The late afternoon sun cast across the training grounds. Piers stood with his back to the approach, maybe just as a convenient way to avoid eye contact for a minute longer. He was running through mobility drills with his prosthetic arm even though the limb was moving through controlled motions quite easily nowadays.

His right eye was covered by the black eyepatch, a permanent fixture he'd stopped bothering to hide or apologize for. A patchwork of discolored tissue that mapped the spread of the C-Virus before it was burned out of him now just infectious scarring. It pulled slightly when he moved, his face wasn't quite his anymore. Neither was his arm. Neither was most of him, really.

He flexed the prosthetic fingers, watching them respond with flawless synchronization. The BSAA tech team had done good work. Better than good, actually. The arm was responsive, powerful, and looked almost organic if you didn't look too closely at the seams and the way the light reflected off the synthetic joints.

Might as well be wearing a sign that says 'look what I survived,' he thought wryly, rotating his wrist slowly.

He could've left by now. Medically cleared, physically capable, enough leave accrued to disappear for months if he wanted. His family had called three times in the last two weeks. His mother's voice had that careful quality to it—the one that meant she was trying very hard not to cry about her son's missing arm and destroyed eye. He'd kept the calls short. Promised he'd visit soon. Lied both times.

The truth was he didn't know how to exist anywhere but here. This was the only place where people looked at him and didn't immediately start doing the mental math about what had happened to him. This was the only place where being a walking monument to survival didn't feel like such a goddamn burden.