Six weeks.
That's how long it took.
Six weeks since the gas killed her. Since he buried her in the slums with no ceremony, no words, just a fistful of sand and a broken heart.
Six weeks since the Vault Spine.
Now he ran the village.
The gangs didn't vote. They didn't argue. They saw what he did to the Gold Hand crew, saw what he walked out of, saw the way the air bent around him when he got mad — and they fell in line.
No titles. No throne. Just respect.
Loup didn't want it. Didn't ask for it. But he didn't turn it down either.
I ain't a king. I'm a problem solver. And right now, this place's got problems.
He sat in the old scrapyard office, boots on the desk, steam hissing faintly from the vents in his jacket. The room was hot — always was. Not from the sun. From him.
The gas hadn't left.
It lived in him now.
At first, it was subtle.
He'd wake up sweating, skin hot, breath fogging the mirror. Thought it was grief. Thought it was rage.
Then he punched a wall and the steam shot out of his elbow — redirected the force mid-swing, shattered the concrete sideways.
He stared at the crater for a long time.
That ain't normal.
He started testing it. Quiet. Alone.
Jumped off rooftops, used the steam to slow his fall.
Threw punches, changed direction mid-air.
Ran faster than bikes, turned corners like a bullet.
It wasn't just power. It was control.
The gas fused with the metal. Made something new. Something alive.
He called it pressure steam. High-temp, high-velocity, internal. Like having jet boosters in his bones.
The gangs noticed.
"Boss," one of them said, watching him land from a three-story drop. "You flyin' now?"
Loup didn't answer.
He never did.
The slums changed under him.
No more turf wars. No more petty theft. He made deals with vendors, set rules for trade, kept the peace with fear and fire.
People called him "Alpha."
He hated it.
I ain't leading. I'm surviving. Big difference.
But deep down, he knew it was more than that.
He was evolving.
One night, he stood on the roof of the old reactor tower, looking out over the village. Steam hissed from his shoulders, venting slow.
The stars were out. The desert was quiet.
He clenched his fists.
She died for this. For me to become this. Whatever this is.
He didn't cry. Couldn't.
The gas burned that out of him.
A voice behind him.
"Boss. We got trouble."
Loup turned. One of the Bone Rats — old crew, now loyal.
"Core scouts. East ridge. Lookin' for the Spine."
Loup nodded. "Gear up."
"You want backup?"
He shook his head.
I need to see what they know. Need to see if they know what I am.
He moved fast.
Steam vented from his calves, launching him across rooftops, over walls, through the canyon like a missile.
He reached the ridge in minutes.
Three scouts. Light armor. Drones. One had a scanner.
Loup crouched behind a rock, watching.
The scanner beeped. "We're close. Residual gas traces. High fusion index."
"Think it's still active?"
"Maybe. If the mutator's alive, he's the key."
Loup's jaw tightened.
They ain't just hunting the Spine. They're hunting me.
He stood.
Steam hissed.
The scouts turned.
"Contact!" one shouted.
Too late.
Loup launched forward, steam blasting from his back, turning him into a blur.
First scout went down with a broken jaw.
Second fired—missed. Loup twisted mid-air, steam redirecting his path, fist slamming into the man's chest like a cannonball.
The third tried to run.
Loup didn't chase.
He vented steam from his boots, shot straight up, then dropped like a meteor.
The ground cracked.
The scout didn't get up.
He stood over the bodies, breathing hard.
Steam hissed from his arms, cooling down.
They know. They know what I am. What I've become.
He searched their gear. Found a datapad.
Core logs. Mission details. Target: "Subject L-47. Mutator. Gas-fused. Potential weapon."
They tagged me. Catalogued me. Like I'm a tool.
He crushed the pad.
Back at the village, he called a meeting.
Gangs. Vendors. Scavs. Everyone.
He stood on the reactor tower, steam rising around him like smoke.
"They're coming," he said. "Core wants the Spine. Wants me."
Silence.
"They think we're weak. Think we're trash. Think we're experiments."
He raised a fist. Steam blasted out, lighting the sky.
"But we ain't. We're Scatterlands, and we fight."
The crowd roared.
I'm not just surviving anymore. I'm building something. And if they want war—I'll give it to them.