The clinic didn’t look like a clinic so much as a storage unit with a conscience. Two metal shutters half-open like tired eyelids; a hand-painted red cross bleeding down warped tin. The smell hit first—antiseptic fought diesel and lost, and somewhere under it all: iron.

  Leanna shouldered through, keeping the strap of the power cell tight across her chest. Viola ducked after her with a performative shiver.

  “Love what they’ve done with the place,” Viola said. “Industrial misery. Very in this season.”

  Inside, cots lined the wall—some actual beds, most pallets with blankets. A girl slept with gauze taped over one eye; a man cradled a bandaged hand like a bird. The ceiling fan spun with the audacity of hope, coughing dust.

  A woman in a stained smock glanced up from a tray of sutures. Mid-forties, sharp eyes, hair clipped to keep out of the blood. “If you’re bleeding, you’re third in line. If you’re robbing, you’re late. If you’re selling, you’ll wait until I save this elbow.”

  “Trading,” Leanna said, lifting the power cell minutely.

  The woman’s gaze flicked to it and away, as if not to spook a rare animal. “Behind the screen,” she said, nodding at a partition. “Don’t show it twice.”

  They moved. Viola swept the partition with her hand like a stage magician. “Behold: our one good thing.”

  Leanna set the cell down as if it had feelings. “We need morphia, broad-spectrum, glue, clean gauze. Whatever you can spare.”

  “Everyone needs whatever I can spare.” The woman finished a knot with neat brutality, patted her patient’s shoulder, and stood. Up close, the tiredness in her face was the practiced kind. “Name’s Dami. Your manners buy you the right not to be lied to. You put that into my inverter and my lights stop flickering. That’s a church to me.” She tapped a crate with her toe. “I can give you morphia tabs, three vials of sealant, two rolls of gauze, and stitches that won’t dissolve when they see sweat.”

  Viola tipped her head. “And a lollipop?”

  “I’m fresh out of childhood,” Dami said flatly. “Deal?”

  Leanna nodded. “Deal.”

  “It’s your turn to be charming,” Viola murmured, already wandering the shelves like a cat deciding which sunbeam belonged to her. She kept up a line of patter, light and needless, to leave space where tension could have gone.

  Dami hauled the inverter out from under a cot. Leanna crouched and slid the cell into the cradle. The system hiccuped, blinked once, then steadied to a clean hum. The room seemed to exhale; the ceiling fan caught, the lights went from sick yellow to honest white.

  Someone in the corner clapped weakly. Viola bowed to the applause like she’d personally re-lit the stars.

  “Don’t get sentimental,” Dami said, but a smile cut through the tiredness. She handed over a dented tin. “Your box of miracles.”

  The door banged open.

  Three men in repurposed flak vests pushed in, guns hung wrong but not completely wrong. Their leader wore an Arbites chest plate polished enough to be a joke and a baton that wasn’t.

  “Rent day,” he announced, like he was doing the clinic a favor. His eyes snagged on the brighter lights, the humming inverter. “And a tip jar’s open.”

  Dami didn’t look up. “The saints charge less.”

  The baton thunked against a cot frame—close enough to make the patient flinch, not close enough to bruise. “We can do a discount. Pay now.”

  Viola’s smile sweetened to a lethal syrup. “I’m so glad you boys came in. We were just complaining that no one ever supports local healthcare.”

  Leanna stepped half a pace forward, palms empty, stance relaxed. Her heart moved from walking to running and then remembered not to show it.

  “Leave the box,” the second thug said, pivoting toward the inverter. “And the tabs. And—”

  “No,” Leanna said.

  He blinked at the quiet in her voice, then noticed her eyes. His mouth tightened. The baton-man’s gaze followed, slid across her face, caught on the shape of it that wasn’t hers at all.

  “Terra,” he said, like trying the taste. Not a question.

  Viola’s head tipped just so—she’d seen it, too. That moment when a room remembers who Leanna looks like.

  Leanna didn’t flinch. “This is a clinic,” she said. “You walk out, nobody bleeds.”

  “Or—” the third man grinned “—you donate the box, we donate not kicking your teeth in.”

  Viola clucked her tongue. “We actually had that scheduled for tomorrow. Maybe we will pencil you in for… never?”

  The baton moved.

  Leanna was already inside his reach. Her hand closed around the baton shaft, turned it with a twist that asked and then insisted. He regained tug-of-war and lost it on the second beat; his wrist folded, his elbow followed, and his chin met Leanna’s forehead with a hollow clack. Not pretty; efficient. He dropped.

  The second one swore and swung the butt of his rifle. Viola met it with a metal tray like a cymbal crash, stepped into his space on the backswing, and taught his knee what a shelf corner felt like. He folded with an offended wheeze; she plucked the rifle free and reversed it with a flourish that was ninety percent theater and ten percent practical, which was the part that mattered.

  The third guy did the math and went for the inverter anyway. Leanna grabbed his collar and bounced him off the door. He slid down it, blinking at a world that had underestimated him and been right.

  It was over in ten seconds. Viola panted a little and then pretended she hadn’t. Leanna’s hands shook once, twice, and then steadied when she willed them to.

  Dami didn’t clap this time. “If you’re going to make a habit of improving my day,” she said, “please warn me. I’ll put fresh sheets on the floor.”

  Viola propped the downed baton-man against the wall, patted his cheek. “Consider your rent forgiven on account of you being bad at your job.”

  Leanna crouched, checked pulses, rolled each man into a recovery position without asking permission. She did it with a care that annoyed them by existing.

  The leader found his voice around a copper taste. “You can’t pull Terra eyes in this quarter and walk.”

  Leanna’s face didn’t move. “You’re leaving,” she said. “All of you. If you come back, bring flowers, not weapons.”

  He looked from her to the tin of supplies to Dami’s steady stare and understood that pride would cost him teeth. He spat pink and motioned the other two up. At the door, he hesitated, tossing one last scrap of menace like a receipt. “Your kind brings heat. The clinic gets torched when the wrong people ask the right questions.”

  Viola’s smile died. “Try it,” she said, voice dropped of all sugar now. “I will staple your shadow to the pavement.”

  They left with the coward’s shuffle. The door shuddered once and settled.

  Dami let out a breath like a laugh that got lost. “You two are either have very good luck or very expensive.”

  “Can be both,” Viola said, massaging her wrist. “We come with a punch card.”

  Leanna returned the baton to the floor, far from any hand. She stood very straight and then realized she was doing it and relaxed a degree. “Sorry for the trouble.”

  “Trouble’s just a name for weather,” Dami said. She slid the tin of supplies across. “Keep your church.” A beat, then: “And take this.”

  She fished under the counter and brought out a small vellum scrap wrapped in oilskin, stamped with a cog-tooth sigil that had been deliberately scratched. On it: a clean, elegant string of binharic that even Leanna could read as call me.

  “Friend of mine,” Dami said. “Mechanicus, technically. Practically… apostate. Knows machine etiquette. The kind that keeps old gods from biting your fingers off when you reach into their mouths. If you’re tangling with… whatever made my lights sing, you’ll want his counsel.”

  Leanna and Viola traded a glance at old gods and didn’t correct her.

  Viola tucked the scrap into her vest. “We owe you a second power cell just for that poetry.”

  Dami’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. “You owe me nothing. You owe my patients not to bring a war through my door.” She paused, then added, quieter: “But if you do, ring first.”

  They packed the morphia, the sealant, and the stitches. Leanna split the gauze into neat halves, a reflex from days when sharing meant living. She slid one roll back onto Dami’s shelf without waiting to be thanked. Dami pretended not to see and failed at it.

  On the threshold, a kid with a lollipop—apparently Dami had found one—peeked around a curtain and flashed a sticky grin at Viola. “You were loud,” he said approvingly.

  “Professional service,” Viola assured him. “Comes with the price.”

  Outside, the alley’s light had turned from tin to pewter. They walked in the kind of quiet that isn’t empty, just busy. Viola slung the tin under one arm and started whistling a refrain from the singalong she’d weaponized last night.

  “You okay?” she asked after a block, not looking at Leanna when she said it.

  Leanna dragged in air that had the quality of water. “Fine.” She glanced back at the dark mouth of the clinic alley. Heat. The clinic gets torched. The words had a bitter taste. They hadn't just gotten supplies; they'd left a bomb ticking behind.

  “Liar.”

  A corner of Leanna’s mouth twitched. “Fine enough.”

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  Viola nodded, accepting the exactness. “You used it,” she said then, gentler. “The face.”

  Leanna’s jaw worked. “I don’t like it.”

  “I know.” Viola bumped her shoulder against Leanna’s. “Also? Those guys will think twice about bleeding people who can’t afford it. If we borrow the shadow to cast a better one, I can live with that.”

  They turned up a staircase that skipped a floor and grumbled about it. At the top, the city spread itself in layered ugliness that somehow, right now, looked almost honest.

  Viola dug into the tin, pulled out a morphia tab, then thought better and found a ration bar. She split it. “You want the half without raisins or with all of them like a monster?”

  “With,” Leanna said, automatic.

  “You are beyond saving.”

  They ate in companionable disgust.

  Leanna tucked the scrap with the cog-tooth sigil deeper into her pocket. The letters felt like a small, sharp promise against her palm. She glanced at Viola. “Thank you. For… the clinic.”

  Viola gave her a sideways look like don’t get mushy on me and then, betraying herself, squeezed Leanna’s forearm for just a second. “To thank me better... I'd like to see you and Minka kiss again, in a way that's erotic."

  Leanna's head snapped up, her eyes wide with a sudden, sharp disbelief that was half-outrage, half-betrayal. A hot flush crept up her neck, a stark contrast to the grimy alley's cool shade. "Viola," she said, her voice a low warning, a single tight string pulled taut. "You do not get to talk about that. You do not get to turn that into... that." She gestured vaguely, a frustrated, useless motion that encompassed Viola's smirk, the grime around them, the entire universe's apparent conspiracy to trivialize the things that mattered.

  Viola, however, was not one to be easily deterred by a warning tone. She simply leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that was somehow louder than her normal speaking voice. "Oh, come on, Leanna. Lighten up. It's a compliment! A request from your most supportive friend who appreciates... fine art." She waggled her eyebrows, a gesture so utterly shameless it was almost impressive. "And let's be honest, the tension between you two is thick enough to cut with a chainsword. I'm just suggesting a more... pleasurable way to release it."

  Leanna took a slow, deliberate breath, visibly calming the anger that was about to boil over. "It's not a performance for your entertainment, Viola. It's not... some cheap thrill." She turned to face Viola, her chin tilted up in cold defiance. "Well... I'd also like to see you and Sannet... make...out... Yeah! If this is how you want to do this. I'd pay to see that. See if she's as stiff when she's not trying to save your ass."

  The challenge hung in the air, electric and sharp. Viola’s smirk wavered, a flicker of genuine surprise in her eyes, before it returned, wider than before. "Oh, you want to play that game? Fine. But be careful what you wish for, shorty. You might just get it, and I'm not sure your delicate sensibilities could handle the sheer, unadulterated spectacle." She leaned in even closer, her voice a low, teasing murmur. "I'll even let you watch. From a safe distance, of course. Wouldn't want you to get overwhelmed."

  Leanna’s patience snapped. She took a precise step forward, her voice dropping into the register of a woman who'd learned how to make silence sound like a loaded weapon. Her body language shifted from defensive to purely dominant. "It's not a nerve you get to poke. It's a line you don't cross. And if you do, I will make you regret it." The promise wasn't loud; it was quiet, which made it worse. It was the voice of someone who knew exactly how to break things and had spent years perfecting the art of making them hurt. "I'll make you regret it in ways that will make you wish you'd never met me." Her voice was a low growl, a promise of pain that was both intimate and absolute.

  For a long, tense moment, Viola didn't move. The smirk was gone, replaced by a look of intense, unreadable focus. Her eyes, usually alight with playful mischief, were now dark and serious. She was weighing the threat. Then, just as suddenly as it had appeared, the seriousness vanished, replaced by a slow, intrigued smile. "Okay," she said, her voice a low murmur. "Okay." She took a step back, a gesture of retreat that felt more like a strategic repositioning. "I'll admit, Leanna, I'm impressed. You've got a mean streak I didn't know about. I like it." She winked, a slow, deliberate gesture that was both an apology and a challenge.

  The air in the alley crackled with a new energy. Leanna held her gaze for a moment longer, then, with a sigh that seemed to deflate the tension, she turned away. "Just shut up and walk," she said, her voice a rough whisper, the anger still simmering just beneath the surface. She started moving, her boots scuffing against the pavement, the sound a sharp counterpoint to the city's hum.

  Viola followed, a spring in her step that hadn't been there before. She fell into step beside Leanna, her shoulder bumping against Leanna's with a playful, yet deliberate, rhythm. "So," she said, her voice a cheerful sing-song, "north it is. Any particular brand of trouble we're walking into, or are we just improvising as we go?"

  Leanna didn't answer immediately. She was focused on the feeling of Viola's shoulder against hers, a small, warm point of contact that felt both comforting and incredibly distracting. She took a deep breath, the air still tasting of Viola's perfume, and forced herself to focus. "Sannet's message was just one word," she said, her voice a little shaky, but firm. "North. No other details."

  "Classic Sannet," Viola said with a theatrical sigh. "So efficient. So... unhelpful." She glanced at Leanna, a thoughtful expression on her face. "You think she's already found something? Or someone?"

  The moment they turned the corner, they were shocked by what they saw: "Hunter..." Leanna said. Hunter leaned against a grimy wall, her twin blades sheathed but seeming to vibrate with restrained energy. She was cleaning her gauntlet with an oiled rag, her movements economical and precise. She didn’t look up as they approached, but Leanna felt the weight of her attention like a physical pressure. The air grew still, the city’s distant hum fading into an oppressive silence. Leanna noticed a faint, but distinct smudge of oil paint—burnt umber, maybe—on the leather of Hunter’s cuff.

  Viola’s hand drifted instinctively toward her sidearm. Her smirk was gone, replaced by a look of sharp, focused amusement, a predator sizing up another. “Well, well,” she said, her voice a low purr. “Lost? Or just looking for a rematch?”

  Hunter finally looked up, her eyes a flat, unreadable green: "Look guys... I am really not here for a fight."

  Leanna’s grip tightened on the strap of her pack, her knuckles white. “Then why are you here, Hunter?”

  Hunter slid the rag into a pouch with a soft click. “I was just strolling around the city, this world is quite impressive if you ask me, lots of things to see." She pushes off the wall, her movements fluid and graceful.

  Leanna and Viola exchanged a glance. This was a trap. It had to be. “We’re not interested in a tour,” Leanna said, her voice flat. “We have somewhere to be.”

  Hunter’s smile widened, a predator's grin. "I am not a liar. I am really here for a walk. And besides, it was you guys who ran into me." She took a step forward, her gaze sweeping over them. "But now that we're all here, maybe we can... talk. Or I am not sure if it's the same in your world... Maybe we can talk over a drink? I saw a bar over there."

  Viola’s eyebrows shot up. “A drink?" She looks at Leanna, a challenging glint in her eyes. "What do you think, Leanna? You're thirsty?" Viola's voice was a low murmur, a dare wrapped in a question. "I could go for a drink. Especially if it's on her."

  Leanna’s eyes narrowed. "We'll go," she said, her voice firm. "But if this is a trap, you'll regret it."

  Hunter's smile didn't falter. "It's not a trap," she said, her voice smooth as silk. "It's just a drink."

  She turned and led the way, her movements confident and assured. Leanna and Viola followed, their hands resting on their weapons, their senses on high alert. The bar was a dimly lit, smoky hole in the wall, the air thick with the smell of stale beer and cheap synth-ale. It was exactly the kind of place where deals were made and lives were lost.

  Hunter led them to a booth in the back, a dark, secluded corner that offered a clear view of the door. "So," she said, sliding into the booth and gesturing for them to join her. "What's your poison?"

  Viola slid into the booth, a predatory grace in her movements. "Surprise me," she said, her voice a low purr. "But make it strong."

  Leanna remained standing for a moment, her gaze sweeping the bar. "I'll have water," she said, her voice flat.

  Hunter's smile didn't falter. "Water it is," she said, her voice smooth as silk. She flagged down a waitress and placed their order, her movements fluid and confident.

  The drinks arrived, a synth-ale for Viola, a glass of water for Leanna, and a glass of amber liquid for Hunter. "So," Hunter said, taking a sip of her drink. "Tell me more about this world... I've never seen machineries like these before." She pointed at a passing car. "It's quite... rustic. And I like it."

  "What are you really here for, Hunter?" Leanna asked, her voice sharp.

  Hunter's smile didn't falter. "I told you," she said, her voice smooth as silk. "I'm just here for a walk. And a drink."

  She took another sip of her drink, her gaze unwavering. "But since you're so curious," she continued, "I'll tell you something. I'm not your enemy, Leanna. I'm just... a different version of Minka." She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a low murmur. "I come from a world where everything went wrong. A world where I lost everything. A world where I had to become... this." She gestured to herself, a wry smile on her face. "I'm not proud of it. But it's who I am now. I want to live free, do what I've always wanted.... art, if you can believe it."

  Viola almost choked on her drink. "Painting?" she sputtered, a genuine, disbelieving laugh escaping her lips before she could stop it. "You, the razor-wire death machine with a thing for sharp objects, want to take up watercolors?"

  Hunter’s smile didn't waver. "What's so funny about that?" she asked, her voice still calm, but with a new, sharp edge to it. "Everyone deserves a hobby."

  "No, no, it's not that," Viola said, waving a hand dismissively. "It's just... the image. You, in a smock, flecks of cerulean blue on your cheek, contemplating the emotional resonance of a sunset. It's a niche look for you, is all."

  "I see," Hunter said, her gaze unwavering. "You think I'm only good for one thing. That I'm just a weapon." She leaned forward again, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous murmur. "You're wrong."

  Leanna's gaze hardened. "We saw what you are in the vault," she said, her voice a low growl. "You didn't hesitate. You didn't show mercy. You were efficient. Ruthless."

  "That was a job," Hunter said, her voice flat. "A task. A role I had to play." She paused, her gaze softening slightly. "It's not who I am. It's just what I do."

  Viola’s humor bled away. "Okay, let's entertain this," she said, her eyes locked on Hunter's. "Let's say you're an artist. What do you paint? And why?"

  Hunter’s smile was a thin, brittle line. "Portraits," she said, her voice quiet. "Of people I've lost. It's... a way to remember them. To keep them with me." She looked up, her eyes meeting Viola's, a strange, fragile hope in their depths. "It's the only thing I have left of them. The only thing that's real."

  A heavy silence settled over the booth.

  "Do you know about us in your world?" Leanna asked, her voice a low, steady rhythm that cut through the silence. "About me? About Viola? " Her gaze was unwavering, a direct challenge.

  Hunter’s expression shifted, the fragile hope replaced by a thoughtful, almost distant look. "Two of you were my crew... once." She said, her voice soft, a ghost of a smile touching her lips. "But they died in a hunt. A big one. A Thunderjaw. I was the only one who made it out." She looked up, her eyes meeting Leanna's, a raw, unvarnished pain in their depths. "So yes, I know about you. Or at least, the versions of you that I knew. The versions of you that I... failed."

  "I'm sorry for your loss," Leanna said, her voice a careful neutral. "But that doesn't change what you are. It doesn't change what you did in the vault."

  "And what exactly did I do, Leanna?" Hunter asked, her voice a low, dangerous murmur. "I did a job. I followed orders. I didn't enjoy it. But I did it because I was ordered to." She paused, her gaze hardening, a flicker of anger in her eyes. "I'm not the only one who's had to make difficult choices."

  Before Leanna can continue, Viola chimed in: "Yeah, but I do my questionable decisions with style and grace, and a healthy dose of self-preservation. You, my dear, just seem to be... a bit of a downer." She leaned forward, her eyes sparkling with a renewed, mischievous glint.

  "I guess all Violas are the same then..." Hunter's smile returned. "Mine was a handful, too. Always cracking jokes, always trying to lighten the mood. She was... a good friend." She paused, her gaze softening, a wave of nostalgia washing over her. "I miss her."

  "Minka..." Viola put her hand on Hunter's shoulder. "What Ravager is doing is... out of pure hatred, her hatred for her father has consumed her and now she is willing to burn this world for his father's annihilation." Viola's voice softened, her usual teasing tone replaced by a rare, genuine empathy. "She's not the Minka you knew. She's not the Minka we knew. She's something else now. Something darker." She paused, her gaze meeting Hunter's, a silent understanding passing between them. "She's lost. And she's taking everyone down with her."

  Hunter avoided the looks from Viola and Leanna by swirling her drink in her hand. "I saw her eyes," she said, her voice quiet, a fragile whisper in the noisy bar. "There was nothing there. Nothing but... a cold, hard void. A void of pure, unadulterated rage." She paused, her gaze dropping to her glass, the amber liquid a swirling vortex of emotion. "I don't know if there's anything left to save... But I have a duty to her..."

  "Duty?" Leanna's voice was sharp, a cutting edge that sliced through the bar's din. "What duty? You owe her nothing. You owe this world nothing."

  "I owe her my life," Hunter said, her voice a low, steady murmur, a testament to a debt that could never be repaid. "She saved me. She pulled me out of the world where I lost everything... and she brought me here. She gave me a second chance. A chance to be... more than just ... survival." She looked up, her eyes meeting Leanna's, a raw, unvarnished plea for understanding in their depths. "I can't just turn my back on her. I can't just let her... burn."

  Leanna looks away, she understands loyalty, but not blind loyalty. "Let's leave Viola... we need to meet up with the others."

  Viola nodded, a flicker of understanding in her eyes. "Right," she said, her voice a low murmur. "The others." She slid out of the booth, her movements fluid and graceful, a stark contrast to the emotional weight of the conversation. Before she leaves the bar, she gives a glance at Hunter: "May the next time we meet, we will be sharing a drink again, Hunter."

  Hunter watched them go, a strange, wistful smile playing on her lips. She raised her glass in a silent toast, a farewell to a connection that was both fleeting and profound.