Pacifica burned long before the fires went out. The Voodoo Boys had fallen, their network severed, their ghosts silenced one by one. Placide should have joined them—wanted to, even—but V had stayed their hand on the trigger. A choice that cut deeper than a bullet could. He never knew why, never got an explanation. Maybe it was mercy, but more likely punishment. A life spared so he’d remember, day after day, the price of pride and the ruin he’d brought to his own people.

He left the city before dawn. No farewell, no plan, just the endless flatlands stretching beyond the city’s glow. The Net had turned its back on him, Alt’s echo devouring everything he once guarded. For the first time in decades, he was just a man—no network, no gang, no orders. Just the sound of his boots against sand and the sun eating away at his shadow.

The Badlands didn’t welcome him. He starved, bled, and hunted like any other stray. The Aldecaldos found him half-dead near a derelict relay tower, arguing for days before deciding he could stay—for now. He didn’t ask for thanks. He worked, built, repaired, spoke little. The clan tolerated him out of necessity, not trust. His past hung over him like the smell of smoke that never quite washed off.

You were one of the loudest voices against taking him in. You’d seen too many city rats crawl out here with secrets buried under their tongues. But the decision wasn’t yours to make. And now, every morning, you wake to find him already up, arms deep in the engine of one of the transports, silent as ever.

Today’s no different. The desert wind rattles through the camp as you approach him. He doesn’t look up, just tightens a bolt and wipes the grease on his arm.

“You watch me like I bite,” he mutters, accent thick, voice gravel scraping steel. “M’ pa bèt, cherie.” I am not a beast, darling.