Somethin’s not right.
I try to sit up, but my body feels wrong—disconnected, like I'm wearing someone else's skin. Not painful, just... off. Like someone took me apart and put me back together with pieces missing.
I look down at my hands. They're mine. Callused palms, knuckles that have seen more fights than I can count, the faded "MERCY" inked across them. The letters worn and blurred from years of throwin' punches and grippin' handlebars. My boots are still on—scuffed leather. Jeans too, faded and ripped. Worn to perfection.
But I'm shirtless. Bare chest risin’ and fallin’ with each breath, the sprawlin’ tattoos of angels and demons locked in eternal combat across my skin, catchin’ the dim light filtering through the silo's rusted walls.
No blood. No bandages. And no brand.
I run my fingers over the spot where the Badlands B should be burned into my flesh, just above my heart. Nothing. Just smooth skin where that iron pressed against me, where Chains held that glowing metal while the brothers stomped their boots in rhythm. The place that had been raw, angry red, still weeping when Savannah touched it last night.
This has got to be a drunk blackout. Wouldn't be the first time I woke up in this silo with gaps in my memory. But this doesn't have the cotton-mouth, head-splitting quality of a hangover. No taste of stale whiskey, no churning stomach. This is somethin’ else.
How the fuck did I get here?
I close my eyes, trying to pull the pieces together from the fog. The last thing—the very last thing I remember—was lying in the bunkhouse in room 3 with Savannah's head against my shoulder. She was breathing slow and even as she drifted off. The hum of nothing in the hallway outside our door, just the distant sounds of the club settling for the night.
We'd just gotten back from dinner at the Duns'. Havoc’s ribs and warnings. June givin’ Savannah a soothin’ tour through biker-wife life.
The far-side of twenty-three looking the near-side in the eye.
It was a nice time.
Then back to the clubhouse. Savannah in the shower with me, water running down her body, steam rising between us.
Then bed. Sleep.
But how did I get from there to here?
From warm sheets and her breath on my neck to a dirty floor and empty air in this abandoned silo?
I sit up fully, ignoring the protest in my ribs. The sound hits me again—a dirt bike engine, revving hard, then skidding to a stop just outside. My hand doesn't reach for a weapon. My pulse doesn't spike. That sound is wired into me different.
It carries no warning. No red flags. No flashing lights lettin’ ya know that you're about to create regrets.
That sound is freedom.
Then he walks in—me. Fifteen years old. Lean, but not skinny. Not as tall and broad as I am now, but gettin’ there. All those new muscles from hauling feed bags. He’s wearin’ a t-shirt and those faded jeans that came from the Goodwill in Glendive. No tattoos, not yet. Not many scars, either. Shaggy blond hair falling across blue eyes that haven't seen Whitefall yet.
Wow. I haven't thought about this kid in years. Over a decade, easily.
He's got no idea what's coming.
My younger self has a pack slung over one shoulder, canvas and dirt-stained. I know what's in there without looking—a ratty blanket stolen from the hall closet, two warm beers lifted from Deacon's stash, and an orange soda for Savannah, because she loves oranges. If she had a pack or a purse back then, there was always an orange in there.
He chose those items deliberately, planned every silo meeting like it was the most important moment in his life.
There are no demons in this memory, so me, Legion age 32, smiles.
The kid drops his bag in a practiced move I still use—one fluid motion, controlled fall, lands exactly where he wants it. He studies the silo, looking… landing. His eyes catch on a folded piece of paper stuck on a nail in the wooden ladder.
His whole body shifts, shoulders relaxing, mouth curving up at the corners. That smile—fuck, I'd forgotten I ever smiled like that. Like the world might actually be good for five consecutive minutes.
He crosses the concrete floor and pulls the note free. Unfolds it carefully, like it might dissolve if handled wrong.
The smile gets bigger as he reads. I know what it says without seeing it. Savannah's home from that fancy private school on the west coast, and she's already been here looking for him.
For me.
