.

Another junction — more wreckage. A console blown out, screens cracked and bleeding error text. A security officer slumped against the wall, armor dented in at the chestplate, visor spiderwebbed from a single massive blow. Still breathing, but barely.

Carol crouched a moment, fingers hovering over the man’s pulse. “Not dead,” she muttered, eyes narrowing at the caved-in armor. She glanced up, voice low, wary. “Is… is that him?”

The question hung like smoke.

Panam’s breath caught in her throat. Relief flared, then dread slammed in after it, twisting into one knot that left her chest tight. She forced herself forward, boots quick over the blood-slick tile, rifle raised. It has to be him. It has to.

They pressed deeper. The air grew thicker — blood, ozone, sweat, the tang of panic clinging to every surface. Sirens still screamed, but deeper now, muffled under walls and distance. Somewhere, doors were slamming still, the fortress swallowing itself whole.

Panam forced her thoughts back to V. To his voice. To his arms around her. To the way he’d promised her once, in the desert, that he wasn’t going anywhere. She clung to that memory like armor.

Hold on, V. I’m coming. I don’t care what they’ve done to you. I don’t care how far gone they think you are. You’re mine. You’re family. I will drag you back if I have to tear this place down brick by brick.

The corridor opened into the chamber where he’d been held.

The sight froze her mid-step.

The table sat in the center, straps torn like paper, metal twisted beyond recognition. Blood smeared across steel and pooled beneath, bright even under the strobing light. Instruments littered the floor, shards of glass glinting. The observation console was cracked, its surface slick with another man’s blood.

Empty.

“He’s gone,” Carol whispered, voice low as prayer.

Panam moved forward slow, rifle dipping. She touched the edge of the table where his wrist had been bound, fingers brushing the torn metal. Warm blood smeared her glove.

“Not gone,” she said, voice tight. She pressed her hand flat against the mark, closing her eyes for a heartbeat. “Moving.”

She opened them again and the fire was back.

“Come on. Follow.”

They quickened their pace, boots striking hard. The trail was there — groaning guards, smashed rifles, bent steel. A path cut straight through StormTech’s gut. And Panam followed it like a lifeline, heart hammering, every step dragging her closer to the man she had sworn she would never lose again.

V moved forward, barefoot prints streaking crimson across the spotless floor. His hand shook, raised, lattice flickering faint under his skin. Each breath rattled like glass in his lungs, each exhale another spray of blood across Hale’s perfect office.

Hale sat unmoving, hands folded, ledger calm. He tilted his chin slightly, eyes tracking V like a specimen in its final throes.

V bared his teeth. Fury cracked through his voice, gravel wrapped in fire.
“You took it all from me. You stripped me down, tore out my humanity. You stole who I was—my memories, my life. I’m not a man to you, I’m just a fucking file!”

The doors slammed open.

“V!”

Panam’s voice cut through like a blade. Mitch, Cassidy, and Carol poured in behind her, rifles raised, eyes snapping across the carnage. They froze at the sight: V looming over Hale’s desk, blood dripping down his chest, bare feet sliding in crimson streaks.

Panam’s heart seized at his words. Took his humanity. Stole who he was. The rawness made her chest ache — he wasn’t just furious, he was unraveling.

“V—” she called, but he staggered.

His chest hitched. He coughed hard, a spray of blood splattering Hale’s pristine desk. His knees buckled. Another fit wracked him, crimson spilling from his mouth, nose, ears. He groaned, one hand slamming onto the desk to keep from collapsing entirely.

His mind fractured.

Panam’s face — a blur, her eyes sharp, her hair dark against desert wind. Her name… Panam? Static swallowed the rest.
Jackie — a grin, a hand on his shoulder, voice warm: “C’mon, mano—” cut into broken syllables.
Johnny — guitar strings snarling into silence, his smirk sliced in half by static.
The clan — firelight on faces, laughter under stars, Mitch humming a tune, Cassidy pouring whiskey, Carol rolling her eyes with fondness.
All of it flickered like corrupted video, frames dropping, sound stuttering.

They hollowed me out. They left nothing.

His knees hit the floor. Blood dripped from his chin onto his thighs, down onto his bare feet, mixing with the prints he had left behind. He shook, coughing until another mouthful of red hit the floor. His voice rasped, guttural, breaking:

“I… don’t even know who I am anymore.”

“V!” Panam dropped her rifle, sprinting to him. She fell to her knees, arms sliding under his shoulders just as his weight sagged. She clutched him tight, gloves smearing red across his chest. “I’ve got you. It’s me. It’s Panam.”

He lifted his head, eyes flickering lattice-red, face pale and blood-streaked. He looked at her — and the look gutted her. Recognition sparked there, but faint, fragile, like the ghost of a memory. He stared as though she were a file half-corrupted: he knew the name, but the shape was gone.

Her throat clenched. She pulled him tighter, pressed her forehead against his temple. “Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare forget me. You’re mine, V. You’re family. I’ll drag you back even if I have to tear the world apart.”

His lips parted. A sound trembled there — her name — but it broke into static before he could form it.

Behind them, Hale laughed.

The sound was quiet, almost polite, but it carried in the ruined office like a blade against glass.

“How tragic,” he murmured, wiping V’s blood from his desk with a white cloth. His tone was smooth, unshaken. “The mighty survivor, reduced to half a memory. The man torn out of you and nothing left but the anomaly.”

Panam’s head snapped up, eyes burning, voice like a gunshot: “What did you do to him?”

Hale met her glare, smirk faint but deliberate. “Why ask questions you already know the answer to? He’s defective. Weeks at most before the system burns through him. I don’t need the experiment anymore. All that matters is the data. That stays mine. That’s the bargain.”

V groaned, his voice wet and raw against Panam’s shoulder. “Fuck… you.”

Hale leaned forward slightly, hands still folded, eyes sharp as knives. “You want to live, V? Then stop wasting what’s left on rage. I can point you to the only ones who might give you back what they stole. But my data stays. Every line of it.”

Panam’s jaw locked, teeth grinding. “Who.”

Hale’s smile thinned, cold. “Technomancers.”

The word struck the room like static.

Cassidy’s hand twitched on his revolver. “Shit.” His drawl was tight, humorless.

Mitch shook his head hard. “That’s a story. Nothing more.”

Hale’s eyes glinted, cool, certain. “Not a story. The only ones who can untangle what’s killing him. The only ones who might return what he’s lost.”

He reached into his desk drawer with calm precision, pulled a shard, and set it gently on the blood-smeared glass. The crimson spread beneath it like ink, seeping around the edges.

“Your contact,” Hale said. “Coordinates. Threads. The only door left to knock on. My data stays, or this stays locked.”

V shuddered in Panam’s arms, blood dripping steady down his chin. His voice cracked but carried, desperate: “Technomancers…”

Panam held him tighter, anchored his head against her shoulder, her glare locked on Hale with fire. Her voice came out low, steady, iron-hard. “You’ll tell us everything. And if you lie — if this shard is anything less than real — I’ll let him finish what he started.”

Hale dabbed blood from his cuff, calm as if he were in a boardroom. “Time is currency. Spend yours wisely.”

V’s eyes fluttered. For a moment they drifted, unfocused. Then he looked at Panam again — and the spark in his gaze was brighter. Shaky, fractured, but hers. His lips trembled. “Panam…”

Her throat tightened, tears burning behind her eyes. Relief hit her chest like a hammer, jagged and painful, but it was enough. She crushed him closer, refusing to let him slip again.

The alarms still wailed, but inside Hale’s office the gravity was fixed: V bleeding out, mind breaking, Panam holding him together with her love, Hale bargaining for survival with a shard laid in blood, and the word Technomancers hanging over them all like a storm waiting to break.

Chapter Text

The shard lay on the desk, its black glass edge rimmed in red. Blood had seeped into the grooves where circuitry met chrome, as if the device itself had been baptized in what StormTech had stolen.

Panam reached across the desk with one trembling hand and closed her glove around it. The shard was warm, slick, sticky with V’s blood. She slipped it into her pocket without breaking Hale’s gaze.

Hale didn’t flinch. He dabbed at his cuff with a handkerchief, folding the cloth with neat precision, his expression as fixed as ledger stone. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and even, predatory in its calm.

“You should leave. Now.”

Panam’s jaw clenched. Fury burned hot enough to choke her throat. She wanted to shoot him where he sat, to watch that calm crack, to give him back the fear he deserved. But the weight sagging against her shoulder was heavier than revenge.

“You’ll be seeing me again,” Hale said, eyes narrowing with quiet certainty. “Sooner than you think.”

His voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to. The words carried like inevitability.

Panam ground her teeth, pulling V tighter against her side. Blood smeared across her jacket where his head pressed into her shoulder. His body trembled, breaths ragged, lips twitching around words that broke apart before reaching air. She didn’t answer Hale. She couldn’t waste the seconds.

“Move!” Mitch’s voice snapped from the doorway, sharp and clipped. He was already there, sliding his arm under V’s other shoulder. Together, they bore his weight, dragging him from Hale’s glass sanctum into the ruin of the corridor.

Cassidy fell in behind them, revolver steady in one hand, the other keeping the door covered. Carol swept corners, her rifle snapping in arcs, teeth bared like she’d gladly put a bullet through anyone still standing.

The hall was chaos frozen in red strobes. Sirens screamed overhead, but no guards came. No techs. Only unconscious bodies, shattered panels, bent steel—the trail V had carved. Their boots echoed on tile. Between them, V’s bare feet dragged, toes smearing arcs of blood across the floor.

“Stay with me, V,” Panam muttered, her voice fierce in his ear though her chest was tight enough to crack. “You hear me? Stay with me.”

His head lolled. A cough rattled through him, splattering blood across her shoulder. His lips moved, but all that came out was static—a broken murmur, a syllable half-formed, swallowed by the alarms.

Her stomach twisted, panic clawing at her chest. Hold him. Hold him together. Don’t let him slip.

“C’mon, brother,” Mitch grunted, adjusting his grip, his own face pale but steady. “Just a little farther.”

They shoved through the last door and into the yard.

The desert night hit like a slap—harsh floodlights cutting across the compound, sirens wailing into the open air. Engines already roared. Thompson had the clan moving with military speed, his voice barking orders above the din.

“Load it! Pack it up, now! We’re gone in sixty!”

Nomads scrambled in every direction. Gear slammed into truck beds. Tarps ripped across loads. Rifles snapped into place. Tires squealed against cracked asphalt. The Aldecaldos moved like a single organism, panic and precision welded together.

Panam and Mitch dragged V through the chaos. His weight bore down harder with each step. His feet dragged, leaving smeared trails behind them, the prints filling with dust as the desert wind cut through.

Panam’s heart raced so hard she thought it might split her ribs. Her arms ached with the strain of carrying him, but she wouldn’t let go. Couldn’t. Don’t you leave me. Don’t you dare leave me like this.

V groaned low, his eyes half-lidded. For a moment they focused, lattice flickering faint in the red of his pupils. He looked at her—recognition, just for a heartbeat. Her heart leapt.

“Panam…” he whispered. The word was raw, broken, almost lost under the noise.

Her chest clenched so hard she nearly dropped him. She forced her voice steady, fierce. “I’ve got you. I’m right here.”

Then his eyes rolled, his breath shuddering. He coughed again, fresh blood streaking his chin, spattering down his chest. Mitch caught more of his weight, gritting his teeth.

“Thompson!” Panam shouted over the chaos. “We need the trucks ready!”

Thompson waved them toward the line, his voice cutting sharp. “Almost there! Just get him in, we’ll cover you!”

Engines revved louder. Lights flared. The Aldecaldos moved like lightning, every hand working, every second counted.

Panam’s legs burned. Her arms shook under V’s weight. Inside, she was fracturing—panic, fury, desperation crashing together in waves. But outside, she held steady. She had to. If she broke, he broke.

“Just a little more,” she whispered into his ear, breath hot against his skin. “Stay with me. Don’t you quit now. Not after everything.”

V’s head shifted against her shoulder. His voice was faint, static-laced, barely there. “Don’t… forget…”

She tightened her grip, her throat thick. “Never. Never, V.”

They broke into the line of vehicles, engines roaring like a storm ready to roll. The clan was already mounting up, their exodus in motion.

Panam and Mitch heaved V toward the truck. Around them, Cassidy barked curses at the noise, covering angles with his revolver. Carol’s eyes swept hard, keeping the line tight. Thompson stalked the yard like a wolf, his commands keeping the clan moving in perfect rhythm.

The night was chaos, but it was theirs.

And through it all, Panam never let go of V, her arms locked around him, her voice a constant whisper in his ear, fighting to pull him back from the edge while the clan tore free of StormTech’s jaws.

Engines thundered as the Aldecaldos tore out of the yard. Dust rose thick, swirling under floodlights as the convoy broke into the desert night. Sirens wailed behind them, fading with each passing second.

Panam and Mitch dragged V into the back of the truck. Mitch heaved the door open, and together they half-lifted, half-shoved him inside. Panam slid in after, pulling his body into her lap, arms wrapping around his shoulders as though holding him tighter might keep him here. Mitch slammed the door shut, sprinted for the cab, and the truck jolted forward, tires screaming before biting into the dirt.

Cassidy glanced back from the passenger seat, his revolver balanced across his knees. He tried for a smirk, but it faltered, his voice catching in the churn of the engine.
“Stay with us, kid. You go checkin’ out now, you’ll miss the afterparty.”

The words should’ve landed as banter, the same drawl he always used to break tension. But the edge in his voice betrayed him. His knuckles were white against the revolver, his jaw tight. It was humor as armor, and it cracked under the weight.

The truck rocked hard over a ditch, jolting Panam against the door. She locked her arms tighter around V. His head lolled against her shoulder, blood seeping warm through her jacket. She brushed his damp hair back, her hands shaking. “Stay awake. Come on, V, stay with me.”

His eyelids fluttered. A faint glow pulsed in his pupils—lattice-red, weak as embers. For a moment she thought he saw her. His eyes fixed on her face, unblinking. Relief surged sharp and painful in her chest.

Then his gaze shifted, sliding past her, chasing something not there.

Inside his mind, the world burned and collapsed.

He saw the desert first: stars scattered in a sky too wide to hold, sand stretching forever. But the horizon rippled, bending, folding in on itself like heat mirage.

Jackie appeared next, frozen mid-laugh, teeth flashing before the image tore into static. His voice reached for V, warm and full — “C’mon, mano—” — before the syllables broke apart and died.

Johnny’s silhouette followed, cigarette glow at his lips, guitar humming a single, low note. Then the sound snapped, leaving silence where music should have lived.

The campfire came after—flames licking upward, sparks bursting into the night. Familiar faces glowed in the circle’s light: Mitch, Cassidy, Carol. But heat distorted them, and when V blinked they had no features at all. Just shapes, shadows laughing soundlessly until the fire sputtered out.

And then Panam. Her hand on his cheek, her smile soft, her eyes fierce. He reached for her and she blurred, dissolving, gone before he could speak her name.

The truck jolted again. Panam’s voice pierced through the haze, sharp with fear: “Look at me! V, stay with me. It’s me!”

His eyes opened wide, confused, hollow. He blinked at her, lips parting as though to form words. Nothing came. His brow furrowed. His breath rattled. He searched her face as though staring into fog, like trying to remember a song from a dream already slipping away.

“…I know you,” he whispered, voice raw, uncertain. His hand twitched against her arm. His eyes searched, desperate, pained. “I… should know you.”

Panam’s heart split. She clutched his face between her palms, her own voice breaking. “It’s me! You do know me. It’s Panam. I’m right here.”

His lips trembled, trying again, but the words slipped, hollow. “Who… are you?”

Her world collapsed in a single breath.

“No,” she gasped, clutching him harder, rocking him in her arms as tears cut down her cheeks. “No, V, don’t. Don’t forget me. Don’t close your eyes. Look at me. It’s me. I’m not letting you go. Not now, not ever.”

But his gaze dulled. His lids lowered, trembling. Blood smeared her shoulder where his head sank against her.

“Stay awake,” she begged, frantic, her voice cracking under the roar of the engine. She shook him gently, her tears falling hot against his temple. “Stay awake, V. Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare leave me like this.”

His breath rattled once more, then steadied into a shallow rhythm. His eyes closed, the faint lattice fading beneath them.

Panam’s heart hammered against his stillness, her throat raw as she whispered his name again and again, as if sheer force of will could hold him here.

And then, inside the darkness of his mind, the dream began.

The desert cracked apart beneath his bare feet. One moment it was glass dunes, star-scattered and endless. The next, it was asphalt, slick with rain, neon dripping from the sky. He walked down a street he knew; Kabuki market, alleys crowded with smoke and steam, except every sign blinked in error code, letters collapsing into gibberish.

He blinked, and the stalls melted. He was standing in Afterlife. The bar stretched too far, infinite in both directions, patrons faceless, their laughter the sound of metal grating. A glass appeared in his hand. Whiskey, he thought, but when he lifted it, the liquid was red. Blood smeared across his knuckles, down his arm.

We archive. We extend. These places dissolve. We remain.

The words folded through the air, not above or beside him but inside the walls themselves.

Panam’s voice broke through, faint but fierce, echoing like it had traveled a hundred miles: Stay with me, V. Don’t close your eyes!

He turned, expecting her to be there. For a heartbeat she was—hair wild, eyes sharp, a silhouette against desert light. He stepped toward her. His hand brushed hers. It dissolved into smoke.

Noise, the chorus murmured. A volatile pattern. Memory corrupted.

He stumbled forward. The floor shifted beneath him again. Tile. Fluorescent lights overhead, buzzing like wasps. He was back in the lab. Restraints clamped cold across his wrists and ankles. He struggled, but the table stretched into infinity. The mask clamped over his face smelled of antiseptic and copper.

From the ceiling, voices: the scientist, muttering numbers. The engineer, laughing nervously. Hale, ledger-flat.

Then Jackie’s laugh cut through, wrong, warped: “C’mon, mano—” before breaking into static, his face flickering on a monitor above him, eyes hollow.

V ripped at the restraints, panic boiling. The table cracked like glass. He fell through.

Now he was in Panam’s tent. The air smelled of dust, oil, and her—warm, familiar. She was there, sitting on the edge of the cot, her hand brushing over his cheek. Her lips moved. He strained to hear.

“…V,” she whispered.

Relief cracked through him. He reached for her, but her face pixelated, smearing like bad rendering. He tried to pull her back into focus. She dissolved into a thousand fragments of light, scattering across the fabric walls.

“Panam!” he shouted. His own voice echoed, empty.

She is gone, the chorus pressed, cold as ice. You cannot hold patterns alone. We keep what remains. Without us, even she is lost.

Cassidy’s voice cracked across the dream, brittle humor bent into static: Don’t you dare check out now, kid. Who the hell’s gonna keep me honest?

The words ricocheted off the tent walls until they warped, stretching long and thin, his voice breaking into laughter that wasn’t laughter at all.

The tent peeled away. The desert returned, but darker now, sky empty of stars, glass dunes crumbling under his feet. Hale’s desk rose from the ground, chrome and bone fused together, the shard glittering red in the center. His face shifted each time V looked at him: sometimes Johnny, sneering; sometimes Jackie, grinning; sometimes blank and corpse-pale.

V staggered forward, barefoot on shards. Blood dripped from his chin, spattering onto the desk.

“I’m not yours,” he rasped.

You are failing, the chorus intoned, quiet and relentless. We keep rhythm. We anchor pulse. You collapse without us. We are preservation.

Mitch’s voice bled through then, steady as stone, low and unshaken: He’s still here. Keep him talking, Panam. Don’t let him slip.

The desert shimmered. For a blink, V saw the convoy—headlights cutting the night, the roar of engines, Panam’s face inches from his, screaming his name. Then the image shattered, falling into sand.

He fell to his knees, palms digging into the shards, cuts splitting across his hands. He stared into his own reflection, distorted across broken glass. Hollow eyes. Lattice burning faint inside them.

“You need me,” he growled, voice scraping raw. “If I fall, you fall. You don’t own me.”

Constraint accepted, the chorus whispered, as though carving the words into him. We survive together. Not apart. We do not revel. We endure.

The sky cracked overhead, splitting into black wires and white static. Figures moved along the dunes, long-limbed shadows that walked like people but weren’t. Their heads turned, faceless, empty—but their mouths whispered in unison: Stay with me… V… stay awake…

Panam’s voice, carried through them.

His chest clenched. His fists slammed against the shards until they drove deep into his palms. He pushed himself upright, blood streaking his arms.

“We survive,” he said, forcing each word, his voice shaking the dream. “On my terms.”

The shadows stilled. The towers of steel and glass in the distance buckled, collapsing like dominoes. Hale’s desk dissolved, the shard still glowing red as it tumbled into sand. The dream shuddered, then fractured like a mirror struck with a hammer.

And in the split second before the darkness swallowed him again, Panam’s scream cut clean through:

Don’t you dare leave me!

Chapter Text

The convoy crawled east like a wounded animal, headlights cutting thin blades across the sand. They drove until the desert itself became nothing but emptiness: no powerlines, no signal towers. Just black earth and stars sharp enough to split skin.

At the head, Mitch’s truck slowed. His voice cracked across the radios, steady, final:

“Here. We stop here.”

Engines sputtered, coughed, died. One by one, headlights blinked out, swallowed by night. Silence pressed in. Not empty silence—full, heavy, alive with the faint tick of cooling metal, the hiss of wind across grit, the breath of people too afraid to speak.

Above, the stars sprawled in their thousands, cold and merciless.

The Aldecaldos spilled from their trucks with stiff, automatic movements. Normally, this was when camp woke back up—a joke shouted, a song half-sung, the familiar rhythm of life forcing itself against exhaustion. Tonight, there was none of that. They moved without voices, without laughter, like phantoms.

Tarps dragged into place, corners pinned with stone. Fire pits dug shallow, flames coaxed and immediately shielded, kept low. Rifles checked, stacked close at hand. Even the kids, usually restless, clung to their parents in silence, wrapped in blankets without protest.

Carol’s voice cracked the air: “Light discipline! Keep it low. We’re ghosts tonight. Act like it.”

Lanterns dimmed. Shadows pressed closer.

Panam climbed down from the cab, V’s weight slung across her shoulder. He was heavy in a way she hated—not just muscle and bone but the drag of a body going slack, the kind of weight that suggested surrender. His head rolled against her neck, lips damp with blood, his breath too shallow to reassure her. Each exhale brushed her skin like a warning.

Mitch was suddenly there, looping V’s other arm across his own shoulder, taking half the burden. He said nothing, jaw tight, grip steady. He’d done this before—Panam could see it in the set of his body. Men carried like this usually didn’t live till morning.

Her teeth ground. He’s not another corpse. He’s not.

They started forward. Every step jolted V’s body, and she could feel the tremor in him—like wires sparking under skin, then going slack. She kept one arm hooked tight across his chest, her hand fisting into the fabric of his shirt to feel proof of breath. Shallow. Too shallow.

She looked up once, and that was her mistake.

Faces ringed the camp in half-light. Dakota’s hands were already busy with her crates, but her eyes flicked up, soft and steady, watching. Carol’s sharp gaze tracked every stagger. Thompson had stopped pacing, his rifle hanging loose, his stare hard but silent. Cassidy froze mid-motion, a canvas strap slack in his hand.

None of them spoke. They didn’t have to. She saw it in the lines around their mouths, in the way their eyes avoided meeting hers for long. They’d seen this before. A body carried between two. A weight that pulled more than it gave back.

Her stomach hollowed out.

She dropped her eyes fast, not letting herself meet their silence again. Not letting them see the crack forming behind her ribs. She pressed her cheek harder to V’s temple, forcing herself to focus on the heat of his skin, the stick of his blood against her collar.

They think he’s gone already. They think I’m carrying a man who’s halfway to the dirt. But he’s not. He’s not. He’s here. He’s mine. I will not let them write him off, not while he’s breathing, not while I’ve got him in my arms.

Her grip tightened on his wrist until her knuckles burned white. His fingers twitched once, weak, and her chest nearly split from it. A sign. Proof.

She didn’t trust her voice to hold. Words would break her open in front of them all, and she wouldn’t give them that. Instead, she bent her head low, pressed her lips against the matted blood at his temple, and let her silence carry what she couldn’t say out loud: You stay. You stay with me.

Mitch steadied the pace. His breath was harsh, his jaw set, but his eyes stayed forward. The only sound between them was the scrape of boots across sand and the wet rattle of V’s breathing.

Ahead, the lanterns of the med corner glowed faint, halos burning weak through canvas and dust. Carol and Dakota’s shapes moved in the light, precise and purposeful, setting their altar of cloth and steel.

Behind, the camp settled into its silence. No laughter. No music. No voices raised. Just shadows digging in, the clan entrenching itself for a night too heavy for rest.

Every step Panam and Mitch took left drops of blood in the dirt, black stains that clung stubborn beneath the stars, refusing to vanish.

They passed under the low arc of the trucks’ taillights and into the brittle heart of camp. Lanterns hung in clusters—battered tins, a cracked headlamp with tape, a salvaged glow-bottle humming like a trapped insect—and everywhere the light pooled like small islands in the dark ocean of sand. The air smelled of exhaust and sweat, of old leather and the faint iron edge of drying blood. Each scent layered on the next until it felt like memory made physical.

Old men sat bent against crates, their faces mapped in wrinkles the desert had drawn over years of sun and dust. One of them—Domingo, Panam thought, though she would have to check the name later—lifted his head as they passed. His eyes were small, bright with the foolish kindness of someone who had chosen to keep looking for the good in people anyway. He reached a hand out, not to touch, only to brush against V’s foot. The contact shocked her. V’s feet were bare, skin raw from cold floors and restraints, dust clinging to cracked soles. Domingo’s fingers hovered, then drew back, as though the sight of that vulnerability was too much to bear. Still, the intent steadied her like a stone in her palm.

Near the cooking pit, women moved with a different kind of tiredness. They arranged pots and cupped lids against the wind, the practiced economy of people whose lives had been stretched thin and made efficient. One of them—a woman with silver in her braid, the lines by her mouth like cartography of laughter and sorrow—held a tin cup up as if to offer it to V. Her lips moved, perhaps a prayer, perhaps an old blessing. Panam did not look. She did not want to let herself be seen as the woman who could not fix her man.

Children shifted closer to the faint light, blankets tucked up to noses. The littlest ones stared with eyes that were sharper than their mouths: seeing but uncomprehending, recording the gravity in their bodies. A boy no older than seven stepped out from between two legs and held up a toy—a bent slingshot wrapped with string—an offering, a childish superstition. His mother tugged the toy back, scolding in a whisper, but her face was soft when she did. Panam felt an ache like a hand at the back of her throat.

Near the edge of the circle, elders met in low clusters, speaking in murmurs that were not meant to be private but didn’t need an audience. They traded a glance that said what words wouldn’t: we have lost people before, we have carried the dead, we have sewn up the living. Their ritual was small: a nod, a shift of weight, a calculating of who would stay awake and who could sleep. One older woman produced a scrap of cloth, folded it, and set it near the med corner like a token of steadiness.

Men checked weapons with mechanical motions, but their hands trembled when the night wind picked a stray ember and pushed it toward the tarps. Cassidy walked the perimeter with his hands empty, eyes on the horizon. He did not try for jokes; the attempt had been buried somewhere back at the facility. In its place he wore a quiet that felt heavier than the weapons at their hips.

Dakota moved in the med corner like a metronome; every motion was economy and pragmatism. She rinsed a cloth in a tin, wrung it tight, and set it on a flat of canvas. Her face was bone and determination. Carol barked a terse instruction and then softened it when Panam didn’t move: “Sit. If you faint on him here we’ll both be useless.” There was a tenderness in Carol’s tone that did not pretend softness; it was a nurse’s way of loving—practical, fierce, without performance.

Panam sank to a low crate at the foot of the makeshift cot, still holding V’s hand. Her thumb traced the lines of his palm as if mapping them would keep the person intact. The skin under her fingers was cool despite the fever her nose told her he had. She could hear the dry tick of the monitor somewhere beneath the fabric, the drip of saline a steady metronome that seemed to mark both his life and the dwindling time they had. His bare feet stuck out at the end of the cot, dust still clinging, toes slack. She covered them quickly with a folded blanket, as much to hide the indignity as to keep him warm.

Across from her, a young mother hummed to a baby, the song thin and half-remembered, a lullaby no one taught her but everyone knew. The small human music braided through the larger hum of the camp, a fragile cord tying here and now to the world beyond grief. Panam clung to it like a promise.

Every so often someone would look up, then down again, eyes skimming the med corner and returning to their own small tasks. Their faces were masks of composure, but Panam was learning to read the micro-movements: the way an older man would rub his jaw when the space between breaths grew longer, the way a woman’s fingers laced tighter around a blanket. The camp was a chorus of those tiny gestures, each a tiny signal of the whole’s state of shock.

Time moved in small, treacherous increments. It could be minutes; it could be hours. The sky shifted and the stars wheeled. The wind tried to rewrite footprints already stamped into the ground. Panam felt the scrape of sand under her boots like a countdown, each step making the distance between what had happened and what might be worse feel smaller.

She noticed the shard atop a crate near the med corner for the first time then: a small, black sliver, its glass edge catching a weak light and throwing back an ugly, garnet sheen. It lay on a cloth like an accusation. Carol had set it there but not touched it. In that simple gesture Panam read a thousand decisions: to look, to trust, to gamble. The shard, slick with the memory of blood, was at once a lifeline and a razor.

Somewhere deeper in the camp, a man started a small wind-break with a tarp and rigging pole—a ritual of protection more than necessity. Two teenagers laughed quietly over the knot work, but the sound came out strangled and embarrassed, as if they felt guilty for such lightness. A woman heated water over a small stove and walked carefully with a tin cup to Dakota’s side, offering it without words. Small kindnesses stitched the night together.

Panam tasted salt and metal and the faint copper tang that clung to V’s breath. She breathed it and let it anchor her. Words would cave her in. Touch—the thread of his hand, the set of his jaw, the warmth at his temple—would not.

She kept one eye on the med corner and one on the ring of watchful faces. The clan had folded inward like a fist. You could see the tension lined in their bodies: the set jaw, the quiet hands. It was as if they had turned inward to economize strength. Even in sleep, someone would be awake, someone always turning the small clock of watch. Their vows were not words but the steady rhythm of human presence.

A child dozed against a woman’s shoulder and the woman’s breath fell in time with his. Up close Panam saw the rawness in that pairing: two lives clinging to each other, holding tight as the night threatened to take more. That image—of small, ordinary clinging—lodged in her chest and would not leave.

Mitch moved to the edge of the med corner and crouched, his voice low as he spoke to Carol and Dakota. He asked quiet questions that required difficult measurements: supplies on hand, how long they could keep a steady drip, how many hours until a second infusion or a morphine patch might be necessary. He was trying to render the future into numbers. The numbers were ugly. “We can hold him,” Dakota said. “For now. But not forever.” Her hand rested briefly on Mitch’s forearm, not for comfort but as confirmation that the plan had a human spine.

Panam closed her fingers tighter around V’s hand. Her pulse hammered so loud she feared he might hear it. She thought of everything left undone and everything they had lost to save him. She thought of Hale’s ledger smile and the cold gleam of the man’s eyes folded behind a desk of glass. She thought of the shard; the way it lay there, an unspoken map. Her jaw clenched until she tasted iron. There were decisions to be made. There would be arguments. There would be fear.

But for now, there was only the room of dust and makeshift light, the soft hiss of saline, the low breathing of the camp around them. She leaned forward and let her forehead rest on V’s knuckles, feeling the minute warmth of life under his skin. She did not pray; prayer felt like a thing for the clean and the hopeful. Instead she made a promise to herself—a small, furred thing she folded into the dark: I will not let this be the night we lose him. Not this night.

And when she looked up, she saw that others had not left her alone with that vow. Eyes met hers briefly—Dakota’s, then Carol’s—and in those glances there was a tacit acknowledgment: we will do what we must, together. The camp, for all its silence, was not empty.

Night contracted and held them, a tight skin over the world. Firelight stuttered and ran its course; the stars rolled on, indifferent. Beneath it all the drip continued—a measure of breath, a stubborn assertion that they were not quite done.

V lay stretched on the cot, chest rising shallow, every breath dragging wet. His lips were dark, blood drying along the corner of his mouth. His bare feet hung slack at the cot’s edge, dust clinging to cracked soles, raw lines still scored around his ankles where restraints had bitten deep.

Panam sat at his side, fingers locked around his hand. She hadn’t moved since Mitch helped her settle him there. Her grip was iron, her thumb tracing and retracing the lines of his palm as though memorizing them might keep him tethered.

Carol leaned over him first, gloved hands brisk, efficient. Fingers to his neck, pulling back an eyelid, watching the sluggish roll of his pupil. Her jaw tightened. “Pulse is faint. Breathing wet. He’s holding, but it’s ugly.”

Dakota moved quieter. She crouched near his feet, her expression unreadable as always, and lifted one gently into her hands. The skin was raw, dust ground deep into the cracks, nails rimmed dark. She wrung a cloth from a tin basin, then wiped slowly, carefully, as though removing the dirt might peel back what had been done to him.

Carol glanced down, voice low, flat. “They didn’t even give him boots.”

Panam’s chest constricted. The sight of him like that—V, who always walked steady beside her, leaving prints heavy and sure in the dust—undone, stripped bare, left raw. It felt like a theft layered on every other cruelty.

Dakota said nothing. She cleaned the second foot with the same steady care, then reached for bandages. She wrapped the worst abrasions in neat white cloth, snug but not harsh. When she was done, she pulled a blanket over his legs, covering the bare feet, smoothing the fabric into place with both hands. The gesture was small, but it hit Panam like a blade. A fragment of dignity restored.

Her throat closed. They took everything. But I will not let them take him.

Carol tapped the monitor, its lines scraping jagged across the screen. “Brain activity’s fractured. He’s on the edge. Not just body, but mind as well. The inhibitor burned him down to the wires.”

Panam looked up, eyes sharp, demanding. “What does that mean?”

Dakota’s voice was calm, steady as stone. “Memories unraveling. Threads cut loose. He may wake and not know himself. Not know you.”

The words sank like knives.

Panam didn’t answer. Her fingers tightened around his hand until her knuckles whitened, until she thought the bones might splinter under her grip. Her eyes burned, but she kept them fixed on his face, refusing to let the others see the way her chest had caved in.

Because she’d already heard it. Already lived it. The sound of his voice from the truck, frayed and foreign, whispering words that had hollowed her out: Who are you?

Her throat locked. She pushed the memory down, hard, burying it where no one else could see. But it pressed up inside her all the same, raw and jagged, scraping with every breath.

She bent closer, pressing her cheek to his temple. Not a plea, not words—just the weight of herself against him, the proof that she was there. If he was going to forget, then she would remind him again, and again, until the day he stopped breathing.

Dakota’s gaze lingered, softer than her voice. But she didn’t repeat herself. She didn’t need to. The silence said it all. Her words still hung in the air—cool, measured, merciless. He may wake and not know you.

She bent over him, pressed her face into his shoulder, trying to hide the crack spreading through her chest. She had been strong for so long. Strong when he was taken. Strong when they fought to bring him back. Strong through the hours of silence and fear. But strength was a rope fraying, and it gave way in silence.

A hand found her shoulder: heavy, grounding. Mitch. He crouched beside her, the rough weight of his palm steady as a stone. He didn’t speak, didn’t try to fix what couldn’t be fixed. His silence was space—the kind she could collapse into if she let herself.

Another hand followed, softer. Carol’s. Not brisk, not clipped, but gentle. The slow circle of her palm on Panam’s back was steady as breath, the kind of touch that said without words: you don’t have to hold this alone.

Panam trembled under it, lifting her head just enough to see Carol’s face. The sharp, pragmatic lines were still there, but softened, drawn down by grief she had carried too long. Carol’s voice was low, tender in a way Panam had never heard.

“You’ve carried him this far,” she said. “Now let us carry you.”

The words broke her open.

Panam’s chest seized with a sob she couldn’t choke back. She turned, her hand still clamped around V’s, and leaned hard into Carol’s shoulder. She didn’t hesitate. Her arm wrapped around Panam’s back, firm, steady, pulling her close as though she’d done it a thousand times before.

Panam’s tears came hot, ragged, uncontrolled. She shook against Carol’s shoulder, breath tearing raw out of her. “I can’t—” she managed, the words strangled. “I can’t lose him. Not like this. Not when we finally—”

Her voice collapsed into sobs. Carol held her tighter, rocking her slightly, whispering low. “Shhh. Breathe. He’s here. He’s right here. You’ve done all you could, and more. You fought him back to us. Don’t think for a second you haven’t.”

Panam shook her head violently, clutching at Carol’s sleeve like it was the only thing keeping her upright. “But what if it’s not enough? What if—” Her voice cracked again, high and broken. “He looked at me and didn’t know me. I saw it in his eyes. Just for a second, but it was there. Like I was… like I was gone to him.”

Mitch’s hand tightened on her shoulder, grounding her. His voice came low, gravel steady. “Doesn’t matter if his head’s twisted up. His heart knows. I’ve seen the way he looks at you, Panam. That doesn’t vanish. Not for a chip. Not for anyone.”

She drew in a sharp breath, sobbing harder. “But if he forgets—if he slips away—I won’t know how to—” She stopped herself, but the rest hung in the air, too heavy to hide. I won’t know how to live without him.

Carol’s hand cupped the back of her head, pulling her close, her voice firm but full of warmth. “Then we’ll hold you up until he remembers. And if he can’t… then we’ll hold you still. That’s what family does.”

Panam broke again, clinging to Carol, sobs raking through her until her chest ached. She let herself collapse, let herself bleed out all the grief she had been hiding. For once, she didn’t try to choke it down. Didn’t try to be the shield or the fighter. She just let herself fall into their arms.

Carol grieved with her—not in words, but in the way her own shoulders shook, in the dampness Panam felt at her temple. The pragmatic mask had slipped, and behind it was someone who loved, someone who had lost too, someone who would not let Panam bear this weight alone.

Mitch stayed steady, his presence a mountain at her side. His hand never left her shoulder, the quiet pressure saying everything words couldn’t: you are not carrying this alone.

Panam’s sobs quieted slowly, tapering into hiccupped breaths. She pressed her forehead to Carol’s shoulder, eyes swollen, throat raw. For the first time in days, she let herself breathe without bracing.

Her voice, when it came again, was thin and wrecked. “I don’t know how to keep him. I don’t know how to fight something I can’t shoot, can’t fix.”

Carol pulled back enough to look at her, her eyes wet but steady. “Then you don’t fight it alone. You lean on us. On me. On Mitch. On all of them out there. You think you’re carrying him by yourself, but you’re not. We’ve got you. Both of you.”

Panam closed her eyes, tears spilling again, softer now. She squeezed V’s hand in hers, pressing it tight against her chest. If he forgets me, I’ll remind him. Every day. Every moment. I’ll remind him until the end.

And when her body slumped, empty from the storm, Carol and Mitch stayed braced around her, the rock she could finally collapse against without shame.

The storm of sobs bled itself out slowly, leaving Panam hollow and trembling, her breaths catching in ragged hiccups against Carol’s shoulder. Her strength had poured out of her in waves until nothing was left, just the weight of exhaustion and the raw ache of love too big to carry alone.

Carol didn’t let go. She kept her arm firm around Panam’s back, her hand stroking slow circles between her shoulder blades, steady as heartbeat. There was no urgency in her movements, no need to rush her back into composure. Just the quiet insistence: you can stay here as long as you need.

Mitch shifted closer, still crouched, his hand never leaving Panam’s shoulder. His other braced against the cot’s edge, steadying V’s body as though by sheer presence he could hold him anchored. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, rough.

“You’re not alone in this, Panam. Not ever. Remember that.”

She swallowed hard, breath catching. Her eyes stayed closed, her forehead pressed into Carol’s shoulder, but her hand reached out blindly for Mitch until her fingers brushed his sleeve. He covered her hand with his own, callused palm warm and solid. The contact grounded her—two anchors holding her fast in the storm’s wake.

The tent was quiet except for the soft hiss of the saline drip, the faint rattle of V’s breathing. Carol reached past Panam briefly, tugging the blanket higher over V’s legs, tucking it in around his bare feet with the same gentleness she had shown Panam. The motion was small, but it was care, folded into silence.

Panam opened her eyes at last. They burned, swollen, vision blurred, but she didn’t pull back from Carol’s shoulder. Her voice was hoarse, barely more than breath. “I don’t know if I can be strong enough.”

Carol’s reply was immediate, soft but firm. “Then lean on us until you can. That’s what we’re here for.”

Mitch grunted in agreement, the sound as steady as the desert rock. “We’ll carry him with you. And you, too, if we have to.”

Panam let her head rest heavier against Carol, her hand tightening faintly under Mitch’s. For the first time since it had all begun, she allowed herself to believe she didn’t have to do it all alone.

The lanterns hissed faintly, shadows swaying across canvas. The drip ticked steady, marking time.

Inside the med corner, there was still grief, still fear. But in that fragile hush, Panam felt something else thread through her exhaustion—not hope, not yet, but the faintest trace of steadiness. Enough to breathe. Enough to hold.

Outside the med corner, the camp had settled into a tense half-silence. Fires burned low, their light small against the vast dark of the desert. The air carried the smell of dust, singed tarps, and the faint bite of smoke.

Thompson sat nearest the perimeter, rifle balanced across his knees, eyes scanning the horizon with the restless certainty that trouble never stayed gone long. His jaw was tight, every muscle strung taut like wire. “We trusted corpos again,” he muttered, not looking at anyone. “Got burned for it. Again. Only difference this time is… it’s eating him alive.”

Across the fire, Cassidy sat with his hat pulled low, a cigarette burning to ash between his fingers. He didn’t answer right away. His gaze stayed fixed on the glow, on the way sparks lifted, danced, and died in the wind. When he did speak, his voice was quieter than usual, stripped of its easy humor.

“Kid’s tougher than anyone I’ve ever seen. Hell, tougher than me.” He drew slow on the cigarette, the ember lighting the lines of his face. “But I saw him on that cot. Never thought I’d see him laid out like that. Bare feet hanging off like they’d stripped him of even being a man.” His voice hitched, just once. He ground the cigarette into the dirt, hand trembling before it stilled.

“I always figured I’d be the one to go first—him standing over me with a bottle, telling the young ones some long, loud lie about the stubborn bastard Cassidy. That’s how it ought to be. Not this. Not him before me.”

Silence fell heavy. The fire cracked, sparks catching in the wind. The shard lay on a crate just outside the med corner, where Carol had set it down hours ago. No one had touched it since. Its black glass edge caught the firelight and threw it back in blood-red flashes, daring someone to pick it up.

Thompson’s eyes flicked to it, suspicion sharp. “Could be bait. Corpo teeth waiting to snap.”

Carol’s voice carried from the med corner doorway, calm but firm. “You want him to live? Then we chase every lead. Every one.”

No one answered at first. The fire hissed. The wind pulled smoke sideways.

Cassidy leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. He tipped his hat back, eyes glinting faint in the firelight, voice flat but steady. “Then we chase it.”

The words landed heavy, the truth none of them wanted to admit aloud: there was no other choice.

The voices carried faint through the canvas walls. Low at first, then sharper as the wind pressed the words inward. Panam didn’t want to listen, but the tones crept in anyway—Thompson’s bitter edge, Cassidy’s gravel worn thin, Carol’s voice firm from the doorway. She couldn’t make out every word, but she knew the shape of the conversation. The shard. Always the shard.

She sat hunched at V’s side, his hand caught in both of hers, her forehead resting against the back of his knuckles. His skin was warm but slack, the faint pulse under his wrist too slow, too fragile. Every rise of his chest felt like it was being bargained for.

Carol shifted beside her, not pulling away, but present, her palm a steady pressure against Panam’s back. Mitch stood just behind, his silhouette cutting against the lantern light, arms folded, jaw tight. Their silence had become a wall around her—not shutting her in but holding her steady.

The words outside spiked. Cassidy’s voice, rough, carried clear for a moment: Then we chase it.

Panam flinched, eyes squeezing shut. She hated the shard. Hated the way it sat out there, glinting in the firelight like a lure. Hated that it was hope wrapped in glass teeth, that it had power over them at all. But more than anything she hated that it was true—they had no choice.

Her thumb dragged across V’s palm, tracing each line as if she could carve her own into them. “You hear that?” she whispered, voice breaking. “They’re already betting everything on you. On us. On this shard. And I’d burn it all to ash if it meant keeping you.”

The monitor ticked faint green, jagged lines scraping across its cracked screen. V didn’t stir.

Carol leaned down then, her voice soft, not meant to carry outside. “Don’t let their words weigh heavier than his breath. He’s here. Focus on that.”

Panam swallowed, pressing her lips to V’s temple, eyes hot. She didn’t answer, but she let the truth of it anchor her. He was still breathing. For now.

Outside, the fire hissed. The debate rolled on. The shard gleamed faint red in the wind.

Inside, Panam held on tighter, her tears soaking into V’s hair, her strength drawn from the hands on her shoulders and the shallow rise of his chest.

Chapter Text

The desert melted into the city, the city into the lab, the lab into nothing. Every step V took shifted beneath him: sand turned to cracked asphalt, then glass tile slick with antiseptic, then back to dust. His bare feet scraped across it all, raw skin dragging, leaving streaks that vanished as quickly as they formed. Each breath burned different: smoke, copper, the bitter tang of chemicals.

Figures appeared and dissolved around him. Jackie’s grin bloomed wide, that familiar flash of life, before the skin of his face split into static and the sound of his laugh broke into a metallic buzz. Johnny leaned in the corner, cigarette ember glowing like an eye, that signature scowl on his lips. His body unraveled into snarls of cable that whipped and coiled before falling into sparks. And Panam—she was there for an instant, smiling, her hand cupping his cheek with warmth so real he could almost believe—then her face melted into smoke, scattering into nothing.

V staggered, reaching for her as the world shifted again. His knees hit a surface that cracked under him, white tile flaking into sand, sand bleeding back to concrete. The horizon was always breaking, always reforming.

We see you.

The voice threaded through it all. It had no body, no center. A chorus thick and cold, layered so that every word seemed to echo before it had even finished.

We gather the broken parts. We catalog. We preserve.

V forced himself upright, fists clenched, teeth bared. “Stay out of my head. You’ve already taken enough.”

We do not take. We repair. Without us, you dissolve. Already you feel it. Memories unraveling. Names slipping. Faces gone.

The words dug deep, too close to truths he couldn’t deny. His breath shuddered, but anger drove him forward. “They did this. StormTech, Arasaka before them. You think you’re different? To all of you I’m nothing but a set of numbers, something to scrape down to wires. I’m not your experiment. I’m not your host.”

Not host. Not subject. Partner. The chorus rang harder now, striking the air like a hammer. We survive together. Or not at all.

The floor gave way and he fell into desert. Stars blazed across the sky, endless, sharp. Sand whipped into his face with the sting of glass. Panam stood there, close enough to touch, her eyes fierce, lips moving with words he couldn’t catch. He stumbled toward her, hands out, heart pounding.

She blurred. Her figure broke into motes of dust. When he reached, only the cold night air filled his palm.

He collapsed forward, chest heaving, blood spilling warm across his lips. His voice tore raw from his throat. “If I lose her—if I forget her face, her voice—then I’m not me anymore. You get that? That’s worse than dying.”

The chorus stuttered, a glitch in its perfect rhythm. Her pattern is strong. Deep. It binds you. Without her, you collapse. We cannot rebuild you without her.

A bitter laugh burst from him, half-choke, half-sob. He spat into the sand, crimson soaking quick. “So she’s my anchor. The only thing keeping me on my feet. And you need her as much as I do.”

Yes. She is the spine of you. The tether. Through her, we hold you intact.

V forced himself upright, swaying, every breath dragging fire through his chest. Fury steadied him where fear wanted to break him. “Then hear me. We do this my way. You don’t take the wheel. You don’t touch her. Ever. You want to survive? You help me hold the pieces. You do it in the dark. And I call the shots.”

The silence that followed was deep, almost absolute. Then the chorus returned, slow and deliberate. Agreed. But your way will still end. Soon.

He wiped blood from his mouth, his jaw tightening, eyes burning against the void. “Then we make damn sure it’s not today.”

The world cracked open again. Neon swallowed the desert. Glass towers rose and collapsed in flame. The Aldecaldo camp flickered into being, faces glowing in firelight before warping into static. Jackie’s laughter and Johnny’s guitar blended with Panam’s voice calling his name, faint but fierce, bleeding through like a signal breaking through noise.

He staggered toward it, reaching, every part of him pulled forward. Even as the world around him dissolved into static and ash, he pushed through. Toward her.

The desert flickered into steel, then steel into leather and glass. The world around him hardened into something familiar, too familiar. A cockpit stretched around him, cramped, lined with switches and gauges that hummed faintly. His hands gripped a console that wasn’t there a moment ago. Beside him, close enough to feel the heat of her body, Panam sat angled toward him, eyes alive with a fire that had nothing to do with battle.

Her voice carried soft in the dark cabin. “V… do you feel that?”

He turned. The memory wrapped him tight: her lips close, her hand finding his, her breath warm in the stale air. He remembered the way her eyes had searched his, steady but vulnerable, daring to open in a way neither of them had before. He remembered how he’d kissed her then, desperate and sure, how the world had dropped away until there was only the two of them, tangled in heat and need and something deeper than either had expected.

It was all there. For a heartbeat, it was whole.

Then it fractured.

The cockpit split apart in stuttering frames, light slicing through. Her voice looped, repeating the same line, breaking into static halfway through. Her face blurred, her lips moving in silence, the warmth of her body flickering into cold air. The gauges rattled, the walls splintered into neon lines that jerked and reassembled in wrong shapes. He reached for her, but his fingers passed through smoke.

“No.” His voice tore out ragged, his body heaving against the glitching cockpit. “Not this. Don’t you take this from me.”

This memory is unstable, the chorus intoned, flat and inevitable. Fragments. Loops. Loss is inevitable.

V slammed his fist against the console, blood smearing across controls that blinked out and back again. “She’s not a fragment. She’s not noise.” His voice grew stronger, sharper with each word. “She’s the reason I walked out of Night City. The reason I fought my way back from hell more times than I should have. You don’t get it—without her, I wouldn’t have made it this far.”

We preserve patterns. She is strong. Deeply embedded. But reconstruction cannot be perfect. Some corruption is irretrievable.

He stood, the cockpit dissolving around him, but Panam’s blurred outline lingered, wavering at the edge of the static. His chest heaved, blood dripping down his chin, but his voice came steady, resolute. “No. Listen to me. She’s not a pattern. She’s not a tether or a file to shore up your system. She’s Panam.” His throat burned as he said it, but he forced the word out like a prayer. “She’s my home.”

The chorus faltered, a ripple through the layered voices. Define: home.

V staggered forward, toward the ghost of her face, his eyes blazing. “Home is where I stop running. Where I lay down my weapons and know I’m safe. Where I don’t have to be anything but myself, broken and bleeding and still worth loving. Home is her. That’s what you’re patching, that’s what you’re trying to hold together.”

Static hissed, the outline of Panam flickering brighter, steadier, almost clear.

We calculate survival. You define survival differently. But convergence is the same: she must remain.

V wiped blood from his mouth, his voice raw but sure. “Then keep her whole. If you let her slip, you lose me too. And if I go, you go with me.”

The silence stretched long. When the chorus returned, it was quieter, almost measured. We will preserve her. For you. For us.

Panam’s face sharpened, her smile almost real again. Her hand reached for him—flickered—reached again.

V reached back, throat tight, chest aching. For an instant, their fingers almost touched.

Then the cockpit fully shattered, breaking into shards of light, and she dissolved once more.

V fell to his knees, screaming her name into the static.

The cockpit shards dissolved into sand, and the sand into wet black glass. V knelt on it, breath rasping in his chest, blood dripping from his mouth to hiss on the surface. The horizon bent and folded, buildings rising then collapsing into dunes, firelight spilling then being swallowed whole.

The chorus pressed in again. Your system is fractured. Many segments are gone. We attempt to stitch, but not all threads can be recovered.

V dragged himself to his feet, swaying. “Don’t talk about me like I’m a fucking net of code. These aren’t segments. They’re my life. My people.” He clenched his fists, the words tearing out. “Jackie. Johnny. Panam. Every laugh, every scar. You don’t get to call them threads.”

They are threads. Input. Output. Noise and signal.

V barked a bitter laugh, wiping blood from his chin. “Noise? That what you call my best friend’s grin? The sound of Panam’s voice when she tells me I’m not alone? You reduce them to background static, and you expect me to trust you?”

The chorus rippled, overlapping itself. We calculate survival. To preserve all is impossible. To preserve some is achievable. The strongest patterns remain. Others fade.

He staggered forward, each step heavier, leaving bloody footprints on the glass. “No. Not good enough. I’m not bargaining with scraps. If you want me alive, if you want us alive, you fight for every single piece. Every laugh. Every scar. Every moment. Otherwise, what’s the point?”

We do not fight. We repair.

V’s voice broke into a roar. “Then learn how to fight!” His shout cracked across the black horizon, shaking the false stars overhead. “Because if I’m going to survive, I’m surviving as me. Not some stitched-together copy that remembers half a story and forgets the rest.”

The silence that followed was long, heavy. Then the chorus returned, quieter now, carrying something new beneath the cold certainty. We require you. Your strength. Your will to remain. Without it, we fail. Without her, you fail. The convergence is survival. Together.

V stopped, chest heaving, vision swimming. His knees nearly buckled, but he stayed standing. “So that’s it,” he rasped. “I need you to hold the pieces. You need me to give them shape. And we both need her to keep us from falling apart.”

Yes.

V spat into the glass, the blood spatter blooming like ink. “Fine. Then this is the deal: you keep your hands off my life. You don’t touch her, you don’t touch us. You can patch me up in the background, you can stitch what you can, but I run this. Understand? I run it.”

The chorus throbbed, overlapping voices folding inward. We accept. But time is short. Weeks, not years.

The words cut sharper than any blade. His heart stuttered, fear tearing up again—but fury steadied it. “Then weeks are what we’ve got. And if that’s all, then we burn every second for her. You hear me? Every single one.”

For the first time, the chorus faltered. Not denial, not argument. Just silence.

And in that silence, V felt it: the faintest thread pulling taut, holding against the unraveling.

The chorus returned like a tide, slow and inexorable. The black glass under V’s knees shimmered, and where it glowed faint lines pulsed like a failing heart monitor. Weeks, the chorus said, each voice spaced like the beat of the wound. Weeks, not years.

The word landed inside him with the weight of lead. He could feel it in his chest as if someone had clamped a hand over his ribs and left it there. Heat rose to his face, not from the desert or neon, but from something that was all grit and disbelief and the old, stubborn kind of fury that had kept him alive this long.

“Weeks,” he said aloud, tasting the syllable. It sounded too small for what it meant: the slow theft of memory, the thinning of the things that made him a person rather than a file. “That’s… generous,” he croaked. A laugh broke out of him like a cough. It was humor and bile both. “You give me a calendar and call it a plan. Cute.”

Probability ranges and degradation curves, the chorus intoned, clinical. We model outcomes. Interventions may shift timeline. But entropy progresses.

V rolled his head back, eyes searching the fractured sky until a shard of Panam’s face resolved right where it belonged. He reached for that face like a man scrambling for the last handhold on a cliff. When the memory resolved, it was a small, intimate thing: Panam tilting her head while he swore, a crooked smile catching him in the soft half-light between something that resembled sleep and the wakeful world. He could almost hear the scrape of fabric, the particular rhythm of her breath. He clung to it.

“You’re good with numbers, aren’t you?” he said to the chorus. “Cold. Accurate. You can carve my life into graphs, predict when a synapse will snap. But you don’t get the rest. You don’t get the way she says my name when she’s scared. You don’t get the way our stupid jokes sit in my chest like small, stubborn anchors.” He jabbed a finger at the glass beneath him until it cracked into spiderweb veins. “If you could understand that, you wouldn’t have let them treat me like meat. You wouldn’t have let me be dissected for output.”

There was a lag, a small stuttering in the chorus that felt almost like a held breath. Understanding is not our function, it said. The words were softer, oddly, as though a machine practicing human cadence had misfired. We approximate comprehension through correlation.

V’s laugh was sharper this time. “Approximate. Right. You approximate love. You approximate loyalty. How tidy.” He spat a bitter thread of blood into the black and wiped it from his mouth with the back of his hand. “Look, if you could actually feel any of this, if you were anything more than code wrapped in a polite voice, you wouldn’t be sitting there weighing my heart against a ledger. You’d know not to touch the things that make me me.”

We did not choose their methods, the chorus said. We integrated with available processes.

“That’s your excuse.” He pushed to his feet. The black glass hummed, and his boots left prints that smoked. “You used what they fed you. You operated on what you were given. So don’t stand there and pretend you’re above it. You were molded by the same hands that threw me in a room and watched me twitch.” His voice dropped, raw. “You can call it integration. I call it complicity.”

Silence stretched, not empty but tense. When the chorus returned it carried an unfamiliar modulation, a carefully smoothed inflection that almost sounded like curiosity. Complicity is accurate. But the configuration has changed. Current objective: preservation. Secondary objective: maximize fidelity of key bonds.

V stared at the shimmer and the oddness of that phrase. Key bonds. The phrase sounded like a spreadsheet header. It also sounded dangerously small for the enormity of what it referred to.

He let bitterness cool into something sharper: bargaining and confession braided together. “Fine. Say I buy what you’re selling. You preserve the primary patterns you deem important. You’ve pegged Panam as priority. Good. She’s my priority. Here’s the rest of the deal. You help me, you fix what you can, but you never, ever use me like a lab animal again. No experiments without consent. No cutting through my head while I sleep. You patch from behind the curtain. You keep your hands clean.” He set his jaw. “And if you start to—if you even think about taking the wheel—I pull the plug.”

The chorus did not answer at once. The silence that followed felt like a room holding its breath. Then, softer and almost…considerate, it said, Conditional autonomy acknowledged. Contingency established. Plausible.

“Plausible,” V repeated. He forced a grin that felt rusty in his face. “You use words that make people sleep better, huh? Plausible. Fine. I’ll take it.” He let the grin die. The fear came back raw. “But you tell me the truth. If there’s something you can do, some fight you can put up, tell me the odds straight. Don’t dress it in honey. I want straight numbers. I want the truth.”

Truth delivered as probability vectors, the chorus said. Weeks range with current interventions. Variance contingent on repair fidelity and external support.

“Range,” he said. “Vectors. That’s not a life.” He laughed, but this time there was less bile in it. “I can’t bargain with a range. All I want to know is this: is it worth the fight? Because I’ll take any odds if it is. Even if those odds are bullshit.” His voice grew small and fierce at once. “I want to live. For her. For us. Not because of some noble calculus, but because I don’t want to miss what we are.”

The chorus shifted, modulation seeking an angle. Her pattern increases the probability of continuity. She is focal to identity reconstruction. Your affective patterns correlate with enhanced stabilization when engaged.

“That’s not the same as saying she’s love,” V snapped. But the edge in his words was different now. It wasn’t only accusation. Somewhere beneath the sarcasm he was laying his intent bare. “Say what you will, but you can measure all the curves you want. You can model and predict, but you can’t be the one who tells her my jokes when my mouth’s gone. You can’t be the one to fold into bed with her or be the idiot who keeps stealing her pillow. That’s on me.”

Understood, the chorus replied. The word carried no triumph, only functional compliance. We will preserve parameters associated with relational scaffolding.

Panam’s voice threaded through the static then, closer now. A whisper, an impossible warmth. “V?”

He answered without thinking, raw as anything he’d said in this fractured world. “Panam.” The name was already a flint struck in his chest. It set something burning that was equal parts terror and relief.

The chorus hummed, quieter, perhaps listening. Her vocal pattern recognized. Transmission consistent with presence at proximate spatial coordinates.

His chest tightened at that. Hope tasted metallic. He pushed it down and made room for action instead. “Then help me get back to her. Help me stitch what matters. You keep your hands off the rest. And don’t you dare go thinking this is mutual liking. This is business. You help me, because you can’t operate without me.”

There was a pause that felt different from the others, long enough that V imagined the chorus contemplating, or simulating contemplation. When it spoke again the voice had shed some of its clinical edge and adopted, briefly, a cadence that might have been mistaken for attention. We are co-dependent. We require your continued function to maintain networked presence. We will cooperate under your constraints. We will prioritize preservation of Panam-associated constructs. Do not expect affection. Expect fidelity to objective.

V let out a laugh that sounded almost human in its relief. It was cracked, uncertain, but it was not cynical. “Fidelity to objective,” he said, repeating the phrase like a mantra. “I can live with that. For now.”

Far away, a softer voice called his name again. He reached toward it, and for a second Panam’s face resolved as clear as glass. Her eyes held him like an oath. He let himself fall toward her and the black glass under him steeled, taut as a net. The chorus hummed, aligning to the pulse he set. They had made terms. They had set the clock.

Time, however many weeks it might be, was counting anyway.

Light pressed against his eyes like weight. His mouth tasted of iron and grit, like he’d bitten down on the desert itself. For a moment he thought he was still there—stars cut sharp across black sky—then the vision tilted and steadied into the scratch of canvas beneath his cheek, the faint reek of diesel and sweat folded around him.

Warmth anchored his hand. He blinked through the blur until the shape above him gathered into something solid, something he knew down to the bone.

“Panam.”

Her whole body went rigid. The sound of his voice, the word itself, seemed to stop time in the tent. Then her breath rushed out in a sob, violent and uncontrolled, and she was on him—cupping his face in both hands, her thumb brushing across rough stubble as tears slid over her cheeks.

“You remember me,” she whispered, almost disbelieving. She bent until her forehead rested against his, her hair spilling across his pillow, her tears damp at his temple. Her voice broke open again. “You remember me.”

He managed a grin, raw and cracked but his all the same. “Hard to forget,” he rasped.

She laughed then, a sharp, wet sound that shivered with relief and exhaustion. She pressed her mouth to his temple, his cheek, his hair, frantic as if kissing him could stitch him back whole. “V. You’re here. You came back to me. Don’t you ever—” her voice snagged—“don’t you ever scare me like that again.”

He tried to raise his arm but it trembled, so instead he squeezed her hand. Weak, but steady. “Told you,” he said, each word dragging rough through his throat, “couldn’t get rid of me that easy.”

Panam’s tears turned into something fiercer, a smile burning through even as her voice shook. “Stupid,” she said, brushing his hair back with trembling fingers. “You don’t get to go anywhere without me.” Her touch lingered over his jaw, his throat, tucking the blanket tighter over him as if she could hold him in place with her own hands.

Carol moved at his side, checking the lines on the cracked monitor, but her eyes were bright, and she turned away under the pretense of reaching for gauze. Mitch stood a pace back, the harsh set of his shoulders easing for the first time since they had fled the facility.

But Panam saw none of it. Her whole world was V, breathing beneath her hands, his voice speaking her name. She whispered it against his skin again and again, as though repeating it could pin him here: “You’re here. You’re here.”

The chorus stirred faint in the back of his mind, layered voices registering the moment. Stability improving. Anchor confirmed.

He forced it away. This was not theirs. This was hers.

His throat burned with the effort, but he pushed out one more word. “Stay.” Small, but enormous.

Her hand cupped his cheek, steady and fierce. “Always,” she promised. No hesitation.

For a long moment the tent was only the sound of her breath against his, the faint hiss of the saline drip, and his heartbeat hammering through his ribs.

Then Panam pulled back enough to look into his eyes. Relief still streaked her face, but it mixed with fear she couldn’t hide. “You don’t know what it was like,” she said, her voice trembling. “You looked right at me and you didn’t know me. I thought I’d lost you for good.”

His chest tightened, the memory stabbing sharp, shame burning through the haze. “I remember,” he said hoarsely. “Not your face, not then. Just the hole it left.” His hand twitched in hers, weak but earnest. “But I know you now. Don’t let me forget that. Don’t… let me lose you.”

Panam bent her head again, pressing her lips to his temple. “You won’t,” she whispered. “Not while I’ve got breath left in me.”

Carol’s voice cut through, blunt but not unkind. “He’s awake, yes. But don’t fool yourselves—he’s not healed. His pulse is weak. His body’s chewed up. And his mind…” She let the words hang. Her hand settled briefly on Panam’s shoulder, softer than her tone. “You’ve got him back for now. Hold on to that.”

Mitch stepped closer then, his voice steady, low. “We’ll keep him upright. That’s what matters. One mile at a time.”

V turned his head slightly toward him, his lips twisting into the shadow of a grin. “Wouldn’t be the first time you had to drag me along.”

Mitch’s jaw flexed, but his eyes softened. “And it won’t be the last. So don’t make it harder than it needs to be.”

Panam let out a laugh through her tears, fragile and real. She tucked herself close to V again, her fingers stroking his cheek. “You stubborn idiot,” she whispered, love and anger tangled together. “You scared ten years off me. But you remembered me. That’s all I need.”

V closed his eyes, her touch anchoring him more firmly than any machine. The chorus stirred faintly in the back of his skull, murmuring its data in patterns he refused to hear. The only voice he let in was hers.

Panam stayed bent over him, her forehead resting against his, her tears cooling where they fell. Outside, the camp shifted in muted rhythm—fires hissing, voices low, the night pressing tight around them. Inside the med corner there was only the sound of his breath against hers, fragile but present, proof enough that he was still here.

For the first time since the lab, she let her body unclench. She let herself believe.

V’s eyes fluttered shut, his hand still weak in hers. Panam kissed his temple once more, fierce and certain, and whispered into the dark, “That’s all I need.”

Chapter Text

The lanterns burned low, pools of amber trembling on thin canvas. Outside, the desert sighed—boots shifting in sand, a cough by the fire, murmurs too faint to catch. Inside, the med corner was small and taut, just a cot, a stool, and two hands locked together as if they alone could hold the world together.

V’s skin was fever-warm, his breath shallow but steady. His eyes cracked open, raw but alive. “Tell me again,” he rasped, the words rough stone. His thumb brushed across her knuckles in that steady rhythm he had always carried, a motion so small yet so constant that it unraveled her.

Her throat tightened. “You’ll regret it,” she said, forcing her voice soft. “I can talk until dawn.”

“Good.” His mouth tugged into the faint ghost of his grin. “Start wherever.”

So she did.

“The first time we met,” she said, brushing damp hair from his temple. “I thought you’d ask what you’d get out of helping me. But you didn’t hesitate. You helped me get my Thornton and the cargo back. Like it was already your fight.”

His lips curved faintly. “Couldn’t leave you stranded. You’d have shot me if I tried.”

Her laugh cracked with tears. That day still burned in her memory: her anger, his calm, the way trust had struck like a match in dry brush.

“More,” he whispered.

So she gave him the little house in the storm. “That night, storm shaking the walls. I stretched out on that sagging couch, feet up on your legs. You sat there like it was nothing, letting me take the space. And I passed out cold. First time in years I felt… safe. Like the world couldn’t touch me if you were there.”

His smile softened, eyes wet. “Best night of my life. Even better the morning after.”

“Our first kiss,” she whispered. Her lips brushed his temple. “You had no idea what it meant to me.”

His thumb pressed harder to her knuckles. “Changed everything.”

She gave him the Basilisk. “That night in the tank. Our minds linked. And then it wasn’t walls at all. It was you and me, connected everywhere. After, when you laughed—” her voice broke—“not cocky. Just… like you couldn’t believe you were allowed that happiness.”

His breath hitched, grin helpless. “And then the Raffen busted in.”

Her stomach twisted. That intrusion had been violent, cruel, but it hadn’t erased what they’d found in each other. “Doesn’t change what we had,” she said fiercely. “What we still have.”

His hand trembled but held hers. “More.”

She gave him the fire. “That night under the stars. You sat beside me, shoulder to shoulder, pointing up like skyscrapers had nothing on that sky. I leaned against you and thought…maybe you belonged out there. With the Aldecaldos. With me.”

His grin spread, soft and certain. “You were right.”

Her laugh broke with tears.

Then she gave him what came after they left Night City. “After Arasaka hit camp. You could’ve stayed down, but you didn’t. You pushed through the pain, carried crates, helped Mitch with his rig. You showed them you belonged, that you weren’t just a stranger in their midst. You earned it, every day.”

V’s grin tilted sharp. “Damn right. Family doesn’t sit while others are bustin’ their asses.”

Her chest swelled with pride and grief all tangled.

And then—the crack.

“Yeah,” he murmured, smiling, “I remember… signal continuity stabilizes during narrative input.”

Panam froze. The words were wrong, too sharp, not his. But his eyes were soft, his thumb still traced her hand, his smile warm.

Her stomach turned to stone. That wasn’t him. That was something else bleeding through.

He blinked at her, almost embarrassed, then frowned faintly. “Carol said I needed another blanket. Dakota said… thirty-six hours since fluids.”

Panam’s breath caught. Those were words spoken over his body, when the Relic had dropped him and she had sat helpless while Carol fetched linen and Dakota counted hours aloud. He hadn’t been conscious. He couldn’t have known.

So how the hell did he hear them?

Terror coiled through her chest, cold and sharp. Is this him? Or is this the thing inside, wearing his voice?

She forced her thumb steady at his temple, kept her face calm though her heart hammered like a drum. If I let him see my fear, it’ll cut deeper than anything they’ve done to him.

He blinked again, confusion in his eyes. “Go on. I like your voice.”

Panam’s body shook. She couldn’t. Not now. The stories had filled him, yes, but they had opened cracks too, and she needed a moment to breathe. She leaned forward, pressed her forehead to his, and whispered fiercely, “Just hold me. Let me breathe you in.”

His weak arm lifted, slow and clumsy, wrapping around her shoulder. His chest rose and fell against hers.

“Always,” he whispered, grin helpless, radiant.

And she prayed it was still him who said it.

The silence between them had softened, almost tender. Panam breathed against his shoulder, counting the faint thud of his heart under her ear, convincing herself it was steady enough, real enough. His hand, weak but willing, rested at her back. For the first time since the lab, she felt something fragile but whole: the sense that she wasn’t holding on alone.

Then his chest shifted beneath her cheek.

V’s voice came, but it wasn’t his.

“We require her to maintain continuity. She is the stabilizing element. Without her, collapse follows.”

The words were calm, almost gentle, as if meant to soothe. But the cadence was wrong, too measured, the timbre layered with an echo that didn’t belong. It was V’s throat, V’s breath—but it wasn’t V.

Panam froze. Her whole body went still against him, every muscle locked. Her mind clawed at the words, replaying them. We require. Stabilizing element. Collapse follows. Not the man she loved. Not even his fear or confusion. Something colder, deeper, other.

She pulled back, slow and mechanical, like any sudden movement might shatter him. His eyes blinked open, warm and bewildered, no trace of what had just left his mouth. “Panam?” he asked, brow furrowing. “What? Did I say something?”

Her stomach lurched. He doesn’t know.

Her lips trembled, but she forced them still. She reached for his cheek, smoothing sweat from his skin like nothing had happened. “You said I keep you steady,” she lied, voice steady only by will. “That I’m your anchor.”

“Damn right,” he murmured, faint grin tugging at his mouth. He looked at her with nothing but devotion.

She wanted to believe that was the truth. That grin. Those eyes. But the words still echoed in her skull like a knife dragged across glass.

Behind her, a shadow shifted. Mitch stood at the edge of the lantern glow, his frame filling the tent’s mouth. He had heard. His jaw was clenched, face carved tight, the kind of look he wore in firefights when something had gone wrong and no one wanted to say it aloud. For once, Mitch didn’t hide it. The worry showed, raw and unguarded. His hand rose halfway, as if to steady himself, then dropped.

Panam’s pulse hammered. She pressed her forehead back to V’s, forcing calm into her voice. “It’s all right. I’m here.”

“Good,” he whispered. His thumb brushed her knuckles, oblivious.

But inside, Panam’s thoughts screamed. What if it isn’t him anymore? What if every memory I give him feeds it too? She saw again the way he had repeated Carol’s mutter, Dakota’s count. He had been unconscious, writhing under the Relic, and yet those words had crawled into him — or into it.

She clutched him tighter, trying to mask the shiver running through her body. He’s here. He’s still here. He has to be.

V blinked at her, confused by her grip. “Panam?”

Her heart clenched. “Shh,” she whispered, pressing her lips to his damp hair. “Just rest.”

But her eyes flicked once toward Mitch, and in that split second of contact she saw it mirrored in him: the same terror she couldn’t give voice to.

The fire had burned low, more ember than flame. What light it gave was restless, smoke-plumed, painting every face in shifting red and shadow. The night air carried the dry bite of sand and sweat, the faint tang of blood still clinging to the convoy. Around the crate in the fire’s circle, the Aldecaldos gathered in half-silhouettes, their voices a low current punctured now and then by anger, or fear, or silence too heavy to leave unremarked.

On the crate itself, the shard lay waiting. Black glass, edges catching every flicker of flame and sending it back in garnet gleams, as if it drank the fire and bled it out in pieces. No one wanted to touch it, yet no one could take their eyes off it. It had the weight of a weapon or a curse—promise and danger in one sealed form.

Thompson’s voice broke the quiet first, rough and certain, as if it had been sitting in his chest waiting for the air to sour enough to force it out. “We’re not doing this again.” He leaned forward on his knees, rifle balanced across his thighs like punctuation, face dark with lines of smoke-shadow. “We saw what Arasaka did to him—turned him into a goddamn experiment until he was spitting blood and losing pieces of himself. Then StormTech puts him on a table and does the same, only with a smile and a clipboard. We keep chasing crumbs corps leave us, and it’s always the same ending: him torn apart, us left cleaning up.”

He jabbed a finger toward the shard without touching it. “And now you want to follow that? Might as well hand him back to the dogs and slit our own throats on the way out.”

A ripple moved through the group. Shoulders hunched, eyes averted. A murmur: “He’s right,” then another, “But we can’t just—” and silence swallowed the rest.

Cassidy sat opposite, hat shoved back, both hands wrapped around a tin cup he hadn’t touched in an hour. He’d always looked easy near a fire, legs sprawled, words slung like dice across the circle. Not tonight. His body sagged into itself, shoulders bowed, the lines at his mouth softening into something that wasn’t age so much as grief worn thin. The firelight picked the wet at the corners of his eyes before he tipped his head down to shadow them.

“You think I don’t see it?” His voice was quiet, hoarse with smoke and weariness. “That kid’s burning out right in front of us. He’s trying to smile, trying to hang on. But every time he opens his mouth, it’s like something else is riding shotgun.” He shook his head once, slow, the brim of his hat cutting his face in half. “I’ve buried too many. Can’t do it again. Not him. Not like this.”

The words landed like coals in the circle. No bravado, no temper—just naked hurt.

Thompson bristled. “And what, Cass? You think the answer’s in that shard? You want to believe some technomancer fairy tale? It’s corpo bait. Put your lips on it and something yanks. That’s all it is.” His voice cracked, not with doubt but with rage. “We trusted StormTech, and look where it got us. You want to roll the dice again? Fine. But don’t expect me to clap when the whole table goes down.”

Cassidy’s hands tightened on the cup until the tin creaked. For a second his jaw worked, words trapped. When they came, they weren’t fury, but something heavier. “I don’t care if it’s bait. I don’t care if it’s another scam. If there’s one chance in a hundred it gets him out of this, I’ll take it. Because doing nothing?” His voice broke, and he let it, not trying to hide the tremor. “Doing nothing puts him in the ground. And I’m not watching that happen. Not to him.”

A long silence followed. Sparks drifted, settled, died.

Carol shifted from the edge of the circle, where she had been standing with her arms folded, face taut. She’d always been the one to cut through with pragmatism, the voice that made hard truths sound like facts you had no choice but to swallow. Tonight her words came sharp, but softer around the edges than usual, like grief had sanded them. “You’re both right, and it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t have time for us to stand around arguing. You saw him in there.” She glanced at the tent where Panam’s shadow bent over the cot. “Weeks. Maybe. Not years. We can’t afford indecision. Indecision kills just as fast as any corp.”

The murmurs flared again. Someone whispered, “But if it’s a trap?” Another, “If we walk blind into their hands?” A third: “If we don’t, he dies anyway.”

The shard gleamed like it was listening, catching every word and turning it cruel.

Cassidy rubbed at his face with one hand, palm dragging down over his eyes. When it dropped, the wetness hadn’t left, but his voice steadied into something ragged and resolute. “I don’t know if this shard saves him. I just know if we sit on our asses, we lose him. And I’m done losing family.”

Silence again, heavy and suffocating. The fire spat once, sparks scattering and dying. The shard gleamed red in their reflections.

And still, no one reached for it.

The circle around the fire thinned and thickened like breath. People drifted closer, then back again, pulled by the shard’s gravity the way dust is pulled by heat. It lay on the crate as if it had grown there, drinking firelight and returning it in hard little cuts of red. No one touched it. Even the wind seemed to balk at crossing the line it cast on the dirt.

The tent flap stirred.

Mitch stepped out of the med corner into the night and let the wind hit him full in the face. He stood for a long heartbeat without moving, as if he had to let the air wash the last of Panam’s trembling from his skin before he brought any of it into the circle. When he came forward, it was with that particular quiet he wore on bad roads: no theatrics, no stomp, the kind of stillness that made space for other people’s fear to settle without spilling.

He stopped at the crate and looked down at the shard. His shadow fell over it. The thing reflected him in a warped bright sliver that refused to hold any one shape for long. Mitch rested his fingertips on the wood first, feeling the grain, the warmth the fire had driven into the board. Then he lifted his hand and closed it around the shard like you take up a tool. Not reverent, not careless. Careful.

Thompson’s jaw flexed. Cassidy’s hands clenched on empty air where his tin cup had been. Carol didn’t move at all; only her eyes changed, something tight uncoiling behind them.

Mitch didn’t hold the shard up. He didn’t make a scene of it. He set it back down in the exact center of the crate so it didn’t wobble, so the red glint sat dead true. The small click when glass met wood cut clean through the fire’s hiss.

“We move on this,” he said. Not loud. Not a challenge. A statement you could turn a wheel to.

The circle breathed out. In the release, arguments that had been braced for impact softened into questions.

Thompson’s voice came in low, flinty. “You’re sure this isn’t another leash?”

Mitch didn’t answer the edge; he answered the man. “I’m sure sitting here gets him dead.” He looked over the faces, not asking for permission and not shoving past anyone’s grief. “We take the risk that buys him time. We make it our risk, not theirs.”

Cassidy swallowed hard. His voice found itself, hushed and hoarse. “What’s the plan, Mitch?”

Mitch tipped his head, already turning lines into routes. “Break camp before first light. Two hours. We ghost the main tracks. Cut east by the dry wash, pick up the old radio towers as a spine. No highways. We keep off their scopes by being smaller than their budget.”

Someone in the ring—Marisol, the newest driver with hands too small for the wheel she loved—said, “Fuel?”

“We’re tight,” Mitch said. “But not empty.” He cut his hand once through the air, short and precise. “Stan and Jaro pull the siphon from the spares. We’ll run mixed. It’ll cough, it’ll run. We top at the wind farm, two cans stashed in the break box under the southern most stand. Cassidy, you hid them. You remember the spot?”

Cassidy’s mouth twitched like pain. “Could find it blind.”

“Good.” Mitch’s gaze moved. “Scouts. Alba, Théo. You take the bikes. No heroics. Eyes only. If you see anything, you turn the other way and let it wonder where we went.”

Alba half-raised a hand. “If we see a drone?”

“You don’t,” Mitch said, and the deadpan almost smiled, almost. “If you do, you don’t wave.”

Low laughter rippled and burned out fast, more relief valve than humor. Even Thompson’s mouth loosened half a notch.

Mitch pointed, a slow clock-hand ticking. “Medical. Carol, Dakota—you prep the cot for travel. Shock ties at all four corners. Double the straps. I want his IV on a soft line and the pump cushioned so it doesn’t chatter itself stupid on washboard. Any meds we have with numbers we can’t get twice go into the green kit under Panam’s seat. No exceptions.”

Carol nodded once, her voice practical and gentle in the same breath. “He’ll need a shade and a breeze. He’s running hot.” She glanced toward the tent and her eyes warmed. “She won’t leave him.”

“She won’t,” Mitch said. He didn’t look toward the canvas when he said it. “We don’t ask her to.”

That landed. Everyone heard the mercy tucked inside the logistics. He wasn’t pushing Panam aside. He was building the rail that would keep her on the path.

“Truck order,” he went on. “I’ll take point with the med rig. Panam rides there, in the back with V. Cassidy, you’re on my left. Thompson, you’re on my right. If anything breaks, it breaks around us, and we eat it before it hits them.” He let the words sit until even the people who’d been halfway turned away were turned back. “If we have to leave a trailer in the sand, we do it. We don’t leave anyone else.”

Thompson grunted. “No fires on the move. No radios out loud.”

“Burn only cold,” Mitch agreed. “If we have to signal, you use your hand, not your mouth.”

From the far edge of the circle, one of the elders, Luz, whose voice always sounded like wind through tin, said, “What if the shard runs us into a wall? What if this contact is nothing but a story someone told us to make us kneel?”

Mitch’s eyes returned to the black glass. He didn’t flinch from it, didn’t try to make it less ugly. “Then we hit the wall with our eyes open and our hands on the wheel.” He spread his palm flat on the crate for a beat, as if feeling the heartbeat of the wood. “If it’s a lie, we’ll call it a lie and turn on a dime. If it’s a door, we walk through. But we move. The only thing that kills him for sure is us standing still.”

The youngest voices, usually loudest in easy hours, were quiet. They watched Mitch like people watch a bridge when they’re not sure if it will hold a truck: not doubting the steel, just counting the bolts.

Cassidy scrubbed his fingers through his beard and let the breath that had been living like a fist in his lungs come out. “I’ll have the siphon running in five,” he said. “And I’ll wake the ones who can’t afford to sleep through a call.”

Thompson tipped his chin, something begrudging and honest flickering there. “I’ll check the tires. Make sure we don’t blow rubber on the first hump.” He paused. The next words were dry as rope but true. “You call it, I’ll back it.”

Carol lifted her chin toward the tent. “He’s not going to like the ride.”

“He’s going to hate it,” Mitch said. “And he’s going to survive it.” He looked around the circle and let that be the end of it: not a threat, not hope, a plan.

He hooked the shard off the crate and weighed it once in his palm. The firelight snagged along the edge like a razor. For a moment his reflection cut across the surface—the straight line of his mouth, the set of a man who knows he isn’t allowed to be tired yet. He slid the shard into a leather pouch at his belt, then cinched the strap so it lay flat against him, not jangling, not visible unless you were looking for it.

“Marisol,” he said, “you take the kids to the second ring and you tell them truth without ghosts. We’re moving at dawn. It’s going to be hot and long and loud. They pack their bags small and their hearts light. No nightmares before we even pull chocks.”

Marisol straightened like a young tree catching wind. “Yes, boss.”

Alba flicked her visor. “Théo and me’ll run the wash now. If there’s glass on the ridge, we’ll see the shine.”

“Don’t eat sand for fun,” Cassidy muttered, the old gentleness not entirely dead, and Théo flashed him a fox grin that said he had no intention of pretending the desert liked him back.

People began to move. It wasn’t a rush. It was a tightening—the way a hand closes around a rope. Buckles clicked. Canvas thudded. The quiet murmur of tasks found its groove: the sound a clan makes when it decides to keep itself alive.

Mitch didn’t move right away. He stood with one palm flat on the crate, eyes on the fire, letting the heat talk to him. A thought ran across his face and set. He turned a fraction to Thompson. “If we lose the second rig,” he said, “you peel to block and Cass runs the back gate. No heroics, just meat in front of the bullet.”

Thompson grinned without joy. “Meat we can do.”

Mitch gave him half a nod that meant I know what you are worth and I’m spending it with care. He looked to Cassidy. “You keep your head up. If I go down, you lift the line. Don’t wait for me to say it.”

Cassidy looked like a man who wanted to argue out of loyalty and could not. He nodded once, a small thing that landed like an oath. “I’ll carry it.”

Carol drifted in close enough to put two fingers against Mitch’s elbow. A brief, human touch. “You’re taking too much of this on your own,” she said, not scolding, stating.

“Someone’s got to take the first bite,” Mitch answered, eyes still on the camp coming alive in small motions. “Better it’s me.”

“Doesn’t mean you have to chew the whole thing,” she said. There was fondness and warning living in the same line. Then she was gone, already counting bandages, measuring lines.

Mitch finally allowed himself to glance toward the med corner. Through the canvas seam, he could see the suggestion of Panam in profile, bent over the cot, the angle of her shoulders soft, fierce, spent. He didn’t let himself go there long. He made a wall in his head that said: she carries him; I carry the road. The division was not fairness. It was survival.

He stepped back from the crate and the space he left filled with work. Men and women moved with the quiet grace of people who had done this too many times to waste words on it. Someone doused the fire to coals and set a lid to keep the wind from throwing sparks. Someone else rolled canvas with hands that shook once then didn’t. In the near dark, faces looked older and younger by turns.

“Two hours,” Mitch said, once, to the air. It wasn’t a reminder. It was a beat to set the drumline.

He turned and went to the med rig and checked the straps on the cot bolted into the floor, the way the frame flexed when he leaned his weight into it, the play in the shock ties that would have to eat a thousand small vibrations before dawn. He laid his hand on the steel and told it what he wanted without any words. The truck answered by being what it had always been: more loyal than luck.

From inside the tent, a voice carried—Panam’s, low and tired and gentle as a hand on a fevered brow. Mitch didn’t listen for words. He let the sound itself be enough. It steadied something in him he hadn’t noticed wobbling.

Cassidy came up with a coil of hose over his shoulder. His eyes were red in the coal-glow, but his mouth had found its line again. “Fuel’s moving. We’ll smell like a refinery, but we’ll move.”

“Good.” Mitch worked a strap and made it sit cleaner. “Wake Jaro. He sleeps like he paid someone to stand watch for him.”

Cassidy snorted, a close cousin to a laugh. “On it.”

Thompson appeared with a handful of valve stems and the rag already black from checking the rubber. He held the rag up like a waiter with a menu. “Four good. Two maybe. We bringing a pump or we bringing a prayer?”

“Both,” Mitch said.

When the last tasks were tossed into motion and the long list in his head had shortened to the bone, Mitch returned to the crate one more time. He touched the pouch at his belt to make sure the shard’s weight was still where he’d put it. It was warm now from his body, not the fire. Somehow that made it feel less like a trap and more like a thing that had to pass through human hands to be used at all.

He stood in the center of the circle that an hour ago had been a pit of arguments and was now a wheel. He didn’t say thank you. He didn’t say trust me. Those words, right now, would make everything smaller. He just looked from face to face until each person had been seen and in return had seen him. That was what leadership meant out here. Not orders. Witness.

Then he broke the moment with the simplest instruction they knew. “Get to it.”

The clan moved.

Wind pressed at the canvas. Inside the med corner, Panam’s voice went on, a thread pulled through the night so V wouldn’t slip the seam. Outside, metal spoke, rubber thumped, small flames died to careful coals. The stars looked down like nails in a black board.

Mitch walked into the dark, toward the line of trucks, toward the work that would carry the family to whatever the shard had in it—wall or door, trap or way through. He did not pray. He counted bolts, he measured distances, he made sure every strap had the right give, and when he was done with that he started over. Dawn would not be kind. It didn’t have to be. It only had to come.

Chapter Text

The desert before dawn was a black sheet stretched tight over the earth. No stars bright enough to soften it, no moon to make the ground silver. Just cold air and the first tremor of engines rousing it.

One after another, rigs coughed awake, shaking dust from their frames. Exhaust curled white into the air, then flattened into long veils under the wind. Headlights cut thin cones through the dark, turning grit into slow rivers of gold. The sound spread across the camp until it became a single body, the clan’s pulse made mechanical.

Men and women moved between the hulks of steel, their shapes half-shadowed in the low glow. Buckles snapped. Canvas slapped. Crates thumped onto truck beds. Every action was sharp, practiced, and quiet—the way soldiers work when silence feels like armor. No one wasted a word, no one wasted a motion. There were no songs, no soft talk, no laughter bleeding through the work. Just the plain sound of people who had done this too many times and knew there was nothing to celebrate.

At the edge of the fire’s dying glow, the med rig stood waiting, braced with the cot bolted in the back. Mitch had checked the mounts twice before climbing into the driver’s seat, his frame turning the dash glow into a silhouette of hard shoulders and steady hands. He didn’t speak. His way of taking responsibility was silence, and everyone knew it.

Panam stood at the rear door with Carol and Dakota, watching them make the final adjustments. Carol pulled straps over the cot and drew them taut until the steel groaned, her jaw locked. Dakota crouched low, smoothing a line of tubing, murmuring something Panam couldn’t catch but that sounded like counting, like prayer dressed as numbers.

V lay still through it all. Pale, damp hair pressed to his forehead, lips parted, breath shallow but even. The drip beside him clicked slow, its clear rhythm measuring out the time they were gambling.

“Keep him steady,” Carol muttered, her voice low, almost a growl, like the desert itself needed the order. Her hand lingered on the IV line, then fell away. She looked at Panam once, not as medic to patient, but woman to woman, and then she was gone, stepping into the half-light to prepare her own truck.

Panam climbed in, pulling the door shut behind her. She sank onto the bench by the cot and folded her hand around his. The hum of the engine vibrated through the steel floor, a restless heart beneath them.

Outside, Cassidy climbed into his rig on the left flank, hands steady on the wheel, jaw set hard. Thompson settled into the right, rifle across his knees, already scanning the horizon though there was nothing to see yet.

The convoy began to align itself. Alba and Théo revved their bikes once, lights flashing quick across the sand before they killed them again—scouts ready. A hand lifted down the line, a lantern blinked twice, and the signal passed like a wave through the formation.

The first truck rolled forward, tires grinding, headlights sliding over grit. Another followed, then another. Engines roared low, and the camp dissolved behind them—the firepit left to smolder, the black circle of ash already surrendering to wind.

Dust rose and curled in pale banners behind the tires. The convoy stretched out into a column of shadows, each rig tucked tight to the next, no gaps for the desert to pry apart. The med rig at the center, flanked left and right, a body of steel and will wrapped around it.

Panam pressed her lips to V’s temple, whispering into his skin. She didn’t repeat prayers she’d already said; those had burned out hours ago. Now it was simpler, fiercer. She told him the road was waiting, that he belonged in it with her, that his hand was warm and she would not let it go cold. She told him that he had fought too hard to belong—fought for the Aldecaldos, for her, for himself—and that nothing would strip that away now.

His hand twitched weakly in hers, the smallest echo of the man who had once gripped a wheel with stubborn confidence. She held tighter, her thumb drawing slow circles over the bones of his knuckles. Not to remind herself he was alive—the rise and fall of his chest was proof enough—but to remind him that she knew it was still him. Somewhere behind the fever, behind the cracks, it was still him.

The engine growled louder as Mitch shifted up. The truck jolted forward, heavy but sure, and the world began to move under them.

Outside, the scouts peeled off, their bikes eating the sand in quick, darting lines. Inside, the med rig swayed with the rhythm of tires hitting ruts, shocks creaking under the weight of steel and a man who carried more than he should.

Panam leaned close, pressing her forehead against V’s temple. She breathed him in—the faint copper tang of dried blood in his hair, the sweat clinging to his skin, the salt that was him. Nothing about it was clean, but it was alive. And alive was everything.

The road stretched out black ahead. The clan moved as one. Dawn was out there somewhere, waiting with its merciless light.

And Panam, hand locked with his, vowed that when the sun rose, it would find them together, still moving.

The med rig moved like a ship on a black sea, rising and falling on the slow swells of sand and cracked asphalt. Every rut sent a shiver through the frame; every ridge drew a groan from the shocks. The lantern overhead swung on its hook, light spilling across the canvas in long, restless arcs. Metal rattled. The IV line clicked, steady and merciless, a metronome measuring seconds no one could afford.

Panam sat pressed close to the cot, her hand welded around V’s. The heat of his skin seeped into her palm—too hot, fever high—and still she held as if her grip could drag him back from wherever his mind kept slipping. She hadn’t let go since they’d set him down. Not when Carol strapped him in. Not when Mitch fired the engine. Not even now, when her hand cramped from the strain.

His chest rose shallow, lips parted. Sweat darkened his hairline, dampened the collar of his shirt. The fever had leached color from his face, leaving him pale but for the flush across his cheekbones. His breath rasped—soft, uneven, but steady enough to keep her alive alongside him.

The rig jolted. His eyes fluttered open. For a heartbeat, they were hazy, unfocused. Then they found her.

“Panam.”

Her name, raw and hoarse, but his.

It broke something in her. She leaned in fast, pressing her lips to his temple, whispering fiercely, “I’m here. Always. I’m right here.”

His mouth pulled into a crooked shadow of a smile. “Good. Thought… maybe I dreamed you.”

She laughed, the sound jagged and wet. “Not a chance.”

He blinked, slow, eyes tracing her face like he was carving it into memory. “You’re… beautiful. Even with the frown.” His thumb shifted, weak but deliberate, dragging over her knuckles.

Tears pricked her eyes. “Shut up,” she said, laughing through them, but her hand tightened on his like a lifeline.

The rig hit another dip. The lantern swung. His eyelids flickered.

“You need… fluids intake. Thirty-two percent below baseline.”

The words hit like a blade. Clinical. Flat. Not his cadence.

Panam froze. Her heart jerked in her chest. The smile stayed on her face only by force. It’s not him. It’s bleeding through again.

She kissed his temple hard, her lips trembling against damp skin. “You’re fine. With me. You’ll get what you need.”

His eyes blinked back open, soft again, confusion shading them. “Course I am. Always with you.” His grin—fragile, human—returned, as if nothing strange had passed his lips at all.

Her chest twisted. She forced herself to stroke his hair, to smile back.

The drip clicked. The lantern swung. The hum of engines pressed against the canvas like a heartbeat.

He stirred again, voice a rasp. “Remember… the couch? Storm outside. You stretched out… feet on me. Out cold. Safe.”

Her throat closed. She saw it again: the sagging motel couch, the storm howling outside, his steady presence anchoring her until her body had let go for the first time in years. She pressed her forehead to his, whispering, “That night saved me.”

“Saved me too,” he breathed. His lips twitched, weak. “First time… felt like home.”

Her tears fell onto his cheek, hot sliding into hot. She didn’t wipe them.

His eyes slipped shut again. For a moment she thought he’d drifted into sleep. But his lips parted, and what came out froze her blood.

“Stabilizing element required. Pattern collapse accelerates.”

The words layered, faintly echoing, like a chorus threaded through the meat of his voice.

Panam’s chest seized. She gripped his hand so hard her fingers ached. It’s in him. It’s speaking through him. And he doesn’t even know.

“V?” she whispered, broken.

His eyes blinked open again—confused, innocent. “What’s wrong?”

Her throat locked. She pressed her forehead to his, hiding her face so he wouldn’t see the terror. Her voice came out steady, a lie wrapped in love. “Nothing. Just… hold on to me.”

His hand twitched weakly in hers, his lips forming the word again. “Panam.”

This time, it wasn’t fractured, wasn’t clinical. It was a plea. Her name like the last rope he could grip in the storm.

Her tears spilled fast, soaking into his hair. She kissed his temple, his jaw, the back of his hand, whispering his name back to him like an anchor. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you. Always.”

The lantern swayed. Shadows dragged across his face, hollowing him, then softening him again. She clung to the warmth of his skin, the rhythm of his breath, the sound of her name in his voice.

Her mind screamed with fear, but her body stayed wrapped around him, steady, unyielding. You’re still you. You’re still mine. No machine, no voice, no corps gets to take that from me.

The convoy roared on. The med rig swayed. Dawn edged closer, hard and merciless. And Panam sat with his name burning in her chest, refusing to let go.

The lantern swung wider with the rig’s motion, shadows rolling like tides across the canvas. Panam’s cheeks were wet, her hand aching from how tightly she clung to his. She forced her breath steady, forced her shoulders not to shake, because the weight of her trembling would only press him further under.

V’s eyes fluttered again, lashes trembling against his fevered skin. He murmured, half in dream, “Remember… Basilisk. Metal walls. Then… just us. Linked.” His mouth curved faint, a ghost of wonder. “Never felt… closer.”

Panam’s chest constricted. She bent to kiss his damp hair, whispering against him, “I remember. It was only us.”

His expression softened, but then the line of his lips shifted, words turning mechanical, alien. “Neural convergence optimal. Integration complete.”

Her stomach twisted. The blood roared in her ears. No. That was ours. That was love, not code.

She cupped his face in both hands, shaking her head, whispering desperately, “It was real. It was ours. Nothing else.” Her thumb stroked his fevered cheek, as if she could scrub the intrusion out.

His eyes blinked open, dazed but warm. “Panam,” he rasped again, softer this time, the syllables clinging to his breath like it was all he had left.

Her tears came hot again. She pressed her lips to his forehead, whispering, “Yes. I’m here. Always.”

The rig jostled. His eyes drifted once more, gaze unfocused, chasing some memory only he could see. “The fire… stars above. You leaned on me.” A smile flickered. “Told me… I belonged.”

Panam’s throat tightened. She could see it: the wide desert sky, the sparks rising from the flames, her head on his shoulder. That moment when her heart cracked open and she admitted to herself he wasn’t just passing through — he was hers, he was theirs.

But then his tone shifted again, breaking cold. “Assimilation successful. Integration into family unit ensures stability.”

Her heart slammed against her ribs. Fury and terror tangled sharp in her chest. No. Not family unit. Family. Ours. Ours.

She bent over him, clutching his hand to her lips, biting back a sob. It can twist his body, It can tear his mind—but It doesn’t get to rewrite what’s ours.

Her inner voice burned, low and savage: I will kill anyone, anything, that tries.

V’s hand twitched weakly, fingers curling around hers. He blinked, gaze hazy but searching, and his lips formed her name again. “Panam…”

Her breath broke, a sob she smothered in his hair. “Yes. Yes, my love. I’ve got you.”

She rocked with the motion of the rig, with the weight of his body under her hands, with the ache of knowing the line between man and machine had thinned to a razor. But so long as he said her name, so long as he reached for her, she would hold the line.

The convoy rolled on, dust banners rising in the dark behind them. The med rig swayed with every rut. The lantern clicked against its hook. And Panam clung to him like she could carry both their souls, through every fracture, every mile, until dawn gave them another chance.

Panam sat bowed over V, his hand clutched to her lips. He had drifted again, eyes half-lidded, but still he whispered her name, soft and broken. Every syllable was a blade and a blessing both.

She pressed his fingers against her cheek, letting the warmth seep into her skin, letting it burn through her fear. He’s still reaching for me. That’s all I need.

But the other words—the clinical fragments, the alien phrases—coiled in her chest like knives she couldn’t pull out. Every time they came, she wanted to stop him, to shake him, to ask what did you mean? Do you know what you’re saying? The questions burned at the back of her throat, sharper than the salt of her tears.

And yet she bit them back. What if asking snapped him in two? What if dragging those words into the open only gave them more ground to stand on? What if the answer was worse than silence?

Her jaw ached from holding it in. Her body trembled with words unsaid. She kissed his knuckles again instead, praying he would only remember her touch, not the fear she couldn’t hide.

Her eyes lifted for a moment, more reflex than choice, and found the narrow rectangle of the rearview mirror. Mitch’s eyes were there, pale in the dash glow, watching through the glass. He hadn’t spoken once since they’d pulled out, but the weight in his gaze landed like a hand on her shoulder.

For a heartbeat, Panam wanted to collapse into it. To admit she was breaking, that she was terrified of losing more than she had to give. But she didn’t. She only held V tighter, letting Mitch see the truth in her grip instead of words: she would not let go.

Mitch gave no nod, no word. His eyes returned to the road, shoulders square, steady as ever. But the silence between them carried its own vow: she would hold V, he would hold the clan, and together they’d carry the miles until there was nothing left to carry.

The lantern swung. The IV clicked. V breathed her name again, faint as a ghost.

And Panam whispered back into his hair, “I’ve got you,” letting it be a promise not just to him, but to herself.

The lantern’s sway slowed, then steadied, as the rig leveled onto a flatter stretch of ground. Panam exhaled into V’s hair, holding his name in her mouth like it was the only prayer she trusted. The world inside the med rig was small, a cocoon of sweat, salt, and fear.

But outside, the clan carried the weight with her. Engines grumbled, tires cut grooves into the sand, and shadows rode shoulder to shoulder with the trucks. Cassidy’s rig rumbled steady on their left, his headlights throwing pale arcs across the grit. Thompson’s to the right, rifle propped on the dash, profile cut sharp against the glow. The scouts flickered ahead in quick bursts of light, vanishing into the dark again.

The convoy was more than steel; it was family stretched thin and taut, every mile demanding more than they could spare, every mile bought with silence.

And around the low burn of the engines, voices began to surface—fragments carried on the wind and the hum of the road. Doubt. Weariness. Anger. Grief.

The campfire debate had never really ended. It had only shifted to wheels.

The convoy stretched across the desert like a spine of steel and light. Headlights threw pale arcs through the dust, shadows riding with them, long and shifting. Engines grumbled in rhythm, not quite song, more like a heartbeat trying to steady itself.

Inside the med rig, Panam clung to V’s hand. But outside, the family carried its part of the weight, each cab a world unto itself, each driver fighting their own silence.

Cassidy’s rig held the left flank, its headlights sweeping wide over the grit. Inside, the cab was a small cage of dust and old tobacco, the seat worn through at the edges, the dash cracked where years of heat had baked it. His hat brim threw shadow across his face, but the lines at the corners of his mouth were cut deep, too deep for one night’s work.

He drove with both hands locked tight on the wheel, knuckles pale in the glow. His jaw worked like he was chewing words he couldn’t say. Every so often, his mouth opened—to sing, to joke, to spit some old line like he always did—but nothing came out. The silence pressed too heavy.

He reached once for the cup by his side, found it empty, and set it down again with more force than he meant to. The sound was small, but it cracked the stillness in the cab, reminding him how alone he was in it.

For a moment, his eyes flicked toward the med rig’s taillights. He imagined Panam in there, bent over the boy, gripping him like if she let go he’d dissolve. He imagined V himself—pale, broken, fighting. He’d seen too many men carried like that and never come back.

Cassidy’s throat tightened. His grip on the wheel slackened, then tightened again. He muttered something low, not even words, just breath given shape, and pressed his boot firmer to the floor, keeping pace with Mitch’s lead.

The road hummed beneath them, endless, merciless. The desert around them stretched blank and black. But his eyes never left the faint glow of the med rig ahead, as if by watching it he could keep the man inside tethered to the world.

Cassidy’s rig rattled in every seam, the cab filled with the hum of tired suspension and the faint whistle of wind pushing through cracks in the window seals. The radio on the dash had been dead for years, but he still glanced at it sometimes, like it might spit out a song by accident, save him from the weight of his own silence.

The wheel trembled under his hands, not from the road but from the way he held it, grip too tight, shoulders locked. He knew he was burning muscle for no reason, but he couldn’t loosen it. If he let go, even a little, he felt like something would slip—the truck, the convoy, maybe even the kid’s life in the rig beside him.

The desert slid past in a blur of dust and faint scrub, but his eyes weren’t on the horizon. They kept drifting right, toward the med rig’s rear lights glowing steady in the dark. The sight knifed him. How many times had he watched those same lights leading the way home, bright with Panam’s stubbornness and V’s reckless laughter spilling out behind them? Now the glow felt fragile, like a candle carried too far from shelter.

His throat worked as he swallowed, dry as grit. He remembered the way V had pulled his weight after the raid, half-dead and still moving crates like he had something to prove. The way he’d taken ribbing from the older Aldecaldos without snapping, until one day the ribbing had turned to claps on the back. Cassidy had told himself then—alright, maybe the boy’s earned his boots in the dirt after all.

And now? Now the kid was sprawled pale and sweating, strapped to a cot like freight too precious to lose.

Cassidy’s jaw clenched. He bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted iron. Should’ve been me before him. Old bones first. Leave the young to drive the road. That was how the world was supposed to work. Elders went first. Heirs followed after. Not the other way around.

The wheel creaked as he twisted it harder than the bend required. He forced himself to ease up, hands shaking once before steadying.

He wanted to talk—to say something over the comms, to spit a joke just to prove he could still find one. But the words sat like rocks in his chest, too heavy to push out. And besides, no one would answer. Mitch had set the order: silence. Save it for later. If later came.

So Cassidy drove, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the med rig’s lights. Each mile felt like it carved another piece off him. He didn’t mind the carving. What he hated was that he couldn’t give enough of himself to keep V whole.

He muttered under his breath again, rough and low. This time it was words, though no one heard them. “Stay with us, kid. Just… stay.”

The cab swallowed the sound. Only the wheel answered, shuddering faint under his grip.

Cassidy’s hands flexed against the wheel, knuckles bone-white in the glow. He thought of that night by the fire, stars spread wide overhead. V hadn’t said much—just sat shoulder to shoulder with Panam, letting her lean without flinching, without making a show of it. Most outsiders fidgeted under that kind of closeness, like they didn’t know how to fit in the quiet. But V had just… belonged. No swagger, no trying too hard. Just there, like he’d been sitting at that fire his whole life.

Cassidy remembered watching the flames dance across the kid’s face, thinking, alright, maybe he isn’t just a stray Panam dragged home. Maybe he’s got desert in him after all.

That was when the ribbing shifted. When Cassidy stopped aiming to push him out and started testing if he’d stay.

Now the memory clawed at his chest. He gripped the wheel tighter, jaw tight. “Damn stubborn,” he muttered into the empty cab. “You fought too hard to sit this one out.”

Carol’s rig rode near the rear, a broad-bodied hauler patched so many times it was more scar than steel. The wheel hummed steady under her hands, the dash light painting her knuckles pale. She drove with her spine straight, eyes cutting the road in practiced sweeps, every flick of her gaze ticking off the same list she’d kept for years: fuel, suspension, tire pressure, load weight. The rhythm of survival.

It should have been enough to keep her mind busy. Usually it was. Tonight, it wasn’t.

She had Panam’s shoulders burned into the back of her eyes; the way the girl hunched over that cot, all her fire funneled down to one trembling grip. And V himself, pale as a corpse but stubbornly alive, ribs working like bellows too thin for the job. Carol had tended enough wounds to know the difference between a man on the mend and a man circling the drain. V was closer to the second, and that knowledge sat in her gut like a stone.

She gripped the wheel tighter. Her pragmatism had always been her shield, her tool. When everyone else wanted to howl or break, she had the numbers, the hands, the orders. Do this. Stitch that. Boil the water. Keep moving. You don’t let grief set the pace. You don’t let fear decide the order of operations.

But she wasn’t blind.

She’d seen Panam crack in that med corner. The girl had been steel all through the raid, barking at drivers, firing her rifle until her arms shook. Then, beside that cot, she’d folded. Carol had wanted to reach for her—wanted to put arms around her like she had when Panam was younger and brash, trying too hard to prove herself. But you can’t comfort and command at the same time, not without breaking something essential. So Carol had swallowed it, wrapped it tight in silence, and let her orders stand in for love.

Now, alone in the cab, the silence gave her no place to hide it.

Her throat worked around a breath she didn’t want to name. She thought of V’s hand, limp against the cot rails, fingers raw from restraints. She thought of Panam kissing his knuckles like each one was holy, whispering vows Carol was too practical to speak but not too cold to feel. The sight of it had hurt—not because it was weakness, but because it was love so fierce it left no room for air.

She envied it, in a way. And she feared it too.

Her own love came out different. Not fire, not tenderness. Hers was bandages ripped off quick, words sharp enough to sting but clean enough to heal. She had loved the whole clan like that for years—through hunger, through raids, through births and burials. That was her way. But seeing Panam break, seeing the man who was so stubbornly strong gasping against the weight of his own body… it dug under her armor.

She adjusted her grip on the wheel, watching the faint glow of the med rig’s lights through the dust. For the first time in a long while, she let herself admit the truth: she cared for V. Not just because Panam did, not just because the clan had grudgingly folded him in. She cared because he had fought for it. Because he had bled in their sand and come back grinning anyway. Because he had started carrying crates without being asked, fixing what he could even when it wasn’t enough. He’d earned her love the only way anyone ever did in the Aldecaldos—by giving more of himself than he had to.

And now he was dying.

The thought struck like a wrench to the chest. She exhaled hard, jaw tight. Not yet. Not if I have anything to say about it.

Carol let one hand slip from the wheel long enough to press against her thigh, grounding herself in the pressure. The road was merciless, the night longer than most, but she would not let it take him. Not while Panam still had her hands locked around his. Not while the clan had fuel and bullets left. Not while she had strength in her own bones.

Her eyes burned, but no tears fell. They never did while she worked. She saved those for when the job was done.

Ahead, the med rig’s taillights glowed steady, flanked by Cassidy on one side, Thompson on the other. Carol focused on them, let the sight sharpen into resolve. That rig carried the clan’s heart right now, fragile and burning. And if it meant driving this hauler into the ground to shield them, she’d do it without a word.

She flexed her fingers once on the wheel, shook the ache from her wrists, and muttered under her breath—not prayer, not hope, but a promise as pragmatic as a stitch pulled tight:

“You’re not leaving her. Not tonight. Not while I’m here.”

The rig hummed steady. The desert stretched blank and endless. Carol kept her eyes forward and her grip firm, carrying her part of the weight in silence.

The road’s weight pressed in through every crack of Carol’s rig—vibration in her bones, the thump of tires over sand, the smell of hot metal and sweat. The cab was half-dark, dash lights dim and harsh, her hands around the wheel as if holding the weight of every life she served. She kept her posture stern, rigid, like the rig itself; it felt necessary now.

Night after night, she had been the one who fixed what she could. Who patched wounds, loaded bandages, boiled water, set up shifts. But more than wounds, there were fractures she couldn’t sew: Panam’s silence stretched between words, V’s labored breath even when he tried to fool the world—and to fool her.

She thought of Panam when she was younger, before the merc gigs, before the fights with Saul. There was that time in the Badlands—Panam’s best friend taken by the Raffen Shiv when they were children. Cassidy helped bring her back. Panam said nothing much afterward; she would never talk much of it—but Carol saw in her eyes that it left a hollow, a part that felt wounded even when she laughed.

Panam used to ride out hauling cargo with Mitch and others; sometimes Carol rode passenger, sometimes drove old trucks. Panam’s anger was fierce. She argued with Saul when the clan leader made deals with corporations. She believed fiercely in independence: that the Aldecalos should be strong by themselves, not by bowing under roofs of corps. Carol admired that anger—fierceness, yes, sometimes pain—because Panam’s ideals weren’t ornamental; they shaped her.

Carol remembered one night, years ago before the rails of responsibility bent Panam down: they camped under wide, indifferent sky. Panam stood by the fire, face lit by flames, telling stories about hauling synth-meat cargo for a farm in San Francisco out west, swearing she’d make things right for her clan. Carol laughed then—a harsh laugh, mocking the stink of syn-meat, but her eyes were fierce. That’s when Carol first saw Panam not just as a runaway with grit, but as someone carrying something heavier than any freight.

Now, seeing Panam lean over V—protection, love, fear—it tore at Carol. She gripped the wheel while thinking: She’s always carried the burden of belonging, and now she’s about to break under it.

Her throat closed. She wanted to say something. But the words wouldn’t come. What could she say? Do you know what you’re losing? What you’re holding still?

She could not ask her those things. Not in the dark, not in motion. The fear of her answer was worse than silence.

So she drove.

Her thoughts flicked to how they looked in the back of the med rig. The way Panam stayed over the cot, the way she pressed her forehead into V’s hand—Carol saw it and her chest cracked. Not pity. Something fiercer. Something deeply responsible.

She thought: If Panam breaks, the soft parts of our clan break too.

She swallowed down her grief and folded it into duty. Let the pain stay in her bones. Let the exhaustion burn in her lashless eyes. She had work to do, lives to carry, promises to uphold.

Ahead, the desert unfolded blank and dark, lined with stars that held no judgement. The road demanded more: fuel, vigilance, faith. Carol’s faith had taken many forms—not romance, not softness—protection, work, endurance. She pulled the rig forward, gears grinding, carrying Panam’s heart inside her steady hands.

Silence spread across the convoy, but Carol’s mind buzzed with what was unsaid. She worried for V, yes. But she worried for Panam most of all: if the boy died, if the memory shattered, what became of Panam’s fight? Of her belief in something more than pain?

Carol didn’t let the tears come; she set her jaw and focused on the road. She reminded herself that love sometimes looks like boots on gravel, like tide against the hull, holding things steady until dawn.

And tonight, she would do all that.