The road narrowed into a ribbon of gravel, winding through the northern Vermont woods like a vein heading straight into the heart of something rotten. The pines were tall and huddled close. Fog clung low to the soil like smoke that had forgotten how to rise. It was the kind of cold that didn't make you shiver—it made you ache. Made you feel small.
The unmarked car moved through it all without sound.
A matte-black sedan, government-issued. Old, low-profile, and quiet—not because of stealth tech or anything fancy, but because everything loose inside had already rattled off years ago.
It coasted forward like a hearse on patrol.
Inside sat two men.
Frank Armstrong gripped the wheel with gloved fingers, his forearms tense but steady. He wore his body like a weapon—lean, honed, and quiet. His clothes were standard-issue tactical black: body armor over a charcoal long-sleeve, combat pants, well-worn boots. Not fancy, not flashy—efficient. Like the man himself. His rifle lay across his lap, angled toward the passenger-side door. His jaw was clenched, his face unreadable beneath a shadowed ball cap. He looked like someone who'd forgotten what sleep felt like and wasn't interested in remembering.
Beside him sat Bruce Redford, taking up most of the passenger seat by sheer physical inevitability.
Bruce was massive. Not in the way of a bodybuilder at a beach gym, but in the way of someone who lifted things for reasons other than selfies. His shoulders were wide enough to make the headrest disappear. His arms were too big for the sleeves of his faded hoodie, which was stretched at the cuffs and stained faintly with ketchup or maybe protein powder. Over it, he wore a secondhand tactical vest—frayed at the straps, patched twice with duct tape, and too tight for his chest.
On his feet were a pair of battered white sneakers—splayed at the sides, soles separating, one with a tiny patch of duct tape and a "Gondor" sticker barely clinging to the heel. His laces didn't match. He had picked them up for five bucks at a Goodwill because, quote, "They kinda look like what Frodo might've worn if he was American."
Bruce stared out the window through smudged sunglasses—worn at night, because he thought they made him look like someone worth not interrupting. His jeans were too small in the thighs, too long at the hem. The knees were faded from crouching in dirt and gardens. His breathing was slow, steady, lips just slightly parted in thought.
Neither man spoke.
Until the rat showed up.
It darted out of the underbrush like a twitchy bullet of fur and guts. Big. Gray. Its tail flicked like a whip as it reached the edge of the road—and paused.
The car kept moving.
Frank didn't swerve. He didn't brake.
But beside him, Bruce flinched forward, eyes bulging.
"—O-o-oh SHIT, STOP!"
Frank slammed the brakes.
The tires crunched hard. Dust curled up around the headlights. The rat froze mid-stride in the middle of the gravel.
Bruce's hands were on the dash, fingers spread wide, as if he could catch the rat with sheer willpower.
Frank gave him a look.
Deadpan.
"You screamed like we hit a child."
Bruce leaned toward the windshield, peering at the rat as it bolted the rest of the way across the road and vanished into the weeds.
"Y-you saw that, r-right? L-l-little guy made it. F-fast l-little bastard."
Frank grunted and eased the car forward again.
"It's a rat."
Bruce didn't answer. He just smiled faintly, something soft behind his goofy exterior.
He turned in his seat, settling back with a heavy sigh.
"S-s-some people get… paths. L-lanes. B-b-bulletproof lives. And then some folks j-just gotta run."
Frank kept driving. He didn't respond.
But he looked at Bruce out of the corner of his eye—at the too-small hoodie, the faded jeans, the shoes that would've made most people apologize for being alive.
Bruce didn't apologize.
Not for any of it.
He didn't understand style. Didn't understand money. Didn't care that women never talked to him. He just liked the idea of people being happy. He liked trees. He liked knights.
Frank looked forward again.
They were almost there.
The gravel gave way to packed dirt, slick with frost and pockmarked by deep tire grooves. Up ahead, the trees thinned into a clearing, and the mansion appeared—like a wound in the woods.
It squatted at the edge of the forest, three stories tall, built like a luxury ski lodge that had long since traded its guests for ghosts. Its walls were dark timber, warped and weathered. The windows were boarded on one side, shattered on the other. Moss clung to the roof like mold growing on a corpse.
But the real rot was in the yard.
Rows of cars.
Dozens of them.
Black. High-end. Parked in jagged angles across the mud like the last survivors of some criminal car show. BMWs. Escalades. Bullet-scarred muscle cars with no plates. The grass between them was dead. The gravel soaked with oil.
Frank stopped the car on the edge of the tree line. Didn't pull in. Just sat there, engine purring low, eyes scanning.
"This is it," he said flatly.
Bruce leaned forward. His knees jammed up against the glove compartment. His breath fogged the windshield.
"Y-y-yeah," he said. "Th-that's g-gangster p-p-parking, alright. E-every l-last car's a p-p-potential alibi."
Frank lifted the radio.
"Time to call it in."
Bruce didn't answer.
He was looking to the left now, past the mansion, eyes narrowing behind his scratched sunglasses.
Frank followed his gaze—and his stomach turned.
There it was.
A rusted fuel tank. Big. Ugly. Sitting near the back of the house like a sleeping bomb no one had bothered to defuse. It leaned slightly to one side, weeds growing up around the base, a faded "DANGER" stencil barely visible beneath graffiti tags and bird shit.
Frank closed his eyes.
"Don't."
Bruce didn't look at him.
"J-j-just s-saying…"
"No."
"It's r-right there."
"Bruce."
Bruce finally looked at him.
And it wasn't one of his usual goofy looks.
No stammering smile.
No childlike wonder.
Just quiet, serious intent.
"If I w-w-was God, Fr-Frank… th-that's exactly where I'd p-p-put it."
Frank shook his head slowly. "You are not God."
"Y-y-yeah," Bruce said, lips tightening. "B-but maybe H-he's l-l-listening."
Frank leaned back in his seat.
"You don't know what's inside that place. You don't know if it's even full. You don't know who's watching. You don't know anything."
Bruce was already unbuckling his seatbelt.
"We c-c-could end it here. No b-b-body bags. N-no courts. N-n-no more f-fentanyl overdoses."
Frank's jaw clenched.
"You are not setting off a goddamn fireball because you saw a gas tank and had a feeling."
Bruce was halfway out the door now.
Frank tried one last time.
"We call it in. Let SWAT handle it."
Bruce looked over his shoulder.
"By th-the time they g-get here, someone's s-sister is g-g-gonna overdose on the b-bathroom floor."
The door shut gently behind him.
Frank stared at the windshield.
Then muttered:
"Goddammit."
He stepped out into the cold.
Bruce moved with surprising grace for a man his size—low to the ground, shoulders hunched, rifle slung but unsnapped. He moved between the cars, weaving through the shadows, headed straight for the tank like it had whispered his name.
Frank veered off, circling wide, staying low. He reached the nearest row of cars and dropped behind the engine block of a battered Ford Expedition. From here, he had a clean line of sight on the front porch, the shattered upper windows…
…and Bruce.
The radio crackled softly in his hand.
"Red?" he whispered.
No answer.
"Bruce. Confirm."
Still nothing.
Frank sighed. "Of course."
He set the radio down.
Rolled his shoulder once.
And raised his rifle.
The fuel tank crouched at the edge of the mansion like a bloated predator—rusted, dented, and tired of being ignored. A broken chain dangled from its valve like a loose tooth. Weeds reached up around the base like they were trying to smother it before it remembered what it was.
Bruce crouched low beside it, one massive hand brushing across the metal.
It was cold. Rough. Damp with dew and something thicker.
He felt… reverent.
Like this thing wasn't just a tank. It was a hinge. A turning point.
"W-w-we don't have to s-s-storm the gates," he murmured. "We just l-l-light the f-fuse…"
He gripped the valve with both hands.
Twisted.
—Creeeeeeak.
It shrieked in protest, rust flaking into the wind.
Bruce flinched. Glanced toward the mansion.
Still dark.
Another turn.
—Creeeeak.
The hiss of pressure released. A thin stream of fuel trickled down the pipe, dripped onto the dirt, and began to pool around his boot.
It smelled like war.
Bruce stared at it.
He didn't feel triumphant.
He felt… tired.
Tired in a way that didn't come from the gym or late shifts or being yelled at for sleeping on the floor while his girlfriend took the bed.
Tired in the way that comes when you realize you've been trying to fix a world that doesn't even know you're there.
Inside the mansion, a man stirred.
Half-asleep.
Shirtless, high, angry.
He was the kind of guy who got his first gun at thirteen and never learned to spell "accountability." Gold chain. Boxer shorts. Face puffy from pills and sleep.
He heard the creak.
Heard the hiss.
Sat up on the couch and rubbed his eyes.
"Yo… someone messing with my Escalade?"
He grabbed his pistol—chrome-plated, mostly for show—and stumbled toward the front door.
Bruce turned at the sound.
The porch light flicked on.
He reached for his earpiece.
Fumbled at his vest.
His face went slack.
"…F-fuck."
He patted again.
His radio was still in the goddamn car.
He turned toward Frank—across the yard, hidden behind the cars—but there was no way to signal. No time. No cover.
The front door opened.
The gangster stepped out, blinking in the cold.
"AYO! WHO'S OUT HERE TOUCHIN' MY SHIT?!"
Bruce ducked behind the tank.
His heart thudded like a sledgehammer in his ears.
I can't shoot, he thought. I can't yell. I can't risk blowing the whole thing.
So he did the only thing left.
He moved.
The man was halfway down the steps when Bruce hit him.
He didn't tackle.
He collided.
All 300+ pounds of muscle and awkward momentum slammed into the man's chest like a car crash made of protein powder.
They went down together, hitting the dirt with a crunch.
The gun flew from the man's hand.
Bruce wrapped one arm around his throat, the other clamped over his mouth.
"Shhh—shhh—s-s-sorry, man. I r-r-really am…"
The man bit his hand.
Bruce winced.
Then reflexively elbowed him in the temple.
The man twitched.
Went limp.
Bruce held him a second longer.
Then pulled back.
The guy wasn't moving.
Not groaning.
Not breathing.
Bruce stared.
Then slowly, gently, laid the body down.
He whispered:
"I d-d-didn't mean to…"
He looked at the body.
Then at his hands.
Then at the tank.
Then—
"Yo?"
A voice from the back of the mansion.
Another gangster.
Someone else had heard the struggle.
Bruce crouched low. Froze.
But the man spotted him—just a silhouette in the dark, crouched near the tank.
"HEY! WHO THE FUCK—?!"
Pop.
A single, clean rifle shot cracked through the forest like a nail through glass.
The second man—the one who'd spotted Bruce—jerked as the round tore through his chest. He hit the dirt hard, legs twitching, breath rattling once before going still.
Bruce's head snapped toward the sound.
That had to be Frank.
He was out there.
Watching.
Helping.
But Bruce couldn't hear his voice.
He reached up again for the earpiece instinctively, fingers slapping against his vest.
"R-r-radio…"
Gone.
He blinked hard, eyes wide behind the scratched lenses of his sunglasses.
"I—I l-left it in the c-c-car…"
The realization settled in like ice water down his back.
He was completely alone.
And worse—
They heard the shot.
From inside the mansion, chaos erupted like a kicked hornet's nest.
Shouting. Screams. Running feet.
Gunmetal clattering on tile. Boots stomping against wood. Muffled voices shouting overlapping orders in a dozen gangland dialects.
"YO, SOMEBODY'S OUTSIDE!"
"GET THE STRAPS!"
"I SAW A BODY, FOOL!"
Then—
Lights.
Every floodlight around the property flared on in unison. Cheap security rigs with bad wiring and blue-white halogen beams seared through the darkness, washing over the yard like a divine interrogation.
Bruce didn't flinch.
He didn't run.
He just dropped low again, back against the tank, breath tight in his chest.
And the world started exploding around him.
BRAKKA BRAKKA BRAKKA—
Automatic fire screamed from the rear balcony. Bullets tore through the night, splintering trees and chewing through dirt.
Bruce ducked lower as a chunk of the tank's side panel shattered three inches from his head, metal pinging into the grass. He felt the sting of flying debris slice across his temple.
The tank hissed louder now—leaking faster.
The smell of gasoline hit like a punch to the sinuses.
Bruce glanced down.
The puddle had grown.
It was spreading, reaching toward the weeds, the trees, the cars.
Toward the lighter he'd set just at the edge.
Still burning.
Still waiting.
His fingers trembled. His vision blurred.
He looked down at his chest.
He hadn't even noticed—his hoodie was soaked with fuel. His sleeve, too. He was a walking firework.
He pulled the zipper down and shrugged out of the hoodie slowly, leaving it in the dirt. Underneath was just his sweat-darkened undershirt—tight, old, with a faded logo of the White Tree of Gondor across the chest.
He'd found it at a thrift store three years ago and wore it on every mission.
He told himself it was lucky.
He muttered now, like a prayer:
"J-just like Aragorn… b-but without the f-fancy s-sword…"
Another burst of gunfire shattered the silence, closer this time.
Bruce peeked around the tank.
Three, maybe four gangsters had taken cover behind the back porch railing. More were spilling out the side gate, sweeping left. He could hear their footsteps closing in through the grass.
He was boxed in.
Cut off.
Frank was somewhere out front, holding back his own tide of bodies, but Bruce had no way to signal him, no way to coordinate, no voice in his ear telling him when to move or shoot or breathe.
Just instinct.
Just pain.
And the low, steady hum of hopelessness in his chest.
He pulled his rifle up—hands shaking—and braced it against the lip of the tank.
A figure sprinted out of the side yard, gun raised.
Bruce fired.
CRACK.
The man dropped, twisting in midair.
Bruce gasped.
Not from the recoil.
From the guilt.
He hated this part.
He had never gotten used to it.
He had told the department shrink it didn't bother him anymore.
That was a lie.
"I'm s-s-sorry," he whispered, voice cracking. "I d-don't w-w-wanna hurt you…"
Another shadow darted out of the corner of his vision.
CRACK.
He hit that one, too.
Maybe.
Maybe not.
He didn't look.
Didn't want to see.
He wasn't a killer.
He was just a big, stupid man trying to do something good before he died.
The shooting slowed for a second.
A brief pause.
Reloading. Repositioning.
His hands moved on their own—clumsy but determined—sliding a fresh mag into the rifle, racking it with a sharp clack.
The tank beside him groaned again.
He looked at the flame.
It was almost there.
Almost touching the start of the trail.
Almost ready to ignite.
The mansion, the stockpile, the whole hilltop.
A chain reaction of light and fire and noise.
Bruce's heart pounded.
He turned his eyes toward the cars across the yard—ten meters away. Solid cover.
If he could make it—
If he could just move fast enough—
If he could dodge the next volley—
But he wasn't made for dodging.
He wasn't built for agility.
He wasn't one of those men who slipped through windows or rolled over counters or landed on the balls of their feet.
He was slow.
Heavy.
He remembered her again.
The gymnast.
That night he watched her on TV—flipping through the air, glowing in blue light. Blonde hair tied back, her whole body moving like liquid steel.
He remembered trying to copy her moves in his living room.
Cracking his knee on the coffee table.
Lying on the floor and laughing at himself while Amber yelled from the next room to shut up.
He smiled now.
That crooked, lonely smile.
Then whispered:
"J-j-just this once…"
Ten meters.
That's all it was.
Ten meters of grass and gravel and broken glass and open air between Bruce and the cover of the car line.
Ten meters of bullets, of firelight, of screaming wind.
He'd made longer runs in the gym.
He'd done farmer's carries with more weight than his own body.
But this?
This was different.
This was for everything.
He clenched his jaw.
Lowered his stance.
And whispered to himself like a spell:
"Y-y-you c-c-can do this… b-be the g-g-gymnast…"
He surged forward.
Immediately—gunfire.
BRAKKA BRAKKA BRAKKA—
The air shattered.
Dirt exploded near his boots. A bullet tore through the cuff of his jeans, another skimmed his arm and took part of his sleeve with it.
He dove.
Hard.
Tried to roll.
He didn't.
Not really.
He sort of bounced.
Landed on one shoulder, then flopped onto his side with the elegance of a dying walrus.
"Ughf—!"
His knee cracked against a rock. His gun clattered from his hands. His momentum kept him sliding through wet dirt, scraping his elbow and filling his pants with mud and blood.
He scrambled forward, grabbing the rifle, using it like a crutch, then heaved himself up and forward—
More shots.
A burst ripped through the ground just inches behind him.
Another grazed his thigh—burning hot and wet.
He screamed—but not in fear.
In effort.
In frustration.
"D-d-damn it—!"
He shoved himself into a forward crawl, ducking lower, bullets whistling over his head like angry bees.
His vision blurred.
Everything was tilting.
Everything hurt.
But he didn't stop.
He saw the cars ahead—the glint of chrome, the shine of glass, the edge of the fender like salvation itself.
He was almost there.
Then—
CRACK.
Something slammed into his calf.
His leg gave out.
He hit the dirt face-first.
Didn't move.
Didn't breathe.
Just tasted copper and gravel.
"F-f-fuck…"
He whimpered it. Quiet. Just once.
He reached for the tire.
Fingers clawing, nails scraping the rubber.
He pulled.
Pulled himself the last foot.
The last inch.
And finally—
He collapsed behind the wheel well of a black SUV.
Safe.
Bleeding.
Alone.
But safe.
He panted against the fender, his breath steaming in the cold night air.
Blood pooled under his thigh.
His leg twitched once—then stopped moving.
He couldn't feel it.
Didn't matter.
He was alive.
For now.
He looked up—back toward the tank.
The fire had almost reached the base.
Just a few feet more.
And then everything would end.
His chest rose and fell.
He let his head rest against the tire, eyes fluttering toward the moonlight slicing through the trees.
And as the shooting continued, as the world cracked around him, Bruce thought.
He thought about the things he hadn't done.
He'd never made it to max level in World of Warcraft.
He'd never finished a single Total War campaign.
He'd never beaten a strategy game without quitting halfway through because he didn't want to betray a fictional ally.
He never learned to flip.
He never kissed anyone.
Never danced.
Never got to walk the streets of York or Edinburgh or London dressed as a knight with Frank, laughing as they did stupid food challenges and asked confused pub owners to weigh their meat pies.
He never planted a tree in Greenland.
He never saw his name on anything that mattered.
He never even got a thank you.
Not from Amber.
Not from the department.
Not from the world.
But he still smiled.
Because Frank was still out there.
And that meant there was still good left in it.
Then he heard footsteps.
Thudding through the grass, boots crunching glass and gravel, steady and determined.
Bruce lifted his head.
His vision was smeared red—blood in one eye, dirt in the other—but the silhouette was clear.
Tall.
Lean.
Rifle slung across his chest.
Jaw clenched like it had never known softness.
Frank.
Still alive.
Still fighting.
Still there.
Bruce's voice cracked.
"F-Frank…"
Frank dropped beside him in a crouch, his vest streaked with soot and blood. A fresh tear ran down his sleeve—he'd taken a hit, somewhere shallow. His eyes scanned Bruce's body.
Thigh wound.
Calf wound.
Ribs, judging by the blood-stained shirt.
The hoodie was gone.
So was the bravado.
Frank didn't say anything for a moment.
He just grabbed Bruce under the arm and started to drag.
"D-don't," Bruce rasped.
Frank ignored him.
Gripped harder.
Pulled again.
"F-F-Frank, stop!"
The tone made Frank pause.
Bruce coughed hard—wet and deep—and pushed at Frank's shoulder with one blood-soaked hand.
"L-listen… you c-c-can't drag me. Y-you're gonna get hit. J-j-just go, man. Y-you can still m-make it out."
Frank stared at him.
Didn't blink.
Didn't move.
"G-g-get outta here," Bruce gasped. "Y-your wife… your k-kids… go to E-England, eat the pies, w-wear the armor… you still got time. L-l-leave me."
Frank still didn't speak.
Bruce felt something burn in his chest—not from pain.
From heartbreak.
"Please…" he begged. "Y-you already saved me once. Th-th-that night in the snow. Y-you kept your promise. You d-don't gotta do it again."
Frank finally said something.
His voice was quiet.
Flat.
"Yeah," he said. "I do."
Then he reached down.
And grabbed Bruce's vest with both hands.
"No, no—no!" Bruce twisted, weakly trying to push him away. "Don't! D-d-don't die f-for me!"
"You think I'm gonna leave you here like trash?" Frank growled. "After everything? After her? After all you gave to people who never gave a damn back?"
He pulled again, this time with anger in his grip.
"You think I can just go home? Tuck my kids in? Pretend I didn't leave you behind while some junkie set your corpse on fire?"
Bruce sobbed once. Just once.
Frank didn't look at him.
He just slung Bruce's arm over his shoulder and started dragging him toward the edge of the yard, firing with one hand.
Gangsters were pouring out of the house now—through smoke, through shattered glass.
More of them.
Still shouting.
Still shooting.
Still coming.
Frank fired back.
Crack-crack.
Another fell.
He didn't slow down.
Bruce lifted his rifle with shaking hands and fired too—sloppy, panicked bursts that hit dirt, hit flesh, hit a shadow that might've been a man.
Every time he pulled the trigger, he whispered:
"I'm sorry."
"I'm sorry."
"I'm sorry."
The fire was growing louder now.
The fuel trail was gone—swallowed in a pillar of flame that had reached the side of the house.
And Bruce saw it, in the distance, flickering behind the walls.
The stockpile.
Boxes of ammo.
Drums of gasoline.
Propane.
Everything they'd heard rumors about.
It was real.
It was all there.
And it was seconds away from blowing.
Bruce felt the heat lick at his back.
Frank gritted his teeth, dragging them behind a car.
A bullet pinged off the bumper. Another tore through the side window.
They were out of time.
"Frank—"
"Shut up," Frank snapped.
He wasn't crying.
But he was breathing like he might.
"Just shut up and let me get us out of here."
Bruce turned his head toward him.
Eyes wet.
His voice barely a whisper.
"You s-s-still wanna be knights?"
Frank chuckled once. Dry and cracked.
"Hell yeah."
Another volley hit the car above them. Glass shattered, raining down in slow motion.
Bruce stared at the sky.
It was glowing.
Like morning had arrived too early and far too angry.
The mansion groaned behind them—wood popping, metal bending.
Then came the sound.
There was a breath.
Not an inhale.
A suspension.
A hanging moment.
Frank had dragged Bruce behind the SUV, crouched low beside him, shielding him with half his body. Their backs were against scorched steel. Their eyes squinted toward the mansion, now roaring in the dark like a wounded god.
And then the sky tore open.
The fuel tank went first.
The sound was indescribable—like the air had turned inside out and screamed.
A fireball shot up into the trees, incinerating pine needles mid-fall, flash-boiling the bark. The concussion hit with a pressure that flattened every nearby shrub and rocked the ground like thunder given physical form.
Then came the house.
The stockpile.
Crates of bullets. Stolen fireworks. Cans of propane. Tanks of gasoline.
All of it ignited in a single, beautiful, apocalyptic flash.
BOOOOOM.
The mansion didn't burn.
It detonated.
Like a war crime.
Like a memory being erased from history with prejudice.
Windows shot outward like cannon blasts.
The roof launched into the sky like a flaming crown.
Flames poured from every crack, every door, every pipe.
The hill itself shook.
The blast wave reached the cars like a tsunami, flipping vehicles, crumpling metal, peeling trees from the earth.
Frank threw himself over Bruce, pulling him into a protective cocoon with arms like iron bars.
Bruce tried to say thank you.
He only got as far as "F-Frank—"
Then the fire hit them.
For a moment, there was nothing.
No pain.
No sound.
Just light.
White-hot.
Weightless.
And then—
Darkness.
Bruce blinked.
Or… felt like he blinked.
But his eyes weren't open.
He was somewhere else.
Floating.
Warm.
Contained.
Tight.
He tried to move, but there were no limbs. Just pressure. Just skin that wasn't skin, pressed on all sides.
He couldn't speak.
Couldn't breathe.
But somehow… he wasn't afraid.
Everything felt slow. Rhythmic.
Thump… thump… thump…
A sound echoed all around him—deep and wet.
A heartbeat.
Not his.
Hers.
He realized, with a dumb, almost detached clarity:
"I'm in a w-womb…"
His mind tried to form panic, but the body around him didn't respond. He wasn't in control. He was just… floating. Waiting.
There was no light.
Only heat.
And pressure.
Bruce didn't remember dying. Not really. One moment there was fire and Frank's arms, the next… this. This darkness. This slow, squeezing descent like he was being pulled through a fleshy sleeping bag.
He couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. His thoughts were slow. But somehow… still there.
And then—cold.
The warmth vanished as air hit his face, and all at once he felt weightless.
Then came the sound.
A voice. Female. Joyful.
"Congratulations, my lord. It's a healthy baby girl."
Girl?
Wait.
Wait wait wait—
Bruce tried to open his mouth, tried to shout:
"N-n-no! I-I'm a m-man! I-I'm B-b-Bruce, j-j-just so y-you kn-know, if—if it's me y-you're t-talking about—"
But the only thing that came out was—
"WAAAH—A-A-WUGGHHH!"
The room went completely silent.
Even the crying seemed to freeze.
Then came the slow, disappointed turn of heavy boots.
A deep male voice spoke, flat and unimpressed.
"I see. Another failure."
It wasn't the words that stung.
It was the weight behind them.
Like the man hadn't just been let down… but expected it.
Bruce heard footsteps moving away. The creak of old wood. The rustle of cloaks. The click of a door closing.
And just like that, everyone was gone.
Everyone… except her.
His new mother held him close. Her breathing was soft, shallow. She was trembling, but her grip was gentle.
And warm.
He tried to open his eyes again. This time, they obeyed.
Blurry light spilled in from a small window. Smoke drifted lazily near the roof. He blinked until the room came into view.
A straw roof.
Chipped wood walls.
A stone fireplace, old but carefully arranged, with a small pile of ashes still glowing at the base.
There were no machines.
No IVs.
No beeping.
Just firelight. Cold stone. A single thin blanket draped over a wooden stool.
Africa? Bruce wondered briefly. A-are those t-tsetse flies?
Then he looked up.
Saw her.
The woman.
His mother.
Young—shockingly so. Maybe late teens. She had long blonde hair, damp with sweat, and blue eyes that looked like deep winter lakes. She was beautiful, yes—but pale. Tired. Her collarbones showed like ridges under thin skin.
Yet when she looked down at him?
She smiled.
Weakly.
But warmly.
"You look just like me," she whispered, stroking his soft cheek. "So I think I'll name you after me… Lili."
Bruce blinked.
No.
No, no, no, no, no—
"N-n-n-not Lili! I-I'm B-Bruce! I'm a g-guy—I'm the g-guy! I'm the f-f-freakin' man here!"
But all the mother heard was—
"GUBBUH BAAAH—AAAH!"
She smiled wider.
"Don't cry, Lili. It's okay."
LILI!?
She cradled him against her chest and pulled the dress down.
Bruce blinked twice at the sudden wave of flesh—a breast so massive to his infant eyes it looked like a pale hill with a soft pink bullseye.
"N-no, no, n-n-not that! P-please don't—"
She gently guided his face toward it.
Bruce resisted—flailing with tiny noodle limbs that had no business trying to fight gravity, let alone maternal instinct.
But then—
Warmth.
The moment the nipple touched his lips, milk flowed.
Hot. Sweet. Smooth.
Bruce's body overrode his brain.
He latched on.
And began to drink.
"Oh… o-oh d-damn it…"
He closed his eyes, embarrassed, but… okay, it tasted pretty good.
The woman—Lili, apparently—held him close with both arms.
She rocked him gently near the fire.
"You're my little girl now," she whispered. "I don't care what he says."
He tried to protest.
But the milk was too warm. The arms were too soft. The body was too weak.
Where is Frank?
Why is nobody calling me Bruce?
Why do I have no abs?
He whimpered into the breast.
Then slowly… drifted off.
The fire crackled.
The room went still.
And on that cold 25th of December, in a nameless village on the fringes of Albion, Bruce Redford was reborn.
As Lili.
Whether he liked it or not.
No, not yet—he wasn't ready.
He tried to resist.
But the body was already moving.
His new body.
Too small to fight. Too soft to choose.
He was sliding forward.
He couldn't open his eyes.
But he felt the moment he breached the boundary.
When the world grabbed him again.
The cold hit first.
Then the air.
Then—
Hands.
Large, calloused hands grabbed his shoulders.
Then came the voice.
Soft. Joyful. Female.
"Congratulations, my lord… it's a healthy baby girl."