Pain came back first.
Then sound.
Jack groaned, eyes fluttering open to a blur of muddy brown and flickering green. Trees above him twisted like warped bones, and the light burned a sharp red through their leaves.
His arms were bound behind his back—tight, crude rope that cut circulation at the wrists. His chest plate dug into his spine as they dragged him across the forest floor.
Boots thudded around him. Voices snapped commands.
"…machine blood?"
"…it spoke something—did anyone get the tongue?"
"…should've killed it when we had the shot."
Jack stayed limp. Half-breaths. Playing unconscious. Listening.
The dialect was strange—clipped, accented—but close enough to English to catch every third word. They weren't Ferali—whoever that was. These people were afraid. That was obvious.
A hand slapped his helmet. "It wakes!"
They dropped him. Face-first in the dirt.
He looked up slowly.
A ring of soldiers stared down at him—five, maybe six. Helmets mismatched. Gear like a museum exhibit: rough leathers, stamped metal, patched uniforms. Their rifles were long, bolt-action, box-fed, but ancient. One had what looked like a single-shot launcher slung across his back, barrel scorched black.
The leader stepped forward. Tall, square-jawed, gaunt. Face smeared with ash. He carried a sidearm shaped like a fat iron dagger mated to a revolver.
He squatted, eye-level with Jack.
"You… hear me?" the man said, slowly.
Jack didn't speak.
He scanned.
No rifle. No mags. No IFAK. Everything stripped. His KA-BAR was gone.
"Name?" the man asked.
Jack stayed silent. Stared straight ahead. Watching. Measuring.
Another soldier stepped closer, nervous energy in his hands. Young, lanky, face freckled under the grime.
"I think it's from the Ferali labs," the boy said. "One of their—like, death golems. They said they'd send more."
"Then why's it breathing?" another snapped.
"It spoke," the young one said. "Didn't you hear? Like us—but not."
The leader glanced back. "He killed the beasts."
"With what?" a third asked, stepping forward. He held Jack's M4 like it was radioactive. "This. It fires thunder."
Jack blinked once. His eyes met the rifle. Then the soldier.
The man flinched.
"You saw it," the boy whispered. "He used it to tear them down. Like paper."
The group murmured.
Jack stayed silent.
No advantage in talking yet. No leverage. He didn't know if they were allies, fanatics, or something in between.
But they feared him.
He could work with that.
The leader stood. "We bind it. Gag it. Take it to Vessa. If it speaks again, we don't answer. We deliver it intact."
Two soldiers moved forward, ropes in hand.
Jack clenched his jaw, muscles twitching.
He could resist.
He could try to escape.
He'd taken worse odds.
But—he had no rifle. No blade. No way to navigate this world.
Not yet.
So he let them drag him to his feet.
He let them march him forward.
He kept his eyes open.
And he started counting every step.