"And Butch is teaching me to make a fist the right way. See?" She demonstrates, tucking her thumb outside her fingers. "Says girls need to know how to throw a punch that won't break their hand."
"Mercy—" I start, not sure what to say.
"Oh! And Ratchet showed me how to check tire pressure and oil. Says everyone should know basic maintenance." She mimics turning a wrench. "His hands are always dirty but he's good with engines."
I sit there, stunned by how thoroughly the Badlands MC has integrated themselves into this child's life. I was here, dropping off food and clean clothes just a couple of weeks ago. She didn't know any of them. They never came with food. They never came with clean clothes.
Theywere not here.I was.
These men are criminals, drug runners, violent enforcers. They're teaching money math and bike maintenance to a nine-year-old girl. How to shoot and make a fist.
This is not a life for a child.
"They sound... interesting," I manage.
"They're the best!" Mercy flops back onto the couch. "Way better than those kids at school. They say mean things about Legion sometimes. Call him Demon Kane." Her voice drops. "I punched Jimmy Larson for that. I got suspended, but Brick said I did good."
The realization hits me like cold water:Thisis Legion's world.
Not the silo where we meet in secret.
Not the photos in the book.
This is the part of him I never saw.
The part of him he never let me see.
This trailer, this child, these dangerous men who bring math books and teach a little girl to shoot—this is his reality.
And I have absolutely no place in it.
And now that I think about it, neither does Mercy.
