Damned Lands

As Luke exits the courtroom, the cold halls of concrete and steel stretch before him. Fluorescent lights hum overhead. Panels flicker with data he can't even begin to understand.

I don't get this world... Is it medieval or hyper-advanced?

His eyes trail across walls covered in pipework, glowing wires, glowing security eyes. The polished corridor ends with a large, black-plated doorway.

A Blackwing guard leads him forward and places his gloved hand on a panel.

BEEP.

WOOSH.

The thick double doors retract vertically with a pneumatic hiss, revealing what lies beyond.

Luke's eyes widened.

A vast gym-like complex stretches before him—steel flooring, reinforced bunkers, and racks of equipment that range from medieval weights to hydraulic combat training machines. The walls hum faintly, alive with circuitry.

"A gym bro's heaven," Luke mutters under his breath.

But something shifts in the air as he steps deeper.

They pass two labeled doors—Men and

Women—each leading into the designated sleeping quarters.

Luke pushes open the Men's Room door.

Inside: a sea of bunkbeds, dim lighting, murmurs, the subtle scent of sweat and tension. Hundreds of eyes—boys and teens, survivors of the Thinning—stare with suspicion.

Then—

"LUKE! YOU'RE ALIVE!"

A voice tears through the room.

Luke barely registers it before a blur moves across the space—Caelan, his long brown hair tied back, his shirt damp with sweat, eyes wild.

The boy barrels toward him—then suddenly stops.

No hug.

No handshake.

Instead, a dagger flashes from under his waistband. In a smooth motion, Caelan brings it up to Luke's throat—his entire body tensed like a cornered animal.

"Luke..." Caelan's voice quivers, but his hands do not. "It's been a week since they took you."

His chest rises and falls, fast—like he hasn't breathed properly in days.

"I've been surrounded by people I don't

know. Tired. Starving. Sleeping with one eye open. Watching them... watching me."

His other hand grips Luke's shirt. Everyone else in the room holds their breath.

"And now you just show up again? With no wounds? No chains? No explanation?"

He narrows his bloodshot eyes.

"Are you even the same Luke I know?"

Luke freezes, realizing just how far gone Caelan is.

There are tremors in his limbs—not of fear, but of sheer exhaustion. His voice holds the strain of someone who hasn't slept, who's run the same thoughts on loop for seven days straight.

"He thinks we're still at war… he doesn't know it ended."

Luke slowly raises his hand, palm open.

"Caelan," he says, voice low, calm, steady. "It's really me."

The dagger doesn't move.

Luke continues.

"We're safe... for now."

He lets those words hang in the air, lets them reach Caelan.

"The mission... is over."

Caelan's hand twitches. His grip slackens.

Like a puppet whose strings have finally been cut, he collapses forward onto Luke—shoulder-first, the dagger dropping with a clatter to the floor.

His knees tremble.

"…I was about to kill you," Caelan whispers.

Luke places a hand on his friend's back.

"I know. You were scared. You protected yourself… and everyone. I'm proud of you."

Caelan's arms stay limp, but his body leans heavier.

He hasn't slept properly in a week. Because, in his mind, they were still in enemy territory. Everyone was a target. He

could only trust his own unit—and now even that was starting to fray.

"…Say it again," he whispers.

Luke smiles faintly, though pain still lingers in his bones.

"The mission is over, soldier."

Caelan breathes in, deep. Shudders.

"Then I can rest... just for a bit..."

And just like that, the tension leaves his body.

The crowd around them watches in silence—many of them seeing this side of Caelan for the first time.

Luke holds him steady.

This world breaks people in different ways…

But he silently promises: He'll carry the ones too tired to stand.

Luke grunts quietly as he shifts Caelan's weight over his shoulder, careful not to jostle the boy's tired frame too much.

Caelan's body—once rigid, coiled like a blade—now lies limp in his arms, breathing shallow but steady. The dagger he had drawn earlier has already fallen to the floor, blade gleaming faintly in the low light.

Luke walks past the murmurs of others still awake. All eyes watch him—some with curiosity, others with caution. None approach.

He finds an empty bunk near the far corner, the quietest part of the barracks.

Lowering Caelan gently onto the bed, Luke brushes a few strands of sweat-matted hair from the boy's brow. For the first time in what must have been days, Caelan's features aren't twisted by tension. The constant flinch in his eye is gone. No twitch. No twitching hands, no darting gaze.

Just a child asleep.

Luke sits at the edge of the bunk, his own clawed hand resting on his lap.

He collapsed... suddenly...even without proving myself entirely...

The thought circles like vultures in Luke's mind.

His trauma runs deep. Deeper than I thought. He's been running on instinct—probably hasn't even slept properly since I was taken. Maybe... maybe there was a sentence or word that triggers him. A failsafe, planted by his mercenary past. 'Mission over.'

Luke remembers the moment—how Caelan dropped his guard the instant he heard those words.

Conditioned, maybe. A reflex to rest. To stop surviving for a moment and just... exist.

Luke leans back slightly, shoulders aching from the weight of everything.

Knowing Caelan... he'll still be wary of me when he wakes up. He's the type to pretend to sleep and strike if something feels wrong.

He chuckles under his breath, but there's no humor behind it.

I better be ready for that. But... I'll face it. I'd rather he attacks me again than go on thinking I'm not real. At least it means he still believes I'm alive.

Luke exhales, eyes scanning the ceiling.

His bionic arm flexes unconsciously. A dull whir as the fingers clench once and release.

Then he mutters aloud, voice just loud enough for the boy to hear if he were faking sleep:

"Rest while you can, Caelan... I'll keep watch now."

No one else does. So I will.

_____

An hour passes.

The low hum of machines outside the barracks provides a lullaby. Caelan's breathing steadies. The tension in his brow fades, and though his grip on the blanket is tight, it's no longer bloodless.

Then—

A twitch. A groan.

Caelan's eyes crack open, adjusting to the dim light.

"...Still here?" he rasps.

Luke nods, arms resting over his knees. "Still me."

Caelan sits up with effort, stiff and sore.

He doesn't reach for his dagger—not yet—but his eyes are still guarded.

"Prove it."

Luke leans back. He knew this was coming.

Caelan sat quietly, but his eyes still scan Luke as if waiting for some tell, some break in the mask.

"You told me it's really you," Caelan mutters, voice low and graveled, "But that's not enough. Anyone could've mimicked your tone, repeated what I said."

He leans forward.

"You said you were taken to the Center's core, right? The real inner heart of this place?"

Luke nods.

"Then tell me," Caelan's voice hardens, "What exactly happened after you got dragged away? From the moment you vanished until now. Prove it."

Luke inhales slowly.

And begins.

"I was the last one behind... when we escaped the cellar, I got tangled by one of The Maw's organ-like strings. I grabbed it with my broken arm to protect you—specifically you, Caelan. You were closest. I used my shortsword in my good hand to try and cut it off…"

He holds up the bionic replacement,

fingers curling with a smooth whirr.

"It didn't work. I was pulled in. Held up midair, caught in that monster's grip. I yelled at you to keep running and don't look back."

Caelan flinches—he remembers.

"Then I saw Eralin try to run back for me... and you stopped her."

Caelan stiffens at that. Confirmation.

"I was brought to The Maw's mouth. It mocked me—called me a rat. Said: 'YOUU ALMOST ESCAPED MEEE HAHAHAH HOW DARE A RAT FLEES.' Its breath smelled like death and rot. I thought that was the end."

Luke clenches his mechanical fist.

"But then… I remembered why I fought. I remembered my old life. The family I let down. The cellar. The Blood Brawl. The way the other kids died screaming. I refused to die like that. Not on my knees. Not after coming this far."

He pauses.

"Then I dislocated it. Used the sword to slash at the tether... Failed. Got pulled again. Then I did the only thing left—I cut my own arm off. I still remember the pain. It was like trying to scream while drowning."

Caelan winces.

"I kept running until I passed out from blood loss. I don't remember what

happened after that. But the last thing I saw was the Tower—still alive—fighting the Maw amidst the rubble. That fight saved my life."

Luke pauses, then adds with a bitter laugh:

"Then came the fun part. SIGIL-9. A recovery pod. Tests. The Doctor who patched me up didn't use anesthesia. Grafted monster parts into me while I was wide awake. This—"

He lifts the bionic arm. The iron claws slide out with a SHK-SHK—sharp, deadly, monstrous.

"...isn't a prosthetic. It's a weapon. Alive. Wired to my nerves."

Caelan stares at it, silently assessing.

Luke lowers his arm.

"I don't know what they turned me into, Caelan. But I'm still me. I still remember all of it. Every step. Every kill. Every mistake. And every face that survived with us."

"...So no, I didn't change. I just bled enough to walk out different."

The two sit in silence.

Then Caelan nods again.

"…Then keep leading."

Luke raises a brow. "That fast?"

"You're not the Luke I met," Caelan says. "You're better. And if you're lying... I'll put a

knife in your heart."

He leans back on the bunk.

"But I don't think you are."

Luke grins. "I missed you too, Caelan."