Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The ruins of the factory jut out against the sky like the ribs of some long-dead beast, jagged walls broken and blackened with time. The midday sun burns everything in harsh yellows, and the shadows stand short and sharp, making chunks of the cracked earth appear deeper than they truly are. Itzel tugs her ski goggles lower until they bite into her cheeks and pulls her bandana snug over her nose and mouth. The disguise settles her nerves. Behind it, she isn’t small, or afraid. She’s Pilar. She’s the courier.

Boone moves a few yards ahead, his rifle leveled with the easy precision of second nature. His scowl deepens as his eyes sweep the perimeter, calculating every angle. Then, with a sharp gesture, he points to the far side of the building.

“Let’s split up,” he says, voice low and clipped, like the words cost him. “I’ll circle east. You take the west. Look for an opening.”

“Got it.” Her voice comes out muffled through the bandana, but steady. Confident. She makes sure of it. Boone doesn’t wait for her response, though—already disappearing around the corner, boots crunching softly over broken road before fading into silence.

Itzel lingers, watching where he vanishes until her chest unclenches enough to move. She hates being separated from him, even if she’ll never admit it. He makes her feel safer. Secure. Like if something terrible happened, he would be there. But Boone can’t think she’s dependent, can’t see that fear gnawing at her ribs. If he suspects, he’ll start asking questions. And questions are dangerous. She grips her bat tighter, adjusts the strap of the rifle on her shoulder, and forces herself westward.

The air grows heavier as she nears the factory wall, the silence of the place thick as dust. The only sound is the hollow whistle of wind through shattered panes and rusted beams. Every creak makes her pulse spike, but she keeps moving, steps measured, careful.

Up ahead, a collapsed section of concrete catches her eye: a loading dock, half-buried in rubble. Her stomach flutters with hope. Maybe it’ll be the way in! Boone will approve. He won’t say it, but he’ll nod that nod of his—the one that says good work—and that thought is enough to put a smile beneath Itzel's bandana.

She approaches on careful feet, the quiet scrape of her boots whispering against crummy asphalt. Clambering onto the cracked lip of the dock, she steadies herself with one hand. The garage door yawns wide before her, gaping and toothless, the mouth of the building. Inside, the light fails almost immediately. The desert sun presses hot on her back, but it can't pierce the black weight pooling just beyond the threshold.

Itzel squints into it fruitlessly. She hauls herself fully onto the concrete and takes a cautious step forward, then another, then several more. Her pupils widen, struggling to drink in shapes from the dark. But before her mind can even form a thought—movement.

Figures peel out of the shadows like they were there all along. Three men. Red and leather and glinting metal. The Legion.

“Hold it.” The command cracks like a whip, low and merciless.

Itzel freezes mid-step. Her throat locks, the breath she’s holding catching sharp against her mask. She’s suddenly glad it hides her face. The fear curling in her gut, the sting of panic rising behind her eyes—none of it will show. Don’t look small, she begs herself. Don’t look weak.

But her mind is already racing, tangling in every story she’s ever heard about the Legion. What they’ve done. What they’ve taken. What they did to Boone. She thought she had more time before they reared their ugly head–!

“Drop the bat,” another orders, his grin flashing wolf-like in the gloom. “No sudden moves.”

The bat in her hand suddenly feels ridiculous, like a child’s toy compared to the weight of their machetes and rifles. Her own sniper slung across her back might as well be a mile away. Her palm tightens, then loosens. With a clatter, the bat hits the concrete and rolls a few inches before stilling.

She never was very good at close combat anyway.

Looks like we found ourselves a little wanderer,” the one in charge sneers, his teeth catching the dim light. His voice coils through her chest like a snake, suffocating and tense. “What do you think, boys? Fresh meat for the slave pens?”

“Bit scrawny,” another says, circling closer. His gaze drags over her like he’s tallying weight on a ledger. “But she’ll do.”

Her pulse spikes, pounding hot in her ears. No. No, no, no, nonono—

“Don’t think she’ll give us trouble,” the first adds with a cruel chuckle. He jerks his chin. “Grab her.”

A rough hand snatches for her arm. Instinct takes over—she twists, jerking up with her elbow, and the sharp crack of bone against cartilage makes the man grunt and stumble back, swearing as blood starts from his nose. For a heartbeat, the shock buys her space—then the others close in, faster than she can slip away.

They slam her down hard onto the concrete, her shoulder jarring painfully as her cheek scrapes the grit. Two of them pin her wrists, a knee grinding into her back to keep her still.

“Feisty,” one mutters darkly, leaning down close enough for her to smell the stink on his breath. His hand is rough as it rips the goggles from her face. She squeezes her eyes shut, praying her bandana doesn’t slip. It holds. Barely.

“Maybe we should break her in first,” he adds, the words a dagger sliding under her ribs.

Her blood freezes. Her stomach flips, bile clawing up her throat. Panic floods every nerve in a dizzying, choking wave. She thrashes wildly, but the weight grinding her into the concrete holds fast.

“Let go of me!” she screams, her voice cracking sharp against the cold air. Her fists claw at nothing, nails raking against rough skin and leather. “Get off!! Get off me!!”

Her breath shudders into shallow, ragged gasps. Tears sting her eyes, blurring the edges of her vision as the truth digs in, merciless and certain. I’m going to die. I'm going to die! They're going to–!

The scuffle must have carried farther than she realized, though, because she suddenly hears a distant voice from behind—a low, commanding shout. Boone.

Before she can think, a gunshot splits the air.

The Legionary pinning her jerks violently, eyes wide with shock before collapsing beside her, blood blooming beneath his head in a dark halo. Another crack. The second man folds in on himself, lifeless before he hits the ground. The third whirls, weapon rising—but Boone steps into view, rifle already leveled. One clean, deliberate shot. The last Legionary falls.

In seconds, it’s already over. The Legionaries lie sprawled across the cold concrete, their blood spider-webbing through the cracks and pooling dark beneath them.

Itzel doesn’t rise right away. Her head droops forward, hair falling like a curtain to hide the sting in her wide eyes. Her arms tremble as she braces against the floor, forcing herself up onto shaky hands and knees. The grit of dust and blood clings to her fingertips. She stares down at it, refusing to lift her gaze, as if the ground itself is the only thing keeping her from unraveling.

Boone lowers his rifle with practiced ease, though his posture stays taut, eyes raking the shadows for movement.

“You okay?” His tone is calm but edged, coiled tight—like he’s ready to snap to another target at the first sign of danger.

She tries to answer, but the words choke in her throat. Her chest heaves unevenly as she drags in shallow breaths. Her mind still spins with the echo of rough hands dragging her down and pinning her, the sneer of voices promising things worse than death. The bandana across her mouth suddenly feels like it’s strangling her, hot and damp with every gasp, but she keeps it in place, clinging to the disguise.

Her fingers twitch as she shifts to her knees and wipes them uselessly against her pants, only serving to smear more dirt around.

Boone crouches beside her, his presence steady, grounding. His gaze flickers between her and the corpses, scanning for injury. “Are you hurt?”

She shakes her head quickly, too quickly, her hair waving dramatically. “N-no,” she stammers, though she aches where she’d hit the ground. Her voice cracks, thin and frayed despite the effort she throws into keeping it firm. “I… I’m fine.”

Boone studies her sidelong, his frown pulling deep as though weighing the lie against the truth. For a heartbeat, she fears he’ll press—but she turns away, hiding her face and what he might see in it.

He mistakes the gesture, taking it for anger, maybe shame. Emotions he knows. Emotions he respects enough not to pry into. Maybe they really are the emotions she's feeling—in a different way than Boone thinks, though.

Instead, Boone's voice drops quieter, though it holds its steel. “Yell sooner, Pilar,” he tells her. “I can’t help if I don’t know.”

The name hits her like a shot to the chest. Pilar. Her mom would have cut down those Legionaries without hesitation, without fear. Not cowered. Not frozen. Guilt bites sharp as she remembers what might’ve come next if Boone hadn’t been there. How helpless she would've been on her own. The sickness roils up her throat again, and her hands shake as she fumbles for her goggles, desperate to hide herself once more.

“Let’s stick together,” Boone says, rising to his feet, rifle steady in his grip. His tone leaves no room for debate. As soon as the goggles slip back over her eyes, Itzel forces herself up too, though her legs feel like they’re made of brittle glass. “You watch my back, I’ll watch yours.”

She nods firmly but wordlessly, afraid her voice will betray the thin line she’s clinging to. Her fingers close around the handle of her bat, but it feels wrong in her hands now—heavy, useless in the wake of what just happened. The weight pressing down isn’t just fear of the Legion. It’s the deeper, sharper fear of being seen.

She’s worn her mother’s name like armor, worked tirelessly to keep up the facade. But the moment she faltered, the moment she was caught off guard, the mask nearly slipped. Boone almost saw through her.

She can’t let it happen again.

Chapter Text

A full moon hangs low and hard, washing the scrub and broken brush in a pale light that turns every twig and tumbleweed into a silvered silhouette. The desert is almost soundless—only the occasional distant howl of coyotes cuts the stillness, a small, lonely punctuation in the dark.

Inside the run-down shack they’ve taken for the night, shadows curve around rusted nails and a sagging roof. Boone lies on his back on the floor, rifle cradled within arm’s reach as if it were an extra limb. His breathing is slow and steady, the practiced rhythm of a man who never truly relaxes. Across the room, Itzel is curled onto a threadbare sleeping bag, bandana and ski goggles folded neatly beside her. The mask is off for now; the exposure makes the small movement of her shoulders seem more fragile.

Her sleep is restless. Breath stutters and then catches; she flinches as if reacting to unseen blows. Tiny twitches run along her limbs. The day’s horror multiplies and replays in her head in terrifying clarity as whatever small distance she’s carved for herself completely dissolves.

She’s back at the factory.

Darkness folds around her again, heavier than the air outside—thick, metallic, smelling of dust and stale sweat. The loading dock mouth closes around her, and then the Legionaries are there: a wall of red and leather, faces like ruined stone. There are more of them than before, closer, confident in the way people with power always are.

They move like predators. Hands are on her before she can make sense of it—grabbing, hauling, fingers rough and urgent. One rips the goggles from her face, exposing eyes wild and scared. She can feel the heat of their breath, the scrape of leather, the cheap metallic jingle of weapons. They laugh in a way that makes her skin crawl, voices low and cruel as though she’s a prize, a thing to be taken and used. 

“We’ll teach you obedience,” one hisses near her ear, words slithering over her skin. “You weak little girl...”

She screams—an animal sound that’s all raw edges—but her voice disappears before it leaves her throat, swallowed by the building’s hollow bones. She pushes and kicks and twists, but the hands are many, the grips practiced. Panic unspools in her chest, hot and bright and racing. Her lungs burn.

Boone doesn’t appear. There are no footsteps beyond the Legion’s, no sharp cracks of riflefire to cut the moment clean. For the first time in the dream she is not a player with distance and aim—she is small and immediate and utterly alone.

A hand fingers the edge of the bandana and tugs. It’s not just cloth they’re taking; they’re stealing her safety, the shield that keeps her from being seen as she is. Stripped of the disguise, stripped of the persona she learned to wear, she feels raw and ridiculous and terrified in a single, searing instant.

They start to move her—drag, pull, shoulder her toward whatever they’ve decided she is worth. The future narrows into a point, a dark, screaming certainty of what they can do to her. She knows, in a way that makes the world tilt, that what they intend will be worse than any ending she could really imagine. The dream closes in until she’s drowning, hopeless, consumed by fear, never to see the light again…

Itzel jerks awake with a strangled gasp, her body snapping upright as if yanked by unseen strings. Sweat clings to her skin in feverish sheets, dampening her hair, plastering her shirt to her back. Her chest seizes with each ragged breath, lungs dragging in air too fast, too shallow. The dark walls loom too close, pressing down on her like the weight of the dream still crushing her ribs. The echoes are there—hands clawing at her, voices leering, heat and breath and promises.

They’re coming. They know–! I have to go—I can’t– can’t be here–!

She scrambles up from her sleeping bag in a blind panic, her knees buckling against the floorboards as she stumbles to her feet. Her backpack topples over with a heavy crash, spilling its contents across the floor, but she barely registers it. The bandana and goggles lie forgotten by her bedroll as she shoves the door open and stumbles into the night.

The sharp sound of the door slamming open jolts Boone awake instantly. His training does the rest—rifle in hand, eyes sweeping the darkened room before his mind can even catch up. He spots the empty bedroll, the swaying door, and in one smooth motion he’s on his feet, moving.

“Pilar?” His voice cuts low and sharp, instinctively hushed but no less urgent.

He steps outside, the warm Mojave night brushing his skin, thick with the scent of dust and mesquite. It doesn’t take long to find her. Just a few yards away, Itzel sits collapsed against the side of a rusted-out car, her knees hugged tight to her chest, trembling like a wire stretched to breaking. Her hands dig into her own arms, clawing for purchase, while her head tilts limply back against the metal. She stares upward at the stars, her sweat-soaked hair plastered to her temple, chest rising and falling in panicked, uneven gasps, like she’s trying to control it but failing miserably.

Boone stops dead, the sight freezing him mid-step. For a heartbeat, his brain refuses to make sense of it. The way she swore by wearing that mask. The way the firelight never quite reached her face as she fell asleep. The way her voice always felt just slightly… off. He’d chalked it up to nerves, to weariness. Something else, maybe. But now, in the raw clarity of her panic, it clicks. She isn’t the hardened courier who dragged herself through firefights and ambushes with grit in her jaw.

She’s a kid.

The realization hits him like a bullet he never saw coming. But there’s no time to dwell on it—not when she’s folded in on herself, breaths sharp and shallow, eyes wide and wild. Boone knows that posture. He’s worn it himself, in the dead of night too. He might know a thing or two about calming her down.

“Pilar,” he says, voice low, steady, like he’s coaxing a wounded animal out of the brush. He lowers himself to her level slowly, leaving his rifle on the roof of the car and making sure she can see him, hear him. “It’s me. You’re okay. You’re safe.”

But the words don’t land. She shakes her head violently, burying her face in her hands and clawing at her own hair like she could tear the fear out by force. “No, no, no– They– they know. They’re here–!” Her voice cracks, shredded thin with terror.

Boone hesitates before reaching toward her, careful, deliberate—only for her to flinch away, scrambling back on her hands and heels. Her eyes are glazed, unfocused, locked on him but not seeing him. Nothing registers but the looming shape of a man too close. “Get away, get away getawayfromme–!”

“They’re not here,” Boone cuts in, voice sharpening to slice through the spiral. “It was a dream. Just a dream.” He’s bad at this, he knows he is, but the sight of her like this—so small and fragile, stripped down to raw terror—turns something in his chest that won’t let him stay distant.

Still, she doesn’t hear him. Her breathing comes faster, quicker, until it sounds like she’s on the edge of choking on it. Boone inches closer, careful not to spook her further, and after a beat of hesitation, rests his hand lightly on her knee. It’s nothing more than the weight of a palm, but it steadies her—just enough for her to falter.

“Pilar,” he murmurs, low and gruff but not unkind. “Look at me. Focus on my voice, Pilar.”

“It’s not–” Her voice cracks, and her hand darts out to grasp his own with a terrified strength, her tear-streaked face desperate and illuminated faintly by the moonlight. “No—no…” she whimpers. “Itzel… Itzel–!”

Boone stills. The second revelation of the night hits just as hard as the first. He blinks, letting the name settle before repeating it back to her, slowly, as if testing its weight. “…Itzel.”

The syllables feel unfamiliar in his mouth, but the sound of it cuts through her haze. Her gaze clears a fraction, clinging to him like a lifeline. She nods, weak and trembling, breath still ragged but slowing by degrees.

“Again,” she croaks, curling in on herself again, burying her face in her knees like she can’t bear the world without the sound anchoring her.

Boone exhales, steadying himself, then gives her what she asks for. “Itzel.” This time firmer, surer. And again, softer: “You’re safe, Itzel.”

Each repetition works like an anchor. He watches the panic bleed from her little by little, though it doesn’t vanish entirely. Her breaths deepen, shakily, and the wild tremors coursing through her body ease into something less violent, more bearable. Boone keeps his hand steady on her knee, keeps speaking her name whenever silence threatens to swallow her again.

When her breathing steadies, he finally takes the time to consider the situation a little more. He sits back on his heels, his hand slipping away carefully. Instinct makes him avert his eyes, giving her space, even as his mind turns over the truth like a blade catching light. She’s just a kid, way younger than she pretended, and she’s doing all of this alone for god knows how long… 

It makes something in his stomach twist.

“You with me now?” His voice is low, gentler than he meant it to be as he sends a sidelong glance her way.

Itzel lifts her face, though her gaze doesn’t quite meet his. She wipes her damp cheeks with quick, embarrassed motions, then drags a trembling hand through her hair. “I’m… I’m sorry,” she mutters, shame thickening her words. “I didn’t—”

“Don’t.” Boone’s interruption is quiet but firm, carrying a finality that brooks no argument. “Don’t apologize. Not for this.”

Her head snaps up, startled by the edge in his tone. For the first time, her unhidden, clear eyes actually lock with his—and in the faint silver wash of moonlight, she finds no scorn waiting for her. No disgust. Only steadiness. Only certainty.

Something in her chest loosens. Her shoulders sag, the tight coil of fight inside her unwinding until all that remains is exhaustion, raw and heavy.

Boone pushes to his feet, brushing dust from his knees before holding a hand out toward her. “Come on,” he says, voice still gruff but carrying a quiet gentleness. “Let’s get back inside. You need rest.”

She stares at his hand, then up at him, hesitation clouding her face. Her fingers knot together nervously. “Boone… nobody else… nobody else can know…” Her voice trembles, each word fragile as glass.

His expression doesn’t shift. “Everyone has something they’re hiding,” he replies simply, the truth of it steady as stone. “It’s not my place to share.”

For a moment, she searches his face as though testing the ground beneath her feet. Finally, her hand slips into his, small and unsteady, and he pulls her up with ease.

Neither speaks as they make their way back into the shack. The silence between them isn’t heavy, though. It carries something different—an understanding, quiet and tentative, but real. And for the first time in longer than she can remember, Itzel feels the faintest flicker of something she thought she’d lost for good.

Maybe she doesn’t have to be alone anymore.