Potential triggers will be tagged in the chapter notes.
My Twitter is Kohaiio, and the Ao3 version of this fic is here: /works/40775976

CHAPTER ONE

"It was early August," I said. "And the sky would've been a perfect, cloudless blue if it weren't for the six-ton weapon of mass destruction between Ría and the sun."

"Miller," Clarke called. "What are you doing?"

Hair elastic hanging from my mouth, I blinked down at him from where I perched cross-legged atop the cab of my truck.

"Narrating? I don't know."

He raised an eyebrow at me from the other side of his car, which was parked next to me in the empty Garrison parking lot. Well—nearly empty, if you didn't count the squad of mechs being lifted from the hangar with a crane.

"Well, stop."

Pulling my hair into a ponytail, I rolled my eyes and stuck out my tongue. Clarke's nickname was Diamond. Not because he was shiny, but because he was so uptight he could probably grow them in his arse. We didn't get along, but he'd been my squad leader since I was seventeen. Or at least, he had been.

I glanced over at the rest of my squad, where they sat on my tailgate snarking into their Coronas. They'd turned down their offers to transfer to Arizona. Serving on the Atlas was cushy, they said, but they were keeping their heads down, focusing on "rebuilding their lives." They'd had lives before the war, so they could do that.

Closing my eyes, I breathed in the scent of summer—hot asphalt, yellowing grass, and warm soil. I'd miss the Alberta Garrison—not to mention the chicken strips they served in the cafeteria—but at least Arizona would be sunny. And maybe, just maybe, things would be different this time.

I opened my eyes and stared up at Jarvis 343 as it was lifted toward the ship that would carry it roughly 3,000 kilometers to Garrison headquarters. Its flashy yellow paint gleamed in the sun. I looked down at myself—at my sweat-stained tank top and wrinkled uniform slacks—and sighed.

"I have to go," I said.

Leaping off the cab onto the asphalt, I opened the driver's side door and crawled inside. My truck lurched as someone shut my tailgate for me. At first, I couldn't find my keys, but then I spied their leather tab sticking from the center console. I fished them out and started the engine, flinching as it stalled, stalled again, then finally roared to life.

"Later, Duckling," someone said with a laugh.

"Later, shithead," I shot back.

Clarke held up a hand in farewell, and I did the same. Then, I pulled out onto the highway, and within moments, everything I'd known for the last eight years was gone.

I drove the first day to Arizona with my windows rolled down, an eclectic mish-mash of dated music trends blaring from the speakers.

I'd always been better at being alone than being with people. Either I was too much—too loud, too slapstick, too horny—or too little. Sometimes, I was both. But, on what essentially amounted to a solo road trip, there was no one to tell me to simmer down. Or, to not stop at a tiny, run-down gas station in Nowhere, Montana that resembled something out of an indie movie from the twentieth century.

There was an attendant at the pumps—a thin, blonde teenager wearing a plaid button-up shirt under her reflective vest. I rolled down my window as I pulled up beside her, blinking away the smoke from her cigarette.

"Fill me up?" I asked.

While she fed my truck, I went inside. No gush of air conditioning greeted me; in fact, the air was downright sticky, and I could hear flies buzzing in the barred windows. But, there were wire basket shelves full of little multicolored bags of candy, and an entire fridge full of soda. My eyes grew wide as I read each label, recognizing next-to-none of the names printed across the shiny packaging.

I picked up a bag of candy and turned it over. There was no French written on the back—only a bar code. It was like I'd stumbled into a treasure trove. Grinning, I filled my arms full of everything I hadn't seen before, nearly picking some parts of the shelves clean.

"You a bodybuilder?" The clerk—a man who looked suspiciously like the attendant girl—asked as I brought my haul to the counter.

I glanced down at my bicep, then back at him. It didn't look big to me. My job required me to stay in shape, but that hardly meant I was lifting weights. Then again, I thought, letting out an awkward chuckle. I couldn't wrap my hand around my ankle like some of my squad members could. I'd always been big-boned.

"What," I asked. "Do I look like one?"

"Lookin' mighty unfeminine," he said, turning the card reader towards me.

His lips were pressed into a thin line, and for a moment, I wondered if I'd somehow offended him. But I hadn't done anything—I'd just existed in his general vicinity.

That's how it goes, though, I heard myself think. Once a target, always a target.

"Thanks," I said, forcing a laugh as I picked up my haul, now packed away neatly into a plastic bag. "For your opinion, random... dude... guy."

"Yup," he said.

He turned his back to me and started stacking packs of cigarettes into the plexiglass case on the wall behind him. I stood there, wondering if that was it, but he didn't say anything else, so I turned to leave.

"Bye," I called as I sailed through the doors. "Have a nice day!"

He didn't respond, and I stepped out onto the hot concrete with my brows knit together, a frown hanging from my lips. Outside, everything seemed almost supernaturally still. It was as if I'd been caught up in a whirlwind and suddenly, everything had come to a halt.

"Help me," I whispered.

Three days passed, slowly and uneventfully. I stopped at a cheapo motel somewhere in rural Idaho, and fell asleep pretty much as soon as my head hit the pillow. My shriek when I woke up with a dead moth stuck to my cheek could've woken the dead, but it probably didn't on account of the motel being next to a four-lane highway.

Instead of eating breakfast at the attached—and expensive—restaurant, I hit the road instead, munching on chips and drinking soda. I switched out my music for an audiobook, then for YouTube playing off my phone, before finally opting for silence.

By then, I was three days in and had eaten nothing but junk. I was feeling green, and Phoenix was making an appearance on every passing road sign. The future was becoming impossible to ignore.

That evening, I'd enter a new Garrison. There, I'd be part of a new, foreign team, using shiny, new, human-made weapons. Everyone was going to be watching me, staring, sizing me up and comparing me to themselves and their peers.

And, I wasn't going to measure up. I never had. Even when I'd applied to the Garrison, I'd needed a special exemption on account of the string of diagnoses that were clipped to my file. Sometimes, it felt like I was giving off a scent—some sort of pheromone that screamed I'm not safe to be around.

In the end, it didn't matter what it was. Pheromones or just plain neurodivergency, people would do whatever they wanted to me. All I could do was survive it.

It was getting dark when I finally turned off the highway. If it weren't for the bright yellow warnings plastering the shoulder, I would've mistaken the thin skid mark of pavement that wound through the hills as just another country road. Far in the distance, hulking shadows—likely buttes—stood out against the indigo sky. I'd never seen any in person, so I craned my neck to look at them.

"Alright," I said. "Home stretch, Rí."

I pressed the gas pedal, but instead of speeding up, my truck let out a deafening thud. I yelped as my truck lurched, its nose dipping to kiss the asphalt with a loud scrape.

The vehicle continued to roll, but we were only coasting, and my surprise gave way to a sinking sensation in the pit of my stomach. I pressed the gas pedal again, but nothing happened. The engine was dead.

With a sigh, I steered to the side of the road. Just as my passenger side tires bumped over the shoulder and into the dirt, the truck stopped, and the cab went dark.

Slipping from the driver's seat, I stood on the asphalt and stared in abject horror at the sight before me. Night was gathering, devoid of a moon, and so it was hard to see. But, the road behind my truck was scattered with thick, black clots—my truck's guts, or at least, some of them. It'd been disemboweled. But, by what?

"Shite," I whispered breathlessly.

Then, I let out a shiver. I'd dressed for my arrival at the base, but I'd also removed my uniform jacket earlier, throwing it over the back of the passenger's seat. It'd been hot then—far hotter than it'd been in Alberta—but now, I was only wearing a ribbed tank top, and my arms were covered in prickly goosebumps.

"Shite," I repeated, rubbing my arms as I reached over and grabbed my uniform jacket, yanking it over my shoulders.

I folded my arms across my boobs and stared up at the sky, chewing my lip. I'd heard about it getting downright cold in the Sonoran at night, but I'd waved it off. How cold could it possibly get somewhere that's so hot? It hadn't felt real then, but now, looking around at the dirt and sky, it made perfect sense. There was nothing there to keep the heat close to the ground; it was only going to get colder from here on out.

My dad had taught me to pack blankets, no matter where I went, in case of an accident or emergency. But I'd dismissed that, too. I'd left them behind in Alberta in an attempt to lighten my load, sure that I'd be sleeping in motels, and that I could handle whatever was thrown at me. If I needed blankets, I'd buy them, I'd thought. but I hadn't bet on my shitty truck breaking down in the middle of nowhere, even though it'd been acting weird for a while now. Typical me.

Stupid, good for nothing duckling.

"No," I said, like my therapist back at the Garrison had taught me. "I'm not stupid—that doesn't help. I just need to figure out..." I huffed out a breath, shivering again. "...how I'll respond. Act, not despair—right?"

My eyes combed the distance for any passing vehicles in the direction of the highway. It was completely still over there—no headlights in the distance, no movement, nothing.

I couldn't stay with my dead truck. It didn't have power for the heater unless the tires were rolling—an "innovation" I didn't understand at all—and at best, I'd catch a chill and wind up sick. Waiting it out overnight wouldn't do. I couldn't sit around and hope that someone would come along to help me. What if they saw me but just kept driving?

I knew better than to count on others to save my dumb ass. Not even my parents had wanted to—I had always, always been on my own.

Shaking my head, I slapped my cheeks with both hands. The loud clap rang in my ears as I proceeded to shake my head.

"Focus! What're you going to do, Rí?"

I turned in the other direction, peering down the thin stretch of road at the end of which supposedly sat the Arizona Garrison. It was probably... 10 miles? Perhaps a little more? Walking it would take hours, and I'd have to carry what stuff I couldn't leave, but...

But, what choice did I have? I wasn't like my peers. I couldn't call home crying, begging for help—my dad would just throw up his hands. And, I had no one else who I could call. No friends, no partner.

I was alone. I'd always been alone.

And so, I knew how this worked.

Turning, I snapped open the door of my truck and yanked my duffel bag from the back seat. Dropping it on the ground, I opened it up and slipped a t-shirt over my tank top. But, I'd deliberated over bringing my old zip-up hoodies and, thinking I wouldn't need them, decided I wouldn't need them.

Stupid.

I shook my head again, so hard this time that my head hurt, like my brain was pinging around inside my skull.

"I didn't know," I said breathlessly. "It didn't register; I couldn't have done any different."

If I was going to survive, I had to face forward. Not back—toward my past, which I did a shit job at hiding—or to the ground—where I didn't know what the hell I was doing—but forward.

To the future. To the Arizona Garrison, and flying around in space in Jarvis 343, and kicking butt in front of my peers. Potentially meeting people I could love. Getting all healed up. Having a family of my own, or maybe just one that I'd found.

Finally coming to resemble a person, instead of a five-foot-ten glob of inhuman sludge.

I breathed in deep as I slipped my arms through the straps of my duffle bag, wearing it as a backpack. As I stood, I pursed my lips into an O and blew it out.

"Okay," I said, the instability I'd just shown—albeit to no one but myself—stabbing deep into my heart like a shard of poisoned glass. "Don't think, just do."

Then, I broke into a jog.

It felt like I'd been running forever. But, I knew I wasn't even halfway there.

So far, I'd treated it like my workouts, alternating between running and walking. I wasn't exhausted, but I was starting to tire, and not only was sweat dripping down the inside of my clothes, but the chill it took when it hit the air ensured I never stopped shivering.

The night had deepened to nearly pitch-black. Aside from my phone's torch, there wasn't a single light for as far as my eyes could see. Yet, somehow, I had the creeping feeling that I wasn't alone. The Sonoran desert was big—a lot bigger than Drumheller—and there had to be animals out here. And, chances were, some of them were aggressive. Not all of them, maybe, but some.

Once or twice, I'd been startled by a distant screech echoing through the hills and stumbled, stopping in my tracks to peer into the dark. I'd concluded that it must be some kind of bird—a hawk, or something. If they had those here. Unlikely to attack me, but still kind of spooky.

"Spooky comes," I sang to myself. "Spooky goes. Where spooky stops, nobody knows."

I leapt over a large rock that had somehow wound up on the shoulder, the duffel bag that used to hold my hockey gear bouncing harshly against my back.

"Scooby-doo is a bitch, snitches get stitches... uh—" I lost my train of thought when I heard a rattle in the distance.

I slowed, shooting a glance over my shoulder. There was a single headlight coming over a rise in the road—high beams, painfully bright—and, startled, I started to run faster. Would this person stop? And if they did, what the hell was I supposed to say to them?

Conversations with strangers had always been difficult for me. I was strange—really strange—and so, in an attempt not to weird people out, I tried to stick to a script. Hello, how are you? That's good. I'm good, thanks for asking. Thanks, bye—have a nice day! Of course, making sure I was clear on whether they're actually asking or not. Nobody liked the person who overshared, either.

This approach had worked great—mostly. There was one problem: if the conversation deviated from the script in any way, I was immediately on my own, which usually led to disaster. And, not only was this person likely one of my future coworkers or peers, but I had no script for I'm running down the side of the road in the middle of the night like a rubber chicken with its head cut off.

As the vehicle drew closer, the rhythm of its engine became clearer. I knew from the deep thrumming I felt in my chest that it was a hoverbike—an old one, with propellers angled toward the ground instead of jets on the bottom. Who was this person?

Whoever they were, they held the distance between us, as if hesitating. Chest tight, I continued to run, sure that they would either pull up beside me or keep going on their own, but a pretty large part of me wanted them to keep going. I'd be tired when I got to the Garrison—not to mention smelly—but somehow, navigating a conversation where I needed help was scarier. What if they said no?

I swallowed hard when the hoverbike began to slow. Its driver, seemingly oblivious to my discomfort, nudged the bike towards the shoulder. They—he, from the breadth of his shoulders—pulled up alongside me, the air from his bike's propellers lashing my cheek with my hair.

Curious, I glanced at him. But all I saw was that he had a dark braid and thick forelocks that were just as at the mercy of his bike as mine was.

"Is that your—" He shouted something over his engine, but I only caught the first half.

"What?"

"Is that your truck back there?"

Too nervous to meet his gaze, I nodded, still running. My calf muscles were burning, and each time my foot came down, a sharp pain stabbed through my shin, causing me to flinch. Between the noise from his engine and the sensations from my tiring body, it was getting hard to form words in my head—a sign I was getting close to melting down.

"Yeah," I shouted back, trying to ignore it.

"Do you need—"

The rest was lost in the wind, and I stopped, my arms swinging. Tapping the breaks, he bumped to a stop slightly ahead of me, bracing his foot on the pavement. He turned and looked back, but all I could see was his silhouette, his hair flying about his head.

"Turn your engine off," I said.

"What'd you say?" He asked.

"Turn your engine off!"

He turned back to his dash and turned his keys in the ignition. Silence flooded in as his engine died, washing over me, and my shoulders sagged in relief.

"Sorry," I said instinctually, without thinking, before stiffening in self-consciousness. "It's just, it was really loud."

"Yeah?" He said in a deep voice, raising an eyebrow as if it were a no-brainer.

My stomach sank. I already felt like I was failing at this conversation, and it hadn't even started yet—not really. An awkward silence hung between us, and his eyes shifted away from me, his brow furrowing.

That was when I noticed his face was scarred—a burn, from the looks of it, like a lobster-colored lash across his cheek. It came so close to the inner corner of his eye that I wondered if he could see me alright, but I averted my eyes politely anyway, stomach in knots.

Taking a deep breath, I reminded myself of the steps of formulating a request. First, determine what you need: a ride. Then, ask the person their name, so I can be polite.

"What's your name?" I asked.

He stared at me, raising a brow again—wow, did he talk with them, or what?

"Keith."

I blinked twice.

"I like it—it's a nice name."

"I—Thanks?"

He sounded confused, his voice softening some, and no wonder—who the hell compliments someone on their name during an introduction? Why did I have to be so knee-jerk and weird?

I shook my head, trying to focus.

Secondly, state the problem you're having. Then, state what you need clearly in as few words as possible.

"I'm Ría—" I cleared my throat, focusing my gaze on the spot between his eyes. "Miller. My truck died, and I need to get to the Garrison—I work there," I paused. "I mean, I just transferred but—"

I swallowed.

"Could you please give me a ride, Keith?"

He simply stared, with eyes so dark they were black. For a long, torturous moment, it was so quiet that I couldn't even breathe. Then, he looked down, shifting his weight on his bike. He peeled his leather jacket off, revealing pale, wiry arms covered in healed knicks and scratches, like he'd been wrestling a bear, or something equally improbable.

"Put this on first," he said, looking away from me.

"Huh?" I said, blinking twice, my eyes wide. "Why?"

"Because you're cold," he said in a low voice, still not looking at me.

Mute, I took the jacket. Then it dawned on me—wait, he hadn't said no? This guy was going to help me, just like that? I don't know what I'd expected, but I felt strangely jittery, like lightning was zipping around beneath my skin.

I took off my duffel bag, then slipped his jacket on. It was lined with soft fabric, and it was well-worn in... not to mention heavy. It's weight pressed down on my shoulders, and I could feel my heartrate begin to slow in response. I sighed.

"Thanks," I said.

"Next time, dress in layers." He turned his keys in the ignition, and his bike roared to life. "The cold out here will kill you, too."

I knew that, but I didn't say it. Technically, not having a hoodie or jacket was my fault, so there was no point in arguing. Not that he would know that. I slipped my duffel bag back on, pulling the straps over top of his jacket.

"Okay. Where do you want me?"

He glanced at me in his rearview mirror, his expression unreadable. Then, he looked away again. Was it just me, or was this guy's eye contact game worse than mine?

"Climb on the back."

I straddled the bike. Tucking my legs in, I tried not to worry about the fact that he was now holding up my entire body weight, which couldn't possibly be polite at all—except, that was how bikes worked.

After what the clerk had said to me in the gas station, I almost expected Keith to ask how much I weighed, but he didn't—he just sat there.

"Do you want to fall off?"

His voice had a bit of an edge to it, almost like he was frustrated with me. But, I was being kind of slow. Saying nothing, I started to put my arms around his—remarkably tiny—waist, then reconsidered and gripped his shoulders instead.

They were warm. I could feel it through his shirt. When I breathed in, I smelled his hair, as well as a rich, slightly spicy scent that screamed boy. My stomach lurched in fear, and almost immediately, I wanted to get off the bike, to wrap my arms around myself and run off into the brush, away from him.

He revved the engine once, and I pulled my arms back, fighting with the urge to flee.

"Need a moment?" He asked, busy with something in his dash.

I shook my head frenetically, my hair flying around my face.

"No." I lied.

I knew I should've said yes, should've taken a moment to calm myself. But, I didn't want to annoy him; I already felt like a huge, heavy-ass pain. Trembling, I forced my hands back down, until I was gripping his shoulders again.

"Ready," I told him, even though I wasn't.

"You sure?" He asked, in what sounded suspiciously like... well, suspicion.

"Yes." I said, gripping his shoulders tighter. "Just go, already."

Then, we were off.

He was right—the wind was cold. As we whistled down the road, the shadows of the buttes slowly moving toward us, I was grateful for the warmth of his jacket around my shoulders, as well as guilty.

However, Keith didn't seem cold. In fact, he didn't seem anything. He focused only on the road. Though he occasionally glanced at me in his mirror—probably to make sure I hadn't fallen off without him noticing—he said nothing to me the entire ride, but for once, I didn't wonder if I'd offended.

His scent filled my nostrils with each breath I took, leaving me dizzy and lightheaded. Being this close to someone else was unfamiliar and uncomfortable. My heart stung, and my mind swam wordlessly as we finally reached the Garrison, and he pulled into the parking lot.

But, even though being this close was nearly intolerable, when I tried to rise from the back of his bike, my fingers clung stiffly to his shirt. He glanced at me curiously, and my face flushed with embarrassment as I disentangled them from the soft fabric.

Shaking, I stood up, removed my duffel bag and mutely slipped his jacket from my back. As I held it out to him, my arms broke out in gooseflesh, and he stared—almost as if he was unsure—before slowly taking his jacket back.

"Thank you," I croaked, bowing.

"Yeah," he said.

Then, before he could say anything else, I turned and walked away.