The wagon rolled with a low, constant groan beneath him. Each wheel crunch over gravel matched the slow rhythm of his thoughts. Swift sat cross-legged, his pack leaning against the crate behind him, Excalibur resting long and quiet at his side.

  He didn’t look out of the wagon—didn’t watch Crescent City vanish in the dust. He didn’t need to.

  Knowing the city behind him left like a hand leaving his shoulder. The safety of friends, his workshop hours with Lee, the laughs and lazy tension with Inara—had lifted. But what replaced it wasn’t freedom.

  It was pressure. Expectation. Surveillance. Unknown terrain and unspoken consequences.

  You should’ve left sooner, he told himself. Or never.

  But he knew never leaving was a lie. This was always going to happen. Marksman or not, blessing book or not, someone like him—who made waves without meaning to—was bound to be pushed out the door the moment he was strong enough to walk it.

  The wagon bounced, and a boot scraped beside him.

  “Whatcha thinkin’ about?”

  Swift glanced over.

  A man sat cross-legged near the other side of the wagon, leaning against the canvas-wrapped cargo. He had a calm, still face—sun-worn, eyes sharp but not unkind. Between his fingers, he twirled a single rifle round, casually flipping it end over end with perfect rhythm. His M21-style sniper rifle rested on his lap, with a kind of intimacy Swift recognized immediately.

  Swift didn’t answer the question. “That’s a nice weapon; can I look at it?” he said instead.

  The man raised an eyebrow. “You know, that’s not usually something you ask a man about.”

  Swift blinked. “Is it?”

  “You been around new recruits too long,” the man said, cracking a faint grin. “They always shove their guns around like they’re trading cards.”

  Swift gave a slow nod, then motioned slightly. “Still... can I see it?”

  The man shrugged. “Sure.”

  He slid the weapon forward and handed it off with a practiced grip. Swift accepted it like someone touching a sacred artifact. The weight, the wear, the balance—it wasn’t factory perfect. It was field perfect.

  “You like guns?” the man asked, watching his face carefully.

  Swift smiled slightly. “Yeah. A lot.”

  A pause.

  “How accurate are you?” Swift asked.

  “Very.”

  Swift handed the weapon back with care.

  The silence between them shifted—less formal now, more aware. Two men who spoke the same language, even if it was mostly made of steel, weight, and the sound of controlled breathing.

  “I’m Carlos,” the man said.

  “Swift.”

  Carlos gestured at Swift’s chest. “I know.”

  Swift glanced down. Stitched into the left side of his flight suit: “Swift”, framed in quotes, set beneath the faded insignia of naval aviator wings.

  “Oh... right.”

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  Carlos nodded. “Knowing your name already is a good thing.”

  Swift glanced up. “Most don’t remember right away?”

  “Not unless they’re lucky.” Carlos pulled the bullet from behind his ear and twirled it between two fingers. “How long’d it take you?”

  “I remembered right away,” Swift said.

  Carlos whistled. “First group I’ve met where someone did.”

  Swift leaned forward slightly. “How long did it take you?”

  Carlos shrugged. “After my second evolution. Until then, they just called me ‘Sniper.’ Had a good run of it too. Weapon was doing all the talking.”

  Swift raised an eyebrow. “Second evolution? So... it came to you in a dream?”

  Carlos nodded. “Kinda. It’s different for everyone. Some see a full memory, some just feel something from their old life. For me, it was a moment. One shot. I knew partially who I was after that.”

  Swift went quiet.

  Carlos took the silence as an invitation to study Swift’s weapon. “Mind if I take a look?”

  Swift passed it over carefully. Carlos examined Excalibur, eyebrows slowly rising at the size and strangeness of it.

  “Name?” Carlos asked.

  Swift hesitated.

  “I forgot to ask yours,” he said, “Didn’t want to be... you know, inappropriate.”

  Carlos chuckled and handed Excalibur back. “I was messing with you earlier. It’s fine to ask. Mine’s called White Feather.”

  Swift blinked. “That’s... really fitting.”

  “Yeah. Funny how that works out.”

  Before Swift could say anything more, the wagon lurched and began to slow.

  Outside, the sounds of movement and orders filtered in—wagon wheels halting, boots on gravel, canvas being unfurled. Voss’s voice echoed from the front, calling out placements.

  Carlos stood up and stretched.

  “First checkpoint,” he said. “Camp for the night.”

  Carlos hopped off the back—his landing followed by a small wince. He straightened with a slight limp. Swift followed him off the wagon and glanced down, noting the stiffness in Carlos’s left leg.

  The wagons turned and slowly rolled into a half-moon formation off the road, noses pointed slightly eastward. Ready to move if necessary.

  Swift glanced around. “Do you always stage wagons like this?”

  Carlos nodded. “We’re still far from the frontlines, but... things wander. Monsters. Undead. Packs of corrosion. Never know when something's going to find its way this far south.”

  Swift walked with Carlos as they passed through the campsite clearing—an open space already showing signs of use. A rock-ring firepit sat in the center. Nearby, U-shaped foxholes were dug out, though faded from disuse. Logs and makeshift seating had been arranged in a wide circle, partially collapsed but functional.

  The forest smelled clean. Sharp. Dry pine mixed with damp soil.

  It reminded Swift of camping trips in his childhood—except the silence here was wrong. No frogs. No crickets. Just the sound of boots and wind.

  Carlos pointed to one of the foxholes. “We’ll take that one. First shift on night watch.”

  Swift nodded. “Makes sense.”

  “C’mon,” Carlos said, gesturing to the edge of the camp. “Help me string the alarms.”

  Together, they walked the perimeter, setting up simple noise traps—stones on twigs, metal rings hung in wire, loose gravel over canvas. Low-tech, but effective. Carlos moved slower than Swift, his leg dragging slightly with each step.

  “You okay?” Swift asked carefully.

  Carlos kept setting traps. “Got tagged in a fight. Years ago. Corrosion spit a spike through my thigh. Took out most of the muscle.”

  “Projectile?”

  “Yup. Not a bullet, more like... jagged bone. Priests kept me alive, patched what they could.”

  “You’re still walking.”

  Carlos grinned. “Walking slow, but yeah. I used to be fast, though. Miss it.”

  When they returned, food was being served—stew cooked from salted meat and dry rations. Swift and Carlos sat near the fire.

  “You always do this much prep at every camp?” Swift asked.

  Carlos stirred his stew. “We try. Sometimes we repair stuff, or reinforce the holes. Make it better for whoever comes next.”

  “Is that the standard?”

  Carlos shrugged. “Not officially. But it should be.”

  Swift gave a small nod. “... admirable.”

  Carlos chuckled. “Call it obsessive. Or habit.”

  The fire popped between them. Carlos stared into it for a moment, then added, “There’s stuff they don’t tell you in the 10-week boot camp. About what’s out there. What the corrosion really looks like. How it fights. How it learns.”

  Swift glanced sideways. “Why do you think they don’t say?”

  “Because it’d scare the shit out of new recruits,” Carlos said flatly. “And because the Church likes being the only one with answers.”

  Swift’s brow furrowed. The same thought had been eating at him too.

  Carlos stood and stretched, grabbing his rifle. “Gonna check in with Voss.”

  Swift nodded, still chewing. As Carlos walked off, Swift stared into the flames, thinking about everything he’d just heard.

  Why does the Church hide so much?

  Healing corroded wounds, projectile-firing creatures, the real nature of evolution... none of that was covered in Crescent City’s classes.

  He’d been protected. Everyone had.

  Carlos returned a few minutes later and dropped beside the fire with a grunt.

  “Time to gear up,” he said. “We’re up first.”

  Swift sat for a moment.

  His gear was blessed. The vest, the gloves, the helmet. Once he wore it, if anyone was watching closely—especially Church-affiliated mercs—they might notice the quality.

  He stared at his pack.

  Do I wear it? Or do I wait?