Your name is Jade Harley, and your best friend is dying.
You can't remember how long Becquerel has been with you. You can't remember much of anything, really—not since before the war, at least. It all seems like a dream, fuzzy and faded, like a word just on the tip of your tongue or a melody you can never quite remember. All you can recall is the darkness and the chaos, the piercing whiteness of what you know now were nuclear explosions, and the madness of the years afterward when horrendous mutant beasts stalked the country and bodies melted together, twisted in the embrace of the damned and filling the streets with their morbid cries—
And Becquerel.
You would never have survived without Becquerel. You were a foster child halfway to yet another new home when it began, and there was no time for anything. You were swept along with the crowds and hid with them, ate and slept and blended into them, invisible but never really alone. And then, when it was over and the world opened up again, when the realization that resources were there for the taking, yes, but scarce, when it was every man, woman, and child for themselves, you would have died, like so many other abandoned children, if not for Becquerel.
You were the one who saved him, first. He was badly injured, a gangly puppy that would have been snow white if not for the blood and dirt in his fur, and at first he snarled and whined and nearly bit you, but you calmed him down and took him with you. You bound him up and cared for him until he was well. You fed him what little food and water you had. And after that, he never left your side. You didn't care that it meant you would have to work harder, fight harder, for the extra rations he needed to survive. All you cared was that you had saved him—and now, you had a friend.
You didn't know what he was, what he was capable of, until much later. You should have seen them coming, but you were still young, still vulnerable. An easy target. Prey. So you didn't see them creeping up behind you, ready to murder you without a second thought for the pitiful supply of food you had managed to scrounge up for the day. You were too busy watching your friend scouting eagerly along up ahead. You were confused when he stopped and turned his head towards you, his hackles rising on the back of his neck. And then, quite suddenly, he was no longer there, but here, right beside you, and he pressed his side against your leg and then neither one of you were anywhere.
Both of you learned quickly that you could not remain still for long, not in the chaos of those early days. You wandered for a very long time with Becquerel at your side, and for quite a portion of that time, he was the only one who did any of the fighting. Even then, fighting was rarely on the agenda with Becquerel. If the danger grew too great, he would latch onto your side and teleport you to safety. And you would hide, and wait, and you would talk to him, and with the way his ears pricked up and the way he nodded his head and thumped his tail in all the right places, you were convinced that he could understand every word.
It has been years since those days, and you are not young and vulnerable any more. You are a slim, sharp woman now, thin as wire, hard as steel, strung as taut as as a well-oiled bow. You are the best damn shot in the whole country—and you are more than happy to prove it when any threat comes knocking. You fight together, as a team, and when the fight is over and you have looted the pockets and bags of whatever you can find, you still pat Becquerel on the head and speak to him as though he can understand you. Because you never stopped believing that he could. He has always listened to closely and reacted too well to your words to believe anything else.
His ears are pricked now, swiveling towards you. He lets out a soft whine, licking your hand, and you can't help but smile, even though you can barely see with the tears streaming down your face. He's always been such a worrywart. So overprotective.
"I'm okay, Bec. See? You saved me! Just like always..."
A group of mutant creatures had come straight into the city, mutated rodents of some kind, scenting out your food stores. You settled in this city because it had been completely abandoned after so very long, and because there was still so much food and clean water to be found and so many places to store it. But even with your reserves, you know you cannot afford to lose a single bite, one single precious drop of water. That one drop could mean the difference between life and death someday.
There were more of them than you had thought. You hadn't expected them to move so silently, or be able to creep so low in the shadows.
Becquerel tries to roll over onto his back, but you hold him where he is, his head in your lap, your arms curled around his neck. He whines again, and you curl your fingers into the fur of his chest, burying your face in behind his ears.
"You did good." Your voice is hoarse. You squeeze your eyes shut. "Good dog...best friend..."
He should have been able to teleport you. Just like always. You should have been able to get away like always, but there hadn't been enough time. Even if he had appeared right next to you in that instant, there wouldn't have been enough time to disappear with you before the claws tore through your stomach and disemboweled you. So he did the only thing he could, the only thing you knew he would—the one thing you had never, ever wanted him to do.
He is still bleeding. You try not to look, which is easy in a way because your eyes are too fogged to see it pooling on the floor, but it is vibrant and bright against the white of his fur, and you can feel it seeping up your sleeve and into the leg of your pants. But you refuse to let go. You didn't let go when you ran for him, the beasts chasing after you with high yowls of triumph that morphed into shrieks of rage when they realized that you were already gone. And you will not let go now.
His tail thumps. Once. Twice. Three times.
"I'm not going anywhere," you whisper into his fur. "Not this time. Not again."
You were the one who let them split you up. You let your guard down. The beast that caught him across the stomach and sent him flying should never have had the opportunity to put you in so much danger. And now you are paying for it. For your carelessness, you are now paying the ultimate price.
His tongue lolls out to the side, and his lips curl upward in what, over the years, you have come to understand is a floppy, doggy smile. But his eyes are already beginning to glass over, and you can't look at him for long before the grief claws at your throat again, strangling a low sob out into near-silence before it can begin.
"I love you..."
He lets out a soft huff, closing his eyes. You run your fingers through his fur, scratching at the soft skin behind his ears. You can't do anything to soothe his pain. There is no medicine, let alone medicine fit for use on dogs. But you scratch his ears anyway, curled up in this dark room with the only friend you have ever known, choking on your own tears.
Tomorrow you will do what has to be done. Tomorrow you will be thin as wire and hard as steel, strung as taut as a well-oiled bow. Tomorrow you will return him to the earth that bore him and fed him, and he will return to the earth all that he is and ever was.
But today, you are thirteen years old again. The world is cold and empty, unkind, unforgiving, and you don't know how you are going to survive. You are small. Vulnerable. Lost. You have nothing. You have no one.
Your name is Jade Harley, and you are alone.