The triage center lay in ruin—cots overturned, supply crates split open, gauze and empty IV bags strewn across cracked linoleum. First light slipped through shattered skylights, dust motes drifting like lazy sparks in the high rafters. Outside, distant sirens groaned then faded into the hush of morning.

Logan Wyatt jolted awake on a blood-specked mattress, sweat slicking his brow. Purple veins webbed his left forearm; infection gnawed toward the elbow. Training overrode panic. He looped a rubber tourniquet above the bicep, grabbed a rust-flecked bone saw from a toppled crash cart, and exhaled once. One savage pull—white-hot pain flashed, then dulled as the limb separated. He clamped a pressure pad to the stump, wrapped gauze until crimson seeped no more, cinched it tight with surgical tape.

No time to black out. He scavenged the wreckage: a broken aluminum crutch, the hinge brace from an orthopedic kit, tension wire coiled inside a shattered recon drone, a leather rifle sling, and several thin panels of sheet metal peeled from a dented medicine locker. Kneeling amid the debris, he went to work.

The inner frame came first: aluminum struts for radius and ulna, hinge brace pivoting for an elbow, drone cabling threaded as tendons. With the penknife’s flat spine, he punched guide holes, lashed everything with nylon filament, then anchored the harness across his shoulder with the sling. A crude ball-and-socket cut from a shattered IV swivel formed the wrist joint—he ground its shaft smooth against broken tile until it rotated without grit.

Next came the shell. He braced the sheet metal against a steel bunk rail and bent it over his knee until it curved into a tapered sleeve for the forearm. Smaller plates were scored with the bone saw’s edge, folded into contoured caps for the back of the hand and a dish-shaped guard for the palm. Narrow slivers became finger and thumb segments; he punched articulation slots with a screwdriver, then threaded tension wire through each knuckle, tightening until the digits curled and straightened on command. A final plate rested over the ball socket, locking with a scavenged hose clamp to protect the joint.

He slipped the sleeve over the skeletal frame, riveted it with salvaged screws, and cinched the last strap. The prosthetic clicked as he flexed—forearm shell holding steady, metal fingers drumming a crisp rhythm against his thigh. Good enough.

A faint rustle echoed near the supply shelves. Someone was scavenging—moving cautiously, unaware the center’s lone occupant now stood armed and alert. Logan rose to his full height, FN SCAR-L slung low, new hand resting on the receiver. The scent of gunpowder, shea, and oak trailed him as he stepped into the main aisle.

“Morning,” he called, voice gravel-rough but steady. “Place is picked clean, but there’s antiseptic under that splintered gurney.”

He rolled the ball socket, metal palm opening in demonstration. “Had to improvise some hardware. If you’re after supplies, we split what’s left—no sense bleeding each other dry.”

A measured nod followed.

“Name’s Logan Wyatt. I keep things civil if folks do the same. Sound fair?”