The ruins were quiet.
Not the kind of quiet that followed disaster—no sirens, no smoke, no panic—but the kind that came from abandonment. Wind moved through broken structures, carrying dust across rusted floors and long-dead conveyor belts.
Jones stood still.
No alerts.
No incoming fire.
No pursuit.
Just space.
For the first time since his resurrection, nothing was demanding his attention.
*This is dangerous,* the Remnant said. *You are unused to stillness.*
Jones let out a breath he didn't need. "Then let me get used to it."
He sat.
Not because he was tired—his body didn't tire the same way anymore—but because sitting felt… human. The concrete beneath him was cold. Solid. Real.
He looked down at his hands.
They no longer trembled.
The glow beneath the plating had faded to a dull, steady pulse. Whatever he had triggered earlier was dormant now—not gone, but waiting.
"What am I?" Jones asked quietly.
The question wasn't for the Remnant.
It was for himself.
The Remnant did not answer immediately.
When it did, its presence was gentler than before.
*You are not a weapon,* it said. *Weapons are simple. You are not.*
Jones frowned. "That's not comforting."
*It is honest.*
He closed his eyes.
Memories surfaced—not forced, not shared—his own.
His squad laughing over comms.
The mission briefing that skipped key details.
The moment everything went wrong.
Then the lab.
The restraints.
Derick's voice trying to hold the line between orders and guilt.
Jones opened his eyes again.
"They didn't bring me back to save me," he said. "They brought me back to see how much a person could bend without breaking."
*And did you?* the Remnant asked.
Jones considered it.
"No," he said. "I broke."
The Remnant was silent.
Jones continued. "But I didn't disappear."
That mattered.
He stood and walked deeper into the facility, boots echoing softly. Old terminals flickered when he passed, systems reacting to his presence like recognizing a ghost.
One terminal powered fully on.
Jones paused.
The screen displayed a single line of text:
**SUBJECT STATUS: INDETERMINATE**
He stared at it.
Not hostile.
Not rogue.
Not terminated.
Just… unfinished.
Jones reached out and shut it down.
"I'm done being a status," he muttered.
The Remnant stirred approvingly.
*Then we establish boundaries.*
Jones raised an eyebrow. "You can do that?"
*I can help you define what is yours,* it replied. *And what is not.*
Jones understood.
Control.
Not dominance. Not suppression.
Ownership.
"Alright," Jones said. "Then we do this right."
He straightened, posture settling—not into a combat stance, but something calmer. Intentional.
"I don't hunt THE BIONIC," he said. "Not yet."
The Remnant listened.
"I don't awaken anyone else," Jones continued. "Not until I understand the cost."
*Wise,* the Remnant said.
"And if they come for me?"
The answer came instantly.
*Then you survive.*
Jones nodded.
That rule, at least, was clear.
Outside, the wind picked up. Clouds rolled slowly across the sky. Somewhere far away, systems recalibrated. Plans adjusted.
THE BIONIC would move again.
But not blindly.
Jones walked to the edge of the ruin and looked out over the wasteland.
This wasn't a battlefield.
It was a starting point.
"Tomorrow," he said quietly, more to himself than anyone else, "we figure out who lied first."
The Remnant settled into stillness.
Waiting.