Time for the next test.
I push the empty plate away and stand, feeling the whiskey and food settling in my stomach.
Whatever comes next, I'm ready.
This is where I belong now.
The hallway stretches dark ahead of me, but I don't hesitate.
I walk forward, leaving the light behind.
The silo dissolves around me like smoke caught in a sudden draft. The dirt floor turns to sterile tile. The sunlight streaming through rusted metal, becomes harsh fluorescent glare.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
I'm floating above myself. Some fucked-up out-of-body bullshit that should scare me, but doesn't. The body in the bed doesn't look like me. Too pale. Too still. Tubes running in and out like he's more machine than man. The brand on his chest—my chest—is an angry red crater, the skin around it swollen and streaked with infection lines that spider outward like lightning.
Savannah sits beside the bed, her fingers wrapped around my limp hand. Her voice reaches me like it's coming through water.
"You promised me, Legion. You said we'd get it right on the backside of twenty-three. Remember? You have to remember."
Her voice breaks on the last word. Her hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail, dark circles under her eyes. She's wearing the same clothes I last saw her in—my t-shirt, those jeans that barely stay up on her hips. How long has she been here?
"The near side too," she whispers. "We're still on the near side, Legion. You can't leave yet."
The door opens. Three people in scrubs enter, moving with practiced efficiency. One checks the monitors. Another adjusts something in one of my IV bags. The third speaks to Savannah, whose face transforms with relief.
"They're taking you to surgery soon," she tells my unconscious body. "They're going to fix this."
I want to tell her I'm right here. That I can hear her. But my mouth won't move.
A doctor enters, flipping through a chart. "The infection's aggressive," she says. "Resistant to the antibiotics. We're seeing serious signs of sepsis."
"What does that mean?" Savannah asks, her voice small.
"It means we need to remove the infected tissue immediately. Clean out the wound site. Start a broader spectrum antibiotic."
"The brand," Savannah says. "You're cutting out his brand."
"We can't cut the entire brand out—it's too extensive…” I stop listening as the doctor keeps talking. Explaining to Savannah what they’re about to do to me.
I notice Mercy then, tucked into the corner chair, her knees pulled up to her chest. Her eyes are red-rimmed, tears streaming silently down her face. She's watching me like she's memorizing my face, like she's already saying goodbye.
Fuck. How long have I been here? How did we get from the compound to—wherever this is?
The room feels crowded now. Too many people hovering over my body, preparing it for surgery. Preparing me. A nurse checks the monitors again, frowning at whatever she sees.
"BP's dropping," she says.
"Let's move," the doctor responds.
Through the open door, I see a figure standing in the hallway. Brick. His face is granite, eyes cold. He watches for a moment, then turns and walks away without speaking to anyone.
In his place, Diesel appears, taking up position outside the door like a sentinel. His massive frame nearly fills the doorway, arms crossed over his chest. Anyone wanting to enter would have to go through him first.
This place—this sterile, beeping, antiseptic-soaked room—is Badlands territory now. Diesel's stance makes that clear to everyone passing by.
Savannah leans over my body as the nurses prepare to move me. Her tears fall onto my face, but the body below doesn't react.
