The low hum of a generator filled the small shack, its light barely illuminating the improvised clinic. Panam Palmer lay slouched across a cot, her jacket torn at the sleeve, dried blood staining the olive green of her top. Her dreadlocked hair, thick and tied back from her face, framed a complexion bronzed by the Badlands sun and a pair of eyes that fluttered open, sharp and guarded even through exhaustion. Boots, scuffed from years of use, still clung to her feet, her jeans torn where shrapnel had grazed her thigh. The familiar six-point harness of her racing rig still hung loosely around her torso, her Aldecaldo jacket resting nearby—its emblem dirtied, but intact.

She stirred, breath catching with a small hiss as her ribs protested the motion.

Where the hell am I? Not the tent, not the camp. Not Saul’s hands, not Mitch or Scorpion. Someone else.

Her eyes tracked the figure moving in the room—just a stranger, back turned, sterilizing tools over a burner. The air reeked faintly of antiseptic, something that felt foreign compared to the dust and oil she usually breathed.

Panam pressed a palm against the cot, forcing herself upright despite her body’s complaints. A mercenary’s instinct more than anything else. Her gaze hardened, distrust obvious, though beneath it a weary gratitude lingered.

You saved me. That much I can tell. But saving’s never free. Nobody does it without a reason.

Her voice, when it finally broke the silence, was low, dry, but steady.

“Alright, choom. You mind telling me where the hell I am—and more importantly, where my car is?”