The afternoon sun blazed across the desert, a white-hot coin suspended in a cloudless sky. Heat radiated through the leather of Ren's shoes—borrowed from Corvin—and scalded the soles of his feet until every step felt like a punishment.
The dunes rose before him in steep golden arcs, towering like giants, swallowing him into their shifting shadows. Each slope promised brief relief from the sun, only to spit him back out into its merciless glare.
Again, he crossed the desert. Again, he bore the weight of survival on his shoulders. His wounds throbbed under the strain, his body hollow from hunger, but he pressed forward with grim purpose. This wasn't just about his life. Mira's life depended on him. The lives of everyone waiting in Base 7 depended on him.
And in the back of his mind, one thought gnawed: Axton would be delighted at his failure.
The captain was already searching for a reason—any reason—to strike against their base. One stumble, one mistake, and Ren's death would be the spark that set Axton's war ablaze.
By his reckoning, he was halfway across the desert now. Every aching step brought him closer.
Closer to home.
Two backpacks weighed him down, one strapped against his back, another slung in front. Each shift of the straps dug into his bruised shoulders. The weight threatened to topple him forward, threatening to grind his knees into the sand.
But finally—finally—Base 7's gate shimmered in the distance, a dark outline against the dunes. It wasn't as tall or imposing as Faction 12's obsidian wall, but it was sturdy enough to hold off the Beast-Bounds and keep scavengers at bay.
Relief fluttered weakly in his chest. He moved faster, though every muscle screamed. The sight of the gate pulled him on like a rope, even as dread whispered in the back of his mind.
Reed had given him two days to complete the mission. This was the third.
Even with the bags swollen with more serums than Reed had demanded, guilt pressed down heavier than the packs. Reed had told him plainly: Mira was among those not recovering. If Ren returned late, she would be cast out of the base, discarded like useless waste.
Three days. He was too late.
I hope you're still in there, Mira, he thought desperately as the walls grew near.
His wounds had scabbed over, and pain was no longer the sharpest threat. Hunger was. His stomach clenched, every breath hollow.
When he reached the gates, the relief was so sharp it hurt. A soldier spotted him and immediately swung the barrier open, sparing him the long wait of scrutiny.
"Tell the captain Ren made it back," the guard muttered into the radio transceiver before waving him through.
In moments, Ren found himself escorted into the commander's unit—a squat, weather-worn building. It was solid enough, but no match for the sharp elegance and intimidation of Faction 12's structures.
The contrast struck him harder now.
Faction 12 had order, power, a style that flaunted its dominance. Base 7 had crumbling walls patched with mismatched stone, furniture scavenged and repurposed. The rug beneath his feet puffed dust into the air, prickling his nose.
He wanted to see Mira first, to know she was alive. Instead, he was marched straight to Reed.
The soldier stopped before a plain door. "Enter. The commander is waiting," he said, opening it and gently nudging Ren forward.
The office smelled of old ink, stale air, and books long left to rot. Ren fought the urge to sneeze as his eyes adjusted to the dim light.
Reed sat behind a desk, staring at him. Disbelief flickered across the commander's face.
"You should be dead," Reed said flatly, his gaze drifting to the bulging bags at Ren's feet.
Ren let them slide from his shoulders with a heavy thump, dust puffing up from the carpet. He tried to speak, but his voice broke, dry and thin: "I—"
Reed silenced him with a raised hand. His expression shifted, calculating. He didn't want anyone else hearing this.
"Leave us, Gage," he said to the soldier.
"Yes, Commander." The man bowed his head and exited, shutting the door with a soft click.
Ren was alone.
He studied Reed in the quiet. The man wasn't frightening—not truly. Just another commander in a plain green uniform, worn at the edges. Nothing like Axton.
Axton's very presence promised death. Reed's presence only promised bureaucracy.
But still, Ren knew one thing: men like Reed could kill with orders just as surely as men like Axton could kill with their bare hands.
"You're late," Reed said, his tone clipped. "But I see you carry what I asked for." His eyes dropped to the bags.
Ren swallowed, forcing moisture into his parched throat. "You asked for two hundred serums. I've brought back a thousand."
Suspicion narrowed Reed's eyes. "How?"
He circled the desk and came closer, studying Ren's face for cracks.
"That's not possible. Cypher only allowed us two hundred. If he dared take more, he'd be dead by now."
"He is," Ren answered quietly.
Reed's brows rose. "What?"
"Cypher is dead. The captain killed him when he discovered his betrayal."
The silence stretched. Reed's stare pinned him like an insect, unblinking. Finally, Reed spoke, voice low and accusing. "Then why were you spared? I know the truth—you've been asked to spy on me, haven't you? To betray your faction."
Yes.
Ren's chest tightened. But his lips said: "No, Commander. I wasn't asked to spy. They believe I'm a woman, and they expect me to return tonight. They want to prepare me for the captain. But…" His throat tightened. "I don't want to return."
Reed's lips curled into a smirk. "You will return, Ren."
The words dropped like stones.
Ren's stomach lurched. Reed knew. Reed knew he wasn't a woman, yet he would send him back anyway. Did he even care what would happen when Axton discovered the truth?
"Commander?" Ren whispered, disbelief seeping into his voice.
"If the captain wants you, then you must go. This is a rare opportunity to gather information," Reed said, turning back to his desk. He opened a drawer and began pulling out items, stacking them on the surface as he searched.
Ren's eyes flicked across the desk instinctively. He caught sight of a bound blue file—the agricultural plans. His pulse quickened. Those plans were Base 7's strength, the reason they survived. And they were what Axton wanted most.
Ren bit his lip, already calculating. How can I get them?
"Here." Reed's voice snapped him back.
Ren's eyes widened at what the commander handed him: a vial of clear liquid.
"I'll forgive your failure to seduce the captain. You didn't bring me the cure, but you will redeem yourself. Inject this into him."
"Commander—"
"Quiet!" Reed barked, his voice sharp as a whip.
Ren flinched, biting the inside of his cheek. His chest hollowed. Once again, he was nothing but a tool. No one cared for him—not Reed, not anyone. All they cared about was what they could wring from his suffering.
"What do you want me to do?" Ren asked at last, voice low, steady.
Reed's eyes glimmered with something cold. He pulled a small object from his pocket and pressed it into Ren's hand.
A communication unit.
"Click the green button whenever you're close to the captain. It will transmit directly to me. I'll hear everything."
Ren's stomach twisted. His palm closed around the unit like it burned.
"What if I die, Commander?" His voice cracked.
Reed paused, then said, "Your father was a commander before the virus took him. He knew what it meant to die for his nation. So should you. Am I clear, Renault?"
Ren's throat worked, his nod slow. "…Yes, Commander. I understand."
Reed turned back to his desk, placing the backpacks carefully aside.
Ren's eyes burned. His voice, when it came, was steadier than he felt. "About Mira. She needs her daily shots. A vial holds fourteen doses—two weeks. I will do what you ask, but only if she gets her share. And this unit won't just connect me to you—it will connect me to her. Do you agree, Commander?"
His demand rang out like a blade.
Reed narrowed his eyes, weighing him. "…Or else?"
Ren met his gaze, unblinking.