Eighteen: Time Jumbo

Author's note: I really appreciate a review or comment. This book been fun so far, from last year and having dropped it and picked it up again. Now I'm having fun writing it. 

**********

Sawyer's exhaustion clung to him like a second skin, a weight pressing down on every inch of his body. His shoulders sagged under the burden of relentless fatigue, his limbs aching from hours—days?—of ceaseless trudging across the unyielding desert. The merciless sun had long since drained any sense of time, its scorching rays blurring the hours into a monotonous, mind-numbing continuum. Every step felt heavier than the last, each footfall sinking slightly into the shifting sands, making the journey feel endless. 

Beside him, Sarah moved with the same deliberate weariness, though her presence remained striking against the dull, sand-colored wasteland. Her reptilian scales, usually a cool shade of blue, now glowed a deep, menacing red—an involuntary reaction to the harsh heat and the tension coiling in the air. Unlike the others, she wore no protective vest, her jacket reduced to little more than ragged strips clinging stubbornly to her frame. The tattered fabric bore silent testimony to the battles they had barely survived, the countless scrapes and near-fatal encounters that had shaped their journey into a grueling test of endurance. 

Yet, despite her disheveled state, she glanced at him and offered a small smile. It was fleeting, barely more than a twitch of her lips, but it carried something unexpected—reassurance. As if to say, We're still here. We're still fighting.

He wanted to return the gesture, to summon even a fraction of that quiet strength, but he had nothing left to give. The desert had taken everything—his energy, his patience, his hope. 

The sight ahead of them, however, forced any lingering exhaustion into the background. 

They had stopped walking; crawling now, bodies pressed low against the coarse, sunbaked earth, their breath shallow, controlled. 

The abandoned military base loomed before them like a skeleton left to rot in the sand—rusted beams jutting at odd angles, crumbling concrete barely holding itself together. It was a relic of the past, a forgotten stronghold that had once been a symbol of power and control. Now, it belonged to something else. 

Kamalians. 

Sawyer's stomach clenched at the sight of them. 

The reptilian creatures infested the ruins, their tough, scaled hides blending disturbingly well with the debris and dust. Their predatory eyes flickered in the dimming light, bodies moving in restless, calculated shifts. He counted at least a dozen, but there were surely more, lurking in the deeper shadows. 

A shiver of apprehension crawled down his spine. 

This was the first concentrated group of Kamalians they had encountered since the treacherous sand pit, and for a fleeting moment, he felt something that should have been absurd—relief. At least here, the enemy was visible. Tangible. Not the relentless, unseen threat of shifting dunes or the possibility of being swallowed whole by an unpredictable death trap. 

But even as that thought crossed his mind, another took its place. 

What if we don't make it through this one?

His grip tightened on his weapon, his already raw nerves stretching thin. The days of endless walking, of rationing every last scrap of food and water, had worn him down to his core. His body screamed for rest, for just one moment of stillness, one second where survival didn't dictate his every breath. 

But there was no time for weakness. 

Not now. 

He forced himself to focus, to push aside the gnawing dread, and turned his head slightly toward Sarah. 

Her gaze was locked on the Kamalians, her expression unreadable, but there was no fear in her eyes—only quiet calculation. 

Sawyer exhaled slowly, steadying himself. 

One way or another, they were getting inside that base.

Even Mark, who was usually a relentless stream of nervous energy and incessant chatter, had fallen into an uncharacteristic silence. His broad shoulders hunched as he sat cross-legged on the hot sand, his large hands busy tinkering with a makeshift gadget. The device was a chaotic fusion of salvaged parts—scraps scavenged from the supply box and whatever half-buried remnants he had managed to unearth in the shifting dunes. His fingers worked with mechanical precision, adjusting wires and tightening screws, his lips moving in a constant murmur. 

"I've got it," he announced suddenly, his voice laced with an odd mix of confidence and exhaustion. "I think I've pinpointed our location." 

Sawyer lifted his head, barely mustering the energy to react. Sarah, however, didn't bother hiding her skepticism. She tilted her head, red eyes narrowing. 

Mark hesitated. His fingers hovered over the exposed wiring of the device, his brows furrowing. "Wait. No, no, no… The signal's off again. Damn it. The interference must be—" 

"Mark." 

Sarah's voice was flat, unimpressed. He flinched slightly but kept his eyes on the gadget. 

"If you declare our location one more time without actual proof," she continued, her tone dangerously slow, "I swear, you'll be our next meal." 

Mark swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. "You're joking…right?" 

Sarah didn't answer. 

Sawyer wasn't particularly eager to sample giant meat—though, with their food rations dwindling, the thought wasn't as outrageous as it should have been. Still, he understood Sarah's frustration. False hope was worse than no hope at all. 

He wiped a hand across his dry lips, the heat pressing down on him like an invisible weight. Their water supply was running dangerously low, and between the relentless desert sun and the additional presence of a seven-foot giant with an increased hydration need, they were burning through their reserves at an alarming rate. 

The thirst had settled deep in his bones, turning his voice raw and brittle. "So," Sawyer rasped, clearing his throat. "What's the plan?" 

Sarah didn't respond immediately. Instead, she crawled closer, her movements smooth, calculated. The sunlight reflected off her scaled skin, making her appear almost otherworldly, and her lips curled into a small, unsettling smile. 

Sawyer tensed. "What's up with you?" he asked, watching her carefully. 

"Yeah, I wanted to ask that, too," Mark chimed in, his voice muffled slightly by the sand as he attempted—rather comically—to press himself lower to the ground. Trying to hide a seven-foot giant in the middle of an open desert was, quite possibly, the most futile endeavor Sawyer had ever witnessed. 

Sarah ignored them both for a moment, her attention locked onto the Kamalians patrolling the abandoned military base ahead. Her fingers twitched slightly, anticipation simmering just beneath the surface. Then, her grin widened. 

"I've been itching for some action," she murmured, almost to herself. "And now, I'm finally getting some." 

Sawyer let out a slow, tired breath. "Yeah, okay. But we still need a plan." He gestured vaguely between himself and Mark. "Because, unlike you—with your tough scales, sharp canines, and super strength—we're just…normal." 

Mark scoffed, placing a hand on his chest in mock offense. "Excuse me. I find that offensive." 

Sawyer rolled his eyes. "Fine. Normal—and a giant. A technician giant." 

"Better," Mark muttered, though his focus had already returned to his half-broken gadget. 

Sarah, meanwhile, seemed largely uninterested in their back-and-forth. She shifted her weight, drawing her daggers from their sheathes with smooth precision. The polished metal gleamed under the relentless sun. 

"Well," she admitted, tilting her head, "I'm not exactly good at planning." 

Sawyer sighed, rubbing his temples. 

Of course, she wasn't.

"I have one, then," Sawyer said, turning to Mark, his mind racing as he tried to piece together a strategy—one that wouldn't get them killed. The odds weren't in their favor, and they all knew it. But hesitation wasn't an option. They needed a plan, and they needed it now. 

Mark, already wary of whatever insanity was about to be suggested, raised an eyebrow. "This better not involve me getting shot at." 

Sawyer ignored him, his grin widening. "How fast can you run?" 

**********

Mark's stomach dropped. The question alone was enough to set off alarm bells in his head. He shot a glance at Sarah, hoping for an alternative suggestion, but her expression—somewhere between intrigued and outright delighted—offered little comfort. That unsettling enthusiasm of hers was never a good sign. 

"Fast enough to regret this," Mark muttered, already regretting it. 

Sawyer clapped him on the back, the gesture entirely too cheerful given the circumstances. "Great! That's all we need." 

Mark let out a long, suffering sigh and began stripping off anything that might slow him down. His cooling vest—essential, given the brutal desert heat—was the only piece of gear he refused to part with. Everything else, from his reinforced jacket to the various pieces of salvaged tech strapped to his belt, landed in a messy pile at his feet. His fingers hesitated for a moment over his last functioning communicator, but a quick, grim calculation told him it wouldn't matter much if he was dead. 

Glancing at his now-useless gadgets, he turned to Sawyer and Sarah, a silent plea in his eyes—Tell me this isn't as bad as I think it is. 

Sawyer only offered a thumbs-up, his grin not faltering for a second. 

Mark narrowed his eyes in suspicion. "That's not comforting." 

Then, to make things worse, Sawyer mouthed, If you don't make it, I'm keeping the glow sticks. 

Mark scowled. "You're the worst." 

"Debatable," Sawyer replied, unbothered. 

Sarah, standing a few feet away, raised her hand as well, her fingers curling into what looked like a thumbs-up. But given that Sarah was Sarah, Mark couldn't tell if she was offering encouragement or signaling impending chaos. He swallowed hard, his throat painfully dry from the desert air. Either way, there was no turning back. 

He turned toward the abandoned military base. The Kamilans—reptilian, ruthless, and terrifyingly efficient hunters—hadn't noticed him yet. Their sharp eyes scanned the area with methodical precision, their clawed feet moving in near-silent synchronization. This was the complete opposite of what Mark needed. Under any other circumstance, he would have loved the fact that they weren't paying him any attention. He lived for blending in, avoiding trouble, and staying out of sight. 

But right now? He needed them to notice. 

God, this is a terrible idea. 

His mouth went dry, his hands clenching at his sides. Plan A—simply walking into view and hoping for the worst—wasn't working. That left him with Plan B. A plan that, even by his low standards, was profoundly stupid. 

Taking a deep breath, he took a few cautious steps forward, then another, and another, until he was fully exposed in the open terrain. His heart pounded in his chest, but the Kamilans still weren't reacting. He was just another object, and apparently not an interesting one. 

Fine. We're doing this the hard way. 

Mark sucked in a lungful of hot, dry air and let out the loudest, most absurd string of nonsense he could come up with. 

"HEY! YOU OVERGROWN LIZARD-FACED POTATO SACKS!" 

Still nothing. 

He doubled down. 

"You moist—wrinkled—red-headed onion pumpkin squash!" 

That did it. 

The Kamilans froze. For a split second, there was absolute silence—then, as if a switch had flipped, several heads snapped in his direction. Their slit-pupiled eyes locked onto him, nostrils flaring, sharp teeth baring in instinctive aggression. 

Mark barely had time to process the horrifying realization that yes, they were definitely interested now before one of them let out a shrill, clicking noise. The others responded immediately, their bodies coiling in preparation. 

His pulse skyrocketed. He risked one last glance toward where Sawyer and Sarah had been—only to find that they were gone. Vanished. Blended into the landscape without a trace. 

Oh, you have got to be kidding me. 

This was it. 

Mark turned and ran. 

His boots pounded against the scorching sand, his long legs churning as fast as they would go. A burst of adrenaline surged through him, overriding the burning ache in his calves and the sharp stitch forming in his side. The wind howled past his ears, the heavy footfalls of his pursuers growing louder behind him. 

Please don't trip, please don't trip, please don't— 

A snarl ripped through the air, way too close for comfort. 

Oh crap.

Mark forced himself to push harder, lungs screaming in protest. There was no looking back now.

For a seven-foot giant, one might expect a display of remarkable speed and agility. In theory, Mark's long legs should have given him an advantage—greater strides, more momentum, the ability to outpace the average living thing—Human or Giant with minimal effort. 

In theory. 

Reality, however, was far less forgiving. Mark had never been the athletic type. His skills lay in circuits, codes, and careful calculations—not in sprinting for his life across unstable terrain. His preferred battleground was a workbench, not a battlefield. He ran with an awkward, lurching gait, his movements a strange combination of frantic desperation and barely controlled imbalance. If someone had described him as a drunken rabbit, he wouldn't have argued. 

The loose sand was relentless, shifting beneath his boots like a living thing. Each step sank deeper than expected, stealing precious seconds, forcing him to exert twice as much effort just to keep moving forward. The heat was unbearable, the sun a merciless force pressing down on him from above, cooking him alive inside his clothes. His breath came in ragged gasps, his lungs burning, his thighs screaming in protest. 

But he wasn't alone in his struggle. 

The Kamilans—ferocious, lethal hunters—were formidable in almost every environment. Almost. Here, in the unforgiving desert, even they faltered. Their clawed feet, adapted for rocky surfaces and dense jungle undergrowth, found little purchase in the loose terrain. They scrabbled for stability, their movements jerky and frustrated, kicking up clouds of fine dust that stung Mark's already burning eyes. Their snarls grew more agitated as they realized they weren't gaining ground as quickly as they should have. 

A small, grim part of Mark clung to that fact. Not so perfect after all, huh?

Still, the Kamilans had stamina. Mark did not. And despite their struggles, they were gaining. 

Panic surged through him as he forced himself forward, willing his legs to move faster even as they threatened to give out beneath him. Just a little more. Just a little more. 

At last, he crested the sand hill, stumbling to the top with all the grace of a man on the verge of collapse. His knees nearly buckled, but he caught himself, lifting his head, blinking against the blinding sunlight. 

There. 

Perched atop one of the dilapidated buildings within the camp, Sawyer and Sarah were waiting. Watching. 

Mark barely had time to feel relieved before he saw what Sawyer was holding. 

A small, intricate device, its exposed wires and salvaged components glinting like fractured glass in the midday sun. A device Mark knew very well. 

His stomach dropped. 

The Time Jumbo. 

Mark had built it. Designed it from scavenged parts, carefully assembled with whatever scraps he could get his hands on, including the iridescent fragments of bubble shells—an organic material with strange, reality-warping properties. He had theorized that, if configured correctly, the device could manipulate space, creating a localized vacuum. 

That had been the theory. 

In reality, it had never been tested. 

Mark had built it to freeze time within a designated area. Theoretically, anything caught within the field would be locked in stasis—completely motionless. And then, if everything functioned as expected, the rapid compression and expansion of air would trigger a final phase. The incineration phase. 

In short: it was supposed to be a time-freezing bomb. 

The key words being supposed to be. 

Mark had no idea if it would actually work. 

More importantly, he had no idea if he was outside the blast radius. 

A fresh wave of terror surged through him. He shot a frantic look at Sawyer, who only nodded, his finger hovering over the trigger switch. 

Mark's blood turned to ice. 

Oh, hell no— 

He turned and ran. 

His muscles screamed in protest, exhaustion threatening to drag him down, but the sharp whine of the device coming to life erased every thought except one: Move. Now. 

The detonation wasn't the thunderous explosion of a conventional bomb. 

It started with a sound—thin, high-pitched, almost otherworldly. A whistling, like the sharp intake of breath before something inevitable. 

Then, the pulling sensation. 

The air around him shifted, as if being sucked toward a single, inescapable point. A force so subtle yet undeniable that Mark felt it in his very bones, in the sudden tightness of his chest, in the way the desert heat seemed to fold inward. 

Phase One. 

The vacuum formed, rapidly expanding, drawing in everything around it. Sand lifted in swirling clouds, pulled into the unseen field of energy. The pressure dropped, a sudden, stomach-turning shift that made Mark's ears pop violently. 

He kept running. 

Behind him, the next phase began. 

The bubble shell's properties activated, stretching the compressed air like an inflating tire. Only instead of rubber and air pressure, it was reality itself being distorted. The field expanded outward in a smooth, eerie ripple, the space within it freezing—time locked in place. 

The Kamilans never stood a chance. 

They were caught mid-stride, their bodies rigid, their snarls frozen in the air, eyes wide with confusion that would never have time to register into full-blown terror. The flickering heat waves in the air around them solidified, trapping them in a snapshot of time. 

Mark didn't dare slow down. 

He pushed forward, past the point of exhaustion, lungs seizing with every ragged gasp. 

Then—nothing. 

No explosion. No burst of flames. Just silence. 

Mark risked a glance over his shoulder. 

The Kamilans were still there, still locked in place, but—something was wrong. The air around them shimmered violently, an unnatural distortion warping the edges of their forms. The Time Jumbo had worked… but not fully. 

Mark felt a sickening twist of realization in his gut. 

He had escaped the initial blast. 

But the Kamilans? They weren't dead. 

Not yet.

A pulsating blue hue rippled through the air, flickering like a mirage, warping the space around it. The very atmosphere trembled under the force of the device's power, humming with an eerie, almost sentient energy. Mark, his heart hammering in his chest, forced himself to assess the unfolding chaos with the detached precision of an engineer. 

How fast is it expanding? 

His mind worked frantically, processing the visual data against the theoretical calculations he had once scrawled onto scraps of paper late at night. The energy field was moving outward at an alarming rate—nearly the speed of sound. At that velocity, the heat it generated was equivalent to what could power a small city for days. 

And it wasn't slowing down. 

Adrenaline spiked through his veins. He had seconds before the full force of the detonation reached him. With no time to think, he threw himself behind the nearest sand dune, arms over his head, body pressing deep into the hot, gritty surface. He barely had time to brace. 

Then— 

The explosion.

A deafening roar shattered the desert silence, consuming everything in its path. The shockwave tore through the landscape like a tidal wave of raw force, kicking up a vortex of sand, heat, and debris. The air pressure shifted violently, sending a stabbing pain through Mark's ears. The sand dune he had thrown himself behind provided minimal cover—still, it was the only thing keeping him from being obliterated. 

The force of the blast shoved him deeper into the sand. He clenched his teeth, squeezing his eyes shut as the ground vibrated beneath him. His breath hitched. The air was thick—too thick—with burning particles, acrid fumes, and something sickly that turned his stomach. 

Then, as suddenly as it came, the roaring subsided. 

Silence. 

For a long moment, Mark lay still, ears ringing, limbs trembling, his brain struggling to process what had just happened. 

Then—air. 

He gasped, sucking in a lungful of dust-laden oxygen. It burned on the way down. He coughed violently, his throat raw, spewing out tiny grains of sand that clung to his lips and tongue. His entire body was coated in grit, his uniform damp with sweat, his fingers trembling as he pushed himself up onto his elbows. 

Slowly, he rolled over onto his back, blinking up at the sky. 

It was black. 

No, not just black—pitch-black. The explosion had kicked up so much dust, so many microscopic, superheated particles, that it had distorted the very color of the once red sky. The sun hung above him like a molten eye, casting a hazy, apocalyptic glow over the wasteland. 

He swallowed hard. 

Then, carefully, he forced himself upright, turning his head to look at the devastation his invention had wrought. 

The sight nearly stole the breath from his lungs. 

Where there had once been rolling dunes of golden sand, there was now only glass. 

The heat had been so intense that it had fused the desert floor into a sprawling, glittering wasteland. Jagged shards of crystallized sand jutted from the ground, reflecting the sickly red sky in fractured, broken pieces. Some sections of the terrain were smooth—so smooth they looked like black ice. Steam curled up from the still-cooling surface, carrying with it the acrid stench of burned earth. 

And mixed within it, something worse. 

Mark clenched his jaw, refusing to let his gaze linger on the shadows—the darkened impressions of bodies that had been caught in the blast, now nothing more than scorched outlines burned into the glassy ground. 

A heavy weight settled in his chest. 

He had built this. 

He had caused this. 

His invention—his theory—had worked. Worked too well. 

He exhaled shakily, shoving the thoughts away. If he let himself spiral into guilt now, it would consume him. He had to move. Had to focus. 

Turning his back on the carnage, he made his way toward the remnants of the military camp. His boots crunched against the unstable ground, each step slow and deliberate. 

As he neared the entrance, two familiar figures emerged from the haze. 

Sawyer and Sarah. 

Sarah reached him first, a wide grin splitting her face. "That was awesome, kiddo," she declared, clapping him hard on the shoulder. 

Mark barely reacted. He couldn't. His mind was still stuck on the glass. The charred silhouettes. The smell. 

His gaze flickered to Sawyer. 

Unlike Sarah, Sawyer wasn't grinning. He wasn't even smirking. 

His expression was unreadable, but in his eyes—just for a second—Mark caught it. 

Disapproval. 

Not anger. Not blame. But a deep, unspoken understanding of what this meant. 

Mark felt his stomach twist. 

They both knew. 

This thing he had built—this weapon—was too dangerous. Too unpredictable. It was destruction without precision, devastation without control. It was something that shouldn't exist. 

Mark swallowed. 

He didn't need Sawyer to tell him that. He had already made up his mind. 

If—when—they got out of this, he was dismantling it. Or, at the very least, nerfing it so badly it would never be capable of this kind of destruction again. 

But that was a thought for later. Right now, they had a mission. 

Forcing a smirk onto his face, he dusted off his sleeves and turned toward the base. 

"Well," he said, injecting as much casual confidence into his voice as he could muster, "let's go ravage a military camp." 

The words came out steadier than he felt. 

Sarah whooped in excitement. Sawyer sighed but didn't argue. 

And just like that, they moved forward. 

Mark followed—but even as he stepped past the threshold, he couldn't shake the feeling that he had just crossed a different kind of line. 

One he couldn't come back from.

**********

The abandoned military base, though battered by recent devastation, was a goldmine of salvaged supplies. The walls, once fortified against invaders, now stood partially collapsed, riddled with scorch marks and bullet holes. The remnants of security towers loomed in the distance, skeletal structures against the blood-red sky. The scent of charred metal and dust clung to the air, mixing with the occasional whiff of something acrid and unidentifiable. 

Despite the eerie silence, they pressed forward. They were desperate, their bodies aching from exhaustion, their supplies dwindling to dangerous levels. The promise of food, clean water, and working gear was the only thing keeping them moving. 

Sawyer had fared the best in terms of scavenged clothing. He now wore a sturdy black and brown jacket layered over a fitted black T-shirt and his cooling vest. It suited him—practical yet rugged. His tactical pants, reinforced at the knees, paired with heavy-duty boots made him look like someone built for survival. More than that, he moved differently now. The way he carried himself had shifted—more assured, more prepared for the harshness of the desert. 

Sarah had been forced to make a reluctant concession. With a heavy sigh and no shortage of grumbling, she had handed over the powerful blaster to Sawyer, acknowledging his superior aim. She wasn't happy about it—Mark had caught her eyeing the weapon more than once—but she had her own strengths. She had discarded her tattered jacket, revealing a black tank top that clung to her muscular frame. Her arms, toned from years of relentless training, were on full display. She wore camouflage pants, the fabric faded but durable, tucked into high combat boots. Twin daggers gleamed at her sides, their handles within easy reach, strapped to a utility belt packed with essential gear. Even unarmed, she radiated an aura of danger. 

Mark, however, had not been so lucky in the clothing department. At nearly seven feet tall, finding anything that fit properly was an exercise in frustration. The best he had managed was a worn leather jacket, slightly too short in the sleeves but better than nothing. His real victory had come in the form of equipment—he had upgraded his tech, replacing the haphazard, makeshift scraps he had been using with salvaged components that, while far from perfect, were far more reliable. If nothing else, he could at least count on his gear not falling apart mid-use. 

As night fell, the desert's oppressive heat gave way to a bone-chilling cold. The fire they had built crackled, casting flickering shadows against the cracked walls of the base. The three of them sat around it, exhaustion weighing on their shoulders. 

"We'll camp here tonight and move out in the morning," Sarah declared, stretching her arms over her head before rolling her shoulders. "By then, Mark might have figured out how to get the navigator working." 

She shot him a pointed look. 

Mark let out a dry chuckle. "No pressure or anything." 

"You know I work best under impossible deadlines." 

Sarah smirked. "Exactly why I said it." 

Mark shook his head, turning his attention to the fire. It was hypnotic, the way the flames curled and licked at the dry wood, the embers rising in tiny sparks before fading into the night. 

"You guys get some sleep," he offered. "I'll take first watch." 

Sarah arched a brow, clearly surprised. "Well, that's new." She studied him for a moment, then shrugged. "But who am I to say no?" 

Without another word, she sank onto the makeshift pillows they had fashioned out of sand-filled, worn-out clothing. It didn't take long before the steady rhythm of her breathing turned into quiet, then not-so-quiet snoring. 

Sawyer, however, remained awake. 

Mark felt his eyes on him before he even spoke. 

"Mark." Sawyer's voice was quiet but firm. "Are you okay?" 

Mark hesitated just a second too long. "Yeah, sure, I'm good." He kept his gaze fixed on the flames, hoping the flickering light would mask whatever emotions might have slipped onto his face. "You should get some sleep. Tomorrow's going to be a long haul." 

The words came out steadier than he felt. 

He heard the rustle of movement, then felt the weight of Sawyer's hand on his shoulder. It was grounding—warm, solid, human. 

Sawyer didn't move away. Instead, he settled down beside him, his posture relaxed but his presence unmistakable. The firelight danced across his features, casting shadows that made him look older, more worn than Mark was used to seeing. His white hair—usually pristine—was streaked with dust, giving it a dull, almost brownish tint. His blue eyes, though still sharp, carried something else now. Something tired. 

"You know you're terrible at lying, right?" Sawyer said, a small, knowing smile tugging at his lips. 

Mark let out a quiet breath, something between a laugh and a sigh. 

"Yeah," he admitted. "I've been told." 

But he didn't say anything else. And Sawyer, thankfully, didn't push. 

For a while, they sat in silence, watching the fire burn.

**********

"So, how the desert experience?" Sawyer asked about attempt to lighten the mood. 

"I should be asking you that," Mark countered, his voice laced with an edge of deflection. He wasn't ready for this conversation—not now, maybe not ever. "You're the normal one. The human who got dragged from his ordinary life and now finds himself in a blood-red desert, running from hungry lizards." 

Sawyer let out a laugh, the sound sudden and unguarded. It startled Mark—not because he hadn't heard Sawyer laugh before, but because it was real. Genuine. A brief, fleeting moment of warmth in the middle of all this dust and death. 

Before Mark could fully process it, he felt the warmth of Sawyer's hand closing gently over his own. Not demanding. Not forceful. Just there. Present. 

"You know," Sawyer began, his voice softer now, quieter, "I wanted to be a doctor." 

Mark blinked, caught off guard. "Really?" 

It was hard to picture. He had always seen Sawyer as a soldier, a fighter—someone who moved through battlefields with certainty, who belonged in the thick of things. The kind of person who had trained for this kind of hell. But a doctor? It didn't fit the image he had built in his head. 

"Yeah," Sawyer continued, his tone thoughtful. "My mom was a doctor. One of the best. I used to watch her work—how she'd stitch wounds, reset bones, save lives like it was second nature to her." A faint, distant smile touched his lips, but there was something else in his eyes. Something heavy. "My dad... well, I don't know much about him. For most of my life, I thought he was dead. Turns out he's alive. Somewhere. Maybe even close. But here I am, in the middle of nowhere, trying to save the world instead of patching people up." 

Mark could hear the strain in his voice, the hoarseness brought on by the dry desert air. He knew that feeling well—the dust settling in your throat, making every word feel like it scraped its way out. He grabbed his canteen, tossing it toward Sawyer, who caught it with a grateful nod. 

"Yeah, I know how that feels," Mark said, his voice low, his gaze flickering between the fire and the horizon beyond. "My family has always held prominent field positions within the SCM, you know. Soldiers. Commanders. The kind of people who make history through blood and war." He exhaled sharply, a bitter chuckle escaping his lips. "When I told my dad I was going to be a technician—a builder, a creator of gadgets—he wasn't exactly thrilled." 

He hesitated, feeling the weight of old memories pressing against him. The sharp words. The disappointment in his father's eyes. The way his decision had been dismissed as cowardice. 

"He expected me to follow in their footsteps," he continued, forcing himself to speak the words aloud. "To be out on the front lines, facing the dangers head-on. But that's not who I am. I am fighting—I just do it in my own way. I build. I invent. I create. And somehow, that led me here, to the Enforcer, trying to—" He gestured vaguely around them, at the ruined base, the endless desert, the sky that stretched too far in every direction. "You know. Save the world or whatever." 

There was a flicker of something in his voice—pride, maybe. Or defiance. He wasn't sure. 

Sawyer studied him for a moment, then nodded slowly. "Well," he said, "we all have some kind of story we hold onto, don't we? That's what keeps us going." His voice carried a quiet understanding, like he knew exactly what Mark meant without needing it spelled out. 

Mark looked up, meeting his gaze, and for the first time in a long while, he didn't feel the need to explain himself further. 

Sawyer stretched, then clapped a hand on Mark's shoulder. "I should get some sleep," he said, but he didn't move away just yet. "And oh, Mark…" His voice softened. "About the kamilans. That whole… incident. It wasn't your fault. You don't have to keep blaming yourself, okay?" 

Mark felt his entire body tense at the words. For a moment, he couldn't move, couldn't speak. 

Sawyer let his hand linger for a second longer, then finally pulled away, walking toward where Sarah lay nestled among the makeshift sandbag pillows—old, worn-out clothing stuffed with sand. 

"Good night, Mark," he murmured. 

Mark swallowed hard. "Thanks, Sawyer. Good night." 

He turned his gaze back to the fire, watching the way the flames twisted and curled in the wind. He couldn't quite name the feeling inside him, but it was warm. Not the suffocating heat of the desert—something else. Something steadier. 

Peace. 

He hadn't realized how much he needed to hear those words. How much he had been carrying, how heavy it had all become. His hands, the same hands that had built the device, that had unleashed destruction he hadn't fully measured, clenched into fists before slowly relaxing. 

He wasn't a monster. 

He had done what he thought was right. 

And maybe… just maybe… he wasn't alone in this. 

His eyes drifted to Sawyer, now settled beside Sarah, then up to the vast, star-dusted sky. 

He wasn't done yet. 

He was going to survive. 

He was going to find a way. 

No matter what obstacles lay in his path. 

He had a purpose. 

A role to play. 

And he wouldn't let the harsh realities of their situation—or the weight of his past actions—deter him. 

He would adapt. 

He would learn. 

He would endure. 

He would survive.

**********

Notes: Next chapter update will be on Friday 11th April.