Chapter Text
The door flap slapped my shoulder on the way out and I almost tore it off the frame. It took every ounce of willpower not to rip down the tattered canvas right then and there. The only solace was the fabric muting the elder’s strained voice as it faded behind me:
“Always been your duty, child. The chain does not care if you are ready.”
I stomped down the wooden ramp, the old boards creaking in protest as I failed to wipe the scowl off my face when someone passed by. Where We Live was a quiet contrast to the anger broiling inside me: banners faded to the color of old teeth, the slow clack of a loom from the craft tent. Someone’s radio whispered. Life, stirred but not excited.
The village was getting good at the “peaceful life”: three months without a raid, six weeks since the last engine explosion, children daring each other to touch the outer fence and sprint back giggling. Not that I didn’t appreciate it, but I missed having things to do.
“Duty,” I muttered, rolling the word on my tongue like a jagged rock. “Right.”
The elder’s space always smelled like dry sage and old leather. It was a smell I was quickly starting to despise, knowing the words that flowed through it. He was starting to sound just like Maya, which was something I’d been dreading for a while. One of the few things I was glad about my grandmother being gone. Because even now, I could still hear her voice shouting-
“Hey, Puppy!”
I let out a pained sigh, and forced a grimace as I turned around to meet the voice behind me.
“Hey, Sammy,” I said languidly, a tinge of my previous conversation leaking into my tone.
Sammy’s shadow slid into mine, long ears tilting down, then up. She’d been leaning against Camilla’s bar awning, chewing a stem and pretending she hadn’t been waiting for me to come out that exact door. She did a bad job of pretending.
“How’s our favorite elder?” she asked, in the same voice you’d use to ask how a tooth extraction went.
I rolled my eyes in annoyance, but didn’t walk away. I should definitely talk to someone about this, but Sammy should not be that someone. I furrowed my brow and forced a grimace. “Oh, just peachy. More complaints that our resident baby-maker isn’t currently pregnant 24/7.” I gestured wildly at myself, voice dripping with sarcasm. I tried to stomp away, but Sammy regrettably followed.
“Really?” she retorted, putting a paw over her mouth and tilting her head in a fashion that might just be the most irritating, exaggerated expression ever. “Because I heard words like ‘legacy’ and ‘responsibility’ and ‘may the chain not find you unworthy’ floating on the wind. Could’ve just been Petey, though.” She suggested mockingly, shooting a sly grin at the old man who was currently spouting some drivel about his life as a seafarer. Whatever that meant.
I snorted, either in indignation or wry amusement, and despite my better judgment and foul mood I actually indulged Sammy for once. “She wants me to start. Now. A lot. As many as… ‘as the wasteland will allow.’” I put on the elder’s thin, iron smile for half a second and hated how well I could do it.
“With how quiet everything has been lately, it’s all he ever talks about.”
Sammy’s brows went up, now somewhat engaged. “And you said…?”
“That I’m picky.” I kicked a stone. It skittered under a caravan’s axle. “That I’m not settling for the first jerk with a pulse and all his fingers.”
Sammy smiled wryly. “Oh, but having ten fingers is deluxe! Think of all the… articulation.” She wiggled all her fingers in demonstration.
My nose curled, and I shook my head. “Don’t be gross, Sammy, I’m being serious,” I said, though the edge in my voice dulled a notch. “I know how my mom did it. I know how Maya did it. It won’t be how I’m doing it. I don’t care if it takes ‘longer.’ I’m preserving what little dignity I have left.”
Sammy nodded in understanding, but still didn’t wipe that stupid smirk off her face. “Hey, tell you what; if it’ll cheer you up I can wipe the floor with you at blackjack, eh? Loser has to pretend to listen to the elder’s sermons.”
I raised an eyebrow at her, but it’s not like I had anything else to do for the day. “Fine. Three hands, and then you have to promise to stop bugging me for the rest of the week.” It was a hollow threat. Sammy was going to do it anyway, and I was too bothered to enforce it.
Sammy graciously held open the batwing doors, and instantly the smell of some strange combination of herbs and the faint hint of alcohol stewed in the thick, humid air. A generator grumbled in the back, as patrons sat silently on bar stools. It was unusually empty this time of day, even for Where We Live standards. You could always tell when shipments came on time: half the village found reasons to pass Camilla’s threshold and linger. Judging from today’s customers? She’d been slinging water for a while now.
“Dealer’s choice.” Sammy swept in, already rubbing her palms together like she could conjure cards from friction. She sat down at the lonely table, waiting for me to join her.
Camilla looked up from polishing a glass with the kind of attention usually reserved for surgery. The bar’s owner wore her apron like armor and her eyebrows like warnings. “You two paying, or just practicing being furniture?”
“Practicing being winners,” Sammy said matter-of-factly. “And maybe distracting someone from having to populate the next generation single-handedly.”
Camilla’s eyes slid to me. Concern flickered and hid. “Ah. The elder’s afternoon program. My condolences.” She set the glass down. “Cards are on the shelf. And if you’re touching my shelf, you’re buying.”
I shrugged, but didn’t say anything. Sammy riffled the deck. Sharp snaps like little whiplashes, and passed the cut to me. I slid two fingers in and flipped a chunk to her. My hands were steady. But my knee started bouncing anyway.
“You know,” Sammy said as she dealt, “no rule says you have to do it their way. You could wait. You could wait forever just to spite them.”
I stared at my first card. Eight. My throat pinched around a laugh. “And leave the chain to crack somewhere else? The birds aren’t going to keep cowering forever. The world needs a Grim Biker.”
Sammy shrugged, flicking another card. “Chain’s held without you for what, twenty years? Might keep. You don’t have to bleed for ghosts if you don’t want to.”
I groaned and rolled my eyes at the very idea. “Please, I bled whether I liked it or not for ghosts the day my mom…” The words died on my tongue, and I stared at my eight and two card sitting on the table. “I don’t have to explain it. Hit me.”
Sammy flicked another card at me. A six. I cursed under my breath. Camilla drifted over, wiping the bar just close enough to eavesdrop legally. “You two make a church right there, you’ll owe me back rent,” she said. Then, like it didn’t matter: “Rowan’s late again. If he took the long way round to avoid Where Doom Fell, I’ll tan his tail.”
My ears pricked up. “Late how?”
“Late like my shelves look like a funeral. Again.” Camilla’s mouth twitched, a crack of annoyance. “If I’ve got to pour water and pretend it’s interesting one more night, I’m going to start preaching too.”
Sammy slid her hit, busted spectacularly, and groaned like a dying thing. “The village survives, our thirst doesn’t. We’ll light a candle for you, Cam.” She was already eagerly dealing another hand.
“Light two,” Camilla said, flat. “And knock off that knee, Pup. You’re rattling my bottles with it.”
My knee kept bouncing. “Rowan doesn’t skip,” I said without looking up. “Not without telling you, right?”
“Mm.” Camilla adopted the stare of a woman already drafting a speech for a driver who wasn’t here to hear it. “He’ll appear. Or he won’t. The sun will come up. You’ll all keep giving me grief. The usual.”
Sammy dealt. Nine to me. She winked like a woman with secrets and flipped herself a face-down card. King to me. Nineteen felt solid in the hand, heavy as a full canteen. She tapped her knuckle twice on the table and showed herself an ace.
“Stay,” I said, before my brain could talk my mouth into something else.
“Dealer shows… blackjack.” She grinned, that unbothered, lopsided thing she did when luck liked her better. Which was unfortunately quite often. Twenty-one on the table might as well have been a middle finger.
There was a brief, silent pause. Fans hummed. Someone laughed outside, far away. My chair scraped back before the sound reached me.
“Camilla,” I said, turning toward the bar, “what route?”
Camilla stopped polishing for just a second in surprise, then continued as she rolled her eyes. “Puppy, last thing we need is you getting into more trouble. Didn’t you just fix your bike?”
I exhaled sharply, furrowing my brow. “Don’t give me that. I remember my mother doing stuff like this for folks around here all the time!”
“Things were different with Laika, you know that,” Camilla said with a sigh.
Sammy hesitantly stood up from her seat, her stupid smirk faltering into something more uneasy. “Puppy, there’s always other stuff you could do around the-”
“Not now, Sammy!” I snapped, turning back to Camilla, the tension in the bar rising.
Camilla sighed and rolled her eyes again at the interaction, finally relenting. “Fine. He should be to the south of Where Our Bikes Growl, coming from Where The Waves Die. That’s when he last made radio contact.” She narrowed her eyes at me. “Happy?”
I snorted and nodded. “As a matter of fact? I am. Glad I could be of service to you.” I turned to leave, and out of the corner of my eye I saw Sammy shrugging at Camilla.
Outside, the sunlight hit like a slap. My bike crouched where I’d left it. It would never be as good as Mom’s bike, but it didn’t have to be. I was just glad Maya had taught me how to turn a wrench before she eventually became part of the thing.
The bike started on the first try, a good omen. I let the idle settle into white noise, gripping the brakes and letting go, feeling them tense. Opening my eyes, the road stretched out like an unwinding string, calling to me.
Where Our Bikes Growl had gone soft with disuse. No fresh ruts, no bootprints or tire treads from bird patrols. I’d even started to notice fewer bone onions around. Shame. Bone onions were too damn delicious to be disappearing like this. The front tire squashed a dry scrub and I leaned into the throttle until the wind stung my eyes. Rowan’s truck couldn’t be far if it had been due this morning.
Rounding the top of a hill, the land opened out. I stopped to get a vantage point, scanning for anything suspicious. Everything was quiet except the engine and my own breath as I pulled out a pair of cracked binoculars.
“Where are you…” I muttered to myself, scanning everything between the old, crumbling dam on the horizon and the winding, dusty road leading away from it. Then I saw it: a white box truck parked in the middle of the ancient causeway.
I smiled and revved the engine, speeding down toward the seemingly abandoned vehicle.
As the bike sped downhill, I picked up my walkie and flicked it on. “Camilla? I found Rowan’s truck. Still intact it looks like, but I don’t see anyone else around it.”
The static hummed as I waited for a reply, which thankfully wasn’t long. “Is that so?” she said, sounding… relieved? Hard to tell with her.
“Hopefully you can spare Rowan some of your signature ‘attitude’.” I sighed, hoping she could hear me rolling my eyes. Before I could respond she added, “Rowan is a lot of things, but he isn’t a pushover. Be careful, Puppy.” She didn’t give me a chance to reply before she signed off. I gripped the throttle just a little harder.
But my mind shifted as I got closer, able to make out more suspicious details. The truck was parked square in its lane, wheels straight, no skid marks in the dirt from slamming on the brakes. Too neat.
I cut the engine a hundred paces off and let the quiet climb back in. The truck ticked as it cooled. Whatever happened here, it happened recently.
I inspected the dry dirt around the truck. No footprints. Whoever did this could have swept them away, but birds and bandits weren’t known for being sneaky. Something about it didn’t seem right.
I walked a circle around the truck, scanning the horizon, hand over my holster. Nothing. No dust trails, no fading clouds from far-off vehicles, no smell of spilled booze. Not even a sign of a struggle.
The cab door hung ajar, latch slot scuffed shiny. No blood, no feathers. Just a disturbingly accurate setup. I crouched and checked beneath, empty belly, just heat shimmer and a strip of discarded tape. Standing up, I scratched my head in confusion. It was like the driver had just parked it and walked away. Which would’ve been a possibility… if there had been any footprints.
I let out a frustrated huff and slammed the door closed. Only one more place to check before I drove this thing back myself.
The sliding door had been left an inch open. That inch bothered me more than anything. I eased it wider, the metal complaining like it wanted Camilla to hear.
Inside, in the dimness, an older badger man was tied up and gagged in the middle of his shipment of whisky and beer. His eyes went wide, shouting muffled words through the thick piece of rope at his mouth. Bottles clinked around him in time with his struggles.
Rowan.
“I’m getting you out. Just hold still,” I instructed, climbing into the back as Rowan struggled even harder, head jerking toward the light like he was trying to point with his whole body.
“Hold still, dammit, I’m trying to save you.” Knife at the rope. “You’re going to get cut, and then Camilla will make me mop.”
He made a furious noise under the gag, teeth bared around the cloth. I slid the knife through the first loop, fingers quick. The knot at his mouth gave with a damp pop.
“BEHIND YOU!!”
The words hadn’t even finished leaving his mouth before something dropped from above. A shape swung down through the gloom, legs clamping around my waist, one arm cinched under my jaw, the other bracing tight across my throat.
We crashed to the floor of the truck with a sound that shook the frame. Dust jolted into the air.
I clawed for the revolver at my hip, but it wasn’t there. A faint clatter to my left told me why; he’d already flicked it across the floor, out of reach. His gloves pressed deeper, both hands grinding against my windpipe, cutting off air in sharp, panicked bursts.
My boots kicked against the floorboards as I tried to flip him off, but he didn’t budge. The weight wasn’t wild or sloppy. It was precise, practiced. Whoever this was, they’d done this before.
My eyes flicked up. My attacker was clad in dense, baggy military fatigues, brushed steel buckles at the waist. A breath that smelled like old rubber hissed through the filter of a full-face gas mask. Thick leather boots dug into my sides, pinning me. Birds, my brain said, stupid and automatic.
“Feathered… bastard…” I rasped, wasting precious breath just to let my attacker know exactly how I felt.
The pressure changed, just a fraction. Not looser, but sharper, like my words had cut somewhere private. Then his fist smashed across my cheekbone, a blunt crack that sent sparks down my vision.
It hurt, but it also opened him up. My arm shot upward, landing a jab across the side of his head. Imperfect, my lungs begged for air, but enough to jolt him. The mask shifted, strap sliding, and in that instant I saw it: pale flesh where no feathers grew, and nothing where a muzzle or beak should be. Just bare skin.
He made a huffed, almost scared sound. As if on instinct, one hand went to drag the mask back into place, the other loosening just enough for me to take a desperate gasp of air.
I shoved hard at his chest, twisting free while he wrestled with his disguise. My hand shot out toward the revolver, but he was already reeling back for another punch.
Too late. No time.
I leaned back flat against the truck bed, planted both boots square against his stomach, and pushed with every ounce of strength I had. The impact thundered through my legs. He flew backward like a ragdoll. His body hit the dirt outside, skidding, until I heard an audible thunk.
I scrambled for my revolver and aimed it at the base of the door, panting as I waited for him to get up. Only… nothing happened. Silence filled the truck, broken only by Rowan’s hoarse gasp.
“He’s… he’s not moving.”
Despite his observation, I kept the gun trained on the open door, waiting for the shadow to rise. My chest heaved, throat singing with every breath.
Seconds. Then more. Still nothing.
I forced myself upright, legs shaking, revolver steady but slick in my hand. Rowan’s eyes stayed fixed on the figure slumped outside.
Standing up fully, I finally saw him in the light. A rock lay just above his head, blood pooling at the base of his neck. But the quiet whistling of air moving through the filter told me he was still alive.
My jitters mostly subsiding, I jumped down and inspected his body. I gave Rowan a hesitant look, as if he could somehow explain. But he was still reeling, visibly shaking, his eyes locked on the slumped figure. He knew as little as I did.
My instincts told me to shoot, to end this once and for all. But something kept me from pointing the barrel at his head. The trap had been perfect. Too skilled for a bird grunt or average bandit. Not that what I saw under that mask could be either anyway.
I took a deep breath to steady myself and walked closer. His chest rose and fell shallowly. My hands touched the mask, delicate. Rowan gasped, and I flinched, as if we both expected something terrible to leap out.
Another breath. Just get it over with.
The mask slipped off with minimal effort, and my eyes widened in genuine surprise. The only fur seemed to be on the top and sides of his head, black, short, and thick, stopping abruptly at his forehead. Two tufts lined above his eyes, and beneath them a strange flat ridge with wide nostrils where a snout should have been. The contours of his face were all angles and exposed skin, every detail too visible without fur.
No matter what angle I looked at him, my bewilderment only grew. Like he had just fallen from the sky.
His earlier attack flickered in the background of my mind as adrenaline gave way to morbid curiosity. I tilted my head, undecided between disgust and shock.
I leaned back and stood up, forcing distance between us. The revolver in my hand itched, waiting to be used. But against my better judgment, I couldn’t. Not yet. Not until I had answers.
Rowan whimpered in the background. I ignored him.
“…What am I going to do with you?” I muttered to the body before me.