"Mr. Devereaux," the young doctor said, standing at the center of the room and reading from his clipboard, "you have a punctured kidney, six fractured ribs, a broken arm, two severed fingers, a laceration to your leg tendon, and a punctured left lung."
"Is that it?" Massiah asked, already changing in the corner of the room.
His old clothes had been torn to shreds during the last battle, so Dahlia had gotten him a replacement: a faded green tee with the band name BoyzIIMen plastered across the front, a pair of black cargo pants with small military-patterned straps on the pockets, and to top it all off, a fresh overcoat—fully funded by his next three weeks pay, of course.
He turned toward the door, already moving.
"I'm sorry, but you don't understand," the doctor said, extending an arm to block him. "You need to stay in here for at least three more months, maybe five. Two weeks recovery isn't enough. Half your stitches are still fresh and your wounds are barely closed, you're nowhere near ready for the field—"
"I'll be fine," Massiah said, brushing past his arm without a second thought.
But of course, he couldn't brush past the second obstacle.
Sabrina.
She leaned casually against the doorframe, her foot blocking the exit. "Get back in that bed, Massiah."
"I'm fine," he repeated.
"You aren't," she sighed. "The expedition isn't for another two weeks, and honestly, at the rate you're going, I don't even think you're—"
"I'm going," Massiah cut in.
She exhaled sharply. "Okay. I get it. But at least rest until then? What are you even planning to do right now?"
"I need a new scythe," he said, jerking his thumb behind him.
The old one—the scythe she had gotten for him from Sever, the company's personal blacksmith—was leaning against the wall, the blade chipped to hell, the shaft bent and crunched under the pressure of Massiah's own grip.
"It's not durable enough."
"That cost... a lot," Sabrina muttered, her eyes dragging over the ruined scythe. "Isn't it metal? Wasn't your old one made of the same thing?"
"No," Massiah said simply. "It's Vixionite. You didn't know that?"
"Ah, right," Sabrina snorted. "Vixionite. Made by a madman forty years ago, never recreated since. Sure, lemme just call up my Vixionite guy and place an order."
Massiah raised an eyebrow. "Did you really think I was cutting through myutants with regular metal?"
"Well," Sabrina turned away, rubbing the back of her neck, "I knew it wasn't normal, I just never thought about it that much—" She coughed, changing the subject. "Anyway. Where do you even plan to find more? It's extinct."
"It is," Massiah said. "But there's a scythe made from it. I'm going to get it."
"Where?" Sabrina asked warily.
"Alast."
Sabrina froze, her eyes locking onto him. Alast, was a collapsed haven buried deep in the depths. A wasteland crawling with the worst kind of people. The same people who had once used him.
"Are you sure you want to go back there?" Sabrina asked, shaking her head. "No. You're not going. I'll get Sever to forge you another one. Maybe out of Primite—yeah, Primite's good, right? That's good enough, right—?"
"I'm not a kid anymore, Sabrina."
She hesitated, her foot sliding away from the doorframe, leaving the entrance open. "I... that place has a lot of bad memories. I don't want you to relive them. It's not fair."
"It's fine... I'll be fine," Massiah said. "I'll just grab the scythe and come right back."
"You sure?" Sabrina asked, her voice quieter now, watching him step into the hallway.
"I'm past all that old stuff," he said, waving a hand as he walked down the metallic corridor. "I'll be back before you know it."
Massiah disappeared at the end of the hallway, his figure swallowed by the dim light as he walked away. Sabrina stood there for a moment, still staring at the empty corridor, her thoughts a tangled mess of concern and annoyance.
She glanced into the room behind her, it was empty. The exterminators had already dispersed—some off to their homes, others heading straight to training. All of them eager to set things right.
But Sabrina? She wasn't thinking about that. Her mind was still on Massiah, on the expedition, on the haven's matters. She could feel her frustration bubbling, and while she had gotten a few hours of sleep during the week.
It wasn't enough.
She needed to rest and she could only do that after everything on her plate was finished. Quickly, her hand reached up and tapped her ear four times.
Static buzzed through the comm system, followed by a familiar voice.
"Yo, yo, yo! If it ain't the one and only Chief Khu! What's up with you?"
Sabrina didn't have time for the usual banter. "Enoch. Where are you?"
"I'm at Lacasa Sucasa... or is that how that goes? What you want?"
"I'm coming over."
There was a slight pause, then a hint of nervousness in his voice. "Wait, this isn't the best time for that, I—"
But Sabrina didn't let him finish. She cut the signal, the sharp click of the line being severed matching her irritation perfectly. Without a second thought, she walked down the hallway, her hand reaching for her ear once again.
The door creaked open.
Massiah stepped through, the crack of his neck filling the silence as he stretched.
The city was already in the early stages of rebuilding, workers stationed by the gates, focused on reinforcing the walls before anything else and given the recent events, avoiding another myutant attack so soon seemed like the wisest choice.
As he walked through the haven, the sounds of workers shouting and the clatter of pulleys and stone echoed in the distance, the only sounds in the entire area.
Other than that, it was quiet.
He turned a corner, wandering down another street. Everywhere he looked, buildings had been leveled. The destruction was widespread, and the more Massiah saw, the clearer it became how close they'd come to the mercy of Knox and his family.
They controlled myutants, and that made him wonder.
Why hadn't they launched a full-scale attack instead?
Why was there no war, no destruction at the level they were capable of?
Were they indifferent, or was there something else at play? Maybe it was their strength. He nodded to himself, still walking.
Knox fought and acted like a child after they cornered him, a somewhat clear indication that he'd never tested his strength against something else that could rival him. But even still, being at their mercy was a grating feeling.
"What are you thinking about?" Tim's voice broke through the silence.
Massiah looked up to see Tim leaning casually against the window of his scrap shop, a half-smile across on his lips.
Massiah stopped. He hadn't even realized he'd wandered over. Looking around, it was almost surreal—everything nearby had been torn apart, yet Tim's little scrap shop stood untouched, like it had been shielded by some invisible barrier.
"Thinking about how much of your luck you've burned through," Massiah said, walking up to him.
"Probably all of it," Tim laughed. "But anyway... I heard from Oliver. About Quem..."
Massiah's face tightened. "Yeah."
"I'm sorry, Mass. I—"
"It's alright," Massiah cut in. "She's not coming back. That's the only truth."
Tim hesitated. "How are you gonna cope... if you need someone to talk to, I'm more than happy to listen—"
"I'll be fine, really." Massiah smiled, "I'm just gonna kill everything that had a hand in her death."
Tim glanced over at him. "Is that how you're going to overcome this sadness?"
"Yeah," Massiah said, tapping the window sill. "I'll simply kill of all them. Every last myutant. Every last member of the Crescent. All of them." He turned, already walking away.
"I'll catch you later, Tim. There's something I gotta do."
"Sure..." Tim said, watching him go. He opened his mouth to say something, but hesitated—and in the end, said nothing at all.
Massiah lifted a hand without looking back. As he moved down the broken street, his forced smile faded, his hands sinking deep into his pockets. His eyes hardened, staring forward without a hint of life left in them.
He was heading to the worst place in the world, worse than a cage packed with a hundred myutants.
His home.
As he passed through the cracked gates, loose grains of concrete crumbling underfoot, he heard the sharp tapping of running footsteps behind him. Massiah glanced over his shoulder.
All he saw was a massive war hammer bouncing with each step, strapped to the back of his partner.
"What are you doing here, Dahlia?" he asked as she skidded to a stop beside him, panting.
"I looked everywhere for you," she said between breaths. "Sabrina told me you were heading to your childhood home... I want to come with you."
"I'm sorry," Massiah said. "But no. It's not up for discussion. Go back."
Dahlia hesitated, then lifted her head, her blonde hair whipping in the wind.
"I barely know anything about anyone," she said. "Not about Ansel. Not about Quem. Not about Gran. Not about you..."
Massiah said nothing, just watched her, the silence dragging between them.
"That's why you never asked about us when we first met, or told us about yourself," Dahlia continued. "You didn't want us to get attached."
Her voice wavered, but she pushed on.
"I know it's stupid and Cassandra's right, getting attached in this line of work is dangerous. It's reckless. It's pointless... but..." Her hands curled into fists. "There's so much I want to know. About you. About everything."
Massiah didn't say a word. He simply stared at her.
"I want to know about your favorite food," Dahlia said, her voice trembling but loud. "Your favorite place to go when you're happy... or sad... or hungry! I want to know everything about you and I want you to know everything about me!"
Massiah exhaled slowly. "That'll only make it worse."
"I don't care!" Dahlia shouted, then with a deep breath:
"My name is Dahlia Francesca Antonella Renaud The First!" she declared. "I'm from Barrow, and my father's trying to redeem himself by building a committee to help the haven! My mother died years ago. I have one sister. My favorite food is Chicken Parmesan! And I get sad when I see people cry!"
Her words lingered in the dusty air between them. For a moment, there was only silence, then Massiah cracked a small smile, a low laugh escaping him.
"Your full name is Dahlia Francesca Antonella Renaud the First?"
"Hey!" she huffed. "It wasn't easy to say all that, you know!"
"I know," Massiah said, his smile softening. "I don't have a fancy name like that... but I do like dumplings, now and then."
"Wow, you actually shared something," Dahlia said, beaming. "And dumplings, huh? Honestly, I always assumed you didn't even eat. You looked like you dined exclusively on hate and depression."
Massiah started walking again, chuckling under his breath.
"—and anger, and frustration, and resentment," Dahlia continued, picking up speed to match his stride. "And despair, and animosity, and gloom—"
"This is going to be a long trip, isn't it?"
"—and grief, and misery—" she added.