Chapter 9iv- The reckoning road iv
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POV: Jane
We were laughing.
Actually laughing—me, Luke, Amy, Jonah, even Blair.
The kind that bubbles up after too much adrenaline and not enough rest. The kind of laughter that happens when you realize you're still alive, even if the world's burning.
Luke was mid-sentence, animatedly describing the best burger he'd ever eaten. Something about double cheese and pickles and a stupid name like The Beast Stack.
Amy was shaking her head, calling it a "heart attack in a bun."
Then it happened.
No sound.
No warning.
Just Grey.
Walking up, silent as death. No one saw him until his hand gripped Luke's collar.
"Hey, wh—"
Rip.
Shirt torn. Clean. Unapologetic.
We froze.
Then the syringe—a violet one, like liquid ink swirling in glass—plunged straight into Luke's chest.
He arched. Jerked once. Face contorting.
Amy gasped. Jonah's fingers went to his rifle by instinct. Blair actually rose slightly, mouth parting to say something.
And I just stood there, stuck between drawing my weapon or waiting for Luke to collapse.
But he didn't.
The glow around his body—the faint shimmer we'd noticed during the ambush—snapped back into him like a breath held too long.
Then nothing.
Just Luke blinking slowly, stunned and wide-eyed. "Holy sh—"
Grey didn't say a word. He just walked back to his seat at the far end of the carrier, rubbing his hands over his face, then threading them through his hair like he was searching for something he'd forgotten.
POV: Grey
The hum fades from my ears.
The sting of motion is the only anchor.
The sound of Luke's body reacting behind me registers faintly—convulsions, breath shifts. Normal.
Stabilized.
I wipe my face and pull my hair back.
That scent again.
Soft.
Something floral. Subtle.
Fingers to nose, then pause.
Why would they smell like—
A salon. A chair. Scissors.
Luke's voice—annoyingly persistent—ringing in the back of my mind: "Come on, bro. Just once. You'd look like a beast with a mohawk."
I never got one.
But he never stopped suggesting it.
A part of me almost chuckles.
Then the horn blares.
Sharp. Abrupt.
Reality slams back into focus.
Outside the cracked windows of the carrier, movement stirs.
Barricades. Ropes. Flags. Armed guards.
We've reached a refugee outpost.
It's smaller than the last checkpoint. Less fortified. Tension thicker.
People are staring—through fences, from rooftops, behind crates.
Some hopeful.
Most empty.
POV: Jane
Luke's still recovering from the surprise chest injection, now trying to tuck the ruined shirt into his jacket like it didn't just get torn apart in front of everyone.
"You good?" I ask, still watching Grey.
"Define good."
"Alive. Talking. Not glowing."
"Then yeah," he breathes out. "We're peachy."
Grey sits off to the side, shadowed by metal beams and low light. His head leans back against the carrier wall, eyes half-lidded but sharp.
Blair nudges Amy and whispers, "What the hell was that syringe?"
Amy shakes her head slowly. "Whatever it was… it worked."
"Didn't ask to be test-driven," Luke mutters.
But even now, as he makes a joke, I can see his fingers twitching in rhythm—like he's listening to something inside himself.
Something new.
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POV: Grey
The gates squeal open after a quiet exchange—dried ration packs and a canister of clean water. Fair trade, they said.
The guards don't ask questions. Just wave us through with dull eyes and too-heavy weapons.
We move in pairs. Jonah beside Jane. Amy trailing near Luke. Blair somewhere in the middle.
I stay behind them all. Watching.
The camp is scattered—makeshift homes of corrugated steel, cloth tarps, repurposed wreckage. There's life here… and decay. Kids sit beside oil barrels for warmth. A woman stirs something in a metal pot, scentless but hot. Soldiers rest against crates, eyes sharp but tired.
No one speaks to us directly. But they watch.
Always watching.
A child tugs at her mother's hand. The woman turns away from me quickly.
It's always like that.
And then the memory slips through—
> > 2 years ago <<
A lab. Cold. Bright lights.
The hum of machines in the background, blinking green and blue.
Dad stood beside a steel case, unlocking the seal with his retina.
"You'll need these someday, son."
I didn't respond. Just watched him.
He lifted the lid. Syringes glowed inside. Four in total.
He picked up the purple one first.
"Lacrius."
"Designed for cellular healing. Accelerated tissue regeneration. Pain dampening."
Then the onyx.
"Obsidian Drive."
"This one enhances nerve conductivity. Strength. Reflex. Brutal on the body if misused."
He touched the orange-brown one like it might burn him.
"Cindervial."
"It shocks the adrenal system. Survival instinct. Makes you reckless. Addictive… don't use it unless you want your mind to blur."
Then the final one. Grey, dull, barely glowing.
He hesitated.
"Ash Serum."
"Unfinished. Meant to stabilize... but it reacts to memory. To guilt. I don't know what it would do to you."
He closed the case then.
"You won't understand now," he said, turning to look at me, "but each one… will make you remember something you've buried."
> > Now <<
A stray stone crunches under my boots and pulls me out of the memory.
The others are up ahead. Luke's pulling Amy aside to show her a vendor selling boiled corn in dented tin pots. He's laughing.
Still laughing.
Good.
Jonah's trying to convince Blair to let him trade his wristwatch for a coat she clearly doesn't need. Typical.
I catch up without rushing.
We're moving again.
Sector A's rep is supposed to meet us by sundown.
Until then, we blend.
Or try to.