It was over as soon as it had begun, and Letho had painted the ground and his clothes with the stinking black blood of the creatures he had slain. He wiped Saladin on his leg, trying not to look at the dismembered bodies lying in a circle around him.

They made their way through the tunnel in the razorback, its rack of halogens lighting the way. Intermittent bursts of small-arms fire popped like joy-bangers; even if they had been lost in the massive system of tunnels they could’ve just followed the sound of explosions back to the silo’s main complex. But they didn’t get lost, for Saul seemed to know the tunnels quite well, and his steady hand on the wheel guided them home. When they reached the giant steel door, they were greeted by piles of mutant bodies and a small group of Haven’s soldiers. The men had dispatched at least a hundred of the foul creatures. The stench of their bodies was enough to cause some of the men to gag.

“Commander! The muties somehow breached the outer wall!” shouted one of the men, standing at attention.

“Yes, I can see that. Excellent work stopping them at our front door. You are to be commended for taking the initiative,” Saul said. “Any ideas how they got in?”

“No, sir. According to system readouts, shortly after you guys left the gate malfunctioned, shorted out. Maybe one of ’em chewed through the power cables?”

“Okay,” Saul said, “first priority is to get it patched up. You five, I want you to escort a work crew out into the tunnel to find the breakdown. The rest of you, get some more men up here and let’s get these bodies disposed of.”

They shouted in unified affirmative and went off to accomplish their objectives. A crowd of citizens had gathered to check out the spectacle now that the fighting was over.

“Hey, Letho!” Deacon shouted as he made his way through the open doorway, shouldering through the throng of workers and soldiers. “Hey, man, how come I keep missing out on the cool stuff? And what the hell are these things?” Deacon kicked at one of the bodies.

Letho shoved Deacon, knocking him to the floor. Deacon looked up at Letho, his eyes wide, confused.

“Show some respect, man,” was all Letho could manage before he turned to head back through the main entrance. He felt tears coming, and he didn’t want either Saul or Deacon to see them.

“What the hell?” he heard Deacon ask.

But he had nothing left to say to his old friend. He just needed to get away from people, to find a quiet place where he could figure things out.

****

The warm water poured down on Letho, caressing his skin and helping to ease the tension that wracked his body. He scrubbed his arms with a blocky chunk of lye soap; it felt like his skin was sloughing off in sheets, but he couldn’t seem to remove the black bloodstains. He blinked and shook his head, and when he looked back, his forearm was newborn pink, bordering on red and raw.

He had been trying to forget about his wounded arm. But it was there, always a hindrance, reminding him of its existence every time he opened a door or went to pick something up. Even dressing and undressing were nightmarish chores; his remaining hand was unable to perform basic tasks like fastening buttons without its counterpart.

Of course he tried to think of his wound as infrequently as possible, but he looked at it with even less frequency. The last time he had showered he had noticed that it was beginning to take shape, like a unborn baby’s arm extending from a full grown man’s bicep. He couldn’t believe it was happening. Regeneration. A miracle, sure enough. Even the doctors in the Fulcrum stations, who had the closest thing possible to cutting-edge medical equipment, had not been able to re-grow limbs. Not that many people ever had occasion to lose their limbs riding trains to their meaningless jobs, placing their cog teeth in the machine to keep it a-turnin’.

Oh, just look at it. Stop being such a child.

Letho opened his eyes and looked upon his arm. It had practically doubled in size since the last time he had dared examine it. He attempted to flex his elbow joint, but it felt as though the tendons and muscles were glued in place. He focused his mind and tried again. The elbow joint began to move, but not without significant pain. Gritting his teeth, he tried once more, and by repeating the process he was able to straighten out the half-formed arm. Now that it was extended, and the initial revulsion had worn off, he found himself able to look at it a little more closely. The hand was closed into a tight ball the size of a tangerine. He tried to unclench his tiny, angry fist, but the fingers wouldn’t even wiggle. His stomach lurched when he saw that his new forearm and the back of his hand were covered in a downy layer of green hair.

Oh my God. What’s happening to me?

He placed his hand on the shower wall and leaned forward, moving his head so that it was directly underneath the cascade of shower water. The water ran down his face in silver streamlets, hiding the fresh tears that poured from his eyes. His body convulsed with sobs, and he gasp-cried the heavy sobs of a man who has been holding them in for far too long.

His mind flashed back to the initial encounter with the Mendraga. The slain colonists. The death of the Tarsi Elder, who had died in his arms, his massive yet frail frame trembling. They had both died that day, only Letho had somehow managed to cheat death. Letho collapsed to the shower floor, the small tiles slipping in and out of focus as he continued to purge himself with pitiful sobs that caused his body to ache with each spasm.

****

He awoke some time later. The water had run cold, and his body was shivering under the relentless flow. He gathered himself and turned the water off. As he stepped out of the shower, he took care to not slip and fall. A grim chuckle attempted to burst from his sore throat.

You’re superhuman, and you’re afraid of slipping and falling in the shower.

He just didn’t have the heart to laugh even at his own jokes, which had once brought joy to even the darkest hours. When he faced the mirror, he saw that his raw eyes bulged, ringed in swollen red lids. He looked like he had gone a few rounds in a bare-knuckle boxing match with Maka.

He raked a hand through his hair, which had grown long. The thick shrubbery of a beard seemed to have doubled since he’d last looked in a mirror. Who was this man? Someone with the first hint of crow’s-feet at the corners of his eyes, gaunt cheeks, and sunken eyes was masquerading as a young man he once knew, a chubby fellow who kept his face clean-shaven because he didn’t like it when crumbs from whatever he was eating got stuck in his facial hair.

He tapped the center of the mirror with his index finger, and it slid upward, revealing a complement of shaving goods and some over-the-counter pain meds that had long since expired. There was a small card on the top shelf:

Letho, if you want to get back in military reg, here’s a shaving kit. A gentleman should never be without one.

 

-Zedock (Dad)

 

Letho held the razor in his hand. The handle was made of a dark, rich ebony, and was emblazoned with a small gold placard that read “Gustav.” He opened the razor and marveled at the purity and smoothness of the metal. The spine was adorned with a tasteful hint of gold leaf. A rich gift indeed. Letho had no idea how to operate the straight razor—also quite appropriately called a cutthroat razor—so he decided to consult his uCom. He realized he hadn’t powered on the device since before they’d crash-landed on Eursus. To his delight the implant had survived both the crash and the subsequent run-ins with mutants. He looked up a tutorial and watched it carefully, attempting to absorb the information.