Consciousness came back in pieces.
The first piece was the dirt, not the feeling of it against my skin but the taste, fine wasteland dust settling into every breath I was not controlling, coating the back of my throat with the flavor of the ground of the wasteland. It was not a pleasant flavor.
I could not move my head. I could not tell my body to do anything. I was aware, and the awareness was useless. Like owning a map while buried alive.
The second piece was a thought.
Damian had been giving me insane assignments since the day I returned from exile, building outposts and a corridor in the deadliest zone known to us.
This time I'd gotten rid of an Acolyte, helped a bunch of Corruptors escape from an underground trap, escaped a seven headed serpent, and somewhere in the middle of it my own body decided it was done with me.
